hello everyone! i like to consume a lot of x readers while on here, but i usually don't interact with it. as someone who knows how discouraging it can be when someone doesn't interact with their posts, im going to start making more of an effort to do so.
think every month ill start doing fanfics i recommend/have read this month, who its from, and why i recommend them. fanfic rec lists are a great way to show how much you appreciate writers too.
Damian Wayne is the clingiest sleepy boyfriend imaginable. though, he'd never admit that. every night he is practically your body guard.
The manor was quiet in the way only deep nights could be — the kind of silence that made every creak of the old floorboards feel louder than it should. You woke up slowly, blinking against the darkness, your throat dry and your mind fuzzy from a half-remembered dream. The clock on the nightstand read 3:42am. You’d only been asleep for a few hours, but your body was already demanding water.
You tried to slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Damian. He was curled up beside you, one arm draped possessively over your waist even in sleep, his breathing deep and even. His dark hair was messy against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way it rarely was during the day. You smiled softly, brushing a stray strand from his forehead before easing out from under his arm.
The second your feet touched the floor, he stirred.
“Mm… where are you going?” His voice was thick with sleep, rough and low, but his hand reached out immediately, fingers brushing your wrist.
“Just getting water,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”
He made a small, discontented sound, but his eyes stayed closed. You padded to the bathroom, the cool tile under your feet a relief. You filled a glass from the sink, sipping slowly, listening to the quiet drip of the faucet. When you turned to leave, Damian was standing in the doorway, hair even messier, eyes half-open, wearing his sleeping shorts and an old t-shirt.
You nearly jumped. “Damian? What are you doing up?”
He shrugged, stepping closer. “Making sure you don’t hurt yourself." fall in the toilet.”
You stared at him, trying not to laugh. “I’m not going to hurt myself getting water. I’m a grown woman.”
He crossed his arms, looking adorably stubborn even half-asleep. “The floor is slippery at night. And you’re tired. I’m just… being cautious.”
You smiled, setting the glass down and stepping into his space. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on your head, warm and solid.
“You’re clingy when you’re sleepy,” you teased softly, fingers tracing patterns on his back.
“I am not clingy,” he muttered, but his arms tightened around you. “I’m… protective. There’s a difference.”
You laughed quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “Sure. Protective of me falling into the toilet or something at 3am.”
He huffed, but didn’t let go. Instead, he walked you back to the bed, still holding you close, and pulled you down with him. You ended up curled against his chest, his arm draped over your waist, leg tangled with yours. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, already drifting back to sleep.
“Stay,” he mumbled. “Please.”
You smiled against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He made a small, contented sound and held you tighter.
The next night, it happened again.
You woke up around 2am, needing the bathroom. The second your feet hit the floor, once again; Damian stirred beside you. This time he didn’t even pretend to be asleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, voice gravelly.
You turned, smiling in the dark. “Damian, I can go to the bathroom by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”
He frowned, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “The hallway is dark. And cold. You might trip.”
You laughed softly, but let him follow you anyway. He walked beside you the whole way, one hand on your lower back like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled. When you reached the bathroom door, he waited outside, leaning against the wall until you came out. Then he took your hand, leading you back to bed without a word.
Once you were both under the covers, he pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like a shield. His chin rested on your head, breath warm against your hair.
“I'll say it again. you're clingy,” you whispered, smiling.
“I am not,” he muttered, but his hold tightened. “I’m… ensuring your safety. That’s all.”
You kissed his collarbone. “Well I love your version of safety.”
He made a small, pleased sound and fell back asleep almost immediately, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.
It became a pattern.
Every night, no matter how deeply he slept, the second you moved, Damian was awake. If you got up for water, he followed, standing in the doorway like a silent guardian. If you had a nightmare and sat up gasping, he was there instantly, pulling you into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances in Arabic until you calmed down. If you simply rolled over, he’d reach out, hand finding yours under the covers, lacing your fingers together like he needed the connection to stay asleep.
During the day, he was the same reserved, slightly arrogant Damian Wayne the world knew — blunt, focused, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But at night, in the quiet dark of your shared room, he was soft. Clingy. Needy in a way he’d never admit.
One particularly cold night, you woke up shivering. Before you could even reach for the extra blanket, Damian was already moving. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a human blanket, his body heat seeping into yours. His face pressed against your neck, breath warm and steady.
“Cold?” he mumbled, half-asleep.
“A little,” you whispered, smiling as you snuggled into him. “You’re warm though.”
He made a small, contented sound, nuzzling closer. “Stay close then. I’ve got you.”
You fell back asleep like that — wrapped up in Damian Wayne, his arms around you, his leg thrown over yours, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.
In the morning, he’d wake up first, as always. He’d slip out of bed quietly, pretending the clingy boy from the night before had never existed. He’d make coffee, set out your favourite mug, and act like nothing had changed. But you’d catch him watching you with that soft look when he thought you weren’t looking. And when you’d smile at him across the table, he’d blush faintly and look away, ears pink.
But at night, he’d reach for you again. Every single time.
Because no matter how much he denied it during the day, Damian Wayne was the clingiest sleepy boyfriend in the world. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.
A/N: lil guy so cute I love him sm. sorry for constantly disappearing im lowkey setting up a queue rn
phainon’s pressing kisses against the curve of your shoulder when you snicker; it pulls him out of his daze, makes him peer at your side profile. you flick your eyes his way and read the question in his gaze.
“you weren’t listening?” you arched a brow and he shook his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thumb doodling circles against your hip. you regale him with the video you had been watching—some story about an influencer discovering her partner had been cheating on her for months, making her out to be the fool.
“that he’s still pretending it’s her fault makes him scum.” phainon scoffed, his whole body laying on top of you easily; dwarfing you completely in size and shape.
“it’s insane that the other girl is so pathetic about it too.” you roll your eyes before you turn to him with a thoughtful look on your face. he blinks down at you.
“what?”
“if you ever even think about cheating on me, i might just have to kill you.” you say it lightly, dismissively. there was no heat in the sentence; just calm, straight to the point. honest.
ba—bump.
but his face flushes deeply, his inhale is shaky and his heart skips a beat.
in-between his legs, he throbs and aches.
“a.. anh..”
your brows shoot up in surprise, “phainon did you just—?”
he buries his face in your skin again, humiliating noises escaping his lips.
—
afterword:
— i had a thought and it was too funny not to write it
flirty!friend remus x reader
a/n: very slightly inspired by this fic by @star--stilinski (i adore their writing style & how they characterize my dear n lovely stiles) i thought i'd bring the vibe over to another one of my comfort characters! enjoy, my muses.
more of this.
just thinking about being flirty friends with remus lupin.
imagine it - during hangouts with the marauders, he’d pull you onto his lap and rub at your thighs while discussing pranks with james and sirius. peter would eye you both suspiciously, but the other two boys would barely bat an eye. sirius and james have both seen way worse, and you (quite frankly) did not want to ask.
picture remus’s hands and their inability to separate from you. whether it be his palm pressed against your lower back or his pinky prodding at yours with an unspoken hold me?, he would rather find himself faced with the dark lord’s wand than lose your soft fingers wrapped around his.
visualize remus and his annoyingly attractive habit of casual praise. you come running into the common room, showing him your charms homework? you’ll be met with a “good girl. told you you could do it!” and a quick kiss on the forehead before he wraps his hand around your waist to pull you down onto his knee, nose still stuck in his novel that he just checked out from the restricted section.
suppose that you and remus are prefects together in your seventh year. you’re both pretty widely known for being brilliant, so it was no surprise when you both got picked for the prefect position. when you were both assigned the evening patrol around the castle, remus had the nasty habit of pushing you behind the tapestries and kissing you silly. he liked to say that “you have to act like the enemy to know the enemy, darling” while his lean fingers explored places on your body that have absolutely no business being explored by your friend.
and (obviously) you and remus would get so many allegations. lily and marlene never let up on their incessant teasing of the both of you (and it didn’t help that james used you and remus as a talking point to flirt with lily.) it got to a point where you started to distance yourself from the marauders as a whole for a few weeks to get your teasing friends of of your back. to be fair, they were a pretty lonely few weeks before sirius showed up at your door and made your promise to never do that again because he’d never seen remus this distraught in all of his years at hogwarts.
just thinking about being more than flirty & lovestruck friends with remus lupin.
⡴ gym teacher!sukuna has an embarrassingly known crush on school nurse!reader
lowkey wanna turn this into a full oneshot
if he heard one more twelve year old’s squeaky voice whispering to one another, saying he’s ‘got a crush on the school nurse’ he swears he’s gonna write up the whole grade.
god, it’s even worse when one of the eighth grade girls come up to him when he’s on lunch duty.
“mr., mr. ! did you know the nurse mentioned she likes tall guys when i went into her room for a tylenol !”
“what does that have to do with me ?” he grumbles, scrunching his face while the girl and her friend stare up at him.
“well everyone knows you like like her—”
“GO SIT DOWN!”
he swears the whole lunchroom conveniently goes quiet when he yells that as the girls squirm away back to their tables and start whispering around gossip.
and even worse than the girls that draw hearts around you and sukuna’s staff photos next to eachother in the main office, he’s got gojo. gojo, who ships you two and nags him like worse-than a middle school girl. gojo, who shoves you two together for any school event.
“what game do you have planned for tomorrow?” you ask, leaning over to whisper to sukuna as eighth grade awards are called for each subject, timing claps inbetween your words while names are called. you smirk, “how many kids am i gonna have sent my way next time?”
“just dodgeball.” he leans down to whisper flatly against your ear, still staring down a kid giggling in the seating rows of the auditorium and effectively getting him to stop with his gaze.
“your version of dodgeball is basically to the death, i might have to have paramedics in my room on standby.” you joke, turning to smile at him so sweetly. in his mind, this counts as him making you laugh and therefore counts as a win.
he chuckles lightly, just a quick huff of his chest, but essentially the hardest he can laugh if he’s not looking at a kid getting tackled in class. “these kids will toughen up eventually, i am just teaching them to do it early.”
“were you a weak kid that needed to toughen up? i can really only picture you as a big scary dude.”
“i was actually a severely malnourished child due to my mothers impoverished state during her pregnancy.“ he says, truly not realizing how solemn he sounds in his voice even as he means it as a light hearted jest.
you blink at him, face contorted in confusion and awkwardness. he wants to hit himself.
the only thing that saves him from not saying anything stupid again is the end of the assembly, marked by gojo yelling into a megaphone and for kids to round up by homeroom.
the following week he’s still embarrassed to even look you in the eyes. he’s mulling over how stupid he must’ve looked infront of you while sifting through the equipment closet.
he hears steps echo throughout the currently empty gym before he yells out.
“gojo i’m not covering your lunch break, fuck off—” he turns around to not see the usual suspect he finds during his free period. instead, he sees you, leaning against the door in scrubs and white coat clinging to your body. he stills in his motion.
you speak before he can (if he can speak at all in his embarrassed state).
“i understand the confusion, he bothers me all the time too.” you dismiss, smiling at him with your glossed lips he probably thinks about hourly. waitwaitwait, gojo talks to you all the time ? he’s going to kill that lanky fuck. “just wanted to drop these off for yuri in your next period.” you jostle around a pill bottle in your hand, “she can get fainty on gym days so give these to her just in case to help prevent that.” he knows it’s your job and all, but your concern is honestly kinda cute.
“uhh yeah i’ll be sure to.” he nods, right as you drop the bottle on top of a stack of rubber cones by the door before you walk out. and he would just like it to be known he definitely didn’t stare at your ass as you left.
and he typically makes it easier for himself to deny how down bad he is to you, but now, after you spent a week of saved up sick days out last week, he’s kind of craving your voice. so who can blame him when he calls his 6th grade nephew into his office while he’s supposed to be at lunch.
“look, kid. i’m going to need you to do something, and i’m gonna need you to not be annoying about it, kay?”
yuji furrows his brows, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.
“you,” he gestures to his nephew, “are going to act like you collapsed and let me bring you up to the school nurse. you are then going to be quiet when i talk to her.”
“is it cause you have a crush on her—”
sukuna tenses before cutting him off.
“do a good job acting and i will consider buying you that human earthworm blu-ray. do you hear me, brat?”
yuji’s eyes light up at the mention of the dvd.
“is this impression good enough then?” yuji leans and clutches at his side in fake fatigue while moaning dramatically for help, then immediately straightens up with a smile like he’s waiting for a rating. sukuna shakes his head and genuinely wonders how he’s related to this—in sukuna’s words— pea brained doofus.
he dials your number on his offices phone, sitting tense in his chair while he shh’s yuji. yuji nods and salutes as sukuna continues to roll his eyes.
yuji could’ve sworn he saw him smile when you pick up. he continues to watch sukuna fiddle with the curled wire of the phone as he explains yuji’s apparently dire situation. he can just barely hear the muffled sound of you saying ‘just bring him up and i’ll check him out.” over the speaker of the phone before sukuna hangs up and fixes his hair.
sukuna walks out the door and desperately tries to ignore yuji’s terrible post fainting impression behind him as his nephew follows his step to your room.
just before they step into your room he whispers to yuji as he leans over.
“if you can bring up me being single i’ll take you out for ice cream, brat.”
synopsis ; your neighbor that had a secret crush on you attempted to leave hints and roses about his love for you. on valentines day, he left a little fluffy surprise.
dawn’s opine ; SAY IT AIN’T SO, I WILL NOT GO. TURN THE LIGHTS OFF, CARRY ME HOME. NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA (title from all the small things by blink-182) by the way this fic was supposed to be written during VALENTINES but clearly we aren’t there.
1k , fluff , modern!au-ish , neighbor!phainon , snowy exists as a medium , amphoreus isn’t doomed , this is so fucking cheesy
honkai star rail masterlist !
