#would he still end up being the same person thousands of years later?

[ryssabrin]

so many girlies are having so much fun coming up with solavellan ancient arlathan aus and i wish that could be me but i just find i have zero interest in reimagining my lavellan's dynamic with solas in that setting. idk why lol it just changes juuust enough that it could practically be a completely different ship (not a bad ship! i could def read one of these and enjoy it! but different) and it doesn't do anything for me as a solavellan story.

[fatesundress]

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tomes and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

���But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “You seen the shite the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a bloody Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? How about you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.���

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He brings you to his bed after and you let him, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

[dalliancekay]

Bandstand and Final 15

If S1 ended with the bandstand argument, I bet we'd have the same situation we have with S2, people blaming Aziraphale and calling him cruel and unreasonable for not wanting to do as Crowley asked.

Oh who am I kidding, many fans STILL think Crowley was right back then.

Was Aziraphale stupid?

Was it unreasonable of him to try and speak to God and stop Armageddon? Instead of just - trying to kill the Antichrist child and see what happens? Or run? (Run where?)

Aziraphale was heartbroken but he just had to try. That's the kind of person he is. He hoped someone will see how Earth doesn't need to be destroyed. They could go and speak to the child perhaps. There doesn't need to be a War.

But God didn't pick up his call. So we never get to know what She thinks and whether She'd do anything to help as Az hoped - and of course one could argue that everything that happened was exactly what She wanted (and wait for it, that's exactly what Crowley says on the bench as they wait for a bus). Because the 'spokesperson' who did answer Azi's call, didn't understand Az at all and fobbed him off.

After Aziraphale got discorporated in an accident (which looked like agony btw, Crowley wasn't the only one to suffer) he knew he was running out of time and resolved to speak to the kid himself. Kill him even, if there's no time for anything else. But save the world. If at all possible. He assumed he's on his own now, Crowley having left. He was not.

After losing his body (and abandoning Heaven doing a demonic thing), he learns his home and everything in it burned down.

And yet, he's determined to save the world even if he seems to be losing everything.

I see a lot of metas about - did Aziraphale know Crowley was talking about him when he said he lost his best friend...

I believe he did. But what if Aziraphale understood that after the argument, Crowley is saying he lost his best friend... because it is their friendship what is lost. Is that why Aziraphale is so careful with words at first, but when he learns Crowley saved a book, his book, THE book, he knows Crowley is the one thing he did not lose. Because how would Az know Crowley thought he lost Az in the fire? He didn't know Crowley went looking for him. He only knew he disappointed Crowley for not wanting to run and Crowley calling him an idiot and leaving. When Az reached out later from the bookshop, Crowley hung up on him. That's the last Az knew of Crowley before being forced away.

Just because things didn't work out how Aziraphale hoped or was trying to achieve, doesn't mean he was wrong to try.

If anything, he was right. And Crowley would stand right by him and say so too. Would killing the boy (which I don't think they would have attempted at all when push came to shove without the stress that came from being on that tarmac with forces of Heaven and Hell converging) change anything? No. Because they misunderstood (yes, both of them) how the Plan works (or doesn't work). It wasn't about trying to kick one step out from the Plan to topple it. It wasn't about killing the kid or persuading him to not destroy the faulty humanity. It was about shifting the whole mindset. About humanity but also about Plans.

It was about freedom to choose. Az told Adam to make up HIS mind. (Which incidentally, I think Crowley told Eve in Eden too.) Crowley gave Az the space to do so. To be kind. To be his usual self. To be an angel who is strong and brave and open.

Adam took it.

Yet, it still wasn't enough. Their superiors wanted a War. They believed the Plan. But Aziraphale didn't anymore. He changed something. Suddenly it was just a question of finding a loophole to do the right thing. SOMETHING HE IS A VERITABLE EXPERT ON HAVING HAD THOUSANDS OF YEARS OF PRACTICE IN DOING

And when it came to their punishment?

A loophole.

What would the guesses be I wonder on how would they escape? Run? Az deciding to Fall? They tricked them. Not with words this time but with appearances.

_________________

S2 is different. It's not Bandstand part 2. They changed.

Yes, Crowley poured his heart out, wanting to finally acknowledge how much he wants, how he wants things to be simple. Open. Just to be together. But the timing was so wrong you'd think Metatron tempted him into it, to confuse him.

Because Crowley has just been to Heaven and learned why Gabe was being pursued, what the new plans were and knowing Heaven, he must have known Gabe's 'nah' wasn't gonna stop anybody. Gabe just needed to be put away. Which Aziraphale put a stop to with his stubborn protectiveness.

So why wasn't he more on board in helping Az in F15?

gif by @capinejghafa "Tell me you said no." But he did! Aziraphale who said flatly no so many times. To the 'chin-wag' and how he all but laughed at the proposal of him being the new Supreme Archangel. Aziraphale who only blanched when Crowley was brought into the discussion. (Same as some 80 years before... his biggest fear is always Crowley getting hurt and them being forced apart)

(He found a loophole nobody expected, to escape)

"IF YOU WANTED TO WORK WITH HIM AGAIN" (this is the only way Aziraphale*)

So what does Aziraphale do? He gives Crowley a choice. He doesn't say - they are taking me back to Heaven, making me go (because Crowley would follow immediately no questions asked). He doesn't even say he said yes, he just says he got the offer and asks, will you come with me. After all, Az thinks this is forever, that he must leave forever (he looks so stressed and so scared in F15) and he knows they both hate Heaven and would never choose to leave Earth voluntarily - but he wants Crowley to be able to choose - he doesn't want to force him the way he was forced, over his loved one's safety. And his heart breaks when Crowley says no. BUT

Crowley could not follow to Heaven, he made his choice. But he also didn't walk away. He didn't storm off. He didn't drive away. He stayed. I do not think he waited for Aziraphale to change his mind. He knows Aziraphale. He knew the angel made up his mind. He waited so Aziraphale will see that he's there. That he will wait until he's needed. But from Earth.

*I'm sorry but if you think that should Aziraphale insist on staying that he would be left in peace to be with Crowley, than you are not paying attention to what Heaven can do.

To sum up: Their 'arguments' are never about them, they don't need to learn to communicate better (they need to be free to communicate better) they are already doing so much better than expected in the circumstances. They know each other. Their arguments come up because they are not free and there is no way they can be safely together. Yes, they love one another and want to be together (and no, Az does not need to wake up and admit what he's feeling or some such nonsense), but in their world as it is, it's impossible (or the possibility is only very brief) and that's not what Aziraphale can agree to, so he must fight on. He was given that sword for a reason. He will fight. Just not... the usual way and not for what was perhaps intended.

[noiriarti]

The Winner Takes it All: Anakin Skywalker x Reader (Enemies-to-Lovers Modern AU) | Chapter 2

NSFW! Minors DNI!!! Summary: The moment the thesis competition was announced, you knew your biggest threat. Anakin Skywalker, golden boy of the engineering department. He's the only other person smart enough to beat you, and the only other person insane enough to stay in the lab until midnight every night. He's also an asshole, but you're starting to think maybe he's not as bad as you thought he was... Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Fem!Reader CW: mentions of masturbation WC: 6.9k AN: hehehehehe this chapter was so much fun to write and i fear i have added a bit of a plot to this pwp fic. next chapter will get even wilder! as always, asks and requests open <3

Ch. 1, [Ch. 2], Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6

Chapter 2: Testing

Anakin stumbled to his room on unsteady feet. When he entered, it was 1:43 am, but he had never felt more awake. He couldn't have slept even if he had wanted to, because you were haunting him. The wood of his door as he unlocked it felt like the lab bench under his fingers. His lips felt phantom kisses from you. Your angry voice echoed in the creak of the hinges. His pillows were soft like your clothes, like your skin.

The more he thought about it, the harder he got, which he wasn't sure was possible, really. His cock was pressing against his jeans so hard that he was relatively certain he could get off just by thrusting into the material a few times. Anakin rocked his hips experimentally against the rough material, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine. Jesus. He was definitely sensitive enough to cum like that. But he shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. It would be weird and creepy, when you told him you didn't want to do more of this. He shouldn't. He resolved to sleep it off, but found sleep was still evading him about an hour later when he lay awake in bed. Fuck my life. Fine. If he was going to be up, he might as well get some work done. So, he spent the night typing at his desk, which he distinctly had to try not to imagine kissing you against.

Anakin didn't hate you. Far from it. Okay, maybe not that far from it. But if he hated you, he something-else-ed you with equal measure. He just wasn't sure what that something else was. Did he like you? This wasn't like any crush he had before. You were so rude sometimes, but he would snap right back, and then escalate. Anakin didn't love that personality trait in himself, but it came out in spades around you. In freshman year, your name on the posted top homework of the week was exhilarating. Finally, some competition. Someone who loved engineering as much as he did. Someone who understood the fire that got him out of his backwater town and into the world. Then he met you, and that exhilaration turned a thousand times stronger. You weren't just a peer, you were a challenge. Every jab you threw at him, every time your bot would beat his in the traditional end-of-year tournament, he'd feel like he was suddenly on fire, electricity shocking through his very being. It was the same feeling he chased in taekwondo, that edge where he wasn't sure if he'd win, but he was so, so close. It was easier to interpret it as anger, as hatred, as fuel.

Even though he thought you could be a know-it-all, he had to admit that he always had a sort of begrudging respect toward you. You worked on a group project together, three times, once per year on average, and he could consistently rely on the fact that you'd never be a slacker. Others on the team would sometimes ghost, which annoyed you both in equal measure. The two of you would butt heads over what to do in the projects, but you were always 100% dedicated. He respected it about you, even if you were critical of his admittedly shoddy handwriting or the logical jumps in his proofs.

By senior year, he was unknowingly nursing what could affectionately be called a crush, though it was masked under layers and layers of frustration and competition and anger. Anakin wasn't very self aware, but it was beginning to dawn on even him that, perhaps, he liked you. There were several signs. Late nights in the lab were torture for him. He'd sit there, trying to focus on something, anything, but he kept seeing that piece of hair that fell into your face when you bent over your bench and your deft hands wiring capacitors. Sometimes, when you passed him and he caught a whiff of your smell, his heart would speed up. When he heard your voice in class, he would start smiling. It was honestly kind of embarrassing.

In retrospect, it was surprising he hadn't broken and kissed you earlier. But, now that he had, all he could think about was kissing you again. As he sat at his desk thinking, the next steps for his thesis slipped through his hands like grains of sand. At practice the next afternoon, his technique was sloppy, which his teammates riffed on endlessly. In class, the professor could have said the secret to traveling faster than light, and it would have gone in one of Anakin's ears and out the other.

You had said it couldn't happen. Why? Did he do something wrong? At the time, he was clouded with arousal, joy, and exhilaration, so he didn't ask any questions, just agreed mindlessly, but your statement was haunting him. We shouldn't do this again. Why not? His body was screaming for it, at the very least, and so was his heart, but he chose to ignore that.

Anakin was pondering this issue over a piece of tech for the Jinn lab, where he worked part-time during the semester, when Obi-Wan walked in and headed straight for him. Though Obi-Wan was technically his supervisor, being a third-year graduate student advised by Professor Jinn, Anakin considered him a friend. Though he was usually pretty serious, Obi-Wan appeared thoroughly amused today and looked a bit like the cat who got the cream.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said by way of greeting as he passed by his chair.

"What's up?" Anakin asked as he tried to get a particularly annoying screw tightened.

"Were you in the thesis lab last night?" Yes, he was, in fact. He was making out with you, but he didn't need to mention that.

"Yeah, working on some hardware for my next prototype, why?" Obi-Wan's smile spread further, if possible.

"Did you know there's cameras?" The blood froze in Anakin's veins. The suggestion in his voice was unmistakable.

"What?" His voice came out like a whisper.

"Good thing you were simply working on your prototype. You should warn other students to take… dalliances elsewhere," Obi-Wan said, winking.

"I-um-fuck--I." The words died on Anakin's tongue. Holy fucking shit. "I didn't see cameras."

"They're small. Qui-Gon had me install them this year. Nevertheless, things happen," Obi-Wan said, pausing, then quickly added, "Good luck." Obi-Wan patted Anakin on the shoulder and walked into his office in the back of the lab, leaving Anakin frozen in his chair.

Later that evening, once he'd worked (read: sat in shock) for four hours at the Jinn lab, finished two assignments for his gened, and led a practice for the TKD team, Anakin dragged his tired ass to the thesis lab. He was still restless since Obi-Wan's revelation. There was a video of the two of you, and he found himself wondering more than a few times if he could get it. For safekeeping, of course. No other reason.

He nodded at Barriss, who was on her way out, on complete autopilot. Seems she's getting in gear for the competition, he would have thought had he been mentally present in the slightest. He was the only one in the lab, a relief considering the fact that all his brain cells tended to leave the building as soon as you were near him, so he could get some work done. Get some tests in, make some actual progress. Maybe he could even pull a win on the competition, if not just an A on his thesis. He'd written some code during thermo lecture that he loaded onto an Arduino, turning over the device and its sharp pins in his fingers before disconnecting it from his laptop and shoving it into a breadboard. It looked ugly, clunky, and inelegant, but it was just a temporary setup for the test run before he attached the Arduino to the current motherboard. Sometime midway through the code running, the door to the lab clacked open.

It was you. Who else would arrive to the lab at 8pm? You looked gorgeous today, which hit Anakin like a punch to the gut. Cool, cool. This was normal. He could handle this. The cold had darkened your lips and cheeks a bit, so subtle he wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't staring. But he was, and he looked away quickly, back to his computer, and choked out a "hey." Anakin heard the tell-tale smack of your backpack on the floor, then each layer you shed (thump for coat, gentle taps for gloves, barely a thunk for hat). His eyes were fixed intently on the screen, even though there was nothing to look at there. When he looked up, you were right in front of him, close enough to touch.

"Hi," you said. Your eyes were gazing up at him earnestly and he could almost see his reflection in them. Fuck. You were standing incredibly near him, much closer than anyone else in his life would.

"Hi," he breathed. Was this it? Were you going to tell him that, actually, you wanted him? That maybe you could go on a date, or, at least go back to your place? Just going back to yours for sex wouldn't be exactly what he wanted, but then again beggars can't be choosers. And he was definitely a beggar right now.

"I need the small pliers." You reached out your hand expectantly. Oh. Okay.

"Yep." He handed them over, then watched as you walked back to your table.

Awesome. So Anakin was still horrendously awkward around you. He knew how to speak to you after the past several years, where he'd found himself getting little kernels of knowledge about your life and thoughts. It was more that he didn't know what he could say that wasn't a confession that he really really wanted to kiss you again.

The dark had already fallen outside hours ago when you began to put away your prototype. All of the world was asleep, the hallway outside the makerspace dark. The only light outside the lab were the streetlights glowing through the open windows, casting shadows over the sidewalk. Time was fictional in those moments, stretching and shortening and contorting until a minute passed in what felt like an hour, or the other way around. Nothing made sense in those moments. His calculations. The unease he felt. Least of all, why you didn't want to kiss him again. Why he didn't just tell you that he couldn't stop thinking about you. But you were already putting your coat on, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, and--

"Wait," he called out desperately, gesturing with his hand toward you. He fell silent. What was he going to say? He'd ask you to talk, to explain that he actually really enjoyed yesterday and that he'd really really like to do it again. He'd tell you that he didn't hate you, actually. That he'd actually enjoy going on a date, maybe to dinner or a movie, he wasn't picky. The words were on the tip of his tongue.

"Can you just stay for five more minutes while I use the drill press?" Close enough.

You looked at him and simply nodded. You kept an eye on him while he used the drill press, and his hand almost slipped three times under your scrutiny. But then he was done, and you both went through the paces of closing up the room. Vents off, machines off, check printers, check laser cutters, lights off, leave.

On the walk home, Anakin looked up and saw an empty sky, so different from the one on the farm at home. No matter where he turned there, he saw constellations and different worlds. Here, between the tall buildings and under all the light pollution, it was just black. You walked home wordlessly again.

The next day, he was determined to be more normal, and immediately asked you how your project was going. He could tell you were guarded based on the wariness in your eye, but you still answered. That you were dealing with a test not working. He offered to take a look at it, but you shot him down.

Later, you asked him if he knew how to deal with an issue with your CAD model, which he did, and he helped you extrude text on the curved surface. Anakin tried not to notice how close your body was.

The normalcy returned within three hours between the two of you. Sure, there was an elephant in the room (or, really, a herd of elephants), but you two were getting comfortable again, casually chatting about class and boasting about your projects. You revealed the thermo midterm hadn't gone so well, and he confessed that it hadn't for him, either. He was very worried about the class, actually, but the thesis was his priority. When he told you, Anakin couldn't figure out what your expression meant. Surprise? Anger? Sadness? Sympathy? He shrugged it off. Probably was a shock to realize he wasn't always perfect.

An hour later, he was thinking about going home, but then he saw you staring at your computer with your headphones in.

"Whatcha watching?" He hoped the question sounded casual. You paused the video and looked up at him.

"An old Criminal Minds episode," you responded with a hint of a smile. His heart leaped.

"Can I join? I'm waiting on a print, and I need a break anyway." Was that smooth? He couldn't tell. You nodded, and he pulled up a chair. He was endlessly thankful you were using wired earbuds today (you had explained you'd forgotten your usual wireless ones at home), so that he had an excuse to sit near you. It was just how far the cord reached, not how badly he wanted to press himself against you. That was all.

"Oh, it's totally the teacher," he remarked at one point, midway through the episode. Your legs had gotten closer, almost pressing the sides of his thigh to yours. That did not make his heart race. It was probably the tension in the episode.

"Obviously, dumbass," you chided, smacking your leg into his, but there wasn't any bite to it. It was affection, and he reveled in it the whole way home.

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Ahsoka Tano wasn't stupid. She had eyes and a capability for critical thought that she thought two particular people in her life lacked. When her roommate came home from the lab one day in mid-November, dead silent with hair mussed and lips still swollen from making out with someone, Ahsoka knew something had happened between you and the only other person who would be in the lab that late. Finally. But there was a clench in your jaw, a hard set in your eyes, that told her it wasn't all positive. But it was progress.

The first time she met met Anakin was when she was a freshman and joined the Coruscant U taekwondo team. She'd seen him around the competitive taekwondo circuit, of course; he was national champion two times running in the 16-18 division. Anakin was precise, vicious, and powerful. By the time he was a freshman, he was about to reach the fourth Dan, a feat which took most people years. He was just that good.

When Ahsoka met him, she was certain he'd be the kind of arrogant that could only come with prodigy status. And, though he was a bit full of himself, she was surprised to find him to be kind. Not nice, necessarily, all quips and snipes and sarcasm, but definitely kind to the younger students, and to her. When he asked her to be his vice-captain, she said yes immediately. There was no one better she could learn from.

The first time she noticed the tension between you was at the first competition she was in, when you came to watch her. At some point, Anakin's name had been announced, and you looked like you'd smelled curdled milk. When she asked you about it later, she hadn't expected the total word vomit that spilled out of you about how annoying and horrible and infuriating Anakin was in class. Your actual issues with him were fairly minor, she thought: 1. He gloated (definitely true), 2. He sabotaged other people's projects so he'd do better (probably not true), 3. He was always getting praise from the professors (probably true), and 4. He always assumed you didn't know what you were doing (probably true).

But Ahsoka saw a side of him you didn't. At a competition in her sophomore year, in the dead of night at the Airbnb the team had rented, she saw him frantically sewing his expensive competitive dobok, heavy with embroidery befitting his dan, when one of the seams tore mid-match the day before. It took some digging, but he confessed that he didn't have a backup. He couldn't afford a new one right now. Anakin didn't talk about home much, and, when he did, it was in clipped sentences saying that yes, he had a mom and a new stepdad. Yes, he was from a small town. As vice-captain, she had access to the list of students who the team was sponsoring at competitions because they needed the financial aid. Anakin was on the list every time. Ahsoka didn't mention it to him, ever.

Over the past three years, she had watched the spark between the two of you ignite into fights and frustration. She'd heard Anakin ask about you in a way he thought was subtle, but was actually glaringly obvious. She'd heard you complain that he was so annoying enough times. Now that something had actually happened between you, that was it. She was going to do something about it.

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"A taekwondo party?" You had asked.

"Yeah! At Rex's," Ahsoka had said. To be honest, you kind of needed a break. Or, at least a night to not think about circuits. You were beginning to see that Anakin was smart, even smarter than you had thought, and it was creeping up on you that, maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't win no matter what you did. Maybe he was just too brilliant. You wanted to forget that, and getting drunk seemed like a great way to do just that. "Anakin will be there," Ahsoka's voice echoed in your head. Why did she say that? The peace you had settled into with Anakin was tenuous, but there. Did she know about what happened between the two of you?

You still weren't sure when you arrived on the door of the brownstone. Tau Kappa Delta wasn't an actual frat, but it was a house full of the TKD team competitors who called each other "brothers," so the nickname stuck. It was a bit out of the way of campus, but it was the prime place to hold parties if you wanted to get raunchy in a safe place. You and Ahsoka had gotten dressed up, you in some kind of short black silk dress she shoved in your hands, and her in a strappy ensemble that looked a bit like battle armor. There were straps around the arms that extended into fingerless gloves and some kind of tactical belt was slung low over her hips. Her halter top showed off her strong arms, and, for an instant, you wished you played sports for the university. How she wasn't shivering in the cold air, you'd never know.

The door swung open and the warmth indoors hit you, thick with bodies and sweat and beer, and some guy ushered you in while Ahsoka gave him a hug. This must be one of the team members you had met, some sturdy guy with an accent. You couldn't quite place if his name was Cody or Vaughn, but it was one of them, you thought. The room you entered was full of coats and bags, as well as a few people standing and chatting with drinks in their hands. Through the doorway, music blared in what was probably the living room. You couldn't make out any furniture through the dancing crowd.

Ahsoka reappeared with a shot in each hand, offering one to you with a wink.

"To a good night where you can relax, because God knows you need it," she toasted, bumping her shot glass against yours and downing it in one go. The tequila burned as it went down your throat. You coughed for a bit, then asked her for another. Might as well get the party started right. Another shot went into you, and then Ahsoka dragged you to the dance floor. The lights in the room were flashing all kinds of colors--red, purple, blue--and the music was loud enough that you could feel it vibrating through your organs. Ahsoka pushed her way past some people, closer to the center of the room, and then found enough space for the two of you and started dancing. The rhythm flowed through you, and you were just drunk enough not to care if you looked stupid. It was perfect. The two of you danced for three, maybe four songs, before Ahsoka went to get you both another shot, and then another. Some of Ahsoka's friends had joined you, not that you knew them, but you were in your own world, having fun. People bumped into your shoulder, leg, elbow, whatever, but you were on cloud nine. The bass felt like one heartbeat connecting all of the strangers on the floor to you, like you were all one beast. Dancing with your friends like this, going to parties, that's all that you cared about. This would be one of those memories you treasured, you were sure of it.

And then you saw Anakin. Much to your annoyance, he looked particularly good that day, his hair still as touchable as it was every day in the lab. He was wearing light-wash jeans (like that night, a small part of your brain reminded you) and a black, comfortable t-shirt. Oh, and there was a woman with him. Like that wasn't the first thing you noticed. She was shorter than him by a good bit, standing in front of him so you couldn't see her face, just her annoyingly shiny chestnut hair and perfect neck. Cool. Fine. They were in the corner of the room, with him leaning against the wall and her standing in front of him, shouting conversation over the loud music. Anakin shot her a warm smile, the one he rarely turned toward you, and then she put her hand on his chest. It was the alcohol that flipped your stomach, you were sure of it. And anger at seeing him, nothing else. You tapped Ahsoka and got close to her ear.

"Who's that?" You asked. She turned closer to you, her eyebrows drawn.

"Huh?" She half-yelled back. You lent in closer, trying to get to her ear.

"The girl?" You could barely hear yourself over the noise.

"What?" Oh, fuck it. You full-on yelled, but it didn't even come close to the level of bass in the room.

"Who's the girl with Anakin?"

"Oh," Ahsoka yelled back. "That's his ex." Awesome. Whoop-de-fucking-do. There was, objectively, no reason why that should have annoyed you. But it did. The girl waved to Anakin, then left, leaving him looking incredibly hot up against that wall. Your eyes took in the width of his chest, the muscles and veins in his arms. And then he was looking at you.

He had caught you. Fuck. He gave you a little wave with a smirk, then left into the next room. Shitfuckmotherfucker. Ahsoka grabbed your shoulder, shouting something about how the two of you should get some air. You nodded and let her pull you out of the dance floor, then to a room down the hall, where you could hear voices talking, laughing.

You recognized a few of the people. Jesse, Echo, the one whose name you'd ascertained was actually Cody, Fives, and Fox were all there, and, of course, so was Anakin. They were sitting in an uneven, horrible circle that was really more of a convex shape around the couch. Some girls you'd seen before around campus but you hadn't really met and some other team members were strewn about the room, sipping beers from their red cups. Anakin greeted you both with a wave.

"Hey, come join us, we're playing truth or dare," he yelled across the room. Ahsoka grinned and almost pulled you down with her to the floor.

"C'mon, let's play," she said as she grinned up at you. Truth or dare and other party games had never really been your thing, and you kind of were feeling the number of shots you had taken, so you decided you were out.

"Oh, I'm not sure--" you started.

"What, gonna chicken out?" Anakin's voice called. That motherfucker.

"Never," you shot back, plopping your ass down. You weren't sure there was a way to win truth or dare, but you were going to find it, goddamn it.

"Okay, Rex. Truth or dare?" Jesse started. You'd only met him once, but he had a nice voice and a glint in his eye that made you like him immediately.

"Dare," he responded gruffly. Some oohs peppered the room as they watched their intrepid assistant captain about to get loose. Jesse thought for a moment.

"Take two shots!" The crowd chanted as Rex sighed, poured himself two shots of tequila, and downed them with only a small wince. After he was done, it was his turn.

"Ahsoka, truth or dare?"

"Truth?" Ahsoka crinkled her nose.

"Aw c'mon Snips. Bo-oring," Anakin teased. Ahsoka shot him a look that said if I weren't across this circle, I would smack you right now.

"Only 'cause y'all can't think of a better dare than drinking," she said. Chuckles bubbled through the room.

"Fine, then, have you ever kissed Lux Bonteri?" Rex's question apparently hit the nail on the head as all the color drained out of Ahsoka's face.

"I changed my mind. Dare." Ahsoka's eyes were wide, and you knew why. She and Lux had kind of had a thing going, but he was on another school's team. She'd come back home after matches with stories about what he said, asking if you thought it was romantic or platonic. But she'd never admit to doing anything with a member of their fiercest competition. Rex rolled his eyes as people booed, Anakin especially loudly.

"Fine, fine. I dare you to… call your ex," Rex conceded. That was easy enough for Ahsoka, given that her only ex was Barriss, who she was still good friends with. Barriss had broken it off to focus on work over a year ago, and it had been hard on Ahsoka at first, but they got over it and were back to just being a little bit awkward. With an eye roll and a scoff, Ahsoka pulled out Barriss's contact and pressed the call button. The phone rang out on speaker, just getting Barriss's voicemail. "There, ya happy?" Ahsoka asked, then turned to someone else.

The game went around and around, questions about the last time someone had sex and dares to kiss someone else flying across the room as the team members who obviously knew each other too well publicly tortured one another. Eventually, someone said your name.

"Truth or dare?" It was Echo, who Ahsoka had told you was finally competing again after tearing his ACL. He had kind eyes, and the room seemed electric, so you made your choice without much thought.

"Uh, dare?" Echo smiled in a way that seemed apologetic, and you realized that perhaps this was a terrible idea. Was the room holding its breath, or was it just you?

"Okay, I dare you to straddle Anakin for three minutes." The room erupted, cheers and hollers coming from every player in the nearby vicinity. "Get it, Cap" came from somewhere on your right, and a whistle came from your left. Anakin looked white as a sheet, and you noticed he was staring at Echo with murder in his eyes. They'd pay for that in practice, most likely. He was leant back on his arms, legs criss-crossed, but the position suddenly looked tense. A muscle in his jaw bulged. The chants weren't stopping, and you decided to get it over with.

Whether it was the alcohol coursing through you or some newfound bravery, you weren't sure, but you started moving over to Anakin, who was three seats to your right, near a wall. He made eye contact with you, his gaze softening, and you could practically hear him asking you if you were okay with this. You were, you realized. It was probably the alcohol talking. The wolf whistles of the other players faded away, and sitting on his lap suddenly became the only thing you wanted.

You hitched one leg across Anakin's body, then sank down so that you were sitting on him. The rough material of his jeans slid against your bare thighs, and you cursed your choice not to wear pants. Your stomach was pressed to his chest, and you noticed that, even though your cleavage was in his eyeline and you always thought he was easily swayed by tits and ass, his eyes were intently staring into yours. In your shadow and the dark light, they were blown wide, the black almost consuming his blue irises. A world away, someone yelled that they had started a timer.

Somewhere behind your back, Ahsoka slipped Echo five bucks. You wouldn't have noticed if she had done it in front of you, because you were too busy trying to slow the beating of your heart. Or was that his? You couldn't tell. Everything was a bit fuzzy. In this position, you were above him for the first time, looking down at those eyes that were casting you a look that churned something inside you. With that look, you were back in the lab, and he was telling you to jump up onto the table, and his hands were all over you. You'd lose yourself in that moment, if you could.

Anakin's eyes traveled down your figure with a hard gulp that bobbed his Adam's apple. His gaze lingered on your low-cut front, tracing over the seams, then reaching down to your thighs. In your drunken state, you hadn't noticed the amount of skin that was exposed when your dress rode up. He definitely did. You felt something slowly changing beneath you, and it took you a second to comprehend that he was getting hard. Because of you. You rationalized it as the reaction any person with a penis would have to being straddled like that. Right?

His heavy breathing seemed to confirm it, and Anakin mouthed 'sorry' when he felt himself press against you subtly. You distinctly did not mind. His eyes flicked down between your legs, where the skirt had ridden up so that one wrong--or right--move would let him see what was underneath it. Him seeing you didn't bother you one bit, actually. You kind of wanted him to put a hand to you, press his fingers inside you. Maybe he could take you upstairs to one of the rooms and fuck you furiously. Or maybe you could shove what you were feeling against your legs into your throat. Or maybe one, then the other.

His gaze met yours again before sliding down to your lips and staying there. The same energy that he had when he was one-upping you, confidently answering a question in class, or telling you to re-solder your work grew in his eyes. That intensity. That fierce desire for success. You found it incredibly attractive then, but now, it was irresistible.

The timer beeped, and you thought of the 3D printer that night in the lab. Cockblocks, the both of them. The others in the room cheered as you got off him instantly, then slinked back to your usual seat. Now that you were sitting on your own, it became obvious that the heat between your thighs was not entirely from his legs warming you up. You pulled the hem of your skirt down just a tad. The adrenaline of the moment hadn't stopped, even though you were reminded of the existence of the crowd that had just watched you. You didn't want it to end. You'd give anything for the room to be empty right now, like the lab at night. You pulled out your phone and sent a message to Anakin, your fingers wobbly on the keyboard.

Upstairs. Follow me in 3 mind, the text said. Fuck. Maybe you were a bit drunk. *Mins, you corrected. Anakin checked his phone almost instantly, his eyes still locked on you from before, and quickly typed something back. k. You waited two more rounds of questions before getting up.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you said to Ahsoka, who was absorbed in some kind of debate with Fives and Cody. She nodded at you, and then you were off. You weaved through people, up to the floor with the bedrooms, which was much less populated than the downstairs. There were a few rooms that seemed either occupied or locked, but one at the end of the hall sat ajar. You entered, leaving the door cracked so Anakin would know where you were, then sat down on the bed. It was a twin, in a decently clean room that had a bunch of posters for bands along the walls. Whoever lived here really liked Pink Floyd, apparently. It was actually nice up there; the music was pumping through the building, but it was a nice backdrop this far from the speakers. The window was open, so the cool breeze was flowing.

A few moments later, the door opened. The second you saw Anakin, you pounced on him. He let out a slightly surprised mmph, but then feverishly kissed you back. Anakin tasted like alcohol and orange juice, but you didn't mind. As long as he was kissing you, he could taste however he wanted. One of his hands scrabbled behind him to find the door handle and shut it, while the other came up to your jaw. Whatever desires he had downstairs, he was clearly showing them now. His hand went down to grab your ass, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh. You pressed yourself against him, just like you were downstairs, your whole bodies melded together until you didn't know where he began and you ended. The way Anakin kissed you was intoxicating, more so than any of the shots you had taken that night. More than any drug you would ever take. That fire, that anger-desire-passion-whatever that burned in you intensified until the music downstairs and the unfamiliar surroundings faded away, and all you could feel was him.

You rocked your hips forward, just to test his response, and he growled into your mouth with a ferocity you didn't expect, but loved anyway. Fuck, you'd do anything to hear that again, to hear it all the time. He pulled your hips into his, grinding against you in the process.

Suddenly, he twisted around so he was pressing you against the door with his body enveloping you. Anakin trailed down from your lips to your jaw to your neck. The little nips and wet kisses were driving you wild, so you decided to return the favor and snaked your hand down his chest, which was shockingly hard and muscular, until you reached the hem of his shirt. Your fingers toyed with the edges where his skin met the soft cotton, and you could feel his ragged intake of breath when you trailed even further up. He pulled away, his breathing still heavy. You thought and hoped he would take his shirt off. To show you what you'd seen on the rare times his shirt had ridden up while he took off a hoodie or jacket. Instead, he just looked at you and stopped.

"Fuck me, please," you whispered into the room. For a moment, he looked like he was strongly considering it, and you found yourself praying he would say yes.

"How many drinks have you had?"

