#I don't like wasting paper so I try to squeeze something in there! Even if it's just a silly sketch or a doodle.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Are those little dolls made to look like 3zun as animals in the most recent comic? I need to know how/when Nie Mingjue got those. Are they gifts from Lan Xichen or Nie Huaisang? Did Jin Guangyao sew them himself and stuff them full of evil talismans in case the song didn't work? So many possibilities.

The 3zun dolls were a self-indulgent reference to this (previously abandoned) doodle! As for who made them in universe? I'll leave it up for interpretation B*)

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #jin guangyao #lan xichen #nie mingjue #ask #Ah why not: #mdzs warrior cats au #by 'previously abandoned' I mean to say that this was just a pencil sketch I cleaned up just now. #Because I draw all of these on paper there are a lot of little doodles in the spaces between. #I don't like wasting paper so I try to squeeze something in there! Even if it's just a silly sketch or a doodle. #Sometimes they are little B plot jokes or alt dialogue to a comic. #or notes about what I want to say in the tags! #I was trying to thumbnail what would have been a larger piece (for the lace detailing practice) but put it aside to focus on the comic. #The aesthetic I was going for was 'Antique Victorian Dolls' with the little hand sewn dresses. #I really want to practice drawing lace and I thought this would be a cute way to do so. #Also something about the Venerated Triad being fluffy cats just really speaks to me...This is 3zun. In my heart. #In the comic they are 'cat -bunny - goat' dolls but the kitty trio was the OG concept.

[luveline]

Ok this sentence from your hotch fic "You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head. 

got me thinking what about a lil story about a non bau gf being very upset but trying to hide it from hotch bc he’s busy and she doesn’t want to add to his plate

hope this is ok!! —hotch assures you he's never too busy to listen if you've been upset by something, 1k♡

You're doing the dishes when it starts to come back. It's weird that the nature of the things that hurt us is their ability to come back, to metastasise while we're unaware; you think you're doing a good job at moving forward and the claws of it sink into your back, your chest. One talon at a time. 

You ignore it, focusing instead on Aaron behind you at the dinner table. The sound of papers fluttering across each other as he turns a page, the click and drag of his pen as he writes. You can picture his cursive, and the frown he wears as he works. 

You're dying to tell him about what's hurting you, but beyond feeling small in the eye of the storm that is his job, he's been busy, evidenced by paper work at home and a yawning gap of communication. This is the first time you've seen him all week. You dread filling the time (wasting it, even) with something that doesn't concern him. It barely concerned you, someone else's unresolved issues turned to a bad mood and all the fallout on your shoulders.

"Is something wrong?" Aaron asks. 

He's like a shark for emotions, your tiny sniffle a drop of blood in the water. You wipe your nose with a soapy hand and shrug casually. 

"Nothing's wrong. Are you nearly done? Maybe we can watch a movie." 

Aaron stands up. You stiffen at the sound, but relax when his hand squeezes your shoulder. He braces his hands on the countertop and leans forward, looking at you. You meet his eyes. Usually so serious, softened slightly by worry. 

"You stancing up on me?" you tease. 

He doesn't buy into your jokes. You clear your throat, wondering what you might be able to change the subject to. You've been thinking about asking him if he wants to get a pet fish with you, an aquarium—

"You're upset by something," he says. "I think it's best if you tell me." 

"You think?" 

"Please, honey." 

You set the last dish on the drying rack and dry your hands slowly, buying time. Aaron indulges your behaviour though he undoubtedly knows what you're doing. 

"You're really busy, Aaron, I don't want to put more water in your levy." 

You've barely stopped talking when he begins. "If this is about my being busy, put it out of your mind. You know better than anyone that things have to wait sometimes, regretfully, when I'm working, but I'm here now." He fixes you with a fond smile. 

"Exactly, you're here, so let's not waste time on silly stuff that's bothering me." 

Aaron bears his weight on his hip against the countertop, taking your water-warmed hands into his, tacky skin sticking as he rubs your knuckles. Easing your forward with a gentle pull, one of his hands runs up your arm until his fingertips are nudging under your sleeve. An encapsulating hold, it says, I'm right here. Not too busy. Nothing too silly. 

And still, he says aloud, "Time talking about how you feel isn't wasted, even if you're upset by something small." 

You frown then, nose aching, eyes burning, because it doesn't feel small at all. "Are you sure you're not too busy?" you ask weakly, a high pitch attempt to salvage it and keep hiding how upset you are, but a simultaneous giving-in. 

"No," he says softly, all empathy as you descend into tears, "of course I'm not too busy." 

He hugs you close right there in the kitchen. Words won't come out and your shoulders shake under his hands with every attempt to explain it to him, not just that something bad happened to you, but that it's been really heavy to carry alone, and that weight being taken from you —by him, and so easily— is a moving relief. 

He pulls it out of you, an explanation made of fits and starts, and he gets mad on your behalf, but he pushes it aside to talk you through it. When you can cry without nearly choking yourself on breathlessness, he sways you minutely from side to side. 

"I knew something was upsetting you," he says, still so gently, "but I didn't know it was this bad. I need you to let me know. I'm sorry, honey, but I need you to tell me when it's bad like this if I miss it." 

You shudder in a breath. "It's not that bad." 

You both know it's a lie. Aaron pulls you in for another good hug, hand at the small of your back rubbing a dedicated circle. Your shirt bunches up and he takes a handful of your naked skin, thumb tracking around, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. "It's okay," he murmurs. "Take a deep breath. I will always be here for you, you know that?" 

It's odd to hear him strung like that. You take a deep breath like he asked you to, arms clasped behind his, your face too hot in his neck. 

"Even if I'm busy, I'm here at the end of the day. I promise. If I'm sitting at the table with you, that means I'm waiting for you." He cracks a small smile, his hand at the nape of your neck encouraging your head back. The other hand, dedicated to the patch of skin just above your coccyx, rubs upward. It releases a little of the tension building in your spine. "I love you, honey, I'm busy, but never too busy to hear what's wrong. Never." 

"You'll make me cry worse," you whine, letting him tip your head further back again, hand at your cheek now giving a soft squeeze. You blow a warm breath out at his thumb.

Aaron kisses you lightly, lips only half-touching. 

He pulls away. "Let me make you something to drink, hm?" 

Thus begins a night of adoring pampering and over the top doting. You pretend it's too much, but it's really, really perfect. 

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

[ghouljams]

currently Terminally In Love with your fae!Simon au, and it has resulted in some ✨Thoughts✨

so, the bond that’s between Simon and reader — we’ve seen how it functions as a kind of honing beacon that allows Simon to know if reader is being fucked with by any other fae who dare to touch what he’s laid claim to… but from what I could discern the mark reacted so violently and allowed him to come to reader’s rescue solely because it was reacting to foreign fae magic… does it work the same for physical, nonmagical harm?

(and further, asking for the girlies…. what would Simon feel through the bond if the reader were to die 😚)

So glad you asked because it means I get to do some horror stuff. The short answer is Ghost's mark doesn't react the same way to human danger, it just pings Ghost to let him know there's trouble. The long answer is, the mark is stupid and will lash out at anything that is scaring MC, which sometimes includes Simon. Most of the time it just functions as an alarm system, but there's an adjustment period when Simon sort of has to train it on who it's ok to bite.

You've been followed since you got off the train. He's not even being stealthy about it. You make a turn, he turns, you stop, he stops, always a few steps behind you. No one else seems to notice or care. You look over your shoulder and see the same crewneck, the same beady eyes. His lips curve red into a smile when he knows you spot him. Your chest is tight, you try not to look at him. You thought you were past this, always looking over your shoulder isn't a good look. Then again neither is being dead. Better to be paranoid and alive.

It's getting dark. You don't live that far from the station, at least you didn't think you did. Maybe it's fear making the street feel longer, emptier. You pick up the pace, hearing the sentiment echoed behind you. The thud of footsteps getting progressively louder and closer, until you're forced to sprint. The effort is wasted immediately as you're grabbed and dragged into the nearest alley. Your chest squeezes with fear, your heart pounding in your ears as you're thrown against the brick wall. The buzz under your skin expands and contracts with your breaths, trying to do anything but calm you down. You think it might actually be driving your anxiety higher, towards a full blown panic, as the man grips your arms tight and grins down at you. 

"Don't you know it's dangerous for little girls to wander alone at night?" He asks, he's close enough you can smell the alcohol on his breath. Your skin hurts where he touches you, bubbling with something you can't put a name to. The buzzing doesn't fit right, it slams against your ribs as you draw in shuddering breaths, there’s nothing for it to latch onto. You glance towards the mouth of the alley, the street was so empty, who would see you? This isn't right, he told you you'd be safe-

Something wet hits your face. The buzzing under your skin is reaching a fever, shaking you to your bones. You look up at the man, at the thick red and black mud falling from between his lips. He gives a wet cough. Your eyes drag to the black talons protruding from his chest, a hole punched through his ribs as if it were paper. The ribs themselves are warped outward and folded back away from the intrusion, more like wire than bone. You can't tear your eyes away from the sight, from the slick clawed hand dragging its way backwards through the viscera as you feel your buzzing start to move.

The silhouette that the collapse of your aggressor reveals is abyssal. Absorbing the shadows of the rest of the alley in a way you've never seen before. The air around it swirls with them. It's holding the man's heart in one clawed hand, tipping it's head back to swallow the organ whole. You are pretty sure you're having a panic attack. The abyss moves towards you like a ghost, and the buzz under your skin takes hold and forces you to MOVE.

The nose your fist collides with is startlingly human.

"You little bitch," Ghost snarls, making a grab for you as you sprint from the alley. Your feet slide against the sidewalk as you round the corner. The buzz under your skin rears back and strikes as his claws just miss you. "Not me you stupid-" he swears, you think he swears, you don't understand it but the buzz cowers. 

You don't stop. Not even when you pass the door to your flat. You run because you can hear him running after you, can hear the scratch of his claws on brick and concrete as he tries to grab you. The gouges that he leaves in everything he touches, you don’t need to imagine what he could do to you, you saw it. You catch a glimpse of him as you turn a corner, his teeth are bared, his movements wild and animalistic. 

His claws wrap around your throat, and you’re slammed into a wall for the second time tonight. He’s huge when he presses against your back, his chest expanding around his labored breathing in tandem with yours. You try to turn your head to look at him and he yanks your head back to stare at the stars. You both breathe, the night filled with the sound of your desperation. You swing your arm behind you to try and hit him, anything to make yourself more difficult prey. He catches your wrist easily and twists it behind your back, growling in your ear as he leans his weight on you.

“Not Me,” He tells you, it thrums through you like a universal truth, the buzz under your skin going warm and shivery, “You don't run from me. Not unless I tell you.” You nod, desperate to do something to ease your situation. “Good girl.”

His hand slides through your hair, fingers pressing to your forehead, and it all goes black.

You jolt awake shaking like a leaf. You press a hand to your mouth, choking down a sob. You’re terrified, it’s too dark in here, your skin feels like it’s been scrubbed raw, you feel like you’ve run a marathon. It must have been a nightmare, it must have been.

Simon turns on the light by the bed, woken up by your movements. “What’s wrong?” He asks, still half asleep. You shake your head, trying to get the shaking to stop. You feel like your body is trying to rip itself apart. Simon reaches a hand towards you and you jerk away, falling in a heap off the edge of the bed. You scurry away from him, you need distance, you need to get away from him. From the nightmare. Your back hits the wall as Simon stands. 

“What did I say?” His eyes tear holes through you, you press against the wall trying to make yourself small as he stalks towards you, “Not. Me.”

#tw stalking #nonconsensual predator/prey dynamic #i guess??? #Love's mark fucking BIT him #Fae!Ghost #being absolutely feral and scaring the hell out of Love #He'll tap her good so she forgets don't worry #do we all like the horror? Just me? Well that's fine I'm my own target audience #simon ghost x reader #reader x ghost #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #this is something that will likely get heavy updates in the actual fic #because I worry it is too vague #hmmmmm perhaps I should write some ghost perspective stuff

[maraschinomerry]

Little Pink Heart

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, implied Locklyle

Summary: following a fatal Ghost-Touch, Lockwood and reader must figure out how to manage love and life after death

Content: reader's death, ghost!reader, grief, angst, bittersweet, not a happy ending, established relationship

A/N: Please please be aware that this fic has some very heavy content, don't feel obliged to read if you could find it upsetting! That being said, this is as much about exploring the concept of Visitors' sentience that Jonathan Stroud introduced and building on what we saw with Annabel Ward as it is about the angst and the grief. This is dedicated to @bella-rose29 for mentioning the idea of ghost!reader and giving me inspiration (bonus angst: listen to Someone New by Freya Ridings while you read)

Word count: 4.9k (my longest fic yet!)

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea (let me know if you want adding or removing!)

The click of the key echoed through the house as you opened the door. Dusk was falling, the fine mist that had settled tinted a soft blue. As much as you didn't want to go inside, you fancied staying out here less.

“Don't linger, darling,” your boyfriend, Anthony, murmured as he passed over the threshold. His hand slipped into yours and he led you in. The house was cold and dim in the fading light, and from the fine layer of dust and lack of personal effects it was clear that it hadn't been inhabited for some time. It was a shame that the owner, who had seemed like a nice enough young woman, had had to move out of her family home, but you couldn't help but be grateful. You and Anthony had only just got your licences, and with no links to any agencies nor desires to join them you'd decided to try and set up your own. That took time, though, and money, and though Anthony had a little equity in his house you'd agreed to take a couple of small, private cases to make up as much as you could. That was how you found yourself here, ready to earn a reasonable sum in exchange for eliminating a lone Type Two. A few jobs like this would help set you up nicely.

The kitchen was slightly warmer than the rest of the house, the west-facing windows having allowed in the last of the sun before it dipped behind the trees in the distance. Together you set up your kit bags on the table - you didn't have much: a few handmade salt bombs, filings and chains, a few flares only in case of emergency (they'd cost far too much to waste) and of course your rapiers. Lockwood pulled something extra from his bag, a small plastic-wrapped packet. Bourbon biscuits.

“You're the best,” you smiled as he opened the packet and offered one to you, which you bit into quickly.

“I know,” he grinned back, brushing a stray crumb from your lip. You blushed.

The owner of the house had provided a floor plan, but her account of the Visitor had been so inconsistent and vague that it was difficult to pinpoint a possible location for the Source. Anthony spread the roll of paper across the table, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder at the diagram. There were two floors and a basement, but the latter had been gutted a month ago ready for renovation so there was nothing in there at present.

“Let's start upstairs and work our way back down,” Anthony suggested. “More likely to find something in one of the bedrooms.”

“True, but it's a lot of wasted time if we don't. Why don't we split up and take a floor each?”

