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hyuckiefluff · 3 months ago

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Flipped | Mark Lee

pairing: gryffindor!mark lee x slytherin!fem reader (ft haechan) genre: angst, fluff, smut (in 2nd part) wc: 29k+ summary: the first time you met mark lee, you flipped his world upside down— literally. seven years later and after countless attempts to avoid you, you're still driving him insane. except now, it’s for an entirely different reason. content warnings: mild possessiveness/jealousy, minor confrontation/injuries, non-consensual drugging (love potion), mark is mean at first and terribly bad at feelings, miscommunication, unrequited feelings. explicit sexual content, cursing, loss of virginity, semipublic sexual activity, oral fem receiving, unprotected sex. a/n: proofreading this after meeting mark lee irl had me feeling crazy... bro is actually majestic and i miss him BAD. anyway... this one is special to me because i’ve been wanting to write a hogwarts au since forever and i absolutely love how it came out. this is also slightly inspired by the movie/book “flipped” so it has a ‘she fell first, but he fell harder’ vibe that i’m kinda obsessed with. i tried to do something different and write the events from both perspectives, i hope it’s clear enough so that you can tell when it’s him and when it’s her. feedback is always appreciated! ps: i had to split this into two parts bc apparently i reached the max word count, so all the smut cws apply to the 2nd part . thank you so much for reading!

The first time Mark Lee met you, you flipped his world upside down.

And not in a good way. In the most literal and humiliating way possible.

It happened on the Hogwarts Express, during your very first year. Mark had been desperately searching for an empty cabin but since he was dragging a suitcase stuffed to the brim by his overly concerned mother, he was at a severe disadvantage. Someone else had already claimed the spot every time he reached a door.

By the time he made it to the last cabin, he was already panting. But at last, he found one that was partially empty.

You sat cross-legged on the seat, nose buried in The Quibbler. Mark found that a little odd, his father always said The Quibbler was full of nonsense, a rag for conspiracy theorists rather than real journalism. But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was the fact that both of his arms were shaking from the weight of his bag.

He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

You looked up, and your messy bangs fell into your wide, starry eyes. For a second, Mark swore they got even bigger at the sight of him.

“Not at all!” you chirped, your voice high and excited.

Mark forced a polite smile and stepped inside, shuffling toward the overhead compartment. He glanced up at where your bag was already neatly placed and swallowed hard. How the hell was he supposed to get his own up there? He wasn’t weak by any means, but after dragging it through the entire train, his arms were screaming in protest.

You seemed to notice his struggle because you set The Quibbler down and pulled out your wand. “Need help?”

Mark was about to shake his head when suddenly, his feet left the ground.

“What—HEY! PUT ME DOWN!”

Mark flailed helplessly as his entire body flipped upside down, his robes falling over his head. Panic surged through him as he felt his pants begin to slip.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry! I thought this was the right spell!” you gasped, flicking your wand again, this time more frantically.

Mark tried to grip at something, anything, but all he managed to do was thrash at the air while more of his clothes tried to slip away from his body.

“I—I don’t know the counterspell!” you admitted in a panic.

At the commotion, students from other cabins poked their heads in. A chorus of laughter erupted at the sight of Mark dangling upside down, arms desperately trying to keep his robes and pants in place.

A tall, older student finally pushed his way inside. He took one look at Mark and sighed as if this were nothing new. “Seriously? Don’t you first-years ever learn?”

“I—I was just trying to help him levitate his bag…”

The older student pinched the bridge of his nose. “Finite.”

Mark hit the seat with an unceremonious thud.

“If you lot keep casting spells on the train, I’ll start deducting points from your houses as soon as you’re sorted,” the boy warned before turning on his heel and waving off the lingering audience.

You hesitated, staring at Mark with wide, guilty eyes. “I’m sorry…” you whispered, your voice wavering just a little.

But Mark wasn’t listening. He was too busy seeing red from both rage and humiliation. Without a word, he grabbed his bag and stormed out.

That was the day Mark Lee met you.

And the day he swore he’d never speak to you again.

The first time you met Mark Lee, you flipped.

Not literally but in the way your heart did a little somersault the moment he stepped into your cabin.

You had been engrossed in The Quibbler, completely enchanted by every bizarre detail about the magical world. Since you grew up with two Muggle parents, receiving your Hogwarts letter was like stepping into a dream where the impossible suddenly was real. You couldn’t get enough of it.

Your cabin door suddenly slid open and a boy stood there, panting slightly, his face flushed red from exertion as he struggled to drag an absurdly large trunk behind him.

You felt your face heat up. You’d never been around many boys growing up, having attended an all-girls school, but there was something about him that struck you immediately. Maybe it was the way his glasses were slipping down his pretty nose, or the way he offered a shy, slightly strained smile as he stepped inside. He was adorable.

And he was struggling.

You watched as he attempted to haul his trunk toward the overhead rack, his arms visibly trembling under its weight. Something in you immediately wanted to help.

The problem was… you had no idea what you were doing.

You’d only ever performed magic by accident, usually when you got too emotional. Your mom still loved to tell the story about how the lights in the house flickered every time you cried as a baby. Or the time Madeline Perkins made fun of your pigtails, and the swings mysteriously sent her flying off the playground.

But you’d only just gotten your wand the day before at Ollivanders. You hadn’t practiced a single spell yet, but you had been reading your textbooks. Wingardium Leviosa was the most basic charm in your book.

How hard could it be?

Apparently, hard enough that you somehow missed the part where it said that even though the spell was only for objects, if it was aimed at a person, it would also make their clothes float.

Which was how you now found yourself staring up at the cute boy you’d just met, his body suspended in midair, robes billowing wildly, eyes wide with pure horror.

Talk about a terrible first impression.

From that moment on, Mark Lee avoided you like the plague.

It didn’t help that you were sorted into different houses—him in Gryffindor, you in Slytherin. You quickly learned that those two houses were basically sworn enemies, which made it even easier for him to pretend you didn’t exist.

Despite his rocky start on the train, Mark had no trouble making friends in Gryffindor. He was well-liked, effortlessly charming, and even if he wasn’t the loudest in the room, he always carried a quiet sort of confidence. You, on the other hand, kept to yourself. Spending most of your free time watching him from across the Great Hall, your crush on him growing by the day.

You didn’t know why you liked him so much, he hadn’t done anything grand or impressive to win your admiration. If anything, he actively tried to avoid you.

You tried approaching him a few times during your first year, hoping to properly apologize and smooth things over. But each time, he found a way to dodge you, claiming he was late for class, too busy with homework, or suddenly needed to be anywhere else but next to you.

So by second year, you changed your approach.

If Mark Lee wouldn’t pay attention to you as a friend, you’d make him notice you as a rival.

Mark had been one of the best students in your first year, so you became an absolute academic weapon in your second. You were determined to match him in every class, if not surpass him.

“Excellent work, Miss Y/N,” Professor McGonagall praised, a rare note of surprise in her voice as she examined the intricate tea jar you had just transfigured from a blue jay.

You glanced over your shoulder at Mark. He was sitting a few rows back, his brows furrowed as he stared at your jar with a barely concealed frown. His own transfiguration was… less successful. The lizard he’d tried to turn into a pen still had a suspiciously scaly texture.

But it wasn’t just Transfiguration where you shined.

You also excelled in Potions, something that became very clear when Professor Snape assigned your class, which you shared with the Gryffindors, the difficult task of brewing Draught of Living Death, a highly advanced sleeping potion that could render someone unconscious with just a single drop.

One of the Gryffindors groaned in frustration. “Sir, this is way too advanced—”

“If it’s too difficult for your little Gryffindor hands,” Snape sneered, cutting him off, “perhaps you should take notes on how some of the Slytherins are managing. Particularly Miss Y/N.”

Your ears burned at the attention as several students shuffled closer to your workstation, peeking at your bubbling cauldron. The only ones who didn’t approach were the Gryffindors at Mark’s table.

You noticed that his potion was violently spewing green gas bubbles, and he looked deeply frustrated, brows knitted together as he stirred with precision.

Letting your own potion simmer for a moment, you stood up and made your way over to his table. The chatter among his friends died down as you approached. Zhong Chenle, the boy sitting next to him, smacked his arm lightly to get his attention.

Mark finally looked up, his glasses fogged from the potion fumes, and the front of his hair sticking up in all directions.

You stifled a laugh.

“Need help?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Mark blinked at you, and for the first time since the train, you finally had his full attention.

“No, thanks. I got it.”

The words had barely left Mark’s mouth when his potion let out another violent blorp, spewing a sickly green bubble into the air. It popped immediately, releasing a smell so putrid it made your stomach churn.

“Dude, that smells like a troll’s ass,” Chenle cackled, covering his nose.

Jaemin, who was sitting across from Mark, raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, mate. She’s the best in the class.” He shot you a grin. “Let her help.”

Mark resisted the urge to groan. He knew they were right, but the last thing he wanted was for you to be the one correcting him. It was bad enough that you had been outshining him in every subject lately, now you were swooping in to save him too?

But before he could protest again, you stepped closer to his cauldron making his entire body tense.

“What did you add to make it green like this?” you asked, peering into the potion. Your voice was calm, inquisitive like you weren’t there to gloat but to actually help.

Mark clenched his jaw, eyes fixed stubbornly on the cauldron. “I did exactly as the instructions said.”

Jaemin let out a small snort, clearly unconvinced.

“Hm,” you hummed, examining the bubbling liquid. “You must’ve added more than three drops of Valerian root extract.”

Mark frowned. Valerian root extract? He thought back to when he had been adding the ingredients, trying to get ahead of everyone. Had he miscounted? Maybe. Probably.

You reached for a small vial of powdered sopophorous bean and sprinkled just a pinch into the potion. “This should balance it out and bring it back to its original black color,” you explained, gently stirring the mixture.

Mark watched in reluctant amazement as the once-toxic green sludge darkened before his eyes, settling into the inky black shade it was supposed to be.

He barely stopped his brows from rising in surprise. You had fixed it. Just like that.

Mark swallowed down the frustrated lump in his throat. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of knowing you had one-upped him again.

“That was impressive, Y/N,” Jaemin said, clapping his hands.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling shyly. “The instructions in this book are a bit ambiguous, so I suggest adding less than what the recipe says at first, watching how the colors change, and then adjusting accordingly.”

Mark exhaled slowly, forcing himself to loosen his grip on his stirring rod. He hated to admit it, but that was actually… good advice.

Still, he kept his eyes on his potion, refusing to look at you or thank you for helping.

"You should start sitting with us, Y/N," Chenle said, grinning like a cat as he threw an arm around Mark. "So you can help our boy here, who’s clearly lost."

Mark didn’t miss the way your eyes lit up at the invitation. And that was exactly why he needed to shut this down immediately.

He knew about your little crush on him, everyone did. You weren’t exactly subtle about it. You always looked at him with those heart eyes across the Great Hall, his friends teased him about it constantly. You also cheered the loudest for him at every Quidditch match, even when he was playing against Slytherin. Even when your house lost. He’d seen the way your own housemates sneered at you for it, the way they mocked your infatuation, but you never seemed to care.

The other thing about you was that you were so unapologetically Muggle-born.

Not that Mark cared about blood status. He wasn't that kind of wizard, despite coming from a long line of pure-bloods. But you made it so difficult for yourself. You didn’t even try to blend in among your Slytherin peers. You didn’t mind their teasing, didn’t care that you had practically no friends in your own house.

It was frustrating, the way you took every jab with a smile, like none of it ever got to you. But what frustrated him even more was that whenever he said anything, whenever he so much as muttered something slightly harsh, your whole face fell.

And for some stupid reason, that bothered him more than it should.

“Sorry, this table is already full,” Mark said, once again avoiding your gaze. He imagined the way your smile faltered.

“What are you talking about? There’s plenty of—”

Mark elbowed Chenle sharply in the stomach.

“Like I said, the table’s full.”

“Oh… okay,” you murmured, your head dipping slightly. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

Mark didn’t watch you walk away, but he could feel the disappointment in your steps.

“Dude, you’re so mean to her,” Jaemin muttered, his eyes still on your retreating figure. “She clearly likes you.”

“Whatever,” Mark huffed, waving him off. “Let’s focus on something else.” He ignored the knowing smirk Jaemin shot him and tried—failed—to ignore the creeping warmth rising up his neck.

In your third year, you found a passion for Herbology.

Mark should’ve been relieved. After all, the more time you spent in the greenhouse, the less time you spent trying to talk to him. And at first, it was great. He barely had to think about you at all.

But then… it became his problem.

Because one day, he started noticing small bowls of water left in his usual spots—on the Gryffindor table, outside the Quidditch locker room, even near the Gryffindor common room entrance. At first, he ignored them. Maybe some first-years were testing a spell. Maybe it was a coincidence.

Then, he saw the petals floating in the water shift and transform into delicate, shimmering fish as soon as he grabbed the bowl.

And Mark hated to admit it… but it intrigued him. The magic was advanced, something most students their age wouldn’t even attempt. He even caught himself watching the tiny enchanted fish, mesmerized by the way their colors glowed under the candlelight.

That was his mistake, because his friends noticed.

“You’re actually accepting her gifts now,” Chenle teased, crossing his arms as Mark peeled off his muddy Quidditch uniform.

“We don’t even know if it’s hers,” Mark argued, tossing his gloves onto the bench.

Jaemin snorted. “Do you really think anyone else in our year knows how to do that kind of magic?”

“Yeah, she’s the only one crazy enough about you to put in that much effort,” Chenle added with a smirk.

Mark rolled his eyes. “There are other girls who like me, you know.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “Are there? ’Cause I feel like Y/N’s already scared them all off.”

Chenle laughed. “Honestly, just give her a chance. She’s pretty, and let’s be real, she’d probably do anything for you.”

Mark sighed, rubbing a towel over his damp hair.

They didn’t get it. He’d spent years running from you, dodging your attempts, shutting down any rumors before they could spread. He couldn’t just give in now.

Maybe it didn’t make sense to anyone else.

But it did to him.

So he kept doing what made the most sense to him, and one day, you found yourself walking into the greenhouse when your eyes immediately spotted the familiar bowls scattered across the table. Your heart clenched at the sight, but you refused to believe Mark would just discard your gifts like that.

But as you approached, you noticed something that made your stomach twist painfully. The fish, once so vibrant and lively, now lay still in the water. They barely moved. They didn't swim with the same energy, the same color that had once made them sparkle. They just stayed there, like lifeless figures floating in stagnant water. And, as ridiculous as it sounded, you could almost swear they looked sad.

It hit you like a physical blow. Mark really didn’t want anything to do with you.

The realization didn’t come alone, though. You’d noticed it over the last few months, but you’d been too stubborn to admit it to yourself. Mark had been spending more time with a girl from Ravenclaw. You didn’t even know her name, but the way they talked and laughed together, the way he’d smile at her with that soft look you’d always hoped to get... It was all the confirmation you needed. Mark Lee wasn’t just avoiding you… he was interested in someone else.

You stood there in the greenhouse, staring at the fish, a sinking feeling settling deep in your chest. He didn’t care about you the way you’d always hoped.

In your fourth year, you decided it was time to focus on yourself. To put Mark away and finally let go of your feelings for him.

You’d been practicing something called Occlumency. Professor Snape had given you a book on it and told you it would help you shield away any distractions when you started falling behind in class due to your little infatuation with a certain seeker.

“This is very advanced magic,” Snape had said, handing you the book with a knowing look, “and it takes months, sometimes years, of practice to master it.”

And practice you did. Every day, you worked at it, pushing your emotions into a mental drawer and locking it away. It was hard at first. Your thoughts kept wandering back to Mark, but slowly, you began to make progress. You learned to control your thoughts, to put each memory, each feeling about him into that mental drawer, one by one, and shove it far back in your mind.

The more you practiced, the easier it became. It wasn’t perfect, but over the course of the year, you started to feel a strange sense of indifference towards Mark Lee.

At least until The Yule Ball was announced in the middle of the term. Even with all your hard work on Occlumency, you couldn’t stop the twinge of longing that crept in. You knew Mark would be going with Mia, the Ravenclaw girl whose name you had learned through the whispers of the school. It wasn’t like you had any right to feel disappointed, but the nagging thought of asking him yourself refused to leave your mind.

You had planned to skip the celebration altogether. The last thing you wanted was to sit alone while Mark and Mia danced, all dressed up and happy.

But that changed one afternoon in the library when you were buried in research on Venomous Tentacula for a Herbology project

The library was the one place where you could lose yourself without interruption, so you were caught off guard when you heard footsteps approaching and a voice calling your name.

“Hey, Y/N, right?”

You turned, surprised to see Lee Haechan standing there. He was easily one of the most popular guys in Slytherin, the kind of person who always had a group of friends around him, cracking jokes and showing off on the Quidditch pitch. He wasn’t one to hang around in the library by himself during a free period. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had spoken to him—if you ever had.

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice more guarded than usual.

You were used to your fellow Slytherins teasing you for the smallest things, such as your Muggle clothes or the way you searched for books manually instead of having Madam Pince summon them for you.

“You probably don’t remember, but last year, you helped me during the Potions final,” he said, his tone surprisingly shy. It was a sharp contrast to the cocky confidence he usually carried.

You thought back, remembering how badly he had struggled to keep his assigned potion from bubbling over and spilling across the table. You had only helped him because if his potion had spilled into yours, it would’ve ruined your work. But you didn’t tell him that.

“I remember,” you said, reaching for a book on a higher shelf.

Before you could grab it, he stepped closer, plucking it from the shelf with ease.

“Thanks,” you muttered, slightly suspicious of the unexpected kindness.

Then he said something that completely threw you off balance. “Listen, I heard you don’t have a date for the Yule Ball.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers tightened slightly around the book. Lee Haechan, of all people, was bringing up the Yule Ball? He was one of the most sought-after guys in Slytherin, and yet here he was, talking to you about the biggest event of the year.

“I’m not really planning on going,” you said, brushing off the conversation as you moved toward a nearby table.

And, of course, he followed.

“Really? Why not?” he asked, dropping into the seat across from you.

You sighed, knowing he wouldn’t leave you alone until you answered. “For starters, I don’t dance.” You flipped open your book, eyes scanning the pages in an attempt to distract yourself.

Haechan leaned forward slightly. “Ah, that’s an easy fix. I can teach you.”

You glanced up, raising a brow. “Where is all this coming from, Haechan?”

His smile widened when you said his name “I thought it was obvious,” he said. “I want you to go to the dance with me.”

You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for the moment he’d burst into laughter and reveal it was all some elaborate joke. But he didn’t laugh. He just watched you, his smile still in place.

“Me?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He nodded. “You have pretty eyes, by the way.” His voice was casual as if he were just commenting on the weather. You nearly choked on your own breath, covering it up with an exaggerated cough.

“Did anyone ever tell you that?” he continued, watching your reaction with obvious amusement.

You willed yourself to stay composed, but your heart was racing. What was he playing at?

“Why would you want to go with me?” you asked. “It can’t just be because I helped you once on a test.”

“Why not?” He rested his chin in his hand. “Maybe I’m extremely grateful and want to repay you.”

Your heart beat faster than you wanted it to, and you couldn’t tell if he was just messing with you or if he actually meant it. Haechan had a teasing air about him that made it impossible to tell. Was this a bet with his friends? Or did he just enjoy seeing you flustered?

You hesitated, trying to find the right words, but before you could say anything, he stood abruptly.

“Sleep on it if you want,” he said with a grin. “You can tell me after the Quidditch game on Saturday.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t planning on—”

“I’ll see you there, Y/N,” Haechan said, cutting you off with a wave. Before you could protest, he walked away, leaving you in stunned silence.

The next few days were strange. Haechan was clearly hovering around you. He wasn’t making it obvious, but you were observant enough to notice that he wasn’t skipping some of your shared classes anymore. He had also started spending time in the library even though you’d rarely seen him there before. He didn’t approach you, but you felt his eyes on you every time.

You also realized he was checking out books right after you did. It was oddly amusing, so you decided to mess with him one day.

You had spent enough time in the library to know how to take books from the Restricted Section without alerting Madam Pince. You pretended to read over one, placed it on a different shelf, and waited. A few minutes later, you spotted Haechan heading straight for that section.

Silence filled the air, then a bloodcurdling scream rang through the library. The sound of a book hitting the floor echoed through the rows of shelves. Moments later, Haechan rushed out, his wide eyes locking onto you as you hunched over, struggling to hold in your laughter.

“I’m guessing that was your doing,” he said, dropping into the seat beside you.

You shook your head, still grinning. “That’s just a security mechanism all the books from the Restricted Section have.”

His brows lifted, amusement flickering in his gaze. “How did you even get a book out of there without a professor’s note?”

You shrugged. “I have my ways.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with something that made you suddenly self-conscious. “You keep surprising me, Y/N.”

Across the library, Mark sat at a table with Mia, his Potions textbook open in front of him but he wasn't reading anymore and his quill was static in the air. His gaze was locked on you and Haechan, watching the way you leaned in, the way your laughter softened the space between you. Mia followed his stare, then let out a quiet hum.

“What an odd picture, huh?”

Mark blinked, tearing his eyes away. “What?”

Mia tilted her head, her quill twirling between her fingers. “They’re from the same house, sure, but Haechan is one of the most popular guys in school.” She glanced over at you, then back at Mark, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “And she… isn’t she kind of an outcast? Even in her own house?”

Mark tried to keep his tone neutral and disinterested “So?”

Mia let out a soft laugh, dipping her quill in ink. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s probably just bored. Using her for his own amusement.”

Mark glanced back at your table. Haechan was leaning in, grinning as he spoke to you. You looked up at him with something close to exasperation, but there was a smile playing on your lips. It was weird. You didn’t smile like that often.

He ignored the way something twisted in his chest. “You don’t know that,” he muttered, forcing his eyes back to his parchment.

Mia hummed, unconvinced. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

The next morning, you woke up earlier than usual for a Saturday with a quiet sense of dread settling over you. Instead of heading to the greenhouse like you normally would, you made your way to the Quidditch pitch, the crisp morning air biting at your skin. You had layered up so much that your scarf nearly swallowed half your face, but even with the extra warmth, you wished you were still curled up in bed.

When you reached the stands, the realization hit you like a punch to your face—today’s match was against Gryffindor.

You should’ve known, but school events had barely been on your radar between your Occlumency lessons and your herbology studies.

You climbed up to the Slytherin side of the stands, slipping into a seat in the back row. It wasn’t crowded yet, and you hoped to stay unnoticed, keeping your head low. The last thing you wanted was to catch the attention of a certain seeker. Or two. Not that Mark would be looking your way anyway.

The distant whoosh of broomsticks cut through the morning stillness, and then, all at once, the stadium came alive. Players soared onto the pitch in a blur of red and green, the announcer’s voice booming through the enchanted speakers. You were only half-listening when you noticed Haechan scanning the crowd.

You set to ignore him when his eyes landed on you.

He mouthed something, but you couldn’t quite make out the words from the distance. His lips moved again, slower this time, like he was asking a question.

You hesitated, then lifted your hand in a thumbs-up, hoping that would satisfy whatever he wanted. Though you immediately regretted it when you felt the weight of other eyes shifting onto you. People had noticed the exchange. Your face burned, and you quickly looked away.

The game began, and you tried to focus. Your eyes followed Haechan for most of it, but every so often, your Occlumency walls slipped, and your gaze found Mark. He was fast, his broom cutting through the air as he scoured the pitch for the Snitch. Haechan was right on his tail, matching his every turn, the two of them locked in a battle of speed.

You knew Mark was a talented seeker. He was quick and light in the air, but his broom wasn’t as fast as Haechan’s, and that made some difference.

You weren’t really rooting for either of them. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Though the right thing to do as a Slytherin would be to hope for Haechan’s victory.

The crowd suddenly roared, breaking you from your thoughts. Both seekers had disappeared behind one of the towers in a steep dive, and they were gone for a few agonizing seconds. Then, like a flash of green lightning, Haechan shot back into the air, arm raised, the golden Snitch clutched tight in his fist.

The Slytherins around you erupted into cheers, the stands vibrating with excitement. You blinked, then let yourself be swept up in the celebration, joining the chorus of triumphant screams.

Haechan suddenly veered toward the stands, his broom tilting slightly as he hovered just above the crowd. He brought the Snitch to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to its delicate golden surface before tossing it in your direction. Your hands reacted before your mind could catch up, fingers closing around the tiny fluttering ball with ease.

A collective gasp rippled through the Slytherin section, eyes darting between you and Haechan.

"Y/N!" Haechan called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the noise of the crowd. "Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?"

The world felt like it had slowed.

You hated attention. You hated feeling like all eyes were on you. But what you hated the most in that moment was the fact that Mark was there, hovering just behind Haechan, watching everything unfold. His broom was still, his expression neutral, but you could feel his eyes burning into you, waiting for your response.

"So," Haechan prompted, his voice a little breathless from the cold and the game, his nose and cheeks tinged pink. "What's your answer?"

Your fingers tightened around the Snitch. You risked a quick glance at Mark, searching for something—anything—in his face. But all you could see was the annoyance from losing the match.

There was only one right answer.

"Okay," you said.

Haechan grinned, throwing his arms up in victory. The crowd erupted, voices overlapping as cheers and chants of his name filled the air.

Mark wasn’t on his best game today. He was usually laser-focused before a match, but things weren’t going right thia morning. First, someone pulled a prank and turned his Quidditch robes a bright pink. Now, he was stuck wearing Sungchan’s, which were way too big. They hung loosely around his shoulders and got in the way whenever he tried to move.

On top of that, Mark was in a strangely sour mood, though he couldn’t figure out why. Everything felt off. The broom didn’t feel right in his hands, and the wind felt harsher than usual.

Then he saw you in the stands.

At first, he thought you were there for him. You usually came to cheer him on, so it made sense. But when Lee Haechan flew by and his face lit up when he saw you, Mark realized he’d been wrong. You looked flustered, but you still gave him a thumbs up.

So, you weren’t there for him? That was okay. Actually, it was better than okay.

But then Haechan wouldn’t stop. He kept swooping around Mark, poking fun.

“A little slow today, huh?” Haechan called as he flew beside Mark. “You looking a little distracted, Lee.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “Focus on your game,” he said, his tone clipped.

“Oh, I am.” Haechan’s eyes flickered to you in the stands, where you were rubbing your hands together for warmth.

Mark’s focus broke. The rest of the game felt like a blur.

He was usually the fastest to spot the snitch. No matter who he played against, his eyes always found it first. And Haechan wasn’t known for being the most observant player, so when Mark saw the snitch fluttering just a few feet away, he immediately maneuvered toward it. But his borrowed robes dragged around his legs, slowing him down. By the time he managed to free himself, Haechan had already spotted the snitch and was racing toward it.

Mark pushed forward, forcing his broom to match Haechan’s speed. When he caught up, the Slytherin boy turned to him with a smirk and a challenge in his eyes.

“First one to catch it wins the prize,” Haechan said.

Mark frowned. There was no prize for catching the snitch. The cup at the end of the year depended on accumulated wins, and there were still plenty of matches left. But then it clicked. Haechan wasn’t talking about the cup. He was talking about you.

For some ridiculous reason, he thought Mark was interested in you.

The snitch suddenly dove, and both seekers followed. They jostled for position, each elbowing the other to get ahead. But then Haechan leaned forward, and it was like his broom had shifted into another gear. He shot ahead, leaving Mark behind with no chance to catch up.

When Mark rose back to the pitch, he already knew he had lost.

It shouldn’t have pissed him off as much as it did. Gryffindor had been on a winning streak for the past three matches, and they were still leading. This loss wouldn’t hurt them in the long run. But something about losing to Haechan irritated him.

It definitely wasn’t the fact that Haechan flew straight toward you. It wasn’t the fact that he tossed you the snitch and asked you, in front of the entire school, to go to the dance with him.

Mark didn’t know why his ribs felt tight against his chest or why he found himself waiting for you to look at him. But then you did, and all he could do was scowl.

And then you said okay.

Mark didn’t wait to hear the cheers so he turned his broom and flew away.

It was the night of the Yule Ball, and you were nervous. Ever since the match, you had started getting more attention from your fellow Slytherins. Some of it was good, some of it wasn’t. A few girls had taken an interest in you, though, and they were nice enough that you didn’t feel the need to keep your guard up so you didn't refuse when they offered to help you get ready for the ball.

“You have really pretty eyes,” Minjeong said, tilting your chin up. “I think if we curl your lashes and tweeze your brows a bit, they’d stand out even more.”

“Oh. Thanks,” you said, shifting awkwardly on the vanity stool they had just enchanted into existence in the dorm.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Karina started, eyes bright with excitement, “but I made some modifications to your dress.”

You tensed. “What? What kind of modifications?”

“Oh, just a few little ones,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean… you’re about to show up with the most popular Slytherin guy. You can't wear something plain.”

“Right,” Minjeong agreed, blending eyeshadow onto your lids. “You have to show everyone you’re on his level.”

You weren’t sure how you felt about that. But you let them work. They curled and pinned your hair, dusted powders and pigments onto your face, and finished off with a few well-placed glamour enchantments. When they finally let you open your eyes, the reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable.

“This is our best work yet,” Minjeong said, clapping Karina on the back.

“Absolutely,” the taller girl agreed, looking satisfied.

Your hair fell in soft curls over your shoulders, half-pinned in the back with what looked like strands of shimmering tinsel woven in. Your eyes somehow looked bigger, framed by thick lashes that made them seem darker, more intense. Your brows were perfectly shaped, giving your face a softer, more refined look.

“Okay, now put on the dress! We’ll go get ready,” Karina said, pointing toward the neatly laid-out fabric on your bed.

Before you could say anything, they were already out the door.

“Thank you!” you called after them, but they were long gone.

You turned toward the bed, hands smoothing over the fabric of the dress Karina had "modified". To your relief, it was still elegant and not overly flashy. The gown was a soft, silvery blue with a delicate shimmer that caught the light when you moved. The bodice was fitted but modest, with sheer lace sleeves that draped lightly over your shoulders. The skirt flowed down in gentle layers of airy fabric, giving it an almost weightless quality. It was pretty, delicate, and just fancy enough to make it clear you hadn’t thrown it together last minute.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. At least it wasn’t anything too dramatic.

When you stepped out of the girls' dorm and into the Slytherin common room, your heart pounded so loudly you were sure someone could hear it. Haechan was waiting for you, and the moment your eyes met, you noticed how the entire room seemed to pause. Conversations quieted, and nearly every gaze turned toward you.

“Wow… you look so… wow,” Haechan stammered, walking up to you. His expression was so genuinely stunned that you felt warmth rise to your cheeks.

“You look gorgeous, and I don’t think that even describes it well.” He took your hand and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, his lips curling into a grin when he noticed how flustered you looked.

“Hah, thanks,” you chuckled nervously. “You look nice too.” He did. His black suit fit him well, long robes flowing behind him, accented with silver details that made him look effortlessly put together. His hair was slicked back, but a single strand had fallen over his forehead, softening his sharp features.

He placed a hand on your back and led you up the stairs and out of the dungeons, you instinctively held onto his arm to steady yourself.

Thankfully, by the time you reached the Great Hall, the attention had shifted from you. The room was filled with students dressed in elegant robes, sparkling gowns, and tailored suits, each more dazzling than the next. The sheer number of people made it easy to blend in, or so you thought.

Because somewhere across the hall, a particular Gryffindor’s eyes never left you.

“Who is that?” Jaemin asked, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“That’s Y/N, idiot,” Chenle replied, looking equally stunned.

“No way… seriously?” Jaemin’s eyes widened.

“Now she finally looks like she could really date someone like Lee Haechan,” Mia chimed in, sipping her drink with a raised eyebrow.

Mark didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on you across the room.

“Cat got your tongue?” Mia teased, and Mark snapped out of his trance, his eyes meeting hers.

“No… I was just thinking she looks the same,” Mark muttered before walking away.

You ended up enjoying yourself far more than you’d expected. Haechan was surprisingly fun to be around, and he wasn’t getting too touchy, which you appreciated. You both jumped and swayed to the music of the Weird Sisters.

“I hate this band!” Haechan shouted over the noise, but his feet didn’t stop moving.

You burst out laughing. “Me too.”

He grinned at you, his face flushed, both of you breathless and sweaty.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “Hey, what’s up with you and Mark Lee?”

Your laughter died in your throat.

“Huh? Nothing, why?” you stammered, trying to hide your nerves.

“Because he’s looking at me like he wants to hex my head off,” Haechan said, chuckling.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw Mark indeed staring in your direction. His expression was tight, angry even, but there was something else there too. Beside him, Mia was practically clawing at his attention, asking him something. He simply shook his head, dismissing her with a frown before she stormed off.

“Don’t mind him,” you said, turning back to Haechan, but he was already watching you.

“I’m not,” he said softly, his hands finding yours.

Suddenly, you were standing closer to him, and you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze. The music shifted into a slower tune, and your heart skipped a beat when you realized how close he was now.

“Stop me if you’re not okay with this,” he murmured, his breath warm against your face. Before you could even process, his lips brushed yours, and then he closed the gap entirely.

Haechan’s lips were soft against yours, and for a brief moment, the world around you disappeared. The music faded into the background, the chatter of students blurred into nothing, and it was just the two of you.

Then, all at once, everything shattered.

A loud crack echoed through the Great Hall, and before you could process what was happening, something thick and cold splattered down your back. You gasped, stumbling away from Haechan as a chilling sensation spread over your skin. A murmur rippled through the crowd as gasps and stifled laughter filled the air.

You looked down. Dark, sticky liquid seeped into the delicate fabric of your dress, staining the soft silk into something sickly and ruined. A pungent smell filled your nose. You barely had time to react before your dress started shrinking.

Your breath caught as the bodice tightened, the fabric pulling uncomfortably against your ribs, cinching around your waist like an invisible grip. Your sleeves vanished, and the hemline shot up several inches in one horrifying swoop, exposing far too much of your legs.

The laughter grew louder.

You clenched your fists, heart pounding as humiliation crashed over you in waves.

“What the hell?” Haechan’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. He whipped around, wand drawn, eyes scanning the hall for the culprit.

And then your gaze landed on Mark.

He stood several feet away, his wand still faintly sparking at the tip. His expression was frozen, his face a shade paler than before. His mouth was slightly open, like he wasn’t sure how the spell had left his lips in the first place.

But you didn’t see uncertainty. You didn’t see hesitation or guilt. All you saw was an angry boy.

A boy who barely acknowledged you before. A boy who always seemed unimpressed by your very existence. A boy who just humiliated you in front of the entire school.

Your throat tightened.

He really hated you that much.

Haechan was already stepping in front of you, blocking you from the murmuring students. His wand was still raised, his grip so tight his knuckles had gone white.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Lee?” His voice cut through the noise, venom dripping from every word.

Mark didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to undo what he had just done. But he didn’t move.

Your breath was shaky as you forced your voice to come out steady. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Mark’s gaze snapped to you, something flickering in his eyes. But you didn’t care what it was.

“You could’ve just ignored me like you always do,” you continued, your voice sharper now, your chest rising and falling with barely contained anger. “You didn’t have to humiliate me.”

Mark opened his mouth, but for once, he had nothing to say.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, then turned away.

Haechan was already pulling off his robe, draping it over your shoulders before wrapping a protective arm around you. “C’mon, let’s go,” he muttered under his breath, shooting one last glare in Mark’s direction before leading you out of the Great Hall.

Mark didn’t mean to stare.

But from the second you stepped into the Great Hall, he couldn’t seem to look away.

You didn’t look different. That’s what he told himself. It was just a dress. Just some makeup. Just a bunch of pointless glamour spells. Nothing about you had actually changed.

And yet.

His grip tightened around the goblet in his hand as he watched you dance with Haechan, laughing at something he said, looking so damn happy at his side. Mark didn’t even know Haechan that well, but for some reason, he hated him.

He hated the way Haechan touched your waist. He hated the way you let him pull you closer when the song slowed down. Hated the way you tilted your head to look up at him, that slight pause in your movements making it clear what was about to happen.

Mark’s heart slammed against his ribs, something bubbling up inside him, something sharp and hot and suffocating.

And before he even thought about what he was doing, his fingers twitched around his wand.

It happened too fast.

A crackle of magic shot from his wand like a reflex, like something instinctual, something uncontrollable. It streaked through the air, twisting and curling before hitting you and Haechan where you stood.

The Great Hall fell into silence and then laughter erupted.

Mark could barely register what had happened, only that you looked devastated. Your dress was drenched and shrinking until the delicate fabric was something ridiculous, something cruel, something designed to humiliate.

His blood ran cold. He had done that.

He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t even know what spell he cast, just that it happened because of the way you looked at Haechan. Because of the way Mark didn’t want you to look at Haechan.

Haechan’s voice cut through the buzzing in his ears.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Lee?”

You turned to him then, and when your eyes met his, something inside him dropped.

Because you didn’t only look angry. You looked… hurt.

"You didn't have to do that," you said, and it wasn’t an accusation. It was just... disappointment.

Mark felt something claw up his throat. But he couldn’t say anything.

He watched as you shook your head, your expression hardening as you pulled Haechan’s robe tighter around yourself.

"You could’ve just ignored me like you always do,” you said, voice sharp now. “You didn’t have to humiliate me."

Mark opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

And then you turned your back on him. And he just stood there still gripping his wand.

Still feeling that suffocating thing inside his chest.

Hating himself for the fact that he had only just realized what it was.

Mark felt like the ground had been yanked from under him. His whole body felt heavy, like he was stuck in some kind of nightmare where he could see everything going wrong but couldn’t stop it.

Jaemin sighed, shoving Mark’s wand into his own pocket. “Seriously, what the hell was that?”

Mark couldn’t answer. He was still staring at the spot where you’d stood, where you’d looked at him like he was the worst person in the world.

Chenle shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is with her, but you actually humiliated her in front of everyone. That’s not just being petty, Mark. That’s being cruel.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Mark said quickly, voice hoarse, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew how weak they sounded. What did that even mean? That he hadn’t meant to hex you? That he hadn’t meant to let his jealousy swallow him whole?

Jaemin scoffed. “Well it sure as hell looked intentional.”

Mark ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt tangling in his throat. “I—I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. It just—” He exhaled sharply. “It just happened.”

Jaemin exchanged a look with Chenle. “Right. It just happened that you hexed her right when she was kissing Haechan.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. He hated the way Jaemin said it. Like it was so obvious.

Chenle crossed his arms. “If you’re gonna act like this every time you see her with another guy, maybe just admit that you like her and spare everyone the dramatics.”

Mark flinched. “I don’t—”

Jaemin held up a hand. “Before you finish that sentence, think really hard about whether or not it’s a lie.”

Mark clamped his mouth shut. Because he didn’t know anymore.

But it didn’t matter, did it? Even if he did like you, what difference would it make?

You were the one who hated him now.

By the time your fifth year came around, you’d successfully mastered Occlumency so well that when you returned to school Mark was nothing more than a passing thought. The memories you had of him felt distant, like a foggy dream.

You never thought you’d feel this way, but it was almost freeing. The emotional weight he’d carried for so long was no longer crushing you. You were finally able to move on.

After what happened at the Yule Ball, you were relieved that Haechan seemed to understand you needed space. He kept things between you friendly, never bringing up the kiss or attempting to do it again. It made things easier, even if there was still an underlying tension whenever he caught your eye for too long. But just because he didn’t push for anything more didn’t mean he stopped very obviously flirting with you.

If anything, he seemed to have doubled down. Compliments slipped into every conversation, his arm would brush against yours whenever he passed by, and he always found some excuse to sit next to you in the common room or during meals. It was like he had claimed you in some unspoken way—not forcefully, or in a way that made you uncomfortable, but in a way that let everyone else know that he was still very much interested.

Karina and Minjeong, meanwhile, had become your biggest support system. For the first time, you felt like you truly had friends. And if they had one common enemy, it was Mark Lee.

“He is so pathetic,” Karina muttered, stabbing at her breakfast aggressively. “Walking around like a sad puppy as if he isn’t evil.”

“How dare the Gryffindors say we’re the house full of terrible people when they have someone like Mark Lee?” Minjeong scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

You hid a small smile behind your cup, already used to their daily Mark-related grievances. It had become routine at this point. Every morning, without fail, they found something new to complain about. And if they couldn’t find anything, they made something up.

“I mean, look at him,” Karina continued, tilting her head toward the Gryffindor table. “He’s just poking at his food and sighing dramatically. Does he expect us to feel bad?”

Minjeong rolled her eyes. “As if he has anything to be heartbroken over. He’s the one who embarrassed you in front of everyone. And now he has the audacity to mope around? Get a grip.”

You said nothing, focusing on your plate instead. You had built up your Occlumency walls so well that even you weren’t sure what you felt about Mark anymore. You weren’t angry. You weren’t sad. You weren’t… anything. And you were proud of that.

You stopped going to Quidditch games after a while. You just couldn’t shake the feeling of self-consciousness that crept in every time you stepped into the stands. But Karina and Minjeong convinced you to go today. It was Slytherin’s match, and though it was against Gryffindor, you agreed. You trusted your walls, confident that nothing could touch you now.

The game started, despite the pouring rain. The weather only seemed to make it more intense. The announcer’s voice echoed over the field, remarking on the lightning that nearly struck the Slytherin keeper. You could barely hear him over the storm.

Mark and Haechan were both darting across the sky, locked in pursuit of the Snitch. They were higher than the other players, cutting through the rain like streaks of lightning themselves. You tried to follow them with your eyes, but the thick raindrops blurred your vision and the gusts of wind whipped your hair into your face, making it harder to see. Then, all at once, the sky split open with a crack of lightning.

Your heart skipped a beat as you saw Mark’s broom fall from the sky, his body following in a terrifying, uncontrolled descent.

“Oh my god!” You gasped, your voice barely carrying over the storm. Time seemed to slow. Your mind raced as you realized that one of the professors had cast the Arresto Momentum charm just in time. The world around you shifted back into real-time, and suddenly, Mark’s body was lying motionless on the pitch.

He was unconscious but thankfully unscathed. The rain was pouring down in sheets now, mixing with the frenzy of footsteps as professors rushed to his side.

Without thinking, you slipped out of the stands, pushing through the chaos of the crowd. Your heart was hammering in your chest, your breath quickening as you neared the pitch. The professors were already at his side, checking him over carefully. You could barely breathe, the panic tightening around your chest.

“Mark,” you whispered, as if calling him out of a deep sleep.

When Mark woke up, the first thing he saw was Madam Pomfrey waving her wand over him, a soft golden light flickering at the tip as she muttered a diagnostic spell under her breath.

“Oh, great heavens! You’re finally awake,” she gasped, clutching her chest in relief. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send for St. Mungo’s. There was no reason for you to still be unconscious!”

Mark blinked a few times, his vision still slightly blurred, before realizing he wasn’t alone. Chenle and Jaemin were sitting nearby, their faces tight with concern.

“Mate, you scared the shit out of us,” Chenle said, his brows furrowed.

“We thought we lost you,” Jaemin added, a little too serious for Mark’s liking.

“What… happened?” Mark asked, his voice hoarse, as if he hadn’t had a sip of water in days.

“You fell off your broom from at least fifty feet in the air. It was insane,” Chenle said.

“I don’t… why don’t I remember anything?” Mark mumbled, wincing as a dull, throbbing pain settled in his skull.

“Professor McGonagall slowed your fall, but you still hit the ground pretty hard. You must’ve knocked your head,” Jaemin explained.

Madam Pomfrey huffed. “I’ll bring you a dose of Revitalizing Tonic, it should help with the disorientation. You two wrap things up and get to your dorms… it’s far too late for visitors.” She turned on her heel, bustling off toward her supply cabinet.

Jaemin scooted closer, watching Mark carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got beat up by the Whomping Willow,” Mark muttered.

Chenle snorted. “You’re lucky you didn’t actually land on it. That would’ve been really bad.”

“We were all so worried. No one thought you’d wake up today,” Jaemin added.

“The whole team was here earlier,” Chenle continued. “Mia too… and, uh—Y/N was the last one to leave—”

“Wait, what?” Mark pushed himself up too fast, his head spinning in protest. “Y/N?”

“Yeah, we’re just as shocked as you are,” Chenle said. “She ran to the pitch the second you fell. I swear, I thought she was gonna pass out from how hard she was crying.”

“She looked like she was having a panic attack,” Jaemin added. “Professor Snape had to give her a Calming Draught.”

“I think she genuinely thought you were going to die,” Chenle said.

Mark’s stomach twisted painfully. His mind still felt sluggish from the fall, but that one piece of information cut through it like a blade.

You were crying over him? Panicking? That didn’t make any sense.

“This doesn’t…” Mark swallowed. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would she—why would she care?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“Beats me,” Chenle shrugged. “She hasn’t talked to you in over a year. I was sure she hated your guts. But apparently, you’re harder to get over than we thought.”

Mark barely registered the teasing tone. His brain was running a mile a minute.

You were worried about him. You didn’t hate him? Or maybe… maybe it was just shock. Maybe seeing him fall had been scary in the moment, and once you knew he was okay, you'd go back to ignoring him. This didn't mean anything.

…Right?

After Chenle and Jaemin left, Mark knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Madam Pomfrey had left him a Sleeping Draught, which sat untouched on his bedside table.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what Jaemin said. How you ran onto the pitch, crying over him. It didn’t make sense. You hadn’t spared him a second glance since the Yule Ball. If anything, he would’ve preferred if you were still angry, if you had lashed out at him, screamed, hexed him—anything.

But instead, you had simply erased him from your world. The few times you had looked at him had been either by accident or when he deliberately put himself in your way, and your eyes had always been so empty.

The door to the hospital wing suddenly creaked open. Mark assumed it was just the wind, or maybe Madam Pomfrey checking in on him, so he quickly shut his eyes and feigned sleep when he heard soft footsteps approaching.

For a moment, there was nothing. He almost convinced himself he had imagined it until he felt the weight shift at the edge of his bed.

Then, the sound of quiet, muffled sobs.

“Mark…”

His breath caught in his throat.

It was you.

Before he could even process it, your hand was suddenly on his face, fingers grazing his cheek in the softest touch. A shiver threatened to run down his spine, but he forced himself to stay still.

“I’m sorry…” Your voice was fragile. “I wished so many bad things on you last year… I feel like…like this is my fault.” A shaky inhale. “Please be okay.”

Mark wanted to sit up. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t your fault, that none of this was. That he had deserved everything you threw at him but not this guilt.

But if he moved, would you run? Would you slip away before he even had the chance to say anything?

He was too much of a coward to find out. So he stayed still, letting your fingers caress him, letting your words sink into his skin like a warmth he hadn’t felt in so long.

Mark was certain you had stayed the whole night. Even in the haze of half-sleep, he had felt your presence beside him. He only realized you had left when the first rays of sunlight began filtering through the hospital wing’s windows.

Madam Pomfrey cleared him to leave that morning, assuring him he wasn’t in any real danger anymore. She did, however, insist he avoid Quidditch for at least a week. Not that he particularly cared. There were no matches coming up, but even if there were, he doubted he’d be able to focus on anything other than you.

He didn’t know what to do with the new knowledge that you did care about him. That you had cried over him. That you had touched him so gently, so reverently, as if he were something precious. It should have been a relief, but it made him anxious instead. After all this time, after everything that he’d done to you, how was he supposed to approach you?

The thought of you looking at him with those same empty eyes, telling him to get lost, made his stomach twist.

No—he had to be smart about this. He had to find a moment when you were alone.

That would have been easy before, when you had no friends and spent most of your time buried in books or wandering the castle halls by yourself. But now? Now, you were constantly surrounded by Karina, by Minjeong, and worst of all, by Haechan.

Mark had been watching the two of you closely, trying to figure out if there was something going on. He knew Haechan was still pursuing you, that much was obvious, but you weren’t dating as far as he could tell. At least, he hadn’t heard anything about it.

Still, the thought gnawed at him.

After a lot of consideration, he decided the best way to talk to you was during your prefect rounds at night. The problem was figuring out when you were scheduled. If he had tried this a year ago, you probably would’ve handed over the information without question. Now? Not a chance.

So, he had to get creative.

It took some effort to figure out your schedule, but after bribing a few Slytherins with an unlimited supply of Fizzing Whizzbees from Honeydukes for the rest of the year, he learned that your shift usually started around 8 pm.

So by 7:59 pm, he was slipping out of the Fat Lady’s portrait, glancing around to make sure Filch wasn’t lurking in the shadows. His heart was pounding, but he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or anticipation.

He was finally going to talk to you.

He figured you’d start your shift near the Slytherin common room, so he made his way toward the dungeons. Sure enough, there you were, walking slowly, completely absorbed in a book.

Mark couldn’t help but smile to himself.

"So much for staying vigilant during patrols," he finally said.

You flinched, nearly dropping your book. When you turned around, your wide eyes locked onto his, shimmering under the dim candlelight. For a second, all he could think about was how lovely you looked.

"Mark..." you breathed, almost like you couldn’t believe he was real.

"Hi," he said, scratching the back of his neck. He looked away for a moment, gathering the courage to step closer.

"Are you okay?" you asked, and the genuine concern in your tone made his heart stumble over itself.

"Yeah, it wasn’t that big of a deal," he chuckled nervously.

"Not a big deal?" Your brows furrowed, and your tone sharpened slightly. "You fell from the sky, Mark."

He wasn’t used to you looking at him after all this time, much less with worry.

"I’m sorry," he said, watching the way your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "I heard you were pretty shaken up after it."

"Yeah…" you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I was..."

Mark's heart jumped. He knew it already, he knew you had stayed by his bedside, knew you had cried over him—but hearing you say it made something in his chest tighten painfully.

Your eyes scanned him again, like you were checking to make sure he wouldn’t collapse at any second.

"I’m okay, I promise," he reassured you.

You nodded, then let out a sigh, glancing around as if suddenly remembering where you were.

"What are you doing outside your common room this late?"

Mark hesitated. Should he make up some excuse, or should he just tell the truth?

"If you were planning to sneak out with Mia, I’ll have you know that I must deduct points from your house and report it to Professor McGonagall," you said, your tone suddenly more detached. Just like that, the warmth in your expression flickered out, and your eyes went cold again.

Mark felt like he had just been shoved back into reality.

"No, no," he stammered quickly. "Mia and I are not… we’re not together."

You pursed your lips, nodding slowly. "Okay. Then why—"

"I wanted to talk to you," he blurted out. "To apologize. For everything. I never got the chance to back then."

"It’s been a year, Mark," you said flatly.

"Yeah, I know," he murmured. "But you still deserve an apology. And I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but… I needed to say it anyway."

His voice faded toward the end, barely audible.

"Okay…" You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "You're forgiven. I don’t hold it against you anymore... I actually haven’t for a while."

"Really?" Mark blinked. "You don’t even care why I did it?"

"Not really. It doesn’t matter anymore."

"I want to explain, though," he insisted.

You simply nodded, waiting.

Mark took a deep breath. "I was an idiot back then… well, I guess I’m still an idiot but I was an angry idiot. And I don’t know what came over me… I took it out on you. But I swear, it wasn’t because I hated you. I never hated you." He exhaled sharply, as if forcing the words out before he lost the nerve. "I know you don’t have to believe me, but… I just—I need you to know that."

He spoke so fast, stumbling over his words. Afraid that if he paused, he wouldn’t get to say everything he wanted. By the time he finally stopped talking, your expression had softened just a little.

"I see…" You seemed to search for the right words before settling on a quiet, "I’m glad you told me." A small, tentative smile tugged at your lips.

But it didn’t ease the tightness in Mark’s chest. It didn’t make him feel any better. Because there was more, so much more he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. And he was terrified.

"Do you wanna hang out?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

"Now…?" You glanced around, hesitating. "I’m kind of—"

"No! Sorry, I meant… later. Tomorrow, maybe? Or—I don’t know… whenever you can."

You stayed quiet for a moment, considering it. "Uhm… okay. Tomorrow. After class?"

Mark nodded too eagerly. "Yes! That sounds perfect." His voice came out overly excited, but he couldn’t help it.

"Okay. See you tomorrow, then." You gave him a small wave before turning away. "Now go before any of the other prefects see you."

Mark barely registered your warning, his mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow.

You were dreading your night shift as a prefect tonight. You hadn’t slept much after staying by Mark’s side all night. You heard he was discharged this morning, but not seeing him with your own eyes made you feel as if he was still hurt.

You had no idea how to deal with the knot in your stomach, so you brought a book with you hoping it would distract you. But even as you read the words on the pages, they blurred into one long line, your mind constantly flickering back to him.

You’d spent so long putting up walls inside your mind, careful to shield yourself from things that hurt too much. It had worked, mostly. You hadn’t felt anything deeply in a long time. But after the accident, those walls felt thinner, more fragile than ever.

And the minute Mark spoke behind you, you felt them crack.

Your whole body went stil and he was just standing there, smiling shyly at you. It took everything in you not to collapse in relief.

You whispered his name and tried so hard not to let your emotions show. But everything felt too much, the relief, the fear, the overwhelming rush of memories and feelings you had buried for so long. You had to hold it all in. You couldn’t let him know how glad you were to see him.

You were trying to remain composed, to keep your usual guard up, but with him standing there, looking so... so Mark,

"Hi..." he said quietly.

You forced yourself to speak. "Are you okay?" It was the question you had been waiting to ask, but it came out more desperate than you’d intended.

"Yeah, it wasn’t that big of a deal," Mark chuckled, the sound awkward and nervous. But even the way he said it made your heart sink with unease.

You couldn’t hide the irritation that sparked inside you, the remnants of the fear still clinging to your chest. "Not a big deal? You fell from the sky, Mark." The words left you harsher than you intended. You were so angry at the idea of losing him, so scared because it had been too close.

"I’m sorry, I heard you were pretty shaken after it." His voice was quieter now, and you could feel the way he was trying to reach you, even though the distance between you both felt insurmountable.

You nodded slowly, the walls inside your mind trying to reassemble themselves, trying to keep you composed. “Yeah... I was...."

The truth slipped out, and as soon as it did, you regretted it. You didn’t want him to know just how terrified you’d been that something might happen to him and you wouldn’t be able to truly tell him how you felt. The walls inside your mind cracked again.

"I’m okay, I promise," Mark said softly, his gaze holding yours, as if trying to assure you.

You wanted to close your eyes and pretend like everything was okay, but the walls kept wavering. You couldn’t trust that feeling, not yet.

You nodded, but the unease inside you didn’t go away. Not when you saw the way his eyes kept searching yours. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t control.

