#and she’s like look at you! you’ve opened up a dictionary to the first page and learned a word in the meantime!

[chryzure]

castor being engaged to chrysi, but his best friend and also court jester is the only one who properly knows how to flirt w chrysi. and castor has to watch jacks go, “no, you can’t romance her that way. here, observe my example.” & then he promptly basically makes out w chrysi but with words that are perfectly primed for chrysi to tear into him

#jacks is like the ONLY way to romance her is to let her kill you in front of the court 😊 hope this helps! (through clenched teeth) #& castor;s like. are you sure i shouldn’t give you two a room? #memorie.txt #s.chrysijacks #au.jester #chrysijacks as princess and jester is good because jacks actually gets to take part in the banter #previously it was jst him being torn to shreds while he was like PLEASE STOP I NEED TO BREATHE #but now he’s like. ah chrysi! has time dulled your acerbic wit? 😌 #and she’s like look at you! you’ve opened up a dictionary to the first page and learned a word in the meantime! #and castor has to watch them stare at each other w the most insane bedroom eyes. jacks please. that’s his fiancée. please. please? #lots of thinly veiled flirting via jester antics……

[sunlightmurdock]

The Odyssey | 0.5 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader (18+)

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You leave Como, your arrival in Verona is going to make the rest of the trip much more complicated.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance, professor / student relationship, age gap ( 22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity, bickering and teasing, extremely suggestive, somewhat graphic towards end, minors dni. WC: 5.8k

…

You’re driving him fucking crazy. You’re spending far too much time together. The worst part? — You’re actually listening to him now. No, the worst part about that is that you’ll listen to what he tells you, but you’re still giving him all of that fucking attitude about it.

The two of you have spent so much time together, in fact, that Bradley didn’t get another chance to get Natasha alone. It’s for the best, because she actually smiles and waves him off when he leaves this time. Normally, they’ve argued by now. He never moved on and she’s not coming back — the usual kind of stuff.

Today, she had stretched up onto her tiptoes and draped her arms around his thick shoulders, exhaling calmly against the warm skin of his neck. “We’re looking forward to seeing you again next year, Bradley.”

And then, she had taken a step back and entwined her fingers with her husbands. And Bradley hadn’t said anything. He’d looked the woman that he spent so long loving in the eye, and said absolutely nothing. And now, he’s sitting on a packed minibus to a different location, with nothing but you on his mind.

In a professional sense of course.

It’s professional, because he’s sitting here and watching you read the play that he gave you. It’s from the Gracchan period, a time where social mobility was a big focus, but the play itself is by a very wealthy man — making fun of that. It’s about a girl from a poor family of farmers who falls in love with a very powerful man in their town.

Bradley’s eyes scan the page, then flicker up to your face. Your brows are furrowed in concentration, the small playbook open against one thigh and your dictionary wedged open between yours and Bradley’s. You’re just past the first act.

“I don’t… she…?” You shake your head in confusion, lifting it to look at Bradley. “She wants to belong to him? — Like work for him?”

Bradley’s lips twitch. He gives a small shake of his head, leaning closer and taking the dictionary. He flips around a little, his shoulder pressing into yours. Warm skin, the smell of his cologne, the rumble of the wheels against the uneven road.

Pasquale’s love for the 1970s American rock pours through the car in the form of an Eagles album. Bradley knows which one. You couldn’t have less of a clue.

“She’s saying she wants to give herself to him. Not belong to him.” Bradley explains patiently, turning the book towards you so that you can see the rough translation. It’s an easy mistake to make. That’s why he has you reading the play, so you’ll be able to use the context of the scene to eliminate the mistakes you’re making.

You look up at Bradley briefly. Belong to, give herself to — you’re stuck on how that could possibly not mean the same thing, until it hits you. Give herself to. Her body, she means.

“Oh. Thanks.” You set your headphones back on your ears and turn your attention back to the play. Bradley gives you a curt nod and adjusts his sunglasses. He spreads his thighs just a little. His knee presses gently against yours, not pushing, just sitting there.

You don’t mind it much. But, you’re beginning to notice a pattern. He touches you too much. When you’re studying together, his feet rest on your side of the table, constantly nudging your ankles. He’ll get too close when you’re walking by each other. He’ll sit with his legs spread so far that you’ve got no choice but to let his thigh smush into yours. But, you don’t mind that too much.

What you do mind, is that the man in this book was described briefly in the beginning as having brown curls. And now, now that the protagonist is throwing herself at him, there’s only one person that you’re picturing playing him.

It’s not your fault. He’s arrogant, he mocks her constantly and he’s got brown curls. Sounds like Bradley. Unfortunately, at this moment in time, Bradley’s character is all too willing to make the wrong choice. You swallow softly, brows knitted together as you try to convince yourself that you’ve got the translation wrong.

That his hands aren’t trailing up, under the fabric of his skirt. Your eyes dart from the page to Bradley’s hands resting against his thighs. You study the tanned flesh, the sun-bleached, blonde hair at his wrist. The protruding veins on the back of his hands. The gold class ring on his finger.

Bradley feels you shift in your seat, your thigh knocking into his. He glances down again and quickly back to the road. Those denim cutoffs fit your thighs perfectly. But, he can’t stop himself from taking a peek at your face. Plastered in discomfort.

Maybe he shouldn’t have given you a book with a sex scene in it, but this is mild compared to some of the content in his class. This book is the introduction to virtus versus pudictia. He figures the concept will be something you get your head around pretty quickly. Men doing whatever the fuck they want and women waiting patiently for a husband. Sounds exactly like what you’ve got going on already.

It’s only a three hour drive from Como to Verona, and Bradley’s got prep work for his research here to get done. He sits there and cards through the papers like he’s working, but really he spends most of the journey just observing.

Your reaction to his syllabus irritates him, but intrigues him in a way that he just can’t explain. He wants you to stop being so old-fashioned and wake up to the concept that sex is just a natural part of life — but also, he isn’t used to being around girls like you. He has made a point of surrounding himself with people who are nothing like you.

“Hey, Bradley,” You broach the topic tentatively, and he feels you shift slightly closer to Pasquale. He sighs. You dog-ear the page and close the book of the play. His eyes linger on that, before he finally looks up at you. You shift once more, taking a deep breath before speaking. “So, I spoke to my parents…”

You’re not going home. That wouldn’t make sense. You wouldn’t have just spent three hours giving yourself a headache by trying to read a raunchy Roman play if you were going home. Bradley’s brows draw together. He sets his papers down on his legs.

Pasquale winces as he looks between the two of you — it has been such a smooth drive so far.

“My dad has spoken to the Dean, he wants me to have my own room for the rest of the trip. He’s paying.” You explain calmly, pulling your knees up to your chest and resting your feet against the bench. Dog-earing pages and sitting like a kid, it just doesn’t fit into this image that Bradley has of you in his head.

He scoffs, lips twitching under that stupid moustache. “Of course he is.”

Between the two of you, neither one is really sure what his problem is. Maybe he wants you to be more independent, maybe he just likes the way your face looks when you scowl at him. Either way, he’s an expert at getting under your skin.

“Would you rather pay?” You bite back. Pasquale cringes, leaning away from the two of you. Bradley’s stare is something to behold. He really has perfected it. It’s mean, hardened and it’s superior all at once. And yet, it still doesn’t make him look any less handsome.

“I’d rather that you at least try to get along with the other kids. It would make your life easier.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You know what I meant.” He knows that. It doesn’t make him feel any better about the way he feels about you. But, he knows that you’re more mature than he gives you credit for. Even if you punched him in the nuts last week.

“It’s really none of your business either way, I was just letting you know.”

It’s quiet between the two of you for a while. Almost long enough for the entirety of Hotel California to play through those dusty speakers.

“Does your dad know that you’re the one who started that fight?” Bradley really can’t help it. He’s a decade your senior, he should really be more mature about things. But, there’s just something about you that makes him want to put an end to your know-it-all attitude.

“I didn’t.” You cross one knee over the other, lifting your chin and straightening your spine.

“Pulled a good handful of her hair out, kid.” He scoffs, turning his attention back to his paperwork. His tone is so dismissive that even Pasquale wouldn’t judge you for hitting him in the balls again.

“I’m not a kid!” You turn sharply towards him, scowling furiously.

“Right. That’s why you’re here, huh? — Because you’re grown up enough to stand up to your dad?” He doesn’t even look up at you. That’s the worst part. Pasquale winces so hard that he has to fight with himself to keep his eyes open and on the road. He waits for the sound of an impact, a hit, a scream — anything.

Instead, you lean in so close that the soft curve of your breast nudges Bradley’s arm. “I’m grown up enough to know that pining over a married woman is pathetic.”

“Pining? — Kid, your own fucking fiancé couldn’t care if you lived or died. Don’t fucking lecture me about love.”

It falls quiet quickly. The voices in the back of the bus fade out, everyone turns their attention towards the two of you, arguing again. You look down slowly. Bradley follows your gaze to his fingers curled around your forearm, tight. He looks back up and this is all to familiar. Sitting with you facing him, blinking at him like you’re about to cry.

“Get out.” He breathes finally, releasing your arm and sitting back against the door. Your face twists, confused. Pasquale shoots a look at Bradley — they can’t just leave a kid on the side of the road, surely. “Sit in the back. Finish that fucking play, we’ve got more to cover.”

Pasquale pulls over to the side of the winding, countryside road and steps out of the van, pulling his door open. You’re silent as you get out and step into the back, finding all of the seats taken. Abigail pushes Luke’s backpack off of a seat and gestures for you to sit with a pitiful smile. You take the spot and secure your headphones over your ears again, reaching to the Walkman at your side and skipping the song.

You don’t say another word for the rest of the drive. Bradley doesn’t even look at you. He gives you your key first just so you’ll go. This place does have an elevator, it’s just dusty and creaky and awful. You’re on a different floor to everyone else too. That doesn’t help.

You sit down, settling against the foot of the bed with your suitcase abandoned in the corner. He doesn’t know anything about your relationship. He just has so many cruel things that he could say to you — she’s all that you’ve got on him, and clearly she is a sore subject. The thought bubbles in your chest to the point that it makes your face warm. It makes you entire body hot.

That stupid look on his face. Like he knows anything about you, or Malcolm, or the way that you love each other.

You wish you had longer to sit and stew. Instead, you’re interrupted by his stupid, big fist slamming against the other side of the door to your hotel room. You know it’s him because he’s the only one rude enough to do it. Unsurprisingly, when you tear the door open, he’s the one in the hall. Without saying anything, he brushes past you and walks inside, then lifts up the textbook in his hand.

“Let’s get this shit over with so that we don’t have to see each other later.”

You wouldn’t be foolish enough to think he was here to apologise, but still, his attitude makes you want to hit him with that textbook. But, he’s got a point, and you would rather not see him this evening either. So, you sit down on the bed and fold your arms over your chest.

He takes a look at you and frowns, then does a survey of the room. Wardrobe, your own bathroom, two nightstands, suitcase rack, floor lamp. No desk. Begrudgingly, he takes a seat beside you on the bed.

“Alright, the play that I gave you,” He exhales like that will make him let go of all of the anger he’s holding on to. It doesn’t. “It focuses heavily on the sexual roles of men and women in developing Rome. Did you pick up on that?”

You watch him open the textbook and flip through, searching for something in particular. It really would be quite easy to tear the book from his hands and get him with it. It’s a hefty book. Instead, you shrug your shoulders and leave him with a simple, “I guess.”

He looks up at you, bored. “You guess? — The male main character had a wife, a girlfriend and a mistress. The female main character devoted herself solely to this one man, that she knew was never going to be hers. What do you think that suggests about gender roles back then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know, stop acting like you’re stupid.” He bites back. There’s a second where you stare at him and both of you take a moment to decide whether this is going to become another argument. You sigh softly.

“It’s patriarchal.”

“Right,” Bradley nods, “So there were these concepts back then called—“

The lesson goes on, and the more you engage, the less hostile he becomes. As much as you struggle when it comes to reading text excerpts and answering the questions he gives you on those, it gets to the point where you’ll crack a joke and he’ll laugh. That’s got to be diplomacy of some kind.

Both of you grow unintentionally closer, shifting periodically, leaning closer to see the text, or look at a picture. So, when you’re stumped by a question and you turn sharply away from him and throw yourself down, smushing your face into the pillow and growling in frustration, he finally realizes just how close the two of you have gotten.

You, laying on your front on this double bed, groaning into the pillow. Him, close enough that if he moved his leg, it would graze your hip. Bradley stares at you for a moment, then — while you’re not looking — lets his eyes trail. Along the feminine length of your legs, up over the curve of your waist in those cut-offs.

He lifts a hand and strokes it tenderly over the top of your hair, careful not to catch of tug at your lengths. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel him shift closer.

“It’s alright,” Bradley says quietly, stroking your hair back with a surprisingly gentle hand. “It’s a hard class. That was good. You’re doing well, I’m impressed.”

“Please,” You scoff without lifting your face from the pillow. You shift just a little and hook your arms under it, hugging it closer to your body. His eyes dart down to the way your back curves into your eyes, then slam shut. He should make an excuse to leave. “The only thing that could impress you would have happened a hundred years ago.”

“You know that this course focuses mainly on things that happened from —“ Bradley stops correcting you as you turn your head and glare at him. His eyes are trained on your face. He’s not looking at the way those denim cut-offs hug your figure, but fuck, he’s thinking about it. “Nevermind.”

He stares forwards. His hand is still resting in your hair. He should move it. He should leave. He hasn’t ever felt like this — countless students throwing themselves at him and he’s ignored every single one. He’s being ridiculous. It’s just the forbidden fruit effect. The proximity.

He should move his hand. He just can’t take his eyes off of your face. The swell of your lips. The slight scrunch of your nose. The narrowed look in your eyes. Bradley lifts his hand.

Then, he takes the length of your hair resting against your cheek and brushes it softly back, revealing the rest of your face to him. He shifts his hips, sitting just a fraction closer, making you easier to reach as you lay at his side.

“I mean it,” He says quietly. Your lips quirk softly, almost a smile. You’re about to tell him that he’s probably never spoken to you so kindly ever. Then, he speaks again. “You’re trying. I see that you’re trying. You’re doing a really good job.”

His thumb swipes softly over your temple, guiding your hair back further out of your face. The smile fades from your face. Then, you’re just blinking up at him. Your face is calm. His doesn’t reveal anything.

Slowly, his thumb swipes along the same trial. Over the skin covering your temple, just slightly into your hairline. It doesn’t even cross your mind to move. Maybe because you’re too thrown off by this sudden tenderness, maybe because you don’t actually hate this feeling.

The third time, he doesn’t follow the same route. His thumb swipes tenderly along the skin of your cheek, gently trailing in a small circle along the apple of your cheek. Further down. You stare up at him. Your heartbeat betrays you, thudding away in your chest as his thumb leaves your cheek and meets the corner of your mouth.

His eyes dart from his thumb to your eyes, studying your expression briefly, before he looks down again. You’re silent as he swipes his thumb delicately over the plump skin of your bottom lip.

“What did you mean earlier? — About Malcolm?” Your sudden question surprises the both of you, putting an abrupt end to the out of body feeling that was fogging Bradley’s mind. He blinks, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he pulls his hand away from your face.

“What?”

“You said he wouldn’t care if I lived or died. Why?” You push yourself up from your front, settling onto your knees instead. Bradley’s brows knit together. The only thing he can think to say is your name. He stumbles it out, baffled. “You don’t even know him. Why would you say something like that?”

He could turn this into another screaming match. Avoid answering until you’re yelling so hard that you’re blue in the face. But, he won’t. He deserves answers too — he’s tired of that night clouding his head, having no idea if you remember or not.

“Because he left you on the side of the road to freeze to death last December,” Bradley’s suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s sitting on your bed, alone in your room. Your face twists in confusion. He’s not done yet. “And the only reason you didn’t freeze to death was because I hauled your ass into my truck and drove you to your parents’ house.”

He’s expecting to have to elaborate further, but you know exactly which night he was talking about. You remember the three days after blacking out that Malcolm wouldn’t so much as answer the phone to you.

“No you didn’t.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows at you. He wishes there was something he could show you, some way he could prove to you how fucked up you had been when he had found you on that curb.

“You were wearing a blue dress with sparkly shit on it,” Bradley says, his voice too calm. You were. You woke up still in it the next morning. “Open-toed heels.”

What the fuck were you thinking? — In the middle of December?

“Your parents live at the end of a long street with a bunch of Oak trees on it,” They do. Last house on the left. You stare at him, unblinking. “Your room is on the second floor, at the back of the house. Your window overlooks the swimming pool. I called your fiancé from that stupid fucking pink phone on your nightstand eight times before he picked up.”

Your chest shudders with the next slow breath that you draw in. He sits there, watching you try to rationalize what he’s telling you. There’s too much information for it to be a lie. The look on his face tells you that he isn’t lying.

“You… spoke to Malcolm that night? — What did he say?”

Bradley makes a face, then turns his chin towards the ceiling and sighs. He looks down and rubs his rough palm over his jaw, shaking his head at you. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he left you in the fucking snow, unconscious.”

The air conditioning unit rattles behind you, making you all the more aware of the sweat starting to bead on the nape of your neck. You swallow softly and look down at the textbook between the two of you.