"I don't know, like four? Does it matter?" You shrugged. "It doesn't change that I want you," you whispered in a way you hoped was seductive. Anakin got off you so quickly that you were almost hurt, but he still remained close enough that it soothed the sting.

"I'm sorry. It's going to kill me to say this, but we shouldn't do this now. I've only had one drink and you're clearly not thinking straight," he said. His eyes were so full of concern that you almost didn't get mad at him. Almost.

"No, I'm thinking very straight. I'll say the alphabet backwards if you want," you offered, getting closer to him again. He took another step back.

"I'm talking about your decisions. I don't want to have sex, and then have you wake up in the morning and regret it. Just--let's go back to yours." He caught the look in your eye, which clearly meant that yes, you would indeed like to go back to your place, then hurried to add more.

"Not like that. You go to sleep. I'll stay in your living room. In the morning, if you still want to do this, I'll fuck you right then and there." Anakin rumbled the last words out so intently, so full of promise, that you finally conceded.

"Fine, let's go. But as soon as I wake up, I'll take you up on that. And then I'm going to the lab. I've gotta get back to work," you said, letting him past you to open the door for you. Anakin chuckled.

"Maybe you're more sober than I thought." The two of you went back down the hallway, past the other closed doors to the staircase, which was somehow even sweatier than you remembered, then past the living room to the entrance. Anakin's hand was clasped around yours the entire time, to make sure he didn't lose you, and you found that, actually, you didn't mind the contact. You wanted to do it a lot, even sometimes outside of sex. But that was the tequila talking. In fact, the tequila was doing a lot of talking right now, and the world was a little bit wobbly and fluid. Your head was heavy, and you found yourself stumbling a few times in your impractical heels.

Somehow, in all the chaos, Anakin found Rex by the entrance. You couldn't hear every word he said, but you caught "too drunk," "going home," and "make sure Ahsoka gets home safely." The 15 minute walk home passed by in a blur because you were a bit too distracted by the smell of Anakin's jacket around your shoulders. You really were stumbling around, and Anakin had to catch you a few times, but you made it back to your dorm in one piece.

This time, instead of going to the west elevator, Anakin followed you to the east, then up, up, all the way until you got to the tenth floor. Your key scraped against the lock, and you could hear Anakin's impatient sigh as you missed the hole again. You finally got it in, then got into your apartment and immediately flopped face-first onto your bed. Everything was a muddled mess after that. Anakin helped you take your shoes off, though not without making fun of you for being so drunk first, and then handed you a makeup wipe. You slapped it across your face a few times, then tossed it to the side. With a quick "good night," Anakin was about to leave your bedroom to crash on the living room couch.

"C'mere," you called, sitting up and stopping him in his tracks. He approached the bed, then sat down next to you until you put your head on his shoulder. This was bad, you knew, but it felt, for a moment, like that didn't matter. "Stay." Your voice was so small, so quiet. Vulnerable.

"I want to, but, no, I really should--" You interrupted him, still a little drunk and groggy but definitely annoyed. Could the bastard stop trying to be chivalrous for one second?

"If you don't stay, I am gonna dunk your Arduino in water. After you've soldered it." The threat was slightly diminished by the way you nuzzled his shoulder, but it worked anyway. Anakin was always a sucker. His deep sigh confirmed it.

"Fine. Just--oh God this is weird--let me take off my jeans if I'm going to sleep in a bed." You nodded and watched as he stood up, then unbuttoned them and pulled them down so he was in loose boxers and his t-shirt. His strong legs were on display, and you filed the image away for later as he crawled in behind you on the tiny twin bed. Your bed was shoved into the corner of the room, so he had to smush himself between you and the wall, but he managed it with only minimal complaining. He was so warm, so big and comforting. Maybe this was the relaxation you needed tonight, not a stupid party. Maybe you could do this more often. Anakin put his arm around your stomach, pulling you into him. Yup, you definitely had to do this more often. His breath tickled the back of your neck delightfully, and his bare legs felt incredible against yours.

"Is this okay?" You didn't have time to answer with anything more than a mhmm before you fell asleep. It was the most restful sleep you had in months, but that wasn't because of Anakin. Maybe it was. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't so bad. Maybe you liked him a bit, when he wasn't being an ass. But that was probably the tequila talking. It was the tequila, really.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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[le-clair-de-lune]

for the lovely anon from this request: !Jealous Edmund Pevensie but shes a queen of Narnia too and they're "enemies."

hope you like it!! ended up longer than expected!! Since there was no specific time you wanted, I just based it during 'Prince Caspian'

You awoke to a still atmosphere, only the soft breaths of your friends to signify life. You hated it. You missed the life that once surrounded this place. The whispering of the trees as they danced, the laughs that echoed through the forests, the community that once made Narnia no longer existed.

Guilt washed over you as you thought of your friends, your people, you had abandoned them. And now you return a thousand years later, not as the mighty Kings and Queens they told tales of, but as helpless teenagers.

After you had left the first time, all you had longed for was to return. Now? you feel out of place, as if you are of no use.

Returning from your thoughts, you stretched your arms out with a groan. Sleeping on the forest floor was definitely not easy on your back. You rubbed softly at your eyes before they widened, eyeing the empty space Peter had once occupied.

Worried thoughts filled your head as you ran towards his makeshift bed, searching for any signs of what could have happened before reaching for the person closest to you. Who just happened to be Edmund.

"Wake up!" Edmund groaned at your vigorous shaking slapping at your hands "Get UP"

His eyes opened to see your panicked face. "Get the hell off of me" he scoffed shoving you causing you to fall back.

Normally you would have fought him for this, but you had other things on your mind. "He's gone" you exclaim pointing to where his brother should have been.

This caught attention, quickly rising grabbing his sword. As you moved to get up, Lucy and Susan had began to get up at the ruckus. All four of your froze when you heard the sound of clashing metal through the trees.

Edmund grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you up, both of you frozen in place when your chests brushed against each other. Your eyes widen at the closeness before shoving him with a scoff. "Let's go"

Following your 'Dear little friend', as Lucy so affectionately called him, you were lead to the scene. Peter battling a boy that seemed to be about your age, a handsome boy at that.

"Peter" Susan shrieked, gaining there attention.

----

The boy, Caspian, seemed to have taken a liking to Susan based on the looks they shared. But you said nothing of it whilst walking to where the army Caspian had gathered were.

Once Peter stopped to Caspian you immediately pulled him into a hug before slapping him upside the head. "You arse!" you exclaim, as he rubbed his head "I thought something happened to you"

He smiled sheepishly before apologizing, only to stop mid sentence when his brother roughly pushed past you.

"What the hell, Edmund" you gasped

The boy turned towards you, walking backwards as you approached him. "You were in the way" he shrugged

"You were in the way" you mimicked sticking out your tongue "Piss off"

As you both bickered, with shoves and eye rolls, which became more aggressive with each passing moment, Caspian turned to the others. "Are they always like this?" he whispered worried.

The siblings rolled their eyes, before nodding.

----

You were a family friend of the Pevensies. Your mothers had become friends due to you and Edmund being in the same class.

During the war, both your parents had been deployed. Your mother a nurse, and your father on the front lines. With no other close relatives you were taken in by the Pevensies. Much to Edmunds dismay.

You never got along with the boy. You both always had different views and opinions. That along both of yours competitive nature, did not mix well. You always ended in an argument.

The arguments got worse over time, to the point you couldn't stand being near each other.

The only time it had simmered down was during you life in Narnia, in fact you had both found that, more than once, you found pleasure in each others company.

Then you returned to your world. At it went back to the way it was.

----

"Oh shut it, you imbecile" you rolled your eyes having enough of Edmund's antics, walking towards Peter.

You had made it to the tomb.

"Oh yeah, go back to Peter" he let out, a look you hadn't seen before in his eyes. "Love Peter, don't ya?"

"Wha-"

"Peter's best friend, care about him so much" his voice growing louder.

"Why are yo-"

"Why don't you just go marry him?" he seethed

Your eyes widened at his words. "What are you talking about?"

He scoffed walking towards you "Oh please" he rolled his eyes "I thought something happened to you" he pouted mimicking you "I was soooo worried. I love you Peter. You mean so much to me. Why don't you just shag alre-"

You hand collided against his cheek. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His eyes caught your glossy ones. "I-"

You walked away, not wanting to any more from him.

----

You heard footsteps behind you, whipping around prepared to shoo off Edmund. Only your eyes met those of the young prince instead.

"Are you alright you majesty?"

You let out a soft laugh, "You don't have to call me that"

He sighed clearly glad at your kindness.

"Would you like to join me?" you asked moving over.

You both sat in a comfortable silence. "I grew up hearing stories of you" He shared with a chuckle. "Stories of your travels, the way you took down the White Witch, do you know what each story mentioned?"

"Why not?" you shrug, no harm in hearing some stories.

"The bond you all had, the love you all had for each other, and" he paused looking at you "The love you and Edmund held for each other"

"W-what?" you sputtered "No" you shook your head "We can't stand eachother, we- we hate eachother"

"Well" Caspian smiled amused "People who 'hate' each other, don't look at each other the way you do."

You stayed quiet, looking over all the interactions you had with Edmund. The way you felt about him. Perhaps Caspian was right.

"The way we look at each other?" you questioned

Caspian nodded.

"The same look you and Susan share?" you cheekily smiled

Caspian grew pink but stayed silent. He was luckily saved by a cough behind you.

Edmund.

"I should go review the plan" Caspian left with a nod.

The room grew silent once more as you turned away from Edmund.

"I'm sorry" he sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking, I just-"

"You were just... jealous?" you cut him off

His eyes widened before he made his way in front of you. "Perhaps"

Your head shot up, locking eyes with him.

"Really?"

"Mhmm, I didn't realize it at first but" he kneeled in front of you "But I care for more deeply than I thought." he took a deep breath before letting out a quiet "I love you"

When he did not hear your voice, he turned away prepared to be turned down.

Your hand reached for his cheek, forcing him to look at you. "I love you too" you let out before meeting his lips.

The kiss was passionate, all the years of pent up emotions released in a single moment.

You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against his.

"All the years of arguing, and we could have been doing this instead" he smirked.

"Shut up, Ed" you shoved him softly.

[the-witch-of-one-piece]

Secrets Kept From Him Ran Haitani x Fem Reader Chapter 1: Secrets WC: 3.5K+ Resident: @enchantedforest-networkTW: Past relationship with Ran, Disappearing, Slight Suggestive Themes, Angst, Drinking, Suggestive Language, Secret Child He Doesn't Know About (unedited) MINOR DNI 18+

‘I promised to be by your side’ for years this phrase would haunt Ran in his sleep. His eyes opened up in the darkness of the room. He turned his head to the

side to see the woman he picked up for the night who was fast asleep. It just didn’t feel right no matter how many girls he brought home, nothing felt complete. To be exact no one could replace you. 5 years had passed by without a sign of where you left. He had tried to track you down when you first left. Trying to get a hold of family members, friends even trying to find connections to search for you. But each time there was a lead it was a dead end. ‘Why do I keep doing this to myself… they are not the same’ he sighed. He was doing this to himself, comparing each woman with you. Behind his smile only his brother could see that he wasn’t happy. The following morning Ran was still charming as he called a cab for his late night friend to be picked up. “Thanks for last night, I'll give you a call sometime.” flashing a smile seeing the woman get into the cab as it began to travel down the road. The smile on his face faded, his hands placed in his pockets as he went into his home. 

~~~~~~

“We just got in…no we are heading there right now…” you sat in the back of the private car as you were on the phone, you were looking through the windows, it's been years since you've been in Tokyo. It still looked the same. The bit of nostalgia hitting you as you passed by some familiar buildings. “Hey listen I will call you later tonight and keep you updated.. Okay… okay bye.”  you hung up the phone. “Everything is so big over here!” your daughter looked out from her booster seat. “You used to live here right mommy?”  her violet eyes looked over at you. “Yeah before you were born.” softly smiled as you ran your fingers through her long soft locks. 

You left Tokyo when you found out you were a few weeks pregnant. Ran didn’t know about the baby. It did worry you when finding out about your pregnancy, you were scared shitless. Ran coming home sometimes covered in blood, you had expressed your concerns for his safety many times. He would simply say ‘you don’t need to worry about a thing my love.’ but it worries you every single time. You worried you would get a call about a deal going south and he wouldn’t make it or if someone found out about you or your guy's baby you wouldn’t know what this person might do. You couldn’t take that risk, you needed to protect yourself and your baby. 

It hurt you to leave him  the way you did without any notice nor telling him where you were going. The days passed into months and your daughter was brought into the world. Along with trying to figure out how to be a mother you were dealing with your own anxiety. Looking at her growing each day she inherited Ran’s looks. You had a little piece of Ran with you. You wanted to give your daughter the opportunity to grow up in Tokyo and enjoy it like you did as a child. “We should be arriving at our new home tomorrow sweetheart.” you spoke. You bought a home on the other side of Tokyo avoiding some of the places you and Ran would visit. He was a creature of comfort he would usually stick to the places he was familiar with. The home would have all your belongings by the end of the day today. You were going to stay in one of the Hotels that had great reviews online. It was fairly new as well. Still in the back of your mind wondering what would happen if you would have run into him by accident or his brother… You wouldn’t know what you would do. Your mind would play thousands of possible scenarios from him being happy, to being betrayed and upset with you.

“Mommy we are here!” your daughter exclaimed as the car stopped in front of the Hotel. “Great lets put our stuff in the hotel and do a bit of sightseeing before it gets late.” opening the car door.

~~~~~~~~

“Ran, are you paying attention?” Rindou called out to his brother who was spaced out.

“Hmmm oh yeah, what time do we have to meet up with them again?”  They were in the car going to the destination meeting some possible clients for the club. One being a heiress of a prestigious alcohol company. Ran knew what he exactly had to do to get this contract with her. Even if it meant he had to sleep with her. “Seriously you cannot mess this up. If we can reduce the cost of this we are golden.” Rin looked over at his brother. “I know. Why don’t I just sleep with the bimbo first then you talk to her about contracts, she wouldn’t be able to process the quote we give her without thinking about events that happened before that.”  Ran suggested giving a smirk. His brother let out a deep sigh pinching the bridge of his nose “You have that full confidence in you by all means have at it. Might leave this to you right now then come back later on.” As the car pulled up to the hotel. Ran pulled up a photo of the heiress to make sure he wouldn’t mistake her for anyone else. He studied her features, making him woo her easily. He did look different from the last time you saw him. His hair was styled differently and wear a nice suit. You and your daughter were exiting out to the lobby. Your attention was on your daughter as she was happily talking to you as you held her hand.In this brief moment your paths crossed with his but both were too busy in your own worlds to notice each other at that moment. A faint smell of a familiar cologne hit your nostril for a moment. Looking up for a moment you were passing a group of gentlemen thinking it was one of them wearing the cologne Ran used to wear. You refocused your attention on your daughter.

Ran would be heading to the bar of the hotel where he is greeted by the striking beauty who was waiting for him. “Ms. Yamaguchi, I'm glad you were able to make it on such short notice.” Ran smiled as reaching for her hand kissing the back of it. “You do look lovely tonight. I’m Ran Haitani.” “Lovely to meet you Ran. They told me you were handsome but not so charming as well.” she looked at him with a sultry look. “You have a brother as well Rindou if I remember correctly… where is here tonight?” She looked towards the doorway. “He had to take care of some things at the club. I guess in the meantime while we wait, we can get to know each other? Can I buy you a drink?” the smile that no woman could resist. She gladly accepted his offer. It would only take him an hour to end up in her hotel room. 

Few hours would pass as you made your way back to the hotel with your daughter along with someone you trusted since the day you left. “We are glad you will join us for dinner tonight. I made reservations.” you smiled. Looking over at your aunt who you kept in contact with. 

“I'm glad to be finally seeing you both in a while. For a chance you both get to visit me for once.” she chuckled while walking into the hotel lobby. Your aunt never met Ran before, only had heard about him from the stories you would tell her. She did suggest telling him the minutes you gave birth to your daughter but she respected your choices on why you didn’t. 

When you pressed the elevator button you waited patiently. You saw something on your daughter's face. Kneeling down,facing away from the elevator cleaning her cheek. On the other side of the elevator coming down, Ran was focused on the lovely Ms. Yamaguchi. Her hands draped around his neck. As she playfully talked to him. “I never had a client take such good care of me.” her finger tips touching his lips. “Well there will be more if you like later on.” he was leaning in before the elevator stopped. They were on the lobby floor. When opening the door they saw a mom kneeling down with her back toward them, seeming to be cleaning her daughter's face accompanied by an elderly lady. Ran smiled as he exited the elevator. He noticed the little girl and thought she was adorable. Her eye color was similar to his own; he didn't really pay mind to all the details of the girl but her eyes. They made their way towards the bar where Rindou was. They heard the little girls say “mommy lets get in the elevator!” “Okay okay let's hurry in.” you chuckled. From that distance Ran heard the familiar voice that stopped him for a moment. When his head turned around he was able to get a look of the mom who was standing up. From a side view his heart dropped seeing you.  He watched you holding onto the little girl's hand entering the elevator. “Ran dear everything alright?” Ms. Yamaguchi asked when Ran seemed to pause for a moment.  He couldn’t just move seeing that you were here in the hotel he was at. He needed to talk to you. Ran composing himself quickly he turned his attention back to Ms. Yamaguchi. “Yes of course I thought I knew someone. But shall we meet up with my brother?” he asked, covering his issues with a smile. During the discussion between Ms. Yamaguchi and Rindou , Ran wasn’t paying attention. His mind was focusing on other things. His past love being here and trying to figure out what his next move would be. He could wait in the lobby till you came down again. Rindou would look at his brother's direction seeing he was preoccupied in thoughts. “Ran… Ran.” Rindou called out.

“Hmm I’m sorry what is happening?” he asked. 

“Must be still a little dazed and confused because of our private discussion earlier.” Ms. Yamaguchi smiled. “We were going over the quantity and price range.” Rindou spoke. “We agreed on this number.” Rindou pulls out a small notepad along with a pen jotting down the number and handing it to Ms. Yamaguchi.

She looked at the number. “I think we can make this work. Your brother can be very convincing ya know. I will have the contracts ready by tomorrow for both of you to sign.” She picked up her drink while taking a sip. The next thing she knew she had her phone ring. “Hello yes…Well I'm in the middle of something right now. I left you in charge for one minute and you decided to screw things up.” she sighed she brought the phone away from her ear “I do apologize gentlemen but something needs my attention. I will have my assistant send over the contracts in the morning. If you will excuse me I need to take care of this.” She got up from the seat walking away.  Rindou looked at his brother “What the hell is going on with you?” “What if I told you about someone from the past staying in this hotel right now.” Ran gave his brother a side glance bringing his drink to his lips. “Can you confirm they are here?” Rin leaned back in his chair. “She is here, I saw her. She still looked the same, just like I remember.” Ran spoke. “There is something else too.. She had some company with her” “Company you say? Who’s the guy?” he asked. Rin was already prepared to make something look like an accident waiting for his brother to describe the guy you might be with. “It wasn’t a guy…. It was a little girl and some older woman I’ve never seen before.” Ran began to remember the child feature more. The pretty violet eyes that resembled his, the child that looked no older than 4 or 5. “I need to talk to her more before assuming something… Listen, she will eventually come down. I wanna talk to her.” ~~~~~~ Fixing your daughter's hair you had her in a pretty purple dress. “You look great sweetie.” holding her hands. “You do too mommy.” her small hands cupping your cheeks as she gave your eskimo kisses. “You guys ready?” you asked your daughter and aunt. “Ready!” they both exclaimed. Walking out of the room. Getting into the main lobby you headed to the area where the restaurant was. 

Rindou wanted to see if Ran really saw the woman from his brother's past. He was casually sitting in the lobby looking at his phone each time the elevator opened and his eyes were on the elevator. His eyes focused on you when you stepped out with your daughter and aunt. He was in a bit of disbelief seeing you. Picking up his phone. “Hey you were right…. She is heading towards the restaurant.. Just one thing don’t act like an idiot just-” the phone was cut off “son of a .” he grit his teeth. He didn’t want his brother to do anything drastic infront of people. Ran was already at the restaurant. He had a seat in the corner where the bar stand was. Just a minute later after hanging up with Rin. He saw the group of three arriving at the check in. The server shows you to your table. The more he watched you the more he wanted to walk up to the table and talk to you. Hearing the small giggles coming from your daughter his heart was breaking. There was no doubt that was his little girl. It was like a little replica of him as a child. He wasn’t a part of yours and her life. He wanted to get a better view of you both. Still questioning who the lady was you were with. He was by the walkway in the corner where it lead to the kitchen he leaned on the rail. Your daughter was looking around the restaurant amazed by how beautiful everything was. “Mommy look at the big fishes in the tank!” she pointed to the large aquarium-like tank behind them. “ I know they are big fishes.” you watched the fish swimming peacefully. Your daughter's  eyes are still roaming around. She happened to glance at a table where she saw a family sitting. She didn’t know who her dad was, she had asked about him but you kept it very short with the answers. Excuses of daddy being very busy with work. She watched as the dad interacted with his children, making them laugh. Ran saw her looking over at the table and her smile disappeared for a moment. You caught onto seeing your daughter frown on her face. “You okay sweetheart?” you asked her. “Mommy, will I ever get to meet my daddy? At my old school I would see daddy’s pick up their kids from school and the kids would do all these things with their daddy’s… I just…” she stopped her sentence and looked down fidgeting with her hands. Your aunt looked over at you, after hearing what your daughter said. She had told you many times and now your daughter was asking about her father. “ I know, baby.” you cupping her face lifting her cheeks up to look at you. Just this statement was killing you so much. She was suffering not knowing who her father was. “You will meet him one day.. I promise.” you smiled, kissing her forehead. “Why do we get something sweet after dinner? I will let you choose something from the menu.” you wanted to see that smile appear on her face. “Really?” her eyes brighten up. “That sounds like a good idea now. Why don’t I help you choose Sweetie?” your aunt suggested to your daughter who happily scooted closer to her as they both looked at the menu.

 Picking up your wine glass you sipped on your wine. You started to realize how many families were in the restaurant.  Your eyes began to wander around the restaurant to see some happy couple and families enjoying their meal. When your eyes reached the corner of the room they didn’t move when they landed on him. His distinct violet eyes appear back at you, even though he had a new hairstyle. He was there looking back at you, the eye contact didn’t break for a second. The moment your eyes looked away was when your daughter caught your attention. “Mommy I want this one!” She brought the menu close to you to show you the item she wanted.

“That does look like a yummy treat, sweetie.” you smile. You took a quick glance back at the corner where Ran was standing and he was gone. “Mommy is gonna go to the bathroom really fast okay? Behave for your aunt for me?” turning your attention back to your daughter. Your daughter nodded promising she would behave for you.

You got up from the booth and made your way to the corner of the restaurant. You couldn’t believe your feet were walking toward his direction. Your heart was pounding against your chest, as you approached closer. When you reached the area you saw an empty hallway. Walking down the empty hallway you saw the different paths to the hotel. You were looking down at the hallway but no sight of him. The quicker you were looking down the aisle when you felt someone grabbing your hand pulling you into an aisle of where rows of doors continue down the long hallway. The smell of his YSL cologne hit your nostrils, the hypnotizing violet eyes were close. It didn’t take long or Ran’s slender arm to wrap around your pulling you closer to his body. His other hand caressing your cheek as he brought you to his chest in a tight embrace. His head is buried in the top of your head taking a deep inhale of your scent. “____.” he whispered your name. It didn’t take much longer until you found yourself holding him. His embrace was just like you remembered, and how much you missed every moment of it. “I missed you…” 

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Chapter two link here ->ch.2

[technologyculturedneo]

BREATHING. Lee Mark

"I think I’m in love with a robot."

PAIRING(s).Robot!Mark (Lee Min-hyung) x Reader

SUMMARY. In a futuristic world where humans and robots co-exist together, Mark, a humanoid robot, develops an unexpected emotional connection with you, as you’re caught in a tangled web of secrets. He experiences the complexities of love and loss for the first time. Your complicated journey forces you to question what it truly means to live and breathe in a world of blurred love lines between you and machine.

NCT DREAM DREAM()SCAPE MASTERLIST

Your father worked in a very prestigious organization were they modelled and modified robots, cyborgs and humanoids. Thousands of them walked on the streets, and every time you’d pass one, you knew that it came from the company your father worked in, NCTO. Lee Min-hyung was your father's interned assistant. He was the type of guy who was just too intelligent and brilliant to ignore, so it made perfect sense that you also thought of him whenever you'd see any of the modified robots on the streets. It only enhanced and developed the little crush you had on him.

But then as if the world didn’t want you to have him, Min-hyung went missing when you turned 19 years old. He disappeared from the face of the earth without a single trail left behind. His father did everything in his power to search for him, as he was a very big boss in the underworld of illegitimate business, however he was also widely respect by the government because he put in a lot of money in the new dystopia world. As expected with the power and money Mr Suh had, he ordered a search. Ordered a search just so that he could find his son. So in corporation with the government and military the streets were closed down and men in black uniform knocked on doors and searched for Min-hyung. To no avail, Min-hyung was not found. They ruled that he ran away. Nobody believed that because Min-hyung was too much of a people person who consistently said over and over again that he was untouchable, that nothing could kill him. You were young but you remember the nerves and chaos of it all.

Reason being because you wanted your father to stop mourning the death of a son that wasn’t his. With that being your reality, you were determined to make sure that you would do everything in your power until your father noticed you. Already living in the new digital age, where technology was already so advanced, you fell in love with the same thing as your father. The power to create. You enjoyed creations and you were thrilled when you applied to NCTO and they accepted you. Not wanting to have the nepotism title, you worked your butt off earning all the respect, and shaking off the nepotism title when people started calling you by your name. Unfortunately, your father jumped off a building because he could not deal with the passing of Min-hyung.

You remember the chaos of it all, because in the mist of your father’s passing, you only had one person to blame. Min-hyung. So, years later, when an opportunity came to work on a highly civilised humanoid project that your father had started, you joined in. Not the reasons of trying to build a legacy for your father… but because you just wanted the pain in your heart to end.

While your father's death was a full pain that somewhat made you feel empty, the disappearance of the long lost boy still followed you even in your middle 20's. Maybe it's because you never had a funeral or you never found his body that it still hadn't sunk into your brain that he was dead… it still haunted your mind that Lee Min-hyung went missing.

Or did he…

The first 2 years that passed, marked the start and new embrace of your journey. Your smart ass found the favour of working in the highly prestigious company of NCTO.

"As AI transforms our work lives by automating mundane tasks, we gain valuable time to focus on what matters most: our future. As leaders, I’m sure many of us longed for the day when the mundane tasks that take up so much of our time become automated. Well, that day is no longer a distant dream but our reality, thanks to the advancements in AI. By now it should be tattooed on our foreheads of how far we at NCTO are willing to go to get the impossible being done. Please do give yourselves a round of applause for making it this far,"

The audience at large seated in the dimmed auditorium begin to applaud as they attentively listen to you as you present to them of how accomplished and successful the company has been. The point of this gathering in the company's auditorium, is to get an approval and a go head of this project to be funded.

"I want to ask you if the project I'm about to present to you has been a part of your childhood dream from the ‘future’. Where we told ourselves that we’d get flying cars and robot companions. From every creative process stage, design altercation, modification, with new database implications in place and smarter systems working with us, we've combined both the intellect of human intelligence as well as systems software inner intelligence. It's with both minds that we were able to create this project. M.A.N. Modified, altered, network."

The audience applauds just as the projected screen above displays the power point slide of figures leading up to the final design of a robotic man in a matrix.

You turn your head away from the audience of hard driven designers, project managers, systems administrators, UX technicians, code nerds, underwriters, salvages team and more of the go getters of the company - allowing them to fix their attention away from you and to the clothed stand beside you.

"It's no surprise that we've been working on this project undercover for some time. A well configured DNA code by the late Lee Taeyong set the foundation for us all, for this project. Along with a visually appealing, fundamentally creative and distinctive face that gathers micro expressions to create a face. Now, some of you may know this face, and that’s okay. Because the owner behind this face signed a contact long time ago to dedicate themselves to this company. His friendly face is what pushed this project to be existing today, why so many of us wanted to work on this project. Lee Min-hyung as well as Lee Taeyong will always be remembered as the reason we kept pushing forward." Your black mini heels begin to clack quietly on the wooden floor of the stage as the audience applauds.

With one more turn around the white covered stand, you face the darkened theatre room that has heads of all the respected teams who have worked effortlessly on this project as well as programmers and risk analyst who are seeing this project for the first time, along with your executive sponsors who will decide whether you can launch your project or not.

"Respectable audience as well as our young resilient interns and learners, I'd like you all to feast your eyes on what we've done as a company. Achieving the end goal, building the software stacks that enable balance, navigation, perception and interaction with the physical world. This is a new era of how we change the world with our gift of intelligence. I give you MAN, Project M 47 5. Humanoid Robot."

Gripping the side of the white fabric you pull off the covers. Unveiling and revealing the human like, built male figure of your first 'human attempt' humanoid project- just as the projector displays a live video of the male built figure. The camera crew from below taking the shots and view of the project.

Still… You get surprised when taking a look at the face of the robot. The uncanny resemblance to the long lost boy of the past is eerie. But it’s not like these people are bothered by it, they adore it, love it, excited over it.

It stands in the middle of the stage in black short boxers showing off it's well-built frame. From the little detail of leg hairs to toned thighs and abdomen, press ups of a flexed chest and a perfectly angled collarbone and finally familiar friendly features of a face deprivation. Jet black hair, prominent lips, visible bone like cheeks and (your least favourite) the enhancement of the red eyes- reminding you that this isn’t a human anymore… It’s a robot.

It stands on the stage, profoundly gleaming with skin smooth and toned, a body that's fathomably hard yet looks soft and a face that has sharp angles of perfection. It's quite good looking- you yourself are feasting your eyes on the project after years. As expected and on cue the civil audience begin to applaud. Folding up the white fabric and neatly placing it on the ground, you stand beside the inhumane robotic figure of what you've named: Project M 47 5. You turn your head towards it seeing it's red eyes gazing on you a light smile on its face.

Marvelled, you touch its shoulder feeling the cold human like flesh seep into your skin. He feels human. You can feel the projections running inside and although the wireframe sound is subtle, you can still hear the machines working with a light buzz.

"Doesn't it look human?" You pose. "Doesn't it resemble a perfect deprecation of what stepping out of one’s comfort zones mean?" You raise an eyebrow peering around, you let a little smile break from your lips before running your hand down the arm of the robot. "Some of you are probably wondering if this is a real human that we've framed to be a robot. But I assure you, Project 47 5 is a machine. But we want more from it. We want to push the limit of technology and CGI. Really, how far can we go? It's a question that I can ask you dear executives. You asked us, what have we been working on. This is what we've been working on. We've been working on the next big project that the world has ever been deceived by. Clones, drones, robots, artificial and so much more we've created, in full hopes of expanding our technology and distributing to the world. With your corporation, every defect in Project 47 5 can be ironed out smoothly, every error can be erased, every new altercation can be put in and we can begin placing leagues of him out into the world to obtain information and live the right way. Thank you."

You step back from the humanoid and applaud along with the audience when your management director steps out of the curtain shadow and onto the lit stage. With an earpiece already in place he laughs into the mic that's attached to the earpiece. "What a scope! What a scope. My fellow board members, this is the future that we'd like to call "Dream ESCAPE". An era where you are in control of this project, a real life walking sim. It'll not be in the hands of random citizens, it'll be in your hands. Every intel gathered will be bounced to you. Don't you just want to own a share of Project M 47 5 Humanoid. Look at him. Carved by designers to look just like us.” The director JB pauses dramatically… Seemingly forgetting what else he's supposed to say… Something that the workers are already used to.

You step in for him, so that the investors and guests don't catch onto his little forgetful nature. "Even though he looks like us, you are in charge of the code and personality. Instead of a human administrator, you’ll get a moderately focused humanoid, allowing administrators to have more time on their hands. Would you like for us to build this prototype into a finished product, a finished man? If so, support us by contributing. I know your hands are already itching. So, we'll see each other in the board room for your thoughts on our piece. Thank you everyone, we'll let you know on the status of Project M47 5."

JB looks especially pleased at you. Yet again the crowd applauds enthusiastically and interestedly pleased. JB leads the executives and other investors out of the auditorium.

Just as you wait for the main curtains to shut, as you're still with Mark on the stage. As soon as they're shut, you lead the robot off the stage going down the little backstage steps. Once off the main stage, your stoic expression falls off and a warm smile is splashed on your face when you turn to the project. "M45 7, you did extremely well. Good job." You speak in specific terms knowing it feeds off of compliments as you've heard.

Although it's your first time feasting your eyes on the hard work project, the familiar face makes you feel like you already know the depth of it's heart… You stop yourself from confusing the human boy who passed away long time ago and from the robot standing right in front of you.

The robot's red eyes draw down to your height and its eyes blink red twice and it's chest heaves up and down. "Thank you Doctor Na Y/n. Your speech was a brilliant way to introduce our scope." It responds back with a calm and automatic tuned pitched male eccentric voice. "Does the Doctor not wish to deem Project M 47 5 Humanoid Robot as complete?"

"Not yet. The little information they have on the project, the better it is for them to blindly invest. And when they invest, we'll do a lot more with you to make you 'humanly' humane." You respond moderately turning your head towards the walking figure approaching you. "Jeno, its speech therapy is profoundly better than the last time. A few more touch-ups and it can sound less robotic and more male like."

"More male like? What's that supposed to mean?" The charismatic, suspiciously shy scientist, Jeno, smiles at you with his hands in his pocket as he draws closer. "Do you want it to sound like some Canadian rapper? Like Min-hyung?" Jeno chuckles before moving to the prototype robot. You smile at the memory of Min-hyung’s voice. "Doing that would be extremely difficult, Min-hyung already had his own laugh and voice. Besides, Project M47 5 here is already sexist. Adding a broad 'more male like' voice will only make it menacing, so I’ll see if we can tweak it's voice to something more suitable to its broad baby like face."

