#all staircase without any doors immediately before talking to him

[4giorno]

haters will say if wrio is blind how can he see the bright glowing colorful water in a dimly lit room

[mostly-imagines]

Motion Sickness

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason makes you cry after a fight

warnings: angst with comfort

“Jason—”

He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”

Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” he challenges. 

You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”

He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently. 

A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”

“It’s not about needing it—”

“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”

You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”

“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways. 

You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung. 

Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen. 

“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”

There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.

The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.  

You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.

You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that. 

Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?

You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat. 

It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.

He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.

Dick stills, blinking warily.

“What’re you doing here?”

His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.

As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”

Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”

Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch. 

“What’d you do?”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth. 

“Be myself.”

Dick says nothing.

When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.

“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.

Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.

He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.

“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.

Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”

Jason exhales desperately.

“Both, I think.”

Dick nods, understanding.

“Then go home.”

Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What did you say?”

He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”

Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”

“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”

Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to. 

He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it. 

The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.

“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.

He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.

So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.

“Not right now.”

Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.

He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.

He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.

He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance. 

Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands. 

It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now. 

Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.

He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.

He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.  

He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.  

“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.

It takes a long few moments, but you nod.

He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.

“Will you turn over?”

An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot. 

He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.

He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.

You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to. 

He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.

“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”

Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated. 

You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”

He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”

Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.

You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out. 

Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly. 

“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”

But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.

He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.

“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“No, it’s not.”

That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.

It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.

When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.                    

He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.

You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”

You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”

“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”

His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.

Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.

He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?” 

You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement. 

He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.  

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered. 

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 2

in which fem!reader is feeling insecure about how inexperienced she is around spencer's friends and seeks his expertise to amend the problem

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: inexperienced reader, oral f receiving, (MUNCH!SPENCE RETURNS), fingering, (very) insecure reader, softdom!spencer, sub reader, nipple stuff, kinda sorta implied age gap, god i'm probably forgetting things pls lmk if i missed something important a/n: i've been laboring at this bad boy every day for so long i had to immediately post once it was completed lol. there will be a part three ... maybe i already started it ..... anyway i love u guys and i hope this is a satisfactory part two!! PLS lmk if you liked it!! hearing from u makes my day :')

When Spencer dropped you off at Penelope’s apartment for your first girl’s night—the hostess had promised you, JJ, and Emily lots of gossip sans 'icky men'—you had been ecstatic. You wouldn’t stop rambling to him about how excited you were. 

When he picks you up two and a half hours later, he can hardly get a word out of you. 

It’s not his fault, of course—well, not really, anyway. It’s just that all the girls had wanted to talk about was sex. A topic on which you held very little expertise and had essentially nothing to contribute. Out of the four, you were the only non-FBI agent, the youngest, and undoubtedly the least experienced. It was like high school all over again, except you actually desperately wanted to impress Spencer’s friends. All in all, you weaseled your way out of sharing without giving away that you were still very much a virgin. Sure, you could have said ‘we did hand stuff two weeks ago’, but you had a feeling these women wouldn’t consider that very impressive. 

But you can’t easily relay that information to Spencer—even when he immediately picks up on your sullen mood. He asks you what’s wrong as you make your way down the echoey staircase, but you hold back, muttering something along the lines of we’ll talk about it later. 

Later doesn’t come on the sidewalk outside. It doesn’t come in the car, or at any point during the twenty minute drive, but you feel it rapidly approaching as you climb the stairs to Spencer’s apartment. He unlocks the door and holds it open for you, doesn’t speak as you kick off your shoes and wander aimlessly into the living room.

“Did you eat?” He finally asks, hanging his keys on a hook by the door and glancing over to where you linger in the center of the room like a ghost. 

“Not hungry.”

You both know that wasn’t the question, but he lets it go. 

“Alright... well, I was thinking—“

“Why haven’t we had sex?”

The question flies from your mouth before you can stop it. It tastes like metal and you wish you could take it back as you stand there, cheeks hot and awaiting a reply. It seems you’ve thoroughly astonished Spencer as he gapes at you like a fish out of water for several silent moments, eventually opting to shove his hands in his pockets and shake his head at the wall as he processes the question. 

“I… I don’t know. We just haven’t. Does that bother you?”

Suddenly your whole body feels intolerably warm. Your fingers twitch against your thighs. Of course it bothers you. 

“Do you just not want to? You aren’t attracted to me like that?”

God, you despise how fragile your voice sounds—how much you obviously care, how insecure you clearly are. Spencer picks up on it, despite your most fervent wishing that he wouldn’t, and approaches, stopping a few feet away. You stare at the span of oriental design on the floor between your feet. 

“That’s not at all what I said, angel. I wish you wouldn’t put words in my mouth.”

“Well, then… say something else,” you plead quietly, childishly, still unable to meet his eyes. Prove me wrong. 

He sighs, which does not bode well for you. You wonder if you accidentally triggered the early demise of your relationship and christ do you wish you could rewind. When he steps closer, when his hands find your arms, you’re not sure where to look. But the low, sweet tone of his voice entices you to finally meet his gaze, charmed like a snake as his eyes dart between yours. 

“You know that’s not how I feel.”

You shake your head earnestly, looking up at him with wide eyes as he slowly rubs your arms. 

“No. No, I don’t know that.”

Spencer frowns, glancing at your lips as he speaks. It’s impossible to not do the same when he’s standing so close. 

“But I’ve told you. I don’t understand how you couldn’t know how far from the truth that is.”

You think back to two weeks ago—the first and only time he’d ever done anything more than kiss you. A different kind of flush replaces the shameful one in your cheeks as you try to make your case and not get distracted by the memories of his hands all over you.

“So why won’t you prove it?”

It’d been intended to come out cool, but instead you sound a little desperate, a little out of breath as you realize you and Spencer somehow ended up so close to each other you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

“Is that what you need from me? More proof?”

He speaks so lowly, his fingers press into the flesh of your arms portentously, and you think maybe you’ve poked the bear one too many times. But you won’t back down now—not when you think you might actually get what you want. 

So you look up at him and nod, throat too dry to speak. His eyes are deceptively soft, but you don’t miss the big bad something lurking just beneath the surface of the placid hazel. 

“And how do you think I should prove it?”

“I told you what I want,” you whisper, speaking above your pounding heart. 

“Not tonight, honey. Choose something else.”

“Well—that’s not fair,” you stammer, “the whole point is for you to want to have sex with me.”

Spencer smiles a little, tucking hair behind your ear. “I do want that. I promise you I do. But there are other things I want us to do first.”

“Then I want to do that, too! I just—I don’t know what I’m doing, and you do, and I’m already out on a limb by asking for this much. I know this is what I want but I need you to take the lead here. I trust you, Spencer.” You top off the monologue with an imploring gaze—hoping it delivers even a fraction of the impact that his puppy-dog eyes always have on you. 

He seems to study every square inch of your face as you wait in suspense for him to say something. At long last, his lips part—to no avail for several more seconds as he regards you. 

When the words finally do come, they’re an immense relief of pressure. 

“You’re going to promise me that you’ll communicate honestly. That means telling me if we need to slow down or stop, or if you don’t like something—”

“I promise,” you say, perhaps over-eagerly, offering him your extended little finger. 

An incredulous smile narrows his eyes. 

“Is this a pinky-promise?”

“It is.” You wiggle the finger in emphasis, and he shakes his head, smiling wider as you link pinkies. 

“I left you with Garcia for far too long.”

You shush him, disentangling your hands to cup his jaw and press your lips to his. It’s sweet and smiley until it isn’t—until everything slows down like sticky molasses and his hand is ghosting over your cheek, your neck, the curve of your waist, finally substantiating itself on your hip—the other encouraging you to tilt your head back as he deepens the kiss and you feel yourself melting under the heat of his touch. 

The pressure of his body against yours builds until you’re forced to take a step back, and then another, and another. Without question you allow yourself to be herded toward the bedroom, walked slowly backward as he keeps kissing you and blindly trusting he’ll make sure you don’t run in to anything. The bedroom door clicks shut behind him, and it is in all practicality a pointless gesture—but you find it incredibly comforting nonetheless.  

It’s too warm beneath your sweater and his hands are cool as they slip under the hem, sliding against the curve of your hip. Spencer’s never seen you without a shirt, you realize, as he pulls away from the kiss by only centimeters.  

“Off?” he mutters, thumbing at the knit fabric. And while you’re far from confident, you’ve certainly been making progress in this area. You help him tug it over your head without a word, noting a distinct and surprising lack of terror within yourself as you watch for his reaction to you. Hands glide slowly up your waist and you find yourself enchanted by the slight furrow of his brow, the parting of his lips. He traces down the lacy edge of your bra, skimming sensitive skin as he goes. 

“Pretty,” he murmurs. “You’re… so pretty.”

It seems you’ve rendered him uncharacteristically prosaic. The reaction might be underwhelming if it were anyone else—but Spencer Reid is a man who probably knows every synonym for pretty in the English language. Looking at you, he can’t think of a single one. In an odd way, it’s the highest compliment he could pay you. Your cheeks heat and your stomach flips as he drags a knuckle up the center of the cup, and you can feel it through the layers of lace and fabric. He leans forward, ghosting his lips over yours and continuing to run his fingers over the sensitive spot. “Do you know how pretty you are?”

This is one argument you will not be winning—one he’ll keep bringing up at the most inopportune times until he gets his way. 

“Spencer…”

“Don’t Spencer me. I’m asking you a question.”

The words don’t seem nearly as harsh as they really are when they’re delivered velvet-soft, with his lips and hands on you—when he’s so deftly popping the button on your jeans and dragging the zipper down with all the quickness of a slight-of-hand. It makes it hard to focus, even harder to speak. 

“We have… we have differing views on this matter.”

Generous handfuls of your hips and ass are taken as he helps you tug down your jeans before you kick them off, now left just in your underwear. 

“I thought I argued my point fairly well last time you were here. You didn’t learn anything from that?”

“Mm… maybe you just need to remind me.”

“Oh, I think I have to,” he agrees through a smile you can only hear. Gentle fingers skim up your back and tap the clasp of your bra. “How about this? Can we take this off?”

Any confidence from earlier crumbles and you loose a nervous hum—which is not the enthusiastic yes you’re sure Spencer will be seeking all evening. He pulls away, features etched with the beginnings of concern and a searching gaze. Asking would be unnecessary; the words simply come tumbling out of you. 

“What if you don’t like how I look?”

Spencer doesn’t even blink.

“That’s not going to happen.”

How you wish you could have the same assuredness in yourself that he seems to. 

“But what if… what if you’ve been with other girls who are more, like—I don’t know, just—better? Prettier?”

“Honey, you’re—” a sigh, a pause as he searches for the words—his eyes dart up and down your form, assessing, and when he looks back up at you, they’ve cleared and softened. He pulls you a little closer, rubbing circles into your back with his thumb. “I’m not thinking about anyone else right now. I’m not interested in anyone else right now. I already think you’re perfect, and I’m going to keep thinking that regardless of how you look. When I look at you, I’m not looking for things to critique. Do you understand me?”

As far as sentiments go, it’s a nice one. But the pressure of being seen still feels like an impossible burden. You whine, leaning your head against Spencer’s chest. He accepts your weight and runs his hand over your back as you look up at him. 

“But what if I’m hideously deformed?”

His eyebrows raise. 

“You’re not.”

“But what if I am?”

“Okay. It seems like you don’t feel ready yet, which is completely fine, we just won’t—”

“No!” you protest. “I am ready. I am. But… you have to promise to be nice to me no matter what. Or break up with me if you don’t like what you see so I don't have to wonder.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, kissing you, “and the only thing I’m willing to promise is that I’ll think you’re perfect. Me being nice will come as a natural byproduct of that which is very different than being nice by artifice. Take it or leave it.”

A moment of hesitance—but it’s short-lived. This is more important than your insecurities. Spencer is more important. 

“Take it,” you mumble against his lips. His fingers trace up the smooth skin of your back, all the way to the fabric and metal hooks on your bra. 

“Thank you.”

You wouldn’t have thought Spencer’s genius would manifest in being really good at undoing the clasp of a bra, but you can truly say you’re impressed by the ease with which he does it. It falls to the floor, leaving you completely shirtless for the first time in front of him. 

“Well?” you murmur, arms crossed defensively underneath your chest, because you understand overtop would sort of ruin the whole thing. “What’s the verdict?”

“You,” Spencer manages after a moment—you literally watch him memorizing every square inch of your body— “are ridiculously beautiful.”

The way his voice gets quieter makes your stomach flip. It sounds genuine. Too genuine to be faked. 

“So… no breakup?”

It seems that the more vulnerable you feel, the less likely you are to take a compliment. Spencer, who is always seeking patterns, probably recognizes this one, and doesn’t push you so hard this time. After a silent moment, he sighs and cradles your face in his hands. 

“You’re gorgeous. I hate how incapable you are of seeing that. We’re going to talk about this.”