IT WAS ALWAYS AT THE SAME HOUR without fail. there would always be a bouquet of roses by the stairs every two weeks, with a little message that wrote something like : "you were really beautiful today, i hope these cheer you up :)" in the most delicate handwriting ever.
you paid no mind to the roses though, as they did, in fact, cheer you up every time.
you lived in aedes elysiae. it was somewhere by the seaside.
the smell of wood from the docks, the scent of wheat when children ran in them, and somehow the stench of fish. it wasn’t exactly a bad stench, but it wasn’t really easy on the nose.
point is, it was safe and just above the average population for a small fishing village. to you, this was home.
then there was that boy that looked like the gods had graced them with a part of their beauty and hope and gave it to him. that boy was phainon. he was young man, an admirable warrior, and a lovely neighbor.
he’s talked to you a few times. he was cheery and fun to be around. he always respected you and brought you food a few times with the excuse of "oh! i made too much food" with the sweetest, sheepish smile to his face.
recently, you’ve been receiving roses. they were in your favorite color. you didn’t pay no mind to it and picked it up when it read, "i hope this’ll cheer you up, you looked a bit down today :(" which was true, you were in a sour mood due to a stomachache that did not want to let you go, no matter how many times you’ve sat down or took some pills to ease the pain. you probably ate something bad that day.
the roses did lighten things up a little bit, and you kept them in a vase. when phainon came around the next week, you noticed that his eyes were on the roses for a little too long before looking at you again.
ever since then, every thursday, every two weeks, special colored roses would appear on your doorstep with a little note that seemed to brighten the heart. they were always sweet and heartfelt, nothing creepy.
phainon would always make sure that you got them and ensured that no one saw him dropping them off. if you knew, he’d probably faint.
truth was, phainon was kind of shy. he didn’t know how to act if he saw a pretty person in front of him.
so the only thing he could do was play secret admirer.
leaving little notes and your favorite colored flowers was the least phainon could do. sometimes, he’d slip in your favorite chocolates too, just to see that smile on your face when you receive them.
whenever phainon came by your place to chat, he’d always eye and smile at what happened to the roses. they were neatly kept in a vase on a table by the door, next to some dog treats you always gave his dog whenever he yapped by.
he hoped you didn’t notice his odd behavior once the bouquet thing started happening, but he knew you weren’t dumb.
he heavily disliked- not hated, disliked- your perceptiveness. he usually admired it, but right now he didn’t like it.
today was a day where phainon wanted to pass away.
phainon promised himself he’d confess his feelings on valentines day. he’d repeatedly mustered up the courage and kept practicing his confession in the mirror for the next four months before february. but today, his anxiety levels skyrocketed and he didn’t know what to do.
snowy was watching him slowly panic, yapping and jumping to place his forelegs on his legs. yapping again and again as if he was telling him to shut up and get out there.
phainon looked at snowy once. "buddy, i don’t know what to do. what if—" snowy barked again, stopping his intrusive thoughts.
but a bright idea came into phainon’s mind. it would be cheesy, but snowy was always an amazing icebreaker.
…
you got a notification on your phone for movement from your doorbell ring camera. were they your yaoi stickers?
you hurriedly went down to inspect the door, peeking through the peephole, only to see… absolutely nothing.
you opened the door to see what it was, and there he was.
phainon’s dog, snowy, sitting with a bouquet of roses and your own personal favorite flowers on his back, strapped with a harness, and a letter clamped in his mouth. his tail was wagging happily when he saw you emerge.
"what d’you get for me, buddy?" you smiled, crouching down to pet his furry head, slightly jumping when your hand touched his head. you gave him a treat.
you gently took the letter from his mouth and opened it. it smelled like the sun… and dog breath.
"this is a really terrible form of confession but i got too shy. i promised myself i’d be brave enough but that was a big lie. i’m so sorry, i wish i could’ve done this better. :( will you be my valentine anyway, [name]?"
you knew it was phainon for a while, but you didn’t quite have the proof yet. you held the letter with a smile on your face. "come on snowy, let’s go back to phainon." you ushered. he yipped and jumped around. luckily, his place was just a 30 second walk from yours.
you went up to phainon’s house and knocked on his door. you knew he was in there. you could see a tuft of white hair peeking out from the window.
you waited patiently until he was ready to open the door. it creaked open with tension.
"hey, [name]! uh, did you—" you didn’t wait for him to speak and pressed your lips on his. phainon stood still for a heartbeat or two.
did you just really do this? oh my god, are you actually kissing me?
but before he could pull you in closer, you already pulled away. his hand hovered over your waist, slightly trembling.
"does that answer your question?" you asked. he nodded frantically. this must be a dream come true.
From @hajimeowmeow's prompt where Caleb receives a message threatening to hurt the person he loves the most, yet instead of staying with you, his girlfriend, he thinks mc is in danger and stays with her in linkon for weeks on end. He comes back but you're not the same-- more eerie, as a parasite takes over your brain.
nooooot proofread, just wrote this literally now hahah bc i am in my sad girl hours and i need smthng to hurt me.
warnings? tragic love, caleb being sad, pathetic, and begging; doomed love. also K by CAS, is the perfect song wrote this with CAS playlist :p
@youre-my-headliner @mia-menaceinaction
-----
There is the dim, yet warm light of a single lamp open in the living room; the TV is buzzing, words of characters that you’re only barely paying attention to anymore. A sitcom you really like rewatching. It was raining a little, so you look at your phone. A message you sent 2 hours ago, still left on delivered.
It’s raining. You should borrow an umbrella from a co-worker.
It would be bad if you got sick.
Love you. Come home soon, honey.
Your boyfriend was a busy man. A colonel at a very young age, in the most influential unit in your city: Skyhaven. You’ve lived together for a year now, and have been together for a bit longer. Somehow, you’ve gotten used to him coming home late. And he’s gotten used to you waiting for him ‘til late. You insist upon it. It’s too cold to ever truly be sleeping without him as your body pillow.
Your eyes are drowsy, threatening to close while your feet fold deeper as you curl into a ball in the chill room, covered in your thin blanket– that the door opens. You perk up immediately, despite the grog settling deep into your skin.
There, Caleb slowly closes the door behind him. His hat, finally coming off as he loosens his collar, sighing. You get up, still wrapped in your blanket and meet him by the doorway. He’s halfway into getting his shoes off when you stand in front of him, barefoot with a pout.
“You’re wet. Did you get my text? You’ll get sick, you big dummy.” You try to wipe the droplets of rain from his shoulders, then his cheeks; which were cold. His hands move up to your wrists, holding them gently.
“I didn’t have time to check my phone. Sorry, honey.” He says, voice low, tired. Then he kisses the inside of your wrist. Your hands being the only thing warming him right now.
You sigh, which ends in a small smile. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”
—
You linger with him a moment longer after that, just breathing in the scent of rain and metal that always clings to his uniform. He moves toward the couch while you pad back into the kitchen, the faint buzz of the TV filling the space again. The sound of him setting down his things, the muted hum of the holo-terminal booting– all so ordinary it makes you smile.
“Did you eat?” You call out while you stir something in a small pot, steam fogging the air.
“Not yet,” he answers, voice distant but gentle.
You grab a plate, already imagining the way he’ll loosen up after a meal and shower. Then the terminal tone pierces through the quiet. It isn’t the usual mellow ping of work updates. This one is sharper, coded. Military-grade. You hesitate mid-step, plate still in your hands.
“Work again?” You ask, half sigh, half tease.
He doesn’t answer immediately. The air feels heavier now. From the couch, you can see him sit rigid before the screen, its pale light painting his face in washed-out blues.
You wipe your hands on the towel and walk closer. “Hey… you okay?”
He blinks and turns, startled as if he forgot you were there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, forcing a small smile. “Just… something from command. Nothing important.”
“So it’s fine, then?”
He nods, but there’s no conviction in the motion. You can see the storm behind his eyes. Whatever he just read isn’t fine at all.
You cross the short distance between you, laying a hand on his arm. “You can tell me, you know.”
His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he might. But then the soldier in him wins over the man you love. He cups your hand gently and presses a kiss to it instead of answering.
“I will,” he says softly, “once things are handled. Don’t worry tonight, okay? You’ve done enough waiting for me.”
Something in that phrasing sinks cold in you. You want to argue, ask what’s really happening, but he’s already looking past you at the rain-slick window, mind somewhere far away.
“Caleb–”
“It’s fine, honey.” He gives you one of those smiles, reassuring. But lurking with trembles he’s barely hiding. “Really. Just protocol stuff.”
You nod, because you’ve learned to choose your battles. You go back to the table and place the food down between you both, pretending not to notice his eyes dart once more toward the flashing terminal.
Dinner ends in fragments: your laughter too soft, his replies just half-finished. And when he finally excuses himself to “take a call,” you stay on the couch. Watching the reflection of the lamp fade across the empty seat beside you.
From the hallway, you can hear him speaking quietly, voice clipped, controlled. Then silence.
His footsteps return, slower this time. You look up, already knowing you won’t like what’s next. And Caleb almost didn’t have the heart to tell you, especially when you looked at him that way. Your eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart clench. Your breathing so obviously controlled. So he sits beside you despite the large space the couch could offer.
Caleb let his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes on the floor.
“...They need me in Linkon,” he says, words measured but heavy. “But it’s short-term, I promise– a few weeks at most.”
The words hang in the room as he finally looks at you, and you exhale, this time, turning your head away from him; taking his words in.
But you manage a small nod. “Tonight?”
He hesitates, then: “Tomorrow morning.” At least. He should at least spend the night with you.
You smile again. “That’s… soon.”
He brushes your hair behind your ear, before cupping your cheek to make you look at him gently. Thumb brushing against your soft skin, as if memorizing the gesture. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I know,” you whisper, even as something inside you starts to ache. “You always come back.”
—
Days pass. Then weeks.
You still go to work. Same office. Same blue-gray cubicle walls humming under cheap lights. Your coworkers greet you with practiced smiles and the usual chatter about deadlines and traffic. You smile back, careful not to let the pauses linger — you don’t want anyone asking how you’re doing.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not really the kind of person who clings too much. Caleb’s job is important and dangerous; you knew that from the start. You repeat it like a mantra every time the communicator on your desk stays silent.
During lunch breaks, your colleagues invite you out for noodles or coffee. You always shake your head with a little laugh. “I’ve got errands,” you say. You don’t. You just can’t stand the thought of burdening anyone with the smallness of how much you miss him.
Evenings are harder.
The apartment still hums with the quiet habits you shared– his cup in the dish rack, his jacket folded on the chair. You keep reheating leftovers and packing them in containers he’ll never open.
You stop sleeping in bed; it feels too big alone. The couch becomes your spot again, TV buzzing faintly with that same sitcom you’ve seen a dozen times. The laugh track becomes mocking, at some point.
Messages sit half-written in your terminal.
Did you eat?
Don’t forget to rest.
The plants miss youuuu.
Coco puff too.
I miss you, Caleb.
You somehow never hit send. You just stare at the blinking cursor until the screen times out.
Sometimes you think about reaching out to friends– to anyone– but every time your hand hovers over the call icon, you stop. You tell yourself it would be rude, intrusive. They have lives; they don’t need to hear you talk about the weather or how quiet your home’s been.
By the third week, your sleep pattern collapses. You start leaving lights on all over the apartment, afraid of how Skyhaven– this apartment feels without him. At first, the neighbors ask if you’re alright. Then they stop. And you’re alone again.
One evening– like any other– you hear the faint static pop outside the door. A knock follows. You expect Caleb. And you feel energy burst in your veins, your chest tightens, your heart surges– of course he’s come back, he promised!
“Honey!” You smile, already excited just unlocking the door. “I’m glad–”
The door bursts forward. Metal boots flood over the sound of rain. You barely register the shout before the noise swallows you whole.
You fight, of course you do. Your heel connects with someone’s leg; a grunt, a shout. There are too many hands. Gloved, cold, inhuman. They shove you against the wall, pin your wrists.
“Where– who, who are you you– let me go!”
One of them laughs, distorted through a voice modulator. “Funny. He didn’t even tell you, did he?”
You freeze for half a second, breaths sharp. “Tell me what?”
The laugh deepens. “That we’d come for you. He got our message and still somehow picked the other one.”
You blink hard as the words fracture through your panic. “What– what.. message?”
The leader raises his visor just enough for you to see his eyes– clinical and detached, yet clearly amused. “We will hurt the person you love most. Ring any bells?”
Your stomach drops, colder than fear. He’s lying. He has to be lying. “You mean… MC,” you say, voice small, trembling. “You went for her– not–” not me. These guys must have made a mistake!
“Oh, no. He made sure we couldn’t get to her.” A short laugh. “Guess he thought she mattered more.”
The words punch straight through your chest. For a second everything– the shouting, the rain, the struggling– fades under a single ringing truth. All the nights you spent waiting, the unanswered messages, the silence that stretched too long.
He didn’t come back for you.
He didn’t even think to.
Hands grip your jaw, cold metal pressing against skin. You thrash once, twice, but the strength is leaving you; your thoughts scatter like broken glass.
The last thing you hear before the needle sinks into the side of your neck is that same voice, calm, almost sympathetic. “You were just the leftover piece, sweetheart. Don’t feel too bad. Wrong place, wrong kind of love.”
Pain blooms white-hot, before it vanishes into nothing.
He’ll come back, you think. As the floor tilts beneath you.
He always comes back.
Then, a void.
—
Linkon feels different from Skyhaven. Brighter, louder, endlessly awake even during the night.
Caleb spends the first few nights pretending it’s a temporary reassignment, nothing more. Duty. Safety. Logic. All the things he’s supposed to understand better than anyone.
MC teases him for how restless he looks at the window. “You’ve been circling around like an idiot for an hour,” she says, handing him a mug of coffee. “Whatever’s on your mind, it’s going to give you wrinkles.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Wrinkles build the man, pipsqueak.”
“You don’t need more of that.” She leans against the counter, all casual.
But tonight, it only reminds him of what isn’t here.
MC tilts her head. “Did you at least let your girlfriend know you got here safe?” He freezes for half a beat. “She knows the protocols,” he says finally.
“That’s not an answer.”
He exhales. Drops his gaze to the liquid spinning in the cup. The rain on the glass matches its color almost perfectly. “I didn’t want to worry her,” he mutters, almost to himself.
MC studies him a moment longer, then shrugs. “You always think that’s protecting people. Maybe… sometimes it’s just shutting them out.” She softens near the end, knowing her brother can be avoidant of his own feelings.
Her words hang in the air longer than they should.
When the communicator on his wrist buzzes. And for a moment, his stomach drops, remembering the message that started all this.
It plays back in his head, like a faultline cracking through calm: a voice scrambled by automated distortion flattening it into something both human and not.
We will hurt the person you love most. Soon.
He’d stared at those words while she slept peacefully in their bed, the glow of the screen washing her face in pale light. He’d thought of past ambushes, of reports with MC’s name circled in hazard red, of how she’d been surveilled before because of his link as X-02. Those stupid fucking experiments.
His years of ‘training’ since he was a child spoke first: calculate probability, reduce emotional interference. MC = high-value target. Logical priority. And he’d spent nearly his whole life with his little sister. Protecting her. They had leverage on her all the time. So it must be her… right?
Soon enough, dawn was spilling through his floor to ceiling windows. You stirred, half awake, murmuring… don’t leave.
It should’ve been enough to make him stay. But Caleb Xia was built from logic, and logic had saved him too many times to abandon it now.
He blinks, coming back to the present. The mug in his hand trembles. His knuckles ache.
MC is saying something. He doesn’t catch it. The communicator crackles again, this time, louder.
The line crackles with interference, distant voices mixing with the sound of water hitting metal. A neighbor from Skyhaven stumbles through panic, the message choked with static:
“Mr. Xia? I– there was a noise from your building. It was horrible. I think there was a woman screaming. And there were just many suspicious men all rushing through your door and–”
He doesn’t hear the rest.
The mug slips, shattering on tile. Coffee streaks brown across the floor like dried blood.
“Caleb?” MC’s voice reaches him faintly. “What’s going on?”
He’s already moving. Coat. Terminal. Gun. Every instinct flares alive but too late.
“Fuck, fuck—” His voice shakes as he tries to call you repeatedly. Only to be left on voicemail.
MC tries to follow but he’s already at the door. The wind catches as it closes behind him.
—
His car cuts through the midnight streets, engine roaring against silence. Streetlights smear gold over rain slicks as his mind replays the message in bursts— We will hurt the one you love most. Each phrase now blends with her voice in memory, words he never really answered.
He thought it meant MC.
