#well I just quit a horrendous triggering job so bringing him back feels like an act of personal kindness

[coastaldog]

Another fursona redesign.

Bad angel dogs get smacked down to earth to be heartbreakers.

#I originally made him years ago right before getting out of a bad situation #well I just quit a horrendous triggering job so bringing him back feels like an act of personal kindness #Alexi #digital art #anthro #original character #fursona #feral #angel #fallen angel

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Cult Girl: Doctorate (Hannibal x Female!Reader) pt. 8

Cult girl and Hannibal go through an exhaustive list of potential adoptive couples. 

@wisesandwichshark

Trigger warning: sexual harassment, christianity, discussion of pregnancy and family planning, adoption, murder and cannibalism 

Step two: find an adoptive family.

Some would say your list of expectations for potential adoptive parents was too extensive. Impossible for any human to reach. But it was really just the bare minimum.

Regardless of if they were two men, two women, one of each, or a few people, the parents had to be trustworthy. It wasn't easy to earn Hannibal's trust, but he could recognize those who had the capacity to right away. It was a little instinct you had dubbed 'friend or food'.

On paper, the apostolic pastor and his wife of 19 years seemed like the perfect candidates. The adoption agency tried to push them on you, as they had a great track record with adopting from them prior. Three boys, all of which were honors students.

Hannibal insisted on a formal introduction, during which you could conduct a proper, though surreptitious, interview. It was an invitation to dinner.

He invited the couple into his office, where a pot of tea and an interrogation was waiting for them. Then there was you. Barely-pregnant little [F/N], feeling entirely safe so long as your fiancé was beside you.

"You're doing the right thing, y'know." The woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Landon, said upon meeting you.

"How do you mean?" You asked, already knowing the answer.

"All god's life is precious." She said, placing a hand on your not-even-remotely-showing-yet stomach. "You're walking in obedience to the lord by giving this child a shot at life."

Strike one: bringing up religion unprompted. Strike two: touching me without asking first.

You wanted to swat her hand away, but remembered that patience was a virtue. She and her husband took a seat across from you.

"Y'know," The man began, his mannerisms eerily similar to those of his wife. "I don't usually begin with the god talk, but I think a higher power had to have been involved in the conception of this- well, our child. I'd like to think the good lord brought us together today."

Strike three: already believes he is entitled to my child. You're outta here.

"Don't flatter the adoption agency like that, Jacob." Hannibal chuckled, placing his teacup on the side table.

"I'm serious, Dr. Lecter." Jacob interjected. "Faith and I really do believe that god put us on this earth to prepare his smallest soldiers for the spiritual war."

You shot Hannibal a side glance that said 'can we please just eat them now?'.

The answer was no. Hannibal liked to play with his food.

"And your adult children have all moved out?" He asked.

"That's right." Jacob nodded. "We have plenty of room in our five-bedroom house for the new little slugger to run around in."

"And if it's a girl!" The wife interrupted. "We have enough closet space for all the denim maxi-skirts money could buy."

Strike four: arbitrarily genders the behavior of a nine-week-old embryo.

The man then returned the teacup to the table, not bothering to use the saucer and instead leaving a nasty ring of condensation on the polished mahogany.

"Okay." Hannibal huffed, resignedly rising from his seat. He pulled two hypodermic needles from his back pocket and carefully, subtly stuck them onto the couples' necks. They couldn't even scream.

The tacos al pastor that followed (after a few days of marinating, of course) were exquisite.

The next week brought a new couple to your doorstep. Frank and Angela, they were named. Their claim to fame was that their oldest son played football for one of those big southern party schools. Either Auburn or Alabama. There was hardly a difference.

You sat for what felt like hours listening to the man speak in unintelligible football babble, waiting for him to take a breath. Surprisingly, it was the mom who got him to finally shut up.

"Frank, please." She said with more frustration than this one situation even remotely warranted. Either she had enough intuition to know she was being tested, or she’d spent the last decade putting up with this. Possibly both. "You're boring our hosts to death."

"What? No way! She loves it!" Frank replied, then turned to you. Not to Hannibal, just you. “Aren’t you having a great time, sweetheart?” 

Strike one: takes advantage of the female socialization to be passive and polite, allowing himself to take up the most space.

You shook your head. “I hate football.” 

His wife looked quite pleased with herself. 

“Angie, I just wanted her to know what good breeding her son is going to have.” He said, without a lick of irony or self-awareness. He eyed you up and down and licked his lips. “And it is mutual, I see.” 

The room went quiet as everyone tried to determine whether he was serious or if it was just a fucked-up joke. The longer the silence lingered, the more you realized he wasn’t kidding. Angela looked like she wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“I don’t know what the agency told you, Mr. Wyatt,” Hannibal said, trying not to grit his teeth. “She isn’t a surrogate. She’s already pregnant.” 

Frank’s jaw hung dumbly open. “I thought you were looking for a sperm donor? I just-” 

“No.” You cut him off, raising your hand and covering your face. “I don’t want to know what you thought.” 

“Well, I would!” Angela interjected, righteous fury eclipsing what should have been crippling embarrassment. “What exactly did you think this was, Francis?” 

“The file said that he was over fifty, so I just assumed--” Frank rationalized, his voice far too loud for the room. “Y’know? That she wanted a baby that wouldn’t come out all funny-looking?” 

“You’re disgusting.” You blurted out. 

“Francis Howard Wyatt,” Angela scolded as if she were talking to her son. “You are forty-eight and the only increasing part of your body is your blood pressure. Why on Earth would any woman choose you over her smart, handsome doctor fiancé?”

This made Hannibal sit up a little straighter. He wanted Francis on the butcher’s block yesterday, but he momentarily considered letting Angela live. 

“They’re not married?” Frank whispered, or whatever the loud-aggressive-toxic-masculinity version of whispering was. He paused, as the dead hamster on the wheel powering his brain crept back to life. “That actually makes sense.” 

Angela loudly smacked her hand against her face. “Dr. Lecter, Ms. [L/N], I am so sorry.” 

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Wyatt.” Hannibal stood up, readying the next batch of needles. “It just makes what I’m about to do easier.” 

It took quite a bit of restraint to not make their deaths hurt, but he made up for it when it came time to carve. He had fun running his fittingly small penis through a meat grinder. Not with any intent to cook it, though. Just because. 

Hannibal wanted to make Francis Wyatt into the least dignified meal imaginable. You quickly recalled going to a friend’s barbeque in Georgia and encountering a horrendously Southern delicacy known as Frito Pie. You proposed the idea to Hannibal, who, after reviling in abject horror at the notion of eating something out of a bag, agreed that it was the most fitting end. He could spare a few pounds of flesh to grind up and make into chili. 

The third week brought yet another couple. They seemed smart enough to realize your invitation wasn't the friendly olive branch the others had interpreted it as. Their healthy skepticism was refreshing, to say the least. Then, you met them: Max and Archie.

"You'll have to forgive my partner's paranoia." Max said upon entering the house. He tugged playfully at Archie's hand. "We watched Get Out recently, so an invitation to the suburbs sounded some alarms in his sleep-deprived brain."

"I love that movie." You chimed in. "It reminds me of my family."

"Oh no." Archie's eyes widened in only half-pretend fear. He shot an I-told-you-so look in his partner's direction. 

"But my favorite horror flick has to be Midsommar." You added. "My friends and I saw a midnight screening and we didn't sleep at all that night."

"But have you seen Hereditary?" Archie posited.

"Of course." You shrugged. "Aster is totally genius."

You made more than just polite conversation with the couple. Max, despite his young age, was a skilled data analyst and day trader. He attributed his success to the hard work of his immigrant parents. Archie was an environmental lawyer and land activist. He was also a bit of a thrill junkie, indulging in everything from scary movies to bungee jumping.

It didn't take long to realize that you wouldn't be eating them. They were far too pleasant of company to eat.

"So when is this baby planning to make its entrance?" Archie asked, gesturing to you. "You don’t look all that pregnant to me."

You put your hand over your slightly-protruding stomach. "Late August, I believe. If everything goes according to plan."

"You're not far along at all, aren’t you?" Max observed. "That gives us plenty of time to prove ourselves to you."

"Believe me." You put up your hand. "You're doing a great job so far."

“If you like horror stories, we might have to indulge you in the last two encounters we had.” Hannibal commented, leaning back comfortably in his chair. That was a good sign. “No blood was spilled, thank god. Would have ruined my carpets. But believe me when I tell you it came very close.” 

The couple laughed along. Archie leaned in like he was about to tell a life-shattering secret. “You wouldn’t believe the hoops we had to jump through to even have the chance to adopt. And I don’t want to say that it’s because we’re an interracial gay couple, but...” 

“Agencies aren’t exactly colorblind.” You finished, via his prompting. 

“She gets it.” Archie pointed to you. “See, Maxie? She agrees with me.” 

Max pushed his glasses up his nose. “I never said I disagreed.” 

You spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for the conversation to take a sharp left turn off a cliff, but it didn’t happen. They were wonderful company; polite, intelligent and articulate. Exactly the kind of people you’d want to see taking care of your child. 

You’d have to look for you next meal elsewhere. 

#hannibal #hannibal x reader #hannibal x you #hannibal lecter x you #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #cult girl #cult girl 2 #cult girl doctorate

[thedistantdusk]

Private

Thanks to @floreatcastellumposts for Brit-picking and @el-eye-zee-aye for organizing the Harry/Ginny Discord birthday challenge! This was a lot of fun! T for language/mild sexual humor. 

On AO3

________________________

Being the significant other of the most desirable wizard in Britain doesn’t come without drawbacks. Ginny knew that from the off. Even the earliest days of their raw, rekindled relationship were marked with requests for interviews, a trend that continued throughout the summer of 1998. When she returned to Hogwarts that September, reporters took it upon themselves to sneak onto the platform, capture her and Harry’s final, departing snog… and then reprint it, absolutely everywhere. Without their consent.

Her decision to pursue professional quidditch after Hogwarts made the situation both better and worse. On one hand, the publicity became less random. Less speculative. As soon as she signed with the Harpies, her privacy was protected — at least to some degree. Press events were soon planned and targeted instead of the sporadic, anxiety-inducing sneaks attacks to which she’d become accustomed.

The trade-off, of course, is that when press events do happen, they’re dreadful.

Utterly, completely dreadful.

Ginny sits in the enormous purple armchair and bites the inside of her cheek. She hates interviews like these… ones of the aforementioned dreadful variety. This one is with Sandra Richardson of Witch Weekly, a woman known for her propensity towards twisting words and taking statements out of context. But it’s part of the job, Ginny reminds herself for the thousandth time that morning. She must sit through six of these per year, each before a match. She must be generally pleasant and polite. She must represent her team well.

And above all else, she must not lose her temper. Right.

“Don’t be nervous, dear,” croons a dripping, saccharine voice. Oh. Ginny swallows. Sandra Richardson, here for the interview.

Sandra places the tray on the table between them and shoots Ginny a wink as she begins pouring tea for each of them. A younger, more naive Ginny might have trusted Sandra from her appearance alone. Her gold jewelry and buttoned blouse make her seem more matronly than predatory. But just as she plops down in her armchair, brushing a lock of her coiffed blonde hair from her forehead, Ginny catches a look in her eyes that she’s all too familiar with.

Ambition… red-hot, glowing ambition. The type she’ll chase with everything she has.

Yes. Ginny sits up a bit straighter. The interview hasn’t started, but she already sees it for what it is. The whole thing now reminds of scoldings in Umbridge’s office.

“Sugar?” Sandra gestures towards a polka-dotted dish in front of them.

Ginny forces a smile. “No thanks.” Merlin knows she won’t be drinking it. This is what they do, these reporters; they lull you into a false sense of security with their tea and their biscuits and their grins. Once upon a time, Ginny was thick enough to fall for that — for the manipulation disguised as courtesy. Now, she’s a bit wiser.

“Interesting,” says Sandra, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh?” Ginny can’t fathom why, but she has a feeling she’s about to find out anyway.

Sandra slowly sips her tea before she lifts her quill and notebook. “Are you abstaining from sugar for… any particular health reason?” she asks, her lips curled in a coy smirk.

Ginny gets the unnerving sensation that the interview started long ago. She refuses to give Sandra the satisfaction of a true reply.

“Nope,” she replies brightly, clasping her hands in her lap. “Just not my prefere—

“—Mm,” interrupts Sandra. “Because I hear that sugar and caffeine often trigger morning sickness. Did you know that, Ginny?”

