#damn like. time of chaos. chaos theory

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

been thinking about god and free will. their hand-in-hand existences. godswill like spacetime. distance as time. been reading about iterative bifurcation. things split in two over and over to fit pseudo-infinite distance into finite spaces. we have 48.000 miles of capillaries in our bodies. this takes up 3% of our body volume. tardis voice: so much bigger on the inside. the doctor was adam and the master was eve, but the master was the older (greater) so he was cain and the doctor was abel. who came first, god or time?

[penny-anna]

the Justice League's identities all get publically leaked but before the dust has settled someone on twitter is like 'OMG i can't believe you guys are actually buying this obviously fake leak. look at this 'Billy Batson' person's birthday, he would only have been 11 years old when Captain Marvel started operating? how are you people so dumb'

immediately throws the whole thing into doubt. everyone going over the other ID information looking for other potential discrepancies. 'they expect us to believe Superman is some journalist called Clark Kent? they don't even look alike' and 'look at this Hal Jordan guy next to Green Lantern their facial structures aren't the same at all' and 'this Diana Prince woman has NO web presence, I don't think she's a real person'

'Bruce Wayne? c'monn how stupid do these peple think we are' etc etc

someone brings up that Wally West is clearly too young to have been operating as the Flash the entire time but then people from Central City are like no no that one might be legit, it's common knowledge locally that there's been more than one Flash.

this sparks the idea that perhaps the original Captain Marvel died or retired and was replaced with a new guy at some point. another whole group of people now scrutinising images of him trying to identify when the '''''switch'''' happened.

someone doing a deep local newspaper archive sweep turns up a photo of CC Batson accompanying a story abt his archaeology work, everyone agrees that Captain Marvel has his exact face, takes 0.2 seconds to join the dots that he officially died not long before Captain Marvel first appeared and Billy is his son. 2 Captain Marvels theory, previously dismissed as nonsense by most reasonable people, now looking very plausible.

whatever group leaked the identities absolutely steaming bcos their data is good damn it, everything in there is 100% factually correct and no-one is buying it ):<

Justice League and associates (initially sweating) now just pouring fuel on the fire. Oracle has made dozens of sockpuppet accounts to spread chaos and discord. official Flash account insisting that actually everyone is mistaken and he's definitely 100% been one guy this whole time. Lois Lane on twitter like 'do you guys think I wouldn't know if my husband was Superman'.

absolute pandemonium.

[dooberific]

❝𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢.❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre/warnings: suggestive, nsfw mentions, he’s just a boy loser guys idk what you want me to say

summary: you are order, and he is chaos. He thinks you’re his type, and you think he deserves a good tease for the trouble he’s caused you.

wc: 1.8k

Asaba Harumasa was convinced that Deputy Chief Tsukishiro had made up her mind to finally put an end to his existence.

Now sure he liked to skimp on his paperwork every now and then, or call out sick for multiple days in a row, or do whatever he could to clock out early, or fall asleep at his desk (all things he firmly understands don’t help his case), but this? Convincing the Chief to let her handpick an “executive assistant” to run the Section 6 office like a real prison? He was sure it violated some law against war crimes and torture.

You were everything his existence in the unit contradicted and he knew it from the moment you stepped through the doors of their suite in a perfectly pressed skirt suit and a terrifyingly cool expression on your face.

It was like Yanagi spawned a twin of herself, one that’s sole purpose was to work every kink in the system out by force and relieve the paperwork load so effectively that even the dedicated Deputy Chief was able to clock out of work on time. Your critique was swift and harsh, and the execution of your corrections to the administrative side of their work just as damning. Within a week the sound of your heels clicking on the tiles was enough to draw a fear response out of him and Soukaku (though she was spared more of your wrath and gained your affections, further solidifying his theory that you are yanagi’s more evil twin).

You were order. You were dependable. You were the warden of a paper prison that ruled with an iron fist.

And you were totally his type.

He didn’t even realize it in the beginning, after all, you were like a monster from one of his nightmares. Very little slipped past your keen eye, forcing him into the submission of not cutting corners and actually doing his job. You were particularly hard on him, but he had to contribute most of that to the fact that he resisted the change as long as he could before he lived in fear of the snap of a folder of incorrect paperwork back onto his desk and a disapproving glare on your face.

Maybe it was the fact that you were never inherently mean about things too. You were very fair and worked diligently to boost morale, he couldn’t count the times you footed the bill for drinks after a big mission, and you always offered praise for improvements. You had everyone’s coffee order memorized too, everyone coming into the office bright and early to a hot coffee or tea of their preference already on their desks next to a neatly printed agenda customized to their schedules. Oh, and those tight little skirts you wore over your sheer stockings certainly didn’t help him to not like you, but that was neither here nor there.

The first to arrive and the last to leave, your dedication pretty much knew no bounds, and that’s exactly how he ended up in the position he was in now.

He had made it through his night shift by the grace of whatever powers existed in the universe, and promptly crashed on the sectional tucked into the corner of the office, choosing not to expend the energy to walk back to his apartment when he would have to be at the office first thing in the morning for a big meeting anyways. The plan was to wake up early enough to hit one of the locker room showers to freshen up and get himself looking half decent.

The plan died immediately upon him snoozing his first alarm. Then it shriveled a little more with the second snooze. The third snooze was him digging the plan up to kill it again. By the fourth time he was basically dancing on the grave of his plan and digging his own grave while he was at it, because there was no plan conceived that involved you showing up early.

It was muscle memory triggered by the click of your heels as you entered the suite that shocked him out of sleep as he practically rocketed upright with bleary eyes and a sleep muddled brain struggling to catch up with his body’s dramatic response. It was enough that you fully paused in your tracks, coffee cup hovering millimeters from your lips as you eyed him with thinly veiled confusion.

“Good morning, Mr. Harumasa.”

“Good morning, Miss (y/n).” He yawned out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted into the bright office lights.

While you found it humorous to watch the wheels in his brain slowly begin to turn in real time, the brutal hand of time waited for no one and you were nothing if not punctual. Your lips quirked momentarily as you checked the time, eyes darting from your dainty wristwatch back to your dear newly awakened coworker.

Asaba Harumasa’s lack of care for the precision of his work uniform was a hill you had chosen not to die on from the very beginning. You weren’t the dress code police after all, and he wasn’t so dramatically out of regulation that it irked you or anything like that. Most days. But today wasn’t most days, because most days you had a solid hour of silence to prepare for your day, and he would saunter in fashionably late, pass you some lame pickup line, then slink back to his desk where he promptly assumed the look of a kicked puppy until his paperwork was done and he could leave. He had been so methodical about this routine that this disturbance almost took you by surprise.

Almost.

It did bring you a new challenge however. He looked like a total wreck. His hair was matted on one side while the other dramatically cowlicked out in three directions, there were sleep marks on the side of his face from the couch upholstery, his tie was loosely hanging on to one side just pinned enough by his rumpled collar that it hadn’t fully fallen off, his shirt was wrinkled to high heavens and unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a very well sculpted chest, and were those the outline of abs you were seeing—?

You cleared your throat as you averted your eyes, thanking your lucky stars that he was still half clinging to this side of reality. How embarrassing it would have been to be caught practically ogling his body like some degenerate teenager! You are not one to stare, let alone ogle. It was completely uncharacteristic, you were a dedicated administrative assistant after all, you were immune to anything that threatened the routine flow of your workplace.

Right?

Right. Your carefully crafted defenses had not failed you, and it was simply an undiagnosed heart condition that had rendered you breathless every morning for the past three months as you locked yourself in a stall in the women’s bathroom to calm the hot flush that burned your cheeks and the thundering of your heart behind your ribs at the coy tone of his voice as he hammered you with another pick up line before walking away like nothing ever happened.

This was simply a new hurdle to your morning. Nothing more, nothing less, and you had a duty to perform on the behalf of your entire section to ensure the morning went off without a hitch. Definitely no ulterior motives.

You sighed heavily as you set your coffee and bag down on the edge of his desk before propping yourself upon the flat surface, a hand coming down to tap it impatiently.

“You look like a wreck. Come here, Asaba.”

If hearing his surname fall from your pretty painted lips wasn’t a wake up call for his brain enough, the sight of you in all your glory seated upon his desk certainly was. He practically scurried from his spot on the couch to you as if efficiency was going to save him from the wrath of the office warden, electrifying eyes dancing nervously as he attempted to readjust his tie.

“Take it easy on me boss, I had a long night and—,” he never finished his thought as your manicured nails wrapped around his tie, yanking him forward till his hands braced against the desk on either side of you, caging you between him and his own designated workspace.

This close and he could smell the pretty floral undertones of your perfume as he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes blown wide compared to your own ever-cool expression. You met his gaze, stifling the smirk that threatened your lips.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Harumasa? Not feeling chatty this morning?” You pressed, your thighs parting just enough to slot his body between them.

He really hoped there was a merciful god out there somewhere that was orchestrating all of this, cause he was feeling so damn tired but he was ready to die a happy man between your thighs if you’d let him. He swore your skirt had to be a little shorter today ‘cause how else was that lace edge of your stockings peeking out from under the hem of your skirt? If you slid your leg up a little higher he’s sure he’d get a peek of your pretty thigh fat bulging over the edge of the elastic band snuggly bound around your upper thigh.

His fingers twitched as he felt his blood run south at the very thought, catalyzed by the way you leaned in so close, hands running from his chest to his waistband in a sinfully slow manner.

“Oh, don’t tell me no one’s ever…,” your tone was sultry as your breath tickled his ear, your fingers latching around his buckle as you slid your body closer to the edge of the desk, feeling him shudder as he failed to stifle a nervous squeak.

“Helped you get ready?”

He would love to say that he pinned you to his desk and gave you exactly what you were asking for, that he kissed you stupid as he wrestled that damn skirt up just high enough to press aside those lace panties he just knows you love and sink into your pretty cunt and make you beg for him. That your nails left a burning impression down his back that seared his skin as perfectly as the hot kisses that stained the column of his neck every shade of your favorite lipstick. That the office of Section 6 sounded more like a filthy wet dream straight from a porno than a sterile work environment, and that he would never be able to look at his desk without remembering how pretty you looked bent over it crying for him.

There’s a lottttt of things he would love to say. At this point mostly profanities as he blinked stupidly back at you, your hands busy as you neatly fastened his tie all the way up to the base of his throat, his shirt now perfectly tucked and buttoned as well.

You hummed in satisfaction at your work, hands bracing his shoulders as you guided him away from his desk so you could slide gracefully off it yourself, pausing just to smooth your skirt.

“See, isn’t that better?” You said with pride, swiping up your coffee cup as you took a sip, marching to your little desk in the corner as if nothing had ever transpired.

“Now go fix your hair and get ready for the meeting, the others should be arriving soon.” You called over your shoulder, never looking back in fear of your expression cracking at how bewildered he looked.

Oh, he would certainly be fixing something in the bathroom, but his hair was the least of his concerns right now.

Rey 2024, crossposted to ao3

[monzabee]

short n' sweet (social media au) - op81

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where in an attempt to figure out who Y/N is dating, the internet come up with theories only to realise she is dating none other than Oscar Piastri and chaos ensues.

Pairing: oscar piastri x pop star!reader (model used: sabrina carpenter) (and domingooo)

Warnings: cursing (i think), sabrina carpenter is horny but it's okay we ride with it, feat the internet being the internet, i have a big fat crush on mercello hernandez so you have been warned

Auhtor note: came all this way, had to explain, direct from @percervall; mar this one is for you, i haven't had this much fun in a long time so thank you for indulging my brainrot and excitement😭🫶

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

yourusername

Liked by elleusa, taylorswift, gracieabrams and 3,255,376 others

yourusername: toto, i have a feeling we're not in kansas anymore. short'n sweet cumming to a city near you! first stop: columbus, ohio

user: bro just give me ONE chance

user: SHE'S GORGEOUS ❤️❤️❤️❤️

user: te amo diva

user: don't know if i wanna be with her or i wanna be her

view all 5,594 comments.

user: see you tomorrow pookie

user: cant wait to see u 🫶🏼✨🤍

user: she’s the sweetest & shortest 💋

user: it’s Y/N's world and we’re just living in it😭🤍🤍💋💋💋

user: is he talking about TOTO FUCKING WOLFF??

user: why is f1 everywhere, no she isn't😭

tiktokuser1

caption: bed chem from opening night!!

user: that mic is ON! ✨

user: I LOVE THIS DIVA!!

user: watching this isn’t enough, I have to be there

user: I need that bed.. NEOWWW

user: SHE BETTER BRING THE DAMN TOUR TO AUSTRALIA CAUSE THE FOMO IS CRAZY

user: oh i think she'll be bringing the tour to australia alright

user: what does that mean??

user: what do you know!!

tiktokuser2

caption: YO I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING BUT SHORT N' SWEET TOUR IS THAT GIRL!!

user: 'have you ever tried this one?' ugh her mind😭

user: IS THIS THE NEW NONESENSE OUTRO FOR THIS TOUR I NEED TO KNOW

user: i can't take my eyes off this, i've been staring at it for the past five minutes!

user: okay diva we see you👀

yourusername

Liked by madisonbeer, oscarpiastri, haileybieber and 4,182,928 others

yourusername: hello l.a., are you ready to wrap it up?

user: OSCAR JACK PIASTRI WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

user: okay who is he and why is he lurking in my diva's likes?

user: MY QUEEN (me typing this while listening to espresso 👀)

user: just a girl living life and making everyone fall in love with her

user: i’m 26 and AFRAID of Y/N Y/LN

view all 7,011 comments.

user: the caption and the last pic with the kittens the vibes don't match i love you😭

yourusername: stoppp, i diee

user: how is this tour like halfway over ????? second leg of tour maybe???? 😭

tiktokuser3

caption: have you ever tried this one?

user: i don't know how she keeps coming up with these

user: imagine having this much freak, i wouldn't be able to leave my house

user: am i the only one who is excited for the last three shows in la??

user: her boyfriend is one lucky guy that's for sure

user: she has a boyfriend??

user: girl who do you think the guy in the white jacket and the thick accent is?

tiktokuser4

caption: omg guys😭😭 domingo is here😭😭

user: CAME ALLL THIS WAAY HAD TO EXPLAAAIN

user: deerect from domingoo

user: okay hear me out... mercello and Y/N??

user: noooo, this crossover is actually too insane i can't handle it

user: look at how he's looking at her bro's down bad😭

tiktokuser5

caption: WE'VE LOST HER TO DOMINGO GUYS

user: somebody call kyle and tell him the good news😭

user: who's kyle?

user: omg do you live under a rock or something?

user: am i the only one who thinks they are not dating?

yourusername

Liked by tiktok, oscarpiastri, marcellohdz and 3,669,817 others

yourusername: LA night 2 ♥️💋 second locationnnn maybe he’s biiii!!! see you tonight for our last show of the US leg :’) how the hell

user: God bless your Dad’s genetics, Domingo

user: OMG DOMINGOOO… “NOW SHES WITH A HOT GUY BUT HE LOOKS GAY, HEARD HIS NAMES DOMINGO”

user: DOMINGO IS CHEATING ON KELSEY

user: no hate to domingo, but oscar jack piastri liked this post under 1 minute😭😭

user: i think we've established that she is probably dating marcello, please stop with the delulu

user: Y/N IM HERE👹

view all 5,179 comments.

user: marcelo hernandez had the opportunity to do the funniest thing ever… and he did

user: the budget for this tour is insane… feels like a literal broadway production

user: came all this way, let her explain deeerect from LA

yourusername

Liked by oscarpiastri, madisonbeer, marcellohdz and 4,928,234 others

yourusername: date night but make it our way tagged: oscarpiastri

user: i'm sorrryyyy, but the dress is giving andie andersonn

yourusername: princess sophia is having some fun tonightt

user: this is still the most mind boggling couple ever BUT YOU LOOK GOOD THO

user: i'm so normal about this, i am sooooo normal about this

user: it's giving ross from friends and i am here for it

user: the best hard launch in the history of hard launches

oscarpiastri: great show, even better after party

yourusername: why did i know you were going to comment this

oscarpiastri: i'm literally sitting right next to you and you saw me type it

user: unhinged gf x calm bf duo is superior and this is the biggest proof ever

view all 6,728 comments.

marcellohdz: but what about domingo...

yourusername: i'm sorry domingo...

user: but is mark webber still alive, MARK ARE YOU THERE

oscarpiastri

Liked by yourusername, landonorris, mclaren and 928,256 others

oscarpiastri: came all this way, had to explain... tagged: yourusername

yourusername: 100% recommend, 5-star service

oscarpiastri: 😐

yourusername: 🥰

user: mister oscar jack piastri god bless your dad's genetics indeed

user: world class driving, world class relationship reveal

landonorris: okay but do we get free concert tickets ooor?

oscarpiastri: 😐

yourusername: of course!

user: this is actually so cute i'm going to throw up

view all 3,156 comments.

user: have you ever tried this one just took a whole other meaning

user: wait, are we going to see them together in las vegas??

user: the hard launching is insaneee

[sunnami]

❝time will tell.❞

[credits to the original artist of the photo!! can't seem to find their @ anywhere. title is taken from jane austen's persuasion, as was the first part.]

summary. ❝you are loved. and harry thinks there is no better description that that.❞

pairing/s. poly!mauraders + lily x reader.

word count. 9.5k.

tags. reader is referred to mum, with she/her pronouns[!], canon-typical violence [!], canon-typical deaths mentioned[!], very brief marauders as soldiers of the order[!], creepy old men being creepy[!], child abuse[!], pureblood arranged marriages, a minor character expresses wanting to die[!], Depressed and Traumatized Slytherins, the capital is important[!], themes of misogyny [!], teen boys fuck around and find out there are consequences to their actions, THERE IS ACTUALLY A LOT OF FLUFF, I PROMISE YOU, angst, children lose their baby teeth up until the age of twelve!! google said so!! not proofread we die like dobby the free elf

note. damn, i cried, you cried, we all crode. tbh, the first part was only intended as a oneshot, sdfkhdf, but when i re-read it, i thought that i could have expanded on more details,, so now here we are!! i love it more than the first part ueueue. thank you all so so so much for the kind comments :((( please please enjoy the second part to this installment!! part one

HARRY JAMES POTTER was only a few months old when you died at the hands of Voldemort — or as strangers have told him every time they ravaged his personal space and ogled at his scar. They said it was a quick death, better than what had happened to Alice and Frank Longbottom. But that was all they’ve ever said about your death. Unfortunate; caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, entirely different from the pedestal James and Lily have been put on by the wizarding society. 

At first, Harry had wondered if it was due to your blood relations, being the daughter of a renowned Death-Eater, heiress to the fortune of a pureblood House. Harry can’t even count the amount of conspiracy theories he’s read or heard to his face that it must have been you who betrayed James and Lily, and not Sirius Black. 

Even Hermione’s shared to him a theory that your death was faked to surrender your loyalty completely to Voldemort — of course, Hermione was eleven at the time, head full of books and her favorite theories, and Harry’s already forgiven her. But there’s a part of him that despises the way he’s never known the full truth about his parents, just bits of information dangled in front of him like bait for people [read: the Dursleys] to get him to do what they want, to act like the way they want. Until Remus and Sirius, you were a stranger to him, really.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

IT IS RATHER UNFORTUNATE that Madam Pince has already taken her position as the unbearable librarian at this point in time. The woman gives Harry and you a pointed look as you slam the large book onto one of the tables — to Harry’s surprise, you glare right back at her. You’re awfully flushed, however, blushing cheeks betraying the fire in your eyes; it must have been from when Remus escorted the two of you to the library; he had tried to brush your hand with his pinky, to which you had responded with a startled hiss — Remus only smiled and chuckled at you, and Harry swears he’d like to forget that entire interaction because he saw literal stars in Remus’s eyes.

Jumping back in time and potentially causing chaos? Fun. 

Meeting your parents? Definitely fun, in the strangest of ways. 

But watching them pine and fall for each other? Not so fun. 

Nonetheless, he hesitantly takes the seat across yours and watches you flip through the pages until you land on a chapter with the large, bold letters: THE CURIOUS CASE OF ELOISE MINTUMBLE — Time-Travel and Its Many Dangers. He meets your gaze with a sheepish grin, mustering a look of innocence; except the puppy dog eyes only worked when he was nine — you are not amused. 

You slide the book towards him, scarily resembling Molly Weasley when she’s miffed with the twins. “You are aware, right, that just by existing here you’ve changed the future? Your future? And, that’s not even the worst thing that could happen.” 

Harry sulks. “Yes, mum.” He prefers not to think about it, actually, it makes his head hurt. 

“Don’t call me that in public!” You whisper heatedly, looking over your shoulder to check if anyone had heard him — to your luck, the library was empty, save for a Hufflepuff that was passed out on top of his books. “The less people that know about this, the better. It’s bad enough we told Potter about you. Do you even know what you’re going to do?” 

“Considering I was thrown here against my will, no.” Harry shrugs. “And to be honest, I was just going to obliviate the people who asked too many questions.”

You reach over to smack his head, scowling.

“Ow! That hurt!” Harry rubs the sore spot as he grumbles petulantly. “This is technically child abuse, did you know that?” 

You roll your eyes. “Do you at least have a plan to get home?” 

“Of course I do,” Harry retorts with a scoff, “Her name is Hermione Granger.” 

“Hopeless.” You groan exasperatedly. “Absolutely hopeless.” 

Harry only grins in response. For a brief moment, he forgets about the present — his reality where the skies are bleak and home is where he knows the feeling of loss more than the warmth of his own parents’ embrace. He lets himself forget, and pretends he isn’t the Boy Who Lived. Just some random boy who’s pestering his mother — even if she likes to deny the inevitability of being romanced by the Marauders, (except for Wormtail because Harry would eat troll slime before he ever lets that happen.)

“Right then,” You say after your tangent — which Harry tuned out when he hears the words, be responsible. “If I’m going to help you get back home—” 

Harry’s heart drops to his stomach; as selfishly as it sounds, he didn’t want to go home just yet — not to where people just took and took from him. He’s exhausted. Still, he puts up a front of being excited to be returned to his timeline. It’s for the greater good, of course, because his existence — present or past — is always somehow a threat to the wizarding society. 

“—you need to answer this one question for me.” Your voice drops lower as you stare at him intently, lips pressed firmly. 

Harry nods slowly. “As long as it’s within reason, yeah.” 

You inhale sharply. “Do I outlive Dolores Umbridge?” 