His expression soured, and he moved closer, taking your hand again and rubbing small anxious circles above your thumb. “That's smart, but I hate the idea of leaving you on your own.” Even when he didn't agree with your ideas, he always found a way to compliment them. Just one of the things that made you love him all the more.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won't be for long, and I'll call for you the moment I find anything suspicious.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You leant forward and placed your lips delicately on his. He held you close, your hands on his chest, one of his on your waist and the other fidgeting with your necklace. It was one he'd bought for you, a small pink gemstone in a heart shape on a simple silver chain. His promise to always love and protect you. Not a day had gone by since that you didn't wear it. He nodded at last; he knew he would, he'd do anything you asked of him in a heartbeat. It still worried him not to be by your side, but he trusted that you were a good agent who could handle yourself and that you meant it when you said you'd call for him. His only condition was that if the Source was more likely to be upstairs, that would be where he'd look.

So it was that you found yourself, torch in one hand and the other on your rapier, exploring the ground floor. The silence was oppressive, seeping the confidence from you with every step. Not a ticking clock, not the creaking of the old building settling, not even the residual hum of electricity or plumbing, just the occasional thud from your boyfriend upstairs. Working quickly, you ruled out the dining room and bathroom. That left the lounge. The air smelled musty, and a shiver ran through you as you entered. That was never a good sign. You pulled out your thermometer and watched the temperature drop the further in you went.

“Anthony?” Your voice felt deafening against the quiet of the room, but you knew it hadn't been anywhere near loud enough to travel upstairs. No, this was silly, you could handle this. There were no signs of a spirit yet, for all you knew the change in temperature could be from the wind blowing down the chimney into the empty fireplace. You flicked the torch off, using your now free hand to hold your necklace, grounding yourself as you tuned in and listened. There was nothing at first. You wondered whether Anthony was having more luck upstairs; so far down here had been thoroughly useless. Maybe you should go and check on him. But then you heard it. A tragic, gut-wrenching wail, getting closer.

“Anthony?” you called again, louder this time but as steady as you could. There was movement above. He'd heard. So had the spirit, the wailing definitely nearby now. You pulled out your rapier.

The temperature plummeted.

A screech, so close you would have felt the breath on your neck had it come from a living being, made you whirl round. Your rapier clattered to the floor. Shit. Stay calm.

“Anthony!” you yelled, not caring how scared you sounded. His footsteps rattled down the stairs. He was so close.

You lunged towards your rapier.

The Visitor lunged towards you.

Lockwood was in the back bedroom when he heard his name. All his senses were immediately on high alert - you were the only person he allowed to call him Anthony, so he always reacted differently to his first name anyway, and under the circumstances hearing it immediately made him fear the worst.

“Y/n?” He crept out onto the landing, slowly pulling out his rapier and listening intently for any more noise. It was moments like these he was grateful not to be a Listener, he could focus on you and not the sounds of the house's history. He was only two steps onto the staircase when his name came again, louder and more panicked. Without a second thought he ran down the stairs, only holding back enough to make sure he didn't fall. His blood ran cold when he heard you scream.

You tried to both duck and spin as your hand came into contact with the hilt of your rapier. The blade sliced upwards, connecting with the Visitor, but it was too late. Its clawing grey hand clutched onto your shoulder moments before it disappeared. You screamed as tendrils of ice shot through you, radiating outwards from the spot. Through the fog of pain that had suddenly engulfed your brain you heard Anthony, close by now, yelling your name. You had to go to him. He'd know what to do. Everything would be okay.

You took one step, then another. Your torso was going numb, your entire arm having already fallen victim to the plasm which was turning your shoulder a violent shade of blue. One more step, and your legs gave out. You just about made out the silhouette of your boyfriend in the doorway, rushing towards you as you slumped to the ground.

“No, no, no, y/n!” Anthony's face swam into view, trying to mask his utter horror for your sake. “It's going to be okay, darling, I'll go and get help.”

The fingers of your good hand twitched towards his and he took it immediately, despite how cold it was. You struggled to focus on him through your tears, and noticed the same in his eyes. “Ant-” Your voice was failing fast.

“Shh, I've got you.” He cradled your head, his own tears mingling with yours on your cheek, but you could barely feel them. Almost everything was numb. The blue had spread across your chest, and the little pink heart stood out starkly against it. “I'm so sorry, my darling,” Lockwood said softly. He choked back a sob as he leant down, placing a kiss into your hair. You wanted to do the same, to speak to him, to do anything.

His face was the last thing you saw before everything went black.

—

You had no idea how much time had passed when your vision returned, a room slowly materialising in front of your eyes. It was a bedroom, filled with knick-knacks and bathed in a warm golden light. It looked familiar, but you hadn't been here when it went dark, you'd been… somewhere else. It was so hard to remember, but you knew there had been a dark, dusty room and a feeling of agonising cold. And a person. There'd been someone there, someone you needed to say something to. Now here you were, everything feeling so normal yet so bizarre; you were still you, still able to move and see and hear, but there was a disconnect between those sensations and reality. Nothing felt real. You looked around again, desperate for answers.

There.

Perched on the edge of the bed was a boy. His crisp white shirt was a stark contrast to his dishevelled dark hair, doleful brown eyes and the deep eyebags beneath. He looked exhausted, like he'd barely slept or eaten. There was something in his hand, balanced carefully on the tips of his fingers: a necklace, with a little pink heart. A spark of recognition bloomed in the back of your mind. That was your necklace. It was important. He had no right to be holding it. You drifted forward. The boy looked so familiar. Oh. The icy feeling rippled through your chest again, and you remembered. He'd been there when that feeling had taken over your body until you couldn't feel anything else. Rage boiled in your veins, and a snarl crept onto your face. But then, as quickly as it started, the anger subsided. He'd not caused it. He'd held you so gently, cried as everything faded. You knew him. You opened your mouth, finally ready to speak.

Lockwood stared at the tiny gemstone in his hand, unsure whether he wanted anything to happen this time. He'd secretly slipped it from you before DEPRAC had arrived, and spent the past few weeks periodically taking it out of the little silver-glass box in his bedside table. Part of him desperately wanted you to come back, to let him see you once more, but the other part knew it would hurt so much. What if you didn't recognise him and turned violent like so many Visitors? What if you didn't because you didn't recognise anything, just hung there as a shadow of your former self? What if you did, and he had to live with putting you back in the case and removing you from his life all over again?

The decision was made for him when a soft golden glow appeared in the corner of his bedroom. There you were. Tears welled in his eyes as the image of you sent him spiralling back to that day: your edges were a little fuzzy but everything else was the same, from your outfit to the scared look in your eye to the dark patch spreading from your shoulder. You looked at him now and he was relieved to watch you processing your surroundings. The person he knew was still in there, you weren't just a hollow shell. Suddenly you snarled and he flinched, fingers twitching towards the silver-glass case.

You moved closer.

You stopped.

Your face fell.

He watched the glimmer of recognition in your eyes, and the tears he'd been holding back spilled out along with all the things he'd wanted to say for months.

“Oh my darling, I'm so sorry. I should never have let this happen, I should have been there for you, and-”

He paused. You were mouthing something. Over and over. Your death loop, he presumed. God, just putting death in the same sentence as you stung.

“I'd give anything to be able to hear you right now,” he said, voice wavering. You stopped, giving him a sad look. The realisation that at the very least you could understand him, even if you couldn't communicate fully, hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Lockwood!” a boy's voice called from outside. You both looked at the door and your anger flared again. The boy on the bed shook his head.

“He's a friend,” he told you reassuringly, before calling back, “One minute, George!” You waited in the corner, puzzled. The boy, Lockwood (you knew that name, didn't you?), gave you an apologetic look. “I'm sorry, y/n, I've got to go. I'll explain soon, I promise.” He dropped the necklace into its little case and clicked it shut, and you watched the world dissolve.

—

You still weren't sure how much time had passed when you found yourself back in that bedroom, but it didn't feel like very long. The last rays of the sunset poked through the gaps around the drawn curtains, the room lit instead by a lamp on the bedside table. The boy, Lockwood, was sitting on the bed again holding your necklace, but this time he looked at you almost immediately. His hair was a little neater, his eyebags more pronounced.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “Sorry if I disturbed you, I don't… really know how this works.”

You knew he couldn't hear you, but you gave your message again anyway.

“Maybe I should see if George knows how to lip-read,” he chuckled wryly. The sound reminded you of home, wherever that was. Things were still hazy, but part of you had a feeling this was it. Here, with this boy. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “I did promise to tell you about him.”

You settled into the space in the corner, allowing Lockwood's low, gentle voice to wash over you. It was incredibly calming. George was his new housemate, he told you, who'd been living here for about a month. It was all very confusing - it had felt like both minutes and years had passed since you were last here and the same before that, but he explained that the other boy had moved into the house in mid-September, and the last time you'd been here was a week ago in late October. Where was all the time going?

“I have no idea whether you experience time when your Source is contained, whether you're aware of what's going on in between or remember things from last time,” he admitted. Source. You knew about those. They were what you'd been looking for that night in that dark old house. A spirit had been tied to it, and you had to seal the Source to get rid of it. But you'd failed and it had found you, and now… your chest tightened at both the memory and the realisation. Nothing felt real because you weren't. You were just a Visitor. You continued to listen numbly as Lockwood kept talking. Not much wonder he'd recoiled when you first appeared, he'd seen what the touch of a ghost had done to you and without knowing you'd almost inflicted the same fate. You vowed in that moment that no matter what, you'd never let that happen.

The next few months saw Lockwood getting you out every chance he got. Bit by bit, he helped restore your memories and did his best to accommodate you even though the two of you couldn't properly communicate. He set up a little daily tear-off calendar on his dresser so you could keep track of how long it had been between visits, and stored his kit bag in the bottom of his wardrobe so you could move more freely around the room. Eventually, you'd come to remember him more. Not just the events from the night you died, but him. Your boyfriend, Anthony. You wanted nothing more than to be close to him, to be a comforting presence, but you knew you couldn't. Not only because you couldn't touch, but because deep down you knew that as much as you treasured being able to keep him in your life (or rather, afterlife), you had to let him go sooner or later and he needed to do the same with you. He'd been followed around by grief since long before you met him, and you hated that you were adding to it. You were just glad to see him slowly improving week by week - his face was a little brighter, and it seemed George was making sure he stayed fed. You'd have to thank the other boy if you ever got chance. Anthony said the two of you would have got along if you'd met in life, and even now George's obsession with the Problem would have made him your biggest fan, but their friendship was too new and besides he wasn't a Listener either so you'd not be able to tell him anything.

“I've got something to show you,” Anthony announced as you materialised one sunny day in late spring. He sat down with a large pink folder and patted the space next to him on the bed. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Come on,” he sighed fondly, “you never had any sense of personal space before, don't start now. Just no hugging.”

You glowed a little brighter and drifted over, your legs disappearing into the mattress until your torso was level with his. Being careful where he positioned his arms, he angled the folder towards you. It was a photo album, labelled in handwriting you recognised as your own. Page by page, he took you through your memories, giving you time to linger on each one: you as a baby, then a toothy toddler with your first pet; your family and childhood friends; Polaroids of your first team in training to become agents. His hands trembled a little as he reached the next section. On the left were four photos: the team you'd transferred to, the one he'd been training with; a slightly blurry action shot of the two of you sparring for the first time; a goofy photo he'd taken of you cartwheeling down a grassy hill after a case; your team all proudly holding their Grade Four licences. On the other side, surrounded by two styles of hand-drawn hearts, was the two of you hugging on the steps of 35 Portland Row, Anthony's lips pressed in a smile against the top of your head. You remembered that sensation well, a frequent occurrence right up until the moment you died. The rest of the album was full of photos of the two of you, ones taken by others and candids you'd snapped of each other. You felt a pang of regret that you'd never get to take any more.

Anthony turned another page. Hold on. You knew for certain there were no more photos. You looked sideways at your boyfriend, and he gave you a bashful smile. Pasted across a double spread was a copy of a certificate from DEPRAC, confirming A.J. Lockwood & Co Investigators as a registered agency. Inspector Barnes, who you vaguely recalled meeting once or twice, had signed as the licensing authority. Anthony and George had put their names down as the founding members. But then underneath that, in Anthony's familiar hand, he had added an extra section. Honorary Member: y/n y/l/n.

He looked at you so lovingly. “We did it, darling.”

You would have reached for his hand if you could.

—

Weeks began to pass before Lockwood got you to visit again. He'd have spent every day with you, but business was good and he owed it to you to make a proper go of it. In the meantime, George talked incessantly about Visitors which gave Lockwood a chance to think about you. Each time he finally got to see you again he'd apologise profusely, and you'd repeat your death loop back to him. He tried so hard to figure out what you were saying - his Sight was good, you were as clear as day and he knew your every quirk and mannerism, but he just couldn't put the movements of your lips to the right sounds.

Everything changed the day he met Lucy Carlyle. From the moment she set foot in his living room, he felt like he was supposed to have met her. The feeling only grew when he gave her the interview tests - plenty of people had passed through, some with better Talents than others, but none had come even close to the Listening abilities of the girl before him. When she spoke of the gentleness she found in his uncle's pen-knife, he knew he had to hire her.

Lucy managed to defy even his high expectations on the Annabel Ward case. He kept his focus on the young woman's spirit hovering at the end of the corridor, rapier levelled in case the details of her aggressive nature were true, but he couldn't help but think of the first day he brought you back and how quickly you'd retreated and shown a level of sentience he'd never expected from a Visitor. Was this poor woman the same? Lucy's eyes were closed, listening intently.

“She's in pain,” she said softly.

“Of course she is, she's dead.”

“No, something's different.”

He was intrigued instantly. “What's different?”

She shushed him. “I can almost…”

Annabel launched forward, sending Lucy crashing through the wooden railing in her attempt to dodge the grasping hand. Déjà vu overwhelmed Lockwood, your pained eyes flashing across his mind as he staggered backwards.

No.

He'd already lived through this once and regretted the outcome every day since. Now was his chance to redeem himself. He sprang towards the ghost, fending her off with his rapier, pulling Lucy from her desperate grip on the picture frame as soon as the coast was clear.

“Did it touch you?” he asked in a panic as she clung to him.

“Course not, I'd be dead.” Didn't he know it. The more she explained how she'd connected with the spirit, the more sure he became. Later, when they experimented with Annabel's necklace and he listened to Lucy describe the scene in such detail, he knew for certain.

“He loves me. You love me, don't you?” Her hand stroked delicately across his cheek, and he fought the urge to lean into the touch. For that brief moment, he could pretend it was you, still with him, saying those words. Perhaps with Lucy's help, it could be.

—

It had been a while. The trees outside Anthony's window were tinted a beautiful copper. You couldn't wait to hear his updates this time.

“There's a sadness, but so much love too. She feels very kind.” That wasn't Anthony's voice. Something was wrong. There was a girl sitting beside him on the bed, holding a little pink heart on a chain. Your necklace. You grew defensive, preparing to strike.

