#we look on every side of the box. it just fucking says tea. except for the one place that it says

[iamthecomet]

Hehe, mountain, and he wants spicy time, except he's really fucking bad at asking, so he just follows rain (or whoever u wanna pair him with) everywhere and gets a lil clingy til they get the hint.

We like a semi-shy mountqin headcanon. Shy in the streets, freaky in the sheets

Oh, absolutely. It's ALWAYS the quiet ones. Mountain knows exactly what he wants, but can never quite find the words to just ask for it. He'll watch Rain from across the common room, taking note of the slope of his shoulders, the slant of his waist. He does not stare at his ass for an inordinate amount of time. (He can't help it). And before Rain has even turned around with his tea, Mountain's pants are uncomfortable and his blood is laced with want and he doesn't know how to ask. It isn't that he thinks Rain is going to say no. Rain rarely, if ever, turns him down. It's just. What's he supposed to say? He can't be like Dew or Swiss, opening a conversation with a casual wanna fuck? Or Aether who seems to know exactly the right words in every situation? And he's certainly not going to do what Sunshine does and just plant himself in Rain's lap and kiss him. He scoots over, makes space for Rain between him and the arm of the couch and Rain folds into him like he belongs there. Mountain dips his head to press his forehead against the side of Rain's head and says-- Nothing. He just nuzzles in, breathes in the fresh-water smell of Rain's skin, and lets desire wash over him. He tails Rain all day, tagging along during Rain's minimal chores, inviting Ran to help him in the greenhouse. All the while he watches, wants, aches.

It's a ritual at this point, and he suspects Rain knows exactly what is going on. But Rain doesn't say anything about it either, he just lets Mountain follow him around like a lost puppy. Eventually, usually sometime around dinner, Rain will pull him aside, look up at him with wide dark eyes, and laugh at him. "All you have to do is ask, Mount." Mountain doesn't have anything to say to that either. So instead he just boxes Rain in against the cold stone of the abbey walls and kisses him.

#comet writes #ficlet #rain/mountain #look #they're adorable #ghost headcanons #comet canons #the band ghost fan fiction #the band ghost headcanons #ghost fan fiction #rain ghoul #mountain ghoul #salmon

[damikun]

You'd watch them take their time carefully, painstakingly choose a souvenir postcard. Then you’d pick up whichever one Damian had to buy and get the exact same. This time they picked one of a desert. A 4" by 6" photograph of goddamn desert complete with a three pronged cactus in sunglasses. The skyline is a butter yellow and rose colored haze. Damian may have been on a road trip with his long term girlfriend across the United States but technically speaking so you were you.

You'd been chasing them state by state on their little anniversary vacation in their 1977 Fleetwood Prowler for weeks now. Stopping at every landmark, campsite, and RV park alike. Every loathsome truck stop and sad little gas station that Damian always hated having to stop at. But you loved them.

You got to duck behind the aisles of chips and fruit snacks with your camera. To snap candids of them in semi good lighting. There was something sweet and intimate about watching someone in a gas station. It was almost a ritual.

What snack would they pick for the road?

Beef jerky, but only the spicy sort.

What drink did they reach for first, but ultimately put back for another?

A sweet tea, then nope -fresh water.

Did they look longingly at the cold box full of sour warheads before they left without one?

Yes. Twice.

You centered the cross hairs on your viewfinder and snapped a picture. You could edit out the other… unwanted party out of them later.

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You held your newspaper up over your face in the little 50s diner. Your wandering eyes are guarded by heavy sunglasses. You’d picked them up at an antique shop in Kansas. They sat heavy on the tip of your nose, made you look like an old starlet with a silk headscarf. You watched them from your periphery. Tucked away in their little booth. Picking at watery sunny side up eggs and toast. Your mouth watered at the out of place slice of pecan pie on the table even though it was 8am. Dessert for breakfast? The idea would have never even crossed your mind. Genius, really…

Their low conversation filtered through the air. Damian's girlfriend was talking, therefore not eating her pile of waffles on her plate. He didn't seem to like that very much..

"-next stop isn't for miles, and I think we should-"

"Your food is getting cold." He interrupted.

"Yes, but-"

God, just shut up. You jabbed your fork into your meal. Ears straining, craning closer.

"SF is last on our list, Damian. I think we should stick with the plan and not skip the nature reserve. It's just one extra stop, then we're done with California."

Damian sighed heavily, "we've seen a million big old trees, babe." Babe. Ugh, you wanted to stab that fork into your ear after you heard him say it. Jealousy seething. Damian cooed all sweet to his girlfriend, "But okay, just for you, I'll make an exception. For my special girl on her birthday."

At this point the waitress behind the bar gave you a weird look as she refilled your cup of coffee, your fork making awful scraping noises into the plate.

So now, you guess, you are also adding another stop to your trip as well.

You wait for them to drive off in their rickety little RV before you climb into your car. You tail them all the way into the thicket of forest. Until the desert becomes a sleepy seaside town. The only flat stretch of land nestled in the redwoods that loom ominously. The early morning fog makes you feel like you’ve entered Silent Hill.

In the winding roads that snake up the mountains you lose them. How? You have no idea. No damn clue how you lose sight of a fucking pastel blue Fleetwood RV the size of a short bus. But you do.

You drive with one hand on the wheel, the other is shoving the pair of stolen underwear and your gun aside in the glove box. You need to find some sort of map because now you're lost. To make matters worse your gas tank is running on fumes and prayer. By the time you find the truck stop your engine is sputtering and coughing. Even the anime girl bobblehead on your dash is giving you a look as you pull into the lot. You pat her on the felt head reassuringly. Night is nearing, throwing a dark blanket over the sky, making the neon sign and fluorescent lights inside the large windows look like a beacon among the nothingness.

You refuel. Giving the gas pump nozzle a shake pretending it was a cock, shaking the cum from it. You're laughing dumbly at the thought before you're jumping out your skin.

The tires of a great big RV shriek as they pull off the main road and park crooked at the pump right across from you.

Eyes wide as dinner plates, you flop yourself into your back seat. Cursing the asshole you nearly crunched your skeleton between your car and theirs until you see who it is.

A very disgruntled Damian behind the wheel.

You’d think he was pulling into an ER drop off with how hard he banked that left turn. He's almost out of breath, cursing, spitting up words at his girlfriend like throwing knives. When he gets out his hiking boots smack the cement , slamming the door mid sentence of her. Your heart squeezes but you grin despite yourself. A little couples spackle, eh? You couldn't believe your luck. Now if only he'd abandon her at this truck stop and drive off in a huff. Leaving them separated. Then you'd have really won the jackpot. Ah, well a girl can dream.

You duck your face and the wise cracking smirk on it out of view. Right as Damian's head whips around. Almost like he's expecting an assailant behind him. He’d puffed up like he was expecting a fight or a sledgehammer to his brain. The glimpse of his anger you caught in his eyes before you hid sent a cold trickle down your spine.

Damian ran a hand through his jet black hair, turning his back again. Cursing at the pump when it eats his credit card, and won't spit it back out. You can hear him kick the machine and shout his frustrations at it before he stomps off.

He leaves his girlfriend to hobble out of the car, legs wobbly like a fawns as she follows after him, looking distressed.

"Damian! Wait, Damian! I'm sorry I took us down a wrong turn, okay? Where are you going, wait."

He doesn't. You don't either. Your eyes are drawn to that pump he was just at. The jingle of a gaudy advertisement playing on its little screen. A dirt boot print on its face. You tell yourself to remember there's a deal for a free cup of joe with every 25$ petrol purchase. Huh, nice. Your hands grip the tweezers in your pocket to pry his jammed card out. Thank you, acrylic nails, you have taught me so much!

You see your chance, you take it. Those two are not leaving this truck stop. Not together at least.

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You park off center in the lot by the truck stop. Conveniently situated where the light doesn't reach. You politely wave off the pretty lot lizard that tippy taps on your window with her manicured nails.

Their RV is parked somewhere further up, right where you can peer into the crack in curtains of their front window. The light creates a shadow box for you to watch them move about. They're eating cold sandwiches and drinking beers for dinner. You drum your fingers on the barrel of your binoculars.

The unscheduled stop on their way to the nature reserve probably made them flip off their water pump. There were no hook ups for the rinky dink death trap here. That leaves the couple with two options. One, conserving their half full water tank to use once they get on the road again by using the truck stop restroom. Or two, they could waste their water reserve and use the bathroom/shower in the RV.

The light in the RV went off after a while, so you waited to see what they’d choose. And waited. And waited. Jeez, one of them had to piss sometimes right? …right? It seemed like hours before that metal door swung open and a pair of shoes came down the steps.

You snapped up, eyelids flying open at the noise. You had been just, uh, resting your eyes in your car when you heard it. Now you were scrambling out quickly with your camera, zip ties, and a dose of something special in your pocket.

You shivered in the chill of night, the shadows of the massive redwoods all around made you feel off put. It was far too dark, too quiet. It made you feel like you were trapped in a fish bowl. The treeline all around was imposing. Far away and suffocating all at once.

You rubbed the goosebumps on your bare arms, rounding the gas station to the little bathroom out back. Listening at the door met with nothing but quiet. She must have been inside already. You gripped the zip ties, taking a deep breath to ready yourself.

"Saw you steal my card, you little thief."

Your blood ran so cold it froze you in place. Behind you Damian stood, eyes narrowed. Recognition lighting up over his features What should you do? Play it off.

"You've been following us."

"Uhm, I was just looking for the bathroom?" You stand woodenly, voice full of forced innocence. The kind that usually got you out of speeding tickets and free drinks. Maybe it'd work on Damian too?

"Well, you found it."

It did not work.

"You heard me, psycho." Fuck, fuck. You turn slowly, batting your eyelashes with the best bimbo look you could muster. Honestly, it came quite naturally to you.

"I'm n-not following you mister, i-i don't even know you." You lie, your voice losing steam as Damian moves fast to crowd you against the bathroom door. Your breath left you as his brown eyes glared at you with disgust. You opt to hold in the scream you feel bubbling up. That just might set him off. Feeling that same look he gave the gas pump earlier now turned on you. You may have peed a little, okay probably not but you felt like you could. Those eyes made your knees knock together.

His large hand is warm as it slides around your hip, it felt like you could memorize his fingerprints with how thin the material of your pajama pants are. Your heart thumping loud in the silence.The skin on your back burned against cold steel as Damian slides his hand down to cup your ass roughly. You squeak.

"Then what are these?"

Damian's huge fingers wrap around the handful of zipties hidden there, pulling them out. He wags them in your face, you flinch hard. That hard stare in his eyes. It was strangling to be this up close to a person you tailed and stalked for weeks now. He was even taller and broader and bigger looking when he was trapping you against a wall. Stark is the difference from your usual view of him, usually a dark-haired pin prick through your windshield.

You laugh nervously, "u-uhm, those? Those are uhhh," play dumb. Play dumb! "I, uh, actually don't know how those got there." Not that dumb. Damian's chest rumbles with a deep sound.

"You don't huh? Just carry these around for protection then?" He actually scoffs at you, lip curled in a snarl. It catches your eyes. Those same lips snarling at you, you’ve seen plant a few hundred kisses on his girlfriend throughout this entire trip. The same lips that wrapped around her nipples, sucking and latching with his teeth like they were his chew toys. Your thighs press together at the thought. "Yeah, I know exactly what your deal is, creep. Always skulking around. Spying. Stalking."

You feel the words go straight to your heart. Spying?? Stalking? You were following your true love. You were merely trailing behind your soulmate for the last ten thousand miles. Like Orpheus and Eurydice. It was romantic, goddamn it. An epic poem. You were practically living the iliad!

"Give me your hands." He barked.

"I'm not-'' he was already gripping your wrists tight, securing them with zip ties -your zipties and pulling it tight enough to make you wince. Your pulse spiked exponentially now. Fight of flight kicking you in the chest. There was space enough to run into the darkness and back to your car if you were fast enough. Your stupid goldfish brain took one look at one large open expanse of land behind Damian, then the other. Then short circuited and for some biblically idiotic reason, you decided on fight. You shoved Damian hard. The wall of a man didn't even budge. In fact, your own shove bounced you off his hulking body and sent you clattering back against the bathroom door. It sweeped open under your weight and you plummeted into the single stall at Damian's boots.

You cringed internally at the stickiness of the bathroom floor and in its dubious cleanliness. Your palms were skinned. Damian bent down over you, his hands on his knees. You tried to get back up. The ache in your sitting bones you felt after becoming one with the floor was made worse when Damian ground his boot into your hip bone. "stay down."

Grabbing the front of your shirt, he hiked you up by it. It wasn't lost on him that it pulled the material over your bare breasts, your nipples already hard and tight from the night air. Even in the dark of the bathroom you could see Damian's leer.

"How long have you been following me? Spit it out." He shook you like a beta fish in a baggy, making your teeth click.

You scowled, "following you? I haven't-"

Damian backhanded you so hard your ears rang. "Little freak, don't lie to me or I'll pop you again."

You tasted blood in your mouth, your lip split. It trickled warm copper around your molars. Now you shivered, but with fear. The zipties felt like a leech, biting into your wrists. You vaguely smelled his girlfriend’s perfume waft from his shirt. You wondered if he had ever backhanded her like that too.

When you didn't answer Damian snorted, with one hand he fisted into your hair, yanking your head back. The other fiddled with his belt. Your eyes went wide, all the blood rushed to your face so fast it made you lightheaded. The skin blood hot and burning.

"What the hell are you doing!" You shrieked. Trying and failing to scramble away from his half hard cock where it flopped out of his jeans. Damian's grip on your hair tightened.

"Giving you what you've been following me around the country for. You wanted my cock that bad, whore? Well you got it. Suck."

Your jaw would have dropped open if it weren't for the fact he was already prying it open, his fingers jamming into the hinge with force. His cock jutting out angry red before your eyes as he simultaneously shoved the back of your head. You shook your head hard, a rush of anger rising in your gut. The tip swiped crude lipgloss across your lips as you evaded it.

"Wait! Wait!" You shoved your tied hands up, putting a guard up between his leaking cock and your mouth. "I-i was following you, b-but it's not- it wasn’t-"

Damian grit his teeth together, his voice raising. "I know, freak. s’because you wanted this."

"I wanted you!" You shouted back, only to be met with silence. You wanted to curl up and die at that moment.

Your hands trembling, you peeked an eye open. To see Damian's cold expression turn into something like shock. His hand still clutched around the base of his dick he was about to force into your mouth. "Me?"

"Y-yes? I was just going to take a few pictures with the zip ties and leave you alone, I swear." Your eyes owly as they stared up at him, silently begging for him to believe you. You loved him. You'd chased him around the states and back just to get a chance alone with him. Cropping her out of every picture. It was tedious! You wanted just one picture of him without her. Zip tied in a bathroom…okay, maybe a few of his cock too…

"You wouldn't have remembered a thing, either, I um brought something for that." you twisted in his grasp to reach for your pocket but froze,

Said thing was now between Damian's huge fingers now, like he was going to pop it like a tick full of blood. Shit, when had he gotten his hands on that? Probably the same time he got your zip ties, while he was also groping your ass. "You were going to use this to drug me?"

"Open."

There was only horror on your face as he turned on you again, instead of his dick he forced the pill down your throat. The jagged edges scraping on the way down, he stroked the column of your throat, as if you were an unruly animal at the vet. Your legs kicked and thrashed. Damian held his hand over your mouth til the fast acting gel turned your thoughts slow as an IV drip. He almost laughed when your pupils slowly dilated.

Your eyes lazily drawn to the clinking of his belt as he lowered his pants to his thighs. Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Visibly relaxing now that you looked somewhere far away. "Mmh, look at you. Someone’s a little space cadet now, huh?"

You were limp as he dragged you up and bent you over the sink counter, your tied hands pushed above your head. They stayed stuck in that position where he left them, rigid as a posable dolly, even when he let go. Damian yanked down your pants and underwear, using his foot to push them into a puddle of fabric around your ankles. He kicked each ankle out, forcing you into a wider stance.

"I noticed you tailing us around Nebraska, sweetie," Your thighs jumped at each tortuously taunting slap of his cock against your cunt. "And Texas," blap "and Nevada," blap, "and now that I think about it, I even remember you in Maine too." blap. He just kept slapping the tip against your clit, making the nerves fizzle and pop.

"Just a happy accident for me to find you today though.”

“ You know…my little girlfriend that you hate so much hasn't been putting out for me lately."

You do know. They haven't done anything under the belt since Missouri, your brain supplies.

He clicked his tongue, with a sinister chuckle. "Got myself a tight fucking hole right here now though, don't I? Lucky me right?" Damian lined himself up with your unprepared cunt and watched your lips stretch and spread to swallow up his cock with a sickening pop. Your head lolled heavy to the side, smacking your cheek against the mirror. The force of his penetration thwacked your head against the surface, Damian let out a rough grunt of relief.

"Unh." You grunted, lips tingly and numb. You fought to keep your heavy eyelids open. The sharp sting of Damian's cock pounding into you raw felt like a gut punch. Outwardly, you could only sigh softly. It fogged up the scratches mirror your face was smashed up against. Lashes fluttering against your cheeks, He angled you up onto your tip toes just to make it harder.

"So fucking tight. You're not a virgin are you?" Damian laughed meanly, shoving your head even harder into the glass. Yanking his cock back to watch you clench around nothing, only to shove it back in. His pubic hair scraping against the skin of your ass. “You’re tighter than my girlfriend is.”

Your pussy clenched at the mention of her, a groan leaving your lips.

Damian's rubbing stopped, realization dawning on his features in the reflection. He stilled, balls deep. He leaned into your ear, breath hot and muggy on it. "She's pretty when I fuck her, isn't she?"

You inhaled sharply, your eyebrows frown. Your pussy gives another cruel throb. Damian starts railing you in earnest.

"Oh, yeah she is. You're such a fucking freak, oh my god, you're getting off on that." His condescending comments don't stop the entire time, taunting you in the cruelest way. The slap of skin quickly turns into a squelching mess between your legs, his fingers coaxing your clit to life. It swells, almost too sensitive too quickly.

"S'the same cock that's been in her, don't you like that?"

You drooled uncontrollably, moans and whimpers tumbling out of your lips. Nodding without a thought. Damian was huffing and puffing behind you, "She cums when I rub her clit like this." He whispers. Your thighs are shaking with numbness, barely able to support your weight but Damian is fixing that by practically holding you up by your head. Bruising thrusts knock your hip bones into the counters edge. Your eyes flutter as you try to remember the pattern he's tracing into your clit, the way she likes it. To you it's too rough, you wonder if she was faking it with him just to make him stop. But it's the possibility he's telling the truth that has you humping his hand.

"F-fuckkkk" the broken sob comes straight from your lips as you cum in a painfully sensitive way. The nerves of your swollen bud feel frayed by his rough fingers. You see black for a few beats.

"She speaks." Damian comments from behind you, shoving his fingers into your hot mouth. Your cunt burns and stings inside. "Holes don't talk though. So Shut the fuck up. Maybe next time I'll let you suck my cock after I fuck her and hngh- !" Damian shudders, his head drops to press between your shoulder blades with a loud groan from your pussy clamping around him "-god, just felt you cum from that, you dirty bitch."

Somewhere in the haze, you feel him fully sheath, shooting hot strings of cum against your cervix. Grunting loudly in your ear drum.

Your eyes slip closed as your legs give out. Everything in your body aches, shivering uncontrollably. Naked in the bathroom, with your pants around your ankles. His cum slowly oozes out of your insides to drip onto the puddle of clothing. You go in and out of consciousness a couple of times before Damian smacks your cheek to rouse you.

"No slacking, stupid girl. We're not done yet. I've got weeks of fat loads stored up. M’gonna stuff this little cunt full.”

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You vaguely are aware that Damian is carrying you out of the bathroom and towards what you think is your car. But he turns at the last second to his RV. Opening the large bottom hatch to the bottom storage unit, and dropping you unceremoniously inside. Your temple smacks into some camping supplies as your eyes roll back open. He's duct taping your mouth. "Pussy so good, think I'll keep it. A little hole to dick down when she's not in the mood. Which is like, all the time.” he laughs meanly. Arms flexing as he grabs the top of the storage and leans forward. “You'll stay quiet down here and be good right? Maybe I'll bring you a lil treat. Some used cum tissues or something. Little stalkers like you like that right?." Damian leans down to the storage, pretending to wait for you to agree. Knowing you're too drugged up to respond. You're already salivating into the sticky material of the duct tape. You feel like you might suffocate and drown at the same time. Damian chuffs at you, rolling his eyes.

He slams the lid to the storage drenching you in darkness. The entire rv shakes as he goes up the foldable steps, a door creaks open somewhere above you. You hear their footsteps thump over your head, sprinkling dust in your gluey eyes. It feels like your hands are turning blue from lack of circulation.

"Damian, where were you? You've been gone for hours." Her voice is like an icepick to you, you groan. Feeling the creamy mess of his cum drool from your abused hole.

"Had the shits, then some lot lizard tried to give me a handy at the urinal." He dismissively scoffs, he lies so easily, like he’s used to lying to her. Like he does it all the time. His heavy boots recede down the narrow RV. Towards the bedroom in the back cabin.

You hear as she follows after him. "Really, again?"

[upat4amwiththemoon]

The Scary People Next Door

Summary: Two women move to the neighborhood, it seems like there’s more to them than meets the eye.

Pairing: ? x fem!reader

Warnings: none

Word count: 2312

Prompts (taken from thecharactercomma.com): ”Our new neighbors are simultaneously the scariest and nicest people I’ve met.”

a/n: New story! I don’t know how many chapters this’ll be, but I hope you’ll enjoy this. I don’t know yet who to make the love interest, so now you have a say in this matter. Who would you like it to be? Feedback is always appreciated :)

Y/N stares at the moving truck opposite from her house. Two women, both redheads, are taking boxes from the truck and taking them into the house. The house had been empty for months and Y/N was excited to finally get some new neighbors, as the older ones aren’t really that neighborly.

One of the women turn around to look straight at Y/N as if she knew they were being watched. Y/N’s eyes widen as she ducks under her window, closing the curtains.

“Shit.” She mumbles, embarrassed she got caught staring. Waiting a moment, just to be sure, she peeks through the curtains again. Only to see both of the women staring at her. “What the fuck!” She hides again, crawling to her bed.

As she sinks into her bed, her phone starts ringing. Groaning, she picks it up. “Hey you!” A cheerful voice comes through, Darcy Lewis, her best friend.

“Hi.”

“Why do you sound like that? What happened?”

Of course she’d know something was wrong just from a greeting. She knows her so well, sometimes a little too well.

“I totally embarrassed myself in front of my new neighbors.” Y/N presses her face into a pillow, letting out muffled sounds.

Darcy laughs. “Not surprised at all. When did they move?”

“They are moving the boxes right now.”

Darcy manages to laugh even louder at that, making Y/N groan. “Not even 24 hours have passed and you’ve already made a fool of yourself.”

“Shut up.” She mumbles.

“Oh come on, you know I love you.” Darcy’s voice is playful, but there’s some sincerity behind it. That’s how she showed her love, through jokes. “I actually did have something to tell you, me and Monica are going on a date today!”

Y/N gasps, lifting her head from the pillow. “Finally! It took ages for you two to confess your very obvious feelings.” She teases, smiling from ear to ear for her friend. “I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks.” Darcy chuckles quietly. Even though she had a confident demeanor, taking compliments and expressions of happiness directed for her were still difficult. “Anyways, that was it. Update me on the neighbor situation when something interesting happens!”

