#Name Embossed Diary | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aemondsbabe · 2 years ago

Text

The Queen

summary: dairy/letters & lingerie kink || alicent stumbles across a secret of yours and is more than happy to make it come true

pairing: modern!alicent x f!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, wlw, pre-established relationship, dom!Alicent, sub!reader, queen honorifics used in the bedroom, lingerie kink, use of a leather crop, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, thigh riding, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 3.3k

a/n: happy day seven of 12 days of smuff!! i went into a fugue state and wrote 10 pages in 2 hours. the hold that olivia cooke has on me should be studied by science. anyway.

12 days of smuff masterlist!

gif creds to @olliviacooke

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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Alicent’s POV

She was humming, swaying her hips to a new album she’d downloaded earlier that week as she smoothly moved the duster along the wooden surface of your nightstand, careful as she guided it between the lamp and the small potted plant you loved so much. Getting a bit too into the music she was listening to as she tidied up your shared bedroom, though, she accidentally bumped against the growing stack of books on your nightstand.

“Shit!” Alicent hissed as a few went tumbling to the ground. Sighing, she bent down to grab them, half-heartedly cursing you for insisting on buying new books before you’d finished the ones you had.

“Huh?” She wonders outloud, pausing the music on her phone when she sees her name scrawled in your familiar handwriting. Her fingers brush over the soft, leather bound book as she picks it up, her lips pursing as she reads the words “Personal Journal” embossed on the front in fancy gold lettering. Her brown eyes widen and quickly glance around the room, despite the fact that she knows she’s the only one home. Biting her lip, she runs a finger over the spine of your diary, weighing her options. On the one hand, she knew it would be a horrible invasion of your privacy to look but… well, what if it was something important?

She shook her head at the thought. She wasn’t going to be one of those snooping partners! You already told her everything anyway, it’s not like there would be anything in your diary she didn’t already know! You were basically an open book, in fact, it was one of the things she loved most about you – your willingness to be so honest and transparent.

No, she thought, carefully setting the diary back on your bedside table, I’m not going to! I’m simply –

Okay, sue her. She’s only human and her name was right there! She’d make it up to you.

Glancing around one more time, she flipped open the leather-bound book, flipping through it to the page she’d spotted a moment ago. She found it pretty quickly and nervously bit on a nail as her eyes scanned over the page, noticing the date first. It was from only about a week ago. She read on.

I’m not even sure how to bring up the topic, it doesn’t really seem like something you’d just bring up at the dinner table? Like, “Oh, honey, yeah work was great today! Kevin from accounting is finally getting married, I know! Can you believe it? Oh. yeah, one more thing! Can you boss me around in the bedroom like a drill sergeant?” I mean, come on.

What if she isn’t even into it? What if she wants to be the submissive one? I don’t think Alicent’s totally vanilla, I mean, there have been so many sparks of… something. Sometimes she tells me to do something, usually innocuous like making sure the door’s locked before we leave or to get the laundry hamper from the closet but… God, the way she says it makes me shiver. And when she’s talking on the phone to someone at work? That authoritative voice makes me melt.

Sigh. I just need to find the courage to ask.

Alicent finally finished the entry and looked up from your journal, blinking as thoughts raced through her head. After a minute, she closed the notebook and placed it carefully back on your bedside table, just like it was before it fell off the table.

She could barely keep the smirk off her face as she grabbed her purse and keys and shut the front door behind her, a devious, delicious plan quickly forming in her head.

She knew exactly how to make up for her actions.

Reader’s POV

You sigh as you unlock the front door, quickly tossing your keys into the small bowl on the entryway table before kicking off your shoes.

“Babe?” You called, furrowing your brows at how unusually quiet the house was. Alicent’s car was in the driveway and normally she’d be playing music by the time you got home but today… nothing. You’re about to call out again when the sound of heels clicking down the hallway makes you stop in your tracks, your bag falls from your hand as your girlfriend finally appears from around the corner.

“Good day at work?” Alicent asks coolly, tilting her head as she leans against the doorway. Meanwhile, you feel dumbstruck as your eyes scan over her appreciatively, taking in every dip and curve as if you’d never seen any of them before. Your eyes skim over her outfit, a black, lacy bustier perfectly framing her chest, with a matching black thong clinging to her soft hips, fishnet stockings held up by an enticing garter belt, all the way down to black, pointed toe heels. She’d even taken the time to straighten her usually curly hair, smoothing it down into a clean, nearly intimidating style.

She smirked, brown eyes sparkling at your awe-struck expression, smiling when your eyes finally landed on her face; you couldn’t help but swallow when you saw that she was wearing that expensive red lipstick she only brought out for special occasions, the one you love so much.

Her heels click on the wood floors as she strides over to you and it’s only then you realize that she has something in her hand – a black leather crop. The sight of it makes your knees weak.

“I asked you a question, baby,” she says gently, locking eyes with you as she gently cups your cheek with in her hand, “It would be rude not to answer.” There’s a hard edge to her voice that makes you lose what little train of thought you had.

“I… uh,” you stutter, blush rising to your cheeks as you stare helplessly at her, fighting to keep your gaze locked on hers, “W-Work was good, yeah. Same as… as usual.” You finally finish, your chest already heaving as you rub your thighs together, desperate before you even know what’s going on.

“How wonderful,” she smirks and leans in, giving you a sweet kiss like she normally would, but today it has your head spinning, “What do you think of my little surprise?” She asks, though there isn’t really a question in her tone – she already knows your answer.

“I love it,” you breathe, hardly giving her time to finish speaking as you let your gaze wander over her yet again. “What, uhm,” you cough nervously, “What gave you the idea?”

She smiles again, shrugging; you nearly jump out of your skin when she softly runs the leather crop up the inside of your thigh, starting at your knee and stopping tantalizingly close to your core. “Just got the sense that maybe you’d be into it…” She says casually, like you’re talking about the weather, “Was I right?”

All you can do is nod your head, but that’s not good enough, apparently. Her eyes narrow and she wraps a hand around your neck, not too harshly, mostly just sitting it there but it’s enough to make you whimper in the back of your throat, breath catching as her perfectly manicured red nails just barely dig into your delicate skin. “I don’t think that’s the proper way to address me, is it?” She coos, a faux pout to her lips.

“N-No,” you say shakily, your eyes searching hers, “No… ma’am?” You try, inwardly cringing at how your voice squeaks.

She clicks her tongue like a disappointed mother, the sound going straight between your legs, as she fixes you with an intense stare. “Baby, you know how I sometimes call you princess?” She asks, smiling proudly when you eagerly nod, “Well, tell me. Who’s more in charge than a princess?”

Your throat goes dry and you swallow thickly, darting your tongue out to wet your lips before speaking. “T-The queen?” You ask softly, pride feathering out in your chest like the train of a peacock when she smiles and nods again.

“That’s right!” She praises, almost as if she was speaking to a child; perhaps you should be offended at her condescending tone, but, if anything, it just makes your heart beat faster. “The queen. Do you want me to be your queen today, sweet one?” Again, you nod, so she continues. “So, address me properly.”

“Yes, my queen.” You breathe the words, core clenching softly around nothing.

“Very good,” she praises, leaning in and lightly brushing her lips over the pulsepoint on your neck, “Do you want to keep being a good girl for your queen?”

“Yes, your grace, please.” You say with an eager nod, feeling like you’ll explode if she doesn’t touch you, or so something soon.

“Then be good for me and go to the bedroom,” she nods as she speaks, her big brown eyes looking directly into yours, “And strip.” She finishes coolly, leaving you no room to argue.

You nod quickly and practically leap down the hallway, blushing when you hear her giggling behind you. As soon as your feet hit the soft rug in the bedroom, you tug at your clothes, quickly shedding your sweater and work trousers before unclipping your bra and sliding your underwear down your legs, haphazardly shoving everything into the hamper because you just know she’ll say something about the mess if you don’t. Finally, not knowing what else to do, you stand by the bed, arms clasped in front of you.

She doesn’t make you wait long and you bite your lip in anticipation as her heels click slowly down the hallway, smiling shyly when you finally meet her gaze again as she enters the room. Just like you knew she would, her eyes immediately dart to the hamper and her smile widens when she sees your clothes from today resting on top.

“What a good girl I have,” she praises as she saunters over to you, her hips swinging enticingly as she moves. Without another word, she sits on the edge of the bed and gently places the crop down next to her on the bedspread, before she beckons you over with a crook of her finger, “You like your queen’s special surprise for you, huh?” She questions, tilting her head as she peers up at you, her hands resting gently on the curve of your hip.

“Yes,” you nod, your eyes trailing down to her cleavage before you can help yourself and it’s only then that you notice that she’s breathing nearly as hard as you are, a blush extending down her pale neck and chest, “I love it, my queen, so much.” You nearly whisper, dizzy at the thought that she might be enjoying this just as much as you are.

“Don’t you think you should thank me for your surprise, princess?” She asks coolly, smirk widening as she sees a look of realization in your eyes.

“Yeah, yes, please,” you nearly beg, already tempted to sink to your knees.

She smirks at your eagerness, all but laughing when you whine as she pushes herself back further, out of your grasp and into the center of the bed, making enough room for you in front of her. Again, she crooks her finger and you hastily follow after her, kneeling between her fishnet-covered legs. With another smirk, she silently spreads her legs, bending them at the knee enough that the heels of her shoes dig into the bedspread.

Something between a gasp and a whimper escapes your lips as you let your gaze travel down, between her legs, where you’re met with the shocking realization that the black thong she has on is indeed crotchless. Your eyes stay glued to her center, now beautifully framed by two strips of lace fabric; the sight makes you lick your lips without thinking, taking in the way her folds shimmer, even in the low light of the bedroom. Finally, you manage to rip your gaze away and lock eyes with her again, your blush deepening at the hazy look in her eyes as she leans back on her elbows.

“Go on, princess,” she breathes, that familiar, aroused rasp finally present, “Thank your queen.”

You spring into action, wrapping your hands around her soft thighs as you lean in, kneeling between her legs. Your eyes flutter as you look up the length of her body while you press soft, sweet kisses to the inside of her thighs, your eyes widening when you see her lean over and quickly grab the crop.

You jolt as she brings it down, smacking one ass cheek with it, not enough to hurt but enough to leave behind a pleasant little zing. “I don’t believe I asked you to tease me,” she admonishes, a playfulness to her tone still as her other hand brushes into your hair, red nails scratching soothing against your scalp, “Thank me properly.” She commands, guiding your head to exactly where she wants it.

You’re more than happy to obey and you press a kiss to the center of her folds, right on her clit, moaning against her as you feel it twitch against your lips. She lets out a breathy moan as your tongue licks a long, straight line up her center, right down the middle, before your lips gently seal around her bud.

Your eyes flutter closed again as you softly suck at her clit, moaning lowly in your throat at her familiar sweet taste. You move in just the way she likes, kissing and licking over her heat with a practiced ease, pride blooming in your chest with every moan, whine, and sigh of your name. You shake your head against her, attempting to bury your tongue in her twitching core as the tip of your nose teases her clit, your chin dripping with her when you finally pull back.

“Princess, fuck,” she breathes above you, head tilted down so she can watch as you feast on her, “Fuck me, come on.” She orders, giving another sharp little spank to your bum with the crop.

You do as she says, smiling as you flick your tongue over her bud while you glide two fingers through her folds, making sure to get them nice and wet before you slide them carefully into her, relishing the long moan she lets out as you do. You can’t help but whimper as her walls clamp down tightly, pulsing around your fingers as you crook them up in the way you know she loves, your lips sealing softly around her clit again, eyes fluttering as you watch her chest heave.

“Good fucking girl,” she whimpers, accentuating each word of praise with another slap of her crop against you, the pleasant sting you clench around nothing, “Make your queen come, princess, good girl.” She moans, tilting her head back as you redouble your efforts.

Your arm aches as you fuck your fingers into her, keeping them quirked up against that small rough patch within her, but you pay it no mind, focusing only on the hand in your hair and the taste of her in your mouth, your hips canting desperately in the air.

You flick your tongue against her bud once more, in just the right way, and it sends her over the edge with a gasp. You moan into her as the hand in your hair tightens and her walls rhythmically squeeze against your fingers, nearly tight enough to push them out. You move steadily, bringing her through her high as you have so many times before, only stopping when she finally goes lax against you.

You press kisses against her thighs and hips as she comes down, breathing heavily above you. Eventually, the hand in your hair tightens once more, and you sigh happily as she pulls you up.

“You did so good,” she praises softly, her voice breathy as she presses her lips against yours; she moans softly as your tongue licks into her mouth before she pulls away to trail kisses down your neck, “So good for your queen, my sweet princess.” You sigh happily, eyes fluttering shut as you straddle her, one of her legs between yours.

Your eyes shoot open as she bends her leg, pressing her fishnet covered thigh firmly against your center with a knowing smirk. “Goodness,” she gasps, her beautiful brown eyes widening once she feels how wet you are against her, “I think you deserve a reward too, for treating your queen so well.”

“Please, holy shit,” you gasp, your hips already moving on her leg, the pattern of her stockings adding a delicious friction, “P-Please, your grace.” You quickly correct yourself when she brings her crop down once more, making your back arch.

“Good girl,” she whispers, mouthing at your neck. She lets the crop fall to the bed again as she cups your ass with both hands, guiding your hips as you move against her, “Take what you need, princess, you earned it.” She breathes, smirking as you shudder above her.