The wince escapes Harry before he can even stop it. 

That’s all the answer you need, apparently. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you slam your hands down onto the table surface, shrieking.

“That slimy bitch!” 

Needless to say, the two of you are kicked out of the library.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1970; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

YOU ARE ELEVEN when your father introduces you to Ferguson, commonly known as Fergus, Bulstrode. He smiles at you with a leer, eyes hungrily dipping to the neckline of your dress. You grit your teeth as you hold out your hand for him to take — you almost shudder at the feel of his lips on your cheek. You eagerly take a step back away from him, hoping your father won’t notice the way you shy from Ferguson’s touch. You’re not dull, you fully understand the implications of this introduction and the way Ferguson is complaining to you about his third wife’s passing — as if you were the solution to his loneliness. Bile rises to your throat, and you shove it down with a forced laugh at your father’s jokes about Mudbloods. From across the room, Allegra Greengrass stares at you in sympathy, and you send her a glare — you do not need anyone’s pity. 

The corset your mother laced on too tight is suffocating you; this whole Yule extravaganza made for elitist purebloods is suffocating you; and yet, you smile and greet every red-lipped witch your mother introduces you to. For hours, you pretend, and you pretend. By the time the guests have left, you wonder if you have any more of yourself to give. 

You manage to convince your mother to let you slip away for the night. Without missing a beat, you rush outside and into the garden labyrinth, lest old Ferguson snatches you up for a dance and let his gaze wander elsewhere. For the first time since the sun had set, your aching feet finally find some relief. You drop onto the edge of the stone fountain as you toss your heels to the side. You begin working your fingers through your hair, ripping the glittery ribbons from your head. It’s not until you’re unclasping your necklace that you realize you are crying. Tears fall from your eyes, and they sink deep into the fabric of your dress. 

You barely hold back your sobs. Your chest heaves as you hiccup; your vision goes blurry as your fingers grow numb. There’s nothing you can do but cry. 

You’ve used up all your smiles for tonight. 

But then, the sadness turns into resentment and then turns into indignation. Harshly, you wipe the tears from your eyes as you rip a violent scream from your throat. 

You sink to the ground, perfectly polished nails digging into the soil as you gather patches of grass and tear them from the roots. You throw a handful of mud at the marble statues. You grab another fistful of mud, scream, then bash your head against the garden floor. You let out another cry, whimpering as you curl into yourself; shivering as a gust of wind brushes against your skin. Surprisingly enough, this is the most human you’ve ever felt. This is the most you have ever felt — period. 

When hiccups regress into soft sniffles, you lay on your back, watching the stars float above. As the last of your tears slide down your cheek, you lift a shaky hand to trace the constellation in the sky. It’s not a familiar one to you, but then— 

“That’s Sirius.” 

You sit upright in a snap, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you muster a mean glare at the newcomer.

Sirius Black.

“Oh, none of that,” He tells you when you move to stand. There’s barely any emotion on his face and it irks you that you can’t figure out what he’s planning. What you don’t expect is for him to sit beside you, thereby ruining his expensively tailored suit. 

“You’ll get creases,” You scold him instinctively, nose scrunched — but your voice is hoarse; too tired to put up any pretences. “Your mother will be cross with you.” 

Sirius scoffs, laying his head on the dirt, making sure to smear his sleeves with grass stains. “Walburga can go fall in a ditch and die for all I care.”

You gasp. “That’s horrible!” 

Sirius gives you a look. “You don’t believe that.” 

You really don’t, but you don’t have the courage to admit it either. 

After a few moments of silence, Sirius asks, raising a brow, “So who was that?”

“Who was who?” You stare at him with knitted brows, toying with your fingers. You still can’t wrap your head around how weird this is — sitting with Sirius Black in the middle of your mother’s hedge maze, your once bright blue dress now sullied at the ruffles, eyes bloodshot and your hair a frizzy mess. (Sirius thinks you look cute, though; especially with your missing front tooth that peeks out every time you talk to him.) 

“Bald guy, older than Merlin himself.” Sirius makes a face. “Looks like a troll. Smells like one, too.”

A giggle flutters past your lips, and your hands fly to your mouth. You really shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your guests, but Sirius was right — Ferguson really did act like an ugly troll. You sigh, letting your arms fall to your side. “My betrothed.” 

Sirius nods in understanding. “My mother tried to set me up with my own cousin once.” 

You grimace. “Which cousin?” 

He sits on his knees to face you, and with a very solemn face, he says, “Bellatrix.”

This time, you laugh freely, throwing your head back as Sirius pouts at your amusement. “O-Oh, that’s golden.” 

“No, it’s not,” says Sirius, lips twitching as he watches you snort like a pig through your giggles. “It’s horrible. A literal nightmare. You should feel awful for me.” He pokes your stomach, and it just makes you laugh harder, eyes disappearing into your smile. “Oi. I said feel awful, not take the piss out of me.” 

“S-Sorry.” You wheeze, batting away his hand pulling at your cheek. “I just can’t imagine Bellatrix in a white wedding dress and saying her vows to you.”

“That’s disgusting.” Sirius gags. “You’re horrible, I hope you know that.” 

When you finally calm down and Sirius tickles your bare feet until you cry in surrender, the two of you lay on the grass as he points out each constellation to you. Later, he fishes a small box of sugar mice from his pocket and offers it to you, opening one for himself. “Here’s to shitty parents and the one day we get to decide our own future.” 

You bump your squeaky candy mice against his. “Cheers, Black.” 

“Will you go to Hogwarts next year?” He asks you once he’s bitten off the tail of his mice. 

You nod. 

Sirius shifts on his side, holding his pinky out to you. “We’ll be friends when school starts?”

Again, you nod, wrapping your pinky around his. “Friends.” 

The next September comes, Sirius finds a compartment and one James Potter in it. You sit with Allegra Greengrass and Endora Lestrange on the way to Hogwarts. You are sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius finds freedom and a home in Gryffindor. You play the role created just for you; you lift your nose at those beneath you, adorn yourself in custom-made silk clothing, and carry yourself with the etiquette of a pure-blooded lady. Perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect clothes, always picture perfect.

You pretend that Allegra doesn’t throw up in the evenings from the fear of getting married to a man twice her age. You pretend that you don’t notice Endora sleep-walking and begging for her mother to save her from her father. You pretend that under your blankets, in the Slytherin dungeon, you are safe. 

You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when Sirius looks at you in disappointment when you shove a Hufflepuff student to the ground for getting a higher score than you in Charms.

They call you an ice-princess behind your back, and you overhear some of the fifth-years calling you foul words as well, and no one steps in to stop them; there’s no defending a Slytherin, after all. But you are keeping your head above treacherous waters, and you suppose that is all that matters.) 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“SO ACCORDING TO THIS, Eloise was stuck in 1402 for five days until she was retrieved to the present, which means we only have four days left to figure out a way for you to get back home.” 

Harry sinks into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The two of you had found an empty classroom to discuss your plans away from inquisitive ears. “What’s the rush?” It’s unfair, he’d only just met you, and now he’s losing time with you. 

You sigh. “Harry, Eloise Mintumble spent five days in the past and when she came back, her body aged five centuries, and she died in St. Mungos. It’s not just about altering the whole timeline, you could actually die.” 

When you are met only with silence, you close the book, frowning. “Harry? What’s wrong?” 

Harry swallows the lump in his throat, looking out the window to avoid your gaze. “What do you know about the Mirror of Erised?” 

Your head tilts in confusion. “That it shows our heart’s deepest desire.” 

“Yeah,” says Harry, nodding. “I was eleven when I found it.” 

“Oh, Harry. . .” 

It’s almost pathetic how quickly his eyes water. “Did you know, before today, I hadn’t known at all what your voice sounded like?” 

You stay quiet, and Harry sucks in a shaky breath. 

“When I looked into the mirror, I saw my parents—all of you. There I was, in the middle. You were behind me—happy.” Harry swipes a tear from his eye. “I wanted to stay in that room, stare at that mirror forever.”

“It’s—”

“Dangerous, I know.” He laughs bitterly. “Just like finally being able to meet you all here.”

“Harry, you aren’t supposed to be here in the first place,” You say quietly, eyes drooping sadly. 

“I know that!” He exclaims desperately. “But is it so selfish to just want some time? I don’t want an illusion, I want the real thing. A real family. Why can’t I have that? Bloody Malfoy gets everything he wants, and what do I have?” 

“Your friends,” You tell him firmly. “Your friends who must be worried sick that you’re gone and must be going great lengths to bring you back.” 

“I know.” Harry wilts. He’s got Remus at home, too, who probably needs him more than ever after Sirius’s death. “I know. But can’t I just have this one thing?” 

You purse your lips for a moment, brows furrowed in thought. Then, you break the silence with: “Do you want to hear a story?”

“What?” Harry croaks, peering at you through wet lashes. 

Shrugging, you say, “Stories to remember us by. I’ve got six years worth of stories and then some. I know it’s not much, and you’ve probably heard some of these already from the others in the future, but it’s better than nothing, right?” You lean against the back of your chair, glancing at the wall clock before grinning at Harry. “We’ve got time to spare, anyway.” 

Harry manages a smile, setting down his glasses before rubbing his stinging eyes with the handkerchief you offer him. He figures this is what Remus means when you’re the gentlest creature he’s ever known — just not gentle in what the world expects you to be. 

“What do you say, Harry? I give you tidbits of the past, and you tell me if you know anything about the next Triwizard champion, so I can place my bets in advance.”  

Harry snickers. “Not a chance, mum.” 

“Worth a try.” And the smile you give him is nearly blinding. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1977; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND what it is about Gryffindors and their hobby of invading others’ personal space. 

A year into dating and James likes to shove his head under your shirt, claiming he loves the sound of your heartbeat — but you know really what he wants to nestle his head in between. The amount of cashmere blouses he’s ruined is absurd! Sirius has a hobby of tracing runes on the plane of your stomach. Lily prefers it when you sit in front of her, just within reach where she can wrap her arms around you and rest her head on your shoulder. Remus tends to lag behind the group when he notices you walking slower due to your leg flaring up. He kisses the side of your head and promises to chase the pain away — sappy poetic that he is. And in the moments where all five of you are together, tucked under a wide alcove, you can best believe there is no escaping what they like to call, a cuddle pile. Limbs are tangled, kisses are shared, and confessions of love are whispered. 

Before them, you hadn’t really known the different ways to love and be loved. 

Onto the pressing matters at hand, you discover that the brazen show of affection extends to their parents as well. Particularly, the Potters. After a year, you finally caved into James’s requests for you to spend the holidays at their manor, since the others have already made a space for themselves there, and James had said it would be an honor for you to feel at home with his parents, too. Honestly, you spoil them too much — one look into his bright, wide eyes and you gave in. James didn’t even care that you brought two luggages for clothes alone; he lifted each bag with delight and with ease. 

(Remus had the audacity to laugh when he caught you and Sirius staring at James’s flexed muscles, mouth wide open. 

“As I have said, Remus Lupin, I do not drool!”

“Sure, dove, whatever you say.”)

But now, you really aren’t so sure of your decision. 

“Oh, she’s beautiful, Jamie!” Euphemia encases you in a bear hug the moment you step inside the manor. You’re engulfed in the scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar. You stiffen as she cradles your face in between her palms, smiling ever so fondly at you, cooing about how precious you look, much like a mother would — and how your mother never did. You wonder if this is what you’ve been missing all along — the thought stabs you right in the heart. “Please excuse the mess, dear, we haven’t had the chance to clean up yet, Monty and I are excited to try the recipe Lily owled to us the other day, you see.” 

“I-It’s okay,” You rasp, struggling to hold back the tears. 

“Oh, what a darling you are!” Euphemia smiles and ushers you further inside. “Come, come. The others are right upstairs. You must be tired from the train ride. It is so lovely to finally meet you. Make yourself at home, dear heart — James Fleamont Potter! Give your mama a kiss this instant! Don’t think introducing your girlfriend will distract me from the fact you didn’t owl me letters for two months straight!” 

James whines as he hides behind you. “Mum, I’m seventeen, stop embarrassing me.” 

Euphemia scoffs, hands snapping to her hips. “You’re going to be my baby boy forever, now come here.” 

With a shy smile, you step away to surrender James to his mother — you don’t understand which part of this is embarrassing; you wish for a mum who’d welcome you home like that, with unconditional love and kind eyes. James squawks and calls you a traitor, just before his mum attacks him with loud, exaggerated kisses to his cheek, leaving lipstick stains all over his face. You hide a laugh behind your palm, ignoring the way your heart pangs at the sight of their unrestrained smiles. Euphemia lets her son go after a few more seconds, cackling at the masterpiece she’s created on a grumbling James, who’s rubbing his skin to erase his mother’s affections. She hugs you once more before setting you off, telling you to meet Fleamont after you’ve unpacked. 

Just as you reach the foot of the stairs, you hear a girlish squeal, then the sound of rapid footfall against each wooden step. Lily greets the two of you by jumping off the last step and wrapping each arm around yours and James’s neck. “Welcome home, Jamie!” She captures his lips with her own before doing the same to you, cupping your cheek lovingly, “So happy you made it, princess! How was the ride here?” 

You were never a fan of traveling by Floo; it made you nauseous after, and left you with a pounding headache for hours. Without hesitation, the others offered to accompany you on the train, but you insisted they Floo ahead to Godric’s Hollow — it took a lot of convincing, but they finally agreed, (they’re not the only ones spoiled; they couldn’t refuse you, too.) With the exception of James, who wanted to be there when you saw his home for the first time. You nearly cried when you saw how well-loved their manor was; rose shrubs dipped in snow, Sirius’s motorcycle parked outside, a mailbox with poorly painted shapes, the fences covered in Christmas lights, and the amount of shoes by the door. From outside, you could hear the laughter and warm conversations. 

“It was fine,” You say in a daze.

Lily sees right through you — and frowns sadly. “You alright?” 

Were you? 

You catch sight of the moving photographs of James and you finally reach your breaking point. There’s a swell in your throat that you can’t seem to push down. There’s a photo of James, Lily, Remus and Sirius; James is in his Quidditch jersey, raising the Golden Snitch high up in the air, Remus is twirling Lily, his arms around her waist, and Sirius is holding up a charmed banner that says: Gryffindor Rules! Slytherin Sucks! Except For My Darling Angel Love Of My Life Most Beautiful And Gorgeous Perfect Brilliant Girlfriend! 

There are hints of life all around the manor. Remus’s textbooks and scarf are laid by the coffee table. Lily’s O.W.L. marks are framed on the wall, along with Dumbledore’s letters to James and Lily awarding them the position of Head Girl and Head Boy, as well as McGonagall’s previous letter to Remus that came with his Prefect badge years ago. There’s a spot dedicated to Peter, filled with a photograph of him awkwardly holding his Herbology test, one that he scored a hundred and twelve percent on. It’s a wall dedicated to them, you realize. 

Then, you find it. 

Right there, up above James’s spot, and beside Sirius’s display of beyond perfect Transfiguration exam marks, and a picture of him and Remus kissing each side of your face. 

It’s a space on that wall just for you. 

James follows your gaze and rubs the back of his head, ears tinged with a shade of deep pink. “Mum left a space when I first told her about you. I-It’s yours, you can put anything you want there.” 

“I can’t,” You whisper, lips quivering as your heart cracks into a million pieces. It’s too much. 

James blinks. “Can’t? It’s yours, I promise. Mum won’t mind. You can even hang your dumb Montrose Magpies poster and I won’t tear it down — Marauders’ honor. I can help you if you want. I-I’m not good as decorating as Lily, but I paid attention to your boring explanation of color theory and I know that you hate this shade of—”

“James, I can’t do this.” 

That’s all you say before you run out of the door. 

(And you’re absolutely delusional if you think James won’t follow you out that door and into the brewing snowstorm.) 

You hear James call out to you, but you opt to ignore him and clutch your winter coat tighter around your body, shivering in the blowing wind, trudging through the deep snow through your heeled boots — designer couldn’t help you now even if you tried. You sniff, the salty taste of your tears dripping to your lips, chest tightening with a foreign kind of pain, and the frost nipping at your fingers. You give up after a few minutes, falling to the ground with an anguished cry, hand clutching the front of your chest as you struggle to breathe. 

James reaches you in a matter of minutes, draping his jacket over you, barely flinching as the cold welts his bare skin. Frantically, he wipes the tears from your eyes, a pained expression on his face as he sees you cry helplessly. “Come on, dove, it’s not safe out here. Let’s go back home, yeah? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, dove, please don’t cry, it’s killing me to s–see you like this.” Tears fall from his eyes, and he begins stuttering from the cold, but you can’t go back to the manor. “What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it. I love you—I’m sorry.”

You bat his chest. “G–Go home, Jamie. I’ll just take the train back to the castle.” 

“What?” He shakes his head, grabbing onto your hands. “Y–You can’t. Not in this weather. You’ll get sick if you try to walk back to the station.” 

You withdraw from his hold as you back away from James, slipping into the ice-cold mask you know so well. 

James rises in an instant, reaching for you. “No, no, no, no, no. You don’t get to do that. Not now. Not with me. Please, just come home and I-I’ll fix it.” 

“Goodbye, James,” You tell him firmly, clenching your jaw as you look him straight in the eyes. 

He grimaces. “That won’t work on me, princess, and you know it. Don’t push me away—please.” 

“Go home, James!” You yell bitterly, pivoting on your heel as you march through the thick inches of snow, hearing Remus and Lily’s voice grow louder in the distance. “Just go!”

He grits his teeth, nails digging deep into the palms of his hand. “You’re a coward if you walk away from here—from us—right now!” James shouts through chattering teeth and stray tears. “And I hate cowards more than anything!” 

You don’t look back. 

(Later that night, James stares blankly at the fireplace, tossing twigs now and then. He’s all out of tears. Remus crosses his legs as he sits beside James and offers him a steaming mug of hot chocolate. 

“Don’t want one,” He mutters, words coarse from earlier, head turning away from Remus’s gift. “Just want her.” 

Remus sets the beverage on the ground before pulling James’s head down to his chest, gently wiping the tears from his eyes as he wraps the blanket around both of them. He presses a soft kiss to James’s hair. 

“I said I hated her,” James says weakly. “I don’t—I never will. I just hate that she’s out there spending Christmas all alone. She could be here—with us. I hate not knowing that she’s safe, or that she thinks I don’t love her anymore—that’s a bloody lie, Moony. I adore her. If anything, I don’t deserve her.” 

James finds out that he does have more tears left in him. “I miss her. Bring her back, Rem, please.”

“You’ll cry yourself sick, love.” Remus wipes each tear away. “Let’s go to bed, yeah? Mornings do have a way of bringing miracles to us.” Because after a night of excruciating pain under the moon’s command, he wakes up to sunlight, and there you all are — smiling down at him like he is deserving of love; and maybe Remus can’t fault you for running away.

You’d kiss him gently and tell him how proud you are of him for coming back to you. 

Remus only hopes you come back to them, too.)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“AND THAT, dear Harry, is how I humiliated Lucius Malfoy in fifth-year.” Your eyes gleam wickedly as you rest your arms on the school desk. “If he ever bothers you in your time, just mention my name—oh, I wish I could see the look on his face when he realizes I’m haunting him from my grave. Tell him, okay?” 

Harry nods excitedly. “Definitely.”

“Got anymore stories?” He asks. 

You cackle menacingly. “Boy, do I ever. Let me tell you about the one time Beckett McLaggen took me out on a date to Madam Puddifoot’s!” 

Harry grimaces. “Do I even want to hear about this?” 

“Oh, pish-posh.” You dismiss him with a wave. “You do, this story is hilarious. Now that I look back on it, Sirius was quite cross with him for the rest of the day—how strange. I wonder why.” 

Harry stares at you in disbelief. “You’re joking.” 

“I most certainly am not, Harry Potter.” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1974; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

AN EAR-PIERCING scream wakes you up in the middle of the night. You snatch your wand from under your pillow, heart thudding against your chest in fear — last year, the Prewett twins decided it was funny to break into the girls’ quarters at midnight; you get a month worth of detention for hitting Gideon with the Expulso curse and suspension from class for two weeks, while the twins get away with a slap on the wrist and have the time of their lives spreading rumors of you being a Death-Eater. 

Endora shoots up to her feet as well, staring at you in panic — then the girl screams again, and you realize it’s Allegra. 

You sigh in relief, lowering your wand before saying to Endora, “I-It’s alright. I’ll handle it.” 

“Are you sure?” Endora asks timidly, gnawing at her lip and wincing when Allegra wails once more. 

“Certain,” You respond, yawning. 

As Endora climbs back into her bed, you slip into Allegra’s side, holding her head to your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair and untangling the knots. Like most of the Greengrass women, she was of ethereal beauty — silky blonde hair, smooth and fair skin, deep blue eyes that enchant wizards and witches alike. But her cheeks have gone sallow from exhaustion, eyes devoid of any emotion, and her skin now sunken into her bones. 

“I don’t want to marry him—I can’t! He’s old enough to be my father!” Allegra sobs violently, desperate for anyone to hear her, but no one really ever hears their cries from the dungeon. “They said they’d wait until I graduated—they promised! I’m supposed to marry him this summer!” 

Your heart breaks for your friend — there’s nothing you can do but hold her until she’s cried every bit of her soul out. 

“I hate them,” Allegra whispers to you; she had been shedding tears for hours, trembling in your arms until morning finally came. 

“I know,” You say defeatedly. 

“I wish I was dead,” She replies lifelessly. “He can’t marry a dead bride.” 

“Don’t say that,” You beg as you hug her tight; afraid to lose her to the world that has worn her down. “Please.” 

Allegra sinks into her pillows, and you follow in suit, hesitantly laying your head beside hers. She stares at the ceiling dully. “The world is so, so cruel to us daughters sometimes. And it’ll be cruel to our daughters, and their daughters. When will it end?” 

“I don’t know,” You say honestly. 

Allegra hums, neither disappointed nor surprised, and turns away to lay on her side. “Pansy,” She mumbles.

“What?”

“If we lived in a better world and I married for love, I’d want to name my daughter Pansy — like the flower.”

