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ginnsbaker · 1 year

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In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (22/23)

Chapter summary: Natasha finally reaches out with a way for you to earn her forgiveness; You assess where you are in your own journey of discovering who you are without Wanda.

Chapter word count: 9.2k+ | Warnings: Angst | Ship: Wanda x Reader

Author's note: It's not the end--yet. Enjoy! :)

AO3 | Masterlist

Next part: Twenty-three

Twenty-Two

The night before the Cup-off, you’re helping Wanda to round off all the final preparations for the competition when you finally receive a text you’ve been anticipating for the past several weeks.

Natasha’s message is laconic and straight to the point. And she’s using a different number too.

Meet me in 30 minutes at our usual spot - Nat

Upon reading the message, it hits you right away that this is the only chance you’ll ever get to talk to your best friend again. You glance at Wanda who seems engrossed in a pile of notebooks, scribbling and revising her ideas with fervor. You approach her, lightly tapping her shoulder to grab her attention.

“Hey, I... I've got to go,” you say, your voice small and reluctant.

Wanda turns to face you, her brows stitching together in confusion. “Go? Now? What's going on?”

“It’s Nat,” is all you get to say before Wanda is nodding in full understanding. She sighs, running a hand through her hair. She knows how much you've been waiting for this. Truthfully, she's slightly apprehensive about how this conversation could unfold. And although she’s laid all her cards for you, she’s afraid that Natasha might say something that would change your mind about her.

Wanda anxiously chews on her lip. This isn't the time for her to act selfishly. “Alright, just be careful, okay?”

In response, you kiss her quickly before heading out.

The walk to your usual spot is shorter than you remember, or maybe your thoughts are just too consumed by the prospect of seeing your best friend after weeks of begging her to talk to you.

You reach the small, familiar park where you've shared countless moments with Natasha. You find her sitting on the same bench where you used to sit together during your college days. Seeing her there, waiting for you, fills you with a pang of nostalgia. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.

“Nat,” you greet, the nickname rolling off your tongue as if it hasn't been weeks since you last said it to her face. Her response is a silent nod, an invitation to sit beside her. Despite the clear tension, you sit anyway, waiting for her to speak first. This is her show, her rules. You're just here to listen.

“Y/N,” Natasha starts, her voice steady. There's a calculated calmness about her, which is so distinctly Natasha that it makes your heart ache a little. “It's been awhile.”

You nod, unsure of what to say.

Inhaling deeply, she continues, her emerald eyes piercing into yours. “I’m aware of what you're hoping to achieve here. But I need you to understand that this might not go as you think it will.”

“I know that, Nat.” you say.

“Do you?” she retorts with a humorless laugh. “Because I'm not sure you understand how much you've hurt my sister.”

Her pain and anger is as palpable as the day she told you you weren’t friends anymore–they simmer, beneath the facade of indifference that she’s practiced so well.

“Maybe I do,” you say.

“What?” Natasha asks sharply, as if daring you to elaborate.

“I do understand how she feels. Which is why I know there’s nothing I can do to atone for–”

“You really are shameless, you know that?”

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, though you know your words are but a hollow echo, unable to mend the broken pieces.

“For what?” Natasha counters, her eyes glossy under the dying daylight. “For betraying her? For breaking her heart? Or for being too cowardly to face what you've done?”

“For all of it,” you whisper, hardening your jaw to hold back the torrent of emotions ready to consume you. “And for the fact that I can't undo any of it.”

A single tear rolls down Natasha's cheek, and something constricts in your chest, knowing that Natasha rarely shows her emotions, let alone cry in front of anyone.

You thought you understood before, but you didn’t. Not until this moment. The hurt you've caused is not just a concept, it's tangible, it's real, and for the first time, you truly see it.

“I'm sorry,” you repeat, the sincerity of your regret reflected in your eyes.

For a moment, silence descends upon you both, broken only by the distant hooting of an owl and the rustling of the wind through the leaves.

“Does she know you're sorry?” Natasha finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She...she does,” you say, letting out a ragged breath. “The last time I saw Yelena... I told her how sorry I was. But she...she told me she doesn't know if she can ever forgive me.”

This revelation takes Natasha by surprise. “She talked to you?” She manages to ask after a beat.

“Yes,” you blink at her curiously. “She hasn't spoken to you?”

Natasha slowly shakes her head. “Not recently,” she says, her voice faint. “She left the state. She's living in Chicago now.”

The information crashes into you, knocking the breath out of your lungs.