“We were fighting that night, but he — I think I — I think I ran off…” Your memories of that night are fuzzy. Truthfully, you can’t even remember what the two of you had been arguing about, much less what happened for him to be so angry even days later. “Whatever happened wasn’t his fault—“

“No?” Bradley interrupts, a level louder than he had been previously. You pull back from him subconsciously, bracing yourself on the bed behind you, trying to find purchase in the sheets. “It wasn’t his fault? — Anything could have happened to you, you know that? — What kind of man lets someone that they love put themselves at risk like that?”

“He probably didn’t realize. I’m sure he thought that I got a cab. Wait, Bradley, what did you say to him?”

Wait, Bradley, what did you say to him? — He’s looking at you, but he’s had this conversation before with Natasha. All those years ago. Seconds before he had answered her and watched any love she had had for him ebb away.

“We had a conversation.” Bradley answers you dryly. Your brows knit together, leaning just slightly closer. “I asked him where he was. If he knew where you were. He asked me if you were still sulking on the curb outside of the quad. He knew exactly where you were.”

Finally, he renders you speechless. For the first time, maybe ever, you’re left without something to say to him. There’s a brief silence between the two of you before he speaks again.

“What were the two of you arguing about that night?” Bradley presses.

“I — I can’t remember. Something stu—“

“Why did you kiss me?”

Your eyes go round, widening incredulously at the man sitting on the other side of your bed. The man that you’ve spent the last week and a half screaming at. The smug, over-confident man ten years older than you who refuses to dress his age or pay grade. The man who threatened your fiancé back in December.

“What?” You shriek, pushing up onto your knees and scrunching your face up at him.

“You sat in my car and begged me not to take you into your parents’ house. You kissed me. I dragged you out of the truck and put you to bed.” Bradley says it so calmly — you wonder how often he has thought about this moment to be able to recount it so easily.

You look him over. There’s no more distance between the two of you than there would be between a driver’s seat and a passenger seat. Obviously you were out of your mind that night, running away from Malcolm and not kicking and screaming when this oaf had put you in his car. But there’s not a chance in hell that you would have kissed him. You can’t stand him.

Still, here with just the two of you, you’re not sure how it would benefit him to be lying about this.

So, you take a deep breath and try to ignore the heartbeat thudding in your ears. You stare at him. His hair is neat enough. Short at the back and sides, curly on top. It would have been shorter when he was in the Navy, but you remember it being longer at the beginning of the year. You hadn’t shown up to many of his classes, so you can only guess at what he wore during the winter. Vaguely, you’ve got a memory of him in grey slacks and a navy sweater. Still not wearing a tie.

If he had come straight from his office, he would be in his work clothes. You would be sitting in the passenger side of his truck. It was snowing out, so you know he would have been cold. The sun-kissed pink hue on his cheeks was probably still there, just frost-chilled in variety this time. His facial hair is always neat. Everything tidily shaved, his moustache always trimmed. He’s certainly not ugly.

Long lashes. A slight bump in his nose, like he might have broken it once, but it suits him. Slightly raised scar tissue on his cheek, his throat. Lashes that touch the bone of his eye socket when he closes his eyes. Freckles dotting his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Eyes that can’t quite decide whether they’re brown, black, amber or hazel. Pink, plush lips.

Ah. That’s where your attention catches. You practically take a mental snapshot of the place where your eyes land. The hollows of his cheeks, the scars on his left side. His strong jaw, usually clenched when he’s looking at you. The thick length of his neck, his protruding adam’s apple, the gold chain usually visible just inside of his collar. Those thick, reddish pink lips.

Pushing up on your knees, you lift your gaze and find him already staring. He knows exactly what you’re about to do. His hand finds your hip and grabs at it roughly as you put one knee in front of the other and crawl to him. He guides you where he wants you and lifts his other hand, cupping your jaw.

His rough palm sits against your jaw bone. Tenderly touching your cheek, just slightly grazing your throat. Eclipsing the side of your face with the magnitude of his hand size. Even up close, you’ve still got no clue of why you would kiss him. Well, nothing that you can rationalize. No explanation that would make any kind of sense to you on any regular day.

But, if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s because you know that there is no rationalizing this. The want that you feel for him just doesn’t make sense. His fingers curled around your hipbone, pressing roughly into the denim there — it doesn’t make sense.

And yet, when the strong hand on the side of your jaw pulls you forwards, you’re all too willing to lean all the way into him and kiss him. Softly, slowly. Your bottom lip between his, controlled even though all he wants to do is throw you down on his bed and kiss you like he means it.

Bradley figures that’s a bad thing, that he’s in control of the situation enough to be gentle with you, but not to stop himself from making this mistake. His tongue swipes softly against your lip at the same time his hand tugs at your hip. You wobble forwards, he parts his thighs and tugs again making you land unceremoniously against his legs.

You can feel the abandoned textbook digging into your ankle. Its glossed pages, open and forgotten.

His hand trails from your jaw, around to the back of your neck. He feels you tense against him as he pulls you close by your neck and your waist, lifting, and then planting you on your back. The second that your spine touches the sheets, you tear your mouth away from his with a gasp.

He stills, kneeling between your parted thighs, staring down at you. You glance down. He watches your brows knit together and follows your gaze down to the necklace that has slipped from his shirt. You lift your stiff hand from your side and reach out for it. He swallows as the delicate tips of your fingers graze the gold cross. You wonder where his dog tags are. Why he’s wearing this today. If he just wore the tags for Natasha’s benefit, maybe.

“I didn’t know you’re religious.” You breathe out. He’s just close enough to be able to hear you. His hands flex around the pits of your knees, skimming down your calves.

“I’m not,” He answers you quietly. “It belonged to my dad.”

You breathe out hard, but it doesn’t make that weird feeling in your chest go away. You just keep on staring at that dangling necklace. Something keeps you from looking him in the eye. Fear, shame — lust — you’re not sure exactly what it is.

Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of his flexing forearm, planted beside your head. Bradley watches through darkened eyes as you reach out once again, starting at the back of his hand. You trail the vein in his skin from his fist, up along the inside of his forearm, onto his bicep. Stopping at the hem of his white t-shirt sleeve.

Bradley leans down, moving to the side to catch your mouth. This second kiss is different from the first. It’s all him. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you’ve got the sense to press into him, to open your mouth. Both of you are surely aware of how dead still you’re laying, the way your hands are balled in the sheets at your sides.

But, you lift your chin and chase his kiss like he’s got your next breath. He pushes harder against you, his tongue pressing forwards and grazing yours. Suddenly, your hands aren’t so still any more. They’re up and shoving at his chest.

“What are you doing?” You gasp, horrified.

He sits back on his knees and stares at you. You’re right. What the fuck is he doing? — You’re one of his students, and fuck, your father would never let this go. Your fiancé too. Fuck, your fiancé.

“Keep your tongue in your mouth, what is the matter with you?” You snap at him, sitting up swiftly and hitting his chest with another hard shove. Bradley stares at you. Never in a million years was he expecting your issue here to be with the fact that he’d barely grazed your tongue with his.

“Excuse me?”

“Your tongue, you animal! — What do you think you’re doing?” You pull your legs out from between his thighs and shift away from him, leaping off of the bed. His jaw falls slack, staring at the way you’re glaring at him from the bottom of the bed.

“Kissing! — What? — Are you telling me that you’ve never—“ He shakes his head, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. He knew you were inexperienced but french kissing has been popular in the US for a lot longer than you’ve even been alive.

“No, I haven’t! — What kind of girl—“

“Alright, stop yelling, stop yelling!” Bradley stands up swiftly and catches hold of both of your biceps. Quieting, you crane your neck back to look at him. He looks down at you and exhales. “That was a mistake. Right?”

His thumbs brush gently along the backs of your arms. You’re silent, just staring up at him, but he gives a quick nod anyway. That’s good enough. Squeezing your arm, he lets you go and then moves.

“Fuck. Okay,” He runs a hand over his jaw and turns, dizzily trying to collect his things. “We’re good. We just need to not get in each other’s way, get you a C — and then we’re out of each other’s hair.”

There are so many things you want to say. Even more that you want to ask him. But, you don’t. You just nod silently at him and tuck your hands behind your back. Then, you make the mistake of glancing downwards. The khaki colouring of his shorts has never looked as indecent as it does now.

Bradley doesn’t need to follow your gaze to know what you’re staring at. He knows all too well that he has been rock hard since he first grabbed at your hip. The little squeak you had made had sent every red blood cell in his body rushing south, and the way you’re staring at his straining dick now doesn’t help.

You make it worse too. There’s no shock on your face, you’re not saying anything. You’re just staring at the way his thick length is pressing against the fabric of the shorts, hard, and because of you. Natasha, that you had understood. She had been touching him and she was undeniably gorgeous. And they had history.

“Stop —“ Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and dips a hand into his shorts to adjust himself with the other. That still doesn’t stop you from staring. He frowns at you. First you don’t know how to kiss, and now he’s realizing that you’ve probably never seen a dick either. “For fucks’ sake.

Your eyes finally go wide as he grabs the textbook, turns on his heel and leaves the room with a slam of the door. You flinch at the sound, suddenly completely alone in your room, reeling. Ashamedly, your first instinct is to call Matthew.

Bradley walks down the hall, takes the stairs, and into his own room. It’s empty, meaning that Luke’s probably in Robin’s room. Bradley should be an adult and go and lecture them both. Instead, he slams the door to their bathroom and twists the lock. Cold water probably would have been the best thing to do. Instead, letting the warm stream soak his body, his clothes ditched on the floor, he feels like he can finally breathe.

Truthfully, your fiancé is the furthest thing from his mind. The fact that you’re his student has never felt as minuscule as it did when he was kneeling between your thighs and watching your delicate fingers toy with his necklace. You’re graduating. This is just extra credit. If you had passed the first time, you’d be out of his class already.

All the excuses in the world doesn’t make it okay that he has kissed you twice now. But, that doesn’t stop him from trailing his palm along his toned stomach, wrapping a hand loosely around the base of his cock and planting his free palm on the tile in front of him.

Upstairs and three doors to the right, you’re sitting criss-crossed on the same bed that you had just kissed your professor in with an old plastic phone pressed to your ear. The line rings, and rings until it feels like you’re about to burst into tears until finally his voice comes through on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I need to ask you something and I need you to please answer me honestly. Okay?”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @wkndwlff @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @cherrycola27 @sugarcoated-lame

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #jake seresin #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #Bradley Bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley Bradshaw fic #the odyssey

[wrencatte]

mini-fic 3! Cere POV. linguist!Cal, Mantis Crew as Family, Merrin & Cal bonding 1.2k words

“This one?”

Cal squints at it for half a second, says “yes,” then looks back down.

“What about this one?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even look!”

“Greez, that’s the third time you’ve shown me that one.”

“No, it – oh, wait, haha, yeah it is. Okay. Let me see….”

Cere watches in fond amusement as Greez goes back to the shelves. Merrin comes over with a tome from deeper within the city library and angles it in a way Cal can look at it without straining his neck. His expression brightens and he takes it, running his fingers over the edges and corners.

There’s a slight twist in the Force that Cere’s beginning to learn means he found an echo. She has to focus pretty hard to feel it so she only pays it enough attention to be sure Cal’s not about to fall into anything nasty – not that she can do anything about it if he does, but she likes to be prepared – and tunes back into the softly murmured conversation between Merrin and Cal.

The Nightsister looks absolutely delighted at having found something in a language Cal doesn’t recognize, all quiet pride and subtle preening. Cere hides a smile behind her hand. Adorable. Cal flips the tome open and the two of them duck heads, Cal underlining a few words with his finger and saying something that Merrin repeats. He shakes his head and says it again. Her face twists in thought as she sounds it out before giving it voice and he nods rapidly, grinning. She smiles back, one of those small soft ones that pops up whenever it’s just her and Cal.

Cere is just about to go back to her own readings when Greez arrives, BD-1 whirling on his shoulder, a book held over his head in triumph.

“Ha! Try this on for size!”

Cal takes the book carefully. “I know this one,” he tells Greez, who groans in disappointment. “But, oh wow.” He flips through a few pages, lips moving as he reads the text silently to himself. “I can’t believe they have a book written in pre-Reformation Gwyrdd’tafodi. Do you know how rare that is? When they switched over, they deliberately destroyed all they could! An archivist hid this away for a hundred years in order to get it safely off the planet. It kept getting passed down the family line until one of them got passage on a ship.”

Greez crosses one set of arms, his free hands on his hips. He watches Cal fondly as the young Jedi’s excitement grows with every page flip. “You know, I would’ve never pegged you as such a gigantic nerd.”

“Jedi were scholars and peacekeepers before they were soldiers,” Cere says quietly. A hush falls on the group. Cal ducks down, shoulders hunching, eyes kept resolutely on the page though it’s obvious he’s not reading a single word. She smiles and adds lightly, “We’re all nerds.”

Cal laughs first, tinged with grief and legitimate delight. He tucks the book Greez brought under the one Merrin showed him, which makes Merrin throw Greez a smirk and for the latero to throw his crossed arms up in the air in a huff. Cere rolls her eyes fondly and catches Cal’s gaze. He grins, unrepentant, enjoying whatever contest is going on between their friends. It gets Cal more books without him getting up, so he’s not going to stop them.

Greez’s frustration is amusing to watch, especially when he snatches BD from scanning the book Cal has open so he can co-opt the droid’s database to help find a language Cal doesn’t know. It’s not helping. BD-1’s database might be filled with years and years of history and culture but knowing the intimate details of a language instead of just a simple dictionary is completely different.

Merrin listens to Cal read out loud for a few minutes, humming at all the right moments, but obviously thinking hard about something. Cere gives up on reading her book and focuses on the two of them, curious as to what’s going to happen next.

“How many languages do you know?”

Cal’s teeth click he stops talking so fast. “I don’t know,” he admits with a shrug. “Sometimes I don’t even realize I know a language until I see or hear it again. Sometimes not even then! It doesn’t always register it as a different language. It’s just…words I understand.”

She tilts her head, expression intense. “Could you learn Dathomiri?”

He grins and quips something in the smokey, gritty sounding language of Dathomir. Merrin’s eyes widen, and then, suddenly, they glimmer with a wetness both Cere and Cal pretend they don’t see.

Knuckles pressed to her lips, she breathes a very quiet, “oh,” before clearing her throat and adding roughly, “Your accent is terrible.”

“Is it though?” Cal asks smugly.

Merrin scowls. “I will teach you more…if you want to learn.”

Cal’s expression softens. “I would love to. Thank you for sharing it with me.” He adds something in Dathomiri at the end that has Merrin abruptly turning back to their shared book, expression pained and grieving.

Cere nudges the Nightsister with a tendril of the Force and gets a small smile in response. They don’t share the same bond as Jedi do, but theirs is enough for Cere to believe her. She settles back in her chair, musing on what her life has become, sharing a bond with a Nightsister, before she shrugs it off and fully intends on finally going back to her reading with Merrin and Cal’s back-and-forth as a background noise.

Except Greez comes back again, the book he carries is much thinner than any of the ones stacked around Cal like a barrier. BD-1 clicks excitedly and Greez is grinning smugly as he waves the book in the air.

“Did you know this place has an unknown language section? Guess who found it!” he all but brags. Merrin frowns, nose wrinkling while Cal laughs brightly and holds out a hand for the book.

Greez slaps it in his hand, earning a scandalized look from one of the librarians. Merrin and Cere laugh as he hunches down with quick apologies. Cal inspects the book carefully. If there are any echoes, they’re soft and quick. He grins.

“Congratulations, Greez, I don’t know this one.”

The latero cheers silently, all four arms thrown up in victory.

Merrin rolls her eyes. “You still lost. I found one first.”

Cal hums. “Best two out of three? This place is open for another five hours.”

The two of them exchange looks for a full second before Merrin jumps out of her chair and rushes into the depths of the library. Greez yelps and follows her as fast as he can without running. Cere hides her face, as though that will keep people from realizing they’re with her. Cal laughs, covering his mouth with his book. His eyes peek over, glittering in mirth. He pulls the book away, and holds it to his cheek, leaning in like he has a secret. Cere can’t help but lean in to hear it.

“I already know the language,” he admits.

Cere blinks at him then laughs loudly – nearly getting them kicked out of the library.

#cal kestis #cere junda #nightsister merrin #greez dritus #sw jfo #jfo fic #mantis crew #my writing #there's an alt version of this that's more bittersweet and 200 words more #it brings in the Order of the Dai Bendu and the Dai Bendu language #I just couldn't decide which version I liked more and went with the funny one instead #if anyone wants me to post the other version lemme know #that's if someone reads this far into the tags lol #i need to figure out how to get these onto ao3 #i don't want individual stories but i haven't posted a drabble/ficlet fic in a long long time #and even then the last one i did were full 5k+ oneshot chapters #oh well #imma stop talking now

[marauders-venting]

Pardon My French

pairing: wolfstar (sirius x remus)

genre: fluff

warnings: none

words: 3556

note: thank you to @ probably_wizardingworld_artist on instagram for helping me translate things into french. also i got some of the lines that sirius says from this website https://www.fluentu.com/blog/french/french-pick-up-lines/

a/n: if you dont speak french (like me) dont look up a translation! everything will be clear by the end of the fic and its more fun if you find out along with remus. i mean, i cant really stop you if you want to translate the sentences but thats just my advice :)

Remus was sitting in the library, a French to English dictionary open on his lap, sighing in frustration as he flipped through the pages. For the past couple of weeks, Sirius had taken to murmuring things in French under his breath and it drove Remus crazy that he didn’t know what they meant. He had asked Sirius on several occasions but Sirius always refused to tell him. But the fact that he didn’t understand the words wasn’t the only reason it drove him crazy when Sirius spoke French. It’s not Remus’ fault that Sirius sounds really hot when his lips curve around the words in “the language of love”.

