#and because of that + the fact that he's half blind without his glasses makes it really hard for him to walk around and shit

[omgafhsfanin2024]

Thinking about my bonnonnie lobbo AU again... I love them..... They'd be so silly

[skyahri]

Remember Part Four |SatoSugu X Reader| HC Series

Part Three Masterlist Ko-fi

A/N: Y'all, I'm so sorry it's so late. My mind has been buzzing in a different direction.

- - - - -

"Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"Satoru..."

He'd been begging to join you on your unofficial outing for the better part of an hour. He'd been following you around, making empty promises to behave and offering you random things in return if you'd just allow him to accompany you. But you knew better, and after nearly thirteen years of knowing the man, it was safe to assume he'd only cause a headache.

"I'm serious. Let me go with you. You don't have to do everything by yourself, you know."

"Satoru..."

Your patience is wearing thin at this point. There's a silent warning that follows the hiss of his name, but he ignores it all the same.

"Just let us in. Let us help."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"I know it has something to do with Suguru."

You froze, staring blankly in front of you for only a moment before turning around to face him. His expression was hard, something that you've seen many times over the years, but never one you'd expect from pre-tragedy Gojo- someone still high on the spoils of his upbringing and blind to the heartache of the real world.

He'd said it with all the confidence in the world, like it was a fact and not some half-assed conclusion he (and presumably Geto, too) had come to. Your lack of response and obvious shock must have been all the confirmation he needed- to say everything that's been on his mind since that encounter in the bathroom two weeks ago. To hell with Suguru's endless warnings about coming on too strong. He was tired of waiting for you to come around.

"You're struggling..." his voice was uncharacteristically soft, like he was worried he'd spook you, "You don't sleep. You skip meals. You disappear without so much as a goodbye. We know you're doing all of this for the greater good, or whatever, but it's hard watching you kill yourself in the process. I just want to take some of the weight off of you, but you won't let me."

You can only stare up at him. He'd tipped his glasses down to the tip of his nose, allowing you to look into his pretty blue eyes. (That asshole knows your weaknesses). It's easy to get a read on him, the seriousness of his words reflecting perfectly on his face. But even if he does mean it, you can't bring yourself to drag him into your never-ending pit of hopelessness.

"I appreciate it, Satoru, but I can't take that kind of risk. This could very well be my only shot and I can't risk losing him just because I can't handle a little pressure-"

"It's not a little pressure and we both know it."

"You just don't understand-"

"Then make me understand!"

"He leaves, Satoru!"

Maybe he's more in tune with your brain than you are, or maybe he just knows all the right buttons to push, because the stress simmering in your mind seems to bubble over in that moment. You inhale sharply and let it all out.

"Things happen, terrible things, and it changes him, and he just... leaves. I can't tell you because I can't risk fucking up our only chance to save him. I just-" a heavy sob breaks through your sentence, but it doesn't deter you, "I love you and you love me, but we love him. We need him, Satoru, and he isn't around. We're not the same. We're sad and empty and it's lonely."

It spills out like word vomit. You can't control what you're saying and you can barely process the actual syllables, but you don't stop.

"I can't spend another decade wearing his shirts that you've spritzed with his cologne and wishing he were there. I can't spend another Sunday looking at the extra chair we keep at the dining table just in case he comes back. I avoid your nightstand because I know you keep a ring in there for him. You and I still text in the group chat even though he's been inactive since that night!"

Satoru is quiet for once in his life. He's been completely stunned into silence, not daring to interrupt your ranting. Your eerily calm pleading turned into shouting at some point and he's grateful for the privacy of an empty school on a particularly busy day.

He hates the tears in your eyes, even more so when they start to drip down your flushed cheeks. He wishes that he had better listened to all of Suguru's annoying lectures about sympathy and empathy (or whatever it's called) because he's grossly ill-prepared for this conversation.

He settles on pulling you into a hug, because while words aren't his strong suit, actions certainly are. He lets you cry into his chest without complaint. You grip the fabric of his school-issued white button-up and let go of all the pent-up grief from the past twelve years.

"So,"

He waits for you to become slightly more composed.

"What are we gonna do about it?"

You chuckle at how unapologetically comfortable he is with himself. You don't remove yourself from his embrace, choosing instead to hide the incoming tension.

"We stop him."

"From?"

"A year and a half from now, Suguru goes on a solo mission to a small village, where he will kill a hundred and twelve villagers. He takes over a cult, whose new goal is to kill all non-sorcerers in an attempt to end curses forever."

Satoru swallow hard. Honestly, what the hell was he supposed to say to that?

"... seriously?"

Well, apparently not that.

You push off of him and punch him square in the chest. It's playful, kind of, lightening the atmosphere a bit.

"Okay, okay. I just mean, like, if Suguru were to switch sides, that's definitely the prerogative he'd take. So, what now?"

- - - - -

You sat across from him on the city bus to your destination, an envelope in his hands.

"This is it?"

There are three newspaper clippings inside. Obituaries, spaced years apart, and non-specific. Names, dates, and kind words, but nothing more.

"Yeah... that's it."

Satoru slumps back in his seat, his blue and white kimono fanning out across the seat. He sighs and slides further down, pouting like a child who didn't get his way.

"Why not wait until we have more information, then? Seems like a waste to me."

"They host a harvest festival twice a year to bring in money, but other than that, it's pretty closed off. This is the only time I can gather information without raising suspicion."

"What are we looking for?"

"Suguru spares two little girls. I only met them once and I didn't have the opportunity to ever ask him about it, so my knowledge is limited. I know they're sorcerers and that they adored Suguru, but nothing else. I was hoping to check out their home situation, if possible. The request the elders send in is very... hostile to say the least, so I was wondering if there was some build-up to the event."

"You think maybe they're being mistreated? Suguru would definitely snap over something like that."

"I think that something happened right around the time the girls would've acquired their cursed techniques. Villages like this tend to be irrationally superstitious. Three unexplained deaths and two girls who can see monsters probably won't go over very well."

Satoru let his head fall onto the window with a loud thunk. His brain was starting to hurt. Is this really what you're up to when you sneak off? Coming up with an elaborate hypothesis based on nothing but (only possibly relevent) future knowledge and guesswork? He'd only been on the case for two hours and he was already drained.

"So what are we gonna do?"

"Depends. I brought some talismans to hide around the area at the very least. If we see anything concrete, we'll return to the school and submit an official request to Yaga."

"I don't understand why we're sneaking around. Isn't future vision a good enough reason to investigate?"

"I'd like to keep this whole thing away from the elders if possible. Yaga and I have an understanding of sorts, but the geezers aren't as amicable."

You knew Satoru could at least understand that much. While he doesn't have the extensive experience you have with them yet, he's still vividly aware of just how scrutinizing they can be.

You can see the restlessness settle onto his face. He hates the back road way of things, preferring to charge in head first and think about consequences later- a big reason (among many) that you didn't initially plan to key him into any of this.

"We can't just, I don't know, ask Suguru to chill out or something?"

You lean over him and flick his forehead. He flinches back and starts to complain, but is cut off by the screeching of the bus's brakes.

The two of you exit the vehicle and make your way down the dirt path that leads to the village. You expected to feel something, anything really, but even once you're past the torii there's nothing. No cursed energy, residuals, or any sign of abnormality.

Satoru must not see anything either, because his brows are pulled together and there's a slight frown on his face.

Even without seeing anything off about the place, it's still weird. The only time you've ever been here before was directly after the massacre. Now, not only are all of the villagers alive, but the whole area is bustling with tourists.

You only have a moment to glance over the sea of people before Satoru is pulling you over towards the food stands. He heads straight for the Takoyaki stand and stuffs a handful of yen into the vendor's hand. He practically shoves one of the trays in your face and takes one for himself before pulling you off again.

"Satoru, stop! What are you doing? We aren't here to dick around!"

Two minutes. It's only been two minutes and yet he's already lost sight of the goalpost.

He doesn't show any signs that he's heard you, instead opting to maneuver through people until you're parked next to a giant oak tree on a small hill. He drops the wrist he had taken and turns around. He's wearing that shit-eating grin, the one that clearly says he's up to no good and doesn't feel all that sorry about it.

"We can do both. Enjoy the sights, eat some food, grab some fresh produce, and gather information. Consider it a win-win situation."

"This is exactly why I didn't want you to come. You never take anything seriously."

"I'm perfectly capable of doing two things at once, princess. Besides-"

He grabs your tray and sets both down on the ground. He turns you around rather aggressively and pushes on your shoulders until you're both sat on the grass, his long legs awkwardlybent on either side of you. He leans forward so his head is over your shoulder and his hands slide down to rest on your elbows.

"Look."

You're rolling your eyes at his not-so-subtle flirting, about to lecture him, but then you see it- two little girls, a blonde and a brunette.

They're with two people who you can only assume are their parents. They seem fine. Happy. Healthy. Smiles on their face, sweet pastries in their hands, and powdered sugar on their cheeks.

You glance around from your elevated space and notice that everyone you can confidently assume belongs to this village looks fine. Vendors are laughing with their customers and farmers are helping kids pick berries off the remaining bushes.

"I don't understand..."

"It's just too early to intervene. We'll come back in the summer and go from there, okay?"

You relax your body and lean back into him.

"Yeah, okay."

"Good. Now,

He hands you the tray kindly this time and leans back just enough so he can enjoy his own while still invading your personal space.

"How about we eat our Takoyaki, browse around a bit, hang up some talismans, and then head back home? Suguru should be back tonight."

He'd successfully worn you down. You couldn't argue with him even if you wanted to. He'd gone with you to the (apparently useless) event, found exactly what you were looking for, and solidified that nothing could be done quite yet.

So what else is there to do besides having to his demands?

"... alright."

Nothing.

He smiled at you.

"Good girl."

Taglist: @wannapizzamymindposts @sadunicorns11 @reiluvr

Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist

[1arkspur-aconitum]

THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND (s.r.)

IN WHICH: Spencer shows up late to work wearing glasses for the first time…

PAIRING: Season 3!Spencer Reid/Fem!BAU!OC

CATEGORY: fluff

CONTENT: pining, oblivious idiots in love, swearing, Emily being a little meddler

WORD COUNT: 3.7 (this was meant to be only 1k…whoops…)

PUBLISHED: 03/10/24

‘OH MY GOD.’

It’s the best I can do. It is the only thing I can think as Spencer Reid steps through the glass doors into the bullpen.

It’s one of those rare days where Spencer arrives later than me—later than the rest of the team, in fact—and I’m already sitting at my desk when he walks in. A cup of coffee from the Paper Cup (arguably the best coffee in Virginia, bite me Derek Morgan) steams away beside a half-eaten blueberry muffin, the crumbs of which litter the crossword before me. It’s partially completed, but I have yet to finish this specific paper’s puzzle without the genius’ help—I swear it’s almost as if they designed it for him. I’ve even marked little stars next to the ones I’m intending to ask Spencer.

Or, at least, the questions I was intending to ask Spencer. I may not ever get the opportunity to because I think he has decided to kill me this morning.

Spencer Reid steps into the bullpen dressed in brown slacks (as usual) and a striped shirt tucked into said slacks (also normal), but that’s where the familiarity ends.

He’s not wearing a tie which is very bizarre. In fact, the top buttons of his shirt are undone as if he’s rushed out of the door. From this distance I can see the contours of his throat.

We once had a surprisingly in-depth conversation about why ties are more commonly associated with men (due to the inherent power and authority we attach to them) and Spencer said that he tried to always wear one because it made people take him more seriously. I distinctly remember it because it made me kind of sad. The idea that people didn’t take him seriously bothered me more than I’d care to admit.

It’s not the tardiness, nor the lack of a tie, that wipes every thought from my brain, though. It’s not even the way he has pushed his hair away from his face like he’s some kind of Disney prince—though that on any other day would have done something similar to hitting the delete key on a computer.

No, it’s the damn glasses.

Spencer Reid has the audacity to be wearing a pair of horn rimmed glasses.

They’re perched on his nose as if they belong there, which—judging by the way they make his face distort when he turns to greet Derek—they do. I don’t know what it is specifically, but seeing him in glasses makes my stomach drop out of my feet, through several floors of the Quantico building, and deep into the ground.

Obviously Spencer is smart. Anyone who has the luxury of meeting him can tell you as such. It’s not as if he hides it, mister three PhDs and counting. But…but the glasses just do something extra, highlight that aspect of him, and I’ve always been a sucker for intelligence.

I genuinely didn’t think he could get prettier.

‘Shut your mouth, you’ll start drooling.’ Emily sidles up to my desk, thankfully keeping her voice low. I jump embarrassingly and manage to drag my eyes away from where Spencer is deep in discussion with Derek about something Derek doesn’t appear to want to talk about. Astrophysics? The flight path of bumblebees? If I was in Derek’s place, I would be hanging off of Spencer’s every word. ‘Honestly, could you be any more transparent?’

‘I…I’m not transparent!’ I say, but it does take me a second to work out what she’s saying. I take a distracting sip of my coffee, trying to ignore how the light slicks off of the frames as Spencer nods vigorously. A small strand of hair falls into his face and he brushes it away carelessly. ‘Maybe—maybe I was just…admiring the make, or something.’

‘I’m not stupid.’ Emily scoffs, knocking me with the back of her hand. She seems as if she is enjoying this way too much. There’s a sardonic gleam in her eye as she raises an eyebrow. I glower up at her over the rim of my coffee, imagining how it would feel to toss it in her face—anything to get that smug look off of it. ‘You can barely form a sentence.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I turn my nose up at her haughtily. I feel very much the petulant child denying having broken into the biscuit jar even when their mouth is covered in crumbs. ‘See? A perfect sentence.’

‘You’re not fooling anyone.’ Emily feels the need to tell me, eyes flickering between me and Spencer. I make a conscious effort not to look at him. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I wedge my foot underneath one of the spokes of my chair, forcing it to stay directed towards Emily. She grins as if she can sense my inner discord. ‘Y’know, for a profiler, you’re not very good at being discreet.’

‘I’m always discreet.’ The lie tastes bitter in my mouth and I follow it up with a sip of coffee. I don’t know where to look, what to do with myself, so I decide to focus on Emily. She’s wearing a new pair of trousers that have an embellishment up the side, a few beads shining in the sunlight streaming into the office. I wonder if she’ll let me borrow them…

‘I beg to differ.’ Emily perches herself on Spencer’s desk, crossing her legs. The tiny beads glitter like a mirrorball. This is fun for her. She likes making me squirm, and my respect for Emily is declining with every moment she holds me under this particular microscope. Part of me wonders if Emily truly is a sadist. ‘Come on, just admit it.’

‘I refer you to my previous statement,’ I swing my chair around even more to face her, firmly putting my back to where I assume Spencer and Derek are still talking. God, please don’t overhear this. What would I even say if he did? ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Sure.’ She laughs brightly, not believing me for a second—to be fair to her, I don’t even believe myself. I really should get better at lying to my coworkers. It’s frustrating that, to be a profiler, you have to be inherently astute. I’ve always been a relatively open book, which makes this whole situation worse. I have no doubt that my every thought is plastered there for her to dissect. ‘I can’t blame you, you know. I mean, it is very…different. If you’re into that kinda thing, which I think you are—’

‘Please stop.’ I say. My fingers tangle into my hair as I lean forwards, the points of my elbows bruising the soft flesh above my knee.

I hate this feeling. Being so exposed, so vulnerable, being seen like this has never been something I’ve enjoyed. Maybe it is something to do with my childhood, but I never like to think about that too hard. What it comes down to is that I can tease people incessantly, but when the tables have flipped? I hate it. I wonder what that says about me..

‘Just ask him out.’ Emily’s voice is softer now, less ribbed with merciless humour. I look up at her with a disgusted expression–as if that would ever happen. Spencer is my colleague, my friend. There’s no way I’m putting myself out there like that, and she should know that already. She sighs. ‘Seriously. What’s the worst that could happen?’

