#flower cough in polish

[soullessdianthus]

have you written anything for a perv!gromsko? he is my favorite and i would love to see you write for him!

A/N: I decided to write him in the most stereotypical way which is misogynistic (men in Poland are like this fr *COUGHS*). Just because I gave myself a pass to do that bc I'm Polish, okay? *Muah* to this anon for Polish reference! (づ￣ ³￣)づ

Warnings: misogyny, sabotage in workplace, nsfw (overstimulation, darcyphilia, cockwarming, throat training, dumbification maybe?)

✧°. Gromsko is a misogynistic kind of pervert. Born and raised in a traditional Polish family he grew unaware of his deepest, darkest desires. Until.

✧°. When you enrolled into the SpecGru forces, he couldn’t believe something as delicate as a girl found herself here, within the private military company. Of course Sobiesław knew women were stronger than it seemed, but not in a fucking battlefield. In his opinion they should worry about hearth and home not a bloodshed. 

✧°. Obviously he had been working with some scary women before, but never with someone like you – still young, perhaps naive even. Your pretty body untouched with little to no scars. You were definitely a description of a delicate flower in his eyes.

✧°. His mother and grandmother raised him well – he would never risk the life of a devoted woman in a place like this. So since the first day Kościuszko saw you enter the gym hall, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

✧°. Perv!Gromsko would stare from his spot, surrounded by his friends, yet it was you who got his full attention. How your body flexes and muscles stretch while working out or how your breasts bounce as you run on the treadmill. Dear God, don’t give him ideas.

✧°. He was already dreaming of you riding his cock into oblivion, naked while he was in full uniform. Sobiesław’s coarse hands pressing down onto your hips, making you sink further against him and his girl mewling from pleasure.

✧°. Sneaking behind everyone’s back Perv!Gromsko would do everything to be assigned with you while on a mission. Sobiesław very carefully sabotaged your work just for the superiors to punish you. 

✧°. Why? Because he would defend you in front of them, telling them you need another chance, that he would guide you. And since he was an honored soldier within the company, they made him your temporary superior as he had a higher rank than you. From now on, he was responsible for you and your doings. 

✧°. Gromsko had you where he wanted to since the very beginning – vulnerable and dependent. 

✧°. Perv!Sobiesław believed it was meant that way, because women should listen to their husbands, right? First thing he wanted to change in your training routine was cardio. 

✧°. Your comrade told you to show up at his dorm’s door in the evening. Without much thinking of it, you came straight to him, thinking he would take you to gym – how foolish.

✧°. A loud gasp escaped your mouth, when the man that was supposed to help you with your training session was pressing your face into the bedroom’s wall as his huge hands were groping your breasts! Perv!Gromsko would correct your stamina by relentlessly thrusting into your tight cunt, causing you to beg for a break with tears streaming down your eyes. 

✧°. Evening sessions with Sobiesław became an almost daily occurrence. The man would bend you in different positions on his bed, thrusting deep into your pretty pussy until you couldn’t cum anymore. Perv!Gromsko would mock your lack of stamina and threaten he would not allow you to go on a mission if you hadn’t tried harder.

✧°. So he began training your throat breath by telling you to keep his cock in your wet mouth for a good while, sucking gently from time to time. Of course your tears and sobs were causing him to feel pity for you, but Sobiesław was doing this to help you become better! :( 

✧°. He was reading a book, the one from his grandma, while you were laying between his toned legs, keeping his throbbing member warm. You would whine from time to time from the lack of enough oxygen. But then Gromsko would simply caress your pretty, silly head and tell you how good job you’re doing. <3

✧°. “Such a good girl f’me.”

✧°. “No dalej, dasz radę, Mała [pol.: Come on, you can do this, little one].”

#✧°. marie answears #request #cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #sobiesław kościuszko #sobiesław gromsko kościuszko #sobiesław kościuszko x reader #sobiesław gromsko kościuszko x reader #gromsko x reader #gromsko mw2 #gromsko cod #gromsko

[mediumsizedpidegon]

Another avenue I want to explore in an Amity Park is Weird scenario is all the niche sub-cultures going on.

There is absolutely NO WAY there isn't a thriving goth community in Amity Park. They're holding picnics every full moon. They're holding crafting sessions in their friends' basements. They're adopting ghost animals left and right: eight-legged dogs and blob-cats, skeletal fish and neon bearded dragons.

There's a young man called Raphael who performs live music every week at a dance club with his band: he's got a myriad of shiny piercings, and a phone camera roll full of his rabbits, Morningstar and Salem. Perhaps those ghosts are bad business like the Fentons say, but the club's never felt more alive.

The scene and emo kids are multiplying at a rapid rate. The punks and grunge folks are doing shit with textiles that makes every quilting grandmother in a five mile radius swoop in to pass on their skills. Josie and Betty, old friends who periodically upload photos online of their handmade lace, suddenly gain an influx of young folks who want to learn how to make their own ghoulish patterns.

There's a new group peeling off from the goths that dress like the embodiment of Halloween– all bones, pumpkin orange and lengths of costume jewelry.

The historical costuming community is alive and well in these times, and they fall upon the few ghosts from times past willing to share knowledge like starving wolves. Their minds are full of patterning-math and fabric prices, and their excitement is, quite literally, infectious.

A revolution starts up in food service: a great many restaurants closed or moved to follow the many people who left Amity after the ghosts first came. A pair of brothers open a restaurant that has the best Polish food around: people politely don't comment on how the owners are dressed in clothes a century out of date or how their eyes gleam. Two cat cafes open, one space themed and another with loose definitions of what counts as a "cat." Assorted coffee and tea shops dot the landscape: some serve donuts, some have cupcakes, and others have breakfast wraps, sandwiches or savory hand pies.

People that can't afford to open a restaurant sell food out of their homes, advertised by cardboard signs with phrases like CAKES FOR $10, and BARBEQUE RIBS FOR SALE painted on them in gigantic bright letters. High school students bring in bags of cookies they made the night before and completely sell out of stock before the day is done. One woman's house has no signage and yet is known by word of mouth to be a herbalist, selling tins of homemade tea blends, flowers, assorted plant clippings, and cough drops.

Someone down the street of Casper High sells small batches of eco-friendly soap at a nearby corner store.

During summer time, lemonade stands are everywhere. Some of the lemonade is made with the strange fruits from one of the parks: no one dies, so it's fine.

The Farmer's Market has gotten... intense.

#amity park is weird #danny phantom #dp #amity park #i love wordbuilding :)) #i didn't mention it but i think Josie the lacemaker dies only a year after the ghost shit starts happening and becomes a ghost herself. #The Drs. Fentons don't notice :) #however they would notice the Ghost Pets so there's a town-wide conspiracy to keep them in the dark about it/keep them away #sorry Drs. Fenton but Snuggles the Nightmare Ghost Cat is beloved by all. you're not going to catch her #my posts

[inklore]

For the blurb weekend:

Billionaire x employee/staff with Miguel O'Hara please! 💖

use me

— billionaire!miguel o'hara x secretary!reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: eighteen+ content, this is an au therefore canon does not live here therefore our boy ain't a sad spiderman just a sad billionaire with shitty morals, tension, masturbation, miguel's mean, also talks of pollution because hello it's realistic the earth is dying.

note: billionaire miguel is perfect because he's smart and gets shit done, is that shit usually done the right way? no but he looks hot doing it soo alls forgiven xoxo.

“You know, if you ran an honest business, you’d have fewer aggravating investors.” The smile that molds itself around the glass pressed to your lips is more of a tease than a pleasantry. 

Pleasantries had packed up and shipped themselves far and wide from the two of you. 

Probably finding safe harbor on a less tremulous land than whatever your and Miguel’s professional relationship was. 

“That could be true,” he says with a deep, agitated sigh. The tip of his nail tapping an angry mark in the wood of his desk. “But then where would leeches like you work?” There’s barely a twitch of his lips when he cuts you with the words, his brows stagnant in that deadly, irritable look he always has. 

“Oh wow,” you cough at the sting of the expensive vodka rather than at the wound his words are meant to cause. Your heels sound louder against the polished floor in his office than any other room within the ten story building as you make your way away from the small bar—your boss's lack of personalized photos, or even something inspirational as a flower on the wall, amplifying your movements.

“The meeting must have gone horribly if you’re being extra cruel tonight.” You set yourself in one of the two chairs positioned in front of his desk, the un-offered liquor in your glass almost gone from your descent from the bar to the black cushion currently under your pencil skirt. 

He grunts, his eyes fleeting over your body for half a second before he turns and stares across the room where the floor to ceiling windows show the lights of the city and the moon's distortion of the yellow haze it’s not, naturally, supposed to have shadowing. 

The man made yellow of machines and gases that cover even the stars. That makes one forget they're even there until you’re far from the city, and it’s hounds who are only trying to gain some worth of money or self discovery from polluting it. 

The head of the hounds sitting right in front of you. 

The man who owns more companies than you could fill up an entire filing cabinet with. The man every business tycoon and money hungry scoundrel wants to latch onto only to get a taste of the beautiful brain that's beneath that great head of hair and intimidating scowl.

The richest man in the room. 

Always. 

And if Miguel is part of the reason that the moon is overcast and the stars disappearing, then so be it. He’s past the point of going about it the right way. Of turning his vision and man made billion dollar corporation around, he’s in too deep. Done too much. 

He’s not a man who sees a life lesson and ignores it for what it could be. He takes it for what it is and continues on his way. What’s done is done. What’s going to happen, will happen. 

He wasn’t the first person to start a security company that became more, did more, and blurred some of the lines between too much and too little. A set of rules laid out by himself for himself so everything goes right. Accordingly, to keep business booming. 

And he won’t be the last. 

Miguel is not a bad man.

He just does the things that most people are too afraid to do. To face. To look at the reality of people and their selfish needs and not shy away from the darkness that lies underneath it. The cause, the effect. 

Miguel can both stop them and make them happen. 

It’s why he’s the best. 

It’s why you chose to work for him. Even if the words currently coming out of his mouth say differently. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing that I don't run an honest business. Makes it easier to get rid of the staff.” 

The gasp you let out is dramatic and makes his jaw tick, “oh, no, please don’t fire me, Mr. O’hara. Whatever will I do? I have a family.” You perform. Give your best pout and hand over your heart to sell it. 

“No one has a family here.” 

Strike the meeting going horribly. Grim seems more on the money. 

And maybe if your work relationship had the boss and employee lines drawn in a permanent marker rather than an erasable one that keeps getting reapplied after nights like these, you’d ask him if he was alright. To talk about it. To give him unsolicited advice that might make the demons in the boardroom gnawing at his morality stop plaguing him. 

But that’s not what this was. 

Who both of you are.

He was your boss. You his secretary. 

And some nights, you were his only outlet for the aggressions of the day. Of being Miguel O’hara. 

So that’s why you don’t say another word. Just finish the rest of the contents of your glass in silence. Your eyes moving along the room, following his gaze out the window. The clink the glass makes from you setting it on the edge of his desk is not enough to have him look your way or stop the tightening and strain of his jaw muscles. 

But when you lean back in the chair, your fingertips dancing along the edge of your blouse as if there were a piece of lint there. As if you weren’t making a show of running them along your cleavage and across the peaks of your chest until they dipped down to your abdomen. Past your hips, until you get to the bottom of your skirt.

Your eyes finally looking up to see Miguel’s already on you. To see how hard his fist is tightening against his desk. 

A ghost of a smirk edging its way at the corner of your mouth as you pull up your skirt until it’s tight around your thighs. Your middle and index finger running along the outside lace of your underwear before adding the smallest of pressures against your clothed clit making you gasp. 

“Are you in the mood to watch tonight?” You ask. Making a show of spreading your legs further apart in the chair, a heel comes up to rest at the corner of his desk to give him the perfect view of you pulling your underwear to the side and running your fingers through your slit. “Or do you want to touch?” 

There’s not an answer right away. 

At least not in words. 

The glint in his eye that most associate with his angry outburst is the sign you know to be of his control slipping. The ache you know his wrist feels from how tight his fist is giving way to all the degrading thoughts he’s having in his head to try and hold back the beast that’s begging to be released—for a release. 

That you’re always so eager to give him.

The more your moans and sighs fill the room, the wetter you become from your fingers moving against your clit, teasing at your entrance: the more you see Miguel’s controlled demeanor slip. The more you feel that coil tightening in your lower belly. 

“Miguel,” you say his name in that breathy way that always makes him swallow harder. That has him burying his face in the crook of your neck, so you can’t see how much he fucking loves it when he’s pounding into you. “You deserve it. Let yourself have it.” The whimper that falls from your lips when you push two fingers inside of you makes your leg propped on his desk shake.

“Use me.” 

Is what apparently nails the coffin for him. 

What has him getting up from his chair and stomping over to you in three quick strides, looking like an animal whose prey has been dangling in front of them for hours and he’s finally had enough; all in danger of his wrath. 

The sting of his fingers at the back of your scalp as he pulls you from the chair, pushing your ass against the edge of his desk. His other hand squeezing below your jaw, fingers pressed hard against the strumming vein of your quickened heartbeat. 

“Say it again,” he growls. His heavy breath mixes with yours as his lips ghost against your open mouth. The hand at your scalp leaves an ache in its wake as he grabs your wrist and places your palm against the hard bulge in the front of his pants. “Tell me I deserve it.” Your gasp falls into his mouth when his hand tightens around your throat. “Tell me to use you. Beg.”  

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara fanfiction #oscar isaac smut

[slavicafire]

polish villages and elder (sambucus nigra); practical uses and folk beliefs:

• in polish folk medicine, leaves, berries, and flowers alike were used in multiple ways - for humans but for animals as well. for example, pigs suffering from erysipelas would be treated with compresses from elder leaves.

• for humans, a plethora of illnesses would be treated with elder: cough, stomach and bladder issues, joint pain, and even insomnia, asthma, and various emotional or psychological states. for example, “quiet children,” believed to be charmed, would be given elder infusions.

• the berries were also used to make soup: they’d be boiled with sugar and cream and served with potatoes. variations of this soup are still popular today in some places.

• it was recorded in some villages that women would make the ink required for school from elder; it was also used to make multiple types of toys and small instruments for children, such as popguns, whistles and folk pipes.

• ash from the elder would be poured over spots believed to bear the marks of devil activity as a way to cleanse them.

• in some villages it was believed that an elder growing by the house or the barn will protect it from witches and from lighting, or bring good luck to the household.

• you can sleep safely in the shade of the elder as snakes and worms and insects and all other crawling creatures will not dare go near it.

• while in many villages elder was believed to protect one from evil (most notably witches and devils) in many others it was believed to be demonic or evil in nature; it was called “evil” or “cursed” and believed to have evil spirits, illnesses, or devil(s) within.

• due to the belief that devil - or devils - reside between the roots of the elder, it was forbidden to cut it down or uproot it. the fear was that the evil would take revenge after such an act, or the place would be haunted, or bad luck and even death would fall upon the one who destroyed the tree.

• if an elder growing by the water was cut, the water itself would become poisonous. similarly, the consequences of ingesting raw and unripe elderberries were attributed to the influence of the evil spirit within it.

[sources: Komentarze do Polskiego Atlasu Etnograficznego t. VI. Agnieszka Lebeda: Wiedza i wierzenia ludowe, 2002. Podania, przesądy, gadki i nazwy ludowe w dziedzinie przyrody. Cz. 2, Rośliny. Bronisław Gustawicz, 1882.]

#polish #folklore #slavic folklore #folk #folk medicine #sambucus nigra

[bippot]

Summary: Obligatory Professor Reid fic but without the weird age gap. When an artist takes one of Spencer's courses for research for her comic book, he's astounded by his lack of self restraint.

Tags: Professor Spencer Reid, Teacher-Student, Relationship, Smut, Fluff, Secret Relationship, Mutual Pining

Criminal Minds, Dr Spencer Reid Masterlist - here

Apparently, the librarian look was all the rage these days. At least, that's what Reid deduced when the most stunning woman he had ever laid eyes on strolled into his lecture hall, looking like she had just stepped out of one of those hilariously cheesy 'sexy nerd librarian' pornos he had stumbled upon during one particularly lonely night on a case.

She was a vision in her sweater vest - an argyle one that happened to be a dead ringer for the one he was currently sporting. The hem of her shirt peeked out from underneath, adding a touch of casualness to the otherwise preppy ensemble. Her blouse, a delicate shade of lilac with dainty white flowers adorning the cuffs, flowed effortlessly over the waistband of her jeans. It was a perfect blend of polished and carefree, and to Reid, who had never considered himself to be a fashion-forward individual, she exuded cool.

But it was her smile that truly captured his heart - wide, radiant, and undeniably goofy. And the best part? It was directed right at him. Reid couldn't believe his luck. He quickly scanned behind him, half-expecting to find someone else who might be the recipient of that captivating smile, only to find empty space. Odd, considering he was quite certain there was no one else in the room. He would have noticed. His brain struggled to comprehend that such a smile could be directed at him, of all people.

In an instant, Reid was on his feet, his body reacting before his mind could fully process what was happening. He took a step forward, greeting her at the door frame. It was a good thing she was the first to arrive; otherwise, his hasty reaction might have seemed rather incriminating. He had never been particularly subtle when interacting with someone he found attractive, so this was just another addition to his ever-growing collection of awkward encounters.

But, man oh man, he wasn't the only one feeling the heat in that moment; she was just as flustered as he was. He couldn't help but notice her fidgeting, those nervous twitches that gave away her own jumbled emotions. And in that split second, he found himself wanting to reach out to brush away a few stray strands of hair that had fallen over her face. He didn't. But he so desperately wanted to.

"Hi," he squeaked, cringing at the high-pitched sound that escaped his lips. In a desperate attempt to save face, he coughed loudly, hoping to drown out the embarrassing squeak.

Was it just his imagination or did she blush? If so, he had to admit, he kind of liked her face a little rosier.

"Is this Profiling 101?" she asked, a glimmer in her eyes that instantly put him at ease. Her easygoing expression made him feel less ridiculous for losing control over his own reactions.