Remus tries not to think about it but it’s becoming increasingly more difficult because every time they’re alone together Sirius seems to find something to say in French (if only to piss Remus off).

The last time Sirius had said something in French to him had been last weekend. It was the first sunny weekend since the winter and Marlene had suggested that they all go down to the lake for a swim.

Remus’ brain could barely form a single coherent thought from the moment Sirius took off his shirt; he was too busy trying not to stare. He remembered jumping into the lake and trying to get warm by swimming to the far side, away from all his friends. Sirius had followed him to make sure he was okay.

“I’m fine,” he had said, smiling slightly at Sirius. “Just cold.”

“Oh okay,” Sirius said, looking relieved. He had glanced back at their friends before whispering, “On devrait t’arrêter pour excès de beauté sur la voie publique” and submerging his head in the water and swimming back to James, Peter, Lily, Marlene, Dorcas, Mary and Alice. Remus had felt a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Then there was the time that Sirius had skipped Quidditch practice to visit Remus in the hospital wing after a particularly bad full moon. James, being the captain, had been able to delay the practice so that he and Peter could come to visit as well but they had to practice for the game the following day. James had to be at the practice because he was the captain and Peter had to be there because they didn’t have another Keeper to fill in. But James had given Sirius permission to stay with Remus (which showed just how terrible he felt that he couldn’t stay as well). They watched a bit of the practice from the hospital wing but Remus was getting frustrated, having to stay in a hospital bed for so long. So, after clearing it with Madam Pomfrey, Sirius helped Remus climb all the way to the Astronomy Tower. They sat up there watching the sunset when Sirius said, “Il y a tellement de soleil dans tes yeux que je bronze quand tu me regardes.”

“Ugh, do you make it your life goal to patronize me?” Remus had said.

“Of course, Moony, what else would I live for?”

“Are you ever going to stop doing that?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Sirius had replied, grinning at him. “It’s too much fun.”

“Why do you even bother?” Remus said. “You know I don’t understand a single word of what you’re saying. Why don’t you go talk to someone who speaks French?”

“Because then they’d know what I was saying,” Sirius replied simply. He had refused to answer any more of his questions.

Remus had needed to spend that night in the hospital wing again. All night, Sirius’ voice rang through his head but every time he tried to make something coherent of it, actually words or letters or even sounds, he couldn’t. He could never remember what Sirius had said long enough to actually look it up or ask anyone.

But lately, Remus had noticed that Sirius had been repeating the same sentence in French practically every day. He recognises the sound of the words in Sirius’ mouth.

So today, Remus waited until he was alone with Sirius, waited for Sirius to say what Remus knew he would. And when he did Remus repeated the words in his head a million times until he remembered them. And now Remus was in the library and looking up the words in a dictionary. 

He knew that he could’ve gone to Lily and asked her to translate it for him but he didn’t want to. He knows it’s stupid but he feels like this is something that Sirius is saying to him and only to him. Remus had never heard Sirius whisper in French to anyone else. And as much as Remus pretended to be annoyed by it, he actually liked that he had this with Sirius. He liked that they had something that was just their own. And even though it was probably nothing, he didn’t want to share it with Lily right now.

Chaque jour je tombe plus amoureux de toi. That was the sentence. Remus looked up each word individually and came to the conclusion that he must have heard wrong or maybe the words were spelt differently to how they were pronounced. Because there was no way in hell that Sirius had said these words to him. It was impossible. Right? Remus didn’t know. And he knew that the only way he could be sure was by asking Lily. He had asked Sirius a million times to no avail. And he needs to know what Sirius has been saying to him, especially now that there’s a chance… No, Remus tells himself, you just translated wrong. Don’t get your hopes up. So Remus gives in. He’d rather ask Lily and find out what Sirius has been saying to him every day for the last month than keep this to himself without even understanding it.

“Hey Lily,” he started, getting her attention. Remus had waited until the two of them were alone, just in case he had translated right. Which he hadn’t. He knows he translated it wrong. But he’d still rather nobody knew about it. “What does ‘chaque jour je tombe plus amoureux de toi’ mean?” He fumbled across the words a bit, hearing how terrible his pronunciation was. Lily looked at him, her eyebrows raised.

“Where on earth did you hear that sentence?” she asked.

“I read it somewhere,” Remus lied easily. “So what does it mean?”

“It means ‘every day, I fall more in love with you.’” Remus’ jaw dropped open. “Remus, who told you they’re in love with you?”

“What? Nobody! What makes you think someone said that to me?”

“You said that you read that sentence somewhere but if you had read it, you would have no idea how to pronounce it. Besides the look on your face when I told you what it means is more than enough. So who was it?”

“None of your business,” he said. “But y–you’re kidding, right? That’s not actually what it means. Right?”

“No, I’m not kidding, Rem. That’s what it means,” she replied, laughing at the look on his face. “Come on, tell me who it was.”

“No fucking way,” Remus said. “Besides, they’re probably joking. I mean… no, they’re definitely joking.” Lily shrugged.

“Just ask them,” she said. “And then you have to tell me who your secret admirer is.” She poked him in the side.

“Stooooop,” he said, jumping away from her and laughing against his will. “I’m going.” He got up and started walking away.

“Have fun with your mystery lover,” she called after him without looking back. Remus rolled his eyes but his mind was racing. So apparently he hadn’t been wrong. That was what Sirius had said to him. What does this even mean? He’s teasing you, said a voice in his head, like always. Sirius doesn’t love you. Not like that. But he said he does. Don’t be stupid. Sirius isn’t in love with you. He’s joking. Like always.

The next time Sirius said it, they were in the Room of Requirement. Sirius had ambushed Remus in the middle of his prefect rounds with Lily levitating a cardboard box in midair. Typical. He had practically given Remus a heart attack by interrupting his conversation with Lily, leaving Remus to wonder just how much of the conversation he had overheard.

“So have you talked to your mystery French lover yet?” Lily had teased. Remus groaned.

“No, I haven’t,” he said. “And I probably won’t.”

“Why not?” Lily demanded. “They’re being very romantic, Remus, you should at least appreciate their effort.”

“I’d appreciate it more if they’d just tell me what the fuck they want instead of sending me coded messages that they know I don’t understand,” Remus grumbled.

“Moonyyyyy,” Sirius said, coming up from behind him. Remus jumped, turning around, heart racing in his chest.

“Sirius? What are you doing here?” he asked. “You know it’s after hours, right?” Sirius snorted.

“Yes, Remus, I am fully aware of the fact that I’m breaking a school rule,” he said, smirking.

“Are you aware that technically Remus and I have to turn you in?” Lily said.

“Ah, but do you really plan on doing that, Evans?” Sirius asked.

“That depends,” she replied. “Why are you here?”

“Right,” Sirius remembered, then he turned to Remus. “James forgot to put this box with the rest of the stuff for tomorrow so I said I’d take it. And you’re coming with me.”

“Remind me why again?” Remus said.

“Moony, come on, don’t make me go alone. I’ll be lonely,” Sirius pouted.

“You are insufferable, did you know that?”

“And yet, you’ve tolerated me for 6 years now.”

“Yeah, the keyword there is ‘tolerated’,” Remus said, rolling his eyes. “Lils…” he started, turning to her.

“Nope,” she said before he could even ask. “No way. You are not leaving me to do these rounds alone because then I’ll die of boredom. So unless you want me to tell McGonagall that your planning something for tomorrow, you’re going to finish this floor with me and then I’ll go back to the common room and you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Evans…” Sirius pouted.

“Nope, that’s non-negotiable, Black. Also, do I want to ask?” She gestured to the hovering box.

“The less you know, the better,” he said. “Although, I would avoid the classrooms near the dungeons tomorrow if I were you.” She nodded and Remus thought he saw her smile slightly for a second.

“You go on, I’ll catch up,” he said to Sirius, knowing that Lily’s mind would not be changed. He couldn’t blame her. He wouldn’t have let her leave him to finish this chore alone either. She was right, it was painstakingly boring. Which is why he would much rather be with Sirius. But it was only fair that he finished tonight’s rounds with her; she did cover for him around the full moon, after all.

Sirius pouted but knew better than to argue and turned to go to the Room of Requirement. Remus watched him and he disappeared up a flight of stairs. Only then did he notice Lily was smirking at him.

“What?” he asked, sounding a bit defensive.

“So Sirius is your secret French admirer?” she said.

“W–What?” he spluttered. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, for one, the look on your face when he showed up right behind us while we were talking about your mystery lover,” Lily said. “It was the look people make when you’ve just been talking about someone and then they show up and you’re worried that they may have overheard you.”

“That… is a very specific look,” Remus said, avoiding the question she was asking.

“Then you smiled at him when you called him insufferable,” she said.

“So?”

“So it was one of those I’m-smiling-at-you-while-I’m-teasing-you-cause-I’m-secretly-in-love-with-you smiles.”

“Again, that's a very specific expression,” he said.

“Look, I know you like him, so will you just admit it already?”

“Why? What good would that information do you? It’s for me to worry about and for Sirius to never discover, ever.”

“Remus, you’re kidding, right?” she said. “Sirius literally told you that he loves you, in French no less.”

“Exactly, Lily. In French. If he actually meant it, why would he say it in a language that he knows I don’t understand? He just knew that I would look it up and he wanted to make some joke.”

“I really don’t think so, Remus,” Lily said, shaking her head. “I think he really loves you.”

“He doesn’t,” Remus said. “He can’t. Not like that.”

“Remus, do you love him?” she asked. Remus closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I love him.”

“So why are you doing this to yourself? Just ask him what he meant when he said it. You don’t even have to tell him anything, just ask him what he meant.”

“But… what if he says it was a joke?”

“First of all, I don’t think he will,” Lily said. “But if he does, that’s what you’re expecting, isn’t it? It won’t be a surprise or anything.”

“I know, I know, I just…” Remus sighed and looked away from her. “I don’t think I’m ready to hear him say it. To be properly rejected.”

“Oh, Rem,” she said. They had reached the end of the corridor and Lily stopped to hug him. “Obviously I’m not going to make you do anything. You know what I think. Go find Sirius now, he’ll be waiting for you. Do what you think is right.”

“Yeah,” Remus said, hugging her back. “Yeah, okay.” So Lily went in the direction of the common room and Remus went to the Room of Requirement.

He found Sirius sitting with his back against the wall, the box beside him.

“You’re an idiot,” Remus told him, trying to put the conversation with Lily out of his mind. “You’re practically begging to get caught.” Sirius shrugged.

“I was waiting for you,” he said. “Come on, let’s go in.” They paced back and forth in front of the wall three times. We need a place to hide our things, Remus thought. A door appeared and Sirius opened it, leading the box in with his wand. They had been here before to hide loads of things. The room was pretty cluttered from years of students dumping their things in it but they knew where exactly to hide the box so that they’d be able to find it tomorrow when they needed it. Remus followed Sirius through aisles upon aisles of junk, looking at all the broken, discarded things people threw in here.

They found the corner where they’d left everything else and Sirius added the box to the rest of the pile.

“Are we done here?” Remus asked.

“Yep, we can leave now,” Sirius said. They had started walking back towards the door when Remus heard Sirius say it from behind him.

“Chaque jour je tombe plus amoureux de toi.” Remus turns to him and stops him in his tracks.

“Pads, why do you keep saying that? Who are you talking to?”

“Remus, you are aware that you’re the only one here right? I’m talking to you.”

“Then why… why are you—?”

“I know, I know, you don’t understand French,” Sirius says. “That’s why it's fun. It’s amusing to know something that you don’t, for once.”

“Sirius… I know what that sentence means,” Remus says quietly. Sirius’ neck snaps up.

“What?”

“I know what that sentence means,” Remus repeats.

“No, you don’t,” Sirius says, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I do. I asked Lily after the last time you said it. She translated for me.”

“Fuck, I didn’t know Lily could speak French,” Sirius says, rubbing a hand over his face. “So… so this whole time you’ve known what I’m saying? So you know that I… you know that I… oh god, Remus I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I didn’t want to… I was just…” Sirius starts to back away, shaking his head and looking anywhere but at Remus. Remus reaches out and grabs his hand.

“Don’t go,” Remus says. “Sirius. Is it a joke? Are you making a joke? Actually, no, don’t tell me. Cause if it’s a joke I’d rather you bury me under all the crap in this room and spare me the pain.”

“What?”

“It’s not a joke, is it?” Remus asked, a pleading look in his eyes.

“No,” Sirius said, softly. “It’s not a joke. I’m sorry, Remus, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” Remus said, pressing a finger to Sirius’ lips. “Sirius,” Remus tucked Sirius’ hair behind his ear. Remus was vaguely aware of Sirius stepping towards him, towards his touch. “I love you, too.” Sirius gapes at him

“Really?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Remus says. He’s still holding Sirius’ hand. He pulls Sirius closer and lets his other hand graze Sirius’ cheek.

“Puis-je t'embrasser?” Sirius whispers.

“Pads, I… I don’t know what that means.” Sirius lets out a small laugh and looks down at the floor. Then he looks back up at Remus, his grey eyes glistening in the last sliver of sunlight. He’s biting his lip.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Remus says, without thinking. He feels the blush blooming on his cheeks but Sirius is already kissing him, rising on his tip-toes to make his lips reach Remus’. Remus feels electric currents dancing around his body, unable to contain the excitement. He’s kissing Sirius. Sirius is kissing him back. Sirius loves him. Sirius loves him in the same way that he loves Sirius. Sirius is snaking his hands around Remus’ waist pulling him closer. Sirius’ hair is soft, tangled between his fingers. Sirius is here, in his arms, and it’s everything Remus has been wanting and more.

“Wait, so now can you tell me everything you’ve been saying in French the whole time?” They’re sitting in the same large armchair, hands still linked together, legs tucked against their chests, knees and thighs and hips pressed together. Remus is very aware of every point where his skin is making contact with Sirius’. He’s counting them.

They found the armchair in the Room of Requirement; it’s unclear to them whether the chair is something that’s been dumped in the room by somebody else or if the room conjured it up because they were looking for it. 

Neither one of them wants to go back to the common room yet. Remus doesn’t want to see Lily’s smirk and to have to admit she was right at the moment. He’ll do that tomorrow. Right now, all he wants is to be with Sirius. To press little kisses to his nose, his cheeks, his jaw, his lips just because he can.

“Oh god,” Sirius says, burying his face in between Remus’ shoulder and the back of the armchair. “It’s like you want me to embarrass myself.”

“This surprises you?” Remus kisses the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then his neck. Just because he can. “Please.”

“Ah fine,” Sirius gives in. “Um, what do you want to know?”

“What did you say that day at the lake?” Remus asks.

“Oh that. I said, ‘on devrait t’arrêter pour excès de beauté sur la voie publique’. It means uh… ugh, you’re going to laugh at me for this. It means ‘you should be arrested for excessive beauty in public’,” Sirius said, blushing. Remus rolled his eyes but he felt his cheeks heat too. He smiles a little.

“What about that day on the Astronomy Tower?” he continues.

“Ugh,” Sirius buries his face in his hands. “You’re trying to kill me. I said, ‘il y a tellement de soleil dans tes yeux que je bronze quand tu me regardes’. Which means, uh… ‘there’s so much sun in your eyes that I get a tan when you look at me.’”

“You’re quite the poet, aren’t you?” Remus smiles. “And what about tonight?”

“I thought you said you knew what that meant,” Sirius says. “Or were you bluffing the whole time?”

“No, I know what it means,” Remus says. “I just want to hear you say it. In English this time, please.”

“So demanding,” Sirius teases. “I’ve said it in French a million times already and you want me to say it in English? What difference does it make?”

“Well, none to you, you speak both languages.”

“Oh, alright,” Sirius says. It’s the first time Remus has seen his face really go red. He decides he likes it. “Every day I fall more in love with you.” Remus can’t hide his smile, nor does he want to, as he leans in to kiss Sirius. He brushes his lips against Sirius’ timidly before connecting them, his hand caressing Sirius’ cheek. Remus loses count of the points of contact between him and Sirius as their bodies melt together and Remus worries that he’s about to wake up from a dream. But when he feels Sirius’ hand gently tracing the scars on his hand he knows that this is real, that Sirius can really love him. Sirius does love him.

People come to the Room of Requirement to throw things away, to hide things that they don’t want anybody else to know about, to leave things they never want to see again. But that night, Remus didn’t just leave something in the Room of Requirement. He found something, too.

#remus lupin #remus lupin fluff #sirius black #sirius black fluff #french sirius #moony #padfoot #wolfstar #WOLFSTAR FLUFF #wolfstar fanfic #Wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar oneshot #remus x sirius #sirius x remus #lily evans #lily evans fluff #Marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders oneshot

[babblydrabbly]

Trust Me Pt. 2 (Rick Flag x Reader)

[Gif]

Pairing(s): Rick Flag x Reader

Characters: Rick Flag, Mentions of Amanda Waller.

Rating: General

Word Count: 1k+

Warning(s): Language, mentions of blood/violence; Suicide Squad (2021) spoilers, mentions of Suicide Squad (2016).

Summary: You were Waller’s rat. Her eyes and ears where technology failed in the field. You represented Rick’s failures and Amanda Waller’s iron grip. So why does he give a shit when you get yourself hurt on a suicide mission? Rick’s first impression has changed a lot since then, but so has yours. Part 2/?