“Will do. Bye!” Y/N hangs up and throws the phone onto the bed.

She looks at her window, thinking enough time has passed, she decides to make her way towards it. Opening the curtains carefully, she sees the moving truck is gone. She notices movement from the upstairs’ window opposite from her own bedroom’s window. The taller redhead was putting stuff away from the multiple boxes in her room.

Y/N knows she shouldn’t be staring, but she couldn’t help but be captivated by her new neighbors. They seemed like nice people. Nice people with multiple guns and magic powers.

She gasps loudly, eyes widening. “What the hell.” She stares at the woman in the window moving things, guns included, with red mist coming out of her hands. Y/N shrieks loudly when the woman’s eyes meet hers. She closes the curtains and locks every window and door in her house. Her mind goes to the scariest situation. What if her neighbors were serial killers? Or part of a mafia? Was she going to be killed now that she saw the weapons?

Panicking, she dials Darcy’s number. “The have guns and magic and a lot of guns, please help me, they’re going to murder me!”

“What are you saying? What happened?”

“They have multiple weapons and magic! She was moving stuff without touching them!”

“Are you high right now?”

“No!” Y/N grips her phone tighter. “No normal person has that many guns. They’re going to kill me!”

“No one is going to kill you, Y/N.” Darcy sighs, pausing for a second. “Monica and I’ll come over, okay? Just stay put.”

“Okay.” Y/N takes deep breaths. “Okay, thank you.” She hangs up the call, but doesn’t let go of her phone as she sits on her bed, shaking.

On the other side of the road, Wanda Maximoff is cringing at the window. She didn’t hide her powers and now someone saw. It had to be a record on how fast someone can compromise a mission. She walks down the stairs. “Natasha?”

Natasha Romanoff hums from the kitchen, where she’s putting away dishes.

“Please, don’t be mad.”

Natasha turns around, brows furrowed. “What did you do?”

“It was a total accident! I wasn’t thinking nor paying attention to my surroundings. I also didn’t think she’d peek for the third time, like seriously, she already got caught.” She rants on, ignoring the look Natasha is giving her.

“Wanda.”

“Right. The girl from opposite of us saw me using my magic. And most likely all of the weapons that I was putting away.” She looks at the ground, not daring to face Natasha. She knew the look on her face, she looked like a disappointed mother.

“Wanda! We talked about this, only use your magic when the curtains are closed.”

“I’m sorry! It was a total accident.”

Natasha sighs, rubbing her temples. Now they had one more thing to worry about besides their mission, which was difficult enough without random people seeing them.

“Okay, we’ll go to her house and threaten her or something.”

“We can’t threaten her because of my mistake.” Wanda frowns.

“What would you like to do then? Manipulate her?”

“No, let’s just be nice neighbors and show that she doesn’t have to be afraid of us.” Wanda conjures a pie with her magic. “Come on! We have a neighbor to impress.” She smiles and walks out of the house, Natasha behind her.

A knock on the door brings Y/N out of her head. She rushes downstairs, but stops right in front of the door. It takes Darcy and Monica a lot longer to get to her house. She looks through the peephole. Seeing the two women behind her door, she clamps her hand on her mouth to silence herself.

The taller woman waves with a wide smile and a pie in her hands. They already knew she’s behind the door, there’s nowhere to hide now.

Y/N opens the door ever so slightly. “Hello.”

“Hey!” The one with the pie waves again, trying to move her head to see Y/N better from the small crack. “We just moved to the house opposite of yours and wanted to come say hi.”

Y/N stays quiet, inspecting the two. The shorter one seemed much more intimidating, like she didn’t want to be there.

The taller woman elbows the shorter one to the ribs, giving her a small look. “Right, yes, hi. Could we come in? We brought pie.” She gives her a small smile before turning her face back into a stoic one.

“Now’s not really a good time.”

“I’m Wanda! This is Natasha.” She nods towards the shorter redhead. “We really mean no harm.”

She glances between the two. She knew she should just slam the door closed, but something in the back of her mind said to let them in, that they wouldn’t be harmful. So, Y/N opened the door wider, letting the women in.

“Here you go!” Wanda gives her the pie as she steps inside with Natasha.

She shows them to the living room. “Do you, like, want a piece or something to drink? I don’t have a lot, but there’s water and tea.” She asks as the redheads sit down to the couch.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Wanda and Natasha turn to stare at each other, almost like they’re having an internal conversation.

“Yes.” Wanda says in a slightly more commanding tone. “We would love some pie and water, please.”

Y/N goes to the kitchen, cuts up three pieces and takes three water bottles from the fridge, bringing them to the living room.

“So,” Wanda starts, grabbing her plate. “You might’ve seen something that you shouldn’t have and we wanted to tell you that there’s nothing to worry about.” She smiles as she eats a forkful of the pie.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I only saw you two move the boxes in the driveway.”

Natasha groans. She hasn’t even touched her piece. “We know you saw the guns and maybe little something unnatural in Wanda’s room.” She states, tired of the ‘nice neighbor’ approach Wanda wanted to do. “You won’t tell anyone about it and we won’t have a problem.”

“Natasha.” Wanda frowns and gently hits her shoulder.

Before Y/N can open her mouth, the doorbell rings.

“Who’s at the door?”

“Probably my friends. I might have called them when I saw what I saw.” She explains, covering under the harsh glare Natasha is giving her.

“Don’t open it.”

“She’s not leaving until I open the door.”

Natasha mumbles something incoherent, rubbing her face. She looks very pissed. “Then open the door and tell them everything is fine.” Wanda is trying to calm her down by saying that everything is fine. It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Y/N stands up slowly and goes to the door. Putting on her best smile, she opens it. Darcy and Monica are standing behind it, both of them having concern written all over their faces. They did, after all, just get a very worrying call from her.

“Hey you! Going to your date, huh?”

Darcy glances at Monica, who is looking at her. Everyone except Y/N seemed to be telepathically communicating today.

“Are you okay?” Darcy tries to look inside, but Y/N is blocking the view with her body.

“Yes! It was totally a misunderstanding, I saw wrong, everything is fine.”

“Are you sure?” Monica speaks up. “Darcy said you sounded really panicky on the call.”

“Totally! I was just being the paranoid person I am and saw things that weren’t there.” She giggles quietly, internally cringing at herself. She wasn’t making the situation any better. “I am fine! You two can leave and enjoy your date. Okay, bye!” Y/N closes the door, not letting them say anything else to stop her. She takes a deep breath and goes back to the living room. “Crisis averted.”

“Well, I suppose we should head out then. Thanks for having us!” Wanda stands up, somehow still smiling. “I hope to see you soon again.”

“Remember not to say anything, you saw those guns we have.” Natasha points at her.

“She’s kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

Wanda lets out a forceful laugh. “Please, don’t be scared of us.”

Y/N gives her a tight lipped smile and shakes her head. She leads them to the front door, opening it for them.

“Bye!” Wanda and Natasha walk into their house together.

Y/N closes the door, leaning her back against it. “What the fuck just happened.”

Few days pass with no problems. Wanda and Natasha, mostly Wanda, visit Y/N’s house every day, bringing some baked goods with them. Y/N was sure that was only a way to keep her quiet, though, she didn’t complain. The pastries were amazing and she had yet to die from poison, which was always a win in her book. Y/N felt bad for not never really doing anything nice back to them, she wanted to, but they were scary.

“I’m telling you Darcy, the new neighbors are simultaneously the scariest and nicest people I’ve met.” Y/N mumbles as she paints her nails while talking to Darcy on the phone. “Should I give them something? Just to make sure I stay on their good side.” She told Darcy everything that happened the next day. She knows she promised not to say, but those never include best friends, right?

“No.” Darcy scoffs. “I have no idea why you´re still talking to them.”

“What part of ‘staying on their good side’ do you not understand?” She blows on her nails, trying to dry them quicker. “Flowers or glitter?”

“Flowers.” She comments, knowing Y/N means what to do to her nails. “Shouldn’t you just, like, I don’t know, call the cops or move.”

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“I could help you.”

Darcy has tried to help her financially for years, as money wasn't a problem to her, being an astrophysicist and all. Y/N never wanted her money, she wanted to be able to do things on her own, even when she knew help was going to be needed. That’s why Darcy usually didn’t give her a choice on whether or not she was coming over to help, but money wasn’t something she could force onto her.

Y/N sighs, carefully tapping her fingers to her leg. “You know I don’t want it.”

Darcy hums. “Well, me and Monica are here for you.” A silence falls between the two best friends.

“Yeah, thanks. Bye then.” She stops the call. Groaning, she lays down. She didn’t want to have these weird interactions with Darcy. They made them both uncomfortable.

Y/N didn’t get a lot of time to dwell on her problems as a loud, and weirdly violent, knocking comes from the door. Y/N frowns, walking downstairs to the door. She looks through the peephole. Four men with very dark and covering clothes. Opening the door slowly, she leaves only a small crack to it.

“How can I help you?”

“Have you seen these two around here?” One of the men shows a picture of Wanda and Natasha. “They are very dangerous.”

“Nope.”

The men start talking in a different language, leaving Y/N confused. The conversation seems to get heated. They are talking fast and harshly. One of them points at her, saying something that silences the rest.

“This all could’ve been easier if you just told us the truth.” One of the men sighs before knocking Y/N out.

#marvel fanfiction #marvel #mcu #fanfic #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #the black widow #the scarlet witch #darcy lewis #monica rambeau #darcy lewis x monica rambeau

[spacedikut]

the blessing of a blizzard ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: a blizzard leaves the team holed up in the bau office. spencer can’t stop thinking about your elusive boyfriend, mike, who might not be your boyfriend after all. 4.3k

a/n: festive fic! kind of! im too scared to do a final check so if there’s errors or i misuse pronouns just lemme know ily happy holidays ! thank you to the incredible @homoose for helping with dialogue :D

Mike. His name is Mike, and Spencer hates him.

Full name Michael, Spencer presumes, which comes from Hebrew meaning “who is like God?” A rhetorical question, implying there is no person like God, Michael was one of the archangels in Hebrew tradition and the only one identified as an archangel in the Bible.

What Michael should mean, however, is the guy that stole your heart and left Spencer thinking things very unlike him – that Mike, a man Spencer has never met and that clearly makes you very happy, has a really stupid name, for example.

There are three things Spencer knows about him:

1. Ever since you started deciding on his wardrobe, ladies love him. It makes you a little jealous, apparently.

2. You love baking him homemade treats whenever you can. Like a movie playing in his head, Spencer can perfectly remember you excitedly chatting with Garcia and Emily, animatedly explaining how excited Mike gets when he sees you’ve made something just for him.

3. Mike can be a bit of a dick, actually. There have been several mornings you’ve come in with a long face, leaning back in your desk chair far enough to view the world upside down and whining about how grumpy Mike was that morning, how you had to tip-toe around your apartment lest he get mad.

You’d called him your soulmate, added that he’s a light in your life you didn’t know you needed until you had him. You’re a person who chooses their words carefully, so when you’re walking around putting Mike and soulmate in the same sentence, you mean business.

That business is ripping Spencer’s heart out of his chest, apparently. Because you’re busy showing JJ pictures of him on your phone right now, blissfully unaware of the subconscious glare Spencer is lasering into your phone as he leans against the jet counter.

Spencer’s never had the honour of seeing Mike (a genuine word you used – honour) and you know what? Spencer doesn’t want to know what Mike looks like. Spencer doesn’t care. Mike’s probably ugly, anyway, and Spencer’s confidence within himself grows day by day and if there’s one thing he’s learnt recently it’s that comparison is the thief of joy and-

“Oh!” JJ exclaims, “He’s gorgeous!”

Fuck Mike. Really, fuck him.

+++

The floor is slippery beneath everyone’s feet, the surrounding area slowly losing its mixture of colours to blend into one coat of white.

It’s snowing.

Garcia greets the team, a steaming cup of tea in her bejewelled hands, and everyone gets to work right away. There’s whispers of the snow getting heavier and sticking and covering more and more ground with more and more depth; people are rushing against the proverbial clock to get done and get home before they’re all stuck.

But that won’t happen, right? If people were genuinely concerned about getting snowed in, surely everyone would’ve been sent home early as a precaution. Right? Right?

Wrong.

Rossi’s the one to notice it, calling out, “Check it out. Snow’s pretty bad.”

He says it like it’s nothing, like they’ll race to the windows then deflate with disappointment because you couldn’t even create a single snowball with that light coat, but holy hell people are walking around with snow up to their ankles and it’s still coming down thick. And then the lights are flickering and JJ is making frantic calls home to Will and Hotch is exiting his office, phone pressed to his ear, calling everyone to attention:

“There’s a blizzard incoming. It’s too dangerous for anyone to be on the roads, so we’re being told to sit tight. You should all try to call home, just in case; we don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

Some people still brave it, still try to head on home, and whether they make it or not is up to the Gods. The team glance around, varying expressions – Emily and Derek look pissed, JJ is worried, and you and Rossi are straight-faced. Penelope is bouncing in excitement.

“It’s like a sleepover!”

All Spencer can think about is how Mike will have to suffer another day without you. He bites back a smile.

+++

Spencer’s straining his neck, butt barely on his desk chair, in attempt to see around all the bustling people that stand between you and him. Through the glass BAU doors, on the phone, your shoulders are slumped and you kick your boot against the floor a few times to channel your multitude of emotions into something. He hopes Mike isn’t giving you a hard time for something that isn’t within your control.

Emily looks up from her monitor, where she’s doing Christmas shopping even though it’s Christmas Eve, and looks thoroughly amused by Spencer’s internal battle of wanting to watch you but not wanting it to be obvious.

“You good, Reid?”

Spencer flinches like Emily pinched him. “Yeah, good. Fine. Are you good?”

Emily makes a show of slowly turning to look at you, still on the phone, then slowly turning back to Spencer’s wide-eyed gaze. She smirks. “You think they’re talking to Mike?”

Yes, Spencer does think that, but he’d made a point to not fully acknowledge it. And there’s something about Emily’s smugness that tells Spencer she’s teasing him – she knows something he doesn’t and it makes his eyes narrow. “Probably. Why?”

Whatever the response is, Emily’s barely opened her mouth before she’s interrupted by Penelope Garcia gracefully clapping her hands, getting the attention of every BAU member. The team quiets and all eyes are on Penelope. Except Spencer, who watches with concern as you sneak back to your desk, a furrow to your brow and downward dips either side of your mouth.

“I know these are less-than-great circumstances, and we’re stuck in work of all places, but that shouldn’t mean we can’t have a little fun! So…”

She wildly gestures for Hotch to step forward, a cheesy grin on her face and a gleam in Hotch’s eye that tells everyone he’s also smiling but internally, and she takes the three large boxes he was carrying like the good sidekick he is.

“We’re building gingerbread houses!”

There’s exclamations of surprise and joy; Emily lights up at the idea of doing anything other than work or sitting at her desk, and JJ takes a box to look it over before asking, “Where did you get these?”

Hotch answers. “They were supposed to be for the kids,” He shrugs, holding back a smile, “However, I guess we can use them now.”

“Yes,” Penelope nods, “Yes, we can use them now. Get your game faces on, because this is a competition. Hotch and Rossi are the judges, because they’re grumpy old men, and the rest of us will be in teams of two fighting to build the best gingerbread house the BAU has ever seen.”

Derek speaks up for the first time, just to insult Spencer. “I refuse to be on a team with Reid. He has no creative skills.”

Members of the team laugh and Spencer reacts indignantly. He wants to reply, but you’re already speaking.

“Hey! I’ll take him! Spencer’s great.”

Many heads snap to you when you speak, Spencer’s surely got whiplash, but you’re looking at him and smiling at him and him alone. He’s breathless at the sight, how you chose him and have literal stars in your eyes, yet all he can think is how undeserving he is of such a beauty. How undeserving anyone is, mostly Mike, to exist in the same reality as someone who puts the definition of beautiful to shame.

Spencer’s about to make the best damn gingerbread house the world has ever seen.

+++

So, building a gingerbread house? A little more difficult than originally thought.

Maybe it’s the sticky icing, or the temptation to simply eat all the sweet decorative candy rather than use it for its intended purpose, or…

Maybe it’s the pretty teammate Spencer has that keeps brushing against him, keeps brushing against his hands, and like a virus to a computer you completely wipe Spencer of all thoughts other than: Y/N.

Spencer caught you watching him while he was rolling up his shirt sleeves, caught you staring at his hands and trailing your eyes up his forearms, following the sleeves as they moved inch by inch up to his elbows.

Then, when Spencer was holding two pieces of gingerbread together, you were too lost in thought to put the icing between the cracks and cement them together. Your eyes were trained on the fingers pressing the pieces together. Spencer had to call your name three times to wake you up.

Then, something weird happened (if the previous instances weren’t weird enough). You two had been in your own bubble of hushed tones and accidental touching, surrounded by bickering and collapsing houses and at one point Emily offered Rossi twenty bucks if he just votes for her and JJ without them making a house, and suddenly it’s silent. All he can hear is his heartbeat, his blood pumping in his ears, and all he can feel is the warmth of your breath on his ear because you’re right there, over his shoulder, joining him in hunching over your creation to decorate it with all kinds of shapes and colours.

The close proximity is too much. It’s too much.

You lean even closer, shoulder and arm pressed directly against Spencer’s, and lift another hand to place a miniature candy cane next to the gingerbread door. The action causes your hand to brush Spencer’s, and for the first time ever he’s not jolting away like he’s been electrocuted, no, his hand stays there, hovering, waiting and hoping for more.

Hoping for more of you.

And you seem to realise, too, that Spencer’s reaction is abnormal. He can’t decide if you’re testing the waters, or if it was a mere accident. But what are you testing the waters for? Why are you trying to touch him? Why do you want to touch him?

He takes a sharp intake of breath. From the corner of his eye, he sees you turn to look at him, and he almost doesn’t reciprocate. Almost.

You’re so close, face so close to his own. You take the softest breaths, in and out, sending the gentlest puffs of air onto Spencer’s lips.

He has no idea what the fuck is happening. He doesn’t want it to stop.

Your eyes, always shining and full of an emotion Spencer can’t decipher, dance around his face – his eyes, to his nose, stopping on each cheek, back and forth and up and down. Spencer’s captured by them, unable to tear himself away, which has become quite the habit since he’s known you.

Then you’re looking at his lips.

Spencer blinks, hoping to clear away the obvious hallucination he’s having, but no. Nothing changes. Your gaze remains, unwavered, making Spencer subconsciously open his mouth. The softest gasp leaves it when your pupils dilate.

This is the perfect moment to kiss, right? Right here, in front of the gingerbread house you made together, decorated together, and now begin the start of something else together. It makes sense, it’s almost poetic, and Spencer’s thought about you and him in a relationship enough times to consider this opportunity good and sweet enough to regale everyone with in the future.

Can you imagine it? “We had our first kiss in front of the gingerbread house we slaved over together. We won the competition, too.”

There’s a loud clang – Penelope found an actual gong from somewhere – and Rossi announces that the timer has gone off and it’s time for the judges to vote for the winner.

When you gently pick up yours and Spencer’s creation and take it to a cloth-covered table, where Rossi and Hotch ominously stand with their arms crossed, Spencer is frozen in place.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

There’s no way you wanted to kiss him. It isn’t possible. You’ve never looked at him like that before. It must’ve been a mistake.

But you were so close…

No. If Spencer made that move, it would’ve ruined everything – your friendship, the festive fun, the atmosphere of the entire evening. Everyone’s expected to be stuck here for at least another six hours, and making it tense and awkward was not something Spencer is willing to do.

But your eyes…

Spencer can’t think about that fact too much. That could mean anything – dilated pupils don’t necessarily mean you’re in love. You could’ve gotten a good whiff of the gingerbread and felt hungry, or a song you really liked started playing from the playlist Penelope created. Or, most likely, Spencer thinks, you were thinking about someone else.

Your boyfriend, for example.

You have a boyfriend. Mike.

Of course, you were probably thinking of Mike. Your boyfriend.

Spencer almost kissed someone in a relationship, and he’s pretty sure you almost kissed him too.

+++

Much to Derek’s chagrin, you and Spencer win the gingerbread house contest.

Penelope was baffled, frantically gesturing to the Jacuzzi she made with icing and- Derek made miniature weights? Somehow? It looked chaotic.

“Practicality, my dear,” Rossi told her. “Who, living in a gingerbread house, is worried about working out?”

Even though you and Spencer were the winners, Derek and Penelope and their pouting (and calls for a rematch) took the attention away from the obvious awkward tension between the winners. Spencer stayed at the desk you worked at while you took your house to the judges, stayed at the desk when you were crowned and stayed at the desk when you cheered.

You looked at him, wide grin and happy eyes, and all he could do was tightly smile back. Give a thumbs up.

He gave you a thumbs up. You nearly kissed less than ten minutes prior. And all he could do was give you a thumbs up.

The light in your eyes dimmed, but you seemed to understand.

Understand what, exactly? Spencer’s not so sure either. But something clicked in your head – you nodded to yourself as if confirming whatever you’ve concluded, and turned your back to him.

That was an hour ago. Now, the team has spread across everyone’s desks. Turns out, Hotch is a big fan of gingerbread - he’s consumed most of Derek and Penelope’s creation, icing and all, while Rossi has decided now is a good time to open one of the many bottles of whiskey he has in his office.

Spencer believes having that much alcohol in your work environment is breaking some kind of rule, but the snow isn’t letting up and it looks like a sleepover in the BAU office is likely. He deserves a little whiskey.

And where are you in all of this?

Spencer won’t lie and pretend he hasn’t had you in his line of sight the entire time, so he’ll recap what you’ve been doing: laughing at Derek’s jokes, plaiting Penelope’s hair, eating the candy Emily and JJ didn’t use on their house.

You’d left the room to call home and check up on things (check up on Mike, Spencer thinks bitterly) and now you stand in front of the large window by the BAU elevators, watching the snow fall.

Spencer has the perfect view of you through the glass doors. When the call ends and you stay there, he grabs a paper plate, grabs one of the walls from yours and his masterpiece and makes his way towards you.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say, or how he’ll even act, but he wants to talk to you. Things feel weird after the almost-kiss, and Spencer never wants things to be weird with you. He can’t have things weird with you. You hadn’t talked to him once since the competition, and he has a feeling you’re waiting for him to make the first move.

So he does. If that’s what you need, he’ll do it.

(He’s making this more dramatic than it needs to be, really, but he feels everything so deeply when it comes to you)

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice perfectly matches the snowy atmosphere. It makes you feel warm inside, like you’ve just taken a sip of hot cocoa, and so often he’s left goosebumps on your skin just from speaking.

Seeing the outstretched paper plate in his hand, you take it gratefully. “Hi there. Thanks.” You nod to the gingerbread that you begin breaking up.

You hand him the first piece even though he brought it for you, and it’s silent while you both chew thoughtfully and watch the pure white outside. It doesn’t feel weird, necessarily, standing here, shoulder-to-shoulder with you, but you’re certainly more in your head than usual. You’re thinking a lot and, as much as it hurts him, Spencer knows you’re likely preoccupied by your boyfriend and not what transpired between you earlier.

It’s that thought, that disappointment settling into his chest, that opens his mouth unconsciously: “How’s Mike? Does he know you’re not making it home tonight?”

He regrets it immediately, worsened by the way you stop mid-chew, eyes dimming like Spencer’s taken a baseball bat and shattered the lights inside.