You nod mindlessly, swallowing thickly as you already feel the knot in your stomach tightening dangerously, each drag of your clit over her stockinged thigh sends shockwaves up your spine. Your breathing gets heavier and heavier as you get closer and she smiles happily, bouncing her thigh against your wet core in the way she knows drives you insane.

“My beautiful little princess,” she whispers, red lips ghosting over your chest, “Behaving so well for her queen.”

You fall apart once her lips seal around one of your nipples, sparks of pleasure bursting behind your eyelids as she carefully sucks the sensitive bud into her mouth, gently teasing at it with her teeth. Your body tenses up as your walls clench again and again, your fingers grabbing at the sheets as you gasp her name.

Finally, your eyes flutter open as your high subsides. Thankfully, you have just enough presence of mind to roll to the side, cuddling against her as your chest heaves.

“Holy shit,” you breathe through a small laugh, your face flushed as your eyes meet hers.

“So, you liked it?” She asks, a shy lilt to her voice now that both of you have had the chance to come down.

“Liked it?” You question, staring at her wide-eyed, “I… I loved it. That was incredible.” You breathe, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder, “Where on earth did all that come from?”

She giggles softly, a guilty look appearing on her face. “Promise you won’t be too upset with me?” She asks softly.

“Of course,” your reply is instant as you card your fingers through her soft hair, “Just tell me.”

“I was cleaning a few days ago, when I had that day off,” she explains, swallowing as you nod along, “And I… may have accidentally knocked your diary off the table and then got curious when I saw my name and… yeah.” She finishes, teeth biting at her lower lip.

Your face reddens a bit, instantly knowing which entry she must’ve seen, but you merely shake your head, about to tell her not to worry about it when she starts speaking again.

“I do feel really bad about it,” she sighs, continuing quickly, “I know it’s a breach of trust but I saw my name and then… I’ll make it up to you, I pr – !”

She gasps as you cut her off with a sweet kiss, shaking your head dismissively, “Consider it made up.”

“You aren’t mad?” She asks hesitantly.

“Mad?” You echo, laughing softly, “My sexy girlfriend bought ridiculously hot lingerie, and a riding crop, just to surprise me and fucked me to within an inch of my life and I’m supposed to be mad at her over a little diary?” Both of you dissolve into a fit of giggles as you finally finish, nuzzling happily against each other, “I think not.” You quip, smirking as your eyes search hers.

“Okay, yeah,” she says with a small eye roll, “I am pretty great, huh?”

“And oh so humble,” you laugh, pressing kisses over the curve of her shoulder before leaning back to smirk at her, “Your majesty.”

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ronearoundblindly · 1 year ago

Text

Time and Tines (2/3)

Reasons (see previous or series)

Steve Rogers x Villain!Reader

Summary: With the Winter Soldier on your side, Steve races against time to figure out why...and how to stop you.

Warnings for basically DARKFIC: talk of unspecified terminal illness, medical malpractice, gaslighting, revenge, gun violence, not overly graphic death but still death (not of Reader, Steve, or Bucky), and decidedly too-little editing. MINORS DNI. There's plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this isn't for you! WC 5242 (which is, yeah, way longer than it was supposed to be)

Steve will do anything to avoid a fire fight with the Winter Soldier. There are too many people involved now, and he has to approach this situation delicately from all angles.

Steve just does not understand yet.

After hours waiting with agents in the dark of Doctor Avani’s house, convinced you’ve ordered Bucky to come right over and kill the man with brute force, nothing happened. There was no sign of anyone. Steve has to try something else.

A small army protects Salvatore while he searches your apartment. If the key to activating his friend is here, he needs to find it, destroy that information, and get a handle on why this is happening.

“This can’t be right,” Steve mutters, pushing past Agent Palmer (who drove) for a better look. “It’s too clean.”

Your one-bedroom would pass a white-glove test.

There’s so little…everything. It’s a far cry from the chaos Steve woke to find in the police station. His head throbs at the memory. He forgot what it was like to have his bell good’n’rung.

“Supe says she’s been selling off furniture,” Palmer calls from the doorway, “but he thought it was replaced. Boxes kept coming.”

Steve inventories a mattress with no frame, half a dozen hanging garments, no shoes. What were you buying? Where did it all go?

The desktop is bare. You’ve taken any laptop with you, it seems. That’s a small comfort. You clearly planned contingencies for your attack andor escape; it’s fitting you had the foresight to hide your research on the Winter Soldier.

Steve is still scared, however, because he sat with Bucky many times, listening to horrible tales of being trapped in his own mind, powerless, isolated in the midst of everyone, unable to control thoughts much less actions.

This one’s gonna take a few more beers for the friends to contend with, but with any luck and quick work, they’ll get through without bloodshed. He and Bucky will decompress somewhere peaceful. It’ll be okay.

He hopes.

Steve scans the lone bookshelf. The most curious edition is a history book about WWII, a few flagged pages open to reveal passages about Bucky’s service record, an underline beneath the location where the sergeant fell from the train, and a mail receipt for an address on Forsythe Avenue keeping your page. That’s all.

It’s not even a unique read. The book isn’t any more specific than an average school text. No other notes are made in the margins, so Steve turns the book upside-down and shakes, hoping for something to fall out. He rips the other books from the shelf and shuffles their pages until a picture comes loose—a polaroid of three women.

You’re on the right, fuller faced but it’s you. On the back is scrawled “the girls” with hearts on either side.

The book is handwritten, no label on the cover or spine, only an embossed mandala design. Steve’s stomach drops, but he opens to the front flap.

Property of Faith Williams

He swallows roughly and closes it, unable to step over that line of privacy. At the moment, he needs evidence of where you could have taken Bucky, and slow-reading someone else’s diary won’t give him that.

Forsythe Avenue might, but that’s just one tiny piece of the puzzle.

Steve checks a different unlabeled book, but it, too, doesn’t have your name inside, just a ‘Z’ fancifully drawn amidst doodles.

Damnit. This is no help.

“Palmer, you finding anything?”

“No, Cap. Bills all paid. Nothing under the mattress. No mention of Barnes on any papers in the drawers. Not even a Cyrillic symbol.”

No trace, just like how you two disappeared from surveillance.

Steve shuts his eyes, head still throbbing from how hard the Soldier landed a blow to knock him out.

The agent wanders through the tiny kitchen. “Fridge is empty. Doesn’t look like she intended to come back here…if…actually, it looks like she barely ate. No condiments, no spices, nothing.”

“How long has she rented here?”

“Over two years.”

Shit. This is a dead end.

“Keep looking,” Steve orders, but he takes the two journals and heads for the car, pulling up your thin file again. You don’t hold any clearances or a government footprint. You were let go of from your last job with a severance package. Nothing overly generous. No medical leave mentioned. Benefits, including health insurance, would be intact. Based on your appearance earlier versus you in the photo, Steve chews on a few wisps of theories, but it’s not solid proof. Without more, Steve has no leads.

“Friday, any connection to properties on Forsythe?”

He adjusts to get comfortable in the back seat of the SUV alone, firing up a view screen.

There’s a low, sad sound that means the AI found nothing in your records.

"For her or him?"

Womp womp, it comes again.

Steve lets out a tense breath, “Where are we with bank statements?”

“Authorizations just came back,” F.R.I.D.A.Y chirps.

“What about medical records?”

“That one’s a lot harder, Captain Rogers. We have to—“

“Just analyze the financials first,” Steve sighs. His head throbs again, and he knows he needs sleep. There’s no time though. If he could just get answers…

Protections exist, of course, for good reason, but Steve feels the frustration of any detective. He’s trying to find a bad guy, and by 'bad guy,' he means you, not the man you’ve taken, not the man you are certainly going to order to kill for you.

Steve rests his head on the chilly glass and pinches his eyes shut. He’ll take a minute, review the money trail, and then interview the doctor. It seems a miracle that man was able to go home to his wife and sleep, even with security inside the room, down every hall, surrounding the house…Steve wouldn’t do it; he can’t even keep his eyes closed long enough for the dry sting to subside.

How could he be so stupid?

You weren’t staring at him from across the room; you were watching your mark, waiting for an opening. Sadly, it occurs to Steve that if he’d just let you inject Avani, Bucky would be fine, here by his side, and safe.

You are the threat, not his friend, but that’s a hard distinction. If anyone else sees James Barnes—who is the stealth assassin Winter Soldier, as far as they know—they’ll shoot. No questions. Steve has to find him first. He has to get to you first.

Bucky is compromised, but Steve won’t let it come to that. Buck shouldn't do anything he doesn't want to do just because some enemy hijacked his mind and body.

“Feel better?” You twirl in the chair as soon as the motel bathroom door opens, steam billowing out.

Winter’s face is shadowed, pointed to the floor.

“Or…at least, okay? Here—“ you offer the seat next to you at the tiny table “—sit. Eat. Let me—I’ve got bandages for your knuckles.”

“Heals,” he grunts, sitting easily but with stiff posture, “fast.”

You let out a heavy breath, muttering, “makes one of us.”

The soldier reaches out for the file in front of you, but your hand pins it down.

“Uh-uh. Food first, and palm up here, please.” You wait for him to flip open the takeout container then blot antiseptic on the split skin. “Does that hurt?”

He shakes his head, focused on the meal before him.

Several months ago, an article was published about Bucky Barnes’ affinity for this one particular deli in Brooklyn, a third-generation shop. It listed his usual order.

You’ve made sure the bread isn’t soggy. You kept the spicy mustard on the side.

He makes a strange face, looking around for your portion.

“Not hungry,” you assure him, “I’m rarely hungry.” You secure the bandage like boxing wraps and spin the file around.

“Eat your food—” The command is soft, encouraging. “—while I tell you the story of how we ended up here.”

Buried in the file you’ve put in front of the Soldier is several lifetimes of horror. Maybe not everyone agrees with you, maybe not everyone cares, but that bastard Avani has to atone. For the next hour, you explain what’s expected of him, glancing every so often at the fancier hotel entrance across the street from your motel room.

It’s too early; you’d be very impressed if the Captain had followed those bread crumbs yet.

You planned so carefully for every obstacle. You anticipated so many setbacks. Men like Avani go down like great stone pyramids, not houses of cards, because their lives are built with safeties. For him to fall, a thousand others have to be damaged, and each one of them will put up a fight to remain untarnished. That approach—the truth, and nothing but the truth—has gotten you nowhere. Diaries aren’t enough proof. The placebo effect is not a crime. Two women are worth far less than a functional, marketable drug.

Plus, they’re two dead women. The pyramid is now their tomb. Nothing ever changes.

No.

You alone cannot topple a pyramid. You’re too far gone. You’re just one person. For justice, you have to go straight to the top, to the man himself. One on one.

Well, one on one-plus-one. Your addition is the sharp-shooter who can get you the top, the target, Doctor Avani.

Winter’s mission is very simple, but he’s thorough, asking all the right questions, thinking of all the right options. You knew he would be perfect.

“Now,” you clap at the end of your story, rubbing boney hands together, “a rundown of my meds. Sound good?” You grab a zippered case from the foot of the motel bed. “Nothing complicated, but here—“ nudging out a syringe and one glass vial “—this is the emergency one. Use 10 milliliters of this if I pass out. Got it?”

The Soldier takes an enormous mouthful of his sandwich and nods, eyes flickering back to that single bed.

You smile sadly. “I…rarely sleep. I’m keeping watch for now. You’re safe. You’ll need the rest.”

He chews and adds more mustard before his last bite.

“Okay? Good.” Your smile fades, fatigue and restlessness swirling in your empty gut as you remove another medication. “Next is this one. Every four hours, twent—wait, no, I’m up to thirty CCs now…”

“Sir,” Steve grits out with far less patience than he intended, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it will stop the throbbing inside his head, “you realize I am trying to save your life?”

Dr. Avani purses his lips in annoyance. “And you realize I am required to keep my patients’ confidence, right?”

Yes, Steve thinks, he’s said that several times.

“Are they current or former patients?” Steve tries to clarify.

So far, Salvatore slipped up only once. When Steve showed him the photo from your apartment, the doctor muttered something about ‘Faith’ and ‘Ziva’ knowing each other, looking confused, then immediately shut down.

Steve has to switch tactics. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Ok. We found over a dozen hotel reservations made with your assailant’s credit card, so look at this list—” Steve taps the smart screen to lay out a map with the names highlighted “—and see if anything stands out.”

“What have this crazy woman’s travel plans to do with me?” Avani bites out, rattling the tea his wife hands him.

A tremor. Not unlike how your hands shook at the table last night. Steve wonders if yours was because you are ill or because you were lying to him.

“Darling, your blood pressure…”

Steve sighs sympathetically to Mrs. Avani. “Thank you, ma’am,” he whispers, taking the next cup and saucer and clearing his throat. “Doc, please. I’m just hoping you can narrow this down for me. We still have no motive.”

“Insanity. Jealousy, maybe!”

“Jealous of what? Do you know what she might want?”

No answer, but Avani chews his cheek, eyes wide, while staring northwest on the map of hotels. Steve files that away in his mind.

The doctor returns to sipping his tea. “Do you know what they call people obsessed with finding patterns in chaos?”

His wife drops the plate of biscuits unceremoniously down on the side table between the men’s chairs.

“Salvatore,” she snips with the same frustrated fatigue wrapped around Steve’s neck like an albatross, “behave.”