“Chicago?” you parrot back, the city's name tasting foreign on your tongue. Yelena had moved states without you having any clue about it, intensifying the guilt gnawing at your insides.

“I found out through a fucking note,” Natasha divulges with a grim expression.

“I... I didn't know,” you stammer, an overwhelming feeling of regret washing over you. “I didn't realize it had gotten that bad.”

Her gaze returns to the park in front of you, her voice almost swallowed by the wind when she speaks, “It did. It really did.”

“I'm sorry,” you repeat, the apology feeling more potent this time. It extends beyond Natasha, reaching out to Yelena and even to yourself. A regret for the distress you've caused, for the trust you've broken, for the chasm your actions have carved between all of you.

“Stop apologizing. It’s starting to annoy me.”

You clump your mouth shut. Judging from the way this conversation is unfolding, it's abundantly clear that a friendly parting at the end is off the table.

Your teeth begin to chatter as the last vestiges of sunlight dip below the horizon.

“Why couldn't we have moved this conversation to a more sheltered spot?” you grumble, observing the misty puffs of your breath evaporate into the frigid air.

Natasha merely shrugs, an almost sinister glint in her eyes. “Maybe I wanted to punish you a little,” she quips nonchalantly. She seems unaffected by the low temperature, hardened by her work which often requires resilience in less-than-ideal conditions.

Your reply is a tight-lipped smile, a pitiful attempt to make light of her response. The cold might be bearable for her, but you can't help but feel the chill seeping into your bones, much like the icy silence that follows her words.

It's quiet, too quiet, the silence pressing down around you both.

What now?

“I wish...” you start, but the sentence hangs in the air, unfinished. You wish for so many things. To turn back time, to change your actions, to see Yelena's face light up the way it used to. But more than anything, you wish for forgiveness–from Yelena, from Natasha, from yourself.

But none of that matters because you don’t wish you weren’t with Wanda now. She’s the only one anchoring you to this reality, having so much of yourself stripped away.

“Don’t,” Natasha interrupts, her voice sharp as the frosty air. “Just...don’t.”

And then, a moment later Natasha rises and starts walking in circles in front of you. You look at her with a bewildered expression, curious to see what she’s up to.

“But maybe there’s something…” she trails off, still following an invisible pattern on the ground as she keeps walking, avoiding your eyes.

“Something…?”

“Maybe there’s a way for me to believe that you’re not making another big mistake in your life.”

“Nat, what are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, she finally looks up to you and asks, “Are you with Wanda now?”

You hesitate for a moment, and then slowly nod.

With a tilt of her head and a raised eyebrow, Natasha lets out a laugh that is more of a scoff. There's a sharpness to it that feels pointed, almost a jab. Her lips curl into a smirk that's too pleased, too knowing.

“I don’t even know why I expected anything else,” Natasha mumbles to herself. “And is it worth it?” she asks, her voice laced with bitterness. “Worth enough to risk our friendship, to break Yelena's heart?”

“Nat,” you start, watching her carefully, “What's this about? What are you implying?”

She takes a second to reply, staring at the darkening sky as if it holds the answers she needs. When she finally speaks, her words come out with a certain steeliness.

“I need to see it,” she declares, her gaze finally finding yours. “I need to see that this...whatever it is between you and Wanda, that it’s real, that it’s worth something. Worth losing Yelena and me, and everyone else who’s ever cared about you.”

The color drains from your face as she continues speaking, a sinking feeling in your stomach telling you where she's going with this.

“And there’s something else,” she continues, her eyes narrowing. “I need to know that Wanda, the woman who had the audacity to cheat on you once, isn't going to do it again. That she’s not just playing you, and this isn't just her running from guilt or looking for comfort.”

“Nat,” you swallow hard, a tight knot of unease building up in your chest. “What are you asking?”

“I want you to stay away from Wanda for a year,” she says, her voice cold and unwavering. Her eyes challenge you, and the heavy demand sends a chill down your spine.

It seems overbearing, even slightly irrational, and she's aware of it. She understands how it might paint her as controlling, perhaps even bordering on the brink of madness. But if this is the price for her forgiveness, if this is the means for you to earn her acceptance of you and Wanda, then so be it.

For you, it’s almost suffocating. A year without Wanda seems daunting, an insurmountable task. But as you watch Natasha, her face stern, her posture unyielding, you understand that this is her version of justice, her way of testing the strength of your conviction. It's a tall order, but if it's the road to mending the fractures between you, then it's a path you're ready to consider.