This is unchartered territory – talking about Mike with you – and you know it. Who, in their right mind, willingly asks the person they have feelings for how their relationship with someone that isn’t you is going? Does Spencer enjoy pain?

Although this is the first time Spencer’s mentioned Mike to your face (he’s mentioned Mike plenty to a laughing Derek), he’s been so close to presenting the topic many times. He wants to know so badly – wants to know how well Mike treats you, really treats you (he will profile you), if you see a long-term future with him and if not, on average how long does it take you to get over your exes? Just an estimate?

You swallow the gingerbread you’re eating. “He’s okay. My roommate has to take care of him, but at least he’s got someone.”

Huh?

Since when do you have a roommate?

And why is your roommate taking care of your boyfriend?

Oh. Guilt blooms in Spencer when it registers that he’s been thinking ill of a person that might be sick. No wonder you dote on him so much and seemed devastated to make that phone call home earlier - Mike needs you, you can’t be there for him, and you feel horrible for it.

Spencer feels horrible for having the subject of his anger be someone you so clearly cherish, so deeply love. He’s embarrassed that if he was asked to explain why he hates Mike so much, he’d have to tell them it’s because Mike has you, and you’re what Spencer wants. What about what you want?

“Take care of him?” Spencer asks. The concern is genuine, which is an emotion he never thought he’d have in regards to Mike. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” You shrug. “He needs someone watching over him at all times, that’s all.”

That’s all?

You continue. “Make sure he eats – and only eats what he’s supposed to. Give him his meds. Make sure he poops. Those kinda things.”

What?

“Your… roommate makes sure your boyfriend poops?”

Now, Spencer knows what you look like when you’re confused. Honestly, he has every facial expression you’ve graced him with tucked away in a proverbial box he spends too much time thinking about. He knows that when you’re trying not to laugh, you bite the inside of your left cheek. When you’re frustrated but need to present a professional front, you bite the inside of your right cheek. Happiness fills your entire face, like every inch is consumed by it, and you’ve trained yourself to transport anger to your hands, where they twist into tight fists and leave fingernail marks in your palms.

Confusion is one of his favourites (second only to joy – for obvious reasons. Have you seen your smile?) because it takes many forms. You’ve pursed your lips, narrowed your eyes, tapped your foot on the floor. When you do them all, Spencer considers it a jackpot. There’s something about the way you look when you’re presented with something you can’t quite figure out yet, when you’re perplexed, that just-

You make it hard for him to concentrate. He can’t be a genius when you’re around because you’re so pretty. You’re a vision and he can never rattle off information to you specifically because he will trip up and divert to talking about the beauty that is you and that would be embarrassing for many reasons.

But this type of confusion? The way you’re looking at him right now? He’s never seen this before. Your jaw has dropped, your brows are furrowed so deeply they might fall off, and you look… horrified.

“My… my boyfriend?”

Spencer mirrors your expression. “Yeah, your boyfriend. Mike?” He looks around, waiting for cameramen to jump out and tell him he’s being pranked, because why don’t you know who your own boyfriend is?

You move slowly, placing the half-eaten plate on the windowsill before turning to face Spencer fully. You take a second to compose yourself.

“Mike is my cat.”

Mike is…

“And he’s having digestive issues, so he needs to be watched pretty much full-time.”

Silence. Tense, weird silence.

“…You thought Mike was my boyfriend?”

Spencer sputters, then, because of course he did! “Yes! The way you talk about him was… it was… it seemed…”

He flustered, oh so flustered, hands flailing and face enflamed and burning from the inside out. How had he not known?! How had… how had your wires gotten so convoluted, so mixed?

Does everyone know that Mike is a cat? Is Spencer the only one out of the loop? The look Emily gave him earlier, that knowing too-smug look, was that…

She was making fun of him. She knew he thought Mike was a person, not a pet, and was teasing him because of it.

All at once, the world seems lighter and dimmer – a contradiction that leaves Spencer’s chest heaving – because the past year feels like a lie. He’s spent so long seeing the way you come to life when talking about Mike, sitting opposite you on the jet as you awaken like a dying flower watered when home got closer and closer, and it was all for… a cat?

There’s a mist over Spencer’s eyes as he recalls every overheard declaration of love and coos of how handsome Mike is, and you’re laughing. Spencer’s having a crisis in front of your very eyes and you’re laughing. Hunched over, a single tear falling from your eye, clutching your stomach because it hurts from the ferocity of your giggles.

By the time you quieten, your hand is over your mouth to cover the big grin that grounds him, gives him something other than this revelation to focus on. Spencer’s still baffled, frazzled, but there’s the tiniest of smiles on his face because of how overjoyed you look. And he did that. Albeit his stupidity did it, but Spencer’s stupidity nonetheless.

You’re out of breath. “God I… I don’t even know what to say. You really thought my cat was my boyfriend?”

Spencer’s fighting a smile, lips wiggling. The way you’re looking at him now, all blinding smile and crinkled eyes, alleviates him of any anxiety he earlier had. Like you’ve wiped away his plate-full of worries, all the times it felt like he took an arrow to the heart, all the times he caught you smiling at your phone because you were looking at pictures of Mike, it’s all worth it. Because you’ve never looked like this while talking about Mike, and Mike is a cat. He isn’t a person, isn’t your boyfriend. Mike is a cat and Spencer has a chance.

Spencer has a chance.

“Does this… this means you’re single, right?”

A somewhat terrified look overtakes his face.

“Oh, shoot, you are single, right?”

You bite your lower lip and nod. “Yes, Spencer. I’m single.”

He lets out a breath. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad.” He repeats your nod, realises what he said could imply, and starts shaking his head. “Not-not good good. You’re incredible and need to be appreciated, but… good, because that means we could, you know…” He gestures vaguely. God, why can’t he get coherent words out? “If you wanted to, we could-“

“Are you trying to ask me out, Spencer?”

“Yes.”

Just to cause immense emotional distress, you raise an eyebrow, mischief clear on your face, and wait for him to continue.

“You want me to actually ask?” He winces.

“I’ve spent the last year convinced you didn’t like me, so, yes, I want you to actually ask.”

The new information sends ice down Spencer’s back because what? Since when? “You- what?“

“I’ve liked you for a while, Spencer,” You cross your arms over your body, slightly embarrassed. “But you always kept your distance so I did too, I guess.”

“I thought you were taken!” Spencer exclaims. “If I’d known I would’ve-we could’ve- I would-“

“You’d what, Reid?” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone, but there’s no denying you’re incandescently happy.

He takes a deep breath and asks what he’s wanted to for far too long. “When this is all over, would you like to go on a date with me, Y/N?”

Relief flashes in your eyes, like you didn’t fully believe what was happening until he finally asked, and words have never sounded as pretty as when you say: “Yes. Yes I would.”

Like lovesick idiots, you stand in front of the window with the snowfall as a backdrop, grinning at each other. You can’t help it – you lean up, press a kiss to his cheek that immediately sets his skin ablaze, and fall back onto your feet with a smile sweeter than all the sugar you’d consumed today.

“Merry Christmas, Spencer.”

Somehow, despite the nerves and the way his heart is trying to leap into your hands, he manages to tell you, “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

+++

(Three weeks later, Spencer meets the Mike. Turns out he’s a nice guy. Spencer takes the first opportunity he can to apologise for all the bad things he said about him behind his back. The purring tells Spencer he’s forgiven)

+++

tags: @pinkdiamond1016 @bluerose512 @andreasworlsboring101 @bitchyreids @roses-and-grasses @ta-ka-shi-ma @rexorangecouny @unmistakablyunknown @goofygubler14 @gublertoon @averyhotchner @prettyboy-reid @shadyladyperfection

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid imagine #genuinely if anyone reads this and has suggestions on how i can improve as a writer #and maybe as a person in general #pls message me #something about this feels OFF and i cant tell what

[wonder-womans-ex]

Make a Promise

“Sirius,” Remus says, rolling onto his side to face the man beside him, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Shoot.” Sirius’s eyes stay focused on the ceiling above, but he smiles warmly. 

“Do you—well, you probably don’t remember, but when we lived together, before, in the flat with the piss-yellow walls and the floors that squeaked and the stove that never worked, I had a shoebox. Under the bed. And I never let you look in it.”

Sirius is quiet for a moment, then, “I remember.”

There were three things is the box. And I didn’t want you to see any of them, all for different reasons.”

“Why do I have the feeling you’re about to tell me what they were?” He’s teasing, but his eyes go soft when Remus replies, “Because you know me better than anyone.”

“The first thing,” continues Remus, “The one that took up the most space, was my registry papers. Documents of where I spent every full moon, what classification of werewolf I am, whether I’ve attacked anyone—that sort of thing. 

“Then there was a photo from first year. The one Peter took of James, you, and me after our first detention.” Sirius clenches his jaw, and Remus knows he’s thinking of their old friend. “For years, I thought I’d lost it, but then I was cleaning out the attic after my mum died, and there it was. And I kept it. Because in that photo, you’re looking at me like you looked at me after fifth year; like you look at me now. It just... amazes me, I guess, because we were eleven and we’d barely known each other a month, and already there was something there. I used to take it out, sometimes, when you were gone, and remind myself that what we had was real. It was... it was the only photo of you I didn’t burn.”

The silence envelopes them, heavy and painful, until Remus swipes a hand over his eyes. “Oh, fuck, I’m crying.”

“‘S’okay,” Sirius says, “so am I.”

“You know I love you, right? More than anything?”

“I know. I love you, too. Always and forever.”

Somewhere along the way, their fingers have twined together. Sirius, after giving Remus’s hand a reassuring squeeze, asks, “And the third thing?”

“The third thing in the box?” 

“Yeah.”

“A box.”

“A box. Inside a box.”

“That’s right.”

“How exciting.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Shut up. What matters is what was inside the box.”

“What was inside the box inside the box?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I try.”

“Do you want to know what was inside the box or don’t you?”

“Please, do tell.” The grin on Sirius’s face still does embarrassing things to Remus’s heart, even after all these years. “How about I show you, instead?” he says. 

Sirius nods. 

As he leans over to grab his wand from the bedside table, Remus takes a breath. No going back now. He performs a wandless summoning charm, looking anywhere but at Sirius. 

“So.” He snatches the box out of the air as it flies towards him. “I bought this our last Hogsmeade weekend of seventh year. And I meant to give it to you right after graduation, and then again when we bought the flat, and again when I found out James was planning on proposing to Lily, but things kept coming up and I kept putting it off, and eventually it was too late. So I’m giving it to you now.”

He stops. His lower lip is trembling. “Hold out your hands and close your eyes.”

Slowly, Remus presses the box into Sirius’s outstretched hands. “You can open your eyes now.”

Sirius does, eyelids fluttering, and his eyes fix onto what he’s now holding. He inhales so sharply it’s almost a gasp. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Probably.” Remus waits to see if Sirius is going to say something else. He doesn’t, so Remus goes on. 

“Padfoot,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “you have known me since before I really knew myself. You taught me I matter; I deserve to be loved. You were the first person to find out what I was—what I am—and think no differently because of it. I have tried time and time again to find where I belong, and I never find that the answer is anywhere but with you.

“You are my world, Sirius Black, and it it because of you that I have the confidence to say I am yours. So I ask you, in the house of your awful parents who are probably rolling over in their graves right now... will you marry me?”

Sirius nods, the tears in his eyes spilling over. “Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely yes.”

And now they’re both crying, and they’re kissing each other on the cheek, the forehead, the mouth. Neither of them has ever been happier. 

Finally, Remus pulls back, prying Sirius’s fingers back from around the box, “Aren’t you going to look inside?”

For reasons he can’t quite explain, Sirius hold his breath a he opens the lid, deep red velvet contrasting starkly against thin, pale fingers. A smile spreads across his face. 

The ring inside glints gold; the four tiny rubies set in the band catch the early morning light. “It’s beautiful,” breathes Sirius, grin lopsided where his lip is between his teeth. “Can you...?”

It takes Remus a moment to realize what his boyfriend—fiancee, he corrects himself with a surge of joy—means. “Yeah,” he manages, taking Sirius’s left hand in both of his own and sliding the ring carefully onto the fourth finger. They stay there, palm to palm, for a long time, trading sweet nothings and gentle, chaste kisses. 

“I’ve been imagining how you’d look wearing that ring for nearly seventeen years,” Remus is saying when there’s a sharp knock on the door.

“Breakfast!” Both men look up when Molly’s shout rings down the hallway, neither speaking until she’s moved on to the next door. 

“Our first meal as engaged wizards,” Remus says, pulling Sirius to his feet. “C’mon.”

They wait, giggling and smiling at each other, until they’re sure everyone else has gone down, and then they race to to stars, still holding hands. They slide down the banisters, too; it’s like they’re sixteen all over again. 

At the first landing, Remus stops to push Sirius against the wall. “We’re getting married,” he murmurs into the kiss, and he feels Sirius smile against his lips. 

At the second landing, Sirius brings Remus’s hand to his face, pressing his mouth to each knuckle. 

They don’t stop on the third landing, but they do on the stair after it. Sirius almost falls over as he turns, one foot catching himself on the step below. 

“Can I take your last name?” His eyes are shining. 

Remus says, solemnly, “It would be my honour,” and they laugh again. 

The dining room does not go quiet when they enter. They make no grand enterance. Everyone else continues with their noise and clutter until Harry looks up from his game of chess; he nudges Ron, sitting opposite him, and both boys wave. 

Sirius glances sideways, catching Remus’s eyes. He raises an eyebrow.

Harry grins when Sirius sits down next to him. “Morning,” he yawns. “Ron’s checked my queen.”

“Good for him.”

Ron opens his mouth to say something, but Sirius never finds out what. With a flick of her wand, Molly has set out the silverware—it’s stainless steel, technically, so it doesn’t hurt Remus—and the plates, steaming with porridge. 

“Go on, eat,” she urges loudly, pouring out a cup of tea. “Don’t let it get cold.”

There’s a flurry of movement as everyone claims their place at the table. Remus ends up between Arthur Weasley and Sirius; he has to keep his elbows tucked in so as not to knock over anyone’s morning coffee. Across from him, Tonks is putting her metamorphagus skills to use, her Dumbledore imitation in particular sending Ginny into fits of laughter. 

He nearly burns his tongue on the first bite of porridge. Through the pain in his taste buds, he notices it’s quite good, and makes a mental note to compliment Mrs. Weasley on the recipe. Anyone who can make oats and water taste good, he reasons, is worthy of whatever praise falls their way. 

To his right, Sirius takes a thoughtful sip of his tea. They catch each other’s eyes and smile. 

Glancing around, Sirius sees that everyone is once more engrossed in conversation. Fred Weasley in particular is gesticulating wildly with his spoon, and Sirius has to duck to avoid a flying bit of porridge. Absentmindedly, he twists the ring on his finger around, rubbing his thumb over the four jewels. 

His chair almost topples over when he leans back in it, grabbing an antique crystal goblet from the shelf behind him. He takes the sugar tongs from the table, too, and then he stands up. 

Even with the ding ding ding of silver on crystal, it takes almost ten seconds for just one person—aside from Remus, of course—to look up. Hermione holds his gaze for a moment before leaning over and whispering something in Ginny’s ear. By the time he’s got everyone’s attention, he’s begun to contemplate sitting back down again. 

But, finally, there’s silence, and all twelve pairs of eyes in the room (minus his own, obviously) are on him. 

Sirius clears his throat. He resists the urge to climb on top of his chair, because a broken neck would not be a good start to his engagement. 

“Good morning!” he announces. “I, uh, I have news. Good news.”

Dear lord, he used to be a lot better at this. From somewhere down the table, there’s a mutter of, “Well, get on with it, then.”

Skipping the rest of the preamble, he allows his face to split into a smile. “We’re getting married.”

There is none of the happy amazement he expected. He receives no applause. What he does receive are slow blinks and confusion written on every face except his own and Remus’s. It’s Molly who eventually says something, and what she says is, “Congratulations! If you don’t mind me asking... who’s the lucky lady?”

Now it’s Sirius’s turn to be confused. “You mean... you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Bloody hell.” He isn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry. “I thought we made it obvious enough.”

“Well, clearly you didn’t!”

“How much do we need to broadcast it for you to see what’s right in front of you? How often should we hold hands at mealtimes? During Order meetings? Do you want us to take down the silencing charms on the bedroom, too, so you can hear everything we say, everything we—mmph.”

Sirius is cut off when Remus stands up, grabs the back of his head, and smashes their lips together. Between all those times back at Hogwarts, and now this, it seems it truly has become a trend—Remus shutting him up by sticking his tongue in Sirius’s mouth, that is. 

They break apart far too soon for Remus’s liking, but they do have an audience, after all. He can imagine without looking the expression on Molly’s face, and his imagination is proved correct when he turns away, sliding his fingers down Sirius’s arm to clasp their hands together. “That should answer your question,” he says before anyone has the chance to pick their jaw up off the floor. 

It’s been silent for a while—or, at least, it feels that way; the grandfather clock by the opposite wall shows only thirty seconds have passed—when Sirius realizes they’re still standing. “Excuse us,” he says, and pulls Remus out of the room. 

Out in the hallway, they stare at each other for a few moments before bursting out in laughter. “Oh my god, Remus,” Sirius wheezes. “Oh my god. That was fucking incredible.”

Remus covers his eyes with one hand. “It was spur of the moment, okay? Bloody hell, that was—”

“Unbelievably attractive? Absolutely iconic?”

“So embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing for you, maybe. But that right there? That’s why I love you.”

“What, not my dazzling personality?” 

Sirius grins, leaning in. “Well, yeah, that too. And your gorgeous golden eyes, and your genius mind, and you smile that always makes me melt inside, and—”

“Okay!” yelps Remus, because he knows Sirius too well. “I get the idea!” His gaze is soft, though, and when Sirius reaches up to cup his cheek in one palm, he leans into the touch. 

Eventually, someone—Tonks, or Harry, or one of the Weasleys—will come to find them, demanding explanation. But for now?

It’s just them. 

And despite everything—despite who they’ve lost and what they’ve been through—they have each other. 

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY REMU #remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #remus x sirius #*dude from the princess bride voice* mawwidge #grimmauld place #slight accidental molly weasley bashing #I didn't mean it I swear #cw food mention #cw implied spicy stuff #ig #proofread like once and only barely #so sorry in advance for the typos #again: it's Remus's birthday #good for him

[ivyyreid]

greek tragedy

description: breakups are hard. but you usually don't completely change who you are and start killing, right?

category: angst

tw: mentions of self harm, eating disorders, breakups, knives, mentions of stab wounds, death, suicide, blood, men, guns, self-loathing, one-sided love.

masterlist

sometimes, i don't know what haunts me more.. the memories of you... or the happy person i used to be.

--

two years and two months ago.

spencer came into the bullpen with a gleam in his eye. a shy kind of happiness. the kind that makes you blush, and makes you embarrassed. the kind that makes people feel like kids again.

vivian came in with the same smile. the same red on her cheeks, the same glint in her eyes.

they both felt like kids again. happy, and in love.

they held hands under the table in the conference room. everyone noticed. and everyone smiled a bit more, knowing that two happy people are now making each other happier.

the night before, vivian and spencer had kissed in the rain under the stars. after an eternity of falling for each other, they finally gave in.

when they came in the next day, vivian's blonde hair seemed a little more golden, her eyes a little more warm. spencer's face seemed softer, and relaxed.

they played in the park, and watched nineties movies, and ate thai on the roof while watching the stars. all with the biggest goofiest smiles on their faces.

because you're nothing if not crazy when you're in love.

two months ago

blonde hair stained brown.

pink lips turned red.

a realtionship gone sour.

they broke up last week. they stood in the rain once again. but this time the rain didn't bring hope, and a new start. this time the rain fell, tainting the blue sky gray.

the girls heart shattered onto the pavement. pieces on the sidewalk, pieces in the grass. pieces being washed away by the rain.

no one knows what they said to each other, how it ended.

all they know is that the cuts on vivian's wrist are fresh, and that the numbers on her scale have rapidly declined.

she came into work on monday, her golden blonde hair painted dark brown, her young pink lips stained blood red. everyone stared, except spencer. she stared at no-one, but spencer.

she was there for a day after the breakup. maybe two. long enough to know that someone else had already brought a gleam into spencer's eyes. that someone else was already making him happy.

no one saw her after that. she left quickly and quietly. one day, her desk was personalized and filled with framed pictures, the next it was empty and bare. you could say that her desk matched her heart.

now, she lies on the floor of her bathroom. head pounding, rivers of red seeping onto the tiled floor.

one month ago.

seven men stabbed twice in the heart, all dead, over the course of two weeks. all left with red carnations.

the bau accepts the invitation to take on the case.

vivian watches the news coverage announcing the bureaus involvement, a smirk dancing on her face as she applies a new coat of lipstick.

one week ago, at the bar.

the bar is full of bodies. bodies against bodies. dancing, sweating, living.

the tall brunette, with the red lipstick and cold eyes slips off her coat, revealing the small black dress underneath. the heartless predator.

a drunk mans eyes follow the woman's every move. analyzing her every curve, watching the way her lips part. he sets down his glass and walks over. the unsuspecting prey.

he makes his way through the crowd, licking his lips as he nears vivian. her blonde hair, now turned brown, and her blood red lips enchant him.

her finger plays with her straw, spinning it around in her drink as she makes eye contact with him. she tilts her head slyly, and smiles a bit. egging him on.

"jonathan," he says, standing over her.

"cleo," she responds, flipping her dark hair over her exposed shoulder. she stands up, hand on his tie, and leans forward to whisper seductively in his ear:

"let's get out of here, jonathan."

three days ago, at the bau.

"we have a new body," hotch announces as he walks into the room. he pins a few pictures to the board. the first, an image of a smiling man. dark brown hair, dark eyes, and a square jaw. the next few are the body. dumped carelessly in an alleyway. two stabs to the heart, and red carnations scattered onto the body.

"woah," emily says, concern lacing her voice. "that makes fourteen bodies now."