“No. None of these are familiar,” the doctor grunts.

Steve can’t accuse the man of lying unless he wants to risk an all-out breakdown in communication during this active threat, but he’s running out of options. He needs real information.

Usually Steve would have more respect for a man staying within the parameters of his vocation, but this is a unique and complicated situation. This is Bucky on the line. Steve’s had enough of secrets and red tape.

“Any idea why she’d mail something to Forsyth Avenue? Do you know anyone there?”

“Forsyth Avenue? No, I’ve never been in that area before, as far as I know.” Though Avani wrings his hands together, no indicates that’s a lie.

Wonderful. Steve’s never been this unsuccessful at gathering intel, and Avani’s status as the newly-appointed Avengers’ lead physician makes it tricky to push harder.

So Steve recommends Avani and his wife consider staying in a more secure location before he sets off to personally check the hotels in the northwest quadrant of the map.

He takes Agent Palmer, riding in the SUV while the two diaries sit in his lap, knowing now—as sure as he can be—that ‘Z’ is for Ziva, and she knew you and Faith Williams. Those are ‘the girls’ in the photo.

Without Ziva’s last name, he can’t do a general search, but there is a death certificate on file for Faith.

Three women. One confirmed dead. At least two ‘former’ patients of the doctor. All visibly ill in either the picture or in person. One mourning the loss of person(s) and out to kill the doctor.

The pit in his stomach grows. Something very bad is happening, yet while Steve has anything else to go on, he will not be reading another’s diary.

He can only hope that your medical records are finally available once the hotel searches are complete.

There’s even a possibility he’ll find Bucky at one of these. Maybe he won’t have to concern himself with the rest at all. Maybe he won’t have to think so hard about your motives for activating a Soviet sleeper agent.

Steve does think, however. He thinks hard enough to spiral as each reception desk is questioned, as all security footage is combed, as every building is cleared. He has to make some assumptions to make the pieces fit.

You believe Avani is responsible for your friends’ deaths—both of them, since when Steve interrogated you, you accepted his condolences—and believe their cause of death was whatever treatment Avani administered.

It’s sad, of course, but it happens everyday. Experimental treatments are just that. If you’re concerned about gross negligence, the doctor could easily be reported to the Medical Board. Considering the amount of research, forethought, and planning required, the Winter Soldier is one of the slowest possible solutions to your problem.

But…Bucky was just your contingency plan. You had an opportunity to kill Avani yourself, yet you still set other options in motion. You used a weapon theoretically deadly to only the doctor

Steve still can’t understand, and it’s driving him nuts.

Finally, after the hotel reservations prove fruitless, Steve sees no other choice. He has to read the diaries.

He combs through the pages, growing nauseous as darker and darker layers of the situation reveal themselves, disturbed by everydetail except updates from the units on Forsyth Avenue or those stationed at the doctor’s house. Nothing is unfolding save the landscape in Steve’s mind.

He asks F.R.I.D.A.Y about the disease Faith and Ziva mention. He asks about the public records of the drug trial Avani lead and its results published just six months ago, after the last entries of the diaries. He notices the treatment was a huge success…for those not in the control group. Finally, he can’t continue.

His head pounds while his stomach churns.

In the early afternoon, Steve lays down to rest his eyes and reevaluate, but he’s met with only a blank canvas and drifts to sleep instead.

He’s woken by a shrill ring of his phone.

“Yeah, Palmer, what’s—what? What do you mean he’s gone?” Steve jumps up, straps on his shield, and races to his bike. “The hell were you thinking letting him make a house call today? Where did agents—“

Steve’s foot slips right off bike for an instant.

“Avani led the driver to some suburban neighborhood. Forsythia Commons.”

It dawns of him just as the garage door squeals open.

Steve never showed Palmer the receipt. No one else saw the numbers to the address. Steve’s rattled brain finished the label with a street name he knew.

He was wrong.

Including battles in Germany way back in the day, he has rarely driven so recklessly, but Steve is nearly a half-hour behind now. He has to catch up.

Palmer tells him Avani went into the residence alone—for patient confidentiality—and after a while, agents couldn’t get an answer at the door. Upon forced entry, they found the woman who lived there bound to a chair with tape over her mouth and the doctor nowhere in sight.

Steve gets lucky.

On his way to exit the freeway, he notices a hole in the noise barrier wall past a slope of grass. He pulls over and asks Palmer what the backyard of the residence leads to, but Steve can hear the reverb of agent comms before anyone is visible through the brush.

“Friday, I need traffic camera footage from my location from thirty-five minutes ago. Were there any vehicles stopped on the side of the road?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers. A standard maintenance truck with the department’s logo shows up and leaves seven minutes later, based on ten second intervals.”

“The license plate, can you read it?”

“Quality insufficient.”

“The highway department, do they have any registered cars out here today?”

A long pause follows.

“Friday?” Steve barks.

“Negative, Captain. Inspection is slotted for the end of next week, not today.”

“Alright, follow that truck on the cameras. Tell me exactly where they went.”

He doesn’t bother to tell Palmer where he’s going because Steve doesn’t want them to know really. He needs a head start to find Bucky—to make sure it’s Bucky who is found and rescued, not the Soldier who is cornered and subdued.

The trail ends at a dilapidated office park near the river miles outside of the city. With his own, short fingernail, Steve peels away the Highway Department magnet slapped onto the white truck parked by one building.

Nobody else is in sight, and the truck cab is empty.

Across the nearest door is sun-shriveled lettering. “-alv—re Ava—, M.D” marks the third name in a list.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He can’t. He walks right in, eyes adjusting to a cave-like darkness without electricity.

The voices are faint behind another set of double doors, but he hears them.

“I don’t owe you anything, bitch. I hope you die like they did.”

There’s a sharp slapping noise and someone spits loudly.

“Admit it. Admit what you did and you won’t die today.”

You don’t beg him to talk. You don’t plead with him. You sound weak but sure.

“Rot in hell,” Avani annunciates, and Steve flings himself through the doors, knowing what comes after such a taunt.

You give him every opportunity to come clean. He could save himself, but Avani refuses while the camera records behind you. He calls you names. He calls your friends worthless. He says they were ’whores,’ but you will still send him back to the correct authorities if he tells the truth.

He doesn’t, he won’t, and you’re honestly pleased this is how it ends.

You don’t have a choice really; you must honor Faith and Ziva somehow.

Instead of the truth, Avani curses you, though not much could be worse than your current fate, even with Winter standing a few feet away, his gun drawn.

You have readied the syringe in your unstable hand and lift it to the doctor’s throat when—crash—Captain America bursts in and scans the whole room.

“Don’t do it,” he tries plainly. “You don’t have to kill him.”

You’re impressed. That’s faster than you expected, but Steve is looking at his friend to stop, not you.

“Shoot him, you idiot,” the doctor snarls.

As if Winter thinks the order somehow applied to him, he turns toward an open palm and a raised shield.

“SHOOT HIM!”

Winter doesn’t move the gun away from you and Avani.

Steve steps closer. “Bucky,” he starts slowly, “I’m not going to do that. I’m not here to hurt you. No one has to die.”

You need to buy more time.

“Soldat, show him.”

Only then does Winter lower his pistol and reach into a pocket at his chest, revealing the tuning fork that controls his own mind. Doing this will forfeit your exit strategy, but you’ll accomplish you mission. Winter’s mission is now secondary.

Steve’s eyes flicker from the fork to you.

After a tense breath, you give the command, confident the soldier will obey, locking your focus on Steve.

“Fetch.”

Winter sprints to the other end of the room and explodes through a wall and then a window to the lawn banking the river.

Cap makes a choice, his sad blue eyes full of pity, and it’s then you realize he knows.

He read the diaries. He understands what Avani did.

Steve bolts after the Soldier.

The doctor shrieks for his Avenger to come back, to protect him from his earned fate, but the hollow thuds of a vibranium arm and a vibranium shield colliding hum through the hole in the building.

The sound of fighting continues as you return the syringe to Avani’s neck.

Enough. Enough excuses. Enough lies. Enough time has been wasted on this man already. Enough is enough.

The end is more peaceful than he deserves. It’s quick and not nearly as painful as it should be. There’s no time left for suffering.

Salvatore convulses after collapsing on the stained industrial carpet, foam gently dripping from his mouth, a symptom of his condition when mixed with a common resuscitative cocktail, one you have to take frequently, one that spiked Steve Rogers’ adrenaline and nothing more. It kills Avani. His heart nearly explodes in his chest.

If there was ever a human that medicine should fail…

You only know he’s susceptible because Ziva knew. Heart conditions and caring for them are the sort of thing one knows about a person they love.

Avani promised to marry her, to leave his wife, to be with her after the drug trial succeeded. He promised she’d live, but he told Ziva she was taking the real medicine, ensured she took the placebo, and then gaslit her until the day she died.

Ziva spent the rest of her life loving a man who would make her happy and healthy, but instead, Avani made her life as short as possible.

He was not even that kind to Faith.

In her own words, Faith wrote how dying scared her, how she begged the doctor for the actual medication, how she offered anything to get it. Avani accepted. Faith did whatever that bastard wanted for months, all the while told she was healing.

Relief never came.

Faith was bedridden when a package arrived for her—a diary willed to her by a friend she’d lost touch with once you three weren’t gathering in the same hospital suite for the old treatments. That’s when she put it together, but Ziva had passed two months prior. Faith lasted only four more days, just long enough to bequeath the two journals to you.

The victory doesn’t feel as euphoric as you expected. You thought somehow you’d know that Ziva and Faith were proud and at peace, but you’re just empty and tired.

You stare down at Adani’s body, unfazed, when the tuning fork slams against a dangling metal doorframe and Cap shuffles through the rubble.

He’s scraped and beaten which isn’t what you ever wanted, just a necessary evil to fight evil. He watches as Barnes walks in from the grass.

“It’s me, punk. You can put that thing down.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for Steve, snatching the prongs right from his hands and tucking it back in his jacket.

There’s a moment where they almost hug before Steve remembers the doctor and rushes to the man at your feet.

“Call for help! I'm starting CPR.”

Barnes simply holds your gaze.

More sad blue eyes. It brings you hope that he will complete his mission.

You step away from the others to make for a cleaner shot, nodding that it’s okay, breathing a rough but weak “please” for emphasis.

“Buck?” Steve looks up as Bucky points his gun at you again. “What are you doing? STOP. It’s over!”

“His mission was never to kill Avani,” you hiss, unable to take your eyes off the perfectly-centered muzzle directly in front of you. “He’s here to kill me.”

“The hell—“ Steve climbs to his feet “—why would you shoot her?”

“I’m not going to jail!”

“You know what they’ll do to her, Steve.”

Both men take one step closer.

“There has to be another way.”

“I did this because it’s the only—“

“—can understand doctors who taking advantage and manipulating their patients better than anyone—“

“Put the gun down!”

“Pull the trigger! It'll be—“

“—told me he could do better than me,” Bucky barks. “Doc said, to my face, that he could make a better me. He wanted to make soldiers, Steve. More soldiers. Avani didn’t give a shit about what was right.”

You jump in. “If you found the diaries, you know what he was capable of.”

“That’s not how this works. We don’t condemn a man from—“

This time you step toward Barnes. “Just do it. Shoot me now.”

Steve lunges to take your wrist in his hand, your limb comically thin and delicate beneath all his enhancements.

“She doesn’t deserve to rot while they sweep this under the rug,” Bucky adds, voice low and serious.

“This is for the best.” You look at Steve now, and something heartbreaking swims in those morose pools, something unspeakable.

His head shakes, dirty, sweaty hair falling in his face. “What if there’s another way?”

“I don’t want to be saved, Cap. Let me go.”

You offer one final, soft smile, and Steve moves just as Bucky pulls the trigger.

Steve completes his testimony before the panel opposite him. None of the questions are a surprise.

They’ve painted you as completely insane, demented, psychotic, and he can’t argue. What would he tell them? Yeah, but she had kind eyes, so, you know, remember her fondly? No, he can only remain quiet until he has something pertinent to add which is very little. Bucky had far more to offer, and he already spoke.

When Steve steps out of the counsel chambers, Maria Hill is waiting for him.

“Shame she ordered the Soldier to dispose of her body. Took the coward’s way out.”

“You make her sound like a rabid animal that had to be put down,” Steve grit out.

“No, you’re right,” Hill admits, “but it was lucky she left the sound thing for—”

“Tuning fork,” he snaps, “which I destroyed. No one should have that. No one should even know about it.”

Buck does his best to calm Steve down with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “S’okay, pal. The interrogation footage has been wiped and unless someone with perfect pitch was walking by observation--”

“You know that’s not reassuring, right?”

The two huge men look at each other.

Steve finally mutters, “what about Avani’s widow?”

“All the blackmail sent to his mistress in Forsythia Commons was removed before Gloria even knew Sal was kidnapped, and I think it’s fair to say that lady is so grateful her name wasn’t dragged through the press that she won’t be bothering the wife. Good thing the doctor put her car and house in her name, or legally, this would get ugly.”

“Yes. We’re very lucky he was such a skilled adulterer,” Steve quips dryly. He regrets handing over the diaries for evidence. They weren’t mentioned once in any of the hearings.

Bucky flashes Steve a warning glare that reads, don’t start.

Hill obliviously flips through the folder in her hands, nodding. “All in all, this report amounts to an incredibly long lead-in of ‘use that PTO, boys!’ You earned it.”