He thought wrong.
And now, every second between the city’s rings feel like punishment.
—
The ride back to Skyhaven feels endless. He’s lucky to have strings to pull, getting on the train even if the last ride ended hours ago. Rain cuts across the window pane as the scenery changes as he moves past cities. Until eventually, he gets to his neighborhood. Each step makes him nervous as he gets closer to his front door. Mind reeling from what would be behind it.
Caleb tells himself you’re fine. That he’ll arrive and find the call to be exaggerated. Somehow. That he’ll open the door and you’ll laugh at how tightly he’s gripping the handle.
But when the door finally slides open, all sound leaves him.
The apartment is spotless. The faint scent of detergent and ozone hands in the air. The lamp by the couch glows exactly how he remembers it.
And you’re there.
Sitting upright, blanket folded neatly beside you. The TV is off. You’re still, hands resting on your lap as though you’ve been waiting.
When you turn your head and smile, the world clicks into place and falls apart at once. “Honey, you’re home.”
The words are right. But somehow… it’s also wrong.
He drops his things, crossing the room in two quick strides as he locks the door in less than a second. “Are you okay? What happened? The neighbors called and–”
Your gaze follows him a second too slow. “I’m fine. You’re drenched.”
He stops. “There were reports of men.. of a break-in.”
Silence. Then, calm. “No one came.”
He looks around. Not a thing out of place. Even the broken picture frame by the door– the one that fell the week before he left– is fixed.
“You cleaned,” he says softly, stunned. “Of course you did.”
You stand, careful, fluid. “You should shower before you catch a cold. I left dinner out for you.”
He moves to the table. Two plates. His served; yours untouched. The food is warm, impossibly so– as if perfectly timed to his arrival. Caleb badly wants to ask how you knew, but his throat’s too tight.
“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have–”
“It’s alright.” You lean against the wall near the lamp, eyes unfocused in the half-light. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”
He crosses back to you, rests a hand against your cheek. Warm. Steady. No tremor, no tears. He searches for something familiar in your eyes. He’s not entirely sure what, but he only saw his reflection in your irises. His heart clenches. Still, he wraps you tightly in his arms.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he pleads quietly.
Her lips part just enough for a smile. “Okay, honey.”
He laughs, weakly, relief cracking through his guilt. “You even sound like you’re humoring me. You should be more mad.”
“Why would I be?”
It’s a joke. But you don’t laugh.
When Caleb sists beside you on the couch, the air between them feels heavier somehow, despite his relief. The lamplight hums faintly; the rain outside stopped.
He looks around, the apartment looks exactly like it did the night he left.
But your favorite sitcom wasn’t playing.
Your fingers stay on your lap.
And when he holds your wrist in his bigger hand, your pulse.. beats just a little too slow.
—
At first, he tries to restore normalcy.
He cooks you breakfast, tells himself the silence between you is comfort, not distance. When you forget to respond to little things– his jokes, the sound of your name– he writes it off as exhaustion. Trauma, maybe. It’s easier that way. Maybe you just missed him too much.
You still call him Honey. Always softly. Always rhythmically timed.
“Good morning, honey.”
“Welcome home, honey.”
“Sleep well, honey.”
The first few days, it still warms him. Then the pattern sets in. Too even, too predictable. Each line lands with the same cadence, the same faint smile that never folds into laughter.
Sometimes he catches you sitting on the couch again. Posture perfectly straight, eyes on nothing. No TV, no sound. Just the glow of the lamp brushing your face like it did that first night. When he calls your name, you turn, apologizing, saying you lost track of time.
He finds you doing it every night. Always at the same hour. Always in the same spot.
A rhythm forms. Morning coffee you don’t really drink, dinner served and cleaned before he can finish, a bed you lie in like a statue. He watches all your movements like a hawk; how your chest rises and falls in precise intervals. 1, 2, 3– breathe. If he didn’t look closely, he’d think you’d been sleeping peacefully.
He clings to that lie.
Because acknowledging the alternative means admitting he left you here to break.
On the seventh night, he comes home early from base. The smell of something faintly sweet hits him as he unlocks the door. For a brief moment, his chest eases– you’re cooking. Moving again.
He follows the smell into the kitchen.
You’re standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something slowly.
“Smells good,” he says, smiling with cautious relief as he comes up behind you and kissing the back of your neck, then hiding his face in the junction of your shoulder breathing you in. “What’re you making?”
“Dinner,” you answer without looking up.
He finally raises his head. The pot is empty. Just reflective metal catching the light in circular motions as the spoon scrapes against it. The sound grates against his nerves.
“Honey,” he says softly, reaching to still her hand, “it’s empty.”
You blink once, as if waking from a dream. “Dinner’s almost done.” Then you smile, turning back to the pot.
The scrape of metal fills the air again.
He stays the re a moment longer, staring at her profile. The steam that should’ve been rising isn’t there. His throat tightens, words crowding behind it but refusing to come out.
He backs away slowly, returning to the living room. The rhythm resumes– the scrape, scrape, scrape like a clock ticking a world out of sync.
That’s when the smaller glitches start appearing.
Sometimes you repeat yourself mid-conversation, like replaying a moment you forgot to get right. Sometimes you laugh a little too late, or you stop all the sudden, the noise dying in your throat with confusion.
Once, you burnt your hand on the kettle. The water hisses, but you don’t flinch until he grabs her wrist away.
“(Name), that’s– God, you’re hurt. Let go!” He rushes, getting the kettle off her hand with his gravity Evol, placing it on the counter; before checking your reddening hand.
You look at your skin, then at him, calm as rain. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s fine, honey.” Your tone doesn’t change.
He grips the counter hard enough for his fingers to ache. That phrase– he’s starting to hate how easily it dissolves tension. How easily it can shut him down.
Later that night, lying beside her, he realizes you haven’t called him anything else in weeks. No teasing names. No Caleb. Just one word, one note, replayed in perfect pitch.
And somewhere inside him, the awareness begins to grow.
Whatever came back with him, it isn’t whole.
—
One evening, Caleb brings out an old bottle of wine you’d bought long ago for a night that never happened. He opens it anyway.
The living room feels too quiet without your laughter, so he tries to fill it with stories instead.
“Remember the first time we went to Yuhua Port together?” he starts, voice too light to hide the tremor underneath. “You made friends with that stray cat who kept trying to steal your sandwich.”
You look up from the couch, smiling faintly. “You mean the one near Skyhaven Station?”
He pauses. “No, Yuhua Port. The cat had white patches on its paws, remember? You said they looked like socks.”
You tilt your head, as if searching. “Right. The orange one.”
“It was gray.”
“Was it?” Your laugh is small, uncertain. “I remember orange.”
He laughs too, even though it lands hollow. ““You’ve got the worst memory, you know that?”
“I guess I do.”
The pause that follows is heavier than it should be. You still smile, but there’s no flicker of embarrassment, no playfulness– none of the small reactions he knows by heart.
So he tries another. “Okay, then. What about the place I took you after that? When it rained the whole day.”
You hum, thinking, but it’s the wrong kind of thinking– measured, deliberate, like piecing something together from a blueprint. “You took me to that café in Linkon.”
“No,” he says softly. “We stayed in Skyhaven. The little tea place by the docks.”
“Oh… right.”
He starts to correct you again, then stops. His throat’s dry, the taste of wine bitter on his tongue. “You’ve just been tired lately. It’s fine.”
“I feel fine.” You reach for his hand, skin against skin, warm and steady. It feels right. The warmth is there, but the pressure is all wrong.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until you tilt your head.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He squeezes your fingers gently, forces a smile. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
You smile back. “You always say that.”
“I mean it this time.”
“So did you, the last time.”
He laughs, because not laughing would mean falling apart. He refills both glasses though you haven’t touched yours.
Later that night, as he rinses the empty glass in the sink, he notices there’s no trace of wine in yours. The liquid’s still where he poured it.
Untouched.
He stands there for a long time, water running over his hands, until the sound drowns out every thought except one:
You remember everything, except the parts that make you you. And he doesn’t know how to confront what he’s already suspecting.
—
You hear the door click open before you can stand from the couch.
The lamp hums, the same low glow as always.
Caleb steps through the doorway, eyes fever‑bright from exhaustion, rain still clinging to his jacket. You open your mouth, gentle as habit.
“Honey, you’re–”
He’s already kissing you.
It’s rough, starved, more apology than desire. His hands move like a man trying to anchor himself somewhere solid. For a few seconds, you respond exactly as he remembers– arms around him, lips soft, rhythm precise.
But when he deepens the kiss, something’s missing. No hitch in your breath, no tremor, no warmth rising from somewhere real.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, voice shaking. “Say something.”
You blink up at him, calm. “You’re home.”
His forehead presses to yours. “Not that. Please not that.”
You touch his cheek. “You’re tired, honey.”
He flinches like the words burn. “Stop calling me that if you don’t mean it.”
“I always–”
“No, you don’t!” His tone breaks; he’s halfway between a sob and a shout. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t–” He laughs once, sharp, bitter. “And god, I just– I keep pretending that you do.”
Your hands rest on his shoulders, perfectly steady. “I’m here.”
He steps back, chest heaving. “Yeah. You’re here. Everyone keeps saying that– you, the unit reports, the neighbors…”
You tilt your head, almost curious.
“But they said you were screaming. You were attacked, (Name). But I did everything I could, I tried– I tried to get surveillance, I tried, but everything’s clean and I just. It’s like it never happened and I don’t know what to do, but I know something happened to you, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” He bursts out, tears already falling as he ends up screaming the last sentence with no control; pulling at his hair in frustration.
Silence.
He drags his fingers through his hair, trembling. “They sent me that message. We’ll hurt the one you love most. And I–” The sentence dies, then returns as a whisper: “I thought they meant someone else.”
You watch him, expression unchanged. “You came back.”
“Too late.” He laughs again, hysterical now. “Too goddamn late.” He turns away, voice cracking. “I thought I could fix this. That if I just acted like nothing happened, you’d come back to me.”
“I waited,” you say gently.
He freezes.
The words land with unnatural precision. His gaze crawls back to your face, searching for the smallest sign that you understand.
Your smile doesn’t move. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to wait.”
Something inside him snaps. He hits the wall with his fist, the sound splintering through the room. “That’s not what I wanted! I wanted you alive!”
You stay seated, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. It’s fine.”
He staggers back toward you, falls to his knees in front of the couch. Tears mix with the leftover rain on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been here. If I could trade places with you–” His words crumble into breathless sobs.
You reach out, running your fingers through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times. The gesture is flawless, gentle, empty.
He melts into it anyway. Because there’s nothing else left.
Your voice drifts down, tender, practiced:”Honey, you’re home.”
He breaks completely, the sound that leaves him more animal than human.
You keep stroking his hair, repeating the words until they lose meaning, until only their shape remains in the air– warm, wrong, and endless.
—
Later.
He doesn’t remember when the crying stopped. Only the weight of your hand in his hair and your voice, soft as static: “Honey, you’re home.”
When he finally pulls away, you’re still smiling. The expression doesn’t reach your eyes. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself in two.
He spends the next nights trying to repair a ghost.
You let him. You cook. You sit beside him when he falls asleep on the couch. You hold him whenever he wakes up shaking. Everything looks right on the surface– too right. That’s what drives him harder to open the classified files. Dig deeper.
Until finally, he successfully gets the incident log from the night of the attack.
There’s nothing there at first– corrupted data, missing footage– but then a suppressed note hidden under medical reports: subject sustained neuro‑somatic trauma; parasitic interference detected; neural override protocol inhibited due to host deterioration.
His stomach drops.
He scrolls again. Parasite responsive to emotional stress; external removal will induce cortical implosion.
The air leaves his lungs. It explains everything. You blanking out, your recent extreme perfectionism, like a doll. He almost thought it was a Toring Chip just like his, but he finds this much, much worse.
Ever’s experiment. X‑02’s counterpart. They made you into surveillance wrapped in skin.
He looks up from the file to where you’re standing at the sink, humming faintly. It’s the same tune you used to hum when cooking breakfast, except now the tempo never changes. He can’t tell if you’re doing it or the thing inside you is.
“Did they–” he starts, voice barely there, “Did they hurt you before they–”
You turn, wiping your hands carefully on a towel. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home.”
He tries again, words breaking apart. “You know what they did to you, don’t you?”
A flicker in your smile– a tiny tremor. “I know you left.”
He almost staggers under it. “No, I–”
“You always leave. And then you come back and say sorry.” Still calm, still gentle. “It’s fine, honey. I’m used to it.”
He can feel the edges of the parasite now, folded through the cadence of your voice– its mimicry feeding on every emotion you never said aloud. Your resentment. Your exhaustion. Your love stretched thin until it snapped and let something else inside.
He wants to fight. He wants to tear the thing out of you, damn the consequences. But the warning screens pulse behind his eyelids: external removal will induce cortical implosion.
If he fights it, it kills you.
If he leaves it, he loses you.
So he does the only thing left.
He takes your hand. It’s warm, steady, steady in that wrong way. He presses his lips to your knuckles and speaks around the tears that won’t stop falling from his eyes.
“I’ll stay. I won’t go anywhere anymore. I promise.”
You tilt your head, that same patient smile returning. “You always say that.”
“I mean it this time.”
“So did you the last time.”
He almost laughs. Almost.
Then he lets you pull him down beside you on the couch. The lamp hums faintly; the night settles into the same rhythm it always has.
Outside, Skyhaven glows. And a faint thunderstorm bellows. Inside, the two of you sit together in perfect stillness, your head on his chest, as he lays you both down on the couch– both knowing, neither saying.
Because if he does, you die.
And if he doesn’t, he’s already dead.
—
Another night, he comes home late.
The lamp is on. You’re on the couch, back straight, hands folded. No TV. No sound.
“Honey, you’re home,” you say.
He hesitates only a second now before crossing the room. He sits beside you, rests his head against your shoulder like he used to. He closes his eyes.
He came home late again. And you were waiting for him, just like always.
nerdjo’s glasses slip down his nose as he stares at you between his knees, mouth already running even while you’re bobbing on his cock.
“fuckkk, that’s so good—shit, wait, did you know that like… most guys only last like five minutes with head? which is, y’know, kind of embarrassing considering the male refractory period—”
his words stutter when you swallow around his sensitive tip, spit dripping down your chin. “ohhh god, that’s—that’s definitely less than five minutes for me.”
your tongue presses under his tip and he whines, still running his mouth.
“ahhh—shit, did you also know semen actually has fructose in it? it’s literally nature’s energy drink—ohhh your tongue—wait, don’t stop—” his whimpers comes out shaky, hand twitching like he wants to push your head down but can’t decide if it’s rude.
you take him deeper, throat tightening, and he slaps a shaky hand over his mouth, eyes rolling back behind his lenses. he tries to muffle a moan but it comes out anyway, high and desperate.
“o-okay, uh—science says sucking dick releases oxytocin—bonding hormone, y’know? so technically, we’re like… getting closer right now.”
you hum around him in agreement and he gasps, words spilling faster. “shitshitshit, baby, your throat’s so warm—ahhh, oh god, wait, I’m serious, I’m—”
he breaks off with a choked moan, cock twitching as he shoots thick cum across your tongue, still babbling about “increased intimacy” while you swallow every drop.