The walls that had kept your emotions in check for so long were trembling now, and it was getting harder to keep them from falling. You needed to focus on something else, anything else.

"What are you doing outside of your common room so late?" You forced the authority back into your voice. But you knew it didn’t fool anyone—not Mark, not even yourself.

He stumbled over his words, clearly nervous. "I wanted to speak to you. Apologize for everything. I never got the chance to back then."

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind, knocking the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t just an apology. It was him standing in front of you, looking so... raw. You weren’t sure if you were ready for everything he was willing to lay bare. But you couldn’t stop him. You couldn’t stop yourself from listening.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. "It’s been a year, Mark."

"I know. But you deserve an apology, and I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but still... I wanted to say it."

Your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his voice, but something inside you fought to keep the walls intact. The last time you’d allowed yourself to feel so exposed, it had ended in too much pain.

"Okay..." You put a strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re forgiven... I don’t hold you to it anymore. I actually haven’t for a while."

His expression shifted in relief, but it didn’t bring the peace you thought it might. "You don’t care why I did it?"

You shook your head, forcing the walls to stay up. "Not really. It doesn’t matter anymore."

"I want to explain, though," Mark said, looking at you with an intensity you hadn’t seen in him before.

And you nodded, thinking that maybe it was okay to let the walls waver for now.

So you heard him out when he nervously asked to hang out, and you ignored the logical part of you that told you you might get hurt again.

The next day, Mark woke up earlier than usual. He told himself he wasn’t making a big deal out of hanging out with you today, but he still spent longer than necessary in the shower. He even put on cologne, something he never did.

He only had two classes with you this year, and after the Yule Ball accident, he made a habit of sitting as far away as possible, just so you wouldn’t catch him sneaking glances every few minutes.

But today, he was going to sit next to you.

At least, that was the plan—until he walked into Divination and saw that Lee Haechan had already taken the seat beside you.

Mark blinked. He didn’t even know Haechan was in this class. Then again, he was pretty sure he had skipped most of the semester. And yet, he suddenly decided to show up today? Right when Mark was finally trying to make things right with you?

Mark scowled as he trudged to the table behind yours. Mia slid into the seat next to him, but he barely noticed her presence until she snapped her fingers in front of his face, breaking his intense staring contest with the back of Haechan’s head.

"Did you do something different to your hair?" Mia asked, eyeing him.

Mark instinctively ran a hand through it. He had used a bit of gel this morning, but now that she pointed it out, he felt self-conscious.

"No," he muttered, dropping his hand and forcing himself to focus on Professor Trelawney, who was currently droning on about the art of tea leaf reading.

"...And remember," she was saying dramatically, her bracelets jingling with every exaggerated movement, "the leaves do not lie! They reveal the truth hidden beneath the surface, the past, the present, and sometimes, if you are truly gifted, the future."

Mark barely listened, too distracted by the way Haechan kept whispering in your ear.

"Now! Pick a partner and interpret their tea leaves. It can be anyone's cup!"

Mark didn’t hesitate. He shot up from his seat, stepping around Mia and snatching your cup before Haechan could even reach for it.

You flinched slightly at the sudden movement, but when you looked up and saw it was him, you relaxed.

"Hello," Mark said, smiling.

You smiled back. "Hi."

From beside you, Haechan’s jaw tightened. "I see you’re alive."

Mark smirked. "You’re lucky I am or there’d be no witness to prove you didn’t push me off my broom."

“Guide yourselves with the book and pay close attention to the patterns so you can decipher what the tea leaves say,” Professor Trelawney cut in, her voice airy and theatrical as always.

“I guess I’ll look at your cup then.” You flicked your wand, summoning Mark’s cup toward you.

Haechan huffed beside you and settled for reading Mia’s cup instead.

Mark watched you tilt his teacup, your eyes scanning the damp leaves at the bottom with unnerving concentration. He’d never taken Divination seriously, Trelawney's constant doomsday prophecies were more of a running joke than anything, but the way you were studying his cup seriously made him realize you were exactly the opposite.

“Alright…” You murmured, brushing your fingers against the rim of the cup as you turned it slightly. “This shape here…it kind of looks like…” Your brows furrowed in thought before you glanced at the textbook. “A hound?”

“A hound?” Mark repeated, leaning in slightly.

“It symbolizes guilt.” You looked up at him then, and for a moment, the room felt too quiet. “Something that’s been eating at you for a while. Maybe something you want to say but haven’t faced properly yet.”

You were staring back into the cup as if searching for something more. Mark wanted to brush it off, make some joke about Professor Trelawney getting to your head, but the way you spoke made him hesitate.

“Well,” he started, clearing his throat, “that’s… ominous.”

“Maybe it just means he regrets not catching the Snitch before nearly cracking his skull open.” Haechan snorted, leaning back in his chair.

Mark’s jaw twitched but before he could open his mouth to say something, Professor Trelawney’s voice rang through the room.

“Now, now! I sense many of you are struggling to find clarity in the leaves, but do not fret! The Inner Eye is a gift not all possess.”

Mark turned your cup carefully in his hands, squinting at the clumps of tea leaves at the bottom like they might suddenly rearrange themselves into something comprehensible. They didn’t.

“Alright…” he said slowly, stalling for time. “So, um—this kind of looks like…” He tilted his head. “Maybe… a deer?”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “A deer?”

“Or… a horse,” he amended quickly. “Yeah. Definitely a horse. Which, uh, probably means…” He paused, grasping for anything remotely logical. “You have an adventurous spirit. And, um, bravery. And, like… untamed passion?”

Mia snorted from beside him, barely holding back her laughter, while Haechan outright scoffed.

Before you could tease him, Professor Trelawney materialized beside your table, her many scarves billowing behind her. She peered over Mark’s shoulder, tutting disapprovingly.

“I knew you didn’t have the Sight, my dear boy,” she said, shaking her head mournfully. “But fear not, Divination is an art that can be nurtured… even in those with less potential” She patted his shoulder with a dramatic flourish before floating off to torment another group.

Mark sighed, his ears burning red. But then he glanced at you and you were smiling. At him.

And suddenly, he didn’t care about looking like an idiot.

The bell rang before he could bring up your plans for later, and you left with a small wave. He spent the next few hours trying not to overthink it, but thankfully your last class of the day, Care of Magical Creatures, was together. That meant another chance.

Professor Kettleburn led the class out to the paddock, where a row of iron-reinforced cages sat waiting. Today’s lesson was on Chimeras.

Even Mark knew that was a terrible idea.

“Of course, we won’t be working with full-grown Chimeras,” Kettleburn reassured, “for obvious reasons. However, the Ministry has provided us with young ones under very, very careful supervision.”

He demonstrated the proper way to throw raw meat to the creatures. The chimera’s serpent tail lashed at him when he got too close, and the class collectively took a step back.

“Alright! Now, you lot give it a try!” Kettleburn beamed, seemingly unfazed by the near-death experience.

Mark grabbed a chunk of bloody meat and approached the enclosure, trying to ignore the way the chimera’s goat head was glaring at him. The moment he threw the meat, it hit the ground about a foot too short, and the beast let out a dissatisfied growl.

“This,” he muttered under his breath, watching as the chimera’s lion head snapped at him, “is why Professor Kettleburn has lost almost all his limbs.”

“Need help?”

Mark flinched at the sudden voice, turning to find you standing there, watching him with an amused tilt to your lips.

He huffed out a laugh. “You know, I’ve noticed you ask that a lot. Do I really look that helpless?”

You giggled. “Uhm… a bit.” Then, you took the meat from him and tossed it over the fence in one smooth motion. The chimera caught it mid-air, seeming significantly less hostile toward you than it had been toward him.

Mark blinked. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “I’m a terrible flyer.”

Mark scoffed. “That’s the one thing I think I’m good at.”

“Oh, I’ve heard.” You said it casually, but both of you knew you’d been to almost every single one of his Quidditch matches since first year.

He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck, summoning whatever courage he had left. “So… did you still want to hang out today?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “How about the library?”

Mark barely resisted the urge to groan. He tried to keep his face neutral, but you noticed the way he grimaced.

You smirked. “Or we can do the greenhouse?”

His expression instantly lightened. “Yes! That sounds good.”

And when you turned back toward the chimera, Mark found himself staring a little too long. He’d never really noticed how pretty your eyes were. Or maybe he had, and he’d just forced himself to ignore it. But now—now he couldn't stop seeing them. The way they glowed when you got something right in class, the way they sparkled when you looked at him for the first time on the train all those years ago.

He missed that. The way you used to adore him.

And he hated himself for wasting it—because he’d been too much of a coward. Too immature to handle something so good.

After your last class, you made your way back to the Slytherin dorms, stopping in front of your mirror to fix your uniform and contemplate whether a simple glamour charm might make your cheeks look a bit rosier. Not that you were dressing up for Mark, obviously.

You weren’t sure how to feel about his sudden shift in attitude. He’d never been this… nice before. And maybe you were quick to accept it because you’d spent the past few days terrified of losing him. But was that enough of a reason to let your guard down?

You sighed, closing your eyes and practicing Occlumency for a few minutes before heading out. You knew you’d need your walls strong if you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him.

When you stepped into the common room, Karina and Minjeong were hunched over a Potions essay they definitely should’ve finished by now.

“And where are you going all dolled up?” Karina asked, looking up from her parchment.

“What? I look the same as I always do,” you said, feigning nonchalance.

Minjeong raised an eyebrow. “Are you meeting Haechan?”

It would’ve been easier to say yes. But they’d find out soon enough when Haechan inevitably strolled through the door looking for you.

“No, I’m going to go check on the Venomous Tentacula.” You were actually proud of how quickly you came up with the lie.

“Okay. Boooring.” Karina waved you off, already focused back on her essay.

You smiled quickly, muttered a goodbye, and slipped out of the common room before they could ask anything else.

When you arrived at the greenhouse, Mark was already there. He straightened up the moment he saw you, hands fidgeting slightly at his sides. But then you noticed he was holding something. A flower.

Not just any flower... a Moonbloom Orchid. A rare magical plant that was known to change colors based on the emotions of the person holding it, and right now, its soft lavender hue radiated warmth and quiet affection.

Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, Mark… it’s so pretty. How did you get it?”

Mark shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Oh, it wasn’t that hard to find.”

That was a complete lie.

He had sneaked out to Hogsmeade during his free period yesterday and asked around every store, pub, and dodgy corner for hours, trying to track one down. He had spent almost all his galleons on it.

But looking at your face, your excitement, he decided it was worth every single one.

“Thank you. I love it,” you said, your fingers brushing over the glowing petals as you smiled up at him.

And that smile—Merlin, that smile—hit Mark like a Bludger to the chest.

For the first time, maybe ever, he wanted to kiss you. Really kiss you. Not in some fleeting, passing thought but in a way that made his heart pound and his throat tighten. The desire was so sudden, so strong, it nearly knocked him off balance.

He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Okay, so… want to show me around?” he asked, as if he hadn’t been having lessons in this greenhouse for years.

You giggled, and he could tell by the amused glint in your eyes that you saw right through him. “Sure,” you said, playing along. “I guess I can show you what I’ve been working on.”

You led him toward a section of the greenhouse that looked darker, the air thick with the scent of damp soil and something faintly spicy. Twisting vines curled around the edges of a wooden planter, their leaves twitching slightly as you approached.

“These are pretty hard to find,” you explained, crouching beside the pot. “I begged Professor Sprout to let me plant the seeds I found. Don’t ask where I found them, though.”

Mark raised a brow, intrigued, but he didn’t press.

“You really love this stuff, huh?” he asked instead.

You glanced up at him, then back at the plant, lightly running your fingers over its writhing leaves. The Venomous Tentacula shuddered, curling toward your touch as if it recognized you.

“I guess I do,” you admitted. “I don’t know… I feel comfortable around plants. I can feel their emotions, almost. Even if they can’t really express it… I guess I relate to that”

Mark watched you carefully, noting the way you hesitated like there was something more you wanted to say but couldn’t quite bring yourself to.

The way you spoke about plants… it was almost the way he felt about you.

Something real and quiet. Something he had never really put into words because he didn’t know how. Because even now, standing next to you, close enough that he could see the way the evening light reflected in your eyes, he felt like he shouldn’t want it.

Mark wasn’t sure how long he stood there just watching you, but it was long enough for you to notice.

You blinked up at him, tilting your head slightly. “What?”

He shook his head, forcing a laugh. “Nothing,” he said.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was the way the soft glow of the sunset made you look almost unreal. The way your lips parted slightly, like you were about to say something, only to change your mind. The way his own thoughts were a mess, tangled somewhere between I shouldn’t and I can’t stop thinking about you.

You turned back toward the plant, your fingers lightly tracing one of the curled leaves. “It’s kind of funny,” you murmured, half to yourself. “Plants grow towards the things they need. Sunlight, water… warmth.”

Mark swallowed. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the way you said it made his skin feel hot. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “They don’t second guess it. They don’t hold themselves back.”

He wasn’t sure if you meant anything by it, but it struck something deep in his chest anyway.

Because he had spent years holding himself back.

And now, with you standing this close, your voice soft, your eyes flickering to his he wondered if maybe he should stop doing that.

His hand moved slightly, barely thinking, like an instinct. Like those plants reaching for sunlight. And for the briefest moment, your fingers brushed against his.

It would be so easy to close the space between you.

So easy to reach forward, to tip your chin up slightly, to finally, finally—

The greenhouse door banged open.

Mark jolted back so fast he almost knocked over the planter.

Professor Sprout bustled in, looking completely oblivious to the moment she had just shattered. “Oh! What are you two doing here? Curfew is soon, I need to lock up for the night.”

You cleared your throat, stepping back as well, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry, Professor. We were just finishing up.”

Mark forced himself to breathe, still feeling the ghost of your fingers against his.

Still thinking about how close he had been… and how badly he already wanted to try again.

The rest of your fifth year went by in a blur. Even though you and Mark were on much better terms now, there was little time to think about it between the overwhelming pile of O.W.L prep and the ridiculous amount of homework assigned for every subject.

You managed to pass every exam, most of them with an Outstanding. Mark, on the other hand, had spent so much time this year distracted by you that he fell behind on his classes.

So as punishment, he forced himself to stay away—at least until he could guarantee he wouldn’t completely fail.

He still barely scraped by. Defense Against the Dark Arts was the only subject he earned an Outstanding in, but his Potions grade wasn’t high enough to qualify for the advanced level. Not that he wanted to take the class again, but it meant one less excuse to see you during the day.

When sixth year came around, he found himself sticking around you more, even if your friends didn’t particularly like him. So more often than not, he waited until you were alone.

Like now.

“Hello,” Mark said, spotting you sitting on the grass with a book open in your lap. The Whomping Willow loomed behind you, its massive branches swaying with an eerie creak. He eyed it warily.

“You’re awfully close to that thing.”

You barely glanced up. “It’s not so bad once it gets used to you.”

Mark scoffed, crossing his arms. “I don’t think that is capable of getting used to anything.”

You hummed, flipping a page. The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, making you look almost ethereal.

Mark swallowed.

He’d spent so much time not noticing these things, forcing himself to ignore the way your presence always made his stomach twist. But now, it was getting harder to push those thoughts away.

Without thinking, he sat beside you, close enough to feel the faint brush of your robes against his. “You know,” he said after a moment, voice quieter than before, “you are allowed to relax now. OWLs are over.”

You huffed a soft laugh, still looking at your book. “I don't think I know how.”

Mark tilted his head, watching you. “Maybe I could teach you.”

You finally turned to face him fully, the corner of your mouth twitching. “And you’re the expert on relaxing?”

Mark grinned, a little lopsided. “Nope. But I’m an expert at not studying. That’s basically the same thing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, and something in his chest tightened at the sight.

A light breeze rustled through the trees, sending a few leaves drifting between you. One of them settled in your hair.

Mark hesitated.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he reached up. “Hold still,” he murmured.

Your brows furrowed. “What—”

His fingers brushed against your hair, plucking the leaf free. But his hand lingered grazing your temple.

You went still. Mark swallowed, his pulse hammering. He thought about pulling away. But then you looked at him and your eyes flickered down to his lips just for a second.

Suddenly, the space between you wasn’t so wide anymore.

His hand was still in your hair, and your breath was so, so close, and he could see the way your lips parted slightly almost as an invitation.

But then a sharp creak from behind you made you jolt apart. The Whomping Willow shifted, its branches twitching ominously.

Mark exhaled, pressing a hand to his face. What the hell was that? When he glanced at you, you looked just as dazed. Maybe even disappointed.

That sent a strange thrill through him.

But then you cleared your throat, shaking your head as if brushing the moment away. “We should probably move,” you said, standing and dusting yourself off. “Before the tree decides to take a swing at us.”

Mark huffed a laugh, still a little breathless. “Thought you said it was harmless.”

But as you started walking away, Mark stayed there for just a second longer, staring after you.

He really needed to kiss you.

Badly.

Mark Lee was confusing you.

There had been two clear moments now where you’d almost kissed. Both times, he’d been the one to lean in first, and both times, something had interrupted before it could happen. Yet despite his boldness in those brief moments, you still couldn’t fully let yourself believe this attention was real.

Your heart wanted to, but your brain knew better.

Mark had spent years ignoring you, brushing you off like you didn’t exist, and then humiliated you too. Only to suddenly pull you into his orbit now. Yes, he’d apologized—sincerely, you’d give him that—but that didn’t mean you could just forget the way he hurt you before.

Meanwhile, Haechan seemed to be acting… strange lately.

He was always around, even more than usual. He’d even started asking you to help him with assignments, which was bizarre because Haechan had made a sport out of either sleeping through classes or deliberately distracting you in them. Yet now he’d started seeking you out in the library, sitting closer in the common room, and finding any excuse to keep you near.

You didn’t mind. If anything, it felt comfortable being around him. Haechan never made things complicated.

But you did notice the way Mark would glare daggers at him from across the Great Hall. Or the way his jaw clenched whenever he caught Haechan whispering something in your ear that made you laugh.

And then there was the incident.

It happened in Charms class. Professor Flitwick had started teaching everyone Expulso, a more advanced charm that forcefully propelled objects away from you. It was precise magic that required perfect wand movement and a focused mind.

And well... Mark had neither.

You’d been paired with Haechan for the practical exercise and he, of course, turned the whole thing into a joke, purposefully missing his targets just to make you laugh. Then he decided to experiment, turning his wand on the scarf Mark had left on his desk. With a flick of his wrist, Haechan sent it flying toward himself.

“It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?” he grinned, draping it around his neck.

“Dude, give it back,” Mark said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Haechan shot him a smug look. “Relax. I don’t fancy these colors either.”

Mark gripped his wand so hard his knuckles turned white. He really tried to keep his composure, but watching you laugh with Haechan as he mocked the Gryffindor colors did something dangerous to his self-control. His mind blurred with pure instinct. Before he could stop himself, he flicked his wand and muttered, “Expulso.”

He’d only meant to send the scarf flying back to him.

Instead, Haechan was thrown clear across the room, crashing into a stack of desks and sending books and ink bottles scattering everywhere. Gasps echoed around the classroom. Mark’s stomach dropped.

“Mr. Lee!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed, horrified. “Detention! Immediately!”

And that’s how Mark ended up cleaning every single portrait frame in the castle as punishment.

Now he was on his fourth hour of wiping down dusty frames, trying to ignore Sir Cadogan’s taunting comments.

“Are you truly the best Seeker this school has to offer? Ha! Pathetic, if you ask me! No spine! No dignity!” the painted knight cackled, waving his sword wildly.

Mark gritted his teeth, his grip on the cloth tightening. “I swear, if you don’t shut up—”

“Oh? Going to hex me too, are you?” Sir Cadogan jeered. “Do it, coward! Strike me down if you dare!”

Mark seriously considered shaking the frame just to feel some satisfaction when he heard footsteps behind him.

“You haven’t learned your lesson about hexing people yet?”

Mark froze.

He turned around and there you were, still in your uniform, badge pinned neatly to your robes as a reminder that you were out on prefect patrol. His heart did a stupid little flip at the sight of you.

“Apparently not,” Mark said, trying to force a laugh.

“I think we need to do something about your self-control, Mr. Lee.”

The way you said his name, playful but with a trace of authority, sent a rush of excitement through his veins.

“I admit,” Mark started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ve been a bit hot-headed lately.”

You raised a brow. “Lately?”

Mark groaned. “Okay, fine. Always. But—” he hesitated, his mouth clamping shut before he said something stupid like I just get like that when I see you with him.

You were still watching him, expectant. “But?”

“…Nothing.” He turned back toward the frame, vigorously wiping it down as if it would erase his own embarrassment.

You stepped closer.

“Mark.”

He swallowed thickly, his hand pausing. “…Yeah?”

“Why did you do it?”

He tried to play dumb. “What do you mean?”

You huffed. “You’ve never lost control of your magic like that with him. Not even during Quidditch. You didn’t just hex Haechan… you blasted him.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “Maybe he deserved it.”

“For what?”

Mark clenched his teeth. For touching you. For putting his arm around you like you belonged to him. For making you laugh like that. For being close to you in a way he wasn’t allowed to be.

“…For being an asshole,” Mark muttered pathetically.

You scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Touché.

“Mark,” your voice softened. “Look at me.”

He did. And God, he shouldn’t have.

You were so close. Your scent, your warmth, it was dizzying. Mark could feel his pulse roaring in his ears, his breath shortening. His hand hung limply by his side, still clutching the rag tightly.

There was ink on your cheek.

Without thinking, he reached up, his thumb grazing softly against your skin. “You, uh…” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “You’ve got ink. Right here.”

You gasped.

And Mark realized he was completely, utterly doomed. His thumb caressed your cheek, and then his hand drifted lower, trailing down your jaw before he realized what he was doing.

His entire body was screaming kiss her.

You didn’t move away and for one unbearable moment, Mark swore you were leaning in too—

“Oi!” Sir Cadogan suddenly barked from his frame. “You there! I see you trying to woo a lady with improper decorum! Unhand her at once!”

You flinched back like you’d been scalded. Mark cursed under his breath, his entire body recoiling from yours.

“I—uh... should finish patrol,” you stammered, practically fleeing.

“Yeah. Right. Patrol.” His voice cracked.

And as you disappeared down the corridor, Mark let his head fall against the wall with a groan.

That was three times.

Three times he’d almost kissed you. Three times something—or someone—had interrupted. And three times he’d walked away regretting it.

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold himself back.

Halloween arrived in a blur of decorations and excitement. The castle was buzzing with energy, students gorging themselves on sweets from Honeydukes and filling the Great Hall with loud chatter and laughter.

Mark wasn’t particularly fond of sweets, but he still tagged along with Jaemin and Chenle to Hogsmeade that morning. It was a decent distraction.

When he finally returned to the dormitory that evening, exhausted and chilled from the walk, he found a small pile of sweets on his bed. Mark frowned. Weird. He didn’t remember leaving any there. But then his eyes landed on a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

His heart stopped.

A slow, stupid smile spread across his face as he reached for the box, his mind flashing back to years ago—to the day you’d given him a similar box of chocolates in second year. Back then, he’d been a coward. He’d tossed them out in front of you when his friends told him to, too embarrassed to admit that the sight of you blushing as you handed them to him had made his heart race. He could still remember the hurt on your face when he did it.

Mark wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

He opened the box without hesitation, popping one of the chocolates into his mouth. It melted on his tongue, rich and sweet, but almost immediately he felt… odd. Like his blood was moving too fast in his veins.

He blinked.

His pulse thundered in his ears, and an uncomfortable tightness built low in his stomach. His throat was dry. His skin felt hot. His head felt like it was being stuffed with cotton.

“What the hell…” Mark muttered, stumbling back slightly as a wave of dizziness hit him.

The room swayed around him, his thoughts clouding over like a dense fog. But the one thing that stayed sharp and clear in his mind was you. Your face. Your voice. The lingering warmth of your skin from when he’d touched your cheek before. His body burned with the desperate, uncontrollable urge to find you.

Mark didn’t remember walking out of the dorm. His body moved on autopilot, driven by a force he didn’t understand, only that he needed to see you.

You hated Halloween patrols.

They were miserable every year, especially when you knew the castle was still alive with music and celebration, and you were stuck walking through empty corridors. It didn’t help that Halloween was also prime time for students sneaking out of their common rooms to pull pranks or engage in other debauchery.

So when you rounded a corner and spotted two people heavily making out against the wall, you didn’t think much of it. You just sighed and braced yourself to break them apart.

“Alright, enough,” you said, walking toward them. “Back to your dorms or I’m docking points—”

You froze.

The boy pinning the girl against the wall, his hands gripping her waist like he couldn’t get enough of her... was Mark.

Your heart plummeted so fast it made you feel physically ill.

“Mark?” your voice cracked.

Slowly, like something out of a nightmare, Mark’s head turned toward you. His pupils were blown wide, his hair mussed from the fervent kiss. There was a wild, unhinged look in his eyes that you didn’t recognize like he wasn’t entirely there.

But the girl…

You felt like the air had been knocked out of you when you recognized her.

Minjeong.

Your best friend.

Your mind couldn’t catch up. No. This didn’t make sense. Mark had almost kissed you. Three times. You’d spent weeks pouring your heart out to Minjeong, admitting—-however humiliating—that you thought Mark was starting to like you back. And she… she knew.

She knew exactly how you felt about him.

Your gaze darted between them, desperately searching for some sort of explanation, some indication that this wasn’t what it looked like. But Mark was still staring at you in a daze, and Minjeong was… smiling.

You felt something splinter deep inside you.

“You—” your voice died in your throat.

Minjeong had the audacity to giggle. She pulled away from Mark’s mouth, though his hands were still clinging to her hips. “Oh…hey, Y/N,” she said breathlessly, a sheen of gloss smeared across her lips.

You looked at Mark, desperate for him to say something. But his gaze was fixed solely on Minjeong, his chest heaving, his lips still parted like he wanted more.

“Mark,” you choked out again.

His head snapped toward you. For a split second, his face twisted into something confused, like he didn’t understand why you were there. His eyes darted across your face, and you swore there was a flicker of recognition, a brief moment of panic in his expression.

Then Minjeong giggled again and Mark’s gaze instantly darkened as it fell back on her.

“Aw, don’t be mad, Y/N,” she pouted. “Please don’t tell Professor Snape, yeah?”

You felt like you were watching yourself from outside your body. “You two… can’t be here right now. You need… you need to go back to your common rooms.”

Your voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“Come on,” Minjeong teased, suddenly hooking her arm around yours. “Don’t be a buzzkill, Y/N. We’re just having some fun.”

You flinched. Don’t touch me.

Your Occlumency walls shot up instinctively, straining under the weight of your heartbreak but holding just enough to keep your expression neutral. You swallowed down the burning in your throat and repeated, “You need to go.”

Mark still wasn’t speaking. His pupils were so dilated it was unnatural, his chest still rising and falling rapidly like he couldn’t catch his breath. His swollen lips parted like he was about to say something.

But Minjeong turned, smiled sweetly at him, and said, “Mark, come on. Let’s not get Y/N in trouble.”

And Mark moved like a moth to a flame. Without hesitation, he grabbed her waist and yanked her into another bruising kiss. You recoiled like you’d been burned, forcing your eyes away before the image could be seared into your memory forever.

The sound of Minjeong’s delighted giggles made you want to scream.

Finally, she pulled back, wiping her mouth with a smug grin. “See you tomorrow, Y/N,” she sang, then turned to Mark and cooed, “Come on, lover boy. Let’s go.”

Mark didn’t even look at you. He let her drag him off down the corridor without so much as a glance in your direction.

The second they disappeared, your Occlumency walls shattered. You sucked in a shaky breath, clutching your chest like you could physically hold the pain in. A choked sob escaped your throat, but you quickly swallowed it back, forcing yourself not to cry here.

You’d be damned if you let them see you break.

What you didn't know is that Mark wouldn’t remember any of it.

Not the taste of Minjeong’s lips. Not the way his body burned with the inexplicable need to touch her. Not the sick, nauseating feeling in his gut when he caught your tearful gaze and felt like he was betraying something sacred.

All he would know was that when he woke up the next morning, his throat would be dry, his mind foggy…

…and the lingering taste of chocolate still heavy on his tongue.

A whole week passed since Halloween and Mark could not, for the life of him, figure out what he’d done to make you go back to acting like he didn’t exist.

You wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t spare him a glance, and on the rare occasion that your eyes did meet his, it was like he physically repulsed you. It was driving him insane.

Mark was starting to think he must’ve had one too many butterbeers during Halloween night and done something incredibly stupid. But he couldn’t know for sure because, again, you wouldn’t speak to him.

He also noticed you and Minjeong weren’t talking anymore. That part confused him almost as much as your behavior toward him. You were either with Karina or Haechan now, but most of the time, you were alone. And Mark hated it — hated seeing you without the warm spark you always carried when you were surrounded by friends.

But most of all, he hated that you were ignoring him. He needed you to talk to him. He needed you to tell him what he did wrong so he could fix it immediately.

Which is why he was now standing outside the Slytherin common room, anxiously hoping someone would be kind enough to let him in. Unsurprisingly, none of the Slytherins were willing to let a Gryffindor in, especially one who looked as nervous and fidgety as Mark did.

He was starting to lose hope when, finally, the perfect opportunity came in the form of Karina.

“Hey! Karina—” Mark called, jogging a few steps toward her. She slowed down as she spotted him, her face immediately tightening into an annoyed scowl.

“What do you want?” she said, her tone clipped and cold.

Mark blinked, taken aback. He knew Karina didn’t exactly love him, but she had never sounded this openly hostile toward him before.

“Uh… I was hoping I could talk to Y/N. I was wondering if you could either let me in or—”

“How dare you?” she snapped, suddenly pointing an accusing finger at him.

Mark froze. “I— sorry, what?”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve coming here with those stupid puppy dog eyes like you didn’t completely break her heart again. Haven’t you humiliated her enough? Or do you just get off on using her and throwing her away when you’re bored?” Karina’s voice trembled with anger.

“Wha... what are you talking about?” Mark asked, his voice rising in exasperation.

“Don’t play dumb, Lee. You know exactly what you did,” she spat.

“No, I don’t! I swear, I don’t know what you’re accusing me of right now! I already apologized for the Yule Ball… and the gifts… but what is this about me using her?” Mark’s heart was starting to race, his palms sweating as dread crawled up his spine.

Karina scoffed incredulously. “Seriously? You’re gonna keep playing the innocent act? After everything?”

“Karina, I’m serious. I don’t know what you mean! What did I do to her?”

“Oh my god.” She let out a bitter laugh, taking a step back like she couldn’t stand to be near him. “You really don’t remember?”

Mark’s throat tightened. “…Remember what?”

Karina stared at him for a long moment, her face twisted with disgust. “Halloween, you idiot.”

Mark blinked. “Halloween?”

“Yes, Halloween. When you were shoving your tongue down Minjeong’s throat like a desperate little dog.”

Mark’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Karina laughed humorlessly. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. Y/N saw you, Mark. She caught you all over Minjeong that night. After you almost kissed her three times. After she told us how she thought you finally liked her back. After she spent literal years pining after you!”

“No…” Mark felt like he couldn’t breathe. “No, no, no. That… that’s not right. I wouldn’t do that. I don’t like Minjeong, I like—” his voice caught in his throat. “I like Y/N.”

Karina let out another bitter laugh. “Yeah? Well, you sure have a fucked up way of showing it.”

“No, I— I don’t remember that! I don’t remember kissing Minjeong! I swear to god, Karina, I would never do that to Y/N...” his voice cracked, panic making his words rush out in a desperate tumble. “I don’t remember! I don’t—”

“Save it, Mark.” Karina’s face hardened. “I’m not the one you should be begging for forgiveness to. But it doesn’t even matter, you've already ruined everything. She’s not gonna take you back, not after that. So do her a favor and stay the hell away from her.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the common room.

Mark trudged back to the Gryffindor common room looking deader than the ghosts that roamed the castle. His head was spinning, Karina’s words replaying in his mind like a haunting echo.

He couldn’t believe it. He kissed Minjeong. How the hell could he not remember something like that? Was he really that drunk that night? But it didn’t make any sense. He’d never gotten so drunk on butterbeer that he completely blacked out before.

It was eating him alive. The image of you looking at him with absolute disgust now made so much painful sense. And if you saw it happen, no wonder you hated him.

By the time he stepped into the boys’ dormitory, Mark looked like someone who’d just been handed a lifetime sentence in Azkaban.

Jaemin, who was drying his hair with a towel, was the first to spot him. “And what the hell happened to you?” he laughed, eyeing Mark’s pale, horrified expression. “You look like you just sat through one of Snape’s scoldings.”

Mark groaned and dropped face-first onto his bed. “Kill me.”

Jaemin raised a brow. “That bad, huh?”

“I screwed up this time, dude. Like… really screwed up.”

“What, did you jinx another student by accident?”

“No.” Mark’s voice was muffled against his pillow. “…I kissed Minjeong.”

“What?!” Jaemin and Chenle —who had just pulled open the curtains of his four-poster bed— exclaimed at the same time.

Mark turned his head just enough to look at them. “I don’t even remember it happening, but apparently, I kissed her during Halloween… and Y/N saw the whole thing. And now she hates me.”

“Dude,” Chenle gawked, disbelief clouding his face. “How the hell do you kiss someone and not remember it?”

“Yeah, that’s insane–” Jaemin started, but then his voice abruptly cut off, his eyes widening like something just clicked in his brain. “…Wait. Halloween?”

Mark lifted his head, brow furrowing. “Yeah?”

Jaemin suddenly shot to his feet and walked over to Mark. “Did you eat any chocolates?”

Mark blinked. “What…?”

“Did you get any chocolates that night?”

“Uh… yeah? Why?”

Jaemin’s face paled. “Oh my god. Dude. Those were doused with Amortentia.”

Mark felt his entire body go cold. “…What?”

“Holy shit,” Jaemin ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely horrified. “You seriously didn’t know?”

Mark sat up so fast his head spun. “What do you mean I didn’t know?! What the hell are you talking about?”

“The chocolates, Mark! Every year during Halloween, girls sneak Amortentia into the chocolates hoping that the guy they like eats them and falls in love with them for a few hours. It’s a whole thing. Why do you think I told you to throw away the ones Y/N gave you years ago?”

Mark’s brain short-circuited. “Wait… what?”

“Dude!” Jaemin looked at him like he was dense. “I told you not to trust those chocolates around Halloween! Renjun’s dad works in Diagon Alley, and he says love potions are always sold out around this time of year because of Hogwarts students.”

“Especially you, dude,” Chenle added “You’re Gryffindor’s Seeker. You’re literally the main target. How did you not know this by now?”

Mark’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might pass out. “I...I didn’t. I thought—I thought the chocolates were from Y/N…” his throat tightened. “But she’d never do that to me…”

Jaemin and Chenle exchanged a look before Jaemin cautiously asked, “…Did they have a card on them?”

Mark blinked, trying to remember. “…No?”

“Exactly!” Jaemin threw his hands up. “Y/N always put a card on her gifts to you, dumbass. She’s never not done that.”

“Oh my god,” Mark’s voice cracked, his hands clutching his hair. “I’m such an idiot! I thought they were from her so I just... I ate them. I didn’t even think—” his stomach twisted in horror. “I kissed Minjeong because of a love potion?”

“Looks like it,” Chenle said grimly.

Mark felt like he was going to throw up. “Oh my god. Y/N must think I’m the worst person alive. She probably thinks I led her on and then went and kissed her best friend—”

“Yeah, well, considering you practically ate her face off in front of her, I’d say that’s a fair assumption,” Chenle shrugged.

“I didn’t mean to! I don’t remember any of it happening!” Mark’s voice cracked as panic completely consumed him. “Oh my god, Y/N hates me. She thinks I—fuck! I have to go talk to her—”

“Woah, woah, no. Don’t do that,” Jaemin said quickly, grabbing his arm.

“What?! Why not?”

“Because if you go to her right now all panicked, she’s just gonna think you’re making excuses! You need proof that you were under a love potion or she’ll never believe you.”

Mark stared at him, wide-eyed. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“Minjeong.”

Mark blinked. “…What?”

Jaemin gave him a look. “Minjeong. She’s obviously the one who gave you the chocolates. If you can get her to admit it, Y/N will have to believe you.”

Mark swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. “But what if she doesn’t admit it?”

Chenle scoffed. “Then we hex the truth out of her. Don’t worry, we got you.”

Mark could barely process anything. All he could think about was how you must’ve felt watching him kiss Minjeong. How heartbroken you must’ve been. How you probably cried yourself to sleep that night thinking he never cared about you.

You probably still thought that.

Mark’s hands clenched into fists. No. He wasn’t letting you believe that for another second.

An hour later he was pacing outside the Great Hall like a caged animal. Jaemin and Chenle stood nearby, whispering to each other. They were supposed to be helping him stay calm, but so far, their only strategy had been muttering plans that Mark couldn’t even focus on.

“I still think we should just give her Veritaserum and call it a day,” Chenle muttered.

“We’re not drugging anyone,” Jaemin shot back. “We’ll talk to her first.”

“You think she’s just gonna just admit she poisoned him with Amortentia?”

“She doesn’t have to,” Jaemin said with a smug grin. “We just need to pressure her enough that the truth slips out”

Before Mark could ask further, Minjeong appeared at the top of the staircase, chatting with a group of Slytherins.

“There she is,” Jaemin muttered, already moving forward. Mark and Chenle followed.

“Minjeong!” Jaemin called out.

She paused, turning around. When she saw them approaching, her smile faltered.

“Oh,” she said, plastering on a forced grin. “Hey... what’s up?”

“We need to talk,” Mark said, his voice tight.

Minjeong blinked. “Talk?” Her gaze flicked between the three of them. “About what?”

“About Halloween,” Jaemin said pointedly.

Mark watched Minjeong’s face carefully— the way her eyes widened just enough to betray her surprise before she forced her expression back to something neutral.

“Halloween?” she repeated with a weak laugh. “Why would we need to talk about that?”

Mark stepped forward. “Don’t act stupid,” he said quietly.

Minjeong’s smile faltered. “I... don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Chenle crossed his arms. “Then how come Mark doesn’t remember kissing you or anything about that night at all?”

Minjeong scoffed. “What are you insinuating?”

“You laced the chocolates with Amortentia,” Mark cut in, his voice like ice.

Minjeong’s eyes widened. “What?!” she sputtered, her voice rising a little too high. “That’s insane! Why would I do that?”

“You were waiting outside the Gryffindor common room that night,” Jaemin said coldly. “You knew exactly that Mark would think they were from Y/N and you were waiting to see if it worked.”

“That’s not true!” Minjeong snapped. “I didn’t—”

“Everybody else was at the celebration except you,” Chenle said. “You knew he would go to the common room after Hogsmeade, and you sneaked in the chocolates right before we arrived.”

“T-that’s ridiculous!” Minjeong stammered. “I was just leaving the Great Hall when I saw Mark walking around and he kissed me out of nowhere!”

“Bullshit,” Jaemin shot back. “You knew he was drugged and wouldn’t differentiate from the person he really wanted and anyone else.”

“Merlin, you guys are being crazy. Why would I even do that?”

“Because you like him,” Jaemin answered before Mark could. His voice was dripping with amusement, but his eyes were cold. “And you knew you didn’t stand a chance with Y/N around, so you figured a love potion would tip the odds in your favor, right?”

Minjeong scoffed. “As if I would ever--”

“Then swear on your magic,” Chenle challenged, his smile razor-sharp. “Swear on your magic that you didn’t put Amortentia in those chocolates.”

Silence.

Minjeong’s mouth opened then closed. Her eyes darted to Mark, panic slowly blooming in her face. “I—I don’t have to do anything—”

“Swear on your magic, Minjeong.” Mark demanded.

She didn’t.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Jaemin muttered.

Minjeong’s face flooded with color. “You guys are insane! I didn’t do anything! Mark probably wanted to kiss me—”

“Oh, spare me” Chenle snapped, his laugh sharp and incredulous. “You think if he actually wanted to do it, he’d just block out the entire night like it never happened?”

Minjeong’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “H-he was probably just—just embarrassed or something.”

“Embarrassed?” Mark’s voice finally cracked, and whatever grip he had on his composure snapped like a twig. “Embarrassed about what, Minjeong? You’re the one desperate enough to force yourself onto me when I was incapacitated ” His voice was raw, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger. “I don’t even like you!”

The words hit Minjeong like a slap to the face. Her entire body visibly recoiled, her mouth parting slightly.

But Mark wasn’t done.

“I like Y/N. I’ve always liked Y/N. And you…” his voice cracked as the words ripped out of him, “you made me kiss you in front of her. Do you have any idea how fucking awful that must’ve been for her?”

Minjeong’s throat bobbed, her face pale. “I—I didn’t mean for her to see.”

“Yes, you did!” Mark shot back, his voice raw and trembling. “Don’t even try to pull that bullshit right now. You knew she was patrolling. You absolutely knew what you were doing. You wanted me to want you, even if it wasn’t real. Even if you had to—” his voice broke slightly, rage burning his throat, “—had to drug me to get it.”

Minjeong flinched, her eyes darting between them. “I didn’t think it would—”

“Exactly!” Mark let out a humorless, bitter laugh. “You didn’t think. You didn’t think about me, you didn’t think about Y/N… You didn’t think about anyone but yourself! All you cared about was getting me no matter what it cost, and you didn’t care how it would make her feel. You—” his voice cracked and he swallowed hard, “—you humiliated her. And she probably thinks I’m the world’s biggest asshole who just played her.”

“I-I swear, I didn’t think it would get this far”

Chenle scoffed. “You literally slipped him a love potion. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”

Minjeong shot him a glare, but her voice cracked when she tried to defend herself. “I just— I thought maybe if he… if given the chance…. he’d realize he liked me, okay?”

“Are you serious?!” Mark practically exploded. His voice booming with the sheer force of his emotions. “You didn’t think about how messed up it is to force someone into something like that?”

Minjeong was shaking now. “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad…”

“But it did,” Mark’s voice broke, his throat tight. “And now I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.”

Silence slammed down on them like a sledgehammer. Minjeong’s face crumpled, but Mark didn’t care. His entire body was shaking with rage, with guilt, with absolute devastation.

And that’s when Mark heard a sharp, shaky intake of breath behind him.

Slowly, he turned around and his heart dropped.

You stood a few feet away, eyes wide. But it wasn’t heartbreak painted across your face. It was pure, unbridled rage.

“You—” your voice shook with fury as you looked at Minjeong. “You drugged him?”

Minjeong froze like a deer caught in headlights. “I—”

“You gave him Amortentia,” you seethed. “You drugged him and then… and then you let him kiss you and you didn’t even stop him?”

“It wasn’t… I didn’t—” Minjeong stammered, panicking now.

“What the fuck is your problem!” you cut her off. “Do you have any idea how messed up that is? You violated him!”

Mark’s breath caught in his throat at the way your voice cracked with fury.

“What?” Minjeong scoffed, suddenly back on the defensive. “It’s not like he didn’t enjoy it in the end—”

“Oh my god,” you recoiled like you were about to be sick. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you think it’s okay to force someone to kiss you under a love potion and then act like it was consensual?”

“I didn’t force him to eat them—”

“You set them up for him like a trap” you shrieked. “You drugged him! You took away his ability to choose! How can you even live with yourself?”

Minjeong looked around like she was hoping someone would swoop in and save her, but no one did. Even the Slytherins she’d been chatting with earlier were watching in stunned silence.

“You… who consoled me all the times I went to bed crying over him!” you spat, your voice raw with emotion.

“I… I’m sorry…”

“Oh, shut up,” you snapped. “You knew exactly what you were doing, an apology won’t do it now”

Minjeong opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” you said through gritted teeth. “You don’t look at him. You don’t speak to him. You don’t breathe in his direction. If I catch you so much as standing near him, I’ll make sure every professor in this castle knows exactly what you did.”

Minjeong didn’t need to be told twice, she practically bolted in the opposite direction, not sparing any of you a glance.

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

“Y/N…” Mark said weakly, his voice cracking. “I’m so—”

“Don’t,” you choked out, turning back to him. “Please don’t apologize. Just—” your voice broke again, and then suddenly, you were throwing yourself into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry she did that to you.”

Mark held you even tighter. “It’s not your fault. God, Y/N, I missed you so much.”

“Me too,” you whispered. And you meant it.

This was the first time you hugged and Mark realized you fit perfectly in his arms, like you were meant to be there all along. You smelled incredible too. It was that soft, earthy smell of fresh rain on soil and blooming jasmine, the kind of scent that lingered in greenhouses after a long day of tending to plants. It hit him all at once. Of course. That was exactly what the Amortentia had smelled like to him.

His stomach tightened at the realization. The first time he bit into those chocolates, the first person that had flashed through his mind was you.

God, he was such an idiot.

When you finally pulled away, Mark’s entire body screamed at him to pull you back in. To kiss you. To fix everything. His gaze fell to your lips, and he almost gave in but then he remembered Jaemin and Chenle were still very much standing there, watching the two of you with annoyingly amused smiles.

Mark cleared his throat, stepping back slightly. “Uh… thanks, guys. You know, for… everything.”

“Of course, man,” Jaemin grinned. “We couldn’t just let that snake get away with it.”

“I still can’t believe she’d go that far,” you murmured, concern furrowing your brow. “I didn’t even know she liked you like that… or that she was capable of something so—” you swallowed hard, struggling to find the word. “…horrible.” You glanced up at Mark, your eyes still heavy with disbelief.

Mark’s heart ached at the guilt in your voice.

“You couldn’t have known,” he reassured softly. “She fooled everyone with that sweet girl act.”

“Not everyone,” Jaemin muttered under his breath, arms crossed.

“Oh, shut up, just the other day you were talking about how she’s the hottest slyther—” Chenle started, only to get a sharp elbow in the ribs.

“Anyways!” Jaemin cut in quickly, forcing a grin. “We’ll, uh… leave you guys to it. And please, for the love of Merlin, talk. I’m sick of all this miscommunication.”

“Seriously,” Chenle added, smirking. “If I have to live another day of you two silently pining for each other I will offer myself to the werewolves.”

Mark felt his face heat as you laughed softly, and a moment later, Jaemin and Chenle disappeared down the corridor.

You both stood there, your gazes flicking everywhere except each other. The weight of everything that had just happened still hung heavily in the air.

Mark swallowed hard. “So… uh…”

“Come on,” you suddenly said, grabbing his hand before he could finish his sentence.

“Where are we—”

“Just trust me,” you murmured.

Mark let you pull him along, his fingers curling instinctively around yours. You led him up staircase after staircase until you reached the Astronomy Tower and when you finally stepped out onto the platform, Mark couldn't believe his eyes

“Whoa…”

The view was breathtaking. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting hues of orange, pink, and deep indigo across the sky. From this high up, the Hogwarts grounds looked almost dreamlike. The Black Lake glistened like glass, and the Forbidden Forest stretched endlessly beyond it.

“I’ve never been up here during sunset,” Mark admitted, his voice slightly awed. “It’s… beautiful.”

You smiled softly, leaning against the railing. “I thought you’d like it.”

Mark turned to you. “Why?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “…I’ve noticed you do that a lot.”

Mark blinked. “Do what?”

“Stare at the sky.” You smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Whenever you’re playing Quidditch. When it’s a slow game and you’re not chasing the Snitch, you just… look up. Like you’re mesmerized by it.”

Mark’s breath caught.

He didn’t know what hit him harder. The fact that you noticed something so small about him or the fact that you cared enough to remember.

“I didn’t think anyone ever noticed that…” he said quietly.

You glanced at him then, your gaze soft and sincere. “I don’t think anyone else caught it… but I did.”

And that was it.

The final push Mark needed.

“Y/N,” his voice cracked, raw and desperate. “I swear to Merlin…I never wanted to kiss her. The only person I’ve ever thought about kissing is you. It’s always been you.”

Your breath caught, and Mark took a shaky step closer. “I… I didn’t know it at first. I mean, I did, but I didn’t understand it. Not until I ate those chocolates. Because the first thing I smelled was—” he swallowed thickly, his gaze locking on yours. “It was you. Rain, jasmine, and… and that earthy smell you get when you come back from Herbology. That’s what Amortentia smelled like to me..”

Tears stung your eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Mark…”

“And when I heard what Minjeong did, I thought I was gonna lose my mind. The idea of you thinking I didn’t care about you… that I’d choose her over you… I hated it. I hated myself for hurting you, even if it wasn’t my fault.” His voice broke slightly. “I never wanted anyone else but you.”

The tears finally slipped down your cheeks. “You mean that?”

“With everything in me,” Mark choked.

Mark could feel his pulse hammering beneath his skin, his hand twitching at his side. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to kiss you.

“Can I—”

“Please,” you cut him off, already stepping toward him.

That was all it took.

Mark crashed his mouth onto yours, his hands instinctively finding your waist as you gripped the front of his sweater. The kiss was desperate, not rushed, but heavy with years of longing. He kissed you like he was afraid you’d slip away if he stopped, and you kissed him like you were trying to make up for all the time you’d lost.

And Merlin, you tasted like heaven.

By the time you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, foreheads resting against each other.

“…I’ve been wanting to do that for years, you know,” Mark admitted, laughing shakily.

You let out a soft laugh. ”Years?”

“Yeah,” he smiled sheepishly. “I think I fell for you the first time you hexed me on the train. I was just too immature to see it.”

Mark swallowed hard, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Can I… can I kiss you again?”

“Mark, you can kiss me whenever you want.” you said, caressing his cheek.

He loved the sound of that.

This time when he kissed you, it was slower. Like he was memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, the fact that you were finally his.

read part 2 here

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hoshigray · 11 months ago

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I love your work so much and it makes me feel a certain way <33 BUTT im here to request something that I've been looking for 🤞🏽

Toji x Fan-Fiction-Writer ! Reader? I'll get on my knees if required 🫶🏽

𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐜(𝐤)𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧!! | tōji fushiguro

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You know, some things are just not meant to be shared, such as fanfiction writing. And how the hell did your boyfriend, of all people, come to be the one to question you about your hobbies? You tell me, you dirty little writer…

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Toji x fem fanfic writer! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern au! - the reader is mid/late 20s; Toji's in his mid-30s - humor - fingering (f! receiving) - oral (f! receiving) - clitoral play (licking, sucking and swiping) - deep impact position - degradation (slut, whore) - use of "Daddy" title - praise + humiliation - spitting - cervix fucking - little bit of rough sex - unprotected sex (psa: wrap the willy; don't be silly) - pet names (baby, cupcake, good girl, mama, princess, sweetheart, sweetie) - aftercare; taking a bath together - usage of a phone; erotic literature/writing - Toji teasing you to no end, the bastard, lol - reader wears glasses cuz why not, hehe - mention of drool/spit.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k (bless up)

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: bro. this idea cooked so bad, i just HAD to make a fic for it, lmao!! apologies for doing this months late, hope I did the prompt justice, and ty for loving my works~☆

“Nooo, stop, Toji, give it back!”

“Hold on, baby, hold on…Phew, who knew ya liked wrtin’ dirty shit like this? The fuck is ‘pet play—’”

“Oh my God, stop it!”

This had to be, undoubtedly, the worst day of your life.

If there’s one thing every human being on Earth has in common, it’s their love for the weekends. They’re amazing — have two whole days to retreat and relinquish the turmoil and stress after five days straight. They’re the days when you can choose whichever activity you want to enjoy your leisure.

Some people catch up on sleep, others watch a show or try to cook up a new dish, and some go outside and hang out with friends. But then there are those weekdays where it’s satisfying enough to spend your day inside the comfort of your home, delighting in a hobby.

The hobby you chose to indulge in this weekend was writing. And right at this moment, you regret it being the activity you selected.

Why? For one, it wasn’t just any type of writing, like journalling or poetry. No, no; if it were, things would be easier for you to deal with now. Nope, it was fan fiction writing. The type of writing you’ve known since middle school and decided to jump in and try for about a year. What started as a curiosity turned out to be a hobby that took up your infatuation to the maximum level: writing pieces every night, taking up requests from your following over six thousand followers, and serving as an outlet to project your fantasies onto the Internet.

What type of fantasies, you might ask? The type you read in a room by yourself or in the corner away from prying eyes, under a blanket with your phone exhibiting the dark secrets that corrupt your mind, or the type that only could be accepted on the Internet and not from the judgmental looks of those in the real world.

But, most certainly, not the type of fantasies you wanted your boyfriend to see!

“Toji, please, give my computer back!”

“Nah, hold on; I wanna see this…Oh, what a title; ‘Fuck Me, Rail Me, Use Me, Daddy—‘“

“TOJI, STOP!”

Perhaps writing fan fiction with your boyfriend occupying your apartment wasn’t the best idea. But you wanted to get a draft don’t by the end of this weekend, and you were almost done with it. You were typing up a storm in your bedroom, sitting at your desk while your man, Toji Fushiguro, was doing at-home exercises in your living room.

And you could’ve sworn you had locked your computer before going to the bathroom. All you know is that after flushing and washing your hands, you opened your bedroom door to a horrifying sight: Toji, sweaty from his routine in his sweats and wife beater, holding up your laptop that showed the exact draft that you were working on! No, no, NO! You almost tripped dashing to take the device, but the older man was too quick and effortlessly dodged your attempts while still reading the material. And now you know why you are hopping around your room trying to catch the man and stop him from reading more of your stuff.

Spoiler alert: your efforts were beyond futile, huffing and puffing in complete defeat on your bed. Your boyfriend was sitting beside you, still reading aloud while scrolling through your drafts, to your dismay. Your ears and cheeks harbored an unbearable heat that you could cry at any second, and you covered your face in case it were to happen. God, please kill me now!

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, how many of these shits have you written?” Toji inquires, his forest green eyes scanning every draft as if the list were endless. “How long have you been doin’ this?”

“For…a while.” You can barely muster the confidence to utter an adequate response. How could I have forgotten to lock my damn computer?!

“How long’s a while?”

“Uhhh, a…a year?”

The silence was pinching your skin enough, but you don’t know if you preferred it over the next thing he said. “Wow, who would’ve thought my sweet angel was a dirty lil’ thing writing filth like this?” Oh, you wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die. You can practically sense the smirk on his stupid, handsome face, pulling the scar off his lip! And it hurts your being that he laughs at you grabbing a pillow to scream into oblivion. “What a horny minx.”

You removed the pillow to tell him off. “It’s not all my fault! Most of those aren’t even my ideas; some of my followers asked me to write—“

“Followers?” God, would it have killed you to shut up? “So you got people readin’ your stuff?”