(Later that day, you are given detention for beating Evan Rosier to a pulp. He makes a joke about dirty blood, and you snap — you are tired of laughing and pandering to the arrogant men in your life. This is the first time you publicly defy your parents, and it felt good — more than good, it was liberating. It’s like breathing fresh air for the first time. Then, you earn a second detention for storming up to the Gryffindor common room and punching Fabian Prewett in the face — because fourth-year boys had no business sneaking into the girls’ dorm in the middle of the night for some stupid prank — and you threaten him by pointing the tip of your wand deep into his neck, demanding they apologize to you, Allegra, and Endora. 

You get what you want, naturally — as princesses do. You decide then that you’re going to create a world where girls like Allegra don’t cry anymore.)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 

HARRY TWINGES WHEN he hears the end of your fourth or fifth story of the afternoon — no wonder you had been so angered by his being in your room. “I-I’m sorry—” 

“Yesterday was hardly your fault,” You interrupt him. “There’s no controlling where magic brings you, not in your case. You didn’t know, but now you know. I don’t hold it against them — anymore. Fifteen-year-old boys can be stupid, and at least they’ve learned from their mistakes. You should have seen your mother — erm, Lily — she looked like she was ready to kill them after finding out what they had done. Even Molly was cross with the twins, and you know how loyal Molly is to her family.”

Oh, Harry knows.

And Hermione knows it all too well. 

“Others call us evil, conniving and cruel, Harry,” You tell him grimly, “But I will protect my own, no matter what I have to do.”

At that moment, Harry thinks he understands why some people come to fear Slytherin. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.) 

“LOOK, LILY-PAD, the princess is drooling again.” 

You open your eyes to glare at Sirius. “I don’t drool, idiot.” 

Lily chortles as she presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Of course you don’t, princess.”

Currently, you’re lying on a shabby loveseat that is too small to hold the three of you; it’s the only furniture in the new cottage you call home, where Potter Manor was right across the street. (Euphemia was ecstatic to have you all nearby — the lovely woman was sprite for her age, but you notice the way she stops to sit and catch her breath, Sirius and James hovering over her attentively; you’re good at pretending, so you pretend that the Potters will be around forever.) Some rooms are dusty with cobwebs, walls unfinished, with the floors creak under your feet, and there’s no other place you’d rather call home. 

You’re in between Sirius and Lily; your lips swollen from their kisses, cheeks flushed and the column of your throat graced with love marks. It’s the most beautiful set of jewelry you’ve ever worn, not even burmese rubies could compare. Lily’s hand rests under your jumper, Sirius’s thigh wedged between your own. While peace blankets the three of you, James and Remus have yet to come home from their task given by the Order. 

“You need a haircut, my love,” You mumble drowsily, pulling at one of the dark ringlets — it’s gone past his shoulders now. He captures your hand and leaves a delicate kiss on your fingertips. 

Lily buries her nose in your hair. “She’s right, Siri.” 

“I’m always right.” You pout. 

Sirius, love-sick fool that he is, smiles as he tilts your chin with his finger and ensnares you in a kiss that leaves you breathless. “Course you are — our girl’s bloody brilliant, isn’t she, Lily-pad?”

“Without a doubt.”

You roll your eyes at their antics, rolling around so that your back is pressed to Sirius’s chest — they’re not fooled, however; Lily sees the way your eyes flicker in amusement and the way your lips threaten to curve up into a smile. She traces the swell of your lips with her thumb, to the dip of your nose, and to the apples of your cheek. Sea-green eyes beam at you.

“I love you,” says Lily, committing every inch of you to her memory as she wears a melancholic smile. “I don’t know who told you that you don’t deserve to be loved, but they were wrong. You are so precious to us, dove, you don’t even know how much. This right here is real — and nothing could ever change that.” 

As it turns out, you did have more smiles to give — only the happy ones; not the fake, courteous smiles that you had given to your mother’s friends in the past. You come to intertwine your hand with Lily’s, the one that had been resting on your cheek, tenderly wiping the tears that pooled within your eyes. Your heart could burst from your chest. They had a habit of wringing every emotion out of you; of making love feel real, not just a myth from a Muggle storybook. And you find, that you didn’t mind this particular habit of theirs. In the comforts of the place you call home, where you irrefutably belong, you are free to seek their arms and fall into their love, and the best part is where you get to love them right back. 

How lucky you are. 

“Let’s get married,” You blurt out, holding your breath, feeling Sirius’s hand on your waist stiffen. 

“What?” Lily gasps breathlessly. 

You smile up at Lily. “Let’s get married. All of us. I don’t care where, o–or about the rings, let’s just get married. With the war going on, we deserve s–something good.” 

Lily sobs as she nods excitedly. “Yes. Oh my Gods—we’re getting married!” 

Sirius stares at you in wonder. “Bloody hell, dove, give a guy some warning, would you?”

You grin. “Is that a yes?” 

“It’s a yes — forever.” Sirius dives in to kiss you senseless. “Couldn’t get rid of us now even if you tried.” 

“I don’t think I’d want to, anyway.” 

Right then, the rickety door slams open, and you hear the loves of your life calling out for the three of you. Followed by the heavy thud of Dragonhide boots plunking down onto the floor

“We’re home!” James announces in the entryway. 

Lily wastes no time in shooting up from the sofa and welcoming them home with quite a unique greeting:

“We’re all getting married!” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 

“That ring is an heirloom passed down to the children in our family,” You tell Harry, pointing to the band around his finger. “It’s meant to symbolize our loyalty and duty to our House. My mother said I would have earned it only when I became a wife to Ferguson Bulstrode.” You chuckle at Harry’s perturbed grimace. “No, I didn’t marry him — thankfully. After Allegra. . . I—I. . . I couldn’t bear it. If I was going to marry, it would be on my own terms, and it would be for love, nothing less. Then, if my child wanted it, I’d give them this ring. I want to leave behind a legacy that I created. When I was younger, I’d resigned to a fate that was forcefully carved by someone else’s hand.” 

You shake your head. “I want to die being remembered by those who loved me. Otherwise, I was never truly alive.” 

Harry won’t let that happen, he won’t ever let your name be forgotten. He’ll share of your kindness to his friends, of your bravery and loyalty. Hermione will love your fondness of Muggle musicals and how you stood up to Lily’s defense in a world that ostracized her for being different. He’ll remind Remus of your love for him, that he had brought you hope in times of despair. Harry is going to make sure the world knows you had been so full of life with endless love to give. You are going to be remembered in the way Voldemort never will. 

“What do the words mean?” He stares at the writing: Tempus Edax Rerum.

You smile. “Time, devourer of all things.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

“REMUS—THE MUGGLES ARE stuck in the telly again!” 

Remus snickers as he takes the vacant space beside you on the loveseat, now sewn up with care and spattered with knitted quilts and throw pillows — still too small to carry three people but hasn’t given out yet, anyway. He takes Lily’s legs over his lap, swiftly stealing a kiss from your lips. “It’s a film, dove, they’re acting.” 

You purse your lips. “They’re trapped inside, then?” 

Lily snorts into her tub of chocolate fudge ice cream. “Not quite, princess, it’s recorded. Movies are like moving photographs — but they’re an hour long with sounds.” 

“Oh.” You turn your attention back to the screen, back to the film Lily had been watching. You had to admit — the story of Sandy and Danny was an interesting one. “Lily-pad, she’s singing — again.” 

Sirius hushes you from where he was cuddling James on the other couch. “She’s supposed to sing, dove, it’s a musical.” 

“Well, yes,” You begin, and James groans into Sirius’s chest, “But they should just talk instead of singing all the time — Sandy’s got a lovely voice, though. I just don’t understand why Danny’s treating her like that! Truthfully, I don’t like any of Sandy’s new friends, other than Frenchy — she’s harmless. If I was Sandy I’d move on from Danny — but then again, that hair and those muscles, and his leather jacket! I can’t blame her.” 

Sirius glowers at you. “You like his leather jacket?” 

“His hair?” James exclaims in horror. 

Remus chuckles as he tucks you in his side, kissing your temple. “If I were you, dove, I’d be quiet and just watch the film.”

“Oh, no, no.” Sirius barely glances at the television as he pauses the film and stands up to point an accusatory finger at you. “Since when were you into leather jackets? Do you think those are cool? Since when? Jamie, should I get one? Let’s unpack this, right now. And his muscles, really?” 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Play the film, Black, I want to see the end of their love story.” 

“I’m telling Euphemia on you!” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 

“—and then we realized that we accidentally locked Hermione in with the troll.” Harry’s arms flail about as he shares some of his adventures with you — it had only been fair. He felt like a young boy again, entering Hogwarts for the first time as he watched you listen to him intently, gasping at tale of the vanishing glass and scolding him when he says he and Ron had decided to go searching for Hermione, and by extension, the troll. 

Your eyes grow wide. “A troll? In Hogwarts? They can’t have, not unless—”

“Someone let it in—I know!” Harry grins. “You’re not going to believe who let the troll in the castle.” 

You snap your fingers, “Malfoy, the older one. I know that lump’s got something to do with this. Can’t have been Snape or Quirrell.”

“Just you wait.” Harry’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “—and so, Professor McGonagall finds us, and can you believe it? She awards us for dumb luck! Then. . .” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1979; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

IT HAD COME AS A surprise when you volunteered to join the Order of the Phoenix. You wanted to scoff at their shocked faces — was it so surprising that you wanted to protect your family? They let Severus Snape join their ranks, and you’re fairly certain that you’re a better fighter and survivalist than him — not the better liar, however, he can have that one. The week before, you and the others had an argument that lasted for the whole day. They did not want you in harm’s way, and you would rather die than stay at home, waiting idly for them to return, when you could be out there alongside them. 

(“It’s not some game out there!” Remus runs through his hair in frustration — he had always been so careful to never raise his voice at you, but this one time, he needed you to back down. “Every time you step into a raid, there’s a possibility of you dying, don’t you understand that? And even if you survive — you’ll have blood on your hands, and it does not wash away no matter how many times you try, trust me, we know.” 

“So what?” You throw your hands up in the air, equally aggravated. “I just stay here like some. . . some pet waiting for their owners to come home?” 

“Yes!” Lily angrily replies. “That is the whole point of us joining the Order — so you get to live another day. So we all have a chance at this new world without a war. Let us protect you!”

You grind down on your jaw. “You have got another thing coming, if you think I’m not going to fight tooth and nail for my future.” 

James slams a fist onto the kitchen counter. “There are horrors out there you can’t even imagine. I-It’s worse than we thought. It’s our every nightmare come to life.” 

You raise your chin defiantly. “Then we face it together.”)

Each day, you survive, and each day the five of you return home — scarred and bruised, but safe within the arms of one another. When you collapse and crumble, it is only for the walls of your home to witness. 

Now a month into autumn, you are on your first task without Sirius, James, Lily or even Remus. Instead, you are assigned by Dumbledore to Knockturn Alley along with Peter Pettigrew and Gideon Prewett. How strange time was, years ago you’d never associate with the proud Gryffindors, and now you had to trust them to guard your back. Everyone had to grow up quickly during war, even pranksters. 

The alley was quiet — too quiet for your liking. You had been on alert since the moment you apparated into the area, wand at your ready. The back of your neck prickled with goosebumps as you kept an ear out for any sign of movement. 

Peter shivers and you glance at him — he’s become far too skinny, constantly shrinking into himself out of fear. And while you want to comfort him, you keep your eyes up ahead. Still, there's a nagging feeling that you can’t quite make out. It’s different from all the other times you’ve been asked to search and rescue. 

“Don’t you feel like there’s something wrong?” You ask Gideon, eyes snapping to the flock of crows flying overhead. 

“Dunno, kid,” Gideon says, nudging your shoulder with pressed lips. “Everything about this is freaking me out. The place is too empty.” 

“I get what you mean,” You reply, swallowing your own nervousness. Without waiting for the rest, you speed up your pace. “I’ll scout ahead, who knows what’s been here before us. I don’t want to risk any of our lives, so let’s be careful. Gideon, ward the area while I check for any cursed objects, last time you almost got your arm cut off by a newspaper of all things. And Peter, could you. . . Peter?” 

When you turn to check behind you, it all happens so fast. 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

You scream as Gideon’s deathly pale body falls to the floor. 

“No!” 

You aren’t given a moment to rush to his side — someone digs their wand in the side of your neck, and you stiffen in their hold. It’s not until they hiss in your ear that you recognize the voice. 

“Rosier.” You spit, biting down on your lip when he presses the tip of his wand further into your flesh. 

“Stupid witch,” He taunts, eyes dilating with vengeance. “Where are your lovers now?” 

“Jealous?” You claw at his arms, chest heaving up and down. “We don’t have room for one more, sorry.”

“Shut up!” He pushes you to the ground in blind rage, and that’s all the opening you need. 

“Expulso!” 

Each curse you send his way lands on his cloaked body, sending him staggering backwards. With ease, you deflect each spell he counters with. You’re winning, he is growing tired, and perhaps that is why you let your guard down. 

“Accio wand!” 

The magic fizzles out, and the spell dies on your lips. As you swivel your head to find out who’s stolen your wand, you expect to find another Death Eater — except it’s Peter. Just Peter Pettigrew, quivering in his boots with tears and snot dripping down his face, your wand in his free hand. You furrow your brows — it doesn’t make sense. 

“Peter?” You call out. 

“Crucio!” 

The curse finds its home in your body — and it sinks deep into your flesh, grinding your bones until you slump to the ground, wriggling as you draw blood from your lips, refusing to let them hear an ounce of your pain. Blood trickles down your nose as you hear Evan Rosier dancing around you in glee. You know this curse well; the sound of your father condemning you gleefully echo in your head. You crawl over to Gideon — hand desperately reaching for his shirt. 

“Crucio!” Rosier grabs you by the hair and howls with laughter. “Scream for me again—Crucio!” 

It’s as though someone had begun to rip you in half. Your bones shift and crack with every uttered curse. The veins in your eyes have popped and through bloody vision, you see Peter cowering away from you.

“You—fucking—traitor,” You gurgle, throat welling up with blood that’s risen from your stomach. “They’ll—never—forgive you—never.” 

“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Come on, witch — SCREAM! Look at her go, Pettigrew, crawling like some pathetic worm.” 

You lay in your owl pool of blood, wearing a body that is marred and lacerated. But you see something in Gideon’s hand. I’m sorry, you want to tell him. I’ll get you home to Molly, you promise, please lend me your magic this once. With every last bit of your strength, just as Rosier directs another curse at you — one you know you won’t survive — you snatch the wand from Gideon’s hand and tear the last of your magic from your throat. 

“Defodio!” 

You wait with a bated breath as silence fills the alley; lucky to have remembered Professor Flitwick’s quick remark as to how the slight difference in pronouncing a charm could alter its effect. Rosier stands on shaky legs, a stream of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. You watch as he looks down to his chest, where a gaping hole now lies instead of where his ribcage and heart should be. As Gideon had done before him, Evan Rosier crashes to the ground. 

That just leaves one more problem. 

Peter scurries to your side the moment Rosier can hurt him no longer. “I-I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I had to. . . T–They killed my mum, they killed M–Mary, and t–they said I would die too if I d–didn’t do this. I’m sorry. Y–Your father was there, too. He said he would take you in, let you l–live if you joined us. W–We can live, t–there’s still a chance for us to survive.” 

Your fingers are bent at unsightly angles, the remnants of the Torture Curse still flowing through your veins, but your face contorts in anger as you let your hand curl around his neck. He sobs louder, and though your grip is weakening — you make sure he looks into your eyes, that he feels your touch.

“I’d rather—die.” You say through gritted teeth, nails drawing blood from his grimy skin. “You’ll die too—you’ll feel my blood on your skin—everywhere you go, Peter.” 

Peter shakes his head, now clumsily pushing his wand down to the center of your chest. “Y–You were the only o–one who d–didn’t laugh at me. N–Not like the others.” 

“When they find out—you’re dead, Pettigrew.” You laugh darkly as more blood exits your body through your lips. “There’s nowhere you can hide—you’re a dead man.” 

“P-Please die,” Peter cries out, each killing spell coming out as a garbled whisper. “Please die,  s–so I can live. I c–can’t fight anymore, I’m tired.” 

Your vision goes a hazy shade of white, Peter’s silhouette fading away to the familiar scenery of your cottage in Godric’s Hollow. 

Oh.

Dying is less painful than you had expected it to be. It’s like coming home after a day’s work. 

You just wanted to rest now. 

The world caves in on you, and you barely hear Peter’s next words. 

“Avada Kedavra.” 

(It’s past midnight when Peter Pettigrew arrives at Grimmauld Place, where it’s been altered to host the members of the Order, Lily sobs in relief and gathers him in her arms. 

You’ll feel my blood on your skin.

You’re a dead man. 

Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re home safe — welcome home — thank the Gods you’re alive,” Lily blabbers through her tears, checking his face for any major injuries. “Merlin, what happened? There’s too much blood on you. It’s on your shirt and your face.” 

“It’s not mine,” says Peter hoarsely. 

Sirius’s gaze darkens, arms crossed over his jacket as he leaned against the wall. “Where is she?” 

Lily nods, standing on her tiptoes to search for any sign of you. “Peter? I–Is she alright? Has something happened to her?” 

Peter stays silent for a moment too long, and he finds himself slammed against the wall behind him, Sirius snarling in his face as he seizes the front of Peter’s soiled shirt. “Where the fuck is she, Pettigrew?” 

Peter begins to weep. “I–It was an ambush. None of us saw it coming. Gideon r–ran. She was taking on two Death-Eaters at once and I–I was too far away.” 

Lily collapses to the ground with a heart-wrenching scream.

Sirius growls as he drives his fist to the wall, inches away from Peter’s face. “Where is her body?” 

“It was a disintegration spell.” With Severus Snape — brought to the Malfoy Manor to be made as an example of what happens to blood-traitors. 

James pushes Sirius out of the way and grabs a hold of Peter, knocking his head against the concrete. “It should have been you—” James snaps at Peter. “If it came down to you or her—you should have saved her!” 

“W-What?” Peter stammers, eyes wide. “She chose to save m–me.” 

James sneers at him. “You should have just died.”)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1996; CURRENTLY, IN THE PRESENT.) 

ST. JEROME’S GRAVEYARD had exactly one visitor. Remus Lupin sits in between James and Lily’s graves, a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand — four empty at his side. He must be going crazy. There’s no funeral for Sirius as there’s no body to actually bury, Harry is presumed missing after an attack in Diagon Alley, and your name stares back at him mockingly. He tries not to dwell on your passing — there have been too many holes, too many details left unsaid; and he knows just the rat who has all the answers. Unfortunately, Wormtail won’t come out of whatever hole he’s crawled into. Either him, or Severus. 

He sighs, rubbing the temples of his head to ease the growing pains. 

You are the first to be buried of the five. Like Sirius, there had been no recovered body to lay to rest, but they asked for a compromise instead. Your name is engraved under Euphemia’s in her tombstone, and Remus figures it’s the fitting place to leave you be — with your mother, welcoming you home with open arms. He hopes you’re at peace, wherever you are. (Because, honestly, at this point, he might just fucking follow you.) 

Remus takes another swig of his alcohol, laughing bitterly to himself. He glances at James’s headstone and raises his bottle to him. “Not even in death, huh?”

He downs the last of the drink, rising to his tremulous legs. Remus gathers the flower bouquets he had bought earlier this morning; lilies-of-the-valley for Lily, white carnations for Euphemia, forget-me-nots for you, and for James — Remus leaves a moving photograph of him and Sirius; it’s a snapshot taken by Lily during the wedding as James dips his head low to kiss Sirius. Remus thinks it’s a wonderful memory to remember them by. 

“Take care of them for me, Jamie.”

And that is all the goodbyes Remus has the strength for. 

end note. i think i was crying the whole time i was writing this part, LMAO. i should be able to wrap things up in the next one. important!! there is actually a scene i was hesitant to include, but i ended up writing anyway. it's the whole part where allegra greengrass breaks down, and it was difficult for me to decide because i knew the implications; that i had a strong underlying message in that part, and i don't want it to be misconstrued or anything. pls pls tell me if it comes off as offensive, i definitely don't want to hurt anyone. nevertheless, thank you again so so so much for reading!! if you spot a plot hole, no you didnt!! i hope the time-jumps weren't too confusing! again, thank you so so much for reading!!

[riddlesrizzler]

Not Affectionate, My Ass

summary: The bunny theory is debunked! characters: bunny! reader, slytherin boys warnings: none! just clingy bunny reader with her bf word count: 699

The Slytherin common room was relatively peaceful for once. A rare thing, considering the usual chaos that surrounded the boys like a storm cloud. But today, there was no bickering, no arguments over whose turn it was to copy Theo’s homework, and no Blaise sighing in disappointment at the sheer idiocy of his friends.

Instead, the only sound was the soft scratch of Enzo flipping through a book, Theo absentmindedly shuffling his deck of exploding snap cards, and Mattheo lounging on the couch-his head tilted back against the cushions, hand lazily stroking the tiny, fluffy bunny curled up on his chest.

Bunny, in her animagus form, was completely melted against him, her small body rising and falling with each of his breaths. If she moved at all, it was just to burrow deeper into Mattheo’s hoodie, as if trying to merge into him entirely.

“Hey,” Enzo suddenly snorted, breaking the silence. “This book says rabbits aren’t that affectionate.”

Theo, barely looking up from his cards, hummed. “What?”

Enzo tapped the page. “Says here that rabbits don’t like being held too much. They prefer their own space, aren’t clingy, and don’t need constant attention.”

There was a beat of silence before Mattheo let out the loudest, most unamused scoff.

“That’s bullshit.”

Enzo blinked up at him. “Mate, I’m literally reading it from a book-”

Mattheo gestured aggressively to the tiny ball of fur plastered against his chest like a heat-seeking missile.

“Does this look like an animal that ‘prefers their own space’ to you?”

As if to further prove his point, Bunny shifted, stretching her little paws before snuggling even deeper into Mattheo’s hoodie, her tiny nose twitching against the fabric.

Draco, amused, finally put his book down. “To be fair, she is kind of obsessed with you.”

Mattheo smirked, scratching behind her ears like it was second nature. “Damn right she is.”

Theo chuckled. “Face it, Enzo. Bunny’s an exception to every rule. That, or she imprinted on Mattheo like a baby duck.”

Blaise raised a brow. “Honestly, we should be more concerned about how often she’s with him. I can’t remember the last time I saw them apart.”

Enzo frowned. “Wait… yeah. When has she ever not been stuck to him?”

Draco smirked, leaning forward. “You should see them in class. Bunny always sits next to him. Always.”

Theo laughed. “That’s nothing. You should see her at meals-she eats off his plate more than her own.”

