#cross/ink papercut

[a-v-j]

Why isn't papercut in the wiki?

[what-have-i-unleashed]

UTMV Ship Name Tournament: Announcing the Candidates

Congrats to these ship names! You have passed the preliminary!

AfterDeath (Geno x Reaper)

BlueMoon (Blue x Nightmare)

Butterknife (Dream x Killer)

CherryBerry (Fell x Blue)

Cookiecutter (Epic x Killer)

Death of the Author (Reaper x Ink)

Death Row (Killer x Dust x Horror)

DestructiveDeath (Error x Reaper)

DustyScarf (Geno x Dust)

Fever Dream (Dust x Dream)

Fruit Punch (Blue x Dream x Ink)

GlitchPaint (Error x Ink)

Hypersomnia (Ink x Dream x Error)

Insomnia (Dream x Error)

Krayola (Color x Killer)

Kross (Killer x Cross)

LifeAfterDeath (Reapertale!Toriel x Geno x Reapertale!Sans)

LOVE Affair (Dust x Killer)

Lucidity (Dream x Killer)

Moonstruck (Nightmare x Killer)

Nightberry (Nightmare x Blue)

OpalBlade (Color x Killer)

PaperCut (Ink x Killer)

Polymurderous (Killer x Dust x Horror)

RetroGlitch (Fresh x Error)

RottenCrops (Horror x Farm)

Something Blue (Killer x Blue)

Stardust (Dream x Dust)

Ultraviolet (Swap x Lust)

Vantablack (Ink x Nightmare)

Xcutioner (Cross x Dust)

Xunshine (Cross x Dream)

Please correct me on the spelling or anything else if necessary. The final lineup will be available after this week!

[jamneuromain]

For your Lloyd and Secretary one, what if someone who works closely with Brewer finds out about how he died and seeks out for vengeance? And how about he kidnaps and enslaves Secretary and Lloyd has to get her back? But the Secretary thinks that Lloyd would just replace her, even if she had developed some feelings for Lloyd, she still believed that he would leave her. But Lloyd finds her.

Hi nonnies! Sorry for taking so long to write :3

I love your ideas and I present to you--

Out for Blood

Lloyd Hansen x You

Warning: Mob AU, Mob!Lloyd, Secretary!Reader (Driver!Denny Carmicheal), Graphic Depiction of Blood and Violence (I guess Lloyd is a warning of his own?), Reader has hemophobia (fear of blood), a lot of cursing.

W/C: ~5k

Summary: You were captured by a rival gang. Would Lloyd come and save you?

A/N: This is a sequel to A Whiff of Blood, Thank you for all your love to Mob!Lloyd<333

For the record, your hemophobia is directed to blood coming from other people, not your own. You wouldn’t faint or puke if you had a papercut, but you would (and did) puke when Lloyd showed up at your door a few weeks ago, littered with blood and cuts.

Tasting the faint tang of rust and salt from the cut inside your cheek, your tongue inevitably touches the wound in your mouth.

Ouch, it stings.

An almost ridiculous - but somewhat fits the situation you are facing - idea comes to mind.

You hope Lloyd could pay for your dental care if your tooth gets knocked out.

In a dark humid stinky cell, you are obligated to keep yourself from fainting.

How long is it since you’ve been captured? An hour? Two?

You don’t know. Not that the concrete walls give any clues as to where you are and when is it.

Your head is dizzy, and somewhere on the back of your head is throbbing, possibly the spot where someone knocks your head with a baseball bat or a heavy club.

-who the heck still uses a club to beat the shit out of their victims to issue a kidnapping these days? Aren’t they worried about possible brain injuries?

Your hands and feet are tied to a plain wooden chair with zip ties, not something you can get out of without tools and time. Knowing that they kidnapped you and took you to this place, instead of dumping you down the pier with a large stone tied to your feet? You’ve got time, some of them at least. They want something from you, hence the reason why you are alive.

The problem is to rescue yourself before they realize nothing is coming out of your mouth.

So, the real question is, how much time do you have?

Dull thuds of footsteps approach you. After some screeching from the iron bars and the clang of the lock opened by a key, that is supposed to be the cell gate’s composition, you assume, for you are forced in another direction having been tied to the chair, another screeching sound, and the door swings open, entering two men.

They stand before you, one has his hands on his hips, the other crossing his arm.

Think. Your mind goes one hundred miles per hour. Think. Sometimes Lloyd keeps his captives alive, but only when his men are wearing masks. But these two are showing their faces in broad daylight – nightlight, to be precise, since you left the office around 7:30 pm, and later got a smack in the head after having picked up the dry cleaning for Lloyd.

You watched their faces closely. The first man who appears before you is shorter than the other, it is difficult to tell his height when you are sitting on a chair, but you assume he is approximately your height (which is definitely short for an average man), medium build – again, it is hard to tell with his jacket on, you have to conduct most of your analysis base on guesswork. Something about his face looks familiar, however, you cannot pinpoint who or what, since as a secretary, you meet a lot of people daily.

The other guy, the taller one and the more muscular one, doesn’t strike you as someone you know in the past. A hint of tattoo peeks on the back of his hand, a sharp edge with the color of tattoo ink. The beard covers half his face, and that he’s bald, in contrast to his wild facial hair.

“Well, well, well.” The first one smirks, “If it isn’t Lloyd’s pretty thing in our hands.”

Think. They haven’t killed you yet, but they are planning to. Think of something smart. To stall. Or to gather enough information so that Lloyd will know who to revenge on if you are dead.

The hair on the back of your neck practically stands when the word “dead” crosses your mind for a split second.

You cannot panic. Not now. Think.

“You can drop an invitation to my mailbox, y’know? If you wanna talk.” You look up at them. A small smile raises the corner of your lips, but you are not smiling, not really, because your sharp eyes are taking in the minor changes in their expressions.

The first one raises his eyebrows, somewhat surprised, while the second one remains stoic.

“Impressive.” The man compliments, “Thought you would thrash and kick, but I guess you have seen too much of this - ” He gestures to your tied-up position, “working for Lloyd, eh?”

You neither confirm nor deny, yet, you make an attempt at deciphering his intentions, “What is it with this time?” God, you sound like you have been kidnapped twice a week since you got the secretary job. You raise your eyebrows as he does, “Threats to cooperate? Info about his latest business? Or are you two with the FBI?”

They both glance at each other when you mention the FBI.

Good news, they are not cops.

Bad news, they are not cops, which means they are more likely to kill you.

“Hey, you.” You turn your head to the silent bulk of beard, “Didn’t I see you tattling to your badge buddy two weeks ago? Is it what this is about? That I see you tipped off the cops?”

Of course, you haven’t seen the second man tattling to the cops. You don’t know him. But considering the tension ever since you pose the possibility that they are with the police and law enforcement, it is not a bad way to start an argument between the two of them.

That is, hopefully, there are only two that initiated your kidnapping. The plan of brewing a feud among the kidnappers would be more difficult to implement if there’s another person involved.

Under the first man’s continuous stare, the second man huffs out a grunt, grabs your hair in one hand, and lands a blow into your stomach with the other.

“Cука.” He grumbles, stepping back to where he was standing.

If it weren’t for the pain in your stomach, as the blow on your stomach feels like your guts have cracked into four pieces, you would most absolutely jump up from the chair that has you tied, and clap, for he has bared his identity before you, stripping clean.

Thank fuck you know a few curse words in Russian, one of them being “cука”, which means “bitch”.

Russian mob it is.

You know about the Russian mob in LA. A few weeks ago, Lloyd teamed up with one of his business partners to sell illegal substances (a nice way of putting it) and gradually took up the Russian turf. He got shot and was nearly killed after that, when the Russians ambushed him in the clinic he used to go, killing his doctor and one of his men. Lloyd himself barely got out alive and took shelter in your apartment.

Today, around 7 pm, Lloyd took his driver Denny and two of his henchmen to a club he owned to meet the Russians to settle for a truce. As his secretary, you know that he usually conducts his mob business there, instead of in the building where you work. So, you finished up the paperwork and called it a night, while ordering some pizza since cooking would take an additional one hour and a half.

You were on your way home, stopping by on the side of the curb to pick up Lloyd’s dry cleaning when you lost consciousness after a hit in the head.

Oh crap, you would have to send those clothes to the dry cleaning again.

Focus. You take a deep breath, clearing the irrelevant thoughts from your mind. Think smart. How could you subtly prove yourself worthy to them?

“Fine.” You huff out, “You are not working with a badge buddy, I get it.” Adding some sarcasm to the mix, you twitch the muscles on your face, your tone as despising as your expression, “I’m sure what I’ve seen with my own eyes is purely some illusion-voodoo shit.”

Great. Now you sound like Lloyd fucking Hansen.

The first man clears his throat, effectively silencing the grumbling Russian guy.

“Quite a temper.” He pulls a chair from the corner of the cell, sitting in front of you, pointing at himself, then back at you, “You know, we could’ve been friends, you and I.”

“Oh yeah?” You quirk your brow, “What’s stopping ya’? Enlighten me.”

Shit. Too Lloyd.

You are somewhat surprised when he responds per your ask, “If you insist…”

Yeah well, you weren’t exactly insisting (or interested, for that matter, you couldn’t care less). Nevertheless, you nod for him to continue.

“Suza Brewer. Rings a bell?” He smiles, but the friendliness is nowhere to be seen.

Of course, the name Suza Brewer rings a bell. Unfortunately, it’s the bad kind of bell.

Brewer had threatened to have you to himself, and asked Lloyd – not in a nice way – to balance between their deal and you.

… since you are alive and breathing and your limbs are still intact, without a doubt, Lloyd chose you, his faithful employee over the dumb biker Brewer, and fed Brewer to the fishes. You had speculated that there were crocodiles underwater where he disposed of the bodies, because damn, Lloyd’s body-dumping was never found by police forces, or any other people, for that matter, and now you are equally tempted to throw this kidnapper beneath the Westside Pier too.