Downcast eyes to avoid his surveying ones, “W–Well, yes…People like how I write, so I…..Write whatever they ask me.”

“Oh, wow,” raven eyebrows lift while looking at the screen, flipping through the notes of your drafts to your blog with your completed works. “So over a hundred freaks like how freaky you write.”

“Hey, d–don’t say it like that!”

“Oh really?” You didn’t like how he said that, nor when he pulled up one of your drafts to read. “… ’You spread your legs on instinct as she sucks on your chest, and the woman takes the initiative by sliding a hand down to your—‘“

“Stop, stop, STOP!” You sit upright and try again to take the computer away from him, but Toji swiftly moves to the bedroom floor. Fuck! It was hopeless, so you groan in exasperation. “Quit it, Toji; you had your fun, so give it back!”

He didn’t think so; finding something new about you made him curious to no bounds. And for it to be a bit of a suggestive side of you? Oh, how ashamed you were of him finding this out tickled him. “Damn, there’s so much on here…Have you ever written ‘bout shit we’ve done?”

You couldn’t believe he asked you that question — you couldn’t believe you were in this situation at all! Are you serious ”—ly asking me that?!?”

“I’m not hearin’ a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’” Now, this is just diving into a more profound level of embarrassment than you could handle. “Did’ya?”

“……………yes.”

“Wait, fr’ real?! Which ones?”

“I’m not telling you! Just give me my laptop—“

“Hell nah,” his elbow is strong enough to keep you at bay—how pathetic on your part being treated like a kid. “I’m curious to see what my lil’ sweetheart is tellin’ strangers ‘bout how we do our business—“

“I’m not telling them anything!!” You retort. “I-I just use our experience as a means of…references when I’m writing,” thumbs find themselves fidgeting together. “It…It helps when I don’t know how to describe a feeling, or….what it’s like during certain…..positions.” Was the room getting stuffy, or were you shrinking under the growing pressure of every word coming out of your mouth? Who knows.

“Is there stuff y’ve written before that you’d like fr’ us to try?” Oh, for fuck’s sake, this was too much, bringing your –his– hoodie up to shield you from this predicament. And it only worsens when he stares your way, having you close up the hoodie by the drawstrings and collapse to his shoulder. Toji chuckles at your routing self, wrapping an arm around you. “Can’t even be honest fr’ a second.”

“Toji, pleaseeee,” whining doesn’t help, the older man moving the laptop out of your lazy attempt to retrieve it. “Give it baaack…!”

“Nnm, nnm, don’t wanna,” he places the device away to the ground and takes your hand with his. “Now I gotta read what weird shit you’ve been keepin’ ‘way from me.”

You shake your head frantically. “Please don’t! Don’t you think you’ve tormented me enough today?”

“Now, why would I ever get tired of fucking with ya?” The smirk on his face is still present after you open the hoodie to sneak a glare. “Shoulda thought ‘bout that and locked y’r laptop screen.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole…” his laugh at your words only proves your point, and you bury your face in his chest. This entire thing was so outrageous. How in the world were you this dumb enough not to double-check to make sure your computer was locked from prying eyes? What an amateurish move! Not even your closest friends know that you write fanfiction, so to have your boyfriend be the one to not only find out but bombard you with questions about your secret hobby is nothing short of humiliating. It can’t get any worse than this…

…Or so you thought.

“Hey,” you perk up to look at Toji. “You said ya got followers askin’ ya what they want you to write, right?” You nod meekly, twirling your thumbs with the bottom of your shirt. “Show me some.”

Appalled, you gawk, “Wh–why would I—”

“I know you have favorites from the hundreds I’ve been looking at for the past five minutes. So, are ya gonna show ‘em to me, or am I gonna have to read every single one to find out?”He didn’t show interest in returning the laptop to you even after asking the question. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, baby; I bet ya can look it up on y’r phone or somethin’.”

Your pout deepens in defeat as you begrudgingly stuff a hand inside the pocket of your leggings to pull out your phone to click on an app. Your thumb clicks and scrolls for a few seconds before you peer to him and say, “…I do have some favorites.”

Jesus, it hurt to admit that to someone, especially with your him of all people, who is without a doubt getting an absolute kick out of this, the fucking bastard! This was beyond embarrassing; nothing could ever top this moment. Indeed, there is nothing else he could have done that could have made this predicament any worse than it already is. At least that’s what you tell yourself to cope because Toji’s grin on his face says otherwise. And what he says afterward makes your blood shift to ice.

“Why don’t ya read ‘em to me.”

Yup, you were killing yourself tonight.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Go on; read that short one fr’ me.”

“Ahh—…Hahhh, ‘Sitting here and thinking…about your faves…Mmmm.”

For some reason, this felt so. Fucking. Wrong!

You already knew it was a bad idea for you to read your works to your boyfriend at his request. However, to be fulfilling said wish in this manner? The mortification had your ears ringing a thousandfold.

How would you have foreseen this yourself, face stuffed to the pillow with your phone held up by your right hand with your legs spread up and your bottom propped up? Who the hell reads like this?! And on top of that, your boyfriend is alongside you, his body behind you. The inability to see what he’s doing arises uneasiness in the soul, quivers sneaking up as you feel the rough pads of his fingertips greet the skin of your ass after sneaking inside the oversized hoodie.

Breath hitches at the slide of your panties, coming down for his hands to grope the flesh wholly. “To..ji…” his name leaves in shakes.

“C’mon, baby,” you swallow thickly at the cupping of your chasm. Toji chuckles at the twitch felt on his palm, “Read it properly, yeah? Word for word.”

Oh, fuck, your brows trench together. “T…’Thinking about your faves pleasing you from behind. He knows he has to tease you a bit—Tmmm,” his lightly hits your butt. “‘B-By massaging your ass with his strong hands,” he does so, kneading your ass skillfully that has you involuntarily purring to his touch. “…’Keeping you still and relaxed so he can later feel you with his fingers and—“ his forefinger and middle slowly come from your clit to the entrance, biting your lips. “Nhhmm, hahhh.”

“Go on,” Toji scolds, the middle digit sliding up and down with a faint push. Your back quakes to the touch, fingers gripping the pillow. “What else is y’r fav doing?”

You inhale. “Mmmm…’and circle one of them around to warm you up—‘“ spit gulped down again when Toji’s digit did the exact thing as told. “‘And then, when he knows you’re ready for him, he sneaks them insi—‘ Aaaiiii!” His middle finger is shoved into your vagina, and your toes instantly curl before he pushes the rest ever so slowly. “Oh! Ohhh, fuck…’He…then comes to your shoulder and says to your ear to make you tingle…”

“…’Stay still, sweetie,’” woah. You were not expecting that; you were too focused on trying to read your words, and Toji bending to your ear to read his part wasn’t noticed at all. You only hope he didn’t catch the clasp of your vaginal walls around his finger (he most definitely did), hoping the soft chortle meant nothing. “‘Gonna let me make y’ feel good, yeah?’” Jesus Christ, his gruff voice relayed this so intimately to your eardrums that your heart was beating too hard.

Toji’s finger goes faster, nearly having you almost drop your phone. Your face smooshes to the pillow from the scrape of his fingertip, biting on the pillowcase as he puts in the other finger. He whispers to your ear to keep going; unbelievable…So you lift your head and try. “J-J…’Just thinking about how easy he could make you cum—Mmmph! Wi-With his fingersss…scratching and rubbing your insides so precisely until you’re practically begging to mess his hand up’…”

“Oh, fr’ real?” The perk of his tone makes you anxious. “Well, don’ mind if I do.”

The pace of his ring and middle finger increase, and you gasp sharply. The onslaught of rubs to your inner channel is enough to have your lower half writhe despite Toji keeping your legs grounded with his single one. Oh, fucking Christ, your glasses up to your smooshed cheeks the more you try to conceal your cries, proven to be trivial as the seconds go by.

“Aww, whaddaya think y’re doin’?” He coos with a kiss to your nape; you nearly shut down. His free hand takes your phone, “Tryin’ to hide that cute voice of y’rs from me? Fuck that,” he then removes his digits from your chasm as you yelp and makes you flip to your back. Oh, fuck no! Your hands go to cover your face—nope, Toji is quick to move them away. “Lemme see you, mama…Now, let’s see what else you should read fr’ me.” He swipes your phone screen, “This too wordy, this long as fuck—goddamn, baby; you writin’ whole ass novels or somethin’?”

“Shut up,” you reply as your legs move, and Toji’s left hand removes your undies.

“Ah, this one!” He hands you back your cellular device. Your eyes catch the first sentence, and your face morphs into dread before staring back at him to meet his grin. “Go ‘head,” he says cooly, spreading your legs by the knees.

“…’Picture this: your favorite coming to your room and seeing you on your bed and striding to you to taste you,” you inhale deeply at the blow of air on your wet southern folds. “‘He crawls up to you while you’re busy scrolling on the phone, busying himself with placing kisses to your stomach and down to your undies. He’ll then take them off and spread your legs for him, greeting your privates with his ton’—Ghhh…!” Toji licks your slit leisurely; you gulp at the muscle perching between the lips of your labia. “Hahhh, shit…’The smell and taste of you are so inviting he can barely keep it together, virtually inching to stuff his face with your pussy. He kisses it, lips petting your clit,’” he does so, and you chew your bottom lip. “‘Then his tongue goes excruciatingly slow to e-explore your folds,” your exhale is shaky as Toji’s tongue laps and swirls; fuck, I can’t do this…

The older man, on the other hand, flips a switch and goes to town. You knew this was a bad idea; if there’s one thing Toji loved doing more than fucking your cunt, it’s eating it out. He pushes your legs up by the knees for easier access, the angle perfect for him to propel his mouth onto your entrance. You shriek, his nose frequently grinding the hood of your cunt as his scarred lips and tongue suck and lick you feverishly.

“—Tahhh! Ohhhshit, no…!” You cry, throwing your head back to the pillow. “Ahhnn, Tojiii, stop…not too fast—Oooh!”

He spits, mixing his saliva with your slick as he laves. “Mmmph, shit, taste ’o good,” Toji pushes his face further as he sucks on your clit, and you nearly choke on your sob. “Yeah, yeah, let ‘em out; scream like a real whore.” You jerk, but his hands firmly keep you down. “Keep goin’, cupcake, finish y’r reading.”

“Khhh, God, I can’t,” you gulp when emerald eyes peer toward you. “…’Before long, he’s too overwhelmed by you that he can’t take it anymore, stuffing his face between your legs and having you cry out his name in prayers—your phone is no longer a priority.’” Jesus, you can hear his grunts along with the lascivious sounds coming from below; he’s so fucking turned on. “‘Now he has your attention, playing with your…pussy like a toy just to hear you squeak.”

“Fuck yeah,” he groans as he sticks his fore and middle digits into you. Fingers go to and fro frantically, and your free hand grabs his raven hair. “Christ, y’ sound so fuckin’ hot. More, gimme more,” a long and harsh kiss to your clit makes you want to arch so bad. “Good girl, good fuckin’ girl…”

You hiss at the graze of your vagina; keeping your eyes open is hard to do. Lips go agape, and your noises fly out with no restraint. Your legs tremble, impending in a wish to close from the curl of Toji’s fingers. Your senses become too keen, your nerves heightening with every massage of your walls, lick and slurp of your slick and clit.

“Ohooo, nhhmm, fuck, Tojiiii,” another suck to your clit has you grip the sheets. “Stooop, please; I’m gonna cumm…!”

However, your boyfriend has another idea in his head. “Oh no, you don’t, princess,” his fingers leave you hurriedly with a squeal. He yanks for your phone once more to find yet another piece of yours for you to read, giving you so little time to recuperate. Until he scoffs with a smirk, “Ohh, read this one aloud next.”

You take the device returned to you cautiously, scanning the first few words that catch your eye. Curiosity snaps to apprehension, “W-wait, no, please!” Begging won’t work, but it doesn’t hurt to try. “Please, Toji, look for some—“

“Aht, aht,” the click of the tongue shuts you. “C’mon, sweetheart, that ain’t what y’re callin’ y’r fav right now.” He squeezes your thigh, “What’s my name?”

“Toji, pleas—“

“Mm, mm,” he pinches you, a warning. “Try again.”

Excitement Nervousness flicker through your soul, breathing tardily as you muster to answer. “Sorry…Daddy.” The title burnt your tongue when it left your mouth, and the smile lifted Toji’s scar even more.

“Good,” he praises. “Now read.”

“…One of my followers asked about writing a post about deep impact, so it’s—“

“Deep impact?” He questions while spreading your legs. “The hell’s that?”

“I-It’s a, uhh,” you push up your glasses. “A position where you…kinda, like, sit on one of my legs and lift the other to your shoulder.”

Black eyebrows rise. “Ohhh, somethin’ like this, huh?” Sturdy hands find your ankle and lift your leg to his shoulder, and Toji then moves to have your other leg in between his. Your lips flatten when the groin of his pants—aka, the pitched tent–touches your hole. He whistles, “Oh, now I got a new favorite to add fr’ later.” His words aren’t meant to jest, so you frown as he snickers. “Alright, what did you write for this?”

You lick your lips; why? Toji uses his free hand to bring his sweats down, not surprised by the lack of underwear as his erection springs out. His cock is standing and ready for you, the precum oozing out alluring your eyes and your lip bitten by excited teeth. Of course, your vagina is clenching to a void—anticipation is a hell of a drug affecting your entire figure.

“Don’t get too distracted, mama,” he caught you eyeing him, lifting the hem of his wife’s beater to bite down on. Your ears and cheeks scorched at the sight of his abs and torso. “Read those words.”

Your gaze flickers to your phone while Toji lines his dick to your entrance, a gulp at the kiss of his glans and your inner labia. “…’Daddy has you propped in a deep impact, a position catered to mutual pleasure and closeness. He taps you with the tip to have you excited, then slowly pushes himself into your—Mmfff!…y-your warmth,” reminding yourself to maintain a steady breath; Toji pushes his cockhead into your slick as you’re distracted. A few seconds fly by, and he slips right in; a gasp exiting your puffy lips indicates so. “‘H–He gently shoves every inch and stretches you out,’” his girth is lethal, your eyes rolling up the further his tip goes, scrapping your texture and your opening suiting for his length. “‘A-And, it feels so good to have him making you full and good’—Hoohh?!?”

That’s it, that’s what you were anxious about—you felt the jab of his tip on your cervix. You freeze instantly, too shocked to breathe as the hit was spontaneous. Your body locks down for a quick second to process what happened.

Toji notices your tightened grip and hisses, “Fffuuckin, shit…! So tight,” his hips go sluggish, and you feel his veins and shaft brush nicely with your insides. You sneak a glance at his flashed abdomen; the flex of his abs as he pushes his pelvis in waves is a sight to see–enough to put you in a trance.

You continue. “‘His hip work is pleasuring, having you wail and cry out f-for more…the sensation of Daddy’s dick venturing inside and hitting your sweet spots is enough to make your toes curl—Nhhaaa…”

He can sense you gripping on him more; fuck, it feels so good. His thrusts go a little faster, forming a minimal medium. You exhale through your nostrils at the change of pace, and grazes against your walls become periodic and long-lasting the deeper he goes.

“Daaah, ahhh, f-fuuck,” you whimper aloud. “Tojiii, y’ feel so g—Nnnmm!?!“ You nearly swallow your tongue from the sudden pound of him, the rub of your G-spot too abrupt to predict.

“Who?” God, you know he’s getting a good kick out of this, the fucker. He pushes his cock to the hilt, and it takes everything in your power not to babble from the overwhelming intensity.

“Daddy, daddyyy, don’t…!” Correcting yourself as his fingers dance around your unattended clit. “I’m sorry, you just feel so good..”

That’s more like it. “Good girl,” he bends closer, his knees spreading further apart. He pushes the leg on his shoulder so that the angle is plausible for him to rut harder. You shriek and squirm to his enjoyment, “Keep readin’.”

“‘Y-…You’re cries become more shameful the harder and faster he goes,” Toji stimulates for a harsher pound; another hit to your cervix has you winded. Despite your gasping for air, he doesn’t relent, and you jerk to undulate to another poke. “Sh-shiiit, Jesusss…! ‘He pistons so hard, so deep, it’s difficult even to think straight when all you can think is—‘“ a choked sob from a slow pull before a devious snap of the hips. “A-All you c–an think…Ahahh!” Another nudge to your G-spot; this is so hellish!

The culprit scoffs softly. “Think ‘bout what, baby?” He swipes and pinches your clit to have you jolt and whine. “Tell Daddy the rest.”

Fuck, I can’t take it anymore! The phone slips your hand, barely missing your head. “Daddyyy, I can’t!”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Another pinch to the bud pairs with a poke to your delicate womb. Oh, he’s such a dick! “Don’t wanna read fr’ me?” He chuckles aloud at you shaking your head ‘no’. “Why’s that?”

“C-Cuz, if you keep going, I’ll,” a head thrown back at another nip on your clitoris. “Ahh, I-I’ll…!” Shit, you can feel it, the climb rocking your bones to entail your soon climax.

“What? Ya wanna cum on Daddy’s dick instead of readin’ like a sweetheart,” don’t believe the words; his faux disappointment doesn’t match the merciless thrusts and the devilish grin. “Wanna act like a whole slut and cum on me?”

“Yesss, yes, pleasee!!” You don’t care anymore; you want to let it out. “Please, Daddyyy, I wanna cummm!!”

“Heh, what a nasty girl you are—Nnnmm! Fuck, just milkin’ me dry, beggin’ fr’ it, huh?” The same fingers he used to play with your clit come to your lips to shove inside, forcing you to taste yourself. “Go ‘head, mama; let y’rself go, be the slut you really are…Hahhh, shit, c’mere,” he grabs for both your wrists with his free hand after taking off your glasses and propels you towards him at the same time as he pounds. Holy fuck, this position was getting rougher, pulling you in and hitting your cervix with accurate hits that you’re whining and twitching. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck! It’s too much, it’s all too much to bear, so it’s no wonder you climax in seconds.

You cry with the breach of your crescendo, your inner muscles contracting around the cock, hitting your womb. Your nerves are now peaked as the air is sensitive to your skin, and you feel so out of breath, everything happening all at once that you can’t keep up as you thank Toji in babbled prayers, still sucking on his fingers as your vagina flutters and coats him of your essence.

“Good job, cupcake,” he comes closer and removes his digits. “Can’t beat the real thing, right?” He cups and massages your cheeks before spitting into your mouth.

You don’t even flinch, too fucked out to even care, just moaning to his lips as he brings you in for a passionate kiss as his hips keep going until he’s done and satisfied…

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Ughhh, I can’t believe I just did that…”

“Pfft quit whinin’. Don’t act like ya didn’t enjoy it.”

“I hate you so fucking much, you know that?”

“Whatever y’ say, Ms. Novelist.” You grumble at the name before he brings the washcloth to wipe down your neck.

You and Toji were now in the bathroom, your nude bodies squished together, with the warm water cleansing you both. Hair and skin damp, your back meshed to his front as you sit between his legs. The soft yellow lighting basks the bathroom with a warm glow as you two bathe in relaxation, a needed state after the excitement prior.

You snatch the washcloth before Toji wipes your face clean off. “Why did you have to be so nosy, looking at my laptop for what?” You wipe his arm that rests on the rim of the tub.

He rolls his eyes, knowing he’s in for a lecture. “Well, if ya didn’t want me to see, shoulda locked the shit.”

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re nosy as hell! Could’ve just looked somewhere else or left the room!”

“Hmph, well, when you see the words ‘Down and Dirty’ all bolded and big and see another tab with a pic of a rimjob, who wouldn’t stop—“

“Okay, okay!” It would be best if you threw the cloth at him for chortling; such an indecorous personality for someone supposedly older than you. “You’re insufferable.”

“Right back at you,” he whispers to your ear and kisses your cheek. You sigh softly from his lips, resting your head on his shoulder while he pecks your chin. The hand in the water finds your thigh to grope and massage, and you moan at the touch and unwind.

Tranquility fills the cozy space between you two as the silence settles in, the humid air comforting to your nose and eyes, and the drip of the faucet plucking into the tub water is a soothing sound to cajole you into a dormant plane.

However, even when relaxing, it doesn’t stop the bothersome feeling of asking Toji something. And where better than with you in his secure embrace? “Toji,” his name has him open an eye to look your way. “You don’t think I’m…weird, don’t you?”

He raises a brow. “Explain.”

“Like, don’t you find it weird that me, your partner, indulges in hobbies that are…you know, like that,” now your eyes trail away from his gaze. “Writing about fictional fantasies and such, looking up erotic material and stuff…”

A few seconds fly as he scoffs. “Baby, I’ve been lookin’ at porn way before I met you—“

“Th–That’s not what I meant??”

“Besides, it’s nothing more than just writin’ shit that doesn’t exist. Hmm, if anything, now I know y’re just as big of a pervert as I am.”

Anxiousness transitions to peeve. “You are so—“

“Do you like what you do?”

The question takes you aback; the immediate serious tone switch wasn’t expected. “…I..yeah.”

“Are ya hurtin’ anyone?”

“No…at least I don’t want to.”

“Are ya hurtin’ y’reself?” You see what he’s doing, the glint shining from his viridian orb.

“No. I…like this hobby.”

Finally, a small smile contorts that scar of his. “Then I don’t mind it. It’s what ya like to do, so do whatever, sweetie.” He comes to kiss your nose and rest his forehead with yours. “I like ya bein’ a lil’ weird anyway.”

“Jackass…” And there you go, falling in love with him again. You cup his cheek, kiss the other, and repose onto his shoulder with a blissful sigh.

“Now,” you blink back to him. “Can’t lie, think you gotta start callin’ me ‘Daddy’ from now on,” like a scratched record, your heart stops, especially with his mischievous smirk. “Where can I read the rest of y’r stuff at?”

“That’s it,” you ignore his annoying bark of laughter as you try to squirm out of his hold. “Let me out of here, get me out of this fucking tub.”

“Haha, hey, quit it; y’re spillin’ the water!”

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sh1-n0bu · 7 months ago

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i have noticed a small pattern of elves being on my latest fictional character obsessions and HEAR ME OUT!!

elf who has lived for hundreds upon thousands of years, who had experienced many of the things the world has to offer. sadness of bidding hundreds of farewells to the beauty of life and alliance of different races

elf who even after all his years of living still yet to find a love for himself. regal and seemingly detached to the concepts of relationships elves may be, even they get lonely. some nights feeling a little bit too long, a little bit too cold as they add another layer of blanket over themselves or reaching over to hug one of his puffy pillows like how he would hug his future lover. the coldness of being immortal seeping into his bones and making him shiver despite elves being above the concept of getting sick or feeling the cold temperatures

elf who runs into you by some chance meeting. maybe you were walking in the territory of elves without knowing it, maybe he purposely goes to human residences and towns, seeking adventure, excitement and change of pace. who immediately is enamored by you just by your smile that you flash his way, a kind one, a gentle one, to a nearby passenger. who falls in love with the callouses of your hand, the freckles, the small scars, the little bits of imperfection that marked you as clearly human, very much mortal, very much brittle but still with your own strength that he hasn’t felt before

elf bf who starts to court you the moment he realizes that you weren’t seeing anyone, bringing small gifts, exchanging knowledge, singing you soft ancient lullabies that no other mortal has ever heard before. maybe he finds himself writing a poem about you one day, describing your looks, your feelings, your everyday actions that you may see as mundane but ones he sees as just as courageous and beautiful in their own ways

elf bf who has never seen human flesh or bare skin before, finding the rippling biceps and toned legs of yours to be… curious. a tentative finger touching the muscles here and there, stopping you mid work as he inquires about them in a soft tone. elves of course were magical beings, blessed with magic and eternity and had no need to develop visible physical muscles till the point they become buff or beefy to some extent all due to their magic and ancient powers. the tips of his pointy ear twitching softly, eyes wide in wonder as you explain that contrary to his kin, your own develop muscles if they are put to work in physically demanding job for enough time

elf bf who over time, finds himself obsessively scribbling down any sort of new information about human anatomy on a journal, always asking you new things as he finds himself able to learn more despite having been alive for hundreds upon thousands of years. tracing the old faded scars on your body with the tip of his finger, counting the freckles, kissing the stretch marks as they were all you. regardless of how you see it, to him it was all you, together and healthy. you were alive even if you may have battle scars and he always makes sure to thank the stars as it was thanks to the tribulations you have conquered that you two were here now. staring eye to eye, touching your foreheads together as you whisper about mundane things

elf bf who one day sees you cut down a tree, cut a log off or prepare firewood and finds that he was imagining the bulge of your muscles against himself. big arms caging him in a bear hug, legs to support him and strong back that he could sink his nails into as he moans under you— hold. since when has his thoughts of you turned… impure? since when has he become turned on? sitting there on one of the logs with a painful strain against his pants as he swallowed the saliva that gathered in his jaw down, tearing his gaze away. no no, he really shouldn’t think of you as such, you were still in courting phase after all and elves were a race that took their romances and courting extremely important

yet regardless of his kin’s customs and traditions, your pretty elf bf couldn’t help but continue to stare. his gaze constantly seeking your figure out, seeing you just go through the motions of every life peacefully while he gets pathetically turned on by your actions as if he was still but a fledgling who learned of a kiss. chopping down trees for firewood, maybe you would work in front of a fire or heat for too long and get sweaty, removing one of the overtunics. maybe you’re just simply dragging a bucket full of water from the well, cranking the pulley as the muscles on your arms and back strained

elf bf who finds himself extremely aroused as his mind wanders to the gutters as he just shamelessly stares at your working form. oh, to feel those calloused hands touch his colder skin, palms smoothening over his creamy skin, and down his chest, his stomach and over his bulge. maybe you would tease the poor thing, tease him of how quick he is to get aroused, the pre of his half-hard cock weeping through his underwear and pants like he was some sore pathetic loser. a little virgin. bully him about being unable to use his cock, make him whine at your mean words as his hips weakly buckle under your exploratory hands

elf bf who couldn’t help but imagine the usual sweetness of your attitude gone, replaced by one that was just a tad bit meaner as you pushes his face down into the pillows of your bed, force his hands to stretch open his puckering hole for you to fuck senselessly. imagining you whispering all sorts of filth into his twitching ears, promising to breed him full, to use him to your heart’s content all night long as he whines and squeals like a little lamb caught in the nest of a hungry wolf. who couldn’t swallow down the quiet whimper coming from his throat as he imagined your hand grasping at his long locks, fisting it tightly as you yank him back, forcing him to arch his back and push the tip of your cock to bruise his guts even more

elf bf who waves off your worry when you had managed to hear the embarrassing noise that slipped past his lips, saying that he was having a bit of a sore throat. gods, he would love to actually whimper from having a sore throat of getting his mouth plowed all day by your fat cock head forcing his jaws wiiideee open

elf bf who couldn’t help but get a little needy in his kisses since then. hands that touched your muscles with curiosity now running over your skin as if trying to feebly seduce you. dropping things to the ground a bit too many times, following you close behind even as you told him that some of the work you needed to do required space and for him to be away for his own safety. who straddles your lap all snug, pushing his chest flush against your own as your simply daily evening kisses after dinner becomes a bit too heated. he definitely had little to no experience with the way his tongue kept licking at your lips meagerly, long fingers curling over your shoulders tightly while his bucking hips on your lap as he starts to get hard again

elf bf who has finally had enough of just his meager imaginations, tugging on the strings of your white tunic with shaky hands as he rambles about touching you, you touching him, feeling him, using him — anything dammit! use those hands of yours on him!

elf bf who soon realizes that he had perhaps bitten off more than he could chew when your hands grip at his hips, dragging his clothed cock against your thigh that had him whining like a cat in heat. meagerly, he tries to replicate what you just made him do, dragging his hips back and forth on your thigh but he all but just looks like an inexperienced bunny. which he probably was judging by the things he spoke to you about himself

elf bf who finds so much pleasure in simply grinding against your thigh for now, the precum of his now hard cock weeping through his pants, staining it into a darker color. all cute and red in the face that spread to his pointy ears, cute high pitched whines falling from his chewed up pink lips. a cute, surprised “a-aahn♡︎??” echoing in the room as you pull his eager body against your own. your chest to his back, hands loosely draped over the hip bone of his

elf bf who lets out the most embarrassing high pitched squeals when your hands travel up his body under his clothes, traveling more and more until teasing at his nipples. rolling your fingertips against the soft areola, squeezing and fondling his pecks as if they were breasts. who jolts in place when you pinch at the hardened buds, tugging at them to test the waters as he arches his back off of your chest, a filthy mewl falling as if he was being fucked stupid already

elf bf who blubbers out uncharacteristic words of “s-shensiitiivgh♡︎ n-no, don’t pinch the-eeengk♡︎♡︎!“ his pleads of your rough hands not torturing his sensitive nipples being replaced with an open mouthed wail when you place a kiss to the pointy tip of his ear. his ears were so sensitive! you knew that and now you were just being downright mean to him as you whisper filth into his ears of acting like a cooped up virgin for merely getting his chest played with. he wasn’t! he was way older than you! slurring out “how c-could you be sooh m-meanngk…♡︎?” as you lick a slow stripe up the pointy helix

elf bf who bucks his hips on your thigh, trying to bounce, trying to move away but ending up whining as his clothed cock grazes against your hardened muscles again. his cute nipples being tortured and groped by your hands, the delicate helix of his ears being assaulted by your wet kisses and licks. any time your hot breath spoke into his ears of how he was such a precious little thing, just like a bunny in heat, he would try to wiggle away. shaking his head with a weak sniffle, his mind churning into a mush as all he could do was to pathetically fuck his cock into your thigh, letting out a soft mewl everytime you buck your leg up to meet his shy excuse of thrusts, jumping in place

elf bf whose minds and body starts to feel weird. the room feeling stifling and your touch making his own skin heat up too much. who tries to tell you that he was feeling ‘odd’ and concerned, yet only to harshly thrust his hips back into your own arousal. eyes widening, a shudder running down his spine at the feeling. still clothed and hidden like his own but good grief, it just felt… so huge since he was sure your human dick couldn’t possibly be much bigger than his own. but no, it got him gulping down the saliva in his mouth

elf bf who bounces himself experimentally onto your own hardened, covered dick, feeling his balls brush against where he guesses is the tip of your strap. his earlier cute whines growing in volume as your torture of his sensitive spots grow worse, groping, squeezing, calling him too eager to get fucked, making him dumb and airheaded. the constant tugs to his chest, the words you spat into his mind so lovingly and the small actions of your hips thrusting up to meet his own weaker excuse of grinding

elf bf who’s voice grow more and more breathier, who finally loses it as he throws himself back against your chest, his head on your shoulder as he let out a wail of “h-hoowt!! t-too ahgg♡︎ haah anhg t-too hoounwt...♥︎!” as he cums into his pants, dirtying the material as a single glob or two of his sweet transparent arousal oozes out through the linen. the dark patch growing into a considerable size, his body racked with twitches and jolts as he cums untouched on your lap. precious little thing getting drunk on the feeling of sex and physical pleasure so much till the point he disregards all of his traditions, bending himself over onto the bed, his hand reaching back to tug you forward by the belt with a desperate whine and a cute blown wide pupils and twitching ears♡︎

⇨ meludir, lindir, legolas, maglor, mairon + whoever you like

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fuzzythoughtsblog · 8 months ago

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I had a fantasy that I went to a best friends sleep over and ended up reading her older sister's diary :

Truth or dare

My friend says to me. I look in her eyes and I know I can't choose truth. She'll will come up with the most vile secert to get out of me.

"Dare !" I spit out in fear

"I dare you to sneak in to my sisters room read her diary and report back. " she says with a smirk.

Fuck me I tell her that , she's so childish. And that were on break from college.

"To bad, you pick dare or are you pussy? " she retorts saying the one thing that would convince me to go.

I'm not scared of her sister. She's only a 6'7 grunge base player who is 3 years older. What there to be scared of? It's not like whenever I'm here she rolls her eyes and slams the door. It's not like she refuses to eat dinner with us. Yeah and she wasn't to scary when she yelled at us after sneaking out to a slutty Halloween party. Fuck she hates me and I'm about to sneak into her room.

I decided to just swallow my fear and go for it besides she's not even home she has a gig.

I creep to the basement where her room is. Slowly the fear begins to still as before I enter her room I see the walls covered in electric guitars. Every color and style I could imagine. I stop to admire all the other equipment she has records, picks, amps and even some Cassettes.

I let out a breathe of relief as open the door to her room and she isn't there. Now all I got to find is that damn book.

I first go to her night stand and begin to peer in. I taking a moment to process what I'm looking a, Lacy lingerie. Upon realizing its contents I quickly shut the drawer. Embarrassed I move on desperate to get this night over with. I look at the bottom drawer and am left starring. Toys so many toys in different shapes and sizes. But what left me shocked wasn't just the various toys. I mean were both adults.

It was the was the paddle. Wooden and bigger that my hand I wondered why she would have something like this. With stupid curiousity I lift it up to examine it. The paddle was in perfect condition, like it had never been used. The thing has hearts cut into it and says in big black bold letters "Scream". I begin to put it back but as I do to other items that it was hiding catch my eye. A pair of metal hand cuffs and a strap harness. I can't help but imagine who she's been using these on. At that thought I quickly put the items back in and close drawer.

If she doesn't hate me, she'll definitely hate me now. I went through her stuff and I hadn't even found the book. I sigh before moving over to the other night stand and open the drawer. This time though jackpot the book was sitting in plain sight. As I pick up the black leather book I curse myself for not looking through this one first.

For a second I hesitate, this is total over step of her boundaries. Besides I could just go back and lie that I read it. I decided that a good idea but as I'm about to put the book back I think about how I could figure out why she hates me. I ponder for a moment but I got to know what I did. I open the book.

It turns out the book is less of a diary and more of a shadow journal. I begin to flip until I find a page about me. The prompt reads " What is your toxic or most obsessive desire? "

Slowly I take in what she writes. "If I had a second alone with my sisters best friend I think I'd devour her. " my eyes stretch wide as I keep reading. "The things I want to do to her body are just ... I want to see her begging and crying under me. I want to punish her for being so damn tempting with those little skirts and short shorts."

I bite my lip but flip through more pages until I see something that mentions me. The prompt "What is a bad financial decisions you've made recently? " I can't help but lean closer while reading. " I was checking in on one of the local sex shops I frequent when I saw a cute little paddle. I couldn't help myself not when I imagine her below me pleading. I imagined pulling her hair and telling her to shut up and asking if she was a good girl. She said "yes daddy" and fuck did that just scratch the right itch in my brain. I told her then she needs to take her punishment like a good girl. Before laying down on her ass while she screamed and cried. Of course I gave my pretty girl kisses after I bit her ass. I have to remind her who she belongs to. And now I want to buy her a collar. "

I'm horrified by what I just read but I couldn't put the book down. I continued on. "What is the most fucked up fantasy you've had recently? " "I imagine her coming to my house and asking for my sister like always but this time I walk her to my sisters room even though she's not home. I lock the door behind her and get really close while she backs up. She looks so cute and she's wearing that tight purple dress she wears. I grab her and begin to kiss her while she pushes me away. I bite her lip and she crys into my mouth while I shove my tongue down her throat. She fights me as I throws her on the bed. But I'm stronger and able to hold her down. She begins to cry as I rip off that stupid fucking dress and kiss down her neck to her perfect tits.

I then slide my hand down to her pretty panties and rub her clit through the lace. She makes a noise and trys to squirm away which cause me to hit her. I tell her to be a good girl and this will all be over soon. She fucking whimpers but stops struggling. I continue to play with her cute clit till she soaks her panties. I whisper "see you want this." Before ripping her panties off of her. And sink a finger in. She's so fucking wet. I slide another finger in and then another. Till I'm three fingers deep. She makes the most beautiful noises while I take her apart on my hand. The more I take her the more wet and docile she becomes. I fuck her like this until she's dripping down her leg and begging me to stop. She pleads so cutely I can't help it. I pull down my pants revealing my biggest strap. Pushing it in while she just lies their limp like a perfect toy. I slam in and out of her taking both her virginities on her best friends bed. By the time I cum she's quivering and her cunt is unrecognizable. I take a picture and drag her to my room leaving her juices on my sisters bed. So the most fucked up fantasy I've ever had is raping my sister's best friend on her bed for hours and its reoccurring. I'd never do it of course I want her to enjoy and consent to it I'm not a monster it's just a fun fantasy. "

I begin to rub my legs together at that last one. I put the book back having had my fill when I see her sister standing right there in the door way causing me to scream.

She looks pissed and close the door and locks it behind her.

"How much did you read? "

"Nothing" I shout frozen to where I stand.

"Bullshit" she says stalking closer

"Just the crush thing and it's okay!" I say as she gets even closer.

"Lier"

"Okay I read the thing about the paddle but that's it!" I wince

She grabs my shoulders and looks at me. A chill run down my back. I flinch.

Squeaking out a "Please, don't!"

She sighs and let's go of me before sitting on the bed.

"You read the fantasy? "

I nodded slowly.

"The rape one. "

I nodded again

She sighs "Fuck, this is not how I wanted you find out! Actually I was hoping you'd never find out! "

She puts her hands on her head.

"Sit down, I'm not going to actually do any of that to you. "

I sit beside her. While she remains still before taking a deep breath in.

"So you read it, why? "

I meekly say "A dare"

"Fuck! It was my sister wasn't it? I'll kill her. "

I stay quite she knows the answer.

She sighs "So what do you want to ask me? And then I'm gonna ask you some questions, okay.

I nod.

" How long?" I ask

She breathes "Since your freshman year, of course I wasn't going to act on it. It's just, I thought I thought of you like another little sister and then I started watching out for you. Which turned into watching you and before I knew it I couldn't look away. "

"Is that why your we're mad at us on Halloween that one year ? "

"Are you kidding me? You were basically wearing lingerie. I mean a skimpy pink bunny suit, I know you were a senior but still what if someone tried something? And on top of all that you guys snuck out! You know I had to hide that from mom and dad so you could stick around. "

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, you looked... amazing. Look I don't just like you because of your body, I mean don't get me wrong it's a plus but I also love your laugh. How your the first one to try to help. Even when my sister started doing her project last minute you where there to help. I love the way you melt around animals and your stupid dance. I like you okay. Not just what you have to offer." She says while looking up at me and holding my check.

We're so close. I lean in to close the gap but she pulls away.

"Don't do that, don't give me a pitty kiss! "

I lean forward "I'm not, I just want to try this. "

Our lips finally connect and its like electricity I feel it from my head to the tips of my toes. I shiver we break apart to breathe then begin again. It feels amazing, but not close enough. I crawl closer until I'm sitting on her lap and kiss her while wrapping my arms around her neck. The kiss begins to get more and more dangerous as we go on. Her hand begin to wonder and grip. While I rock into her lap. Soon she breaks the kiss.

"Hey, I don't know if I'm getting mix signals but can I touch you? " she says with her pretty eyes.

I pause for a minute then get a sly idea "Yes, daddy! " I whisper into her ear.

"Fuck " she says before pressing me down to where my back touches her bed. "Who knew you'd be such a damn brat. " she says while kiss down on my neck

I whine as she bites my shoulder. "What's the matter ? You've never been touched like this? "

She lowers her hand down my skirt and begins to rub while I stutter "No, then again no ones touched me. "

She pause "What?"

"You guessed right. "

"Are you sure you want to do this because we don't have to. I can... " I quiet her

"I'm sure , I trust you. In fact I want you to do to me what you wrote about in your little book. Y'know the thing with the paddle. "

"Are you sure that's a little advanced. "

"I'm sure, do you not want to? "

"No I want to, fuck I want to" she says while reaching into the night stand.

"Good, how do you want me, daddy? "

"Fuck your going to be the death of me. Across my lap baby. "

I lay across her lap. And give a wiggle.

"Let's see, how many spanks? Maybe 4 spanks for your 4 years of teasing. Plus 3 for the 3 pages you read. Plus 5 for that slutty fucking costume that had me salivating for weeks. So 12.“

I whine

"Don't whine or I'll make it 15."

I stop.

" That's a good girl. " she says while ruffling my hair.

"Now we're going to use the stop light system, along with a safeword. Do you know how the stop light systems work and have a safeword in mind?"

"Yeah my safeword is rock. And the stop light systems works like red means stop, yellow slow down or change what your doing and green means keep going. "

"Correct, now I'm not going to be upset or disappointed if you safeword or want to stop okay. "

"Okay."

"Good now, count. "

The first hit stings

"One"

The second one burns

"Two"

The third positively aches

"Three"

The rest hurt but for some reason it leaves me feeling dizzy and so good.

"Twelve"

"Good girl are you, okay? "

"Yes."

"Okay how are you, are you okay to continue? "

I nod

"No girl I need a verbal answer what's your color? "

"Green, don't stop I want you to fuck me"

"Fuck, okay baby. " she says before digging in her drawer and strapping into her strap.

I flip around and spread my legs out and put my arms up.

"Wait babygirl, I have to make sure your prepped. " she says as she dips a cloused finger in while I whine

"Fuck baby your soaked. Did my girl like spankings that much? "

I nod

"Poor girls all layed out like a pretty little toy. "

I begin to moan as she adds another finger and begins pumping them in and out with her thumb on my clit. Then she goes fast and pumps in and out harder.

"I know baby it's so much, my fingers are so much for you. " she says while working me harder and harder until fuck... She stops.

"Not yet sweet heart, your gonna cum undone on my cock pretty girl. " she says as she pushes in slowly so slowly.

After bottoming out she waits a minute and I nod. After I nod she thrusts shallow slow thrusts. That feel amazing but leaves me wanting.

After a few minutes of that I grab her shoulders "Daddy, harder!"

"Fuck." She says while rolling her hips.

She lifts my legs up higher to my confusion before slamming in hard. The thrust again and again while I just take it letting her use my body.

"There you go baby. Sorry daddy though you wanted to fucked like a princess. I forgot how much of a slut you are. " she says while still pounding into me

And then she begins to rub my clit. It's so fuck much. Fuck I begin to cry and whine.

"That's it babygirl, cry on daddy's fucking dick" she begins rubbing my clit harder causing me to scream.

"Daddy, I don't want to get pregnant yet. " I say through dazzy tears

"Aww " she says while rubbing and thrust like she was trying to milk more nosies out of me "Don't worry baby you'll look so nice with my kids. "

I feel my body shake and arch and then everything thing goes limp. And my vision goes white. I hear a soft buzzing and for that moment I have no fucking idea what my name is.

"Comeback to me baby" she says my head barley follows her eyes

"Was it good? "

I nod

"Good." She says as she pulls out while I hiss. "It's okay. "

She then lays down beside me and holds me while I begin to come back down.

"You back? "

"Yeah" I say voice horsed

"Okay we'll put cream on you and clean you up later. Okay. "

I nod and cuddle closer

"Okay and baby you can not tell my sister yet. "

#wlw nsft #wlw ns/fw #sapphic ns/fw #lesbian ns/fw #lesbian smut #sapphic nsft #lesbian nsft #wlw noncon #wlw blog #cnc wlw #wlw breeding #wlw scenario

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dreamersparacosm · 22 days ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part three)

part three ; iced oat milk latte, no sweetener

warnings ; jungkook being a bitch, oc planning his murder once again </3

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; hi, hello, bonjour, hola, ciao!!!! before we get into this whole mess, i want to start by apologizing for the hunger games reference… i fear i am rereading the series and all i can offer up is metaphors and similes having to do with katniss everdeen

anyway! we get a tiny tiny peek into a nicer jk (before he snatches that back up in his paw real fast), we meet monroe in all her political glory, and we also meet Rosalie!!!!! she is kinda maybe important (i mean, did you even look at the index… homegirl has an extra dedicated to her) so pay ATTENTION to those good ol context clues

ok that’s all i have to offer besides hugs n kisses. MWAHHH

playlist here

series masterlist here

Mondays in Washington D.C are a bloodsport.

You’re essentially Katniss Everdeen with a college degree, wielding a Macbook Air and a slightly chewed Pilot G2 instead of a bow and arrow, and tragically, there’s no Peeta tossing you bread.

You’ve accepted your role in the arena — not because you’re necessarily winning this specific Monday (though rewriting a headline three times while simultaneously ghosting two former sources does deserve some kind of medal), but because in this moment, you recognize just how good you are at your job.

This Monday, with Jenna sitting across from you in the cafeteria, a small, satisfied smile curved upon her lips and an iced green tea creating its own little puddle on the table, you feel like you’ve just shot an arrow through the Gamemakers’ roast pig.

“You,” she says, pointing at you with a manicured finger, “are single-handedly keeping CNN afloat.”

You arch a brow, leaning back into the faux leather chair, “Just me? Not the seasoned journalists or the guy in graphics who hasn’t taken a day off since the Obama years?”

“Okay, yes, but they didn’t just lock down the most exclusive interview of all time while also managing two live hits in one afternoon.” Her eyes are sparkling as she takes a sip of her watered-down concoction. “Honestly, if I were five years younger and less emotionally stable, I'd be deeply threatened by you.”

You grin, warmth flooding your chest. You’ve always admired Jenna; beyond her credentials, which includes three promotions before the age of 30, she also knows how to wield power with elegance.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” she settles her drink back down on the table. “You have been on fire lately. Monroe, the security reform story, that exclusive with Whitford’s aide… I’ve gotta say, you’re giving me a run for my money.”

The cafeteria isn’t busy at this time of day. There’s a few lingering presences, some interns loitering by the salad bar while they talk about happy hour plans neither of you will be invited to.

Your 1-on-1’s with Jenna have always been incredibly informal; the two of you opt to sit in the lunchroom, discuss any updates to stories you’re chasing down, and she pretends that she needs to edit anything you write even though she trusts you more than her own husband.

“Well, Monroe kinda fell in my lap,” you shrug. “Sheer stroke of luck.”

Jenna laughs, a full-bellied one that makes you feel like maybe you can breathe a little today. Hell, maybe you’ll take that “mental health walk” you keep scheduling on your calendar but happen to neglect every time it rolls around.

“I don’t even care,” she shakes her head. “I needed something real meaty this month. If I have to greenlight another story about the president’s favorite dog breed, I will walk into the Potomac.”

“Tell me again why you keep me around?” you tease.

“You might be the only person left who doesn’t make me regret going into journalism.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere, Jenna.”

She takes the hair tie off her wrist and pretends to launch it at you, and you both fall into a fit of giggles before she sits up suddenly like she just remembered she left her curling iron on. “Oh! Before I forget, the gala’s Friday.”

You pause in your tracks. Full record scratch, pause, tape spooling, rewinding. “The what now?”

“You know, the White House Correspondents gala. Annual festival of denial. Open bar, basically prom for people who peaked at Model UN? Ringing any bells?”

It’s actually ringing so many bells you feel like you’re in church. It’s Washington’s annual act of self-congratulation. Officially, it’s the White House Correspondents’ Dinner Afterparty, but everyone calls it what it is: White House Prom. A glitzy, overfunded fever dream where senators and editors and press reps drink bourbon under chandeliers, interns get stuck holding coats, and everyone pretends they haven’t been arguing over bylines all year.

A night where policy meets pageantry and somehow always ends with someone crying in the bathroom over budget cuts.

You groan obnoxiously. “God. Is that already here? I thought we canceled it after last year’s incident.”

“You mean when a Reuters editor sang ‘WAP’ on a table? Yeah, no. Tradition lives on.”

“I swear if I have to talk to one more sweaty political aide about how much they ‘respect the hell out of my work,’ I’m going to fake an international assignment.” True story, unfortunately.

You watch behind Jenna as the interns file out of the lunchroom after playing with lettuce and gossiping for five minutes straight.

“Still at the Hay Adams?” you follow up.

“Ballroom this year,” Jenna confirms. “Bigger space.”

You nod, mostly to yourself. It’s not mandatory, but it’s expected. Like flossing. Or staying neutral on Twitter.

“Yippee,” you grit out in faux excitement. “Lucky us.”

Jenna hums, then leans in with the type of expression normally reserved for the latest staffer-on-staffer affair. Your spine automatically mirrors her posture, because this is Washington and you can never predict what’ll come out of her mouth, even if it’s just about someone's bad Botox.

“Also, I probably shouldn’t be saying this yet..” she trails off, inspecting her nail polish, then glancing around as if the interns never fled the room. “...But you’re being considered for the next internal bump.”

You blink. “Bump?” Cocaine at this hour seems like overkill.

“Promotion,” she clarifies. “Senior Correspondent.”

Your whole body locks up, brain short-circuiting for a second before kicking into high gear.

You can’t tell if this is because of the Monroe thing or the Whitford aide or the years you’ve spent out-scooping your colleagues while surviving on six hours of sleep. Probably all of the above.

Either way, your heart is breakdancing. You’re really trying to look like it isn’t.

“That’s…” you nod slowly. “Cool.”

Cool. Cool? That’s what you go with? Jesus Christ. You sound like a hungover intern.

“Would you want to interview for it?” she asks amusedly.

Would you—

Okay. No. No squealing. No weird excited noises. No blacking out. Breathe and say something coherent that conveys hunger, capability, and an IQ higher than 119.

“I’d be open to it,” you say, like a person who hasn’t already mentally rewritten her resume and picked out what she’s wearing for the panel interview.

Jenna smirks knowingly. “Nice. I’ll let higher-ups know.”

“Does… anyone else know?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don’t necessarily know who you’re alluding to. Maybe Emma, maybe that guy Paul who sits two rows away from you and is always blasting NPR in his AirPods.

“If you’re asking if we’re evaluating anyone else for this, the answer is I don’t know,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “But… they do need my approval to go through, and I haven’t put anyone up for review yet.”

The ‘except for you’ is silent.

She pushes back her chair, grabs her mostly waterlogged green tea, now just a cup of sadness and regret. You follow her lead, still feeling slightly shell-shocked in the best possible way.

Walking out of the worn-down cafeteria with her, shoes tapping against the tile, mind already spinning with possibilities, you feel oddly at peace.

And maybe that’s why you love Mondays in D.C so much.

Not because they’re easy or slow or remotely tolerable.

But because sometimes, they remind you of exactly who the hell you are.

And that, makes the bloodsport kind of worth it.

The chair squeaks every time you shift, which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t the only sound in the room.

The White House has many rooms. Historic ones, important ones, also some where actual history is made. This is not one of those rooms. This is one of the weird, vaguely depressing interview rooms they trot out for second-tier people. You know, deputy communications directors, committee aides. That one Assistant Secretary who went viral for being hot, then immediately got canceled for a tweet he wrote in 2011 about dogs wearing pants.

An overpriced chandelier slightly swings above you, lighting the space aggressively. Your chair is wooden, tilted approximately 97 degrees like it wants you to develop scoliosis.

Still, you made it. You’re here. Not even fashionably early. Stupidly early.

You blame the adrenaline. Your meeting with Jenna earlier left you jittery, and no, it had nothing to do with the four Celsius’ you ingested. The notebook in your lap, which currently looks like it’s been through six war rooms, is overflowing with questions — some carefully workshopped with Jenna, others you came up with alone while brushing your teeth this morning.

Your leg bounces. You flip a page, then flip it back. Your eyes fight to look at the clock without looking at the clock.

This is fine. You like prep time. You thrive on prep time.

The door creaks open behind you, and your heartbeat does a weird little thump thump behind your ribs. Your body refuses to swivel in the chair in case it’s her.

Here we go. Monroe. Congresswoman. Possibly the key to that promotion Jenna has promised you on a silver platter. Maybe, if you’re really lucky, Jungkook got hit by a car and you’ll be running this interview slot on your own. Time to sit up straight, flash your professional smile, channel your inner Barbara Walters and—

“Wow. Early. Didn’t know that was your thing.”

You slump completely into your chair.

Did the car you just imagined hitting him take a wrong turn?

You don’t dare turn to look at him, instead pretending to be incredibly invested in the chicken scratch on your notepad. “Wow. Late. Makes sense that’s your thing.’

The door closes behind him, and you hear him set his bag down by the entrance. “You know she’s not supposed to be here for another five minutes, right?”

You roll your eyes so hard you give yourself a minor headache. “That’s five minutes of prep time.”

There are approximately seven billion people on this planet. This is the one you’re stuck sharing a congresswoman with.

God is testing you.

Jungkook rounds your chair, and for a moment you prepare for impact — some offhand comment, a smug smile, a challenge disguised as a compliment. Standard procedure.

But instead, something cold and plastic materializes right in front of your face.

You blink away the blurriness of the object in front of you.

It’s a coffee cup. In his hand. Inches from your nose.

“What the fuck is that?” you ask, recoiling slightly like he just tried to hand you a live animal.

He sets it down on the table in front of you with dramatic flair. “Your coffee.”

You stare at it. Then at him. Then back at it. “You don’t even know what I drink.”

He doesn’t flinch at that. “Isn’t it still that iced oat milk latte thing? No sweetener?”

Your soul briefly detaches from your body.

“How—”

“You used to order it every day before Public Policy, and then show up with it half-empty already,” He shrugs casually like that isn’t deranged information to remember. “It stuck.”

What the actual fuck is going on?

He takes a sip of his own drink — hot, probably black, the beverage of overconfident men who think bitterness builds character. “Still think you’re weird for drinking something that tastes like oat-flavored water with no sugar, but hey. To each their own.”

You’re still staring at the cup.

“Why did you bring me this?” you ask, voice flat, because this feels off-brand. He’s not… nice. He’s Jungkook. He’s that dude you just imagined getting run over by a car, and then the car backed up and ran over him again while you smiled gleefully. “Is it poisoned?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “I stopped at the cafe and asked for the rat poison special. It’s just a little something to take the edge off.”

You level him with a look. He grins wider, those two bunny teeth poking out beneath his top lip. Bastard. He’s so… so.. (and when you find the right words, you’ll scream them from the rooftop.)

Then he finally sinks into the chair next to you and stretches out like this is a coffee date and not a battle for professional supremacy.

“I want a fair game,” he states matter-of-factly, eyes flicking toward the empty seat Monroe will soon occupy. “Need you caffeinated for that.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy internally malfunctioning.

Because here’s the thing: he shouldn’t know that. About the oat milk (or the existence of it in general.) The lack of sweetener. The whole personality trait of a drink you depend on like a life jacket.

He shouldn’t remember.

Yet there it is. Sitting on the table, condensation gathering.

You cross your leg over the other and force yourself to look unimpressed. “You really came in here with a performance-enhancing latte to try and make me nervous?”

He smirks. “Is it working?”

Absolutely.

“Only because I’m wondering when the side effects kick in.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and you hate the way your stomach sort of flutters. Like it forgot whose side it was on.

