#and you only give half a crap about the words they say in those so why is it when i pick something & it happens to be animated...

[katniss-evermeme]

Update regarding last night's post: My brother (age 13, definitely has heard worse when he went to public school) has now been banned from watching Spy X Family because of the "language".

If you want evidence that my mom is an absolute whackjob, she willingly let him watch Deadpool and Venom when he was in elementary school.

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Age Difference with Logan Howlett

A/N: I hope this satisfies both the age difference and the bratting for this request. It’s not mentioned in the fic, but I wrote the Reader to be in his twenties or so.

ALSO!!! This fic is dedicated to the wonderful anon who sent me such a nice ask the other day. Thank you for your words; they were deeply appreciated. Also, bc it wouldn’t be here without them, this is dedicated to the anon who requested it. I hope it fits what you were wanting <3

Written for an ftm!Reader

Link to masterlist here

CW: bratting; implied age difference (Reader is younger than Logan); language; explicit sexual content; smut; mentioned spanking; Reader’s arousal is called slick; Logan carries Reader; Reader is called devil, pretty boy, and good boy; spanking; errrr Logan smacks Reader’s parts; Reader’s parts are called dick and hole; mentioned crying; slight fingering; Logan tastes Reader’s slick; unprotected penetrative sex; rough sex; missionary position, I think?; implied multiple rounds; implied cum eating; implied cunnilingus; no mentioned aftercare

1829 words

It starts as all your great plans do. By impulse and a touch of chaos.

“Hey. Can you get me a beer since you’re in the kitchen?”

You don’t even look up at the sound of Logan’s voice. You know he’s talking to you, but you make him say it again before glancing over at him. “Hmm? You want what?”

His eyes narrow. You know he can tell you’re up to something. “A beer. Please.”

You almost do it. Just for the addition of the please. But the chaos in you wins out. You turn away again. “Do it yourself.”

Then, just to add fuel to the fire, you add, “Old man.”

Silence. You revel in it. It’s not everyday you can get him like this.

After a few moments of you continuing to not get the beer, he stands up and gets it himself. Muttering, “Fucking brat,” on his way back.

You know you’ve gotten off lightly, but that’s not what you were wanting. No, you want to see him all riled up and pissed off. He always fucks you rough on those days.

You do it again on a mission.

“Hey, kid, can you pass me the—“

“No.” You hate it when he calls you kid. It makes you feel small. A little too young. And he usually remembers that.

“Please, can I have the—“

“Nope. Go fetch, old man.”

You can feel how much he wants to spank you. Smack you across the ass and growl out that you need to behave.

But you’re around others, so he just grunts angrily and goes to get it himself.

The final blow is when he’s in the mansion garage. It’s late. Everyone’s in bed except for him. And you, but only because you spent way too long waiting for him and now you’re pissed enough to go find him.

You lean against his workbench, watching him intently. You know he knows you’re there, but he only acknowledges you with a grunt.

Then, “Pass me that tool, will you?”

You know which tool he’s talking about. It’s literally right next to you. But you hold his gaze as you speak. “No. Get it yourself, old man.”

His jaw clenches. After a moment, he steps back from his motorcycle and brushes off his jeans. He turns to face you, gaze dark and unyielding. “You know, I’m getting real sick of your fucking attitude.”

His tone sends a thrill down your spine. All dark and growly and low. You’re not surprised to feel slick gathering in your boxers.

But he pauses. Sniffs the air. When he refocuses on you, his gaze is hungry. “So, this is a game to you, huh? You’re being a brat on purpose.”

You cross your arms, still holding his gaze. “And what if I am? We both know you can’t handle me, old— Fuck!”

He scoops you up, throwing you over his shoulder with ease. You squirm; half in discomfort, half because it’s so fucking hot. You know he knows, but still you protest. “Logan, put me down! I’m not a fucking kid!”

“You sure act like one,” he snarls back, striding purposefully through the dark halls. His hand coming up to grip your ass. “Sassing me and giving me that crap attitude. Can’t even act your fucking age for once. Gotta make me do all the goddamn work.”

“I didn’t mean—“

“I know exactly what you meant, you little devil.” His fingers dig into your ass, a subtle warning. “You meant to have some good old fun with me, didn’t you? Maybe get me all riled up so I’ll fuck you all nice and angry like.”

You keep your mouth shut this time. He knows you a little too well.

At your lack of an answer, he spanks your ass. Hard. You yelp and squirm, not expecting the blow at all. “Logan!”

“I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“Yes! Yes, that’s what I was doing!” You whimper a little. Maybe if he wasn’t carrying you, you’d give him more attitude. But in this position? You’re practically defenseless.

Not to mention, the puddle of slick in your boxers is getting uncomfortable with your pants on.

So you keep quiet, letting him carry you without issue to his room. As you pass, you’ve never been more grateful that Logan’s room is the furthest in the mansion. You can be as loud as you want without disturbing too many of the teachers.

Some of them will just have to suffer.

Logan opens the door to his room and enters. Shutting it behind him.

“You little motherfucker,” he growls, tossing you on the bed. “Strip. Now.”

You scramble to obey before you even realize you’re doing it. Pushing your pants halfway down your legs before it occurs to you to argue.

He can sense your hesitation. He lets out a low growl, eyes narrowing. You resume taking off your pants.

“That’s a good boy.”

A part of you preens at the praise. The other part wants to snark back. You just pull off your shirt and keep quiet.

Your boxers are sticky with slick. Sticky and uncomfortable. You need them off, and soon. You don’t know if you can go another moment without Logan touching you in some way.

As if on cue, Logan reaches over and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your boxers. He yanks them down, making you squirm from the sudden rush of cool air against your sensitive body.

“Logan… don’t be—“ You stop. Now is not the time for whining, especially not with that look in his eyes.

“Don’t be what?” His voice is low, a dangerous challenge. “Don’t be what, pretty boy?”

You squirm and fight back a whimper as he forces your legs up and apart. Pressing your knees to either side of your chest. Exposing you to him.

When you don’t answer, his hand comes down. Hard, right on your aching parts. You yelp, words bubbling out of you. “I was gonna say don’t be mean! But— Then I remembered—“

“You want me to be mean.” He growls, low and deep. “Fucking greedy little thing. You’re never satiated, are you? Always whining and begging after me for more.”

His hand comes down again, the wet slick coating your thighs only making the sound worse. You jolt this time, blinking back prickles behind your eyes. You know he’s trying to get you to cry. But you’re not going to give it to him so easily.

Even if you really, really want to.

His fingers swipe along you, gathering up your slick and circling around your throbbing dick. You shudder at the pleasure, whimpering softly. It feels so good after the pain.

He pops his fingers into his mouth, sucking the slick from them. He groans softly, eyes darkening at the flavor. “You taste delicious. If you weren’t so damn bratty, I’d consider feasting on you. But you had to go and be a little bastard.”

His hands move to his belt, unbuckling it and letting his pants drop to his ankles. He steps out of them, stripping out of his boxers as well.

Your mouth waters. He’s already hard, so thick and long you can practically feel him in your guts already. You wanna suck him off so bad. Make him see you could be a good boy.

But the desire for him to fuck you is even stronger.

“Please, Logan,” you whisper.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”

He smirks. “Since you asked so nicely…”

He lines himself up, leaning over you. He pins your hands down, gripping your wrists firmly in one hand. “I’m going to fuck the brat right out of you. And if it doesn’t work the first time, I’ll do it again and again until you’re too cockdumb to argue.”

The threat sends a thrill down your spine. You open your mouth to say something snarky, but he pushes in. Slowly working his cock deeper and deeper into you. Splitting you open.

Your words die on your tongue, replaced by a whiny moan. You clench hard around him, making him growl and dig the fingers of his free hand into your hip.

“That’s— fuck— much better.” He grunts, slowly rolling his hips to push his cock further into your leaking hole. “God, I love the sounds you make. So desperate and needy.”

“Fuck, ahhh! Logan!” You clasp your hands together, squeezing tightly as your body takes him. It feels like heaven; being split open until you feel like you can’t possibly take any more.

He finally bottoms out, allowing you a moment to adjust to his size. Then he pulls out and slams back in, making you arch and babble. He does this a few more times; slow, strong thrusts that split you apart and go so deep you swear his dick must be reaching your stomach.

Then he picks up the pace, and your mind turns to mush. You can’t think, can’t moan, can’t do anything but babble out cries of his name. You’re arching, writhing, squirming desperately to be able to hold onto him.

But he keeps your hands pinned firmly down. Speeding up until he’s fucking you roughly. Like you’re nothing but a thing for him to use.

“That’s my good fucking boy,” he snarls out. “Taking me so well.”

You can feel your orgasm mounting. Building and rising until you’re begging, pleading, and finally sobbing for him to let you cum. You know better than to cum without permission, especially when he’s all riled up like this.

“Cum for me, you little brat. Cum for me like a good boy.”

You clamp down on him, squeezing him as your orgasm hits. You arch and cry out, your vision going fuzzy.

A moment later, you relax into a puddle. Melting into the sheets as he continues to fuck you. Making you whine softly from the shocks of pleasure and warmth seeping through you.

With one last big thrust and a snarl of your name, Logan pulls out, cumming all over your dick and hole. He pants, releasing your wrists to drag a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

He sounds out of breath, but his eyes smolder with embers of heat. “You did good.”

You give him a lazy grin, stretching a bit. “Wanna clean me up? Or am I still too much of a brat for that?”

He huffs, a low growl in his tone. “Oh, I’ll clean you up alright. I’m making good on my promise. I’m fucking that attitude right on out of you.”

For a moment, you’re sure he has to be joking. You’re already weak from the strength of your first orgasm. He’s not really gonna make you go again, right?

But as he moves to lay between your legs, a couple things become clear. One, you’re in for a long, long night.

And two? He looks way too good between your legs.

[kairismess]

Hello!! Can I request a kageyama x reader? Where it's just high school fluff they're both crushing on each other :)

I love ur writing btw<33

hearts' day 008.

in which the king of the court has found his better half.

"...i don't have a crush."

he gruffly responded to you as he practiced his tosses, seeming a lot sloppier than how he performed before you asked him that question out of the blue. you chuckled, seeing how the question made him trip up on his feet and throw him off balance for a minute.

"well, what would you say if i told you i had a crush?" you challenged him, making him choke on his breath and forget he was ever practicing in the first place. his open hands received nothing and remained frozen in the air, the ball missing its mark and falling behind him as the blueberry haired boy stared up into the now empty space above him where no ball flew or awaited him any longer.

he slowly retracted back into a normal standing position, his arms falling to his sides, as he slowly turns to look at you, a dark storm cloud over his dark blue eyes as he crinkles up his forehead and nose at your words. "...is that so?" he asks you, a red hue tinting his cheeks a little as you smile and nod, with him not realizing who your crush is.

kageyana retrieves the ball to practice his serves again, all while keeping his ears sharp for hints on who this mystery crush of yours could be.

"he has short, dark hair..."

"uh-huh."

"and dark blue eyes..."

"mhm..."

"and a permanent scowl on his face, but it curls up into a happy, child-like smile when he's eating yogurt or drinking milk."

"o... kay."

you could not be talking about him right now... could you?

you chuckled and walked closer to him, the volleyball he forgot to receive in your hands after you picked it up for him, handing it to him shyly with a smile. "and did i forget to mention, he's very... talented at volleyball. like, crazy talented, i've never met anyone as dedicated to the sport as him. and i love him more and more everyday that i see him working hard to achieve his dreams."

kageyama's dark blue eyes widened, a tint of red strewn across his cheeks. "...hinata, you mean?" he asked you, all those hints you dropped earlier flying over his blueberry head.

you pout and playfully hit his head. "dumbass." you mutter, about to chuckle. kageyama couldn't help but glare at you a little, he wasn't exactly mad at you, but he was a little frustrated at you making him guess who you like instead of you outright telling him.

he captured your cheeks, squishing them with one hand in a tight grip. "spit it out, who is it?" "like i'd tell you, tobio..." "c'mon, get on with telling me, or else... i'll never tell you that i like you–"

oh crap.

your eyes met his, that slight tinge of red on his face shifting to a full blown flustered expression made kageyama let go of your cheeks, withdrawing from you by a few steps, looking away from you as he tried to forget what he just admitted to you, hoping you'd forget what he said, or even didn't get to hear a word of it.

"...you like me back?" you asked him in a shy whisper, making kageyama's ears perk up, his head whipping backwards to face you, his blush remaining on his face. "...like you back?" he repeated involuntarily, making you get a shy and flustered, smiling like a dork as you fiddled with your thumbs. "yeah... you like me, and i... i like you."

"i... i guess i do."

"you guess?"

"i-i mean... dammit." he muttered as he approached you, not even looking at you. and in the blink of an eye, he leaned over and pecked a soft kiss on your forehead, quickly moving away from you as he regret what he just did, while you remained in a blissful shock as a warm fuzziness flooded your entire body, making you smile even wider.

"hey, you can't just run off after giving me a kiss, tobio... lemme return the favor." you offered, grinning sweetly, threatening to make kageyama fall for you even more as he could only freeze up in place and nod slowly to your offer of returning his affections–and to him... this was nice, really, really nice. and fuzzy. and warm. and just so right.

he could get used to it... he was already missing you even though you were right here with him, oh, just what have you done to the blueberry boy's heart?

