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violetrainbow412-blog · 2 months ago

Text

Differential Diagnosis

Spencer Reid x fem!reader x platonic!James Wilson

wc: 3.4k

note: okay, hyperfixations are WORKING. I started watching House MD (I saw a few seasons years ago, but I'd forgotten about it) and this just popped into my head during a night of mystical delirium. I hope it makes some sense; I had a lot of fun writing it.

The mere thought of asking Gregory House for a favor made your stomach turn.

Not because he was incompetent—quite the opposite—but because you knew his corrosive humor and his eagerness to make others uncomfortable all too well. Every time your paths crossed in the past, he found a way to mess with you, point out any personality trait that might make you vulnerable, and laugh it off with his signature mocking tone.

And yet, there you were, standing next to Spencer Reid at Princeton-Plainsboro, trying to convince yourself that this encounter wouldn’t be as terrible as you imagined.

As members of the FBI, the team had the freedom to consult with as many specialists as necessary, even if they weren’t directly involved in the case you were working on. And deep down, you knew there was no one better to help you than Gregory.

You cursed the moment Spencer had mentioned it in front of Hotch because you had to confess to the "friendship"—if you could even call it that—you had with the doctor. Well, more than a friendship, Hotch had sent you because he trusted that you could persuade him. You had asked Reid to go with you so he could explain the medical aspects and, in part, as a kind of punishment for him.

You had already spoken with the hospital director, and she had given you the all-clear to head to his office. When you arrived, House had his back turned, checking something on his computer. His voice greeted you before you could even speak.

“If this is another attempt by Cuddy to get me to take cases for free, tell her my charity quota is already exhausted this week.”

“It’s good to see you too,” you said, crossing your arms.

House slowly turned in his chair, and upon seeing you, a mocking smile appeared on his face.

“Well, well. My favorite FBI agent. What brings you here? Need a consultation, or are you here to arrest me for being too cool?”

You sighed. House was already getting on your nerves, and you hadn’t even been with him for five minutes.

“I’m sure if I were to arrest you, it wouldn’t be for that. We need your help with a case.”

House leaned his elbows on the desk and interlaced his fingers. He looked curious, like someone who, after hours of boredom, was offered an intellectual challenge. At least you had one advantage: you knew him well enough to read his expressions.

“Are you serious? The United States National Security and Intelligence Service needs Gregory House?”

“Maybe. But if you get too full of yourself, there are always other alternatives.”

“None as good as me, I see. I’m the first one you go to,” he murmured, a mixture of arrogance and mockery in his voice. “Don’t you have other FBI doctors for this? Or perhaps a 'medical council' that includes the entire detective team?”

You took a few steps closer, making it clear you were there for something serious. Spencer followed you cautiously.

“No, House. What we have is... something we can’t solve without your specialized knowledge. And I know this because you specialize in cases that no one else can interpret correctly.”

“And what do I gain?”

Reid intervened in his patient tone.

“It’s a case with complex medical implications. We thought you might be interested.”

House turned his head toward him, assessing him. He seemed as if he had barely noticed his presence.

“And who are you?”

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” you said, stepping forward. “He’s my colleague at the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Huh. I’ve heard about you…” House began, as if Reid were some kind of celebrity whose biography he was now trying to recall. “You’re the genius at the FBI, aren’t you? The child prodigy who memorized the Encyclopedia Britannica before he could ride a bike.”

“It wasn’t before I learned to ride a bike,” Reid corrected matter-of-factly.

House burst out laughing.

“Okay, you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention. What do we know?”

You sat in the chairs in front of his desk and slid the files you had brought toward him. Reid, from his spot, waited patiently for you to give him a signal to begin the explanation.

“Several victims have developed severe neurological symptoms before dying. We haven’t found any common toxins or obvious signs of poisoning, but their organs show unexplained deterioration.”

House flipped through the documents with little interest, probably analyzing what Spencer was saying.

“Interesting.”

“At autopsy, we found significant degeneration in the basal ganglia and the substantia nigra of the brain,” he continued. “There was also an abnormal accumulation of proteins in the limbic system, similar to what occurs in prion diseases, but without the presence of prions themselves.”

“Go on.”

“The liver tissue showed massive necrosis, with no signs of viral infection. And the lungs had edema, although the fluid levels were not sufficient to indicate severe heart failure.”

House narrowed his eyes.

“Hallucinations?”

“Yes,” Reid nodded. “In all the victims, the symptoms began with confusion, then extreme paranoia and episodes of aggression.”

House leaned forward slightly, interested.

“How long did it take from the first symptom to death?”

“About a week.”

“Common substances in the body?”

“Nothing consistent with known poisons. No recreational drugs or heavy metal exposure either.”

House let out a low whistle.

“Wow, this is interesting.”

You watched the interaction in surprise. House rarely took anything seriously in the first few minutes of a conversation, and the fact that he was now listening intently to Reid meant he was genuinely impressed. Then again, it was easy to be impressed by anything that came out of Reid’s mouth.

House leaned back in his chair, turning his cane slightly in his hand. His gaze slid from Reid to you and back to the file.

“All right, genius boy, give me a diagnosis.”

Reid squared his shoulders with his characteristic seriousness.

“It could be an atypical variant of Creutzfeldt-Jakob syndrome. The abnormal accumulation of proteins in the limbic system and the degeneration of the substantia nigra could indicate an accelerated neurodegenerative disease.”

House shook his head almost immediately.

“There are no prions. There’s no evidence that it’s spongiform encephalopathy. Furthermore, Creutzfeldt-Jakob doesn’t kill in a week.”

“It could be a case of L-Dopa analogue poisoning, perhaps exposure to a compound derived from MPTP. That would explain the necrosis in the substantia nigra and the neurological symptoms.”

“If that were the case, I’d expect to see rigidity and bradykinesia, not extreme paranoia,” House countered. “And liver necrosis doesn’t fit.”

Reid frowned slightly, thoughtful.

“Paraneoplastic autoimmune encephalitis?”

House snorted.

“And where’s the tumor, Einstein? Did I leave it in my other pants?”

“Some tumors may be too small to be detected in their early stages, especially ovarian teratomas—”

“Oh, right, because I’m sure all the victims had ovaries,” House interrupted, his sarcasm evident.

Reid was unfazed.

“Autoimmune encephalitis may also be associated with thymomas or lung carcinomas.”

House tilted his head, assessing him with more interest than he cared to admit.

“How old did you say you were?”

“Twenty-eight.”

House gave a short laugh. There was something like approval on his face, as if you’d brought him a tribute and he was happy with it.

“Medical specialty?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Cardiologist? Neurologist? No, wait—infectious disease specialist with a Sherlock Holmes complex?”

“I’m not a doctor,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard him the first time.

House hated being treated like an idiot, and, to be honest, you were enjoying the situation a little.

He frowned, that signature expression of his, and looked at your colleague again. “Then what the hell are you doing diagnosing?”

“I have PhDs in Chemistry, Mathematics, and Engineering. Also, specializations in Psychology and Sociology.”

“So, no medical degree, but you’re still correcting me.”

“I don’t need an MD to understand pathology, neuroscience, or toxicology,” he muttered nonchalantly, as if it were just another ordinary conversation.

You already liked Reid a lot, and after solving the case, you would make sure to buy him a few drinks just for the simple pleasure of infuriating the most cynical human being in the world.

“Tell me the truth, does the Bureau pay you well?”

“Excuse me?”

“Because I could give you a job here. Then I could fire those three idiots I have under my command, and you’d be enough to keep this department running. You’re more efficient, and while somewhat annoying, your answers are more grounded than theirs.”

“Don’t even think about it. Get your own genius.”

“You’re finally talking! For a moment there, I thought you were going to let your boyfriend do all the work.”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance. There was no need to inconvenience the poor boy.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Wow, what a waste,” House said with mock pity before turning his attention back to Reid. “Okay, smart-ass, let’s do another brainstorm. Neurotoxins in the environment? Maybe a rare fungus, something that affects the central nervous system and causes necrosis in other organs?”

Reid shook his head almost instantly.

“If it were an environmental toxin, we should have found traces in lung tissue or blood. We did extensive testing, and there’s no evidence of chronic exposure.”

“Okay, how about mitochondrial disease? A rare genetic mutation that only manifests under certain environmental conditions?”

“Unlikely. The progression is too rapid for a classic mitochondrial disease, and there’s no evidence of prior systemic failure.”

House pressed his lips together in approval.

“You were right from the start. I love this case; it’s like an intellectual prostitute to me, and that doesn’t happen very often.”

Although the tasteless joke didn’t amuse you, you were reassured because he had agreed. The pre-arranged conversation was proof enough for you that the case would be resolved in the best possible way; after all, you had two geniuses standing in front of you.

You looked at Reid with a slight smile, grateful that he’d been so punctual with the details and had sparked House’s curiosity. He, as sweet as ever, returned the expression.

“Tell me something, do you always rub your fingertips together before you speak?”

Reid blinked, confused, as you frowned. It was obvious House wasn’t talking to you.

“Sorry?”

House waved a hand.

“You’ve done it three times since you came in. A repetitive pattern. Do you also avoid prolonged eye contact and feel uncomfortable with loud sounds?”

Now it was Reid who frowned. Before you could say anything, your companion spoke:

“Are you implying that I have autism?”

House shrugged.

“Asperger’s, specifically. Although that’s not used anymore because it’s not right to separate the functionally from the non-functionally mentally ill, right?” he laughed to himself. “And I’m not insinuating anything, I’m just observing what you’re doing.”

“I’m not autistic.”

House tilted his head, looking at him almost like an exotic animal.

“Maybe you should get tested.”

Just then, when you were about to point out House’s clear traits of Antisocial Personality Disorder and Narcissism, the door opened and someone else entered the office.

“House, could you stop torturing the interns for a moment? I need your help—”

The voice cut off as soon as the newcomer saw you, and your heart gave a treacherous leap.

James Wilson stood in the doorway, his white coat neatly buttoned, holding a pair of folders. His expression was calm and patient, as if he was already used to House’s games.

In your youth, you had a ridiculous crush on him, back when you had to do some internships at the hospital and had the misfortune of ending up supervising House. That’s when you met him.

Wilson was the kind of man who exuded kindness and confidence, with a sharp yet approachable intelligence. Not like House, who enjoyed making others feel stupid, or Reid, who was simply brilliant without even trying.

It wasn’t one of those extreme, idealized loves, but it was enough to have followed some of his medical lectures with fascination, impressed by his intelligence, his empathy, his way of explaining things clearly. You admired the person he was, how he always looked out for you and became your lawyer when House was getting too unbearable.

And now he was standing before you, after years of that old crush being left in the past… Or at least, that’s what you thought.

Because the moment he said your name, your mind seemed to forget how to coordinate words.

“It’s been a long time! I heard you’re working for the FBI now, right?” he politely approached, and you jumped to your feet to take the hand he was offering. “Congratulations! I always knew you’d go far.”

“Huh, thanks, Doctor,” you murmured shyly. The others present could notice the change in your voice, your posture, even your expression.

“Oh, just call me Wilson. Otherwise, you make me feel like you’re my patient.”

“Then thank you, Wilson. How nice to see you again.”

The smile he gave you made you blush, and you unconsciously brought a hand to your hair, tucking it behind your ear. House, never one to miss a juicy opportunity, narrowed his eyes and then smiled wickedly.

“Oh, this is glorious.”

Wilson looked at him, confused.

“Did I miss something?”

“Yes, dear. Turns out you have a secret admirer,” House said, pointing at you with his cane. “How did I not notice this before?

You felt the heat rise up your neck to your face. Spencer, who had remained silent, watching the interaction, now looked at you with something close to surprise.

“House, what the hell are you talking about now?”

“She! Look at her when you arrived. She was insulting me a second before, and as soon as she saw you, she turned into a lovesick schoolgirl.”

“It’s called kindness. It’s hard to practice it with you because you tend to be a jerk who makes me insult you every chance I get.”

Your attempt to divert the subject was useless because, once House got something stuck in his head, it was hard for him to let it go.

“You know, I always hoped you’d like older men and thought I was the ideal candidate, but I see you already had someone else in mind.”

“Did you like Dr. Wilson?”

“No! I mean, I… I liked him, but not in that way. Besides, it’s irrelevant!” you exclaimed, annoyed by Reid’s sudden indiscretion. Sometimes he spoke without thinking.

House smiled with delight.

“Oh, that’s completely relevant. In fact, I think your medical case can wait. This is much more interesting.”

Wilson sighed in resignation and looked at his friend, deciding it was time to intervene.

“House, will you stop bothering her? It’s not her fault that no one wants to treat you with human decency because of your behavior.”

You avoided looking at Wilson at all costs. You knew that as soon as your eyes met his, you’d blush, and that would only give House more reason to be a nuisance.

“For God’s sake, can we talk about the case again?”

House let out a laugh you never, ever imagined coming from him. He was ecstatic about what was happening, completely amused.

“Don’t you want Reid to know that his coworker had romantic dreams about the most smarmy oncologist in the hospital?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, a study from the University at Albany found that nearly a third of young women report having been attracted to authority figures like teachers, doctors, or supervisors at some point. It’s a well-documented phenomenon linked to perceptions of competence, security, and emotional maturity—”

“Reid,” you hissed. You swore you could die of embarrassment any second. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry.”

House ignored the comments and leaned toward you.

“Tell me the truth, did you dream of being diagnosed with a terminal illness just so you could spend more time with him?”

“House,” Wilson exclaimed, his tone now stern. There was a second of silence before he continued, “Don’t bother her. Just admit that you’re trying to humiliate her because you’re jealous that your pretty assistant had a crush on me instead of you.”

You immediately raised your head, staring at him directly. There was amusement on his face, and you tried not to burst out laughing—not knowing if you were doing it out of embarrassment, to deny the accusations, or out of genuine amusement.

House looked offended, and even Spencer held back a chuckle. He didn’t want to make fun of you because you were his friend, and there were feelings involved, at least on his part, but he found it endearing to see you so flustered by the situation. Besides, it was hilarious to think of a young woman’s pupils dilating in the oncologist’s presence. He hadn’t pictured you as that kind of person.

“I’m Spencer Reid, by the way. I haven’t introduced myself.”

Your partner’s unwelcome intrusion, in an attempt to lighten the tension, made Wilson burst out laughing.

“James Wilson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You knew he was truly committed to protecting what little dignity you had left when he shook Reid’s hand—because you knew how terrified he was of physical contact with strangers.

When you looked at House, waiting for him to offer you a truce, he waggled his eyebrows up and down, like a provocative little boy. No one was surprised when you gave him the middle finger.

“Are you going to help us or not?”

House tilted his head, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“Hmm, I will. Only because now you’ll owe me a favor, and since I know about Wilson, I doubt you’ll refuse to do it.”

Wilson sighed.

“You’re hopeless.”

“You know me well. What did you want to ask me, by the way? Everyone seems to need me these days.”

“Nothing urgent, I can wait,” he murmured. Then he looked at you. “Unlike House, I do have work to do in my department, so I’m leaving. It’s nice to see you again. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Same here. Although I hope we don’t have to call on each other’s services anytime soon.”

He laughed at your joke. Almost as if he wanted to test your limits, he leaned closer and, in addition to shaking your hand, planted a goodbye kiss on your cheek.

House (surprisingly) had the good sense to wait until his friend left the office before he started making exaggerated kissing noises—completely childish, if they asked you.

That was the final straw. You grabbed a tennis ball lying around and threw it straight at his chest: a ruthless and deliberate shot.

“Hey! Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit cripples?”

“And be thankful it wasn’t in the leg,” you exclaimed disdainfully. “Now move your handicapped ass outside. We need to go, and I’ll drag you to the car if necessary.”

“Now I see why you’re not her boyfriend,” he muttered as he stood up, rolling his eyes in Reid’s direction. “She’s just as crazy as my boss, and no one sleeps with that woman.”

You maintained your composure until he limped out the door, clearly pleased with the mess he had made. Once you were alone, Spencer cautiously approached you, testing the waters to avoid triggering your anger.

“That was… interesting.”

“Reid, I swear if you tell the team, not even all the love I have for you will stop me from punching you in the face. And it would be a shame to ruin your best attribute.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me. I was just an unfortunate listener in this mess.”

“I’m serious.”

“Understood, ma’am,” he said slightly mockingly, raising both hands in a show of sincerity. The two of you then headed for the exit, following House.

There was silence for a stretch of the hallway until, just before reaching the elevator, he decided to speak again.

“But you did like him?”

God knows how you looked at him to make him laugh nervously, half amused and half worried.

“Don’t tempt me, Reid.”

“It was just a question!” he murmured innocently. The elevator doors closed in front of you once you stood next to the man with the cane. “Though, to be honest, I wouldn’t blame him if he had feelings for you. You’re so smart and pretty, it would be silly not to.”

You looked back at him, but this time there was a certain surprise and delight in your expression. Spencer, afraid of your answer, just stared at you with those huge doe eyes.

“Shut up, please,” you laughed.

With that, you leaned against him, defeated, and he allowed himself to give you a sweet hug as if he wanted to console you for the painful scene you had just experienced.