If only you weren’t tied up like a lamb for slaughter.

“Vaguely.” You pretend to think, tilting your head to the side, even though the back of your shirt is soaked with your cold sweat, “Is he in trouble?”

Hell, Brewer is more than “in trouble”. He’s more like “in crocodile”. His body parts could be swimming along with those hideous beasts, travelling hundreds of miles apart from each other, as you speak.

Somehow, the phrase “in crocodile” has you close to smiling. Especially in this circumstance. Fuck. You are most definitely contaminated by Lloyd Fucking Hansen. You bite the inside of your cheek from actually smiling. As a result, you accidentally bite on your wound.

It stings like a bitch.

The man in front of you speaks softly, “Suza is my brother. And your boss, Lloyd Hansen, killed him.”

This is not going to end well.

You pray to whatever deity that would answer, and hope that you could have a better ending than the Brewer guys. If not, then at least a quick, painless death.

The man observes your face for any expression that could slip away some info, but eventually, he sighs and continues, “So, I decided that I would avenge him, by taking away Lloyd’s most prized possession.”

Ah. Lloyd’s most prized possession would be his gun. He’d spend an hour every day wiping it spotless with a fine cloth, counting the bullets in his gun before popping the magazine back in place. You have heard about a few of the henchmen joking that Lloyd would be more pissed if a man touches his gun, compared to touching his dick,

You have seen the gun on many occasions. Most of the times on his belt, occasionally in his hand, and once, only once on the table when he was dismantling it. But he quickly put it back together seeing you with the pile of paperwork and shoved it back on his belt. Twice, if you are counting the time when he nearly bleeds out in your home.

“Aaaaaaand you want to ask me what his prized possession is?” You pipe up.

That’d be easy. However, you doubt what this Brewer brother had in mind could be this plain and straight.

As far as you know, Lloyd doesn’t have any siblings, parents to account for (he was adopted by a gang member around five, who died in an alley fight a decade later), women that he’d ride or die for (he picks different escorts when he’s in the mood, no one, in particular, meets his eyes), or any offsprings (then your job would be more nanny than a secretary). In fact, you wrecked your brain for the answer to this question, and the truth is, that Lloyd doesn’t care about anyone in any way – apart from the men (and women) working for him. Even so, his expression of “caring” is to drop a generous check if any of them was taken out or quit voluntarily, and never pay attention to them again.

He doesn’t have any pets, neither a dog nor a goldfish to keep him company.

You wonder whether he harbors any feelings at all, except the thrill of being a sociopath.

… maybe he loves his gun in a romantic way, who knows.

“No. I got that part.” Brewer No.2 speaks with a wild glint in his eyes, “And she’s sitting right in front of me.”

You huff out a laugh. This could be the top 1 joke of the Hansen Government Services, that Lloyd sees you as his prize? Pfft.

But the man’s determent tone tells you differently. That he believes Lloyd cherishes you the most. Which means he is going to take you away.

“Don’t believe me?” He shrugs, “My intel snapped pictures of a file, hidden in his top drawer, on top of every shit he has.” Showing the pictures he has on his phone, he added, “You were on that file, Ms. Secretary.”

It was Lloyd’s desk. Dimly-lit, but still, Lloyd’s desk. Someone could burn that desk down to ash and you’d still recognize it. And the file laid bare. With a CV and a photo…

Oh no. Oh shit. It is you.

You’d be lucky as hell if Brewer No.2 simply told you something bad about Lloyd and gave you some money to run far away, as if this is some bullshit mob romance novel. In this situation, he is more likely to skin you alive and send your fingers in a FedEx package to Lloyd’s doorstep as a Christmas present. Or pull out your fingernails before shooting you in the head. Or torture you in the most painful ways possible. Oh God.

The fucking Brewer family and both of these men could go straight to Hell strapped on rabid Cerberus with burning white-hot iron shoes that could not come off.

Think. Think! He hasn’t killed you yet. Why he hasn’t killed you yet? You could be more deader than Suza Brewer who was stuck at the bottom of the pier right now. Why is this Brewer No.2 keeping you alive? What does he want from you besides to intimidate Lloyd?

You have no choice but to ask, “I’m guessing that, since I haven’t got a bullet between my eyes, you want something else too?”

A wicked grin perks up his lips. Handing his phone to your face, he says, “I want you to call him.”

Forget dental care, you now hope Lloyd could pay for a decent funeral.

Brewer No.2 dials the number for you and puts it on speaker. Your heart thumping in your ears, praying that he’d answer. But also praying that he won’t. What if it’s a larger trap to lure him here? You’d rather he doesn’t pick up and get it over with. Plus, he’s too busy to pick up calls, he’s negotiating with the Russians-

“Who’s this?” Lloyd’s sharp voice pierces through the speaker, and seems to have gripped your throat tightly.

Brewer No.2 urges you to speak, but turns out he’s too hyped up to wait for your mumbling lips to make a sound. He drags his tone almost annoyingly, “Hello, Hansen. I’m Levi Brewer, brother of Suza Brewer. I’m here to collect a debt.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

That’s so un-Lloyd-like. He’d normally end the call until the person on the other end of the phone could learn to speak what they want directly, which you have witnessed a few dozen times. You can almost imagine Lloyd’s unamused face and his killing glare, having had to deal with Brewer No.2, Levi Brewer.

“You, Mr. Hansen, killed my brother, which is why I’m taking the love of your life away from you.” Brewer No.2 announces, pulling out his gun to flip the safe off. The crisp clicking noise is like a heavy punch to your stomach, declaring the clock of your life ticking towards its end.

Jesus. You? The love of Lloyd’s life? You could’ve sworn Lloyd has a deeper bond to that escort named Cherry than you.

“Say hello to the pretty little thing I’ve just captured.” Brewer slams his palm across your face, squeezing a yelp out of your tightened throat.

The only “pretty” thought about you is that you are pretty sure you are neither “little”, nor “thing”, but that’s a debate settled for another time.

“Say your name, beautiful. I’m sure your boss would catch up soon.” Brewer No.2 points the gun to your face, and places the phone near your lips.

No matter how reluctant you are, you know this might be the only chance where you can tip Lloyd off. And maybe, just maybe he’d revenge on Tweedle Dee by allowing Dee – Brewer No.2 share the same fate as his brother. “Evening, Mr. Hansen.” You mumble, the taste of iron roots deeply in your mouth that you cannot speak clearly, “Sorry to disturb you.”

Lloyd doesn’t reply. He must be mad. Deeply mad at you for ruining his negotiation with the Russians.

Russian? Fuck, the Russian in the room – you spare a quick glance at the silent bulk of beard in the corner – shit, they were in on it together. The Russian mobs asked Lloyd to give you up – nonono, it can’t be, Lloyd wasn’t that good at acting, and considering Levi is sharing this news that you were kidnapped just now, he could be plotting with the Russians.

Does Lloyd know? Your head is messing with your thoughts. Does he know about your abduction? Was he permitting this to happen?

No. Brewer works against Lloyd, which means Lloyd couldn’t have known.

Who should you trust? Was Lloyd generous enough to give you up? Even though he declined Suza Brewer’s deal: you for the business? And fed him to the sharks because he disrespected you?

… probably crocodiles, but who cares at this point.

“Are you hurt?” Lloyd asks.

“Not really.” The tip of your tongue presses against the wound in your mouth, eliciting pain to clear your head – desperate measures for desperate times – and you continue, “I was wondering, though. I think two teeth of mine are loose. Does the employee benefit cover dental care?”

Think, think, think! How can you pass on the message?

Before Lloyd can answer, you take a head start, “Must be one of those Alenka … Alonka Chocolate bars?”

Last Christmas, the Russian mobs sent over a basket of those chocolate bars, Lloyd ordered to have them tested (in case there was poison) and gave them to his employees after they came out clean. But that was about a year ago, and Lloyd saw the wrapping papers in the basket near your seat right before the day ended. He joked about “eating with the enemy” while you admitted the chocolate was not half bad.

There. The message. Loud and clear.

“The dental plan gives you a 10% discount,” Lloyd says calmly. Which is a big fat lie, because no dental plan would be so petty. He wants to say something about 10. But about what? Ten minutes until he’s here? He’d bring ten men along?

“But I won’t tolerate tardiness, sunshine,” Lloyd’s voice sends a shiver down your spine, “Your working hours are nine am to eight pm. Don’t you dare be late.”

Holy Mary and Joseph. First ten, now nine and eight? Lloyd is about to tear this place down in less than ten seconds.

“Enough chitchat.” Brewer No.2 takes the phone back and aims his gun at your face again, “Say your goodbyes. Lloyd Hansen, you are about to hear her final words.”

“My final words?” You lean back onto the chair, steadying yourself with your feet as much as possible, “You really talk too much.”

A loud blast erupts from where the silent Russian is standing. He is most definitely covered in a few dozen kilos of rubbles and bricks. Levi instinctively covers his head, but the blast knocks him to the ground, where he stays unconscious. You are the only one with enough preparations to lower your body, even though being tied to the chair. But you still get thrown over by the blast and the chair collapses underneath your body.

A few henchmen armed to the teeth step through the hole in the wall. After them, Lloyd.

Lloyd in a black coat.

Your ears are ringing, and you can’t tell what he’s trying to say.

Another man with a black briefcase comes to your side. Your pupils were examined, your pulse was checked, and your lungs were listened to.

“… you feel any pain?” The other man asks you.

You shake your head. It hurts a bit in your mouth but that’s just a little cut.

“She’s alright.” The man who appears to be a doctor confirms, helping you up from the ground.

You stand on wobbly legs. The past hour has been too much of a scare that your knees are shaking. You trip over your own feet, before a pair of solid arms steadies you.

