#i hope i don't run out of fic ideas anytime soon!

[aemondsbabe]

Taunt

obviously, i feel very normal and chill about ewan's new performance in saltburn. anyways lmao this is my version of michael gavey from the vibes i got from him in the 5 seconds he's in the trailer! i have no idea if this is accurate to how he is truly portrayed in the movie! if the movie comes out and i'm totally wrong, then i don't care bc i got to have fun writing about a cheeky lil oxford student!!

summary: you're nearly failing statistics and the student your professor asks to tutor you seems to gain a sick satisfaction from seeing you squirm; he hates you...or so think.

pairing: michael gavey x reader

warnings: mature, 18+ (minors, do not enter!!!) no use of Y/N, afab reader, profanity, smut, piv smut, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), dom/sub, brief daddy kink (literally one mention), dirty talk, dumbification, humiliation (only a bit), size kink if you squint, mild angst but happy ending, choking i guess (barely), public sex (they're alone but like it's still public lmao), brief discussions of math -- please let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 10.5k (dear lord)

a/n: baby's first fic omg! if you enjoy this one and want to see more from me, please feel free to send in requests! (GoT, HoTD, Stranger Things, Marvel, etc!)

PRAISE | Taunt Part 2

MAKING AMENDS | Bonus

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Right, so,” Professor Davies began, pulling a thick textbook off the shelf next to his desk, “Since we’ve only just returned from Easter holiday, I thought I’d go easy on you today.” 

A few quiet groans could be heard around the room, a couple students turning to look at one another with grimaces; in the few weeks you’ve been in Professor Davies’s class, he’s never once gone easy on you. With a small sigh, you shuffle through your spiral notebook until you come to a blank page. 

“D’you think you’ll go to the party this weekend?” Louise whispers, leaning over closer to you as she twirls a pen around in her fingers, “I heard this one is supposed to be fucking insane.”

“Like any of Felix’s parties aren’t insane?” You whisper back, smirking as you doodle a small flower on the corner of a page of paper, “Of course I’ll be there,” you murmur, watching as Professor Davies writes an intricate formula on the chalkboard, “I could really use a break, anyway…I’ve been so stressed recently.”

“Christ…” A boy, in the row of desks in front of you scoffs, just barely shaking his head as he copies down the formula, his handwriting sharp and choppy. You feel blood rush to your cheeks as you narrow your eyes, staring intently at his sandy hair. You didn’t really know him, this being your only class with him, but you’d seen him around campus, regularly passing by him in the halls. Oxford may be a large university, but when you’re on campus everyday, you begin recognizing familiar faces. 

He didn’t run in the same crowds as you at all, and you got the distinct impression that he looked down on you and the rest of your friends, but you knew his name – Michael and that he was incredibly smart, his hand promptly shooting into the air anytime Professor Davies asked a question. In the few weeks you’d been in the same statistics class, you had yet to see him get a question wrong, watching as he grinned, cocky, everytime he was praised for correctly solving even the most intricate of formulas. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be more the opposite, always shying away and praying not to hear Professor Davies call your name in his deep, baritone voice every time his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a volunteer, or victim, more like. While Michael clearly enjoyed the class, practically glowing with an arrogant confidence as soon as he walked into the wood paneled lecture hall, you were simply here to check it off as a requirement of your major, hoping to survive the class with a C and nothing more. 

It was annoying, you wouldn’t deny that, the way that smug smirk seemed to be permanently etched onto his face, how that stupid taunting glimmer was an ever-present fixture of his blue eyes — blue eyes which, seemingly, always managed to find their way to you, one way or another. 

His attention was intimidating at first, his cold stare leaving you unsure of what exactly his intention was. Was he trying to challenge you? Trying to determine if he knew you from somewhere else? A small part of you, a naive part, hoped that his staring was meant to be affectionate; he was cute, you’d admit it! Always showing up to class in cozy knit sweaters, his wavy hair still ruffled and untidy as if he’d just gotten out of bed, gold rimmed glasses perched atop a strong nose.

You quickly tear your gaze away from the back of Michael’s head, biting your bottom lip as you begin copying down the problem on the chalkboard, pausing briefly when you see, from the corner of your eye, his head turn as he glances at you over his shoulder. You felt your cheeks flush despite yourself, that small, sanguine voice in the back of your head cheering. 

“Now, then,” Professor Davies booms, dropping the textbook down on his desk with a cacophonous thud before sweeping his eyes across the classroom, “A bit of review before we really dive in…” He continues, pacing around the front of the room as he explains the various parts and pieces of the equation on the board. 

“What do you think you’ll wear?” Louise asks, leaning over once more to whisper in your ear, you can smell her signature floral perfume on her hair, “I was thinking I’d do that new blue-ish dress I got, you know, the strappy one?”

“Might still be too cold for strappy,” you whisper back, half listening to the professor drone on as you continue doodling on your paper, pausing every few minutes to jot down a few haphazard notes, “I was just thinking I’d do a jumper, probably a skirt and tights–”

Suddenly, you hear Professor Davies call your name, your cheeks practically stinging as blood rushes to your face. Sitting up straighter, you finally find the courage to meet his stern gaze, “Since you seem all too eager to share your thoughts,” He continues slowly stalking towards you across wooden floorboards that softly creak beneath his feet, “Would you care to enlighten us with the solution to the quadratic equation on the board?” He comes to a stop, hands clasped behind his back as he patiently waits for you to answer, a small, knowing smile poised on his lips. 

“I– uhm, well,” you stutter, glancing back and forth between your barely there notes and the chalkboard, throat growing tighter as you feel everyone's eyes on you, “Don’t you need to solve for G first?”

“And how would you go about doing that?”

“Well, you would…” You trail off, desperately trying to remember the lessons you’d had before Easter holiday, absentmindedly picking at your cuticle as you pray to be anywhere but here or for a hole to open in the floor and swallow you whole, “I…I don’t recall, professor. I’m sorry.” You finally say, not being able to meet his gaze as you stare intently at your lap, desperately willing yourself not to cry, even as you feel your eyes stinging. 

“Perhaps, in the future, it would be of benefit to socialize with your friends outside of my classroom.” Professor Davies admonishes, giving a sharp glare to Louise as well, who manages an apologetic smile. “Yes, Professor.” You whisper, keeping your eyes downturned. 

Finally, you hear the floorboards softly creaking once more as Professor Davies makes his way back up to the podium at the front of the room and once again resumes his lecture. You can’t help but pause for a second when you hear a small snicker from the tall boy in front of you, sensing as he peers at you over his shoulder once again. 

“Would anyone else like to take a crack at the problem on the board?” Professor Davies asks, leaning against the old, worn podium at the front of the room. Like clockwork, Michael’s hand shoots into the air. Somehow, that makes you blush even harder.

Eventually, Professor Davies finishes his lecture and retrieves his dark leather briefcase from under the desk, pulling a thick stack of papers out and sitting them on the podium, leaning over it with a sigh, “I have your tests graded. Most of you did very well, you should be pleased with yourselves. Some of you, however,” He says pointedly, “Could benefit greatly from a closer study of the material.”

Slowly, he walks around the room passing back tests, throwing out a comment here and there as he did so. You already know you hadn't done well on that particular test and dread getting it back and confirming your suspicions, so you keep yourself busy, choosing to meticulously pack up your things instead. 

“Mr. Gavey,” he said a few feet away from you, papers rustling as he slid the test across the wooden surface of the long bench desks, “Once more, an outstanding job! Top of the class, keep it up.” 

“Thank you, Professor,” you glance up, watching as he takes the paper with a humble nod, that same, oh-so pleased smile gracing his angular face. He must sense you looking at him and quickly shifts his gaze in your direction, eyes glimmering with self-satisfaction behind his gold-rimmed glasses as his smile quickly turns into a smirk. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his with a small, bewildered huff. Why did he seem to get so much satisfaction from besting you, of all people? It’s not like you were exactly an academic threat. 

“Ms. Bickerstaff,” Professor Davies says, finally appearing next to the table you and Louise sat at, “Not bad, a bit more effort next time and you’re sure to be on track,” he remarks, sliding her paper across the desk. Louise thanks him with a small smile as she flips through her test, eyes scanning over his marks. 

Finally, Professor Davies stands before you once again, your paper the very last in his hands. You hear him mutter your last name before he slides the paper across the desk to you, and you can’t help but deflate as you see your grade; you knew it would be bad, but that? How on Earth were you going to recover your average? What if you had to retake the whole course? What if you failed out of Oxford entirely? Your parents had sacrificed so much to help you get here, spending years and untold amounts of money on private tutors and extracurricular materials, all to help you have an impressive application! Not to mention the money just for the course fees! Unlike most of your friends, you didn’t come from piles and piles of money and status – your family was alright, sure, but you were definitely several tax brackets below them. 

As your thoughts spiraled, you felt Louise elbow you in the side at the same time you heard Professor Davies address you again. Shaking your head to clear your scattered thoughts, you clear your throat and finally turn to look up at him, “Sorry, yes, Professor?” 

“As I was saying,” Professor Davies continues, tapping the papers in front of you, “I would like to discuss your performance with you today, after class. Please meet me at the front of the room before you go.”

“Yes, sir.” you mumble dejectedly, nodding as you quickly flip the test over, embarrassed at the thought of anyone else seeing your grade. 

“I’ll see you later, babes,” Louise says a few minutes later as everyone is clearing out of the room, “Good luck!” She whispers, giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before making her way to the door.

“Thanks!” you smile weakly, swallowing the lump in your throat before picking up your things and heading to the front of the room. The afternoon sun is already getting lower in the sky, beams of light shining into the room, bathing rectangular swaths of the floor in bright, golden light and highlighting motes of dust as they scatter in the air. Only a few students are left in the classroom, some of them finishing up notes while others type out quick texts. As you walk by his desk, you notice Michael scribbling down notes in his planner. 

You shuffle your feet nervously as you stand in front of the sizable oak desk that your professor sits at, watching as he adds a sticky note to the top of another stack of papers, “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“Ah, yes!” He says, looking up at you over his glasses. He quickly caps his pen and stands, walking around the desk to stand in front of you, “I know this class has been quite the challenge,” he begins, leaning against the desk, “But, I think I’ve found a solution for you.” 

“You have?” You ask, tilting your head in confusion.

“I think you could benefit greatly from a tutor, perhaps a peer who could explain the material to you in a different way,” he continues, “And I have just the student in mind.” Instantly, you feel a pit beginning to form in your stomach, biting your bottom lip as you watch Professor Davies motion for someone behind you to come up to the desk, “Mr. Gavey, if you could join us up here, please.”

You freeze when you feel him saunter up beside you, eyeing him out of the corner of your eye. He was so much taller than you, your head barely grazing his shoulder, as he came to a stop next to you, standing casually with his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

Professor Davies once again turns his attention to you, motioning to Michael as he speaks, “Mr. Gavey here is one of my most capable students,” you can’t help but notice him stand up straighter at the comment, growing somehow even taller, “I’ve taken the liberty of asking him if he would be so kind as to assist you with some of the course work and he agreed.” You freeze a little at that, stunned that he would be so quick to help you when he seems to relish any opportunity to make you squirm. “I’ve given it some thought,” the professor continues, fixing you with a stern gaze, “And I’m willing to let you make corrections to your test and resubmit it for half credit.”

“Oh, thank you so much, prof–”

“However,” he adds, crossing his arms over his chest, “This will be the only time I do so. From now on, I suggest you see Mr. Gavey here on a regular basis; the material is only going to get more challenging as we begin this next unit.”

“Of course, professor. Thank you again.” You respond quietly, shifting uneasily as you stand between the two men. 

“Right, well, now that’s sorted,” Professor Davies says, clapping his hands together once as he turns and makes his way back over to the desk chair, sitting down with a tired sigh, “I trust the two of you can come to an agreement upon when and where to meet. I’ll see you again Monday, have a pleasant weekend.” He says, waving his hand dismissively as he goes back to organizing his papers. 

The two of you murmur your goodbyes before making your way into the hall, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as he follows you out of the classroom. Eventually, you come across a small alcove in the hallway; finally turning to face him, you let your eyes sweep up his body, finally coming to meet his blue eyes, slightly hidden behind the glare of the hallway lights on his glasses. 

“So,” you clear your throat and shift on your feet awkwardly, “Uh, what time works for you? I really can’t do Saturdays–” you begin, only to be cut off.

“Shame,” Michael sighs dismissively, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth, “Saturday is the only day that works for me.” 

The tone of his voice and the mirthful glint in his eyes makes you very much doubt that, your gaze narrowing, “Okay, well Saturday’s are the only day I have off,” you huff, only growing more annoyed as the stupid smirk on his face grows with satisfaction, no doubt pleased that he’s being a nuisance, “Besides, I super can’t tomorrow, anyway. I already promised my friends I’d come with them to this party tha–”

“Oh, I know about your little party,” Michael scoffs, “Trust me, love, the whole damn class heard about that stupid fucking party with the way you lot were running your mouths earlier,” he chuckles coldly, continuing in an exaggerated high-pitched voice, one hand coming up to mime twirling a lock of hair, “Oooooh, it’s so cold, can’t wear the fuckin’ strappy dress, gotta wear me jumper and little slutty skirt, la-dee-dah.” He finishes with a final huff of laughter. 

“What is your deal with me?!” You finally snap, glaring at him, even as you feel your face redden, “You’ve been a dick all semester and I haven’t done anything to you! I’ve never even talked to you!” Glancing around the empty hallway, you cross your arms over your chest, praying no one’s in earshot to hear your hissed tirade.

“I might not know you but I know plenty about your little friends,” he sneers, shaking his head like a disappointed father; the sight makes your blood boil.

“What does that even mean?” You demand, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What did your friends have to do with any of this? None of them ever spoke about Michael, none of them even knew him as far as you were aware. 

His face softens, if only for a moment, as he registers the genuine confusion on your face, smirk faltering as his eyes narrow. He leans in closer to you as he begins speaking again and you can’t help but get a brief smell of the cologne he wears, something warm and woodsy that makes you think of a bookshop and the smell of the forest after it rains, “Come on,” he starts, blue eyes flitting between both of yours as he looks at you intently, “Felix Catton? You and your little friend, the one from class, you go around with him, yeah?”

You nod, giving him another puzzled look, confused as to what the hell Felix has to do with any of his disdain, “Yeah,” you say slowly, drawing out the word, “But, what does he have to do with anything?”

Michael huffs once more, almost laughing to himself as he shakes his head, burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “See, we went to school together, him and I – some of primary, all of secondary,” he shrugs, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he traps you in his gaze once again, “And I just don’t fucking like the guy. Can’t stand him, never could’ve.” 

You’re silent for a second, and now it’s your turn to flick your eyes back and forth, searching each of his for some sort of coherent answer and yet you come up empty. “But, what does that have to do with me?” You ask slowly, making sure to carefully enunciate each word.

“Don’t trust the people around him either,” he mutters, gazing down at his shoe, “Weirdos, the whole lot. There’s something…off about the guy. Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something dark there, all around him. Like he’s putting on one big show. All his little gremlins do too, they all act the same.”

The two of you are silent for a moment, neither knowing quite what to say next. You chance a glance up at him, nearly gasping when you find him already gazing at you – an unreadable expression on his face. Yet a light blush still blooms on your cheeks as you quickly look away once again, your heart thudding so loudly you’re wondering if he can hear it – hell, you’re wondering why you’re reacting this way at all, why you’re so shy and skittish around him. 

“M’not like that,” you very nearly whisper, finally seeming to regain your voice. Only to lose it once again when he takes a half step toward you, suddenly crowding you further into the small alcove.

He makes a small noise, damn near cooing at you, tilting his head to the side when he notices you flinch as he raises an arm, gently raising your chin with one hand, angling your head up to meet his gaze, that signature smirk once again taking hold on his face as he looks at you curiously, “You’re not like that, are you?” He asks, his voice low and raspy. 

You quickly shake your head, blinking up at him, unsure of what exactly he wants from you. You feel your cheeks stinging for the umpteenth time today with how hard you’re blushing, a strange feeling taking root in your stomach the longer you stare at him, that small voice in your head positively cheering. 

But, as quickly as whatever spell he seems to have on you takes hold, it’s broken as he suddenly lets go of your chin and steps back, casually pursing his lips and nodding to himself, coming to some unknown decision in his head, “Meet me in Bodleian, tomorrow at five. There’s hardly anyone up on the third floor on the weekends, so we'll be able to focus.” He says simply, turning on his heel to leave without even giving you a second to answer.

“But I’m bus–”

“D’you want a good grade or do you want to go get drunk with your creepy gremlin friends?” He asks, peering over his shoulder as he saunters down the hallway, raising an eyebrow at you over the shiny gold rim of his glasses, “S’your call, love.” He finishes with a shrug, disappearing as he turns a corner and leaves you standing there alone, frowning and dumbstruck. 

“Bodleian at five it is,” you mutter to yourself, sighing as you turn and walk the opposite way, desperately trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach and the fog in your brain. 

Your shoes tap against the stone pavement as you walk up to the old library, backpack slung over one shoulder; reaching into a pocket of your backpack, you blindly grab for your phone as you pull open one of the heavy, old wooden doors and step into the atrium. Out of all of Oxford’s libraries, you had to admit that Bodleian was one of your favorites; it had such a soothing atmosphere – from the way the evening light trickled in through the old glass windows, to the intricate wooden decor, and the way the entire place smelled of the old, well-loved books that lined the countless rows of shelves. 

Stepping to the side of the entryway, you check the time, your hand shaking a bit as you unlock your phone – 4:53pm, a little early, still. Sighing, you crane your head, nervously looking for Michael. Not seeing him, you decide to bide your time examining one of the tall bookshelves near the entrance, eyes skimming over their titles as you fiddle with the strings of the hoodie you’d decided to wear. Smiling, you lean up on your tiptoes to grab a copy of The Two Towers, happy to see a familiar book. Just as your fingers graze over the embossed gold lettering on the spine of the book, a large pair of hands grab you by the shoulders.

“Boo!” Someone whispers, close enough that you feel the warmth of their breath on the side of your neck. 

You spin around with a small shriek, jerking your head to the side when a hand is suddenly clasped over your mouth.

“Shh! Hey, relax!” Finally managing to focus on the face in front of you, your breathing slows as your gaze meets a pair of round blue eyes. Michael’s face is only inches from yours, concern evident, even behind the mask of a smirk he wears. “It’s only me.” He says softly, smirk softening into a genuine smile that sends a frantic tingle down your spine, which you desperately try to ignore as you nod against his hand, gasping in a small breath as it lowers once again to rest on your shoulder. 

“Hi.” Blinking up at him, you breathe the word more so than say it as you settle back on your feet, cheeks flushing as you realize he has his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you forward ever so slightly, like he wanted to make sure your head didn’t hit the sharp edge of one of the shelves; the voice in your head purrs as the butterflies in your stomach summersalt. 

“Hi.” He answers and you feel the hand on your shoulder twitch, the ghost of a comforting squeeze or rub causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand on end as some strange, warm weight settles in the pit of your stomach. 

Suddenly, whatever spell the two of you seemed to be under broke and you quickly clambered away from one another. Michael cleared his throat, running a hand through his wheat colored hair as you tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, trying to look anywhere but in his direction. “Should we–” He starts suddenly, nodding his head to a staircase at the other end of the room, “It’ll be quieter up there.”

“Sure!” You chirp, giving him a curt nod, “Lead the way, you seem to know the place better than I do.”

“Well,” he chuckles, keeping his voice low as he moves past you, “S’what happens when you don’t spend all your damn time at weirdo parties.” 

You roll your eyes behind him, huffing as you start following him up the staircase, one of your hands gliding across the smooth, polished wood of the bannister. 

“Sorry.” He says suddenly as you reach the third floor of the library, running a hand through his hair once again as he stands at the top of the staircase. 

“What?” You ask, coming to a stop on the last step and looking up at him, tilting your head to the side as you lean against the handrail. 

“For earlier,” he explains, gesturing for you to follow him as he starts making his way to the back corner of the large, open space, the one furthest from the stairs, “Scaring you, I mean. Didn’t mean to.”

You’re quiet for a moment, following him as the two of you walk past aisle after aisle of towering bookshelves. The area is definitely quieter than the main floor, nearly vacant aside from one or two lone students sitting at the long wooden study tables. It’s calm up here, evening light filtering in through large windows on either end of the long room, casting large shadows on the floor and vaulted ceilings.

Eventually, the two of you come to a stop at a table, the very last in its row, tucked away in a corner. “It’s alright,” you shrug, trying to keep your voice soft in the quiet space as you sit your backpack on the edge of the table, “I don’t know why I’m so jumpy today, maybe the tea from earlier.” You lie, hopefully smoothly, and quickly grab a pen and notebook as well, before sitting down.

Michael huffs to himself as he sits his things out on the table as well, like he’s laughing at a joke you can’t hear, “Maybe it’s all that tension.”

“Wh– tension?” You question, cringing at the urgency in your voice as you pray that he doesn’t pick up on it, shifting in your seat as he pulls out the chair next to you and plops down, completely relaxed as if he owns the place. 

“The stress? That you were meant to be working out at Catton’s?” He gives you an odd look, resting his head against his hand as he leans his elbow on the table, “Couldn’t help but overhear your little conversation yesterday.”

“Oh…” You breathe, a pink haze settling over your cheeks once more as you fidget with your pen, acutely aware of how easily he seems to be able to make you blush. 

The smirk on his face widens as he narrows his eyes, studying you in a way that makes your heart squeeze, your thighs clenching together as that heady weight from earlier makes itself known again in your stomach, “You can’t keep one thought in that head, can you, love?”

You blink, unsure of what to say, as two halves of your brain argue with one another. Why is he so mean? You wonder to yourself, eyes searching his, as you frown, And…God, why do I like it?

“Why don’t you like me?” You ask, finally breaking the silence with your small voice. 

He scoffs again, shaking his head as if the answer should be obvious to you, “You don’t take it seriously. You come to class and whisper and gossip with your damn friend or doodle in your little notebook, but you don’t fucking listen.” He sits back up, frowning, “I work hard every fucking day in there, for fuck’s sake, I only agreed to help you because I want to be Davies’s teaching assistant next year! Yet you and Catton and everyone like you can just pay their way in here, collecting a little diploma from Oxford just so their parents can brag about it with their stupid fucking rich friends.” He finally finishes, turning his head to stare out the window. 

“Told you, I’m not like that,” you whisper after a moment, voice wavering from the tightness in the back of your throat, “I’m here on scholarship, same as you.” 

His eyes flit back to you, his frown deepening, “How did you know ab–”

“Like I’m not going to ask around about the guy tutoring me?”

“Fair enough.” He concedes after a minute. 

Silence settles over the two of you again, like a stalemate, waiting to see who would crack first. Finally, you turn to him with a sigh, nodding to your test paper on the desk, “Can we just get this done? I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

“Ah, of course,” he nods as he picks up your test, looking over the first incorrect problem, “Catton’s big important party. And you’re stuck here with a loser like me; must really be doing your head in, huh?” 

