#front desk peeves

[lezz-agna]

boss makes a dollar

I make a dime

time to write gay fanfic

on company time

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ husband john price - 04

cw : angst, drinking

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcollection - prev ⋆ next

time healed everything—that was the saying, right? you remembered it as you parked in front of john's house, ready to drop off your children for the weekend. looking in the rearview mirror, you watched as your two boys chatted excitedly about a new movie they were looking forward to—a movie their father had promised to take them to.

john’s disappearance and your miscarriage had changed your marriage a lot. you had tried to put it behind you for months, but you couldn’t. you weren’t angry anymore—you were just depressed. your body was on autopilot: wake up, make breakfast, get the boys ready for school, go to work, pick them up, make dinner, take a shower, cry yourself to sleep next to your husband. until it became too much.

the day you told john you needed a break from him, it broke your heart. you knew it was necessary—you were always on edge, getting frustrated and angry over every little thing he did. you thought you’d have time to cope alone when he went back into the field, but then he announced that he had finally accepted the desk job you had begged him to take. it was all just really bad timing.

so here you were, knocking on the little house he had to find in a hurry. ever the gentleman, he had let you keep the big house, insisting you had more history there than he did. it was a lie, of course, but you let it go.

what was supposed to be a temporary break turned into almost a year apart. you still spent your sons' birthdays together, as well as christmas, but other than that, you only saw john when you dropped off the kids and when you picked them up. it had been hard at first, but you were so used to being alone anyway that you fell back into your habits from when john would be on deployment. of course, you missed him, but it was different. something was broken.

neither of you had the courage to talk about divorce.

john's life had completely gone off the rails. what was supposed to be the best part of his life—a loving family and retirement from the battlefields—had turned into a nightmare. he had lost his teammates, his house, and his wife. he still saw his kids, but it was different. two days and three nights weren't enough. it was better than when he was away, but he was here now.

but he had wanted to give you the space you needed. he didn’t want to be the toxic husband forcing his wife into a relationship she didn’t want after such a traumatic event. but he had lost a child too; he had fought to come back home. so when you told him you wanted a break, a real one with separate houses and everything, john had given up. he wasn’t going to fight for a marriage you didn’t even believe in anymore.

the first months were the hardest. he had to get used to being so alone. he wasn’t used to it. when he was away, he had his team, and when he was home, he had you and the kids. now, he only had silence. and he hated it. so at first, he drank… a lot. it had always been a pet peeve of yours; every time he was particularly stressed, he'd drink a lot. he knew it. he had slowed it down for you, but now? why bother? he’d stop when his kids were home, not even bothering to hide the bottles; they were too little to understand anyway. and you never came inside.

the drinking had eased over the months. he had pulled himself together, and when he understood you weren’t coming back, he tried to make his new home more welcoming and cosier for his boys. they were still his, they’d always be his. everything they asked for, john would get it for them. he didn’t want them to say they grew up without a loving dad. so he spoiled them, like he always had.

but today, today was different. he had forgotten you were dropping the kids off on thursday, instead of friday. and it was his birthday, the first birthday he’d spent without you for over a decade. he had bought a special bottle and an expensive cigar—a little treat for himself. his week at work had been erratic, and it had slipped his mind that you said the kids wanted to spend their dad’s birthday with him. one drink after another, he was passed out drunk on his couch.

you’d been knocking for a few minutes now. you knew john was home, his truck was right in front of his house. maybe he was in the shower. you hesitated before using the spare key he had given you, "we never know what can happen, sweetheart." guess he’d been right.

you gently told your kids to wait for you in front of the house, not sure what you would find inside. when you entered, the smell of alcohol and tobacco hit your nose, almost making you vomit. you were glad you told your kids to wait outside. making your way blindly through the house, you didn’t know what was where, and stumbled into the living room, finding your husband on his couch, passed out. rushing to him, you made sure he was still breathing and pulled him onto his side, scared he might choke if he threw up.

tears welled up in your eyes, your heart breaking at the sight in front of you. he had gained some weight over the year, not that you minded, but it was obviously a sign of a poor diet. making your way to the kitchen, you noticed all the junk food delivery bags near his trash, you had been right. sitting down for a moment, you thought about what you’d say to your kids. they were so excited for their dad's birthday. how could he do that to them?

after a few minutes, you made your way back outside, where your kids were waiting on the curb. you told them grandma was coming over to pick them up because their father was sick, and you were going to take care of him tonight. if he felt better, you'd pick them up tomorrow so they could still spend time with john.

after your mother picked the kids up, you made your way back inside john's house. shaking him a little, he didn't move a muscle. you wanted him to wake up, you wanted to scream, you wanted to know why. why he would do that? but he didn't move.

you cleaned his house a bit and emptied all the alcohol you could find. you knew john like the back of your hand, and every time you'd dropped your kids, he had been sober. did he forget you were coming today? he must have; that was the only logical explanation.

you were taken out of your thoughts when you heard a groan from the other room. making your way to the noise, you could tell john was surprised to see you. but the look on his face was the look he had when he barely woke up, still uncertain of his surroundings. so you turned around, going straight for the bathroom upstairs and started a bath. at that very moment, you hated him, but something in you still wanted to take care of him.

john had seen you, he knew you were real. that sobered him up way quicker than anything else could. what were you doing here? he sat down, his head turning. looking back up, he saw you waiting at the door. he tried to explain, but no coherent words came out of his mouth. he remembered now. he had fucked up. you motioned for him to follow you, and, as the good boy he always had been with you, he did.

he would follow you through hell and back if you asked him.

you helped him undress, and for the first time with you, he was self-conscious about his own body. as you helped him into the bath, he prepared what he was going to say. however, in his drunken state, all he could manage was: " 'm sorry, sweetheart, forgot." it wasn't enough, you knew it, and he knew it. but it was all he could manage. the pet name only made it hurt more.

he prayed his boys didn't see him like this. he prayed you had lied to them. deep down, he knew you—he knew you'd never let your kids have a bad opinion of him, even if you did. he'd seen it in your eyes, the look of anger and disgust when he woke up.

now, you helped him into his bed, completely nude. he wanted to say so many things—how sorry he was, how much he knew he had fucked up, how much he missed you. but the look on your face, it broke his heart. he had thought you’d given up on him a long time ago, but he had been wrong. he saw it. at that very moment, lying in his bed, he saw how your mind had settled. it was then that you gave up.

up until then, he still had his chance. now, it was gone.

he had hoped you would stay with him through the night, but you got up and silently made your way out of his bedroom. tears made their way down his cheeks; he was so numb, he didn't even feel them. you were blurry when you appeared again in his room, making your way over to him.

you stopped just next to his bed, bending over to kissing his forehead.

"happy birthday, john," you said softly, as you dropped the divorce papers on his nightstand.

[swampjawn]

If you wanted to animate an object spinning really fast, there are three main embellishments at your disposal. You could add smear frames, you could add doubling, or if you wanted to get a little crazy with it, you could have that object bend and stretch to really emphasize the inertia of the motion.

Or you could do all three at the same time!

I didn't want to like Zenshu at first.

Saying I'm not a big fan of isekai as a genre would be an understatement, so I was straight up peeved when I found out that what I initially thought would be a flawed industry's unflinching look in the mirror made by THE studio that has become the symbol of the Japanese animation industry's broader problems with overworking and underpaying, this was just gonna be yet another in a long line of paint-by-numbers escapist power fantasies in a genre that was tired from the moment it was born, just like yaboy, sleepy to the max if you know what I'm saying.

And this recreation of a scene from Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984), (which was one of the first breakout roles for anime legend and Evangelion director Hideaki Anno) certainly helped soften my attitude towards it, but a series of references to old stuff wouldn't be enough.

(both versions trimmed here)

But its tribute to classic anime and animation in general goes beyond just references.

This absurdly over the top modernized version of a magical girl transformation animated by Keisuke Toyoda (豊田 桂祐 ) feels like it contains all the possibilities of animation and imagination in just 3 preposterously dense cuts. There is just WAY too much going on here at once, in a way that feels very self aware.

Every color you could imagine, lighting from three different directions, what looks like three different layers of effects and sparkles, countless compositing effects, what looks like some sort of 3D particle simulation in the background,

this psychedelic background art that seems to represent Natsuko's blood vessels, a bit where you can see what it took me several episodes to realize are Natsuko's actual blood vessels and skeleton through her body,

and… some birds of course.

Most of the main elements are animated on 2's, but there are so many layers -- the timing of each offset from the rest -- that it almost feels like the whole thing is animated on 1's because there is practically no single frame where at least something doesn't change.

It's really an assault to the senses that contrasts hilariously with the mundane action of actually sitting down at a desk and drawing. There's even a little death note reference thrown in there to poke fun at this contrast!

And fully committing to the sailor moon bit, they repeat this stock animation in almost every episode. While it's no masterpiece plot-wise, it is at least more than I expected on that front too, but that's more than I can get into here. I talk about that some more and a bunch of other stuff in this video, from which this post is an adapted excerpt! Go watch it and comment, "wow sWIMP John, I used to like your videos but you've really fallen off hardcore. Go back to making magic school bus AMVs. Unsubbed."

[k9wa]

⟁ A BULLET A DAY, ft. BOOTHILL.

⠀ — where teasing, annoying, poking and prodding all fall under the same category; flirting.

⚠︎︎ more mechanic! reader, gn, boothill being an idiot, flirting, suggestive, he has fake teeth to me, something about tension + leaving him high and dry is soooo ….

from this request !

it’s a miracle, truly, how boothill manages to be so tempting and endearing yet so utterly irritating and infuriating at the same time. 

and it’s hot, sure, but that just makes it all the more annoying, leaves you frustrated and with an odd pool in your stomach.  

boothill managed his way into your supply of bullets, happily tossing back the brass casings like a simple snack. it was a genius idea at the time, really, giving him a stomach that can store ammunition. though had you expected him to chew on the damn things instead of swallowing them— you know, like he was intended to— you would’ve just given him a little side bag to save yourself the work.

you half hoped the lead stuffing the things would seep into his still intact brain, but chastised yourself for the thought soon after having it. you don’t hate him that much. your brain should check back and try the thought again in twenty minutes. 

“y’know what’d be real neat, buttercup?” boothill’s legs were kicked up lazily on your workbench as he sat next to you, waiting for you to finish a small modification on his revolver. “spikes in my boots.” he lifted a foot up, rolling his ankle a bit. “you know, them retractable ones. be able t’a have some real fun with those things.”

you snorted, his efforts to dodge his synesthesia beacon as entertaining as always.

“since when do i take requests?” you asked, eyes focused down on your work— far too used to his antics to lift your head anymore.

“since when d’you deny gettin’ to tinker with me?”

he brought his feet down to the floor and leaned forward on his thighs, the denim of his pants tightening around them. “what, gonna make me say please and thank ya now?” 

you truly wanted to reply, say it wasn’t a half bad idea and that you’d look into the upgrade. until he started shaking a few bullets around in his palm like they were fucking almonds.

now boothill noticed the clench of your jaw, and oh how he revelled in it. he’s fully aware how the crunching of brass and lead peeves you, ie. you telling him to knock it off an hour ago— (“it ain’t hurtin’ nobody, is it now?”—) but you’re just so darn cute when you’re ticked off. he’s gotta push your buttons just a lil bit. 

“somethin’ the matter?” the way his sharp teeth gleamed through that damn grin weren’t doing anything to help. 

he took a bullet between his thumb and forefinger, the shiny gunmetal digits pinching the ammunition as he held it up next to you. “d’ya care for one, sugar plum?”

fine, you thought. two can play that game.

you tore your attention away from the old steel revolver, finally turning to look at him. boothill prepared for an insult, one he’d tell you was ‘flatterin’ and all,’ but it didn’t come.

you leaned towards his hand, keeping your eyes locked with his that glowed a familiar and faint red. 

then you took the bullet between your tongue and top front teeth, gently pulling it out of his hands with your mouth.

his smirk actually dropped— you’d think someone stuck an infected usb into his ear with all the ideas that flooded the forefront of his brain, making his circuits just tingle with excitement. something about the hot single mechanic in his area.

you turned back to your desk, removing the bullet from your teeth and twirling it between your fingers idly as you gave a once over to his revolver, as if nothing had happened.

boothill blinked, chuckling gruffly with a shake of his head as he slumped back in his chair, flicking another bullet into the air with his thumb and catching it in his palm with a gentle clink! the cyborg gave a low whistle as he kicked his feet back up.

“ain’t you somethin’,” he drawled, earning a chuckle from you. “y’sure know how t’keep a man on his toes, don’t ya buttercup?” 

“i dunno what you mean, boothill.” you only offered a hum, willfully ignorant to boothill’s colourful imagination.

“oh i’m real sure y’don’t.” he shook his head, another chuckle rumbling his chest and sending a shiver down your neck.

“say,” he leaned towards you, his shoulder to yours, feeling a little lucky and dropping his voice to a knee-weakening purr, “if that pretty mouth a’yers likes metal, i’m more’en happy t’a—” 

“all done.”

all bets go down the drain. boothill deadpanned as you clicked the barrel of his gun into place and handed it back to him, standing up to stretch your arms.

“shops closed for today,” you fold them, leaning back against your bench. “you better get a move on before i have to kick you out.”

boothill’s eyes trailed up your figure, taking his sweet time finding your face. the cowboy raised an eyebrow into a cocky arch despite him swearing his body was on the verge of its cooling protocol. 

“you keep woundin’ me, sugar.” 

“i dunno what you mean, boothill.”

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[ilium-ilia]

Chaînés

ballerina reader x gym-rat soap

It's hard for Johnny to focus at the gym when there's a ballerina spinning in a box just for him.

tags: johnny "came back wrong" mactavish, light stalking, non-consensual pictures/drawings, johnny is not mentally sound, references to johnny being shot, choke holds, abduction.

a/n: i keep having dreams about being back in ballet and being forced to dance so i this is my attempt of getting that dream to stop.

There is a new room in the gym. It stares through Johnny like baptism water in the church he attended when he was a child. It burns just as bad as the hellfire his pastor promised would befall him if he couldn’t tell the difference between good and evil. 

He’s watched its construction for the last handful of weeks. Incessant drilling and the cacophonous melody of power tools has made his evenings pumping iron less than pleasant, and his ears ache from how far he has to shove his earbuds into the canal to drown out the noise. The only reason he started coming here was because of his sleeping issues—how his body seems too high strung to relax when the moon rises—and it’s been disrupted by inconsiderate construction workers. Now, every bastard in a high-vis vest has vanished, leaving him alone with nothing but the bar clasped in his palms and the lingering sillage of sawdust. 

For a few more weeks, the room stands empty. It’s nothing special. Nothing that he believes should harbor more of his attention than has already been stolen. Floor to ceiling glass windows offer little privacy for the pinewood floors and dazzling mirrors that line the walls. It is an abandoned box. It haunts the gym with no heart to hold. 

When no one is looking, he wanders through the unlocked door. He is met with only the sound of his running shoes echoing off of the pristine floor and the never-ending image of himself pasted upon the walls. He sees himself from every angle. From the side, like a bystander. From above, like an omniscient god. It only gets worse when the automatic lights trip and flicker to life, buzzing like the dying breath of an animal caught in the constricting ribcage of fear. 

Johnny stares at himself as if he were a stranger. He scrutinizes the tattoo on his forearm and the stretch of his compression shorts over his thighs. Angry fingernails dig into the pink keloid by his temple. His skin buzzes at the bump. Hair follicles attempt to press through the scar tissue, but it follows the old fracturing of his skull. It dies in a star pattern that leaves him naked—a warrior without a weapon. 

As his feet cross the threshold back into the weight room, Johnny promises himself he will never traverse back into that box again. 

On Monday, the room is full. 

Women clad in elastic garments sprawl out on the floor on multicolored mats as they stretch. Their appearance stops Johnny in his tracks, leaving him to stare through the thin window that separates them apart. Yoga, he realizes. The awkward positions and instructor towards the front has his skin squirming within its own confines. There are too many eyes. They echo through the mirror—they all find him. 

Deciding to spend his evening on the other side of the gym, Johnny starts off with cardio. It’s the only way he can satiate the need to flee from wandering gazes without actually vanishing. It’s the only way he can drown out the solicitude that lurks too deep for him to reach in and claw it out. 

Peeved that he has to now change his whole routine, Johnny grumples through the night as he packs up his water bottle and slugs towards the exit. As his feet tread, he reminds himself to request the class schedule for the room from the front desk. He wants to avoid the eyes. The gazes. The pupils that pierce through him worse than a bullet. 

Johnny freezes when he sees something spinning. 

There, through the thin veil, you dance. Rhythmic and fluid. Like a babbling river. Like blood dribbling from a wound. Propped up en pointe, you pirouette with your arms above your head and your head snapping in spinning circles, eyes keeping contact with yourself through the mirror. He witnesses the way your chest expands with a huff—how you refuse to rest before attempting the move again. 