Uh, everything? He could say no. I could seriously embarrass myself–a habit I have a tendency to do. I could vomit on his new shoes. In fact, Spencer probably doesn’t even like me in that way–thinking about it, I have no idea if Spencer’s even attracted to anyone. He’s never spoken about dates like Derek does, nor mentioned exes. When we talk about our first kisses, he stays silent. Whenever the topic deviates towards something unsuitable for work, Spencer noticeably stays out of it. Maybe he’s just not into anything like that.

That thought hollows out the pit of my stomach for a second.

‘If I answer that, then you’ll just think that I know what you’re talking about.’ I sense her words for the trap that they are. What a sneaky bitch. I narrow my eyes at her and Emily’s eyebrow twitches imperceptibly. A tell. Ever since we met, Emily has had a thing about trying to trick me into confessing my secrets at any opportunity she can get. I think she thinks it’s more fun if she doesn’t ask the question straight up. ‘So no. I’m not going to deign that with a response.’

‘You’re impossible.’ Emily groans. She tries to kick my chair with a free foot, but misses by a mile. Sucker. Like the child I am, I stick my tongue out at her. ‘Come on, you have no idea how painful it is to watch you pining–’

‘You think watching me pine is painful?’ I retort, propping my chin up on my elbow. It’s only when the words are out of my mouth that I realise I may have given a little bit too much away. Emily’s eyes light up with a familiar glee. My cheeks heat and I scowl. ‘Besides, I was merely observing.’

‘Whatever helps you sleep at night, honey.’ Emily practically purrs, a mischievous glint in her eye that I decidedly do not like. She pushes off of Spencer’s desk, her fingers trailing along the edge as she meanders to her own. As she does so, her lips curve into a knowing smirk. She mutters something under her breath that is just loud enough for me to catch the hint of amusement.

‘Care to share?’ The words are out of my mouth before I realise that I probably won’t want to hear what she has to say. Yet another one of Emily’s verbal pitfalls—I can’t be expected to spot all of them after-all. Sometimes I think talking to Emily is like navigating a field of bear traps.

‘Oh, nothing—just that you two are more similar than you realise.’ Her voice drips with feigned innocence. She chuckles as she sits herself down, opening a stack of files on her desk with a flourish, effectively ending the conversation and leaving me in a whirlwind of my own thoughts.

More similar than I realise? What on Earth does she mean by that? I know we’re both considered smart—we’re both doctors, we work in the same field, we’re around the same age. Admittedly, I’m not as smart as he is, but everyone can say that. There’s always been something different about Spencer.. He has always been a cut above the rest, a standard no one else can possibly hope to achieve. How could I ever compare myself to that?

I turn my seat around and allow myself a brief glance over to where Spencer and Derek are still standing. Spencer is still talking animatedly, hands gesturing in the space between them. Don’t even get me started on his hands because we could be here for literal hours. A doctoral thesis is 60,000–80,000 words. I reckon I could write that much purely on his hands.

Derek is currently looking at him with a fond, if slightly exasperated expression, having succumbed to his fate of listening to whatever it is Spencer is rambling about. They’re a strange pair but there’s no doubting the love they share between them. It’s honestly so endearing.

My gaze drifts from the pair of them to Spencer. With the glasses, it’s different somehow. The lenses magnify his eyes, making them larger, more expressive. I can see the rapid movement as he processes whatever Derek is saying in response to his rambling, I can watch the slight furrow of his brow as he formulates a response. The more I inspect him, the harder it is for me to work out why I like them so much. Perhaps it’s because he seems…softer, somehow. Less intimidating and more approachable.

More human.

Then it hits me.

The glasses are a vulnerability. They’re an admission that the perfect Spencer Reid is anything but, that, as much as his mind is as sharp as a blade, his eyesight is not. For some reason, that makes him even more attractive to me. Though, to be fair, there’s not much that would make him less attractive to me.

I tear my eyes away, a familiar heat rippling up the back of my neck. I can’t believe I’m having thoughts like this about my coworker. It’s unprofessional, impolite, and definitely dangerous. But I can’t seem to stop myself.

Every time I see him in those glasses, the more I think about what it would be like to kiss him with them on. Would he take them off, or would I? Or, maybe, he leaves them on as I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down towards me. They wouldn’t get in the way if we were careful…

For God’s sake.

I try to focus on my crossword but the words swim before my eyes. All I can see is Spencer’s face with those damn glasses, and the annoyingly infuriating way that they make his eyes sparkle. Perhaps Emily is right–perhaps I am as transparent as a window. This whole thing is stupid. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts, but it’s not like I can defenestrate them very easily.

Just as I am contemplating burying myself under several feet of damp earth, effectively giving up on the day entirely, Spencer and Derek seem as if they finish their conversation. Derek claps Spencer on the shoulder as the pair of them start to make their way towards us. I do my best to look busy, scribbling down a word on my puzzle that I am 99% sure isn’t correct. My heart hammers in my chest.

Jesus Christ, get your shit together, girl. It’s just an awkward, tall, lanky man. He’s not Hugh Grant. Or James Marsters. He’s just Spencer.

I don’t know if that sentiment makes it better or worse.

‘Morning, June.’ Spencer’s gentle, warm voice drags me out of my shame spiral. When I look up, he’s standing next to his desk, hands clasped in front of him as he peers down at me through those fucking glasses.

I plaster as much of a genuine smile on my face as possible. ‘Morning, Spencer. You’re looking very dashing today.’

Dashing? What the hell was that? Who says that? If I could make a time machine and return back to a few seconds earlier, I would. But, alas, I simply have to wait and see how Spencer responds.

His lips quirk upwards in a shy smile. ‘Really? Thank you. You, uh, you look rather…rather lovely yourself.’

‘Oh, uh, thanks, Spence.’ I mentally kick myself for sounding so flustered, looking anywhere but directly at him. I don’t think I look ‘rather lovely’ today–I’m wearing brown denim flares and a shirt, nothing too fancy. I try to regain some composure. This is so unlike me that it scares me. ‘So, new glasses?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand. My eyes trace a vein that vanishes under the cuff. ‘I ran out of contacts and didn’t have time to go to the opticians. I don’t really like them, though, they kind of get in the way.’

‘Really?’ I try not to sound too surprised and/or offended, but I don’t think it worked very well. The next words I say are pumped with honesty. ‘I think they look good on you. Actually, they really suit you.’

‘Do you genuinely think so?’ He sounds as if he doesn’t believe me, but the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. I nod, mouth suddenly very dry. Spencer sits on the edge of his desk where Emily had been moments before, crossing his long legs at the ankle. The odd socks (pink on the left, neon green on the right) make me smile. ‘I always think they make me look…well, nerdy. Derek agrees.’

I can’t not laugh a little at that, taking a sip of my coffee as I work out how to say what I want to without seriously offending him.

‘Spencer, sweetheart, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you are the epitome of nerdy without the glasses. And–and that’s not a bad thing in the slightest. It’s part of what I like about you.’

‘Oh.’ Spencer turns a furious shade of red, eyes dropping like a stone to stare intently at the floor. I immediately regret the words, but have to play it off as if I don’t. Sweetheart is a new term of endearment and one I didn’t intend to use, but it slipped out. I lean back in my seat, angle my head…do I backtrack? Do I apologise? I’m about to do as such when I see it. A tiny smile. Spencer’s next words are just loud enough for me to hear. ‘Well, thank you.’

‘That’s okay.’ I grin, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to put on a picture of nonchalance. If Emily is to be believed, he can see right through it, but it makes me feel better. I need to say something–anything–else before the silence gets too loud. ‘I actually didn’t know you wore contacts, let alone glasses.’

‘Yeah, I just find contacts easier–did you know that Leonardo da Vinci was the one who was first credited with coming up with the idea of contact lenses in 1508? It wasn’t created in his time, of course, but he was the one who first posited the idea of altering corneal power.’ Spencer’s hands gesture in the space between us as he endearingly rambles on about the creation of contact lenses. It’s sweet, and I let him talk for a while, using this opportunity to watch him. He’s just so pretty that it’s hard to focus. ‘And modern day lenses, the silicone ones, weren’t made until 1998.’

‘Wow, that’s kinda cool.’ I hum, taking a sip of my now almost-cold coffee. ‘I don’t know, I had you pegged as the kind of guy who doesn’t like putting his finger in his eye.’

‘What?’ Spencer chuckles, raising an eyebrow. He pushes his glasses up again and my heart stammers. ‘How could you possibly know that about someone?’

‘Spencer, you’re a known germaphobe. You don’t even shake hands.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want someone else to put my lenses in,’ Spencer physically shudders at this idea. ‘But if I do it, it’s just my germs.’

‘I suppose that makes sense. If you had a twin, though, would you let them do it? Or someone with super clean hands? What about if you broke your hands and your glasses, and needed someone else to put them in for you?’ I rattle off question after question, knowing I really should stop talking, but it’s as if there’s a torrent of words I cannot control. ‘I mean, there are plenty of, of situations where you may need someone to…to put your contacts in…’

What the fuck am I on about? Oh God, this isn’t happening to me…I never thought I would be so swayed by a pretty face.

‘You’re a strange one.’ Spencer says, after a beat, and his voice is playful. He leans backwards and braces himself on the desk. ‘I don’t know, it depends. I mean, I wouldn’t let Derek do it, but…’

‘I wouldn’t let Derek do it for me, and I don’t even wear contacts.’ I laugh, tilting my head to the side and giving him a cheeky grin. He returns it, and for a moment, we just look at each other. The world narrows, as it always does, to just me and him. There’s a familiar warmth in my stomach that has always been intoxicating.

‘I’d let you put my contacts in.’ Spencer says the words as if they had been building up behind his lips. Pink stains the tops of his cheekbones. It might be a trick of the light, but I’m pretty sure that his gaze flickers down to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning back to my eyes. My breath hitches and I have to look away.

‘Really? I don’t know if I should be flattered or kind of grossed out.’ Another sentence I regret saying, but what does one say to something like that?

Spencer laughs, but it sounds kind of forced. ‘Well, let us hope that it will never come to that. But, if it does, don’t let any of the others do it. Lord knows where their hands have been.’

I laugh too, but before I can say anything more, Hotch’s voice booms across the bullpen. He’s calling Spencer to his office, and the tranquil spell between us is shattered.

Spencer jumps, startled, and clears his throat. He pushes his glasses further up his nose and stands up. He offers me a muttered ‘sorry’ as he walks away, speeding out of the bullpen of desks and heading towards Hotch. I watch him go reluctantly, only looking away when he vanishes inside and the door closes behind him.

The groan I let out is loud enough to make Derek look up, but I bury my head in my hands before any of them can jump on me whilst I’m vulnerable. What the fuck was that? I’m not usually one to get flustered when faced with a pretty man, and usually I’m pretty confident around Spencer. Evidently there’s something about the glasses that turns me into a blathering school girl. It’s so stupid that I have no choice but to get a grip.

When I look up from my hands, determined to not let Spencer’s new eyewear affect me, Emily is watching me with a bemused expression. She must have heard the entire interaction.

‘Smooth, June. Real smooth.’ She says from over her coffee mug, the steam coiling around her like she’s some demon. The devious grin on her face doesn’t help that mental image.

I simply flip her off and return to my crossword.

Nosy bitch.

THANK YOU FOR READING! I CAN’T DECIDE IF I LIKE THIS OR NOT BUT FIGURED WHY NOT? MORE SPENCER REID FICS ON THE WAY!

[rainbow-wolf120]

Dumping my RayEvils here because these guys are floating in my brain again

A lot of these are very self-indulgent I mean, very reasonable and totally make sense

Couple of facts / hcs below:

They were all created to oppose Rayman or someone else once in their life

All the RayEvil’s were built / ‘owned’ by a different Rayman villain throughout the franchise. Some overlay, yes, but mostly it’s diverse

Most of the times their creators would leave 'brands' on them to know who belongs to who

RayEvil’s aren’t entirely natural Thingamajigs. They were all artificially made for whatever their creator desired. These normally consist of a Blue Lum and whatever else they have (most commonly Dark Magic)

Now some individual facts about the characters!!

Raymesis:

Created by Mr. Dark, stolen by Ales Mansay at a young 'age'

Hates Mansay and wants to go back to being Mr. Dark's creation (Mansay claims that he created Raymesis)

Became an 'older brother' figure to Shadow after Mansay dumped the two in a room together

Super snappy, angry, and extremely petty. Thinks he's Rayman's true rival but Rayman couldn't give a shit

Created the Antis (Him, Glombrox, First King, and Selena) as a way to get back at Rayman

Shadow Ray:

Created by a Blue Lum and copious amounts of Dark Magic. This made them extremely unstable and (if they could feel it) in lots of pain

Ales Mansay's favorite creation. Thinks that they're the most 'sucessful'

Half-blind and only really cackles / giggles. Needs glasses to sorta see

Can't fully move. They need to 'mark' someone and follow their 'trail' to even go anywhere

Fascinated with art and film. Loves a good movie and is easily amused

Shadi (Bad Rayman)

Also created by Mr. Dark but left for dead in the Livid Dead after his defeat

Did not understand free will until she met Goth Teensy. He helped her find her own personality and being

Very disliked in the Livid Dead with the other Nightmares. She looked too much like Rayman for them

Can pick things up super easily by just watching

Still friends with Goth but became distant after he because the Livid Dead Door guard

RayX

Created by Razorbeard; he was left in the Glade after the Robo Pirates fled the Glade

Made to tire Rayman out and keep him occupied. Very much destined for sports and high-energy activities

Very competitive and will do anything to win. He will cheat, cry, and fight to get what he wants

Cannot handle loosing. He will throw a fit and get extremely violent

One of the only RayEvil's without a Blue Lum. He is pure machinery and alien technology

Showbiz

Mansay's first RayEvil. He created him, but he was sold to Rigatoni. Gave him a hatred for Mansay

Athletic, can breathe / control fire, and can detect his limbs. Everything Rigitoni wants in a star

He's very snobbish and under the impression he's more popular than Rayman (He also has never left the circus)

Even as a performer, still has his old programming. If he see Rayman or anything similar, he will get needlessly violent

Extremle 'one man show' and hates working with others

So yeah, these are my silly guys!! Feel free to ask me anything about them. I love them all dearly <3

[jolalibrary]

i. fairy lights

javier peña x dea! f!reader | chapter one of nowhere to run

Summary: Determined to do it better this time, Javier Peña returns to Bogotá to take down the Cali Cartel. With a new promotion, office and team, what he doesn’t expect is the pretty thing outside his office—or why they’re not allowed in the field. “You should also know, Peña. I’m harder to sleep with than an informant.."

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers, smut, angst. no use of y/n, mild use of a codename for story purposes. wordcount: 5k authors notes: this would have remained in my google drive if it wasn't for the sheer love, listening ears and heart of both @yeyinde and @guyfieriii - every bit of sass is written for you.

series masterlist

Your eyes studied him. Peered through the half-open blinds, trying to assess at what stage you should go in—make your introductions. You’d hung back, not wanting to fawn like the others, needing to know if the man they placed on such a high shelf really deserved to be raised amongst the rest of you. 

Because you knew what he had done. You’d heard the whispers, the gossip—even if they tried to keep a lid on it. 

“Here.” 

Your eyes are pulled to a tall shadow, finding no smile—no smirk. Face entirely void of emotion. The coffee in his hand presented to you, your fingers obediently wrapping it, narrowing your eyes at the person in front of you. 

“From your favourite place.” 

The smirk falls easily over your lips. “What did you do, Van Ness?” 

It’s then he smiles—almost smirks. The two so closely woven together that you aren’t entirely sure where joy and torture truly begin. “I may or may not have fucked your filing system—but in my defence, I’m not the only one.” 