The rest of the case wasn’t any easier to deal with House, but at least you had the company of your own genius to make it more bearable.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid imagine #house md #dr house #gregory house #james wilson #hugh laurie #robert sean leonard #james wilson x reader

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solxamber · 7 months ago

Note

can I request a twst males (maybe females)and nrc staff with a reader who kinda likes deforms when their stress , they could be like a human slime who 'slops' around , she's human enough but some parts of her are slimy (maybe like a human magma slime from minecraft) , they stresses a lot and one day they just blob into their hands (the twst males ans staff) whilst they start crying , if this is too complicated u can ignore this.(my English is not too god)

Slime! Reader with All NRC + Rollo, Neige, Najma Viper, NRC Staff

hi! i hope I've interpreted your ask correctly! and your English is totally fine don't worry about! also I added najma because i didn't know which twst females you wanted.

Riddle Rosehearts:

When Riddle first sees you start to "slop" around, he’s at a loss for words. He's usually composed and strict, but seeing you melt in his arms—quite literally—throws him off.

“Y-You're not following the rules of physical form!” Riddle stammers, attempting to keep calm, but inside, he’s panicking. His need to control the situation is overridden by concern when you cry softly, slimy tears soaking into his uniform.

He awkwardly pats your head, trying to keep himself together. “There, there. You can cry as much as you need to, but please… maintain some semblance of form.”

Trey Clover:

Trey, with his calm demeanor, isn’t too fazed by the fact that you’re half-human, half-slime. In fact, he’s probably the most accepting.

When you melt into a puddle of stress in his arms, he just holds you close, gently massaging your shoulders (well, where your shoulders should be in slime form). “You know, stress baking helps me,” he says soothingly. “Maybe once you’re feeling solid again, we can bake something together. Or… we can make slime cookies?” He smiles softly as your sobs slow.

Cater Diamond:

Cater's immediate reaction is to whip out his phone for a picture—but then he stops himself because this moment is actually serious. When you’re upset and melting all over him, he adjusts quickly.

“Whoa, hey, hey! No need to puddle-up on me!” Cater jokes lightly but holds you tightly, letting you feel safe. “You know, I’ve heard slime baths are all the rage on MagiCam! How about we figure out how to make this slime stress into a #trend?”

Despite his attempt to lighten the mood, his grip is firm, and he lets you cry it out.

Ace Trappola:

Ace, being Ace, doesn’t know what to do when you start to melt into slime. His first instinct is to make fun of the situation, but the second you start crying, he feels a little bad.

“Okay, okay! I didn’t mean to stress you out that much!” Ace protests, awkwardly wiping your slimy tears. “You know, some people use this stuff for beauty treatments, so really, you’re just giving me a free face mask.”

Even though he’s flustered, Ace sticks by your side, not moving until you feel better.

Deuce Spade:

Deuce’s first instinct is to panic when he sees you melting. His problem-solving brain kicks into overdrive, but there’s no quick fix for slime stress.

“I-Is this normal?! Should I be calling a healer?” he blurts out while cradling you, his heart racing. His protective instincts take over as he holds you close, even though you’re all slimy. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out. I’ve got your back, okay?”

Leona Kingscholar:

Leona looks down at the slimey version of you with a raised eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting to literally have you melting in his arms.

“You’re a mess, herbivore,” Leona grumbles, but there's a warmth in his voice as he holds onto you, preventing you from dripping all over the floor. He doesn’t let go, even when his tail gets a little slimy too. “Don’t worry about it. Just stick close, okay?”

Ruggie Bucchi:

Ruggie is caught off guard by your sudden transformation, but he’s adaptable. He scoops you up into his arms with a quick grin.

“Hey, hey, don’t go melting all over the place! I’ve got things to do, y’know?” Ruggie jokes lightly. But his tone softens when he sees your distress. “But I guess those can wait. C’mere, I’ll help you get back on your feet—or whatever you have when you’re not slime.”

Jack Howl:

Jack is momentarily stunned when you melt in his arms. His first reaction is to try to lift you back up, but, well, you’re slime, so that doesn’t quite work out.

He huffs, blushing a little. “Just… take your time. You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ve got you, okay?” Jack's protective nature shines through, his arms gently wrapped around what solid parts of you remain.

Azul Ashengrotto:

Azul, ever the strategist, watches you melt with wide eyes, calculating all the ways to “fix” the situation. However, when you start to sob, his business-like demeanor cracks.

“Ah… There, there,” he says, awkwardly patting your head as you slime down his pristine suit. “I assure you, we can handle this… strategically. No need to cry.” Despite his words, Azul’s genuine concern for you is obvious as he holds you.

Floyd Leech:

Floyd thinks your slime form is hilarious. The second you start to melt, he bursts out laughing.

“Whoa! Shrimpy, you're all gooey now!” Floyd teases, poking at your slimy form. But when he sees you crying, his mood shifts in an instant. “Aww, don’t be sad, Shrimpy. I like this version of you, too!”

He wraps himself around you, squeezing you tightly—slime and all.

Jade Leech:

Jade is intrigued by your stress-induced slime form. While he finds it fascinating, he’s also quick to comfort you when you start crying.

“Quite an interesting phenomenon,” Jade muses, wiping away your slimy tears with a handkerchief. “But please, don’t distress yourself. There’s no need for that. I’m right here.” His gentle voice soothes you as he helps you reform.

Kalim Al-Asim:

Kalim is both shocked and amused when you start melting in his arms, but he quickly recovers, hugging you tightly.

“Oh no! You’re turning into slime! Is there something I can do? Wait, I know—let’s throw a ‘Feel Better’ party!” Kalim’s enthusiasm is infectious, but he holds onto you as you cry, offering endless reassurances.

Jamil Viper:

Jamil tries to remain composed when you melt into his arms, though he’s secretly panicking on the inside.

“I suppose this is a normal reaction to stress for you?” he says calmly, even though he’s not sure what to do. He strokes your hair (or, well, slime), patiently waiting for you to calm down. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll help you through this.”

Vil Schoenheit:

Vil’s immediate reaction to your slime form is a mixture of shock and mild horror—at first, he’s concerned about you, but also a bit put out by the mess.

“My robes…” he sighs, but his voice softens as he holds you, tears and slime alike. “You’re allowed to cry. But I refuse to let you stay in this state of disarray.”

He brushes the slime from your face and helps you regain composure, all while managing to maintain his usual grace.

Rook Hunt:

Rook is enchanted by your unique form. The second you melt into his arms, he’s already waxing poetic.

“Ah, mon cher! Even in your most vulnerable state, you are truly magnificent!” Rook exclaims, holding you tenderly. “Worry not, I will be your steadfast support, slime or not.”

Epel Felmier:

Epel is confused when you start to melt, but his protective instincts kick in fast.

“Whoa, whoa! Hang on there!” Epel says, panicking slightly as he tries to keep you together. “You don’t have to be all stressed out around me. Just breathe, alright?”

His attempts to soothe you are clumsy but genuine, and he won’t leave your side until you’re back to your usual self.

Idia Shroud:

Idia’s first instinct is to panic. You’re melting? This is definitely not something he can handle without freaking out.

“Oh no… oh no… this is bad,” he mutters, but when he sees your tears, he stops. “Uh, hey, don’t cry! I mean, sure, you’re all gooey, but… you’re still cool.”

Idia awkwardly pats your head, unsure of how to handle the situation but doing his best to comfort you.

Ortho Shroud:

Ortho doesn’t panic like his brother. Instead, he’s immediately analyzing the situation with his scanners.

“Are you alright?” Ortho asks, his voice full of genuine concern. “Don’t worry, I can help you! Maybe a temperature adjustment will help stabilize your form?” He hovers near, ready to assist however he can.

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus finds your slime form fascinating, though he’s more concerned about your well-being. When you melt into his arms, he cradles you gently.

“There, there, child of man,” Malleus murmurs softly, his voice like a calm lullaby. His powerful arms hold you securely as your slime tears drip onto his cloak. “You need not fret. I will ensure your safety, no matter your form.”

His dragon-like gaze watches you intently, the smallest smile forming at the corners of his lips as your sobs quiet. "Even in your most... fluid state, you are still precious to me."

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia finds your slime form to be amusing, but he’s quick to adapt. When you start melting in his arms, he lets out a cheerful laugh.

“Ah, how adorable! Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve seen stranger things in my time.” He pats your head reassuringly, not fazed at all by the situation. “Cry all you need to. I’ll be here when you’re ready to solidify again.”

Lilia hums an old fae lullaby while he holds you, and his mischievous side takes a backseat as he comforts you through the tears.

Silver:

Silver blinks slowly when you start to melt in front of him, but instead of panicking, he gently wraps his arms around your slumping form, not minding the slime at all.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice steady and calm, “it’s okay. I’m here.” His hand moves to stroke your slime-morphed head with gentle care, his touch soothing despite your current state.

“I don’t know exactly how to help,” he admits, “but I’ll stay with you until you feel better.” He pulls you closer, letting you rest in his lap while he hums softly, his presence grounding you. “You don’t have to hold it all in. I’ll keep watch.”

His quiet, reassuring demeanor slowly makes you feel more at ease. He may not say much, but the safety you feel with him speaks volumes.

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek is utterly baffled when you start to melt into slime in his arms. For a moment, he just freezes, wide-eyed, trying to process what’s happening. Then he bursts out, “WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE YOUNG MASTER—!!”

His voice is loud, but as he sees the tears in your slimy state, his tone shifts—just a little. “H-Human! Cease this display at once! You cannot fall apart like this!” But even as he says that, he’s awkwardly attempting to gather your melted form without dropping any of it, his hands trembling slightly.

His frustration shows, but underneath it, he’s worried. “I—! Ugh, fine! Stay like this if you must! Just know I... I shall remain by your side, no matter what form you take! So, compose yourself, human!”

His stubborn loyalty shines through, and despite the bluster, you can tell he’s genuinely concerned. It’s a chaotic kind of support, but it’s Sebek, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rollo Flamme:

Rollo is startled and somewhat appalled by your sudden transformation into slime, but he masks his discomfort with a dignified air.

"This... is highly irregular," he mutters, though his hands remain gentle as they hold you. "But I suppose even someone like you has their moments of weakness."

Despite his words, there's a hint of warmth in his actions, and he stays by your side until you're feeling better, his cold demeanor melting just a bit.

Neige LeBlanche:

Neige’s reaction is pure concern when you start to melt. He immediately wraps his arms around you, holding you close despite the slime.

“Oh no, are you okay?” Neige asks, worry etched across his face. “Don’t cry, please! You’re still beautiful, no matter what!”

His words are sincere, and he strokes your back soothingly as you sob, not caring one bit about the slime soaking into his clothes.

Najma Viper:

Najma is quick to comfort you when you start melting in her presence. She’s a bit surprised but reacts with ease.

“Whoa, that’s a neat trick! But hey, no need to cry, okay?” Najma smiles gently, holding you close. “You’re safe with me. We’ll figure this out.”

She’s calm and reassuring, her warmth helping you regain your composure faster than you thought possible.

Dire Crowley:

Crowley dramatically flails his arms when you start melting into slime, completely unprepared for this turn of events.

“Oh dear heavens, my precious student! What calamity has befallen you?” He panics, trying to scoop up your gooey form in a very uncoordinated manner. “No need to cry! Your benevolent headmaster will, um, fix this! Somehow!”

He’s more focused on not getting slime on his fancy coat than actually helping, but he makes a grand show of being concerned, which is as close to comfort as you’re going to get from him.

Divus Crewel:

Crewel’s eyes widen, but he quickly regains his composure.

“Well, this is... unexpected,” he says, eyeing the slime dripping onto his pristine coat. “But emotions, pup, are not something to be ashamed of. Even if they do involve... melting.”

He carefully wipes the slime from his hands, his tone softening. “You’ll pull yourself together soon. We’ll make sure of it. And once you do, we’ll work on controlling that stress—there’s no excuse for letting your emotions ruin your wardrobe.”

He pats your head in a surprisingly gentle manner, his usual sternness fading in the face of your distress.

Mozus Trein:

Trein, with Lucius perched on his shoulder, looks down at you as you begin to melt into a puddle of slime.

“Hmm,” he muses thoughtfully. “This is not something you see every day, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

He crouches down, his expression surprisingly calm. “When one is overwhelmed, their emotions can manifest in unusual ways. It’s important to take a moment and breathe.” He offers a hand, which Lucius bats at. “Compose yourself. You’ll recover, just as we all do from difficult moments.”

It’s unexpectedly wise advice, and his steady presence helps you feel grounded again.

Ashton Vargas:

Vargas is completely caught off guard by your sudden transformation into slime. He stares at you in disbelief before quickly scooping you up with a burst of energy.

“Whoa! That’s some serious stress! But don’t worry, we’ll get you back into shape in no time!” he says, flexing a bicep as if that will somehow solve your problems.

He awkwardly pats your gooey form, his optimism unshaken. “This just means you’ve got some inner strength waiting to burst out! Once you pull yourself together, we’re doing a killer workout to blow off all that steam, okay?”

It’s hard to stay upset with his over-the-top enthusiasm, even in your slime state.

Sam:

Sam chuckles when you start melting, entirely unfazed.

“Well, now, ain’t that something,” he says, leaning on the counter of his shop. “You must be feelin’ all sorts of stress, huh? No worries, I’ve seen worse.”

He grabs a cloth and gently wipes your slime tears. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll brew up something that’ll help you feel right as rain? Stress is just like a storm—it’ll pass, and you’ll be stronger for it.”

His easygoing nature and the comforting atmosphere of his shop start to calm you down almost immediately. It’s impossible not to feel better in his presence.

Masterlist

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pretty-circa006 · 11 months ago

Note

I guess your bio clearly states you write for Negan, but it doesn't explicitly state you write only for Negan. So I'm thinking I should just ask. Are you open to writing a dadsbsf!Rick and dadsbsf!Negan x reader fic, they have a rivalry and are always trying to one up eachother to get in the readers good graces, but little do they know you already want them (both) and you get them (both). Ik this isn't something you normally write and it's totally fine with multiple partners. But you're clearly a great writer and I just had to ask. It's totally fine you don't take this request or even ignore it. But if you were to write could do something with an age gap and a minx reader and mean Rick and Negan but only during steamy, but otherwise they sprinkle their lives on you.(Maybe this could be series or something it doesn't have to be oneshot and you could your time exploring the idea, idk why I'm so passionate about this lol)

Thanks, for hearing me out, believe me ik this a tall order. Again it's totally fine if you ignore this!!!

P.s idk why I added the photos I'm sorry 😭😭😭😭(them trying to mark their territory trying to make the other back off of you???)

dadsbsf! Negan x F! Reader x dadsbsf! Rick

summary Negan and Rick are over at your house, joining your dad for a game of poker. tags gambling, mentions of smoking and alcohol consumption, age gap (reader is college aged and Rick and Negan are kinda old...like late 40s early 50s?)

wc 2.3k

note i really liked this request and i hope i interpreted it correctly, if not, i sincerely apologize! just fyi, i plan on making this multiple parts, which is why there's no smut....YET! :P

*you are responsible for your own content consumption. if this is something you DO NOT like, simply DO NOT read or interact! :) *

She loves summer. It's more so what comes with it, rather than the season itself. Being back home from college and finally having her own space in her own room and her own bathroom with her own shower. Most of all, she loves the late nights in her backyard, swimming in the pool beneath the bright stars, cicadas buzzing and crickets chirping in the background.

Tonight's one of those nights. The dark, starry, cloudless sky accompanies her she floats on her back around the pool, enjoying the peace of the summer night. All she's missing is a nice midnight snack. The warm, humid nighttime air feels good against her wet skin as she climbs out the pool. She forgot to bring a towel with her when she came out earlier, but that doesn't matter since she's getting right back in anyway. Barefoot, she saunters across the soft grass to the sliding glass door that leads into her house.

"Honey, where's your towel? You're dripping all over the floor," her dad complains as soon as she steps inside. Feeling the freezing air conditioning on her wet body also has her wishing she brought a towel.

"Sorry, I forgot, but I..." She trails off, finally noticing that her dad isn't alone and that he's at the dining room table with his best friends, Rick and Negan, in the middle of a game of poker.

"Hi, Rick...Negan," she awkwardly greets, folding her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling naked in front of the two.

"I'll be right back, gonna go grab her a towel," her dad explains, excusing himself from the table.

"Late night swim?" Negan teases while shamelessly eyeing the freezing girl's half-naked body. Her face grows hot as she feels his hazel eyes undressing what little clothing she has on.

"Why don' you join us for a game?" Rick suggests with a pat to the seat beside him.

"But I dunno how to play." Despite this, she takes the seat anyway. Rick pulls the chair closer to him until he can't anymore.

"I'ma teach ya how." This earns a scoff from Negan.

"Doll, you don't want this fuckin' prick teachin' ya how to play poker."

"This comin' from the idiot who lost five hundred dollars last time we played," Rick fires back. Negan rolls his eyes and flips him the bird.

She bursts into a fit of giggles at their rivalry. "I think I'll stick with Rick. I don't have much money to lose."

Her dad finally comes back into the room, towel in hand. He tosses it at her and it lands over her head like a ghost costume.

"Hey!" she huffs as she fixes the towel properly around her shoulders. Her father just huffs a laugh at her plight.

"Rick's gonna teach me how to play poker," she tells her dad excitedly. He grimaces which earns a snicker from Negan.

"If ya want any chance at winnin', you'll have your ol' man to teach ya, but hey," he raises his hands in mock surrender before taking his seat.

“I’m stickin' with Rick.” Rick gives her a soft smile and places his large hand on her thigh. Shivers run down her spine, and she’s sure it’s not from the air conditioning.