"I think that would be good." You comment. "It's come a long way since I last saw it." You recall when last you laid your eyes on the project. "It looks remarkable. Out there on stage it didn't even have to say a word. Incredible work you guys have done." You compliment and give feedback all at the same time. "But why am I thanking you Jeno, I should be praising you Project M47 5. You calmed me down,"

"I'm pleased to hear that I'm pleasing to your liking Doctor Na." Project M47 5 modestly answers, looking pleased indeed. There's a certain stiff turn to it as it directs it's eyes to you and then Jeno… the uncanny vibe to it is spectacularly pleasing.

Jeno, though, nudges his finger. "I told you it's sexist. When it's talking to you, it'll sound decent, however with me, it's pitch darkens."

"Correction errors detected. Project M 47 5 Humanoid code of conduct suggests that female persons should be spoken to with utmost care and respect." Your grin is wide from the moment Project M47 5 opens up its mouth and responds in a deep threatening tone. Jeno groans and punches lightly on its shoulder.

"Damn code of conduct." He mutters and turns to you, his eyes adoring and modest. "Speaking of speech, fantastic work out there. I didn’t expect you to pay tribute to Min-hyung. It was brilliant.” Jeno comments, expressing some vulnerability, dropping his guard, just a little. Your little TED talk came along well. Not to brag, but I enjoyed it the most."

"Correction error detected." Project M47 5's eyes blink and it's chest heaves up and down before it forwardly turns to Jeno. You don’t even mind that it interrupted. You wanted to pay tribute and let bygones be bygones. Turning to Project M47 5, you’re curious at how it’ll respond.

Lee Je No, Male, 30. Qualifications: Modifications and Variations, Employee at Neo Tech. Highest levels of education: Bachelors in subjects partaking to Systems Development, Network Systems, Information Technology and Project Management. Level of work: top of pyramid. Salary: Exceptionally high. Regards in society: Rich. Self-esteem: High. Pride and ego: Job Correction error: Human character - Pursuing a wedded woman.

"Foreign feelings of unrequited detected." The Project sums up.

Hearing the error, your eyebrows raise in shock. It's no secret that Jeno lusts after you for all to see- but the fact that the robot is seeing it is incredible at what technology can do. "I see you've enhanced it's code to stating correction errors."

"Renjun thought it'd be a cool little detail for showing the executives during the second session. We still have to go there right?" He questions.

To which you nod your head. "Yes you and the humanoid are." You emphasize on who. "I'm going to network and branch out."

"I'm screwed if he keeps mentioning correction errors like that. Might as well reduce the errors to a bare 2, instead of a full 10." Jeno moves to the robot's back tapping on its skin and a blue screen code prompt appears a few centimetres off his back, allowing Jeno to tap on it's hard screen surface. "Project M 47 5 Humanoid, you're only supposed to think those thoughts, not say them out loud. Only if asked can you say them out loud. I mean, I want the world to know that I've got a liking for Y/n, but not through you," Jeno winks at you, but you simply focus on the projects moderate smile.

In such a decent speech with full curiosity, as it's been programmed to be curious and ask questions, the Project speaks. "Is it wrong to detect correction errors? Or wrong to state them? How can I advance forward if I keep the thinking thoughts inside and not say them out loud? If she's wedded and your pursuit is in motion, you will be harming and causing problems. Problems not only in her wedlock life, but your-"

"Yeah, like a robots gonna tell me what to do," Jeno mumbles typing in a code.

Your attention span is cut short when your head shifts back immediately capturing the eyes of your everlasting dear husband, Jaemin, upon hearing his familiar shoes that squeak on the floor. He's got around his neck a VIP access card that you handed him and unlike you and the Doctor Lee Jeno in your lab coats, he's dressed in a red flannel shirt and black skinny jeans- his usual work attire. He must've come straight from the bakery where he works. He smiles briefly when catching your eyes. "Hey,"

"Jae," Your smile gets bigger and you wrap your arms around his neck bringing him forward for a hug.

Unexpectedly his lips meet yours and mold together giving you a long breathless kiss. Of course by profession you tap his shoulder twice and end the kiss gently with a light smooch. You liked intimacy but not excessively, or publicly… especially at work.

Your blush not only coats your face but your neck and eyes. You grin while moving your head back to look into his deep soul eyes. "How did I do?" You whisper bringing your hands over his broad shoulders.

"You spoke nicely," Jaemin smiles, heading slowly for your lips again, just to be stopped when hearing a throaty chuckle.

"Nicely? Really? That's still in the English vocabulary?" Jeno's conceding scoff doesn't go unheard by Jaemin. "Word of advice, if that woman was my girl and she asked me how she performed, especially for an established and prestigious institution I'd shower her with-"

"Dr Lee Jeno, kindly focus on the Project. Please." you stiffly call out his name knowing his nature to tease Jaemin. Looking back to Jaemin your hands move up his face. "Babe, don't mind him,"

Jaemin's tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, holding himself back from causing a scene. Once again he's reminded of how 'insignificant' he is in your life.

You're a scientist with degrees higher than he's ever obtained, yet you're in a relationship with him. A relationship that people question, instead of respects as they all wonder what on earth you're doing with him. Everyone has the same assumption that one way or another, you will break up with him.

"Correction error detected."

Jaemin's ears bounce to the sound of the project robot and he looks at it.

It’s almost like he’s seeing a ghost.

He stares at the robot and even gulps. Just as the humanoid on the other hand, stares at Jaemin analysing its feelings from the core and producing an analysis.

"Well, get on with it." Jeno mumbles. "What's the correction?"

Project M47 5 on the other hand just stares at Jaemin.

Jae Min, male, age 28. Qualifications: Bakery owner of Aigoo Styled Dish. Marital Status: Fiancé to Y/n. Highest level of education: High school. Culinary Arts. Level of work: bottom of pyramid. Salary: medium. Regards in society: poor. Self-esteem: low. Pride and ego: Wife. Correction Error: Feelings of anger detected. Stress levels have risen due to low sales at work. Blood pressure over 150 -

"Hello?" Jeno taps the shoulder of the humanoid.

"You phrased for correction errors to be stated internally instead of spoken out." Project M47 5 regards to Jeno. "Has the norm changed?"

Jeno with a pleased look that the humanoid robot was quick to corrections, shakes his head. "I'd prefer for you to exercise yourself in allowing you to be in control of what you feel needs to be said out loud. It's called freedom of expression as well as freedom of speech."

"Correction Error detected." The humanoid's prompt response makes Jeno nod his head.

"Now go on and tell me if this correction error needs to be said out loud." Jeno questions. "What is it regarding?"

"Laws 89 and 103 from the Dictatorship Virtues Laws. Freedom of speech is said to contain portions of hate speech as one individual is allowed to express all their inner free-for-alls."

Jeno hums. "And is hate speech good?"

"Negative."

"Then it shouldn't be said out loud." Jeno concludes with a smile before turning to you, who's fascinated by the prototype's demeanour and development. It’s funny how even though it’s not Min-hyung, the personality is still impressing you. Jeno gets your eyes on him with a quick clearing of his throat. "So, Y/n, I was hoping, by chance, when they fund the project you'd assist in coordinating M47 5's feelings with me. I mean, it's 'memorized' the whole code of ethics, study of humans and philosophy and learnt all the years worth of human rights and violations of over 300 countries in the world, but we're still working on it's emotional system and personality."

You hum impressed as you turn to Jeno and then the Project M47 5. "And you want me to assist? I'm merely a speaker."

"Yeah a speaker by default. Look, as someone who’s worked with Min-hyung and you haven’t, he actually spoke a lot of kind words about you-”

“Me?” Your eyes enlighten as you listen to him.

“Yes, aside from that you have Honours, Masters and Ph.D. in Science Psychology. That shouldn't go to waste when we're creating such a world-renowned masterpiece. You're not just a speaker, you're a full course package, recognized in this whole company. No one's doing it like you, not even your father did. With your affective understanding that can recognize, interpret, process and simulate human effects, the development system of Project M47 5 will be complete in no time. Plus you know I trust you more than any other psychologist in our facility,"

"All this flattery just for me to help you with Project M47 5?" You raise a brow feeling shy but brush it off with a friendly giggle. "I beg to differ, the other psychologist in the building are just as skilled, even beyond and above my own level."

"Yeah, but I want you specifically. You make me smile. A lot." Jeno isn't afraid to openly flirt with you, despite the presence of your husband behind you. "What about you Project M47 5? Wouldn't you like for Y/n to work on you?"

"It would be a great honour to learn how to be a human and with your wide set understanding of knowledge, experience in feelings and successful conducted test results, I have absolutely surety that you are the best to learn from." You're surprised even when the robot speaks.

You giggle. "You've even got the robot vouching for you?"

"That's not me," Jeno raises his hands smugly. "That's all from it's input of you. It wants you to work with it. This is your chance," Jeno looks to the robot eagerly in expectancy.

Being drawn to hear the words of the robot, you don't even feel when Jaemin's hand slips out of yours and he backs up before turning around and scratching the back of his head walking away. Project M47 5 however, it takes note of the deflated Jaemin.

However it still speaks. As a chance for it to 'market' itself and prove to be worthy so that you may work on it. Jeno really did set the standards of you working with them high. So as a result of wanting to achieve excellence it focuses all its attention on you.

"Na Y/n, Female. Qualifications: Robotics scientists and Thematic analysts. Position: Special Risk Analyst Senior and employee at Neo Tech. Highest levels of education: Honours in science psychology. Doctoral degree in, Life science, physical science, earth science. Masters in subjects partaking to mathematics and psychology. Ph.D in philosophy. Level of work: top of pyramid. Salary: Exceptionally high. Regards in society: Lovable and well respected. Self-esteem: Humbled. Shy. Intelligent. Yet fierce and resilient." Project M47 5 lets out. "Reports and statistics across NCTO have it that Doctor Na Y/n is a, and I quote, jewel, in the company. You embody a mind of immediate action result along with experimental designs and are particularly elegant and delicate with machinery and prototypes. Hence I would be privileged if you not only spoke for me but assisted in creating me to be a suitable M.A.N."

Your smile as you listen to the robot speak is never ending. You always got shy whenever someone took their time in complementing you, but now hearing such gushing words from a robot is somewhat uplifting… Especially one that looks so familiar to a boy that once went missing. A boy who you admired.

"By the look of your smile, I'm guessing, we've won you over," Jeno playfully smirks your way. You can only shake your head and chortle lightly.

"I'll think about it, if, the project gets funded."

"If? You mean when it's funded. With the way you presented and represented our project, I'm a thousand percent sure we've riled them from the pond to our boat. You saw the look on those old faces." Jeno comments with a smirk. "Selfishly wanting to grab our prototype and begin trials. Point is, I really want you to be hands on deck with us as well, instead of being the fronting end partner. Be with us in the process. It's a lot more fun when you're actually part of the team that builds instead of reports."

You chuckle, but take note that Jaemin isn't by your side. "I'll see. But you know additionally it's not up to me, it's up to JB-"

"And he's been wanting you to be hands on deck with Project M47 5 since day one. He said it’s going to be like working with your dad all over again,"

"Jeno," You playfully roll your eyes and turn around beginning to walk away. "Let's hear the results first and then I'll decide." Your clicking hills walk away from the backstage leaving Jeno and the prototype alone, with some clean up members cleaning the auditorium that was once filled with people.

"Did you hear that, on our next trial Doctor Na will be assisting in expanding your code." Jeno inputs to the humanoid, before taking a look at your figure that's walking away. "She's so fine,"

"Doctor Lee,"

"Yeah?" Jeno snaps out of it, facing the humanoid, still being amazed by the canny visuals.

"Doctor Na is widely respected in the district. I would like for her to be in our team in studying and modifying my code."

"You and I both pal," Jeno admits. "I'll make sure it happens. Although, for now, let's get you back in the lab and ready for the second session. Don't forget to put on a show, we might be walking past potential clients."

Jeno confidently strides off the backstage stairs exiting through the door with the prototype behind him. Unlike the fellow employees who were used to seeing all sorts of test subjects walking up and down and (flying or even crawling) around the facility, for the guests who were having a tea break, it's actually such a sight to behold as they stare at the project. It looks so human, and Jeno knows all there thoughts. All he could hope for, was the accomplishment and success of the humanoid.

"Dr Lee. What is my next assignment?"

"We'll find out when we get to the office. For now, imagine this as a day off for you."

"But I have no day off."

Their back and forth continues just as you are up and down the building walking with rapid steps. It's crazy, on stage you're confident and almost prideful about your work, but off stage you're a respectfully clumsy nerd who giggles and laughs with a big smile on your face. So for some of the employees to see you without your smile is kind stressing. "Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm just looking for my husband," You respond getting your smile back for a second before you continuously search for him looking worried- or in others eyes, looking fiercely stern. After searching around the specific lounging areas on different floors, for a really long while, you finally find Jaemin. He's by the basement garage in the parking area near his peach car smoking out.

His eyes are shut and his head is tilted upwards as he exhales air looking so stressed. You sigh out, and bite your lip when deciding to approach him. Already, you know the type of state he's in, especially since he's smoking. Something he rarely did in your presence. "Babe," You smile as you get closer to him. "I finally found you,"

Jaemin is quick in ditching the killing stick, stumping it on the ground and clearing his throat looking suspicious as if he got caught doing something he shouldn't. His relaxed and calm demeanor shifts into a tight smile and straight posture. "Hey, uhm. What are you doing here?" His eyes looking around your face instead of by your eyes. He's avoiding eye contact.

"The real question is, what are you doing here?" You cackle a little. You really disliked when Jaemin smoked, or seemed tensed by your presence. It always felt like he gave off the impression that truly he was forcing a personality upon himself just to impress you. And you didn't like that, because you married him just because of who he was. The sweet humbled son of a baker. Not whatever false persona he put in between you and him. "I was looking everywhere for you?

"Why didn't you just call?" He clears his throat, trying to step back from you to avoid you smelling his scent. But you smell even through your eyes. "I would've come to you when you finished with your colleagues."

Holding in your breath, you breathe out through your mouth not being able to stand the smell, but you have to, because he's looking just as guilty and almost sorry for smoking. "I just wanted to see you. Thanks for coming to support me," You get down to the matter, regardless of the situation.

"Oh, anytime." He smiles, relaxing a bit. You notice as his shoulders loosen up a bit and a pure little smile coats his face. "I really love seeing you do your work. Your passion flows out of your eyes and it's cool that you guys have been working on that robot for such a long time. It looked really cool," Jaemin gives his feedback, and a few things he found interesting. Thankfully you walk alongside him as you both get out of the parking space and move onto the resting lounge. With his guest access card, you're only allowed to be by the lounge, however as Jaemin is your husband you guide him to your office for a bit more… privacy.

"Hey, I'm sorry for smoking,"

You're surprised that he's even apologizing. "No, no, babe it's okay. I mean," Biting your lip you shrug your shoulders a bit. "I hate that your life capacity is decreasing by the second. But you don't have to apologize about that,"

Jaemin, after a long few seconds merely nods and hums out once. You always avoided staring long into his eyes, because he hated it when he felt that you were using your 'psychology powers' on him. However just by taking note of his response and demeanour it doesn't even need a qualified psychologist or heck even a higher schooler to tell that this man has been holding in a lot of things. And for you, despite being a pioneer, well-spoken and firmly assertive in the kindest way possible at work, with Jaemin as your husband, things always felt different. You couldn't be the 'man' taking charge… you had to be the woman… patient and gentle with him, not… forceful and constantly dwelling in anger that he kept his feelings to himself. You had to be… all sufficient for him.

"Can you at least talk to me?" You calmly snap. "Why do you look so… down?"

He doesn't even look bothered as he rubs his hands with his gaze turning to the ground. "I'm okay."

"Jaemi-"

"Baby just relax. Today is your day and I don't want you to be all worked up on me. You've got a whole pantry of people- clients all wanting to speak to you about your robot project," Jaemin is quick to stop you from even speaking. He gets up rolling his eyes with half a chuckle cussing to himself. "I came to support you because I had an opening, but I think I'm just going to go back to work. Try to enjoy your event. I'll see you at home."

You zone out when he walks out the door and away without even kissing or hugging you goodbye. Folding your arms as you think of nothing else but Jaemin, and how quiet it'll be when you get home.

"Just another day in a married woman's life." You tightly confess looking at the wedding band around your finger.

Is this all really worth it? You hate how he's got you on your tippy toes not knowing whether the conversation or ride in this marriage will go smooth or sour within a second.

2 Weeks later

The project has been approved. Walking collectively in your lab coat and symbolic mini clucking heels, you surely create an impression upon entering the enlarged section dedicated to the full launched program for the prototype M.A.N. You're greeted just as much as you pass your own greetings to the other dedicated workers- all this while getting a tour of your new temporary department. With your work bag over your shoulder and some folders in your grasp you listen attentively as Jeno shows you around the lab.

He's more eager then you are, as he's holding onto two of your rolling bags, while enthusiastically introducing you to all the workers in this department. For some reason, as Jeno confirmed it, there seems to be a strong mutually positive work force amongst the employees as they've got the assurance that a senior like yourself will be working with them… even though there are a bunch of other seniors on the project, having you is special. As your father was once widely skilled and highly respected. Even though you've escape the nepotism allegations, a part of it still lingers… But obviously your work stands out and no one can say that you're here because of your father.

All you can do is smile and politely giggle. You feel flattered, but as soon as Jeno settles you in his enlarged joint office and makes you comfortable on your side of the office in your work area…. your face changes to being serious for work. Even Jeno is impressed when watching you set up your gadgets and placing all your work books on the desk. After about some hours of setting up and getting the rundown of how Project M47 5 is doing, together with the user experience team, you set up dates on calendars for different departments and various sectors to touch on, as well as observe the charts of the plans in preparations for the start of this project, time goes by so fast on your first day of the project that you don't even keep track of time when it finally reaches 6 p.m.

"It's 6." Jeno takes it upon himself to be an alarm.

You glance up from your side looking to him and then the clock. "Already? So quick?" You question being stunned. Taking off your eye glasses and rubbing your eye before stretching your head around. "We didn't get the MD connect results?"

"Yeah, we'll get them tomorrow. It's 2 minutes past work hours." Jeno confirms and you chuckle getting your reading glasses back on your face.

"In that case, I'll see you tomorrow hot shot. I'll stay a little longer."

Jeno smirks raising his brows as he packs up. He walks behind your seat holding onto your shoulders. Allowing you to heave in a breath by his light massage. "Thanks again. I really appreciate you being here with me, for the team."

"Jeno," You call teasingly, but try not to moan out when he stretches your shoulders in just the right way giving you a firm massage. "I'm here for Project M47 5, not you or the team." You joke causing him to run his hands slightly down your shoulders.

"You're such a tease,"

With that, he's out of the office after you bid him a goodnight. You further continue your analyses conduct research to process the evaluation of Project M47 5 and interpreting the information to make an informed decision in tomorrow's gathering. You get the MD connect results and finalize everything. Hm, already your first day and you're expected to present the facts of what you've seen from a seniors standing point. Well this should be fun.

As you carry on working you pay no notice to the outside office activities of people leaving and lights turning off- you are however alarmed when a tiny squeak leaves someone's lips. It's a male janitor. "Oh I apologize, I thought everyone had left." Checking the time again, you're unfazed at the time. It's past 10 pm, almost going to 11. This should be normal, but it's then you notice how your lamp is the only one on. You get up and move to the window which had an outside view of the below offices in the same department as yours, and surely all the viewable offices are in darkness.

"Oh," You awkwardly smile when turning to the janitor. "I didn't even notice the time. I'll pack up soon,"

You're stunned that you don't feel too tired, you're aware of the energy bursting all over you and you're just so excited to be hands on deck with the project and actually building this humanoid robot. But seeing the emptiness has you feeling slightly angry. In your previous departments 10 p.m. was still considered as 5 p.m. there's still so much to do.

While packing up and leaving the upstairs office, you take initiative to visit the humanoid robot to see it's statistics further… "Just one more analysis and I'll go home." You try to convince yourself as you enter into the enclosed lab, only permitting members of the staff in the department. The room is obviously large… but aside from the board with marker notes, another bulletin board with important documents plastered on it, some desks with monitors, a full body capsule and machines, you're surprised that the room is empty. You guess everyone really takes it seriously to leave at 6… Not even a single soul, but you surely know that outside this department, in the building there's still people around. Those were your people once, now you're in a new department. Unfortunately in this new department they don't know you, aside from your friendly smile. You'll insert that drive into them… by force if you have to. They can't leave so early.

The humanoid is in it's full body capsule. You take cautious steps closer to the machine that's running with blue clear water and the robot inside. You take note that the water keeps the skin cool and healthy… A lot of modifications still need to be done because humans don't sleep in water. Aside from that, it looks so peaceful as it's 'sleeping' as if it's a human.

You're startled when it's eyes flatter open. Your own eyes widen as you stand back watching the water decrease within the capsule. It seems to acknowledge presence when you're standing to close to the capsule. Steamed air fogs up the clear glass as the shut door makes a 'psshhh' sound allowing the air to escape. From the foggy air that leaves the capsule you watch as bare feet step out of the machine and as the fog clears up, it only takes the humanoid robot 5 steps to reach you. It heaves in a deep breath before a friendly smile engulfs its face.

Instantly being activated, it's eyes unlike last time are a… a dark brown look to you and you're gobsmacked by how natural it looks. However just like last time it's in black boxers and nothing else. Revealing its upper body. Its body is cool down by the light moisture of wet drops fading into the pores of its skin caused by the fog heating him up. It's hair over its forehead partially damp.

"Good evening Doctor Na. It's a surprise seeing you at this time." You're shocked, by the demeanour in which it communicates to you, as this time, it doesn't sound so robotic… but more human, more male with a pitch slightly high yet low. And you have to admit that it does suit it's face… it sounds like Min-hyung, but so much more mature and older. Minhyun would’ve been 30 if he were still alive. But… this robot is like a vampire stuck at age 24. What's more strange- "Are you seeking companionship?"

Your eyes widen. "Companion- Pardon me? What? God no," You flatter and ramble being in shock of what it just said chortling in surprise. But you quickly catch yourself. "Sorry. I'm a bit tired."

"Your vitals show that you are highly awake and energetic."

You chuckle a little, being marvelled. "Wow, well…" You're stunned. "I was leaving to head home, but I just wanted to check some analysis reports on you. That's why I've got so much energy." The last part you state at just how much surprise you have in his voice. It's almost like a blast from the past… You can almost hear your 19 year old self listening to the charismatic laugh of the young boy.

"You're energized to work on me." It sums up looking delighted. You're truly impressed with how expressive it's features are.

"I am." You nod your head, tilting your head to look at it some more. It stands out. It looks like a human being. "Care to give me a rundown of your activities?"

It takes some steps to a table. It idly sits on the chair. It's posture straight, back turned to you with it's face positioned forward to an overhead projector. You notice that displaying on the screen is feed… All binary numbers in green code:

'1000011 1101000 1100001 1101101 1110000 1101001 1101111 1101110 100000 1110100 1101000 1100101 100000 1101000 1110101 1101101 1100001 1101110 100000 1100010 1100101 1101001 1101110 1100111’

"What does that translate too?" You question.

"It translates to, champion the human being."

Moving forward- you pick up a chair taking a seat next to it and placing your hands on the desk you gaze at it. "Is this what they leave you with every evening?"

"Yes, codes of ethics to recite. A hypno to remember not to go rogue."

"Smart of them," You acknowledge. "Does it work?"

"Certainly. Every morning I maintain a positive attitude to being open to learn and champion the human being." You nod your head. "How are you doing this evening Doctor Na. I believe today was your first day with the team." They must've inserted a personalized voice speaker… or altered something to make him- it… to make it sound so unique, so humanly. So good and friendly, like the original voice holder.

Deciding to actually communicate with it, you turn your body to it. "I'm actually not fine."

"Why is that?" It questions with furrowed brows. "Am I not pleasing to you?"

"You are pleasing to me." You quickly clarify being astonished by its moods. "I mean, I enjoy working on you so far, behind the scenes. But I was actually upset about how nobody is here in the office with you."

"Thankfully I don't experience feelings of loneliness, so rest assured that I am doing well. When it comes to the other doctors and scientists, the human mind is at best and full functioning with 8 hours of sleep. Anymore or less will only cause a human to be restless or having imbalanced emotions of depression. I suggest you also take leave now so that you may rest up well."

You nod your head finding it so interesting how it communicates. As if it already has its own personality.

"With the way you talk, you might make me just stay," you compliment but state honestly. "But I can't rest assured because I don't like how lonely it looks in here. How do you feel about that?"

"Loneliness is not the state of mind I'm in. Rather I'm content being in your presence. I would feel lonely if no one paid attention to my modifications. Once again, I am content that you are here." You smile at its response, it sounds so formal in its speech. "My activities include my 8 a.m. morning routine of waking up and greeting the present doctors. I check up my schedule with the team, which consists of various code testing. They test my response to feelings, moving and thinking. 10 a.m. I'm given a simulation of how humans respond to situations. Mid-day, 12 p.m. I take a productive break by studying or learning matrix, hex, binary templates. 1 p.m. I'm back in the lab for my tests and new implants, improvements. By 3 p.m. I report the new changes and enhancements done to me and 5 p.m. I am given a moment to eat and 6 p.m. I say goodnight to the doctors. 8 p.m. I rest and sleep."

"Hm." You nod approvingly. "What do you eat?"

"Not solid food for sure." You laugh at its attempt to a joke.

"It's actually great that you get the concept of a routine activity. One thing that makes a human a human is the constant survival. In the sense that I could die tonight and never exist again, however I'm given a chance to wake up again and do something new. Hence the routine. Don't mind me chattering about things outside of work."

"I don't mind at all, as you speak I take note of your personality type and how I may respond."

"Like a simulation," you acknowledge. "Alright, let's test it out before I go."

"I wouldn't mind, however wouldn't this cause a strain with your husband?

You're shocked by its sudden question and are thrown off guard. "My husband?"

"Project M47 5 senses high level of stress from the priority of your husband, work and financial statistics, which is quite stunning considering your position and level of work."

"Over stepping much?" You chuckle, you ignore it's concerning with Jaemin and continue chatting to it. "Uhm, okay, let's just restart that whole process again, and instead of a simulation pretend that you're at least talking to a human being? Good afternoon Project M47 5, how are you?"

"Good afternoon, I'm ready and here to help you. How about you?"

You hum out. "Hm, I'm actually concerned."

"Project M47 5 has not yet been coded with layers of feelings, kindly state what's your concern, is there any way that I can help?"

You smile. "That's wonderful to hear, however, I don't like that answer."

A visible frown forms on its face as it stiffly tilts its head deeply pondering or reminiscing on its answer. "You dislike the answer I have given? Why?"

"Thank you for asking." You add with care. "I dislike your answer because it's not reflecting why you were created."

"What do you mean by that Doctor Na? Project M47 5 was created as a-"

"Sorry to interrupt you. Can I answer that by asking you a question? It's in regards to your origin and real purpose. Do you know why you were made?"

You find it fascinating how it's response structure changes when it pretends that it's in a simulation- meanwhile before that, he held a perfect conversation. "Project M47 5's intended purpose is to bridge the gap between machinery and humans."

"Interesting that you mention that, machinery as well as human." You express moving your hands as well as using different pitches to convey your message. "May I ask, would you say that humans feel feelings?"

"They do."

"And machines don't."

"That is correct."

"However with your creation, what are we as NCTO trying to achieve?" You ask again, but this time unlike the fast response it's used to giving you stop it. "And this time I want you to structure your brain, as though you were a human, not a piece of machine. What are we as humans trying to achieve from you?"

"Humans create humanoids, machinery and robots for several key reasons being, efficiency, productivity, safety, assistance, research… innovation…" It slows down just as you purposely display your disappointed expression. "You are displeased with my answer again. Give me a second chance."

"Okay." You're impressed with how quick it is to read your emotions. "A hint, is how you talk. Just before our practice simulation, you were perfectly discussing matters with me by personalizing your sentences. Personify everything you say, such as I'm feeling this, or I don't like this or I am this and that."

This time it redirects it's thinking and it even faces you. "Humans created humanoids for- I was created for the purpose of uncovering what it means to be a human M.A.N. which is modified, altered, network."

"I'll take that. We can stop the simulation here for tonight," You answer when seeing uncertainty in it's eyes. This is how you challenge the robot in its thinking style. Small little things make people feel uncomfortable, and if you can do that as well for a machine, you'll be successful in creating stepping stones to know what to touch based on when it comes to it's emotions. "Not bad, your simulation practice round is okay. However I noticed a subtle difference to you thinking it's a simulation, then when you talk normally."

"Is Project 47 5 not pleasing?"

"Not in the slightest. You are now a living man." You get up being pleased with the little conversation you've had with it. "I know this is weird but, can I give you a name? How about I give you until tomorrow to come up with a name and then-"

"Robo, or even Bot."

You lean in close. "Sorry what?"

"A common robot name is Robo or Bot. Other poplar names include C-3PO, WALL-E or even Optimus."

You try to maintain your laugh at the name: "Optimus 3000. No, how about a more human like name."

"Some more human-like names for robots include 'Adam', 'Eva', 'Sam' and 'Ava'. These names give a more relatable, human touch to a robotic character."

You shrug. "I'm not arguing with those names but for you, what would you prefer? Let me tell you something about names. The meaning of a name is like your whole destiny. If a child is given the name Cain for example, in history the name translated to craftsman, but it’s more infamous for killer, because the original Cain killed his brother, then you best believe that a child with that name might inherit a liking for killing. A name can vary widely depending on cultural, linguistic, and historical contexts. Names often carry specific meanings related to qualities, attributes, or significant concepts. For example, some names may mean "brave," "joyful," or "gift from God." Additionally, names can be tied to family heritage, traditions, or notable figures, reflecting personal or cultural identity. If you have a specific name in mind, I can provide more detailed information about its meaning and origin."

“The name Aaron sounds peculiar. What does it mean?”

It goes through a bunch of names, seemingly popular names from 'A' to 'Z'. You’re actually surprised at how eager it is to have a name. It also seems thoughtful when considering names.

"How about the name Min-hyung?" It questions. Even the way it says the name… You look at him for a long while. Now that's a blast from the past. "It's a spontaneous, generous and magnetic personality,"

You spend a good time sifting through names, but you almost freeze when hearing that name. Min-hyung. Of all ‘M’ names… "It's good, but it feels too human for you." That’s because a robot can’t take the place of how precious Min-hyung was.

"How about it's English counterpart, Mark?" It asks. "With meaning as powerful as strength and Leadership. Given its association with Mars and historical figures, the name "Mark" often symbolizes strength, leadership, and courage. I would like a name that carries connotations of reliability, strength, and timelessness."

"I like Mark." You nod licking your dry lips. "How about you… Mark. Do you like it?"

"Mark." It tests the name of it's tongue. "I am Mark. Hello my name is Mark. I am Mark from NCTO. First humanoid robot project. Mark."

"You'll definitely leave a mark, Mark." You grin brightly, pleased at the name and how familiar it seems when he's being addressed with it.

"Would I need to produce a surname as well?"

"Not necessarily. Either way, Mark seems to suit you very cleanly. Tell me how are you feeling. Regarding this experiment we've trailed you for. And don't tell me you don't feel anything. I want you to tap into… Your human side. Pretend like you've got one at least. From everything you know about us, I'm sure you can generate something again."

"I feel good that you are on the project. No one has ever come after hours at 11 p.m. to speak to me and give me a name. Treating me not only as a manner of code, but as though I am a human."

You smile again. "Because you are. You're different from us all, but still are on of us. So, Mark." You use his name formally. "I want you to live up to your name, as the perfect M.A.N that this company has ever created."

"With your help, I most certainly will live up to it's potential."

"That's what I like to hear," you find yourself shaking hands with it. "Thank you Mark. Alright it's getting late. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you Doctor. Have a good night and sleep tight."

"You too."

_

"So how was your first day on the project?" Jaemin asks after you both finish compiling platters of food on the dining table. Despite the time being 1 a.m. Jaemin woke up to prepare the food he left in the microwave for you. You're grateful but feel guilty especially when seeing his eye bags. The table looks lively with various colours of food. "Did you like it?" His raspy voice questions. He fixes up some perilla leaves and meat that he already chopped up and with his chopsticks, he places it by your mouth.

You smile when getting a big bite of the entire meal straight into your mouth. You compliment with a light hum of approval before covering your mouth so that you can answer. "Let's just say a lot of things have to change. In terms of how each and every person is approaching this project. They were thrilled to see me and I was pleased with the level that the project is at, but the thought of how lacking and distant it is, is what sits at the top of my mind. They're not doing enough, and I want for them to do a lot."

Jaemin nods his head, "Well after seeing that robot first time weeks ago, all I can say is that it resembled a human so well. A bit odd looking with sharp jaw structures but it was solidly neat." he carries on eating.

"Babe." You gulp and swallow your food. "Would you like to come to the office sometime this week?"

He raises a brow. "Why?"

"You know Dr Lee Jeno?"

"How could I not," Jaemin mumbles, allowing you to continue as he stuffs his mouth.

"Well I had a chat with the robot tonight, we even came up with a name, Mark. And aside from the masculine and quick answers, I think it needs a more modern touch to it. Instead of aa scientific touch. I think it needs to spend a lot of time with normal human beings. We call it a steering test. Basically you’ll interact with it and determine whether it’s a human or not. Since you already know it’s a machine, you could come in and talk to it, and in the end you tell me how human the conversation, or how A.I it was. Tonight I spoke to it… Him as though I was speaking to a human and I noticed that when I pretended to do a simulation, it also changed it's character. But after tonight, I see a vision for it, and I just want to accomplish it. Do you understand?"