You see him in the mirror. Standing behind you, pack slung over his shoulder as if it were heavy enough to be a rifle. He sees you see him. 

Ignoring him as if he is nothing more than a trick of the light, you continue with your practice. 

Johnny can’t sleep at night. The image of you burns too deeply into his retinas, and he can’t shake you loose. You’re lodged in his psyche. Trapped deep in the tissue of his brain where you nettle—making space for yourself. A bed of brain matter. He envelopes you too readily. His body holds you home and it screeches whenever he attempts to yank you out like a weed from the earth. 

So you spin. 

And spin. 

The next time he goes to the gym, he brings his sketchbook. 

Really, he’s not sure why he lugs the thing around. The only thing it’s full of is pain—bleeding ink that soaks each page like blood on cement. That book harbors the residue of each gun he’s shot and the soil of every country his boots have kissed. It holds the memories of the places he can’t return to. The man he used to be before he was fractured beyond repair. 

Now, he uses it to record you. Committing your image with his pencil, he sits on the bench press closest to the window as you practice again while the night waxes away from the evening. He sketches the curve of your pointe shoes, the delicacy of your fingers as you hold your arms out on either side of your torso—you’re printed onto paper as you present an arabesque with trembling calves and quads. 

Throughout it all, you do not recognize him in the mirror behind you. You give him no hint that you are aware of his presence besides a quiet flickering of your eyes in the reflective surface before you continue to glissade across glistening floors.

It isn’t until the second week of this—of this new routine Johnny has found himself in—that he realizes he never sees you enter or exit the room. 

You’re always there, appearing out of thin air the moment the area is vacated by the yoga class or anyone else who wishes to lurk within those four, painful walls. He blinks, and you’re there, dancing through the windows like a collector’s doll stuck in the confines of her box for all of eternity. Never to be embraced. Never to be loved. Only made to be gawked at while chained down by your hands and wrists, unforgiving zip ties digging into your skin like a honed edge. 

It’s then that Johnny begins to question if he’s seeing things again. Factitious things. After he was discharged (bullet buzz, buzz, buzzing through his skull, cold cement on his cheek, blood, drip, drip, dripping from his teeth), it was troubling to differentiate between what was real, and what was fabricated. Thoughts bleeding into reality—a clear ichor that only morphs his vision, but doesn’t obscure it. 

At home, his fingers brush over his artwork. Tenderly, as if he’s pasted your very flesh onto each page. He tells himself that you have to be real. The proof of it is in his very hands—it’s tangible. This book that holds your likeness. It would be impossible for his disconnected mind to dream up something as lovely as you. There is no morphing here. No shadows twist to contort and confuse his mind. 

He’s sure of it—

—until he isn’t. 

Once more, his sweet ballerina has come to perform for him—to haunt him. You spin before him like a music box doll, steady and without a care for the eyes piercing through the window to look at you. There is not a single soul in the building besides you and him. (If you even have a soul at all). The barrier that separates the two of you seems thinner than ever as he puts pencil to paper and inscribes your likeness as if he fears his mind might forget if there is no physical reminder to follow him home.

He soaks up the view of your feet. The way the arch curves beneath your body weight. The way sweat beads along your collarbones and the line of your forehead. He wonders if the brine is as tasty as it looks. 

When you stop to catch your breath, your eyes find Johnny in the mirror. Sitting, hunched forward on the bench, scribbling down in his journal. His heart ceases to beat, and the tip of his pencil stills against his paper as he straightens himself up. He would open his mouth to speak if it weren’t for the insufferable barrier that separates the two of you—keeping you confined to your own little worlds. Instead, he smiles. 

You stare right through him. 

You do not smile back. 

Johnny is incensed when you continue your routine. You leap through the air without a care in the world, and you leave him sitting there to wonder if you ever even saw him at all. No, you did. When he reaches up and touches his chest, he feels his shirt. He feels the blood pulsing beneath his fingertips. His hand presses forward and it doesn’t punch through his sternum because he’s real. 

He’s real. 

But are you real? Or are you some creature sent to torment him within the confines of his own mind? 

Slamming his journal shut, Johnny tosses it into his bag with a huff. Hot air passes from his nostrils like a bull ready to charge, and he struts up to the glass, so close that his nose nearly presses against it. Fog builds on the surface as his palm lies flat against it. It’s frigid to the touch. Standing, separating. The barrier that traps you is real and algid beneath his fingers. 

But are you real?

Metal bites into his skin as he twists the knob on the door to the room. He promised himself that he would never step foot in there again—where the eyes are plenty and his scar screams louder than he can—but he tells himself he has to know. It clicks quietly shut behind him only to be drowned out by the sound of your pointe shoes tapping against the pine at your feet. It echoes like a hushed prayer. It rattles his eardrum. Tangible. Real. 

But are you real?

Feverish skin bleeds through his hand when he grabs your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Wild eyes look to him, and for the first time he’s able to see what they’re like without the barrier of a reflection to get in the way. Sweet lips part and he sees the way your teeth shine beneath the fluorescent lights that hang over your heads. 

“Excuse me?” 

Bitter. Sharp. Your question pierces through his eardrum and he smiles. Your voice. An alluring melody. His grip only grows more firm as you attempt to wrench yourself free from his grasp. 

Real. 

Your screams are just as corporeal as the rest of you. It reverberates off the walls of Johnny’s skull, and it forces his face to contort at the throb in his brain. Oh, how it aches. How it always aches. He muffles you with the palm of his hand flat against your lips and he presses until he feels your tongue. Rigid nails dig into his flesh as his forearm wraps around your throat and squeezes. He feels the sting of broken skin—real—and the pressure of dull teeth against his fingers—real—and hot tears along the back of his hand—real. 

It isn’t long before your body grows heavy. Johnny lays you on the floor like Ophelia in a river; Odette in the lake; Aurora in her bed. Limp limbs lie helplessly as he stares down at you and rakes trembling fingers over every inch of your body. Every curve he has committed to memory for the last few weeks is now here before him—tangible. 

“Real,” he says outloud. A tender thumb brushes against your split bottom lip. “You’re real. And I’m real. I made you real.” 

Johnny sleeps better now that he’s started going to the gym. Muscles melt just as they should the very moment his head hits his pillow, and his slumber calls to him without issue. Of course, it helps that he has his sweet ballerina to keep him company. Head propped up next to his, tear stains on your cheeks, and eyes squeezed tight as you rest soundly in his bed.

He reaches out and cups your cheek in the palm of his hand. Your skin twitches beneath him, but you do not stir. Grinning in the darkness of his bedroom, Johnny hums, content with his life. Content with knowing that you truly are real. 

After all, the proof of it is in his very hands. 

[dannyriccsystem]

CHAPTER ONE — SERIES INFO

WARNINGS: Claustrophobic setting, Y/N usage, reader is mean, written in 2nd person

PAIRING: Oscar Piastri x Ballerina!Reader

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Meeting the infamous Oscar Piastri in a hotel elevator, and then later at your own show!

NOTES: This series will be written as a SMAU. However, the first few chapters will have some written parts to build story! I hope everybody enjoys :)

NEXT CHAPTER >>>

SATURDAY - MARCH 15TH, 2025

7:00 P.M.

You worked your whole life to appear as poised and elegant. Dance was apart of who you are since you were born, and that fact has stretched itself taut over your twenty-three years of life. unlike the various girls who participated in dance studios just for the sake of having a hobby, you knew it would be an eventual career of yours.

And you were right.

Walking through every town and big city you performed in was like a dream. Soaring billboards were painted with images of you, dancing with extravagance. Skyscrapers had your face displayed on enormous screens, restaurants had meals named after you, and people recognized you no matter what place you stepped foot in. You were everywhere.

That changed when you came to Melbourne. You still saw yourself, yes, but you were no longer the highlight. Orange painted the city that was your final tour destination, and the same face watched over you at all times. Oscar Piastri, a famous Australian Formula One driver.

It was hard to keep your jealousy at bay. You had a permanent frown etched into your skin as you loaded the elevator of your hotel, taking up the empty compartment to silently sulk. All of that effort just to be replaced by someone who drives a fast car? You scoffed at the idea of it.

Snapping out of your gaze, you realized that the elevator was coming to a stop at the first floor. You desperately wanted to avoid any interaction at the moment, still peeved with such a predicament, but it was impossible at this point. The metal doors pried open, and…

That damn bastard was standing there, looking all too polite.

Your jaw immediately clenched, and your fists balled up when you saw his devilishly friendly smile, along with a polite nod of his head. He loaded into the elevator, just one bag held over his shoulder. Some big shot he was. Both of you were silent, stood on opposite ends of the elevator to avoid each other for your own respective reasons: He was simply polite, while you wanted nothing to do with him.

The lights flickered, and your ride came to a screeching halt— A sound that made your heart drop into your stomach. You grabbed the railings of the elevator with one hand, the other clutching your belongings as you desperately thought, no, no, no, no.

There was momentary silence as one of the lights above you came on, leaving you in a softly lit ambience. Finally, Oscar’s breath hitched and he spoke, “We’re stuck.” Stating the obvious. You couldn’t help the cold glare you shot him. He flinched, just slightly— But enough for you to notice. You stormed over to the buttons, aggressively tapping the bright red one labeled ‘EMERGENCY.’

An alarm briefly rang, before the sound of a phone ringing played over the speakers. Oscar sat back, patiently waiting for you to finish alerting the front desk of such an emergency. A crackling voice boomed over the speakers, making you jump briefly. “Security!” They informed curtly.

“The elevator is stopped! We’re stuck in here.” Your tone was laced with frustration, evident in your crossed arms and sassy pose. Oscar smiled softly, eyebrows furrowed together. How dramatic you were… It was endearing.

“Help is on the way. It should be 15 minutes to an hour.”

“An HOUR-?” The call abruptly ended, leaving you both to sit in silence once again. You held your head in your hands, walking back to your things and sitting down in the corner, your back against the wall.

It was a silent wait, aside from the occasional curse words under your breath.

oscarpiastri

liked by mclaren and others

oscarpiastri Met some fans, took some pictures, qualified P2… Got stuck in an elevator with a stranger for an hour. First week back and things are already interesting 😂

tagged dancarter_

—

quadlock - Our home hero 🫡 💙

♥︎ by author

username1 - Oscar army!!

username2 - Oh the oscarlings 🥹

username3 - Bro casually got stuck in an elevator 😭

username4 - Our nonchalant king.

username5 - GO OSC! Australia needs you! 🧡🧡

mclaren - Papaya domination 💪 Try not to get stuck tomorrow, though. Big day

♥︎ by author

oscarpiastri - I’ll do my best 😂

your.username

liked by lilyzneimer and others

your.username Australia has been wonderful.

tagged bhamroyalballet

—

bhamroyalballet - Happy to see our star happy ⭐️🩰

♥︎ by author

your.username - ❤️

username6 - “Happy” when she’s never smiled before in her life 😭

username7 - Always so polite and pretty 🥹🫶

username8 - Can’t believe I get to see Swan Lake tomorrow!!

username9 - Break a leg!

your.username - Break a leg is for actors. Merde is for dancers.

> username9 - Oh. Merde!

♥︎ by author

username10 - F1 season start… Swan Lake season end… My two worlds colliding

username11 - Y/N and Oscar, Melbourne’s two icons atm

username12 - It would be crazy if they met

> username13 - Lily’s a big fan apparently! Maybe they will

MONDAY - MARCH 17TH, 2025

9:00 P.M.

It was closing night, and it had been one of your best performances yet. Everything went smoothly without any major mess ups or problems on stage. Melbourne was always a fun place to perform, especially to end the tour as a whole.

Everyone congregated together backstage to discuss the show, but you weren’t one for conversing after such a long night, even if you were the lead. You were ready to return home and take part in your nightly routine, and then finally get some well deserved rest. You had a few more days to spend in Australia, and then you’d have to return home to London to get started on the next performance immediately.

Still in your leotard with your hair still slicked back, you began to leave the performing house with your bag slung over your shoulder. You composed yourself, hoping to escape without running into any crazed fans— Unfortunately, that proved to be futile.

“Y/N!” You heard a soft voice call out. You turned around quickly, your jaw clenched in silent rage. You were so close— So very close. It was a young woman, about your age, dressed so refined. Trailing behind her…

Your brows furrowed in a quick flash of rage. Oscar Piastri.

“I’m so sorry if I’m bothering you,” Her accent was thick. British, if you weren’t mistaken. Something you were familiar with given that your studio was based in London. What was she doing here? “My name is Lily. I’ve been a fan of your work for ages. You’re a beautiful dancer,” You tried to soften up at the compliment, but it was hard. You had heard these words again and again— Nothing special. “Could I get a picture with you?” She grinned, and you felt obligated to say yes.

“Of course.” You forced a smile, and she took her stance beside you. You wrapped your arm around her in a friendly manner, and she did the same, the pair of you smiling and posing for the picture, which was taken by Oscar himself, who had appeared as rather quiet during the whole ordeal. Once the photo was taken, you were ready to bolt, but again… Futile.

“I’m sorry if this is overstepping, but could I maybe get your phone number? I’d love to talk about dance sometime. It’s a passion of mine.” She seemed like a sweet girl. Maybe a bit shy, rather mysterious. You could understand why a guy like Piastri would be friends with this girl.

Unfortunately, you didn’t like overly sweet people.

“Sure,” You spoke between gritted teeth, a forced smile on your face. You dug around in your bag for a business card, taking her hands firmly and encapsulating her fingers around the piece of laminated paper. “Our little secret, okay? I rarely give my information out to fans.”

She seemed awed, and nodded with acceptance. Lily retreated back to her friend, who showed her the picture with a smile, before planting a kiss to her forehead. You turned around and made a beeline for the exit, letting disdain paint your face once more. So they were together? Not that you cared.

Everybody was simply an obstacle to keep you from achieving your dream.

[tinkerbellknockoff]

beautiful blue hair // jinx x fem! reader

jinx eased quickly into her new life at demacia, deciding to do something for the first time in her life- see a hair stylist.

-- a/n: had this idea after staring at s2ep9 jinx and realizing that haircut would probably grow out terribly. this was written at 3am, enjoy!

jinx found being at demacia good enough. it was a very different culture than the life in zaun that she was used to, but arguably, she thought that was great for her. she was free to be herself, with no repercussion because here- she had no weight of the past weighing her down.

the only thing? she mildly regretted the haircut of choice that ekko had given her. during her crisis back in zaun, ekko had came to her side- he helped her. and, even with jinx's hyperindependency, she knew she had bits to thank him for.

looking in the mirror, seeing the comically long bang hanging in front of her face compared to her bob length hair, she figured this was the one thing she wasn't going to thank him for.

it looked great when it was first cut, though, which was a bonus.

but jinx's hair grew freakishly fast. weekly in her workshop she'd give herself little trims to tame her hair. unfortunately for her, she grabbed a whole lot of things while packing her bag- one thing she didn't?

scissors.

jinx let out an annoyed huff, "oh, c'mon! seriously? out of all things?"

she spoke to herself, the walls echoing back nothing but the sound of her own voice. jinx's hands continued to brush through her hair, looking at the chopped layers in mild distaste. she had never been one to ever care about her appearance but for some reason, this peeved her. real bad.

during her examining, her eyes caught a glimpse of something. during her time walking and exploring demacia, she was given scattered flyers, business owners wanting to promote their stores. she chose not to throw them away, believing that since she was making a new life for herself, she might try to get out more. normally. without explosives, even though she'll find it significantly less entertaining.

"daffodil's," jinx muttered, the name slipping off her tongue as she picked up the flyer from the pile. she hummed in interest, eyeing the design, promoting a small salon that had recently opened.

jinx scanned it over one last time before sighing to herself, "... why not?"

☆☆

jinx slowly pulled open the door of the tiny salon. it was in the downtown area, tucked into a less busy area. she liked that a lot.

she was greeted with a soft smell of sandalwood, the sound of the heater in the building slightly humming, giving a background to the idle chattering of the few people that were inside.

a girl, possibly around jinx's age, sat at the front desk. the desk was a little bit to the side of the entrance, the person sitting there catching a glimpse of whoever entered first. but, the girl was too preoccupied.

the girl sat comfortably on a chair, slightly reclined back as she calmly chewed gum, occasionally popping a small bubble. her feet were elevated, resting on the desk, a magazine in her hands as she loosely flipped through the page.

jinx's eyes scanned her over, biting her lip almost nervously. why hadn't she just decided to go out and buy a damn pair of scissors? would've been much less work. she walked up to the front desk, her boots clanking against the floor in a rhythmic, melodic kind of way. this caught the girl's attention, causing her to look up from the magazine, her chewing stopping for a second.

as jinx finally got up to the counter, the girl adjusted, sitting upright and giving the blue-haired girl a grin. she tilted her head, her (h/c) hair tumbling to the side as she looks at jinx.