SYNOPSIS. You have made it your personal mission to crack Flins' impossible composure. Unfortunately, the first person to break is you.
WORD COUNT. 3.2k
NOTES. All fluff!! No pronouns used for the reader. Please help, I'm head over heels in love with Flins...
Flins was a man of composure. Everything about him suggested careful cultivation—the way he carried himself, the measured cadence of his voice, the deliberate grace of his movements. He was the type to unintentionally fluster any who interacted with him.
You found it amusing.
More than amusing, if you were being honest. There was something deeply satisfying about watching someone so perfectly put together navigate everyday interactions. You found Flins to be an enigmatic creature, and something inside you just burned to get a rise out of him. Sure, maybe it was simply the thrill of the mischief, but you wanted to test him, push him a little, see how he would react to some casual flirting.
And if you were particularly enjoying the challenge of trying to get a reaction out of him, well. That was harmless, wasn't it? Just a little teasing. Just a bit of flirtation to see how exactly this man—the one who managed to charm literally everyone around him with effortless grace—would handle being on the receiving end for once.
The fact that you were attracted to him was beside the point.
It didn't matter that whenever you caught even a glimpse of his purplish-blue hair, your heart did something stupid. It meant nothing when he leaned down to hear you better, his voice dropping into that velvety register that made you feel like some fundamental part of you had just ceased existing. None of it mattered. Certainly not.
And hey, if nothing at all, what harm could some light flirting cause?
Your first opportunity for mischief, you were sitting together near the lighthouse. The evening light cast everything in soft amber. Conversation had drifted from topic to topic; nothing particularly important, just the easy back-and-forth of people comfortable in each other's presence. You'd been leaning against his side, playing with the cuff of his sleeve. He'd let you, the way he always did.
At some point, you'd mentioned something about having to leave soon. Return to your duties. The usual obligations that kept pulling you away.
"I'll be gone for a few days," you'd said.
Flins had simply nodded, listening.
And that's when the impulse struck.
"I bet you'll miss me," you said, your tone light but deliberately aimed. You tilted your head to look at him, watching for a reaction.
He turned to face you. His shoulder brushed against yours when he did, and you caught the faint scent of something cool and unfamiliar. Flins’ smile seemed to stretch just a little, his eyes narrowing. He reminded you of the Fae.
"Of course," he said.
You'd expected a deflection. A joke. Instead, he'd just said it, and the weight of his attention suggested he meant it. That he understood exactly what you were doing and was letting you do it anyway.
So you pushed.
"Like, really miss me," you continued, letting your fingers trail down his sleeve. "You'll probably think about me the whole time I'm gone."
He watched you for a moment. "Likely."
"I'll be devastated without you," you added, testing how far you could take this.
"Will you?" he asked softly. And his gaze was fixed squarely upon yours. You seemed to pick up on the slightest lilt of teasing towards the end of that question. But still, the manner in which he faced you—the utter unabashed composure—seemed genuine.
“That's interesting," he continued.
Your heart was doing something ridiculous. "What's interesting about that?"
"That you're telling me you'll be devastated rather than simply asking," he said. There was no mockery in it. His tone was almost contemplative, like he was turning over a puzzle piece in his mind. "Though I suppose indirect approaches are more entertaining."
Heat crept up your neck. He'd just called you out. Gently, without any edge to it, but he'd absolutely just pointed out exactly what you were doing.
"I'm not being indirect," you said, but your voice had gone softer.
"No?" He tilted his head slightly, and in the amber light, you noticed the precise line of his jaw, the way his hair caught the glow. When he looked at you like that, with complete attention, it made you feel like you were the only thing worth looking at. "That is up for debate, then, I suppose.”
Well. There would be other opportunities. Plenty of them, actually. This whole one-sided “game” had yet commenced, and you were only just beginning. It didn't matter that you were getting quite the pleasant rise from being able to flirt so brazenly with a man you'd been quietly obsessed with for the past couple of months. It was harmless. Just teasing.
Over the next few days, you made it your mission.
Make him crack. That was the goal now. Get something—a blush, a stumble, a clever comeback. Anything that suggested the composed exterior had a weakness.
You started with compliments, delivered casually while you were walking through the cemetery together. "You have nice hands, you know," you said, watching as he adjusted something on one of the graves. He simply thanked you, like you'd complimented the weather.
Then came the flirtation. You'd lean closer than necessary when you were standing beside him. Play with his sleeve. Find excuses to touch his arm. Every gesture was wrapped in humor, safely deniable if he called you out on it. And every single time, he met it with the same patient calm.
A brow raised here. A small smile there. An acknowledgment that he noticed what you were doing—because he absolutely did—but no matching energy. He didn’t stumble over his words, his pale skin didn’t darkened with the hue of red blush, and he most certainly did not tease you back. Intentionally, that is. Flins’ very existence seemed to upset your carefully curated balance.
On the third day, you tried jokes. Teasing comments about how he was probably the type to be good at everything. How his composure must be exhausting to maintain. How it was unfair that he managed to make even mundane tasks look graceful.
He listened to all of it with that infuriatingly gentle expression, like you were providing him with observations rather than attempting to dismantle him.
The frustrating part was that he clearly knew. There was awareness in the tilt of his head, in the way his eyes tracked your movements. He understood exactly what you were attempting. He just wasn't playing along. And that made it worse. Better. You weren't entirely sure which.
By the fourth day, you were running out of ammunition.
The previous few days had been a study in futility. You'd tried everything you could think of. Compliments delivered with a knowing smile. Flirtation wrapped in humor. Little jokes designed to catch him off guard. Nothing had worked. He'd simply absorbed each attempt with that same unflappable grace, and somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like a game you were winning and started feeling like a game only you were playing.
The worst part was that he clearly knew what you were doing. You could see it in the way his eyes tracked your movements, in the slight tilt of his head when you said something particularly bold. He understood exactly what you were attempting. He just wasn't giving you the reaction you wanted. No flustering. No stumbling. No moment where his composure cracked and revealed something underneath.
In fact, your attempts had been so famously (infamously) fruitless that even Illuga had made it a point of note. "You know, perhaps Mr. Flins simply enjoys the attention," he'd said when he'd caught you trying to get a rise out of Flins during a supply run. "Some people are harder to rattle than others."
You had huffed then, indignantly, “Sure, but it’s absurd how he treats every comment I make as though it is the most obvious thing in the world!”
Illuga smiled then. Conflict avoidant as always, and a tad bit skeptical of Flins, he kept his opinions to himself. But you could have easily guessed what he was going to say: this is pointless. Shouldn’t you be focusing on your patrols?
It was starting to make you wonder if there was anything underneath at all, or if he was simply always like this. Infuriatingly calm.
But then, there was Nefer. You didn’t even know why you bothered to hide anything from her at all. She always found out about your little schemes; even the tiny, playful ones.
“Persistent, aren’t you?” She commented. “Are you quite sure your crush on Flins hasn’t driven you up a wall?”
“I do not—” You began, but then stopped abruptly as you came to the (very obvious) realisation that your face went hot the moment his name and “crush” were in the same sentence. “—fine whatever. Still! It’s so… strange, how he never reacts.”
“Aw, poor you,” Nefer purred. You shot her a look.
She tilted her head, considering you. "Actions speak louder than words sometimes, you know. Especially with someone like him." She paused, adjusting the items in her arms. “Besides… the Fae are rather adept at words, so…”
You spent the last day turning both conversations over in your mind.
Towards the end of a particularly gruelling patrol is when your next, hopefully successful opportunity for teasing presented itself. You were sitting on a bench near the lighthouse, close enough that your shoulders were almost touching. The afternoon was quiet. The snow twirled in the sky, a transient, glacial staircase coiling into the wind. Nod-Krai’s frost always seemed to have a mind of its own. Conversation flowed the same way the snow did. Gently, with easy flow and expected lulls. Sort of the perfect moment for a detour, really.
"You know," you said, your tone deliberately playful, "if you asked nicely, I'd hold your hand."
You were grinning. Already prepared for the laugh, the deflection, the way he'd turn it into something clever. You had your exit strategy ready. In all honesty, you expected Flins to look at you kindly. Make a small comment about “how that would be ideal, considering the cold” but then simply pocket his hands into his jacket. Or something that would reduce the simmer of the conversation into a still pool, like every other time.
Instead, Flins simply glanced down at his own hand. Then, without a word, he turned his palm upward and offered it to you.
Waiting.
Your grin froze.
"...What are you doing?" you managed.
"Asking nicely," he said, smiling at you, elfishly.
Oh. Oh no.
You stared at his hand like it had personally betrayed you. Because this wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to laugh it off. Instead, he'd somehow turned your own joke into something sincere, and now you were sitting there unable to do anything but take his hand because the alternative was admitting that you completely miscalculated this entire interaction.
So you did.
Your fingers found his, and his grip was warm and certain. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles in a gesture that felt far too intentional for someone who was supposed to be unaffected.
You spent the next twenty minutes very carefully not combusting, acutely aware of every point of contact, every small movement of his hand against yours, every time his thumb made that gentle pass across your skin.
This was fine. Completely fine. You'd simply bitten off more than you could chew, that was all.
You thought you were recovering. You were not recovering.
The problem was that you'd learned absolutely nothing from the hand-holding incident. If anything, it had made you more confident. More reckless. You'd convinced yourself that you could still win this game, that one successful moment of sincerity didn't change the overall trajectory of your campaign to crack his composure.
So when you'd finally extracted your hand from his (after what felt like an eternity of trying to act unaffected), you pushed just a bit more. Surely, it could not get worse from now, could it?
"You know..." you started, already smirking.
"Hm?" He turned to look at you, waiting.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually liked me."
You grinned. You were expecting a smile. A laugh. Maybe something playful that would let you both pretend this had all been harmless banter.
Instead, Flins went quiet. An awful kind of silence. The kind of silence that realistically only lasts a couple of seconds, a minute at max, but in your head rang for an hour. It seemed to consume you, settle the snow around you. What was most awful though was the fact that Flins was actually considering it. You could see the cogs turning in his head. The way he was turning over your comment, looking at every square inch of it.
Then he turned fully toward you, giving you his complete attention in a way that somehow felt worse than any response could have been.
"You needn't be so indirect," he said.
Your heart stopped. Actually stopped. "...What?"
"If you're asking whether I have feelings for you, you may simply ask."
If you thought the previous silence was bad, this was worse. Your brain had essentially ceased functioning. Flins simply waited, patient and composed, like this was a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having.
Then he tilted his head slightly. "Go on," he said, and his voice was gentle. Encouraging, even.
You'd walked directly into this. Deliberately constructed your own trap and then stepped into it with both feet while grinning the entire time.
The frustrating thing was that Flins didn't seem remotely aware that he was holding your entire nervous system hostage. Or perhaps he was aware. That possibility was somehow worse. While your thoughts scattered in every conceivable direction, he remained exactly as he'd always been—patient, attentive, and entirely willing to wait for an answer. There was no pressure in his expression, no trace of triumph at having finally cornered you. If anything, he looked faintly curious, as though he'd simply presented you with an obvious solution and couldn't quite understand why you were struggling to take it.
You swallowed. And then: "Do you?"
The question came out embarrassingly quiet.
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then something softened in his expression, subtle enough that you almost missed it. "I've been quite fond of you for some time."
The words settled between you with alarming ease. That was it. He spoke as though he were commenting on the weather, or confirming some small detail you'd already known. As though admitting he liked you was not, in fact, causing every coherent thought in your head to immediately abandon ship.
You stared at him. Flins stared back. The snow continued drifting lazily through the air. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against the shoreline.
"You can't just say that,” you said, heat flooding your cheeks.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You asked."
"That doesn't mean you were supposed to answer so easily."
"I wasn't aware there was a correct amount of difficulty involved."
The laugh that escaped you sounded slightly hysterical. Of course that was his response. Of course.
The realization struck all at once then, arriving with the force of a physical blow. Every conversation from the past week rearranged itself inside your mind. Every compliment. Every flirtatious remark. Every ridiculous thing you'd said in the hope of getting a reaction. Not once had he denied any of it. Not once had he brushed you off. The problem was that you'd spent so long trying to make him flustered that you'd never stopped to consider the possibility that he simply wasn't interested in pretending otherwise.
"Oh my god."
His smile widened.
"Oh my god."
"You seem distressed."
"You like me."
"I do."
The immediate confirmation nearly killed you.
Your hands flew to your face. Some distant part of your brain registered that you were behaving like a complete fool. Unfortunately, that same distant part of your brain had become vastly outnumbered by the much louder part that was currently screaming.
When you finally lowered your hands, Flins was still watching you with that infuriating calm.
Suspicion immediately took root. Narrowing your eyes, you pointed accusingly at him. "What if you're teasing me?"
That earned a quiet laugh. "And what would lead you to that conclusion?"
"Because this feels suspiciously convenient."
"I see."
"You've spent days letting me embarrass myself."
"I never asked you to."
"That is not a denial."
The amusement in his eyes deepened. For a moment he simply regarded you, and then, to your immense frustration, his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
"Would this convince you?"
You opened your mouth, fully intending to answer. To say something clever, preferably. Something capable of restoring at least a fraction of the dignity you'd lost over the past ten minutes.
Unfortunately, you never got the chance.
Flins leaned in and kissed you.
His lips were warm against yours, soft in a way that felt unfair after all the time you'd spent trying not to think about them. For one dizzying moment, all you could focus on was the sensation of him—the brush of his mouth against yours, the faint pressure of his thumb where it rested against your knuckles, the cool air gathering at your cheeks while everything else felt impossibly warm. It wasn't a long kiss. It wasn't demanding. If anything, it felt terribly, devastatingly fond. Like a question he'd already known the answer to.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that you could feel him smiling. The faint curve of his lips brushing yours, as though he found your complete inability to function endearing. By the time he pulled away, your heart had lodged itself somewhere in your throat, and you were left staring at him with the distinct sensation that something irreversible had just occurred.
You stared at him, owlishly.
And, for the first time in days, you caught something in his expression that hadn't been there before. Or perhaps it had always been there, hidden beneath the effortless composure you'd spent so much time trying to unravel. The fondness in his gaze was almost unbearably soft now, no longer filtered through amusement or polite patience. It was simply there, warm and open and directed entirely at you.
And then there was the faint dusting of pink at the tips of his ears.
You blinked.
Flins, apparently realizing exactly what had captured your attention, looked away for the briefest of moments.
But you saw it.
After days of teasing him, days of trying to make him crack, days of wondering whether anything could possibly ruffle that impossible composure, there it was. Not embarrassment, exactly. The discovery hit you harder than the kiss had.
"Oh my god," you whispered, for the third time that day.
His gaze flicked back to yours. The corners of his mouth curved upward.
"What?"
You pointed at him immediately. "You are blushing!"
"Am I?"
The smile threatening at his lips made the response entirely unconvincing.
"You are."
"A little, perhaps."
It occurred to you then that perhaps Flins had been right all along. You needn't have been so indirect. The realization should have been embarrassing. Instead, it only made you smile.
thank you for reading :)) check out my other fics if you'd like !!