[hana-no-seiiki]

Omg the dog shapeshifter ask is amazing but like- cat. i can already imagine Tim being all over you and being one of those guys where half his personality is just that he has a cat. Dick would 120% invest in those hoodies with the pouch to carry their cats, and Jason just carries you everywhere (wiggles be danmed).

The only person who has any qualms about it is Alfred because everything is covered in cat hair lmao.

meow. more pawtastic cat villain! reader w/ batfam

@sophiethewitch1 👅

You tended to take the lead when it came to your relationships with the Robins

They were just too busy with duty and heroism that they rarely ever took the time to be or get into relationships. So you would help them, cover them in that area per se.

Though there were times, like an actual cat, that you suddenly hate their asses or be indifferent. You didn’t notice it yourself really. Sometimes you were just stressed from real life problems and whatnot

or dealing with Bruce’s constant sermons about how you were a bad influence on Jason. Blaming you for all these strung up bodies across the streets of Gotham that had been tied up with yarn and catnip.

sometimes you just wanted to reel back the persona you’ve built up as a villain and just chill out

but you see, if there’s anyone who would notice the slightest change in your demeanor it would be the batboys

Tim and Jason would be the first. They spend the most time with you.

Instead of giving them a kiss or a quick fuck after a job well done, you’d just say goodbye and leave.

Not even in your signature cat joke filled way of saying goodbye

Hell you would even just teleport out of there without a word

Tim would have most likely observed you more, but Jason? Jason would be on your ass in seconds

“Hey, kitty? We need to talk.“

Did I mention that the boys love to use various cat related nicknames for you? The cringier the better.

(Damian just calls you pussy at times)

In anycase, Jason knocks on your door. But you do not respond. Like, for a long fucken time.

Ofc, he smashed the door open.

And what does he see?

Well first it was nothing. I mean his eyes weren’t directly on the floor immediately . But then he move his gaze down,

You, in your cat form.

He just about screams. Shrieks. Like I could maintain his sense of dignity for you dear reader but nah. It started as a shout of surprise before it turned into a high pitched cry, and lastly cooing.

He’s confused at first and is worried about your sudden disappearance til you cleared things up.

Something about a curse that turns you into an actual cat at random moments.

You said it interrupted a lot of your civilian business (school, work, etc.) and so your mental health and well being took a decline.

And boy did Jason go mom mode.

He’s more on the practical side. He makes sure you’re comfortable and guarded especially when in dangerous situations.

Will never let you go on a heist with this curse on going. What if you get shot by a guard? What if you get kidnapped by those horrid animal pounds? Not to mention those perverts that would… no he shook his head.

Definitely keeps you within arms reach at all if not most times.

Tim finds out soon after. You tried to ask him to respect your privacy, but he couldn’t help himself. He was scared to death that he did something wrong or exposed something he did that breached your trust.

He immediately buys a ton of cat related products for you.

Not only that he does an extensive amount of research on cat health and diets.

His rooms gets covered by different studies on cat cellular makeup before he realizes that

Oh crap, he kinda enjoyed this.

And he hasn’t looked up how to actually cure this curse of yours.

Damian soon follows. He’s got it the worst out of all members.

Prides himself with his wide experience and knowledge with animals.

He uses visits to the vet as a threat when you misbehave.

But you’re a villain, you don’t get scared easily right? What’s the worse that could happen at the vet’s?

… yeah he almost got you neutered/spayed.

Safe to say that you were much more obedient after that.

Bruce isn’t that available or good with pets, so he mostly just funds whatever the boys do hoping that it’d lead to them not destroying stuff or killing people for you any more than before the curse.

Dick is the last to find out, and that was because Tim dropped a whole thesis about why the latter should definitely have more [Y/N]-cat-duty hours!

I mean just look at those charts! Your happiness is definitely at its highest when you’re with him

(ignoring the fact that he showers you with catnip)

Dick is definitely the

Cuteness aggression that borders on abuse type of cat owner

Very touchy with you.

And yes he invests a lot of money to get have pouches on his suits for you to be in. If not you’d be like that one cat from Spiderman Miles Morales just hanging out from a backpack of sorts, designed so you’ll never fall out.

Collars.

These men have collectively spent around hundreds of thousands of dollars on cat related shit

And you’re still wondering how tf this curse came to be

[mandarinmoons]

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gender neutral reader

Word count: ~ 600

Summary: Spencer breaks up with you after seeing how much his job at The BAU affected you as he didn’t want to be the cause of your declining mental health, but ending the relationship had the opposite effect on you than what he thought

Spencer lied on his bed as he stared up at the ceiling, trying his best not to give into his desires of grabbing his phone and calling you because lord knows he’s the last person you’d want to talk to. He missed you terribly, but he knew you would be upset at him if he were to try and make contact.

The reason for that being is that Spencer forced himself to end things with you because he saw how his work life affected you. He’d lost track of how many times he’d found you fallen asleep behind his door for when he got home. He’d unlock the door and scoop you into his arms, his body shuddering from the cold that emanated from you. Or how he took notice of your thinning figure. You made sure that Spencer always had a full dinner platter whenever he got home, but he often saw you only finishing half of what was on your plate.

“I ate before you got home, I’m not that hungry,” is what you’d always say, but it didn’t stop Spencer from worrying.

After a few months of consideration, Spencer bit the bullet and tried his best to let you down easy. But unbeknownst to him there was never a way of doing things that way, because he was the love of your life and that day was the day you felt your heart break into so many small pieces that it would be impossible to mend it back together.

Spencer kept on imagining all of the ways you’d improve now that he wasn’t in your life. Maybe you’d learn to cook more or perhaps maybe you took on those yoga lessons you’d been dying to try out.

In reality though, you were having a hard time getting dressed and even harder time getting out of bed. You had your mother and friends check up on you daily to see how you were doing and every time you’d respond with “I’m okay,” when that was the farthest thing from the truth.

Half of the day was spent either lying in bed trying to read one of the last books Spencer had gifted you or being sat on the sofa while watching a crime show, the same show you’d watch while waiting for Spencer to come home, and now hoping that he’d magically come up to your door take you back.

A majority of the week's diet consisted of supernoodles and the occasional piece of fruit so you wouldn’t feel like complete crap. You’d chuckle to yourself bitterly as you’d remember a fact about the fruit you were having that was told by Spencer. Most of the time you didn’t understand any of the terminology he’d use, but you still loved to listen to him talk and as you ate away, you realized you’d never get to experience it again.

As much as it brought you a bit of ease whenever each day was over, it also brought along a bit of misery with it as it finally dawned on you that Spencer was really gone. He would never hold your hand again, he would never kiss your forehead again and you’d never hear the three words you loved most that came from his mouth,

“I love you.”

Taglist: @radioactiveinvisible @whoisspence @sreidisms @lanascinnamongirls @luvkatryna @sp3ncelle @iluvreid @khxna @keiva1000 @reidstheyfriend @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @kimm4710 @niktwazny303 @reidsdaisies @mindfullycriminal @cumulo-stratus @themarauderseraslut @gayfor-rosadiaz @gubsbuubs @multifandomsimp69 @chyozai @deppfanatic @potatovoyager @indyvelazquez @nini123 @justlivinginadaydream @kers505

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Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[s3raphimssins]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷pairings: Chuuya x subordinate!reader (established relationship)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷prompt: darling can I be your favorite <3,

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷Felix's Note: I listen to a new song and I suddenly get motivated to write a fic based on it so here ya go, a fresh chuuya x reader! Also I think as far as I've read it's gender neutral reader! :D

The way his eyes followed your every move was hard to ignore, according to his other subordinates chuuya had favorites and you were that favorite, when inquired about it he'd shut them off by saying something "you think the mafia has time for favorites? You dare question your superior?" And gave them work to do, but only those with sharp eyes could catch that pink that dusted on his cheeks. Whenever he spoke to you in contrast to his other subordinates his gaze softened, pupils dialated. The look of worry that would cross his face when he found out you got hurt even if it was a scratch.

Who knew behind the closed doors when he dismissed his subordinates, telling you to stay as he had some work for you,that lie he said only to lock the door to bring you in his arms, playing with your hair. He'd sit you on his lap as he worked on his papers putting his chin on your shoulders. And oh how he loved it when it was you you hugged him and embraced him while he did work.

How when he brought you to missions with him almost always he'd watch how you fought and he'd have to tear his eyes off of you, if it was up to him he could stare at that fierce expression you made while fighting showing your enemies no mercy, all day. That same expression that softened as he cupped your cheek when no one was there, how your eyes lit up when he would kiss you on the cheek whispering how well you did.

How training sessions with him were always less harsh, though you always told him to not hold back, he still couldn't bear the thought of hitting you accidentally, or even lifting his hand on you so he would assign you training with someone else instead to save himself the pain and guilt. The way he'd give in to the temptations to show off in front of you when you were watching him use his ability or fight. Hed whisper something like "my s/o is watching so closely I can't leave her hanging" As he obliterated his opponent. Knowing the effect he had on you.

His other subordinates would sometime question you, about his behavior if you had noticed any change but you just brushed it off denying it, as chuuya listened intently from behind as he walked pass. Sure they wouldn't realize him giving you half the paper work they got right? Sure they wouldn't realize how he brought you to a lot of missions with him? Oh and he doubts they'll notice how he keeps you by his side all the time. Their pea brains can't comprehend that crap according to chuuya.

And the end of the day he'd drop you back to your apartment convincing you to come with him instead, which in most scenarios you would comply. His subordinates would be panting with exhaustion by the end of the day from all the word he had them do while you happily sipped on your drink which he had brought for you, but they didn't need to know that. Sometimes you'd feel bad with the favouritism and ask him to not show it to you that much.

All his response would be, a kiss on the head as he ran his fingers through your hair and told you not to worry about that, and that you deserve the world and he'd gladly give it to you, he doesn't need to put others on that same pedestal with you as he smirks. At the end of the day it can be concluded he had a favourite and that was you, but you would be lying if you said you didn't relish that.

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

A Break In Routine - Shane x Reader (Stardew Valley)

Another Shane SDV fic from my drafts with a couple strange gaps in it.

Warnings: mentions of recovering from alcoholism, being imperfect, guilt and self-loathing to a certain extent. Alcohol.

Word Count: 1.4k

Shane wasn't stupid. He knew you knew that. He noticed that, the closer you got, especially after that night on the cliff, you changed. Not so much in the way you dealt with him—you were kind and persevering as ever.

You stopped brewing. He had been out to the farm before, you had like ten kegs and an evergreen crop of hops and wheat to fuel them. And Shane wasn't stupid—he'd almost gone broke from buying the stuff before, so he knew it was lucrative. You'd have to be crazy to give that up. Farmers had it rough, especially ones that worked as hard as you. Having such an easy source of passive income should've been a no-brainer.

Oh, and you stopped bringing him alcohol. You were a social drinker—he'd seen you share Kahlua-and-coffee martinis with the good doctor or bond with Leah over a sweet red. But when it came to Pam and him, you were only ever seen with soda and some filling food in hand. He wondered if you thought he wouldn't notice. If he was too out of it or too naïve.

You visited JojaMart sometimes—normally just to check on him, never to buy anything—and you always had a tense look on your face whenever he was stocking the drinks section. That, that one actually hurt. Yeah, he had bad habits. He was working, only half successfully, on breaking them. But that made him think you really thought he had no self-control. That he was going to wander forward like a zombie and mindlessly rip into the Jack Daniels and Bud Lite. He shouldn't be trusted super far, but he thought he at least deserved the sliver of faith that would be required to believe that wouldn't happen.

That was what he was thinking about as he sat next to the fireplace, cola in a stein in his hand. See, he was doing better. He wasn't used to being fully lucid at this hour of the night, but he was getting there. It was significantly more uncomfortable, sitting there in silence when he wasn't half-catatonic. Everyone else was having a great time. Even Marnie was having a... whoa, beyond friendly conversation with the mayor. Hell, where were you, anyway? You were always trying so hard to make sure he wasn't alone, and now you leave him alone? Maybe he deserved it for all those times he blew you off.

"Hey!" You suddenly appeared in his line of vision. Suddenly, even completely sober, he couldn't sort out his feelings. He was grateful to you for watching out for him; he obviously couldn't do that himself. He was annoyed that you infantilized him. He was confused that you put up with him. Why didn't you just cut loose and stop holding yourself back for someone who has done nothing but screwed over their own life?

"What are you doing here?" Shane said. Crap. That wasn't what he meant to say, not at all. He meant to say 'Why do you stay? Why do you care? I'm not worthy of you.'

Your face fell and Shane needed a drink or six. "Trying to hang out with you," you responded, your voice edged with anger and sadness. "I was—y'know what, I'll leave you be, I just wanted to give this to you."

You held your closed hand out expectantly, and he obliged with an extended palm. 

You dropped a pearl into it.

"Wha—" his mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Oh, wow, Farmer, how did you know this is my favorite?"

You were already gone. He checked the clock on the opposite wall. Well, it was already 12. Maybe you just wanted to get a good night's sleep. He hoped that was all.