"hi there! how can i help ya? do you have an appointment?"

the girl's relaxed, bubbly demeanor was almost nauseating to jinx. she never once dealt with someone so... she doesn't even know. she took a deep breath in, calming her nerves she didn't realize existed, giving the girl a grin in return.

"hi! i was wondering if you could do... erm..." jinx's voice trailed off for a moment. she doesn't know terminology. an appointment? is that the word? no, those are in advance-

her thoughts stopped yelling at her as the girl gave jinx a soft smile. "we do walk-ins. you looking for a new do?"

the girl giggled at her own terminology, moving the chair back to stand up. jinx nodded, "yup, one of those."

"great. i'm free to take you back," the girl beckoned jinx with her hand, leading her to the furthest chair in the corner, patting the seat as she grabs an apron from the side. "what can i do for ya?"

jinx slipped into the chair. it was so comfortable to her, it almost felt foreign. it was wood but it was lightly cushioned, and had a slight modern feel. jinx's reflection greeted her, one that she only recently got used to with having a new unbroken mirror.

jinx cleared her throat, "just.. wanting it fixed. or whatever."

the girl lightly ran a finger through jinx's hair, bringing it up to assess the layers in her hair. jinx slightly tensed at the new touch, but didn't let it alarm her too much.

"at home hairdo, huh?" the girl spoke humorously, meeting jinx's gaze in the mirror. jinx huffed, refraining from giving the girl a glare. she didn't want to be made fun of for her decisions, and before she could make a retort, the girl started speaking again, "i get it. once i accidentally cut my hair up to my ears- wait i shouldn't be telling you that."

the girl cut herself off, and that got a laugh from jinx, giving you a lopsided grin in the mirror, "don't tell me that when you're gonna be chopping at my hair, toots."

the girl gave a sheepish shrug, before asking, "anything in particular in mind?"

jinx pursed her lips for a moment. did she? no. "just... whatever you want, yeah?"

the girl rose her eyebrows, "trusting a complete stranger with ya looks? bold. i dig it."

jinx found the girl funny. jinx watched the girl begin to even out the layers in her hair, chopping her hair to a length just right underneath her chin. jinx liked it so far.

eventually, the girl came around to the front, bending slightly to meet jinx's height as she grabbed at the long strand of hair, evening it out as she chopped a pair of bangs on jinx. the position got jinx to awkwardly clear her throat, looking away.

even with the avoidance, the girl started speaking up, "ya know, people say that hair holds memories."

jinx didn't know that.

"so what was so special about this one piece of hair?" the girl grinned in a playful manner, and jinxed watched the long strands fall onto her lap. she looked in the mirror and there were a pair of bangs just falling right above her eyebrows, nicely blending in with the rest of her hair.

"aren't you nosey?" jinx quips back, though without malice. jinx thought this girl was nice, even without knowing her for that long at all. and, seeing her new hair, she couldn't but have some approval.

"just makin' conversation, yeah?" the girl giggled. "let's get you washed?"

jinx hadn't realize how long it'd been since she washed her hair.

feeling the girl's hands and manicured nails shampoo at her scalp was almost a moan worthy, toe curling experience as the girl didn't speak, but only chewed on the piece of gum that had been in her mouth. she could tell jinx was enjoying it, but she didn't judge. I mean... who doesn't like getting their hair shampooed?

time passed quickly as eventually jinx ended up back in the salon chair, the girl eventually wrapping up blowing out jinx's hair, leaving her hair straight and soft, the heat nice against jinx's neck.

jinx couldn't believe who she saw in the mirror. this is what she needed. what she wanted. when she saw herself in the mirror, she didn't think "jinx" or "powder". she just felt.. like herself.

the girl eyed her expression in the mirror, giving a soft grin, "ya like it?"

jinx stopped admiring herself for one moment as she met your gaze in the mirror, nodding vigorously, giving you a grin, "love it, toots."

she paused for a moment, "what's your name?"

the girl tilted her head, telling jinx her name, "recommend me to your friends, yeah?"

jinx repeated your name, letting your name roll off her tongue. she wasn't going to let you know that she has no friends, but she gave you a grin, "definitely."

jinx became a regular after that.

[thecharacterchronicler]

Exams, poltergeists & supply closets (Part 1) || Sebastian Sallow x Reader || Smut

Outline: You and Sebastian decide to sneak into your professor’s office late at night but with Peeves chasing after you, you have no choice but to hide together in a tiny supply closet… One thing leading to another, you end up passing the time rather pleasantly together. But your actions may have unexpected consequences…

Word count: 3’464

Warnings: explicit smut, (accidental) pregnancy, characters aged up (20s) and probably a few mistakes here and there because English isn’t my first language.

(( Part 2 - Friends With Benefits )) - (( Part 3 - Madrakes, dusty books & an apology )) - (( Masterlist ))

It was late. Far too late to still be up and roaming the empty corridors of the castle. Sebastian knew what he risked if he got caught, he knew what you risked too but he simply didn’t see any alternative this time, it was an emergency.

“Will you tell me where we are going now ?” You asked him, walking behind him, close enough to benefit from the light of his wand, guiding his steps in the dimly lit halls.

He stopped in his tracks and you bumped into him with a thud. He turned around to look at you with a disapproving look, raising a finger to his lips to ask you to be quiet and you rolled your eyes at him. It wasn’t your fault, the least he could have done was warn you that he was going to stop so abruptly…

He froze, carefully listening to the sounds of the castle in the night, making sure no one was around to catch you breaking school rules. Again.

Once he decided that it was safe enough to continue, he started walking in direction of a wooden door you recognized with surprise.

“Mrs Weasley’s office ?” You exclaimed, as quietly as you could. “Is this how you are planning to help me out ?”

“She threatened to not let you finish the school year if you failed her preparatory exam.” Sebastian justified, reaching out to try to open the door but of course, it was locked. “What else can we do ?”

“Oh I don’t know, study maybe ? Try to keep up with homework ? Take more notes in class ? Anything but breaking into her office in the middle of the night!” You responded, scandalized that he’d take such a careless risk. Did he not realize that you both were very close to getting expelled from Hogwarts for various reasons ? Adding breaking into a professor’s office definitely wouldn’t help your case.

“I’ve heard your answers when Ominis quizzed you on the subject this evening, it was catastrophic.”

“You aren’t exactly the best at transfiguration either.” You snapped back, vexed by his remark.

“I’m good enough to not fail my exams.” He retorted, before attempting to open the door with an Alohomora spell but it remained locked, probably protected by a charm. “Crap.”

He took a closer look at the lock, looked around to both sides of the corridor to make sure that no one was in sight and took a step back, outstretching his arm to protectively guide you behind him.

“Make sure you stay behind me.” He told you, raising his wand in front of him.

“Oh no, Sebastian, don’t you dare !” You said, knowing exactly what he had in mind.

“Confringo !” He shouted and flames bursted out of his wand, crashing against the door in a thud and setting the old wood on fire.

There’s no way you wouldn’t both be expelled after this.

You watched helplessly as the door consumed itself enough to let you in and followed Sebastian inside the office with resignation. Might as well go for it now that you were here…

“Lumos.” You whispered, at the same time as he did, once inside the dark circular room that Professor Weasley used as her private office between classes. It wasn’t big but there were a lot of items around, shelves against every wall filled with books, parchments and relics. A large desk in the center of the room, with pieces of papers and files neatly piled up. Some heavy looking chests on the floor, sealed by large locks. You weren’t sure where to start. “What are we even looking for ?”

“The answers for the upcoming exam.” He replied, almost casually, as he started rummaging through the papers on the desk. “I know she keeps them somewhere around here.”

You turned to the shelf closest to you, surveying the different books lined up and taking a closer look at a strange and ancient looking relic on display. Sebastian opened each drawer of the desk one by one, shamelessly invading your professor’s privacy with a desperate expression on his face. It almost seemed like he cared about you succeeding at this preparatory exam more than you did… But why ?

You focused on your task, quickly going through the parchement papers piled up in front of you but you didn’t find anything helpful. You turned to look at him, now searching the shelf on the opposite side of the room. You could tell the more minutes went by, the more agitated he became, audibly groaning in frustration each time his rummaging proved unsuccessful.

You were about to tell him that you both should head back to your dorms, that it didn’t matter that much and most of all, he shouldn’t be breaking the rules for your sake but a commotion behind what was left of the door made you freeze in place. You exchanged an alarmed look with Sebastian as you both stayed perfectly still, listening to your surroundings.

“And what do we have here ?” Peeves’ loud voice suddenly boomed, resounding against the walls.

“Crap.” You heard Sebastian groan, letting go of what he was doing to catch your hand and pull you towards the door. “We need to go !”

You let him guide you out of the office, not even bothering to cover your tracks or repair the door you had destroyed on your way in. It was no use, now that Peeves had seen you, you were surely going to be sent to detention. Or expelled.

“I think I saw the caretaker in the hall, he’s going to catch yoOoOoOou !” Peeves shouted, his airy form following you as you both ran through the empty hallway. “Mister MoOoOoOoOoOn !”

“Shut up, Peeves !” Sebastian yelled but it was no use, the poltergeist enjoyed nothing more than to tell on your friend and see him get punished for his infractions.

You ran hand in hand under the alcoves and up a spiraling staircase, the ghost still following you with loud bursts of laughter resonating in your ears.

“Here !” Sebastian exclaimed, pulling on your hand to ensure you took the same sharp turn as him. He stopped in front of a large door you didn’t recognize and opened it with no hesitation, pushing you inside a dark and narrow supply closet before joining you there, quietly closing the door and plunging you both in total darkness.

You both held your panting breaths as the loud ghost flew by in the hallway, waiting until his voice faded to breathe again. It’s only then, in the absolute silence of the castle that you realized how close you were from each other, your body pressed against his as his warm breath softly caressed your skin.

“Do you think it’s safe to get out now ?” You asked him, your voice a whisper in the dark.

“He said Mister Moon wasn’t far, I think we should wait it out a bit longer.” He replied, his usual confidence replaced by an hesitant tone, as if being so close to you was unsettling him more than what he would have expected it to.

You cleared your throat awkwardly, outstretching your arms as far as you could to assess the space you truly disposed off. You barely had enough room to take a step forward before your body pressed against the wall but at least it put a few inches of distance between you and Sebastian. You both still were panting, the sounds of your ragged breaths filling the narrow supply closet. You could feel the warm air leaving his lips hitting against the exposed skin of your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine. You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cold stone wall to try to distract yourself, your mind - and body - extremely aware of the proximity of him behind you.

An echo of Peeves’ laughter resounded in the distance, making it clear that it still wasn’t safe to come out of your hideout.

“Stupid poltergeist.” Sebastian breathed, the animosity he felt towards the ghost who loved to snitch on him very audible in his tone.

You kept quiet, hoping you’d soon get an opportunity to exit the all too small closet, because your heart was racing in your chest and you couldn’t help but feel a shudder of excitement coursing through your entire body each time a part of Sebastian brushed against you, like a teenager desperate for something more. It was embarrassing.

But not as embarrassing as the thing currently poking your lower back.

It was his turn to awkwardly clear his throat, attempting to back away as far as he could but the erection that had grown into - and now outstretched - his pants still touched you.

“You know, maybe we could try to pass the time in a fun way.” He suggested, obviously deciding to own up to the situation.

“Sebastian.” You said, trying to sound scandalized by the implications of his proposition and his very noticeable arousal but it came out all wrong, more like a whispered moan and less like the patronizing sigh you were going for.

He took a step closer and you felt the full length of his cock pressing up against your back, the heat radiating from underneath the fabric of his pants piercing through your skirt to warm your own skin up. He placed a hand on your hip, careful at first, and as innocent as he could be, gently caressing its way up your waist with a slowness that made it seem like he was waiting for you to protest… But you didn’t.

Getting bolder because of your silent approbation, he snaked a hand under your skirt, caressing the bare skin of your thigh before moving to your center. You leaned back against him, your heart racing and your breathing pant up. Rationally, you knew this was very wrong, but in the darkness and the narrow space forcing you against each other, it felt so right.

“Getting caught in such a compromising position, added to sneaking out past curefew and breaking into Professor Weasley’s office will probably get us expelled, I don’t think we should risk it.” You finally managed to say, although your body was melting under his fiery touch.

“We may have broken a few rules tonight but they can’t say anything about this, we’re both adults.” He replied, his voice low against your ear, making you shiver once more.

“It’s written in the official school regulations; no intercourse or other sexual misconduct will be tolerated in the castle.” You informed him, a gasp escaping from your lips as his fingers slipped under the elastic of your panties, sliding downwards between your thighs to where you were already wet with anticipation for his touch.

“In the castle… So you’re saying we should hook up outside next time ? Like out of the astronomy tower ? Or in the gardens ? The front courtyard ? Technically we could even do it under the bleachers of the quidditch pitch...” He retorted, playfully, while his fingers applied pressure where you so desperately needed to feel it, earning a soft whimper in reaction.

He buried his face against your neck, placing a wet kiss on your pulse point as he massaged your clit with ease, tugging on your hip with his other hand to get you to grind against the impressively hard buldge in his pants.

You weren’t sure how long it lasted, nor did you remember to be quiet, shamelessly moaning as he brought a finger to your entrance and your grinding against him allowed you to control the speed and depth with which it slipped in and out of your pussy.

You enjoyed the way he breathed loudly against your neck, the tiny gasps dropping from his mouth each time the pressure you applied against his erection caught him by surprise. A pleasant surprise.

You knew you shouldn’t want more. Shouldn’t want him. But it felt too good to stop and you both were already too far gone to even try so you didn’t stop him when his hand left your panties to focus on sliding them down your thighs instead, before pulling your skirt up to your hips.

“We shouldn’t.” You whispered, a moment of lucidity in your thoughts, probably sparked by the sudden vulnerability you felt now that your underwear had been removed. Good thing Sebastian couldn’t see you in the dark, otherwise he would have laughed at how red your cheeks probably were by now.

“Why not ?” He asked, interrupting his attempt to open up his pants and focusing his full attention on you.

“Because…” You started, but suddenly couldn’t think of any real reason as to why it wasn’t a good idea, except for one. “Because we’re friends.”

He laughed and you felt his hand on your chest moving upwards to your neck until it reached your chin. He turned your face in his direction, leaving merely an inch of space between your lips and his.

“We’ll still be friends after that.” He promised, pressing a kiss on your mouth that was everything but friendly. It was a passionate, eager and hungry kiss. Desperate even, and just like that, your only good reason to stop him seemed completely unjustified. You could allow it to happen, you could hook up with your best friend without instantly losing him, there was no harm in having a little fun after all, you both were two consenting adults.

You returned his kiss and pressed your back against him, making him understand that you had no more objections and you felt him smile against your lips, triumphant.

He parted from you to finish unbuttoning his pants, pulling his hard cock out of them. He guided it between your legs, the tip instantly gliding between your wet folds when he stepped closer, easily finding its way to your prepared entrance. However, his erection was much bigger than his finger and you gasped in shock as it slowly stretched you out the deeper it went in. You braced yourself with your hands against the wall in front of you for support, whimpering pathetically when his full length was shoved inside you, making you feel incredibly full and hot.

A few obscenities dropped from his lips, mixed with groans and gasps as he moved his hips back and forth to create the friction you both so desperately craved. With his hands on each of your hips, he guided you in rythym to add in some intensity to his own thrusts, making sure that you’d meet him ready whenever he sloppily pushed forward, his tip hitting as deep as it could inside your wet pussy.

It felt good, and the pleasure building up in the pit of your stomach kept intensifying with each of his thrusts. You weren’t aware of much else except of how perfectly he fitted inside you, how your own walls were contracting around him the closer to climaxing you got, and faintly - very faintly - of the distant sound of a poltergeist’s voice in the empty hallways.

At least Sebastian could still think clearly enough to remember the reason why you had ended up in such close proximity in the first place, and how crucial it was that you did not get caught. Especially not now that he was so recklessly fucking you from behind. So one of his hand let go of the grip it had on your hip to cover your mouth, muffling the sound of the moans you didn’t even realize that you were letting out, and effectively silencing your cry when the pleasant sensation in your body exploded into pure bliss.

Then, it was his turn to struggle with keeping quiet. He bite down on his lower lip as hard as he could when the tightness of your walls around him became way too intense to bare, causing him to shoot his load deep inside you. He filled you up with his cum, unable to stop himself, another obscene word dropping from his lips as he realized how imprudent it was.