The boy looked up and saw you glaring. “It's okay, darling.” The girl followed his gaze. “Lucy, this is y/n, my late girlfriend. Y/n, this is our new associate, Lucy. She's a Listener.” Ah. Finally. You settled back down and took in the girl properly. She was pretty, with a warm brunette bob and a blue jumper which made her eyes pop. She smiled up at you, a genuine friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you,” she said sweetly. Anthony gave her an encouraging nod. You noticed that he seemed a little nervous, but there was also a calmness to him that had been missing for the past year. If that was Lucy's influence, then she was alright in your eyes.

Anthony spoke to you again. “She's brilliant, connected with a Visitor on our last case and I thought maybe she could finally help us figure out what you've been trying to say.” You nodded in agreement, and the girl closed her hand around the necklace.

You weren't sure whether you were in Lucy's head or whether she was in yours. The two of you blended into one as she ventured into your memories. Anthony's room melted away around you, sending you back to that cold dark room. You bristled.

“It's a bit different having her in the room with us,” Lucy murmured, eyes closed. “Let me know if either of you need me to stop.”

Anthony glanced at you, flickering slightly but still present and unagitated. “We're okay, go on.”

Meticulously, she described what you were both experiencing, or in your case reliving. It was hard knowing you were getting closer to the agony all over again, but it was important for your boyfriend to finally have a chance for answers and closure, so you kept the inevitable moving along.

“Anthony?” Lucy said softly, the same way you had. By the look on his face, it seemed he was realising now what you had at the time - that you'd tried to call him and hadn't been loud enough, that if only you'd tried again straight away, maybe you'd still be alive. “Anthony?” she called again. “Anthony!” You heard your own scream echo in your mind, felt the cold grasping your shoulder. The boy reached out and gripped Lucy's free hand, never taking his eyes off you. The gesture was supportive for her, but meant for you too. A tear rolled down his cheek. Lucy's breathing was shallow.

“It hurts,” she gasped, “and she's scared.”

“I should have been there quicker.” His voice was shaking with emotion, barely able to get the words out.

“No, there's no anger. She knew you were coming, and having you there through the end was a comfort.”

Anthony swallowed thickly. “Her death loop. Can you hear it?”

She opened her eyes and watched you as you spoke, the words spilling from her lips a second after.

“It's okay. It's not your fault.”

The boy broke down, his sobs rattling through the small room. Lucy held out her arms and he folded into them. She threw you an apologetic glance, and you said it again to her. “It's okay. It's not your fault.”

They were still hugging when, with his and your permission, Lucy gently slipped your necklace back into its case.

—

Now that the secret was out, you really did become an honorary member of the agency. Sure, you couldn't exactly contribute to the cases, but other than that the whole team treated you as one of their own. Anthony always waited for your opinion on big decisions, which you could make quite apparent with how happy or angry your energy was. George was absolutely fascinated by you, and took every opportunity to quiz the others on your awareness of various things and how you reacted to his experiments. Lucy often got you out on her own to have another girl to talk to. In return, of course, she'd fill you in on any gossip they came across or funny things that happened on cases that the boys were too embarrassed to tell you about. Through it all, you watched the three of them grow into a little family. Anthony and Lucy especially had clicked with each other; they reminded you of how you and he had been. That realisation filled you with a mixture of relief and melancholy. You loved Anthony so much, all you wanted was for him to be happy, but you'd be lying if you didn't wish it was you putting the light back in his eyes.

He sat you down shortly after New Year. His face was sombre but hopeful, and he fidgeted with his ring. Part of you could already tell what was coming.

“I don't really know how to say this,” he began hesitantly, “but after everything we've been through, you deserve to hear it.” You waited patiently for him to find the words he needed. Really, you had all the time in the world.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “I promised to always love you, and I will still keep that promise until the day I die…” But. There had to be a but. “...but I really care about Lucy too, and I just-” He didn't need to finish the sentence. And technically he was single. And he stood a chance of having a life with her. And she wasn't going to keep him tied to his past and his grief.

“It's okay.” Now he knew what your death loop was, he could tell what you'd said, and the way you'd limited it to just those words was a reminder of how remarkably well you understood everything that was happening. How you were as close to being a person as you could be, how it wasn't close enough.

“Promise?”

You touched the hollow of your neck, where the outline of a little sparkling heart sat against the darkness.

He nodded in understanding and reached for the silver-glass case. “Thank you, darling.”

“It's okay.”

It's not your fault.

#lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #fem!reader #ghost!reader #angst #lockwood and co fic

[bored-storyteller]

WARNING: Masochism, biting, slight mention of blood, drinking blood, mention of being eaten.

Tokyo Ghoul, Uta x Human!Reader

Theet

Love is an abstract concept, no one can say what love really is.

There are those who believe that love is always right, there are those who say that an unhealthy love is not love. Maybe so, maybe certain kinds of love shouldn't exist.

There are those who say that love is nothing but a lie, there are those who say it is a deception of the brain. Perhaps this is also true.

You don’t know.

Love can be right or wrong, and you don't know which side your love is on, but you don't care.

Whether you call it love or madness, whethever is the name that the world give to your feelings is not important. It's so present, warm, piercing at times. It's in your chest, in your guts, in your eyes every time you meet his.

He is dangerous. You love him.

Your name rings out lightly, a call that barely surpasses the hum of the fan at the back of the room. Uta looks at you calmly, a veil of amusement on his blood irises.

"Sorry." You hum softly with a smile “I was watching you.”

“I had noticed that.” His gentle voice doesn't hide a shred of smugness that just makes you snort, but you're too focused to joke with him.

You're sitting on his lap, his hands resting lazily on your hips and yours caressing his face carefully.

Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.

“What are you looking at with such interest?” He asks you. You know he is watching you, he is trying to understand what you are studying with such interest.

You are a discovery, for each other.

“Your teeth.” You answer in a distracted murmur.

His face tilts slightly, leaning a little more into your touch, and you know that if you weren't so focused on his lips you'd see a perplexity hidden in his gaze, a perplexity you wouldn't be able to decipher.

"I don't think they're my best side." He jokes. You allow him a grateful laugh, but you're still taken by his mouth, by his movements, by your fingertips brushing his fangs.

They look like those of any human being, yet to the touch you can feel how hard, sharp they are.

You press a little, and like paper your skin breaks.

The game Uta was letting you play stops when he jerks his head away.

He go away, but he doesn't say anything. He looks at you silently with an expression you can't decipher; he could be scared, uncertain, curious…don't even waste time wondering.

A crimson droplet forms on the tip of your finger - it's beautiful, you think. You're sure he's of the same opinion too, especially him.

Inky eyes look at you, ask your intentions, and you can't help yourself.

He's dangerous, you think as your cheek rubs against his.

You love him so much, you think, as your bare shoulder comes to press against his lips.

You don't know if his love for you is healthy, if he loves you right, but you don't care.

You love that he indulges you, you don't know if it's your desire or his. Maybe you forced him, maybe he's hungry and tempted by the smell of your blood. Perhaps you are cruel to him.

Or maybe he loves you with all of his being.

His jaws open slowly, his teeth lean against your helpless skin.

And then the tear, the holes deepening, the blood blooms.

It hurts you, you can't hold back a moan of pain, but at the same time your hands are squeezing his shoulders.

He moans in pleasure, entranced, as if he's tasting something delicious. No, he's tasting something delicious.

His lips kiss you, his tongue licks, he sucks. You feel the blood coming out of the wound, it's hot that it almost burns. Yet you can't help thinking that it's beautiful what's happening: your fusion, complete and total. Just because Uta does it, that's the only reason it can happen.

You can't not love him right now, while you feel it completely, in his natural instincts, in being what he is. His teeth, his ghoul's teeth claiming your flesh.

Then, the grip loosens, and even if he tries to hide it you feel him filling his lungs with air: giving up is a sacrifice for him.

"You're delicious." He admits, and you see his tongue flick across his pierced lips “But it could be dangerous to play like this again, you know?”

Your hands are in your hair now, your fingers play delicately, a slight smile paints on your lips: "Are you afraid?" You ask him softly, a slight defiant tone hovers in your question.

His almost nonexistent eyebrows twitch, just for a fraction of a second, but you see them. His lips stretch a little in an amused expression: "Are you not?"

You caress his lower lip slowly, without risking anything this time: “Don't say you wouldn't like it. Don't say you wouldn't love me like that."

“Would you accept it?”

"Yes."

Maybe he's surprised by your prompt response, or maybe not. Uta is silent, and that silence expands over time so much that you're convinced there's nothing more to say, but in the end he speaks.

"And you don't think about me?" He asks you as if he were jokingly begging you "To your poor Uta who will be left all alone on this miserable world?"

You touch the tip of his nose: "I'm sure my poor Uta could survive."

“Mmh…yes. But eating you could be my last joy and the beginning of my madness."

You laugh, because differentiating a crazy Uta from a healthy one isn't understandable in your head, but you understand what he wants to tell you, you understand his intentions.

“It would be our tragedy.” you say as the tip of your nose brushes his.

Only a murmur of acknowledgment comes from him as his hand slips delicately under the fabric of your shirt, brushing against your cool, bare skin.

“Yeah…too bad it can never be told.”

#uta x human reader #uta x reader #uta tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul uta #tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul:re #tokyo ghoul fanfiction #reader insert #uta x you #maybe a request

[velvetcloxds]

Little blurb idea for Aaron Hotchner

A side hug and a snack after a long case. Hotchner being secretly soft. Possible someone seeing it and all they do is smile

SOMETHING SWEET | A.H.

word count: 0.7k

warnings: none

You'd been carefully watching Aaron from your desk, worried, knowing that he was sitting there rethinking everything that happened over the last few days, every decision he made and helped make- it was your least favourite part of completing a case, you had to try with all your might to not skip into his office and smooth that crease from between his brows.

You waited, admittedly impatiently for the team to pack up and leave so that you could do exactly that, fiddling with the wrapper of the candy bar you'd chosen from your secret third drawer stash, Morgan mocked the drawer, said that using candy to help you relax after a hard case was just an emotional crutch- Aaron, however, understood why you needed it and wasn't one to turn away from you bringing him a little snack. You lifted one hand in a gentle wave as JJ walked to the elevator, wishing you a good night and reminding you to get some rest before the doors closed behind her.

You didn't waste a second, looking around one last time to be sure you were alone before quickly sauntering to your partner's office, smiling knowing as he stood perched behind his desk, reading over the paperwork of the case, checking where he still needed to sign before going home, not that he was anywhere close to going home. He noticed you almost immediately, in fact, he'd noticed your longing stares from your desk and the way your legs shook under the desk too, ever impatient, especially for his attention.

"Hey, honey," he breathed not averting his attention from his work just yet, extending an arm, opening himself up so you can attach to his side, a familiar notion as your hand brushed across his chest, slipping under his tie, over his buttons, trying to calm him down without him noticing- failing terribly. "I'm fine," he began, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, melting at the sound of you humming in satisfaction, greedy still, wanting more, wanting him closer, as always, but satisfied with what he gave you. "I'm just tired, we had a long week."

"Well, I brought you something sweet," he looked up at that, hoping you realized the double meaning in your simple statement, the candy bar was not close to being the sweetest thing in the room.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he couldn't fight the soft tug at his lips, a threat of a smile yet not quite, he squeezed your body a little tighter, hand holding you a little closer, not wanting to let go even though he knew he should. "You done for the night?" you nodded against him, allowing your eyes to scan over the stack of papers on his desk, proof that he was asking more for himself than for you.

"You need any help?" you offered and he scoffed, the light kind, the loving kind. "I'm not really tired yet and I don't feel like going home to my empty apartment," you paused, knowing he'd know what you were truly implying, what you really wanted. "Plus, alone time in your office doing paperwork still counts as alone time."

"Hmm," his fingers brushed your chin, tilting your head to look at you and he couldn't fight the smile that met his lips this time, taking you in, looking you over, intoxicated. "We might get through it faster together and I don't have Jack this week so you can come to mine after," you nodded in agreement, happy that he didn't need much convincing, happy that you'd be getting not only a few more hours with him but a whole night after that as well.

"I'll go get us some coffee," you offered, moving to pull away but stopping, meeting Aaron's confused eyes with a quick kiss on his cheek before scurrying off, placing the candy bar on his desk with a knowing look as you did so.

You were humming lightly as you walked to the kitchen, not even noticing Spencer standing quite awkwardly at his desk, caught in a sort of daze with his bookbag over his shoulder and a large book in his hand, a smile on his face that would definitely have made your cheeks tinge with embarrassment.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x yn #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner one shot #monique's event days #right where queue left me #monique's writing events

[luneengene2]

"Papa, I'm not a Jinx"

• Synopsis : 17 years have passed after his wife's death, but Kei has not been able to recover from that loss. The death of his wife due to giving birth to their daughter really made Kei feel numb to any woman. And not only that, a hatred for his daughter also emerged in him and did not disappear for dozens of years. For years he blamed his own daughter; Sora, for his wife's death, because for him if his wife had not kept Sora, Kei would not have lost his wife. During her 17 years of life, Sora never received Kei's love as a daughter. Even more sadly, Sora knew that his father hated her because his wife died giving birth to her. Her father's hatred and the unfairness of life that ehe experienced made Sora sick and in the end she fought back against it which ended in something tragic happening to her.

• Pairings (Platonic) : father!idol!kei x oc!fem!reader

• Warnings : Contains grammatical errors, angst content, suicide, mention of death, talking to spirits (?)

• Type : A Two-Shot Story

• A/N : This story will have two separate parts!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The public always thinks positively about Kei. Saying that he is a good single father, who loves his daughter more than anything. Especially after the death of his wife, many people think that their daughter is everything to him, being his medicine after his wife's death. Even Kei's movements, which always 'appear' to be trying to protect his daughter's privacy from the public, are enough to illustrate that he is a good person. However, all of that is just a lie. Lies to cover up the true image and reality.

The public does not know that Kei, who is said to always protect his daughter from the media or the public, is not because he wants to protect her. But he didn't want his daughter to reveal clearly what her real life was all of a sudden. He doesn't want his daughter to ruin his career, after she ruined his life.

For him, it was enough that his daughter had taken his wife's life, not the career and success he had built with his wife.

"Predicate C- in Mathematics? Can't you be smart for once, Sora?!" Kei threw Sora's math test results harshly after seeing the unsatisfactory results on the paper. Sora winced in surprise and squeezed her skirt as hard as she could when Kei started to look rough.

"Don't you study properly so you always get bad grades in Mathematics?! My money is used to make you smart, not stupid and reckless!" Kei continued sharply, Sora lowered his gaze, not daring to look at his father who would be furious. Kei snorted with a sarcastic smile then looked back at his daughter sharply. "Just once, just once, Koga Sora! Just once you can make me proud, not make me annoyed like this! Is it possible?! Don't waste my money if you just grow up to be a stupid girl," Kei's words succeeded in making a single tear fall from her left eye. Heartache rose in her chest again.

"I don't know why your mother defends a stupid girl like this more than her life which is more valuable than yours," Sora felt her head start to 'spin' because her father started discussing the past which was her weakest point. The death of her mother he never met. "If your mother hadn't kept you, my money wouldn't have been wasted to provide for you," Kei continued, whose emotions still hadn't subsided, he never cared about Sora's feelings when he said this sensitive thing.