You want so badly to correct him, to tell him that no, actually, for once, you were kind of excited to not be at one of Felix’s parties. You wanted to tell him that you’d hoped things would be different, maybe if it was just the two of you he would drop the arrogant asshole bit, that you stupidly hoped it was just an act. 

Instead, you bite your lip, determined not to lash out and give him another reason to dislike you, “I don’t think you’re a loser, Michael,” you say, tiredly meeting his gaze, “Can we just focus on this now, please?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, frozen like you’d said something groundbreaking. Finally, he nods his head, almost imperceptibly like he’d come to a decision you weren’t privy to, “Sure,” he says gruffly, grabbing your test and reading over the first incorrect problem, “S’not like I’m the one failing.” He finishes, his voice tight and determined, like he knew it was something he’d regret saying even as the words left his mouth. 

See? You think silently, pointed words aimed at that stupid voice in your head, Told you so.

It’s barely an hour later and you already feel cross-eyed, groaning as Michael flips your test over to the next page and you see you’re only just now halfway done correcting the ones you’d gotten wrong. You hate to admit it to yourself, but his tutoring was helping — problems that you’d hardly been able to finish the first time seem far less daunting as he explains them to you. Even he seems less daunting as the hour goes on; shockingly, he doesn’t make anymore snide comments and you can tell that he genuinely enjoys talking about the subject, patiently helping you through each problem. 

“Can we take a break?” You grumble, laying your head down on top of your textbook. 

“What?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he checks his watch, “It’s hardly been an hour and you’re ready to give up?” 

“‘M not giving up,” you mumble, “I just think we could use a little break…” You say hopefully, looking at him with a small smile. When he doesn’t break, holding your gaze with a frown, you sigh, “Just, like, ten minutes, please?” 

You want to groan again when you see that formidable smirk make its home on his lips again, “Say please again.” He commands, his voice low. 

“Huh?” You balk, nearly dropping your phone as you retrieve it from your pocket. 

“Say please again,” he says slowly, his smirk only growing wider as he watches your cheeks redden, “Beg.” 

“W-why?” You question, face burning as you try your damndest to look unbothered by his request. 

He shrugs dismissively, “Makes you squirm,” he answers finally, leaning back in his chair, “I like that.”

“Why?” Your voice is so small you doubt he’d even know you spoke if his eyes weren’t fixed on you. 

He hums, a satisfied noise, like you’ve finally managed to meander into a trap he’d set ages ago, “S’fucking cute,” he huffs out a laugh when he sees your eyes widen, “Makes you blush and act all dumb.” 

You know you should be offended, but you can’t find it within yourself to care, “You think I’m cute?” 

He chuckles, sighing, “That’s what you choose to focus on?” 

“Do you?” 

“Fine, yes.” 

“Please, Michael,” you say suddenly, the words feeling practically punched from your throat, “Please, please can we have a break? Please, only ten minutes?” You beg, breathing hard as you quickly scan the room, shoulders relaxing when you don’t see anyone else sitting at the study tables. 

You see the way his eyes widen behind his glasses, like he can’t believe you actually did it, before they narrow once more, overtaken by a satisfied gleam, “Ten minutes.” He says simply, leaning back in his chair yet again, letting his head flop back, relaxed, and closes his eyes. 

You don’t move for a second, letting your eyes study the side of his face, looking over his sharp jawline and the curve of his nose. After a moment, you look away, deciding to pull out your phone. 

A few minutes go by as you answer a few texts from Louise, telling her that you miss her too and how you wish you were at the party — a lie, though you can’t find it within yourself to care. You busy yourself for a while longer, watching a few people's Instagram stories, the volume on your phone muted as you watch your friends dance under colorful strobe lights, blowing smoke at the camera and clinking drinks together. 

“I meant what I said.” You say finally, laying your phone on the table and picking at one of your cuticles. 

“Hm?” Michael questions, not bothering to open his eyes. 

“I don’t think you’re a loser,” you answer, fidgeting, “I never have. I think you’re…intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” He asks, finally sitting up and looking at you with a questioning stare, “How so?” 

You swallow, tucking your hair behind your ear with a shrug, “You’re smart…you know you’re smart,” you start, voice small and shaky, “I like that.”

“You like that or you like me?” He’s looking at you like a cat playing with a helpless mouse, looking at you like he knows he’s already won a game you don’t even know the two of you are playing. 

“You.” It comes out as a breath. 

He doesn’t answer and eventually you look away from him, choosing to stare out the window at the streetlights outside, the sky dark. 

Finally, the silence becomes overbearing and you break first again, “Thank you,” you smile at him, keeping your voice low even though you know the rest of the floor is vacant, even though the noise of the floors below has drastically faded over the last hour, “For helping me, I mean. You probably have a dozen things you’d rather do on a Saturday.” 

He stays quiet for a few seconds, “I didn’t really have anything better to do,” he smirks, “No parties.” 

“None?” 

“Never,” he shakes his head, shrugging, “Don’t get invited.” 

“Oh,” you answer simply, “Well, still, either way, thank you.” You smile again, but it falters when he leans forward suddenly, crowding into your space with a sly grin, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck. 

“I know a way you could repay me, love,” he whispers lowly into your ear, your hair standing on end, “Only if you want to, of course.” He adds, his long fingers toying with a strand of your hair. 

Your eyes grow comically wide as you process what he just said, “H-how do you want me to repay you?” You whisper, your eyes finally meeting his. 

He laughs softly, letting go of the strand of your hair to rest his hand lightly against the side of your face, his thumb skimming over your cheek as he watches a rosy hue settle across it, “I can think,” he starts, thumb moving lower to skate across your bottom lip, slightly tugging the skin with it, “Of one very fucking good way to put this mouth to use, love.” 

You part your lips slightly, letting the tip of his thumb into your mouth, just barely holding it between your teeth as you lightly run your tongue over it, heart skipping a beat at the way his lips just barely part in shock as you do. The voice in your head purrs again, roaring back to life, and you nod, smiling around his finger. 

“Yeah?” He questions, smirking as he watches your lips twitch around his thumb, “”Y’wanna?”

“Yes.” You reply around his thumb, your hands coming up to hold onto his forearm, the fabric of his rust colored sweater soft under your hands. 

“Beg.” He commands again, eyes twinkling. 

You take in a breath, eyes slipping shut as your thighs clench around nothing – missing the way Michael glances down at the movement, a knowing grin forming on his face, “Please, Michael.” You practically whine. 

“Ooh,” he coos, finally moving his thumb from your mouth, only to trail his hand down your neck, lightly resting it against your throat, “I think you can do better than that, pretty. Open your eyes and damn beg.” 

You follow his orders, a small whimper skirting past your lips at the new pet name as you open your eyes, “Please, Michael, please let me repay you, let me thank you, please.” The words tumble out, your eyes wide and pleading. 

“How’re you planning on doing that, empty headed little thing?” He taunts, the hand around your throat just barely tightening but it’s enough to make you let out a small, desperate whine. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, moving close enough to you that the front of his chest is plastered to your side, his heart beating against your shoulder, “Ask for what you want, beg properly.” His breath fans across the side of your face again, the feeling of his lips brushing over the side of your jaw making you jump. 

“Please, God, Michael,” you whine, squeezing your legs together so hard you’re surprised they haven’t fused together, “P-please let me suck your cock — to thank you, thank you for helping me.” You add quickly, breath shaky as you turn your head to look at him imploringly. 

He chuckles, but he looks pleased as he leans back momentarily, craning his neck to make sure there isn’t anyone around, “Alright, alright, love,” he soothes, coming back to face you, nodding his head to the empty space in front of his hair, below the table, “Not God, but I’ll give you what you want.” He teases.

Your breath catches in your throat as you look down at the floor beneath the desk, then back up at him before nodding, “Yes, sir.” You push yourself off your chair, sliding down beneath the desk. 

“Goddammit,” you hear him groan above you, running his palms over his thighs as he parts them, making room for you, “Keep that up, love, might even give you extra credit.” 

You rest your palms against the tops of his thighs as you move between his legs, getting comfortable on your knees, the old wooden floor cool against your skin, even through your black leggings. Finally, your eyes settle on the sizable bulge, covered by his dark jeans, and you can’t help the small whine that leaves your lips. Slowly, you move your hands up to the button of his pants, quickly popping it open and dragging the zipper down, smiling when Michael sighs above you as he pulls his sweater up out of the way, exposing the pale skin of his stomach. You let your eyes roam over him, warmth settling between your legs as you spot the dusting of light hair that starts beneath his belly button and leads downwards, disappearing under his plaid boxers.

You move closer to him, crowding in between his long legs, as you hook your fingers over the tops of his boxers, before finally looking up at him, “Can I…?” You ask, nodding to where his cock is straining against the fabric. 

“Don’t be shy now, princess,” he groans, running a hand through your hair as he stares down at you, “Get on with it.”

You keep your eyes on his as you pull his boxers down, just enough to free his cock, watching the way his chest heaves as he lets out another relieved sigh. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his as you look at his cock, gasping in a breath as you do. As far as dicks go, Michaels is impressive, beautiful even – long and thick with veins running up the underside, leading up to a flushed, leaking tip. 

You take him in your hand tentatively, squeezing him lightly around the base, your confidence growing when he grunts, breathing heavier. Finally, you lightly lick the tip, eyes sliding closed at the pleasant, salty taste of his pre-cum. You take the tip of him in your mouth, humming around him when his fingers tighten in your hair, lightly pushing on the back of your head, silently urging you to take more of him. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he roughly groans, managing to keep his voice low, “Knew that pretty fucking mouth was good for something.” He moves his hips, impatiently thrusting his cock an inch deeper into your mouth, breathily cursing under his breath. 

You start bobbing your head up and down over his length, taking more and more of him into your mouth, more of his pre-cum leaking onto your tongue as you feel his dick throb and twitch in your hand. After a moment, you take a deep breath through your nose and remove your hand, resting it on his thigh, as you take him all the way to the base, your nose nestled in the short patch of hair there as you breathe in his heady scent, your eyes glazing over as you savor the feeling of him at the back of your throat. 

“Jesus!” He grunts, louder than he meant to, keeping your head in place as he thrusts his hips up again, keeping you in place at the base of his cock, “Fuck, that’s it,” he praised lowly, your center throbbing, no doubt leaking onto the fabric of your leggings, “Look at me, wanna see your eyes while I fuck your throat.”

You whine, desperately blinking back tears as you look up at him, trying to keep your breathing even. You hold his gaze as you stick your tongue out, licking lower, down toward his balls, relishing the way his eyes roll back as you do, stomach muscles twitching as he continues thrusting his hips up into your mouth, soaking his boxers and jeans with your spit. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s it,” he groans, looking down at you, his eyelids heavy, “God, yeah, cry on my cock love. Fuck, you look so pretty crying on my cock.” He mumbles, talking to himself more so than you. 

His words send a shiver down your spine, adding to the heat in your center, and you whimper when he finally moves his hand from the back of your head, allowing you to come up for air. You do, with a gasp, thin strings of spit connecting your reddened lips with the flushed head of his cock. You keep your eyes on his as you wrap your lips around him once more, running your tongue along the thick vein on the underside before sucking at the swollen tip, relishing the way it makes him clench his jaw and gasp through his teeth as you stroke the rest of him with your hand. 

Above you, he smirks again, gently running his hand through your hair but making no move to press your head down again. He cocks his head to the side, studying you, grinning at the far-off, foggy look in your eyes, “Not a thought in that pretty head, is there?” He asks, bringing his hand down and gently patting your cheek; the ghost of a slap making your thighs clench, making your head dizzy with need. 

You nod around him, moving your head up and down along his length. You feel yourself throbbing with need, pulsing with heat; almost automatically, your hand starts to wander, a small sigh escaping you as your hand presses against your center through your leggings. You feel a warmth settle across your cheeks again as you feel your own wetness, leaking through the fabric just as you’d suspected. You whimper as you press down again, your eyes falling shut as you let your hips grind against your fingers, the wet fabric creating a delicious friction against your clit. 

Which you get to feel for all of five seconds before Michael is suddenly yanking your head from his length, causing you to yelp as he tugs your hair. “Did I say you could touch your cunt?” 

“N-no,” you whine pathetically, eyes watering from the harsh hold he has on your hair, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t think—“ You try to explain, only for him to cut you off with another harsh tug, making you mewl. 

“That’s a pattern with you, isn’t it?” He asks, looking at you with a condescending smirk, studying you again, “You were being such a good girl earlier, what happened? Hm?” He questions, pushing his chair back enough to pull you out from under the table. 

You get to your feet, suddenly feeling shy in front of him once again despite having his cock in your mouth mere moments ago. “I…got distracted.” You answer finally. 

“I got distracted….who?” He asks, looking up at you expectantly over the rims of his glasses. 

“I got distracted, sir,” you quickly correct yourself, eyes frantically scanning the still vacant floor of the library, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s much better, love,” he drawls, placing his hands on your hips, “Now, what could’ve been so fucking distracting, huh?” He starts moving his hands, slowly, toward your center, still looking up at you, his eyes questioning. You nod your head, just barely but enough for him to understand, and any hesitancy from him quickly disappeared. “Could it be this, I wonder?” He questions sardonically, suddenly cupping your heat in his large hand, the warmth of it nearly making your knees buckle, even through the thin fabric of your leggings. He hums, the sound low in his chest, when he feels how much you’ve soaked the fabric, 

“Oh,” you whimper, grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself balanced as his fingers continue to tease you, rubbing circles into your clit, “Oh my God, fuck.”

“Christ,” he breathes, staring up at you with dark eyes, “So fucking wet, love, holy hell. Did you get this way just from sucking my cock?”

“Yeah,” you whine, nodding your head desperately as you try to swallow all the small noises you want to make in your throat, your hips rutting against his hand, “Please, sir!”

“Oh, so now that dumb brain has no trouble remembering damn instructions, huh?” He taunts, a wicked grin on his face as his fingers rub your clit in smaller, harsher circles, making you see stars, “Need your wet little cunt played with to be able to do as you're told?”

You nod your head frantically, tears nearly spilling from your eyes at the zaps of pleasure radiating from you, your walls clenching around nothing. Just as you feel yourself about to tip over the edge, he stops, jerking his hand away from you with a knowing chuckle, “W-what?” You question, eyes blinking open, “I was so close!” You whine, nearly stamping your foot on the floor like a petulant child. 

“Told you,” Michael shrugs, pulling you to sit in his lap, your back against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. His breath tickles the side of your neck and face when he speaks again, “You’re so fun to tease, love, can’t help myself.”

You wiggle in his grasp, making him groan as your ass grinds against his hard length, desperately trying to get your hands free to touch your pussy again, nearly out of your mind with need. “P-please, sir, please touch me!” You finally gasp out, knowing he won’t give in until you do.

“Now there’s a good girl,” he says, voice pleased and cocky as he plants kisses along the side of your neck, “Since you asked so nicely…” He says, letting go of one of your arms, letting you grasp the arm still wrapped around you with your hands, as his free hand skirts down your stomach to the top of your leggings, pausing long enough for you to nod again, before he finally touches you. 

You whimper, jerking in his lap at the feel of his warm fingers directly on your heat for the first time, spreading your wet folds with a satisfied hum. His long fingers move down to your entrance, gathering some of the wetness there, “You’re so fucking wet,” he marvels, dragging his fingers up to your aching clit, “Fucking dripping on my fingers.” He murmurs in your ear, nipping at the side of your neck and sending tingles down your spine as he starts rubbing tight, wet circles against your bud. 

You tilt your head back, resting it against his shoulder as your chest heaves. A moan leaves your mouth, louder than it should be, and Michaels free hand shoots up, wrapping around your mouth. “Gotta be quiet, love,” he whispers, not slowing down the movement of his fingers in the slightest, “Wouldn’t want someone to interrupt, hm? Make me stop again?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, whining desperately against his hand as he moves his fingers against you, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter. Your whole body lurches atop his, making him suck a breath in through his teeth as you move against his cock, still hard and hot as it presses against your lower back, when he moves his hand lower, plunging two fingers into your tight heat with no warning. “Fuck!” You yelp, muffled against his hand; tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he moves his fingers, scissoring them into you relentlessly as his thumb circles your clit. 

“S’fucking tight,” he mumbles lowly, voice vibrating his chest against your back, “God, you’re tight.” He grunts between clenched teeth, repeatedly crooking his fingers inside you as he fucks his fingers in and out of your heat, letting out small, barely there groans every time your pussy squelches around his fingers as he punches muffled whines and whimpers from you. He crooks his fingers up suddenly in a way that makes you see stars as you writhe on his lap, your knees shooting up off the floor as you attempt to curl up on yourself, “That the spot?” He teases, relentlessly rubbing his fingers against it as his thumb quickens against your clit. He adds a third finger without warning, curling them up against that rough patch inside you as he bites down on your shoulder, muffling his own groan as he feels you clench down on his fingers. 

“You gonna come?” He mumbles, grinning like a cheshire cat when you frantically nod your head, tears leaking onto the hand still wrapped tightly around your mouth. “Open your eyes,” he commands, not stopping his movements, “Want you to watch what I’m doing to you when you fucking cum.”

At the promise of finally getting to come, your eyes shoot open as you pick your head up off his shoulder, looking down the length of your body to where his hand disappears under your leggings. You practically come undone at the sight, watching as his hand moves against you through the dark fabric, maintaining a careful rhythm. “Michael, please!” You whine against his hand, desperately trying to keep your eyes open. 

He chuckles lowly, clearly proud of how quickly he’s been able to reduce you into a begging mess, the sound reverberating off your back. “Fucking come,” he commands, doubling his efforts, “Soak my fucking hand, love.”

The coil in your stomach finally snaps and you sob, eyes snapping shut as your whole body clenches, shaking in his lap, as fireworks burst behind your eyelids. Your entire core clamps down so tight he has to fight to keep his fingers within you, muting the sounds of his groans against your neck and shoulder as he feels your cunt pulse against his fingers. He doesn’t let up, pressing incessantly against that spot within you as you come, until he finally gets what he wants – both of you groaning together, noises muffled, as a stream of fluid seems to erupt from your center, soaking his hand and the inside of your leggings, though you can’t think enough to care at the moment. 

“Goddammit,” he grunts, finally removing his hand from your leggings, running his fingers through your folds one last time just to make you squirm. Suddenly, he’s lifting you off his lap enough to turn you around, maneuvering you to face him. You’re practically boneless in his lap as he lifts you just enough to pull your leggings down over your ass, pressing his bare cock against your still throbbing center when he sets you back down, “Gonna let me fuck you, love? Hm? Want me to make you go dumb around my cock?” 

You nod your head weakly, not bothering to lift it from his shoulder as you straddle his lap. He doesn’t make you beg this time, too desperate to feel your wet heat around him, as he swiftly lifts you up again, just enough to align his length with your entrance. 

Both of you moan as he lets you sit back down, his hard length disappearing into your warmth. He holds the back of your head, pressing your mouth against his neck to muffle your cries; you can feel his jaw clench with the effort of keeping his own muted. He fills you deliciously, thick cock pressed against every part of you, as your clit presses against the small thatch of hair above his length. 

“Fuck,” he huffs, the word hissed between his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut, savoring the way your pussy pulses around his length, the way you desperately mouth and lick at his neck, “God, knew you’d feel good.” 

Somehow, that remark works it’s way through the fog in your brain, “Hm?” you hum against his neck, your hands coming up to tangle in his golden hair, “You thought about me?” You whimper, words whiny and breathy as he rocks you against him, spearing you on his length again and again, head kissing your cervix just enough to knock the air from your lungs every time he lowers you back down. 

He sighs, as if just now realizing what he’d said, and nods, swallowing down a moan before he speaks, “‘Course I did,” he admits, grinding you down against him, his hips pressed against yours. “Looked so damn pretty in class,” he continues, “So cute all, fuck, all flushed and embarrassed every time you got asked a question.” 

His admission makes you clench around him, heat flooding through your system as you process what he’d said. Your clit grinds against his body again, just as the head of his cock brushes against that spot in your center, and it’s like your brain has been whited out, all you can do is mewl against his neck as he rocks you up and down along his cock. 

“Fuck, I feel this sweet cunt getting tight, love,” he says, breathing heavily as he gets closer to his own release, “Y’gonna come?” 

“Yes!” You whimper, voice high-pitched and broken as you nod frantically against the skin of his neck, now wet with your spit and tears as you rock yourself against him, moving your clit against the hair at the base of his cock. 

“Hold it,” he commands softly, more breathing than speaking. He chuckles when he hears you whine, loving the way you mewl for him like a soft little kitten, and the hand still holding your head against him strokes your hair, soothing you. “Want us to come together,” he huffs, cursing under his breath as he feels you grow somehow tighter around him, “Fuck, I’m close just hold on.” The hand on your hip tightens, grinding you tightly against him, groaning as he feels your center milking his cock, your walls clenching around him desperately. 

“F-fuck, Michael,” you whine, breath hot against the column of his throat as you feel yourself tipping over, “Please! Please I can’t hold it, please!” You beg beautifully, weeping against his skin, trying so hard to keep it down to a whisper so you don’t draw attention, not this close to your release. 

“Where, fuck,” he curses, pulling your head up to look in your eyes, the blue in his nearly swallowed by blackness, “Tell me where.” He pants, his voice urgent.

“Inside me!” You breathe, cunt clenching around him as you feel him twitch inside you.

He groans, forehead resting against your shoulder for a second as he tries to maintain control, both of his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave bruises, “Are you s–”

“Yes!” You nod, resting your forehead against his when he picks his head back up, “‘M on the pill.” You reassure him as you keep nodding. The two of you move together for a few more seconds, wildly grinding together, before the coil in your stomach is finally wound too tight, “Michael, oh, fuck!”

“Fuck,” he gasps, seeming to get somehow thicker inside you, “Come for daddy, fuck, be good and come.” He commands, his own voice low and frenzied.

Hearing him call himself that does you in, and you shatter around him, walls gripping him tightly. You open your mouth, unable to control a loud moan, which he quickly hushes by pressing his lips against yours, licking into your mouth as he thrusts up into your center harshly a few times, each rise of his hips accompanied by a grunt into your waiting mouth as you mewl at the heat of his cum filling you up, extending your own release. 

The two of you stay quiet for a moment, breathing heavily as you sweetly kiss, tiredly pressing your lips together. Finally, you pull away from him giggling shyly when you meet his eyes, blushing as you feel his length slowly softening inside you. “Getting shy on me now?” He teases, smiling at you as he gently plays with your hair. 

You smile back at him for a second before suddenly coming to your senses and remembering where you are, “Shit,” you whisper, hopping up off his lap, “I cannot believe we just did that!” You quickly scan the floor with wide eyes, shoulders visibly relaxing when you still don’t see anyone.

“Wasn’t in my plan,” Michael starts, tucking his member back into his boxers and zipping up his jeans, “But I’m certainly not complaining.” He finishes, smirking at you before standing. He leans down, helping you pull up your leggings. He doesn’t miss the way you grimace when the damp, now unpleasantly cool, fabric presses against you. “Sorry,” he apologizes, gesturing to them, “I should’ve…controlled myself better with that one.” He finishes, awkwardly scratching at his chin. 