“Easy tiger.” Lloyd’s voice booms by your ear, having your head snap in his direction.

He came.

Oh God he came.

Knowing this was a semi-trap, but he didn’t need to be here. He could wait until this is over and give you a proper burial.

And you could’ve died. He could’ve died. You both could’ve died.

You stumble into his embrace, fingers clenching his thick woolen coat.

You probably shouldn’t. He’s your employer, your boss. He’d probably sue you for sexual harassment. But you did.

The blood soars in your ears. You dare not breathe out loud, fearing that you are dreaming.

It feels like a dream. It all did.

“ ’s alright. It’s alright now.” Lloyd murmurs. He runs a hand down your spine, inching your head close to his shoulder.

“How-How did you find me so soon?” Among everything, this is the one you were the most curious about. Yet you dare not look at him. Even if he has just saved your life.

Lloyd narrows his eyes. If you were any other girl, you’d be crying and weeping, and wiping snot on his coat, telling him how much you wanted to be with him the moment you thought you were dying. But no. You were not any other girl.

Fuck.

Long story short, he doesn’t want to elaborate, for you have plenty of time to discuss about this later, “Noticed there was something wrong with the Russians. Then your doorman called.”

“My doorman?” You raise your head to look at him, your brows furrow in confusion, “The guy at the residence entrance? Henry?” While your fingers slowly untangling from his coat.

“He had my number – I’m the last tenant of that condo – told me your pizza came and he couldn’t reach you,” Lloyd explains as simply as possible.

Ah yes. You ended your work around 7pm and ordered pizza…

You make a mental note to thank Henry for saving your life.

A groan drifts to your ear. You turn around on instinct, as Levi Brewer regains his senses.

“Where… I… What…”

In a split second, Lloyd pulls out his gun to shoot him twice in the chest.

A scream gets stuck in your throat, when the crimson blooms in Brewer’s chest.

Your body is shaking, trembling - a natural fear towards the predator behind you.

Brewer crumbles to the ground.

Lloyd lets out a sigh. He puts his arm around you, guiding your hand towards a piece of lukewarm metal. The metal that has just shot Brewer in the chest.

“You have no idea how to shoot, do you?” He asks, but doesn’t expect you to answer. It is a miracle that you are not fainting, he had hoped for far less before arriving.

Wrapping your index finger around the trigger, Lloyd takes a deep breath before flipping off the safe.

“Eye.” He lifts your chin in the direction of Brewer on the ground.

“Arm.” One of his hands steadies your shaking arm into a stable angle.

“Mark.” He lowers the gun point to Brewer’s forehead.

His warm chest against your back, blocking every possible way of escaping. The familiar feeling of having your throat in his hands creeps up your neck, making it difficult for you to breathe.

Your heart thumping loudly, your breath as shallow as it can be, as the warm air coming out of his mouth reaches your ears.

“Aim for the head. And shoot.”

He curls his finger next to yours, and your finger hits the trigger.

The gun is well-positioned, allowing the bullet to dive into Brewer’s forehead, leaving a round of crimson around the bullet hole.

You spin on your heels immediately, fighting the hurling stomach deep down.

The hard piece of metal comes between you and Lloyd.

A gun.

Lloyd’s gun.

You just used a gun to kill someone.

You are never getting a decent job anywhere in the world.

You are going to keep this skeleton in your closet forever (and of course, working for Lloyd until the day you die).

The cold metal burns your palm. You remember about the jokes that Lloyd never allows anyone to touch his gun.

“I… This belongs to you.” You shove the gun into his hands, as if this is some beast that would bite your fingers off if you keep it for one more second.

Lloyd snorts when his prized gun is pushed into his hands. But he doesn’t say another word. He clasps the gun back on his belt before ordering his men to leave.

You follow his troop out of the building in silence. The past hour has been a series of roller-coaster events that you need some time to process.

Denny is waiting in the car when you climb in. While the rest of Lloyd’s men get in a van, Lloyd barks a few orders to them that you haven’t paid attention to. You sit in the car, your back rigid, and you put your hands on your knees like a pupil in class.

Denny offers a sympathetic smile when your eyes meet in the rear-view mirror. He isn’t the type to talk, serving as Lloyd’s driver. But he’s nice enough to hand you a bottled water from the glove compartment, which you take with a murmured “thanks” and clench it with your knuckles turning white.

The adrenaline fades from your blood system, and your heart beats in a stable rhythm, your breathing finally adjusts itself to slow inhales and exhales.

The bruises on your wrists and ankles are scorching in pain. The back of your head is hurting too. Luckily, none of your bones is broken, which could be the best news of this evening.

This feels way too familiar.

As Lloyd opens the car door, your heart jumps to your throat again.

You are worried. Worrying about he’d fire you, thinking you have leaked information to the Brewer guy. Worrying about you have touched his gun, using it to kill someone, no less, and he’d cut off your hand for using it. Worrying about Lloyd would be dead if he steps into a trap with you as bait, that Levi Brewer intended to kill him…

Why the fuck are you worrying about Lloyd? He’s perfectly fine taking care of himself. It is you who needs extra self-defense lessons.

“What… Um, what happened to the truce you went to negotiate with the Russians?” You can’t help but ask, knowing that the dead Russian who kidnapped you was dragged out of the rubbles and put into a body bag, heading in another direction on the van that had Lloyd’s men on it.

“It was a trick,” Lloyd grumbles, “to stall. We agreed upon no phones, so it took me a while to get the call from that doorman. Then I knew they were trying to stall me from getting to you.”

You were whacked when you had just picked up the drycleaning for Lloyd. “-my car, and my – your clothes -” You remember.

“-were taken care of.” He picks up where you left off, “I’m assigning you an assistant, Claire. She’s living next door. She has driven your car back to the garage, and sent the clothes to dry cleaning as well.”

“An assistant? I don’t need an assistant.” You argue, “I can work fine on my own.”

“And get knocked out on the street in the middle of the night?” Lloyd snorts impatiently, “She’s there to protect you, but ask her to pick up the coffee, take out the trash, and drive the car for you, I don’t care. Claire would be by your side when I’m not close enough to save your ass.”

Ah. So you are a liability to him.

Maybe you weren’t suitable for a mob secretary at all.

You were no prized possession, as Brewer claimed to be.

And he’s your boss. You should feel lucky to be alive instead of mulling over whether he treats you special or not.

“Yes, Mr. Hansen.” You collect your feelings. It is perfectly normal for him to assign you a bodyguard/assistant. Hell, it’s even perfectly normal that he wants to fire you for your incompetence. Hiring an assistant? He doesn’t want you to get kidnapped again, that’s all.

… or replace you when she gets the gist of your job.

You think bitterly, staring at the tinted window.

“By the way, you don’t have to come to work tomorrow.” Lloyd casually tells you, “Paid leave, and it’s Friday anyway, you deserve some time off after this …” He carefully considers the choice of words, “… incident.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hansen.” You reply automatically.

It is such a weird thing that you let out a small exhale of relief when you heard the word “paid leave”, as if he would’ve thrown you off the car and told you that you are fired right after saying you don’t have to come to work.

Lloyd isn’t so ruthless after all.

Your heart beats faster, hopeful for …

What are you hopeful for?

You kick the ridiculous thought into the corner of your mind, answering, “I’ll be back on Monday.”

Taglist (Also tagging those who might be interested): @stargazingfangirl18 @sarahdonald87 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @magnificentsaladllama @biteofcherry @petalj @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @thezombieprostitute @yiiiikesmish @warriorblu @vonalyn @notathingjustthere @lokislady82 @irishhappiness @toozmanykids @alicedopey @cakesandtom @universitypenguin @openup-yourmind @helenaeisenhower @wilsons-striped-ties @tittittoee @bean-is-reading @yearningforsappho @esposadomd @salvatoreitmeanssaviour

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[canine-teethed-sheets]

i honestly wonder what me and cross's ship name would be

papercut?? no, that belonged to a sans i remember

i mean we got kane and ink's yellow vial and inka and lust's purple yarn

what about mine >:// /silly

[unknownarmageddon]

why is ink x cross called crink it should be called papercut me thinks

[contreparry]

happy dadwc friday! a prompt for you: ❝ i know i can’t protect you from everything, but i wish you’d let me protect you from the things i can control. ❞

Here's some Leliana/Josephine for @dadrunkwriting!

Leliana knew how to confront an enemy. One did so carefully. One gathered their information. One verified what they had. One blocked all avenues of escape. And then- and then came the confrontation, be it words, steel, or a combination of the two, until all was settled and accounted for.

Oh, and then there was the clean-up, but that was only to be expected. But Leliana knew how to confront an enemy. A lover and dear friend, however...

"And I had thought you sheathed your daggers ages ago, Josie dear," Leliana remarked, announcing her arrival as she climbed through the window of Josephine's office.

"So you heard- of course you heard," Josephine sighed and set her quill pen down, taking care to make sure no stray drops of ink marred her stationary. Always so neat, always so precise, from her elegant clothes to the careful way she dressed her curly dark hair to the way she cut down Leliana's opponents with a few strokes of a pen. Neat. Precise. Brutal. And not a single drop of blood spilled.

"You ought to have told me," Leliana admonished, even as she crossed the floor and swept Josephine up into a hasty embrace. Her hands moved instinctively, running over Josephine's sides, her arms, checking for breaks or odd bits of padding that might suggest bandages- a silly thing to do, in retrospect, for Leliana knew that Josephine hadn't actually gotten into a knife fight for her sake. No, Josephine fought in her own way, and was far more efficient and effective than a brawl ever could be. But old habits...

"No time, I'm afraid," Josephine replied, having hugged Leliana tightly before pulling away to kiss her cheek and brush her hair from her face. "When I realized that Baron Rochefort was going to join the hunting party and that he would most certainly possess information that could decimate your agents in the area-"

"My agents would have been fine. It was me you were concerned about," Leliana interrupted.