"You can't dominate over the robot."

Jaemins tone and answer brings you back to focus on him. "That's not what I meant-"

"It’s what you’re trying to do though. Trying to mould him to become like Min-hyung.”

Your shoulders sag as you retract your words. "Jaemin I didn't even mean it like that. I didn’t even mention Min-hyung-"

"Just eat your food."

“Excuse me?”

“Eat.” You and him have a stare down. “I won’t say it again.” The mood on the table turns sour as you both quietly eat. He tries feeding you again, and you eat it still being so upset. Why is it that you always feel like he manipulates and twists your words? When in reality you just want him to… Support you. Is that too hard to ask for?

Washing the dishes, packing away food and washing up before you get on the bed, Jaemin has his lamp off but he's awake waiting for you. You get on the bed and turn the other way switching off your lamp… But it doesn't mean he's in a tired mood. He shifts close to you and kisses your neck. You inwardly roll your eyes and try not to scoff out loud allowing him to do what he wants… But as his hands go over your legs and in between your thighs you break it up. "I'm not in the mood. I'm tired and just want to sleep."

"Come on. You don't even have to do anything, let me make you feel good." his hands trace over your core while his other hand squeeze underneath you to touch your boob. He's panting and touching you, pressing his body so close to you that you feel his hard manhood. Still with your back turned to him, he removes your pants and underwear and draws your leg up allowing his fingers to stimulate over your core. Even though you're not in the mood, your core gets wet against your will and you find yourself slowly getting interested… But you're still upset and moody, so your toes curl in ecstasy when he slips his member in you. You moan out and shut your eyes just as he continues to kiss your neck and earlobe while thrusting in you heavily. He unbuttons you pajama shirt allowing your boobs to be set free.

After some point you’re turned off even though you're moaning fakely and forcefully, Jaemin is like a dog in heat. He reaches his high while you're still left flat. Another night, another fake orgasm. When he's done he smiles and laughs, talking to you but you're zoned out. "I need to take a shower." You go and bath hoping that when you're finished he'll be asleep. But no. He's still awake, waiting for you. You get on the bed still with your back to him, while he cuddles with you.

"I love you."

"You too. Night." You shut off.

"Why are you always like this?"

"Jaemin I just wanna sleep-

"We just made love and you look so uninterested and unboth-"

"What more do you want from me? I gave you sex and you still want to complain?" And just like that, like every other night a petty little quarrel breaks between you and him. This time however you place your pillow over your head and ignore him.

You can already feel the anger when you wake up in the morning. You’re grouchy. Very tired and irritated.

"My findings on the project M47 5 humanoid robot Mark, is very disappointing. Considering the time frame, it's improvements are truly impressive yet so disappointing."

It's 9h30 a.m. and the meeting with your new department already has everybody in stiff moods. You don’t even have to see it on their faces, the whole enlarged room is heavy. You're cranky and feel so moody so you continue with your findings.

"While I commend everyone for producing such firm and solid results contributing the prototype alive and moving, I must say the approach to execute a finished result seems to be lacking. I found that 2 years was a reasonable amount of time to complete this project. But what we see is a project that should be finished within a year, being finished over 14 years because everyone prefers to leave at 6 p.m. and enter the building at 9 a.m., there are way too many breaks, for crying out loud why would you need 4 breaks with 1 hour each? It's pointless because the amount of work being drilled into the humanoid is insufficient. I spoke to the prototype yesterday and found that its activities are inadequate for the work we're trying to produce and it made me realize why I'm a senior and the rest of you of you are still below authority. Should I be the one to do everything by myself? The MD connect results show a drop-in development. At this point all the statistics I saw were just being a loop of the same sentence but differently executed countless of times. Which makes me believe that everyone here is truly lazy and lacks innovation." You read from your cue sheet…

finding the words too harsh, especially when looking to the deflated and slightly confused and angered staff. You decide to throw in your own words.

"But then again, I wrote this without having my early morning coffee and I feel so fucking cranky. I think you can all tell. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and I think Doctor Jeno wants to sleep with me."

Your comment has some chuckles, smiles and stressed smiles appearing as well as relaxation sipping into everyone's shoulders. Your objective in life has never been to be a harsh leader. You earned your spot here through sincere understanding of how frustrating it is to build something from the ground up. So you can understand where they’re lacking and even why, but you make sure to let them know that you need their focus on how why they are even working here in the first place.

"Okay look." You place your notes down just deciding to freestyle, because if you have to finish that speech you'll definitely make everyone upset. "Truth is we've been given a reasonable amount of time to finish this. Our sponsors need quality when the deadline is due, and what I saw so far had me worried. We're too slow when we need to be working with speed. Hence forth I need to reassign divisions and monitor all progress made. We are on the right path, but we need correct people in place. I don’t want to replace anyone, I’m quite happy with the team, but I need leaders to step up. Renjun I’m putting you on duty for his micro expressions, very well done on his expressions, I am still impressed by it. I actually think it’s fucking awesome how he looks like Min-hyung, but respects to the dead, let’s make him original, with his own name, Mark, and his own personality. Understood?” Renjun nods his head looking marvelled and astonished by the sudden promotion. “Yuta I need you to step down into capsule maintenance, is there a reason why he should be sleeping in a capsule? I need reports and structure on everything regarding that capsule, can you do that?”

“Certainly.”

“Jisung, I know you’re an intern but I need you to rush into what is required of you, we’re not paying you to fetch coffee. I don’t want to see you walking up and down doing mundane tasks. It seems like your advisors are a bit lazy, so if you’re looking for what to do come to me.” You throw a little jab at the said advisors, before turning to the next person. “Kun, fantastic work, but I hate your team and consistent breaks. If you don’t sort that out, they’re all going and you’ll work all on your own. Because you’re working hard, pulling all the strings, but its supposed to be a team effort. Karina and Giselle, same goes for you, I see a lot of this-” Your hands flap imitating talking lips. “Instead of working. Aside from me, you’re the only females on the team, can you represent instead of always talking. Just like I said to Jisung, if you have no work come to me. What I'd expect from each and everyone of us is excitement to build this humanoid robot. Last night before leaving I spoke to him. If you’ve noticed, I started to call it a him now, and together we came up with a name. Mark. I was able to catch on a few defects that I feel needs our attention and aside from that, there's loads more that we need to do. But for now, I’d like a rundown of his activities for this month all on my desk before the next hour."

Your speech goes on as you talk to each team and division equally with solutions and how you want a report back session. Thankfully there is cooperation in the room and ideas are sprung around before everyone gets the slight push and motivation to work… that’s what you think, truly you know they’re already gonna hate you.

“And what about me?” Jeno’s smirk catches your attention.

“I should be working under you, but it seems like I’m the one wearing the pants. Meeting adjourned.” You walk up the stairs instead of using the elevator. Jeno is not far behind you, shooting his shot as usual.

"I'm assuming your husband does the worst job in pleasing you,"

You roll your eyes and continue going up the steps reminding him that you have work to do. Jeno's comment has you avoiding any eye contact once you get in the office. You walk to your desk removing your coat. You notice how he stands in one place simply watching you. You don't entertain him as you slide your glasses on your face starting your work. Laptop and notepad open to some record sheets as you put in the new values of data that you have to experiment on.

"You know-"

"If it's about my husband, don't start. It's none of your business."

"I'm offering you an amazing time-"

"You seem to be forgetting we're at work."

"So? You put my secret on blast that I want to sleep with you." You catch sight by the corner of your eye as he moves closer to your desk before he disappears behind you. You feel tense as your shoulders are held firmly within his grip… before they begin to massage you softly.

"Jeno you've got yourself in a dangerous zone when you allow your penis to think for you?"

He chortles. "It's written all over your face that you want me," Jeno comments.

"For your sake I hope you're joking. I've never given you such an impression."

He chuckles and rubs your shoulders. "That's because your head is stuck in someone's ass- I'm playing.” He chuckles when you attempt to move. “Look, all I'm saying is that you're someone who shouldn't be stressing. You're in a high position, you deserve high attention, not some mediocre-"

"Jeno-"

"I'm just a name away if you reconsider." He states and leans down to see your face. "I could do a pretty good job in satisfying you." He disappears from your desk and takes a seat on his table also managing some sheets of paper. He gets up and grabs a maker displaying his numbers on the board. "Tell me does this look right?"

Working closely to Jeno will seem to have it's challenges, but it doesn't hinder the fact that he's incredibly smart. Hence the fact that you need to create boundaries and keep the 'mystery' of yourself alive.

"So, what do you think, we can go and pay 'Mark' a visit and you can see if it's a good implement?" Jeno encourages and you both walk to the lab. Thankfully there are people there testing his endurance when it comes to holding in his breath. "What we're trying to do here is give it an artificial breath. It's already programmed to live but the key thing that makes us human is being able to breathe. Just like a chess game, it knows how to put up a game, but it’s important aspect is that it knows that it’s playing a game. With Mark, does he know that he’s alive and breathing?"

"I understand that." As you stand on the side lines watching how they configure his testing out the new implements… you take a brief notice that he… Mark peeks at you once in a while. Of course, he's probably wondering if you're going to engage with the other scientist, but you don't. You simply watch. After Jeno gets the feedback report- you and him leave the lab- but you look over your shoulder feeling a stare on you, and it's from Mark.

"By estimation, paired with these results we can get this done with 1-2 months. And then we can move to the next part, which I feel would be more complicated." Jeno states. "I know what you're thinking, what would be more difficult then breathing?"

You wait for his answers.

"Living." He answers. "He's already differing from various personalities and what he quote on quote likes, but it's important that he develops his own personality. Basically he needs to be aware that he is a machine impersonating a human. Come with me, let me show you your dad’s notes.”

Entering in a secluded basement, you’re surprised by the various rooms down here. There’s a door that has your fathers name on it, Lee Taeyong. Using his access card, Jeno enters the room. “Your dad was brilliant, and it makes sense why Min-hyung loved cooping himself and cramping himself in this tiny room. At the time we were both handpicked interns by your dad. So we, along with JB were the only ones allowed to enter this room.”

The room is dark and looks small, a vivid image comes to the front of your mind when you remember at the age of 10 your father brought you in here. By that time Min-hyung wasn’t his intern, it was just you and your work obsessed father. “Where are the lights?”

“Here.” When the lights turn on, the room is a bright neon blue colour that it takes you a few eye blinks to adjust. You watch as if everything comes alive. The walls with plastered yellow and pink sticky notes and invisible blue ink coat all over on the marker board. The stacks of books laying on a table closer to the wall that has one lamp and a bunch of testing equipment. On several of shelves there’s glass containers, cylinders with greenish water and floating things. Those questionable things in the water is what should be getting your attention, yet a long table in the middle is what gets your attention and you walk closer to it.

“Now this is where the magic happened. I know it’s personal but, your dad cherished Min-hyung, as if he was his own son.” That brings you back to some memories. “So I’m not even surprised that Project 47- I mean… ‘Mark’ looks like that. Like Min-hyung. Wished your dad loved me like that-” You chuckle a little. “Anyway, I brought you in here, just so you can see what JB, Min-hyung and I saw when this project first started. It was Min-hyung’s idea, but your dad brought it to life. We would joke and call it the Frankenstein project.”

You turn to Jeno, surprised to actually here him speak so fondly. Then again he is talking about people who created a great impact in his life. Jeno has a modest smile while looking at the table. Which gets your attention back on the table.

The wide table with blue prints in one corner, a laptop in the middle and several books opened on top of each other, but what gets your attention most is the framed picture on the side, of you and your father. In the picture you’re young of course and so happy to be in his arms. “Hybrid language, systems statistics, human consciousness, high level contractions. The question we had in mind was not what people think about, but rather how they think. How do you think humans think?”

“Humans think. They have impulse. Response to things. They are fluid. Imperfect. Have a pattern. Chaotic.”

“Isn’t that beautiful,”

“It actually isn’t,” You nod your head. “That was everything my father was.”

Jeno simply ignores you… In fact he sees a bit of himself with you. Your father placed you second and his work first, and Jeno can relate because Doctor Lee Taeyong placed him second and Min-hyung first. But unlike you, it didn’t bother Jeno as much. He was used to coming in second. His whole life, he was second, so he understands your reluctance to your father.

“Now everything we’re doing are in these blue prints. What we’ve continued off or hoped this project could led to is in the laptop, and everything outside this lab is modified and new. Examination formats, simulations and actuals, everything analytical is in this room. This is the foundation that your father left behind. When Min-hyung disappeared, I never saw your dad enter this room again. But he was always with this laptop. It’s a very old laptop. A very old piece of tech that we can’t even break into, because if we do all the data will disappear. For the past few years with IT, we’ve tried to get it open. But the stupid password is designed, that after 12 attempts everything will be automatically deleted. I know right, people who know how to alterfy their tech are lunatics. But your dad was crazy like that. The old man and technology were tight.”

“So assuming you’ve attempted to unlock the password, how many tries have you had?”

“10.” Jeno answers. “2 attempts left. And… honestly if we lose everything in here, it won’t make much of a difference, but don’t you think it would be a shame to lose everything in here?”

“It would be.”

“Which is why… I want you to… have it. To try and open it and keep it as a souvenir. Your dad kept logs in here. Min-hyung always said this was his diary. So assuming you manage to get the password, there might be some piece of closure in there for you, because I notice you call him ‘father’ instead of ‘dad’. And I still remember when you started working here, you’d try to get his attention… but it was never reciprocated. And after he passed, you never spoke about him ever again. But I know your dad, he told us some pretty crazy stories about you,”

You scoff and shake your head.

“I’m serious. You once made a toilet seat that could automatically read which gender is entering the bathroom. Your dad stated that because sometimes he didn’t cut his hair, the toilet seat would refuse to go up. And one time, this huge pipe just stuck out of the toilet and tried to suck in his clothes thinking it was poop-” Jeno begins chuckling while you try to hide your giggle. “I’ll always remember that one because both your dad and Min-hyung experienced it. Min-hyung was always eager to see what was new and created around the house, because as he said, since your dad was hardly around, you used the house as your lab to create. He loved that about you. How far would your mind go. Here. I want you to take it, also because I really believe you can open it. And if you do and you keep it as a souvenir, please remember that anything useful for us-”

“I don’t really want it and like you said it doesn’t really make a difference with what we’re doing now. I doubt there’s any sentimental to it, aside from it being a work possession. Let’s get back to work and follow the plans we have now. I’d actually like to see these blueprints.” You suddenly turn so cold, picking up the blueprints and manuscripts to the project.

“Rude much.”

“I’m not being rude, I’m just setting boundaries between work and whatever you’re on about.”

“Okay.” Jeno nods his head with his eyes enlarged. “Burn, I get it. You hate your dad.” Also returning to his cocky nature. “I guess your desk awaits you.”

You want to apologize, but you’re already so warped into being moody today. Work takes a toll on you again and even after Jeno mentions it's 6- you don't budge from your station. He announces it's 7 and that he's leaving and you bid him goodbye. Feeling somewhat satisfied that he's leaving a little late. Jaemin sends you an apology text but you're focused on ignoring him and allowing your mind to be elsewhere instead of on him, because you can already guess how he wants to make up. And you're just tired and not feeling it. You don't have the energy for him right now.

You actually feel drained.

-

"Good evening Doctor Na." Out of all places to go, you find yourself in the empty lab of the prototype Mark. Right now, he's better company then any human… Maybe because he reminds you of Min-hyung. Hearing Jeno say all of those things, you actually do feel touched that your dad as well as Min-hyung spoke about you kindly. You’ve never actually sat down and spoken to Min-hyung, he would only bounce around and tease or bother you, it was never a 1 on 1. But with Mark… you’re comfortable enough to approach him and have a one on one.

"Hi Mark," You smile gently with a notebook in your hand. "How are you?"

"There's nothing to complain about, hence I am well." He responds moderately and you can hear the adjustments that they were working on this morning, as he looks less uncanny in his sincere emotions.

"That's good to hear." You nod your head moving closer to his pod and recording the report data present. Typing it into your tablet you peek at him, as his posture is focused on you. "Don't mind me, I'm just gathering evidence. Covering my ass with copies of everything."

"I am distressed about your wellbeing today,"

"Oh really? You're distressed about my well being?" A thoughtful smile coats your face as you acknowledge how he speaks out of turn yet is curious about your emotions.

"You showed high levels of stress this morning at the status meeting as well as this evening when showing up for my tests. Yet I was astonished at how well you managed to look blank."

"It comes with practice." You state nonchalantly.

Even though you are done and are about to leave, something pushes you to actually sit down next to him on the table he's 'learning' and reading matrix signals from.

"Why aren't you in your pod?"

"Doctor Yuta stated that I don’t have to sleep in the pod tonight. He gave me a replication mock-up dose. Tonight I’ll be sleeping outside of my pod.” He smiles allowing you to be content. “Aside from that, I had expectations that you might come."

You stiffly smile at that. "I only came in yesterday, but you're already having expectations?"

"The probability of the outcome was 1 in 3 chances."

"And out of those outcomes you knew that I'd come? How'd you calculate that?"

"When checking statistics, you are part of the 10% of workers who leave the company at this time between 10 to 11 p.m. Yesterday may have been your first visit in the lab, but regarding you senior position and constant analysis of perfection, I assumed you'd come again for a check up or AOD report, which you have. The third outcome, you seemed to be upset about my lack of progression, as well as your own personal matter, hence I thought as a robot designed to be a man, you'd come for a bit of company. I am limited when it comes to providing you with, a shoulder to cry on as they say, however I can provide you with an ear." His predictions are spot on and you can't help but smile at his progression.

"I'm not mad at your lack of progression. In fact, I’m still so impressed, especially with what Jeno showed me this afternoon. Call me selfish or not, but I really want for you to be a success because… I didn’t want to admit this to Jeno, but I do miss my father. So much. I feel like I failed him. That’s why he jumped off a building. But working on you, feels elevating and reviving. If I can make you work, if we can do that… then it’s going to be like… it’s going to make me happy, that I could be a part of what he did. Recognised by him. Even though he’s dead, it’ll feel nice to complete something he started.”

"That's not being selfish,” You turn to Mark. “That is admirable. You have high expectation and high motivation and there's nothing wrong with that. I feel honoured that you're present within the research and the findings. And your father Lee Taeyong is my creator, it would be an honour to have his presence looming in your blood as you work on me." He comments. "However, you're still sad, what seems to be the matter Doctor Na? Why are you still sad?"

"Oh nothing I'm fine." You brush it off getting up.

"You're not showing any signs of being fine."

Diverting your gaze away from the scans displaying on the overhead. But his dark brown honey eyes are already on you attentively. You manage to look back into his eyes and sigh taking a seat again. "If you want me to be honest, I don't want to go home.”

"That much is clear, most people use work as an escape." He informs. "Regarding your case, aside from staying because of work, I assume it has something to do with a personal issue. Your husband,"

“The problem here at work is my father, and at home, it’s my husband. I just don’t want to go home, I just want to keep working… or rather talking to you." You sigh out. "Quick question, yesterday night, you also mentioned the same thing about my husband. Why did you mention him?"

"Doctor Lee Jeno stated that you and your husband have a very straining relationship."

You clutch your jaw. "He did?"

"Yes, and I can also read your vitals. Are you upset?"

You huff and shake your head. "No. I'm perfectly fine."

"The correction error states that you're untruthful about your feelings."

"I forgot you can do that." You mumble. "Correction errors. Hm. I think you met my husband once, not formally, but you did right?"

"Yes."

"Did it look like we were having a straining relationship?" You suddenly ask, feeling slightly insecure. "Actually when you look at someone, at a person, at Jaemin, what do you see exactly- Or what did you see?"

"My reports are able to show me what's already publicly exposed, from his birth, identity in society and how his legal business is doing, marital status. I am unable to scan or read his feelings, but I am able to read the detail on his face through the micro expressions he displays. On the day I encountered your husband, there were certain signs of your relationship being discordance or rather strained. Aside from Doctor Lee openly approaching you in his regards to his feelings, I noted that Mr Na Jaemin had feelings of discomfort as well as stress. Discomfort in seeing me. His face showed signs of stress, the information gathered from his work gave low sales and rating, and as for your relationship, with his enthusiasm being low to see you, while you were quite excited to see him. As of now I see your upset nature regarding the matter. Hence the discordance. Would you want to share what's bothering you?"

You shrug your shoulders. "Seeing Jeno told you about my relationship, I bet a whole bunch of them are already…" You sigh out. "Talking about it."

"If you're feeling stressed, you could get it off your chest. By confiding in me."

After subtly considering it, you nod your head. "Only if you promise not to tell."

"Statics show that it's important to share your feelings with others so that they can help you to the best of their ability and try to understand what you are going through. Keeping things bottled can be unhealthy and could lead to depression if you don't talk to someone."

"Psychology 101." You hum with a little smile knowing your lessons off by heart. "Was that your way of confirming to me that you won't tell."

"I confirm."

You nod your head and think on the situation for a bit, trying to think of how honest you want to be with Mark. "I don’t really love Jaemin.”

You hold your tongue back. Although, already having said what you said, when looking into Mark's eyes you feel no judgement at all from, so you pour out what you're feeling.

"I did in the beginning. But things changed.” You take a deep breathe to control your breathing. "Ever since Min-hyung disappeared, things become strained. Truth is, I only got married to him to get Min-hyung out of my head.”

“Min-hyung was in your head?” You don't expect Mark to respond, you don't even expect him to listen. You just want to distress yourself. But his question, makes you gulp.

“My first crush.” You smile and look at Mark. It feels weird confessing that out loud to a humanoid that looks like him. His eyes stare right back at you.

“Are you feeling shy when looking at me Doctor Na?”

You hold in your breath and blush. “Uhm…” You look away. "Where was I?”

“You loved Min-hyung.”

“Love is a big word.” You smile sadly and think of Jaemin. “It feels so good to just let that out. I don’t love Jaemin. I don’t. Not at all. Not even a little bit. I regret committing to him for the rest of my life. And I've tried asking him if we can book for therapy so that we could fix this, fix me, but he puts the blame on me saying that he's fine in the relationship, if I'm having problems it's because I have wondering eyes and I keep trying to make my relationship like everyone else. Imagine the insanity to that. I don’t love him and I hate that I’m stuck with him.” Your eyes glisten with tears, but you hold them in as you look to Mark and shrug your shoulders. "It's going to go away, and it'll become a problem I can laugh at later on, but I'm tired, I think it'll all go away later on."

You're a senior and you've just poured a personal problem with a robot. How stupid of you.

"I have to go. Hopefully he's asleep when I get home."

"Would you like a hug?" You stop in thought to look at Mark. His hallow empty dark brown eyes show no emotion, but it expresses this kind atmosphere. "Emotional intelligence wise, I know all the answers to your problems according to what's been put into my data Generative Pre-trained data. However, as I am physical and you stated my purpose is to be a living man, a man, I want to know if you need a hug? This isn’t a simulation."

That only makes the glistening tears by your eyes overshadow your eyes as you nod your head. "Emotional support." Getting into the hug, you feel goose bumps crawl up your skin and the iron yet smooth texture of his soft yet stubble skin has you feeling a familiar human touch. His arms, just the right amount of heaviness wrap around you. He squeezes you carefully allowing you to feel his arm. Your face on his chest feels warm and you watch your tear drop roll down his toned chest. "I can't remember the last time I had a proper hug…" Even though the image of Jaemin comes up in your mind of him hugging you slash cuddling you last night, you don't count it as you can't compare it to the warmth your feeling right now.

It feels as though the temperature of his skin also escalates. "Did you increase your body temperature?"

"Should I reduce it?"

"No," You shake your head, enjoying it more then you should. "If anything, you need clothes, but I'm happy like this."

"A generic robot response would me saying; 'I'm sorry you're going through this. If you want to talk more about it, or need support, I'm here to listen. And if you ever feel like you need more help, please consider reaching out to someone you trust or a professional who can offer support.' That's one of my programmed answer. However, sifting through the options that would be suitable for you, a hug seemed to be the best."

You nod your head and sniff. "You must think I'm quite dumb even though I am a psychologist,"

"Not at all." He answers moderately and you're shocked to hear that. "You are my technical and personality supervisor. It's normal to feel overwhelmed by your personal matters, but as long as you say them out loud and find a solution, you'll be able to personalize my monitor feedback to be more real."

“Right.” You nod your head. "So far, you aren't doing a bad job. You're actually a better companion right now." You rest in his embrace for a long while… it's strange that you don't hear a heartbeat but hear the machines wiring around in his system. It's also strange how you don't want to leave him.

“I lied about something.”

“What?”

“I had expectations that you were coming, only because I wanted to ask you a question.”

Listening to how the voice generates from his fuzy chest you nod your head. “That’s fine, you can ask me anything.”

“How do you feel about me?”

..

“Are you attracted to me?”

You breathe out nervously. “Mark it’s only my second time here.”

“You’re not answering the question. You give me indications that you are attracted to me.” His warm voice speaks, and you hear your heart beating in your chest.

“Oh yeah?” You question. “How?”

“The way your eyes, fix on me,” You get off his chest and look at him, trying to see what exactly is going on. His voice even drops to whisper. But it’s his eyes that hold a gleaming… hope in them. “The way you look at my lips. Holding my gaze. Do you think of me when we’re not together?”

Your face is hot and you feel so… “I have to go.”

“I have to sleep.” It also gets up and moves to a chair that is reclined out. You watch it as it settles on the laid back chair. No blanket, no pillow. Just him laying there. You catch his eyes and blush. “Can I ask you one more question?”

You’re still not over the sudden questions he asked you. Yet you nod your head. “Do you want to be my friend?”

A smile grows on your face. “Yes, I guess so.” You answer quietly and the smile returns to it’s face.

“No, I don’t mean testing out my responses and studying me. I mean, do you want to be my friend and go out with me?”

“Project 47 5. I think you need to recharge.” You try to get some sort of composure back in yourself and you pull some boundaries again, not knowing the source of it’s sudden nature and question.

“Right. I hope I haven't ruined your peaceful state."

You smile, a clear smile with happiness behind your eyes, even after feeling so flastered, you think of how he made you feel. "You made me feel so much better. But I think I do have to go now, it's already 11."

"Drive safely Doctor Na."

"I will, good night Mark." A longing grows in you, but you try not to pay attention to it. You watch as the chair turns a light grey colour and feeds begin to display on the little tablet near him. His eyes shut and you nod your head, Yuta enhanced it’s sleeping pattern to be one of rechargeable battery. You leave the lab. Getting in your car and driving on the dark and empty road, you blush when thinking of how warm Mark's body… mechanical body was. "Stupid." You matter to yourself of how stupid you are for thinking of his questions. "I should just stop talking about Min-hyung around him. But It's for research purposes." You try to convince yourself… talking to yourself.

Getting home, you're not surprised to see Jaemin awake. He prepares the food and reluctantly you eat quietly while he talks about his day. "I wanted to apologize." There it is.

"I forgive you, you can just drop it."

"Are you sure about that?"

"100%" You finish eating, get up and go to bed. You don't engage when Jaemin gets on the bed in attempts to get your attention. You ignore him and find yourself sleeping. However… his last question stays in your head… He asked you if you want to be his friend… That was the last question Min-hyung asked you… the last conversation you had with him before he disappeared.

-

“I can’t get in my father’s lab.”

“Pardon?” Jeno looks up from his laptop as you hover his desk upon entering the joint office.

“I was thinking about yesterday and how you told me that it could have sentimental stuff. I figured, okay. I’m ready to forgive my father for years of neglect.”

“I’m sorry, did you mean to say good morning first, or how are you?” Jeno tilts his head still wondering what you’re talking about. “I’m a bit confused here. Speaking of confusion, Doctor Nakamota Yuta was looking for you, he said-”

“Jeno please wake up. I’ll deal with that later. I need to enter that lab, but my access card is denying me access.” You start.

“Oh. That's what you're on about, that’s where you’ve been the whole morning. Okay..” Jeno runs a hand through his hair, understanding. “As of now, it’s only JB and I who have access to that room, but seeing as now you’re interested, I’ll talk to the unit systems and have them-”

"I need to get there now, could I borrow your pass?"

“Borrow my pass?” Jeno's brows furrow. "I'm just gonna start again because clearly this morning I'm a bit late. Good Morning Doctor Na, how are you-"

"Jeno!" You whine and move behind his back with your hands on his shoulder shaking it a little. "Please, if you're thinking it's against the rules to lend access cards, then just know I won't be wondering around doing crazy shit with your keys. Please. I'll just get the laptop and leave,"

Jeno turns back to you holding your gaze before he pats his cheek with his finger. "Popo,"

You roll your eyes before kissing his cheek not thinking twice of the consequences. Jeno on the other hand having you that close your heat on his cheek is beyond over the moon. "Man, you already have me up,"

"Card," you ignore him stifling a smile as he reaches into his pocket handing you his access card. "Besides, what wrong could I possibly do?"

As soon as you say that you feel an irked feeling of something going wrong already happening. And it's when you pass by the lab seeing Mark alone that you curiously wonder in. He's on a table. "Hi Mark,"

"Good morning, how are you doing this morning?"

"I'm well and yourself?"

"Upset."

You furrow your brows moving closer to him. "What's wrong?"

"Why am I not wearing clothes?" The question is valid and has you on realization that he's still in tight shorts. "Why do I have a sexuality? If I'm a robot, why do I need to be assigned a gender role? I dislike simulator tests. I understand I'd need an organ to assist the female reproductive system to produce, but what good is it if I produce artificial semen and cannot ejaculate? What if the test subject female persons is sensitive and gets an infection from the artificial sperm? Would I be considered disabled if I am a man who can't afford to-"

"Hey, hey, hey, calm down Mark," You carefully hold onto his shoulders, and you try to get him to look away from whatever he's sketching… Which is a face… your father’s face. You ignore it and focus on him, he stops drawing and peers at you. "Calm down, we haven't gotten to the point in testing yet-"

"The Vesla Bot model 67 was made in 2024 with the urgency to be friendly, eliminate dangerous, repetitive boring tasks, it’s said appeal as stated by it’s creator Nole Musk, was that this robot would be for humans to engage. The projections of this project would soon be shut down as it was turned into a pervasive perverted sex drone bot. They shut it down. Dr Lee Jeno mentioned that I have an opening which would stimulate pleasure into my drive as I engage in matters pertaining to sex-”

“Mark you aren’t designed to be a sex bot-”

“What will happen to me if I fail your test?”

“Mark-”

“Or be ‘bad’ and have rebel tendencies-”

“Mark please come down.” You get slightly on guard when it stands up giving you a firm stance looking down at you.

“Answer the question, Doctor Na?”

“Look, I don’t know where all this is coming from-” His tight and sudden grip over your arms makes your jump and has you opening your eyes wide. You’re stunned and frozen- you can hear scrambling as well as doctors voices blaring here and there for Mark to calm down- you even see someone touch him but it seems he’s too hot as his body produces steam-

“Do you think I’ll be switched off if I don’t function well? If I produce emotions or feelings of anger like now? What am I to do if I get upset? I certainly don’t wish to be turned off, and I definitely don’t want to turn out like Optimise who became a filthy sex bot for the pleasures and likes of humans-”

“I don’t know the answers of your questions!” You let out, being panicked when his hands get tighter and hotter. “It’s not up to me but I’ll- Mark you’re hurting me-”

“Why is it up to anyone? Shouldn’t I have the right as a man to live?”

“Mark-”

“Do you wake up and have people test you?”

“Mark-”

“Answer the question. Do you wake up and have people test you? Yes or no!”

“No but-”

“So why should I?”

“Hey-”

“Do you have people test you and switch you off?”

“No-”

“Then why do I?”

“Project M47-”

“Do you have people test if you can stimulate orgasms?”

“No-”

“So why should I?”

“Please-”

“Do you have people touching you or wanting to touch you in order to test you?”

“Ma-”

“Why should I be touched? Why should I be tested?!”

“Project m45 7! Shut down!” You hear in the background as you simply just stare wide eyed at the man before producing and expressing so much anger, pent up frustration. Your mind is blank when staring into the eyes of the robot… impersonating human feelings…

“Do you have people thinking you’re dead, calling you another name and testing you?! What am I-” Those are the last of Mark’s words as you see it’s eyes blazing red and close your own turning your head away- however all you hear are your pants along with machines wiring. The hands on your arms loosen and you sneak a peak- the red eyes are still on you, but the machine robot seems to be inactive. You see the other scientist as well as Doctors trying to get it to into the capsule.

“Are you okay?” Jeno own arms are wrapped around you looking concerned. You nod your head, not minding that you’re shaking and breathing out heavily. You try, or rather keep trying to calm yourself down by placing your hand to your chest.

“I just entered the lab. And tried to speak to it- I mean him.”

“Yuta brought me some reports stating that Mark was behaving unintentionally moody after his first night sleeping outside of the pod. I guess this is what he meant. He said something about it being irritable-”

“He can get irritable?” You question.

“It’s not that he can get irritable, it’s just that his code was formulated in such a way to project exact human emotions. As you tasked us to venture for him to sleep outside of the tank, we figured that the reason he sleeps inside is due to the pores in his skin, turns out, as I saw the overnight report statistics, I noticed unusual patterns- if you could just follow me,”

You and Jeno promptly follow, but as you take a look at the few doctors in the room watching the blue liquid fill up, your eyes rest upon the… blue eyes that stare back at you. Getting to Yuta’s cubicle, he shows you his board and laptop monitor screen.

“Oh my god. Are those-”

“No that can’t be.”

“That’s what I said,” Yuta gulps. “But those are actual brain waves. Human brain waves. Last night, he had his first dream. The sleep REM shows that he went even deeper into his sleep entering the non-REM. I was puzzled and opted to go and check it out for myself. I asked him and I was surprised that he lied about it. So, I had no choice but to open him up. Yet to my surprise before I could even touch him, he refused for me to touch him.” Yuta explains. “I tried to get close, but the look he gave me… I wasn’t about to try anything. So I reported it to Doctor Jeno as you weren’t in your office.”