It takes your breath away, as if the winter air has been sucked from your lungs. “A year?”

She nods, her expression unwavering. “If, after a year, you both still choose each other... if Wanda has remained loyal to you in that time, then I’ll know it’s real. Then I can start to consider the possibility that what you've sacrificed for this might not have been in vain.”

“Why would you ask me this?” your voice breaks as a lone tear trickles down your cheek, cold and sharp against your skin in the harsh winter. But Natasha remains unmoved by your visible distress, her chin held high in defiance.

“Because, it's the only way I can even think about forgiving you,” she surmises. “It’s the only way I can ensure you're not just making another colossal mistake. And more than anything, it's my way of trying to protect you... from yourself.”

“Protection? Is that what you're calling this?” you hiss at her, anger and bitterness lacing your words. “You want to take away someone who means the world to me? You expect me to believe that you're doing this for my sake, but all I see is you trying to make me as miserable and alone as possible!”

Your breaths coming out in ragged puffs against the frigid air. For a moment, Natasha looks taken aback by your outburst. Then, her expression hardens once again, her green eyes meeting yours with an unwavering resolve.

“I don't expect you to understand,” she says, her voice cold. “But if you truly care about Wanda as much as you claim, you would take this chance to prove it. Not just to me, but to yourself as well.”

“You’re not making any fucking sense.”

“Am I not?” Natasha fires back, her eyes flashing, her smirk carrying an edge of dissent. “Then answer me this, Y/N. Who are you without Wanda?”

“Who am I without Wanda?” You echo her question, your voice dripping with sarcasm, as if the very idea is preposterous. But then the reality of the question hits you like a ton of bricks. You repeat it, softer, almost a whisper, as the world seems to stand still around you. “Who am I without Wanda?”

It's as if she's pulled the ground from under your feet and you're free-falling, grappling for something solid to hold on to.

“Yes, Y/N. Who are you? Tell me,” Natasha urges, her voice relentless, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“I…” you begin, your voice faltering. You're the head of a finance department in a multimillion-dollar company. You earn a sizable income. You are the subject of envy among your male colleagues. You reside in a luxurious apartment in Manhattan. You're–

And yet, none of these achievements feel like they define you.

None of these accolades hold meaning without Wanda. You recall how you had yearned for those promotions, how they were a part of a bigger plan–a plan for a life with Wanda, a shared dream of starting a family. Every milestone, every victory was not just yours, it was hers too. All those achievements were built around the scaffolding of your shared love.

But everything crumbled when your marriage fell apart.

“And that's exactly why you need this,” Natasha tells you after a long period of silence that you didn’t even notice. Her tone is not condescending, but matter-of-fact, devoid of any satisfaction that she might have been right. “You've become so wrapped up in her that you've forgotten who you are. You need to figure that out, Y/N. You need to know who you are, independently, before you can be with her.”

Natasha then takes a deep breath, steeling herself before continuing. “I talked to Wanda a few weeks ago,” she discloses, and you look up at her in surprise. “She insists that she loves you. And it's possible that she's being honest... or maybe she's trying to convince herself that she does. But do you trust her, Y/N? Can you look me in the eye, right here, right now, and tell me without a shadow of doubt that you believe her?”

Your eyes search Natasha's, looking for signs of manipulation or deceit, but find none. Her question continues to echo in your mind, forcing you to confront something you'd rather not face. It's taunting, almost, making you look deep within yourself for the truth.

You think back to your conversations with Wanda, her promises of love, her regretful apologies. You recall the yearning in her eyes, the vulnerability in her voice, but also the uncertainty, the hesitance. You think about your sessions with Calliope. Each one of them ends in the same way, with you tasked to ruminate over your feelings, to introspect. There's never a concrete conclusion, only a carousel of thoughts that keeps turning, prompting you to understand your emotions better.

There's the constant feeling of jealousy. Random bouts of suspicion, an itch to check her phone, and look into her emails. None of this tells you that you trust Wanda.

“I... I want to,” you say, burying your face in your hands. “But I don't know if I can. Not yet.”

For a moment, there's a heavy silence, punctuated only by your quiet sobs. Then, Natasha moves. She takes a seat beside you again, bridging the space you've unconsciously put between yourselves. She hesitates for a second, as if unsure whether she's crossing a line, before finally placing an arm gently around your back in a silent show of support.

Her touch is unexpected, but it brings a certain level of comfort. In that moment, you realize that, despite everything, Natasha still cares.