Ginny’s forced smile remains in place. In truth, she’d expected something like this. Their wedding is soon — very soon. People have been pestering them about their reproductive plans for months. Sandra certainly isn’t above the masses.

“I didn’t,” Ginny says smoothly. “But let’s discuss quidditch. It’s why I’m here, after all!” She shoots Sandra a knowing wink and hopes that conveys when she can’t say: mind your fucking business, you cow.

Unfortunately, Sandra doesn’t take the hint. “It’s now 6th August, Ginny. Officially in between the birthdays of you and your Chosen One.”

“Well spotted,” Ginny notes, still grinning. “Who needs calendars when we have you?”

There’s a beat.

For just a second, Ginny thinks she’s gone too far… but she soon realizes that with Sandra, there’s no such thing as a boundary.

“We’ve all swooned over those photos of him holding your niece — oh, what’s her name…” Sandra taps her teeth, pretending like she doesn’t know the answer; Ginny’s blood rises to a low simmer. “Victoria?”

“Victoire,” Ginny grits. Little gets her back up faster than bringing oblivious children into things. Especially when they’re used for manipulation tactics.

“Oh yes, that’s right,” Sandra croons. “Victoire!” She places a hand over her heart as if reliving a poignant memory… as if she’s had any bloody involvement in Vic’s life. “She’s such a gorgeous baby, isn’t she?”

Ginny forces a laugh. “You’d know, I reckon, since you’ve seen her! Now.” She clears her throat. “I’ve a game in two weeks against the Falcons. Let’s discuss—”

“In time,” Sandra says, waving a manicured hand. To her left, a fluttering of movement catches Ginny’s eye. Shit. The white feathered end of a Quick Quotes Quill furiously darts through the air as the tip scribbles on a notepad. When did Sandra take that out? She thought for certain that Hermione banned them…

“But for now, let’s focus a bit on you, eh?” Sandra presses, her cloud of blonde hair brushing against her shoulders as she cocks her head. “I’m sure readers would be titillated to hear about how your fiance has been in quarantine for over a month. What’s that been like?”

Ginny snorts. Oh, for the love of -- that’s what she’s getting at?! The complete non-story of Harry being quarantined?

“That’s… not very exciting,” Ginny replies. Because it isn’t. With a bored voice, she begins the thousandth recollection of exactly how and why her fiance hasn’t been able to leave the house for two weeks. “Harry was raised by muggles and wasn’t exposed to Dragon Pox as a child. With the latest outbreak in London, the Auror Department wanted to keep him home until they’re finished with the latest preventative potion.” Ginny picks at a piece of lint on the velvet couch. “It’s quite dull.”

Just like this interview.

The remainder of the sentence remains unspoken in the air, but Ginny hears it resonating in her head so loudly she almost jumps.

Sandra just gives her a knowing smirk; Ginny feels a rush of relief that the woman isn’t a Legilimens. “I don’t know. Sounds like fun, having a man all wrapped up for you, 24/7?”

Ha! This time, Ginny really does laugh. Seriously, what is the media obsession with constant sex? She’s about to launch into an explanation about how it’s thoroughly possible to be too bored to shag, but Sandra cuts her off with an even more horrendous question.

“Remind me,” says Sandra, leaning in close. “How old were your in-laws when their Chosen One was born?”

Oh, for the love of—

Ginny bats her eyelashes fiercely. “I’m sure you know,” she says through gritted teeth, “since you’re asking this question. But seeing as how we can’t bloody ask them, I don’t find it appropriate to—“

“Lily Potter was nineteen when she fell pregnant,�� Sandra says through a stage whisper. She claps her hands together as if she finds this a truly revealing statement. As if anyone isn’t capable of reading the bloody gravestones and doing the math.

Ginny clears her throat. “Good to know. So the Harpies only have one more match this year, and—“

“You’re 19,” Sandra adds, continuing the conversation she’s only been having with herself. “The rumors around London are that the quarantine is bogus. Has Harry already quit his job to be a stay at home dad? He’d love to have his own Chosen Ones, Miss Weasley.”

In retrospect, Ginny will realize that this comment is the final fucking straw. She could handle the false flattery. She could see through the batted eyelashes and the singsong lulling into complacency. But she cannot — will not — stand for this complete cow spreading rumors about Harry.

But instead of handling any of it maturely, she rises to her feet, glares at Sandra, and provides a retort so lewd, so scathing, that it rocks the tabloids for months.

And with a triumphant quirk of her eyebrow, Ginny turns on the spot and disapparates, leaving Sandra’s dropped jaw to tremble as the Quick Quotes Quill continues scribbling so fast it scratches the parchment.

Even before her feet touch down, she regrets the whole ordeal.

She doesn’t regret telling Sandra off, mind — but with a wince, Ginny accepts that yes, she does regret how she did it. She regrets that she’s just given the cow enough ammunition to paint her as a true villain. She regrets that she involved Harry and—

Harry.

Ginny shudders. Harry, who values his privacy above everything else. Harry, who won’t discuss anything about her in interviews, but still gets this adorably lovesick grin whenever her name comes up. Harry, who loves her. And trusted her.

Fuck.

Ginny pinches the bridge of her nose, her stomach sinking, and wonders how in hell she’s going to talk her way out of this one.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have long to ponder how she’ll break the news. In the blink of an eye, Harry’s coming around the corner. Poor bloke. It’s not like he’s got much else to do but await her return. This whole quarantine experience is uncomfortably reminiscent of Sirius' last months of life. She can't ignore the ghostly memory of Dumbledore’s gentle chiding that energetic young men (and women, she supposes) don’t do well cooped up, cut off from the outside world...

“Hey!” says the man in question, flashing her a smile. “That was a quick one! Thought I heard you, but you’re—“

“I fucked up.”

Her whisper echoes in the flat. She stares at her trainers, her face burning.

She blinks up as Harry shifts in place; his smile is nowhere to be seen, replaced with the look she knows and hates. Harry’s jaw is set, his eyes narrowed in concern. He’s doing the whole I’m-strong-for-you-but-I’m-afraid.

“Erm. Ok?” he asks, gesturing towards the couch. “Would you like to...?”

“I’ve said something during the interview I shouldn’t,” Ginny adds, biting the inside of her cheek. “Something I definitely, definitely shouldn’t.”

There’s another pause. Ginny worries, just for a second, that she’s scared him or that he’s somehow already heard.

But she should’ve known him better. Because in a split-second, Harry both senses exactly what she needs... and acts on it.

He wraps her in his arms and rests his chin on the crown of her head. He presses her face to his chest and guides them both to the couch and makes soothing murmurs and brushes the hair away from her jaw.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you claim, but—”

“It is,” Ginny whispers, miserable.

Harry shrugs. “Well, I can’t possibly know until you tell me, so—”

“She— she mentioned your mother.”

Harry’s chest stiffens as he draws a sharp breath; she gets the impression he’s trying very hard to wait until she’s done to interject with words of support.

“She... Sandra... she mentioned that I’m nearly 19, your mother was 19 when she fell pregnant, and—”

Harry cuts her off with a snort. “And does she think that was on purpose? I mean I’m happy I’m here, but yeah...” He shifts her in his arms, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t seem entirely intentional, given the circumstances.”

“Well, babies have a tendency of showing up like that,” Ginny replies dryly. “Sandra did raise a good point about making sure we’re... being careful.” She grazes a fingernail up his arm and relishes when his skin erupts in gooseflesh.

For a fleeting, victorious second, Ginny thinks she’s distracted him. She thinks she’s achieved her ultimate goal of turning his attention to the 24/7 sex they’re alleged to be having.

But she should know better, really, that Harry would ever be fooled when it comes to her.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Harry rumbles, his voice gentle but firm. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to go, after all. We can sit here for the next few weeks if—”

“She asked when we’re having kids. And not just in passing,” Ginny adds, raising a pointer finger. “No, Harry, she pushed. Over and over. She suggested I was already pregnant, she brought up your mother, she asked when I’d function as the vessel for the Chosen One’s offspring…” She trails off with a sigh. “So. Finally, I snapped.”

He takes her still-extended pointer finger and gently pushes it into a fist. “What did you tell her?” he asks, kissing her knuckles. “Because from what I’m hearing, it sounds like she deserves it. Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t—”

“Isaidwhenyoustopfinishingonmytits!”

There’s another pause. “Erm, sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite—”

“I said,” Ginny repeats, her voice strained, “that we’ll have a baby when you stop finishing on my tits!”

Fuck.

She groans, sliding her hands over her face. Recapping this is somehow worse than living it the first time. Speaking it to Harry changes the stakes. It turns the situation from hypothetical to absolute. It solidifies that she fucked up... she really, really fucked up.

And she’s so lost in humiliation, so buzzing with horror, that it takes her a second to realize that Harry isn’t buzzing for the same reasons. Although he’s certainly shaking, isn’t he?

A second later, she dares to peer at him through her fingers. To her delight, Harry’s not furious — he’s laughing!

And when they make eye contact, his silent shaking transforms into full-body laughter. The type that sends tears to his eyes. The type that’s infectious, contagious. The type that makes her want to laugh, too.

“So I take it you’re not… angry?”

Harry wipes his eyes. “Ginny,” he says weakly, “I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe! Did you actually think I’d be angry over that?” He snorts, pressing her against his chest again. “No. For once and for all, no. She crossed a line, and she got what was coming.”

“But you hate attention,” Ginny moans into his shoulder. “You hate big displays and personal things being public and—”

“But I love you,” he says softly, kissing her temple. He gives a dry chuckle that sends tingled through her body. “And to be honest, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t go off on people. Especially when they deserve it.”

She sighs, pulling back. She has to see his face to confirm. To reassure herself. As she’d suspected, Harry’s just giving her a wry smirk. His green eyes are flooded with warmth as he peers back at her. Even after all this time, he still looks at her like he can’t believe she’s there. Like he can’t believe she’s his. His smirk grows to a full-on grin, and Ginny bites her lip; she thinks he’s about to provide some sappy, lovesick rebuttal.

Instead, he replies with something that’s simultaneously the absolute best — and the absolute worst.

“Besides,” Harry says casually. “Joke’s on them. We both know I’d never have the self-control or coordination to finish on your tits.”

With that, she laughs... really, truly laughs. She relaxes against his side, letting the soothing rhythm of his voice wash over her. He laces his fingers through hers. He plays with the strands of her hands.

And by the end of the night, she’s thankful for exactly two things: her fiancé in quarantine, and the contraception that will keep them from enacting Sandra’s plan for a long, long time.

#harry/ginny fanfic #harry/ginny discord #ginny's birthday #harry/ginny

[strwberrytae]

So Long, Farewell, and Goodbye For Now -

“I don’t know how you are so familiar to me—or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before—in another time, a different place, some other existence.”     - Lang Leav

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

Hello, You ♡ Yes, You. You ethereal, beautiful being. I am writing to you with bittersweet yet wonderful news - depending on the perspective. I am writing this post to inform all of you that I will no longer be writing for this blog for the foreseeable future. What I mean by that is that I am not giving up writing forever, no. But my life has changed so much over the last two years, I do not see myself writing again for quite some time. But don’t worry! I will be back!

Below the Read More section, I have poured my heart and soul into the real reasons why I’ve made this decision. I warn you, it’s lengthy but it’s everything that has led up to this over the years. So, if you fancy, have a read. If not, I bid you farewell and wish you all the happiness in the world. Thank you for supporting me so far. I truly appreciate it and love you all very dearly. Now, if you wish to read it at a later time, I will have a link available on my page at all times for anyone who is curious. It’s a hell of a story if you ask me ~

Edit: Made by Me - also, a surprise photo at the end Warnings/Triggers: Talks of emotional abuse, depression, and suicide but also happiness and love -

When I first started this blog, it was 2016. I had been on Tumblr for over a decade now but BTS led me to writing passionately for 2 years. I was incredibly active and utterly consumed by this website. Not just for the writing, but I was so obsessed because of my friends and mutuals that I made along the way. Can I just say that I’ve met some incredible people on this platform - including my best friend and soulmate? Truthfully, the absolute best friend I have ever had. But more importantly, Tumblr was my greatest escape. I mean this website truly has been my saving grace through very dark times.