But Shane wasn't stupid.

When you exited your house at 6:10 AM sharp the next morning, you almost tripped over him before noticing that Shane was sitting on your steps. This was a huge break in his routine, and it worried you. "Shane? What're you—" You stopped yourself, realizing that you were parroting his words from the previous night. 

"I didn't mean what I said," Shane said abruptly. His murky brown eyes looked into yours with absolute earnesty, and you noticed something rather special about them. They weren't teary or red-striped. He wasn't hungover, at all. 

Your brow furrowed. "About what?"

"About—about... just, how I treat you, y'know. Always blowing you off and acting like you're not worth my time. I know it should be the other way around," his gaze dropped to the ground and he scuffed his foot against the wood of the front steps.

You lowered yourself to sit next to him, knees nearly touching. Time always seemed to stand still when you spoke to him—the sun was stuck in the sky, and you weren't worried about what you were going to get done that day.

"What do you mean, Shane?"

"You know what I mean, Farmer," he said, before exhaling and rubbing his hands on his pants. "I just... I'm not... good enough, for you. I'm a, uh, flash in the pan, I guess. What I'm trying to say... is I'm sorry," he sighed, risking looking up at you again.

Your eyes seemed to look through him. "Shane," you said gently. "You're good enough, for me, for anyone," you emphasized. "And I... do understand why you say the things you do, and they are unfortunate, but I appreciate you recognizing that and apologizing."

Shane looked from your piercing eyes, to your hand that was resting on your knee, centimeters from his, back to your eyes. "I'm trying. Really trying."

You took his hand, and his heart rate spiked. "I know you are, and I know that Marnie and Jas and I really appreciate it."

"Yeah," Shane whispered. Part of him felt guilty—that somehow, Jas wasn't enough to straighten him out. But he was grateful that somehow, you were.

Your thumb rubbed the back of his hand,  comforting him further. He wondered how you could stand touching him. Even after that touching speech, he had a hard time believing you. Even if his personality, his character, was something you seemed to admire, which was beyond him on its own, look at him. He had gained... a number of pounds in the past eight months, he shaved maybe every three days, despite getting a five o'clock shadow by the end of that day. His hair was a genuine disaster, even though Marnie refused to admit it. He was physically clean (most of the time), and that was basically where the pros stopped.

"Thank you so much for coming over here this morning, Shane," you said. Shane had to suppress a shiver at the way you said his name. It didn't sound the way anyone else ever said it. Maybe it was just his imagination. 

But he was more than happy to keep imagining it. "I can't tell you... how much it means to me, that you're reaching out and, and trying. In the most non-patronizing way, I'm proud of you."

He could almost feel tears welling in his eyes. "You're—you're proud of me?"

He hadn't heard that since high school.

"Yeah, of course," you nodded genuinely.

He laughed, almost in disbelief. "Thanks."

You let go of his hand, and Shane had the chance to experience a split-second of disappointment before you used your now free arms to wrap him in a hug. "You can tell me if this is okay or not," you said, your words muffled by his Joja jacket.

"It's okay," he responded quickly, trying not to squeeze you too tightly.

You pulled back, wondering for a moment if it would be going too far, before you decided to press a quick kiss to his cheek. You stood, walking off to water your crops. "I should probably let you go, you don't wanna be late for work."

Shane's face was all pink, and he nodded after a moment's delay. "Right, yeah, um...thanks for listening to me," he stood as well. "See you later."

You watched him take the path from your house into town, zipping up his jacket against the wind. He had patched the holes in it.

[emmg]

Hello love Can I ask for Raphael x reader where Raph actually shows love, buuut in his own twisted way? One of my fam members had autism and he never ever said those three words, but showed it in acts of service and paying attention to what you say/do aaand i was thinking about Raphael who tries to show how much he loves her(or them) but well he's not very good at this. Tav reading book- he will read it too, because he cares...just to tell her how much it sucks. She's bleeding after a fight? Throws her into his healing pool and tell her how stupid she is for the whole time he's with her and how she wastes his time, but won't leave her alone, because what if this dumb mortal drowns herself? A guy said something to her and she felt like sh*t or he touched her to make her uncomfortable? He would give her a very fancy box with big bow and smiles innocently at her ; 'Come on little mouse..open it' just for her to see somebodys hand or head 'oh..this? its this creep from yesterday' Tav wears something cheap? oh boy he would tell her everythink he thinks about this rag. She thinks he wants her to wear only expensive things, because how she looks=his reputation but the truth is he thinks she deserves only the most lavish things in her life and he wont allow her to live below HIS standards And his fav way of showing love is giving her mortal who hurt her in any way already beaten so they wont demage his precious possesion, but conscious enough so she can enjoy torturing them (for sure he does it for his own amusement more than hers)

What a fun prompt! Although, to be fair, I can't exactly make it totally healthy because Raphael isn't an emotionally healthy person to be in a relationship with so this is still a little bit dark, though definitely not awful haha.

ETA: ah crap I missed the part about x reader. So sorry about that. In my defence, I truly cannot write from second person point of view. I’m very, very sorry anon. I’ve tried before and it feels awkward to me and everything comes out… bad.

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Sometimes she feels hollowed out, as if something essential has been scooped clean from within her. She’s not sure why she stays—or even if she’s staying at all. Maybe he’s holding her here, maybe she has no choice, maybe she lost that freedom long ago. Because you don’t walk away when Raphael is speaking; you don’t walk away when he’s watching you. And his eyes are always on her, always, always, always following.

That gaze—it leaves her feeling half trapped, half sanctified, as though caught in some dreadful, holy spell. He doesn’t look at others this way, she knows that, but that knowledge only tightens the hold, winds the snare around her. It’s nothing, she tells herself—this attention, his careful watch—yet it feels like everything, a binding without words, a noose drawing tighter, a claw sinking deeper. Time twists strangely when he’s near, spiraling into something she can’t name, and she can’t help but wonder: will his interest wane, fade away to nothing? Or will it sharpen, tighten, until it consumes her, leaving her breathless, until there’s no space left at all? 

If it does—if he closes around her entirely, if his grip becomes her world, pressing in until there’s no air, no light, only him—what will she be then?

And she’s not even sure if he cares. He holds her there, yes, but it feels like watching a game; his own personal mousetrap, an exquisite little experiment to see how far she'll reach for the cheese. She wonders if he’s simply taking what he can, drawing her deeper until he tires of her, only to discard her when he does, laughing at her fascination with him. She can almost see it—him spitting in her face, turning her out with a sneer, then pulling her back in just as quickly. He'd fuck her, taunt her, pull her close only to watch her shatter, then laugh, invite her back with a gift, something golden, expensive, dripping with indulgent mockery. 

But then there are the other things he does, things that somehow feel worse—things that make the walls seem as though they’re closing in, or maybe as if he’s drawing her into some embrace she can’t escape from. She’s not sure which would be more terrifying. 

Sometimes, when they’re in Avernus together, she finds the portals dead, the way back to her world—a world of soft light and mortal trivialities, the Gate and its grime—suddenly blocked, cut off. And it's always the same dance. She demands an answer, asks why she can’t pass through, why she’s stuck here in this burning place with him, unable to flee back to the familiar. And he only waves her off, barely looking up, irritation flickering in his gaze. He says he hasn’t the time to bother with “simple magic,” that she can wait. 

But he knows, he knows damn it, that she can barely summon a spark, let alone force open a gateway on her own. He knows she’s trapped, helpless as a moth in a bottle, wings beating frantically against glass she can’t see. And he watches her, almost bored, as she paces, her panic ripening, sinking roots in her chest. Because he knows she won’t leave, can’t leave, and he’ll let her struggle just long enough to make her feel it—the helplessness, the claustrophobia, the bitter thrill of his control, closing around her, almost gentle, almost loving.

And then, only then, he flicks his fingers, and the portals blaze open, bright and mocking, as if they’d never gone dead at all. 

She's interrupting him, Raphael says, a nuisance he has no time for. Important matters, contracts to seal, souls to collect—real work to do, and here she is, lingering in his shadow, hovering as if she belongs, asking him to breathe life into a stupid portal. He snaps at her to leave, to stop her pestering, to get out of his sight. And so she does, shrinking back, biting her lip, retreating into her quiet corner.

But then, later—always, somehow, later—he comes to her, waking her from half-sleep as he climbs over her, pressing down with a heat that seems to burn straight through her skin. He murmurs his need, his lust, his rough, clumsy want, lips grazing her ear with words that are half-whispered, half-demanded. And she lets him, wraps her arms around his back, holds him, breathes through the rush of his hands, the awkward rhythm of his taking. 

She feels the weight of him, the feverish heat, and she sighs into it, into him, because in the Hells, everything is unbearably hot. His skin burns against hers, more furnace than flesh, and though she knows he’s hasty, heedless, that she’s just an outlet, a brief relief, she takes it. She lets herself be consumed by it, that pressing heat because here, with him, it’s as close to comfort as she’ll ever get.  

But sometimes there are moments that make her think he might care, moments she savors, drinks in slowly, wondering if they're real or merely the product of his boredom. She can never quite tell, but she doesn’t mind; she lingers on these glimmers of gentleness, holds them in her memory far longer than she should. 

Like when she’s soaking in his absurdly large bath, reclining in the steaming water with her arms folded along the edge, her head resting on cool stone, hair spilling loose behind her. She’s doing nothing at all, simply breathing in the warmth, letting the steam curl around her. And then he appears, slipping into the room, extending those long legs of his, rolling up his sleeves as he settles by her side. He doesn’t join her in the water; instead, he simply sits, a book resting in his hands, the very one she finished days ago. 

She watches, amused, as he leafs through it, the prominent wrinkle between his brows deepening with each page he turns. His expression is one of studied distaste, the kind that would be comical on anyone else. But on him, it’s strangely captivating. 

“Unhinged drivel,” Raphael mutters finally, his tone ripe with disdain. 

“Hm,” she echoes, half-lidded, watching him through the steam. 

“Why do you read this?” he questions. “I have half a mind to burn it. The sheer embarrassment of sharing the same air with it—I hardly want it in my library.” 

She smiles, faintly, eyes closing as she stretches a little deeper into the warmth. “I’m done with it,” she replies, lazily. “Do what you wish.” 

He taps two fingers against the spine. “The Duke is an absolute cretin, I must say.” 

“Oh?” she murmurs, her voice barely a breath above the water’s surface. 

“Utterly insipid,” he continues. "Such posturing, such shallow arrogance. I wouldn’t offer him a contract if he were the last soul on the proverbial platter.” 

She laughs then, quietly, letting the sound ripple through the steam. She knows Raphael is just indulging in his own particular brand of superiority, delighting in the verbal dissection, and maybe he doesn’t care for her company at all. But still, he stays, perched beside her, weaving disdainful monologues that settle like warm coals in her chest. And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself pretend that he’s here for her. 

He continues, eyes fixed on the offending book as if it’s a particularly irksome insect. “The Duke’s speech in chapter five...” he says. “So very witless, wouldn't you say? Who professes undying love with such clumsy metaphors? And in the garden, no less, like a character in a tragic farce. ‘You are my sun and moon,’” he scoffs, his voice rising to a mock-romantic lilt. “‘My stars, my breath, my—’” 

He pauses, catching her wide-eyed, incredulous look. A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, and there’s a glimmer of something—mischief?—in his gaze. “Oh, little mouse, don’t look at me like that. Surely you didn’t think I’d stoop to reading this… for enjoyment?”

She raises an eyebrow, half-laughing, half incredulous. “You read it?”

“Of course I read it,” he replies, with all the haughtiness of a scholar who’s just suffered through a poorly constructed essay. “I couldn’t very well leave such intellectual refuse lying about in my library without inspecting it first.” 

“Just inspecting it? Raphael, you just quoted chapter five.” 

He waves his hand dismissively. “A tragic misfortune. I assure you, it was purely incidental. I only skimmed enough to confirm my suspicions about its total lack of merit.” 

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes, watching as he flips another page with painstaking precision. “Is that why you’re carrying it around?” 

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her over the book with that familiar, aristocratic arch of his brow. “Little mouse,” he drawls, his tone both affectionate and condescending, “you really must learn what jests are. I can’t go about explaining them every time, you know.” 

The novel is set aside.

His hand slips below the water, and she knows, he’s done talking, at least about her books. His fingers graze her skin, tracing erratic patterns. She feels his hand leave her only to hear the soft rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, sliding into the water, slipping behind her. 

His arms wrap around her even as he pushes her against the cool stone of the bath’s edge. She feels his impatience in the way his hands move—roaming, relentless, almost rough, his fingers pressing into her skin, biting, digging between the ribs, as if he can’t bear to be gentle.  

One hand cups her shoulder, anchoring her as his other hand travels down her side. It moves in a slow sweep, now a caress, almost reverent, then shifting, tracing a path with no pattern, simply moving, as if he’s learning her contours anew. His grip tightens, loosens, a rhythm that speaks of need and very little restraint. 

He dips his head, face buried in her hair, and she feels the weight of his breath, the moist heat of it on the exhale. There’s a hunger in his closeness, an intensity that borders on obsession. He’s quiet now, all the long-winded, self-important monologues silenced, his usual need to fill the space with words abandoned. 