Once he was done and your body relaxed enough to allow him to pull out, he took a step back and leaned against the wall, chest heaving and vision blurry. You were panting too as you reached down to pull your panties back on, feeling his release dripping out of you and already soaking the fabric. You adjusted your skirt and your hair, although you weren’t sure it mattered that much. Not in the darkness of the supply closet at least.

Sebastian’s ragged breathing slowly came back to normal, you heard the sound of his pants and the way he shifted to tug his shirt back inside them, making himself presentable again as well. Then, without a word, he cracked the closet door open and took a tentative look around.

With the corridors apparently cleared, he stepped out and held out his hand for you, gallantly helping you down the step as your eyes adjusted to the moonlit hallway. You followed him as he guided you through the castle back to your dorm, hand in hand this time, and once it was time for you to go your separate ways, he wished you a goodnight with a shy kiss on your lips and a smug grin on his face that you knew all too well.

By some kind of miracle you couldn’t quite comprehend, you hadn’t failed your transfiguration exam, even scoring a pretty acceptable number of points on it. You should have been overjoyed when Professor Weasley handed you your copy back, even though she looked at you with a sucpicious expression on her face, but your mind was mulling over something much more important.

By the time your last class of the day was over, you still hadn’t managed to smile a single time, absently doodling on your parchement paper instead of taking notes for the next exam. You only realized that your day was over because all the students around you suddenly got up, leaving you to pack your things up in a rush. You were the last person to leave the classroom but, as you stepped outside in the courtyard, a familiar freckled face was waiting for you by the door, a grin on his face that you tried to imitate, although your heart tightened in your chest and it suddenly felt like there wasn’t enough air outside to fill your lungs.

“So ? Did you pass Weasley’s preparation exam ?” He inquired, excitedly enough to make you think that he already knew the answer. But when he saw how difficult it was for you to feign the same kind of enthusiasm, his face dropped and his brows furrowed intensely.

“I did.” You told him, walking to the fountain so that you could sit on the edge of it, a welcomed rest after the sleepless night you had endured.

“Then why do you look like you’ve seen a boggart ?”

“I’m fine.” You said, but you knew he didn’t believe you at all. You barely believed it yourself.

“What’s going on ?” He asked, his tone softer, concern on his face as he sat down next to you. You took a deep breath, panic rising in you once again. You knew that you would have to tell him eventually, but the fear of how it might ruin your friendship weighted heavily on your chest. “Is it because of… What we did last month ?”

You looked at him, surprised to see his usual confidence gone, replaced by worry and empathy.

“Yes.” You admitted, quietly but he looked away, letting you know that he heard you clearly.

“I’m sorry if I did something that upset you.” He said, his legs nervously bouncing up and down. “I noticed you’ve been distant since it happened, I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…”

“No, it’s not that, I’m not upset.” You said, shaking your head, which seemed to reassure him slightly and he dared look at you again. You knew it was time to tell him the truth and you didn’t know of any better way to do it than dropping it on him like a ticking bomb. “I think I’m pregnant, Sebastian.”

You watched as his eyes widened and many different emotions passed on his face, from confusion to absolute fear.

“Wh-What ? Is it… Mine ?” He asked, once the shock of your confession allowed him to speak again, although his face had turned ghostly pale.

“No, it’s Poppy’s...” You snapped, vexed by his question. Whose else could it be ? He was one of the only males that still dared approach you now that the whole school knew of your ability to wield ancient magic and of the many deaths such a power had caused. “Of course it’s yours !”

“Alright, okay, let’s not panic.” He said, seemingly struggling to follow his own advice, jumping up from his seat to walk around you in circles with his hands tugging at his hair and a grimace on his face. “How did this happen ?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if you really needed to have a conversation about the birds and the bees with him… But when his brown eyes met yours, something flashed in them, making it clear that he knew exactly how it had happened, the memory still playing in details in his mind on a daily basis.

“Gosh, what are we going to do ?” You whined, hiding your face behind your hands. “My parents are going to kill me… And they are going to kill you too.”

“They don’t need to know now, right ? Nobody has to know yet, there’s still time.”

“If I don’t tell them, they’ll figure it out pretty quickly when I’ll look about ready to pop after we graduate...”

“But by then we’ll have figured things out too… Hopefully.” Sebastian said, with a smile he meant to be reassuring but you could still clearly see the sheer panic in his eyes. “Until then, we should try to keep it a secret... Even from Ominis.”

“Okay, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

(( Part 2 )) - (( Part 3 )) - ♡ - (( Tip Jar )) - ♡

[tojipie]

ma’am you mentioned slipping a guard a wad of cash for a quick closet fuck in your story so like…how often did prison toji have to bribe the guards? 😅

prison boyfriend toji series linked here <3

content: semi-public, intimidation, mentions of incarceration, facials

custodial wing at 11:30

that’s what he’d whispered to you before you parted during your day visit, hand reaching under the hem of your shirt to trace shapes into the curve of your spine.

you didn’t need to ask questions knowing how often the two of you pulled this off. if the state wouldn’t grant you two conjugal visits on account of you not being married.. then you’d just have to make your own. 

getting started wasn’t a challenge in the slightest knowing entry-level guards melted like putty once a little stipend was involved. money was everything in this system, and toji had left you a lot of money.

once every two months was the deal. frequent enough that you’d both get your fill of each other outside supervised visits, but not so often as to draw suspicion. 

naturally, you make a beeline to your destination as soon visiting hours come to a close, mumbling something about needing the bathroom to a clearly peeved officer at the front desk. 

toji comes into view just at the end of the hall, facing away from you. you realize his body is obstructing another person as you you near, bits of their conversation floating in and out. 

“you really should be in your cell fushiguro...”

“just wait till’ she gets here before you do something stupid.. christ.”

you pause just beside toji, peering over at the navy blue-clad stranger in front of you. 

“where’s..” you trail off, eyes flitting between the two men. great, your regular officer wasn’t on duty today. a fucking warning might have been nice. 

the new guard is probably half your boyfriend’s size—and age, not a firm bone in his body by the looks of it. if he did, you figure toji would already be in solitary for sneaking out of his cell. your shoulders relax at the realization. at least this guy wasn’t a threat. 

the inmate shoots you a knowing smile, sly as ever despite the high-stakes situation. you quickly move to rustle through your pockets at the sight of his outstretched palm, placing a wad of cash in his hand.

“why don’t we give our pal a little gift, hm?” toji coos, holding the money up between two fingers and shaking it like a dog treat. “wanna give me an hour with my girl?”

the guard frowns, looking around cautiously.

“we’re not really supposed to take bribes…”

the fake smile on toji’s face falters. “fuck does that mean?” he says in disbelief.

“well honestly, it means that i’m going to have to report this.” the younger man says, reaching for his walkie-talkie to alert the rest of the security team. 

“are you stupid?” toji seethes. sizing the smaller man up. regret instantly washes over the the guard’s face, eyes blowing impossibly wide as he’s backed up against the wall.

“no sir— I mean— i’m sorry!” a tattooed fist slams against the concrete, dangerously close to his face. 

“i could kill you right now. could snap your neck and keep you in that closet over there,” he whispers, jutting his thumb behind him. you know there’s no real intent behind his words, toji simply wasn’t that cruel. 

the paralyzed guard cowers at the threat, taking the two of you by surprise as a wet spot grows on the front of his pants. gross.

“you gonna piss your pants every time a real man speaks to you? huh?” he barks, laughing at the younger man’s misfortune. 

“no no no please,” the guard babbles, motioning toward the closet. “i’ll keep watch i promise, i— i don’t even need the money i’m sorry.”

“good cause you weren’t getting it,” toji sneers, pocketing the cash before picking you up bridal style. 

“that was mean,” you whisper, oddly impressed at the inmate’s intimidation skills.

“yeah? you like when i’m mean?” he mutters jokingly, hands already squeezing the curve of your ass from where his palms are holding your body up. the contact makes you shudder, sending bolts of electricity right to your core.

you loved seeing him like this, as sick as it was. possessive, short-tempered, commanding. it all made your knees weak. 

you find yourself propped up against the door of the closet moments later, held up by his hands as he wastes no time, leaning in to mouth at the curve of your neck. 

the way he maneuvers you without so much as a sigh only stokes the flames deep in your core. toji’s strength was something to behold, an absolute marvel.

the closet is dim, lit by a pull-string bulb older than the two of you combined. you’re so close that you don’t know where your body ends and his starts, making it seem like there’s not enough air for the both of you. 

you reach down with one hand, keeping the other on his shoulder for balance. deft fingers work up the scratchy fabric of his brown uniform, exposing his abs with a hum.

fuck, he was getting bigger, muscles chiseling deeper and deeper as each day went by. the barest hint of black ink peeks just under the hem of his shirt, grabbing your attention for just a moment.

“lift it up angel,” he rasps, mouth still working at the thin skin of your collarbones. purple blood vessels bloom under his lips, the trail of hickeys growing larger by the minute.

the inmate helps you strip his upper half, lips detaching from your body with a sly smile.

“toji, oh my god,” you gasp, running a careful hand over the barely healed tattoo. 

“didn’t want you to see till’ it was finished,” he explains, grinding the hard length of his cock against your clothed core. 

toji hadn’t taken his shirt off the last two times you’d snuck off together, opting fuck you through three orgasms with his pants around his knees, showing off the barest hint of his happy trail. 

you figured it was for the sake of saving time, a precautionary measure in case your situation was compromised. naturally, there was a much deeper reason behind it.

delicate swirled letters brand your name across his ribs, etched into tanned skin amid a background of black and grey mist. the skin around the edge is still pink and delicate. blushed by the spike of a needle over, and over, and over.

god.. how did he even get this done? and so well at that? the things he manages to achieve even while serving time never fail to blow you away.

you hadn’t even realized he’d stopped grinding into you, his palm just barely cradling your face.

“you okay?” he says it so gently, like you’ll break. 

“it’s perfect,” you tell him, basking in the shy smile he gives you. scarred lips finally meet yours, setting you down on the floor of the closet to shimmy your skirt down. toji pulls away with an audible hum, tapping the inside of your calf to get you to open your legs wider.

the inmate wastes no time, hooking a thumb under the fabric covering your heat, and pulling your panties to the side. you feel his hulking body drop to a knee in the dim light, running thick hands up the soft skin of your calves before pressing a gentle kiss to your clit. 

“beautiful,” he whispers, though the stars that dance across your vision keep you wondering if he’s talking about you, or your pussy. 

and then your thoughts come to a screeching halt as a warm, dexterous tongue licks up the length of your slit. the noise he makes is obscene, desperate, groaning low in his chest as he tastes you for the first time in months. 

you nearly forgot how good it feels to be taken like this, struggling to maintain your balance as toji laps at your hole, two hands settling on your knees should they decide to buckle. 

“tastes so fucking good,” 

he says it directly into your heat, shooting vibrations straight into your core. warm velvet sneaks up to lap at your sensitive bud, tracing hot, wet circles in the spot that matters most.

you peek down just enough to see him free his cock from his boxers. two fingers swipe through your heat, using your slick to ease the slide of his hand along his shaft. 

it’s filthy, the way he’s always been so readily able to shift how he acts around you. cold, unforgiving hands turning into warm fingers that bring you nothing but pleasure. 

you’re the only one who sees him like this— who will ever see him like this. on his knees in the back of a cramped closet, making love to your cunt like a man starved. 

the feeling of your approaching high rips you from your thoughts, hands tangling into his mess of raven hair.

“gonna cum,” you whine, pushing at his forehead to get his face away from your clit. the tiniest bit of relief floods your core as he pulls away, his mouth and chin dripping with slick. 

“turn around.”

you haven’t even fully pressed yourself against the door before the blunt head of his cock is sliding into your entrance, filling you to the brim in one fluid motion.

toji takes a second to palm at the flesh of your ass, humming in appreciation as you adjust to his size.

“please,” you groan, “please just fuck me toji, please.”

the inmate pauses, slipping a hand under the hem of your shirt to play with your tits.

“should i?” he whispers, groaning as you clench down on his length.

frustrated, you push your hips back into his shaft, swallowing him over and over while harsh pants ring out behind you. large hands squeeze around your waist to stall your movements, giving him space to rut into you like you need.

the feeling is seismic, explosive. sending you right over the edge and into the abyss as black streaks over your vision. you don’t think you’ve ever been fucked this good before, taking deep, thorough gulps of air as you’re humped and rutted into against the fragile wood of the closet door.

large fingers wrap around your wrist and pin your arm behind you as you reach down to toy with yourself.

“like this,” he tells you. the implications clear as day.

cum on his cock or don’t cum at all. 

and cum you do, shuddering as you flood yourself between your legs. his pace doesn’t let up for a single second, bucking up into that special spot over and over.

“knees,” he commands, tone as urgent as ever. “fuck, get on your knees.”

you don’t have to be told twice, sinking to the floor to face him as he pulls out of you.

“open baby, open up for me.” the noise his hand makes while her jerks himself off is absolutely debilitating.

you tiredly rest your cheek just under the jut of his hip bone, pressing soft kisses under the far edge of his tattoo. the aftershocks of your high leave you breathless as thick spurts of seed cover the left half of your face. 

toji takes you by the face and holds you in front of him, fingers squishing your lips into a pout as he paints your face with the last of his load.

“there we go, there we go, eat it for me,” he pants from above you, chest heaving from the force of his orgasm. you gather as much as you can with your tongue, letting him thumb the rest into your mouth.

“beautiful,” he says, letting you clean off his fingers with your tongue. and this time you’re sure that he’s talking about you, his girl. his everything.

taglist ! 🏷️

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[jadeshifting]

— THE HOGWARTS NEWSPAPER

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

i’ve had this in my script and my drafts for a while, but i saw @beatrixshifts mention on my tl that it would be cool so that’s why i’m posting it >:)

(also, I did not come up with the name of the newspaper, i got it from another user yearsss ago, so cred to them !!)

“The Daily Prophet and their flobberworm of a head reporter can keep their drama— we don’t twist our stories to fit some stale Ministry narrative.” — The Editor-in-Chief of The Puffinton Post

THE PUFFINGTON POST is a chaotic yet strangely efficient operation run out of a repurposed classroom on the third floor (which is lovingly referred to as The Quillery.) run by a rotating team of overachievers, gossipmongers, and one sleep-deprived layout wizard, it’s both a battlefield of deadlines and the social pulse of the school. the editors use enchanted Quick-Quotes Quills to speed up production, though it’s anyone’s guess if the quills capture actual facts or just the juiciest version of the truth

HOW IT’S RUN

the team is led by an Editor-in-Chief (usually a loud, opinionated seventh-year), assisted by a handful of section editors who wield red-inked quills like weapons. each week, they hold heated brainstorming meetings, where the room crackles with enchanted floating parchment and enough spilled tea (literal and metaphorical) to fill the Great Lake. submissions are open to any student, but staff writers get first dibs on big stories—assuming they can charm the editors, who love a bit of drama

THE NEWSPAPER TEAM

REPORTERS . scout the juiciest gossip, biggest news, and weirdest happenings on campus. practically unstoppable, they’ll dive into the Forbidden Forest for a scoop if it means landing the front page

EDITORS . ruthlessly revise articles and argue over headlines, aiming for maximum drama without ending up on a professor’s radar

PHOTOGRAPHERS . armed with charmed cameras that capture moving images, they often risk life and limb chasing Quidditch players mid-match or snapping Peeves in action

ILLUSTRATORS . craft whimsical moving cartoons or hauntingly detailed sketches, depending on the tone of the piece

LAYOUT TEAM . use advanced spellwork to arrange articles, images, and enchanting advertisements that sometimes wink at readers

SECTIONS & NOTABLE STORIES

HEADLINE NEWS . covers Hogwarts’ biggest events. Recent splashy stories include “Are the House-Elves Planning a Union?” and “Hagrid’s Pumpkin Patch: A Site of Magical Growth or Magical Mischief?”

QUIDDITCH CORNER . tracks team stats, with columns like “Is Gryffindor’s Seeker Actually a Golden Snitch Magnet?”

SOCIAL SPOTLIGHT . a slightly catty, endlessly entertaining rundown of who’s dating, who’s fighting, and who’s been caught sneaking butterbeer into the Astronomy Tower

MYSTERIES & ODDITIES . a deep dive into Hogwarts lore, featuring pieces like “The Hidden Staircase That Eats Shoes” and “Who Really Haunts the Fourth Floor Lavatory?”

OPINION & SATIRE . snarky takes on everything from new potion regulations to the controversial topic of house unity, with regular features like “Why Ravenclaws Think They Know Everything” (written by a Ravenclaw)

CREATIVE SHOWCASE . poems, short stories, and student artwork, like “An Ode to Dobby” or fine-tip pen sketches of the Black Lake’s grindylows

DISTRIBUTION

The Puffington Post is distributed every Friday morning via enchanted paper airplanes that zoom directly to breakfast tables in the Great Hall. the magic wears off if you take too long to read, so dawdling isn’t an option. prefects often complain about students reading under their desks during Charms, but professors secretly subscribe, too.