"I made an executive decision," Josephine said smoothly, ignoring Leliana's pointed response. "Needs must and all. Leliana, dear, is that a bruise on your chin?"

"A minor scuffle when I made an exit from a convent. The places we go for ancient tomes," Leliana insisted as Josephine fussed. Josephine clicked her tongue sharply and took Leliana by the elbows, pulling her about her office until she was seated on the loveseat before the fireplace and Josephine had run off to one of the cabinets to fetch a medical kit.

"I use this balm for papercuts, but I have it on good authority that it is effective for bruises," Josephine explained as she dabbed a cold cream against Leliana's jaw. "Poor darling. I took care of Baron Rochefort to prevent this sort of thing from happening!" She sounded delightfully put out, fondly exasperated and trying to hide it, and Leliana smiled even though it made her face ache slightly.

"Convincing a man to drink to such excess that he has to spend a week recuperating was an... interesting way to keep him occupied with his own affairs, I will grant you that," Leliana said. Josephine rolled her eyes (such pretty eyes, bright and lively and as lovely as a doe's) and pressed her mouth into a thin line.

"It hardly took convincing. The host is a dear friend of my uncle's, and he was more than happy to part with a cask or two of his favored vintages to keep a pest deep in his cups," Josephine sighed. "There. That's better. Now you must let it heal properly before you run off into the field again, dearest Leliana."

"Unless another emergency pops up," Leliana agreed. "Though you truly need not worry over me. I am more than capable of protecting myself." She had meant it as reassurance, but Josephine bit her lower lip and frowned. The fond exasperation faded into concern- real concern- and sorrow, which wasn't what Leliana intended when she spoke.

"I know I can’t protect you from everything, but I wish you’d let me protect you from the things I can control," Josephine finally murmured, taking Leliana's hands in hers. She squeezed them tightly, as if she hoped her touch alone could keep Leliana anchored to her side. If only it could- if only. Leliana leaned in and carefully rested her head on Josephine's shoulder.

"My fierce lioness," she murmured. "Always the protector." There were a myriad of ways to protect. Josephine, with her neatness and precision, protected what she loved in her own way.

[pyrrhicallyspeaking]

Faith (Father, Am I Too Hopeless?)

I never knew God in His holy churches, nor upon the tongues of scholars whose hands bear papercuts from yellowed parchment and fading ink. Sacraments and scriptures, prayers and penances, of saints and sinners, I knew them by names hammered upon my cross (the preachers tell of a lamb whose blood was drawn, libation, sins forgiven, yet the men of His church still torches me, us). The people shout His name, in reverence, in desperation, in hope, in all the ways I find myself at a loss. My faith—abstract collage scavenged from devout testaments—leads me to see Him as a father. A friend. A protector. A savior. A judge. A redeemer.  A dying star up above Bethlehem whose light reaches me when it is too late (the sand bears no prints, the wanderer has quenched his thirst in the mirage). I know of God. I believe in Him. I believe in Him the way a mother believes her child’s ramblings. The way the guards of Rome believed in the name of Jesus as he was crowned in thorns.  The way one says they believe, if only to quell their hunger for a deeper, heartheld gospel truth. 

[abiothic]

Question for Kohdi!Sans

Hey, little papercut! What're your parents Ink and Cross like? 👀

And who's the eldest?

Ink and cross aren't worried about me. I take care of my siblings all on my own.

Im the eldest of us, Im 29, Mieri is almost 22, Tod is 10, and Eclype is almost 7

[a-v-j]

Oh- HAPPY BIRTHDAY GOAT CHILD

( /'°')/ ≈★*•`♪

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVORITE INK GOAT BOIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Paper Cut belongs to @xx-avj-xx Ink Asriel belongs to me / @inkasrielblog

I hate you lil <3

[lady-divine-writes]

Our Flag Means Death - “Mark’d” (Rated PG13)

Summary: How do you make amends for leaving the man who loves you enough to sign away his freedom?

Let him give you a tattoo. (1657 words)

Read on AO3.

"Ssss...ouch...ow...ow, ow, ow...that really does smart, doesn't it?” Stede hisses when Ed hits a spot that makes his entire spinal column burn like he has been struck by lightning. “And people get more than one of these?” he continues, talking so he has something to concentrate on besides the pain. “They willingly sit down and submit to this a second time? A third?"

“Yes, sir,” Ed says, only half listening. It’s been the same thing out of Stede’s mouth for an hour now. He’s got the gist.

Stede sucks in through his teeth when Ed hits that same lightning spot again. “Why in the world?”

“Ton of reasons.” Ed dips his needle into the concoction of Indian ink and egg whites that he swears by and goes back in, not giving Stede a moment to relax. As with most things that hurt like a bitch, better to get it over with than to drag it on.

That’s been Ed’s motto for months.

“Name one.”

“Well, it gives you something to do when you’re out at sea, bored out of your gourd for months without seeing a grain of sand…”

“Reason number two?” Stede asks, eager to keep Ed talking. Listening to Ed talk story in that smooth, sleepy voice of his is a much better distraction than Stede babbling on.

“They're a record of your history. The story of your time spent at sea - places you’ve gone, ships you’ve conquered, friends you’ve lost along the way…” Ed stops, sits up straight, and turns to show Stede the line of crosses paving a trail up his right arm. Stede did know that. He’d also noticed that a few more had been added since he’d been gone. He wondered if one of those were for Calico Jack.

If one of them were for him.

“Any more reasons?” Stede asks as Ed returns solemnly to his work.

“Yeah.” Ed looks up at Stede, gives him a wink. “They’re dead sexy.”

“Oh. Uh…” Stede clears his throat. Ed has got him there. He can’t say he disagrees, not when he fantasizes daily about examining every inch of ink on Edward’s body. “Right-o. Continue.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

Stede tries his best not to shift in his seat. He doesn't want to mess up Edward's work. But he has never experienced anything that physically hurts as much as this. Sexy or not, the next time he decides to get a tattoo, he's going to slap himself in the face until the desire passes. But Edward will probably find a way to persuade him.

Stede hopes he does.

"How much longer did you say this was going to take?"

"A few more minutes."

"You said that an hour ago!"

"Stop whining, you big baby."

"Pardon me, but it hurts!"

"Not that much."

"Easy for you to say. You have a hundred of them! You're used to it!"

"Haven't you been stabbed?" Ed asks, wiping a combination of blood and ink off Stede's skin to get a better look at the image he's constructing. "Twice? Isn't that worse than this?"

"Yes, well, that happened quickly. This feels like death by a thousand papercuts."

Ed thinks on that, soaking a cloth with brandy and then wiping the tattoo again. Stede groans, cursing through clenched teeth. Ed shrugs and gets back to work. "Fair point."

Ed picks up more ink on the tip of his needle and cleans up a few lines. When he's satisfied they're as straight as he can make them, he puts the needle down. Instead of wiping the tattoo off with his cloth, he pours a draught down Stede’s arm and pats it dry.

"There. All finished."

"Fantastic." Stede sighs. Another few minutes of that torture and he was going to start ripping off his fingernails to counteract the pain. "Let me see."

"Wait, wait, wait." Ed covers Stede's arm with the brandy-soaked cloth, blocking his view. "Now, remember, you wanted me to pick a tattoo for you."

"I did," Stede says.

"You said you trusted me. You had all the faith in the world in me. Those were your exact words."

"I did say that."

"Do you still?"

Stede raises a brow. This conversation started out endearing. He rarely sees Edward’s confidence slip. But Stede is getting concerned. "Yes, but I must admit, you're making me nervous."

"I just want you to know that I had reasons for choosing what I did. I thought long and hard on it."

"Well, if you put that much thought into it, I'm sure it's going to be wonderful." Stede tries to tug his arm out from under the cloth, but Ed holds tight to it, his lips splitting in a mischievous grin.

"Even if it's a three-headed dog licking its own ass?"

Stede regards Ed, his face expressionless. Sometimes, there's no telling when Edward is kidding. The image permanently fixed to Stede’s arm may be penance for abandoning him - running off back to his family and leaving him without a word. And if that’s the case, he’ll concede to the fact.

But he’d rather it not be.

Stede manages to pull his arm out of Ed’s grasp, and Ed lets the cloth fall. Stede twists his torso, straining to examine his left outer bicep. When he sees the tattoo, he’s relieved that it’s not a vulgar epitaph of his sins, but he can understand why Edward might be wary of his reaction. Compared to the tattoos Ed has - sea serpents, mermaids, a dagger, a skull - this one seems a tad out of place. "It's...a rose?"

"Yeah."

Stede rolls his shoulder back and forth, watching the picture move with his skin. "Of all the nautical imagery you could have chosen, why did you pick that?"

"I love roses. They're my favorite flower."

"Mine, too," Stede admits, still perplexed.

"This one's red," Ed continues. "That has meaning."

"And what does it mean?"

"Courage."

A shy smile slips onto Stede’s lips at the thought that that’s how Edward sees him, even after everything he’s done. But for another reason as well. "And love, if I remember correctly."

Edward smiles, too - down at his lap, the sides of his mouth curling up so far, his cheeks begin to hurt. "Yeah. It does. But most importantly, it matches mine."

"You have a rose tattoo?" Stede tilts his head, scrolling through the scrapbook of Edward’s tattoos that he keeps in his mind. He doesn’t remember a rose. He doesn’t recall Edward having any red tattoos. Did he somehow miss it?

"I do." Edward lifts his right hand and takes off his glove. "I did it a few days ago," he admits, showing Stede where a red rose, the exact same size and style as Stede's, takes up the back of his hand. "I wanted them to match. I did this one first to have a guide to go by."

Stede looks between his tattoo and Ed’s. Ed is a talented artist. They’re nearly identical, no differences whatsoever except for a small black symbol below Stede’s that appears to be two B’s intertwined.