“Understatement of the century…and I would know.” Bucky is a much better liar than Steve.

Thank god, they are fleeing to the middle of nowhere indefinitely.

Hill heads back to her office. “We’ll be here when you get back. Keep in touch.”

“No,” Steve counters. “I don’t think I will.”

Bucky and Steve leave in an old truck the next morning. They can’t seem rushed or impatient to get to their destination.

Casually accumulating supplies, Steve loads their bags in the flat bed with space for all repair materials they are likely to need. The cabin needs some work; the guys need to get their hands dirty and live simply for a while.

The team is happy for Steve; it’s been so long since anyone saw him moving forward in life, and, of course, he and Bucky deserve some peace and quiet.

No one else has any idea how hard-won this vacation is.

The drive takes all day because they can’t be in a hurry.

Steve takes pictures at every scenic outlook. Bucky climbs up onto some rock ledges to take selfies which Steve is not into. This earns him being featured as a blurry grump in the background of all of them, purposefully.

Eventually, the GPS-free truck pulls up to the place, a large A-frame style cabin that should be plenty big for two super soldiers.

Parked on the gravel path, Steve is careful not to ding the other car when he swings open his door. As Bucky heaves two duffels from the trunk, he calls out, “got the meds, too” and heads inside. Steve gathers up the remaining bags and trudges over, smelling something hearty and delicious cooking, listening to the tinkling, copper-coin wind chime hanging somewhere above him.

He doesn’t stop looking at his feet until they hit the top of the porch, spotting two smaller bare feet on the welcome mat.

There you are, holding the door open, layered in warm knits, more tired before but better than expected.

“Hey,” Steve breathes finally.

“Hey,” you say, your mouth twisted to hide an excited smile.

“Yes, hello,” Bucky grumbles from the living room. “Now shut the damn door. I’m hungry.”

Steve steps inside.

[Last Part]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

a/n: Sorry this took so long a fucking year! Tags will be in a reblog.

#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #time and tines series #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #winter soldier bucky barnes #villain!reader #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america angst #steve rogers x y/n

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writingforstraykids · 5 months ago

Text

Whispers of the forgotten

Pairing: vampire!chan x historian!minho

Word Count: 5184

Summary: Minho's been studying vampires for years when he stumbles upon an old diary. Tormented by sudden dreams and visions of its owner Chan, Minho descends into the oldest chambers of his university to free him. Releasing Chan sets free something much more dangerous...

Warnings/Tags: vampire au, fluff, angst, magic,

A/N: Here's the winner of our poll, I hope you'll enjoy it🖤 Let me know if you'd like more🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

The university grounds always felt timeless to Minho, trapped between centuries-old stone walls and the ever-present fog that rolled in from the mountains. It wasn’t just the oppressive architecture or the eerie stillness of the lake nearby; it was the whispers of history hidden in the dimly lit hallways and the distant creaks that sounded at odd hours. He had chosen this place intentionally for his research - partly for the gothic allure and partly for the rumored treasure of texts buried in its sprawling library.

The old library was a labyrinth, its shelves towering high into darkness, its air perfumed with the musk of decaying paper. Minho spent his days there, lost in his research. The space was a relic of the university’s founding - a mixture of gothic grandeur and creeping decay. It had a magnetic pull, as though the secrets of the past were begging to be uncovered.

Minho was a historian by trade and obsession. His particular focus: vampire lore. It wasn’t the glittering kind romanticized by films or novels; no, his fascination lay with the darker, more grotesque tales that had haunted humanity for centuries. Myths that hinted at truth. Creatures lurking in the shadows of history. Names scratched out of ledgers. Lives erased.

It was during one of his endless, dusty evenings in the library that he found it.

The diary.

The leather binding was cracked, the edges worn as though someone had spent a lifetime clutching it. Minho hesitated before flipping it open, his gloved hands ghosting over the embossed insignia on the cover. There was no title. No name. Just a symbol: a crescent moon pierced by a dagger. Minho opened it with care, his breath catching as he took in the inked words. The handwriting was spidery, erratic, each stroke filled with desperation. The first line felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

I am writing this so I am not forgotten.

The diary painted a vivid, haunting picture of a man named Chan. It chronicled a life that spanned centuries, a life steeped in blood and loneliness. Chan had loved, lost, and wandered the earth as a cursed soul. The further Minho read, the more he felt as though Chan was speaking directly to him. The intimacy of the writing was unnerving, yet he couldn’t put it down.

And then the dreams began.

At first, they were fleeting - flashes of moonlit forests, blood pooling on cobblestones, a face half-hidden in shadow. But the dreams grew clearer with each passing night. In one, Minho stood in a field bathed in silver light, and across the expanse, a figure emerged.

Chan.

He was breathtaking, but not in a way that felt safe. His beauty was sharp, almost cruel. His skin was pale, glowing faintly under the moonlight, with lips that seemed permanently etched in melancholy. His eyes, however, were what rooted Minho in place. They were dark and endless, reflecting centuries of sorrow and longing. They seemed to pierce through him, stripping away every defense he’d ever built.

“You found me,” Chan said, his voice low and velvety, reverberating like a secret meant only for Minho.

Minho jolted awake, his heart racing. He touched his face, his skin clammy with sweat. The dream lingered like a ghost, vivid and impossible to ignore. He told himself it was just his imagination. A byproduct of immersing himself in the diary. But deep down, he knew it was more.

The boundary between dream and reality began to blur. Shadows moved in ways they shouldn’t, stretching toward Minho like fingers reaching for his soul. The whispers from his dreams followed him into waking life, faint murmurs at the edge of his hearing. The isolation of his research became suffocating.

One evening, while pouring over the diary in his tiny office, the shadows changed. They rippled across the room, pooling in the corner until they formed a shape. Chan’s shape.

Minho froze, his breath catching. “This… this isn’t real.”

Chan tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint smile, sharp teeth shining in the night. “You’ve been calling me. I’ve simply answered.”

“No,” Minho muttered, backing away. “You’re just… I’m imagining you.”

“You’re not,” Chan said, stepping closer. His movements were impossibly fluid, like smoke curling through the air. “You’ve seen my past, haven’t you? You’ve felt it.”

Minho clutched the edge of his desk. “The diary… it’s just a story.”

“It’s my story,” Chan corrected, his voice tinged with sadness. “You found it because you were meant to. And now, you can’t ignore me.”

Minho stared at him, torn between fascination and terror. The man - if he could even be called that - was devastatingly beautiful up close. The planes of his face seemed sculpted from marble, but his expression was unbearably human, etched with sorrow and vulnerability.

“You’re not real,” Minho whispered, though his words sounded hollow even to himself.

Chan’s eyes darkened. “If I’m not real, then why do you feel my pain?”

Minho grabbed the cursed diary from his desk and threw it at the figure. “You're not real!” he yelled desperately, the shadows fleeing back into their designated corners of the room.

Minho’s life unraveled. The diary consumed his thoughts during the day; Chan haunted his dreams at night. Each encounter with Chan left him feeling both exhilarated and drained, as though he were walking a tightrope between reality and insanity. He stopped sleeping. He stopped eating. His colleagues began to notice his gaunt appearance, his distracted demeanor, but Minho brushed off their concerns.

The whispers in the shadows grew louder. They spoke in fragmented phrases, urging him toward the basement of the library - a place long abandoned, its door sealed shut. Minho resisted at first, terrified of what he might find. But the more he resisted, the more vivid the dreams became.

In one, Chan showed him a memory: himself shackled in a dark, cold room, his body weakened but his eyes defiant.

“They locked me away,” Chan said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “They feared what I was, but they didn’t understand.”

Minho woke from that dream in a cold sweat, the image of Chan’s chained form burned into his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Chan was still there, buried beneath the university, waiting for someone to free him.

The descent into the basement was a descent into madness. It was late, the halls silent except for the faint hum of the heating system. Minho had been chasing whispers, a trail of barely audible calls that echoed through the empty corridors. He didn’t know why he was following them - only that he couldn’t stop. They drew him deeper and deeper into the university’s underbelly, past locked doors and forgotten archives.

And then he saw it: an ancient door, reinforced with iron and marked with the same crescent moon-and-dagger insignia from the diary.

Minho’s heart pounded as he approached it. The whispers grew louder, almost deafening. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold metal handle. And then a voice - Chan’s voice - filled his head.

“You’re so close.”

Minho hesitated. Was this real? Or was he just descending into madness? The dreams, the diary, the shadows - they all pointed to the same conclusion, but it was absurd. Vampires weren’t real. Chan wasn’t real. He had to be imagining all of this. Right?

But what if he wasn’t?

The conflict tore at him. On one hand, everything logical told him to stop, to turn back and seek help. On the other, the idea of leaving Chan - if he truly was trapped - felt unbearable. Minho had felt Chan’s pain, his desperation, his hope. Even if it was all in his head, how could he ignore it?

Taking a deep breath, Minho tightened his grip on the handle and pulled.

The room beyond was vast and cavernous, its walls etched with runes that seemed to hum with power. In the center, bathed in a pale, unnatural light, was Chan.

He was chained, just as he had been in the dream. The sight of him brought Minho to his knees. Chan’s beauty was undiminished, but his body was frail, his skin ghostly pale. His eyes, however, burned with an intensity that took Minho’s breath away.

“You found me,” Chan said, not in his head anymore, his voice breaking. “I knew you would.”

Freeing Chan wasn’t easy. The chains weren’t just physical - they were enchanted, bound by some ancient magic that required Minho to decipher the runes lining the walls. Days turned into weeks as he worked, sneaking down to the basement whenever he could. Chan guided him through the process, his presence a constant comfort despite the circumstances. Minho worked tirelessly, his mind torn between hope and fear. He spent hours in that room, speaking with Chan, learning more about his life. The more he learned, the more he realized how deeply he started to care for him.

“You shouldn’t grow attached to me,” Chan said one night, his voice heavy with regret. “I’m not human. I’ve done things - terrible things.”

“You’re not a monster,” Minho said firmly. “You’ve suffered more than anyone should.”

“And you’ve taken on my suffering,” Chan murmured, his eyes softening. “Why?”

Minho didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at Chan - like he was the most precious thing in the world - said it all.

Minho did find himself growing attached. It wasn’t just Chan’s tragic story or his otherworldly beauty - it was the way he understood Minho in a way no one else ever had. Their conversations, though brief, were filled with a depth that Minho hadn’t realized he was missing in his life.

But the closer he got to freeing Chan, the more the shadows seemed to fight back. The university itself seemed to rebel against him - lights flickered, doors slammed shut, and whispers turned to screams. Minho began to wonder if he was truly doing the right thing. What if freeing Chan unleashed something worse?

In the end, Minho made his choice.

The final rune was the hardest to break, its energy lashing out as if trying to stop him. But Minho didn’t falter. With a final stroke of his makeshift tools, the rune shattered, and the chains binding Chan dissolved into nothingness.

Chan collapsed, and Minho caught him instinctively. For a moment, there was only silence, the weight of centuries lifting from the air.

“Thank you,” Chan whispered, his voice barely audible. “I owe you everything.”

In the weeks that followed, the university seemed to return to normal. The fog lifted, the whispers faded, and the shadows stopped moving. Minho, however, couldn’t forget. Chan had vanished after his release, leaving behind only a promise: “We’ll meet again.”

And he did.

Late at night, when the world was quiet and the shadows grew long, Minho would feel a presence by his side. Chan wasn’t gone - not entirely. He was in the whispers of the wind, the flicker of candlelight, and the dreams that still lingered.

Minho had freed him, but in doing so, he had bound their fates together. And as much as it terrified him, he wouldn’t want to miss his presence.

Chan didn’t disappear for long. The first time he returned in person, Minho was shelving books late at night, the heavy weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin. He felt Chan before he saw him - a shift in the air, a strange warmth that sent a shiver down his spine. He turned to see the vampire standing near the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint moonlight streaming through the high windows.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Chan said softly, stepping closer, his voice laced with gentle amusement.

Minho’s throat dried as he watched the man - no, the creature - who haunted his dreams. “I thought you left,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended.

Chan stopped a few feet away, his dark eyes scanning Minho’s face as if trying to commit every detail to memory. “I could never truly leave. Not now. Not after…” He hesitated, his gaze faltering for the briefest moment. “Not after you saved me.”

The sincerity in his voice was disarming. Minho felt his heart quicken, unsure if it was from fear or something deeper. Chan tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Come with me.”

“What?” Minho blinked, startled.

“Outside,” Chan said, holding out his hand. “You’ve been hiding in this library too long. Let me show you something.”

Minho hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to stay in the safety of the library’s walls. But the way Chan looked at him - soft, patient, waiting - made it impossible to say no. Tentatively, he reached out and took Chan’s hand.

Chan’s skin was cold, but his grip was steady, grounding. The moment their fingers intertwined, Minho felt his nerves ease, as though Chan’s presence alone could quiet the storm of doubt in his mind.

The university grounds were bathed in silver moonlight, the fog rolling lazily over the cobblestones. Chan led Minho down winding paths, his steps confident despite the shadows that stretched unnaturally across their path. They didn’t speak at first, the silence between them comfortable, punctuated only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

Chan led him to the edge of the forest that bordered the campus, where the trees stood tall and ancient, their branches weaving into a canopy that shimmered faintly under the moon. Beyond the trees, a lake stretched out like a sheet of black glass, its surface reflecting the stars.