You laugh quietly, trying to play it off although you’re dreading the half hour train ride back to your flat. That feeling doubles when you look down, eyes widening as you see the dark patch around your crotch, hardly visible on the dark fabric but enough that it makes you nervous, “Getting home is gonna be fun.” You joke, turning to begin gathering your things. 

You’ve gotten your textbook put back into your backpack when you feel a tap on your shoulder; turning your head, you look wide-eyed when you see him sheepishly smiling at you, holding his red sweater out as he stands in a band t-shirt, “Here,” he says softly, waving the sweater at you, “You need it more than I do and it’s my fucking fault anyway.”

You blush, taking the sweater from him with a small thank you, tying it around your waist as he busies himself with picking up his things, before putting the rest of yours into your backpack as well, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” You tell him as you finish situating his sweater around you, satisfied that the stain is covered.

He huffs out a laugh, “You sucked my cock on the floor of a library,” he jokes, eyes sparkling with mischief yet again, “S’the least I could do.” 

You laugh, playfully shoving at his shoulder as you put your backpack on. The floor is truly, blessedly, empty as the two of you leave and walk downstairs, not seeing anyone on the second floor either and only a few stragglers on the main floor at this hour on a Saturday evening. He pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors at the entrance, holding it open for you as you duck under his arm. The door thuds closed behind you as you both stand outside the library, the air cold now that the sun’s gone down. 

“I really like them, that band,” you say, nodding to his shirt, “Their last album’s really good.”

“Oh!” He says, eyebrows raising in surprise, “You know them?” He asks, smiling when you nod again, “Their new album is probably my favorite too, actually.” The two of you stand in a comfortable silence for a second later before he notices you shiver as a breeze blows through the stoney courtyard. “D’you live close to campus?”

“Half hour on the train,” you shrug, pulling your phone out to check the time, “I should probably go soon if I’m gonna catch the next one…”

“You could come to mine?” He asks, his voice hopeful, “It’s only a walk from here, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes?”

Your eyes widen, having not expected his invitation, but you nod nonetheless, “If you’re sure,” he nods, “Then, yeah! That would be great.” You smile, walking beside him as you start heading in the direction of his flat. 

“Would you maybe want to get lunch sometime?” He asks, glancing down at you.

“I would love that,” you smile, your hand brushing against his as you continue down the sidewalk, “I think I might need more tutoring, too…”

His hand catches yours, your fingers intertwining as he smirks, “Will you suck my cock every time?” He teases, grinning as you laugh, the sound echoing off the buildings and filtering into the night air. 

Told you so. The voice in the back of your mind echos as you lean your head on Michael’s shoulder.

tagged lovelies: @schniiipsel @arcielee @darlingofvalyria @aemshaircare @imaegontatgaryenwife0 @valeskafics @beautbuck @watercolorskyy @marysucks-blog @fan-goddess @drakonflames @helloworldiamnotarobot

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

#michael gavey #michael gavey fic #michael gavey smut #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x you #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey oneshot #saltburn #saltburn fic #saltburn smut #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn oneshot #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #ewanverse #ewan mitchell fic #ewan mitchell smut #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #my writing

[thelov3lybookworm]

Caged In (part 2)

Part 1

Day 2: Style

Summary: Lucien has some really amazing fashion sense, and his newly made friend is very interested in his wardrobe.

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A/n: because many of you were asking about a part 2, it gave me the idea to do the whole week in this series. I'll try my best to make a part for everyday now ❣️ this is not much, but I'm trying and simply having some fun 😉

Also, I don't think the fic really fits much into the prompt, but it's alright. Right? Anyways, I decided I wanted to see him in clothes that are not green or red, so...

So here is my second contribution to @lucienweekofficial 🫶

(I don't really like this, but anyways. I wrote this in 1‐2 hours, what am I even expecting. Maybe I'll like tomorrow's more?)

Enjoy!

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Y/n watched intently as Lucien and Jurian bickered over who would cut the wood for the fire and who would go into the market to get the items necessary for the night's dinner.

They had been at it for quite some time, and because she was bored, she had gotten herself a cup of tea and settled down to watch the two of them.

It had been one month since that night, since Lucien had helped her flee the night court, and she was surprised no one from the inner circle had arrived to search for her. Sure, she had received countless letters and notes from Rhys and Cassian, demanding to know where she was and that she return home.

She wouldn't do that anytime soon.

She had only left a note that said, I'm tired of your overprotective tendencies before she left.

Cassian had always been overprotective over her, since the moment he found her hiding in her mother's skirts and staring at him and the other males of the camp, just before they had pulled her mother away and slaughtered her.

After Cassian had been born, the males of the camp had taken him from his mother, ready to kill her. But before they could, she had sneaked away and ran. After days of running, she ran into a fae man, who gaslit her into believing they were in love and raped her, hence making her pregnant with Y/n.

Because Y/n's father was not an Illyrian, Y/n was only half Illyrian, and that meant she could make her wings vanish, just like Rhys.

After Nyx's birth, she and Cassian had visited an Illyrian camp due to some unrest having arisen. The men there were too pissed that a female was trying to command them, one of them even daring to get into her space and rant about how he would do unimaginable things to her and she would soon die.

And Cassian had taken him a little too seriously, confining Y/n to the river house hoping that she'll be safe.

But in the process, he had caged her in.

The sound of Jurian's cheers brought Y/n out of her thoughts, and she looked up from her cup of tea.

Jurian grinned as he flounced up to Y/n, ruffling her hair on the way in. She swatted him away and he chuckled.

"So? He's going to the market?"

Lucien grumbled out an affirmation, starting to walk away towards the forest nearby. Y/n contemplated staying or following Lucien. If she stayed, she'd die of boredom untill Vassa arrived. If she followed, she could get some entertainment by irritating Lucien.

Making her decision, she shoved her empty cup into Jurian's chest, who was on his way out. She kissed his cheek in apology, sprinting to catch up to Lucien.

"Hello again."

"Why are you following me–"

"The weather seems really good today, don't you think?"

He glanced at her, his eyes narrowing before he sighed. "I don't know."

She grinned, bumping his shoulder with her own. Or atleast she tried to, her shoulder barely reaching his.

He shook his head, entering the clearing where he would chop the firewood in. She trotted to a nearby tree with huge roots where she took a seat, watching him.

He was wearing one of his beautifully made tunics today, the first three buttons undone. It was black colored, an unusual color to see him in. But it suited him nonetheless, maybe even more than his normal colours.

His breeches were light grey, bordering on white. They hugged his legs perfectly, leaving very little to the imagination. The powerful muscles in his thighs rippled lightly as he stalked around the clearing, gathering wood to chop.

She simply watched him, taking note of the elegance and grace in his every step and movement.

Soon he had gathered the amount of wood he deemed fit, and he got ready to begin chopping them up into smaller bits. He pulled out a strip of leather from his pocket, and pulled his long hair back, tying it off in a neat knot at the base of his neck. He then proceeded to fold his sleeves up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms flexing, the rings on his fingers glinting in the dying rays of the sun.

Y/n's mouth dried.

But she wasn't one to blame when a male like Lucien was doing things like that in front of her.

He lifted the axe, bending a little to chop into the wood. The necklaces he wore dangled in front of his chest, making him look all the more... delicious.

Delicious?!? What the hell?

She watched him, all the muscles in his body rippling. She wanted to go up to him, and pull his–

No. She didn't want anything. She couldn't want anything.

A small smirk formed on his lips, and Y/n knew she had been caught.

"You know, it's a little rude to stare, my lady."

She swallowed, trying to get her tongue off the roof of her mouth as he lifted the small axe, bringing it down on the wood again. There was something she had been wanting to ask him.

"You know, I was wondering if I could see your wardrobe."

He paused, axe suspended in the air as he half turned to her.

"What?"

"I said–"

"I heard what you said. My lady."

She flushed. "Oh."

After a few moments, he spoke again. "Why do you want to see my clothes?"

"Um... I wanted to... see if there was something I wanted to steal from your clothes."

He blinked. "Why... why would you want to do that?"

"Because I think you have really amazing clothes and... you have a good style."

He smirked. "Is that so?"

She groaned, throwing her hair back.

"Are you going to let me have a shirt of yours or not?"

"Why do you want one?" He asked, turning his focus back to chopping the wood.

"Because I want to wear something good for tonight because Vassa is taking me to dinner tonight."

Lucien's brows Rose, but he didn't stop. "And why is she taking you out?"

"Because the both of us are tired of you males and we both deserve a day off. You can babysit Jurian for one night, can you not?"

Lucien laughed, the sound sending the butterflies in Y/n's stomach into a panic.

"And you don't have a tunic you can wear outside?"

"I don't like mine. They are very simple, and Vassa will kill me if I wore something like that."

Lucien sighed. "I guess you will not leave me alone unless I let you have my shirts?"

"You might be right."

"Well then, you can take a look, when we get back."

Y/n squealed. "Thank you Lucien!"

He smiled.

And so began Y/n's harmless little crush on Lucien.

Little did she know it was not, in fact, just a harmless little crush.

•○🌑○•

Part 3

Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @lizziesfirstwife

#acotar #Lucien x reader #Acotar fanfic #mating bond #a court of thorns and roses #Lucien fluff #acotar fandom #acotar series #fluff #Lucien fic #sarah j maas #acotar headcanon #Acotar writing #acotar fluff #acotar x reader #reader insert #lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #pro lucien vanserra #lucien #Cassian sister #Lucienweek2023 #Lucien week #Lucien fanfic

[imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul]

Timeless - Peter Parker

A/N: Hello! Long time no see. Trying to get back into writing and was struck with the idea of creating fics inspired by Taylor Swift's work; however, that is a ginormous task. But in this thought process I was inspired to write this story. So alas, I present my first Taylor inspired fic. Who knows if or when they'll be more, but I hope you enjoy!

TS Prompt #1: Timeless (Taylor's Version)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader Word Count: 2.4k Synopsis: Peter and the reader fall into different love stories as they enter an antique shop.

Fall hits New York the same every year. Starbucks releases their pumpkin spice menu, the general public complain that it's too soon, and a week later colds and sweaters are no longer so far fetched. Central Park, once so green and full of life, turns dead and brown. There are fewer people on the street, or maybe it just seems so because they now huddle into one big mass to fight off the wind from the Hudson.

September 3rd, and you are tugging on a sweater you hadn't expected to use for weeks.

With the coming of fall also comes a new semester of college. A new year of classes, friends you'll only know for those four months, and long commutes to campus.

You take a glance in the mirror and brush back a stray strand of hair. As you check yourself over one last time, your phone buzzes on the counter next to you.

Peter: Coffee in hand, 3 minutes away.

You rush out of the bathroom, knocking the curling iron onto the floor, and tug on your shoes. Living on the thirteenth floor, it would take you almost three minutes just to get down to the lobby.

Hauling your back-pack over your shoulder, you blow a kiss to your cat and lock the door behind you.

Peter is walking to the front door as you come out of the stairwell. He smiles at you, holding out your coffee order.

"Hey," you say, a little out of breath. You lean in for a quick kiss and fall into pace together. "Thank you."

"Anytime. I figured coffee might make the first day back easier. Is that a new sweater?"

"It is. And it did," you say, taking a greedy sip of your drink. "What's your schedule looking like?"

"Nothing until 10, but then back to back classes. You?"

"I have a break around noon, but start first thing this morning."

"Excited?"

"I am," you said, looking at him. He smiles softly and takes your hand in his. "I like the first day - yeah there's nerves, but it's also full of new beginnings and hope."

"Including a new route," he says as you turn two blocks earlier than usual.

"My first class is on the far side of campus, this is a shortcut. You know, if your classes don't start until 10, you don't have to be here."

"I know," he says, smiling again. "And I can't promise that I will meet you every day at 8 to walk you to your class, but I'm happy to do it this morning."

"Walking me to class on my first day like a parent?" you ask with a laugh.

"Yes, and make sure you don't get to running away before I get that first day of school picture. I want it for our Christmas cards."

You're laughing as a window display catches your eye.

Timeless, the display reads, in large print newspaper clippings. The individually cut letters would typically look a little serial killer-y, but the shop had arranged a tsunami of old photos around it, making it look like a moment ripped out of time.

As Peter stops next to you, you realize the common theme of the display. In each photo, whether it's from the early 2000s or the 1930s, there is a couple in love. A woman with long hair and bellbottoms looks lovingly up at a man with a long beard and mustache strumming a ukulele. Christmas morning 1994, a man grins lovingly at his partner as he opens his PlayStation. Wedding dresses with big 80s sleeves, tea length gowns of the 1950s, and dancers in colorful geometric prints, all gazed back at the couple looking eagerly into the window.

"Let's go in," you say, practically subconciously.

"Aren't you worried you'll be late on your first day?"

"Aww, who gives a damn about ice breaker games?" you ask as you push open the door to the antique shop, the bell ringing in welcome. An old man at the register nods at the two of you, then goes back to his books.

"Look at all of these," you say, taking in the endless displays around you. The Timeless theme follows you inside. Not only do old photos cover every inch of the shop, but so do letters close to crumbling, porcelain trinket boxes that hold vintage rings, and clothes from every era imaginable.

"I wonder how long it took to collect all of this."

"Many, many years." You both jump as the man from behind the counter is now next to you. He holds a cane in one hand and his glasses in the other. "I've been working on this collection my whole life."

"It's incredible," you say with a smile. "Is it all for sale?"

"Most of it. Some of the pieces are from my own life that I won't part with. Did you notice the wedding picture in the window, bottom left corner?" he asks. You glance back towards the window and the shop owner laughs. "Of course you didn't. You could stare at it all day and still find new things. I do each day.

"Anyways, that's mine. Taken 40 years ago when I married my wife, Marjorie, right here in Queens. Don't believe I'll be parting with that any time soon. Just completes the collection.

"Well, look around the shop and let me know if you have any questions."

"Thank you," you both call as he makes his way back to the register. You exchange an amazed look with Peter.

"This is definitely worth missing ice breaker questions," he says. You laugh and lean up to kiss his cheek.

"I can't miss everything, but I think a few minutes in here are worth the delay."

You stroll away from him - both of your attentions caught by separate corners of the store. Peter wanders over to the small record section, the wall covered in Elvis posters, women draped effortlessly from his arms.

You decide to take a look at more of the photos. There are boxes upon boxes that look as if they haven't been opened in fifty years. There is no chance that even a third of them could fit on the walls of the shop.

You pick a box at random - a red photo box with a few scrapes along the side. Even looking through just the photos in this box would take hours. Thumbing through them, one catches on your thumb.

You pull it out and find a scene so familiar but unique all its own. Like the famous photo you saw in nearly every history class, a soldier kisses a woman in the 1940s. The streets around them are crowded, with other couples out of view embracing just the same.

The scene before you is a celebration and as you look at it closer, hoping to take in each and every detail, slowly the man's features shift to Peter's. No longer does the man have black hair. No longer is the woman he kissing the woman you first saw, she now looks just like you.

The streets are crowded. With trembling hands holding a small stack of letters, you look through the crowd, craning your neck to catch just one glimpse of him. All around you, loved ones are reuniting. Mothers are kissing their sons' foreheads. Women weep as they fall into the arms of their love.

Just as panic starts to grow inside you that maybe he's not back, that your prayers have not been answered, you see him. His brown hair is shining in the sun, his hat in his hands. His eyes, so full of hope, scan the crowd.

You cannot help the swell of emotions that come over you as you rush towards him. You knock elbows, mutter apologizes to the crowd as you make your way towards him. A few steps away, Peter sees you, too.

His smile grows into the breathtaking grin you love and missed so dearly, and before you can even process that he's safe, that he's home, you are crashing into his arms and his hands are in your hair.

You are melting in his touch as he kisses you. The long years of the war, the years of worrying, years of fearing every knock at the door, years of just one page of his words every few months, all slip away as the two of you come together.

His lips feel the same, which is somehow odd. How could all the years and all the changes you had both been through left this the same? Left this passion, this connection the same?

"Oh, I've missed you," he says, pulling away for air. You grin at him and kiss him again. Once, twice, three times until you are wrapped up in each other's arms again.

"Find anything good?"

Peter's voice jolts you out of your thoughts. Your pulse fluttering as if you truly were the women getting kissed in the photo, you show Peter what gripped your attention. He smiles and takes it gently from your hand. He looks at the inscription on the back you hadn't noticed.

"James and Dottie, 1944."

"It looks so much like that one we saw in school, but look at all of the people around them."

"So much love," he says, almost to himself. Your eyes meet and for some reason a slight blush covers your cheeks as you smile. The intensity of his stare becomes too much and you make your way down another aisle of the shop.

The shelves around you are full of books, some titles you recognize, some you don't, and some are so worn you wouldn't be able to even if it was your favorite. Once again, one stands out to you more than the others.

Half hanging off the shelf, a deep purple book draws you in. You take it off the shelf in a small cloud of dust. The inside of the cover reveals it is a romance, although that doesn't come as a surprise. You read at a whisper, "In the 1500s off in a foreign land, I am forced to marry another man . . ."

The walls surrounding you are tall and cold, the stone masonry reflecting the feeling in your chest. The white gown that drapes along your frame feels as heavy as chains.

At the end of this death march, the doors open upon a crowd full of people, your people, all dressed for the occasion. And there, at the end of the aisle is your betrothed.

But that man is not Peter.

The figure walking you down the aisle tries to usher you along when you come to a stop. Anxious eyes all around look at your frozen form..

"I can't do this."

The shock of what you've said gives your escort pause and you slip your arm away from his. Discarding the bouquet of roses, you take off back up the hallway.

Shouts follow as you run, gathering the skirts of your gown up in your hands, but you don't stop. Guards at the entrance of the castle reach for you, but guided by your heart, you are too quick for them.

The sun is shining when you break out of the castle, but you keep going. You go until your heart is thundering, your breathing comes fast, and Peter's cottage is in sight.

Even after the turmoil you experienced, just the sight of his home soothes you. You take a few steps up to his door and he opens it just as you raise your hand to knock.

"What are you--"

"I couldn't go through with it. I don't love him," you say. Peter lets out a surprised laugh, shaking his head gently.

"We talked about this. They'll come looking for you, Y/N."

"Then we'll run," you say, taking his hand in yours. "I don't care if we spend the rest of our days running, I prefer that to a life of luxury with someone I don't love."

"You mean it?'

"Yes."

"Then I'll keep you safe. For every second that we are together, for every moment that you are mine, I'll make sure no harm comes to you. I can't promise you riches, but you'll be safe."

"I gladly leave that all behind for you," you say. Peter is smiling as he closes the gap between you, his hands cupping your face as you melt into his touch.

You close the book with a secret smile and slip it back onto the shelf.

You know that you should leave, you are at least ten minutes late to class, and a few minutes walk from campus. But the shop has captured your heart, the stories embedded inside have.

"Y/N," Peter calls. You make your way towards his voice and as you do you pass more relics of the past. A photo of a 30's bride, high school sweethearts sitting on the porch of their first home, a young couple on the way to a dance.

"Hey."

"Hey, we should probably get going don't you think? You don't want to miss more of your first day."

"They are important," you say absentmindedly. Maybe it was because you had just slipped into fake memories, or maybe it was the fact that it was the first day of the semester, but looking at Peter, his hair mussed in a way that can only come from styling, a soft smile on his face, you were transported to the first day you met.

In a crowded room a few short years ago, on another September morning, first day of school, you lay eyes on Peter for the first time. Your fellow classmates are introducing themselves, the room filled with a dull hum of discussion, but your eyes only lock with his.

He smiles at you and moves your way. He holds out his hand and tells you his name, and somehow, you just knww. There's not always proof, there's not always a war or an arranged marriage. Sometimes, you just know.

"Yeah we should go," you agree. Peter leads the way to the door and holds it open for you. "I love you," you say, softly, and for the first time.

"I love you."

The temperature had risen since you entered the shop, but nevertheless, as you fall back into step together, Peter's arm is around yours and you know that one day, you'll have photos of the life you'll make, just like the ones in the shop.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fanfiction #spiderman fanfic #spiderman fanfiction #ts prompts

[msmargaretmurry]

friend, what do you do when you haven't written (fan)fiction in more years than you can say for sure, and you're bitten by a character arc for a story that keeps spiraling into more and more as you think about it? i am feeling VERY overwhelmed especially as it becomes more about that character arc than the original plot idea. i remember you saying that you thought HAW was going to be like 40k and obviously it ended up much longer - having gone through that process, what did you learn? is there any advice you'd give, especially to someone already nervous to start doing something for the first time?

hello pal! i'm sorry you're having an anxious time of it but i'm excited to hear that you're flexing your writing muscles, and i hope that i can offer some helpful reassurances here!

the short answer is: you just write it. you just do it!!! ultimately the two choices here are write it or don't write it, and not writing it is way less satifying. yes yes WAY easier said than done though, so onto the long answer. 💞

trying to write again when you haven't written in a while can definitely be nerve-wracking, so first of all, i want to say that it's totally fine to be nervous. very normal of you! obviously you want your story to live up to the idea in your head, so it can be really hard to shake the whole feeling of, oh no what if it doesn't? what if my grand foray back into writing is an EMBARRASSING FAILURE?? so i also want to say that it will not be, because there is no such thing as failing at creativity, and i forbid you from being embarassed of anything you create while learning. writing is a never-ending learning process. the best writers you have ever read are the ones who embrace learning something new every time they write. i would say this even if it hadn't been years since you last wrote, but especially since it's been years since you last wrote, but it is imperative to remember that you have to start somewhere. to quote the great sam reich, the only way to begin is by beginning.

my #1 tip for if you're working on a story and it feels like it wants to be long and you have a lot of thoughts and ideas and feelings about it is to WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN. don't make yourself try to remember it all. i use a note in my notes app for this, but you can use a physical notebook or a google doc or whatever works for you.

this isn't for writing the actual fic — you might end up with snippets of scenes in here but nothing more than a few lines. this is for literally anytime you think of something for your story, into the note it goes, as soon as possible, so you don't have to worry about remembering it. a fact you learn, a future story beat you want to hit, a line of dialogue you want to include in a future scene, a lyric that inspires you, a reminder to include a detail or reference. i also use mine to keep a list of subplots/running themes — things you don't want to fall off your own radar and wind up forgotten halfway through.

you don't need to check your note/document/whatever every time you write, but if you're an outliner you can use it to periodically update your outline, and besides that, occasionally referring back to it is great for a) sparking inspiration for where the story goes next, and b) reminding you to go back and be like, hm, how long has it been since i referenced [subplot]? maybe it's time for that to make another appearance!

i also ALSO use mine to keep a list of things i know i'm going to want to go back and edit for once i have a full draft. i don't know about you, but i am a CHRONIC edit-as-i-go-er and doing this has helped me so much with being able to take a deep breath, accept that something in the draft probably needs fixing, and know that i won't forget about it. i no longer have the HAW version of this note (because i delete things out of mine as i address them, so by the end of writing the story the note is empty 😂) but iirc it had things like — make sure it's clear that matthew is kind of a mama's boy, double-check the pacing/frequency of matthew's big intrusive thoughts, make sure we know where bowie is for scenes in leon's house.

regarding the story becoming more about the character arc than the original plot idea, try to let go of your expectations of what the story was supposed to be and instead try to approach it with a mindset of discovering what the story is going to be. this will give you a lot more freedom to let it grow and change without feeling like you're abandoning something. the reason HAW got so long is because, when i started, i had two big plot beats that i knew i wanted to get to (the first breathplay scene and the first kiss scene) and as i was writing, i kept thinking to myself, okay i need x y z and then i get to tackle that big plot beat. so i would write x y z only to discover that i still needed more development to make it feel earned. so i just wrote more development! this did mean letting go of the conception of the story's structure i had going in, when i thought it would be shorter, but it ultimately let the beats fall in the right places.