“Yeah, but not right now, right?” you murmur, standing up on your tiptoes to kiss him. 

“Not right now,” he agrees. 

His lips are so soft and gentle against your own it feels like love, it feels like being talked down from the ledge of your own insanity. Somehow the way he strokes your hip feels more nurturing than sexual. It’s like he has sex and chaste affection on tap, able to turn them on and off at will. You’re happy to drown in either. Ideally, both.

After a while, his hands begin roaming farther, become bolder in their excursions over your flesh. Up, down, over your waist and ribs. Clearly Spencer had been trying to ease you into it, but you still can’t hide your sharp inhalation when his thumbs graze the sensitive skin of your breasts. He pulls his lips from yours, hands splayed over your sides. 

“Sit down.”

It’s much too gentle to be a command, but you frown. 

“Without you?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he chuckles, lightly squeezing your waist. “Just sit. Utilize patience.”

You sit on the edge of the bed with an atypical reticence—you’re just a little too nervous for a snippy comeback. Spencer picks up on this, features softening sympathetically as he undoes his tie with nimble fingers. It lands somewhere on the bed and he leans over you, resting his weight on his fists and offering you a quick kiss. His voice is soft and designed to soothe as he speaks, mere inches away from your face, and so quiet it could only be heard at this range. 

“Are you nervous?” Cloth from the duvet pinches between your fingers. For a moment you don’t reply, dropping your head to watch when Spencer runs his hand over your thigh. “It’s okay if you’re feeling anxious, baby. We don’t have to do anything tonight.”

You expel a frustrated huff. 

“I want to. Just because I’m nervous doesn’t mean I don’t want this. I can handle a little bit of anxiety.”

He hums, dropping to a crouch and inserting himself directly in your line of sight. 

“I know you can. But you don’t always have to push yourself so hard.”

“I’m fine pushing myself a little. I pinky-promised I would tell you if I wanted to stop, remember?”

“Oh, how could I forget a pinky-promise?” he smiles. 

How could you forget anything, you think, becoming flushed and silently insolent at his dulcet teasing. 

“Please, do something.” It’s a whisper, brushing his lips as you lean down until you’re nose to nose. His hands are on the back of your legs. 

“I’m working on it.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“You’re smart, angel. Tell me why I've got you naked on my bed and I’m kneeling in front of you. Where could I possibly be taking this?”

Oh, you have a pretty strong inkling—but you’re scared to voice it and be wrong. Instead of risking it you shake your head slowly, shyly. What you’re not expecting is for Spencer to duck his head down, slide his hands up the side of your thighs and press kisses to the delicate skin there. It feels good—better than you’d have thought. 

“You don’t know?” he asks, looking up at you through burnished gold-rimmed pupils. “No guesses?”

“No guesses,” you agree breathlessly, hotter than you were when you had your clothes on and all the energy in your body condensed into one point between your legs. Spencer hums like he’s considering your answer, smoothing his thumbs over the soft skin of your thighs so gently it feels like burning. 

“I don’t think you’re being entirely truthful. Lie back, sweetheart.”

You do as you’re told, scooting up on the mattress and falling back on your elbows. Spencer wastes no time in climbing over you, leaving you in much the same position as the last time you’d been in his bed. The sheets feel cool against your bare skin, but he is exceptionally warm and solid over you. 

“I’m being honest.” Lie. “I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

Lips find the most sensitive spot of your neck, dancing over it torturously. The front of his shirt brushes your chest. Your thighs clamp together. 

“I don't like being lied to. Just say it, baby. I know you know.”

“Spencer,” you whine, fists bunching the excess fabric around his waist. Warm breath condensates on the skin of your neck as he chuckles. 

“You don’t like being teased, huh?”

“Please, Spence,” you whisper. You notice the pattern of his breathing pause momentarily before it all comes rushing out at once—and you catalogue that particular plea for later usage. 

“I can’t say no when you ask me like that.”

You push your fingers into his soft hair. 

“I know.”

It was a lucky guess. 

He’s still for a moment, relishing the feeling of your hands in his hair, before darting up to kiss you. 

“I’m going to use my mouth this time,” he murmurs against your lips. Though you knew that was what he intended, your heart stumbles in its perpetual march. “Is that okay?”

“What if I…”

You trail off. This is a very intimate situation which you’re not quite sure you have delicate enough language for. Or maybe you’re just stalling. Either way, Spencer is eternally patient with you. 

“You need to stop worrying so much, pretty girl. I’d love to do this for you. But it’s your call.”

“Love is a pretty strong word.”

“Sometimes I think not strong enough.”

The way he’s looking down at you so tenderly, brushing hair from your face, makes you think maybe he’s not just talking about how much he would love to go down on you. Regardless, it fortifies your trust in him. Spencer is the kindest person you know. He’s so clearly an enthusiastic giver. Why not allow him to give you this? 

“Okay,” you breathe. “You can—yeah.”

As usual, you’re impressively awkward, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, you think he not-so-secretly delights in being the one to fluster instead of the other way around. Rarely has he mentioned his past romantic and sexual exploits, but gathering bits and pieces, you assume he was a fairly late bloomer. He probably knows what it’s like to be nervous and so deeply unsure of yourself. 

“Do you remember what you promised me?” he whispers, pressing butterfly-light kisses to your jaw. Your eyes flutter shut as his lips traverse down your neck, teeth skimming over the delicate skin while your breath catches. 

“Mhm.”

“You’re not gonna break that promise, are you?”

His voice, soft and muffled by your skin, is the most exhilarating and disorienting high. Your entire body buzzes with anticipation, satisfied only where his lips soothe and his body presses against yours. It takes a moment for you to remember to reply. 

“No.”

Reward comes in the form of his thumb brushing over the peak of your breast at the same time as he murmurs, “good girl.”

Your stomach flips at the endearment—you squeak and arch into him slightly. Spencer’s hand slides down your ribs as he chuckles, lips pressed just above your collarbone. 

“You’ve never called me that before,” you shudder as he continues kissing over your neck. 

“It’s not appropriate in most conversational contexts. But I can tell you’ve always been good.”

“Really? How?”

Spencer pauses, pushing himself up to regard you with searching eyes. The places he’d kissed feel cold without him. 

“I just can. You’re thinking too much, baby. I need your focus on me.”

“It is on you,” you huff. 

You watch his expression shift minutely. He loves games. Of course he’d love playing with you. That knowledge is why you’re only partially surprised when his thumb catches on your nipple again. 

“Is it? You’re only thinking about how it feels when I touch you here?”

A stammering nod. 

He toys with the sensitive flesh only a second more, amusement lighting his eyes, before dragging his hand down, down, down until it’s between your legs. Fingers trail over your clothed core, skimming the most sensitive part of you while your breath hitches.  

“Tell me how it feels when I touch you here.”

“Really good,” you admit, a heavy exhale escaping parted lips as he pins you with his gaze. 

“Really good, right. I can make it feel even better. Do you want me to make it feel better?”

Your thighs drop fully open and he adds just a bit more pressure until you’re pushing against his hand in search of more friction. 

“Yes please.”

“Then no more questions. I need you to trust me.”

Your answer is a breathy, dreamy sigh—you’d do anything, say anything for him. 

“Okay.”

Spencer kisses you, absorbing your noises of protest as his hand ceases between your legs and settles on your hip. But you’re trusting him. No whiny complaining. No unnecessary questions. 

Things go much quicker once you’re not interrupting him every twenty seconds to say something. His lips reattach to your neck, retracing their path (albeit quicker) until he’s below your collarbone. You watch in rapt fascination, twisted brows and parted lips as he peppers kisses down over your breast before dragging his tongue over your nipple. A jolted little moan spills out because you hadn’t been prepared to hold one in. Waves of hair fall over Spencer’s face, obscuring him from your vision, but you don’t think to push it away—your body is too busy processing the sensation to be much use on any other front. He darts his tongue over the peaked flesh, eliciting more little open-mouthed exhalations of pleasure from you. Earlier you hadn’t really thought it necessary for your bra to come off—you had no idea this could actually feel so good. A moment later he begins toying with the other nipple and you gasp as a bolt of heat goes straight to your core. 

You curse, further words catching in your throat as he suddenly switches, mouthing at your other breast and letting the cold air chill the other until you have goosebumps. It feels a little like hypnosis—you’re unable to move or speak as his tongue laves over you. Soon he’s replacing his mouth with a thumb again, sucking a mark onto your tit just above your nipple. You whimper a little at the pleasant brutality of it, hoping as he releases that it won’t soon fade. Spencer swipes over the stinging skin and presses a tender kiss to it, almost like an apology—but you sincerely doubt he’s actually sorry. 

Then he resumes his descent, leaving soft kisses down between your breasts, over your ribcage and stomach—when he reaches your hips, he doesn’t pull off your underwear all at once. Rather, he slides the fabric down centimeter by centimeter, kissing the revealed skin like it’s precious. 

This time you don’t need to be told to lift your hips. He helps you slip the final piece of clothing down and off of your legs, flinging it somewhere blindly before getting comfortable between your thighs once more. Your heart pounds with arousal and anxiety as his arms wrap around your thighs and his hands rub up and down the tops of them slowly. 

“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he mumbles, loosening his hold on one leg to thumb at your folds. They glisten in the dim light of his bedroom as he gently reveals your clit. A soft whine escapes you when he nudges at the aching bud, slipping over it a few times and alleviating a bit of the pressure that’s been building. “Shh, baby. I know. I’m gonna take care of it. You’re being so good for me.”

Fuck. The way he talks to you makes your brain turn to mush—you’re utterly incapable of forming an intelligent thought. Spencer has rendered you a complete idiot, and you’re not upset about it in the slightest. 

He presses more gentle kisses to the creases between your thighs, just above your clit—everywhere except for where you need him most. Everything aches for him in the best way and at least you’re too turned on to be very insecure anymore. All you want is relief. But you’re trusting him. 

Thankfully, he delivers. 

The tip of his tongue grazes so lightly over your clit that if you weren’t this worked up you may not have felt it at all. In your current state, however, the stimulation echoes through every atom of your being. Every muscle is tense, frozen in place—you can’t even breathe for a second. He does it again, a little flatter, with a little more pressure, and you whimper. It’s a delicate thing, almost pained and definitely overwhelmed as he gently begins working his tongue against you. Your head cranes up to watch, your jaw drops. Approximations of curse words try to form, but come out only as, “f-fu—oh,” so whiny and soft it doesn’t even sound like you. He hums sympathetically, but you suspect it morphs into a chuckle as you continue to gasp and mewl. 

There are times where you can hold back sounds of pleasure. When you’re by yourself, it’s typically not a problem. Two weeks ago when Spencer was knuckle deep in you for the first time, it had certainly been a challenge, and you’d pretty much given up. But this—this is something else entirely. It feels like religion. It feels like compulsion. Even if you had the slightest modicum of control over yourself, which you currently don’t, you wouldn’t want to keep quiet. You want him to know what he’s doing to you. 

So you let every cry, every whine and whimper drag from your lungs, unbidden and unshaped. You’re new at this, after all—every broad lick feels so good that you have no fucking idea what do to with your hands or how to stop rolling your hips or how to censor your sounds. 

“Spencer,” you keen in one of the moments you remember to breathe. He moans against you, taking you into his mouth and sucking lightly. Your hips buck. “Oh, my—fuck!”

The hand that’s still around your thigh rubs soothing lines up and down. The one that’s spreading you open pulls your folds apart a little bit further, granting him more access to your clit. He flicks his tongue and you almost come then and there, vision going gray for a split second. 

“Wait, wait, Spence—“ you squeak, writhing and trying not to squeeze your thighs together for fear of hurting him. He pulls back and looks up at you, lips shining with your slick and eyes glazed with lust. Fuckfuckfuck he looks so fucking good. “Please, just… slow down, or I’m gonna… or it’s gonna be over.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he rubs circles into your inner thigh. 

“It’s over when you say it’s over. You don’t have a refractory period. We don’t have to stop at one.”

“Oh—you don’t—you don’t have to do that,” you stammer. 

“I know I don’t have to. But if you want me to, I want to. You taste so good, angel girl.”

Well, shit. 

He looks absurdly sexy between your legs like this. You have no idea how you got so lucky, but you don’t plan on taking it for granted. Your fingers tangle in his hair. 

“I don’t know if I can do more than one,” you admit shyly, slightly embarrassed by how little you know about yourself and in general compared to Spencer. Hazel eyes sparkle in the warm light. 

“How about we start with one and see how it feels?”

Your voice is breathy when you respond, “okay,” already impatient for him to get back to it. Spencer seems just as eager, immediately kissing between your legs with a passion that makes your lips jealous. 

The flat of his tongue presses circles against you and your hips buck, already ramping up to that point you’d been at before calling a time-out. Slowly his fingers find their way to your entrance and he teases you with them, dipping in to the first knuckle before withdrawing again. If you could form words, you’d beg him to just do it already, but all you can manage is an affronted whine as you tilt your hips down, hoping he catches the meaning. 