“This is my favorite spot,” Chan said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He let go of Minho’s hand and stepped closer to the water’s edge, his silhouette almost glowing in the pale light.

Minho watched him, his breath catching in his throat. Chan looked… ethereal. The soft light highlighted the sharp angles of his face, the curve of his lips, the way his hair caught the breeze. He seemed less like the monsters Minho had read about and more like something celestial - something far too beautiful for this world.

“You’re staring,” Chan said without turning around, his voice carrying a teasing edge.

Minho felt his cheeks heat. “I wasn’t.”

Chan glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Liar.”

Minho huffed, crossing his arms as he tried to hide his embarrassment. “You just… look different out here. Less scary.”

Chan’s expression softened, the teasing smile fading into something more serious. “And you look tired,” he said, his gaze sweeping over Minho. “You’ve been carrying so much weight, Minho. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

The sincerity in Chan’s voice was almost too much to bear. Minho looked away, focusing on the ripples in the water as his thoughts swirled. “I’m not used to relying on people.”

“You can rely on me,” Chan said, stepping closer. His voice was low, soothing. “You’ve already done so much for me. Let me do something for you.”

Minho hesitated, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in Chan’s eyes. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay.”

They began to meet more often after that night. Chan would appear without warning, his presence always accompanied by that strange shift in the air. Sometimes, he’d find Minho in the library, pouring over books, and insist on dragging him outside for a walk. Other times, he’d simply sit with Minho in silence, their quiet companionship speaking volumes.

One evening, as they wandered through the forest, Minho couldn’t help but steal glances at Chan. The vampire walked with an ease that seemed almost human, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. But there was a sadness to him, a weight that lingered in the lines of his face.

“Do you ever miss it?” Minho asked suddenly.

Chan glanced at him, one brow raised. “Miss what?”

“Being human,” he said, carefully pushing his glasses back into place.

Chan was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. His eyes searched the soft orbs hidden behind the glass, presenting Minho's eyes like windows to his soul. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s been so long, I don’t even remember what it feels like.”

Minho nodded, his heart aching at the thought. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live for centuries, to watch the world change while he stayed the same. “That must be… lonely.”

“It is,” Chan said softly. He looked at Minho, his gaze steady. “But it’s not so bad now. Not with you around.”

Minho’s breath caught, his cheeks flushing under Chan’s unwavering gaze. He quickly looked away, focusing on the path ahead. “Don’t say things like that,” he muttered.

“Why not?” Chan asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Does it make you nervous?”

“No,” Minho lied, though the rapid beating of his heart betrayed him.

Chan chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “You’re terrible at lying, Minho.”

They reached the lake again, the water shimmering under the moonlight. Chan stopped, turning to face Minho fully. “You’ve been so kind to me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Even when you were afraid, even when you didn’t understand… you never gave up on me. Why?”

Minho hesitated, his eyes meeting Chan’s. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I couldn’t leave you there. You didn’t deserve that…no one does.”

Chan’s gaze softened, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

Minho laughed, the sound nervous. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Chan insisted, stepping closer. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Minho’s cheek.

Minho’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words to respond. But then he looked into Chan’s eyes - dark and endless, filled with a depth of emotion that took his breath away - and he realized he felt *something* that went beyond admiration.

Their walks became a nightly ritual, a sanctuary where they could escape the weight of their pasts. Each step brought them closer, their bond deepening with every shared laugh, every stolen glance, every touch that lingered a moment too long.

And for the first time in a long time, Minho felt like he wasn’t alone.

Minho wasn’t sure when the library stopped feeling like home. For years, it had been his sanctuary, a quiet refuge in his darkest hours. But since the night he freed Chan, things had shifted.

The corridors stretched farther than he remembered, as if the building itself were growing. New doorways and passages appeared, and bookshelves that had once stood static now seemed to rearrange themselves overnight. The crescent moon-and-dagger insignia appeared in the strangest places - etched into ancient tomes, carved into the walls, and even flickering in the corner of his vision when he closed his eyes.

Chan was fascinated. The vampire spent hours exploring, his dark eyes lighting up with a mix of awe and apprehension as he traced the symbols with delicate fingers. “This place,” he murmured one evening, “it’s not just a library. It’s alive.”

Minho frowned. “Alive how?”

“It’s responding to you,” Chan said, his voice carrying a note of wonder. “To us. This magic… it’s ancient, older than anything I’ve ever encountered. And it’s powerful. Be careful, Minho. The library isn’t just revealing its secrets - it’s testing you.”

Despite Chan’s warning, Minho couldn’t resist the pull of the library’s mysteries. He spent long nights over ancient texts and deciphering runes, each discovery pulling him deeper into the labyrinth of secrets.

One night, he stumbled upon a hidden room. The air inside felt heavy, humming with an energy that made his skin prickle. In the center of the room stood a pedestal holding an old journal bound in cracked leather. The crescent moon-and-dagger insignia gleamed on its cover.

Opening it, Minho read about an ancient society tasked with controlling supernatural forces. The journal spoke of “The Keeper,” a role bound to the library - a guardian and a vessel for its power. A chill ran down his spine as he realized the implications.

Minho shared his findings with Chan, who listened in silence, his expression unreadable. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” Minho accused, his voice sharp.

Chan hesitated. “I knew the library held power. But I didn’t know… this.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Minho snapped, slamming the journal onto the table. “You’ve been here for centuries. How much are you hiding from me?”

Chan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked every bit the ancient, dangerous creature Minho had freed. But then his shoulders sagged, and he looked away. “I glimpsed the library’s power through the runes that bound me,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t have all the answers, Minho. I swear.”

Minho wanted to believe him. But doubt gnawed at him, growing stronger with each unanswered question.

The library grew more hostile as Minho delved deeper. Shadows seemed to lengthen unnaturally, and the once-faint whispers became guttural voices that followed him through the halls. Books flew off shelves, their pages flipping frantically as though trying to communicate. Chan's sudden visits started to startle him each time, never knowing what to expect.

One night, Minho experienced a vision. He saw robed figures conducting rituals, sealing monstrous creatures behind enchanted doors, and carving runes into stone with trembling hands. He woke with a start, sweat soaking his shirt.

The next day, Chan confronted him. “You’ve been marked,” he said, his voice grave. “The library is choosing you, Minho. It wants you to be its Keeper.”

Minho stared at him, horrified. “No. That’s not possible.”

“It’s already happening,” Chan said, gently reaching for his hand. “Your senses are sharper, aren’t they? You can hear the whispers, see things others can’t. The library’s power is growing in you.”

Minho couldn’t shake the feeling that Chan knew more than he was letting on. His suspicions deepened when he discovered a hidden journal tucked away in the library’s archives - a journal that mentioned Chan by name.

According to the journal, Chan had once sought the library’s power for himself, hoping to use it to break his vampiric curse. The revelation felt like a betrayal.

“You lied to me,” Minho accused, confronting Chan in the dim light of the library. “You knew exactly what freeing you would do to me.”

Chan’s eyes widened in shock. “Minho, no. I didn’t-”

“Don’t deny it,” Minho interrupted. “This journal says you wanted the library’s power. Was this your plan all along? To use me?”

Chan looked stricken. “I won’t lie to you. I did seek the library’s power centuries ago, but I gave up on that long before you freed me. I never intended for you to get hurt.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Minho demanded.

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t trust me,” Chan admitted. “I’ve made mistakes, Minho. But I swear to you, freeing me wasn’t one of them. I care about you.”

The vulnerability in Chan’s voice made Minho pause. He wanted to believe him, but the weight of the library’s growing power - and his own fears - made it hard to trust anyone.

The library’s magic reached a boiling point. The malevolent force sealed by the Keeper began to stir, its presence manifesting as a dark, swirling energy that threatened to consume everything.

Minho and Chan faced the heart of the library together. The runes on the walls glowed ominously, and the air crackled with magic.

“We have to seal it,” Chan said, his voice steady despite the chaos. “But it’ll take a sacrifice.”

Minho’s heart pounded. He knew what Chan meant. To seal the force, someone had to take on the role of the Keeper.

“I’ll do it,” Minho said, his voice trembling.

“No,” Chan said firmly. “You have a life ahead of you. Dreams. I’ve already lost everything. Let me do this.”

Minho shook his head, tears brimming his eyes. “I can’t let you go back to that prison. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Chan stepped closer, his hands cupping Minho’s face. “You’ve changed me, Minho. You’ve given me hope. Let me repay you by protecting you.”

Minho’s resolve wavered, but he couldn’t let Chan make that sacrifice. “Don't you dare, stupid.”

Despite his warnings, Chan stuck close to Minho. They worked together to decipher the runes that had bound Chan and still held secrets about the library’s power. In the quiet moments between their work, they found themselves drawn to each other in ways neither could explain.

One rainy evening, as thunder rumbled outside, Minho caught Chan staring at him.

“What?” Minho asked, feeling self-conscious.

“You’re different,” Chan said, his voice soft. “Most people would have run by now. But you… you’re still here.”

Minho shrugged, trying to mask the warmth rising in his cheeks. “Maybe I’m just stubborn.”

Chan’s lips curved into a small smile. “Or maybe you’re braver than you realize.”

The library’s hidden chamber was a cathedral of shadows and power, its towering walls etched with runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Candles burned in every corner, their flames flickering against the oppressive darkness. At the center of the room stood a massive circular rune, carved into the floor with precision that seemed almost inhuman. It glowed faintly, waiting to be awakened.

Minho stood within the circle, his heart pounding as he stared at the crescent moon-and-dagger insignia etched into the stone beneath his feet. The air felt heavy, charged with magic that pressed against his chest, stealing his breath. He could hear the whispers louder than ever, words in a language he didn’t understand, yet somehow knew were meant for him.

“This is dangerous,” Chan said, standing just outside the circle. His eyes were dark with worry, his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t have to do this.”

Minho turned to him, his expression resolute. “Yes, I do. If I don’t, that thing will escape, and everything we’ve worked for will be meaningless.”

Chan took a step closer, his voice dropping to a pleading whisper. “We’ll find another way. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.” Minho gave him a small, sad smile. “This is what the library wants. What it’s been preparing me for. I have to finish this.” Chan opened his mouth to protest, but Minho raised a hand to stop him. “You’ve done enough, Chan. You gave me the strength to get this far. Now let me do this.”

For a moment, Chan said nothing, his jaw tight with emotion. His hands found Minho's cheeks and he pulled him in close, breath hitching as they were only mere inches apart.

“Chan,” Minho exhaled shakily, searching his eyes nervously. His heart fluttered beneath Chan's gaze and he felt himself melt into the older.

Chan only hesitated for a second before their lips met in a tender kiss. Minho's hand shot up to cup Chan's cheek, kissing back fiercely. “You better be careful.”

“I will,” he whispered with wide eyes.

Then he nodded, though his hands trembled as he stepped back. “I’m not leaving your side,” he said firmly. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

Minho swallowed hard and gave him a grateful look before turning back to the rune. He knelt, placing his hands flat against the cold stone, and began to speak the words inscribed in the ancient text they had uncovered. The language was foreign, each syllable strange and sharp, yet they rolled off his tongue as if they had been etched into his soul.

The effect was immediate. The runes on the floor flared to life, their glow shifting from faint white to blinding gold. A wind erupted from nowhere, howling through the chamber and snuffing out the candles one by one. The air became thick with power, crackling like a storm about to break.

Minho felt the magic wrap around him, pulling him upward as if he weighed nothing. His feet left the ground, and he hovered in the center of the circle, his arms outstretched. The glow from the runes intensified, bathing him in golden light as the crescent moon-and-dagger insignia seared itself into his wrist. Minho cried out, the pain sharp and all-encompassing, but he didn’t stop chanting.

The books lining the walls began to rattle, their pages flipping wildly as if caught in the same storm. The whispers grew louder, turning into a deafening roar that filled Minho’s mind with images of the library’s history: the rituals of the first Keeper, the sealing of the malevolent force, and the countless sacrifices made to protect the world from its darkness.

The magic reached its crescendo, and Minho’s body arched as a blinding purple light erupted from his chest. The wind surged, sending books tumbling from their shelves and snuffing out the last of the candles. For a moment, the chamber was plunged into darkness, save for the glow of the runes and the light radiating from Minho’s body.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased. Minho’s body went limp, and he began to fall.

Chan moved faster than he thought possible, catching Minho just before he hit the ground. The younger man was pale, his breathing shallow, and his head lolled against Chan’s shoulder. For a terrifying moment, Chan thought he had lost him.

“Minho,” Chan whispered, his voice trembling. “Come on, wake up. Please.”

Minho stirred, his fingers twitching weakly against Chan’s chest. His eyes fluttered open, and Chan froze. For a fleeting second, Minho’s irises glowed with an otherworldly purple light, the same color as the magic that had filled the chamber. The glow faded quickly, replaced by Minho’s familiar dark gaze, but the memory of it sent a chill through Chan’s spine.

“Chan?” Minho’s voice was faint, barely audible over the pounding of Chan’s own heartbeat.

“I’m here,” Chan said, his grip tightening around him. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Minho’s gaze dropped to his wrist, where the crescent moon-and-dagger insignia was now burned into his skin, its edges glowing faintly. He reached up to touch it, his fingers trembling. “It’s done,” he murmured. “I can feel it… it’s a part of me now.”

Chan cupped his face, forcing Minho to look at him. “You’re still you,” he said fiercely. “I won’t let this magic take that away from you.”