SPECIAL EDITIONS (every one is a chaotic affair, jam-packed with so much Hogwarts spirit you can almost smell the butterbeer stains on the parchment)

— THE VALENTINE’S SPECIAL : Love, Lies, and Lacewing Potions

this edition is dripping with enchanted hearts and aggressively pink margins, with stories like “Top 10 Secret Spots to Swoon Your Sweetheart” and “The Most Romantic Love Potions You Absolutely Shouldn’t Use (But Totally Will).” the gossip column goes full throttle, outing secret crushes (with questionable accuracy), while the Creative Showcase features poetry so sappy even Madam Pince has been caught dabbing at her eyes

— THE FIRST-YEAR SURVIVAL GUIDE : Sorting, Snitches, and Surviving Snape

released every September, it’s a crash course for newbies. expect practical tips like “How to Get the Moving Stairs to Chill” and “10 Ways to Not Cry in Potions (Impossible, But Worth Trying).” veteran students contribute anonymously to the “Unofficial Rules” section, which includes gems like “Don’t Look the Bloody Baron in the Eye” and “If Fred and George Weasley Offer You Candy, Run.”

— THE YULE BALL EDITION : Fashion, Feuds, and Footwork

a glossy, glitzy masterpiece with enchanted images of past Yule Ball outfits and step-by-step charms for fixing last-minute wardrobe disasters. the Social Spotlight section is essentially a pre-ball betting pool on who’s showing up with whom, while Opinion dives into debates like “Should Durmstrang Boys Be Banned from Stealing All the Dates?”

— THE END-OF-TERM SPECTACULAR : Grades, Gags, and the Great House Cup Debate

published in June, it’s part celebration, part roast. professors get “awards” (like Flitwick for Most Patient and Snape for Most Likely to Kill You with a Glare), and there’s always a cheeky exposé on house-point shenanigans. expect tear-jerking farewells to seventh-years alongside brutally honest year-in-review recaps, like “Was That a Troll in the Dungeon or Just Another Tuesday?”

EXTRA, EXTRA !!

— RIVALRY . there’s a (very one-sided) feud with The Weekly Wizard, a smaller Ravenclaw-run zine, though it’s been dismissed by most students as “too niche and painfully dull”

— BEHIND THE SCENES . the staff always keeps a stash of Honeydukes’ chocolate for late-night edits, and their mascot—a tiny enchanted quill named Zippy—flits around leaving motivational doodles on unfinished articles

if Hogwarts has a pulse, The Puffington Post is the enchanted quill jotting down every thrilling, bizarre, and scandalous beat

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[churipu]

Regular life AU!

Salaryman!Nanami x Sleepyhead!Reader

Reader loves to take naps and Nanami loves to over work so Reader always forces Nami to take naps with her when she’s tired because she knows he’s tired too.

She invades his office covered in her blanket and stands in front of Nanami until he picks her up and they go sleep ;-;

Sometimes he tries to plead with her to wait longer but she doesn’t budge at all 🤣

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 .ᐟ

────── 𝕴 . featuring. nanami kento x fem! reader

────── 𝕴 . warnings. non-sorcerer au! nanami being the man he is, i miss him :(

note. i'm in a lecture right now, and i'm bored out of my mind — but hii nonnie, i absolutely love this idea, i love sleeping and this request is just so cute :( i hope you like this!

"hi, sweetheart." nanami whispers, his hand busy gripping on the pen as he craned his neck from side to side, from paper to paper, "why aren't you napping?"

you furrowed your brows, "i was napping, until i turned over to hug my boyfriend and he's gone."

nanami's eyes promptly averted to yours, the corner of his lips tugging up into a small, exhausted smile, "you know i'm a little busy, right? i really have to get this done the day after tomorrow — i promise i'll be back in bed to nap with you."

his voice was soft, almost inaudible. the exhaustion forming under his eyes was apparent.

"not even just for a few hours?" you questioned, standing in front of his desk — bundled inside a white colored blanket, "you need to rest too, kento. look at you."

"i know, darling. i just need to get this done real quick, okay?" he laid his pen down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"just for a few hours, please?" you tell him, knowing he wouldn't be able to lay himself to rest unless you forced him to.

nanami is a hard worker. i think that should be fairly obvious — he over works a lot, even after office hours. which was a pet peeve to you that he's discarding his own health away for work. and no matter how hard you tried, he just won't stop.

"i know, love. in a minute. okay?"

his question received no answer. that made his eyes rise up to meet yours and they weren't happy. nanami chuckles, he leaned back onto his chair, "you. me. nap. now."

slowly, he stands up and stretches his arms upwards, "i'm sorry for being so absent lately, come here," the man opens his arms for you to fall into.

and so you did, jumping into his arms.

he pats your hair, tightening the blanket around you — before prompting to carry you up, sauntering back to the bedroom, "feel better?"

nodding, you placed your face in between his neck and shoulder, "much better, and you stink."

his body vibrated as he stifled back a laugh, kissing the top of your head, "i haven't had the time to shower after coming back from work, i'm sorry," nanami explains.

shaking your head, you huffed, "i know, it's okay. i still love you though."

nanami whispers back, "i love you too."

he entered the bedroom, laying you down on the bed — gently pulling the covers off you, tucking you in like how a mother would to her child. can't say that you didn't enjoy the pampering.

"i'm going to take a quick shower, i'll be back," nanami leans down, kissing the tip of your nose, making you subconsciously scrunch it.

"don't take too long," you rolled your eyes.

"i won't, darling."

as he got up to leave, you grabbed the hem of his shirt, "i want something before you go shower."

nanami raised a brow, waiting for your statement. but you didn't, all he saw was you puckering your lips out slightly — nanami smiled, pulling you in by your neck, planting his lips onto yours.

"i love you, ken."

he kissed you again, "i love you too."

© churipu 2024 , do not copy or repost anywhere

[dotcie]

MDNI | simon 'ghost' riley x afab!reader | no use of y/n, no mention of name, weight, hair style, or skin colour | use of nickname "dove" | ghost fucks you on shepherds desk. that‘s it.

The scream that climbs out of your lungs dies unaired, against rough skin, and the world explodes into motion.

You bite down on the bare palm covering your mouth, elbows digging into the body that traps you in place. Feet shuffle, and before you can even get your bearings enough to tap into your training to fight back, you're dragged into the closest room.

The door is pulled shut behind you, latching with a quiet little click, and you're spun around to face your opponent—back slamming against the slab of wood blocking your freedom. It takes you more seconds of struggling to recognise that the hand over your mouth is accompanied by familiar tattoos and that the man in front of you is, indeed, Simon.

"Don't scream," he says, all casual and loose.

His lips quirk with an utterly devilish smirk once he lets go of you, and your clenched fists crash down onto his chest immediately; trying to push him away, to make it hurt. You shove at him, aim for his face, but he doesn't yield—just grabs your wrists mid air like it's nothing.

"You fuck—fucking psychopath!" you spit, pulling and puffing in his tight grip, but he doesn't let go.

"Hey, hey—" Simon begins instead, voice growing softer, but he's laughing, and the sound of it is laced with a gravity that draws an ache into the rhythm of your own heartbeat.

"Let go of me!"

He slightly tilts his head as he stares down on you, gaze raking over your face as if he is searching for something—how serious you are, maybe. An indicator of how upset you are, perhaps. His eyes linger on the slight frown curving the corners of your lips and the anger in your eyes. You stare back fiercely, heart caught in your throat.

"Sorry," he says, the shadow of a grin ghosting over his lips as he finally lets go of you.

"I'm going to kill you," you snarl back, palming your wrist.

"Y'wouldn't be the first to try, dove."

He says it in that same monotone manner he always does, and you heave a deep sigh, tipping your head back against the door for an agonizing beat—as though you're horribly exhausted by this little game of his.

Yet, he seems unmoved, his eyes unreadable. You've gritted your teeth for years at his silence, just to now drag it on out of spite.

You let your eyes roam through the dark room you've been dragged into. Ceiling-high bookshelves, expensive leather chairs, and a solid wood desk fill the room. There's no question that this must be Shepherd's office, and you swallow the question of how Simon managed to get in here. When you shake your head at him in silence disapproval instead, he blinks back at you unmoved.

It's the first time you get a good look at him since you left him in Brixton. He's in a plain, dark blue uniform, a row of medals clinging to the left side of his left chest. It's been a while since you've seen him in formal attire, and your eyes linger a little bit too long on his broad frame before they move up and take in his scarred face. The jaw you know, the crooked nose, the dark eyes that often carry a brutal, pale expression—now looking down on you soft and open.

"No mask, huh?" You hate how the words come out low and peeved, an exhale that flutters like a leaf carried adrift by strong winds.

"They said it'd be unbecoming to the other guests."

You laugh, just a breath, and your face crumples into a hundred shades of grief with it. The way his voice folds gently around your name immediately makes everything much worse.

"Look, y'told me not to contact you, and I didn't, alright, but we're both here and—shite, I dunno. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe—"

"How much have you been drinking?"

"Lost count. It's Johnny's fault, really—you look stunning, have I told you yet?"

"You did." — "Good."

You freeze as he steps closer, but you don't pull away. Simon lets his touch linger, slowly skimming his fingertips over your jaw. He catches the way your breath quickens, and how your gaze flickers to his lips. You swallow hard, trying to breathe past the sudden thundering of your heart against your ribs. The flare of heat that sears through your veins is a warning, and the familiar longing cleaving you in two is just as sharp and unforgiving. You make an annoyed face at him for it, wanting to claw at his face and rip his clothes off at the same time.

"Let me kiss you," he murmurs, touching you like it's a question.

Your heart is in the back of your throat. Although you try to swallow it, your voice comes out as little more than a whisper. "Simon, I—"

He moves anyway, bridges the gap between you, and your hands move to his chest. Your breath catches and tangles up in your ribs, like it's the first time you've ever been here, the first time he's looking at you with this intensity that's palpable, that's alive and tangible and real.

Your hands on his chest curl into fists. "C'mon, don't do this, we talked about—"

He doesn't let you finish, kissing the words right out of your mouth.

Simon pours all his feelings— every drop of love he holds for you in his heart, every last fraying thread of longing, everything—into the kiss. You tremble under the warmth of his lips, cursing yourself for giving in, for meeting him here alone. You're not a good person—you are a terrible person, and you're not going to stop, because now Simon is sucking in your bottom lip, and inching his hands up your thighs, up over your hips, palming your ass, and it feels good and it is terrible and he wants you just like this, and you—

Simon picks you up by the thighs, and there's no room in your head to protest; you wrap your arms and legs around him instead, deepening the kiss like you're starved for it. He crosses the room effortlessly, kicking a chair out of the way with his foot with a screech, before setting you down on the cool surface of Shepherd's desk.

[read more]

[writingpandagoth]

Hello, I am a huge fan of your writing. Your words are so beautifully written. I am a wheelchair user and I am also deaf and there aren't any stories about severus snape and a reader with these disabilities so I was really hoping that you could write a love story where the reader is afraid that her crush on severus is unrequited and will only ever experience love though books she reads but severus feels exactly the same about her. The reader gose to the library in hogwarts but can't reach a book so severus helps her and somehow they end up telling each other they love one another. Thank you so much. I really hope you can write this. i am wishing on stars in hopes that you are able to 🌠✨️💫🌟

Hey!

Thank you so much for liking my stories.

You are right there aren't really any stories of that kind that's why I am happy to take on that request.

So here it is and I hope it makes sense and that you like it.

Between The Pages

You’ve heard people say that Hogwarts is alive.

Not just magical. Alive.

That the staircases have moods. That the paintings gossip. That the castle remembers things.

You used to wonder what that meant. Now, you understand.

Because from the moment you arrived, the castle adjusted—not with fanfare or pity, but with a quiet kind of reverence. A respect you didn’t expect. You were eleven joining with all the other new first years.

You had been scared how you were going to adjust to the castle and it's many stairs it was known for. You trailed behind the others slowly pushing your chair forward watching how all the other ran up the stairs excited. You could see them laugh and talk but all you heard was silence surrounding you.

You could feel your stomach drop knowing you had to get some help to get up but as you finally reached the stair, it simply changed into a ramp. No crackle of spellwork. The steps just melted seamlessly, stone reshaping like water, as if it had always meant to do so, and had simply been waiting for you.

Other things followed.

Tapestries that once hung too low now lifted just enough to clear your path. When the halls are crowded, certain torches flicker blue—gentle warning lights, just for you. And in moments of chaos—duels, accidents, fire drills—they flicker red, a silent alarm, just for you.

Doors opened without needing a push, ramps extend from thresholds just before your wheels meet them and Classroom floors smoothed under your wheels like hands offering a gentle path.

The castle saw you.

And it adjusted for you.

In class, Professors began using an enchantment that transcribes their words into glowing script across the desk in front of you—a charm invented by Flitwick, tested by McGonagall, and refined until the spell matched the rhythm of human speech nearly perfectly. You can follow lessons without having to read lips or depend on notes.

Your housemates adapted, too. Some even started to learn sign language over the years to communicate with you better. No one ever made a show of it.

They'd wait for you before meals and make room at the table without needing to be asked, or push your chair through muddy paths in Hogsmeade, or offer a steadying arm when doing transfer between the bed and wheelchair.

They don’t treat you like glass.

They treat you like you.

You laugh. You grumble about homework. You roll your eyes at Peeves. You duel in practice like anyone else—your wand hand sure and steady.

You are an ordinary Hogwarts student.

It’s not always perfect. Nothing is.

There are still days when Professors speak too fast for the transcription charm to catch. Or when someone stares a little too long at your chair. Or when you’re tired—just bone-deep tired—of having to think two steps ahead of the world around you.

But even then… the castle holds you.

Warm sunlight in your study corner.

A torch that burns brighter when you read, so you see the words better.

The library at Hogwarts has always been your sanctuary.

Here, you are home.

Not just because of the books—though the books are everything to you. They’re how you travel, how you learn, how you feel. Each page is a voice you don’t have to hear to understand. Each story, a world that welcomes you without question.

But more than that, it’s the stillness that comforts you.

The way the high, arched windows let in honeyed afternoon light that drapes across the tables like a promise. The scent of parchment, ink, and time itself. The soft hush that settles over the rows of shelves—not silence exactly, but something better. Something alive.

You don’t need to hear the creak of floorboards or the rustle of pages. You feel them—the gentle vibrations in the wood beneath your palms, the shifting warmth of another presence passing by. The castle speaks to you in ways no one else can. And here, in this room, its voice is always calm. Gentle. Kind.

You move through the library with ease. The floor rolls smooth beneath your chair. Your fingers trail the spines of books you’ve read a dozen times before, greeting them like old friends. Most students are still at dinner, so the aisles are yours. Peaceful. Familiar.

Sometimes, you watch the others who drift through—Ravenclaws with arms full of notes, a pair of Hufflepuffs curled up in the corner, reading aloud with shared smiles.

And… him.

Severus Snape.

He rarely comes during the rush of the day.

But in the long amber hush of late afternoons, he appears. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. His hair close to always hiding his face like he doesn't want to be seen.

He moves like he’s afraid of being heard—shoulders drawn in, footsteps careful. But his silence isn’t meek. It hums with tension, coiled like a wire stretched too thin. There’s a heaviness to him, not in body but in presence. Like he’s carrying things no one else can see.

He moves like he’s part of the castle itself, like he belongs to the old stones and the hush between words.

You don’t remember when you started watching him.

Or when watching turned into something more.

It began with admiration—his mind, his stillness, the way he moves in potions class with a grace when he brew potions, like a polished blade. And then there’s the way he touches glass vials—delicate, precise.

But over time, something gentler crept in. A curiosity. A softness. A feeling you don’t name, not even to yourself.

You see things in him others miss.

You see the way his brow furrows when he reads. The way he presses his lips together when someone gets too close while he’s lost in thought, like the world is an intrusion he’s learned to brace for. The way he lingers by windows just a little too long, like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

The way he seems like someone who, maybe, just maybe—knows what it means to live at a distance.

You shake the thought away.

You aren’t foolish enough to think a boy like Severus Snape could fall in love with you.

But you let yourself imagine it anyway.

You’ve never spoken.

He may not even know your name.

To him, perhaps, you're just the deaf girl in the wheelchair who lives in books. The quiet one in the corner. The one who watches, but doesn’t ask.

But oh, how many stories you’ve read of boys like him.

Distant. Damaged. Brilliant. The ones who never say what they mean—but show it in a hundred quiet ways. The ones who hide their tenderness beneath walls so thick only love can reach through them.