Of course he does—pushing two fingers inside you at once. The intrusive stretch adds a sharp edge to the pleasure, makes it more interesting, as your brain short-circuits and you choke out a moan. It only takes a few slow pumps of his fingers in tandem with the pressure of his tongue until your hips are writhing and you’re and mewling desperately, more overwhelmed with pleasure than you’ve ever been. You push his hair back, able to see him for the first time, and fully appreciate the hollow of his cheeks, the way he looks up at you with perfect, glassy half-lidded eyes, the rhythm of his hand and tongue—he takes your clit between his lips once more, sucking lightly, and you’re done for. A pornographic sob escapes from deep within you as you come, but he doesn’t stop. The orgasm lasts longer than you knew one could—although, it’s only your second time, so you don’t exactly have a lot of data to go off of. Your entire body feels warm and floaty, and what he’s doing feels so good you want him even deeper—but you know he won’t give you that yet. Instead you focus on the slow burn of your orgasm, allowing him to carry on for a while until you begin slowly drifting back to earth and it becomes a bit too much. He recognizes the barely-there whine for what it is and pulls his fingers from you carefully, pressing one final kiss to your clit that makes your legs twitch and summons a weak little moan. 

Spencer’s lips find other avenues, over the delicate skin of your thighs and hips and stomach as he slowly drags himself up again. By the time you’re face to face again you’re still breathing hard. You sort of feel like prey underneath his weight, studied so scrupulously, known far more intimately by him than anyone has ever known you before. But there is so much light and kindness in the way he looks at you that you almost can’t make sense of it. 

Maybe it’s possible to be known and still wanted. The possibility spins like a coin on its edge in your mind. An idea you spent so much time trying to nurture and is only just now beginning to sprout. Maybe someone could see you at your most vulnerable, and still find you worthy of kindness. Appreciation. Affection. 

Spencer certainly could, it seems, as he ducks down to kiss you. You dodge it, turning your head demurely. He nudges his head against yours, speaking so, so softly, utterly cloying as he teases, “what? You’re not gonna kiss me now? Is that how it is?”

“No!” you balk, equally as quiet and especially bashful. “Not when you… no.”

“Let me kiss you,” he pleads, so earnestly you turn your head back to face him. His big eyes are hazy, reflecting all the warmth and dizziness you feel. “Let me kiss you. Please.”

You whine.

“I don’t wanna… taste… myself.”

Spencer doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Hm. We’ll need to work on that. Because one day, I’ll make you come just like that again, and then I’m going to fuck you, and you’re really going to want me to kiss you then, angel.”

Something flickers in your core. 

Suddenly you’re not so squeamish. You really want him to kiss you now. But it seems he’s going to have his fun, first. 

“Open.” Without even thinking about it, your lips part. He really ought to be careful with what he tells you to do—you’re all too compliant. Even as his fingers slip between your lips, you’re obediently hollowing your cheeks around them, watching him with big eyes as his own mouth falls slightly open. “Oh, baby,” he croons. “What are we gonna do with you?”

That flicker has returned to a full-fledged throbbing once you open your mouth again, slightly dizzy from lack of oxygen. 

“Can you make me come again right now?” you whisper, grasping lightly at his shirt. He grins like he loves the idea—and you let him have his way, accepting his lips on yours with no complaint. After a few moments, (the taste is surprisingly unobtrusive), he pulls away.

“I would love to.”

-

part three

[angelicwh1spers]

— ⋅˚₊‧ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍’ 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 ‧₊˚ ⋅ —

𝐈n 𝐜onclusion… Matt has had enough of your teasing during a New Year’s party, so he fucks you inside of the bathroom into the new year.

𝐖arnings… [ SMUT ] , p in v , unprotected sex , dirty talk , dom!matthew , bathroom sex , ?kinda-public sex? & other sexual content contained inside!

⚠︎ 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐒 - English is not my first language so excuse and dismiss any minor mistakes in my writing, I’m fairly new to writing on tumblr but it’s always been my passion to create stories and envelop myself inside of the world of fiction.

⟡ ݁₊ 𝐀fter another year passes by before you could fully register it, today was the day where you would step into the new year with Matthew by your side, your boyfriend of three years now going on four. You were lucky to have found such an amazing partner, whenever you would look at him two fires would ignite inside of your body, one being appreciation and the other being desire. Tonight you were invited to a big New Year’s party hosted by one of your friends and as a plus one, you were of course going to take your boyfriend alongside with you, starting the new year without him wouldn’t sit right within you.

You wore one of your expensive elegant black dresses, the ones you only wore for any special occasions and tonight one of them fell on this day, new years can be exciting but also stressful with all of the resolutions and plans for the new year can get overwhelming but with time you were able to stabilize your emotions and stay calm whenever the coursing thoughts stirred inside of your mind. Your long hair cascaded over your shoulders, enhancing your facial features and beautiful eyes people could stare hours into, including Matthew, you often would catch him staring but always dismissed it as the emotions it brought felt nice to experience.

Both of you soon arrived to the party, flickering lights and heavy music could be heard coming from inside of the building Matt parked infront of, he got out of the car and quickly made his way over to the other side where you were sitting and opened the door for you to which you giggled and grabbed his already extended hand, ascending up the staircase and through the front door, walking right into the chaos of the party, tonight you made it your mission to look your best so you could walk into the new year with your head held high and priorities straight, but little did you know tonight you would not be doing any of those things but rather be doing the complete opposite…

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

Matt’s hands had a tight grip on your plush thighs as the sound of moans and skin to skin contain echoed through the small room of the bathroom while hints of faint music occupied the background noise while you’re bend over the marble counter of the sink, immense pleasure courses through your veins as he hits your sweet spot repeatedly, your soft moans intensify with each moment spent in such position. “You like that, huh? Been such a bad little girl, teasin’ me infront of everyone in that slutty fuckin’ dress.” Matt whispers between pants in a seductive tone, delivering you more pleasure as your walls pulsated around his think length driving in and out of you faster than you could think in that moment, the only answer you could provide was a muffled hum of agreement as it was immediately silenced by a soft whimper escaping past your lips.

Matt slows down his pace for a minute, you immediately feeling the outcome of it as your pleasure begins to calm down as he leans his head down to whisper into your ear. “Use your words or I’ll have to stop ma, m’kay?” “Y-yeah, please don’t stop, need more of you inside..” you whine, wiggling your hips against his as you start to get desperate for more friction. Just as you speak up, his pace returns to the previous one and immediately bring you back to the level of ecstasy and desire flowing thought your body, soon enough you feel your tight walls clenching down on to him, sucking him even deeper inside of you. He takes notice of this and detaches one of his hands from your hip, both of his hands taking different positions now, one pressing down on the small of your back and the other trailing down to rest between your thighs, his thumb coming up to press down on my pulsating clit, only driving me closer over the edge.

“Matt, i’m gonna c-cum..” you moan out, drawing out his name as he starts to also feel close to the edge, a knot slowly building up inside of your stomach as Matt increases his already fast pace, loud yells can be heard from behind the door as the countdown till the new year starts, Matt notices and slows down again before whispering, “Hold it for me, ma. Wanna cum together in the new year, yeah?” You nod your head positively before the countdown starts. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, when it reaches half of the time Matt immediately speeds up as the know inside of your stomach intensifies, 4, 3, 2, 1… and with the last digit being drawn out, the knot bursts as Matt’s seed paints your tight walls, mixing together with your own juices as your body lays down limp on the counter, heavy pants merging together with the tense air surrounding you both, “Gotta clean up this drippin’ pussy now, wouldnt want anyone seein’ you so fucked out the first day of the new year now, would you?”



— 🩵 𝐓aglist

• @sweetshuga @giveheavensomehell @delilahsturniolo …

⋅˚₊‧ 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒... this is my first fic written on here so if you guys read it please give me any kind of feedback and tell me your thoughts on it, I’m so excited to start my journey on here and thanks everyone for the likes and compliments !!

[mrs-kodzuken]

listening to you ⟢ tooru o.

synopsis: being the quiet girl had its perks until you were discovered by the only and only Tooru Oikawa. He's made his advances towards you before, to where you shook him off, but this time you both get close. That's when he discovers your huge, loud, adoring family—a complete opposite from you.

other: high school!oikawa x quiet!fem!reader, reader is Matsukawa's little cousin, family gathering, oikawa falls head over heels, fluff, high school love

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in, mentally groaning, preparing yourself because you somehow got the attention of Oikawa yet again. No matter how much effort you tried to blend in, no make up, no differing hairstyles from the other girls, nothing to make you stand out, he always found you.

Before he could reach you, you grabbed your lunch and quickly walked towards the door that led to the staircase of the rooftop.

Students weren’t allowed up there but you were always swift about it, constantly eating lunch up there without anyone knowing. That was the one place you were safe from Oikawa at.

Once you finally settled down on the ground, you were able to enjoy your lunch that your mother always packs you, with a small note of encouragement too. You sighed as the wind blew, wishing Oikawa would just leave you alone.

You had helped him with a homework question once because you had crammed the math equations in your head all summer before school started so you would never fall behind. It was an anxiety thing for you, all your parents could do was encourage you to try your best and say that it would all work out in the end.

However, when you magically solved ‘the hardest question ever’ Oikawa claimed, he tried attaching himself to you since.

Every so often Oikawa would try to ask you out, make little flirty comments, or something of the sort since you apparently ‘saved his life’ with the homework question before it was due. However, it got exhausting trying to avoid this newfound friend, if he’s even that.

You had rejected Oikawa because you knew him, you knew that he was so consumed with volleyball, hence the reason his last girlfriend broke up with him.

Dating Oikawa would not be serious and that went against everything you stood for. You never told him that, you hardly told him anything to be honest. However, that didn’t stop him from constantly pestering you to know more about you.

You groaned when the burning sun got too much for you and made you pack up the empty lunch box and head inside of the building.

You wished you could leave Oikawa out of your head but you simply couldn’t, he never tired—to him, this was like volleyball, you intrigued him and now he won’t stop.

“You know, no students are supposed to be up there, right? I never pegged you to be a bad kid, Y/n-chan.” You didn’t even have to turn around to know who was talking to you. Leave it to Oikawa to know where you were at all of lunch.

And the fact that absolutely no one calls you Y/n-chan either was a dead giveaway—and the fact that he immediately put you on a first name basis.

“Hi, Oikawa.” You curtly said, trying to get around him and head to class, not really wanting to deal with his antics right after lunch.

“Awe, Y/n-chan, spare me a couple more minutes please?” He whined, still following you to your class, which was separate from his too.

“Okay, fine. What?” You had your limits, and Oikawa always tried to push them, it’s been this way for almost an entire month.

“Come with me after school? I have a surprise for you,” He smirked, wanting you to meet his team. You don’t have any extracurricular activities either so it would be perfect.

The bell was about to ring, and for you it made you anxious, you just wanted to be in class and not be late.

“Okay, okay fine. I have to go.” You left him standing in the hallway without any regard to how he was going to be late for class as you rushed into your own.

Oikawa on the other hand didn’t if he was late, you agreed to something he asked for the first time ever. He breesly walked to class, not caring about being late nor the slap he got from Iwaizumi either.

Oikawa knew he wanted to prove to you that he actually likes you, he can always see the skepticism on your face when he asks you out.

Granted, he’s gotten discouraged sometimes and wanted to leave you alone but being your friend was better than nothing to him. And, he has priorities too, he’s not just some aloof guy who had tunnel vision for just volleyball—although he does love it.

After classes were over, Oikawa tried taking your hand in his—to which you in the blink of an eye yanked it away from him—he led you to the gym where he practices. You could hear the volleyballs, the squeaking of shoes, and minimal talking and laughing in the background.

Anxiety spiked in your stomach, “I’m not going in there, you realize that right?” You backed away, a hint of disdain in your voice. After the amount of time he’s been attached to you and didn’t realize that you wouldn’t do that was kind of weird to you.

“What? You don’t want to meet my team?” Oikawa asked, with puppy dog eyes, pleading with his hands together.

“No, Oikawa, I’m not meeting your team—I just, I don’t want to.” You turned away, adjusting your bag and preparing to walk home, not explaining more to him about the why.

You never really gave Oikawa a goodbye when you leave, you realize.

“Wait, Y/n, I won’t make you meet them. Do you have to go, though?” He genuinely asked, devising to ask you to come see something else, wanting more time with you.

“I…No, I don’t have to go, just don’t make me go in there.” You confessed, letting him have more of your time that you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t give him.

“Thank you, follow me, I promise it’s nothing bad.” He half smiled, something genuine instead of the smirks he constantly flashes you.

You reluctantly followed him as he led you around the gym, to the backside of it. It was a surprise when you saw a lot of cherry blossom trees, their petals were everywhere, it looked magical.

“This is where I come to hideout sometimes, I think it’s very calming.” You looked at him in awe, setting your bag to the side once you sat down on the grass. Oikawa knew it was different being with you, you could let Oikawa talk for a while and he would know you were listening because that’s just who you were.