A/N:  Pt 1 

Taglist:  @rrtxcmt @to-be-or-not-to-be-2021

---

You were infuriating. 

You hadn’t spoken two words to Rick since your initial introduction. She’ll be observing operations and providing support on your next mission out, Waller had said smugly. 

Rick threw open your thin dossier when it showed up on his desk for the first time, noting your standard experience in the field. Standard marksmanship. Standard everything. Your speciality was data analysis, for fuck’s sake. When the fuck would Flag need one of Waller’s number-crunching desk jockeys during a life or death mission? 

He even caught you rolling your eyes at his pep talk as the jet took off on your first flight out. Granted, it was the same speech he gave all the new members, but you certainly hadn’t heard it before— And it wasn’t for you.

But you played your part. Not a word during mission planning or the briefing— Not much chatter during the mission itself either— But a hell of a lot during debrief afterward. You even sent Waller a secondary report to be noted off record; A long laundry list of what could have been done more efficiently under team leader’s command. Him. You typed up a 2,500 word document just to drag him through the mud.

Which he read, of course. Several times. 

When his secret contact in Waller’s war room handed him the report, Rick noticed how nervous the man looked, and how quickly he hustled away. Rick wouldn’t have guessed half the bullshit you bothered to put in writing. 

“’Occasional pushover?’” Rick later says abruptly, interrupting your lunch. You jump as he slaps the report down on your desk. There’s stacks of paperwork everywhere, of information about every potential suicide squad member, every past one. Waller has you juggling multiple angles in between your mission outings.

You swallow what’s left of your wilted salad, turning pale, “Where did you get that?”

“’Tendency to be lenient toward prisoners.” Rick continues. He falls into the chair across from you, leaning back with casual disdain. 

“You weren’t supposed to—”

“What? Know how incompetent you think my command is?”

“I didn’t say incompetent.” 

“No,” He agreed, “You used every other word in the damn dictionary to say it.”

“Would you let me talk?” You crossed your arms and faced him. 

Rick threw a hand up, then calmed down. He watched as you stood, hurrying over to your office door to close it quietly. 

“It wasn’t personal.” You say as you sit back down.

“It’s a five page essay.”

“This isn’t high school, Flag.” You snapped. You spin the printed document around to look down at it. Rick leaned forward, a giant in your small guest chair, his elbows resting on his spread knees. He waited for you.

You exhale. “It’s... basically just what Waller wants to hear. What she already thinks of you. I didn’t say anything she doesn’t already complain about.”

Oh good. 

“Nice.” Rick huffs. “Good to know what kind of job I’m doing.”

“Why do you give a shit?” You suddenly ask. It wasn’t like Waller was keeping him from leading the task force. He was still a Colonel. You want to say as much, wondering how any of this could possibly get to someone like Rick Flag.

You observe how he looks away. How his brows pinch together. It was your job to take in the details. To convert it all into a sum game. Months ago, a good chunk of the stacks on your desk pertained to Colonel Rick Flag and Task Force X’s first run. When Waller told you what you would be doing, you wanted to be prepared.

So you read the data. Saw what he was like on paper. You conjured what you considered a total picture of the man before you ever met him. 

Which was why, after seeing him in the field yourself for the first time, you didn’t know what to say. 

You had seen what other security personnel were like at Belle Reve. The humiliation and the torment. You didn't have to go down to the prison building often, but you could hear the screams and the violence on the other side of the wall just the same. 

You read about the nano-bomb protocol, and how Rick initially had the power to blow each and every member’s brains out right there on his wrist— How he didn’t hesitate to use it the first time it happened. 

After that first mission, it was like you’d studied a totally different person. 

The man in the chair before you sighed, putting something heavy away behind his eyes before giving you a small shrug. “Guess I don’t.” He says. And when he leaves, you watch as he purposefully does not take the report with him. 

---

If the shouting match in Rick’s car hadn’t given you a headache yet, this lecture certainly would. You sat in your chair obediently as Amanda Waller ripped you a new asshole. You nodded your head in the right places. You wondered what Rick wanted to say to you, but didn’t. He was right—You weren’t fired. But you sort of wished you were if it meant you could just stop listening and get some rest.

“—Understood, [L/n]?” Waller finished firmly, eventually. 

You nod, giving an apologetic, “Yes, Ma’am.” 

You shuffle out of the war room with your debrief packet in your good hand. You feel a dull ache pulsating from the side of your face. When the warm night air hits you as you exit the building, you realize you don’t know where you’re going. 

“You ready to go?”

You blink up. Rick is closing his driver’s side door shut in an empty parking lot. He waits for you to come down the steps until you’re standing at the bottom in front of him. 

You glance around, “You’re still here?”

A faint look of bemusement. “I said I was getting you home after, didn’t I?”

“To the barracks?”

Rick unfolds his arms and approaches you closely, looking you over in the dark. “You’ve got a week’s leave, [L/n]. Did Waller even talk to you?”

You find yourself being ushered back into the car, and Rick does that thing where he closes the damn door for you like you can’t do it yourself. Like he’s taking care of you. 

“So, you gonna tell Siri where I’m takin’ you or what?” He quips, saddling into his seat. When you look at him his smirk dissipates. Suddenly, there’s a warm touch holding your chin in place, a thumb and forefinger turning your head as Rick examines you carefully. You feel a light puff of breath graze your cheek he’s looking at you so close.

“You popped a stitch.” He murmurs, concerned. As he says it, you feel the trickle of fresh blood seep down to the corner of your eye. You feel the exhaustion of three days without sleep wash over you, of all the adrenaline finally flushing from your system in one last sigh. You pull away from his careful grasp and lean back in your seat, closing your eyes.

“Just head into town.” You hear yourself say. You ramble off the cross streets and building number before finally slipping into something like sleep. 

#rick flag x reader #rick flag x you #dc comics fanfiction #dceu fanfiction #mywords* #rick flag fanfiction #loooool not me having to google what his character was like in 2016 because up until2021 I TOTALLY FORGOT HE WAS IN THE FIRST ONE #Well look at me now #the suicide squad fanfiction #THIRSTY #p a r c h e d #also #reader feeling like its finally safe to go to sleep AHHHH oK #and I am knew to sideblogging so if I didn't tag someone I may have lost the request somewhere in all my messy notes ;-;

[tu-sugar-mami]

You're an exchange student part 2:

You can read the first part here

You sit awkwardly on a gigantic chair while holding a lukewarm, barely touched cup of tea with both of your hands. Your back is straight and your shoulders are tense. You're starting to feel a bit sore after being still for a long time but you can't bring yourself to move.

After the incident with the first cultist —or what you still think is a cultist, the redhead girl— the tall lady took away your bug repelent and lighter along with your backpack, putting them on the top row of a nearby shelf where she was sure your little hands wouldn't reach.

If you're honest, you're not sure how you ended up sitting in the chair in front of the gigantic fireplace with many heavy comforters on you providing much needed warmth, feeling like an unexpected but not unwelcomed guest instead of the next sacrifice, but truly you're not complaining. This is thousand times better than to die outside from the cold.

As you sit there innocently waiting for the next important thing to happen, you can see that the two young women who arrived after you are exchanging a few words with Miss Tall Lady while taking off their coats to reveal several layers of winter clothes underneath. It's strange to you, but you pay it no mind. Every person takes different to the cold, after all.

The tall lady starts pacing back and forth in front of you heatedly talking, glancing at you once or twicce, and it's not hard for you to notice the strain and exasperation in her tone. Whatever she's saying sounds serious, but you can only make out a few words like 'offering' 'wrong' and 'mistake'.

Not knowing what to respond your find yourself distracted by the decor. Your eyes roaming every detail of the chiseled fireplace, taking in the most fine of the details. Then, is the stairwell that catches you attention and you can't help but to think it would be a great place to slide on a cardboard box.

"Are you listening to me?" A commanding voice and a snap of fingers brings your wandering mind down from the clouds and your neck snaps to face the woman. Her eyes are a beautiful golden, and you can't believe you didn't notice before.

"Your eyes are mesemerizing..." You say in your language, breathless, the words slipping past your lips almost as in a trance. Your gaze goes a bit down and your fingers twitch with a sudden desire to run them over those blood-red lips and feel for yourself if they are as soft as they look.

Miss Tall Lady looks thrown off by the foreign accent in your voice. It's definitely one she hadn't have the pleasure of hearing before and somehow makes her pause. Her mind might be playing tricks on her but why did whatever you said felt like some kind of compliment?

"Mother?" One of the young women from before asks tentatively. You don't know if you're right but you think the girls are the woman's daughters.

"Take this one to the library. I will follow shortly." Miss Tall Lady says before hurriedly walking away, though without losing her lady-like grace. Your eyes follow an hypnothic sway of hips going up the stairs before you sense a hand being extended towards you, expecting.

"Teacup, please." A blonde, very polite-looking young lady says. You jump a bit in your seat and inevitably blush, thinking for a moment you were caught in your respecful percieving, but to your relief the woman in front of you didn't seem to notice that.

"Uh..." You're not sure what Miss Blonde wants, but judging by the look she's giving you, you suppose she wants to greet you formally, so you do what any other civilized person would do. "Hi, it's a pleasure to meet you, miss." You say as you properly position the teacup in your left hand and with your right you shake hers. She's taken aback, but after a second of hesitation a smile breaks and graces her face.

A pair of loud laughs sound from behind the blonde. The young woman with the dark hair approaches you both from the side with an amused grin. "I like this one, Bels."

"An odd one indeed." Miss Blonde replies.

The last one of the unusual trio approaches on the other side of the blonde, the redhead you knocked out earlier. She looks at you intently. "Just so you know, no one besides mother sends me to sleep without consecuenses, little one." and punctuates her statement with a boop to your nose.

"Yes, yes, you'll get your revenge later, Daniela. Let's not keep Mother waiting." You're hoisted up by the hand. The warm comforters falling off your back and piling on the big chair, instantly making you shiver with the lack of heat. The three women walk away and you have no other option than to follow them.

The door is opened and inside you find yourelf gaping at the amount of books stacked on the big shelves. You can count with one hand the times you've been in a house that has its own library, but this one by far takes the cake. "Can i grab a book?" You ask to Miss Dark Hair, pointing to one of the nearestt bookshelves while giving your trademark Puppy Eyes.

"What? You want to read?"

"Book." You say, pointing again insistently to the bottom row of antique books.

"Sure, go have your fun while Mother arrives." Miss Blonde nods and you waste no time to grab the fattest, heaviest book of them all and sit on the floor with your legs crossed, only to sigh in dissapointment as the book is in a language you yet again can't understand. But as you flip the pages you can see that it has very depicting images of old eras that you find fascinating.

You don't notice the time passing as you 'read' undisturbingly, until a big hand is placed on your shoulder and you almost jump out of yor skin, closing the book with a snap, effectively losing the page where the images told you the process to make soap.

"Someone's been studying, i see." The Tall Lady from before stands before you in all her height and you cand help but to rake your gaze all over that goddess until you reach her eyes, not without your flushed face at the end. "So, i brought you here for a reason." She says while her hand motions you to stand. "Here at the Dimitrescu Castle we are in possesion of many doors to knowledge, which does include many books that offer some insight about other countries along with their tongues." You're nodding along whatever she's saying, not a single word ringing a bell in your understanding but to you it would be impolite to leave her hanging. Tall Lady stops in her tracks, in front of a very dusty bookshelf with even older books. Her hand goes from side to side selecting several books which she then hands to you.

You eye the books curiously and you notice that they're a vast collections of translating dictionaries, all varying in length and language. You kneel and start looking through them, being mindful of the most antique and delicate ones. You spot a thin one but with a very familiar dialect and you look up to give Tall Lady a toothy smile. "This one is! Uh... Wait, let's see." You open the book and look through the content searching for words. You stand and motion the lady to lean a bit and start pointing words.

'Student.'

'Cold.'

'Lost'

'Thankful."

As you keep making sense with the few words you're provided, the expression on the lady's face changes to a one of understanding and pity. She pulls out a very fancy-looking pair of glasses out from who knows where and takes the book from your hands, flipping through it's pages, looking for words of her own.

'Stay.'

'Dinner.'

'Sleep.'

'Rest.'

She points word by word and you get the hint. You nod eagerly and smile. Tall Lady smiles back at you and for a second there you feel your heart paralize. You could have sworn you saw a pair of unusually long canines on that pearly white smile. But surely you're just tired, right?

"Daniela, please take our guest to one of the spare rooms." The lady says gesturing to the red-haired young woman.

"Yes, Mother." And the next thing you know your being lead by the arm out of the room.

Once you're gone the tall lady's whole demeanor changes to one of anger and she let's out a frustrated sigh. "The nerve of those villagers. To send a foreigner as the monthly offering! No wonder why the man-thing you brought was insisting it was a mistake."

"They're not respecting the deal, Mother. Should i make them understand who they're dealing with?"

The Tall Lady's pointer finger rests on her lips as she thinks. "No. I'd like to have a word with the leader." She put the book on a the nearrest table with a bit too much force, snapping the poor table in half. "Bela, bring him to me."

---------

Part two is up. Less comedy, more plot. This isn't planned to be long so maybe this will only have one or two more chapters.

@thejennystuttle

#alcina dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #alcina x reader #re8 #my fic #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #resident evil village

[spencersstrawberryjello]

Treat People With Kindness (The BAU)

Summary: Garcia gets Reid into Harry Styles and everyone subsequently loses their minds over it.

Content: Honestly just funny I’m not sure what to call it

MC’s name/pronouns: No alternate main character, just Spencer.

Word Count: 1706

A/N: This whole fic was inspired by the fact that a fan gave Matthew Gray Gubler a Treat People With Kindness pin, which then sparked my friend Emily and I to theorize that Spencer Reid would absolutely be a Harry Styles stan. So yeah, this is literally just the product of one fan interaction lmao

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

“I got a good feelin’.”

“... What’s he doing?” Emily leaned over and whispered to JJ, who just shook her head.

“I’m just takin’ it all in.”

“Ok, what happened to Reid?” Morgan joined them, and they both shrugged, watching Spencer walk through the doors of the office. 

“Floatin’ up and dreamin’.”

“You know, maybe I need to add him to my drug test list too.” Hotch had stepped out of his office, trying to hide his grin as they saw Spencer making his way to his desk, headphones in and practically dancing over to his seat, mouthing every word of the song he was listening to. He plopped down in it with a little spin, opening a file on his desk without ever taking his headphones out. 

“Try ‘Dancing with the Stars,’” Emily laughed, and JJ broke away from their group, heading over to his desk. 

“Hey Spence,” She rested her arms on the divide between his desk and Emily’s, tapping on it to get his attention. 

“Maybe we can find a place to feel good.”

“Spence!” She tapped his arm this time, and he practically jumped out of his skin, turning to face her.

“And we can treat -”

He quickly tore the headphones out of his ears, setting them down on his desk and looking up at her, clearing his throat.

“Sorry. I was listening to something.” He gestured to the headphones still connected to his phone, as if that wasn’t already obvious. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” JJ laughed.

“Do we have a case?” 

“Nothing yet, you’re good.” She tried fruitlessly to hide her grin, and he gave her a strange look.

“Ok…”

“So,” She plopped down in Emily’s chair, rolling it over to sit near him, “What were you listening to?”

“Oh!” His face lit up, and he grabbed his phone, holding it out for her to see. She put the headphones in her ears, hearing the final moments of the song he’d been jamming to.

“And we can treat people with kindness, find a place to feel good.”

“Harry Styles?” JJ laughed incredulously, handing him back his phone. 

“You’ve heard of him?” He asked, taking the phone and sitting it back on his desk and turning back to her.

“I’m pretty sure most people have heard of him, Spence.”

“Ok, well, I hadn’t. But on Saturday I was speaking at the University of Mary Washington with Rossi, and one of the girls gave me this, after the lecture,” He grabbed his bag off the back of the chair, pointing to a round pin clipped on the strap. It was enamel, with light pink on the inside and a red rose in the center, encircled by the phrase “Treat People With Kindness” in black lettering. “And you know, naturally I thought it was a good message so I put it on my bag and I thought that was all it was. But then I ran into Garcia.”

“Oh god.”

“I was walking in yesterday and she saw it and kind of freaked out a little bit, and pulled me into her office and played me the song - the one you just listened to - and it was amazing and so I told her I thought it was amazing, which made her freak out even more and then you called with a case so I left, only to receive a a YouTube playlist a few hours later that she told me I had to watch every video on or she’d stop printing the case files for me.”

“You know she loves you too much to actually do that, right?”

“I mean, the odds were low, but I wasn’t going to risk it. Either way, I sort of listened to every single song on Fine Line and Self-Titled in one night and also a whole bunch of interviews that she sent me and he’s really funny and his music is great and the moral of the story is I kind of love him.”

JJ sent back in her chair, dumbfounded. “Dude… you mean to tell me Garcia made you a Harry Styles fan?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“I - Penelope!” JJ left without another word, making her way into Garcia’s office. Spencer just shrugged, returning to the file he was looking at - and his music - as Garcia spun to face JJ.

“Jennifer, my love, to what do I owe the pleasure? New case?” She asked. JJ just shook her head.

“You broke Reid.”

“I did not break Reid!” She defended with a grin. “I merely helped him reach his true form.”

“He willingly used technology, and he came into the office today practically dancing to Treat People With Kindness. So yes, you did break Reid.”