"I was gonna call it 'Noticing the Minutiae of Deviant Behaviour for the Development of a Baseline Hypothesis'," Reid responded automatically, his words tumbling out in his characteristic rambling style. He realised that he had answered her question, but perhaps not directly enough for her to pick up on it, so he quickly added, "Yes, this is. This is Profiling 101. Yeah, uh, welcome... You're the first one here."

Sweater Vest's eyes widened as she took in Reid's appearance, giving him a casual once-over. "Oh! You're Doctor Reid?" she exclaimed, surprise evident in her voice. He nodded in confirmation, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness at her reaction. "I was expecting some wizard-looking man with a big bushy beard for some reason. And you're not like that... at all. I should've done more research."

Reid couldn't suppress a chuckle, a delightful blend of amusement and embarrassment sweeping over him. It wasn't uncommon for people to underestimate him and mistake him for someone older - that had been the story of his professional life. But, in this moment, he found himself not minding one bit as she saw him as an equal, not a mentor.

"I was actually considering growing a beard," he playfully pondered aloud, his hand instinctively reaching up to stroke his chin as if taming a wild thicket of facial hair. Her quiet laughter filled the air, a deep and melodious sound that was like sweet music to his ears.

Surprisingly enough, he felt a tiny flicker of his awkwardness fade away as he conversed with her. It wasn't a complete transformation, mind you, just a small chip off the iceberg. Perhaps it was all in his head, a figment of his imagination. After all, it would be pretty bizarre to feel more at ease with a stranger he'd just met than with the people he'd known for years and considered close friends.

"I think you'd pull it off."

As the words left her lips, a cascade of students flooded into the room, effectively putting an end to their conversation. Reid's heart skipped a beat at the unexpected compliment, but he quickly regained his composure, not wanting to draw any suspicion from his class. He couldn't afford to let anyone know that he was smiling like a love-struck fool at the mere mention of one of his students.

The sudden influx of people served as a timely reminder that she was, in fact, his student. The boundaries between them were crystal clear, and Reid's thoughts had ventured far beyond what was appropriate for their relationship. He knew he had to rein in his wayward feelings, but it felt like trying to stop a freight train with a pebble. It was an uphill battle, but it was a battle that had to be fought.

So, he made a conscious effort to suppress the butterflies that fluttered in his stomach every time he stole a glance in her direction. He couldn't let his attraction get the better of him.

Instead, Spencer shifted his attention to the eclectic group of people filling the room, hoping to shake off the distraction. Approximately twenty-five students occupied the space, a lively bunch with most of them with very obvious aspirations of becoming top-notch agents. Their wide-eyed enthusiasm and incessant questioning about the practicality of profiling in the real world gave them away as the eager rookies they were. However, amidst the crowd, Spencer noticed a handful of outliers, mysterious individuals whose motives and ambitions were yet to be deciphered.

One of those was the woman in the sweater vest. She was hanging onto his every word as if it were the most captivating story ever told. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, and her pen danced across the page, effortlessly capturing every detail. But what caught his attention, much to his chagrin, was the elegant script adorning the front of her notepad. It read, "Noticing the Minutiae of Deviant Behaviour for the Development of a Baseline Hypothesis." He couldn't help but smile to himself, appreciating it. It was a brief moment of amusement before he cleared his throat and continued with his presentation.

From what he could gather, she was like a breath of fresh air in the classroom filled with wannabe agents. She didn't fit the mould of those typical heroes, strutting around with an obnoxious sense of pride. No, she was different. She had a kindness that radiated from within, the kind that made you believe she would rescue a stranded kitten without a second thought. But she wasn't the type to go charging into danger, kicking down doors with reckless abandon. Oh no, she had a whole other vibe about her.

Seated beside her was one of those wide-eyed spooks, his eyes fixed on her notes so he could copy them. It was crystal clear that she would become the ultimate nerd that everyone would try to copy from as the term went on. Ah, the passing of the torch. Once upon a time, Spencer had held that title, but now, he had ascended to the rank of the master. Thank goodness he no longer had to worry about pleasing his peers by sharing his hard-earned work.

Sweater vest didn't seem to mind one bit, though. In fact, she went above and beyond, tilting her book towards him so that he could read it with ease. Now, that's what you call considerate! And boy, was he starting to notice all the little things about her that he found so endearing. He hadn't even known her for that long, but she was already capturing his admiration. There was just something about her that made him want to learn more, to unravel the mystery of who she truly was.

As the lecture carried on, Reid's enthusiasm for the course seemed to bubble over. He couldn't contain his excitement as he delved into every detail of what the rest of the course had in store. The subjects he planned to cover were as diverse as the colours in a rainbow, as were the case examples he would be using to illustrate each topic. He even made sure to add trigger warnings, because hey, who wants to be startled by a decapitated head or a crushed femur at nine in the morning?

Reid was also on a mission to secure some impressive guest speakers for the course. His top choice? None other than the charismatic Derek Morgan. But as Hank began to grow and talk and do all the exciting milestones that children do, Derek was a busy man who wanted to spend as much of his free time with his son. He wanted to be present for every precious moment and soak up every bit of knowledge and opportunity he could at what being a parent was like. And to give his son the experience of having his good ol' pa around was definitely a priority.

"My old mentor - his name was Gideon, uh, Jason Gideon - he used to offer his students time after class if they wanted to hear about any of his old cases and, yeah, if any of you are interested I can start doing that. Is that -" Going off their faces, he felt the need to cut himself off. "Oh, most of you look interested in that."

Giddily, he stole a quick glance towards Sweater Vest. She caught his eye, offering a nod of encouragement before redirecting her attention to her own notes. Oh, Spencer, you sly dog. The adorable girl (who, yes, happens to be your student and the boundaries must be respected) just practically declared her desire to be in your company more often. Talk about a major breakthrough!

"Yes, okay. I can do that. That's something to consider for next week."

He found himself babbling away, but truth be told, he was mostly entertaining himself at this point. The lesson was drawing to a close, and boy, was Spencer feeling the exhaustion creeping in. He had covered all the essential points, and now he was just left with the remnants of his scattered thoughts. And we all know, when Spencer's mind starts to wander, it becomes a barrage of information.

Some of it was useful. Most of it was not.

As the professor glanced across the room, he couldn't help but notice some of his students' attention beginning to wander. He knew it was time to wrap up the session. With a warm smile, he announced, "Alright, folks, I think we've covered enough for today. Time to call it a day. But fear not, my dear scholars, for we shall reconvene next week, at the exact same time, in this hallowed hall of knowledge."

The words hung in the air, eliciting a chorus of enthusiastic nods and affirmatives from the students. With a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement, they began to gather their notebooks, pens, and bags, their excitement palpable. As the lecture hall slowly emptied, Sweater Vest found herself among the last of the stragglers. Of course, being the diligent student she was, she had chosen a seat all the way at the end of the first row, farthest from the exit. It seemed she was destined to be the last one out.

Before she'd made it through the doorframe, Spencer called out, "I like your outfit, by the way," and tugged at his vest with a hooked thumb when she turned to look at him. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, causing her nose to twitch with amusement. Her face lit up like a thousand fireworks, her smile stretching from ear to ear, as if the whole world suddenly became a stage for her joy.

"I like yours, too, Doctor Reid."

She glanced down at her shoes, her brows furrowing in deep thought. It was as if a little debate was playing out in her head, her expression a mix of uncertainty and determination. But then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she shook off whatever reservations she had. With a playful wave, she breezed out of the room, leaving him standing there, his eyes fixed on her retreating figure.

"Oh boy, we've got a situation," Reid muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. With a heavy sigh, he plopped down onto his chair, his forehead finding solace on the cool surface of his desk.

And boy, oh boy, did he have a problem. A real whopper of a problem, in fact. Every single lesson, like clockwork, he couldn't help but find himself lingering and pacing near her seat. She was always early, snatching up that prime spot in the front row like it was her own personal throne. Can you believe it? The nerve! But hey, who could blame him? It's like a magnetic force pulling him in, making it impossible for him to resist.

After class, Reid would play tour guide, leading his eager students from the bustling lecture hall to his cosy office. Directly after his class, the lecture hall had been hijacked by an astronomy class for the next time slot, leaving Reid with no choice but to retreat to his own little sanctuary. His office was far from extravagant and was filled with remnants of its previous occupant still lingering. He'd added a few things, which mostly consisted of framed photographs of the BAU hanging prominently on the wall behind his desk.

As for seating, well, Reid had managed to squeeze in a total of six options. There was a comfy little sofa, two chairs on one side of his desk, and a snazzy armchair reserved just for him. Sure, it wasn't the most spacious or luxurious setup, but it was enough to get the job done. After all, it's not the size that matters, but the quality of the discussions and the connections made.

Two weeks passed and it seemed like a magic trick had been performed - poof! The number of students that attended the after class sessions had suddenly been cut in half. It was as if they had all disappeared into thin air. And if that wasn't enough, by the end of the third week, only a grand total of four brave souls dared to venture into his office on a regular basis.

Sweater Vest - or as he'd come to know her as, Y/N - was one of those students. He'd been correct in his first assessment of her: she wasn't a FBI wannabe. She was a comic book artist that had somehow swindled her way into getting the date of her new graphic novel pushed back because she was busy with her research, a.k.a. his course.

Spencer had only found out when he caught her sketching a crime scene photo as he was talking through it. He had waited until they were walking out to the parking lot to get in their respective cars to actually ask her about her talents.

"Yeah, I doodle for a living," she laughed, her words indicative of someone who'd explained their job more than they'd like to and had gotten really tired of the (sometimes belittling) questions people would ask about it. "I've been pushing out comic books one after another after another for I don't know how long, so when I told my publisher I needed some time to do some research for my new story, they decided that I deserved a break. Not that I'll complain about that, it's a nice gesture."

"You're doing an FBI course for 'research'?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds kind of silly. I tend to write a lot of crime stories so why not have them be a tad more realistic? That's what I think anyway."

"No, no, it's not ridiculous at all." Spencer replied sincerely. "It's actually pretty impressive, honestly. That's admirable."

His compliment seemed to fluster her and he was surprised at how quickly it seemed to turn her red. When she opened her mouth to respond, though, it was interrupted by a loud buzzing coming from somewhere in his satchel.

"Sorry, it's probably my work - other work. My boss. Yeah, I should - I mean, I should get this," Spencer said awkwardly as he pulled out his phone to answer the call. He looked to her apologetically before excusing himself to go take care of his business.

Y/N stood there for a moment, wondering whether or not he spoke to everyone with the same amount of enthusiasm. In the few one on one interactions they'd had, he was sweet. Very sweet, really. His smiles were genuine, and yet the awkwardness surrounding him only seemed to amplify whenever she was around. Was that normal? Or was he just shy?

Whatever his reason, Y/N found it hard to keep herself from grinning like a schoolgirl over him. The thought sent her cheeks flushing an ever deeper shade and, as soon as she got into her car, she turned the AC on just to cool them down before driving off. She found herself humming, but who knows why?

Professor Reid thought about cancelling his class since he was on a case. And despite how much he disliked the digital world, Garcia had managed to convince him to try out doing his lesson over the Internet. And, well, if he went through with it, maybe he could see his students' faces (faces plural and not one face in particular - no, no, definitely not) without flying halfway across the country to have to return to do his job.

Just as he'd expected, he wasn't very good at the whole technology thing and had to get Penelope to help him out on a couple of technicalities, but once everything was going, the professor figured he might as well give it a shot.

He was more bumbling than usual. It was the cutest thing Y/N had ever seen. He was like a technophobe grandpa - a super hot grandpa - stumbling over every step he took. To top it off, it didn't help that the professor kept running his hands through his hair, messing it up even more than usual. His clothes were wrinkled and creased and his tie was missing, but, still, he appeared completely and utterly adorable.

In the comfort of the front row of the lecture room, the only people who got to see Y/N's expression were the people to her left and the good doctor himself. Thanks to everyone's cameras being on, anyone on the call could see the literal hearts in her eyes as she watched their lecturer fail to pull up PowerPoint without asking, "Can everyone see this or is it just on my screen?"

Obviously, there were other students that were hot for teacher. How could they not be? Y/N was a little older than the FBI wannabes and she knew what it was like to be young and have a crush every now and again, but whatever she felt towards Reid felt more mature than that. More grown up, almost.

Her smile grew wider and broader at his clumsy attempts as he attempted to carry on with his lesson, his glasses crooked on his nose as he tried to figure out which button to press because he'd accidentally muted himself.

"Press the picture that looks like a pill capsule in a fancy holder," she informed him. Reid blinked at her before his eyebrows shot up, a hint of surprise in his eyes as he clicked on the microphone icon.

"Y/N?" he asked tentatively, trying not to sound too hopeful and failing miserably. She shook her head in amusement, leaning forward on the edge of her chair.

"That's me."

The professor smiled softly, his gaze darting briefly between hers and the screen in front of him. "Wow, uh, thank you for that information. As you all can tell, I'm not quite used to this technology thing...but I'm making a real effort here!"

Throughout his lecture, he tried. He really did try to seem competent on the computer, but when it came right down to the core, he was clueless. The poor guy never really used anything technological - books were his whole thing. But, luckily for him, the audience seemed to find his clumsy attempt amusing rather than insulting. He was just glad he managed to survive until the end of the class.

"Thank you for your attention," Reid stated simply. "I'm sorry that I haven't been able to deliver a more, uh, seamless presentation. And I further apologise that there won't be an after class discussion today, but I guarantee that everything will be back to normal next week."

Before he logged off, Spencer managed to write a little message and he'd worked out how to send it to only one person. It simply said, 'Thanks for the help today, Y/N. I'll see you next week?"

'See you next week, Doc. ;)'

A winky face? How could she be so bold?

The video call ended with Spencer letting a quick breath escape through his lips, feeling a light tingle travel down his spine at the sight of that emoticon. He stared at the empty screen blankly for a moment before closing his laptop, taking off his glasses, and smiling to himself.

"Why does your face look like that?"

Penelope had been sitting at the desk across from him, and, judging by the look of astonishment in her features, she had noticed his blush before he had even realised he was doing it.

"Look like what?"

"Smitten."

"I'm not-"

"You so are. I saw you smiling at your screen. So please, don't play innocent with me." The smirk on her lips was obvious as she leaned forward to loom over him intimidatingly - well, as intimidating as the bright and bubbly Penelope Garcia could be. "So, who is it?"

The genius man groaned loudly, burying his face in both his hands as he mumbled into them, "My student."

"Ew, Reid."

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, looking back up at her and shrugging his shoulders helplessly. "Nothing can happen. That would be a serious breach of the university's rules, and the power dynamic would be a nightmare to deal with."

There was another question on the tip of Pen's tongue. She didn't want to assume anything bad about her friend, but the typical age of people in college implied certain things. They'd heard and witnessed countless stories or age-gap relationships that were less than healthy, so she had to ask, "How old is she?" curiously, her worry barely hidden. Reid gave her a flat stare.

"Late twenties."

"Oh thank God. I thought I was going to have to discourage a middle-aged man from making advances on a barely legal teenager."

"Hey! I find your lack of faith disturbing."

"Sorry," she apologised sheepishly. "You just have to be careful with these kinds of situations, okay? Don't push your luck, Spencer Reid. I mean it."

"Fine." He huffed. "I promise I will behave myself."

Pen rolled her eyes with a chuckle, shaking her head as she got up from her chair. "You better wait it out, big boy. Otherwise, you'll pay the consequences." Then she turned and left, leaving her friend alone at the desk. The genius chuckled to himself as he stared at his hands, his heart still beating rapidly.

'Wait it out' That was the sentiment that swirled around his head constantly, and it had become such a mantra lately. It became his new motto - the hope that pushed him onward every day. Even though he couldn't do anything about it yet, there would be a time when he could.

In his mind, there were three ways it could go.

Option 1 seemed the most unlikely. Eventually, his affection for her would fade away, his feelings would dissipate, and he'd move past his initial attraction to perhaps even become friends with her someday - even though, in his opinion, it would be impossible to forget how pretty she was (mostly because it was impossible for him to forget anything).

2 would be the best-case scenario. He'd wait until the end of her course, then be very suave and have planned an incredibly charming speech that would have her swooning and agreeing to a date with him. The romantic side of him believed that would be the magnum opus of his entire dating life, and that part of him was sure of it.

Or 3 - he'd wait to ask her out, and she'd reject him, and they'd be strangers from that point on, forever, which would suck. In fact, he'd rather not think about it at all - especially since, despite all the possibilities, that was also the one scenario that contained them never interacting again afterwards. Not that he wouldn't still enjoy seeing her in passing every now and then, but he didn't know how much he wanted to risk the possibility of getting his hopes up.

So, he planned to continue on without changing his behaviour all that much, he decided. No matter what happened or how things went, Spencer kept all his interactions with Y/N friendly but not too friendly, helpful but not giving in to his favouritism, and supportive but not overeager or pushy. He figured that it was enough.

It certainly seemed to be.

For a while.

Then, one lecture, she was a little late. That had never happened before. She tried to creep in silently, hoping he hadn't noticed, but of course he noticed. Spencer Reid noticed the second she walked in his peripheral. How could he not? Especially since she was far more dressed up than usual.

As Y/N entered the lecture hall, she couldn't help noticing how many heads were turning towards her direction as everyone stared at her. It was embarrassing, but she did her best to ignore it. Instead, she looked around for a place where she could sit down and pretend she wasn't completely and utterly mortified. Her eyes landed on Spencer's first, and she smiled shyly at him. He waved a little as a greeting, which she responded to with a small wave of her own hand.

Finally finding a seat at the end of a row, Y/N shook the coat from off her shoulders and let Spencer get a good look at her outfit. For whatever reason, she was wearing a tight fitted Morticia Addams-esque gown that accentuated and hugged every curve in a perfect manner. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, with strands falling down either side of her face gracefully. Spencer gulped when his eyes fell upon her cleavage, and he quickly averted his eyes before Y/N or anyone else could notice him staring.

For the next hour and fifty three minutes, he avoided looking in her direction altogether. It wasn't that he wanted to avoid eye contact, no, no...but he knew if he glanced over at her, he wouldn't be able to keep it together for even a minute longer. His cheeks would flush and he'd stop breathing and he had this fear of having a complete cardiac arrest. This had to stop, because he was becoming pathetic - and he hated to admit that.

