#i never see anyone talk about how heart wrenching these lines are. you were a nine year old boy at the time....what could you do indeed....

[iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife]

Screaming crying throwing up.

[ilyhaitanii]

could i req kaveh comforting insecure/slightly depressed(?) reader? only if your comfy!

tw // suicidal thoughts, mentions to suicide, just heavy topics ig sorry i made this self indulgent sort of

kaveh sees a lot of himself in you. especially his younger self. he likes to think he’s come a far way from his akademiya days, but sometimes even he tends to fall back into the cycle of everything. it’s horrible, gut wrenching, nauseating. everything about it just makes you want to curl into a ball and never exist ever again.

so when you start waking up a lot later, eating less, simply staring at the wall, and having piles of papers stacked on your desk, kaveh notices. he does his best to help you feel comfortable, at least. he’ll help bathe you if you haven’t been able to bring yourself to do so in a few days.

he doesn’t think it’s gross. he understands just as well as anyone how you feel. kaveh’s manicured finger nails scratch at your scalp as your eyelids flutter shut. there’s this deafening silence in the bathroom that makes your stomach churn. kaveh leans forward and kisses you on your shoulder.

you sink further into the warm water watching the steam rise and cloud the mirror of alhaitham’s bathroom. your eyes dart all over the room, looking everywhere but your beloved.

“sweetheart,” kaveh calls out to you, his hands now massaging your shoulders and back. he leaves another kiss in your wet skin, rubbing the knots of your muscles. “talk to me?” he says in a voice that’s teetering the line of desperation. your fingers dance with his, toying with his fingers tips. kaveh allows you as long as you need to collect your thoughts.

“i don’t know,” you say gently, trying to ease your lover’s anxiety. you truly don’t understand what’s wrong. just last week you were doing great. you had an amazing day with tighnari as the two of you learned more about poisonous plants.

the forest in suemru seems to be changing with the ever rising heat emitting from the desert. that very same night, you’d gone out to the bazzar with cyno and found your way to a small bar. the two of you drank for a bit, playing tcg together. it was relaxing and nice catching up with your old friend.

but you woke up the next morning feeling this pit in your stomach. you couldn’t focus on your studies, you couldn’t work up an appetite, and as you stood naked in front of the shower, u watched the water fall. the pitter patter noise engulfing your senses.

you couldn’t bring yourself to take that step into the tub. you kneel onto the floor, melting into the plush floor mat sobbing into your knees. what’s happening to you? kaveh noticed the way your eyes were puffy when he joined you in bed that night. he’s noticed the rapid decline in your weight too, fingertips brushing over your now evident collarbone.

“i think,” you say to kaveh as you sink deeper into the tub. his hand catches under your pits, pulling you back up. he doesn’t let the water go any higher than your chest. his fingers move back to your soapy scalp, kissing you on the shoulder again. “i don’t like myself, kaveh.”

those few words shatter his heart. kaveh feels himself choke up, fingers abruptly stopping in your hair. you feel yourself tear uo as you continue speaking. “i hate how when i speak i can’t stop. i hate the way people start ignoring me. i hate that stupid feeling whenever i come home from an outing and i just think about all the dumb shit i said and did.”

your lungs feel like they’re on fire from how fast you’re spitting out all of your feeling to kaveh. you don’t even take a break to breathe before you continue.

“why do they dislike me, kaveh? i try my best, i really do. i try my best to be sweet. i try my best to help others even if it hurts me, exhausts me, inconveniences me. i always fucking try,” the sharp sobs and hiccups from your throat make your clutch onto kaveh. he feels the soapy liquid bleeding into his deep v-neck shirt, but he makes no movement to push you away. he wraps his arms around your soapy back, shushing you gently.

he kisses your shoulder, rubs your back. he feels his own fingers tremble. why do you think like that? why do you think people don’t like you? has someone said something to you, done something to hurt you? he wants to ask you these things, protect you in his ribcage and allow you to chew at his heart until you see fit. allow you to suck the blood from his body and have it run through your veins just so you get to see yourself from someone else’s perspective.

kaveh feels his lips quiver and chatter. but this isnt about him. he pulls himself together and be’s the strong rock you need. kaveh is the one stable thing you’ve had in your life all of these years. from childhood to being teenagers to adulthood— kaveh has always been there.

kaveh will continue to be there because he’s formed a life with you. no matter what happens, no matter how nasty your arguments will become, kaveh will always be there to pick you off of the bathroom floor, wipe your bare body down, kiss you on the forehead, and tuck you into bed with his arms securely around you.

he’ll let you dig your nails into his biceps, cry your bruised heart out. kaveh will always be there. he’s seen what these sorts of scary thoughts can do to a person. he refuses to lose another person to it. so when you wake up later in the night with kaveh tucked up against your back, he’ll kiss your shoulders and hold you tightly in his arms until you’re ready to bare your struggles and thoughts to him.

© ilyhaitanii - please do not repost, translate, or plagarize any of my content, and do not repost it to any other platforms

[ruified]

i just finished reading osamu dazai and the dark era and now my eyes are stinging with the feeling of tears attempting to crawl their way out from behind them, and they may just succeed in that endeavor so let’s see how much i can type out with tears in my eyes

i miss my wife (oda bsd)

Somebody probably should've tied him up, pried his chest open, and stuffed a vacuum cleaner inside. Then, as he screamed and cried until they needed to punch him to shut him up, they'd suck every last bit out of his chest and stamp it into the ground.

But in reality, such a vacuum didn't exist. Chests don't open up like that, and no one is capable of such feats. What we see is every-thing, and everything we see, we ignore. All we can do is stand before the deep ditch between us and others and keep silent.

the way oda talks about dazai is consistently heart wrenching, he knows that despite all of dazai’s maturity, because he was forced to grow so fast, he’s still a child

just a child protecting his fragile little heart the way an adult would, simply replicating what he’d seen others do and what he’d been taught and expanding upon it

That was when Dazai first realized: Sakunosuke Oda understood him much more than he'd ever imagined-right up to his very heart, almost to the center of his mind. Dazai didn't realize until then that someone had known him so well.

it’s as if oda never realized that he knew dazai better than anyone, that he’d successfully reached out and touched the child protecting his heart

oda mentioned regretting not getting closer to dazai

The reason why Ango and I were able to be by his side was that we understood the solitude that surrounded him, and we never stepped inside it no matter how close we stood.

But in that moment, I kind of regretted not stepping in and invading that solitude.

but in his final moments, that child in dazai reached out and asked for guidance, asked for oda to take his hand and point him in the next direction he believed was right because he trusted him

dazai thought so highly of oda because oda was always rather up front about everything, his feelings, what he was thinking, all of that. not once did oda try to use dazai, we find dazai sort of realizing this in the day i picked up dazai (which i read online not too long ago), and that’s what makes dazai like oda so much

they’re so important to me guys btw

With trembling fingers, Odasaku reached for the cigarettes in his pocket before sluggishly placing one in his mouth. By the time he pulled out a match, his fingers were too weak to hold it anymore. Dazai took the match and lit the cigarette for him.

Then Odasaku closed his eyes, smoking the cigarette as he smiled, filled to the brim with satisfaction.

The cigarette fell to the ground.

Dropping onto his knees by Odasaku's side, Dazai looked up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. His tightly shut lips faintly trembled. The smoke from the cigarette rose straight up to the top.

Nobody said a word.

READING THIS SHIT HITS HARDER THAN WATCHING IT THE ANIME FR DOES NOT CARRY THAT SAME IMPACT

something else they never included in the anime was THIS?????

In the middle of a verdant mountain trail atop a hill overlooking Yokohama was a cemetery with a view of the ocean. There were many new graves lined up-among them a small white burial marker without a name.

Dazai stood before the burial marker, dressed in black mourning clothes and holding a bouquet of white flowers.

"…….”

He squinted as the strong sea breeze suddenly gusted past.

The white flowers fluttered in the wind.

"I'll leave this photo here."

He took out a picture and placed it before the burial marker.

Frozen in time were the smiles of those three men.

"I really wish you could've tried that hard tofu I made..."

Dazai closed his eyes, then stood absolutely still, rooted to the spot.

GOD I FEEL ILL I LOVE YOU SO MUCH DAZAI OSAMU

Dazai didn't say a word. That was just about the first time he'd ever been unable to articulate his feelings.

"I..."

this is like one of the first, if not the only time, we get a glimpse into what dazai is thinking and it’s honestly so important that we did it this moment

the anime doesn’t convey it as well just how emotionally driven dazai is in this moment, like, yes you can tell, but his struggle between what he knew was logically correct and what he felt is so important to know about

it also makes this part that he said to ango really ironic

"I always lose the things I don't want to lose the most. That's why I don't feel anything anymore. The moment you get your hands on something worth going after, you lose it."

"When I first saw him over in the slums, I was horrified. His talents are extraordinary, and his skill is extremely destructive. Plus, he's stubborn. If I'd left him to his own devices, he would've ended up a slave to his own powers until he destroyed himself."

Dazai didn't freely make people work under him, period; much less a boy on the verge of starvation in the slums. But Dazai seemed to have his own reasons for doing it.

the way dazai talks about akutagawa here is so interesting and you really gotta take it at face value because he has no reason to lie to oda, especially not about this

here’s dazai being oda’s number one fan

"Sakunosuke Oda... I know that guy," the subordinate with sunglasses added hesitantly. "Dazai, sir, I don't mean to be rude, but...I saw him sweeping behind the office the other day. A man of his status isn't qualified to be your friend, let alone contend with an enemy like this."

Dazai stared, flabbergasted, at his underling.

"Are you joking? Odasaku's not qualified?" Dazai asked, thoroughly surprised.

he’s so cute

now for some silly stuff

here’s oda describing things in terms of cats

Searching for a Mafia informant is on a completely different level from locating a missing pet cat (which I've actually done before, so I say this with confidence). If a cat runs away, then you can stake out a local feeding ground, but there was no way for me to even guess where Ango's "feeding ground" might be.

I had placed a foot on the staircase to the second floor, which looked as if it could come crumbling down at any moment, when I heard a sound coming from somewhere in the building. It was very faint, only about as loud as a kitten rolling on its back.

he’s such a guy

"I am André Gide. We ghosts came in search of... the one who will free our souls," the leader claimed.

…

"Well, I know this guy who works at a funeral home. I'm sure he'll give you a discount if I put in a word for you."

"Anyway, I feel for you, Odasaku. Not only did you run into the enemy's boss, but he made some serious advances toward you, too. At this rate, you guys will be married by the weekend."

"That's not what happened." At least, I hoped not. "They're just a group of weirdos who start wars for the sake of it."

"Oh? I think it's kinda cute, going to such lengths to plan another person's death. I never would've thought of doing that." There was more than a hint of amusement in his tone.

“at least, i hoped not” ODA 😭😭😭

i just love dazai in this specific moment, he’s so silly

"I found a handkerchief at the site of the explosion." Dazai grinned fiendishly. "There was a napkin from this place wrapped inside. It was completely obvious. Who would've thought spies used such dated methods, huh?"

Now that he mentioned it, I remembered lending Ango my handkerchief before I passed out. That must've been when he slipped the napkin in. I just thought I'd lost it.

BRO THOUGHT ANGO JUST LIKE GAVE HIM BACK THE NAPKIN TOO

"Man, that was hot. Why does curry have to be that hot?

Does it have something against mankind? More people would eat it if it were less spicy. This is negligence in food culture." I thought about it for a moment before answering. "If more people ate it, then nobody would eat anything else, thus completely destroying food culture as we know it."

"Makes sense." Dazai nodded, seemingly convinced.

"You hurt yourself on a block of tofu?"

He must have been in desperate need of some calcium.

"...Odasaku, that's exactly the problem right there. You're enabling Dazai. You don't speak up, and that's why he goes off the rails."

I see. So this was what Ango meant by "enabling" him. You learn something new every day.

i love how funny oda is without meaning to be like he fr just says shit 😭

anyways that was a really good read uhh made me really sad, also better than the anime ngl, oda was so much more badass and cool

[felixisourayofsunshine]

Okay so I really wanted to talk about emonette's character plus Shadybug and Clawnoir's relationship......... Well this is gonna be a long one so sorry in advance

Okay let's go!!!

So as we saw in the special emonette said that she was constantly bullied by Chloe(guess she doesn't change in any universe 😔 that damn brat I hate her.... not more than Lila though) and considering how broken she sounded that was not the same bullying that Chloe of this universe did to Mari that shit must've been extreme. However, I donot think that the bullying alone there must've been more aspects which lead her to the path of evil.

Well, while we're at it let's talk about this scene.. God this was so heart wrenching....

When she said that-

"I'm sorry mommy dear, I fine I just- just dropped my sewing kit it's A BIT DAMAGED"

When she said the above line while glancing at her face which reflected on those broken pieces of mirror.... I swear I wanted to cry. Don't you see how poetic this was, while she seemed to be taking about the broken mirror we can clearly see that the one who is broken Is her some one once said

"But that's the irony, broken people, are not fragile....."

So while emonette is completely broken inside she never lets show on her face, no matter how sad, how broken, how miserable she is she keeps moving forward, you wonder why? Well, because it's MARINETTE for crying out loud.... no matter what universe it is our Mari puts on a brave face in front of other, she tends to hide her scars and crying silently not letting others know. Even in the original universe she would have broken much sooner if it was not for Alya finding out her identity. But as emonette said herself she doesn't have loving parents, a best friend and a supportive boyfriend, she was left all alone to suffer without anyone by her side

I still wonder what her wish really was though, knowing her it certainly not power. Could it be something else which she yearns for. Okay so hear me out do you remember what she said to Mari? She said:

"Do you think that it'd be any different from how it is now? Guess what, I don't have your nice little life. The world where I'm from there are no awesome girlfriends to inspire me everyday, no amazing bff, lovable, calm and gentle mom or a boyfriend who doesn't think I'm a total loser...."

These lines broke me though 😭...

So my theory is that in that universe Tom is dead and Sabine is abusive( I totally can't imagine that tho) that would explain why she behaved like that with Sabine and she works in her dad's bakery to keep his name.

Oh well I have a worse on........ Both Tom and Sabine are dead and she was adopted by someome who were very abusive(let's consider that after she graduated junior high she moved out of that school and is probably out of Chloe's grasp) they even intended to sell the bakery, the only belonging of her late parents she was left with. That was when she met supreme and he offered her that in exchange of killing her abusive guardian she will have to work with him. So maybe her wish could be returning to those happy times with her parents without Chloe or any suffering. Well I guess it was a bit far fetched but anywaaaays.... 😅

Okay let's analyse another scene..... The one where she was reading Mari's diary.

What's interesting about her in Mari's room was that she certainly recognised her room and we can see that she does live in the bakery after all. The reason why she acted that way was to save her identity getting exposed to Claw Noir(which I don't think she cares that much about) or she really wanted to find out if this version of her had a better and happier life than hers.while she pretended that she wanted to look for clues, she went through Mari's personal stuff life her computer, her diary and her other things not because she was looking for clues but because she wanted know what kind of life this MARINETTE had.

Look, she was crying while reading that diary. She wants this life.

Just look at her... Looking into the life of a version of herself she wishes she could be. A world where "THERE ARE AMAZING GIRLFRIENDS TO INSPIRE HER EVERYDAY, AN AMAZING BFF, LOVABLE AND CALM MOM AND A BOYFRIEND WHO DOESN'T THINK THAT SHE IS A TOTAL LOOSER".

You see.. behind that evil mask there is a broken girl who longs to be loved. she wants a shoulder to cry on, hands who would embrace her tight when she is crying. She may look like a total badass who doesn't need anyone but no! that's not the case at all.

Aaaand I think she does have someone like that in her life already, and that person is the one and only CLAW NOIR. ........Even if she refuses to acknowledge it.

So, while she was shutted down, abandoned, bullied and absused her whole life and had no one to helf her up, Claw Noir was there for her,even though he is a total dork who teases her all the time.

Well yeah he is hella rude and disrespects her A LOT, it may look like she may never fall for him normally, but lets consider emonette's circumstances...... As much as we know she doesn't have anyone to rely on, no friends and probably no family. She never had anyone to inspire her. In a life like this...... After she got her miraculous and met Claw Noir, she finally had a reason to live, a reason to fight and a person, she could work together with and trust just a little bit yeah not totally cuz well he does let her fall head on..

In Mari's room when she reads the diary and learns about Ladybug and Chat Noir's relationship, their friendship, their partnership. She does look like she wants that too. (Also this may not apply to everyone but sometimes two people who like each other tease each other a lot....... )

They may fight eachother and not consider each other as partners, but they do make an amazing team. They may not be partners but they've got eachother's back at time of need. Just how Shadybug needs Clawnoir's strength while fighting and how Clawnoir relies on Shadybug's plans.

Also this scene...... While you can say that he is acting this way because he now knows that she is Marinette, the girl he likes.., but we know he is Adrien afterall he may care about Shadybug deep down without realising it and with him now knowing who she really is has realised it.

Just look at him he looks sad when he sees her cry too. He may act like he doesn't care but he actually does. He is like "I am the only one who can hurt her, anyone else who dares to do that must pay....." .

And the scene where she opens up to Mari was just so emotional, I literally started crying. There was pain, sorrow and grief in her eyes. She was suffering and was jealous of Mari,'cuz she thought that she had everything for granted, she thought that she never knew what suffering was like. Her words were so sad. But after Mari made her feel that they really are alike and changed her for better I felt so happy......

And after that when she met (now improved) Claw Noir they felt like they were more to each other and I loved it..

All I want now is a ShadyClaw series.. we need to know what happened after that.... And before they landed in the multiverse.

Well aren't they the cutest.

I wish they become a couple in future.....

Oh well that was a long one.....

Well I had it in mind for quite a long time but couldn't write it because I have exams coming 😭. But wanted to finish it before I forgot it. So here I am. I hope y'all liked it though.