"she's devolving," morgan adds. "speeding up the kills. her last kill was only one day ago, she's getting more dangerous. but she's also more likely to slip up."

the team nods to this, each thinking their own separate thoughts. eventually, they will all come to the same conclusion. the same suspect. but they won't share their ideas until it's too late.

the teams profile:

the unsub is female.

she recently suffered heartbreak, and has a newfound prejudice against men.

she changes her appearance each time. wigs, makeup, etc.

she stabs each victim twice in the heart, which must mean something.

she leaves red carnations at each scene, which means "alas for my poor heart, my heart aches," in some cultures.

she is highly intelligent, driven, but also depressed and self-loathing.

she is likely to have self-inflicted wounds, and possibly try and kill herself.

one day ago, vivian's apartment.

vivian stares in the mirror, and the woman in the mirror stares back at her.

a blonde wig is tossed carelessly on the floor, and boxes of colored contacts join it.

these objects are supposed to be able to change who you are on the outside, but to vivian, they're crushing her even more on the inside.

she doesn't recognize the woman in the mirror. the dark straight hair, red lips, and hollow eyes. the woman in the tight dress and heels.

she looks down, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over her face. this isn't the girl that spencer loved. she isn't the girl that spencer loved anymore.

and then she looks back up, and her heart stops. because there she is.

the girl in the mirror has long, wavy blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. her eyes are full of life, not hollow and lifeless. her lips are pink, her cheeks flushed, her face innocent. her sundress hangs perfectly around her frame, and underneath her bright converse her socks mismatch.

the girl that spencer loved. the girl vivian stopped being when spencer stopped loving here.

the image takes vivian's breath away for a second, and a tear slips down her face, but she doesn't stop staring at the reflection, hoping that if she stares hard enough the girl will die and leave vivian alone.

her stare turns into a smirk. smirking at the innocent, dumb, oblivious girl. laughing silently at her.

the girl was oblivious to the heartbreak that awaited her. the emptiness that would creep into her soul.

the girl that was so blindly in love with the man that didn't care for her, even though he acted like he did.

maybe she was still in love with him. just a bit. even after he broke her heart, she still loved him. but she also hated him.

fuck spencer.

a couple of hours ago, bau.

vivian's face is front and center on the tv. her blonde hair, green eyes, and large smile.

the team sits around the table, shocked at the conclusion they came to.

vivian, their ex-coworker who always seemed so perfect and happy, is the unsub? vivian killed fifteen men?

they may want to deny it, but they all know it makes sense.

she broke up with spencer and completely fell apart. she quit her job. spencer says she was angry and sad and completely broken, hence the hate towards men. and the killings started around the time her and spencer broke up. even the number of stabs on each body makes sense. two stabs for two years her and spencer were together.

they're all shocked, but most can still talk, and move, and discuss. spencer is just frozen.

how could vivian have killed someone?

forty-five minutes ago, vivian's apartment.

spencer looks around the apartment, flashlight held and gun drawn.

when he used to come over, the apartment was homey and life like. plants would hang from the ceilings, and would sit on shelves. books were scattered on tables, and the floor to ceiling bookshelf would be disorganized. she used to have pictures of her and the team, and of spencer everywhere. but now it's bare, and empty. if spencer knew any better he would think no one lived there at all.

the team does a quick search, clearing all the rooms before gathering again in the living room.

"she's obviously not here, but she knows that we know it's her. she's been wanting us to know." derek says, and glances at spencer. "spencer, is there anywhere she liked to go, anywhere close?" he asks, and spencer furrows his brow.

"the roof! she liked to watch the sky!" he says suddenly, and hotch nods. the team climbs up the flights of stairs to get to the roof, which at first glance appears to be empty, until spencer notices a woman sitting against the chimney.

"spencer no way, she's armed man," derek says as spencer moves forward, but spencer tells him it's ok. he knows her. she has no intention of hurting him.

vivian stares at him, a tears falling down her face. spencer sits down next to her, eyes widening when he notices the knife in her hands. pointed at her own heart.

"vivian..." he says cautiously, taking in her died hair and red lips, "this isn't you. put the knife down." at this, vivian collapses into a fit of sobs, trailing mascara down her cheeks.

"i'm so sorry spencer," her voice is shaky and she's crying, but she keeps the knife pointed upwards towards her heart.

"please vivian just put the knife down," spencer whispers, his voice cracking a bit.

"i can't spencer, i have to do this," she sobs. "i killed....i killed so many people and i can't stop myself and i still love you but i hate you and you broke my heart but i have to do this spencer."

the boys eyes are sad, because deep down he knows he can't stop her from doing this. but he'll still try,

"please vivian, i-i love you," he pleads, but vivian just shakes her head, and laughs through her tears.

"no you don't spencer," she whispers, smiling a bit. "but it's ok. you will never have to hurt the way you know that i do," she says, and spencer knows whats coming. her grip on the knife tightens, and in a flash she jams it into her heart, gasping a bit as it deepens.

"no!" spencer yells, as she slumps and collapses. blood trickles from her lips, and her tears spill from her eyes. but still, she smiles. because it's finally over.

her final breath isn't sad, it's relieved. because she doesn't have to suffer anymore. the sadness, pain, and anger is finally gone.

spencer is tearless. her death was shocking, sad, but it was truthful. maybe she deserved it, even wanted it, but spencer knew she was going somewhere where she was happier.

happier without him.

as spencer stares at her body, laid out on the concrete, he sees the girl he loved. the blonde hair, sea green eyes, and the innocent face.

innocence, purity.

and all he can think about as she's wheeled into the ambulance, covered by the blanket is who she used to be. who she really is.

the beautiful, happy girl.

maybe one day, in another life she'll find true love.

who knows?

all anyone knows is that the day that her heart poured a red river onto the concrete, she started over. she began anew.

and maybe that was better for everyone.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer #reid #reid x reader #reid fluff #dr reid #criminal minds #criminal minds one shot #matthew gray gubler #tumblr #famous #story #fan fic #fan fiction #one shot #oneshot #bau #reader #y/n

[sleeperswakewriting]

jealousy

Prompt from: velokomi

So, how about Petra giving wayyy too much attention to Eren, Hanji ,Oulo and Erwin and Levi gets jealous for all them?

Rating: G

Word count: 1.4k

Eren

He’s just a kid, is the first thing that came to Levi’s mind when he first saw Petra doting on him. The ruffling of the hair, the way she would go out of her way to make him a cup of tea in the evening and how they would chat by the fireplace--it was so characteristically Petra that Levi knew he had nothing to be upset about. After all, she had a reputation for taking new recruits under her wing, making them feel welcome and at home, and even though the boy they had in front of them was a literal monster, that wasn’t stopping Petra.

Except he was jealous because evening tea times were meant for the two of them, in his office, filling out paperwork or merely going over the drills they ran that day.

But, he supposed he owed the kid some slack, after all, he lost his mother and with Petra being the only female member of their team, he wasn’t surprised Eren was drawn to her.

He decided to let it go, keeping his thoughts to himself because he knew what Petra would say if he brought it up--Captain, you’re being so silly! And throw him the soft smile she always did when it was just the two of them.

Hange

“Sorry Captain, Hange asked me to help them out with some experiments later! I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast?” Petra chirped, knowing that Levi’s request to see her later was not strictly professional and she was under no obligation to abide by him. However, the rejection still stung, and Petra didn’t even notice as she gave him a quick salute as she left the mess hall, leaving Levi alone, staring idly into his shitty soup for the night.

Don’t be that guy, he chastised himself, but his legs followed the motions before he could help himself as he cleaned his tray and followed Petra to Hange’s lab. I’ll just say I needed four-eyes for something.

The door to Hange’s lab was cracked an inch open, and before Levi was about to barge in, he heard giggling from Petra.

“I’m so glad we’re spending some one on one time, sometimes it gets stifling with the guys all the time! What do you think of this color?”

Levi knew when to take a cue when he heard one, and he dejectedly walked away from the room, back to his office.

Oluo

Imitation is the highest form of flattery is something Erwin once told him, and Levi had to fucking disagree with that. On most days, he just ignored Oluo’s strange antics and pretended not to throw the man off by saying something off handed like an apple a day keeps the titans away just to see him eat as many apples as he could the following morning, but today was different.

As Levi descended the steps, he could have sworn he felt a vein pop when he walked down to their common room and spied Petra tying Oluo’s cravat for him and clucking at him like a mother hen.

“Can you sit still, Oluo?!” She barked, nearly choking him in the process as Oluo bit his tongue, but they both froze as they saw their Captain in the hallway. And if Levi didn’t know any better which he did, Petra was turning a light shade of red as she quickly unraveled the cravat.

“Oh hi Captain! You’re up early.”

Levi looked between them, glaring daggers and he nonchalantly shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

Erwin

It wasn’t often Levi went into town, he usually took a twice a month trip to replenish on his favorite teas and pick up some cleaning supplies that were out of the Scouts’ budget. Today was one of those days, and the chilly winter air was in its full force as he entered the general store. A couple of other scouts could be seen, some murmuring and buzzing from the Christmas excitement around the corner, and Levi sighed, hoping that nothing he wanted was out of stock since he didn’t fancy another trip into town.

The general store was large, mostly due to being located by one of the Scout outposts and Levi weaved his way between the crowds, making his way for the tea section at the back of the shop.

As soon as he arrived in the back room, Levi immediately halted in his steps and growled out a what the hell as he noticed a familiar tall blond and ginger standing side by side, holding jars of tea between them. They spoke between hushed voices, and Levi felt a hot fury wash over him as Petra cutely crinkled her nose as she sniffed one jar and handed it to Erwin.

“What the fuck is going on?” He finally spat, not being able to contain himself, and Petra jumped, eyes going wide while Erwin merely looked up in amusement.

“Hi Levi,” he acknowledged, screwing the cap of the jar back on. “I ran into Petra, we were just talking about you.”

Levi quirked an eyebrow, knowing when Erwin was bullshitting because it was clear that between the two of them that Erwin was holding Petra’s shopping bag, a simple burlap one but noticeably hers by her initials stitched into the handles.

Petra’s face was glowing red and she immediately took her bag from Erwin and whispered something into his ear, with the taller man having to lean over to hear her. Levi clenched his fist, wondering when Petra and the commander got so chummy they went on outings together, but Petra sidled up next to Levi as she took her hand in his.

“The commander has to go back now, is it okay if I join you?” She asked sweetly, thumbing his wedding band between their interlocked fingers.

Levi grunted and pulled her closer, but as he disappeared into the adjacent room, he couldn’t help but notice the shit eating grin Erwin had plastered onto his face.

Levi

It was Christmas morning, and while Levi was never the one for much sleep, he found himself rudely awoken to a poking in his side as Petra climbed over him in the bed. It was barely dawn in their room and he mumbled why she was getting up so early. It was cold from the lack of fire in the shared hearth, and Petra planted a kiss to his forehead as she padded out of the room. Levi paid no mind as he rolled onto his stomach, savoring the heat Petra left but soon found himself awoken again as a weight sat on his back.

“Happy Birthday, Levi!” Petra sang, pulling the covers off of him and peppered kisses across his face.

His eyes opened in realization, forgetting that it was Christmas and also his birthday, and he remembered that they were making a trip into town to see Petra’s parents for the holiday.

“Mmmpfh,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair and noted the medium sized box Petra placed on their bed. It was wrapped in red and green with a large golden bow, and a soft smile came to his lips at the decadence.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said, already undoing the bow and carefully unlatching the tape that held the patterned paper together.

“Of course I did,” Petra replied, sitting next to him and watched with nervous excitement as he undid the box.

A neatly folded green cravat sat in the box, followed by three samples of tea bags, and Levi felt his throat tighten. This was their first gift exchange as husband and wife, and the thoughtfulness that exuded from it made his head spin.

“Oluo helped me with the cravat length, I think it’s a bit fancier than the ones you wear every day, and Hange picked out the color. And the commander helped me with the tea since I wanted to get you something you haven’t tried before. Eren had the idea to wrap it nicely, like nobles do, so we went into town to find something special.” She paused, playing with her hands in her lap. “Do you like it? I know it’s different but I wanted today to be special since we’re also seeing my parents--”

Levi set the gift down and pulled Petra in for a hungry kiss, his hands wrapping around her waist in a tender hug.

“I love it,” he said softly. And then with more confidence, he whispered into her ear, “I love you.”

#rivetra #my fics #levi x petra #rivetra fanfiction #petra x levi #Petra real

[lazywonderlvnd]

*hesitantly steps in the box* Umm.. soo.. I was listening to Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift again and that song (is awesome btw if you haven't listened to it already) just gives me such MAJOR drarry vibes .. like -

" And I screamed, 'for whatever it's worth I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?' He looks up grinning like a devil. "

Like if that's not drarry I'd chomp my pillows. So .. *twiddling thumbs* could you pls write something with that line as a prompt?? Pretty please 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️ maybe use the song as inspiration.. idk? Whatever you like. ALSO, don't forget I STILL LOVE YOU that ain't changing yet and you haven't seen the last of me! Imma tail after you for eternity and you better take that as the threat it is! *throws love at you* BYE!! ❤️❤️ *vaults outside the box*

my sweetest most loved angel!! thank u so much for this prompt based on a BOP i was obsessed w when the album first came out. it got sm longer than it was meant to be, so it can be found on ao3 as well!! i hope u like it ilysm ❤️❤️❤️❤️

warnings for minor drug use (weed) and implied suicide of a minor character (lucius, extremely vague reference but pls be aware!)

rating: e word count: ~5k

When Pansy asked him how it started, Draco discovered that he didn’t know what to tell her.

Technically, though, it had started at Ernie Macmillan’s party in the beginning of summer, with the cloying scent of Freesias and Freedom Roses (“Imported from the States,” Ernie told Draco pompously, when he asked) and all those string-lights dangling from the cedar pergola, perennial balls of fire inside their clear bubbles like tiny trapped suns. Cheap beer in plastic cups, Marlboro cigarettes, and some stupid Muggle game ... darts.

Technically.  

* * * 

“Get off me, Potter,” Draco says in a failed whisper. He’s laughing and drunk and fuzzy warm under a sprawling summer’s night sky that looks like black paint. Potter tastes like Guinness every time he kisses him, and his hands are surprisingly soft. In direct opposition to his own command he pulls Potter in by the face and glues their mouths back together ravenously. The alcohol makes him sloppy (he likes it, though — the sloppiness of it) and Potter’s skin is warm where Draco slides his hand under an ugly Muggle band T-shirt to touch. 

Around the corner, he can hear music coming from the patio where nearly every single one of their former classmates are gathered, drinking and laughing and getting along famously with a much-needed buffer of five years between them and their Hogwarts days.

Much-needed for himself and Potter as well. Apparently.

He sees him sometimes, at get-togethers like this or around the Ministry, once or twice at a dinner party thrown by a mutual friend. They’re always cordial. He hasn’t insulted Potter to his face in five years.

Except for tonight, when he couldn’t help himself loudly drawing attention to the similarities between Potter’s hair and one of the shrubs in the garden. But they’re kissing now round the side of the house and because of that he’s quite glad for his slip. And it’s their five-year reunion, so. What would it be without some bickering between the two of them?

Potter presses him into the bricks and snogs him breathless, only he keeps grinning and laughing and ruining everything just when Draco starts losing himself in it.

“Quit laughing,” he scolds him. “You’re the worst, Potter. No etiquette at all.”

“That’s rude,” Potter says. His breath wafts across Draco’s mouth. His eyes are excessively green behind their round frames, which have not changed since their school days. The scar is mostly hidden beneath his wild fringe, save for the very bottom where it slashes neatly through a dark eyebrow and touches his eyelid. “I can’t help it, I’m pissed good and proper.”

His hand moves to Draco’s hip and even through the thickness of the alcohol coating his brain like a muffler he feels that touch clear and ripe as daybreak.

“So  that’s  why you’ve decided to snog me rather than …” He waves a hand vaguely, in lieu of the proper witticism with which he might normally have trounced Potter. “You know. Beat me to a pulp.”

“I only did that one time,” Potter says, grinning. Grinning and moving his thumb in circles on Draco’s hip. “And it was because you were being a twat. And I didn’t beat you to a pulp. You’re so dramatic.”

“Semantics,” Draco says. “I had a bloody nose.”

“And you deserved it.”

“Now who’s being rude?”

Potter kisses him again.

Guinness and Freesias.

* * * 

“Macmillan’s party,” he told Pansy. “He kissed me.”

“So that’s where you disappeared to.” She looked smug. Her inch-long nails were sharpened to a point and painted a glossy black, and she drummed them against her cheek, the way a cat flicks its tail. “I’m surprised you kept it from me this whole time.”

“Well,” said Draco, lowering his gaze to his glass of wine and watching it flirt dangerously with the lip as he swirled it. His cheeks felt warm, but he wasn’t embarrassed. “We snuck around.”

Right, maybe a little embarrassed. Mostly conflicted.

“Oh?” For a single syllable the laughter underneath was remarkably transparent.

He looked up, eyebrows lifted. “Yes,” he said a little defensively. “For obvious reasons. At first it was just sex. A lot of it, so he usually came here. Apparently Granger and the Weasel are notorious for popping round his place unexpectedly.”

* * *

He feels opened up all over again every time Potter fucks into him, unhurried and so careful. His hand is hot on Draco’s thigh, both of them sticky with sweat and come. This has to be their third round at least, and Draco’s sluggish brain insists it might actually be four.

An open window lets in the late afternoon air, humid and drowsy and perfumed heavily with flowers (a la Macmillan, Draco planted Freesias and Freedom Roses outside his bedroom window and helped them along to full bloom with some careful magic). Potter’s hair is damp with sweat — from exertion and the relentless heat of July — and Draco slides his fingers into it, tangles them and pulls the way he’s learned Potter likes. If he’s honest, he’s harboured a very secret and  very  desperate yearning to touch Potter’s hair since he was quite young. He doesn’t know why.

Well, maybe he knows why.

Potter makes a quiet, whimpered noise that curls Draco’s toes. He speeds up his hips, closing in on his orgasm and putting his face in Draco’s neck even though it’s too fucking hot for it.

“Fuck,” Draco whines. He tries to lift his leg higher, wrap it around Potter’s waist to get that perfect angle, but they’re too slick with sweat and he lets out a frustrated noise when it falls back to the bed. “Potter,” he says helplessly, arching into each thrust and shaking with the effort. This third (fourth?) orgasm is building too slowly, sitting there hard and stubborn and heavy in his gut and refusing to be coaxed to completion. He’s dripping with the effort, muscles quivering. “Please — I need —”

But he seems to have figured it out for himself. He scoots forward, lifting Draco’s arse higher off the bed and bending him nearly in half. The angle helps him go deeper and he’s suddenly nudging Draco’s oversensitive prostate every time he fucks back in.

“Right there,” Draco gasps, tensing as this new angle lights a fire under his elusive orgasm. His cock is leaking but he doesn’t have the strength or energy to get a hand around it. Potter’s grunting with the effort of fucking him, sweat dripping down his temples and making his neck and torso gleam. “Right there, god, right there, please, I’m so close —”

Potter braces himself and redoubles his efforts, and it’s like he’s reached inside Draco and sunk his claws into that building storm in his belly because suddenly it’s ripped right out of him in a colossal wave of euphoria that approaches too much, cock spurting untouched between them  .  Potter keeps moving inside him while he rides it out, and at some point he feels the warm, wet explosion of Potter emptying in him, mumbling incoherent things that include Draco’s name.

They come down together too. Draco is clutching Potter’s arms and trying to catch his breath and Potter is trembling and clutching him back like an anchor in a veritable ocean of sensation. 

It’s like this every time. 

When Potter drops down onto the bed beside him Draco rolls over and kisses him, long and deep and satisfying, and Potter reciprocates with the kind of intensity that is completely unique to him as a person.

“That one was particularly good,” says Potter, and Draco laughs.

When he feels like moving, he knows that Potter will get up and go to Draco’s kitchen and make tea for both of them, and he won’t need to ask what Draco likes, because he remembered after the first time. They’ll drink it naked in bed as the sun sets on another endless summer day and transforms before their eyes into a humid and pungent summer night, in the midst of which they will fuck at least three more times, and Potter will keep smelling like sweat and bergamot and boy, and Draco will keep feeling starved for him.

And they won’t talk about it.

* * *

“And?” Pansy said.

“And what?”

“You said ‘at first,’” she pointed out, and arched a groomed eyebrow. “When did it turn into more than just sex?”

Draco tamped down on a smile, because that would have been more emotion than he cared to show at the moment. To Pansy or to himself.

He swirled his wine again and took a long sip, stalling. He wanted — needed, really — to talk this out with her, but he was becoming aware of an uncomfortable heaviness in his chest which was suggesting to him that he didn’t want to share everything. Not because he was embarrassed, but, well … it was private. It was between him and Harry.

“There was this one night he came over later than he was supposed to because of work,” Draco said. The memory stirred some emotion. He hadn’t thought of it in a while. “He had this bloody huge takeout bag of Thai food.”

 * * *

He sets it down on Draco’s desk, takes out a container, and after toeing off his shoes drops sideways onto Draco’s bed with it and uses chopsticks to shovel in a mouthful of noodles. Draco watches this in awe.

“Want some?” Harry asks once he’s swallowed (small blessings). There’s grease around his mouth. “There’s a million other things in the bag but you have to get it yourself. I’m dead tired.”

Draco thinks of asking what the hell is going on, because they’re supposed to be fucking by now, but something stops him. Harry really does look exhausted but quite content eating his Thai food on Draco’s bed, and he doesn’t have the heart to berate him for it or remind him that they’re fuck buddies, not friends, and that if he’d wanted to eat and lounge about perhaps he should’ve stayed at home.

And the food really does smell good.

He gets up and fishes another container out of the bag that turns out to be some sort of heavenly-smelling marinated beef, which he brings back to the bed. Harry’s rolled onto his back and has the container of noodles balanced on his stomach.

“They thought they found a Horcrux on a raid,” he says. His voice is perfectly casual, but Draco thinks he can see something troubled in his eyes. He has one foot crossed over the other and  it’s bouncing anxiously; he doesn’t think Harry’s aware of doing it. “Wasn’t. Obviously.” 

“But they needed your expert advice to be sure.”

“Yeah.” Harry looks at him, then his food. “Is that the beef?”

“Yes it is.”

“Good?”

“Haven’t tried it yet.”

He opens the container and chooses a piece, but instead of lifting it to his mouth he follows some crazy impulse and hovers it over Harry’s instead.

“Open, Scarhead,” he says. Harry blinks but does it, and Draco drops it in. He smiles, then chews.

“Brilliant.”

* * *

“We ate it instead of fucking. It was the first time I realised something had shifted.”

“And you let it shift?”

The question gave him pause. He didn’t answer right away, mulling it over. It made it sound as if he’d had a choice, and that wasn’t quite right.

“It already had,” he said finally. “It wasn’t a matter of letting it; by the time I noticed, it had already happened. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come over with the food.”

“But you did let it continue,” said Pansy. She wasn’t antagonising him, nor accusing him of anything. She looked amused, but not in a way that was at his expense. Pansy was both a twat and a fiercely good friend, the combination of which meant she would do nothing more or less than hold up a mirror and force you to look at yourself, gruesome as the experience inevitably wound up being. “Even after you realised he had feelings for you.”

Draco swallowed. He’d not heard it said aloud before now.

“Yes,” he said. “It felt good. Knowing he fancied me.”

* * *

Harry’s shameless in his staring.

He stands in the doorway of the ensuite bathroom and watches Draco like he’s been invited to do so. Draco pretends not to notice, stretched out in a tub full of bubbles facing the opposite way. There’s incense burning, and candles. Harry is completely silent, but Draco could feel those eyes on him from across a crowded hall.

They fucked a few hours ago and fell asleep afterwards. Draco pretended not to think about it, but had actually made the conscious decision to let Harry continue sleeping when he woke up and decided he wanted a bath.

When he can’t take it anymore he opens his eyes and tilts his head back and a little to the side, just enough that he gets Potter in his peripherals.

“Well?” he says. 

“Well what?”

“Join me, won’t you?”

Harry snorts. Then there’s a quiver of magic in the air, and a small, utilitarian chair appears out of thin air beside the tub. Harry sits down in it. He’s holding the joint they’d only gotten halfway through earlier. 

He’s in his jeans and nothing else, all limbs and sparse chest hair, and when he crosses a leg over the other one, elbow resting on his knee as he hits the joint, Draco feels a bone-deep attraction to him that’s beyond physical.

“May I?” Draco asks. Harry hands it over and Draco inhales deeply before returning it. The humidity of the room mixes with the smoke and the smell of marijuana, pungent and cloying like the flowers. 

After a length of silence, Draco says, “Will you read me something?”

“Will I what?”

He takes his wand from the floor and Summons a book from the shelf in his room — one of his poetry collections comes sweeping in through the cracked door and into Harry’s lap. Harry sticks the joint between his lips and starts rifling through it with his glasses all fogged up. 