“I’m aware.”

“You met him yet?” he asked, nodding his head towards the office you’re stationed outside. “The new Attaché.”

“No, and do you not have work to be doing, Dan?” 

He shrugs, placing his cup down before leaning both palms on your desk, moving closer and closer. You watch as his smirk begins to cut into more of his features, almost being allowed to greet his eyes.

“This is for Fiestl’s sake—and the new pair of eyes studying us. The former thinks you’re seeing someone.” 

Mirroring him, you bring the coffee to your lips, leaning forward as then noted and the taste explodes across your tongue. “Lemme guess, you’re enjoying watching Chris squirm?” 

“Do you blame me?”

“No. Not really.”

You command him to look up when you walk through his office door. Your knock barely meets his ears before you’re there, stalking into his office with your hands full of files, papers and a single notebook.

He hears you murmur about not wanting to interrupt, but Javi doesn’t believe you.

Because of the sly smirk carved into your cheeks. The way you’re standing boldly in front of his desk, not giving him any indication that you’re not standing exactly where you want to be, at the time you wanted to. 

Your name falls from your tongue like it’s supposed to be blessing the air. As though you’re doing him a favour by informing him of it—not that it mattered.

He’d already learnt your name. That, and the name you’re so often called around the office—the one no one has yet explained to him. 

Now that you’re here, not restricted by half-open blinds and glass, he can look at you fully. He can run his eyes up and down your frame, not just admire your side profile. You’re pretty is what he thinks. Likely knows it from the way you don’t cower under his gaze, but rather thrive under it. He bets you act like you’re made of glass, when you’re in fact made of steel—that you’re used to making others feel better about their inadequacies than owning the fact you’re good.

You stand straight, not extending your hand out across his desk to him—telling him, without using your words, you’re not really here to make introductions. 

It almost pulls a smile from him. Your obvious indifference is welcomed after the sea of interviews he feels he’s had with the rest of the department.  It’s clear you’re not here to fawn, to interrogate him—you don’t even appear to be impressed he was half the reason Escobar was taken down.

Your eyes are still on him—piercing, digging themselves in as you continue to speak. They pierce, both your words and your sight, back remaining as diligently straight, words tumbling and falling from your lips into sentences he’s not even processing. 

Javi suspects you know he isn’t listening.

Holding yourself in a way that tells him this is a process, more than kindness. Your impassiveness growing, fermenting in the lack of interruption from him—and he welcomes it, almost craves it. So drained from shaking hands and listening to pester him for a scrap of information—an insight they’ve not read from a newspaper. 

You, without meaning to, provide a semblance of normality as you continue to talk. 

Shifting, he moves to lean on the sideboard behind him, keeping his eyes trained on you, noting how you’re American, but your vowels are tinged with the tone of someone who has been here too long. He hangs off of them, the inflictions, the oddities in the way you speak certain words. 

He shouldn’t. 

Javi has already woken up beside a colleague—an intern. Had already failed his promise to himself he made on the plane over, that this time would be different. 

And, here he is, dragging his eyes up and down your frame—noting things about you that are irrelevant, not listening. 

“--I’ve made notes, which I’ve tabbed for you. Just in case you decided to stop listening.”

You lift your eyes from your notes, and it’s different than when you’d first stalked in. They’re softer, their piercingness lost—vanished, as if you’d never tried to dig them into him—dousing him something akin to cool water on a stifling day. 

For the single, briefest second, he’s lost to the world around him. He’s falling, tumbling into them—losing his grip on morals and right from wrong as you just watch him. Not knowing how you’re basking him in light, sunshine and fucking serenity. 

A sight he’d never expected in his office, never mind in his presence. 

He clears his throat, Crosby’s words coming to him—rotating around and around. It’ll be different this time. By the book. Javi knows he has to make amends for what happened before. Even if it means having to follow orders, keep himself to himself—not fuck a subordinate again. Leave with his head held high, determination strong, impenetrable—

“Did you get all of that?” 

The air around you both tenses, constricting. 

It almost cracks, suddenly pulled to the point it’s making it hard to breathe. His mind is trying to latch to words, but just keeps replaying your entrance—how you stormed in like a hurricane, sweeping everything to the sides and leaving only you. The air shifts under the pressure, poisoned with patchouli and amber, a scent he cannot help but continue to inhale as it tries to stick to the walls—to the inside of him. 

Your eyes change again, sharpening—pitchforks at the ready as though you’ve already built him a stake to burn him on. Them trying to needle into him, undoing the carefully stitched threads that are working hard to keep him together. He equally tries to carve something out of you, work behind the layers, walls and forced aloofness. 

That’s when he finds it—hidden under carefully placed truths and hidden lies: hope. 

His heart descends, spluttering in annoyance. Because people pin that to him more than anything else. They assume he’s the answer—the centre of something big, important. A beacon they’ve all been waiting for, the one who can slay the biggest monsters and undo the greatest of crimes.

He feels it. 

How they say they wrap him in armour, but actually weigh him down in expectations. 

He moves his index and middle finger in the same pattern against his thumb. A slow rotation once, before moving it the other way twice. The pain in his head continued to throb, to pulse—his free hand rubbing that spot on his forehead. 

“I can repeat the basics, if that would be easier?” 

Your voice is like syrup—dripping into his ears, yet they’re not sticking. They’re clumping, forming somewhere between his ears and not filing themselves where they’re supposed to be. 

He can’t find the word no, or thank you. Unsure as he looks at you, how to explain this isn’t your words, but everything else. That there’s something sitting on his chest—has been since Escobar. That it lies there, dormant, waiting. 

“Sir…” 

He snorts, both at the way you say his title and that you’re the billionth person to call it him. Suddenly realising, knowing that the reason he cannot find the word no or thank you, is because they’re not the words he truly wants to say. Javi wants to say that he can’t take in your words because the floor is slipping away, his blood is bubbling nervously in his ears, heart and throat. 

Swallowing, he meets your eyes, wondering if you know that he feels like he’s drowning and yet he’s on land. While the ground feels and appears tough, firm and solid, it’s sliding under it—back to the flames he baptised himself in last time. The licks of fire singeing the edges of his skin.

Mainly, Javi wants to tell you that your to-do list that’s bigger than even you… he’s not sure what to do with any of it. 

You step closer, heels echoing in the small space as you slam the files on his desk—a piece of ripped paper capturing his attention. Your handwriting, all swirls and legible letters—not the writing of a man or another idiot in this place. Not able to pull himself away from it until he feels your fingers on his bicep, tight but soft in nature. 

“Breathe.”

You whisper it, let it greet the air with more kindness than you’ve shown since you burst into his office. Your thumb draws a triangle shape against his jacket, as you repeat the one word again. 

“What?”

Javi doesn’t mean to spit it—to let it hit the air harshly and questioningly. He doesn’t mean to be blunt or direct, shattering your softness and mellow tone. 

You pull your hand back all the same, but your face doesn’t shift—doesn’t change—and you also don't move. 

“Take a breath,” you say, in a tone devoid of any emotion. “You… look like you need it. And, I know I reeled off a lot there, but we’ll find ways.” 

Eyes full of something he can’t place—like knowing, experience and grief. Your unspoken words slide into his mind without needing to speak them. 

“We because you and I, we’re going to find ways around problems. I’m not Stoddard, and I’m not one of the idiots out there, Agent Peña.”

His pulse quickens, especially when you take a step back, pulling a piece of paper from the top of the pile before placing it more firmly in front of his chair. More in view, if he were to lean forward.

“I cannot put a vest on and leave these walls to do your bidding, but I can do a fucking lot inside these walls. With sheer will and a sharp tongue. This is what I’ll do for you. I’m the one who does your grunt work, so you can make the difference; I’m the one who’ll take the mountain of shit first, so you can make that difference. I’ll hold up the goddamn walls, Peña. You just have to tell me what street and what number. Whatever you need me for, I am here. So, breathe.” 

Your words almost make him crack—make him believe for a second that what you said was true. 

But, Javi knows better—has seen so much.

He’s played the game, seen the deceit wrapped in kindness, and been spat out because of it. 

“Alright…”

You nod, shifting your weight, watching you be lulled into a false sense of security—wondering if your walls are down enough for him to see a real answer on your face as he asks:

“Answer me this, Agent. What did they give you?”

It’s instant—the way you flinch. Small, likely not visible to most. 

Truthfully, it catches him by surprise, not expecting it. Having spent a large chunk of time around people who hold secrets, he’s not seen that one happen before. Not so quickly, not so naturally it flitters and is removed before he can truly take notice of it. 

Regret bathes him. Falls in heavy buckets from the ceiling down onto him, and he stuffs the feeling down under his suit and faultily-thrown-up ego. 

Even if the words to take it back are so easily there, readily available to be spoken—

“Not a glass prison,” you reply, words as sharp as knives.

Your back straightens again, face unreadable as you snatch your notebook from the files, the soles of your shoes making their exit before you pause, giving him one last look. 

“I’ll be at my desk, Sir.”

You don’t slam the door back into place, but rather cautiously slide it until he’s alone, lifting your chin, eyes holding his. 

Fuck.

Blanketed in low light and the soft twinkles of the bar’s fairy lights, Javi spots you immediately. 

Your jacket is removed, hanging limply from the barstool you’re sitting on, swirling the crystal glass, sloshing the liquid and ice inside of it. 

It’s instant—the twist of guilt in his stomach. 

He’s tried to speak to you. Tries to find ways to apologise without as much as saying it. But, you’re good. If he tries to ask you about work, you are nothing short of professional. Calling him sir, fetching what he needs and handing him notes—needling yourself further into his guilt. 

Outside of those moments, when he’d offered you coffee, you’d simply lifted your full mug without as much as meeting his eye. He had even tried to beat you into work, only to find you already there, your desk lamp being all that illuminated the office as you tore through files and mumbled a brief morning. 

The only benefit to your ignorance towards him is he’s been able to watch how soft you could be—how you smile with ease and how gentle your voice could be with those that aren’t him. He’d been able to watch the dynamics of the people who approach you, a taller one making you smirk and a more blonder man able to make your back straighter than he can. 

It’s also allowed him to peer under the hard exterior and defensive tone, and learn more about you from others.

Luna. That’s what they call you—a callsign, codename. A reference to your last operation in Cali before you forced yourself to be on desk work. A name chosen by you, they said—now one you fit so perfectly. One with the night, never sleeping, never leaving the office. 

Now, you’re here. 

Haunting him out of work as you are his work life. If he had known you drank here, he’d have grabbed a bottle and drank alone in his apartment. Not caring for the uptempo music and the fact others stare at him. 

He knows he’s giving more to Colombia than he ever should have—both fractions of his soul and his pride, as well as pieces of his future. The notion forces him to undo his tie as he walks over, letting his tie hang as he slides his jacket off—trying not to fixate on you. 

Even in the low lighting, he sees your perfectly manicured nails and the way your lips slide into a smirk. You roll your wrist as he slides into the chair beside you, amber and ice swirling with your motions—likely making a rhythmic noise if not for the loud music. 

We’re going to find ways around problems. 

“Evening… Sir.” 

He’d found your file, and read the pieces he was able to. He knows a redacted file when he sees one, but the main points are still there—still bold in pressed ink and serif. 

Javi smirks, both at the fact you still haven’t looked at him and the fact he can’t get used to being called sir. Least of all when it falls from your lips—a hidden note to it when you let it leave your tongue. Mouth curling around each letter as you let it float to his ears. 

It’s almost torturous when you say it—just like your perfume has grown to be. Hanging heavy in the air when he walks through, giving him hints of where you are, where you’ve been. He’s also been able to discern vanilla is another element to it, mind flicking to you when he smells a note from your perfume. 

He knows he’d be able to work out the other notes if he allowed himself to. Be able to work out which ones are all you and which you soak your skin in. 

You bring the glass to your lips, draining the liquid down your throat before placing it between the two of you, taking the hint.

“Same again?”

Nodding—direct and clinical, just like a well-trained agent. “Por favor.”

There’s a story. One which goes deep or goes high, he hasn’t quite worked it out. Knowing there has to be a reason for so much to have been removed and a reason why someone as talented as you has been saddled to a desk. If he were more drinks in, he’d ask. Bite the bullet, use his lack of tact to make you angry until you’re bursting at the seams, spilling all of your treasured truths. 

You don’t look at him until your glass is full, and then your eyes meet his, placing him under a spotlight. Illuminating him, making him glow as you make his skin warm and his shirt clings more to his spine. No words leave your lips as you bring the glass back up, taking the smallest sip as you smirk—letting the silence thicken. 

She’s good. Talented.

That’s what he’s been told by Crosby. No further explanation, moving quickly on. 

“You have secrets.” 

You laugh, harsh and short. “Oh, don’t we all. I know a lot about yours.”

“You gonna start calling me a hero too, Luna?”

Pursing your lips, your eyes narrow briefly. He watches as your head tilts, eyes not sharpening or changing, but something in you does. Likely to do with the name—the codeword. The one they used when you were down in Cali to refer to you. 

“I wouldn’t waste my breath telling you something you don’t believe.” You let the words hang, brew and fizz. “You don’t get to call me that, either.”

You take a long sip, rolling your lips together as he brings his own to his lips. He coats his tongue in it, attempting to smother the growing anxiousness embedding itself into his bones. Because there’s something about the way you stare at him, how it makes things unlodge and shift inside of him. 

“You should also know, Peña. I’m harder to sleep with than an informant and I’m not half as impressed by you as Katie, the intern.” 

He tenses, visibly. Not able to hide it, bury it. He doesn’t miss the tone, the way you say it with brimstone and annoyance. The hair along his neck standing on edge as you continue to stare, to dig into him. 

“What… here all of one day and you already managed to fuck the intern. My hero.” 

His cheeks burn, draining his glass as the whiskey does a good job of burning his insides. Hating how you know—how you’re unafraid of lifting a mirror to show him his failings. He despises that you know the edges of him, pierces—the worst parts of him. 

Mainly, he dislikes that you’re smirking, sipping your glass as though taking a victory sip. A checkmate. 

“I sat next to you because I thought you’d cause me the least amount of issues.”

Smirking broader, you tilt your head. “You clearly don’t know me then, Peña.”

“No, Luna. I don’t.”

Placing his glass down, slowly rubbing the base of his palm against his forehead. Regretting coming here, regretting thinking he could… 

“I’m sorry. For… the other day. For upsetting you now.”

You lean back, something between the two of you shifting as he watches you sigh. The music changes, slowing, almost quietening. “I’m a bit impressed you know that word.”

He almost laughs. Letting the thick silence thrum between the two of you, resting his elbow on the bar’s counter as he watches you play with your glass.

Clearing your throat, you refuse to meet his eyes as you ask, “It’s likely the whiskey… but, you doing okay, Sir?” 

He watches as you roll your finger across the rim, occasionally glancing at him, but never meeting his eyes. 

Something he suddenly wants—desperate to earn the sight of them. 

“Less of the ‘sir’.”

It’s then he hears you laugh. Low, smothered by faux indifference, compared to the usual you so easily muster. 

“The barrel—barrels—they have you over… i get it. I meant what I said, Javier. If you need an ear,” you say, fingers flexing across the counter as you meet his gaze. “You’re not the only one, to be fucked by bureaucracy—is all I mean. But, you likely know that, right? Heard all about me, and my failings. Have to if you’re calling me my cover name.”

He swallows, watching your chin dip, eyes falling to your lap.

“They make you feel like you’re it, and then just as easily they’ll rip it from you—and you’re left with… nothing.” 

It fluctuates—changes—some shadow of truth emerging from the depths between them as it stands before them both, almost warningly, but not threatening. He can’t understand it, can’t read it fully, but knows it’s there. 