(obviously letting your story sprawl however it wants to isn't always the the best thing you can do for a piece of fiction. but in character-driven stories, in my opinion, it's vital to give the character the space they need. and if it sprawls too much, you can always edit it down later. you can learn stuff about your characters from scenes you wind up cutting or from versions of scenes that don't end up working just as much as from the scenes you nail.)

if you think it'll help with motivation, get yourself an alpha reader. enlist a friend that you trust to be what you need them to be in this role. for me, it's that i can trust when i send them the next 5–10k chunk of first draft that they will read it at their earliest convenience (not letting it sit for days), that they will be invested in following the story (i once had an alpha reader tell me that they had totally forgotten about a major story development in the week or so between one chunk and then next chunk, and it devastated me), and that they will understand that as i'm grinding out the first draft, i need enthusiasm and encouragement, and concrit ONLY if there's a major issue. concrit is the realm of my beta readers.

everyone's writing process is different, so if there's stuff here where you're like, ugh i hate that idea, feel free to ignore it! or modify it! just don't spend so much time tinkering with planning and research and playlists and outlines etc that you don't actually write. occasionally a good writing sesh CAN be 98% tinkering, but most of them should not be.

finally, let yourself enjoy the process. don't put pressure on yourself to finish it quickly so you can feed it to the internet for comments and kudos. comments and kudos are, of course, fantastic, and also it's fine to set yourself arbitrary goals/deadlines if that helps you (e.g. "writing"i'm going to write 3,000 words a week" or "i'm going to finish this section of story by the end of the month") but try not to get stressed if it's taking longer than expected to write, or it turns out you want to add more than expected to the story. it's worth it to have a story you're happy with.

sometimes writing can be really hard and frustrating, but that doesn't mean you're doing it badly. sometimes you need to talk an issue through with a friend. sometimes it takes a few tries to figure out how a scene should go. sometimes you need to let a plot problem rotate like a $2 hotdog on the gas station hotdog roller of your brain for a couple of days before the solution comes to you in a vision at the most inconvenient time possible. (jot it down in your notes app before you forget it.)

anyway. good luck and i believe in you ❤ you know where to find me if you need to complain about writing/talk through something/get a pep talk!

#ask #writing #sorry this is so earnest. i am unfortunately a deeply earnest person

[princelylove]

Since you said okay to request nsfw fic/drabble then I'd love to request for Abdul base on your answer of previous ask. The idea is darling try to escape and he found out, give them a special punishment. I interested in you said he has fear play and edging kink so I hope you can include that. Making darling feel scared but later make them beg for him to reach orgasm is so adorable

~ 🏵️ anon ~

Ahaaaa...... this ask is from the fifteenth of december. I think I owe you something at this point. Forgive me? ♡♡♡♡ This wasn't exactly what you asked for, but I hope you like it anyway. Reader is gender neutral but there's one fem pet name in arabic used.

Mohammed is supposed to be patient. 

He’s calm, rational. 

He isn’t necessarily a man of impulse- very few times has he fallen victim to his own urges, if any such occasions were to exist in the first place. 

He can’t recall the last time he made such a rash decision. Perhaps when he was younger.

In a moment of panic, he sets the stairway railing on fire, causing you to stumble off to the side into an end table meant for tossing oddities found on the way home, and sometimes flowers. It isn’t a neatly organized surface, which is odd compared to the rest of Mohammed’s house. Several trinkets are quick to answer gravity’s call, breaking on impact. If you weren’t bent on actually escaping today, you’d usually apologize for breaking any of Mohammed’s ceramic cats laid around your ‘home.’ He’s terribly fond of them- cats, in general, actually. 

He wishes you were more like a cat. More simple. You tend to swat at him, certainly, but you’ll learn to trust him, as almost all cats would. 

You’d consider yourself not to be a cat, as you’re a human being who has complex needs. 

A human being who is very, very flammable. 

“Habibti.” 

You fumble your way down the stairs, tripping a bit on the end table you just knocked over. Mohammed’s house is quite sizable, you won’t be at the bottom of the stairs anytime soon, even with your fall taking a good four or five steps out of the equation. You’re fine, the rug he had laid out in case you ever did fall saved your poor knees, but it takes you a second to reorient yourself. A second he graciously takes from you, as he sets the rug on fire.

He is not exactly immune to his own fire, so he stares down at you, silently, hating himself for putting even more space between the two of you. When you don't move, he finds it in himself to make a small statement.

“Do not take another step or, God willing, you will not see the light of day for a month.”

You foolishly decide to go for the rest of the stairs. The railing cracks, and falls, putting even more obstacles in Mohammed’s way. 

The rooms you pass are all dead ends. You could jump out one of the many windows, of course, but what use would that be? A broken leg isn’t going to allow you your salvation, and your legs are already a bit bruised. 

To be fair, neither is stopping to apologize. You can hear it in his tone- he’s trying with all of his might to remain gentle, but he’s livid. His voice rings from his spot at the top of the stairs- you’ve never actually heard him properly yell before. He’s groaning out of frustration. 

You make your way to the bottom of the stairs, and just when you reach the front door, you feel a hand yank you back by the collar of your top. 

“I love you. Why are you running from me? Have I done something? Tell me what it is, and I’ll fix it.”

He shushes you oh-so-lovingly, and presses you firmly against his chest. His necklace presses into your face roughly.

“My love. My moon. It isn’t so horrible here. Let me take care of you.” 

You attempt to push him away, but freeze at his stand grabbing you from behind. 

It grabs at your upper arms, and sets the portion under its palms on fire.

Mohammed shushes you. He assures you he has cold water ready. It seems he doesn’t care about your screams, or about rushing, as he takes his time to go to the upstairs bathroom. The rug has been removed from the staircase entirely- not that you’d see it, as you faint on the way there.

When you wake up, which feels instantaneous, Mohammed has you on your back, in your shared bedroom. You’re allowed a personal room, of course, but not at the moment.

He isn’t touching you- in fact, he isn’t anywhere near you. The hands on your wrists belong to him, but aren’t his own. When he hears you’ve finally woken up, he instructs you to keep your eyes closed on the off chance that you can see his stand, Magician’s Red- it’s for the better. He is not easy on the eyes, and is rather unforgiving.

A trait that both the user and stand itself share, if not just the user, and projected onto the stand.

Perhaps if you were more well behaved, he wouldn’t have to remind you of his inclination. 

Maybe if you had the common sense of not running from him in a closed space.

He loved chasing you, but he doesn’t love the damage you’ve done to his house. Or the fact that you nearly got out.

“Do you think of me a bad man, my love?" As he speaks, you feel something hot running down your sternum- it travels over your stomach, and hovers between your legs briefly before hovering back up again.

"I never want to be the cause of your stress. If you want to be chased, you need only ask."

He pauses a bit, and you hear his footsteps coming closer. They're dragging, for once.

"In fact, it's my intention to relieve you of stress."

#🏵️ anon #request granted #yandere mohammed abdul #sorrryyy 🏵️ anon dear #i rewrote this three times. i never want to see this man again. #just kiddinggg. #.... about not wanting to see him

[pomplalamoose]

I’m literally in love with all of your fics and especially your head canons. Reading your posts always makes my day, please never stop ❤️

Thank you so soooo much, hearing this makes me incredibly happy🥺🥺

I hope I can continue making your day because as long as I don't run out of ideas I don't plan on stopping anytime soon!

Sending you lots of hugs and kisses and if that's not your thing then a good and proper handshake🤝🏻

#ask #luke skywalker #luke skywalker x reader #dilf luke #dilf luke skywalker #star wars

[silvfyre-writings]

What Don't I Know? (BSD Fanfic)

Welcome back to another Fukudad and Ranpo fic and this time, we're in for the long run! No, it's not another longfic haha, but I have a sort of AU (I guess?) regarding ideas I have about the found family dynamic we've been gifted. Some of them are a little darker themed, so of course they will be tagged appropriately (I still have to write such fics lol)

But anyway! Ranpo AND Fukudad, what more could you want? May you enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave a kudos or a comment telling me what you thought! I love hearing you all get excited over these stories I write :D

What am I doing? Fukuzawa asked himself as he scolded Ranpo, shouting at the boy for the reckless behaviour that had would’ve gotten him killed if he hadn’t shown up in time.

He’s not my kid. Fukuzawa continued to think as tears welled up in the teenager’s eyes and began to roll down his cheeks, one hand clutching the red mark on his cheek from where he’d been slapped just seconds ago.

I’m in over my head. Fukuzawa sighed as Ranpo clung to him tightly, the boy’s face buried into the fabric of Fukuzawa’s yukata, as he cried and wailed out senseless apologies that were barely coherent into his chest.

This wasn’t how he’d expected his day to go. Not in the slightest. In no way, shape, or form, could he have predicted that by the end of the day, he’d have a fourteen year old boy hugging him and crying like his entire world had just been upended. Well, for all Fukuzawa knew, it had, but he knew he wasn’t going to get an answer anytime soon, not until the tears stopped.

“I’m sorry!” Ranpo wailed, his loudest one yet that had Fukuzawa wincing at the volume, but it finally triggered him into moving, and he dropped his arms from where they’d been hanging in midair since he hadn’t any idea of what to do with them in the first place, to rest on Ranpo’s shoulders and draw the boy closer. This only made Ranpo cry that much harder.

“It’s fine.” Fukuzawa said, doing his best to maintain the calm persona he’d managed to show all day—all day up until he’d seen a gun pointed at this child’s face—but he was pretty sure he failed. He didn’t know what to do, whether he should take Ranpo and go elsewhere, or simply wait for the tears to stop. If they ever did. Instead, Fukuzawa found himself running a hand through choppy black hair, something he recalled from his own childhood as a way to comfort another. He could only hope it would work on this child in front of him.

Ranpo shuddered underneath the palm of his hand, but finally, the wails quietened down, and the tears slowed until there was nothing but sniffling as his nose continued to run. And even though the tears had stopped, Fukuzawa kept moving his hand, kept running his hands through hair that desperately felt like it needed a wash from how oily it felt. He didn’t let that bother him though, as the motion seemed to soothe Ranpo even more, and eventually, Ranpo became still and quiet, but he still clung to Fukuzawa.

“The police are on their way to arrest these people.” Fukuzawa explained, and even though he knew that Ranpo wasn’t injured, he still wanted to be certain. “Are you injured?”

Ranpo didn’t say anything, only shook his head in response to Fukuzawa’s question; but Fukuzawa felt as his arms rose and then fell with the sigh that came out of Ranpo, and waited for the boy to gather his words. It didn’t take long, and Ranpo soon spoke, albeit quietly. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“What do you mean?” Fukuzawa asked, because he genuinely didn’t know what Ranpo meant. He knew that, back at the theatre, he’d offered Ranpo his home, but that had been a spur of the moment thing, something he’d done for a reason he did not yet know of. And despite what had just occurred in the warehouse, Fukuzawa had still been under the assumption that Ranpo was still coming home with him. Had he been wrong?

He received a look that could only be shock as Ranpo looked up at him, eyes showing a hesitance that Fukuzawa had never seen before in the short time he’d known the boy as they scanned his face, almost as if he was looking for a lie that didn’t exist. It was a strange expression to see on Ranpo’s face, because if there was one thing he’d learnt in recent hours, it was that Edogawa Ranpo did not hesitate. Ever since that first moment, where Ranpo had first appeared in that office, he’d exuded a kind of confidence that Fukuzawa had never seen before.

And right now, there was none of that confidence. Right now, Edogawa Ranpo looked every bit the fourteen year old boy that he was, one that is scared about where his future lies.

“The offer to stay with me is still there, if that is what you wish to do.” Fukuzawa offered when it was clear that Ranpo wasn’t about to speak anytime soon. “Otherwise, I can help you find shelter elsewhere.”

Ranpo continued to remain silent, but from the way his grip became almost suffocating, it was obvious that the boy didn’t want to go anywhere without Fukuzawa. Which was reasonable after the night’s events. “Alright.” Fukuzawa said after he’d patted Ranpo’s head a couple of times. “I have a spare futon you can use, and tomorrow, we’ll talk, okay?”

“Okay.” Ranpo murmured, letting go of Fukuzawa and scrubbing his hands across his face, wiping away as much evidence as he could that he’d been crying only moments ago. It was still obvious, from the way Ranpo’s eyes were splotched with red, and puffy eyes, but if Ranpo didn’t want to draw attention, then Fukuzawa would simply follow his lead and pretend—at least until they were behind the safety of closed doors.

It didn’t take long for the police to arrive, frantic and apologetic since it was one of their own that had kidnapped Ranpo in the first place. Fukuzawa let the apologies wash over him, instead pointing their attention towards the criminals that he’d knocked out, and watching as they were all rounded up and loaded into a single police van. One of the officers had approached to apologize again, but Fukuzawa merely raised a hand.

“It’s fine. If there is nothing more you need from us, we’ll be going.”

“Yes, of course, I understand.” The officer said, bowing at the waist towards both Fukuzawa and Ranpo. “We’ll still need statements from the both of you about the events at the theatre and the warehouse, but we’re more than happy to wait until tomorrow to gather those from you. We understand it’s been quite a night.”

“It has. I’ll make sure to stop by the station in the morning then. Until then, good night.” Fukuzawa gave a slight bow before he placed a hand on Ranpo’s shoulder and guided the boy out of the warehouse. The entire time, Ranpo hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at the officers as they’d moved about and tried to engage with him. Fukuzawa wanted to put it up to exhaustion, because who wouldn’t be exhausted after such a night? But he knew better, could see the gears turning inside the boy’s head as he processed what was going on around him, probably already deducing everything about everyone that was there.

Fukuzawa wondered if the boy ever stopped thinking.

The walk to Fukuzawa’s apartment was just as quiet, but now, instead of having Ranpo in front of him, the boy was behind him, footsteps tired and slow as he followed Fukuzawa. It appeared that the night’s events were finally catching up with Ranpo as exhaustion grew on his face. The moment he’d started to lag behind, Fukuzawa had taken hold of Ranpo’s hand, making sure to not walk so fast that the boy tripped, but not so slow that he grew even more tired.

“It’s small.” Fukuzawa said as they came to a stop outside the door to his home on the third floor of the building. “But it’ll do for now. And it’s better than sleeping on the streets.”

Ranpo nodded, lifting his head a little as Fukuzawa opened the door for him and allowed him to step past. Fukuzawa watched as Ranpo stepped inside and stopped, looking around the apartment as he toed off his shoes, and removed his cape and hat, carefully placing them where they’d be out of the way.

At least, despite his arrogance and disregard for social etiquette, Ranpo still had some manners.

Fukuzawa flicked the light switch, blinking as light flooded the apartment, revealing the rest of it to the boy standing beside him. The apartment was simple really; one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. He felt a little self-conscious as Ranpo stepped further into the apartment, coming to a stop in the living room; it wasn’t often—never, actually—that Fukuzawa had guests over, so it felt a little odd to be sharing his living space with someone else, let alone a teenager that he’d only met that morning.

“Are you hungry?” Fukuzawa asked only once Ranpo had been standing for several minutes, not saying, or doing anything.

“No.” Ranpo said, and then sighed. “Are you sure…?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it bothered me, Ranpo.” Fukuzawa moved over towards the kitchen, and opened the freezer, rummaging through it until he’d found what he wanted; an ice pack. He wrapped the block in a towel before he returned to stand in front of Ranpo, and offered it to the boy.

Ranpo frowned at him, but reached out and took the ice pack anyway.

“For your cheek.” Fukuzawa explained, and understanding dawned on Ranpo’s face as he brought it up to rest against the red mark that had swollen a little on the walk here. A bit of guilt ran through Fukuzawa at the sight of it; he really shouldn’t have hit the boy, even though he’d seen no other option at the time. He would apologize for it, but not right now, not when Ranpo seemed so lost and confused, and uncertain. No, he would do it in the morning, after they’d both had a chance to rest. “Right, there are a few things you can do now.”

“What?” Ranpo asked.

“You can take a shower if you’d like before getting some rest.” Fukuzawa said. “Or I can just roll out the spare futon I have and you can sleep.”

“Or?”

“Or we can talk now.”

Ranpo dropped his head, his bangs falling forward to hide his face from view as he thought over his options, for which Fukuzawa was more than happy to give him the time to do so. Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to sleep, an exhaustion that he hadn’t felt in years, settling deep into his bones. But he knew that right now, what he wanted wasn’t important; it was what Ranpo wanted that mattered.

“I don’t have anything else…” Ranpo said quietly. It sounded like the boy was trying to argue, but whatever was running through his mind was too distracting for him to form a proper argument, not that Fukuzawa could figure out what Ranpo was trying to argue in the first place. As if he’d invite the boy into his home and not have something for him to sleep in that wasn’t that uniform of his.

A uniform that’s probably been his only clothing for the past year. Fukuzawa’s mind supplied unhelpfully, bringing with it a pang of sympathy at the idea of Ranpo having to sleep on the streets in just that uniform; he couldn’t even begin to imagine how Ranpo had handled the winter months in that uniform. It certainly didn’t look warm enough. “I should have something you can wear for now. It might be a little big, but it’ll do for now.”

Ranpo nodded and followed Fukuzawa down the hall as he opened the door to his room and crossed over to his closet, once again rummaging until he’d found what he was looking for. Fukuzawa emerged with a hoodie and a pair of pants in hand and held them out towards Ranpo. “The bathroom’s on the other side of the hall. I’ll get the futon ready while you change.”

“Okay.” Ranpo took the clothes from Fukuzawa and disappeared into the bathroom. Once the door clicked shut behind the boy, he moved to hunt down the spare futon he knew he had. He’d never used it of course, because he hadn’t had a reason to use it before now, but he distinctly remembered purchasing one when he’d moved into this apartment, all because the store clerk had told him it wouldn’t hurt to have a spare.

Fukuzawa was so glad he’d listened to that clerk now.

He found the futon tucked into the back of the storage closet, and it was as he unrolled it beside his own futon, that he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Ranpo standing in the doorway in clothes that absolutely drowned the boy. The hoodie alone fell down to Ranpo’s knees, and the pants had been rolled several times to avoid being stepped on.

Fukuzawa shook out the blanket and then turned to face Ranpo. “Is there anything you need before bed?”

Ranpo shifted uneasily with a frown on his face. He shook his head after a moment before pausing and then nodding. Another second passed with another shake, before he finally whispered. “Can we leave a light on?”

“Of course. I’ll leave the hall light on.” Fukuzawa said, and moved to turn on that light and turn the others off, darkening the room, but not completely. He caught a glimpse of Ranpo’s surprised look as he moved to lay on his futon, as if he couldn’t believe his request was even being considered in the first place.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Ranpo asked as he lay on the futon beside Fukuzawa, crawling under the blankets and tugging them until only the top of his head was visible.

“Not at all. You went through something traumatic today, so if having the light on helps, then we will leave the light on.” Fukuzawa explained. “Good night, Ranpo.”

A few moments of silence, then. “Goodnight, Fukuzawa-san.”

The morning brought with it, a tiredness that Fukuzawa felt deep in his bones, and a teenager drooling onto his chest, said teenager having abandoned his own futon at some point during the night to glue himself to Fukuzawa’s side. Fukuzawa sighed, but didn’t make a move to get up or wake Ranpo as he continued to sleep peacefully. A quick glance at the clock in his room showed that it was ten in the morning, and he had to do a double take to make sure that he’d read the clock right; yesterday’s events must’ve weighed on him more than he’d realized since usually, he was up before the sun.

Or maybe, it had something to do with the stray he’d picked up during yesterday’s events.

With another sigh, and some careful manoeuvring, Fukuzawa managed to crawl out from underneath Ranpo without disturbing him, and slowly shut the door behind him as he left the room. And then he paused. What am I supposed to do now? Fukuzawa asked himself as he walked to the kitchen. Sure, he’d offered Ranpo a place to stay, but that was only for the night; he wasn’t nearly well enough equipped to have the teenager stay with him long term, yet… he couldn’t bare the thought of throwing the teen back onto the streets after seeing how attached Ranpo was to him. He tried to picture it in his mind, but even then, couldn’t bring himself to say the words, nor could he bring himself to imagine the tears that would follow if he even dared to say them in the first place.

Whether he liked it or not, Fukuzawa knew that he was stuck with Ranpo now, and that meant, he needed to think. It’d been over eighteen years since he himself was a teenager, but he distinctly remembered being rather low maintenance; never requiring much more than the basics, and never really wanting more than what he’d already had or was given. It didn’t take a genius though, to know that Ranpo was not the same as him, that the boy sleeping in his futon was pretty much the exact opposite to him.

What do teenagers even need in the first place? Fukuzawa frowned as he moved about the kitchen, grabbing some eggs and rice to make a simple breakfast for him and Ranpo. As he moved, he allowed his mind to drift back to the question he’d asked himself; clothes were a given, since it appeared that Ranpo only had one set of clothing, that being the dirty uniform Fukuzawa would need to wash before he let Ranpo wear it again. Toys? As far as Fukuzawa knew, teenagers didn’t play with toys, but Ranpo was rather childish compared to other teenagers he’d run into from time to time, almost as if he’d never quite managed to escape the clutches of childhood. He pushed that idea to the side for now; he’d ask Ranpo when he woke.

Basic necessities were also something he’d need to pick up, unless Ranpo had some of his own in that satchel of his. And even if he did, it couldn’t hurt to have more on hand. Food was another thing he’d need; his fridge had food, but it was filled with basic stuff that didn’t take all that long to prepare. A growing teenage boy would need protein and more sustainable meals, especially since Ranpo was already on the small side for his age. Fukuzawa couldn’t help but frown as he cracked the eggs into a frying pan; he hadn’t noticed it before, but Ranpo was rather scrawny. That assassin had been younger than the boy—only twelve, Fukuzawa’s mind supplied unhelpfully—and he’d already been taller, and bulkier, than Ranpo was.

He could only imagine that life on the streets hadn’t been particularly kind to the orphaned teen.

Speaking of life on the streets… a doctors visit would be necessary. And that was the most terrifying task yet. Fukuzawa didn’t go to the doctors himself often, but whenever he’d needed to, the offices had always been filled with wailing children begging their parents to go home, and something was telling him that Ranpo was one such child. But it was a necessary task; Ranpo had gone for over a year without proper healthcare—at least, as far as Fukuzawa knew—and depending on where the boy had taken to sleeping at night, it certainly wouldn’t have been a cleanest of environments.