Minho gave him a weak smile, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “You can’t stop it, Chan. It’s already started.”

“Then I’ll fight it,” Chan said, his voice breaking. “I’ll fight for you. No matter what it takes.”

Minho’s smile softened, and he let his head rest against Chan’s shoulder. “Thank you…stupid,” he whispered.

Chan held him close, his heart aching as he felt the steady, fragile beat of Minho’s heart against his chest. The storm had passed, but they both knew the battle was far from over.

Above them, the library’s runes dimmed to a faint glow, their power settling into the one who had been chosen. And in the silence that followed, the two of them stayed there - bound together by sacrifice, by magic, and by a love that refused to fade.

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tosomeonessomeone · 5 months ago

Text

Imaginary friend.

words・ 4.9k /pairings・ I.N x reader / genres・fluff Happy birthday Innie~

Jeongin’s Perspective

The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the quiet room as Jeongin sat cross-legged on the floor of his childhood bedroom. It had been years since he’d had the chance to spend time here, his life now a whirlwind of rehearsals, performances, and interviews as a member of Stray Kids. But today, he was home—truly home—and the familiarity of the space brought a sense of calm he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Boxes were scattered around him, filled with old toys, schoolbooks, and memorabilia his mother had been urging him to sort through for years. With a sigh, he reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a worn, spiral-bound notebook. The cover was decorated with childish doodles—stars, hearts, and a name scrawled in bold, uneven letters: *Y/N*.

Jeongin’s breath hitched. He hadn’t thought about Y/N in years. Flipping through the pages, he was greeted by colorful drawings and messy handwriting. There were stories of adventures they’d gone on together, conversations they’d had, and even a detailed description of what Y/N looked like. Jeongin traced the lines of a drawing with his finger, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Y/N had been his constant companion during those lonely days when his older siblings were too busy to play and his parents were working late. She had been his confidant, his cheerleader, his friend.

But what struck him now was how *real* Y/N had felt. The journal described her laugh, her favorite color, even the way she’d tilt her head when she was thinking. It was as if Y/N had been a living, breathing person—not just a figment of his imagination.

Jeongin leaned back against the bed, the journal resting on his lap. “Where are you now, Y/N?” he murmured to himself, half-joking, half-wistful. The thought lingered in his mind as he closed the journal and set it aside, unaware of the chain of events he was about to set in motion.

Y/N’s Perspective

The grand piano stood center stage, its polished surface reflecting the warm glow of the concert hall lights. Y/N’s fingers danced across the keys, the final notes of Chopin’s *Nocturne in E-flat Major* lingering in the air like a whispered secret. The audience erupted into applause, but Y/N’s mind was already elsewhere. She had been feeling restless lately, as if something—or someone—was calling to her from the edges of her memory.

After the performance, Y/N returned to her hometown for a brief visit. Her parents’ house was a time capsule of her childhood, filled with trophies, sheet music, and the faint scent of nostalgia. While rummaging through an old box in the attic, she found a small, leather-bound diary. The cover was embossed with her name, the edges frayed with age.

Curious, Y/N opened the diary and began to read. The entries were written in the clumsy script of a child, filled with misspelled words and exaggerated emotions. But one name stood out, appearing again and again: *Jeongin*.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. Jeongin had been her imaginary friend, the one who’d listened to her dreams of becoming a musician when no one else would. She remembered how Jeongin would sit beside her on the piano bench, humming along as she played. He had been so real to her—so *alive*.

As she flipped through the pages, she found a drawing of Jeongin. It was crude, as most childhood drawings are, but the details were unmistakable: his bright eyes, his warm smile, the way his hair fell just so. Y/N’s chest tightened with a strange mix of emotions. It was as if she were looking at a long-lost friend, someone she hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

“Jeongin,” Y/N whispered, the name feeling foreign yet familiar on her tongue. She closed the diary and held it close, a sense of determination settling over her. She didn’t know how or why, but she needed to find out if Jeongin was real.

The First Thread

That evening, Jeongin sat in his room, scrolling through his phone. On a whim, he decided to post a photo of the old journal on social media. He captioned it: *“Do you guys remember your imaginary friends? Mine was named Y/N, and she was the coolest. I wonder where she is now.”*

The post quickly gained traction, with fans and friends alike sharing their own stories of imaginary companions. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Y/N was scrolling through her feed when she stumbled upon Jeongin’s post. Her heart raced as she read the caption and saw the photo of the journal. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

With trembling fingers, Y/N sent a direct message to Jeongin: *“Hi, this might sound crazy, but… I think I was your imaginary friend. And you were mine.”*

Jeongin’s Perspective

Jeongin’s phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand, the glow of the screen lighting up the dark room. He groaned, rolling over to check the notifications. His post about Y/N had blown up overnight, with thousands of likes, comments, and shares. Fans were sharing their own stories of imaginary friends, and the hashtag #MyImaginaryFriend was trending. He smiled, scrolling through the comments. It was heartwarming to see how many people could relate to his childhood memories.

But then, a direct message notification caught his eye. The username was unfamiliar, but the message made his heart stop:

*“Hi, this might sound crazy, but… I think I was your imaginary friend. And you were mine.”*

Jeongin sat up, his pulse quickening. He read the message again, then a third time, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of how to respond. Was this some kind of prank? Or was it possible that Y/N—his Y/N—was real?

After a moment of hesitation, he typed back: *“This is… wild. Can you tell me more? What do you remember?”*

Y/N’s Perspective

Y/N stared at her phone, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t expected Jeongin to respond so quickly—or at all, really. But there it was, a message from him, asking her to elaborate. She took a deep breath, her fingers trembling as she typed:

*“I found my old diary yesterday. It’s filled with stories about you—Jeongin. You were my imaginary friend when I was a kid. I used to talk to you about my dreams of becoming a musician. You’d sit with me while I practiced piano, and you always encouraged me. I even drew pictures of you. You had this smile… it’s hard to explain, but it felt so real.”*

She paused, then added: *“And then I saw your post. You described me exactly how I remember myself as a kid. My name, my personality… it’s all there. This can’t just be a coincidence, can it?”*

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, her stomach twisting with nerves. What if he thought she was crazy? What if this was all some big misunderstanding?

Jeongin’s Perspective

Jeongin’s eyes widened as he read Y/N’s message. His mind raced, trying to process what she was saying. It was one thing to have an imaginary friend as a child, but to have that friend turn out to be a real person—someone who had also imagined *him*—was beyond anything he could have imagined.

He typed back: *“This is insane. I have a journal filled with stories about you too. I even drew pictures of you. You had this laugh… it was so vivid. I used to talk to you about my dreams of becoming a singer. You were always so supportive. I can’t believe this is real.”*

He hesitated, then added: *“Do you think we could talk more? Maybe even… meet?”*

Y/N’s Perspective

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she read Jeongin’s reply. He wanted to meet her. The thought was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. She glanced at her calendar—she had a concert in Seoul next month. It was perfect timing.

She typed back: *“I’m actually performing in Seoul next month. Maybe we could meet then? If you’re free, of course.”*

She held her breath, waiting for his response.

Jeongin’s Perspective

Jeongin’s heart leapt at Y/N’s message. Seoul? She was coming to Seoul? He quickly checked his schedule. Stray Kids had a few days off around that time. It was meant to be.

*“I’ll be there,”* he replied, a smile spreading across his face. *“I can’t wait to meet you, Y/N.”*

The Countdown Begins

Over the next few weeks, Jeongin and Y/N exchanged messages almost daily. They shared stories from their childhoods, compared their memories, and marveled at the uncanny similarities. It was as if they had been living parallel lives, connected by an invisible thread.

Jeongin found himself looking forward to their conversations more than he cared to admit. There was something about Y/N that felt familiar, comforting, like coming home after a long journey. And Y/N felt the same way. Talking to Jeongin was like rediscovering a part of herself she hadn’t realized she’d lost.

As the day of their meeting approached, both of them felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. What would it be like to finally meet the person who had been such a big part of their childhood? Would the connection they felt through messages translate to real life?

Jeongin’s Perspective

Jeongin stood backstage at the Seoul Arts Center, clutching a bouquet of white lilies—Y/N’s favorite flowers, according to his childhood journal. His heart raced as he waited for her performance to begin. He had never been this nervous before, not even during Stray Kids’ biggest concerts. But this was different. This wasn’t just about meeting a fan or a fellow artist. This was about meeting someone who had been a part of his life in ways he couldn’t fully explain.

The lights dimmed, and the audience fell silent. Jeongin peeked through the curtain, his eyes immediately drawn to the grand piano at the center of the stage. And there she was—Y/N. She walked out with grace and confidence, her presence commanding the room. She wore a flowing black gown that shimmered under the stage lights, and her hair was swept into an elegant updo. She looked every bit the world-class musician she was.

As she sat at the piano and began to play, Jeongin felt as if the world had stopped. Her fingers moved effortlessly across the keys, the music swelling and filling the hall with emotion. He recognized the piece—it was one she had mentioned in their messages, a composition she had written during a particularly difficult time in her life. Listening to it now, he felt as if he were hearing her soul.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something about the way she played, the way she lost herself in the music, that felt familiar. It was as if he were seeing a part of himself reflected in her. The realization hit him like a wave: this was the girl he had imagined all those years ago. She was real, and she was even more incredible than he had ever dreamed.

Y/N’s Perspective

Y/N took a deep breath as she stepped onto the stage, the weight of the moment settling over her. She had performed in countless concerts before, but this one felt different. She knew Jeongin was here, somewhere in the audience, and the thought made her heart race. She had spent weeks imagining what it would be like to finally meet him, and now the moment was here.

As she began to play, she let the music carry her away. The piece she had chosen was deeply personal, a reflection of her journey as a musician and as a person. She poured her heart into every note, hoping that Jeongin would understand—that he would feel the connection between them, just as she did.

When she finished, the audience erupted into applause. She stood and bowed, her eyes scanning the crowd. And then she saw him. He was standing near the back, holding a bouquet of white lilies. Her breath caught in her throat. It was really him. Jeongin.

After the concert, Y/N made her way backstage, her heart pounding. She had barely stepped into the green room when she saw him—Jeongin, standing there with the bouquet in his hands. He looked just as nervous as she felt.

“Hi,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “You were amazing.”

Y/N smiled, her cheeks flushing. “Thank you. And thank you for coming.”

There was a moment of silence as they stood there, taking each other in. It was surreal, seeing each other in person after all these years. And yet, it felt so natural, as if they had known each other forever.

Jeongin held out the bouquet. “These are for you. White lilies, right? Your favorite.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. “You remembered?”

He nodded, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “How could I forget? You told me when we were kids.”

She took the flowers, her heart swelling with emotion. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

They sat down together, the bouquet resting between them. The conversation flowed easily, as if they were picking up where they had left off all those years ago. They talked about their childhoods, their careers, and the strange twist of fate that had brought them together.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Y/N said, her voice filled with wonder. “All this time, I thought you were just a figment of my imagination. But you were real. You were always real.”

Jeongin nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “I feel the same way. It’s like… we were meant to find each other.”

There was a pause, and then Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out her old diary. She opened it to a page with a drawing of Jeongin and handed it to him. “This is how I remember you,” she said softly.

Jeongin took the diary, his eyes widening as he saw the drawing. It was him—his smile, his eyes, even the way he used to tilt his head when he was thinking. “This is incredible,” he whispered. “It’s like you saw me before you even knew me.”

Y/N’s Perspective

Y/N sat in her apartment, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of her old diary. It had been a couple of months since her concert in Seoul and her unforgettable meeting with Jeongin. Since then, they had kept in touch almost daily, their conversations flowing effortlessly through texts, calls, and video chats. It felt like they were making up for lost time, sharing stories, dreams, and even the mundane details of their lives.

One evening, as she scrolled through her schedule for the upcoming months, her eyes landed on a notification from her orchestra’s management team. They had finalized the tour dates for their next series of performances. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as she read the list of cities: New York, Paris, Tokyo, and… Seoul again. But what caught her attention even more was the timing. Stray Kids had just announced their world tour dates, and their stops overlapped with hers in several cities.

Her fingers trembled as she opened Jeongin’s chat. *“Guess what? My orchestra’s tour dates just came out, and it looks like we’ll be in some of the same cities as Stray Kids. New York, Paris, Tokyo… and Seoul, of course.”*

Jeongin’s reply came almost instantly: *“No way! That’s amazing! We’ll finally get to see each other again. I can’t wait.”*

Y/N smiled, her heart fluttering at his enthusiasm. The thought of seeing him again filled her with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Their first meeting had been magical, but this felt different. It felt like the start of something more.

Jeongin’s Perspective

Jeongin couldn’t stop smiling as he read Y/N’s message. The idea of seeing her again—multiple times, no less—made his heart race. He had been thinking about her a lot lately, more than he cared to admit. There was something about her that felt like home, a connection that went beyond their shared childhood memories.

He quickly pulled up Stray Kids’ tour schedule and compared it to the dates Y/N had sent. Sure enough, their paths would cross in New York, Paris, and Tokyo. He couldn’t believe their luck. It was as if the universe was conspiring to bring them together.

*“This is perfect,”* he typed back. *“I’ll make sure to get you tickets to our shows. And maybe… we can hang out after? If you’re not too busy, of course.”*

Y/N’s reply was immediate: *“I’d love that. It’s a date.”*

Jeongin’s cheeks flushed at her choice of words. Was it a date? He wasn’t sure, but the thought made his stomach do somersaults.