You were different too, you didn’t fawn over him or try to constantly get his attention or make yourself an obstacle in his way when he was in a hurry. Sometimes it was hard to really be himself and keep a facade when he just wanted to be by himself.

He doesn’t get that feeling with you though, that’s why he’s been trying so hard to woo you. He stared at you while you looked around at the trees, probably loving the sight when the wind blew.

It would gently wake up the petals and twirl them around in the air for a small dance before moving them to new spots.

When he settled next to you, being sure not to repeat his mistake from earlier and touch you without your consent, he set his head back onto the tree bark. Being able to talk free of anyone judging him is what he also loved about being with you.

“Yeah, and I take my nephew—his name is Takero—to volleyball classes on Monday’s because that’s when the team takes a break from practice.” Oikawa prattled on, you played with the soft, pink petals that littered the ground underneath the cherry blossom tree.

You never realized that Oikawa actually liked a place like this either. Maybe you put a small stereotype on him when you realized that he was pining for you.

He continued about his parents after finishing telling you about some of his childhood experiences with his older sister, she sounded like a delight.

He left you there to listen to him, which wasn’t a pain as you actually got to hear who the real Oikawa was and that made you smile during some of the stories he told you. Once he was finished opening up, he peered his gaze towards you.

He wanted to know you too, you realized that he created this conversation discussion to also hear about you. That didn’t happen, you both sat in silence that was only awkward on your end.

He watched your face, tracing every bit of it with his eyes, stamping it to his memory.

Oikawa really fancied being here with you, watching your movements of how you apply chapstick, play with the ends of your hair, and other small tid-bits. However, after a few minutes trail by, he realized that neither one of you were speaking and he was just staring at you.

You could see Oikawa getting curious about your reluctance to talk about your family, you genuinely didn’t know where to even start either. You chewed on your lip, which didn’t go unnoticed by him either.

Your family was incredible and they have respected you since the beginning so you never had a reason to be ashamed of them.

Moreso, you were ashamed of the fact that you weren’t like them. You would give anything to not be the oddball of the family, even though they wouldn’t have it any other way.

However, you weren’t about to open up about your deepest insecurities to a third year who didn’t know anything about you. In his mind though, he was curious about your home situation, the thoughts were endless for him.

What if you didn’t get along with your family and he was pushing boundaries he didn’t know were there? Or perhaps you had a single parent, or grandparent, or even an aunt or uncle.

He knew that no matter what it was, he wanted to be respectful to you and your kin. After realizing you preferred the traditional ways of dating, he was piecing together the perfect opportunity to ask your family—or guardian—to date you.

“I want to ask you out the right way Y/n.” Oikawa started, not looking at you anymore but the side of the gym for the fact that he could hear his teammates leaving the gym and realized he skipped an entire practice to be here with you.

“Can I meet your family and ask for permission?” He finished, a caring smile he gave you, only you in that moment. Your heart skipped a beat too, you bit the inside of your cheek, trying to refrain from the blush you could feel coat your cheeks.

You never, ever thought that the Oikawa Tooru would ask you to meet your family in order to ask you out. You figured he would have just gotten bored at that point. You nod, actually allowing it this time. How he figured it out? You have no clue.

You both got up from underneath the cherry blossom tree, you collected some so you could press them later too.

Oikawa made a little stop at the corner store so he could buy flowers for when he asked, it made him nervous when he saw you resisting a giggle as you waited on him.

Seeing you happy like that was something Oikawa never wanted to share with anyone else. He walked a step behind you on the sidewalk to your house because he wanted you to lead the way, obviously not knowing where you lived.

You swiftly pulled out a card from your bag as you both arrived at a pristine white, large gate. You swiped the card through which allowed you to enter, hearing the small creaks from the gate with Oikawa following shortly behind, he was in awe that you lived within an actual gated community.

However, as he followed you, he stared at the sight of quite a large family outside, they were enjoying the weather.

He could tell by the sports that were being played, the smoke from the grill, and small children drawing on the sidewalk.

He smiled at the sight, enjoying the happiness that he got from seeing a family like that. It made him wonder—and get nervous again—about the fact that he was going to actually meet yours within a few short minutes.

Although, imagine Oikawa’s surprise when you turn down that driveway and wave to your little cousins who were chalking very colorful pictures on the sidewalk.

“Wait, Y/n, this is your family?” Oikawa asked, sounding taken aback that this was your family.

You peered behind you as you grabbed the door knob to open the front door, “Yes…?”

His brown eyes stared back in awe, and you half smiled, entering the house. After taking off your shoes, you did your afternoon routine in which he just stood there, waiting for you.

He soaked in all of the pictures on the walls, counters, bookshelves, everything. Seeing pictures of you when you were a kid was something he wanted to so badly coo over but he had to do something before he could.

“Everyone’s outside,” You motioned towards the back, grabbing Oikawas’ attention from the pictures he couldn’t help but to stare at.

“Oh, okay. Let’s go then,” He gathered himself and accidentally tightened his hand on the flowers a bit too tight as he walked with you. When you both stepped outside onto the patio, he got a full view of your family, they were so picture perfect, like that kind family that’s in the movies.

However, he was extra shocked, his jaw slacking basically on the ground when he saw Mattsun there.

“Y/n, is Mattsun a part of your family?” He questioned, pointing at his teammate, knowing it was bad manners but did it anyway. That gathered Mattsukawa’s attention and came closer to talk to his team captain.

“Hey Kawa, didn’t know I’d see you here. You missed practice, Iwaizumi was not happy.” Mattsun smirked, giving you a small side hug, something that you both always gave each other at these family reunions.

“Yeah, yeah,” Oikawa rolled his eyes, “I was busy, why didn’t you say anything about Y/n being a part of your family? You’ve listened to me talk about her for a while!” Oikawa groaned, embarrassed that he was actually whining to his friend who was kin to the girl he likes.

Mattsun chuckled, “I didn’t think it was important, and she would’ve told you if she wanted you to know, isn’t that right?” He looked down at you, making you shimmy out of the side hug.

“Go play ball, I got to find my dad,” You motioned for Mattsun to leave and urged Oikawa to come with you, you swallowed harshly, the excitement that Oikawa was doing this for you never going away.

“There’s my little girl!” Your dad exclaims as you walked towards him, he had on an apron with ‘best cook’ written on it, it was his favorite to use at these reunions. That was mostly to get at his brother—your uncle, Mattsun’s dad.

“Hi dad, I brought someone who wants to meet you.” You smiled, making way for Oikawa. You hoped he was being serious when he said he would do this the traditional way.

“Hi sir, I’m here because I like your daughter and wanted to know if I had your permission to take her on a date?” He swiftly said, handing your father the flowers, glad that the only sign of nervousness was his sweaty palms that he wiped on his school uniform pants.

“Ahh, my wife will love these, thank you. You’re the one who's been bugging my little girl haven't you? Go ahead, it’s okay.” Your dad chuckled, ruffling your hair, he loved to see that his kid—not accepting that you’re almost an adult within a few years—was happy.

“Thank you, sir.” Oikawa smiled brightly, a twinkle in his eyes, and that’s when you saw the little rosiness on his cheeks, he fancied you so much, you realized.

Oikawa then spent the next fifteen minutes speaking with your family, getting to know them, especially your mom—not Mattsun though.

After that, he had asked your mom where you went, “Oh, Y/n’s probably in her room, go see if she’s okay for me.” Your mom winked at him as he waved and went inside.

Once Oikawa finally figured out which room was yours, he gently knocked and went in when a small ‘come in’ was heard.

“Hi Y/n,” He smiled softly, enjoying to see this side of you, hoping that since he’s done this the traditional way, you’d finally take him more seriously. He watched your form put your book down, your window was open, you liked listening to your family, but enjoyed also being by yourself.

To his surprise, you gave him a wide smile, “Hi Tooru,” You said, effectively making his heart skip a beat in response.

Oikawa knew that you were worth the wait to figure out.

a/n: soft oikawa pining for reader jus does smth for me, i hope you like it!! <33 & requests are open!

[imsuperhungry]

4 𝙖𝙢

entry 000

(yandere until dawn)

WARNINGS: Bullying, Mild Cussing, Death

WORD COUNT: 990

(9:37 ᴘᴍ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʙɪɴ)

The cabin was warm, the fire gently melting away the cold, raw chill and replacing it with a sense of coziness and comfort.

The storm was intense, making it nearly impossible to see even a little ahead, with snow falling heavily all around.

Josh was slumped at the countertop, his head resting on his folded arms as he slept, an empty beer bottle loosely held in his limp hand. I sat beside him, scrolling through my phone, occasionally glancing over to make sure he was still breathing.

I was giggling at his snoring, while Mike, Jess, Emily, and the others stood around me in a circle. Jess had her head resting on my back, her arms wrapped around my belly.

They were talking about the prank they were about to pull, planning to fool Hannah into believing that Mike liked her, fully aware of her big crush on him.

"Oh my god, I can't believe you did this!" Emily whispered excitedly to Jess. She had been the most eager for this moment, especially since she was Mike's girlfriend and had a reputation for being petty.

"Don't you guys think this is a bit cruel?" Sam asked, clearly not too keen on the idea. It made sense, given that she and Hannah had been friends for a while.

"Oh come on, she deserves it." Jess said from behind me, I could basically hear her rolling her eyes.

"Its not her fault he has a huge crush on Mike-" Sam said trying to defend Hannah

"Hannah's been making moves on him, I'm just looking out for my girl Em." Jess said before directing her attention towards me. "Besides, (y/n) says it'll be okay, right?" She asks, causing me to hesitate.

Sure, it might be somewhat funny, but I've known Hannah, Beth, and Josh for five years now, and I don’t want to hurt any of them.

Still, my opinion didn’t seem to matter, as Jess pulled me up and walked me out of the kitchen and into the living room without waiting for my response.

Emily then starts skipping after us, following us into the room while still talking to Sam. "Just because he's class Prez doesn't mean he belongs to everyone... Mike is my man," she said with a grin.

Mike, trailing behind us, chimed in, "Hey, Em. I'm not anybody's man..." This made Emily giggle as she sang back, "Whatever you say, Darling~!"

We all ascended the creaky staircase and entered the spare bedroom, the scene of everything that was about to happen. Some of us crouched behind the door, while others squeezed into closets. Jess and Emily pulled me under the bed with them, both of them giggling. I could only sit there, hoping this wouldn’t hurt Hannah as much as I was imagining.

“Oh… she’s here! Shh!” Emily whispered as we heard footsteps approaching the room. Then everything went silent when they stopped.

Eventually, the door swung open, and we heard her voice. "Mike?" she said, peeking into the room and scanning the surroundings before spotting the person she was looking for. "It's Hannah," she added as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

"Hey, Hannah." he replied, staring intensely at her.

"I got your note," she said, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearly uneasy about being in the room with him. She had always been a bit of a nervous girl.

"I'm glad you could make it." Mike said, grinning, although we all knew he wasn't smiling in Hannah's favor.

It was quiet for a moment; all I could hear was Emily and Jess's breathing on either side of me. Then Mike spoke up again, "Maybe we should start with a little, you know, making out, and see where it goes from there."

Hannah nodded, then began to untie her shirt, prompting Mike to exclaim, "Ohhhh hell yeah."

“Oh my God! She’s taking her shirt off!” Jess squealed, shaking me by the shoulders.

Hannah immediately started covering herself up and looked around, confused. "What!? Oh my God!". She heard Jess's voice.

Everybody then started coming out of there hiding spots, Hannah calls out again. "Matt? What are you doing here!?"

Matt was recording on his phone and everybody was staring at her. I remained under the bed, feeling too bad for Hannah to look at her.

Mike then attempted to apologize to Hannah and explain everything, but Sam opened the door and walked over to Hannah, trying to comfort her. "Hannah, hey, honey... Don’t... It’s just a..." But Hannah ignored her and stormed out of the room.

Sam then turns her attention to everybody else in the room. "You guys are jerks. You know that?" she says, "You even dragged (y/n) into this, knowing she and Hannah were close!" then she swings the door open and calls out Hannah's name, chasing after her.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the room, but eventually, everyone bolted out to chase after Sam and Hannah, leaving me still under the bed.

I tried to steady my breathing, but I was too worried about Hannah to think clearly. Gathering my composure, I crawled out from under the bed and followed the voices of the others, finding them all outside the cabin.

"What happened?" I asked Emily, noticing a figure running away from the cabin, unsure of who it was.

She informed me that Hannah had run into the woods, and then Beth followed her, trying to find her sister. I looked in the direction they had gone, but the thick snow made it impossible to see anything but trees and white.

I kept staring, hoping and praying that Hannah would be okay, even though I knew deep down that it was unlikely.

Mike then nudges my shoulder and asks me "Should we go after her?" 

But Sam replies for me "Y'know I kinda think you're the LAST person she wants to see right now, Mike.", she's obviously annoyed.

They continued to chat among themselves, but I turned away from them and focused on Josh's figure, still sleeping on the countertop.