You pick up the cup anyway. Take a sip. Might as well see if he remembered the extra shot of espresso—

Damn it.

It’s perfect.

It’s exactly what Jenna brings you each morning.

There’s so much more you want to say but it all shrivels up on your tongue and dies.

He nods toward the cup. “Well?” he asks. “Up to your standards?

You pause mid-sip, raise a brow. “It’s drinkable. Could use a little poison though.”

“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” he smiles widely, although you and him both know that was the farthest thing from a compliment.

“Don’t get used to it.” You let the straw clack gently against the lid. “I’m sure you’ll say something idiotic in the next thirty seconds to cancel it out.”

You think he’ll fight you on it like he’s been fighting you on everything since the first time you met. But he just smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, “Probably. But you’ll still drink the coffee.”

“Mm. Haven’t decided just how disturbed I am that you remembered my order from college.”

“I’m disturbed you’re still drinking it,” he shoots back. “Sounds like it tastes like shit.”

You’re about to launch into some detailed rebuttal involving Jungkook’s questionable taste in everything from shirt choice to headline structure to coffee orders when you hear the rusty doorknob turning.

This time, however, it’s not Jungkook barreling through the entrance.

Congresswoman Monroe hovers under the threshold of the room, stepping into it cautiously. At the noise, you and Jungkook both shoot up from your chairs like students caught gossiping mid-lecture.

She’s maybe mid-40s, though her face suggests she made a very lucrative deal with time around 31. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail, wearing a navy pantsuit that probably costs more than your entire student loan debt.

She pulls off her Celine sunglasses in one fluid motion — what is it with people on the Hill wearing sunglasses indoors? — and tucks them into her bag, giving you both a long once-over. You feel quite small under her gaze, despite her being shorter than you.

“Wow,” she raises a brow, “Look at that. The youth still believes in chivalry.”

You want to extend a hand to her for her to shake, but decide against it when you calculate the distance still between you two. “It felt appropriate. It’s nice to meet you, Congresswoman. We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

She snorts at that, clearly entertained, “Well, I believe it was my overachieving press rep who lured you here, not I. He seems to have a way with words to convince two of the biggest outlets to speak to me off the record.”

Ah, yes. Who could forget the ever-so-eloquent Mark? You hope he’s doing better than when you last saw him.

“It’s no problem, really,” Jungkook reassures. “I know this story is fresh, so we’ll take anything.”

Monroe seems to accept that answer, striding forward and taking her seat across from you two with ease. You and Jungkook share a quick look before sitting back down, both your notebooks flipping open almost immediately. You want to say you know exactly where to start, but considering the circumstances, nothing feels sufficient.

She crosses her legs, leans back in her chair and looks between the two of you as if pondering which one of you will be brave enough to speak first.

Clearly, it won’t be you.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Jungkook’s fingers twirl around his pen thoughtfully, like he’s John Hancock about to sign the Declaration of Independence, “Walk us through how you and Delgado got involved in the first place.”

You resist the urge to groan out loud. Classic Jungkook; start at square one, build some cute little narrative arc, win hearts and minds while you’re over here looking like you’re the world’s most submissive little sidekick. He’s laying groundwork like this is some Netflix docuseries and he’s the charming narrator.

You have approximately twelve smoking-gun questions and a left eye that’s starting to twitch.

Before Monroe can answer, she raises a hand. “Confirming this is off the record, right?”

Both you and Jungkook shoot your hands up in defense, as to prove there’s not some top secret recorder clutched in your palms. You answer quickly, “Completely.”

She gives you a look like she doesn’t fully believe you, but she’s too tired to care. Then she shakes her head in approval, crossing her hands and placing them atop her knees like she’s preparing to read from some memoir. “Well, it started like they always do. Good intentions but terrible, terrible execution.”

You immediately start scribbling, handwriting resembling of someone who’s having a medical emergency.

She goes on, “He said he needed to review the vote count with me. Said it couldn’t wait. Silly me for thinking he meant actual numbers.”

Your brain is already fifteen steps ahead, questions lining up in your head like little soldiers. You’ve done enough research on the story to know this much is true: it was more than just one night.

“So.. you weren’t aware there were eyes in the hallway when you left his office later that night?” you cut in before Jungkook can deliver a follow-up, because no way is he getting the juicy stuff first.

Monroe snorts, “I was aware of a lot of things. Surveillance interns weren’t one of them.”

Jungkook glances up from his Moleskine. “Intern had good timing.”

“Depends on who you ask” she responds drily.

“So when did it actually start?” Jungkook shifts forward in his chair, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. “A one time incident doesn’t usually come with three months of scheduling overlaps.”

Jungkook: 2. You: 1

“It doesn’t..” Monroe pauses, half for dramatic effect and half for introspection. “But clearly you’ve had some time to look at my calendar, so why don’t you tell me when you think it started?”

“Honestly,” you begin, flipping pages in the back of your mind, trying to remember that article you read three hours ago that dictated the timeline with color-coded graphs and blurry pictures. “I think it was back in June? July?”

She doesn’t answer that, just hums thoughtfully.

“Care to clarify how far back?” Your hand betrays you, reaching for the iced coffee on the table in front of you that has boiled down to some sad mixture of water, oat milk, and espresso.

Her lips twitch. “Far enough that I should’ve known better.”

You set the coffee back down after a prolonged sip. Beside you, you feel Jungkook’s beady little eyes trained on you. “Who else knew?”

“And who else was covering it up?” Jungkook jumps in.

It becomes a full-on ping pong match. You’re not even waiting for answers before volleying the next question. There’s something about an agreement, about Mark having an inkling, talk of going public before actually getting the chance to. You’re incredibly disappointed this isn’t on the record — this is the spiciest conversation you’ve had in years on the Hill. Jungkook seems just as intrigued as you, his own notepad filling up faster than quicksand.

It’s a dual — a bloodless one, for sure, but still mildly entertaining. Your cramping hand and the part of you that wants to scream every time he throws in a follow-up that actually adds value makes things slightly more complicated, though.

Worse: he’s enjoying this. Visibly.

And, okay, you’ll admit this much — you’re enjoying it too. Just a little. In the way you enjoy debating and working with someone who’s actually worth your time. In the way your competitive little brain lights up like oh, this again? Yeah, let’s fucking go.

You ask something else — who’s to say what it’s actually about? You just had to get it out before he did — and Monroe chuckles. “You two always like this?”

She seems quite amused by the two of you.

You open your mouth to say no, because professionalism or whatever. But then Jungkook shrugs and replies, “Sometimes. We’ve gotten better.”

No, you haven’t, but right now that’s neither here nor there.

“Well, at least I know I’m in capable hands,” Monroe beams at you two, the first real sign of human emotion you’ve captured from her since she sat down.

Capable is one way to put it, that’s for sure.

He looks over at you again (you might have to get a restraining order. This is now the tenth time and you’re starting to get scared.) It’s more in a this is fun, isn’t it? way. Which, ugh. Maybe it is. You’d never admit it but the absolute thrill of chasing a story with someone who also appreciates the highs that come with this job, while still trying to one-up each other? Yeah. It scratches a very specific, very messed-up part of your brain.

Still, he doesn’t get to win.

You lean forward, diverting back to the story at hand. “Just to clarify, did he ever explicitly threaten you with exposure if you ended things?”

Monroe’s gaze sharpens. “He didn’t need to. You don’t get involved with someone like Delgado without knowing he’s always got a spare knife somewhere.”

You write that line down so fast your pen nearly flies out of your hand. Jungkook mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”

The buzz of a timer goes off, jolting you and Jungkook upright like someone just yelled “Ten-hut!” to both of you. Monroe seems satisfied with that noise, opening her bag and retrieving her sunglasses from the depths, perching them on the bridge of her nose. “Well, that’s all we’ve got time for today, I presume? I’m sure Mark will be in touch soon for follow-ups.”

In some way, you think you’ll miss her. She might be the only congresswoman on the Hill that doesn’t have some 30-inch ruler up her ass.

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up on command, outstretching his own hand for her to shake. You follow suit like a lost puppy. She shakes both of your sweaty palms before acknowledging you both silently and heading towards the door, slamming it shut behind her.

In unison, you and Jungkook slink back down in your respective chairs, still in some weird post-interview daze. You’re not even looking at him. Not even a glance. Because glancing means acknowledging, and acknowledging means reacting, and you don’t do that.

Except, okay. Maybe you glance. Briefly. It’s for intel.

Weirdly, you don’t hate the way it feels to share something with him this closely. You both got exactly what you needed — the honest truth, a story that’s so compelling Shakespeare couldn’t even spin up this kind of narrative.

You don’t dare acknowledge that thought either. You bury it deeply. Somewhere right next to the memory of him bringing you your coffee.

When it’s nighttime in Washington D.C, it’s like a different dimension opens up and swallows the Earth.

Bars are filled to the brim with overexcited interns and senators on the prowl for their next cheating scandal. Coats are tossed across barstools like forgotten souvenirs. Chalices of beer are raised in the air as if people returned from a long day at the frontlines.

There’s some kind of magic that comes with it, like anything can happen because you’re finally not at your desk.

You’ve just turned off the lamp on your desk when your phone starts buzzing with urgency. See: magical. Anyone who knows you knows better than to call on a weekday night.

The only person who doesn’t know better, would be Rosalie, your best friend from college. Even the buzzing feels distinctly like her. As in, it’s probably not life or death but it’s definitely dramatic and may or may not have some form of light alcoholism attached to it.

You glance down at your phone screen, contact photo still the same blurry selfie she took freshman year wearing a tiara and threatening to drop out because your dorm had “zero aesthetic.”

You hesitate for exactly one second. It’s late. You’re tired. Your brain still smells like that cursed interview room from earlier and your notes from Monroe are a chaotic mess of arrows, question marks, and multiple phrases in all caps.

But, then again, it’s Rosalie. And when Rosalie calls, something ridiculous always follows. Like night after day. Like impulse after Amazon Prime.

Plus, you kind of want to give into the magic.

You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear and scooping your bag onto your shoulder. “You’re either drunk, shopping, or about to fake your own death again. Which is it?”

Her voice bursts through the speaker, words rushing out. “Okay, rude. First of all, I never fake anything except for, like, orgasms and excitement about family obligated dinners. Second of all, surprise bitch!”

You furrow your brows in confusion, moving towards the exit of the CNN press room. “What?”

“I'm in D.C!” She shrieks like this is some normal update and not a major plot twist.

“You—what?”

“Like right now. I’m here. I just landed. I’m with Daddy.”

The first time you met her, she also referred to her father as ‘Daddy.’ It deeply troubles you, but you’ve come to learn there is literally no other way to name the man who’s a diplomat with a literal castle in Scotland.

“You were in London this morning,” you deadpan, struggling to do the mental math on time zones and emissions and mileage. You step out into the hallway, leaning against a cold wall.

“Yes, and now I'm here, on the hunt for a martini. It’s called globalization, babe.”

You cover your face with one hand and let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Rosalie has been your best friend-slash-financial cautionary tale-slash-roommate since freshman year at Columbia. Your first true peek into what money could look like when it wasn’t tied to survival. She grew up with private jets and trust funds and the kind of skincare routine that requires a prescription and personal esthetician.

You grew up with coffee from a deli and a FAFSA login engraved in your mind.

Somehow, your friendship works.

Maybe it was the way she made everything feel like a movie. Or the fact that she’d once threatened to sue your econ professor on your behalf because the “curve is misogynistic.”

But mostly, it was how she always made space for you.

Even if that space is currently filled with credit card debt, half-finished Master’s degrees, and a shocking amount of vintage Balenciaga.

You sigh, already smiling. “Rosalie, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I just told you! I’m with Daddy, he had some kinda thing. International diplomacy or rich people drama, I don’t know, I tuned out. But I’m here, I miss your face, and you sound like you’re one day away from a nervous breakdown.”

She really does know you like the back of her hand.

“I literally am.”

“See? All the more reason to get drinks. I’m thinking an extra dirty martini for me, a vodka soda for you..” You can practically hear the puppy dog eyes she has on display right now.

“I could be convinced.” You readjust your bag on your shoulder, staring solemnly at the end of the hallway.

“Okay, this is me convincing you,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “I’ll pay.”

Perk #2000 of having a rich best friend.

“You got me there.” You’re now fully laughing, the sound echoing off the hallway, phone still pressed to your ear like you’re back in college, sneaking calls in between lectures to give unsolicited advice to her on her most recent love interest.

“Come onnnn, let’s be messy.” She pleads. You glance again down the ominous hallway. Your shoes are killing you today. Your brain is fried, eyes burning after hours of staring at words and headlines and formatting.

Still, none of it sounds that bad when you think of Rosalie and a really crisp vodka soda with two limes.

“Text me the place,” you’re already bracing for impact. “But if you order anything that comes with edible glitter again, I’m leaving.”

“You’re the best,” she exhales a breath as if she’s been holding it the whole time you’ve been on the phone, “Love you!”

There’s a disconnecting sound on the other end of the line, and you bring your phone down from your ear to stare at it in front of you. Nighttime in D.C always feels like this: the first lick of ice cream on a summers day, a comforting hug from a parent after months of separation, toes digging in the warm sand. Magical, and full of possibility.

The moose head is definitely judging you.

Mounted above the bar like a taxidermist’s wet dream, it stares down at you with cold, glassy eyes and antlers the size of a small aircraft. It’s wearing a sequined top hat for reasons unknown, and honestly, it’s the most stable thing in the room right now.

The bar name Rosalie texted you an hour earlier serves cocktails with unpronounceable bitters and has dim lighting that makes your outfit look ten times better than it actually is (and also doing a hell of a job at concealing your under eye bags.) The high-top table you two are perched at smells faintly of citrus zest, her YSL perfume and spilled liquor.

Even the leather booths and black matte menus screams place that is trying way too hard to stay afloat in D.C’s nightlife climate. There is a very specific brand of person who goes to these bars, and you and the moose are both trying to figure out if you fit the bill.

To your dismay, your vodka soda is alarmingly strong, which is unfortunate because you ordered it specifically as a keep-it-together drink. Sober-adjacent. Instead, it tastes like the blonde bartender at the front is going through the world’s most devastating breakup.

You’re a quarter through it and already considering whether food would be helpful or if you'll just end up eating three-dollar-sign fries you didn’t mean to order.

Across from you, Rosalie’s swirling her (extra) dirty martini, rambling on and on about her recent trip to London. Something about the fog or the rain. You watch her as she animatedly speaks, fur-trimmed coat moving with every flick of her wrist.

“Okay…” she says, one olive skewered dramatically on a stick between her fingers. “This city is like, aggressively serious. Everyone looks like they’re walking to a meeting even at 8 PM at night. What’s that about?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, swirling your own black straw around the rim of your drink, trying to dilute the vodka, “Probably some senate fundraiser going on a block away.”

Rosalie gasps, “That is so unsexy. Vibes here are rough.”

Only Rosalie would refer to the nation’s capital as ‘unsexy.’ You respect the brutal honesty; she’s not entirely wrong. The city is overrun by middle-aged fathers and misogynistic women. If that doesn’t scream unsexy, you’re not sure what does.

“You picked the place,” you mock, rolling your eyes.

“Well, yeah, but I was going for hot, mysterious energy, not—” she gestures wildly around the room. “—whatever this is.”

You look around. There’s a man in a vest swirling around an old-fashioned and a woman arguing with headphones on while sipping from a wine glass. “Rosalie, this is the most you bar I’ve ever been to.”

She almost turns as pale as a ghost. “This can’t be my brand.”

You can’t help but laugh, sinking deeper into your chair. It could be argued this is her entire brand; picking out places that will hand you a check worth more than your electricity bill for three months.

“So,” she begins, dramatically perching her chin in her hand, “how’s your glamorous life at the White House? Any closer to marrying a diplomat’s son?”

“Unfortunately not,” you take a sip of your vodka soda and grimace. “However the other day I did make prolonged eye contact with an intern. Although he might’ve been 20, so unsure if that counts.”

She nods like that checks out. “Oof. That’s not a good sign. Are you on any dating apps?”

Her expression twists in excitement, clearly holding out for some cute politically correct love story. You don’t have the heart to tell her that the only thing you’ve shown affection to in the past few months is a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

“Nah, you know me,” You stare down at your drink as you speak quickly to avoid her piercing gaze. “Enough about that, though. I heard you were maybe, kind of, accidentally starting a wellness brand?”

Rosalie perks up a little at that, although you can tell she doesn’t necessarily appreciate the segway from your dating life to her varying business ventures. “Well, Daddy’s investors wanted me to pick a niche, which is so toxic, because I believe in trying anything once.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

Rosalie’s business ventures have ranged from ‘mildly unhinged’ to ‘legally gray.’ In the last three years alone, she’s tried to launch a gemstone-infused bottled water line (now banned in three countries), an app that was supposed to match influencers with “friends” for Coachella, and a cashmere dog sweater subscription box that somehow lost her family $12,000 despite only having five customers — three of which were her own dogs.

It’s safe to say her being enrolled in graduate school was the unrivaled alternative.

She once asked you to invest in one of her projects. You bestowed upon her $5 and a random penny that had two heads on it.

“I’m a woman of many multitudes,” she explains with alarming speed. “You can’t put me in a box. One week I’m into adaptogens, the next I want to sell lingerie to housewives. You know how I get.”

“Rosalie,” you let out a noise resembling a snort. “This is all deeply unserious.”

“Exactly.” She plucks an olive off the wooden toothpick, popping it in her mouth. “But it’s fine. Daddy said if I stop spending money, he’ll really consider funding my wellness brand. So right now I need to chill the fuck out and realign my values.”

You don’t think she really understands what it means to realign her values.

“So… you’re basically unemployed.”

She gasps, slapping a hand over her heart. “How dare you use that word.”

You grin into your drink. It’s so easy to fall back into a rhythm with her. Even if she lives in a totally different universe. Even if she has never once felt the need to check her bank account before ordering a $22 cocktail.

Her lips press against the rim of her glass before she places it back down hesitantly. “You know, you really should get back out there.”

You should've known better than to assume this topic of conversation was done.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make eye contact with the moose. His (and you’ve decided it’s a male, bedazzled hat and all) eyes swallow you whole.

You tilt your head back towards the high ceilings to avoid catching Rosalie’s or the moose's eyes. “I’m perfectly fine in here.”

She doesn’t acknowledge your pun. “When’s the last time you’ve even had sex, you little virgin?”

Ha ha.

You actually laugh out loud. Which is probably not the response she was hoping for but — be serious.

When was the last time you had sex? Does emotional disassociation count?

Because if you’re going by strict technicalities, it was that one-night stand a few months ago when Emma dragged you out, told you to just “pick a guy,” and you went with the first one who made a semi-decent joke and could name one recent foreign policy.

It was… fine. Forgettable in the way dry toast is.

You’re pretty sure he called you babe halfway through and you pretended not to hear it because you were already nauseous from the amount of vodka sodas you consumed that night.

“Sex is a social construct used to avoid real human connection.”

You smile indignantly at your best friend, crossing your arms over your chest. There’s satisfaction rippling through your body. Try arguing with that one, Rosa—

“How long are you going to avoid real human connection before you end up all alone, surrounded by ten cats and all my wellness supplements?”

Okay, rude. A wake-up call at this hour isn’t really necessary. She sounds much too invested in this for your liking.

Statistically speaking, you are on track to die with your phone in one hand and a highlighter in the other. But also? You kind of don’t care.

You're good at exactly two things in this life: 1) your job and 2) being right, neither of which you plan on giving up any time soon. You’re not about to emotionally babysit a man who wears loafers without socks or tells you he’s “big on communication” but flinches when you ask what his ex’s name is.

Relationships are cute for people like Rosalie, who have time to dabble in them. You are booked out for the foreseeable future.

“You know I don’t care about that stuff.” You decide that’s an appropriate response to her worrying. “I just.. value my alone time. And you’ve seen how hard I work. I don’t have time to date.”

“What about your coworkers?” she muses casually. “Surely one of them, with the same work ethic as you, is a good option.”

You nearly choke on your drink so violently that the moose head looks concerned.

“What?” Rosalie blinks at you with full sincerity. “I’m just saying—it seems efficient. You could like, hold hands while rage-writing about the president.”

You stare at her blankly. “I’d rather go on a silent meditation retreat with Mitch McConnell.”

“You’re being dramatic. Walk me through the options,” She sits up straighter, voice rising at the end of her sentence.

“Okay…” you exhale, already regretting everything. “There’s Andrew, but he clips his nails at his desk and I can’t unhear it. It’s like ASMR for serial killers.”

She grimaces, tapping her polished nail against her glass. “Ew.”

“There’s Gavin, who’s technically married but also keeps asking if I’ve ever been to Greece in spring, so that feels like a no.”

Now that you’re running through the roster out loud, it’s pretty devastating.

“Paul.”

You say the name with hope attached to it, and Rosalie leans forward in anticipation, like she’s already envisioning her maid of honor dress and your pastel wedding invitations. “But.. he calls Slack ‘the Slack’ and that gave me the ick. Plus, he also listens to NPR, so that’s another minus.”

Rosalie groans and sets her forehead down on the table like this is your fault. “God, your workplace is bleak. What’s the point of being employed if you can’t seduce someone with a respectable title?”

“Believe it or not, I do actually work so I can get paid.” You take a sip of your drink, which has simmered down to a pool of vodka and watered-down soda.

She lifts her head from the table, “Not one hot little office romance? A private kiss in an elevator? Anything to feel alive?”

She’s really overestimating the Hill’s penchant for romance.

You give her a long look. “I write about current events. That is my version of a hot little office romance.”

She snorts, then tilts her head at you knowingly. Uh-oh. You know that look. It’s the look she gave you in college before she asked if she could set you up with her cousin, the 7th Earl of Douglas. “Wait.. do you still work with that guy?”

Your stomach drops. Like an elevator going down one floor too fast. “What guy?”

You’re playing dumb, which is not usually your move. But you are. Aggressively and visibly.

Rosalie shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You know, that guy from college. What was his name.. Jungkook?”

Damn her. You really need to stop telling her your work stories. Not that it matters anyway. She’s known him the same unfortunate amount of time you have.

You shift slightly in your seat. It’s a tiny readjustment but you’re fidgeting, leg crossing the other way, hand playing with your straw like it’s suddenly fascinating.

You absolutely do not glance at the moose for help.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

Rosalie arches a brow. “He’s still as hot as he was back then. I saw his post on Instagram last week. Those cheekbones still working overtime, eh?”

You force a laugh, struggling to banish any and all flashes of his cheekbones that are currently flitting through your mind like pages of a scrapbook. They are oddly nice. But knowing him, he probably gets cheek filler or something. “I guess. If you’re into that whole overly symmetrical thing.”

“Who isn’t into it?” She picks up her martini glass, taking a massive gulp.

You can’t respond. You’re too busy hyper-focusing on your vodka soda and trying not to remember a very specific Friday night freshman year. One where you walked into some random room at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity house with jungle juice in one hand, only to—

Nope. Not going down that road.

Following in her footsteps, you take a big sip of your drink. Rosalie doesn’t notice the way your leg is slightly bouncing under the table. Or if she does, she’s sparing you the embarrassment. “I always thought he’d go into modeling or something,” she tosses her jet-black hair over her shoulder. “Didn’t peg him as someone who would go into politics.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “even the devil wants press credentials.”

“Bet he still looks good in a suit though.”

Now it’s your turn to drop your head onto the tabletop.

Sure, maybe there are people out there with actual problems. Real ones. People who’ve lost their homes, who don’t know where their next meal will come from, who aren’t currently sipping overpriced vodka sodas while side-eyeing a moose in a hat. Compared to them, this whole moment is an insult.

And yet, in this precise, horrifying pocket of time, you genuinely can’t imagine a worse fate than Rosalie fawning over Jungkook like he’s a misunderstood bad boy.

If you’re being all Psychology 101 about your feelings (which you got an A in, so you are), you’re still annoyed about the coffee he brought you earlier. How dare he remember things about you like he’s some poor excuse of a friend. You don’t want to be seen, or be known, especially by him.

You lift your head up, sip the last of your drink, ignore the knot forming somewhere behind your ribs.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat and force the tightest smile your face can manage without cramping. “tell me more about those edible face masks you texted me about last week. Those sounded questionable.”

But Rosalie is a martini deep, so she leans forward across the table before you can finish the pivot. Her fur coat bunches against the edge, nails curling. “So, is there any chance he’s going to be at work tomorrow?”

“What?”

“Jungkook.” She looks at you like you're the crazy one. “Will he be there?”

You squint at her, like maybe if you narrow your eyes hard enough, the words will rearrange into something more coherent. “It’s a weekday. I assume so, unless he’s decided to pursue his dream of becoming a shirtless travel vlogger.”

“Perfect,” she leans back against the chair now. “I’ll be here a few more days.”

“I—what? Wait. Hold on. No.”

She pouts dramatically. “Why not?”

You sputter, and you feel your right eye beginning to twitch. “Wha—Why not?? Rosalie, what do you mean why not?”

“I mean,” she looks genuinely baffled. That makes two of you. “I’m single, he’s single, you work with him… you can’t not set us up just because you’re being weird.”

You’re about to flip this table over. “I’m not— what? I’m not being weird.”

She plays with the toothpick that used to hold her olives. “You do this thing sometimes where you act all chill but then your eye starts to twitch.”

You stare at her, openly horrified. “Rosalie, I do not. No—okay, look. First of all, I do not matchmake. That’s not in my skillset. I can barely order dinner for two without freaking out.”

You abruptly realize your hands are clenched in your lap, and the inside of your cheek is sore from how hard you’re biting it.

Okay — maybe you should let her fuck him. She’s an adult. You’re not her keeper, and thank God you’re not his either. You have no legal or emotional stake in this whatsoever.

But then you think about it for more than six seconds and suddenly the idea feels… bad. Like ethically bad. Cosmically cursed. Like watching someone about to pet a tiger because it looks “soft.”

Besides, why would you want to subject her to that kind of torture? Why would you offer her up to the emotional rollercoaster that is Jungkook when you’re barely surviving it yourself? Honestly, it would be cruel. A hate crime.

She gazes at you. You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“Okay.. but like, why can’t you just help me out here?”

You sit there poker-faced. Your brain — already operating at half-capacity thanks to the vodka soda and the emotional trauma of this conversation — halts all function. You open your mouth, praying something logical will come out. A thoughtful excuse. A real reason. Maybe even a full monologue about professionalism or the fact that he drives you insane on a daily basis.

Instead, what tumbles out is, “Heard he gave someone on the Hill a STD.”

Silence.

It’s like every patron in the bar took a vow to participate in a well-timed moment of silence.

“Wait, what?”

You swallow thickly, saliva going down like molasses. “Yeah. I mean, don’t quote me or anything. But, you know how it is. Rumors.”

The words feel like wet socks in your mouth.

You eye her carefully, waiting for the inevitable laugh. But it never comes. “Oh,” she says, drawn out like she’s having a That’s So Raven-level flashback. “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t— “

She stops herself. Bats her eyelashes. Smiles quickly. “So, you were talking about my edible face masks?”

You go along with it. You’re not about to ask what she almost said.

You both brush past it like the moose above you isn’t watching in real-time.

Stirring your straw around the edge of your glass, you become aware of how warm the bar feels, how loud it’s gotten, how your face is doing that thing where it tries to stay neutral but ends up folding in on itself.

You don’t know when you became a liar. As a White House correspondent, your entire career was built on integrity and ethics. This is new territory for you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. She can obviously have him. She can have his cheekbones and his annoying woodsy cologne that makes you irrationally upset and his coffee-bringing habits.

Take it all. Godspeed, Rosalie.

Something about being in the office with a minor hangover feels like a crime against humanity. A petty offense punishable by being trapped under fluorescent lights while liquor seeps out of your skin.

Every time Paul from two rows over makes eye contact with you, you feel a fresh wave of nausea roll through your body like a bad remix of last night’s (multiple) vodka sodas.

You don’t even know what he wants. Maybe he heard how you eliminated him last night from your list of potential suitors at the office. He probably can also smell the vodka dripping from your pores but that’s a separate story.

Your night, as it would only happen, ended with four more vodka sodas after the first one had been downed and topics of conversation that should never be repeated in a public setting. Apparently you also tried to steal the moose’s hat. So, yeah. Not really doing your finest this Tuesday morning.

You try to focus on your inbox, which is currently ten emails deep and pulsing with the words URGENT and MONROE EDITS. Tentatively, you open one. Close it. Open another. Realize it’s the same email. Close it again.

All higher brain power has been disabled until further notice. It’s just rotating between memories of Rosalie’s fur coat, the moose head, and the vague threat of vomit in the back of your throat.

Unfortunately, Jungkook sneaks his way in there too.

Which, no. You are not going to sit and think about whether Rosalie ended up DMing him. You’re not donating energy to the possibility of her sliding into his messages with a “hey stranger.” You’re not even remembering the comment she made on the curb outside while waiting for her Uber about “needing to reconnect with old friends.”

Everything is totally fine. (And you’re on the right track — your Advil is starting to kick in.)

“You look like you died at a party and were revived by the ghost of hangovers past,” Emma says as she plops into her chair next to you, placing her chocolate chip muffin on the desk. She had already been here when you arrived ten minutes past 9 AM, but retreated to the cafeteria for a breakfast pick-me-up.

You can’t even crane your neck to look over at her. “I think I’m being judged by Paul.”

Emma leans to peek over her desk. “He’s wearing those weird loafers again. He doesn’t get to judge anyone.”

“I think I’m sweating vodka.” You keep going down your list of woes.

Emma snorts at that. “Rough night?”

Another email gets opened but promptly exited out of. “Very. Met up with my college best friend.”

“The rich girl?” She pushes her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, re-opening her laptop.

“Yup,” you sigh. “Still rich.”

“Goals.”

You nod in agreement, fingertips hovering over your keyboard. “I wanted to be her when I was 19. Still kind of do.”

“If I had her money, I’d have fake boobs and a villa in Greece. I’d never answer an email again. I’d float off the grid on a yacht,” Emma muses dreamily, placing her chin in the crook of her palm.

“Instead, I’m here,” your mouth opens with the beginning stages of a yawn. “Rotting, in need of electrolytes. If I know her as well as I think I do, she’s probably getting a massage right now.”

Emma lets out a noise that resembles the familiar sound of laughter, opening up a new window on her laptop to resume her previous tasks. You stare blankly at your own screen. It mocks you with a NBC article you plan to tear to shreds and a to-do list you’re checking off just to say you did something, like the sheer motion will jog your brain into gear.

The cycle goes as such: open a new tab, skim an article, close it, reopen it ten seconds later because you already forgot what was said.

There’s this new policy rollout you’re chasing that’s somehow both deeply boring and disastrous. Two weeks ago, you had dinner with Kara Devlin, a junior legislative aide and some overachiever from Brown, and you pried as much intel as you could from her like a raccoon rummaging through garbage. She had given you a whole lot of nothing, but there was one quote you’ve been holding hostage.

Your eyes brush past a few local blogs. The Times. Politico. That one freelancer who insists on formatting his substack like a ransom note.

And then, you land on Fox. It’s not like you’re looking for suffering, but you might as well round out the masochism.

Your finger slowly moves down the touchpad of your laptop, scrolling down. Half of your mind is still hungover, the other half is trying to remember if you actually did Doordash those electrolyte packets to the building or if you just thought about it aggressively.

The article’s whatever. The usual. Misleading title, blurry infographics, some ominous use of the word “patriotic.” You’re on complete and utter auto-pilot, eyes glazed over in mild disgust, until—

Jungkook Jeon, Contributor.

Your finger freezes on the scroll pad. Aggressively go back up to the top. You sit up so fast you nearly dislocate your vertebrae. Your attention is piqued — not because he has any insight you particularly care about, not for policy clarity, but so that later, you can roast the living hell out of whatever lazy, metaphor-mixing nonsense he’s about to pass off as journalism.

You reread the opening lines again. Something about bipartisan stalling, vague reference to committee strategy, a few recycled phrases.. blah, blah, blah.

There’s a giggle that’s threatening to bubble up from your chest. It’s like the universe knew you needed this. You leisurely continue to scroll, unable to control the smile on your face.

Wait.

What did that line just say?

Your brain turns on like someone flipped the light switch in a haunted house.

There’s a quote nestled in the middle of the article. In big, bold letters, signed off with the name Kara Devlin.

Your smile gets wiped off your face in three seconds flat. Leaning into your screen, you murmur the quote under your breath: “The strategy for the senate is not to all agree to the same policy, but see how many back out due to its democratic ties. That’ll reveal where everyone’s intentions lie.”

No, no, no. That’s your quote. That’s Kara Devlin’s direct words, told to you under the flickering lights of a diner in Maryland after acceptable work hours. It’s now sitting in Jungkook’s article, chopped up and thrown in like seasoning.

Your hangover drops so far down the totem pole it’s practically underground.

You sit back in your chair, hands firmly gripping the armrest, mouth slightly open like you just witnessed a murder but aren’t sure who to call.

Three things immediately occur to you:

The writing is fine. But you would have tightened it, maybe removed some passive verbs, flipped the framing..

His quote placement is clunky. It’s shoved in there as if it’s not the backbone of the piece.

WHAT THE FUCK.

You reread the quote so many times it burns into your retina. Fuck Kara Devlin. Even after you paid for her three appetizers and her milkshake, she turned around and gave it up to Jungkook. She’s a slut (politically).

Emma glances over. “You okay over there?”

You’re too busy calculating how fast you can walk over to the Fox press room without murdering someone on the way to respond.

“Helloooo? Earth to [Y/N]?” She waves her hand in front of your face.

Your voice takes a second to boot back up, like an old car on a cold morning. “He used my quote.”

“Who?” she asks, dropping into the tone she uses for gossip.

You reluctantly swivel the laptop screen towards her like you’re presenting the murder weapon. “Jungkook. He wrote this piece and used my quote from Kara Devlin.”

Emma narrows her eyes at the article, lips moving as she whispers the words on the screen under her breath. Once she’s done, she gasps in horror, “Kara? Like the girl you took out to dinner?”

“The very one.”

“Oh, god.” She pushes your laptop away from her in disgust. “Even after you emotionally groomed her into trusting you?”

“Okay, maybe don’t say ‘emotionally groomed.’ But yes. Her.”

“Are we sure it’s the same one?” Emma offers.

“Of course I’m sure!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I was sitting right there across from her as she droned on and on about some other policy issue until this just fell in my lap.”

“Damn,” Emma shakes her head, lets out a tsk.

“How the hell did he even get his hands on it?” You slump in your chair, hands now covering your face.

Emma shrugs unknowingly. “Did Kara get hacked? Maybe Jungkook planted a wire in your bag?”

Both are plausible.

You groan loudly, “It’s not even just the quote that kills me. The placement is ludacris. He just shoved it in there like it’s… like it’s a garnish. It’s chives, Emma. He used my quote like chives.”

Emma winces, “That’s deep.”

“Now his stupid little name is tied to that quote.” Not to mention, you’ll also have to go on a wild goose chase for a new one.

Emma begins to unwrap her muffin that was lying untouched, “Do you want me to go slash his tires? I’ll wear a mask.”

“I’m not saying yes,” you mumble, “but I’m also not saying no.”

She drones on about her master attack plan, while you sit glued to your seat. Fine, you’ll admit it — this little cat-and-mouse game you and Jungkook play has always been fun. It’s fun in the way verbal sparring is, or how lighting a match just to watch it burn could technically be considered a hobby.

It’s not like you haven’t gotten your licks in before — stolen a quote here, intercepted a question there, once maybe ‘accidentally’ deleted his name off a media RSVP list.

But Kara Devlin was yours. She was earned.

Emma is still mid-rant about slashproof ski masks and the technical logistics of a ‘light’ tire slash, when you glance at the clock in the corner of your screen.

And then time slows.

It’s 10:02 AM.

Ten. Zero. Two.

Your pulse spikes, hair on the back of your neck standing up. You freeze completely like maybe time will reverse itself out of pity.

“Emma,” you cut her off mid-sentence. “I gotta go. Meeting. 10:30 AM.”

She blinks at you. “Oh! What kind of meeting?”

You’re already shoving your notebook into your bag with the panic of someone being chased, breathlessly speaking. “Legislative aide. Some Senate bill, I don’t know. It’s across the lawn, you know how long it fucking takes to get there.”

Emma pulls a face. “Oof. That’s rough. If you speed walk, you’ll make it by 10:25.”

You stuff your laptop into your bag too, nearly drop your phone, do a full spin because you can’t find your badge and then find it pinned to your pants pocket like a dumbass.

“Okay,” you mutter. “Okayokayokay. No time to dwell. I’ll process the theft later, either in therapy or in the bathtub with wine.”

Emma’s holding back a laugh, “Well. Let me know if you need company while you do that.”

God, she’s great. What an upstanding woman.

With that, you’re gone, storming out of the press room. Your bag keeps smacking your hip, hangover faintly lingering. You speed past a group of interns who part like the Red Sea, interrupting their morning gossip session.

You are an organized and professional woman who has simply spiraled about a journalist stealing your source and forgotten about a government meeting. It happens.

Today is going great. Perfect. Fantastic.

You burst through the glass doors, sun suddenly too bright on your skin. The air smells like fresh landscaping.

Usually, you love this part. This little stroll across the lawn, the strut in front of a stunning backdrop of democracy and white buildings that gleam. Normally, you take it all in.

Not today though. Today, you are head down, hair sticking to the nape of your neck, puffs of air inhaled into your lungs at an alarming rate. You break into a half-jog across the lawn, cursing your choice of shoes and the existence of time itself. Somewhere in the distance, a tourist points at you, probably thinking you’re someone important. You are not. You’re just late.

You're almost there, you can see the building rearing its ugly head. You’ll have about five minutes to fetch some water but it’ll do. Honestly, you’ve made great time, so that’s something to celebrate.

And then — you hear it. Your voice, off in the distance, echoing across the expanse of the lawn,

Weird. Not totally impossible, but unsettling.

You blink a few times, slow your pace, and instinctively whip your head in a few different directions like you’re the supporting character in a horror movie who’s about to get the axe.

Did you die? Did the hangover finally win? Is this what the afterlife is, a loop of your own voice haunting you across the lawn?

It really does sound exactly like you.

You peer up at the sky, as if God or maybe Jenna is pulling some weird power move. Like surprise! Time for a self-awareness ambush. Let’s listen to you talk for a change!

You slow to a crawling speed, confused and slightly nauseous. This could be a hallucination.

But then… you see it.

On the steps of the west wing entrance, past the security gate, near one of the stone benches, you spot a man with broad shoulders, back facing you. Watching something on a laptop that contains your voice.

You walk even slower than humanly possible, tiptoeing as you get closer. You realize he’s watching the press pool from a few weeks ago. You don’t remember which one exactly, they all blend together.

The inconspicuous man chuckles to himself.

Who the hell is that?

You take a few half-steps forward like getting closer will make any of this make sense. Just a casual stroll, nothing to see here. A curious taxpayer.

Squinting a little harder as the sun hits at an odd angle, you see a notepad perched in his lap, pen in hand.

That’s kind of sweet. Someone clearly looks up to you. Maybe it’s that intern you made prolonged eye contact with.

Oh. Oh.

He picks up his pen again, and you see them. The tattoos that litter his knuckles, clear as daylight.

You know those tattoos. You’ve known those tattoos since freshman year of college.

They look a lot like Jungkook—

Jungkook is sitting on the steps of the West Wing in broad sunlight, watching your press pool questions on his laptop like he’s studying you.

A gasp escapes you, and you slap a hand over your mouth but it's too late.

His head jerks around so fast he almost flings the notepad off his thighs. Those eyes widen when he locks them with yours, like a deer in headlights.

There’s probably a good two seconds that go by where you just stare at each other. Frozen in this very weird, dramatic standoff. Stuck in that horrible moment of recognition, like when your ex appears in your Hinge likes or you walk in on your sibling watching a thirst trap.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” you ask slowly, voice sharp and cold.

He flinches at your tone. “Jesus Christ, could you not sneak up on me like that?”

You creep forward, inching toward him like you’re hiding a knife behind your back. “Sneak up on you? You’re the one sitting on the steps in broad daylight studying my voice like a weirdo.”

Jungkook shuts his notebook quickly, “I’m not studying it—”

“Oh, really?” you snap, marching closer. You’re hovering over him now, your shadow looming on his body. “So you just casually watch old press briefings, skip to my questions and take notes for fun?”

Jungkook stands now, placing his notebook next to his laptop on the step. “Okay, relax. I was prepping.”

It’s annoying how much taller he is now that he’s face-to-face with you.

“Prepping?” you echo. “Prepping for what, exactly?”

“I was seeing how you phrase your questions,” he replies flatly. “It’s not illegal. You’re not copyrighted.”

You laugh sarcastically. You don’t know what compels you to stand there and say more. By all means, you should flip him off and walk away. Let him watch. Never think about it again. But you do the opposite. “Are you kidding me right now? You stole a quote from my source —which by the way, fuck you for that— and now you’re out here trying to take notes on my question phrasing?”

He shrugs casually. “What do you want me to say? You’re good.”

Yeah, you know. It’s how you got into Columbia. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet somehow it does because he’s the one saying it, enough to stun you.

“Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to plagiarize my source and then compliment me.”

He walks down a step, still towering over you. “I didn’t plagiarize. I just published what I found.”

Your ears are ringing. “That’s your justification?”

“Wasn’t theft, just initiative.”

And it’s the way he says things like this, like the world exists to conform to all his desires, that sends you spiraling into a cocktail of blind rage and envy. When you’ve been losing things to Jungkook for as long as you have, you live in a constant state of acceptance that never really ends. It’s in how you brace yourself whenever his name is on lists outside of bulletin boards, how you sometimes catch yourself expecting to lose before you’ve begun trying.

All you can muster up is a heaving sigh before you reach down and slam the laptop shut, pausing your own voice mid-question.

He looks mildly offended. “Was that necessary?”

You gape at him, words barely forming, because the audacity is just so constant with this man. “What are you even doing here?” you gesture to the area. “Sitting here like some creepy ghost?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Don’t you dare use the constitution on me right now.”

“I like sitting here,” he says innocently. “I think here.”

You deadpan. “You… think here.”

“Yes.”

“In public.”

“God forbid I like to remember what this place is supposed to be about,” He raises his hands in defense.

“Oh good lord.”

“It helps,” he continues, completely ignoring you. “When I’m burnt out or pissed off or just need a minute to think, I come here. It reminds me why I got into politics in the first place.”

You scoff. “Which was..?”

He looks back toward the Capitol dome, eyes squinting like he’s about to say something that belongs on one of those mugs from the White House gift shop that you got your mom four years ago. “To do something that actually mattered,” he says. “To write about the government in a way that reminds people they’re still human. That we’re all humans.”

Now this monologue reminds you why you hate the guy. Who cares if he’s handsome or insightful or tall? He has deduced your career to a Pinterest-esque quote about journalism.

“Wow.” You start to slow clap, the sound of your palms slapping echoing across the lawn. “So poetic. Inspiring, really.”

He cocks his head, waiting for you to finish being theatrical.

“And also,” you put your claps away. Better to save them for your chat with the legislative aide, which you really should be getting to. “to apparently steal my tone, quote my sources, and stalk my voice.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like I said, you’re good. Sorry I noticed.”

You clench your jaw, body buzzing. “Whatever. Enjoy your little identity theft picnic.”

You spin on your heel and march off toward the building you were actually supposed to be at. Your steps are fast, eyes trained ahead.

Even as your fists are clenched, you can’t stop the thing rising up behind your ribs. The stupid, aching realization that Jungkook has been watching you.

Like you’re the only one worth keeping up with.

You hate it all. You should demand CNN to scrub all footage. But none of it really matters because what you hate most viscerally, is that your brain whispers something treasonous like: at least he gets it.

Your face burns, heart pounding as you push past the wooden doors of the old building in the West Wing.

You hope the wind swallows him whole. And maybe his stupid notebook too.

masterlist + ask

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paradoxicalwritings · 5 months ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ◦ smut, drinking, mature content, mdni

𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ◦ haikyuu masterlist ◦ navigation

𝐯.𝐢.𝐩. ◦ @takes1

It’s funny how the world works. When you walked into your favorite cafe in Sendai, you didn’t expect to see him. You also didn’t expect him to look as good as he did. His hair that always had a slight curl to it was now much longer, touching his ears now, his new glasses fit his face shape much better now and gave him a much more put together appearance, not to mention he was muscular now.

As you waited for your mocha to be done, you contemplated talking to him. It has been well over two years, and it’s not like you two were on bad terms when you last talked; the two of you just loved tangoing over the lines of annoyance and fondness.

“Mocha with an extra shot of espresso!” the barista called out, setting down your paper cup. You thanked them, drumming your fingers against the cup as you steeled your resolve.

You leaned into Tsukishima’s line of sight, smiling, “I didn’t know you were allowed in places like this, Goliath.”

For just a second, he was taken aback, but in typical Tsukishima fashion he didn’t let himself be without a retort. He pretended as though he couldn’t see you, looking above your head, “Where did that sound come from?” He looked down, directly into your eyes, “Oh, that’s where that irritating sound came from.”

You both stopped for a second, just staring into each other’s eyes, taking the other in, then you both started laughing. You always found his laugh particularly beautiful. It was higher pitched than his normal voice, with a slight scratch to it. Even when he managed to cross the line between fun jabs and mean comments, his honey-sweet laugh softened the blow.

The chair screeched against the hardwood floor as you pulled it out to sit in front of him. He shut his laptop and propped his chin on his fist, “To what do I owe the pleasure, (Y/N)?”

You took a sip of your drink, “Pure coincidence, I fear.” You looked him up and down from your seat, you still couldn’t believe how different he looked, “What have you been up to, Tsukishima?”

He looked off, pretending that he didn’t want to drink in your appearance, “Well, Uni, of course, as well as the volleyball team. I recently started working at a museum though.”

You smiled, working at a museum was just so him. It made your heart ache, how despite not being in contact for multiple years, he was still the same high school boy you tried to one up every single day, “That’s exactly like you.”

You saw a tinge of pink on his cheeks, he always got embarrassed when you would point out things about him that you happened to notice, “How about you, finally doing anything interesting?”

That was always his go to jab, that you had such a boring life. You didn’t join a club in high school, instead choosing to have your own private hobbies. “Har har, Tsukki,” you took another sip of your mocha, toying with the cardboard sleeve, “I actually came here to work on my book.”

Your mind flooded back to second year, when Tsukishima happened to see you writing in your journal for the first time. You liked hand writing stories, ever since you were a kid. The genre and themes were always different; sometimes horror, other times coming of age, you even branched out into sci-fi for a time. That year you had grown a particular penchant for romance. Tsukishima grabbed your notebook from in front of you, and started reading it aloud. Your face burned in embarrassment. You got on your tiptoes, even jumping to try to grab it back, but he held it out of reach, continuing to read it. You eventually gave up, sitting in your seat with your face buried in your hands. You heard the journal be gently set on your desk. You looked up at Tsukishima, the tips of his ears pink, “You’re good at writing. You should keep doing it.”

Tsukishima looked at you, “Really, what’s this one about?”

You hummed in thought, remembering the books you said it was similar to when talking to your publisher, “Have you read Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishigo, or watched Good Will Hunting?”

He chucked, “You know I haven’t.”

You laughed too, whenever you brought up a specific book or movie and asked him if he’d seen it, it was always a no, “You’re right, I don’t know why I asked.”

The two of you talked for hours, neither of you doing any of the work you meant to get done. Neither of you really noticed the time passing, and it felt as though the two of you never stopped talking, just picking up where you left off two years ago. You both silently wished that you could stay like this forever, but Tsukishima, ever the practical one, just had to look at his watch. You say his eyes widen for a second, then looking at you, “You still have my number right?”

“Uhh, yea, why would I get rid of it?”

Tsukishima scrambled to pack his bag, “Okay, I’ll call you tonight.”

“Okay?”

🏐ˎˊ˗

You had been home for probably two hours. Your eyes were strained from staring at your laptop screen, reading the same paragraphs over and over again. Whoever said “If you love your job, you’ll never work a day in your life,” was a liar. You pinched your nose bridge while you waited for your water to boil for pasta.

You heard your phone vibrate from the counter next to you. You picked it up, flashing the screen on to see who was calling. As soon as you saw the first three letters you answered, feeling the same warmth as you did when you first saw him at the cafe, “Hello?”

“Hey. What are you doing?”

You pressed the phone between your shoulder and ear as you poured the box of dried pasta into the pot, “Cooking dinner, why?”

“Ah okay.” You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“You can come over, if you want to.” You prayed that he would, “Only if you bring a bottle of Chianti over though.”

He chuckled on the other end of the line, the sound making your body buzz, “Of course, send me your address.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

“See you soon.”

You grabbed your phone, quickly sending the blonde your address and unit number. This whole thing felt so surreal. When you woke up this morning you weren’t expecting this at all. Part of you wondered if the red string of fate was real and the two of you were meant to meet in that cafe today. You knew Tsukishima would say that that was ridiculous and it was just purely coincidence.

After about fifteen minutes, you heard a knock on your door. You walked down your hallway and looked through your peephole, seeing Tsukishima standing there, shifting from foot to foot and looking down the hall. You pulled your door chain lock off and opened the door, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

The two of you just stared at each other. This really was a turn of events. Neither of you expected to be having dinner with someone else, much less each other. You broke your gaze, pulling the door open wider, stepping to the side, “Come in, I’m almost done.”

“Right.” He stepped past you, holding the bottle of wine up for you, “Is this the right one? I don’t buy wine that often.”

You grabbed the bottle from him, and snickered in your mind as you shook your head, “No… This is the wrong one.” You saw a look of “Oh shit,” wash over his face before you laughed, “I’m kidding, this is perfect.” Making your way back to the kitchen, you looked again at the label, noticing the brand, “This is actually more expensive than the one I usually buy.”

Tsukishima followed after you, “Do you prefer cheap wines?”

You sighed dramatically, “You know I’m a writer, right?”

He leaned against the counter behind you, “Well, guess it’s good that I’m here to spoil you then.”

Your cheeks got warm at that comment. Spoil you? He wanted to spoil you? Was he flirting with you? Not that you minded. Let’s just say your love of romance in second year wasn’t just because you were in those boy crazy teenage years. No, you were crazy for one particular boy back then. You plated the pasta, and handed it to him, “We can sit on the balcony, if that’s okay with you.”

Tsukishima nodded, “Yea, that sounds nice.”

The two of you walked out to your balcony, the cool breeze feeling nice after being in your sweltering kitchen. You looked at the small table between the two of you, noticing a distinct lack of wine, “Oh crap, let me go grab the wine.” You noticed his eyes linger on your legs as you stood up.

You rifled through your cupboards for a second wine glass, not finding one. How sad were you that you never even bothered to buy a second wine glass for the possibility of guests? You sighed, relenting to your fate of being teased for drinking alone. You grabbed a tall water glass and your wine glass, walking back to the balcony.

And you were not ready for the sight in front of you, not that it was particularly notable to anyone besides you. Tsukishima was sitting in your balcony chair, arm propped on his knee, bent wrist supporting his chin. The lights of the city and the moon lit up his features. You shook your head, opening the door to the balcony, “Sorry, I don’t have a second wine glass.”

He smirked up at you as you poured wine into the water glass for him, “Not surprising that you don’t have guests.”

You sighed, shaking your head, “I fear you’re getting predictable, Tsukki.”

He took his glass from you, looking wistfully over the railing of your balcony, “You know you can call me Kei, right?”

You paused your own pouring. You could call him Kei? Sure you two talked throughout high school, but you hadn’t realized he viewed you as close enough for that. You resumed your pouring, “Right, Kei.”

The two of you ate in near silence, Kei making some remarks on how good the food was and how he never paired wine with his food. Eventually, the two of you finished eating and started just drinking the wine. It wasn’t long before you started feeling a bit of a buzz, and you were sure he was feeling it as well.

The conversation had taken a more playful and nostalgic turn as the two of you continued to drink. You went back and forth telling stories you remembered of each other from high school. Kei was leaned back in his chair, legs spread wide, and his head lolling back, looking towards you, “Do you remember that one guy in our third year class who was obsessed with you?”

You laughed, “Yea, you had to scare him off every single day.”

He shrugged, taking a sip of his wine, “I don’t know how he never took the hint.”

You sighed, “Teenage boys can be like that,” the conversation went quiet for a pause, you chuckled, swirling your wine glass, “I think that was the only guy who ever had a crush on me in high school.”

Kei looked out over the balcony, “That’s not true.”

You scoffed, “Who else did?”

He looked towards you, his amber eyes intense, “I did.”

You choked on your wine, setting your glass down as you tried to compose yourself, “You what?”

He laughed, “God, you are dense,” he set his own glass down, “I had a crush on you since first year of high school.”

You groaned, your face in your hands, “Did you actually or are you fucking with me right now?”

Kei rolled his eyes, “I’m an asshole, but I’m not so much of an asshole that I would lie about that.”

You felt long slender fingers touch your own, pulling them away from your face. Kei was leaning down to make eye contact with you, “I think you liked me too.”

You blushed, averting your eyes. You were caught. You were enamored with him in high school. The witty banter, the care hidden below layers of nonchalance, the passion that bloomed like peonies in spring, everything that no one else noticed about him; you did. The small things that no one else could articulate about him made your heart swell with love for him. You gripped his fingers with your own, “I more than liked you.”

You felt your arm be tugged forward, then you felt soft, thin lips against your own. This was everything you prayed for, for years, when you were in school. You would look at him as he gazed out the window of your classroom, acting as if whatever topic the teacher was talking about was below him, and imagine those pouted lips against your own. But this felt better than any of those fantasies. Your hands reached up to tangle in his hair, the blonde curls just as soft as you imagined they were. Kei’s hand pulled you impossibly deeper into the kiss by the nape of your neck.

Kei pulled back, his hand still on your neck, and while staring into your eyes and said, “We should go to your room.”

You nodded your head, a little kiss drunk, and pulled him by the hand to your bedroom. Kei was on you as soon as you crossed the threshold, his long fingers knotting into your hair, his glasses pressing uncomfortably into your nose, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. All you cared about was having the man you had pined over for years in your bed. He walked you back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, the both of you toppling over due to the wine.

Kei was leaning over you on his elbows, his head dropping onto your collarbone as you both laughed. Kei gestured with his head upwards, “Scoot up, I wanna be on the bed too.” You both moved up until your head was on your satin pillowcases, the blonde was on his knees over you, “You have no idea how many times I thought about it.”

You smirked up at him, “Show, don’t tell.”