Clothes, necessities, doctors. We’ll start there. Fukuzawa nodded to himself as a plan of action formed in his mind. That way, if Ranpo decided he did want to stay, they’d be able to get everything they needed. And if, by some chance, Ranpo didn’t want to stay, then make a note of what Ranpo needed and give the boy some money so he could do it himself.

Something told him that would be unnecessary, but it always paid to think ahead.

“Fukuzawa-san…?” A quiet voice sounded from behind him, and Fukuzawa turned to see Ranpo standing in the hallway, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Despite sleeping as deep as he had, Ranpo still looked exhausted. His eyes were red as they blinked open once, and his hair was all over the place, even more than it already was. And although Ranpo had made it sound like he was going to say something else, his voice trailed off and he said nothing.

“I made eggs and rice for breakfast.” Fukuzawa said as he turned back to the stove to check on the eggs, finding them to be suitably cooked, and dished them onto the bowls of rice that’d finished cooking moments before Ranpo had appeared. “If it’s not to your liking, I plan to do groceries today. Just tell me what you would like.”

“It’s fine.” Ranpo shuffled over to the dining table and thanked Fukuzawa as he was handed one of the bowls. He sat there in silence, as Fukuzawa sat from across him, and didn’t move to touch his food. Instead he pulled his hands away from the bowl and they disappeared under the table. There was tension in the teen’s frame.

“Is something wrong?” Fukuzawa frowned after he’d taken a bite of his own food. Were the eggs not cooked enough? Was it too plain a meal? Or was it not sweet enough for the boy’s liking?

“You wanted to talk when we woke up.” Was all that Ranpo said. He still refused to look up and meet Fukuzawa’s eyes.

“I did. But we can eat and talk, or we can talk after eating.” Fukuzawa tapped Ranpo’s bowl with his spoon. “Eat. You must be hungry.”

Ranpo did as he was asked, and finally picked up the spoon, managing a few mouthfuls before he broke the silence. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Fukuzawa asked. He paused in eating and placed his spoon beside the bowl in order to give Ranpo is full attention.

Ranpo gestured towards the food, and then gestured again to the rest of Fukuzawa’s apartment. “All this. I’m just some kid you met yesterday.”

“It’s called being kind, Ranpo.” Fukuzawa lifted his spoon again, and finished off the rest of his meal before he continued speaking. “You needed a place to sleep, so I offered one. You needed food, so I cooked some. It doesn’t matter if I met you yesterday, or if I met you weeks ago, I’d still do the same.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.” Fukuzawa admitted, and truthfully, he didn’t know. He didn’t know why he felt such a strong need to care for the kid sitting across from him, why he felt like it was his responsibility to make sure that Ranpo was safe and looked after. And he certainly didn’t know when that had happened; he’d spent almost the entirety of yesterday wanting to be rid of an annoying, know-it-all teenager, yet the moment Ranpo had been in danger, he’d gone to all lengths to protect the kid.

He couldn’t explain it.

“I don’t know.” He repeated. Slowly. Carefully. “You tried my patience and you drained my wallet, yet something changed to make me go from wanting to leave you tied to a pole to wanting to make sure that you were safe and cared for, and that is something I am unable to put into words right now.”

Ranpo remained silent, eyes focused on the table as he ate, but Fukuzawa could tell that he was listening to his every word. Fukuzawa was content to wait, and pushed his bowl to the side while he waited for Ranpo to find the words he needed; if he had any to say. After maybe five minutes, Ranpo opened his mouth. “What do you want from me?”

The question is shaky, and there’s a look on Ranpo’s face that Fukuzawa doesn’t like. He can’t name it, but he’s seen it before—never on a teenager’s face before now though—and he can’t say that he likes the conclusion that he’d drawn from it. A part of him wanted to ask Ranpo, wanted to reassure himself that he was coming to the wrong conclusion, but he doesn’t, because he knows that if he does, it’ll destroy the current atmosphere and it’ll drive Ranpo away.

“I don’t want anything from you.” Fukuzawa said instead. He laced his fingers together to rest his chin on them as he watched Ranpo fidget in his seat—still with no eye contact. “All I want is to see you thrive, because I believe you can do great things with the gift you possess—if that is what you want to do—and you cannot thrive without the proper support.”

“And you’ll… offer that support? To me?” Ranpo lifted his head, and he looked at Fukuzawa, although his eyes were still closed as he did so, so it wasn’t quite direct eye contact, but that was fine. He was quickly learning that Ranpo was filled with quirks, and he was sure that there were still many that he wasn’t aware of yet.

“If you want it. I can offer you food and shelter in exchange for simple chores around the apartment. We can enrol you into school so that you can finish the education that you started, and we can find you work so you can make some money and not need to rely on the government.”

“And… what if… I didn’t want to stay here…?” Ranpo asked, although he sounded uncertain as he did so, like it wasn’t a scenario he wanted to follow the path of, but would do so if Fukuzawa gave the slightest inclination that he didn’t want Ranpo to stay. It was so obvious that it made Fukuzawa’s heart clench, but he didn’t let it show on his face, keeping his calm and collected self so that he didn’t scare Ranpo away.

“If you didn’t want to stay here, I would help you find work, and somewhere stable to live. But you don’t want to do that, do you?”

Ranpo shook his head and hunched in on himself, drawing his knees to his chest and hiding his face into them. “I’d like to stay here. With you. You aren’t like the other adults in this strange world I don’t understand. You aren’t a monster, and you understand me… well, sort of. So I’d like to stay… if that’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t okay, Ranpo. You are welcome to stay. We’ll just have to get you some things first.” Fukuzawa said, standing from the table to clear the empty bowls and place them in the sink to be washed later. He watches Ranpo begin to unfurl from his position. “Now, I intended to wash that uniform of yours today, but maybe you’d like to wear it while we go out and get you some new clothes? Since you haven’t mentioned having anything else to wear.”

Ranpo’s face scrunched up before he’d even finished asking the question, and there’s red blooming across his cheeks. “My bag is only so big…”

“I’m not poking fun at you.” Fukuzawa looked over at Ranpo, finding the boy curled up again and hiding his face. “I understand your living situation has not been ideal, so you will not receive any judgement from me. We will go out and get what you need, and that is that. Alright?”

A few beats of silence, and then, “Alright…”

As it turned out, shopping with Ranpo was not ideal. Well, clothes shopping specifically. After the two of them had washed up, they’d left the apartment; Fukuzawa somehow managing to find a pair of pants and a shirt that didn’t immediately frown Ranpo, but were still far too large for the scrawny teen. Ranpo had immediately complained about being seen out in public like that, but when Fukuzawa had suggested that Ranpo remain behind—because he could simply take the kid’s jacket to help with buying the right sized clothing—Ranpo had kicked up an even bigger fuss.

So yeah, Fukuzawa was already tired, and it was only midday.

The mall they’d gone to was busy; not terribly so because it was a weekday, but there was enough people to bring discomfort instead of enjoyment. Not that Fukuzawa was particularly fond of crowds to begin with in the first place. He found himself watching Ranpo closely, keeping one hand on Ranpo’s back whenever they had to walk through a crowd, and just making sure the boy didn’t get lost. From the small number of things that Fukuzawa knew about the boy that was, well, his ward now essentially, he knew that Ranpo had grown up in a small town or village, one where everyone had known each other. So to go from that to a city as big as Yokohama, that had countless shopping districts filled with shops and people, it had to be a bit of a shock.

But Ranpo seemed fine, if a little tense, as his head swivelled from side to side, taking in his surroundings. He never said anything, only speaking to ask where exactly it was that they were going, or for Fukuzawa to slow down—he hadn’t even realized he’d been walking too fast until Ranpo had first asked him and he’d realized the teen was having to jog to keep up with him.

“Here.” Fukuzawa came to a stop outside of clothing store on the top floor of the complex. Why the people who’d built this mall had decided the main stores needed to be on the top floor, he didn’t know, but he did not appreciate it, not when he’d had to listen to Ranpo complain about the amount of stairs they’d had to climb. “We should be able to find some clothes for you here.”

“This is a children’s clothing store.” Ranpo pointed out.

Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow. “And? You are a child.”

“Yes, but, I’m nearly an adult!”

“Unless you plan to grow taller or put on weight in the next two months, you won’t fit any of the adult clothes right now, Ranpo.” Fukuzawa explained, feeling a little bad at pointing out how small Ranpo actually was right now, but he didn’t want to waste money on clothes that wouldn’t even fit the boy for some time. It wasn’t as if they were buying an entire wardrobe right now anyway. All they were doing was buying a few pants, some shirts, and whatever else Ranpo needed to get him by until Fukuzawa could afford to buy more.

He may have had enough money to buy Ranpo nine bowls of red bean soup, but he certainly didn’t have enough to buy an entire wardrobe plus whatever else they needed to buy that day.

“Ugh, fine. But don’t be surprised if there’s nothing I like here.” Ranpo huffed as he dragged Fukuzawa into the—thankfully—quiet store. All the other shoppers must’ve been on the lower levels, because there was only ten other people in the store, plus the workers. And it was quiet, which was a nice change to the rest of the building.

“You’re going the wrong way.” Fukuzawa pulled Ranpo to a halt and pointed to the right of where they’d been going. “Boy’s clothes are that way.”

Ranpo looked up at the sign that showed they’d been heading towards the girl’s section of the store. He blushed an impressive shade of red and pouted, turning his head towards the ground. “What if I wanted to go to that section?”

Fukuzawa blinked, not having expected that response. He suddenly felt like he was being tested, but what for, he wasn’t quite sure. He thought over it carefully, as the last thing he wanted to do was upset or offend Ranpo by saying the wrong thing. Fukuzawa considered himself supportive of people regardless of how they presented themselves, correcting himself as needed if he was wrong, and correcting others when they were wrong. But not once had he considered that Ranpo might fall under that category. A little bit of guilt ran through him at that. He should’ve asked before they’d come to the mall. “Do you want to shop there?”

Ranpo shrugged. “I’d like to look.”

“Alright. We can look there and see if there’s anything you’d like.” Ranpo’s eyes opened, revealing bright green orbs as the teen stared at him in poorly disguised shock. Fukuzawa couldn’t tell if Ranpo had actually wanted to shop in the girl’s section or if he’d just been trying to save face because he hadn’t realized he was going the wrong way, but Fukuzawa wasn’t going to bring it up. He’d ask Ranpo about it when they were back home.

Ranpo was silent as he browsed the clothes, so Fukuzawa remained silent as well as he followed behind, observing as Ranpo occasionally reached out and ran his hands along the fabric, either withdrawing quickly like the fabric had burned him, or visibly relaxing as he felt the fabric. Fukuzawa didn’t understand the reactions, but he took note anyway of what fabric caused what reaction. It seemed important.

“Excuse me, do you need a hand?” Fukuzawa turned to see a staff member standing just behind him, a friendly smile on her face. Yukino, her name tag read, and when Fukuzawa merely blinked at her, her smile grew wider. “Sorry, I noticed you both looked a bit lost, so I wondered if I could be of assistance?”

Fukuzawa glanced over at Ranpo, who wasn’t looking in their direction, but was coiled with tension. He turned his attention back to Yukino. “We’re fine thank you. Do you have change rooms though in case we’d like to try some things?”

“Yes, of course.” Yukino gestured to the left of them where, Fukuzawa could now see, had massive lettering labelled ‘change rooms’ plastered across the wall. “We only ask that you take five things at a time if you plan to try a lot, and that anything you don’t like, you leave at the counter there.”

“Thank you.” Fukuzawa gave a slight bow, and turned back towards Ranpo as they were left alone once again. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Ranpo frowned up at him and put back the shirt he’d been holding. The teen then looked away, before he looked at the ground and tensed even further. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“What’s weird?”

“Being in this section?”

“Not if it’s what you want to wear.” Fukuzawa shrugged, stepping closer to Ranpo, and looking at the shirt he’d been looking at; it was a simple white shirt with a cat printed on the front. To be honest, he couldn’t see what made it a ‘girls’ shirt to begin with. “Clothing is all about what makes you feel comfortable. It’s why I mostly wear my yukata, although I do enjoy wearing other clothes at times.”

Ranpo hummed, and went back to browsing. A couple of minutes later, he piped up. “How much can I pick out?”

“Not too much, we have a lot to acquire today. Five shirts, three pants—or skirts if that is what you’d prefer—and we’ll get you some underwear which should be enough for now. We can always buy more once you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

Ranpo nodded, and didn’t respond as he continued to browse, slowly wandering from the girls section over towards the boys section. He was yet to actually pick anything out, but there were some items that the teen lingered on more than others. Fukuzawa tried not to become impatient, but when, after an hour, Ranpo still hadn’t picked out, he found himself losing a little patience.

“Why don’t you get something simple for now?” He suggested, pulling a shirt off of the rack and holding it up.

Ranpo studied the shirt for less than a second before he turned his nose up at it. “It’s the wrong material.”

“The wrong—Ranpo, it’s a shirt! It’s just like all the other shirts here.” Fukuzawa exclaimed in disbelief.

“No it’s not!” Ranpo snatched the shirt form his hands and threw it back on the rack carelessly. He stepped away from Fukuzawa and curled his arms around himself. “It’s the wrong material, okay? It doesn’t feel right!”

Fukuzawa sighed, and reached over to take the shirt again, replacing it onto the hanger before putting it back where he’d gotten it from. This was why he’d been unsure about taking Ranpo in in the first place. Already, they were hitting their first obstacle and it was clothes of all things. He closed his eyes and took a breath to bring back his patience since snapping wasn’t going to get them anywhere. When he opened them, Ranpo was still in front of him, tense, and head lowered.

He reached over and placed a hand on Ranpo’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze and waiting until Ranpo looked up at him. “I apologize for snapping. Tell me then, what is an appropriate shirt for you?”

Ranpo’s eyes opened wide at his words, and it took a few seconds for Ranpo to reach back into the rack, touching most of the shirts there before he pulled one out. “This one. It’s soft, not scratchy.”

Fukuzawa ran his hands over the material before he did the same to the shirt he’d placed back on the rack. He thinks he’d understood what Ranpo meant, but he knew that he still didn’t quite get it. Still, he nodded. “Alright. I think I understand now. If I pick out some shirts like this one, will you try them?”

A pause, and then a nod. Finally, progress had been made.

Fukuzawa turned to walk to a different aisle before he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Would you like me to pick you something from the other section?”

A longer pause this time, and a wary look before he’s given a slow nod.

Alright. Fukuzawa walked away after telling Ranpo where he was going—not that the boy wouldn’t be able to see him since he towered over most of the racks anyway—and began to browse the shirts. Every shirt he picked out, he held it against the one he’d taken with him, one that Ranpo had approved of, to make sure that it was the same material; a task that was surprisingly harder than it looked. It took some time, but eventually, he managed to pick out some shirts that he thought Ranpo might look; three from the boy’s section, and three from the girl’s.

He'd also grabbed something else, but he was still hesitant on whether or not it was something Ranpo actually wanted.

Upon returning to Ranpo’s side, he discovered that the boy had also picked out a few articles of clothing for himself—thank the heavens—and seemed happy with what he had chosen. From what Fukuzawa could see, they were just plain shirts, which was completely fine. Ranpo didn’t really strike Fukuzawa as the kind of kid to wear extravagant clothing.

“Do you want to try these on?” Fukuzawa asked, offering out the shirts he’d picked out.

Ranpo nodded, and looked through the shirts, placing two of them off to the side that he didn’t like. Fukuzawa felt a warm feeling grow inside him at that, pleased that he’d managed to at least guess correctly for four of the six things he’d grabbed. That warm feeling disappeared the moment Ranpo came upon the other article of clothing he’d brought over.

“You don’t have to try it, but you lingered on it before we moved on, so I grabbed it in case you wanted to, but were too shy.” Fukuzawa explained, feeling a little stupid to have to explain his decision, especially since Ranpo probably had already figured out why he’d grabbed it in the first place.

Ranpo didn’t say anything to begin with, and just held the clothes close to his chest. After a moment, he hummed. “I’m going to go try them on.”

“Alright, I’ll wait outside.”

What’s taking him so long? Fukuzawa glanced towards the room that Ranpo had disappeared nearly fifteen minutes ago. From his position, he could hear Ranpo shuffling about within, but the boy hadn’t made a sound for the past ten minutes, and Fukuzawa was starting to get worried. Another minute passed without a sound, and he finally gave up and approached the door. “Ranpo?”

“Yeah?” Ranpo’s voice is shaky and Fukuzawa swore he could hear sniffling. Is he crying?

“Are you alright?” There was no response to his words, but he heard a click as the door was unlocked, and that was as much of an invitation that he was going to get; Fukuzawa pushed the door open and stepped inside, eyes immediately falling towards Ranpo, who had his knees to his chest as he tucked himself back into the corner of the change room, avoiding eye contact. Fukuzawa sat on the ground next to the teen, and took note of the skirt that was currently in a death grip in Ranpo’s hands. “What’s wrong, Ranpo?”

Ranpo glanced at him. His eyes are red again from unshed tears. “I’ve never picked my own clothes before.”

Fukuzawa couldn’t help but frown. “I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“My parents…” Ranpo’s voice trailed off, and there was a pained look on his face, the same one he’d worn when he’d last brought up the topic of his parents to Fukuzawa back at the restaurant. “They used to get upset if I didn’t wear what they picked for me.”

What do I even say to that? Fukuzawa thought as he scrambled to find an appropriate response. Time began to tick by, and Ranpo started to look more apprehensive, so Fukuzawa just spat out the first thing that came to his mind. “That seems like a poor reason to get upset at you.”

Ranpo snorted and shrugged. “Maybe. We grew up in a small town, so I guess they didn’t want the neighbours to think I was weirder than they already thought I was.”

Again, Fukuzawa was left unable to figure out an appropriate response. He wanted to offer words of comfort and reassurance, but it just didn’t seem right when he didn’t quite understand what the problem was. In his mind, teenagers should be allowed to wear whatever they wanted and not be judged for it, but he understood that his way of thinking wasn’t exactly commonplace in society, despite how much progress had been made over the years. What would’ve been considered taboo when Fukuzawa was a child was now somewhat accepted, and he’d seen many of the younger generation expressing themselves in various manners.

“If…” Fukuzawa began and looked down at Ranpo, and waited for Ranpo to look up at him. “If you want to wear the skirt, you will receive no judgement from me. If that is what is stopping you in the first place. And if you don’t want to wear it, that is fine as well.”

“You want to ask something else. I can tell.”

“I do, but I don’t think you want to talk about that in a change room.” Fukuzawa said, which drew another laugh from Ranpo.

“Yeah, not really.”

Fukuzawa soon found himself being herded out of the change room, and the door slammed shut in his face; a reprimand was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. It was still far too early in… whatever dynamic this was between him and Ranpo, to scold the boy when he did something wrong.

But you slapped him.

Yes, and I will apologize for that. Fukuzawa argued with himself as he returned to his seat to wait. He’d already forgotten about the way he’d slapped Ranpo the previous night, and regret ran through him at the memory of it. He really should’ve controlled himself better; Ranpo clearly was a bit different from other teenagers, and he’d looked so stunned when it had happened, like he couldn’t understand why he’d been struck in the first place. It was something they should’ve talked about that morning, but Fukuzawa had had so much on his mind that he’d forgotten.

“Fukuzawa-san?”

“Yes, Ranpo?” Fukuzawa looked up to see Ranpo standing beside him, with the clothes he’d just tried on in his arms. “Do they fit well?”

“Yeah, they do. But…” Ranpo trailed off, one of his feet kicking against the ground since his hands weren’t free to fidget with.

“What is it?” Fukuzawa asked.

“If… I wanted the skirt; would it count towards the pants limit?”

Fukuzawa let a smile form on his face, a small one, but still a smile. “No, you can still get the three pairs of pants. Although, is there a specific material you want for the pants?” He really didn’t want to spend another hour in this store trying to find the right kind of pants. He’d do it, of course, but he wouldn’t enjoy it.

“Pants are easier. They just need to not be tight.” Ranpo said. “It won’t take as long, so you don’t have to worry so much.”

And true to his word, selecting the pants had been the easiest part of this trip so far; Ranpo quickly finding the pants that suited him best. He also returned with a pair of leggings, stating that while he liked the skirt he’d tried on, it showed off too much skin, so Fukuzawa added it to the pile without a second thought.

After pants came the rest of the clothing; underwear and socks, which was also an easy affair and before he knew it, they’d finally left the department store—with a promise to never return after the cashier had dared to give them a dirty look upon seeing what they were purchasing.

Fukuzawa had seen the thought building behind the man’s eyes, had seen his mouth opening to speak that thought, and had seen is slam shut when he’d stood up to his full height and unleashed the intimidating aura he was known for on poor cashier.

Meanwhile Ranpo had chattered on happily about finally having more than one outfit to wear, and begging Fukuzawa for some sweets.

And Fukuzawa had caved, returning to the sweet shop that was on the level below them and buying Ranpo a few sweets—along with something substantial from the café two doors down—to keep him occupied whilst he purchased the rest of what they needed. The one benefit of taking so long to finish shopping for clothes, was that by the time they’d made it to the grocery store, the crowds had already died down, which meant that there were less shoppers in the grocer, which meant peace.

Well, peace from strangers, not from Ranpo.

First, Ranpo had insisted on being pushed, sitting on the front of the cart. Then, he’d insisted on more sweets than were healthy, which Fukuzawa had had to argue against; that hadn’t stopped Ranpo from sneaking some into the cart whilst his back was turned. Then Ranpo had wanted to push the cart, and at first, Fukuzawa had been pleased that Ranpo was offering to help, only to have to chase the boy down the aisle as he took off, laughing his head off and nearly running over several shoppers as he shot by them.

If Ranpo had been any smaller, than Fukuzawa would’ve just forced him into the child’s seat and been done with it.

Alas, he couldn’t, so he’d made Ranpo hold onto the side of the cart and not let go, with a gentle threat of no sweets being all it took to get the boy to obey him.

Apparently, that was all it took for Ranpo’s mood to turn sour, because then the complaints started. It started with it was too loud with all the beeping and chatter, then it was too bright because of the ceiling lights, and then there were too many people, because the longer they’d walked around, the more shoppers had arrived; all the complaints were uttered within a few minutes of each other, and Fukuzawa was almost at wits end. Yet, despite the cracks forming, Ranpo continued to complain and whine, the teen becoming more agitated the longer they walked.

“Ranpo, please.” Fukuzawa wasn’t begging, not yet, but all he wanted was for Ranpo to just be quiet for five minutes. “We’ll be done soon.”

“Well, I want to be done now! We have more than enough food!” Ranpo huffed tugging the cart to a halt and letting out a whine as he looked up at Fukuzawa. “I’m tired, I want to go home already!”

“It’s only been—”

“I don’t care!” Ranpo interrupted with a shout, and Fukuzawa fought the urge to shrivel up and die when head swivelled to look at them. “I’m tired and I want to go home! I don’t like it here!”