That problem only increases tenfold during the after class session because there were significantly less students to divert his focus to. Obviously, Tina and Oliver would notice if he completely blocked Y/N out. Well, he hoped they would - he'd been lecturing them about the importance of eye contact and if they missed such a thing, either they didn't listen or he was a shitty teacher.

Fingers crossed they didn't listen.

The three students and their lecturer retreated back to the dingy old office that Spencer called his own, taking up residence on the beat up sofa opposite his table whilst he sat on top of the desk criss-cross applesauce. There was an awkward silence hanging in the air between all three of the students as they waited for Spencer to start talking. He took a deep breath and blurted out, "Y/N, what's with the dress?"

"My friend's a photographer and I was helping him out with a Halloween shoot. I'm lucky I had time to wipe off all that makeup and get my wig off or there would've been a bunch of sleepy college kids wondering why the hell Elvira was walking around campus at nine in the morning," she said nonchalantly. Yet, she was fiddling with one of her earrings, twirling it round and around, like some kind of nervous habit.

Maybe wearing a gothic floor length gown when the people around you tend to wear sweatpants and jeans was causing her more anxiety than she was letting on. Or maybe it was something else - maybe it was because she felt so overwhelmed by the attention he was paying her and it caused this repetitive motor movement.

"Well, you look very nice."

Shit. Too direct. Way too direct.

What the hell had he done? Oh my god. He couldn't believe he said that! What the hell, Spencer? What are you doing?

He cleared his throat nervously, looking away for a moment to hide his embarrassed expression. He felt like a fucking idiot when the words escaped his mouth, but thankfully Y/N didn't say anything other than a soft, "Oh, thank you," and they moved right along like it had never happened. The tension eased considerably once they got into casual conversation about an enucleator that Reid helped catch back in 2009 named Earl Bulford, or as the media called him, 'The Eye Snatcher'. It was an interesting topic, to say the least, and they spent the next twenty minutes discussing and dissecting the nitty gritty details of the case.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your opinion, the moment of peace ended rather abruptly when Tina glanced down at her watch, clutched at Oliver's forearm and interrupted, "We've got to get to our next lecture. Sorry, Doctor Reid."

"Oh, I had no idea I'd been talking for that long." Spencer said with an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry."

Both Tina and Oliver pulled their bags over their shoulders and said their goodbyes to him, before making their way to the door with an eager pace. Spencer watched them leave until the door clicked closed behind them, sighing softly as his fingers drummed against the wooden surface of the desk. Because Y/N hadn't gone with them. She stayed put. She remained seated, her bag still laying beside her foot, and was eying him eagerly.

"Do you mind telling me the rest of the story? My curiosity has been peaked." The girl asked as she leaned forward slightly. "I wanna know the whole thing."

Spencer hesitated, glancing at his door momentarily, before agreeing. In all honesty, he didn't trust himself. They were in a private room in one of the more secluded parts of campus, and she was acting all interested in what he was saying, and was wearing a dress with a cut out in the leg, and those legs were just the sort of temptation that he found himself unable to resist.

Other than that, he had promised to share, hadn't he?

Fiddling with a pen that he'd plucked from a mug on his desk helped keep him somewhat on track as he launched into his story with great enthusiasm. So much. Too much, some would say. Especially since the biro launched itself out of his fingers at one point, flew straight at Y/N's ankle then dropped to the ground with a soft 'thunk'.

"Whoops. Sorry."

And since the distance between the sofa and the desk was more than an arm's length, once Y/N bent down and retrieved it, she got up and moved closer to the doctor, who was frozen in position, watching intently as she examined the clumsy mug he kept all his stationary in. It was a simple white hunk of clay that had wonky words along the side.

"Pretty Boy Swag," she read, barely able to say the words out loud without breaking out in laughter.

"My friend, Derek, his wife got him to go to a pottery class with her and, uh, he made that mug for me."

"Your friend thinks you have Pretty Boy Swag?" she teased, chuckling as she placed the mug carefully back on the desk.

".....Yes?"

Almost to herself, Y/N mumbled, "Yeah, he's got a point, " and that was the breaking point. It was a simple little comment that set Reid on a path he couldn't come back from.

All pretence of professionalism was shattered, leaving behind an adorable, flustered mess in its wake. But, despite his sudden change in hue, something- something bold and daring and uncharacteristically brash - suddenly took control of him and, before he really quite knew what he was doing, he was shooting to his feet and capturing her lips on his own. Her surprised gasp was almost instantly replaced with a hum of contentment and she pressed herself up closer to him, one hand pulling him even closer by the waist and tangling her hands further into his curls.

When they finally broke apart, he felt dazed as he tried desperately to understand what exactly had just transpired.

"I probably should not have done that."

"Probably not, no."

"Right."

"But you did anyway."

"Yup."

"Okay then."

For a second he believed he'd totally fucked it - this interaction, the romance, his god damned job - as she made her way to the door, but she didn't leave him hanging. No. The lock on the door that he'd never really had the need to use before clicked into place, and within seconds, she was standing directly in front of him and draping her arms around his shoulders, coquetting, "We shouldn't do it again, then?"

"Probably not, no."

"Good. Good."

With a slight grin, he pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, his eyes glinting mischievously as his fingertips trailed lightly down her jaw line and rested gently at her chin, tilting her head ever so slightly and closing the gap between their faces once again. He kissed her - sweetly, tenderly, reverently - as though his life depended on it. As though her lips could heal his soul, mend his heart and take everything away from him - his worries, his anxieties, his loneliness - if she let them linger on hers.

He pulled her close, savouring the warmth radiating from her. It was a strange moment of physical intimacy, yet neither of them backed down - neither of them wanted to back down, and they certainly didn't want the other to back down either. It was intoxicating. It was wonderful. It was all so different to him. hadn't kissed anyone in so long, and he couldn't seem to stop. Couldn't seem to pull away, couldn't seem to make himself stop kissing her. The longer the kiss went on, the more desperate and needy the both of them became, hands roaming everywhere except where it really mattered, where they needed it the most. Where they wanted it the most. Where it burned.

A part of him hoped that she'd push him away and he wouldn't be able to touch her anymore. They'd quit while they're ahead, and then maybe it'd be easier to forget about her. Maybe it'd be easier for him to move on. For her to forget about him. It was better to end things sooner rather than later, right?

But, unfortunately, their emotions seemed to have other plans, and he held on as tight as possible, refusing to budge when small moans began to slip out of her mouth, sounding like begging, pleas that he barely heard above the roaring of blood in his ears.

"I don't want to get you in trouble, are you sure about this?" Y/N breathed out shakily through parted lips, pulling back only enough to speak. Her breath tickled his cheeks, sending a wave of dizziness through his body.

"If you don't want to then-" he started but she cut him off quickly, grabbing his hand and moving it to rest on her breast. "Oh. Yeah. Okay... my hand is, yeah, definitely on.... you." He murmured against her mouth, trying and failing miserably to suppress the goofy grin threatening to split his face.

He couldn't hold back any longer. He'd been bottling it all up inside of him for far too long now, and it was becoming impossible to resist anymore. It was as though the dam had broken, because all of a sudden there was no holding back any longer, and Spencer lost his shit, kissing her, pushing her against the desk and gripping at her hips possessively.

"I thought my head was going to explode when you walked in wearing this." He pinched at the fabric of her dress at her hip. "And each one of those thoughts have been improper," he added, his tone darkening with a hint of playful irritation. “So, so inappropriate."

Y/N didn't know what to say. There was no response left inside of her, because she was completely taken by surprise when he nudged her to sit on his desk and got to his knees on the floor in front of her. His gaze fell upon her, full of desire and hunger, and she felt her throat tightening with emotion. How she'd loved being here, alone in his company and under his watchful eye. He looked at her like she was the world, and every word he spoke brought an inexplicable thrill to her veins. A rush, a surge, a spark. The world melted away as she focused solely on him and on his lips.

"I want you to know that I've never done this, uh, this dynamic before - student/teacher thing. I'm not one of those professors. Oh no, maybe I am now. What I'm trying to say, is that you, uh, you... there's this pull to you, that pulls towards me, and... jesus," he muttered, bumping his forehead against her shin as he struggled to find the right words, "Y/N. Help me out here.”

"I get it. I understand what you're trying to say."

"Thank God."

The doctor relaxed visibly when he heard those words, releasing a relieved sigh as he leaned forward and kissed at the side of her knee, letting the hand he'd been resting there trail slowly upwards to her thigh. "Can I...? Please?" he murmured against her, lifting his head to look at her again with wide, hopeful eyes. She nodded.

Carefully, gingerly, almost as though he was afraid to break whatever fragile bubble they were floating in, he lifted her leg onto his shoulder to position himself firmly between her legs. He brushed his nose against her skin, his hand sliding to find the waistband of her underwear and slowly, teasingly, he began to pull them down over her hips until they pooled at her left ankle. He looked up, meeting her gaze and smiling shyly.

"You still want this, huh?" he whispered. "I don't want to do anything that -"

"Spencer."

His eyes lingered, taking her in, absorbing every single detail of her features, committing them to impressive memory. Her rosy lips, bitten red with the remnants of his kisses. Her eyes, hooded with lust, watching him hungrily. The beautiful, soft skin of her thighs, parted and invited him to touch.

"Okay, okay... Do you have anything else on your schedule this morning or can I, how do I say this, take my time? Obviously, we can't be too long as that would be highly suspicious, but -"

"I'm all yours. For as long as you want."

That stopped his rambling short. It was all he needed to hear.

So touch, he did. He began tracing his forefinger across the crease at the top of her thigh, drawing shapes against her in an upwards trajectory until he brushed the tip of his index finger against her clit, delighting in the way her breathing picked up. His fingers began rubbing and stroking and swirling slowly, steadily, rhythmically, and she squirmed underneath him, biting down on her lower lip in order to stop herself from making any noise.

After all, they were in an office surrounded by other offices. Offices, in which, might have other people in and those other people would surely have seen them walk in through the door together, and if someone happened to hear her moans and remember who was inside, well, that was a sure fire way to get Spencer in a lot of trouble. And she would never forgive herself if something like that happened to him - he was a really good teacher. So, for his own good, she would have to keep quiet, and try to control her breathing.

It wasn't easy, however, especially when he decided to add his mouth into the mix, nipping lightly at the inner part of her thigh with his teeth and licking at the sensitive flesh there, causing her to arch her back instinctively. He smiled against her skin because, damn, he was having a great fucking time and if she decided that they'd never do this again (which would suck but he'd go along with it), he would have this moment forever in his mind. Because she was just too fucking hot and too damn responsive and she tasted so fucking good, and he wanted more. Needed more. More of her.

He trailed his tongue up and down, lapping up the juices of her sex until he reached her clit, sucking on the nub gently and swirling his tongue around it to cause her to arch her back and whimper. He sucked harder and faster, wanting nothing more than to feel her come apart beneath him. To see the pleasure, the bliss on her face.

Despite how little noise Y/N was making, moans could be heard. Spencer couldn't seem to keep quiet, though, even as he slid two fingers in her. She was warm and perfect and he couldn't stop all the groans and praise that was being murmured against her.

When she came, it was with a silent cry, her walls contracting and her nails digging deeply into his shoulders. His fingers continued to pump and swirl inside of her until finally, after what felt like ages, he pulled them out slowly and placed a harsh, slow kiss on her inner thigh, marking her as his.

As soon as he withdrew and got back to his feet, her hands were fiddling with his belt buckle, tugging at it in need. Once he nodded at her to undo it, she obeyed and unzipped his trousers.

"Do you have a condom?" she asked, although she already guessed what his answer would be.

"No. I don't make a habit of bringing contraception to work with me."

"Okay, I'm on the pill... but if you'd be more comfortable for me to blow you instead, that'd be totally understandable."

Spencer's big ol' brain took a while to comprehend what she was saying, but as soon as it did, though, he was pushing his boxers down and pulling her hips closer to his. His cock hit the warm entrance of her pussy, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent, taking in the comfort and safety it gave him, before slowly pushing inside of her. He paused once he was fully seated, his gaze locked onto hers.

"Is this okay?" he asked quietly, his voice rough with the effort to contain himself.

"Yeah," she managed to mutter weakly, feeling him fill her so perfectly. He began moving slowly in and out of her, stretching her body to accommodate his, loving the way she arched herself further into his clutches.

"Oh, god, Y/N. You're so tight."

He bit down on his bottom lip, and she swore she saw a glint of desperation flash in his eyes. But he kept moving slowly, deliberately, taking everything he could and giving back as much as he could. The tension built within her body, coiling tighter and tighter until he could feel the beginnings of her orgasm beginning to build.

If it was hard for him to not make a sound when he wasn't even the one being given head, actually getting some stimulation was impossible. Every move he made was accompanied by a groan and another whimper, and she didn't need him to tell her how much he enjoyed each one of those sounds, but they were getting a little too audible.

Tapping on his shoulder so he'd remove his mouth from her collarbone, Y/N took the opportunity of his momentary pause to swipe her underwear from her ankle and push it into his mouth.

"Sorry, handsome, you were making far too much noise. We don't want to get caught."

The fabric muffled most of his groans, but she could tell he still liked what she had done. His hands found her hips again and began caressing them softly while he worked his way inside of her, his movements picking up the pace as the sensations intensified. Y/N's hands, meanwhile, moved to grab handfuls of his hair as she pressed her lips against his throat, mouthing at his jawline and nipping playfully, trying to drive him insane with the need to make her come, to feel her body tighten around him, to taste her, to fuck her and watch as she came undone around him, to love and be loved by her.

And as the tension had built up, she let out a high, breathy sigh and exploded around him, her hips bucking involuntarily against him as a wave of pleasure washed over her. He followed closely behind her, his own release crashing violently through his body as he held her tightly to his chest, both of them panting heavily, their foreheads resting against one another. He closed his eyes as he allowed his arms to relax around her, feeling completely drained but satisfied.

When he opened his eyes again, he found her gazing at him, her fingers smoothing his hair away from his forehead. A wide smile stretched across her face, and he grinned in response as he leaned forward to press a light kiss to her lips.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Oh god, just awful," she teased, her smile giving it away that it was, in fact, just a joke. Her hand left his hair and moved to cup his cheek, running circles on the stubble there. "We can't do this here again, okay?"

"But, we can do this again?"

"Maybe we should wait until the end of the course? It's four weeks, which isn't all that long when you think about it. After that? Whatever this is between us won't get you fired or anything. Just give us some time?"

That made the most sense to Spencer, and it would mean less risk and no questions from anyone else if they started seeing each other outside of classes. That way they wouldn't have to worry about being caught and could just push their eventual relationship back a few weeks.

No biggie.

"The second you're not my student anymore, I'm taking you out on a date," Spencer said, smiling widely at her and leaning his forehead against hers.

"I'll hold you to that, Doctor Reid."

They parted with a kiss, then that agreement kicked into gear. They exited the building from separate exits and got in their separate cars to drive to their separate homes with the promise that they'd see each other again at the next lecture.

Lecture 1 of four went well and without a hitch. It was only when Y/N was about to leave his office with Oliver and Tina did a bump in the road emerge. Not a big bump, not one that was obvious, but one that made the following weeks more difficult to get through.

"Y/N, would you mind staying for five more minutes? I need to go over something with you."

Well, that didn't sound suspicious at all.

"Sure. You two go on without me," she responded casually, not looking at either of them as she closed the door after them. "What can I help you with, sir?"

"Come on, don't call me sir. That's not going to help my withering restraint," Spencer whined, a high pitched, pitiful sound coming out of him as he leant his hand back against the wood of his desk and gestured for her to get closer. She looked from the door to his direction for a short moment, before walking towards him.

"Withering restraint, huh?" she smiled mischievously, her hands finding the end of his tie and fiddling with it, rolling it between her fingers and watching his Adam's apple bob with each gulp of air he pushed down.

"Don't start something we'll have to finish," he warned playfully, his hand trailing down her side and squeezing her hip softly before releasing her to sit down on his sofa. "How was your week? Did your friend send you those Halloween photos like he said he would?"

Y/N eyed him curiously.

"What? I want to know what your life is like. I want to know you outside this campus. I just... I just want to know you. That's all," he rushed to say, the words tumbling hurriedly out of his mouth and sounding desperate even to his own ears. She seemed to understand what was happening because she sighed and moved to sit next to him on the couch.

"He did send the photos. Do you want to see?"

For the next hour or so, the pair sat side by side as they examined the photos, each adding a bit of commentary and going off on so many tangents that within the first ten minutes, they were talking about something completely different than their previous discussion. About halfway through the conversation, Y/N's elbow had drifted to rest against the back of the sofa and her fingers were gently twiddling one of his curls that always fell over the corner of his eyes, while she was listening intently to whatever Spencer was explaining to her.

It was the most natural conversation either of them had ever experienced, and it continued and deepened and grew closer to a point where neither wanted the conversation to stop, it became harder and harder for them to break free from each other. Having physical attraction was one thing, yet they seemed to mesh so well together in almost every way that it scared them a little.

Unlike their first romantic encounter, this one was calm and peaceful, full of soft laughter and teasing remarks. They didn't need sex, nor did they crave it at this point in time, but rather they craved each other.

By the end of it, both Y/N and Spencer knew they could never get enough of one another. It was something they felt, even though they couldn't put into words exactly what it was.

"This is crazy, isn't it?" she whispered, a shy look on her face as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

"A little," Spencer replied, his voice equally hushed. "But I'm okay with crazy."

"So am I, actually."

Her fingers trailed for his hand, wrapping her small fingers around his and interlocking them. He placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles, letting out a contented sigh as he squeezed her hand slightly.

"I'm getting kind of hungry... Do you think I could buy you lunch?"

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

Spencer thought for a brief moment before shrugging. "No. But I want to do it anyway. I really, truly do."

"Then yeah, I could eat."

With that, Y/N got up from the couch and offered him her hands to pull him to his feet, tugging him towards her as she gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Okay," she said with a grin. "Let's get going then."