He laughed breathily, “God, I missed you.” The two of you started fumbling to remove each other’s clothing, squeezing in sloppy kisses on the other’s body whenever possible.

When Kei was about to remove your pants, your face burned, “My panties are ugly.”

Kei squinted at you, his glasses having been long abandoned at this point, “I don’t think there’s anything I care about less right now.” He pulled your pants and underwear off in one swoop. He was kneeling between your legs, staring at you, almost in reverence, “Can I touch you?”

“Please,” you said breathily.

That was all it took for Kei. In his left hand, he grabbed behind your knee and pushed it towards your chest. In his right hand, he ran his fingers up and down your slit. He leaned down to kiss your neck, whispering “You’re so wet already,” against your skin. When he finally inserted a finger you sighed gratefully, head thrown back.

Kei stared at you as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, not taking long to add a second.

“Mmmhnn-- Kei, just-just like that.”

Kei smiled down at you, “Yea? Yea, you like that?”

You pressed your forearm against your eyes, “Mmmyes, please don’t stop.”

He brought his thumb up to swirl around your clit, feeling light headed at the sound of your moans beneath him. Your back arched off of your plush mattress, “Ooh my God-- Kei!”

He let out a tense breath, like he was trying to contain himself, “Cum on my fingers, baby.”

That was the final push that you needed, the tightness in your stomach snapping, pussy pulsing around his fingers. You threw the arm that was covering your eyes down to your side, and when you did, you saw Kei sucking on his soaked fingers. He looked absolutely debauched, as though this was his final meal and he wanted to savor it.

Once he noticed you staring, he leaned down to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back the kiss, “Like how you taste?”

You sat up, smirking at him, “I think I’ll like how you taste better,” but just as you were about to grab his dick, he grabbed your wrist.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m gonna cum immediately if you touch me right now.”

You giggled, kissing his neck, “You act like such a virgin.”

“Careful, (Y/N).” He pinned both of your legs to your chest with one hand, “Too much teasing, and I might decide to stop.”

You reached your hand around your thighs, spreading your soaked lips for him to see, “No, you won’t.”

He groaned at the right, “Fuck, you’re right. I wouldn’t stop if the damn building was on fire.” He slapped his cock against your pussy, once, twice, three times, and slid the head through your folds. Finally, when he felt like he was sufficiently lubed with your juices, he pushed his long, thick cock in.

The two of you moaned in sync, the feeling of finally having the other was cathartic. It was the same feeling as the loss of tension in your body when you finally make it back home after a long work trip.

Kei’s thrusts were hard and fast, but not necessarily rough. It was just like him, seeming so intimidating and uninterested from the outside, but once you break down his walls and see him for who he really was, he was just a big softie who noticed every little thing about you.

His head dropped down, his forehead resting against your legs, “(Y/N)... Mmmnn, I don’t think I can last much longer.”

You reached your hands up, one gripping at his shoulder, and the other at his hair, “That’s okay, it’s okay, I just want you, Kei.”

He groaned, “Especially when you talk like that…”

Kei’s thrusts started to stutter, rhythm being thrown off slightly. You knew he was about to cum, and you were goading him on. You moaned breathily about how good he felt, how badly you wanted him. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath as he pulled out, rubbing his cock a few times before spilling on the underside of your thighs.

The two of you laid there, absolutely spent, for a few minutes. Kei was the first one to move, grabbing some tissues from your bedside to clean you off.

When he was finished wiping off his spend, he laid down, and pulled you on top of him. You giggled at him, not expecting him to be such a cuddle bug, “That was really good, Kei.”

You felt him pout against your shoulder, “Yeah, and we could have been doing that for years if you were honest with me.”

“Hey! That’s not fair,” you squirmed in his grasp, trying to playfully smack him, “You could have told me too!”

He groaned sleepily, “Stop being so lively, just go to bed.” You stilled, and laughed breathily into his hair, deciding he was right and letting sleep take you into its loving arms.

🏐ˎˊ˗

You awoke with a groan at the sound of Kei’s obnoxious ringtone. You leaned on your elbows, watching him answer his phone.

His voice was still rough with sleep, “Hello?”

You could vaguely hear Yamaguchi through the phone, something about “Are we still meeting up for breakfast today?”

Kei’s eye’s shot open, throwing the blanket off of himself, “Shit, right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’m so sorry.”

He hung up the phone, threw it onto your bed, and dressed in a hurry. Just as he was about to rush through your door without saying anything to you, he kissed your forehead and said, “I’ll Doordash some breakfast for you.” Kei scrambled out of your bedroom, yelling “I’ll be back soon!” down your hallway.

You turned over onto your stomach, burying your face into your plush pillow, and just laughed. It was funny how the world worked.

𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬

@staincastle for the tsukishima header

#haikyuu #tsukishima x reader #x reader #hq x reader #smut #hq smut #tsukishima kei #paradoxicalwritings

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gotta-winwin · 4 months ago

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(🐍) ... minghao x reader

⭐ starring: minghao

💌 genre/wc: angst, light fluff / 1.2k

💬 preview: you stumble across old records from a damaged diary that seems to hold the conversations between a student and a boy living within the pages.

tw/cw: slytherin!minghao x hufflepuff!reader, diary format, spoliers for the chamber of secrets, needs previous knowledge of hp lore, abstract death, tom riddle appearance

🪽fic rating: pg

☁️ masterlist & a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks and i'm putting it out in hopes of giving myself some time to work on other stuff hehe. this one's a bit experimental with the format but hope you all enjoy!

p.s thank you so much to @ylangelegy and @diamonddaze01 for beta reading !

hello. fifth year slytherin, here. i found this journal lying in one of the professor’s cupboards - long abandoned, it seems. it looks to contain the mad ramblings of two people, conversing through the pages. i cannot seem to figure out who this once belonged to, pages have been torn out and blurred by water - so i’m writing in hopes another student might.

read it, and let me know if anything comes to mind.

if i have to sit through another class with professor bins, i will avada myself.

finally, something worth replying to. your class notes are utterly boring.

WHAT THE FUCK THE BOOK SPEAKS

…yes, i speak.

go away. you’re speaking over my class notes.

they weren’t good notes anyways. barely competent. abysmally below average.

i cannot believe i’m being insulted by a book right now.

i cannot believe my pristine pages are being vandalized by an incompetent student, yet here we are.

mr. book,

what.

shut up.

mr. book,

what is it now, incompetent student?

can you write my notes for me. pls pls pls i will owe you for life.

that is a very dangerous game to play.

my hand hurts. and you keep saying you’re so smart. write my notes for me.

what house are you in?

hufflepuff. why?

no. i will not write your notes for you.

bro.

what is a bro ??

you know what, never mind. i’ll write them myself. i hope the ink drowns you.

incompetent student hufflepuff girl y/n?? respond to me now.

yes, book?

MY NAME IS NOT BOOK

you refused to tell me your name so i’m sticking with book. mr. book.

can you go to the dungeon bathroom and check one of the faucets for me.

uh. why?

because i said so.

i’m going to waterboard your pages.

you’re quite snappy for a hufflepuff. just go check.

say please.

no.

i’m holding a cup of water above you right now. hello? mr. book?

please. check the faucets.

see? wasn’t so difficult. i’ll go now.

minghao.

what?

my name. stop calling me mr. book

MINGHAOOO

what.

i’m bored.

silly girl. and what am i supposed to do about that?

tell me about yourself. when were you at hogwarts?

a long time ago.

psh. of course i know that.

professor bins was still alive when he taught me. just as boring, trust me.

ooo what else? who were your friends? anyone famous?

i wouldn’t know. i never graduated.

what?

the faucet. did you check?

i did. there’s like a snake or something, but it didn’t do anything.

oh. y/n?

yeah?

don’t go to that bathroom anymore.

why?

just don’t.

hao. people are saying there’s a snake in the walls.

what do you mean?

there was blood on the walls too. talking about the chamber of secrets.

fuck.

minghao? do you know something?

don’t go anywhere alone. promise me. stay with your friends.

i’m scared

you should be.

stop that.

what? hao?

grown fond of your little friend, xu minghao?

tom. stop. i’m sorry, my heart. ignore him.

who? hao, what is going on?

has he neglected to tell you? he isn’t the only inhabitant of this journal. and turns out, he isn’t strong enough to silence me. keep hiding, y/n. i’ll find you soon enough.

hao?

i’m sorry.

i think i’m starting to go a bit crazy.

is everything alright? are you safe?

i’m fine, hao. you worry too much.

i must admit that i’ve grown fond of you.

even if i’m a hufflepuff?

you’re the most tolerable hufflepuff i know.

:) is the uh. tom guy still with us?

my magic suppresses him in short periods of time. we’re alone at the moment.

i still don’t understand. both of you are…inside the book.

tom was here first. the journal was given to me my fifth year, and i spoke to him - much like you right now. from what i’ve gathered, this journal holds a piece of his soul. and a piece of mine as well.

how? why?

[redacted] [redacted]

you are beginning to care for the girl.

i admit she has grown on me.

no. you’ve grown to love her. our souls are intertwined whether you enjoy it or not. do not pretend i cannot feel your emotions.

have mercy. spare her.

are you finally regretting your choice, xu minghao? you once promised me a life in exchange for your life and access to your soulmate. so i spared you, and stored you here with me.

please.

this is what greed gets you, my dear friend. you promised me a life. and i choose hers.

please.

finally. you learn to beg.

she is innocent.

she is your soulmate. the strongest magic our world has. and for that, she is valuable.

my heart.

hao?

i need you to destroy this journal. now.

what? why?

tom must be stopped. i will not let him harm you. destroying the journal will destroy his soul too.

but you’re in the journal too.

yes. a small price to pay for your life.

i won’t do it.

you must.

no. i’m not killing you.

i’ve been dead for a long time, my heart.

i won’t. you cannot make me.

you’re wetting the pages with your tears. stop crying.

hao…

do it. just because the journal is gone doesn’t mean i won’t be with you. every step of the way.

how cute.

note:

> xu minghao: previous slytherin student, renowned potion student. his name is on one of the potion award plaques in the great hall. he died during the second opening of the chamber of secrets, an underground location rumoured to house the slytherin basilisk.

> y/n: referred to as ‘my heart,’ there is no real indication of who she is. while there is a professor portrait in the headmaster’s office who shares the same name, i cannot be certain they are the same person.

> tom: he can only be assumed as he-who-shall-not-be-named, a dark wizard who was killed by the-boy-who-lived years ago.

note:

> the pages are burnt at the edges, erasing most of the conversation that would allow this to make more sense. it is clear to me that someone destroyed this.

note:

> i found something when searching the bathroom mentioned in the first couple entries. i will clip it here.

is he gone?

for now. i cannot contain him for much longer. you must hurry.

you cannot expect me to do this.

from the short time i’ve come to know you, i know that despite being a hufflepuff, you hold the courage of a gryffindor, the brains of ravenclaw, the wit of a slytherin. do not be afraid.

are you not afraid? this could kill you.

i have to admit a part of me still fears death after all this time. but this is my price to pay. i love you, even in the short time we had.

i love you. even if this version of you is only a figment of what you were.

note:

> a point i must bring up: minghao refers to y/n as ‘my heart.’ at first i thought it was just a term of endearment, but upon further research: Soulmates are rare in the wizarding world, although not at all impossible. Soulmates share more than their magic, they share their hearts. One cannot die if the other is still alive -- making soulmates the most powerful form of magic to exist. It may be the only way to cheat death without the use of a horcrux.

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burning-omen · 4 months ago

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With Everything I Say and Do (part 1)

Jason Todd x Male!reader

(A/n: Unrelated to the fic but I love Jason's fuck ass hair from utrh. Also, this isn't meant to be one specific version of Jason, I pulled from several different canons and also made shit up while writing this. Also, also, peep the title, Brokeback Mountain reference, I know I'm so cool)

Ao3 ver.

Summary: Jason isn't stalking you, stalking would imply something more sinister than what he was doing- he was just...watching you in a completely non obsessive, platonic manner.

W.C: 6,486

Warnings: THIS IS A FLUFF FIC I SWEAR, PTSD, childhood trauma, mommy AND daddy issues (both reader and jason), child abuse, mentions of Jason and Bruce fighting, depressive episodes, anger issues, murders, child death, bombings, canon typical Gotham violence, stalking (affectionate), breaking and entering, Y/n's friends being cringe but I love them so shut up about it, Barbara and Jason being friends, homelessness and being kicked out (reader, pre-fic) mentions of Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, and Bruce Wayne (not really a warning just wanted to mention it), also, I didn't send this to my proof reader beforehand so if you see a fuck up feel free to mention it.

God, you forgot how ridiculous you were in middle school. Reading through your old journal- which had been shoved in a box once it was full, then shoved in another box when you moved out of your parents house-it really just showed that your avoidant tendencies had been festering for far longer than you’d care to admit. Seriously, were you actually that concerned about- you re-read the chicken scratch that was your writing back then, squinting slightly- the fucking moon landing of all things? No, you weren’t, but it had been April 28th and the day before had been a lot. So now you have a passage about the moon landing.

It had been closer to the bottom of the box, covered by old memorabilia from your early teen years. With a trash bag to one side of you and a pile of things you were keeping on the other.

It’s about time you went through it- the box has been sitting under your bed long enough, and really, when were you ever going to need an old hoodie from Gotham City Middle School? Never, so it went in the trash pile. You, of course, got distracted by your diary and have been reading through the pages for the past half hour- you really don’t remember being this edgy- good fucking lord. You flipped through the last couple of pages until you landed on what was supposed to be the blank, white card stock at the back of the book- only to see the word “LOSER” written in big, red letters. You blinked, now who the hell did that? Defacing your perfectly good diary. Under the graffiti, in smaller letters, was “-Jason”

You closed the book. Of course. Who else?

Really. He’s the only other person you’d let have the book long enough for this kind of vandalism to make sense. He’s the only person who your adolescence self wouldn’t have thrown a fit at for touching your property- or making fun of you, even in a joking fashion. You smiled down at the book for a second before tossing it in the keep pile.

You pulled the next item out of your little memory box. It was your senior portrait- sorta. It was just a picture of you in your cap and gown- you’d skipped school the day the actual senior portraits were taken- not intentionally, you just skipped school a lot then, and happened to hop the gate that day- and every other day that week. You were smiling in the picture, but your eyes were far too dark and far too tired, you weren’t standing straight, slouching and leaning slightly- but it was good enough for your mom, so it hung in the living room of your parents house for the next 3 years. She’d tried to put makeup under your eyes, fussing with your hair and your gown until she decided to take the photo as you were. Some days you wonder where that patience had gone- that forgiveness and kindness that she showed to you that day. You sighed, you could reminisce and lament about your parents later, for now you needed to go through the rest of this shit.

You flipped the frame over, bending the little metal pieces back, and taking the picture out. Folding it down the middle and sitting it on your night stand- you’d find a place for it later- the frame went with the rest of the trash.

The box was almost empty- small knick knacks at the bottom, some more clothes, an umbrella- you picked it up, checking for holes in the canopy. It was old, but it was better than any other cheap umbrella you’ve ever had. Resisting the pestering urge to run your fingers over the bronze “J.T” inset in the handle, you set it in the keep pile. The rest of the box was pretty much trash- buttons and pins, crumbled class notes, more school spirit wear, and Gotham High School's Library’s one and only copy of Pride and Prejudice. Oops- you hadn’t meant to take that. Letting out a quiet sigh into your empty room, you thought, ‘oh well’ you doubted they wanted it back after the years it's been rotting- and you really didn’t want it either, it was dirty and had something inappropriate written on nearly every page. An unsalvageable childhood artifact- now bagged up with everything else you deemed trash.

The sun had set hours ago, and it was a weekend- Gotham’s crime scene was always overly active on weekends, and you’d rather not get mugged on your way to the trash shoot-

‘Not like I’ve got anything to give..’

–Still, you sat the bag by your front door. Walking through your dark apartment, the only light coming from the desk lamp in your bedroom, the loud, creaking floor covering the sound of your footsteps. You weren’t afraid of the dark- but you did live in Gotham- so you were more reasonably cautious of the dark than anything. You should be- you’ve had the literal Batman in your apartment before. Why that freak was in your bedroom, you may never know, but he left as soon as you woke up so you decided- after changing the lock on your door and buying a gun and deadbolts for every window and door in your house, that you weren’t going to worry about it.

Even if you’re 90% sure he bugged your place- you’d just have to deal with it. He is Batman- invasive and mysterious is kinda what he does according to the Gotham Gazette.

Back in your room, you shoved everything from the “keep” pile back in the box to be dealt with…eventually. You’ll get to it by the end of the week- probably- no, nope, no more procrastination, you’ll put it away in the morning- after breakfast and a shower.

Kicking your slippers off, stepping onto the freezing, wood floor for just a second before crawling into bed- your heater was broken and the city was just as cold as it always was, so you wrapped yourself in every cover and blanket you had in a nearly successful attempt at comfort. A bit of cold air would seep in every couple of minutes, but you could handle it, at least for the next few days until the building manager is able to get it fixed (turns out it's not just your heater, no it’s everybody's heater. So your entire apartment building is freezing, but you’re freezing together- how touching). You rolled onto your side, sticking an arm out of the burrow of blankets you’d created and turning off the lamp on your night stand, pulling your arm back in as fast as you could to keep any more heat from escaping before settling in for the night.

—

‘Damn, It’s cold out,’ Jason thought for the millionth time tonight, crouching down on the dingy, rusted roof of yet another warehouse- fifth one tonight- watching from the skylight as nothing happened. His helmets night vision didn’t show the slightest hint of movement, not even a fucking rat scampering across the ground. Just like there had been nothing in the last 4 warehouses. At least this one is somewhat familiar- his gaze wandered over to warehouse A-9 for about the hundredth time since they arrived. He knew the night crew was in, only a handful of people occupied a handful of buildings, mostly in the A buildings, where all the important shit was kept- Red Hood and Nightwing, however, were stationed on top of the B-16 building, as instructed.

Rising from a crouch, catching the attention of Nightwing, his knees popped.

“Feeling restless?” He asked.

At first Jason just grunted- obviously- he’s been sitting in one spot for 40 minutes and the hunch that Batman had them working off of seemed to be a dud, but he can’t just leave. He could, Bruce doesn’t control him- but after a few too many dramatic family feuds and attempted (and successful) murders Jason is just really, really fucking tired of constantly arguing and fighting.

He’s “back to being the favorite” Dick had joked a couple times- after he decided that maybe there was some merit to a no-kill-rule, and maybe Tim wasn’t so horrible, the kid’s kinda funny actually, smart as shit too. And Bruce..things were..fine. For the most part. It wasn’t entirely Bruce’s fault- he still held a grudge- the clown lived entirely too long after, but Jason already knew that Bruce had no interest in playing executioner- judge and jury was fine- but he wasn’t going to kill. Jason could understand that, especially after going off the murderous deep end himself- once you start it feels like you can’t stop, like there’s no point in stopping. So sure, he gets why Bruce didn’t- doesn’t make it hurt less though.

“Any word from B?” He mumbled, his voice made robotic and stiff by the modulator in his mask.

Nightwing silently fell back, sitting with his legs crossed, his attention now fully on Jason, “Nothing yet.” he sighed, stretching his arm, a amused grin on his face, “Not trying to jinx it, but I think we finally got a calm night in Gotham, who would of thought-?”

Right on queue, a deafening, blinding explosion went off- about two hundred feet away. Jason barely managed to not be fully knocked off his feet, couching down near his brother, one hand gripping his arm as the aftershock sent strong winds their way- mostly a comfort for Jason, but there was no time to think about that- because what the fuck just exploded and why?!

He glared at his brother through the helmet- and no, Dick couldn’t see it, but he still deserved it.

“See what you did? Now we have to deal with this shit.” Jason said, no real malice in his voice, mostly annoyance that his already long night was about to get even longer.

“Me?” Nightwing gasped.

“Yes, you- stop testing the universe, you know it doesn’t like us.”

The conversation ended there. Jason hopped off the roof, landing in an uncomfortable crouch- ‘My knees were going to be demolished in the morning...’ he thought before heading in the direction of the explosion- hearing Dick following behind him with his near silent landing.

Waking up to a hundred texts and calls was…new. Your friends, people you hadn’t talked to in ages, and most noticeably, your estranged parents. You blinked at the screen as more text rolled in. You decided you weren’t dealing with that. It’s entirely too early. Breaking free of your cover cocoon and rolling out of bed, phone discarded..somewhere in there.

You showered before anything, letting the shower run long enough for the entire bathroom to fill with a heavy fog before stepping in. Taking as much time as you physically could, until your skin was steaming and tinted red from the heat. Not even bothering with a towel as you walked straight back to your room, dressing warmly before flopping back down on your bed. You had a shift today. You used to take night shifts- sleeping through the day like a true night owl. But, in a desperate attempt to regain control over your life after what felt like a never ending downward spiral, you switched to the morning shift.

It was a win-win scenario, really. It paid just as much as the night shift, and you’d have the entire afternoon to yourself, and you would sleep at night, like normal, well adjusted people did.

You had planned on having a serene morning- getting to that box, having a nice well balanced breakfast, then heading to work, but your phone would not stop buzzing. Even under a mound of covers it was distracting as all hell.

“Ok..” You muttered as you dug it out, “What do you want?”

‘Y/n bby if you can see this I love you <3’

‘He’s in a better place now (hell)’

‘PLEASE stop joking like that its stressing me out’

Seems like your friends groupchat, aptly named “Gotham’s prison for whores”, was having quite the morning, hundreds of messages ranging from genuine expressions fear to half hearted jokes.

‘‘Tf are y’all going through???’’ you texted back

A collective group response came instantly.

‘‘He’s alive????’’

‘‘OH THANK FUCK YOUE NOT DEAD’’

“LETSGOOO”

‘‘*you’re’’ you responded without thinking, before fully processing what you’d just read, “why would I be dead??’’

‘‘Dude.’’

You waited for them to continue.

“GHL blew up last night, thought you worked the night shift????’’

Oh.

Ok, so you don’t have a shift today.

“WTF no I switched to the morning shift a couple weeks ago what happened”

“Idk man shit blew up, Nightwing and the red one were out there.”

‘The red one?’ you paused to think of who The Red One was, not even near processing that your job had blown up- wasn’t Robin, he knew that one- and his cape covered most red in his costume anyways. Red Robin, despite his name, his costume was more black than red, and your friend was more likely to call him CondomMan or something, because of his head piece thing.

“Bitch, do you mean Red Hood??”

“IM NOT FROM GOTHAM LEAVE ME ALONE”

Followed by-

“THERES TO MANY OF THEM I CAN NOT REMBER THEM ALL”

You laughed for a second, before remembering that your mother had also texted you and suddenly any joy you felt was sucked away- fuck, why wasn’t she blocked.

“Are you ok?” She asked

“I’m fine.”

Simple, blunt, and definitely not an invitation back into your life. You closed out of her contact and moved onto the mountain of text you still had. How did this many people have your number- how did this many people know where you work- worked, past tense.

After an hour of assuring dozens of practical strangers and distant relatives that you were perfectly fine and no you didn’t need anybody to check on you- you decided to get to the bottom of your sudden popularity. Seriously, none of these people reached out when you got kicked out, or worse, some outright denied you when you asked for help. They weren’t obligated to, but they can’t come around acting like their hearts were absolutely broken and bleeding at your supposed death.

With minimal digging, you figured it out. All you had to do was open any social media your mother had- it’s been, what? 4 hours since she first texted you, and she’s got two dozen posts about you up, with your number and your job posted for the world to see on each one, half of them posted over 5 hours ago, the others posted at random with the latest being only 12 minutes ago.

‘Fuck, this was so her, why the hell would she think this was ok?’

Another way to garner attention and sympathy and now she’s dragging you into it, like sure, you could have been dead, but her text didn’t exactly scream “I’m worried about you”.

You opened your messages with her again,

“Take the posts down, mom. Thanks.”

___

Why was the sun in his face?

Jason made sure the curtains were drawn so he wouldn’t have this problem. Cracking his eyes open he spots his brother- the traitorous bitch- standing by the window, opening the curtains just enough just to peek through. His personal cell phone pressed to his ear, talking quietly to somebody.

“I’ll uh- I’ll go check on him later today Mrs. L/n..”

‘L/n..?’ Jason pushed himself up. ‘Ah, fuck. Please let it just be a god damn coincidence.’

Dick glanced back at Jason, a tired smile flashed across his face. Jason let him stay at his safe house for the night so he wouldn’t have to travel all the way to the manor, or worse, all the way back to Bludhaven. Laying back, Jason continued to listen in to the half of the conversation he could hear.

“No, sorry, of course not- I’ll call him right-” Dick let out a frustrated sigh.

“I will try Mrs. L/n. Right, thanks- bye.”

Despite the nagging feeling he knew exactly who was on the other side of that line, he asked, “Who was that?”

Dick sat on the edge of his bed, another irritated sigh leaving him.

“Remember Y/n?”

Ah, fuck.

“Yeah.” he said, doing his best to give the impression of disinterest and flippant-ness .

“That was his mom- Y/n works over at the GHL Warehouses- well, he used to before last night. His mom wanted to make sure he was ok.”

Jason breathed out- you were fine. He knew you were fine because you don’t work the night shift anymore- when the bomb went off you should have been safely at home, sound asleep, trying to get some rest for your morning shift.

“Is he?” The deception in his voice was blatant this time, his thoughts having drifted to you and away from the mask he had perfected literally a second ago. Dick turned to look at him, a grin splitting across his face. Dick, who was just as much of a detective as the rest of the family, clocked that something was off immediately.

“What?”

“Oh Jason,” He said, all too happy to have been just talking about you potentially getting blown up. “Are you still into him?”

“Get out.” Jason responded, which only made Dick happier.

“You are, aww Baby Bird’s got a little crush-”

“Fuck off, I’m serious.”

Years ago, before his death, Jason had confided in his brother. During a quiet moment in the library of the manor, Jason told Dick that he liked guys, well, one guy, so far. He didn’t know what he was then and doesn't have the energy to label it now, but he does know that at 14 he had a massive crush on a boy his age that he went to school with– which only became a hundred times worse when he actually became friends with said boy. Y/n. You. One of his few attachments outside of his family.

When he came back he didn’t think about you for years, revenge, rage, and violence were the only things on his mind- but when he settled, you popped back into his mind. Just as much of a stalker as the rest of his family, he did some digging on you. It was invasive as hell, as he went through every bit of public (i.e., the stuff that was only slightly illegal to obtain) information about you before asking Barbara for more private(super illegal) information.

Barb- whose closeness to Jason surprised everyone, including themselves (paralleling traumas, they supposed)- was more than willing. Her moral compass was a bit sideways, understandably, but she couldn’t help but “play match-maker” as she had put it. He intentionally ignored that comment from his accomplice.

It’s how he knew about your work schedule, and just about everything else about you- and why he really, really hated your fucking parents.

He was…captivated. It wasn’t love, he didn’t love you. He didn’t even know you anymore.

…

He should check on you, though. Losing your job so suddenly couldn’t have been easy for you. Finding a legal job in Gotham was hard enough as it was- he didn’t want you spiraling, or worse, getting involved with criminals- except for him. He huffed out a short chuckle. He wished you could get involved with him. He was, legally, still very, very dead. And you had no idea he was back. Which he’s somewhat happy for.

He killed…a lot of people, he got his ass handed to him in public by his father, and had lost his shit in PTSD fueled episodes of rage multiple times.

It was better if you stayed as far away from him as possible. Your life was just getting good, you had friends, an apartment of your own, you could probably fuck anyone you wanted- an unsurprising amount of people were into that independent, blue collar thing you had going on- Jason sure as shit wasn’t immune to it. He wouldn’t be mad if you did- you don’t. He has his ways of knowing. (your entire apartment is bugged thanks to Bruce’s almost unfounded paranoia, which was only a bit fair, Jason and Bruce were still on new ground in their… reborn relationship when he broke into your house for the first time, B probably thought he was trying to kill you, which- if it had been any other member of the family- would have been outlandish and entirely unfounded. But it was him, so…yeah, wasn’t really coming out of left field with that one) Which was a surprise, but a relieving one.

Fucking hell, Dick was still looking at him with that stupid smile.

“You’ve got a boyfriend.”

Jason, as he did everytime a conversation steered in a direction he didn’t like, brought up his own death.

“I don’t have anything, Dick, can’t be anything to him if he still thinks I’m dead.”

“..right.”

A moment passed before Dick spoke again, “He’s fine, by the way. Barb sent a list of the confirmed victims earlier. He wasn’t on it.”

___

Fuck Bruce Wayne. No, really. This guy fucking sucked, you hated him and you hated that the only way you’d be keeping your apartment was by signing up for his stupid unemployment program. You’ve reloaded your inbox a dozen times waiting for the confirmation email, after spending hours upon hours reading through fine print and having to dig out your own documents, send proof of unemployment- you’re brand new letter of termination had been emailed to sometime earlier- and digitally signing your signature with your mouse pad and just wading through piles and piles of exhausting corporate bullshit-

You were really sick of this shit, to say the least.

‘It's been five minutes..’ You thought, glaring at your laptop screen.

Trying not to think about how this was literally the only way you’d be keeping your apartment and not go back to living in your car, you reloaded the page again.

And again and again until finally-

“Congratulations! You have been accepted into the Wayne Int…”

You didn’t even need to open the email, the preview told you all you needed to know, a long sigh of relief leaving you as you shut your laptop.

Well, that’s over, now what.

You’ve worked nearly every day since you’ve got this apartment, and when you weren’t working you were either catching up on sleep or, well, that’s it really. Despite planning on “having afternoons to yourself” when you switched schedules, you haven’t actually done anything with those afternoons, cleaning, watching TV, and texting more than anything. Because of course none of your friend schedules aligned for more than a couple minutes a day- usually early in the morning or really late at night.

You breathed in again- looking out the window, you could see the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, mostly hidden by the typical gothic skyscrapers that were found all over Gotham. Another heavy breath, you rolled out of bed, feeling a sudden pang of hunger after neglecting yourself all day.

You didn’t bother taking your phone with you, even though your mother had pretty much announced to her loyal 1,267 followers that you were okay, you were still getting text and calls at random- you needed to take your mind off of all of this for at least a moment, cooking and then maybe a long, long sleep could help. You did a mental coin toss on what to eat, burger or pasta- either would do, really- conjuring up a slow, dramatic coin toss in your head, letting your subconscious decide.

Heads. Pasta it is.

Rummaging through your cabinet until you pulled out the little pot you were looking for, perfect for a single serving. Filling it with water from the sink- completely forgetting for a moment that this was Gotham and you probably should have checked to see if it had been poisoned or tampered with- it was such a common occurrence that there was a whole app for it…Created and funded by Bruce Wayne of course. You sighed for about the millionth time today. That fucking jerk has his hands in everything- can’t even be in your own home without running into the motherfucker.

You huffed, it’d be fine. If there was something wrong with the water you would have seen it on the news.

Putting the pot on the stove, repeatedly turning the knob until the fire lit. Putting a bit of salt in the water as it heated- staring into the pot for who knows how long as bubbles started to form. Thinking about things hurt right now. You lost half of your co-workers, your income, the first thing you felt you earned on your own, and on top of that you had to indirectly beg a man you couldn’t stand for money. It would only get worse from here. That was guaranteed- but you couldn’t spiral- because that would only make things so, so much worse. So, you’d face whatever the next couple of weeks brought with maturity and strength and when it was all over things would be semi-normal.

Hopefully.

You moved to the cabinet and pulled out a half empty box of bowtie style noodles and dumped them into the boiling water- then moved over to the fridge to see if you had any jarred sauce.

___

Barbara was just about the only person Jason actively texted- he didn’t need casual conversation with anybody else, not yet anyways. Roy maybe could have been the exception, but Roy barely responded, Jason doubted he even kept his phone on him.

Leaving his bike in the alley before scaling your building- resting on the roof for a short moment as he texted Barbara.

“Think you can keep B out?”

She didn’t respond instantly, but when she did,

“You know he’s still home, right?”

‘Obviously, Barb’ he thought as he typed out a response

“I’m just checking on him.”

Then,

“He won’t see me.”

“You’re getting bold, thinking of saying ‘hi’ soon?”

No, definitely not. That would be a horrible idea. It would blow up in his face and he’d not only freak you the fuck out but would piss off his entire family (excluding Barbara, and maybe Dick- now that he’s thinking about it Tim would probably have been a good accomplice too- no, he’s not forming a little stalker crew, not gonna happen). It was, definitively, a terrible idea. Even if the infinitesimally small chance that you wouldn’t lose your shit and he was able to have any semblance of a relationship with you was calling his name like no other, he wasn’t going to take that risk. Stalking you- no, watching you in a completely non obsessive, platonic manner, would be all he did- and an occasional breaking and entering. But that was all.

“No” he finally responded.

She sent a sad face emoji back, then a middle finger, then,

“You’ve got 5 minutes.”

That jolted him into action, the sun quickly setting over Gotham as he crossed the building. He’s done this enough times to know just how to get through your window. Using a rope to scale down to the 4th floor windows- stopping right next to yours, closed, but unlocked for once. Good, he wasn’t looking forward to picking the lock.

As quietly as he could, he pushed your window open, cursing at the small creek it made about halfway up. Slipping inside, landing silently on his toes, pausing before pressing forward. Pressed against the wall of your nearly pitch black room, your bedroom door cracked open he could see the yellow-ish light emitting from outside it, he could hear you shuffling around out there, the faucet running for a second, and the ticking of the gas stove as you turned it on and off and on again. You were fine, you were up and active, cooking, not sulking. You were fine.

Mission complete.

Time to go..

He heard you open the fridge, let out a small sigh before closing it.

He leaned closer to the door, peaking through the small opening- your apartment small enough for him to see everything from his place in your room, including you standing in the kitchen standing over a boiling pot of whatever it was you were cooking. Ok, seriously, you were ok, he needs to go- he’s already been here for too long- he’s sure his time is up. You were fine, you are fine.

“Fuck, ow-” You muttered to yourself, barely audible in the already near silent apartment.

He pressed forward again, taking a step, then another, until he was standing just behind the door- half hidden in the dark room, illuminated by the kitchen light.

—--

‘Stupid fucking cheap pot, why the fuck is the handle so hot?’ You thought as you checked your hand for any actual burns. You were fine, but dammit that hurt- first thing you’d when you got a new job, buy better pots and pans- ones that didn’t scorch your hands when you touched the handle. Turning around to face the sink, and run some cold water over your flushed hand-

What the fuck was that.

You paused at the sink. As you turned, you caught a glimpse of something…red. Just barely illuminated, standing in your bedroom.

Your heart dropped to your stomach, a feeling of impending doom washes over you as you turn to stare at whatever it is you just saw. Red and shiny, with stark white eyes- the rest of whatever the hell it was is hidden by the darkness of your bedroom and the door.

A part of you wants to run- out of the apartment and into the street, scream for help at the top of your lungs until either whatever it was caught you, or one of many vigilantes showed up. Unfortunately, you lived in the absolute shit hole that was Gotham- so you were more likely to be an unsolved case than actually get saved. You really, really didn’t want to join the billion of unsolved cases already plaguing Gotham- you had so much more life to live, and shit was just getting good, well- not really but you still didn’t want to fucking die. Shit still could get good in the future! As long as you don’t get murdered tonight.

‘Ok, time to think rationally,’ You thought, eyes still locked on the whatever-the-fuck-it-is standing in the doorway, ‘I’m not dead yet, so maybe it doesn’t want to kill me, maybe it’s..I don’t know, trying to rob me or something.’

Robbed was probably the best possibility, considering all the other things that it could be.

“I do not have any money, I’m poor as fuck I swear, can you please leave?” You tried.

You nearly tripped over your own feet, clambering backwards as the thing moved forward, stepping into the light and-

…

…Somebody is fucking with you, you almost immediately decide as your brain finally processes what you had been seeing this entire time. Fucking Red Hood. Every bit of fear is replaced with frustration and annoyance.

Taking a deep breath, you put your hands over your face, letting out a groan that quickly turns into a small, muffled scream.

Why? Why you? Huh? This is the second vigilante home intrusion you’ve experienced. You weren’t afraid of vigilantes, you had no reason to be- you aren’t a criminal and unlike certain organizations, they actually protect the innocent and whatnot. So, for you at the very least, seeing them was less of a terrifying experience than it was a wonder to behold…as long as they’re not in your fucking house. You just wanted to eat dinner. You just wanted to eat dinner and go to bed and then watch stupid 2000’s shows in the morning. But no Red Hood is in your house, and now your whole night is interrupted and you’re stressed and irritated and you really want to throw the nearest thing at him- but that’s rude and he might actually be here for a reason so you should really get out of your own head and hear him out.

You bring your hands down to your side, take a deep breath, and stare right into the eyes of his helmet.

“What do you want?”

—--

Jason has a very inappropriate answer to that question- he doesn’t say it, he doesn’t even give himself the chance to fully think it. But he does need to find an appropriate answer as to why he was in your house.

“You work at GHL?” He asked, his voice unwavering.

You rolled your eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck in the back of your skull. Fuck, you’ve always had a bad attitude, he hasn’t seen it up close in years. He hasn’t seen you this close in years either. During his…other illegal excursions in your house, he always kept a respectful distance from you, mostly out of fear of waking you up, but also because standing over you while you were asleep just felt…wrong.

You groaned, crossing your arms as your glare set on him.

“Yes, I worked at GHL before it blew up, no, I don’t have anything to do with the explosion, I was here all night, there are cameras in the halls, feel free to check them if you think I'm lying. Is there anything else or can you go now?”

Fuck- uh.

“No.” He said, before he could even come up with a reason why.

“‘No’?!” You were, reasonably, upset by this, “Why the hell not?”

‘Good question,’ he thought.

“I know-” Jason started without actually knowing what he wanted to say, his voice modulator making him sound a lot more sure of his words than he actually was, “-you’ve been very..vocal about your disapproval of the police in Gotham, they were temporarily holding a shipment of weapons and ammo there.”

Accusing you of being a criminal maybe wasn’t the best option, definitely wouldn’t get him into your good graces, but it was believable- his preexisting knowledge of you made it just that much easier, even if you look offended by the accusation.

“So what, you’re stalking me?”

You don’t even know the half of it..

“Investigating you.” He responded sternly.

You nodded, so clearly on the verge of losing your shit, “Right, right, ‘investigating’. I don’t care what you call it, I already told you I wasn’t involved in whatever happened so can you please-”

A sudden, blaring alarm shocked both you and Jason. You stormed back into the kitchen a pot of what was previously edible pasta sauce having been reduced to a soldering, smoking mess. Frustrated mumbling filled the space, you groaned and growled as you grabbed the pot handle with a towel and damn near threw it into the sink, turning on the faucet and letting it run. You turned to him, thoroughly pissed off at this point, so many thoughts and words festering in your mind- probably vulgar and violent- but you said nothing, clenching your fist at him and staring at his mask with an nearly dazed but somehow still enraged expression before turning to handle the fire alarm. Using a towel to fan smoke away from it until it stopped beeping.

Then, you sat on the floor, facing away from him. Breathing deeply, rocking slightly. Jason just stared, there wasn’t much else he could do-

He heard you sigh, the tension in your shoulder reducing until you were slightly hunched over.

“You owe me dinner.” You said, calmly.

Jason blinked behind his mask- that’s it? You were over it? Just like that?

He halfway expected to be yelled at, hell, he’s surprised you didn’t throw the pot at him. But the ability to just calm down wasn’t something that came easily, if at all to Jason.

“I can do that.”

You sighed again, pushing yourself up off the floor. Turning to him, you face tired and your eyes dark- he knows he just made an already hard day even harder for you, he knows the guilt is going to crush him later, too.

“I know you’re just doing your job and all but you’re kinda a jerk, you know that, right?” Your tone was flat and dim, “Look, I don’t know anything about what happened. I’m just…really fucking tired now so can you just go?”

I know

“I believe you.”

You sighed, “Good, I’m going to bed now, good night.”

He watched as you walked past him, your shoulder bumping him and he tried to ignore how his heart clenched at even the briefest touch from you.

“Oh, and-” you glanced over your shoulder at him, “-if you’re going to come back, use the door.”

You didn’t give him time to respond, closing the bedroom door behind you.

He stood in your apartment alone, a minute passes, and then another as he attempts to process what had just happened and just how fucked he was when Bruce inevitably found out. But…

A small smile crept on his face, could have been a lot worse, you don’t hate him, hell, you invited him to come back in a way. Bruce might scream his head off at him and he’d likely be placed under some kind of suspension and heavily monitored for the foreseeable future. But none of that mattered right now, because he’s seen you, he’s talked to you, and suddenly he has a goal.

—-

Last night felt like a fever dream, but you could tell it was real. Early in the morning, when the sun was just barely peeking through your window, there was a knock on your door- your bedroom door. You should have been freaked out by it, but you had a sneaking suspicion that a familiar red jerk was on the other side. Stretching and yawning before getting up, your body was more tired than you realized, feeling heavy and anchored as you dragged your feet to the door. When you opened it, there was nobody there, but a little white paper bag sat on the floor just outside. You looked around, the living room and the kitchen were both empty and the big red jerk was nowhere to be seen.

Taking the bag in your hands, the familiar logo of the 24 hour cafe down the street plastered on it, as well as a note. Taped to the bag, a torn square of paper read,

“Not dinner, but I figured this was close enough.

And I used the door this time. You’re welcome.

-R.H”

And for some stupid, unfortunate reason, you found it charming.

“Fucking stalker..” you muttered, fighting a smile as walked back to your bed with the bag.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x male reader #jason todd x male!reader #male!reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x male reader #red hood x male!reader #red hood x you #red hood x reader #x male reader #male reader #x male!reader

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wendichester · 4 months ago

Text

₊˚⊹ ᰔ happier²,

summary. sam's been in love with you for far too long for it to still be a secret!

pairing. sam winchester x reader ft. dean winchester ; angsty!

wordcount. 1051

notes. @hauntedrose555 @mostlymarvelgirl @daryls-luvrr ya'll encouraged this nonsense. don't come after me for writing this 😳

⋆.˚ ★— read part 1

Dean isn't looking for trouble. Really. And he doesn't mean to snoop. He just wants the damn book. It’s gotta be somewhere in the bunker.

The three of you had been going through lore all week for this case, and Dean swears he saw Sam with it last. So, when he finds himself in front of Sam’s half-open bedroom door, he doesn’t think twice before stepping inside.

His eyes skim over the desk first, scanning through the mess of papers and thick books. No luck. Huffing, he crouches to check the floor. Nothing. Then he spots it, half-buried under a stack of old notes—faded leather binding, gold lettering along the spine.

Bingo.

But as Dean grabs the book, his fingers brush against something else. A journal. Sam’s journal.

He doesn’t mean to look. He shouldn’t. He knows that. But the damn thing is open, and his name—your name—catches his eye.

Dean tells himself it’s just for a second. Just one glance. But the words jump out at him like a punch to the gut.

"She would be so much happier with me."

His stomach drops.

“What the hell?” he mutters under his breath, flipping back a page, then another. It’s all there. The lingering looks. The inside jokes. The little moments that Sam thinks mean something more. Pages filled with words Dean doesn’t want to read, because they confirm what his gut has been telling him for a while now.

Sam’s in love with you.

A sharp exhale sounds from the doorway.

“The hell are you doing?”

Dean looks up to find Sam standing there, shoulders tense, expression instantly guarded as he sees his journal in Dean’s hands.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean drawls, flipping the book shut. His jaw clenches. “Maybe just finding out my brother’s been in love with my girlfriend behind my back.”

Sam’s face darkens. “Give me that.”

Dean tosses the journal onto the desk, standing up. “I don’t need to read more, Sammy. That one sentence told me everything.” He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ. How long?”

Sam’s lips press into a thin line. “Dean—”

“How. Long.”

Sam’s nostrils flare as he exhales. “It doesn’t matter.”

Dean scoffs, stepping closer. “Doesn’t matter? Doesn’t matter? You don’t think it matters that my own brother’s been sneaking around behind my back, watching my girl like—”

“I haven’t done anything,” Sam cuts in, his voice sharp. “You’re acting like I betrayed you, but I haven’t.”

Dean lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, so I should be grateful? You’ve just been sitting on this, what, for months? Years? Jesus, Sam.”

Sam��s jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You had no right to read my journal.”

Dean lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Oh, that’s rich. That’s what you’re focusing on? I invaded your privacy? I had all rights!” He shakes his head, stepping closer. “You know what, maybe if you weren’t writing about how my girlfriend should be with you, I wouldn’t have had to find out this way.”

“You shouldn’t have found out at all,” Sam snaps, voice low, dangerous.

Dean freezes.

And then it clicks.

“You weren’t gonna say a damn thing, were you?” Dean’s voice drops, something cold settling in his chest. “You were just gonna sit on this forever. Hope one day she woke up and realized she was in the wrong bed?”

Sam doesn’t answer.

That’s all the confirmation Dean needs.

Something ugly twists in his chest. He’s so caught up in it that he doesn’t hear the footsteps in the hall. Doesn’t realize you’re there until—

“What’s going on?”

Both of them snap their heads toward you.

You stand frozen in the doorway, brows furrowed in confusion. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

Dean glances at Sam, expecting him to fold, to back off now that you’re here. But Sam doesn’t. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight, his eyes—

His eyes are already on you.

Something inside Dean cracks.

“Dean?” you try again, stepping forward slightly. “What’s happening?”

Dean lets out a slow breath, eyes flicking between you and his brother. He should lie. Brush it off. Keep the peace.

But he can’t.

“Ask Sam,” he says flatly. “Seems like he’s got a lot on his mind.”

Your brows pull together in confusion, gaze shifting to Sam. He hesitates, but then Dean sees it—the moment he decides to just go for it.

“I love you,” Sam blurts out.

The silence is deafening.

Your lips part slightly, eyes going wide. “What?”

Dean stares at Sam like he’s lost his mind. “Jesus Christ, dude.”

“I love you,” Sam says again, firmer this time, gaze locked on you. “I have for a long time.”

Dean runs a hand down his face, letting out a sharp breath. “Son of a bitch.”

You’re still frozen, staring at Sam like he’s just shattered the ground beneath you. “Sam, I—”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Sam continues, his voice raw, desperate. “But Dean found out, and now—” He swallows hard. “Now I can’t just keep pretending.”

Dean steps forward, his voice low and heated. “You can’t?” His lips curl in something that isn’t quite a smirk. “Let me get this straight, Sammy. You’ve been in love with my girl—my girl—for who knows how long, and now that you got caught, you think you get to lay it all out there? What, you think she’s just gonna drop everything and run into your arms?”

Sam’s expression hardens. “That’s not—”

“Because she’s with me,” Dean bites out. “She chose me.”

Sam’s breathing is heavy, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He doesn’t look at Dean. He only looks at you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She did.”

And then he walks out.

You’re left standing there, stunned into silence.

Dean’s chest rises and falls, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He glances at you, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Are you—” He exhales sharply. “Are you in love with him?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

Dean swallows hard. “Jesus,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. He shakes his head, lets out a bitter chuckle, and then turns to leave.

And just like that, you’re alone.

⋆.˚ ★— read sam’s ending or dean's ending

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @funkenniffler

#sam winchester #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #dean winchester x you #sam winchester angst #dean winchester angst #sam winchester fic #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx

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loveanddeephistory · 3 months ago

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Trowels and Scales| Rafayel x Archaeologist! Reader

Edit: Ao3 link

Ch 2

About: Lemuria. The ancient civilization that inspired your love of history, and brought you down this road. Placing a trowel in your hands. Upon its discovery, your mentor invites you to join the second phase of the excavation of the underwater civilization. But before you can join, an odd artist enters your life. Uncovering secrets is a part of the job description, but Rafayel holds secrets you cannot hope to uncover alone.

Contains spoilers for: Rafayel's World Underneath stories Long Lost Treasure/Microuniverses, his anecdote Addictive Pain, and his bond Ebb and Flow. Contains spoilers for above stories and portions of Rafayel's story in Love and Deepspace.

Word Count: 38k (whoops)

A/N: This is my first time writing an x reader and my first time writing something this big!!! Huge thanks to this fandom and this silly game for helping me find that spark again.

Divider credit: @thecutestgrotto

You knew better than anyone that the best place for research to begin was none other than the library.

The place was massive. Story upon story, floor upon floor. In the recent technology boom many of the lower flowers held state of the art computers. The database and online archives held hundreds, if not thousands of years of knowledge, all mere clicks away from one another. Meanwhile, the upper floors held row upon row of old books.

The cobwebs hung from every corner. Each stack covered in a generous dusting of dust. But each floor, somewhere around the L section, there were smudges, revealing the dark wood under the years of dust.

You meticulously went floor to floor with your list of codes. Each floor holding a couple more books that you needed. There was no ignoring the downright baffled expression of the librarian when you asked to borrow a cart, but her confusion shifted into a simple ‘o’ shaped mouth when you presented your long list of books you wanted to review.

Archaeology was a tough job. You recalled your mentor’s words when you first met back in college- archaeology is a non-renewable resource. Once everything from a certain time period has been found, that’s it. It’s gone. You’re done. But the beauty of it was that people were constantly finding new things, new areas unexplored, untouched by humans.

You rolled your rickety cart, laden with old books, down the aisles.

“J… K… L! La… Lb… Lc…” Your eyes shifted down the specific row until your eyes landed on the book you needed. “Lemurian Legends, Folk tales, and Magic. Fourth edition.” You pulled the book off the shelf, adding it to your cart. The L section featured significantly less dust than the rest on this floor.

You gave the cart a nudge with your hip, giving it the momentum to start moving before pushing it along. At the very back on this floor sat an unused study area. At least the tables and chairs weren’t covered in dust. The cart creaked and groaned before finally releasing a shuddery sigh once it came to a stop.

You sit yourself down, pulling your own supplies out of your bag. A journal, a pencil, your phone, and your long list of books. The one thing the books all had in common was the name burned into the inside of your eyelids.

Lemuria.

As a child, the name was whispered as a legend. A fairytale. The mythical home of mermen and mermaids, with magic and technology beyond your wildest dreams. When you decided you wanted to be an archaeologist at the ripe age of seven, a small part of you hoped to prove those schoolyard bullies wrong. That Lemuria was real, and you weren’t stupid for believing in it.

Maybe that’s why oceanic archaeology called to you. You got your diving certification, and your mentor got you connected with the best known underwater archaeologists in the country.

That’s how you got this upcoming job. It was pretty hush hush, but Lemuria had been discovered. At first it was just a few fragments of sculptures that proved to be much too old for the human settlements from the same time period from the shore. Then it was jewelry unlike anything known from the region, and the surrounding context in the soil proved it wasn’t just blown in from somewhere else.

And finally, they found it. Ruins of cities. Technology. Life.

You flipped through your journal, your thorough, methodical notes taking you back to that phone call from your mentor.

“Hello, Dr. C-?”

“Guess what, kiddo? They found it.” Her excited voice made you pause.

“Dr. C? What do you mean they found it? Who’s they? What’s it?”

“Lemuria. They’ve found Lemuria.” She was breathless. You could practically hear the grin in her voice. Her usually polite but aloof demeanor all but gone. There was no pretense of professionalism. Just the friendliness of your mentor- and your friend. “I know the head of the project, she was looking for divers with experience for the second phase. I gave her your name. Are you open to a job in two months time?”

You look down at the almost empty cup of ramen, your main source of nutrients between jobs. “Absolutely I am. I could start sooner.”

“Perfect. She has your contact info. I told her you were one of my best students, showed her some of your work from field school and maritime training.” Her excitement momentarily faded. “But…”

“But…?”

“There are some risks.”

“Oh I know that.” You shrugged, pinning your phone to your ear by your shoulder. You picked up the ramen, picking at the few remaining toppings in the bottom with your utensil. “I’m assuming it’s pretty deep, so light will be limited. There are always potential risks using submarines or submersibles. And since it’s all underwater who knows the integrity of the artifacts themselves.”

“Not that.” Her voice softened. Lowered. “The news already knows. They were trying to keep this under wraps, but… treasure hunters are sure to be on their way. This is top secret. You cannot tell anyone you are a part of this expedition when it comes. Or you’ll be putting a target on your own head. Are you sure you want to do this? I can tell my friend, she knows the risks and she won’t hold it against you.”

You paused. This wouldn’t necessarily be your first time running into hostility in the field. Whether it was hostile businesses trying to bribe you to turn a blind eye to the history of an area so they could build their high rise, or members of the community threatening you due to past grievances with archaeology as a whole… but treasure hunters? They were dangerous. Just trying to make a quick buck, they'd swoop in and the artifacts would just… vanish. Only to end up in some multi millionaire or billionaire’s home as the next hot home decor piece. And for that kind of money? Some people would kill.

“How much does the job pay?” You asked softly.

“More than I make in a year.” Your mentor responded. “They… took the danger into account.”

You sat straight up, nearly dropping your phone while you’re at it. You juggle it for a moment, your chair squeaking loudly as you jostle about, before catching it.

“I’m in!”

Before you sat a stack of the most reputable books on Lemuria you could find. As well as some books on reportedly Lemurian fairytales.

You knew some of your peers may scoff, but you’d be a fool to deny the importance of stories. The oral tradition. You knew these stories likely were not true. But you knew even better that every good story had a grain of truth in it. Be it a reflection of a real event or person, or a poignant moral or theme. And if you manage to find these grains of sand, they begin to build into something much grander.

You looked around.

“Lemurian artifacts, history of Lemuria, Lemurian language, Dreams and Awakenings of Lemuria, Lemuria:Fact vs Fiction… for a land thought to be a fantasy for years there’s more scholarship on them than I thought.” You were pleasantly surprised. You figured you’d find more fairytales than anything, but you were pleasantly surprised by the amount of scholarship present.

The trained professional in you told you to start with the language, or the rough histories pieced together. But that little kid in you was greedily grasping at that book of fairytales like it was the last piece of candy in the store.

You flipped it open. The binding was worn. The pages yellowed. But that familiar, comforting scent of a book wafted towards you. And all you could do was breathe in deeply. While you wanted to read these fairytales for pleasure, the professional side of you still nagged. So with a resigned sigh you took notes. The author, editor, and date of publishing. The date of the original version. Translation amendments and edits.

But as you read each familiar story, common threads slowly began to form.

A Sea God. Master of tides, bringer of storms, keeper of fire. There were multiple themes of the battle of Fire and Water. And little blue fish.

A little blue fish. That’s oddly specific.