In that part of my life, I was in an extremely toxic relationship; by then, it was 6 years I was with him. He was emotionally abusive, had such a short-fuse temper, hated everyone I knew which led me never really seeing any of my friends after college, knew I was anorexic and did nothing to stop me, knew I had depression since we started dating and always argued it as if it wasn’t real, crushed my dreams and ambitions, mocked potential suicide attempts, expected me to just abandon all hope to ever leave home to explore someplace new or get a job that I actually love. He was...just the worst. Never hit me though, so I’m grateful for that. But sometimes I wish he would so it would have given me the voice I needed to get out of that relationship much sooner than I did. But regardless, because of him plus having a soul-sucking job that wore me down to the core, Tumblr was my escape. BTS was my escape.

I fell hard and I fell deep. I created a fantasy world within this world. All of my dreams, fantasies, desires, and hopes were poured into my writing. My imagination was running wild. My activity was through the roof because I was always on here day in and out, just pretending like the outside world didn’t exist. It consumed me...but I needed it. Looking back, it was pretty excessive. At the time, I seemed perfectly normal because everyone else was just as active and saying the same things and doing the same things. I felt a belonging, like I fit in.

But I hated the person I became. It took me getting yelled at, mocked, ridiculed, and belittled by my ex to snap me out of that illusion I built and back into reality. That was the roughest night that we had filled with lots of screaming on his end and crying on my part. He thought my obsession was sick. He thought it was disgusting. It all started because he found fake texts I had made with Jimin and Tae. Don’t recall the story it was a part of but he thought they were texts with the actual members… In my eyes, I should get credit for making them look so legit but he didn’t see it that way. He thought fangirling over men was essentially cheating. No matter how hard I tried to explain, he didn’t understand. But a part of his view was right. I learned that I was a bit too much into it and I really needed to take a step back from Tumblr for a while. So I did. I deactivated my account and disappeared for months. Also because he made me and threatened our relationship if I didn’t. Should have taken the out but ah well.

Just two months prior to this incident, I attempted suicide. Well, contemplated. Everything was planned out. Bought a hotel room for Thanksgiving night as I was working a super late shift until about 1-2am. My commute home was an hour long and I still had to come back to work at 7am. So I got a room. Brought a large amount of pills with me and I was going to call it. No notes written to friends, family, or loved ones. Nothing. I was done. Didn’t think anyone would miss me. I just figured the world would keep turning without me. I had thought about doing this several times before but this was my first time making plans for it. It was my lowest of the low. But then I met someone that night that changed my life entirely just in a 10 minute interaction of talking - nothing special. We’ll get to that later. But this person just gave me hope and to this day, I still can’t explain it. It was euphoric. I felt clarity. It was in that night that I thought I might hold out just a little bit longer.

And thus @strwberrytae was born - but it was far from the same. At first, I restarted the blog in secret. Why would I do this? Why would a 25 year old open a blog in secret? Well, two months after the awful fight, my ex proposed to me and I said yes. I know. Believe me, I know. I was scared. My depression was getting worse again. I no longer had an escape except for books. All I did was read so I had some sort of reality to be in besides my own. But returning to a brand new blog did not give the same satisfaction as returning to an old blog.

I worked so hard on my first blog and this redo, I tried to consider it as a gift. Perhaps this was a chance to start anew and rebrand myself. This optimism kept up for quite some time. Slowly, I added my favorite past works then added some new chapters. If you’ve been here with me since 2017, you would know that my appearance on Tumblr was still not the same. Then I got married in October.

An empty, loveless marriage that I regret to this day. Needless to say, my writing and activity on Tumblr was still practically non-existent as I was still too scared of getting caught. Even though he finally gave me permission to use it again because he could tell how miserable it was making me. Yes, gave me permission. Thankfully, it all ended after a year. I finally went to a therapist even though I hated them so much and all past therapists I had. She was pretty great. Within five sessions, I summoned the courage to break up with this guy. I was finally set free. Nearly 9 years together and I finally felt like I could breathe.

Unfortunately, although I was free, I had to live with the guy for about 5 months after the breakup. Which was beyond rough, believe me. Imagine someone writhing in pain and bawling their eyes out and venting non-stop about all of their faults and wrongdoings every single day. At the end of the day, as shitty as he was to me, he was my best friend too. We went through a lot of shit together and he did have some good sides to him too. So witnessing this was horrendous. Needless to say, I wasn’t getting much privacy either. Writing was not my top priority. Now it’s 2019 and things changed drastically for the better - and worst.

Remember the person I met in 2016 on Thanksgiving night? Well, that person is someone I crushed on every since that night. For 2 years. People, I’m telling you. He did absolutely nothing special that night. He didn’t flirt with me. He didn’t check me out. He didn’t do anything remotely to make a girl swoon but I was so drawn to him. The only word that could describe it was “cosmic” - beautifully cosmic. 

Well in January 2019, 2 months following my break up, he came into my store one day. And my god did he look incredible. He was dressed head to toe in black - a fitted black suit at that. He even wore this long, designer jacket to match. Hair shaved on the sides with beautiful, thick dark hair on top. So tall - 182cm. A smile that could kill; quite literally. The canines are on point. He looked like a five course meal. That day, he definitely flirted with me. By the end of the week, we had our first date. Sadly, I also lost my job in the same week and was unemployed for a year because no one would hire me. I was laid off and one of my seniors took my job. Of course, they needed to keep me around for the holidays and then give me the boot. I was devastated. I hated that job so much as it only aided in fueling my depression but losing it was definitely an amazing thing. And! I survived on my savings and definitely didn’t spend my time writing. I had life to sort out last year - like from the ground up. No worries though. I got a job in February 2020 and I love it, so it’s all good, baby. Now I’m in the health field and feel like I’m actually helping people, which I love.

Now, here we are 2 years later and I’m engaged to the man.  Someone who makes me smile everyday, believes in me, encourages me, let’s me be 100% myself, travels with me, taught me how to love myself, taught me to accept my body, gets me on a level that only my best friend could, and someone who goes above and beyond every single day to show me how much he loves me. Bonus, he welcomes my love for BTS with open arms, reads my writing, AND has even been sucked in himself to the fandom. Jungkook and Jimin, look out. You got another fanboy. I thought true love was impossible for me but I was very, very wrong.

He has shown me that I can be happy and I have finally experienced true happiness. When people ask how I’m doing, I don’t cringe and lie through my teeth. I smile and say that I am doing well because by George, I am. Everyone around me has seen me over the last two years and made the comment, “you look so much happier”. They meet him and swoon just as much as I do. Is he perfect? No, he’s not. He has flaws just like everyone else but he actually grows and learns from his mistakes to better himself. That’s what amazes me the most. Even if we argue, which is seldom, he refuses to let it go without resolution so we can always fix whatever the issue is. As we like to call it, we’re in-sync. In everything, we’re always so in-sync. I’m wildly in love, my dudes.

So, why am I not writing anymore? To put it simply, I’m happy and don’t really feel the desire to write anymore - at least not fanfiction. Even when I was super young, like elementary school, I used writing as an outlet for my dark escape. I wrote poetry primarily and by middle school, it turned to fanfiction for Supernatural, Simple Plan, and Panic! At The Disco. Along with a very long list of other bands and shows but anyways. I’ve been severely depressed since I was 15 and fanfiction put me in this hole that I couldn’t get out of. I relied on this method to help me get through all the bad shit I was dealing with. It was my coping mechanism.

Now? While depression never truly goes away as the lovely disease that it is, I am genuinely happy. Because of this, when I opened all of my past works and works in progress, I felt nothing but guilt. Guilt for not keeping up with my chapters or keeping my account active. I felt dread to have to escape in this world that I had created. I felt no joy or excitement. It was the strangest feeling that happened all in a matter of seconds. Thus leading to my final decision to take a step away from writing. Do I still love it? Absolutely. But now I think I’m going to re-route and focus my writing on what I love - reality. I’m going to get back into journaling and write essays about love and beauty as I’ve always loved to do. But for escaping into a fantasy world? I don’t know when I’ll be back.

Now I know what you’re thinking. “But you can write and be happy!” Nah fam. Writing has been my aid through dark times and now I mostly associate it with those dark times. And for once in my life, I feel this desire to enjoy reality and remain in it - with the exception of journaling here and there. Even daydreaming is difficult. It’s strange. I love my reality. This sounds like gloating now but it’s truly a remarkable feeling. When you’ve been battling depression for 15 years, it feels really freaking nice to say that I’m happy.

So that’s why I’m taking a break - in a very long, drawn out way. But my hope was that after this long story, you might understand truly why I am doing this. It would have been easier to just say that writing doesn’t bring me joy anymore but I feel that I owe more than that; especially because I really don’t know if I’ll write for this blog ever again. The last time I took a break, I disappeared without being able to explain myself and I wanted to do so now that I have the chance.

Ultimately, thank you to everyone who has stuck by me over the years. It’s truly been one hell of a rollercoaster. The friends I’ve made on here have seen me at my lowest of the lows. But hey! I’ll still be around. I just won’t be publishing or continuing any of my works anywhere in the near future. Seriously though. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. This website has helped me tremendously and I’ll never forget it. Besides, there’s lots of other exciting things happening in my life now so you’ll certainly see me pop in here and there to talk about it ♡

If you wish, you can message me for questions or anything you want to know. I’m an open book - at least about most things hehe. And don’t worry. I still very much love Taehyung and still wildly obsessing over how marvelous he is. Umf.

(here’s some recent photos of me as i rarely take selfies anymore haha. and a derp photo of me and the man i love >_< why is the cutest photo of him with the worst photo of me? still cute though hehe)

#me #personal #goodbye for now #no longer writing #bts writer

[avversiera-writes]

try again; in everyday we breathe life [tobirama senju/you] - chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Now

Summary: some moral teetering here and there; tobi and you as his wife switch attitudes, as you realize not everything is what it cracks out to be

Word count: ~3k

available on AO3.

Chapter 1 - Now | Chapter 2 - Then, part 1 | Chapter 2 - Then, part 2 |

When you finally come to, you feel an IV drip inserted into your hand. A heavy hand is resting on your arm, and it lifts off when you turn your head to the side. Tobirama stares at you, neither angry or placating, and once you get a good look at his face, you realize that he is quite sad. There is no sound in the background, but the desire to fill in the silence is strong. For once, you have run out of words. 

  “You didn’t want to let me know.” Tobirama states after a long time. “Do you think I would not find out?” 

  You bite your lip, just in case you say something wrong. 

  “Do you not trust me?” Tobirama continues, and his tone becomes a little scalding. “Why would you want to keep this from me? I am the Hokage.” 

“Tobirama,” you say. 

  Tobirama looks away, and he takes a deep breath. “You have to be okay.” 

  “I am okay,” you tell him what he has to believe. “I really am. All right?” You meet his eyes. 

Tobirama looks at you coolly, and he puts a hand on your forehead. “Rest, and I am not asking.” 

  You take his hand from your forehead, and plant a kiss on his knuckles. Tobirama squeezes your hand and then nods at you, and he turns to exit the hospital room. You close your eyes again, but your mind replays the memories you would rather not revisit. You remember the pain, the way you felt like you were going to die. You remember how beaten and bruised Tobirama was when he found you, how close he was to losing his life, but he still found you and fought for you and for the child that you have lost. 

  You were going to be okay, but the simplest things are often quick to trigger your emotions. You do not want to go back to the days where you can barely step out of the bedroom without having a breakdown. 

  No, you have to be strong. You have to make it stop. 

You swing your legs to the side of the bed and take a deep breath. There is one way to make it all stop. You just have to eliminate the root of it all. 

//

After being enlisted by Mito to search for Hashirama, Tobirama finds himself wandering through the dark woods that are just outside of Konoha’s walls. At this hour of the night, the trees are not just trees–they are alive, they talk and they stand tall and eerie, covering the ground with their own world. The cold night breeze blows through, and the branches above him sway, and the shadows on the forest floor created by the wane moonlight begin to dance. 

  Tobirama senses that he is getting farther and farther away from Konoha and not even closer to his brother, even though he knows that he is somewhere out here. Well, as of this moment, his presence seems to be everywhere. 

  The air is not crisp, despite its chilliness. It feels tangy, and it almost makes Tobirama dizzy. Hashirama’s power here is so dense, so overpowering. The trees are literally weeping from it. The ground trembles from it, with the rocks rolling around and skittering, and the roots of the trees rearranging underground, restless. Probably like his brother.  

  “Brother?” Tobirama calls, just in case. He hates how small his voice sounds, how human . 

“Tobirama,” Hashirama suddenly appears beside him, and Tobirama whirls to his brother. 

  Hashirama plants a hand on his shoulder and a shiver runs through Tobirama’s spine. 

  “What–” Tobirama breathes out. His brother feels different. He feels like a part of something bigger, like this forest. 