Okay let's end it with a quote:.

“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

I hope this becomes true for our beloved emoadrinette.

Bug out!🐞🐾

[acacia-may]

8 for the writing asks pls?

Thank you for the ask and for playing this writing ask game.

8. An excerpt of my writing that hurt my own feelings to write.

I've definitely written a lot of things that hurt my own feelings to write, but I cried real, genuine tears when I wrote this scene and was so emotional over it that I actually had to stop and take a break to calm down by the time I got to Aubrey's "because you've always been that person for me" line. I've written a lot of angst and a lot of devastating moments, but I've only actually cried because of my own writing maybe twice(?) in my life (I'm usually not much of a crier), so it definitely sticks out to me and I consider the Aubrey-centric chapter of "When Sun Shines Again" some of the best writing I did last year. Here's a snippet:

With a heavy sigh, Hero turned away from her, staring out of the dark and gloomy window. “You know, I’ve…never really had a lot of fight in me…” he admitted quietly, a faint flush in his cheeks before he let out a light, somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s something I’ve always thought I should probably get a little more of. But you…” His expression softened, and he smiled at her as he met her eyes. “You’ve always been a fighter, and I’ve always admired that about you. You want to protect everyone—fight for your friends even when they can’t or won’t fight for themselves. But I’m your big brother…”—he took a shaky breath and patted the top of her head—“I’m supposed to be the one protecting you, so you don’t need to protect me, okay?” “But that’s the thing, Hero—you’re everybody’s big brother. Without Mari, you don’t have anybody to protect you anymore. And as long as you feel like you have to protect me and Kel and Sunny and Basil—as long as you feel like you have to take care of us, you’re never going to tell us what’s wrong, so you’re just going to suffer alone and none of us want that. We all worry about you too.” Aubrey paused, wiping her eyes. Hero froze. His hands trembled. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t even know how he felt. To see Aubrey so broken up and worried about him was like a wrench to his heart. First, Kel. Now, Aubrey. Could he do anything without hurting the people he cared for most in the world? “Aubrey, I…” he began to stumble as tears pooled in his eyes. “No, I—” she cut him off. “I didn’t say this to make you feel bad or feel guilty. I just…I know you, Hero. I know the way that things are—the way you always push aside how you feel to take care of everyone else, and I guess that’s part of the reason why I was so upset—because I knew how much you were suffering all alone and how you didn’t have anyone you felt like you could talk to. I know you’re never really going to be able to talk to us about what’s wrong—but I just…I think we all want you to have someone you can talk to. Someone you feel like you don’t have to protect. I know that’s never going to be me or Kel or even Basil or Sunny—you’re always going to be our big brother, but I want to believe there’s somebody out there—maybe even several people—maybe Brandi or your friends from school or I don’t know just anybody…somebody who you feel like you can tell these things to, somebody you can always go to who’ll try to understand and will comfort you and support you no matter what. I want you to find that person, Hero—because you’ve always been that person for me.”

[meaningofaeons]

i only found your account a few days (i think? agsudhdb) ago and so i just wanted to say congrats on 500!! your work made me giggle a lot akshdjdb

as for my request, i'd like to go to the cat café with dan heng to see a black scottish fold with an order of cider :>> (hoping i did this right haha)

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ only in the limelight

⊹ character(s) - dan heng ⊹ word count - 593 ⊹ notes - gn!reader, actor au, angst/no comfort, unrequited love, "costar" at the end is up to interpretation who you want it to be

⊹ katze's 500 follower writing cat-baret

OMG hi thank you so much for the kind words!!! (=^･ｪ･^=))ﾉ彡☆ welcome to my blog! I'm glad you've enjoyed your time so far, and I hope you like your "cat cafe date" with dan heng!!

At best, your relationship with Dan Heng could be classified as "business".

Actors often get shoved into scandals whether they like it or not, and considering your young careers, one wrench could dismantle your entire future.

As a result of this, from the moment you two set foot on set "Honkai Star Rail" as costars, you agreed to keep an amicable distance outside of all job-related functions.

Dan Heng was okay with this.

He is okay with this.

It's okay, and it's normal, and it's honestly what's best.

For both of you. For your careers, and for yourselves.

Right?

But there are some nights where he realizes just how boldly the line is drawn—at least, from your end—and he starts to wonder if there was some other way to get around it.

It starts as a request he didn't think over.

"Should we grab a drink after this shoot? I'm exhausted."

Some part of him yearned for something... a little more casual than just business.

Not that he quite realized that himself.

However, you were firm in your refusal, citing the agreement that the aloof man himself had also agreed to.

He couldn't say much to that.

Another time, it was about coffee. Getting a cup before work together if you and him happened to meet up.

This time, the staunch denial surprised him a bit.

Your reminder of the verbal terms you'd both set for each other started to become a bitter thing for him to hear.

He was starting to regret it.

And he didn't like what that implied.

"Dan Heng, your script for the next act."

You were curt in handing it off to him, but his stomach still felt fluttery when your fingertips brushed.

Even your colder tone of voice was like a melody to him, but the thought of such a cheesy romanticization of your normal, everyday action brought him a bittersweet twist in his chest.

The raven-haired man nodded in return, his poker face a perfectly practiced trade that allowed him to deny any butterflies with ease.

Truthfully, he didn't know if it was to deny them to anyone who might ask, or to deny them to himself.

"Right. Thanks, Y/N."

"All right, everyone! Good work today!" The director's voice rang out, the words allowing everyone to relax. "Get some rest, and let's pick up fresh tomorrow!"

You were quick to walk away, giving your fellow costars friendly good-byes.

Though Dan Heng received the same wave and farewell you gave to anyone else, he still treasured that you looked his way, even if only for a moment.

Maybe one day he could convince you to come along for just one coffee stop. Maybe then, you'd talk, be more willing to open up to him outside of professionalism.

But the very next day, on the set for your character's backstory shoot, he was met only with what felt like a knife to the heart.

Dan Heng wasn't a people person by any means. Reading others wasn't his forte, and it never would be.

But when it came to you...

He could just see the way your eyes sparkled as you held your other costar, acting out a tragic romance with a fleck of truth behind your every word.

He even heard you giggle as they leaned in between a shot, asking if you'd like to get dinner after work was through for the day.

Dan Heng turned away before he could catch your response.

He was quite sure hearing it would break him.

[malfoysprinces]

The Minister’s Daughter

- draco malfoy -

PART 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Expected. That was the damn word. That was the word which could explain the break-up. However, expecting something doesn’t mean it would not sting like hell.

So, the inevitable happened.

Draco called it quits without a single ounce of doubt that night. It all unfolded so damn fast, as if he'd been following some twisted plan from the start.

Y/N had endured Draco's ice-cold demeanor for nearly three freaking months. She stayed, convinced that somewhere beneath the ice, he still loved her until that moment.

“Y/N?” Draco knocked Y/N dorm’s door.

“Come in, Dray.” she recognized the voice.

“Hi. I thought you were busy this afternoon. You told me that—” Y/N was interrupted.

“I need to talk to you.” Draco said. He jumped right into the conclusion. “I don’t think this is working out. It actually hasn’t been working out for a while. As you may notice.” Draco looked away.

Straightforward.

“I-I…wha- what are you implying?" Y/N's voice trembled, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm.

“I am saying that it is over. I don’t feel anything about you. Not anymore. We are over.” Draco's face remained a cold, emotionless mask.

Y/N was shaking. Visibly shaking.

“I-I..This—Us--..” She struggled to find the right words, her mind a chaotic whirlwind.

“I think I made myself perfectly clear. There is no us now.” Draco turned his back to leave.

Her whole world shattered in a split moment. Never in a million years she thought he would leave her like that. Her body was trembling, her hands were shaking, her mind was blurred but most of all didn't seem to matter because she could swear that the man standing in front of her was nobody but a stranger from now on.

It all happened so fast that it was almost like she had already lost him, now he was only making it clear to her.

Y/N was speechless.

Y/N had steeled herself for the inevitable breakup, but the searing pain it unleashed was far from predictable. In that heart-wrenching moment, Draco, as per his usual demeanor, revealed nothing. His face was an inscrutable mask, devoid of any discernible emotion. It was as if he'd rehearsed this scenario a thousand times before, leaving Y/N drowning in a sea of uncertainty, her emotions tumultuously churning beneath the surface.

The world continued to turn, but Y/N was caught in a timeless limbo, her heart unable to mend in the wake of the breakup. It felt like a battle against the weight of her emotions, a struggle to reclaim a sense of self that had been shattered and scattered in the lost love.

The aftermath of the break-up was predictable. Two ruined people. Two shattered hearts. Two lost souls. She was nothing more than a ghost. She was not sleeping, not eating, not even living. She was lost in her thoughts. His touch, his kiss, his gaze, how she felt in his arms were something that she would miss for the eternity. She stood by his during every argument, every dispute, she even stopped talking to her friend Graham for him. She would push away anyone and everyone for him. But why was this wasn't enough for him? Where did it all go wrong? She was sure that somewhere along the line she started doing too much, and he was not doing enough. Her thoughts was eating her alive. She couldn't cry even if she wanted to. She was in a shock mode. She couldn't react. She couldn't breathe or think or see. She was just lost in the moment he walked away from her.

Why did he leave her?

He told her that he had lost feelings for her which obviously wasn't the case. She knew that behind his thought facade, there is a delicate boy who just wants to make her happy. However, this doesn't seem right.

Later that evening, she decided to take a stroll through the corridors of Hogwarts. Every corner, every hidden spot consisted of a memory of Draco. Everything in Hogwarts was meaningful to her because of him. Not so long ago, they were kissing at the Astronomy Tower. Not so long ago, they were finding peace in each other’s arms. There was not any possible universe that they would not be together. He would choose her in every possibility, she would belong to him in every possibility. However, not in this one.

After a week of avoiding Draco at all costs, Y/N finally decided to show up for breakfast. It was the same Great Hall, the same food, the same people. No but it actually wasn't. Nothing was ever going to be the same. The man that she loves loved loves has turned into a complete stranger. Now she had to face him. In class, if not at breakfast. In common room, if not at halls. She wasn't sure if she would be able to look him in the eye anymore. He had broken her so much that she was numb eventually. She reached the point of doubting if she had a heart anymore. On the other, she knew that she had to leave her room at some point. Wouldn't matter if today or any other day.

As she entered The Great Hall, she instantly spotted Pansy talking with Adrian Pucey. She decided to join them.

"Hi, Y/N." said Pansy as Y/N was approaching them.

"Morning guys." Y/N answered trying to keep her eyes on them.

However, for a split moment, she turned to sit down and spotted a blonde silhouette. She turned her gaze immediately. It was her first time being in the same room with Draco since their break-up. He seemed to mind his own business tho. He was having breakfast with Theo. Him and Theo were always close but somehow they seemed to be closer for past three months now if that's possible. It was weird sitting in the same room as him but ignoring each other completely. The familiar surroundings had turned into a strange and cold place, mirroring the distance that had grown between her and Draco. Y/N couldn't even finish her breakfast. She had lost her appetite since the break-up. It was almost like she lived with a constant nausea that prevented her from eating. Regularly.

It was not until Pansy grabbed her arm that she realized it was time for class. Y/N entered the classroom. She walked towards her usual spot. Next to Draco. Only to find out that he already switched his seat. Of course he did. He doesn't love you anymore, remember? she thought to herself.

His last words echoed in her head "There is no us now."

A month into the break-up. Still no contact from Draco. Meaning Y/N had her heart as a open wound for a month now. Unhealed and aching.

She was late for charms class. It was the last class for that afternoon. However, corridors were busier than ever. The castle seemed to conspire against her, with moving staircases and hidden passages testing her patience.

In the bustling corridors of Hogwarts, Y/N navigated through the maze of students, her thoughts consumed by the weight of recent events. Lost in her own world of thoughts, she didn't see the figure approaching from the opposite direction. With an unexpected bump, Y/N collided with another student, nearly sending her books and parchment flying. She staggered back a step, her hand pressed against her chest in shock. It was then that she glanced up, her wide eyes meeting a familiar pair of grey ones.

"Y/N." he spoke softly, almost hesitantly, as if the name was a secret he'd been keeping. "Are you okay ?" he asked.

Draco's expression remained unreadable, but there was a hint of something in his eyes.

Y/N nodded.

Then she quickly took her gaze away from his. Draco crouched down to help her, their hands brushing slightly as they reached for the same parchment. Draco's hand, cooler than Y/N remembered, held a subtle tension in his fingers. In that fleeting moment of contact, their intertwined hands seemed to carry the weight of scars that they caused each other. Everything around them blurred, fading into insignificance, their emotions echoing in that touch. It sent shivers down Y/N's spine.

Once their belongings were sorted, they found themselves standing face to face, an unspoken tension filling the air. The bustling hallway around them seemed to fade into the background as they exchanged a lingering look. It was as though the world had paused just for them.

Then, a group of students jostled past, breaking the moment. Y/N and Draco stepped aside, heading in opposite directions.

Their little bump was still on her mind when she entered her dorm.

"I'll wear the purple one." Pansy said pointing a dress to Daphne.

"Date night with Pucey?" Y/N asked.

"Well, that's one way to put it." Daphne answered, gigling.

"Don't tell me you don't remember the tonight's party Y/N!" Pansy was in shock.

"Wha--Oh, yeah I do." Y/N answered.

The party. Completely slipped out of her mind. She was definetly not in the mood for a party to be honest.

"But, I think I'll just skip this one." Y/N added.

"Come on! It will be fun. Besides, it will be distraction from Dra- everything that's been going on." Pansy said.

"Also, Pansy has got a date! Don't leave me alone!" Daphne insisted.

A little distraction didn't seem so bad after all.

"Well, if you guys says so." Y/N decided to go to the party.

The Slytherin Common Room was transformed into a scene of opulent decadence for the night's party. Dimly lit by the soft glow of emerald and silver candles, the room exuded an air of mystery and sophistication. The walls were adorned with tapestries featuring serpentine motifs, and rich, forest-green draperies hung gracefully, casting intricate patterns of shadows across the space. In the dimly lit Slytherin Common Room, the atmosphere was charged with tension.

Draco and Y/N, once inseparable in their love, now stood worlds apart. Draco's heartache had driven him to make the excruciating decision to end their relationship. Yet, his love for her remained a constant but buried beneath layers of darkness. As the night wore on, a masquerade of indifference clung to Draco's facade as he watched from the shadows. The party's laughter and clinking of glasses seemed a distant echo in his ears.

Then, a game of spin the bottle began, and Y/N was drawn into it, Draco's stormy gray eyes were locked onto the scene unfolding before him. Y/N went on to join the game of spin the bottle. It was a spontaneous, almost reckless choice, born of the night's charged atmosphere.

He had watched as Y/N, the love he had once held so close, gracefully spun the bottle, her laughter filling the room. As the bottle spun, landing on a random Slytherin, Draco couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Y/N, her face bathed in the soft, greenish glow of the common room .

The bottle had landed on a nameless face, and in that moment, Y/N couldn't have cared less about his identity. Her mind was a tumult of emotions, and she needed a distraction, an escape from the thought of Draco that had been consuming her.

The guy approached her, but Y/N remained untouched by any thrill or excitement.

Without a hesitation Y/N let him kiss her.

His kiss was a hollow gesture, devoid of any real emotion or connection.

Jealousy and pain surged through Draco as their lips met. He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as he yearned to be the one to hold her, to feel her lips against his own. The room blurred around him as he struggled to conceal his anguish, a silent scream echoing within his tormented soul. At that moment, amidst the chaos of the party, Draco's love for Y/N burned brighter than ever, though he remained a prisoner of his own sacrifices. However Y/N on the other hand, decided to leave the game.

She decided that she had to call it a night here, so she wouldn't regret it the next day. She showed no emotions, no reactions. She just walked away from the guy that just kissed her.

The kiss didn't mean anything to her.

She was walking towards the stairs when she felt someone grabbing her arm. Oh, she wanted it to be Draco. She wanted it to be Draco so badly. She longed for it to be Draco.

However, it wasn't. It was the guy she had just kissed. She didn't even have the care in the world to ask for his name.

"Y/N?" he approached.

What was his name again?

"You-how do you know my name?" Y/N asked in a surprise.

"I mean-- Everyone in this school kinda does." he answers.

"Yeah" she nodded.

"What did you need?" she asked.

"Nothing. I just- just...The kiss was.." he couldn't find the right words.

"Kiss was what?" Y/N said in a cold tone.

Draco was still watching Y/N. What he felt was a jealousy born of the deep affection he still held for her, a possessiveness that he had never truly let go of. He wanted to rip that guys throat off. He really did want it.

"You know what, why don't I try kissing you again?" the guy leaned in.

"Oh, no thanks, I'll pass." Y/N didn't have a care in the world about this guy.

"Give me a chance to prove it to you." he insisted.

"Prove what? What is there to prove?" Y/N asked mockingly.

"Just let it happen, you won't regret it I promise." he took a step closer to Y/N, and all of a sudden their lips touched again.

As the guy's lips pressed against Y/N's once more, the atmosphere became charged with tension. Y/N had long lost her ability to feel. She was completely numb after Draco left.

Unbeknownst to her, Draco was watching all this from afar.

However, the guy's lips were gone in the blink of an eye. Y/N opened her eyes, only to find out Draco got the guy pinned against a wall, punching him.

The first punch happened so fast that it was hard to follow. It landed on the guy's face with a loud thud. The room went completely silent, and all that could be heard was the sound of Draco's fists hitting the guy. It was like watching a brutal act of violence.

"Oh for Salazar's sake! Draco!" Y/N was in shock.

Draco was punching the guy, non-stop. It was almost like he zoned out.