Enzo’s eyes widened. “Wait, I thought she just did that to annoy him?”

Mattheo snorted. “She steals my food. Every single time. And I let her.”

Blaise nodded. “Yeah, that’s love, mate.”

“Oh, oh!” Theo grinned. “What about how she clings to his arm when we’re walking? If he stops moving, she just stumbles into him because she refuses to let go.”

Enzo laughed. “And when she’s not holding onto him, she’s following behind him like a shadow.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, though the fond smirk on his lips betrayed him. “Yeah, and when I disappear for more than five minutes, she comes looking for me.”

“She actually did that last week,” Draco added. “You left the common room, and she got up after two minutes, like, ‘Where’s Mattheo?’”

Blaise smirked. “And if she’s not in her human form, she’s in his hoodie as a bunny.”

At this, everyone turned to look at the tiny ball of fluff currently nestled against Mattheo’s chest.

“Case in point,” Theo said, gesturing.

Enzo scoffed. “How does that not annoy you?”

Mattheo just shrugged, still stroking Bunny’s fur. “It’s warm. I think she likes hearing my heartbeat or something.”

Draco let out a chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t know how you deal with it.”

Mattheo’s smirk widened as he scratched behind Bunny’s ears, watching as she gave a sleepy twitch. “I don’t deal with it. I enjoy it.”

Theo and Enzo groaned.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mattheo just smirked. “You’re all just jealous.”

Enzo huffed. “I’m not jealous-I just don’t understand how a bunny can be this clingy.”

Theo smirked. “That means the whole ‘rabbits aren’t affectionate’ thing is officially debunked.”

Mattheo just smirked, running a gentle hand down Bunny’s back. “Not affectionate, my ass.”

[writesvani]

dear me | 02

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): abandonment, unrequited love, emotional pain, jealousy, self-doubt, isolation, neglect, heartache, betrayal, loss of friendship, overwhelming feelings, loneliness

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 4,2k // date: 22nd of March

CHAPTER TWO — It's you – well me again, UGH happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey everyone! holy moly, i am literally sobbing seeing how much support this fic is getting. like, i can’t even. y’all are just chef’s kiss. pls keep reblogging, liking, and sharing the love because i appreciate it more than i could ever express! BUT. and this is a big but (no, not that kind of big butt lol), i’m absolutely OBSESSED with reading your comments. seriously, i live for them. your thoughts, your reactions, your theories, ALL OF IT. i am lurking, waiting to reply and fangirl with you. you can also come talk to me on my blog – my ask box is always open, let’s chat, let’s get unhinged. thank you again for all the love, you’re all amazing, and please never forget, i adore you all. now go comment or i will personally haunt your dreams (jk… or am i?) 💕

— love, vani

You’re not certain about many things in life, but there is one undeniable truth: you are a creature of habit. A prisoner of routine. A slave to the ticking clock.

Everything about your life follows a rhythm—a comforting sequence of events that you know like the back of your hand. The way your mornings unfold, how your afternoons stretch on, and the quiet predictability of your evenings. It’s not just familiarity. It’s safety. A shield against the chaos that could unexpectedly break through.

Since childhood, you’ve held tight to the belief that routine is the antidote to disorder. It was the one thing you could count on, the one thing that offered stability in a world full of unpredictability.

But now?

Now, there’s a disruption. And it’s not a small one. It’s as if the very fabric of your week is being unraveled, thread by thread.

There’s a gnawing ache in the pit of your stomach—a hollow feeling that you can’t shake. It burrows into your thoughts, quietly slipping into the spaces where your peace used to reside. It’s a feeling that’s eating away at the walls you’ve carefully built around yourself. A slow, relentless erosion of the calm you’ve worked so hard to protect.

The worst part? It’s not just the present. It’s everything that’s been hanging over you, lingering like an uninvited guest.

The whole damn week—every second of it—looms in the back of your mind. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself you shouldn’t be thinking about it. It doesn’t matter how many distractions you try to throw at it. The thought still creeps in, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts, never letting you rest.

The email.

Not just the email itself, but the fact that it’s coming again.

It’s maddening. The thing that claws at you the most isn’t the dreaded message itself, but the fact that you can’t remember what you wrote in it.

You’ve been writing these emails since you were just a teen. The words, the phrases—they’ve become second nature to you, so familiar that they’ve lost their meaning. But now, now it feels like they’ve become ghosts. You can’t grasp them anymore. It’s as if they were written by someone else, someone you no longer recognize.

Too many things have happened. Too many choices made. Too many pieces of yourself you’ve buried so deep that even you can’t recall them.

Possessed. That’s the only word that could possibly describe what you’re feeling.

You wake up with an unsettling giddiness, the kind that makes your stomach twist, and as soon as Wednesday arrives, it consumes you. A nervous energy builds inside you, bubbling up with every passing minute. You try to focus, to concentrate on the task at hand, but it feels impossible.

At work, you can’t seem to get anything right. The moment you step into the kitchen, disaster strikes. You knock over a pan with a loud clang, the sound echoing like a mistake that can’t be undone. The judgmental glare from your boss stings more than you expect—why does she have to work from home, anyway? You don’t need her disapproval hanging over you.

But the pan is just the beginning. The soup, which you had so carefully planned, boils over on the stove, its aroma turning sharp and unpleasant as it becomes too salty. You have to start over, again, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t get it right.

Then, while washing the dishes, you break not one, not two, but three plates in quick succession. Each crash is like a sharp reminder of how out of control you feel. Your hands shake, your breath quickens, and you nearly cut yourself in the process. Almost.

You know exactly why you’re like this. Why everything feels so off, so wrong. You know it’s not just clumsiness or nerves. It’s because today is Wednesday. The first email came last Wednesday. And that means—

It’s coming. And it’s coming today.

And the anticipation, the weight of it, hangs over you like a dark cloud you can’t escape.

You close the door to your apartment behind you, the soft click of the lock a familiar sound that echoes in the quiet of your space.

Water clings to your skin like an unwanted reminder. Droplets trail their way down your body, dripping messily onto the wooden floor beneath you, leaving small puddles in their wake. Your shoes, heavy with mud, leave their own trail—a mess you’ll have to clean up later.

Your teeth chatter from the cold, and a curse slips past your lips before you can stop it. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut: you’ll be scrubbing this floor again.

"Ugh," you groan, the sound of frustration hanging in the air. You swear to God, you’re going to start carrying an umbrella every day—yes, even when the sun is shining bright.

This morning, though—this morning had been perfect. The lazy rays of sunlight stretched across your room, coaxing you awake with their gentle warmth. It was just warm enough to wear a T-shirt and pants, courtesy of Spring's tender touch. You had woken up to the harmonious melody of birds and nature greeting the new day.

But then, work ended. And as soon as you stepped outside, the heavens opened. The rain came pouring down, without mercy.

You barely had time to brace yourself—a small, five-minute walk from the bus stop to your apartment, and you were drenched. Now, the cold seeps into your bones, creeping up your spine. You can already feel the tightness in your throat, that familiar ache that will make swallowing a painful ordeal, which—coming from a chef—is nothing short of devastating.

And your nose? It’s already starting to run, that disgusting, constant drip of misery. The irritation swells inside of you, a sharp, biting frustration that makes you wish you could just disappear into the warmth of your dreams, away from the cold, the rain, and the never-ending annoyances.

You try to stretch out your shower, clinging to the warmth of the water as it pours over you, trying to let it soothe away the tension of the day. The heat surrounds you, but your mind pulls at you, relentless, reminding you that there’s no escaping what’s coming.

Before you even realize it, the evening slips away from you. Dinner’s a blur. After it, you’ve made your favorite—green tea, comforting and simple—but it’s not enough to calm the storm inside you.

You sink into your couch, the soft fabric wrapping around you like a too-familiar embrace, but it doesn’t quite hold you the way you need. Your laptop rests in your lap, its weight small and familiar, like the way your legs drape over the coffee table in front of you. A simple, normal scene. But nothing feels simple right now.

There’s an unsettling quiet before you break it.

Click.

Click.

You open the email.

It feels almost too much to bear, too heavy for the moment. The words on the screen seem to stretch, pulse, and mock you, as if daring you to face whatever’s inside. The thing you've been running from all day. The thing you can’t shake, no matter how hard you try.

And as your eyes fall onto the text, a wave of something tight and cold wraps around your chest, making it harder to breathe.

“Dear me,”

You bite down on your cheek, a small habit that betrays the nervous energy running through you. Your eyes skim lazily over the words on the screen, barely registering the flow of text at first.

“It’s you—well me again, UGH. THIS SHIT CONFUSES ME TOO MUCH BECAUSE LIKE, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO ADDRESS US? SHOULD I USE ME, US, YOU? I’ll probably be using all of those. Anyway, the past week has been the first week of high school, and I LOVED IT.”

A small, almost involuntary smile tugs at the corners of your lips. She loved it. You can feel that warmth in your chest, a tug of nostalgia for the beginning of your high school journey. The days were full of excitement, each one an unknown adventure. You remember how every second of it felt—like you were just waiting for something to change, to begin.

“Anyways, what’s new is I made TWO new friends, their names are Yoongi and Nina.”

Your heart flutters, that familiar warmth surging within you as thoughts of the twins invade your mind. Your chest feels lighter, as if your heartbeat is dancing just a little faster. You remember those first shared glances with them—the way their presence seemed to fill the room, just as it does now.

“THEY’RE TWINS, ISN’T THAT SOO COOOOOL? AND THEY’RE FROM NEW YORK, WHICH HELLO, SINCE WHEN ARE BIG TOWN FOLK MOVING TO THIS LAME CITY?”

The words ring in your mind, playful and free, as you imagine them—their voices, their laughter, the energy they brought with them. You can’t help but smile, the memory of their faces suddenly so vivid, so real.

“They’re kind of shy though—but they sit behind Kook and me, so I finally got them to talk to us yesterday,”

A flash of Yoongi’s young face suddenly strikes you—a brief, sharp image that you can’t shake. You remember him clearly, sitting in the back row, shoulders slouched, his nose buried in a book. The memory is so vivid, like a photo you’ve never forgotten. That was Yoongi. The bookworm. The quiet observer. He was always tucked away in the corner of the classroom, never seeking attention.

You can still see him now, the way his eyes were always lost in the pages of novels, the weight of words pulling him deeper into worlds only he seemed to fully understand. Yoongi wasn’t the kind of person to take up space with noise or drama. He was the kid who avoided the spotlight, who didn’t need the chaos of teenage gossip to exist. Instead, he was happy in the quiet, turning page after page, writing essays that won competitions without ever trying.

And you loved him for that. For the way he could exist without needing to be anything other than himself. The mutual love of books had bonded you two in a way that few others could understand. It was an unspoken connection that stretched back to high school, back to when the two of you would spend hours talking about novels, about the worlds between the pages.

Now, years later, you’re both far from those early days—living in apartments fifteen minutes away from each other, with careers that have shaped who you’ve become. But Yoongi remains a fragment of that high school you—still here, still unchanged in ways that matter. He’s the piece of you that didn’t fade, didn’t leave when everything else seemed to shift. He stayed.

You bite your lip, the weight of those memories pushing you back into your seat. You’re thankful for having the luxury of knowing Yoongi—having him in your life. You’re thankful that he didn’t abandon you.

Your thoughts drift to Nina, her image flashing in your mind with an almost effortless clarity. Nina was always so beautiful, in a way that felt natural, like it came easily to her. From the chestnut strands of her hair, which would catch the sunlight in just the right way, to the lazy hum of green in her eyes—a color that seemed to flicker, almost mischievously. Even though she and Yoongi were twins, they didn’t look alike in the way you would expect. They shared that one thing—the gummy smile, the one that colored both of their faces, but that was where the similarities ended.

Nina was the embodiment of the teenage dream—the one everyone noticed, whether she wanted it or not. Wild. Reckless. Effortlessly captivating. She never had to try, never had to force attention on herself, yet it always found her. Even when she tried to avoid it, when she would feel the heat of all those eyes trained on her, even when her ears would flush with the soft pink of embarrassment, she was always the center of attention.

And it felt so familiar, like deja vu.

Much like Jungkook. So much like Jungkook.

A shiver crawls down your spine at the thought of him. Your body twitches involuntarily, like some cosmic force is urging you to look away, to move on from the screen.

But you can’t.

You simply can’t.

“I don’t know them well enough, but both Kook and I think they’re cool. Well, I mostly talked with Yoongi because he was reading Wuthering Heights AND I NEVER SAW ANYONE, LET ALONE A BOY READING IT? HELLO? 911 I FEEL LIKE FAINTING.”

You laugh softly, the sound escaping you almost involuntarily, and tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear, the familiar gesture one that feels too gentle, too intimate for the moment.

“And Nina is sooooo pretty. I feel like I’ve never met a prettier girl in my life AND she’s kind,” your gaze drifts, and in your mind, you nod at your past self, agreeing with her—yeah, Nina is pretty. She’s sweet too.

“But I think Jungkook thinks she’s pretty too. Which is weird. Lowkey.”

The words slip too easily, but there’s a weight now, settling somewhere deep inside you. Your stomach flips—suddenly queasy, your skin prickling. Nausea spreads through you like a dark cloud, thick and suffocating. The cold that you feel creeping up your spine could be from the chill in the air, or it could be from the words you’re reading. You're not sure which one it is. Maybe it’s both.

This is it. The beginning. The words you’d been dreading, the ones you knew were coming, yet couldn’t prepare for. Reading about Jungkook and Nina. The start of whatever they were. The start of whatever love they shared that grew so greatly.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, suddenly feeling the weight of something heavy in the pit of your stomach. The feeling of something real starting. The one thing you’ve feared the most.

Your gaze flickers down to the bottom drawer of your desk, and your heart skips a beat. The envelope. It’s still there, untouched.

The invitation.

The invitation to their wedding.

The wedding Jungkook didn’t tell you about before inviting you.

You try to force yourself to focus on the rest of the email, but the words blur in front of your eyes—nothing seems to matter anymore. Some mention of a fight with your mom over laptop time, a new dish you cooked, but the sentences fall flat, blending together into a haze of indifference. They don’t matter. Not like Yoongi, not like Jungkook, not like Nina. And certainly not like Nina and Jungkook together.

And their wedding.

You can’t shake off the gnawing sense of dread that’s settled deep in your chest, weighing you down. Your stomach twists, heavy and sick with the kind of nausea that feels like a thousand broken shards scraping inside. It's as if someone stuffed it with rocks, cold and jagged, leaving you gasping for air.

You had no idea Jungkook was getting married before that invitation showed up in your mailbox. And it eats away at you, slowly, relentlessly. You hate it.

You tell yourself it’s normal. You two just drifted apart, right? It’s been years. Of course, he didn’t feel the need to tell you something so big. But it still hurts, deep down. It gnaws at you—steals your sleep, pulls you under.

Because years ago, you couldn’t have imagined your best friend getting married and not telling you. It would have been unthinkable, absurd. The younger you would have sworn this was just some terrible, cruel dream. But it isn’t.

It’s real.

To be honest, the shift in your dynamic with Jungkook wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t some abrupt change that left you reeling—it was slow, almost imperceptible, like the tide eroding the shore little by little. Neither of you noticed it at first, and you’re certain that if either of you had, one of you would’ve stopped it.

It all started when you were eighteen. At that point, you knew you didn’t want to go to college. Everyone around you was shocked, confused. Everyone, except for your mom and Jungkook. They understood the real dream—the one you weren’t ready to share with the world. Your summer in Europe. The plan you’d built with your mom to travel and immerse yourself in new cultures, learning recipes from every corner of that continent.

But everyone else? They couldn’t understand. You had always been the perfect student. The one who always did well, excelled. So when you chose to follow something different, they whispered. Lazy. Stupid. Reckless. It didn’t bother you, though. You knew you were doing something others were too afraid to—chasing your dreams, and the thrill of it was enough to drown out their voices.

Jungkook was different. You expected him to do the same—to follow his own path, to go after his dreams, too. But instead, he gave up. He had to.

“I have to go to law school. This drummer thing isn’t gonna pay my bills,” he said one night, voice quiet, almost ashamed. He whispered it after a fight with his father—words laced with a pain you could feel in your bones.

Your heart hurt for him, in a way that felt like it was ripping you open. Because Jungkook didn’t have the luxury of being himself. Not when the weight of his father’s debts was constantly looming over him, threatening to crush him under its heavy burden. He had no choice but to give up the dream that once seemed so bright. And it broke you to watch him do it.

So, you spent the last months of your senior year getting ready for your trip, the one that had been your dream for so long. Meanwhile, Jungkook was buried in his textbooks, his focus unwavering. He wasn’t a natural student, but his determination—his sheer persistence—was something you couldn’t help but admire.

He didn’t sleep. He barely ate. His entire world revolved around those books. You remember just hanging out at his house while he studied, watching him from across the room. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched over the pages, the necks of his textbooks cracked and worn from hours of use. Pens and highlighters were scattered around him, as if chaos had taken over his once organized space. And his face—his beautiful face—was painted with the telltale signs of exhaustion. Dark circles under his eyes, hair falling messily over his forehead. It was then, in that quiet moment, that you first felt the shift.

Then came prom. You were supposed to go with your boyfriend, but right before the event, he broke up with you. You were left standing there, heart in pieces, but Yoongi—always the good friend—was there. He was thinking of skipping prom altogether, but you begged him to take you. You never really saw yourself going alone. Prom had always been something you were excited for. The satin dress, the heels, the makeup, the perfect hair—it was all so meticulously planned in your head, down to the perfect date.

But your dream date wasn’t Yoongi. Not even your ex boyfriend. Your dream date was supposed to be Jungkook. He was taking Nina instead. And even though you tried to push it aside, it hurt. Deeply. So, you begged Yoongi—because you couldn’t let your perfect night die completely, not without something to hold on to. It was the only way you could make the night feel even a little like the one you had imagined.

Nina and Jungkook got together two months before prom, and no one was surprised—not even you. They were always destined to be. The quiet charm they shared, the shyness that somehow made them more magnetic, their popularity, and those soft, knowing glances—they were always a perfect match. Everyone, including you, saw it coming. It was written in the way they were together, how effortlessly they fit into each other's lives. No one doubted it for a second.

And despite the ache that twisted in your chest, despite the quiet pain of seeing them together, you smiled. You smiled because it was what he deserved. It was what you wanted for him—even if it wasn’t you standing next to him. You offered them your support, effortless and kind, even as the weight of your own heartbreak threatened to drown you from the inside out.

You wanted him so much it consumed you, but you kept quiet. You kept silent because you knew deep down that you would never be the one. Not for him. Not in that way. And even though it was tearing you apart, you told yourself it was worth it—because you wanted the best for him. Even if that meant letting him go.

And then came the summer. A season that promised escape, adventure, and a chance to rewrite your story. You spent it immersing yourself in the art of perfecting a croissant in France—its golden, buttery layers a silent testament to the dreams you were chasing. You learned how to make pizza dough in Italy, each knead of the dough a reflection of the foundation you were building for yourself. You basked under the Tuscan sun, feeling its warmth seep into your skin, a quiet comfort in its consistency. You stood in the loud streets of Greece, perfecting gyros with the same passion you had for your craft, and you immersed yourself in the history of the Balkans while sitting on a beach in Croatia. The world was wide, and you were exploring it in a way you had always dreamed of. It was a dream made real—but it never fully filled the hole in your chest.

And Jungkook? Jungkook spent his summer falling in love with Nina. You knew about their secret places, their quiet moments. You knew about the way he looked at her—the same way you used to look at him, the way you still wanted to look at him. He spent the summer laying in the grass with her, the breeze pulling their laughter into the air. They visited hidden beaches in your town, their footprints imprinted on the sand, and he held her close, just as you once imagined he would hold you. He made love to her, touched her, and gave her the things you had always wanted for yourself but would never get.

It hurt, more than you could bear, but you got used to it. It was the kind of pain that didn’t go away, the kind that you learned to live with. You told yourself you would, at least. You had to. You had no other choice. It was the reality of it all—the world that had shifted around you without your permission, without your consent. So, you buried it deep, kept smiling, kept writing to him, kept pretending. Because sometimes, pretending was all you had left.

And then, just when you thought your heart couldn’t take more, life threw you a chance. You were in Montenegro—another place to explore, to escape. It was on a whim, a moment of passion, that you ended up cooking for strangers at a small, bustling seaside restaurant. Someone noticed you. Someone tasted your food and liked it. It was an ordinary day, yet it was the turning point you didn’t see coming. You were offered an opportunity to work as an assistant chef on a yacht.

At first, you hesitated. You had never even imagined such a huge thing. But you always watwd it, so you took it. You grabbed it with both hands, like it was the one thing that could save you from all the lingering emptiness. You had always dreamed of something bigger than what your life had been—the same routine, the same city, the same old connections that kept you tethered to the past. And here it was, an opportunity for growth, for something different.

Your mom traveled with you for the first few months, like a safety net. She was your anchor, your lifeline in the chaos of new beginnings. But she had her own life to return to, and soon, she left. You stayed—alone, scared, but driven. Cooking and cruising around Europe, on a yacht you never thought you’d be on. You cooked for a woman you didn’t know, on a sea that seemed endless. The hours were long, the days blurred together, but you found purpose in it. The work wasn’t easy, but it was yours, and you were making something of yourself.

When you came back, after months of moving from one coastal city to the next, she offered you something real—something solid. She made you her private chef. It wasn’t just a job anymore. It was a new life, a new beginning. You had carved your own place, built a career from scratch, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you had something truly yours.

But even with all this success, all this newness, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was missing.

Jungkook went to college. The path you thought you’d walk together diverged, and like so many things in life, the distance grew in small, almost unnoticed increments. The calls, once so frequent, became rare—each word feeling heavier, too shallow to bridge the gap that was silently growing between you. You were busy, too busy building your life, carving a future that you never quite pictured would look like this. He was tired, burnt out from the demands of his studies, struggling to keep up with everything.

You were up during the day, hustling in the kitchen, perfecting your craft, and when the clock hit 10 pm, you collapsed into bed, exhausted from the relentless pace of it all. He was the opposite—up all night, pouring over textbooks, and by the time he called you, you were already asleep. When you reached out to him, he was caught up in his studies.