  “You’re out late, shouldn’t you be home?” Hashirama asks, and Tobirama notes how light and burden free he sounds. 

  “Shouldn’t you?” 

Hashirama smiles and he pats the back of Tobirama’s neck. “I am home, brother.” 

  “Your wife and children need you at home, elder brother,” Tobirama searches his brother’s face. 

  “I need you,” Tobirama whispers, afraid of what Hashirama will say this time. He does not want to be rejected by his own brother. The last of his siblings. 

Hashirama looks to the sky, clear and dark, with countless stars glittering over the world like diamonds. The moon is halved, luminous yet it looks incomplete. 

“It’s calling me out,” Hashirama says, his voice sounding far away. 

  Tobirama’s heart hurts, because he does not know what is ailing Hashirama. He wishes he can fix this. He takes his brother by the arm and he starts to drag him back towards the village. “We are going home.” 

  “Do you not hear them?” 

  “Hear what?” Tobirama snaps. He needs to get his brother away from here. 

He hurries, not caring if Hashirama is probably tripping over his own feet. They pass the familiar landmarks that lead to Konoha, and finally, they arrive just outside the walls. 

  “The trees, brother,” Hashirama finally replies. “The trees are alive. Here, there. Everywhere.” 

//

You sneak into the underground prison where Miura Kimiko is currently detained. Alone in the dingy hallway, you detect the scent of mold, and the light on the ceiling crackles in a green-ish dim light. You brandish your sword, and it hangs by your side, waiting and thirsting for the next cut for blood. You grip the hilt, and you slice at the air to prepare yourself. 

  You stop in your tracks as a shallow laugh echoes ahead. 

  All the fight in your drains away, and you slink to the nearest wall. Your sword drops to the floor with a clang and you flinch from the noise. Immediately, you swoop down to grab it and you let out a shaky breath. 

  You do not like this. You know that you are acting irrational. Even if you do what you have to do here, there will still be the pain and the guilt left behind. 

“Come back for a second attempt, m’lady?” You hear Kimiko rasp. She chuckles, sounding like rusty metals rubbing against each other, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. 

  You let out a deep breath, trying to will away the black spots in your vision. 

Then, without thinking anymore, you march up right outside her cell and wield your sword into a thrusting position. 

  “Beautiful, merciful and graceful, wife of Senju Tobirama,” Kimiko drawls. “That’s what you’re known for, right? But we both know deep inside, you are just as twisted as your degenerate husband.”

  You swallow, and you make out her frail silhouette in the darkness. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Suddenly, Kimiko slams herself into the metal rails of the cell and you step back from surprise. 

  “Don’t I?” Kimiko almost screeches. “Why don’t you just die and see what I mean?” 

Her eyes stare you down, unhinged. Her hair is everywhere, matted and dishevelled. Her fingers on the rails look like finger bones. 

  “Why won’t you just die?!” Kimiko shouts and she bangs at the cell bars. Then, she murmurs under her breath, “He will bring you back anyway.” Her arm juts out and she grabs on to the front of your collar. “While I will be alone!”

  “Why did you do it?” You demand, leaning your face away from her. You finally gather up enough bravado to face her. You narrow your eyes at her words, unsure of what she means. Of course, you know that Tobirama will do everything he can to save you. He has proven it time after time again. 

Kimiko chuckles darkly, and you take your sword and place it next to her neck. 

  “Finish the job then,” Kimiko sighs. “See how your husband will bend the rules because family is always the exception for him. He doesn’t care about us!” 

  “You’re wrong!” You snap angrily. “He has done everything for this village. He has given his life for it every single day, and you cannot even begin to comprehend what the scope of his job is.”

  “He is a hypocrite! You, him, and the rest of your damn Senju clan!” Kimiko glowers at you. “You and your shinobi ways. There is always some war to fight. Peace was never an option as long as you live!” 

You grit your teeth, feeling so vindictive at the audacity of assuming that your husband does not care about the village and its people. He cares so much that it is painful to watch him give his all, every single day in that damn office and his damn Hokage hat.

  “How dare you?” You threaten. “You try to kill me, and have succeeded on killing my child–”

  “You killed my child!” Kimiko screams. “Our Hokage, who is supposed to be our protector, killed my child!” 

  “That is part of being a shinobi,” you bite back. 

“You can only say that because you are not out there, risking your life!” 

“Why me?!” You yell above her voice. Tears begin to stream from your eyes.

  Kimiko’s hand withdraws from clutching your collar, and her shoulders slump down. “I do not know,” she says, hushed. 

  A moment of silence passed, and the sheer rage you feel overwhelms your logic. All this pain, and for naught. You have done this a thousand times, have taken lives without much of a thought, that this should not be much of a chore. 

  “Your husband dwells in the darkness, my lady, and in the shadows, he plays god with the dead,” Kimiko whispers. “He could just bring her back.”

  “What did you say?” You demand, her words passing over your ears. War cries into your ears, drowning out every voice.

  Kimiko’s body shakes as she laughs, and the sight is horrendous. You want to stop it. It sounds mocking to you.

“Do it, wife of the Hokage! Do it!” 

  Your hand shakes, and you wind your arm to strike at her neck, wanting to make yourself to really do it, to go through with this once and for all, when a hard grip stops your arm and suddenly, the world bends around you, swirling into hues of black and blue. When the world comes to, you fall to your hands, and you hear your sword drop with a thud. Your vision clears, and you see Tobirama’s long legs in front of you. 

Your hands clenched into a fist, gathering the dirt into your palms. 

  “Why?” You say in a low voice. 

  “Because if you do kill her, I would have to act as your Hokage and not as your husband,” Tobirama snaps in a hard voice. "Do not act unreasonably, like what you are doing right now."

  “I don’t need my husband, I need the Hokage to punish her,” you lash out. 

Tobirama grabs you by the arms and forcefully stands you up. He looks angry. “I am punishing her. In accordance with the laws.” 

  “The laws you and your brother constituted!” You push him away from you and you start to cry uncontrollably. 

Tobirama takes a deep breath, and he clenches his fists. “If you want to kill someone, then kill me, as I am the one who withdrew you from that mission that took your students’ lives. At least, dying by your hand, I know that justice is served. There is no better way to go.” 

Your tears fall down your face, and down to your chest. You look at him, and despite all the resentment you feel, you are able to process what he is not showing you.

  You shake your head, and you face the village before you. He has taken you on the top of a hill that is opposite the Hokage monument, and from here, you can see what Tobirama has built. How beautiful it looks from above.

"I would, but you will never fight back," you cringe at the way you sob your words out. 

Tobirama stays silent, but you feel how heavy his heart is, and his frustration and helplessness is rolling out in waves. You are supposed to be the one supporting and helping him, but you feel so weak and out of place, like time just stopped for you and no matter how much you try to move forward, you are put back into your place.

You close your eyes, and you hear Kimiko's words replaying back into your mind, now that you are starting to calm down. 

  You glance at your husband, who is staring lasers at the ground.

  You clutch your arms with your hands and you step closer to him. 

Tobirama looks up and you sense anguish beneath his eyes. The both of you had lost a lot. Your eyes meet his, and you see him struggling to put his walls up. 

"Let’s get you home," Tobirama curtly says, and he gestures down the path.

  You step forward and take one more glance at his face. He cannot seem to meet your eyes again, the more your stare lingers.

Your husband dwells in the darkness...and in the shadows, he plays god with the dead.

Your hand juts out to take his and Tobirama flinches. His hand is very cold. 

You look at your joined hands and you exhale slowly. “I am sorry.” 

  Tobirama looks shocked at your words. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

You nod glumly, and Tobirama laces his fingers with yours. “I wasn’t going to kill her. I don’t think I can. I tried to. I wanted to.” 

  Tobirama tugs your hand and you end up even closer to him. There are tiny steps to get closer, and he is running through them all at once. 

“I know,” Tobirama whispers. He sounds relieved. 

“I’m not really as good as people let me out to be, hm?” You tell him sadly. “I have been feeling so numb and distant for all this time. I wasn’t thinking. I have failed you.” 

  “You will never fail me,” Tobirama reassures, and his large palm covers the side of your face. “Please do not say that.” 

His thumb catches a tear, and he slowly pulls you into his embrace. He rests his chin on top of your head, and he starts to berate you. “I told you to rest, and because you did not heed my advice, you are acting irrationally. Do not get out of bed tomorrow. I will send Biwako to check on you.” 

  You roll your eyes, despite the grimness of the situation. 

  “Focus on getting well,” Tobirama continues on, but the usual bite in his voice is gone. “ I need you to be well.” 

You hear the plea in his voice, the desperation that he refuses to show but it bleeds out in various ways. He does not say please or beg, but you notice that he is not imposing. You almost lost your mind today, and acted on an impulse that you can never come back from. You forget for a moment that the ground you stand on is solid, and that you have your values that you hold close to your heart. You realize that you will lose yourself to that darkness, but you are not the only one losing here either. There is Tobirama, who teeters between the gray area of black and white, who is capable of many heinous things as long as they are justified, but he still looks to you for some understanding and depends on you. 

The revelation reels you in. You always refused to acknowledge it, but you have always known that you had a penchant for understanding even the most derelict person. Even Kimiko. You understand her too well, but this time, you had let your anger and resentment control you. You understand that she is hurt, and because of that, you want to hurt her back. However, if you continue on this path, you are no better than the enemy shinobi out there. You are no better than her. 

  Sometimes, it is hard to be aware, and to possess a conscience that speaks loud and clear. Sometimes, it is hard to follow a steady moral compass. 

You want her atonement, as you simply cannot let go what she has done to you, but that cannot happen if she dies. Merciful as people, as Tobirama, makes you out to be, you are also human. 

  Once, everything was so simple. You lived by the ways of shinobi. You fought as one. Now, things have changed. You cannot have the same narrow view anymore, despite wanting–no, forcing yourself to see through a gilded scope. There will always be the bad things, but you need to acknowledge that, and learn and be better because you are needed. 

  You remember Madara’s words to you, of your husband setting himself up to fail, and you revitalize the drive to ensure that he will not. 

  Not in this lifetime, if you can help it. 

To be continued...

Chapter 4 - Then >>

#Tobirama Senju #Senju Tobirama #tobirama x you #tobirama x reader #Hashirama Senju #you never said goodbye timeline/au #'til death do us part #angelica writes #naruto fanfiction

[omg-imagine]

⊱ Forget Me Not (6/15) ⊰

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 3.1k

Warning: none 

A/N: Sorry for the late post but it’s still Sunday so I made it 😎. As always, hope you enjoy!!

Part 5

Trudging down the silent street at a sedate pace, you swore that you had been walking in circles for the last hour and a half. Your steps echoed throughout the desolate road, the early morning sun kissing your skin lightly as it rose, filling up the empty skies above with its gentle glow of light. Wrapping your arms tightly around your frame, you reached the end of the block but were unsure what direction to take next.

If only you had charged your phone before going to sleep last night, you wouldn’t be wandering aimlessly right now.

You knew that Keanu would wake up soon, and you needed to come home before then. You had woken up at dawn and couldn’t go back to sleep, so you decided to go for a quick stroll outside. You didn’t expect to forget your way back, and the phone you had brought with you was useless now that it was dead. The last thing you wanted was Keanu to worry about your sudden disappearance. You didn’t want to add any more stress to the poor man.

Turning right, you were met with another long row of mansions, each one separated by large and gated yards. You had never seen such luxurious homes before, and you couldn’t help but feel out of place. The last apartment you rented back in New York had barely enough space for one person, let alone two. The ceilings were always leaking, and the paint on the walls was chipping off. It was certainly not worth the amount of money you were paying every month.

Now, you were much better off. Never would you have imagined living in such an upscale neighborhood. Though a week has passed since your discharge from the hospital, you still felt like you were stuck in a dream. Maybe one day, you would wake up in the same familiar bed at the house you grew up in and realize that this was nothing but a figment of your imagination.

You didn’t want that to be the case, however. You couldn’t imagine yourself returning to the dreary life you had left behind. You wanted this one— the one where you seemed to be the happiest you had ever been. The one with Keanu.

At the mere thought of him, you noticed the small smile instantly forming on your face. These last seven days showed you how greatly Keanu cared about you. There was no doubt that you were important to him, and he loved you very much. You could see the pain in his eyes every time you glanced his way, no matter how hard he tried to mask it. It broke your heart seeing him look at you as if you were the ghost of the woman he loved.