[purplekissinger]

How Tom Riddle married off his cousin

Late 1940s. Y/N is Morfin Gaunt’s illegitimate daughter. The Death Eaters take turns proposing to Tom's dearest cousin. He does not like a single candidate. Platonic.

(Death Eaters speak quite freely with Tom, but this is like… my hcs lol…... they got out of school yesterday, they are still classmates and not the members of some underground cult)

Abraxas Malfoy sighed heavily, tapped his wand on a scrap of parchment and pushed it towards Tom. Tom lazily picked it up and ran his eyes over it.

"Ten thousand Galleons?" he asked mockingly. "If you're thinking of buying my sister, that's not a very generous offer."

Malfoy snorted, waving a dismissive hand, as if to say, ‘look at this merchant selling his sisters’.

“How much do you want for her, then?” he asked, sounding hurt. “Mind that this offer is for you. Y/N won’t haggle over her upkeep. There won’t be enough parchment to write down the price.”

Tom turned the scrap of paper over with a bored expression, pretending to think about it. Then he carefully placed it on the table in front of Malfoy.

“Cassie, do you know how I met her?”

***

It was the end of August, the last summer before his final year at Hogwarts. The month had been dry and hot, but on the day he needed to drop into Knockturn Alley on business. As luck would have it, it started raining. The long-awaited, thundering rain that raised the dust on the pavement. The alley was deserted in an instant, passers-by rushing in all directions, someone conjuring a transparent umbrella over his head. Tom slipped through the half-open door of the shop, hoping to wait out the downpour.

It was quiet inside, dimly lit and somehow... cozy. He sniffed and immediately recognized the intoxicating smell of old books, unlike anything else. A moment later, when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw them: on the shelves reaching the ceiling, on the counter, on the steps of the wooden staircase. Old ones and ancient ones, disheveled and neat, with monograms on the covers and without no covers at all. The shop was a bookstore. Tom, a great connoisseur of books, immediately bent over an inconspicuous tome and opened it in the middle.

"Good day, sir! Welcome to the Godsend," a friendly voice rang out. Y/N, whom he didn't yet know was Y/N, peered at him from the utility room.

"Pretty," Tom thought. "And polite."

 He smiled back at her.

***

"Where’ll you live?" Tom asked.

"Asked" was putting it mildly. The White Wyvern was so crowded he had to nearly shout in Dolokhov's ear. Antonin nodded, took a big swig from the bottle, throat bobbing.

"I have a flat nearby," he shouted. "Not a Malfoy Manor, of course, but liveable. Y/N is a wonderful girl, she'll decorate any shack it'll seem like a palace."

That was true. Y/N sometimes joked about being Wendy on a pirate ship. If there was even a drop of comfort and warmth in the headquarters, it was she who brought it there.

"A wonderful girl, that is correct," Tom said, looking away from Dolokhov. "Tony, are you sure you’ll have anything to talk about? She's a Parselmouth, just like me."

"We'll manage," Dolokhov smirked. "Y/N is such a modest girl, and a docile one. You see, I told her the other day that I’d ask you for her hand. She said, "As Tom says, so it will be."

"She can’t be more right," Tom said.

***

An hour later, Tom still couldn't leave the "Godsend." He forgot about the case, which never happened to him before. He felt bitter and absurd at the same time; there he was, standing at the counter, chatting with the saleswoman like some lazy schoolboy, in no hurry. As if there weren't goblins waiting for him in the next block with goods that could easily land him in Azkaban. As if his soul wasn't split. As if he didn't have four murders on his account.

He didn't want the rain to end. It was easy with Y/N. She understood him with half a word, with half a look, they finished each other's sentences, they read the same books, they even smiled the same way.

"Why didn't I see you at Hogwarts?" Tom asked, tilting his head to the side. "I would have remembered."

Y/N smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

"I had to work. I helped my mother here since I was a child, studied a little when I could, mostly on my own. Now I'm preparing for the OWLs. A bit too late for that, but still…’.

"And your father?" Tom asked after a pause. Asking about such things is rude. If they didn't mention a father, you probably already know where he was. But in that hour he and Y/N had spoken in such a way that Tom thought, If soulmates exist, it’s her.

“Merlin knows where he is”, Y/N shook her head indifferently. “Mom saw him a few of times. He called himself a prince, heir to an ancient family… Mom told me, he was a scruffy guy, but a charming one. They left me this ancient family name, so the Hogwarts letter addressed me as Y/N Gaunt, but I’d rather use my mother's name... Oh, be careful!”

Tom dropped the book he was holding.

“What?” he asked sharply. “Come again? Gaunt?”

For the first time, Y/N feared the look on his face.

***

“Tom, I don’t get it. Are you even going to marry her off or not?” Ray Lestrange asked irritably, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “You refused to even talk to Mulciber - that I can understand. Tony’s no prize either. But what's wrong with Rosier? I won't even mention Malfoy, who can easily drown Y/N in gold, and his name is quite respectable”.

Tom stirred his tea absently, as if he hadn't been listening.

“Rosier botched his mission twice, we’ve spoken, and I’ll sideline until he learns to behave”, he finally said. “As for Malfoy... Drowning someone in gold doesn’t require much gold”.

“Tom, that was figurative”.

“I know. And forget the name”, he added coldly. “Y/N has Slytherin’s blood in her veins. She is no less in status than Princess Elizabeth, and you want me to marry her off to some rich upstart from overseas?”.

"There you go again..." Lestrange said wearily. "Fine. No worthy groom for your precious cousin in magical Britain. Tom, no offence, but what now? I understand your fears. She’s your blood, you want the best for her...”

"No, you don't understand.

***

Y/N was everything. Home, family, comfort. A friend, a light in the window, a breath of air. She was what he lacked and what he couldn't live without.

If he knew who’d kept Y/N from him for sixteen years, he would kill them without any wand, bare-handed. But there were too many guilty ones. And instead, Tom strangled those who dared to look askance at his little sister or think badly of her (not figuratively, he was a skilled Legilimens already). Fortunately, few were foolish enough.

Another taboo was talking to Y/N about the organization. When Nott hinted at something in her presence, he writhed under Crucio within an hour. She knew nothing. She didn’t even know that Tom had sent her father to Azkaban.

Sometimes he wondered if he’d split his soul to find its match. If so, he regretted nothing.

***

Of course, Tom didn’t explain all of this to Lestrange.

“… Then why lead them on?” Ray asked wearily. “Marry your precious princess yourself and be done with it. There is no law against it, neither Muggle nor magical”.

“As if I’d ask Muggles for permission”,  Tom chuckled. “Ray, has it ever occurred to you that there are soul bonds beyond romance?”

“You mean you share one with her?”

Tom didn't answer. The door creaked upstairs, and Y/N's sleepy face appeared on the balcony.

“Oh, Mr. Lestrange!..” she exclaimed. “Tom, why didn't you warn me that we had guests?”

Tom looked at her as one might look at the sun, gold, a masterpiece, a beloved child, a mother. Like no one else. Lestrange felt a chill.

“It's alright, darling. Come down”, Tom said softly. “The tea is fresh”.

[zlorelai]

Mel hid behind one of the pillars in the hallway with the large staircase. The railing was made of dark wood and decorated with rich embellishments, the golden Medarda star shining the brightest among them. Any minute now the large double doors would be thrown open and her mother and grandfather would be home. A wave of dizziness overcame her, so that she had to lean against the column to keep herself upright. Loud voices, jovial could be heard from outside. Mel made sure to grab the hem of her dress so that she could not be spotted in her hiding place. She wore a different dress than usual. No whites or lilac tones but black and red hues and a silver pin, matching her ring, sitting right above her heart, pricking her skin even through the thick fabric. She always made sure to dress in her house’s colours when her mother was gone, especially when attending events Ambessa would normally go to.

When two pairs of heavy steps drew closer to the door, Mel took a deep breath that made her cough in way that had her clutching her hand to her chest in pain. She managed to steady herself just soon enough for Menelik and Ambessa to strut through the door without noticing her immediately.

Peeking out from behind the column, Mel watched as the two made halt just before reaching the grand staircase. Grandfather Menelik was resting his hand on her mother’s shoulder, speaking urgently. There was nothing left of the jolliness that had rang from outside. Mel’s hands felt clammy, and she dared not breathe, lest she disturb the scene before her. She tried to understand what her grandfather was saying but in their urgent secrecy, they spoke only in muted whispers. Muted whispers, that noise in Mel’s ears, coming from inside her head and becoming increasingly painful, her mother’s own agitated mumbling and then…a loud sneeze. The observed whipped around to see their observer and Mel wondered briefly, if that’s how the hunter feels when the beast spots them before they can strike. Of course, Mel hadn’t intended to strike at all. She had placed herself there in hopes of becoming privy to some of the information she would not typically be intrusted with. Her cousins would show their true mettle in the arena when the success of the campaign is made known to all and the warlords of house Medarda drink their stolen riches and watch their children prove their worth to them. Mel had her own weapons to sharpen, supposing she was still invited to the performance after this.

The sinking feeling that she had now wasted her one good chance made her dig her nails into her palms, as she ran up to her room, not giving her grandfather or her mother the time to scold her.

“Mel!” Her mother shouted, but Mel could not hear her over the coughing fit that came upon her as soon as she closed the door to her room.

No one followed her into her room. Her mother would probably come to speak with her later. Mel thought of the red folder she had left on her mother’s desk. Ambessa had ordered her to write a paper on the mechanics of a social gathering Menelik had hosted months ago. She and Kino were unsure if their mother would truly read all the essays, she let them write over the years. As she got herself ready for bed, she crossed her fingers that she didn’t. She wasn’t sure if her mother would find the drawing of the drakehound inside the folder particularly amusing after catching her spying on her and grandfather.

Kino would find it amusing. Her brother would know how to talk himself out of this. She was beginning to learn from him, but far away as he was now, meeting a business partner with father, she could not conjure up the words he would use. Falling into the covers of her bed, she decided that finding words of her own would have to wait until tomorrow.

An hour later, the sun had set, but the torches outside offered just enough light for Mel to find another silk handkerchief in the drawer next to her bed. Her head felt heavy and the pressure in her ears made her claw at her face in hopes of relieving it. With a flick of the wrist, she tossed the now-used handkerchief to the floor where several others were already lying. She’d pick them up tomorrow. Endless hours seemed to pass in just that one hour, staring at the ceiling or out the window but not really seeing anything through burning eyes. Putting on another layer of clothes and then peeling them off again because hot and cold where not separate sensations anymore but just layers of the same constant discomfort. Sleep had never felt so far out of reach and yet Mel would hear heavy steps in the hall outside her room or see a brawny silhouette mirrored in her window, both gone after a moment of anticipation, so that she figured that she must be dreaming.

She closed her eyes tightly and moved her jaw in an attempt to ease the dull pain spreading from her ears to her jawline. When Mel heard the creaking of the old wooden stairs right after the unmistakable sound of a door falling back into its frame, she, having felt betrayed by her senses, paid it no mind. The door to her room opened and a warm hand was placed on her forehead. The warmth chased away some of the pain in her temple. Mel dared not move but the hand disappeared anyways, only to be replaced by something solid, radiating even more warmth. Leaning into the soothing heat, Mel reached for the hand holding the heated tin bottle to her face and found that it was rough and had one raised line going from the wrist to the back of the hand. As she was falling asleep, Mel outlined the scar on her mother’s hand groggily.

The sun stood high on the horizon, when Mel opened her eyes again. She stretched her limbs and yawned. The animated chatter from the servants and soldiers working outside was a welcome change to the deafening noise that had been ringing in her ears just hours ago. With rested eyes, Mel inspected the room she had woken up in. It wasn’t her own. Her art equipment, her spatulas, paints, and canvases were missing. Instead, she saw her father’s book collection and her mother’s favourite weaponry and the maps made by uncle Hanek. Right above her mother’s desk, she spotted her drawing of a drakehound, hung on the wall. Mel smiled brightly.

[honeymoonblues]

Crash!

Remus Lupin x Professor!Reader

Summary: You're the new History of Magic professor. (Gender neutral reader).

Word count: 882

A/N: This is completely self-indulgent. Let me know if there are any spelling errors, English is not my first language.

Not every first meeting was interesting. Truth to be told, most weren’t. And Remus Lupin has never considered himself to be an interesting person, either.Getting to know you, however, felt like crashing against a wall. Because that’s exactly what happened the first time he met you.

In his defense, he got distracted while being a true gentleman, showing you the way to your classroom.He understood first-hand the nerves that came with the first day as a professor, after all, it was only his second year teaching at Hogwarts.

When you approached him, a radiant smile on your lips and asking directions, he suddenly he remembered what Minerva mentioned on one of her letters she sent him. ‘The new History professor!’ he thought.

Remus had never imagined he’d seen the day when professor Binns decided to stop teaching, but it had happened, and in the middle of last year, too. Binns had died while sleeping in the staff room more than a hundred years before, and he was already old when that happened! But his ghost just showed up to the next class like nothing happened, and he didn’t intend to stop teaching for a long, long time.