And somewhere, between the rush of your schedules, the world you shared drifted away, unnoticed. You both tried, maybe, but the threads slipped through your fingers, unraveling, until neither of you recognized the version of each other you were becoming. The late-night calls, the inside jokes, the shared dreams—they faded into the background. The connection you once had felt like a distant echo.

And you never found your way back to each other.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25

[notlongtolove]

between the sand and the stardust

burnt toast theory. the butterfly effect. invisible strings. it’s only human nature to try and make sense of the senseless. for all the what-ifs and could-have-beens, the alternate paths and lives you could’ve lived, this is the reality you’re in. you know—effects, theories, strings be damned—that you would’ve found each other.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff

content: reader is up contemplating what life would be like if her and spencer had never met. spencer has a few reassuring things to say about it.

word count: 1.8k

note: inspired by this! spent the entire day nursing the post nye hangover and woke up in a haze to write this. god me whennnn

a line: I’d pray to every god out there, in every language I don’t speak, to find you in every universe where I haven’t found you yet.

If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you. Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you. Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I.

- lang leav

The world has a funny way of looking at things. A knack for folding coincidences into neat little narratives that we, its ever-curious observers, insist on unspooling. Burnt toast theory. The butterfly effect. Invisible strings. It’s only human nature, you suppose, to try and make sense of the senseless. Things happen—things that are just things—and yet, we stitch them together into stories, pull meaning from the chaos, weave threads where there might not be any at all. 

It didn’t make sense that you’d been eleven minutes late to the bus that morning, despite sprinting down the stairs with your laces undone. It didn’t make sense that Spencer’s train had broken down that day when the transit service proudly boasted a 92% on-time rate. It didn’t make sense that the last bus had rumbled away two minutes before you arrived, leaving you stranded at the stop with a dark-eyed boy and an easy smile. 

And it certainly didn’t make sense when you, who always preferred to keep your headphones in and your gaze down, had turned to him in pure desperation and said, “Do you want to split a cab?”

Now, 845 days, 21 hours, and 23 minutes later—Spencer keeps count, of course—you lie in bed, his arms wrapped around you with such love you almost can’t remember what it felt like to navigate the world without him.

You think about that morning sometimes. Would it have mattered if you’d woken up on time? If Spencer’s train hadn’t broken down? You would’ve slipped past each other like all strangers are meant to. You could have missed him entirely. The very thought makes your chest tighten.

And then there’s everything that came after. Maybe you’d still be grinding away at that dead-end job if Spencer hadn’t nudged you—no, shoved you—into applying for that writing scholarship. Maybe he wouldn’t taken some time off to go into teaching if he hadn’t seen how much it broke you when he was shot last year, your sobs echoing in the sterile hospital waiting room.

It’s terrifying to think about. How this moment, this minute, your life is just a single dot in a universe of shifting constellations. One singular version of a story that could have unfolded a million other ways.

You shift slightly, feeling the soft brush of Spencer’s breath against your neck. His arm tightens instinctively, pulling you closer, like even in sleep, he’s afraid to let you drift too far.

“What’re you thinking about, baby?” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” he says softly, and you can hear the smile in his voice. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, a silent reassurance. “Tell me.” 

You shift, rolling onto your side to face him. The room is dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlight outside, but you can still make out the soft angles of his face, the curve of his lips, the shadow of his lashes against his cheek. His arm lifts briefly, giving you room to move, before settling back on your waist.

“Just...” You sigh, the words heavy as you trace invisible patterns on the blanket. ​​​​“How we met.”

“Mm,” Spencer hums thoughtfully. “Dingy bus stop. Very romantic.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “No, I mean... imagine if I hadn’t woken up late that morning. Or if you’d been on the train that didn’t break down. Isn’t that scary?”

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you fully. “What’s scary, baby?” he asks, his fingers drawing idle patterns on your hip.

You hesitate for a moment, then exhale. “Like… there’s a universe where we never met,” you say, your voice quieter now. “We’d be living our own lives. Separate. Strangers.” The words send a shudder through you. 

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, his gaze steady and thoughtful as he studies you. “That’d be a really sad life,” he says finally. 

You hum in agreement. “Imagine it. Nobody to sort your shelves for you. They’d be an absolute mess.”

“No one to bring you tea in bed every morning. Tragic.”

“No Mugi,” you add, your gaze flicking toward the end of the bed where the cat lies curled in a ball. The mention of his name earns a soft purr from him, a sound of sleepy approval.

“To be fair,” Spencer muses, “there probably would still be a Mugi. He’d just still be at the shelter, waiting for some mediocre parents to find him.”

“Yeah, probably parents who don’t spoil him rotten with treats every time he asks.”

Spencer chuckles, glancing toward the cat. “Let’s be honest, sweetheart. You’re the one who can’t say no to that face.” 

As if on cue, Mugi stretches languidly, front paws extending before he hops off the bed with a dramatic flick of his tail. He pads off into the other room, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet.

“See?” you sigh, your voice softer now. “Everything would be different. No tea. No Mugi. No you.” 

Spencer’s arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until your forehead brushes his. “But things aren’t different,” he says simply.

“I know, I know,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I... I don’t know. It’s so scary Spence. I just—”

“Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again,” he interrupts, his voice calm and steady. “Know where that’s from sweetheart?” 

You pull back slightly. “The Iliad,” you murmur. 

“Smart girl,” he grins, the dimple in his cheek making an appearance. His hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “It's true,” he agrees. “A lot of things could be different. You could’ve been on time for the bus. My train might not have broken down. We might’ve never crossed paths.” His hand moves from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek. “You could’ve married your high school boyfriend if that asshole hadn’t cheated on you.”

“God, don’t remind me,” you groan, wrinkling your nose.

“And I,” he continues, his voice softening, “could’ve stayed in Vegas, never left, never thought there was anything more for me.”

You look away as you imagine these horribly bleak and sad alternate realities. Sure, it was hell catching your first love in the locker room with another girl but with the certainty you feel for Spencer now, it’s hard to feel anything other than grateful for everything that led you here. You think back to Spencer as a child—alone, hurting, and relentlessly bullied. Your heart twinges with the thought of the pain he’d endured. 

“But I didn’t,” he says, breaking the silence. He takes your hand, his fingers threading through yours as if he understands exactly what you’re thinking. “I’m here. You’re here. And so is Mugi, who is probably tearing apart the couch as we speak.” 

A soft laugh escapes you, though it’s shaky, and you squeeze his hand. Your chest tightens with something that feels an awful lot like gratitude.

“You know,” he says after a pause, his voice softer now, “I thank god every day that my train broke down.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t even believe in god.”

“I don’t,” he admits with a small smile, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “But I’d pray to every god out there, in every language I don’t speak, to find you in every universe where I haven’t found you yet.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “Spence…” you manage, though his name barely makes it past the lump in your throat. 

“I mean it,” he says again. “I pray that every version of me deserves to know you in every possible world. To have this. I’d find you, no matter how many lives it took. Because finding you was the hard part. But loving you? That’s second nature.”

Your chest aches. It’s a wonderful kind of pain, as if your heart is trying to expand but can’t quite manage it—too happy, too loved.

“I think I’d find you too,” you say softly, the words tumbling out.

“Think?” Spencer repeats, mock affront in his tone. “I pour my heart out, and all I get is a think?”

You giggle as you halfheartedly swat at his chest. “You know what I mean.”

His hand catches yours, holding it over his heart, his fingers warm against yours. Before you can say more, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips—deep and unhurried. It lingers, pulling you closer, tinged with love and longing. 

When you finally pull apart, your forehead resting against his, you breathe out, “I love you.”

A soft smile spreads across his face, and he whispers, “I love you too, sweet girl.”

You close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you. “I think what we have… this… it’s more than fate, y’know?”

“Destiny?”

You shake your head, a small smile on your face.

“Oh, I’ve got it. Prophecy,” he teases.

You laugh, light and easy. “No, not that either.”

He quirks an eyebrow, waiting for your explanation.

“It’s like… it’s inevitable,” you say finally, searching for the right words. “You and me. No matter what. No matter where or when. It’s just… always supposed to happen. Even if fate didn’t allow it, even if destiny didn’t write it. I’d find you. I know I would.”

Spencer’s gaze softens. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the universe—To Spencer, you might as well be. It’s a gaze so tender it makes your chest ache all over again. 

“You’re everything,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. 

“Technically, you have me to thank,” you say playfully. “I asked to share a cab.”

“And how’d you know I wouldn’t have just asked for your number?”

You catch each other's gaze for a moment and burst into laughter.

“Okay, fine,” Spencer concedes with a small smile. “I probably would’ve been a mess trying, but for the record, I really did want to ask.”

“Oh I’m sure, honey,” you tease, shifting closer to him.

“Let’s stop worrying about alternate realities and come back to this one yeah? It’s pretty damn good.”

You know Spencer’s right. For all the what-ifs and could-have-beens, the alternate paths and lives you could’ve lived, this is the reality you’re in. The one where he’s here, and so are you. You know, without a doubt now—effects, theories, strings be damned—that you would’ve found each other. 

It’s a certainty that transcends time and space, a quiet knowing that runs deep in your bones. No matter the paths you might have walked, no matter the lives you could have lived, it doesn’t matter. You share a love that demands to be seen and to be heard—An undeniable, inevitable reality. The best kind of love. 

It’s a love that insists on its own existence. 

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: invisible string by taylor swift (bc how could i not) margaret by lana del rey feat bleachers

[multifandomslxt]

Quiet Rage

MDNI

MINORS GO AWAY

Pairing: bsf!Johnny x reader

Synopsis: You wanted to test a theory and ended up making Johnny "Quiet Rage" Suh pissed all the way off. Surely he wouldn't take it out on you though right? after all, you were his best friend.

WARNING: THIS IS SMUT...arguably one of my dirtiest yet. reader is a little shit and Johnny is the quiet guy in the friend group. Johnny in glasses. Dirty and I mean DIRTY talk. spit, sweat, mentions of bruising skin, drooling, overstimulation, exhibitionism via video call, just dirty stuff alright

A/N: This took forever to get out and I apologize for that. it's exam season and I really wanted this out so I pulled some all-nighters. so I apologize for the grammatical errors and so on. I'm very very nervous about this because I did not expect the teaser to get that much attention. but anyway, enjoyyy. @neoculturecollectives @calibabii21

"I swear, Johnny's into you," your girlfriend claims, and you almost spit out your latte. You shoot her a look, throat burning, and coffee dribbling down your chin. "What the hell makes you say that?"

She rolls her eyes, handing you a napkin. "Come on, babe. The guy gives you that intense stare all the time."

You stare at her in disbelief. "He gives everyone that stare. It's just Johnny."

She grunts in frustration. "Y/n, he calls you 'baby' for crying out loud."

You shrug, trying to play it cool. "So? It's not like it's some romantic declaration."

This scenario is all too familiar, and it annoys you. People always misread Johnny and you, trying to turn your perfectly platonic relationship into something more.

"Alright, if you're so confident, come with me to Jay's party tonight," she challenges.

Your heart sinks.

Jay, aka Jaehyun, is her boyfriend, and you've crossed paths quite a bit. But you already know you can't go.

"He doesn't like you like that, right? So let's settle it, Y/n. Let's end the speculation."

"That's dumb. I don't need to prove anything," you argue. But truth be told, your heart is still doing somersaults. You both know why you won't go, or rather, can't.

Johnny has this strict no-party rule for you. Sounds stupid, but it's his way of keeping you safe. One bad experience with some idiot led to this.

"Come on, just this once, and I'll drop it, promise," she pleads.

"Fine" you reply, already feeling your energy drain.

~

You find yourselves in what's supposed to be Jay's living room turned dance floor.

"Where's that man?" your friend complains beside you.

You hadn't been paying much attention to her anyway. Tonight, you're on a mission to prove a point. Yep, you're scanning for Johnny.

"Yo, ladies!" A familiar voice greets you from behind.

It's Mark. Awkward, cute, and definitely on some kind of high.

weed probably

"Markieee." you smiled and hugged him.

"Have you seen Jay?" your friend asks, not even bothering to greet Mark.

"In the upstairs bathroom," Mark replies, the thumping bass of the music echoing through the house.

"Thanks, y/n, call me if you need me," she says, her voice almost drowned out by the distant laughter and chatter.

"Okay," you agree, even though you know she's most likely going to be too busy to pick up. With that, she confidently stalks off into the lively chaos to find her man.

You're still hugging Mark throughout that, the music's pulsating rhythm vibrating through your bodies, and neither of you makes a move to release the other.

"Markie, how high are you right now?" you ask, half amused and half concerned, the scent of various substances hanging in the air.

"I'm not high," he insists, his words slightly slurred.

Yep, he's as high as a damn kite. "Alright, let's get you seated," you decide, guiding him through the animated crowd.

You hug him a little tighter to your side as you maneuver through the sea of people, completely unaware that the man you had been scanning for was silently observing you from across the dimly lit room.

Johnny tilts his head ever so slightly, the ambient lights flickering, casting enigmatic shadows on his intense expression as he observes you cradling the nearly unconscious Mark in your arms.

"Yo, Johnny! Where you goin'?" Heachan's voice echoes from the kitchen, where the clinking of glasses and laughter weave through the air.

"You can't bail on me now, man. You promised to try this strain with me," Hexhan pleads, his tone a mix of whining and cajoling.

"Another time," Johnny responds tersely, striding away without a backward glance.

Johnny can't fathom any sober reason for Mark to be draped over you like that.

"And you shouldn't even be here," Johnny muses to himself.

"Y/n," his gruff voice calls out, a single word that carries volumes.

You pivot, finding yourself face to face with your long-time best friend, a man whose relationship with you blurs between suspected boyfriend, occasional fling, or perhaps something more permanent.

His towering figure looms over you like an impending storm, his mouth contorted in a sneer, eyebrows knitted in displeasure. A quick appraisal reveals he's opted for a relaxed ensemble tonight—black hoodie and grey joggers, his signature black rimmed glasses resting on his nose.

"Johnny, I've been looking for you. Where the hell were y--"

"Y/n, have I ever told you that your tits make the best pillows ever? Oh my god," Mark interjects, completely oblivious to Johnny's presence.

In one swift motion, Johnny shoves Mark away, causing him to collide with people behind you.

"Johnny, what the fuck!" you gasp, caught off guard.

"What are you doing here, Y/n? I'm only asking once," Johnny demands, his hand firmly gripping the back of your neck, forcefully pulling you into the shelter of his chest.

"Answer the question."

"I'm here for you," you assert, making no attempt to deceive.

"You could've called me if you missed me so much, baby," he responds, his voice softening, and his eyebrows gradually easing.

"Yeah, I know, but I wanted to have fun too," you argue.

It becomes apparent that you've made the wrong choice as his hand tightens slightly around your neck.

"Have fun at home. No parties. I'm sure I told you that," his voice remains calm, but the increasing pressure on the back of your neck contradicts his demeanor.

"Go home. Now," he states, leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, your body twitches as if to comply, but it seems you're on a defiant streak tonight.

"No. I'll stay and have fun. I've seen you now, so I'll just go look for the others and enjoy myself," you declare.

He stares at you, a blank facial expression revealing nothing.

"Y/n, baby, go home," he says softly.

Successfully prying yourself from his grip, you retort, "No."

You stalk off, leaving him standing in the middle of the living room, hands straight by his sides, and his gaze unwaveringly black yet watchful.

As you navigate through the crowd, encounter familiar faces here and there.

~

You find yourself on your umpteenth shot of tequila when, unexpectedly, you're invited to a game of truth or dare, courtesy of Haechan.

Johnny is nowhere to be found, and the absence begins to stir a sense of worry and nervousness within you.

The game had unfolded over an extended period, leaving your mind increasingly hazy with each passing moment. Holding your liquor was never your forte.

You observed as the bottle spun and twirled before ultimately settling on the guy positioned beside you.

"dare" the guy simply said.

"I dare you to kiss y/n," Haechan's slurred yet mischievous voice announced.

As Haechan proclaimed his dare, Johnny ambled into the room, seemingly oblivious to your presence, it left you feeling bothered and angry.

Fine, you mused, if he's going to act that way.

Perhaps it was the influence of the alcohol coursing through your system or some other inscrutable force, but you found yourself impulsively lunging towards the guy next to you. Teeth clashed in a messy, audacious kiss, and, fueled by the audacity of the dare, you dared to explore further by delving your tongue into his mouth.

A cheer erupted from the onlookers, making your heart swell.

Basking in the attention, you pushed the boundaries, only to be abruptly seized by the neck for the second time that night, this time by none other than Johnny himself.

Without hesitation, he mused, "Go to the car and sit. I'll be there soon."

"But, Joh—"

"Go. To. The. Car, Y/n, and shut your fucking mouth. I said I'll be there soon," he asserted, his words punctuated through gritted teeth.

~

The last ten minutes had passed in utter silence as both of you sat in the car.

When Johnny finally slid into the driver's seat, his gaze never once met yours. Without a word, he started the car and left the party, only sparing you attention when he needed to secure your seatbelt.

The oppressive silence weighed on you.

"That was a fun game, wasn't it?" you ventured, attempting to break the tension.

Silence persisted.

"I bet Haechan has a video of it. Probably gonna send it to the group later," you added, attempting to inject a touch of levity into the atmosphere, though your laughter carried an undercurrent of awkwardness.

"Quit playing with me." He bites back, completely unamused by your attempt at a joke.

Your body stills as you stare wide-eyed at the man beside you. You didn't expect that from him. He wasn't the type to be so aggressive, especially with you.

"I didn't mean for that to happen, John." You said weakly. He had to understand, you were just trying to get his attention.

"But it did y/n and now I'm gonna have to show you what happens when you don't fucking listen" He rages quietly, eyes still on the road ahead.

It was always quiet with him.

little did you know.

To the untrained eye, he seemed cool and collected. But, you could tell he wasn't quite there. Maybe it was the way he squeezed the life out of the steering wheel or how he kept clenching and unclenching his jaw. Or, you know, the massive tent in his pants…

either way, you knew

somehow, you managed to piss off Johnny Suh.

"I suggest you start thinking of a way to apologize because you have no fucking idea what I have planned for you." He momentarily looks at you just long enough for you to see the dangerous glint in his eyes

~

Arriving at Johnny's apartment, you found yourself comfortably settled on his couch while he busied himself in the kitchen, fetching a glass of water for you. Since his remark on the way here, a palpable silence hung in the air.

As he approached you with the glass of water, he broke the silence, "Thought of a way to apologize yet?"

You glanced up at him from your spot on the couch. "I'm sorry. I should've listened to you," you managed to utter, your gaze dropping to the floor, a strange sense of shame washing over you.

He snorted in response, "That's all you came up with, Y/n?"

Meeting his disappointed gaze, you took a deep breath. "I should've known better," you added quietly.

He sighed, handing you the glass of water. "Drink."

Taking the glass from his hands, you started sipping as he watched you in silence. Then, without breaking eye contact, he nonchalantly remarked, "I'm going to fuck some sense into you and then fuck it out of you."

You choked on your water, hastily wiping at your mouth as you stared at him in disbelief.

"Your apology wasn't going to satisfy me anyway. I made up my mind when you said no the first time," he asserted, his tone casual yet loaded with an underlying intensity that left you flustered and strangely intrigued.

"And what if I don't want it." You daringly ask.

you knew you did.

The way he was watching you made that clear as day.

"Then say no." He shrugs

"Now finish the drink and head upstairs when you're done."he adds

and you did exactly that.

~

Johnny was a man. You knew that, he knew that, and the whole world knew that. But sometimes, it felt like you didn't always keep that obvious characteristic at the forefront of your mind, as you should have.

Entering the room, nothing struck you as special. It was the same as always: his bed in the middle of the space, surrounded by walls adorned with retro posters and pictures he had taken over the years with friends, family, and you. Despite the numerous times you had visited his home, particularly his room, it didn't feel as intimate as it did now, and for some reason, that excited you.

As you let your gaze wander, movement from the door pulled you out of your thoughts, and you turned your focus to a strangely quiet Johnny.

You both stood in silence, staring at each other for what felt like long, drawn-out minutes.

"I didn't think I'd have to tell you to strip, y/n," he said seriosusly.

You hiccup, startled. "E-excuse me?"

He stepped closer to you. "Fucking strip."

Your heart hammered in your chest at the complete unfamiliarity of the situation.

"John, you can't be seri—"

His hands fisted in your hair, causing you to tilt your head up, meeting his hard gaze. "Strip. I won't ask again. You're always free to leave, y/n, but you and I both know you don't want to."

~

"move your hand"

you twist and turn writhing your body all over his bed, hand trying to stop his fingers from fucking into you.

"Johnny, please! I said i was sorry " you scream as tears line your eyes

"I said move your fucking hand" he grabs your writs and pins the above your head

his fingers pummeling into you repeatedly. long and thick. you felt like you could feel all the ridges and callouses on them. all the fucking veins. it was torture.

SQUELCH SQUELCH

you try to squeeze your thighs together only for him to pry them back open almost immediately.

it was almost embarrassing just how wet you were really

"God. Fuck you're all over my sheets baby hmm" he moans his eyes never leaving your pussy.

almost.

that did it for you though

"Johnny, Johnny m'cumming"

“not yet baby”

you couldn't hold it

“Y/n, I said not yet” his actions contradicted his words as his fingers curled rubbing against your g spot

your body involuntarily shoots up off the bed as your lower abdomen contracts

"I can't hold it."

You cum with a high-pitched scream. Squirting all over Johnny's hand before lifelessly falling back on the bed.

you’re trying to get your breathing under control when you hear Johnny’s displeased voice

"you don't fucking listen do you"

fingers still in you, he manages to add even more pleasure relentlessly pumping into you

your legs start trembling from the intense pressure building in your abdomen once again.

Your scream is ear piercing as you cum for the fourth time

fifth...

you don't even know.

gosh, He hadn't even fucked you yet

you didn't even realize the drool running down your chin. eyes rolled back and lashes fluttering, your skin gleaming with sweat and thighs trembling. Your chest heaved as you breathed hard still coming down from your high.

In Johnny's eyes, you looked so fucked out and so fucking pretty.

He knew his version of foreplay was intense but he also knew he took it a bit further just for you.

his stubborn girl. He loved it but you needed to be taught a lesson.

with your mouth wide agape, he takes the opportunity of your oblivious state and shoves his middle and index finger down your throat causing you to gag.

"taste yourself...that's right baby suck my fingers clean" He coos as your mouth clings to his fingers.

when satisfied he pulls his away

"knees" is all he says.

you mumble uncoherent words trying to tell him you can't get up but it seems he is already way ahead of you helping you get comfortable in your position on the floor.