She feels him pressing against her back, the hard, insistent weight of him, the subtle rock of his hips, and she sighs, her body folding further against the edge of the bath, yielding to him. The warmth in her chest spills out, dissipating into something intangible, and once again, she wonders: Was this all just a performance for her, or something he needs for himself? Was that little, half-sweet conversation meant to soften her, make her more pliant? Or, against all logic, did he truly want to speak to her, to share in that strange, fleeting intimacy? 

She wonders if he cares, even a little, if those sarcastic, needlessly elaborate jests of his are meant to coax a smile from her, to make her laugh. Or is it all calculated, a ploy to keep her engaged, to ensure that when he fucks her, she meets him with something more than passive resignation? She feels his fingers tighten on her waist, his breath hitch, and for a moment, just a moment, she allows herself to believe there’s something deeper beneath his touch, something that holds her in place as much as his arms do. 

There are other moments too, moments that sink into her like a sickness, twisting her stomach, filling her with a dread so deep it almost makes her want to flee, to scrub herself clean, to be rid of him. And yet, those same moments leave her feeling strangely exhilarated, a little unhinged, as though some part of her is thrilled by the horror of it all. 

Take the merchant, for instance. A two-penny swindler, trying to pass off cheap fabric as something exquisite. She spots his scam instantly—anyone with half a brain would—but he’s audacious, leaning in, voice low and greasy as he sells his lie. She calls him out, unimpressed, and he snaps, calling her a cunt. She flips him off without a second thought and moves on, thinking nothing more of it. She’s heard worse, so much worse, and just because she looks the part of a noblewoman at Raphael’s insistence doesn’t mean she’s forgotten the dirt and sweat of her own past. She knows the cheap tricks—how cloth is dyed in back alleys, stained with whatever can be found, how insect paste and a dash of alchemical solution turn cotton into “silk” for gullible morons. She’s done it all herself, seen the worst of it, and this pathetic attempt to cheat her hardly scratches the surface. 

She forgets the encounter entirely—until the next day. Raphael barely glances up from his writing, absorbed in the ink-stained pages of yet another infernal contract, when he pushes a small, ornate box across the table toward her. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge it beyond a faint, almost bored gesture. She blinks, glancing from the box to him, and then back, curious but wary, wondering if this is another one of his games. 

She takes it, hesitates, then lifts the lid. 

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a finger. Blue, bloated, stiff with the grip of death. Her stomach turns, nausea creeping up her throat as she stares at it, bile rising as the realization settles—this isn’t just some random, expensive trinket. It’s a message, as clear and cold as the dead flesh before her. 

“Oh,” she whispers, voice strangled, unable to look away from the pale digit lying in the box, rigor mortis locking it in a ghastly curl. Her hands are trembling, fingers itching to drop the box, to shove it away, to wipe away the memory of this grotesque gift. 

She looks up at him, horrified, and finds his gaze resting on her, idle, yet somehow amused. 

She stares some more, her mind spinning as she tries to process what she’s holding, what this grotesque little gift is meant to convey. A part of her wants to retch, to bolt from the room, while another, unhinged part of her feels an inexplicable pull, an urge to draw closer to him, to be entangled in whatever madness constantly hangs off his sleeve. 

But she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she lets out a half-laugh, shaky and weak. “That’s… not what usually comes in jewelry boxes.” 

Raphael arches a brow. “I’ve given you plenty of jewelry, little mouse. Rings, bracelets, earrings—a whole collection of baubles you hardly deign to wear. Lavaliers, circlets, gems so fine even the simpering nobles of Waterdeep would weep for them. And yet, here you sit, determined to remain a rube.” He tsks, rolling his eyes with theatrical annoyance. “Mayhaps, I thought, just mayhaps, you might appreciate something different to suit that plebeian palate of yours.”

“Whose is it?” she asks, though she already knows. She feels the answer in the pit of her stomach, in the memory of yesterday’s insults and her dismissive walk away. 

He only shrugs, dipping his quill in ink. “I’m told he was a merchant.” He pauses, as if to savor the uncertainty flickering across her face. “Or was it a dockhand? Perhaps a barkeep. Truly, who can keep track of such insignificant lives?” 

She watches, spellbound in a way she can’t quite understand, as he sprinkles pounce over the wet ink, the tiny white particles catching the dim light. He lifts the paper, blowing the pounce off with a sharp exhale that sends the fine dust scattering into the air, drifting toward her. She coughs, swatting it away, a moment of reflexive frustration breaking through her discomfort. 

“So many names,” Raphael murmurs, almost to himself. “So many lives, so many inconsequential little people. It’s hard to keep them all straight, isn’t it?” 

She stares at him, a blend of revulsion and fascination churning within her. His words hang in the air, so careless, so detached, as if snuffing out a life meant nothing more to him than discarding an old, forgotten knickknack. And yet, he looks at her now, watching, as if expecting her reaction, waiting to see if she’ll recoil or lean closer. 

She leans closer, letting the moment pull her in, and he gives a satisfied little hum, returning to his writing with an air of contentment, as if the world is exactly as it should be. She watches the steady flow of his hand, the way his quill glides across the page in elegant, looping strokes, his cursive rising and falling. Her mind, however, catches on another thought, one that wraps around her and refuses to let go. 

He cares, she thinks, or at least he acts as though he does. This is how he responds to insults aimed at her, as if her offense is his to avenge. But another thought lingers, darker and heavier. He knows—that’s what unsettles her. If he knows, that means he saw, or had someone watch on his behalf, and that means she’s never truly alone, even when he isn’t there. She wonders how far that gaze extends, if he’s tracking her every step, every word, if he’s marked her movements like pinpoints on a map, an invisible tether she’s unknowingly bound herself to. 

Her hand drifts to her throat, almost absently, fingers brushing the skin there as if she might feel some hidden collar, a leash she’s been wearing all along without realizing it. But of course, there’s nothing—just bare skin and the faint, lingering warmth of her own touch. Still, the thought unsettles her, sends a flutter of anxiety mixed with something else, something uncomfortably close to… warmth. A warmth that spreads through her chest, that holds her in place despite the quiet urge in her feet to stand, to move, to walk as far as she can. 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays there, leaning close, just watching him as he writes, utterly absorbed in whatever Infernal text he’s crafting. And as she watches, that warmth in her chest grows, mingling with her apprehension, a mix of dread and fascination that knots itself around her, binding her there as securely as any leash he might conjure. 

Another day, another reckoning. 

She’s a mess of bruises, skin mottled and darkened so thoroughly she resembles a patchwork quilt rather than a woman. There had been a brawl, Astarion may or may not have thrown punches he couldn’t back, and they both may or may not have drunk too much. Korrilla may or may not have been at the Caress at the same time, her wicked laughter mingling with the chaos, and now her nose is a crimson fountain, dripping ceaselessly. Even the potion Korrilla forced down her throat did nothing to blunt the ache, the slight sneer on Korrilla’s face as she half-carried her back to the House of Hope making it clear she didn’t particularly want to be back tonight. 

When she stumbles in, Haarlep just laughs, calling her a “bloody, battered fool” and waving her off in disgust when she starts peeling off her clothes. With a muttered “Ew,” he disappears as she limps toward the restoration pool, her one salvation tonight. She knows it’s usually reserved for soothing injuries from far more… pleasurable encounters, but she hardly cares as she sinks into it, wincing as the water starts working its magic, stitching up minor cuts and scrapes as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back. 

She drifts, the water lapping around her, letting the throbbing recede—until a sharp yank at her scalp rips her back to the present, her head wrenched above the water. She chokes, sputtering out bloody droplets as her eyes snap open, and she finds herself staring at Raphael’s livid face, exasperation etched in every line. His hand is tangled in her hair, and her scalp stings from his tight grip. He glances down at his dripping sleeves, soaked from pulling her up, and curses. 

“What a stupid way to die,” he hisses. “Drowning in my boudoir because you’re too idiotic to stay awake.” His fingers tighten in her hair, and there’s no mercy in his eyes. “Take a deep breath now.” 

She barely has a second to react before he shoves her head under the water, his hand pressing down with unrelenting force. Her body jerks, and she inhales raggedly before he drags her up again, just long enough for her to gasp for air and catch his sharp, appraising look before he shoves her down once more, holding her under like a misbehaving dog in need of punishment. Water floods her nose, stinging as she chokes, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the pool’s edge. 

Up again, another cursory glance, and then he plunges her under once more, his grip firm, a rhythm of punishment and cleansing, as though he’s scrubbing the night’s sins from her with each forced dunk. She claws at his wrist, nails scraping against his skin, and he finally releases her, leaving her gasping and hacking as she collapses against the pool’s edge, water pouring from her lungs in a desperate, wheezing cough. 

She realizes then, as she shudders and coughs, that the blood is gone; her nose, once a mess of numb throbbing, now feels raw but whole. She clutches the pool’s edge, head bowed, catching her breath as the water stills around her. Raphael just stands there, dripping, sleeves ruined, as he observes her. 

“Well,” he mutters, flicking water from his fingers with a faint sneer, “at least you’re less of a mess now.” 

He hauls her from the water, pulling her sodden form from the boudoir and away from the rumpled heap of her clothes. His eyes drift over them—the plain tunic, the uninspired trousers, the scuffed leather boots—with a look of disdain so pointed it almost makes her wince. 

“An offense to beauty itself,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though the words slap her just the same. “These… things.” His lip curls. “They will burn. They’re an affront to my eyes, and my patience is wearing thin.” 

His gaze slides back to her face, catching on her bruised nose, and he tilts her head with the care one might give a very expensive artifact. His fingers are unhurried, methodical, as he surveys her battered skin. “I don’t keep unsightly things, you know,” he says. “I like my things beautiful. It’s why I collect them—why I keep them close.” 

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, his tone shifts to something almost conversational, a careless elegance in his words that sets her nerves alight. “Tell me, little mouse,” he begins, fingers tapping idly on his thigh, “shall I lock the door?” 

She feels a shiver run through her, her voice faltering. “Which… one?” 

He tilts his head in mock contemplation. “Why not all of them?” 

“Raphael…” she starts, but she isn’t even sure what she wants to say, or if there’s anything to be said at all. 

Unhurriedly, he begins to strip off his clothes, each gesture carried out with an almost ritualistic elegance. He slips out of his doublet, casting it aside with a look of mild annoyance. “Your doing,” he sighs, smoothing an imaginary crease before discarding it. “This fabric���fine enough to silence even the heavens—ruined by your negligence. It cost more than you could dream, more than most would spend in a lifetime.” 

She watches, stuck somewhere between disbelief and fascination, unsure if he’s preparing to fuck her or simply indulging in the strange meticulousness of his undressing. Each cufflink is unfastened with almost absurd care, each tie released with the same flawless precision she knows so well. The clothes fold neatly under his hands, smoothed and arranged as if they were sacred relics, and though part of her wants to laugh at the absurdity, she knows better than to test his patience now. 

Raphael pauses, shirt open just enough to reveal the line of his throat, his collarbone stark against tan skin. His eyes pin hers and his voice takes on a melodic, almost regretful tone. “Perhaps if I lock you in,” he murmurs, “you might refrain from throwing yourself into every pit of squalor in the Gate, seeking out any hand willing to smash that face of yours.” 

“No one seeks that, Raphael,” she says, her voice sounding distant. “It just… happens.” 

He snaps his fingers with a sharp, final click. “Yes, yes,” he echoes, almost as if humoring a child. “And doors just… lock themselves.” 

[invis-o-william]

Day 2: Wish

All Amity Parkers knew that “wish” was practically a forbidden word. Years of interactions with Desiree had all but guaranteed that. Younger children weren’t even taught the word anymore out of an abundance of caution, after all nobody wanted a repeat of the “Toddler Wish-mageddon” that had occurred just a year prior. The firemen had been cleaning chocolate syrup out of the streets for weeks afterwards. This left the naive and unassuming newcomers as targets for Desire’s power, many of whom didn’t quite believe the city moniker of “The Most Haunted Place on Earth” yet. One of those newcomers was Thomas Kincade, and one way or another he too would learn the consequences of the word “wish”.

. . .

Thomas had barely lived in Amity Park a week before his coworkers started messing with him. He had just been sitting down in the breakroom for lunch when Craig from accounting had sidled up in the next chair.

“Oh hey Tom,you’re new to town, right?” he asked while grabbing a bowl from his bag.

Thomas hummed an affirmative while digging through the box chock full of leftover lo mein that his wife had left him that morning. “Yeah, just moved from Springfield like a week and a half ago, why? Also, it's Thomas.”

Craig pointed a fork his way, “Well you should probably invest in a lunch bag or something. That box is a prime target for the Box Ghost you know. He’s usually pretty harmless, but he’ll definitely steal that thing in a heartbeat if he sees you with it man.” He accentuated his point by tapping on said box with his fork.

Thomas sighed. Although he’d only lived in the city for under two weeks, he’d already seen more than enough of the “ghost tourist trap” schtick. “You can give the “ghost” thing a rest Craig, I think I’ll be fine.” he said with a roll of his eyes.

Craig shrugged, “Alright Tommy, don’t say I didn’t warn you. You transplants never quite believe it at first anyway.”