When he starts reading Byron (“I had a dream, which was not all a dream”) Draco smiles and sinks deeper into the hot water and bubbles, letting Harry’s voice lull him into a pleasant stupor. 

 * * *

“So you led him on,” said Pansy. “Because you liked his attention.”

He stared at her, then let his gaze drop to his wine again. Had he?

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“Well,” she said, smiling wryly, “I’m only saying it as you’ve told it to me. Maybe if it sounds bad, it is bad. Some things are that simple, darling. Unless there’s more to it.”

“Like what?” he said, not looking at her. There was a touch of pouty defiance in his voice he knew Pansy would detect instantly. He heard her sigh.

“What exactly happened yesterday, Draco? You didn’t give me any context.”

“What context do you need?” he muttered. “He told me he loved me.”

* * *

They’ve finished an entire bottle of wine between them. He’s not drunk, but he’s pleasantly buzzed. Harry’s sprawled on his back, T-shirt rucked up just below his navel so Draco can see the dark trail of hair leading below his jeans. There’s something implicitly erotic about the movement of his chest when he breathes, his hands folded behind his head, one leg stretched the length of the bed and the other bent at the knee.

He opens his eyes suddenly and grins when he sees Draco looking at him. 

“That wine just made me tired,” he says.

“So go to sleep,” says Draco. He takes a last swig, emptying it, and sets the bottle aside on his night table. He stretches his arms over his head and arches his back, yawning widely, thinking perhaps he’ll give into the tempting allure of sleep as well when Harry says, “I told Hermione about us.”

So he’s not sleeping, then. His stomach clenches hard and a completely irrational sense of panic rises in his throat.

“Us?” he says slowly, sitting up straighter. “What ‘us’?”

Harry looks at him upside-down, then rolls over and rises to his knees. He stares at Draco blankly.

“‘What us?’” he repeats.

“Yes,” says Draco. “What ‘us’?”

“Us,” Harry says. His voice is lower than usual. The word is starting to sound weird and lose meaning. “You and me, Draco.”

“‘You and me?’ Harry, there’s no you and me. We’re just fucking. What do you … what do you mean, you told Granger? Told her what?”

Harry looks … well, he looks fucking crushed. And angry. Draco forces himself not to look away.

“I told her I’d been seeing you,” he says quietly. There’s something … not threatening, but close to it, in his voice.

“Sure,” says Draco. “I see you three times a week, sometimes four. I s’pose if you feel the need to fill Granger in on everything you do with every second of your day —”

“Shut up, Draco,” Harry says. “You know what I meant.”

Draco glares at him. He gets off the bed, slightly lightheaded from the wine, horrified by the emotions welling up inside him right behind the panic, and he points at his bedroom door.

“Get out,” he says. 

“Are you serious?”

“Go!” he says loudly, voice rising. “If you’re gonna start turning this into something it definitely is not then get out of my flat, Potter.” As usual the window is open, but it’s the third of September and getting chilly finally and Draco’s Freesias and Freedom Roses started wilting last week. There’s a chilly breeze coming into that room that is utterly barren of the sweet smells of summer he associates with Harry these days. “It’s time we ended this anyway,” he says. “Summer’s over.”

“So?” From his position kneeling on Draco’s bed Harry shouldn’t feel imposing at all, but he does. There’s no sparkle of humour in his eyes, none of the softness Draco’s gotten used to seeing there. He looks like someone who’s realised they’ve been betrayed.

Worse than that. Someone who’s been betrayed and realises they should have seen it coming.

“What the fuck does summer have to do with anything?”

“Ever heard of a summer fling, Potter? We’re not ‘seeing each other’.”

Harry finally gets off the bed. Draco’s stomach clenches again, more painfully this time. He doesn’t feel bad, he tells himself — this is Harry’s fault. His fault for making a big deal out of something easy and fun and, most of all, temporary. For ruining this with feelings. 

 “That’s not what this was,” Harry says. It’s not an argumentative tone; rather, he sounds disappointed. Devastated, and disappointed. And that look of betrayal, like he’s surprised but not …  that  surprised.

That hurts. 

“This was as real as it gets, Draco,” he says matter-of-factly. “You and I don’t have the capability of doing anything as shallow as a fling.”

“Well, Potter,” says Draco, straining to maintain his level voice, “congratulations, because that is the most disgusting, romanticised, Gryffindorian piece of shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah?” He grabs up his wand from the bedside table and stuffs it into his jeans pocket. “Well here’s another: I love you. You complete fucking prick.”

Draco stares after him as he leaves the room, cowed for the moment. He hears Harry take the Floo powder off his mantle, hears the fire start, and then the sound of Potter disappearing. 

And he feels hollow suddenly.

* * *

“And he said it completely out of the blue?” 

Draco set his wine aside. He was suddenly feeling too sick to put anything else in his body.

“Sort of,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes. “He was trying to make something out of nothing. He was just making a point, trying to guilt me, I don’t even think he meant it.”

Pansy said nothing for so long that Draco finally looked up. She had an eyebrow raised.

“Do you really believe that?” she said.

Draco didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the bottle of wine on the table and thought about the way it always tasted a little sweeter on Harry’s lips.

“I don’t know,” he said. “No. But it doesn’t change anything. It was a summer thing, not a … a relationship, for crying out loud. Like I’d date Potter.”

“Why not?”

Draco scoffed. “Why not? Pansy, please. He’s a …”

“A …?”

“He’s an idiot! He’s Potter!  He’s …” He couldn’t think of the right word, something bad enough to express the audacity, the gall , for Potter to think even for a second  that they could …

“Draco Malfoy,” said Pansy. She was smirking. “You love him too.”

Had he felt sick before?  Now he was going to be sick.

“I never would’ve imagined it,” she went on, seeming to take pleasure from his outrage and humiliation. The bint. “Look at you, you’re blushing! Oh my god,” she laughed. And then she stopped laughing, and instead the weight of her own words appeared to descend on her. “Oh my god. You do, don’t you? You are arse over tits for Harry Potter —”

He was up and out of his chair before she’d finished the last word, absurdly,  embarrassingly on the verge of tears all of a sudden. 

“Draco —”

“I’m glad this can serve as your entertainment for the week, Pansy,” he said. A tear rolled down his cheek — could he be any more histrionic? — and he brushed it away furiously. 

“Draco, no —”

“Call Blaise, tell him!” he shouted. “You two can have a good laugh over it —”

“Draco  —”

“Poor Draco’s  fucked himself over again, what a stupid wanker!” 

Pansy got up. He slapped her hand away when she reached for him, but she only came at him again and grabbed it this time when he swatted at her, enfolding it in both of hers. He closed his eyes and hiccoughed and two more tears came.

“Darling, will you please listen to me?” she said softly. It sounded eerily like his mother, which only made him feel young and childish. He tugged his arm away and she let him go, but he didn’t move any farther away. “I am  not  laughing at you,” she told him. “Blaise might, but that’s because Blaise has a black hole for a heart, Draco, the only emotion he’s ever felt is disdain.” Against his will, Draco chuckled wetly. Pansy smiled and took his hand again, tentatively. He allowed it. “ I think it’s lovely that you have feelings for him. I don’t understand what’s got you so upset, I mean … I know it’s Potter, but we’re not teenagers anymore, right? Who cares?”

Draco exhaled a long sigh.

“He let my father go to Azkaban,” he said softly, looking into her eyes. He saw comprehension dawning. “How can I be with someone who could’ve saved my father’s life and chose not to, Pansy?”

“No one could have saved your father, Draco,” said Pansy gravely. His throat was tight, swollen. He hated that he was hanging on her words, looking for truth in them,  wanting to hear something that would make this okay. “He would have done the same thing if they’d let him go back to the manor. It’s not your fault or your mum’s or Potter’s.”

“But —”

“But what?” she cut him off sharply. “Draco, please don’t let your father keep controlling your life from the grave! My god, you deserve happiness, don’t you see that? Even if it’s Potter! In fact, I … I think that could be really good.”

“What, being with Potter?”

“Yes, being with Potter,” she said. “Darling, I say this because I love you: you need to grow a pair of bollocks and start taking control of your own life. I’m not finished!” she added when he opened his mouth to retort. “I understand that it feels like a betrayal of your father, I do, and I’m not saying you can’t have your cherished memories of him, but Draco … you cannot live your life in his shadow, doing things because it’s what he’d want or wouldn’t want. I think that choosing to explore these feelings you have for Potter is the bravest and healthiest thing you could possibly do for yourself.”

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes wet though the tears had stopped falling. 

“What if it doesn’t last?” he said finally. “What if next week he realises it was a huge mistake?”

“First of all, I doubt that,” said Pansy with a roll of her eyes that was clearly meant to be teasing. “You said you’ve been seeing him all summer, that’s plenty of time to have gotten sick of you. And, even if that did happen, I still think it would be entirely worth that week of being disgustingly in love.”

“Do you?” he drawled.

“Yes! I do!” She picked up his discarded wine glass from before and held it up. “Does the effect of alcohol last forever?”

“No …”

“Of course not! And we don’t expect it to. We expect to have fun while we’re drunk and it’ll last as long as it lasts.”

“Dating someone isn’t like being drunk, Pansy,” Draco said sourly.

“Oh, that’s not the point ,” she huffed. “We don’t do things because we know they’ll last forever, we do them because we want to. In the moment.”

“Sounds irresponsible.”

“Well, of course it is,” she scoffed. “Love is completely irresponsible, that’s the fun of it, Draco. Now take this,” she shoved the glass of wine into his hand, almost spilling it. “Drink up, and then get your arse over to his flat and fix this.”

* * *

Granger opened the door. Draco sighed.

“Hello, Granger,” he said lamely. Her raised eyebrows said she was surprised and thoroughly unimpressed by his appearance.

“Malfoy,” she said.

“Is Potter in?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On?”

She looked at him, dark brown eyes impenetrable. Then she closed the front door behind her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“To talk to him,” he said tightly. As if this whole thing wasn’t bad enough, now he had to pass a test to get past Granger the bridge troll. “I thought he told you —”

“He did,” she said flatly. “And about yesterday.”

“Well I’m here to apologise,” said Draco. Granger’s eyebrows lifted again. Still unimpressed. “And to tell him …” He sighed again and broke eye contact, willing himself not to give up, not to take this as a sign he should just go home and ream into Pansy for giving him such bad advice.

“Malfoy.” He looked up. Her voice was softer now, and her eyes seemed a little less hard. “What are you doing? You really hurt him, you know.”

“I know,” he said stiffly. “I said I’m here to apologise.”

“Well he doesn’t need an apology,” she said. “If you’re only going to let him down again —”

“I’m not.” He rubbed his forehead and looked at her again, exasperated, defeated. “I’ve … had some sense talked into me.”

She looked like it was the last thing she’d been expecting. 

“Have you?”

“Yes,” he said. “So would you please get him for me before I lose my nerve?”

It was the right thing to say. Her expression melted into something much softer and he fancied he even saw the beginnings of a smile.

“Can I ask who affected this change of heart?”

“Pansy,” he said. And, when Granger seemed taken aback, “She’s very wise when she feels like it.”

“I see. Well …” She still looked a bit conflicted, eyeing him and then putting her hand on the doorknob. “All right. I’ll tell him you’re here, anyway, but he was really hurt, Malfoy. I don’t know if he’ll want to hear it.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said.

Granger eyed him another moment and then went back inside, shutting the door behind her. Draco only had to wait a minute before it was opening again, and this time Harry came out. The sight of him made Draco’s heart feel tender and sore.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, Potter.”

He waited to see if Harry would say anything else but he didn’t. He only stared at Draco expectantly, arms folded, in all ways closed off.

“I came to apologise,” said Draco.

“Well you can keep it,” said Harry. “I don’t need an apology because you told me the truth.”

“It wasn’t the truth, Potter,” Draco said quietly. “Opposite, really.”

Harry was silent. Then, “You made me feel like shit, Draco.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You freaked me out, springing it on me like that.”

A beat, then two, and then suddenly Harry was dropping his arms and sighing and he looked at Draco with so much vulnerability he nearly had to turn away from it.

“I didn’t mean to tell you …” He licked his lips, scratched his arm. It reminded Draco that beneath everything, Harry was still the same awkward dorky leader-of-the-losers he’d always been, just with a bit more confidence now and the title of Official Saviour of the Wizarding World. “I wouldn’t have said that if … I was just angry.”

He didn’t need to ask what Harry was referring to.

“I know.”

“Not that I didn’t … I mean, I … I do —”

“Please don’t say it again,” Draco said. Harry laughed.

“Right. I just meant … I really do have feelings for you, Draco. Like … mad, crazy feelings, y’know? I don’t want it to be a fling.”

“It wasn’t a fling,” he said. He moved a little closer and Harry watched him carefully, eyes flickering once down to Draco’s mouth. “I didn’t even sleep with anyone else the whole time.”

“Well that’s good to know,” said Harry sardonically. But he was smiling, so Draco found himself smiling tentatively as well.

“I wanna be with you, Potter. Properly. I thought …” But he shakes his head, deciding that now isn’t the time to explain about his father. “I thought it was a stupid idea. Now I realise that it probably is, but that I don’t really care much. I’ve decided to ignore my better judgment this one time.”

“That’s quite Gryffindor of you,” Harry commented drily.

“Yes, well.”

“So I go against your better judgment, then?”

“Potter,” Draco sighed. “Please, I don’t mean it like —”

“I’m taking the piss, Draco,” Harry cut him off. He reached for Draco’s waist and pulled him close, and before Draco could get his breath back from a short, surprised intake of breath Harry’s mouth was on his, warm and familiar and soothing. He brought his hands to Harry’s face and kissed back without bothering to hide his overwhelming relief.

Harry chased his mouth when he pulled away and Draco breathed out a laugh, holding him at bay with a hand on his chest. 

“We have plenty of time,” he said. “D’you wanna come over later tonight, after your friends leave?”

“What? No, come in.” He took Draco’s hand and gestured with his head towards the door. “Please. It’s just Ron and Hermione. They know everything.”

“Really?” Draco drawled. “And you think Weasley won’t try to kill me?”

“I promise not to let him,” Harry grinned. “Please, Draco. You said you wanted to do this properly, right?”

He thought of what Pansy said about being irresponsible, and decided it was worth a try at least.

“Okay,” he said. Harry beamed and tugged him inside.

Towards his ultimate downfall or towards the beginning of the rest of his life, he didn’t know. That, as Pansy would have said, was the fun of it.

#anna writes #answered #drarry fic #god i had sm fun writing this tysm for the prompt 😩

[someonestolemyshoes]

Toys Shouldn’t Move

This is a repost of an old.....frankly chaotic fic I wrote a few years ago, but as I was asked to repost some of my old Ackerbabies fics, I figured this one can see the light of day again. Whether I think it should be in the public eye again is. Debatable. 

Anyway, this is technically part of my Our House collection and I’ll archive it in there as well, but I figured since it’s, um, Different. It can have a place of it’s own too!! 

Warning: Non-graphic depictions of sex between inanimate(?) objects. 

They’re getting ready for bed when Levi brings it up, and he only thinks to mention it because Hange is wearing a slip of a nightie, the cool, thin silk see-through at the breast, riding high over her thighs. On any normal day he wouldn’t hesitate, but today he feels dirty. He freezes when her finger grazes over the skin of his chest, body rigid, and at Hange’s questioning gaze he says, “the Cookie Monster fucked Elmo.”

It all started with that fucking Tickle Me Extreme Cookie Monster toy.

Levi wasn’t fond of them, those fuzz-coated, boggle-eyed, shit-your-pants scary robots marketed to brats as young as his own and he can’t see the attraction, doesn’t understand the way Samson claps his hands and spits his laughs, all wide-eyed and full of joy as the fluffy little demon chuckles it’s weird, demonic laughter and rocks in time to the wriggle of Samson’s grubby, tickling fingers.

“Toys shouldn’t move,” he says one day, arms crossed and brow furrowed as Hange takes to the floor and sets the doll in motion. She rolls her eyes, and puffs a lock of hair from her face.

“Say hello to the twenty-first century, short stuff,” she says as Samson dives for the Cookie Monster with a kind of undignified gusto Levi rarely sees in him. Hange stretches to her feet, bends to press a kiss to Levi’s pouted mouth and scoops Leelu out of her chair.

“If this is the twenty-first century, I want out.”

Leelu stretches tiny, sticky fingers and grabs at the air in his direction. Levi lifts her out of Hange’s grip, and settles her on his hip, smudging a streak of chocolate from her cheek with his thumb. She points down at Samson, points at the god-forsaken toy and says, loud and clear and bossy as ever, “want one.”

Hange barks out a laugh, rests her hands on her hips and tips her chin up and guffaws, entirely at Levi’s expense, like there is anything remotely funny about the idea of having not one, but twoTickle Me Extreme Cookie Monster’s shrieking their laughter all day, every day, for the foreseeable future. Levi chucks Leelu’s cheek and scowls.

“Little traitor.”  

**

In the end, they compromise.

On the plus side, no more Cookie Monster robots, and upon hearing those words Levi is about as happy as he can be with Leelu sucking the ends of his cravat between her tiny little teeth.

Instead, though, Leelu will receive her very own Elmo Live – in short, another hairy, beastly little android.

Hange unpacks the box while Leelu watches, eyes wide behind little, round-lens glasses, while Samson pulls tiny tufts of fur from his Cookie Monster and pretends he isn’t looking, too. Levi sips a cup of strong tea, resigned to this fate.

The minute the batteries are in and the switch is flicked on, Elmo rockets to life, voice high and nasal. He throws his head back and laughs, mouth gaping, eyes bulging, and Levi stares over the rim of his tea cup in horror as Leelu beats her palms together, and giggles along with the monstrous toy. Hange is smiling, wide and victorious and yes, a little malicious, too. She casts her eyes to the side, to Levi.

“I hate it,” Levi says, stiffly, blinking at the manic red bot. “I hate it so much.”

And then the Cookie Monster is off alongside it, bending at the waist and gyrating, busting out it’s awful laughter as Samson shrieks, nudges it to set it away again. Elmo is chatting with his mouth spread as wide as it goes, an empty, black pit yawning inside and oh my god, oh my god.

Levi thinks, as Hange steps behind him to rest her chin atop his head and the diabolical sniggering continues, that things absolutely, 100% cannot possibly get any worse.

**

Levi thought wrong.

It’s when he’s packing the day away that he realises his misjudgment. He crosses the room, scooping toy cars and Barbie dolls and Lego pieces from the floor and throwing them into the toy box, and on his final leg of the room, there they are.

They stand side by side, Elmo and the Cookie Monster, bulbous white eyes watching his approach. His hands are tentative as he reaches for them, half expecting the evil little bastards to spring to life in his palms, wriggling and chuckling, but they remain still even as he closes his fingers around their fat, hairy middles.

They remain silent as he carries them across the room, don’t utter a sound as he traps Elmo beneath an arm to make some room in the toy box, stay quiet as he drops them into place.

It’s only when he steps back, and turns to survey the room one more time that it happens.

The Cookie Monster starts it. His infernal laughter rips through the room making Levi jump, twisting and staring in absolute horror as the tiny beast’s body rests where he’d placed it, curled against the back of Elmo, chortling and grumbling phrases Levi can’t even understand and this is bad enough, this is the worst, most terrible thing he has ever witnessed in his whole life, bar none.

And then Elmo joins in.

Elmo shrieks, throws his mouth open and howls and the sounds are terrible enough, but there is one thing that is even worse.

Tickle Me Extreme Cookie Monster has one feature that interests and amazes kids, that has Samson’s eyes bugging out of his skull whenever he turns the damn thing on, and it isn’t his laughter, it isn’t his jolly little phrases, and it isn’t his touch-of-a-hand reactions.

It’s that he moves.

TMX Cookie Monster bends at the waist in jerky little movements; three down, and three back up, lather, rinse, repeat. It’s horrifying enough, watching the fuzzy blue devil do this alone, but right now his fat little body is curling and uncurling itself pressed right up against Elmo’s back.

And Elmo is still screeching, still belting out his laughter, head knocked back and mouth agape and Jesus Christ—  

“They’re fucking,” Levi says to no one, staring at the toys where they sit in the box.

He is hasty to find the off-switch, and he drops them back in the box, shocked and speechless, before shaking his head and abandoning the room.

They’re getting ready for bed when Levi brings it up, and he only thinks to mention it because Hange is wearing a slip of a nightie, the cool, thin silk see-through at the breast, riding high over her thighs. On any normal day he wouldn’t hesitate, but today he feels dirty. He freezes when her finger grazes over the skin of his chest, body rigid, and at Hange’s questioning gaze he says, “the Cookie Monster fucked Elmo.”

Hange frowns, pulls back and settles herself against the mattress, one leg folded neatly over the other.

“If you don’t want to have sex tonight you can just tell me,” she says, a note of humour in her tone. Levi shakes his head, shucks his jeans off and scrubs his hands through his hair.

“The toys,” he says almost desperately, and at Hange’s raised brow, he elaborates. “I was packing them away and they weren’t switched off, and the way they were lying…it looked like they were boning.”

“That’s,” Hange begins, blinking owlishly, “that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Levi doubts this, knowing the kinds of things Hange reads and watches to keep herself entertained through the day, but he doesn’t argue.

“Can we just go to bed,” he says instead, and Hange nods, shaking her head and chuckling low under her breath.

Sleep is difficult, dreams wrought with red and blue and high, squawking laughter.

**

It happens again the next night, but by the time he drags Hange out of bed and down to the living room they have stopped and they sit, silent and mocking in the toy box, unseeing eyes staring into the room.

The worst part is, it never happens to Hange. Night after night she clears away, slips every used and abused toy into the box, and night after night Elmo and the Cookie Monster remain still, and silent.

Years go by; Samson and Leelu age and outgrow the toys they once loved. and Elmo and the Cookie Monster are no exception. Leelu is five when the robots are packed in cardboard and hauled up into the attic, and Levi sets the box to rest with a smile. He’s never been happier to see the back of any inanimate object in all his young life.

New toys come and go, some horrifying, some begrudgingly kind of cool, and as the kids shift from childhood to their teen years the phones come along. Cheap, at first, with thick, fat buttons and black and white screens and Snake, and as the kids grow older the phones become more complex.

They flip, they slide, they twist, they have the entire alphabet squeezed onto individual keys and then they have no keys at all, the epitome of modern technology.

Samson is sixteen, tapping away at the screen of a phone too complicated for Levi to even comprehend, when Hange suggests they clean out the attic for more storage space.

It’s a good idea, Levi thinks – though it’ll create messes he has to clean up – as he re-positions the ladder beneath the hatch for the third time. He holds it still as Samson and Leelu clamber up, and it’s only when Samson yells, “whoa, some of these are from like, ten years ago!” that Levi remembers what demons they’ve buried in boxes beneath the roof of their house.

“I’m making tea,” he says, and Hange nods.

“I’ll grab a coffee before we get started.” She angles her head up the opening and yells, “be careful up there, guys,” before smiling, pecking a kiss to Levi’s cheek, and leading him downstairs.

**

“Man, Lu-Lu, you had terrible taste in clothes as a kid, too.”

Samson dodges the smack Leelu sends his way and crumples the voluminous snot-green dress back into the box

“I, on the other hand,” he begins, brandishing an item from his own box, but his face falls into a grimace at the sight of the bright orange tee and he folds it away with a quiet, “sure glad Mum and Dad don’t dress me now.

“Hey, shit-for-brains,” Leelu says. Samson looks over. “This is all our old toys.”