“Ranpo—”

“No!” Fukuzawa winced as Ranpo shoved the cart into his stomach and sat on the ground with a whine, curling up so small, his head wasn’t even visible. Fukuzawa looked around helplessly, face burning in embarrassment as he tried to quickly come to a solution. But he couldn’t think of something, because he didn’t know what this was, and it didn’t help as the other people in the aisle

“Ranpo—” Fukuzawa tried again, only to be cut off by a loud whine and what sounded like a muffled sob. What do I do? How do I handle this?

“Get him somewhere quiet.” A soft voice drew Fukuzawa’s attention, and he looked behind him to see a mother with a toddler attached to her hip giving him a sympathetic look. “He’s overwhelmed, so if you get him somewhere quiet, he’ll calm down.”

“I—” Fukuzawa glanced between the cart of groceries and Ranpo. He knew what he needed to do, he needed to help Ranpo like he’d promised to do that morning, but for the first time in his life, he felt rooted to the spot, unable to move while Ranpo fell apart at his feet.

The mother places a hand on his arm, and he looked back at her. “Go. I’ll watch your cart for you.”

“Thank you.” Fukuzawa breathed out as he reached down and pulled Ranpo to his feet before he quickly began to guide the boy towards the exit, quietly hushing Ranpo as he whined. Was it harsh? Probably. Was it necessary? Absolutely. Later, he’d research what it was that he was supposed to do in such a situation, but for now, this was the best that he could do.

The moment they left the grocer behind, along with all the sounds and crowds, the tension left Ranpo’s body and he stumbled over his own feet, Fukuzawa’s grip the only reason the teen didn’t fall to the ground. Fukuzawa tightened his grip on Ranpo’s arm and pulled him down to the side of the building, only letting go once Ranpo was leaning against the building.

“Breathe.” Fukuzawa instructed. “Keep your eyes closed and just breathe.”

Ranpo gave a single nod and slid down the wall. He took a few breaths before he whispered. “Go.”

“No, it can wait.” As much as he wanted to finish the shopping, he wasn’t about to just leave Ranpo on his own when he wasn’t well.

“Please.” Ranpo pleaded, opening his eyes to stare at Fukuzawa. “I’ll be fine. I just—just need a moment.”

“Then take that moment. I will wait with you.”

Ranpo continued to stare at him for a moment before he sighed and buried his face into his knees. The two of them sat in silence for another ten minutes before Ranpo lifted his head again. “I’m okay.”

Fukuzawa hesitated. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah. I’ll wait here… if that’s alright?”

“That’s fine. I won’t be long.” Fukuzawa promised as he turned away, pausing to watch Ranpo carefully just in case the boy was just acting strong, but it truly seemed that Ranpo was feeling better, and with that in mind, he hurried back into the grocer. He quickly tracked down the aisle he’d abandoned his cart in, and was surprised when the mother was still there, entertaining her child. “You’re still here.”

The mother looked up at him and stood, a gentle smile on her face; her child moving to hide behind her legs. “Of course, I promised to watch your cart for you after all. Is your son alright?”

He’s not my son. Fukuzawa wanted to say, but he also didn’t want to delve into an explanation about how he’d technically only been Ranpo’s guardian for a day and a bit, and that he’d met the boy at a murder scene, and that Ranpo had latched onto him like a leech. “He’s calmer now. Thank you for your assistance.”

“That’s alright. You looked a little lost and it reminded me of the time when my eldest went into overload for the first time when I took him grocery shopping. He’s old enough now that I can leave him at home thankfully.”

“Overload?” Fukuzawa frowned, unsure of what the woman meant. “Could you explain it to me? I’ve only… had him for a day, so that was the first time I’d seen him like that.”

He was given a sympathetic look before the mother reached into her purse and pulled out a notebook and pen, quickly scribbling onto a page. “It’s easier if you research it, so I’ll tell you what you need to look up, but basically, it’s sensory overload when one’s senses become overwhelmed by external stimuli.”

“I see.” Fukuzawa didn’t really, but he figured that was why she was going out of her way to write down what he needed so that he could figure it out. “And when it happens… you just take them somewhere quiet.”

“If you catch it early, then yes, but if it’s a more severe episode, it’s usually just easier to go home where they can be comfortable in a familiar environment.” The mother tears a few pages from the notebook and holds them out towards Fukuzawa. “Here, this should help. I hope everything goes well for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to help as well. You didn’t have to.” Fukuzawa said as he looked at the paper, seeing a list of websites along with a very small list of what looked to be the names of a few clinics within Yokohama.

“Of course I had to!” The mother huffed, although she was smiling. “Parenting is hard, so you shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help if there’s something you don’t understand. Good luck mister!”

Fukuzawa watched the mother walk away with her own child before realizing that Ranpo was still waiting outside for him and that he still had to go through the checkout and pay for the groceries. He sighed, pushing the cart towards the entrance; maybe going on a shopping trip the day after acquiring a child he knew nothing about wasn’t the smartest of ideas.

“Apologies for making you wait.” Fukuzawa said as he approached the spot he’d left Ranpo at. The teen was still sitting on the ground, fidgeting with the hem of the shirt, but he did look up at Fukuzawa’s approach.

“It’s fine.” Ranpo mumbled, dropping his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For overreacting.”

Fukuzawa blinked, and then frowned, before he moved to crouch in front of Ranpo. “You don’t need to apologize for something you couldn’t help. I should be the one apologizing for not realizing sooner.” He paused for a moment. “May I ask you something?”

Ranpo lifted his gaze and nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Green eyes looked away from him, and shoulders raised in a shrug. “Dunno.”

“Has it always been a problem? The sensory issues I mean?” Fukuzawa tried to be gentle in his wording, sensing that it was a sensitive topic, and was proven correct when Ranpo visibly tensed.

“Yeah…”

“Alright.” Fukuzawa stood and offered a hand to Ranpo, and pulled the boy to his feet when he took it. Fukuzawa turned on his heel and picked up the shopping backs before he set off in the direction of home.

Ranpo stared at him as he followed close behind. “That’s it?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t think I’m… a problem?” Ranpo whispered, and the uncertainty in his voice made Fukuzawa stop and turn to look at the boy.

“Not at all. It’s simply an obstacle we will have to adapt and overcome together. You aren’t alone anymore, Ranpo, you can rely on me when you’re struggling.”

Ranpo hummed and fell silent. And while Fukuzawa should be bothered by such a response, he wasn’t. It didn’t come as a surprise to know that despite Ranpo having faith in him, the boy didn’t trust him. Not yet anyway.

But in time, that trust would come.

He was certain of it.

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd fanfic #edogawa ranpo #fukuzawa yukichi #fukudad #found family #hurt/comfort #comfort #angst #writing #fanfiction

[hextechmaturgy]

Do you have any headcanons for how Grief and Andrey's relationship is like? What do you think Andrey has done for the town's criminals? (i saw your tags on the voice lines reblog)

OH FRIEND...... YOU HONOR ME WITH THIS ASK YOU DO..... i got so excited to answer. i'm actually writing an angrief fic atm spanning from when they meet to when the game ends, but because i'm a very very very slow writer it's not coming out anytime soon. if you're interested tho wink i'd be happy to send u a very short sneak peak in dms wink

regarding headcanons tho, i'll try to be concise but honestly i have many unorganized thoughts and feelings about those two. should also be said that i have a timeline in my head for pre-game events that probably doesn't match canon at all, but it makes sense TO ME and time in pathologic is more of a suggestion anyway sooo hihi let's go

andrey is a bit older than grief; they meet at age 19/20. artemy is leaving and grief's losing his friends, his family. he's turning to gangs for company, which only further alienates him from lara and stakh. andrey is making friends for once, a rare thing after years on the run. his head's full of ideas, ideas that someone actually wants to hear, it's exhilarating. they meet at a plot of land where a staircase will stand one day, both immediately clocking Each Other™️, but the knowing looks go beyond a tick in their gaydar. andrey is a free man and grief wants to be free, desperately so, but he's also afraid. what will it cost him? grief fears the unknown, the steppe curses that keep him up at night, the scorn of his friends and the abandonment, the unknown. it's hard to be authentic, isn't it? andrey sees this struggle, understands the want to fight, the want for freedom. andrey tells him it's okay to want

that first meeting emboldens grief, sustains him when his family breaks for good. they don't see each other for months, and a lot changes for the two of them, but they still remember and all too well. andrey asked to see him again, grief is reluctant. just meeting the man was already impactful enough, he's relived it so often, lost in dreams. but he feels bold, andrey makes him bold. he finds andrey bleeding at his own bar. he needs stitches somewhere he can't reach, won't you help me out, sweet filin? he does. his hand trembles, his stitches are terrible. odd thing, piercing skin, sinking into another man's flesh. hope this doesn't awake anything in him!!!

(spoiler: it absolutely does)

it's probably not a huge surprise at this point if i state i write grief with internalized homophobia in mind, and a considerable amount of religious trauma too. the man he wants to be brings him to shame, and that reflex goes beyond sexuality yes but it's also about that. andrey is uncharacteristically patient. he'll push and prod, poke at the hidden layers behind those freckles he's memorized for some reason, but never goes beyond grief's limits. freedom shouldn't be scary. grief will evolve, he will grow, and andrey will look at him with pride in his eyes and something that is definitely not love (andrey only knows violence. what does he do with love?)

grief is becoming a proper criminal now, respected even if he won't cut, perhaps respected because he gets the job done without cutting. he becomes a seller of all things illegal, and andrey is always in the market for something dangerous. he wants a weapon that will allow him to get up close and personal, and he gets something personal alright. grief gives him a knuckle-duster, a gift. places it around his fingers to see how it fits, awfully gentle. it's not a ring, it's not a promise, they're not that ridiculous

(spoiler: they absolutely are)

the first outbreak is scary. peter suffers immensely from it and when peter suffers, andrey agonizes, but peter is fine...... grief wonders if the pest is divine punishment, if he's to blame for it somehow, but surely not....... they're both restless and healthy, alive, and they're sort of neighbors (oh my god they were neighbors). it's easier to call their INVOLVEMENT stress relief. neither is prepared for the truth really

friends who bang! andrey's got plenty of those and this one isn't any different, okay? barkeeps hear all sorts of juicy gossip, and if he happens to perk up at news on grief and his gang, it's only because andrey is a dangerous man too, and he's wise to look out for the goings on of the underworld. i'm actually still unsure what the line 'wasn't long ago he was on his knees, begging before me' is all about, but i'm convinced it's not horny, at least not 100%. they spend a lot of time on their knees before one another, almost anything andrey says sounds like a threat or a preposition. andrey is held responsible for the death of at least one man (rip farkhad) so he's probably feared in the town. his lifestyle alone shocks plenty of people. grief holds his men back with a "no stabbing, no shooting, no killing" leash, but we know they're able, we know some are willing. perhaps grief needed andrey to intimidate a gang member he was having trouble with, truly desperate, out of other solutions. i'm begging you for help, on my knees if i have to. those men are terrified of you, and frankly so am i (but not in the same way, oh never, somehow i know you would never kill me). it would explain why andrey brings it up to artemy during the second outbreak. grief's men will start misbehaving soon - i wonder if he will come crawling to beg again

i think they're amicable for the most part, their personalities bounce of one another. they're insistent on the just friends thing mostly out of habit. i know you will come if i need you, and we have plenty of fun together already. that's enough, no? what else could a bastard need

second outbreak is a mess and we all know just how much. apple basket reunion is awkward because hey grief why did the guy at the bar tell me about you being on your- how about we don't talk for a while? oh also, this is a small thing, but shout out to the day you find grief and peter at aspity's house. i laughed so much imagining that conversation, or the very OBVIOUS lack of one. peter isn't even really there, dozing off lost in his thoughts, and grief is nearby sweating bullets. be cool grief, be cool - wait why are you even trying to impress peter?

when the polyhedron dies - because she is alive, and she is dying - andrey is lost to senseless violence. he doesn't believe artemy's confession because that would mean killing grief's childhood friend. it's easier to be angry at thirty faceless men. we also know that grief is... NOT WELL, after the whole thing with aglaya. grief is sitting at a staircase (THE staircase that once wasn't here) and he stays there until it's dark, until it's light again. andrey finds him, drunk out of his goddamn mind, probably guided there by all the twyrine in his system. it's unsettling to not see her when he reaches the top, it's unsettling to not see grief as well. what can two broken men do but weep? they whisper to each other. come with me, let's kill them all. it's not worth it, nothing is anymore. i'll go without you. you'll die. do you care?

there's stuff i missed, stuff that probably doesn't make sense, i'm writing this at 6 am in a frenzy of angrief feelings because i love them. i love this ask, i had to reply or i wouldn't sleep. what happens after the game is a wonder to me as well. i've said before somewhere that p1 grief is who p2 grief could become after the diurnal ending. andrey is also going to struggle with his place in the world, mourning the loss of a perfect tower that can never be reproduced, of brilliance and hard work, probably mourning the loss of his brother too, not to the pest but to love. peter has grace now and i think that will be jarring, not being the only family peter has. the twins have only ever had each other, is andrey falling behind? how will he catch up? can he? twins are perfect opposites, he says: it's only natural that when peter starts to improve, andrey begins to degenerate

but i like to be hopeful, because i like these characters a lot (i know u would never be able to tell xoxo). two negatives make a positive, so maybe andrey and grief can be miserable together, and maybe then they'll realize that love is fit for bastards too

#ask #i'm having plague thoughts (BEWARE) #angrief #i didn't proof read this hopefully it's LEGIBLE

[creabirds]

Hope you don't mind if I ask a few!

🤍🎀💘🕯️

hiii!!!!!! ofc i don't i can never shut up

🤍what's one fic of yours you think people didn't "get"?

hmmmm this is tough to say. i don't have a particular one i feel like people didn't get but i am always surprised to see which fics do well and which less so. i guess it has to do with my own reading preferences but i had to learn that longer chaptered fics with more plot just garner more engagement than the mindless pwp i like to produce sometimes (and prefer to read a lot of the time)

🎀give yourself a compliment about your own writing

ugh you CAUGHT ME THERE. well. i think i have pretty unique ideas? and multiple people have told me that i'm good at writing smut so there's that. thanks to having my brain chemistry permanently altered by having unsupervised internet access at 13

💘Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

tbh i think about editing everything i write bc i feel like i keep improving (hopefully) and find many faults with my older work. but i can barely find enough time/motivation/energy to write my current projects so i try to not put more stuff on the list. maybe if i run out of ideas, which won't happen anytime soon

🕯️was there a fic that was really hard on you to write, or took you to a place you didn't think it would take you?

i think my current ongoing fic your heart, love is the biggest challenge to date because it is such a long, plot-heavy fic. i am actively trying to challenge myself with such fics because i feel like writing shorter pwps won't really improve my writing abilities in the long term (as much) and i hope it will prepare me for working on original stuff in the future!!

tysm for asking!! link to the post

#im blushing giggling kicking my feet #ask games #asks

[starry-eyed-omo]

Your Shane fic is soooooo gooood can you do another one? Please please I BEG you

Mb in pelican town they piss only at home or in jars or lakes rivers (where no such thing as a toilet in the game you know)

And sitting next to river and hold it because they need to piss at home yes

Nonnie... I have been thinking about this ask so much since I first got it and i so wanted to make a fic for you because I have so many ideas but man. man. sometimes words just don't want to happen, so I thought at the very least I'd share the thoughts you spurred for me!! I hope you enjoy 💜

Imagine a new farmer oc comes to town without knowing the bathroom situation there; there's not a bathroom in their house, but they figure, hey, the place is old and run down, so maybe it was an outhouse that got destroyed ages ago or something. They're broke and have a lot of other priorities, like, y'know, surviving, and especially considering they live in the middle of nowhere and it's not like there's a lack of privacy, they don't see the harm in waiting a bit to get some no doubt expensive plumbing installed! They make do with the woods, and for a while, don't really question much. So much of their time is spent exploring, fixing up the farm, and running errands, that majority of the time if they have to take a piss, it's nowhere that would feasibly have a bathroom anyways.

It isn't until they're more settled in that they realize something is off. Or, well, something directly pertaining to the bathrooms, at least. (There's a lot of weird things in town, so they've gotten used to not questioning it.)

One night at the saloon, they drink a little too much while hanging out with their friends, and realize that they don't actually know where the bathroom is at the saloon. They slide up to Sebastian and ask, but get a weird look in return, followed by a hesitant laugh, as if he's not quite sure if they're joking or not. When he realizes that they are, in fact, being quite serious, considering the way they're staring at him with a serious urgency while unable to sit still, there's more disbelief than anything. After all, how does one go months in the town without ever realizing no one uses bathrooms around here?

He realizes pretty quickly though that if the farmer never thought to ask, no one around here probably thought to tell. It's a bit of an unspoken rule, as there was a sort of shame in someone else catching you relieving yourself. Somehow, they hadn't quite managed to escape that aspect of societal norms.

Most people just considered it one of the odd quirks of the town and shrug it off, so he suggested they do the same.

The problem is, however, the farmer hadn't exactly planned to have to find somewhere private to relieve themselves that night. The walk home is an excruciating one, until the dams finally burst near the bus station and they just let it all out right there on the path.

When Sebastian asks the next time they meet if the farmer got home all right, they reassure him that everything was fine, but the blush on their face says otherwise, and they know it's not something they're going to forget anytime soon.

Whether that's because of sheer embarrassment or because they can't stop thinking that they'd like to experience that again, well... I'll leave that one up to you ;3

#starry eyed rambles #starry eyed asks #omorashi #fandomo

[sharkneto]

I don't have a question, but you should know how much you increase my enjoyment in the TUA fandom. I was a casual fan before, but your writing (along with a few other stellar content creators) really explores everything I found interesting about the characters and the plot, that now it's turned into one of my favorite series. Every time I hear your opinions I agree wholeheartedly, and I'm thrilled that you're around to voice them.

If it were up to me, they'd be consulting you for S4. I love the idea of Abigail being evil. (And I am with you in my very strong dislike of any version of 'Five is forced into school', you are so not alone.)

As a fan of the show, I've had so much more enjoyment from fanworks that takes the potential the series hasn't fully explored and runs with it. We're all so lucky to have you around and I hope you stay inspired long after the show ends.

Oh, thank you! Too kind! I'm glad my overinvestment and overthinking about this show for two years brings others enjoyment, too :) And, listen, hey - if they wanted to call me, just, a few little pointers for S4, I mean...

This really is a great fandom, at least the corner I hang out in. Such incredible minds, talented people. I'm lucky to have fallen into it, because you're absolutely right - creators really have only enhanced my enjoyment of the show. Helped me fall in love with it and made me want to contribute and give back to the community in a way I've never done before. It's a fun, fun time.

But for real, thank you. <3 It's been wild that I've been at this fic game for two years now, and I'm hoping it doesn't slow down anytime soon. I'll probably be here for a while yet :)

#so so kind of you to say #this is for sure going in the #nice things #we've got a nice and incredibly talented corner of the fandom over here #and every once in a while i see an iceberg of Drama from other corners drift pass #and i'm all the more thankful for what we've got going on over here #it's a great thing

[jazzywazzy89]

9, 52, and 100 will you be updating your amazing stories anytime soon?

Hey! Thanks for sending these! Sorry it took so long to respond.

9. in an ideal world where you’re already super successful and published, would you want to see a tv or movie adaptation of your work? why or why not?

I would say in a ideal world I would love a tv or movie adaptation of my work because it'd be fun and a lot of the time my scenes play out that way in my head as I write or think about them on the page so it'd be cool to see that in really time. But I'd only want it to happen if I were directly involved in the process from casting to the screenplay to the marketing. I feel like with adaptations I'd be open to changes only to a point and I have seen too many bad adaptations to not want to be involved in the process. While I wouldn't expect an exact replications I wouldn't allow it to go off the rails to where the story was completely lost.

52. how many unfinished ideas/stories are you working on at the same time?

There's honestly a ton work currently unfinished that I am trying to complete including fanfic I already have posted and some ideas I have in the works and some original work I am trying to revise for publication. In any case in terms of fanfic I try to update thematically and no work on everything at once. So, if I am working on an All Human AU I'll focus on those that are unfinished and not look at anything else, same with time travel, or crossover, or something of that nature. In terms of updating I focus on one fic at at time but also as I said I look at it thematically. So for instance, I'll work on a chapter of a time travel fic like 1922 and only after that chapter is complete I'll move on to a story that's maybe similar thematically like or time travel wise like Lettered. Or it might be pairing instead of theme. This helps me focus on one thing at a time because of having so many WIPs and so the plots don't run together in my head. It also helps because a lot of times I end up having to go a reread before I work on a new chapter so it keeps things a bit more organized and less chaotic when I have time to go back and update. I've been trying to update in batches as well but that's not always possible.

In terms of ideas, I have a ton that will likely never become stories in terms of both fanfic and original ideas.

100. open question to the writer.

will you be updating your amazing stories anytime soon?

First thanks for reading. I do plan on updating eventually but it likely won't be any time soon. I don't have a timeline because real life doesn't really give me the luxury of putting time aside to write when it comes to fanfic or my original work. I just end up doing what I can when I can. Sometimes it's weeks between updates, sometimes months, and sometimes years. But I hope to finish these stories at some point. In a ideal world I would write full time and not need to do anything else but I got to pay bills so I have a more than one day job (am still looking to just find one that is enough to get me financially stable so I am not working full time, part time, and freelance and is not as stressful) and real life is chaotic. But when I get a chance to update I always announce it here first. The best thing to do is to follow me here and on my fanfic platforms and sign up for alerts. Like I said, the updates are far and few in between but they do come.

#asks #repllies #writing #fanfic writing

[innitmarvellous]

A really random realisation, but..I already wrote 13 TTOI fics since last December and six of them are Malcolm/Ollie fics, haha. Well, I only really started writing last year anyway, but in all those years I never had another OTP (and favourite show, that is) which inspired my creativity THAT much. And I'm really somewhat happy about that ☺

#fanfiction writing #the thick of it #i hope i don't run out of fic ideas anytime soon!

[leahblackk]

Home

(Not my gif whoever made this thank you so much and I’m sorry)

Summary: Spencer and reader got married a year ago and things went perfectly fine, until they weren’t the same.

Based on the song “Home” by Cavetown.

You can tell me what you think about this fic here. And here’s my masterlist.

Couple: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: Mentions of struggling and prison, self-sabotage, anxiety and problems in general. Marital problems. If you find any let me know!

Personal note; Hey friends! I want to quick ramble before you read the fic and if you don’t want me to ramble please feel free to just pass to the writing im not gonna be mad, first because I won’t know and second because im hoping no one reads this as I don’t like to talk about personal things. So I find an amazing comfort in songs and some of them speak proudly to my soul and that’s what this song did. I found out about this is in 2020, and it wasn’t an easy year for me to be honest. And I heard this song in repeat at 3 AM because it spoke to me, because I felt identified with this. And this is a special song and I wanted to do something with it with my favourite boy, Spencer Reid. And fun fact, when I was writing this note, someone from my family was watching a movie and the name of the main character was Spencer so… a sign maybe?