Lecture 2 was torture, it seemed, as Y/N tried her hardest not to stare at Spencer during it, but he wasn't doing much better. He kept glancing in her direction, a small smile forming on his face whenever their eyes met, and she swore he winked at her once or twice, which was wildly irresponsible of him.

At one point during the lecture where he got the students to discuss among themselves, he was oh so bold and leaned on Y/N's desk, mouthing, "You look really pretty," to her and attempted to hide it behind a bunch of papers.

And once she'd glanced around to check that nobody was watching, she replied, "You look so sexy in your glasses," and he dropped his gaze instantly to his shoes, biting his lip in an attempt not to smile like a loon.

Luckily, the pair managed to get through the lecture and the after session without a slip up. But, as Y/N was walking away from his office with her peers, she patted her pockets and realised she'd 'forgotten' her phone back in Dr Reid's office.

"Left my phone. See you guys next week," she called to her friends as she turned round and headed in the opposite direction.

As soon as she reentered his door, she bumped straight into his chest since he was on his way to give her lost item back to her. "Oof! Sorry," she said quickly, attempting to step backwards but was quickly pressed against the door. She blinked up at him from underneath her lashes and let his hands travel up to rest against her hips.

"I forgot my phone."

"Did you now?" he asked, a smirk slowly stretching across his lips. He brought his hand to cup her cheek before pulling her forward for a passionate kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to deepen their kiss, trying her best not to moan into his mouth. She didn't quite succeed, but neither did he.

When they finally broke apart, he chuckled breathlessly before dropping a soft kiss on her nose. That sweet, innocent action was all it took for Y/N to cave in. She reached down and clicked the lock into place before pushing Spencer until he was firmly seated on the sofa. She allowed herself to be tugged onto his lap and they, once again, engaged in debauchery on school grounds.

Then lecture 3 of four was tense. The class was silent as the students took their final test. Spencer couldn't show his favourite student any type of affection or extra help in this moment as not only would it be glaringly obvious what was going on between them, but that was seriously against every academic bone in his body.

So, he decided to do some of his own research instead. He hadn't been on that many dates in his life and had no clue what was a good venue close by. There was a good coffee shop on campus but that would be unsuitable considering the nature of how their relationship had begun. That was a little too close to home for Reid's liking.

It was a lot to think about. He needed it to be absolutely perfect because what if the moment the taboo part of their relationship disappeared, she was no longer attracted to him and he'd ruined everything before he even got a chance to make progress?

Eventually, he was brought out of his self induced reverie when someone placed their test on his desk, causing his head to shoot up immediately. He gave the student an enthusiastic thumbs up and flashed a bright smile at him. Soon, student after student after student was coming up to his desk to put their finals down.

Y/N had finished. She finished a while ago but was still sitting in her seat, one hand holding up her head, the other drawing on a scrap bit of paper. Not wanting to be the first person to get up, she'd prolonged her time by sketching a certain professor and got carried away, completely missing the multiple people who'd finished and exited the hall after her.

By the time she noticed, Dr Reid was calling out, "5 more minutes." She snapped out of her trance and looked up to see him grinning at her, his finger pointing to the portrait of him with such a teasing flourish that she had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.

With an inaudible giggle, she packed her stuff and stood up, taking slow careful steps towards the man waiting for her near his desk. Spencer's expression softened as she placed her test down, then slid her drawing right in front of him. Just below his portrait, she'd written, 'You’re sweeter than π' and a chuckle slipped past his lips and fell into the mostly empty room as he picked up the picture and gazed at her talent fully drawn artwork.

All he could do for now was mouth, "Office?" and hope she understood what he meant by it. Officially, his office drop ins had concluded the week before, but he'd make an exception in this instance. After all, he wanted to keep her with him for a little bit longer.

Understand, she did. Spencer opened his office door and was greeted with the sight of Y/N reading one of the books from his shelf, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the machine next to his desk, and two fresh mug fulls on his desk.

"The Disappearing Spoon is for total nerds," she remarked jokingly, placing her book back on the shelf and turning towards him, leaning against the edge of his desk as she looked up at him expectantly.

"Well, you were the one reading it. Nerd."

"It was in your library. Nerd."

After giving her a little shrug, Spencer walked over to where she was standing and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head. "How'd you find the test?" he asked, kissing the side of her head lightly.

"Oh, it was easy as pie." Her smile widened and she wrapped her arms around his waist to return the hug. "I had plenty of time to waste doodling."

"Is that so?" he murmured against her hair. "Oh, by the way, not that it will change much because I'm sure you'll do great regardless, I was planning on sending your test to one of my professor friends because I'm very very biassed."

"Damn, I did this to get my grades up and it was all for nothing," she jested, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

"What a shame."

Spencer smirked, cupping the back of her neck and planting a gentle peck on her lips. He hummed contently, smiling into the kiss as he nipped on her bottom lip softly before pulling back with a sheepish expression.

"You are joking, right?"

"Yes, Spencer. I am."

"That's good."

He smiled softly at her before pressing another quick peck on the corner of her mouth and pulling away, letting her go as he walked towards the coffee, which he so desperately needed right now, and added so much sugar to it that it might actually melt his teeth. With his mug of coffee in hand, he made his way to his seat where Y/N was already sitting cross legged in his chair, her hands resting on her lap and a big grin on her face.

Okay, he was no stranger to sitting on his desk so he hopped right up there, placing his mug on her table, before reaching for a piece of paper and pen. He'd look at her for a moment then begin scribbling then look at her, repeating this process a few times before she caught on.

"Do you want me to pose?"

"No, just make sure you're looking at me," he mumbled, barely able to keep eye contact with her as he stared intently at his masterpiece. His lines were both wibbly and wobbly, he'd made her teeth absolutely huge, her head was the size and shape of a television screen, and her hair, oh, it was like a literal bird's nest. She loved it.

"Very surreal, Dr. Reid," she whispered, leaning her chin on her hand as she moved in for a closer look at what he'd produced. She knew his style wasn't for everyone and possibly could come across as rude to those who didn't know him well, but she honestly found it adorable. "I love the crazed look in my eyes, looks like I just killed a man."

"Hope not. I'd have to catch you if you did that."

"If you could catch me."

"I've faced tougher foes than you. I could catch you." He clicked his fingers together. "Catch you like that."

"Hmmm...I don't think you could."

She watched as he turned back to her, a small crease forming between his brows as he braced his hands against the desk, holding himself up as he dipped down to catch her lips in a loving kiss. Once he drew back from it, he mumbled, "Caught you."

The drawings of each other soon turned into self portraits, which turned into their favourite animal, that turned into just random objects around his office that they could see. They were constantly making comments to each other on their works, giggling, arguing and generally enjoying themselves immensely. It was like a new routine, it was a game; it was something special and unique for just the two of them, especially since she was in need of some fun after the test she'd been through.

But all good things have to come to an end. Disrupting Spencer halfway through a fact he was gushing about, his phone rang. He jumped slightly and cursed silently as he tried to hide his disappointment in seeing who was calling at this hour. A slight frown settled onto his face as he picked up the call, glancing apologetically at Y/N as he listened to Garcia give him the details.

His other job was in need of doing.

"FBI business?"

"Yeah... I have to go."

"Knock em' dead, Sir," Y/N cheered, standing up from her desk and stretching lazily. She hadn't even taken five steps when she felt strong, firm hands wrap around her waist, tugging her against Spencer's chest. She tilted her head backwards slightly to look at him, unable to help the smile that broke out across her face as he planted a long kiss on her forehead.

"I gotta go," he murmured, more to remind himself than anything else, against her temple before pulling back to gather all the stuff he needed, which included her self portrait.

After giving her what was supposed to be one last kiss, he pulled back from her once again, straightening out his tie and jacket as he made his way to the door. But instead of leaving right away, he turned around to face her again and gave her the last last kiss before saying goodbye. He waited until she shut the office door before them making his way down the stairs.

Lecture 4 didn't exactly go to plan. It was another online one, which would've been fine since he wasn't going over anything new and it was more of a way for Reid to say goodbye to his students, but he wasn't there in person to do the extra curricular activities that he'd planned. The case was all the way up in Alaska, so he was on the other side of the country and had missed his chance to finally take Y/N out on the date she deserved.

Reid apologised profusely to his class that he'd gotten held up on a family annihilator's case that, in the grand scheme of things, was vastly more important to solve than to say his adieu's to college kids. There were lives to save. He still hoped he'd get another chance to make up for it later.

Still, he privately messaged her as soon as he had the chance to. It read, 'I'll make it up to you as soon as I get back.' and was quickly followed by his phone number. 'Later tonight?'

Watching her camera feed, he saw the moment she typed in his number on her cell, her thumbs concocting a text that he was sure was so witty and entertaining. Another student was talking at the moment - Spencer knew he should listen - and that gave them perfect cover to start texting.

Unknown: Hi <3

His cheeks flushed. It was simple, but so very effective.

Pretty Boy Swag: Hi :) I miss you.

Her heart swelled and she couldn't stop the giddy smile that spread across her face. He took note of it, of course. She was so expressive, so easy to read, so easy to know.

Mistress of the Dark: I miss you too. How's Alaska? How many fingers have you lost to frostbite?

Pretty Boy Swag: Too many. Far too many. I'm wearing two shirts, two cardigans and a sweater and I'm still shivering.

Throughout the zoom, they continued to use any bit of free time they saw to start messaging back and forth. If anyone thought that Dr Reid was distracted, they'd be correct. He had to ask people to repeat what they'd said more times than he should've, and then blamed it on the weak WiFi signal he was getting out in the cold. The WiFi was atrocious, but there was a more distracting factor in play.

Eventually, the case was solved. It had taken a week and a half or so to be solved, but it was solved nonetheless, and Spencer couldn't wait for it to be finished. Obviously, he didn't want more people to die, he wanted to avoid that at all costs, but his reasons for staying up for the past 72 hours to get the job done were for less than honourable means.

Pretty Boy Swag: My flight should arrive at 12 tonight. Thank God! I'm so tired. I promise to see you tomorrow.

Mistress of the Dark: I can come and pick you up if you'd like me to?

Pretty Boy Swag: No, I'm okay. You don't have to do that.

Mistress of the Dark: What if I want to do that? I don't mind helping.

Despite the fact he was surrounded by his very good friends who were all masters at reading his every move, he still smiled to himself like he was in his own little dream world. Ring the alarm bells, technophobe Spencer Reid was caught giggling at his smartphone.

Pretty Boy Swag: Only if you're sure you want to.

Mistress of the Dark: Trust me. I want to <3

Pretty Boy Swag: <3

And he was using emoticons? Who had he become?

Hotch eventually had to tell everyone on the plane to stop teasing the resident genius, though a few comments by Garcia did slip through the cracks in Aaron's usually stoic expression. By the time they got off the plane, however, they were all too focused on getting home to notice that Spencer had already slipped away without joining in on the group complaint session about how late it was.

It took no time at all to find Y/N's vehicle. It was the only one in the entire parking lot that had a light on the driver's side. Spencer didn't mean to creep up to the window, but he could be rather light footed without realising it, and scared the living shit out of her when his knuckles lightly tapped against the glass by her head.

Y/N yelped, startled enough to jump out of her skin, before turning in her seat to look at him. When her gaze met his, her shock was replaced by a wide, goofy grin, her eyes sparkling. As he smiled right back, she rolled down the window to lean over and kiss him quickly, before sliding the passenger side door open and motioning him to come inside.

"Do you always let strange men into your car?"

"Only if they're cute." She gave him a once over. "Your place or mine?"

"I'll give you directions to mine."

The moment Spencer stepped into his house, he was making a beeline for his coffee machine. Y/N slapped his hand away as soon as she realised he'd turned the device on.

"Coffee? At this time? Really?"

"I want to spend time with you."

His eyes were big and brown and pleading, his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed like he was trying not to pout. She stared at him for a second, just admiring the sight before her, before chuckling, rolling her eyes, and taking ahold of his hand.

"We can spend time together tomorrow morning. Now, where do you slumber?" she asked, her words definitive but playful.

Spencer couldn't believe his luck. He practically skipped along the hallway to his bedroom, pulling her with him so enthusiastically that he surely used up the final remainder of his energy just on that movement.

"Strip," she demanded.

Who was he to deny her? He was down to his underwear in one sluggish minute, and although he'd typically be self conscious having a lack of clothes on in front of a pretty girl, but thanks to his exhaustion, he didn't have enough energy to care.

"Do you wear pyjamas to bed, Doctor Reid?" He pointed in the general direction of his dresser, towards one specific drawer, where his pyjamas lay neatly folded. She took some off the stack and began pulling them onto his body. "Aw, you've got Tardis pyjamas. You're such a nerd. Do you mind if I borrow a pair?"

"Go ahead."

He shrugged while he watched her pull on her pjs, completely unbothered by the fact that he was very obviously entranced by every move she made. Every single movement, every curve or dip, even the slight imperfections in her skin that he loved so much. They were all so fascinating. So utterly captivating.

"Do you sleep on the left or right side of the bed?"

"Middle."

"Middle, it is."

She crawled under the covers on her side, pulling him in after her, before snuggling her body close to his. She laid her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling him breath in and out deeply beneath her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head.

"Are we together now? Properly?" he murmured into the quiet of his room. He felt his cheeks turn slightly pink as he asked, unsure why he was asking such a question when he could be sleeping and not worrying about such a thing.

"You still need to take me out on a date first," she chuckled, rearing back to catch his eye. After a quick peck on his lips, she returned to her previous position to hum, "But, yeah, I'd say we are."

A contented sigh escaped from his lips and, after a moment, he relaxed into the embrace, relaxing into the gentle touches of her hands stroking his bicep until his breathing slowed and he fell asleep. For that night, he was perfectly content just being around her, knowing that they would both wake up and be one hundred percent ready to face the day - their first - as a duo.

#spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds

[faetima]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 . .

. . maybe you and alhaitham were just never meant to be.

// tws ; blood ! possible alluding to reader’s death? ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au 

a/n: stan twice

unrequited.

you knew your love was of that nature, yet you couldn’t help but yearn for it.

for the delicate and feathery touch of the scribe’s love.

pining after him was no use, you knew. but, alas, what could you do?

he was the prestigious scribe, whilst you were a nobody, too meek to speak up to others, always uttering a small, “yes” to everything asked of you.

too shy to talk to people — terrified that you would embarrass yourself or leave a bad impression, or that you would wind up being the center of attention.

but, if you were so scared, why did you crave his attention?

every time you glanced around the classroom, fleeting gaze eventually landing on his soft grey and teal tufts of hair, and his turquoise eyes, flecked with specks of orange, you couldn’t help but wish as you stared at him, a stoic and indifferent expression plastered onto his stupidly pretty face —

wish that he could love you.

wish that he could hold you.

wish that he could look at you.

wish that he could know you.

but luck was never on your side, was it? for, you wholeheartedly expected your wishes not to be heard (and they weren’t), but lady luck had decided to make your life miserable — making the decision that having an obviously unreciprocated wasn’t enough.

and so she gave you hanahaki.

every day, as your gaze landed unconsciously on him, the vines curled around your lungs, gripping them.

flowers — fuchsia azaleas — tickled the back of your throat, being lodged there, making you cough a little.

and, alhaitham’s head turned towards the noise of coughing.

you froze, quickly collecting the petals in your hand, stuffing them into your pocket. your gaze instantly shot downwards, glued onto your notebook as your hand rapidly scribbled something down, pretending to be taking notes or writing or just doing something.

and, as you wrote, you felt monarchs fluttering in your stomach, heat rising up to your neck and face.

who knew that agony could be a little fun? 

—

but, as the days grew, your heart made it clear that it did not desire “fun”.

oh, no.

the only thing it wanted was alhaitham.

and that was made evident by the way you were now crouched on the bathroom floor, on your hands and knees, coughing out bouts of the hot pink flowers to remove the giant lump in your throat and the tickling of petals in the back of it.

the azaleas hit the previously porcelain white and neatly polished floor with a disgustingly wet noise, and, as you opened your eyes the tiniest bit, you laid your eyes on the flower.

a seemingly freshly bloomed azalea, coated with your own blood, slick with your own mucus. it laid there, some of the burgundy blood dripping down and pooling around it, coloring the dove-white floor with a splash of red.

you sat there, blankly staring at the barbie azaleas flopped on the floor. they were still covered in blood for your throat. they’re the hundredth flowers you’d coughed up today, and you had a strange mixture of apathy and horror coursing through you.

the lump in your throat felt like a knife, and the petals tickle and tickle, causing you to cough and wheeze. it was getting harder and harder to breathe. you were exhausted — from both coughing up the flowers and also from feeling this fucking unreciprocated love. but, of course, the hanahaki wouldn’t let you stop suffering until your love is returned.

if only alhaitham would look at you, talk to you, acknowledge your existence in any way.

if only you would talk to him. 

but, god, if it wasn’t hard to build up the courage.

he wouldn’t just come up and talk with you. why would you even wish that? why were you so stupid?

you hated yourself for it, wishing he would talk to you whilst not even interacting with him.

the truth was that the scribe intimidated you quite a bit, being stoic and indifferent, curt and formal to nearly anybody.

you tried to take a deep breath, but it hurt.

it hurt so, so much. 

the fuchsia azaleas covered the piece of floor in front of you almost entirely, a horrific reminder of the disease that's destroying you from the inside.

while you had been thinking, the stupidly pleasant smell of the azaleas — a dainty and delicate blend of floral honeysuckle notes— mixed with the tinged irony odor of blood, wafted upwards toward you, giving you a whiff of a smell that made you want to wretch.

you should’ve gotten the surgery when you could — now it was far too late, you were going to die for sure.

you were beyond the point of saving.

—

you stared blankly at the sheet of paper which sat before you, trying to concentrate on the lecture your teacher was giving, but your mind kept drifting off.

you kept glancing upwards, and every time you did so you saw the lightest shade of grey there could be, like a thrush’s delicate feathers, mixed with sage green, perfectly complementing the scribes clothes.

yeah, maybe you should keep your eyes on the paper. looking at him made you watch to rip your throat out and cough your lungs out.