"What's that mark?” he asks. “The two B’s. What are they for?"

"It's my mark,” Edward says sheepishly. “It stands for Blackbeard. Other pirates will know it when they see it."

"So, it's like a signature?"

"Sort of. It means you're under my protection.” Ed rolls his eyes. “For what that's worth."

“Wow.” Stede longs for a mirror so he can see the mark more clearly. The rose is incredible, but that mark is irreplaceable. “I wish I had something like that. I wish I could do the same for you."

"You do.”

"Do I?" Stede is sure that if he had a signature mark or something of the like, he'd know about it.

"A-ha.” Ed says it with such conviction that it confuses Stede.

"I don’t understand. What do you mean?"

Ed pulls his shirt up over his head and tosses it aside. Ed’s chest is a tapestry of ink, so Stede isn’t sure what he should be looking for.

Until he sees it.

Then it’s all he can see.

A simple heart, but drawn differently than his other tattoos.

Instead of being made with a needle, it looks as if this one was carved into his skin with a knife, and then ink rubbed into the wound.

Which it very well could have been depending on when he gave it to himself.

Inside the heart, the initials SB, in what looks like Stede's handwriting.

"I'm not good with reading and writing,” Ed says as he watches Stede reach for it, his fingertips coming within touching distance and then stopping. “But I'm pretty good at copying. I found your initials on a letter in your desk. I hope you don't mind."

Stede chuckles. He has no words to describe it. It’s nothing sophisticated, not a Boucher or a Liotard. It’s two letters. That's all. But those letters represent him and what he means to Edward.

The passion and the pain.

To Stede, it’s the dearest thing he’s ever seen.

It brings a tear to his eye.

“Not at all." Stede's hand trembles, caught between wanting to stare at it forever and wanting to touch it, become part of it. "Thank you."

“My pleasure.” Ed takes Stede's hand, hovering over the heart, and lays his palm flat over it. He puts both his hands over Stede’s and presses it there. Giving himself that tattoo when grief had turned him inside out had been important to him. He hates to admit that he put it there so he’d always remember never to give his heart to anyone again. But since Stede has returned, the meaning behind it has changed. Having Stede see it, having Stede touch it, makes him feel complete. Stede will most likely never know how deep the cuts that made that heart go. "I quite enjoy being mark'd by you."

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Part 1) (sneak peak)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Yoongi Disappears- leaving behind a shattered pack. 8 months later, Jimin finds Yoongi in an H-mart of all places.

Pairing: Beta! Yoongi, Omega! Reader, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Hoseok, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Jimin,

Tags: Angst, hurt/comfort, low-self esteem, abandonment, anxiety, brief implied suicidal thoughts (Tae), you can see it below in the teaser,

W/c: 7.0k

A/n: Here we go! I decided to move up posting this because of Bangbangcon, i didn’t want to post while it was going on which is when this was originally scheduled for. we’ve got some more angst but the good news is you finally get a peak at the m/c at the end! 

Prologue 

——————

Part 1: Sweet Regret

Taehyung puts his longing for Yoongi into words.

It’s been years since he wrote so much, since college when he finally got tired of the pessimist attitudes of his professors (according to them his works were always a little too grammatically incorrect and fanciful, a cross-section between poetry and prose). His creativity was too intimate and vulnerable to survive an appraising eye for long. He decided to protect that soft side of him that had something to say and save it only for Jimin.

The pieces of his sensitive heart hidden in longhand love letters that they’d send back and forth before Jimin had finally signed with an protection agency and moved to the city from the rural town they both grew up in.

Now he writes those longhand love letters for Yoongi- shoves them in-betweens pages of books so that he doesn’t have to think about them. compartmentalizing his hurt into sentences and paragraphs. No one loves me quite like you did he writes, red ink that might as well be his blood for how much it hurts to pen the words that Yoongi might never read. 

And yet, that pain is still a papercut compared to how much Taehyung hurts without Yoongi by his side.

These letters aren’t like the ones he wrote for Jimin all those years ago. No- those are saved and shared between the two of them when Jimin snaps at him and they fight (this happens more after the stress of Yoongi leaving and a very bad rut season- a perfect storm for their worst fight in years). They only open the shoebox that holds the love letters when he and Jimin need a reminder that the foundation of their love isn’t something that can be damaged by petty words.

but Jimin had never abandoned him the way that yoongi has; not when he wanted to go to an expensive school in the city away from their mountainside town. Leaving Jimin to work at the same martial arts studio as always. Not when they were so poor that they could only see each other once a month if they were lucky. only when jimin saved up enough money to take the train into the city. 

In one of the first love letters Taehyung ever wrote, it goes; ‘I wish I could meet you at the train station, my love, I crave the easy look you give me the first time you see me in months, where I am the earth and you the moon. And it feels dizzying like I am the person who you love most, your tornado and your torrent. under your eyes, I feel like a force of nature. kissing you tastes like colors I don't have words for.’  

Losing Yoongi feels sort of like that- disorienting, and Tae is unable to find a pattern in life without him. Sometimes he goes weeks without writing letters, other times- he writes Yoongi three times in the same day. Stained with as many tears as they are stained with ink.

One night Namjoon finds Tae asleep over some of them, he wakes with a start when the pack alpha skims a hand down tae’s back. waking him up softly to  drag him back to the nest. And Tae knows just from the soft look in Namjoon's eyes that he's read some of the words. Maybe the ink has bled onto Taehyung's cheek where it was pressed to the letter. 

Words like the tattoos on his soul, each of their names written over and over again. There is no more room left on Taehyung's soul, no more room for another name and no room left for another person to make a home out of his  heart- the same way Taehyung had found a home in Yoongi’s. 

(that's a little bit of a lie- Taehyung just hasn’t met you yet). 

Tae's worried about what namjoon might have read, he doesn't know if he could handle Namjoon trying to talk to him about his feelings right now. He hopes that Namjoon didn’t read "You were the knife to my cadaver. I understand that you had to leave, but what I don't understand is why you had to take so much of me with you. if you weren't planning on treasuring me, the least you could have done is leave me whole. Tossed me back into the ocean like a piece of sea glass that needs more polishing."

Or even worse, the lines that aren’t as pretty but just as true, “if I ever see you again, I think I’ll start crying on sight because I don’t think we’ll ever really meet again. Maybe we were just soulmates that met a lifetime too soon. Maybe in the next life, I will hold onto you better. Maybe at the pearly gates, you will be my only sweet regret. If you’re already dead, I’ll wish I was too. I wish I could hate you as much as I love you.”

Because no matter the words- Tae knows he's better off having known Yoongi. however fleeting their love story was. 

But that doesn't mean he's not fucking angry.

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

COMING: Monday April 12th @ 5pm

[a-v-j]

If the ship children still look like sans, maybe turn them into papyruses!

-Sap

Curses!

[what-have-i-unleashed]

‼️NOT a mini-poll‼️

guys, something really funny has happened while i'm compiling the candidates for the utmv ship name tournament. so, to my great regret, i have to ask...

[rfadaydreaming]

hands of the rfa (v+saeran)

jumin’s are on the broader side. you can usually spot a couple of cat scratches or paper cuts here and there, not particularly soft, but not rough either. he’s almost always holding tension in them, so they get pretty veiny. subconsciously flexes them out of habit, or rubs his palms to get rid of the ache that can sometimes grow there. your favorite thing is watching him pet elizabeth, he’s so gentle and soft with her that it melts your heart. he carries that same softness whenever he touches you, one of the only times his hands fully relax is when he’s running them up and down your arms, maybe even holding your face in his palm. he likes to rest his hand on your thigh or run his fingers through your hand idly while doing paperwork. his hands are cold most of the time, not icy, but the chill is still noticeable. he has steady hands and a good grip. he likes to wear rings whenever he gets the chance, gothic style ones especially. when the vampire that he invited had come to the rfa party, jumin was obsessed with all his fancy rings. he usually has his hands crossed over his lap, and he doesn’t talk with them often. a wave of the hand to employees is most all you’ll get.

zen has soft soft soft hands. spends a lot of money on lotions and salves, so when he touches you it feels like genuine silk. not super lanky, but not broad either. they're just… very even and pretty. has a very tiny dusting of blood freckles on his knuckles, but you’d have to look closely to notice them. probably hand models in his free time. fluid motions whenever he uses them, it’s nice to watch the way his hands move especially while he’s acting. he holds a lot of passion in his hands while he preforms, it’s like they tell a story of their own. you like to hold your palm against his, twirling and twisting your hands around at random. he loves to run the backs of his knuckles down your jawline before placing down gentle kisses there, while telling you how much he loves you. he wears jewellery whenever he’s feeling it, likes a lot of different kinds too, wears fashion rings most of the time. his hands are on the warmer side, so if you’re cold all you need to do is hold his hands for a few minutes and then bam, you’re all nice and cozy again. his hands are usually in his pocket, playing around with a pack of cigarettes, or resting at his side.

yoosung’s hands aren’t particularly soft, but they aren’t exactly rough either. on the shorter side compared to everyone else too. his touch is still so gentle and comforting, especially whenever it comes to you. he holds your hand tight and tells you how much you mean to him, it feels safe and secure, he feels like home. his hands are insanely hot all the time, even when it’s cold outside, so he’s like your own personal little heater. has a barely visible coat of freckles over his knuckles and a few scars here and there, faded now but still noticeable. most of them are from cooking accidents, some from cats. he likes to run his fingers through your hair, or up and down your arms. in the middle waiting on game lobbies he’ll hold your hand, running his thumb across your skin with a smile. you like to watch as he plays video games sometimes, his hands get so tense during tough matches, so you help him massage out the tension when he’s done. he gets horrible shaky hands whenever he gets really nervous. doesn’t wear rings or anything, doesn’t like the way they feel, but he does like bracelets. has a matching bracelet with you that he wears pretty much all the time. he talks with his hands a lot, but when he’s idle, they're shyly tucked away in his pocket, fiddling with his thumbs in front of him, or crossed over his chest.