"Draco just stop!" Y/N shouted at Draco again. The guy, trapped against the wall, tried to defend himself, but he couldn't do much. His face showed pain and confusion with every hit. Each punch echoed through the room, creating a disturbing rhythm.

Y/N stepped in between them. Taking Draco away from the guy. "What the hell do you think you are doing?" Y/N asked.

Draco scoffed, and by now, everyone at the Slytherin party had gathered around them. 

Y/N whispered"I am so sorry." to the guy and dragged Draco outside.

As Y/N guided Draco out of the bustling room, both of them were seething with anger. The change from the loud party to the quiet hallway didn't cool their anger one bit. Their footsteps echoed in the hushed corridor, punctuated by the tension between them. Y/N's grip on Draco's arm was firm, reflecting her frustration, and it was a silent signal that they needed to have a serious conversation away from the prying eyes of the party.

"What the fuck was that?" Y/N asked to Draco.

He was fueled with anger. His eyes were boiling with anger.

"Answer me, Draco. What the fuck did you just do there!" shouted Y/N.

Draco lifted his head and looked away.

"LOOK. ME. IN. THE. FUCKING. EYE." Y/N held his chin and turned his head towards her.

His stormy grey eyes were on her hazel eyes. They were face to face now, just like a thousand years before when they had last looked at each other this way. So close, yet so far.

She shook her head and cleared her thoughts.

Looked him in the eye again, demanding an explanation.

"He was kissing you." Draco said.

Y/N didn't answer.

"That stupid spin the bottle game was one thing. But walking up to you? Who the fuck is he to come even a mile close to you?" Draco's anger was written all over his face.

Beneath the façade of anger, Draco's eyes revealed a deep hurt. He had acted impulsively to protect what he perceived as his territory, but as he faced Y/N alone, his anger had given way to vulnerability. He still cared deeply for Y/N, and the kiss had stirred up intense jealousy and possessiveness, making him confront the reality that Y/N was no longer his. "I'll bury him alive." he added.

"What? Draco, no? You don't get to do this." words came out of Y/N's mouth in a second. "You don't get to decide who I kiss, not anymore." Y/N finally said it.

She wanted to assert that she was no longer under Draco's control or influence, especially after he had left her behind. Beneath her words, there was a lingering sense of hurt.

Draco looked away again.

"I am not yours to keep Draco. Not since when you left." said Y/N. Her eyes were fueled with anger.

Draco stood silently, waiting for Y/N to take her words back.

But she didn't.

"Where does it leave me then?" Draco said in pain. His emotions were a turbulent mix of frustration, longing, and a sense of loss.

"Nowhere, I guess." she answers.

Draco looked Y/N in the eye one last time and turned around to leave.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

[noxexistant]

more on the fight club au ? 👀👀

i would love nothing more <3

the first time jack goes down there, he swears to himself it’s with the sole intention of shutting the place down. he doesn’t know how long it’s been running, but he knows it’s been a while - a few weeks, at least - and the simple fact that nobody told him is proof that they were keeping it secret from him, which is never a good sign. but the murmurs inevitably reach him eventually, as all murmurs do. ain’t nothing that goes on in mahattan that he don’t know about, or find out about, and he listens for a while to the whispers between his boys before he moves.

he finds out quick that the delanceys are running it, and that’s right when he makes his decision to ax it. he tells himself that anything the delanceys are involved with is bad news, especially anything that has his boys bearing black eyes and sore ribs and split knuckles, so he goes down there - despite the fact that, when he’d been hearing his boys talking about it, it’s always with grins and sparks in their eyes, voices low and chests puffed. the same fire in them as when they talk about soaking some other newsie for territory, or squealing some lie to a bull for their own gain, or stringing some skirt along with a heart-wrenching tale that didn’t contain a single true word. picking a pocket, picking a fight, the sort of stuff newsies just do because they love it. because it scratches an itch they all got.

it’s an old warehouse building - the ring that the boys have been talking about. jack follows the flow there after selling all day, after dark, and keeps his head down to blend in as best he can. morris delancey’s on the door, attention split between the people coming in and the crowd of newsies inside, and it’s a deafening wall of sound as soon as jack gets through. a throng of older kids shouting and jeering and cursing, and at the centre of it all there’s a ring marked out like the boxing rings on the streets. but there’s no rope, no cage, just lines on the floor and a gap in the crowd that’s moving with the violence of the two figures inside it, dodging back and getting louder every time one fighter gets tossed too close. when they get especially close, those on the edge’ll shove the fighter right back.

jack can’t see who it is in the ring, but he raises his fist and hollers for it all to stop anyway, just in case it’s one - or two - of his own boys being beat into the concrete for the crowd right now. the crowd quiets and the fight stops, but not one person looks happy about it - least of all oscar, who steps out of the shadows where he was watching the throng and steps up to jack with a dark look in his eyes.

jack explains what he wants - to stop this, all this, before someone gets hurt bad, and half the crowd starts stepping down the way all jack’s boys do when their leader tells them to, while the other half starts booing, vicious. that side is more kids jack doesn’t recognise, boys and girls from other boroughs, further afield. jack sees spot conlon step out of the ring and shove roughly through the crowd, their nose and mouth a mess of blood, and they’re booing too.

“you wanna shut us down?” oscar says, shoving jack hard in the chest, squaring up to him so they’re almost nose-to-nose. “how ‘bouts you earn it, huh? you crawl in here and clim’ up those ranks, same as anyone, an’ when you’re at the top, you can call it. but you gotta earn it. ain’t no use walkin’ in here tryin’ to be the famous jack kelly. you ain’t nobody here.”

“who’s at the top?” jack demands. oscar points, and spot bares their teeth.

so, jack steps into the ring with them. spot’s got their hair tied back, knuckles wrapped, their girls jumping and hollering and telling them exactly what to do to jack. jack’s got oscar, watching with a grin on his face and morris leaned against his shoulder.

and jack gets his ass kicked.

spot stomps him, and the roar of the crowd is echoing in his ears for hours afterwards, his head spinning. morris has to haul him up off the floor, and hold him half steady so he can hear oscar speak.

“maybe next time we’ll sort you out wit’ a more even match, huh?”

jack tells him to fuck off - spits a mouthful of blood at him, which only makes oscar laugh harder - but he does come back, when murmurs reach him that oscar’s sorted him out another opponent to go up against, start working his way up the ranks. he tells himself, again, that it’s just to shut the place down, to make it to the top and cut the head off.

but, by his second or third fight - and second or third win - jack’s forgotten all about that.

(he tells himself it’s just so he doesn’t have to fight spot again. refuses to admit it’s just so he can keep fighting everybody else.)

[knight-engale]

Achilles, Come Down

Rating: M (I think)

Word Count: 1.4k

Trigger Warnings: Parental death (referenced), suicide ideation and attempt, emotional neglect

Author's Note: Morgan lore, but not in a good way. This one has some really heavy and triggering themes, so I won't fault anyone for skipping it. I'd say "enjoy the read", but I don't think that would be the appropriate term here.

Hasani sat back in his desk chair, groaning.

He’d just finished using that enchanted mirror of Amaya’s to talk to his sister-in-law, Chiara. The decision they’d reached was gut-wrenching. Heartbreaking. However, it had to be done, for Mórnkan’s safety. He knew she wouldn’t like it, but she would understand when she was older. Amaya had always been apprehensive about sending their daughter out to sea anyway. This solution would have satisfied her fears. It was what she would have wanted.

Hasani rose, drawing in a deep breath, and straightened out his shirt. No time like the present to get this over with. He hesitated only a moment before leaving his office and wandering the cold, polished hallways to find his daughter.

There was no sound as he walked, aside from the sound of his footsteps--and even those were muffled by his house slippers. This whole building was so unwelcoming after Amaya’s death. The home he’d grown up in, the home he’d raised his daughter in…now as lifeless and cold as a grave. It made him shiver despite the air being relatively warm.

It only took a few minutes to reach Mórnkan’s room. His eyes were drawn to the paper on the door, kept in place by a knife. He could barely recognize his daughter’s handwriting; it was rushed and sloppy, the first time he’d seen it in such a state. A pit formed in his stomach as he scanned the words.

Father,

I’ve had enough. I can’t keep up with everything I’m expected to do. I miss mama. I miss Dess. I’m so tired, and the cliffs promise rest. Give my animals to Peri, and tell her I love her.

- Your little bird.

Hasani’s heart beat faster and faster with every word. This…couldn’t be what it looked like. His little girl wouldn’t do that. His perfect, sweet Mórnkan would never. But then, she hadn’t been herself in weeks. He ripped the note down, scanning it again. Where was she? The ink was still wet. She couldn’t have gone far yet.

The note fluttered to the ground as Hasani began to run. He stumbled on the stairs, flew out of the heavy front doors. They closed behind him with a resounding bang that he barely heard. The dry, knee-high grass parted for him as if he were the very wind. There was already a path, a line where the grass didn’t stand quite so tall. Not far off, he could see a figure with unmistakable hair, dangerously close to the cliffs.

Hasani tripped over a rock, cursing loudly as he fell. Mórnkan paused, then began to run. Hasani couldn’t stand fast enough. He barely noticed that his slippers had come off in the fall.

“Mórnkan!” he bellowed as his daughter drew close to the edge. Mórnkan startled, turning.

“Go away.” Her voice was weak and hoarse, like she’d been crying for a long time.

“Mórnkan, step away from the edge this second! I will not allow you to do whatever it is you intend to.”

“Don’t you have better things to do than worry about me?”

“Of course not! You’re my daughter, I won’t stand aside while you throw your life away!”

Mórnkan laughed darkly, turning to face the cliffs again. “Yes, you would. You’ve done it before. I’m sorry, father. There’s just…nothing left for me. I want my mama.”

She started walking again. Hasani moved faster, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back with more force than he intended. Mórnkan gasped and stumbled, half falling to the ground. She tried to tug her hand away, but his grip was too firm as he began to haul her back to the manor.

“What were you thinking, Mórnkan?!” He didn’t mean to shout, but how could he do anything else? “You would really rather die than…than anything else?”

“Yes! There’s nothing, I don’t, there isn’t any reason for me!” Mórnkan strained to even speak, trying to keep up with his longer, faster strides.

“Of course there’s reason for you to live! Your mother died to save your life. Dying now would be spitting in her face!”

“She made a mistake! She should have saved herself!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, any decent parent would have done the same. Why would you throw her sacrifice away?!”

“Because she made a mistake, I should have died instead!”

Hasani held her wrist more tightly. Her skin felt unnaturally warm. How strange. “That’s a ridiculous statement, and you know it. You’re better than this, Mórnkan. What will it take to snap you out of this? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“I tried! I tried, but you, you kept ignoring me- What are you doing? That hurts, stop!” She tried harder to get her hand back, going so far as to use her free hand to attempt to pry his hand away.

“I’m not doing anything, and I’m not letting go of you until you are safely back home. You’re avoiding the question; why wouldn’t you just talk to me about this?”

“I tried to! I tried to, and every time, you told me you couldn’t talk yet!” Mórnkan’s voice was shaking, like she was crying. “You keep brushing me off! I’m done with it! You, it’s like you don’t even care-”

“Of course I care! If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have come to get you! If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have arranged for you to stay somewhere safer! I don’t know where you get those ideas from!”

“You arranged what...?”

“You’re going to Vesuvia as soon as I can manage it.” Hasani threw the back door to the manor open and marched Mórnkan into the kitchen. He didn’t stop walking once they were inside, though, instead heading towards her bedroom upstairs.

“What?!”

“I’ve been talking to your aunt Chiara, and she agreed to take you in as a student. It’s clearly far safer for you in Vesuvia, seeing as how you nearly died when you went out to sea.”

“But I don’t, I don’t want to, I barely even know Aunt Chiara, I thought she hated you?”

“We have our differences, but protecting Amaya’s child is something we agree on.”

“You can’t send me away! You can’t, it’s not fair!” Mórnkan whimpered, trying once again to jerk her arm free. It was still far warmer than it should have been. “I’ll be alone, I don’t wanna be alone…”

“It’s for your own good, Mórnkan. You’ll understand eventually. And you won’t be alone, you’ll have your cousins. Chiara said she has an errand boy at her shop who’s about your age, too. You’ll have more kids your age to talk to than you have here.”

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want my cousins, I don’t want other kids! I’m not a kid anyway, I’m seventeen. I want my parents!” She let out a choked sob. “It’s not fair, you can’t just send me away!”

“It’s not your decision, Mórnkan. You’re going to have to live with it.” He opened the door to her bedroom and made her sit down on her bed. “But for now, you’re going to stay right here and start packing. You need to be ready whenever I can get transportation arranged.”

“You’re not even going to sail me there yourself?” Mórnkan looked up at him with big eyes, holding her arm close to her chest.

“I never said that. I’ll go with you to drop you off if I can. If I can get enough of the crew to work some overtime, I’ll even take you there on the Lady Circe. But I can’t make any promises. I might have to send you by yourself.”

Mórnkan didn’t respond to that for a long moment. Her head lowered, her gaze turning to the arm he’d been holding. “...Okay. I…see how it is.”

“I knew you’d see reason. You’re a smart girl. Now take a minute to breathe, and start gathering your things.”

Mórnkan nodded slowly, still staring at her arm and wrist. Hasani looked at her wrist as well, wondering why she was so fixated on it. Ah. That would explain why her skin had been warm. He wasn’t sure where the burn had come from, though. Had it even been there before?

“Do you want some water for that?” His voice was more gentle now. Mórnkan shook her head quickly. “...Very well. Tell you what, you focus on healing that up. I wouldn’t want you to be injured. After that, you can rest. We’ll start the packing process tomorrow.”

“...Yes, father.”

[aphrodita-from-foam]

**** Feel free to ignore this if it's too much; I just had to get it out and this is a rash decision to send it but here goes nothing - you know who**** If I ever saw you again I don’t know how I’d react. Our last sighting was under horrible circumstances, I’m sorry for blind sighting you like that. I don’t know how much you know or how private things had to be, but I was a mess every time I saw you, I hate how everything happened. We’ll never fully make sense to me, but I think I’ve known that from the start. I found all my old poetry from 2016. (What a sucker punch) I’ve been thinking of publishing a collection eventually so I’m interspersing some old with the new (but not the ones for you, I can’t bring myself to do it) Why do I still write to you? I don’t have a clear answer there. I don’t even know if I’ll gather the courage to leave this for you. She knows everything, which is why I can’t respond to you. It's been quite the rollercoaster of a year. I really didn’t expect to get to the point where I’d be making you an accidental visit like that... It's been a rough few months. It’s been twice not once, I just opted out of inpatient the second time. How did they let me get away with that? Unclear. I guess I’m good with words. I’m taking the semester off of school to get my meds under control. I don’t have to be telling you any of this, but I know you care and as much as I don’t speak it I still care too. I think I always will. But we crossed a line. If we had tiptoed a little softer, If I could have just been honest with her from the start, Who knows where we would be? Colleagues? Friends? Confidants? Who knows what we could ever be now? Only time will tell. I’m just writing this to say that even though it’s been dark, I am alive and well. I hope the same goes for you. I can’t contact you any other way, but I’ve thought of leaving you something for some time now, I just didn’t know what to say or how to even say it. I want the best of everything in the world for you and I always will. Looking at the old writings is still gut-wrenching because it was so intense. One of your lines has stuck in my head and will never leave: I was real, and I was here, with you. That’ll never go away. I hope your life is full of love and laughter and if this is in ill taste and causes pain then to believe me, I’m sorry. That’s not my intention. I just know that you know I was in pain and didn’t know what to do or say nor were you allowed to, and I don’t want you to worry. I don’t know how much your coworkers are allowed to tell you, but it was an emotional stay knowing you were so close. I don’t say that to be rude, it’s because I wanted to talk to you but couldn’t. I guess here is where I’ll end. Good luck in everything you put your passion towards, anyone will be forever lucky to have you. Maybe one day we’ll meet again, and if we don’t I hope you keep the songs. I’ll never forget anything.

Thank you for writing. It’s good to hear from you. I’m sorry for having pushed the boundaries between us. I’m going inpatient for a while myself and also took the semester off- what a wild year this has been- I miss talking to you, I miss seeing you and holding you. I wish I was in your life- in whatever capacity… I’m doing a lot of step work as well, sex and love addicts anon, it’s a great program and they have helped me heal so so much. I’m happy to know you are alive and prioritizing your mental health- it has helped me son much to cut back several hours of work and take a break from school. I’m single now, for the first time in a long time and this time- I am okay with it… I’ve been rediscovering myself and learning to love myself and be kind to myself.

I have so much love and softness for you. I talked about you just the other day to a close friend- told him how much my heart yearns for you, but how we always get our timing wrong.

I fear you may be my life long “almost” and “what if”, it’s painful to think of all the lovely scenarios we could have been, but through the program and (a lot) of therapy, I’ve been accepting the fate of what we are.

I believe you in you. I love you, even after everything and only want the happiness and kindness you give to the world for yourself.

Publish your beautiful work, fall in love with yourself, grow, nurture, and heal.

Forever yours,

Lola.

[chalwahanjaatehain]

“Chhupa bhi na sakenge, bata bhi na sakenge, hua hai yun tere pyaar mein paagal, piya. Jo tere na hue toh, kisi ke na rahenge. Ke ab na kisi aur se laage jiya.”  (I can’t hide it, I can’t talk about, that is the extent of how crazy I have become in your love, my beloved. If I won’t be yours, I won’t be another’s. Now my heart is unable to attach to another’s.) 🥀 

My condition is such that no one will understand.

I am facing the repercussions of having fallen in love with someone who can’t be mine. I shed tears that only make people laugh at my foolishness. I want to move on, I want to detach from you, but I’m finding it very difficult.

My love for you is an undeniable part of my reality.

Do I regret falling in love with you? No. And I would never want to resent you. Ever. You touched parts of my life which perhaps wouldn’t be the same without you.