“Oh, sweet! I bet mine were all better than yours, too.”

Leelu kicks at his thigh as Samson crawls the space between then and he scowls, rubs the battered limb and settles beside the box.

“Hey, look!” He laughs, pointing inside, “the Cookie Monster!”

“He’s squashing my Elmo.”

“Well, yeah,” Samson says, “Cookie Monster comes out on top every time, sis. Everyone knows CM trumps Elmo any day. God, I even picked better toys than you. Nothing’s changed, huh.”

“You know, Samson,” Leelu says, cracking her fingers one at a time. “I’d hate to ruin a perfectly good day by shoving your egocentric fucking face through the attic floor, but I’m not above doing it.”

Samson splays his hands and nods his head in surrender, and then he blinks wide, glinting eyes and reaches for the box.

“Wonder if they still work.”

It takes one touch to set the Cookie Monster flailing.

Samson prods him with a finger and Tickle Me Extreme Cookie Monster thrashes in the box, his rhythmic bending and unfurling awakening Elmo, too. The pair of them screech and holler, decades old laughter ricocheting off the attic walls, and Samson barks, pointing a long finger and grinning from ear to ear.

“Randy little bastards,” he hoots, fishing his phone out of his back pocket and opening the camera.

Leelu stares, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“What the fuck,” she breathes, gazing in abject horror as her childhood crumbles before her eyes. Samson can barely hold the camera steady, shoulders shaking, tears leaking down his cheeks as the Cookie Monster—

“He’s railing him,” Samson cries, voice high and strained as he fights to get the words passed his laughter. He angles the phone to catch Leelu in the lens, body hunched and eyes bulging, as she stares in terror at their childhood playthings.

“This is the most sordid thing I’ve ever seen,” Samson wheezes.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Leelu says, quiet, monotonous, and horrified.

It takes a little longer before she thinks to switch them off, and when the idea finally springs to mind she hesitates to reach into the box. It feels dirty, touching them, and Samson wipes the tears from his face when the noise finally comes to a stop.

“I gotta show Mum,” Samson says, coughing out a few additional, choking laughs. Leelu follows him down the ladder in a daze.

**

“Mum, you’ve got to see this.”

Samson rockets into the kitchen, eyes alive, arm outstretched with his phone clutched in his hand. Levi sips his tea and raises a brow, gaze falling on Leelu as she drags her feet over the threshold and slumps into a chair. There’s something about the look in her eyes, a violated kind of shock that Levi has only seen once before, on himself, all those years ago, way back when…

Oh, no.

“Hey, Levi!” Hange laughs, setting her mug on the table. She peels Samson’s phone from his hand and turns it, tapping the screen. “Look what the kids found.”

There on the screen it plays, Elmo Live and Tickle Me Extreme Cookie Monster in all their sleazy glory. Levi jabs a finger first at the horror unfolding on the screen, and then at Hange

“I fucking told you,” he says, sitting a little higher in his chair to take one long, dignified slurp of his tea.

“My Elmo,” Leelu says. She looks at Levi a little imploringly. He shrugs a shoulder.

“It’s a long-standing affair,” he says. Samson claps him on the shoulder while Leelu buries her face in her hands.

“Taking it right in the childhood there, Lu-Lu,” Samson says, “just like Elmo’s taking it right in the—”

“Fuck the fuck off.”

“You didn’t believe me,” Levi says, listening idly as Samson and Leelu argue beside him. Hange replays the video and stares, laughter bubbling up in her eyes. Levi folds his arms, sniffing haughtily. “I told you those things were disgusting. Can we throw them away now?”

“No!” Samson wails, voice a little choked where his neck is hooked under Leelu’s arm. “You can’t punish them for love, Dad. I thought you were better than that.”

“Oh my god.”

“He’s right,” Hange says, grinning impishly, “I didn’t think you were the discriminating type.”

Levi scowls, then purses his lips.

“Can we just throw the damn things out?”

“I’ve lost all respect for you, Pops,” Samson says, and he tries to sigh, but his breath is gurgled when Leelu squeezes his neck a little tighter.

“Throw them out,” she says, “get rid of them.”

Levi kicks his way out of the chair, legs scraping over the kitchen tiles as Samson yells, strangled and desperate, “Injustice!”

Hange replays the video for a third time, tilts the screen first one way, then the other.

“It’s pretty impressive,” she says, “that they’re still working after all these years. And Elmo is way more flexible than I thought.”

Leelu tightens her headlock on Samson, choking off a snide, spit-heavy comment about stamina, and Levi drops back into his chair, tilting his head against the back rest to stare, resigned, at the ceiling. He listens to his children argue, to Leelu’s threats and Samson’s jeers, to Hange’s laughter and her half-hearted reprimands.

And to the monstrous, ungodly audio of toys fucking in his attic.

#snk #levihan #ackerbabies #my writing #im so sorry in advance to anyone who hasn't had the displeasure of reading this already #In my defence I was VERY tired #crack

[monstersandmaw]

Male vampire x male character - Part Three (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This is going to be a four-parter, folks! And here's 3866 words of Part Three for you. Angst ahoy, but you know me, ok, so trust me. Here we meet Alec's little brother, and you'll find out why Sebastien was so jumpy and weird about the Twayblade name.

Part One, Part Two

Alec’s ‘one night stand’ with Sebastien turned into a whole month of of ‘one-night-stands’, and culminated in Sebastien asking him to dinner the following weekend - a pattern which repeated itself every weekend after that.

Sure, the sex was probably the most incredible sex that Alec had ever experienced in his entire life, but what he came to enjoy even more was the time they spent over meals and cups of tea in the intervening time, talking about everything from history to politics to video games and books and everything else besides. Sebastien talked about literature a lot, and Alec sketched him and illustrated his conversations while he spoke.

“You could really make something of yourself with talent like that,” Sebastien had murmured once as Alec had doodled a quick rendition of the Victory of Samothrace on the back of a coffee shop receipt one afternoon in the park.

“Meh,” he shrugged without looking up. “I’d like to, but I’ve got a steady job now, you know? I’m not going to throw it all away just because some gallery might take my work and I might make something of a name for myself, you know?”

Sebastien sighed. “Talent is such an overused word, and great art is rarely based on raw talent alone, but with your dedication over the years, you’ve really honed what natural abilities you have into something exceptional, Alec. I think you should make a go of it at least.”

Alec had flushed, and Sebastien had been distracted by the rising colour his cheeks long enough to abandon that train of thought in favour of kissing him silly on a park bench, and Alec hadn’t much minded.

At an Iranian restaurant near Alec’s place one Friday, four weeks after Halloween, Sebastien leaned on his elbow and popped a fragrant and decadent zoolbia into his mouth, and Alec watched, oddly fixated by the way his fingers held the little fried treat. His eyes, dark and warm and inviting, blinked slowly and he offered Alec a slow-dawning smile that stole his breath.

“We should go to the museum again,” Alec he blurted, thinking back three days when they’d spent their lunchtime meandering around the Italian Renaissance gallery together.

“Mmm?” he asked, licking his fingers in a way that made Alec’s jeans tighten and his throat close.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “I mean, I know you’re not sick of me waxing endlessly about quattrocento art just yet…” he said, sipping his delicious cup of tea and trying not to choke on it as Sebastien’s ankle skimmed up his leg beneath the table.

“No,” Sebastien admitted. “You’re right. I’m not.”

With the bill paid by Sebastien this time, after Alec had bought them lunch the previous day, the two of them left the cosy warmth of the restaurant and stepped out into a bitter November night. “Oh fuck it’s cold,” Alec swore immediately, drawing up the collar of his coat.

“You want to head home?” Sebastien asked, a hand on the small of his back.

Unconsciously, Alec leaned into it and smiled up at him. They’d not yet been to Alec’s apartment, and he found himself more and more reluctant to let Sebastien in now that he’d seen the stunning penthouse that he called home. “If you’re sure? I think your wardrobe has more square footage than my entire place though…”

“Alec,” he purred, taking Alec’s hand in his and squeezing his fingers. “I —”

“—You’re freezing,” he commented, interrupting whatever Sebastien had been about to say.

“I don't tend to run hot,” he conceded, “But neither do I feel the cold much. I’d like to see your home, and you have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He leaned in close and kissed the junction of Alec’s jaw and neck for a moment, his lips lingering, tongue just lapping at his skin and sending shivers down Alec’s whole body, shorting out his brain for a heartbeat or six. Sebastien raked his teeth over Alec’s pounding pulse point and he went still, frozen in a paroxysm of pleasure and, oddly, a strange thrill of fear he couldn’t quite place. Instead of pulling away when he recovered himself, however, he tilted his head further to one side, offering himself to Sebastien’s mouth, and the other man moaned decadently, deepening his attentions.

Sebastien’s hands found Alec’s belt and he tugged him sharply closer so that their hips met. Alec tried not to grind himself against Sebastien — they were still on a public street for goodness’ sake — but desire was washing through him in pulsing waves and it was becoming harder and harder to think rationally. That wasn’t the only thing that was becoming hard either, and he let out a harsh grunt before forcing himself to step back with a sheepish grin.

When he looked up at Sebastien, he found that the slightly taller man had frozen and was breathing hard, eyes closed, lips pursed together as though restraining himself from something.

“You ok?”

“Fine,” Sebastien hissed, still not opening his eyes.

Alec frowned. Sebastien looked like he was in pain of all things. “You sure? You look —”

“I’m fine!” he snapped through a clenched jaw. “Let’s go. You’re right. It is cold.”

The short walk to Alec’s apartment passed in tense silence, with Sebastien keeping his eyes locked downwards on the pavement, though he did deign to hold Alec’s hand. He couldn’t help wondering if perhaps he’d pushed things too far in public, given how proper Sebastien tended to be, but then again, Sebastien was the one who had deepened the gesture by practically mauling at his neck for three minutes straight back then.

Alec’s apartment building wasn’t fancy at all, and it certainly didn’t have a doorman, and once they’d stumbled in through the hallway with the busted light fitting in the ceiling, Alec smashed the elevator call button only to find it dull and non-responsive. “Damn,” he cursed. “Out of order again. Stairs?”

“If needs be,” Sebastien said with a gracious smile.

“This would never happen over at Buckingham Palace,” he quipped back, and Sebastien cracked a smile at Alec’s silly nickname for his apartment block.

“Exercise will shake all that dinner down,” he conceded.

Alec twitched his eyebrows in agreement and held the door open to the stairwell for him. As he passed by in the confined space, Sebastien stopped and leaned in, taking Alec’s jaw in his cool hands and kissing him gently, reverently, on the lips.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I was rude back then.”

Alec shrugged, feeling awkward at the sheer, heartfelt tenderness in the gesture.

“I got carried away. It won’t happen again.”

“I like it when you’re rougher with me,” he smirked. “You should know that after a month of fucking me senseless.”

As if Alec’s words had hit him like a sledgehammer to the nuts, Sebastien rolled his eyes and grimaced, but he did laugh. “You do seem to like a firm hand, granted,” he said. “Let’s get upstairs shall we? Before I take you right here, and I’m not sure how sanitary this situation is…”

Alec needed no more encouragement, and he didn’t even get to give Sebastien the fleeting, one-minute tour of his tiny flat before the man was on him, kissing him blind and backing him into a wall hard enough to knock the wind from him. Sebastien came alive in moments like that, when he could kiss him and lavish attention on Alec, and the latter was not about to stop him.

It wasn’t long before Sebastien’s wandering lips found Alec’s neck again, and as Alec gasped, fists balled into Sebastien’s shirt collar, he felt the sharp prick of teeth quickly followed by the generous suck of a love bite in the making. His knees went weak and he nearly staggered as a huge rush of endorphins swam through his mind, leaving him limp and wobbly all over. Well, almost everywhere.

“I want you,” he gasped, and Sebastien lost no time in locating the tiny bedroom and tossing him onto the bed, stripping them both with startlingly attractive efficiency. Alec barely managed to yank a bottle of lube and a box of condoms from his top drawer before Sebastien was spreading his legs and laving his tongue up over the curve of his balls.

“Oh fuck me,” Alec exclaimed as Sebastien’s slick finger slid into him and he hissed at the intrusion. A moment later, he was lying with his head flung back into the pillows while Sebastien slid a second inside him and began to do just that with his fingers until Alec was finally ready — and more than desperate — for Sebastien’s cock.

Sebastien had a beautiful body, all lean, corded muscle and slender lines, and as he got more and more aroused, his deep olive skin seemed to glow almost supernaturally. He was perfection incarnate. Bernini couldn’t have carved him, even if he’d been given a lifetime to try. Alec was no Bernini but he’d still love to sculpt him.

Sebastien chuckled sweetly and crooked his finger, sending a jolt of searing pleasure through Alec so hard his vision whited out for a moment and his back arched. “I’m flattered,” Sebastien murmured, placing open-mouthed, messy kisses down Alec’s leg as he spontaneously bent that knee up.

“Shit, I said that out loud…” he laughed, still vague and giddy with the sensations sparking under his skin.

“Mmm,” he smiled, lowering his face to Alec’s inner thigh and kissing fervently all up his leg to the crease of his thigh and hips before smoothing his leg back down onto the bed. His breath fanned out across Alec’s sensitive skin and he quivered and bucked, causing Sebastien’s curled finger to brush his prostate again and he yelled.

“Please…”

Moments later, Sebastien entered him at last and stilled, allowing him to adjust to the new intrusion.

When he fucked him like this, Sebastien seemed to take on a new energy, becoming something almost more primal, and Alec lived for it. The expression on his face as he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the heat of Alec’s body closing around him, taking him, drawing him in, was something he would never get used to, no matter how many times it happened. He was certain of it.

“You’re so tight,” Sebastien grunted, easily shifting Alec’s hips up a degree or two and adjusting his own angle so that he could thrust into his prostrate with every stroke.

Alec’s words failed him as immense pleasure ripped through him, building and building. “You’re gonna make me come if you keep that up,” he barely managed to grunt as Sebastien somehow picked up the pace and began to pound into him with renewed vigour. The man seemed utterly devoted to Alec’s pleasure, as if it was the only thing driving him.

With an utterly inhuman snarl, Sebastien opened his mouth and whispered, “Come for me.”

The sheer weight of command in his voice tore through Alec and he came instantly, untouched, painting his torso with ropes of his release and wrenching Sebastien’s own orgasm from him by sheer force a second after.

Sebastien curled forwards with a hiss, hips spasming as he released, and his lips found Alec’s neck again, and then his collarbone. In the daze of his own peak, Alec thought he saw a flash of red in Sebastien’s eyes again, but he was out of sight too quickly for him to believe what he’d seen. Instead, he found Sebastien kissing his hammering pulse while he finished. Finally going still, Sebastien slumped atop him, breathing hard, his white-blond hair spilling everywhere and tickling Alec’s stubble. He was too tired to care though.

When he woke, hours later, he realised groggily that it must be the middle of the night. Sebastien was curled up beside him, obviously having found the tiny bathroom to clean up, and he was now spread out beside him on his small, lumpy mattress as if this were a palace and he a prince, not some tiny, shitty apartment in the rough bit of town.

Something about the way Sebastien slept still freaked Alec the fuck out. He didn’t seem to be breathing, and when he had laid his palm on Sebastien’s chest on their first night together, the man had gasped and jolted awake like the living dead, sucking in air like he’d been underwater for hours. This time, he refrained from touching him, and instead stared at his inhuman beauty. There wasn’t a mark or scar or freckle on him, and his darkly tanned body spread out over the white sheets like a bronze sculpture arranged in a gallery for the adoration of thousands. And yet he chose Alec to be his only supplicant. Something lurched in his chest and he smiled bashfully, blushing, although there was no one to witness it.

Awake, Sebastien looked maybe thirty, thirty five years old, but asleep, he looked far younger; closer to eighteen or nineteen perhaps, with an innocence around his white-lashed eyes and the natural downward curl of his beautiful lips.

Unable to resist touching him completely, Alec kissed him and rolled over, drawing the duvet up around his ears and sinking back into a deep, dreamless sleep. His whole body felt heavy and satiated in a way he’d never experienced before with anyone. Something clenched in his heart; this felt right somehow.

But nothing is fated to last forever, is it?

Alec stirred groggily, unwillingly, the next morning, becoming aware of a rapid-fire knocking on the apartment door. Grunting, he kicked back the covers and fished for a pair of boxers and a shirt from the floor beside the bed. Sebastien slept on, apparently not having moved at all since the previous evening. Did he have sleep apnoea or something? It was something he’d have to bring up after he’d sorted whatever this was. It wasn’t natural for a man to sleep like that.

Like the dead.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he grumbled, stumbling across the apartment and peering though the peephole in the door. Twitching back in surprise, he opened it. “Theo?”

His little brother’s bright, sunny grin beamed back at him. “Hey bro,” he chuckled jovially, stepping in as if he owned the place and shooting him a cheeky look back over his shoulder. “Brunch?”

“Brunch?” Alec frowned. “Since when do you do ‘brunch’? And since when is it brunchtime anyway?” He glanced at the clock in the kitchen and his eyebrows rose. It was well past eleven o’clock.

“Late night, I see,” Theo snickered, eyeing Sebastien’s shirt which was still on the floor outside the bedroom door, currently ajar from Alec’s hasty exit.

“Shut up.”

Theo’s grin doubled and his blue eyes glittered. Like Alec, he had the unusual combination of dark hair and blue eyes, and like Alec he could be described as ‘roguish’ at times. Now though, it bordered on downright Puckish. Looking not his actual twenty-one years but somewhere closer to sixteen, Theo shook his head.

“Brother mine, when will you —” he snorted but then stopped and his expression fell, shattering from playful to horrified in a heartbeat before he rapidly attempted to cover it by turning towards the bedroom. “Is he still here?” he whispered.

“Yeah, so keep the jokes to a minimum, would you?” Alec snarled. “What did you want anyway?”

But Theo had changed completely. Gone was the ebullient Labrador puppy and instead a tense, alert, wary young man stood before him.

“What the fuck’s wrong?” Alec hissed, heartbeat ticking faster like an over-wound clock.

And Theo spun and then froze as the door to the bedroom opened and Sebastien appeared on the threshold.

Theo’s lip curled into an ugly snarl and Sebastien regraded him steadily, apparently unfazed by the unexpected hostility.

“The younger Twayblade, I assume,” he said with such ice in his usually warm tone that it shook Alec into stunned silence. “Well, this is unexpected.”

“You’re shitting me,” Theo whispered, horror thickening his tone.

Alec blinked and looked from Sebastien to his little brother and back again. Never in all his years of dating men had he felt so uneasy around a family member. “What’s going on…?” he finally croaked.

“That’s what — who — you’re sleeping with?” Theo practically spat out.

Cold, defensive vitriol bubbled up inside him and he might actually have lunged for his brother had Sebastien not crossed the room in three rapid strides and laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “I take my leave,” he said quickly.

“Not so fast, fang-face,” Theo sneered and Sebastien froze. “Get away from my brother.”

“Or what?” Sebastien said in the quietest and steadiest of voices.

“What the fuck is going on!” Alec blurted into the tense silence that followed Sebastien’s taunt.

The other two blinked, and Sebastien sighed. He met Alec’s eye as he asked, “You really didn’t know at all, did you?”

“Know what?” Alec snapped, rage rolling through him. “Do you two know each other or something? What am I missing here?”

“I think this is a family matter that you need to work out between you,” Sebastien said, voice still tinged with frost. “Alec, you know where to reach me if you decide to continue what we’ve shared this past month.” And with that, he turned and walked from the apartment.

“Wait, stop!” Alec yelled after him, but he was gone down the stairwell and Theo was at his side, tugging him back into the apartment. “Fucking explain yourself!” he snapped, rounding on his brother.

“You’d… better sit down.”

“No. Tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

Theo stared him down, meeting blazing sapphire stare with blazing sapphire stare. “Sit. Down.”

The tone of his voice shocked Alec into doing exactly that, and he sank numbly down onto the saggy old couch in the living room without a word.

What followed next was like something from a movie.

“The Twayblades are an ancient family of monster hunters,” Theo said gently. “Father’s not in the military. Well, he is, but it’s not a normal unit or anything. That’s just a cover.”

“And mother?” he asked mechanically, the information-dump that Theo had just heaped upon him not sinking in, but floating like scum on the surface of his churning mind.

“She’s one too. And Ellie.”

“Ellie hunts… monsters?” he asked. “Like… what… the Boogeyman? Bigfoot?” Incredulity made his tone flippant, but something in the calm sincerity of his brother’s eyes told him it was true, no matter how stupid it sounded.

“Dracula…?” Theo added darkly.

“Dracula.” And then the penny dropped. “Wait. ‘Fang-face’. You’re saying you think my boyfriend is a vampire?”

Theo levelled him with a look from where he was leaning against the windowsill, arms folded over his chest in a manner eerily reminiscent of his big brother.

Now as Alec regarded him, he saw the harsh young man that this little kid had become. The puppy fat had melted into a steel jaw and a hard gaze, and his body seemed coiled for action at any moment. He had the body of a soldier, Alec realised with plunging horror. He knew Theo worked out — he was apparently a personal trainer and nutritional coach for celebrities in London, but even that seemed to have been a lie after what he’d just learned. Apparently the Twayblades actually hunted monsters — he and their parents and their older sister Ellie. Alec and Angie had been left out because they were apparently not ‘hunter material’ whatever that meant. Maybe it meant he was a monster fucker instead. He almost laughed.

“Theo, come on… I can’t believe any of this,” Alec said, leaning back into the sofa and pressing the heels of his palms to his aching eyeballs. All he’d wanted to do this morning was to wake up and maybe have Sebastien fuck him into the mattress a few times before breakfast until he was wrung out and softly buzzing like they had every weekend for the last month.

Now he was having some bizarre fairytale forced at him and he was supposed to believe it like it was some kind of sick joke. But he did believe it, and that was what scared him most of all. It wasn’t a joke. Theo showed him videos his father and he had captured on some of their ‘hunts’, exterminating a poltergeist here and eradicating a revenant there, and in the end Theo phoned their father on speaker, opening without preamble, “Dad, Alec’s dating a vampire.”

“Do you have proof?” was their father’s instant, chilling response. No ‘I'm sorry, what did you say, son?’ or ‘What’s all this nonsense?’. No. He went straight to the heart of it. With a stake.

“Just walked past the sucker leaving the flat.”

“Ancient?”

“No, thank goodness. Maybe just a century at most?”

“Can you eliminate him without alerting Alec?” their father asked, at which point Alec’s heart cracked.

He leapt to his feet and blurted, “Fucking what?”

After a heartbeat of silence, their father sighed. “Unfortunate. I had hoped to keep you and Angela out of this.”

“You’re telling me it’s all real?”  he asked, goggling at Theo who held the phone out on speaker between them like it was a live grenade. “You’re all insane!”

“Tell me something, son,” his father said flatly. “Have his eyes ever flared red during a moment of passion? Does he seem to fixate on your neck? Do you find yourself willing to do as he wishes without question?”

Theo interjected quickly, “He’s not compelled. His eyes are clear.”

“Well, that’s something at least,” their father scoffed. “Theo, you know what you have to do. Kill it.”

“‘It’?” Alec shot, eyes bulging, and Theo did have the grace to cringe. “Kill it? You’re going to kill him? He’s a lecturer at the university, Theo. You can’t just fucking kill him?!”

“He might be under the guild rules…” Theo said. “He might be a blood bank user, not a live-feeder… I’ll look into it first.”

Alec’s knees turned to water but he kept himself upright through sheer force of will.