So, when Minerva said they had finally found a substitute for him, Remus assumed they would be an alive version of old Binns, or even another boring ghost. It was more than a pleasant surprise when you showed up. Young, colorful and full of energy.

He thought he was doing a fantastic first impression. He introduced himself, not stuttering once, walking alongside you and giving you a brief tour. He was captivated by the fact that you were not from the UK. Are there no history professor in the country? He wondered. But he was definitely not complaining. You had a distinct accent, and a sparkling way of talking, as if you were vibrating with enthusiasm.

“It’ll do the students a great good, you know.” He smiled at you. “Learning a little history, I mean.”

“But... I thought there was another professor before me, that’s what i was told!” You looked at him, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

“Oh yes, yes. But you see, professor Binns was, uh...” He shook his hand slightly, gesturing ‘so-so’. “Old.”

You mouthed a little ‘oh’ and nodded, understanding that an old-school teacher could get a little boring to the kids.

After showing you around the great hall, the staff room, the main hallways, and spending a good few minutes trying to help you figure out the moving staircases, you were finally on the way to your classroom and office. You two were talking non-stop the whole time, and he was glad to find you were quite the chatterbox.

It had been a long time since Remus had the opportunity to meet someone new, a potential friend, and he felt full of energy for once.

That’s when it happened. He was already leaving your classroom, after he’d been assured a few times that yes, you would be fine to move in without help, and no, you didn’t need anything else, thanks. He kept walking forward, but looking back at you, saying that he’ll see you at dinner. He felt pretty confident he was directed straight to the open door, but when he looked straight ahead, his nose was directly met with the door frame. Missing the exit for a few good centimeters.

You had the good grace not to laugh at Remus when he squeaked at the impact, but in the haste of getting close to help him, you stumbled and almost crashed into him. That got a fantastic laugh out of you, and he started giggling almost immediately, still covering his nose with his hand, his embarrassment slowly subduing. You both had to take a moment to recover after that.

Trying to quit grinning, you approached him.

“Goodness, do you feel alright?”

“Yes, of course! Don’t you worry... See? It was just a little bump.” He uncovered his nose to show it to you, bloodless and seemingly normal. “I had worse, I promise.” And he smiled brilliantly.

‘Of course you did.’ You thought, admiring his smile and the scars that littered his face. Trying to appease the curiosity that you felt bubbling up inside you. You beamed at him. Realizing, at that same moment, that you truly wanted to know more about this man.

Remus finally left your classroom, he said goodbye one more time, assuring you that yes, his nose was completely fine, and no, he didn’t need any help, thanks. Then, he walked all the way to his own office smiling, forgetting about the pain almost without realizing it.

Oh, how long had it been since he felt like this?

You too, even occupied with unpacking and organizing, couldn’t help but giggle at the memories of the morning. Most of the nervousness you were feeling earlier was smoothed, and the only thing left in you was excitement. It was definitely a great start.

Even when your first meeting hadn’t been all that eventful (if not quite embarrassing), and while Remus still considered himself a boring person, he was sure none of you would would forget the first impression of each other. (He was also incredibly glad he had the whole year to get to know you.)

[gregorovitch-adler]

Sock

"John this is ridiculous."

"I know! But it's fun, so let's go for it."

"Aren't we supposed to put the notes in some Christmas stockings?"

"Forgot to buy them," said John, closing his eyes momentarily. "Let's just use a pair of socks instead. They're perfectly clean."

"D'you think Father Christmas is real?" asked Sherlock, picking up a fresh, lone sock from the coffee table. "You think he'd fulfill my wish if I just wrote it on a paper and placed it in this stupid sock?"

"I don't! I realised long ago during my childhood that he isn't real. But Harry and I used to do it anyway. It just became a habitual thing," said John as he tore off a piece of paper from a small notebook and scribbled something on it. He folded that paper and placed it in the other sock - which was of the same pair as Sherlock's.

He looked up at Sherlock with expectation, who was just sitting there on his armchair, looking at the floor with his lips pressed together.

"Go on," said John and passed another piece of paper and a pen to Sherlock across the coffee table.

"If you know your wish isn't going to come true, this whole thing is a waste of time," Sherlock said and picked up the pen paper to write something anyway.

"It's not! Think of it as a type of manifestation." John stretched his legs and yawned.

They didn't have elaborate Christmas celebrations in 221 B, but John was still happy about tomorrow. Any special occasion spent at home - with Sherlock - was a day well spent.

"I don't believe in all that. Whatever's going to happen will happen. No matter how much you manifest."

John shook his head and sighed. "All right. Suit yourself then. I'm off to bed."

John got up from his armchair with the sock in his hand. He walked across the room to the fireplace and hung the sock over it.

His note inside it was short and simple: My Current Life.

He knew it was not a wish, technically, but he did not want any external factors to take Sherlock and his life at 221 B away from him. Again.

He'd had a deep and long talk with Sherlock about the staged suicide, and why Sherlock had to do it. John had finally started to see that incident from Sherlock's perspective too, and he really wished to keep his current life forever.

Besides, John knew that his feelings for Sherlock were unrequited, and things between them were going to be that way. It was not as though he could ask for Sherlock as his partner. He would rather keep his manifestations realistic.

With these thoughts, John went to the staircase leading to his room and started to climb up.

He entered his bedroom, closed the door behind him, and hopped onto the bed immediately. It didn't take him long to doze off.

John's eyes fluttered open in the middle of the night. He was thirsty. He got up and dropped his feet on the floor. After stretching his limbs, he got off the bed and stepped out of the bedroom to go downstairs.

John stopped in the middle of the staircase to take in the whole sitting room. They had decorated the Christmas tree a day before, and despite Sherlock's complaining now and then, it had been a pleasant time.

John noticed a pair of socks hanging above the fireplace - not just his own. He smiled. Sherlock had participated in something just because John had asked him to.

John went to the kitchen to grab a glass from one of the cabinets. He took it to the sink and opened the tap to fill it.

As he began to drink, leaning against the counter, John stared at the socks in the sitting room again.

He and Sherlock were not too dissimilar from a pair of socks, were they? Each completed the other; both were useless on their own.

He did not know about Sherlock, but John knew he was pretty much useless without him.

John closed his eyes and shook his head to get these thoughts out of his head again. He sighed. If only Sherlock felt the same.

Finishing the glass of water, he put it in the sink and wondered: What had Sherlock written in the note inside his sock?

John went to the sitting room and walked to the fireplace to reach for the other sock. He knew he shouldn't be looking into someone else's note - it was prying, and it defeated the purpose - but for some reason, he could not stop himself from doing it that night.

After all, what was it that Sherlock wanted in his life so much that he ended up hanging the sock with the note - when he didn't even believe in things like that? John felt like he needed to know.

John ran his fingers over the fabric of that sock, feeling the piece of paper from the outside.

John looked over his shoulder before finally taking out the paper. He swallowed as his heart began to race. He opened the paper carefully with his fingers, and his jaw dropped when he saw what the note said.

John.

Was he dreaming? Had Sherlock written that to mess with John? But no... he wouldn't have expected John to read the note. No, it was real!

Sherlock had wished for John this Christmas. It sounded unrealistic, so John turned around the note this way and that to see if there was more to it.

Nothing. Sherlock had actually wanted John, and that was it. Nothing else.

John couldn't control the huge grin forming on his face. But that grin quickly turned into a rueful smile. If only he had known about it sooner. Then again, John had not done a great job communicating about his feelings to Sherlock either.

Anyway, as he folded the paper to place it back in the sock, John made a decision.

The moment he faced Sherlock again in the morning, he was going to discuss this with him finally. No more misunderstandings. John was going to put an end to this pining tomorrow.

But tonight, he was going to sleep fine - cherishing the memory of Sherlock's note in that sock.

Tagging: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @missdeliadili @lookingforlifeoutthere @peanitbear @a-victorian-girl @calaisreno @kettykika78

[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Prisoner: Part One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: Now that Charlie is out of the way, you're getting your kids whether they want it or not. You're not asking this time. If they don't hand them over by sundown, Y/N won't be coming for them. The Scarlet Witch will, and they won't like what happens if she does.

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

The first thing Dean and Sam did was set up a hunter's funeral for Charlie near the Bunker. No words need to be said as they both work to set up the pyre with long wooden posts. Dean locks in the last log before looking at Sam. He has Charlie's body wrapped in a white cloth in his arms. With Dean's help, they place her in the middle of the pyre and set it on fire. As much as they love her, they'd hate it if she came back as a ghost.

"Charlie, we're going to miss you," Sam says with tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry this happened to you. You were truly one of the best."

Dean stares at the note you wrote to them with hatred in his eyes.

"Either her soul is ready now or I'm putting her down," Dean says and crumples up the paper.

"You're going to kill your wife?"

Dean turns to Sam with fire in his eyes. He is so pissed that blue magic starts pouring out of his fists.

"That is not my wife. My wife is stuck inside my head. If killing Y/N means I can only see her in my dreams then so be it."

"Dean, the plan is to disarm her. How do you expect to kill the Scarlet Witch?"

"Brutally," he says without emotion.

Both brothers wait until the fire dies out before going back into the Bunker. Dean is so pissed that he doesn't know whether to drown his sorrows in alcohol or if he needs to kill something. Cas walks in with a sorrowful look on his face.

"Where's Rowena?"

"Locked up tight. I had to come here to make sure you're both okay."

"No, I'm not okay, Cas. Charlie is dead!!" Dean yells. "Y/N wasn't alone last night which means she's been making friends with the Stynes. I gotta take them down because I can't take down that witch!"

"Is that you or the Mark talking?" Sam asks.

"Does it matter?"

The metal front door opens and closes, and someone walks down the metal staircase.

"Lucy, I'm home," you sing. Dean sees red at hearing your voice. Not even Cas can stop him from storming into the war room. He takes out his gun and aims it at you with tears in his eyes. "What are you going to do with that?"

"You killed Charlie."

Sam and Cas walk into the room from behind him. Neither of them is stopping Dean from potentially shooting you.

"She was a lesson that needed to be taught. I told you what was going to happen if you didn't listen. If I don't carry out my threats, how will you ever take me seriously?"

"I'm going to kill you," he says, his voice shaking with rage.

"With what gun?" you laugh. Immediately, the gun in Dean's hands disappears. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I never laid a hand on Charlie. She did it all herself. I'd know." You grin. "I watched."

"Why are you here?" Sam asks, trying not to choke up. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want. Where are my children?" Sam and Dean refuse to say anything so you have no choice but to read their minds. Both of them try really hard to block you out but it's clear they don't know. You look at Cas but he's a lot stronger than they are. You can't get past his walls. "I know you know something."

"So, what if we do? You're not going to get it."

"That's where you're wrong. I realize that I'm not going to get what I want if I resort to violence. So, I'm going to offer you a deal and be nice just this once. I'm giving you three until sundown tonight to hand over my kids, and then you'll never see me again."

"They're my kids, too," Dean glares.

"I know, but they'll be with the better parent. I already told you, you're a shitty dad. Like father, like son, right?"

Dean closes his eyes as he remembers the words the real you said to him.

"I want you to know something, Dean." You grab his cheeks and make him look at you. "No matter what she says or what she does, just remember I love you so much. You are my best friend, my husband, the love of my life, and the father of my children. There is nothing that I wouldn't do for you. I'd trade the whole world for a minute of your time. You are strong and brave and caring. I don't know what she said to you but just know my love for you is stronger than her magic. Please don't forget that."

No, he's not going to forget that.

"Great, so we're all in agreement. Turn them over by sundown tonight."

You turn to leave but Sam's words stop you.

"What if we don't?"

You turn your head so that all they're seeing is your side profile. You smirk.

"Then it won't be Y/N that comes for you. It'll be the Scarlet Witch."

As soon as you're gone, Dean yells out in anger. He sends a ball of blue magic into the wall so hard that it cracks and makes a huge dent. Dean turns to Cas with tears in his eyes.

"Please tell me her soul is ready," he begs.

Cas raises his hand and looks inside Dean's mind. Pleased at what he sees, he removes his hand with a smile.

"It is ready. It's pure now. I know if she gets it back now, she will be okay."

"Great. Look, she gave us until sundown but if she wants my kids, she'll have to do it over my dead body. You two come up with a plan. I have to avenge Charlie's death. This is the one thing I can control so please, give me this."

"Are you sure, Dean?"

"I need this, Sammy."

"Alright, we'll come up with a plan."

"Great."

Dean leaves Sam and Cas alone to deal with that while he goes back to the scene of the crime. He got the motel manager to hand over the security footage of last night and sent it over to a hunter he trusts. He can definitely kill the Stynes but no matter what, he can't kill you. He told Sam that he would but there is a chance of saving you now. He can't do it.

"Rudy. I just sent you some security camera footage of a black sedan. I need you to run the plates."