jaehee’s are soft, she uses a lot of hand sanitizer so there’s almost always some lotion at her side, her hands are silky and smooth because of that. not as much as zen’s, but still close. she gets a lot of papercuts is the only thing, but besides that her hands are overall smooth, shorter nails, she has a nail biting problem, and she’s a lesbian!! 🗣 so she prefers them that way. she taps her fingertips on things whenever she’s thinking. her hands are warm, not hot, but it’s comfortable and cozy whenever she holds your own. she likes to run her fingers up your wrists, leaving little kisses behind the trail. cups the side of your face with a big smile while telling you how much she loves you, running her thumb across your cheek. like jumin, holds tension in her hands so they have a tendency to ache sometimes. she holds them together or rubs them when she’s nervous. if she's still working under jumin no, she doesn’t wear jewelry or nail polish often. the most you’ll find is ink stains on the sides of her hand. but in the coffee shop she’ll start to explore more, finds she likes dainty little rings and neutral polishes. she talks with her hands when she gets excited or when she’s really into talking about a topic. her hands are usually busy tapping a table or holding something most of the time.

seven has some long lanky hands, we’ve seen his hacker fingers. a mix between broad and lanky. they aren't delicate and soft, but not bulky either. his hands are hot, like absolute furnace level hot. he gets sweaty palms easily. he has a rather rough touch, but not at all bad, it feels like saeyoung if that makes sense. he likes to squish your cheeks between his hands, run his fingers down your palms, warm your hands up in his own. a little rough when he touches you, kind of when you see something really cute and you get all tense and you just wanna shake it around, he has that with you sometimes. he has really short nails, some scars scattered around as well, a few burn marks from his childhood. he has a ton of freckles all over his knuckles especially in the summer. shakes his hands around for awhile whenever they get sore, which is often due to his job. steady hands and grip. he wears jewelry while in cosplay, besides that not very often. but he does paint his nails when he feels up to it or is bored, which is more often. probably did dick decals once because he thought it was the pinnacle of humor. talks with his hands heavily, very animated while he speaks. when he’s not using them they’re usually in the pockets of his hoodie, or busy annoying someone. pokes saeran’s cheeks which earns him a slap of the hand in return.

jihyun has the prettiest hands, lanky but sturdy. no shakiness at all, steadiness of an artist, but when he gets nervous, emotional, or has caffeine, they do shake pretty bad. super soft and silky, and like zen, his hands are very fluid and lovely to watch as he works, especially while he’s painting. surprisingly warm hands, never hot, but they're comfortable and cozy. he does get cold very easily though, so you’ll have to help him warm up on occasion. his touch is gentle and careful, touches everything like it’s art, especially you. he’ll trace your skin with his fingers, leaving kisses in their wake. he always touches you so softly, like you’re glass or the finest of arts. he likes to “paint” your skin with his fingertips sometimes. he holds his own hands and rubs them together when he’s feeling anxious. he has well kept nails, he’ll wear nail polish if you want him to hehe wears rings but only with meaning. has matching rings with you and jumin. bracelets sometimes too, the cute woven ones. but again, they need meaning for him. you can normally find paint stains scattered across his hands. he talks with his hands very gently, it’s not super animated and fast like seven, it’s slow and calm. his hands are usually kept behind his back, or loosely at his sides.

saeran’s are very pale and almost translucent. blue veins, cherry fingertips, red knuckles. they’re big like seven’s but a little skinnier. surprisingly they’re insanely soft, he doesn’t use anything for that, it’s just natural. his freckles are much more faded than saeyoung’s, he has some scars, more burn marks than his brother does. he’s incredibly insecure about his hands, so he’ll pull his hoodie down to cover most of the skin there. freezing cold most of the time, he has bad circulation. so he loves when you hold your hand within his, running your fingers down his own, kiss his knuckles and whisper “pretty.” when you look at them. while he’s not sure he believes you, it still means a lot to him. he likes to trace things you’re insecure about and whisper “pretty” back. his nails are short, he bites them from anxiety a lot. you suggest painting them so he won’t bite them as often, at first he’s not sure, but quickly finds that he really likes the way that looks. prefers when you paint his nails though, claims he doesn’t know how to do it, but he does. he just likes being close to you. very shaky all the time, doesn’t have a steady grip. he’ll only wear rings that you get for him. doesn’t talk with his hands unless he’s really excited about something, almost all of the time they’re in the pocket of his hoodie, or intertwined with your own.

elizabeth the third’s hands are the softest out of the entire rfa, so soft that even zen can’t compete. warm and cozy, but can be painful when shes hard at work making the meanest batch of muffins you ever did see directly on top of your stomach. watch out. looks cute, but still deadly. when jumin’s walking past the couch she’ll stick her paw out and take a swipe at his leg when he’s even a minute later past feeding time. rolls all cutesy if she does manage to draw some blood, because she knows absolutely no one, not even zen, could stay mad at a face like that for too long.

thanks for reading! find more on my mysme masterlist ♡!

[writer-ish]

Hi Kat! Here are this week's questions for E x B!

Not Yet Wed Questions

Note: Great Scott! This week, we are going back in time to MC’s intern year. Think of Ethan’s relationship with them at this point and answer the following questions accordingly. It is entirely up to you when in year 1 this takes place (pre/post Miami, pre/post CH 15, etc). Feel free to answer with dialogue or pictures or both :) Have fun!

No worries. All of this is off the record and HR will never know!

The setting for this answers is:

For Both

When I first saw them, I thought__________

What is your coworker's most used swear word?

Quick: What color are their eyes?

Three people at work your coworker hates?

What is your coworker’s strangest or most endearing quirk?

If they had a crush on anyone at work, who would that be?

(Bonus round! Feel free to skip.)

Never have I Ever:

come into work hungover

had a fistfight

been kicked out of a bar

gotten a tattoo

broken someone’s heart

been in love

For MC (Ethan is not there)

Where do you see him in five years (both professionally and in his personal life?)

What do you find the most impressive about him?

Last thing he texted you?

If he asked you out on a date, what would you say?

For Ethan (MC is not there)

Where do you see her in five years (both professionally and in his personal life?)

What specifically do you find attractive about her?

Last thing she texted you?

If she asked you out on a date, how would you respond?

Thank you to @jamespotterthefirst for humouring me and sending me these questions. I hope that it will help with my OPH/writing rut! I'm so excited to answer them for Brooke x Ethan. 🥰

The setting is: post-Dolores/the Naveen reveal, but pre-Miami.

Let's get started!

INT. COFFEE SHOP - MID-AFTERNOON

Two doctors sit at a small table. One has her leg crossed, foot swinging lightly. Her face is open and slightly amused. The other has his hands clasped loosely between his open legs. He is blatantly less impressed than his colleague.

Ethan: This is ludicrous.

Brooke: [laughs lightly] Can't you just humour them?

Ethan: Last time I checked, we had a job that didn't involve answering foolish questions for some sophomore publication.

Brooke: They want to humanize the doctors in the hospital. Make us more… approachable. It's not a bad idea.

Ethan: [in a low grumble] I don't want to be approached or humanized.

Brooke [loud laugh] Shocker.

Are we all set to begin?

Brooke: [clears throat] Er, yes. Sorry.

Ethan: [glares]

For Both

When I first saw them, I thought ____________

Brooke and Ethan: [look at each other for a beat, then speak simultaneously]

Brooke: Well, I— Ethan: She, uh—

Ethan: [clears throat] You go first.

Brooke: [shoots him a look] Well. I, uh, was taken aback by your presence.

Ethan: What does that mean?

Brooke: Well, you know, you're very—you command a room, let's just say. And then you got awfully bossy, but it was good because I was panicking. And, uh—that's pretty much it. Your turn.

Ethan: I thought she was very young and inexperienced. And I was proven correct almost immediately.

Brooke: [elbows him] Can't you say something nice?

Ethan: You said commanding and bossy!

Brooke: It was a compliment!

Ethan: Fine. She was…surprisingly competent for an intern.

Brooke: [sarcastically waves a hand in front of her face] My goodness, I'm swooning.

What is your coworker's most used swear word?

Brooke and Ethan: "Fuck."

Brooke: It's not very professional, but—

Ethan: —it is necessary at times. Although I did hear another one from you the other day that I quite enjoyed. "Son of a whore", was it?

Brooke: [blushes] Whoops.

Ethan: You're lucky there weren't any patients around.

Brooke: [innocently] Patients don't swear?

Ethan: [withering look] I'll let you know when patients need to be held to the same professional standards as the doctors who treat them.

Brooke: Well, whatever. I was in the supply closet anyway and it was because I had gotten a cardboard papercut, which is notoriously the worst kind of papercut—[suddenly eyes him suspiciously] I didn't even know you were there.

Ethan: [coughs] I was, uh, walking past when I heard your inappropriate outburst and I stopped to ensure it wasn't a wayward psychiatric patient lost amongst the halls.

Brooke: [dryly] Hilarious.

Quick: What color are their eyes?

Brooke: Oh, blue. Blue-blue. Like, a very crystal clear blue.

Ethan: I think we get it. Brooke's eyes are hazel but they err on the side of green.

Brooke: "Err on the side of green"?

Ethan: Yes. Like when you wore that sweater the other day, they appeared more— [clears throat] I'm not going to sit here and explain the illusion of refractory light. Next question.

Three people at work your coworker hates?

Brooke: [dryly] Just thr—?

Ethan: [cuts her off] Yes, yes, we get the joke, I hate everyone. Brooke on the other hand, hates no one. I believe she should be more discerning.

Brooke: You would.

What is your coworker’s strangest or most endearing quirk?