"Why don't you just die if you're just bothering everyone, Sora? You know, your presence ruined my whole life," Hearing this thing repeated over and over for dozens of years made Sora start to get sick of it, it always sounded clear in her ears. Playing in her head like a broken record. Sora raised her head then looked at his father with tears streaming down her face. "Then why don't you just kill me, Papa? Why didn't you just strangle me to death when I was a baby if I ruined your life? Why did you raise me if you hate me? Why not just throw me into an orphanage? Why keep me?" Kei was quite shocked when his daughter dared to reply to his words for the first time. For years, Sora remained silent when she was insulted by Kei, but this time he actually responded and asked a trick question.

Kei raised his eyebrows then let out a breath that seemed to mock Sora. "One of my late wife's wills was to protect her bad luck, so I'm just carrying out the trust she gave me," Kei said flatly which made Sora close her eyes, tears continued to flow from her eyes. "Why are you looking after the jinx, Papa? You know, if I can trade my soul to save Mama, then I'm willing to trade my soul if it can bring Mama back to you," Kei immediately laughed softly when Sora said that. "Trading your soul? Even with insects you're afraid, idiot girl. Don't act stupid,"

"I'm an idiot because of you, Papa. You're the one who made me an idiot like this," hearing Sora's words that accused him then made Kei furious and stood up from his chair. "What did you just say?!" Kei asked in a low but pressured voice. Sora got up from his seat too and looked at Kei with a hurt expression.

"Isn't that true right? You couldn't educate me well until I became an idiot like this, all my life you only blamed me, right? Not like Uncle Taki, who received a good upbringing from you," Kei gripped Sora's shoulder hard, even though she was in pain, Sora's facial expression did not change. "Why should I educate a jinx? It's useless," His words were piercing.

"Useless? Then kill me now! Kill me, Mr Koga! Kill me and send me to my mother! Kill me so you can live in peace! kill me if you have a grudge against me! Fucking kill me right now!" Sora put her father's hand around her neck, and seemed to guide Kei's hand to strangle her as hard as possible. Kei was immediately really shocked when his daughter acted like this, making him panic, not wrapped up in emotions.

Suddenly, a flash of his late wife lying weak in the hospital spun around, and was replaced with Sora's face in the same condition, but wearing a white dress. Like a corpse about to be put in a coffin. And it spun repeatedly as long as Kei's hand was still around his daughter's neck.

For some reason, Sora's energy became very strong, making it difficult for Kei to pull his hand from Sora's neck, and this succeeded in making Sora's breath become thinner because his hand kept pressing Kei's hand on her neck. This made Kei panic even more, unconsciously tears also started to flow from his eyes.

Like it or not, Kei used his free hand to push Sora until the young girl was thrown onto the sofa quite hard. Kei also almost fell because of his own push.

Sora was shocked, her eyes stared at the sofa and then he hit the sofa hard while crying quite hysterically. Frustrated and tired of what she was going through. Kei just stared and then left his study, as if to let Sora cry there to her heart's content.

Kei's feelings immediately fell apart drastically, he wiped away the tears that had suddenly come out. Leaving Sora who seemed insane in his study.

~One week later~

The incident one week ago actually made Kei and Sora's relationship even worse. Sora rarely goes home and spends more time at her uncle EJ's family's house. Kei's group friends don't know what really happened, why Sora rarely comes home, even though Sora always comes home even though Kei treats her badly.

Kei entered the bathroom, he woke up at five in the morning. He immediately brushed his teeth and washed his face. When he looked in the mirror, he was surprised by the figure of a woman wearing a white dress with a headband. Her face was flat and cold, looking at Kei with anger and disappointment (?). Kei immediately recognized the woman's figure. His late wife. Nami. Not afraid or screaming, Kei was immediately shocked when he saw Nami's figure in the mirror. This was the first time he met Nami again in dozens of years. Kei looked and Nami was still standing in front of her.

"Oh my darling," Kei said softly, he approached Nami and was about to touch her, but the touch was transparent. Making Kei pull his hand back. "Nami my love, it's been a dozen years since you left me, I still miss you and remain like that. I can't get up from that downturn, darling. Why don't you ever come to my dreams to meet me for just a moment?" Kei's question made Nami's figure look even darker at him. A look that Nami had never given during the time she was alive. Kei quite got goosebumps when that gaze pierced him deeply.

"Because I hate you, Kei. My soul hates you after seeing how you behaved after I died," Nami answered, her tone really hurt. Kei was shocked when Nami said that to him. "But why—"

"You treat my daughter like trash, the daughter whose life I fought for, hoping she could be happy with you, but you treat her like trash. She's not trash, she's our daughter!" Nami said that with a loud cry. "As long as I die, I feel tormented by what you did to my Sora! You violated my will to look after her, you made my daughter suffer, I really hate you!" Nami screamed hysterically.

"Nami she made you die—"

"Shut your bastard mouth, Koga Yudai! Shut your fucking mouth!" Nami snapped harshly, cutting off Yudai's words. "You know, if I were still alive and saw how you treated him so badly, I wouldn't hesitate to kill you! You want her dead? Your words can come true if you don't immediately realize what you have been doing all this time. You could lose Sora, Yudai. Losing your only daughter. Without you realizing it, she is your precious treasure. Sora's death will be a more painful disaster than my death for you," As if struck by lightning, Kei really felt hit by Nami's words. He also felt a feeling of disapproval if that happened to Sora.

BRAK!

Suddenly Kei opened his eyes. And his body was actually on the bed. He looked around his dark room, and it turned out that his meeting with Nami was just a dream. Kei sighed then covered his face, he looked frustrated. But, he was grateful that it was just a dream. Kei thought that what Nami said in his dream was just a form of his pain because he missed her. There's no way Nami hates Kei, right?

Kei got up from his bed, closed the open window which caused the loud sound. After closing the window Kei looked at the clock on the wall in his room, it was 5.30 in the morning. It was still quite early, but usually Kei was awake at this time.

Today is a routine practice schedule before &Team's world tour. Making Kei is really rare at home.

Drrrt drttttt

Kei's cell phone suddenly vibrated quite loudly. Kei immediately took his cell phone. And it turns out, Euijoo was calling him. Kei frowned in surprise. Why did Euijoo call him at this hour?

Kei immediately picked up the phone, worried that Euijoo had something important to say.

Kei : Hello, Euijoo. What is—

Euijoo : I'm really going to beat you up right now, Yudai! Or maybe kill you!

Kei was immediately shocked when Euijoo immediately shouted at him in informal language. Euijoo isn't usually like this.

Kei : Euijoo, what's wrong? Did I make a mistake?

Euijoo : Yeah, you made a big mistake, and in an instant you almost lost another part of yourself! Bastard!

Kei : Euijoo what do you mean?! Calm yourself. Why are you getting angry like this at me?!

Euijoo : You'd better calm yourself down after I say this. Your daughter attempted suicide! She threw herself in the river near my house! She was found in critical condition and was quite far away!

Silence. Kei didn't speak at all after hearing that. His brain couldn't even accept what Euijoo meant.

Kei : Don't joke, Euijoo. This isn't funny! Is this a plan by you and that kid so she can gain my sympathy?!

Euijoo : What are you saying? You are such a bastard! Your daughter is fighting a battle between life and death, and you think this is a trick? Damn man!

Kei didn't speak any more, as if something heavy had hit him. When Euijoo mentioned the hospital where Sora was being treated, Kei immediately hung up the phone and took the car keys. Fuck, he's still wearing his pajamas, he looks like he's really about to experience a major disaster.

During the trip to the hospital, Kei couldn't stop cursing. He even cried hysterically and had to stop for a moment to clear his head. The shadows of the past came back to haunt him.

And, the events of a dozen years ago started to play back in his head like a broken record. A memory where he lost his wife forever. And his imagination if he saw Sora in a coffin, made him even more heartbroken. That imagination, the imagination he always hated even though he didn't 'want' his daughter.

He regrets it...

PART 2...

#&team imagines #&team angst #&team k #koga yudai #&team #kpop angst

[girl-of-many-fandoms]

Sherlock being Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Sherlock undermines Y/N’s intelligence while helping out on a case.

Warnings: none

First attempt at writing for Sherlock hope you guys enjoy! 😊

MASTERLIST

---

"Shut up would you darling. You're about as sharp as a sack full of soup when it comes to these things-"

"Sherlock-"

"And sadly I don't have the time nor patience to draw a picture using crayons to explain it to you. So make yourself useful by leaving!" Sherlock knocked all the scattered books and papers that littered his desk in frustration, they weren't making any progress in the case they were working and they had hoped that the teacher could be of use but she also hit a block.

"Sherlock! Y/N you don't have to go, he didn’t mean that." John wanted to smack his friend upside his head for speaking to the one woman that meant something to him like she's some piece of garbage.

"He does." Turning on her heels, she grabbed her bag and headed out the door and down the steps, John briefly glared at Sherlock as he chased after her.

"Y/N wait!" She looked over at him as she slipped on her coat to leave. John paused on the second step trying to come up with the right things to say to get her to not walk out the door and quite potentially Sherlock's life.

"He's an ass and says things that shouldn't be said-"

"Like implying that my IQ level is in the bloody trenches, yeah I gathered that."

"He's just Sherlock being Sherlock."

"No, that's Sherlock being an outright twit that doesn't have a filter." Before he could squeeze another word out, Y/N stormed out the door slamming it shut behind her.

"You're wasting time John, she’s of no use to us with our case. We have so much to-" John turned to look at the curly haired man that stood on the landing.

"What the hell was that?! You didn’t have to call her an idiot like that for goodness sake Sherlock, she's an incredible woman. A woman that loves and cares for you, might I add and you're self destruction is surely going to push her away."

"Oh so what?" John rolled his eyes as he stomped his way back up the stairs to their shared flat.

"You are going to apologise and fix this with her because everyone knows that there isn’t going to be another woman to put up with you and your brash behaviour. I don't even know how she's put up with you for nine months." Sherlock hung his head low, his words finally catching up to him. He knows that he did have to rectify his mistake of yelling at her and making her out to be an idiot when in fact, she's remarkably intelligent.

"I'm serious Sherlock, as soon as we wrap this up you are going to fix this."

"No, nope I need to go after her right now."

"No, if you go after her that's only going to end badly for your face."

---

The rain was pouring down on all of London at eight forty-five at night and Sherlock's pace quickened in the direction of Y/N's home. He shook off the heavy water off of his coat as he took shelter beneath the awning over her front door.

Y/N placed her bookmark in the current novel she was reading and set it off to the side. The doorbell rung again and this time she willed herself from under her blanket and off the couch to go answer the door. It's raining cats and dogs outside so whoever was at her door had to have a good reason to be.

"Hello- oh, it's you."

"Hello, may I?" As much as she would rather not let him into her home it was cold and wet outside and by the looks of it, he had walked here in the pouring rain; and she didn't want him to catch a cold. She headed back up the stairs to her flat leaving Sherlock to let himself in and remove his coat as well as his shoes.

"Why are you here, Holmes? My level of intelligence is miniscule compared to yours and I'm sure you'd rather be in the company of someone that shares your level of competence." Sherlock watched quietly as she fastened her robe to her body to cover up herself. Y/N was still angry at him for earlier and he knew that. He stood in the middle of her living space, dripping water onto her hardwood flooring.

"You know where your clothes are go change, your creating a puddle." Y/N put the kettle on to make tea for the both of them, not like he deserved anything other than a proper slap across the face. While he was changing he tried to formulate the right way to handle this without shoving his foot in his mouth.

"Could we sit down dear?"

"Nope, I'm good right where I am in the kitchen, you could stay all the way over there."

"Don't want me close to you?"

"Unless you want to be bashed in the head with this kettle I think it's best if you stay far away from me." Sherlock brushed off her bluff, closing the distance between them with his long strides. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared into the pair of blue eyes she's grown to love as he stood mere centimeters away from her.

"I'm sorry."

"For what exactly?"

"For losing my temper, yelling and for saying something I didn't mean. I didn't mean it when I called you useless or made a comment on your intellect, it was the spur of the moment. I was frustrated and I took it out on you when you were only trying to help." Sherlock brushed his knuckles against her cheek and she instinctively leaned into his touch bringing a smile to his face.

"I get that you were frustrated but that isn't a valid excuse Sherlock. You called me darling and a useless idiot in the same breath."

"I know darling and I promise it'll never happen again. Allow me to make it up to you." The towering man kissed the crown of her head, cheek and bridge of her nose making her heart flutter at his affection.

"You've got your work cut out for you Mr. Holmes because I'm not going to make it easy for you and your astonishing brilliance."

"I do love a challenge."

"I know." Sherlock finally pressed his lips against hers in a gentle kiss which was cut short by her kneeling him in the groin. He grunted in pain and stumbled back, holding his crotch in pain. Y/N smiled watching as he doubled over still groaning in agony.

"I deserved that."

---

Honestly don't know if I'll keep writing for Sherlock but we'll see.

Honorary tags:

@sketch-and-write-lover @blackcat420

#sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock x reader #sherlock x reader #benedict cumberbatch imagine #benedict cumberbatch x reader #benedict cumberbatch x y/n

[holdupjack]

Loser

——————

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fem!Reader

WARNING: ANGST/GASLIGHTING/ONE SIDED RELATIONSHIP/CHEATING

——————

Your P.O.V:

"Get up"

I feel a hard shove into my side as I woken suddenly, my heart pounds from the scare as I'm greeted by the glare of my girlfriend.

"You missed classes" she mumbles as she throws her papers next to me and walk to my desk, immediately starting her work.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to over sleep" I whisper and she hums sarcastically.

"Do you wanna get some dinner?" I ask.

"Already did"

"Oh...do you want to go to the lake?"

"No"

"Do you-"

"Y/n, I don't really feel like going anywhere" she grits out and I can feel my stomach shrink and fall.

"Sorry" I whisper as I gently grab the papers from next to me and stare at it.

"Thanks 'Mione" I say and she just hums again.

It's silent as she softly writes out her answers onto her paper, her leg shaking up and down.

"Are you okay-"

"Y/n, can you shut up for five minutes? I'm trying to finish my Potions homework" she sighs out and I look down, deciding not to answer.

I get up and change into some clothes more presentable and start to walk to my door.

"Where are you going?" She asks and I turn to find her staring at me softly.

"I was going to get something to eat" I say and her face turns into a sad one.

I feel guilt swarm in my chest.

"I thought we could just enjoy each other's company..." she whispers as her eyes set back on her homework.

"Well...I guess I could just grab breakfast tomorrow" I say and she looks back at me with a grin.

"Come here love" Hermione says as she scoots her chair out for me to sit in her lap.

As I sit down, her free hand wraps around me and gently traces shapes on my thigh, but it's...cold.

Almost feeling forced.

"I love you" she mumbles and I feel my smile appear.