“What if I lose her?” you voice your biggest fear.

A year–where anything can happen. It’s sailing into the seas without a compass. It’s essentially letting go and letting fate take over.

“If she truly loves you, she'll wait,” Natasha responds simply. “And if she doesn't... well, then maybe she isn't the one for you after all.”

That stings. But the words resonate within you.

“Take the year, Y/N,” Natasha says softly, her fingers digging slightly into your back as if she can get you to listen more with the action. “Figure yourself out. Prove to me, to yourself, and to Wanda, that you can be someone beyond the prison of your love for the woman who doesn’t even deserve it.”

"If I choose to do this," you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Where does that leave us? Can we ever be friends again?”

Natasha is quiet for a moment, mulling over your question.

“This isn't about securing our friendship, or winning me over. It's not a trade-off.” she says.

“Then what is it?” you ask, your face crumpling as another dam breaks within you.

Her eyes seem to plead with you, even as her words keep their distance. “This is about you earning my trust back, not about bargaining for our friendship. This is about you finding a way back to your old self. Your happiness seems so intertwined with Wanda that it feels like you're not whole without her. But ask yourself this, Y/N, can you really be happy constantly doubting? Always second-guessing the sincerity of her love for you?”

“Think about it,” she says quietly. “That's all I'm asking, Y/N. Think about it. Really think about where you are right now. Who you are. What you need. And then decide.”

When you find your way back to Wanda, the look on your face immediately sets off alarm bells.

“Hey, what's wrong?” she asks immediately, pulling you inside the café where the air is much warmer. She touches your skin and lets out a small gasp, “You're freezing!” she exclaims. With a concerned frown, she cups your neck, her thumbs rubbing gentle circles on your skin as she gently nudges you to look at her.

In a flurry of movement, Wanda dashes to the backroom to crank up the heater. Returning to your side, she carefully unzips your jacket, before wrapping herself around you in an attempt to share her body heat.

“Y/N?” she implores, her eyes searching the faraway look in yours, willing you to come back to the present. After a moment, you blink several times, as if waking from a dream. Finally, your gaze sharpens, landing on Wanda.

“Wands,” you utter, your voice barely a whisper. Your hands find their way to her cheeks, cradling them gently. Leaning in, you plant a tender kiss on her nose, grounding yourself in the moment with her.

“Did something happen with Natasha?” Wanda asks. She tries to steady her heartbeat, fearing what your answer might be.

You shake your head and give her a soft smile, your thumb grazing over her worried brow as you commit to memory every line that time and laughter have carved on her face, and then her eyes–a universe within their own right, trapped in forest green orbs that sheltered you for so long.

“We just said our goodbyes.”

“I'm sorry,” Wanda returns quietly, her concern deepening with each passing moment.

With another shake of your head and an effort to keep the mood light, you divert the conversation. “Let's get back to work for your competition, okay? You're going to do great tomorrow.”

***

Bryant Park is alive with anticipation.

The air is saturated with the aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans and resonates with the buzz of conversation and laughter. Coffee enthusiasts and competitors alike have gathered here for the highly anticipated annual coffee showdown.

Your mouth waters at the prospect of tasting these unique and innovative creations crafted by the city's finest experts.

Wanda's booth, unpretentious yet warmly welcoming, serves as the focal point of your day. You, alongside Agatha, have dedicated your time to help her meticulously manage every aspect, while Peter holds down the fort at the cafe.

Wanda’s choice of beans–the ones you'd brought back for her from LA, single-origin and carefully sourced from a quaint little town in Northern Japan–was being used to craft three different offerings: a piping hot brew, a refreshingly cold variant, and an innovative ice-blended concoction.

Beside you, Wanda is a portrait of contained chaos. Her eyes, wide with a mix of fear and excitement, dart around incessantly, taking in the hustle and bustle of the competition. Her hand, icy and trembling, has been clutching yours in a vice-like grip for the past hour. You return the pressure every so often, your thumb gently stroking the back of her hand in a silent bid to soothe her nerves.

“You got this, okay?” you assure her.

She gives you a quick, nervous nod but can't find the words to say anything. You let out a small chuckle, amused at how wound up she is. Despite her being a rookie in this competition, you've got no doubts she'll come out with a win. After a while, she mutters about needing to take a walk and stretch her legs. You nod, understanding her need for a bit of personal space, and secretly grateful for the chance to give your hand, which had been squeezed relentlessly, a break.