But despite all, Keanu was patient with you. He has done everything he could to make you feel comfortable around him and in your home. Truth be told, you found yourself being naturally drawn to Keanu, unafraid to put your guard down when it came to him unlike with others. You believed it was merely because you were attracted to him, but it had to be so much more.

Perhaps your heart remembered him while your mind couldn’t, and that was why you easily connected with Keanu.

“Y/N?”

You suddenly heard a voice calling out your name, and you turned your head to see a blonde lady jogging up to you from behind. She was around your age and beyond gorgeous. You were quick to take note of the recognition on her face as she stood there before you with a huge smile. 

“I’m so sorry but—”

“Oh, shoot, I forgot you don’t remember,” the woman shook her head, slightly frowning. “I’m Molly. My husband Will and I live a few doors down from you and Keanu. He told us that you were in an accident a couple of weeks ago, and you’re suffering from amnesia.”

“Umm, yeah,” you replied, nodding. “I think Keanu might have mentioned you two before.”

“I would hope so. We’re all good friends,” she chuckled. “But how are you doing? Is everything okay? This must be a lot for you to take in.”

“It is, but I’m managing. I’ve been home for a week now, trying to settle back into my normal life and hoping that it’ll somehow trigger my memories.”

Molly sighed softly. “Wow, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. Five years of your life just gone all of a sudden? So much has happened during that time, and I was totally a different person back then. I don’t know how I can handle all of that.”

“It does feel like I’m starting over, but Keanu’s been amazing. He’s doing his best to help me recover what I’ve lost.”

“Well, I’m glad,” she added with a smile. “Both of you are strong and wonderful people. As far as I know, there hasn’t been a problem you guys were unable to overcome. I’m sure things will work out.”

“Thank you, Molly,” you returned. “Listen, I’m a bit lost right now, and I want to get home before Keanu wakes up since I didn’t tell him I was going out. Can you show me the way back?”

“Of course! Just to give you a heads up, it’s quite a walk. You surely did wander out far, and it’s a good thing I caught you on my run.”

Smiling, you walked alongside Molly as she started to share more about herself. You learned that she worked as a model, and her husband Will was a businessman who often went on motorcycle rides with Keanu. Based on first impressions, you liked Molly. She was delightful and easy-going. You found out the two of you had become close friends after moving into the neighborhood. She even helped you with getting the job that you currently have.

By the time you reached your house, you and Molly were cracking up over the stories she had told. She was definitely the type of friend you would love to have a drink with and guaranteed a fun time. You had even made plans to come over her house for a cup of tea soon and reintroduce you to the close circle of friends you were a part of.

“If you need anything, give me a call, alright?” Molly spoke as she lingered by the front yard. “I’m that friend you usually bothered late at night just to rant or ask for advice. I want you to understand that you can still do that. I’ll be happy to pick up the phone at two in the morning and listen to what you have to say.”

“Okay,” you responded softly. “Thanks again, Molly. I’ll keep in touch!”

You waved goodbye with one hand as you took your keys out of your pocket using the other. Turning around, you were about to insert the key into the lock when the door swung open without warning, revealing Keanu, who stood in front of you, his eyes showing pure relief.

“I was out for a walk and got lost—”

You weren’t able to finish your explanation when Keanu’s arms suddenly wrapped around you, pulling you close, and it caught you by surprise. He buried her face in your neck, feeling the warmth of his breath fluttering against your skin. You heard him sigh deeply when you wound your arms around his neck, your fingers playing with the soft hair at his nape. The seconds that passed felt like minutes as he cradled you, allowing him to find comfort in your touch.

When Keanu finally stepped back, releasing you, you glanced up to his weary face, your eyes locking with his in an instant. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. My phone died, and I couldn’t ask for directions since no one was out there yet.”

“It’s okay,” he assured, his gaze falling as he swallowed thickly before speaking. “I was scared that something happened to you. I tried knocking on your door this morning, and when I didn’t get an answer, I checked inside only to see you gone.”

“Hey,” you breathed out, placing a hand under his chin and tilting it upwards. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere, Ke.”

You watched silently as Keanu grasped your hand and lifted it up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss on your inner wrist. You could see him relax a little, the tension in his face easing away as a tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth.

Stepping to the side, Keanu let you enter the house, shutting the door behind you close. “Next time, just leave a note. I was about to go out there and start a search party for you.”

“A note would have been smart,” you laughed. “I was up really early and didn’t want to disturb your sleep. Which reminds me, how did it go last night?”

“Slept like a baby,” Keanu answered, smiling. “I almost didn’t hear my alarm going off beside me.”

“That’s good,” you said, squeezing his hand.

For the past couple of nights, you and Keanu would start a movie in his room and cuddle in bed until he falls asleep. Somehow, spending that extra hour or two with him in the evening truly helped with his sleep. Once he was unconscious, you would slide out of his arms and tiptoe back to your room across the hall. There were times when you wondered what would happen if you didn’t leave, deciding to just stay there for the whole night. It was tempting, to say the least, but you still wanted to take things slow.

“How did you find your way back?” He questioned.

“I ran into Molly, or rather, she ran into me. Anyways, she introduced herself and later walked me home.”

“Molly?” Keanu repeated her name a bit reluctantly. “Uhh, it’s great that you got to meet her again.”

“Yup, she’s lovely. She also said it’s been a while since we went to dinner with her and Will. We should do that when everyone’s free.”

“Y-Yeah,” he stuttered, and you picked up the slight hesitation in his voice. “We should plan for one in the future.”

“I guess we’ll let them know,” you replied as a brief silence fell between the two of you, only breaking when Keanu spoke again.

“You have that neurologist appointment today,” he reminded you, and you had almost forgotten about it. “We should leave in an hour if we want to make it on time. It’s the middle of rush hour, and the traffic’s horrendous.”

“Oh, I’ll go shower and get ready, then.”

“No problem. You do that, and I’ll make us breakfast to take on the road.”

Grinning at you, Keanu then put a hand on one side of your face, slowly craning his head down. He was about to brush a kiss to your lips when he swiftly shifted away and planted on your cheek instead. You felt the heat rising to your face after realizing what he had almost done.

“Sorry, it’s a habit,” he apologized, his skin flushed with slight embarrassment.

Shaking your head, you flashed him a reassuring smile before leaning up and kissing his cheek. “No need to apologize, Ke.”

You ran your fingers through Keanu’s locks as you stood there for a few more moments, gazing into his deep brown eyes. There was still plenty to uncover about you and him, and as much as you wanted to know all of it right away, you needed to be patient like Keanu has been with you.

---

The neurologist appointment took up almost half of the day, and at some point, Keanu had taken a nap at the waiting room while the doctor ran tests on you. He could have dropped you off at the facility and gone home so that he wouldn’t be stuck doing nothing for hours, but he couldn’t bear leaving you alone. You had been quite nervous on the way there, afraid that they were going to find something wrong during the examination.

Fortunately, there was no need for you and Keanu to worry. The doctor assured that besides the amnesia, your brain was nearly healed from the trauma sustained from the crash. Despite seeming like an excellent sign of recovery, they still weren’t sure if or when your memories would return. Not wanting to give you any false hope, your doctor only instructed you to continue what you were doing— taking each day as it came.

As Keanu drove down the freeway with you in the passenger seat, he couldn’t stop thinking about what happened earlier that morning. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as he looked everywhere in the house for you. He had tried calling you several times, only to reach your voicemail after every attempt. Immediately, he thought of the worse. He was led to believe that you remembered everything again and left him as a result.

Keanu couldn’t even describe the immense relief he experienced when he heard the sound of your voice coming from outside. He had almost lost his composure after opening the door and seeing you standing there. He had just enough self-control to stop himself from kissing you, opting to hold you in his arms instead.

God, he didn’t want to let you go. He could never let you go.

“I’m in the mood for some coffee,” you blurted out as you stared at the scenery passing by.

“Coffee can trigger migraines,” Keanu revealed with a small smile. “You haven’t had one in days, but I don’t think that means you can go back to drinking cups of it.”

“Fine,” you pouted, turning your head to the side to look at him. “I’m in the mood for some blueberry scones then. Can we stop by Starbucks?”

Keanu chuckled as he glanced at you, meeting your eyes. “I’ve got a better place in mind that sells the best blueberry scones.”

The café was a short ten-minute drive from where you were on the freeway, and luckily, Keanu found a parking spot right in front of the building.

“This is Emily’s,” he pointed as he shut off the car engine. “It’s where we met up for our first unofficial date.”

“It looks lovely,” you commented, a soft smile appearing on your lips.

“It’s our favorite coffee shop in all of LA,” Keanu revealed before clicking his seatbelt off and getting out of the car. Quickly, he dashed to your side of the vehicle and opened your door, extending a hand to help you out of your seat.

As the two of you entered the café, you were immediately greeted by the scent of freshly ground beans. The interior was warm and welcoming, decorated with string lights and chestnut-colored furniture. Vintage photographs were framed around the wall as faint jazz music played in the background, overlapping with the hushed chatters of customers and the whirring of the coffee machine.

After ordering your drinks and pastries, you and Keanu sat in one corner of the room, your knees almost touching underneath the table. The entire sight and sounds reminded him of the same exact moment that happened nearly five years ago. It felt as though he were reliving the morning he spent with you weeks after your initial meeting. He could vividly recall how nervous he was on that day since that was the first time in a while he was interested in someone.

“You’re right,” you giggled, brushing away the crumbs off your face. “These scones are fantastic, and I love their chamomile tea.”

“I told you it was the best,” Keanu grinned, taking a sip of his black coffee. “I found this gem while I was filming a movie years before we met.”

“Well, I think I found my new favorite coffee spot,” you said before emptying your cup with one last sip. “Speaking of, do you have any exciting projects lined up?”

“Actually, I don’t. I, uh, decided to take a year off.”

You raised a brow at him. “Oh, why? I thought you enjoyed working?”

“I do, but I just completed a film months ago, and I feel like I need a break.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with me, right?” You asked tentatively.

Keanu remained quiet as you stared at him. The truth was he did sign on for a movie shooting in late October but dropped out of it recently. Aside from that, he canceled other engagements in the upcoming months, wanting to put all of his time and focus on you.

It’s the least he could do after everything.

“Ke?” You uttered his name softly.

He released a heavy sigh. “I think it’s better if I stay home for now, you know? I want to be there to make sure that you’re doing okay.”

“You don’t have to stop your life for me, Keanu,” you stated. “I know how passionate you are about acting. We have to go back to our normal routine, and that includes you, too.”

“But I have Arch to keep me busy,” he countered. “I just don’t want to take a job where I have to be away for more than a week.”

“Why?”

Licking his lips, Keanu’s eyes then dropped to the ground. If only you knew the last time he was gone for so long. What the distance did to you and him…

“It’ll be difficult if I’m away,” he spoke honestly. “It took you a while to get used to me being gone all the time.”

“Well, it’s better if I start getting used to it now than later. Ke, I promise you that I’ll be fine. I know you want to take care of me, but I can handle myself. I want things to be as normal as they once were, no matter how challenging it was before.”

Keanu flickered his eyes up to yours, noticing the pleading look you gave him, and it was something he could never say no to. With a sigh, he nodded his head despite being unsure of his own response.

“Okay. I’ll see what my agent has,” he answered, smiling to convince you that he would.

“Good,” you replied. “We have to move on with our lives whether or not I get my memories back. I don’t want us to be stuck in the past when there’s an entire future ahead.”

Keanu hummed as he watched you happily take another bite out of your scone, letting your words sink in for a minute.

Once again, you were right, but was he ready to risk it all?

Part 7

Tags: @penwieldingdreamer​ @fanficsrusz​ @toomanystoriessolittletime​ @awessomness​ @meetmeinthematinee​ @ringa-starr​ @ficsnroses​ @iworshipkeanureeves​

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves x you #my fics #reader insert #rpf

[sheliesshattered]

This Isn’t A Ghost Story - Chapter 1

Whouffaldi non-canon AU. 8 chapters, will be about 32,000 words when complete. Rated Mature for heavier themes in later chapters, please contact me privately if you’re worried about triggering topics. Clara Oswald/Twelfth Doctor. Mystery, pining and angst with a happy ending. Available on AO3 under the same username and title. Updates every Friday.

This Isn’t A Ghost Story

Chapter 1: The House

14 November 2014, London

There was a certain amount of irony, Clara reflected, that her first reaction was I’m going to kill him.