"I love you too Hermione" I whisper back, but a solid frown stays on her lips as she continues to write down what she needs.

My body stays tense, hoping to stay in this somewhat romantic position for as long as possible.

Who knows when she'll do this again.

"Can you go back to bed, you're to heavy" she mumbles and I feel my self esteem plummet.

"Oh, s-sure" I whisper as I quickly get up and walk back to my bed, placing her notes back on the desk beside her.

"Not going to do anything today?" She mutters and I stop my motions.

"Well-"

"What a surprise" she mumbles and I turn to her.

"What do you mean?" I ask quietly and she scoffs turning to me.

"You sleep all day! You haven't come to class in four days!" She says and I shrink a little as she stands up.

"God, even my cat does more shit than you" she laughs out and I look down at my floor.

"Hermione-"

"You know what, I should of dumped your ass months ago" she says and my eyes dart up to hers.

"But I was so sure you would of caught on that Ron and I have been sleeping together by now...just shows how stupid you truly are" she says through her teeth as she gets in my face.

I feel my heart squeeze so hard in my chest, I swear it could pop.

"No wonder your past ex's warned me about how much of a loser you are, they were trying to save me from the train wreck that is 'Y/n Y/l/n'." Hermione says as she grabs all her books and notes into her arms.

"Do us all a favor, and get yourself together...you just make yourself to be the biggest disappointment" she continues as she walks to the door.

Hermione turns to me with one last glare and scoff.

"What a waste of my time"

The door slams shut as I stand there stunned, my ears ring slightly.

Even though I cried for a month, and tried to distance myself from the girl, she came around again.

Her soft touches and compliments run on my skin and into my lungs like air.

I told myself to not fall for her again.

But alas, she said four words that trick me every time.

"I love you Y/n"

My self esteem was gone, and my logical thinking tainted.

What do I have to offer to someone else anyways?

"Are you coming?"

"Yes, 'Mione"

#hermione granger x reader #hermione granger #harry potter #angst #lesbian

[kaltacore]

Some time after the Blight ends, they're invited to Redcliffe. There's going to be a statue in their honour, the letter says, made by one of the best Fereldan artists — and it needs their approval for some reason. A formal one, of course. “At least they didn't pay Orlesians. Let them stick to their fancy chateaus,” Alistair says jokingly, but he seems excited — and Keeris, well, not that much. She doesn't tell him about it anyway. He deserves to feel like a hero for once. Statues and celebrations and all.

It's nice to see Redcliffe rebuild though. It's nice to see anything rebuild — no more darkspawn and barricades, no more walking corpses and burning roofs. Former wastelands are green and full of blooming spring flowers that cover the ruins of something that cannot be restored anymore, completely destroyed houses and fallen mill wings that no one had time to take away; it's a beautiful sight. She'd better stay here instead of going to the castle. She's, frankly, sick of the castles — and they are probably sick of her.

People inside are still friendly, though. Cheerful even. Keeris sees the shade of nervousness crossing Eamon's face when he shakes her hand, but it's not unexpected, really — he couldn't be that fond of her, not after what happened at the Landsmeet, she's aware of that.

The Fereldan sculptor, on the other hand, is very proud and just can't stop talking — about the greatness of his project and how honoured he is to work on it and set the Heroes of Ferelden in stone. Before he bows his head, he gives her a brief look, a strange one for sure, almost terrified — Keeris doesn't know what to make of it nor she wants to try.

Then, he shows it. The art, the concept. It's a big, big piece of paper full of little sketches and drafts and one glorious drawing of a statue in the middle of it.

For a moment, no one says a word.

“What is that?” Alistair asks and his voice sounds genuinely baffled. There are tones of anger in it, loud and clear. Keeris slightly squeezes his hand.

She's not surprised at all.

The statue is a man and a woman in Grey Warden uniforms standing in pretentiously heroic poses. A man resembles Alistair very well, with the same features and even the way he holds his shield. It's almost like him, really, just lifelessly stony grey.

A woman is slightly shorter than him: her features are smooth and pretty, her braided hair is long and wavy, scattered by the wind, and her ears are flat. Her face is so strangely, unfamiliarly bare.

Oh, it does make her angry, furious even. Just a little. Even if she shouldn't care.

She shouldn't care, a girl with vallaslin and sharp features and sharp ears and hair too short to cover them.

“Somehow,” she says calmly, looking Eamon straight in the eyes, “I didn't expect less from your kind.”

They argue. Alistair and Eamon, mostly — she herself wouldn't waste time on it nor she thinks it would change anything, but now they can't go away and loudly shut the door.

Eamon says something about his gratitude. Something about the gratitude of his people and how they all cherish both of them here. Something about the cruelness of the world around. Something about the vile, vile people, who are obviously not there, but they will come and they will not tolerate an elf standing in the middle of their beautiful human town. They will not let it be.

Of course, they won't. She saw the alienage in Denerim. She saw what Anora did to it after she gave her a crown and was proclaimed a friend. It always ends up like this. All the promises and gratitude — they never matter. She learnt it the hard way.

“Then,” she says finally, “Don't make it. Don't place it here. If not for my people's sake — don't lie to your own at least.”

Nobody dares to object.

They leave in awkward, unpleasant silence: no farewells, no partings. They don't even stay for the night at Redcliffe. Alistair keeps repeating he's sorry, that he never wanted it to be this way, that he was sure his uncle would do better than this — Keeris laughs with just a little bitterness in her voice. He shouldn't be sorry. She was the one who took his statue away, wasn't she? He promises they will get a nice, proper one. Maybe somewhere in Amaranthine.

Another letter comes, informing them it is going to be a griffon. A beautiful creature, a symbol, a compromise, it says. None of them respond.

When they get to Redcliffe a couple of years later, there it is, standing in a square. No faces, no names and no shameless lies.

People here still recognise them. They wave their hands when they pass by and promise to buy them a beer if they happen to be around. An elven servant in the crowd blesses her path with Mythal's name. A young girl throws her a flower crown.

They do not put portraits in the archives of Weisshaupt after all.

At least there is no woman who never was.

#i'm sorry. i've been rotating this headcanon in my brain for a year now #and i don't have time nor ideas to put it in a fic. so here it is. #anyway really was thinking a lot. about that statue. i know bioware made it the way it is so it could symbolise all of the players' wardens #but uhh. was thinking about it a little too much and got carried away. and here we are #gonna start posting my stuff here more for practice ig. also i got too confident bear with me #my writing #oc: keeris mahariel #alistair theirin #dragon age

[luveline]

a special friend, part nine | fred weasley x reader

summary you buy Fred too many biscuits, tell him some uncomfortable truths, and try to make sense of how much you love him [8k]

warmings fluff, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, implied/referenced self-harm, self-harm is talked about in depth but there is no graphic description of the act itself, body image, talk of sex but nothing graphic, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem reader

chapter list here

"You don't have to do those," Fred says from the table, a biro in hand. 

You take the washing up liquid into your hands and pour it onto the rough green scrub of a sponge, stomach pressing into the lip of the countertop. "It's okay." 

"I'll do them after I finish this," he says anyway. 

"Please let me do them." 

Fred bites the end of his pen – which you've warned him against doing, lest it explode in his mouth – and raises his eyebrows without looking up. You take that for a go ahead. 

The water is blisteringly hot. You pull down the shutter on the boiler next to the sink and set the heat lower though it won't make much difference now. 

Your hands start to sting, but it's a sting you like. It's familiar. It hurts. 

Fred hums under his breath at the table. He's a diligent book keeper. You're too stupid for it, and he'd never let you anyways. You're surprised he's let you do the dishes, hadn't said, Ghost, no. Go watch your show.

He goes through phases. Sometimes, it's as though he doesn't want you to do anything at all. It gets to the point where every time you shower he's offering to wash your hair. 

When you'd asked George about it, he'd only said, "He loves you." 

"I know that." 

"I don't know what you want me to tell you." 

What did you want George to tell you? Maybe that it's something every boy does.  

But no, you don't think so. You're just lucky. 

Eventually Fred seems to realise what he's doing and gives it a rest. Like now, a few days ago he might've taken the sponge from your hand, kissed your head and bumped your hip to get you to go sit down. But you're very much in the after of his over-caring, so he doesn't protest. 

Plus, when you say please, Fred's always been a total goner. That hasn't changed. 

"Are you-" You cringe as a plate clinks against another cruelly. "Are you getting on okay with the pens?" you ask, looking over your shoulder. 

Fred grins at you. "What do you think it says about wizards that we have to refill our quill nibs every ten seconds? All that mess and time wasted when muggles were using these ten years ago."

"I think…" You set the last dish on the drying rack. "It says we're misguided. Like a self-inking quill," you say slowly. 

Your thoughts have felt thick as molasses all day, and you turn back to the sink to try and finish the dishes and feel abruptly weird. Not upset, but a sinking feeling.

"Like a self-inking quill," you repeat, hoping to catch the thread. 

"We invented a charm before we even thought about something as simple and convenient as a pen," Fred says, saving you. 

"Yeah, exactly." He always knows what you're trying to say. 

You shut off the tap and watch the water drain down the sink. Your hands are wet and very warm against the countertops edge. 

"Come and sit with me," Fred says lightly. 

You blink hard, wipe your face with your wet hands and exhale. 

"Are you-" 

"I think I want something else to eat," you say. 

Fred is quiet. You turn to him and he's smiling at you, pen flat on the table. "Yeah? Dessert?" 

"Yes, please." 

"Alright." He sounds legitimately excited. 

Fred gathers his papers and slides them between the leaves of his fancy leather planner before standing and meeting you in the middle of the kitchen. His hand reaches for you unconsciously, squeezing your shoulder and encouraging you toward the cupboard. 

"What do you fancy?" he asks, opening the cupboard. It's not bare but certainly not full. 

Your options are pretty lackluster. He has tins of sweetened fruit, condensed milk, rice pudding. He even has a tin of tapioca, but none of it looks very exciting.

"Do you even like tapioca?" you ask. 

"No, I don't." He hums unhappily. "I'm embarrassed." 

"We could go to the shop." 

"At this time? Would anything be open?" 

"Tesco's." 

He looks down at you with obvious fondness. "Tesco. What is that, a type of dog?" 

You leave to search his bedroom for something to wear that isn't your pajama bottoms. "Freddie," you murmur, picking through the clothes you keep at the bottom of his cupboard, "have you seen my skirt? The paisley one?" 

"Is it the purple one?" 

"Yeah. Like a red-purple." 

He disappears and returns with an armful of clothes from the radiator, dumping it unceremoniously on the end of the and pulling out your skirt with a triumphant smile. "Here. I like this one. I remember the first time you wore it." 

"You do?" 

"Yeah, of course I do. You don't?" 

You nibble the inside of your lip and sit down on the bed to pull on a pair of tights. Fred's gaze wanders to your thigh. You watch his expression change from happy to nothing to happy again. 

You stand up to put on your skirt. "No, I can't remember," you say apologetically. 

"The first time we kissed, you were wearing that skirt." 

That seems as appropriate a time you're going to get to ask for a kiss. You sidle up to him and he looks down at you knowingly, reaching out for your shoulders. Long, kind hands fit over the slopes of them. 

"You know you… you really confused me," you tell him. 

He throws his arms completely over your shoulders and pulls your chest to his. "When?" 

"That day. Our first day." 

His lips quirk up into a cheeky smile. "Right." He leans down for a short kiss, perfectly chaste. "How did I confuse you? I promise I didn't mean to," he says softly. 

"You- you said our relationship wouldn't be-" 

"Appropriate," he says, again so softly. His smile is sympathetic. "Yeah, I remember. I remember. God, I'm sorry. It was a bad attempt at flirting." 

"It worked." 

"I wanted to follow you as soon as I said it, but you didn't seem like you cared. When I did follow you I was worried I got all the signs wrong, I could barely speak." 

He's relaxed despite the anxiety of the situation he recalls – it had been the most heart-racing half-hour of your life. You would love to think he'd felt the same. But now there's the vast proof of your affection for each other. All that hesitation is funny to look back on. 

"Why were you worried, Freddie? I mean," you giggle self-consciously, "I was obvious, wasn't I?" 

"No you were not."

You wait for him to expand, confused. 

"You were especially hard to read. You're still hard to read now, only I've gotten better at it. Or that's what I'd like to think." 

"Oh." 

Fred cups your cheek. "You think you're obvious?" 

"I thought so. I thought you could tell that I liked you." 

He holds your head in place and kisses the opposite cheek, a perfect press of his lips. 

He rubs your cheek and then moves away to pull on one of his mum-made jumpers, offering you your cardigan. 

"I couldn't tell. I mean, we'd been friends for so long at that point I assumed all your affection was just friendly, and you kept surprising me." He smiles like this is the best thing in the world, that being surprised might mean the same thing as winning the lottery. "You looked lovely. You knew you looked lovely." 

You try not to feel embarrassed. Taking pride in your appearance is still new, and it feels like something you shouldn't do. Like you're not allowed.

"You're pretty," he says simply. "And when you know it, you get this glow." 

"I do not." 

"You do!" 

"Like a pregnant woman?" 

He laughs. You push your slippery feet into your shoes. "No, dummy. Not like a pregnant woman. Are you ready?" 

"Do you know where the Tesco's is?" you ask curiously, taking his outstretched hand. He squeezes your fingers. His touch keeps the creeping anxious nausea of side-along disapparation at bay. 

"I was just gonna go to the town centre, by the charity shop. Where you bought that nice dress." 

"You bought the dress. I only wore it." 

He smiles. "You okay?" 

You nod and squeeze his fingers in turn. 

Suddenly you're slammed between places, knees buckling as your feet slide from the worn light wood of the Weasley flat and onto the uneven tar of an alleyway. It's bitingly cold and the alley is dark, streetlight leeching toward you both but not quite reaching. 

Fred checks you over silently. 

"It's cold," he complains immediately afterward, pulling you down the alley and onto the main street. 

It's as blinding as it always is. You let him steer you down the pavement, through couples and commuters. You almost bump head on with a girl wearing big huge headphones that you've never seen in person before, and you can't help following her with your eyes. 

"Tesco is the blue one?" Fred asks. 

"It's a small one here. By the pharmacy." 

"Where was that?" 

It takes you an abundance of long cold minutes to locate the shop you're looking for, and when you do Fred marches you inside. You stand just past the automatic doors and he steals your hands to rub between his own, fretting about how chilly it is today and how neither of you had worn a coat, and maybe he can buy you one. 

"I don't need a new coat. Can we go look at the fruit?"

It's impossible to find. You walk down skinny aisles of tinned foods, cold drinks, crisps. 

Fred grabs the end of your cardigan and anchors you to him. "Hey, biscuits." 

There's a lot of biscuits. 

"What ones should we get?" 

You move next to him until your thighs are touching, to his evident delight. He throws an arm over your shoulder and gives you another nice kiss on your cheek. "How about we get all of them?" 

"We can't get all of them." 

"How about just all the ones we like?" he asks hopefully.