“JJ, dear,” Garcia got up from her chair, taking JJ’s hands in the doorway, “Do you remember when Reid got that adorable little shaggy haircut?”

“Despite the fact that he changes his hair like every month, yes, I do.”

“And do you remember what Hotch said?”

She thought for a moment, then her eyes widened in shock. “You did all of this… because of the boyband joke?”

“Like I said: true form.” Garcia returned to her chair, spinning around with a laugh. “In my defense, I didn’t know he was going to get a Harry Styles pin. I just took advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself. I already failed at teaching him to worship Lady Gaga, I could not miss another chance to try and pull him out of the dark ages.”

“You are ridiculous, you know that?”

“That’s why you love me!” 

JJ laughed, leaving Garcia’s office and heading up to hers, ruffling Spencer’s hair on her way by.

“You should grow your hair out again.”

“You think so?” He reached up and fussed with his hair, just as Garcia emerged into the main room. 

“Spencer Reid, my beautiful boy genius, did you do what I asked?”

“Garcia, I figured out how to download music to my phone because of you. So yes, I did what you asked.”

“You are officially my new favorite person.”

“Hang on, what is this all about?” Emily asked. Garcia grinned, hardly able to contain her excitement. 

“I’m finally bringing the lovely Dr. Reid here into the 21st Century.”

“Penelope,” Emily raised an eyebrow at her, “What did you do?”

“Garcia thinks she did something revolutionary by getting me into Harry Styles’ music,” Spencer clarified. Emily immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, about to respond before Derek piped up from his desk.

“Oh, she converted you too?”

“‘Too’ - you mean to tell me that you, Derek Morgan, are a Harry Styles fan?” Emily was looking between the three of them now, practically in shock. Derek just laughed, holding up his hands.

“What can I say, the guy’s got an incredible voice.”

“And the make up of his songs is so interesting as well; I mean, when you look at the music he’s produced in the last few years in comparison to what he performed while he was a part of One Direction -”

“Oh my god please tell me you’ve also listened to One Direction,” Emily said, laughing when Spencer nodded. 

“I don’t understand why you guys are making such a big deal out of this. He’s a singer, it’s not like he doesn’t have fans,” He defended. 

“Reid, two months ago you didn’t even know who Lady Gaga was. This is kind of a big deal.”

“Conference room in five,” JJ walked through the group, heading upstairs as everyone else got up to follow her. 

“Do not think I am dropping this,” Emily pointed at Derek and Spencer before jogging to catch up with JJ. Derek laughed, falling in step with Reid. 

“So, what all did Garcia make you watch?”

“Oh, just a bunch of interviews. I did some of my own reading though -”

“Of course you did.”

“- and what I found really interesting was One Direction’s actual rise to fame. Because the thing is, they didn’t even win X-Factor. They came in third, and yet they became the most famous group to come from that season of the show. In Forever Young - their book - they talked about their time on X-Factor, but it was so strange to me because their first album - Up All Night, that came out not even a full year after they finished the X-Factor live tour - sold 4.5 million copies within the first year. And they just kept growing… Morgan why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry,” They’d walked into the conference room by now, sitting down next to each other at the table while Derek tried to stop himself from laughing, looking at Reid in disbelief, “You read their book?”

“And their Wikipedia page - I told you I did my own reading!”

“You said you did some of your own reading, you didn’t say you’d memorized everything about their career!”

“Eidetic memory, remember?” He tapped his forehead, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“You never let me forget. I’m assuming you know everything about their solo careers as well?”

“Well I got into Harry’s stuff first, but I ended up reading all of theirs since I didn’t have anything else to do last night. It’s just so interesting to think about what One Direction’s situation reveals about human nature and celebrity culture. I mean, a lot of their fans are dictionary definition erotomaniacs, and yet -”

“I shouldn’t even be surprised that you read this all in one night.”

“Like I said: didn’t have anything else to do.”

“As much as I’m glad you boys are bonding, we have more important things to worry about than Reid’s newfound love for a British boy band,” JJ interrupted.

“Niall Horan’s actually Irish -”

“Spence. The case.” She pulled up the photos on the screen, and Spencer nodded, opening the case file in front of him as JJ began to review everything they needed to know. She finally closed out, and Hotch grabbed his tablet and rose from the table. 

“Alright, wheels up in thirty.”

Everyone nodded, gathering up their things and vacating the room. Spencer and Derek trailed out after everyone, Spencer picking up the conversation as soon as JJ finished. 

“You know, I’m considering learning how to knit - there’s this cardigan that Harry wore...”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #bau #bau headcanon #spencer reid headcanon #criminal minds headcanon #bau fanfiction #fanfiction #reid #dr reid #dr spencer reid #writing #harry styles #treat people with kindness #hs #styles

[falling-pages]

Over and Over, Again and Again: KyoHaru (commission)

The absolutely lovely @ouranbound commissioned me for her birthday. This was so much fun and I just melt every time I read it 🥺 thank you so much sweetheart, I hope your day is magical!!

Info on commissions here (updated!)

-

Despite the heat, despite the outdoors, Kyoya considered it a lovely afternoon, if only for two reasons: he had a book in his hands and Haruhi’s head in his lap.

-

Kyoya Ootori x Haruhi Fujioka

Genre: Fluff

Contains: first I Love Yous, established relationship

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, but no drinking

-

Kyoya did not like being outside. It was often hot and sticky, the sun too bright and burning his skin, or too cold and blustery, the wind too harsh for his delicate constitution. Even refraining from walking to work, using his own driver to commute the blocks. It was silly, yes, and quite wasteful, but he had the money, and all that money allowed him to demand comfort. He never could understand why the others seemed to strain at their leashes to go outdoors--Mori and Hikaru organizing hikes and fishing trips, Tamaki and Kaoru scampering after them. He couldn’t find pleasure in swatting at the sweat running down his back, or cleaning his glasses every few minutes. The outdoors were quite insufferable.

But Haruhi liked the outdoors, and he liked Haruhi.

He supposed it was because of their different upbringings. While he had all the luxury of indoor pools and air conditioning, she didn’t. The outdoors were free; a simple space where commoners could exist without the expectation of spending money. Unlike any mall or restaurant, beneath the sun, the air cost nothing.

So he put up with it whenever she requested it. Her cool touch was more enticing than air conditioning, anyways.

He began to regret it, though, when their wine was no longer chilled. They had arranged a lovely picnic, lounging in a field his father owned. There were plans to develop it, one day, but for now it remained wild. A place where lovers could stow away amid the tall grass waving in the wind.

They sat in the shade of a lemon tree. Remains of rei-shabu and morokyu were stowed away in their picnic satchel, next to the ice pack. Their glasses were still filled with strawberry wine, though their minds and stomachs were too content to have more.

Despite the heat, despite the outdoors, Kyoya considered it a lovely afternoon, if only for two reasons: he had a book in his hands and Haruhi’s head in his lap.

It would have been lovelier in late May or early June, but he had been so busy with the end of the fiscal year. He was afraid of Haruhi’s impending disillusionment, with their relationship still so new, but if she was ever discontent, he knew she would tell him. Dating him had not turned her into a placated doll, as he had feared. He still took care of her, showering her in wealth whenever she asked, but it was rare; mostly, she just wanted to spend time with him, and he just wanted to take care of her, making sure her stomach was full and loans paid.

Not to say he didn’t spoil her, though. He had bought the very dress she was wearing, a strappy yellow thing with magenta stitching. And the gold earrings, shaped like roses on dangling stems, which laid so artfully on the backdrop of her velvet brown hair splayed against his thigh. Her hair was long enough to begin curling slightly at the ends, whenever it wasn’t done up in her tight law school bun.

It was rare he saw her like this, heart unbound and carefree. Her skin was soft beneath his fingertips as he ran them against her cheek, half dreaming, half admiring. She slept in his lap, tuckered out from their afternoon. Lips red from wine pulled back slightly, a whimper on the tip of her tongue. For a moment, he feared had awoken her, hand frozen on her jaw, but she turned her neck back into his leg and resumed her breathing.

He sighed in relief. He had already ruined much in his life. The peaceful portrait beneath him was too pure to interrupt.

Once she was back asleep, he gave one last glance to her blushed cheeks and held up his book. It was old, a brown cover etched with gold, antique and clearly made for a bygone era, tattered pages though born on a press just a few years ago. Kyoya felt like that sometimes. An anachronism of his own kind. Set in one spot and lost to the pages of history.

But not here. A butterfly landed on Haruhi’s nose. Instead of swatting it, he watched, breathed in the life bellowing into his bones. In the world, at work, with his family, his soul felt ancient; his shoulders shook with the weight of an old-world empire. But with her, he was fresh, bathing in the fountain of youth. He was no longer an Atlas, cursed with the weight of the world; he was Dionysus with Ariadne--his shining jewel in the sky.

The love he had for her transcended space and time, yet she was blissfully unaware.

Tamaki’s advice echoed in his ears. He had to tell her eventually, else he’d lose her. Trained in all things etiquette, he still stumbled over even the most human of phrases.

Kyoya shook his head. The day he listened to Tamaki’s advice would be the day he’d resign from the Ootori group. As he returned to his book, his focus shifted. Some old French thing on culture, it mocked his feelings with dry phrases and tiny text. Tamaki had taught him enough French to get by, but reading it was another matter. It was to better himself and improve his chances with foreign business relations, was what he told himself, at least.

Haruhi’s ease and fascination with the language certainly had nothing to do with it. Nor did the jealousy in his palms when he would watch the two he loved most converse and giggle without him.

Some time after he resumed scanning it, regretting how he left his translation dictionary at home, Haruhi awoke. Not with a sigh or startle, as he was accustomed, but silently, with a breath, as if he were the bridge in which she crossed from one world into the next.

She laid still and watched him read, brilliant mind sweeping over each and every word. From the angle of his head tilt, she could see his eyes behind his glasses, a sharp, rare, deep black. Nondescript, and beautiful, the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen--above Tamaki’s lavender, Mori’s silver, the twins’ bronze and amber. She loved them because within their deep pools of tar, she saw her future.

Haruhi didn’t know for how long she looked at him. She had just started to fall back asleep when he spoke.

“I can feel you staring at me,” he murmured, not even taking his sight from the page.

She stayed focused on the smooth, pale skin of his jaw. It clenched and unclenched periodically, whenever he came across a phrase or word he didn’t know. She could have offered her help, but his lap was just too comfortable.

“I like the view,” she shrugged.

When he set the book down, eyes widened, she already knew what he was about to say.

“Out of all the sights, of the trees, flowers, and fields surrounding us, you think me more admirable?”

She was the lawyer--she was the one used to provoking confessions from people--but his cunning as a businessman made the words drip from his lips like honey, accentuating even as he dipped his head down to hers. Haruhi scrambled to shift her weight to her arm, propping herself up to meet his lips. And yet he hovered, smirking as he watched her mouth chase his, quieting her displeased whines with a chuckle.

“What, no answer?”

He was the devil in disguise, with a voice so silver and smooth, and she knew it. But if he were the devil, she was his Persephone--his lips were her pomegranate, and she bit.

She mustered her frustration into finally catching him in a kiss, swatting at his chest when she tasted his beleaguered smirk.

“You know my answer,” she retorted. “I choose you every day, over and over again.”

“I know,” my darling.” He removed his glasses, the only barrier between them, and pressed his forehead to hers. “And for that, I love you.”

He said it. It wasn’t how he planned on saying it, but it was there, suspended in the air by wires thin as twine. Her hand stilled in his hair, but she didn’t remove it.

“That’s the first time you’ve said it,” she breathed, an elation and joy she didn’t know she missed bubbling in her chest.

Kyoya opened his eyes. They had clenched shut on instinct, as protection, so he wouldn’t have to see the way she rejected him. But her calm voice coaxed them back open, and they settled on her lazy smile.

“It is,” he affirmed. “I thought...I thought you knew. It’s been so long.”

They had been dating for three months, yet known each other for nine years, and Kyoya had loved her for most of that. She had loved him for only half that, that she knew, but their affection was ancient, the kind read about in archaic stone tablets. The kind that would wait forever and ever to be discovered again and again.

“I do,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”

And just when he thought his back would break from carrying the world, she kissed away his pain into an immortal love.

-

#ouran high school host club #kyoharu #kyoya ootori x haruhi fujioka #kyoya ootori #haruhi fujioka #kyoya x haruhi #ohshc

[ronnie-azumane]

Petty

Oikawa x Pregnant Reader

Heyo! Since there are almost no pregnant reader haikyuu fics to feed my baby fever, I’m here writing this self indulgent piece. For my first one, I decided to write Oikawa x Reader, because I feel like he fits the story best (which by the way, is inspired by the events that went down when my sister was born). So yeah, I hope y’all enjoy! If you want more, my asks are open! I’m always open to feeding into both my and other’s baby fever.

Pairing: Toru Oikawa x pregnant reader

Warnings: Pregnancy; birth; Cursing; Oikawa being a petty bitch, you know, the usual.

Petty is defined as, “Of little or no importance or consequence,” according to the dictionary. And according to you and all your friends, there is only one person in the world that lives up to that definition.

Your husband, Toru Oikawa.

Ever since you started dating the pretty setter, the littlest things would transform him into the petty setter. And of all times, It had to be today.

Earlier this week

The two of you were cuddling on the couch, watching some Netflix original you both stopped paying attention to a while ago. Toru held his hands over your swollen belly, rubbing occasional circles with his thumb. You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, sighing at the comforting warmth. 

“Hey, Toru, can I talk to you for a second?” You raise your head up and ask.

Oikawa hums in reply.

“So the baby’s coming soon, right?” You ask him as he nods along. “Do you think you could try to look presentable for the birth?”

Oikawa narrows his eyes and stares into your eyes, “What do you mean?” he half-asks.

“Like, for example, if I go into labor while you’re at practice, could you like, I dunno, shower? Put something on other than workout clothes?” you say. Oikawa’s glare stays glued on your face.

After a minute of the stare-down, you finally break the silence, “Look, Toru. Last appointment when you showed up all sweaty and gross, It was kinda embarrassing.”

In response, Oikawa scoots from underneath you and sits up on the couch, effectively ending the cuddle session. You wine at the lack of contact.

“You know what, I guess I can do that much,” Oikawa groans. Happily, you stand up, peck his forehead, whisper a quick ‘thank-you,’ and head to the kitchen to scoop you some ice-cream.

Oh how naïve you were to think that it would end there.

Present  

Sleep had been hard to come by tonight. You tossed and turned on your half of the bed as your husband slept soundly next to you (or as soundly he could with you moving so much next to him).

Sighing, you get up to make your way to the bathroom. Maybe a glass of water would help. Ok, it probably won’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to try, right?

After sipping down the water, you stare at your reflection in the mirror. So many friends and family reassured you that you were beautiful, but frankly, you didn’t see it. Maybe it was because they only saw the good parts of you, not the eyebags you covered up with makeup, not the endless layers of stretchmarks that littered your body. Sure, you husband still assures you that you’re beautiful, but that didn’t prevent the insecurities from rising to the surface.

“You know, little one, you’re a lot of trouble sometimes,” you sigh, rubbing your yummy up and down. The baby, in response, gives you a little kick...

…a kick straight to the bladder.

You rush to the toilet to finish your business, sighing in relief as you didn’t make too much of a mess for once. After a moment, a sudden dull pain hit your lower back. This isn’t the first time this happened, you’ve been getting this pain off and on for the past few days. It was just then when it hit.

Those were contractions. You were going into labor.

Quickly, you rush back to the bedroom to wake up Oikawa. Before shaking him awake, you glance at the analog clock sitting on the nightstand. 3:39 am. 

“Toru. Toru, wake up. Now,” You whisper harshly as you shake his lip, sleeping body. He groaned in response and turned away, sliding his head under his pillow.

“Toru. I said now. Get up,” you whisper again, shaking him even harder.

“Five more min-” Toru was interrupted by the sound of water hitting the floor.

“Toru, my water just broke, the baby is coming. Get out of bed, now.” 

Connecting the dots, Oikawa sprang up from bed.

“Ok, get the bag, I’ll be a couple minutes.” Oikawa said as he made his way to the bathroom.

You grab the bag and set it by the door. not knowing what to do until Oikawa got there you paced around the kitchen. As you walked by the counter, another contraction hit, stronger than those previous. You gripped the counter, trying to ground yourself as your body powered through the pain.

After the contraction ended you looked around to see your husband nowhere in sight. You started to wonder what was taking him so long, so you rushed back to the bedroom.

You arrive to the bedroom to find him in the midst of a shower. The steam and the strong sent of Oikawa’s tea tree shampoo filled your nostrils. Most of the time, this would be a calming sensation, but today was not the day.

“Toru, please hurry up,” You whine, sitting back down on the bed.

“I’ll be out in a minute, babe,” Oikawa sings back. For someone who is about to become a father, he seemed awfully calm, you thought.

After much longer than a minute, Oikawa came out of the shower, donning his gray bathrobe and rubbing a towel through his hair. You sigh in relief, but the sigh is cut short as another contraction rocks through your body.

However, to your surprise, Oikawa doesn’t make his way to the closet, but to the sink. He pulls out a razor and shaving cream from the cabinet.

Oh fuck no.

“Toru, what the fuck are you doing?” You ask, your voice strained from the contraction you were pushing through at the moment.

“Shaving.”

“Toru, you and both know you don’t grow facial hair.”