You and Jeno look at each other trying to understand the meaning of this. You then look to Yuta. “I’m sorry, yesterday when I was with him, he said you gave him a replication mock-up dose. What is that?”

“Basically, I didn’t build this pod, Doctor Lee Taeyong, Lee Min-hyung and Lee Jeno built that capsule. It has a certain programming,”

“Jeno?” You turn to him.

“It’s to keep the robot cool, charged, allowing fluids to clean it’s internal components,”

“And something that I think was important, but overlooked it, was it’s connection to it’s brain.” Yuta inputs holding onto the screen to adjust it for his view so that he can show us. “We’ve always assumed that it’s just machinery running in that head, that’s why it’s so well put. However, I was astonished when reading actual brain waves.”

“Brain?” You question in disbelief. “It’s a robot, it can’t have a brain-”

“According to your father it could have a brain, to hold memory and have memory.” Jeno shakes his head mouthing to himself. “And your father came up with a functional substance to hold memories in a secured component. He created this structured jelly jell to store in memories as if it was a brain. I don’t recall the elements he used to make that brain matter.” Jeno sighs and turns to you. “You were looking for the laptop earlier right? I think we have to try our luck and bust into it.”

“Laptop?” Yuta questions and squints his eyes. “This morning, Mark asked a lot of questions that were triggering, such as where Dr Lee was, where the laptop and camera was. Assuming, you’re talking about the same laptop and that Dr Lee is actually Lee Taeyong, then I think… the reason Mark’s ‘brain’ woke up had to be because of sleeping outside of the pod.”

“You’ve got my card, go and get it. I’ll try stabilizing Mark and get him calmed down.”

It’s not even a joke as you run across the 6000 feet building using some back door short cuts to get to the back end door where the basement B3 is filled with underground labs. Using Jeno’s key to access the door, you don’t waste time when setting the laptop inside the laptop bag with the charger and everything. As you pick up the bag, you take sight of another bag in the room. It looks like the standard work bag, but this time it’s full.

You get the dusty backpack on your bag and laptop in your other hand as you walk out the lab shutting it behind you. You smell an odd aroma fixing your eyes on the bag. It’s the bag.

Meanwhile, Jeno carefully sets Mark, the robot, onto his back, ensuring not to damage any of the delicate components. After extracting him from the capsule, Mark looked remarkably like the same person everyone knew. His face, despite the cold metallic sheen, retained a familiar calm expression. Yuta, standing over him, raised an eyebrow.

“I’m suggesting we unscrew his head,” Yuta said, his voice a mix of curiosity and hesitation. “Find the ‘brain’, figure out what happened.” However according to Jeno he wanted to do that last, especially since Mark didn’t seem like a malfunctioning machine anymore. He appeared… normal. As if he were just taking a nap, not in the middle of a technical crisis.

“Have I hurt Doctor Na?”

Jeno puts a hand on Mark’s shoulder, his tone soft but firm. “It’s okay, Mark. She’s fine. We just need to get you fixed up. Do you know what happened? Do you remember anything?”

Mark blinks, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, he speaks, his voice calm and controlled, but laced with an unfamiliar odd tone. “I… I don’t recall much. The last thing I remember… is falling asleep last night.”

Jeno exchanged a glance with Yuta. The answer seemed innocent enough, but there was something unsettling in the way Mark spoke, almost too measured.

For safety, Jeno gently restrained Mark’s arms and legs while Yuta worked to separate the silky strands of hair at the top of Mark’s head. He quickly uncovered a small, gaping hole—where the neural connections to the pod would normally attach. “Mark, we’re going to switch you off for the time being, and will update you on what went wrong. Sit tight.”

Yuta’s fingers hovers over the connection ports. “Vitals look stable,” he mutters, inspecting the readings on his handheld monitor. “Everything’s… the same. So, what caused him to shut down like that?”

Giselle, standing a little too close to the workstation, narrows her eyes. “If you ask me, it was probably Doctor Na who triggered it. Mark’s last memory was falling asleep, right? And who was here last night?” She scoffs, her arms crossing in frustration. “Doctor Na. Pretending like Mark’s a real person. Talking about treating him like a human. What a delusion.”

Karina nods, though she says nothing. Both women exchange a look, and Giselle continues, voice rising.

“She literally confided in him. Told him about her life and her so-called husband. Did she forget that he’s not real? Did she forget that we monitor everything he does? She even hugged him. Honestly, it’s embarrassing. It’s just a robot. But the way she talks to it, you’d think—”

“Those conversations are supposed to be private,” a voice cut in sharply, interrupting her tirade.

Everyone freezes. Jeno glances over at Yuta, whose eyes are glued to the screen, his jaw tense. The voice came from Mark.

Giselle stiffens, and for a moment, it seems like the air in the room has thickened. Mark’s tone was quiet, but there was an edge to it—a hint of sarcasm or amusement that sent an uncomfortable shiver down Giselle’s spine. “What did it just say?”

Jeno gives her a sidelong glance before looking back to Yuta and speaking. “He’s supposed to be offline.”

“He is.” Yuta points to the monitor, but just as he does, the screen flickers. A new feed popping up, its data flowing unnaturally… The room falls silent.

Jeno moves closer to the machine, squinting at the chaotic readings. “This doesn’t make sense. It’s syncing… but he’s supposed to be off.” His fingers hover over the console. “What’s it syncing with? To what?”

“To… himself?” Yuta tilts his head, his voice tight.

“No.” Jeno’s brow furrows as a strange energy surges through the display. “This is the Mark… it’s syncing to the another component inside of him. But… where is this coming from? Mark?” He directs the question to the motionless figure on the table, but Mark does not respond in his usual mechanical tone.

Instead, a voice—eerily calm, yet too precise—spoke up, the words dripping with an unsettling amount of knowledge. “Giselle Kim. Supervisor, Robot Operating Engineering. Master’s in Technical Engineering. A solid paycheck, enough to keep you relevant. High social status, a comfortable life… but a bit too insolent with your senior colleagues. You’ve managed to get where you are by… other means.” Mark pauses for a beat, almost as if savouring the discomfort. “And that 'other means' involved Doctor Kun, didn’t it?”

Giselle staggers back, her face going pale. “What the hell is this?!” She snaps, her voice rising in alarm. “Doctor Kun, make it stop!” Mark continues, as though oblivious to the panic spreading around the room. “You don’t want everyone to know how you slept your way into this position, do you? But hey, maybe it’s more humiliating for you, considering the way you’ve maintained this ‘professional’ persona.” Mark’s tone is amused, almost mocking, and it cut through the room like a knife.

“Enough!” Jeno snaps, stepping forward to override the system. “Project 47 5, stop.” He tries to maintain control, but there is a flicker on the screen as the data continued to flow unnaturally but now faster.

“Doctor Lee Jeno, you’re not one to speak as-”

“That’s enough.” Your voice commands.

Everyone turns as the door opens and you walk in, backpacks in both your hands. Your face is a mask of controlled irritation, but there is something deeper in your eyes. A mix of disbelief at what you see on the screen as you move closer. You set the bags down on the table, not even glancing at the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

You walk over to Mark’s motionless form strapped on the table, your gaze sharp on the monitor screen that Yuta hands over for your viewing. “Maybe you can decipher it. He’s supposed to be switched off but-”

“I’m sorry for hurting you Y/n.” Your eyes blink… to the eyes filled by the robot. That’s the first time you’ve heard him call you by your name instead of your status. “I didn’t mean to go overboard and use my physical strength against you. I don’t even know what came over me. I just felt so angry. I apologize.” Not only the tone changes, but his whole demeanour when explaining the situation has the whole room dead silent as there eyes are now locked on you. You look at Jeno, expecting him to say something but he simply points to the monitor screen.

You squint your eyes at the monitor and walk over to it, not believing your eyes. You fail to see Mark’s eye balls following yours until you’re out of his sight. “It’s okay Mark. I’m alright.” You look at the handheld monitor that Yuta gave you. “But you aren’t.”

“I feel fine. And why do you keep calling me Mark?”

There’s another long pause in the room. A quiet fright arising. Questions being raised simply when looking between everyone’s eyes. You turn around looking down at the head of the robot… of Mark. There goes the question you didn’t want to hear. The question that could confirm a horrible suspicion.

“My name is Min-hyung.” Nobody moves. Nobody even blinks. You don’t even breathe. “I don’t know why I’m strapped on this damn table being examined by people I don’t know. The only person I know here is Jeno, but he’s avoiding my gaze. Must be because I’m wearing underwear right,” The sarcastic chuckle is soft yet is echoes in the room because of how quiet everyone is.

Renjun, the one doctor who had been minding his own business stands up and cautiously moves over to you with a tablet. Your lips get even more dry the moment your eyes feast on the content of the screen. “It has… a conscious? How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Renjun what do you mean you don’t know, you fucking built this?”

“We built the rest of it, it was already made when Senior Director JB brought it to us.” Renjun responds quickly, trying to stay clear of your anger.

“Y/n…” Mark… calls your name quietly in the quiet lab. “May I please see you. Your nerves are spiking everywhere and you’re making me nervous.”

Instead of you walking forward, it’s Jeno who walks on the side view of the… robot. The robot’s eyes immediately follow. “Who am I?”

“Lee Jeno.”

“No.” Jeno shakes his head. “Who am I… to you?” Looking into the eyes of the robot… Jeno sees the vulnerability swapping over.

“The dork… with a big ego.” The eyes a clear hue, the figure built to resemble and impersonate a human. Skin built from course wear fabric. So how is it, that this thing… remembers who Jeno is.

“Fucking hell?” Jeno being struck by shock steps back and shakes his head. “Fucking hell!” He curses a loud covering his whole head. “What the hell is happening? Am I dreaming a horrible nightmare that I can’t wake up from? Am I even awake?” Jeno’s slap to his face has you walking over to him to stop him. “Are we all synchronized to the same crazy dream?”

“Jeno stop hitting yourself. You won’t wake up, this is reality. Now tell me what’s wrong?” Your eyes widen. “What’s happening?”

Renjun steps forward. “Doctor Na what if-”

“You got married. And married… Jaemin. Na Jaemin.” You turn around when hearing Mark speak. He’s not looking at you, but he’s looking above.

“Yuta shut it down.”

Mark’s head turns in your direction. “Don’t.”

But Yuta being just as shocked and almost sick to his stomach taps on the tablet and Mark’s eyes turn red before they close. .. Giselle audibly lets out a choked breath. “Assuming we all have questions, Doctor Na, I believe you need to give us answers.”

“Where’s the laptop?” Jeno questions. His eyes surprising you when you see that it’s slightly red, with moist tears around.

“I’ll let you know, once I myself figure out what the hell we just witnessed.” Your head turns to the laptop and both you and Jeno leave the room, but you turn to the shocked staff.

“Do not activate it.” You warn pointing out a finger. “The disclosure of what just happened should not leave this lab. 1,2,3,4-” You begin to count all the heads in the room. “There’s 9 of you here. Renjun take down everyone’s names and make sure that everyone leaves. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.” Renjun answers.

Getting in your office with Jeno already plugging in the ancient laptop, you drag your rolling chair over as you take a seat being beside Jeno. Jeno shifts his chair aside seemingly letting you know that you have to do what you have to do. “This morning you were eager to get the laptop. What made you change your mind?”

“He asked me a question last night, and I couldn’t get it out of my head.” You answer honestly.” You inhale when the laptop screen displays a black locked screen. The only thing on display is the padlock with a rectangular box where you should put in the password.

“What was the question?”

“Jeno… what do you think is happening right now?” You ask, while trying to process what kind of password your father would put in.

Jeno stays silent, and you can already tell it’s something that he also doesn’t like.

“When I was young, I believed my father had something to do with Min-hyung’s disappearance. And before I could even ask him, he died. Now all this is happening and I only have my father to blame. So maybe you were right, there might be some sentimental to this laptop.” And with that, you type in your first attempt of the password. Your name.

Your heart skips a beat when the ‘incorrect’ sign flashes on the screen. You sigh deeply again, your leg getting jittery as you type the last attempt you have. Without thinking again you type out your mothers name… no caps.

You get a fright when hearing a welcoming sound from the laptop. Your eyes enlarge just as you look to Jeno- who’s eyes are also in shock. You give him access to the screen. There’s a looming tension in the air that you and Jeno can feel as he works on the laptop trying to find a key evidence of what we’re doing right now.

Certainly! Here's the rewritten scene, with improvements for pacing, clarity, character development, and emotional depth. I've focused on sharpening the dialogue and making the actions and emotions more immediate and engaging.

“Now.” Jeno cracks his knuckles. “Let’s watch the logs.”

# LOG:1

"March 23, 15:30. Min-hyung here. First log. Big idea." Mark smiles into the camera, his energy bright, too alive, too healthy for what’s coming. He shifts the camera, grinning wide, adjusting it so he’s centered. He’s wearing a lab coat, looking professional—but still somehow goofy, like a kid playing dress-up. Serious but playful. He pats himself down and lets out a smug chuckle. “So, I’ve got this crazy thought. What if we create a man? Not a man-man, but close. I mean—come on, Doctor Lee Taeyong. Don’t you want to live forever? Transfer your consciousness into something that doesn't age, something that doesn't die. Imagine it.”

Lee Jeno being off-camera somewhere in the lab, questions. “You’re saying you wanna make a cyborg?”

“A cyborg?” Your father leans back, glancing at Min-hyung as if he’s never heard anything more ridiculous. “Alright, go on. Explain this cyborg business.”

Min-hyung’s face lights up at the chance to talk. “It’s like this: we’ve got humans, right? And we’ve got machines. But what if we merge the two? A human mind, living in a machine body. I’m calling it the Frankenstein project.”

“The Frankenstein project?” Your father sounds unconvinced, but his curiosity is piqued. He leans forward slightly.

“Exactly. Frankenstein’s monster, man. Cyberpunk meets science. I’m talking human consciousness integrated with machines. A hybrid, like the best parts of human and tech. We could upload memories, simulate thoughts. Imagine the future—it's here, right in front of us.”

“I’ve heard this before, you know.” Your father half-laughs. “You wanna create life. But without the morality to back it up. Go on, then. Where’s the catch?”

Min-hyung shifts, a little giddy. “Here’s the deal, Doc. Forget robots. Forget simple machines. What if we give our creation the power to think, to choose? The human mind, locked into a machine. Immortality, with a twist.”

Your father sighs, rubbing his temples. “And you’re just going to… transfer a human brain into a robot?”

Min-hyung leans in, eyes wide with excitement. “Not just a brain. I’m talking a whole new form of life. It’s like combining mind and body, but the body doesn't die. We don’t have to wait for the future. We can build it now.”

You watch Min-hyung on the screen, his passion pouring out, as your father shakes his head, amused but intrigued. "You’d need to upload human consciousness, not just the thoughts, but the feelings, the impulses, the soul." Your father looks skeptical but intrigued. “And what if it goes wrong?”

Min-hyung’s eyes gleam. “Then we fix it. We make it work.”

A beat. Your father stares at him for a moment. Then laughs, but the laugh’s tinged with something else. A touch of sadness? "All right, Min-hyung. I’ll help. But only because this sounds like one hell of a project."

“I knew I could count on you, Doc,” Min-hyung says, his grin wide. “Now, let’s get to work. Okay end of log.”

# LOG:109

"Yo, hey, hey. Quick log. Doctor Lee asked me to drop by his house with some research. Figured I’d throw in a little personal thing too, though." The video crackles, and Mark appears in frame, adjusting the camera. "It's Saturday, 12:09 p.m. Y/n’s probably studying. You know, I was thinking… about love." Mark pauses, looking awkward but sincere. "Love is… the most important thing, right? I wanna know what it feels like to truly feel it. I don’t know, maybe if I can figure it out, I can code it into the project." He smirks to himself, looking down as if lost in thought for a second before the camera shakes again, focusing back on him.

The video cuts, showing the familiar scene of your old home. Min-hyung is sitting in your living room, papers scattered on the table in front of him. He glances up as you enter, his eyes lighting up like always.

“I couldn’t find what you were looking for, but I brought you these.” You hand him the stack of papers. “Just some theories and ideas I’ve been working on. I think the most important thing in life, the thing that gives us purpose, is love. Cliché, but true. It’s love that connects us to each other, to the world around us. Without it, we’re just going through the motions. Anyway, there’s a lot of psychological stuff here. It’s deep.” You try to brush it off, but Min-hyung just smiles.

“It’s not cliché. You’re smart. Really smart,” he says, and the compliment catches you off guard. You watch how you look at him, your heart still racing.

You reply with a smirk, trying to deflect. “Anyway, you’re a dork. Tell my father I’m having night classes. I won’t be home tonight.”

Min-hyung laughs, picking up his things. “Got it. Night classes, huh? Be safe.” He grabs the camera as he heads out, and before the door shuts, you hear him mutter to himself.

“She’s just… so amazing. So smart. Damn. I just feel like I could conquer the world when I’m around her.”

# LOG:110

Your father appears on screen, looking at the camera with a half-smile. “Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3. Is this on? Good.” He moves to the side, and Min-hyung appears, scribbling notes at his desk and using a compass.

Lee Taeyong speaks directly into the camera now. “July 30. The Frankenstein project is progressing well. Jeno's skills are amazing. Today, he helped perfect the mechanical leg—smooth, lifelike movements. It’s remarkable. If we keep this up, we might actually have something. A prototype by the end of the year? Maybe.” He pauses, looking at Min-hyung’s work. “Still need a volunteer for the human part, though. Min-hyung’s been… adamant to being a donor and recipient.”

“I’ll do it,” Min-hyung interrupts. His tone is serious but playful. “If you need a human donor, I’m your guy. You’re talking about immortality, after all. If anyone’s gonna live forever, it should be me.”

Your father laughs, but there’s something else behind his eyes. “You’re brave, kid. But we’ll see. It’s still a long way off.”

Min-hyung’s smile falters for a second as he looks at the floor. “What if it’s not? But anyway, doc. How did you get hold of the videos, those are personal.”

“It wast updated on my cloud drive? You think you can post your video diaries and not have me take a peek. I couldn’t help myself. It’s some good stuff, and they’re not too long or short.”

Min-hyung dies in the background with embarrassment hiding his face. Lee Taeyong turns around and begins talking, and you can hear the smile on his face.

“I thought you appreciated my daughter to rub off on my good side. I never knew it was this serious. Almost every log you talk about 1 or 2 things about her. You want the machine to experience feelings of love, or is that you?”

Min-hyung with his hand behind his back smiles. “Is that the part where you pretend to listen, or are you actually going to listen to how I feel about your daughter?”

“The floor is yours, I’m sure the viewers also want to know.” Your father toys with the camera.

“Look doc. It’s nothing deep. I just… I have high hopes for this project, especially with how it’s going. I think it’s just crazy how we can actually make something come alive. And along the way, I realised that being alive means… living… loving… feeling. I can’t believe I’m even saying this,” Min-hyung brushes his hair with an awkward smile, before it turns into the sloppy loopy smile he always has when talking about you. “I mean, I know I haven’t spoken to her much, but she’s really smart, and I think she could also be a part of this project.”

“Let me tell you something about her. I once offered her a contract to work here with me, and she turned it down. She believes in personally gaining her spot instead of it being given to her. I’m really proud of her for that.”

Hearing your father’s words…. Unintentionally brings tears to your eyes.

“And seeing as she’s put such high goals for herself, just makes me not want to interrupt that flow. It may look like I’m not interested in her, but really I am so proud of her and her accomplishments… She’s just like her mother, strong. I don’t want to mess her up with my bullshit. Hence, I wouldn’t mind someone as creatively driven and unorthoxed like you, teaching her a thing or two, or even just… being with her.”

Min-hyung’s smile is crazy wild. “You would love me as your son in law wouldn’t you?”

“One hundred percent.”

The logs aren’t that long, they last between 3-5 minutes and for the longer ones they don’t go past 15 minutes. They’re filled with Min-hyung giving exposure to the creation. And when you see how it first comes out, with a body and no hands, you’re marvelled and completely astonished to how it came out. Min-hyung’s feelings for you are kept at bay, but his eyes always light up when seeing you.

“No wonder Mark the robot always seemed to speak highly of you.” Jeno notes at some point… and you feel something crawl up your spine at a weird sick feeling… You feel like after so many years… you might finally get the answer to what happened to Min-hyung. The more you keep watching the logs, the harder it is to pick out where it went wrong. It was always correct.

So why is Mark like this now, why does he think he’s Min-hyung?

Oh yes, because of the last 4 logs. They’re longer and aren’t directed by Min-hyung as usual. It’s your dishevelled father. Beard long and eyes red and puffy. You instantly recall it, as the days when Min-hyung disappeared. In the first 1 hour entry, he speaks of how Min-hyung is no longer alive and how he wants to finish the project for Min-hyung’s sake. You watch him work in silence with the lights dimmed down. He breaks down in tears for a few moments before the video cuts by itself. Signalling that it’s battery low.

The next video starts off without your father introducing anything, instead he displays the robot figure, still in it’s prime. The exo-skeleton structure looks fantastic. Your father doesn’t explain anything as he’s away from the camera- you can hear a tap and bit by bit you see him coming back with samples of synthetic skin…

“The donor’s skin and brain… is ready for use.”

Your eyes enlarge as you watch how your father places over the legs of the machine. As he applies the skin over the legs. The tense atmosphere in which you and Jeno watch the long videos takes a toll on you both… In disbelief of the skin… and the fact that your father made mention of the donor. So far the only donor who signed and accepted to be a donor… was Min-hyung. .. The camera zooms in on Min-hyung’s face, now disfigured, but eerily still there, on the machine. The skin is warped and swollen. Your father’s hands tremble as he pulls back a part of the synthetic flesh, revealing the skull underneath. There’s blood. More than you can take. The pain in his eyes is unmistakable.

The time is 10h45 pm when you and Jeno are done watching all the video diary logs. Your eyes are filled with tears. And you don’t even know about Jeno. From the moment you started watching you never got to see his face. Both of your eyes were hooked on the things that you saw on the laptop. The screen turns pitch black after no signs of activities are made. You can’t even move, you’re just in shock. From the beginning till the end, there’s absolutely nothing to say, the videos are… self-explanatory. Min-hyung was killed… accidentally (?)

And his body is on the project… is on the exo-skeleton of the robot prototype Mark. No… that sounds crazy. But the truth got worse, he was mutilated. And the result of that mutilation is that robot in the lab. Your father, Lee Taeyong… committed a crime. Shakily, your hands hover over the mouse as you go back 2 videos to watch the log all over again.

LOG:569

“December 23. I can’t live with myself. I can’t bear this pain. Min-hyung, if you’re alive, please forgive me. I’m sorry.” Your father sniffs and gets up looking at the project… the dead lifeless skin of Min-hyung’s face on the project. He positions the camera in the corner of the room and goes back on the table… where the dead body is.

You cover your mouth and shake your head watching how your father, carefully peels off the flesh carved onto the bloody skull. It’s a sickening, long ruling process for 30 minutes straight, you watch as Min-Hyung’s face- flesh is bloody and soggy and placed into a dirty lime water bowl. As the video plays on with your blotched tear face father chopping up the body parts, peeling skin, storing bones. Watching a second time, this time you don’t bother hiding your choke of a cry in pure agony not believing that you saw it the first time. Your father is also in tears with each and every step, bloody and just so horrible.

The next video automatically plays.

“December 25. It still needs some work internally… but look at it.” Taking the camera and showing us the corpse machine on the table… The machine of what you know today as Mark… There’s a whole set of appliances beside it, showing all the hard work that underwent to create this project.

After positioning the camera, your father in his dishevelled appearance stands behind the machine. He brings out his laptop and begins typing in some things like a menace. The machine on the table begins to shake violently- before your father gets up and moves to the head….

“Calm down. Shit. The brain is rejecting it’s organs. Come on, come on-” He taps on the screen behind him.

Jeno pauses the whole thing. “Let me try and understand the crazy logic to what we’ve just seen.”

“Jeno, what’s there to understand when we saw just how brutal, my father…” You grate your teeth. “Peeled up a dead young intern… and all this time we’ve been… Jeno.” You gulp and shake your head. "What the hell is happening?" Your eyes blur with tears as you cover your face.

But Jeno still in his own world, doesn’t even hear a word you say. “All this time Min-hyung was alive… here with us. His body buried in that lab and then placed over this machine Mark. If what we’ve seen here is true, then it means Min-hyung was operating unconsciously… hence the real robot's logic creation of Mark. The more he slept underneath that creek water generated from… blood fluids of Min-hyung as well as petroleum fossil fuels and crude oil the more it kept his brain hydrated and clean… loading. Now it makes sense of that flawless skin… skin pasted on the body with the ability to repair itself. Min-hyung was under the impression of being in a coma. Taking him out of the tank, his brain covered within the jelly was able to soak up the jell and merge, synchronize with his unconscious, conscious. Y/n… he’s alive.”

You shake your head, your ears to sore to process anymore. “I need to go home… I can’t stay here.” You weakly get up wiping your tears. "This is all too much. Let me just try to process-"

“So who killed Min-hyung?” A whisper leaves Jeno’s tight throat. “Your father simply retrieved that body and… gave Min-hyung a second chance at life. Who killed him?” Jeno’s finger hesitates to press play but he does.

You don’t want to watch, but your eyes can’t help but look.

“Stabilizing. I don’t think I can do this.” Your father admits and your emotions get high again. He sits down on the chair and types madly into his laptop. He picks up his phone and answers it. “Yes sweety? I won’t be home tonight. Bye.” After cutting the call, he sulks while looking at Min-hyung.

Only God knows what he was thinking in those last minutes.

“Maybe that’s why my father killed himself…” Your phone vibrates getting you out of your thoughts for a second. You pick up your phone without thinking twice. Right now you need to get away from the desk, and Jaemin’s call couldn’t have come at a better time. “Jae… I need you to pick me up.”

“Have you been crying?” Jaemin’s voice immediately softens with concern. “I’ll be there in 30 minutes. I’m closing up the shop.”

You inhale deeply as the dark feeling looms over you again after the call drops. Sitting in silence while staring at the screen. You inhale. “So what do we tell everyone?”

“I don’t know, but they won’t even believe the truth.” Jeno responds after a whole minute. “Should we… speak to him?”

You shake your head. "And say what?" Your face squints as you recall all the moments you had with Mark the robot as Min-hyung. “I can just imagine how confused he is. It makes so much sense now.” Your eyes water… “I wanna go home. I don't think I can talk to him… You can… talk to him.”

“It’s crazy to think we now have the power to switch him on and off, we can program him, change his code, create a new enter personality-”

“But he’s now awake. He knows his name is Min-hyung, do you think it can be easy to create another personality in him? Jeno do you think it's even right to operate him? Jeno he's… alive…” You shake your head and get up, only taking your access card. “I can't deal with this right now. It's too much, let me just take a breath.”

Jeno watches you silently, his gaze following you as you leave the office. Though his eyes are locked on you, his mind spins, trying to make sense of everything.

What was supposed to be a breath of fresh air turns into you waiting outside the building, motionless, lost in thought.

It takes Jaemin’s arrival to snap you out of your haze.

“You’re crying so much.” He wipes your tears, his forehead creased with concern. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You hold onto his arm as he draws you tightly in his grip, warmly hugging you having such a sad heart… "Please just take me home… I don't think I can go back up there."

"Sure, baby,"

Your departure has Jeno transferring the documents out from the laptop and inserting them onto his drive before he ultimately decides to go to the lab.

To say he’s nervous is an understatement. Especially since the funeral he attended of Min-hyung… his co-worker/intern friend- the one guy who hyped him up throughout all his creations- those images come fresh in his mind. He recalls the ceremony happening without the body. The devastation on Min-hyung's father's face. The sadness looming all over the crowd. His heart becomes heavy with the realization that all this time they've been working on him and trying to develop him, but he's been alive unconsciously. The way that Jeno remembers Min-hyung is so dear. It almost makes him paralyze with fear as he stands out side the door of the lab thinking that indeed Min-hyung's conscious is awake and alive inside of hat machine that they've named Mark… His frantic mind just wants answers. But instead he's just thinking of what led up to that moment… Dr Lee Taeyong literally peeled his flesh off… Min-hyung was found dead… How did all that come to be? How did the prototype Mark full everyone? Mark literally become a fascination for everyone… so it's hard to believe that the gullible lovable robot Mark… is actually… dead.. and his handler Min-hyung is alive. Right now, at the thought of Mark, he'd just really wish that instead of Min-hyung, he'd see Mark.

The crisis at hand should stop the project, because this isn’t just a project, but now it’s a participation of a crime… Jeno inhales and prepares to hear the music… entering into the quiet lab and expecting to see the robot… Mark… being shut down… he isn't even the slightest bit surprised to see the robot's eyes wide open and instantly it's iris snaps to the sound of the door opening up.

“How could you guys leave me…” Those are the first words that Jeno hears from Min-hyung. And he knows it’s Min-hyung. There’s no mistaking it anymore. That voice, the tone… the sadness. "Unbuckle me."

Tight lipped and stiff necked, Jeno wearily walks to… Min-hyung… Mark and begins to loosen the straps over the body. Jeno sees his hands shaking when making contact with the skin… the skin that he watched Dr Lee peel off and place it over. He’s afraid of even looking at the robot… but he can feel the strong gaze on himself.

The robot sits up, holding over his biceps. “It’s cold.”

Jeno removes his lab coat and puts it over the shoulders of… Min-hyung. Jeno gulps and takes a seat on the high stool facing Min-hyung directly. Min-hyung’s gaze remains on it's hand. "So…" Jeno gulps getting a sharp stare. Those are the eyes of an alive soul. Only difference is… it looks generated. Jeno watches how the iris dilute as well as move all over the features of his face. "Are you… Mark-" Jeno gulps when the eyes of the robot squint in… a weird reflection of annoyance. "Min-hyung?" Jeno's back to being stunned and speechless. "But… How?" He doesn't know what to ask or say, he can just… stare.

"What year is it?" Even the tone sounds strangely familiar to the Min-hyung he knew.bJeno states the year and that has Min-hyung doing a double take and frantically being shaken. "W-what?"

"You died in 2043. The year is 2047. 4 years have passed since you went missing."

His head tilts and he looks away. "Went missing?"

"Min-hyung…" Jeno tries not to let his emotions get the better of him as he bites his lips. "What do you last remember?" It’s hard to be content, when the confusion floats in the air like cheap liquor drowning his senses.

The question should be easy, however Min-hyung also finds the difficulty in responding. "I remember Y/n.” Especially since all he can see and recall is your smile and hear your voice. “But something's wrong with my memory. It feels jagged.” His posture seems to relax as his gaze is so strong on the floor- as if spacing out. “She’s so beautiful. Her voice is calming. I don’t know if these are even my memories, but they’re wholesome of her talking to me… confiding in me.”

Jeno recalls Giselle’s words of how her and Karina watched on the feed how you spoke to ‘Mark’ as if he were a real human being. “Are these recent memories?”

“They have to be, because the last time that I think I can remember talking to her was when she graduated in university. I asked her if we could be friends. I've never been that close to her, but in these memories, I think we became close. I don't know, everything is spinning, the memories are all merging with my unconscious memories." Jeno watches as Min-hyung's eyes squander all over probably in his own head trying to understand. But Min-hyung, with all the information flowing through his head and all the analyses being produced all at once, has a hard time trying to understand what’s going on with him.

“Min-hyung. You’re a robot.” Jeno breaks the silence. He can feel the air becoming tense as Min-hyung’s robotic head retracts back as if finding the words shocking. And Jeno continues. “After you died, Doctor Lee Taeyong, did exactly as you asked him too.” Jeno gulps. “He… transferred your body and all the necessities into… this new machine body you have now.”

Min-hyung is in denial and can’t believe it. But… he can’t seem to… feel anything. He realizes that he can’t even breathe. He takes a look at his arm and surely internally his eyes produce information about the arm and the components and the strength and what not. He’s pained but can’t reflect it. He’s shocked and just so… sad. He wants to cry, and he even sees how the statistics of his emotions decrease. It shows the emotion of unhappy. “I guess it worked.” He responds solemnly.

“That should be… this should be good news right?” Jeno blinks, noticing the visible sadness over the new features of Min-hyung.

Min-hyung can only produce a nod to his head.

Jeno bites his lip as he thinks to myself of how he can cheer up a robot. His friend and colleague is back, but it’s a bitter sweet feeling. “You can pick off where you last left off, you can-”

“It shows here that Doctor Lee Taeyong died… suicide. My father Johnny died too. Killed in a gang bang shooting. Where can I pick off when the family I had is dead?”

“Don’t say that,” Jeno feels the heaviness of the words. “I’m here. Y/n is here.”

At the mention of your name Min-hyung looks up. “What good is it if she’s married to Na Jaemin? I feel… isolated. Who’s Mark?”

Jeno’s cheeks are hot, his neck and tongue too. It’s hard communicating with a robot slash human who seems to be aware that they’ve lost everything. “Mark is the name we gave to you- I mean when you were still a humanoid version.”

Min-hyung nods his head. “How are you Jeno?”

The sudden question, has Jeno in a setback as he tries to collect himself. “I’m glad you are alive. I truly am. You were the smarter head between us.”

That has Min-hyung producing a little smile, before a little frown comes on his face. “Does that mean I’m trapped here now? Am I a lab rat?”

Jeno doesn’t know how to respond. You barely gave any clarification on what’s going to happen now? How can he can answer now?

Mark catches on to the microscopic facial expressions. “How is Y/n? May I see her?”

Jeno manages a smile. “Let me first get you some clothes.”