You think about your purse in your pocket, how you never spend money on yourself. If Fred wants biscuits, he should have as many as he wants. 

You lift your head toward his and grin. "Yeah, okay." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah," you laugh, "go get a basket, loverboy." 

His turn to laugh. His hand drags over your shoulders as he pulls away, and you stand alone in the aisle and wait for him to come back. There's so many biscuits. Cookies with white chocolate chips and dried raspberries, hobnobs with caramel centres, jammy dodgers, jaffa cakes, Welsh shortbreads. There's classic digestives, rich teas and even the fancier Border's biscuits, the ones you only see at Christmas time. 

"Hey gorgeous," Fred calls as he returns. 

"Hey," you say gently. 

"Did you choose any?" 

You only hesitate for a moment before picking up the Border's and placing them delicately in the basket. Fred beams but doesn't comment. You refuse to think about anything as you pick up the shortbread, plain and chocolate chip.  

"Nice," he says. Fred picks up the jaffa cakes with an assessing eye. 

"You've never seen them before?" 

"Don't think so. Do you like them?" 

You shrug. No matter your answer, you don't want to discourage him from trying them. "They have orange jam in the middle. You'll like them." 

He nods and puts them in the basket. He goes to keep you moving and you plant yourself. 

"Fred, you gotta pick some more."

"I like what we have." 

"Fred-" 

"I'm gonna buy you your weight in chocolate, ghost. We have enough biscuits." 

You don't let him buy as much chocolate as he'd promised. He picks out a tray of truffles. You kneel down and search through the children's sweeties and find a bag of white chocolate buttons covered in sprinkles.

"Freddie," you say, thrilled, "have you had these before?" 

He bends down to meet you. You must look strange, two grown adults crouched in the middle of the shop, but neither of you has the wherewithal to care. It's often like this with him. You exist in your own world. 

"Don't think so," he says, taking them with his usual gentleness and dropping them onto your growing pile of treats. 

"I used to love them." 

"I bet they're amazing," he says earnestly. "These sweets are all literally covered in sugar. Sugar's supposed to go inside them, not on them." 

You select some of the aforementioned sugar covered sweets and drop them in. "They're sour." 

"Me and George gave Ron an Hour Sour once that we'd charmed to last three days." 

You gawp at him. 

"Don't look at me like that." 

"Did he-"

"Cry? For most of the second day." 

You're suddenly seeing him in a new light. "That's awful." 

"We felt really bad. Genuinely." 

He helps you back up to your feet. 

"Did you lay off him for a while?"

"A whole week." 

"Awful! That's awful. You're such bullies." 

There's not a trace of genuineness in what you're saying. Fred is the nicest person you've ever met in your entire life, and George is the second. 

"I know," he murmurs, eyes on the label of a whistle lolly. "How's it a whistle?" 

"It just is." 

He's stricken. "But how?" 

"You'll have to find out." You chuck two in the basket. 

"We need to find your fruit. And a real dessert." 

Fruits are found. Desserts contemplated. You end up with a tub of neapolitan ice cream and a cake to heat up in the oven. 

You slide the basket off of Fred's arm and pretend to look very cold. There's no way a shop this small will have clothes, but Fred has no way of knowing that. 

"Do you…" You put on your best act. If you just all out asked for something Fred would never believe you. "Do you think they have coats here?" 

"Let's go look," he says quickly, nodding his head to the side. 

You part your lips as if thinking about it and then shake your head. "My legs are tired. We should go home." 

Conflicted, he calculates his options and then picks the one you'd known he would, the chivalrous, much too thoughtful one.  

"I'll find you something. You can wait here, alright?" 

He leaves, his smile charged with promise. As soon as he's disappeared in the direction of the cleaning and bathroom supplies you turn to the tills and pay for all your stuff. There's so many things that you need two bags. 

Fred appears a little while later, at first apologetic and then unhappy. 

"Did you just pay for that?" 

"I didn't steal it," you say wryly. 

He wrangles the bags out of your unwilling hands and sighs. "They didn't have any jackets, sweetheart, I'm sorry. You can have my jumper." 

"I'm not really cold. Sorry." 

He squints. You squint back. 

"You sneak," he says finally. 

You spin on your heel so you're walking backwards and he follows you out of the shop. "Good trick, right?" 

"Good trick," he agrees. 

You laugh. It feels good in the cold air, with him, to let your head dip back just a touch and look up at the sky. There's too much light pollution to see any stars, but the sky is pitch black. You could fall into it. 

-

George Weasley bursts into his brother's bedroom and launches himself on top of him. 

Fred seizes up and forces his face further into his pillow. "Ow, ghost." 

"In what world would Y/N ever do anything like this?" 

Fred frowns with his eyes closed, grows incredibly still and then turns his body onto the side. George slides off of the bed and onto the floor with a terrible thump. 

"You fucking prick." 

"Shut up." 

George pouts on the ground for a moment before rising into a sitting position. Directly in his eyeline is a photograph of said ghost, smiling and posing with more life than George has ever seen you display in front of a camera. 

"Where is ghostie?" 

"She's went home." 

"She lives here." 

"She does not live here," Fred grumbles unhappily. 

"Oh, sorry. I just thought, from the state she left the living room in last night that she was paying rent." 

"Fuck off," Fred says with no heat. "Be nice. It was mostly me." 

"Where was my invite?" 

"I was hoping something would transpire that you'd rather not be involved in." Fred doesn't sound bitter. He sounds strangely upset. 

George tilts his head to the side. "Disgusting. Still should've invited me." 

"There's cake left." 

George stands and leaves for the kitchen. He eats the leftover cake cold, a winner's breakfast if he does say so himself, and pops the kettle on. His twin soon emerges, unhappy and still obviously tired. 

"Your hair's too long," George says.

"She likes it like this." 

George licks his fingers clean of icing and opens the cupboard for two mugs. "Ghost would like you bald, I think. Love makes you blind. And plain stupid." 

"Angelina wouldn't like you bald." 

"Angelina has self-preservation. Is tea okay or are you dying?" 

Fred waves his hand. "Anything. Whatever you're having." 

Quite right. George makes two identical cups of tea and plants them on the kitchen table. He offers Fred a small spoon to fish out the tea bag and retrieves the milk from the fridge. 

"Why did she go home?" 

"She can't always stay here. It's not healthy." 

"Sure it is. Married people sleep together every single day." 

Fred drinks his tea, winces at how hot it is and then sets it down. "There's loads of biscuits in the cupboard." 

George raises his eyebrows and goes to look. "Oh, yes. This is more like it. More obscene spoiling?"

"Y/N spoiling me." 

"No way! She never buys me anything." 

George tips enough biscuits for a family five onto a plate and places them grandly at the table. He must've eaten half in the time it takes Fred to wake up, and when he does he doesn't seem happy. 

"Listen," George says slowly, "if there's something you wanna talk about, I'll try not to laugh. Swears." 

"How generous of you." 

George knows what's wrong, he just doesn't want to say it out loud. 

"Does it happen with you and Angelina? Um. Dry spells?" Fred asks eventually. 

"All the time. Girls are different, mate. They're not always on."  

"What if she thinks I'm ugly?" 

"I've always been the more handsome of us." 

They both laugh at their joking. 

Fred eats a biscuit forlornly. "I read this thing," he says slowly. 

"Now why would you do that?" George asks. He means it. He's told Fred a hundred times to ignore all the magazine's and muggle health journals. 

"About low moods. Affecting your sex drive." 

George wrinkles his nose. 

"She's never… we've never not been on the same page about it. And I know if she's upset about something she won't tell me, so I thought maybe she's upset and not telling me and that's why she doesn't want to-" He shrugs rather than say it. George is grateful. He doesn't ever want to hear about his brothers sex life. 

"You were having your honeymoon phase," he says simply. It makes sense. Eventually, the newness wears away, though the fondness remains. 

Fred drops his face into his hand. "I was worried you'd say that." 

"Don't make me spell it out for you, Forge. I really don't want to. It feels like talking about Ginny's sex life with Harry." 

"You talk about-" 

"No." 

"I think maybe I'm being very narcissistic." 

"You definitely are." 

Fred rubs his eyes with both hands. "She's getting into her head again." 

This catches George's attention. Perhaps he doesn't always know what Fred's thinking. He puts his tea down heavily and asks, "What?" 

"I'm worried she'll start all the picking and things." Things is a very nice way to say that you'd been hurting yourself. George doesn't blame him for avoiding the specifics. It's never a nice thing to say out loud. 

He breaks a biscuit in half, dropping half in his mug and half in Fred's to soften. "Are you alright?" 

Fred scrunches up his face. "What?" 

"Are you okay?" 

"What?" 

"Fred." 

They stare at each other. Fred looks very stressed. George hates it. 

"Ghost isn't going to start hurting herself again. I don't know why you're thinking about it, but that's not happening," George says, sympathetic but firm. "It's been a while since she did. It's been almost as long since she wanted to. She told you last time, yeah?" 

And you had. It had been a bit of a shock to George when he'd heard it, though it was his own fault for eavesdropping. Fred had been stationed at the front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes peddling the last of the Peruvian darkness powder and George had been a ways away feeding the pygmy puffs. 

You'd been taking it easy behind the counter top at the back. Quiet for a few days, nothing they hadn't been through with you before, your mood wavering. Your footsteps had been close to silent as you'd made your way to the front and stopped at Fred's side. There had been silence for a while, and then he'd seemingly noticed you and said, "Hey. What's the matter?" 

George had glanced up. You'd looked impassive in the face but frenetic in the hands, your fingers curling and unfurling around nothing. 

"Freddie," you'd said, very softly. 

George had wanted to wrap you up in a hug then and there but Fred's more of a problem solver, though he'd softened to match you considerably quickly. 

"What?" he'd asked. 

You'd thrust your hands towards him and he'd taken them delicately. 

After a while, you'd said, "I don't feel very well." 

"Yeah? What's the matter?" 

"I think I want to-" You'd looked down at the floor. "I think I might do something stupid." 

"Okay," Fred had said. "Okay. Why don't we go upstairs and I'll make you some tea? We'll talk about it." 

"Right," Fred says now. "It's been a while, but that doesn't mean she'll never do it again." 

"If she does or she doesn't, it's okay. We can deal with it. I know it fucking sucks, Freddie, but she'll be fine. She always is."

They must have had a hundred conversations about you by now. Not always serious, and never in anything but a loving light. George thinks back to your time at school together when conversations about you had been often, and then your time at school without them, where Fred had talked about you more than anything else. 

"Are you okay?" 

Fred bites his lip. "Or course I am." 

"It's a lot to worry about." 

"This is really awkward." 

"Since when? We talk about everything." 

"Not my feelings." 

"Shut up," George says, standing up to ruffle Fred's awfully long hair. "Seriously. I would do anything for Y/N, but I would do double for you. You have to tell me if you can't handle it." 

That pisses Fred off to no end. He's defensive instantly. "She's not something to be handled." 

George glares at him. "Did I say her? It. If you can't handle it." He hadn't meant you. You're not a problem to be handled. You're a person, and the things that hurt you tend to hurt his brother too. George just wants to support him, and you, through the worst of it when he's needed. 

Fred stands up to join him at the sink. "Why did you put a biscuit in my tea?" he mutters crossly. 

"Hardly the worst I could've done." 

"Pathetic excuse for a prank. We need to get back into practice." 

"It wasn't a prank, Fred," George says, chuckling. "I thought you were going to eat it." 

"I didn't notice you put it in to eat it." 

George shrugs. "Shows how perceptive you are. Ghost is fine. You're fine?" When Fred nods, he continues, "You're fine. I'm great, I'm moving out." 

Fred takes a long time to catch on. "You're what?" 

-

You sleep in on Monday and have a heart attack when you wake. 

It's already nine in the morning. You should've been at the shop hours ago, and Fred's gonna have to open by himself because George- 

George is at Angelina's, because it's a national holiday.

You relax and drop back into the sheets. Your bed has never been as comfortable as Fred's, though maybe that's the lack of him rather than any mattress differences. You turn onto your side and smile at the picture of him on your nightstand. He moves, a darling smile stretching over his face and his hand twitching out toward you. He looks about as in love with you as you are with him. 

You kiss your fingertip and press it to his face.  

You miss him. It's only been two days. It feels like two weeks. 

Lately, you've been rejecting Fred's advances. Kisses end at kisses, cuddles stay cuddles. He hasn't said anything about it and neither have you. It's hard to explain. You've felt very heavy on the inside, and so you feel disgusting on the outside. Your sense of self is precarious at best and troublesome at worst: it can't withstand how you feel.

But. You love him. He's very handsome, and he's very nice in bed. 

You miss being close to him like that. 

With a plan, you shower and scrub down every inch of your body, cover yourself in nice smelling moisturisers and oils until your skin is soft to touch, and dab some concealer over the slight bags under your eyes and the worst of your scars.

You know Fred looks at them, sometimes. 

You wear a sweet blue dress that you know he likes and pull on a thick pair of wool tights, and then you apparate into the flat. 

There's no point bothering with shoes. You won't need them. 

"Freddie?" you say. 

Nothing. There's no washing machine whirring, no TV humming sound. Not even the faint gurgling of the boiler. The flat is appropriately cold. 

You stop at the thermostat on the way to his bedroom and turn it all the way up. Your feet slide over the chilled slats of the wooden floor and you almost slip outside of his room, giggling to yourself as you push open his bedroom door. 

He's asleep on his stomach. 

Selfishly, you'd like to wake him up. You crave his compliments, his affection worse, but he looks really lovely like this. You do as you'd done what feels like a hundred years ago now and climb over his hips, cautious not to rouse him, and settle in the space between his sleeping body and the wall on knees. 

You drop your hand onto his back. The quilt has fallen to below his shoulders. He's shirtless, the pale stretch of his upper back adorned in dark freckles and fine blonde hairs. 

He's warm. You steal as much of his warmth as you can, leaning down to kiss his freckles, the scarcest brush of your lips across his shoulders, and stroke the hair away from his neck as you do. You follow a path up and around to just under his ear. 

He comes to life like a flower blooming at day break. His limbs loosen and stretch outward. You massage his shoulder where it rises under your hand. 

"Y/N?" he murmurs. 

"Yeah, it's me." 

Impossibly, this puts him further at ease. 

You rub your nose against his neck. His breath catches and you laugh at the sound. "I missed you," you confess.

This garners his attention properly. 

He pushes himself up. "Baby," he says, blinking at you. "You look pretty." 

It's exactly what you'd wanted him to say and you'd been hoping he'd say it, but his praise still shocks you into silence. He says it so genuinely. 

You're about to thank him when he continues, "You're lovely. Look at you," he says. Even tired –  rough and croaky with sleep – his voice drips affection. 

You place your hands in your lap and bite back what's likely the most lovesick smile any girl has ever smiled. "Thank you." 

He leans over to take your hands. "You're beautiful. I promise I'm gonna kiss you like I mean it, just let me brush my teeth." 

You nod excitedly. 