“I have a bit of a stubble coming through, wouldn’t want to look bad for the little one coming,” Toru replied.

It all hit at once.

“Toru, is this about the conversation we had on the couch last week?” You ask.

“What are you talking about? I just want to look my absolute best for Oikawa Jr.” it was, damn that petty bastard.

“Damnit Toru, just hurry up.”

Two contractions later, Toru finished shaving his bare face. He waltzed his way to the closet, causing you to sigh in relief, until he came out holding two different pairs of pants.

“(Y/N), what pants should I wear?” He asks. In his left hand he holds a pair of slacks, in his right, a pair of jeans.

 “Toru, I don’t give a shit as to what you wear, just hurry up so I can birth your spawn”

“Oh really? In that case, I’ll go put on my workout clothes!” Toru chirps as he skips to the closet. You groan in reply.

“Just wear the fucking jeans.” You cry out as yet another contraction rips through your body.

“Anything you say~” He replies, changing into the pair of jeans.

You sit on the bed, waiting as your husband takes his sweet time slipping his jeans on, one pant leg at a time. At this point, the contractions have gotten both longer and more frequent. Everything was progressing smoothly, given the circumstances.

“Toru Oikawa, Hurry the fuck up,” you seethed, watching your dear husband as he walked out of the closet with four different shirts.

“Which shirt should I wear? I was thinking this one, but I’m not too sure,” Oikawa held up a white polo.

“Fuck you,” you cried as another contraction hit.

“I don’t have a shirt that says ‘fuck you,’ do you think the store would have one?”

“Toru, if you don’t hurry the fuck up, I will deliver this baby right here.”

“Fine, I’ll go with the polo. Although you could have just said so,” Oikawa whined. He threw the polo onto the bed and waltzed to the closet to put away the other three. Once he finished putting away the shirts, he put on the polo, grabbed a pair of shoes, and the hospital bag. You thought he was toying with you until you heard the jingle of the car keys in his hand.

XxX

”Hello Mrs. Oikawa, lets take a peak to see how far along you are!” The nurse smiled. Already dressed in a hospital gown, you put your legs in the stirrups to allow the nurse to take a look at your progression. 

Honestly, you just wanted this examination to be over, so you could order an epidural. At this point, the contractions were frequent and painful.

“How does it look?” Your dear husband asked, only for the color to rush out of his face when he looked at the nurse.

“What’s going on?” you question, but the nurse’s face of shock doesn’t ease your nerves in the slightest.

“Well,” the nurse stutters, standing up and taking off her gloves, “everything is fine, you’re just fully dilated, I’m honestly surprised you haven’t started pushing yet.”

“W-what?” you stutter in disbelief.

“It’s baby time!” the nurse smiles as she pages the doctor to come over.

“No epidural?” you ask, afraid of the answer.

“No time!” the nurse exclaims as she readies the equipment needed to deliver and care for the freshly born baby.

Oikawa started to shiver from the death glare you were giving him. The room almost seemed to drop a couple degrees from the ice in your eyes as you stared at him.

“Thank-you for taking your time this morning. I know the baby is going to appreciate your look, Toru,” your eye twitched.

“Look, y/n, I’m so sorr-”

“Save it” you interrupt. The two of you stay there in silence until the doctor comes in.

“Alright Mrs. Oikawa, ready to push?” The doctor asked.

To Oikawa’s surprise, you clutched his hand and readied yourself for the first push.

“Let’s get this over with.”

XxX

You cooed at the little girl in your arms. Her tiny flailing limbs rested against your bare chest, with the flimsy hospital blanket covering the two of you. Oikawa stood at your bedside, doting at his two favorite princesses. He would avidly deny it, but he did shed a couple of tears whilst looking at the small baby girl.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered as you rubbed the sleeping baby’s back softly with your thumb.

“Just like her momma,” Oikawa cooed, ending his sentence with a kiss to your forehead.                 

“Wanna hold her? You haven’t done skin-to-skin yet,” you asked, for him to answer a littler too quick. After all, who could blame him; he was about to hold his baby girl for the first time.

Quickly, he shed his shirt and folded it neatly on the arm of the chair next to the hospital bed. As he prepared himself physically and mentally to hold the baby, you started to sit yourself up, reaching for the robe you had brought.

Gently, Oikawa reached out to pick up the small baby girl. She was just so tiny, about the size (if not smaller) than the volleyballs he’s used to serving across the net. Little hands with little fingers, all with little fingernails and fingerprints. He laid her on his chest, to which she snoozed away.

“y/n, she’s just so perfect,” Oikawa cried. He held one of her tiny hands between his thumb and pointer finger to examine, to which she instinctively squeezed his thumb. At that moment was when his heart melted.

“Well, I’m glad you like her,” you yawned, lying back down to catch up on some sleep. 

Oikawa’s hands have migrated from the baby’s hand to the back of her head, rubbing his thumb over her forehead. Everything was perfect. Everything was peaceful.

“Toru?” you called out for groggily.

“Yes?”

“I’m still mad at you,” you said as you drifted off to sleep. Oikawa sighed. Any punishment was worth being able to hold his little princess in his arms.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyu #haikyu x reader #toru oikawa x reader #toru oikawa #pregnancy #pregnant reader #toru oikawa x pregnant reader #fanfiction #haikyuu fanfiction #reader insert #female reader #y/n #toru oikawa x y/n #haikyuu x you #oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa x you

[ohmygoodnessgraciouss]

The Multiverse of Madness - Chapter 1

WARNING: This is a sequel to Reality Check! Should you go any further this is going to make absolutely no sense to you! I highly recommend reading Reality Check first!

Summary: After the events that unfolded in Westview, New Jersey, Wanda Maximoff had dropped off the face of the Earth. Now, Doctor Strange has found her traveling across the multiverse, destroying worlds in her path. To defeat her, he's going to need some help from the God of Mischief and the Phoenix themselves.

You rested in your hotel room on the outskirts of New Asgard. It was peaceful there, calm. A sensation you hadn’t felt in a long time. After the incidents with Wanda you decided it would be best to watch over New Asgard. In a way, it reminded you of the home you lost years ago. While you knew Loki had never been there you know he would’ve been proud of it. Well, your Loki would’ve been proud of what it had become. You weren’t sure about the Loki you had met in Westview.

You didn’t know what to call him. Technically he was Loki, but a different timeline of him. A different version. Not necessarily good nor evil, just Loki. At times you wondered where he ventured off to. Maybe he found a different timeline to settle in. A different universe maybe. It all sparked your imagination in more ways than one. While you were up in New York City to take care of a problem Nick Fury was having you ended up running into Stephen Strange. He hardly remembered you from the battle only a year ago, but he tried to explain the multiverse to you to the best of his ability.

Different galaxies were already a concept that was hard to digest but thinking about entire universes was a whole new idea. There’s no way to properly gauge it. It made you wonder what limit there was to the possibilities. Was there a universe where Thanos never existed? Was there one where everything was happy? Oh God, what if there was a universe where zombies existed? The final thought made you laugh every time, but you had to assume that it was possible much like everything else.

It wasn’t something you liked to think about too often though. After the chaos that had been the past 10 years, you wanted to settle down somewhere for a while, which was New Asgard. A home that mixed both worlds that you had once lived in into one place. It was quiet, peaceful, and certainly relaxing after what happened in Westview. Besides, Thor would probably appreciate it if you made sure to keep an eye on what was going on. While he trusted Valkyrie, it was nice to know that there were other Avengers protecting New Asgard.

Of course, that peace and quiet wouldn’t last for too long.

~

It happened while you were gathering ingredients from the community gardens with Asgardians. You had started teaching classes that involved recipes you had learned from your time on Earth to show them how to properly cook meals using ingredients they would find on this planet. Unfortunately, a lot of Asgardian meals couldn’t be made here due to missing meats and vegetables, so someone had to teach them how to cook. It gave you a reason to be there, to keep moving. It gave you motivation now that the universe was at peace.

Just as you were collecting a bundle of carrots you heard the portal behind you. The magic had a dull hum and shimmering noise as Doctor Strange walked through. You watched as he took a moment to breathe. The Asgardians around you quickly backed away, watching the sorcerer supreme in awe. “Y/N,” He greeted you.

“Strange, what are you doing here?” You asked, placing the basket down on the ground.

“It’s a long story. But I need you to come with me. Wanda has gone tampering with the multiverse. I need your help.”

“Strange, I don’t know about this-” You stopped yourself as you saw a man walk up behind Stephen. A permanent grin seemed to be on his face as he looked around at his surroundings. Finally, his gaze fell back on you and your eyes widened.

“Hello, darling.”

“Loki?” You finally choked out.

“The one of many,” He stretched his arms out, his grin widening.

“What are you doing with Doctor Strange?”

“There’s no time, Y/N! I’ll explain when we’re back at the Sanctum. For now, we have to go!” Strange interrupted, taking your hand and pulling you through the portal.

Loki quickly followed behind, letting the portal close behind the three of you. The Asgardians stood there for a moment, unable to register what had just happened in a matter of seconds.

“Was that Prince Loki?”

~

You stumbled as Stephen finally let go of your hand. Loki held an arm out trying to steady you, but you ignored him, straightening out your shirt. “What is the meaning of this?!” You asked the sorcerer. From across the room you could see Wong entering with a book. While you didn’t interact with Wong all that much, you enjoyed the few chats you’ve had with him. Giving him a small smile he waved at you before focusing back on Strange.

“I found the book,” He stated, handing a centuries-old book to the man. It was a hardcover piece, the size of a dictionary, though you were sure it held more information than a dictionary ever could.

“Good, thank you,” He replied, opening the book up and brushing through the pages. You watched as he quickly skimmed through the pages, looking for one in particular. “Y/N, what do you know about the multiverse?”

You shrugged. “Only as much as you’ve told me.”

“So, you remember what I told you about it? About how it includes all of the different ways events could have ended up?”

You nodded, noticing how he finally looked up at you, stopping on a single page. “The multiverse is being tampered with by Wanda.”

“Wanda?!” You exclaimed. “She hardly knows how to control her own powers, how would she know how to mess with the multiverse?”

Strange placed the book down, giving you easier access to viewing the page. It was an illustration of the Scarlet Witch facing off against three people. Behind her were wisps of magic and what looked to be two people behind her. “What is this?” You asked, letting your fingers brush over the page. The text was in a language you couldn’t read, but you were sure it was one Stephen had to learn and study.

“A prophecy.”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap,” You said, rolling your eyes. “You make it sound like we’re in some kid’s movie or something.”

“That’s exactly what it is, love,” Loki spoke up finally. You looked up at him, scanning his features for any hint of a lie. He was dead serious.

“Well, who is that with Wanda? And who’s fighting her?” You asked. You had a hunch on who the people fighting her were, but you weren’t sure about those behind her.

“It’s me,” He pointed to the figure on the left, donning a cape, “Loki,” He pointed to another, who wielded a dagger in one hand and glowing magic in the other, “And you,” He finally made it to the third figure, who seemed to be in the middle, fighting Wanda directly.

Your hand dropped as you scanned the drawing. “And those with Wanda?”

Strange looked at them, his eyebrows furrowing in the process. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” You asked, your voice raising slightly in worry. Loki placed a hand on your shoulder.

“We’ll figure this out. But we need your help to do it,” Loki said.

“I hardly know what’s going on here though. All you two have told me is that Wanda is messing with the multiverse and that there’s some prophecy that makes it look like we fight her. Tell me everything that’s going on. All of it.” You said, backing away, forcing Loki’s hand to drop.

“You may want to take a seat for this one.”

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #doctor strange #stephen strange #fanfic #fanfiction #romance #fluff #reader #marvel #mcu #Doctor Strange 2 #Multiverse of Madness #Wanda Maximoff #Scarlet Witch

[nostalgiaruinedme]

Hey I love your fics and writing style and well since I've been meaning to start writing fics I wanted to ask you if you have some advice you'd give.

Ohhh advice? Sure, I can do that! I shall bestow all of my knowledge upon you now, but you gotta look below the cut. Shhhh, it's a secret~

Okay really I just knew this was going to be a really long post and didn't want to clog up everyone's dash lol. ONTO WRITING ADVICE

I kind of live by these rules in writing:

1. Know the rules before you break them 2. ANYTHING can be inspiration 3. Remember the doll 4. Use your resources 5. Don’t hold yourself back 6. Practice 7. Enjoy yourself!!

1. Know the rules before you break them

Pay attention in English class (or whichever class for the language you're writing in) and learn the grammar!! I don't always have perfect grammar in my fics and sometimes I consciously choose to ignore grammar rules to make it more impactful, but you HAVE to know the rules before you break them. Study those grammar lessons! Learn how to use the fun punctuation, like semi colons and em dashes and en dashes and all that good stuff. I know they're scary, but they're a lot of fun too.

ALSO PLEASE USE PARAGRAPH BREAKS IM BEGGING that's like, a HUGE problem I see with a lot of new writers. Paragraph breaks are not optional!! Change 'em when the main topic of the paragraph switches or when a new character is speaking. Overdoing it with paragraph breaks is better than underdoing it, I promise.

2. ANYTHING can be inspiration

Have you ever played Story Cubes?

If you haven’t, it’s essentially this game where you roll the cubes, they each land on a different image, and you gotta tell a story that uses all of those pictures. Some are literally just a question mark or a speech bubble and that’s what you have to use. Me and my siblings used to play the game a lot. And you know what? Some of those stories are the most creative ones we’ve ever come up with. When I say anything can be inspiration for a story or a character, I mean ANYTHING!

I based my Donnie design off of the vintage globes and journals I have in my bedroom.

My little sister threw a pillow at me and it inspired a funny scene I wanted to write in another fic

I designed two OCs off of Mars and Pluto and an ENTIRE 40,000 word fanfiction based off of a space documentary I watched

My NaNoWriMo story last year was based off of the concept of shadows and how cool I thought it’d be if they could talk

Me and my friend made an entire dystopian original story commenting on our world today. It was first inspired by a crack self insert Death Note RP we had at 13 years old. Not kidding.

Literally anything can be inspiration. Challenge your mind!! The best ideas come out of completely ordinary and unexpected opportunities, in my experience. You don’t need one of those super detailed and crazy expensive prompt books (though they are fun) to write a great story. Use music, use a color, use the sky, use your favorite food, use anything! Just find inspiration!

3. Remember the Doll

Remember Mulan?

We never got to see the Huns destroy the village and we didn’t get to see them kill anyone there either. But by showing that doll there, the animators took an entire battle full of death and destruction and summed it all up in one, heartbreaking moment. You don’t need to spend ten pages writing about how horrifying the bad guy was and listing everything he did from start to finish, nor do you need to write an analysis on why she’s bad. All you need to do is show one or two very meaningful ways they impacted the world... and you can do that with something as simple as a doll lying on the ground in a burning village.

Because the doll is there; the little girl is not.

There’s a quote that sums this up really well, and I have it written on the dry erase board by my desk.

“You don't write about the horrors of war. No. You write about a kid's burnt socks lying in the road.”                     - Richard Price

And adding onto that, try to write more about what’s there, not what isn’t. Mulan didn’t say ANYTHING about the girl in that scene, but by showing what was there, it told us a story about what wasn’t. Focus on what is in the scene and it will tell your reader about what isn’t.

I do think writing a balance is good though, so I try and keep it around a 3/1 ratio of what is there vs what isn’t. Remember this is art though, not math; you can change the formula as you please just to make it feel right. It all depends on the scene and what you want.

4. Use Your Resources

You know how, in the artist community, there’s this sort of stigma around using references? And some artists have to make posts reminding others that there’s nothing wrong with using references and you even should use them?

It’s the same concept in writing!

There is NOTHING wrong with looking to other writers’ work or keep a thesaurus constantly open or bookmarking a reference page of other words to use than “said”. Nothing wrong with it at all! When I write, I always have two tabs open: my writing document and thesaurus.com. I have a folder on my computer bookmarks of ways to describe a smile and a body language dictionary. Before I write fanfic, I watch a “best moments of *character*” compilation video on Youtube to remind myself of how they speak. I watch fight scenes from The 100 or Avatar or Marvel while I write my own battles!

There are SO MANY resources out there for you to reference. Use them! And if you need some to start with, shoot me an ask. I have a ton.

5. Don’t Hold Yourself Back

One of the scariest parts of writing is the thought of “what will people think?” Creative writing is EXTREMELY personal, and you’re going to find a lot of you inside your work, including the thoughts you didn’t want anyone to know about. 

People will discover how often you think about love. People will discover how dark your mind can get. People will discover the morals you hold that even you didn’t know about. They’ll discover that the person you swore you’ve moved on from is still on your mind. They’ll discover that the pain you swore you got over still hurts you.

“you can tell the deepest truths with the lies of fiction”                     - Isabel Allende

This thought scared me a lot, and still does. I’ve let go of and forgotten about so many story ideas because they were just a little too personal. I could write it and not publish it, but what if someone still sees? Writing, like all art, comes right from the heart and reveals a lot about a person. That paranoia of being known kept me from writing so much.

But I promise you, your most powerful stories are going to be the most personal ones.

I wrote Hated Resemblance based on my thoughts about myself, and I wrote Dagger From the Mirror based on thoughts about myself too. A lot of it is dark, most is painful, and all of it is scary to show the world. But I wrote it anyways and it’s created something pretty amazing.

Hell, even now I’m wondering if I should post that lil anecdote, but I think it’s the best way to make this part of my point stronger. See? Writing about things that affect you is the best way to make them impactful, even for something as simple as advice.