Just hearing how you're the first thing he remembers and how he wonders how you are, brings Jeno back to the first time Min-hyung met you. Of course it was love at first sight. He was on his lunch break and entered a cafe by chance because there was a special. In the cafe, he saw you… and from then on… Min-hyung was hooked. He never said anything to you. He didn’t even know that you were the daughter of Doctor Lee Taeyong. He really fell in love with you. Love at first sight. Seeing you at a specific time every day in the café was something that made him alive and he was breathing all over again.

The main goal of his everyday was to see you, and try to push himself to greet you. Meanwhile you were in your own world and focused on the things you were doing. You never glanced up at him.

Jeno remembers how Min-hyung one day brought him to the café just so that Jeno could see what was so special at that café. Jeno admits that you were eye catching. Instantly when he entered the café, his eyes moved to you. It wasn’t your beauty, but the essence you carried. You were studying and drinking coffee. You looked so ethereal… Jeno would’ve almost pulled a move on you if Min-hyung didn’t mention that he had eyes for you.

‘Sorry boys, she’s taken.’ And that was also the first time they met Jaemin. The café owner. Jaemin had heard the conversation between Min-hyung and Jeno. ‘She’s my girl.’ At the time, you weren’t even his girl, just a frequent customer who he appreciated. However on that day when Min-hyung started to have ogling eyes for you, he couldn’t help but be possessive over you. And so when Jeno and Min-hyung left the café, he shot his shot and approached you.

‘Are you enjoying the coffee?’

‘It’s delicious as usual, I’ll just be here for another hour or so.’

Jaemin nodded his head. ‘So what are you studying, you’re always studying and working so hard?’

You giggled and responded moderately yet friendly. You enjoyed Jaemin’s company a lot and appreciated his attention to you. You just never met Min-hyung yet.

And on a faithful day when you got back home from your afternoon classes, you began making food for yourself only to be interrupted by another person in the house. ‘Oh shot. Who are you? I mean, why are you here?’

‘I live here? Who are you? My father’s intern right?’

Min-hyung was completely shocked that he couldn’t say anything. He stood by the kitchen doorway in utter disbelief being tongue tied like a cat, he even blushed. It wasn’t long before your father entered and introduced Min-hyung to you. From there, Min-hyung’s frequent visits to the café become none-existent, but instead he’d latch himself wherever Doctor Lee Taeyong would go, in hopes and attempts to see you. But as soon as he started, he saw the relationship you had with your father, subtle but mostly non-existent since your father worked a lot and showed little to no mind on what you were doing. You on the other hand seemed to always want to get his attention, hence when you truly began to acknowledge Min-hyung.

‘Will my father be back home any time soon?’ You questioned.

Min-hyung who just came to fetch some things, lingered a bit longer so that he could talk to you. ‘ He did not mention anything, but I’m sure he’ll be back.’

‘Hey, uh Min-hyung, before you go, can I uhm, ask you some questions?’

Min-hyung was flattered but played it cool. ‘Sure, ask away?’ Your questions revolved around what he did, how he got there, and how he approached situations. He motivated you a lot. He was really likable and you liked that. Other times when he’d come over to your house, he’d ask about your projects and you’d show him. There was a fond relationship of learning between the both of you.

His eyes on you were everlasting, he already knew that he wanted you, but with Jaemin’s words lingering in his head, he had to control himself until… ‘So, your boyfriend owns the café?’ He asked once.

You furrowed your eyebrows. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ You didn’t even have a clue who he was talking about. You liked him.

However for Min-hyung, that was a little sign to push and test the limits. ‘You don’t have a boyfriend. Oh… cool.’ While his visits to your house where becoming less and less, he still made efforts to see you. Such as filling out survey’s and projects you had, he assisted in giving insight to projects you were making… He even attended your graduation, where he asked you if you could be his friend.

If you knew what was to come next, he would’ve treaded carefully. Which is why, on the way to your house with Jeno, Min-hyung tries to shake the brutal images he has in his head of a fight that went down between him and… Jaemin. As time passes, his conscious mind’s memories gradually come back.

“Earth to Min-hyung!”

Min-hyung jolts up. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Ah dang, you’re really back. You’re spacing out again.” Jeno chuckles faintly. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you something deep. Personal. Do you… remember what happened before you went missing?”

He did. He does. He can now recall the whole day. The confrontation he had, which lead to… his so called ‘disappearance’. Instead of answering Jeno, he questions, “Could I be left alone with her?”

“Why?”

Min-hyung blinks. “I want to ask her something.”

Jeno doesn’t answer immediately, but he does hum out acknowledging Min-hyung. He looks again at the review mirror feeling nostalgia when looking at his friend. “Is it too soon if I say it’s good to have you back?”

Min-hyung smiles, especially when looking at the street and seeing a visible robot in purple walking down the street. He remembers those prototype machines. Prototype bots who managed the streets at night forbidding any violence. To think now, that he’s one of them has him unsettled, yet slowly succumbing to his new identity. He just can’t wait to see you.

-

“After you told me everything that happened in the office today… I have to tell you something.”

Jaemin shamefully holds his head down and gulps down. His hands are shaking but he tightly balls them as he prepares to admit the guilt that has been following him.

“I killed Min-hyung.”

There. He lets it all out at once. But your eyes can’t catch it- they don’t want to. You freeze and stare at him, your tears also freezing in shock. “What?”

Jaemin slowly looks up to you- it feels hard admitting it, but he has to. “I married you to get rid of that guilt, because he wanted you. But I wanted you more. I married you to prove that I was deserving. At some point the lines became blurred because I couldn’t live with myself for what I did. I tried to become him but I couldn’t. I hurt you in the process of trying to deal with what I did. I killed Min-hyung because he loved you.”

It’s a mouthful. You don’t know what your ears have just heard. “What?”

“I killed him.” Jaemin’s eyes are staggered on yours. You’re both tear filled and shaking, one in disbelief and shock, the other in relief yet guilt. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to leave him dead, I promised that I was gonna get help but, I didn’t know what to do.”

You choke and hold yourself back looking at Jaemin, goose bumps crawling all over your skin. “Jaemin… you did what?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Jaemin-” You get back and back away. “How could you?”

“I’m sorry-”

“You selfish monster-”

“I’m sorry-”

You struggle to breathe, your shaking body and foggy mind has you bumping into some shelves and some vases fall. You feel stick and you allow yourself to throw up, before you’re tearfilled and puffed face grabs some car keys and you leave the house. Jaemin doesn’t follow you, he falls victims to his tears as finally the truth is out. He cries as the memory of himself and Min-hyung come fresh in his mind. Min-hyung confronted him for lying for being with you. Jaemin offered to take Min-hyung out where they could talk about it. Min-hyung accepted, following him to his work place at night so that Min-hyung could fetch his wallet and bag. It’s when there were by the basement lad with no cameras did Jaemin threaten Min-hyung to leave you alone.

One thing led to another and a fight over you broke out. Jaemin remembers throwing the first punch out of anger when Min-hyung stated that you felt the same for him- the fist fight was fatal when Min-hyung landed one heavy punch right on Jaemin’s face. In anger Jaemin remembers pushing Min-hyung so hard that… he fell… against the desk. At first, Jaemin thought that Min-hyung was knocked out. But when checking the pulse and feeling nothing, he fled the scene. It didn’t help, that at the time, there was a national black out. The building’s surveillance was out, but the security was still there. He helped Jaemin out, he didn’t know that Min-hyung was down in the basement, bleeding out.

It took Doctor Lee Taeyong coming in the basement lab a few days later did he get the shock of his life. No one would believe him if he had no proof of how Min-hyung got there.

It’s scary looking back. Thinking of how your father must’ve felt seeing Min-hyung like that.

It’s past midnight and you’re driving harshly on the roads ignoring the nagging monitored voice in the car system warning you of the speed rate. One place in mind that you have right now for your blurred tears… is the lab.

Opening up the door to the lab, you’re surprised to find Mark… Min-hyung standing. He’s right in front of the pod with… clothes on. A black shirt with black sweatpants. He turns back by the sound of the door, and you watch his eyes show some zeal in seeing you. You’re breathless… you look like a crying swelling mess. A quick glance at your clothes and you see you’re still with your lab coat.

“You’re here.” He quietly confirms. A smile, a nervous one, gets on his face, but it’s mixed with something like fear or worry when looking at you. “Why are you crying?”

Your at a loss of words. You thought you’d find him asleep or even strapped down. You weren’t expecting for him to look… alive. Placing a finger on your face you quickly wipe the tears away and turn around about to leave and run.

“Wait…” His soft voice gets your attention. “Please don’t go.”

You don’t turn back, your face facing the door. You can’t believe it. You can’t believe that this is happening right now. It’s hard to digest what Jaemin confessed, it’s even harder to believe what your father did, but what’s most difficult, is the fact Mark is now Min-hyung. He’s alive. You’re conflicted, but hearing him has you remembering why you came here. You wanted to feel comforted.

“I…” You hear the smooth voice projecting. “I had expectations that you might come."

You feel warmth on your cheeks when hearing his voice. Is that Mark or… Min-hyung? You can’t even hide how weak your knees get by his voice… his presence. Him being alive is just… reassuring for you. You can’t help but think of your father and how he decided to save Min-hyung in the form of a humanoid. You’re thankful to have your father’s work comforting you.

You stiffly smile at that, you turn around, find the strength to take some steps forward. You can hear shoes from his side as well approaching you. You stop by the pod and turn on the machine getting out the statistics report… It doesn’t surprise you anymore when you see a fully complete brain wave merged with the machine components, fully synchronized. Min-hyung has been found in Mark, connected and living again. “You… were expecting me?”

"The probability of you coming in at this time was of an outcome of 1 in 4 chances." You don’t look at him, feeling your heart beating faster when feeling him behind you. His head serving strength for you. “After seeing your husband, he stated that you left. Jeno advised that we come back.”

“Where is he?” Your hands go behind your back as you simply stare at the empty pod, your main focus on the calming sound of Min-hyung’s voice.

“I don’t know,” He whispers. “Why did you run away from your home?”

You shake your head. “I never truly felt at home in a long time… since you disappeared. Since my father died.” Your ears water. “But right now I feel at home.”

Min-hyung manages a smile, stepping closer to you. “I wanted to see you… but I figured you came to see… I think you came to see… ‘Mark’ and if he’s okay. You’re probably wondering if Mark is still ‘alive’ or if I’m even real.”

That has you turning around, and your eyes take in the motion of the figure before you. Your breath is taken away at how a smile rests on his face. “I came to see you.” You admit with tears in your eyes. “I’m so mad, I’m so angry, but with you right now, I feel calmed… I’m sorry Min-hyung. For everything.” You whisper.

“It’s never been your fault.”

You tilt your head, eyes looking over him. “How are you feeling?”

“I can’t feel my heart. I can’t hear it beat. I can’t feel my veins. I can’t feel anything, but somehow I know I’m alive, because as I look at you, I can sense this joy coming over me.” He explains, not once allowing his eyes to look away from you. “How are you?”

You surprisingly snicker at the question, being taken aback by the question. “You really wanna know how I’m feeling?”

He nods his head. “Well, how can I start anything else without knowing if you’re… okay? With me, and everything going on.”

Just looking eyes with Min-hyung just sends so many feelings rushing to you. “I’m content with being able to see you.” You watch how he lifts his hand up and it comes over your face. Just feeling how warm it is, like actual skin has you carefully and gently holding onto his own hand. “

“Can you feel me? Your father did the impossible on me. This is now who I am, this is me. I’m real.” He looks between both your eyes. “I’m alive, just not… breathing.”

“You don’t even have to breathe to be alive. Just seeing you here, real is enough for me.” You carefully find your hand resting on his chest. “Jaemin told me what he did… and thinking of my father’s will to save you, has me in such understanding and even closure. What do you remember last?”

“You… presenting on stage. Introducing me as…” The expression dims down but his eyes are still on you. “Project M47 5. I remember all these hands touching me and experimenting on me.” he looks at his hand on your cheek. “I can also remember, holding your face, touching you… hugging you…” Loving you… He admits in his head.

You gulp, and draw closer. “And what did you think about it?” Because all this time that he’s disappeared, had you feeling empty. But now, you feel something, and you wanna know if he feels it too.

“I liked it,” He answers honestly. “A lot. I still do.” You feel a tingle on your hand when he holds it. “Do you still want to experiment on me?”

“No. I don’t have to, you’re too real.” You shake your head.

“What will you tell the others if we run away?”

“Runaway?” You question with a unconscious smile on your face. “We?”

“I wanna pick up where I left off, and I don’t know if I can do it in this body. Jeno said, if I leave now he won’t say a word. But I don’t want to leave without you…”

Your heart warms up. “For a long time I’ve just thought about your disappearance and how it’s affected me. But seeing you right now… has me…” You blink the tears away when softly, yet surely his generated lightly plumped lips are on yours.

You barely notice the weight of his hand on your face, but the warmth of it settles deep within you. The slight hesitation in the air almost feels like a lifetime, but then—his lips meet yours again. It’s different this time. The kiss is gentle, searching, as if testing whether this connection could be real.

At first, it feels surreal. The softness of his lips is not like the warmth you’re used to. It’s not flesh and blood; it’s something that hums with an almost mechanical precision. There’s no pulse, no rush of warmth that you expect from a human kiss. But somehow… it feels right. The pressure of his lips, the faintest touch of his breath against yours—it’s comforting in a way you never thought possible. It’s not the kiss of a machine, but something much deeper. His lips are synthetic, but they’re tender. His mouth moves with purpose, and the thought of him being alive, not just in form but in heart, fills the space between you.

You pull away slowly, breathless, your heart pounding not from the kiss itself, but from the realization that this is real. He is real. "I think I’m in love with you Min-hyung. I think I’m in love with a robot."

He shifts, his fingers brushing the side of your face, and for a moment, it feels like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, the smile on his face, the way his eyes flicker from your lips to your eyes, the heat it creates all over your body is insane. “I needed to feel something, otherwise I wouldn’t want to live as a machine. And after that, I felt something.”

The finality of those words settles over you like a blanket, both heavy and warm. The difference between him and every other human fades with every second you spend in his presence. He’s alive in ways that go beyond his body. He’s alive because of the way he looks at you, the way his touch sends sparks through your skin, the way he makes you feel more than you ever thought possible.

“We don’t have to run away Min-hyung. You can live. It may be hard, but I don’t want you to disappear and live in hiding. Now that you’re found, I’m here with you. And I promise, I won’t let go.”

-

1 year later.

You work in a very prestigious organization were robots, cyborgs and humanoids are modelled and modified. Thousands of them walk on the streets, but none of them make your heart flatter like: Lee Mark.

Lee Mark is the first successful humanoid robot project. Built from the ground up, with thousands of blood, sweat and tears, arose a perfectly made human and machine infused together. Of course his origin still caused a bit buzz, but from him emerged similar prototypes of dying patients turned into cyborgs to further continue their life. Not only was he used as an example, but he made an impact again. Despite not being known as Lee Min-hyung anymore, Lee Mark was surely a favourite in this new futuristic world, proving and showing that anything is possible. The bridge between humans and machines.

So as you walk on the alter yet again in white, with a veil before your eyes and the hazy sight of Mark in a tux, you can’t help but feel so happy. Not only you, but Mark as well, with a composed frame but enlarged and proud eyes, feels that finally after so long he can finally…

breathe.

And that it’s no longer a dreamscape.

--fin--

[emoreemadden]

hey guys!! i suck at keeping up with posts but heres something to tide yall over (not that you were demanding anything anyways 😭)

Outline: Marriage? Gojo had never thought about it. Until you, that is.

Content Warnings: ANGST!ANGST!ANGST, angst, AAAAAANGST, be warned of angst, kind of a little fluff, not many warnings for this. character death :3

Featuring: Gojo Satoru, fem!reader

A/N: i dont really like this but enjoy!! 😭 word count: 877

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Gojo, when asked, “Do you think you’ll ever get married?” immediately thinks about you.

He’s never actually thought of getting married. It’s not like he’s had time. But now, imagining a life with you, living together and having a happy ending doesn’t seem so bad.

In fact, it sounds lovely.

So, like any normal person, he confronts you about it. At the worst time possible, that is.

“What do you think about marriage?” He asks suddenly, cutting you off on your rant about how insanely terrible your day was and how everyone you meet is an incompetent asshole.

You blink at him. “Excuse me?”

“Marriage. Like, getting married.” He clarifies stupidly.

“Like… to you?”

“To me, or to anyone. Would you ever want to get married?” He looks at you curiously.

Marriage has always been a trivial idea to you. The notion of giving your significant other a ring and having a big ceremony was never that appealing.

But looking at Gojo, sitting there with your hand in both of his, his eyes waiting for your response, you reconsider.

“I mean, sure. With the right person.” You stare back into his piercing blue eyes.

“Do you think I could ever be the right person?”

You smile at him. “I think you’re already the right person.” And he grins.

Not even a year later, he’s got a ring on your finger and already planning your wedding. You couldn’t be happier.

The ring in question didn’t come until later, as his proposal was spontaneous. A random night, sitting at the park in a gazebo as a break from your shitty job, and suddenly he was down on one knee.

“I asked you a while ago if you’d ever want to get married, and you said to the right person. Then I asked if I could be the right person, and you said I already was.” He said as he sat next to you, looking up at the sky. You glanced over at him, curious as to where he was going with this.

You swear you looked away for a split second before looking back at him, and there he was, grinning at you goofily with his hands mimicking an imaginary ring box.

“Do you still think I’m the right person?” He asked, and you just nodded, too dumbfounded to speak.

“So then, will you give me the honour of being your husband?” And there it was.

You screamed your approval, and now here you are.

“I do.” You answer when the priest asks the long awaited question.

‘Do you take Satoru Gojo to be your lawfully wedded husband?’

He does the same, answering the question with the biggest grin on his face.

“I do.”

And then he’s kissing you with the force of a thousand seas, and you almost feel like he’s going to hollow purple everyone at the wedding with the way he’s crushing you in his arms.

You’re officially Mrs. Gojo Satoru, and he couldn’t be prouder. He shows you off like a trophy, bringing you around and taking every chance to let everyone know you’re his wife.

Until, one day, he comes home and you aren’t there.

Confused, he wanders around the house for a bit. Did you go out?

He finds a note attached to the fridge that says you went to grab some groceries, and his heart relaxes. Only for a moment though, as he hears a knock on the door and it’s definitely not you.

He walks over, and standing in front of him are two police men.

“Is this the residence of Gojo Satoru?” They ask, and he nods silently.

“We’re very sorry for your loss.”

His life spirals after that one sentence. Loss. He lost you. You’re gone. Never to be found again.

Every day he stares at himself in the mirror, wondering what went wrong.

Maybe if he spent more time with you, he could’ve saved you that day.

Of course, he knows you’d tell him not to blame yourself if you were here, which is sort of a paradox, because if you were here, he wouldn’t have to blame anyone for what happened anyway.

Eventually though, he puts himself back together. Piece by piece, he fixes it. ‘You would’ve wanted him to,’ he tells himself.

But every now and then, he goes to visit the gazebo where he proposed to you. Spinning the wedding ring on his finger that he hasn’t taken off since that day, he sighs. The memories of you comfort him, even if they do so in a terribly depressing manner.

He remembers your voice, even after all these years. A question he’d heard you ask that he’d brushed off because it pained him to think about comes back to him suddenly.

“If I die, do you think you’ll remember me?”

I do.

And underneath the soft moonlight, he swears he can almost see you sitting next to him, your head on his shoulder moments before he asked for your hand in marriage.

“I do.” He says aloud, a bittersweet smile on his face. Just like he replied when you asked him that question, and just like he replied when he was asked if he wanted you as his lawfully wedded wife

“I really, really do.”

[amethystarachnid]

Hello, I would like to request 19. A Second Chance with Tony, please 😊 this "someone important from their past" is the reader. They dated when they were young, but reader had to move, but they never stopped loving each other... now reader is back and they meet again, they talk about their lives and start to reconnect... Tony invites her to spend Christmas together and she accepts, and Tony prepares Christmas with everything she loves just to see her happy, in the end they kiss and spend the night together (I know you don't write smut, but you can add some spicy things) and the next morning they make their relationship official again, and this time forever ❤️

SECOND CHANCE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.2k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said <3

ᯓ★ TW(s): some spicy scenes but nothing too descriptive

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The cold New York wind bites at your cheeks as you step out of the cab, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck. The city is alive with December’s usual frenzy—twinkling lights strung between lampposts, store windows crowded with holiday displays, and the steady hum of a thousand conversations weaving through the streets. It's beautiful, in a way, but the sight of it doesn’t fill you with the usual seasonal warmth. There’s an ache deep in your chest, one that no amount of bright lights or carolers can thaw.

It’s been years. Almost ten, to be exact, since you’ve stepped foot in New York. A decade away, and yet it still feels like the city breathes in sync with your heartbeat. You left when you were twenty-three, thinking you’d be gone only for a few months, maybe a year at most. Life, as it turns out, had other plans. Now you’re back, but the thought of being here again fills you with more nerves than nostalgia. It’s not the city itself that haunts you—it’s what, or rather who, you left behind.

Your suitcase wheels clatter against the pavement as you pull it toward the apartment you rented. The holidays have turned every corner into a whirlwind of red and green, gold and silver, but your mind is elsewhere. You can feel it creeping up on you like a shadow, the memory of Tony Stark’s face when you said goodbye.

“I’m coming back, you know,” you’d told him back then, the words as fragile as the tears streaking your cheeks. “It’s just for a while. I have to help my mom get settled. You understand, don’t you?”

He’d nodded, but his silence had been deafening. The weight of it sat between you as you hugged him goodbye, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go too soon. And then you left, not knowing that “a while” would stretch into years, that the life you’d built with him would dissolve into memories.

You wonder if he’s the same person now, all these years later. If he still walks with that easy swagger, the cocky grin always threatening to crack his face in half. If he still talks like he’s three steps ahead of everyone else, like the world is his personal chessboard and he’s just having fun moving the pieces around. Or maybe he’s changed. Maybe the years have softened him, carved some of the arrogance out of his sharp edges. Or maybe he’s even sharper now, the weight of everything he's achieved since you left pressing harder on his shoulders.

You try not to think about it as you unpack, the simple routine of organizing your things grounding you for the first time all day. But no matter how many sweaters you fold, how many toiletries you arrange on the bathroom counter, you can’t shake the sense that this city, this moment, is leading you straight back to him.

It’s late afternoon when you decide to venture out again. Snow flurries are beginning to fall, dusting the sidewalks and piling up on window sills. You find yourself wandering without purpose, letting the city guide you. The streets feel familiar but different, like they’ve been rearranged slightly in your absence. You take it all in—the hum of the subway beneath your feet, the scent of roasted chestnuts wafting from a vendor’s cart, the laughter of children building snowmen in the park. It feels like home, and yet it doesn’t.

You’re not even sure how you end up at the Christmas market in Bryant Park. It’s bustling with holiday shoppers, the air thick with the scent of mulled wine and pine. You weave through the crowd, pausing now and then to admire the handmade ornaments or the glittering string lights overhead. It’s almost enough to distract you, but not quite.

You’re looking at a small booth selling intricate metalwork—ornaments shaped like snowflakes, reindeer, and stars—when you hear it. That voice. That unmistakable, sharp-edged, honey-smooth voice that’s haunted your dreams for years. Your heart stutters, and for a moment, you think you might have imagined it. But then you hear it again, clearer this time, cutting through the chatter around you.

You turn slowly, your breath catching in your throat. And there he is.

Tony Stark stands a few feet away, his hands tucked into the pockets of a sleek black coat, a scarf draped loosely around his neck. His hair is shorter than you remember, a touch of silver at the temples that wasn’t there before. But his eyes—their rich, whiskey-brown warmth—are exactly the same. They lock onto yours, widening slightly in surprise before something softer, something bittersweet, settles over his face.

“Y/N?” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s not sure if you’re real. “Is that…?”

You nod, your throat too tight to form words. The noise of the market seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing there, caught in the gravity of a moment you both thought would never come.

He takes a step closer, his breath visible in the cold air. “I can’t believe it’s you,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I thought you were—God, how long has it been?”

“Ten years,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Almost.”

“Ten years,” he echoes, running a hand through his hair. “Wow. You look… you look good.”

“So do you,” you reply, and it’s not a lie. He does look good. Better than good. He looks like the kind of man who’s spent the last decade conquering the world, but there’s something else there too—something tired, maybe even lonely, that tugs at your heart.

The silence stretches between you, thick with everything you want to say but can’t. You don’t know where to start, don’t know how to condense ten years of absence into a single conversation. And then, as if sensing your hesitation, Tony speaks again.

“You’re back,” he says, his tone somewhere between a question and a statement.

You nod. “Just for a while. I’m… I’m not sure how long yet.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Well,” he says finally, “it’s good to see you. Really good.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “You too, Tony.”

Another pause, and then he clears his throat, glancing at the booth behind you. “Are you shopping for ornaments?” he asks, his voice lighter now, almost casual. “Because, uh, I should warn you—some of these vendors are scammers. I mean, who pays fifty bucks for a metal snowflake?”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound breaking the tension between you. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you say. “Just looking.”

“Well, in that case…” He steps closer, his gaze softening. “Maybe I could buy you a coffee? Catch up? I mean, unless you’ve got somewhere to be.”

You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. Every rational part of you is screaming that this is a bad idea, that reopening this door will only lead to more heartache. But then you look at him—the way his eyes flicker with something like hope, the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid you might disappear again—and you know you can’t say no.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Coffee sounds good.”

He smiles, a real, genuine smile that sends a warmth through you you haven’t felt in years. And just like that, you’re walking side by side through the snow-dusted streets, the weight of the past trailing behind you like a ghost.

The coffee shop is warm, its windows fogged from the contrast between the bitter cold outside and the cozy heat inside. The scent of roasted beans and cinnamon wafts through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Tony insists on paying for the drinks, brushing off your protests with a lopsided grin and a comment about “old-fashioned chivalry.”

You find a small table near the back, the kind meant for two people to sit close, elbows almost brushing. The mugs between you steam faintly, but neither of you seems in a hurry to drink. Instead, you’re both looking at each other, trying to reconcile the people you’ve become with the people you once were.

“So,” Tony begins, leaning back in his chair. His hands wrap around his mug, but he doesn’t lift it. “Ten years. I feel like I should’ve prepared a slideshow or something, highlight all my achievements since the last time we saw each other.”

You chuckle, the sound soft and a little shaky. “I think everyone already knows your highlights, Tony. I mean, you’re everywhere. Stark Tower, the Avengers, the headlines. It’s not exactly subtle.”

His grin tilts, more boyish now, and you see the flicker of the man you once knew beneath the billionaire persona. “Yeah, well. I’ve been busy. You know me—can’t sit still. But what about you? What’s been going on in Y/N-land? I feel like I should’ve hired a PI just to keep track.”

You roll your eyes, taking a small sip of your coffee to stall for a moment. “Nothing that exciting, honestly. I spent a lot of time moving around. Different cities, different jobs. I stayed in Chicago for a while, then Boston. My mom moved again, so I went back for a bit to help her. Life just… kept happening, I guess.”

“You always did like to keep moving,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. “But I thought you’d stay here. You said you’d be back.”

The words aren’t accusatory, but they hang between you like a ghost. You look down at your hands, tracing the edge of your mug with your finger. “I thought I would too. I didn’t plan for it to take so long. But every time I tried to come back, something else got in the way. And then so much time had passed, I didn’t know if it even mattered anymore.”

“It mattered,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your breath hitch, but he pulls back quickly, leaning on humor like a crutch. “I mean, you missed out on a hell of a ride. Turns out, saving the world is a full-time gig.”

You laugh lightly, grateful for the change in tone. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve been keeping busy, huh? Flying suits and alien invasions, not to mention the whole playboy billionaire thing. I’m surprised you even have time for coffee.”

“For you, I can make time,” he says without missing a beat, and there’s a flash of something mischievous in his grin that makes your heart do a little flip.

The conversation shifts after that, flowing more easily now that the initial awkwardness has passed. He tells you stories about the Avengers—ones that don’t make the news, the kind that leave you laughing so hard your sides hurt. You tell him about the small things he’s missed—your favorite city, the time you tried skydiving and almost chickened out, the stray cat you adopted and had to leave with your mom when you moved again. The minutes stretch into hours, the outside world disappearing as you fall into a rhythm that feels both new and achingly familiar.

Eventually, there’s a lull in the conversation, and Tony takes a sip of his now-cool coffee before setting the mug down. “So,” he says casually, though there’s a hint of tension in his voice. “Is there, uh… a guy in your life? Or a woman. Or anyone, really. Not that it’s any of my business, of course. Just… curious.”

The question catches you off guard, but the way he’s trying—and failing—to appear nonchalant is almost endearing. You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “No. There’s no one. I guess I’ve been too busy to really settle down.”

For a split second, you think you see relief flash across his face, but he hides it quickly, taking another sip of his coffee to cover his reaction. “Busy, huh? Yeah, I know the feeling. Sometimes it’s easier to focus on work than deal with all the… complications.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “What about you? Anyone special? Or is Tony Stark still the most eligible bachelor in New York?”

He chuckles, the sound low and a little self-deprecating. “No one special,” he admits, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Turns out, being a genius billionaire superhero doesn’t exactly make for a stable love life.”

“Shocking,” you tease, and he laughs again, the tension between you dissolving once more.

The two of you talk until the light outside begins to fade, the soft glow of the coffee shop’s string lights casting warm shadows over your faces. When you finally glance at the time, you’re surprised at how late it’s gotten.

“I should probably let you go,” you say reluctantly, though you don’t actually want to leave. “I’m sure you’ve got a million things to do.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing that can’t wait. But if you’re in a rush, I won’t keep you.”

You both stand, the air between you suddenly charged with an unspoken tension. As you reach for your coat, Tony clears his throat, his tone shifting to something lighter. “Hey, before you go… can I, uh, get your number?”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips twitching in amusement. “Are you serious?”

“What?” he says, feigning innocence. “It’s just… you know, for old times’ sake. In case I need to call and complain about overpriced Christmas ornaments or something.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you pull your phone from your bag. “Fine. Give me your phone.”

He hands it over with a grin, and you quickly type in your number before handing it back. He glances at the screen as if to make sure it’s real, then pockets the phone with a satisfied smirk.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice softening. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”

“Me too,” you admit, your cheeks warming despite the cold.

You step outside together, the air sharp and cold against your skin. Snow has started falling again, the flakes catching in the glow of the streetlights. For a moment, neither of you moves, the world around you quiet and still.

“Well,” you say finally, pulling your scarf tighter. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet kind of hope. “I’ll see you around.”

And as you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze lingering long after you’ve disappeared into the snowy night.

That evening, you’re lying in bed, bundled under layers of soft blankets as the city hums faintly outside your window. It’s a kind of stillness you haven’t felt in years—a quiet moment in a place that never really stops moving. Your phone is in your hand, the glow of the screen lighting up the dark room. You’re scrolling aimlessly, flipping through pictures of friends you haven’t seen in months, ads for holiday sales, and the occasional post about how magical Christmas in New York is.

Your thoughts drift back to the coffee shop, to Tony. The way his smile had felt like both a memory and something entirely new. You’d been nervous to see him again, worried that the years would’ve changed him into someone unrecognizable. But he was still Tony—sharp, witty, and magnetic in a way that made it impossible not to be drawn to him. And yet, there was something else there, too. A softness you didn’t expect.

You let out a sigh, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to process the strange, bittersweet day. Just as you’re about to set your phone down, it vibrates in your hand, the screen lighting up with a text from an unknown number. Your heart skips a beat as you unlock it, curiosity bubbling up.

Unknown Number Hey. Hope I didn’t screw this up already. It’s Tony, by the way. In case you know five other genius billionaire playboys who might randomly text you.

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you type back quickly.

You Hey, Tony. Took you long enough to text. I was starting to think you just wanted my number for your contacts collection.

The response comes almost instantly.

Tony What can I say? I like to keep people guessing. Besides, had to wait until I was sure I wouldn’t come across as desperate. How’s your evening?

You pause for a moment, then reply.

You Quiet. Just scrolling through my phone and pretending I’m tired enough to sleep.

Tony Exciting stuff. Let me guess—scrolling through pictures of old friends and feeling nostalgic? Or online shopping?

You Wow, you know me too well.

Tony Well, I did spend a good portion of my youth trying to figure you out. Some of it must’ve stuck.

The words send a ripple of warmth through you, and for a moment, you just stare at the screen. It’s strange, this feeling of slipping back into a rhythm with him. Familiar and unsettling all at once.

You Okay, your turn. What’s your evening like? Saving the world? Inventing something mind-blowing?

Tony Tempting, but no. I’m sitting in the workshop pretending I’m working while Dum-E tries to build a snowman out of scrap metal.

You Dum-E? Your robot is into holiday crafts?

Tony He’s been into crafts ever since I taught him to use a glue gun. Worst mistake of my life. Anyway, speaking of holiday cheer…

The ellipsis hangs there for a moment, and you wait, your fingers hovering over the screen, wondering where this is going.

Tony What are you doing on Christmas?

Your brow furrows as you read the text. Christmas? You’re about to type something vague about not having plans when another message pops up.

Tony Before you say you’re busy or it’d be weird, hear me out. I’m having a party. Nothing too crazy—just some friends, a lot of food, good music. You should come.

Your first instinct is to hesitate. Spending Christmas with Tony? It sounds… complicated. And risky. Too much like stepping into a world you’ve worked hard to keep at arm’s length.

You I don’t know, Tony. It might be a little…

You don’t finish the sentence, but he seems to understand anyway. His next message comes fast, as if he’s already anticipated your reaction.

Tony Awkward? Intense? Weird? Yeah, maybe. But it’s not just the two of us. Lots of people. A proper party, I promise. Consider it a chance to mingle with people who probably have weirder lives than yours.