New York: The First Stop

The first overlap was in New York. Y/N’s orchestra was performing at Carnegie Hall, while Stray Kids had a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. Jeongin managed to secure front-row tickets for Y/N and even arranged for her to meet the rest of the members backstage.

Jeongin’s Perspective

Jeongin sat in the green room of Madison Square Garden, scrolling through his messages with Y/N. The rest of Stray Kids were scattered around the room, some chatting, others resting before the show. Hyunjin, ever the observant one, noticed Jeongin’s constant smiling at his phone and nudged him playfully.

“Who’s got you grinning like that, Jeongin-ah?” Hyunjin teased. “Is it Y/N again?”

Jeongin’s cheeks flushed, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Yeah, it’s her. She’s coming to the show tonight.”

The mention of Y/N caught the attention of the other members. Chan, who had been stretching nearby, turned to Jeongin with a curious look. “Wait, the Y/N? The one from your childhood?”

Jeongin nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yeah, she’s in New York for her orchestra performance. I got her tickets to our show.”

Felix leaned forward, his eyes wide with interest. “So, what’s she like? Is she as cool as you remember?”

Jeongin’s face lit up as he described her. “She’s amazing. She’s a pianist, and she’s so talented. When she plays, it’s like… the whole world stops. And she’s kind and funny, and—” He paused, realizing he was rambling. “I don’t know, it’s just crazy how real she is.”

Changbin smirked, crossing his arms. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush.”

Jeongin’s face turned red, and he quickly shook his head. “It’s not like that! I mean… it’s just… she’s special, you know?”

The members exchanged knowing glances, their teasing smiles making Jeongin even more flustered. Seungmin, ever the voice of reason, chimed in. “It’s cool that you two reconnected. Not many people get to meet their imaginary friends in real life.”

Jeongin laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, it’s pretty wild. I still can’t believe it sometimes.”

After the concert, the members gathered backstage, still buzzing from the energy of the performance. Jeongin was visibly excited, pacing back and forth as he waited for Y/N to arrive. When she finally appeared, escorted by a staff member, the members couldn’t help but notice how Jeongin’s entire demeanor changed.

“Y/N!” he greeted her warmly, pulling her into a quick hug. “You made it!”

Y/N smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Of course! You were incredible out there. I couldn’t stop cheering.”

Jeongin introduced her to the members, who greeted her with friendly curiosity. “So, you’re the famous Y/N,” Han said with a grin. “Jeongin’s been talking about you nonstop.”

Y/N laughed, glancing at Jeongin. “All good things, I hope?”

“Only the best,” Jeongin assured her, his cheeks turning pink.

The members quickly warmed up to Y/N, asking her about her music and her performances. They were impressed by her talent and charisma, and it was clear why Jeongin had been so captivated by her. As the night went on, the group dynamic felt natural, as if Y/N had always been a part of their circle.

Paris: A Night to Remember

In Paris, Y/N’s orchestra performed at the Philharmonie, and Stray Kids had a show at Accor Arena. This time, Jeongin insisted on attending Y/N’s concert. He sat in the audience, mesmerized as she played. There was something about watching her perform that felt intimate, as if he were seeing a side of her that no one else could.

After the show, they met at a quiet café near the Seine. The city was alive with lights and laughter, and the atmosphere was perfect. They talked for hours, sharing stories and dreams, their connection growing stronger with every passing moment.

As they walked along the river, Jeongin hesitated for a moment before taking Y/N’s hand. She didn’t pull away, and they continued walking in comfortable silence, the city’s magic wrapping around them.

Jeongin and Y/N’s bond continued to grow. After attending her orchestra performance, Jeongin couldn’t stop gushing about her to the members. “She’s just… incredible,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “The way she plays, the way she connects with the audience—it’s like she’s telling a story with every note.”

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. “You’re really into her, aren’t you?”

Jeongin hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, I think I am. It’s just… she feels like home, you know? Like we’ve known each other forever.”

Chan patted Jeongin on the back, his expression supportive. “That’s rare, Jeongin-ah. If she makes you happy, then go for it.”

Tokyo: A Turning Point

In Tokyo, their schedules were packed, but they managed to steal a few moments together. After Stray Kids’ show, Jeongin surprised Y/N with a visit to a quiet park known for its cherry blossoms. The trees were in full bloom, their petals falling like snow around them.

“This is beautiful,” Y/N said, her voice filled with awe.

Jeongin nodded, his eyes on her. “Not as beautiful as you.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, and she looked at him, her heart pounding. There was something in his gaze that made her breath catch. Before she could say anything, Jeongin spoke again.

“Y/N, I know this might sound crazy, but… I feel like you’ve always been a part of my life. Even when we were kids, even when we didn’t know each other. And now that we’ve found each other, I don’t want to let you go.”

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears. “I feel the same way,” she whispered. “It’s like… we were meant to find each other.”

Jeongin reached for her hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “Then let’s not waste any more time. Let’s see where this takes us.”

After their quiet moment under the cherry blossoms, Jeongin returned to the hotel to find the members waiting for him. They took one look at his dazed expression and knew something had happened.

“Spill it,” Felix said, leaning forward. “What happened with Y/N?”

Jeongin sat down, a soft smile on his face. “We talked. Like, really talked. And I told her how I feel.”

The members exchanged excited glances. “And?” Han prompted.

“She feels the same way,” Jeongin admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like… we’re finally on the same page.”

The room erupted in cheers and congratulations, the members clapping Jeongin on the back and teasing him good-naturedly. “Our Jeongin’s all grown up,” Changbin said, pretending to wipe away a tear.

Jeongin laughed, shaking his head. “It’s not like that yet. We’re just… taking it one step at a time.”

Jeongin’s Perspective

The world tour continued, and with each city, Jeongin and Y/N’s connection grew stronger. Their meetings became the highlight of his hectic schedule, a quiet refuge amidst the chaos of performances, interviews, and travel. The members of Stray Kids noticed the change in him—he was happier, more relaxed, and even more focused on stage. They teased him relentlessly, of course, but it was all in good fun. They could see how much Y/N meant to him.

In London, after another electrifying show, Jeongin found himself backstage, scrolling through photos from the night. One in particular caught his eye: a candid shot of Y/N in the audience, her face lit up with joy as she watched him perform. He couldn’t help but smile. She had become such an important part of his life, and he couldn’t imagine going back to how things were before.

“Jeongin-ah,” Chan called, snapping him out of his thoughts. “We’re heading out for dinner. You coming?”

Jeongin hesitated. He had promised to meet Y/N after the show, but he didn’t want to leave the members hanging. Before he could respond, Hyunjin chimed in. “Why don’t you invite Y/N? We’d love to hang out with her again.”

Jeongin’s eyes lit up. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Felix said with a grin. “She’s basically one of us now.”

Y/N’s Perspective

Y/N was waiting outside the venue when Jeongin texted her: *“The guys want to have dinner with us. You in?”*

She smiled, her heart warming at the thought. She had grown fond of the Stray Kids members during their brief interactions, and the idea of spending more time with them—and Jeongin—was too good to pass up. *“I’d love to,”* she replied.

When she arrived at the restaurant, the members greeted her with their usual warmth and humor. “Y/N!” Han exclaimed, pulling out a chair for her. “Sit here. We need to hear more about how Jeongin was as a kid.”

Jeongin groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t.”

Y/N laughed, sitting down. “Well, he was always very supportive. Even as an imaginary friend, he believed in me more than anyone else.”

The members cooed in unison, teasing Jeongin mercilessly. “Aww, our Jeongin’s a softie,” Changbin said, ruffling Jeongin’s hair.

As the night went on, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Y/N felt completely at ease with the group, as if she had known them for years. Jeongin watched her with a soft smile, his heart swelling with pride. She fit in so perfectly, and he couldn’t have been happier.

After dinner, Jeongin and Y/N decided to take a walk through the city. The streets of London were quiet, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the lively atmosphere of the restaurant. They walked side by side, their hands occasionally brushing, neither of them daring to bridge the gap just yet.

“I had a great time tonight,” Y/N said, breaking the silence. “Your members are amazing.”

Jeongin nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets. “They really like you. I think they might even like you more than me.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “That’s not possible. You’re their Jeongin.”

He smiled, his heart skipping a beat at her words. There was something about the way she said his name that made him feel… special. Like he was the only person in the world that mattered to her.

They stopped at a small park, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the trees. Jeongin turned to Y/N, his expression serious. “Y/N, I… I need to tell you something.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide with curiosity. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. “I know this might sound crazy, but… I think I’m falling for you. And I don’t want to pretend like I’m not. You mean so much to me, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She had been feeling the same way but hadn’t dared to say it out loud. “Jeongin,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I feel the same way. You’ve always been a part of me, even when we were kids. And now… I don’t want to let you go either.”

Jeongin reached for her hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “Can I kiss you?.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

They stood there for a moment, the world around them fading away. And then, slowly, Jeongin leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was soft and sweet, a perfect reflection of the bond they shared. Y/N’s hands found their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. It was a moment of pure connection, a silent promise of everything they meant to each other.

When they finally pulled away, Jeongin rested his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with emotion. “Me too.”

As they walked back to the hotel, Y/N glanced at Jeongin with a playful smile. “You know, I think I need a special name for you. Something that’s just mine.”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What did you have in mind?”

She thought for a moment, then grinned. “How about ‘Innie’? It’s cute, just like you.”

Jeongin laughed, his cheeks turning pink. “Innie, huh? I like it. But only if I get to call you something special too.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “What did you have in mind?”

He smiled softly, his eyes warm. “How about ‘Nari’? It means lily, like the flowers you love so much.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered at the sweetness of the name. “Nari,” she repeated, testing it out. “I love it.”

Jeongin squeezed her hand, his smile widening. “Then it’s settled. You’re my Nari, and I’m your Innie.”

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 1 year ago

Note

How lucky do you think Dumbledore was that the diary horcrux basically landed in his lap? When he's giving Harry his expert analysis on Tom Riddle and what he would make a horcrux, he concludes Tom would favor objects that are opposite to the diary. He thinks Tom Riddle despises his muggle name (its embossed on the diary) and that he would like super special magical objects (its a plain muggle diary). Would Dumbledore or Harry have ever figured out the diary if that was one they still needed to get?

Anon, there is an @rankheresy episode in the editing queue which will address this question and many more. But the bottom line is "I don't think they figured out anything".

#harry potter #harry potter meta #harry potter headcanon #albus dumbledore #anti albus dumbledore #anti harry potter #tom riddle #meta #headcanon #opinion

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sebastianswallows · 1 year ago

Text

The English Client — Twenty-five

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none, just more Paris shenanigans

— WORDCOUNT: 3.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

After a filling dinner of duck confit and coq au vin — the name of which made her giggle until her eyes teared up — they returned to the hotel at nearly midnight. They undressed together, washed themselves together, and fell asleep in one another’s arms. Perhaps it was all the walking they had done, thighs throbbing and feet sore, but the bed felt so soft that they melted into it.

They woke up a few times throughout the night. Tom could tell she’d done so when he awoke to find her arms around his waist, or her face nuzzled in his neck, her breath and body warming up his blood. Each time, she found a way to nestle a little closer to him and Tom could only pull her in, burrowing himself into her body like a fox inside its wintry hole, sucking her life energy through every pore of skin like some sort of vampire. He nearly laughed at the thought — or maybe it was a dream — that he had taken that aspect of Oso’s role now, while she took over his work responsibilities. But oh he hoped the fiend had never fed on her… She seemed to know nothing of his true nature nor had he ever seen bite marks on the multiple occasions he’d had to explore her body, but he held her tightly all the same, murderously possessive.

Tom got up before her when the morning came. He rolled out of bed only to turn the radiator higher. He’d slept with his socks on too, to spare her his cold skin when she turned cuddly.

After a brief look out the window at the sprawling and pink view of the city he went to the suitcase at the foot of the bed and started searching through it, keeping as quiet as he could while he looked for his diary. It was a far cry from his first one. No fine leather, no embossing of his name, and not a repository for his soul either. But it was good enough to write his thoughts in and, like the last one, enchanted to hide the text right afterwards. Also like the last one it was purchased from a muggle shop. This one was bought in Rome and had that fancy Italian paper he’d always heard about. At least it scratched less than the parchment he was used to…

He sat in a chair by the window, fished out the pen from his jacket’s inner pocket, and balanced the diary on his knee.

“Montmartre statue,” he wrote, and immediately the page was filled with rows of text, each marked with a date. The very first one had what he needed: directions to the Place Cachée, where he could buy the items for the next part of his plan. The only question that remained was when to slip away…

The day was reserved for the arts once again. They went to the Louvre first thing in the morning and picked up where they left off before heading to the Catacombs — at Cavona’s Cupid and Psyche. They walked around it, looking at it from every angle before coming back around, forever ignored by the embracing lovers of stone.

“Does it feel to you too like we’re intruding?” she asked. “Like we shouldn’t see this?”

“Yes,” said Tom with a light grin, “but that is rather the point, I think.”

She chuckled. “To make it seem so real that it makes you feel like a voyeur?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You know, from this angle, she looks a little bit like you.”

“And you know he looks a bit like you, especially when your hair gets curly after you’ve had a bath.”

“Is that so?”

“Minus the wings, of course.”