And girls like you—girls with stories tucked behind their ribs and silence written into their bones—they are never left behind.

They are loved.

But this isn’t a story.

This is the real world, where your voice is too often lost in a room and your body too often mistaken for something fragile.

Love is something for the pages in your lap.

Not the life you live.

And you’ve made your peace with that

So you let the longing sit quietly beside you.

And return to your book.

—

He notices you more often than he means to.

It began, he tells himself, with curiosity. An awareness. A cataloging of presence, as he does with most things. You're often in the library when he arrives. Always at the same table, sunlight touching your shoulders, a book open before you and that thoughtful crease between your brows.

At first, he noticed your quiet.

Not silence—quiet.

Intentional. Rooted. Not born of absence, but presence so complete it needed no sound to declare itself.

He envied that.

And then—he noticed the way the castle behaved around you.

He’d never seen it before, not really. But once he looked, he couldn’t unsee it. The way the flagstones seemed to smooth beneath your wheels. The way the lights dimmed gently as you passed, or flared softly when someone came too close. The way the books you reached for always seemed just within reach… unless they weren’t.

That’s when he noticed something else.

The way you tried not to ask for help.

The way your hand would hover, just barely, near a book too high, and then retreat. The way your gaze flicked toward Madam Pince but never stayed long enough to draw attention. The way your shoulders held still under disappointment—composed, resigned, practiced.

It made something sharp twist in his chest.

You don’t lash out. You don’t ask for understanding. You just exist, quietly, with your hands resting on the arms of your chair and your gaze always turned slightly upward—at windows, at spines, at stories.

He wonders what your voice sounds like inside your head.

He wonders what you would say if the world was still enough to hear you.

He wonders, sometimes, what you’d say to him.

Not that he expects you to. He’s not the sort of boy people fall in love with. He’s not warm. He’s not easy. He’s not made of soft, likable things.

But you see books the way he sees potions. You look at the world like it holds meanings beyond the obvious. You listen without hearing, and he speaks without speaking, and sometimes he wonders if maybe… maybe there's something unspoken between the two of you that could be heard—if only he dared.

He tells himself it’s foolish.

That it’s nothing.

But still, every afternoon, he finds his way to the library.

And still, every afternoon, you’re there.

And still—when you look up and catch him glancing your way—he looks down too fast. Pretends it wasn’t anything. That it never was.

But something has settled beneath his skin.

A stillness. A noticing.

And when he sees you today—reaching for a book you can’t quite reach, your fingers straining, shoulders tensing—something inside him moves.

He tells himself this is the moment.

A book on a high shelf.

A moment of courtesy.

Casually rehearsed conversations in his head. How he would help you and you’d smile.

But the plan doesn’t sit well—not when his hands won’t stop twitching at his sides, not when his heartbeat drums louder than the hush of the library around him.

He saw you stretch for it. Watched your fingers graze the spine. Saw the way you paused when it didn’t come.

Something in him stirs.

A quiet urgency, almost unfamiliar.

He watches you for a moment longer, then exhales.

Now.

He straightens his shoulders. Steps out from the shadow of the bookshelf. His boots make no sound on the carpeted aisle, but each step feels too loud in his own mind. Too deliberate. Too exposed.

You haven’t noticed him yet.

You’re still sitting in the sunlit corner of the aisle, one hand resting on the book’s spine like you’re willing it closer through sheer thought.

He can feel the words forming behind his teeth—nothing elaborate. Just a simple, “Here, let me.” Just enough to bridge the silence.

But something catches in his throat.

You look peaceful there. Self-contained. Like you belong in this space more than he ever has.

He stops halfway down the aisle.

Stands frozen, fists curling and uncurling at his sides.

He could still do it. Could still take the last few steps. Could still offer a moment of connection.

Just then your head turns and you look over at him.

But panic flares sharp and fast through his chest.

What if you don’t want his help?

What if you think he is weird?

He’s already been told—too many times, in too many ways—that he doesn’t belong where warmth exists. That his presence is an intrusion. That kindness, when it comes from him, is suspect at best.

And you…

You are not someone he can bear to make uncomfortable.

So he turns.

He doesn’t look back as he quickly walks out the Library. Away from you.

But he feels it in the air between you—that moment that almost was.

—

You feel him before you see him.

Not in a magical sense. Just… something in the air. A change in pressure. A flicker at the corner of your eye. You’ve grown so used to reading the world in sensation rather than sound that shifts like this rarely go unnoticed.

But this one is different.

This one is him.

You don’t turn immediately.

There’s something comforting about pretending you haven’t noticed. Like giving the moment time to find its shape before you look too closely and scare it off.

Still—your heart lifts, just a little.

He’s walking toward you.

Severus Snape.

Not just passing through the library. Not just vanishing between shelves like smoke and robes and long shadows.

He’s walking toward you.

You hold still. Not frozen. Just… careful. There’s a balance to this moment, and you don’t want to tip it too soon.

He doesn’t look angry. Or annoyed. He looks—focused. Intent. Like this was a choice.

You feel something in your chest open up, small and stunned.

And then—

He stops.

Just halfway down the aisle.

Stands there for a moment too long.

You turn your head towards him. You watch his hands move at his sides—clenching, releasing. You wait for his mouth to move, for a gesture, a word, anything. But nothing comes.

And then… he turns.

You sit there, unmoving, the moment still hanging around you like a dream someone forgot to finish.

He didn’t look at you as he walked away.

You’re used to silence—but not this kind.

Not the kind that arrives heavy with confusion.

Not the kind that settles in your chest like something you should apologize for, even though you don't know what you did wrong.

You glance up at the shelf again, where the book still waits—too high, still just out of reach.

It doesn’t feel like a story anymore.

It feels like a pause.

Like the kind that lasts too long and leaves you wondering if the other person ever meant to speak at all.

You reach for another book—not the one you came for, but something easier. Something where the girl in the pages is never left unsure.

But your eyes keep drifting back to the aisle.

To where he could have stood.

To what could have been said.

And you wonder—quietly, painfully—if maybe, he actually doesn't like you.

—

Severus doesn’t make it past the hallway before the shame sets in.

It starts in his chest—tight and clenching, like something vital’s been turned to stone—and works its way up, into his throat, where it lodges like a swallowed mistake.

Coward.

He’d gotten so far.

You turned and looked right at him.

And he ran.

Turned on his heel like a frightened boy and vanished between the stacks.

And gods, he hates himself for it.

The look on your face when your eyes caught his. Not angry. Not scared. Just... open. Curious.

And what did he do?

Turned and walked away.

He stalks down the corridor with his fists clenched in his robe pockets, heart thudding like it wants to break something open inside his chest. His thoughts race too fast to grab. He doesn’t even realize where he’s going until he’s pushing the doors open into the courtyard, cold air biting at his face.

Stupid, he thinks. Coward.

You were right there.

You had looked at him.

And he had nothing to give you. No words. No sign. Not even the courage to hand you a book.

The ache sits just behind his ribs, dull and sharp all at once. He’s been holding onto this impossible thing for weeks now—this feeling that blooms every time you glance up from your book, every time your fingers dance midair in conversation, every time you smile to yourself like the world is gentler in your corner of it.

He sits on a stone bench near the edge of the gardens, breathing hard.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets his head fall into his hands.

He should have helped. He wanted to help.

He wanted—finally—to speak to you.

That night, Severus doesn’t sleep.

He lies awake, eyes on the ceiling of the dormitory, trying to imagine what it would’ve felt like to finally talk to you, to sit beside you. To see you smile.

The next morning, he walks the long way to breakfast—through the gardens. The air is crisp, the sky just beginning to pale with light. His boots crunch softly over gravel and dirt.

He stops when he sees it.

A small, crooked patch of wildflowers pushing their way up through the stone edge of the path.

Not perfect. Not orderly.

But beautiful.

Soft.

Gentle.

He kneels and picks one.

Just one.

He doesn’t even know what it's called. But he likes the color. The way the stems bend in his fingers. The way they feel like a gesture he can make without words.

That afternoon, he sneaks back into the library early—before you usually arrive.

It takes him a moment to find the right book. The one you’d been reaching for yesterday. He’s never read it, but he doesn’t need to. He knows you wanted it. That’s enough.

He finds your usual table. Places the book down first. Then the flower.

He hesitates, fingers resting on the edge of the cover, and swallows hard.

It's not a conversation.

But it’s a beginning.

The next day, he does it again.

Another book you’ve lingered near. Another flower.

If he can’t speak to you yet… if he can’t hold steady in front of you…

Then he’ll try. Quietly. Consistently. Like spells cast without incantation.

Not for attention. Not for praise.

But for you.

Later that night, in the quiet back corner of the library, Severus pulls three books off the shelf.

Not Potions. Not Transfiguration.

Sign Language: A Wizard’s Guide to Inclusive Spellcasting

The Fundamentals of British Sign Language

Conversations Beyond Sound

He reads until Madam Pince ushers him out.

The next evening, he doesn’t return to the Slytherin common room. He stays tucked into the same library alcove where you always sit and opens the first page again.

He starts slow.

Fingerspelling. Basics. Greetings.

Nothing feels natural. His hands are stiff, clumsy.

But he tries.

Every night.

At first, the signs blur in his mind like miscast runes. One wrong flick, one twist of the wrist, and the meaning shifts entirely. He practices under the table during class, scribbling rough diagrams in the margins of his notes.

He finds books that no one else checks out. Heavy volumes with detailed diagrams and slow, looping sketches of handshapes. Dictionaries of meaning. Charm-assisted instruction scrolls with moving signs that repeat themselves over and over again.

But no matter what he they don't express exactly what he would like to say to you.

He doesn’t know when it happened—only that it’s grown steadily inside him, from the first moment he saw your hands move like poetry, to the quiet way you notice everything, even the things others think you miss.

Then he finds the signs.

Three movements.

He stares at the page until the ink blurs.

Then he practices.

Over and over.

In private corners, in the dark reflection of the castle’s windows. His fingers are stiff. His arms start to ache. Sometimes he gets it backwards. Once he nearly drops his wand trying to mirror the handshape while holding too many books.

He draws it on a small note:

→ point to chest → crossed fists over heart → open hand out toward other

Beneath it, in smaller ink: Say it only when you're ready. When the words are hers too.

He keeps the note tucked into his pocket always there.

Ready when needed.

—

You hesitate at the library door.

It’s not the space that unsettles you. The library is still your sanctuary, still the place where your thoughts feel less heavy and the silence feels like your own. But memory clings to places, and today, the memory sits like dust on your skin.

You weren’t planning to go back to that aisle. Not today. Not after the way he’d turned—so sudden, so sharp, like he couldn’t bear to speak to you after all.

You told yourself you wouldn’t hope again.

But your wheels turn toward your usual table anyway, the one beneath the western window where the light comes in low and golden in the late afternoons.

And then you see it.

The book.

The one from the shelf.

The one you couldn’t reach.

It’s there now—waiting for you. Resting perfectly in the center of the table, as if placed with quiet intention.

Next to it, barely noticeable at first, is a small wildflower. Slightly crumpled, delicate, pale purple. No note. No signature. Just there.

Your chest tightens.

You blink once, then again, as if your eyes might be playing tricks. But no—it’s real. It’s here. Your fingers hover over the cover, not quite touching.

You glance around the library.

No one nearby. Just the usual stillness. Madam Pince, head bowed over a stack of returns. A few Ravenclaws in the far corner, lost in their own worlds.

Could it be…?

The thought rises uninvited, soft and sharp all at once.

You want it more than you’re willing to admit.

But wanting doesn’t make it true.

You rest your hands on the arms of your chair, steadying yourself.

It could’ve been anyone. Maybe someone saw you reaching yesterday. Maybe a kind soul simply thought to help. Maybe it’s nothing.

And yet—

Your eyes return to the flower.

It’s slightly imperfect. Slightly awkward. Not like something chosen for beauty, but for meaning. For the gesture itself.

It doesn’t answer anything.

It doesn’t solve the ache that still lives under your ribs.

But you sit at the table anyway.

You open the book.

And you let the wildflower stay exactly where it is—pressed gently against the spine like a heartbeat waiting to be heard.

The wildflowers continue.

Always tucked beside the book you would’ve reached for—whether a favorite reread or something you mentioned in class once, a title you lingered over too long on the shelf.

Always in the same spot.

And every time you arrive—every time you wheel through the quiet hush of the library, unsure if today will be like the last—you finds it

No two are the same.

Some are bright and unruly. Some delicate, pale, barely holding their shape. Once, it was nothing more than a sprig of green with tiny yellow petals curling upward like shy smiles. Another time, three tangled stems braided together like someone had tried to make sense of something wordless.

You never find out who leaves them.

But you keep them all.

Folded gently into the pages of a small leather-bound notebook, their flattened petals safe between spells and sketches, beside half-finished lines of poetry and the names of books you loved too much to return.

You don’t let yourself hope.

And then—

One afternoon, late in the term, the light softer than usual and the castle air tinged with the scent of distant firewood, it happens again.

You see the book before you feel the ache.

High again. Out of reach.

You’ve been good lately—good at pretending it doesn’t bother you. Good at not letting your gaze linger too long on shelves you know better than to challenge. But today, for whatever reason, you forget.

You didn't take notice of Severus stopping on his way and just watching you.

He knows this scene. Has lived it from the corners—always standing just far enough away to stay unseen.

You reach.

Not quite fully. Not with expectation. Just enough to brush the spine, to feel the textured edge of a book you want too much to admit it.

It doesn’t give.

You breathe out slowly, steadying the tightness in your chest. Already preparing to turn away.

And then—you feel it.

A shift behind you.

Not sound, but presence. The kind of awareness that stirs the air. That makes the fine hairs on your arms lift. You glance sideways, barely, and your heart stumbles.

Severus.

You freeze.

His arm lifts beside you, long fingers reaching past your shoulder, moving with quiet ease. You don’t look at the book—only at his hand, the way it doesn’t hesitate, the way it seems to know exactly what you’d been trying to reach.

He plucks it from the shelf in one motion then turns slightly and holds the book out to you.

No words.

No flourish.

Just the book—and him.

You take the book from his hand.

His fingers linger a half-second longer than expected—just long enough to notice. Just long enough to feel.

You glance up at him again. His gaze flickers from the book to your face, then away. He shifts his weight slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his robe, like he doesn't know what to do with them.

You realize… he’s nervous.

That thought alone is enough to make your heart flutter.

"Thank you." you say quietly your fingers gentle in the air between you, as you sign along with your words.

He nods. Just once. Then his eyes dart toward the table you usually stay at, then back to you. He clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing here—hovering like a boy who hadn’t planned to stay but isn’t ready to walk away.

But you don’t want him to leave.

“Would you…” you start, then catch yourself, tone softening, unsure. “Do you want to sit with me?”

For a moment, you think he’ll say no.

But instead, he blinks. Swallows. Nods.

Just once.

You lead the way to a small alcove tucked in the back of the library—half-shadowed, quiet, hidden from most eyes. One of your favorite corners. The seat by the window where the light is soft, where your books feel safe and the world forgets how loud it can be.

He follows, silent but close.

The silence between you is thick at first—awkward, maybe, but not uncomfortable. Not like it used to be.

He rests his hands in his lap, knuckles tight. You place your book on the table but don’t open it. You keep glancing at him. At the way he keeps his gaze downward. The way he seems… filled with something he hasn’t figured out how to say.

There’s a kind of energy in him you’ve never seen before.

You glance at him, about to speak—but then he shifts.

From the inside of his school robe, he carefully pulls something small and places it on the table beside your book.

Wildflowers.

Soft, imperfect. Fresh.

Just like the others.

Your heart stalls and your breath falters.

Your eyes move from the flowers… to him.

He’s not watching you. Not yet. His eyes are on his hands, on the shape of the petals. But you see the way his jaw is tight. The way his fingers twitch against the edge of the table.

He brought them.

It was him. All this time.

You open your mouth. Close it.

Then, voice quiet, half a breath: “Why?”

His gaze flicks up to meet yours.

He looks like you just asked something dangerous.

“I…” he begins, then stops.

He reaches into his pocket. A slow movement. As if any sudden shift might break this spell. Then he pulls out a small note. He looks at it before carefully putting it on his lap.

Your lips part, but no words come.

He straightens his shoulders—still tense, still unsure, but brave in the way that matters—and raises his hands.

And signs, slowly:

A point to the chest. Both hands cross over his heart, fists closed, pulled in like a held breath. A reach outward. A gesture toward you.

You see every hesitation in his movement, every ounce of courage it took him to learn your language. The movements are stiff and not quite perfect, but it’s real. It’s his. And it means everything.

You don’t know how long you sit there staring at his hands.

At the words he just signed.

You feel something unfold in your chest—slow, delicate, like the unfurling of a petal. Like breath you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of you at last.