He begins to pull his sweatpants down revealing his erection fighting against the fabric of his black underwear. he wastes no time in pulling his cock out and you almost drool.

so harsh but so fucking pretty.

big and veiny with the prettiest pink tip. No wonder the foreplay was so intense. there was no way he was gonna fit without stretching you that much.

You look up at him with hopeful eyes. you wanted him in your mouth so fucking bad your pussy actually ached.

"So cute," he spits in the palm of his hand before bringing it down to stroke his cock.

"open and suck" He states.

Wasting no time your hands replace his and you begin to pump his pretty cock. you lick from the base of his pretty cock to the even prettier pink tip teasing him just a little with small kitten licks

"no teasing" he warns.

But of course, you don't listen continuing to push him over the edge with those kitten licks. even having the audacity to maintain eye contact while doing it.

You see the way his jaw clenches as he loses his patience and grabs the back of your head thrusting and forcing his cock to hit the back of your throat.

Your eyes widen and begin to water as you start to harshly breathe through your nose.

Gagging multiple times as he continues to relentlessly fuck your mouth

"no teasing and you continue to fucking tease huh? who's fucking in charge here y/n? Who's fucking cock's fucking your pretty mouth?"

not being able to speak you hum around his cock watching as his gaze becomes more sadistic by the second.

"Ah fuck, you're gonna make me cum like this baby?" you hum in response causing him to groan from the vibrations

"Ah, shit"

You watch his expression contort into a pained one before he somehow manages to make his cock hit even further than the back of your throat and cums in your mouth.

"Dont waste it, baby, swallow for me" he says airly

you swallowed his mouth full of cum. loving the pleasantly salty taste.

you wheezed and choked so overwhelmed with just how rough Johnny really was.

Where was this side of him hiding?

holy fuck

"your mouth, keep it open," he grumbles still heaving firm his previous orgasm.

you open your mouth a gain forming an 'O' shape and surprise takes you as he spits in your mouth before lightly slapping you across the face.

your hair was all over the place and your entire face was decorated with a mixture of precum, smudged makeup, tears, snot, and sweat

"Atta Girl." he praises you.

He helps you to your feet before giving you a quick peck on your lips

"turn around and bend over. Yeah just like that... spread your legs for me"

you used the bed as support as you got into the desired position.

he wastes no time thrusting his cock into you rough and hard.

the sound of skin slapping and the squelching of your pussy around him cause your knees to buckle as you threaten to lose your stance.

You were gonna cum soon.

feeling your swaying form, he grabs your neck pulling you into him as your back meets his chest

"don't you fucking dare" he threatens.

"Ah... please please, please! m'sorry... m'so sorry I won't do it again just please make me cum john, I'll be good I swear" you cry gasping for air between words. soon your sentences jumble into a whole lot of nothing.

he keeps his hand wrapped around your neck as he uses the other to hold your hand behind your back

"no. Cum when I say so. you need to learn to fucking listen."

snapping his hips at a quick pace.

the area around your hips already beginning to bruise from how hard he was holding you.

"t'much please johnny!" You scream as your legs begin to shake for the umpteenth time

"you can fucking take it. This is what you wanted right? To piss me off? Having mark all on you like that?" he says begrudgingly

he grabs your left breast and squeezes your nipple hard enough for your pussy to clench around him

"so damn sensitive" he whispers in awe.

he pulls out and pushes you on the bed. you look back and he's

standing over you with messy hair, dark eyes, and a cock so erect it slapped against his stomach with the slightest movement.

"get on your back and spread your legs" he says pulling your legs to the edge of the bed .

You flip over and he immediately fucks into you even harder than before.

once again your hands flay erratically as you scream trying to get away from the aching pleasure that was starting to make you see double.

"look at that baby, " he coos eyes staring at your stomach.

you look down and see his cock bulging in your lower abdomen.

You gasp at the sight

'Johnny please" you whimper not even sure what you are asking for.

"I might just fuck a baby into you. keep you home like a good little wife hmm." he says seriously, eyes still set on the bulging in your lower abdomen.

you clenched around him liking the sound of carrying his children

"you like that huh? " He groans

you nod as tears start to stream down your face.

suddenly he stops thrusting causing you to cry out

"Just gimmie a second baby gotta fix your mistake," he says as he reaches over to his nightstand picking up his phone.

"I'm calling Mark " he says nonchalantly causing your heart to race.

"you're off-limits and they fucking know that but it seems all of you need to be reminded of how things are tonight hm?"

the dial tone blares out before a muffled "hello?" comes through the speaker. Mark.

"watch " Johnny says before he thrusts into you so fucking deep you could taste him

you moan loudly

barley registering the "fucking hell, man" that comes from the phone. That was Haechan

'watch' Johnny had said earlier and you begin to understand that it was a video call.

Mark and Haechan were witnessing Johnny fuck you into oblivion.

"see this? this is my fucking pussy and nobody else can fucking have it." he fucks your relentlessly a familiar feeling building in your stomach.

"j-johnny its t'much"

"nah, you can fucking take it."

"oh, fuck! " you scream into the pillow

"my fucking pussy and she can't give it away ain't that right y/n"

"mhmm" you say not having the strength actually speak.

you cum with a shiver and a whine and even then he didn't stop

still drilling his cock into you

overstimulating you more and more

you try to get away and he never once let his cock leave you.

"tell them how many times you cum tonight." He challenges, knowing full well that you couldn't form a word much less a sentence at the moment.

you mutter random words too fucked out to think

a sharp slap to your face brings you back

"how many fucking times?" he says through clenched teeth

"Alot" you scream.

"good girl" he says before hanging up the phone and throwing it across the room.

"just give me one more" he continues.

you moan as your toes curl from the overwhelming sensations building in your stomach

with a sharp thrust, you squirt all over Johnny's cock just as he cums inside you.

"next time you do that shit I’ll fuck you right in front of them instead of over the phone."

[l1v-jzn]

thesis of the damned au — geum seong je #2

pairing: geum seong je x reader

genre: psychological thriller, dark academia, slow-burn romance, supernatural mystery, alternate universe (au)

summary: you transfer to an elite private university on a prestigious academic scholarship. Everyone there seems to know each other. Secret handshakes. Closed doors. Whispers you’re not invited to.

you meet Geum Seong je—sharp-tongued, perpetually late, smirking like he knows every secret in the building. He’s brilliant, bored, and definitely hiding something. Rumors say he wrote a paper so controversial it was buried by the faculty.

you find it. It’s not just a thesis. It’s a manifesto. Buried in it… are clues. To a secret society. To a missing student. To a crime that never made it into the newspapers.

and you?? You’re the only one smart and reckless enough to keep up with him.

taglist (only for this series): @mishh2728 @ellaaa505 @heeknow @ruruyinn @yinyangcchii (please just comment here if you want to be tagged only for this series)

— Previous Part — — Next Part —

they didn’t speak again until 2:13 a.m.

the dorm room was dim, lit only by the old desk lamp humming softly. It cast a pool of golden light across the bed—now a battleground of papers, redacted documents, and the occasional half-eaten snack. Rain tapped at the window like it was trying to eavesdrop.

you sat cross-legged on the faded rug, hoodie sleeves pulled over your knuckles, your fingertips smudged with graphite. Seong Je was sprawled across the bed like he owned time itself, one arm behind his head, the other flipping through a binder so yellowed it crackled.

he had this infuriating calm about him. Like even chaos couldn’t touch him without asking permission first.

“So,” you said, circling something on the map, “this tunnel under the chapel—sealed, right?”

“According to the administration, yes,” he said, chewing absently on the end of a pencil. “But the administration also claims Avemhall doesn’t have an underground archive full of censored case files and missing student records.”

you looked up. “So what you’re saying is…”

“I’m saying if they say it’s sealed, it probably leads straight to hell.”

you gave him a slow look. “You say that with the confidence of someone who’s been there.”

“Freshman orientation,” he deadpanned.

a tired laugh escaped you before you could help it. And just like that, the air shifted—less like static, more like a string being pulled taut between you.

you leaned forward, tracing a red circle drawn around a date on one of the files. “This notation—it’s tomorrow.” He sat up instantly. “What?”

you handed him the paper. “Look. Same pen, same handwriting as the other notes. ‘Phase II: Observation begins.’ That’s not just a theory. That’s a schedule.”

his eyes scanned the page, the line of his jaw tightening. He was already halfway off the bed, pulling on his hoodie. “Then we go tonight. Map the route. Find their access point before they use it.” You raised a brow. “You’re assuming we’re doing this together.”

he turned to you, one brow arched with practiced arrogance. “You broke into a vault, showed up at my door like a drenched banshee, and now you’re sitting on my floor sorting contraband. Congratulations. You’re in the group chat.” You smirked. “You have a group chat?”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing a flashlight from his drawer. “It’s just me. But I send really dramatic updates.”

he knelt beside you, flipping through the tunnel schematics. His knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved. You could smell his cologne now—woodsy, sharp, and faintly burned, like cedar left too close to flame. He looked up at you—and paused just for a beat.

it wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Still. But his gaze lingered longer than necessary. Like he wasn’t looking at you, but into you—cataloguing something only he could see. You swallowed. “What?” His voice was softer than expected. “Nothing.”

you narrowed your eyes. “No, you were looking at me like I grew antlers.”

a hint of amusement curved his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

he didn’t reply, just passed you a worn polaroid. “This was Myeong-joo’s. Last photo she took before she vanished.”

you studied it—two students near the chapel, faces blurry, one circled in red ink. Your stomach turned. The figure looked familiar. Too familiar. “She was close,” you whispered.

“She was reckless,” he said, voice tight. “She trusted the wrong people.” You looked up. “That why you don’t trust anyone now?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The silence between you said everything. You bit your tongue, “Okay,” you said. “Tomorrow night. We go under the chapel.”

“Carefully,” he said. “Obviously.” You said playfully rolling your eyes to him.

“And no more solo hero moments.”

“No promises.”

he sighed, exasperated. “You’re going to get us both killed.” You smiled. “Not before I solve this.”

Seong Je's Dorm — 3:55 a.m

it was nearly 4 a.m. when she finally fell asleep.

she hadn’t meant to—just laid back for a second, eyes fluttering, papers still in hand. Seong Je had glanced up from the notes, ready to make some snarky comment about caffeine limits, but the words never made it out.

she’d drifted off, head resting awkwardly against his bed frame, a file folder cradled like a blanket, hair a halo of chaos across her hoodie.

and just like that, the room went quiet. Really quiet.

not the kind of silence that comes from emptiness, but the kind that fills a space. Stretches it. Softens the edges of everything sharp.

Seong Je leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, pretending to still read—but his eyes kept flicking back to her. Once. Twice.

and then he stopped pretending.

her breathing had gone steady, one arm curled under your head. There was a tiny crease between her brows, like she was still fighting the mystery even in her sleep. She looked tired. Not just physically. Bone-deep tired. Like she’d been carrying things alone for too long.

he hated that he recognized it. He stood slowly, careful not to wake her, and picked up the scattered pages at her feet. He hesitated over the polaroid she’d been studying last—two anonymous figures under chapel light, secrets stitched in the shadows.

she’d gotten too close. So had Myeong-joo.

and now here she was, asleep in his dorm room with a target practically glowing on her back—and yet somehow still the calmest thing in the room.

“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, crouching beside her. “So stupid.”

he reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed and paused. His hand hovered just above hers. Not touching. Just hovering. Because he didn’t trust what it would mean if he let it.

instead, he gently draped the blanket over her shoulders, brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, and stood.

he didn’t say it out loud, of course. But in the soft silence, in the space between breath and heartbeat, it was there anyway, “Don’t disappear on me too.”

Seong Je’s dorm — The next day, 7:24 a.m

the morning light sliced through the blinds like judgment.

golden and intrusive, it crawled across the room, catching on the spines of old books, highlighting dust motes floating like ghosts between you and the boy you weren’t supposed to care about.

you stirred slowly, the stiff ache in your neck dragging you back to consciousness. You were curled on the floor beside Seong Je’s bed, the same cursed blanket still wrapped around you like a quiet confession. His scent clung to it—clean laundry, rain, and whatever danger smelled like in human form.

you blinked. Took stock. Your legs were tangled in an old hoodie. Not yours.

your breath hitched. Oh no.

across the room, Seong Je sat perched on the edge of his desk, barefoot, a mug in one hand and a pen tapping restlessly against his knee. The glow of his laptop screen cast strange shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark crescents under his eyes.

he didn’t look at you. “Sleep well?” he asked flatly, eyes fixed on the screen like it was more interesting than the very obvious emotional minefield in the room.

you pushed the blanket off your shoulders like it had personally betrayed you. “You let me fall asleep in your room?”

“I let you collapse like a Victorian orphan who just saw too many secrets,” he said, sipping his coffee. “There was snoring. I considered calling campus security.”

“Liar,” you muttered, rubbing sleep from your eyes. He didn’t deny it.

the silence hung. Long. Heavy. One of those silences that wasn’t empty—it was full. Of all the things you could say. Shouldn’t say. Almost said last night when he tucked the blanket around you like someone who definitely didn’t care (but absolutely did).

you stood too quickly, catching your balance on the edge of his desk. Your fingers brushed his mug. Warm. Steady. Not like you.

he finally glanced at you, eyes flicking up from the screen—and lingered. Just for a second too long.

his gaze was unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just... layered. Like there were too many thoughts trying to fit into too small a space. You cleared your throat. “So. Nothing happened. We move on. Cool?”

“Cool,” he echoed, voice carefully neutral. You stepped back. He watched you go.

but then—just before you reached the door—he said it. Quietly. Without looking. “You talk in your sleep.” You froze and slowly turned to him. “What did I say?”

he smirked, finally—finally—meeting your eyes. “You said my name.”

your stomach dropped somewhere between your knees and the floor. “I–I was probably threatening you,” you said, too fast.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Sounded more like pleading.”

he looked infuriatingly pleased with himself. Like he’d won some silent battle you didn’t even know was happening. You glared. “You’re insufferable.”

he shrugged. “You keep coming back.” And you hated that he wasn’t wrong.

Avemhall University Courtyard — 4:18 p.m

the courtyard was crowded.

golden-hour light slanted through gothic arches, casting long shadows over the students sprawled on stone benches and creaking iron chairs. Laughter floated through the air—too bright, too brittle.

you were flipping through your annotated copy of Symbology and Subversion under a cherry tree, trying to look casual. Like your pulse wasn’t betraying you. Like you didn’t know exactly who had just walked into the quad five minutes ago.

and like you hadn’t felt his stare the moment he did.

across the way, Seong Je leaned against the arch of one of the older halls, deep in mock conversation with Baek Jin and some other upper-year society kids. His head tilted back slightly as if he was laughing at something—but his eyes? They weren’t on them. They were on you.

barely there. Blinking slow. Calculated and careless all at once. You turned a page you hadn’t read.

he said something to his friends—then peeled off, crossing the quad at a maddeningly unhurried pace. You didn’t move. You didn’t have to. His presence closed in like a storm front.

he stopped a few feet away. Hands in his coat pockets. Head cocked. “Didn’t think you were the type to sit outside and soak in aesthetics like a tragic protagonist.” You looked up, dry. “Didn’t think you were the type to do social interaction in daylight.” He smiled—barely.

the air crackled between you. Neither of you stepped closer.

a girl nearby glanced between the two of you, sensing something unspoken, and immediately looked away like she’d just seen something too private. “Where were you headed?” you asked, tone carefully light. He shrugged. “Nowhere in particular.”

you raised a brow. “So you just happened to stop near me.”

“I’m doing research,” he said, voice smooth. “On self-deluded scholars who think they’re subtle.”

you exhaled a laugh despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from the guy who definitely stared at me for five full minutes without blinking.” He stepped closer. Just slightly. “Only because you were looking at me first.” That shut you up.

for a heartbeat, the world blurred—students walking by, campus noise fading, cherry blossoms dancing in the breeze like confetti for a moment you weren’t ready to name.

he looked at you like he was trying to memorize something.

and then—like it never happened—he straightened, cleared his throat, and nodded to your book. “Careful with that chapter. The margins hide more than just footnotes.” And with that, he turned. Gone before you could ask what he meant. You stared after him. Every nerve lit. Every thought tangled.

your book felt heavier in your lap. You flipped to the page he mentioned—and froze. Tucked into the margin, between two lines about initiation rites, was a name. Yours.

and the same thin, sharp handwriting from the locker note.

North Wing hallway — ?:??

you weren’t supposed to be here, that much was clear from the way the overhead light flickered once—just once—as you passed beneath it, as if the building itself was warning you to turn back. But you couldn’t.

the name in the book’s margins had been written deliberately. Ink too fresh. A plant. A message. And that message had led you here.

to the hallway they said no one used anymore. To the door with the rotted wood frame and a handle that shouldn’t have turned—but did.

you stepped inside. Dust hung in the air like fog. The room smelled like candlewax and old secrets. Long shelves lined with cracked leather tomes. A single desk in the center. Nothing on it except—a black envelope, with your name. You reached for it—but a voice beat you to it. “I wouldn’t open that if I were you.”

you froze. Behind you stood a girl. Maybe your age. Maybe older. Her uniform was regulation-perfect, but too clean. Pressed like it had never been worn for anything as pedestrian as learning. Her hair was pinned with a silver clasp shaped like the Avemhall crest—but older. Sharper. You hadn’t even heard her enter.

her eyes scanned you like a file. Unbothered. Icy. “You’re the scholarship girl,” she said, like it was an insult wrapped in silk.

you straightened your shoulders. “And you’re clearly someone who enjoys dramatic entrances.”

she smiled, and it wasn’t kind. “We’ve been watching you.” That ‘We’. Your stomach twisted.

she stepped closer, circling like a hawk. “You and Seong Je make a curious pair. He doesn’t usually get... attached.” You bristled. “We’re not anything.”

“Mmm,” she hummed. “That’s what Myeong-joo said too.” The name hit like a dropped stone in your chest. Your voice cracked. “You knew her?”

“She knew too much. Asked the wrong questions. Trusted the wrong people.” Her eyes met yours, dead calm. “You’re heading down the same path.” Silence. Thick. Chilling.

you wanted to speak. You really did. But your throat felt like it had been tied in knots.

then—she leaned in, close enough for her whisper to skim your ear, “Secrets are sacred here, sunbae. Break the rite, and the walls break you.” She pulled back with the poise of royalty. “You’d be wise to remember that.”

and just like that, she slipped past you and out the door—heels clicking like punctuation marks. When you blinked again, she was gone.

you looked down. The envelope was missing.

Your Dorm — 8:39 p.m

you didn’t notice it at first. The symbol.

not until your notes from Prof. Chae’s lecture started shifting—not in content, but in vibe. You flipped a page, and there it was: scrawled in the corner like a careless doodle, sharp and spiraling and wrong.

it looked like three crescent moons stitched into a circle, ringed with tiny marks like teeth. You hadn’t drawn it.

you would’ve remembered drawing something that unsettling.

you stared at it for a long moment, waiting for the memory to click into place. Nothing did.

you shut the notebook. Waited. Then opened it again. The symbol was still there.

then you checked another notebook. Your copy of Dark Societies of the Enlightenment. The back cover. Same symbol. A little fainter. But there.

and when you turned off the desk lamp? It glowed faintly.

your breath hitched. Something in your chest thrummed—like the notebook was vibrating with a frequency your bones didn’t know how to ignore.

and then came the sound. A thud. Low. Hollow. Not from your room—but somewhere close. Like a knock, but not on your door. You grabbed your phone. Dead. Again. Of course.

you stood slowly, heart jackhammering, and opened your closet—not knowing why, just following that cold instinct that something was off—and tucked behind the shoeboxes at the back was a folded piece of parchment. Not paper. Parchment.

you unfolded it carefully, hands trembling. It looked like a map. Or a blueprint. Lines connecting parts of campus you didn’t even recognize. And right in the center: That same symbol. Burned into the page. Below it, written in tiny, spidery handwriting: “When the sun passes the tower’s eye, the door will open. Come alone. Leave nothing behind.” You blinked—and the message began to fade. Disintegrating like ash.

you clutched the page tighter, breath shallow, pulse frantic. It didn’t matter if it made sense. You knew one thing: You were being summoned.

The Clocktower — 11:43 p.m

the bell didn’t chime at midnight. It never did.

that was part of the ritual—you learned that from the map. When the “tower’s eye” looked over campus and found only silence, that was the moment.

so you stood there beneath the looming arch of the clocktower, breath clouding in the cold, the map clutched in one hand and the faint glow of the symbol on your wrist—because yes, it was on your skin now—guiding you.

you weren’t sure when it had appeared, only that it burned cold every time you got closer.

a breeze whispered through the cracks in the stone, and then—a click. The wall shifted—barely but enough for a body to get in.

you stepped forward, heart slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break out. The door was flush with the tower wall, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look—etched with the symbol, which pulsed softly once as your fingers touched it. Then it opened.

stone groaned. Dust lifted. Air that hadn’t breathed in years sighed in your face. You slipped inside.

the passage curved down—spiraling steps, lit only by sconces that shouldn’t have been lit, their flames unnaturally steady. As if the air didn’t dare move down here.

you followed the steps, down, down, and then voices. Low. Chanting. Rhythmic.

your feet landed on a marble floor carved with sigils you didn’t recognize. Candles in concentric rings. Robed figures standing silent. Hooded. Unmoving.

in the center of the room, a boy knelt. Head bowed. Shaking. You couldn’t see his face, but you recognized the uniform. First-year. Another scholarship student.

they were saying something in Latin. Or maybe it wasn’t Latin. Your brain tried to translate and failed.

a silver bowl of water passed from one figure to the next. Then, a blade.

the one holding it raised their hand—and you didn’t realize you’d gasped until all their heads turned to you in unison. “Who—” one of them started. You ran.

bolted back up the stairs, lungs burning, not stopping until you slammed out into the night, your breath tearing from your throat. Until someone pulled you from the dark.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You yelped—spun—and found yourself face-to-face with Seong Je, hoodie on, hair disheveled, eyes blazing.

he shook your arm once. “Are you insane?! Going in there alone, what did you think that was?! A damn tea ceremony?!”