“It’s Thomas.” Thomas said pointedly. Craig made a noncommittal noise before digging into his meal.

. . .

The next day it happened again. Thomas was working at his computer when his deskmate Maria leaned over the divider.

“Hey Tim, did you see the news this morning?” she asked excitedly.

Slightly irritated, Thomas looked up. “No, I didn’t. And it’s Thomas.”

Maria didn’t seem to hear him as she waved her hands around, “They got some footage of the fight between Phantom and that big metal ghost last night on the corner of Park Place and Amity Row! It looked so intense, and the big ghost is so cool looking!” She practically squealed the last words.

Thomas groaned and let his head fall back. “Look, I get it, you guys are pulling my leg, ‘ha-ha lets haze the newbie’ kind of stuff, but its getting old.”

Huffing, Maria crossed her arms. “How long have you been here now? Two weeks? You can’t tell me that you haven’t seen one of the ghosts yet! Hell, blob ghosts are so common I’m surprised one hasn’t popped into your yard yet” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Just hope you don’t encounter any big ones, you definitely don’t want to run into the Fenton’s with their tank-on-wheels.”

With a sigh and a shake of his head Thomas turned back to his work as Maria shrugged and did the same.

. . .

Thomas was getting fed up. Everyone kept talking about ghosts. “Phantom’s been seen here” and “The whisps have been really active lately” and all that crap. How long was everyone going to pull this? Not to mention that nobody wanted to call him anything but nicknames. Why was calling him Thomas so hard for them???

The last straw was his boss stopping by his desk an hour before quitting time.

“Hey Timbo, everyone on the floor is going to head over to the Mitty Boulevard Bistro after work for dinner, company’s treat. Want to join?” he said, leaning an arm on the desk divider.

Thomas’ eye twitched. “Yeah, sure that’s fine. And please. It’s Thomas.”

His boss smiled, “Great! Originally we were going to head over to the Mexican place on Park Place, but they’re closed for cleanup from that ghost fight last night.”

“Yeah! You can thank Phantom for that, honestly the Bistro is sooo good. I like Mexican food and all, but you gotta try the Bistro’s fries Tim!” Maria said, perking up from her seat.

Thomas had had it. “Ghosts this, ghosts that! I’m so sick of this! Just give it a rest already! And my name. Is. THOMAS. Not Tim, not Tommy, just Thomas!” he cried as he picked up his coat and lunch box. “If this is how all of you are going to treat me, then count me out of the dinner. Honestly I wish you guys would just cut it out already!”

Everyone in the office went deadly silent and stared at Thomas with wide eyes.

“Thomas,” began Maria, “you shouldn’t say that word. I’m sorry that we were teasing you so much about your name, but you really shouldn’t say that word.”

Thomas scoffed, “What word?”

Everyone looked around nervously, “The “w” word,” his boss said, “there’s a ghost who grants them, usually in the worst ways possible.”

Thomas threw his hands up in the air. “What, wish? Now you’re telling me that there’s a wish-granting ghost? If there was, I'd wish she’d make you all see sense right now because ghosts aren’t real!”

The office was deadly still and many held their breath. There was always a chance Desiree wasn’t around, but some still expected her to appear and grant the wish.

Instead the Box Ghost popped in out of nowhere, grabbed Thomas’ lunch box, shouted “BEWARE!”, and vanished.

Thomas could say he knew better now to pack his lunch in a bag.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 ao3

Eddie turns so he’s lying stretched out on his side, leaning on one elbow. Steve shifts gingerly so that his head is half propped up by the pillows—tilts his body to the side as much as he can with his cast. With Eddie’s couch pressed against the bed frame, it almost gives the illusion that they’re in one bed together: maybe it’s that, the casual intimacy of it, that makes it easier for Steve to start talking. 

“It really wasn’t that bad to start with,” he says.

Oh, okay, Eddie thinks, so we’re doing this bullshit again. 

He doesn’t dare interrupt though, because he understands the need to talk around something before getting into the heart of it—like letting a faucet run and run until the water turns clear. 

Still, Steve must sense some of his thoughts, because one of his eyebrows twitches and he says, a little wryly, “Fuck off, I mean it. It was just, you know, the clock and all that haunted house crap. Like, yeah, I’m not exactly a fan of spiders, but I don’t have a phobia or anything.” 

Eddie doesn’t contradict him, doesn’t say But it wasn’t just haunted house crap, was it?; doesn’t say that he remembers every moment of that awful drive, remembers Steve rambling about being late to someone who definitely wasn’t there. Right now, he wouldn’t stop him for anything. 

“Things didn’t get, um, fuzzy until we were at my house. My head started killing me, I was worried that I was gonna throw up in the kitchen sink when I was talking to the kids—thank God I didn’t, at least they actually listened to me, and… When I was in my room, and Dustin—Dustin followed, that’s when…”

Steve gives a little grimace. “It got worse, felt like there was a fucking spike right in here.” He rubs at a spot in between his eyebrows. “Anyway, guess it sorta affected my whole, uh, thinking abilities ‘cause, um…” He winces with an embarrassed half shrug. “I’m sorry about the tape. I really didn’t notice until… Well. Pretty stupid of me.” 

This time, Eddie can’t stop himself from replying. “No.” 

Steve blinks at him. “No what?”

“No. Nope. You’re not gonna—don’t you fucking dare apologise for… for…”

For staring death down without complaint, for hiding pain silently…

Because I know you, Steve Harrington—you were so damn focused on keeping those kids safe that everything else was background noise. 

Before Eddie can even begin trying to put all that into words, Steve says, “All right, okay. I’m—”

“Don’t,” Eddie says quickly, then realises that he’s been had, because Steve gives a tiny smirk. 

“Gotcha.” He sighs, sobers. “Seriously, though. This is why I didn’t want… Didn’t want you to worry.” 

“Oh, okay,” Eddie says faux brightly, like the thought’s only just occurred to him. “I won’t, then.”

It’s somehow the perfect thing to say, because Steve snorts, and the levity must ease him into the next part, because he keeps talking with barely a pause. 

“So I was thinking—well, I kinda thought I knew what to expect from Max. She described… like nightmare stuff, red sky, all that Upside Down shit, and… But it—it wasn’t… It was like real life, to begin with. And that—” Steve inhales. “That tripped me up.”

He blinks rapidly a few times, as if steeling himself. 

“I didn’t know it had… started, at first. Just thought I was still in your room. I should’ve guessed, ‘cause I couldn’t feel your—um, your hand anymore, but I wasn’t—there was a knock. At the door. Um. Well, like not just one knock, it was crazy loud, and—I just had this—I felt like I had to check, so I went to the door, and...” Steve’s voice fails, and he swallows once more, like the word is catching in his throat. He tries again. “A-and.”

Eddie reaches out, touches Steve’s forearm. “Steve, it’s—”

“It was Dustin,” Steve says in one breath. “He’d—it looked like he’d followed us. He was yelling, Eddie, he was so fucking angry, and I kept trying to tell him to—to go, but he wouldn’t listen, and then he—” Steve bites down hard on his bottom lip. “It was like when Max… but I couldn’t stop it. I-I was too slow.”

Eddie can feel Steve trembling. He doesn’t withdraw his hand.

“And then he fell, and he—he was so small, Eddie.” There’s a tremor in Steve’s voice, too. “There was so much blood, and it got in his hair, and I could…” Steve shakily rubs his fingertips together. “I could feel it. But then I… I knew it wasn’t right, ‘cause you weren’t there, and you would’ve been right behind me, I know you would’ve—and it was like, as soon as he knew I’d figured it out, everything went all creepy, all vine-covered and shit, but I just thought—” Steve laughs breathlessly. “Fuck, it was the best feeling. I just thought, oh, thank God, and ran.”

Eddie thinks of last night, of Steve’s nightmare. His chest floods with rage, with horror. His heart hurts.

“But then it got… it felt really… really weird, like, my head went all…” Steve tilts a hand back and forth. “Swimmy? I couldn’t remember what was happening, why I was—and then, it was a memory of—well, it felt like it was happening to me for the first time, like I couldn’t remember it was a memory, if that makes sense? Fuck, I don’t know.”

“It does,” Eddie says quietly.

“Okay. I, um. Do you know about Starcourt?”

“Buckley mentioned the… basics, I think,” Eddie says. “It sounded… nuts.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, pretty much. So for this—well, long story short, Robin and I got interrogated, and I got, uh, knocked around a bit.”

Eddie puts this through his Steve Translator, mentally changes a bit to a whole fucking lot.

“And we got drugged with this truth serum, don’t know what the hell was in it, but it was intense, and…” Steve’s hand drifts up to the side of his neck, rubs absentmindedly. “When the needle went in, I realised it was a memory, that it was wrong, because… someone else was drugging me. I kept thinking shit, he looks kinda young, like he kept staring, and I realised it must’ve been him—Vecna, I mean. When he was human. The drugs started—um, working, I guess. It felt exactly like it did when…”

Steve presses his lips together for a moment.

“Sorry. I don’t really like—I didn’t have control, like I was laughing even when I didn’t want to be, and that…” He shrugs again. “It messed with me for a while, after. There was—that winter, I had to get a tooth taken out, and I didn’t want them to use numbing, because it felt a bit like… Anyway.” Steve shakes his head. “Sorry. Got sidetracked. Where…?”

“You were in the memory,” Eddie prompts gently. He sort of hates himself for adding, “Drugged at Starcourt?” but he can tell that Steve needs a bit of a guide through the maze.

“Right. Yeah.” And inexplicably, Steve’s lips curve into a triumphant ghost of a smile. “That’s where he fucked up. ‘Cause, yeah, being drugged sucked, but it was also tied to—me and Robin, we…” Steve smile gets wider, but he also looks one second away from bursting into tears. “It was one of the best times of my life.”

Eddie smiles back, lets his hand drift down into Steve’s. Squeezes encouragingly.

“Once I’d remembered, made the connection, it was easy to… break out of the interrogation? I just ran to Robin, tried to stay there. Whenever the lights flickered, I guessed that he was catching up, so I went somewhere else, tried to keep outrunning him, basically. But I… it was hard to keep… I was getting tired.” His eyes close momentarily, deep in thought. “Sorry. Just trying to… things got foggy.”

“S’okay, Steve,” Eddie says—is not sure he can say much else with the growing lump in his throat. “Take your time, man.”

There’s a pause, and then Steve says, with mild surprise, “Oh, I saw El. I forgot… like, it was just a flash, I was in the woods with you—”

“Sorry?” Eddie says, and he doesn’t even cringe at himself for interrupting; that’s how baffled he is. “With me?”

“Uh, yeah? It only just happened, Eddie, your memory can’t be that bad. You know, The Upside Down, telling me I was a ‘good dude’, ring any bells?”

…What? You counted me being an asshole as a happy memory?

“No, that’s not why—of course I remember, I’m just… honoured I made the cut,” Eddie says, tries to tease.

But Steve doesn’t laugh, just blinks in confusion. “Yeah, why wouldn’t you—? Anyway, we were talking, and then I was sure I saw El just out the corner of my eye, and—she was yelling, I couldn’t hear her, but I could tell she needed more time, so I… tried to give her that.”

Eddie feels a hint of trepidation. “How?”

Steve sighs. “Okay. This bit really was stupid. I sort of…” Steve cringes slightly. “Goaded him?”

“…Steve,” Eddie says. Not stupid—stupidly fucking brave, but never… oh, Christ.

“I know, I know.”

No, you don’t.

“I dared him to find me. Said I wasn’t gonna stop running. And then—everything just disappeared for a moment, and then my head hurt, the worst yet, and then… He must’ve really been trying, ‘cause I couldn’t remember what I was doing again, and… It was all memories, and it felt almost like… you know when you’re dreaming, and a little part of you knows it’s a dream, but you still have to go along with it? Like that.”

Steve goes silent for a minute. Eventually, Eddie taps the back of his hand.

“You good?”

Steve sighs. “Yeah. Just… It’s… it’s silly.”

“I promise you it’s not.”

“It really is.” Steve’s mouth twitches, like he’s disapproving of himself. “Those memories, they… they weren’t horrific or anything, it was just mundane shit. Like, dinners or nights at home or whatever, and I was five, then ten, then…”

Eddie thinks of how he used to lump the Harrington House into the same detached scorn he’d view all of ‘the big houses’ in Hawkins, treat them like big, empty landmarks—as vacuous as the rich kids they’d shelter.

“But in one of them—the memories, I mean—I just snapped, ‘cause it was so boring. I smashed a plate, and that—it never happened in real life, but I just…” He closes his eyes, smiles ruefully. “I remember wanting them to look at me. Just once.”

Eddie lets out an almost inaudible breath, but it’s enough for Steve to shift in discomfort, as if he’s already trying to take back the words.

“Hey, chill,” Eddie says, not unkindly. “It’s not like your folks are gonna hear you say—”

“I’m not—it’s just, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“What?”

Steve is frowning. “It’s not like they were hitting me, Eddie.”

Eddie thinks of Steve in the RV, slipping into another memory, desperate to be heard: I didn’t, Dad, I didn’t. I’m not lying.