“You can jus’ watch this game and we’ll deal you into the next.” She nods in agreement and leans over Rick’s shoulder to look at his cards -a three of clubs and a three of spades-, ignoring the water droplets dripping from her hair onto his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind either. She has no idea what’s going on since she joined in mid-game, but by the looks of everyone’s faces…she still can’t tell what’s going. Her father’s face is blank and Negan’s has an air of mischief to it, but then again, it almost always does. Rick looks calm as his eyes move from his cards to the three that lie in the table’s center.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” She whispers in his ear. He leans down to her level and explains to her that the three cards in the middle are the flop and that things are looking good for him. She nods and leans closer to get a better look. The three men all slide more chips into pile. Negan reveals another card next to the three, which Rick informs her is called the turn. They bet again and Negan reveals one last card - the river, Rick tells her- before they all reveal their hands.

“Two pair,” her dad dejectedly reveals.

“Three of a kind,” comes Negan’s reveal.

“Full house,” Rick calls out smugly as he takes the pile of chips

“See, I knew Rick was gonna win!” She cheers, causing the two other men to groan in annoyance. Rick squeezes her thigh, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Negan who’s glaring daggers at the blue eyed man.

“You playin’ this round, hon?” Her dad asks, shuffling the cards. She happily agrees and deals her in.

“Ya sure ya wanna stick with Rick? He was just fuckin’ lucky last round,” Negan bargains.

“Lucky and four hundred dollars richer! I’m stickin’ by him.” Rick flashes Negan the smuggest look ever before wrapping his arm around her, pulling her closer.

“Got my good luck charm right here.”

“See if you get so lucky this time ‘round,” her dad challenges as he deals out two cards to each player. She looks at her cards, still not fully sure on how to play. She slides in a chip alongside everyone else, which Rick explains is the ante. Her dad reveals the flop and she looks from it to her own cards, not knowing what plays she has, if any. She glances over at Rick who’s immersed in his own cards.

“Rick, what do I do?” She whispers.

“C’mere, I’ll help ya out,” he offers with a pat to his lap. She climbs onto his lap from her own chair, leaving her towel behind. Her dad doesn’t bat an eye. Rick is one of his best friends, basically a brother to him, and in turn like family. At least that’s the way he sees it, like a simple loving action between good family friends.

But Rick can hardly focus on either of their cards. Having her on his lap is distracting. Her plush ass sits directly on top of his crotch and he can feel himself getting hard as she shifts around to get comfortable. If she can feel it too, she doesn’t move away or say anything. He rests his chin on her shoulder as he looks at her cards -an eight of diamonds and an eight of hearts- his beard prickling against her soft skin.

“See that eight of spades on the table, you’re close to havin’ a four of a kind,” he whispers.

“Is that good?”

“Very.” Nobody’s looking, so he presses a quick kiss to her shoulder. She stifles a giggle at the ticklish sensation of his beard against her skin. They all bet again and the next card is revealed. She shifts around excitedly once she sees another eight on the table.

“Keep still, sweetheart,” Rick warns, growing harder in his pants. She doesn’t say anything, but Rick can see her shoulders shake with more stifled laughter. Everyone places another bet before the river is revealed and they all show their hands.

“Full house,” Negan says as he reveals his cards.

“Flush,” her dad reveals.

“Two pair,” Rick shows his hand.

“Four of a kind,” she apprehensively says, showing her own hand.

“Maybe she is some kinda goddamn good luck charm,” Negan grunts.

“Did I win?” She asks, noticing the proud but somehow simultaneously disappointed faces around the table.

“You did, sweetheart, good job!” Rick says, hugging her from his position behind her. She gets up and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, dangerously close to his lips before skipping into the kitchen.

“That was fun, but I’ma head back to the pool now.” Negan watches her struggle to reach a snack in one of the cabinets. She jumps a few times, her ass jiggling a bit each time she lands. He stands up and joins her in the kitchen, watching her pathetically try a few more times before standing behind her and effortlessly grabbing the bag of chips. He even opens it before handing them to her.

“T-thanks,” she says turning to face him and taking the bag. Her whole body feels like it’s on fire as she stares up at him. He’s standing so close to her, basically pinning her against the counter. His tongue glides across his bottom lip as he hungrily eyes her up and down, eyes lingering on her tits that her bikini top could hardly contain.

“You’re welcome.” She doesn’t know what to say or even if she should say anything. Her eyes wander down to his strong arms that are folded across his chest, his tattoos on full display. She bites her lip when her eyes graze over the slight bulge in his pants. She can’t tell if he’s hard or just big, but either way she desperately needs to take a dip in the pool to cool the heat building up inside of her.

“I’m gonna go back out now, bye!” She slips away from him and hurries out to the backyard before jumping into the pool.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆

She had about thirty minutes alone until she hears the sliding glass door open. Out comes Rick in nothing but his swimming trunks and a beer in hand. He doesn't seem to see her as he makes his way to the hot tub. He gets in, letting out a sigh of relief as he feels the hot water relaxing his muscles. He rests his arms around the ledge and tilts his head back, relaxing and the sight is delicious. She climbs out the pool and carefully steps into the hot water beside Rick.

"Hey darlin'," Rick greets once she's sitting beside him.

"What're you still doin' here? Isn't it past midnight?" she asks.

"Me 'n Negan wanted the hot tub for a bit, but your old man's done for the night."

"Oh. Okay." She's looking at Rick in a way he can't decipher. Her eyes hungrily trail across his body as she scoots closer and suddenly, she's in Rick's lap like before.

"I can still sit here, right?"

"Of course," he reassures, his hands resting on her thighs, fidgeting with the waistband of her bikini bottoms. He rests his chin on her shoulder, just relaxing and enjoying the feeling of her against him.

The sliding glass door opens again, a jarring interruption to their peace. She flinches, scared one of her parents were about to come out and see her and Rick in a compromising position, but Rick, seeing that it's only Negan, holds her tighter. He joins them in the hot tub with a beer in hand and cigar between his lips. In nothing but his swim trunks, his hairy chest and tattoos are on full display, taking all of her attention away from Rick. If looks could kill, Negan would have murdered Rick with his hazel colored death glare. The tension in the hot tub is so thick, it's almost suffocating. Negan being there somehow makes her feel guilty for being so close to Rick, but leaving his lap isn't something she wants to do either.

"Hey, Negan," she says in a weak attempt to relieve the tension and kill the awkward silence.

"Hey doll," he takes a drag from the cigar before blowing out the smoke, "congrats on winnin' your very first poker game."

"Thanks...couldn'ta done it without Rick, really." She subconsciously leans further into Rick and he presses a few scratchy kisses to her shoulder and the back of her neck. Negan rolls his eyes at both her and Rick.

"C'mere," he commands with a come hither motion. She swallows nervously, looking from man to man. Rick can feel that she wants to get up so he unravels his arms from her waist so she can, which she does, albeit apprehensively. Even though he didn't tell her to, she sits on Negan's lap, her cunt right atop his growing boner, the only barriers between them being his swim trunks and her bikini bottoms. His beard tickles the side of her face as he leans down to whisper in her ear.

Rick watches the two with an intense gaze, almost as if he was daring Negan to try something with his girl. Negan's arms are around her now as he whispers something in her ear. Rick is sure he's just talking shit but jealousy still twinges in his chest.

"Anything that asshole thinks he can teach ya, I can do it better," Negan whispers. Rick sees her giggling and she turns her head to whisper something back to him.

"Yeah? Then why'd ya lose both games earlier?" she teases. He lets out a laugh which catches Rick's attention. His blue eyes glare daggers at Negan who only spares him a smug glance.

"Didn't wanna embarrass poor Rick over here by beating his ass in front of ya," he says loud enough for Rick to hear. His voice returns to a whisper. "As for the other game...you just got pretty damn lucky."

"Mmhmm sure," she replies sarcastically with an eye roll. She stands up and wades her way to the hot tub's stairs.

"G'nite y'all," she wishes them as she exits the tub.

"Goin' to bed already? Night's just started?" Negan complains, already missing having her on his lap.

"It's almost three in the mornin'," Rick comments looking at his watch. "Night, sweetheart!"

"See you both at the barbecue tomorrow!" She blows them both a kiss before skipping off toward the house. She can feel their gazes boring into her, particularly her ass as she does so.

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grimesproperty · 6 months ago

Text

“ FRIENDS “

part three.

jj maybank x reader

—

JJ's eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. He had not been expecting that. For a moment — he was speechless, his mind racing to process your confession amidst the adrenaline and confusion of the situation.

You raised your hands in frustration and shook your head slightly before letting them fall back to your sides.

Tears were about to spill from your eyes as you observed the expression on his face, afraid of what he might say next.

JJ watches you, still in shock. The words "I love you" keep replaying in his mind, but he doesn't know how to respond. He's unsure if he heard correctly or if this is just a reaction to the chaos of the moment.

He stands there, his usual confident demeanor replaced by something more vulnerable and open.

Pope, seeing the stunned silence, stepped forward awkwardly breaking the tension. "Well, that was unexpected, " he said to John b who was clearly amused by the turn of events.

JJ, still reeling from your declaration, looks between Pope and John B, his face a mixture of confusion and shock. He glances at you, his usually witty mouth unable to form words.

You took his silence as an answer and glanced back at him one last time before walking away from all of them.

As you walked away, JJ watched you leave, his heart hammering in his chest.

His mind is a whirlwind of emotions — shock, confusion, and a growing sense of hope. He doesn't know how to interpret what you just said, and now you're walking away.

John B and Pope sensing the shift in the atmosphere, exchange a glance, clearly understanding the depth of the situation.

Pope looks at JJ, who's staring after you silently. “JJ? You okay, man?" He asks him.

JJ's gaze remains fixed on your retreating figure. He's uncharacteristically silent for a moment before responding.

"Do I look okay?"

John B lets out a snort of laughter, clearly amused by the situation. "Well, you look like a deer in headlights, if that counts" He jokes.

Pope hits him lightly, giving him a reapproachal look. "Come on, man not the time. He's clearly in shock," he says, John B looks at JJ, and his laughter fades into an empathetic smile. "Dude, I get it. It's a lot to process." John B says to JJ.

JJ finally tears his gaze away from you, turning to face his two best friends. "Yeah, it is... I mean, she just said... I don't even know what to think right now."

John B shrugs his casual carefree demeanor back in place. "Well, how do you feel about it? I mean deep down, how do you really feel about her saying that?"

JJ takes a deep breath, running his hand through his messy blonde hair. "I don't know man. It's just a lot. I never thought she'd actually say those words. It's messing with my head."

Pope, always the voice of reason pipes up. "Maybe you should take some time to process it man, figure out your feelings before you do anything rash."

JJ nods, still processing the emotions swirling inside him. "Yeah, you're right," he replies to Pope. John B gives him a reassuring slap on the back, the familiar twinkle in his eyes. "And hey, if you need a wingman to help you figure things out, we’re here for you."

Pope nods in agreement, a smirk playing on his lips. JJ lets out a huff — a hint of a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm not just going to sit around and do nothing. But first, I need a joint right now. My head is spinning way too much."

John B grins, his eyes lighting up. "Now you're talking! Let's go, man. We'll find some weed, figure out your love life, and blow off some steam."

Pope rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure, I'm in. Let's go get high and help JJ sort through his feelings. It's not like we have anything better to do," he says sarcastically.

JJ grins, a flicker of his usual confidence returning. "That's the spirit, Pope! Let's go get high and figure this out. After all, what's a little weed-induced introspection among friends, am I right?" he jokes.

As Kiara and Sarah observed the boys, they looked at them in disbelief, not taking them seriously.

John B noticed the girls' expressions and shrugged sheepishly. "What? It's just a harmless way to unwind and help our boy JJ clear his head."

“Are you serious?! You guys are just going to get high, and JJ, you're just going to let Y/N walk away like that?” Kiara said, her anger evident in her voice.

"I didn't let her walk away," JJ retorted defensively. "She stormed off before I could even process what was happening. Besides, I wasn't going to chase after her when she clearly wanted space."

"What the hell is wrong with you? All of you! You guys completely are oblivious to why she's been distant from us because of you JJ! You're too much of an asshole--

You need to accept your feelings for her instead of taking it out on her because she’s with someone who’s a kook and not you!” Kiara yelled at the three boys.

JJ looked taken aback by Kiara's outburst — he faltered for a moment. "Jealous? You think I’m jealous?" He tried to scoff and dismiss her words, but a hint of vulnerability lingered in his eyes.

"Yes! But you haven't even tried to talk to her since she started dating him. Do you know the real reason she gave him a chance? It was to get over her feelings for you!" Kiara said to him.

His eyes widen at Kiara's revelation. "What? She has feelings for me? But why hasn't she told me all this time?" he says, sounding dumbfounded.

"because like I said.. your too much of an asshole to admit when you love someone," Kiara shook her head, tired of JJ's actions. "I'm heading out," she said and stormed away from the group.

A few weeks later, the Pogues were hanging out at their usual spot, the Chateau. The mood was laid-back and friendly. JJ was playing with his lighter, a habit he had developed when he was lost in thought.

The other pogues were lounging on the front porch, chatting and feeling weary after a long day at the beach. You hadn't spoken to any of the pogues in a while, except for Sarah and Kiara, with whom you always kept in touch.

You arrived at John B's house and quietly came onto the front porch. You brought beers and snacks. None of the Pogues had noticed you yet until you spoke up.

“Anyone thirsty?” Their heads snapped up at the voice, seeing you. They exchanged surprised glances, but quickly, grins formed on their faces. Kiara smirked. “Oh, hell yeah. Just what we need right now!”

John B chuckled, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food and drinks. "You're a lifesaver! We were just debating whether to go out and get something ourselves."

You laughed at John B's words, playfully asking, "Did you miss me?" The group burst into laughter, their smiles growing wider. "Of course we did! Who else would bring us beer and snacks?" John B replied.

JJ — who hasn't said anything yet, has a smirk forming on his face. He is happy to see you and has missed you a lot. He longs to see your face and hear your voice more than he would ever admit.

His eyes are locked on you, taking in every detail of your expression.

"Yeah, we really missed you, Y/n. Life's been boring without you around, sweetheart." JJ says to you.

jj's words hit harder than they did, you just gave him a small smile. The pogues noticed the subtle interaction between you and JJ — their gazes flickering between you both.

John B tried to keep the mood lighthearted, sensing the tension between the two of you. "Yeah, JJ's right. We missed your smart-ass remarks. Life is a lot quieter without them."

You smiled at John B. as you set the remaining beer and food on the coffee table in the middle of the room. "I've just been working a lot—nothing special. I finally ended things with the kook," you said to them.

The pogues exchanged surprised glances at your news. Kiara threw a surprised look at you. "Wait, what? You dropped the kook? What happened there?"

You shrugged. "I just wasn't really feeling it, I don't know if I ever really even liked him," you said, taking a sip of your drink.

John B nodded with a sympathetic expression on his face. "Ah, I see. That's understandable. Sometimes things just don't work out, no matter how much you wish they would."

“I’m glad they didn’t,” you said as you placed your beer down in front of you. At your unexpected response, JJ looked up from toying with his lighter, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. He studied you for a moment — a hint of interest apparent in his gaze.

“Anyway,” you said, eliciting chuckles from the others as they shifted their focus back to the snacks and beers. “Regardless of why you were gone, we’re just glad you’re back with us now,” John B said. JJ, leaning back in his chair, nodded in agreement with John B’s sentiment.

his eyes still on you, a subtle tension in his voice. "Yeah, we really are, sweetheart."

You gazed at JJ for a moment as he looked out at the water by the dock.

You took another swig of your drink as you turned to Kiara, who handed you a snack, raising an eyebrow as she glanced at you and then at JJ.

Kiara looked at you, a chip halfway to her mouth. "So, you’re really done with the kook, huh? No more dating or anything?" You nodded in response. "Yep," you replied, emphasizing the 'p' as you popped it. "Besides, you know why I ended things with him if it wasn’t already obvious to everyone else."

Kiara's expression softened as she leaned in closer. She spoke in a hushed tone, her eyes flickering between the boys and back to you. "Yeah, I guess there was more to it. Your secret is safe with me," she said with a smile.

You return her smile, but it fades quickly. "I just can't get over JJ, no matter how hard I try," you say to her. "He's my best friend."

Kiara nodded with understanding, her expression full of sympathy. Her tone was gentle as she spoke, "I understand. It’s difficult to have feelings for someone who has been a part of your life for so long. When that person is your best friend, it complicates things even more."

Meanwhile, JJ silently observed the conversation between you and Kiara, pretending that he wasn't listening. His expression remained neutral, but his heart pounded in his chest as he overheard the conversation.

he clutched his lighter tightly, his mind racing with a flood of emotions. He had been so close to confessing his feelings to you that night at the Boneyard. But he had chickened out, convincing himself that it was for the better. He tried to push the thoughts away, but he couldn't help but wonder-

Was it too late now?

The conversation continued around you, but JJ found it difficult to pay attention. The realization that you were still not over him tugged at his heat. He glanced at you a mix of hope and insecurity.

He wanted to express his feelings and confess his emotions once and for all. However, the fear of rejection and the potential consequences held him back. He knew he needed to find a moment alone with you to talk, to finally reveal his true feelings.