“I didn’t know what I’d find–”

“You don’t get to not know!” he shouted, voice raw. “They could’ve—God, they could’ve marked you or worse.” You’d never seen him like this.

he let go of your wrist like it burned him, turning away to drag a hand through his hair.

you stepped closer, quieter now. “I found the map. The symbol. The book in the library. And you weren’t going to tell me?”

he turned back to you, and for a second the anger dropped—just long enough for you to see the fear under it. Too late. You both knew it.

behind you, the clocktower bell finally rang—one slow, thunderous chime. You both looked up.

and in the silence after it faded, Seong Je said, almost too softly, “…They know your name now.”

Abandoned Greenhouse — 12:09 a.m

he didn’t say a word after the clocktower.

just grabbed your hand—tight—and pulled you through side paths and service corridors like a ghost who’d memorized every skeleton Avemhall had hidden.

you didn’t protest. Not even when you recognized the back entrance to the greenhouse.

not even when you noticed it had been reinforced—barred windows, layered locks, wards carved into the old stone lintel like quiet prayers against whatever hunted outside.

he finally stopped moving once the door was locked behind you. You were breathing hard. He wasn’t.

the room was strangely warm, lit by mismatched lamps and the faint shimmer of bio-luminescent moss creeping up the wall. Not the prettiest sanctuary, but clearly lived-in. A cot in the corner. Books stacked everywhere. One lone space heater chugging like a tired beast.

you opened your mouth to ask something—anything—but he beat you to it. “You could've died.” Just that. Quiet. Flat.

you stepped closer, defiant. “So could that kid in the circle. What were they doing to him?” Seong Je didn’t answer.

instead, he sat on the edge of the cot and dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to rub away the entire night.

“Avemhall’s full of stories,” he muttered. “Secret societies. Hidden doors. But the real ones? The ones that don’t make the yearbook? They don’t play games. You show up uninvited, you don’t get detention. You disappear.”

“You shouldn’t have seen that.”

you crossed your arms. “I did.” Another silence.

then he reached into his coat pocket and tossed something toward you. It slid across the old worktable and stopped near your hand. A charm. Worn brass. Shaped like the symbol—but different now. Inverted. Protective, maybe. “Wear it,” he said. “Always.” Your fingers closed around it. “And what is this supposed to do?”

his eyes met yours, serious in a way that left no room for sarcasm. “Buy me enough time to get to you if they come.”

something in your chest fluttered—fear, maybe. Or something softer and more dangerous.

you lowered yourself into the chair across from him, charm clutched in your palm. “…Is this the part where you tell me everything?” Seong Je’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No.” You raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

he leaned forward, forearms on knees, voice dark velvet and razor-thin patience. “Because the more you know, the more you’re worth killing.” Your stomach dropped. But you nodded. The charm burned faintly warm in your hand.

outside, the wind screamed against the glass. Inside, Seong Je watched you like you were already part of the game. And in the farthest corner of the greenhouse—one of the vines shifted. Like something was listening.

Flashback to Seong Je’s Past

Seong Je had been just like you, once.

scholarship kid. Transfer. Smarter than most, angrier than all. His grades outpaced his professors. His mouth outpaced his sense. And someone—someone in the Society—had noticed.

he got the first note the night after he corrected a professor in Latin. It didn’t say much.

“We see you. You want truth? Come earn it.”

he thought it was a prank. He followed it anyway. Just like you.

but his initiation hadn’t been something he stumbled into. It was planned. Controlled. Everyone in those robes had known his name. His history. His weak spots.

they brought him to the same chamber under the clocktower. They didn’t blindfold him. They wanted him to see.

the boy kneeling that night hadn’t been a victim. It had been him.

they marked him—not with a blade, but with words. Dozens of voices whispering secrets all at once. Some of them true. Some half-true. Some designed to break him.

by the end of it, he didn’t know which way was up, but he knew one thing: They didn’t want obedience. They wanted complicity.

so when they offered him the final rite—to complete the circle, to take the oath—he smiled and walked away. No one ever did that. He’s the only one who lived to try.

his legs barely worked by the time he found the east wing. He’d followed instinct more than direction. It had been raining then, too. Of course it had.

the greenhouse had been abandoned for years—students joked it was haunted, or cursed, or full of venomous plants that never died. Which made it perfect.

he’d broken in through a rotted window. Collapsed against the floor. Cried, maybe. Not that he’d admit that now.

he carved his first ward into the wall that night. Slept beside it.

every time someone got too close—Society members, professors, anyone with that look in their eye—he added another ward. Another layer of defense. Another brick in the fortress he never let anyone see inside. Not until now. Not until you.

Back to the Present

he doesn’t tell you about it, of course. A past that still lingers in him.

he just sits across from you, watching as you twist the charm in your fingers like it might whisper to you.

you don’t see the way his gaze lingers on your face. The worry that slips through the cracks. The guilt he carries like a brand under his skin.

he doesn’t say it out loud. But he’s thinking it.

“I should’ve burned that map the second I saw it in your hands.”

“I should’ve warned you.”

“I should’ve never let you in.”

but instead, he just mutters, “Get some sleep.” and turns away. He doesn’t sleep. Not really. He just listens. To the wind. To the heartbeat he’s too aware of.

to the silence where your breathing fills the room—and so help him, if you snore, he’s going to have to start catching feelings against his will.

Abandoned Greenhouse — The next day, 7:37 a.m

you don’t remember falling asleep. Just the soft warmth of the charm in your hand. The low hum of the space heater. The way the rain outside sounded like static against the glass. But you woke up to silence. Not in the creepy way.

the rare kind. Sacred. Like the world had paused to give you one breath of peace.

you blinked at the sight of you. The light was low—one lamp still on, flickering gently like it was trying not to disturb you. Your muscles ached from the cot, your mind still fogged with the aftershock of everything you’d seen.

and then you saw him, Seong Je. Asleep. Slouched in the chair beside your cot, hoodie bunched up at the neck, head tilted slightly like it had dropped mid-watch. His arms were folded. One leg stretched out. His face soft in a way you’d never seen—none of the usual tension in his jaw, no biting sarcasm curled into his mouth.

just stillness. Just a boy who looked… young. Tired. Beautiful, in the way tragic statues are—half-sorrow, half-strength, all shadow.

a few strands of hair had fallen into his face. You fought the sudden, idiotic urge to brush them back.

he muttered something in his sleep. Frowned. Then relaxed again, like whatever demon he was dreaming about had let him go.

you stared at him for—like really stared—because this—this wasn’t the Seong Je who barked orders and rolled his eyes and called you “newbie” like it was your birth name.

this was the one who’d dragged you to safety. Who’d given you protection he didn’t even want to admit you needed. Who stayed. Even when he didn’t have to.

the charm was still warm in your hand. Carefully—slowly—you sat up, the blanket falling from your shoulders. You didn’t want to wake him. Not yet. Not when the storm had quieted and he finally looked like someone who could be trusted. Or maybe just someone who wanted to be. And maybe that was worse.

because you knew. This moment wasn’t going to last.

eventually, the real world would claw its way back in. With threats. And secrets. And the reminder that you weren’t supposed to be here at all.

but for now? You watched him sleep.

and tried not to fall for the only boy, who is broken enough to understand why you never really felt safe in the first place.

second part is here!! 🙈🥳 how are y'all feeling abt this part?? 🙌🏻😤 happi reading!! 🙂‍↕️🤌🏻

© l1v-jzn

[cherrywriterrr]

pysch 203 one

college!rafe x pinkhaired!oc

warnings: mentions of sex, sexual desire (mildly explicit), casual profanity, drugs (mentioned), chaotic bsf behavior, light objectification, suggestive girl on girl content, foreshadowing, hunger

introduction one two

nova’s dorm smelled like coconut body butter and weed. there was glitter on the floor, a lacy bra hanging from the desk lamp, and some girl’s number written in eyeliner on the mirror.

it wasn’t her number. nova couldn’t even remeber the girl’s name. just that she had glitter on her cheekbones and tasted like sour candy vodka.

sarah was cross legged on nova’s bed, painting her nails black while nova was upside down across the foot of it, head dangling off the edge like a corpse.

“i’m so horny it’s becoming medical,” nova groaned dramatically, waving her hand in the air like she was summoning a demon. “i need to get dicked down or eat some girl out before i lose the will to live.”

sarah didn’t even blind. “it’s monday morning.”

“exactly,” nova said. “i’m mentally ill.”

“you’re a psychology major.”

“and I’m telling you, as a professional, that my brain is starving for someone to rail me into next week.”

sarah snorted, blowing her nails. “you could try texting that girl from friday.”

“she had weird shoes. gave me toephobia.”

“that’s not a real thing.”

“it is now.”

nova sat up slowly, dizzy and wild eyed, pink hair messy from rolling around in her sheets all night. she’d been up journaling about chaos theory and watching tik toks of girls with snake tattoos.

sarah tossed her the nail polish. “you have class today?”

“psych 203. hot professor. mid syllabus. i’m praying for a partner project so i can trauma bond with someone hot.”

“manifest it,” sarah said, like it was religion. “just not my brother”

nova fake gagged. “absolutely the fuck not. you told me he’s a drugged out menace.”

“he’s been clear for a year.”

“doesn’t erase the vibes.”

“you’ve never even met him.”

nova looked at her best friend with dead seriousness “any man named rafe has main character issues and unresolved anger toward a little league coach. i’m not risking it.”

sarah laughed so hard she smudged her nail.

outside the window, the sky was turning that perfect early fall color, somewhere between heartbreak and blue jeans. nova rolled off the bed, grabbed her film camera, and pointed it at sarah.

“say slut,” she said sweetly.

“slut,” sarah grinned. the shutter clicked.

nova tossed the camera onto her bed and made a pained noise, clutching her hair like the world was ending. “oh fuck me,” she groaned, suddenly scrambling for the tiny cracked mirror on her desk. “i forgot to do my hair. why the hell didn’t you remind me?”

sarah barely looked up from her phone. “babe. your hair is pink. you already stand out like you’re in a damn skittles ad.”

“okay but i still need to look effortlessly unbothered. like i woke up hot but also emotionally complex.”

she yanked a claw clip from the nightstand and twisted her cotton candy hair into something vaguely messy-chic, muttering under her breath the whole time. “i swear if i meet someone hot today and my hair is greasy, i will die. i will combust. there will be a nova-shaped scorch mark on this campus.”

“dramatic as fuck,” sarah said.

“realistic,” nova shot back, grabbing her mascara with one hand and lip gloss with the other like she was doing drag for class.

“what even is psych 203?” sarah asked, watching her best friend line her lips like a girl going into battle.

“some theory bullshit. attachment styles. the usual ‘why am i like this’ curriculum,” nova said, smacking her lips together. “i just wanna make eye contact with someone unstable and ruin their week.”

sarah grinned. “so same as every monday.”

nova shrugged “i am who i am.” a pause.

then sarah stood up, stretching, crop top riding up over her stomach like she didn’t have a care in the world. “well, you can emotionally damage someone later.” she said, grabbing her tote bag. “I’m getting dicked down by john b after lit class anyway.”

nova clutched her heart like she’d been shot. “you absolute bitch”

“i know.”

“You’re my hero.”

“I know.”

they exchanged matching evil little smirks. “manifest good dick and extra credit,” sarah called out as she headed to the door.

nova flipped her off affectionately and yelled back, “manifest this pussy!”

the door shut behind sarah with a lazy click, and nova was alone again.

the silence settled fast—warm, familiar, a little too quiet without her best friend humming lana or complaining about professors with god complexes.

nova stood in the middle of the room for a second, staring at her reflection in the mirror. her pink hair was behaving for once, half-up in a clip, soft tendrils falling around her face. her eyeliner was sharp. her lip gloss looked like trouble.

she looked like a girl who could ruin someone’s week in under ten minutes.

sighing, she grabbed her phone off the bed and flopped back onto her comforter, legs dangling off the edge, thumb mindlessly unlocking the screen.

3 new messages.

one was from a number saved as 💋✨mystery girl.

nova had no memory of saving it, but the icon was a blurry photo of a glitter-covered shoulder and a tongue ring.

friday girl 💋✨:

u left your lighter in my bra

also ur really good w ur mouth?? lol

when can i see u again 😘

nova blinked, let the words sit there for a second.

then “god i’m such a whore,” she whispered fondly to herself, grinning as she tossed the phone to the side. she’d text her back later. or not. depending on her mood.

the next message came from a name she actually did remember.

topper.

sarah’s ex. rafe’s best friend. blonde. annoying. vaguely hot in a way that made nova want to throw things.

topper:

wake up you whore

we have a party later

wear something illegal

nova rolled her eyes so hard she saw god.

she typed back quickly.

nova:

only if u promise not to cry in the corner again when someone plays the 1975

i’m not babysitting ur sad boy era

three dots. typing. then nothing.

she smirked, satisfied.

nova stretched out across her bed like a cat in the sun, letting the ceiling fan hum softly above her. her first class wasn’t for another twenty minutes. she’d show up late. maybe on purpose. maybe make a scene. maybe meet someone new to ruin.

she checked her lip gloss in the camera reflection and said to no one “god i hope he’s hot.”

nova rolled over and grabbed her laptop, pulling it onto her stomach as she typed in the passcode: crybaby69.

her desktop was an absolute graveyard—open tabs, folders titled things like evidence, girlies i would die for, and rafe cameron is NOT real (don’t open).

(it was empty. she hadn’t met him yet. but she had a feeling.)

she opened the folder marked “sep 29 (chaos),” and let the thumbnails load.

friday night flickered to life on the screen.

first, a blurry, too-bright pic of john b and sarah licking each other’s tongues like feral teenagers in love.

nova snorted. she remembered yelling “siblings, actually!” at them and getting flipped off by both of them at once.

then there was topper, arm around her shoulders, both of them mid-shot, mouths open, faces flushed. her eyeliner was smudged. topper had the dazed expression of a golden retriever after eating weed brownies. someone had drawn a penis on his neck in sharpie.

“good times,” nova muttered.

she clicked to the next one: mystery girl in a mesh top, grinding on some guy, lipstick smeared, eyes on nova behind the lens. there was a later photo where her hand was on nova’s thigh, ringed fingers disappearing under her skirt. nova paused. stared at it. saved it to her favorites.

then—jesus christ.

a photo of nova herself, laughing in the kitchen with some random dude she couldn’t name. his tongue was out. her shirt was pulled down. his lips were on her boob like it was a religious experience.

“oh, babe,” she whispered to herself, “you need therapy.”

she didn’t delete it.

instead, she leaned her head back against her pillow and stared at the ceiling, grinning like someone who knew she was the slut in five different stories.

her lip gloss was still sticky. her boots were by the door. class was in five minutes.

maybe she’d show up.

maybe she’d walk in late, all pink hair and fake innocence.

maybe she’d sit next to someone who looked like he’d bite. maybe today would be interesting.

nova was late.

not fashionably, not dramatically—just late-late.

like everyone already has a seat, professor’s mid-sentence, everyone turns to look at you when you open the door kind of late.

exactly the way she liked it.

she chewed gum as she walked in, sunglasses still on, iced coffee half-melted in one hand. her pink hair was twisted up but falling loose in curls, lips glossy, shirt very much not dress code. she looked like the prelude to a breakdown and a party at the same time.

the only seat left was near the back. right beside some guy with a buzzcut and a jawline sharp enough to gut a man.

nova slid into the desk with a little sigh, like she was doing them a favor by showing up.

the guy glanced over. and then he stared.

she felt it before she saw it—his gaze, heavy and hot, burning into the side of her face like he was trying to figure out what planet she came from. nova turned her head slowly, met his eyes over the rim of her sunglasses.

he blinked, eyes narrowing.

then he said, completely serious: “why the fuck do you have pink hair?”

nova didn’t flinch. just popped her gum and smiled. “why the fuck are you bald, bitch?”

someone near them choked on their drink.

his mouth twitched. not a smile. just something close. crooked.

“shiiit,” he muttered under his breath, still staring at her like she was a weird dream. “you’re sarah and topper’s best friend.”

nova rolled her eyes. “topper is my bitch, not my best friend.”

she tilted her head, sizing him up.

buzzcut. rings on his fingers. bruised knuckles. expensive hoodie. broken nose that healed wrong.

trouble. rage. probably good in bed.

probably terrible for her.

her eyes flicked lower, then back up. “and who are you?”

he didn’t answer. just kept looking at her like he already knew her. like he’d seen her before.

and then nova’s smile dropped, eyes widening just a little.

“no shit,” she said under her breath, laugh sharp and low.

“you’re rafe—the druggie aggressive bitch with a god complex.”

he grinned, teeth sharp. “guilty.”

rafe looked like he’d just gotten away with something.

his buzzcut caught the light in a way that made him look even more like a problem, all edges and shadows and faint bruising near his jaw. nova stared at him like she was trying to figure out how many felonies he had—and if she could make it one more.

she leaned her cheek into her palm, elbow on the desk, and gave him a long once-over.

“why the fuck are you in this class?” she asked, voice light but laced with poison. “shouldn’t you be the patient?”

his grin didn’t fade. if anything, it deepened—like she’d just flirted with him instead of insulted him.

“maybe i’m doing research,” rafe murmured. “for court-mandated reasons.”

nova raised a brow. “so it is rehab hours.”

“nah,” he said lazily. “i’m a business major. just like psych girls.”

“we’re unstable.”

“exactly.”

nova smirked, pretending to look back at the professor. she didn’t take notes. just twirled her pen between chipped black nails.

rafe didn’t stop watching her.

after a moment, he leaned a little closer—voice low, amused, teeth catching on his bottom lip like he was holding something in.

“you look like you’ve got, like… ten different psychological diagnoses,” he said, eyes flicking to her rings, her chipped polish, her tiny tattoos, her lips. “minimum.”

nova’s smile was slow and dangerous.

like a match being lit.

“that’s so crazy,” she whispered. “i was just about to say the same thing about you.”

he snorted.

the professor droned on about freud and behavioral conditioning. nova and rafe didn’t look away from each other.

she still thought he was a menace.

he already wanted to know how she’d taste saying his name.

just when nova was about to fully dissociate and draw boobs in the margins of her notebook, the professor clapped his hands once—too loud, too sharp.

“alright, everyone. partner assignments for the semester project start today.”

a wave of groans swept through the room. nova blinked out of her daydream. beside her, rafe shifted in his seat like he suddenly gave a shit.

“you’ll be working with the person sitting next to you,” the professor continued, completely unfazed. “it’s called proximity and social exposure. write about your dynamic, your observations, how your psych theories apply. twenty pages. due end of semester.”

nova’s hand flew up immediately.

without waiting to be called on, she blurted, “bestie—respectfully—i can’t do that.”

the entire room turned. rafe turned slower. like he was already used to her being out of pocket.

the professor sighed with the weight of a man who had absolutely dealt with her before.

“miss nora.”

“nova.”

“nova.” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “how many times do i have to say this? if you want your degree, stop acting like the patient.”

the class lost it.

rafe let out a low whistle beside her.

“shit,” he muttered, turning his head, fully entertained now. “you’re insane.”

nova gave him a sugar-sweet smile like she was about to commit a felony. “takes one to know one, roommate.”

he looked like he wanted to laugh.

or bite. maybe both. probably both.

“so what’s the deal?” he asked casually. “you gonna write twenty pages about me being a psychotic freak?”

nova sighed dramatically, flopping back in her seat. “guess i have to. maybe i’ll get bonus points for surviving.”

rafe leaned closer, voice low. “you think you’re gonna survive me?”

nova didn’t even blink. “not planning on it.”

introduction next>> taglist

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @qversazex @t0x1cfaerie

[emberphoenixisgoingtolive]

how the Nublar Six would swear

CW, swearing (no shit /hj) as in, the swear words are said. i know (??) there are kids here so like. if swearing makes you uncomfortable, scroll past <3

Darius:

mama Bowman did not raise him to swear. Brand taught him the cuss words and mama Bowman got mad at him when seven year old Darius randomly yelled “SHIT!” when he dropped something

was a literal kid in camp cretaceous, so he was partially scared to swear, partially willing to do so anyway to Fit In With The Older Kids

the result was swearing in the worst moments. someone confesses something bad that happened to them and Darius says, completely genuinely, “wow, i’m so fucking sorry that happened to you😥” and Kenji laughs so hard because he did not use it in the right context

by the time the camp fam get back to the mainland though he is better at swearing in the right places

chaos theory however has him cursing his mouth off, usually only when he’s alone but he is prone to a frustrated “what the fuck were you thinking?!”

also calls people a dickhead a lot (he picked it up from Brooklynn since it’s a word more commonly said in britain iirc)

Brooklynn:

swears like a brit (cos of all the time she spent in london and i headcanon one of her dads is british)

the other group tease her for saying shit like ‘wanker’ ‘twat’ ‘bloody’ as well as some words the others haven’t even heard of (wtf does bollocks/bugger/minger/bellend even mean)

however the joke is on the other campers when they call someone annoying a “bloody bastard twat” when they get back to the states and their parents look at them like 🤨

regular cunt user (and cunt server)

says bitch [reclaimed] a lot

Sammy:

refuses to swear

instead she’ll spit out every damn/darn/heck alternative imaginable

or start complaining in Spanish

the nublar six have heard her swear one (1) time and it was something like “what the fuck is wrong with [insert villain of the day, probably d*niel k*n]” or when Kenji’s not–father died and Sammy first heard the news, she whispered a discreet “fuck him” and Kenji momentarily felt better

Yaz:

swears like an absolute sailor but only around her friends

when things are not going their way she will probably start swearing at a tree or something. everyone stands in mostly fear and trepidation except Ben, who is mentally making notes of all the new words she’s giving him

when the nublar six meet Yaz’s mother, Yaz doesn’t swear At All around her and it unnerves them (her mum is fine with her cussing a bit (she’s earned it bfr) but Yaz prefers not to)

her use of ‘what the fuck’ got so out of hand that the others started a swear jar exclusive to Yaz saying that phrase which got her to cool it a bit

swears less in chaos theory; she’s learned to keep it in her head

Kenji:

was raised not to swear because it “tarnishes the kon family name”

of course, Kenji proceeded to swear whenever his dad was out of earshot in every other sentence

he went through that annoying era where people think it’s cool to say fuck every other word a year or so before camp cretaceous

has learned to moderate his level of swearing but will still drop an occasional “oh shit” or “fuck this”

canonically says stuff like “we’re cooked!” but would also say “well we’re fucked” when the campers come across a sticky situation

when brainrot words became a thing he was all over brainrot words for a solid week. someone would put something silly on their group chat and Kenji would reply “um what the sigma 🤓☝️” to be annoying. Yaz gives him three strikes and then boots him from the group chat

says he’s serving kont a LOT. he put it on a t shirt and wears it all the time

Ben:

terrified of swearing before camp cretaceous and all throughout season 1. one of the others says fuck or shit and he visibly flinches

however post jungle boy transformation, he says fuck easily, most predominantly “FUCK YEAH BABY!” when he’s exploded something

the first time he said fuck around the other campers, they all turned to look at him like 😲 and he just grins and says, “i’m a changed man”

goes back to the mainland with so much new vocabulary, he accidentally drops a swear bomb around his mother and she gasps so loud

[cookierunslut]

Listen. Listen. An AU where the COD are forced to call a temporary truce with the Ancients bc of some other threat.