And then you smile, vanishing it all away as you offer him your name again. 

As though you hadn’t already handed it to him, as if he hadn’t already committed it to memory and tried it on his tongue. 

“--just in case you didn’t listen to me before.” “I listened.”

Your lips curl. “Yeah? That before or after you checked out my ass?”

He says nothing, taking your glass and draining it. 

“Don’t call me Luna.”

“Why, you hate it or something?”

You say nothing for a moment before you turn to the bartender—ordering them both another drink. 

He finds you taste like heaven and hell all at once. 

You burn him, consume him—desperately trying to rip through him. He’d let you. Aid you in shredding him apart as long as your sweet, full lips remain pressed to his. They pull him from self-deprecation and overwhelmingness, gripping your waist as he gets you inside his place, pressing your spine against the inside of his door as you let out that honeyed whimper he heard outside the bar. 

You taking me to yours, Peña? Can do.  Don’t pretend you’ve not been thinkin’ it for the last hour. 

One of your arms slings around his neck, eyes full of molten fire and lust as you capture his lips. Pressing yourself roughly against his body, allowing him to pull you so flush he feels the buttons of your blouse against him. 

Before we do this—you clean? Yes, I’m fucking clean. Just checking. I don’t know where you’ve been, Peña. Get in the car. 

The moment halts, pauses. It breathes between you, all set to unravel as your eyes ghost over him, breath merging with his as he stares at you. 

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your lips curl into a smile, one he strokes with his thumb. “Thank you, Sir.”

Fuck. That word. It drips from your tongue to his ear and down to his cock. His lips messily meeting yours, every other touch precise and well-versed, as though the two of you have done this before together. The movements are painted together by moans and whimpers, a part of him sliding back into place as clothes—both yours and his—fall to the floor in the wake of him getting you to his bed. 

He runs his thumb over your blouse-covered peak, his teeth running down your neck to a spot which makes your nails dig into the back of his head. Your other hand is on his spine, fingers sprayed as he moves you elegantly around the furniture like it’s a dance and not ruination. 

Then your lips find him again, pulling him up, teeth slightly nibbling at his bottom lip. You kiss him like you’re breathing life into him—trying to awaken parts of him stolen months ago. Pity, guilt and an array of other things are all smothered by the way your tongue slides past his teeth. Your fingers are busy in their pursuit, the clanging of metal undoing hammers into the air as his trousers ease from his hips. 

“Thought you were harder to sleep with.”

Your laugh blends with a moan as he presses you against the wall outside his room, hand snaking inside your underwear. 

The fabric cuts into his palm, sliding two fingers into your slick as you clench around him—enveloping him, coating him in your want and need. 

He waits for the back-pedalling for you to tell him something egotistical like others usually do. Only, you don’t. 

“Took pity… fuck—on you. Seemed like—oh, fuck—you need this.” Your hand clutches his cheek, eyes burning into his as your lips try to capture his, just about ghosting, the sensation of it almost making his move against the air. “Plus… thought you’d be better than my—oh, Peña—fingers… Sir.” 

He emits a groan which comes from somewhere at the back of his throat. It makes him crash his mouth to yours, fingers twisting to find the spot that makes your knees weaken. He tastes the whiskey and the mint you’d popped on your tongue when they’d left the bar. 

He smells your perfume, noticing how it wraps around him, digging its claws into him, smearing over his skin. 

“Wanna taste you…”

You clench your walls around his fingers, nails digging into his cheek and waist as you stare, slowly nodding. 

Not allowing you to change your mind, he frees his hand from your underwear, picking you up, kicking the door of his bedroom open as he takes in the small yelp from the sudden movements. 

It’s not until you’re lay against his sheets, eyes coating him in a potion mixed of lust, pleasure and need, swirling shades all around him he couldn’t begin to name, does he really take notice of how fucking beautiful you are. He’d seen it, noted it—but hadn’t allowed himself to truly appreciate it, something he began making up for as he slowly drops to his knees, pulling you a little closer. 

You watch him watch you, chest rising and falling before him. 

“Javi,” he breathes as he hooks a thumb on either side of your underwear, beginning to slide it down your thighs. “That’s what you should call out when I make you come on my tongue.” 

He places a kiss to the inside of your knee as you moan, discarding your underwear before hooking your legs over his shoulders—noticing how wet you are, allowing his breath to dance over it, purposefully blowing it as your hips wiggle in both desperation and apprehension. 

“You have to earn that,” you murmur, missing your usual confidence as he stares at you through his lashes. “Sir.”

He smirks, and then he devours you. Tongue flattening against you at first before he plunges it inside of your folds, tasting you—tasting how much you’ve wanted him since your eyes had begun flicking from his lips to his eyes. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thigh, hearing you—a chorus of please, Peña,  fuck and—

Javi. 

After a night of Peña and a day of sirs—it’s bliss. His name falling from your lips makes him rock his hips for friction. Makes him want to halt his plans to have you come on his tongue, and instead bury himself to the hilt inside of you. 

But there’s time. 

He knows this. Wants this. He wants to take you apart with the same tongue that made you mad. He wants to apologise with the mouth which went too far. He wants to know what your pleasure truly tastes like and commit each note of it to his taste buds. 

You lose it when he sucks lightly on your bundle of nerves, swiping his tongue in slow and quick circles one way, and then the other— “Fuck, Javi. Please—please, fuck—let me…”

He grins. Plunging his fingers back inside of you, curling them, letting them meet that spot he discovered earlier, that he now wants to conquer. Feeling how tight you are, how soaked. How each movement makes a sound which blends with the sound of your pleas—a compilation he wouldn’t ever let be taken from him. A sound he’s happy to burn into his brain. 

Each movement takes you closer to the edge. Your nails carve through his hair, digging into his scalp as his name falls and falls in a mixture of moans. 

He swirled his tongue in a way which makes your hips buck, and he grips you tightly, not letting you move from it until you were breaking, snapping—

The sound you emit sprays across the walls of his bedroom, his tongue lapping up every drop you’ll give him—ears taking in each infliction and sound you bestow on him. 

“Fuck,” you say when you come down, all breathy and sweet.

Fuck, he thinks. Swiping his fingers across his chin, licking you from them as you pull him up from between your legs, kissing him—tasting yourself on him as he grasps her cheek and jaw, falling against the sheets with you.

“Need you.”

“Sí?”

You smirk, all devious and devilish—sliding your leg over his as he grips your hip—digging his thumb into your skin as you whisper in Spanish:

Ruin me. 

He halts, letting the words circle as you bite your lip, rolling your hips against him—knowing he was going to do just that. Over and over again. Savour each moan of yours until even in the morning, before responsibilities and rights and wrongs sneak back in, he would need you again.

Except, Javi doesn’t wake up with you beside him in the morning. 

He wakes up alone, bed sheets cold—and something akin to disappointment fluttering in his chest: you left.

Briefly, he wonders if it's karma. Another arrow to his knee, a mirror confronting him of his past mistakes. Because, he shouldn’t be bothered that you left—preferring to avoid mess and complication.

But it stung. It irked him. Because usually, it was he who did the leaving, not the woman he had just slept with. 

chapter two ->

[mercymermaid]

human ax headcanons!! (feat. human bill as well)

1- ax is perfectly happy with letting mabel use them as a personal makeover doll, allowing her to paint their nails in colors so bright human eyes can't comprehend and use their face to try out every color of eyeshadow her new palette has. their hair has endured countless styling, and they've proudly donned the handmade dresses mabel would make during her sleepovers with grenda and candy. they vocally express their appreciation for her actions anytime she gets self-conscious about a project, and even make the first move to ask her about her latest ideas. they even get bill in on the fun as well, and though he throws a hissy fit whenever mabel brings in the sparkly hair gel, he secretly adores the attention even more than the axolotl.

2- bill has a severe coffee addiction, via ford once giving him a cup as a last resort. ax drinks exclusively tea, and while they claim that they do so for health reasons, deep down they know that if they ever got their hands on coffee, they'd be just as obsessed as bill, and when you're a god half of reality prays to, you need to keep up appearances.

3- while bill is a human-human, with maybe some triangle and dream demon still deep inside him, accessible only through really dramatic and plot-convenient circumstances, ax is still very much a god, just shaped into a human form. unfortunately, since such an entity cannot be smushed into such a fragile form, a lot of ax's perks (such as impenetrability and immortality) don't quite make it into the body with ax themselves. they still have full access to their powers, limited only by their state of mind, which is unfortunately also affected by their 'mortal' form. this means the axolotl is now more or less prone to injury and illness, surprising for such a powerful entity.

4- ax doesn't really need glasses, they just think they're charming.

5- sometimes ax tries to subconsciously float because they're not used to gravity actually affecting them, and then realize with a shock of embarrassment that unless they actually try, the stupid mortal body limitations prevent them from doing so. bill does this as well, but while the ax can still float on command, he cannot, and this pisses him off to no end.

6- the first time mabel made ax a sweater, they nearly cried; they're used to receiving gifts out of blind, selfish worship, and having someone give them a gift simply for being themselves is a novel experience. they blamed the tears on human body allergies. they now proudly wear mabel's twenty-million friendship bracelets, without fail.

7- ax loves deep philosophical discussion, and embrace dipper's endless questioning with open arms, excited to share their infinite wisdom.

8- ford and dipper are the last to figure out ax's real identity.

9- speaking in rhymes is the ax's way of getting a point across, such as trying to tell bill that his actions have consequences, but with the amount of prophecies they've had to give, speaking in rhymes is now a subconscious self-soothing mechanism.

bonus (not exclusive to human ax):

the axolotl's tail fin is normally a gorgeous sky blue, sometimes able to change colors to paint galaxies across night skies, but a little-known fact is that the tail fin is actually a tell-all mood ring for the ax. in theory, it's supposed to change colors based on what they're feeling; classic yellow for happy, red for angry, etc. however, the axolotl was always one to repress emotions, too afraid of what their anger (or, god forbid, joy) could unintentionally cause due to their immense power (loosely inspired by this post). after an eternity of purposefully staying calm, the axolotl's tail fin has adopted a permanent shade of relaxed blue, and no one is any the wiser. however, that doesn't mean it can't change color at all. in rare situations, the hue will change - it'll turn a more greenish teal when the ax is happier (yellow), a more purple shade when frustrated (red, quite rare), or a more indigo/dark blue shade when upset (blue). these changes are minuscule and imperceptible to most, but some that they have close relationships with (i.e. bill) can sniff these changes out. this color-changing rule also applies to the human ax's blue hair tips!

[aza-writes]

The Columbia Party

college!matt murdock x reader

Summary: you're a law student at Yale and your friend takes you to a Columbia Law school party one night where you so happen to meet a really cute blind guy

Warnings: use of y/n, few curse words, alludes to future smut

Based on the quote: "Everyone knows that the only real Ivy's are the Holy Trinity; Harvard, Yale, and Princeton" because Blair Waldorf is an icon

requested: no

The music playing in the bar was so loud that you could barely hear the guy standing next to me. His smile was charming but he was trying way too hard to be Mr. Cool Guy. Bragging about how he went to an Ivy League when everyone here is doing the same. I fake smile and giggle, hoping it’s enough for him to buy me a free drink. And I was so close. One more playful touch on his arm and I would be sucking down something strong for free, getting buzzed after a minute. But no. My friend who brought me here, Bre, grabbed my hand and pulled me away into the crowd. 

“You have to meet my friends! You’ll have so much fun with them!” Even with her yelling, her voice is barely audible over the music and loud conversations. She pulls me through the crowd insisting that a quiet spot is only “a little further away.” It wasn’t until after we finished one song, listened to a full one, and started the next that we finally made it to a small corner booth with two guys and a girl sitting there. 

 

"Bre!" the long-haired guy who kinda looks like a hippy yelled toward us. He immediately stands up and hurries over to her. 

Bre grips my hand harder as she walks towards the hippy man. “Foggy! How are you?” She’s speaking louder than usual, indicating the buzz of alcohol in her system. She goes to hug him without letting go of my hand, leaving me awkwardly standing there. 

She finally pulls away after a few long seconds. “This is the girl I was telling you about!” She lets go of my hand and makes a grand gesture to me. “Isn’t she so pretty! I told you she was pretty!” I giggle at her drunk compliments. Bre was the type of girl to brag about her friends but she gets even more affectionate after she’s been drinking. The perfect hype woman. 

I was expecting him to hold out his hand for me to shake, instead, he pulls me into a big bear hug. “I’m Foggy,” he turns and points to a girl at their booth, “That’s Marci, and that one with the glasses is Matt.” 

I wave at everyone. “It’s nice to meet all of you. I’m y/n.” I smile as Bre again grabs my hand and pulls me to the booth to sit down. 

Bre giggles as we sit down, then immediately stands up. “I’m gonna get us drinks!” She smiles and dramatically kisses the top of my head with a “mwah” before she runs back into the crowd to the bar. 

“So,” Foggy breaks the silence, “Bre said you’re in law school too.” 

Matt perks up at this, finally allowing me to see his full face and the upper half of his shoulders. I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol but he has a very pretty face and extremely broad shoulders. Nice muscles too. Before I got to respond, Matt asks another question. 

“You go to Colombia too?” He faces me, with furrowed brows. You can see the wheels in his head spinning but I have no idea what he’s thinking. 

“No, I go to Yale.” I smile softly, uncomfortable with the fact Bre left me with three strangers. I only know Marci from the one time we met. I was staying the night in Bre’s dorm when Marci hurried in and packed an overnight bag to meet up with what Bre refers to as ‘mystery whipped man’ which I now think is Foggy by the way he’s sitting so close to her. 

Marci giggles at this and looks up at Matt. “Oh, this is just perfect!” I look at her confused until she turns to Matt. “Weren’t you just saying that people that go to Yale are-” 

“Shh-” Foggy cuts her off, but that doesn’t stop her. 

“A bunch of pretentious-”

“Shhhhhh!” This time it was Matt trying to get her to stop talking. 

“Assholes.”

My eyes widen. “Oh really?” I look back at Matt. “Everyone that goes to Yale.” 

“That’s not at all what I meant.” His voice is a bit more defensive but nervous beyond everything else. “It’s just a lot of people there are a bit more high class and um,” he looks at Foggy, trying to get his help in the situation. Foggy just sits there and puts his hands up in surrender. “Snobby?” 

“Snobby?”

“Shit that isn’t the right word.” 

“Snobby? Says that guy that goes to Colombia. You probably think that you’re too cool for one of the top law schools in the country.”

Matt scoffs. “Colombia is an Ivy League school, just like Yale.” 

“Oh please, everyone knows that the real Ivy’s are the Holy Trinity; Harvad, Yale, and Princeton.” 

Matt opens his mouth, about to rebuttal, when Bre returns with two Long Island ice teas. 

“Sooo, what did I miss?” She smiles and sits right next to me, trapping me next to Matt. “Is everyone getting along?”

“It’s going just great.” I give her an obviously fake smile before sipping my drink. I’m too sober to deal with any of this right now. 

• • • • • •

An hour passed, as well as two Long Island ice teas, two rounds of shots for the table, and something fruity Bre brought me. I was too buzzed at that point to even ask what it was, but it was good. I was doing relatively okay, drunk enough to feel fine but I could still think logically-ish. Bre on the other hand, was wasted out of her mind. She was so drunk to the point Foggy and Marci had to get her back to her dorm. 

“I’ll drop her off then run back to grab you and Matt.” And with those three leaving, it left me and Matt alone. 

I don’t feel like talking to him and I don’t want to talk to him, but the awkward silence was enough to make me want to bang my head into a wall. I’m honestly considering it. I slowly turn my head to look at Matt who was taking a sip out of his beer. His hands look so good holding the bottle. His jaw tense as he drinks it, his lips wrapped around the opening. 

Fuck he’s hot. 