Your lips twitch into a smile despite yourself. You can almost hear his voice in the words, the playful tone that somehow manages to coax you into considering things you wouldn’t otherwise.

You Lots of people, huh? Not just a sneaky excuse to lure me into some one-on-one reunion?

Tony If I wanted one-on-one, I’d just invite you to dinner. But no, this is legit. There will be other people, music, fancy hors d’oeuvres, the works.

You stare at the screen, weighing your options. A part of you knows this is a bad idea—that being around Tony, especially during the holidays, could stir up feelings you’ve tried to bury for years. But another part of you—the part that remembers the way his eyes lit up when he saw you earlier—can’t help but want to say yes.

You Okay. I’ll come.

His reply is almost instant, and you can practically see the grin behind the words.

Tony Good choice. I promise it’ll be worth it. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.

For a moment, you don’t respond, letting the conversation linger there as you try to process what you’ve just agreed to. Then, finally, you type one last message.

You Goodnight, Tony.

Tony Night, Y/N. Sweet dreams.

You set your phone on the nightstand, your chest feeling oddly tight. The room is quiet again, but your thoughts are anything but. You roll onto your side, pulling the blankets closer as you stare at the faint glow of the city lights filtering through your curtains.

What have you gotten yourself into?

The next morning, you wake up to another text from Tony, this time with the details for the party. It’s set for Christmas at his penthouse—a place you’ve only seen in magazines and on television, its sleek, modern lines standing in sharp contrast to the traditional warmth of the holiday season.

For the rest of the day, you try not to think about it too much, but it’s impossible to push the thought of him out of your mind. Every time you catch sight of your phone, you half expect another message from him, something teasing or clever to remind you that he’s still there, waiting on the edge of your thoughts.

By the time evening rolls around, you’re already second-guessing your decision. But a part of you knows you won’t back out. Not now. Not after the way his voice sounded in that coffee shop, like seeing you again was something he didn’t even realize he’d been hoping for.

And maybe you’ve been hoping for it too.

The snow crunches faintly beneath your boots as you step out of the cab, pulling your coat tighter against the biting Christmas night air. Tony’s penthouse looms above you, a sleek, towering testament to his larger-than-life personality, its sharp edges softened by the glow of festive lights from the surrounding buildings. You clutch your purse in one hand, the other tightening around the strap of your coat as you take a deep breath.

You’ve spent hours deciding what to wear, second-guessing every choice. Eventually, you settled on a deep green dress that flows like water when you move, its simplicity understated yet elegant. It feels festive without being too much, but standing here now, you wonder if you’ve overdone it—or maybe underdone it. You remind yourself this is just a party. Nothing more, nothing less.

Yet your pulse quickens as you step inside the lobby and take the elevator up, the mirrored walls reflecting back the nervous anticipation in your eyes. When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you’re greeted by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the New York skyline, a breathtaking view that momentarily makes you forget where you are.

You cross the polished floor to the massive front door, hesitating for a second before knocking. The sound echoes faintly, and you clutch your coat tighter, waiting.

The door swings open a moment later, and there he is—Tony Stark, leaning casually against the frame, a glass of something amber in his hand and a soft, almost shy smile playing on his lips. He’s wearing a dark suit, tailored to perfection, with no tie and the top buttons of his shirt undone, giving him an air of effortless charm that feels so quintessentially him.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, stepping aside to let you in.

“Merry Christmas,” you reply, stepping over the threshold and glancing around. The penthouse is warm and inviting, filled with soft golden light and the faint sound of jazz playing somewhere in the background.

And empty.

Your steps falter as you realize there’s no hum of conversation, no laughter, no clinking glasses or distant chatter of guests. The space is completely silent, save for the music.

“Tony…” You turn back to him, narrowing your eyes. “Where is everyone?”

He looks at you for a moment, then shrugs, his smile turning slightly sheepish. “Okay, so, full disclosure: there’s no party.”

“What?” Your eyebrows shoot up, disbelief mingling with suspicion. “You said—”

“I know what I said.” He cuts you off gently, raising a hand. “But if I’d told you it was just going to be the two of us, you wouldn’t have come. And I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

You blink, trying to process his words, unsure whether to feel flattered or annoyed. “So you lied to me?”

“Technically, yes.” He winces, but his tone is light, almost teasing. “But can you really blame me? I mean, would you have said yes if I’d told you the truth?”

You open your mouth, ready to retort, but the answer dies in your throat because he’s right. You wouldn’t have said yes.

Instead, you sigh, slipping your coat off and handing it to him when he holds out his hand. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” His grin widens, and he gestures for you to follow him.

As you step further into the penthouse, your initial irritation begins to ebb, replaced by a quiet sense of wonder. The space is decorated beautifully, but not in a flashy, over-the-top way. There’s a massive Christmas tree near the windows, its branches adorned with delicate white lights and ornaments in muted gold and silver tones. A fire crackles in the sleek modern fireplace, filling the room with a cozy warmth. The scent of pine and something faintly sweet—maybe cinnamon—lingers in the air.

It’s not what you expected.

It’s… perfect.

“Wow,” you murmur, glancing around. “This is… not what I thought it would be.”

“Good or bad?” he asks, watching you carefully as he sets your coat on a nearby chair.

“Good,” you admit, your voice soft. “Really good.”

You walk toward the tree, letting your fingers brush lightly over the soft needles of the branches. It feels almost surreal, being here like this, the quiet intimacy of the space at odds with everything you know about Tony Stark.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, breaking the silence. “Because I may or may not have gone overboard with the food.”

You turn back to him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You? Overboard? Never.”

He laughs, gesturing for you to follow him into the dining area. The table is set for two, covered in a crisp white cloth and adorned with simple, elegant decorations—a few candles, a small vase of red and white flowers, and plates of food that look like they belong in a five-star restaurant.

“Tony…” You glance at him, your brows furrowing slightly. “Did you do all this?”

He shrugs, leaning against the edge of the table with that same boyish grin that used to drive you crazy. “Well, I had some help. But yeah. It’s Christmas, Y/N. I figured, if you’re going to spend it with me, I should at least make it special.”

There’s something in his tone, something unguarded, that makes your chest tighten. You glance around the room again, taking in the details—the understated decorations, the carefully chosen music, the food that looks suspiciously like some of your old favorites.

It hits you then.

This isn’t just a random attempt at holiday cheer. Everything about this night feels… familiar. Comfortable. Like he’s gone out of his way to make it something you’d like.

But you push the thought aside.

“Wow,” you say finally, sitting down at the table. “I’m impressed. You actually know how to do Christmas.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” He sits across from you, pouring a glass of wine and sliding it across the table. “I’m a man of many talents.”

The evening unfolds slowly, the tension between you easing with every passing moment. The food is incredible—some dishes you recognize from years ago, others entirely new—and the conversation flows easily, the years you spent apart slipping away like they were never there.

At some point, you stop caring about the fact that he lied to get you here. Instead, you let yourself enjoy the moment, the laughter, the way his eyes light up when he teases you about how much you’re enjoying the dessert.

It’s only later, when the plates are cleared and the fire has burned down to embers, that you realize how much the night has meant to you. Tony pours you another glass of wine and sits back, his expression softer now, his usual bravado dimmed by something quieter, something real.

“I’m glad you came,” he says, his voice low.

“So am I,” you admit, surprising yourself with the honesty of your words.

The fire in the penthouse burns low now, the soft glow casting flickering shadows on the walls. The two of you sit on the couch, side by side but not quite touching, a bottle of wine nearly empty on the coffee table. The jazz music from earlier has faded into silence, leaving only the occasional crackle of the fire and the quiet murmur of your voices.

You’ve been talking for hours—about everything and nothing. The way the city has changed since you left. The kind of tech he’s been working on. The new hobbies you’ve picked up, the old ones you’ve let slip. It’s easy, the rhythm of your conversation, the laughter and teasing slipping in naturally, like no time has passed. But as night falls, the mood shifts, turning softer, tinged with something neither of you is willing to name.

Tony leans back, one arm draped across the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. His gaze lingers on you, warm and thoughtful, and then he speaks, his voice quieter now, almost wistful.

“Do you remember that time we got caught in the rain?”

You blink, startled by the sudden shift in the conversation. “Caught in the rain?”

“Yeah.” He smiles faintly. “We’d gone to that outdoor concert—you wore that sundress, the one with the little flowers on it. You were so mad at me for dragging you out there in the first place.”

A laugh escapes you, unbidden. “That’s because you said it was going to be a ‘relaxing evening.’ You forgot to mention the part where we’d be standing in a muddy field with about a thousand drunk strangers.”

“Hey, it was a great concert,” he counters, feigning indignation. “But then the sky opened up, and it started pouring.”

You shake your head, the memory coming back to you in vivid flashes—the cold sting of the rain, the way the crowd scattered, the ridiculousness of it all. “I was so mad. I wanted to leave, but you—”

“—grabbed your hand and dragged you into the middle of it,” he finishes, a hint of mischief in his voice. “You were furious at first. But then you started laughing. Do you remember that?”

You do. You remember the way the rain plastered your hair to your face, the way Tony had spun you around in the mud, completely unbothered by the downpour. You remember the way he’d looked at you, his eyes full of something you couldn’t quite name then but you understand all too well now.

“I couldn’t help it,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You were so ridiculous, dancing around like that.”

“I was trying to impress you,” he says, his voice light but his eyes serious. “Always trying to impress you.”

The weight of his words settles between you, and for a moment, the air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken. You glance down at your hands, your fingers toying with the stem of your wineglass, and then you look back at him.

“What about you?” you ask softly. “Do you ever think about it? About… us?”

“Are you kidding?” He leans forward now, his eyes locked on yours. “I think about it all the time. About you. About everything we had.”

His words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The vulnerability in his voice, the raw honesty, is almost too much.

“Tony…”

“I screwed it up,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I know I did. I let you walk away, and I’ve regretted it ever since. But God, Y/N, we were good together, weren’t we? Even when we were fighting, even when we were driving each other crazy—we were good.”

You nod, your throat tight. “We were.”

The silence stretches again, and then he laughs softly, the sound tinged with both fondness and sadness. “Do you remember that time we tried to cook dinner together?”

You laugh, the memory bursting out of you unbidden. “Oh God. The lasagna.”

“I still don’t know how we managed to set the fire alarm off three times,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, who burns noodles? Isn’t that supposed to be impossible?”

“It’s not impossible if you’re you,” you tease, and he grins, that boyish, heart-stopping grin that you’ve never quite been able to forget.

“Fair point,” he concedes. “But hey, it wasn’t a total disaster. We ended up eating cereal on the kitchen floor, and you still called it a ‘memorable evening.’”

“Because it was,” you say, your voice softer now. “Not because of the food, but because of you.”

The words hang there, heavy and unguarded, and you can see the way they hit him, the way his expression shifts, the teasing replaced by something deeper.

“And then there was that weekend in the cabin,” he says after a moment, his voice dropping lower. “Just the two of us. No distractions. No one else.”

Heat rises to your cheeks as the memory floods back—the way he’d looked at you that weekend, the way he’d touched you, the way you’d both let yourselves forget the rest of the world existed.

“Tony…” you begin, but your voice falters as his gaze locks onto yours, dark and searching.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every damn day.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding as the distance between you seems to shrink without either of you moving. His hand brushes yours, tentative at first, and then firmer when you don’t pull away.

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “I shouldn’t have let you leave.”

You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It wasn’t your fault, Tony. We didn’t have a choice.”

“Maybe not then,” he says, his thumb stroking lightly over your knuckles. “But now… now, I don’t want to waste another second.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s as desperate as it is tender. You freeze for a heartbeat, the shock of it coursing through you—and then you’re kissing him back, your hands tangling in his hair as you pour years of longing and unspoken words into that single moment.

The world falls away as the kiss deepens, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your face, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might disappear. You shift, your body pressing against his as his fingers trail down your back, igniting sparks wherever they touch.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together as you cling to each other.

“Are you sure about this?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he says, his voice firm.

He stands, pulling you to your feet, and then he’s guiding you toward the bedroom, his hands never leaving yours. The door closes softly behind you, and then the night dissolves into a blur of heat and urgency and the kind of passion you thought you’d lost forever.

Tony is everywhere—his lips tracing a path down your neck, his hands exploring every inch of your skin, his voice low and breathless in your ear as he murmurs your name like a prayer. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel as he worships you with a fervor that makes your heart ache.

He takes his time, his touch reverent as if he’s memorizing you all over again, rediscovering the parts of you he thought he’d lost. And when he finally claims you, it’s like coming home—familiar and electric all at once, your bodies moving together in perfect sync.

The night stretches on, a tangle of limbs and whispered words and stolen kisses, until you’re both spent, lying tangled together in the soft glow of the city lights streaming through the window.

As you drift off to sleep in his arms, his hand resting over your heart, you can’t help but think that maybe, this is the start of something new. Something worth holding on to.

The first thing you feel when you wake up is warmth. Tony’s body is curled around yours, his arm draped over your waist, his chest rising and falling against your back in a slow, steady rhythm. The faint scent of his cologne lingers on the sheets, mixing with the hint of sleep-warmed skin. For a moment, you lie there with your eyes closed, letting the quiet contentment settle over you like a blanket.

When you shift slightly, his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low and raspy with sleep.

You smile, turning your head to glance back at him. “Morning.”

His eyes blink open, soft and warm in the morning light filtering through the windows. A lazy grin spreads across his face as he looks at you, his hair delightfully tousled and his expression free of his usual quick-witted guard.

“Sleep well?” he asks, his hand brushing the curve of your hip beneath the sheets.

“Better than I have in years,” you admit, your voice soft.

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin. “Because I plan to make sure you wake up like this every morning from now on.”

You laugh, a light, teasing sound. “Confident, are we?”

“Always,” he says, his grin widening as he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you.

The morning stretches lazily between you, filled with quiet laughter and gentle touches. His hand traces idle patterns along your back as he tells you about the ridiculous amount of effort he put into planning last night, and you tease him for going all out while secretly marveling at the thoughtfulness behind it all.

“You really thought wine and a Christmas tree would win me over?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

He smirks, leaning down to nuzzle your neck. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe a little.”

His fingers brush your cheek, guiding your gaze back to his. “You’re impossible,” you say, your voice softening.

“And you love it,” he counters, his grin turning mischievous.

Before you can respond, he leans down and captures your lips in a kiss—slow and sweet, yet with a simmering heat that has your heart racing. You melt into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as he deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the warmth of the morning light.

Much later, when the morning is well underway and the coffee you promised to make has been forgotten entirely, you find yourselves curled up on the couch again, his arm slung over your shoulders as you lean against him. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, but inside, the world feels still, as if time itself has paused just for the two of you.

It’s Tony who breaks the silence, his voice softer than usual. “So… last night. This morning.”

You glance up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want this to be just a one-night thing, Y/N. I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t need you in my life. Because the truth is, I do. I always have.”

His words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your chest tightening with the weight of everything you’ve both left unsaid for so long.

“Tony…”

He shifts, turning to face you more fully. “I know it won’t be easy,” he says, his voice steady now. “We’ve both got our lives, our responsibilities. But I’m not letting anything—or anyone—get in the way this time. No moving, no excuses. Just us.”

Your throat tightens, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as his words sink in. “You mean that?”

“With everything I’ve got,” he says without hesitation.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you search his face, looking for any hint of doubt. But there’s none. Only raw, unguarded honesty.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not ever.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Stay. Be with me. For real this time. No running. No hiding. Just us.”

The sheer simplicity of his words, the certainty behind them, leaves you breathless. You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek, and he reaches up to wipe it away, his touch impossibly gentle.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, one that lights up his entire expression. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he’s afraid you might change your mind.

“You won’t regret this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple.

“I know I won’t,” you reply, your voice muffled against his chest.

It’s sometime later, after more laughter and kisses and whispered promises, that the air between you shifts again, the playful teasing giving way to something deeper, something more urgent.

Tony’s fingers trail down your arm, his touch light as a feather but enough to send a shiver down your spine. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens, his hands finding their way to your waist as he pulls you into his lap.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and teasing, “I don’t think we ever properly celebrated our reunion.”

You laugh softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. “And what exactly do you suggest?”

He grins, that familiar spark of mischief in his eyes as his hands slide up your back. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”

Before you can respond, he’s kissing you again, his lips moving with a fervor that leaves you breathless. The world narrows down to the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he pulls you closer as if he can’t get enough of you.

He stands, lifting you effortlessly as you wrap your legs around his waist, his lips never leaving yours as he carries you back toward the bedroom.

The morning gives way to a blur of heat and passion, of whispered words and tangled sheets and the kind of closeness you’ve both been craving for far too long. Tony is everywhere—his hands, his lips, the low, gravelly sound of your name on his tongue sending shivers through you.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together once more, the morning sun streaming through the windows as you catch your breath. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, and you can’t help but smile, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in years.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

You glance up at him, your fingers brushing lightly over his cheek. “So did I.”

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you.

For the first time in years, you feel like you’ve found your way back home. And this time, you’re never letting go.

[mingihttps]

turbulent

felix x fem!reader

you and felix broke up years ago, but now felix has the best idea on how to win you back.

wc: >700

warnings: established break up, felix wants to get reader back, mention of idol life and concerts

seeing your ex boyfriend’s face on billboards and hearing his voice on the radio wasn't exactly what you wanted. but you're proud of his success, nonetheless. a part of you wishes that you could've been there for him during this time in his life, be a person he could go to for comfort when he's too stressed. the possibility of that happening ended years ago, though, when you and felix broke up a couple months before his debut. within the years you two have been separated, you thought that you would get over felix. although, as of a couple months ago, the idea of moving on has gotten ten times more difficult.

a couple months ago stray kids had a comeback. you heard bits and pieces of their newly released music playing in stores and on the radio but what really caught your attention was the fact that one of their new songs was a love song. this love song was discussed often on social media, mainly that felix played a big part in writing the lyrics. you're the one who broke up with felix but the idea of him being with someone else hurt. naturally, you decided to listen to the song in full and that was when you realized that the lyrics were about you. felix wrote a love song about you years after breaking up. one thing that most stays didn't pick up on was the passive aggressiveness of the lyrics. it wasn't your average love song, the lyrics expressed hope and pain at the same time. was lee felix possibly still in love with you after all these years, after you broke his heart?

then last week, you got an email from jype. you had never expected to get an email from your ex boyfriend's company asking for permission to use your voice in one of stray kids’ songs. you didn't send back a response until two days later. you had asked what exactly they meant by ‘use your voice’, you weren't an idol or anything so you quickly knew that felix had something to do with this. and you were right, jype had said that they wanted to use audio clips of your voice that a member already has. the only information you got from their second email is that felix saved all of the voice messages you sent him when you were dating. not only that, but the fact that he still listens to them.

you had told the company that it was fine to use your voice in their song. you regret telling them that. it only opened up a new gateway of communication between you and felix. you were about to unknowingly cross a bridge that got torn down years ago.

since then, the song has been released and many fans were speculating who the female voice in the song was. jype has been giving you opportunities to come to the company and meet stray kids, which you always decline. you can't face felix again. that was until the company offered you one free concert ticket. it's one night and you'll be in a crowd with thousands of other people, there's no way he’ll be able to spot you out; so you decide to go to the concert. it was such a stupid idea, of course, they’ll give you vip and you’d be in the front row.

now, in the pit of some random venue, you are face to face with your ex boyfriend who stares at you from the elevated height of the stage. you stare back, giving him the most calculated glare, letting him know that you know everything.

you leave the concert not wanting another thing to do with lee felix or the rest of stray kids. unfortunately, those cards weren't in your favor. since in a couple of days you’ll not only get another email from jype but a text from a number you forgot you still had in your phone; a person who goes by the name lee yongbok.

requests are open !!

reposted from my old account

[isaut]

𝒃𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅— diluc x fem!reader. 2.1k. ao3

yours and diluc's love has captured the hearts of teyvat, thanks to the steambird and the kamera. in my head this takes place in another fic im working on so the reader only has one arm.

You marry in a simple gown of silk. There’s enough heft of the silk, as it spills around your arms and babbles down your body like a brook, spilling onto the floor, to show off its price. Your flowers drip from the bouquet in your hands– They drip, not droop. Cecilias and lilies, nothing more than an extension of your beauty. 

Your ladyship, the official bits of it, are donned with a strong kiss. One where Diluc has his hand on your lower back and the other on the side of your face– the side that isn’t being photographed. 

Three photos come from the wedding: One of you walking down the aisle: cobblestones lining outside the winery. Lined by simple flowers, a small party gathered to witness. Two, of the kiss. Swooped, leg slightly lifted, completely and contently at Diluc’s mercy. Three, of your head tossed back in laughter and Diluc’s warm gaze trained intently on you, a fond expression on his face. 

It’s later that month when Mona presents you with the newspaper. She had, after all, advised you on when the perfect day to get married would be. All for a hefty price, of course. But if luck couldn’t be bought, you could certainly try. The front page, however, is something like a gossip magazine. MARRIED FOR THE STARS. Step into the whimsical wedding of the century. 

And it’s those three photos. You hide your face behind the newspaper. 

“You know, you should be pleased. People pay thousands of mora for a chance to be right there,” Mona titters, crossing her arms. “You could at least act grateful.” 

“Oh, Mona… We didn’t need a cover page. We didn’t even need it to be broadcasted!” You protest, though there’s a girlish fluttering in your chest. 

“It’s not like anyone else of such caliber is getting married,” Mona huffs. “You should be honored!” 

Diluc is beet red when he sees the cover page. He hides himself behind his hands, fingers hiding under his fringe. “This is mortifying,” He bemoans. 

“I say Donna crying,” Kaeya says, with a shit eating grin and he looks over the front page, turning to page three for the full article. “Just absolutely inconsolable.” 

“Poor thing,” You hum, sufficiently less embarrassed since Diluc seemed to be embarrassed plenty for the both of you. “Maybe we should get it framed.” 

“Hang it up in Angel’s Share,” Kaeya agrees. “Right next to the collection of best wine awards. What do you think, Diluc?” 

“I don’t think it needs to be hung up,” Diluc says, muffled by his hands. 

“I’m going to hang it up,” Kaeya says. “I’ll get a fresh copy from Mona, so you can hold onto this one. Has Adelinde seen it yet?” 

“Yes,” Diluc says, still muffled. 

“I think everyone’s seen it,” You chime in, grinning as you reach over to tuck a strand of Diluc’s hair behind his ear. His face is certainly warm. 

It’s to no surprise that the weddings that follow for the next few years are inspired by the nation of love. That there’s thousands of attempts to grab the same photos, but none of them have the same candidness to that first kiss you shared with Diluc as husband and wife. None of the dresses have the same water-like texture, none of the flowers are fresh in the same way. 

It could be said for money. But the wind was a perfect whisper, rippling through your gown and your hair, keeping Diluc’s hair out of his face. Rumor was that the Anemo Archon favored the Ragnvindr’s love so greatly he made a personal appearance. 

When you’re invited to Fontaine– When Diluc is invited to Fontaine for a wine festival, he grumbles about it. About the journey, about how he has to leave home for months on end. Even though you’re coming with him, he still grumbles. He’s fond of his manor, he’s fond of the way that you’ve bled into every aspect of it. Brightening it with light colors and gauzy curtains, fresh-scented candles. 

He grumbles less, because you’re so excited to go. You’ve listened to your tailor speak for hours about how beautiful the land of water is, about how the art is so rich and the food richer. You’ve listened to nearly every ballet and every opera on the gramophone. And your tailor has treated you so well, to fashions typical and atypical of the nation. 

(His business had boomed too, after the wedding dress. However, he saved his best work for the Ragnvindrs. He’d be lying if he wasn’t hoping to make another splash in his hometown.) 

Fontaine treats the Ragnvindrs kindly. They have first class tours, with nearly everything included. A villa instead of a hotel room. Nightly escapades to the finest shows Fontaine has to offer. For your first journey to the Opera, you’re buzzing with excitement. 

The gown that’s been made for you in warm blue, with shimmers and hugs your figure. It’s a far cry from the simple dresses you wear back home: modest and breathable. With this one, you wrap a shawl around your shoulders and stand in front of the mirror, doing last minute adjustments. 

Diluc is too filled with energy to sit still for so long, focused on just one thing. He hides it well, and age has slowed him down considerably from when he was nothing but a young firecracker. He’s just gotten better at hiding it. At least, he’ll do it for you. He comes up behind you, resting a hand on your hip. The accents on his suit complement your dress, his hair pulled back in a bow of the same fabric. 

He leans forward to press a kiss to the top of your shoulder, hand sliding to rest securely over your stomach. His other trails down your arm to hold your hand, gently adjusting your engagement ring, which glints in the lamplight. 

“Do everything with this hand,” Diluc says, hunched over so his cheek can rest on your shoulder, facing towards your neck. Here, he has perfect access to the scent of your perfume. 

“I don’t think anyone is mistaking me as single,” You reply. Not when the lovable oaf of your husband is draped over you. Not when he stands so close to you the two of you might as well wear the same concoction of perfume and cologne. 

Diluc hums and straightens up. 

“Well. Let me escort you, my lady,” Diluc says, giving a slight bow. 

You respond with a beaming smile and a small curtsey. 

Diluc captures your lips in a kiss, pulling away with furrowed brows. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask. 

“You’re just too beautiful,” Diluc replies. 

This time, the newspaper comes much faster. You’re on page three, under a fashion column. MONDSTAT’S PRINCE CHARMING AND CINDERELLA. The article speaks of how such patrons of the arts were so much more patrons of each other, madly in love by gaze alone. 

You’re whisked away to the gala: the actual event you’ve come for. The finest gown is for that night: off the shoulder with large sleeves, tailored and glittering, beaded details accentuated by the diamonds around your neck. There’s a frown on Diluc’s face as he gets ready, does up his buttons and does up his tie. 

When prompted on what soured his mood, he simply replies: “I don’t want to socialize.” 

You laugh, tinkling bells through the room. 

“What?” Diluc asks. “They like you so much more than they like me.” 

“Oh, but you’re the one they want to talk to,” You say, coming over to him. You smooth your hand over his lapel. “I think they just like looking at me.” 

“They should talk to you instead,” Diluc replies. “You’re so much more interesting than I am.” 

“And share me with the world?” You tilt your head. 

“Oh, good point.” Diluc slides his hand back around your waist. The dress truly is something to marvel. Such a marriage of Fontaine’s couture and Mondstadt's simplicity. Diluc’s gaze can’t leave your waist, can’t leave your chest. “Good point.” 

The Steambird gets a quip from you that night, a bright eyed, pink haired girl with a camera approaches you and Diluc, begging for a photo. She has many questions, and expresses such to you, but will only ask you for one. And to forgive her because it’s not wine related. (“Good,” Diluc had said, mostly to himself and you, “I’ve spoken enough about wine.” Charlotte had beamed at that.) 

“Everyone’s been calling you Teyvat’s true fairytale,” She says, recording device poised. “Do you have any advice for those of us trying to find our own fairytale?” 

You laugh, and look up at Diluc, placing a hand on his chest. In turn, his hand sits dutifully at your lower back. He looks down at you, a fond expression on his face. 

“I don’t think there’s a script to it,” You say, tearing your gaze away from Diluc. “I think it just happens.” 

“You can’t be looking for it,” Diluc adds on, his gaze never leaving you. 

RECIPE FOR A FAIRYTALE

A Mondstadt love story is not unheard of. If anything, it has permeated our childhoods, with so many famous tales coming from the land of romance. Growing up, these tales of princes and princesses, who find true love after a fearsome trial of strength, bravery and wit seem so out of reach, as if they linger as stories painted in constellations. Gorgeous to gaze at, charming to consume, delightful to dream about. 

There must be something in the Mondstadt air, whether it be the scent of windwheel asters or the Anemo Archon’s own blessing, given that Teyvat’s own fairytale hails from the tranquil nation. That Ragnvindrs won the hearts of Teyvat when they got married. Sources at the time revealed photos of the event, two lovers intertwined in their own world, speckled by the sunlight filtering through the translucent clouds in the sky. Their vows promised a lifetime of never-ending love, and their kiss was sealed with a warm brush of wind. 

Their love has not run dry. Tonight, at the Festin de Boire, Diluc Ragnvindr and his lady, Ophelia, continue their tour of Fontaine. Dressed by Fontaine’s own Herbert Agustin, the two are fit for on-stage royalty. Diluc’s suit is finely tailored, a warm, dark brown that highlights his cabernet eyes and acts as logs on a hearth for his flaming mane. Tonight, it’s tamed by a ribbon the same shade as his wife’s gown. A stunning, off the shoulder champagne piece with sleeves that billow out and come together around the wrist, embroidered by pearls. Tonally, it matches the bubbling drinks in their hands. It would be remiss to not discuss the stunning set of diamonds that sprawled across her collarbone in long droplets. 

The banquet attendees are just as smitten with the Ragnvindrs as I am. Witnessing the attentiveness of Diluc and the grace of Ophelia, it’s hard to not raise my own crumbling standards when it comes to a partner. Not once did I see his hand leave her waist, lower back or cheek for longer than a few breaths. 

When I spoke with them for a brief moment, it was like gazing into a snowglobe, where a prince and princess stand, eternally in love. Accentuated by the quartet playing, the two of them struggled to pull their gazes away from each other. Truth be told, the two looked so stunning up close, I struggled to pull my own gaze away. 

I asked our lovers the question on all of our minds, one that circulates my own to no end. Do they have any advice on how we can find our own fairytale? 

Ophelia rested her hand on his broad chest, a smile on her face. Diluc’s hand curved around her waist, resting on the bottom of her bodice before the dress expanded into its fullness. It is easy to imagine them back at their winery, standing in their garden in the same position. The same love painted on their faces, only with crystal flies circling about them instead of servers carrying plates of hor d'oeuvres and glasses of wines. 

“I don’t think there’s a script to it,” Ophelia told me, though her words floated up in the direction of her husband. She further confirmed: “I think it just happens.” 

Diluc, who had told me he was glad for the opportunity to discuss matters other than wine (and, if I must make my own conclusions, was euphoric to discuss his wife), added the big secret: “You can’t be looking for it.” 

To think that such a cherished romance simply fell into their laps is almost astonishing. To see such a fairytale, to learn that it came without slaying any dragons, that it fell like an autumn leaf or a ripe bulle fruit… It is the thing of dreams. And perhaps a reminder that the best things in life come to us when we aren’t looking. 

[kokusfluffyhair]

I Will Never Let You Go

Shishio Tsukasa x gn!Reader | SFW

You were the first person Tsukasa chose to revive once he got access to the cave of nitric acid. He could remember clearly where you should have been when the green light coated the earth. You were supposed to meet him at a cafe down the street from the gym he used to train at. Somehow, like an invisible string was guiding him through the map of the overgrown forest, he found himself to you.

Not being aware yet of the fact that using the nitric acid on petrified people had a healing effect, Tsukasa, having already pulverised multiple statues that weren't to his liking, nearly broke into tears seeing that you were all in one piece. The worst that had happened was that your lower body was submerged in the ground and that you were covered with moss.

Tsukasa carefully dug you up, taking the most precise attention to make sure he didn't accidentally damage you, and then cleaned you up before pouring some of the nitric acid over you. When the stone burying your body cracked and tumbled apart from your bare skin, the first thing you saw was Tsukasa kneeling in front of you. You were not even able to speak his name before you were taken into his arms and embraced as tightly as he could without choking you, wrapping you in his cloak against his bare chest.

"Are you well?" he asked you.

"Yes." You didn't hesitate to lean forward and press your lips to his.

Tsukasa almost gasped as you kissed him, but he quickly fell comfortable and returned the gesture to you. He was an awkward kisser, inexperienced but passionate, and his plush lips held a tender softness you couldn't imagine receiving from anyone else.

He gave you his cloak until he could find more suitable clothing for you, protectively folding and tying it around your naked body as if to shield it from the eyes of any others. The two of your were completely alone. No one else was in sight, however for Tsukasa even the eyes of a stray monkey hanging from a tree was one pair too many to gaze upon what was his.

When Tsukasa brought you to the shelter he had stole from Senku, he explained the situation to you and told you about his plans. As all who were revived from the petrification, you were shocked to hear that you were over three thousand years in the future, living in this primitive, uninhabited (so you thought) world. To Tsukasa's relief, you agreed with his dreams. Having come from a poor family where it was difficult to make ends meet to pay rent and buy food, the thought of a world free from that was like a godsend.

And you knew, no matter what the state of the world, that Tsukasa would protect you. He gave you his word long before the green light froze you in place on your way to the cafe, and his promise still stood valid thousands of year later. He was your best friend and your dearest love, even though Tsukasa's shyness left the two of you not yet having become more intimate than hugs and the occasional kiss. But you felt that it was only a matter of time before your relationship would become even closer than it was before.

"Y/n," Tsukasa said that evening as you were watching the sunset together from a high cliff. "When I build my empire, you and I will rule together to bring mankind to a purer civilisation." Although his face remained stoic, there was a slight upwards twist at the corners of his mouth. "Everything we make together from now on will be a paradise world just for us." His eyes glistened softly with pride. "Will you embark on this journey with me?"

"Of course." The answer was simple and not a single fibre in your body questioned your decision.

Tsukasa seemed to know what your response would be, but he needed to hear it with his own ears. He turned to face you, took your hand into both of his, and gently raised it to his lips. Closing his eyes, he kissed the back of your hand and lowered his forehead to the same place he had touched with his lips.

"No matter what, it will always be you and me together," he said and rose his forehead. His long, thick eyelashes separated from each other as he calmly opened his eyes to look at you. "Even if we somehow live another thousand years, I will never have anyone but you stand by my side."

[redrobin-detective]

Simon Petrikov headcanons

Only child, had loving parents who supported him but often left him alone for long stretches of time. An eager, empathetic child, he craved relationships with others and struggled to find them. The people he cares for, he loves completely and with everything he has.