"I'm gonna use the bathroom real quick, be right back," you said to them as you got up and headed for the bathroom. The Pogues nodded at you.

As you walked to the bathroom, JJ's mind was racing. Should he follow you? Should he wait? Should he say something now? The thoughts swirled through his head. He fidgeted with his lighter, his gaze fixed on the floor, and his heart pounding in his chest.

John B observed JJ and noticed his internal struggle. He nudged him and said, "Go on, dude. Take the chance while you still have it."

For a brief moment, JJ hesitated. But the gentle nudge from John B was the encouragement he needed.

“Yeah, alright,” JJ said with a mix of excitement and nervousness. JJ rose from his seat. The Pogues exchanged knowing glances as JJ headed for the bathroom, his intentions clear.

You were currently inside the bathroom, blissfully unaware of what was happening outside. JJ hesitantly reached for the bathroom door.

He could feel his heart racing, as he gathered the courage to gently knock on the door. "Who is it?" you spoke from against the other side.

jj took a deep breath, his voice slightly shaky. "It's just me, doll. Can I come in?"

"Sure."

JJ gently opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him. The room suddenly felt more intimate, and the air was thick with tension. You looked at him while standing in front of the mirror.

JJ leaned back against the wall, his eyes fixed on you. he took a moment to study your face, the way the light caught your features, he let out a shaky exhale, the words he had been wanting to say for so long on the tip of his tongue.

You turned around to face him, placing your hands on the edge of the sink. JJ's heart skipped a beat at the sight of you looking directly at him. The silence that hung between you was thick with expectation, making his nervousness even more intense. He pushed himself off the wall—

and took a step closer to you, the distance between you shortening. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the moment he had been waiting for, yet he was terrified of saying the wrong thing and ruining everything.

He took another step forward, closing the space between you even further. The tension between you was palpable, and the air felt electric. jj let out a shaky breath, his voice barely a whisper.

"Can I say something, princess?"

"Anything," you said, maintaining his gaze as he neared you. He paused, searching your eyes for any hint of your reaction. Finally, he spoke.

"i cant stop thinking about you. every day, every night, you occupy my every thought, and I can't seem to shake it off. I've tried , but the truth is — I can't."

He took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. He continued, his voice growing more vulnerable and sincere with each word.

"I've been afraid to say something, to ruin what we have between us, But standing here, with you in front of me, I realized I can't keep it inside anymore. I need you to know how much you mean to me. I love you… I am in love with you."

The words hung in the air, and his heart beat so violently he thought it might burst out of his chest.

He waited anxiously for your response, his entire being on edge, with the future of your friendship hanging in the balance.

His hands trembled slightly as he clenched them into firsts, his eyes flickering to yours. The silence between you was defeating, and JJ could barely think straight.

His mind raced with a thousand different scenarios. He had just laid his heart out bare.

"I don't know what to say," you said to him. You had longed to hear those words for so long—the words you desired most -- for him to simply tell you that he loves you and that your feelings had been reciprocated all this time.

jj stomach dropped at your response, the three words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to hide his disappointment.

"It's okay, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I just... needed to get it out there,” he said, his eyes darting to the ground as his heart felt like it was being squeezed. He had never felt so vulnerable and exposed.

"Other than I love you too... jayj,' you said as you grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss. The words hit JJ like a tidal wave, and before he could process them, your hands were on his face, bringing him in for a kiss.

His mind was blank, and all he could focus on was the sensation of your lips against his. He froze momentarily, caught off guard by the unexpected turn of events. Then, all at once, he melted into the kiss, his arms wrapping around you -- pulling you closer.

His lips eagerly responded to yours, his heart still racing in his chest. He couldn't believe this was happening, that you were actually returning his feelings—after all this time, all those unspoken words and suppressed emotions.

You were finally in his arms, kissing him back with the same intensity he longed for.

He ran his fingers through your hair, his body pressed closely against yours. He deepened the kiss, his hands exploring the curves of your body as if trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

He paused the kiss for a moment, pulling away just enough to gaze into your eyes. His eyes were filled with a mix of love and disbelief. His voice was soft, laced with a hint of wonder. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

He leaned in again, his lips finding yours once more in a series of intense — passionate kisses. His hands explored your body, holding you close, his touch both gentle and desperate, as if afraid this moment would slip away any second.

He pressed you against the wall, his body pining for you in place, his kisses growing more urgent and unapologetic. He was drowning in the sensations, in the taste and feel of you.

This is what he had been missing for so long, what he had dreamed of for what felt like an eternity.

"Mmmm.. jayj," you let out a low whispered moan as his lips moved from yours down to your neck, his hands began to roam under your shirt, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

He pressed his body against yours, his breaths heavy and labored, his voice a low murmur against your skin. "Say my name again. I want to hear you say it."

You felt one of his hands trail down your thigh, gripping it in and slowly spreading your legs apart for him to get in between you, earning a small gasp from you, "jj.." you let out a shaky breath.

His teeth grazed your collarbone as you obeyed, and a low growl escaped his throat, the sound almost primal —

He continued to suck on your neck, his body grinding against yours, his hands impatiently tugging at your clothes, desperate to get you closer.

"We should probably get back to the others..." you said to him while placing your hands on his shoulders. JJ groaned in frustration as you pulled him back to reality. He was so caught up in the moment and lost in the feeling of you that he had forgotten where you both were.

“Yeah, you’re right. But the last thing I want is to let you go right now,” he said reluctantly, pulling himself away and running his fingers through his hair to try to compose himself.

He wanted nothing more than to stay in the bathroom with you, to keep kissing you, to keep exploring every inch of you, but he knew you guys had to return to the others.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and looked at you. His eyes filled with a mixture of desire. "Alright.. let's go out there before they start sending out a search party."

He stepped back, giving you room to move past him. he ook one last greedy look at you, mentally willing himself to keep his hands o himself.

"right..." you said letting out a heavy breath as you tucked your hair behind your ears. He followed you as you walked back towards the rest of the group, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

He couldn't resist stealing a few glances at you as you walked side by side, his mind still reeling from what had just happened. The feel of your lips against his, the taste of you, the way your body fit against his... it was all seared into his memory.

As you reached the group, the others looked at you curiously. The pogues picked up on the on subtle change in JJ's demeanor, sending something had occurred in the bathroom. Pope tried to hide a smirk, while John B raised an eyebrow, silently questioning JJ with a knowing look.

jj avoided their gazes, feigning nonchalance. He casually leaned against a wall, trying to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His flushed cheeks and disheveled hair betrayed the inner turmoil he was feeling.

Pope, being the perceptive person he is, decided to tease jj a bit. he flashed a sly grin and spoke in a teasing tone. "So, how was the bathroom?"

JJ shot Pope a withering look, a warning in his eyes. He wasn't quite ready to talk about what had gone down in the bathroom, especially not in front of everyone.

"Mind your business, pope," JJ says to him.

part four here

#jj maybank smut #jj outer banks #jj maybank #obx #outer banks #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fluff #kiara carrera #jj x kiara #jj x reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank fanfiction #john b routledge #pope heyward #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron

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jellyfishsthings · 29 days ago

Text

Scarlet Memories

WARNINGS: oh boy here we go. Um intense language, self harm (cutting, not eating), the reader is a Black sibling (Sirius' twin specifically) so all the Black family abuse, um really mean Remus bcuz genuinely I could SLAP him, em I don't, really it's all angst and pain and edge ... maybe a possible second part could loom over the horizon.

part 2, navigation

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was no stranger to rivalries. From the age-old Slytherin-Gryffindor feud to the more personal squabbles over Quidditch glory, the castle walls had witnessed it all. But few rivalries were as intellectually stimulating, and surprisingly entertaining, as the one brewing between Remus Lupin and you, a bright Ravenclaw with a familiar glint in their eye.

You were , unbeknownst to most, the twin of the infamous Sirius Black. While Sirius embraced Gryffindor bravado, you found solace in the rational world of Ravenclaw, your sharp wit and analytical mind a stark contrast to your brother's reckless antics. This very intellect, combined with a healthy dose of Black family audacity, was what sparked the initial conflict with the future Professor Lupin.

It all began, as most great Hogwarts feuds did, with a single, pointed remark during a particularly tedious Charms lesson. Professor Flitwick was droning on about the intricacies of the Shield Charm, when Remus, ever the diligent student, offered his interpretation of its underlying principles. It was, in Black's opinion, fundamentally flawed.

"Black, don't you agree?" Professor Flitwick chirped, turning to them with a hopeful smile.

You let them believe you were average.

Flitwick praised your "adequate" charms.

Slughorn lamented your "passable" potions.

Meanwhile:

You brewed perfect Draught of Living Death in second year (poured it down the drain)

Could cast wordless shields since age fourteen (always dropped them just in time to seem clumsy)

Read every professor’s mind during exams (but deliberately missed 3 questions)

Only the mirror in the Room of Requirement saw you practicing the Black family’s darkest curses—the ones even Bellatrix hadn’t mastered.

(It applauded in your father’s voice.)

You, never one to mince words, politely but firmly disagreed. "With all due respect Professor, Mr. Lupin's analysis is incomplete. He overlooks the crucial role of intrinsic magical resonance in the charm's effectiveness. It's not simply about creating a barrier, but about harmonizing the magical frequency to deflect the incoming spell."

Remus, usually unflappable, felt a blush creep up his neck. He'd spent hours pouring over the textbook, convinced he'd finally grasped the nuances of the Shield Charm. To be so publicly challenged, especially by a Ravenclaw whose reputation for brilliance preceded them, was a blow to his pride.

"I fail to see how 'harmonizing magical frequency' is relevant," Remus countered, his voice tight. "The textbook clearly states..."

You let them believe you were averege .. until now, a worthy opponent showed up.

"The textbook is a guideline, not gospel," You interrupted, your eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and genuine intellectual curiosity. "It simplifies a complex process. Think of it like music. You can play the notes correctly, but without feeling, without understanding the underlying harmony, it's just a series of sounds. The Shield Charm is the same. You can cast it properly, but without understanding the 'harmony,' it will lack power and resilience."

The debate spiraled from there. Arguments spilled over from the classroom to the library, the Great Hall, and even the occasional abandoned corridor. They debated everything from the optimum brewing temperature for Polyjuice Potion to the philosophical implications of time travel.

The rivalry wasn't malicious. Not at first. There were no hexes, no pranks (although Sirius certainly tried to encourage them), just a relentless pursuit of knowledge and a determination to prove their own point. You challenged Remus's reliance on textbooks and established theories, urging him to think outside the box. Remus, in turn, challenged your often-abstract thinking, forcing you to ground your ideas in practical application.

"Your analysis of the Shield Charm is fundamentally flawed," Remus Lupin said without looking up from your shared Defense essay. His quill scratched across the parchment, striking through three of your best paragraphs with brutal efficiency.

You snatched the parchment back. "It's not flawed, it's innovative."

"That's one word for it." His amber eyes flicked up, glinting in the library's lamplight. "I believe the term Professor Flitwick used was 'reckless.'"

Your fingers tightened around your quill. It snapped, splattering ink across the table like blood from a wound.

Across from you, Remus didn't flinch. Just raised one infuriating eyebrow.

The war was on.

Their constant intellectual sparring became a source of entertainment for the other students. Sirius, of course, relished in the chaos, placing bets on whose argument would prevail. James Potter often acted as an unwilling mediator, while Peter Pettigrew nervously tried to stay out of the crossfire.

The first time Remus Lupin bested you in class, you threw an inkpot at his head.

It missed—barely—shattering against the dungeon wall in a burst of midnight blue. Professor Flitwick yelped. The Gryffindors gasped. And Remus, the bastard, just raised one infuriating eyebrow as ink dripped down the stone behind him like tears.

"Problem, Black?"

You showed your teeth. "You know my answer was right."

His eyes flicked to your half-finished essay, then back to your face. "Your analysis of the Shield Charm was adequate. Mine was better."

Adequate. The word burned like a hex to the ribs.

You were across the aisle in a heartbeat, quill snapped in your white-knuckled grip. "Take. It. Back."

Sirius barked a laugh from the back. "Merlin's tits, just kiss already."

You didn't hex your brother. You saved it for Remus's next Potions essay—the one that mysteriously caught fire mid-class.

Aunt Druella’s mind was pathetically easy to unravel.

"Such a plain girl," she sighed, stroking Narcissa’s hair.

(...thank magic she’s not my daughter...)

You didn’t mean to lash out. But her wine glass exploded mid-sip, shards embedding in her tongue.

"Accident," you murmured, watching blood drip onto her pearls.

Walburga’s suspicious glare lasted all holiday.

(...could she have...? No, the useless thing barely casts Lumos...)

You smiled into your untouched pudding.

You had already too much control of your power to lash out at him.

By third year, your rivalry had become legendary.

Your tactics:

Sabotaging his potions (just enough to make them bubble ominously)

Correcting his Ancient Runes translations in front of the class

Leaving biting marginalia in library books you knew he'd check out

His retaliations:

Outscoring you by precisely one point on every exam

"Accidentally" vanishing your Transfiguration notes

That fucking smirk every time McGonagall praised him

For years their rivalry was what had kept her going, until that fateful night. The one that Sirius ran away and then things got out of hand. Her parents, after losing their perfect heir, decided that their spare female child, the one they never wanted, was going to be the perfect replacement. The pressure was overbearing from all sides and the strange pit of magic that always simmered inside of her seemed to grow restless, ready to explode at any given moment.

The dungeons were damp, as always, a chill that seeped into your bones and settled there like a persistent cough. But tonight, the cold felt different. It clung to me, a mirror of the icy despair that had been building inside for weeks, months maybe. The weight of expectations, the relentless pressure of academics, the suffocating feeling of being invisible – it had all coalesced into a knot in my chest, tightening with each passing day.

Tonight, that knot felt ready to strangle me.

I wasn’t planning on ending it all. Suicide? Never. That wasn't the answer. It was the feeling that was the problem. The helplessness, the unraveling. I needed something, anything, to regain control.

That's when I saw it. A potions knife, left carelessly on Professor Slughorn's overflowing workbench. Silver glinted under the dim light of the enchanted lamps, a sharp promise whispered in the silence. It wasn't a calculated decision, more of a desperate impulse. I pocketed it, the cold metal a strange comfort against my palm. A strangely comforting memory rosing on the mind, as i touched the sharp edge of the blade.

The wallpaper in your bedroom was charmed to scream when touched. Mother’s idea of a lesson in "self-control."

You learned to dress silently, to breathe without moving the air. But tonight, your hands shook too badly—a teacup slipped during Walburga’s "etiquette lesson," scalding her favorite glove.

"Useless girl," she hissed, backhanding you so hard your vision whited out. "Just like your blood-traitor brother."

Later, in the bathroom, you pressed Mother’s embroidery scissors to your thigh. The pain was cleaner than her words. More honest.

When Sirius found you, blood dripping onto the Persian rug, he didn’t gasp. Just passed you a stolen handkerchief.

"Don’t let them see," he muttered, already turning away.

You never cried in front of each other again.

Because he was gone the next morning.

Back in my dorm, the other Ravenclaws were lost in the hushed murmur of late-night study sessions. I retreated to the sanctuary of my four-poster bed, pulling the curtains closed, creating a small, private world of my own making.

The knife lay heavy in my hand. The thought of using it sent a shiver down my spine, a mixture of fear and… anticipation. It wasn’t about death. It was about breaking the overwhelming numbness, about feeling something real, something I could control.

With trembling hands, I rolled up the sleeve of my pajama top. The pale skin of my forearm seemed impossibly fragile under the dim light filtering through the curtains. I hesitated. This was madness. This was wrong. I had sworn I would never do it again.

But the knot in my chest tightened again, and the pressure of it overwhelmed the voice of reason.

The first cut was shallow, barely breaking the skin. But it was enough. A tiny bead of crimson welled up, reflecting the muted light. And in that moment, something shifted inside me.

The trembling stopped.

I watched as the crimson beads multiplied, forming a thin line against my skin. The pain was sharp, immediate, intensely present. It was a physical manifestation of the turmoil raging inside me, a tangible release of the pressure.

It wasn't relief, exactly. More like… clarity.

For the first time in weeks, I felt grounded. The swirling chaos in my head seemed to recede, replaced by the simple, undeniable reality of the present moment. The pain was a focal point, a tangible anchor in a sea of swirling confusion.

Until not even that could stay a secret.

The shaking started after the DADA practical.

Professor Merrythought had us demonstrate the Shield Charm while she hurled jinxes. My shield held—barely—but Remus' was textbook perfect, his wand movements economical where mine had been frantic.

"Excellent form, Mr. Lupin! Note how he conserves magical energy while maintaining full coverage."

My hands wouldn't stop trembling through dinner. The Great Hall's noise pressed against my skull—Sirius' laughter, the clatter of cutlery, Peeves dropping turnips on first-years—until I fled to the seventh-floor corridor.

The knife was colder than I remembered. This time I carved into my thigh, where no one would see. The pain sliced through the fog like a Lumos in darkness.

I didn't hear the footsteps.

"Predictable."

Remus stood silhouetted in the torchlight, arms crossed. Moonlight through the arched windows striped his face like prison bars.

"You always run here after exams." He nodded at the bloodied blade. "Though this is new."

I yanked my skirt down. "Get out."

He didn't move. "Do you even know proper wound-cleaning charms?"

"Fuck you."

To my shock, he laughed. "At least you're consistent." Then he was gone, leaving behind a vial of dittany on the stones.