He pulls me out of my daydream by chuckling a bit as he sets his beer down. 

“What’s so funny?” I’m at that stage of drinking where I say anything that comes to my mind. I can’t tell if I like this part or hate it. 

He just shakes his head and smiles. “I-it’s nothing,” he tries to compose himself but he starts laughing again. 

“Tell me. It’s not like I’m gonna remember it in the morning.” I lie, I’ll remember it perfectly fine. I just want him to tell me. What about this whole thing is so funny he can’t help himself from laughing. 

He chuckles a bit more and turns to me. “Okay then.” He smirks then leans in close. “When I took a drink your heart rate spiked, your skin is hotter, and your breath quickened. You find me attractive, don’t you?” 

My eyes widen. How the fuck did he know that? “Excuse me?” 

He chuckles again. “It spiked again.”

“H-how do you know that? And I don’t. And how the fuck do you know about my heart rate?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” he straightens up, his smirk still lying across his face. 

I wanna smack it off of him… Or fuck it off. 

Only a few seconds after I let that thought slip in, he’s smirking and giggling like a fucking mind reader. 

[erimeows]

Knowing (NSFW)

The night that Vogler gets voted off the board, Wilson drives back up to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in the pouring rain to go celebrate with Chase, Foreman, and House in the latter’s office. Wilson, whose position was conveniently reinstated by Cuddy and the rest of the board, brings a bottle of whiskey in for the four of them to split between the shot glasses he knows House keeps in his desk drawer.

They stay there, making fun of Vogler and chatting away until half past midnight. Chase and Foreman excuse themselves around the same time. 

“And then there were two,” Wilson chimes with a half smile as he screws the lid back onto the glass whiskey bottle and slides it under House’s desk. He doesn’t drink much- hardly drank any of it tonight- so he figures House will get more use out of it than he ever will. “How are you feeling?”

“Think they’re going home together?” House hums, totally ignoring Wilson’s question. House is shaken due to that day’s happenings and just refuses to admit it to anyone- even himself. It makes sense that he won’t acknowledge it. “I could’ve sworn there was some tension recently.”

“I think that has more to do with the fact that you had them at each other’s throats than it has to do with what you’re implying,” Wilson scoffs and shakes his head.

Wilson looks toward the window. House has the blinds open for once. Finally, even if it’s only for tonight, House isn’t closing off the rest of the world.

Wilson stands from where he’s sat in front of House’s desk so he can go to peer out the window. Rain continuously showers over the building and trickles down the window in big fat drops to shroud their already-foggy view of the city. 

“Ah, you’re no fun,” House feigns a pout and lifts himself from his spinning chair so he can slip his big coat over his shoulders. A few awkward seconds pass. Wilson waits for House to inevitably make his exit with a sarcastic farewell, but the exit never comes. Instead, House uses his cane to walk until he’s standing next to Wilson. He leans against the window and stares out at the city rather than at Wilson himself. Meanwhile, all Wilson can stare at is House. “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be going home to your wife? She might get lonely without you. Poor thing.”

Wilson rolls his eyes at that. He doesn’t want his wife- he wants House. His marriage has been over since it started and at this point, he’s just waiting for Julie to serve him with papers. 

“I’m an oncologist, House, it’s not like she’s used to having me home at this time of night anyways. The only reason I’m not working right now is because I just got hired back.”

“But you could be home with her if you really wanted to,” House points out- ever so excited to correct someone, even if it’s Wilson- no, especially if it’s Wilson. The man is sadistic; always seizing the opportunity to point out somebody else’s flaws if it draws attention away from his own. By pointing out the fact that Wilson should be home with his wife right now, he draws the attention away from how he refused to keep his head down with Vogler and got Wilson fired. “And you could also be pounding that hot nurse you had lunch with if you really wanted to. I bet she’d light some candles at her apartment and put rose petals on the bed to make it real nice- a contrast from the dead bedroom you’re probably suffering from with Julie right now. So, why are you here with me when you could be with either of them? Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You’re right,” Wilson shrugs. He knows better to engage with House by arguing. That’s exactly what House wants, so he refuses to play into it. He puts his own jacket on and shoots House a sharp glare. “If you’re going to be like this about it, though, I’m going home.”

Wilson goes to leave, only to feel a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head to see House standing there with an unreadable expression (because even after all these years, this man is still an enigma).

“But do you want to go home to her?”

Wilson gulps and looks down, avoiding House’s prying gaze.

House reaches up to grab Wilson’s chin- to make Wilson look at him. Wilson does what he knows House wants him to and makes eye contact. Icy blue burns into light brown at the same time that Wilson’s cheeks flush pink. 

He’s had feelings for House since… Well, he doesn’t know when. One day, their friendship was just that, and the next, Wilson found himself with a notebook full of the man’s favorite things; found himself stealing glances and dreaming of things that he shouldn’t have been. Casual outings with his best friend turned into him spending his afternoons in preparation, trying on different outfits and mulling over which one would impress House the most. Peaceful nights with his wife- wives, over the years- turned into early mornings with him knelt on the floor of his bathroom, praying to God for House’s health, for House’s happiness, for House’s work, for House. Things changed so fast he couldn’t see it coming, let alone stop it.

Wilson remains lost in thought until House clears his throat, impatient. He recenters himself and meets House’s eyes again. Clearly, House reciprocates. Wilson isn’t oblivious to that. Wilson is the only person House spends time with, the only person House is interested in, the only person House has decided not to shut out. Wilson is the only person House has loved since Stacy.

But, whether or not House actually wants a relationship, Wilson has no idea. House isn’t the kind of man to hesitate. He would’ve made a move by now if he wanted it. Then again, he clearly returns Wilson’s feelings. So, if it’s not a relationship, what does House want? For them to stay in this limbo forever, wanting each other so desperately but never doing anything about it?

Wilson eyes House up and down. Still, his expression remains unreadable, but Wilson can tell that he’s tense with the way he taps his cane against the floor and purses his lips. 

“You know Julie and I haven’t been doing well. Why would I want to go home to her right now? And why does it matter to you?”

At that, House’s face falls. Wilson has successfully backed him into a corner and it’s apparent he doesn’t like it. 

“No reason.”

House backs away from Wilson like he’s on fire and retreats to his desk to gather his things. Wilson follows, unable to notice how House puts extra effort into facing away from him to hide his reddening cheeks.

“You never ask questions without a reason- you never do anything without a reason,” He argues.

“I can’t help but notice that you’re still here,” House grumbles and points up at the analogue clock on the wall. It’s almost one in the morning now. “You said you were going to leave two minutes ago, so leave.”

“You’re the one who stopped me,” Wilson shrugs. With each of these tense, awkward interactions, he feels as if he and House are getting progressively closer to something big. But then nothing happens, and he’s left disappointed like he is every other time. “You should be getting home, too. It’s late.”

“Ooh, so we can leave together,” House smirks and clacks his cane against the floor again. “I love it.”

Wilson flinches at a crack of thunder that booms through the sky.

“Are you sure you should drive in this?” He asks in reference to the downpour outside.

“What, are you gonna offer to chauffeur me to my place and then make that drive all the way back to yours?”

“No,” Wilson answers with a shake of his head. “I was gonna ask if I could drive us both to your apartment and stay with you tonight.”

“Wow, you’re really trying to get in my pants, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Wilson snaps. House blinks in what Wilson assumes is surprise. “You’re not a genius for figuring that one out; I’ve only been interested for a decade. So what?”

House pauses, standing behind his desk and staring at Wilson with a twinkle in his icy blue eyes. The tension in the room becomes so thick that it’s palpable until House walks towards the door of his office and utters one sentence.

“I don’t sleep with married men.”

Then, he shoots Wilson a wink and a smile before gingerly exiting the office, leaving nothing more than a confused and disappointed oncologist. Wilson sighs and looks at the clock again.

It’s one in the morning. He should be getting home.

~

A few months pass. Wilson moves out of the apartment he shared with Julie, which she doesn’t question. He also gets together with a lawyer and gets her served with divorce papers. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t question that either, and when he goes back to the apartment for the rest of his things, he’s not shocked by the fact that there’s another car in his parking space and a pair of men’s steel-toed boots by the front door. 

As much as Wilson could complain about acquiring a third alimony payment, he’s so relieved that it’s over that he doesn’t think to do so. Instead, he makes copies of all the documents pertaining to the divorce, storms into House’s office, and throws them down onto the diagnostician’s desk. 

House, who was sitting in his chair and bouncing his tennis ball on the floor, glances up at Wilson with a half-smile.

“What’s this? STD test results? I knew your panty-peeling ways would catch up to you eventually,” House jokes before picking up the stack of papers and staring down at it. Upon reading the words, his eyes go wide. “You really did it…”

“I’m not a married man anymore,” Wilson smirks. “What now?”

House tilts his head. His small half of a smile morphs into a large, cheshire grin.

“I don’t sleep with people who know me.”

“Really? That’s it? Not ‘I’m not gay’?” Wilson sputters. House must be coming up with excuses to avoid the inevitable at this point- either that or just trying to fuck with him for the fun of it. They love each other, and they both know they love each other, but that was never the problem. It’s always been House and whatever reservations he has back in that complicated head of his. “That’s your reason, that you know me?”

“Yes,” House nods and tosses the copies of Wilson’s divorce papers into the trash can next to his desk. Then, he starts spinning in his chair like a child and tosses his tennis ball in Wilson’s direction. Wilson barely catches it. “And I’ve never confirmed or denied the thing about being gay- I like to keep people on their toes, keep ‘em guessing.”

“You like to keep people on their toes, huh? That’s one hell of an understatement. What about Cuddy? Or Stacy? And I’m pretty sure you’ve at least considered Cameron. You know all of them.”

“Sure I do, but they don’t know me,” House explains and crosses his arms. “You, however, do.”

“And you don’t sleep with people who know you- you won’t risk being with me even though we have these feelings for each other-” Wilson pauses, pointing at himself as he puts it together. “Because you’re afraid of being known.”

“No. I just know better than to mix being known with the terrible thing that is my sex life. Why are you so insistent on making this a me problem?” House demands. While it’s apparent that he’s trying to maintain his composure, Wilson has known the man long enough to tell that he’s frazzled as he looks for his cane. Upon locating it, House grabs it from where it fell onto the floor at some point and gets up from his chair. “Is it because you don’t want to admit that it could be you?”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Wilson huffs. He throws his hands up in frustration and furrows his brow in anger. House starts to walk like he’s going to go past Wilson and to the door of his office, so Wilson blocks his way by moving in front of him. House shoots a glare that would work on just about anyone else- that would make Cameron or Chase or Foreman or any of House’s clinic patients turn their backs and walk away- but Wilson hasn’t been friends with House for over a decade by walking away from him. “You just admitted it was you and the weird prerequisites that you have for your sexual partners!”

“Well, you’ve had three failed marriages and you’re the only common denominator, so are we going to sit here and pretend that I’m the problem in this relationship?”

“I know I’m not perfect, you idiot- we’re both the problem!”

“Listen, Wilson, we’re at work and I’m sure you’ve got a ton of dying bald little freaks to save,” House says with a harsh tap of his cane to the floor for emphasis. 

“You’re fucked up.”

“I know. We both are,” House says and leans down to Wilson’s ear, daring to nip on the lobe. A flash of heat tears through Wilson’s spine. He can’t remember the last time he was so enthralled with someone; was it during his marriages? No, he would’ve remembered. Before House? Or was it always House? He’s so close that Wilson can smell past the cologne he wears and the shampoo he puts in his hair to get the scent of him, just him. Wilson knows his eyes are wide as House whispers in his ear. “Now get back to work. Or, if you’re just going to spend the rest of your shift thinking about me anyway, go home where you can fantasize about what I’m like in bed without getting interrupted.”

House, thinking he’s won this, side-steps as smoothly as he can given his infarction and goes to take another step forward so he can briskly escape this tense situation. Wilson, however, doesn’t intend on letting House escape. He’s always been good at surprising House, which he does yet again when he entangles his fingers in the loose ends of House’s hair and moves closer until they’re chest to chest. He waits for House to push him away, to say something, to tell Wilson that he doesn’t want this for some other stupid reason he’s come up with to push Wilson away for the millionth time.

Silence ensues. House doesn’t speak, just remains perfectly still with his back pin straight and his icy blue eyes trained on Wilson. He’s just holding his breath, watching, waiting for the oncologist to make the next move. Wilson enjoys the moment for what it is; being this close to House and being able to touch him isn’t something he’s ever gotten to partake in. 

House’s hair is peppery in color and a little coarse, and the ends are grown out so he has a couple small curls at the base of his neck. He’s long overdue for a hair cut. Wilson runs his fingers through it and revels in the sensation of his chest against House’s. 

He wonders what it would be like if they were at House’s apartment and not surrounded by the staff of the hospital walking by. He thinks about what this would feel like without the layers of clothes between them. He imagines what House would sound like if they weren’t standing here at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital staring each other down- if they were in House’s queen-sized bed, mouths on each other’s, hands roaming bodies and sweat staining House’s dark blue bed sheets.

“Tell me you don’t love me, or that I’m ugly, or that I have too much baggage. Tell me something- anything- about me that’s so bad that you don’t want this,” Wilson commands. “Tell me that I’ve put on too much weight since my second divorce, that my savior-complex is annoying, that I’m a serial cheater, that I always put your empty cereal boxes back in the pantry after I finish off the bag, anything. Please.”

“It’s not-” House starts with a quizzical expression, only for Wilson to quickly interject.

“Not about you or your fears. Give me a good, valid reason you don’t want me, and I’ll stop. I’ll leave, we can go back to being normal friends- hell, you can choose not to talk to me ever again- and that’ll be the end of it. But I’m not going to walk away knowing that you want me just as much as I want you. I can’t do that to us, House.”

“I…”

House looks anywhere but at Wilson now; the clock on the wall, the cane in his hand, the floor, Wilson’s stupid pink tie. He can’t do it and they both know that. Wilson isn’t surprised. What he is surprised by is how House kisses his forehead so tenderly. Wilson almost doesn’t believe it’s him doing it… and then it’s his nose, and his cheek, and finally, House is kissing him on the lips, slow and sweet.

Wilson hesitantly kisses back. It doesn’t seem real, but it is. It must be real if the large hand squeezing his waist and the stubble brushing against his chin are anything to go off of. He pulls away just enough to whisper against House’s lips.

“We’re at work. Shouldn’t you stop now?”

“Yes,” House breathes, even as he goes in for another kiss, and then another, as if he’ll die without; as if he’s drowning and Wilson is his only source of air. Wilson accepts it, craves it, allows himself to be taken in and kissed until he’s out of breath and his lips are bruised. It quickly escalates into something that he knows he’d get fired for at any other hospital. Briefly, he worries about people walking past and seeing this through the glass door of House’s office until he realizes that he wants them to see. He wants them to see that no, his devotion to House isn’t meaningless- that their relationship does mean something, that House can and will feel love for the right person, and that Wilson is the only one worthy of said love. “I should.”

“But you’re not going to?” Wilson laughs.

“No, I’m not,” House says and dips for another peck between sentences. “Fuck, I don’t think I could stop this even if I wanted to.”

“Then shut the blinds, lock your office door, and bend over the desk.”

~

A couple more weeks pass. Some days, they sleep together. Some days, they don’t. Regardless, things are the same as they always have been minus the sex.

Wilson should be disappointed. He wanted House to open up and he wanted them to connect, to have a real relationship. But right now…

Well, he can’t bring himself to be disappointed when they’re like this, having just finished. 

He’d seen House naked many times before; it’s hard not to when you’re friends with someone for so long. He can’t even count the number of times he’s accidentally walked in on House jerking off or pinned to his couch by some random hooker. He can count the number of times the pain has been so bad that House has needed help with things as basic as getting dressed or getting in and out of the shower. It was never like this, though, with House underneath him, back arching off his bed. The older man’s icy blue eyes are shut with his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He’s flushed dark pink from his head to the center of his narrow chest, which rapidly rises and falls with every labored breath he takes.