But would I wish one-sided love on someone? No. I used to take pride in my deep emotions for you, albeit they are unknown to you, but I’ve now come to a point where I realized nothing and no one but you will do anymore.

I hear the lyrics “Khwab mere aaye jab bhi, palkon ke neeche hi hoon main (When you get dreams of me, I am under your eyelashes),” and I think of you. But I also can’t help but think that is how close you are yet that is how far you will always be.  

My arms that have never held you ache to do so. My lips that have never touched yours yearn to do so. My eyes that have never looked into yours desperately want nothing more than to forget the world and all the worries bearing down on my shoulders by gazing, becoming mesmerized, getting lost in yours.

I’ve come to a point where I just want to know what it would feel like to be loved back by you. What it would feel like to simply just be next to you, watching you do your thing and be at peace while in your element? To receive your loved-filled glances, directed only towards and for me? To know that your soul loves mine for what it is, to be understood for all that I am and all the flaws that I hold, to be embraced by your affection?

When the prospective of being with someone else came along, I broke down. No one understood why and thought I was crazy. I also hadn’t realized it at the time, but I now recognize it was because they weren’t you.

“Iss duniya ki iss bheed mein kahin kho na jaoun main. Darr lagta hai kissi aur ka kahin ho na jaoun main.” (May I not get lost in the crowd of this world. I am scared of becoming someone else’s.)

How does one move on when every heart wrenching line of poetry reminds me of you? When every lyric that stabs my heart brings your face to my mind? When every single story I read, I picture you as the main character? When I subconsciously look for you in everyone?

But it rarely works like that, does it? That while one is already, deeply, madly, passionately in love, the other will fall too? You are so blissfully unaware as well.

When I imagine myself with you, I forget my shortcomings. I forget that you deserve better than me in every regard. I forget that I perceive myself of as being unable to be loved. I forget that there isn’t this fated distance between us.

I tell myself time and time again that I’ve moved on, that I don’t love you anymore, that it’s all in my head including the version of you that I created in my mind, but then what does it mean that when your eyes are still my favorite pair in the world? When I am the happiest when I see you in my dreams and want nothing more to go back to sleep just to see you again, even if in my dreams I see you with her?

“Tere pichhe rondiyaan, ankhiyaan nadaan ve.” (These innocent foolish eyes cry for you.) 

I can imagine your eyes gazing into mine as if they’ve done so before, taking in your long eyelashes, studying the different shades of your honey brown irises. I can imagine caressing your face and pressing slow gentle kisses to your face, giving you love as though it were my second nature. I don’t see myself like that with anyone else, giving and receiving love so easily from someone else. I don’t want it to be someone else. I’ve been waiting for someone else, but now I realize that it’s you that I await. I don’t know if I will be able to love another as I had loved you.

When had I reserved myself for you, I hadn’t noticed.

There are times where I had become distant from you, but there have also been times where a mere video of yours brought tears to my eyes that I couldn’t watch anymore. The mere thought of letting you go brings tears to my eyes.

People tell me that I have closed my mind, that I’m not letting myself open up to the idea of someone else, but I can’t force myself to feel something for another when I don’t; what can I do when you are the only one that my eyes, that my heart is fond of? Inn aankhon ko, iss dil ko tere siwa koi aur bhaaye na.

But as much as I love you, I know we can’t be. There are matters which are very important to me of which we perhaps aren’t on the same page. My mind also recounts factors, circumstances that makes me realize I am not for you and you aren’t for me.

“Teri dunya mujhe ab na gavara hai, par tu hansti rahe, bas yehi sahara hai.” (Your world is intolerable to me, but you keep laughing, only that is my support.)

It isn’t necessary we get all we want in life, but we do get what we need. The purity and passion with which I had loved you, the longing for you that remains makes it challenging to come to terms with that you won’t be mine.

“Chalo Rab di ae je manzoori, mainu vi koi gila nahi. Lakkhan si main mannatan mangeya, par kyun tu mila nahi? Yehi qismat thi deewane ki.” (If this is what God wants, then I too have no complaints. I asked for you in so many prayers, but why did I not get you? This is the fate of the crazy lover.)

Sometimes I think to myself that you were the love of my life, that I won’t experience love again. I tell myself that I’m fine with that, that I’m lucky to have experienced it and I will live with the memories. Perhaps they’ll suffice. But then I also try to remind myself that perhaps I’ll find someone who I will love close to as much as I loved you, and this time, they’ll love me back. I don’t want it to be me compromising or settling. It’s hard to imagine and be hopeful about it, but I try.

This is a conflict that I am dealing with unbeknownst to all. My mind does not want to accept what it already knows. It hurts. I need help. I don’t know how to move on. I don’t know how to let go. Maybe it is because I never want to let you go. I don’t want to forget you. I miss you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

- Beneath the Surface | N. A.

[maatryoshkaa]

between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

✑ Late fines, shared lockers, and a missing love letter:

In which a frantic search for an overdue library book leads to you finding other things that are...long overdue.

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

✑ GENRE: retro!high school au, slow burn, slice-of-life romance, slight enemies-to-lovers shenanigans

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

✖︎ TAGS/WARNINGS: fem!reader, mild language, bullying themes, skz are all around the same age. mc is insecure and a bit of a valentine's day grinch. minho is whipped but too hardheaded to admit it. also, an embarrassing amount of classic literature/pablo neruda references.

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

Call it the most romantic day of the year if you will, but in the treacherous hallways of Levanter High, it meant a minefield of hormonal couples, crushed chocolate boxes, and supermarket rose bouquets. Clutching your backpack with a grimace, you narrowly dodged a pigtailed cheerleader as she leapt into her jock boyfriend’s waiting arms. Turning into another hallway, you plugged your ears to block out a senior boy’s cold rejection of a freshman’s nervous love confession.

You finally caught sight of your locker and breathed a sigh of relief. Levanter High’s lockers were split in half lengthwise—one top row, and one bottom row. You dropped to a crouch to wrench yours open—you’d lost your lock a couple of weeks ago—trying to block out the early morning commotion as you rummaged for your English books.

“Hey, watch ou—”

The locker above yours opened with a screech, and you looked up just in time to see a pink avalanche of cards and chocolates raining down on your head in a painful, deafening crash. The student who had called out the warning was frozen with a comical look of shock on her face. You swore the entire hallway fell silent, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slowly raised your gaze at the person who had opened the locker.

Lee Hana—head cheerleader of Levanter’s pep squad, and in your humble opinion, the spawn of Satan herself.

“Ohmigosh,” she exclaimed, raising one hand to her mouth in mock horror, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

The crowd around you was beginning to snicker and point, and you felt your face growing redder by the minute. “What are you doing here?” You asked tersely, motioning towards the locker above yours. “That’s not even your locker.”

Hana smiled and held up a small, glittery package. Oh. You didn’t have to look closer to know that the envelope was a love letter, elaborately tied to a box of expensive chocolates—the kind your parents would probably have to work overtime to afford. “My Valentine—for your locker buddy,” Hana replied matter-of-factly, then added, “Not that you would understand, hm? Since you’ve never received one yourself, and all.”

A smattering of laughs erupted from the crowd that was building around you. Biting back a retort, you looked down at all the other Valentine’s trinkets that had spilled around you. Of course—you should have gotten used to it by now. After all, your locker was right underneath the one that belonged to the student librarian, school heartthrob, and the absolute bane of your existence, Lee—

“Minho!” Hana exclaimed, and you looked up to see him shuffling through the crowd, his eyes briefly falling on yours. You immediately turned away as the pretty cheerleader skipped up to him, and shoved your books into your bag. Slamming your locker shut—twice, because Levanter’s damned lockers always jammed before shutting properly—you snatched up as many of Minho’s fallen Valentine’s Day trinkets as you could before shoving them back into the now-emptied top locker. The metal door was still swinging wide open. You’d overheard Minho complaining to the boy who always did the announcements—Han Jihyun? Han Jisung?—about how he kept losing his own lock. Both of you seemed to have a habit of misplacing things (not that you liked to admit to that similarity).

Out of the corner of your eye, Minho was still watching you over Hana’s shoulder, his lips tilted in a half-smile. Your gut twisted unpleasantly. Four years and counting—that was how long you’d ended up with a locker right under Minho’s.

“You’re so lucky!” Lia—your best friend—had gushed, while you had scoffed in utter disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

“Come on, y/n. Are you still hung up about that love letter from freshman year?”

Yes, you had thought sourly. “No way,” you had snapped, and Lia had giggled, unconvinced.

It wasn’t like you’d always had a personal vendetta against Minho. In fact, in ninth grade, you’d been head over heels for him, just like the rest of the student body—to the point where you’d even slipped a small love letter into his locker on Valentine’s Day, too. It had been one of those gaudy 99-cent corner-store cards, and you'd saved up your pocket money just to buy a matching pack of candy hearts. Then you’d spent the day with butterflies in your stomach, anxiously waiting nearby his locker to see his reaction.

But when he hadn’t shown up, you'd shrugged and begun heading home—and that was when you had caught sight of Minho, throwing all the love letters he’d received straight into the Dumpsters in the back parking lot.

Talk about a reality check.

As if that hadn't been traumatizing enough, you’d been forced to face him nearly every morning for the following three years. To make matters worse, being Minho’s involuntary locker mate also meant that all the girls—and guys, for that matter—saw you as little more than a stepping stone to him, always asking you to relay party invitations or trying to curry favour with you to get to him.

“We’re not close,” you’d insist to his persistent admirers every time, but it didn’t help. Minho, on the other hand, you thought bitterly, seemed to think he was too good for anyone—he didn’t even respond much to Hana’s advances, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. There was no way he’d even look twice at you—you’d been firsthand witness to that. You finally gave up trying to clean up the fallen Valentines, and stood up with a sigh. Throwing him a death glare, you pushed past the crowd just as the bell rang and students began scurrying away.

What did it matter if Lee Hana was trying to get with Minho? If anything, they were a match made in heaven. Or hell. With a decided huff, you plopped yourself down at your desk just as your English teacher began class.

“We’re starting the poetry unit today! Remember, you’ll be writing a love poem of your own for the final project—so I suggest you all get started on reading!” You teacher had winked and clapped her hands excitedly while a collective groan had swept through your class. A few couples had nudged each other meaningfully, already promising to write their poems about each other, and you’d thrown up a little in your mouth.

Romance was a bit of a touchy subject for you— now, you didn’t hate the notion of love, per se, you’d just always been somewhat...wary of it. After watching your friends fall in and out of disastrous relationships and fleeting feelings from the sidelines too many times to count, your own defense mechanisms had skyrocketed, and now you found yourself trying not to roll your eyes at every piece of romantic writing you read. Still, this inexperience only made you more determined to get a head start on the topic— and so, once the last bell had rung, you made a beeline for the school library. You would tackle love the only way you knew how to—by hitting the books. Pushing open the door, you overheard Hana and her friends muttering in disappointment and immediately recoiled.

“You said he’d be in here!”

“Well, I thought I saw him! Let’s wait for a bit.”

You peeked over the librarian’s desk, and sure enough, it was vacant— save for a tray of half-shelved books and stamping cards. Maybe Minho left early today, you thought, shrugging. That’s a relief. Then you shook your head quickly. What’s it to me whether he’s here or not? You tried to ignore Hana’s disdainful glance at you, heading straight towards your favourite nook at the back of the library instead: a cozy alcove tucked behind the last row of shelves. With a deep sigh, you pulled out the first book of poetry your teacher had assigned—Shakespeare’s Complete Sonnets—and sank into the bean bag chair.

‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

A couple lines in, and the Englishman’s words were already making your head spin. You grimaced, massaging your temples. ‘A summer’s day?’ Seriously? You could swear you’d seen something less cheesy on a dollar store card. After a couple of pages, you could already feel your treacherous eyelids beginning to droop, fighting to stay awake as you tried to make sense of Shakespeare’s verses. But thy eternal summer...shall not fade...nor lose...possession…

“The library’s closing.”

You jolted awake, hands fumbling blindly before you could even force your eyes open. The library came into focus first—the lights had been dimmed, the flickering EXIT sign from the empty hallway casting a warm glow through the panelled window across the room. A dull headache still throbbed in your temples.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes groggily. You had to practically peel your cheek away from the Shakespeare book, fingers gingerly feeling the dent the cover had left in your cheek. “I-I’m so sorry, I must have—lost track of time studying.”

A familiar chuckle sent your heart plummeting to your stomach. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

When your eyes finally adjusted, your expression automatically soured into a glare.

“Now that’s more like it.” Smirking, Minho crossed his arms, leaning back on a bookshelf. He glanced down at the book in your lap—the book that you clearly hadn’t been studying. “Didn’t know you were one for Shakespeare.”

“I—” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not. His writing gives me a headache. It’s like it’s all in another language or something.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Old English. Why are you reading it, then?”

“We’re doing poetry in class—and our final project is to write an actual love poem, based on the poets we’ll study. Shakespeare was just first on the reading list, so…” you felt yourself trailing off, flustered. Why were you even bothering to explain this to Minho, who probably couldn’t care less? “Nevermind.”

You felt his piercing gaze on you as you shoved your books into your bag, glancing outside at the nearly emptied parking lot. If you squinted, you could spot a couple—Seo Changbin, judging by the male’s iconic leather jacket, and his lover—making out under the bleachers. You shook your head incredulously. Valentine’s Day. Love poems. Hormonal couples galore. It was like the universe was playing a long, cruel joke on you: Ha-ha, look who’s spending Valentine’s Day studying in the library alone.

Well, alone except for a student librarian with whom you had a mortifying history. Not much better. Eager to leave, you got to your feet, only to see Minho flipping through a smaller book he’d pulled off the shelf next to him. “If you want some real inspiration,” he began slowly, pushing up his glasses, “I’d suggest you start closer to our time period.”

You looked down at the book he was holding up, brow furrowing as you read the title out loud. “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Pablo Neruda.”

“The best Chilean poet of the 20th century,” he nodded. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving but this.’”

It took you a second to realise Minho was quoting a poem, and you were suddenly grateful that the dimly lit library hid the flush of red that had betrayed your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “That actually sounds...kind of pretty.”

He didn’t look up, but you thought you saw the corners of his mouth shoot up ever so slightly. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on you? Flipping through the book, Minho fished out a pad of sticky notes from his back pocket and marked a few pages. “Here. ‘The Song of Despair’...‘Tonight I Can Write’...‘Here I Love You.’ Those are good.” Clamping the book shut, he held it out towards you.

You almost thanked him, but the words faltered on your tongue as you took it from him suspiciously. “What’s with the sudden helpful attitude?”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.” You raised an incredulous eyebrow, and he smirked. “Consider it my apology for this morning, then.”

That left you at a real loss for words, and for the first time, you struggled to find a retort. “That’s...considerate of you, apologising on behalf of your girlfriend and all.”

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

You breathed a small laugh. “Soon-to-be, then. Don’t break her heart.”

Minho scoffed, bringing the book to the front desk and scrawling your name on the sign-out card. He stamped the dates, then held it out at you before glancing out the window. Dusk had fallen, the empty football field lit only by rows of flickering lampposts. “You can get home safe?”

“Screw off, Lee Minho.” You eyed him warily, shoving the book into your bag before practically running to the double doors. The strange atmosphere that had suddenly built up in the library felt terrifyingly foreign to you, and your first instinct was to be rid of it as soon as possible. In the hallway, you spotted a janitor dumping a bin into a trash bag. A familiar avalanche of pink envelopes and gifts caught your eye, and you felt a wave of humiliation. Just the memory of Minho throwing yours out—after reading it and having a good laugh, no doubt—made you want to ram your head into the lockers all over again. You’ve got no chance with him, y/n, you thought blearily. Right when you’d thought you’d finally come to terms with Minho’s brutal (albeit unintentional) rejection, here he was again: crashing back into your life like some...cat-eyed, pointy-nosed meteor.

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

You’d already had one foot out the front door when Minho called your name again, making you jerk your head back in surprise. Minho had his bag slung over one shoulder, a pile of books in his arms as he waved to get your attention. His smile looked almost...genuine in the warm shadows, his round glasses softening his usually sharp gaze. Despite yourself, you felt your heart skip a beat.

Then Minho made a wiping motion over his face and grinned. “You’ve got drool on your chin.”

Your face reddened, and you slammed the library door shut, earning a glare from the janitor down the hall. Smacking the heel of your palm against your forehead repeatedly, you stormed out of the school muttering curses under your breath. Typical Lee Minho.

To your surprise, you practically devoured the poems in less than a week, taken aback at how much you genuinely enjoyed them. It was the first time you didn’t find yourself cringing at romance—and sure enough, in a couple days’ time, you found yourself reluctantly standing back in front of the double doors of the school library once again.

Carefully, you craned your head to peep into the panelled window, scanning the room for Minho. As per usual, a gaggle of girls were huddled on the other side, blocking your view.

“Looking for someone?”

Flinching, you nearly tripped on Hana’s long legs as she came up beside you. Before you could respond, she fixed you with a withering look. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Little Miss Perfect.”

“I—sorry?”

The cheerleader rolled her eyes, sneering. “Don’t act all innocent with me, you sneaky b—”

Sighing, you pushed open the doors before she could finish. Hana followed you into the library, still sputtering angrily. Her hand snatched your arm, French manicure digging painfully into your cardigan.

“The Valentines,” she hissed, and it finally clicked.

She’s talking about the love letters, you realized. The ones Minho throws out every year.

Gut twisting, you looked up to see all the other girls crossing their arms and looking back at you expectantly. “None of you...got a response?” You asked incredulously, already knowing the answer. This happened every year: Expectant admirers showered Minho’s locker with gifts, Minho wouldn’t even glance at them— and then, for some reason, you were left to take the blame. A twinge of annoyance shot through your chest.