In the sea of people, you spot a familiar face–Valkyrie, her broad smile as conspicuous as ever. Her sudden appearance grates on your nerves. It seems she's always present at these occasions, enough to make you wonder if she's on a perpetual campaign trail.

“Running for mayor, Valkyrie?” you can't help but quip as you approach her, your tone laced with annoyance.

Her amused chuckle does nothing to soften the expression on your face. “Believe it or not, I'm not everywhere by choice," she responds, flashing her camera at you. "I'm a photographer, remember? These events are part of my job.”

She says it as though it's a fact you should already be aware of, which only fuels your annoyance further.

“I wasn't aware of that,” you shoot back, frowning at the lens pointed at you.

“Look,Y/N, no hard feelings,” Valkyrie says after she snaps a picture of your scowl. “I wasn't in on all the drama. Wanda gave me the rundown, though. Honestly, I'd probably be jealous of me, too.”

You narrow your eyes at her, crossing your arms over your chest. “What exactly did Wanda tell you?”

“That you two were married? And you cut her loose after she screwed up? That's kinda harsh, don't you think?”

“Well, you don't have a clue about the things we went through,” you retort rather defensively.

“Perhaps I don't. But I know a thing or two about loss,” Valkyrie counters, removing her gloves to show you her left hand.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Take a closer look,” she directs, pushing her hand further in front of your nose. Intrigued, you lean in and catch sight of a faint impression on her finger–evidence of a ring once worn.

She used to be married?

As if reading your thoughts, Valkyrie offers a short explanation, “He died four years ago. It was cancer.”

Your retort dies in your throat. Oh.

After an awkward silence, you manage to stutter out, “I... I'm sorry.”

Valkyrie's smile has a quality that makes you perceive her in a new way. “Time passes,” she says. "People move forward, or they try to, at least."

She puts her gloves back on and readjusts her camera. “Wanda's a good person. And she's gone through a lot too. Be kind to her, okay? She deserves it.”

It’s an advice to be expected from someone on the outside looking in, but it’s also an advice that despite its simplicity, is actually very important and essential in every kind of relationship.

Before you can think of a response, Wanda returns to your side.

“Oh, hey, Val!” Wanda greets, throwing a brief hug around Valkyrie.

Valkyrie gives her a nod before asking, “How about a quick photo, while we wait for the results?”

You can't remember the last time you and Wanda posed for a photo together. There's an awkward moment before you position your hand around her waist, her own arms finding a comfortable place around your neck.

She presses her cheek against yours, her grin so broad it nudges your own expression into a smile. You make a mental note to ask Valkyrie for a copy later.

“Wanda, they’re about to announce the winners!” Agatha pushes through the crowd to reach you both, her face alight with anticipation.

Your heart pounds in your chest as everyone gathers around the stage, the chatter and noise dimming down into a sea of murmurs and excited whispers. The host takes their time, going through the runner ups and then the third place. As each name is announced and it’s not Wanda, your hope dwindles, thinking she may not have placed at all. Wanda recognizes some of them as owners of more-known cafes in her neighborhood.

And then, the host announces the second place winner.

“Second Chances cafe!”

The crowd erupts into cheers and claps, and you find yourself grinning ear to ear as she looks at you in shock and disbelief. Agatha gives a whoop, her arms flying into the air in celebration.

With an excited flush in her cheeks, Wanda takes the stage, her eyes never leaving yours. She accepts the plaque and cradles it with gentle hands, the glow of pride in her eyes enough to make your heart squeeze. As she turns to the crowd, she raises her hand, her fingers wiggling in a modest wave. The crowd roars in response, their cheers echoing in the open park.

Wanda, second place in her first ever coffee showdown, and with a flavor she put together herself. It's like something out of a dream.

But the dream turns a little sour when you notice the many people coming up to her, showering her with praise, and more than a few of them seeming overly friendly.

You see people congratulating her as she steps off the stage, handing her flowers and gift baskets, everyone eager to talk to her, to share in her moment of triumph. They are complete strangers, all drawn to her like moths to a flame.

And as you watch, you see them–people flirting with her. Wanda, for her part, remains gracious and kind, her smile never wavering as she laughs at their jokes and thanks them for their praise.

But something about it makes your skin crawl, makes your hands clench into fists at your side. It isn’t just the jealousy, although that’s a large part of it. It’s the fear, the unshakeable insecurity that even after all you’ve been through, you could still lose her to someone else.