Eddie realises that he doesn’t need to say that there’s more than one way to hurt someone, because, of course, Steve already knows. Instead he digs deep and echoes something Wayne has told him, long ago.

“Once is enough, Steve.”

Steve blinks. One tear falls. Another. Then more. It’s quiet, but not forcibly stifled, not this time. It’s like a release.

“O-okay.” He sniffs, slowly wipes at his face. “He… he caught me, eventually. Or I guess not eventually, if it was really quick on your end. He was—furious. Whatever El was doing along with Robin and Nance must’ve been hitting him, and…”

Eddie feels Steve flinch. “Hey, are you—?”

“He clawed at my…” Steve gestures down to his healing bat-inflicted wounds. “It… hurt. But what was worse is that he—” Steve grits his teeth, swallows back more tears. Eddie can hear the painful click of his throat. “He said that I failed. That after he killed me, he was gonna kill… e-everyone. That I was an idiot to even think I could save… And then I was falling, and I could—I could hear you, but it was all distant and I couldn’t… it fucking scared me, ‘cause I knew you must’ve been touching me, but I—I couldn’t feel…”

Steve’s eyes look haunted. He glances at Eddie.

“That must’ve been when I…?”

Eddie can’t speak. Nods.

I felt you go.

He doesn’t realise that he’s crying until Steve’s hand tentatively reaches across, swipes underneath his eyes.

“Hey, come on. It’s not worth all that.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Eddie says shakily, manages a wet smile. “I decide who’s worthy of my tears, asshole.”

And you definitely are. A thousand times over.

He feels when Steve’s hand slowly falls like he can’t find the energy to hold it up; when instead of his breath catching on a word, it catches on a yawn.

“Shh,” Eddie says when Steve looks like he’s trying to speak again. “That’s enough for now, huh?” he adds gently.

Steve sighs, but he looks grateful. He lets his head sink down more into the pillow and says, “Thanks, Eddie.”

But every time his eyelids so much as droop, he seems to banish the drowsiness with fierce determination, over and over again. It looks like it hurts.

“Why don’t you want to sleep?” Eddie whispers, when it’s clear Steve isn’t going to stop.

Another sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to—it just… feels too much like.” For a second, Steve’s eyes drift to that unknown point in the distance again. “Like… leaving,” he says. Then he jolts in alarm, fingers reaching out to carefully brush Eddie’s cheek and oh, this again, Eddie thinks, as he blinks through more tears.

“Can I try something?” he asks when he knows his voice won’t break.

Steve nods.

Eddie’s hand returns to the bedsheets, finds Steve’s palm. Traces two letters.

Hi.

“Feel that?”

Steve smiles. “Yeah.”

“Even when your eyes are shut, you can still feel that, yeah? You’re not going anywhere, I promise.”

“Oh, well, if you promise,” Steve teases. His blinks are slowing now, each lasting a little longer than the one before it. But he doesn’t allow his eyes to stay closed.

Eddie feels a surge of affection so strong that for a fleeting moment, he wonders if he’s going to cry again. “Hey, Sir Stubborn. At least rest your eyes, sweetheart.”

“What if I want to—” Steve barely manages to suppress a yawn, “—keep looking at you?”

“Uh-huh. Flatter me all you want in the morning.”

“Rude,” Steve laughs sleepily. “Meant it. Hey, Eddie. Wanna know a secret?”

“Oh, if I must.”

“In… in the RV.” And Steve yawns deeply, like it’s been building for a while; he looks so, so tired. “When all the… haunted house crap. Know why it was… so easy?”

He keeps having to yawn every few words. Eddie’s heart twinges.

“Why?” he murmurs.

“Whenever I looked at you… all that shit… never touched you. You just stayed… you were so… lovely.”

Eddie’s throat is tight with emotion. He reaches out, drifts his fingers along Steve’s brow, until Steve’s eyes finally remain shut, until he feels him drift into sleep.

[yandere----fandoms8790]

Hi! I saw you did a yan!withered bonnie x insomniac darling, but can you do the opposite, and instead, yan!withered bonnie and a hypersomniac darling? (Hypersomnia is basically borderline narcolepsy, with no matter how much you sleep, your still overly tired, and consistently sleeping way more than normal)

Sure, but I think I may have either lost or gained some knowledge about writing, ya'll decide for yourselves.

Yandere!Withered Bonnie x Hypersomniac!Reader/Darling

The very definition of a worried mother would be likely to describe this man, he would worry about you consistently, thinking you're an Insomniac instead of hypersomniac

Did I forget to mention the fact he's most likely going to try to steal some sleeping pills from the drug store? No? Okay, he would do such a thing, thinking you're an insomniac, but to his surprise, you're hypersomniac

Once he's figured out you're hypersomniac, he'll baby you to no end, and when I say 'baby' I literally mean BABY you, he'll wait on you hand and foot, he'll try to feed you and give you water, he'll try to get you to sleep more often, he might even try to burp you if he thinks about it(joke lol, I have terrible humor)

If he's feeling energetic then he'll most likely try to feed you something like sugar, if you've got ADHD or ADD or something of that nature, to hype you up, If that don't work, uh....Well, he gets kinda upset because he wants to play and you don't, so, therefore he'll bug you until you play with him

He's most likely one of the best options you have here if you're hypersomniac, he loves you, and if anyone messes with or bully's you...He'll beat the stew outta them

Small story for those of you looking for another story from me or just for Yandere!Withered Bonnie in general:

It was midnight, 12:00A.M., you were in the office and, as usual, you were tired as heck. Not because you didn't get sleep last night, because you did, you just have a slight problem, you're an Hypersomniac, so you you're still tired as heck.

It was time for your shift to begin, and as usual, you just sit there, checking the camera's, keeping a check on everything as well as the Animatronics. It was the third night, meaning most of the animatronics were active all except for the Withered animatronics, or so you thought.

As if on cue, the bell for your shift rand out, causing you to jolt awake and look around frantically, you would see no one, but that doesn't always mean something isn't there.

Going through your shift, fending of the animatronics and staying alive, it reached 3:00AM. Signaling more newcomers, albeit you don't know that.

You go to check the camera's, only to have them knocked out of your hand by something. You only have a matter of seconds until you get pinned down to the desk.

As you look up, you find yourself face-to-face with one of the Withered animatronics, Withered Bonnie, He was a blueish-purple, his glowing eyes red as human blood, wires sticking out of his suit from his endoskeleton, his right arm torn off with wires only remaining, his left hand with nothing but an endoskeleton hand, his lower half with rips and his feet nothing but endoskeleton.

He tried to say something to you, but his voice box was broken. The next thing you know you were being carried out of the office and over to a secluded room.

As you were being carried he started to rub your back, and you started to feel tired. 'Crap, wrong time to fall asleep, (Y/N)' you thought to yourself as he carried you away.

After getting into the secluded room he laid you down on the bed, as if knowing you were tired, and before you could protest, he shoved a pill down your throat, and you were forced to swallow it.

You began to feel tired, maybe it wasn't so bad after all, yeah?

The last thing you hear before falling asleep is Withered Bonnie managing to force out a few words: "Goodnight-night....(Y-(Y/N)..."

[thebluestbluewords]

hey what if this wasn’t the first time Jay’s run into potential academic trouble at Auradon Prep??

“Jay, can you stay back for a moment? I just want to ask you a question about your test.” 

Miss Lacey Harvey’s most troublesome student pulls up short, so quickly that he overcorrects and has to stick one booted foot out in an exaggerated motion to counterbalance himself. She hears him murmur something to one of his buddies, another boy from one of the sports teams, wearing a matching jacket. Lacey doesn’t often pay attention to what her students are wearing, but she’s only teaches one of the students from the Isle of the Lost this semester, and it was quite a change the first day that he showed up in a blue and gold school varsity jacket instead of his typical black and red leather. 

Lacey waits. It’s no trouble to let her students say goodbye to their friends before she pulls them aside for a little history come-to-god moment. 

Sure enough, Jay turns around a moment later.

“You wanted to see me, miss?” 

Ah. 

“Yes.” Lacey says firmly. “You’ll get the test back, don’t worry about that. I just need you to walk me through what I’m seeing here first.” 

Jay leans down to look at the test Lacey has laid out on the desk in front of her. He’s a good looking boy, and he knows it, so she wishes she could be surprised when he looks up at her through those dark lashes with a proud little smile. “I crushed it, yeah?”

She takes in a deep breath. Time to crush the academic dreams of a boy who’s never been to a prep school before, who by all accounts is probably doing his best given the circumstances, and who still, despite all the extenuating circumstances working against him, goes out of his way to be a pain in her ass every class period.  “Well, you could say that. Your answers on the multiple choice section were good, you did well there, but… I have to ask. It looks like you missed this section here, where you were supposed to answer some questions about the passage.” 

“What, no way. Miss, that’s bull–” he catches himself, audibly swallowing the second half of his words. “--crap. It’s bullcrap, miss. I answered the hell out of this test.” 

Lacey looks up into the honest, open face of her student. All of the boys in her late morning section are so tall this year, she’s constantly looking up at them when they stand by her desk. The thought strikes her that she really ought to get a stepstool, and save her neck the trouble. 

She files the idea away for later. Later, when she doesn’t have a student in front of her. And not just any student, but one that’s been giving her trouble since the start of the year. The trouble, you see, with teaching teenagers is that they’re quick to spin you a tale the moment they think they might be in trouble. Lacey’s heard a lot of teenagers put on the song and dance for her, and if this one is lying, then he’s doing a very good job of it. 

A little intimidation will usually break the weak ones. 

“You have to understand that we take academic integrity very seriously here at Auradon Prep,” Lacey explains, putting on her best stern, spectacle-wearing teacher expression. “I expect each and every one of my students to bring their best into my classroom. If you have anything to tell me about your test, I would prefer to settle this outside of the honor board. I’m sure you would prefer the same.” 

Lacey watches 

Jay furrows his face, squinting down at the test. “Miss, I just missed the page. It must have been stuck together or something. I’ll redo it for you.” 

Right. 

No. 

“Jay, this is the problem with your tests. You are constantly skipping sections and missing questions. If I didn’t know better, I would think that you’re just skipping over all the questions that you don’t want to answer.” 

He snaps his mouth down into a hard line. “Miss, it was a mistake, I promise.” 

“I want to believe you,” Lacey says slowly, allowing her student a chance to stop digging the hole he’s created even deeper. “But—“

Jay’s face goes hard, and then evens out into a tremulous version of his usual cocky smile. “But you don’t trust villains. I get it.” 

“No, it’s not like that,” Lacey hurries to reassure him. “It’s just that I’ve seen a pattern on your tests, and I wanted to address it before the problem gets out of hand, that’s all.” 

“But I’m the only one here.” 

“I prefer not to humiliate students in front of their peers,” she snaps, before she can think better of herself. “If you would prefer that I do otherwise, please, tell me, and I would be happy to waste valuable class time that your peers could spend learning on disciplining you instead.” 

The boy in front of her drops his head. “Go for it. Discipline me.” 

No. 

She—

No. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. 

Villains, even the young ones, have a way of getting under your skin. 

“I will not.” Lacey says calmly, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Punish you for missing a question. I am here to teach you, not to dole out punishment for what you claim was an honest mistake. I’m giving you an extra study hall. Come to the study room after dinner tonight, and I’ll have one of my tutors there to help you go over the questions you’ve missed.” 

Jay straightens up, and it’s like the past few moments never happened, and he never dropped the cocky, confident face of the boy who roughhouses with his teammates in the back of her classroom. “I have a game.” 

“After that.” Lacey assures him. “The extra study hall isn’t a punishment. I am here to give you a learning opportunity. Sports games end at what, seven pm?” 

He grins. “Would you believe me if I said eight?” 

Lacey may be a history teacher, but she isn’t stupid. “I would not. Stay here while I write out your tutoring slip, and I’ll have a TA meet you in the western study room at seven thirty.” 

He shrugs, bright and easy. “Worth a shot. I’ll learn more with a cute girl as a tutor.” 

Lacey crosses Jane Fey off her list of potential TA students. “You will not.” 

“Will so.” 

“Absolutely not, and if you continue along this line, I’ll tutor you myself.” 

He flashes her a look that’s not exactly an assessment, but it does linger on her entirely too long for comfort. “You won’t find me complaining about that, Miss.” 

Lacey shrugs back a shiver. The little villains go out of their way to behave unnervingly, she knows this, and she won’t allow it to get under her skin this time. “Take this,” she commends, holding out the study slip. “And get out of my classroom before you’re late for next period.” 

He does.

Lacey lets out a breath she hasn’t consciously been holding once the door clicks shut. Villains, even little ones, aren’t a handful that she’s overjoyed to need to continue dealing with. 

With that thought in mind, she opens her school email account. 

“Dear Fairy Godmother,” Lacey whispers to herself as she types. “I am writing to inform you of an incident occurring today, which pertains to the trial run of the four children from the isle of the lost….” 

Yes. 

She’ll keep the higher-ups well informed of this incident.  It’s her duty as a teacher, nothing more, to keep her administration informed of how the new students are settling in. 