Ethan: Endearing? I—

Brooke: Oh, oh—the tie thing!

Ethan: The… tie thing?

Brooke: You do this thing when you're trying to get your emotions under control. It's like a [presses thumb against her other fingers in a crab-claw gesture] grab all the way down and then a flat palm just to smooth it again. [mimics a smoothing gesture down the front of her shirt, keeping her face pinched and stoic]. The "double-tie-grab-and-smooth" is what I call it. As of two seconds ago.

Ethan: Fascinating. As for Brooke, I can think of two.

Brooke: Here we go.

Ethan: The first is to ensure she never borrows your pen, as it will be returned to you as though someone inserted it into a pencil sharpener. I don't know how she isn't covered in ink constantly, the way she gnaws on the ends so violently.

Brooke: First of all, it's not that bad. Secondly, [mumbles] I have had a pen or two explode on me.

Ethan: I am extremely unsurprised. And the second is the sheer number of cardigans left everywhere - around my office, the faculty room, patients' rooms, and so on. She leaves them like breadcrumbs in a children's fairytale.

Brooke: [laughing too hard to speak]

Ethan: Yes, very funny and professional.

Brooke: [still laughing] Could you at least…grab one…next time you see it? I'm running low!

Ethan: What a surprise.

If they had a crush on anyone at work, who would that be?

Ethan: [scoffs] A "crush"? The very concept of a 'crush' is extremely juvenile and I refuse to pander to such incongruous—

Brooke: Dr. Harper Emery

Ethan: [splutters] I beg your pardon?

Brooke: [smirks]

Ethan: Well, yours would be that scalpel jockey surfer boy that's always mooning over you.

Brooke: [turns to him, aghast] Bryce? I don't have a crush on him! And neither does he. On me, I mean.

Ethan: On you, indeed.

Brooke: What's that supposed to mean?

Ethan: Hmm? Oh, nothing. Simply that the way he pressed you to the floor in the observation room of Surgery B would say otherwise, that's all.

Brooke: [blushes deeply] You saw that?

Ethan: I see everything, Rookie.

[There is an extended, awkward silence.]

Never Have I Ever:

Ethan: What is this now?

Brooke: [hides a smile] It's a game. A drinking game. You really don't know it?

Ethan: If you're asking if I'm familiar with a college-level excuse to get sauced and forget about my classes for the next week, then no. I don't know it.

Brooke: [rolls her eyes] It's simple. They ask a question. If you've done it, you take a drink. If you haven't, you don't. And [lightly swings her take-out coffee cup in his face] I don't think you'll get drunk on herbal tea, so you'll be fine.

Okay, let's begin. Never have I ever…

...come into work hungover

Brooke and Ethan: [take a drink]

Brooke: Really?

Ethan: I wish I could affect the same level of surprise for you.

...had a fistfight

Brooke and Ethan: [take a drink]

Ethan: [raises an eyebrow at Brooke]

Brooke: [shrugs] Rowdy childhood.

Ethan: [nods] Same. [coughs] Perhaps… rowdy adolescence. And, uh, [another light cough] early adulthood, as well.

Brooke: Dr. Ramsey!

...been kicked out of a bar

Ethan: [takes a drink]

Brooke: Oh?

Ethan: That rowdy early adulthood I spoke of? Yeah.

Brooke: Ah.

...gotten a tattoo

Brooke: [avoids eye contact, takes a drink]

Ethan: [turns to her swiftly, looking shocked, then quickly composes himself] Let me guess - dolphin on your ankle?

Brooke: Shut up.

Ethan: Christ, am I right?

Brooke: No, but you might as well be.

Ethan: [laughs, which seems to surprise them both, then clears his throat] We all have regrets, Dr Spiers.

Brooke: [grimaces and slouches in her seat]

Ethan: [stares at her for a beat longer than necessary, before leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression]

...broken someone’s heart

Ethan and Brooke: [quickly look at each other; neither drinks]

Brooke: No? You?

Ethan: What's that supposed to mean?

Brooke: Just surprised all this [gestures vaguely at his face] didn't get the ladies all worked up in—where are you from?

Ethan: Rhode Island. And no, "all this" [gestures to his own face] took awhile to grow into itself, I assure you.

Brooke: [laughs] Oh, big same.

Ethan: [gives her a sidelong glance, a soft smile playing at his lips]

...been in love

Brooke: [takes a drink]

Ethan: Really?

Brooke: What, it's so hard to believe?

Ethan: Well, you said you'd never broken someone's heart.

Brooke: [smiles at him softly, a bit sadly] Never said my heart hadn't been broken, Dr Ramsey. Some people are the heartbreakers, some are the broken-hearted.

Ethan: [splutters] Preposterous.

Brooke: [looks surprised] What is?

Ethan: That you—I mean, that is—that someone— [he pauses, fidgeting with his tie before smoothing it down] It's his loss, Rookie. [clears his throat, looking away]

Brooke: [smiles, bemused yet pleased, a warmth in her eyes] Thank you, Dr Ramsey.

For Brooke (Ethan is not there)

Where do you see him in five years (both professionally and in his personal life?)

Oh, [scoffs out a laugh] wherever he wants to be. He's Ethan freaking Ramsey. He can do whatever he wants. What's the highest position in the hospital? Chief of Medicine? That. [Thinks for a moment] Well, no, actually. He probably wouldn't want to be admin. But whatever he could do that would still have him on the ground, helping people, at the highest level of expertise - that's where he'll be.

And, uh, personally?

Oh. Well. [fidgets, looks away]. I'm sure I don't know. Probably married to some supermodel who will put up with him never being home and always being reticent and grouchy. [Laughs humourlessly]

What do you find the most impressive about him?

Oh gosh. [Pauses] Probably how much he cares. I know you see him now and you think, god, what an asshole. And you're not wrong. But the truth is, he has to maintain this facade of a huge, unfeeling jerk, because the fact of the matter is he cares so deeply. [Her expression goes distant and soft]. Honestly, he cares so much I'm worried it will be his downfall one day.

Last thing he texted you?

[Laughs] He hates texting. But I think it was, "What time is this - redacted - thing again"?

If he asked you out on a date, what would you say?

Ah… [laughs uncomfortably] What, like, right now? The way we are? Or as two… random people in a bar?

Right now. The way you are.

[Blushes and continues to laugh awkwardly] Is he—you said he won't see these?

No, this part will be anonymous and the information gathered will be for statistical purposes, not anecdotal.

[Fake bravado affectation] Oh, well, if it's for statistics— [pauses] I would say yes. In a heartbeat. I would say yes. [Smiles, almost apologetically] I mean, have you seen him?

For Ethan (Brooke is not there)

Where do you see her in five years (both professionally and in his personal life?)

Wherever she wants to be. She's a highly motivated and intelligent individual. I give her a hard time, because I see great potential in her and feel as though, as her mentor, she should be pushed to achieve the pinnacle of success. Which is undoubtedly capable of.

And personal?

I don't presume to know what the future holds for my interns' personal lives. [A long pause] But I would hope… [clears throat, picks non-existent lint off his pants, continues gruffly] I would hope she remains happy and healthy, without anymore instances of [clears throat, again] heartbreak. Of any kind.

What specifically do you find attractive about her?

I'm sorry?

What do you find attractive—

No, I heard you, I just find this sort of question wildly inappropriate and I refuse to answer it.

Okay, so we'll just put down 'nothing'.

Hold on, don't—I didn't say nothing. Just say I didn't answer.

We need some sort of answer.

Oh, for Christ's sake—will she see this? Will anyone?

No, it's information that will be used for statistical—

Fine, alright, I don't care. She's obviously an incredibly attractive woman. Are you happy? [Pauses] I mean, specifically? I would say her eyes. Especially when she smiles and they crinkle up on the sides. Also, her laugh. She's not a woman who 'titters'. Brooke isn't afraid to—well, to simply live. She laughs loudly, loves boldly, defends strongly. [His expression grows thoughtful,] She said I was a presence in a room? When she walks into—anywhere, the entire room stands still. It's like the air has been sucked out of it. And within seconds, they're enthralled. Within minutes, they love her. That's Brooke. [Clears throat] Don't put any of that. Just write down "Her intelligence."

Last thing she texted you?

"Be nice." And then some moving picture image of a dog wagging its finger. [Rolls his eyes] I hate texting.

If she asked you out on a date, how would you respond?

[Sighs wearily]

Again, she won't know. It's for statistical—

[Waves hand dismissively before sighing once more] In an ideal world—[cuts himself off and tries again] Look. Any man would be lucky to have Dr. Brooke Spiers as his partner. [Pauses] And that includes me. [clears throat] But we don't live in an ideal world. And a relationship between her and I would not only be inappropriate, but it would also inhibit her potential to achieve the highest levels of success that she is capable of achieving. [Pauses] And I would never do that to her.

[Stands up abruptly] Are we done here? We're done. Rookie! [Leaves to meet Dr. Spiers, who is waiting for him outside.]

EXT. COFFEE SHOP - LATE AFTERNOON

OBSERVED FROM INSIDE THE COFFEE SHOP

The two doctors greet each other with a smile. NOTE: Dr Ramsey immediately appears calmer in the other doctor's presence.

He says something and Dr Spiers bumps him playfully with her shoulder. Dr Ramsey continues to speak, gesturing towards her ankle, and Dr Spiers throws her head back and laughs loudly.

Dr Ramsey watches her laugh with a small smile on his face, before allowing her shove him lightly in the direction that they are meant to take.

They walk side by side, chatting and smiling, until they disappear from view.

[msoogabooga]

Wasting Away (Tom Riddle x Reader)

Chp. I - A Sworn Enemy

Warnings- None

Word Count- 2146

Summary- You have singlehandedly decided that Tom Riddle is to be your sworn enemy until the end of time.

A/N- Hello! This is my first chaptered Tom Riddle fic. Hope you enjoy and tune in for more!