The mattress they’re on is an old, creaky piece of shit that creaks when Wilson carefully rests his weight on top of House. They’re covered in sweat and cum and god knows what else.

“Look at me,” Wilson pleads. House does just that, forcing his eyes open enough to meet Wilson’s. His pupils are blown wide and though it’s clear he’s drowning in their shared pleasure, Wilson can’t read much else. Is House just as enraptured by Wilson as Wilson is by him? Is House hoping he’ll stay after they clean up? “You’re beautiful… So beautiful.”

“And you’re cringeworthy. We’re in my bed, not The Notebook,” House references with a half-hearted roll of his eyes and a playful smack of one hand against Wilson’s shoulder. “So shut up and get off of me.”

Wilson does as told and rolls off of House, onto the bed. He’s learned where House keeps everything so that House can just lie there and let Wilson clean the both of them up on nights like this. They never have sex at Wilson’s as Wilson is living in a hotel following the divorce and has yet to settle into a new place of his own. 

He settles on his side next to House with his head on one of the pillows. There used to be one, but Wilson noticed after the first night he came over to do this, House bought another. Still, he hasn’t asked Wilson to stay the night. Wilson wonders if House even wants him to. Then again, there’s a lot of things he wonders about House. 

Wilson stares at House, who is still on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He already has his boxers back on which makes Wilson self conscious enough to grab his from the floor and put them on as well. 

Wilson wishes he knew what was running through the man’s mind right now. He’s quiet, contemplative, and serious in a way that’s out of character for him. Usually it’s awkward enough that Wilson leaves, and they pretend this never happened (until the next time it happens), but Wilson is growing weary of this cycle they’ve created over the last few weeks. Instead of quickly dressing himself and leaving, he gets back into the bed and pulls one of House’s large blankets over the two of them. House’s eyes widen. His gaze flickers to Wilson; questioning, cautious.

“There’s more I wish I knew about you,” Wilson softly murmurs. “More I wish you’d tell me. Things I’d ask about if I thought I could actually get an honest answer out of you.”

House furrows his brow.

“Like what?”

“Will you answer me honestly?”

“Depends on what you wanna know,” House answers.

Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, Wilson worms his way between one of House’s arms and his body so he can rest his head on the man’s chest. House tenses at first before relaxing his muscles and wrapping his arm around Wilson’s body to return the affection.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this… A few months ago, you lied to me about that transplant patient- Carly Forlano- you lied to all of us.”

“Who was that again?” House questions. 

Wilson doesn’t know if he’s serious or not.

“That business woman who came in with a ton of problems and ended up in congestive heart failure despite being perfectly healthy. You lied-”

“I like to call it ‘spinning the truth’.”

“So? What was wrong with the patient that met the exclusion criteria for the transplant list anyway? We both know that Chase figured it out and ratted to Vogler and Cuddy during her surgery.”

“She was taking Ipepac,” House says after a long pause, to which Wilson blinks up at him with confusion written on his face.

“You mean she took it once? There’s no way one use would cause that kind of damage to someone so young unless-”

“She said ‘maybe three times a week’. She was bulimic- or, is bulimic- who knows,” House shrugs as much as he can do so considering that Wilson’s weight is on top of him. Still, the expression on his face is unreadable. Wilson remains baffled; why would he lie for her? Why would he take the chance with his medical license by lying like that? Did he have some sort of personal connection with her, or was it just for the sake of solving one of his cases? Just to prove to himself that he was right? “But when bulimics give you a number for the amount they’re purging, it’s usually much more than what they’re actually willing to admit out loud, so I’d bank on it being at least once a day.”

“She’s a smart woman; smart enough to know the kind of damage that could do to her heart, and she did it anyway,” Wilson huffs. He knows everyone copes with stress differently, but he also remembers being very frustrated with that patient while she was in their care. She would use her cell phone during important texting and prioritize her many business calls over her health. Worst of all, she tried to rush herself out of the hospital to get back to work, assuming nothing was seriously wrong and that it was just a random one time health scare at first. If not for the staff’s insistence that she stay, she would’ve died from heart failure. “So why the hell would you grant her the transplant? Better yet, why would you lie to everyone to get her that transplant and risk your job- your medical license? You said you thought you were doing what’s right when we talked about it the first time.”

“I did, because that’s what I thought, and I still think that.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe me if I said I saw a bit of you in that patient?”

At that, Wilson gets off of House and sits up in the bed to stare down at the man, whose expression is unreadable as ever. 

“House, I’m not-”

“I know you’re not bulimic, but you’re great at making the worst possible choices for yourself at every turn and ruining your otherwise very accomplished life. That’s another form of self-harm in itself,” House says, sitting up as well. Wilson doesn’t miss the wince that momentarily takes over the other man’s face as he grabs his leg in pain from performing the motion. “Going into oncology even though it makes you miserable, jumping into three marriages that you knew weren’t going to work out, beating up that guy over a Billy Joel song at a bar during an important medical conference, allowing me to befriend you-”

“-you bailed me out of jail, what was I-”

“Staying as my friend even after the conference, allowing me to seep into your personal life and ruin aspect of it, and better yet, your professional life, too!”

“I still have a job and a good reputation, so-”

“Sure, because you got lucky with Cuddy pulling the plug on Vogler, which you had no way of knowing she would do. If that hadn’t happened, your little gesture of voting to keep me on staff even though you knew you’d get canned too still would’ve played out the way it was supposed to. You would’ve been fucked.”

“And what you’re saying is?” Wilson sighs. 

“Everyone else in my life; they’re sane enough to not want to deal with me the way I am but crazy enough to try and fix me. You, on the other hand, are sane enough to know I can’t be fixed but crazy enough to stay with me anyway. Even though you’ve made the mistake of getting to know me, you’re still here,” Silence. Wilson isn’t sure what to say, so he tentatively reaches out. House holds his hand and intertwines their fingers with a bittersweet smile. “Nothing to say?”

“Well… What’s so bad about knowing you?”

“Being known is simultaneously one of the best and worst things that could happen to someone. When it works out, it’s great, and when it doesn’t work out, it’s not… And let’s not pretend I’m not a huge asshole. It’s a miracle you’re still friends with me after all these years.”

“That’s all it is?” Wilson asks, to which House nods. “I don’t get it, then. We’ve been friends for a long time, House, you know I can take whatever you can dish out… Unless… Are you afraid I’m going to leave?”

“We could be naive enough to sit here and assume that things are always going to be this way; that we’ll always catch each other when we fall, but people fall out of love. People turn their backs, and they let each other fall. People grow and change and before you know it, your best friend becomes a stranger, and you don’t know them like you thought you did,” House drops Wilson’s hand and turns around to toss both of his legs over the side of the bed. Again, he winces from the pain caused by his infarction. It looks like he wants to stand to leave the room for something but can’t gather the strength to do so. “We’ve both had it happen to us before, and you know it’s real. You’ve been through three marriages and I’ve ran through plenty of relationships in the last few decades. You’re just making the worst possible decision for yourself yet again by throwing yourself into the pits with me.”

“But that’s my decision to make. Whether or not we do anything about our feelings doesn’t change them. There’s no stopping this, at least not for me,” Wilson insists and rushes to stand up so he can go around the side of the bed and offer his hands.

House refuses to take them, refuses to accept the help. The older man fumbles around until he manages to retrieve his cane from where he abandoned it on the floor earlier. Instead of using Wilson as leverage, he uses his cane and stands from the bed to walk towards the door of the bedroom. Wilson follows him into the kitchen in wait of a response.

“You’re not scared at all?”

“Of course I’m scared! I’m terrified. I’ve seen our track records with relationships, but… If it means that I get to be with you, I can be scared and still put my best foot forward, to try and make this work. I’m in love with you, Greg House.”

House walks towards the fridge without a word. Again, Wilson follows in wait of a response, this time wrapping his arms around House’s waist and resting his chin on the man’s shoulder from behind.

“You’re persistent.”

“So? You’re going to give me a heart attack if you keep making me wait on you. Seriously, it’s been over a decade of this nonsense with two weeks of confusing sex stacked on top of it,” Wilson scolds. House just looks back at him as if he’s not sure this is real. “So? What do you say?” “I say… I’m in love with you too, James Wilson,” House chuckles, reaches into the fridge, and grabs a beer for each of them with a large grin. “Good luck.”

[pells-beautiful-wife]

Shattered hearts and bottles

Zoro x reader

Warnings:angst, angst without comfort, drinking, arguing, established relationship, breakups

I'm so, so, sorry but yall are suffering with me

Inspired by this song:

He knew he should have been softer. Should have listened to you. But it was too late now.

Your argument still stung his heart as it replayed in his head, as if the first time hadn't been painful enough.

He clenched his fists tight. Slamming his left hand into the wall leaving a huge dent.

It hurt more knowing you would stay with sanji out of spite.

He could hear you both know. He knew you wouldn't cheat you weren't like that.

Why did he have to get so mad?

He lifted the bottle back up to his lips taking a lengthy glug.

He moved his legs slightly the countless empty glass bottles clinking together.

It took a lot to get zoro drunk and right now he was cursing that fact.

He wished the alcohol would wash away the image of your hurt angry face.

Wished the alcohol could take away the fact that he was the reason for that expression.

You and sanji had just been cooking, and he had to get all protective over you, well fuck him.

"What do I do now ive added the chicken?" You'd fretted.

"Calm down love, just add the stock and stir it."

"Oh ok."

"Whats this?" He'd asked.

"Oh sanji was just teaching me to cook?" You'd replied innocently.

"Oh he was?"

"I'm sorry is there an issue?"

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" He'd felt the rage stur in his stomach.

"What?"

"You know what just keep flirting with shitty brows."

"Flirting? No zoro we were just cooking."

"Oh so that's what you call this?"

"Yes because that's what it is," you'd stiffened going on the defensive. "Do you think I'm lying?"

"Yes."

"Why? What have I ever done to make me unloyal in your eyes?"

"I-"

"No I don't wanna hear it. Why are you so... frustrating?"

"Me? Woman have you met yourself?"

"Yes I have but I've also sadly met you, and with how your acting right now I wish I never had!"

"How am I acting then?"

"Like an incompetent child denied a toy,"

"At least I'm not flirting with some third rate cook."

"Neither am I!"

He had scoffed, causing you to place your hands on your hips eyebrows high.

"If you have something to say say it!" You spat.

"Why bother, your obviously to bussy with him, you know what why dont you just fuck him while your at it."

"Zoro!" Sanji warned.

"And you, stay away from her, the only thing your good for is food, fucking remember it."

"Zoro leave sanji out of this."

"I'd love to but your the one you fucked him into this!"

"Omg do you even have a brain in there, or is it just as empty as your heart!"

"At least I have a heart, bitch!" He'd regretted that instantly. But that hadn't stopped him. "Why are you even here you can't fight, you can't think and you most certainly can't fuck!"

"Me? Zoro you can barely take two steps without getting lost! All you do is sleep, to be honest all you do is take up space!"

"And your just a whore!" He spat.

"I can't believe I fell in love with you," you'd said in disgust.

"You love me?"

"NO! NO I DONT! NOT ANYMORE!" Her face stained with tears.

"You don't mean that?"

"Try me!"

"Whos acting like a child now!"

"Leave us alone zoro."

"No I'm not leaving you alone with him," he had pointed to sanji.

"I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!" then she'd thrown the wine bottle.

The shards of glass didn't hurt half as much as her words.

His heart hurt.

You'd confessed your love in that argument.

But had zoro ruined things?

That moment wasn't what he expected he'd never considered being in love with you but now, after that he realised he did.

He was madly inlove with you and he worried that now you'd realised you didn't love him afterall.

He felt suffocated, he had been rendered blind to all but his thoughts and the bottle in his hand.

His tears run free down his cheeks and trickling down the glass of the bottle.

His eyes stung slightly.

Oh how he wished you were here to hold. Here on his lap nesting into his chest as he burrowed his face in your hair.

He instinctively wrapped his arms tighter but finding nothing but himself.

He sobbed into his elbow. Tucking his knees up higher.

In his head he could hear you voice asking if he was ok. He lifted his head throwing it back against the wall his hand clutching at his shirt over his heart.

"DAMN YOU!" He cried out his tears coming thick and fast. His head throbbed but not nearly as much as his heart.

He didn't doubt everyone on the ship had heard his scream but it didn't even compare to the screaming of his heart.

He stood quickly, lobbing the still half full bottle at the wall. The throw caught him off balance and he stumbled forwards causing him to fall to his knees.

His knees stung as the bottles shattered under his weight.

No one had come to check on him, he could hear them comforting you. More proof he was in the wrong.

His strong fist thudded against the floor inpailing glass into it.

"FUCK!" He sobbed.

His head spun at his own voice, he seemed to have skipped the drunk stage and gone straight into hangover.

Grabbing another full bottle he sat back on his knees and downed that one too.

If you were here you would rub his back and scold him for drinking so much.

But you weren't and every breath he took was a sick reminder.

He needed comfort too. But he didn't deserve it. Rolling onto his back his threw his arm over his eyes sheltering his gaze from the throbbing lights. Or maybe it was his head that was throbbing.

If he could take it back he would.

You deserved better than him. Maybe Sanji could treat you better.

Sanji? What the fuck was he thinking?

He swigged his booze again.

Had he lost you forever now? You'd argued before but this felt more real. He'd never made you yell before let alone cry.

What if you really didn't want him?

He couldn't stand this, this unknowing, this turmoil.

So ignoring his pounding head, he stood leaving the bottle he stumbled through the door, down hallways until he was in the kitchen.

You were sitting on the table crying into sanjis shoulder and nami rubbed you back.

"Hey, um," he rubbed the back of his neck, not quite able to slurr out your name.

"You!" Nami seethed.

"Can I talk to her alone," he slurred slightly.

"Zoro your completely intoxicated, I don't think you want to talk to her now," sanji offered.

"I do," his gaze slipped to the floor.

You just sat there head on sanjis shoulder, listening.

"Ok but we're staying!" Nami glared at him.

He just nodded.

Sanji and nami took a couple of steps away and zoro strode over to you. Standing just a baby step away from you.

"Uum, I just- I'm sorry," he spluttered, the other two exchanged a shocked look. "I over reacted and, i shouldn't have said, any, of those things, I was just mad but not at you, at me. I guess-"

He looked away gritting his teeth fists clenched.

"I guess it made me realise I love you too!" He finished looking to you with bated breath.

You both stayed like that for what felt like hours but was probably only a few seconds.

"Zoro," you said softly, tilted your head up to his. He saw your face, scarily absent of tears. "I'm sorry but, I meant what I said."

Cold fear gripped his heart and twisted his gut.

His heart thudding in his ears as cold sweat covered him.

"I don't love you anymore," you smiled gently.

His head spun this time for a completely different reason.

"I've decided to leave, there's an island pretty close by, I'm going to stay there."

His own tears threatened to fall.

He could see himself reflected in your gorgeous eyes. The same eyes that had once looked to him with such love, now completely void of emotion.

"Oh, ok!" His voice shook as his lip wobbled. "I understand!" He wiped his eyes quickly exiting the room.

The door clicked shut behind him and he collapsed against it not bothering to hide his sobs as they echoed across the whole ship.

[seijorhi]

SHIVER

Inui Seishu x female reader

a Valentine's Day Collab

tw: drugging, yandere & dubcon themes, infidelity

“I feel like I’m losing him, Inupi,” idly you swirl the glass of red he’d poured for you. “And I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to–” for a split second, you glance up – meet his eyes and sheepishness takes over. Your mouth closes, and Inui gets the sense that if he reached over to brush that stray lock of hair back from your cheek, he’d find them burning. 