With every laugh she shares, every hand she shakes, the knot in your stomach tightens. You try to shake it off, reminding you that this is the very thing you’re both working on: trust. But as you see the ease with which she interacts with others, the memory of her infidelity looms larger in your mind.

Instead of confronting your feelings, you let them stew, let them build into an almost obsessive preoccupation with the thought of losing Wanda to someone else. It's a spiral you can't seem to pull yourself out of, a cycle of fear and uncertainty that you're trapped in. So, you stay in the background, your eyes locked onto her figure as she laughs and smiles with people who are not you, your mind racing with endless possibilities and outcomes.

It’s a terrible, consuming feeling.

You should be happy for her. You are. But there's a voice in the back of your head whispering things you don't want to hear, insecurities you don't want to address, and fears you don't want to confront.

Yet they're all there, unavoidable in the wake of her success and the admiration she’s receiving from everyone.

When Wanda finally manages to extricate herself from the crowd and return to you, Natasha's words are already resounding deafeningly in your mind.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Wanda's voice breaks into your thoughts, the warmth in her eyes replaced with concern as she notices your distant expression. You force a smile onto your face, trying to push away the question that’s been haunting you:

Who are you, truly, without her?

“Everything's great,” you assure her, trying to sound more convincing than you feel. Wanda's forehead creases in doubt, but she doesn't push it further. Instead, she takes your hand, holds onto you in case you drift off somewhere she can’t follow.

Her touch is meant to be soothing, but all it does is remind you of Natasha's challenge and another question pops into your mind:

Will you even survive if she breaks you the second time around?

As you're tucking yourself under the covers, you hear Wanda's voice call out to you, “Hey, Y/N,” causing you to peek out from the duvet.

“Yes?”

“Remember the assignment Calliope gave us? The...uh, eye-gazing thing?” She sounds slightly bashful mentioning it.

Your eyebrows raise in remembrance. “Oh, right,” you murmur, sitting up straighter on the bed. “Do you want to do it now?”

Wanda nods, her eyes already softening in preparation for the exercise. She situates herself across from you, the both of you sitting cross-legged on the large bed. The room is silent except for Sparky’s soft snores coming from the foot of the bed.

You grab your watch and check with Wanda, “Five minutes?”

As soon as she gives her go signal, you press ‘start’ on your watch.

You take a deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs and then slowly leave your body, calming your nerves. You lock your gaze with Wanda's, and for a moment, it feels like the entire world has come to a standstill.

The first few moments are awkward, and both of you giggle, breaking the silence. But soon, you both fall into a serene silence, eyes never leaving each other. You focus on her eyes, noting the flecks of different hues, the way her eyelashes curl, and how her eyes crinkle when she tries to suppress a smile.

“Are we required not to talk?” Wanda asks in a hushed tone, as if she’ll be reprimanded for it.

You respond with a shake of your head, biting back any words that threaten to slip out. Instead of talking, you allow yourself to reach out and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, all the while keeping your eyes locked with Wanda’s.

Wanda, understanding the unspoken agreement, begins to mirror your actions. Her fingers, gentle and warm, trace the line of your jaw. The simple, intimate gesture draws a soft breath from you, and in response, your hand comes up to cradle her cheek, thumb lightly brushing her skin.

The air between you two becomes charged, filled with an intimacy that words could never capture. Her touch is feather-light, but it ignites a slow burn in your core, making you hyper-aware of every point of contact.

Despite the lack of words, it's the most profound conversation you've had in a while, a connection so deep that it renders words meaningless.

You let yourself get lost in her eyes.

‘Getting lost in one’s eyes’–it’s something you’ve only read in books, a cliche found in romance novels that doesn’t really translate in reality’s fast-paced nature. But with this exercise, you discover that it’s possible.

Time begins to slow as you swim further in those emerald pools, familiarizing yourself with what’s inside. You’re hyper aware of what you’re seeing, and focus all your emotions on the task at hand.

But as you delve deeper, a painful realization begins to take shape: your entire purpose revolves around her, with not a sliver of it left for yourself.

Wanda does the same, and it allows her to see something else behind the look of adoration in them. She sees your insecurities. Your fears. But most of all she sees your love for her, the true magnitude of it. Wanda isn't sure what to make of all this, not just yet. Maybe this exercise isn't about finding answers, but rather about observation, about exposure. It's about having faith in each other, trusting that whatever you reveal, whatever pieces of yourselves you lay bare, won’t be dismissed or exploited.