And if she recommends that some students in particular may not be suited for a preparatory environment, well, that’s just her opinion as an educated member of the educational staff. No more, no less. She’d like to see every student succeed in the classroom, but she’s made the same recommendation for a few royal children who couldn’t keep up with their academics, and those few were seen very tidily off to lower-ranked classrooms, and eventually their home kingdom’s local colleges, framed as a very humble move, of course, to support local educational institutions within their home kingdoms. An emphasis on their humility and loyalty to their kingdoms of birth.

She’d like to see each and every one of her students succeed. Naturally. 

She’s just setting up a few backup plans. 

[darlingshane]

sweet revenge

Shane Walsh x F!Reader

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 2k

Summary: You and Shane sleep together to get back at your respective exes.

Content/Warnings: explicit, smut, car sex, revenge fuck, angst.

A/N: I made this for @bernthirst-events using the prompt – revenge fuck. It's a little different from what I usually write, but I hope you like it.

– Read below or at AO3.

Bad choices don't necessarily make you a bad person as long as those choices don't hurt other people, you’ve always believed.

What you’re about to do might take you to cross that hypothetical line that kept you from considering yourself a bad person. But after all the events that led you to this point, you don’t give a flying fuck. You've been hurt too often by other people's choices that it's your turn to make something so incredibly reckless that will royally piss some people off… Like sleeping with Shane Walsh.

“Are you completely sure you wanna do this?”

“Are you?”

You ask each other, half naked, in the back of his cruiser before proceeding any further with your plan.

Too hot and bothered to back out now, with no regrets, you nod and seize his mouth as he opens his buckle and zipper to seal the deal you made about getting back at your respective duplicitous exes.

It all started a few weeks ago when you caught Shane's girlfriend cheating on him with your ex-boyfriend. She wasn't just his girlfriend, but she was also one of your best friends, in fact. Not only did she manage to break Shane's heart, but she violated an unspoken friendship code and the common sense of not hooking up with your friend's in the process.

Regardless of you and your ex being broken up before that day, – discovering their filthy lie was a low blow that still hurts like hell.

Blinded by rage, after being witness to that moment of indiscretion, you picked up the phone, called Shane, and spared no detail about what just had happened. Someone had to, cause that hag wasn’t going to do it, and he deserved to know. Admittedly, you were never Shane's biggest fan to begin with, but you felt sorry for him. For what you knew, he was completely in love with your friend, and he was just something to toy with cause she had nothing better to do. That’s how she always treated guys, and up until that day, you never said anything cause you had your own stuff to deal with, and you were never the one to stick your nose where it didn’t belong, but it was about time for her to get a taste of her own medicine.

A few days later, you found out that Shane had beat the crap out of your ex. The deputy was arrested and released the day after, and indefinitely suspended from the department.

Two weeks after his arrest, you stumbled upon him at the grocery store in the evening, and he looked miserable trying to pick up between the amount of cereal boxes along the aisle.

“I like Cocoa Puffs,” you pointed at the box in one of the lower shelves to break the ice.

He sighed and glanced at you, “yeah, I like those too. I was just in the mood for something else… any suggestions?”

“Hm, cinnamon toast is my second favorite.”

He considered it for a second before reaching and grabbing a box of those per your suggestion. Then you both continued shopping on your own.

Later, you saw him at the parking lot after loading your groceries in your car.

“Hey,” you stopped by his truck while he put his bags on the flatbed, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Why?” he scoffed, “wasn’t your fault, darlin’. You didn’t sleep with her, didn’t you?”

“No, but it wasn’t my place to tell.”

“Maybe it wasn’t, but I’m glad you did.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” his head sank into his shoulders quickly, “I guess cause you were hurt by it too, and you went straight to the cold, hard facts. That took guts.”

“I was a little harsh.”

“You weren’t. I always thought you were a pushover, y’know? But you proved me wrong.”

“Ouch. I always thought you were an asshole,” you quipped back, leaning against his car.

“Sometimes I am, but I’d never cheat on anyone,” he admitted, honestly. “Look, it’s no secret that I like sleeping around, but when I’m in a relationship– I’m a hundred percent in.”

“Are you guys getting back together?”

He scoffed, and gave it a thought, “would you consider getting back with your ex after that?”

You shook your head.

“I didn't think so. Me neither. I'm done with her. She's like the fucking antichrist.”

“It suits her,” you laughed softly at his chosen nickname.

“You should've heard the things she said about you.”

“Save it, I don't need to know,” you paused. “Are you gonna be okay with your job and all?”

“Yeah,” he ran a hand over his hair, “I think I will.”

After parting that evening, you started texting from time to time. You were never that close, but something clicked that day between you two in that little exchange that led you to this particular night when you bumped into the other once more.

You were hanging with a couple of friends after work at your local bar when the bartender brought you a complimentary beer from a guy sitting at the counter. You glanced over your shoulder and saw the deputy back in his uniform, tilting his beer bottle in your direction. You beckoned him, and he joined your little group.

Quickly, you started talking and joking about getting back at both your exes somehow. You were both still bitter about it, and of course it kept coming up in all your conversations.

At first, you thought it was a joke when Shane suggested you should sleep together to even things out.

An eye for an eye and all – he said.

You and Shane, sleeping together? It was the most absurd idea someone’s ever had. It made you burst into laughter initially; but as the night progressed, it made more sense. It’s a fitting punishment for a treacherous crime, you deemed.

Halfway into making up your mind, you glanced at Shane once more when he strutted out of the bathroom with his uniform shirt half unbuttoned, showing a black tee underneath well hugged around his chest. To be honest, he isn’t completely gross physically. You've always found him hot. It’s the way he sometimes talks that has kept you from seeing that he’s actually sweet as well.

Once he got back to the table, you bit your lower lip and tilted your head in the direction of the door, conveying silently with just one look – I need to be railed by you, right now. I don’t care if it’s right or wrong.

He quickly grasped it and took your hand as he licked the corner of your mouth before guiding you out towards the car.

You couldn't blame it on the alcohol because you barely took a couple of sips of your beer. It was the dangerous determination in Shane's eyes, boring nothing but dark lust and vengeance, that convinced you. You’ve never seen him like that, and you're still not sure if it’s all about revenge or that he actually likes you. You wouldn't hold it against him if it was a bit of both, cause that’s exactly how you feel right now in this unrehearsed dance of ripping each other’s clothes, clawing each other’s skin, and mauling each other’s mouth in the confined space of the backseat of the cruiser, parked on the side of the road, away from prying eyes.

It’s thrilling to have that rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins, knowing that you’re doing something so wrong, but so rightfully earned, and not giving a damn about it.

A whole new world opens right in front of your eyes, and right between your legs when you stop kissing him to sink onto his cock for the first time. You shudder at how big he feels once he’s fully sheathed inside your slickness. He’s hard as rock and big enough to fill and stretch your walls a little more than you're used to.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he can barely get those words out, as your hips slowly wave back and forth.

As you get used to the generous size of his erection filling you up to the hilt, he presses his parted lips against yours.

Unexpectedly, you both thrive and savor every second of it as you explore and seek that ultimate pleasure that comes from your bodies tangled together.

“God, you feel so good,” you purr on his lips, hands clutched to his neck; having his large palms holding your ass, aiding your moves as you switch to bouncing uncontrollably on his lap.

“Not as good as you, darlin’,” he groans, breathlessly, “you’re so fucking wet.”

Then, his tongue juts out and traces the shape of your mouth before devouring your lips like a maniac, stealing your moans and hums. If you’re desperate, he’s viciously focused on sucking the life out of you with great vehemence. His delicious kisses and grunts muddle your mind, and you can barely keep your thoughts straight as you inch closer to that aching point where your legs strain to keep going.

“Fuck, sweetheart, just a little more,” he pants, barely pulling away from your lips, “please, please, keep going for me.”

Holding on tight to him, you exert yourself a little longer as your hips roll with reckless abandon until that bomb made out of pure pleasure, expanding at your core, explodes. Your body shivers and your mind turns to mush, gladly overtaken by a wave of electric joy that awakens every cell of your body from head to toe. And right after you come, the wild pressure of your opening contracting around him has Shane spurting his seed inside you in a matter of seconds.

To be completely honest, there was never anything greater between your legs than Shane Walsh, you come to realize. As uncomfortable as the car is, it’s barely a nuisance below how amazing that orgasm is. How your once-friend would ever give that up is beyond you.

Slowly coming back to your senses, you sweetly smile, noticing that your forehead is pressed to Shane’s shoulder as his chest rises and falls under your palms.

There isn’t a sliver of guilt or shame after you’re done and put your clothes back on. The only thing that’s new is a desire of not wanting this night to be over, so when the deputy drives you home, you invite him for a second round.

“Too bad they’ll never know what we did,” you express, relaxing on top of Shane’s broad chest, with your hand under your chin, like it was the most casual thing you’ve ever done since you met him.

“But we do,” he smiles tiredly, “did it make you feel better?”

“Uh-hm. That was the point, right? Do you feel better?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I do,” his fingers brush your cheek, pulling you for a chaste kiss before shifting on the bed and having you on your back against the mattress as he slithers down your body, pushing your knees apart to have a little taste of you. You fix a pillow under your head as the adventurous tip of his tongue traces every inch of your sex, slowly. His arms curl around your thighs, as you weave your fingers in his curls, quietly enjoying the mind-blowing attention of the tip of his tongue when it circles your clit. He teases it, flicks it, and licks it before allowing his lips to wrap around it. Lazily sucking that bundle of nerves, he delivers a pleasant buzz that runs all over your body, and earns himself a new symphony of hums, moans, and curses at his name.

As your mind reaches cloud nine for a third time, the delicious pressure of his lips changes, sucking harder and harder, until you’re met with a calming relief once the orgasm hits.

Shane climbs back up to the head of the bed and presses his slick-covered lips against yours, his tongue slipping past your lips, so you can have a taste of yourself, reminding you that payback never tasted sweeter.

[avalonia320]

all of the ghouls come out to play

I'm flexing my slightly atrophied writer's muscles with a swing at an IWTV fic. Here's a sneak peek if anyone's interested. This is going to be a canon compliant fic, bridging the gap between season 2 & season 3. Louis has returned to New Orleans once more to reconnect with Lestat, but this time Lestat is no where to be found. Instead, Louis is distracted by dreams of Claudia and reaches out for help. This fic will cover the beginning of Ghost Claudia, & maybe even the start of Devil's Minion.

This is from the first chapter, after Louis has woken up from a particularly intense dream. I have to say, I really enjoy writing Louis/Daniel convos.

***

A few minutes later, Louis found what he was looking for: Daniel, in a bar in Chicago, side-eyeing a bartender who had watered down his drinks like the man was lunch. Which, by the direction of Daniel’s thoughts, was exactly what the man was going to be. A high price for trying to save 50 cents on bourbon.

Daniel, it’s Louis.

Louis du Pointe du Lac. It’s about fucking time. Glad to hear you’re still alive. You went radio silent after your big challenge. I was getting a little concerned.

He got right to the point. I need a favor. I need you to use your research skills to check on something for me. Something to do with Paris.

Of course it’s fucking Paris. I knew all that ‘time heals’ crap was bullshit. What is it that you’re wanting to know?

Louis steeled himself. I had a dream. About Claudia. It took him several painful minutes to explain, recounting everything he had seen, what he thought it might mean. 

There was a long silence once Louis was done speaking. He could picture Daniel so clearly, as if he were in front of him, reading the expression Daniel undoubtedly had on his face right now. The disapproval. The worry tinged with fear. And finally…that hint of insatiable curiosity that Louis was banking on.

Daniel, he thought finally. Will you look into it or not?

I'm just trying to think how to talk you out of this. You know this is a bad road to go down.

I’m having these dreams for a reason. I need to know. If it’s really her or if I’m just -

Crazy? I hate to say it -  alright I’m lying, I enjoy saying it - but we both know that crazy train pulled out of the station a long, long time ago.

Louis chuckled quietly to himself. That may be true, he admitted. But I still need to know.

You want my advice? Of course you don’t but I’m gonna give it to you anyway. Let a dream be just a dream. You don’t always need to go digging up the bones, trying to see if they’ll talk to you.

I trust you understand the rich irony of those words coming from you, my friend.

A long capitulating sigh was the only response for several seconds before Daniel spoke again. Fine. I’ll look into it. His words were saturated with reluctance. At least tell me something good. Tell me you’re not in Dubai anymore.

I’m not in Dubai. I’m in New Orleans.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Daniel groaned loudly. No wonder you’re in the mood for a seance. You know that’s the first place anyone’s gonna come looking for you once they figure out you’re not in Dubai.

It’s sweet that you care, Daniel. But this is where I need to be right now.

Who says I care? I just need you alive for the next book.

Louis smiled to himself. Sure. 

OK, I admit it. I care. So listen to what I’m saying now. There’s nothing for you in New Orleans. Lestat isn’t even there anymore. Stop chasing ghosts and come visit me instead. I’m flying out to California to start the second half of the press tour tomorrow. Why don’t you come with me? You don’t have to be on camera if you don’t want to. We can relive old times at Polynesian Mary’s when we’re in San Francisco. Go night swimming in Santa Monica. It’ll be good for you.

Louis stretched before he stood up, stepping out of the coffin. It’s tempting. But I’m not ready to - He stopped as sudden realization struck him. Wait. How do you know Lestat isn’t in New Orleans anymore?