>> sleepy, platonic dry humping with best friend!tsukishima
inspired by this ask sent to @mattsundaes... ive been thinking ab this all day
tags: lazy morning dry humping, thigh riding, truly just 900 words of pure vile filth
part two
there's something wedged between your legs.
you don't want to open your eyes. you don't even want to be awake. but you can feel the sun hitting your eyelids, and you know you won't be able to fall back asleep.
you still don't know what's between your legs, though. you're not conscious enough to check or even care. it's warm and solid, and that feeling continues down your thigh, to your knee and calf. and it's moving slowly, rising and falling softly.
oh, it's him.
memories of him staying too late to finish your movie marathon and complaints that it's cold and dark outside come flooding back.
it's okay, then. it's just him. you've just got your leg thrown over his waist.
you shift your head, the sleep calling you back. if he's still asleep, you're allowed to still be asleep.
he shifts when you do, his shoulder nudging its way under your cheek and his arm slipping under and around your waist. he smells like safety, like home.
you drift off.
and then his hip moves, and you're ripped out of it.
a sigh falls past your lips, because he's pushing right up against that sweet spot that calls out to you. your heart jumps, and your hips roll forward without your permission. without thinking, because you're still half-asleep.
it feels good. really good.
you whimper, nuzzling your face further into his neck, because there's a part of you — more awake, more aware — that's embarrassed. that knows you shouldn't do this, not with a friend, and especially not when he doesn't know.
his hand flexes against your side.
he knows.
you still, your ears ringing and your face burning. you're terrified that he's going to say something, that he's going to call you a freak and push you off and inevitably make fun of you for it.
he presses his palm against your hip. you only realize that he's trying to hold you steady because, at the same time, he pushes his hip against you again.
"oh," you moan, low and immediately bitten back, even though it's far too late.
his other hand, unbearably hot, slides up the leg you have thrown over him, burning across your bare calf and up your thigh. he digs his fingertips into your skin — sears five perfect pressure points into your nerves — and drags you up and over his leg. drops you right on his thigh and kicks his knee up, forcing you down onto him.
when he drives his thigh up against your clit, you mewl loudly in his ear. "tsukki-"
he grunts, both hands gripping your waist and shoving you down on his thigh. he holds tight enough that your hip bones hurt, and you know there will be bruises later.
your hips roll down and across his thigh, and you lose your ability to speak, because he's decided that this is your place now.
every slide of your cunt along his thigh makes you choke, the breath hitting the side of his neck and your face burning against his throat. your thigh bumps against the front of his sweats, and he grunts, the sound rough and husky and surprised, because you're pushing against the bulge that's forming.
you wrap your hands around his neck, hiding in your new spot and trying to focus on helping him out, too. you shuffle, gasping when he drives his leg between your thighs, and slide a hand down to wrap around him.
he huffs out a rough breath, his hand flying to stop you.
you don't even get the chance to ask what's wrong.
he rolls you onto your back and shoves himself into that spot that's quickly becoming his. his body pries your thighs open, and you feel, for just a moment, the cool air that hits your shorts and exposes just how wet you are, soaked through the fabric.
you should be embarrassed.
but he doesn't let you. he's too busy burying his face in your neck and groaning when you open up to let him in. he hooks his hands under your knees, fingers calloused and palms burning the backs of your thighs. you're all but pressed in half, lying there clinging to him when he rolls down against you.
"nngh-" he grunts. "fuck." his voice is whispered, strained.
you're not even sure you can form a single word right now, all of your nerves focused on the slide of his bulge against your folds, wet and sticky and inevitably ruining his sweats.
your bed starts to creak, because he's shoving himself against you without care, clearly chasing his orgasm. you let him, love the realization that you're being used, because you're chasing something, too. he hardens more, leaving you gasping in his ear.
"so f'ckin' wet," he groans, voice vibrating across the shell of your ear and down your throat. "fuck, y/n."
you whine, clinging tight. the knot under your navel starts to twist, pulling tighter and tighter with every shove of his hips. "close-nggh-"
his hips stutter and still, and you feel his cock pulsing through his sweats, feel as that spot between your legs gets wetter and warmer. your breathing is ragged in his ear, and you whisper 'close-" again.
he grits his teeth so hard that you hear it, and then he starts rocking against you again. his cum must be seeping through his pants, because you feel warm, more and more and more, in time with the slam of your headboard against the wall.
he reaches between you, sliding his thumb hard against the mess of sticky fabric and cum, right over your clit.
your vision goes white, and his name falls past your lips, and your back arches so hard that it hurts.
you don't come down for a long time. by the time you do, he's asleep again, body slumped over yours and his heart racing against your chest.
Reader is a ravenclaw who specializes in sound magic, having been born with an extreme sensitivity to noise. Theodore Nott is a slytherin who’s a hostage to his own bloodline. The two communicate through the walls of the school, their loneliness soothed by a stranger
a/n: hi guys! Here’s the next chapter. We’re slowly moving into angst territory. Theo you silly boy.
warnings: none
Word count: 1.4k
Chapter 2 Chapter 4
Chapter 3: Resonance
Theodore Nott is a dork.
There's three things you've learned about the boy you've inadvertently made your companion over the past few weeks.
The first is that despite all his sharp edges and apparent hostility, he is soft-spoken and incredibly smart.
The second is that he has an absurdly extensive collection of those chocolate frog cards; you weren’t even aware there were that many, it's impressive.
The last, and most important, is that he's lonely. Just like you.
He doesn't like talking about his father, so you never bring him up. He knows more about magical theory than anyone you've ever met. He tells you why he's able to see thestrals. You know his likes and dislikes, his fears and secrets. Yet, despite knowing the architecture of his mind, the only clue to his actual identity is his House. You know he’s a Slytherin; you’ve gathered that much purely from the arrogance and general air of self-perceived superiority that occasionally slips into conversations here and there.
You’ve become close with a stranger who knows more about you than anyone else.
_______
Theodore Nott, for the first time in his life, has something to look forward to.
You’re odd, but that’s no surprise considering your aversion to noise and your niche interest in acoustic spells. He’s startled by his own willingness to accommodate your sensitivity to noise; he keeps his voice down whenever he speaks to you. You have a surprisingly loud laugh—which he finds ironic, considering how much it hurts your own ears when you do it—and he’s reminded of his own childhood when you speak about yours. You drop hints of habits that could only stem from a lifetime of isolation; he picks up on this very quickly.
Whenever you tell him something truly important, your voice wavers, a subtle unsteadiness that makes him lean closer to the stone, and he can’t do anything but hang onto every word. He also knows how much you detest Slytherins and how miserable they make you. Eagles and snakes don’t get along after all.
He’s become close with a stranger who knows more about him than anyone else.
_______
“Hey, why don’t you tap your quill even louder? It’s not like I can hear it or anything.” His voice rings out one night, irritated.
“It helps me think. And you have no room to talk. You’ve been tearing up pieces of parchment for twenty minutes. What’s up with that?” You retort, focused on the essay in front of you.
“Arithmancy," he groans, the sound muffled like he had buried his face in his arms. "Vector gave us a chart that makes absolutely no statistical sense. I’m convinced she made up half the equations just to watch us suffer."
"Oh, please. Arithmancy is just basic logic wrapped in pretension," you scoff, leaning back against the wall. "Give me the third line."
"I am not letting you do my homework."
"I'm not doing it, I'm correcting it because your incompetence is radiating through the masonry and giving me a secondary headache. Read it out."
A long sigh echoed over the link, followed by the rustle of a textbook. He read the line of numbers. He can hear the clear amusement in your voice when you answer. "Your third prime modifier is completely wrong. You forgot to account for the lunar alignment offset."
A pause. Then, the frantic scratching of a quill. "...Shut up."
"You're welcome," you grin, stretching your legs out on the dusty floor. "Hey, did you see that absolute disaster in the courtyard today? The third-year Hufflepuff who tried to transfigure his owl into a teacup and ended up with a teapot that laid an egg?"
A genuine, sharp laugh burst through the connection—not the mocking smirk he used in the hallways, but a real, boyish laugh. "Zabini almost choked on his pumpkin juice. The egg actually hatched into a very confused, porcelain-plated chick. Filch is still chasing it around the grand staircase."
"Good. Filch needs the cardio," you chuckle. You tilt your head back against the cold brick, a sudden thought striking you. "Hey... do you think we've ever passed each other in the corridors? Like, during the day?"
The pacing on the other side stops. The silence that follows isn’t tense or dramatic; it’s just thoughtful.
"Probably," he says quietly, his voice softer now. "Hogwarts isn't that big. We’ve probably stood in the same line at the library, or pushed past each other on the way to the Great Hall."
"It's weird to think about," you murmur, staring at the dust motes dancing in the candlelight. "I could look right at you tomorrow and have absolutely no clue."
"Maybe that's for the best," he reasoned, a lazy, amused tone returning. "If you knew who I was, you’d probably realize I’m far too attractive and sophisticated for you, and it would completely ruin your bookworm confidence."
You let out a loud, dramatic snort. "Oh, please. With a voice that grating? I’ve already pinned you as a scrawny, pale bloke who spends way too much time doing his hair."
Across the wall, Theodore Nott froze, his hand dropping from where he had literally just been smoothing down his dark hair. He blinked into the dark room, a faint, involuntary smile twitching on his lips.
"You're entirely wrong," he lied smoothly, leaning his shoulder back against the stone. "I happen to be the very picture of aristocratic charm.”
"Right. And I'm the Minister of Magic," you scoff. "Go to sleep, dork. You're losing your mind."
"You really have no heart.”
"Goodnight.”
_______
Theo finds the source of his nameless voice much sooner than he expected to.
The realization happens on a Friday afternoon in the courtyard, completely unrelated to the wall, yet entirely catastrophic.
The sky was a heavy, bruising gray, and the cobblestones were damp from a midday drizzle. You were rushing toward the library, your arms loaded with a precarious stack of ancient texts, your mind entirely focused on escaping the chaotic, overlapping noise of students spilling out of the Great Hall.
Naturally, you don’t see him.
You collide directly with a solid shoulder, the impact sending a flurry of loose parchment and small items sliding from your pockets to crash onto the wet stone.
"Watch where you're going," a cold, condescending voice snapped immediately.
You look up, your jaw tightening as you meet the sharp gray eyes of Theodore Nott. He was standing with his hands tucked into his robes, looking down at you with that familiar, clinical disgust that usually made your blood boil.
Theo sneered, stepping forward to kick one of your fallen books out of his path. "Honestly, you people are a blight on this castle. Hey, mudblood, can you even keep up with your—"
He stopped dead in his tracks. The insult withered on his tongue.
His eyes had dropped to a peculiar object that had slipped from your coat pocket, resting in a puddle near his boot. It was a bright red, rectangular Muggle tin of breath mints—Altoids. Theo bent down, his fingers closing around the metal box. The physical item was cold in his hand, a few drops of rainwater clinging to the painted lid. But the moment his skin made contact with it, his mind spiraled.
“They’re peppermint, but they’re really strong,” your voice rang out directly inside his mind, clear as crystal, echoing a conversation from three nights ago. “It’s a Muggle thing. They come in this little red metal tin that rattles like mad when it's almost empty. I use the tin to hold my spare Arithmancy charcoal blocks once the mints are gone, so the lid is permanently smudged with black thumbprints on the bottom.”
Theo froze, his hand suspended inches above the wet cobblestones. He slowly flipped the tin over in his palm.
There they were. Three distinct, smudged black thumbprints of charcoal dust, sealed against the red paint by a layer of clear magic lacquer. He looked up, his own eyes meeting your gaze. Everything clicked into place.
"Nott?" You asked, your voice tight with suspicion as you grabbed your books, reaching out to snatch the red tin from his paralyzed grip. "Are you going to finish your pathetic little speech, or can I have my things back?"
Theo couldn't breathe. The panic that clawed at his throat was cold, sharp, and absolute. He let go of the tin as if it had burned him, stumbling back half a step.
He didn't say another word.
Without looking at you again, Theo turned on his heel and practically fled into the castle, his robes billowing behind him.
The girl who had just been looking up at him with a fierce, defensive hatred in her eyes was the same girl he had been pouring his heart out to for the last month.
Reader is a ravenclaw who specializes in sound magic, having been born with an extreme sensitivity to noise. Theodore Nott is a slytherin who’s a hostage to his own bloodline. The two communicate through the walls of the school, their loneliness soothed by a stranger.
a/n: hi guys! I'm really into this story so I'm hoping to write a chapter a day. This one's a bit longer than the last one, enjoy!
warnings: bullying
word count: 1,973
Chapter 1 Chapter 3
Chapter 2: The Eagle and the Serpent
Four hours. It took exactly four hours of absolute, excruciating silence for Theodore Nott to lose his mind.
You were still sitting on the dusty floor of the third-floor classroom, your knees pulled to your chest and your forehead resting against the cool stone of the partition wall. The migraine had receded to a dull, rhythmic throb behind your eyes, but your ears were still raw. Every scratch of a mouse in the floorboards sounded like a firecracker.
Then, the static snapped back into your mind.
"Undo it," his voice rasped.
He sounded breathless, furious, and entirely stripped of the trembling vulnerability from earlier. The panic attack was gone, replaced by a sharp, demanding arrogance.
You didn't move an inch. You simply leaned your head harder against the stone. "You told me not to."
"I changed my mind. Fix it. Now." His voice is steady now, no trace of the boy from earlier.
"It's three in the morning," You whispered, knowing the spell would carry it across whatever magical fault line connected their respective rooms. "Go to sleep."
"I can't sleep," he snapped, his voice echoing in your skull with the force of a slammed door. You wince, digging your fingertips into your temples.
You hear him take a breath before continuing. "Every time I close my eyes, the quiet in my room feels like it’s suffocating me. It’s too loud. I can hear my own blood pumping. It’s making me paranoid. Undo the spell, whatever you did, and give me my normal ears back.”
"I can't just 'undo' it," you say, your tone dripping with exhaustion. You sit up now, a fresh wave of annoyance driving away any potential sleep. “It was a misfire. It’s locked into the stone infrastructure of these two specific rooms, I can’t just wave my wand and suddenly everything will be fixed.”
A sharp, irritated breath blew through the connection. "You’re a Ravenclaw, aren't you? Aren't you lot supposed to be clever? Figure it out."
You freeze, eyes snapping open in the darkness. A cold prickle of suspicion washes over you, temporarily overriding your headache.
"How do you know I’m a Ravenclaw?" You demand, your voice suddenly sharp and alert.
A low, mocking scoff vibrated through the link. "Please. You’re fooling absolutely no one. You’re hiding in an abandoned wing of the castle at midnight doing advanced charm modifications, and the literal second I ask you to fix it, you launch into a multi-sentence lecture about 'localized echo matrices' and 'magical geometry.' You sound like a textbook with a pulse. It doesn't take a genius to figure out you're a bloody blue-and-bronze bookworm."
You narrow your eyes in the dark, your cheeks flushing slightly. You hated that he had a point, even if his tone was completely insufferable.
“Right," you say slowly, leaning back against the stone. "Well... if you care so much, and you hate my voice, why don't you just leave the room? Just don't come back to it. Problem solved."