“You stole them from his locker, didn’t you?” Hana continued accusingly, pupils shaking. “You sneaky, jealous bitch— of course you did.”

He threw them all out, you wanted to scream back at her, but the words wouldn’t budge from your tongue. Somehow, saying them out loud felt like tearing off the stitches of an old wound; a painful reminder of your personal humiliating memory. And—though you hated to admit it—a small part of you still didn’t have the heart to throw Minho under the bus just yet, even after all that he’d done.

Feeling defeated, you sighed and turned towards her. “Why would I want to do that?”

Hana scoffed, tossing her chocolate curls over one shoulder. “Oh, please. We all know you’ve had a massive one-sided crush on him since ninth grade.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks, the other girls’ snickers at your reaction drowning out any of your protests. “That’s not—”

“Not true? Then—is it mutual?” Hana sneered mockingly. “Don’t make me laugh. He wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of y—”

“Can I help you with anything?”

The small crowd fell silent as Minho appeared from one of the aisles, eyebrows raised slightly in his usual nonchalant manner. A chill of panic rushed down your spine, palms growing clammy with cold sweat. H-how much did he overhear? In your peripheral, Hana was practically batting her eyelashes at him, but Minho’s mild eyes were focused on yours expectantly.

“I—uh. Well,” you stammered eloquently, your entire body suddenly paralyzed. Hana’s cherry red lips were twisted in a smug smirk, clearly waiting for you to embarrass yourself. “The book,” you blurted, immediately rummaging for the poetry book in your bag and holding it out to him.

Minho took it from you, fingertips grazing yours slightly. They were surprisingly warm. “How’d you find it?”

“R-really good, actually.” Then, you hesitantly added, “I...like the way Neruda uses imagery—he’s precise without being plain, and artful without deviating too much into purple prose. I think I liked Tonight I Can Write the most— y’know, ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines...’” You swallowed, then instantly began regretting having ever spoken. Great job, y/n, now you sound like a full-blown nerd.

But Minho nodded, his eyes gleaming. “‘I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me, too.’”

“That’s the second verse,” you muttered automatically, and his lips twitched.

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

The other girls had begun to awkwardly shuffle out of the library, their absence easing your racing heart. With just a few mildly spoken words, you noted, Minho had managed to make you feel as though you had blocked out the rest of the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Hana glaring daggers at you, and the small smile dropped from your face.

“Do you need something?” Minho asked her blankly, his gaze trailing down to Hana’s hand, which was still painfully latched onto your arm. With a roll of her eyes, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the library.

As soon as she was gone, you breathed an audible sigh of relief. Minho was peeling the sticky notes off from the poetry book you’d returned, eyes still watching you intently. Giving him the side-eye, you deadpanned, “She’s pretty, you know. Maybe you should go talk to her sometime.”

There was a small smile on Minho’s lips. “Does she like Chilean poetry?”

You could only give a short—slightly too shaky for your liking—laugh in response, ruffling your own hair as you tried to calm your frazzled nerves. Don’t forget, y/n. One, that he’s out of your league. Two, how this was all his fault to begin with.

“Is that all you came here for?” Minho’s voice broke into your thoughts again, making you jump. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He finds this—me—amusing.

“Well…” you looked down at your feet, then grudgingly nodded at the poetry book you’d just returned. “Do you...have any other recommendations?”

Minho’s face broke into a shit-eating grin, and you bit back a groan. before your pride got the better of you and you changed your mind, he was already heading towards the back of the library, sliding books out as you struggled to keep with his pace. “First of all, Dickinson. Hit-or-miss, but you never know. Then there’s Sylvia Plath, some Emily Brontë…”

Before you knew it, you’d been whisked into a world of verse and metaphor, flying between numerous time periods and continents as you and Minho perused the shelves. Just like the time when you had accidentally fallen asleep in the library, the library seemed to grow cozier, quieter, more peaceful during moments like these, as if the entire world was holding still as you lost yourself in pages upon pages of books. Soon, you found yourself heading to the library nearly every day after school. Despite yourself, you found yourself looking forward to that sunset hour, the fleeting period where most students had left, and the entire library would glow warm as though it were blushing under the swathes of golden light. And in these same fleeting moments, you found your gaze lingering more and more on Minho—the way he would push his silver glasses on, furrowing his brow in concentration whenever he searched for a book, or run his long fingers over their worn spines whenever he was lost in thought—

“Like what you see?” With a flinch, you realised Minho had begun walking back towards you, a crooked smirk on his lips as he set a new pile of books down at the desk you were sat at.

“No!” You snapped, too quickly. “Just—spaced out for a bit. Too concentrated on the project.”

The smirk hadn’t budged from Minho’s face, and you resisted the urge to throw a copy of Emily Dickinson’s Selected Poems at his long, pointy nose. “Mm. You seem to be coming here a lot more often.”

“That’s because the due date is coming up.”

“No. I mean, you seem to be talking to me a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes, snatching a book from the top of his pile as you muttered, “Screw you, Lee Minho.”

His eyebrows shot up in wicked mischief. “You’re more than welcome to try.”

With a cry of exasperation—and surprise at having been heard—you hoisted your book bag onto the table, building a makeshift wall between the two of you.

You didn’t catch the way Minho’s laughter slowly faded as he rested his head on one hand thoughtfully, quietly watching you read. Your lips were pursed in concentration as you muttered your notes under your breath. Cute, he couldn’t help thinking.

Minho had always been good at memorizing things, but he couldn’t remember exactly when you’d begun disliking him so much. You had always intrigued him—what with the way your locker always seemed to be overflowing with books, or how you used to lend him your copy when he forgot his, back in ninth grade. That Valentine’s Day, four years ago, your name had been the only one he’d hoped to find as he rifled through the cards he’d received. But he’d come up empty, and so he’d thrown them all out. And for some reason, you’d been cold to him ever since.

Minho had assumed that you were probably annoyed with all the letters that would fall out of his locker and onto you, and so every year he tried his best to get rid of the Valentines as soon as possible. Nevertheless, you only seemed to be getting more and more annoyed with him.

And now here you were, right in front of him, four years later, and he still couldn’t bring himself to ask you why. Confrontation had never been his strong suit—his words always seemed to come out too blunt, too cold, too soon, and so he’d always avoided bringing it up with you again. Minho sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Written words—that is, books—had always been so much easier than people.

He did, however, remember when he’d started falling for you.

Tenth grade, literature studies. He’d begun arguing against your thesis during one of your presentations, and the two of you had ended up bickering the entire class—pulling out quotes from nearly every chapter of Pride and Prejudice before the class president had to intervene, and your teacher had sent you both to detention.

You had glared at him once, and he’d fallen head over heels.

These violent delights have violent ends, he’d mused in his head back then—Romeo and Juliet—and with the murderous stare Minho sometimes caught you fixing him with, he was willing to bet that you were wishing a violent end on him, too.

He couldn’t pen a love letter to save his life, either— and so, he resorted to pettily glaring at any admirer that approached your locker like Gandalf—you shall not pass—until they backed off. Minho didn’t think you would appreciate him revealing that, either. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his actions seemed—and like a poorly written plot twist, you had ended up stumbling back into his life again. Never in his life, however, did Minho think that Pablo Neruda would become his wingman. Glancing down at his portrait on the back cover of the book, Minho could almost imagine the Chilean poet pointing his pen threateningly: “Don’t screw this up.”

“Hey, Minho?” He snapped out of his thoughts to see you waving your hand at him from the other side of your book bag. “You were right. I don’t get any of Dickinson’s poems.”

Your words took a moment to register, Minho caught off-guard by the soft golden hour light illuminating your pretty features. You waved your hand in his face again, and he blinked, breath caught in his throat. Almost tripping over his tongue, he finally quipped, “How on earth are you passing AP English?”

You glowered and smacked his shoulder, the near-silent library ringing with Minho’s laughter once again.

With a week left to the deadline, you were planted at your desk in your room, the wastebasket littered with crumpled up half-sheets of notebook paper. To your dismay, none of the words seemed to be coming out the way you wanted them to. Gnawing the back of your pencil in frustration, you dumped the contents of your book bag onto the desk, and spotted your latest library book—100 Love Sonnets, by Pablo Neruda. Inexplicably, out of all the poets Minho had introduced to you, you always found yourself coming back to him.

Flipping through the well-thumbed pages, your fingers stopped at one titled Sonnet XVII. “I love you without knowing how,” your eyes scanned the verse curiously, “or when, or from where. I love you simply…”

It was the poem Minho had quoted that evening in the library, you realized, heart skipping a beat. “...without problems or pride / I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving / but this, in which there is no I or you / so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand / so intimate that when I fall asleep, your eyes close.”

With a sigh, you buried your head in your arms, lying face-down onto the desk. Maybe the reason why you instinctively disliked reading love poems so much was because of the sheer sincerity of them all. You envied their ability to put feelings into words—with unabashed, unapologetic ardour, and be celebrated for it, to boot. Eyes scanning the verses again, your mind wandered to the way Minho’s eyes had lit up as he’d explained the lines to you, his brow furrowed in focus.

At Levanter High, you had grown used to being pushed around and out of the spotlight. It was either the popular girls and their backhanded compliments, or the boys who spoke to you condescendingly just to a) get you to do their homework, or b) get in your pants. But Minho had always taken you seriously, albeit while driving you half-insane with his infuriating remarks. And as much as you hated to admit it, that same fiery look in his eyes whenever he got worked up—so different from his usual reserved facade in front of the teachers and swooning students—had always made your heart skip a beat. In tenth grade—back when he seemed to pick a fight with you nearly every English class until Bang Chan had to hold the two of you back from killing each other—you’d thought you’d successfully quashed your feelings for the mild-voiced, hazel-eyed librarian. Yet every time he spoke, he left you feeling vulnerable, disarmed, and you were back—though you refused to admit it—to square one.

“‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul,’” you whispered, fingers tracing the words on the paper. Feeling a sudden surge—of confidence, or simply exasperation, you weren’t sure—you seized the pen and began scribbling on a new piece of paper. For years, you’d been afraid to face your feelings, terrified of the humiliation if Hana—or anyone at school—found out. But if getting them all out in one cheesy, hot mess of a love letter could give you some closure, you thought tensely, you were more than happy to oblige. You would write it all out under the guise of a love poem, and then it would never have to see the light of day again.

Words began coming to your head like a floodgate had been thrown wide open, and you began scrawling onto the page. “‘I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,’” you quoted thoughtfully as you drafted your own poem. In a way, it felt cathartic—you could get all your feelings out, pass it off as an assignment, and never think about the forbidden fruit again. For all you knew, it was a win-win situation. The pen kept wobbling, ink spilling out haphazardly and skipping, but you relaxed slightly. Maybe this assignment wasn’t too bad, after all.

Head filled to the brim with poetry, you set the pen down and dozed off.

“You’re not coming to the football game?” Lia flashed puppy eyes at you, and you smacked her hand playfully, swiping a french fry from her plate.

“Lia, since when have I ever gone to one?” The two of you had dropped by the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe for a quick pick-me-up during lunch hour, but one smile from the cute waiter—Yang Jeongin, if you remembered his name correctly—had dazzled Lia into ordering an extra burger combo, complete with a plate of fries. “Sports and crowds—not my thing. And I have an English project due the next day.”

She pouted. “Oh, come on! Knowing you, you’ve probably already finished it by now.”

You grinned, thinking back to your love poem and fighting the urge to cringe. You’d read it the morning after, and it had taken every fibre in your being to hold yourself back from ripping it to shreds. Piercing, catlike eyes, you’d written in one line. Silver spectacles. Long fingers on dusty pages. Shuddering, you’d stuffed it into the Neruda book before banishing them both to your locker and going about your day. Love poems are supposed to be cheesy, y/n, suck it up. It’ll only be this one time. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone other than your teacher would ever read it.

When you dropped by the library after school, you spotted Hana’s familiar figure by one of the cubicles. As she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a laugh muted by the plexiglass windows, you saw that she was talking to a grinning Minho.

“Are you sure you’re not coming to the game on Thursday?” Hana was whining as you pushed open the doors to the library. She patted his arms playfully. “You could be on the football team if you wanted to, you know! Why don’t you try?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not that quick on my feet.”

“Well, tell you what. They’re having a party at Hyunjin’s place right after—his parents are out of town. If you don’t feel like coming to the game, at least join us at the afterparty to loosen up a little—have a little fun.” She blew him a kiss and stood, throwing her purse over her shoulder and spotting you. You instinctively froze, bracing yourself for whatever slew of insults she had for you today, but all Hana did was beam and wave at you.

As she passed you by the door, she threw you a knowing wink. “Have fun on your little study date!”

Her words made your ears grow hot again, but to your surprise, there was no trace of venom in her voice — only a lighthearted teasing, as if she had been your friend all along. Hana really did look sweet when she smiled genuinely, and you could see why she had so many people easily wrapped around her finger. Maybe people do change. Or she’s just in a good mood. Before you could shrug and turn away, you sensed Minho’s presence behind you and yelped.

He held his hands up in mock surrender, and you could swear he was suppressing a laugh. “Here to work on your project again?”

Hana’s strange exchange with you on her way out had left your mind reeling, and you scrambled to form coherent sentences. “No, I, um—I actually finished it last night. I just…” Thought I’d just drop by to say hi. But your pride turned the words to mush before they had even formed, and you ended up trailing off awkwardly.

“Really?” There was a flash of disappointment in his face, then Minho’s gaze landed on the book-borrowing register on the front desk. “Right—your book is due today. Did you want to return it?”

Your eyes widened, silently cursing at your own forgetfulness. “Um—yes,” you lied, pretending to search in your bag before giving an awkward laugh. “Yep. I think it’s in my locker—let me go get it.”

After jogging to the other side of the school, you flung open the bottom locker, making another mental note to replace your missing lock. Still catching your breath, your hand sifted through the notes and textbooks before coming up empty. Where is it? You could swear you remembered putting it there, unless—

Breath catching in your throat, you shut the locker with a mortified bang. The English classroom. You practically sprinted down the hallways, earning another dirty look from the janitor as you raced past. Bang Chan looked up in alarm when you nearly crashed into the English classroom door. The entire room was empty, save for the class president, who looked like he was helping to file the teacher’s papers.

“Where’s the fire?” He asked jokingly as your eyes frantically raked the room.

“Have you—seen a book, by any chance? 100 Love Sonnets. Pablo Neruda.”

Chan frowned. “We shelve all the books after class, and if it’s one we don’t recognize, we keep it until the students come back in the morning.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing anything.”

Your heart sank, and you saw the corners of Chan’s mouth lift bemusedly.

“What’s the hurry, anyway? I thought you hated love po—”

With a groan of frustration, you left the baffled class president staring after you as you turned on your heel and back into the hallway. Your mind was racing, panic making your ears buzz. The love letter’s in there. Where the hell did I put it? You sprinted to the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe next, but only got an apologetic shrug from Jeongin even after you’d scoured every nook and cranny of the diner. The sun was already beginning to set as you trudged, defeated, back to the school. Spotting the library’s dim windows in the distance, you wrestled with your options — if it weren’t for that cursed love letter, you could’ve probably just told Minho you’d misplaced it. But now the book—along with everything you’d never dared to tell anyone, crammed onto a sheet of notebook paper—could be anywhere, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop looking until you found it. Heart heavy with dread, you did a full 180 and began walking home.

It was no use. You’d practically pulled an all-nighter tearing your room apart searching for the book— and then, the better part of the following day running around town. But no matter where you looked—the record shop, Blockbuster’s, or even the laundromat—you came up empty.

It’s like it’s disappeared entirely, you thought as the lunch ladies piled your tray with a few sad-looking burritos. The cafeteria was buzzing with teenagers jittery with caffeine and sugar, and you had to duck as a boy chucked an apple at another across the room. You passed the cheerleaders’ table, trying to avoid eye contact, but their giggly conversation carried over the chaotic commotion.

“Did you see how cute Hyunjin looked today on the field?”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend? Maybe Hana can talk to him for us—if he doesn’t fall for her first.” The blonde cheerleader that had spoken nudged the older girl insistently.

“Me?” There was a smile in Hana’s voice. You could feel her eyes on you as she mused, “Oh, I don’t know, Hyunjin’s not my type. I much prefer boys with—how should I put it—catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long fingers perfect for turning dusty pages…” She clasped her hands together in mock adoration, and her friends erupted in giggles.

“What the hell was that? Sounds like a cheesy love poem.”

You had frozen stiff as soon as she had uttered the words, stunned eyes finding Hana’s only a couple feet away. She gave you a winning smile—the same one you’d deemed friendly just a couple days ago—and winked.

“Give me my book back.”

You pulled her aside after the last bell had rung, voice shaking. Hana only tilted her head innocently, eyes round as a puppy’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before you could spit a biting retort back at her, the taller cheerleader tapped her chin thoughtfully with one bejewelled nail. “But I might think harder if...I got a little something in return.”

You grit your teeth. “What do you want?”

“Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party as my date,” Hana beamed, “and tell the office you want to change your locker.”

“You’re crazy,” you blurted, and her face immediately darkened. Dropping her voice, she leaned in closer, until her voice was right beside your ear.

“Oh, I can be even crazier. What would happen if I made copies of this little letter on Monday, hm? Or published it in the school paper for everyone to read? I’m sure Han Jisung would love that—”

Your eyes trailed down to the slip of paper she’d pulled out of her purse, the sight of your own familiar handwriting making panic surge through your veins like ice. Snatching it from her hand, you quickly began tearing it apart before noticing the calm smirk on Hana’s face.

“Photocopy, silly,” she giggled in a sing-song voice as you peered more closely at the shredded pieces, hands shaking. “Oh, all right, don’t cry. If you want the original so badly…” she leaned in again, cruel smile on her lips. “Then you might want to look in the library.”