In each story where the sea god appears, a little blue fish would announce his presence first. As you got into the later stories you started to notice it. Pages before the sea god appeared, the narrator would mention a little blue fish.

A kind hearted protagonist would save a little blue fish from a whirlpool. Or an enemy would notice a single little blue fish zip by, before the god made his grand appearance. Time and time again. You made a note in your journal. The last story was the most fascinating of them all. It was of the youngest sea god, and his troublesome years as a child. You were quickly sucked in, finding yourself enraptured in the story.

He was constantly getting into trouble, not understanding the weight of his responsibilities or power. Mischievous, silly, and always up to no good. The story brought a smile to your face, a far cry from your typical focused expression while researching. You could just see it in your mind. A little boy with a fish tail flitting about, causing minor whirlpools, spitting water at birds, and simply causing trouble. From your years of story analysis, you could spot a trickster from a mile away.

And this sea god, for all his might and power, was quite the trickster god. Sly, cunning, and powerful. While he could sway others to do as he said through power and force, sometimes it was his intelligence that did the trick. These stories painted a clear picture of the understanding of the Lemurian sea god.

He was not to be trifled with. Even if he was just a silly prankster as a guppy.

“A-hem.”

The sharp sound of someone clearing his throat yanked you from your imagination. You immediately looked up. A man, your age, stood before you. He was dressed in a crisp red suit, dazzlingly decorated with roses. His dusky purple hair drifted into his eyes, but it didn’t hide how brilliant they were. Blue. With a hint of pink at the bottom.

“Do you really need all those books?” He lazily pointed at your extensive pile of books before you. “Someone’s just being greedy.” His tone was low. But playful. An obvious sign of amusement.

“Oh! No, not really! I wrote down all their names, so I can come back if you need some of them now.” You quickly closed the book you were reading, realizing how selfish it was to take all of them. “Which ones do you need?”

His eyes scanned the table, before locking in on the book right in front of you. “Lemurian Legends, Folk tales, and Magic. Fourth edition.” You pick it up and offer it to him.

“I was done with it anyway, you had good timing.” He accepted the book. He let it fall open in his hand, briefly skimming the page.

“Fourth edition, and they still have work to do… their translations are mediocre at best.” He grumbled his words, his eyebrows furrowing as he zeroed in on a phrase.

“Oh…” You look down at your notes before looking up at him. “Do you… know the originals, then?” The man snorted, snapping the book shut.

“Sort of. I know a thing or two about Lemuria. And I know this author is awful at getting the context of certain phrases right.”

“Oh!” You couldn’t deny the bubble of excitement. Was this man someone who knew more about Lemuria? “I’m actually working on a project about Lemuria right now! Do… do you know a lot?”

“A lot?” He echoed. He took long strides towards you, leaning down so he could look you in the eye. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.” His lips curled up, a glimmer coming to his eye. “I’m applying to be an associate professor at a local university. Art history. I just so happen to read and speak Lemurian fluently, soooo…” He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess I do know a lot.”

There it was. That familiar, glowing buzz that hit you. You love your job sometimes. You stick your hand out with a confident by polite smile, offering him your name. “That’s great! I’m actually an archaeologist doing some additional background research into Lemuria. I’m sure you’ve seen that some ruins have been discovered.”

He eyed your hand, but grasped it and gave a polite shake before promptly dropping it. “Rafayel. Aren’t they doing an expedition down there soon?” You shrugged, grabbing the book on Lemurian language and dragging it closer to you over the table. You open it directly on top of your journal.

“I don’t know, apparently it’s a pretty small team going on it. But you know there’s soooo many hoops to jump through to get that kind of thing approved.” You recalled the many times you helped a supervisor or client call in for the permits. The government agencies, local businesses, any local groups that may be impacted. Jumping through hoops for the government while appeasing businesses and people alike. You got a headache just thinking about it. “Could take months before they get anyone down there.” It was half a lie. You knew it was being streamlined, and it did make things easier since it was underwater.

But it did momentarily make a frown flicker onto your face. One of the most important jobs as an archaeologist was speaking with the descendants and local communities. They were never obstacles to be overcome, or enemies to conquer. They were allies. And often, victims. You looked down at the treasure trove of books. There were people behind these stories. One way or another. Obviously the humans who wrote or translated them. But somewhere along the way, there must have been the true residents of Lemuria. Would any of their descendants even still be around? Would they want this?

“Uhhhh… earth to cutie.” The purple haired man, Rafayel, lightly tapped your head with the book. “Did you just hear a word I said?”

You quickly shake your head, centering yourself back in reality. “Sorry! Got lost in my own head. No, I didn’t hear you, will you please repeat yourself?” Rafayel looked away, hanging his head while tapping it with one hand.

”I don’t knooooow, you seemed pretty happy to just be in your own head.”

”I was just thinking something… kinda silly.” You shrug, rubbing the back of your neck. “I mean. My mentor always told me and my classmates that the most important job of an archaeologist is to work with the community. Not against them. So, you know, if Lemuria is real, then Lemurians must’ve been real.”

Rafayel cut his eyes over, his gaze meeting yours through the curtain of purple hair. “Oh?”

”I mean,” you shrug. “Someone had to make all of that stuff. Those people…” You gesture to the book in his hands. “I noticed a couple of themes. Fire vs water, the sea god, and… the animosity between ocean and land. There’s a theory that Lemuria was actually a land based society that fell into the ocean, and it was its remains that people mistook for mermen and mermaids.” You frown. “But… I just don’t buy that.”

”Sooo… what? You think mermaids exist? Some scientist you are.” He scoffed, letting the book fall open in his hands again.

”It doesn’t really matter what Lemurians are, be they human or non human. Would they want this?” You turned back to your pile of books. “Would they want to be found?” The names of the authors on all the books caught your eye. You made a mental note to do some additional research into the authors themselves. Their backgrounds. Their prejudices or biases. Your gaze shifted back to the book right in front of you. The book of language. You flipped a few pages to an unfamiliar alphabet, showing the rough equivalent into the Latin alphabet. You gently nudged the book away, looking back and forth while spelling your name out.

The hairs on the back of your neck came to stand, and soon you felt Rafayel’s presence over your shoulder. He leaned in, looking at your handwriting.

“You need to connect those two letters.” He pointed between two symbols. “That’ll create the sound you need to replicate your name in the Lemurian tongue. It won’t be exact, but it’ll be as close as you can get in this language.” You flipped your pencil and rubbed the two letters away, replacing them with a more connected version. You weren’t sure what he meant, but as you wrote you steadily wrote one symbol before making the next without lifting your pencil from the paper. Rafayel’s eyes narrowed before slowly nodding. “Better.” His eyes cut up to your face again. “So. When are you going on that excavation?”

”Me?” You pointed to yourself. “Do you know how selective something like this is?”

”Not really.” He shrugged again, his lips tugging up into a smile once more. “Tell me.”

”Well… it’s pretty selective.” You put down your pencil. “Thorough background checks, lengthy interview processes…”

”I’m sure good recommendations are a part, too.”

You hummed in confirmation. “Yeah, big time. Networking is important in this kind of field. Everyone remembers. They might not have a name to a face or a face to a name, but if you fucked up even in field school they’ll know.”

”Field school?” His eyebrows furrowed.

”Yeah! Field school! It’s basically how archaeologists get trained, at least where I’m from. You are working in the field, but it is also an academic setting where you are learning.” You pulled your journal out, flipping all the way back to the front. It was a bound leather journal in your favorite color. You flipped to the first page and extended it to him.

”Those were my notes from my first ever dig.”

”Ugh.” He groaned, scanning the page. “Why are there so many numbers?”

”Archaeology needs math.”

”Gross.”

You couldn’t suppress a laugh, though you quickly clasped both hands over your mouth. This is a library. Gotta be quiet. Rafayel’s initially disgruntled expression shifted, back into the same amusement he had been carrying with him all morning. “It’s just us up here, no need to be quiet.” He shrugged. He leaned against the table, his eyes trailing over all the books you had laid out. “You say this excavation is selective. But you seem motivated. Think you’ve got a shot?” You removed your hands, what your mentor said echoing in your mind.

”I mean,” you shrug your shoulders, looking down at your journal again. “Maybe? Depends on how many people can go, and the competition. Besides, there’s plenty of other people who would be vying for this kind of position. Hence why I’m here.” You gestured at all the books he was eyeing. “Research.”

Rafayel’s eyes settled on one of the books on the table. He set down the book of legends, picking up the book on fact and fiction. He dangled it by the edge of its cover, his lips curling in disgust. “I’d… not read this one if I were you.” He held it away from himself as if it was diseased, and you couldn’t help but smile in both amusement and mild bewilderment. He glanced at you, scoffing before putting the book down on the other table, smacking it away. “The author doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Doesn’t cite his sources, doesn’t interview professionals… all just theories and what he thinks to be true.”

”Oh.” You looked down your list of books, finding it. You grabbed your pencil and messily scratched it out, writing what he said down as a note to yourself. “Thanks for that, I’m planning on doing some research into all these authors later.”

“Better sooner than later. You’ve got a good eye, some of these guys are pretty trustworthy.” Rafayel tapped the book of language in front of you. “This author is the best. Her work is great. Well sourced, well written, talks to professionals…” You knew of the few experts in Lemuria out there. Rafayel now being the newest one, and one you’ve now met in person. But they’re few and far between. Plenty of people in the academic world scoffed at them, claiming they were chasing nothing more than fairytales. So while academic scholarship on Lemuria existed, the good stuff was few and far between. You circled the author’s name on the piece of paper, adding five scrubbed stars around it as well. You’ll need to look up her other works.

”You have any more suggestions, Rafayel?” Your eyes darted up again, catching the tail end of a continued glare at the offending book. He turned back to you, shrugging.

”Nah. Not really. Good stuff is hard to find, y’know.”

You chuckled wryly, looking down at your notes. “Oh, I know.” Your fingers found their way to the necklace hiding under the collar of your shirt. A simple chain in your favored metal, with a single charm. A pearl. Just one. Hell, you didn’t know if it was even real. It caught your eye shortly before graduation. After years of working towards being an archaeologist, all the people saying you couldn’t do it, you weren’t cut out for it, you’d never make it. The worried friends and family asking you to pick something else, be something else. After all that, you promised yourself a momento to show you made it, and remind yourself why you did this.

Your fingers graze the surface of the pearl. It was unique, it wasn’t white. The color felt so suiting, and the chain was your favorite color of metal. It was a no brainer. You bought it on the spot. A reminder of the story that started it all. A reminder of the years of studying and working that brought you to this exact moment.

“Academia hasn’t always been the kindest to those who tried to prove Lemuria’s existence. Always said it was just hopeless fools chasing fairytales.” You dropped the necklace and looked back up. Rafayel’s eyes seemed to catch a glimpse of the pearl pendant, but they popped back up to meet your own. “But hey. People said the same thing of the city of Ur. And of Troy. But those weren’t just stories.” You looked at the book he had picked up, the one you had just finished reading when he approached. “Every story has a grain of truth. Maybe it’s a universal theme, like love or loss. Maybe it’s based on a real person but was twisted over time. Or maybe it’s the setting itself.” You pointed at the book with your pencil.

”And now we know Lemuria was real. Which means Lemurians are real- people lived there. One way or another. And they are what’s important. Not the treasures. Not the statues. The people. Their stories.” Your eyes found their way to Rafayel’s once more. They were locked onto you. Behind the shield of his hair, you couldn’t quite make out what he might be thinking or feeling. He cocked his head to the side, a smirk coming to his face.

”You said it yourself. What if these people don’t want to be found?”

Something about that gaze felt intense. Like a challenge. Or a trap.

You sighed. “Well. We don’t know that unless we ask. Or find out the hard way.” You started to gather the books in front of you. Between the author Rafayel detested and the book he needed, your pile would be a little smaller. You were certain you could check out this many- or a portion of them and then come back next week for the others. “I’m a scientist and an anthropologist- but I have my beliefs. Sometimes, discoveries just aren’t meant to be made. Not yet. So I guess we’ll see how this excavation goes and go from there.”

You loaded the books onto the cart. The two or three books by the detested author went onto the bottom of the cart so you could return them, while the rest went on top.

“What? Like… some unseen force will bury the lead, or something?” Rafayel’s voice came from behind you. “Really?”

”Not necessarily. But I’ve had my weird experiences.” You shrugged your shoulders. You went back to your journal, shutting it and securing it with the connected elastic. You tucked your pencil behind your ear, tucking everything away where it belonged. You walked around the edge of the other table, grabbing the rejected book and adding it to your stack of books to be put away. “Things going missing, weird happenstances, tech malfunctioning and refusing to work… I’m not that superstitious. But if a site isn’t cooperating, maybe that’s a hint that the time isn’t right. If that happens, I take all my field notes, do the best work I can, and go home at the end of the day. That’s all you can do.”

”Hm.” Rafayel hummed. “Do others in the field feel the same way?”

”Eh, you’d have to ask them.” You turned to face him, offering him your hand one more time. “It was nice to meet you, Rafayel. Good luck with that associate professor position. What university?”

”The one in town. University of Linkon.” He extended his hand, giving you a polite but firm shake before dropping your hand again.

“Hey! I graduated from there. You might run into my mentor, she’s the archaeology prof there. Everyone calls her Dr. C. Tell her you met me.” You pulled your hand back, gripping the rail of the cart as you slowly began to push it away. “I meet up with her for coffee on campus from time to time. Maybe we’ll see each other again!”

Rafayel’s eyes left yours. He looked down at the book in his hand, before looking back at you. He smiled. Though it was clear it was only for the sake of manners. “Maybe. Good luck on the dig.”

You worked your ass off. You got all your background knowledge done and had extensive notes. You got confirmation from Eleanor, the lead on the dig, that you would be brought in for phase two. Additionally, the sponsors for the dig sent you an advance check so you could get all the additional equipment you might need. You had everything you needed up to their specifications, and your training was still good. Which meant the money was yours to use. You used a part of it on groceries so ramen wouldn’t be your only source of nutrients, while the rest was squirreled away in a savings account for the next in-between period you fell upon.

You were busy reviewing your journal, looking over your notes with a growing glow of excitement when your phone began to ring.

*I wanna know- can you show me? I wanna know about these strangers like me!*

The song you had set for your mentor was ringing loudly. You shut your journal, grabbing your phone. You accepted the call, putting your phone to your ear. “Dr. C! Hey-!” As you greeted her she said your name in a low, firm tone. Your greeting froze in your throat. She never spoke like this. “Yes? What’s going on?”

”Can you meet me on campus in an hour? We need to talk.”

”Dr. C is everything okay?” You were already getting up. You tucked your journal into your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you rushed to the door. You put on your shoes, grabbed your keys, and left.

“I’m fine. And you’re not in trouble.” Her voice softened, picking up in the concern in your own voice. “It’s important. I’ll buy you coffee at our usual spot. Okay?”

”I’ll be there soon. Do you need anything? Can I grab something for you?”

”No, no. No need.” She released a heavy sigh on her end of the line. You couldn’t recall the last time she acted like this. You couldn’t recall her acting like this… ever. “I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up before you could respond. With your eyebrows furrowed and your lips pressing into a thin line, you hurried out the door of your apartment building. Luck seemed to be on your side. You caught the bus right as it arrived, and traffic was light. While hot, there was a pleasant breeze drifting through the city. The route was familiar. Nostalgic. For a moment you were taken back to those college days. Riding that bus crammed with so many chattering students, the breeze rolling through the bus every time the door opened for new passengers. The way you’d admire the petals dancing in the breeze on a beautiful spring or summer day, or leaves in the autumn, and snow in the winter.

You hopped off the bus at the same spot you always did. Your footsteps were quick, but didn’t hold the same lightness they typically did. Something was wrong. Dr. C never got shaken up. Never. Nothing got under that woman’s skin. Not easily at least. And the only way you’d know is if you watched her eyes. Her confusion and amusement would be clear as day. But irritation? It would be just the tiniest glimmer in her eye, before she buried it beneath polite but stern reconciliations, or firm reprimands if something was truly wrong.

And worry? You never saw her worried. Never. Even when expensive equipment broke, or an investor threatened to pull out, or someone tried to threaten her. So to hear her actively concerned over the phone?

It worried you.

You were forced to come to a stop at a crosswalk. You sighed, briefly glancing around. There was an old pet shop at this crosswalk. It was run by the nicest old couple. They worked primarily with old pets needing new homes, and pet supplies. You glanced in, surprised to come face to face with a flurry of fish. They flicked here and there, zipping around the large tank.

But one in particular caught your eye. A little blue fish.

You tilted your head, and the fish flicked to one side. You tilted your head the other way, and the fish followed. You cracked a smile, lifting a hand to wave at it.

”Hey there little guy.” You murmured. The fish seemed to be watching you. “So. Emissary of the sea god, huh?” Your smile widened. “Mind giving him a message from little old me?”

The fish flicked its tail, getting closer to the glass.

”I’m taking that as a yes.” You laughed. You leaned close to the glass. “Please tell Mr Sea God that I’m gonna be near Lemuria soon.” You dropped your voice, verifying no one was around you. “And I’d like to ask for his favor. It’s okay if he doesn’t want to give it. I can take a no.” Your smile widened in self incredulity. Talking to a fish, asking it to deliver a message to a god.

No wonder some of your colleagues thought you were loopy.

You leaned away, noticing the crosswalk sign change out of your peripheral vision. You waved to the fish, turning your body to cross the road. In a mere matter of minutes, the bustling city gave way to the college campus. It felt like stepping back in time.

People tossing balls and frisbees, friends studying for exams under and in trees, young couples cuddled on benches lining the path. Any other day you’d take a leisurely stroll, enjoy the beauty of campus. But not today. Today, there was a pressing matter. Your feet carried you along the familiar paths, winding your way to the campus cafe. A popular place to hang out in between classes. Students and professors alike would grab a little pastry and a coffee or tea. Some students would come to study, while others came for dates, or catch up their friends on the latest gossip.

You swung the door open, the familiar sights, sounds, and smells washing over you.

You breathed in it. It was nice to be back.

You walked in, avoiding the long line as you peeked into the very back corner. Just as you expected, you saw your mentor sitting there, her back to the wall. She was sipping on her own coffee, while an iced coffee sat across from her. Your lips turned up in a grin, making a beeline to her. Your footsteps made her eyes cut up, and everything about her seemed to soften. She put down her cup, coming to stand. She called your name, and in a heartbeat you were at her side, sharing a side hug.

”Dr. C! Everything okay?” You held her shoulder just a little tighter, your smile fading into a worried expression.

“I’m fine.” She assured, patting your shoulder before gesturing for you to sit down. “I remembered your favorite flavored coffee here. It’s a seasonal special now. You’re lucky they brought it back for the summer semester.” You sat down in front of her, while she returned to her spot with her back against the wall. You picked up the drink, taking a sip. The crisp coolness was just what you wanted on a hot day like today.

”I still can’t see how you drink that stuff.” She shook her head, taking a sip of her own coffee. Hot, with just a splash of cream. You shrug, lifting your cup to her.

”Eh, sweet tooth.” You explained. The two of you tapped your cups together, an unspoken toast. You took another sip, the cool liquid cooling you down. “So.” You dropped your voice, leaning in. This back corner wasn’t very popular. It was near the bathrooms, and the lighting wasn’t great. But it was great for semi-private conversations. “What’s going on?”

Dr. C slowly lowered her cup. She set it down on the table, her eyes scanning the cafe behind you. She smiled, but it was one of her typical, polite, not quite right smiles. “Phase one failed.” She kept her voice low, leaning in closer over the table. “The entire team was down a week longer than anticipated. They never lost contact with the surface- but the people in the submersible say they lost contact.” Her eyes cut to yours. “And everyone responsible has gone no contact. I talked with Sean last before he dropped off the map. But Yennifer, Fred, Eleanor? The others won’t talk to me.”

Your eyes widened. Your eyebrows shot up, and you quickly put your cup down. “What? Are they okay?”

”From what I’ve heard, yes. Gone into hiding.” She licked her lips. Still smiling, like she was whispering an inside joke. “Sean said he felt followed.” She looked you dead in the eye. “The field notes were modified. The videos corrupted. People are missing.” You kept your eyes low. Thinking. You hadn’t heard from Eleanor since you got that check. You chalked it up to the dig itself, and then of course taking everything back to the lab for testing and analysis. You licked your lips, both they and your mouth feeling very dry all of a sudden. “I’m sorry.” She sighed. “The job is off. I would distance yourself from this project.” Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Something is very wrong here.”

”No, no, don’t apologize.” You reached out, resting your hand on her clenched fist. “I know they were all friends of yours. All four of them. Sean, Fred, Yennifer, Eleanor. And don’t worry about me having a job, you know I do plenty of other things. A museum reached out to me to help them ID some artifacts of theirs, and that’s a three month contract that could be renewed. And a science magazine is going to publish some of my work.” You squeezed her hand. Her eyes met yours, and you smiled warmly. You had met all four of them before, albeit briefly. Sean was your stereotypical absentminded professor, though he was brilliant and skilled at his job. Eleanor was quiet but kind, a good reflection of your own mentor. Fred had a great sense of humor and always lit up the room. And Yennifer, though stern, always engaged in conversation with you. You could see them all in your mind’s eye- even smell them. Their familiar cologne or perfume when they weren't on a dig or in the library. Lilac and gooseberries was the most potent scent, every time. The nostalgia hit you like a wave, meeting them in your undergrad years.

You hoped they were all okay.

“Besides. Whoever was helping to fund this expedition was very generous. Eleanor forwarded a check for me to get all my gear upgraded and ready ahead of time, and any I didn’t use was mine to keep.” You add with a beam. “Never had that happen before!”

Dr. C’s eyebrows furrowed. She opened her mouth before promptly closing it. Her eyes locked on someone behind you. Everything about her shifted. Her smile widened, and her eyebrows relaxed.

She just shifted into polite professional mode.

”Rafayel!” She greeted the person behind you. You quickly turned, seeing the man in question. The same mop of purple hair was the biggest sign. He wasn’t wearing the ostentatious red suit today. Instead he wore a more casual black suit with a loose tie. He still looked the part of a professor- though his face gave away that he was much closer to your age than Dr. C’s. ”Rafayel, good to see you.” The two went and shook hands, both giving a firm shake with polite smiles. “This is one of my previous students,-“ Before she could introduce you, Rafayel chuckled.

”We’ve met.” He smiled, sending you a wink. “In the library. Still working on that Lemurian history project of yours?” You shook your head, coming to stand to greet him in turn. He was holding a thick binder in one arm and a yogurt drink in the other hand. Honeydew melon. He must’ve gotten it from one of the vending machines.

“Nah.” You shrug casually. As of today, no. “Kinda just sitting and waiting around to hear back about it by this point. I’ve got other smaller jobs to keep me busy in the meantime.” You gestured between the two of them. “I see you both have met.”

”Yeah! Rafayel here came and introduced himself after he got hired.” Dr. C nudged his arm with her elbow, a teasing smile on her face. She was significantly shorter than him, but her confidence and intelligence filled the room just as much as Rafayel’s presence did. “Invited me to sit in on some of his lectures. I should’ve known you two would cross paths.” She pointed at you. “This one was one of my top students.” She teased, her voice light and proud. “Wanted to go into maritime archaeology.”

”Ah, I see.” Rafayel’s eyes gleamed. “Mind if I join you two? You looked like you were having a pretty serious conversation, I don’t want to intrude.” Dr. C waved her hand.

”Nahhhh. You’re fine. Come, join us.” She went back to her seat, while you pulled your chair away so Rafayel could sit against the wall. Dr. C had her back to one wall, with Rafayel to her left doing the same. You sat to Rafayel’s left, your back to the rest of the cafe. “It wasn’t anything too serious.”

Rafayel leaned in. His smile dropped and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie.” He murmured. “I heard about it too. I know a lot about Lemuria. I heard about the archaeologists.” He added. His eyebrows furrowed. “Are they okay?”

You and Dr. C share a look.

”I don’t know.” You answer truthfully. “We haven’t heard from them.” Dr. C nodded to confirm.

”They just… vanished.” She added. “The authorities are looking into it.”

”Sure, that’s great and all…” You hummed, keeping your voice low. “But I think I might do some digging, too. I mean… four people dropping off the face of the earth. Video footage gone, field journals edited and changed…” You put a hand on your head. “That goes against everything we stand for. You know Eleanor, she would never permit something like this.” You look up, meeting your mentor’s eyes. Her lips were pressed into a thin line.

”I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” The man between the both of you spoke. His voice took on a lower tone than you had heard him use back in the library. “If all this stuff is happening… it looks like they don’t want to be found right now. They’re trying to shake someone off their tails.”

”He’s right.” Dr. C turned back to you. “Don’t get involved in this. Not here. Not now.” Her voice was firm. Worried. Giving you no room to argue. “Whoever is behind this isn’t going to care who is or isn’t directly involved. This level of sabotage, or blackmail, or manipulation…” Her voice drifted. “Something a lot bigger is going on here. But it’s not for us to find out.”

You looked down, finding the table much more interesting than their faces.

“But there are people at risk.” You urged, looking back up again. “What if someone did something to them?”

”That’s the police’s job.”

You scoffed. “Yeah. Right.”

Rafayel blew some hair out of his face. “Listen. I get it.” He cut in. “These are colleagues, or just people who are important to you because they’re in the same field. But you said it yourself. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be found. At least, not here. Not now. Not by them.” You slowly looked to his face. “Maybe they found something they shouldn’t have.”

”What, some cursed treasure?” Dr. C’s voice was mildly teasing.

”No. Something more modern.” Rafayel frowned. “Lots of people just… dump their trash into the sea. Maybe they found something illegal and were going to report it.” You slowly nod. That would make sense. That would explain them going into hiding, the editing, the footage being lost… and it would make sense to leave it to the police, in that case. But something was nagging at you. Something is wrong here. You grabbed your drink and took a few more sips. Your eyes scanned the back of the cafe, since Rafayel and Dr. C faced the front. You looked up, finding a camera in the corner. It had always been there.

You always remembered it being broken. Now, the red light was blinking steadily.

”I won’t press my luck.” You sighed, leaning back in your chair. You cross your arms over your chest, looking away from them both. “I… I’m just worried.”

”So am I.”

”We both are.” Dr. C spoke first, before Rafayel echoed the sentiment. Rafayel sipped on his drink, his eyes scanning the cafe behind you. His eyes lingered on one spot. He finished his drink, standing back up. You scoot your chair to the side, allowing him to come out. “Thanks for letting me join you two for a minute. Keep me updated, okay, Dr. C?” He looked over his shoulder. “Oh! And you’re both welcome to come and visit my lecture next week. We’re discussing Sumerian art history.”

Your jaw dropped. How did he know?! Your mentor reached over and patted your arm, a grin on her face. “You should go! Your second love. It’ll get your mind off of this.”You thought for a moment. You might as well. You had a pretty flexible schedule with these past time jobs. So you might as well. You turned to look at him, offering a grim and a thumbs up.

“I’ll see you then!” You confirmed.

You turned back around to face your old professor, hearing Rafayel’s dress shoes crisply head out towards the chatter of the rest of the cafe.

“He’s cute.”

”Oh my gods shut up.” You whipped your head around to hiss at her, but she had that familiar amused grin on her face.

”Just an acknowledgment.”

”Yeah but I know what you’re really saying.” You groaned. “And we just met.”

”Yeah. But you can admit he’s cute.” She grabbed her drink again. “Interested in Lemuria, teaching a lecture on Sumerian art history next week… he seems right up your alley.”

”Dr. C, is this revenge?”

”Maybe a little.” She teased. “Remember when all your classmates would dog me about finding a date? Trying to play matchmaker?”

”Do YOU remember I never participated?” You groaned again. You could feel the warmth blooming up your neck and face. Sure. You could call a spade a spade. Rafayel was cute. And that playful but grumpy personality? Totally your thing. But you just met the guy a few weeks ago. “Don’t take it out on me!”

”I know, I know, I remember.” She finally laughed. Though you felt embarrassed, it was good to hear her laugh. You could tell how heavily this was weighing on her. Maybe it was for the best to avoid the topic for a little bit. You knew all you could know. “I’m just saying. Don’t close yourself off to the possibility. Let yourself get to know the guy. He’s your age.”

”Yeah. And apparently he’s a super famous artist.” You continued to hold your petty grudge, grumbling back at her. “He was just looking for something extra to do so he decided to become an associate professor. Saw it in a magazine.”

”Imagine being so wealthy you could choose to be an associate professor for fun.” She sighed wistfully. You two shared a look before bursting out laughing.

In your field? Impossible.

”See?” You laughed along with her. “He’s a super wealthy famous artist picking up lectures for fun. Why the hell would he want a sweaty, dirty, constantly bouncing from job to job archaeologist?”

”Who knows?” Dr. C finally came down from her laughing fit. “All I’m saying is he’s cute. Don’t push it away. See what happens. He seemed pretty happy to see you here.”

”Really? I didn’t see that at all.”

“It’s all in the eyes.” She gestured to her own eyes, her knowing glimmer in them. “I’m not saying anything about his interest. I’m just saying you two have things in common.” She grabbed her coffee cup. She took a sip while glancing at her watch. “Unfortunately I do have a class to teach in an hour, and I need to finish looking over some notes, so I need to get going.” As Dr. C stood, you did the same. She reached out, patting your shoulder with a reassuring smile. ”Let the authorities do their job. I know you’re hesitant. So am I. But this’ll be figured out. I’m sure of it.” She squeezed your shoulder, and you managed to smile in return. You reached up, resting your hand on hers, squeezing it in return.

”Of course, Dr. C. I’ll see you next week at Rafayel’s lecture?”

”Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She grinned back. She grabbed her coffee and her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “See you then!” She turned and walked out. You watched, noticing that familiar spring in her step. Just talking about it clearly helped her feel better as much as it did the same for you. You grabbed your coffee, deciding you might as well walk back to your apartment. You didn’t have anything else to do today, and traffic would be crazy on a Friday evening.

You exited the familiar cafe, greeted once more by the familiar campus. This was your home for years. Some things changed, but many stayed the same.

People throwing balls and frisbees on the grass, gossiping with their friends about the people on the sports teams, or complaining about the latest exam or paper. One guy was just on a park bench, scrolling on his phone, his black hood pulled over his face. It brought back the days of college, and you couldn’t help but smile a little wider. Your stroll was leisurely, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of this area of Linkon. The trees planted by sidewalks, and the slowly growing glow of a setting sun. As you walked you heard distant music, almost carnival like.

You came upon a small carnival with games set up. You grinned, deciding to at least wander around. There were your typical strongman games, or the games with balloons you could throw darts at. An obnoxious teenage boy yelled at onlookers, trying to goad them into trying to dunk him into the tank. But off in the distance, you saw a tank with fish.

You chuckled to yourself as you approached.

”Hello again.” The fish scattered as you approached, save for a little blue fish. Its fins were different, so it surely wasn’t the same fish you encountered at the crosswalk. You looked around, but the person running this game was nowhere to be found. If you caught a fish, you got to keep it. You knelt down by the side of the tank, the fish seeming to eye you warily. You held up your index fingers, bringing them to either side of you. “Let’s play a game. Left is yes. Right is no.”

A part of you couldn’t believe you were doing this. No wonder some of your colleagues thought you were loopy. But if nothing else, it was fun to indulge in your imagination.

“Fish are emissaries of the sea god.” You said it like a fact. The fish didn’t react. Watching you. Before languidly turning, swimming off to the left. You raised your eyebrows, nodding. “I see.” You hummed. “Alright. Next question. Little blue fish specifically are emissaries of the sea god.” The fish darted to the right. You really raised an eyebrow at that one. “Oh? So that’s just legend?” It darted back to the left, this time swimming calmly. You shook your head. No one would believe you if you told them about this. ”Okay. Good to know. Maybe I should ask Rafayel about that next week.” You pause, trying to think of another question. Your eyebrows furrow, and your lips press together.

”Are the archaeologists okay?”

The fish turned. It swam in a slow circle on the left side of the tank. You were going to consider this good news, when it slowly swam to the middle of the tank. Then the right. Then to the very bottom right corner, near the gravel. You inhaled slowly.

“I’m… not sure I should take it from a fish.” You stood up. “But thanks for the assist. I’ll keep that in mind. Tell the sea god I said hi.” The fish flicked its tail and hid in a decoration, almost as if it was turning its back on you. Your expression contorted into a bewildered but amused look. “No need to be rude… I said thanks.” You turned, slowly beginning to walk away. You ran your fingers through your hair, the distant sound of cars and growing traffic adding to the growing cacophony in your head.

Rafayel did mention that the fourth edition still had some translation and context errors. Maybe the “little blue” section was one of them. Your mind wandered back to the most important question. Are the archaeologists okay. It was a slow, steady shift from yes to no. And a decisive no at that. You shouldn’t take a fish’s word for it. Dr. C was right, you need to let the authorities conduct their investigation. Maybe some company got involved and tried to blackmail them. Or they found something weird and inexplicable. Or they found nothing at all and dropped off the map out of embarrassment.

But with each explanation, something gnawed at your chest. No. That couldn’t be right. None of that could be right. Something felt sinister about this. Maybe it was paranoia. But in spite of Dr. C and Rafayel’s warnings, you found yourself more determined than ever. You would get to the bottom of this.

The week came and went faster than you had anticipated. Between revisions for that magazine article about your journey becoming an archaeologist and the heavy duty research you needed to do to help that museum with their artifacts, you didn’t have time to dwell on much else. Between working on those two tasks your mind drifted to the archaeologists. The failed expedition was starting to make headlines, with people questioning the people who ran it, the people who funded it… It was turning into quite the mess. People pointing fingers, people scoffing and calling the whole thing a hoax and a cover up.

Even the thought of it was giving you a headache. But at least the day had come. You had stayed up a little later than you normally did the night before, hammering out the last of this round of revisions for the magazine before sending it off. It would need to be reviewed one more time. So that meant today you could enjoy the art lecture without work looming over your head.

The bus ride was pleasant, albeit hotter than last week. The full extent of summer was setting in. You wore your necklace, as you always did, but you protected it with a tank top. No need to get it all dirty. Loose, flowy pants kept air circulating as you lightly fanned yourself with the book you brought with you. The bus came to a shuddering halt, the tires and breaks squealing under the pressure. You hopped off the bus, moving quick. *Ding!* You pulled out your phone, the familiar contact photo popping up. Your mentor. You opened the text, finding a crowded lecture hall and a caption.

Get here quick! I saved you a spot! People are fighting to get in!

The sheer volume of people in the room made your jaw drop. You had never seen such a massive lecture hall that packed. Rafayel was a famous artist, so it made sense his classes would be packed to the brim. But this was ludicrous! You shoved your phone in your pocket and your book in your bag before taking off running across campus. Students didn’t bat an eye as you ran, most of them knowing the struggle of being late to class all too well. You bobbed and weaved your way to the art building, flying up the stairs. As you ran posters and artworks caught your eye, fluttering with the breeze created by your quick moves. You were used to clubs and local groups putting up fliers in the stairwell. But for a moment, you thought you saw a single illustration of a little blue fish.

People were crowding around the door, so you muttered polite ‘excuse me’s until you could shimmy through. You spotted Dr. C, two rows back. She made eye contact and gestured for you to hurry up. You hopped up the stairs, and as she removed her bag you sat down as fast as you could so no one standing around her would try to steal it. The timing was perfect, just as you settled in the crowd around the door parted like the Red Sea. Rafayel came in, once again in that brilliant red suit with the roses. In spite of the weather he seemed perfectly put together. Not a drop of sweat on him. He carried his materials in, the room momentarily growing louder.

“Professor Qi is here!” You heard one girl a row back whisper. “He’s so cuuuuuute!”

“He’s our professor, you weirdo!” Her friend next to her hissed.

”Oh shut up, isn’t he, like, 24? I’d have a shot.”

You could practically hear the grin in the girl’s voice. You momentarily cast a side glance to your mentor, who was already looking at you with her signature bewildered side eye. You both averted your gazes, covering your mouths as subtly as you could to not burst out laughing.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” Rafayel’s voice cut through the chatter. Everyone fell quiet immediately. Raf picked up a clicker, pressing a button so the projector cast a series of images onto the board at the front. A series of ancient artwork covered the wall, all in that distinct style you so adored.

”Today we’ll be going over a bit of a history lesson.” The sudden loud groans of everyone in the audience made Rafayel throw his head back for a laugh. “Woah! Calm down, everyone, I’m not here to put you to sleep! Can you really appreciate art and artistry without understanding its history? Can you appreciate something without its context?” His eyes scanned the room, before falling on you. His amused smile widened. “Trick question. You can.” He turned back to the rest of the class, getting some nervous chuckles. “But! With context and history comes a different kind of appreciation. Different levels of context can lead to new interpretations. And an understanding of the history of art can bring your appreciation of modern art to new heights.”

Rafayel tapped the button again.

You were awestruck to see one of your favorite pieces of art.

At first glance, it may appear crude. Even sloppy. Semi-human figures stood around what might be a field. A person with long hair, a skirt, and wings stood on a rock. Their wings were outstretched. There was a figure standing in water, while others stood or worked in the field. The image below it depicted another favorite. A similar, if not the same, figure. But this time the figure was identifiably female. She looked directly at the viewer, one leg perched on a lion, her leg actually fully sticking out of her skirt. Weapons were lined behind her, and she held a leash to the lion she controlled.

You felt a smile creeping up on you.

Rafayel pointed to the images. “Could someone give me an interpretation of one of these two images?” His eyes scanned the room. But his usually chatty class was silent. Most people had their eyebrows furrowed, trying to make sense of the vaguely human figures. You gave it a moment. Maybe two. Before slowly raising your hand. Rafayel caught the motion from the corner of his eye, before nodding at you.

“Yes?”

”Both images depict the Sumerian war goddess Inanna. You know it’s her from the eight pointed stars near her in both images.” You pointed at the stars in question. “The one on the bottom, where she’s staring at the viewer? It’s a blatant breaking of the fourth wall, potentially instilling both fear and awe in the viewer. She stands on a lion with a leash on it, proving her power and authority over the domain of the wild. But the lion does not seem to be in pain, just held back. While she is controlling, she is not inherently cruel. In the picture on top Inanna is seen with various other gods of fertility, since she herself is one. Her husband Dumuzid stands in the grain near the livestock, and the gods of water and farming join them in ensuring the harvest and raising of animals goes well.”

The room remained silent, all eyes locked on you. But you kept your eyes on Rafayel. His eyebrows lifted and he took a step back. “Well.” His eyes scanned the room before he smirked. “At least someone did their homework. Did anyone look over the documents I asked you to glance at before today?” You couldn’t help but chuckle. The rest of the class began to grumble, some people embarrassed they forgot or didn’t do it, while others protested that they did, indeed, look at them. ”Don’t raise your hand the rest of class.” Rafayel pointed at you, his lighthearted smirk making it clear he was just teasing. “I know you know the answers. Anyone else have an interpretation?” You leaned back in your chair, before hissing as your mentor lightly elbowed you in the ribs.

”Show off.” She murmured. But the slight curl of her lip revealed her true feelings. You just pouted, rubbing your ribs.

After your brief introduction to Sumerian and Akkadian art, some of the students began to pipe up. Some noted the composition, while others commented on the way the bodies were shaped. The depiction of the star. Rafayel eventually began to tap through more examples of the art, before briefly touching on the history. Mesopotamia and its numerous civilizations, as well as its importance to the surrounding area.

The lecture continued, discussing the origin of the writing system, with examples of the cuneiform on the board. With each slide, there was an advancement in the art. An advancement in the writing style. And soon, the art and the writing appeared to be much more familiar to the audience. The language itself was an art. What began as pictograms slowly turned into letters, forming an alphabet of its own.

“And, as our lovely archaeologist friends pointed out,” Rafayel smiled cheekily as he glanced in your direction. “Those first two pieces of art depicted the Sumerian war, love, and fertility goddess Inanna. Many scholars argue that through cultural exchange and trade routes, she influenced many other goddesses in the region. Including, but not limited to, the Akkadian Ishtar, the Hittite Astarte, and even the Grecian Aphrodite.” He clicked the button again, with art of each goddess from her respective culture and time of relevance.

One girl in the front shyly raised her hand. “Professor Qi?”

“I told you, you can call me Rafayel.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“Oh. Sorry Professor Qi- I mean, Professor Rafayel.”

”Good enough.” He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing back that curtain to fully reveal those brilliant eyes. With nowhere to hide you zeroed in. There was something otherworldly about them. It looked like the sun setting into the ocean, leaving a pink tinge in its wake. You tilted your head, examining him.

”I noticed… there’s this continued theme in all this art of love and war. Inanna, Astarte, and Aphrodite… all of them had war aspects and stories, but they were also love goddesses. And it’s reflected in the art, this… contradiction.”

“Well said.” Rafayel released his hair. “Is that what you see, then? This continued theme of a supposed contradiction in love and war?”

”We… see that in art to this day.” The girl added. Rafayel walked to the edge of the platform the podium was on. He sat himself down on the edge, a gleam catching in his eye.

”Exactly.” It was like a flip was switched. The passion he had earlier paled in comparison to the new fire before them. His eyes gleaming in the lights, his hands beginning to orchestrate an invisible symphony as they illustrated what he said. “Art is art. All art appreciation is interpretation. And the key to appreciation is…” He left a gap in what he said, gesturing for his students to fill in the gap.

”Trust your gut!” A student in the front row exclaimed. Rafayel pointed at him with a grin.

”Exactly. So if you’re sensing a theme, or noticing something you’ve seen before? Call it out! Notice it! Appreciate it, or reject it!” He popped back up to his feet like it was nothing. He walked back to the board, pointing between the three examples. The same image of Inanna standing on the lion, a statuette of the goddess Astarte, and a painting of the goddess Aphrodite. “It doesn’t matter if it’s made of mud or clay, it doesn’t matter if its proportions are off.” His impassioned words resonated with you.

You planted your chin in your hand, watching him control the room with just his words. You briefly tore your eyes away, looking around the room. Everyone was enraptured. Captivated. Like sailors lured in by a siren. Rafayel had the entire room in the palm of his hand. Your eyes went back to the platform, where Rafayel stood. His eyes locked on you. He seemed much calmer, his passion present but bubbling under the surface in a much more restrained way. But that glimmer in his eyes was still there.

“You have homework.” The room’s buzz turned into a low groan. He chuckled, motioning for everyone to settle down. “Hey, bear with me, this should be fun.” He pressed the clicker one more time. “I want you to find an old piece of artwork, ideally 100 years or older. Then, I want you to be ready to come to class prepared to briefly speak on your own appraisal of the artwork, before and after you find the historic context.” He grinned. “After all. How you felt about the weird winged person with their leg out likely changed after hearing it was an infamous war goddess breaking the fourth wall.”

A chuckle ripped through the room, and you couldn’t help but follow suit. Everything this man said had you on the edge of your seat.

“That’s all for today. Enjoy your weekend.”

It hit you like a bucket of ice water. It was over? That was it? You checked your phone, eyes widening as you realized it had, indeed, been three hours. You put your phone down and turned to Dr. C, who was already looking at you with a knowing grin.

”He’s great, isn’t he?” She lifted her eyebrows in a teasing gesture, but all you could do was agree.

”Damn.” You murmured, looking around the room again. While some people were rushing to pack their things, and a few people had already done the same and rushed out the second he dismissed class, others were beelining it to the front of the room to catch Rafayel. You looked back to the front, finding Rafayel lazily packing his things while responding to students. ”And this guy is my age?”

”Yup.” Your mentor chuckle, nudging you again with her elbow. “I’m just saying, you could probably get a decent teaching job… age isn’t a problem.”

”Yeah but I’m not a super wealthy, famous artist that can just on a whim say oh sure, I think I wanna teach.” You stood up, stretching your arms above your head. Your back popped as well. “Gods, I always hated these chairs…” You watched as students fluttered around him. Some sensible students were just asking for clarification on the homework, or passing by with a polite thank you for the lecture. Others were curious about the art pieces he presented in class, asking for recommendations for more.

You gathered your things, tucking them away into you bag when you noticed the book you had packed. You pulled it out, your thumb sliding over the glossy cover.

“Oh-“ Your mentor peeked over your shoulder. “Lemurian legends. I remember you were obsessed with the first edition in undergrad.”

“It was the only edition the university had.” You smile, flipping the book open. “Reading the more updated version was an eye opener. Went ahead and bought a hardcover for myself, but…” Your eyes drifted back to Rafayel. “Raf actually caught me reading it in the library when we met, and he needed it, too. He was complaining about the author still translating things wrong, missing context.” You shut the book and held it up. “I was wondering if he might be willing to help me understand the proper context behind some of these stories.”

Dr. C shook her head, but her warm smile clued you in to her real thoughts. “Coolio. Sounds like a cool project. Hope he'll agree. I’m gonna head out, gotta go and meet my boyfriend.” She shimmied past you, about to hop down the stairs before she paused. “Oh!” She turned and hopped back up them, leaning in. “I heard from Fred.” She dropped her voice. “Just briefly. He was panicking. Acting skittish. I immediately alerted the police. But I’ve heard from him.” Her smile turned grim.

Your heart sunk. It wasn’t good news, that he was so skittish. But it was news. Hearing from anyone was good news, honestly. You took a deep breath before slowly nodding.

”Okay… it’s something.”

”Ear to the ground, eyes up, stay vigilant.” She added, before turning right back around. She hummed some random tune as she hopped down the stairs, striding to the exit with all the energy in the world. But it was all in the eyes. And even from here you could see how her smile didn’t quite reach them. You shuddered, trying to shake off the chill her words left you with. The room had steadily emptied, and now it was only those two girls sitting behind you that were left at the front of the room.

”Ohhhh Professor Qi~!” The girl grinned, walking up as close as she could get to him. “Could you recommend me some books on Inanna? Her iconography sounded so cool! Love and war, what a badass!” Rafayel smiled. You started to make your way down the steps, catching Rafayel’s eye. For a moment, you saw a flicker of relief.

”I’m not an expert on Sumerian history or mythology.” He spoke dismissively, shrugging while putting something in his own bag. “But my guest here clearly is.” He gestured to you. “Any recommendations?”

You looked behind you, before pointing to yourself. You cleared your throat as the two girls looked at you. They were a few years younger than you, maybe second or third year in college. “There’s the Sumerian Corpus of Literature online for documents translated straight from cuneiform. And different museums that house her artifacts will have extensive history on her.” You grab a marker from the whiteboard, beginning to write down a few names.

“If you’re interested in her character, you’ll want to read Enheduanna’s hymns to Inanna, like Lady of Largest Heart. Inanna and Ebih is an important myth. Inanna’s descent to the underworld is another important one.” You kept writing. “Oh! And the epic of Gilgamesh of course.” You finished your little list, stepping to the side. Her friend pulled out her phone, snapping a picture of the list.

”If you wanna learn about Inanna, these are all great places to start.” You put down the marker. “Oh! And a good way to know if a piece of artwork from the region is depicting her,” you grabbed the marker again and made a simple eight pointed star. “This is all you need to look for. If you find this, you’ve found her.” The friend took another picture of the star.

The girl was nodding along, but her eyes were anywhere but you. “Cool. Thanks for the tip.” She turned back to Rafayel. “Any other recommendations? Maybe a thorough art analysis of her iconography?”

Rafayel shrugged, his head lulling to one side. His lips curled into a smile. “Nah. You’re on your own for that. Start there, then get back to me with what you find. I’d like to know, too.” He nodded to your list. The girl grabbed her backpack off the table, heading to the door after that. Her friend quickly thanked Rafayel before hurrying after her.

You wait for a few moments, distantly picking up on complaints and mocking laughter about the failed attempt at flirting. You turn back to Rafayel, who had finally dropped the polite smile. He rolled those magnificent eyes, shoving his papers back into his binder much more haphazardly.

”Tactless.”

”Oh she was throwing herself at you.” You snort, making him turn to glare at you.

”I don’t date students.”

”I’m not accusing you of anything!” You put your hands up, grinning at him. “It’s just funny.” He rolled his eyes again and turned back to pack his things. You went ahead and pulled out the book. “I did have a question for you myself, though.”

”If you’re gonna ask me for book recommendations in order to flirt with me, don’t start. I'll scream.”

”No, but it does have something to do with books.” You held up the book, the light glinting on the gilded title. He turned back, his frustrated pout vanishing for a moment. But when he made eye made eye contact with you again he jutted that bottom lip right back out.

“Hmph. That one.”

”Hey, listen, it’s got a place in my heart.” You flipped it open to the cover, where you had written your name in the Lemurian alphabet. Connected letters and all. “The university only had the first edition in my undergrad years here. But it just… grew on me.” You offered the book to him. “I was wondering if you might be willing to help me amend it. I want to annotate this one, write all over it with all the corrections these stories need. All the missing context, details, clues. All the context the author continues to miss.”

Rafayel’s eyes darted down to the book. But he reached for it, taking it into his hands. His fingers danced over the cover, long and elegant. He was certainly a painter, he had the touch of one. Each move decisive. Controlled. His eyes met yours again. And even behind that veil of purple hair, you caught a flicker of something new. Intrigue.

”What’s in it for me?” He quirked an eyebrow and forced a smirk.

“How about…” You tapped your chin before grinning. “I buy you a drink, and we amend the book?”

”I don’t know. I don’t think a drink is enough to pay for my editing services.” He quipped back.

“How about a drink, we edit for a bit, then I can help you with something.” You suggested a counteroffer. “Like… I’m an archaeologist and I have ties in the community. Oh! And I’ve got some ties to local history museums. I could help you set up field trips for your class to museums for art analysis lessons. Or help you set up a curator to come for a guest lecture.” You suggested a few more options. With each idea you tossed at him, he seemed to be further swayed. He shut his eyes, a self satisfied smile covering his face.

”You drive a haaaard bargain, cutie.” He cracked open an eye, gauging your reaction. “Deal.” He stuck out his hand, and you firmly grasped it, shaking on your deal. He let go of your hand after the handshake, but reached for the book again. “So. Where do you wanna start?”

”No, not tonight.” You lifted your hands and shook your head. “I know you live out in Whitesand Bay and it’s a bit of a drive. I don’t wanna keep you. I was hoping we could meet up on campus or something to work on all this together. Maybe once every other week? Depending on our schedules.” You shrugged. “It’s not urgent. Just a pet project that came to mind after our first talk. I know translation isn’t a perfect science, you can never really capture the true beauty and intent behind the mother tongue of a phrase or story. But you can get as close as possible with the right context.” You took the book back, tucking it into your bag.

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, grabbing his things in turn. “Want me to walk you to your car?”

”Nah, I rode the bus here.” You walked out with him, your footsteps echoing in the now empty halls of the building. His crisp footfalls from the soles of his nice leather dress shoes, and your softer footfalls from the worn bottoms of your everyday sneakers. The sounds reverberated in the stairwell, and out of the corner of your eye you saw the drawing of a little blue fish flutter on the wall.

”Let me walk you to the bus stop, then. We can plan when to start working on this translation project.” As he spoke you opened the door, sticking your foot in it so he could exit the building behind you. You pulled your foot away once he cleared the doorway, jogging to catch up with his long strides.

”Honestly, it’s hot, I’d rather walk. The bus is always wayyy too cramped this time of day. And I’ve heard the air conditioning is broken for a lot of the buses right now.” You shrug, grabbing the strap of your bag to readjust it on your shoulder. Rafayel cocked his head.

”Really? You’d rather walk?” He lifted his head. “Suit yourself, I guess. But still. Let me walk with you until the edge of campus.” In spite of the weather, he seemed perfectly content in that red suit. You figured the two of you must be an odd sight. You in your tank and loose pants, him in a flashy suit, walking side by side. You briefly looked around, noticing a couple students glancing up at the two of you before going right back to whatever they were doing beforehand.

Campus was emptier now that the final day classes had let out. Night classes would start soon, though you knew from firsthand experience people were more likely to hang out indoors after their night classes. The cafe, or a dorm, or some local cheap restaurant. The odd student walked by, some too engrossed in their phones or music to pay you and Rafayel any mind. Some folks had their headphones, while others used earbuds. One guy in a black hoodie still had wired earbuds. Huh. Vintage.

”So. Professor Qi, huh?”

”Oh not you, too.” He groaned, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I tell them every time, Rafayel is fine. But nooooo.”

You continue to people watch while holding the conversation, a smirk coming to your face. “Yeahhhh, get used to it. Especially with first years. Heck, I’m technically on a first name basis with Dr. C but she will always be Dr. C to me.”

“Yeah, but I’m Rafayel to you. So don’t start.” He huffed, briefly brushing his bangs away from his eyes. You smiled a little wider, catching that glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "It's not like I'm some 80 year old tenured prof with two doctorates." He added with a huff. You laughed, recalling the exact kind of professors like that from your undergrad days.

"To be fair, those profs usually demand first name basis, too. They're just too old to care." You looked ahead again. But your smile faltered. You stopped walking, taking the moment to rub your eyes. Rafayel stopped walking beside you, tilting his head. His eyes darted to the side before returning to you.

“Something get in your eye?”

”No,” You muttered before glancing over your shoulder. A guy with a hoodie and a black backpack had just passed you. You stared at his back for a moment but he paid you no mind. He looked like he had earphones in, judging by the white cord you could see bouncing with each step he took. “Am I crazy, or did that guy already walk past us… twice?” It was the same guy you had noticed with the vintage earbuds. He walked by another time as you were people watching. Rafayel followed your line of sight. His eyes narrowed, but he plastered a smile on his face. He offered you his hand.

“He did.” He lowered his voice, but his words didn’t match his friendly expression. “Hey, why don’t I just walk you home? It’s a nice night, and the sun’s gonna set soon.” You watched the guy on the hoodie, noticing how his footsteps slowed as Rafayel spoke a little louder for his offer.

You grabbed Rafayel’s hand, plastering on a big smile. “That would be great! Thanks! We can keep talking about that potential book project.”

“Just what I was thinking.” He confirmed before beginning to pull you away, walking a little faster. “Hey, why don’t you give me your number? That way we can send each other updates.” You hurried to match his pace. To an onlooker it might come off as a playful, the way he was tugging you along. But you could feel it. The way the hair on the back of your neck was coming to stand, the pricks you felt on the back of your arms. And you knew he felt it, too.

”I don’t knoooow,” You drawled. Now was not the time to be saying your phone number out loud. “Should I really just give you my phone number that easily?” You looked up at him, and for a moment you saw his eyebrows furrow just the tiniest bit. Before promptly lifting again.