“Fine. But don’t hesitate. And don’t make concessions just because Alec might be compromised.”

Theo nodded and hung up without farewell. “Look, Alec,” he grimaced. “I’m… I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t come here to —”

“— to kill my boyfriend?” he growled, taking a step towards his little brother. To his credit, Theo did actually take half a step back in the face of Alec’s confused, hurt, betrayed ire, holding his hand palm-up.

“No. I came here to see if you wanted to grab lunch, but —”

“—Get out.”

“What?”

“Get out!” he roared, jabbing his index finger at the door and pulling out his phone.

Theo surprised him by nodding and leaving, shutting the door behind him with a click and leaving Alec standing in the centre of the living room, chest heaving, phone in hand, ears ringing.

As his brother’s footsteps disappeared down the stairwell, he unlocked his phone and dialled Sebastien’s number.

Three rings in, Sebastien answered.

“It it true?” Alec asked without preamble.

After a long inhale, Sebastien answered. “…Yes.”

__

Sorry for the cliffie!! More soon, but it’ll hit Patreon first, then Tumblr. Don’t let me forget, either!

Part Four

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I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me  know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

__

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#vampire #vampire boyfriend #exophilia #male vampire #male vampire x male human #male vampire x human #mlm #mlm exophilia

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 37

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Fuck the Canon: Happy Endings For Everyone

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36

There is no tea.

Not only is there no tea, but the Emperor’s small private study, located just beyond his personal chambers, is distinctly lacking in any accommodations necessary to serve or consume tea.

Ordinarily, WangJi would find himself irritated, even by such a harmless deception. After five days spent in the Immortal Mountain, however, he finds that he has become more patient. Perhaps not with others, but certainly with the Emperor, whose careless attitude and playful nature seem to conceal a much more complex character, one that WangJi has grown to respect.

The Lan Sect does not listen to gossip, but their new lodgings in the Jade Sword Palace make gossip impossible to avoid. Wei WuXian had lingered by WangJi’s side long past midnight, sunrise only hours away by the time they had finally parted. Yet, great many things seem to have happened since then, each one significant enough to shake the Immortal Mountain to its roots.

Before noontime tea, the Young Master of the Jin Sect had seen his betrothal annulled, the Jiang Sect had fallen out of favor, Sect Leader Nie had been given a title, and the Council seems to hover on the verge of being dissolved.  

WangJi cannot begin to guess what all of these events mean, separate or together, but he knows that Wei WuXian could not have possibly had a sufficient amount of sleep. He also knows that the world of court schemes and maneuverings, as distasteful as he finds it to be, is an inevitable reality of Wei WuXian’s existence. A part of him is even slightly curious, tentatively attempting to forge a connection between these seemingly unconnected events. Another part of him feels pity, that Wei WuXian cannot begin his day without some sort of upheaval.  

Even now, standing by the desk, wrapped in the heavy, intricate layers of the Imperial dragon robes, the Emperor is all exhaustion and tension. Less than a dozen hours have passed since they had seen each other last; WangJi had spent those hours in the peace and silence of the Imperial guest chambers. Wei WuXian looks as if he had spent them on the battleground, fighting for his life.

Still, when he sees WangJi, his face tranforms.

“Lan Zhan.”

WangJi nods in response. He is not sure when he had become fond of the way Wei WuXian says his name, but he can no longer deny the inevitable elation following on its heels. Each time, his name comes with an accompanying smile, and each time, that smile is for him alone.

“I hope you were not expecting tea,” Wei WuXian says ruefully.

WangJi does not dignify that with a response. One must adjust their expectations when faced with an Emperor who runs barefoot over the rooftops, and becomes unreasonably excited over rabbits.

“Uh, right,” Wei WuXian says, “there is something I need you to see.”

The bookcase behind the desk is filled to bursting. Perhaps, if it were only used to hold books, there would be plenty of space, and little to no chaos. But Wei WuXian seems to have filled the shelves with anything that could fit, and many things that could not, creating a precarious mess of objects that could topple at the smallest disturbance. There are numerous jade figurines of all sizes, small pots, boxes and ink stones, a few odd shapes that resemble children’s toys, books and scrolls crammed in between the objects, all with no sense or order.

It is a surprise when Wei WuXian manages to pull out three books and a flat box hiding behind them, without knocking anything to the ground. WangJi realizes that he has shifted to stand on his toes, fully expecting to have to provide assistance, or perhaps even protection from any wayward object that may come flying off the shelf to cause potential injury. No such thing occurs, however, and he places his heels back down, feeling silly for his overabundance of caution.

The flat box looks plain and light. Inside, it holds a single piece of paper, although it is immediately obvious that the paper is an Imperial Order, the Emperor’s stamp bright and bold, and difficult to miss.

WangJi does not expect Wei WuXian to simply offer the paper for perusal, without ceremony, and without any hint as to what the Order holds.

He is even more confused once he realizes that the paper is actually a declaration of succession. In the event of Wei WuXian’s death, the throne is to pass to--

He blinks. The Imperial Order is not long, for there is not much to the actual succession except naming the heir. Still, WangJi reads it again, just to be certain that he has not read the name in error.

He has not.

Well.

While he is reading, Wei WuXian is fidgeting. The dragon robes are not designed for such impatient movement, and WangJi resists the urge to grab him by the shoulders, and tell him to stop plucking at the golden thread on his sleeves. The robe probably costs more than thirty villages are capable of producing in a year.

He offers the paper back.

“I do not understand.”

“Which part?” Wei WuXian says slowly, and WangJi blinks at him.

Is there more than one part to the succession? No, he has read it twice.

“I do not understand why I need to know this,” WangJi clarifies.

“Oh,” Wei WuXian says, smiling again, but it is a nervous smile, as jittery as his hands, “This-- it is important. The-- line of succession. The person I intend to marry should know that the heir has already been chosen.”

WangJi narrows his eyes. He feels as if he had missed a part of their conversation.

His mind inevitably turns to the rumors that had flown rampant in the palace that same morning; the new title granted to the Nie Sect Leader, the dissolution of the Young Master Jin’s betrothal, and the possible dissolution of the Council.

Does-- Wei WuXian mean to marry Jin ZiXuan? It is a preposterous idea. Absolutely ridiculous.

But even so, WangJi suddenly finds that Jin ZiXuan cannot be allowed to live. WangJi will challenge him to a fight, then remove each and every one of his limbs, starting with his head. This should not be difficult to accomplish.

“You are angry,” Wei WuXian says, “I should have-- perhaps I should not have begun with the line of succession. I am not good at--“ he waves his hand, as if the motion is somehow supposed to make his words less incoherent.

He looks agitated and unhappy, and WangJi wants to help, but he is not sure how.

“You want to marry,” he says, trying to establish some logical narrative.

“Yes,” Wei WuXian says, “I want to marry. And before you disagree, I am aware that five days is an extremely limited amount of time to truly get to know another person. I have already gotten a lecture about this from A-Sang. And I have already gotten a lecture from your uncle, who can be extremely rude while remaining polite, a skill I admire, but do not want to confront again. Not if I can help it. And I-- I know life in the Immortal Mountain is probably not what you had in mind if-- if you had marriage in mind. Before today. But I think-- if you are willing to give it a chance, I could make you happy. I would like to try. To make you happy.”

There is a lag in WangJi’s understanding, as each sentence needs to be rearranged in his own mind, just so he can comprehend its meaning. Still, even with the lag, it takes him an abominably long time to fully grasp what Wei WuXian is saying.

Once he does, he finds himself shocked into stillness.

“Are you--“ Wei WuXian looks as if he means to move closer, than stops himself at the last moment, “You look-- more angry now. Than before. I understand that this is not an ideal proposal, what with the-- lack of gifts and ceremony and everything else, but--“

He sighs, apparently forgetting that his hair is neatly arranged, because his fingers make a mess of it in moments.

“An offer of marriage should not make you angry, Lan Zhan. I thought we-- does the idea of it bother you that much?”

WangJi needs to speak. Wei WuXian is capable of drawing thousands of incorrect conclusions before WangJi can formulate a single sentence, and WangJi needs to prevent this from happening, as soon as possible. But what is he supposed to say?

Clarify. This is always a good strategy, especially with Wei WuXian.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” WangJi says carefully, fully expecting Wei WuXian to laugh and deny it.

He believes that he had made his peace with the fact that the Emperor really likes him, whatever that means, when coming from a Divine Ruler. But marriage is-- something else entirely.

Even saying it out loud sounds ridiculous.

“Yes!” Wei WuXian exclaims, “Yes, I am asking you to marry me.”

“Why?” WangJi blurts out, incredulous.

“Why?” Wei WuXian repeats, the dumfounded expression on his face a perfect reflection of WangJi’s own feelings, “wh-- what do you mean, why? Because I fell in love with you. Why else would I marry someone?”

“You--“ WangJi’s throat is completely dry, and seems to have shrank into nothingness.

It is difficult to breathe, let alone form words.

This is utterly ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing WangJi has even heard, seen, or experienced, in his entire life.

And yet, he wants to hear it again. He wants Wei WuXian to say it again. The rush he had felt at those words cannot be described. It is obliterating.

Wei WuXian inches closer, his posture careful, “I still cannot tell when you are just angry, or so furious that you might try and kill me, so-- do not try and kill me? I should have probably led with the declaration of love, huh? I can try again. Lan Zhan, I am in love with you. I would really like it if you would marry me, and become the Emperor Consort. Your uncle has already given permission, and the Council is about to do so as well, or Empire will no longer have a Council. The throne already has an heir, so the succession is nothing to worry about. And since I cannot imagine sharing my life with anyone else, I can swear to take no other spouse, as long as we are both alive in the world. Is that better? Did--“

WangJi does not plan to move.

He does not plan anything. The chaos of thoughts and emotions rushing through his mind can hardly be called thinking, let alone planning. Therefore, he is astonished to find himself acting so brashly. But Wei WuXian does not waste a single moment with something so banal as surprise.

His arms immediately wrap around WangJi’s shoulders, as if they belong there. There is a faint, lingering taste of pears and honey on his lips. His mouth is soft, his breaths hot and fast, his heartbeat a forceful thunder against WangJi’s chest. The exquisite texture of the Imperial dragon robe under his hands has nothing on the actual shape of Wei WuXian’s waist. WangJi can feel the ridges of his spine through the material, enticing but also fragile, and raked with barely perceptible tremors.

Wei WuXian smiles against his mouth, then laughs, his lips pressing a quick kiss to the tip of WangJi’s nose.

“Is that a yes?” he says, “Please tell me that means yes.”

WangJi is not yet capable of forming words. An extremely advantageous hindrance, because he cannot simply accept an offer of marriage, regardless of his feelings.

The bright smile on Wei WuXian’s face begins to fade, and WangJi feels panic, that he cannot explain himself quickly and succinctly, the way the situation demands.

“Lan Zhan?”

“I cannot accept,” WangJi says.

Wei WuXian blinks at him, then shifts slightly, as if to pull away. WangJi refuses to release him, his arms wrapping more securely around the silk-clad waist, fingers clutching handfuls of delicate material.

Perhaps he does so with more strength and urgency than necessary, because Wei WuXian stumbles, catching himself against WangJi’s chest.

“I want to accept,” he clarifies, “but I cannot. I must speak to uncle first.”

“Oh,” Wei WuXian says, “That-- but he-- I have already spoken to your uncle.”

“You have spoken to many people,” WangJi points out, “Everyone whose opinion you care to hear. Other than myself.”

Wei WuXian huffs, his restless fingers now plucking at the thread of WangJi’s robes instead of his own. WangJi would grab his hands to prevent it, but this would mean releasing his hold, and he does not think he is capable of doing so, at least not yet.

“I should be allowed to do the same,” WangJi says, “You must give me time.”

Wei WuXian’s fingers have now found their way to the collar of WangJi’s robes, and the brush of them against the skin of his neck is extremely distracting. The logical part of his brain insists that this is an inappropriate way to have a serious conversation. A marriage, especially one that would make him the Emperor Consort to the Divine Ruler of the Shan Empire is perhaps the most serious conversation that can possibly be conceived.

But Wei WuXian’s hair smells like pears, sweet and heavy, and he keeps biting his already reddened lip. The other part of WangJi’s brain, the one that does not care for logic or propriety, insists that he should stop speaking and kiss him again, regardless of the seriousness of the conversation.

Lan Zhan, I am in love with you.

His arms tighten of their own volition, and Wei WuXian huffs out a laugh. It is a small laugh however, and there is and nervous edge to it, carrying over into his voice.

“How much time? Because-- what if-- what if you think about it, and then-- decide that you do not want to marry me?”

“Then, I suppose you will have to marry Nie HuaiSang,” WangJi deadpans.

Wei WuXian splutters for a few moments, the expression on his face rapidly shifting from shock to displeasure to pure exasperation. Considering how many times Wei WuXian has managed to exasperate him in turn, WangJi does not feel bad.

“Do not joke,” Wei WuXian says, “I am serious. Your uncle had given permission, but he does not like me, and he will tell you all the reasons why marrying me is a terrible--“

“Wei Ying,” WangJi says, effectively cutting off the flow of words, “I want to marry you. I will not change my mind. But you must give me time.”

He is utterly unprepared for Wei WuXian’s bright smile, the warm glow of delight that washes over his face, the tiny crinkles in the corners of his eyes. He is even less prepared to be kissed again, but he is more than willing, Wei WuXian’s mouth eagerly searching for his own.  

They should have spent the past five days kissing. Any moment that WangJi had not been kissing Wei WuXian now feels an unacceptable waste of time, one he has every intention to remedy. Although Wei WuXian seems as invested in this plan as he is, he cannot seem to help smiling into the kiss, his lips often darting to press to WangJi’s cheek, his chin, the side of his nose. It is sweet and silly, his restless excitement, and WangJi is now certain that Wei WuXian had been right.

He will be more than capable of making WangJi happy.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #wangxian #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #long chapter #could not be cut in half #tbh if i cut it in half i think some of you might come for my head #anyway #some things finally happen #and so many more need to happen omg #you remember when i was on chapter 23 or something #and i was like #10 MORE CHAPTERS #yeah #that's always a lie because I DON'T KNOW SHIT #ever #i mean right now #i'm looking at probably another 5-10 chapters so #help #ugh #thank you for all the nice messages and tags and comments #ily guys

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Observation.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Mini!Yandere!OC/Mini!Reader. 

Synopsis: It’s like being the pet of a pet. Shrunken down, trapped, and isolated… There are worse things you could do than keep your head down and try to play happy-family.

TW: Shrinking, Violence, Imprisonment, Gaslighting and Mentions of Kidnapping. 

“It gets better, after a few days.”

His voice was calm, laced with an unidentifiable accent and heavy with a calm, complacent undertone, the kind you’d expect from someone talking to an old friend rather than another hostage. You’d only been awake for an hour or two, but if he was going to panic, he didn’t seem to have any intention of doing so in front of you. Rather, he’d just greeted you and offered an insincere apology before helping you to your feet, spurring you on with promises of tea and explanations, both of which he seemed in no particular rush to provide.

The strangeness of your current state seemed obvious, by now, even if it didn’t really make sense. Your host was normal, a man of few words and tan skin with the barest hints of a spiraling tattoo peeking out from just beneath his sleeves, but he was the only normal thing you’d seen so far. The kitchen table was too low, pushing against the tops of your knees, but your chair was too high, the soles of your feet barely able to touch the ground. The empty vase on the nearest counter was ornate, but plastic, the cheap, overly-decorated sort of thing you’d decorate a playroom with. Most of the cabinets were false, but the few that weren’t contained plates too thick and too wide, cups that were just too small to be held comfortably, silverware that didn’t feel right in your hands. They were tools for toys, faux-commodities for dolls that didn’t need to really use them.

Things for people like you, now.

You crossed your arms on the smooth tabletop, staring down at your hands. Trying to see if anything about you was different, as you spoke. “I don’t know how you can say that.”

“It does,” He assured, making no exceptional attempt to sound any more convincing than he cared to be. “The headache will start to fade with a little sleep, and you get used to making do. We have a lot, but there’s always something missing.” He paused, chucking under his breath, as if the minor inconvenience was his own, personal joke. “I think he does it on purpose. To ‘simulate the difficulties of real-life’, or whatever excuse he wants to use to explain why I’ve been doing laundry by-hand for the past year and a half.”

You stiffened at the mention of your kidnapper, the person who forced you into  their little fucked-up experiment. The details of your abduction were blurry, a nonlinear series of pricks to your arm and nonsensical threats you couldn’t quite remember, but you didn’t push yourself to recall much else. You had a feeling you wouldn’t like anything you managed to dredge up. If someone had the capability to make you into something so small, something so helpless, and the apathy to put you on display like a prized pet… You weren’t sure they’d be nice enough to make the transformation as painless as you’d hope.

“I don’t live here,” You mumbled, more to yourself than to him, although the stranger saw fit to hum in response to the admission. “In this town, I mean. I just moved here for a job - I didn’t even really want to, but I needed the money. They set me up with an apartment and everything.” A kettle whistled, and he nodded sympathetically. He didn’t turn to face you. “I didn’t even get to see it, not before I got… shrunk, or whatever.”

“New faces make the most convenient targets. If no one knows you, no one can look for you. Everyone you used to know is too far to do any good.” You sink into your seat. Somehow, his words of comfort did little to inspire much hope. “I think I was a tourist. I was passing through, stopping at a bar, and then--” He clicked his tongue, waving in some vague, dismissive gesture. “--this.”

You frowned, biting the side of your cheek. “Were you scared?”

At that, he glanced over his shoulder, sending you a loose, careless smile. You attempted to return it as he pulled a mug from the nearest drawer, preparing a still-boiling drink with the idle concentration of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. “At first, but as I said, it gets easier. You never get used to it, but the homesickness fades, and you find ways to keep yourself occupied. The only thing that’s changed is your size.” Your shoulders slumped, your attention quickly drifting back to your own self-pity, but a sturdy hand came to rest on your shoulder before you could start to spiral. “You’re not alone, either. You have me, and we will get you through this. In the meantime, drink.” A mug was delicately placed in front of you, the handle just a little too thick to hold comfortably. “It’ll help with the nausea. You’ll feel better once you clear your head.”

You only leaned back, letting him rub slow, soothing circles into your back as you lifted the mug to your lips and took a sip, if only to see the way his smile seemed to grow.

~

By the sixth day, you’d come to terms with the fact that you were, undoubtedly, in a dollhouse.

The layout was massive, but easy to navigate. The building was split down the middle by a spiraling staircase, the dizzying structure decorated with halls in either direction, all leading to bedrooms or bathrooms or spaces so sickeningly domestic, you’d come to think of the kitchen as a neutral zone. Most were unused. Leon’s (he’d introduced himself properly later on that night, once you were stable enough to ask) bedroom was tucked into a corner of the ground-floor, but there were signs of life everywhere. An empty cup left in an otherwise unoccupied parlor, a book abandoned halfway through, little things, but things Leon didn’t seem like the type to overlook.

The only aspects of the house that hadn’t been tampered with were the industrial-style security cameras, each protected by a metal box and a colorful array of warnings, and one of the spare rooms on the top floor, this one covered floor to ceiling with pastel colors and stuffed animals, things for someone much, much younger than you or the home’s only other occupant. You didn’t try to investigate further. There’d been a camera in that room, too, and if your captor saw you looking around, they might’ve assumed you were curious about...

You’d moved on quickly. That’s all that mattered.

None of the doors had locks, either. You’d only found two so far, a row of deadbolts on the symbolic front-door and a padlock on the basement, both of which seemed to be later additions. Currently, you were lingering near the latter, unsure if you should persist and risk the wrath of your all-seeing voyeur or leave it alone, live to dwell in paranoid anxiety for another day. A part of you was scared, honestly. Nothing else had to be locked away, hidden behind a bolted door, and if there was something you weren’t supposed to see, you weren’t sure you wanted to. If it was Leon’s secret, you couldn’t--

You never got to reach a conclusion. Without warning, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a broad chest and pretending not to notice how quickly you went rigid. There was a laugh, a playful squeeze to your hip, and just as quickly as you were restrained, you were let go, forced to turn around and meet the dark eyes of your only companion. Leon was like he always was, cheerful and much too enthusiastic, despite neither emotion having an obvious motivation. Still, you fell into it quickly, attempting to mirror his joy. It was the least you could do, considering how kind he’d been, over the past few days. “I didn’t realize you were up,” He explained. “It’s still strange to have another person here. I wasn’t--”

Suddenly, he stopped, pursing his lips and scanning over you. His eyes never managed to rise above your neckline, though. “What do you think you’re wearing?”

It took you a moment to process the question. There was a closet full of clothes in the room you’d picked out, but you’d managed to avoid them, so far. Every piece was stiff, unyielding to shame or preferences, and the color scheme was akin to something you’d see in an ancient sitcom. It was a futile progression to dread, and yet, you planned on putting it off for as long as possible.

Judging by Leon’s expression, ‘as long as possible’ wasn’t for much longer.

“I didn’t want to change,” You admitted, a hand absentmindedly drifting to your wrinkled shirt, smoothing over the thin fabric. “It just feels… I didn’t want to, alright? Is something wrong with that?”

That earned a scowl. It took more self-restraint than it should’ve not to step back. “I left something out for you.”

You’d woken up to a pale-pink monstrosity laid out on the foot of your bed, still on a hanger. It’d been disregarded without a second thought. “I didn’t realize,” You mumbled, bowing your head just enough to seem apologetic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be a big deal… Does it matter?”

His scowl deepened, grew, but just as quickly as it’d come, Leon found a way so cover it up. It was there, but a second later, it wasn’t, an expression of disappointed sympathy sewing itself seamlessly into his features. With a gentle, patronizing sigh, he pulled you into another hug, choosing once again to ignore the gesture’s one-sided nature. “It does, angel, but we’ll make an exception this time, alright? When I do something thoughtful, you’re supposed to show me you appreciate it. That’s how this is supposed to work.”

You opened your mouth, thinking for a moment before closing it again. Suddenly, you were glad he couldn’t see your face. The concern slowly infecting it would’ve been… worrying, and you weren’t sure if you could think of an unimportant agitation to explain it away. “The basement,” You said, instead. “Do you have the key?”

“Don’t ask silly questions.” Leon pulled back, tapping the tip of your nose with his index finger. “Hopefully, that door will stay locked. I don’t see a reason either of us should have to go someplace so unpleasant.”

You nodded, and Leon took you by the hand, wordlessly guiding you back towards the center of the house, towards the spiraling staircase and towards your bedroom, where his selected outfit was still waiting, sprawled out over your comforter.

This time, you didn’t argue when he told you to put it on.

~

He waited three weeks to start sleeping in your bed.

It might’ve been an impulsive decision, on his part. It felt impulsive to you. One moment, you were huddled underneath thin sheets, just beginning to close your eyes and welcome the darkness, and the next you were wide awake, terrified and paralyzed as your mattress dipped, creaking as Leon moved onto it. If he cared that you were awake, he didn’t make an effort to show it, only sliding under your sheets and throwing an arm over your waist, holding you with a practiced intimacy, an undeserved intimacy. The kind of closeness you didn’t want any part in.

“Leon,” You mumbled, much too quietly to be taken seriously. As if there was anyone else you should be afraid of waking up. “Are you alright? Why--”

“Hush, now.” His voice was low, but not tired. Perfectly awake. Perfectly aware. More of a half-hearted threat and a command made out of fatigued necessity. “Sleep, sweetheart. Don’t ask questions.”