He stands, wobbles, laughs at himself and carries on out of the bedroom and away to the bathroom.

You call after him, "What happened?"

"Got up too quickly. Sweetheart, it's not our anniversary, is it?" 

You laugh and lay down in the warm space he'd left behind. "What do you mean?" you ask, heartbroken. "You forgot?" 

"Funny." 

He laughs. You consider taking off your tights and then decide that's definitely too forward. There's no real signs that he actually wants to mess around just yet, and it is rather early. 

He appears suddenly and smelling of mint, face shining with dampness. "Yeah, that's exactly where I want you. Stay there." 

You stay. 

Fred shrugs into a new t-shirt (slightly disappointing, but you're sure you can persuade him out of it in time) and then makes his way to you, pressing his knee between your legs. He's less careful than he could be as he lowers his weight onto you completely.

You huff and giggle at the newfound pressure. 

He takes the time to get comfortable, legs between your legs. You're conscious of every contiguity you share as his elbow digs into the space between your upper arm and your chest and his hand drops to your face. He looks much more awake now, brown eyes wide and trained down on you, unflinching.

His hand falls to your cheek. He has really nice hands, sharp-boned knuckles and trimmed neat nails. The bottom of his palm and the tips of his fingers warm your skin. 

"I can't believe how pretty you are." He ducks down and kisses you. You aren't expecting it and you don't have time to respond as he pulls back and says, "I love you." 

Your chest feels fit to burst. "I love you too." 

"I know," he says, almost whispers. He takes another unsuspecting kiss. "But I love you more." 

"Stop moving when I try to kiss back," you complain. 

He steals another kiss to spite you. 

You look up at him and he looks down at you. His fingers ghost down the side of your face lightly.

"I love you more," you argue quietly. 

"That could never be true." 

"You wouldn't think so." 

He marks a line of three quick kisses from the corner of your mouth to the space under your jaw where he stays, arms needling under your neck in a sudden, sweet hug.

He drops his face beside yours and holds you. 

"I missed you. Was everything okay?" 

"Yeah. It was fine. We just watched movies and stuff." 

He hums. "Did you have a good time?" 

"I missed you, but I did." 

"And you're feeling good today?" 

You don't want him to worry that much about you. "Yeah. Feeling great, handsome. Just missed you." You turn your face to his. "Missed you," you murmur. 

You breathe one another in for a stretch of time, eyes shuttered closed. 

"I'm gonna fall asleep on you, you're so comfortable," Fred says. 

You tighten your arms where you've wrapped them around his waist. "That's okay." 

Another gap of loving quietude. 

"Ghost, can I ask you something?" 

Your heart stutters. "Yeah, ask me anything." 

He nods and his nose whispers against your cheek. 

The distinct smell of toothpaste lingers between you. You open your eyes and find it, the tiniest hint of white at the corner of his mouth. It's a struggle but you manage to pull your arm between your two bodies and wipe it away. 

"Toothpaste," you explain. 

"Thank you… Baby, are you happy?" 

"Of course I'm happy. You're the best thing that ever happened to me." 

His smile squints his eyes. "But are you happy? Are you having a bad time again?" 

"No, Fred, I'm-" 

"It's okay if you are. It's okay. I just need to know. I need you to tell me." 

"I'm fine, baby," you say, pleading. You clear your throat. "I'm fine." 

He rolls his weight off of you. You worry he's annoyed, that he's seen straight through you and knows you're a liar. 

Fred doesn't look mad. There's only patience. 

"I want to know how you're feeling," he says, each word as careful and tedious as a string of silk. "Because I want to be with you while you're feeling it. I think about you being sad by yourself and it kills me. You know?" 

"Yeah, I do," you murmur. 

He casts his eyes away from the ceiling and back to your worried face. 

"I haven't been feeling very well," you admit. If it's this important to him to know, then you'll try to be as honest as you can be. 

You turn onto your side and he mirrors you, two halves of the same heart, a mess of rumpled sheets between you, and reach out to stroke down the length of his cheek. He doesn't seem surprised by your admission.

"I've wanted to hurt myself a lot lately," you continue. You can barely force the words out, your mouth suddenly dry as a cotton ball. 

"Why won't you tell me?" he asks. There's a real heartbreak there, laid underneath his dulcet, comforting tenor. "I don't want you to think about that by yourself." 

"If I was really going to do something, I would tell you. I swear, Freddie. But I'm not." You think about the kind of honesty he's asking you for. "I don't think I will," you add, uncertain. 

His eyes flit to your chest. He's not really looking at you so much as looking through you, thinking. 

He smooths down the skirt of your dress absent-mindedly. "I'd like to know if you're thinking about it." 

"Do you get why that would be hard for me?" 

Fred looks at you properly. 

"I feel like- like such an attention seeker as it is," you say with an edge of bitterness.

"You're not." 

"But that's what it does. It forces you to watch me, and look after me, and worry about me." 

"It doesn't, ghost. I've never been forced to do any of those things. I love you." He takes your hand with purpose. 

"I know. Do you know what I mean?" You're begging him internally to understand. 

Your whole life you've found ways to hurt yourself. Your whole life you've been looked down on for it. You hate that people think they know why you do it, that they could understand it from just one look, and that they think their attention of all things would make a difference. 

"You're not an attention seeker." A crease appears between his brows. 

"What if I am?" you ask, and hide your face in his pillow. What if you've gotten so good at rationalising it that you're lying to yourself? 

"I don't believe that for a second," Fred says. He tugs your body towards his, arms curling around you in a steadying hug.

He peppers kisses across your forehead and then dips his nose against the skin by your hairline, murmuring, "Ghost, why'd you have to punish yourself for everything? Even the things you haven't done? Hurting yourself– I don't understand it. I don't, and I'm not sure I will, but I understand you." He kisses your head again. "I would never hold it against you. I would never think it was for attention, and if it was I wouldn't care.

"I'm asking you to tell me because I want to hold your hand through it, that's all." 

"What if it's too much?" You're starting to feel a little bit numb. 

"It won't be. You've never been too much." 

You flatten your hand over his chest and breathe until your heart has stopped pounding. It takes a while. Fred hugs you all the way through it. 

"I came here trying to seduce you," you say finally, laughing in hopes to soften the serious mood. 

"It's insulting to me that you think I don't know that," Fred says, smirking. "I know your charms, lovely girl. Give me another kiss." 

You lift your chin, lips tickled by his hot breath. He kisses you slowly, so slowly, hand spreading over your shoulder and pulling you tighter against him. Your lips are burning by the time he encourages them apart. 

You sigh into him. Everything feels better, even if it isn't fixed. He's a surefire balm over all your aching. 

"Are you okay?" he asks gently. 

"I'll tell you," you say, too shy to look at him. If I'm feeling awful. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

He tries to kiss you some more but the guilt fizzes and you dodge him, pressing your lips to his cupid's bow.

"I'm sorry." 

"Stop it," he says with a quiet fierceness. "I don't need that." 

He kisses you. You love to be kissed. You let him touch you and steady you, let the unyielding wave of his fondness for you wash over your worrying. Hurting yourself – and the want to hurt yourself – can take up a lot of your life, and it can feel all encompassing, but it isn't. 

It can be really, really small. The life you've made, and the person you share it with, has made it smaller. Made it a detail. Like a crop of freckles, like a smattering of heavy-handed but undoubtedly healed scars across your outer thigh. They're there forever, but they're hardly the most important thing about you. 

It hits you like a freight train. 

You push Fred back very gently and sit over him. It's probably not your best angle but you don't care, taking his face into both of your hands. His cheeks are warm to the touch. His brown edging of lashes flutter as his eyes flick between your mouth and your own eyes, indecisive, curious. 

"I wish I could tell you," you say, thumbs brushing under the soft semi-circles of his under eye, "how I felt about you." 

He smiles in confusion. "Sweetheart, you tell me all the time." 

"'I love you' doesn't really cover it." 

He brings his own hands up to cradle your face. You laugh at him and squeeze his cheeks, the mess of your arms tangled and too close as he pulls you down, down. 

"I get it. Sometimes I look at you and I can't speak." 

"You've mentioned that," you say. You're trying for casual and sounding much too happy, not nearly as wry as you'd wanted. 

"It happens all the time." 

You want to pinch him and crawl away from him, scold him for teasing you, but you have the horrifying feeling that he's being honest, and if he is you're literally gonna have to kiss him until you die. 

"Fred," you whisper. 

He laughs softly and pulls you closer still. "I'm not kidding. I try to talk to you but I can't. It was worse when we were younger," he confides. 

"Really?" 

"I was hopeless. It was awful." 

"I couldn't really talk," you say. 

He stares at you open-mouthed and then bursts into laughter. "That's not funny," he says urgently.

You worm your hands behind his ears. "You're laughing." 

"You surprised me." 

"I mean, it was a little funny. I just never spoke-" 

"I'm glad you want to joke about it, but really, it's not funny," he says lightly, still laughing, "it was- well." Fred encourages your face to the side so he can kiss your cheek. "You've heard it all before. I love you. When you don't want to talk and when you do." He pouts at you. "Especially when you do," he adds, like it's a secret.

"Wait a minute. You've hijacked me." 

"Have I?" 

"Yes, you have! I was trying to love on you, and you-" 

"Love on me-" 

"-steamrolled over me, Fred." 

"Oh no." 

"Fred." 

"Alright, sorry," he says, dropping his head flat into the pillows and his hands to his chest. "Tell me how great I am." 

"You're amazing," you say earnestly, brushing all the hair back from his face. "So sweet and… so kind. Handsome." 

He laughs infectiously, the sound all sticky and low like he's been eating honey by the spoonful. 

"'Nd you're funny, sometimes," you add.

He curls his hands around your hip before abandoning that pursuit and pressing his hand flush into your abdomen and then upward. He stops a few inches from your chest and rubs a small, soothing back and forth. 

"People say that about me," he agrees. His delivery is lackluster, any bravado lost to what sounds like distraction. He looks up. "You're okay." 

"Yeah, I'm okay." 

Fred goes quiet. His eyes track over your face and you can't find it in you to break the silence. You think he might be having a moment, and it makes you wonder about all the stuff he thinks about when you're too busy in your own head. 

-

Although Fred has missed sex with you, you don't end up messing around. The opposite, your much-needed heart to heart has left the both of you similarly weak-limbed, and for hours you don't do anything but lie down together and talk. Most of the serious stuff out of the way, Fred picks your brain for the little things he's missed. 

You've been sad lately, you haven't talked as often, and though he'd never ever tell you, he has ached for the sound of your voice. To hear you mumbling about the shape of his nose, incensed over the rising price of milk, or even giggling giddily over his hands tickling the length of your arm, these are all things he would give anything for. 

You do remember eventually what you'd set out to do, and you say, "I really was trying to seduce you. I'm sorry we haven't, you know. Sorry I've-" 

"Hey," he says, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."  

"I've missed it," you say, and then cover your face. "Oh."

"Have you?" he asks smugly, leaning down to rub his nose against the naked slip of skin below your ear. 

You move your hands and grin at him. "Freddie." 

It's imbued with a lot of meaning. He understands what you're saying. Not to be full of himself, but it's evident how much you like sleeping with him, he's not stupid. He likes it in equal amounts. 

"It's not because I don't want you, I just don't feel pretty," you say, and then wince. 

"You don't?" Fred doesn't give you time to answer. "How could you not think you're pretty? You're the prettiest girl on the planet. " His light-hearted tone hides his worry. 

Thankfully, you're in good spirits today and your mood doesn't drop. 

"I don't know. I think it's just how I've been feeling. 'Low moods affect your sex-drive,'" you quote, smiling sheepishly.

He laughs abruptly enough to startle you, thinking of what he'd said to George, those exact words. He loves you so much maybe your brains have started to merge. 

"Here I was worried you'd gone off me," he says. 

"What?" you ask shortly. "No! I just- it's only-" 

"You don't have to explain," he says, kissing your shoulder. "It really doesn't matter. I know you know how much I like it-" the effort it takes not to blush here is incredible, "but I'd also hope you know that it's never going to matter to me as much as how you're feeling does. Never." 

You groan and hide your face in the curve of his neck. Your answer vibrates against his skin, "Stop it. I don't want to have serious talks anymore. I feel like I'm on fire." 

"You are pretty hot," he says agreeably. 

"You're hotter." 

Then, in the straw that breaks the camel's back, you lick the tip of your finger, press it to his chest and make a hiss like boiling water.

"Oh my god," he says, hand cupping the back of your head. "Oh my god. I love you. I love you more than anything. Stop hiding, we need to kiss now." 

"I can't kiss you, you'll burn me."

"If it were the other way around, I'd kiss you. Just saying." 

"Hm," you hum sarcastically. 

He wraps his arm around you and pats your back. "We could never fuck again and it wouldn't matter," he continues his earlier point. 

"Enough," you groan. "Please, Fred." 

"I just want to make sure you know." 

"Consider it known." 

"Consider it known," he grumbles to himself. "Consider this known, doll, I'm gonna force you into serious, uncomfortable, excruciating talks about our feelings for the rest of our lives." 

He can feel your smile stretch over his neck. "The horror," you murmur. 

He thinks about asking you to move in. Fred had known as soon as George said he was moving out that he wanted to ask you to move in with him. It would be the next chapter of your lives. 

You say something too quiet to hear to hear into his skin. Fred would bet every bit of wealth he has that he knows what you said. He decides the conversation can wait for another day. 

He has some words of his own he wants to press into your skin. 

He mouths the first round against your forehead. "Love you too." 

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x fem!reader #fem!reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n

[please-give-dd-bread]

so i posted the odorouze translation after the kamisama no dansu translation right. i thought it was the only one like that where the dakaboku song came after the elma song. i forgot to take into account ame haruru TwT so here! rokugatsu wa ameagari no machi wo kaku :P

i love listening to this on a rainy day (which i don't get a lot of. sad) even though the rain isn't like. skies very very dark grey even though it's like 4pm, lights are on even though it probably shouldn't be (cuz afternoon and stuff.) okay i'll get into the translation.

5/31, 六月は雨上がりの街を書く (In June, I'll Write About the Town After the Rain/Rokugatsu wa Ameagari no Machi wo Kaku)

Reflected on the windows, is the town's ultramarine Down the gutter, trails this May's rain Like this, just staring at these Raindrops falling, dripping down, dripping down

This heart's shape, it's a rectangle Only in the middle of this paper is where my heart resides And all of these songs I write, Only above it all, you're there.

But, it's all so dumb, It's just so stupid, Something unreasonable, I just want to see, And the smell of this deep rain, It's a bit sad to forget it, that's why

This mouth, just move it, These fingers, trace it out with it, And with words, just sew it together… And just wait in that town.

The rain's noise, it dances around these streetlights That bend in the road, wherever this twilight ends Alone, with the sound of footsteps, this lonely parade, Waiting for the summer, and these clouds' pale blue hue

Now, just living is like that formula, i^2 Removing you would just send me below zero And in these memories I can't even only see, Whatever's after this June's falling rain

A smiling face, I write it down, And just squeeze out of my chest, It's just something I can't separate, I should've known, This deep scent of rain, even that would just be a waste to let go

And after I write these letters, And after you finally read them, I wish I could just see your face… But I'll keep writing about that summer.