I smashed it against the wall. The glass cut my palm. The scent of healing herbs made me vomit.

The first snowfall of December transformed the Black Lake into a sheet of frosted glass. I watched it from the library window, tracing my finger over the cold pane as my breath fogged the glass. The scars beneath my left sleeve itched—three fresh lines from last night's failure in Advanced Charms.

A book slammed onto the table beside me.

Magical Maladies and Their Cures lay open to Chapter Twelve: Self-Inflicted Hex Damage.

I didn't need to look up to know who'd placed it there. The scent of peppermint and old parchment gave him away. "Running out of creative ways to harass me, Lupin?"

Remus slid into the opposite chair, his patched robes whispering against the wood. Moonlight sharpened his cheekbones, made his amber eyes glow like sickly streetlamps. "Merely expanding your education." His finger tapped the illustration of a witch carving runes into her own flesh. "You're using basic healing charms. That'll cause scar tissue to build up unevenly."

My wand was at his throat before he could blink. "What do you want?"

He didn't flinch. Just leaned closer until the wand tip pressed into his Adam's apple. "To watch you realize there's no version of this where you win."

---

The Hospital Wing smelled of dittany and regret.

"Another potions accident?" Madam Pomfrey sighed as she peeled back my bloodied sleeve.

I stared at the ceiling. "Knife slipped while chopping fluxweed."

Behind the privacy screen, someone coughed. A familiar, rasping sound that set my teeth on edge.

Remus emerged as Pomfrey bustled away, his own bandages fresh around his left forearm. Our eyes met. His gaze dropped to my exposed wounds—four parallel lines, too straight to be accidental.

For one breathless moment, something flickered in his expression. No pity. Recognition.

Then it was gone, replaced by that infuriating half-smirk. "Fluxweed requires a slicing motion, Black. Not stabbing."

I yanked my sleeve down. "Go swallow a cauldron."

---

Snow pattered against the windows like impatient fingers. The clock tower chimed midnight.

Remus had been silent for seventeen minutes, pretending to read while I seethed. His damnable self-control was its own kind of provocation—how he could sit so still, so unaffected, while I felt like my skin might split from the pressure of unsaid words.

"You're shaking again," he remarked without looking up.

"I'm cold."

"Liar." He turned a page. "It's twenty-two degrees in here. I checked."

The admission startled me—that he'd memorized the library's temperature, that he'd been paying that much attention. My quill snapped in my grip.

Remus finally glanced up. His eyes traced the ink splattering my parchment like bloodstains. "Your problem," he said softly, "is that you think pain is a language only you understand."

I threw the broken quill at his face. He caught it effortlessly.

"Predictable."

He started leaving things for me to find:

- A vial of dittany on my nightstand ("For when you inevitably fuck up again" scrawled on the label) - Healing Through the Ages left open on my usual table, a single sentence underlined: "Scars are just memories made visible" - A chocolate frog card of Dorcas Wellbelove, the famous curse-breaker who'd carved protective runes into her own skin

Each "gift" was a grenade with the pin half-pulled. I retaliated in kind:

- Replaced his pepper-up potion with a vial that turned his tongue purple for a week

-Slipped a note into his transfiguration essay: "Your conjugation of switching spells is as flawed as your moral compass"

-Left The Monster Within: A Werewolf's Memoir on his pillow, certain chapters dog-eared, was it cruel? Yes, but I need him to step away and that seemed to be the only way.

The war had rules now, unspoken but precise:

1. Never acknowledge the cuts directly 2. Weapons must be academic 3. No witnesses

I found the journal by accident.

Remus had been called away during prefect rounds, leaving his satchel unattended in the astronomy tower. The embossed R.J.L. gleamed in the moonlight, practically begging to be opened.

I shouldn't have.

October 7th: Black's hands shook during Potions today. Starts at the left pinky and spreads within minutes. She hides it well, but the signs are obvious once you know where to look.

My breath hitched. Page after page of clinical observations:

November 3rd: Missed the counter-clockwise stir again. Is she truly this incompetent or just stubborn? Knowing her, probably the latter.

December 1st: Found blood in the prefect's bathroom. Not surprising—her control slips when stressed. Like watching a star collapse in slow motion.

Then, the entry that stopped my heart:

December 14th: Why do I keep watching?

The journal burst into flames in my hands.

He found me on the seventh-floor corridor, where the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy danced mockingly.

"Enjoy your reading?" Remus's voice was dangerously calm.

I spun, wand raised. "You wanted me to find it."

"Obviously." He stepped closer. The torchlight caught the fresh scratches on his neck—four parallel lines, just like mine. "Now you know how it feels."

The realization hit like a bludger to the chest. This whole time, his cruelty had been a mirror. Every barb, every "gift," every carefully placed book—not taunts, but challenges.

See me, seeing you.

My wand arm trembled. "We're not the same."

"Aren't we?" He yanked up his left sleeve, revealing scars both old and new. "You carve yourself up for control. I do it to remember I'm still human."

Snow melted in his hair like tiny stars. For the first time, I noticed the shadows under his eyes matched mine exactly.

The next morning, Magical Maladies still lay open on the library table. Someone had added new margin notes:

Page 214: Advanced healing charms for curse damage Page 309: Nerve-regeneration potions Page 422: Psychological treatments for self-inflicted wounds

Beneath the last entry, in handwriting so precise it hurt:

Start with page 214. Your wand movements are still sloppy.

I slammed the book shut. When Madam Pomfrey found me in the Hospital Wing that evening, I gave her the same excuse as always: "Potion accident."

But for the first time, the lie tasted bitter.

And a few months after that, the world seemed to change its course.

The iron railing of the Astronomy Tower bit into my back as Remus advanced, his breath forming ragged clouds in the frozen air. Moonlight carved his face into something unfamiliar—all sharp edges and hollows where his usual composed mask should be. Blood dripped from his torn sleeve onto the stones between us, each drop a dark star against the pale granite.

"You shouldn't have followed me." His voice was raw from screaming, still carrying the ghost of the wolf's howl.

I tightened my grip on my wand, feeling the wood creak in my frozen fingers. The memory of what I'd witnessed in the Shrieking Shack pulsed behind my eyes—the way his human skin had split like overripe fruit, the animal sounds that had shaken dust from the rafters. But worse, so much worse, were the scars already there before the transformation.

Familiar scars.

Parallel lines along his forearms. Jagged crosses on his thighs. Everywhere ... he was full of scars. Some of them were obviously self inflicted.

"Did you think I wouldn't recognize them?" My voice sounded alien to my own ears—all broken glass and exposed nerve endings. "Your scars look just like mine."

Remus flinched as if struck.

Rotting wood pressed against my cheek as I peered through the cracks. The stench of wet fur and iron filled my nose as Remus collapsed onto all fours, his spine arching unnaturally.

I should have looked away when the screaming started.

But I didn't.

I watched as his fingers elongated into claws, as his teeth grew too large for his human mouth. Watched as the wolf that emerged immediately began raking its own flanks with terrible, methodical strokes—as if trying to claw its way out of its own skin.

Just like I did.

Remus laughed now—a sound like splintering ice. "You think a few matching scars makes us the same?" He took another step forward, forcing me back until the castle wall pressed against my spine. "You cut yourself because you're weak. Because it's easier than actually trying."

The words hit with physical force, knocking the breath from my lungs. My wand hand trembled violently.

"And you?" I spat. "What's your excuse?"

In one fluid motion, he ripped his sleeve open to the elbow. Fresh wounds glistened alongside old ones, the patterns unmistakable. "These aren't choices!" His fingers dug into the cuts, making fresh blood well. "Every full moon I wake up covered in new ones. So don't you dare compare your pathetic—"

The slap echoed off the stones.

My palm stung. His cheek bloomed red. For one suspended moment, we both just stared, shocked by the violence of it.

Then Remus grabbed my wrist, twisting it to expose the latticework of scars beneath my sleeve. His breath came in ragged bursts against my face.

"Tell me, Black," he whispered, thumb pressing into my oldest scar—a thick white line from fourth year. "When you press that knife in, do you imagine it's someone else's hand holding it?"

The truth tore from me like a living thing: "Sometimes I imagine it's yours."

Something in his expression shattered.

We ended up on opposite sides of the tower, slumped against the stone walls like discarded marionettes. The wind howled through the arches, carrying the scent of snow and blood.

Remus spoke first, voice barely audible.

"The first time was after a full moon in third year." His fingers traced a particularly vicious scar along his collarbone. "I woke up human but still... wrong. The cuts proved I could still feel something."

A snowflake landed on my lashes. I let it melt there.

"Mine started after Flitwick said my Shield Charm was 'adequate' next to yours." The lie slipped easily out of her lips.

His laugh was bitter. "So this is my fault?"

"No." I watched his blood drip onto the ancient stones—black in the moonlight. "It's mine. It’s always mine."

The admission hung between us, fragile as the ice forming on the railings.

Remus reached into his robes. For one wild moment, I thought it might be a wand or a weapon.

Instead, he produced two vials—one shimmering silver, the other deep crimson.

"Wolfsbane," he said, pushing the silver one toward me across the frost-covered stones. "And a blood-replenisher." His lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Since we're apparently being honest tonight."

I stared at the offerings. "Is this another game?"

"Always." His eyes gleamed in the dim light. "But not the kind you're thinking."

When I didn't move, he uncorked the blood-replenisher and drank half before extending it again. A challenge. A peace offering.

Our fingers brushed as I took it. His skin was fever-hot against my frozen touch.

The potion burned going down.

The first rays of sunlight found us still sitting back-to-back against the parapet, closer than we'd ever been while fighting. Somewhere below, the castle was waking—the distant sounds of house-elves and early risers floating up through the dawn mist.

Remus's voice was rough with exhaustion. "Your werewolf essay was wrong, by the way. Moonwater doesn't actually—"

"I know," I interrupted. "Page 394 of Moonlight Metamorphosis mentions the psychological torment remains unchanged."

He turned to stare at me, his amber eyes bloodshot but alert. "You read werewolf texts?"

"I read everything."

The silence stretched between us, comfortable in a way that should have been terrifying. Then, so quiet I almost missed it:

"Your counter-jinxes are still sloppy."

I threw the empty vial at his head.

He caught it effortlessly, of course. The bastard. He was worth every Curicio curse, that came after that.

The house smelled of burnt letters and bitter tea.

Sirius was gone. Regulus was the spare. You were—

"A waste of magic," Kreacher croaked, placing your untouched dinner tray just out of reach.

You wrote to Remus for the first time. Not about the cuts or the cold, but about a Magical Theory article you knew would make him furious.

His reply came within hours—a rant so passionate it made you laugh aloud.

Kreacher reported this to Walburga.

(The resulting Crucio was worth it.)

And somehow, you had pulled yourself till the end. A new bright horizon was just a few hours away. You could feel it on the marrow of your bones.

The Great Hall's enchanted ceiling swirled with graduation fireworks that popped like feeble imitations of the war we'd survived. I sat at the very end of the Ravenclaw table - not quite part of the celebration, not quite separate from it - tracing the edge of a bandage peeking beneath my sleeve. Across the hall, Remus Lupin laughed at something James said, the candlelight catching the fresh scratches along his throat.

"Merlin's beard, Lupin," Sirius slurred, sloshing firewhiskey onto the table. "You look like you lost a fight with a garden rake."

Remus touched his neck absently. "Close. Devil's Snare in Greenhouse Three."

James snorted. "Since when do you visit the greenhouses?"

No one looked at me. No one ever did.

Then Pansy Parkinson's fingers closed around my wrist, her nails digging into bandages still damp with dittany. "Ugh, what's wrong with your—"

A flash of movement. A yelp. Pansy's newly hairless eyebrows fluttered onto her untouched pudding.

The entire Slytherin table gasped. At the Gryffindor table, Remus was examining his wand with exaggerated innocence.

"Bit harsh, Moony," James chuckled, not looking up from his dessert.

Lily's gaze flicked between us, her forehead creasing. "That's the third time this month you've hexed someone bothering..." Her voice trailed off as she looked at me properly for the first time all evening.

Sirius belched. "Someone pass the treacle tart?"

The castle noticed in fragments:

Lily Evans saw the way Remus always took the seat behind me in Defense, his knees occasionally brushing the back of my chair. She noticed when his essays began appearing with unusually wide margins - perfect for someone to add corrections. But when she mentioned it to Mary Macdonald, they decided it was just "Lupin being pedantic." James Potter caught the way Remus' fingers twitched whenever someone mentioned my family. How he'd developed a sudden interest in Ravenclaw quidditch matches despite hating sports. But James assumed it was just "Moony's weird blood prejudice thing." Sirius Black noticed exactly nothing, which was its own kind of miracle.

Even the professors saw slivers:

Flitwick praised our "healthy academic rivalry" when our joint spell demonstration produced unexpectedly perfect results McGonagall arched a brow when Remus volunteered to partner me in Transfiguration, but said nothing

Slughorn missed entirely how my potions suddenly stopped exploding after sixth year Only Madam Pomfrey knew the full truth, though she pretended not to notice when: - My hospital visits synced with the lunar cycle - Remus started "coincidentally" needing check-ups when I was there - Our charts ended up mysteriously filed together

The closest anyone came to understanding was when Marlene McKinnon caught us in the library past curfew, Remus' hand wrapped around my bleeding wrist.

"Merlin! Are you two—"

"Teaching her a healing charm," Remus said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with me. "She keeps burning herself on cauldrons."

Marlene blinked at the clearly self-inflicted cuts. "Right. Well. Don't let Filch catch you."

She forgot by breakfast.

Our silent war had rules:

1. Protection disguised as happenstance - The Muffliato charms around my usual study carrel "for his lycanthropy research" - How he'd always arrive seconds after I entered the Room of Requirement - The way his jumper somehow ended up draped over my shoulders every full moon 2. Retaliation through absence - I stopped cutting where anyone could see - Learned to charm my own bandages - Never thanked him for the potions left in my trunk 3. No one was allowed to connect the dots

"Odd," Lily mused one evening as we repaired library books. "Lupin's stopped glaring at you in Arithmancy."

I kept my eyes on my wandwork. "Maybe he finally needs glasses."

She laughed, missing how my fingers trembled around the spine - right where Remus had scribbled. Your counter-curse stance is still too wide in the margins.

Later, I watched from the shadows as James clapped Remus on the back. "Since when do you care about Ravenclaw's NEWT scores?"

Remus didn't look up from my published exam results. "Just keeping track of the competition."

James snorted. "Right. Because Black's your biggest threat."

The way Remus' fingers tightened on the parchment went unnoticed.

Because she obviously needed to be out of that house.

The library carrel shook with the force of Remus’ slammed book.

“This translation is wrong,” he growled, shoving Magical Hieroglyphs across the table. A strand of hair fell into his eyes—moon-bleached at the tips from last week’s transformation. “The third glyph isn’t ‘eternity,’ it’s ‘cycle.’ The entire thesis is flawed.”

You didn’t need to look. You’d known it was wrong the moment you skimmed his notes yesterday. But admitting that would mean explaining how you’d:

Read his mind from three tables away

Memorized his research in the 4.3 seconds his mental shields flickered

Been quietly correcting your own work based on his findings for months

“Obviously,” you said, flipping a page. “But Flitwick won’t notice if you—”

“You didn’t even glance at it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “How did you know?”

Shit.

You reached for his wrist—a distraction. “Your hands are shaking.”

His pulse jumped under your fingers. “Full moon’s soon. Answer the question.”

For half a breath, you considered telling the truth. Then his mind brushed yours like a wolf testing a ward.

“Lucky guess,” you lied, flooding your surface thoughts with false images—yourself hunched over the same text last night, rubbing your eyes in frustration.

Remus recoiled as if burned. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That—thing with your eyes. Like you’re looking through me.” He stood abruptly, chair screeching. “Sometimes I think you know things you shouldn’t.”

You let your gaze go deliberately vacant. “Like what? That you secretly hate chocolate? That you’ve been helping Pomfrey brew Dreamless Sleep since third year?” A calculated smirk. “Or that you’ve read Advanced Werewolf Physiology twelve times?”

His knuckles whitened on the chairback. “Those are just observations.”

“Exactly.” You returned to your book, heartbeat loud in your ears. “Now sit down before Madam Pince throws us out.”

He didn’t notice the single drop of sweat trailing down your neck.

The night before graduation, the Gryffindor common room roared with laughter and firewhiskey-fueled chaos. James and Sirius had somehow enchanted the furniture to float, while Peter attempted (and failed) to balance a stack of textbooks on his head. Remus sat in his usual armchair, pretending to read while his fingers tapped restlessly against the armrest.

I lingered in the shadows of the staircase, watching. I hadn’t meant to come here—hadn’t meant to seek him out at all—but the castle felt too big, too hollow, and for once, I didn’t want to be alone.

Sirius spotted me first.

"Oi, Lupin!" he crowed, sloshing his drink. "Your rival’s lurking like a bloody ghost again."

Remus didn’t look up from his book, but his fingers stilled. "Maybe she’s here to finally admit I’m better at Transfiguration."

James snorted. "Doubtful. She’d rather swallow her own wand."

I stepped into the firelight, arms crossed. "I’d rather swallow your wand, Potter."

Sirius howled with laughter, nearly toppling off the couch. "Merlin, she hates you."

James clutched his chest dramatically. "Wounded. Truly."