As the final seconds of the five-minute mark wind down, Wanda gently leans in, allowing her forehead to rest against yours.

The last tick of the timer goes unnoticed, lost in the shared warmth between your foreheads. Neither of you makes a move to disengage from the connection, the outside world seemingly forgotten for now.

“Five minutes…” Wanda murmurs softly, more to herself than to you, as though astonished by how much could be conveyed in such a brief span. Her hand, previously resting on your cheek, moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

Wanda leans in abruptly, her lips crashing into yours in a heated kiss. It's frantic, bordering on reckless, and for a split second, you fear she's glimpsed the war you’re waging with yourself. Her hands cup your face, her fingers digging into your skin, pulling you closer, deeper into the moment.

You respond instinctively, the depth of her kiss stirring a response from within you. Your hands fall on her waist, your nails digging into her flesh. Her shirt has ridden up, and you explore the new expanse of smooth skin available to you, causing goosebumps to rise on Wanda’s skin as she feels the heat of your palm against her hardening nipples.

“W-We should stop,” Wanda manages to utter but it ends in a yelp as you tweak her peaks with purpose.

“Why?” you breathe out against her ear.

“C-Can’t have sex. Doctor’s orders…” Wanda's words falter as she arches her neck, giving way to your lips and tongue as you move your assaults there.

The words are like a bucket of ice-cold water, and a sigh of frustration escapes your lips.

“Right.”

You pull back, extracting yourself from the tangle of limbs and heated desire that Wanda has become. Your body screams in protest, a physical ache that leaves you breathless.

Wanda looks up at you with understanding in her eyes. "I know it's hard," she says, her fingers lightly tracing patterns over the exposed skin of your arm. Your eyes, in a moment of weakness, stray to her panties and see the undeniable evidence of her arousal soaking her underwear. You suppress a groan, flopping back onto the bed to keep your impulses in check. Wanda follows suit and lies on her side, facing you.

Nodding, you swallow down the lump in your throat. “It is,” you admit. You let out a deep sigh, pushing away the longing that threatens to consume you. “But it's necessary,” you add, meeting her gaze head-on. Your fingers trace the line of her jaw, your touch light yet full of promise.

“Seems like my dreams will have to pick up where we left off,” you quip, trying to lighten the mood.

With a tender laugh, she moves closer to you, resting her head on your chest. “By all means, darling,” she whispers against your skin. “Even in dreams, I belong to you.”

Will Wanda still belong to you a year later?

***

“I’ve been thinking…”

Calliope pays close attention to your thoughtful expression as you search your words.

“Wanda, she's done some amazing things this past year...and all without me by her side,” you say evenly, staring out of her office window. You seem lost in thought, like you're on the verge of an important realization. Patiently, Calliope waits, letting you take your time to reveal them.

A moment of silence follows your confession, you continue gazing out the window.

“And how does that make you feel?” Calliope gently prompts when it becomes clear that you won't say anything else on your own.

A deep sigh escapes you as you finally return your gaze to your therapist. “Freeing, in a way–yet kind of sad too,” you confess. “I mean, I'm glad. Wanda's strength... her independence. It's one of the things I love about her. But realizing that she doesn't necessarily need me... it's a strange feeling.”

Calliope steeples her fingers together; She wants to tread lightly, to guide you to self-realization without imposing her interpretations onto your experiences.

“I sense that Wanda not ‘necessarily needing’ you is a point of contention for you. Is that right?”

“Uh, yeah, I suppose you could put it that way,” you say, offering her a sad smile.

“Would you mind going into that a bit further, Y/N?” Calliope requests, her tone open and nonjudgmental.

“Yeah, sure,” you begin hesitantly, letting out a small sigh. “I guess you could say... It's like I'm jealous, in a way. It's odd, I know. But when I see her now, how far she's come, the woman she's become since... everything... I can't help but compare it to my own progress.”

“See, I only feel like I truly came back to myself after we reconciled, like I returned to a safe and comfortable cocoon. But Wanda...She's been out there, growing, learning, becoming this incredible person. It's like she's soared to these incredible heights, and I'm still stuck in the same place, trying to catch up.”

You let out a small, hollow chuckle at the irony of your next concern. “And yeah, there's the whole issue of trust. I forgave her for what she did, or at least, I'm trying to. But now I find myself questioning whether I'm good enough for her. I wonder if she deserves someone better, someone who isn't so... diminutive.”