And even if you want to write about light and happy stories- you’re still going to have to get personal.

This all got pretty deep but my point is this: Don’t hold yourself back. Write what you feel you need to and it don’t worry about what anyone will think. Don’t hide that one sentence because you’re scared who will read it because you’re scared to be known so deeply. Add it in even when it’s scary. 

That’s something I’m still learning how to do, and it’s a slow process that has taken years... but it’s worth it, I promise.

“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.”                     - Natalie Goldberg

6. Practice

I started writing in 1st grade. I’ve written regularly since then, and this is my word count every month this year:

Most of that is fanfiction. Some are just random thoughts, some are really thought out posts or answers to your questions, and some are made up of original stories. That total words written number is since November.

You don’t have to write this much every month, I promise, I just don’t really have any other hobbies lol. My point is that practice is really really really important. Write a paragraph or even just a sentence every day. You’re gonna improve so quickly, I promise.

“Write every day. Writing is a muscle that gets stronger with use.”                     - Abbi Glines

But take breaks too!!! Don’t overwork yourself. Burn out is a real thing and you shouldn’t force yourself to write just because you’re scared you don’t write enough! Write at a pace that’s comfortable for you. There will always be writers out there who write more than you and even more writers who write less than you. That’s okay. Everyone has a pace they’re comfortable with, and you just gotta find yours. As long as you’re writing consistently, the numbers don’t matter too much. 50 words a day or 5000 are both good!

7. Enjoy Yourself!!

You’re here to have fun!

No matter what you’re writing (angst, romance, fix-it, AUs, hurt/comfort, fluff, ANYTHING), remember that fic writing is supposed to be fun!! You’re not getting paid to do this. On one hand, that sucks, but on the other hand it gives you the amazing opportunity to write literally whatever you want! Find projects you’re enthusiastic about, meet other writers, do collabs, make playlists for your story, create over powered OCs for the hell of it, ignore plot holes and write without regard to canon, or write the most realistic and in-depth canon-compliant book ever. Create the most self indulgent story you can think of! 

Have fun. This is your story and you get to write the rules. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.

Oh yeah, and one more thing. Be proud of yourself. You can get all of the comments and feedback in the world, but if you’re not proud of what you wrote, it’s gonna be hard to look back on it with joy. Be proud no matter how many reads it gets—you made it!

“I think I did pretty well, considering I started out with nothing but a bunch of blank paper.”                     - Steve Martin

#can you tell I like writing quotes #I have a whole pinterest board full of them #asks #writing advice #writblr #fanfiction #meg rambles

[deliquescentnightmare]

Easy Come, Easy Go- CH 4

~What's worse than nicotine? An annoyance.~

Delila braced her back against the wall to the left of the open door. She stood there for a small eternity before the silence was punctured with a tense exhale from inside. She took that as her cue to whip into view, eyes taking in the man stretched languidly on the couch, feet hanging off the end. The two made eye contact and Sherlock’s eyebrow raised.

“Oh. Hello I assumed you’d have a gun pointed at me sooner or later, but this must be a new record,” he stared at her, almost seeming amused, “We’ve only known each other for what? A half-day?”

“Where’s the danger?” She asked, narrowing her eyes as she looked about the messy apartment.

“I said it could be dangerous, not is,” Sherlock replied, “And I said that to John, not you.”

“There’s no danger, is there?” Delila asked, switching on the safety and reupholstering her gun with a sour look, “It’s all clear, John,” She called behind her and he limped into the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing?” He asked Sherlock

“Nicotine patch, helps me think,”

“Is that three patches?” Delila asked, or more so exclaimed.

“It’s a three patch problem,” came the reply and she simply rubbed her temples, as if fighting off a large migraine.

“John, do you mind if I get myself a glass of water? I feel like I’m going to have a headache at this rate,”

“Make yourself at home,” John said absentmindedly.

“Thank you,” Delila nodded and pulled off her coat, laying it on the back of a chair, vanishing into the kitchen.

“Why’d you bring her along?”

“We were supposed to be getting coffee,” John replied irately, “What did you need us for?”

“I only asked for you,” Sherlock remarked, nearly the textbook definition of melodrama, “Can I borrow your phone?”

“My...phone?” John stared at him as if he’d grown another head.

“Yes. I don't want to use mine; always a chance the number will be recognised, it’s on the website,”

“You called me here to borrow my phone?”

“Yes,”

“I was on the other side of London!” John explained, exasperation evident on his face. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, as if John was the irrational one.

“There was no hurry,”

“So you need me to send a text,” John sighed, pulling his phone out of his pocket as Delila drifted back into the room, holding 3 glasses filled with water. She placed one each by the two other men in the room and sipped on hers thoughtfully as she loitered by the window, attempting to spy out the window inconspicuously. Of course, when one was with The Great Sherlock Holmes, nothing was ever inconspicuous.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked almost immediately and she sent him a glance of something stuck between surprise and amusement.

“We happened to meet a...friend of yours,” She managed, hesitant through the statement, taking a long pull from her water. As if taking her cue, Sherlock swivelled to sit, startling at her remark.

“A friend?” he asked indignantly, reaching over to grab the glass and drink from it hesitantly.

“An enemy,” John added.

“Which one?”

“your arch-enemy, according to him,”

“...did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asked, voice hush and slightly rough as if it were some secret that the world couldn’t know. Delila turned to look at John in surprise.

“...yes,” John finally answered, visibly perturbed by the question and both sets of eyes on him.

“Did you take it?” Sherlock asked, and it was his turn to have two sets of shock-widened eyes set on him.

“What? No,”

“Pity, we could’ve split the fee,” Sherlock merely replied before casually chastising Delila, “Come on, Agent Lestrade, you really should’ve talked some sense into him,”

“She wasn’t there,” John supplied helpfully, drinking some of his water before realising how thirsty he was and downing the rest of it shortly thereafter.

“Ah, well if you do happen to meet him, I’d take the spying offer- it’s good money,” Sherlock said dismissively,

“Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now. There’s a number on my desk. I need you to send a text,”

“A text?”

“Yes, to the number,” Sherlock directed, “Quickly,”

“Right,”

“So this is about her case?” Delila inquired, dropping the curtain after a beat, eyes raking over Sherlock curiously.

“Her case…” Sherlock mused absently, “Yes, her case. Of course, it’s about her case. The killer dropped her off, forgot she had it,”

“I assume you’ve figured out where it is?” She asked although they both knew she already had figured out the answer to that question. So, Sherlock simply disregarded her question and aimed his next statement at John.

“John, are you putting in the number?”

“Yes, hold on,” came the reply.

“Are you doing it? Have you done it?”

“Yeah- Just hold on!” John exclaimed and Sherlock looked like a miffed toddler, all wide eyes and melodramatic offence. Delila almost laughed at the man’s expression. Almost.

“Send this text exactly: What happened in Lauriston Gardens, I must’ve blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come,” Sherlock directed, finishing off his water.

“You blacked out?” John and Delila asked in unison, varying levels of concern written clearly upon their faces as if they were pages in a dictionary.

“What? No- No! Type the message and send it!” Sherlock leapt up, visibly agitated.

“What’s the address?”

“22 Northumberland Street!” Sherlock exclaimed as he snatched up the suitcase and Delila felt compelled to move to the couch. He dropped it into the seat of the desk chair and unzipped it while John simply stared at it in shock.

“That’s her case… that’s the pink lady’s case,”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock replied, voice practically dripping with self-satisfaction. His expression shifted, however at seeing the shock remaining on the man’s face as he quickly added, “I guess I should probably tell you: no, I didn’t kill her,”

“I never said you did,”

“Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption,”

“Do people often assume you’re the murderer?” Delila asked, an amused sort of smile on her face.

“Now and then, yes,” Sherlock replied, hopping up onto the back of the chair, feet firmly planted in the seat. It was vaguely reminiscent of the way Delila contorted herself to curl her legs underneath her at odd angles on the couch.

“...okay,” John said, limping himself over to the other chair and sitting down, “And how did you get this?”

“By looking,” The answer was obvious, to Sherlock. To John, it was just another thing that was so very Sherlock that at first he was caught off guard. It didn’t take long for him to come to terms with the fact that this man; his likely flatmate, was simply bred this way. He was blunt, clever, and rather narcissistic.

“Where?” John asked, partially to indulge the curly-haired brunette, partially to satiate his own vaguely morbid curiosity.

“The killer must’ve driven her to Lauriston gardens, he could only keep this case by accident- forgot it was in the car- nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, especially not a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he would have felt compelled to get rid of it; it wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to recognise his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston gardens and anywhere someone could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip,”

“Right, what now?” Delila interjected and both John and Sherlock turned to look at her curiously.

“Skip? Large container for storing garbage?” John asked and Delila shook her head in vague displeasure.

“Dumpster? You British people and your weird lingo,” Delila scoffed, “Anyways, continue with your lecture, Professor Holmes,” she said pointedly, earning an unamused scoff from the man in question.

“You got all of that from the fact that the case would be pink?”

“Of course it had to be pink,” Delila answered, “What other colour would it be?”

“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock replied. In response to the shocked expressions he gathered from the other two he sighed out, “Don’t be so offended, everyone is,” He pointed to the case, “Now look, do you see what’s missing?”

“From the case? How could I?” John remarked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Her phone?” Delila supplied pointing to the mesh zipper pouch on the inside lid of the case, “There’s a charging cable right there, and that sort of cable only goes to iPhones,”

“How do you know?” John asked, confused.

“I have one, obviously,” Delila replied.

“How do we know she had one?” John asked, looking like he wanted to rub his temples as Delila did upon their first entry to the flat.

“You just texted her number,” Sherlock remarked calmly.

“Maybe she left it at home?”

“She’s had a string of lovers and she’s careful about it; she’d never leave her phone at home if she could help it,”

“Wait, we’re- Wait, why did I just send that text?”

“Well, the real question is, where’s her phone now?”

“Did he just text a murderer?”

“Maybe she left it when she left her bag, maybe he took it from her for some reason, either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone,”

“Sorry, did I just text a murderer?” John asked, looking mildly panicked, “What good will that do?” His question was punctuated with the ringing of a telephone- John’s telephone. Sherlock’s face barely contained his glee as he glanced at the phone, feigning calm.

“A few hours since his last victim -and now he’s got a text which can only be from her ... Now someone who'd just found the phone would ignore a text like that. But the murderer,” He stood, snapping the case closed and causing Delila to jump slightly, “Would panic,” He crossed the room and started to tug on his blazer.

“Have you talked to the police?” Delila asked, untangling herself from where she sat on the couch

“Four people are dead, there’s no time to talk to the police,” Sherlock dismissed her, not even sparing her a look.

“Can I just...call Dad? Just to let him know?” Delila pleaded and the tallest of the three let out a long, troubled sigh.

“Fine,” Sherlock allowed irately, huffing and pulling on his coat. Delila pulled hers from the back of the chair she’d rested it on and vanished. Sherlock turned back to what he was doing.

“If you can’t talk to the police, then why are you talking to us?”

“Mrs Hudson took my skull,” Sherlock mused sadly. John looked up to the mantle, and the skull was indeed missing.

“So we’re just filling in for your skull?”

“Relax, you’re doing fine,” Sherlock assured John, who simply looked at him with an expression of levelled shock and thinly veiled curiosity, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, you could just sit here and watch telly” Sherlock twisted his scarf about his neck with a look that practically screamed holier-than-thou. John stood, uncertainty in his role written clearly across his face.

“You want me to come with you?”

“​​I prefer company when I go out - I think better aloud, and the skull just attracts attention,” Sherlock explained, pulling on his glove, “Problem?”

“Yes… it’s just that sergeant Donovan… she said you get off on this, you enjoy it,”

“And I said dangerous,” Sherlock stared down his nose at the shorter man, ghost of a smirk upon his face, “And here you are,” He chose then to vanish down the stairs, and John stared after him, openmouthed.

“Damnit,” John hissed, limping after him, face tightened into a grimace of pain and annoyance as he limped down the stairs.

#sherlock x oc #sherlock fanfic #superwholock #fanfiction #bbc sherlock #sherlock fic #sherlock oc #sherlock #john watson #drink some water #get some sleep #i love you #autistic oc #queer characters

[solongdaisymayy]

END OF THE YEAR READING TAG

What a fun thing to be tagged in — thanks so much @ashesandhackles and @thecat-isblogging-blog!! 

1) Did you reach your reading goal for this year (if you had one)?

I did not set any real reading goals for 2021. I just... read what I could and when I felt like it. 

2) What are your Top 3 books this year?

A Place for Us by Fatima Farheen Mirza (brb i’m not done sobbing over this masterpiece!) The Guest List by Lucy Foley Anxious People by Fredrik Backman

3) What's a book that you didn't expect to enjoy quite as much going in?

My Lady Jane by Brodi Ashton et al. — basically, this YA novel is about Lady Jane Grey’s brief spell as queen of England buuuuut reimagined as a magical romance. Look, it’s a silly, light-hearted book that I was sure I was not going to like when I started it. But... *shrugs* it was surprisingly witty, and I’d never read any sort of historical comedy before, so I ended up really enjoying this book! 

4) Were there any books that didn't live up to your expectations?

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid — don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a great book that everyone should read once. Evelyn’s character and story had gripped me from the get-go. The whole thing is glamorous, raw, insightful. But while I do love it, I think by the time I finally read Evelyn Hugo, I’d heard so so much about it that for me this just didn’t live up to the phenomenal hype surrounding it. 

5) Did you reread any old faves? If so, which one was your favorite?

I reread The Hunger Games trilogy after almost a decade and wow. I definitely underrated how good these books were when I first read them. Especially Mockingjay!! It used to be my least favorite book in the trilogy, but now? It’s definitely my favorite! It nicely balances all the different themes of the series, has good plot and character development, and delivers an impactful finale. Overall, Mockingjay was a really satisfying conclusion to the trilogy, one that I appreciated far more as a 24 y/o than I did when I was 14.

6) Did you DNF (=did not finish) any books?

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr — this book has gorgeous prose, and I’ll never stop raving about that, but I just couldn’t get invested in the story enough to reach its ending.

The Bookish Life of Nina Hill by Abbi Waxman — I liked the writing style and characters, so I’m not sure why i never finished this book tbh. It’s one I want to go back to this year.

7) Did you read any books outside of your usual preferred genre(s)?

Not really? I didn’t read too many books, and the ones I did read were all fiction and within genres I tend to prefer. My reading list wasn’t super adventurous this past year :/

8) What was your predominant format this year?

Print, I think. This amazing little used books store run by a group of elderly friends opened near my house last year, and not only is their selection of books incredible but everything is heavily discounted as well. Naturally, that also means I ended up buying wayyyyy more books than I could read in a given year. Oh well.

9) What's the longest book you read this year?

Can I say... Order of the Phoenix? All the other books I read were in the 300-450 page range, so this book definitely takes the prize for being the longest book I read last year.

10) What are your top 3 anticipated 2022 releases?

The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley All My Rage by Sabaa Tahir

11) What books from your TBR did you not get to this year, but are excited to read in 2022?

The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams How To Kill Your Family by Bella Mackie Circe by Madeline Miller The Stationery Shop of Tehran by Marjan Kamali The Henna Artist by Alka Joshi

TAGGING — @shes-a-gryffindor @starlingflight @mayakovskies @welsh-green @fightfortherightsofhouseelves @hinnyfied (sorry if you’ve already been tagged!)

#tag game #book recs #things i read in 2021

[gureishi]

day 9: want to be a human again

Here’s day 9 of the Human Again prompts. For the master list of all the ficlets, click here.

SaeyoungXReader (also Jumin, Saeran, and—finally—VANDY!!!)

T (references to cannon death and violence [post-SE]), words: 2539

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜

There’s a distinct air of death in the apartment.

Maybe it’s in your imagination, because you know that the man who once lived here has died. Maybe it’s in the photographs stacked against the walls—the ones he never sold, the ones no one ever saw while he was alive. There’s a kind of darkness there that surprises you; it’s hard to take your eyes off them.

Or maybe it’s the feelings radiating from the two people beside you—people who knew him far better than you ever did, people who deeply loved him.

“Hyung, why did you want me to come here?” Saeyoung’s voice comes out a little too loud, and a little too harsh, and he clears his throat.

“I found something you need to see,” Jumin says. He sounds uncharacteristically cautious. “It’s up to you if you want to—act on this in any way, but I thought it was only right that you see it, regardless.”

Saeyoung tenses up beside you. It’s not the first time that you’ve been to V’s apartment since his death, but it’s been months since Saeyoung and Jumin finished their cursory sorting of the things that remained here. Since the apartment was left to Rika, who was—for numerous reasons—unable to make a decision about it, no one knew quite what to do about it. It was left more or less untouched—though Jumin, it seems, has been returning periodically to go through the stacks and stacks of documents filed neatly in and around V’s desk.

Saeyoung doesn’t say anything, and you bump gently against his side; he interlaces his fingers with yours. You can feel his trepidation in the stiff way he’s standing and the tight grip he has on your hand.

Without any further preamble, Jumin hands Saeyoung a folder. It’s plain, with “Luciel” written across the front in a delicate scrawl that you can only assume is V’s.

Saeyoung grits his teeth and opens the folder. Realization seems to dawn on him immediately.

“This is…”

“Yes.”