Remus finally glanced up, his amber eyes catching mine. There was something unreadable in his expression—something that made my pulse stutter.

Then, without a word, he closed his book and stood.

"Where’re you going?" Peter asked, blinking owlishly.

"Bed," Remus said, voice carefully neutral. "Unlike you lot, I don’t plan to be hungover for graduation."

Sirius waggled his eyebrows. "Sure, Moony. Bed."

James smirked. "Say hello to your book for us."

Remus rolled his eyes and turned toward the stairs. He didn’t look back at me.

But he left the door to the boys’ dormitory slightly ajar.

I waited exactly three minutes before following.

The stairs creaked underfoot, and I half-expected James or Sirius to call after me, to make some crude joke about "sneaking into the lion’s den." But they were too drunk, too distracted, and the door to the seventh-year dormitory swung open without protest.

The door creaked open.

She stood there, backlit by the stairwell’s glow, her too-large Ravenclaw sweater slipping off one shoulder. The shadows under her eyes were darker than usual. Inside, Remus sat on the edge of his bed, the silver knife balanced across his palm.

Merlin, she was breathtaking like this—all sharp edges and borrowed courage.

"You kept it," I said.

"Of course I did." He’d kept the torn corner of her Charms essay too, the one where she’d corrected his spellwork with such vicious precision it made his chest tighten. Kept the chocolate frog wrapper she’d left on his pillow after the last moon, the one that read "Eat me, you mangy bastard."

He didn’t look up."Found it in the Potions cupboard," he lied.

"Liar."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Prove it."

I crossed the room in three strides and snatched the knife from his hand. The metal was warm from his skin.

For a moment, we just stared at each other—closer than we’d ever been without wands drawn or insults flying. His breath hitched, just slightly, and I realized with a jolt that he was nervous.

Then, before I could overthink it, I turned and hurled the knife out the open window.

Remus blinked. "That was my favorite knife."

"Now you’ll have to ask for it back properly," I said.

He stared at me. Then, slowly, he began to laugh—a real, unfiltered sound that made something in my chest tighten.

"You’re impossible," he said, shaking his head.

I sat beside him on the bed, close enough that our knees brushed. "You started it."

Downstairs, the common room erupted into chaos.

"Did she just—?" Sirius’s voice carried up the stairs.

"Merlin’s balls, she went into the dormitory," James gasped.

Peter squeaked. "Do you think they’re—?"

"No," Sirius said, horrified. "Not my sister."

James cackled. "Oh, this is brilliant."

Remus and I froze, listening.

Then, very deliberately, Remus raised his voice. "Oh, yes, right there—"

I smacked his arm. "What the hell are you doing?"

He grinned—a rare, wicked thing. "Giving them something to talk about."

I groaned and flopped backward onto his bed. "You’re insufferable."

She collapsed backward onto his bed with a groan, her hair fanning out over his pillow. Salazar. He should not be noticing how the candlelight caught the gold strands in her braid.

He leaned over me, bracing one arm beside my head. "And yet, here you are."

For a heartbeat, we were too close, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t name. His gaze flicked to my lips.

Then—

"I’m going to be sick," Sirius wailed from downstairs.

Remus snorted and rolled off the bed, collapsing onto the floor beside me. "Mission accomplished."

I stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way my heart was still racing. "They’re going to think we shagged."

Remus forced himself to look away, to focus on the way she’d folded her arms—always hiding, always protecting. He knew the map of scars beneath that sweater better than the constellations outside.

Coward, he chastised himself. Tell her.

Instead, he grabbed Magical Theory Monthly from under his bed—the one with her marginalia littering every page—and said, "Let them." He reached under his bed and produced a rolled-up copy of Magical Theory Monthly. "Now, are we going to talk about this article on counter-curse innovations, or are you going to keep blushing?"

I snatched the journal from him. "I’m not blushing."

"Liar."

I kicked his shin. He laughed. "Your notes on counter-curse innovations are wrong, by the way."

She snatched the journal. "I’m never wrong."

"You are about this." He leaned closer, inhaling the scent of ink and dittany that clung to her.

And for the first time in years, the hollow places didn’t feel quite so empty.

Sirius’s dramatic wailing floated up the stairs. Remus exhaled, letting his shoulder press against hers.

Here, in this stolen moment, with her warmth seeping into his side and her insults curling around his ribs like smoke, he could almost pretend—

Knock.

"Oi! If you’re defiling my sister in there, I’m setting the bed on fire!" Sirius yelled.

words: idk too many

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin #remus x reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin angst #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin imagine #remus angst

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keicrocker · 1 month ago

Note

Hello I hope your having a good day/night.

I was wondering if there are time where fun! Danny goes BAMF?

Sorry to disturb.

English isn’t my first language, so I’m not entirely sure what BAMF means in this context. That’s why I’m not sure if I interpreted it correctly, but—

Anyway, he’s still Danny, and Danny is a boy with a good heart, so I think in critical moments, he would still often act to help others. Sure, he acted foolish and thoughtless in the canon episode, but I believe that, deep down, a part of him still seeks good.

Of course, he probably wouldn’t enjoy ghost hunting. After all, I see him as more of a personality born out of frustration over not having personal time because of ghost hunting. Maybe he got tired of acting heroically all the time, which led to the emergence of 'Fun Danny.'

Perhaps if he ever ends up saving people while working with Super, it wouldn’t necessarily be because it’s the 'right thing to do'—but rather because it just 'looks cool' lol

Also, since all of Danny’s wit seems to have been concentrated in Fun, he might be especially skilled at coming up with clever solutions in special situations—things that the straightforward Super wouldn’t even think of! That could make him come across as pretty BAMF in his own way.

I’m not sure if this answers your question properly, but thanks for the inbox!

#danny phantom #heroic amusement #super danny #fun danny #inbox

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elfolfenburg · 2 years ago

Note

There’s this theory that Shadow may be shattered across the universe bcs of what happened

So like imagine shadow’s like “shut up u aren’t alone this can’t get any worse” and then he fcking dies in front of sonic

Bro died minekrapt style rip gay edgelord

Also bro hope i interpreted it correctly cus i lowkey feel high asf but i like thkught as in th me shattered part, like diff versin of the edgy bitch yknow like how raven gets split into diff version of herself ykwim

#shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #sonic prime #sonadow

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summer-princess · 1 year ago

Text

Far From Angry: Hardersson x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: You meet a stranger and her girlfriend at the bar. Things escalate quickly. Pairing: Hardersson x Reader Warnings: 🔞Smut. Mdni🔞 Disclaimer: Obviously fiction Words: 2778

Pt. 2

Ever since you entered the bar, the pretty blonde sitting a few stools away hadn’t taken her eyes off of you.

You weren’t normally one for going out, especially without your friends, but the sound of music and unseasonably warm night air had drawn you out of your apartment, walking downtown to your favorite bar, ready to enjoy the evening.

You were certainly enjoying the sight of the beautiful woman in the flowy white top, her sweet smile as she looked across the bar at you.

Her eyes didn’t leave you as she finished her drink, sliding her glass back across the bar. You blushed as she looked away, and you caught a hint of white teeth scraping across a pair of ruby lips.

Fuck.

Taking a deep breath and gathering your courage, hoping you were interpreting her glances correctly, you hopped up from your stool and walked the few feet between you, hoping you looked more confident than you actually felt. As you sat down on the stool beside her, the pretty blonde tucked her hair behind her ears, turning her head to smile at you again.

“Hi,” she said, and you caught the slightest hint of an accent, one you couldn’t quite place.

“I’m Pernille,” she said, turning her stool to face you. She leaned forward, toward you, giving you the same brilliant smile that had drawn you over in the first place.

You introduced yourself, pleasant shivers running up and down your spine as she made eye contact with you, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows, clearly waiting for you to continue.

“So, Pernille,” you said, matching her posture, hoping to convey just how interested you were in getting to know her and her pretty smile a whole lot better. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Before she could answer, another blonde appeared over Pernille’s shoulder. Her hair was darker than Pernille’s, and the hand she put on Pernille’s shoulder was attached to a muscled arm.

“What’s going on over here, love?”

Love?

It was like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over your head as you processed the words.

Love.

She had a girlfriend.

Of course she had a girlfriend.

As the other woman, just as blonde and just as gorgeous, claimed Pernille’s lips with her own, you felt a humiliated blush rising to coat your cheeks.

You wished that someone would break one of the legs off of the barstool and beat you over the head with it. Or that a freak sinkhole would open beneath the floor, somehow burying only you in the dirt. Because this was beyond your worst nightmares.

“Fuck,” you whispered, not sure which one of them you were talking to as apologies began to spew from between your lips.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t mean… Fuck, I’ll just-”

You made to stand up, charting the path that would get you to the exit quickest, but before you could make your escape, Pernille reached out and grabbed your hand, clasping it in hers. You let out a tiny gasp, still on your stool, at the contact, your eyes flickering back and forth between your skin touching hers and the woman whose hand had moved from her shoulder to her waist, possessively gripping her flowy white top.

“Don’t go,” she said, voice somewhere between a command and a plea. Even though your heart was racing, your legs longing to carry you far away, it was enough to make you pause.

You looked back and forth between Pernille and her partner, beyond confused. There had been no mistaking the look in your eyes as you approached her, or the undertones when you asked to buy her a drink. But there was also no mistaking the fact that she had a girlfriend, a very pretty and very strong looking girlfriend who had, out of some miracle, not yet put you on the ground.

“B-But,” you stuttered, trying to make sense of the increasingly odd situation in which you found yourself.

“Y-You, your girlfriend- She’s already angry enough at me, I-”

You didn’t have time to finish your runaway train of thought before you were unceremoniously interrupted.

“Do I look angry?”

You didn’t think you could stand looking at Pernille’s girlfriend any longer without wanting to light yourself on fire, so you didn’t. Instead, you stared at your nearly-empty drink, trying to think of how to escape this humiliating and bizarre situation with some of your dignity still intact.

You didn’t see the look they gave each other, but you definitely felt it when a hand grasped your chin, forcing your head upward. A pair of blue eyes met yours, clouded by mirth and something else you couldn’t quite place. Your eyebrow crinkled in confusion at the absence of anything identifiable as anger, a confusion that only grew when she spoke again.

“I’ll ask you again,” she said. “Do I look angry?”

Answering wasn’t optional this time, you could tell. So, trembling a little, you shook your head.

“N-Not really.”

“Clever girl.”

Her voice, smooth and seductive and just a bit condescending, hit you like a jolt of electricity, and you couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through your body at the tone, from the tips of your fingers to between your legs. You quickly lowered your eyes again, hoping that she wouldn’t notice.

The self-satisfied smirk on her face made it clear that your hopes were in vain.

“Magda, baby,” said Pernille, standing and taking her place at her partner’s side, tucking herself under the taller woman’s free arm. “I think she likes it when you talk to her like that.”

Your mouth was slightly open, gaping in shock as you pressed your thighs together, unable to deny the arousal beginning to pool in your core. No matter how embarrassing Pernille’s words might have been, they were undeniable- the condescending tone of Magda’s voice made your mouth water, the need for the two of them to do what they wanted with you taking over your mind.

“Oh, she’s so cute,” said Pernille, relishing the way you shuddered as she placed her hand on your thigh, fingers sliding upward and creeping closer to the hem of your panties under your new skirt. Magda nodded in agreement.

“Her face is all red,” she said, the two of them exchanging comments as if you couldn’t hear them speaking. You had an idea of where this was going, one that you desperately hoped was correct, and the thought of it made you press your thighs together with need.

“I wonder what she’d look like all spread out on our bed.”

You gasped quietly, initial arousal only amplifying as they confirmed the thought that had been solidifying in your mind. With a squeeze of Pernille’s hand, Magda took a step forward towards you, her gaze piercing through you and making you whimper again.

“Do you want this?”

Magda’s breath was hot against your neck as she whispered the question into your ear, and you were sure that she could hear your pulse pounding.

You nodded so quickly that you could have given yourself whiplash, still gaping in disbelief even as she smirked, helping you to your feet and throwing a wad of cash behind her, payment for the drink you had tried to buy her girlfriend.

This was actually happening.

Their apartment was only a few blocks away from the bar, and when they guided you through the door, you had barely kicked off your shoes when you found yourself pressed against the wall by a pair of strong arms.

You hadn’t noticed Magda’s muscles back in the bar when you were refusing to look at her, but now that they were being used to pin you against the wall, they were difficult to ignore. You bit your lip, letting out a little moan, one which she immediately swallowed with her mouth. Magda’s tongue pressed insistently against your lips, and you didn’t waste any time before granting her access, letting her dominate the kiss.

You weren’t normally this submissive- typically, you would have made at least a token effort to take back some control, but something about these women made that seem like a concept far too difficult and complex to grasp. So you let Magda devour your lips, her hands on your waist as you started to move again.

Guiding you backward into their bedroom, Magda’s hands migrated downward to your ass, giving it a hard squeeze. You could vaguely sense Pernille nearby, a few steps ahead of you, but you couldn’t see the way she’d already shed her top, tossing it carelessly aside as she flicked on the light switch in their bedroom.

When Magda stopped moving, hands on your ass stilling you as well, you felt the other woman come up beside you, but still shivered when she whispered in your ear.

“You gonna do what we tell you, baby? You gonna be a good girl for us?”

The coaxing voice in your ear made you tilt your neck in the opposite direction, exposing the soft skin to Pernille as Magda broke your kiss, releasing you from her hold.

“Uh huh,” you said, and were rewarded by a new pair of warm lips pressed against your own. Pernille’s kiss was dirty and tender at the same time, her pink tongue gentler than Magda’s had been but with a similar level of control and the identical result of making you crave more of her touch.

“Let us give you what you need, honey,” said Pernille, voice saccharine as she pulled away from your lips. “Let us fuck you like you need to be fucked.”

Your nod was desperate, her words only adding to the copious arousal between your thighs.

“Good. Then strip for us, pretty girl,” she whispered in your ear before releasing her hold on your body, raising an eyebrow and fixing you with a coaxing smirk.

Blinking a few times to regain even a modicum of composure, you blushed as you pulled your shirt over your head, both of the women’s eyes locked on you predatorily as you set the garment atop their wardrobe, revealing your lacy bra.

“So pretty,” said Magda, as you reached for the hem of your skirt. You had to wiggle your hips to slide out of the slightly-too-small fabric, a sight which made both pairs of eyes locked on you darken, the couple exchanging a look full of hunger. When the garment finally dropped to the floor, leaving you in just your bra and matching panties, you looked back over at them and found the pair exchanging a heated kiss of their own. Sensing your gaze, Magda pulled away from Pernille’s lips to raise an eyebrow at you.

“All of it.”

Your flush deepened as you undid the clasp of your bra, shrugging it off your shoulders and letting it join your skirt and top in the haphazard pile on the floor. With your breasts exposed to their hungry gaze and nipples beginning to harden, unprompted, into peaks, you reached for the waistband of your panties and let them slide down your legs, stepping out of them when they pooled around your ankles.

You had somehow missed Pernille approaching you, the lighter blonde woman reaching out a hand and slipping it between your legs. You gasped at the sudden contact, unable to stop your hips from jutting forward, seeking friction against your throbbing cunt.

It only lasted for a moment before she turned her head back towards Magda, giving her a smirk and a nod.

“Get on the bed, pretty girl.”

You nodded quickly, scurrying across the room and seating yourself on the edge of their sizeable mattress. One look from Magda told you that that wasn’t what she had meant and so, still blushing, you laid yourself carefully back against one of their pillows, hyper-aware of their eyes on you, gazes locked on the curve of your breasts and the copious arousal gathered between your pretty thighs.

You could tell what the order of things would be when Pernille walked toward the edge of the bed, lingering beside you without sitting down, and Magda climbed up immediately, her large hands pulling you just slightly further forwards to where she wanted you.

“Open your fucking legs.”

Magda’s words weren’t a request, but the order was one that you were all too happy to obey. Letting your thighs fall apart, you watched, unbreathing, as the other woman pulled a hair elastic from her wrist and tied her blonde waves up into a careless bun.

Feeling the bed dip beside you, you heard Pernille’s voice against your neck as she left a trail of kisses across the sensitive skin.

“Magda’s going to taste you now.”

Barely had the words left her mouth then Magda’s tongue connected with your core, the woman wasting no time before licking a wet stripe over your soaking hole. You gasped, fingernails digging into your palm as you clenched your hands tightly, and the sound must have pleased the other woman, because her soft chuckle vibrated against your core.

She took a minute to explore, warm appendage tracing a path up and down your cunt, unmoved by your breathy pleas for her to go faster, or to put her mouth on the one place you needed it most.

“Patience, honey,” crooned Pernille, noticing your gyrating hips. “Stay still. Let her enjoy you.”

You sobbed in pleasure as Magda’s tongue swiped through your pussy again and again, Pernille’s soft hands tugging at your nipples. The woman between your thighs was talented, the wet muscle of her mouth lapping and kissing all the right spots, finally running her tongue across your swollen clit, even letting a hint of teeth scrape across your thigh once in a while.

You couldn’t have closed your legs if you wanted to, a combination of Magda’s shoulders and her hands combining to hold them open.

“Stay still,” she reminded you with a gentle smack to one of your thighs.

Still, you couldn’t help but buck against her tongue, trying to get her mouth back on your clit.

“I told you to stay still,” said Magda with a growl, strong hands pushing your hips back down to the mattress.