—

you sat in your bed, curled in a small ball, fluffy white blanket bunched up around you.

the bright screen of your computer, extremely so, illuminated your face. 

you didn’t particularly want to write this essay, and what would be the point? the stupid azaleas would choke you to death eitehr way, using you as a human flower pot.

you closed the screen with a harsh thud!, drowning yourself in complete and utter darkness as the abnormally bright light emitted from the computer was sucked away.

you hastily put the computer away, curling into a tight ball on your bed.

you awaited death, hot pink azaleas tickling your throat and dreaming about the scribe, his perfectness almost alien, like the condition deteriorating you from the inside out, like a withering flower.

#alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x you #al haitham #al haitham x reader #al haitham x you #genshin impact #genshin #how to angst #angst #light angst #tw blood #kind of #hanahaki au #hanahaki #hanahaki disease #◌ -- alhaitham #modern #modern au #high school #high school au #also posted on ao3 :3

[meowzfordayz]

to save you is to save the world

Author’s Note: proud of myself for writing this. Not my most polished fanfic, but still a gentle slip into Sanemi’s characterization and tenderness (~sort of). 🤍

to save you is to save the world

Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader

Word Count: ~900

CW: death content, explicit language

Emergency Request: i request for a realistic sanemi comfort interaction with a reader whose around the same age as him, (hes 21 i believe) started late, joining into the slayer corps but proven to be as hard working and having a knack for combat, honing her skills, body etc, (which was effective most of the time, earning her up to tsuguko rank like kanae) but in this particular night, she just couldnt be 100%, let alone 30% or lower, she was at her worse today (hah like me) — giving up wasn't her thing, but yeah... 🥹 everything feels heavy, breathing techniques seem more harder, nerves shaky from lack of sleep and food intake just—yeah (shit is happening to me too rn) i love sanemi and his hardened shell with a soft budding flower inside, its so comforting (or am i just traumatized cough)

~faqs~

“You aren’t taking care of yourself.”

You shrug at Sanemi’s blunt statement, knuckles tremoring as you regrip your katana, beads of sweat threatening to fall from your brow as you inhale slowly. Moonlight glimmers lazily through his white hair, the tucked away clearing as familiar as it is difficult to locate, an ideal place for sparring bordered by tall, tall pines and the layers of many winters past. 

“If you were a demon, then you’d be dead.”

You shrug again, dust stirring as you lunge toward him, a low growl vibrating in your throat when he easily stepsides you, the dreary weight of the bottom of his pommel smacking you square in the back. He snorts while you swallow a dry cough, lavender eyes following your hasty retreat as you rethink your position.

“Seriously, you’re stupid for continuing to fight me.”

“We aren’t fighting,” you mutter, upper lip curling, “I’m fine.”

With a devastatingly simple maneuver, Sanemi’s blade suddenly rests shiny and sharp against the curve of your collarbone, his expression grim as he says plainly, “Wrong.”

You blink, unable to breathe, his warm scent of freshly ground matcha powder softening the starkness of his violence.

“We are fighting,” he insists, withdrawing in a heartbeat, “Training this, training that, this is real,” giving you a withering look, “And you should be dead.”

“Well I’m not,” you deadpan.

And thank fuck for that Sanemi nearly exclaims, jaw clenching at the weariness in your gaze, the memory of your sluggish movements. He knows your chances of beating him are essentially zero, but you usually hold your own at least fractionally better — you usually bite harder than he does, adequately compensating for your lack of skill with your passable company. But currently?

“No thanks to your effort,” he scoffs, gesturing to your katana, limp in your hand, “You’re wasting my time.”

“I’m tired,” you mumble, fingers numb as you flex them around your handle, “Don’t you ever get tired?”

He can tell by your intonation that he wasn’t really meant to hear your final utterance, but he is a Hashira, and you are a mere five feet—give or take—away from him. You should’ve kept that question to yourself.

“I’m tired when I’m awake, I’m exhausted when I’m asleep. I can’t remember feeling alive. But I am. And as sorry as I feel for myself, there are more pressing matters than being tired.”

You flinch, the uptick in his volume and intensity flaring, your eyes closing as a swell of shame fills your lungs. Of course Shinazugawa-san gets tired. How silly of me to-

“Enough.”

“Enough?” you sputter, shame crinkling into indignation as you suck in a tight breath, “We’ve been fighting for less than an hour!”

“And you’re already bringing up tired,” Sanemi interrupts coolly, sheathing his katana, harsh chuckle hurting your ears as he nonchalantly dodges your lame attempt to charge at him once more, “Like I said, you aren’t taking care of yourself.”

“You don’t know me,” you retort, knees aching as you pivot to face him, “I’m tired, not unconscious.”

“Do you want me to knock you out?” he drawls amusedly, “Because it would take precisely no energy on my part to do so.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” you huff, impatience bubbling over, “Why would I want a concussion?”

“So you can get a good night’s rest?” he smirks.

“I’m leaving,” you declare, your katana returning to its scabbard, tongue dripping with sarcasm, “Thanks for sharing your keen observations with me.”

“Before you go, let me share another,” Sanemi’s voice darkens, his intoxicating aroma of green tea, discipline, and coldness stifling the air surrounding you as he circles you, “You aren’t taking care of yourself, and you will die. If you’re tired, then rest. If you’re exhausted, then rest some more. And don’t let me find out that you died due to carelessness or fatigue.”

“We die every day,” your eyes roll, uninspired by his scathing “pep” talk.

“And you’re okay with that?” he challenges, “You’re okay with dying?”

“If it means you’re nicer to me-”

“Shit like that should never come out of your mouth,” he snarls, firm palms hot and crushing as he grasps your shoulders, “If you want me to be nicer to you, then just fucking ask. Don’t fucking die. So fucking dramatic.”

“And you had to shake me to get your point across?” you remark carefully, pulse erratic as delicate flecks of deeper violet in his irises reveal themselves to you, “Shinazugawa-san…”

Sanemi doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed, pressing himself into you for a fleeting moment, the sensation of his embrace almost false, gone even as it registers. You swallow thickly, head empty, pinpricks of doubt and heat and fear stabbing at your chest.

“I don’t want to see you until you’ve eaten, bathed, and slept through an entire day. In fact, you won’t see me until you ask.”

“Ask what?” you say dumbly, still reeling.

“Until you ask me to take care of you,” he scowls, “And no, beating you up doesn’t count.”

Watching your eyebrows furrow, Sanemi sighs, teeth gritting as he tacks on roughly.

“I notice everything, everyone.”

You glance away, sparing him from further explanation, the slight itch of dust on your skin signaling his departure.

—

If only I could save it all too.

#sanemi shinazugawa #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x reader #shinazugawa x reader #wind hashira #one shot #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

[ichorai]

talk ; bruce wayne.

track nine of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; rpatz!bruce wayne x fiance!gn!reader

synopsis ; it’d been years since you died. bruce stood silent in front of your grave, hair damp from the cold rain. you approached him from behind, tipping your umbrella forward just enough so the tears of the sky would stop mingling with his own.

words ; 6.8k

themes ; angst, action, fluff, engaged au, ex-thief au

warnings / includes ; faked death, injuries/blood/violence/death, depictions of human trafficking, a lot of Emotions, reader used to be a thief, mentions of the joker and harley quinn, alfred cameo !! and one smutty-ish sentence?

main masterlist.

The ground was sodden with rainwater, mud clinging onto his black boots. Its long laces were loosely dragging through the dirt, wet and filthy, but he couldn’t be bothered to retie them. Rain dripped from the hair that hung limply from his head, frigid drops pricking his skin and meandering down his cheeks. The cold air from the sky was a pleasant but striking juxtaposition to the hot tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, conveniently camouflaged by the rain. It wasn’t often that Bruce Wayne cried, but for you, he allowed himself to shed a few tears.

After all, it was the third anniversary of your death.

He hadn’t shown up to your funeral—well, from what Alfred told him, he wouldn’t have made much of a difference. There were hundreds of people there. He was just glad he wasn’t there so the vultures of public press didn’t have the chance to shove flashing cameras into his face.

He could just imagine the headlines: Bruce Wayne At Gotham’s Most Notorious Thief’s Funeral, Y/N L/N And Bruce Wayne: A Tragic Romance, Bruce Wayne’s Ex-Criminal Fiance Killed By The Joker.

Bruce coughed into his fist, masking a strained, broken sob as his eyes trailed down your headstone, where your name was carved in stone. His shoulders trembled. The sky thundered. He bit down on his tongue. His lungs felt thick and heavy, as if slickened with tar. 

There were nearly a dozen bouquets of flowers crowded around the stone. Bruce noticed that there were several wilting roses amongst the heap of petals and thorns. 

You hated roses.

“Hope you didn’t leave me any of those,” said an eerily familiar voice from behind him. All of a sudden, the rain stopped pelting his head, shadowed by a dark umbrella, just enough to stop the tears of the sky from mingling with his own. “You know I hate roses.”

His shoulders tensed.

Chest constricting, your name slipped from his lips, nearly lost to the pelting rain. 

“The one and only,” you said. “It’s been a long time, Bru.”

He turned around, stiff. His eyes twitched in disbelief. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. A part of Bruce, the grief-stricken part, wondered if he was hallucinating you.

But you were here, in the flesh. And there was a small grin coyly toying at the corner of your lips. You had a hat pulled low over your head, nearly shielding your bright eyes as well, and you were dressed in loose, dark clothing. 

The ring he gave you dangled on a thin silver chain around your neck, gleaming as if regularly polished. You silently noted that he still wore his own engagement ring.

Bruce’s supposedly dead fiance tilted their head, regarding him with veiled fondness.

“Come on,” you said, pointedly turning away so that the umbrella was no longer hovering over him. He flinched when the cold rain touched his skin. He stood there for a second longer, still in shock, before numbly following behind you. 

Rust. 

Bruce could smell it everywhere.

“I know it isn’t much,” you said, shouldering the creaky door to the abandoned warehouse open, “but it’s home. For now, at least.”

You glanced over your shoulder, catching Bruce’s hardened eyes. With pursed lips, you shook the water out of your umbrella before shucking it closed, tossing it somewhere in the corner. Bruce watched as you busied yourself with lighting small gas lamps on rickety metal chairs, before allowing his gaze to briefly dart around the room. It was spacious in a way that was unsettling—dark and dreary, cold and lifeless. There were a couple dozen boxes stacked along the opposite wall, lining the large, moldy windows. A beaten down sofa was placed off to the side, with a thin blanket messily thrown over the back. 

You’d been living here this entire time? 

When he spoke—his first words to you in three entire years—it was shaky and saturated with raw hurt. He was… he was so inexplicably angry with you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, so quietly you nearly wished he was yelling instead. “How could you… how could you do this to me? To Alfred?”

The splinter within the fractures of your heart was all of a sudden a large stake, and Bruce held the hammer.

A small sigh fell from your lips and you turned to face him fully. “It’s a long story.”

Bruce’s frustrated countenance remained unchanged. “You better get going, then.”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, before dropping down onto your patchy sofa. “You don’t wanna sit down?” you asked. He gave you no response. “Alright, then.”

There was so much to tell him. You didn’t know where to start.

After clearing your throat, you finally croaked out, “That night three years ago—I contacted the Joker through Harley Quinn. She was an old pal of mine from my crime days. Through her, I asked him to meet me under Gotham’s largest bridge because I had a deal to make with him. A part of me wasn’t sure he was going to show but—my reputation as the city’s most famous ex-thief was more than enough to convince him. He was curious, you see. He thought I was coming back into the business of stealing. It didn’t take him long to realize that I wasn’t planning on working with him, and he was about to call his cronies for back up, but I knocked him out before he could reach for anything. I planted evidence of my death on him—a knife with my blood on it, his fingerprints over my equipment, his hair on my clothes, my skin under his nails. The next couple of hours, I was across the city, ingesting a fake-death pill—potassium cyanide. The next day, the entire world thought I was dead, killed by the Joker—though if you dug up that grave you were standing over earlier today, you’d find it to be empty. I framed him so he’d land in jail, Bruce. Like he deserves to be.”

Bruce’s pallid complexion made it look like he was going to keel over and hurl. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“There were people trying to kill you because of me, Bru,” you whispered. “They wanted me dead, and they wanted you dead, too. I was protecting you. If I’m gone, then they’d no longer have a reason to kill you.” 

“YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME!” he roared, his pain ricocheting throughout the warehouse. All of a sudden, he was no farther than an arm’s length away from you. The blue of his eyes gleamed with a mirage of resurfaced bitterness and anger. His voice quietened, “I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped you. We could’ve worked through it together.”

You shook your head. “You knowing I was alive would’ve put us both at more risk. I had to do it, Bruce. I… I had to do it so I wasn’t under the eye of scrutiny anymore. Being the most famous ex-thief and Bruce Wayne’s fiance meant more eyes on me than practically anyone else in the country. One tiny slip up, and I’d be in jail right next to the Joker!”

Bruce reared back upon realizing what you were saying. “You faked your death to steal again?”

“No!” you bit back, voice cracking. “Not to steal. To help—just without the cops on my back. Without the Penguin breathing down my neck. Without Deathstroke hunting me down. I did it to protect you and help the city in my own way.”

Silence stretched thin between the two of you. Bruce was tense, frozen in front of you, repeating your words over and over in his head.

“I still love you, Bru,” you said, reaching out for his arm. “That’s never changed.”

He moved out of your way, flinching at the mere prospect of touching you.

“Then what do you want from me?” he snarled, gruffer than he had intended. “I grieved you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d failed you. I couldn’t save you. It tore me apart, Y/N. I just… I loved you so much. You meant so much to me. And to just… leave without so much as a goodbye! Not even a note!”

Your hand fell back to your side, a sharp ache clawing within your ribcage. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, gritting your jaw and willing the surfacing tears away. “I’d love to hash this out with you, B, but there’s more pressing matters at hand. I would’ve never told you that I’m still alive if I really didn’t need your help.”

There was a beat of silence. Bruce shifted, shoulders hunched over as if he wanted to cave in on himself. The thought of being around you right now was simultaneously the worst thing he could do to himself, and what he desired most. 

He missed you—painfully so. He missed the hard, determined edge to your expression whenever you concentrated on something. He missed the way you used to cradle him close to you when he had terrible nightmares, kissing around his bruises. He missed the way you’d playfully bump your hip against his while the two of you worked on the same table. He missed the way you'd lewdly moan your special nickname for him—Bru—into the mattress when he rolled his hips into yours from behind, pressing hot kisses down your arched spine. He missed your infamous grin, and how it never failed to replicate itself onto his own lips. He missed your scent—a homely mix of cinnamon and lavender, a smell he wanted to drown himself with. After you’d died, he’d sleep with your hoodie pressed against his nose—and he did so until the perfume wore away, and the last trace of you was gone. He missed your laughter, your lighthearted banter with Alfred, your help on missions when he found himself at a dead end. 

This time, you were asking for his help.

And how could he say no to that? 

Bruce’s sore eyes darted from the rusty ceiling to you, watching him intently. “What is it?” 

Hope sparked within you, like a candle lit in the middle of a hurricane. “Human trafficking, Bru. That’s what I’ve spent the past three years trying to take down. Gotham is rampant with it. If I told the police… they would’ve been five steps ahead and relocated across the country and we’d be right back to square one. I finally got my hands on some intel—they’re moving a bunch of kidnapped children through the abandoned railways under the city tomorrow night. I don’t know where they’re going, but I can’t let them leave, or things would get infinitely more complicated. I don’t know how many exactly. Could be a couple dozen. A hundred. Maybe even just one. But I know I have to stop them—and I can’t do it alone.”

There was something akin to awe behind Bruce’s blue irises. “The five missing kids randomly appearing in a homeless shelter last year—that was you?”

A weak grin nudged at the corner off your lips. “Yeah. The poor things were being forced to manufacture illegal firearms with scrap metal parts.”

Another beat of silence. The hesitance in Bruce seemed to wane away with each passing second. 

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Bruce stepped closer to you, eyebrows furrowing. The fact that all of this was happening right under his nose made a sick feeling twist his stomach.

Your lips trembled. Slowly, you pulled out your phone, pressing on a video file and held it out to him. He took it from you, watching with horror as the grainy footage played. Half of the screen was black, as if filming from behind a wall. The kids were chained, manhandled and shoved into a truck by several armed people, screams and cries echoing along the metal walls. There was a louder shout, closer to the person recording, and the camera began to wobble and shake, pulling away from the crime scene as they began running. The video was cut off there. 

He felt sick. His eyes flickered back up to you, anxiously worrying on your bottom lip. 

“I filmed that around a day ago,” you whispered, throat thick with emotion. You began to physically shake. “I saw it. I tried to stop them—but I messed up. One of the guards turned around the corner and saw me. I killed him, Bruce, or the entire operation would’ve been blown. I… I—”

There was a cold hand on your shoulder. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of your collarbone. Your fiance kneeled in front of you, nodding his head to silently tell you to go on. You swallowed nervously.

“Thankfully, the rest of them didn’t know I was there. I don’t know where the kids are now, and it kills me to wait. All I know is that they’re planning on taking them through the railways tomorrow. It’s the best shot I have.”

Bruce’s stare burned into you. “You’ve been managing on your own for the past three years. Why are you only asking for my help now?”

You winced, pursing your lips. “The man I killed—he didn’t go down without a fight.” 

Gingerly, you shifted your hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up to reveal tightly wound bandages over your stomach. Much to your dismay, they were soaked through with copper-hued blood, a dark shade that sent a queasy tremor up your spine.

Almost immediately, a shadowed, closed-off expression melded over his features. You couldn’t exactly tell whether or not he was angry at you, or just angry in general. 

“You’re bleeding,” he stated, rather bluntly. You bit back the urge to berate him for spelling out the obvious, and remained quiet as he told you to lean back. “Do you have extra bandages?”

“Yeah—in that box in the corner there. Nicked ‘em from the pharmacy down the block.”

Bruce frowned at that, but didn’t vocalize his disapproval. 

In the box, he’d noticed a bottle of alcohol beside the bandages, grabbing that as well. 