"Yeah can do, just give me a second here." A moment passes. "Weird. Uh, the vehicle's registered to Eldon Styne out of Newton, Kansas but there's no street address. Does this guy have something to hide?"

"Yeah, big time. I'll fill you in later, thanks."

"Yeah sure, but isn't that what Sam's for?"

"He's busy."

Dean gets into the car and starts the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Newton. Sam and Cas head back to the church where Rowena is to fill her in on what happened.

"Well about bloody time," she glares at them. "Where's Charlie?"

"She's dead."

"What happened?"

"Y/N happened. She killed her. She'll come after you, too if you're not careful."

"Well, what now?" Cas asks.

"I don't care what Dean says. He wants to avenge Charlie's death, that's fine. He's going to push himself over the edge. I low-jacked the Impala a few weeks ago so we should be able to track him."

Sam pulls out his phone and pulls up Dean's location. Seconds later, Sam gets a notification that he got an email from Charlie. He frowns and opens it, gasping when he sees Charlie's notes. She might have done it. She might have cracked the code before she was killed. He stalks over to Rowena and hands her the phone.

"Is this what I think it is?"

"Oh, that little minx. She's cracked the code," Rowena smirks.

"Can you read the Book of the Damned with this?"

"Every last word. We can cure the Mark of Cain."

"Okay, Cas, go find Dean and make sure he doesn't go over the edge, okay? I'll stay here and we'll figure out how to cure Dean and Y/N."

"Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, Charlie died because of this and we didn't even use any spells from it."

"Cas, I have to do this. I've been the one to be out there alone and scared, and Dean and Y/N brought me back. They saved me multiple times! If we don't remove this thing from Y/N, she will kill us. She will be too powerful to stop, and those were your words. We have the power to stop them once and for all."

"Fine," Cas sighs. "You need to come up with a plan about Y/N, though."

"I know, I'm working on it."

Cas leaves once Sam sends him Dean's location, and Rowena sits down with a smirk.

"Oooh, I do love a bit of intrigue."

"Right, less talk, more translating. Go."

"About that. I said I could read the book, I never said I would."

"We had a deal!"

"We did--we do, and it's time you held up your end. I want my son dead!"

"After--"

"Now," she cuts him off. "Once I cast the spell--and you need me to cast that spell--who knows what'll happen."

Sam slams his hand down angrily on the table.

"I don't have time for this!"

"You're right, you don't! Your brother and his wife are a walking fucking time bomb, and the clock is ticking. So, you will kill my son, and you will do it my way, now!"

Sam leaves in a puff of anger. While on the road, Dean is stopped by police officers. He pulls over on the side of the road and fishes for his registration. He pulls out a fake ID and shrugs thinking it's good enough to get him out of this one. One officer approaches Dean's window while the other officer stays at the back.

"What's the problem, officer?"

"License and reg."

"Yep."

He hands it over and, and the officer chuckles when he sees Dean's name on the ID.

"Ashley J. Williams, huh?"

"You can call me Ash."

"Out of the car, Ashley."

Dean complies and steps out to confront the two officers.

"Well, I wasn't speeding, I'm sober--mostly sober--so what's this about?"

"Blinker's out." The second officer takes his nightstick and smashes one of the taillights on the Impala. "That's a violation." The officer walks to the other taillight and Dean glares at him. He smashes it just like he did with the first one. "Two lights out."

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean lunges for the officer but the first one grabs him and shoves him face-first into the side of the car.

"Now we've got an attempted assault of a police officer. Looks like we're taking you down to the station, boy."

The officer handcuffs him and Dean willingly goes with them. He would easily beat their asses but things just got interesting because he knows this town is infested with Stynes.

"Oh, I ain't your boy, Cletus."

"Right now you are, so you best settle or you're gonna get an ass-whupping instead of a phone call."

Both officers take Dean and his car back to the station. The one who smashed Dean's taillights keeps him chained to his desk while the other one goes into his office to make a phone call. Deputy Boulton goes through all of Dean's fake IDs, reading off each of the names he's given himself.

"Ozzy Osbourne, Lemmy Kilmister, and Freddy Mercury. Damn. I mean, they said you were a pro, but--"

"Who said that?"

"I'll ask the questions here. For example, you've got seventeen fake IDs and a trunk full of guns, knives, fucking ninja stars. I mean, who are you, man?"

"I'm the guy that's gonna get out of here in about thirty seconds."

"Yeah, right," Boulton scoffs.

There is a cup full of pens that Dean slowly knocks onto the ground like a cat would with a water bottle.

"Real mature," Boulton rolls his eyes.

Boulton gets up and rounds the table to pick up the mess when Dean grabs his arm and punches him in the face. He throws Boulton onto the ground, holding him tightly by his strong bow legs.

"Keys! Now!"

Boulton immediately gives them up and Dean kicks his face, knocking him out cold. He uses the keys to free himself before searching for the other office. He finds him in his office on the phone, staring out the window with his back to Dean.

"Yeah, he was driving a '67 Impala, just like you said. ... Sure, can do."

"Who are you talking to?"

Sheriff Landels turns around and pales when he sees the gun in Dean's hand.

"Nobody."

"Really?" Dean marches over to the sheriff and hits him in the face with his gun. "That's for lying to me." He hits him again. "That's for my baby." Dean, with all his strength, grabs the sheriff and heaves him onto his desk. He shoves his gun into his face, not caring if the sheriff looks like he is going to piss himself. "Who were you talking to?"

"Monroe Styne. He said if I saw you I was supposed to bring you in, and then call him."

"Any relation to Eldon?"

"That's his Daddy."

"Where can I find him?"

"You can't take on the Stynes. They own this town. They're practically Gods around here."

"I kill Gods."

x

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[lost-letters-from-atlantis]

"You're just too anxious."

My eyes glance around the medical cabinet, relentlessly looking around, like I'm trying to commit every detail of the room to memory. Like I try to avoid looking in the psychiatrist eyes.

Maybe he just didn't understand what I'm saying. I went through several years of therapy to deal with the anxiety and depression already. It's behind me.

"I always feel like there's a glass wall between me and other people." I start to explain. "Like they're following a very complex script and I never received my part of it."

"Do you feel anxious in those situations?"

My eyes stop on his figure for a moment, before looking behind, at the window.

"No, it's not that. It's uneasiness. See, the weirds are fine. I like to talk with the weirds because it doesn't feel like they're expecting me to recite a script. I hate to talk with the normals because it feels like they're speaking a language I'm not fluent in."

He doesn't look at me. Instead, he looks at the papers in his hands. They date back to when I was 15 years old and getting an IQ test.

"But then when you talk with them, you're stressed out right?"

I squirm. It feels like the conversation is on loop. I don't know what to add to satisfy him.

"No! I mean, yes? It's stressful to know that the person you talk to can sense that something is wrong with you without you being able to see what it is that you're failing at!"

He hums.

I pause, looking down. My voice is quieter, unsure as I add.

"Sometimes I replay the conversations in my head later to see what behaviour I need to correct."

Another hum. He nods at the paper that says I become anxious in performance contexts, and types something on his computer.

I know immediately I shouldn't have said that.

"What about when you go out?" He continues like the precedent issue is already solved. "Do you feel anxious when you go out with your friends?"

"With my friends it's fine." I answer. But I continue. I can't help but be honest. You need to be honest with doctors so they'll believe you. "But I don't like going out alone very much. There's a lot of noises and I..."

The image of my walk home from last night flashes in my mind. There's the incessant noise of cars and people talking as they almost run into me and music sipping out of bars, and I stare at mirrors to make sure no one is walking behind me. Glancing at any remotely masculine figure like it's a threat.

You never know which man will be your assaulter. It happened to a friend of mine last time. It happened to students in my degree who got surprised just in front of the college building by an old man liking his lips as their skirts flew in the wind, pretending he was waiting for his daughter. It happens all the time. It could happen to me.

That's why I walk faster when I see a man walking behind me in the streets. That's why I flinch when one of them crosses my path, anticipating the vicious, threatening tone of his voice calling me a slut.

"... I don't feel safe."

The man in front of me hums and nods at himself. I can tell he doesn't get what I'm saying for what it really means. He has no idea how it feels to live in a world that wants you dead for who you are.

Or maybe he thinks I don't sense the danger anymore because I'm part of the dominants now.

People often forget that because I'm a man, it doesn't mean I wasn't born a daughter. I was a girl until the end of middle-school. It was old enough to be cat-called by grown ups in the streets.

"What about when you're at home? Does it feel safer?"

This one I could have handled easily a few months ago, before the incident.

"I used to. But a while ago a man started knocking insistently on my door." I shiver. "We had to call the police. I still think about it sometimes and it makes me feel unsafe."

I can still remember clearly the way he followed me up in the staircase. Standing in silence behind me as I unlocked my door with trembling hands. Afraid to die. Afraid of worse than dying. I can still picture the way he advanced towards my doorstep as I passed it and closed the door on him. His glassy, empty eyes boring into mine. He looked devoid of any sort of emotion. Soulless, like a puppet.

He knocked repetitively on my door until I called my friends crying to come and help me out of here.

The psychiatrist types some more on his computer. My throat tighten. I can tell reaching out was pointless. He doesn't believe me. He thinks he knows better than me. I should have lied.

It's dumb really: I always lied, and it always got me out of trouble. It almost made me feel sick the first time I tried to tell the truth to one of my teachers but a lie slipped from my lips the second I opened them.

A hypocrite, I called myself. Trying so hard to be good but failing miserably before I could even prove I genuinely wanted to be better.

I didn't get punished, this one time.

And then I kept lying and I got what I needed. More time to finish homeworks when I felt like dying. A sport dispensation when I dreaded to enter the changing rooms.

But somehow I still tried to get what I wanted by being honest with doctors who didn't know a thing on my condition besides clichés and stereotypes.

Silly, silly me, I tell myself as I listen to the man talk about how my autistic symptoms weren't strong enough to seek a diagnosis. I was just anxious. Always just anxious. Forever just anxious.

I smile. Defeated. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to try anymore. I'll just keep lying.

[arwenlalaith]

Love You 'til Tomorrow (Ch. 2/7)

Ship: Bertha Russell/George Russell

Summary: One of their bitterest fights had been over Charlotte's headstone - back when there still had been hope she might one day return. Now that she's buried beneath it, it doesn't seem to matter much. Nothing does anymore.

Day 2: Portrait

Word Count: 755

Author's Note: This was written for the @gildedagecreatorscotillion, but real life kinda got in the way of my intention to write the whole thing in advance... It's what I'll call an 'off-shoot' of my fic Save Some Forgiveness for Me - basically, I'm going to keep writing the original following the path of the show, this will be sort of an alternate universe which breaks off following S2.

The story, as the Pinkerton agent had pieced it together, was that after Charlotte was plucked from her cradle, she was sold to the highest bidder: a wealthy couple from New Orleans. She’d been treated well, wanted for nothing, and was safe and sound in Louisiana waiting for them to rescue her.

_____

Bertha couldn’t have even begun to name the emotions churning in the pit of her stomach just then.

She was fairly certain she’d know immediately whether the child presented to her was truly Charlotte. Or, she would have been, had she not been fairly certain they’d just buried Charlotte...

The more pressing issue on her mind was rather whether Charlotte would know her. Whether any trace of her remained in Charlotte’s memory after all this time. She’d spent a lot of time over the past months trying not to ruminate endlessly on the kinds of conditions Charlotte was enduring – whether she was safe, whether she was fed...whether she was loved. If there was one thing Bertha refused to abide, it was thinking that she was living without love.

She felt George’s presence as he approached behind her, his hands landing on her shoulders. She waited for him to speak, but it seemed that words failed him in that moment as well. Afterall, what was there to say? He’d already said it all – trying to keep her hopes from being dashed if this was only someone trying to pull the wool over their eyes. She knew it might not be Charlotte, but if there was even the slightest chance it was her... Well, it was a nice change to have something to believe in.

She took a steadying inhale and there was something about the warmth of his cologne that was comforting and, in spite of the gravity of the situation, she felt the ghost of a smile cross her lips. She realized it was the closest they’d been since the night of the opera and the smile was gone as quickly as it had arrived, replaced with sadness.

Before she could begin to pluck at that tenuous thread, though, the door before them opened.

_____

Somehow – and, looking back, she couldn’t have said with confidence how exactly – they’d managed to talk their way into the Melancons’ palatial mansion and were now seated in their sitting room while a maid scuttled about with iced tea for everyone.

The Melancons were seated below a stately family portrait, clearly done recently and with a great deal of talent behind the brush, and Bertha might normally have thought to ask after the artist, but all her attention was devoted solely to the little girl in the portrait. Even on canvas, she looked like a Russell.

“I’m sorry you came all this way,” William drawled with his Cajun accent, “I don’t know what you were told, but I can assure you Lucille most certainly is not your daughter.”