"Oh?" He smirked. "Playing hard to get, are we? Sure. We can play that game." It was unsaid- but you understood. He knew what you meant. He knew that you shouldn't say it out loud, for fear of someone hearing you. "Why don't we take a long way home, then? Forget about a walk. Let me drive you home. We'll have plenty of time to talk in the car." Car. Privacy. You hummed and hawed for just a moment, before sighing dramatically.

"Oh, fine. But I'm not paying for gas, you offered!" Rafayel grinned changing directions to take you towards one of the faculty parking lots. As you two moved you kept your wits about you. Listening to your surroundings. Glancing in reflective surfaces. And every once in a while, you would catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure. Or the sound of a single footstep. Rafayel pulled his keys out of his pocket, approaching a grand, expensive car. You could feel your eyes widen as he unlocked the door. He gestured for you to get in, his eyes now sharp as he surveyed the area.

"Are you sure? These are my running shoes, they're kind of dirty." You suddenly felt incredibly self conscious. Right. This is a super wealthy, internationally famous artist. Not just some guy. His eyebrows furrowed again. He tilted his head to the side.

"Really? Now you're worried about your shoes-?" He sighed. "Get in."

"But-"

"Get in." He dropped his voice an octave. His eyes sharpened as he looked off in the distance. You didn't argue, grimacing to yourself as you slid into the passenger seat. The door was shut behind you. You went ahead and pressed the lock for that door as well. Rafayel briskly walked over to the other side, to the driver's seat. You watched from the windows how he stared down whoever had been following you. He opened the driver's side door. Before he simply started grinning and winking at the person, then sliding into his seat while shutting the door. The expensive car roared to life as he immediately pulled out of the parking spot.

You watched from the window as the figure in black leaned against a wall to a nearby building. Clearly watching the car as it pulled out of the parking lot.

"Don't worry. The windows are tinted. He can't see you." Rafayel sighed, gripping the wheel as he maneuvered the car with ease. The engine purred, and the vibrations of it reverberated through your body. It didn't escape you that you were sitting in a car worth more than your entire college degree. And probably as much money as you've made since then. His eyes remained on the road, but he did briefly glance at you. "You can relax."

"My ass is on a seat worth more than my degree."

"Don't be dramatic." Rafayel's eyes darted to you again, this time with genuine amusement once more at your slight mortification. "The seat isn't worth more than your degree." He hummed. "Probably just your first three years' tuition."

"Shut up!" You groaned. But as the car turned onto a road heading out of the city, you sobered up. Back to reality. "Hey, I do need to go home."

"We need to take some twists and turns. Whoever this guy is, I don't think he was following us for me." The observation made your blood turn to ice. You inhaled slowly. You thought back to those archaeologists, and what Dr. C said before she left the room. You fished your phone out of your bag, quickly pulling up her contact. You called her without a seconds' hesitancy.

"Hello?"

"Dr. C, I'm in the car with Rafayel. I was being followed when we left the art building. You're on speaker."

"Holy shit- are you two okay? Do I need to call someone?"

"No, we're fine." You quickly clarified. Rafayel expertly guided the car through traffic, before finding an old back road. The car moved like water, easily flowing and gliding from place to place. "We're just gonna take a long route back to my place to shake them. Just to be safe."

"Dr. C," Rafayel piped in. "Wherever you are right now, make sure you don't go anywhere alone. Stick with large groups of people you know, and don't go straight home, okay?"

"Do you think this is-?"

"About Lemuria? Yes." Rafayel continued. "Dr. C, you're known to be colleagues with the missing crew. And unfortunately," he glanced at you. "So are you."

"But how-?" You spluttered. Rafayel shrugged his shoulders.

"Dr. C's published articles with some of them, worked on projects together. And you're making a name for yourself."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You could see why he said that. And yeah, Dr. C was active in the archaeological community, so it made sense for people to draw connections. But you never told anyone you were accepted to phase two. Including Rafayel. And Dr. C certainly wouldn't tell him that. You pressed your lips together, humming in thought.

"I don't think anyone is going to pull any stunts. Just watch your backs for a little bit, lay low. Let this whole Lemurian excavation thing blow over. Give it a few weeks." Rafayel blew his bangs out of his face. With his eyes trained on the road, it was harder to read him. The darkness of the coming night didn't help, either. His eyes became more shrouded, more hidden. "This isn't necessarily a scandal, but I've dealt with stuff like this before. People making wild assumptions and then acting off of that. Whoever was following you might just be some journalist wanting to write about the missing people. Or just some creep on campus. I don't know. Just... both of you, be careful."

Dr. C was silent on her end of the line, and you found herself keeping quiet in turn. Something was very wrong here. Fred feeling followed. The camera in the cafe suddenly working after all these years. And now, someone following you. You didn't even go on the damn expedition. Neither did Dr. C. You blew a raspberry in frustration.

"What do we do?" You muttered.

"Exactly what I told you earlier." Dr. C finally spoke. You could hear a distant mumble from her boyfriend, another professor her age from the university. "Ear to the ground. Eyes peeled. Watch your back. Lay low. Maybe call up some friends to watch your back, too. People you know you can trust."

You slowly nodded. Though you knew she couldn't see, so you hummed. "I can do that, doc."

"Rafayel." She then addressed the man driving, who grunted in acknowledgment. "Make sure my old student gets home safe, okay?"

"Can do." He hummed. "We were just talking about exchanging phone numbers. In case this happens again. Can't promise I'll be in town but if something weird is going on I've got some people I can call to get to the bottom of it."

"Thank you, Rafayel." She sighed in obvious relief. A smile flickered onto your face. You knew she thought of her students as her kids, but with your own age difference it was more like that of a much older sister. You two always had each others' backs, through thick and thin. "You're always welcome in my office, or sitting in on one of my lectures. I know historical archaeology may not be your thing, but you're always welcome."

"I appreciate it." He took a sharp turn, making you grab onto your seatbelt. You watched as a black car flew past, before screeching to a halt. Your heart rate accelerated. You could hear it in your ears. "Same goes for you, I'll always save you a seat in my lectures." He took another sharp turn, sliding between a few buildings before killing the engine and shutting off the lights. He reached out, gently taking your phone and flipping it upside down so the light faced the bottom of the car. "Say. Your old student here told me you were the one who taught the whole you work for the community spiel. That true?"

"Uh- oh! Yeah. I teach that in every class of mine, from intro to graduate classes."

"That's pretty new school from what I've heard." He looked out his window, watching the side view mirror intently. "Archaeologists weren't always so... accommodating."

"You're preaching to the choir." You laughed dryly.

"That's why I cover it in every class. At the end of the day, I've always thought of what we do as an act of service." There was rustling on her side of the phone. She might be grabbing her things. "We work for the community. Not for whoever might be sponsoring us, unless they're one in the same."

"It's a service job, in its own way." You agreed softly, a smile coming to your face. "You gotta listen to people."

Rafayel snorted, his eyes still trained on the side view mirror. "Yeah, funny joke. Far cry from how the whole discipline started."

"What, the racism, the classism, the theft?" You shook your head. "You're right. It is a far cry from how it started, and people who think the old way is the only way are still around. But Dr. C and people like her exist."

"Yeah, and people like you, too." Her voice was a soothing reminder. "You can't force anyone to be willing to trust you. The years of hurt and abuse at the hands of this discipline... we'd all be stupid to ignore the effects. Trust and rebuilding take time. The best we can do is extend the olive branch, and be open to conversations when the time is right."

"You can't force anyone to listen. Or trust you." You echoed her sentiment, still smiling. "But that's okay. The best thing you can do is just show up. And listen. The communities hurt for years and years... the anger is justified. More than justified. So hey," You shrugged. "Be mad. Yell. Vent. I'll take it all, can't say the same for other archaeologists, but I'd much prefer a much needed confrontation to put matters to bed than frustration constantly simmering under the surface. Just so long as we can have a conversation about it"

"Exactly." There was a twinge of pride in your mentor's voice. There was more rustling on her side of the call, and you could hear her boyfriend's voice again. "We're heading out now. Gonna take a nice scenic route home. Thanks for the heads up, you two. Stay safe. And call me if you two need anything, okay? Wait. Rafayel, do you have my number?"

"No, but I can get it from our mutual friend here." His eyes finally met yours again. "See ya, Dr. C."

"Bye, doc, stay safe." You smiled, hanging up once you all said your farewells. You flipped your phone back over to do so, before quickly turning it off. Rafayel started the car again, the same low purr warming the engine back up.

"You're good, they're gone." He rested his arm on the back of his seat, looking over his shoulder out the back of the car to reverse out of the hiding spot. "Huh. Maybe the movies are right. You've made some enemies."

"Only way I've made enemies in this field is by debating idiots who think aliens built the pyramids." You huffed. "Or yelling at supremacist assholes. This isn't Indiana Jones. Or Tomb Raider."

"Yeah, I can tell you and your mentor are pretty passionate about that." You caught the way he smirked as his hand glided over the wheel, turning the car around before switching back to drive. He took the car back to the main road, taking a few twists and turns here and there along the way. "You're pretty passionate about this whole making things right with the community thing."

"Well... yeah." You shrugged. You opened your phone, getting both Dr. C's contact info and your own personal info in one place. "I've wanted to do this... for all my life, really. Decided I wanted to be an archaeologist as a kid, and I just stuck with it." You lifted your hand, the pad of your thumb briefly stroking over the familiar pearl charm hanging from your neck. "Stuck with it for all of school. Even grad school. But... as I learned the history of it..." You sighed. "People were hurt because of this. There were real life consequences. The dehumanization, the depersonalization, of all these different cultures and their people... you can't separate the discipline from how its impacted people." You gently squeezed the chain. "But you can try to improve. To make things right." Your eyes darted to the side. His eyes were locked on the road, only the occasional streetlight illuminating his face. "I'm not perfect." You murmured, looking back out the front window. "But I'm gonna keep trying."

"Hm." He only hummed.

For a few minutes, a soft silence fell over the two of you. The car was filled with the white noise of the engine running, the tires over the road, the rush of the wind past the windows. The sun had long since set. Only the glow of the occasional street lamp illuminated the interior of the car and Rafayel himself. The orange glow of the lamps cast a warm light over him, making him glow for a brief moment before the light vanished. You turned to look out your window, turning your eyes upwards. The moon was present, a waxing gibbous, but didn't drown the rest of the stars. As your eyes adjusted to looking at the night sky, you were able to identify some constellations you knew.

"About that little project of yours." Rafayel's voice broke the silence. You turned back to him. "Every other week might be hard for me. On top of teaching, I still host galleries, and my painting schedule is..." He lifted a hand, wobbling it from side to side. "Erratic at best." He found the word he was looking for, offering it as an explanation. "So I can't promise consistency. I fly out of the country for other events pretty often, too."

You felt a pang of disappointment run through you, but you shouldn't be surprised. He was a busy man, he couldn't just make time to help you with a pet project. Unpaid, to boot. "I get it. No worries, work comes first."

"Did I say no?" He glanced at you for just a moment, then returned his eyes to the road. "You need to listen better. I'm not saying no. Just saying it won't be consistent." He turned onto a road. "You live in an apartment complex, right? You said you took the bus, so it can't be too far from campus." Remembering you never told him your address, you quickly shared it with him as he started to make his way back towards it. He was already heading in the right direction anyway.

"Oh... well, thanks! You really don't need to help me, I just-"

"This isn't a charity, y'know." He smirked. "I'm taking you up on all your offers you made. Museum curators, field trips, connecting me with others in your field. And I might have other ideas in mind for... compensation, for this little translation project of yours."

"Oh!" You sat up straighter, a grin on your face. "Sure, yeah! I didn't expect you to just help out. This is gonna be great, thank you! Anything come to mind?"

"Yeah. I might pick your brain right back about your job. You and the doc make it sound... almost altruistic."

"Oh, no, no, it really isn't." You quickly shook your head. "Most people know better than to come into it thinking it'll make them rich and famous, academia is not for the faint of heart. Publish or perish. But people generally have this idea of a glamorous life, of constantly traveling, going on wild adventures. But it's a lot of work in the lab, arguing with people who lie about your work, trying to maintain healthy relationships with others in the discipline. And the physical side of it? Excavations can be grueling and hard on the body. Your bones wear out fast. Not to mention there's a lot of corruption, businesses and government agencies getting involved, creepy science groups trying to snatch remains..." You grimaced. "It's hard, and doesn't pay well, so that filters out a lot of people from joining. But you still get plenty of people who join and start acting all holier than thou."

"But your mentor taught you better than that, huh?" Rafayel made a few turns. After your brief stint hiding in an alley, some of the typical traffic of the day had broken up. The rest of the drive was smoother than you anticipated.

"None of us are perfect. But Dr. C does make a big effort to teach service and compassion alongside the mathematics and science behind it. Radiocarbon dating and dendrochronology won't do you any good if you don't build and maintain relationships with the people you're supposedly trying to help, or the descendants of the community that once lived in the area." You could see your apartment building coming up. You grabbed your phone again and pulled up the document you made with both your and Dr. C's contact info. The car slowly came to a stop outside your apartment building, and Raf put the car in park.

You two exchanged phone numbers, and he added Dr. C's number to his phone as well. You glanced up, looking at his phone case. You briefly recalled seeing that exact phone case in an ad for a designer brand. It was worth more than the phone itself. You pulled your eyes away, adding his name to your phone. Nothing fancy. Rafayel Qi, his phone number, and a brief note about finding a time to meet up for your first round of fixing the stories in your book. You liked adding unique ringtones for everyone in your contacts list, so you left yourself a note to find something fitting for him. The door was unlocked, so you unbuckled and opened the door.

"Thanks for the save, Rafayel." You turned back to smile at him, waving after you shut the door. Rafayel rolled down the passenger side window so you could keep speaking to him. "I'll text you in the morning, so we can figure out schedules.”

“I look forward to it, cutie.” He nodded. The window began to roll up so you waved one more time before losing sight of him entirely. You turned around, walking back to your apartment building door. You let yourself in with your key, and you could hear the car pull away only once you were inside and the door was shut behind you. You made your way to the stairs, jogging up them two at a time before reaching your floor.

Your footfalls were soft as you walked through the hall, turning to your door. You unlocked it, letting yourself in before immediately turning back around and securing all the locks on the door. You kicked your shoes off and wandered to your room, fishing your phone out of your bag.

The first thing you did was text your mentor that you made it home safe, and she thankfully responded with the same news on her end. Dr. C mentioned reporting this alongside Rafayel to admin the next day, though it was likely nothing would be done unless this became a recurring issue. You didn’t want to go to sleep with news like that hanging over your head. So after shooting her a thumbs up, you switched to Rafayel’s contact. You pursed your lips, humming in thought. An idea hit you. You plopped in a chair and quickly googled some of his art, scrolling through pictures of it online. You found his official art gallery in Whitesand Bay, with multiple beautiful pieces presented. There was one piece on particular.

The blues and reds danced together the same way his eyes did. It was hauntingly beautiful. You took a screenshot, taking the moment to edit it down to the exact place where the blue and red met. There, a contact photo. You added it, before switching to a ringtone. He was also interested in Lemuria so ocean themed songs seemed fitting. You added the first portion of Caribbean Blue.

You opened a text message thread, shooting him something short but to the point.

Hey Rafayel, hope you got home safe! I’ve attached my schedule below, but for an overview I’m most available Wednesdays and Fridays in the afternoon. Looking forward to our book talks!

You knew better than to expect a response, especially since he should be driving back to Whitesand Bay. You turned your phone off before coming to stand. You tossed your phone onto your bed, letting it bounce as you went off to shower and begin your nightly routine. Memories and images of the last few weeks plagued your mind as you went about the monotony of routine. Meeting Rafayel in the library, Dr. C calling you in a hurry, seeing that little blue fish everywhere, the news about the fellow archaeologists, the camera that finally works again, the hooded man.

Ultimately, it all started with the rediscovery of Lemuria.

You showered, dried your hair, brushed your teeth, and washed your face. You flopped into bed at the end of all of it. You picked up your phone, seeing no new notifications for the night. Probably for the best. The phone was turned off and plugged up, as you wormed your way under the sheets to stare at the ceiling until falling asleep.

The air was warm.

The flowers swayed in the breeze. Red as far as the eye could see. Flame lilies creating a sea of red, only the occasional sprig of green grass popping out from the rolling waves. As you sat up, the sound of the ocean and a soft voice washed over you.

The voice started as a soprano. You slowly pulled yourself up, sitting upright. The voice was carried by the breeze, and the notes wrapped tightly around your heart. You pushed yourself to your feet, stumbling upon a newly forming path before you.

The words were somber. They were in some other language, you couldn’t understand what they meant. But you could feel the loss and pain held in every note. At every footfall, you felt the song changing. Shifting. The singer was no longer a soprano. It was no longer the same singer at all. A tenor chimed in, claiming the song for his own.

The melancholy that had washed over you only intensified. Silent tears dripped down your face. You looked down, finding your feet hitting sand instead of grass. Your eyes slowly, slowly lifted. The roar of the ocean became the backing music to the solemn lament. The waves came to kiss at your feet. Then your ankles. Calves. Knees.

The chill was welcome.

Your eyes lifted to a rock in the distance, a vague shape resting against it. The source of the song. You reached an arm out, walking towards the rock, right as the figure stopped singing. He sharply turned his gaze to you, his speed inhuman, before jumping into the water. You couldn’t make out his legs. The blood rushed in your veins, and you could feel your heart rate increasing. Without his song, the mood turned from solemn to horrifying. You wanted to run backwards, get out of the water, when a small glowing object darted towards you.

The little blue fish darted around your legs, not afraid of you in the slightest. It glowed like bioluminescent algae, leading you in deeper. Something was pulling you into the water. Something else was pulling you away. But it was irresistible. You couldn’t deny the little blue fish who had helped you so, could you? Why deny it? You waded deeper, until you were at your waist. Then yet deeper, until you were treading water.

The glow of the fish did little to illuminate your surroundings. But somewhere underneath you knew something was there. You finally snapped out of your daze, turning to look at the shore.

When did it get to be that far away?

Before you could turn and swim to shore, a cold hand gripped your ankle and pulled you under. All you could do was scream before your head went under. Your years of training for diving and swimming did nothing. You panicked. But the little blue fish accompanied you, darting around your head. Its light allowed you to make out a few of your surroundings. A webbed hand with blue iridescent scales yanked you deeper, but one swift kick to where you thought the connected head might be made him let go.

You kicked your feet and used your arms, trying to swim back to the surface as quick as you could. But a hand grabbed you again. You whipped your head around, aiming for another kick. The hand was no longer webbed.

It was skeletal. A skull met your gaze, with its other hand holding a weapon, with an oddly familiar gem like feature in it. Your eyes widened and your lips parted for a scream.

You sat bolt upright in bed, clasping both hands over your mouth to strangle the scream that threatened to spill out. The room was bright. There were birds chirping.

The covers were soaked in sweat. You grabbed the corner of your sheets and threw it off, moving so fast you nearly fall on your face out of bed. Your breathing was labored, and your heart was racing.

But this was real. You touched your upper arm, then the cool wall, then your face. Real. This is real. You force yourself to take a deep breath in, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Though your heart was still pounding you managed to stand up a little straighter. The sun is out. It’s day. It was a nightmare. You ran a hand down your face, grabbing your phone off of your bedside table. You didn’t plan on living off of ramen for the next few months, so even with these side jobs, it was time to start hunting for your next dig. You groaned, pocketing your phone in your pajama shorts. Back to work it is.

Days turned to weeks, the weeks into a month. Between your two side jobs and hunting for something more consistent, the time flew by. The science magazine had finalized your article and published it in their new edition. But, unsurprisingly, you found it sandwiched between articles about Ever's newest advancements. The print was so small in comparison it hurt even your eyes to read it. It shouldn't surprise you, academia was a cutthroat field. And unless you discovered the next big thing, you'd always be two steps behind those corporate giants.

You took a pair of scissors, cutting out your article and pinning it to your corkboard. Alongside this new edition were pictures and articles and journals you had been a part of. Pictures with friends from field school. Pictures of you presenting at a conference. Clips of your name from some small newspaper referencing you as one of the team members working on some local site. It didn't matter how big or small the job, it all deserved a place. Among all these were letters- notes from other professionals in the field, or a member of the community reaching out to ask more questions about what you do. And there, in the corner, you had printed and pinned a blurry photo of the first discovery of Lemuria. You reached up, taking down the thumbtack holding the picture in place. You flipped the picture onto its back, a saddened smile crossing your face.

Nice to finally meet you, old friend. You wrote on the back of it with the date of the news. You remember your joy, how vindicated you felt. It was real. You were right. All those years of studying weren't in vain. And maybe, just maybe, you might be able to have even the smallest hand in breathing life into its story once more. Your eyes darted to another corner of the board. A letter from Sean, congratulating you on your graduation and asking you to come and work for him as a field technician, affectionately nicknamed a shovel bum, for the summer. Your eyes lowered back to the picture of Lemuria. It was beautiful. Even in its ruins.

There was no news of the missing archaeologists. The police were still working on it, but nothing was being found. Their homes abandoned in a rush, their homes found utterly ransacked. You heard a filmmaker, who had been interested in making a movie on Lemuria, had also gone missing for a while before reappearing with memories missing. The interview with the news showed him dazed and confused, muttering about nonsense. Dr. C and Rafayel's words came back to mind. This wasn't your place. You shouldn't get involved.

Your lips pressed into a thin line.

"To hell with it." You muttered, putting the picture of Lemuria front and center. "What's archaeology without a little detective work?" Thumbtacks were added to a small pile, while you tediously organized everything you took down into neat piles so you could put everything back up later. Lemuria remained in the center. You added the pictures and letters of the other archaeologists, Dr. C, and yourself. You added segments of field notes you saved. You grabbed your journal, flipping to the back to rip out a few pages.

A pencil flew across the pages as you wrote down everything you knew. Dr. C making contact with Fred and Sean, but only temporarily. Eleanor reaching out with the money before the excavation. How long they were underwater. The discrepancies in the story. How those on the surface claimed they never lost contact, while those in the submersible claimed they did. A brief check of the Deepspace Academy's website, and a little digging, revealed that Fred, Sean, and Yennifer's professor pages were removed first. Then Eleanor's last. They all quit in short succession of each other, with Eleanor staying the longest. You frowned, writing this information down. That sounded just like Eleanor, wanting to see things through to the end, though clearly something made her change her mind.

The film writer. Tony, was it? He had been contemplating making a movie on Lemuria, and there are claims he made contact with the archaeologists. But the police found him by the ocean, staring at the water, muttering to himself all the while. He couldn't remember the past 24 hours, and much of the past couple weeks had missing memories. The poor man was checked into a hospital to recover, but his memories seemed to be gone. Tony's phone was found with him, and Tony didn't seem to find anything wrong with it. But who knows what could've happened within those now missing memories?

You knew full well that in situations like these, the first 24 hours were the most important. And it had been long since that point. You didn't want to think the worst. Your eyes locked on the picture, of all of them smiling happily at the camera, covered in various levels of dirt and sweat right after coming back from an excavation. Those weary but excited grins, the way they all held themselves up a little straighter in spite of their exhaustion.

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye with your thumb. You can't think of the worst case scenario. It's gonna be okay.

Next came coordinates. Readings. Publicly accessible information. Did any company or specific government agency have rights to these waters, where Lemuria lay? Did any diving groups beforehand make their way to this area? You dug and dug, working through all the publicly accessible works you could find. The bureaucracy, red tape, and tedious lingo made your head spin. But it was nothing you weren't used to, it was just like reading through research articles.

And finally, you struck gold.

In the middle of a court briefing document, between an environmental advocacy group and Ever, the advocacy group claimed that while out on a boat one of its members saw a boat near the same coordinates you had pinned to your board now. The person claimed they saw the boat dumping items into the ocean, before rushing off. Nothing came from the court case, since the boat's gps system put its members miles away from the proposed scene of the crime, and a brief investigation showed the boat's navigation system to be in top shape.

You scoffed. Sounds about right for Ever. There was always something shady about them. You wrote this down, but only abbreviated. "Ever dumped objects at site" turned into "E.D.A.S". You knew you'd remember what you meant, but to be safe on the back of the paper you scribbled the date and code of the legal documents. Might be worth swinging by the library to print these out for a physical copy.

The cork board before you transformed, from your memory board to a case board. You were no detective, but problem solving and mystery unraveling was absolutely a part of the job description. Your eyes trailed over the pictures and your notes. The camera in the cafe, the man in the hoodie, your missing colleagues, the filmmaker... Something was very, very wrong here.

Your phone suddenly buzzed, snapping you out of it. You grabbed your phone and lifted it, pleasantly surprised to see a text message from Rafayel.

Rafayel Qi: I've got a reception at my gallery this afternoon, but I'm free after that. Bring the book, we can grab tea or coffee and start with the recontextualization. Meet me at Flux Arts.

Me: I thought these kinds of receptions were by invitation only? I can sit on a bench outside, I'm fine to wait.

Rafayel Qi: (typing...)

You felt your eyebrows lift as your eyes remained trained on the invitation. Certainly he just meant swing by when the event is done. Your eyes lifted to the corkboard again. Admittedly, there was one more figure you should add to this board.

Rafayel himself.

From the day you met, your life was thrown into chaos. He knew a lot about Lemuria. But that didn't mean he was necessarily involved... You touched the necklace around your neck. You should keep everything in mind. It's not like he'll ever step foot in your apartment. No worries of him seeing it.

Rafayel Qi: Then consider this your formal invitation. If anyone gives you trouble at the front doors, just show them this.

Your phone pinged with a follow up image. A proper, digital invitation appeared, with an official QR code in the corner to authenticate it. Your eyes widen. Dress code, semi formal. You glanced to the corner of the room where your mirror hung. You were far from semi formal at the moment. You looked back to the time the event was supposed to start.

Rafayel Qi: No worries if you can't make it for the event. I can meet you somewhere in town. Bring the book, and clear your schedule for the afternoon, I plan on getting my money's worth out of your end of the deal.

The text was signed off with an animated winking emoji of a little yellow chick in a beret. Your sudden laughter bounced off the walls of your apartment. That was oddly adorable.

Me: Alright, perfect! Thank you!!! I'll see you soon, Rafayel!

With your response sent, you hurried to your closet. Semiformal… maybe something you’d wear to a conference? A nice dress shirt and slacks. And sensible shoes. Yeah. That’s good. Lemurian Legends and your journal got tucked into your bag, alongside some annotation supplies. After weeks of negotiating schedules you two finally managed to match up. Your heart fluttered, and your stomach did a flip. Finally getting to speak to a language expert to make this book as close as possible… you didn’t dare suppress your grin.

You flew down the apartment, buzzing with excitement. On top of the annotations, you had been personally invited to a reception of his. Obviously it was only for ease of meeting up after the fact, but it was flattering nonetheless. The job often came with attention- though often not the best. People would reference video games or movies, and you’d have to politely correct them that no, you didn’t run around in just a crop top and shorts in the jungle. Nor did you carry a whip. And on the more hostile side of things, sometimes people would accuse you of various things. Being a thief, being a liar, being a pompous asshole… But it wasn’t all bad. You got to meet some incredible people, and having even a small hand in something bigger made you swell with pride. Even the tiniest footnote at the bottom of the report mattered.

Besides. You doubted you would’ve been able to meet Rafayel if you hadn’t been in this field. Hell. You doubted you wouldn’t been able to meet him if you hadn’t gotten than Lemurian excavation job, even though it fell through. Your thoughts began to ruminate on it as you used public transport to make your way to Whitesand Bay.

Your first two meetings. The first was entirely by chance. You both needed the same book- the very one you had in your bag at the moment. Though this was a personal copy and that one was a library’s. Then, meeting with Dr. C in the cafe to discuss the disappearances. Both times it was a right place, right time situation. From there, the invitation to his lecture and the subsequent ride home in his car. And now? An invitation to his gallery. Your eyebrows furrowed. You glanced in the window of a shop as you walked, taking a moment to take in your surroundings. Ever since that night you’d been a little extra vigilant. But you hadn’t noticed anything strange. Your trips to the museum you worked for were uneventful. And when you went to research in the library you still would have an entire corner to yourself. Though you figured you should still watch your back.

You were deep in thought the entire trip. Hopping from bus to bus, thinking all the while. Once you pulled yourself out of your thoughts, you found yourself in front of the luxurious gallery. It was clearly a modern building, with a very pristine exterior. You made your way up to the doors, pushing them to let yourself inside. Gleaming white walls were covered in gorgeous works of art, each brushstroke filled with some kind of intent or emotion. People in nice clothes milled about, some discussing or debating the meaning behind the art, while others simply admired it.

You took a few steps in before realizing there was a man in front of you. You quickly paused, looking up at him. He wore a grey suit, a black top peeking out from under the jacket. His bangs fell into one of his eyes, but his polite smile still made them gleam.

”Welcome to Flux Arts. I don’t believe I’ve noticed you visit us before.”

“Oh!” He didn’t seem to be questioning or hostile, but you fished your phone out of your bag and opened your chat with Rafayel. You selected the picture and turned your phone around to show it to him. “I’m new, this is my first time. Rafayel invited me-?” The man sighed, his polite smile vanishing. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

”Ah. Yes.” You furrowed your eyebrows and glanced around. He opened his eyes again, catching your expression. He lifted his hand. “I’m sorry. Let’s try this again. I’m Thomas, I’m Rafayel’s manager. He told me you’d be coming.” His introduction didn’t soothe you. You kept glancing around, trying to spot the artist. “Listen. Whatever project it is you’re working on with him, it’s got him excited. But I need him here for the reception.”

It clicked.

“Oh, I’m not here to try and steal him away or distract him!” You hurriedly explained. “I offered to wait outside…”

”No, no, that would distract him even more.” Thomas looked over his shoulder, scanning the people mulling about for that familiar wavy purple hair. Once he knew he wasn’t there he turned back to you. “Listen. We just met, but I need you to do me a massive favor. If you can find him, find a way to incentivize him to stay put until the end of the exhibit today. Please. I can’t keep making stuff up for him if a client wants him and he’s nowhere to be found.”

You took the moment to bite the inside of your lip. You didn’t want to laugh at the man’s misery, but it was a little funny. First Rafayel’s petulant pout while teasing him after the lecture, then the artsy birb emoji, and now the fact he’s hiding or trying to escape his own art gallery. This man was an enigma.

“I’ll see what I can do. We’re not friends, I don’t think we are anyway, so I can’t promise he’ll listen to me.”

”He is my friend and he won’t listen to me.” Thomas huffed, but his lips curled up. “Just try. Thank you. I’ll keep looking for him and send him your way if I find him. Feel free to look around while you look for him.”

”He can’t be that hard to find…” You murmur. But you wandered off to the gallery before you. You kept your phone out, going ahead and texting Rafayel.

Me: Hey, I’m here! I just talked to Thomas and he said he didn’t know where you were. I really wanna look around! Your stuff’s great.

You kept it short and sweet, hoping the flattery would give you a leg up. You tucked your phone in your pocket. You were no art connoisseur. But you could see the beauty in each piece. Some seemed to have each brushstroke be slow, deliberate. Precisely planned out. Like how he had touched the front of your book after the lecture. Or how he had guided the wheel of his car in and out of each street while evading potential pursuers.

Others, however, were wild. Chaotic. Each stroke an act of anger, or sorrow, or pure vengeance. A brief glance from another angle showed the literal depth of the stroke, as if he had forgotten his strength for a moment and warped the canvas after applying too much pressure. If art is emotion, then every single piece in this room was a priceless masterpiece.

But one caught your eye. The painting you had saved as his contact photo. Where red met blue. In person it was clearly much more red, in the photo it came off a little pink, hence why it made you think of his eyes. The painting itself no longer looked like the Flower Moon rising out of the ocean.

It looked like the remains of a sacrifice.

A shudder ripped through your body, from the top of your spine down to your toes. But you couldn’t tear your eyes from it. The colors swirled together, haunting you, but beckoning you towards it. The faint melody of your nightmare suddenly came back to your mind, and the vision of the skeletal merperson holding you underwater appeared in the forefront of your mind.

The red of the flame lilies. The blue of the water. The swirling fog. Blood in the water. It wasn’t your blood. Whose blood was it? You could see them- your friends. Your colleagues. Were they dead? Was it their blood in the water? Were they the sacrifices needed to keep Lemuria’s secrets locked away?

You nearly jumped two feet in the air as a hand suddenly clasped your shoulder. You whipped around, your breathing erratic, as Rafayel quickly held both hands up and took a step back.

”Woah-! Hey! I said your name three times.” He displayed his palms to you, gesturing for you to take a deep breath. Another shudder ripped through your body. You could still feel the fog clinging to your skin, the way the waves lapped at your body. But you did as asked. You took a deep breath. As you slowly exhaled Rafayel wrapped an arm around your shoulder, guiding you to another part of the exhibit. “You okay?”

”Yeah, I…” You put a hand to your head as he guided you to sit down. “I just had a really weird reaction to that painting. What the hell was that?” Your question, though pointed, wasn’t accusatory. Just confused.

Rafayel sat down beside you, propping his elbows on his knees. “I was playing around with color and emotion, and I think that’s my most evocative piece yet. Based on a dream. People tend to have… extreme reactions to it.” He propped his chin on his hand, watching you as your heart rate slowed and your breathing returned to normal. “What did you see?”

”I saw it before today.” You admitted. You sat up straighter, allowing yourself further room to slowly calm down. “A picture on the official website. The lighting made the red look more pink, so at first it made me think of your eyes. The more I thought about it, the more it reminded me of something that happened during field school. It was in May, and we were on an island. So the night of the full Flower Moon my mentor, some fellow students, and I walked to the beach. The moon was pink, and the way it rose out of the water… it was just…” You couldn’t find the word for it. But his slow nod indicated he understood.

“In person? That’s red. Blood red. Blood in the water.” You wet your dry lips. “Whose blood? Mine? A sacrifice?” Your eyes darted up. “The... others?”

His eyes flickered. But he nodded again, more resolutely. “I know who you mean.” He dropped his voice. He looked away, looking off in the distance to a gaggle of rich folks eyeing different pieces. One man approached the very painting you had been discussing. He seemed utterly enthralled with it, and demanded to buy it on the spot. Thomas scurried over, displaying his palms. Even from this distance you could hear the apologies and the ensuing argument.

"I'm sorry, sir, that painting is not for sale. Multiple of these other pieces are, however! Anything with a green-"

"No! Where is Rafayel?! How much does he want for it? One million? Two? I can outbid everyone here!" The man looked around, before laying eyes on the man beside you. He stormed over. You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. "Rafayel, that piece is simply exquisite, I have the perfect place in my home for it! How much do you want?"

Rafayel crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't even grace the man by coming to stand, remaining sitting beside you. "Nothing." His voice changed. It was cold. Indifferent. "It is not for sale."

"Three million? Four? Name your price." The man got louder. "I have to have it. I'll commission you to recreate it. I don't care. What do you want?"

"Do you need to see your doctor, Mr. Raymond? I don't believe you are understanding me." Rafayel finally stood, taking a step towards him. "You may speak with my manager. All paintings on display are marked for sale, or not for sale. This painting is not for sale."

"Five, six? Do you need billions? I can do that." The man grew frantic. Thomas hesitantly approached, reaching a hand out before pausing. Rafayel caught his eye. Raf's back was to you, so all you could see was Thomas's eyes slowly drifting to the floor, his hand lowering.

"Mr. Raymond. The painting is not for sale." Rafayel's voice dropped an octave. His voice sent another shiver down your spine. An unspoken threat hung in the air, but the old man was either too bold or too determined to notice. Or care. He didn't appear to be very old, maybe approaching his forties.

"Seven. Seven million." Raymond stuck out his hand. "Don't be stupid, son. That's more than it's worth. But I'm feeling generous." You sat up straighter, opening your mouth. The condescending tone in Raymond's voice didn't escape you, but Thomas caught your eye and firmly shook his head. You closed your mouth, then opened it again to protest, but Thomas's look sharpened. No. You slowly shut your mouth.

You couldn't see Rafayel's face. But you could see him extend his hand, shake Raymond's, then drop it immediately after. "Thank you for your generosity." His voice was thick with sarcasm, but Raymond's face lit up in glee. "I'll begin the preparations for it to be transferred to your home once the exhibit is over today. You will hear from Thomas for the paperwork in the coming days, then we will discuss a suitable crew to move it."

"Smart boy! Maybe you're not so bad for an upstart. I will say, your negotiating skills could be better." Raymond clapped a hand on Rafayel's shoulder, and you could see every muscle in his body tense. He grasped Raymond's wrist, pulling his hand off as if he was holding the edge of a piece of garbage. "But maybe there's hope for you, yet. I look forward to your next collection." Now satisfied, Raymond returned. A new swagger in his steps, proud as a peacock for wearing down Rafayel's defenses.

You didn't bother hiding a scowl. Rafayel turned back, wearing a matching expression. He came back to the bench, sitting down more heavily than necessary. He ran a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back momentarily. "Where were we?" You caught the tail end of a wry smile.

"You were asking me what I saw in the painting that guy just bought." You nodded to the painting in question. "I was saying I saw the pink moon rising out of the ocean from a memory, your eyes, and a bloody scene hinting at something more nefarious. But you said it yourself, the key to appreciation and interpretation is to trust your gut, so-” His eyebrows lifted, and his eyes caught the glimmer of the light.

“You remembered?”

”I took notes.” You managed to smile, your heart rate finally evening out. “I guess… if we’re going off of our guts, then my first inclination would be the thing to go with. Your eyes. Yeah, your eyes have that pink in them, and the painting is more red… but that junction where the red and blue meet, where the warm and cool colors meet…” You tried to find your words, taking a moment to pause. “They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Something about this painting feels like it’s the window to your soul. Specifically. There’s something you want or desire depicted in it.” Your eyes lifted, finally meeting his.

And for a moment- you found a flicker of intrigue in his eyes once more.

”I could be way off base. You mentioned it was based on a dream.” You shrug, averting your gaze again. “But… it reflected a desire back at me.”

”Oh, so seeing my eyes made you desire something?” Rafayel’s voice took on a sing-song, teasing tone. He shifted closer to you on the bench, cocking his head to the side. His lips curled into a boyish grin.

You huffed, crossing your arms over his chest and looking away. “I- yeah. I guess so. The flower moon.”

”What was it about that moon?”

”Field school. It was hard. It was long, and difficult, and I didn’t always get along with everyone I was there with.” You sighed, recalling the memories. Good and bad. “But there, under that moon… we danced. Sang. Told stories. Laughed. Cried. Played in the ocean. And for a moment, all the stress of the job, all the stress of the lives we all had melted away. A far cry from the past few weeks I’ve had recently.” You could feel a prick come to your eyes. You looked up again, finding Rafayel’s eyes still trained on you. That teasing, boyish grin had faded. Replaced by something that felt… softer. Sincere. He subtly nodded.

“It is from a dream. But it is kinda is about desire, too.” Rafayel confirmed, his voice low. “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” His eyes cut up. You followed his gaze, finding the old man shaking Thomas’s hand as they discussed the price and delivery of the ornate painting. “I won’t bore you with details.”

”You wouldn’t bore me at all.” You protested. “If you can sit through Dr. C’s lectures on historical archaeology then I can easily sit through your explanations.” Rafayel snorted at the comparison. He lifted his foot, crossing his leg. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away, a faux-offended expression crossing his face. Accompanied with a profound pout.

”I am wounded. How dare you compare those.”

”I think you misunderstood. Or maybe I should rephrase.” You laughed again, this time scooting a bit closer to him yourself. “It’s easy to listen to someone talk about something they’re passionate about. Even if you don’t understand, you can enjoy their pride and passion.” You grinned. “Dr. C always made her lectures fun. Cracking jokes and engaging in banter. And honestly? You get this glimmer in your eye when someone gets you going, like in that lecture.” He cracked an eye open, looking at you over his shoulder. His exaggerated pout slowly vanished, his lips turning downwards into a more surprised expression. His eyebrows furrowed and his one open eye narrowed.

”How do I know you’re not buttering me up, huh?”

”I could make up some bullshit to say about your art, about how profound and complex it is, and it truly reflects the state of our society through the color… blue.” You adopted a superficial, pompous voice while sitting up straighter. You jutted up an index finger. “A perplexing choice, but a clear reflection of the creator’s-“ He finally broke character, leaning over and covering your mouth with one hand.

“Enough.” His shoulders shook with a barely suppressed laugh. Your pompous voice did its job. That grin was unlike the professional and polite smiles he had offered before. Finally, you got a hint of something true. You glanced down at his hand, debating between biting him or maybe licking him. You knew neither would be appropriate so you just gently placed a hand on his wrist. That alone made him pull his hand away, so you did the same in return.

“Okay, okay, I’m done.” You laughed. “I promise, I’m done.”

”Good. You’re not bad at art analysis.”

”Being in my field makes you a jack of all trades.” You shrugged. “Field technician, scuba diver, writer, researcher, detective, artist,” You counted off the miscellaneous skills that could come with the job before shrugging. “Oh! And trowel dart thrower.”

”Trowel darts?”

”Trowel darts.” You nodded sagely. “You keep your trowel sharp at all times. I specialize in maritime archaeology but my first bout of training was on land, so I still help out from time to time. You need your trowel sharp to cut through roots and keep edges nice and precise. Of course, off the clock, that also means drawing a target in the dirt back at wherever you’re staying, and seeing who’s got the best aim.” You grinned as you explained. “All in the flick of the wrist. Like throwing daggers. But more on theme.”

“Sooooo, if I ever run into an excavation, I should keep an eye out for any trowels being thrown at me? Is that what you’re saying?” Rafayel cocked his head again. Every time he did that he looked like an adorable puppy cocking their head from side to side. You swallow the comparison and keep it to yourself.

”Oh that or shovels. Or machetes, if you’re in a densely wooded area.” His eyes briefly widened and he nodded his head.

”Machetes. Got it.”

”That’s enough about my job.” You waved away the topic at hand. “Don’t want anyone thinking those are thinly veiled threats. Just acknowledgements the job is dangerous. I’m glad I was able to come for the exhibit itself.” You looked up again, admiring the handful of smaller artworks adorning the room.

Rafayel scoffed, as if your dismissal of your own job irritated him. “Nahhh. Your job is better than sitting in this stuffy gallery hearing rich folks argue about which wrong interpretation of theirs is better. Or getting badgered into selling a piece.”

”I thought there is no wrong interpretation?”

Rafayel rolled his eyes, a soft groan escaping his throat. ”When your head is so far up your own butt all you see is crap you’re bound to have some crappy opinions. Including on art.” He scowled. You laughed in surprise at his comparison, but he had a point. You shook your head at him. You glanced at the time on your phone, there were still a few hours left. Rafayel already seemed irritated at the people milling around. And the interaction with Raymond clearly set him off further. You had agreed to help Thomas out, but at the same time, the only thing that came to mind was that book. You went ahead and pulled it out, along with your journal. His scowl dropped, now replaced with a glimmer of curiosity as he eyed your journal.

”Your first batch of field notes. Why bring that?”

”These were actually a copy of my first field notes. Dr. C has my first field notes back in the archaeology lab on campus, same with all my classmates from field school. I got her permission to rewrite all of it into this journal here so I��d always have reminders of how far I’ve come.” You crack it open, flipping through the pages. “I’ve also added some more personal entries, some stories from field school I kept out of my official notes. It’s just become my everyday notes journal nowadays.” Rafayel leaned in, peering over your shoulder to glance at your notes. Flickers of names passed by as you flipped through the pages. He looked up at you again.

“We’re gonna be stuck here a while. I already tried to make my escape and Thomas dragged me back.” He tossed a glare at his manager, though even you could see it was only halfhearted. “Tell me some stories.”

You hesitated. He’s a famous artist, what would your stories have on him and his life? But that look in his eyes, when you explained your own thoughts and feelings around the art, came to mind again… You flipped back to the start of your narrative, skimming through to remember some of the finer details. “Okay, so to begin, there was this fucking raccoon that loved harassing Dr. C on this island…”

People faded into nothing but colors and blurs of movement. Hours faded, but neither of you seemed to notice. Each page in this journal, though smeared in ink, dirt, and tears, formed a vivid image in both of your minds. Colorful characters, and even more colorful finds. Stories, relationships. Jokes. Rafayel was leaning over laughing, his shoulders shaking.

The light in the room had slowly faded, the warmth of the sun replaced by the cool, harsh lighting of the fluorescent bulbs. The low chatter that had been your background music for this conversation had gotten quieter and quieter, before vanishing altogether. Soon, only a single pair of footsteps accompanied your mutual laughter. You looked up, finding Thomas approaching with an expression reflecting both frustration and relief. Rafayel's laughter was cut short.

"I'm glad you stayed the whole time." Thomas crossed his arms over his chest. "Raymond bought the painting. He already signed the paperwork."

"I heard." He sobered up quick. It was like watching the man switch between masks, flipping it on and off with ease. The amused glimmer in his eye vanished. His eyelids lowered, his eyebrows raising into an impassive look. "I'll sign the paperwork for the sale tonight."

"I'll send you everything I need from you before the end of the day." Thomas confirmed. His eyes narrowed, his eyebrows furrowing, his lips curling down. "Are you sure-?"

"Dead certain." Rafayel shrugged. He got to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket once more as he came to stand. "Raymond wants it, so he'll have it." The colors Rafayel's voice typically held vanished. The passion in his lecture, the amusement from your talks... there was a hollowness to his words. Thomas's eyes momentarily flickered to you. He smiled.

It didn't reach his eyes.

"Thank you for your help today." Thomas turned his body to face you. Rafayel scoffed, reaching up to lightly play with his own bangs.

"I can't believe you asked someone to babysit me like some child..."

"I was gonna be here anyway! It's not every day I get to talk with the creator of the exhibit himself." You shrugged. You tucked your journal back into your bag, and Rafayel in turn turned to face you. He extended his hand, helping you come to stand.

"I owe you some translation notes, and you owe me some more information on your job." A hint of humor entered his voice again. His lips curled up, but his eyes were trained on the painting that had just sold. You didn't know if it had a name. You didn't think to look- or ask. But something about it just... felt off. However, that felt fitting in its own right. If it was truly a reflection of desire, it ought to make people uncomfortable. You took his hand, standing up. Unlike with Raymond, Rafayel released your hand but allowed it to hover momentarily. Not immediately trying to escape as though your touch was diseased.

Over the course of the afternoon, the lighting in the gallery changed. From the beautiful sunlight adding to the experience, to only the fluorescent lights lighting up the place. Thomas glanced out the window and his lips twitched into a frown. "If you two are heading out, better be fast. Looks like a summer storm is about to hit us." You and Rafayel both followed his gaze. Dark clouds roamed the sky, and the trees outside swayed in the wind. You quickly fastened your bag, taking long strides to the door.

"Thanks for the heads up, Thomas! It was nice to meet you!" Rafayel was quick to follow, his long legs allowing him to catch up with ease. Thomas lifted a hand, exchanging a farewell of his own before the two of you made your way out the door. The wind was steadily picking up, and the sky responded with a low rumble. You extended a hand, but didn't feel any rain. "Where were you thinking for our little talk?"

"There's a cafe down the road, good tea and coffee." Rafayel pointed down a sidewalk, still walking briskly. "Its gonna pour any minute now."

"It is, but a little rain won't hurt us." You quickly followed, jogging to match his speed. "Running in the rain can be fun!" A roll of thunder answered you, much closer this time. "See? Even the sky agrees!"

"You know, for a scientist, you're not what I expected!" Rafayel called back, breaking into a bit of a jog. Another roll of thunder. A few drops landed on your head and shoulder, and you broke into a run alongside him.

"What? All stiff and professional? Ha!" The rain began to fall steadily. "Hell no! We're professionals when we gotta be, but not all the time!" The steady rain turned into a downpour. You laughed, grabbing your bag and holding it over your head. "Go, go, go!" Something about the rain seemed to wedge its way behind the mask. Rafayel laughed back, both of you running down the sidewalk in the pouring rain. You ducked under a cover, putting your bag down. The cover of your bag did its job, the objects inside perfectly dry, in spite of becoming an impromptu umbrella. "Besides," You shrugged, coming to stand. "Archaeology is kind of the weird step sibling in science. It requires a lot of the hard, physical stuff. The biology. But you also get the so called soft sciences, the social sciences, anthropology. You need to know soil composition and the impact of sea salt and weathering and erosion. But you also need to understand social theories and history." You pulled your bag over your shoulder again, watching as the rain continued to pour from your small shelter.

The cover over the bus stop didn't stop the rain from hitting the both of you, not with this kind of wind. Rafayel poked his head out, watching the clouds roll by even though he was being pelted with rain. In spite of his bangs growing soggy and his clothes getting wet, he stepped right back out into the rain. You stayed under the cover a moment longer. You reached a hand out, reaching for his arm. Just before you could touch his sleeve, you paused. You slowly lower your arm and pull your hand back. Instead, you step out into the rain with him. The downpour slowly lessened into a steady rain. It still soaked your hair and clothes, but it no longer pelted your skin. The cool rain was a nice contrast to the warm weather.

You lowered your head to look around. Whitesand Bay. It was a beautiful area. In the distance you could make out a beautiful white building, the fabled studio and home of the peculiar man beside you. The gates were always shut, likely for his own safety and privacy. Your eyes darted up to him. His eyes were shut, his head leaned back. He seemed to be more at ease with rain streaming down his face.

"We should get inside before we both catch a cold." You spoke quietly. It felt like you were speaking to the water itself instead of Rafayel, but he hummed to acknowledge your words anyway.

"Sure. Cafe's right over there." His eyes slowly opened. His typically wavy bangs were straightened by the rain, clinging to his wet forehead. He reached up a hand, pushing them out of his eyes. They were distant. Focused on something else. You opened your mouth, only to get rainwater in it. You shut it and followed him. Neither of you felt the need to run or hurry, even with the threat of a cold hanging over your heads. The walk was slow and steady, like the ongoing rainfall. Up ahead, in a small dip near the road, a puddle had formed.

You took longer strides, all of a sudden ahead of him. You took a hop and splashed into the puddle with both feet. You heard rapid footsteps and barely moved out of the way in time for Rafayel to do the exact same. You looked forward. There was another puddle. You scurried towards it, and another set of footsteps quickly followed. You hopped into the puddle with one foot before hopping out, Rafayel mimicking you. You turned, catching a growing smile on his face. He looked ahead. You followed his gaze.

The mother of all puddles sat there before you.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

Both of you set off running.

"I'm gonna beat you!"

"No you're not!"

You both laughed, your pounding footsteps on the ground adding to the cacophony of noise. Laughter, running feet, rain, distant thunder, cars racing by. It was close, you two were neck and neck. And with a jump, you both landed in the puddle, sending fresh rainwater everywhere. The grin on your face made your cheeks hurt, but you couldn't stop. Rafayel's eyes glimmered in the faint light, and his lips shifted from a grin to a smirk as he splashed at your feet. "Told you I was gonna beat you!"

"No you didn't! We tied!" You splashed him back, kicking at the water and wetting the bottom of his pants legs further. The cold water didn't bother him in the slightest, and he only splashed you right back.

"Nuh uh! Did not!" "Uh huh! Did too!"

Another distant roll of thunder accompanied your laughter, the sky seeming to echo your joy. A lash of lightning lit up the sky, momentarily putting that light right back into all pairs of eyes present. The sudden flash sobered you up. You looked down the road, seeing the sign for the cafe Rafayel certainly was alluding to. You grabbed his arm, starting to tug him along.

"Okay, okay, we need to go inside! We're both gonna catch a cold, Thomas is gonna kill us."

"It's fiiiine, I can work from home, a little cold isn't gonna kill me, y'know." Rafayel didn't protest, walking along with you at a brisk pace in the rain. It had lightened further, now only a drizzle compared to the deluge you had been caught in mere minutes earlier. You made your way down the road, soon entering the refuge of the cafe. It was surprisingly warm, which was a relief after the cool rain. "Drink's on you?"

"Yup, that's what we agreed to." You confirmed. The two of you made your way to the counter, selecting warm teas since you were both soaked to the bone. The cashier looked baffled, but accepted your payment without commenting. Once you got your teas you found a warm spot tucked away in a corner. Rafayel sat with his back to the wall, facing the rest of the cafe while you sat across from him.

You pulled the book and the annotation tools out of your bag. Highlighter, pencil, pen, and some sticky notes. You put your journal on the table as well. While you grabbed some napkins and began to pat dry your skin, Rafayel reached across the table, picking up your journal. He undid the elastic and began to flip through it. You shook your head but didn't stop him.

"I didn't realized archaeologists could be so..." He paused, his eyes scanning over pages as he casually flipped through.

"Nerdy? Dumb? Goofy?"

"Thoughtful. But yeah, those, too."

You laughed, patting your forehead dry. "Sounds like you didn't really have the best opinion of us."

"Can you blame me?"

"Oh no, not at all." You shook your head. You dried your hands as well grabbing the book you wanted his help with. You flipped to the first story, already preparing all the tools you had laid out on the table. "Archaeology has a dark past. And unfortunately it still can be weaponized against people. That's why Dr. C and I are so adamant about how we go about things, working with the community and not against them."

"Mm hm." His eyes remained trained on your notebook. "But not everyone thinks that way."

"An unfortunate reality, but one that is changing." You nodded your head. "The older voices, the ones primarily espousing foul rhetoric... they're dying out."

Rafayel snorted. "Literally."

"Literally and figuratively." You confirmed. "People are realizing that the discipline can be, and is, so much more than its roots. That when done in collaboration with the communities, or even better, led by the community in question at any given site, it yields better information. More accurate, with more context." You took a sip of your tea. The warm liquid went warmed you from the inside out.

"When we met, you joked about the existence of merpeople." Rafayel's eyes cut up. "Raymond, the guy who nagged me to get me to sell him that painting... he has the skeleton of a merperson on display. Some people say it's just an evocative art piece. Some say its real." Your nose crinkled, and a deep frown etched itself onto your face.

"Ugh." You grumbled. "That's... I don't know how to feel about that."

"You work with remains." He hummed, turning back to your journal as if it was a fascinating piece of fiction. "Why does even hearing about it bother you?"

"Because remains shouldn't be displayed. Not in my opinion, anyway." You turned to the first story starring the infamous little blue fish. The one you saw in the pet store, the carnival, the stairwell, and in your nightmare. "It just..." You put the book down. Your skin was crawling with the mere mental image. "It often feels dehumanizing. Depersonalizing. Relegating a person to just their remains, then showing them like a trophy. Even as an art piece that just-" You shuddered. "What a creep."