He strode back to you, softly asking you to peel back your bandages. You complied, but not without a grumpy divot appearing between your brows. If you weren’t practically bleeding out in front of him, Bruce would’ve found it to be rather endearing.

There were several lacerations across your abdomen, some shallow, and others deep. There were stitches across the more serious wounds, but they were done shoddily. Bruce sent you a look, swallowing hard.

“These look awful.”

“Why don’t you try stitching yourself up, then?” you hissed, biting down on your palm as he started cleaning up your wounds with an alcohol-doused bandage. 

Bruce couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was cleaning up his fiance’s stab wounds after three years of their supposed death. A part of him wondered if he’d wake up from this nightmare, sprawled across his bed with his nose tucked into your hoodie. 

But this was real. 

Your muffled groans of pain brought him back down to earth.

You were real. 

As swiftly as he could, he neatly wrapped fresh bandages over your waist, murmuring a shaky apology when you cried out from the stinging agony of the combined pressure and the cleansing alcohol.

“What else have you been doing?” Bruce asked, much to your surprise. Your eyes darted to his, and his skin flushed with heat, shifting his gaze to the ground.

It took you a moment to formulate a response. You were walking on eggshells around him, afraid that a slip of your tongue would make him get up and leave. “I’ve been in international waters for the majority of the time—staking out meetings, organizing heists, stealing from the rich—all that lovely jazz. I went to France, Mexico, India, New Zealand—trying to find something to do. My purpose. I guess I was traveling all over the place to run away from Gotham for a while. But I came back—because Gotham will always be my home. Because Gotham is where you are.” You fixed him with a pointed gaze, and Bruce swallowed uneasily. The hazy blue of his irises darkened a shade. You spoke again, voice lowered, “I gave all the money to charities, by the way. A couple of orphanages, too. Balancing out the scales, Bruce. For all the shitty things I’ve done.” You gritted your teeth when he wound another set of bandages over you for good measure. 

Your words made an overwhelming sense of nostalgia wash over him, like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. There was good in you, no matter what the press had to say about that. Bruce knew that you were doing your best to help Gotham, just like he was. In your own way, of course, but it was what made Bruce fall in love with you in the first place. 

You cared so much for Gotham. For its people. Even when they probably didn’t deserve it.

“Ironic that I fell in love with one of the richest men in the world, isn’t it?” you chuckled, lolling your head back onto the sofa’s armrest, staring up at the rusty warehouse’s ceiling. Bruce could feel his chest constricting. “What about you, Bru? What’ve you been up to since I’ve been dead?”

The man gave you no response, merely lifting one of his shoulders in a tense shrug. He wasn’t sure he was ready to divulge the past few years to you just yet. As much as he missed you, dreamed of you coming back to him—he couldn’t find it within himself to tear down all the barriers he built around himself since your death. 

It was all too sudden. Bruce needed time.

You understood him all too well, much to his mild relief, and hummed noncommittally, as if to say ‘take your time’.

“You can’t tell anybody that I’m alive,” you said breathlessly, after a moment of terse silence. “Not even Alfred.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like keeping secrets from the closest thing he had to a father, but he knew that it was necessary. “What’s the plan?”

“They’ll be moving tomorrow. Are you in, Bruce?”

Only now did he realize that his hands were still splayed out over your bandaged abdomen, and he jerked back, as if he’d burned himself. You propped yourself up on an elbow, a hint of an amused grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

God, you were so beautiful. 

It took a great amount of effort for him to look away from your lips, and he focused on leveling his gaze with those bright eyes of yours.

“I’m in,” he said.

You smiled, all warm and utterly heart-breakingly wide, and Bruce could swear the air stilled around the two of you. 

“Alright.” Your hand reached out to clasp his pale, cold one. He couldn’t pull away. He should’ve. He didn’t want to. “We strike at midnight.”

There was something about Bruce’s Batman suit that made you stop and stare at him with awe. Quite a few adjustments had been made to the outfit the past three years—the bulletproof platelets over his chest and abdomen were much more form-fitting than before, and a lightweight cape draped down to his ankles, dark as the night. His mask was different as well—it was tighter and covered more of his face. Seeing him like this made you remember that Batman didn’t hide in the shadows—he was the shadow.

He caught you watching him, the blue of his eyes flashing almost dangerously beneath the moonlight. You noticed the way his gaze trailed up and down your form, soaking in your own suit.

It was a simple outfit, made up of a long, cowled coat, the hood draping over your forehead and stopping just above your eyebrows. It was a mottled hue of grey, perfect camouflage for the dull concrete jungle of Gotham city. A mask of the same color covered your nose and mouth, leaving just your eyes for Bruce to see. The rest of your outfit beneath the coat was dark and well-fitted, with several compartments to store your gizmos and gadgets. 

There were two daggers slid into your utility belt and a third emergency one strapped to your left shin. Further hidden within your pockets were a multitude of smoke grenades, ropes, and throwing stars. 

You had a small pistol wedged into your belt, but that was only for worst-case scenarios. You knew Bruce didn’t like guns.

The two of you stood before the entrance of the abandoned railways, the gaping tunnel overgrown with moss and greenery. He gave you a weary glance, non-verbally asking if you were ready. You gave him a soft nod in response. Graffiti lined the walls near the front, but as the two of you walked in, there were fewer and farther in between. 

The plan was clean-cut. Locate the children, take out the guards, and high-tail out of there. Your fiance (or was it ex-fiance? You weren’t quite sure) had made you promise not to kill anybody but—given the circumstances, you weren’t entirely sure if you could hold up to that promise.

Bruce had this innate ability to move in a way that if you hadn’t known he was already there, you wouldn’t have seen him at all. His hands loosely wrapped around your wrist to guide you to the right, and you couldn’t help but hold your breath at the minimal contact.

In the distance, the two of you heard echoing murmurs, gruff voices of what sounded to be a pair of boisterous men. They were getting closer, and getting close fast. In a whirl of dark fabric, you found yourself pressed up against the wall, Bruce’s face mere inches from yours. His long cape draped over the both of you, blending seamlessly into the shadows. 

It took you another second to realize that his entire body was slotted against yours. His scent warped around you and consumed you whole, an overwhelmingly nostalgic aroma of fresh mint and blueberries and something purely, entirely just Bruce. You inhaled sharply.

This close, you could see the thin flecks of pale green amongst his blue irises, the smudged mascara around his eyes, the small, faded scar on his jaw. You could—

Oh.

A lump formed in your throat. You could hear his heart beating—feel it—thundering against his ribcage, just above where yours was. 

Heat spidered beneath your skin, crawling up your neck and flushing your cheeks. Bruce watched you with an indiscernible gaze, jaw set. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but you could’ve sworn you saw his pupils dilate, dipping towards your lips for a millisecond before flicking right back up to meet your heady stare. 

Desperate for a distraction, you craned your neck, and caught sight of the two men passing by. You bit onto the inside of your cheek, swallowing down a tirade of curses when you saw that they both held guns. Of fucking course they did.

Another couple of minutes, and they turned the corner, speaking to each other loudly. Bruce stepped away from you then, still keeping his eyes trained on you.

They both have guns, you signed with your hands. Sign language was something the two of you learned together during your first year of dating—it was always handy in case of emergencies such as this. 

Bruce cocked his head in understanding. Stay in the shadows, he signed back.

You nodded, and the two of you took off once more, skimming across the gravel so quickly that you were practically floating. 

The two of you slowed to a halt in front of several wrecked train cars, rusted and filthy with neglect. You peered through the glass, noting a few guards milling in front of trucks on the opposite side. That must’ve been where the children were. Tilting your head to look further to the left, you caught sight of a row of children lined up against the wall to the side of the tunnel. Chains shackled their wrists and ankles together. They were entirely silent, which unnerved you more than anything.

You’ve done this a million times before. Why were you so nervous?

Ah, right. Maybe, just maybe, because last time, you got stabbed. Or maybe it was because the love of your life was right by your side—the man who was supposed to think that you were dead. 

You bit down on your tongue in a fruitless effort to quell the nausea roiling about in the pits of your stomach. 

With a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder, you signed, Six kids. Get them to safety. I’ll take the guards.

Not allowing him the chance to protest, you reached into your coat’s pocket and brandished two smoke grenades, your other hand sliding out a dagger. You leapt through the totaled train’s doors, before pulling the pins out with your teeth, chucking them amongst the lounging guards. 

Shouts erupted as two large plumes of ashy white smoke encompassed the entirety of the tunnel. Silent as the night, you snuck up behind two guards, bashing their heads together hard enough to render them unconscious. Your dagger flipped in your hand as you knelt, sweeping around and stabbed another right in the leg, dragging the blade down the entire length of their shin. An ear-splitting scream ricocheted across the stone walls of the tunnel. 

That was when the gunshots started ringing out. You were able to dodge them lithely, watching the trajectory of the amber sparks made by the ricocheting bullets and ducking away from its sweeping arc. You drove your dagger straight into the jugular of the guard with a gun, kicking him back until he fell into the gravel, gurgling incoherently through the blood flooding his mouth. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bruce ushering the children through the wrecked train cars, towards the exit. Panic seized its dark hands around your heart as you spotted another guard—the last one in sight—pointing their gun towards Bruce. 

You ripped your dagger out of the guard’s throat in no less than half a second, pulling your arm back to hurl it through the air. The blade embedded itself cleanly through the side of his head, the impact sending him crashing into the wall. 

A breath of relief slipped your lungs, and you ran over to scoop the fallen gun up, shoving it into your belt. 

Bruce had all the kids—it was time to go.

You dashed through the first set of doors into the train.

A deafening gunshot rang out to your right, and you dove down out of pure reflex.

But you were too late. 

Searing pain blossomed over your chest, your stomach, your head—everywhere. 

Children screaming. 

Footsteps thundering. 

The gravel beneath you—cold and sticky with your blood.

Bruce yelling your name, panic saturating every syllable.

The edges of your vision flickered with darkness.

Chest heaving—heaving—heaving—your breath leaving you—

Bruce… the children…

Oh, fuck. Everything hurt.

Your head throbbed angrily.

“Wake up, Y/N. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!”

Bruce’s voice was tightly interwoven with dread—bordering on hysteria as he knelt down over you, palm applying direct pressure to the bullet hole in your abdomen. A low moan fell from your lips at the searing agony that shot up your body. 

As soon as your eyes dazedly cracked open, Bruce swore under his breath, mild relief seeping into his blown eyes. You’d only been down for no less than two seconds before he ripped his batarang from his armored chest, sending it arcing through the air to the last gunman, striking him down. 

Not a single thing registered in your mind as Bruce swept you into his arms, carrying you down the tunnel and ushering the children along with gritted teeth and panic-laced words.

An overwhelming sense of terror still coursed through the very fibers of his being. He couldn’t lose you—not again. 

“Bats, put me down,” you said, hoarsely. “Put me down.”

A protest was on the tip of his tongue, but the warning glare you sent him made him reluctantly comply, gently lowering you down to your feet. Your hand clutched his bicep for stability while the other still held pressure against your bullet wound. There were so many emotions coursing through him that he nearly felt dizzy with the overwhelming barrage of turmoil. 

The two of you soon reached the end of the tunnel with half a dozen kids in front of you. Bruce herded them into the back seats of the Batmobile—it was a tight fit, but they were small and eager to leave. One of the little girls started crying as soon as she sat down on the leather seat of his car, and Bruce could feel his heart lurch with an ugly amalgamation of anger and concern. 

He slid into the driver’s seat just as you slumped into the one next to him. A groan of pain left you as you began rifling through the car dash’s compartment, whipping out a roll of bandages and began winding it around your abdomen. 

The car purred to life and in no less than half a minute, you were jetting off, leaving the dirty crime scene far behind. 

Bruce’s eyes darted from the dark road to you, nearly bleeding out in the passenger’s seat. You were panting shallowly, head tilted back as you swallowed uneasily. Sweat beaded your forehead.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he whispered.

“No,” you replied, a biting edge to your tone.

Bruce’s eyebrows drew together. “You have a fucking bullet in you.” His voice lowered, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I can’t lose you again.” The last bit was said softly, his voice cracking with raw hurt. 

You shook your head, stubborn. Your voice was quiet enough so the trembling kids in the back wouldn’t be able to hear you. “Don’t take me to the hospital, Bru. It’ll ruin everything I’ve built the past few years. Nobody can know I’m still alive.”

There was a beat of hesitation. Bruce clenched his jaw so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure. “At least let me take you back home. Alfred can help you.”

You frowned but kept silent. Going back to the Wayne Mansion was less than desirable, but it was the best choice you had—the other being bleeding out to death in your rusty abandoned warehouse. Your nose twitched as you slowly shifted to look out the window. 

The drive went by much quicker than expected, mostly because you were fading in and out of a pain-induced unconsciousness. When you cracked your eyes open again, your head was pounding angrily and your bullet wound pulsated hotly in tandem with the thick, languid beating of your heart. You could faintly make out Bruce in his Batsuit just outside of the car, leading the kids into a building. 

Your gaze shifted upwards, a sigh of relief falling from your lips upon seeing the gotham orphanage sign. Bruce helped the woman at the door usher the children in, before handing her about a dozen fat wads of cash. The look on the woman’s face was priceless—mouth gaping and eyes misting over with unshed tears. His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear him from inside the car. 

Once Bruce made sure the kids were safe inside, he nodded once to the woman, before turning back to the Batmobile.

He slid in smoothly, checking all the mirrors to make sure that nobody had followed you. 

“How are you holding up?” he asked, quiet and uncertain.

“I’m alive,” you replied. “Could really use an Advil right now, though.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Think you need a bit more than an Advil.”

You couldn’t find it in you to reply, the edges of your vision darkening at a concerningly rapid pace. 

“Hang on for me, baby,” Bruce whispered brokenly, his hand darting out to grasp your limp one as he drove to the Wayne Mansion, slamming down on the gas. “Hang on.”

The street lights began to expand into a million shards of light as your eyelids drooped.

Blinding, blinding, blinding. 

And yet you could see everything. The blue of Bruce’s eyes that constantly glanced over at you. The trembling of his pale hand on the steering wheel. The tacky blood that meandered down your sides and pooled into the crevices of the leather seat.

All of a sudden—

It all went dark. 

It’d been three years since you stepped foot in the Batcave. 

Really, it was just a private underground railway beneath the Wayne Mansion, but it definitely wasn’t fit for its original use and you were sure at least a couple dozen bats made the dark tunnel their permanent home, thus its name.

Bruce carried you out the car and into his work station, worry woven between every muscle. He deposited you gently onto the table, just as the elevator door rattled open. 

Alfred stepped out, and he immediately blanched upon seeing you, bleeding and teetering on the edge of death itself.

They exchanged a couple hurried words, but you couldn’t hear much. Everything was blurry. 

A tear slipped down your cheek when Alfred made his way to you, his hand cupping your cheek. He had a medkit clutched in his hands, and he popped it open right beside your head. 

“Hi, Al,” you murmured hoarsely. “Long time no see.”

“Hello, my dear,” he replied fondly, deathly calm. It might’ve been a trick of the dim lights, but you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes misting over with unshed tears. “Last I checked, you were dead.”

If you weren’t in so much pain, you would’ve laughed, and given him an easy shrug. “Plans changed, I guess.”

Mustering what little energy you had left in you, you turned to look at Bruce as Alfred began peeling your clothing back to start working on your wounds. 

“Hey, Bru,” you whispered. Bruce’s lips twitched at the nickname. “If I don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that,” he gruffed.

His warning fell upon deaf ears and you spoke again, determined. “If I don’t make it, for real this time, just remember that I love you. And I’ve never stopped.”

Something in his chest broke, and a suffocating sob thundered within him. He clutched at your limp hands, whispering out your name just in time for you to hear before you let the darkness take you one last time.

The first thing you noticed when you came to was Bruce’s hand still holding tightly onto yours. The second thing was the fact that the pain in your abdomen was no longer unbearable, but instead subdued to a sharp ache. 

Your gaze roamed around the room, and you dimly realized that you were in Bruce’s bed—the bed that the two of you had slept in together when you were together. He was asleep by the edge of the mattress, hunched over in a position that wasn’t at all good for his spine. 

He still had the black eye makeup on, smudged and flaking off, dried bits of mascara on his cheeks. His hair was mussed, as if he had raked his fingers through several times. 

When you shifted a bit on his expansive mattress, Bruce stirred awake, the blue of his eyes shifting from confusion to panic to relief in a matter of seconds. 

“Hey,” you croaked. “Thanks for getting me here. And tell Alfred thanks for patching me up.”

“We nearly lost you,” Bruce replied hoarsely. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Alfred wasn’t sure if you were going to make it. There was so much blood.”

A pained smile stretched your lips thin. “Well, I’m alive. Sort of. How long was I out?”

“A couple hours,” he replied. He exhaled quietly, lowering his head. “I never stopped loving you, too. After all these years… I should be mad at you. I was, at first… but I’m not anymore. I’m just—glad. I’m glad you’re here.”

You blinked, tilting your head. Slow, you wrapped your wrist around his hand, gingerly moving it up to your lips. You kissed the back of his palm, and he cupped your face tenderly just as the familiar sensation of tears began stinging the corner of your eyes.

“Oh, Bru. I’m so sorry for causing you all this pain. I’m sorry.” You hiccupped, not wanting to dissolve into a mess of tears right in front of him. “I love you so much. I wanted to come back every day, I swear. I had to do it. I did it for you.”

A glimmer of pain warbled in the blue of his irises. “After you died… I was in a bad place. I nearly killed the Joker when I visited him in prison—I was this close. Gordon took me away before I could. From then I just… I lost myself without you. I spiraled. I was vengeance. Then the anger just sort of left and all I had left was just this… this ache. This hurt that never went away.”

A part of you was surprised he was opening up. It was as if the dam had cracked, and the water was spewing out and Bruce just couldn’t stop. He began to cry softly, the dark mascara meandering down his face once more and his hand shaking against your cheek. You could feel your heart crumbling through the bones of your ribcage, and you wanted nothing more than to hold him close to you. 