Eyes widening, you immediately pushed her away and bolted for the stairs. “Don’t forget the deal! Thursday night,” Hana called after you, and you broke into a run.

Most of the classrooms were already empty, their dark windows reflecting your own face back at you as you hurtled past them. Your heart pounded in your chest as the library finally came into view at the end of the hallway, but you nearly came to a screeching halt when you saw that the lights had been turned off. Had Minho gone home early? Chewing your lip anxiously, you peered past the plexiglass. Aisles empty, books all shelved neatly, chairs stacked. The library was quiet as a tomb. Desperately, you tried the knob—and to your surprise, the door creaked open. Maybe he forgot to lock it. You had nothing to lose. Holding your breath, you slipped in.

Even the faint click of the door closing again sounded deafening. You rifled through the front desk first, dropping to a crouch as you inspected the carts and borrowing-bin. To your dismay, they were all empty—they must have all been re-shelved already. Heart sinking, you began tip-toeing through the shelves, fingers trembling as they ran over the laminated Dewey Decimal labels. Please, please, please…

You reached the poetry section at the back of the library, eyes squinting to try and read the spines of the books under shrouds of shadows. Poets— Nash. Naidu. Nemerov…

“Neruda,” you gasped, eyes falling on the book you had practically gone through hell searching for. 100 Love Sonnets. Almost sobbing in sheer relief, you reached out to grab it—just as another hand shot out from beside you. Your yelp of surprise broke the still, dim quiet, and you didn’t have to look up to know who the warm, pale fingers belonged to.

“Care to explain what you’re doing here?”

Spectacles glinting under the twilight, one hand in his pocket, nonchalant as ever, was the boy that had gotten you into this mess. Lee Minho.

As you stared back at him, mouth slightly agape, you felt as though your entire world was balancing precariously over a yawning abyss— as if one wrong move would send everything you’d spent the last two months—no, the last four years—repatching. You swallowed hard. His hand had landed a split-second later than yours, holding both you and the book in place, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his warm fingers on your chilled skin. Forcefully, you yanked the book from the shelves and out of his grasp. “The—book. I-I realised I still needed it for the project. It’s due this Friday, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Today’s only Wednesday. Why not come back tomorrow morning?”

Shit. “I, um, promised Lia I’d go with her to the game tomorrow,” you fibbed, flipping through the book quickly, ready to grab any stray piece of paper that flew out. Nothing. “So I—need to finish the assignment today. Could you renew it for me?” Trying to plaster on an unbothered smile, you flipped through the book again. Still nothing. Had Hana lied to you?

In your peripheral, you saw Minho slowly shift his weight, crossing his arms as he mused, “Well, I’m not too sure about that. We’re getting...careful about letting students borrow books for too long. People tend to leave some...strange things in them.”

Your eyes snapped up, fingers freezing on the fluttering pages. “What—then did you—see anything? S-strange, I mean.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Minho’s eyes, and then it was gone. He cleared his throat, humming thoughtfully. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”

The strange intensity of his gaze seemed to corner you into the shadows, and you swore your heart was pounding so hard it seemed to echo through the room. “Nothing,” you stammered, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “I mean, I just—accidentally left—” Kill me now. You shook your head rapidly. “N-nevermind. I’m heading home.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh, one more thing.” You turned, remembering Hana’s sly words to you back in the stairwell. “You’re invited to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, after the game on Thursday.” Then, hoping you sounded more convincing than you felt, “Hana’s really counting on you to be her date.”

Minho chuckled. “You know I go to parties as often as you do.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice in his words, only that same, airy indifference Minho always carried himself with. “Please? Hana—I mean, it would make her really happy if you went.”

“Would you be happy?”

The strange question caught you off guard, making you look up again. Minho was no longer smiling. His hand was still resting lightly over the missing space the book had left on the shelf, and his expression looked strangely lost under the twilit sky.

“Would it make you happy if I went?” He repeated, and you felt your mouth go dry.

Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, and I won’t publish your little love letter for everyone to see on Monday. You nodded firmly, laughing in an attempt to ease the strange atmosphere that had settled over the two of you once again. “Y-yeah. Ecstatic.”

You turned on your heel, breath leaving your lips in a shaky sigh. If the poem wasn’t in the book, where on earth could it be? Option one: It had fallen out somewhere along the way, and hadn’t fallen into anyone’s hands. The best case scenario. Option two: Hana had been playing with you again, and she had had the original all along. Option three…

“By the way, Hana told me not to give this to you.”

You whirled around in surprise, and your eyes landed on a horribly familiar piece of notebook paper dangling from Minho’s fingers. Option three, damn it all. Mortified, you snatched it from his hand, crumpling it into your fist as he laughed lightly.

“It’s a very good poem.”

“Shut up, Lee Minho,” you wailed, wishing the ground would just swallow you up and bury you six feet under for all of eternity. “It’s a cheesy, cliché wreck.”

He hummed in amusement. “What were you writing about?”

Paralyzed, your eyes flickered towards the window before sputtering, “The—sunset. Figurative approach, you know? Emily Dickinson-inspired—”

“Mm. Then what was that quote about—” He tilted his head in thought, fingers snapping. “Catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long—” He stopped when you plugged your ears instinctively, eyes glowering at him in disbelief. If looks could kill, Minho was sure he’d now have died more times than the characters in a Shakespearean tragedy. “—was that about the sunset, too?”

“Of course,” you snapped, your voice a tad too pitchy for your liking. Damn Lee Minho and his knack for memorizing things. “Haven’t you ever heard of extended metaphors? Rest assured, Lee Minho—I will never, ever, ever—have feelings for you.” You crumpled the sheet of poetry into a ball as you spoke with a note of finality, jamming it into your back pocket for good riddance.

Minho looked unfazed, the light curve of a knowing smile playing on his lips. After a moment, he took a step towards you, making you stumble back in alarm. “‘You can cut all the flowers,” he mused, glancing down at the crumpled love letter, “‘but you cannot stop spring from coming.’”

“Wh-wha—”

“Neruda quote. Tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, and I’ll stop,” he murmured, eyes growing serious for a moment before his lips twitched with mirth, “but something tells me I deserve to hear more about that sunset from your poem.”

Gulping, you felt hot tears brimming in your eyes, and suddenly wished you were anywhere but here. This confrontation had been your worst nightmare, what you had always wanted to avoid. Your pride’ll be the end of you, y/n, you remembered Lia remarking when you’d sworn up and down that your feelings for Lee Minho were a thing of the past. And it was true—your pride had always gotten the better of you. You were a hypocrite, and a terrible one at that—always telling yourself you had gotten over that stupid, ninth-grade heartbreak, before unravelling into a nervous mess whenever Minho so much as threw a glance at you. And now, you could feel everything you’d feebly repressed for the last four years caving in. Crashing down on you like an avalanche of cheap supermarket chocolates.

“It was about you. You, alright?” You hissed, voice coming out more wounded, rather than venomous like you’d intended. “There. Are you happy now?” You were glad the shadows hid the humiliated tears beginning to roll down your cheeks, and wiped at your eyes furiously. Damn it all. So much for not crying.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Say anything?” You breathed a short laugh. “Because I didn’t want to see you just throw it out again, okay?”

The silence that met your words was deafening, and when you finally mustered the courage to lift your gaze you saw that Minho’s look of disbelief mirrored your own.

“'Again?'”

Damn Lee Minho and his two-faced ass. Had he already forgotten? “In ninth grade. I left you a—stupid love letter in your locker, with all your other Valentines. Then I s-saw you throwing them all out, behind the school.”

“But I read every name on the cards,” Minho insisted, running a hand through his tousled hair. I left you—a stupid love letter in your locker. Your words sent his head spinning, and he felt his flustered cheeks heat up as he mumbled, “I’ve never—seen yours on any of them.”

Now it was your turn to blink in confusion. Minho’s brow furrowed in vague recollection. “But I did see Hana pulling an envelope out from my locker that day. She said that—she’d heard someone had been sending chain mail on Valentine’s Day, so she was helping the principal clean them up from people’s lockers.”

Hana? Your mind flashed to the missing locks, and the cheerleader that always seemed to be hanging around your locker, and suddenly everything dawned on you. “What did the envelope look like?”

“A corner store card. With—”

“Candy hearts. Right.” You muttered, watching Minho nod slowly. Your anger faltered slightly, feeling a slight shame wash over you, but you weren’t willing to give up just yet. “That still doesn’t explain why you dump out all the gifts you get every year.”

He sighed. “Look. Why would I keep love letters from people I don’t like? That’s just...narcissistic. And I don’t...like chocolate, either,” he added as an afterthought, and you couldn’t help exhaling a short laugh at his ridiculously blunt sentence. Another silence fell between the two of you, the angry tension in the air replaced with an almost childish awkwardness.

“I really did like the poem,” Minho spoke tentatively after what felt like an eternity, and you buried your head in your hands.

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

“And I wouldn’t have thrown it out.” The soft edge to his voice made you stop, peeking out of your fingers to look at him questioningly.

“Why not?” You asked, swallowing hard. “You said keeping letters from someone you don’t like would be narcissistic.”

He was barely a foot away, and the sheer proximity of his face from yours made your stomach flop—with irritation or butterflies, you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. Nonetheless, a tiny voice at the back of your head told you that you were heading towards the latter.

“You know, for someone who reads so many books, you sure are dense,” Minho murmured, shaking his head.

“Wh—”

“I throw out all my Valentines every year because I never see your name on them, alright?” His expression was as careless as ever—that cool, calm facade he wore like a suit of armour—but you didn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice, the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Lee Minho, you realized with a jolt, was nervous. “I...only ever wanted to receive one from you.”

Your eyes widened, hands lowering from your face in shock. The book tumbled from under your arm to the ground. “But—Hana always told me about how much you hated me.”

“Hmm.” He dropped down to pick it up before fixing his piercing eyes on yours. “Funny. She’s been telling me the same about you. How you’re a two-faced, back-stabbing...such-and-such,” he smiled at the indignant look on your face before his face grew serious. “You’ve always let people walk all over you, and you never retaliate. It’s both admirable and frustrating to watch.”

“I’m not good at confrontation,” you mumbled, still shifting your weight from one leg to the other nervously. “Every time I think I’ve finally got the guts to try and say something back, I...I get all terrified that the words’ll jumble up and I-I’ll start to cry like an idiot again—”

“You’re not an idiot,” he interrupted sternly, “You’re probably more clever—and genuine—than everyone in our grade combined. Your thesis was brilliant.”

You snorted incredulously. “Then why did you keep attacking it every class?”

“It was the only time I could get you to talk to me.”

“Weirdo,” you muttered, but you couldn’t find it in you to make the word sound insulting anymore. Minho chuckled, hand grazing yours as he handed the book back to you. You didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he.

“It is weird. I must be out of my mind. Whenever you look at me, it’s like the whole world stops, and suddenly every cheesy line of poetry I’ve ever read just seems to make sense.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were more than certain Minho could hear it. The way he was looking at you was nearly overwhelming, stomach fluttering with a feeling so strange and foreign it terrified you. Never in your wildest dreams had you thought that you would be here, in this delicate, unreal moment, and you felt all your insecurities threatening to swallow you up again. Out of everyone in the school, he likes you? A voice snickered at the back of your mind. Don’t kid yourself.

Shrinking away, you mumbled, “Y-you—don’t have to say stuff like that, you know. I mean, i-if you feel bad because of the letter and everything, you don’t have to pretend you lik—”

There was a flash of an exasperated smile on Minho’s lips. Before you could finish, his hand reached to pull your chin towards him again, and suddenly his mouth was pressed flush to yours. You froze, lips parting in surprise, but the kiss was light—barely even a brush of soft skin, and bringing with it the faint scent of vanilla and old books. Minho pulled away almost as quickly as he’d pulled you in, stammering, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

That seemed to send what was left of your hesitation crumbling into dust. You grabbed the collar of his dress shirt to pull him back in, and the library fell silent again.

Minho kissed the way he talked—soft but firm, and always leaving you struggling to catch your breath. Each touch had the growing intensity of something long overdue, starting out careful—as though you were treading over the newly shattered, four-year-old misunderstandings of one another—before your hands instinctively tangled in his hair and Minho pulled you in impossibly closer. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against yours, the crumpled poem and Neruda’s sonnets long forgotten on the carpeted ground.

The click of the library door opening sent the two of you flying apart, Minho hitting his head on the shelf with a comical thud. The kiss left you dazed and out of breath, and Minho’s face was flushed as both of you whipped around to see a livid Hana at the front of the library. Mouth opening and closing in silent fury, she shot you a death glare before storming out the door, leaving both you and Minho blinking after her.

Several moments passed, the whiplash of the unexpected interruption having sent both of your heads reeling. Then, the two of you broke into stunned laughter, slowly sliding down to the carpet as you doubled over in giggles.

When you finally stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, Minho’s gaze was fixed fondly on your face. You poked his cheek. “You’re blushing, asshole.”

He didn’t respond, eyes falling to your lips again, and you felt your own face flush. “W-what?”

Minho grinned. “And you have drool on your chin again.”

“Hey, Minho! Minho, you won’t believe this!”

That enthusiastic voice belonged to none other than Han Jisung—voice of Levanter High’s morning announcements, and notorious school gossip. He hurtled down the bustling hall towards you and Minho, hunching over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

The dark-haired boy shook his head rapidly. “Did you see the school newspaper?”

Your mouth went dry, Hana’s lingering threats still ringing clear in your ears. Jisung continued excitedly, “Two people submitted anonymous love poems over the weekend—at the same time! Can you believe it? I’m supposed to cover it on the announcements in a bit!”

Two? You peered at Minho, who hadn’t looked at you, and glimpsed a knowing glint in his eyes. “W-who submitted them?”

“Well, Lee Hana was handing out copies of the first one to everyone first thing this morning. But when I showed her the other one, she refused to tell me who the first belonged to.” He pouted.

Minho looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Do you have a copy of the paper, ‘sung?”

The dark-haired boy grinned. “Yeah, ‘course! You guys can have mine. See ya!”

As Jisung disappeared into the crowd of students, you turned back to Minho. He had been in the middle of putting a new lock on your locker, and was now setting the combination on his own. “They’re matching,” he’d pointed out when you’d gone into town together to buy them, and you’d groaned.

“Gro-oss.” The old, PDA-hating you would have probably thrown them away on the spot, but now the sight made you smile like a dork. If you can’t beat em, join ‘em.

You looked down to read the papers Jisung had deposited into your hands. Sure enough, on the left column, you spotted a photocopy of your own love letter. But on the right, there was a completely new one—and you had a sneaking suspicion you knew who the anonymous writer was.

“You know, Minho,” you deadpanned, “I don’t think either of us are cut out to be poets.”

“I stayed up all night writing that love letter, you know!” Minho exclaimed indignantly, and you just shook your head laughing. “But you’re right. I could feel Neruda turning in his grave.”

“You’re going to be the end of me, Lee Minho.”

His face broke into a mischievous grin at that, pinning you playfully to the lockers and stealing another kiss as you yelped in surprise.

“Can it be a happy ending?”

[harrysgoldenline]

When In Italy Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

He remembered your order.

It was all you could think about after you sat down, a waitress coming quickly to your table and he gave you a look, asking you if that’s what you wanted. You gave a small nod and you refrained from commenting on it, not wanting to stroke his already enlarged ego you are sure has only gotten big since you have seen him last based on… well everything.

The waitress thanked you both, taking your menus and leaving the two of you alone, giving one another an awkward smile before you looked down at your hands, now regretting pretending to not know what to order in order to hide behind your menu a bit more.

“So…” Harry began, fingers drumming onto the table, “how have you been?”

You let out an airy laugh, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow before leaning back in the woven dining chair, warm Italian sun hitting your face as you looked out at the view and back to him, not even sure what to say. You, obviously, were not doing great and he was.

You open your mouth to start to answer but stop when the waitress comes back, placing the cool, water glasses in front of you and they quickly become interesting as you watch the condensation drop down from the glass onto the table.

“Y/n…” Harry began, looking up at you and sighing when your eyes met, “Can you talk to me? I just want to see what you’ve been up to.”

“What about you?” You counter, heart pounding against your chest, “I feel like you’re the one who needs to check in and share some updates more than anyone else, don’t you think?”

“I guess I deserve that.” He chuckled, taking a sip of water and looking at you over the glass causing you to scoff.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny.” you glare, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to calm your pounding heart, “really makes the whole situation better.”

“Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry,” He nodded, holding his hands up in defense, “but I didn’t know you were going to be there, I would have never brought her if I would have known that, obviously and I’m sorry it happened this way but I’m glad I saw you, I’m glad to see you.”

“Who is she?”

He looked surprised by your question, not expecting you to rip the band-aid off in the way that you did. But, you knew him. Better than anyone you’ve ever known in your life and you couldn’t understand why he was beating around the bush like this so much. You also needed this for yourself, not wanting to fall for his famous charm, looking into those beautiful, jade eyes you knew you would be done for.

It’s the reason your sitting across from at this table at all, not being able to resist his smile, his sot, caring voice as he asked you to see him, having no idea what you would be getting into all, you said yes without any hesitation and you decided in that moment, watching as he went around the clear high priority topic with ease.

“Her name is Olivia.” He sighed, “she’s the director of the movie I’m going to be in and…”

“You’re together?”

He didn’t answer, looking at his hands.

You nodded, taking his silence as the clear answer and you bit your bottom lip hard, tasting blood as your teeth sunk into the flesh, hoping the pain would stop the tears that were stinging your eyes. You could feel your hands shake and you let out a sigh, standing up from the table and running your hands over your skirt, frustrated he didn’t even have the nerve to come out and simply say it.

“I-I’m going to go,” You began to ramble, looking down at the water glass and you dug through your bag, looking for money to pay for your meal and tip the waitress, even though it wasn’t yet served to you, eyes burning as you did your best to keep in your tears.