Her ‘special friend’ had just cost her the sale of her late grandmother’s house. Again. This had to be roughly the twelfth adorable family or nice couple that had stepped into her ancestral family home only to turn tail and run before they’d even had a chance to hear about the antique hardwood floors or the fully restored kitchen. At this point, he wasn’t even being subtle about it anymore.

The longer the house sat on the market, the fewer calls she was getting to schedule walk-throughs of the property. She was beginning to worry that word of the house’s strangeness was getting around the local real estate community. If things kept up at this rate, she was going to end up permanently saddled with an inheritance whose tax burden she could barely afford, in the form of a one hundred and thirty year old, gorgeous, sprawling, haunted house.

Clara used her key to let herself in through the ornate front door, grumbling under her breath. As soon as she closed the door behind her, the cabinets in the kitchen began to rattle ominously.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, dropping her purse and keys on the small table in the foyer. “It’s just me.”

The door to one of the bedrooms upstairs slammed shut.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands and counted to ten before looking up again. “Listen, I get that you’re cross with me for bringing people by, but I am beyond livid with you, so let’s skip the part where I yell and you throw things and just agree to be angry with each other in silence, okay?”

The house went quiet in a manner entirely too creepy for her liking. If not for the undercurrent of petulant passive-aggressiveness, she might have actually been scared.

Not that Clara had ever really been scared of the ghost that lived in her Gran’s house. He had never once made her feel unsafe, not since she’d first spoken to him as a small child. But the sudden silence was still unnerving. 

“Well, good,” she said into the preternatural stillness, more to prove to herself that she wasn’t scared than anything else. “It’s nice to actually be able to hear myself think, for a change.”

The top step of the staircase creaked once, as if to make a point.

“Still shut up,” she grumbled.

She went about the short list of tasks she’d come to see to, putting away the food she’d set out for the potential home buyers, watering the plants, closing the curtains, and flicking on a few lamps to make the house look lived-in. Of course, she didn’t envy anyone who tried to break into the house while it sat apparently empty. At some level, a poltergeist was better home protection than a dog could ever be. 

Her chores complete, Clara returned to the foyer to find her purse where she’d left it, but her keys conspicuously missing. She sighed, hands on her hips, and turned towards the cold spot she could feel forming near the foot of the stairs. He was nothing but a faint wispy outline in the direct light of the setting sun filtering through the stained glass window over the front door, but even that outline was familiar enough that Clara was able to find his eyes and fix him with a displeased glare.

“Where are my keys?” she demanded. She still hadn’t forgiven him for his behaviour earlier, and she was in no mood to play find-the-lost-trinket tonight.

“I didn’t want you to leave before I could apologise,” the ghost said, not quite meeting her gaze. His voice raised gooseflesh along her arms, as usual, but she much preferred the low rumble of his Scottish brogue to the slamming of doors and rattling of cupboards. Not that she would ever openly admit that to him.

“So apologise and tell me where you’ve hidden my keys!”

“Clara,” he said, and she clenched her teeth against the shivery reaction she always had to the way he said her name, like it had been invented just so he could say it. There were days when she lived for that rush — and many, many lonely nights, in her love-struck teenaged years — but today was absolutely not one of them.

“...Was there more to that sentence?” she asked when he didn’t go on. “Saying my name does not constitute an apology.”

He glanced up at her, looking increasingly solid as the sunlight waned. “I’m sorry I upset you. That wasn’t my intention.”

“No, your intention was to make certain I can’t sell this house, and don’t bother to deny it.”

He chewed his incorporeal lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I won’t deny it. I don’t want you to sell the house. But I’m still sorry I upset you.”

Clara sighed. “I have to sell it. You know this. And someday, someone too brave or too stupid to fall for all your clattering will decide to buy this place, and that’ll be that.”

“Don’t say that,” he pleaded, his eyes glinting blue in the gathering dusk.

“It’s the reality of the situation, so you’d best start making peace with it,” she said evenly. Another irony not lost on her: arguing the state of reality with a man dead nearly a century. “Now, where are my keys?”

Her ghost hesitated. “You don’t have to leave,” he said. “You could stay?”

“I never stay the night in this house. That was your advice to me, more than twenty years ago. No sense in breaking with tradition.”

“I think maybe I was being overly paranoid at the time.”

“And I think maybe you’re acting like a lonely old man now,” Clara snarked back.

“Alone in a house that you of all people are dead-set on evicting me from? I can’t imagine why I’d be lonely!” 

“It’s not like you’re stuck here! You’re not tied to the house, you can go anywhere you want!”

“But it’s my house!”

“Keys, now!” she snapped. “Traffic is already going to be horrendous—”

“All the more reason to stay,” he said petulantly.

“But,” she went on forcefully, speaking over him, “tomorrow’s Saturday, so I have the day off work. If you tell me where my keys are, I’ll come back first thing in the morning. I still need to finish going through all those old boxes in the attic. We can spend the day working on that together, okay?”

“You’re going to drive all the way home only to turn around and come back in the morning? Why not just—”

“Or I could spend the day doing something fun with people my own age, very far away from here,” she bluffed. “Your choice.”

“Oh, fine,” he said, shoulders sagging. “Your keys are hidden in the parlour, I’ll show you where.”

“Thank you,” she said mildly, and followed him into the next room.

--

As promised, Clara arrived back at her grandmother’s house early the next morning, take-away coffee cup in hand. There had been a moment, whilst she stood in the queue to order, when she’d found herself thinking she ought to get two coffees, bring her ghost a peace offering to smooth over their row from the night before. Thankfully she’d realised how ridiculous that sounded before it was her turn to order, but she still felt strangely off balance as she unlocked the front door and let herself in, like she had forgotten something important.

“Hey,” she called to the empty house, as soon as she closed the door behind her. “It’s just me, no need to go rattling the hinges on my account.”

Her ghost appeared in a shadowy corner of the foyer, smiling at her shyly. “Good morning, my Clara,” he said. “You look lovely today. Have you had a wash?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to ignore the somersaulting of her heart at the way he said her name. My Clara. “Why are you being nice?”

“Because it works on you,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “And because I really am sorry about yesterday,” he added.

“Well, apology accepted,” Clara said. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you. The process of selling this place has been entirely too stressful, and I’m really starting to worry it won’t happen before the property taxes are due,” she sighed.

He ran a semi-transparent hand through the short curls at the back of his head, the ring he wore on his left hand briefly catching the light. “Yeah, about that...”

She winced. “What did you do?”

“The post came early today,” he said, voice even more apologetic than before. “I didn’t open it, but one of the envelopes has a rather official looking return address. I put it on the dining room table for you.”

She left her keys and purse on the table by the door and trudged off to the dining room, unable to contain her groan when she saw the envelope in question. Opening it, she found that he was right: property taxes were due in six weeks, the total even higher than she had anticipated. It was more than she made in a month at her teaching job. Even with the small amount she had stashed away in savings, she would hardly be able to pay it and the rent on her flat, and still expect to feed herself.

“What about the rest of your inheritance?” he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

“I put it all into fixing up this place to sell,” she said.

“Which I’ve made impossible,” he murmured.

Clara covered her face with her hands, trying not to cry and hoping he wouldn’t notice. Yes, he was the reason she hadn’t been able to sell the house to any of the dozen or so buyers who had shown initial interest. But he was also the only one in her life who even knew or cared what she was going through.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she told him honestly, still hiding behind her hands. “If I don’t pay it, they’ll just add late fees on top of that already ridiculously large sum. If I can’t sell the house soon...”

She felt a cold touch drift across the back of her hands, felt her hair stir in a nonexistent breeze, and wished, not for the first time in her life, that her ‘special friend’ was the sort of friend who could offer a hug when she so desperately needed one.

“I don’t suppose there’s a secret stash of diamonds in the attic?” she asked him, only half joking. “Or a map to buried treasure?”

“You are descended from a line of exceptionally adventuresome women,” he replied, voice sounding distant and thoughtful. “I haven’t been up to the attic in years. I don’t know what all is in there, but anything is possible.”

Clara dropped her hands from her face and squared her shoulders, not looking at her ghost until she was certain she wouldn’t spontaneously burst into tears. “Well, let’s hope there’s something up there that will help.”

--

The attic had never been Clara’s favourite place in her Gran’s house, cramped and dusty and full of ancient boxes that gave off a far creepier vibe than the literal ghost had ever managed to do. But on the plus side, it was also windowless, dim enough that he was able to appear to her in a fairly solid state and even move lightweight objects as though he were a real person existing in the real world.

She had removed the larger pieces from the attic weeks ago, furniture and blanket chests and trunks of old clothing, all sorted through and donated to charity or brought back to her flat, or else restored to the best of Clara’s ability and set out to decorate the house in a manner befitting its age. All that remained were boxes of keepsakes, photographs and journals and old letters, small family things that required far more of her attention to sort through. 

Despite the lingering threat of the taxes due, it was a pleasant morning, sitting together amidst the papers and dust, slowly uncovering the history of her family, layer on layer, like an archaeologist digging through levels of sediment. Her Gran had spent her entire life in this house, from the time she was a baby, used it as a homebase during her adventurous youth, married and raised her own daughter in it, and continued to live in it after her husband died. The boxes that littered the attic bore witness to all those many decades.

“Oh my god, these photos of Mum,” Clara said, turning the yellowed album towards her ghost so he could see them, in all their early 1970s glory. “She must have been, what, about fifteen in these?”

“Ellie’s first formal school dance,” he confirmed, leaning in to examine the photos. “With that older boy, I forget his name. Your grandfather did not approve.”

Clara snorted. “Can’t say I blame him. Look at those sideburns. I’m not sure I would have let her go out with him at all.”

“They had a huge row about it, if I remember correctly. In the end, your grandmother took your mother’s side, and she was allowed to go.”

“Why didn’t you ever appear to any of them?” she asked, flipping through the pages and pausing to linger on what looked to be polaroids of a rugby game. “You were here all that time, but you never talked to anyone until I came along?”

He shrugged. “You were the only one that was you.”

“Thanks. That clears it right up.”

“It’s the only answer I’ve got,” he objected.

“I scared the daylights out of Mum and Gran when I told them about you, I was probably all of six years old at the time.”

“Five, I think,” he said quietly.

“God, five. I might have a heart attack if my five year old started talking very confidently about her special friend the ghost that lives at Gran’s house.”

“I seem to remember advising you against telling them.” 

“And in all the time you’ve known me, when have I ever taken your advice?” she asked archly.

“Hmm. There was that one time you actually listened to me, about that chap you were dating, what’s-his-name.”

Clara winced, remembering it all too well. “I thought we agreed never to speak of him again.”

“Gladly,” her ghost replied emphatically.

She shook her head, more than happy to dismiss the subject. “As a child it didn’t make sense to me not to tell Mum and Gran about you. You live in Gran’s house, the house where Mum grew up, I just assumed they already knew about you. I mean, why wouldn’t they?”

“I’m not sure I could have talked to them, even if I’d wanted to. And I never did want to.”

Clara turned her gaze to him, studying his face in the dimness. Without direct sunlight, he looked almost human, almost alive, the blue of his eyes and the salt and pepper of his hair appearing so very real, so very close at hand. He still seemed as ageless to her now as he had when she was a child. Ageless and ancient, wise and funny, solemn and sardonic. She thought perhaps she knew his face better than any other, living or dead.

“But why didn’t you ever want to talk to them?” she pressed.

“Why do you need a key to enter the house?” he asked in response.

She felt her eyebrows come together in consternation. “Because the door is locked.”

“But why that key?”

“Because... that’s the key that fits. That’s the key that goes with that lock.”

He shrugged, most of his attention on the page of the journal he’d been perusing. “You are the key that fits. I can’t give you a better answer than that.”

--

Chapter 2: The Box

#Whouffaldi #Twelve/Clara #Clara/Twelfth Doctor #Twelfth Doctor #Clara Oswald #Clara and the Doctor #Doctor Who #Doctor Who fanfic #This Isn't A Ghost Story #This Isn't A Ghost Story chapters #my writing #available on AO3 under the same title and username #please comment and reblog!

[ficsuniteheredftba]

I Love You Most

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Requested: No

Prompt/Summary: You are staying at the Burrow over Christmas because Fred discovered the truth about your abusive parents. You aren’t expecting much for the holiday, but Fred goes out of his way to make this the best Christmas you’ve ever had.