George had come prepared, expecting to be met with stiff resistance, and he was quick to launch into the legal arguments. Bertha was only half listening. She’d been desperately eager for them to produce Charlotte, but – whether deliberately or not – they seemed less than willing to present the child. It seemed, though, that Charlotte – or Lucille, it would seem she answered to – had other thoughts on the matter.

From the corner of her eye, she caught movement on the elegant staircase leading into the foyer and knew immediately how appealing this conversation must have been to a small child.

The girl locked eyes with Bertha for a moment and immediately froze, anticipating a scold. When none ensued, an impish smile crossed her lips, and she crept forwards so that she remained just out of sight of her ‘parents’.

Bertha wasn’t so naive as to believe that Charlotte would immediately know her, but she’d been optimistic enough to hope that there might be a flicker of recognition somewhere deep inside her. Some small sign that she still remained somewhere in her daughter’s heart – that’s all she asked for...

And perhaps there was, but it remained hidden as Charlotte was far more concerned with eavesdropping. Bertha couldn’t help but smile, if only to herself, as Charlotte had always been precocious, right from birth. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the very same child who had grown in her womb, who’d suckled at her breast, who’d slept night after night in her bed, steadfastly refusing to be soothed by anyone other than her mother.

This was her daughter.

[justicefanged]

The name on the roster was unmistakable, but it was the titled and tenured position next to it that Lyn could not quite reconcile.

It could have been any man named Linus who was a professor, or any professor surnamed Reed, but the combination on the note to deliver syllabi to Linus Reed - Golden Deer Professor sent her mind scrambling for explanations.

She had seen him fight and had seen him fall, and in the chaos of everything that had followed had heard no more of the Black Fang. Although she supposed that this was the proclivity of a group of high level assassins, she could not imagine a man less attuned to the shadows as Linus Reed.

Was this some other ploy of Nergal's, then? Another animated construct of his, another morph infiltrating a position of high prestige?

Her footsteps took her down the spiraling stone staircase and into the quad of the academy, and her eyes sought out the Golden Deer classroom where her quarry awaited. Shouldering her way into the classroom, and without any further ado, she plopped the paperwork onto the desk where the man sat, catching his gaze and holding it sternly for a moment before she spoke.

No gold in those irises but sunlight.

"What are you doing here? Not chasing my friends anymore, are you? If you are, I'll have no reservations in striking you down!"

He really, really did despise doing paperwork -- but, he figured, slogging through it himself was better than another weird stand off with that giant bald guy.

Maybe.

Honestly, depending on the day, it was a toss up between which one he wanted to have happen least.

So, boots planted up on the desk and leaning back in his chair, Linus throws a sour look at the door when it opens and someone enters the otherwise empty classroom with quite the determined stride. And papers. A fat stack of bloody annoying papers.

His expression shifts, however, at the accusations that immediately come out of this young woman's mouth. Brow furrowing in confusion, Linus pulls his feet down off the desk with scrape of bootheels against wood and stands opposite her at his full height. He stares her down for a solid minute, before his nose scrunches up and he huffs out an irritated, "Do I know you and your friends, lass?"

And, at first, he didn't recognize her or know what she was talking about. But the longer she stands there, fiery eyes and proud stance, the more she seems sort of familiar.

"Wait, wait, wait-- I do know you, don't I?" Linus growls, eyes narrowing. "You were with those Lycians, back home. I ain't here for any of your friends, but if it's a fight ya want, I wouldn't disappoint!"

She wasn't a student, and she had technically threatened him first, so surely he couldn't get into hot water if this did turn into a fight, right? Besides, it seemed both of them hadn't let go of all that had happened in Elibe.

[wonopia]

SUMMER TROUBLES | 006. WORTH IT

[WC] . 1200 prev ! mlist ! next

it had been one week since the party incident, also the last time he talked with his friends, and the last time he'd talk with yujin. the last thing he said was "aren't you a guy?" how embarrassing.

that's almost all he'd been thinking about- how much he regretted it, how there were millions of other responses he could've said, how rude he must've sounded in her point of view and of course he wouldn't want that.

he'd been in his room with maeumi doing his summer reading but he'd finished them by now. he even debated on rereading them. of course he didn't, he wasn't that insane.

he decided to go to one of his friends house so he bundled up the courage to go ask his mom who was downstairs watching her show. he carried maeumi until they reached the last step of his staircase, putting her down carefully.

he trudged over beside the couch, "hey mom, can i go to tae's house? we planned to meet up a long time ago so we could start on his summer reading together," his moms series talking loudly over him.

"mhm yeah, go ahead, don’t be home late," she told him, leaning forward into her show.

"oh okay, thanks mom," he thanked, going upstairs to change before leaving to go to tae’s house.

they had never planned anything so jungwon was just hoping that tae was home although this whole time he'd been so busy. at the same time, the boy would rather stay home. it wouldn't hurt to stop by for a while.

so jungwon took the public bus to his place. by the time he reached tae's house, he was gasping for air because of how humid it was. the hot wind was doing nothing.

he heavily knocked on his best friends door. he squeezed his eyes shut when he didn’t hear anything coming from inside the house. getting impatient, he rang the doorbell. he started to fan his face due to the heat and could feel the drips of sweat forming around his face.

he wiped his face using his sleeve as he waited impatiently. he knocked a couple more times before gulping down his regret, what was this worth for?

"after all this time," he breathed out, basically gasping for air in his dry mouth, "gosh tae, where the hell are you?!"

he turned around before running with his hand over his eyes to cover himself from the sun as he sprinted to a nearby house, heeseungs.

"heeseung hyung!" he yelled as he approached the abode, "please, please, please be home.." he whispered among himself.

he knocked on the wooden door, leaning onto the frame, out of breath. in minutes, someone opened the door. it was tae.

"now you! i have mad beef with you!" he exaggerated, welcoming himself in heeseungs house without any acceptance. 

"i thought you were grounded," he ignored his side comment.

"she said i could go to your house because we're working on your summer reading essays."

"which reminds me, we have to work on that," taehyun mumbled, taking a note of it in his head before walking up the stairs to heeseungs room.

 jungwon followed up behind him out of breath. as they walked in, heeseung was lying down on his stomach on his phone.

"what happened to you?" he questioned, "dont tell me vernons dog got loose again.."

taehyun laughed at the thought before jumping onto the bed beside hee. jungwon dropped onto the floor, "gosh my back hurts. you guys live so far."

"you walked here?"

"no shit," jungwon retorted out of tiredness that turned into moodiness.

"why did you stop by anyways?" heeseung asked.

"because i cant handle being at home any longer without my phone!"

"ohh which reminds me.." heeseung started, getting up while pulling something up on his phone, "someone messaged me a day after the bonfire incident."

heeseung held the phone above jungwon’s face, his eyes widening at the screen and attempting to reach for it- before it dropped onto his nose.

"ah shit.." jungwon hissed, immediately getting up to massage his nose.

"oh my god!" hee exclaimed, " i thought you were gonna catch it!"

"what.. what the fuck.."  jungwon cursed, looking at his hand to see blood, "did you break my nose?"

"no way," tae gasped walking over to him before leading jungwon up and to the bathroom, "gosh heeseung, that's one way to treat a guest."

meanwhile hee was kneeled down on the floor, he peeked over to his phone to see some blood smeared on it before cringing, "eww! jungwon, your blood got on my screen!"

it had been a while since won got punched by hee's phone and won was now messaging yujin on it.

"took her long enough to respond," hee commented while waiting for her reply.

"what'd she say?" tae asked.

"uhhh," jungwon slowly started to grin before covering his mouth with his extra hand as he processed what she said.

he flipped the phone around so they could see the message, they were both in front of him laying on their stomachs as won was sitting against hee's headboard.

heeseung scoffed as taehyun nodded, "this soobin guy got some nice friends. we're not friends with any girls, why's that?"

"you guys aren’t, i am," wonnie told them, gesturing to the phone.

"friends?" taehyun wondered, "yeah sure."

"i mean she’s gotta be into you a little bit."

"why do you say that?" won asked.

"probably because she messaged me about what was up with you the day after you didnt reply to her," heeseung told him, "and look at how she’s messaging you. she was asking all kinds of questions, she want’s to talk with you."

"thats how a conversation works, dumb."

"yeah but wonnie, you have to think about it from her perspective," tae jumped in, "i mean.. she said she's been waiting for your message or something, now that has got to mean something."

the phone buzzed in his hand, "guys, she asked what we're doing?"

"well.. what are we doing?" tae asked.

"you can’t actually say what you're doing," heeseung told tae.

"and whys that?" tae and won asked at the same time.

hee sighed, "do i have to do everything? no wonder we dont have girl best friends," he rolled his eyes, "just say we're all doing our own things on our phones."

"he's literally using your phone, dumbass."

"so much for doing everything," they retorted. 

jungwon typed in that they were just talking about how the bonfire party had gone and that they were waiting for sunoo to arrive, which was partly what they were doing.

"now why would you say that?!" they both exclaimed.

note: i love where everything is headed. pls comment your thoughts freely, i love to hear people theories etc.

© wonopia 2024

open TAGLIST: @nodiotter @ilovejungwonandhaechan @sol3chu

[strawbrry-vamp]

𐔌 Your Highness~ !

꩜ .ᐟ { III/Fem! Reader }

꩜ .ᐟ { thank you for the request, @frogfrog557 <3 }

꩜ .ᐟ { Suggestive }

Or read on AO3

III walked through the palace door in the best attire he could find. He scans the ballroom, his eyes landing on you as you talk with your parents at the top of the winding staircase. III’s heart beats slightly faster as a smirk forms on his face. He needs to talk to you. III walks around the ballroom for a while, waiting for you to come down so he can have the chance to talk to you, many have tried to stray his attention from you but he always looks back to make sure he hasn’t missed his chance. 

Finally, after what feels like forever, you gracefully walk down the wide winding staircase, your ballgown flowing behind you, hundreds of eyes seem to be on you as you descend. As you make it to the bottom many people come up to you, asking to dance, even for a kiss. You decline the dances and the odd requests for a kiss, not finding any pleasure in dancing at the moment, just wanting to get away from the crowd, never seeming to enjoy it as much as your family does. III seems to notice and he comes over, taking your hand, and standing tall as he announces, “The princess needs space” and he leads you out of the palace over towards the royal garden despite protests from the people.

 As he leads you, you look at him curiously. “What’s your name?” you ask softly once he takes a seat on a nearby bench. He looks up at you with a grin bowing slightly, “My name is III, Your Highness” You smile, finding the name intriguing, everything about III is intriguing to you. He grins and pats the bench, urging you to sit next to him, and you do. “Do you ever get tired of it? Of the attention?” He asks. You laugh a little and he almost immediately falls in love with it. “Yea” you breathe out, “All the time, it’s not my favorite, but I do it for my family, even if I don’t like them very much.” III looks at you with admiration, “Yea,..I get that” he says, his eyes focusing on your lips. You smile softly, taking his chin in your hand, making him look into your eyes instead, a slightly mischievous look in your eyes and he feels something inside him stir. “Hey, my eyes are up here pretty boy~” you say cheekily. III’s smile widens and he bites his lip a little, “Well, your lips shouldn't be looking at me like that” he teases back. After a moment he leans in a little more and looks at you, desire clear in his gaze. “May I?” III whispers. You nod without a second thought and he leans in all the way, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. You separate after a few seconds and you look at him in the eyes and ask, “Want to take this to my room?” III is stunned slightly but is turned on by your confidence and he nods.

You grab his hand, leading him around to a hidden part of the palace, III is surprised to see a makeshift ladder leaving up to a window. You start to climb up the ladder, urging him to follow. As he starts up the ladder and looks up, he immediately looks away, cheeks red as he unintentionally looks up your dress at your underwear. As you both climb in through the window, he realizes it’s your bedroom. III looks back over to you to find you already lying on your bed in nothing but your bra and panties. The red and black pattern was mesmerizing to him. “Well…are you going to come and help me out of these?” you say, raising an eyebrow at him. III grins and nods, almost crushing you as he crawls on top of you, his breathing heavy as he stares at you. “Beautiful..” he mumbles before capturing your lips in a kiss. This one is much more passionate than the one you shared in the garden. His right hand rests on your hip, stroking the fabric of your underwear. He starts to trail his kisses down your chin to your neck, his hand slowly pulling your underwear down. The further he pulls them down the harder he sucks and nibbles on your neck harder, making you moan and writhe under him. He finally pulls them all the way off and he pulls away from your neck, liking his lips as he looks down at you. “You ready princess?” he purrs out. 

You lay there, chest heaving as III comes in with a wet rag, slowly and softly wiping away the cum splattered on your thighs. He whispers sweet nothings to you as he does. “You did so good princess, I got you.” III tosses the rag aside and lays next to you, placing his hand on your stomach softly, the contact making you shiver and you roll over to cuddle against him. III smiled wide, slinging his arm around you and kissing your forehead. “Stay here, please” you mumble against his chest, arms around his torso and your legs tangled with his. III laughs softly and nods, his eyes closing as he lays back against your bed. “It would be my pleasure to stay princess”