“Please stay.” He whispered and you shook your head rapidly, pulling out your wallet and looking for a big enough bill, “Okay, let me just drive you back, put your wallet away this is on me.I asked you to come.” He added, pulling out his wallet and laying down a more than generous amount.

“No, please.” You whispered, stepping back as you stepped closer to you, “just, stay. Take my food with you. I’m gonna book a flight home and you guys can have the house to yourselves by tomorrow night.”

“Y/n-”

“Goodbye, Harry.”

You ignored his calls of your name, walking down the pavestone as you made your way through the quaint town, passing the many boutiques and gelato shops you two went through a dozen times.You also did your best to ignore the longing look of pity as you passed by the strangers, thankful your italian wasn’t as good as his, that way you didn’t have to also hear what they were saying about you.

You wandered your way through the beautiful village, wishing it brought you the same amount of joy as it always did, but not it just left you a bitter taste in your mouth, reaching for your phone and calling for a cab, looking up flights the second the car pulled up.

***

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of your alarm, heart wrenching at the realization that all of this was real and you fist rubbed your swollen eyes, sniffling as you sat up and the details all came back to you.

“He found someone else already.” you had sobbed into the phone to your best friend, clutching at your chest as your back was against the front door. “He already moved on, y/bff/n and he brought her here and-and… I-I got a flight home and I just don’t know what to do.”

You were beginning to hyperventilate, mind being unable to wrap around the fact that he had moved on so quickly, the man you thought you were going to marry, being together for years, had already moved on to someone else.

Your best friend had done her best to calm you, begging you to let them fly there to help get your things together, to at least meet you at a connecting flight so you weren’t flying home completely alone, but you didn’t allow it, knowing how much trouble they would get into with their boss.

“I’ll be there to pick you up.” they told you, after a long pause, their heart was breaking at the sound of your cries, “You’re gonna make it through this, y/n. I know you are.”

You weakly stumbled out of bed, walking straight to the closet and, once again, pulling your bags out and throwing them onto the bed, throwing your all clothes into a messy pile and zipping up the bag, pushing it into the hallway after quickly changed into a clean outfit, slipping on a pair of sneakers as you got ready for your flight home.

Forcing yourself to brush your teeth and run a comb through your hair was harder than you had ever imagined, hating to have to look at your reflection as the face of her was being compared side by side in your mind. You hated yourself more for wishing that Harry tried a little harder, wishing that he had ran after you and tried to at least explain more, extend the olive branch so to speak, even though it would never fully heal your wounds.

Your anxious mind wouldn’t stop reliving your morning with Harry and you couldn’t help but have regrets, wondering if you overreacted, wondering what would have happened if you stayed for the rest of the meal.

Could you ever be friends?

Pushing yourself away from the counter you hoped that the thoughts would subside, wishing you knew the answers but knowing you never would. You shuffled your way into the living room, curling up on the couch as you waited for the car to come pick you up and take you to the airport, not having the energy to reach to pick up the remote so you sat in silence.

Although it felt like minutes, an hour soon passed and you heard the knock at the door and you forced yourself up, grabbing your suitcase and wheeling it behind you as you opened the door, being greeted by the driver who took your suitcase from you and loaded it into the car as you followed behind, finding your place in the backseat.

The time went faster than you thought it would, the drive to the airports, the security line, flights, layovers, all of it. The next thing you knew you were walking down the steps of the airport, seeing the face of your best friend and running towards them, dropping your suitcase in the process as they quickly took you in their arms, holding you as tight as they could.

“I got you.” They whispered, rubbing your back as your tears sunk into the fabric of the fabric covering their shoulder, “I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart. You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

“How do you know?” you horsley whispered, “my heart hurts so much.”

“I know, I know.” They whispered back, pulling back and looking you into the eyes, giving you a smile and wiping away your tears, “It’s going to be okay, I promise. You are an incredible human being, y/n, you are so unbelievably strong andI know that you can do this and I’m going to be there for you every single step of the way, okay?. ”

And they were.

Being there for you every single step of the way for the next two weeks since you got back from your trip and even moved into your apartment with you for a few days at first as you adjusted. Holding you every single time that you cried, always checking in and making sure that you were taking care of yourself and always being there for you to talk about everything, even though you weren’t quite ready yet, they were there for you when you were going to be and you couldn’t have been more thankful for that.

Now, after a couple weeks of healing, after your plummet on your journey of healing post break up, you felt like you were back on your way up. You started leaving your apartment more again and y/bff/n even got you to go out with them and a couple of friends one night.

Actually starting to feel better and even starting to feel a lot more like yourself.

Your phone buzzed and you quickly took a look down at it, seeing a text from y/bff/n

Be there soon! i can't wait to try out this new coffee place!

You smiled and sent back your quick reply, letting her know you were going to head downstairs touching up your makeup quickly as you looked at yourself in the mirror and smiled back at your reflection, seeing the glow and fullness starting to come back to your face, the circles under your eyes slowly disappearing more and more everyday.

Grabbing your purse off the kitchen counter and sliding on your shoes you got ready to leave your apartment, heading out the door and locking the door behind you, jiggling the handle to endure it was locked before turning on your heel to head out. You go to reach for the elevator button, but it dings as it announces its arrival and you step out of the way, allowing whatever neighbor to have a clear path to their apartment. Instead, you're met with a pair of familiar green eyes.

“Harry?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

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[oreoambitions]

Previous Draft // Ao3

The courthouse doors open with a bang, and the sound of conversation tumbles out of the atrium and onto the courthouse steps. Security flanks Lena on either side, two uniformed bodies ahead to break the crowd, two behind to keep it from closing in around her. Lena keeps her head up, confident in the knowledge that she will appear to take this all in stride. In truth, she crosses the atrium in a sort of daze.

There are moments in a person’s life when time sticks and stutters, moments that linger beyond their natural boundaries, that creep and haunt and niggle at the mind. As she steps out through the courthouse doors, she understands that this is one of them. Time hesitates for her even as she passes into the chaos of lights and cameras outside, towards the waiting crowd of journalists shouting over one another in a fashion not conducive to anyone’s questions ever actually getting answered.

For an instant she’s back on the witness stand: the defense is demanding Supergirl’s name, and the judge is not intervening; the words I plead the fifth are heavy on her lips. That moment has passed, and it hasn’t. There will be ripples. All Lena can do about it now is try to keep those ripples to a minimum, for Kara’s sake; she must say nothing to anyone until they’ve had a chance to talk alone.

“Ms. Luthor.” 

The officer at her side encourages her forward, not quite touching her back with one hovering hand. Lena realizes with a start that she’s paused halfway down the courthouse steps. At the bottom, Supergirl drops out of the sky in a dramatic, press pleasing fashion. That soft warm smile is another echo of the courtroom, and Lena is reminded that Kara intentionally slipped out of the courthouse another way and circled back for the cameras. Lena has, rather uncharacteristically, committed a critical error in a critical moment, and now Kara is covering for her with theatrics.

It’s working. The cameras turn on Kara as Lena makes it down the last few steps and into her waiting embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, half stumbling as Kara pulls her close, closer than usual, one hand hot at the back of her neck.

Kara turns her shoulder to shield Lena from the bulk of the cameras. “Not here,” she murmurs, so low that Lena is almost not certain she’s heard it. And then Kara pulls back, not quite far enough, and Lena is acutely and self-consciously aware of the sound of camera shutters snapping all around them, the closeness of Kara’s body, the gut wrenching feeling that the eyes of the nation are on them and the stage lights are all lit up and she doesn’t know her lines.

The judge should have intervened. Her mind keeps catching on that point, on the heavy pause in the courtroom, Kara’s expressionless face, the pounding of her own heart, the irrelevance of the question. It feels as though if she stays in that moment long enough, pictures it clearly enough, the judge will step in and this story will play out another way.

Time, of course, does not work like that. It stutters and sticks only in her mind, while in the real world the press clamors and Kara’s cape flutters in the quickening wind. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Kara is saying, her voice pitched so that the waiting journalists might catch words that, God willing, sound hollow to Lena’s ears only. “You were amazing in there.”

Lena is thinking about what the headlines are going to say tomorrow. Luthor and Super: Partners in More Than Crimefighting. Or perhaps, Luthor Makes False Marriage Claim on Witness Stand, Investigation to Follow.

Kara cups Lena’s face with one hand, and she snaps back to reality. She has about half a breath to catch up with what’s happening before Kara is closing the distance between them, and she hates to be a walking cliche, but oh. This is not how she has imagined their first kiss might go - not that she’s ready to admit to anyone except maybe Sam that she’s imagined their first kiss at all - and for a sickening second she feels nothing but regret. But then Kara’s lips are on hers, softer than her imagination has ever accounted for, and Lena is melting into her, kissing her back just at the edge of what might be considered chaste.

It’s an act, of course. If Lena’s heart flutters where she knows perfectly well Kara can hear it, can feel it, that’s just the nerves of the whole situation. Kara is, after all, kissing her on the mouth right there in front of God and everybody, shutters clicking all around them, reporters laughing and cheering in the background. It’s not unreasonable to feel a little something; her secret is still safe.

When Kara breaks the kiss, Lena chases after her mouth, and not for show. There’s that soft smile again, lipstick a little smudged, and perhaps she’s imagining things but Kara’s eyes seem warmer than they did before. 

Kara drops a second kiss onto Lena’s forehead. “Can I take you home?” she asks, her voice still pitched for the journalists on the steps.

“Please,” Lena replies. 

She tucks herself back into Kara’s chest as strong arms close around her. If anyone asks, it’s for the cameras. There’s a car waiting for her, and a driver who will have to be well compensated for the waste of his time, but it’s better if the press sees that she and Supergirl are leaving together, isn’t it? And nothing could be more memorable, more pressworthy, than flight.

And, Lena thinks, it’s better because, selfishly, she wants to prolong this moment of closeness. She wants to soak it all in: Kara’s smell, the brush of her hair across Lena’s cheek, the preparatory breath before takeoff. This is the moment Lena wishes would slow down for her, just this last moment when she can imagine to herself that what happened in the courtroom was a bad dream of little consequence, and that nothing between her and Kara will ever have to change.

///

Kara does not take Lena home. They fly instead over the wide arc of National City’s suburbs and into the foothills, and from there a little further still until they’ve reached the mountains above the city. Kara deposits them in a valley on the leeward side of a low peak dotted half with shrubbery and half with scraggled conifers, the names of which Lena has to admit she does not know. She rubs feeling and warmth back into her arms and resists the urge to ask where they are while Kara paces, the agitation and anxiety in the lines of her body a clear departure from the soft warmth on display outside the courthouse. When she rounds on Lena, it feels like the inevitable fruition of Lena’s mistakes.

“You told them we were married? Lena!”

“Technically I didn’t use those words.”

“Oh okay, so between my wife and my priest, which role did you think the court was going to assume you were alluding to?”

“What was I supposed to say? They had me backed into a corner.”

“It wasn’t relevant to the case! This was about Lilian. It had nothing to do-”

“It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t relevant, because the judge wasn’t intervening. I just- I panicked. I had to say something. I wasn’t going to lie under oath, and even if I were willing, what could I have said? Should I have thrown out some other name, thrown someone else under the bus? And what then, when it became obvious to the nation that I’d lied-”

“Oh, and you thought this was better? What are you going to say when they want proof? There’s no documentation. There was no wedding to document. Supergirl doesn’t exist as a legal entity, you can’t just-”

“Kara, I-”

“It’s just not like you not to think things through.”

They stand there staring at one another, Kara’s jaw clenched, Lena’s arms crossed tight across her chest. The sun is going to go down soon; Lena is already shivering a little in the shadow of the mountain. This is a mess, and it’s a mess of her own making, and she doesn’t know how to unmake it out here in the gathering dark.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I could have - I should have refused to answer. But then they’d have held me in contempt and thrown me in prison. And I’m willing to go to prison for you, Kara, believe me, but then you’d have broken me out because you’re a beautiful idiot, and where would that leave us?”

Kara’s mouth twitches up a little at the corners, and then she laughs outright. “I would have,” she admits. “What a mess that would be.”

“I know I messed up,” Lena offers.

“You were trying to protect me.” Kara scuffs one boot in the dirt. “They’ll try to hit you with perjury charges; you know they will. You might wind up in prison at the end of this anyway.”

Lena nods. She does know this. Some part of her knew it the moment the words I plead the fifth left her mouth, and yet, everything she’s protested to Kara is true. Those words were the only road open to her so long as that judge remained silent.

“Well,” Lena says, “You don’t grow up in the Luthor household without learning a thing or two about the loopholes of the legal system. Burden of proof lies with the prosecution; it would be very difficult to prove that a wedding didn’t happen.”

Kara tsks and turns on her heel to stare out over the valley. “Supergirl isn’t a legal entity. They could challenge you on the grounds that you can’t be legally married to someone who doesn’t legally exist. And if they found a judge more sympathetic to Lex than to you….”

“Not a difficult thing to find,” Lena admits. She stands in the fear and the evening chill for a long moment “I meant what I said, Kara. If I go to prison over this, so be it. Anything to protect you.” Anything for the woman I love, she wants to say, but Kara isn’t ready for that. Might never be ready for that. And neither, truthfully, is Lena.

Kara’s fingers have found the edge of her cape, and now she’s worrying at it in the fading light. She doesn’t look back at Lena for what feels like a long time, and when she does her expression is guarded. “I want you to promise me you’re going to hear me out before you say anything.”

“Okay….” Lena says. She tries to wrestle down her questions, her curiosities, her reservations. Anything for Kara, after all.

Kara takes a deep breath, looking for all the world like she’s readying herself to make a national address. “I have a terrible idea.”

[hermannsthumb]

I have a fun prompt I've been thinking about I hope you have time for one day! When Newt and Hermann meet actually things go really really well and they even get together. It's just they bicker so much and have huge science-based arguments that everyone assumed they must have hated each other on sight.

sure thing! i had fun with this one

----

"So," Newt says. "I was talking to Tendo today."

Across the mess table, Hermann hums in feigned interest. Newt knows it's feigned 'cause Hermann doesn't stop either thing he's doing: using his left hand to wind noodles around a fork, and using his right hand to scribble away a series of lengthy equations on the back of a paper napkin. His full attention has been hopping between both for about ten minutes now—no room for Newt to slip in there. He's testing his limits enough as it. Half of the last equation ended up scratched into the tabletop, and the last time he lifted his fork to his mouth, it was empty. And then he swallowed anyway. Newt kinda loves the guy.

"Yeah," Newt says, deciding to continue like Hermann responded the way he was actually supposed to respond, which would've been something along the lines of what an utterly fascinating story, Newton, do tell me more. I love hearing you talk, Newton. How marvelously smart you are, Newton, and how melodic and breathtaking your voice is. Now watch me bite down on an empty fork again. "Kinda funny. He was asking how we met."

Hermann finally looks up at Newt suspiciously over the rims of his glasses, which are slipping slowly down his nose. He stills them with the tip of his index finger before they land in his dinner. "Why?"

"I don't know, man," Newt says. "He just was. It was like, small talk, you wouldn't get it. He dropped by the lab when you were out this morning to let me know that there was extra space if we wanted it. Like, lab space." Hermann resumes scratching an equation into the table absently. Newt rolls his eyes. "As in, we could have separate labs if we wanted now."

Hermann knits his eyebrows together. "Separate laboratories?"

When Newt and Hermann first started at the Hong Kong Shatterdome, the k-scientist team was pre-existing and significantly bigger, and anyone who joined on later—like, you know, them—basically got shoved in wherever they fit. For Newt and Hermann, that happened to be Laboratory Space D, Basement Level 1 (the only basement level), along with a former marine biologist who was killed on a research excursion a month later when a kaiju made unexpected landfall, like, right on top of their chosen shelter. Bad luck. Anyway, Newt's known about the existence of other Hong Kong Shatterdome lab spaces in the vague and absent sort of way that you would an urban legend, but (similarly so) he never thought he and Hermann would actually ever lay eyes on one. And then Tendo stopped by to dangle it in front of Newt on a stick.

"The other labs were being used as storage for ages after everyone else—" Newt searches for a word tasteful enough to encapsulate got stomped by a kaiju and wised up and decided to live out what are probably our last few days before the world ends with their families instead of alone in a military bunker. "—left. Anyway, Tendo told me they've been going through shit like crazy this month, I think to see if they can salvage any old tech, and that the other labs are basically totally emptied out now. We just have to ask and they're ours."

Hermann sets down both his pen and fork, twisting his mouth contemplatively. He finally loses the battle against gravity with his glasses, and they miss his plate by an inch, swinging back on their chain and bouncing harmlessly against his chest instead. Newt briefly wonders if getting a chain for his own glasses would save them from their frequent fatal falls into kaiju organ cavities and buckets of non-neutralized kaiju blood, but decides not even the money he'd save on replacement pairs would make a fashion faux pas like that worth it. "You know I don't much fancy the basement," Hermann says.

"Your joints," Newt agrees. The damp of the basement sets Hermann's joint pain off frequently, something Hermann talks about just as frequently. Newt's not really a fan of the basement either, though for different reasons—he would kill to get some windows and natural, non-fluorescent light in there. Sun lamps can only do so much. He's pretty sure he'd fucking glow if he stepped outside right now. Also, it's cold down here.

"And it might be nice to be closer to LOCCENT, in case of an emergency," Hermann continues. "And closer to—oh, hang on. What has this got to do with us?"

"Huh?"

"How we met," Hermann says. "You said, that Tendo asked—"

"Oh," Newt says. It's his turn to play coy. He stirs his chopsticks through his own dinner, accidentally flicking a piece of tofu to the table. It lands on top of Hermann's etched equations. Hermann scowls, because that's how their routine goes: Newt gets Hermann's stuff dirty, and Hermann gets mad. "Well. It was just that Tendo was like you can finally be out of each other's hair, how the hell did you guys get stuck together anyway when you obviously can't stand each other, that kind of stuff."