And now, life's full of things I don't care about. Trying to see society is just too much. Even putting things down into words are just painful. But in the end, it truly was you, wasn't it…

Ah, everything's just so dumb, Everything's just so stupid, It was so unreasonable, I finally knew, That deep scent of rain… Always, I'll always be writing about that town, in the rain

And move this heart, And just yearn for you, And like this, just sew it all together… And I'll just wait here for the rain to let up, in this town.

---

and that. was rokugatsu

one of the many things i really like about this song is how it isn't written in june. he said he'd write about the rain in june. he didn't talk about the rain in june in that town. wow amy thanks a lot =w=. i mean hey at least odorouze was a thing i guess. elma wrote what the rain in that town in june was like for you. yatto ame ga futtanda~

uhm yeah that's all :P oh also. if you haven't listened to the "less popular" n-buna (not yorushika. n-buna) vocaloid songs GO LISTEN TO ALL THE TRACKS ON HANA TO MIZUAME SAISHUU DENSHA I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!

...uh oh. now i want to draw ruikasa on a train on the last day of summer. and the train window scenery changes on the track. so think it's a really bright yellow-ish sunset at higuregi and a bright morning scene for shihatsu to kafka and then it's near the ocean for umiyuri kaiteitan and they get off the train at mou jiki natsu ga owaru kara even tho it's the first track and then i draw this short one page manga-style thingy where they go home. but then they call each other and stuff happens and then they kiss as fireworks go off on the last day of summer hehehehehe >:DDD. which could be 8/31. noooo amy's deathaversary TTwTT oh wait!! miku's birthday!!! okay lemme stop myself

#yorushika #ヨルシカ #that's why i gave up on music #だから僕は音楽をやめた #六月は雨上がりの街を書く #in june i'll write about the town after the rain

[floating-in-the-blue]

For the fanfic asks! 🌙 📚 💻

Thank you for the questions, hunny!! <3

🌙  What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

The incredibly stupid and vague answer to that is "when my brain actually cooperates and I can write at all." Having a full time job doesn't really give me the options for choosing that I had when I was still at school or university. When I was writing papers during school breaks, I figured out that my best writing times are either early in the morning or late in the evening when my brain hits that sweet spot of being just tired enough to shut out all the other voices and doubt and just focuses on stringing words together (that I could then edit with a brain that was more awake). Plus those were the times were interruptions were the least likely to happen. Sadly, neither of these times are really available to me anymore.

📚 Do you read your own fic?

Hell yeah! I am generally very proud of what I've written and fond of those stories. They're not all perfect but I love revisiting them. I think a lot of that has to do with accepting the decisions I made at the time and respecting them even if I would do some things differently today, and also knowing that I did put love and care and time into them to produce the best I could (and if I didn't, I know why).

There's some I revisit a lot more than others and some I hardly ever revisit other than out of curiosity; the latter are usually things I wrote for fic exchanges or other people in general. The things I wrote for myself? Yes, still love them.

That being said, for some reason I haven't been able to reread my merman au, which makes me a little sad but I hope that will change with time.

💻 Do you do research for your fics? What’s the deepest dive you’ve done?

Look, I prefer not to, because time/brain energy etc. If I write, I need to actually write and not "waste time and energy" on doing research. I am incredibly envious of people who love research and, in my opinion, write better fics because of it. There's just something real and awesome added if you know somebody did a lot of research.

It's one of the reasons why I never ended up writing a lot for Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries because that show is set in 1928 Melbourne, so different time and space.

I started on two VERY research heavy projects in my past that I still absolutely fricking love as concepts (one historical, one scifi) but even if you ignore the fact that I would have to actually plot something with action and stuff I normally don't write, the research alone would have taken years, probably. Especially if squeezed into my current life.

Maybe I'll write them once I retire but in the meantime, I try to keep my research levels low. I'm doing a bit of it for the Alex Adoption Fic (healing times, 2020 school schedule in LA, how the heck do Homecoming Balls work in the US) but I'm still dreading the research into switching Legal Guardians because it's a really important bit and it either works as I hope and I can proceed with the fic as planned or it really doesn't and then I'll have to decide whether to ignore it or try to find a way to work with it...

Ask Me Things

#yeo writes

[rikilouvre]

trip

a/n : AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA i can't stop thinking about this when i was trying to fall asleep yesterday so i'm gonna write it before i forget to

characters : those 3 goofballs above ( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)

(though, bangchan is mostly the one talking so yeah)

genre : pure fluff & crack, delusional prompt but everything was funny in my mind so idc LMAO

visualization pics :

you walk out of a convenience store located on a street corner, where you saw hyunjin, lino, and bangchan passing by with chan holding a selfie cam. your stay heart screamed airily due to nervousness and shakiness, "hey!" you decided to cross the street where they are but your legs failed you and you... you tripped infront of the 3 members.

...

hyunjin covered his mouth out of reflex and lino got startled, following with an 'oooooh' while bangchan was the only one to actually help you get up. "miss, are you okay?" he asked. you didn't even care you fell infront of them, you looked happily at bangchan, "i'm fine!" squealing and jumping, you didn't know what to do next. "can we, can- can w- picture," you panted out of nowhere. gosh, handle yourself, PLEASE. "oh..." bangchan paused and looked at hyunjin and lino before continuing, "i'm sorry, but we're not allowed to take pictures with fans in public." he apologetically explained. "oh, really?" your hopeful tone made him slump down even more 'cause of it "yes, i'm really sorry miss."

your hopes did NOT go and will not disappear any second now. "but can you guys give me a pictograph? paragraph? i mean an autograph?" you laughed at yourself. hyunjin bursted out laughing so loudly and lino was chuckling at your flustered sight. "you're funny." hyunjin wrapped his arms around his belly and lino just looked at you adorably, honored that the group was loved by wonderful people like you. while you on the other end, you were fighting for your life for an autograph, literally. you couldn't breathe, you were all red, you couldn't even speak right. "an autograph? sure! you have your paper and pen?" bangchan excitedly asked.

for the first time in your encounter with them, you frowned abruptly. "no, i have none." you looked up at them with doe eyes, testing them if they would do anything else for you. you were clearly wasting their time 'cause of your fangirl crisis, but they're idols – it's part of their job ;). "okay this is gonna be weird but, can i atleast just hug you guys? for memories." you hesitantly smiled at them. the 3 members stared at you for a second then gave you the heartwarming smiles they give stays during their lives, for their selcas, just the usual stray kids behavior on and off cam. "aww, sure!" lino answered. "ofcourse! it's not like we're both gonna lose something if we hugged. that's the case only if we don't get seen by sasaengs." bangchan laughed at hyunjin's statement. you squealed quietly and hugged lino first, the biggest hug you think you'll ever give anyone. you hummed under their hold, "aww, you guys are really sweet! i love you guys." they took turns in hugging you, "anything for stays." bangchan rested his head on yours shortly before pulling away. "you go, funny girl. always be this wonderful and happy for us, alright?" hyunjin told you, squeezing you tightly – which let out a breath and a laughter from you.

"wow, i have a LOT to tell my friends for today." you looked at them once more. "and we three have a LOT to tell the other members as well. oh! wait," bangchan paused and whispered something to lino as lino answers him with a whisper as well, he whispered the same thing to hyunjin who responded with a nod. bangchan bent his knees to be the same height as you, "you can go to the chicken restaurant up this street if you only live nearby and bring your pen and paper with you, everyone else is there. but," there was a but. "but you can't tell anyone else to come with you, okay? promise?" he lifts his pinkie finger for you to see. "i promise." you bind your pinkie finger with his. "thank you so much for this, guys. i'll see you later!" you waved at them goodbye, "goodbye, little stay!" before rushing to your home to bring with you the first pen and paper you find inside your house.

#skz drabbles #skz oneshots #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz crack #skz fluff #stray kids #skz bangchan #skz lee know #skz lino #skz minho #skz hyunjin #bang chan fluff #hyunjin fluff #lee know fluff #stray kids au #skz au #skz ff #stray kids ff #kpop prompts #kpop drabbles #kpop oneshots #kpop fanfic #kpop #kpop blurbs #kpop scenarios

[conniemb]

A lil vent cuz college is stressing me out:

Bruh like why I need an education to do shit. Why can't I just do a one year course in something I'm interested enough to jus sit through for a year or two. College kills passion. I've been in college for like 3 years now doing two different course and while I have learnt a lot from it I've also learned I can figure a lot of this shit out myself using online resources. All college does is make me feel unmotivated and stressed. I haven't felt a sense of accomplishment with my college work since first semester of first year and I'm so tired of having to work so hard for something that doesn't actually feel like it's getting me anywhere. It pisses me off that I have to waste 4 years of my life slaving away at work I don't wanna do just so I can get a piece of paper at the end of it that says "I spent the mandatory 1600+ euros to say I'm qualified to do this thing pls hire me" I don't even wanna work in a corporate job or office space but I feel like I need my degree in case I need to fall back on that kinda job. I wanna work freelance and be creative and just do the things I wanna do. What's wrong with working some boring ass job I spend like 30 hours a week on so I can pay rent and fund my hobbies with and just be content with that. I keep having these thoughts about dropping out and just working for a while till I get back on my feet financially and then doing a diploma course in a similar field for a year once I've had a due enough break from education and just get my certificate and see where that takes me. But there's all this pressure and expectations to do things the normal way, go to college, trek along for 4 years, then get a real job and be successful. Why can't I just be content doing what I enjoy doing. Why do I have to wrench myself through the cogs of industry standard jobs and companies just to have it squeeze all the passion out of me. Ive been reading so many articles lately about how ppl used to just do a one year certificate course in their field and then go out into the world nd get jobs and be able to work freelance, people who I know personally were able to do this. But nowadays without your 1600 receipt of education no one even bats an eye at your job application. It's all bullshit. Total fucking bullshit. I just wanna be financially stable for a few years man even if doing so costs me my education or postpones it for a few years. Just take things at my own pace. I keep playing around with the idea of if I actually manage to pay off and pass this semester deferring my next year and just working instead. My sister did that and she seems to be doing okay. And who knows when I do come back after the year of work I might be ready to commit myself to the next 3 years. Or maybe I will just commit to doing my 1 year certificate and trying out that life style. I'm putting a 3 month time period on my decision I think a hypothetical one. See how the next three months pan out. Then decide. Hopefully I'll find my answer then.

[dstarstories]

The Next Step VI

"I think I know what comes next." Vince squeezed his arm encouragingly.

"It was never my intention to hurt anyone," he muttered almost shamefully. "It wasn't Levi's either. I was just hurting so bad & was being stupid & selfish. I think Levi just needed the closure that he never got with how things had ended with us. I was looking for comfort so when he was offering it to me, I fell right in. I shouldn't have. We shouldn't have. It was wrong & I regret it. I know Shane's your best friend & I'm sure he will always hate me but I really am sorry that he got hurt because of our selfishness. I'm honestly shocked you even gave me a chance after knowing that."

"I believe that people can learn & grown. We're more than the mistakes that we've made."

"Well the only good thing that came out of that mess was that Tobias pulled the trigger on the divorce himself. Once I was served with the papers, I knew it was done. It was probably the only thing that could have gotten me to realize that it was really over, we were really done. Having a child together though, then finding out we were expecting another one," he shook his head. "It made me feel so bad. Here we were dragging children through our bullshit. I still hate the fact that I only get to be with them half of their lives. Especially at Mouse's age, you can miss so much."

"It wouldn't have been good for your children to see their dads in an unhappy or volatile marriage though," Vince reasoned, trying to make him feel better.

"I know but still," he frowned, kissing the top of Vince's head. He appreciated him for trying to ease his mind. "I guess going through the divorce & everything with the kids, it just made me go looking for comfort again, because that's how I was. Levi & I had realized we were just friends who'd fallen back into what felt easy when we both needed it. So when a cute new dance teacher at my dad's studio starting flirting with me, I jumped right in. Ruben was great. He was so kind & attentive but... I wasn't in a place in my life where a deeper connection was possible. I tried but I just couldn't do it. I didn't love him. I faked my way through it for a while but when it hit me that he was wasting his life waiting around for something I couldn't give him, I knew I had to let him go. We're cordial I guess but I know it was really hard for him after we split up.

"After that, I knew I needed to focus on life & my kids & not go looking for shit in someone else. Nobody else can fix how I feel & hiding away those things wasn't doing me any good," he told Vince confidently, the shame & hurt that had been in his voice as he'd talked about his past fading away now. “I also knew that when the time did come & that person came along, I needed to really make sure we were on the same page & that the physical wasn't getting confused with something real & deeper than that. I have kids. I don't want to bring guys in & out of their lives. When I introduce them to someone, I want it to be the man that I plan on being with for the long haul." He gave Vince a gentle squeeze, a subtle hint of what he was thinking but wouldn't say. "Then I met someone that I really liked..."

"Me?" Vince turned so that he could look into his eyes for this part.

Archer let out a soft laugh. "Yes, you. You're special. There's just something about you that hit me the moment we met. I knew I didn't want to fuck this up. I wanted to make sure that I did everything right."

"If you ask me, I think you're doing a pretty good job," Vince smiled, sliding into his lap.

"Good." Archer returned his smile, wrapping both arms around the man's waist as he straddled him. He looked into Vince's eyes & knew he wanted this feeling to last. "Thank you for being so patient & understanding."

"You don't have to thank me," Vince whispered, leaning in & kissing him. It was slow but intense, causing his heart to beat wildly in his chest. His skin buzzed under Archer's touch & he nearly felt dizzy. He couldn't have held back the words that fell from his lips when the kiss ended if he'd tried. "I love you, Archer."

Lips still lingering close to Vince's, Archer took a moment to process what he'd just heard. He pulled back slightly & looked at him, surprised that he'd said it. "What?"

Vince's cheeks quickly went bright red & he practically jumped out of the bed, snatching his clothes off the ground. "It's really late & I'm supposed to open the store. Mik's going to kill me," he gave a fake, awkward laugh as he pulled on his pants & headed out of the bedroom.

"Vince, wait..." Archer frowned, immediately knowing that he'd fucked up. He wasn't even sure why he'd reacted that way. The walls that he'd built up around his heart in the beginning had been coming slowly down over the past few months. After last night & this morning, he was sure that they were no more.

By the time he got to the bedroom door, Vince was already downstairs & leaving the house. "You fucking idiot!" he cursed himself, dropping down onto the top step & watching Vince pull out of the driveway.

Gen 3 - Archer: From the Beginning // Most Recent

#end of update #Archer Hawke #Vince Black #archerxvince #Hawke Legacy #Hawke G3 #Hawke Story #dstar writes #sorry this one was so long #it was either that or a whole other post #which i wasn't sure I wanted to do lol