"I can't just leave," he snapped, a sudden, defensive edge slicing through his arrogance.
"Why not?" You challenged. "Hogwarts is massive. Go find another dusty corner to brood in."
"Because I need to be alone sometimes," he hissed, his voice dropping into a fierce, quiet cadence that felt dangerously raw. "The Slytherin dorms are loud and the common room is full of people. This is the only place in this entire wretched castle where no one can find me. I’m not giving it up." He paused, his breathing shallow against the connection. "And if we’re keeping score, you’re the one who intruded on my space. I was here first. You brought your botched magic into the next room and dragged me into it."
You clamped your jaw shut. You felt a sudden, stubborn spike of resistance. "Well, I’m not giving up my room either. It's the only place quiet enough for me to clear my head. I need it.”
"Looks like we have a problem then," he muttered coldly.
"Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to figure this out and your whining isn’t helping." You say, your tone firming up. "Also, for your information, your voice isn't exactly a lullaby either. It’s grating. It’s too loud. If you want me to fix it faster, stop talking and let me think."
"You’ve got some nerve," he hissed. "You're the one who botched a third-year charm and bound my subconscious to a stranger."
"A stranger who just saved you from hyperventilating into your own robes," you remind him coldly.
A heavy, hostile silence fell between you two. You could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of him pacing on the other side—not through the stone, but through the bizarre, direct-to-brain audio feed. Step. Step. Step.
"Who are you?" he asked suddenly, his voice dropping into a quieter, more calculating register.
"Why would I tell you that?" You reply with a scoff. "You're arrogant, you're demanding, and you have zero manners. I prefer you as a nameless voice."
"Fine," he muttered. “Just...keep to the wall then. Be a nameless voice."
"I have classes in four hours," you sigh, closing your eyes. "But until then, shut up. My head hurts."
The Great Hall at breakfast was a special kind of assault on your senses. The clattering of silver cutlery against porcelain, the roar of hundreds of students talking at once, and the heavy scent of fried tomatoes made you want to crawl back into your quiet, dusty corridor and stay there forever.
You kept your head down at the Ravenclaw table, slowly moving your spoon through your porridge.
"Look out, look out, the pureblood royalty approaches," Padma Patil murmured across from you, nodding toward the entrance of the Hall.
You glanced up over the rim of your goblet. Walking down the center aisle was a contingent of Slytherins. At the center was Theodore Nott.
He looked immaculate—robes pressed perfectly, silver Slytherin crest gleaming, his dark hair neatly styled. His face was a mask of cold, aristocratic indifference, his chin tilted just high enough to convey that everyone else in the room was merely taking up his oxygen.
As he passed the Ravenclaw table, a younger student accidentally bumped into his shoulder while rushing to grab a piece of toast. Theo stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't yell; he simply looked down at the boy with a disgust so absolute it felt physical.
"Watch where you’re going," Theo said, his voice smooth, quiet, and cutting. "Some of us don't care to be touched by people who belong in the gutters."
The younger boy paled, stammering an apology before fleeing.
You felt a sudden, violent spike of irritation. What a pompous, miserable prick, you thought, glaring at the back of his head as he moved toward the Slytherin table.
Suddenly, Theo stiffened. He stopped mid-stride, his hand flying briefly to his ear as if he’d just caught a phantom noise. He turned his head slightly, his sharp gray eyes sweeping over the Ravenclaw table. You immediately dropped your gaze, your heart doing a strange, uncomfortable flip.
Weird...
By mid-afternoon, the tension hadn't dissipated. You were heading down to the dungeons for Potions, arms laden with heavy library books you needed for yet another one of your essays. Your ears were ringing from a particularly loud Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and you were moving slowly, trying to keep your balance.
A group of Slytherins was lounging near the dungeon entrance, blocking the narrow corridor. Theo was among them, leaning against the damp stone wall, listening to Blaise Zabini tell a story with a look of mild amusement.
"Excuse me," You say quietly, trying to thread your way past them as quickly as possible.
Theo didn't move an inch to let you through. In fact, as you tried to squeeze past, his arm shifted, deliberately clipping the edge of your stack of books.
The heavy volumes crashed to the stone floor, the echoing thud sending a sharp spike of pain through your already sensitive ears. You gasped, dropping to your knees to gather the parchment that had scattered everywhere.
"Clumsy mudblood," Theo said smoothly, looking down at you with a sneer. He didn't even bother to move his foot, which was currently resting a mere inch from your essay on potion density. "You lot really don't possess an ounce of grace, do you? You clutter up the hallways just by existing."
Pansy Parkinson giggled behind him.
You felt a hot flush of anger rise in your cheeks. You grabbed your books, standing up swiftly. You looked Theo dead in the eye—not with fear, but with a searing, quiet loathing.
"At least my existence doesn't depend on how well I can insult people to feel important, Nott," you say, your voice steady despite the ringing in your ears.
Theo’s eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine malice crossing his features. "Something as pathetic as you should know your place."
You brush past him, your shoulder hitting his with deliberate force, and march into the classroom.
At midnight, you were back.
You slam your books onto the dusty desk in the abandoned third-floor room, slide down the wall, and press your back against the cold stone. You were trembling with anger, the events of the day weighing heavily on your mind.
A second later, the magical connection snapped open.
"You're late," his voice rang out. He sounded tired, the sharp edge of his daytime persona entirely absent, replaced by the hollow, quiet tone of their nocturnal truce.
"I had things to do," You snap. "And I don't answer to you."
"Someone’s in a delightful mood," he murmured. You could hear him shifting against the wall on his side, his robes rustling against the stone. "What happened? Did someone ruin your precious little schedule?"
"No," You say, voice tight. "I just had the displeasure of interacting with one of the most insufferable, arrogant elitists this school has to offer. I was trying to get to class, and he completely went out of his way to knock all my books to the floor, called me a mudblood, and looked at me like I was something he found on the bottom of his shoe."
There was a long pause on the other side of the wall. Theo listened, his posture stiffening slightly as he leaned against the brickwork. In a castle like Hogwarts, and especially among the circles he ran in, that description applied to a dozen different purebloods on any given Tuesday. Malfoy, Zabini, Riddle, himself—it was standard protocol.
"Sounds like typical Slytherin behavior," he said, his tone dripping with a cynical, detached amusement. "You shouldn't let them get under your skin so easily. They do it because they know it riles you up."
"It's not just that they do it," You sigh, burying your face in your hands, voice muffled against your knees. "It's the sheer arrogance of it. They act like they own the hallways and the rest of us are just obstacles in their way. He's a miserable, spineless bully who thinks he's completely untouchable, and honestly, the world would be a much better place if he just learned to shut his mouth."
Across the wall, Theo stared blankly into the darkness of his own room. He felt a mild, fleeting passing thought of curiosity about which of his housemates had caused you trouble, but the thought quickly dissolved into his own exhaustion. He leaned his head back against the stone, while you sat in your own quiet corner, completely oblivious to the fact that the 'horrible person' you were crying about was just on the other side of the connection.
"Well," he murmured quietly, his voice losing its mocking edge. "Welcome to Hogwarts. The people here are wretched. Just stick to your books, Ravenclaw. It's what you know best."
Reader is a ravenclaw who specializes in sound magic, having been born with an extreme sensitivity to noise. Theodore Nott is a slytherin who’s a hostage to his own bloodline. The two communicate through the walls of the school, their loneliness soothed by a stranger.
a/n: hi everybody, this is my first fic! I hope you enjoy! This is going to be a long fic so I’m splitting it up into chapters. Here’s chapter one!
warnings: mentions of panic attacks
word count: 804
Chapter 2
Chapter 1: The Sound of Stone
You’ve always been more sensitive than others. An already noisy world even louder to you. Growing up with this enhanced ability naturally forced you to understand the loneliness that would stay with you for the rest of your life. Your parents did their best to raise you, despite your condition, though their frustration was something you were no stranger to. Old habits from childhood find their home at Hogwarts, where you’ve spent the last several years navigating the corridors and sounds of a place that is very much alive.
You hated the Great Hall. To a Ravenclaw Muggle-born with a sensory system that registered the scrape of silver forks and the roar of five hundred gossiping voices as a physical assault, Hogwarts was a beautiful nightmare. You spent most of your time hiding in the defunct, drafting corridors of the fifth floor, casting quiet charms to keep the world at bay.
Tonight, you had tried an experimental variation of a localized silencing charm—an acoustic dampening spell you had found earlier in a dusty, centuries-old textbook. Your wand hadn’t given you anything but a few pathetic sputters of light, and you were about to call it a day until it suddenly sparked violently, a cold shock of purple magic backfiring through your fingers and seeping directly into the solid granite wall beside you.
The world went dead silent. You sighed in temporary relief, leaning your head against the cool stone.
Then, the stone began to rattle.
It wasn't a sound in your ears. It was a rhythmic jagged vibration echoing violently against your temple. Someone was laughing…no they were crying.
Deep within a hidden architectural pocket three floors down, a boy was unraveling. But thanks to your botched spell, the castle essentially became one giant megaphone, the ragged gasps of whoever it was dragging across your brain like sandpaper.
“God what the hell?!” You cry out, grabbing your head as you struggle to orient yourself.
Unbeknownst to you, Theodore Nott, so called pureblood prince, had finally succumbed to the overwhelming pressure that comes from internalized feelings. Yes cynical, cold hearted, always composed Theodore Nott was having a breakdown. Lucky for him, you’re so occupied with the sudden onslaught of sensation that you fail to recognize him.
“Hey stop it” you hiss at the wall, annoyed and in pain. “Your crying is killing my head”
His wallowing is rudely interrupted by a voice coming from who knows where. He freezes, the muffled voice echoing out of the solid granite briefly bringing him back to reality. It sounded like it was underwater, or maybe that was just from the mess of emotions swimming around in his head.
“Who’s there?” He rasps out, voice raw but still sharp with hostility. “Mattheo, I swear if this is you joking around, I’ll-“
“It’s not a joke, you’re hyperventilating and it’s resounding and it’s giving me a migraine. If you’re going to suffocate go do it away from the walls.” You huff, voice clipped and full of frustration.
Theo let out a dry, incredulous gasp. He should leave. He should find this crazy person and hit them upside the head. But his lungs still feel like they’re full of cement and the sheer absurdity of being told off by a wall keeps him grounded where he stands.
“You’re breathing from your chest, that’s why you can’t get a breath in. It’s loud and inefficient.” You instruct through the stone, voice less hostile now. “Match your exhales to the count of four. If you don’t slow your heart rate down and fix your breathing, the noise won’t stop and I’m not leaving until this is fixed. I’ll go crazy. So, breathe out.”
Theo glares at the dark stone, but his body is too exhausted to argue. He forced his chest down and counted. One. Two. Three. Four.
The frantic rattling of the stone slowly levels out until it’s just a steady pulsing.
“That’s better. I can hear my thought now.” You murmur, voice muffled against the wall.
Theo rests his head against the cool wall, his heart rate finally slowing down to a manageable rhythm. “How are you doing this? Speaking through the wall?” he whispers.
“A botched charm.” You reply honestly, the irritation now mostly gone from your voice. “I wanted more silence. I guess the castle thought it’d be funny to give me your voice instead.”
He let out a faint, humorless breath that was almost a laugh. If he knew who you really were—a Muggle-born, the very thing he’s been taught to despise—he would have drawn his wand. But in the dark, stripped of names and ideals and prejudices, you were simply a frequency in the stone. A piece of isolation to mirror his own.
“Don’t fix it yet. The spell or whatever.” Theo murmured into the dark.
“Yeah I won’t.” You whisper back. “I don’t think I can fix it anyway.”
it is a lovely morning in okhema, and you are a horrible goose
setting: fantasy au, cursed prince phainon x vassal reader
prince!phainon who was cursed by an evil witch to be a snowy white goose in the day and returns to his true human form when the sun sets, and only a true love’s kiss will break his curse
cursed prince!phainon who really couldn't care less, because as a goose he has all the freedom he normally would only have dreamed of. He can skip boring meetings to spend time with his darling vassal, avoid entertaining his endless suitors vying for his hand to eat berries with his dearest vassal, ignore his ‘princely’ duties in favour of snuggling close to his beloved vassal
cursed prince!phainon whose curse is really just an open secret in okhema, who has just about everyone in the capitol lining up to try to kiss him because what if they’re his destined true love who will break his curse? but phainon just honks at every last one of them, biting (and even drawing blood) when a wandering hand gets a little too close for comfort. seeking refuge in his one and only vassal, who has always been there for him. he doesn’t need these irrelevant people - all he needs is you
cursed prince!phainon who traps you in his room by convincing you to cuddle him after dinner, and conveniently falling asleep on you so you don’t dare to move. he looks so comfortable sleeping on you! you wouldn’t wake him up just for the silly reason of wanting to return to your own room, right?
cursed prince!phainon who turns back into a human when the sun sets and the moon rises in the night sky. phainon who curls around you, admiring how he fits perfectly in your arms as a goose, and how you slot right in his human arms like a puzzle piece. phainon who kisses every single inch of you, all except for your lips. phainon who whispers words of adoration in your unsuspecting ears, who presses his head to your chest to feel your heart beat and your ribcage expand
cursed prince!phainon who is back to being a snow-white goose when dawn breaks and you blink the sleep from your eyes, who urges you to his private bathroom so you can take a bath with his personal soaps and his scented oils. phainon who honks persistently and at increasing volumes until you submit to the whims of the goose prince and carry him in your arms around the palace, resting his feathery head against your sternum
cursed prince?phainon who disguised himself and hired a witch to curse the crown prince of okhema with a curse that only a true love’s kiss can break.
The first time you show Phainon his Tomodachi Life character, it's during one of your nightly video calls. He's in the middle of a sentence when you let out a gasp that half-startles him into silence. He knows that sound — it's the one you make when you suddenly remember something.
"I forgot to tell you!" you say, already flipping your handheld console towards the camera, and for instant the screen's simply too bright for him to make out anything. "I made us in Tomodachi Life."
He squints and soon enough a pixelated, cartoonish, big-headed version of him comes into view. Phainon's surprised by the amount of effort you've put into it, from the dimples on his cheeks to the hair strands sticking out in odd directions on top of his head.
"Wow, honey, it's amazing," he replies with his face basically glued to the phone, analyzing every detail like it's the greatest piece of art since Michelangelo's Pietà.
Your eyes sparkle and you spend the rest of the call describing how you decorated your shared house in great detail.
On a random day blessed by the gods, when your schedules fit well enough for you to spend some quality time together while on campus, you gasp again. But it's not the A tier, Major announcement gasp, it's more of a C tier, I found my favorite pair of socks again and I wanted to share that with you gasp.
"Did I tell you we're about to have a baby?" you casually drop. Phainon stares at you, blinks, raises his brows, then shakes his head like he's just been struck by something.
"I'm sorry?"
"In Tomodachi Life," you specify (thank Kephale).
"Oh," he says. How would a normal person react to this information? "How do you know?"
"This bubble telling you your Miis have something to tell you appears on screen, though I didn't have the time to check. But that must be it because that's how it happened the previous five times."
Five?
Phainon's face becomes the color of a pomegranate seed.