Not personal note; This song can be taken in every way and I’ve heard theories about what the song is, what it means and to be honest one of my favourite thing about writing and songs is that can touch anyone in every way even if the song wasn’t specifically written about an specific situation, or it did but people took it from another angle and that’s what I did. Enjoy! You can listen to the song while you read, it’s not necessary as the writing is longer than the song but if you want to, feel free to! <3 tagging; @everythingbutnormal, @measure-in-pain

Often, I am upset

That I cannot fall in love, but I guess

This avoids the stress of falling out of it

Fears. We all have them. Maybe deep down in the deep end of our soul and hearts, the darkest part of our minds where we don't want people to notice, to think we are weird, to know our debilities. To let them know, we are not strong people, and sometimes, we are weak.

We all are afraid of something.

But what if that something is something you can't avoid? You can't run from? Something you also love and wish to have in your daily life.

Someone you can talk to, trust, love and to be loved. To care, to know, to always know. Someone you can call when you succeed but cry in their arms when the strong storm hits home with furious rage and violence, with darkest and fears, with demons that want to pull us apart with twisted knives, leaving scars and flinches of what once we used to know.

To be afraid of love yet want that same love, deep and unknown as the ocean itself, is a fine line. The idea of love might fool us, and then it will slap us into reality. Not everything is books and romantic novels with sunsets and beautiful rainy days when after all that bad the sun and the birds will sing and shine with harmonious peace to put away all the pain and tears, not everything is singing and dancing in the rain but stand there and scream at the universe and the highly superior power for putting you there, blame someone else or blame yourself.

Love is scary but can be the most beautiful thing someone could ever experience. Sometimes, love can be beautiful windy days with cuddles and kisses and warmth. But the tornado will hit anytime soon, so you better grab the grass and not lose your boots.

The love-struck attack is the main character of our story. Even though she was scared when she realized about the butterflies and silly smiles, the sleepless night staring at the ceiling and imagining his smile.

And he did too.

The comfort feeling and the blushed rosy cheeks. The quick glazes and slightly brushed touches. The late-night talks.

Love can even destroy our veterans' warriors.

He fell in love with her.

And she fell in love with him.

Until, maybe, the love slipped through their fingers.

Are you tired of me yet?

I'm a little sick right now, but I swear

When I'm ready, I will fly us out of here.

Y/n felt numb, sick, and in an awful pilot mode. Thoughts had been running out and in her mind filled with poison and doubts, with demons and darkest—thoughts of her and Spencers' relationship of almost four years. The one relationship she has been fighting over for the last three months a year after Spencer came out of prison.

She wonders what happened for what once was the most precious thing she could ever hold close to her heart, now damaged and broken. A faithless thought, a faithless love, wildfire on her soul screaming for him to come back with the love, he once whispered the night they watched the stars and made love, in her ear with warm breath, he promised he would never fall out of love.

But promises were broken like the chains attached to his hands after he was called innocent, and yes, he was innocent but not from breaking his dear wife's heart. Something he swore he would never do. But promises are broken cruelly, just like naïve hearts.

The only conclusion she came out with was; He was tired of her.

He was tired of her goodnight kisses and being closer and closer to each other. He was tired of back hugs and kisses on his back. He was tired of her wishing him a beautiful good day even if they would leave and see each other at work. He was tired of her vanilla scent, of her eyes and smiles and laughs.

And she felt like a pile of a burden you have carried in your back for long hours.

He was tired of her, and she didn't blame him. She didn't.

People always leave, even those who promised they would never do, mostly them. Liars, liars, liars. Cruel liars said they didn't like lies, and yes, they don't like being lied to, but they love to lie. The untruth words on their throats coming out of their mouths with beautiful sound but ugly echo on the ears of the other, taking that promise close to their hearts and believing it until the truth came out as the shining sun wishing to have stayed in the dark. Burning their skin and living scars.

Those who claim not to like lies are the kings and queens of lies. We are on our knees for you, beautiful perfect liar. You lied to us, and we believe it like little children. 

Spencer Reid. He was tired of his wife. That was what she thought. That was what she felt when the talking and glazes stopped, the slight or strong touches. When the kisses on the nose and lips, passion and love, it didn't exist anymore.

He had left her a long time ago, even if he remained with her, but no, he left her. Even if he wore his wedding ring, he had taken it off when he stopped loving her. That was what she thought. That was what she believed in with passion and truth.

He was tired of her.

I'll cut my hair.

To make you stare.

It wasn't a lie that Y/n missed those love stares at her. Those hazel golden sparkly eyes full of adoration and love, those her friends and family were jealous of. They wanted a significant other who would look at them the same way Spencer did—used to do.

She never felt like asking if he still loved her after all that time because when they were out with their friends and music was loud, and people's laughter was heard all over the place, those eyes remained on her, with love, so she didn't need to ask. That was all the answer she needed to know.

But now, she wasn't sure. And it burned her inside out.

So she made her way alone to the salon and asked for a haircut—shoulder length. The salon people asked her if she was sure, and she nodded. The words couldn't get out of her mouth as she was afraid she would say no. She always had beautiful long hair, and now the scissors did their job with the echoing sound on her hair until it fell into the floor.

And she felt relief, and she felt alive again like the phoenix reborn from its ashes. She always hates when people change for other people. She always thought someone should love a person by who they are, without changing. And even if at the beginning she thought that was for Spencer, it was a lie. It was for her. For her own good after months and months of struggling, not only with her relationship but to remain.

And now she felt alive.

She walked home with a smile and sat there, smiling. An action she hasn't made truly for months. She was, genuinely, smiling.

…

Spencer opens the door to enter his home, taking his shoes and satchel, putting them aside, and he sees his wife's shoes. She was there. She left work early, and it wasn't strange for him or anyone else around. They haven't been the same, and he knows it. They didn't leave home in the mornings and stopped for donuts, smoothies, and coffee at the bakery shop. They left separately and came home as the same. Not talking, not looking.

He shakes his head to get the thoughts out of his head. He looks at the wall full of pictures of them, alone and with their friends and family. Spencer stares at the one from their wedding. She didn't choose a white dress for her wedding, and he loved it. He cried when she walked to him, he had the girl of his dreams forever, but now she was slipping through his fingers.

He walked to the kitchen, exhaling and opening the door. He picked a mug and coffee and sat at the dining table with a book in his hand. The door was now open again, but his eyes didn't leave the pages. She walked to the fridge and took apple juice and closed it to go then and watch her hands, and that's when Spencer looked at her. A quick glaze to then go back to his book until he saw it. He looked again to see if his eyes weren't mistaken, and his breath was cut. She cut her hair.

"You cut your hair," he softly spoke. Y/ns heart stopped and looked up to the window without looking at him. Of course, she had heard his voice but not at her.

She took a rag and dry her hands, with her back still at him. "Yes. I did," she shortly responded.

It wasn't a question, and she knew it. He was asking "why?" and she knew it, but to be sincere, she didn't want to give him that answer.

"W-Why?" he asked what he wanted to know. "I mean, it looks lovely, but… why? I thought you loved your long hair."

A compliment.

A compliment after all that time.

Was what she wanted, wasn't it? And if it was what she wanted, why didn't she feel anything?

"I did." Short answer again. Spencer frowned.

"Why did you do it then?"

She softly turned around and finally looked at him. Without any emotion. Without excitement or love.

"Because it was damaged, and you know Spencer, when things are damaged, they need to be cut off, so it doesn't ruin the other things around them."

Turn off your porcelain face.

I can't really think right now, and this place

Has too many colours to drive all of us insane.

The music was loud, and the bar was full. The people dance and chat around, walking as well or even kissing in little dark corners. The lights moved all over the place, making you feel dizzy. The wind and the cold entered your bones with force.

The team, finally, decided to go out and enjoy the free time they had. All were there, including the spouses for certain already married people, and watching them look at the other with love, it made Y/n feel out of place, made her sit and watched her hands under the table instead of her husband, he sat in front of her and didn't even recognize her enough.

Yes, they lived together and were married, but that didn't mean they still loved each other. Or at least Spencer didn't. Y/n could say with pride that she still loved Spencer, even if he didn't feel the same towards her. If their relationship got over officially, she knew she would walk proudly because she loved him with all her heart until the last minute.

It got her memories from when they were younger and in love with each other with passion, and for real. It reminds her of her thinking if he felt the same, and maybe once he did, but that love that remained in his heart, now there were only ashes of the fire once became wild.

Spencer stands up and walks for drinks for his friends. Maybe that was an excuse to get out of that uncomfortable situation. He walked, trying to avoid the touch of the people dancing while Y/n's eyes remained on him. He sat and ordered whatever Morgan asked him and waited.

He looked beautiful. His messy now, even more, longer hair and his dad's body. He wasn't the skinny man anymore. He didn't work out because he didn't have time and because he didn't feel necessary, and he didn't entirely enjoy physical activities, but his body was perfect. He didn't need less or more. He was perfect in every aspect. His large fingers palmed the wooden bar, and Y/n looked at how his wedding ring shone with that specific light, she could see it from where she sat, but the brown-haired girl with perfect eyes and perfect smile didn't.

She sat on the chair in front of him, and Spencer at first didn't acknowledge her, but when she spoke, he did. She said hi with a pleasant smile, moving her long hair aside to look better. She was beautiful, stunning even. Y/n's heart ached, and her stomach felt sick. She felt sick.

It wasn't a surprise that someone was interested in Spencer. He walked with a face and perfection created by the ancient mythological gods, Aphrodite did a beautiful job on him, and there was no doubt about it. He had power on his soul, and everyone stared at him. Who wouldn't?

Spencer apparently said something funny because the girl laughed, and the music suddenly stopped. Everything stopped. It was only them. The same as when Y/n and Reid met. And then she realized.

The man she once loved, and still loved with furious passion, wasn't hers anymore. And she had to let him go.

He wasn't hers, even if he wears the ring that claims he was taken. He wasn't. It was just gold, just that, because the promise that ring once held was broken. Broken like her heart. And broken like the glass her hand dropped and fell to the floor.

Her friends looked at her with worried eyes. And Spencer turned around. He heard it too. She looked down, and her cheeks turned red. "I'm sorry, I don't feel well." She murmured and took her purse to then walk to the exit.

Spencer looks at her and then her friends who were looking at him. They were saying with their eyes, "go after her," and he did. He excused himself from the lady in front who asked him about his ring and followed his lady.

He saw her trying to breathe correctly, and Spencer's heart ached. "Y/n?" he murmured. She turned around, and Spencer saw her eyes. Full of pain and worries, full of awful darkness, and the shine wasn't there anymore. He took one step forward, and she took three back. "Hey, it's okay, it's me," he said.

It's me.

But who was him?

"I'm okay. I uh, I'm just gonna head home. I think I got food poisoning." She lied.

She lied, and Spencer knew.

"You haven't eaten anything."

How does he know?

He wasn't looking at her. Not anymore.

"It's okay, Spencer. I'm fine, go back. Enjoy your evening."

Spencer wondered when was the last time she called him by a sweet nickname. She doesn't call him Spencer, and it hurts him. But she was hurt, and she was first.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"Yes, it is. You think you can lie to me, but I have known you way too long."

"You think you know me, but if you really did, you weren't asking if something is wrong." She snapped.

You would already know.

"Is it because of the woman in the bar?"

She chuckled and nodded, "Yes, Spencer. Is because of her. Congratulations, you figured it all out," she said with sarcasm.

"Why are you so mean? I'm just trying to help you." He frowned.

"Because I don't need help, Spencer. And when I did, you weren't there, so I don't think you can help too much right now."

His stomach dropped.

"What does that mean?"

"It means what it means. I needed you a long time ago, and today I realized I have been fooling myself these past months. You don't love me anymore, and you didn't even have the decency to tell me so. You made me figure it out by myself, and believe me, it wasn't a fun process."

"W-Why are you saying that?" Spencer's voice broke. He was really hurt, but mostly because he realized he had hurt her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Spencer, you are a genius. Don't act like you don't know anything."

"Because I don't! I don't know what you meant by that, and I don't think even-I don't even…."

"You don't have to say anything. When I needed you to say something, you didn't, and your words are not welcome now," Spencer's eyes hurt as the tears wanted to make their way down. He tried to say something, but his words couldn't come out of his mouth, his heart ached, and the air wasn't enough. He looked at her hands that traveled to her left hand where her rings were. Spencer shook his head, and the tears finally came down. "Here, maybe you can find a new wife tonight." She handed the rings and he shook his head again.

He didn't need a new wife.

"Put it back on, please. Put it back on," he murmured. Soft broken voice for a soft broken heart. Y/n closed her eyes for a second, hearing his voice, but she made a decision. Or he did months ago. She took two steps forward and took his hand to put the rings on his palms then.

Spencer shook his head again, and again, and again. Hot tears in both soft red eyes. He looked up at her, and her face made him look down and close his eyes. He couldn't handle the pain she was feeling because of him. He could feel her pain and his as well. All was too much. He knew what he did wrong, and he thought he was doing it for good but now watching the woman he loved giving him back the rings he promised he would keep, he realized he made a mistake. He wanted to scream and beg her on his knees for her to stay, but he couldn't find his voice. He, the man who loves to words, was speechless and out of words now. He couldn’t find them. 

Y/n turned around and walked to leave, not looking back while Spencer looked at the rings and back at her. He wanted to scream.

Scream Spencer!

Scream!

But all he could manage was a violent sob.

And he sobbed, and sobbed watching her go in the middle of the street on a cold night.

He was frozen, not because of the cold of the night but because of the cold of not having her warmth.

He couldn't breathe.

Not without her.

She was his soft addictive air. And now she is gone. And he couldn't breathe.

Are you dead?

Sometimes I think I'm dead

Cause I can feel the ghosts and ghouls wrapping my head.

But I don't wanna fall asleep just yet.

Y/n made it home. She got out of her car and ran upstairs to their shared room. She looked around, everything felt different, and her mind wondered if she made the right choice. They weren't divorced, at least not officially, but it's going to feel this way when they are? is it gonna feel this way? Because if it does, she doesn't want to.

He seems different. He looked like he really cares about her. He even asks her to put the rings back on. Does that mean he still loves her, or is he doing it for pity?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know anything now.

She thought that would make them happy, Spencer would be finally free, and she would be happy seeing him free. But now, everything feels different.

Y/n look at everything around her. That house had memories everywhere.

When she tried to guess the end of the movie before he did, and she was always right, so did he.

When they stayed up all night when Spencer came back from prison, they couldn't stay away from each other. He needed her. She needed him.

When they host their first Christmas dinner with the team, now everything seems broken.

She had to get out of there before Spencer came back because if he did and she was still there, she wouldn't have the courage to go. To leave him. She couldn't leave him.

Y/n walked to the closet and took her bag, and put all her clothes from the closet she shared with Spencer with desperate moves while the tears remained on her eyes, coming down, down. She sobbed, and the vibrations on her chest hurt even more.

She sat there as she felt dizzy. She looked at everything, and she cried and cried, she sobbed, she needed him.

She felt like something died inside of her. Something was missing, a piece of her heart, or maybe her whole heart.

Get a load of this monster

He doesn't know how to communicate

His mind is in a different place

Will everybody please give him a little bit of space?

There is some experience in life that could change your whole perspective of things. It could change the way you act or think. Could change your essence.

Spencer had experienced lots of those many times. So often that he's tired of fighting over to get a view of the rainbow, everyone talks about.

When he went to prison… he had to do things he couldn't even bring himself to talk about. He had to do them in order to survive.

Yet, after all those experiences, he never learned how to communicate, and he knew that would bring him so much trouble in the future, but he never thought he would lose the woman of his dreams because of it. And he regrets every single thing he did these past months.

He, of course, knew what he was doing. At first, it begins with not talking with her or touching her much, and it burns him because he wanted to. But she meant too much to him that it was better to do so and let himself suffer not to see her suffer, but the pain was already there for both souls.

Self-sabotage.

That was what he had done.

And he watched himself do it over and over and over until there was nothing left.

Even when he wanted to stop doing it, it didn't happen. He kept doing it even if his mind begged him to stop.

He didn't have control over himself anymore.

And he walked slowly, and he walked, and walked, and walked until his feet hurt. He didn't know where he was going until he looked up. He was home.

Get a load of this train wreck

His hair’s a mess, and he doesn't know who he is yet

But little do we know, the stars welcome him with open…

Y/n's bag was already full of clothes, and she entered the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. She was a mess, a train wreck, and she felt like it as well.

Her hair was a mess.

Everything was a mess.

She pressed her lips together, trying to stop the sobs, but she couldn't. She didn't have control over herself anymore.

She tried and tried to leave, but she couldn't. She couldn't. There was something that was holding her from going, and she begs that thing to stop. She wanted to go. She wanted to go and find peace. But she knew that peace wasn't anywhere near.

Go!

Go!

But she stayed frozen on her bathroom floor. It wasn't the first time, and she could hear Spencer's voice on the back of her head telling her to get up because of the germs, but she couldn't. She was literally frozen as she cried.

And she heard the front door open. But she didn't even flinch. She couldn't.

But little do we know, the stars welcome them with open arms

Spencer entered the house, and the warmth was still there for some reason. The lights were on, and he thought Y/n left them like that after she left him with hurry, and he doesn't blame her. He looked at the shoes, and her shoes weren't there, which proved his theory.

She left.

She left him.

He looked at the pictures on the wall. And it hurt him even more.

He took the one from their wedding, and he traced her beautiful face softly, feeling the cold of the glass. His hands started trembling, and he took the frame close to his chest so it wouldn't break on the floor. That was the only thing he had left, and he wasn't going to break it.

He walked upstairs softly, and the door of their shared room was open, and he stepped inside. Bags and clothes were everywhere, and he frowned. Why were those things still there?

He heard soft sobs coming from the bathroom, and he walked, leaving the picture on the bed. The door was closed. He heard it again.

She was there.

Time is

Slowly

Y/n heard him. He was there.

She had to face him in order to get out of there now. She closed the door when she entered the bathroom, but she didn't lock it, and she was scared Spencer would enter.

She heard steps approaching, and she closed her eyes, expecting it. The golden handle made its sound when the door was about to be open, and her heart started to go faster, praying her body would react. She heard the door open a little bit to then be closed.

She frowned and opened her eyes. The door was closed.

"I know you are in there, but I also know you don't want me to enter, so i'll stay outside," Spencer said, sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the door. He sighed. "I-I wasn't... I didn't think you would be still at home, and to be honest, I was expecting to come back here until you came back with the divorce papers," he explains and chuckled.

She didn't chuckle. She sobbed, and Spencer hears it. He closed his eyes and licked his lips while the tears came down again. He put his knees to his chest and messed his hair even more. "I know there's no point in explaining why I did what I did, and I don't deserve your forgiveness, so I will not say this with the hope of you doing so, but I think you deserve an explanation, and I think you wanted it for so long, but I never dared to talk to you. And is stupid because I like talking to you," he sobbed in between words.

"It was hard for me to do all those things. It burns me inside, but I have this tendency to ruin everything good I have in life. Either thinking that someday it will end or just thinking I don't deserve it and with you was different because I thought you would stay forever," he tried to calm his breathing. "And when I went to prison, there was this man I used to talk to. He… He was one of the few friends I had, and he told me he was also married, but now he was there, he didn't want his wife to see the monster he had become. And he said he self-sabotaged himself. He did all the things his wife hated so she would hate him. And she did, they got divorced, and he went back to prison. I asked him if he regretted it and he said, "No, not even a little bit." And I thought he said so because he didn't want to be with his wife, so he used a lame excuse, but he actually still loves her so much, and he didn't care about his pain but hers. When you go to prison, even if you are innocent, you are not innocent when you get out. It destroys you, physically and mentally. And I was scared."

His voice breaks once more, and Y/n hears him. Every single thing. "At first, it wasn't my intention, but I stopped touching you because I was scared I was going to hurt you, and then I started being aware of the things I was doing, and I tried to stop myself from doing them, but I couldn't. I couldn't because I loved you so much that I didn't want you to be hurt and to get stuck with me when I'm not the same person you fell in love with. I'm not that person anymore, Y/n, and I swear I tried to get him back, I swear I tried," he then started crying violently, "And instead of doing better, I hurt you in the process, and it wasn't my intention. I wasn't there when you needed me, and you were there when I needed you, and I don't deserve you. I never did, but today, seeing you giving me back the rings, I realized I was doing everything wrong. Seeing you in such pain because of me and when I married you, I swear I was going to protect you from everything, but I wasn't aware the only person you needed being protected from was myself."

And Y/n had enough of his words. She got up and knocked on the door, letting him know she was going to open it, and then when she heard him moving, she opened the door. She looked at him.

He was a mess as well. Red puffy eyes, rosy cheeks, and a little blood coming from his lips after biting them so hard. He was hugging his legs, and he looked up at her. He was still her husband, and he looked at her with love this time, with love and regrets.

She sat next to him without looking again. "You still love me?" She murmured.

He frowned, "W-What?"

"You said, "I loved you." So I'm asking. Do you still love me, Spencer Reid?" She looked at him, and he looked at her with soft eyes.

He asked her if he could take her hand, and she nodded. He took her hand in his and caressed them softly. He got up and sat on his knees in front of her and took her hands again, kissing them over and over while the tears fell on her hands. Y/n could feel his love again. She felt so much his love that she started shaking and crying, but there was no sadness in her tears this time. "I have loved you since the first time I saw you. You have bewitched me body and soul, and I could never love someone else, nor will I stop loving you," he repeats his vows. He took her face and put his forehead on hers. Both closing their eyes, "That was a promise I made, with your soul and heart. I'm sorry you ever had to doubt my love for you. I haven't stopped loving you, not even a little bit. In fact, my love for you has grown even more, and I think I'm not capable of stop loving you." Spencer looked at her, still with his hands on her soft face, but he stayed back to have a clear look at her face. "Now, you tell me. After all this time, you still love me?"

Silence.

Spencer looked at her, worried. If she stopped loving him, he wouldn't judge her at all.

"I haven't stopped loving you, Spencer Reid. Even if you are a little shit sometimes," they chuckled. "We have to talk, alright? The things you said about self-sabotage are not good," he nodded. She caressed his face. He leaned on her touch as he missed it so much. "I don't want you to think you don't deserve me. I used to think the same when we first got together, but then I realized we were meant for each other. We are, and I will never stop loving you, even if you want me to do so. I know you are not good with communication, and I respect that. I won't force you to talk to me because it is hard, and I know it is, but I will also like for you to even say if something is wrong and figure it out together. You are not alone, Spencer, not anymore. Okay?"

He nods once again, he took her hand once more and took the rings out of his pocket and look at her for permission. She nodded and he put them where they belonged, "I love you so much, angel. I'm so sorry," he hugged her, hiding his face on her neck and kissing it over and over. "I'm sorry I put you through hell."

"I will always go to hell if it is for you, my love. Don't even doubt it. You are my home."

He then sobbed. Happiness, that was what he felt.

He was her home.

"You are my home, Y/n. You have been and always will be, my home."

But strangely, he feels at home in this place. 

#Spotify #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #doctor reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #Spencer Reid angst #angst

[espressokiri]

Hi there. Another Muslimah here.