But it's total chaos. Dark Enchantress sometimes regrets bringing in these traumatized kids to work for her bc now they're a bunch of unmedicated, traumatized adults with totally unhinged coping mechanisms and only a mild sense of direction. They do not take this seriously at all.

Basically it's a giant, entirely unhinged, disfunctional family of ppl with like, a third of the morals a normal person has and even less sense of self preservation and common sense.

-Licorice 100% makes it his personal mission to test everyone's patience. He's playing all these dumbass pranks and taking nothing seriously.

-Has free access to the kitchen tho bc the rest of the gang sometimes wants him to cook for them (bro's a malewife in denial. He can do all that homemaker stuff so damn well, he just doesn't want to. But he'll do it for PM)

-Pomegranate has a prey drive and actively stalks the servants of the Vanilla castle when she can't find Licorice. (She has enough self control to not kill Licorice, but no one needs to know that.)

-If she does find Licorice, she will actively bully him and their fighting can be heard for miles. DE deploys their failsafe (sends PM in to them) to break up these fights.

-Since Red Velvet has been around, there's been an increasing number of cake hounds in the gardens.

-They brought Butter Roll to help the scientists but the guy scared most of them with his wild theories and stories of his experiments.

-Red Velvet and Crunchy Chip surprisingly hit it off and swap dog stories and tips for care. Sometimes recipes for meals, tho it's mostly Red Velvet telling Crunchy Chip which recipes are good for aging hounds, shiny coats, joint health, and so on.

-Caramel Arrow has no trust in Pomegranate whatsoever, but absolutely teams up with her to hunt Licorice for sport when she falls victim to one of his pranks.

-Choco Werehound has the most fun just being a social butterfly and learning proper princess mannerisms from Princess Cookie. They form a shockingly good friendship.

-Poison Mushroom has the time of their life passing out Shroomies to everyone they see. And they get to hang out with Strawberry Crepe again too, plus her new friends, Custard 3 and the Gingerbrave gang.

-Sometimes PM can be found foraging near the Vanilla Kingdom or the castle gardens with Licorice.

-Licorice and Butter Roll were once found stoned out of their minds, laying in the castle gardens and staring at the sky with PM.

-Matcha was swiftly banned from the kitchens and had to go to the labs.

-For some reason Dark Enchantress insists on bringing her children minions to every meeting and it takes so damn long to get anything done.

I feel like them interacting without having to be enemies would just be chaos.

[rikudaa]

༉‧₊˚Blue Paint and Binary

Tim Drake/Red Robin x Reader | Part 1. >>>

ღA/N: I haven’t finished the Jason’s one yet but already started on Tim, I don’t have any excuse your honor. Dividers are made by @cafekitsune ! Also there’s a familiar name, I wonder why it’s there👀

Note: This is a Yandere story but for the start off the chapter it’s just a life of being student in university. You’re an art major with a psychology focus, and he’s in another major likely something strategic, analytical, or tech-heavy. Academic rivals are ruled.

No gender mention for reader, just “You” and “Y/N”. Enjoy!

You see him again.

Fourth time this week. Fifth if you count the reflection in the library window Monday night, where he didn’t notice you watching him stalk through the neuroscience wing like he had a hitlist tucked in his backpack. He probably did. Probably alphabetized, color-coded, timestamped. You don’t know what his major is, exactly. You just know it involves enough data and silence to make your teeth itch.

You’re not even sure how it started, this thing between you.

Maybe it was the day he tore down your entire color-theory thesis in front of the honors seminar like you hadn’t poured eight weeks of insomnia into it. Or maybe it was when you psychoanalyzed the subtle ways he corrects professors, like he’s trying not to challenge their authority outright. A boy raised in the shadows, needing to be smarter than the room but invisible at the same time.

He hated that.

You liked that he hated that.

It made things interesting.

Now you both sit two rows apart in the interdisciplinary lecture you don’t need, but keep taking anyway. You, because it fulfills a loose psych elective. Him, because–well, you’re still figuring that out. You suspect it’s just to keep an eye on you.

His laptop is open. Of course. Always typing, even when the professor is off-topic or ranting about Kantian frameworks like anyone in this generation gives a damn. You sketch while he types. His fingers never pause. Neither does your pencil.

You don’t know what he’s writing. He doesn’t know you’re drawing him. (He probably does)

Sometimes you wonder what it’d be like if you weren’t circling each other like dogs bred for war. If you weren’t two kids with too many ghosts and not enough peace. If you weren’t chasing two versions of control in different languages–his clean, hard logic versus your bleeding, beautiful chaos.

“Drake,” you mutter when he passes by your table at the campus café.

He looks up. Neutral expression, polite voice.

“Y/N.”

The way he says your name–it’s never soft. Like it’s a task. Like he’s filing you under ‘problems to solve later.’

You sip your coffee. He doesn’t sit, but he also doesn’t leave.

“I heard you’re presenting at the symposium next month,” he says. Tone clipped. “Didn’t think postmodern expressionism was ready for prime time.”

You smile over the rim of your cup. “I didn’t think future CIA agents attended art showcases.”

His lip twitches. A crack in the porcelain. You almost write that down. Instead, you offer a shrug.

“It’s about trauma translation in visual mediums,” you say casually. “Memory distortion in painted narratives. Thought you’d be into that, don’t you guys love poking at trauma?”

“I don’t poke,” he says. “I dissect.”

“Wow. That supposed to impress me?”

“No,” he says. “But I’m guessing that’s your default response to feeling threatened.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not threatened.”

“Sure.”

You hate that you want to throw your coffee at him and kiss him at the same time.

There’s no label for what you two are. You share a dozen classes. Compete for the same awards. Sit on the same late-night panels when professors need overachievers to flex for alumni donors.

You’ve even been grouped for the occasional cross-discipline project where you talk, and he listens, and then he talks, and you sketch the slope of his mouth when he forgets he’s performing.

Sometimes you work in silence for hours.

Sometimes you fight.

Sometimes you wonder what he dreams about when he forgets to pretend he doesn’t dream.

You catch him reading your analysis paper once. The one you left out in the shared research lab. He doesn’t know you’re watching from the stairwell. He reads it twice.

You never mention it.

Weeks pass. You win the campus-wide art grant. He wins the dean’s medallion. You both pretend not to care about the other’s win, but neither of you stop looking. Comparing. Weighing.

During one particularly brutal review, your advisor calls your piece “Catharsis in Crimson” emotionally erratic.

You leave class furious, chalk-stained fingers clenching your coat.

Tim’s outside already, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting. You scowl.

“If you came to gloat–”

“I liked it.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I liked your piece,” he says. “The one they tore apart.”

Your voice is smaller than you want. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I know.” He nods. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

It’s quiet for a beat. You look at the sky to avoid looking at his face. The clouds are heavy and gray and stubborn. You think, Maybe we’re like that too.

“I don’t know what we are,” you admit.

Tim exhales slowly. “Neither do I.”

You laugh softly but the bitterness already etched on your tongue.

“Must drive you crazy. Not knowing.”

“It does,” he says. “You’re an outlier. I don’t have a model for you.”

You look at him then. Really look. There’s something honest in the way his hands curl at his sides. Something tired in the slouch of his shoulders, like he’s been fighting a war no one sees.

“I could say the same.”

“I know.”

And there it is again. The space between you, small and sharp and unbearably loud.

You don’t touch. You don’t cross the line.

But you both know it’s there.

Waiting.

Next up: Observe and Detach | Part 1. >>>

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER NINE

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash, online scandals

playlist: spotify

It started with a tweet.

A blurry, low-quality video posted by some fan who had managed to sneak backstage. The caption was cryptic but damning:

"WTF did Jisoo do to make Kang Sae-Byeok this mad???"

And underneath it—

A video of Sae-Byeok pinning Jisoo against the wall.

The audio was grainy, muffled by the distance and the hum of post-show chaos, but some words were crystal-clear.

"I don’t want to see you near her or the girls ever again."

"You don’t get to come in here and make her feel like nothing."

The internet exploded.

At first, there was confusion. Speculation. Wild theories about why HOT DIVISION’s lead guitarist was this close to throwing hands with an influencer-turned-socialite like Jisoo.

Then came the sides.

Some people immediately took Sae-Byeok’s, praising her for standing up for whoever she was talking about. Others rushed to defend Jisoo, twisting the narrative into something uglier—something about how aggressive Sae-Byeok had looked, how scary her temper seemed, how it was unprofessional for an artist of her status to act like that.

And then, of course, the worst theory took hold.

That it was about you.

Screenshots of old photos resurfaced—pictures of you with the band, of you standing next to Sae-Byeok at award shows, of you in the background of HOT DIVISION’s biggest moments. Someone even found a picture from that night, showing you leaving the backstage area just moments before the video took place.

And suddenly, you weren’t just the band’s manager anymore.

You were the reason for the fight.

The narrative twisted: Sae-Byeok was in love with you. Jisoo had done something to you. You were caught in the middle of some messy, behind-the-scenes drama that no one was supposed to know about.

It spiraled fast.

By the next morning, articles were being written. Think pieces dissecting Sae-Byeok’s reputation, questioning her professionalism, debating whether or not HOT DIVISION’s label would make a statement.

And through it all—

You stayed quiet.

Because you knew exactly how this worked.

Scandals like this didn’t just pass. They grew until someone stopped them.

And that someone had to be you.

You found Jisoo before anyone else did.

She had been avoiding the internet, dodging calls, probably waiting for it all to blow over before she made her next move. But you weren’t going to give her that luxury.

You cornered her in the back of a café, where she had been sipping an overpriced latte like her name wasn’t being dragged online.

She barely had time to react before you sat down across from her, fixing her with a look that made it clear you weren’t here to play games.

"Fix it," you said, voice steady.

Jisoo blinked. "Excuse me?"

You leaned forward. "You fix it. You clear it up. You tell everyone exactly what the fuck happened before this gets worse."

She scoffed, setting her cup down. "I don’t owe anyone anything."

Your patience snapped. "Are you serious? You owe Sae-Byeok everything right now. Because you’re sitting here, drinking your stupid fucking latte, while she’s getting torn apart for something that wasn’t even her fault."

Jisoo frowned, finally looking uncomfortable. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen."

"But it did," you said sharply. "And I’m not letting you be the coward who lets her take the fall for it."

A beat of silence.

Jisoo looked away, jaw tightening. "I didn’t think she actually cared that much."

You exhaled through your nose, forcing yourself to stay calm. "That’s the problem. You never thought about what you were doing. You never thought about how it made me feel—how it made her feel."

She swallowed. "I just… I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong."

You shook your head. "Exactly."

Jisoo sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Tell the fucking truth," you said. "Make a statement. A video. A post. I don’t care. Just fix it."

She hesitated.

Then, finally, she pulled out her phone.

And for the first time since this entire mess started—

She actually did something right.

Jisoo’s video went up within the hour.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some grand, emotional apology.

But it was enough.

She admitted that she had been careless, that she hadn’t realized how much she was excluding you, that she had walked into HOT DIVISION’s space without thinking about how it might have made you feel.

And most importantly—

She cleared Sae-Byeok’s name.

She explained that the argument wasn’t about anything romantic, that there was no secret drama or jealousy, that Sae-Byeok had only been angry because she had stood up for you.

The backlash didn’t disappear overnight. But it shifted.

Now, instead of attacking Sae-Byeok, people were applauding her.

And you— You finally let yourself breathe. But the damage had already been done.

And you weren’t sure if things could ever go back to the way they were before.

Dinner was quieter than usual.

Not because there was tension—no, after everything that had happened, the tension had finally cracked, leaving something raw and unspoken between all of you.

The girls had chosen a small restaurant, tucked away from prying eyes and the chaos of the internet, somewhere they could just be without worrying about cameras or fans or another scandal brewing.

And tonight, for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just HOT DIVISION.

They were just friends trying to make things right.

Ji-Yeong was the first to break the silence, setting her chopsticks down. "Alright, let’s just say it."

Se-Mi exhaled. "Yeah, we fucked up."

No-Eul nodded. "Big time."

Sae-Byeok, sitting across from you, was unusually quiet, arms crossed, her gaze flickering between you and the others.

Ji-Yeong leaned forward. "Look, we got caught up in our own shit, and we didn’t notice how much we were leaving you out. That’s on us. Completely on us."

Se-Mi sighed. "We should’ve realized sooner. We should’ve—" She hesitated, then met your eyes. "We should’ve been better friends to you."

You swallowed, feeling the weight of their words, the sincerity behind them.

And then No-Eul, ever direct, said, "We’re sorry."

Your chest tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from pain.

It was relief.

You let out a small, shaky breath, nodding. "Thank you."

Ji-Yeong gave you a hesitant smile. "Does this mean you forgive us?"

You huffed a quiet laugh. "I mean… yeah. But you guys owe me. Big time."

Se-Mi grinned. "Obviously. We’ll buy you so much coffee to make up for it."

No-Eul smirked. "Or we could just kick Jisoo’s ass next time we see her."

That made you laugh—really laugh, for the first time in days.

And just like that, things started to feel okay again.

After dinner, you stepped outside for some air.

The night was cool, the city lights flickering in the distance, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you actually felt lighter.

But you weren’t alone for long.

No-Eul appeared beside you, hands in her jacket pockets, her usual calm, unreadable expression on her face.

"You doing okay?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

You hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Better than before."

No-Eul tilted her head, studying you in that way she always did—like she could see right through you. "You sure?"

You sighed, leaning against the railing. "I mean… I still feel kinda stupid for letting it get to me so much."

No-Eul frowned. "Why?"

You shrugged. "Because it’s not like they meant to hurt me. And I knew that. But it still—" You exhaled. "It still sucked."

No-Eul was quiet for a moment, then said, "You don’t have to justify feeling hurt."

You glanced at her, surprised.

She met your gaze, something unreadable in her eyes. "You deserved better from us. And you were right to be upset."

The way she said it—so steady, so certain—made warmth bloom in your chest.

You smiled, small but genuine. "Thanks, No-Eul."

She nodded, her gaze lingering on you.

And for a moment—just a moment—something shifted.

The space between you felt smaller.

The air heavier.

Her eyes flickered to your lips, just for a second, and you felt your breath catch.

Was she—?

Were you—?

Before anything could happen, a voice cut through the air.

"Time to go," Sae-Byeok’s voice rang out, firm but unreadable.

You both jolted slightly, stepping back as if the moment had never happened.

When you turned to look at her, Sae-Byeok’s face was blank, but her eyes—her eyes—were sharp, flickering between you and No-Eul with something you couldn’t quite place.

You cleared your throat. "Right. Yeah. Let’s go."

No-Eul didn’t say anything—just shoved her hands back into her pockets and followed after you.

And as you walked ahead, you could feel Sae-Byeok’s gaze lingering on you.

Like she had seen everything.

Like she was thinking about something.

But she didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25@monroesturnns @laurenkens @yenyu1s @idontliketoread2137 @bitchybananaflower @lyuuw

[dios-apate-megas]

This is going to be a long read! Definite spoilers for those who haven’t finished the first three books so there’s another warning for those of you whom that applies to!

—The Tower is Limbo—

I theorize that the Tower is Limbo and that it is connected in some way to Cannan House due to that being where Jod “ascended” and the location being the strongest connection for human souls because of it. Possibly as the power source Harrow references in GtN. Possibly that is where the extra souls were pulled from to make Teacher and his companions, and also why they’re a little bit batshit. It would be very Jod to be like, “I wasn’t sure what to do with all the souls I ate, so I popped them all in a mind tower on the liminal plane to worry about later. Then once I felt better I pulled the ones I wanted to bring back the most piecemeal, ya know… Jenga.”

I posit the Tower is also connected to Hell in some way, or that Limbo and Hell are one and the same in TLT and I’m just making the connection messier than necessary. I also think Teacher knew about the Devils (see below) when he says, “there are worse things down there” when referencing the labs because part of him was pulled from there and he remembers being in Limbo!

Word Origins: late Middle English; Latin: limbus, 'edge' ‘border’ ‘boundary' ‘hem’ ‘limbo’

Word Definitions:

[1] (in some Christian beliefs) the supposed abode of the souls of unbaptized infants, and of the just who died before Christ's coming.

{a} an abode of souls that are according to Roman Catholic theology barred from heaven because of not having received Christian baptism

{b} In Catholic theology, Limbo, referring to the edge of Hell

[2] an uncertain period of awaiting a decision or resolution; an intermediate state or condition.

{a} a place or state of restraint or confinement

{b} a place or state of neglect or oblivion

{c} an intermediate or transitional place or state

^Varun:

“You left them too long!” - Referring to the souls that Jod had not placed back into flesh vessels and had become corrupted after so long a time left in limbo.

^Devils:

I theorize that the Devils we are introduced to are the unembodied souls that Jod “left asleep” after the resurrection in Limbo, The Jenga Tower. They became corrupted after so long being in Limbo and their envy of the living made them want to possess their bodies and met out some punishment. They are only able to possess and use freshly dead bodies because the soul is -gone-. They can infect a damaged body, but can’t take over until the soul is gone. I can’t think of a better phrasing for this, but I think they’re able to travel the river and pop up where they smell death.

After being “freed” (see Gideon/Kiriona below), the Devils sought out fresh bodies whose souls had departed to possess. I posit that the Devils possessed the bodies of the freshly dead soldiers on Antioch where they are first introduced to us as a scourge due to it being the first major plane of war/death after my Gideon/Kirona theory. I know the fleet was blown up, but those bodies were most likely also blown up and unable to be inhabited.

I theorize that they hit the Ninth House first because that’s where Alecto’s body was stored and the closer her soul came to accepting death while she was galavanting around in Nona made *something* weaker so they could possess the freshly dead old folks there.

*In the case of Collum Asht, his body was left soul-vacant while he was being siphoned and became a prime target for possession in Cannan House which I believe is directly connected to The Tower.

The appearance of the Devils give off a serpentine vibe. Flappy long tongues and sharp teeth. The eyes are the windows to the soul ya know. And they are pissed and -hungry- for life.

[1] The Leviathan is often an embodiment of chaos, threatening to eat the damned when their lives are over. Christian theologians identified Leviathan with the demon of the deadly sin envy.

^Alecto:

I theorize that Alecto is the Leviathan to Jod. We know she is set up to be his end, as she was his beginning. I posit she is the gatekeeper to The Tower, likely unknowingly due to her origin as Gaia, and her little vacation left that gate open and unguarded. Which means… yet another “tomb” unlocked.

I previously posited that Alecto was based on a humpback whale in a previous post (I don’t know how to link it here but it’s in the group!), and her abilities as The Drinker can definitely be classified as a sea monster.

[1]Leviathan also figures in the Hebrew Bible as a metaphor for a powerful enemy, notably Babylon (Isaiah 27:1). Some 19th-century scholars pragmatically interpreted it as referring to large aquatic creatures, such as the crocodile.[5] The word later came to be used as a term for great whale and for sea monsters in general.

^Gideon/Kiriona: Jebus

I theorize that when Gideon sacrificed herself at the end of GtN, her soul dipped into Limbo and “freed” the souls trapped there which is why we only start to see Devils after her “resurrection”. I’m unsure of how/if her soul being spliced will play into this but I do think it was split at least into two (a piece in Harrow absorbed for Lyctorhood and the second in her own body as the Child of Jod (the part that dipped and returned)).

[1] The Catechism of the Catholic Church describes Christ's descent into Hell as meaning primarily that "the crucified one sojourned in the realm of the dead prior to his resurrection. This was the first meaning given in the apostolic preaching to Christ's descent into Hell: that Jesus, like all men, experienced death and in his soul joined the others in the realm of the dead."

—The River is Purgatory—

I theorize that The River is Purgatory because that’s where all the ghosts are waiting to be called back by Jod. We all know our beloved author uses Catholicism like a sneaky guide book in TLT and I found this quote, “the church's understanding has typically been that purgatory has a temporal (temporary, terminating, non-eternal) component with only God being outside of time” when I was spiraling down the rabbit hole and gasped due to just how well it fit! The River is supposed to be a temporary holding place for the souls of the dead, poor hungry ghosts, and we know Lyctors and Jod traverse The River as a way to collapse time and space to get from place to place when needed. We drove along with Nona as she did the same thing!

I’d also like to note that most of the “fire of purification” references are mostly in art and not in the theological sources I looked through. It’s just as likely to be water as water is used as a purifying substance in many different religions. Baptism is a very good example of this.

Word Origin: Middle English: from Anglo-Norman French purgatorie or medieval Latin purgatorium, neuter of late Latin purgatorius ‘purifying’, from the verb purgare (purge).

Word Definitions:

[1] An intermediate state after death for expiatory purification. Specifically : a place or state of punishment wherein according to Roman Catholic doctrine the souls of those who die in God's grace may make satisfaction for past sins and so become fit for heaven

{a} a place or state of temporary suffering or misery

[2] A state of final purification after death and before entrance into heaven for those who died in God’s friendship, but were only imperfectly purified; a final cleansing of human imperfection before one is able to enter the joy of heaven.

{a} This purification is entirely unlike the punishment of hell in that a soul in purgatory is de facto destined for heaven, but must undergo cleansing from all sin before spending eternity in the unbridled presence of God.

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Please forgive the wonky way this is written, but this is how my brain works (*insert groan here*) when I hyper fixate on figuring something out. There are a lot of notes that are smashed together from multiple sources and some that are blatantly copy/pasted, but I’m not writing an academic paper here so forgive the laziness! Also I have absolutely no clue on how to mark things as spoilers or go back and edit my post as of right now on my phone, which is dumb but alas this is me. And I’m not a theological scholar by any means, so I did try my best to make my ideas as clear as possible with the religious themes.