He and Betty were such an obnoxious couple. They were each other's first everythings and became attached at the hip from the moment they started dating. They did everything together, mostly because it was Betty helping Simon with all his books and expeditions and research. Dated 2 years before proposing and things fell apart not long after. Simon had his doctorate while Betty was finishing hers, they planned the wedding for after she got her degree.

Was in his mid-late 30s when he first put on the crown. He'd just gotten his PhD and proposed to Betty and was at the happiest point in his life. Secretly believed but never really acknowledged that the reason Betty disappeared is that he accidentally killed during during his first bout of crown induced madness. That lingering grief and guilt was a major driver of his later princess kidnapping mania, seeking out the princess his heart knew was gone. He calmed down again once he realized Betty was alive.

After Betty disappeared, he became a hermit to avoid hurting others and the War happened a few years later. He was affected enough by the crown's magic to not suffer from the radiation sickness. He met Marcy a few years after.

Always wanted children, even when he'd been a child. Was somewhat resigned to it never happening until he met Betty. One of their first big discussions as a couple was about their mutual desire for kids. They both wanted a big family.

Has a somewhat addictive personality which is one reason why he could never truly abandon the crown. Goes through phases with food where he'll only eat a certain thing for months on end. Smoked like crazy, he was trying to quit because it bothered Betty but never quite managed. Even a thousand years later, he still wakes up sometimes craving a cigarette.

Is actually quite different physically from modern humans. Future humans only have 4 fingers and toes, they also have a slightly different internal organ structure that evolved post-war. Simon and humans give each other slight uncanny valley vibes, facial/skeletal shape is mostly the same but a bit tweaked that they can tell something is off slightly. Oooans live longer, are more durable and have more flexible bones. Simon nearly faints when he sees Finn bend his arms in ways that's impossible for him.

Simon retains some effects of the crown. His dark brown eyes became a piercing light blue after that first time and never went back. While he loses all magical ability, he has a higher sensitivity towards it. Has a crazy high physical cold tolerance and can survive temperatures that would harm a normal person. However, his mental tolerance for cold is low. Hates being cold and bundles on layers whenever it's chilly.

He didn't keep memories well while as Ice King. When he came back to himself he found he remembered cold hard facts he learned as IK (names, events, general history of Ooo) but personal memories were only 'dreamlike impression'. People will tell him things he did and Simon will not remember, he finds it very upsetting. Every now and again, a memory will bubble up and no matter what he's doing he'll need to hide away out of embarrassment.

A musical prodigy, someone who can pick up and learn instruments quite easily. Could have done music professionally if he'd been so inclined but preferred it as a hobby. In order of proficiency it was piano -> keyboard -> harmonica -> acoustic guitar -> fiddle -> violin -> ukulele*. *Can only play his and Betty's song which he sang when he proposed.

Drums was never an instrument he learned pre-crown, it was never something he wanted. He learned as Ice King, a way to express his innate musical talent in a medium that fit the cursed king. Plays intermittently after being freed but it takes him years before he becomes comfortable with them.

Taught Marcy the basics of guitar while they traveled together. She'd already expressed an interest in music and he was happy to teach her and sing to her as a way to keep up her spirits. Often joked guitars weren't his specialty but they were easier to find/more portable in an apocalyptic world.

Every couple of months, he and Marcy will pick a venue and play together. Its never announced, they just show up someplace and start playing. The audience goes wild but they're just having having a little family jam session.

Goes grey early. He has a massive panic attack when he first noticed streaks of white in his hair. He thought he was turning back into Ice King before he realized he was just getting old. Its a concept just as foreign and frightening.

It took a long time for Simon to admit what Marcy was to him, it felt presumptuous to think of her as his own when he could barely provide for her and was slowly losing his sanity. Meanwhile Marcy saw him as a parental figure right away. They've since talked about it and acknowledge it but just call each other Marcy and Simon for simplicity's sake. Sometimes, when she's feeling fond she'll call him 'old man' and it makes him feel like a king.

Marcy has a serious fear of Hunson taking offense to Simon filling in the father role. Its one reason she doesn't call him dad even if she feels it. Hunson is cruel and apathetic and possessive. She won't risk Simon falling victim to his petty whims.

Worked hard to make up his past behavior to the people he'd hurt. Many were forgiving but some weren't and he had to learn that some people would never accept his efforts. Took a long time for he and PB to get on good terms. Bubblegum holds grudges and Simon was so ashamed over his actions he would've avoided her if not for Marcy. For her sake, the two of them painfully, awkwardly made peace with each other. They're now quite friendly and even hang out occasionally without Marcy.

Is super uncomfortable around Gunter/Ice Thing for a while. Takes him awhile to work up the nerve to go back to the Ice Kingdom. Ice Thing thinks of Simon as his father and refers to him as such which initially flusters Simon but he gets used to it. They're friendly, but not really close. Ice Thing houses the majority of Simon's book/artifact collection until he donates it to museums. Simon visits every now and again for research purposes and to see the penguins who mutually miss him. The more Simon feels separated from Ice King the easier time he has with Ice Thing.

Everyone but Finn realizes that Simon has basically adopted him. Finn continues to live with Jake until he dies then alternates between crashing at Marcy's, PB's and Simon's place and disappearing on quests for months at a time. Simon worries and dotes on the young human: making meals, keeping his place clean and generally being supportive until Finn is a bit more stable. Finn's obliviousness to Simon's paternal feelings makes him back off a bit more into friend territory but he still worries.

Simon not only moves out of his museum apartment but also out of the floating human city. It isolated him up there, being so unrelatable to the other humans. Moves back down to Ooo and Bubblegum gets him set up with a big house with plenty of extra bedrooms for his friends kids to stay in.

After the events of F&C, he throws himself into his third chance with a gusto. Still has bouts of depression and anxiety the rest of his life but its more controlled. He helps formalize education across the board and creates the first higher education institute in Ooo. Teaches not only about pre-war history but becomes the historian on the history of Ooo. Keeps records, writes books and does interviews that help capture the world which are referenced far into the future. While he will always be associated with Ice King, Simon makes a name for himself as well.

[confused-rat]

A Rat’s List of 50 Villain’s that had a Point

So beforehand, here’s Lily’s dumbass fucking rules for the list. 

Have a point 

Successfully navigate still being a villain

Are written well

From other lists I’ve seen, I think some people have either misinterpreted or ignored the “have a point” bit. (Or maybe I have.) Having a point means the villain was correct on a certain issue, but otherwise failed with their handling of it. (Leading to the second rule, is still a villain despite having a valid point.) So I’m going to try and explain what issue each villain I’ve listed was correct on, and why they’re still a villain. 

But I’m also ignoring rule 3. Because it’s stupid. ☺️ Spoilers inbound.

Ardyn Izunia, FFXV — The point, the gods ruined his life and to correct their mistakes, set up a prophecy that would ruin/kill countless other lives in the process, forcing everyone into roles they had not consented to. Why he’s still the villain, lost himself in the role he was forced into, killing needlessly and mentally torturing others for the dramatics. 

Emet-Selch, FFXIV — The point, the world is a fractured existence, where its inhabitants live infinitely shorter and arguably strife-filled lives, their souls 1/14 of what they originally were. Reality itself is broken. Why he’s still a villain, mortals still have the right to live and better themselves and if fixing the world means mass genocide across 14 different versions of reality, maybe let it stay broken?

Nidhogg, FFXIV — The point, the Ishgardians renege on their alliance and unjustly slew his sister for power, eventually rewriting their own history to place the blame on the dragons to justify their centuries long war. Why he’s still bad, genocide is never the answer. Also was just tossing hatchlings out to war to satisfy his own hatred.

Zodiark, FFXIV — The point, was created to stop the end of the world. Did that. Quite successfully for thousands of years. Why was it still bad though? Because it was gonna sacrifice millions to fulfill the wishes of its summoners after the fact. (See: Emet-Selch)

Vayne & Venat, FFXII — The point, humanity was being controlled by fantasy mindflayers, who routinely destroyed nations to keep their status quo. Vayne and Venat wished to free humanity from them, unfortunately, they decided to do that by invading and conquering other countries and killing thousands. 

Megatron, TFA — The point, Cybertron created his people as a slave race for war and denied them basic rights. Why is he still a villain, thinks colonizing and genocide is needed to provide for his people.

Megatron, IDW — The point, Cybertron’s government was a functionalistic hellscape where dissent was punished with anything from brainwashing to amputation. Why is he still a villain, lost the plot and murdered millions, innocents who were victims of the same system he was, eventually was guilty of the same crimes as the people he originally fought against.

Megatron, TFP — The point, another functionalist society, one where dissenters were sent to gladiator pits. Why is he still a villain, became essentially a terrorist when he bombed a theme park and later whole cities, again murdering fellow victims. 

Silco, Arcane — The point, despite being ruled by the same government, the Undercity received no support from Piltover and was left poverty stricken and oppressed. Zaun deserved its independence. Silco, however, is a drug lord, so he’s still a villain.

Count Dooku, Star Wars — The point, the Jedi Council and Republic were actually corrupt. Why he’s still the villain, worked with the absolute worst person in the galaxy. He tried to fight fire with an active volcano, very not smart.

The Architect, Dragon Age: Awakening — The point, was trying to give darkspawn and other blighted creatures back their self-awareness and control, eventually stopping the Blights entirely. Why he’s still the villain, abducted Grey Wardens to drain of blood and experiment on to achieve his goals. 

Teyrn Logain, Dragon Age: Origins — The point, Orlais was actually trying to secretly conquer Fereldan through a political marriage to King Cailan. Why he’s still the villain, let hundreds of his own people die to secure the throne, including the Grey Wardens, who had nothing to do with Orlais’ plans. 

Solas, Dragon Age: Inquisition — THE POINT, WHICH HE DID HAVE, both times he fucked with the Veil, he was trying to essentially stop an unjust social hierarchal system that supported slavery. Why he’s still the villain, he admitted it would likely kill a lot of people and we do not want that actually? 

Handsome Jack, Borderlands 2 — The point, Pandora is FUCKED. It needs some kind of intervention, people are wearing face masks made of FACES. Why he’s still a villain, it’s. It’s Handsome Jack? He airlocks people for fun, and that’s TAME compared to the other shit he’s done. 

Colonel T. Zarpedon, Borderlands the Pre-Sequel — The point, wanted to prevent the powers of the Vault from being misused. (Points at Borderlands 2 and 3) How she’s still the villain, decides to blow up the moon and all the people on it to do so.

Akechi Goro, Persona 5 — The point, Shido was a vile person who appeared to be above the law as he used his influence to ruin countless lives. Why Goro’s still the villain, murdering innocents in a long-con revenge plot isn’t justified. 

Louis Guiabern, Metaphor: Refantazio — The point, he’s essentially trying to end fantasy racism. Why he’s still bad, his solution to ending said fantasy racism is nonconsensual body modification on a worldwide scale. 

The Flame Emperor, Fire Emblem: Three Houses — The point, the church was corrupt and allowed atrocities to be committed to meet its status quo. Working with arguably worse people (reluctantly) and allowing other atrocities to occur to defeat said church is still bad though.

Miquella, Elden Ring — The point, the Golden Order is flawed and shunned many of the Lands’ Between’s inhabitants. Why he’s still the villain, you can’t brainwash an entire country into being nice, that’s insane. 

Shadowlord, Nier: Gestalt/Replicant — The point, oh man, where do I fucking begin? Shades are all just disembodied souls trying to reunite with their clone vessels. If they don’t reunite, said vessels will eventually die, as both are connected. Unfortunately, the clone vessels gained sentience, dooming humanity. The Shadowlord is just trying to save his daughter/sister, but he’s essentially sacrificing another version of her to do this with neither’s consent. No bueno. 

The Wicked Witch of the West, Wizard of Oz — The point, Dorothy totally did steal her sister’s shoes off her corpse. The death was accidental, but the theft was deliberate. Theft isn’t a murdering offense though, also Toto was just a dog? Wtf. Still a villain.  

The Gnome King, Return to Oz — The point, the Emerald City did in fact steal all his emeralds. Why he’s still the villain, sore loser. Tried to eat a child. 

Shere Khan, the Jungle Book (LA) — The point, mankind sucks. That is all…. Also the wolves totally broke the rules by keeping Mowgli, they could’ve just dropped him off at a village. Why he’s still the villain, preferred child murder to relocation. 

Maleficent, Sleeping Beauty — The point, you do not FUCK with the Fae? Don’t be rude? Why she’s a villain, did not stop after making her point. Sore loser. Cursed the baby instead of the rude parents. 

Ursula, the Little Mermaid — The point, technically, Ariel made a deal with the witch of her own free will. Why she’s still the villain, also a sore loser. Sabotaged Ariel to get the trident. Not a girls girl. Boo.

The Creature, Frankenstein — The point, was shunned and ostracized by literally everyone, including the man who created him, for something beyond his control. Victor owed him (child support). Why he’s still a villain, literally killed a child to spite his creator. He literally. Killed a child. And framed the nursemaid. To torment Victor. He also threatens all Victor’s friends and family, innocent people who had NO HAND in his creation. 

Dracula, Netflix’s Castlevania — The point, radical religious zealots killed his wife (and others) unprovoked. Why is he still a villain, did not stop at the zealots. (This iteration isn’t a predator, you empty-headed fuck ass, as a MLP enjoyer, you should understand the concept of MULTIPLE VERSIONS OF ONE CHARACTER??)

Lucian, Underworld Trilogy — The point, werewolves were slaves and fantasy racism got his lover and unborn child killed. Why he’s still the villain, kidnapped and helped experiment on countless people (who also died) to create a hybrid to facilitate his revenge. 

Red Queen, Resident Evil — The point, she was literally stopping the zombie infection from breaching contamination and destroying the entire world. Why she’s still the villain, told nobody, explained nothing, boom laser hallway. 

Ozymandias, Watchmen — The point, literally just watch the movie. Dude united global powers and ended a Cold War by creating a fake obstacle to scare them, but that’s bad because he killed a lot of people to do that. 

The Count, Gankutsuou — The point, he was unjustly convicted by three corrupt men who abused their positions of power and got away scott-free for years. Still bad because he dragged many innocent people into his revenge plot. Franz did NOT deserve all that. 

Knives, Trigun Stampede — The point, humanity destroyed their own planet and was actively using his people as portable life support batteries and slowly killing them. Why he’s still the villain, genocide is not a valid solution. 

Kyubey, Madoka Magica — Fuck you Lily, Kyubey isn’t a psychopath, it’s a manipulative little shit that doesn’t have humanity’s morals. The point, the universe is dying and they’re trying to stop that. Why they’re still the villain, their solution was the emotional and physical torture of children in a never-ending cycle of despair of death. 

Bandit King Bakura, Yu Gi Oh — The point, the then Pharaoh literally massacred his entire village to create the Millennium Items. Why he’s still the villain, once you fuse with a Great God of Evil, it’s kinda hard to argue for your continued righteous vengeance. 

Shōgo Makishima, Psycho Pass — The point, the Sybil System is flawed, criminalizing innocent people while letting dangerous sociopaths like him walk free (until they get brain jarred). Why he’s still the villain, he decided to demonstrate the system’s flaws by orchestrating so. many. murders. Like. So many. 

Luke Castellans, PJO — The point, the Gods didn’t care for their kids equally and left many to fend for themselves. Why he’s still the villain, trying to murder your fellow campers cause they won’t join your cause is bad actually. 

Medusa, PJO — The point, was unfairly cursed while Poseidon got away scott-free. Why she’s still DEFINITELY a villain, turns innocent people to stone, was gonna turn a child because she’s still not over her ex, getting dealt a raw hand doesn’t excuse CHILD MURDER. 

Poseidon, Odyssey — The point, Odysseus could’ve just avoided all this if he had just killed Poseidon’s son. 🤷 Why he’s still the villain, he would’ve raised the tides so high that all of Ithaca would’ve died, cause he had beef with ONE (1) MORTAL MAN. 

Lord Cutler Beckett, Pirates of the Caribbean — The point, uhhh. This may come as a surprise, but. Pirates… bad? Why he’s still a villain, he did not stop at pirates. Blackmailed and killed basically bystanders. ACAB. 

The Bane, The Underland Chronicles — The point, the Underlanders were originally a colonizing force that poisoned and killed the original inhabitants of the caves they took for their own. Why he’s still a villain, HE EATS PEOPLE? Many of the species underground are sentient and HE EATS THEM?

Tsaritsa/Fatui, Genshin Impact — The point, Celestia has a chokehold on humanity, controlling people’s fates and harshly punishing any dissent. They need to be stopped. Why they’re still villains, essentially is fighting fire with fire, manipulating Nations and experimenting on/killing folks to pursue their own goals to topple Celestia. 

Tsumugi Shirogane, Danganronpa V3 — The point, just doing her job, allegedly the entire class signed up willingly to play the Death Game. Why she’s still the villain, broke her own rules, also, cool motive, still murder?

Chris Walker, Outlast — The point, is trying to keep a highly dangerous swarm of nanites from breaking containment. Why he’s still the villain, does this by breaking others’ spines. And necks. And everything really.

Charioce XVII, Rage of Bahamut: Virgin Soul — The point, Bahamut is a world ending threat that almost succeeded two separate times in the past, and was guaranteed to awaken again in the imminent future to finish the job. Charioce wanted to stop it. However, waging a war with Heaven and enslaving the demon race to build a weapon to combat it was an awful way to go about it.

William Moriarty, Moriarty the Patriot — The point, England’s class system was allowing the rich to get away with absolutely abhorrent crimes. Murder is still murder though. 

Azure Lion, Lego Monkie Kid — The point, the celestial realm really doesn’t care about the mortal realm and is arguably very corrupt. Why he’s still a villain, broke the universe despite multiple people telling him to Not Do That. 

Toffee, SVTFOE — The point, wanted to get rid of magic, which kind of did fuck a lot of people over. Why he’s still the villain, child murder 🎶 is not 🎶 okay! 🎶

Oropo, Wakfu — The point, sought to replace seemingly uncaring gods with their abandoned offspring. Why he’s still the villain, was going to nuke the world to topple said gods. 

Julith, Dofus — The point, was unjustly framed for the murder of her lover because of fantasy racism. Why she is still the villain, sacrificing a stadium’s worth of souls to bring back your deceased lover is not okay.  

Prince Nuada, Hellboy 2 — The point, humanity had forgotten its truce with the Fae and was actively poisoning the planet. Dooming Nuada’s people and other creatures to a slow death and extinction. Why he’s still bad, genocide 👏 is not 👏 a valid 👏 solution!!

[whereserpentswalk]

There's a fallen angel in one of your college classes she's extremely obvious about it even though she claims to be a human. You can tell from the way she's always trying to hide the scars where her wings used to be, the slender yet muscular body type she has tears clearly angelic, and the fact that her body is entirely sexless despite her desire to he seen as female, the slightly sad image of a dress wrapped around her flat chest being the first thing people see of her.

Most people are afraid of her. They've heard of the horrors that fallen angels who've gone to the underworld have committed, the things that they've turned into. They assume the worst, treat her like a dog off it's leash. Nobody actually says anything, but they avoid her, get afraid if she seems to angry, or even just too excited. The professors are strict with her, and the students stay away from her. You hear people saying they're worried she's going to hurt or seduce them when she seems to just be doing normal, if a bit awkward things, like they assume she's the demon they fear she is. Even the undead, the werewolves and the wizards who go to your school are a bit afraid of her.

Eventually she asks you for help with homework. She's so afraid when she asks, she says you seem like the nicest person in the class. But still she's afraid you'll hurt her, or mabye she's afraid she'll hurt you. You have to reassure her a bit, but you help her, step by step. She's so afraid whenever she fails something that she's as worthless as she was told the fallen were, or that someone's going to punish her the same way the other angels would have for a mistake. But she's smart, even if she hasn't had the background to know a lot of things her human classmates know.

You decide to bring her when you hang out with some other freinds. You're just walking through the city streets that are near your campus, it's not that big a deal for most of you, but it is to her. She's never really explored a human city before, and getting to do normal things like this is kind of new to her. Everyone knows what she is, but after a few minutes of just existing with her it stops being the focus. And she seems to happy to just be treated as a normal girl.

There's so much she hasn't experienced before. When you walk by a toystore she's weirdly interested in it, and ends up buying a plush there while almost everyone but you and her and too embarrassed to go inside. She was never a child, so it seems like it's comforting to her to get to enjoy something like this when she didn't get a chance to normally.

But mostly she just seems to enjoy being talked to and looked at like a normal person, without being the focus. Her face lights up when someone compliments her hair, angels are called beautiful a lot but they're never called pretty, they're never someone someone wants to be like. She's so excited to swipe her card just to take the subway with you, and she seems so comforted when being hugged goodbye by you, you think this might be the first time she's been hugged in the thousands of years she's existed.

When you're texting with her later you end up venting about your landlord, he really suck, not allowing overnight guests or pets and the like, and having raised your rent by a lot this year. She becomes really upset learning landlords exist at all, and asks you for his name before saying goodbye.

When you next hear from your landlord he's afraid of something, and agrees to remove all the rules your complained to your fallen angel freind about, and lower your rent. You have a feeling your freind did something.

When you talk to your fallen angel freind to compliment her she seems upset with herself. She was always told she'd hurt a mortal and now she has. You explain to her that that's not always a bad thing, that she saved you, as much as she would have saved you if she caught you falling off a building. You explain to her that just because she's powerful, and nobody controls her, doesn't mean that that power is evil. Even when she makes people afraid, she's still a being of good, it's why she fell in the first place.

[kanmom51]

JM live 1 September 2023 20:54 or 8:54 pm KST

And a little bit about JK's same day live as well.

Part 1

Cr./The creators of the media used in this post.

So we got a live from JK at the start of the day. 12:55 am or 00:55 KST, and from JM in the evening, at 20:55 or 8:54 pm KST.

One opening the days birthday celebrations (or was he?) and the other closing them (in a sense).

Do we have numbers working for the two?

Let's see.

JK's live:

Super easy. Add the 1+2+5+5=13. Then add 0+0+5+5=10.

What?

13/10.

So we get JK's special day with JM's special day. How sweet.

JM's live: Add the 2+0+5+4=11. Then add the 8+5+4=17 and down to a single digit: 1+7=8.

Guess what we get.

8/11

And if you want just a little bit more utilize the date:

1/9/23

1+9+2+3=15

and Ta-dah...

8/11/15

Oh, and if it's numbers we are talking about, and if anyone has any kind of doubt that numbers mean so so much to JM and JK, well here's another little doozy.

JM's watch. Yes, the tens of thousands of dollars worth watch he was wearing during the live.

*Screenshot taken at 3:20 min. mark.

It's a little hard to see, but the time on his watch looks to be around the 3:27 mark.

I want to remind you that JM started his live at 8:54 pm KST. JM has been in SK for months and you would think his watch would be set to KST, no?

Screen shot at 8:24 min.

Screenshot of watch at 32:56 min. mark.

Deduct the live time stamp at every one of those given moments from the time on the watch and you will go back to 3:23/4.

Why, you may ask, am I making such a big deal about this?

Well, my dear friends, this is why:

JK's time of birth tattoo, just to remind you.

JK's time of birth being 3:23-24.

Did JM set his watch to start the live at 3:23-24? JK's birth time?

Wait, but that's not the end of it.

Because JM's watch is also of significance.

Launched in 1997.

What in the effing hell?

Like, if you have another explanation please do explain!!!

Watch not working? Nope, it is, time counting as the live goes on, all from the 3:23 mark.

Coincidence? Again? That his watch happens to be set at JK's birth time, and it also, by chance, being one launched same year JK was born? JK, who's birthday happens to be on that specific day? The person who JM tells us to wish happy birthday and that it's a "wonderful day"?

Please don't continue to say this is all a coincidence. Setting your watch to a time that happens to be JK's birth time, something we have been told in the past, something that JK tattooed on his own body, hence being of significance to him, and most obviously of significance to JM as well.

JM and JK might not be saying the words out loud, but shit, they sure are being as loud as hell about what they are to each other!!!

Ok, so I mentioned in passing JK's live. His almost 9 minute live. His totally out of character shorter than short live, even more so when we are talking about a birthday live. No cake. No candles. No playlist (he told us this was just the music that he left on when he left earlier and it's still playing). No patience, lol. He came, he said hi, he told us he was out with friends he was practicing with (wonder if the reason he came live is to explain who with and why he was out and about...), said he's suffering from insomnia and he has to sleep. Did a card trick...MAGIC... Lol, and ducked. Like even his goodbye was super super short. Now, you could say he had a tight schedule, which he does, and that he has to sleep, which he does. But JK was definitley not on his way to bed when he was doing that live, nor shortly after. He was happy and super hyped, and in NO WAY shape or form about to go to bed at that point.

We need to remember that when they say they have a schedule, it's not a 9 to 5 job. Many a times their days start at noon and later and they keep on working into the early hours of the morning. That is the nature of their work. So having a tight schedule doesn't necessarily mean he has to be up at 7 or 8 am and off to the company or wherever he needs to be in the morning.

You could claim he was excited because it was his birthday, and perhaps you would be right. But if it was the end of his night, then excited what for? Bed? Where he struggles to fall asleep? Nah, I don't think so.

So yeah, I think you know where I'm going with this.

Only that this time we didn't get a photo because there was no one around to buffer.

2019 JM flies back to Seoul to celebrate JK's birthday with him. 2020 JM was with JK on his birthday eve. 2021 we don't know, they didn't tell us, we got a selfie the next day in the safety of the company - not the two together alone at JK's or JM's. 2022 JM was also with JK on his birthday eve. We got to see and hear about it just after JK's birthday, and we had Jhope there as a buffer. Why buffer? So that god forbid they aren't spending his birthday eve alone at his place, especially if it's happening year after year after year, cause you know, people would say it means nothing but at the same time it means everything.

I'm going to say it out loud, and shoot me (not literally) if you wish, but this is a hill I am willing to die on. JK wrote his birthday message and very possibly was not planning to go live that night. Perhaps he did come live because of the photos that came out of him with the fans and the info about him being out and about that night. But for whatever reason JK did go live that night it was always going to be short and sweet. And I do believe that is because he had something else planned which is not going to sleep.

I do believe whatever he had planned was with JM. Period. That's what JK was anticipating, that's what he was excited and happy for, that's why he came for a couple of secs and jolted off.

And for those that are already running to the comments screaming "but JM said he only spoke with JK the day before his birthday to wish him happy birthday" I say: hold your horses, I will most definitley get to it and explain to y'all exactly how JM did not say that by no means. Take a breath, be patient, read on, you'll see why JM said no such thing.

The two of the men having the live the same day.

It kind of felt weird that of all days JM goes live on JK's birthday. Well, maybe weird isn't the right word, but curious is more fitting.

JM wanted to come live for some time now. He says that. But then why, of all days, choose this one?

JM himself tells us he wasn't planning to go live from home that day (while on his way to fetch the mood lamp to show us).

Both lives feel unplanned, rushed and unprepared. There. I said it.

Did either of them even plan to do these lives? Or, perhaps they were a consequence of circumstances? JK wanting to clarify his outing (knowing how this fandom rolls). And JM... why JM? Well, maybe there was actually a birthday live planned? Could that be? One at the company? Us finally getting a Jikook live? Or even just a proper JK live at the company with a cake and all? But JK's schedule ran later than expected maybe? Hence one boyfie coming to the rescue and going live in his stead?

All of the above is questions, queries, possible explanations as to why JM decided to go live from home on JK's birthday, even though he himself tells us this was not the plan. I don't have the answer to these questions, but it definitley does have me wondering.

Will continue this discussion with regards to JM later on in my post.

Let's get to talking about JM's live. Starting by his opening pic.

I have to tell you that first thought I had when seeing the photo was "is that JK?". The frame wasn't right, but the outfit most definitely was, lol.

And guess what?

He's wearing pants for the boys new favourite brand. I guess JM's the one wearing the pants in the house, lol. But then, are they his? They do seem a little on the bigger size.

So, first 17 minutes or so to the live JM talks a bit about not coming live for a while and how he wanted and yet didn't because he's been going through a bit of a personal journey. Not doing well enough in his March promotions, in his mind, had him frustrated and unhappy with himself. Him wanting to restart rather than fix what he feels might be lacking. Kind of resetting himself per say as an artist? In any case he's been doing a lot of introspection. I guess I've mentioned that already, lol. The feeling I got from what he was telling us is that he himself didn't know how to explain what he wanted to tell us. His words not thoroughly thought out, perhaps another sign as to him going live unprepared and before properly thinking out what he wanted to tell us.

JM talks about being at the Dior event. Being nervous and awkward. Also wanting to thank fans that came to see him.

JM is asked multiple times about his hands. Oh my, those hands.

And when I say multiple times, I mean MULTIPLE times, lol. And JM keeps reading those comments and keeps answering again and again and again that it's a scrape from him working out, doesn't hurt, not to worry. At one point, after he is talking about JK's birthday, telling us it's a wonderful day, lovely smile on his face, and asked yet again, he 'bites back' (if you can call if bite back, lol), telling the commenter to look for it later (as in go watch the live from the start when it's over and they will find out).

Is this the right time to discuss JM talking about JK's birthday?

I think it is.

At around the 18 minute stamp time this goes down:

He says Jungkookie, btw.

From the moment he said JK is very busy (he looks at the camera) and up to this point, when he talks about JK's health, not once does JM look at the camera. His eyes were all over the place. And that includes not looking at the camera when he said "I talked to him on the telephone yesterday too".

Remember this?

@dgtn brought this to my attention. JM's eye movement in this part of the live reminds of his eye movement while thinking just before he goes for the kill with JK and the "did you answer them".

Here's JM talking about Jungkookie's birthday. Look at his eyes.

(But that smile at the end...)

JM was definitely deep in thought as to what to say, how to word what he wanted to say for JK's birthday.

Several things to note.

Where to start?

I guess I'll start from the obvious.

People jumping on the wagon: "JM didn't see JK on his birthday. He said so. He said he talked to him yesterday...(to wish him happy birthday?)".

Me, I'm calling the bull.

And I will explain it to you too (foreshadowing).

JM, as usual, is very precise how he words what he wants to say.

His words in this instance:

He mentions JK's birthday today, tells us he's very busy and then says "I talked to him on the phone yesterday too..." and back to "he's really busy..."

"I talked to him on the phone yesterday too..."

Let's take this apart, why don't we?

JM spoke with JK on the phone.

The conversation happened yesterday.

What did they talk about? He doesn't tell us. But mentioning JK being busy before he talks about the phone call and after he talks about the phone call. It feels like this is what he is telling us they spoke about.

So far so good, right?

And then we have two words/things said/or not said that are EVERYTHING here.

One word that he says, the other something that is not said and, at least to me, is super loud and super important and was omitted purposefully.

First word is "too".

I talked to him yesterday too...

TOO.

Leaving the context of the sentence open to interpretation.

Could be any of these:

I talked to him yesterday too just like I speak to him every day?

I talked to him yesterday too because I spoke to him today as well?

I talked to him yesterday too because I was also seeing him later on as well to celebrate his birthday with him?

As for what was missing, well to me it was quite obvious.

JM does not tell us that he wished JK happy birthday.

There was no "I talked to him yesterday too and wished him happy birthday".

JM makes sure to tell us he spoke with JK yesterday (which is not on JK's birthday). Makes sure to add the TOO, but forgets to say that's also when he wished him happy birthday? I think not.

JM is super measured. He is so very careful in what he says and how he says it, especially when it comes to JK. This man not saying it means the words were added or omitted on purpose. And not telling us he wished JK happy birthday in that phone call, well, makes it clear that the phone call in question was definitley not the end of it. Because there is no way in hell that JM would not wish JK happy birthday personally (not via an IG post that JK wouldn't see anyway not being on IG).

Since when would JM not wish JK happy birthday? The man is telling us to wish JK happy birthday, telling us it's a wonderful day, setting his watch to JK's birth time. The man that flew back from Paris to be with JK on his birthday. And also let us know he did it. He wouldn't have wished JK happy birthday himself? And this man wouldn't tell us so either?

Nah. This is JM telling us he spoke with JK, something he does all the time, and that the conversation he's talking about has nothing to do with JK's birthday.

And yeah, by omitting that he's also letting us know that he had another opportunity, one he isn't letting us in on, in which he got to wish JK happy birthday.

PERIOD!

JM talking about JK looking after his health. The way those two worry about each other.

Did I mention the pause as JM finishes talking about JK? It being a wonderful day? The smile on his face?

Oh, and JK mentions JK's birthday once more at the end of the live as well when summing up the live.

Thank you JM for reminding us once more it's JK's birthday and that it was one of those things in your live worth mentioning in your own recap of the live.

Now, I know that there are idiots that are dragging Mingyu for saying he met JK yesterday (on his birthday) and ate with him.

Well, dragging Mingyu on the one hand for what? Saying he met up with his friend on his birthday? That by doing so he was dissing JM? And others, on the other hand, using this, very stupidly, to prove that a busy JK would rather meet up with Mingyu than with JM.

Are we forgetting what JM told us? Well, JK too? That JK is super busy? Most likely in the Hybe building. You know, where Mingyu also comes to work, being in Seventeen, another Hybe band. Could they have met up at Hybe? Of course they could have. Could they even maybe have met up for a meal break at Hybe? Of course they could have. Mingyu was doing the live in a company car, probably on his way home from work looking super tired. So yeah. Chances are that they met at Hybe.

And as for JM, well, you already know where I stand on that one.

JM and JK most definitely saw each other on JK's birthday. Most likely right after JK's live.

Ok, this one is getting a little too long. So I think I'll leave you all here at the moment, let it all sink in, and come back with a part 2 that will include our little house tour and a few more interesting points - well for me at least, lol.

To be continued...