“Please stay,” Bruce croaked. “I can’t lose you—not again. I can’t go through that again. Please don’t let me go through it again.” His forehead fell to the mattress right beside your hip as his hand fell away from your face and his body shook. 

This was him begging, you realized in shock. He was begging you.

Helplessness placed its dark hands on your shoulders, and you were frozen for a second. 

“Bru, baby, I—”

“Please don’t leave. You can fight crime undercover with me. Here. By my side. Please—I love you.”

Tentative, you reached over and gently ran your fingers through his overgrown hair. This seemed to quell his shaking just a bit. He stayed in that position for another minute before peering up at you. 

“I’ll stay,” you said. “But we’re going to have to be careful. I can’t risk more people finding out I’m alive—and I can’t risk dragging you down with me. I need you to understand that if things go south, I’m leaving immediately—to protect you, Bru. And as long as you won’t hold me back from my own missions. We might’ve stopped one trafficking transfer tonight, but I have no doubt that there’ll be plenty more to come.”

For the first time in a very long time, Bruce smiled. It was a small one, the kind that twitched at the corner of his lips and wrinkled the corner of his mirthful, tear-glossed eyes. 

He shifted upwards so he sat beside you on the bed, pressing a chaste, affectionate kiss to your forehead. His palm found its way back to your jaw, and he rested his temple against yours. 

It’d been three long years since you kissed him.

You arched your neck just enough so his lips would meld over yours. A pained, broken noise fell from Bruce’s throat, and he surged forward, kissing you back with just as much vigor. He missed this. He missed you. 

He avoided touching your stomach, afraid that he’d hurt you or rip the stitches of your wound. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Alfred how you’d managed to hurt yourself even more. 

As he kissed you, your hands moved to grip his biceps, nails digging into his shirt. His nose bumped softly into yours and he could feel your radiant smile growing against his lips, utterly contagious. Your homely smell, the mesh of cinnamon and gentle lavender invaded his senses, and he nearly started sobbing again at the pure nostalgia from it all. 

You were back. You came back to him.

“As lovely as this is,” you husked, voice lowered an octave, “I still need you to promise me you won’t hold me back. You’d be Batman and I’d be… a ghost.” It pleased Bruce immensely to see your chest heaving, and your pupils dilated as they shamelessly darted from his eyes to his lips. 

“I promise,” he whispered against your lips in reply. Despite everything that had happened the past few days, he still trusted you to take care of yourself. A thrill shot through him when the cold engagement ring around your neck pressed flush against his chest. “How’d I be able to hold back a ghost, anyway?”

You smiled into him, before tugging him down for another kiss.

#bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #bruce wayne fanfiction #batman fanfiction #the batman fanfiction #bruce wayne fanfic #rpatz batman #batman fanfic #bruce wayne imagines #bruce wayne drabbles #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne headcanons #batman imagines #batman drabbles #batman fluff #bruce wayne angst #dc fanfiction #batman angst #the batman 2022 #robert pattinson batman #rpatz!bruce wayne x reader #rpatz!batman x reader

[violetlunette]

The final result of this.

--

Lilia completely froze.

This guy was insane.

Did he really think Lilia was going to play his sick game and sacrifice one of the people he cared for most?

‘The hell with that!’ Lilia’s gaze narrowed, grinding his teeth as he resumed his struggles. Before him, the madman was growing impatient, clicking his tongue like a minute hand.

“I’m waiting, old man,” he drawled.

“Fuck you!” Lilia tried to free his arms. If he could just get one loose, then he may be able to use a fire chain spell and then--

Lilia was distracted by a sound.

He turned his head towards a light cough and to Silver, who was gray as death. His aurora eyes were blurry as he looked towards Lilia, his colorless lips trembling.

“Fa...ther…” Lilia didn’t know if the boy was trying to call out for help or to tell Lilia to sacrifice him. Knowing Silver, it was most likely the latter. Either way, the word wrenched at Lilia’s heart, clawing it in two like a frantic beast.

“Silver...” he muttered, the name of his son escaping his lips. Lilia had to save him. He had to rescue ALL of them. But how--

The Villain tilted his head forward, a wicked curl upon his lips, as his eyes flicked like fire.

“Oh? So you’ll give up your son for Prince?” he mused. “Very well.”

Lilia’s heart stopped, then jumped like a frightened rabbit at these words.

“What?! No! I never said—stop!”

The vines began to slither over Silver like snakes, cutting his flesh in places so that blood flowed from places. The actions woke Silver, who tried to fight but was weaker than a newborn babe. The petals of the flowers grew and wrapped themselves around Silver, covering his skin.

“Ngh!” Silver let out a weak, pitiful cry as they covered his face, and his air was cut off. His lungs burned, and his skin felt his shards of glass piercing every piece of flesh. His heart beat faster against his chest, causing his blood to race as if trying to flee a foe. Then he felt his blood becoming thicker like syrup before hardening into ice.

The human whimpered.

‘Father--!!’

That was when everything stopped for Silver.

His form went limp like a doll within the cocoon of flowers, all sound vanishing from his being along with all life that was left.

Lilia stared in horror, his desperate struggles halting as dread settled within his chest, draining color not just from his skin but the world around him. The silence that filled the area was heavier than anything Lilia felt before.

No. No, it couldn’t be. He couldn’t! Silver--

“Silver...” Lilia's form trembled, his voice haggard, throat feeling raw. “Silver!”

The lotus petals slowly peeled themselves away to reveal Silver, however, he was different.

Silver was glowing like a polished diamond in the red light, his body appearing to have been carved by the precious stone with striking detail. The blood that dribbled down his skin had turned to glimmering rubies, a stark contrast against the diamond. Despite the crystallization, Silver’s jeweled hair swayed around him in an invisible wind, like silk curtains. They danced across his face, whose expression was half asleep, his aurora eyes staring lifelessly at them.

Lilia’s eyes were wide as his jaw dropped, despair creeping over him. He made several attempts to form words as his entire being became as stiff and cold as ice.

“S-Silver…” the fae mumbled, his son’s name heavy on his lips.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” The Villain muttered, running his fingers along the teen's diamond cheek. “A perfect treasure to add to my collection.” The voice lit a fire within Lilia as his heart shattered like a glass bomb.

An inhuman cry filled the area as Lilia broke his bonds and lunged, bloodshot eyes glowing as tears streamed down his cheeks. He extended his claws, ready to tear the feind apart with his bare hands, when all his limbs were snagged mid-air. Lilia growled, snarled, and screeched like a rabid animal, saliva and tears flying from his face as he thrashed his head from side to side.

‘I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you…’ he thought over and over, fury that no other being could stand seeping into his brain. ‘I’ll kill you, I--’

The Villain's wicked grin grew as he raised a wand, waving his finger with a wink.

“Tut, tut! Don’t you worry. I didn’t forget our deal.” The foe snapped his fingers. The vines holding Malleus loosened before the unconscious Prince was tossed at Lilia, who—despite being blinded by his fury—caught his ward in his arms as the other crashed into his chest.

The two were thrown back and slid towards Sebek, whose breathing was shallow, his skin pale and thin as paper. Lilia slashed his blood as he sat himself up, his fist curling in Sebek’s coat as he drew Mallues closer. He glared at the Villain as the red lotuses wove a cage around them, keeping Lilia from pouncing again. The Villain smirked.

“Well! All of this has been fun now—but sadly, I must take my leave.” He pulled Silver to him like a lover, bodies pressed close. “I want to enjoy my new piece of art, after all.” Vile and disgust bubbled inside of Lilia, boiled by his rage. A low growl seeped from his throat as he pulled his lips back to reveal his fangs.

“I’ll kill you…!” he swore, his body shaking with rage. “No matter what I have to do, or how many lifetimes it takes, I will find you! And I will kill you, you bastard!” The Villain laughed like Lilia told a joke.

“No, you won’t,” he hummed. “But if it gives you purpose, by all means try. It’ll be entertaining to see if nothing else.” With that, all the red lotuses swirled around the Villain and Silver like a whirlwind.

The sight of his son—or what was left of him—vanishing turned all the anger inside Lilia to frantic desperation.

He released the other two to throw himself against the cage as his heart raced. He stretched his arm between the flowers, even as they bit and burned his flesh. 

Lilia began to plead with the other, wailing like a child as he did so, his pride tossed aside as hopelessness filled his frame.

“No! Don’t! Please, don’t!" he sobbed. "Please! I—I’ll give anything! Do anything! Just don’t--Don’t--!!” ‘Don’t take my son!’

Tears rained down his face, his cry filling the cavern as Lilia reached toward the fading image of his beloved.

“DON’T TAKE HIM!!”

But it was too late.

The light flared, and Silver—his darling moonlight in a sea of darkness, his son--was gone.

And he was left behind.

What a cruel fate for a father.

--

Well, that's it then! Thanks to everyone who voted! Many of you made a marvelous attempt to save both, but in the end people voted for Silver's sacrifice more. Thanks for playing the game!

#Hm #I've noticed I have a theme going of having Silver kidnapped in front of Lilia in these ficlets #not on purpose but eh #I'll have to even out the angst by making rescue ficlets or something #anyway I hope you all enjoyed it and it was worth the wait #Enjoy your Lilia angst #twst silver #silver twst #twisted wonderland #silver twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland silver #silver vanrouge #twst #twst diasomnia #twst lilia #lilia vanrouge #lilia twisted wonderland #lilia twst #twisted wonderland lilia #twst spoilers #kinda? #red lotus #mine #twst ficlet

[fictionalcharactertrash]

My Mar'i Grayson headcanons

Her tamaranean name is Mariandr’

She LOVES thrifting 

One time when she was 12 she tried to ride Lian’s electric scooter. She fell into a ditch and ever since that day has sworn off to drive anything. Cars. Motorcycles. Nothing 

Cyborg built her steel butterfly clips and hair ties made with flexible steel because she ends up burning regular ones

One of her favorite foods is nutella on pizza 

Mar’i and her mother don’t bother wearing nail polish. It ends up burning off when they use star bolts

For my characterization of her, she reminds me of Sam Larusso from Cobra Kai 

Cyborg calls her “little wing”

Cyborg and Jason both call her “princess”

Her fashion sense reflects Dionne from clueless

She loves weight lifting with her mom and doing acrobatics with her dad 

She loves pressing flowers

Mar’i’s favorite flower is forget- me-nots 

You know that scene where Might Guy tells Rock Lee to take off his weights? Jason  used weights when training with Mar’i

She is a huge Nickelback fan

Tim was the one that taught her how to use a bo staff

she think her parents have a ..... questionable sense of style

Whenever she buys dirty shoes from the thrift so always asks Lian Harper to clean them up for her (Cleaning shoes is therapeutic for Lian)

Lian likes to paint shoes and Mar’i is always her model

Dick emphasized the defense aspect of martial arts when teaching her (cough like Daniel Larusso taught Sam Larusso)

Okay can we talk about how she would be so badass?? 

Like she's the daughter of a tamaranean princess and one of the most proficient fighters in the dc universe??

The comics only ever showed her using her powers but this girl would know how to throw hands and do it WELL

She could have been trained by Dick, Jason, and Tim

In conclusion I have many many thoughts

#mar'i grayson #nightwing #starfire #koriand'r #dick grayson #can you tell I'm obsessed #she could have been everything #a nepotism baby #but no

[nightraiderwrites]

The sword in the medicine cabinet

There is a sword in the medicine cabinet.

And one under the bed, and in the hall, and in the iron farm, and stashed inside the door and strapped to False's waist and-

Ok. Maybe False is a bit paranoid. Maybe little more than a bit. The poison next to the sink probably is a sign. But she has every reason to be. She's woken up in a strange world, with no memories or friends, and everything's a little crap right now, so forgive her for being cautious.

False is fine.

She's starting to settle in. There's a rhythm and a schedule she sticks to, trying to get home. False builds and builds and builds until she's too tired to place another block. Her empire, or her temporary one, is taking shape, and she's quite content.

And sure, she's made a friend. Or two. Although she's heard fWip is friends with everyone, and Sausage just doesn't feel right. So maybe they're out to get her. Probably. In fact, maybe she should put another sword in the wheat field. Yes, that's a great idea. If everyone is out to get her, it's great to be prepared.

False is fine.

Besides, some memories are coming back. And they're all the more reason not to trust.

Whenever she holds an orange tulip there's a pain in her back, as though she's being stabbed. She sees a woman with the reddest hair, holding her in her arms. Her eyes are green, like emeralds, and they are full or tears. "I'm sorry," she mutters, sliding a knife out. "I promise I never meant to hurt you." False gasps for air, coughing up blood. "T-traitor," she rasps. Then she snaps back to reality. Her hands are sweaty, and the tulip is crushed. She decides to throw the remains into the lava.

The kingdom of Dawn won't receive visits from her any time soon.

Other times, she dreams. There's a long tunnel, and a woman dressed in pink. She wears a crown of flowers, chocolate hair contrasting with it. False stands, as she walks away, towards the light. "Wait!" she tries to scream. "I'm coming!" Her limbs won't move. The lady keeps going. "Come on, Falsie! Hurry up!" It echoes around her, taunting her frozen limbs. It's suddenly freezing in the tunnel, so she looks down. With horror, she realizes her legs are frosted over, and the ice is climbing to her neck. Desperately she tries to move, but it covers her vision in a blue tint. Breathing is hard through the ice, she suffocating, there's no oxygen she's going to die-

Then she jolts awake in bed, tangled in blankets. Her cat is snuggled by her feet, and the chicken is roosting on the bedside table. She tries to untangle herself quietly, but her cat gives a growl. She resolves to sort it out in the morning.

False is fine.

She just has to get home right? If she can remember where it is. Right. She just has to get home, and everything will go back to normal. False repeats it to herself everyday. What's normal though? What's waiting back home? She doesn't know. False only hopes it's good.

There is a sword in the medicine cabinet.

¤¤¤¤¤

Another piece? Within the same(ish) week? Gods, who am I? Anyways, this was a lot of fun. I took a bit more time on this one to perfect and polish, and I think it turned out great. Let me know what you think! If it wasn't clear, also, the two women mentioned are Gem and Stress respectively. Gem's one is a callback to her leaving False in Hermitcraft Season 8 (you know, "backstabbing" her) and Stress's one is a call back to her being the Ice Queen of Season 6.

This is based on @theminecraftbee 's post here. There is another fic in the works coming soon, and a poem as well, so keep an eye out for that!

#nightraider writes #writing #empires smp #hermitcraft #<-implied #geminitay #stressmonster101 #falsesymmetry #uuhhh #tw body horror #writers on tumblr #writeblr #night's other blog ask prompt

[blackberryghost]

Inflamed 🌡️

Remus is sick on his birthday, but his coworker Sirius is there to make it special nonetheless💕 Modern Florist Coworkers to Lovers AU.

Words: 837. @wolfstarmicrofic

Found out @siriuslybea 's birthday is the 24th & conspired to celebrate with a smut piece from @spookymoonie and a little fluff from here. Happy Birthday, Bea!

When Remus had woken up with his knee inflamed, a cough rattling in his chest, and the worst migraine ever cursed upon the world, he knew that his birthday would, once again, be a let-down.

He never really had many friends to celebrate it with growing up, and not many in his adult life either. Lily did her best to be a one-woman birthday organizer last year, but she was out of town for her atrocious sister's wedding today.

So, Remus chased some cold medicine with a cup of throat-coat tea, threw a cough drop in his mouth, packed the rest in his pocket, and made his way to the flower shop where, at least, he would be able to spend the uneventful day with the new light of his life.

He couldn't wait to lay his miserable eyes on his coworker.

That gorgeous sweeping hair straight from a beauty ad. Tattooed arms full of mysterious runes wrapped in obscure constellations, everything some sort of secret code that only his coworker understood. His motorbike parked out front of the shop, a monstrous beast of metal and silver paint meticulously polished at night and sitting next to pastel paintings of flowers.

And he was just so so good at everything he set his mind to.

Remus was just as helpless as the customers who routinely came in just so they could swoon and sigh, watching Sirius's beautiful, ink covered hands work. Those meticulous fingers delicately arranging flowers, eucalyptus strands, and feeding bright purple blossoms into bouquets like it was his life's mission to get it right.

And don’t get Remus started on the way his coworker poked his tongue out of his mouth unconsciously like a dog while he concentrated.

Fuck.

He really did feel some sort of way for that man.

So, when Remus walked in on his birthday and met eyes with Sirius, the unknowing love of his life, he was thoroughly jilted when Sirius’s first words to him were:

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Remus frowned and sadly turned to close the shop door behind him. He walked slowly to the back of the shop, his cane really taking the brunt of the pressure off his bad knee, then perched on his usual stool just behind the till.

Sirius stopped next to him and hissed, "Lily said you were sick. Why are you here?"

'Because I wanted to see you?' But Remus shrugged instead and punched his time-card, glancing at the list of scheduled pick-ups.

Sirius sighed and turned towards the kettle on the counter and flipped it on. "I hope you haven't got any plans later," Sirius said with a huff. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," Remus replied sarcastically.

But Sirius was quiet, and that man was never quiet. He was always doing something with his mouth: humming, hissing through his teeth, muttering curses.

Remus looked over and found Sirius standing quite still for someone always fidgeting. He held a medium-sized box.

It must have shown on Remus's face—the surprise, the hope, the look of a lost puppy being found—because Sirius bounded up and presented the box. It was wrapped in paper that had 'Birthday Boy!' plastered all over it with toy blocks and blue balloons.

"How did you know?" Remus asked as Sirius shoved the box into his hands.

"A little birdie told me," Sirius said. "Because his bird told him, and she happens to be friends with you."

Remus smirked, tearing the paper. "Does his bird happen to be a ginger?"

He gasped when he saw the picture on the box. It was a projector. A nice one. The expensive one he filtered out immediately on the shop website because there was no way he was spending that much when he wouldn't even shell out for a proper TV.

"I got you a screen, too. Rolls up on the ceiling and everything, but it's only half-wrapped because I ran out of Birthday Boy paper." Sirius kicked the peeling tile on the floor with the tip of his chunky boot. "You said you didn't have a TV or space, and I thought this could be a fun little solution." Sirius peered up through his lashes, an uncertain, troubled look on his face. "Maybe you can invite me over sometime. Show me one of those black and whites you like so much."