He closed his eyes, his forehead coming to rest against the nape of your neck. You didn’t.

~

“I see you're fond of your new companion”

Elias didn’t make an effort to pose the sentiment gently. He seemed bored, if anything, his chin resting on his fist as he stared down at you and Leon, seemingly numb to the oddity of talking to two people that barely measured up to his thumb. He’d been generous enough to let out of the dollhouse for - as Leon affectionately put it -  the ‘monthly check-in’, or… onto the table it rested on, at least.

It was disorienting, seeing the space that surrounded your world, all bare walls and scientific instruments you couldn’t identify, sterile but cluttered, like an unused room in a very lived-in home. Elias was nothing special, either, not the ominous, foreboding figure you’d imagined. He seemed average, if anything, a pair of black glasses and a head of unruly hair making for a rather unimposing figure. A captor, but not an intimidating one. A man with a hobby that just so happened to need a few unwilling volunteers.

Of course, that didn’t stop you from shrinking into Leon’s side when his gaze shifted towards you.

“They’re good company,” Leon answered, his composure never wavering. Why would it? He’d done this a thousand times before, and as far as you knew, he and Elias got along. As well as a captor and their captive could, anyway. “To tell the truth, I’m starting to think I’ve been here too long. I was almost glad this one wasn’t so stubborn, after last time.”

You felt your throat go dry. “Last time?”

“I don’t want to have to deal with another incident,” Elias warned, brushing off your question as if it’d never been asked. “You got along with your other roommates too, at first. Everything’s wonderful and terrific and perfect, until I come to check on you and find one less participant than I should.” He pursed his lips, shaking his head as he let out a noise of frustration. “I can move (Y/n) to another enclosure if this isn’t going to work. I don’t want to lose resources because you don’t get along with them.”

Leon gasped, pressing a palm to his heart in a show of betrayal. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to make a joke or distract you from the topic at hand. “I’ve never done anything that wasn’t necessary. You told me to take care of my home, and I am. I shouldn’t have to suffer because you have poor taste.” Elias rolled his eyes, and Leon laughed, slumping against you, intertwining his fingers with yours mindlessly. “You picked a timid one, and they’re coming along nicely. I don’t plan to waste such a rare opportunity.”

“Are you sure?” Elias asked, leaning back in his chair and fishing for something on the floor at his feet. A notepad, but you couldn’t make out what was written on it. “I’d hate to disagree, but your track-record says otherwise. I’m patient, but I do have my limits, Leon.” 

He glanced towards you for the first time since the start of their conversation, keeping you in the corner of his eye. “(Y/n)’s going to behave.”

You didn’t know whether or not you should correct him.

~

You should’ve corrected him.

“No,” You spat, not bothering to hide your disgust. It was a terrible feeling, a vile sense of wrong, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be surprised. Everything about Leon was telling, from the grimace pressed into his lips to the anger in his eyes, bright and fiery and terrible. Unconsciously, you pressed yourself against the tiled wall, gripping your towel a little tighter. It was the only barrier between him and you, and by god, you weren’t going to give it up. “Get away from me. Don’t touch me.”

“You’re being irrational,” He said, crossing his arms and taking a step closer. You considered making a run for the bathroom door, but you doubted you’d be able to reach it before he reacted, catching you and doing something worse than staring you down. “Couples bathe together. It’s normal, you’re just--”

“We’re not a couple!” It was the first time you’d yelled at him, the first time you raised your voice, and Leon didn’t try to hide his offense. He edged closer, but you were quick to press yourself against the wall, to bare your teeth and try to make it clear he couldn’t intimidate you just by existing. Not again. “We’re captives. We were kidnapped, I was kidnapped, you were kidnapped. You can’t keep acting like this is normal, and you can’t expect me to. I’m not just going to sit back and play nice while you--”

“I don’t think I like your tone,” He warned, his eyes narrowing. The shower was still running, hot steam beginning to fill the room, but Leon didn’t seem to feel the need to turn it off. You’d barely had time to cover yourself before he came in, your hair and your skin still dripping, but you were glad you had. If only to protect the few traces of dignity you had left. “Stop,” He ordered, grimly. “You’re going to say something you regret.”

That was your sign to back down. That you should give him what he wanted, or at the very least, do your damnedest to make sure you weren’t the reason he didn’t get it. When he stopped trying to patronize you, it meant he was mad. And when he was mad…

You tried not to think about what happened when Leon got mad.

You should’ve backed down, but you didn’t. You didn’t want to let him have his way. “You don’t even want to get out of here, do you?”

Grit teeth. A locked jaw. Your second warning. “You shouldn’t--”

“I shouldn’t ask questions?” You cut him off without hesitation. “What do you not want me to ask? What are you so scared of my finding out? That you like feeling powerful? That you want to be in control? You can’t lie to me, I’m the one that has to deal with you. All your rules and your comfort and your fucking clothes.” You forced yourself to stop, to take a breath and seek out the same composure Leon was so good at maintaining. He took the chance to make his argument.

“You’ve been here for a month, I’ve been here for nineteen. You don’t know what it’s like when Elias doesn’t get his way. You haven’t had to deal with that because I’m helping you.” Another step. He was practically breathing down your throat, now. “You should be grateful.”

But, you didn’t want to be grateful. You wanted Leon to stop acting like you should be.

You swallowed, letting the silence grow tense before you broke it. “Someone was here before me.” He made no move to interrupt. You persisted. “What happened last time?”

He flinched, and made no attempt to hide it. You didn’t need another warning.

You lunged to the side, aiming blindly for the door, a weapon, anything that could help you escape or fight or act. Leon was faster than you, though, and much more practiced. A fist closed around your shoulder, blunt nails tearing into your skin, and just as swiftly, a heel found its way to the back of your knee, sending you crashing to the ground, something in your ankle cracking as you collapsed. You were slammed into the unforgiving floor, your cheek soon pressed against the cool surface and Leon’s body bent around yours, his weight and his strength keeping you pinned down. Weakly, you tried to push yourself up, but Leon only growled, his resolve strengthened and his grip iron-clad. There was nothing you could do to squirm away, not unless he had a sudden change of heart

“Bitch,” He spat, letting out a string of less specific profanities under his breath. “I took care of you. I kept you safe. All you had to do was let me.”

You didn’t respond. Leon sighed, but his hold on you never loosened.

“You still want to know what happened, don’t you?” He sounded defeated, exhausted, but that didn’t stop him from kissing your shoulder as you struggled to nod, the gesture both fleeting and far too prolonged, at the same time. He pulled back, but didn’t let you go, only scanning over you with the same tight, loving smile he always wore when he was about to do something awful.

You’d never thought that smile would make you feel so sick.

“You’re about to find out, angel.”  

#yandere #yandere love #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere prompt #yandere prompts #yandere oneshot #yandere oneshots #yandere drabble #yandere drabbles #yandere imagines #yandere imagine #yandere scenerio #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere ocs #yandere oc x reader #male yandere #yandere boy #yandere fantasy #yandere fanfiction #yandere core #yanderecore #yancore

[narwhalwritesctbmto]

Sakumo turn into a child due to accidental jutsu, Kiyo reaction, Kiyo doesn't have to be aware that child Sakumo and Adult Sakumo are the same people. (😂 unless you prefer the other way around, Kiyo is the child and Sakumo reaction)😘

My dear @yasashii-leaf - I wanted so much to write a little drabble for your ask; and I just can't seem to force it out of my brain onto paper (so to speak) BUT YOU DESERVE AN ANSWER, AND I DO HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT THIS. Also, your drawings have had a huge hand in helping force my way through the writer's block around the next ACTUAL chapter of CTBMTO. So you might actually end up being my muse 👍 so have this ranting/rambling of my thoughts on Sakumo turned child...

First, Kiyo would be made immediately aware that this child is Sakumo, because Jiraiya has carried the disgruntled child to the front door himself, Minato is there, hiding behind his mentor because- technically- this was entirely his fault and shouldn't have accepted his mentor's offer to find a "willing" test subject. Minato thought it would be Orochimaru, or Jiraiya himself- he had never expected the toad sage to spy a passing jonin (isn't that the White Fang?!), and proceed to ask a favor of a man who apparently had never said no to Jiraiya in his life. So his mentor is at least 50% at fault, actually.

So, here's the thing. You would think Sakumo got physically turned into a child, but is still Adult!Sakumo with all his memories intact inside, right? That is horribly boring, NO. This is in fact 8-year-old (I rolled a ten-sided dice) Sakumo- who would like to know WHY he is with a giant baffoon that assaulted his person by grabbing him and then refused to put him down, and WHY he isn't in Uzushio, there are too many ugly trees here it's nauseating-

Bold take from Narwhal: Kakashi, in fact, got 100% of his childhood personality from his father. Everytime we see Sakumo flounder at Kakashi's sass, is just overwhelming embarrassment that his parents and mentor had been right/possibly cursed him to have a child that would be his exact copy and he would also suffer as they had.

Now, gods help me, let's say Kakashi is in the same age range when this happens, because magic jutsu and fuck the timeline; Kiyo now has 2 smol, grumpy Hatake on her hands- because Jiraiya dropped Child!Sakumo off at home and then ran away with the vague promise that he'd fix "this"

Straight up, Child!Sakumo and Kakashi get along as well as two strange cats thrown together and locked in a box. And Kiyo is not a large person herself, so it's a goddamn STRUGGLE to physically separate the two, who are actually pretty much equal in skill level, but child!Sakumo has a leg up being slightly stockier in build and apparently experience in wrestling Shinobi-style with siblings/clansmen. Child!Sakumo has no clue who Kakashi is and doesn't believe a word these Konoha Tree-Freaks are saying- there's no WAY he lives in this stupid village-

And Kakashi, unfortunately, understands this is his father, and it's making him hesitate at the WORST times and he is LOSING and can this snarky brat REALLY be HIS father???

"Who could even STAND someone like this!?"

Kiyo chokes on her tea when Kakashi exclaims this, it may have squirted out of her nose from shock and laughter.

Kiyo, is at first, completely flabbergasted by child!Sakumo's behavior. She can't seem to connect the man she knows from the series, the man she has grown to know so well, with this perpetually frowning, snippy child. She calls for Hitomi. Hitomi laughs and seems completely unfazed by the moody child's biting words. She gives Kiyo a pat on the back and wishes her good luck, leaving to track down the toad sage and see how far along he is with unfucking this situation.

Pretty soon, though, Kiyo falls into her usual rhythm, except it's Kakashi x2, and finds it's actually pretty simple to organize the two so there's minimal damage to the house. She is EXTREMELY happy that, apparently, for all the metaphorical hissing and spitting that child!Sakumo does, if she grabs him up in a hug, his words are still just as sharp and pointy, but his physical reactions are vaguely ragdoll-y and accepting of any manhandling.

Child!Sakumo spends a majority of his time wrapped in a quilt and sitting in Kiyo's lap because she won't let him go and he never fights it.

Please, if you will, imagine a sulky smol Sakumo, bundled up in a quilt, trapped in Kiyo's lap, because her arms are around him while she knits or crochets. Kakashi can't stop himself from staring VERY INTENSELY, and every now and then Sakumo will catch his gaze and throw his chin up in challenge? defiance?

With Hitomi's nagging/hounding, Jiraiya and Minato figure out how to reverse the jutsu's effect and within 48 hours Sakumo is once again an adult and- does he have any memory of being a child? OF COURSE HE DOES.

His embarrassment is over 9000, he can't look anyone involved in the incident in the eye for a week, minimum. Hitomi and Jiraiya laugh about it constantly, teasing constantly. Kiyo's much subtler in her teasing, but also gently pats his shoulder in reassurance and comfort. Kakashi has QUESTIONS.

#narwhal answers #sakumo #hatake sakumo #Kakashi #hatake kakashi #can there be more than one #CTBMTO asks #CTBMTO #CTBMTO AU #naruto oc #I really do need to just sit down and WRITE #but it's so hard 😩 #brain no good life no good

[popculturebuffet]

Amphibia: Ivy on The Run and After the Rain Reviews

Hello all you happy people! We’re into week two and after far too long we finally get some answers.. well okay not the ones we thought we were getting but hey you take what you get sometimes. Point is it’s a big week, with a fun ivycentric episode that fleshes her and Felcia out and a far more serious episode that finally explains a few things, not saying what things because spoilers. So join me under the cut for some smiles, some tears, and a bit of Muay Thai and Myagi-Do as I break things down. 

Ivy on the Run:

I was pleased as punch to find out Ivy was getting an episode. While I couldn’t say she was a faviorite of mine, I always found Katie Crowns performance exceptional, and her a delight to watch. The character wasn’t bad.. but EVERY episode up to this one involving her was about her and Sprig’s relationship which while really fucking precious left little room to flesh her out beyond a love of ambushes and being into the same kid stuff Sprig was into. 

This episode not only corrects that but also takes another suprising leap for the series in having Ivy clearly be the main character of the episode. While this isn’t the first episode to spotlight a citzen of wartwood.. it’s the first where the Plantars are side characters in the plot instead of just as important as whoever got focus or usually more important. Here Ivy is the lead of the episode: We open on her waking up for the day (Or rather having been awake for hours to trick her alarm clock), get a sense of her personality.. and of the episodes conflict: Ivy’s desire to be free and explore versus her mothe’rs constnat anal renttientve insistence she do tea related stuff like fold swans properly. IT’s a decent enough conflict that gets elevated by hte twist at the end. 

So she runs out after that to meet up with Sprig, and ambush him because that’s how thier relationship works. And what I really like here is while their relationships still present in the episode it’s thankfully not the focus or even realy lreated. Their clearly together, it’s just not the focus of the episode> Just some nice ranch dressing atop this salad. While they go to hunt for glitter beetles, Anne is teaching Polly, Muay Thai. The martial art of champions.. specifically one eyed ones who like to put tiger in front of their moves. As for why she took it up her mom wanted somewhere to put her energy, as seen in a flashback with a young Anne adorably banging on pans while singing her own version of Wannabe by the Spice Girls. It’s fucking precious. 

So the couple happily go beetle hunting i’ts precious.. but Ivy’s patience with her mother starts to run out as her mother loudly interupts her hunt to return her for tea practice: stirring it, setting tables, folding swans that sorta thing. All things she clearly dosen’t WANT to do or like and gives the impression Felcia is trying to force her daughter to become more like her and less like herself which... no. Just no. 

Ivy eventually hits her limit with this bullshit, tells her mother off and then stomps off to her room whiel her Mom fails ot understand that MAYBE being hypercirtical of your daughter, even if it turns out you have a good reason, might backfire. Ivy is encouraged by her posters, great scene by the way, to run away and leave town, and take Sprig with her.. whose relcutant as he talked himself up as being really well liked and savy out there but was just okay in practice. 

Meanwhile Polly and Anne continue training but Polly can’t get it as she just can’t calm down and focus, and Anne easily blocks her. In constrast Wally shows up, having apparently been watching them. 

And picks it up instantly. I can see why; Wally seems a bit scatterbrained due to his weird and wonderful nature.. but we’ve seen him be entirely capable when the chips are down, and to be a talented musician. So while he’d SEEM like he’d lack focus, it’s probably way easier to him than the impatient tadpole who just wants to kick ass without getting it takes a few steps. 

Meanwhile Sprig tries to talk his girlfriend out of running away together at 10 only for Sylvia to tail them with those bee phone things she used earlier.. and also be there, as once they clear those out she’s waiting and both end up at the Muay Thai class. Things finally hit their breaking point and Ivy wishes she never had family... and I think this is what finally gets it in Felicia’s head she messed up. She meant well.. but sh’es clearly been so hard on her child that, even if she instnatnly regrets it, she’s willing to disown her own mother if it means getting away from her. 

So Felica gives her a way out: Martial Arts Match. Because nothing says parental love like fighting your daughter for her freedom. Though in her defense things are pretty fair: three matches, and Ivy just needs to win ONE by getting a point on her, like in a martial arts competition. I only know that’s what they were going for because I binged Cobra Kai last month along with the first two Karate Kids. 

And that refrence isn’t for nothing as Felcia easily dominates the first two matches using Miyagi-Do esque moves i.e. pure defense, and with a Miyagi style lesson inside as for the final one.. she has Ivy repeat the various tea things she’d had her do, and just like that amazing fucking scene from Karate Kid, Ivy can now fight and realizes her mother was training her the whole time, as her mom simply wanted her to be readly and as for why Felcia herself is a karate master, she picked it up while gathering tea as naturally it’s incredibly dangerous in amphibia.  

So Felcia let’s her daughte win and expalins she just wanted her to be safe.. which is nice but while her devistaiton earlier clearly shows it, it still dosen’t QUITE justify how hard she was or not telling her why when her daughter is a clear tomboy. I do get the Miyagi-Do training style: it builds muscle memory and means you can defend without thinking, fight without having to plan every punch and kick. It’s brilliant.. but you have to match the training to the student. Daniel hated his traning too.. but Miyagi clearly KNEW he would, knew he’d give out and set it all up that way. Felcia.. nearly pushed her daughter into running away and never apologized. It’s not all terrible as there is the implciation this whole match was Felcia realizing she had to make it clera what she was doing, but it’s still fairly torubling the episode never adresses her behavior outright., even if they make up and Felciia plans to take her along next time. Also Polly punches wally in the face... eh he’l lbe fine. 

Final Thoughts on Ivy on the Run: This one was decent. As said the final part feels a bit... ehhh..as it feels they don’t adress Felicia’s controlling attitude enough.. but it dosen’t detract from a pretty fun episode, especially the Muay Thai stuff. That was an unexpected treat. And let’s face it after recently getting in deep with the franchise thanks to cobra kai, I can’t hate anything that reminds me of  the Karate Kid. In a good way at least. 

After The Rain:

Well this was both a long time coming and as painful as I expected. And after over a year and a half, we FINALLY get some answers.. not ALL the answers but some. Look you know what this episode is about, I know what this episode is about, let’s get cracking in round 2. 

So Anne’s got a letter, anne’s got a letter I wonder who it’s from. Marcy.. it’s from Marcy. Turns out she’s ready to go to the first temple, and even sent them a check list: weapons, food (check and check) and armor. Hop Pop already thought of that.. but instead of badass and practical armor.. it’s padded sumo suits that they can’t move in because “less mobility means less trouble”. Or you’ll get eaten by a hawk.. which given this show is probably also on fire and can shoot acid out of its’ eyes. Or lasers. Or acid lasers. The point is their gonna die. THey also naturally need the music box... which Hop Pop about craps himself hearing. Gee it’s almost like not getting the box sooner when you knew damn well abotu the temple thing and that they’d need it kinda bit you on the froggy bottom Hopidiah. 

It gets worse for him as while he mentions his ‘contacts” again.. that night he goes to dig it up. Problem is, Anne follows him when she hears footsteps, and while she initially assumes i’ts just him being a weirdo and plans to suprise him... we instead get the gut punch we’ve been anticpating for the last year and a half.  Hop Pop shouts about the box being gone, clearly panicked... and Anne hears him, utterly devistated and rightfully FURIOUS. He confesses the truth, clearly feeling guilty for what he’s done and lying all this time but Anne dosen’t want to hear it and storms off. 

Yeah as you can tell this is a rough one. So next morning Hop Pop, who clearly hasn’t slept and given his surrogate grandaughter just rightfully walked out on him why would he, confesses to the kids what he did. And while neither like what he did .. they prioritize getting Anne back, sending him to go fix his mess while they find the box. 

The box turns out to not be the only thing missing: various other things around town have been stolen, including a talisman that if Maddie dosen’t get it back will have horrifying consequences. Classic Maddie. As for why Swampy Joe has the answer: the magpie beetle, a beetle that emerges once every 20 years to steal stuff to use as a shell to impress mates. They find the box.. but it’s in a seatle of beatles and soon get swamped.  Meanwhile Anne’s returned to the cave and... okay i’m just going to have to power through or this episodes going to kill me with sadness. After some bits about her and her rock rocky, Hop Pop finds her and she still has nothing to say to him, again for good reaosn, but before he can get to telling her WHY he did it, they hear the others crying for help and Anne tries to rescue them herself, only helping hop pop do so when he points out they NEED to and even if she rightfully dosen’t trust him she needs to for now. THey save the kids.. and Anne STILL wants to leave.

We then get an even bigger gut punch. It turns out Hop Pop didn’t hide the box for some big reveal.. regarding the box. Turns out it’s not the box itself, his book just says it’s dangerous and w’ell likely find out any specifics it had next week. It’s Hop Pop’s lingering trauma. While we don’t find out why the Box is dangerous.. we do find out what hapepned to their parents. And I just want to say before we get into that Bill Farmer’s acting this WHOLE episode is some of hte finest, if not THE finest in his career. HIs guilt, his pain.. it’s all so raw and palpable. Brenda Song’s no slouch either, Anne’s pain and anger is likewise very well done, but Bill is far and away the mvp of the episode.. and this scene is why. 

He reveals he’s been so cautious, so scared for the kids and so overly protective in general.. because of how the kids parents died, something they don’t blame him for but he does: He was out of town on buisness.. when a pair of herons attacked. Sprig and Polly got to the family bunker in time.. their parents... weren’t so lucky. It’s not the big bombastic arc related death we all thought was coming.. but I like it for it’s brutal nightmarish simplicity. They didn’t die some heroic death, they aren’t still here.. they just died like SO MANY background frogs have. Two wild giant animals they coudln’t possibly defend against got em. Nothing could’ve been done no matter what Hop Pop thinks, theirs no way they coudl’ve been saved, and i’ts LUCKY their children didn’t share the same fate. But their gone and it gives a new, awful meaning to Hop Pop’s overproectivness. Before it was mildly justified if a bit strict.. now.. i’ts him trying not to loose what he has left. Trying to hold on tight to his grandkids so he dosen’t loose anyone else.

He hid the box because his trauma and guilt were so severe he did something very stupid, and regretted it ever since and begs anne to forgive him in THE best line read of Bill Farmer’s long and storied career. And she does, hugging her Hop Pop gently, realizing that while he fucked up.. she gets WHY he did.. and that he’s sorry for it. He wasn’t tyring to keep her from going home or any messed up shit.. he just was trying to keep her and his other kids alive. And as Sprig and Polly say it’s not his fault, it never could’ve been.. he can’t help but feel that way. You just feel.. powerless when you loose someone, like you could’ve done something even though 9/10 you couldn’t have and it leaves a hole you never quite fill. So this hit like a truck. But our family is reconclied and the kids get a look at the entry in  Hop Pop’s ancestral book. What does it say besides it bad? what does this mean? We’ll find out next week. For now it’s just good to have them all together again. 

Final Thoughts on After the Rain: This episode is a masterpiece. It’s exepertly crafted, sticks in a few gags for flavor and only has the sprig and polly plot to help keep the main meat of the plot as light as it needs to be.. and it works. The few scenes we get with Anne and Hop Pop are just plain brutal and exactly what’s needed. It’s one of the series best, painful, raw and with a twist I dind’t see coming. I expected, again like most of us for the kdis parents deaths to be tied into it.. but instead.. it’s just trauma. But it’s satisfying enough that it feels like a great payoff, that it wasn’t some big dark secret like misdirected... it was just an old man who didn’t want to loose what family he had left. And that’s fucking brilliant. 

Next Week: THE FIRST TEMPLE BABY! The Plantars and Marcie head into the woods to fight moblins and ggghosts! I mean.. that is what the forest temple is right? 

Until then follow me for more reviews, follow me on my patreon your support would be appricated and see you at the next rainbow. 

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