The corners of his lips twitch. Adorable.

“Sorry, sorry! I know I should just shut up about it. It’s Valentine's Day and I’ve barged in here all miserable and sad– oh god, you probably have plans tonight, or a date or something, right? Of course you do, it’s Valentine’s, and you’re you and…”

You’re rambling again. Partially because that’s what you do when you’re all worked up, but the alcohol’s undoubtedly playing its part. If he let you, you’d keep going ‘til you ran out of steam or embarrassment got the better of you. 

Feeling magnanimous, Inui decides to take pity on you, raising a hand to stop you in your tracks. “I don’t have a date,” he tells you with a small laugh. “And stop apologising. You’re– you’re one of my best friends. You’re upset. Nowhere else I’d wanna be.”

You smile at that. Sad and a little heartbroken, but a smile that makes his heart thud, and when you reach a hand out for him to take, Inui doesn’t hesitate for a second.

He lets you tug him closer, lay your head against his shoulder between mouthfuls of wine. “I don’t know what to do,” you mumble.

The truth of the matter is that you lost Koko a while ago. You both did. The only difference is that Inui accepted that while you’re still with him, trying.

Koko can’t have everything. He made a choice; he chose Izana, and then he chose Mikey. 

You stuck by his side. 

Even after bailing on your date night – on Valentine’s Day, with you all dressed up, pretty and fucking perfect – all but pushing you into Inui’s arms, you’re still trying to cling to the tattered remnants of a relationship that won’t ever make you happy.

Not like he’d make you happy. 

He wonders how long you sat there, waiting. 

“I don’t know what to do.”

Kokonoi loves you. He might do a shitty fucking job of it, but he does, Inui knows that for a fact. And if he were a good friend to either one of you, he’d find a way to reassure you of it. 

Inui’s hand, having drifted to your shoulder, squeezes it once, and he smiles, “You’re almost out,” he nods at your nearly empty glass. “Let me top you up.” He rises then, ignoring your half-hearted protests to take your glass with him back into the kitchen. 

No, he’s perfectly aware that Koko loves you, that’s the problem, see?

In an hour or so, whenever he’s done with whatever bullshit Mikey’s got him dealing with, Koko’s gonna come back to the apartment you two share and find his girlfriend’s gone AWOL. 

Then’ll come the concerned text messages, the phone calls – and even if you ignore those (which you won’t), Koko’s not an idiot. He’ll realise one way or the other that you’ve come here, because who else would you turn to for comfort if not Inupi? 

That’s the way it’s always been. You, him and Koko, all tangled up in the same unforgiving web.

He grabs the bottle of red, unscrews the cap and pours you a full glass. 

Koko’s not stupid. He’s not blind.

You, though… he doubts it’s ever crossed your mind. You’re loyal. Sweet. Entirely too naive, but that’s not completely your fault. How can it be, when keeping you in the dark – protecting you from those nasty, uncomfortable truths – is the only thing he and Koko still agree on?

And Inupi’s played his role without complaint for years now. He’s been a good friend to you both and stayed in his lane.

He eyes the round, white pill in his fingers. He should feel guilty, right? There’s supposed to be a little voice in his head that tells him this is wrong, that he shouldn’t want to do this. 

He waits for it to come, and waits and waits.

…Nothing happens.

Dropping that little white pill into your glass, Inui watches impassively as it fizzes and bubbles until there’s nothing left. No hint or trace. Tasteless. 

“…Inui?” you call out. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

It’s Valentine’s Day, and for once – he just wants you to stay. 

[the-oc-lass]

Does Wrecker have fangirls? If not, he fucking should

GOOD EVENING FOLKS AND WELCOME BACK TO MY BULLSHIT. I've got more baby content for you!

This week we expand our story with Wrecker and a Baby. I love this giant man. I need a hug from him ASAP. If you missed the Crosshair chapter from a few days ago, it's posted here.

The full fic (a little longer than Crosshair's because we get a little more OC mom screentime) is also below the cut:

After a very long day of playing general, Rayona Yothia, mother to Echo “Ec” Yothia, is ready to fall down on her bunk and pass out for a few hours. The problem is, Ec does not share her wishes and is instead insistent on staying wide awake. She’s just finished trying and failing to feed Ec when, like a gift from the stars themselves, Wrecker walks in. He pauses when he sees her, his good eye darting across her face as he inspects her. 

“You look tired, Ray,” he says. She hums, bouncing her son on her lap. 

“Let’s just say our little friend here isn’t interested in sleeping at the moment,” she says. Wrecker watches her for another few seconds, then smiles at her.

“I’ll watch him.” She raises an eyebrow. 

“Aren’t you afraid to hold him without supervision because you think you’ll drop him?” His smile turns a little more bashful and he scratches the back of his neck. 

“I still wanna help you, Ray,” he says. Her gaze softens and she watches him for a moment before nodding. 

“Okay. I’d appreciate it,” she says. He smiles and walks over to the bunk, waiting for her to stand up. He’s extra careful as she helps him adjust Ec in his arms, treating the infant like he’s made of glass. Once he’s comfortable, Rayona sets her hand on Wrecker’s arm. “You sure you’ll be okay?” He nods. 

“Don’t worry, Ray. I’ve got him. You get some sleep,” he says. She smiles softly at him, squeezing his arm and nodding. She lies down and watches Wrecker as he leaves her room. A small part of her is anxious, but she knows Wrecker will be nothing but gentle with her son. 

Wrecker doesn’t go far once he’s out of Rayona’s room. In fact, he only goes down the hall, finding a quiet place to sit down. The base isn’t the best place to raise a baby, but they make do. After all, Ec is great for morale. A long day of work and missions is all worth it when they get to come back and see him. And lucky for Wrecker, those who are close with Rayona get extra Ec time. He carefully shifts Ec in his arms, holding him up and bouncing him slightly. Ec giggles, waving his arms a little. After bouncing the baby a few times, Wrecker pauses and tilts his head slightly. 

“What am I supposed to do with you?” he asks the baby. Ec babbles in response. Wrecker tries to figure out what kinds of things you do with babies and, after a few moments, he remembers a game he’s seen Echo play with the baby. Echo is good with him. Maybe it’s because the baby is named after him. Maybe it creates some kind of…Name bond. Wrecker doesn’t know, but he does know that the game made Ec laugh. So, Wrecker adjusts slightly, pulling his legs up and carefully resting Ec against them. Then, he covers his eyes—both of them, just in case his blind eye confuses the baby. “Where’d you go?” He uncovers his eyes and smiles widely at Ec. “There you are!” Ec giggles with pure glee, clapping tiny hands and babbling. His laughter makes Wrecker laugh too, and he continues with the game for a little while before Ec starts to lose interest. Wrecker bounces him again slightly, watching him closely. He looks a little more tired than he was earlier, but not by much. 

“I heard you volunteered to watch the baby.” Wrecker lifts his head and Echo is looking down at him, clearly amused. Ec babbles happily, reaching a hand up toward the man he’s named after. Echo smiles, waving back with his droid hand—a gift Rayona and Tech made before…Well, everything. Those were simpler times. 

“I thought Ray was asleep!” Wrecker says, bouncing Ec slightly again. Echo shrugs. 

“She was half asleep when she told me.” He suddenly holds up a bottle. “She also told me that he needs to eat before he sleeps.” Wrecker perks up slightly. 

“Oh! I can do that!” he says. Echo raises an eyebrow. 

“You sure? He can be a little stubborn,” he warns. Wrecker just laughs. 

“Like his mum!” he says. Echo smiles a bit at that, then hands the bottle to Wrecker. 

“Just let me know if he won’t eat. I can usually convince him,” he says. Wrecker tilts his head. 

“How do you do that?” he asks. Echo grins slightly and shrugs one shoulder. 

“I’m the family’s weakness.” Wrecker chuckles, then turns back to Ec, holding up the bottle. The infant takes it eagerly and the two clones chuckle before Echo says something about checking in with Rex and excuses himself. By the time Ec has finished the contents of the bottle, he looks ready to fall asleep. Wrecker does his best to burp the child the way he’s seen Rayona and some of the others do before, and when it’s all said and done, Ec has fallen asleep. His tiny hand is curled into a fist, grasping onto the fabric of Wrecker’s blacks. The big man chuckles softly, setting the bottle aside and then curling his arms gently around the baby. After ducking his head slightly to kiss the top of Ec’s head, he decides he’ll stay here for a bit so that the kid can sleep. In the end, Wrecker falls asleep too. 

A few hours later, Echo passes by the same spot again, pausing and smiling at the sight before him. Wrecker is still asleep against the wall, Ec peacefully resting against his chest, and Rayona, who clearly sensed that her son was never brought back to her, is now curled up against Wrecker’s side, her head on his shoulder. Though Wrecker isn’t Ec’s father, he stepped up during Rayona’s pregnancy and supported her even while he and Hunter went searching for Omega. Before Ec was even born, Wrecker swore that he’d be the best uncle he could be. Though he’s cautious due to his own strength and Ec’s small size, Wrecker has stood dutifully to that promise, just as he’s stood dutifully by Rayona. And he’ll continue to do so for as long as she needs him to, just as they all will. Echo snaps a quick holo of the sleepy pile, then quietly leaves them to rest for a little while longer.

[wentasch]

Dear friends. Dear strangers.

After some more days of brainstorming and designing I can finally show you a version of Okane that I find acceptable.

There you go.

Soo some things about him.

Like Hone is Okane a high rank of the Harima clan from the FoY universe by @sleepwalkersqueen. His whole moral in life is that he wants to live to its fullest but he doesn’t want to die for it. He enjoys gatherings and events the clan does more than his sometimes dangerous missions.

And saying this with the deepest disrespect I have for him deep down he’s a scaredy cat and terrified of dying. He plays things mostly safe well as safe as Harima lets him. He doesn’t show his fear of course but it’s there.

His undying loyalty towards Harima comes from the fact that Okane is deeply convinced that Harima is something you can’t run away from when you wrong him. So he just never tried yet he saw so many try and die because of it. He’s not naive and not as reckless as… others -looking at Shinyo-

Okane is in his forties when FoY starts. He is only 8 years younger than Harima himself (if I’m right that Harima was in his thirties when Shinyo was on the boat if not it’s ooc) and because of it he’s one and I even think the last of the first boat kids generation. As a person he is let’s say a creepy gentleman but not as bad as Junto.

Also even though he is scared of dying he will stir a little drama and rub salt into somebodies fresh or old wounds. He’s the highest rank for a reason and one of the longest there too so you can’t really talk against him.

That guy is also known for playing games with lower ranks just for fun or to get some kind of advantage. He does this when meeting Junto. He sticks around and sits back watching what Junto will do while making him be in his debt with for Okane easy favors.

WARNING FOR SELF-HARM FOR THIS BIT

Moving on to his Quirk.

I don’t have a name yet. I’m open to ideas but let’s just say it has to do with fungus and spores. Under his skin there is a an extra layer of fungus growing and on his lower arms/neck it even grows out of the skin. I imagine they got bigger with time. There’s also some scarring on his face because normally half of his face would be grown over with fungus too but Okane got it removed under Harima’s order to make him look presentable.

Coming to the main thing of his quirk. If he cuts his skin open spores will be set free and if people inhale these they can get a little delirious kinda like the affect alcohol has on you. If they breath in too much they get fully immobile though. (I also imagine they’re able to get into your blood through open wounds)

Even more dangerous about this whole immobile state of his victims is that if Okane speaks to them with a certain tune they will do everything he says. And I say everything.

The very thing that made him so deadly was that the people who did the order completely loss their memories and self. I can see his victims just rocking front and back while whispering about that voice.

If Okane gets bored he will also use his quirk on normal people and watch the news grinning while they scream about the aftermath of his doing.

His quirk kinda give a of Last of Us vibe but we also had the topic of fungus in university some weeks ago so both probably molded my mind while thinking about it.

The problem about his quirk is that the fungus in him grows and starts to take over cells they shouldn’t. Like his eyes for example. He is going slowly blind and that’s a big fear of Okane because he won’t be as useful as he was if he’s blind. (That’s also why he wears glasses and has a staff to help him) I imagine there’s very big tension in first ranks to perform and if you don’t then you’re useless and uselessness means death in this clan.

Okane is one of Harima’s moneymakers. He strikes deals. With the help of his quirk or without.

WARNING FOR GROOMING (not the sexual kind)

One last thing. I didn’t want him to at first but because of the “connection” Okane has with Junto, Okane also got meet his kids and more important their quirks. Hayatos quirk is an useful asset but nothing to thrilling for Okane but when Tsumi got her quirk things got interesting for him.

Tsumis quirk is being able to mold peoples body to her willing. It’s hella dangerous not trained but after she mastered it she could fix Okanes eyes.

And don’t get me wrong Okane has all rescources to get himself a good surgeon but this eye surgery would be hella risky and there’s no saying his fungus won’t just simply grow back so that surgery is out of question.

Tsumi is the answer for Okane.

So what does he do? The same thing Harima does to his clan members, groom them to be loyal to him. Okane becomes a sorta “uncle” for Tsumi. He brings her presents (even his prized spores), takes her to gatherings and just simply gives her the attention Junto never gave her.

Everything so Tsumi fixes his eyes.

Okay that’s all for now.

Let me know what you think :3

[tennessoui]

for the prompt

“You always this quiet?”

for KUWKS? ♥️♥️♥️ love you

hello !! and welcome to the return of KUWSK! this is more of a teasing 1k because i think i'm going to try and put this ficlet as an expanded chapter up on ao3 soon! this takes place a few weeks after chapter 9, the ficlet where they get engaged

(1k)

(Early December, Five Years, a Few Months, and a Few Weeks after the Skywalkers Move In)

There is a very loud bang, followed by a very loud crash. Anakin stirs awake with a grumble, comforted only by the fact that he can hear his fiancé do the same on the other side of the bed.

“Your turn,” he mutters, turning over onto his side.

“S not,” Obi-Wan replies, and the mattress shifts slightly as he turns over himself—conveniently taking half the covers back and winding them around his own body as if it’s not late December and fucking frigid. “Yours.”

Anakin swats at him ineffectively, barely grazing his back. His eyes slit open to read the blurry digital number of the alarm clock on his nightstand. It’s five in the morning. “Get up,” he mumbles, reaching back again to push at his fiancé. “Investigate.”

“I cannae find my glasses,” the asshole says, even though Anakin knows he hasn’t even tried to look for them. “‘M blind without them, you know that.”

There’s another loud sound. Something has definitely fallen. It’s December 17th, much too early for Santa. “What if it’s your father arriving early for Christmas?” Anakin asks, rubbing his face against his pillow. “You know if I have to talk with your father before at least three cups of coffee, it’s going to end in tears.”

“Don’t care,” Obi-Wan murmurs, shifting more. He’s probably curling into a nice little ball of sleepy warmth right now, the fucker. “Go make nice with your father in law.”

“Not married yet,” Anakin reminds him. “‘S your turn to make nice with him.”

“Mm,” his fiancé says, which could mean anything. “But what if it’s a home intruder?”

“Your house,” Anakin points out, trying to steal back some of the covers. He’s starting to shiver. “‘Sides you have all those scary looking tattoos. Intimidating.”

“Mm,” his favorite bastard says. “But you fucked me so well last night that I couldn’t possibly walk, let alone defend the castle.” The word castle is split in two by a yawn. “Wouldn’t be very intimidating to a burglar if I can’t walk without a limp, he’d laugh me out of house and home.”

Anakin kicks at him, but the older man doesn’t even acknowledge his act of almost-marital abuse. He’s quite sure they’re both fully awake at this point, which makes him want to push Obi-Wan out of bed because it’s his fucking turn and it’s very cold and he’s stolen all the blankets.