And then you look up at him.

Severus is staring down at the table now, jaw tight, shoulders tense like he’s waiting to be hurt. Like he doesn’t quite believe what he did, or what might come next.

Your heart aches for how carefully he’s trying to protect himself.

You reach out.

Carefully. Slowly.

And take his hands in yours.

They’re warm. Tense. Your fingertips brushing the back of his hand. He flinches, not away, but in surprise. You trace your fingers lightly along his knuckles until he dares to lift his gaze again.

You don’t let go.

You shift—turning his hand slightly, adjusting them, guiding the motion with a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Then, with your hands over his, you help him sign it again.

I. Love. You.

You look up at him as you do it, letting your gaze soften, letting him see that your chest is aching in the same way his is.

And then you say it. Quietly. Soft enough that only he can hear.

“I love you too.” Your voice soft and your hands moving in tandem to your words.

You both sit there, suspended in the hush of the library, and for once, the silence doesn’t feel empty.

It feels full.

His eyes search yours, and you see it—that same question you’ve had for so long.

A breath, a shift.

And then, almost without thinking, he leans in.

Slowly. Carefully.

Like he’s afraid to shatter the moment.

You meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Tentative. Not polished or perfect, but true. It lingers—not because of urgency, but because neither of you wants to pull away too soon.

When you part, your foreheads nearly touch. You both laugh—quiet, stunned.

“You really learned that just for me?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, fingers signing alongside your words.

He gives a small shrug, like it’s nothing. But the faint pink in his ears tells you it’s not nothing at all.

“I did some research,” he murmurs, sheepish. “I tried to speak to you. Walked up. Got nervous. Turned around like a coward. You saw, didn’t you?”

You nod, a little too quickly.

“I thought you didn't like me,” you admit, smiling a little at the irony.

His brow lifts, faintly. “You thought I spent weeks picking wildflowers for someone I hated?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” you laugh.

He exhales—something between relief and exasperation—and then goes quiet for a moment, picking at the edge of a page from your notebook.

“I didn’t want to just… appear and expect you to do the hard work,” he says quietly. “I read that lip reading takes a lot of energy, It’s not always accurate. Especially in long conversations or if people mumble.”

“You do mumble,” you tease.

He gives you a look, but it’s warm this time. Soft around the edges.

“I didn’t want to make things harder for you,” he says. “I wanted… if I ever did speak to you... I thought if I could learn just enough to speak sign language, maybe you’d believe what I feel for you.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

You sign it too. Your hands moving slow and clear.

You see something flicker in Severus’s eyes as he watches you.

Recognition.

And then, shyly—like it costs him something to admit it—he says, “I… understood that.”

You blink.

“You did?”

He nods, a little stiffly. “I’ve been practicing. On my own. Just a few things.”

You smile.

He clears his throat. “I… I think I can sign ‘Please.’ And… maybe ‘read.’ Or I’m completely wrong, in which case I expect you to laugh at me now.”

You do laugh, but it’s light and warm, not mocking.

“Go on, then,” you say, tilting your head with a grin. “Show me.”

He shifts, just a little—lifting his hands, hesitating—and then signs.

Not perfect.

Not fluid.

But recognizable.

You light up.

“That was really close,” you say, signing alongside the praise. “Not bad at all.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for a week.

You watch him carefully, something tender unfurling inside your chest.

“Do you want to learn more?” you say, tilting your head slightly toward him.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes trace the shapes your hands make—slow and thoughtful.

And then, he nods.

So you ease into it.

No structure. No pressure. Just small words. Easy ones. Things he might want to say.

Each sign, you show slowly, demonstrating it clearly—repeating them as many times as he wants to see. He mirrors you cautiously, sometimes getting them right on the first try, sometimes not.

But he keeps trying.

And when his fingers stumble, you gently take his hands in yours, correcting him with the softest touches. Your palms meet. Your fingertips guide his. You show him how to curve a knuckle, how to flick a wrist just so.

He watches you like the entire world is in your hands.

You don’t speak for a while after that—not because you can’t, but because the silence between you feels full of meaning. He signs again—slow, careful.

You nod.

When he signs cat out of nowhere, completely incorrectly and with far too much enthusiasm, you dissolve into laughter, covering your mouth with your hand.

“I don’t even own a cat,” you tease, signing no cat with exaggerated clarity.

“I panicked,” he mutters, flustered. “It was either that or ‘banana’ and that didn’t feel right.”

He throws in a few wildly incorrect gestures on purpose after that, his mouth twitching like he’s daring you not to laugh again. You play along, correcting him with mock sternness, your fingers dancing through the air like the words were meant to be shared this way all along.

You can’t stop laughing.

And neither can he—not fully, not out loud, but you see it in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. In the way his shoulders finally relax. In the way his hand lingers near yours on the tabletop without needing an excuse to stay there.

In the way his eyes soften right before he leans in again to kiss you again.

You sit like that for a long while.

The light slants golden through the high windows.

The pages of your unopened book whisper in the stillness.

Just this little corner of the library.

Just this boy.

This moment.

This feeling.

It doesn’t feel like a story.

It feels better.

Because this time, It's not the girl in the book that gets to be loved.

You are.

[duchi-nesten]

Surprise

Summary:

Danny gets a little surprise from his dad.

Word count: 1,117 || AO3 Link

PHIC PHIGHT TIME!!! Prompt by @underforeversgrace:

Someone gets The KnifeTM.

___

Danny really fucking hated his life sometimes.

Don’t get him wrong. He was definitely glad he had the power to keep his town and loved ones safe. Really. Not complaining one bit. 

Alright, maybe complaining a little bit.

Being the hero was nice, but coupled with school work and house chores it unfortunately left Danny with very little time for personal joys. So when his dad decided to interrupt the lovely free time he was having with the hit game Subnautica (2014) by calling him down into the lab, he was maybe a LITTLE bit peeved. Sue him.

Groaning quietly to not hurt his father’s feelings, he descended down the stairs into OSHA’s worst nightmare of a lab. He skillfully avoided the ectoplasm stains decking almost every step wondering how no one has slipped and got severly injured on these yet.

When he finally reached the bottom, he saw his father standing by one of the furthest desks, his back turned to him. The portal resided right beside him, its opened doors currently being the only source of light, giving the room an eerie atmosphere.

Why his parents wouldn’t just fucking keep that door closed at all times was beyond him. Maybe if the portal to literal hell was perma-closed he would have more time for Subnautica (2014).

Danny was brought out of his alien ocean planet related thoughts by his father’s voice.

“You might be wondering why I called you down here,” he said, voice uncharacteristically low for Jack FentonTM. 

“Is it a new invention you wanna show off or did I accidentally forget to clean a shelf or two?” Danny definitely didn’t accidentally forget. He forgot fully on purpose, hoping his parents would be too engrossed with their inventing to notice. 

He was readying himself to parkour up the stairs again and bring down some cleaning rags, when his father finally turned around. The first thing that caught Danny’s attention was how serious the man seemed to be. There was a hard, unreadable look on his face. 

If that uncharacteristic expression wasn’t enough to make a shiver run down Danny’s spine, the object his father was holding definitely made him freak out on the inside a little bit, because was that a KNIFE?

The knife didn’t look like a Fenton invention, quite the opposite actually. It looked very normal if not really fucking old. It was hard to tell from the distance, but the handle looked handcrafted. Knowing his parents, he wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be some old timey anti-ghost artifact, though where they would get such a thing was a question he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to.

Danny looked back at his father's face with a silent query. The man’s eyes hardened a bit more as his voice once again rang out through the lab.

“I know what you are.”

And damn was Danny freaking out a bit on the inside before? Because now he was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT both on the inside and on the outside. He took a step back while his heart threatened to jump out of his throat.

His father knew. His father knew he was a ghost and here he was with a FUCKING KNIFE. This was it. Danny Fenton dies fully today at the hands of his father of all people. He never expected this to actually happen. He thought it was just something the phandom liked to put him through.

In the last ditch attempt to save his life, Danny crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“I SWEAR I’M NOT A GHOST!” he squeaked out in a very manly fashion.

Sudden confusion painted his father’s face as he lowered the offending object. “What? Of course you aren’t a ghost, Danno!” 

There was a beat of silence.

“Then..uh…what?” Danny asked very intelligently.

“I wanted to say you’re finally a man!” his dad yelled proudly as he stepped closer and wrapped an arm around Danny, who was still trying to process what the actual fuck was happening. “I saw you yesterday! Fighting that weird box obsessed ghost all on your own like a champion! Oh, I am so proud, my own son,” he pulled away to wipe a tear from his eye.

Danny just stared, now fully and utterly lost. It was true that he did fight the Box Ghost yesterday as Fenton, mostly because he just didn’t wanna bother to transform, but he had no idea his dad was watching that.

It wasn’t even an interesting fight, it was literally just another huge L for Boxy. Danny barely had to do anything.

His dad continued to sing his praises, but Danny’s attention turned to the object still in the man’s hands. Now that he got a closer look, he could definitely tell it was handmade. The craftsmanship was incredible. The handle was full of carefully carved swirls and old looking signs. 

“Uh, dad?” he asked slowly, pointing at the knife “what’s this for then?”

“Oh!” His father's attention now also turned back to the blade in his hand as he held it out to Danny excitedly. “This, my son, is the KnifeTM.”

“A knife?”

“No, The KnifeTM,” he accented the trademark by saying the words in a very specific manner. “It’s been passed down from father to son for millennia! I’m pretty sure it was handcrafted by some old ancestor of ours, way before the times when the Fenton family brand was a thing. Therefore it’s …The KnifeTM. I would rename it to The Fenton KnifeTM to make it more obvious it’s ours, but you know, old family heirloom… Just have to accept it as it is.”

“Uh..”

“Anyway, I’d like to pass it down to you now!” he pretty much shoved the knife into Danny’s hands, yet still careful enough to not cut off anyone’s fingers. “You really proved yourself out there yesterday! You deserve to bear our family heirloom with pride!”

Before Danny could react in any way, his father was hugging him tightly (avoiding the knife somehow) and turning to bounce up the stairs.

“I’m gonna go grab one of my spare jumpsuits and we can go out to hunt some ghosts together! Just me and you!” he yelled excitedly, barely missing slipping on one of the bigger ectoplasm stains. “While I do that, you can take care of those few shelves you accidentally forgot about!”

The door slammed shut behind him and Danny was left in the lab alone, weird knife in hand. Now that his father was gone and his feelings could be spared, he let out the loudest groan ever heard by humankind.

“Ugh, I just wanted to play Subnautica (2014).”

[rubiedmoon]

Layers of You

If someone had told me back in first year that the great-niece of Albus flaming Dumbledore would be the one to catch my eye, I’d have laughed in their face.

Loudly. Dramatically. Probably with an insult thrown in for good measure.

Because back then, YN Dumbledore was this small, quiet thing who barely said a word in the common room, nose always buried in some Transfiguration text or scribbling notes faster than Hermione ever could. The sort of girl who slipped out of a room before anyone really noticed she’d been there. Brilliant. Shy. Always two steps away from the spotlight — unless, of course, you counted the Quidditch pitch.

That was the first place I really saw her.

Not the girl with ink-stained fingers and paint smudges on her cheek, hunched over a canvas in the courtyard — though Merlin knows that version of her had its charm. Not the polite niece of our dearest headmaster who sat quietly at the front most spot of the Gryffindor table at every meal as if it was an unspoken agreement between the two of them. And in some ways I suppose it was.

No — it was in the air, streaking past defenders on her broom with a grin on her face that didn’t quite match her usual reserved self. Sharper turns on a broom than I had ever dared to take. Whizzing by you at the speed of light.

That was the first time I leaned over to George and said, “Oi. She’s something else.”

He’d just laughed. “Good luck with that one, brother. She’d turn you into nothing short of a ferret if you tried anything stupid.”

Which… fair.

But I’m not one to back down from a challenge.

So I started noticing things.

Like how she’d sit in the far corner of the library, surrounded by stacks of books twice her size, quill tapping against her chin when she got stuck on a theory. Or how she’d stay behind after Transfiguration lessons, talking with McGonagall — not because she had to, but because she genuinely loved the conversation the two of them held.

Or how, on particularly rough days, she’d slip away to her uncle’s office — and come back calmer. Lighter. Like spending time with him was her therapy. Which, again, I suppose it could have been.

And somewhere along the line… noticing turned into wanting.

Wanting to sit beside her in the common room. Wanting to make her laugh in the middle of a study session. Wanting to be the one she smiled at like that when she came off the Quidditch pitch — cheeks flushed, hair a mess, eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them.

It took me a while. I’m not exactly known for subtlety — but with her, subtlety mattered. You couldn’t rush YN Dumbledore. You had to earn it.

So I did.

Little things. Bringing her the new set of enchanted paints I found in Hogsmeade. Slipping her notes during class with absolutely horrible doodles in the margins. Rescuing her favorite book from Peeves (who’d decided it made an excellent frisbee).

And every time her cheeks turned pink, every time she ducked her head with that shy smile — I knew I was getting somewhere.

Today was one of those days.

I found her in the Transfiguration classroom after breakfast one Saturday — perched on one of the desks, a half-finished sketch hovering beside her, tapping her charcoal pencil to her chin in means to determine what details to add next.

I leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “You know, most people use their free time for things like... relaxing.”

She glanced up, startled for half a second — then smiled, soft and a little amused. “This is relaxing.”

“Of course it is,” I said, pushing off the frame and walking over. “Genius scholar. Quidditch star. Artist extraordinaire. Is there anything you don’t do?”

YN laughed quietly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fairly awful at Divination, if that makes you feel better.”

I grinned wider. “Brilliant. There’s hope for the rest of us, then.”

She shook her head, setting her sketch aside. “What are you doing here, Fred? Because I happen to know it’s not here just compliment me into submission of telling you where my faults lie.”

Merlin, I loved how she saw straight through me.

“Thought you might fancy a break,” I said, offering a wrapped bundle from behind my back. “Pumpkin pasties. Straight from the kitchens. Payment accepted in smiles and conversation.”

Her eyes lit up at the sight of her favorite pastries being held out towards her — that genuine, bright spark that always knocked the breath out of me a little.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” I cut in gently as I laid the wrapped pasties into her free hand. “And besides… what kind of hopeless Weasley would I be if I couldn’t at least feed the girl I’m hopelessly fond of?”

She didn’t say anything right away, just stared down at the bundle of pastries in her hands like it was the most precious gift she’d ever been given — not something I’d literally swiped from a distracted house-elf two corridors over.

Her fingers traced the edges of the wrapping again, then slowly peeled it open, steam curling up from the still-warm pasties.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she murmured, not looking up.

“Hopefully not hex me,” I offered, nudging her knee gently with mine as I hopped up onto the desk beside her.

That got a laugh — soft, real, the kind that made my chest feel like it might crack open.

“No hexing,” she promised. “Yet.”

We sat like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, the smell of sugar and cinnamon in the air and sunlight pooling through the high windows like melted gold. She tore off a small bite of pasty and handed it to me before taking a bite herself. I tried not to let it show how stupidly honored I was that she shared the first piece with me.

“You know,” she said between chews, her voice a little thoughtful now, “I always figured you were just... I don’t know. Chaos personified.”

I feigned offense. “Was? YN Dumbledore, are you suggesting I’ve lost my edge?”

“No,” she said, giving me a side glance, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Just that I didn’t realize you had layers. Like an onion. Or a very talkative cake.”

“Wow. I bring you pastries and flattery, and I get onion cake comparisons.” I gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m wounded.”

She giggled, and I swear, if there was a more perfect sound in the world, I hadn’t heard it.

“I’m serious, though,” she said after a beat, her voice gentler now. “You... surprise me. In good ways. I’m not used to people noticing things. Quiet things. Like the kinds of books I favor or the type of art supplies I like to use more than others or when I need air more than conversation.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Not because I didn’t have anything to say — I always had something to say — but because it felt important to let her finish. When she looked up at me, her eyes searching, cautious but open, I met her gaze and said the only thing that felt true:

“It’s hard not to notice when you actually take the time to pay attention to someone for being themselves and not just the name they hold.”

Her breath hitched, just slightly. Her eyes flickered to my mouth and back to mine again — and for once, I didn’t tease. I didn’t smirk or throw a joke between us. I just let it hang there, simple and honest.

And then, as if the moment could break if we breathed too hard, she reached out and laced her fingers with mine — slowly, hesitantly — until her hand was tucked in mine like it belonged there.

“I’m glad you did,” she whispered.

I felt the words all the way through me.

For a guy who spent most of his days pranking our fellow students and charming professors out of detentions, I’d never quite understood what it meant to want stillness. But sitting there next to YN, holding her hand in that sunlit Transfiguration classroom, I finally got it.

I wasn’t looking for noise.

I’d found something better.