A shudder ran up and down your body at her harsh tone. Pernille, you noticed, now had one hand on each of your tits, the strength in her arms a warning that, if you moved again, she wouldn’t hesitate to use that muscle to keep you pinned down with no choice except to take what her partner gave.

Your body shook with the effort of keeping still, of not allowing your hips to rock against Magda’s tongue, but you were rewarded by attention lavished on your bud, able to feel the other woman’s smile against your cunt.

You shuddered, feeling your muscles tighten as your peak began to grow closer. Apparently Magda could sense it as well, because she pulled her mouth away from you and reached for her girlfriend.

Pernille obeyed the summons, leaving you writhing on the bed, whining pathetically at the loss of contact as Magda pulled her in for a deep kiss. Your eyes went to the two women, unable to stop a groan as you watched them, Magda’s hands wrapped around Pernille’s waist as their tongues battled. As hot as the sight was, it only made you wetter as you realized that they were sharing the taste of you between them.

Even through your haze, you knew that, no matter how desperate your cunt was for their attention, you couldn’t let your fingers drift down between your legs. They had made it clear since you met that they held the reins of control, that you were their plaything for the night.

“Pernille,” said Magda, rocking her hips subtly as Pernille pressed a line of wet kisses along her neck.

“Look at her.”

Pernille’s eyes drifted back toward you, wriggling desperately on the bed, twisting your hands in their covers as you fought not to touch yourself.

“God,” said Pernille. “She’s desperate, isn’t she?”

You made no move to deny her claim, rather nodding in confirmation. Any shock or disbelief you had felt at the situation you were in had certainly vanished, replaced with pure, undiluted need.

“Please,” you whimpered, soaking pussy still perfectly visible between your spread legs. “Please, I need…”

You trailed off, the blush that was quickly becoming a familiar companion returning once again to your cheeks. Luckily for you, Pernille was able to translate the low moan which replaced the words you couldn’t find.

“I think she needs your cock, Magda.”

#woso #women's football #hardersson #magdalena eriksson #pernille harder #hardersson x reader #magdalena eriksson x reader #pernille harder x reader #magdalena eriksson x pernille harder x reader #woso x reader #woso smut #woso fanfics #woso imagine #fc bayern frauen #fc bayern frauen x reader #bayern munich women #bayern women x reader

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monstersandgenderqueers · 1 month ago

Text

Amaranth (Ch. 2)

You figured that he won't kill you. Yet. So, you brought him inside like a stray pet. Loki is a bit of a puzzle that you're itching to solve. Unsurprisingly, he felt the same way about you.

Chapter 2 of ?

Word Count: 2094

Pairing: Loki x gn!reader

Chapter warnings: light descriptions of injuries

Prev: Prologue ; Chapter One

A/N: Pay no mind to the awful flirting. I'm terrible at it in real life, so it's only fair that any character I write would be the same. Divider credit @/saradika

If you were being honest with yourself, it felt nice. Maybe it had been too long since the last time someone dared touch you so intimately. Loki's grip tightened when you made no move to free yourself. Did your calm demeanor unnerve him? His hand squeezed your arm until you couldn't feel your fingertips. He released your mouth to grab your chin instead, holding your head still but allowing you to speak if you so desired.

By all accounts, it felt so real. The warm puffs of air that caressed your ear as he spoke, the heat that seeped into your skin from his hands, even the crunching of the gravel under his boots as he shifted his weight closer to your center of gravity. All senses pointed towards this Loki being real. Except, you knew it wasn't. You couldn't feel the energy coming from whatever it was that stood behind you.

You could, however, hear something subtle coming from behind the tree the crows had flown away from moments before. Not with your ears, of course. Loki was far too stealthy. But, the clear droning from the tree was interrupted by something that thrummed wildly.

You raised your voice more than necessary, to be sure he could hear you from his hiding place, "Is this doing anything for you? Watching from the shadows like some pervert?" You tsked, keeping your eyes on your crushed flowers.

The Loki behind you let go and then disappeared, leaving behind only a chill and the tingling in your arm as blood returned to your fingers.

Loki—the real one, you hoped—took a step out from behind the tree and leaned heavily against the trunk. "You're more perceptive than other mortals. Far more than I gave you credit for when we first met."

"I wouldn't call sneaking up behind me a first meeting."

He tutted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I meant long before, in that crude skyscraper your friend erected in his name." You cringed a bit. Could he not have phrased that any other way?

It took a moment to recall what he was hinting at. You were in New York when the Chitauri attacked, but you weren't an Avenger back then. At that time, you were little more than the equivalent of an intern, maybe an apprentice at one point. You certainly didn't believe Loki would have any reason to remember you, the same way you didn't remember having met him straight away.

Almost like he knows what you're thinking, he smirked, then his dulcet voice drifted over to you, "If I recall correctly, you were being escorted back inside the building by security when Stark stopped you." He paused, wondering if you truly remembered or not. "You stared at me quite intently. Directly into my eyes, I might add. Were you searching for something, darling?"

Ah. That.

Beneath the inappropriate 'flirting', Loki was telling the truth. You did stare at him for a long time when you crossed by on your way back into the tower. His features were more sunken in back then, his face was a sickly, pasty color that only served to bring more attention to the darkness under his eyes.

He looked defeated in every which way, except for in his eyes. You remember that part clearly. Relief. That was what you saw in his eyes that day, and that was most definitely why you held eye contact for so long. You were curious as to why you saw that emotion, even if it was likely only your poor interpretation of the situation.

That, and the muzzle. Your eyes had lingered on that part for a second or two. It cut into his skin ever so slightly, and you could tell he had a million things to say and not a single one of those words would have been true.

You sighed, wiping that image from your mind before it got any ideas. "With the way you're talking to me, you should've been kept muzzled. Permanently."

His eyes flashed dangerously. "Careful, darling. You're giving away your personal tastes."

"Would you stop doing that? Calling me 'darling'?"

"Oh, but you look like someone who desperately needs to be called darling—"

What does that even mean? "Ew, no. If you want me to help you, or whatever, you have to at least try to be decent." His smirk only grows. His mouth opens, but you interrupt him again, "What are you even doing here? I thought you died?"

He looks around for a moment, thinking. "Would you mind if we took this inside? I am famished."

You rolled your eyes. Truthfully, you knew you shouldn't trust him at all, given how he's supposed to be dead. But, before you cut contact with everyone, Thor shared a few stories about Loki, including what he did before his supposed death.

Too tired and wound up to think of it any longer, you decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. It wasn't like it would matter much if he betrayed that frayed strand of trust, anyway. How bad could it be?

Loki sat at your dining table, watching you as you turned on the kettle and grabbed your leftovers from the fridge. He assessed your home, his eyes zeroed in on the details as if he were looking for something. He turned to you just as you put the plate in the microwave. "Darling, I've heard of the 'minimalist movement', but I never quite expected it to be so seedy. Does your designer live in a garbage bin, by any chance?"

You glared at him. "I thought we agreed you would stop calling me 'darling'."

"We didn't agree on anything. It was all in jest, dear. Nevertheless, I shall abide by your rules for the time being." He plastered on a smile as if to show his sincerity, but it was as uncanny as the rest of his appearance.

You sighed in lieu of a proper response. You knew he was goading you --his tone was more patronizing than flirtatious. Though, you still gave him a sideways glance… and then another. Something was definitely off, but not in the same way as the clone had been.

Once microwaved, you set the plate of mushy 'food' in front of him. You let him eat a few bites before bluntly asking, "Why do you smell like blood?"

He paused mid-bite, assessing you. "I am fine," he said, a bit sharper than he meant. He kept his eyes on you during the entire meal, just as you did, with your hips leant against the countertop. Loki stared as you idly brewed some tea, plopping tea bags into chipped mugs.

It was silent and tense as the two of you leered at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

Loki sighed, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Curiously, he asked, "How did you know that it wasn't me?" When you looked at him, confused, he elaborated, "In your garden. You knew it wasn't me that had grabbed you, but an illusion. How?"

He waited for you to answer, his muscles more tense the longer it took you to reply. This one is more dangerous than I had assumed, he thought. A witch? A sorcerer? The teasing attitude he started with morphed into something with an edge.

Loki was confused when you shrugged, seeming to brush off something so incredible. You confounded him.

You sat down with your own tea, and answered, "I just sort of felt it. That clone, or whatever, didn't feel alive like everything else. And then I could feel your energy behind the tree, so…" you trailed off, looking at the wood grain of your dining table.

He raised his brow, taken aback. Very few had been able to tell the difference between reality and any of his illusions, unless they had seen him conjure them in the first place. Mostly everyone except his mother, that is, but he never got the chance to ask if it was because she taught him how to cast illusions, or if she just knew him well enough to know.

With a thousand questions that ran through his mind, he decided on the more urgent ones. "Tell me where I am," he said, more of a command than a question.

"My house."

He visibly held back a groan.

"Fine. We're in New York, north of NYC."

His face and shoulders relaxed just a bit. "Do you know where Thor is?"

It was your turn to bite back a groan. It looked like you wouldn't be able to avoid a trip to New Asgard, after all. Even if you could just toss Loki off of your property, it didn't feel right to just give him directions. He may look princely and composed, but he gave off the energy of a cat that fell into water.

"Yes. I do."

Shortly after Loki finished his meal, and ravaged the scraps in your fridge, he followed you up the stairs to the upper floor, and then into the sparse 'guest' bedroom. You had half a mind to apologize for the squeaky metal frame that held the lumpy twin mattress and the discarded, hoarded items tucked into the closet. However, his curt nod silenced you before you even spoke, and he shut the door practically in your face.

He heard you breathe out a heavy sigh and walk away, likely towards your own room down the hall. Loki listened more intently, hearing muffled voices coming from the other side of the house. He assumed you were talking on the phone. He couldn't quite make out who you were talking to, but after hearing no mention of his name nor anything related to him, he let a deep breath out.

For now, it seemed that he wouldn't have to sneak away in the dead of night, though he kept that in mind as he pondered the question of how to do so if you could tell when he was tricking you. THe lack of an explanation of how your 'gift' worked ate away at him.

Loki opened the small door beside him, and nearly moaned in relief when he saw a clawfoot tub. He was glad to see that you weren't too neglectful of the unused rooms in your home—the tub was clean, and only a few specks of lint dotted the bottom. He turned on the faucet and smiled when the water came out clear, and it only took a short while to fill the tub with hot water.

He let the illusion drop, the cuts and bruises on his skin becoming clear as he took stock of the damage in the mirror. His hair was matted with blood—a cut ran halfway down his scalp, and it burned and throbbed.

Loki could deal with it later.

He peeled off his clothes and let them fall to the tile, far too exhausted to use more magic than necessary.

Though he survived the fall after the shuttle exploded shortly after entering the atmosphere, Loki knew he had at least a few fractures. The bruises that blossomed over his ribs and hips were certainly proof that even gods could be injured.

The water turned murky the moment he stepped in. He knew he should hurry, wash up and get some rest to restore what energy he could in case he needed more than illusions to save his skin.

But, his mind kept switching back and forth between trusting you. It was unsettling, the way you saw him. How calm you were despite someone like him crashing at your feet. He'd learned to read people early on, a necessary skill he developed when he first realized that the kind words and praises sent his way were often false.

He knew you were genuine. He'd seen it in the tower years ago, when you first looked at him with no hint of malice or fear. Only curiosity, perhaps even worry.

Even today, you met his wit with your own, and he could feel that you didn't edit your thoughts much before speaking. You weren't nearly as evasive as he had been.

He still couldn't keep his mind from thinking about it, though, that maybe you had called for backup, and he'd open the bathroom door to find someone waiting for him with more shackles. He sighed and sunk deeper into the tub, feeling the water swirl around his hair in a minute, gentle current.

Loki could worry later. For now, he could let himself rest.

#ff: amaranth #loki x reader #loki x gn!reader #loki x gender neutral reader #loki x female reader #loki x male reader #loki x you #loki #loki fanfic #loki fanfction

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ghostlynightpanda · 11 days ago

Note

Hey, it's my first time sending an ask and you can ignore me (also, sorry for bad english). Also, I AM SORRY IF I GO ON A RANT ABOUT THE SCENARIO!!

Could I get an angst with Ranpo× ADA reader who acts emotionless? Everyone that knows them is aware that they genuenly have no idea how to express or understand emotions due to how they were raised. Even so, ever since joining the ADA reader has tried to understand how to show emotions like the others. They tried to show affection trough physical touch, but it wasn’t their cup of tea. Words of affirmation didn't feel quite right. So, in the end, they usualy help around to show they care, by remembering small details, doing offers and so on. Without helping, they feel useless. Ranpo usualy took advantage of this since he likes the extra atention and not having to get up to do work. Tough, the angst comes when reader breakes one day. I won't enter much details cause I don't wana rant, but they could maybe breake during a failed mission. The others act like normal, thinking of solutions to fix was they did wrong, but reader? They just stay there, blank faced as usual. It wasn’t until they TOUGHT they were alone that they began to tear up. Not loud, not moving, just tears running down their cheeks. But they weren't aware that Ranpo was there.

That is all, SORRY IF IT'S BAD OR TOO MUCH! I read your other fics and I love them a lot, and Ranpo is my favorite caracter. Hope I am not a bother, have a good day!!

Silent Acts

A/N: Thank you for requesting! And don’t worry about ranting; the more detailed a request, the easier it is for me to adapt and make it how you want. Also, on a side note, your English is totally fine!

synopsis: A quiet, emotionless member of the Armed Detective Agency struggles to express affection, trying different methods until they discover that small, thoughtful acts of service are their way of showing they care. Over time, a subtle bond forms with Ranpo, and as their connection deepens, they begin to experience emotions they’ve never fully understood before.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -3.045 words

Part 2

The Agency was never quiet for long.

Whether it was Dazai’s chaotic laughter, Kunikida’s angry scribbling, or the occasional crash from the break room (usually involving Kenji and some new "experiment"), the place buzzed with life. And in the middle of it all, unnoticed unless someone looked close enough, there was you.

Emotionless. Blank. A ghost with a file folder.

That was the word people liked to use: emotionless. It wasn’t entirely wrong. You didn’t frown, didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink in surprise when Atsushi had a panic attack and transformed half into a tiger in the hallway. You just observed, processed, and acted—efficiently, correctly, and without pause.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care.

You just didn’t know how to show it.

The concept of emotions—how to interpret or express them—wasn’t something you grew up with. You’d been raised to solve problems, not feel things. Feelings were inefficient, unpredictable. You learned how to read a situation, not how to understand a smile.

Still, you had joined the Armed Detective Agency. And they were different. Loud. Caring. Messy.

So, you tried.

At first, you tried physical touch. You had seen it before—Dazai slinging an arm around someone’s shoulders, Kenji hugging people when he was excited. It looked... simple. Natural.

You tried it once on Kunikida. Placed your hand on his head in what you assumed was a comforting gesture.

He dropped his pen mid-sentence and stared up at you like you had grown a second head.

“...What are you doing?”

You stared. “Comfort.”

“That’s... not how you comfort people.”

You tried again later with Atsushi. A hand on his shoulder while he drank his morning coffee. He nearly choked on it.

“Y/N-san?! Are you okay? Wait—am I okay?”

Eventually, you gave up on touch. Too much room for confusion. Too many startled looks.

Next came words of affirmation. You thought perhaps vocalizing care would be better—people seemed to respond to compliments.

“Kenji,” you said one morning. “You did very well carrying that table across the room.”

Kenji blinked at you. “...It was just a table, Y/N-san.”

“Atsushi,” you tried another time. “You’re very capable. You made eye contact with the delivery man today.”

He stared at you, beet red, unsure if he was being mocked or praised. “U-uh... thanks?”

It wasn’t working. They always looked confused. Uncomfortable. Pitying, sometimes.

But you didn’t stop trying.

You watched instead. Listened. Took note.

Ranpo didn’t like being bothered before noon but always craved strawberry candies. You made sure his drawer was stocked and his favorite brand—flat, cheap, barely candy—never ran out.

Yosano hated paperwork and had a favorite brand of iced coffee. You’d leave it at her desk before she arrived, always chilled, always the right amount of sugar. She never said thank you, but the look she gave you the third time was enough.

Kunikida’s schedule needed color-coded correction every Tuesday. You began doing it automatically, matching his preferred markers, his organization system, his overly idealistic sense of order. He never brought it up—but you noticed he stopped checking it over once you started.

Atsushi liked the quiet desk near the window when he was anxious. You made sure it was always cleared before he got in. No clutter. No files. Just space.

Kenji had a soft spot for melon soda and strawberry milk. You left one or the other on his desk depending on the weather—cold soda when it was hot, warm milk when it rained.

Junichiro had a habit of losing pens. Not breaking them, not misplacing—just losing. One moment he’d have three, the next none. So you kept extras tucked in the drawer nearest his desk. Ones with fine tips and smooth ink, the kind he preferred but would never request. Sometimes you replaced his notebook too. The one he used to write thoughts he’d never say aloud. He’d blink, confused, and mutter about déjà vu when a new one appeared the day after he filled the last page.

And Dazai... Dazai was harder.

He was unpredictable. Always shifting. His moods changed like the tides—effortlessly, and with no warning.

But eventually, you noticed the patterns buried in the chaos.