•••

Tom Riddle was the loneliest boy that had ever existed. You were certain of it whenever you witnessed him walk alone in the corridors or when he picked at his food in the great hall while everyone around him chattered amongst themselves, leaving him be. Ever so often you take a glance at his parchment paper in Defense Against the Dark Arts, where he sits next to you, and you catch him writing lines of beauty. Words that flow together and create great works of art. That is until he catches you staring and covers his paper with his arm, not before cursing under his breath at you of course.

Oh yes, though you felt a sense of pity for the lonely boy, you swore to hate him until the day he died. It wasn’t always this way, of course. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to hate an innocent peer. In fact, you even thought to befriend him of course. The unforgivable day happened outside on the castle grounds. It had been raining quite heavily that day. You ran through the downpour of the storm as your house scarf floated behind you and your mary janes began to stain from the wet dirt. You had finally reached the shelter of an arched corridor and began drying yourself with your scarf. A sudden clatter startled you as you turned your head towards the direction of the noise. The black-haired Slytherin boy was crouched on the ground picking up a bundle of textbooks and parchment papers he had dropped. He began to grow more frustrated when he realized they had become soaked from the seeping rainwater that came through the window. With a pitiful frown, you rushed over to help him.

“Better the books than yourself,” You said with a smile, acknowledging your rained-out state as you began to pick up pieces of parchment. “The storm came so suddenly. I hardly had any time to rush to safety and, well, this happened. I was playing Quidditch you see. It was a bit cloudy, sure, but not even the greatest prophecies could’ve predicted this storm. You’re quite lucky, though. You don’t seem to have a drop on you, except on your schoolwork of course.” Tom Riddle snatches the parchment from your hands so fast that it leaves you with a papercut on your hand. You wince and take your hand back before shooting him a glare.

“Do you mock me?” He spat.

“I was just trying to help,” you explained with a grumble in your voice. “You didn’t have to be so harsh.”

“What makes you think you are allowed to talk to me?” Tom picks up the rest of his items and stands up. You stood up right after.

“Well excuse me all high and mighty. I didn’t know I needed to sign a prerequisite form before daring to stand in your presence. As I said, I was just trying to be of some assistance.”

“I never asked for any assistance. You’re making me seem pitiful.”

“Or maybe, get this, I was just trying to be nice!”

Tom scoffs. “Nice? Yeah, alright.” He makes a sharp turn and begins walking in the opposite direction of yours.

“What is wrong with you?” You shout. “I don’t even know who you are!”

Tom stops. He began walking towards you once more. You take a step back, unsure of what caused him to turn around. “Of course you don’t. I don’t expect you to. But I know everything I need to know about you. You’re the type of person to befriend a lonely kid because you feel it’s your moral obligation. Because you think that this will help boost your popularity points. Don’t think I don’t see right through you. I see the way your friends whisper and giggle at me in the corridors. You may not think I hear it but I do. So if you think you’re going to make a fool out of me for your own benefit then you’re clearly mistaken. So you can go back to your friends and tell them all about our interaction because I know you will. Now, goodbye.”

He walked away before you even had a chance to respond. You wanted to clarify. To say that you don’t approve of your friends gossiping. That you genuinely meant to help him out. But your saltiness took over and you only replied with, “AT LEAST I HAVE FRIENDS.”

You were unsure if he heard you or not because he had already disappeared from view. But you were satisfied. You knew who he was, obviously. That part was a lie. Tom Riddle was quite infamous for his knowledge in Defense Against the Dark Arts and is an acclaimed member of the Slug Club as well as yourself. You had even made eye contact with him a few times while you had dinner with Slughorn and the rest of the Slug Club. But you never expected this innocently kind looking boy to be so cruel at your act of kindness. You didn’t know much about him but you did know one thing: Tom Riddle was now your sworn enemy.

This is made extremely evident at his increasing side glare while you two sit together in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Not by choice, of course. Assigned seating was never more painful than this moment right here. Still, the most you can do is glare back while everyone silently reads. You open your textbook as a way to distract yourself and flip to the unit you are currently on. Iguanas, iguanas, iguanas. Though you are puzzled as to how they were linked to dark magic, you took down notes anyway. You follow the pattern of dipping your quill in ink and writing line after line. All while you feel the hot glare of Tom’s eyes on the back of your neck. The bell signifying the end of class rings and you take a sigh of relief. Enthusiastically to get out of there, you begin gathering your materials, scooping your textbook in your arms all at once. Tom clears his throat quite obnoxiously enough to gain your attention.

“You miswrote something.” Tom states. You shoot him a dazzled look. “In your notes. I couldn’t help but look at your sorry excuse for parchment paper. It just reeked of misinformation. Sure enough, you wrote down that iguanas were omnivores when they are in fact herbivores.”

“Since when do you care so much about iguanas?” You ask, raising your eyebrow at him. “And why do you even care about what I write in the first place?”

“Well, one, I don’t. And two, I would just rather not be sitting next to the girl who got low marks on the iguanas exam. It would be quite embarrassing to witness.”

“Oh go suck an egg,” You retaliate. Tom Riddle scoffs and leaves without responding to your comment and your best friend, Wendy Slinkhard, replaces him.

You had met Wendy in the Slug Club. She was top of the Ravenclaw class, earning high marks that introduced her into the Slughorn's group. The first thing you noticed about her was the way her doe-eyes lit up every time someone mentioned writing. It was all she ever talked about. Her grand aspiration to become a famous author in the wizarding world. She had quite a euphonious voice when describing her life, casually mentioning the fact that she is indeed muggleborn and unafraid of any criticism. How her entire family is made up of writers and she is thrilled to follow the legacy. She had the most elegant way of describing things you had ever seen, almost like works of poetry roll off her tongue. When you ask how she comes up with these unique words she just responds with, The wizarding world seems to give a great muse to the imagination. Whatever that means, you are unsure, but it seems important enough.

“Well hello there,” Wendy says in her wispy voice. “Seems you have quite a charmer for a partner.” She looks over to Tom Riddle who has just left the room.

“Right.” You reply, getting ready to leave alongside Wendy. “It’s like nails on a chalkboard every time he speaks. I’m telling you, Wendy. You couldn’t bear sitting next to him for an hour.”

“Oh, I am sure of it. I’m not sure if I feel too keen about my partner as well. He is, to put it shortly, not quite attentive. Constantly asking me for notes or an extra quill, it’s quite annoying really! But overall, nothing compared to who you have to deal with. Tom Riddle. I always knew there was something off about that lad. Merlin knows why Professor Slughorn chose him of all pupils for the Slug Club.”

“Well he is exceptional at the Dark Arts, I’ll give him that. He has such a crude way of showing it as well. Constantly showing me up. Making me seem as inferior in knowledge as opposed to himself. A real nightmare.”

“Well, if it means anything to you, nothing good can ever come from being exceptional at the Dark Arts.” Wendy gives a slim smile and nods.

You and Wendy walk alongside each other on your way to your next class. Coincidentally, both of your classes are right next to each other. Though you really do miss having her in the same class. You speak to no one in History of Magic. You just sit alone with your face in your hands, hearing your professor go on and on about some troll war you don’t care too much about. Your quill picks up every once in a while to jot down scribbles of information. Something, something... Troll War. Not the most exciting subject if you were to be honest. But it sure beats suffering another hour with Tom Riddle constantly pointing out every minor flaw in your notes. Something about your professor’s voice sends you into a bit of a drowsy state. The way his words flowed so slowly and sterile. Slowly bringing you closer and closer into a…

“Wow. You look bloody awful.” You jolt awake at the sound of Dahlia Ferdinand looking down on you. She is dressed in her Hufflepuff Quidditch jumper and stands with arms crossed and a smirk spread across her face. You lift your head from the desk and detach a piece of parchment that had stuck on your face.

“How long has class been over?” You ask groggily.

“For about an hour, give or take.”

“She’s joking!” Wendy calls out, running into the room and standing beside Dahlia. She adjusts her giant red glasses and flattens her skirt. “Only a few minutes. No need to be so childish, Dahlia.”

“Oh come on. You never appreciate any of my jokes.”

“Dahlia, you know I hate your immature remarks. They are plain and unfunny.”

Dahlia rolls her eyes. “You must be real fun at parties.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been invited to one.”

“Don’t worry. We can tell.”

You let out a snicker before covering it up with a cough. Wendy, seeing right through you, shoots you a glare before adjusting her glasses once more.

“Speaking of parties…” Dahlia continues, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a green envelope. “Marcella Rosier invited me to the Slytherin common room party tomorrow night. From what I gather it’s going to be a grand event. Her uncle supposedly is bringing in firewhisky from Hog’s Head. Naturally, I expect you two to come with me.”

“Firewhisky, Dahlia?!” Wendy interjects before you can respond. “You know that is very much against the school rules. Not only that but against the law as well. And don’t even get me started on the policy of dorm-hopping in the middle of the night. I don’t even trust that Rosier girl to begin with. I’ve heard a load of terrible things involving her. Why are you even friends with such a person?”

“You know, Wendy, you sound like nails on a chalkboard sometimes. A simple no could do. What about you?” Dahlia responds, now addresses you.

“Oh,” You say suddenly. “Well if you’re going then I guess I’ll go as well.”

“So will I,” Wendy adds on, much to both you and Dahlia’s surprise. “Only to drag Dahlia out and scold her when she gets carried away with the firewhisky which I know she will.”

Wendy and Dahlia glare at each other and you cough. “I promise you, Wendy, that I will keep Dahlia outside range of the firewhisky.”

Wendy nods, satisfied. The three of you go your separate ways. You head straight to your dormitory, ignoring all work assigned for this weekend and your rude encounters with Tom Riddle. You raid your closet and begin the hunt for an acceptable outfit to wear to the biggest party of the semester.