After this, it takes a week or so for him to stop physically avoiding you, and then another three days so that he can look at you in the eye. Although his face still flushes when when you bring up that wretched game.
It's okay. One day he'll be normal about this.
ʬʬ.astronote.com phaimii needs to pay child support
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ INCLUSIONS — 1.8k~ words zuko x kyoshi warrior, airbender!reader · reader is characterized · reader’s’ backstory; being an airbender is heavily inspired by princess yue · start around book 2~ · bestfriend!suki · written series · lore, fluff, angst, found family etc. :’)
SUMMARY ˒ ꒰ঌ Born with an airbender’s soul in a world that no longer remembers them, you’ve spent most of your life searching for a place to belong. Luckily, fate always found a way into your life. Picked up by the Kyoshi Warriors during your travels, you find a place where you could be, with people where you could be.
Last year you’d encountered the Avatar and his group and ever since their departure you and your best friend, Suki, can’t help but get tangled in the whirlwind of their journey. This doesn’t happen without any distractions though. Your heart that has always wandered and wondered had a newfound muse that couldn’t leave your thoughts: Lee, the boy you met in Ba Sing Se.
✿ TALE 001 . .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅. New Beginnings
“Thank you so much for your help, girls,” The older lady in front of you said, the gratitude practically sparkling in her eyes.
You smile at her immediately.
“No problem, ma’am. We hope you’ll like Ba Sing Se.” You answer kindly, lowering your head in respect. The woman nods and turns to her newly found home.
“Gosh, I’m so happy we’re doing this.” Suki exclaimed.
“I know, right!" you respond while walking back towards the ferry port. “It’s so nice to see all these people find a new place after what happened to their homes.”
Suki nods in agreement, giving you an emphatic look.
Yesterday, while sorting families into ferry lines, you’d talked about it with Suki.
How strange it felt seeing so many people searching for somewhere to belong.
How familiar.
This had also been the reason why when this spot opened — besides guarding Moon Bay, also helping refugees settle in — you took it without a doubt in your mind. The girl beside you obviously joining in.
The daydream of your memories fade and you see Suki persistently tugging at the new uniform that came with this position. It consisted of a high-collared tunic, knee-length shorts, and a stupidly tight helmet. At least it kept your two braids from swinging into your face every time you turned your head.
“I miss our old clothes.” Suki murmurs with a pout on her lips and you nod in agreement.
As you’re walking the streets of the capital city of the Earth Kingdom, your gaze drifts upward and captures the sheer beauty of it — the warm shades of beige in the bricks of many buildings, the green roof tiles reflecting sunlight, the chatter of the citizens and water spilled from stone fountains. It was so… lively.
As you’re looking around, your eyes eventually land on a tea shop. The Pao Family Tea House. Oh! You could definitely go for some tea right now.
“Suki,” you say nudging her shoulder as you point your finger towards the cozy café.
“Ah, of course you’d want to go in there. Do you ever drink anything other than tea?”
“Water, but only when necessary.”
“Right.” You both giggle as you make your way to the shopfront.
The bell jingles as the two of you walk in. The place is packed. Mostly elderly men sat around low tables, steam curling from their cups. You can only imagine what they’re talking about — trading old stories of fighting in the war and how they got certain scars and—
“Let’s sit here,” Suki says happily, pointing towards a spot in the back.
“Mkay!”
You both settle into the warm, worn seats across from each other and wait for someone to take your order.
“Hello, ladies. What can I get for you?”
The question comes from a short, round elderly man with a warm, wrinkled face, a hearty gray beard, and long hair tied neatly into a traditional topknot.
“I’ll have a ginseng tea,” Suki tells him.
“Ginseng it is. What about you, dear?”
“I’ll have a jasmine.”
“Ah, a person of true culture. Jasmine tea truly warms the spirit… it is one of my favorites.” He says it eagerly, his gravelly voice carrying a warmth all its own.
“Mine too,” you say immediately.
The old man’s eyebrows lift.
“I drink it whenever I can. Mornings, afternoons. When I’m sick and when I’m cold…” You pause thoughtfully. “And when I’m not.”
The man laughs warm and deep, pleased by your response.
“A very wise policy that is.”
You smile proudly at that. The old man returns the expression before disappearing back towards the counter, still smiling to himself.
You let out a soft sigh when he leaves. Today had been a lot.
“Let’s take this in before we have to get back onto the boat.”
Suki smiles at that.
And for a moment, you both do.
The warmth of the café and the chatter of the customers. The scent of different teas mingling together into one grounding mix.
“Hey, what are these?” Suki asks, pointing towards two little ceramic lotus flowers with notes stuck to them.
Looking around the café, you notice every table has them. Maybe a cute ritual they have?
“Let’s take a look.”
You both grab a note from the polished ceramics and you read, out loud, what’s on the worn paper.
“111. New beginnings. A new path is opening for you. Trust where it leads.”
“That sounds promising.” Suki answers, her mouth quirking into a smile with a teasing tilt.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” You state in a mock-serious tone that makes the both of you laugh.
“What does yours say?”
“Mine says…” the girl in front of you starts “222. Partnership. Some paths are meant to cross again. Be patient.”
“Oh!” You exclaim even louder than Suki, because unlike yours, you immediately knew what hers could connect to.
“Well, Miss Suki, patiently await a reunion is what I hear!”
She blushes at your comment and you know exactly why.
When you’d met the Avatar last year, Suki didn’t exactly leave empty handed.
She met a boy, Sokka, who was helping the Avatar on his mission.
Ever since the group departed, the two of you found yourselves wondering what became of them and whether your paths might cross again.
It was very cute watching your oh so cool friend gush about the boy. No lies told, though. They were very very cute.
“Hm… well I guess I can hope that these fortune things are correct.” She murmurs nonchalantly, which isn’t that impactful because the red flush hasn’t left her face.
As you both settle in, the elderly man returns with the brewed tea. “Careful now, the cups can be very warm.”
“Ginseng tea for you,”
“Thank you.” Suki says with a sweet grin.
“and a Jasmine for you.”
“Thank you.” You take the — in fact, warm cup — from him with a soft smile.
“I noticed you two have been admiring the city ever since you walked in,” the old man chuckles. “First time in Ba Sing Se?”
“Well, kind of. We’re helping refugees get to Ba Sing Se and then help them get settled in.” Suki tells him.
“Ah, I see. How nice. You know, my nephew and I are refugees ourselves. We settled in Ba Sing Se not too long ago.”
Something softens in the old man’s expression.
“Though I suppose we got lucky. We found this tea shop almost immediately. It is delightful.”
“Delightful indeed,” you declare happily after a sip. You are absolutely coming back here.
“What are you and your nephew’s names?” Suki asks curiously.
“You may call me Mushi,” he says warmly. “And my nephew is… Lee.” At the name Lee he gestures vaguely towards the counter.
Peeking immediately, you spot the boy he’s referring to.
A boy around your age stands behind the counter arranging cups onto a tray. Dark hair falls messily around his face. A faded burn scar stretches across the left side of it. You recognize it immediately for what it is. A burn mark.
Wow, what happened there?
“He’s a very hardworking young man.” His uncle declares proudly.
Perhaps sensing he was being talked about, the boy finally glances up.
Your eyes meet.
Only for a moment.
Then he looks back down at the tray and grumbles something under his breath.
Hm.
“Well, I shall leave you two to it. Enjoy your day and your tea.”
“Thank you, Mushi.” You and Suki say in encore which makes the three of you laugh.
As you watch him leave your eyes fall back onto his nephew who’s now muttering something to his uncle while glancing back at your table.
“New beginnings, huh? Maybe he can be a part of it?” Suki says, snapping you out of your gazing haze.
“What, Mushi?!”
“No. His nephew.”
Suki’s smile widens.
“The one you can’t stop looking at.”
“I wasn’t! I was just… curious!”
“Hm, just as curious as I was when I first saw Sokka?”
“You are horrible.”
“You love me.”
You sigh.
You know you were never great at hiding your feelings. The other Kyoshi warriors say it’s good that you wear the make up, otherwise your moods would just be painted across your face for everyone to see.
While the both of you drink your tea you notice the suns going down, which means you guys will have to board the boat soon.
To speed up the drinking process you very casually swirl your finger above both of your cups and put your skills to use, cooling the tea off.
“Hey!” Suki starts but immediately lowers her voice to a whisper “No airbending in public.”
“Don’t worry no one saw it. Even if they did maybe I was firebending for all they know.”
Suki gives you the look and you realize that isn’t any better.
“Earthbending?” You try.
“Earthbending what? The glass cup?”
“Then, waterbending!”
Suki rolls her eyes at your antics, giving you a warning look but looking very pleased at the new temperature of her tea.
Sometimes you tend to forget how rare your skills are — you are very aware of it but, because it comes so natural to you it sometimes does slip out.
“We should go, it’s getting late.” Suki says when you both finished your drinks.
You nod in agreement and the two of you stand to leave.
The tea shop is beginning to thin out now, afternoon slowly surrendering to evening beyond the windows.
You smooth out your uniform and sling your bag over your shoulder.
Before stepping outside, you glance back one last time.
Mushi notices immediately and lifts a hand.
You smile softly and wave.
The old man returns it warmly instantly.
Beside him, Lee looks up from whatever task he’d been busying himself with. And again, his eyes meet yours.
You lift your hand politely.
He blinks once.
Then gives the smallest nod you have ever seen before returning his attention to the ground.
You aren’t entirely sure that counted as a greeting but, you’ll take it.
Still smiling to yourself, you follow your companion out into the streets of Ba Sing Se.
On the boat ride back, Suki eventually falls asleep beside you. Her head rests against your shoulder while the evening breeze drifts through your now-loose hair.
The Earth Kingdom city grows smaller and smaller behind you, its walls slowly melting into the darkening haze of evening.
Careful not to wake Suki, you reach into your bag and pull out the worn slip of paper from the tea shop.
111.
New beginnings.
Your thumb traces absentmindedly over the faded ink.
You aren’t entirely sure what path it was talking about.
Still, you find yourself smiling.
The paper disappears back into your bag.
Above you, the first line of moonlight bled into the sky.
☾ previous ————————————————————— next ⋆⁺₊⋆
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@kittyguumi @ladyhesperus
⠀♥︎ . ⠀₊ RAMBLY BAMBI: very much a first chapter as you can tell !!! :’) eek i’m real nervous about publishing this but also excited, i hope you guys enjoy <3. i have so much ideas for this AU… ITS LEADING SOMEWHERE TRUST. also, maybe i should clarify above but suki + reader and zuko obviously haven’t met in this AU, not before when they met the gaang! they are complete strangers :p.
synopsis: you had always mentioned your love for and how much you missed your family dog to all your friends. it was just a miscommunication on your part when you forgot to mention that your dog’s name is Prongs.
warning: cursing, lots of misunderstanding, sirius teasing reader and james, koby being involved and we dk why, james finally enters the fic!
i’ve decided for this to be an eventual james potter x reader because… i can! was so frustrated when revising and editing like i actually had another draft for part 2 but i decided not to use it cause i wasn’t satisfied… hope you guys like it, and sorry but i’m not into the tagging thing :p i believe that if it’s for you then the fic will find you!!! LMAOOO enjoy 👾
Thinking of not doing anything was actually easier said than done. Well, you didn’t really do anything, but you might as well have, considering how Potter reacted the moment the two of you made eye contact.
It had only been a few days since Monika gave you her advice. True to what she said, doing nothing turned out to be the best thing you could have done. While people were still talking about it, mostly those from Hufflepuff or the ones who already knew you, it wasn’t nearly as widespread as before. With all the other drama that had cropped up in the days that followed, the rumor slowly lost its popularity.
You still got teased about it occasionally, but not reacting to their comments bored them quickly. Eventually, they stopped caring altogether.
Living your life at Hogwarts had started slowly slipping back into your old routine.
A few more days passed, everything had gone back again in the way they always did. You attended your classes, took notes like you always had, and complained to your friends about work that just seemed to double. The professors would discuss new things at the front of classrooms, parchment piled up on your desk, and your days settled back into place like it had never been disturbed by some stupid gossip.
If you were being honest, you almost forgot about everything.
It was actually quite easy to have everything fall back into place, how the embarrassment could just fade into the background if you ignored it, becoming nothing more than an unpleasant memory you tried not to think about too much.
By the time dinner rolled around a few nights later, you were seated at the Hufflepuff table with Monika and Koby like always. With your plates in front of you, talking about anything as always, while hearing everyone else mind their business at the Great Hall.
You were halfway through your meal when Monika suddenly cleared her throat.
“So,” she started, looking everywhere but at you.
You glanced up, already suspicious. “So…?”
She smiled, eyes lighting up as she leaned closer. “I almost forgot to tell you lot. My parents are hosting a Christmas holiday party this year.”
Koby raised a brow, finally looking at her directly. You did the same, curiosity creeping in despite yourself. This is the first time Monika had brought up her family herself, you remembered back then when you mentioned visiting during the summers how she’d always dismiss your words. You just thought she didn’t like having people around, so you stopped asking.
“And,” Monika continued, words tumbling out faster now, “I was thinking maybe you and Koby would want to come?”
Your eyes widened. “Come? To your home??”
“Well… yeah. For the holidays,” she said quickly, then hesitated. “I mean, I know you’re both purebloods and you probably don’t really… do Muggle stuff… and I know my family isn’t exactly,” she gestured vaguely with her hands, “up there when it comes to bloodlines or whatever, so if you don’t want to, it’s completely fine! I just… thought I’d ask.”
Before she could talk any further, Koby cuts in. “Monika,” he said simply. “It’s fine.”
She looked at him, surprised. You nodded immediately, setting your fork down. Before adding “Yeah, what ‘pureblood customs’ are you even blabbing about?” You added, teasingly.
Her eyes widened slightly, then softened when she noticed how sincere you both are looking at her.
“If I’m being honest,” you continued, “I’m actually excited! It sounds fun, you know? My family has only ever hosted dinners with other purebloods, so you end up seeing the same people you’ve known since you were a kid.”
Whatever you said must have comforted her, because Monika let out a breath she had clearly been holding, a smile spreading across her face.
“Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed. “Though I just need to send my parents a letter first. Give them a heads up.” You then turned to Koby. “Do you want to come with me to the owlery later?”
He paused mid-bite, thinking it through before shaking his head apologetically. “Can’t. I’ve got other commitments tonight.”
You shrugged, unfazed. “Alright. Guess I better not go too late, then.”
After that, the three of you fell back into eating, Monika quickly launching into an excited ramble about what Christmas was like at her place. She talked about decorations, food, funny stories, and traditions you had never experienced before, hands moving everywhere as she spoke.
You listened quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips, laughing softly whenever she cracked a joke.
Everything felt easy again, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
—
It was already late by the time you left the owlery.
The castle was definitely quieter now, corridors dimly lit as torches flickered along the stone walls. You kept your steps light, hoping not to run into anyone as you made your way back to the Hufflepuff dormitory. The last thing you needed was to be caught wandering around at this hour, especially by a prefect.
Or worse… the head boy and head girl.