Saeyoung tilts the folder toward you so you can see better, and he rifles quickly through the pages, as if he doesn’t want to look at anything too closely. There are printed-out emails and grainy photos and old news articles; one name stands out amidst it all: Choi Saejoong.

“It seems V was putting together evidence that would incriminate him,” Jumin says in a quiet voice. There is a surprising and unfamiliar gentleness in the way he’s speaking to Saeyoung. 

Saeyoung shakes his head. You can feel him consciously slowing his breathing, using the techniques he’s been taught to stay calm under pressure. Still, his hand trembles a little in yours. “Why didn’t he—why didn’t he ever…?”

“This is only speculation,” Jumin says, in that same soft tone. “I imagine he was conflicted about taking any action that might go against Rika’s wishes or—”

“—or implicate her in any way,” Saeyoung finishes, his voice rough. He sets the folder aside and runs a hand over his face. Suddenly, he looks exhausted, beaten down—the way you remember him looking so often in the days and weeks following V’s death.

“Yes.” Jumin nods slowly. “This information is meant for you, not for me. But I did look through it to a certain extent and—for what it’s worth, the documents go all the way up to a few weeks before Jihyun died.”

Saeyoung inhales sharply.

“At any rate, I leave it entirely up to you what you wish to you with this information. If you were to choose to hold onto it or throw it away, I would understand.” Jumin hesitates. He looks down, and then he looks up at Saeyoung. You notice a hardened, confident look in Jumin’s eyes, one you’re sure has earned him the respect of important decision-makers around the world. “On the other hand,” he continues, “if you choose to—disclose this information—I, and C&R, would be behind you.”

Saeyoung is looking at Jumin, and Jumin’s gaze doesn’t waver. Their relationship is strange, you think—though you know Saeyoung has a great deal of respect and admiration for Jumin, he’s rarely relied on him, rarely asked anything of him. Saeyoung, you think, still sees Jumin as V’s best friend, above all else—and naturally, that’s complicated.

Slowly, Saeyoung nods. “I have to think about it,” he says, his voice a little raw. “I have to talk to—”

“Of course.” Jumin moves away a little, straightening his coat. He’s back to normal: brisk, formal. But there was genuine care in the way that he spoke to Saeyoung about the documents, and you’re certain that, beneath it all, Jumin has a fierce love for the RFA—for Saeyoung.

“Thank you, Jumin,” you say. He looks at you with surprise.

“Of course,” he says. “This was never my decision to make. And—” He glances at Saeyoung, who is still staring at the folder in his hands. He looks like he’s far away. “No matter what you decide to do, you should know that—” For a moment, uncertainty flashes in Jumin’s dark eyes, and then they are clear again. “Jihyun was always wishing for your freedom,” he finishes.

Saeyoung doesn’t look up, but his grip on the folder tightens. You know that he wouldn’t ever cry in front of Jumin, never in this room, amidst V’s carefully chosen furniture and piled-up old photographs. But he nods.

“Thanks, hyung,” he whispers. You’re not sure if he’s addressing Jumin or the other man, the one whose presence still seems to fill every corner of this apartment. Maybe it’s both.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

The security system activates.

You drop the manual for the expensive espresso machine you’ve finally decided to learn how to use and peer around the corner at the cameras. You catch a glimpse of a familiar disgruntled face before the doors swing open.

“Vanderwood!” You swiftly cross the bunker to meet them at the door. They’re standing at the threshold, an annoyed expression on their face, an Arabic dictionary in one hand.

“You haven’t gotten tired of him yet, huh?” Vanderwood asks by way of greeting. You beam at them.

“Neither have you,” you reply. Vanderwood grunts and kicks off their shoes. You notice they take a moment to line up not only their own but all the shoes that are lying in a jumbled mess by the door.

“Madam!!!” Saeyoung comes barreling around the corner, tries to skid to a stop, catches himself on the coat rack, and somehow manages to stay upright as coats and scarves cascade to the floor around him.

Vanderwood groans. “I can still leave. It’s not too late for me to just go,” they say, shooting Saeyoung what can only be called a death glare.

“Saeyoung!” You pick up one of the coats and he shoots you a grateful look. Then you smack him with it. “Don't act like an ass just because Vanderwood is here.”

Saeyoung collapses dramatically into his pile of coats.

There’s a quiet chuckle behind you, and Saeran crosses the entryway, peering at the scene with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“Hey, little Choi,” says Vanderwood, stepping over the pile of coats-and-Saeyoung to shake Saeran’s hand.

“Hey, weird agent guy,” says Saeran.

“Don’t ignore me!” cries Saeyoung. You throw a scarf at him.

Vanderwood follows Saeran into the living room; they are chatting quietly together. You hear Vanderwood’s barking laugh, and you smile to yourself. It’s been a while since you’ve seen them, but they haven’t changed. They can complain about Saeyoung all they want, but you’ve learned to see right through it: when Saeyoung calls, they show up.

You bend over to peer at your fiancé, who has thrown a coat over his eyes and is loudly pretending to sob. You kiss him on the cheek.

“I love you but if you act like a lunatic I’ll let him tase you.”

Saeyoung runs a hand through his already-messy curls. “I’ll be good,” he says, puckering his lips for a kiss. You roll your eyes and offer him a hand instead; he scrambles to his feet and then darts forward to kiss your eyebrow.

“Do your best,” you say, pulling him by the hand. He follows obediently.

In the living room, Vanderwood and Saeran are already peering at something on Saeran’s laptop. Vanderwood has somehow produced three other computers, which are all open and humming, running some mysterious program or other. Over a year ago, this would’ve been a strange sight to you; nowadays, you are unfazed

Vanderwood glances up at Saeyoung, who is trailing behind you like an acquiescent child.

“Glad to see you’ve still got him under control,” they say. You give them a salute.

“Just doing my job,” you reply. “Sit,” you say to Saeyoung, and he obligingly takes a seat on the couch. Vanderwood barks with laughter again.

“Wish I’d had you around years ago,” they say, shaking their head.

“Me too!” Saeyoung sings, pulling you into his lap and nuzzling his head against your neck. 

“I take it back,” Vanderwood groans.

“I swear he’s a little more normal when you’re not here,” Saeran says, his attention on one of the laptops.

“It’s true! I just get extra excited when my favorite maid is here!” Saeyoung bounces, making the couch shake.

“Why me?” Vanderwood mutters, just loud enough for Saeyoung to hear.

You scramble out of Saeyoung’s lap. “Saeyoung, act regular. Vanderwood, do you want coffee?”

“Please.”

You ruffle Saeyoung’s hair (it’s really all over the place today) and make your way to the kitchen. Leaving the three of them to stare at the laptops (now there are, inexplicably, eight), you return to your espresso machine manual.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

When you return to the living room, the three of them are talking in hushed, serious tones.

“Wow,” Vanderwood says as you hand them the latte you've (finally) figured out how to make. “Seven-Zero-Seven has an espresso machine now?”

Saeyoung shrugs. He’s more subdued now, his eyes on one of the computer screens.

“She wanted it, so I got it,” he says offhandedly. 

“Seriously, spending time here is almost bearable now.” Vanderwood gratefully accepts the drink from you and you slip back onto the couch beside Saeyoung, peering at his screen. You know what they’re doing, in theory, though the numbers on the computer mean nothing to you.

“This feels too easy,” Saeran says. He’s hunched over another computer, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The now-familiar files from V’s apartment are strewn around him on the ground.

“It is easy,” Vanderwood replies. “Taking down bigwig types? This is—was—literally our job.”

Saeyoung vaguely nods. He’s fiddling with the frayed hem of his sweatshirt. “Actually putting it all out there is no problem. If he had any leverage against us, that’d be one thing. But now, with no agency, no Mint Eye…” Saeran flinches. “…he’s got nothing on us. Actually doing the job isn’t the part I’m worried about.”

Vanderwood leans back on the couch, stretching. “If you’re so worried about the whole world knowing about all this, why’re we doing it?” they ask. “Seems like he’s basically given up tracking the two of you down. You could’ve waited it out. You’re safe in this crazy bunker-house.”

For a moment, it’s quiet. The twins look at each other. Saeran looks down.

“I spent a long time under the ‘protection’ of people who said I’d be safe. It didn’t end great,” he spits out bitterly. Saeyoung twitches, as if he almost went to his brother’s side but thought better of it. You nudge him with your shoulder and he leans into you just a little, sighing.

“I do have mixed feelings about this all being in the open,” Saeyoung says. “He deserves whatever he gets, but—”

“—we’re doing exactly what he always said we would do,” Saeran finishes. “I hate that.” His red hair, softer and thinner than Saeyoung’s, hangs over his face, casting his eyes into shadow.

“Listen, we destroyed lives of people who deserved it a whole lot less,” Vanderwood cuts in, looking back and forth between the twins. “This guy is—from what I read, he’s a real monster.”

“I don’t even care about that part anymore,” Saeran mutters. For once, he’s just wearing a t-shirt, and the bottom-half of his tattoo is visible, peeking out from under his sleeve.

“Yeah,” Saeyoung adds, his attention on his twin. “It’s not a vengeance thing. And I mean—you’re right. We could live underground like this forever, and probably be safe from him as long as we don’t try to go out in the world or use our real names or anything.”

Saeran nods slowly. You notice that your shoulders have tensed up, and you try to focus on releasing them. If it were up to you, you’d have made chasing down and punishing the twins’ dad first priority. But—as Jumin said—it’s not up to you.

Saeyoung peeks at you out of the corner of his eye and you know he’s reading your thoughts on your face. He turns back to Vanderwood.

“I still want to do it, though,” he says firmly. “Because…I want to move someplace where we can have windows. And an even bigger garden. I want my fiancé to be able to have friends over without them almost getting bombed by my stupid security system. I want to use my real name when I get married. I want…” He clears his throat a little awkwardly. Vanderwood watches him intensely, unblinking. “I want to live like a human being,” he finishes.

No one says anything. Saeran is still looking down at the carpet. Vanderwood taps a finger thoughtfully on the table. If anybody understands what Saeyoung means, you think, it’s Vanderwood. 

Agents can’t have families, they told you once, when the four of you—the same four of you that are sitting around in your warm and well-lit living room right now, you realize with a jolt—were holed up in the middle of nowhere, hurt, misled, in the midst of a war. Agents don’t get names, or friends, or things they like and dislike. That’s just not part of it.

One of the laptops beeps, breaking the silence. “It’s ready,” Vanderwood says softly. “Just say the word and it’s done.”

You look at Saeyoung, who looks at Saeran. Saeran stares at the floor for a long moment; finally, he looks back at his brother, and his mint eyes are clear and sure.

“Do it,” he says.

Saeyoung grabs your hand and squeezes it and, without hesitation, Vanderwood hits a key. The computer hums.

“There’s no guarantee—“ they say, as if the twins don’t already know.

“Whatever happens, we can handle it,” Saeyoung says decisively. He stands and stretches, and then he puts a hand on Vanderwood’s shoulder; Vanderwood flinches as if expecting an electric shock. “Don’t freak,” Saeyoung says, with a lopsided smile. “I just—um. Thanks.”

Vanderwood doesn’t meet his eyes, but you swear you see the corners of their mouth twitch upward.

“Nah, you were right,” Vanderwood says. “It’s time we all started living like human beings.”

#mystic messenger #mysticmessenger #mysme #mm #human again prompts #saeyoung choi #707 #saeyoungxreader #707xreader #jumin han #saeran choi #vanderwood #fanfiction #fanfic #drabble #ficlet #this one got a lil longer than i'd originally planned #i've thought a lot about what they do about saejoong in the SE #this is my personal hc of what maybe happens #ugh this timeline is #i mean #gr8 for saeyoung #but #every time i write about dead v i cry #oops

[ontowanderlust]

i absolutely love all your writing! especially the dictionary prompts it kinda inspired me to write a few of my own (although that involved me opening the dictionary to a random page 😆) may i request kiro the bday boy + anything about the moon/stars + fluff? most descriptions i see about him are always bright and sunshiney and i love him but i've also always just loved the moon. thank you!

Moon., n.

“Can I open my eyes now, Miss Chips?”

She took one final glance at the scenery she had prepared for the two of them before nodding her head, satisfied. Looking back to her companion, she called out his name, giving him the permission to take off his blindfold that was clumsily tied around his head.

His eyes blinked, allowing them to adjust to the dimly lit surroundings, his gaze seeking her familiar figure before anything else.

Throwing her arms, she gestured for him to look at the scenery laid before him. “Ta-da,” she softly whispered as if she’s afraid that if her voice were to raise, she might break the mood she’s trying so hard to set.

A lone blanket were spread over the grassy field, a picnic basket was placed on one corner of the blanket, a little stereo placed beside it and pillows were neatly placed on the other corner. In the distance, the moon and the stars shone as if they were watching over them.

She could feel her heart hammering through her chest as she watched him fight- and fail- the grin that was spreading across his lips while his eyes darted from the scenery to her- as if he couldn’t decide which should he first pay his attention to.

Ultimately, his gaze fell back to her- who was now sporting the same grin- oh how contagious his smile is!- striding quickly towards her, picking her up easily as he spun her around, her giggles echoing the empty field.

“What’s all this for?” He asked as he placed her back to the ground, his arms wrapped around her waist as he tucked his chin over her shoulder. “Have I missed something?”

She hummed, wrapping her arms around his neck, one hand reaching up, threading her fingers through his hair. “Just missed you, s’all.” She murmured as he tightened his hold, purposely trying to keep her answers as vague as possible to keep herself from blurting out the surprise she’s been keeping from him.

“So you decided to kidnap me for the night and bring me to the middle of nowhere with a basket full of food and a promise of stargazing as means of bribery?” His voice laced with amusement as he started swaying both of them to some made up beat.

“Ah gosh darn it! You saw through my plans!” She pouted, earning a chuckle from him.

She’s got the entire night planned out- lure him out to the countryside, eat out with the food she painstakingly made during the afternoon, stargaze a little bit, and then- then she would go over the speech she had planned out.

She’s got everything mapped out. But right here... she couldn’t help but feel like this is the right moment.

“Hey hey... did you know?”

“Know what?” He hadn’t ceased their swaying, lulling her into a sense of comfort- something she needed ever since the night started out.

“People refer to you as the sun.”

“Oh?” She could almost hear the laughter in his voice. “I think it’s the hair, Miss Chips. You know, cause it’s so yellow.”

“I think it’s the personality.” She countered, shifting their position so she could bury her head to his chest. “While I agree with them, I think you’re more suited to be the moon.” She whispered as if she’s sharing a big secret, his eyebrow raising at her.

Taking this a sign to continue, she then went on her usual ramblings, explaining to him why.

“You’re...gentle and cool, like the moonbeam. Not too bright but not too dim- just enough to give light to the darkness around us.” She continued. “You’re steadfast- always standing your ground on your beliefs, you don’t get swayed by others’ opinions that easily, always choosing for yourself-even if your management always tries to control everything you do.”

By now, she could almost feel his burning gaze upon the crown of her head, a silent question resting at the tip of his tongue, wondering what could be the reason why she’s telling him all this.

“And you know what, most people don’t know this but the Kiro I’ve known is always there whenever I needed him the most. He may not be vocal but he had always stood near, offering me his silent protection and unwavering support. Just like how the moon silently watches over us right now,” she looked up, her breath hitching as her eyes gaze over his tear-filled eyes, her hands automatically reaching over to wipe the stray tears cascading over his cheeks.

“Why-“ his voice cracked, too overwhelmed with emotions. Before he could say more, he found her finger placed over his lips, silently asking him for her to continue.

“I- See, I’ve got this question occupying my thoughts for a while now and only you can answer it. So you see, this whole thing is just me buttering you up, hoping you’d give me the answer I want. But like, no pressure! Okay?”

He let out a small laugh. “As if I could deny you, Miss Chips.” Placing a fleeting kiss over her forehead, he gave her an encouraging smile as he let her continue. “Ask away and this moon might give you the answer you wanted.”

She heaved out a deep breath, her eyes meeting him. “You’ve always watched me silently, ready to protect me from anything. You’ve given me everything you have and I wanted to give it back to you a hundred times more. So I’ve thought about it and I’ve always got one solution for it.”

Gently, she extracted herself from his hold as she fished her pocket for a small velvet box. “Can you... please continue to watch over me, protect me, and love me preferably for the rest of our lives?”

Whoop. There it is. Okay okay... so firstly, I totally see MC being the one who’d propose first. 🤭 Secondly, I only thought of the idea of turning this to a proposal fic just in the middle of writing it and maaaaan the grin I was sporting was enough to look as if I’m plotting a murder. Lastly, this was hard to write! Dammit. It’s freaking hard to write too much fluff! I think I’ve been consumed by too much angst so thanks for pulling me out of it, anon.

I actually want to immortalize this particular ask in my inbox because it’s just too sweet and when I first read this I’m like- HELL YEAH! Do your own spin of Dictionary prompts! And loool, when I was first starting out with this prompt game- back in what, 2015? There’s literal question marks looming over my head as I read definitions in the dictionary. So hey, you’re not alone in that, anon!

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your kind words. This means a lot to me and I hope you know that. I hope I also delivered with your prompt and gave you what you deserved and more!

Send in some prompts!

MLQC Dictionary; Masterlist

#mlqc #mlqc dictionary #koi to producer #love x evol #mr love dream date #love and producer #mldd #mr. love dream date #mr love queen’s choice #mr. love queen's choice #evol x love #mlqc kiro #mlqc zhou qiluo #mlqc kira #kiro's birthmonth prompt