Hope you don't mind me sending you an ask. I read your fic about the BNHA boys with a muslim s/o. It was really good. I loved it so much. (There aren't many fics like this, which is a shame cause we like fanfics too. So this was very refreshing. Thank you.💚😉)

Could you do one for the Haikyuu boys, specifically Tsukishima, Kuroo, Sugawara, and Bokuto. But only if you want to, of course.

Hope you have a great and productive day.

Tsukishima Kei, Kuroo Tetsurou, Sugawara Koushi, and Bokuto Koutarou x Hijabi!reader

In which reader is a hijabi Muslim.

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff

Notes: You're welcome to send asks anytime <3 I may be slow at getting through them but I will make sure to get them out! Thank you for being so sweet anon <3 I hope you enjoy this one! ^^ I’m sorry if it seems bland as I was slowly losing ideas.

Tsukishima Kei

His eyes would constantly drift to you during class hours, lips twitching into a smile as he would watch you struggle with the assignment sheet given during history class.

Would take that as a leeway to make conversation and help you out.

"Tsk, can't even do a simple history assignment?"

Just sits down next to you and points out what you did wrong while helping you out.

Flinches his hand away and mutters a sorry if your hands accidentally graze each others.

He knows how strict the dating rules were and he admired it, thinking it was a safe way to keep them away from harm and heartbreak.

Becomes your unofficial tutor just to spend more time with you.

Has the urge to flick your forehead most times when you purposely tease him.

Is worried when he sees you zoning out in the middle of class during Ramadan, you have to convince him you're fine and that you're getting your studying done despite the odd sleep schedule you've created.

He'll give you a small box of his favourite treat, strawberry short cake, randomly throughout Ramadan because he knows you crave more sweets during the days you fast than regular days.

He calls you a masochist when he finds you watching cooking/baking videos while fasting.

Will stop by your house to drop off pastries during Eid for you and your family because he wants to peak at you all dressed up as he's only seen you in your school uniform or in casual but modest fashion.

He feels a sense of security, enjoying the aspect of getting to know someone with no sense of rush.

Kuroo Tetsurou

He's such an awkward nerd please.

Wants to approach you but fears he might accidentally offend you due to his provocative nature, hence resorts to staring at you from across the room.

Would research more about your religion and would use that as a way to start small talk;

“Hey, uh, I was wondering how do you manage to pray Zuhr when you’re in school? Isn’t it bad that you have to miss it?”

“Oh uh, I usually run home as soon as I can or pray in my club room if there are meetings, my club members are very understanding.”

“Oh... I see.”

“That’s pretty cool of you to be concerned, Kuroo-san.”

Cue him asking you random but wholesome questions with genuine curiosity.

“Did you know men who oppress women are considered to not follow Islam? I find that really nice that women are equal to men in your religion!”

You smile at him and his interest in your religion.

Study sessions in the library because you both wanted to spend time with each other but he knows it is wrong for a male to be alone in the same room as the opposite gender so you both opted for the library where there are lots of people.

Gasps and immediately looks away when you unravel the scarf around your head to fix;

“Y/n! You can’t do that!!”

“I’m wearing an underscarf calm down.”

You rolled your eyes at the dramatic male but smiled at his respectful nature.

Ramadan? Catch him ruining his sleep schedule just to have movie nights with you through the phone and Netflix Party.

Kenma teases him about it because Kuroo used to yell at him about his own staying up late gaming obsession.

Likes it when you wear a cap on top of your hijab, he thinks it looks cool on you.

He’ll convince you to skip school during Eid if it falls on a school day, telling you that it’s important that you spend at least the first day of it with your family. 

Overall, he’s the type to keep up with the Islamic calendar and learn new facts daily as he asks you to explain each and everything about your religion and lifestyle.

Sugawara Koushi

See’s you for the first time with Kiyoko when he went to excuse her from class for managerial duties.

Smitten from first sight.

Begs Kiyoko to let you be her assistant manager.

He keeps a distance from you during your first introduction and conversation because he didn’t know what you were comfortable with.

He was in awe to find out there were sports hijab when he saw you sporting one to play a short game with an over-enthusiastic Hinata.

“Here, stay hydrated.”

Hands you a bottle of water along with a towel, a newfound respect for playing in hot weather conditions fully covered. 

Due to the chaotic nature of the first and second years, Sugawara would run to cover your eyes with his jacket or hover his hands in front of your face whenever Tanaka would rip off his shirt to swing around whenever he spiked.

Sugawara had to stop himself multiple times from clapping his hand onto your shoulder, resulting in him just smacking either Asahi or Daichi when they mention him almost touching you.

Outings between you two is always monitored by the third years, Asahi smiling proudly at his friend Suga while Daichi and Kiyoko would sneakily take candid pictures of you both.

“What’s one verse you hold dear to your heart?”

You look at him from the warm mug of drink you are holding, tilting your head as you look at him in confusion. Sugawara felt the tips of his ears go red at the cute expression you held, and explains his question.

“Ah,” you thought long and hard before giving him an answer, “ ‘Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear...’ I find that part of the verse very reassuring in times when I feel like I’m overwhelmed.”

Sugawara held onto every word, finding the beauty behind those words, he felt at peace. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He smiles.

It felt like he was more excited than you for Ramadan.

He would read out loud the Japanese translation of the Quran after you read out the Arabic words in a beautiful and soothing voice. He wanted to understand and learn.

He was hooked onto the peaceful energy the month brought despite life going on normally.

This man would wear a formal Kimono when your family invites his over for Eid, he wanted to make the best impression despite already meeting them in passing.

Suga had a sense of security and comfort around him and you felt lucky to have met someone such as him.

Bokuto Koutarou 

Oh God.

Akaashi had a field day trying to stop him from initiating any and every kind of physical affection when he first introduced you to him.

Bokuto is a man who expresses himself with affection, so he was lucky for Akaashi to explain to him why he shouldn’t initiate any physical affection without asking for what you considered crossing a boundary.

He knows he can’t drag you to the gym to watch him play volleyball by hand, so he asks you to hold onto the end of a pen, which you took, confused as to what the male exactly wants before realizing he was holding the other end and using that to drag you to where the gym was.

It was oddly endearing.

“Did you see my spike, Y/n?! Didya see?!”

“Yes, Bokuto. It was really cool!”

Cue a chest puffed up Bokuto who grinned with pride.

Invites you to eat lunch with him and Akaashi on the roof.

Having to refuse his food because you weren’t sure if there was pork in it or not.

This made Bokuto stop bringing in food that contained pork, not knowing even aside from that, he had to have the halal form of chicken or beef.

Akaashi had to explain everything to him when he asked him once.

Tried to go vegetarian one day, failed the minute he took a bite out of his food.

Feels bad when he eats on days you are fasting, so he tries finishing the meal before you come up to their usual meeting spot, resulting in him giving himself a stomach ache.

Brings you tuna filled onigiri to take home so you can eat it as a snack during the night after breaking your fast.

Sends you spam messages minutes before having to break your fast;

‘Are you excited to eat?!?!?!’

‘What are you having today?!?’

‘If you want to get any snacks later let me know! :D’

‘ONE MINUTE LEFT!!’

He’s so wholesome please.

Wants to skip school with you for Eid, but pouts when you tell him you’ll be spending it with family.

Asks you to send an OOTD pic so he could be your hype-man.

Bokuto is always willing to understand more about you and your religion, making sure to note things in his head for future references.

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #sugawara fluff #haikyuu scenarios #sugawara scenario #sugawara koshi imagine #bokuto x reader #bokuto imagines #sugawara x reader #bokuto fluff #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima imagine #tsukishima fluff #kuroo imagine #kuroo fluff #kuroo x reader #haikyuu headcanons

[nashibirne]

DESPERADO - 3

Helen and August are back. Sorry it took me a while to write the next chapter but our holidays got in the way of writing. Anyway, here it is and it's getting a little steamy. I somehow struggled with writing the smut this time, it was somewhat hard to find the right balance in their dynamics but I think it turned out fine in the end. I hope you like it, too. As you know, writers live off validation, so comments, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated 💜

Pairing: Augut Walker x OFC (Helen Nichols)

Summary: August has survived the fight with Ethan Hunt and the fall from the cliff. A few lucky coincidences saved his life and he ends up with a woman that saves him and gives him shelter in her little hermit hut. He is at a turning point in his life. What is he going to do?

Word count: ~ 3.1 k

Warnings: Description of injuries, smut, NSFW, 18+, unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), vaginal sex

NO BETA! English is not my mother tongue, so expect bad grammar, wrong spelling, chaotic punctuation and clumsy language. All mistakes are mine…

Credits: I don’t own August Walker and anything related to MI:Fallout. Pics for the moodboard from pinterest, face claim Helen: Rooney Mara

You can find parts 1 and 2 and my other fics on my masterlist.

Taglist (please let me know if you want to be added or removed)

@lunedelorient @inlovewithhisblueeyes @willkatfanfromasia @hell1129-blog @mis-lil-red @agniavateira @kebabgirl67 @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @summersong69 @taebfada @xxxkatxo @artandotherdelights @notabronte @littlefreya @luclittlepond @eldarwen333 @meowpurrbooks @marantha @liliumdream @enchantedbytomandhenry @greensleeves888 @witcherfan @margauxmargaux07 @radaofrivia @m07belzen @a-little-counter-esperanto @starstruckkittyangel @mary-ann84 @sillyrabbit81 @emelinelovesjc

Let's go...

***************

Desperado

Oh, you ain't gettin' no younger

Your pain and your hunger

They're drivin' you home

Freedom, oh freedom

Well that's just some people talkin'

Your prison is walkin' through this world all alone

From Desperado by The Eagles, Lyrics: Don Henley, Glenn Frey

"She's dead. She died in an accident. She was gone. I stayed."

No matter how hard August tried to find out more about Allison, there was no way to make Helen tell him anything else but these simple basics. She'd worked hard on building a protective wall around that part of her heart and her mind, she had closed off the grief and the feeling of guilt and she wasn't willing to hand over the key to her memories to a random stranger who was lying about his identity.

Besides August's futile attempts to pry into Helen's past the next two weeks were quite harmonious. While Helen had decided to ignore the fact that Austin Peters was a fake persona to avoid any kinds of complications, August had decided to accept the inevitable and to be a nice houseguest and he grudgingly let Helen take care of him. They soon got used to the fact that her help made them share pretty intimate moments and August had a hard time granting her access to his personal space, letting her literally touch him everywhere when she had to treat his wounds or help him get dressed and undressed, but he also watched her blush and shy away from him with fiendish joy.

It made him feel better about his face that his body obviously still had a significant effect on Helen and he couldn't deny that seeing her running around in her underwear or imagining her standing in the shower naked had a certain effect on him too. And it wasn't only physical, he really started to like her. She was smart and tough but also witty and cheeky sometimes, and it was hard for him to admit to himself that he enjoyed her company. Stockholm syndrome for sure, he tried to tell himself but in the back of his mind he knew the truth.

He had no idea that Helen felt the same and that her aloof manner was mostly facade. Behind the mask of indifference she was growing warm feelings for him. Warm, foolish, irrational feelings for a man she actually knew nothing about and who was involved in an FBI investigation. She blamed her hunger for interpersonal interactions and warmth that resulted from her self-chosen isolation for these surfacing emotions and did her best to ignore them.

What was really bothering Helen most after only a few days was the sleeping situation. Despite the fact that the there-is-only-one-bed-trope was everything from hot to romantic in theory it was only leading to back pain in reality. August kept on offering to sleep on the couch but she wouldn't let him. He needed a comfortable place to sleep and her sofa was hardly big enough for her. A tall man like him wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep on it. So after 14 nights she decided to do something about it. She had made a call in the morning, August had heard her muffled voice from the kitchen when he was in the bathroom, and now a car was driving up to the hut. He started to panic.

"Who's that?"

He looked at Helen and she gave him a shrug.

"A friend. He's bringing me a folding bed, called him this morning. I'm not going to survive another night on the couch."

A car door was slammed shut with a thud and foot steps were coming closer to the front door.

"He can't come in, Helen", August whispered, giving her a pleading glance. She raised an eyebrow.

"Why's that?"

"He mustn't see me. Please."

Helen eyed him up and down and when it knocked August held his breath, his heart racing. She turned to the door without another word and August grabbed a large knife from the knife block before hiding in the corner of the room that wasn't visible from the entrance. Helen flinched when she realized that he'd armed himself but after taking a deep breath she opened the door with a nonchalant smile.

"Naseer. Hi. That was quick."

"Hi Helen. Yeah, it sounded urgent on the phone and you can't sleep in a broken bed so I thought I better bring you the folding bed as soon as possible."

August tried to imagine the man who belonged to the pleasant, warm voice. His English was very good but he clearly wasn't a native speaker. Someone from the village he guessed. From the village he would have erased without batting an eyelid just two weeks ago. His stomach twisted at the thought and it filled him with anger that he seemed to evolve something like a conscience lately.

"That's really kind of you."

He could hear the smile in Helen's voice.

"Let me help you unload it."

"No, I'll go and get it. Just tell me where to put it."

"Just put it here on the porch. I'll take care of it later."

Naseer gave Helen a funny look and she knew he was thinking she was acting strange but she could hardly let him walk inside the hut where August was awaiting him with a knife. She watched her only friend walk to his truck, grabbing the bed from the loading space and carrying it to the house.

"It's no problem to carry it inside", he said when he was standing in front of Helen again. "I could also fix your bed. I built it, it shouldn't be hard to replace a broken part."

He built it? The guy built Helen's bed? August started to wonder what kind of friend he was and why the question bothered him so much.

"No! No, that won't be necessary, Naseer."

Christ, woman, don't talk so fast. Her nervousness was showing in her voice and August was worried he might really have to use that fucking knife.

"Really, it's fine...I'm quite busy right now. In the middle of a creative phase...you know...kissed by the muse."

Good girl, back on track. August's heart rate went back to normal.

"You're working on your book again? That's great, Hel."

Hel? He rolled his eyes, annoyed and impatient.

"Yeah, it really is. My agent is pretty relieved too, my writer's block made him quite nervous. But I'm working almost non-stop on it...so yeah."

She shrugged with a sheepish grin, feeling terrible for lying to him.

"Is that why you needed all those supplies? Because you don't want to leave for grocery shopping in the next few weeks? Your truck was loaded when we met the other day."

"Exactly."

"I see...well…"

"Yeah…"

"I better get going then. Let you work in peace…"

"Thanks for stopping by, Naseer."

"Anytime. You know you can always call me when something's wrong or when you need help, right?"

"Of course." Her laugh sounded fake and nervous and for a moment she thought Naseer was going to ask her what was going on but he only gave her a worried look before he left. Helen let out a long sigh of relief, turned around and closed the door behind her.

"He's gone. You can put that away." She pointed at the knife August clung to, her eyes shooting daggers at him.

"What?" He looked at her angrily, putting the knife back in the knife block. "I just wanted to be prepared."

Helen let out a snort. "For what? Naseer attacking an injured stranger?"

"I don't know him."

"But I do. He's a friend and you made me act rude without a reason."

"A friend, huh? Hel?" August said in a mocking tone wiggling his eyebrows. He tried to be cheeky and make her laugh to ease the tension but he knew it was a stupid move as soon as the words left his mouth.

"Yes. A friend. Austin."

She was still being deadly serious and stressed his false name pointedly crossing her arms in front of her chest. August didn't know what to say or do to keep the situation from escalating so he just shrugged.

"Fine."

"Fine? That's all you have to say? For fucks sake...tell me why you didn't want Naseer to see you. Explain to me why you armed yourself with a knife, hiding in a dark corner of my house. My fucking house, goddamn…in which you found shelter..." She was furious now and he made a step towards her, his hands raised up in surrender. "Okay, listen, Helen."

"I'm all ears."

"As I said, it was just taking precautions. I'm a mistrustful person, made some bad experiences in the past and got hurt too often."

"Bullshit." She shook her head. "Don't try to tug at my heartstrings. Just tell me the truth."

August took a deep breath, he was getting frustrated and annoyed by her insistence.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't, okay? Let's just leave it at that or…"

“Or what? Are you going to kill me?”

Her voice was full of sarcasm but her eyes showed him that a part of her was scared of him, wondering what he was capable of. The logical answer to her question would have been yes. His answer should have been yes, but when he said no, when he denied it, August meant it. He wasn't going to kill her nor would he ever hurt her.

“No, but I still can’t tell you.”

She could tell by the expression on his face that he was torn. He wanted to open up to her, but he felt like he couldn't.

“Just give me something. A little part of the truth to help me understand who you are, where you’re coming from and what you`re up to."

“That’s not so easy, Helen. You might not like what you’re going to hear.”

He gave her a shrug and something that was supposed to be a smile.

“I don’t care. August.”

He blinked repeatedly. “Sorry?”

“Yes...August.” She rolled her eyes. “I know that you've been lying to me from day one."

He got up and started to pace the hut, still hobbling a little, though his ankle was much better. He wasn’t really worried just debating with himself. After a while he stopped by the window, staring outside. “You're right. My name is August. August Walker.”

"Thanks, but I already know that much", Helen snapped.

"How did you find out about my name?" He asked as calmly as his fluttering nerves allowed it, turning around to look her in the eyes.

"Why did you lie to me?" Helen threw him a challenging look.

"How much do you know?" August was not willing to leave his questions unanswered.

"Why. Did. You. Lie. To. Me?" Helen shouted at him.

"It's none of your fucking business", he yelled back.

Helen laughed out loud.

"It's none of my business? Are you kidding me? I saved you. I let you stay in my house, sleep in my bed, I treat your wounds, I take care of you, give you shelter, I've helped you in every possible way, no matter how many of my personal boundaries have been transgressed and now you're seriously telling me that it's none of my business that you've lied to me all this fucking time?"

"I've never asked for your help."

His voice was calm, his facial expression blank and stern but his eyes were blazing with emotion. His stare was so intense it made Helen shiver.

"You ungrateful ass", she whispered, stunned by his audacity. "You took all I had to give without saying thank you only once. And now you're…"

He was right in front of her with two big strides, his lips crashing on hers with unexpected passion. Helen was too surprised to think about her reaction. She instinctively kissed him back, granting him access, letting him deepen the kiss, allowing his hands to explore her body. 60 seconds later she was in control of herself again. She pushed him away, staring at him dumbfounded.

"Shit. What are you doing?"

"Expressing my gratitude."

He gave her an outrageously sexy smirk and it took Helen just a split second to grab him by his shirt and pull him close again to kiss him feverishly. She wanted him. She wanted him badly. She wanted him now.

August pressed her against the wall with his huge body, caressing her tits through her clothes while kissing her neck. She moaned and started to tug at his shirt. He took it off in a hurry and Helen got rid of her top and bra. When they kissed again she let her hands run over his chest gently, making sure not to hurt him. She pulled away and looked at him, at his scarred face that was still so handsome now that the wounds were healing and the swelling had gone down around his eye. August averted his eyes, burying his head in the crook of her neck again, withdrawing from her gaze.

"Turn around", he mumbled, taking her by her waist.

She did what he asked her to do but when she heard him fumble with his belt and the sound of his pants hitting the floor behind her back, when his hands tried to pull down her sweatpants impatiently, she turned around again. She reached up and cupped his face with her tiny hands, running her thumb tenderly over his burnt skin.

"Listen, August. This is not going to be a quickie, okay? You want to express your gratitude? Great. I like this. But do it properly. Fuck me rough, if you want to, fuck me hard, but don't you dare to hide from me. Look at me. Kiss me. Give me the feeling of being wanted. Pretend it's more than just some kind of job."

He looked at her with an unreadable expression, hesitating for a moment. He opened his mouth but instead of saying something he pressed his lips together with a nod. Helen smiled at him before stripping naked slowly.

When he kissed her again he took his time, enjoying the sensation of holding her naked body close to his now. She was surprised by his tenderness, by his gentle touch and the delicate kisses he covered her body with and blown away by the passion that soon erupted from deep within him. It was just a small step from long, slow kisses to making out like two hungry predators.

He lifted her up easily and carried her to her bed where he laid her down on her back carefully. He climbed between her legs and looked at her.

"Ready to get fucked like never before?"

She smirked. "Big words. I hope you're not all mouth."

"You don't like my mouth?" He started to kiss her belly, licking her skin, leaving a wet trace that led down south where his tongue met her soft pubic hair.

"I love your mouth."

Helen moaned when he kissed her pussy and parted her folds with his tongue.

"Yeah? You like my tongue too?"

He started to tongue fuck her and she grabbed his head, pressing his face closer to her sex.

"Shut up and eat me out."

She threw her head back when sucked on her clit.

"Oh fuck…" She moved her hips slowly to the rhythm of his actions, rolling them with intense motions, burying her fingers in his thick, curly hair. "Just like this...yes."

Her moans got louder and louder and his dick was so hard it hurt, leaking precum. He knew she was about to come but she stopped him before she climaxed.

"Lay down", she ordered and so they switched positions. August had always been a dominant lover but being bossed around by her was a great turn on. He loved how determined she was, it was incredibly sexy how she was chasing her high, not even trying to hide that she wanted to fulfil her own needs most of all. She was starved, desperately in need of this, of him. In this moment she needed him, she wanted him, she allowed him to give her what she was craving.

Helen was kneeling between his legs now, grabbing his dick. "I love your cock too." She grinned at him before she started to suck him off with a devotion that was new to him.

She turned him into a whimpering, panting mess soon, her lips and her tongue working their magic on his dick, and just like her, he grabbed her head to have some kind of control over her actions. He made her take him deeper and she took him deeper.

"Good girl. Taking me so well."

His voice was raspy and she locked eyes with him, her gaze telling him that she liked to be praised. August groaned when she slowly pulled back, licking his length one last time.

"Fuck, Helen...I need to feel you."

"I'll make you feel me."

Saliva was dripping from her swollen lips and he almost got off just by the sight of it. His saviour, his saint had turned into a shameless whore and he was willing to worship and adore her for being his dirty, little slut.

"Yes, you will."

He grabbed her by her waist and pulled her onto his cock. She sighed with pleasure when he entered her tight cunt, stretching her wet pussy and as soon as she got used to his size she started to ride him, rolling her hips slowly in a rhythm that was giving them both the greatest pleasure. August stroked her tits, caressed and kneaded them and she supported her body with her hands on his chest. She picked up speed and when August pinched her nipple she came with a hoarse shriek, her whole body trembling with ecstasy and lust.

Helen bent down to kiss him and he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly while thrusting his hips. He fucked her without restraint now, his thrusts hard, fast and deep. He railed her mercilessly until his intense orgasm swept him away. He let out a long, satisfied moan and loosened his grip on her body.

He kissed her again but she seemed to be in a rush suddenly and rolled off him and went to the bathroom. August was kind of surprised and sobered to a certain degree when he heard that she was taking a shower. She either couldn't stand after-sex-cuddles in general or she really thought that he had just done her a favor to thank her for her hospitality.

He wondered how many times he would have to fuck her till she was willing to fall asleep in his arms afterwards.

*****

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