Word Count: 2,482

Pronouns Used: She/Her

Warnings: Slight/Referenced Bullying, Referenced Abuse from Parents

Author’s Note: This imagine includes references to parental abuse and incidents that could be seen as bullying. While neither are described in detail, and no specific events of either abuse or bullying are pictured, I want all readers to be as safe as possible, so if these topics are in any way triggering to you, I implore that you read with extreme caution or you do not read this imagine at all. Also, if you are currently suffering from child abuse, the U.S. National Child Abuse Hotline is 1-800-422-4453; please call that number. For those in other countries, please find and contact your local hotline as well. If an abusive scenario is active and could lead to your harm, please contact your local emergency services at their number. 

Your name: submit What is this?

Fred grabbed the cloth coat that was once hung over the oak chair beside him. Slipping it around his body, he made his way to the door to exit the Burrow when Molly suddenly appeared behind him.

“Where do you think you’re going, Fred Weasley?” she demanded.

“Oh, you know, out,” he responded.

“Tell me where you are going right this instant, young man!” Molly raised her voice, making the conversation conceivably audible to the rest of the Burrow’s residents.

“Will you please keep your voice down?” he implored. “If you must know, I’m off to get (Y/N) a Christmas present.”

(Y/N) was staying at the Burrow this Christmas as she and Fred had been friends ever since they first met on the Hogwarts Express. Of course her and George were close too, but (Y/N) and Fred were simply inseparable. The pair’s closeness was only augmented by the fact that, secretly, they had begun dating, the redhead’s twin being the only one who knew. This was a part of the reason she had been invited over, but another factor was undeniably going through Fred’s mind when he offered her an invitation by saying, “Listen, love, I owled mum to ask about you coming over and she said it would be great to have you for Christmas this year. Will you please join us?” Fred thought back to the day he had found out the secret his girlfriend tried so hard to hide.

It was just after the students had returned to Hogwarts for the new term and the pair was taking an afternoon walk around the Black Lake. At the other side of the lake, the Weasley child noticed the giant squid swim up towards the surface enough to be visible. Trying to get (Y/N)’s attention, he grabbed her robe-covered wrist. “Look, the squid!” exclaimed Fred as the girl simultaneously shouted, “Ouch!”  

“What’s wrong, darling?” asked Fred suspiciously. “I didn’t pull that hard, did I? Did you hurt your arm somehow?”

“I fell down during break and landed on my wrist, but I’m fine now,” (Y/N) whispered.

“Let me see, I want to know if it’s bad.” Fred began to pull her sleeve up before she could protest. He noticed the blue and purple bruise wrapped around her skin and recoiled in horror.

“That doesn’t look like it came from a fall. It looks like someone grabbed you, (Y/N), and I hope to hell it wasn’t who I think it was.”

Tears began to roll down (Y/N)’s cheeks. Fred pulled her tightly into his chest. “It was. They do it all the time over break, and there are worse marks in other places.”

Fred felt horrible; he always tried to protect his girl, but he failed to keep her safe when she needed it most. He could only imagine the pain she felt and the fear she faced every day at her own home. Her parents, the people she should be able to trust and feel safe around, had been hurting her, mostly likely for a long time, in a way that could never be amended. He would never let her face that place or any other where she might be hurt ever again.

Fred had made a promise to himself that day, and he had been determined to fulfill it by bringing her to the Burrow for Christmas instead of her own house. He enjoyed having her over regardless because ever since she arrived, they had been having fun thinking of joke products and indulging in an occasional kissing session when no one else was around. Suddenly, Molly’s high-pitched yelling voice forced Fred out of his reverie.

“You are fifteen years old! You expect to be let out shopping all by yourself?” Molly shrieked, “Besides, aren’t her mother and father going to send her any gifts?”

“No, they’re not,” Fred whispered.

“What did you just say?”

Fred straightened his shoulders. “No, she’s not getting any presents from her mum and dad. Her parents treat her horrendously. They’re despicable, the both of them!” he spat.

Molly understood right away what he meant, and she was absolutely gobsmacked. (Y/N) was so kind and polite, and she had already found a place in the mother’s heart. Still in shock, Molly did the only thing she could think to do: thump Fred on the back of the head.

“Why didn’t you think to tell me (Y/N)’s not getting any presents?”

“Well I was just out to get her some, until you came and yelled at me!” Fred asserted.

Molly smiled. She could tell that Fred loved this girl, even if she didn’t know they were a couple.

Putting her hands on Fred’s face, Molly stated, “You’re trying to do the right thing, and that is laudable, but you must take an adult. Get your father and he’ll go with you. I know that she is muggleborn, would you like to look at the muggle shops?”

Fred smiled; his mother had read his mind, “Oh, yes, mum, thank you! Can I get going? I’ll fetch dad right now.”

“Of course dear, but be back for supper,” she requested.

Christmas rolled around the Weasley abode with a great mix of excitement and noise. Fred was sat in the living room quite close to (Y/N) with George, Ron, and Charlie also there. The rest of the children were helping Molly and Arthur bring the presents down, but Molly had let Fred stay to keep his friend company. When Ginny came bounding down the stairs, gifts stacked higher than her head, the eldest twin smiled. He knew he was seeing more presents than usual. Surely some were from (Y/N); she was too kind not to give to the family that had offered to house her over break. Still, there were some that had to be for her, and Fred couldn’t wait to see the look on his girlfriend’s face when she received them.

“Come here, (Y/N),” he spoke softly. She scooted closer to him, her hip touching his, but he wasn’t satisfied and began to pat his legs. “Now, sweetheart, there’s no point in being shy. My whole family’s convinced I’ll never have a date, they won’t think anything of it,” Fred promised. Knowing what the ginger wanted, she decided to fulfill his wishes and hopped up onto his lap.

“First up will be (Y/N) as she is our guest, then youngest to oldest!” Molly commanded.

“That’s very gracious of you, but I’d certainly be alright with Ginny and Ron going first,” (Y/N) piped, insistent that it wasn’t necessary for her to start, but Molly was persistent.

“Honestly, darling, I don’t even know why bother to try and argue.” she smiled. “Go on then!”

(Y/N) turned to Fred, looking into his eyes for a bit before turing back to his mother, who was picking just the boxes with her name on them. Ginny’s gift was planted in her lap first, and upon opening it she found an advanced spell book. “Thank you, Ginny, I love it,” she grinned.

The next present was from Ron, who gifted her a nice new pheasant-feather quill, and then George, who offered Dungbombs and Hiccough Sweets from Zonko’s. Molly, of course, had felt it necessary to also get (Y/N) a present, and as such had hand-knitted a comfortable Weasley jumper for her.

The last box that had been found for the Weasley’s guest came in the form of a box not particularly large, but beautifully wrapped in red and gold paper. Seeing the curious look on (Y/N)’s face, Fred gave a signature smirk before speaking. “What are you waiting for? It’s from me, if you couldn’t tell. Come on then,” he prompted, seemingly sure that he had done a good job.

The girl hesitantly pulled off the paper and lifted the lid from the ruby case. (Y/N) gasped at the sight in front of her, one that she found to be truly fantastic. Inside the box laid a ring with an inscription of “Okay?” on the outside and “Okay.” on the inside, a reference to a novel she loved. “Oh, Fred Weasley you didn’t!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, yes, I did. You made me read that book, and to be honest I quite enjoyed it. I know you did too,” he replied. “Now keep going, there’s more!” Fred was right, as (Y/N) found out upon further search in the box. A necklace was lying beneath that contained different shaped charms. One was a beater’s bat, another a quaffle. It also held an open book, a wand, a quill, and a cauldron.

“It’s beautiful, Fred! Gorgeous! How could you ever afford this?” she inquired, but he didn’t answer. Instead he shoved another item into her hands. This object was a copy of the book The Hunger Games, (Y/N)’s favorite book that had been tragically destroyed by some Slytherins who threw it in the water when she was reading beside the Black Lake.

“Thank you, Fred,” she breathed, and he chuckled.

“Anything for you, doll,” he whispered in her ear.

The rest of the night went very well; each of the Weasleys loved (Y/N)’s presents for them, especially Arthur, who received a How It Works muggle book. She knew how much muggles fascinated him, and his eyes lit up when he saw it, thanking her profusely every chance he got. Still, none was more grateful for their gift than Fred.

The twins were up to receive their presents next, and they were excitedly tearing through the wrapping paper of everything put in front of them. Some of the gifts, such as those from Molly, Arthur, and Hermione were less than spectacular as they had offered textbooks in the hope of seeing the boys improve academically. Still, other gifts that they got were pretty impressive like the Sneakoscope from Bill.

The next pair of packages that Molly picked up for Fred and George were wrapped with purple and yellow paper. A tag in the left hand corner of both presents noted that they were from (Y/N), with Fred having the purple box that was rather long and fairly thin and George getting the yellow box that was wider but shorter.

“Is this from you, love? Now, what did you feel the need to get me? You know that I think you being here is enough of a gift for me. I love you,” Fred gushed, apparently loud enough for his brother to hear because he rolled his eyes.

“Come on, Fred! I want to get going opening these gifts,” George demanded.

“Alright, alright,” was the reply as the twins began to open their parcels, Fred pulling apart the tabs of the cardboard slowly. Once the box was finally open, a gasp of surprise came from the recipient. He had received a broomstick, specifically a Nimbus 2001.

“I hope you like it. I wanted to get you a Firebolt but it was just more than I could afford,” (Y/N) explained.

“Are you kidding? This is marvelous; it’s tremendous!” Fred praised, hugging her from behind. Going back into the package and digging around for the rest of what his girlfriend had given him, Fred found ashwinder eggs, rose thorns, and pearl dust as well as seemingly charmed fireworks.

“I know you were trying to make love potions as a product for your joke service, so I got you some of the base ingredients. I also heard that you were coming up with pranks involving fireworks, so I got some that you can charm and change to do different things.”

“Thank you so much, sweetheart. You are such a catch; I’m lucky to have you,” Fred muttered as George made a puking motion.

Promptly, the Weasleys all turned their attention to Percy as it was announced that he was getting his turn with gifts. Taking advantage of the lack of attention on him, (Y/N)’s boyfriend snuck a kiss onto her temple before continuing to watch all the festive proceedings.

It was well after midnight at the Burrow, and all of the Christmas activities were officially at a close. As evidence of this, the atmosphere in the house had calmed down when all of the children had been taken upstairs to their bedrooms. The boys had all been herded into their respective rooms while Molly had lead Ginny, Hermione, and (Y/N) to their shared space. Now, very little was happening in the house except for one notable conversation.

Once all three girls had changed into their pajamas, Ginny turned to Hermione and began whispering in her ear, nodding occasionally. The two spoke briefly before turning towards the third girl and gazing at her.

“Look, (Y/N),” began Ginny, “if you want to go and sleep in Fred’s room for the night, we won’t tell anyone. In fact, we’ll even go to his room and get you out before anyone knows if mum tries to come upstairs while you’re there.”

“What do you mean? Why would I want to go spend the night with Fred?” the girl questioned, trying to keep the fact that they were dating a secret.

“Don’t lie to us. We know that you’re going out with him; we overheard George talking about it. He’s never exactly been a quiet one. We think that your relationship is adorable by the way. We only wish that you would’ve told us sooner,” Hermione spoke, trying to act cross but not quite succeeding. (Y/N) smiled, grateful that her friends were so understanding and thoughtful.

“Go on, then. Don’t keep your man waiting.” Ginny nodded the guest out of the room. (Y/N) opened the door, finding herself in the hallway, and tip-toed across the way to the place she already knew was inhabited by the twins. She twisted the knob before pulling on the handle, opening up the door freely. (Y/N) then twirled around to the other side of the entryway, closing the door quietly behind her. Turning to face the set of beds, she was shocked to hear a voice.

“Hey, gorgeous, is that you?” Fred asked, eyes towards her location.

“Yeah, it is. Your sister helped me break in.”

“Bless her soul. I’m glad you’re here, especially since I get to see you wearing my jumper. You look cute,” he complimented.

(Y/N) looked down, noticing that she in fact had Fred’s shirt on as well as a tiny pair of gym shorts. Giggling, she fell back onto the mattress her boyfriend was lying on and allowed him to envelop her in his arms. He pulled her flush against him in a spooning fashion and kissed her on the back of her neck. (Y/N) felt herself becoming tired when Fred spoke again.

“I love you,” he mumbled into her ear, meaning each word intensely.

“I love you more,” replied the girl, quickly falling into a dreamland, but not before she heard one last thing from the ginger beside her.

“I love you most.”