As if somehow sensing exactly how close Anakin is to unspeakable violence, Obi-Wan rolls over and ghosts a hand down his back before allowing his fingers to simply rest against his spine. “Anakin love,” Obi-Wan mumbles, inching forward until he’s pressed against Anakin’s back. “Won’t you go make sure no one has broken into our house or hurt our children? I would, but you’ve rendered me so terribly incapable of walking after we made love last night.”

Anakin is going to marry an absolute dick. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and glares over his shoulder at his asshole of a fiancé. “That’s not always going to work, you know,” Anakin says waspishly as he forces himself to swing his legs off the mattress, glaring over his shoulder.

Obi-Wan’s eyes are closed as he stretches out more into the warmth of the bed, a sleepy, self-satisfied smile curling the edges of his lips.

“See if I let you bottom next time,” Anakin mutters as he pulls on a pair of joggers over his briefs. No need to give either a potential burglar or Qui-Gon Jinn an accidental eye full.

“Mm,” Obi-Wan says, rolling into Anakin’s warm spot like a goddamn cat that got the fucking cream. “I look forward to it.”

Anakin grumbles and keeps grumbling, especially when he hits his shin on his bedside table trying to find his shoes.

Obi-Wan shushes him and turns over.

“I’m going to murder you if the burglar doesn’t get to it first,” Anakin hisses in a low voice. 

Obi-Wan begins to snore.

Of all the assholes in the world, Anakin had to go and fall in love with the smarmiest, which is really just his luck.

But he is in love with him, so he tries to be quiet as he exits the bedroom and crosses the long hall from the master bedroom to the living room. 

There’s light spilling out from the kitchen into the dining room, casting flickering shadows on the back of the couch.

Two very, very familiar voices echo through the empty space now that the bedroom door isn’t blocking the noise. Anakin pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to ten. He’d almost have preferred Obi-Wan’s father. At least he can yell at Qui-Gon Jinn without feeling bad.

He rounds the couch and walks through the empty dining room, suddenly incredibly grateful he’d put on joggers.

In the artificial light of the kitchen mixed with the pre-dawn light, his children are fighting over a metal bowl filled almost to the brim with some sort of sticky, white, amorphous blob monster in early stages of propagation. 

“Give it,” Leia snaps, fingers curling into the mixture itself. “You’re too short!”

“You’re just as short!” Luke snarls back, face red and covered with flour. “Stop it!”

“You stop it!”

“No! It was my idea!”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“Yes it was!”

The metal mixing bowl clangs against the wooden cabinet as the twins swing it around. 

Anakin leans against the doorway of the kitchen and observes his little angels in their natural habitat.

“Luke! Let go!” Leia cries, and Luke shouts back, wordless with rage.

“So,” Anakin says in his sternest voice, even as he remains leant against the doorway, ankles crossed. At the sound of his voice, both little faces whip towards him, expressions frozen in guilty terror. A bit of sarcasm slips into his tone, though he’s sure it goes over his nine year olds’ heads. He cocks his eyebrow just like Obi-Wan does. “You always this quiet?” 

[bridellashiper]

𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄- Elijah x Fem oc!

Summary: Liliana and Elijah has been married for a millennium, their marriage was forced by Mikael Mikaelson and her father, though they had a mutual agreement; in front of praying eyes and nosy people they would act has an affectionate and loving couple but behind closed doors they would act differently.

Now, almost millennia later, Elijah's platonic feelings had turned into romantic feelings for his wife that had stuck with him through everything, even when he was at a time where he had loved other women in a way he hadn't with her and he realises just how sacred Liliana has been all this time.

𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 is all he'd ever shown, all he'd ever know with her, despite being married to Liliana for almost a millennium. He doesn't understand how to love her.

But with Hayley it's different, Elijah understood how to love her, how to make her smile, how to get her to laugh, but that love didn't least, she'd left him and married Jackson.

They had similarities, well at least in Elijah's eyes he saw similarities between the two women, yet his love for each woman was different. But what can he make of this? what can he make of actually feeling something for Liliana?

She was a closed book, often reserved and quiet yet loud and brutal all at once like time ticking bomb. She'd been since he had met her, and no matter how hard Elijah tried he just couldn't woo her, sway her, get her to feeling at least something for him.

So why does he love her? was he because they'd been together for so long his platonic feelings turned into romantic? he had thought numerous times throughout the day, often wondering the possibilities of Liliana showing him she did in fact care.

It was a warm summer night, Elijah had saved his brother from yet, another one of his crazy antics and had wanted to come home and just sit back and Realx when he had stumble upon his wife,

half bare, standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, slightly lent forward, wearing red and black lace underwear with a plain black shirt hanging from her slim shoulders as she fixed herself up.

She looked breathtaking, half awake, short Raven black hair messliy hung just slightly above her shoulders. And for the first time he had looked at her, really looked at her, taking in her appearance for once rather then being occupied with a book and a glass of whisky.

His eyes glazed over her slim body, seeing the scars and burn marks on her uper back and torso some new and most old, a frown forming on his face, had he been so blind all this time? when had she gotten them? and why hadn't he known in the first place? Elijah didn't dare to let his gaze wonder lower then it always was.

But he felt stupid, ashamed, and regretful he had neglected his duty towards her as her husband, he felt self conflicted about this, when didn't she just tell him? why hadn't she gone to him for help? and why hadn't he bee— ''You know it's quite rude to stare at one for a long period of time without speaking a word to them.''

He tore his gaze reluctantly away from the burn and scars marks on her body, shifting to meet her gaze finding her already staring at him. a faint flush plastered on her pale skin.

''I—..I apologise dearest Liliana I seem to have gotten...'' He began to explain not before he heard her laughter fill the bathroom, a genuine and sweet laugh, one he hadn't ever heard before.

''Lost in looking at my scars? please, they are old...well, most of them are,'' Elijah watched his wife, watching the smile that looped onto her lips and the small shake of her head. She truly was breathtaking.

then a quiet silence falls upon them, the pair just silently watching the other, Liliana tilted her head one way, her raven black hair following suit.

Elijah's mind was racing, questions erupting, and unspoken words filling his mind. desperately trying to say something, anything to break the silence that fell upon them.

then, without thinking he blurred out the first words that came to mind.

''How did you get them?''

''Which ones?''

''All of them, old and new, I would like to know where and whom you have gotten them from.''

And suddenly, he felt the rush of shame run through his whole body, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

''I apologise again, dearest Liliana—''

''It's okay, you're okay. You don't need to apologise for being curious Lijah.''

With her reassuring words, he calmed himself a bit, maybe..just maybe, they could be something more then a couple in a loveless marriage

[judeswhore]

okay check this out i wrote this a month ago but didn't send it to u but okay here it is jude is your good friend but there's always been a sexual tension between you two. One day you went to a club with your boyfriend and jude went with her girlfriend or a random girl. He sees you having an argument with your boyfriend and he then walks out of there and leaves the club and you're just sobbing like a baby, jude sees that went out and told her date that he wants to leave and he texts you that he is leaving and if she wants to come with him she can, u seeing jude's text, reply him back that its okay she can go alone and she doesn't wanna barge him on his date like that but jude texts u that it's raining outside and he sawyour boyfriend leavingthe club and u realize that your boyfriend had already left.

You come out of the washroom and you looked all messed up your dress is wet because of the spilled drink and your eyes are red. You sat in the backseat of the car and jude's date is just giving you side eye cuz she think your ruining that one night where she gets to have sex with one and only jude bellingham and u can feel it as well. Throughout the whole ride u were quiet and embarrassed cuz jude's date is ruined and he must have saw your boyfriend leave without u and so you were silently sobbing and you didnt even realize when you fell asleep and jude sees you asleep drops his date off and says ," sorry i can't tonight but maybe another time, she's asleep and i got to take her home".

Jude sees your swollen eyes and red tinted cheeks and wet dress and he just turned on by the fact that your do little and vulnerable what your boyfriend can't even cherish and how he wants to kiss u snd hold u in his arms. The way you were dancing and grinding on your boyfriend was making him jealous and he gets an idea and he takes u to his house, changes your clothes and puts you in his bed and when your boyfriend calls you, jude picks up the phone and just says that ,"well she's asleep on my bed call her in the morning" and hangs up the phone.

oh i love this🤭jude’s been in love with u forever but ofc he’s never made a move bc he’s respectful of ur relationship even tho he knows ur boyfriend is a dick and doesn’t deserve u at all. like ur boyfriend is mean and treats u like shit, he’s definitely cheating on u but ur so blinded by ur feelings for him that u won’t acknowledge it. but things have been rocky for a while and ur finally coming to terms w the fact u and ur bf r gna break up, you’ve been arguing so much and jude has noticed and he hates that ur constantly upset lately bc of the fighting but he doesn’t wna overstep so he just leaves u to it but makes sure he’s there whenever u need him. being out w all ur friends one night and u and ur boyfriend are fighting, he’d been flirting with a girl right in front of u and you’d called him out and he’d been so dissmissive and it had led to an argument and he’d been really mean before storming away and leaving u crying in the corner.

the whole thing leads to jude taking u home to his house bc you’d fallen asleep in the taxi and he doesn’t really wna leave u alone, his own date furious bc she thinks you’ve ruined her chances (she didn’t really have any to start with) but u feel awful. him waking u up to walk u inside and ur sniffling and still crying but now it’s half bc of how bad u feel for ruining his night so ur apologising over and over but jude’s having none of it, kissing the side of ur head and telling u it’s fine he’d much rather be with u then her anyway. he’s so sweet the whole time, cleans off ur make up and let’s u rant abt ur bf (tells u over and over that u deserve so much better), lends u one of his shirts to sleep in before tucking u into his bed w a glass of water and some pain killers, gives u a forehead kiss and again tells u that u deserve better.

ur phone ringing and blowing up w texts and at first he ignores it, gets himself ready for bed but then it’s none stop so he finally answers and ur bf is furious that he did bc he has his suspicions abt jude’s feelings but he has no right after how he’s treated u. ur bf asking where u are and jude’s just like “she’s asleep. yeah, she’s in my bed. well u shouldn’t have left her crying in a fucking club then! ur gna have to wait until tomorrow but i wouldn’t be so sure she’s gna forgive u this time” before hanging up

[onegianthotmess]

Random Facts About Some of My TWST OCs

Celena is half beastman, but somehow didn’t get ears and a tail despite having many behavioral and a few physical traits of Dalmatians (clawed fingernails, fangs/sharp canines, spots/tear marks on her cheeks, energetic, keen sense of smell, yips/barks when excited or when she senses danger—just naming a bit of a list here)

Mealodie and Malleus were actually born as eggs at the same time, technically making them twins, but she took thirteen extra years to hatch from her egg

Miranda had a really hard time making friends as a child due to her family curse, so Vil was really the only friend she had until she started to learn to stop herself from blurting out her thoughts

Morel loves blood oranges so much that she has two of her own trees that grow blood oranges and she takes very good care of them

Lucienne can talk to plants and will have full on conversations with them without noticing the weird looks people give him

Yvette’s birth/given/dead name is Yaakov

Miranda’s hair is short because she tried cutting it herself when she was a kid, but fucked up and Vil had to cut it for her to fix it, so now she just has Vil do her hair and thinks he’d make a great hairdresser if he wasn’t already an actor/model

Celena is actually very fast and stronger than people think she is, despite her small size and she actually beat Jack in an arm wrestle and goes to the gym with both him and Vil

Morel can fluently speak German

Rayne is fluent in Dutch and Italian and only flirts with Jade in either of these languages purely because she’s too shy to flirt with him in English because then everyone else would be able to understand her (Jade doesn’t know what she’s saying either, but he knows she’s flirting with him and loves it)

Mealodie sometimes can’t sleep even though she wants to, so she will go to Lilia and ask him to read her a bedtime story like he did when she and her brother were young

Yvette has videos of Morel pole dancing while drunk and uses them as leverage to get Leona to do something whenever Morel isn’t around because she knows they have a thing for each other (And before anyone thinks that this means Leona pleasures himself while watching the videos, know that that is incorrect and he admires just how beautiful Morel is and is impressed because pole dancing requires stamina, strength, and a lot of training because of how difficult it is. Leona is a respectful boy who is constantly drunk on his respect woman juice)

Mealodie once shattered all of the windows and glass objects in Diasomnia because she got so lost in song while singing one day

Miranda will pick outfits for and do Vil’s makeup for him if he’s really nervous about an audition or performance coming up and will give him a kiss on the tips of his fingers on his left hand for good luck

Morel had a relationship in her second year of school at NRC and it lasted until she finally broke at the beginning of her third year because her then girlfriend was manipulative, emotionally abusive like her mother, and a cheater; this relationship made Morel a bit jaded when it came to love and have trust issues later on and it even negatively affected her relationship with Leona when he started openly, yet subtly, showing his interest for her

Celena never actually had any romantic relationship before she began dating Deuce; despite this fact, she had a rumored reputation of having several secret partners and this went so far that some guys and girls said that they actually dated her before, but Celena quickly disproved each of these false claims despite never completely shaking the rumors of having relationships before Deuce

Rayne has a subconscious fear of vases due to the fact that her mother smashed one over her face, almost completely blinding her left eye, when she was seven and Rayne only started going to therapy for this fear after she had a mental breakdown from seeing Floyd and Jade carrying vases to be set on the tables in the Monstro Lounge

Miranda always accompanies Vil to his performances and photoshoots because she wants to support him and his craft he’s so dedicated to and they get away with this due to the cover story of Miranda being a good friend who helps Vil out so they can keep their relationship (and the fact that Vil sees Miranda as a very loving and endearing good luck charm) secret from the public due to Vil’s massive fame

Mealodie actually has a cute little kitten sneeze and it’s even cuter because she blows a little smoke out whenever she sneezes, causing a cycle of two to three, sometimes four, kitten sneezes in quick succession due to the smoke tickling her nose

Lucienne heals up pretty fast from any injury thanks to his healing abilities, but he somehow stays sick for days on end on the rare occasion he does get sick and it baffles even his family

Yvette has made sleeping potions and slipped them in Crowley’s drinks a few times just so she could work in peace without having a giant mess to clean up afterwards

Celena found an old picture of Deuce with his bleached hair in his dorm once and she couldn’t stop laughing at it because full blonde hair was definitely NOT a good look for Deuce and now she uses it as ammo for arguments about outfits and hairstyles with him

Mealodie knows several old languages that aren’t spoken or widely known anymore, but she and Malleus speak in them whenever they want to talk about something private around other people and everyone is confused about it

When they were young, Morel would often put noise canceling headphones on Riddle and Rayne so they could sleep while their parents argued at night and Morel always covered her ears and tried not to sob whenever her parents had these fights because most of them were about Morel due to her having mandated visitations with her father every weekend because of her parents’ separation (though they’re still married for whatever reason-)

Lucienne can actually make flowers and trees and other plants grow and control them just fine without magic and when he’s asked about it, he simply replies “It’s just something that I do .”

Miranda was actually almost placed into Scarabia due to her gift of fortune telling and the Dark Mirror had to think for a moment before deciding to put her in Pomefiore due to her talents in potion making, value of appearance, and her love for Vil

Celena gets mad whenever anyone teases her about her body because, in her words, she is “fucking built like a stupid cereal box” and she hates it (her build is like a very petite hourglass, there’s some curve and a little boob, but not a lot)

Yvette fluently speaks Russian and Spanish and calls her father “Папа” (Papa) and her mother “Mami”

Mealodie always let Silver play with her hair when he was little and now she asks him to do it for her since he’s really good at it

Miranda can travel through almost any kind of mirror thanks to her family’s connection to the Dark Mirror and mirror magic in general and she accidentally jump scares everyone (except for Vil since he’s used to it) whenever she pops up after traveling through a mirror and into the room