Rafayel laughed, though it was low, dry. "Looks like we agree on something." He finally put your journal down, sliding it back to you. He grabbed his tea, taking a sip. Those eyes, so bright and colorful, were hooded. His gaze was distant. Unfocused. "He is a creep."

"I don't like how he touched you." You added. You grabbed your pencil, moving a bit closer to him just so he could see the book better. "He was peacocking. Showing off."

"I could feel you glaring daggers behind me, thanks for the backup but I handled it." He finally looked up at you again. "Don't worry about that creep. Hubris will get him eventually."

"That I believe wholeheartedly." You scoffed. You finally shifted the topic, tapping the book with your pencil. "Now. Let's take out our frustrations on someone else- this translator." Your lips turned up, and his managed to do the same. "I actually had a question first. Throughout these legends I noticed a little blue fish would always be mentioned before the sea god. Is that a thing? Is it specifically a little blue fish that's an emissary of the sea god, or is it a mistranslation?"

Rafayel reached over you, grabbing the pen you had also laid out. He uncapped it. but used the bottom of it to point at the book. "Yes and no. All fish are emissaries of the sea god, but the color can have a meaning as well." He pointed at the page. "Blue fish were favored by this iteration of the sea god, though I have seen other versions where it was a red flammula, specifically." You grabbed a sticky note and wrote this all down, adding it to the page.

"I'd love to see your sources some day." You flattened the sticky part of the sticky note with the edge of your nail.

"Eh, maybe I'll show them to you, maybe I won't. Not like you're gonna publish this anyway." Rafayel leaned in closer, eyes scanning over each line of text. Slowly but surely, he began to offer alternatives, not quite line by line but just about. The little blue fish could be amended to any kind of fish, same titles and names could be swapped out. You flipped page to page. You knew you would only be able to scratch the surface in a single afternoon, but some of the amendments could be extended to the rest of the book so it would not need to be said again.

Soon enough you came to the story of the young sea god and his mischievous deeds. He scoffed. "You might as well rip out that story entirely." He grumbled. He sat back in his seat, crossing an arm over his chest while reaching for his tea with his other hand. "Not relevant."

"Why? That sounded less like an academic critique and more like a former bad kid grumbling." You lifted your own tea, your voice light and teasing. Rafayel huffed again. But it lacked the playful air his pouts usually held. He seemed... genuinely irritated at the moment. Eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed, and a tiny pout overshadowed by genuine irritation in his eyes.

"You don't know the first thing about me. Seriously, you're better off ripping that story out. It's not true, or important."

"I don't know you?" You cocked your head. That was what stuck out to you. You tucked the sticky ntoes in the book to act as an impromptu book mark, pushing the book away for the moment. "I mean... you're not wrong. I don't really know you. I don't think you want me to know you." His eyes darted up. Remaining on your face. But you resumed speaking in spite of his skeptical stare. "I know a few things. You're a well known artist, you're not a fan of flying, you're a passionate teacher, you've gained an interest in archaeology, and you love Lemuria." You named off a handful of things on your fingers. "But you're right. Those are all kinda surface level things. We've interacted... four times now?" The library, the cafe, the lecture, and now. "Neither of us really know each other. And, if I can be honest, its like you're wearing a mask around me. I've picked up on a few things hidden behind the mask. You're selective on who you allow to touch you, especially where and how long. You enjoy childish things like jumping in puddles and the artsy birb emojis. You're very level headed, even in scary situations, like when I was being followed."

You watched his face as you spoke. The minor pout slowly retreated, and his eyebrows slowly relaxed. His frustration appeared to melt into pensiveness. Curiosity.

"You're right." You confirmed. "I don't really know the first thing about you, Rafayel. But I'd be more than willing to learn. If you'll allow it. If you'll have me." His eyebrows lowered again, but his eyes had softened. Confusion? Intrigue? A flash of fear? What was it that you saw in those eyes? The pink mixing into the blue?

Blood in the water.

You shuddered, the dream from the other night springing back into your mind. You grabbed your tea, averting your gaze to it. You took a long sip. It's gone cold. It was better than nothing. You finished it in one go, finally putting it down as a newfound silence settled over you. This was unlike the silence in his car. It was heavy. Suffocating. Blood rushed to your cheeks. Did you overstep? Was that too much? Too forward. You steeled yourself, looking up to Rafayel. His eyes were distant, and he wasn't looking at you. Watching the front of the cafe closely.

He began to pack your things for you, putting them all together.

"I don't really know you, either." He admitted. "I made a lot of assumptions about you upon meeting you." He gestured to your bag. You opened it and began to put all the supplies into it. "I hate to cut this short, but we have company." Rafayel leaned in, dropping his voice. All the hair on the back of your neck came to stand, but you didn't react. You just kept putting everything away in your bag, before reaching in. You kept a tactical knife around. Cutting through roots, cutting through packaging, self defense. You switched it from your bag to your pocket. You came to stand, taking your mug and his in hand. Rafayel followed suit and immediately joined your side. You finally turned to face the rest of the cafe, spotting two men sitting together at a table not far away. One held a newspaper, hiding his face. The other idly scrolled on his phone.

You peeled your eyes away, looking impassive as you returned the used mugs before stepping out. Rafayel remained beside you all the way. The rain had stopped, and the sun was poking out again.

"Let me walk you to the bus?"

"Mm hm."

The exchange was brief, btu nothing more needed to be said. Not now. You two began to walk. You could feel your wet socks and your shoes beginning to dig into the back of your heels, and the general sogginess of your clothes was making you uncomfortable. You'd need to go straight home to shower and change. You didn't go out of your way to jump into puddles, but when you two approached one you didn't resist the urge to put your foot down a little harder than necessary, leaving a splash in your wake.

The walk to the main bus stop in Whitesand Bay that would take you back to Linkon wasn't far away. But the appearance of those two men made every second drag on.

"Thanks for letting me look through your notes." Rafayel broke the silence. His crisp footfalls from his nice shoes were one of the few sounds around you. Hist steady gait a constant companion. "Probably should've asked first."

"You're fine." You dismissed his concern with a wave of your hand. You settled your hand over your collarbone, settling on the charm on your necklace. The single pearl. You felt his eyes on you, so you turned to look at him. His eyes were slightly narrowed, trained on the pearl around your neck.

"A pearl?"

"Ah- yeah." You cupped it to show it to him, dangling from the chain. It was simple, a piece of metal connecting it to the chain. "Don't know if its real... Probably isn't, but it means a lot to me. Got it right before I graduated. Little momento of hey, I made it, remember why you came this far." You explained. You two approached the bus stop, and once you came to a stop he leaned in close. You could see his individual eyelashes, the depth of his eyes. The way his bangs had begun to curl now that they were drying. He frowned deeply.

"Oh yeah. That's fake."

"You think I have the kind of money for a real one?" You scoffed, now holding the fake pearl to your skin. "Besides, I don't have to worry about damaging it now that I know."

"All those years of studying, and training, and researching... and you want that represented by a fake pearl?" He seemed downright offended by the mere concept of it. You held the charm a little tighter.

"It's fine. Its not like anything is gonna come of it anyway. What with this stalking and the others being... gone," You finally just said it, choking on the word. "Dr. C is right, and so are you. Something is wrong here. I need to keep my distance. My intentions don't matter, I just need to put my nose to the grindstone and find something else to focus on." He turned his nose up, scoffing right back.

"A fake pearl... we're doing something about that."

"We aren't." You corrected, adjusting your bag. "I appreciate the help today, and thanks for letting me come to your exhibit, Rafayel. But its like you said. We don't know each other." You could see the bus in the distance. It was right on time. And with Rafayel beside you, you doubted whoever was following you at the cafe would do anything to you now. Too many people around anyway.

"But we can." His voice caught you off guard. You turned back to face him. Something about him had softened. Though in the blink of an eye, he seemed to go right back to what he had been like before. "I mean- you're useful to me, and I'm useful to you. Who knows? Maybe we'll find other things in common. You're right. I like art, I like teaching, I like artsy birb... I liked reading your journal. I liked hearing your stories, and your interpretation of my art." He leaned in again. "You're not what I expected of an archaeologist. I don't like being proven wrong." The bus finally rolled up. "But you might be an exception."

Your heart was pounding. Your ears and cheeks grew warm. You lifted a hand, resting it against your own cheek. You could feel how hot it was under your touch. You could hear the door to the bus open, and a few people hopped off. You snapped out of your stupor, looking away from him. You waved, taking the first step onto the bus before he called your name.

"Text me when you get home, okay?" You looked over your shoulder. He was smiling, and for once, it made his eyes fully glimmer. You nodded, managing a smile in return before hastily making your way to a seat. You sat down, burying your face into your hands. None of that went the way it was supposed to. Second guesses and questions flooded your mind as the bus finally began to move once more. You peeked through your fingers, finding Rafayel still waiting outside. He lifted one hand in farewell, waving as the bus slowly began its journey back to Linkon. You lifted a hand in return, slowly waving as his form got smaller and smaller in the distance. Once he was too small to make out in the distance you turned to face forward once more.

As much as you were overthinking every interaction you had had with him, you found your mind also drifting back to more practical things. The excavation you were applying for. The pay wouldn't be as good as what the Lemurian excavation was offering, but it would certainly help make end's meet. Since Dr. C had been asked to be a temporary help, you figured you had a good chance of getting an official field technician position. This time around they'd also provide near site housing, and a stipend for groceries for the crew. It was on land, but at least it was something. Something to keep your mind and hands busy, something to keep it off the other archaeologists, and off of whatever the hell Rafayel was up to in your life.

The jungle conducted its own unique symphony. The hum of all the bugs, birds, and other animals. The whistle of the wind in the trees. The low growl of the truck slowly driving over gravel. Your team had become the choir accompanying the symphony, singing along to some song at the top of their lungs. The wind whipped past, cooling down all of you from your long day of work. Starting shortly after the sun rose and stopping just before the height of the heat in the mid afternoon.

The truck came to a stop outside of your accommodations, and people began to pile out of the truck and the truck bed. You swing your legs around the side, patting the truck twice to signal to the driver everyone in the back was getting out. You dropped down, taking off your kerchief to wipe your face of the sweat and dirt. "Alright, everyone! You know your assigned tasks. Tech folks, take the equipment in and get it ready to charge. Water folk, empty and clean the container for tomorrow. If you finish early and others need help, pitch in. Those of you on dinner duty, go get cleaned up and start cooking once all of that's done."

It was a small but good crew. Dr. C as helping run the excavation for a couple of days, but you would be there the whole time. A couple of younger archaeologists, students, were also present to learn a few things. You took off your backpack, grabbing your trowel and tucking it into your belt as you approached Dr. C. She was unloading the truck as well, sweat dripping down her back.

"Hey Dr. C, you got a minute?" She looked over her shoulder, but nodded her head. You gestured for her to follow you, another one of the more seasoned field technicians overseeing the rest of the crew while the two of you walked away. You walked to the edge of the forest, just off the main road near the house you were all staying at. You pulled a smaller journal out of your pocket, cracking it open to show her some numbers. "I think some of the students are getting themselves confused, they were-" Your eyes darted up, looking at her when you registered the look on her face. She was looking at something. Her eyes narrowed. Eyebrows furrowed, and shoulders tensed. Not from the long day of work.

She saw something.

You licked your lips, but kept talking. She would stop you if she needed you to. "They were getting mixed up with the absolute value. I mean yes, we're digging down, but you can't dig negative five centimeters." You flipped a page in your field notes. You rubbed your forehead with the sleeve of your sun shirt, noticing a streak of grime come off. Post dig showers were mandatory, and you couldn't wait to hop into yours. "So some of their numbers in their field notes are off, I was hoping to borrow yours so they can cross reference and how those corrected-"

Without another word Dr. C pulled out her trowel from her pack and threw it at a tree. You threw your notes to the side and grabbed your own trowel, turning to do the exact same as a familiar mop of dusky purple hair entered your vision.

Rafayel had moved faster than you thought he could, dodging the trowel. It hit the tree, now wedged into the wood as he held his hands up. "It's just me! It's just me, I though you could see me coming from the road-"

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" You interrupted him, still holding the handle of your trowel tightly. You moved slowly, going and picking up your field notes before tucking the smaller book into your pocket again.

"I-"

"Rafayel, before you say anything, just know you're gonna be in trouble no matter what you say." Dr. C sighed in exasperation. She took a few heavy steps forward, her work boots making the gravel crunch a little louder. Rafayel turned, pulling her trowel out of the tree before offering it back to her. She took it, her eyes narrowed at him. "So just be honest. Honesty will get you into less trouble." His eyes darted to you, as if he was asking for your help.

"I was just in the area, too. I remembered you said something about going on a new excavation, and I was in this general area for supplies for my paintings."

You pressed your lips into a thin line, pointing your trowel at him in a mock-threat. "Bullshit." You huffed. "I didn't tell you anything about this excavation. All I said was that I'd be out of town and wifi would be bad."

"So I put two and two together." He protested, still keeping his hands where you both could see them. He gestured to a pack at his waist, the way it sat implying there were things inside. "The rest of this area is open to the public, and the nearby beach has some great stuff to make pigments out of. I've been here before, I'm not-"

"What, following me?" You scoffed. "You realize how this looks, right?" He sighed, his hands still up.

"Okay, fine, yeah. I was here for supplies, don't flatter yourself. You can check my pack here. You'll see."

The crunching of gravel along the main road caught your attention. You turned, surprised to see a black truck pulling up. It didn't have the same markings as the vehicles used by the people who ran this site. You glanced back to Dr. C. Her expression had changed, her eyes no longer narrowed at Rafayel, but at the truck. She wordlessly dropped her arm, still holding her trowel tightly as she marched over to the truck. It was slowly pulling up in front of the house, where other members of the crew were finishing off cleaning off their boots before going inside.

From this distance you couldn't quite make out what was being said. But you could see the tenseness in her shoulders, the way she held herself taller, made herself bigger. You turned back to Rafayel. Any facade he had been trying to maintain was gone. "You wanna know why I'm really here?" His voice dropped. That lower octave he used with Raymond back in the gallery. When he noticed you were being followed. It was your turn to put two and two together.

"But- how?" You stammered. You didn't share your location with anyone, you didn't tell anyone you were coming to this site. And you needed clearance to come to this part of it. Whatever checkpoints and safeguards that had been put in place clearly didn't do enough. You turned back to that black truck, seeing one man get out of the passenger seat while the other remained behind the wheel. The man was dressed nicely, and he was extending what looked to be a business card to Dr. C. She was smiling, but held her hand up as a sign of rejection.

"Come on." You muttered, gesturing for him to follow you as you began to approach the situation hesitantly. You couldn't hear Rafayel behind you, but you felt like he was still following. He was good at being quiet. Maybe too good. As you approached the conversation, Dr. C was gesturing for everyone else to go inside.

"... I'm just saying, Hannah, you ought to consider it. Ever pays well, and the employee benefits would be a lot more than any individual excavation could give you. We've been watching your work for a long time, and with how much expansion we've been doing sometimes we need to do some shovel testing on sites before we build a new facility." The man conducted himself with the charm of a snake oil merchant. It made your skin crawl, the way he was subtly leaning in closer to her. "Not to mention being a professor isn't the best pay, either. You'd have a lot more flexibility in your schedule, you could still teach, but-"

"You're not supposed to be here." You interrupted him, standing across from the two of them. The man turned his head towards you. He didn't seem too surprised. If anything, the way he smiled, he seemed excited to see you.

"Oh, I recognize you!" His chipper tone did little to stop the way a shiver crawled up your back, digging its icy hands into your skin. "You're the one who wrote that article on your journey as an archaeologist into the Linkon Science Report! Nice to finally meet you, I'm Carter, I'm one of the medical scientists for Ever." He extended his hand to you, but you simply held up your filthy hand in response.

"Probably don't want to touch me." You smiled, but it was a sharp warning. "I'm a little dirty."

"A little grime doesn't bother me." Carter quickly put his hand down. "Shows you're hard at work. Anyway, I was just talking with Hannah here about a job opportunity. The offer is open to you, too, and everyone on site. Ever is looking for some reliable archaeologists to help form a team of on call professionals. Ever has been expanding so rapidly, we're just getting a hand into everything! Not to mention with the construction of new facilities we sometimes need to do a brief shovel test to ensure we're not building on important grounds." His smile was superficial. You were used to these kinds of people in the trade. Thinking they could buy off archaeologists for whatever goal they had in mind.

"Nah, but thanks. I've got steady work right now, don't feel like I'm cut out to work for Ever." You shrugged your shoulders, flipping your trowel in the air before catching it by the handle. "Dr. C, did we bring in the equipment to sharpen the trowels and machetes? I might sit on the deck and give everyone's gear a touch up before dinner tonight." It wasn't subtle. You weren't trying to be subtle.

"We did." Dr. C responded, her typical smile on her face. Pure professionalism. Your own was a flatout mockery of the man in front of you. "I think that's a good idea."

"Woah, hey, no need for that." Carter laughed as though the two of you had made a joke. "I'm just here making an offer." His eyes darted from you to Dr. C, then to the man behind you. "Oh! I didn't know this dig was open to amateurs, taken up a new hobby, Mr. Rafayel?"

"No, landlubber history isn't in my wheelhouse." Rafayel scoffed. It was still in that lower register of his. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, feeling him slowly approach until he came to stand in front of both you and Dr. C. "I think these two made it clear enough, but I'll clarify, just for your sake." He tilted his head. In a flash of dazzling pink light, he summoned a blade with his evol. "I don't need a trowel or a machete. Get lost. You're not welcome here."

Carter held both of his hands up, the smile vanishing from his face. "Woah, woah!" He tried to gesture for Raf to calm down. "I'm just here on behalf of my bosses to make an offer to fellow scientists! Academia is a rough world, publish or perish. But we take care of our own!" He looked past Rafayel to you and Dr. C beside you, his eyes pleading for backup.

"I'd hardly call anyone who willingly works for Ever a scientist." You spat, not bothering to bite back your venom. E.D.A.S. Court case 896318. Your note remained burned in your memory. "At least not one with an ethical backbone." Carter sighed, dropping his hands.

"I think you're all jumping to conclusions, seriously, take my card. Maybe heat exhaustion is kicking in. Why don't you go and clean yourselves up, then really think about it, hm?" He pulled out his card, trying to reach past Rafayel to give it to you. But Rafayel merely snatched it, burning the card the second it came into contact with his skin. Carter gasped and jumped back, watching the pink flames incinerate his fancy branded card.

"That won't be necessary." Rafayel kept his blade out. You held your trowel, and Dr. C had a hand on hers as well. Carter's eyes darted between the three of you, before he nodded.

"Alright. Seriously, though, you two. Think on it. You deserve better than surviving paycheck to paycheck and dig to dig. Give Ever a chance." He walked back to the passenger door, hopping into the truck. He shut the door, but while leaning out of the open window, he flashed all three of you a warm, kind smile. One that made his eyes crinkle, and you could see a single dimple. But no matter how warm his expression looked, it felt like a bucket of ice water just got dumped down your shirt. "Don't lose this chance." With that, the truck started again, making its way down the road. You watched it closely, your grip on the handle of your trowel only tightening as it vanished into the trees.

"There's no way in hell they had clearance here." Dr. C murmured.

"I memorized the license plate." You hummed back. You finally tucked the trowel back into your belt, your lips pressing into a thin line. "Wouldn't be surprised if it was fake, though." Another flash of pink fire appeared, and as you turned to face Rafayel, he made his dagger vanish. He turned to face you and Dr. C in kind. Nothing about him was the same as when you met him. The mild amusement he always carried with him was gone, now he seemed dead serious.

"That's why I'm here." He finally admitted. "I've... encountered Ever before. They asked me to do a commission for an office space, I said no, they've held a grudge ever since." He shrugged, speaking so casually it was like he was talking about the weather. "Dr. C, someone was at your office asking for you. And another person was trying to press Thomas for answers on when he last saw you." Rafayel pointedly looked at you. "Something is weird. I couldn't get in touch with you, so I came here."

"Last I checked you still don't have clearance to be here." You protested, but that icy feeling was slowly blooming all over your body. Every hair coming to stand at attention, goosebumps all over you in spite of how hot it was.

"I have my ways." Rafayel gave a non-answer, messing with his hair again. "Listen." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Something is wrong here. Like- really wrong. They shouldn't know you're here. I don't know why they're so insistent on you. But I think you both should take your own advice. Lay low for a bit." You and Dr. C exchanged looks.

"That's not really an option right now." Dr. C explained. "I'm helping to lead this project, I can't just run off."

"And I do need the money." You added. "Those other jobs held me over but I can't just give up this kind of money."

Rafayel hummed. He put a finger to his forehead. tapping it. "Okay. Hear me out." He looked up, meeting eyes with Dr. C. "Say you had a family emergency, but leave your notes here for your superiors. Go straight home and go into a media blackout for a couple of days." He turned to face you. "Do the same. Family emergency, go home, blackout. I'll handle the money."

"Absolutely not." You protested. "I'm not-"

"Would you rather continue to be stalked?" Rafayel cut you off, putting a hand on his hip. "At least until this is figured out, just accept it. Dr. C and I already alerted the campus authorities the first time we were followed. I can alert them again so other students aren't targeted. You should tell the security of your apartment building, too, that you've been followed recently."

"I'm just- this is," You stammered, putting a hand to your head. This was still about Lemuria. It had to be. Ever. Ever is definitely involved, you were nowhere near a big enough name for them to come after you. But your association with Dr. C and the others from that excavation? That could put a target on your head. Or at least make you a person of interest. And the last thing you wanted was to be on their radar. "I have some savings, I can-"

"No." Rafayel stopped you before you could continue. "Let me help you." He looked over his shoulder, eyes trained on where the truck had vanished. There was a faraway look in his eyes for a moment. But they snapped back to reality, turning back to you. "Consider it a loan."

"I can't afford to pay you back for that."

"Then don't think of it as a loan- its..." He backtracked. "A gift."

"Gifts don't come without expectations." You continued to protest, before a familiar hand on your arm grounded you.

"Thank you, Rafayel." Dr. C's clear, resolute voice grounded you in reality. "We have our pride. We like taking care of ourselves. But," She looked at you. "We need to lean on each other. Especially when things look shady." She turned back to him, her dark eyes glinting in the light. "We'll take the help. But we'll find our own ways to pay you back."

"I can accept that." Rafayel confirmed, slowly nodding his head. "I'll hold you to that."

"Hey, I might be able to bring in some pottery sherds and manuals on the different styles through time and space." Dr. C immediately offered, an option, starting to drag you towards the door of the house. "Guest lecture if you don't feel like teaching for a day? Or making some connections? We'll figure it out. We'll pack our things and let the higher ups know." She stopped just before the door. Your eyes were still trained on him. This entire thing felt weird. You and Rafayel hardly knew each other, why was he willing to stick his neck out for you like this? He must really be expecting something in return. But what did you have that he could want?

"We'll touch base before the blackout." You found your voice again, speaking resolutely. Rafayel met your eye. He nodded, turning his back. He did a mock salute, holding up two fingers in farewell.

"Good luck, archaeologists. You'll need it."

As he walked away, you found your eyes trailing after his figure. The way he moved so nonchalantly, so effortlessly. Did his hips sway a bit when he moved? A sharp elbow to the ribs snapped you out of it, and you caught your mentor's gaze. Any other day you knew she would tease the shit out of you.

But for once, her eyes held no amusement.

"Go shower, then pack. I'll call the higher ups. They'll send our replacements by tomorrow morning." She nudged you inside with a more gentle hand, the door shutting behind you after you removed your shoes and left them on the porch. People were busy flitting about, some chatting playfully with the others, some calling out instructions for help in the kitchen, yet others trying to act like they weren't watching the whole scene unfold from the screen door.

You brushed past all of them, ignoring the teasing looks and the confused mumbles. Shower, pack, finalize field notes for the day... You had your schedule.

Shing, shing, shiiiiing-

The steady sound of metal being sharpened joined the orchestra of the night. Night birds cawed and crooned, grasshoppers hummed their nightly song. And you were the featured artist, the occasional spark lighting up your face as you sharpened a machete on the front porch. You held it up, checking the edge in the faint light coming from inside. Another guest artist chimed in, a symphony of swearing and laughter that accompanied a game of cards against humanity.

You smiled, shaking your head.

You and Dr. C agreed to not tell the crew the full truth of why you were leaving. Just that you both had sudden emergencies pop up, and you likely would not be reachable for the foreseeable future. Everyone was saddened and disappointed, but they all wished you both well. You were nearly suffocated with concern and the well wishes, as well as tentative asks for your phone number or mailing address to stay in touch. The cool night air was your reprieve.

You put the machete back into its sheath. You came to stand, attaching it to your belt before putting everything away. Shovels, trowels, machetes, and root clippers were all sharpened and ready for the next day. With that done you found your fingers drumming on the wood of the porch. There was so much work to be done. You didn't like the thought of being dependent on Rafayel, on his generosity. To survive whatever the hell was going on here. But what other choices did you have? He was suggesting you do a blackout for a reason.

Your feet moved before your mind did. Those heavy work boots crunched on gravel, leaving a path of footprints in your wake. The trees swayed. There was no moon. Only the stars above and the distant crash of the waves guided you, though you had your phone if you needed a flashlight. You knew the rules. Always alert someone if you were going somewhere alone, especially at night. Scorpions, snakes, and other creepy crawlies were sure to say hello if you didn't watch your step.

But like a siren's call, something beckoned you to the ocean.

Gravel gave way to dirt, which gave way to sand. The dunes rolled, echoing the tides you could hear in the distance. The soft crunch of gravel turned into the soft shift of sand, hissing and sliding with every step you took. Now in the grace of night you could wear your tank top, your necklace poking out. Resting on the top of the fabric, catching the light of the moon. The pearl is fake. You frowned as you recalled this. It really didn't matter, in fact, it was probably for the best. That way, you wouldn't have to feel too bad if something happened to it.

You walked to the edge of the water, watching the waves come to kiss the bottoms of your boots. They were waterproof, so you stepped in just a little bit more. You didn't feel like walking back with wet socks or getting stung by a scorpion, so you opted to keep your shoes on. You turned your gaze to the horizon, where the constellations vanished. These past few months had been the most tumultuous time of your life. Fred. Sean. Yennifer. Eleanor.

Dr. C. Rafayel. You.

A heavy sigh escaped. You crouched low, letting your hand dance along the water's surface, when a distant splash caught your eye. You froze.

Blood in the water.

You didn't move. That nightmare coming back. The siren song. The sea of red. Flame lilies. Blood. Skeleton.

Little blue fish.

A little blue fish darted towards you. You didn't dare move a muscle, watching it as it approached. It had lost all shyness, now boldly darting between your legs and around your black boots. You gaped at it, but it simply zipped in front of you before finally calming down. It seemed antsy, flitting back and forth before you.

"...hello again." You breathed. You slowly sunk your hand deeper into the water, offering it to the fish. "It's been a while." The fish flitted around your hand, but never got too close. You kept your hand exactly where it was. "I'm starting to wonder if the sea god is mad at me.' You murmured down to the fish. "All of these horrible things, all of this bad luck... And it all started with the rediscovery of Lemuria."

It all started there. And that fateful day in the library.

Your fingers twitched, but the fish was unbothered. "Tell me. Have I done something wrong?" You looked back down at the fish. Unlike the one in your dream, this one didn't share the otherworldly glow. It was simply a little blue fish. Any fish could be an emissary of the sea god, after all. But it seemed you had a penchant for the blue ones. The fish flicked its tail, now swimming above the palm of your hand. This was the closest one had ever gotten to you. "You wouldn't get this close if I had..."

You scoffed at yourself. "What am I doing?" Some scientist you are. Talking to a damn fish. But watching it settle, moving around your hand, growing more and more comfortable by the minute... You hissed, a sharp pain tugging at the nape of your neck. The chain of the necklace had gotten caught in some hair. You didn't lift the hand the fish was so content with, fiddling with the chain with your nondominant hand. But it must not have been clasped all the way. The moment you freed it from your hair, the chain fell. You gasped and tried to move fast to catch it, but the fish was faster. You couldn't tell if it had been startle by your sudden movement or gasp, but it zipped away. And in the faint light, you could just make out the chain of your necklace being dragged along.

You blindly groped around the water for a minute. Maybe it was the low light playing tricks on you. Maybe it was exhaustion. There's no way a fish stole the necklace. Worst case scenario the chain fell on its head and it zipped away. You stood up, squinting, hoping to see a glint of light. A reflection in the water. But even after shining your phone flashlight around, there was nothing to be seen.

You rubbed your neck, feeling bare without it all of a sudden. You were grateful the pearl was fake for this exact reason, but... that was still important to you. You slowly stood up, brushing your wet hand on your pants as you stared out at the ocean. In a place like this you were used to feeling eyes stare back. You were never really alone. "Guess you are mad at me, huh? Maybe you take offense to the fake pearl, too." You dryly joked to yourself. You turned, walking out of the water, slowly treading towards the house. The waves came in, seemingly nipping at your feet, trying to follow. But you just kept walking.

Come tomorrow, the wind and waves will have erased you from this place. But maybe, someday, some other archaeologist will find evidence of your existence in a necklace hidden under the waves.

The days were long and lonely. The nights offered little reprieve. Further discussions with Rafayel and Dr. C both led you to believe a two week blackout would be for the best. No social media, no leaving the apartment, no nothing. Food delivery only, and meal prepping with groceries delivered. Typically, this might be a dream come true. Two weeks to rest, to not have to worry about anyone but yourself. But it meant your only companion was your mind.

That corkboard stared you down. Every time you passed by your desk those pictures would burn themselves into your mind. Their faces. The names. Ever. The people who came to the excavation. The people following you. E.D.A.S. It made your head spin.

You were just coming out of the shower when you caught your phone light up on your bed. You weren't supposed to respond, but you did peer over the screen to see who said something. Rafayel's contact photo surprised you. What was up with that? You picked up your phone, still scrunching your hair with your towel. But the second you went to open the text, it vanished.

The user has deleted this text.

You narrowed your eyes. You went into your phone and found multiple missed calls from the man, as well as multiple deleted texts.

Rafayel: ignore everything i sent u, i'm ok

You eyed your voicemail. You hesitantly tapped on the most recent one, letting it play. It was late. The buses would still be running, but not for long. Surely if something was up he'd contact someone in Whitesand, not you here in Linkon.

The audio started with rustling, like he was tossing and turning somewhere. Coupled with low groans. Your eyebrows shot up. He sounded like he was in pain. He muttered your name, breathless, gasping as if he couldn't breath. You hurriedly grabbed some outdoor clothes, throwing everything on as fast as you could. He sounded like he was in pain, and you could hardly make out what he was saying. It was an exceedingly hot night, with a lack of humidity, even down at Whitesand. You grabbed your keys and hurried out the door, flying down the stairs. You called hit number, holding your phone to your ear as you jogged straight to the bus stop. You were lucky, it was the last bus of the night.

"Hello, you've reached Rafayel's voicemail. If this is for art commissions, requests, or interviews, please reach out to my manager Thomas. If this is a personal matter, I will get back to you when I can. Leave a message after the tone. Beep!" Any other day you might find his voicemail endearing, but the fact he didn't pick up even after just texting you left you feeling more anxious. You plopping yourself in a seat, your hair still wet, in clothes you just managed to yank on before flying out the door. Your fingers trailed up to your collarbone, searching for the familiar charm. Your fingers pinched down on air, nothing in your grasp. You looked down, remembering that your necklace was gone.

You frowned, sitting back in your seat. Right. The little blue fish. The more you reflected on it, the more ridiculous it was. Did that fish steal your necklace once it fell into the water? It couldn't have. It is a fish. If anything, it got spooked off and the necklace got moved from the flick of its tail. Or it fell on the fish. It didn't take it. You slid your fingers around nothing, still searching for the reassurance of the chain or the charm itself, even knowing it was long gone. Likely buried under sand off the coast of that island somewhere. If nothing else, you hated to litter. Your mind was in a whirl.

The bus stopped. You pulled out your phone. How had you already arrived? You didn't question it, getting up and hopping off. You typed in another number, calling someone else. You held your phone up to your ear, keeping your voice low. You were supposed to be in a blackout right now, so you still needed to be careful. The line rang a few times. You didn't have Thomas's personal contact info, so you were just hoping he might still be at Flux Arts, if you were lucky.

"Hello, you have reached Thomas at Flux Arts. If you are contacting us for-" You hung up before the answering machine could give the prerecorded spiel. Fine. You walked up to the gate of the gorgeous house, once again struck by your very different tax brackets. You peeked around, looking for some way to buzz in and let him know you're here, when the gap in the gate caught your eye. You hesitantly reached out, ready to set off an alarm as you nudged the gate. But it slowly swung open with a low groan.

"He didn't lock the gate." You didn't know if it was his own forgetfulness or if someone else was already inside. Your heartrate skyrocketed. You opened the gate the rest of the way before shutting it behind you, your panicked footsteps reverberating on the path as you ran up to the door. You didn't bother to knock, testing the handle, and finding the door was unlocked as well. Your breath hitched. You threw the door open and went inside, shutting the door behind you as you quickly walked in.

"Rafayel?" You called his name, looking around. "It's me! You're being weird, are you okay?" The scene before you was an artistic mess. Canvases and paintbrushes lined the floor, mortars and pestles here and there with the most unique and vibrant pigments you had ever laid eyes on. One was a brilliant, unique vermilion. It made your skin crawl.

Blood in the water.

You swallowed, goosebumps crawling over your skin. You kept going in further, still calling his name as not to spook him when you found him. You poked your head into one room, then the next. And you couldn't find the artist anywhere. You found what you knew to be his bedroom, which was less of an artistic mess and more of just a flat out mess. Clothes everywhere, discarded scribbles and drawings. You pressed your lips together. Now was not the time to judge him.

"Yandere this, tsundere that, you need to do your laund-ere." You grumbled your half assed pun as you returned to your main goal. Finding Rafayel. You knew it wasn't your place to snoop, but after looking from room to room with no sign of him you felt it was only right to keep looking. You kept your phone out, now dialing Rafayel's number again. Back in the main area you heard a tell tale buzzing, so you followed the sound until you looked at the back of the couch in the studio area.

You dropped your phone, swallowing a yell as you found him unconscious on the floor. "Rafayel!" The shout didn't rouse him, so you hurriedly came to his side. His white dress shirt was left open, revealing the many moles decorating his body, like the brightest stars in the night sky. His lips were parted, taking shallow breaths. You put a hand to his forehead. He was burning up. You knelt down, wrapping your arms around him to hoist him up the same way you did the sandbags on a site. Albeit, he was much bigger than a sand bag. You managed to get him on the couch, his eyebrows furrowing from the disturbance.

"Rafayel, Rafa? Hey, hey, it's me." You perched yourself on the corner ot the couch. He wasn't waking up or saying anything. You hurriedly stood up, grabbing your own phone again. You dialed the number for Flux Arts again. As soon as the voicemail message was done you left a brief message of your own. "Hey, Thomas, it's me. Rafayel was acting weird and I found him unconscious in his home. I'm gonna stay with him until he wakes up." You kept it brief before hanging up. You wish you knew anyone else to call. A local friend of his, a family member, someone nearby. You could call paramedics but something in you felt like that was the wrong choice. While you had your back turned to him you heard him groan again, so you quickly turned around.

Something was shimmering on his neck. You frowned, wondering how you missed it when you picked him up. You sat back down, assuming it was some art supply that got stuck to his skin. But as you looked, you saw more of them appear before your very eyes. These weren't rogue scraps of paper, or paint, or any other art supply. Rafayel's brows furrowed further, and he was breathing heavier in his sleep.

"What...?" You felt breathless yourself. You adjusted your position beside him, leaning close enough to analyzed the shimmering objects on his skin, but not touch him. Your lips felt dry. You slowly lifted a hand, finding some of the objects on his cheek, on his neck, on his chest, arms... They were few and far between, scattered across him as he seemed to glow in the pale moonlight. The distant sound of crashing waves infiltrated his home, though they were much quieter than they normally would be. It was a low tide tonight. One the lowest of the year. You hesitated, lifting a hand. He didn't seem to like touch. He was selective with it. But you gently ran the back of your finger over his cheek, first. The objects on his skin were smooth when your finger went down, but jagged when you went up.

"Scales?" You murmured. He lifted his face, pressing against your finger as you gently touched his warm skin. You lick your lips, shocked. You turned your eyes to his neck next, gently pressing two fingers against his pulse, against the scales on his neck. Rafayel's eyebrows furrowed further, moaning in his unconscious state. Something tugged on your heart, he seemed so uncomfortable, like he was in pain even while unconscious. Next, you gentle tapped his cheek, trying to see if that would rouse him. But the closer you looked at them, the more reality finally settled in.

The pieces slowly fell into place. His appearance at the library. His interest in Lemuria. His surprise at your perspective on archaeology. the initial hostility. He was keeping an eye on you.

While your thoughts ran wild, reality slowly settling in on you, those brilliant eyes finally opened. Relief washed over you at first, a smile crossing your face. "Rafayel, you're awake-"

"Huh?" His brows remained furrowed. He didn't fully face you. Everything in his body was coiled, taut and ready to jump. He slowly turned to look away. Your eyes softened, but you didn't chase him. You were in his home, right beside him. He had every right to be wary.

"You called me." You explained, your voice soft. "You kept sending and deleting texts, and your voicemail... you sounded like you were in pain." Your eyes trailed down to the scales on his skin. There's no way... But your eyes turned back to him. Showing nothing but confusion and concern. "I was worried. I found you unconscious behind the couch. And these... these things, they just showed up on your skin. Do they hurt?"

"You-" He cut himself off. "You wouldn't usually be able to touch me like that, you know."

"And normally, I wouldn't." You assured him, putting your hands where he could see them in your own lap. "But, are they-"

"Shocking, isn't it?" His voice was low. Suspicious. Wary. Was that a twinge of fear? There was a slight shake to his voice, one he couldn't hide even in his fake nonchalance. "All those legends about the Lemurians, they aren't just fairytales." The confirmation was unlike anything you could have dreamed of. His hooded eyes, trained right on you, watching your every move, left only the pink in the bottoms of his eyes visible. Only the tiniest hint of blue surrounded them.

Blood in the water.

You put a hand to your head. Things were falling into place. The book. His own interest in the archaeologists that went missing. His behavior. How he acted around Ever.

"I..." You whispered, trying to find your words. Before you sat the biggest proof of your years of work. A Lemurian. Rafayel, the Lemurian. Your heart was pounding, your stomach twisting. Was this all some sick loneliness induced dream you were about to wake up from? "I..." You reached up, trying to grasp your necklace again, but once more you remembered it belonged to the sea now. You slowly lowered your hand, grasping your own shirt instead. Wringing the fabric.

"Yeah," He quietly acknowledged your inability to say anything. "You can think of me as a lost pearl that washed up on the beach." Questions suddenly flooded your mind. Lemurians could have legged forms? Were there others? How did they feel about Lemuria being rediscovered? Were they angry at the archaeologists? Were they the reason why they're gone? Does he have a tail? Can he have a tail?

Some of the questions felt less pressing. But he still didn't seem all that present. "So..." You decided a more lighthearted question might be the most appropriate. "You do have a tail?" It seemed to somewhat work. His eyes opened a little wider, and his characteristic half scoff half laugh fell from his lips.

"Yup." He confirmed, finally fully facing you. "Whenever I cry, my tears turn into pearls. I can kill anyone with just a song. And those scales you touched are the sharpest weapons in the world." Everything he said sounded like it was ripped straight from the Lemurian Legends book. There had been theories that the concept of sirens across multiple mythologies actually came from Lemurians, but most academics brushed it off as fairytale nonsense.

"But that's- that's straight from the legends book." You cocked your head. Not disbelieving him, just surprised. He laughed again, his lip curling into a half smirk.

"You noticed? I guess you're not as gullible as you seem."

"No, I believe you." You corrected him. You looked at the scales on his cheek again. "May... may I touch you? Feel your forehead? You felt really warm earlier, you may have a fever."

"Don't." He jerked his head away, even though you hadn't even raised your hand. "Don't just... touch me wherever. It's rude." You quickly nodded, again keeping your hands where he could see them. He held his own hand up defensively, like he was ready to do something if you did try to touch him. "You humans truly are greedy." His voice was low, an unspoken insult hiding behind the more blatant one. "Always exploiting other species once you discover their weaknesses. Your kind are the worst." His eyes lowered, landing where the missing necklace once sat. He tilted his head.

You pressed your lips together. "I know." Your voice softened further. "Taking things that aren't ours. Taking advantage of the weak. Whether it be material culture, like your art, or..." Your lips curled downwards. "Or the people themselves. Academia, anthropology, archaeology... they haven't always been the kindest to you and your kind. They come in, take your things, harm your people, then come back claiming you were all too stupid to have done all these incredible things yourselves. You can cry pearls, make sharp weapons, and create amazing art." Your eyes were locked on his. He was looking you dead in the eye. The usual glimmer you managed to find, mirth of some kind, was gone. He was dead serious. And his eyes locked on yours made a shiver crawl down your spine. "Why would anyone want to let you, and your kind, get away?"

"Do you really want that?" His eyes were trained on yours. He was a cornered predator. Not at his full strength. Vulnerable. But still dangerous.

"What?" You whispered.

"Master." The whisper sent another shiver down your spine. You lifted your hand, leaning back. But he caught your wrist before you could move, his eyebrows furrowing in pain. "I don't-" He groaned, holding you fast. "I don't feel so good, help." His eyes squeezed shut, clearly in pain. You licked your lips and held still.

"How can I help?" You whispered, urgency rising up again. He slowly pulled your hand closer, his eyes cracking open.

"Don't hold back." He instructed, hesitantly bringing your hand to his cheek. "Share your warmth with me." In spite of his high body temp, you knew full well it was easy to get chills while sick. If he was even sick. You hesitated as well, but with his explicit permission gently pressed your hand against his warm cheek. He sucked in a breath, letting your hand rest there before he guided it to the side of his neck. You mimicked your actions, gently touching his neck. He was clammy. He groaned, his eyes squeezing shut again for a moment, before he guided your hand down. To his collarbone. To his chest. Lower. You gasped, pulling your hand back as he tried to make it go lower still. But he held your wrist tight, wanting your hand on his skin. You yanked your wrist back.

"Your fever has gotten worse." You quickly stood, taking a step back. "I'll get an ice-" Before you could speak, he grabbed your arm again and yanked you right back down into his arms. You gasped, falling right against his chest as he clung to your wrist. Nothing about this felt threatening. He wasn't trying to pressure you- he was trying to cling to you. He was desperate for something. He clung to your hand, pulling you as close as he could with it. You knew your blade was in your back pocket. If he went too far, you could get to it in time. But he was strong. Stronger than he looked. In spite of everything in you blaring that that was a bad thing, your concern for him prevailed.

"What?" He caught your bewildered look, his eyes still trained on you. Watching. Waiting. "Don't you know the stories? Imprisoning me and keeping me as a Lemurian pet? Taking my scale so I'll make all your dreams come true? I can't even run away... do whatever you want to me." You did know the stories. Those were the ones you chalked up to being just fairytales. But the way he said it, the vitriol mixed with something harder to identify... He held your arm close, leaning in. He was in your space. His face so close to yours you could feel every breath he took. Your own breath hitched, gently tugging your arm back.

"No, no, I don't want that." You gently assured him. "You deserve better than that."

His eyes brightened. Though only for a moment. His eyes shifted to the hand in his grasp, looking at it closely. "Aren't you curious about the Lemurians? Come closer if you want to know more." The bait was set. You were curious, no doubt. You had been taught to always listen to the community. And if you were ever going to engage in Lemurian Archaeology again, you needed the insight of the community you now know for a fact exists. So you carefully shuffle closer to him on the couch. He accepted your answer, still staring at your hand. "Every year, there's a day when the ride in low, and it flows in the opposite direction. It's when the Lemurians are at their weakest." He pulled your hand closer, nuzzling his face against it.

"Even the most feeble human can kill us once they know of this." Your breath hitched again. You slowly relaxed your hand, fingers twitching with reluctance before gently resting against his forehead. The sound you made caught his attention. His eyes darted up and settled on your face, even as you gently stroked a lock of hair away from his face. "If you want to push me away, kill me even... I can't stop you."

Your eyes widened. "No, Rafayel-" You looked down. His shirt hung open, allowing you to feel the waves of heat radiating off of him. "I can practically feel the heat radiating off of you. Are you really okay? Do I need to take you to the doctor?" The question felt foolish the moment it fell out of your mouth. Of course you shouldn't, who would you even call? Who would know how to help a Lemurian without handing them over to become test subjects somewhere? Rafayel scoffed, finally releasing your hand and leaning back on the couch. With a bit more personal space back you sat up straight, watching as he glared off into the distance.

"You don't know how dangerous this is, do you? You still have time to care for someone else." The blatant call out made your face flush red in embarrassment. This was certainly not the time to admit to anything. But he kept talking. "Not all characters in fairytales live happily ever after. Maybe the mermaid set a trap from the very beginning... in order to take the sailor's life." Your breath hitched again.

You knew, in this story, you were the sailor. "Then, the library, when we met..."

"The fear in your eyes tells me that you're regretting coming here. Am I right?" He cut you off. You took it as a silent agreement. You licked your lips. The blade was burning a hole in your back pocket. He wasn't holding onto you anymore. He wasn't moving as fast. He caught you off guard once, but not again. But you took a deep breath.

"No. If you actually wanted to kill me, you wouldn't have waited. You had me alone on multiple occasions." You watched his face, eyes locked on his. "You're not feeling well. We can finish this conversation in the morning if you're more coherent. I'll stay here until you get better." His eyes widened. He didn't seem to expect that response. "Rafayel. I'm sure you have every reason to be wary of me due to my occupation and the fact I'm a human. But I will do everything in my power to never hurt you."

He watched you. You slowly lifted a hand, hovering it over his cheek, but not touching him. He made the connection himself, nuzzling into it. "Promise?"

"Promise."

"Then you can stay, at least until the sun rises." He pressed his head against your hand as hard as he could, nuzzling into it, rubbing his nose against your wrist. He shifted, slowly trying to lie down on the couch. You moved around with him, sitting down and making yourself as small as you could in the very corner. But it didn't seem to bother him. He laid down, putting his head in your lap as his breathing slowly began to even out. You moved your hand from his cheek to his forehead. Fever was still there, it didn't seem to improve or get worse, which was a relief of its own.

"Sleep well." You murmured. You doubted you'd get any sleep of your own. Your mind was swimming with questions that demanded to be answered. Did he have a hand in the disappearances? Did he know who did? Were you next for finding out his secret? But as your eyes settled on his face, contorted in a fitful sleep, you couldn't find it in you to be angry. The questions would be answered. In the morning, once the sun rose.

The crashing of the waves and the caw of seagulls engulfed the room. The soft, warm light of morning caused you to stir. The crick on your neck reminded you of where you had finally managed to fall asleep, your head leaned back at an awkward angle on the back of the couch. As your eyes slowly adjusted to the sunlight beaming in, you found a blue blanket draped over you. You blinked, bleary eyed. The paintbrushes and messes sprawled across the room were the reminder you needed for your location. You inhaled, stretching your arms over your head. The blanket fell off your shoulders, so when you stood up you grabbed it off your lap as well. You folded it nicely.

Unsteady footsteps brought you to the kitchen, where you could hear soft humming. The sizzle of the food in the various pans met you as you paused in the entryway of the kitchen.

Rafayel stood there, his back to you. Looking at his skin it appeared all the scales from last night were gone. A part of you wanted to call the whole thing a dream, but the fact you woke up in Rafayel's house to begin with suggested otherwise. You took a step in, causing him to pause and turn around. His eyes revealed he was a little tired, likely from his fitful rest the night before. Other than that, he looked and sounded like he was back to his normal self.

"I said you could stay until sunrise, y'know. It's morning now." He used a utensil to point out a window, the morning sun illuminating everything as far as the eye could see. "I'm fine now."

"I can see that." You approached slowly, not sure how welcome you were at the moment. "I can go, I just wanted to ask a few questions."

"Not sure I can answer all of them, but sure, shoot." He shrugged nonchalantly, going back to his cooking. You looked down, noticing he had set aside two bowls.

"I'll start with the most important ones, then." You nodded, leaning against a nearby counter to watch him. "First off. Last night was real, right?" He didn't respond with words, a soft hum being your only confirmation. "Okay. So... you're a Lemurian. How much do you know about the missing archaeologists?"

He paused. His muscles didn't tense, he didn't freak out. He just looked over his shoulder at you. Smiling. "More than I acted, less than you think."

"Okay." It wasn't the answer you were looking for, but it bled into your next question. You pushed yourself off the counter, taking a few steps closer to him. "Was a Lemurian behind their disappearance, or is it Ever?" Even that didn't seem to catch him off guard. He began to serve the two bowls, filling it with the best looking seafood porridge you had seen in your life.

"Ever." He confirmed.

"I knew it." You slapped your thigh, looking away sharply. "We need to alert the authorities, we need to-"

"We need to eat something." He thrust the bowl against your chest, making you quickly take it. "But you're right. Ever dumped some old weapons at the site, so when the archaeologists found them, they hunted them down."

"If you know this, that means you were watching them, too." It came out more accusatory than you intended. You inhaled sharply, and got a whiff of the porridge. You hesitantly sat down, taking the provided utensil to begin eating. "I'm sorry, that came out worse than I intended. I just meant it neutrally. I can't say I blame you."

Rafayel leaned against the counter, watching you as you began to eat. His bangs were pulled to the side. You could see his face better. He was beautiful, truly beautiful. It was no wonder there were so many myths and legends surrounding Lemurians, mermaids, and sirens if they were all based on him and his people. "Yeah, but they weren't the only ones." He tilted his head, a smile creeping up on him. "I was keeping an eye on you and Dr. C, too."

"You really shouldn't be telling me this." You huffed. "Was that the real reason why you were at the library?"

"No, I had no idea who you were. You just had the book I needed. But I put two and two together while we were talking, and figured you might be important, too. But you really surprised me." He took a bite of his own food. You were eating slowly as he spoke, nodding along. "The whole work for the community bit is cute, y'know?"

"Cute?" You shook your head at his word choice. "I get it. You have every right to doubt me. But I'm serious. I knew there had to be people behind Lemuria, and I'm admittedly not surprised they aren't humans. What... what are you gonna do about Lemuria?"

"So long as Ever doesn't want the weapons found, they'll do the dirty work for me, keeping people away." He shrugged. "Buuuut, when those two idiots followed you to that excavation to try and hire some of you... They're up to something."

"I'll put money on it that they're trying to hire archaeologists they can bribe into destroying or hiding evidence." You grumbled. "Right up their alley."

"That's where you come in, cutie." He pointed his spoon at you. He put it and the bowl down, holding up his fingers in a frame as if he was about to take a picture of you. "You wanna work with the community? Here's your chance. You'll be our archaeologist, helping us keep Ever away." You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest.

"And how do you expect me to do that? I don't have the kind of big name that'll get me recognition, and as much as I'd love the authorities to help, they'd easily be bought off. They've already done it before in court, messing with evidence back when they dumped all of this stuff."

"That's where I come in." He squinted, getting the angle just right between his fingers. "I don't expect you to do it alone. We'll work together on this." He flexed his thumb, as if he was capturing the picture of you. He dropped his hands, pulling a small box out of his pocket. "Think fast." He threw it, and luckily you caught it. You looked down at the box in confusion. You slowly began to open it, finding a folded piece of paper and a chain inside. You pulled it up. "You told me that old necklace of yours was a momento from college, a sign of how far you've come." As he spoke, the charm caught your eye. A brilliant pearl, shining in the light. A wire tail was wrapped around it, connecting it to the matching chain. You slowly slid your thumb over it, your eyes locked on it. "A little fishy told me you needed a new one." Rafayel approached you from your side, extending a hand. You gently placed the chain in his hand. He undid the clasp, wrapping it around your neck so the charm dangled between your collarbones.

"Lemuria's been found." He murmured beside your ear. "Now, help protect it."

You rested your palm over the charm. It was cool against your skin. You whipped your head around, flustered by how close Rafayel was to your face as you did so. But you held his gaze, steadfast, ready. "What can I do?"

"What you've been doing all along." He smiled, tugging on the chain playfully. "Listening to the community. Warning others in your field about Ever. Sticking up for us. For me." He kept his eyes locked on yours. You watched those eyes, the brilliant setting sun melting into the waves. The warm red and cool blue melting and intertwining. You slowly nodded your head. You two were so close. You could feel his breath on your face, see individual eyelashes.

"I can do that." You murmured. He truly was a work of art. "May I ask one more question?"

"Sure."

"Last night. All the-" You turned red just thinking about it. The words on the tip of your tongue. "The affection. Is that something that always happens that day of the year, or..." Rafayel's cheeks and ears bloomed a bright red. There was no staying cool this time around. He looked away, his bottom lip jutting out.

"Nevermind, I take it back, no. You can't ask me another question." He crossed his arms, leaning away from you. You exhaled a laugh.

"Noooo, no taking it back! I just," You rubbed the back of your neck. "You weren't acting like yourself. Or, at least the you I know. You're just- it feels like you're always hiding something, other than the obvious." You gestured to him. "I just... I just want to be clear. On the same page." You finally said it. "Was your behavior last night because you're attracted to me?" He appeared even more caught off guard by how upfront you were. The red only deepened, and his lips parted as if he was about to protest. But he sighed.

"Fine. Yes. On ebb day we seek the comfort of our mate, or whoever we are interested in." He refused to look at you as he said it, his eyes trained anywhere and everywhere else. "I didn't mean to spam you like some horny teenager."

"You didn't, you weren't feeling well." You stood up, joining him. The pearl he gifted you glinted in the light, making him crack an eye open to peer at it. "You needed some companionship. Rafayel, I..." You sucked in a breath. "I want to help you. And I want to see where this goes. We come from two different worlds, in just about every meaning of the phrase. But I promise you, I'll listen. I'll be here for you. I won't hurt you." You lifted your hand, holding it near his face, but not touching him. The silent invitation extended. His eyes trailed from your face to your hand. Wariness. Anger. Fear. All that and more flickered through his eyes faster than you thought possible. But the invitation was accepted as he gently pressed his cheek into your hand, closing his eyes.

"Promise?" He murmured.

"Promise." You whispered back.

The seagulls cried in the distance, and the crash of the waves provided a soulful song to be the background music. And somewhere in the ocean, a little blue fish hid away a necklace with a fake pearl among the ruins of a once great empire.

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