There was an uncharacteristic hesitation. Uh..

What is it that you’re not telling me, Daniel?

My agent’s calling me. I have to go.

DANIEL.

I’m hanging up now. This is me slamming down the metaphorical phone. If you really want to know, get on a fucking plane. His voice gentled slightly. I’ll let you know what I find out about Paris. 

DANIEL MOLLOY DON’T YOU DARE - 

It was too late. Daniel’s voice was gone. 

[felice-jaganshi]

Strawberry Scented Love

Radiodust Strawberry pimp au

Chapter 1 - A Fresh Start

Nature abhors a power vacuum… Vox himself had sung those words once with Valentino… but he never thought Val would be the one to lose power in the Vee's.

But, somehow Lucifer had found out about Val licking Charlie's arm and, well… Val had to make a deal to save his own life. Unfortunately, that involved giving every single one of his soul contracts to someone else, and giving his own soul to Lucifer.

Now he was weak and powerless. Useless. Pathetic.

So… Vox and Velvette cast him out of the Vee's, ready to accept the one Lucifer gave Val's contracts to as the new member of their trio after only half a day. Leaving Val in the gutters with all his shit. He swore vengeance, but they didn't care. It'd take him a century to regain what he'd lost, and they'd just keep growing without him. The gap would just get larger and larger… He was fucked.

 

Angel was asked to the studio by Vox. Apparently whoever was taking Valentino's place wanted to meet with Angel in private before the rest of the employees of the studio. Angel paced around his dressing room nervously.

Would this new guy be just like Val? Would he be worse somehow?! Would he survive? No, scratch that one, he would survive. Whatever he had to do, he would survive. 

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Crap, show time. He took a deep breath. 

“Come in.” He looked into his mirror, keeping his eyes on himself to control his facial reactions. 

The door creaked open, and a familiar red smiling demon entered the room. When Angel saw who it was he turned quickly, “Al?! What are you doing here?” He smiled, glad to see someone he considered a friend. “The new overlord who's supposed to take over is showing up soon, did ya come to get a good look at them?”

 

Alastor laughed, “Oh, if I wanted a good look at them darling, I'd just take a peek in a mirror!” This made Angel's heart sink.

“Wh-what? Al, you're fucking with me.”

“I am most certainly not my dear, I don't fuck anyone!” He chuckled at his own joke, a laugh track coming from his microphone on his cane.

A sense of dread washed over Angel. Oh fuck.

“Yes, I was gifted this studio and the souls inside it by Lucifer himself, as a form of truce between him and I, I suppose. So, would you prefer I continue to call you Angel, or would Anthony be better for our new arrangement?”

 

“Angel, please. So… I guess I'm under your command now. What do you plan to do with me?” He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest in a self hug, not flirting with Alastor. Not this time.

Alastor's ear twitched and his head ever so slightly tilted, “What a wonderful question! But I have one of my own first… Do you.. fear me, Angel?”

He must have been imagining things, but he thought for a moment he looked and sounded… No, no stop that thought Angel. There's no way the radio demon actually cares, he's just another overlord, just trying to lower your guard.

“Of course I do. Why wouldn't I? You're the radio demon, a powerful overlord. And now you own me as long as I'm in this studio, like my contract says.” Angel kept his tone level and cold. He didn't want to push Al's buttons, but didn't want him to think he was ignorant to the situation he was in either. “So, again, what are you going to do with me?” His voice finally wavered, barely holding his act together. 

 

Alastor sighed and stepped closer to Angel, “Oh you poor darling… you think I'm going to be a monster like Valentino don't you? What sort of horrible things did he do to make you so… skittish? We've become rather close at the hotel, close enough I consider you a friend… yet here you are cowering in fear of me…” He gently placed a hand on Angel's cheek, only for him to flinch “Mon ami, I have a very important job for you here, one I can only entrust to you.”

“What kind of job?” Angel sounded warry, “Only things you know I'm good at are fucking and fighting.”

 

“I have less than no interest in this industry. So I would like to request you to run the studio in my stead. Under my name of course.” His smile felt… genuine for once. “I want you to manage the business. You know better than anyone what these performers need to flourish and thrive. How to treat them, and make everything safe, efficient, and profitable… I wouldn't know where to begin.” He still held Angel's cheek in his hand. “Will you accept my offer?”

 

Angel was in shock. “I… I would be honored to… W-wait, it sounds like I'd be doing all the work Val did, what are you gonna do then?!” He suddenly realized he was being delegated to do ALL THE HARD WORK!!

 

Alastor pulled back his hand and laughed, “There you are my dear! That look of frustration is much better on you than a look of fear.” 

Angel pouted and blushed, “Hey! Don't make fun of me Al! You come in here acting all cryptic and shit, of course I'm gonna be scared outta my fucking mind! I'm used to getting beat to crap and fucked in here, not told I'm being promoted to head honcho by a strawberry pimp.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, “Is that so? So you were expecting me to barge in here like some brute,” he grabbed Angel gently around the neck, “Manhandle you and assault you in every vile form?” He leaned in close, “That sounds about like what you had in mind?” He felt Angel's pulse quicken under his hold as he held his breath.

He pulled away slowly, “Sorry love, but that's not my style. I find bruises to be hideous. And I'm not terribly fond of those… other activities. Too sticky and wet.” 

Angel finally let himself breath again, “Fucking, damn it Al… You keep giving me mixed signals here, the fuck is wrong with you today?”

 

“Just testing out my new role as ‘Strawberry Pimp��, darling. I may not desire any of the things associated with this job, but I do enjoy the power and the new souls it grants me. As well as the money, not that I needed more of that. I might as well have fun with the role Lucifer forced on my shoulders.”

Angel rolled his eyes, “I see. So you're messing with me, to practice for messing with the others.”

Alastor's eyes sparkled, “I knew you'd catch on. Now, with your knowledge of the industry and my powers, help me craft this new persona and a new outfit for it. Hm, perhaps get you something more ‘business like’ as well, to represent your new position.”

 ~~~~~~~~~

They spent the rest of the afternoon together getting their outfits and story straight. Alastor would play the “lazy boss” and Angel would be his “beloved assistant”. Alastor almost sat on the couch in Angel's dressing room, until he caught a whiff of the scent of Valentino's smoke lingering on it.

 

“Ugh, are you terribly attached to this couch? Or any of the furniture in here really? I feel the whole place should be fumigated and aired out.” 

Angel shrugged, “Light it on fire for all I care, if you're gonna play pimp, get me a new one.”

“So bossy…” Alastor huffed, then snapped his fingers before lighting the disgusting couch on fire. “Hm, I'll have new furniture put in tomorrow, in the meantime, you can share my office. I already aired it out and had it set up to my tastes.” 

 

“You're sharing your space? Damn, what'd I do to get on your good side?” Angel smiled.

“Well, if we are to make everyone think you're my precious pet, the illusion of familiarity would be beneficial.” He turned away and opened the door, the couch done burning. “Now come along, there is so much more work to be done…”

[general--winter]

May I please request headcanons for Naoto, Yu, and Kanji reacting to their S/O having anger issues and snapping when a bully goes too far?

author's note: So, hi y'all! i've had quite a year, i'll make a post later. I wanted to clear out the one or two things I had already finished in my WIP folder, though, so this is my return for now.

rating: teen

fandom: persona 4

pairing: shirogane naoto x gn!reader, narukami yu x gn!reader, tatsumi kanji x gn!reader

word count: 1336

summary: you stand up to your bullies! wish i was this brave when i was in high school and college LOL

Naoto Shirogane

For months, Naoto has heard story upon story about how you have been putting up with crap from a group of people in your club. It’s all endless, from how they give you backhanded compliments about your skills to them “accidentally” giving you the broken equipment and watching you fail over and over again for their amusement.

Honestly, you weren’t even aware of half of the incidents being their fault, Naoto had to be the one to sneak into your club room to investigate and find that your stuff was being tampered with in the first place. She absolutely hated breaking the news to you, but she knew she had to tell you the truth. What wasn’t expected, however, was the pure rage that shot through your eyes. Naoto thought there might be sadness, maybe even tears if you were particularly emotionally vulnerable at that moment, but this was so unlike you. “Let me handle it,” is what you told her. She kept her eyes on you from then on.

Which is exactly why she caught the beginning of the incident the next day over lunch. A leader of your club struck up a conversation with you at your desk, and Naoto immediately noticed you were snippy with them. It wasn’t until they dealt a snide comment, however, that you slammed your hands on your desk, sending your empty bento flying to the floor and catching the attention of every student in the room.

What came out of your mouth next could be described by Naoto as… needlessly vulgar. You tore into the leader, listing off bullying incident after incident in cruel detail, as well as what it said about the leader and their deepest insecurities that they actually did those things. It wasn’t for a few moments until Naoto realized that she had helped you put that list together (...sans emotional damage, of course) herself if you ever decided you wanted to go to the principal with the information. Oh, dear, she would think. I really should put a stop to this.

While you were in the process of tearing the club member down with a snide smirk, talking about how “their efforts will only set their own club performance and university admissions back” and “if they wanted attention so badly, well now they’ve got it undivided from the entire room”, Naoto took a hold of your wrist and dragged you out of the room, gently sliding the door shut.

Your breathing haggard from anxiety, she would drag you to a barren corner and tentatively hug you for a long time before pulling back and placing her hands on your shoulders, suggesting with a sigh: “I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself, but next time do not use my data for your vigilante justice? Please?”

Yu Narukami

The last week of school was rough for everyone, but particularly you. On top of winter semester finals, you had to deal with a… let’s say, cast of characters that leeched on to whatever insecurity you radiated and made it as much of their problem as it was yours. Underhanded compliments, disguising random rude gifts as acts of kindness… Yu especially hated it when they played you into thinking they were your close friends. Couldn’t you see that the Investigation Team was more supportive of you than they could ever be? Couldn’t you see that he was trying his best to lift you up when all they wanted to do was bring you down?

But Yu isn’t about forcing people into their decisions. As much as he has a soft spot for you, he’s going to let you figure this one out yourself, of course with his own support. More times than he could count, Yu listened to your suspicions with an open ear and a sympathetic face, always reminding you of your positive traits. It was the only thing he could think of that would help, but your sorrow turned to anger slowly. Almost too slow for him to notice.

He’ll be clued in real quickly, though, when he sees you flinging a tray of “food” at a group of people crowded around you on the school roof. He’ll be shocked - Yu’s never seen you get violent with anything but Shadows. He seriously thought you didn’t have a mean bone in your body. However, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride for his partner standing up for themselves. Maybe, you could hold back on the string of curses that flow from your mouth, though!

After this event, when the bullies run off covered in whatever mystery substance they had placed in your lunch box, Yu is there to sit beside you as the weight of your actions hit you.

“I… I just threw that shit at them,” you murmured to yourself, barely registering Yu’s presence beside you.

“You stood up for yourself, he clarified, just sitting down to wrap an arm around your shoulders. “I’m proud of you.”

Kanji Tatsumi

Kanji has always wanted to handle the problem himself. Every time he finds you upset or you have yet another problem with a bully, he’s ready to throw his weight around to close their mouths for you. You always refuse though, with a level of grace that sends Kanji into a fit that he has to tamper down. He wished he could take away every single problem in your life, but he trusted you to do it in the way that was best for you. However, that smile on your face was always there when everyone shit on you. Gleaming, wide, mistakenly joyous. But it never reached your eyes. It wasn’t even like Kanji’s own situation. He chose to look and dress and act the way he does. But you were being bullied for something you couldn’t control. It drove him, for lack of a better term, damn crazy. Which is why he was giddy when he caught the scene in front of Yasogami after school that day.

A circle of students were gasping and egging on some sort of event happening in the middle. With his shoulder, Kanji easily wedged into the inner ring, though he seriously couldn’t believe what he was looking at when he got there. You were hammering your knee into the stomach of the ringleader of the group of bullies, propping up their body with a fist in their uniform collar to take more blows. In between the crowd's noises, you cried out, "This is what you get for every. Single. Terrible. Hurtful. Word!" Before he could think anything, he was pulling you off of the bully, arms hooked under your shoulders, feet dragging against the concrete and asphalt as Kanji once again split the crowd. This time, it was his mere presence that had people parting easier than Yaso-Inaba's fields of wild grass in a storm's wind.

You didn't struggle against him at all, your limbs just went limp while Kanji carry-dragged you down the pathway to the Samegawa Floodplain. Kanji was proud of you for standing up for yourself. That was the first thing he told you after he sat you on top of his jacket on one of the walkway's benches, misted from the afternoon rain sputter.

Despite his words, your thoughts swirled. What had you just done? You never thought of yourself as the type of person to just… snap in public like that, but it happened. The lid on your ugly thoughts and feelings came undone, and you'd let them loose. Kanji settled next to you, placing an incredibly stiff arm across your shoulders as you shoved your face into your hands. "I know I'm not—shit… the best person to be lecturin' on this, but," he started, his voice gruff and unsteady, "you stood up for yourself, right? Maybe starting a walloping like that in the school yard might not have been your best moment, but, what I'm trying to say is, y-you did good. In my book, at least."