[charmed-quill]

After Hours// C.W x Reader

Authors Note at End of Fic.

request: Hi! I was hoping to request a Charlie x fem!reader. For the scenario I was thinking the reader is a professor at Hogwarts and Charlie does a surprise visit since they’re long distance, but nobody knows they’re together. Then maybe Ron or the twins catch them together in reader’s classroom.

Also it can have smut or no smut, I don’t have a preference :)

word count: 3.2k

The morning started the way it always did, with frost curling at the edges of the windowpanes and a chill clinging to the flagstone floors.

Y/N tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she stepped out of her quarters, the familiar hum of Hogwarts greeted The torches lining the corridor flickered to life as she passed, casting dancing shadows against the stone walls. It was barely half past six, but the castle was already stirring with distant clatter of house-elves preparing breakfast drifting up from the kitchens.

She liked this time of day. The early hour when the world still felt sleepy and slow. Before the chaos of students, before the noise. It was the one part of her routine that hadn’t changed since she’d accepted the teaching post.

Her classroom sat in a quiet wing on the fourth floor, just down the hall from the Arithmancy corridor, tucked between a set of suits of armour and an enchanted tapestry that occasionally tried to bite students who were late.

She slipped inside and exhaled softly. 

The blackboard was clean. The desks were still lined up in perfect rows. And on her desk, neatly stacked where she’d left them, were the essays from her fourth years, an exercise on magical theory that most had scribbled through with barely legible ink.

She lit a fire in the hearth, set her teapot to warm with a flick of her wand, and settled behind her desk.

Another day.

She began her mornin slowly, deliberately, and with her mind already drifting ahead to the lessons she had planned. 

The first bell rang around eight. By then, she’d already gone through half her tea and finalised her notes for the day. The hallway outside began to echo with footsteps and laughter and the familiar stampede of rushing feet. She sipped the last of her tea as her first group of second years filed in, chattering about how Peeves had dropped pudding on a Slytherin prefect during breakfast.

“Good morning,” she said, voice cutting gently through the din. “Wands away, scrolls out. No one should be hexing anyone before nine o’clock.”

A few laughed. One student groaned. But within minutes, the classroom had settled into its usual rhythm.

Standing in front of a chalkboard, gesturing toward projected diagrams or drawing runes in looping strokes. Unraveling magical theory in a way she wished someone had done for her when she was younger.

It helped, being able to lose herself in the subject. It made the ache of missing him feel quieter.

Charlie.

She hadn’t seen him since the start of term. A quiet, stolen week at the end of August, a blur of sun-warmed mornings, coffee in bed, letters tucked into the pockets of her jeans. And then it was over. He was off to Romania again. And she was back here, tucked into the world of books and staircases that moved.

He never minded the distance, not really. “It’s just geography,” he’d said once, voice rough in the dark. “We’ll always find our way back.”

But some days, she did mind.

Not in a bitter way — just in that quiet, aching sort of way where you missed the exact shape of someone’s laugh. The scratch of their stubble. The way their arms felt when they wrapped around you like a promise.

No one knew about them. Not really.

There’d been… whispers, maybe. Curiosity. A few fourth years once asked her if she’d ever had a boyfriend, and she’d dodged the question with a cough and a lecture on ethical charmwork. It wasn’t that she was ashamed — far from it. It was just…

Hers.

Their relationship belonged to stolen weekends and hidden letters, to firecalls at midnight and jokes shared only through parchment. Hogwarts had its gossip. And Charlie had his name. They didn’t need to be anyone else’s story.

Her second and third periods blurred together in a haze of notes and wandwork. During lunch, she shared a quiet table in the staff room with Professor Sinistra, who was too buried in charts to speak much, and Professor Flitwick, who offered her a biscuit without looking up from his book. 

The afternoon brought more students. A few Slytherins who rolled their eyes at everything. A handful of Ravenclaws who corrected her halfway through a sentence, correctly, to be fair. 

By the time her final class of the day ended, the sun was already dipping toward the horizon. The windows glowed orange. She stayed behind to tidy up, reorganise some scrolls, and finish grading the parchment pile that had haunted her desk all week.

The tower bells chimed four o’clock.

Still, she lingered.

Sometimes, in the quiet, she imagined him walking through the door. No warning. No firecall. Just there. His arms warm and solid around her, his grin making her forget whatever it was she’d been brooding about.

It was silly. She knew that.

He was in Romania.

She was here.

But still, now and then, she glanced toward the classroom door.

Just in case.

The halls were quieter after dinner, just as she liked them.

She had skipped the main meal in the Great Hall, and the din of conversation and floating platters held no appeal tonight. Instead, she’d wrapped a roll and a bit of roasted pumpkin in a napkin and returned to her classroom, letting the soft candlelight and worn oak walls soothe her fraying nerves. She'd eaten at her desk with her legs curled beneath her, scribbling comments on homework while the warmth of the fire filled the room.

Outside, the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. Moonlight pressed pale and cold against the stained glass, casting patterns across the floor.

Y/N let her quill fall from her fingers and leaned back, rubbing her tired eyes. She could feel the weight of the day in her spine, in the soft ache behind her temples, in the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

It was the kind of tired that didn’t come from teaching.

The kind that came from waiting.

She got up and crossed to the window, arms folded against the sudden chill. The grounds stretched out before her in silver shadows — the Forbidden Forest just a darker mass in the distance, the greenhouses glowing faintly from within, and the warm flicker of Hagrid’s hut tucked into the edge of it all.

Her fingers rested on the windowsill.

She missed more than the press of his mouth or the way his hand always found hers without hesitation. It was his laugh, low and warm, rolling through the corridors of her memory like thunder in the distance. The thud of his boots on old floorboards. The scent of smoke and spice that clung to his jumpers long after he was gone.

When Charlie was near, the world felt closer somehow—warmer. Like being wrapped in a blanket after a long walk through winter. Even his silences had weight. Comfort.

Y/N stood by the window, letting the castle fall quiet around her. The moon had risen fully now, casting soft white light across the classroom, pooling in pale puddles on the floor. The fire in the hearth crackled low behind her. Most nights, this part—the stillness—was her peace.

Tonight, it felt hollow.

She let her head rest against the stone frame, eyes slipping shut. For one foolish moment, she let herself imagine turning around and finding him there, grinning, windblown, alive with that untamed spark he always carried with him.

Ridiculous, she thought.

But then—

The floorboard behind her creaked.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly, the corner of her mouth already lifting into a knowing smile. “If you’re here to tell me I forgot curfew rounds again, I swear I’m going to hex you into next—”

“I was hoping you’d give me detention.”

The voice stopped her cold.

Familiar. Rough with cold. Edged with amusement.

Her heart stuttered. She turned.

And there he was.

Charlie Weasley stood in her classroom doorway, arms folded, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, a smudge of soot at his jaw like he hadn’t quite shaken the last dragon off. His hair was a mess. His boots were muddy. His jacket hung open, revealing the worn jumper beneath.

He looked tired. He looked real.

He looked like home.

For a heartbeat, she just stared at him.

“Hi,” he said, softly now. “Surprise.”

A breath escaped her lips, and suddenly she was moving. Crossing the room in three fast steps, her boots scraping against stone, and flinging herself straight into his arms.

Charlie caught her easily, stumbling back a step with a soft grunt, but laughing as he lifted her off the ground.

“Merlin, I missed you,” he murmured into her hair, holding her like he never wanted to let go.

“You’re not real,” she whispered, clutching the back of his neck. “You’re supposed to be in Romania.”

“I was.” His voice vibrated against her. “Then I wasn’t. And now I’m here.”

She pulled back enough to look at him and shook her head in disbelief. “You broke into Hogwarts?”

“Didn’t break,” he said, smug. “Persuaded. Hagrid owes me a favour.”

“You're insane.”

He grinned. “And yet, you’re still hugging me.”

She tried to glare. It crumbled almost immediately. “Don’t move,” she whispered.

“Not a chance.”

She kissed him. Quick and fierce. Then again, slower, pouring every ache of missing into the space between them. His hands found her waist. Her hands tangled in the collar of his jumper. And just like that, she felt whole again.

She laughed, but it was shaky, the kind of laugh that had been bottled up for far too long. He finally set her down, though his arms stayed around her waist.

Her fingers ghosted over his chest, eyes scanning him like she didn’t quite believe he was real. “You weren’t supposed to be here until next month.”

“Traded shifts.” His grin was lazy and unapologetic. “Told Pyotr I owed you a surprise.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “You’re completely mental.”

He tilted his head, eyes warm and utterly unrepentant. “Only for you.”

That silenced her.

Because it had been weeks since anyone had looked at her like that, like she wasn’t just a teacher, a fixture in some castle corridor, but a person. A woman. Someone worth showing up for without warning.

And Charlie… Charlie had always made her feel like that.

“You’re staying the night?” she asked, voice softening. “Or is this one of those ‘kiss her and dash’ kind of surprises?”

He groaned. “Woman, if I flew halfway across Europe just for a kiss, you’d better make it worth it.”

She arched a brow. “That's a challenge, Weasley?”

But the moment hung between them longer than it should have.

The teasing died away.

And suddenly he was looking at her differently, fingertips resting just above the swell of her hips, his breath warm and shallow. She could feel the tension coil in the air, soft and golden, like the space between lightning and thunder.

“I really missed you,” he said again, quieter this time.

Her voice wavered. “I missed you, too.”

He brushed a hand along her jaw, thumb grazing just below her lip. “You look tired.”

“I’ve had to listen to fourth years try and justify wandless incantations with absolutely no understanding of magical laws,” she muttered, eyes fluttering as his thumb dipped to her chin. “You’d look tired too.”

Charlie’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Poor thing.”

“Don’t you start.”

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “You look… like you need someone to take care of you for once.”

She didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

All term, she’d kept herself together. Polished. Composed. Professional. The kind of professor Hogwarts expected, the kind who didn’t let her heart ache in front of others. The kind who swallowed loneliness with tea and buried it under lecture notes.

But here he was, and he was looking at her like he saw every crack she’d tried so hard to hide.

“I hate being apart,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Even when I know it’s only temporary. Even when I know it’s for a good reason. It just…”

“Hurts,” he finished.

She nodded.

And then he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not eager. Just slow — deliberate. A kiss meant to remind her she was wanted.

His hands moved to the small of her back as hers curled in the collar of his jacket. The fire behind them crackled, sending shadows flickering across the walls, but neither of them noticed.

He pulled back only slightly, resting his forehead against hers.

“I hate being apart, too,” he whispered. “But every time I come back… It’s worth it.”

She opened her eyes barely. “You’re staying tonight?”

He nodded. “Hagrid’s got a spare cot. Says I snore less than Fang.”

“Not the most romantic lodgings.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing much sleeping.”

She swatted his chest, but didn’t move away.

Charlie’s jacket hit the floor first.

Y/N barely registered it, too busy backing toward her desk as his hands slid up under the hem of her blouse, warm and rough against her skin. The fire crackled behind them, casting golden shadows over the classroom walls, and the space between them — once so wide, so agonising — had completely vanished.

“Are you trying to start something in my classroom, Weasley?” she managed, breathless as his lips grazed the edge of her jaw.

He grinned, dragging his mouth along the column of her neck. “I think I already did.”

She laughed and clutched at the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

She’d almost forgotten what it was like to be touched like this. To be wanted in a way that was all heat and heartache, with none of the polite restraint she had to wear like a cloak every day.

Charlie kissed her again — deeper this time, slower, like he was relearning the shape of her mouth. His hands settled on her hips, fingers curling like he couldn’t bear to let go, and she felt her knees buckle just slightly as he pressed her back against the edge of the desk.

“I missed you,” he murmured between kisses, voice thick. “You don’t know how badly.”

“I think I’m getting a pretty good idea,” she whispered, her hands trailing beneath the collar of his shirt, tugging at the buttons.

He hissed softly when her nails scraped along his collarbone. “Merlin, woman—”

“Do not bring Merlin into this.”

That earned a laugh — but it melted quickly into a groan when she reached his belt.

“Someone’s eager,” he teased.

“You broke into my classroom,” she said. “You’re lucky I haven’t locked the door and hexed you.”

“You haven’t locked the door?” he asked, leaning back slightly.

She stilled. Blinked.

“…I meant to.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

And then—

BANG.

The door slammed open.

“Alright, alright, don’t hex us, but we had no choice—”

Fred Weasley skidded into the room, George just behind him, both wide-eyed and panting, clearly mid-chaos.

Then they froze.

The scene before them was unmistakable:

Their older brother, half out of his shirt, flushed and rumpled, tangled with Professor Y/N, whose hair was a mess, whose blouse was halfway unbuttoned, and who looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Silence. Heavy. Horrified.

George blinked. “Huh.”

Fred let out a low whistle. “So is what they meant by ‘advanced magical theory?’”

Charlie groaned and dropped his forehead to Y/N’s shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Y/N’s face was burning. She pulled her blouse together with shaky fingers, straightening from the desk like she hadn’t just been two seconds away from climbing her boyfriend like a tree.

“What,” Y/N said through gritted teeth, her voice sharp and dangerously low, “are you doing in here?”

Fred scratched the back of his neck, already slipping into his most innocent grin, which only made him look more guilty. “Funny story, actually. There may or may not be a bag of stink pellets trapped under the floorboards of the Arithmancy corridor.”

George winced. “Right under Vector’s classroom. Very unfortunate. Very urgent.”

“We needed your classroom key,” Fred added, like it was the most reasonable request in the world. “Because technically, your room shares the same plumbing enchantment runes, and if we don’t dislodge it—”

“—the entire fourth floor will smell like troll armpits by sunrise,” George finished brightly.

Charlie blinked. “So you were going to break into a professor’s classroom.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Fred said, waving a hand. “We weren’t going to break anything. Just… borrow the key. Without asking.”

Y/N made a strangled noise.

“Besides,” George added, eyebrows rising in mock innocence, “we thought the room would be empty.”

Charlie let out a slow breath and ran a hand down his face. “You always do this. Do you ever think, just once, about not barging into places you don’t belong?”

Fred raised a brow. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m older,” Charlie said flatly. “And not currently trying to crawl out of a prank gone wrong.”

George leaned in slightly. “Also, you’re currently half-undressed in a classroom. So I’m not sure you have the moral high ground here.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “I’m going to kill all of you.”

Charlie stepped protectively in front of her, though the grin he was fighting off made the gesture completely ineffective. “You really didn’t see this coming?” he asked, casting a sideways glance at her.

Fred looked utterly scandalised. “Absolutely not! I mean—sure, we thought you were seeing someone. You’ve had that weird glowy look since summer.”

George nodded solemnly. “And you smiled at a letter once. Like, properly smiled. It was terrifying.”

“But we figured it was some pretty Romanian dragon girl,” Fred said. “Not—”

“Our professor,” George added, still visibly shaken.

“In our classroom,” Fred muttered.

“You’re both grounded,” he deadpanned.

Fred scoffed. “We’re seventeen.”

“Then act like it.”

“You’re not Dad,” George said, frowning.

“Thank Merlin,” Charlie muttered. “Dad wouldn’t have let you live past third year.”

Y/N peeked over Charlie’s shoulder, face still flushed, blouse mostly buttoned, but with a steeliness in her expression now that suggested she might finish what Arthur Weasley never started. “If either of you breathes a word of this to anyone—”

Fred’s hands shot up. “Not a single soul.”

George nodded rapidly. “Mum would combust.”

“And Ron,” Fred said, his face twisting in slow realisation. “Ron would die. Like. Fully collapse.”

Charlie snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”

George narrowed his eyes. “Does Bill know?”

“Nope.”

Fred blinked. “Percy?”

Charlie gave him a look. “Do you want me to lie and say yes?”

Both twins recoiled slightly.

Y/N sighed and stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Charlie’s arm before fixing the twins with the kind of look that could turn boiling cauldrons cold. “Get your stink pellet. Fix whatever disaster you’ve caused. And then you will pretend this never happened.”

“Yes, Professor,” Fred said, all mock obedience.

“Wouldn’t dream of disobeying,” George added with a wink.

Fred turned to Charlie on his way out. “Well… congrats, I guess? Bit scandalous for the golden second son, isn’t it?”

George clapped him on the back. “Glad to see one of us finally got a girlfriend. Might make up for your whole ‘disappears into dragon country and forgets to write’ reputation.”

Charlie flipped them both off as they vanished into the corridor, cackling down the hall.

The door creaked shut behind them.

Charlie sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “They’re going to tell everyone, aren’t they?”

Y/N groaned. “By breakfast.”

He turned to her, grinning again despite himself. “Weasleys. Can't live with them... can’t hex them out of your classroom in time.”

a/n: Sorry I've been MIA for a little bit I've been working on requests as well as my move at the beginning of next year :)