"Ah," Hermann says.

"And I said that it was because we knew each other before," Newt says, "and that we transferred here together. And that's when he asked."

"And what did you say?" Hermann says.

"That we used to correspond professionally," Newt says, "and met at a conference way back in 2017." He adds, with a grin, "Also professionally."

This was technically true. Newt and Hermann did write to each other, professionally, and they did meet at a conference, professionally, but what went down after a long and public shouting match in the events hall of a very nice hotel—in Hermann's room, five floors up in that very nice hotel—was not very professional. The events of the week that followed—spent, intermittently, between Hermann's hotel room, several coffee shops, a bench under a tree in Newt's favorite park, a rotation sushi restaurant, brushing knees shyly on the tram, and, finally, clasping hands on the staircase of Newt's apartment and gazing deeply into each other's eyes—weren't very professional, either, but Newt likes to think that they were very romantic. Rom-com level shit. Newt revealed none of this to Tendo, who referred to the 2017 conference as that Infamous Day for the rest of their conversation. "Well, it was professional," Hermann sniffs.

But he reaches across the table, and, very timidly, crosses his pinkie over top of Newt's. It's the most blatant form of PDA Hermann ever willingly engages Newt in. Newt thinks if he ever tried to touch two fingers at once in anywhere but the lab, or God forbid, hold his whole hand, Hermann's ears might start emitting steam like something out of a cartoon. "It might be nice," he says again.

Laboratory Space D, Basement Level 1, is unique—Newt knows—in that Newt and Hermann's quarters are connected to it directly. None of the other labs have that luxury (and Newt has a feeling it's because Lab Space D wasn't actually intended as a lab space). He remembers being told that when they were shoved into it. Yeah, you have the darkest and tiniest lab space on base, but your rooms are right there! When Newt wants to go to Hermann's room, or if he's in Hermann's room and needs a sweatshirt or something from his own, he just has to step the three feet between their two doors. Moving labs could throw a wrench in that—they might be asked to move quarters, too, and might be shuttled to opposite sides of the Shatterdome, and though they could just bite the bullet and request couple's quarters already, it's nice to have their own spaces when they need it. That would never work. And, well, besides—the lab, their lab, feels like home to them at this point. Newt shrugs.

"On the other hand," Hermann says, and he taps Newt's pinkie lightly, "I quite like how things are. I can live with the damp, really."

"We can get a dehumidifier," Newt offers.

Hermann nods, and he gives Newt the barest hint of a smile.

Their monthly delivery of lab supplies—whatever they can afford with their shoestring budget, which, these days, mostly means chalk, rubber gloves, and nice instant ramen—comes three weeks later. Newt wouldn't exactly call the Shatterdome delivery guy a friend, seeing as he has yet to divulge his name to Newt (and also Newt's pretty sure he has a thing for Hermann, since he always seems to wait until Hermann is in the lab to stroll by with his package trolley and always calls him Dr. Gottlieb with big stupid heart eyes, oh, Dr. Gottlieb, that new sweater looks soooo nice on you!, so anyway, that makes him Newt's rival by default), but he, at least, recognizes and acknowledges Newt at this point. That's more than Newt can say for most people on the base. After his usual greeting to the two of them (hey, Newt, oh, hellllooo, Dr. Gottlieb, did you do something new with your hair?), he starts to unload their packages, also like usual.

"I was surprised to see that you guys are still down here," he tells Newt, not like usual. "Tendo mentioned something about you getting your own labs."

"He did?" Newt says, meaning to frown, but grinning instead. It's kind of fun to be the subject of gossip. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them in the trash to help with their supplies—the dehumidifier he requested should be in there, and it's fancy and definitely on the bigger side.

"Yeah," their delivery guy continues. He hands Newt a fuckin' massive brick of a package. Hermann's stupid chalk. The amount that Hermann tears through in a month really is astounding: Newt has a private theory that Hermann is an undercover space alien from a planet where chalk constitutes all of the primary food groups, and he secretly sneaks out here and eats it in the dead of night when Newt is asleep. "Anyway, sorry I'm late," the delivery guy says, as Newt imagines Hermann crunching on a piece of chalk like a carrot stick, "I went to all the other labs first."

"No worries, dude," Newt says. "Sorry for the confusion."

He lugs the package over to Hermann's desk, and drops it down on the only spot not over-cluttered with papers and books. Hermann complains about Newt's messiness a lot for a guy who is just as bad, if not worse. "Need any now?" Newt asks Hermann.

Hermann, scribbling away at his chalkboard, grunts. Newt decides that's a no.

"Hard at work, Dr. Gottlieb?" the delivery guy says, practically fluttering his eyelashes.

Another grunt. Newt snorts.

"I thought you guys would've moved right away," the delivery guy (obviously disappointed at Hermann's lack of attention) tells Newt. "Tendo mentioned you've been stuck together for a while, ever since some sort of dramatic confrontation at a conference ten years ago." he adds eagerly, "Did you really get thrown out? I don't know how you haven't killed each other yet."

"It's taken a lot of hard work," Newt says. Yeah, the whole being-ejected-from-the-conference-and-barred-from-all-future-ones-forever thing is technically true too, but everyone there was too stuffy and serious for Newt's fun vibes anyway, so he thinks it's their loss. The most important part of the scientific breakthrough process, Newt frequently thinks, was having someone there to challenge you and push back at you. Sometimes loudly. And in public. In the conference hall of a very expensive hotel, in front of all of your scientific peers, some hotel security guards, and a poor graduate student who made the mistake of asking you and your penpal-colleague for your joint opinion on something and got caught in the crosshairs. Besides—out of everyone at that stupid conference, Newt and Hermann were the only ones snapped up by the PPDC, so it's doubly their loss. "And, yeah, we got thrown out. Me and Hermann fight a lot, but we always make up eventually. It's no big deal. It's, like, our thing."

"Make up?"

Newt waggles his eyebrows and doesn't elaborate. The making up part is the best part of arguing with Hermann, honestly, but he's not about to go giving private details about stuff like that to his rival.

By the time Hermann finally descends his ladder, three hours have passed, and Newt is frowning over an email he's just gotten from Shatterdome HR. Hermann will probably see it in a second when he checks his own email—it was sent to both of them, after all—but Newt waves him over to his desk anyway. "Look," he says.

He draws out the spare chair he keeps by his desk (for Hermann), and Hermann drops into it gratefully, propping his cane up against the arm. Then Hermann pushes his glasses up onto his nose and scans the email with a frown of his own. Newt reads it aloud for him anyway. "'Subject: Quarters Reassignment,'" he says. "Dear Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb: It has recently come to our attention that you will be transferring to Laboratories A&B. Should you wish to transfer quarters as well, you will find the necessary paperwork..."

"By Jove," Hermann groans, and pulls his glasses off again, smudging a bit of chalk on his cheek, "can't they just leave us alone?"

Newt laughs. "I'll tell them we're not interested. Wait, listen to this bit at the end: Congratulations—this must be a relief! Guess they were getting your complaint forms after all, Hermann." Both Newt and Hermann had long-since assumed that any and all official complaint forms stamped with a k-sci lab return address are filed right into the garbage. It's never deterred Hermann from sending them in, though.

"Hmph," Hermann says.

Newt carefully rolls his shirtcuff back down to his wrist and uses it to rub off Hermann's chalk smudge. When it's gone, or at least, mostly gone, he brushes his fingers back through Hermann's short hair. Hermann's eyelids flutter shut, and as he leans into Newt's touch, his creased forehead smooths just a little. "Mm. You're lovely," he murmurs. "We really ought to tell them we're married. It's gone on long enough."

"I guess," Newt says. "But it's kind of funny, isn't it?"

[euphoriyoongi]

Yoongi Historical au/ Royalty au

prompt requested: number 7:

I’m secretly in love with you but you never seemed to give me the time of day but you all of a sudden tell me you love me and my only thought was to make out with you.

Summary:

As the daughter of the military director, you’ve always had a liking towards the crown prince, Yoongi. Now, many years later, as your secretly in love with him, he’s secretly in love with you.

Pairing: prince!yoongi x reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Genre: royalty! au, historical au, friends to lovers

Warnings: none.

_________________________________________________

Joseon Era.

As a child, you dreamed to marry Yoongi. Too bad he was way out of your league.

Not look wise, but rank wise.

He was the only son of the king, heir to the throne. Now you were decently high up as well, being the daughter of the military head, but not even close to being able to even dream about him.

You didn't have a chance. Not even a thought. It's not like he would even like you back anyway, given how he was never one to look into your eyes when you'd speak to him, as if talking to you wasn't important anyway.

As you both aged together, you've noticed him always walk around the palace without any guards, always sneaking around to be alone. He'd never want any attention drawn to him, and if you would wave your hand to say hi, well, chances are that he would walk right past you.

It was hard, as the years flew by and you were still left with the heart wrenching feeling of a one-sided love. It was long enough to call it that, since you have been into him since you laid eyes on him.

Your father and the king were very good friends, and would often bring you to visit him whenever they'd have something to chat about. So you would sit off the the side with Yoongi, who never seemed to be able to replace the frown on his face with a smile.

The only time you had ever seen a smile on his face was when you saw him out of the corner of your eye, only for him to drop it as soon as you turned towards him.

Now in your mid twenties, your father is begging you to marry. You are at the age where you should have at least two kids now. For you to be single and constantly training to become a good fighter just like your father was, you didn't believe you had time for children. And anyway, ever since you turned fifteen to now, you used the excuse that you wished to marry when you met the one.

Your father now tried to bring up the conversation of marriage at this moment, and you stood pin straight, facing the target ahead of you with a bow and arrow in hand, ready to shoot. "But y/n, you really have to think about how important it is. You'll be thirty years old in no time!" He exclaimed, and as he slammed his foot down in irritation, you let the bow slide through your fingers, releasing it only for it to hit the corner of the target.

Groaning, you drop the bow to your side. "Father, I have more important things to be doing." You hummed, giving him the side eye as he stared at you with worry. You reached up to dry a patch of sweat on your forehead.

You used to tell him how much you wanted to marry the prince as a kid, but now it seemed too childish to use as an excuse. She knew she would never be able to marry him anyway, since he probably would have to be married to someone specific.

Yoongi was quite the character. He rarely spoke, but always wanted to leave the palace and go into the town, where his friends would live. He had a select few, and would also run into you as you went on errands.

Whenever he'd spot you, either in the palace or town, he'd stare at you for a moment and look away, almost telling himself not to even pay attention to you. It always made you upset, making you wonder why he would never pay attention to you. It's not like he didn't know you.

You lived your whole life pining over him. From the way he slightly dragged his feet across the dirt, to the way he would always wear a large hat to hide his face whenever he'd leave the palace, you loved him. He was the person you wished to marry even after all these years.

It seemed childish, yes. But if you were to marry and bear children, it would have to be to him. And if it wasn't him, well, it was no one. But your dad didn't need to know that information. "Listen, father, I will marry when I find the one." You said to him, lifting up your bow to shoot another arrow. "Just give me time."

He seemed to understand that you were trying to focus, and stepped back a few feet. Hearing him sigh, you gave him a side eye. "Okay okay. I'm sorry. I just want the best for you." He smiled, giving you a little bow in respect. "I'm off to meet the king for lunch. If you would like to pay your regards to him, let me know."

The arrow slipped through your hand again, now completely missing the target board all together. "Will the prince be there?" You didn't mean to ask this, but you couldn't help it. You haven't seen Yoongi for weeks, and you wished to see his beautiful face again. Would it be so vain to just..use the king as an excuse to see him?

Now, the king loved you. He wished Yoongi was as dedicated as you were, and always asked to see you when your father would visit. You had wished that he would ask you to marry his son, but knowing that it would make no impact with the kingdom, it was out of the question. He was probably just happy with his son having a friend of sorts.

Your father let a smirk reach his lips. "Hm. I'm sure he would be, if he's not galavanting in the village or anything."

Maybe she should stop by to greet the king. "I'll come with you." You said, smiling without paying attention. "I'm sure he'd be happy to see me."

Your father laughed. "I'm sure someone else would be happier."

"Greetings, your majesty." You bowed along side of your father as you stood in front of the king, who was sitting under the pavilion.

Smiling, the king beckoned you both to come under the shade of the pavilion.

Sitting next to him was Yoongi, who looked bored out of his mind. His gaze didn't even reach you, and you looked away from him and back to the king as you walked up the stairs. So much for coming here to see him.

The meal went on, your dad chatting with the king and talking about marriage. You pretty much tuned the whole thing out, given that you say next to Yoongi, who scooted over in the opposite direction of you.

Ouch. Now you knew you really didn't have a chance with him.

"I'm surprised you're sitting down with us, my son." The king bellowed, smiling at Yoongi who sat to his right, you sitting next to Yoongi. He huffed and picked up his utensils to start eating. "Usually you're out in the village—undercover I hope."

Yoongi hummed, not even answering with a word, and continued to eat, and the king brought his attention elsewhere. He faced your dad, smiling. "So, I'm surprised your daughter isn't married yet! My my, what a beauty."

You glanced over to Yoongi, who still stared down at his food. "Yeah, she has a few men lined up to marry her." Your father laughed, making the king chuckle as well. Yoongi finally looked up when he heard those words, now paying full attention to the conversation as he gripped his silk gown tightly in his fist.

"Oh I always wondered why a beautiful girl like her was still unwed." The king smiled over at you, and glanced at his son, who seemed to turn a bit red. "Im sure the wedding will be soon then, eh?"

Your dad hummed as he drank some rice wine. "Ah, yes. Whoever is her husband is sure one lucky guy."

"Why would be be lucky?" Yoongi scoffed, sipping his drink. "She's not even that pretty."

Silence. You nearly dropped your cup as he said this, staring at him with wide eyes.

Your dad cleared his throat and set down his cup. "Well at least you spoke today. I haven't heard your voice in ages..." he carried off, seeming offended by Yoongi's choice of words that were against his beloved daughter.

The king glared at his son. "Yoongi, that is no way to talk to our guests." He then looked over at you, noticing your dumbstruck look. "Please forgive him, he doesn't really socialize well."

Yoongi scoffed again, now slamming his cup against the table. "Why are you guys even pestering her about marriage, anyway? She has no chance with anyone other than—" he cut himself off, looking at you with a solemn expression out of all of his anger. When he noticed your eyes droop away from him and down the the table, he sighed and didn't finish what he was going to say.

Everyone was quiet. The sudden outburst from Yoongi put everyone off, even his father. As Yoongi glanced from your dad to you, you had enough of this degrading. Even though he was the one you dreamed to be with, it wasn't right for him to say those things about you.

You stood up and bowed. "I will take my leave." You said, looking to the king and to your father. "Thank you, your majesty."

He signaled oh that it was okay to leave, and you nearly ran down the steps as if to get away from the embarrassment. How did you not know that Yoongi felt so strongly for you in the most opposite way you wanted? What was the reason for him to hate you—

"Y/n!" You heard a voice yell behind you, the smack of footsteps getting louder and louder. You had stopped in your tracks, standing next to your favorite tree in the palace, the beautiful cherry blossom.

It was Yoongi behind you. He had reached you, now bent over and out of breath as if he just ran a mile. "Ah, you're fast."

You turned around with your arms across your chest. "What do you want?" You looked at him in the eye, and he stared back, nearly begging for forgiveness.

He sighed, kicking a rock that was near his feet. "I uh..." he carried off, now not being able to look at you.

No matter how mean he was to you, he always looked stunningly beautiful. His long dark hair was pulled up, his silky gown matching his hair. He had quite the scar across his cheek, but it made him more attractive in her eyes. As he stumbled on his words, you took the chance to speak. “Listen, your highness, I don’t what to hear your explanation.” You seethe, upset about how he feels towards you. “I don’t know what you were trying to say back there, but I got the message. Clearly.” You growled, turning away from him as you kept your tears in check.

Yoongi reached his arm out to touch your shoulder, making you jump. “What? What are you doing?” You asked, looking down at the ground once again, seeing the rock that he kicked was now near your feet.

“I just…” he carried off again, unable to speak the words on his mind.

You needed to get out of here before the tears began to fall. You were the daughter of the military head, how dare you cry over a boy. At least that’s what you tell yourself. You turned around quickly. “No, your highness, I’m not going to stand here and listen to how ugly I am. How I’m never going to be married because of my looks, how I—“

“I love you.” He sputtered out, looking anywhere but your eyes. “I’ve loved you since you taught me how to sword fight…and when you told me my scar was beautiful..” he carried on, now looking into your eyes with a small smile on his lips. “I didn’t mean any of that stuff back there, I was just upset to picture you..getting married to someone else.”

You were shocked. You stood there, your eyes wide open, standing in front of the man you always wished had feelings for you. And now he’s spilling his guts about how he loved you and—well, what the hell?

He stared into your eyes with worry. You weren’t saying anything back, and just when he was going to say something else, you leaned forward and let your lips touch his, out in the open courtyard for anyone to see.

You kissed him with all of the emotions you held back for as long as you could remember, and it startled him. He didn’t kiss back immediately, but as you pushed your body into his and gripped the back of his head to deepen it, he pushed his face towards you and grabbed onto your hips, pulling them flush against his.

His lips tasted like the cherry blossom tea that he drank, and his hands felt like ecstasy as they nearly tore through your clothing. His touch was like a drug you so desperately needed, and the taste of him made you feel even higher.

All that time you dreamed of kissing him could never live up to this moment, and when you pulled away, your hands still cradling his face, his still resting on your hips, he stared into your eyes and began to chuckle. You laughed back, resting your forehead on his.

“So,” he trailed on, his smile visible. “I’ll take that as an I love you too..?”