He had a preference for plum-flavored tea, especially after missions involving children. You’d prepare it without asking. He hummed old war songs when he was hiding something, tapped his foot when he wanted attention, and lingered longer near you when something was wrong but he didn’t feel like saying it. He always returned borrowed items—eventually—but only if you left a sticky note with an inside joke written on it.

He never said thank you, but once, you found a neatly wrapped bandage roll on your desk. No note. Just that.

You understood what it meant but you never said anything about it.

You didn’t mind doing all those things. Helping made you feel useful.

And without it, you weren’t sure what you were.

You didn’t need gratitude. You didn’t even need acknowledgment. It was enough to watch the Agency run smoother, to see the weight on their shoulders lift, even if only by a fraction.

But Ranpo noticed everything.

He never said it outright—he was too clever for that—but over time, his behavior changed.

He began leaving small stacks of unsorted files on the corner of your desk with a lazy, sing-song tone: “Y/N-chan I don’t feel like doing these today. You don’t mind, right?”

He asked for candy by brand name, not just ‘strawberry’. Once, he texted you from the couch across the room.

"Out of candy. Please fix this. I’m dying. 😵‍💫"

You went and restocked it without complaint. Because if you didn’t, who would?

There were days you wondered if he was using you. But it didn’t sting the way it might have. It just... made sense. You were good at helping. He liked being helped. It was a functional exchange.

Still, there were moments that lingered longer than they should’ve.

Like when you found your coat draped neatly over your desk chair after forgetting it in the rain. Or when Ranpo nonchalantly said, “You look tired. You should go home early,” while handing you a red bean bun wrapped in a napkin.

Or the time he turned to you—really looked at you—and said, “You’re not as hard to read as you think, you know.”

You didn’t know what that meant. And you didn’t ask.

But something began to shift after that.

The more you gave, the more they came to expect it. The little tasks became part of your identity—like a silent gear in a clock no one notices until it stops turning.

And slowly, somewhere in the rhythm of it all, exhaustion began to build. Quiet, creeping exhaustion.

But you ignored it.

You always ignored it.

Because helping made you feel useful. And without it, you weren’t sure what you were.

The mission came in like any other.

A string of disappearances, all linked to a rumored ability user with manipulation powers. Subtle, psychological. Nothing flashy—just quiet influence that left victims wandering into danger or simply... vanishing.

Kunikida put together a strategy. Yosano reviewed the witness reports. Ranpo connected dots the rest of you couldn’t see.

And you?

You handled the details. You cross-referenced locations, compiled behavioral profiles, even adjusted the assignment schedule so no one overlapped too much with stress-heavy cases from the past week.

No one asked you to. But it needed to be done.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Atsushi said absently, glancing at the updated files you left on his desk. He looked tired, but smiled. “This’ll make things a lot easier.”

The mission was a disaster.

Not because anyone died. Not because of negligence. It was a hundred small miscalculations, a hundred emotional variables no one could track—not even you.

The ability user wasn’t just manipulating victims, but sensing the weaknesses of those around them. Insecurity. Regret. Fear. It was a trap built out of emotions.

You didn’t feel fear. You didn’t feel much of anything. But that didn’t stop them from turning your lack of response into a weapon.

Ranpo got injured. Not badly, but enough to bleed. Kunikida lost track of the target. Atsushi nearly shifted mid-street in front of civilians.

And you?

You followed the plan. You did everything right. But the outcome was still wrong.

Back at the Agency, the air was thick with frustration.

“We should’ve anticipated that,” Kunikida muttered, pacing.

Yosano, arms crossed, stared down at the report. “It was a trap. A clever one. They baited us into reacting.”

Ranpo was slumped sideways on the couch, dabbing at his arm with a cotton pad. “Well, it’s not my fault emotions are dumb. Someone else should’ve panicked better.”

They were already talking about counter-strategies. What went wrong. How to fix it next time.

No one blamed you.

No one even looked at you.

You just stood there. Perfectly still. Perfectly blank.

And for the first time, you realized you had no idea what to do. You couldn’t fix this. You couldn’t organize the mess, refill the drawer, or quietly slide a solution into place.

You had done your best. And it wasn’t enough.

So you stood there while the others moved on.

Still. Silent. Forgotten.

You slipped away after the meeting.

No one noticed.

You didn’t make a sound. You never did. Just walked down the hall past the records room, past the stairwell, to that small, unused office where the Agency kept broken printers and unused filing cabinets.

It was quiet there.

You shut the door behind you—not because you were hiding. Just out of habit. Even now, the idea of having a reason to break down didn’t make sense to you.

You sat down slowly in the chair meant for no one. No mission to prep. No schedule to organize. No task to busy your hands with.

Your fingers trembled slightly, so you folded them in your lap.

You weren’t even sure why you were crying at first.

There was no heaving chest, no sobs. Just... tears. Silent, steady. Like a faucet that had been dripping for so long it finally wore through the seal.

You stared at the floor, your face expressionless as always, while tears continued to run down your cheeks.

It didn’t feel like grief. Or sadness. Not anger, either. Just a strange emptiness. A vast, shapeless feeling with no name. You’d tried so hard. You’d done everything right. And it still wasn’t enough.

What’s the point of helping, you thought distantly, if it never matters?

You didn’t hear the door creak open.

You didn’t hear the soft footsteps behind you.

But eventually, a familiar voice broke the silence—low, calm, and completely devoid of its usual smugness.

"...You know, you're not as invisible as you think."

You froze.

Your eyes widened slightly, but you still didn’t look up.

Ranpo.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable for once. No lazy grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just... stillness.

You quickly wiped your cheeks with your sleeve, mechanical, like it would undo the fact he’d seen anything at all.

“I didn’t know anyone was here,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from disuse.

“I know,” he said.

Silence stretched.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t know how to speak. What could you say? That you felt broken? Useless? Like your entire existence was held together by tasks and checklists and quiet acts of care no one really cared for?

Ranpo took a slow step forward.

“You don’t have to keep proving yourself, you know,” he said, softer now. “No one’s asking you to.”

Your eyes dropped to the floor again. “If I’m not helping, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He crouched down in front of you—not too close, but enough that you couldn’t ignore his presence anymore.

“You think that’s the only reason we want you around?”

You blinked.

“I notice, Y/N,” he added. “I see it every time you refill my candy drawer. Every time you finish someone’s report before they realize they forgot it. You think we don’t get what that means just because you’re quiet about it?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Ranpo tilted his head, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You don’t have to cry alone, you know.”

You looked at him finally—really looked. And maybe for the first time, there was something in your chest that moved.Wavered.

You didn’t know what to call it.

But you didn’t look away.

Something changed after that day.

Ranpo didn’t bring it up. He didn’t tease you about it or throw it back in your face. He just... showed up more.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. But noticeably.

You’d walk into the office and find a cup of your preferred tea already sitting at your desk—lukewarm by the time you arrived, like it had been there a while. Ranpo never mentioned it, but he always happened to be nearby when you found it.

He started handing you cases with less flair, less entitlement. Instead of his usual, “Do this for me, would you?” it became, “Hey, I know you’re good at this—mind giving it a look?”

And when you finished, he started reading them. Really reading them. Sitting beside you with a contemplative hum, occasionally glancing your way like he was connecting dots beyond the case file.

Sometimes he’d lean just a bit too close while pretending not to, a single candy tucked into his palm, which he’d place on your desk without comment.

“Strawberry’s still your favorite, right?” you’d ask once, quietly.

He’d blink, feign surprise. “What, are you trying to impress me now?”

You didn’t answer. But he smiled anyway, like your silence meant something to him.

And you began to notice even more of him, too.

How he’d get fidgety on slow days. How he read people faster than they could blink, but avoided talking about himself like it was a game he didn’t want to lose. How sometimes, in rare moments when the office was calm, he’d fall quiet—not bored, just... thoughtful. As if thinking too much was something he was usually afraid to do.

You started leaving files on his desk before he asked for them. Not because you had to, but because you knew he’d pretend to be too lazy to get up and get them himself. You started keeping a mental list of candy brands that went on sale, slipping in new ones for him to try. You started sitting with him more—sharing silence that didn’t feel so awkward anymore.

It wasn’t that you suddenly understood emotions. But something about Ranpo made you want to try anyway.

And more importantly—

He let you.

One afternoon, when the rest of the Agency was out, he nudged his chair beside yours, sitting backward on it like a child ignoring all adult decorum.

“Y’know,” he said, tilting his head to watch you work, “you’ve gotten kind of obvious.”

You didn’t look up. “Obvious?”

“Yeah. You show you care a lot more than you think you do.”

You hesitated, pen stilling in your hand. “I still don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

Ranpo leaned in, a smirk tugging at his lips—but it softened into something gentler. Something real.

“You are.”

You looked at him then. His face wasn’t smug. It wasn’t mocking. It was the same look he gave a solved case—a quiet, certain satisfaction.

“You really think so?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and warm. “I see you.”

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you, but not for long

“Alright, Y/N,” he said, his tone almost too playful. “I’ve got a game for you. Pick one.”

You looked up at him, confusion passing through your expression as he held out both hands behind his back, keeping his palms closed tightly.

“A game?” you asked, brow furrowed. The idea of a game didn’t quite make sense to you, but you still leaned forward slightly, drawn in by his usual confident, mischievous air.

“Yep, pick one,” he repeated, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.

“Pick what?” you asked, still not understanding. His hands were behind his back, hiding whatever it was. You stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Pick one candy. There’s one in each hand. You have to choose.”

You shifted in your seat, leaning forward instinctively, reaching out to pick one of his hands. But as you did, the unexpected happened.

In a move so quick you almost couldn’t register it, Ranpo placed a small, fleeting kiss on your lips—a soft, teasing touch that was gone before you could even react.

Frozen, you sat there, your heart beating so loudly it felt like it could drown out the rest of the world. Your fingers still hovered mid-air, not quite touching his hand.

Ranpo giggled—an almost mischievous, yet delighted sound—as he took both candies from behind his back, pulling them into his hands with a mock-sigh.

“Too slow,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “They're mine now. Maybe next time you think faster.”

You blinked in shock, your heart still racing, and by the time you regained some sense of composure, he was already standing, casually turning toward the door.

“See you tomorrow, Y/N,” he called over his shoulder, his usual playful demeanor back in full force.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

The room was quiet again. But you weren’t the same.

You sat there for a long moment, the weight of the kiss lingering more than you expected. You couldn’t quite grasp why it affected you so much.

But what was most shocking of all—when you finally allowed yourself to relax—was the tiniest pull of something on your lips. A smile.

It wasn’t much. Barely noticeable. A flicker, like the first rays of sunlight in the morning. But it was there.

And for the first time, it felt... right. New. Unused, but real.

The feeling in your chest? That soft, unfamiliar sensation?

You couldn't name it yet. But you knew it meant something.

Masterlist

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #ranpo edogawa #bsd ranpo #ranpo x reader #ranpo edogawa x reader #ranpo edogawa fluff #ranpo fluff

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moony-2001 · 1 year ago

Text

The real-world impact of Lore Olympus

i.e. do your research Rachel

Trigger warning: racism, fetishization, appropriation, mentions of SA

Long post ahead

A while ago, someone told me that Lore Olympus was just a silly little comic written out of boredom. That it was made to be "funny". They told me that "[I] can't hope [for] an extremely [well-written] story when it was just made with the intention to make something goofy" and that if Rachel actually wanted to make something serious like I had, she would write a book and not a comic.

At the time of this exchange, it was past 1 a.m. and I was exhausted. I did not want to argue with this person and it simply wasn't worth my time or energy in the moment.

But looking back at that (mostly one-sided) interaction, I can't help but think that there is so much wrong with that point of view. Of course, everyone is entitled to their opinion about Lore Olympus, whether good or bad. But Lore Olympus isn't just some silly little nothing comic about nothing important. It is a comic that actively appropriates and erases Greek Culture. It is a comic that has no respect for the actual stories that have been passed down over thousands of years whether by word of mouth or written text. It is a comic that perpetuates a false narrative and harmful stereotypes about characters or certain groups of people. So, no, it's not just a silly little comic.

Incorrect information

Here’s an example of what I mean:

When I was doing research for my post about the 10 year time skip, I looked up Leuce to reconfirm the little information I knew about her. Wanna guess the first thing that popped up about her?

A Lore Olympus Wiki article.

Okay. How about Minthe? Hundreds of pictures of her from Lore Olympus and a LO Wiki article as one of the top 3 results. Both character are horribly represented in LO and unfortunately there isn’t really any documented stories or records that can refute how LO paints them. Because of this, other characters in Greek Mythology like Leuce and Minthe, whose stories have little to no documentation, stand to suffer the most harm from deliberate misrepresentation on Rachel’s part.

Of course well-known and better documented figures in Greek mythology face slander as well. What about Thetis or Leto? How about Apollo? All of their portrayals in LO are HORRIBLE. I have seen people online absolutely drag them to filth not because they're upset about how the character is portrayed compared to their mythological counterpart, but because they have no knowledge of how they are actually portrayed outside of LO. They just assume that's how the characters are. Similarly, people who have either very little or no prior knowledge of Greek Mythology and Culture would look at the comic and go "Yep, sounds legit. It must be true." and go about thinking that what is portrayed in LO is accurate to what was transcribed thousands of years ago.

Creative interpretations and racism/fetishization within LO

Don’t get me wrong. Creative interpretations and artistic liberties can be great. When they’re done tastefully. I personally think if done correctly, a Greek myth spun in a modern way has the potential be very good. But that's not what we were given.

Characters like Minthe, Leuce, and Thetis (all nymphs btw) are portrayed as trashy tramps who put out and are used as a foil sabotage Persephone and/or her relationship with Hades. Compare that to Greek Mythology where in the Iliad, Thetis is very well-respected by the gods, particularly Hera. Unfortunately, other similar characters like satrys (and basically any character that isn’t a god) are usually portrayed as a low-class POC that can be easily exploited, manipulated, or used as a temporary villain/lover/pawn to “get back” at Persephone, our white-coded protagonist who can do no wrong.

Additionally, there is a clear race/class bias against characters like nymphs in LO. We see many cases scattered throughout the comic of gods like Hera or Aphrodite referring to nymphs as "trash" or "low class" or the idea that nymphs do not belong with gods being heavily implied if not outright said. I cannot tell you how often I've seen Minthe be called some variant of "cheap" by the readers of LO. Even Persephone (who created the flower nymphs) treats them with such disrespect. She frequently calls them some variant of "stupid" or "simple" like saying how they're not the sharpest crayons in the box even though she's the one WHO MADE THEM. However, it's so odd not really to note that nymphs like Echo, Amphitrite, or Psyche (who was previously disguised as a nymph) are not discriminated against. This is because they are liked or trusted by the gods they are around and ergo are often portrayed as the "good ones", which is a disgusting mindset to have.

We also see the fetishization of nymphs in the comic that is disturbingly similar to the fetishization of women who are Black, Asian, or Latina. It is a known fact that Hades has a flower nymph fetish. Not only is this implied in the comic, but Rachel stated it outright in an old Patreon post. Nymphs are also generally treated as sex-symbols, disposable, and as a lesser-than. Zeus frequently displays this behavior by abandoning nymphs he knocked up in the mortal realm.

For example, when Persephone finds out Apollo is dating Daphne, she isn't upset he's dating her friend. She's upset he's dating a flower nymph, beings that are generally considered to be "rare", "dumb", and objects of sexual desire. Ew.

Even on the Lore Olympus website (loreolympians.com) nymphs are regarded as "beautiful", "desirable", and "very exotic". And when they're not described in a sexual manner they're say it with me now regarded as "low class" or "workers" for some kind of god/goddess.

Final thoughts

So not only is the characterization of characters like Minthe or Thetis harmful to Greek culture and the stories that are so ingrained in their society, but it is also perpetuating harmful stereotypes about people of color and women who are confident in their sexuality.

Of course, the characters within Greek Mythology had their own issues. Zeus was a serial rapist, many of the goddesses deemed to be "feminist" by today's standards were actually horribly misogynistic looking at you Athena. But 1. that's just how things were back then (but that does not make it right) and 2. all of the good, the bad, and the ugly is still there in Greek Mythology. They're not denying how fucked up it is, but they're also not changing their history to better fit their own narrative or the narrative of the modern world. It exists, it happened, but now it is studied and called out by historians.

Rachel, on the other hand, is doing exactly that. She is actively changing the Greek's cultural history to better fit her fic's narrative. She is constantly sweeping things under the rug or going "No this is how it ACTUALLY happened". Lore Olympus is marketed as a "feminist retelling" yet somehow, it takes allllll the ugly parts from Greek Mythology (rape, incest, problematic age gaps, dubious consent, etc.), mixes it with a majority of the issues we have in the modern world (white feminism, rape-apologists/rape culture, grooming, fetishization of certain minority groups, etc.) and then amplifies the concoction to 20. Lore Olympus cannot be a "progressive, feminist, retelling" and also have characters that are morally apprehensive/come straight from the ancient myths. It does not work. In fact, IMO it makes all the problems from both eras worse.

News flash: actual cultures that are still thriving today are not your toys. They are not "made up". They matter. Do better.

#anti lore olympus #lore olympus #anti lo persephone #anti lo #lore olympus criticism #lore olympus critical #lo critic #lo critical #unpopular lo #unpopular lore olympus #appropriation #greek mythology #if anyone who is actually Greek wants to comment on this or share their thoughts please feel free #I'm not Greek but I have a deep love for mythology/Greek culture so this is just my take on things

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