“Never did like flying…”

“Yes, I hate aeroplanes too.”

The faint blemishes on the statues, yellow shadows brought by age, seemed to make their flesh alive, and the marks of chisels were scars and stretches left on their fair skin. More than once her eyes lingered on the jar behind Psyche, waiting for it to roll to the side and fall.

“What do you think it was? That essence of beauty she was supposed to steal from Persephone,” she asked.

Tom thought about it as he held her close. He could name several magical concoctions but none that were worthy of a goddess.

“Perhaps the moral of the story is that the essence of beauty is secrecy itself.”

She nodded and rested her head against his shoulder.

“What do you think it was?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s obvious. Beauty sleep.”

Tom laughed. In the story, Psyche fell into a deep sleep as soon as she opened the box, so the idea had merit.

Once they had their fill of the Louvre they crossed the street, took a left, and found themselves at the Librairie Delamain. Taller than it looked from the outside, it was all dark wood and sombre, a labyrinth of white fangs peeking out of every corner, books and books and books. It smelled dry and leathery inside with faint traces of salt and cinnamon. They held hands to not get lost, occasionally pulling and tugging on each other when they found something they liked.

The largest section was Romance and Erotica, dominating the whole first five rows as soon as they stepped inside. She leafed with bated breath through a 1904 edition of the 120 Days of Sodom while Tom huddled close to read over her shoulder. He giggled at the most inappropriate of illustrations. She kicked him in the ribs. He bought her a first edition of Cazotte’s Le Diable Amoureux to apologise which she held in her hands and gawked at as if it were made of gold while Tom discretely released the shopkeeper from under the Imperio spell.

“You know what, best put it in your bag,” he whispered as he pulled her away, “before he realises what a steal it is and charges us a bit more for it.”

“Oh it’s alright, I could pay the extra —”

“No,” he hissed, “you couldn’t.”

The next stop was the Religion and Esoterics section. They browsed it with an eye to compare it to Casa Ur, but the selection was less rich than what they had in Rome. Truly rare volumes, few in number, sat beside the most innocuous books and most authors they could recognise were still alive or not long dead. They even found a couple of the Baron’s published works on Eastern meditation and Western magic rites. Nearby were also critiques by other authors, which amused the both of them, but it was all a very civil dialogue between the books.

“Should we buy one for him?” she asked, leafing through a copy.

“It depends on whether you wish to cause blatant offence or not.”

“Well, at this point, he needs me more than I need him.”

Tom regarded her with a smirk as she stood to his right with her head bowed, her attention on the book split open in her hand. She had sounded just then peculiarly indifferent to her work… But he didn’t dare to hope that she would abandon it after all, as he’d requested. That dream was already forgotten.

So they wandered through those shelves of things both old and new, from Cornelius Agrippa’s Three Books on Occult Philosophy all through to Johann Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, with a stop at Waite and Pamela Colman Smith’s Pictorial Key to the Tarot.

“I’ve never liked Divination,” grumbled Tom. “Bunch of abstract twaddle.”

“You sound like me complaining about algebra in school,” she chuckled. “How can you not like this? Look, these illustrations are beautiful…”

“I said nothing of the artistic merits. Colman Smith created a perfectly adequate version of the tarot. Certainly more useful than the Marseilles deck. The symbolism is… pertinent.”

She leaned her head back against his chest as she slowly flipped from page to page.

“Which card do you mostly identify with?” she asked.

“That’s not how it works.”

“I know. Tell me anyway.”

He sighed, the motion moving her chest also, and placed his right hand on the book. In its middle section, it dedicated a page to each card of the Tarot beginning with the major arcana and provided interpretations of their meaning. Above the text were the famous accompanying illustrations. Tom took hold of the book and went to the first card: the Magician. Would that serve as a confession? Would she read too much into it? Truth be told the more she would the further from the naked truth she’d be, but the idea of claiming that card nevertheless amused him. But no, he was no Apollonian figure surrounded by roses and lilies… He flipped a few more pages, past the Emperor, the Chariot, the Hermit, before finally settling on the 13th card: Death. She hummed thoughtfully and nodded, holding the other side of the book.

“On the surface, terror, but in truth it is transformation.”

“An enchanted rebirth,” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek.

“Do you want to know which one I see you as?” she giggled.

“Tell me.”

She went three pages forward to something he did not expect. The Sun.

“Shining brightly, am I? Are you sure you know me at all?”

“It’s not the colours. But it reminds me of you… The calm face of the sun and the carelessness of the free child, together. Look.”

“So I seem careless to you?”

“You do,” she said, leaning her head back to look at him. Seeing him from upside down his frown turned into a smile. “Only a careless person would spontaneously get a job in a foreign country, in an underground book shop, and rent in a bad neighbourhood, and —”

“Alright,” he sighed. “I can see how I might seem that way to you.”

She hummed in approval. “Now, do you want to know what I think I am?”

“Yes, I must see this.”

He expected something grand. The High Priestess, the Star, the Lovers even, but she stopped the page on —

“The Tower?”

She leaned back, cradled in his arms, holding the book alongside him, and gazed wanly at the page.

“Something about it calls to me… The finger pointing at the sky, a vanity like the Tower of Babel, trying to touch heaven through hard work… only to be crushed.”

He nodded. He could see in it her frustrations at the life she had been thrust into and the nothing that became of her, a stranger among strangers, labouring diligently to build something for others, always for others… It might have been his fate as well at Borgin and Burke’s had he not a clear plan to end it on his own terms. But that was still far away. And now he was here, with her. They shared so many of their troubles, more than she even realised, and so many interests and skills — not least of which the stomach to suffer a murder. And pleasures too, though he was loathe to say it. She was like him, or perhaps he was like her… And the thought suddenly struck him, like that bolt of lightning that was on the page, that she was worthy of his love. He wanted to kiss her, so he did, leaning forward and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

“Do you want to know which one I think you are?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He turned to the very end of the chapter at the last of the major arcana. There awaited the Fool.

“Tom!” she huffed.

He laughed, giggling in a way he didn’t often do. She elbowed him in the chest and in her struggle to get away from his embrace she missed the arcana that was on the other page, right next to the one that had offended her: the World.

III

Tom buttoned up his vest at a slow and pensive pace, his tie still hanging loosely around his neck. The floorboards winced as he stepped from one side of the room to the other. Around them, the hotel was slowly coming to life with steps and murmurs echoing their way from down the corridor, but it still didn’t wake his travelling companion. And nothing would. He sighed and sat down on his bed to lace his shoes, then finished by putting on his jacket, his green scarf and his coat, and wrapping himself up for the fresh chill of the morning. He leaned over her form as she lay motionless and curled up on the bed, and had the thought of touching her, but quickly decided against it. He turned and left, closing the door and hanging a “Do not disturb” sign on it.

There was quite a way to go from the hotel to Montmartre so, against his personal distaste, he asked the desk clerk to call him a cab.

“Rue Girardon, s'il vous plaît.”

It didn’t take him long to find the statue once he was there. Tall and tucked between old buildings, its blue bronze face watched over the surrounding muggles. As Tom gradually approached, she moved. Her noble face remained impassive but she obligingly tilted her leg aside and pulled the folds of her metallic dress away for him. He stepped through the pillar and found himself in the festive and arching streets of the Place Cachée.

His first stop was at Le Corbeau Mystique. He wound his way through the cages and crates and placards of advertisements until he reached the feather-laden cashier’s desk. The old witch there, dressed in a screaming fuchsia gown with a chain of fake black pearls around her neck and a mouse nestled in her hair, was quite happy to see him — until he told her what he wanted.

“Oh, no no no, we do not provide mailing services. Would you like to buy an owl instead?”

“I have no place to keep a pet,” he grumbled. It was times like these that he regretted having sold his old owl from Hogwarts, black and ruffled Morgana. Then again she was impossibly loud and it would’ve been a hassle to bring her on his travels.

“Perhaps you can try l’hôtel de Ginestou.”

The hotel was a more impressive building cut in smooth yellow rock. With its heavy metal door and carved pediments it looked quite like a tomb, so he was surprised to step inside and find it pretty welcoming. Young witches and wizards congregated in the lobby, mostly students on a field trip from what he overheard. Gentle light filled the room like a fog of star shine. There was something so alluringly spectacular about the ambience of the place that he almost felt subdued by it.

He went to the front desk and rang the bell. Its crystal chime didn’t carry far but a clerk soon appeared from behind a blue curtain.

“Bonjour, monsieur!” said the boy enthusiastically. His thin pale hands went right to the quill and register.

“I haven’t got a reservation,” said Tom. “Do you offer owl services?”

“Do you mean if we take pets? That is —”

“No. I wish to send a letter.”

“Ah, of course,” said the boy with a thin smile.

Tom took out the folded note from his pocket and pulled toward him a piece of parchment, then wrote the address down and pushed them both back to the boy. He was just getting his wallet ready to pay for the expense when the clerk’s face soured.

“I am sorry, but we only make delivery in France.”

Tom clenched his teeth and yanked the letter out of his hands.

“Any idea where I can get a letter sent to England from this circus of a street?”

“You can try le Griffon Buveur,” said the boy in a trembling tone.

Tom guessed from the name that it was a pub of some sort. He found it quickly enough by going to the most rowdy and busy section of the street. It had something oddly noble in its outward display, with wine-red walls cut with the holden silhouettes of its namesake — a griffon. He checked the time as he stepped through and wove his way between the tables plumped around with people. It was already half past ten and he hadn’t resolved even half of what he needed to. If only Parisian wizards weren’t so restrictive with their services he might have found someone to deliver this one measly letter already and be on his way back to his hotel before it was too late.

With much doubt and hopelessness, he went right up to the bar.

“Bonjour,” he said, not even bothering to hide his accent. “Do you deliver letters?”

“Yes,” said the barkeep, a stately woman with a strong beak of a nose and hair that was half silver.

“Abroad?”

“Yes, we do. What do you need, sir?”

He gave her the letter and instructions as to the address and was pleased to learn their owls were well familiar with Diagon Alley.

“And Knockturn Alley too?”

“Of course,” the woman said, her smile pulling softly at the wrinkles on her cheeks. “I will send it with Albert, an eagle owl. He is our best.”

She took his letter and the meagre payment for it and Tom was so happy that he ordered himself a glass of wine. It served as the only breakfast he’d have that day.

He checked the time on his worn old wristwatch as he slid through the shoppers in the Place Cachée. As it got closer to noon, there were more people about. And unlike the British wizardry, the French were not skimpy on ornamentation, with a sea of capes and flowing robes, dresses, and scarves, all clouded by large elegant hats. Tom had to crane his neck to see the shop names above. Eventually, he found what he was looking for: Dr. Aziz Branchiflore. He might have detected it by scent alone. The storefront was bubbling with dried herbs, encrusted shells and seeds, shrivelled mushrooms and ram horns. Tom tiptoed around the bulbous jars that completed the scene and stepped inside. There were several more shoppers around so he busied himself checking the displays, from bottled muck to piles of pearl powder and chains of fairy wings. Step by step he approached the counter, obliquely, and waited until the others had made their purchases and left.

“May I help you?” asked an elderly wizard with bushy silver brows who he could only assume was Mr. Branchiflore.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Tom, standing primly with his back straight and his chin thrust forward. “I was wondering if you sell Polyjuice potion.”

“We do indeed. It is costly, of course. Very costly. And we will have to register the purchase.”

“Register?”

“For the Ministry. We keep an account of every purchase of dangerous potions.”

Tom knew that was the French Ministry of Magic he meant, not the Italian or British. And they were not in communication with one another…

“That’s quite alright,” he said with a charming smile. “Where do I sign?”

He ended up buying a potion due to last for twenty minutes which he assured Mr. Branchiflore was for a practical joke. It was small enough to fit inside his pocket and came in a bottle of the sturdiest dragon horn. He thanked the old wizard as he parted with the last of his galleons.

It was lunchtime when Tom was done with his shopping. That wouldn’t be the first nor the last time he’d skipped a meal. He caught the nearest cab once he was out on the muggle streets again and hurried back to the hotel. He knew what he would find inside their room but he stepped in silently anyway. Light poured in from the window to the east, warming the air pleasantly. He put his coat away and made sure to hide the potion in his suitcase before he turned to the bed. She was sleeping soundly, laying on her tummy and hugging the pillow tight.

“Wake up,” he whispered as he ran a finger down her back.

And right away, she took a deep breath in and stretched.

“Mmm… Tom?”

“I’m here.”

She could barely peek an eye open before she was blinded by the light.

“What time is it?”

“Half past twelve.”

“What?!”

“I didn’t want to wake you, but —”

“How come I slept so long?!” she cried, raising herself to a sitting position and reaching for her wristwatch on the bedside table.

“You must’ve been worn out. All that walking,” he chuckled.

“Goodness, I’m starving,” she moaned, then turned her bleary eyes toward him, taking in his clothes. “What’ve you been doing?”

“I woke up rather late too, at around ten,” he lied. “Had a long breakfast here then went downstairs for a cup of tea. I’ll order you some room service, alright?”

“Yes, please,” she whined, hopping out of bed and making for the bathroom.

Tom already had one hand on the phone and ordered her a rich lunch with dessert and coffee and a cup of risotto for himself so that they could eat together. He had a more elaborate plan for their evening which should have served as a tacit apology for him using Imperio on her to make sure she slept until he got back that afternoon — not that she would know what he’d be apologising for.

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