A hurricane was brewing in Remus, not even butterflies swarming in his stomach, full on houses were being swept up. Cars and trees and signposts and—

"I wish so bad I wasn't fucking ill today. I'd invite you over if my place wasn't probably contaminated as fuck."

"I have sick time stored up?" Sirius prompted. "We could order take-out? Movie marathon since the shop's closed for Monday and Tuesday?"

Remus hesitated. Then after a second, he nodded dumbly, a sweet affectionate smile blooming on his face for this man. He kept quiet, not trusting his mouth to say something smooth or coy or anything that wasn't, "I think I'm in love with you, Sirius Black."

"It’s sorted then.” Sirius grinned. “Happy Birthday, Remus."

<3

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #ghostie writes #wolfstar microfic

[tabbyclaw]

Durable

(Inspired by art by @flowery-laser-blasts and @creatorping, and prompts from @drakgoprompts)

Shego doesn't waste her time on things that can't stand up to her and her lifestyle. She works hard, she fights hard, and she plays hard, and she expects everything in her life to do the same, enduring all the same shocks and harsh conditions that she goes through on a regular basis and also holding up against her own tendency to handle things roughly. She keeps track of the latest trends, obviously, and she knows how to stay on the cutting edge of cool, but when she's outfitting herself and her everyday life her first priority is always durability. It doesn't matter how cool something is if it's going to get destroyed before she has time to enjoy it. Her phone isn't the latest model, but it still works after having fallen off multiple cliffs. Her furniture has survived multiple partial lair collapses. Even the clothes that aren't the ones she wears to work are all sturdy fabric and solid construction that will stand up to a touch of burning plasma or a surprise DIY project or just indiscriminate laundering when she doesn't have the time or patience to separate everything out. This even extends to her personal care products: styling creams that keep her hair untangled even while skydiving, nail polish that doesn't crack and bubble when she lights up, lipstick that doesn't smear while scuba diving.

And she doesn't waste her time on people who aren't durable enough for her and her lifestyle, either.

On rare occasions, Shego deliberately seeks out things she knows won't last. Cut flowers that will only need to be looked after for a few days. Outfits she's barely willing to wear once and won't be talked into again. Lovers she won't get attached to. If she's settling for anything less than the best, the strongest, the most enduring, there's going to be a reason for it.

The cab pulls up outside the latest celebrity charity event they've been talked into attending and the driver coughs pointedly. Drakken pulls himself away from her and straightens the tie and collar she's tugged askew, and Shego brushes back the hair his fingers have been tangled in. And while they're pulling themselves together, she takes out a mirror and discreetly touches up her lipstick. It's a cheap brand, and it has no staying power at all. Smears at the slightest provocation and leaves a mark on everything it touches.

They glide easily past the cameras, old enough news by now to avoid the worst of the press's hounding but still interesting enough to garner a bit of attention. A few photographers eager to capture the marks he hasn't yet noticed on his face and the smug look that won't leave hers, eager to be the first to go to press with confirmation after there's been so much speculation. They've been careful and discreet for too long, the risk of discovery always hanging over their every public interaction, and she's tired of hiding. And more than that, she's tired of not showing off. She has everything, and she's going to make sure the whole world knows it. Especially those parts of the world that aren't going to like hearing it.

She doesn't scheme, not like Drakken does. But she knows how to make a point.

A few other guests look up as they walk in. A few even nod in greeting. But no one really notices them until an unfortunately familiar pair descends on them. Possible and her little sidekick have apparently decided ever since the invasion that, even if the four of them aren't actually friends, they're not enemies anymore, either, and now every time they all show up to one of these things is an exercise in patience as the kids go out of their way to be pleasant and sociable. It looks good for the cameras, though, as much as Shego hates that she once again has to think about that. She forces a smile as Possible picks them out of the crowd and comes forward to shake their hands with cordial sincerity, like they're long-term coworkers who really should have lunch together some time. "Possible."

The sidekick is at her heels, looking like he's just been dragged away from the buffet, and as usual he can't match Possible's professionalism. 'Hey," he says with a little wave, and hurries to brush a few stray crumbs off his face. In doing so he shoots a glance at Drakken and his brow furrows, and he makes another little gesture towards his cheek. "Uh, Dr. D? You got something right-- oh." His eyes dart between Drakken and Shego, taking in the situation with surprising speed and clarity (almost like it's happened to him before) and he puts a hand over his eyes and waves the other one like he's warding them off. "Nope! Nuh-uh. Do not need to know any of this."

There's a moment of confusion before Possible catches on, and while she goes a little pink at least she doesn't do any shouting about it. Drakken blinks in confusion and runs his thumb down his cheek where the kid indicated, and when it comes away marked with a grayish smudge he goes even pinker than Possible. "Shego!"

She almost wants to laugh (and she definitely wants to kiss the shock and indignation right off his face, which she's going to do the second they're alone), but she just smirks and loops her arm affectionately through his. "Everyone's going to find out eventually," she reminds him. "Might as well get out ahead of the rumors for once."

"Is that what you're doing," he growls sarcastically, patting his pockets in search of a handkerchief as Possible and the sidekick slink away and out of the blast radius. "Because to me it looks like you're trying to turn this into a spectacle!"

She makes a wry sound. "Hate to break it to you, Doc, but everything we do is already a spectacle."

He glares at her and continues to mutter under his breath, but his fumbling to wipe away some of the lipstick marks across his face and neck -- she graciously offers the mirror she used earlier -- is all one-handed, his other arm still intertwined comfortably with hers, and there's a soft edge to his complaining that's grown pleasantly familiar. He may grumble and he may growl, but even he knows that he's going to get over it quickly.

Like everything else she loves, he's always been durable.

#kim possible #drakgo #fanfic

[sourcerry]

I've been thinking about a college au where Dream and Hob are both students.

Dream being both openly queer and moody as hell is often exposed to harassment. Mainly mean jokes and verbal abuse, sprinkled with a shove against a door frame every now an than. It hurts sometimes but it mostly slides right off him.

Hob being his happy golden retriever is loving college and always finds new things to enjoy and explore. Lately he took up photography and uses an old analog camera. He captures everything he deems beautiful which applies to a lot of things. Old books, the flowers in front of the science building, students meeting in coffee shops, butterflies and bees, Hob is in love with life and everything it includes.

The first time he shoots a photo of Dream is an accident. He'd been chasing down a particular colorful butterfly for a photo. When it finally sits down on the edge of a book, Hob doesn't really thinks about it. He quickly takes the picture before it flies away.

Shaking to picture it slowly reveals its motive. The butterfly of course, but also slender and defined fingers with polished black nails. That's the moment Hob realises he took a photo of a person. Without asking. He normally asks for permission before taking pictures of people.

Hob can feel the blush creeping high on his cheeks when he looks at the stranger who hasn't not only just been gifted with slender and defined fingers but more with a slender and defined everything. (Not going to dive into these thoughts though)

He tries to say something. Stammer an apology, ask to be allowed to keep the photograph or just introduce himself, but all that leaves his throat is a embarrassing cough and splutter.

It goes downhill from there but it's a new challenge to get to know this person and Hob never backs down.

#dreamling headcanon #dream of the endless #sandman #hob gadling #college au #dreamling #self indulgence at its finest #i want a golden retriever friend

[faetima]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞 . .

. . maybe you weren't as lucky as you thought you were?

// tws ; blood !! slight swearing ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au 

a/n: decided to write about aventurine despite the poll i'm sorry 😞 anyways lucky girl syndrome by illit is SO GOOD

you had always considered yourself lucky; whether that pertained to getting great deals, having great luck in board games, or just guessing test answers correctly. you had almost never had bad luck, and all your friends and family knew.

you were referred to as their own personal four-leaf clover, bringing good luck wherever you went.

so why did your luck suddenly falter and fail you? why did your good luck suddenly turn bad?

those were the thoughts that plagued your mind as you, hunched over a trash can, hurled up bitter pink peonies.

how could a flower that symbolized such good fortune and prosperity sprout from such a horrible condition?

coughs wracked your feeble body as more of the bubblegum colored flowers flopped into the trash can, clumped together with mucus and scarlet blood.

you gasped for air, finally able to breathe for the most part. small petals elegantly floated down and sat on top of the mucus coated flowers, sprinkled with the slightest hint of blood.

shakily you backed away, arms wrapped around your knees, of which were brought up to your head.

you buried your face in your arms, sobbing.

why did this have to happen to you? so many people in the world, yet you had to be the one spewing up damned peonies just because of a stupid unrequited love.

you wished you had never been put in the same class as aventurine, that you had never heard his laugh, never seen his stupidly pretty purple eyes or his blonde hair, never heard his voice, never laid your fucking eyes on him.

you were too scared to get the surgery--what if it failed? if your luck was failing you now, what if it backfired when you were getting the surgery too?

if you were going to die either way, you wanted to at least remembered the person while you did.

--

you changed your mind--that idea was fucking stupid.

you should've gotten the surgery when you could've, but now it was too little too late.

why did you even want to remember him? he didn't even know your damn name. he didn't even know you existed.

if only you weren't so scared to talk to him (or anyone else for that manner).

maybe if you weren't such a coward you could've been besides him right now or walking with him or watching as he gambled his luck away or talking with him or--

another cough tore you away from your thoughts. you heaved out yet another mucus covered peony. it flopped onto the ground ungracefully, staining your newly polished floors an ugly red from the blood on it.

the sickly sweet smell floral smell of peonies filled the room, making you nauseous and dizzy.

you definitely weren't as lucky as you thought you were.

--

weak coughs wracked your fragile body.

it was hard to breathe.

you felt as if the room was spinning around you, barley able to form a single thought as your oxygen was being cut off.

you laid there on your bed, suffocating slowly on rosy pink peonies.

maybe two lucky people just aren't meant to be together.

#୨୧ -- aventurine #hsr aventurine #aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine honkai star rail #honkai star rail #star rail #hanahaki au #hanahaki #hanahaki disease #shy reader #shy #light angst #angst #how to angst #tw slight blood #modern au #modern #high school #high school au #college au #idk man just a school au ig #might make part two :3 #aventurine x you

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 26 - Gray's Anatomy

You wake up. It's bad news.

On AO3.

Nothing. Floating? Time passes maybe. Or doesn’t. No focus. Just stillness, darkness, and nothing at all.

A shiver of sound. A single drop of rain gusted off the wet branches of a pine tree above you. Splats right on your forehead, cold and wet.

But nothing hurts. And you don’t want to. You’re tired. You’ve been tired a long time. Longer than this brainworm bullshit.

Another shiver. Almost words. All dry and rasping, but the nothing shivers around it.

Some bullshit. Just let you rest for fuck’s—

“Eleanor,” the voice rattles.

You slam back. Lungs seize, muscles scream and cramp and your body twists. Horrible noises wrench out of your throat. Ice and then terrific heat blasts through you and your vision sort of explodes.

And then it’s over.

You sprawl, boneless, mindless for a time. Dimly register someone moving over you. Tucking limbs in. Someone that smells faintly like flowers on a spring morning.

You drift into dreams. Fragments of them, anyway. Nothing you’ll remember later. Just your brain flailing around, trying to reconnect torn and jagged wiring.

The brainworm pulses in time to your heartbeat. Even it tries to hold you together. Hold some sense of you in place long enough for that strange, icy burn to finish sewing you back together.

When you open your eyes again, it’s dark.

This feels very déjà vu.

“Hello?” you say. Your vocal cords are shredded. The cough is automatic and pain roils through you.

Someone murmurs. A cool hand, fingertips rough with calluses slide under you. You recognize the scent. Shadowheart. She’s easing you up, bracing you against her. Then cool metal touches your lips and your body latches onto the first taste of water.

“Did Astarion bite me again?” you rasp.

She says a word, not English. Right. Language potion all used up.

You’re in a tent. Blue fabric above you, though it’s hard to tell in the low light. Quiet voices chatter outside. Your mouth tastes like you’ve been licking a week-dead skunk, and your bones creak when you move.

The fuck happened?

Shadowheart lifts what you now know is a bowl again. You sip more water. Let your throat work that down, and then polish off the rest. Only once that’s done does she let you lie back down.

You remember…walking? Sunlight. Being really tired.

Did…did you pass out?

Shadowheart leans out of the tent and calls to someone. Gale answers back. Footsteps crunch outside, and then he’s poking his head in. Surveys you. His smile is strange and tight around the edges. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Oh fuck.

“What,” you start to say, remember again that none of y’all can fucking understand one another.

He only nods and converses with Shadowheart. Who says the word “no” along with some verbs. Gale sighs and ducks back out.

“Um,” you say.

Then Shadowheart lifts one of her camping crackers. Says a verb you think in this context means “Eat this or I’ll make you.”

You really don’t want to. But expectation pours off of her, and she holds eye contact until you blink first and take the cracker. Force a nibble.

More footsteps. Ones you’re beginning to recognize as Gale, and the other…the other is fucking weird. Too light. Kind of dragging, almost? Like—

The tent flap lifts. Gale and—

You choke on a mouthful of cracker. Crumbs spray everywhere but you’re too busy trying—and failing—to throw yourself backwards in a primal scream as Wither’s desiccated face peers down at you.

“Jesus,” you manage, still choking (sorry, Shadowheart).

Withers doesn’t seem bothered. Withers never seems bothered by anything. You’re not even sure he notices the rest of the world around him. No idea what goes on in that shriveled brain (does he have a brain? how does that even work and why does your mind insist it looks like a crusty, dehydrated old sponge?).

The others speak. You catch your name a few times.

“It was not thouest time,” Withers says. Holy fuck, his voice should not echo like that. Nothing should sound like that and you should absolutely, definitely not be fucking around with dead people.

Gale seems exasperated for some reason. Gestures to you.

“Ah. The limits of the mortal tongue. Very well, if I must.” Never have you heard a mummy sound so dry. Then he turns to you and all thought flees into the night. “Thou was conceived of a different plane. As thouest body is born from it, so is thouest soul. As one was removed from that plane, the bond betweenst the two strains, and will, in time, sever.”

You gawk. Lot of old-timey words in there. A lot of mystical woo woo shit.

“My soul?” you manage.

“Indeed.”

“It’s not…” Real, you want to say. No heaven, no hell, no great judgment day for your mother and her husband and their band of psychos to sweep the “unclean” from the earth in the lord’s name. “It’s still…on earth?”

“Tied to the pane that bore it, yes.”

But you are here. So…

“Did I just fucking die?” you say.

“Indeed. Thouest body lives and breathes, but thouest soul remains connected by merely a single thread. One that frays, even now.”

You look at him. Look at Gale and Shadowheart. Who both wear the grimmest expressions you’ve ever seen on them. And you’ve seen them picking over eviscerated bodies.

“Can you fix it?” you say. Your throat is tight and your voice comes out all strained and pathetic.

“As such, that is beyond my power,” Withers says and everything goes sort of numb.

You…are dying. Like, actively. That’s what he’s saying. You apparently have a real soul, and it’s not in fucking Faerun with the rest of you, and that’s going to kill you.

“However, I can anchor thee. Strengthen the bond between thouest soul and flesh for a time.

Gale makes a motion to you. Taps his temple. Your brainworm twitches. He’s asking permission for a mindwhammy.

Well fuck. This is, this is all a little much. Sure. Whatever. Why not.

You think of your own worm. Of the way it felt when it pulled at that dead guy.

There. Something in Gale. The parasite shivers, reaching, wanting.

It connects.

This isn’t the wild flood Astarion triggered. This is tighter, more focused even as your skull pounds and the damn thing crocodile rolls along the inner curve of your brain cavity.

A potion. Gale’s thoughts are narrow and focused, less a blast of sunlight, and more a narrow laser beam. And that thought must leak across because you feel him pause, feel thoughts moving like great gears in his mind before he forces that aside. And he’s not thinking in words, exactly. More ideas and visuals and feelings. And there, swimming around all of that, a touch of fear. Not entirely for you. Something deeper, darker, far more personal—

A shove. You almost lose the connection. It was him, redirecting you. He gives you a small shake of his head.

No prying. Even unintentionally.

Don ’t want to do this too often. No idea if it will strengthen the parasite.

Ah, makes sense.

I have the ingredients. Very common. Steady supply. Will have the first batch in the morning. Strengthen your ties to this plane, coax your soul closer. Withers gave instructions. But more needed …

The connection wriggles. Loosens. He fumbles for it, a kite string unspooling out of control, the kite caught in a massive gust.

Need relic. Summon your soul and contain it.

The connection snaps. The both of you fall back, reeling.

“Fuck!” you say and slam your hand over your right eye. The pain throbs for a moment before it begins to soften, to dim, to fade.

Leaving…no pain. For the first time in days, your mind is clear. Battered and bruised, but not locked in a vice of agony.

Your soul fraying from your body. Fuck a duck.

“Thou shall remain until the time is right,” Withers says all cryptic, like a magical, talking fucking mummy. And that seems to be that. He just turns and leaves all of you there.

“Sorry,” Gale says (you’ve picked that one up by now). Gestures. You think he means to ask if you’re alright.

You’re not. You’re anything but. Your face is going hot in a way that usually means sobbing, but everyone is all staring at you, and you crunch down hard on the inside of your cheek.

Don’t. You can’t fucking do that, don’t you do that. You will not cry in front of these people. You will not give them or anybody that. Never. Never again. Stop.

You give Gale a thumbs up.

Which he seems to understand? Sure.

He nods and leaves. Off to make the potion to keep your soul from flying off into space or whatever. Because that’s something you get to worry about now, how fun.

Magic is going to be the only thing keeping you alive. Potions. Cause that’s going so swimmingly right now, too.

Shadowheart finally leaves you to rest. Lets the tent flap close behind her. Leaving you in the dark, where you can turn away, pull the blanket up, over your head, and scream silently. You have a lot of practice at that. Know how to quiet the gasps in between so none of them ever come and check on you. You can suffer alone and in silence. You’re good at that.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #fanfic #astarion #astarion x tav #it's a goddamn isekai #i'm not sorry #feeding alligators fic #plus size tav #demisexual tav #slow burn