You turned a corner, letting out a small breath of relief when the corridor ahead looked empty. Walking quietly, you suddenly hear a noise which causes you to slow down. Frowning slightly as you paused mid-step, It sounded like someone mumbling, followed by a soft thud. Your gaze flicked toward the storage closet near the wall to your left. You stood there for a moment, trying to listen more clearly.
It was just silence… maybe you imagined it?
You glanced around, half-expecting someone to jump out, but the corridor remained still empty. Just as you were about to move on, another sound came from inside the closet followed by a muffled clatter. This causes your brows to knit together.
Okay... you were definitely not imagining this!
Curiosity got the better of you as you took a cautious step toward the closet, lifting your hand slightly as if to reach for the door. But before you could, it creaked open on its own. You moved quickly, stepping to the side just as the door swung wider, hiding yourself behind it as someone stepped out.
You peeked around the edge to see the person who opened it before you could, completely shocked from who you saw.
“Black?”
Sirius Black startled slightly, turning toward the sound of your voice. He squinted in the dim light, clearly trying to make you out.
“Oh,” he said. “Hufflepuff girl.”
He cleared his throat, a little too quickly, just as you were sure you heard something else inside the closet. You ignored it, rolling your eyes.
“I have a name, you know.” You said flatly.
He shrugged, and ignored you rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you do.” Then, cutting you off before you could retort, he asked, “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
You stared at him, momentarily distracted. “Uhh… I was at the owlery,” you replied. “I was just heading back.”
But then you tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What about you?” you asked, emphasizing the word. “What are you doing here?”
Sirius glanced back at the closet, looking at something or someone. You followed his look, then stared at him pointedly. You both knew he definitely was not casting spells in a storage closet.
Before he could answer, you heard another sound.
Footsteps.
Your attention snapped back to the corridor just as he grabbed your arm, also hearing the sound. You barely had time to react before he pulled you inside, closing the door quietly behind the two of you. He pressed a finger to his lips, silently shushing you as he leaned closer to the door, listening. Your heart pounded as you looked around, blinking as your eyes adjusted to the darkness. All the shapes inside slowly came into view, before you saw a figure on the other side.
Your breath then hitched at realizing who the person was.
“Koby?” you whispered, disbelief lacing your voice.
Koby stared back at you, eyes just as wide as yours in the dim light before blurting out your name as well. His gaze flicked between you and Sirius, taking in the situation, the cramped space, the closed door. His expression changed immediately, panic flashing across his face.
“This is not what it looks like,” he said quickly.
You just looked at him, also taking in everything. Then the words slipped out before you could stop yourself in a shocked whisper. “You’re hooking up with Black?!”
Koby reached out to you, hands flailing as he tried to shush you, nearly knocking your shoulder in the process. “No, no, stop, don’t say it like that!”
This causes Sirius' eyes to widen slightly, before he smirks toward Koby. “We’re hooking up now?” he said lazily. “Can’t blame you, Palladio. But you’re not my type.”
You shot him a look, before turning to Koby again. Koby ignored him entirely, turning back to you with a distressed expression. “It’s not like that, Merlin…” He whispered harshly. “Black just wanted to talk, and I said sure.”
He paused, then glared at Sirius. “Then he said he wanted to meet at midnight. In a storage closet.”
Your brows lifted slowly.
“I told him it would look like we were doing something else,” Koby continued, clearly annoyed now. “But he insisted, and said it was really important.” His voice dripped with sarcasm as he rolled his eyes.
“And for the record,” he added, crossing his arms, “have some respect for me. I have better standards.”
Sirius scoffed quietly before turning back toward the door, listening as the footsteps drew nearer. All three of you went silent, focusing on the sound as it stopped right in front of the closet. You held your breath, eyes flicking to Black, who stood directly in front of you with his mouth pressed tightly shut. Then you glanced at Koby, who looked just as frozen, lips sealed as the three of you tried to stay as quiet as possible.
After a moment, the footsteps moved again, turning down another corridor and slowly fading farther and farther away from the storage closet.
A few seconds passed, then Black reached for the door.
You grabbed his arm immediately. “What are you doing?” you whispered sharply. “Do you want to get caught?”
He looked down at you, eyes glinting with amusement, before smirking. “I’m friends with a prefect and the head boy,” he said quietly. “Don’t really have anything to be afraid of,”
Before you could stop him, Sirius slipped out of the closet and took off down the corridor, disappearing in the direction of the Gryffindor dormitory. You stared at the closed door in disbelief for a moment before slowly turning to Koby.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “We should head back,” he said. “It’s already way past curfew.”
You nodded, then hesitated. “By the way… what did Black want with you?”
Koby shrugged as he stepped closer to the door. “Didn’t really get anywhere worth knowing about.”
You narrowed your eyes at this, hesitant before asking. “Is this… the prior commitment you were talking about earlier?”
He paused, then nodded. “...Yeah.”
There was something in his tone that made you doubt he was being completely honest. Koby sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look… I can’t tell you much ‘cause he was being really cryptic. He kept going on about something that happened at the dormitory party. But I barely could understand what he was trying to tell me.”
“And?”
“Like I just said, I couldn’t understand what he was getting at,” Koby continued. “Before he could actually explain, he stopped talking… then he opened the door.” He gestured vaguely toward where you were standing earlier.
You stared at him, eyes widening slightly. “The dormitory party?” you whispered. “Don’t tell me… was he supposed to ask about that gossip from a few weeks back?”
Koby let out another sigh, shrugging again. “I don’t know. He was being weird about it… So, probably?”
“Probably?” you echoed, incredulous.
“Ehh… maybe?” he replied.
“Maybe?” you repeated, now louder but still in a whispered voice.
Koby immediately shushed you, eyes darting toward the door. “We’re still in a storage closet, you dummy!”
This causes you to clamp your mouth shut.
“Wish I could tell you more but I really don’t know,” he said more firmly. “Let’s just head back already. We can talk about this more tomorrow.”
You look at him before nodding slowly, with a slight unease settled in your chest.
—
Because of what happened last night, you had barely slept at all. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind replayed what had happened in the storage closet. Black, Koby, then Koby’s words about Black asking about the dormitory party. By morning, you woke up already tense, shoulders stiff as if you had never truly rested.
Yeah, paranoid might have been the right word for it.
With a bit of free time before your next class, you decided not to stay back at the dorm. Instead, you wandered toward the courtyard, hoping the cold air and open space would clear your head.
Most of your friends were all in class, which meant you would be alone with your thoughts. As you walked through the stone archway leading outside, you noticed a small group of students scattered around the courtyard. From a distance, you could already make out the colors of their robes.
Black, red, and a bit of yellow mixed in… oh, they were mostly Gryffindors.
You slowed slightly but kept walking, eyes down as you passed by. Before you could fully realize who they were, a loud voice cut through the air.
“Hey, Peeper! Is that you?!”
The voice causes you to freeze. Was he calling you?
Also… Peeper?
Confused, you lifted your head just in time to recognize who it was.
Sitting just at the branch of the huge tree is none other than Sirius Black. And of course, he was with his flock of friends that were all sitting under the tree.
Wait… his usual friends?
As a flicker of panic shot through you, you had accidentally made eye contact with none other than James Potter. He had been looking at Sirius first, clearly listening in on something, before his gaze trailed toward the person he was calling. The moment he realized it was you, his eyes widened just slightly before he looked away almost immediately.
Not obviously, but enough for you to notice. You could make out his jaw tightened, attention suddenly fixed on literally anywhere else, and is it just you or were his ears turning red?
Shit!
Has he heard the rumors now? Well, it has been a few days already but you thought that you could already put this all behind you!
No!
No!!
NO!!
Before you could try and play that you didn’t notice Black at all, he called out to you again louder. “Peepers! Over here! Yoohoo!!”
You noticed a few heads had already turned in your and his direction. Heat rushed to your neck as you realized ignoring him was no longer an option. Is he seriously making a scene all because you’re pretending to not notice him?!
Muttering under your breath, you hurried over to them.
Getting up close to the four of them was… awkward. Well, two of them were known for being calmer, so you didn’t mind their smiles as they greeted you. The other one, the one wearing glasses who was very obviously looking everywhere but at you, hands shoved deep into his pockets, was not known for being quiet.
You reached the bottom of the tree, with Lupin standing closest to you. Black, who had been perched higher up, jumped down. The moment his feet hit the ground, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him closer.
“Black, are you mad?” You hissed. “You’re making a scene!”
He just laughed at your words before patting your head. You grabbed his arm again and yanked it down. “Stop it! And stop with that weird nickname too!”
Black tilted his head, his grin widening. “What? Peeper?”
“Yes. That,” you snapped. “Where did you even get that?”
He shrugged. “Uh… because you were peeping into a storage closet at me and your friend. Duh.”
“I was not!” you hissed immediately, glancing around. “And also,” you added quickly, pointing a finger at his chest, “stop saying it like that, people will get the wrong idea! Koby is way too good and would never be involved with the likes of you.”
Sirius placed a hand over his chest dramatically. “Fair point… not why I called you though.” Then he leaned in slightly, brows wiggling as his grin turned mischievous. “I’ve been hearing a certain friend of mine has got himself a girlfriend.” he says teasingly.
You felt your stomach drop at this, already knowing that they’d eventually confront you but not like this!
“Listen,” you said quickly, lowering your voice. “I know what it sounds like, but I can explain—”
Sirius cut you off with a shrug. “Hey, it’s fine. Honestly… the whole you-being-his-girlfriend thing was a bit exaggerated.” He smirked. “Prongs doesn’t like rushing stuff.”
You thought he was done before he then continues, “Though,” Sirius continued, clearly enjoying himself, “you’re a smart lass. Prongs here actually have this thing with being called—AH!”
Before he got to saying it an arm suddenly looped around his neck, pulling him into a headlock.
“Shut it,” Potter mutters, his voice is quiet but you could hear how serious he is.
Sirius burst out laughing, clearly unbothered as he tried to pry Potter’s arm away. “Ohhh, what’s this?” he teased. “You trying to impress your girl or something?”
“Pads, I’m serious!” James snapped, tightening his grip.
The two of them started wrestling, stumbling around as Sirius laughed loudly and James tried to silence him, both of them drawing far too much attention from everyone now. Well… when have they never drawn attention? You were just unlucky that you were somehow involved in all of this. Stepping back instinctively, you’re doing your best not to get dragged into their tumbling.
“I’ve never seen you this serious before,” Sirius managed to say between laughs. “What, pretty girl making you nervous?”
James only tackled him harder, the two of them nearly toppling over. Lupin sighed and moved in, trying to separate them. “Merlin, you two—watch it!” he said, attempting to wedge himself between them while also trying not to get punched in the face.
Pettigrew shuffled over to you, glancing nervously at the scene. “Uh… sorry ‘bout this but you can leave now if you want,” he said quietly. “When they start wrestling, it usually takes a while.”
You looked at him, then back at the other boys. Now it was not just the two of them anymore. Lupin, who had been trying to break them apart, had somehow gotten dragged into it as well. That alone made you nod slowly at Pettigrew’s words. You murmured a quiet thank you, still unsure how you were even supposed to react to what had just happened.
While it was true that Potter had most likely heard the gossip about you calling him your “baby boy,” the way this confrontation unfolded was nothing like what you had imagined.
“Hey, Hufflepuff. You really think I’d get involved with someone like you? Bit too brave for someone in your house, no?” Potter sneers, while his friends all laugh at his words.
You could almost hear it so clearly in your head. You imagined yourself frozen in place, scared, tears threatening to spill as you struggled to explain yourself. Desperate to clear the misunderstanding without him thinking you were lying.
But instead of that, you got Potter being quiet. Barely speaking actually and barely making eye contact with you, while his friend casually reveals how you went and made up gossip behind their backs.
Well… technically, you didn’t make the gossip, but you were still involved.
So if he had reacted the way you first imagined, you wouldn’t really see anything wrong with it. It would have made sense, really.
Hmm… maybe you had the wrong impression of him.
—
Flashback
James was the type to drink at parties, but he wasn’t really feeling it tonight, so he decided to stay sober. Who would have thought that the first time he didn’t drink, he would end up falling asleep on the stairs instead.
When he woke up groggily, he barely recognized where he was at first. It took a moment before it hit him that he was at a party.
Which House was this again?
He stood up, already knowing it had to be past curfew. Even the portraits would have probably been asleep, if they were the type to sleep. As he wandered around, trying to look for his friends, he noticed someone sleeping on one of the couches.
You were slumped awkwardly to one side, like you had meant to stand up but failed and simply fell asleep instead. Your head was tilted forward, hair falling into your face, your hands limp in your lap.
Yeah, you were definitely asleep.
James slowed, frowning slightly. He couldn’t see anyone else around, but he hesitated, half-wanting to ask which dormitory he was actually in. He knelt down on one knee to steady himself, then cleared his throat.
“Uh… hey,” he said quietly, stepping closer and gently shaking your shoulder. “Excuse me, have you seen Padfoot?”
When you didn’t even stir, he tried again, a bit firmer this time. “Hey. Lady, wake up.”
That was when you started to move. Your head lifted slowly, eyes fluttering open just enough to focus on him. For a split second, James thought you were finally awake. Then, out of nowhere, you reached out. Your fingers brushed through his hair, slow and clumsy, like you were trying to make sure he was real.
“Prongs?” you murmured.
James froze at the sound of his name. So you knew him, that meant you probably knew his friends too.
“…Hmm?” he hummed instinctively, more out of curiosity than anything else. He was skeptical that a Hufflepuff girl he barely knew had just called him Prongs, but he figured you must have known his nickname, like everyone at Hogwarts did.
You smiled faintly, eyes still half-lidded.
“Oh,” you sighed dreamily. “I missed you.”
James immediately grew more confused. “Missed… me?”
“How are you, baby?” you continued, words slurring together as your hand tangled further into his hair. You poked at it, fingers brushing through his curls like you were examining something familiar. “You got so much softer than I remembered.”
He stiffened at your words, his heart starting to pound at the way you were touching his hair. He tried to take your hand away gently. “Uh— thanks? You know where—”
But despite his efforts, you didn’t let go. Instead, you touched him more intimately, your fingertips trailing over his temple and then his cheek. You frowned thoughtfully, your thumb brushing over his skin.
“Huh,” you murmured. “It’s been so long I don’t even recognize you. I don’t remember you having such smooth, bare skin.”
James’ brain felt like it was melting. He was confused, yet at the same time, painfully aware of how much he was enjoying your soft hands on his face.
Was he missing something? Had he done something stupid he didn’t remember? Were you a past fling? A family friend?
A hundred thoughts raced through his head all at once, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he actually knew who you were.
Or maybe… was this some elaborate prank?
Before he could decide, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Oi—!”
But when he looked at you to confront you, your grip had already loosened. Your head tipped forward, resting against his chest for half a second before slipping away entirely and back onto the couch.
You were fully asleep again.
“…Hey,” he whispered, stunned. “Hey. Lady!”
He shook your shoulder gently, then a bit more urgently. “Lady. Hufflepuff girl. Wake up.”
You didn’t even budge, while James just kneeled there staring at you in disbelief. His heart was racing now, his hair thoroughly messed up from the way you had ruffled it, with no idea what had just happened.
And no idea why the endearment was still ringing in his ears.