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley oneshot #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley fan fiction #fred weasley fan fic #harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter imagines #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harry potter one shot #harry potter fan fiction #harry potter fan fic

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas - 00Q (1/9)

basically sen and galaxy enabled my attention whole ways so here is the beginning of my sick!Q fic which i’ll be crossposting from the forum from now on. but slowly so i don’t overwhelm ur dash omg.

-

Being Quartermaster to 007 was not an easy job at the best of times and this was certainly not the best of times. Today marked the first time Q had ever considered himself sick enough to stay home from work. With a fever above 102 degrees and a voice which begged for rest, Q had sent an encrypted email directly to M and had anxiously awaited the reply which came in the form of Moneypenny checking in to make sure he was, indeed, as ill as he had claimed to be. Satisfied with what she found, Moneypenny had left him to suffer.

Now, curled up in bed and swaddled in every blanket he owned, Q quietly wished for death to take him quickly. His temperature yoyo-ed between sweltering and shivering every few minutes and his sinuses ached with the pressure of his congestion. Honestly, though he prided himself on his vast vocabulary, there was only one word for how Q felt at that moment: shit.

Q’s least favourite thing about this wretched cold by far was the sneezing. He didn’t think he’d mind so much if they just behaved in the way sneezes normally do but these were horrendously stubborn and required a great deal of itchy impatience before they would expel themselves with a force which practically bent Q’s thin body in half (the way it was supposed to bend, of course - ie. forwards from the waist - as anything else would have been cause for concern). Though, he thought as his lungs hacked painfully in his chest, the coughing was probably second on the list of Q’s Least Favourite Cold Symptoms.

“Hhh...eHh…Oh for goodness sahhh…”

Grumbling quietly to himself, Q let out his breath and sniffled miserably, rubbing at his angry nose with his handkerchief. Q had always been partial to handkerchiefs. Though unsanitary, they reminded him of period dramas and Q, though he’d never admit it, was a sucker for period dramas.

Currently, he was watching - or trying to watch; curse this itch! - the 1995 BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice starring the ever beautiful Colin Firth. Oh, the things he would do to that man…

Q’s attention was drawn by a soft meow from beside him just in time to see his black and grey patched cat hop up onto the bed beside him. With a sigh, he reached out to run his hand over C-Sharp’s back, eliciting a small purr of pleasure. C-Sharp moved gracefully up his chest until she could rub the top of her head beneath Q’s chin. He smiled.

“Well,” he muttered hoarsely, running his hand over her back again and using his free hand to rub impatiently at his nose. “I’m glad at least one of us is functional.”

As if replying, C-Sharp gave another meow and hopped onto the pillow beside Q’s head, catching his nose with her tail as she did so. Now, Q certainly wasn’t allergic to cats but his poor nose was already unbearably sensitive and the soft touch was all he needed to tip him over the edge.

“Ehh! Hehtishhoo! Tish! Tsh! Tsshhu! Huh...hhtISHooo!”

Q gave his nose a rough blow into his handkerchief, collapsing back against the pillows, chest heaving with exhaustion. C-Sharp, unfazed by his fit, climbed back into his lap again. He sniffed thickly.

“Thanks,” he said, the congestion blatantly obvious in his voice now. He sighed, triggering a single cough with the threat of more burning in his chest. Today was definitely not a good day.

A sharp knock at the door startled Q from his hazy thoughts. Sleepily, he pushed C-Sharp off to the side and felt around for the remote, retrieving it from a disappearing into a pile of blanket folds, and put the television on pause before stumbling through the living room to the front door. It took his fumbling hands a moment to undo the latch and his brain was so muddled that he didn’t even think to glance at the security monitor on the table next to him before he opened it to reveal-

“Hello Q,” said Bond, flashing a winning smile before swanning into Q’s flat like he lived there.

It took the fevered Quartermaster a good few seconds to catch up. Regaining himself, he shut the door and turned to find Bond, hands in pockets with a smug smile on his face, eyebrows raised at the sight of Q’s red, kitten-covered pyjamas.

“007,” he said with all the dignity he could muster, well aware that his n’s sounded much more like d’s than usual. “What brings you here at-” he glanced at the clock. “Goodness, is it only 11am?”

Given that Q felt as though he’d been sick for at least a week now, he was quite disappointed to find out that he’d only been awake for six hours. Ignoring Q’s dismay, Bond cocked a half smile in his direction.

“I need your help,” he said and Q groaned internally.

“And here I was hoping you were here to wish me well.”

“It’s a cold, Q, you’re hardly dying,” Bond said with an air of exasperation about him. Q rolled his eyes - regretting it when it hurt - and thought about all the ways he could kill Bond to calm himself down. He could feel Bond’s eyes sliding up and down his body and might have flushed from the attention had he not been too exhausted to care about the blanket draped around his shoulders or the sodden handkerchief clutched tight in his other hand or his bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

He sighed. “What do you need?”

“Remember when you told me you could do more damage on your laptop sitting in your pyjamas before your first cup of Earl Grey than I could do in a year in the field?” Bond asked, picking up a pen from Q’s coffee table and examining it with interest. Q thought about telling him it exploded just for the fun of it.

“I recall.”

Bond smirked, looking Q up and down. “Were these the pyjamas you were talking about?”

Q shot him a withering look but he didn’t manage to hold the glare for very long because the ever-present tickle swelled in his nose and he brought up his handkerchief, holding it a few inches from his face while his breath hitched. His eyes watered, forcing themselves shut in response to his twitching nose. He took a deep breath. He almost had it…

“Bless you,” said Bond, just as the tension left Q’s body and the itch lessened until it was back to being just slightly too annoying to ignore.

Shooting a teary glare at Bond, Q sniffed and asked again, “What do you need?”

Bond grew serious, tucking he pen back into the holder - upside down! - and beginning to pace.

“There’s a drug cartel operating in northern Austria. They’ve been active for a while. I’ve tracked them down a few times but now we don’t have time for games.”

Q frowned. “Hostages?”

Bond nodded. “Refugees fleeing Syria following the crisis.”

Q closed his eyes. Hell. “How m-”

“200, probably more,” Bond cut in and something in his voice told Q he was much more disgusted than he let on. “Mostly women and children. Branded. Some already dead.”

Q swallowed thickly, the pressure building in his head again. Using refugees for free labour. It was times like this he was reminded why he got into the secret intelligence business and, as much as it would please him immensely to punch Bond hard in the face, he had to admit that his heart was in the right place. If Bond had a heart, of course. Q still had his money on Bond being an anomaly of science. Certainly, he’d survived several scrapes that should have killed him already - lacking a vital organ didn’t seem out of the question.

Feeling quite unable to stand anymore, Q lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving Bond to pace. Clearly, Bond had a plan or he’d never have come to Q in the first place. Though why on earth he hadn’t gone to M for assistance was a mystery to- oh.

“007,” Q asked weakly. “I’ve been absent for exactly six hours. Pray tell how you managed to get back onto M’s hitlist in that time.”

“Another story for another time, Q,” said Bond cockily and Q didn’t ask again. Truth be told, all this ‘being attentive’ nonsense was starting to make him a little dizzy.

Eyes closed and head resting against the back of the sofa, Q said wearily, “I’ll ask again. What do you need?”

Bond’s silence prompted Q to crack open one eye curiously and, for a moment, Bond looked at him with something like concern but it was gone before Q had a chance to analyse it.

“I need you to do some damage with that laptop,” he said and then smirked. “And look. You’re already in your pyjamas.”

Returning to his list of ways to murder Bond and hide the body, Q shakily stood, leaving his blanket behind, and went back to his bedroom to fetch his laptop. He had intended to bring it back to the living room but he turned to find Bond standing in his bedroom doorway, surveying the mess with barely disguised glee. Q could already tell he was never going to live this down. For someone so pedantic about the cleanliness of his office, he was currently living amid disorganised piles of books and papers.

Clearing his throat for Bond’s attention, he sat back down in his blanket structure (which could easily be classified a small fort) and fired up his laptop. Bond, somewhat awkwardly due to the obstacles, took to pacing Q’s small bedroom in a way which Q might have found infuriating had he had the energy.

After moments, Q turned the screen to show Bond the mugshot of a man with dark skin and a shaved head though his sideburns were still intact. He had a scar running past his nose, barely skimming the corner of his left eye. Q sniffed again, lifting the handkerchief to his nose as he spoke.

“The leader of the ring. I believe you’ve met?”

Bond frowned. “Indeed.”

“Couldn’t find his real name online. Whoever erased him from the internet certainly was thor-uhh’HEHchoo!” Q clamped his handkerchief over his nose, sighing in relief when the tickle eased somewhat. “Excuse me,” he said, just as Bond said, “Gesundheit.”

What had he been talking about? Goodness, this fever was making him slow. Oh. Of course.

“Known simply as B.D.” He finished, forcing the last two letters out before turning away to cough.

“Can you trace him?” Bond asked, earning a pointed look from Q which clearly said do you think I’m an idiot? Raising his arms in mock surrender, Bond turned away. “Just make it quick.”

Q sighed as he plugged the algorithm into his system, frowning when the screen went suddenly black. What? It was only when the red skull popped up in the middle of his screen that he realised he’d been hacked.

“Damn it!” He yelled, the strain tearing at his poor throat. With what little strength his anger brought him, he closed his laptop sharply and pitched forward, handkerchief forgotten.

“EhhtISHHoo! Ishh’hoo!”

“Q?” Bond’s voice demanded attention but Q couldn’t give it to him. He was too busy with-

“hhEHHISHOO!”

“Bless you,” Bond said but Q didn’t have his wits about him enough to appreciate that Bond had switched from his usual Gesundheit to a softer, gentler sound. When he glanced up, Bond was holding out a tissue which Q took gratefully and gave his nose a harsh blow, coughing slightly afterwards. He discarded the tissue in the wastepaper bin.

Bond cautiously crouched next to the bed, forcing Q to meet his eye. “What is it?”

“I- It’s my fault,” Q muttered eventually, feeling drained and defeated. “Someone hacked my system. I- I didn’t see it coming.”

Bond frowned. He looked for a moment like he wanted to say something - perhaps something comforting - but he didn’t. He just frowned and frowned until Q pushed himself shakily to his feet and stumbled back out into the living room. He righted the pen Bond had disturbed earlier and sighed, shivering in just his pyjamas.

“Did they get anything?”

Bond’s voice sounded far away but Q did his best to process it. Did who get anything? From where?

“Um, they- oh,” he began, which was really how he knew he was horribly ill. Q wasn’t one to muddle his words. “I can’t be sure.”

“Worst case scenario?” Bond asked, voice level.

Q sighed. “Locations.”

Bond swore quietly under his breath. “What are the chances?”

“I-” Q started, but stopped when his words caught in his throat.

“Tell me, Q!” Bond said impatiently. “What are the chances they got that information decrypted?”

Q closed his eyes, thinking. “Less than 1%,” he said, suddenly feeling very lightheaded. “If they have that information, they’ll have traced my address first. It’s part of the decryption. It’s tied to...hh...oh snf it’s t-tied to th-the GP-ehh-ehh’TSSHoo! the GPS.”

Q felt Bond’s hand on his arm, steadying him. He nodded his thanks and sat on the arm of the sofa.

“They have your address?” Bond said slowly.

“Possibly,” Q said, sounding much calmer than he felt. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Bond sprang into action then, pushing Q towards the door before he stopped, holding the very confused Quartermaster by the wrist.

“The rest of your equipment,” Bond said. “What have you got here?”

“Not much,” Q sniffled. “The computer systems will have been wiped when they detected the hack. Hard drive has backups.”

Bond was gone in an instant and Q found himself doubled over again, clutching his chest and coughing as he struggled to force air in and out of his lungs. He looked around blearily for his handkerchief but he honestly couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it. Was the room spinning or was he just dizzy? Forgetting completely about the possible impending danger, or perhaps just desperate to rest, Q started towards his bedroom only to be whirled around by Bond and dragged towards the door.

“Where-”

“Wait,” Bond interrupted, leaving Q shivering on the landing while he darted back inside, emerging with the blanket Q had brought to the door with him. Without wasting a moment - not even to explain - he wrapped it around Q’s shoulders and pushed him towards the staircase. “Come on,” he said briskly.

They had navigated only two flights when they heard a crash from above. Q stumbled over the last few steps and let Bond do the work as he was dragged towards the car, barely feeling the cold and damp of the ground outside in his hazy panic. The car revved into life, along with the pounding in Q’s head, and they were in the busy London traffic before Q could even coax out a particularly stubborn sneeze.

#sickfic #acefic #q sickfic #chaosinpjs #acefic 007 #acefic 00q