“Feeling 'less than' can be incredibly difficult, especially after experiencing betrayal,” she starts gently. “And it's natural to wonder if the person you love deserves better. But let me remind you, Y/N, that you are not responsible for determining what Wanda deserves or doesn't. Only she can decide that.”

Calliope’s eyes soften as she pauses, letting you absorb her words.

“As for feeling 'diminutive'... Everyone grows at their own pace. Wanda has had her own journey, and you've had yours. There's no definitive timeline or checklist for growth and healing. You are not less valuable or worthy because you perceive yourself as behind her in some way,” she tells you.

The words she speaks should be appeasing, but they just feel empty to you. They're meant to inspire, to motivate, to help, but they don't reach you. They seem to be directed at someone other than the conflicted individual you've become. The detachment is disconcerting, leaving you feeling even more adrift.

With a sigh, you say, “Something happened recently.”

Calliope adjusts the glasses perched on her nose. “Tell me more.”

“Remember Nat? My best friend and Yelena’s sister? She finally talked to me. She, uh, made a suggestion,” you say, shuffling your feet on the carpeted floor. “She thinks my struggles might be more about me than my relationship with Wanda. She suggested I take a year off. To separate from Wanda, to rediscover who I am on my own.”

Calliope leans back in her chair, taking a moment to consider your words before responding.

“That's a drastic step,” she acknowledges, her tone neutral. “It's a valid suggestion and one that's often employed in cases where codependency has taken root. As a therapist, I can tell you that taking a step back from a relationship to focus on personal growth can indeed help provide perspective, allow for self-reflection, and foster personal development.”

Her eyes lock onto yours, steady and compassionate. “However,” she continues, “It's a decision you'd have to make with careful consideration. It's not just about time and distance–it's about what you do with that time and how you utilize that distance. Self-discovery requires active engagement. It's not something that just happens.”

You nod in understanding. You haven’t gotten around to thinking about how you will fill that gap year. And it just amplifies Natasha’s belief that you don’t know who you are or what to do with yourself when left to your own devices.

“What's your instinct telling you, Y/N?” Calliope inquires, taking off her glasses as if to put aside her professional role and connect with you on a more personal level, like a trusted confidant. “Do you feel that taking this time apart from Wanda could help you rediscover who you are outside of your relationship with her?”

You've been so entwined with Wanda for so long, the thought of detaching yourself from her feels like extracting your own heart. A year from her feels more permanent than when you divorced her because you’re not angry this time.

“I don't know…” you admit, your voice becoming thick with emotions. You look down at your hands, flexing them nervously. “Part of me thinks it could help, because… Because it’s getting worse.”

“What is?”

“This… nagging feeling,” you say. “That… That I have to look at her phone, to read all her messages,” you confess, the words leaving your lips in a whisper.Your eyes remain lowered, and your hands betray a subtle tremor as you push forward. “I haven't looked because I can't bring myself to ask Wanda for her permission, and I can't figure out her passcode. And the feeling of jealousy is more frequent now, and it’s not me.”

It feels like a weight has been lifted off your chest as you bare your deepest insecurities to Calliope. The fear of invading Wanda's privacy conflicts with your need for reassurance, for a confirmation that your trust is not misplaced.

Your confession flows naturally, “I've been under this impression that I need to watch her every move. Yet, I can't shake off the fear that I might overlook something and end up being blindsided again.” There's a pause, followed by a humorless chuckle. “And who am I in all of this mess? If Natasha asked me that question now…” You give a disappointed shake of your head, “I'd probably answer with ‘a bundle of jealousy and insecurity.’”

“I see how that’s extremely difficult for you, Y/N,” she says simply. “You're trying to find out who you are, while at the same time dealing with trust issues. It's like you're walking on a tightrope.”

Tiredness washing over you, you merely hum in agreement, your inner conflict sapping the energy out of you.

“Have you talked to Wanda about this?” Calliope probes, trying to keep the conversation going despite your evident weariness.

“I haven't yet. I'm afraid... I don't want to hurt her, it feels like I've given her false hope.”

“Before you finalize any decision, it would be fair to talk to Wanda. Allow her to give her insights. It's not just about making a decision, it's about including her in the process,” Calliope says. “If you feel that you have already made a decision, tell her before you set any plans in motion. Wanda cares deeply for you and she will understand, no matter what decision you make.”

That's the first piece of advice she's given this session that resonates with you.

“What do you think I should do?” you find yourself asking. The idea of having someone else make this critical decision is temptingly easier. You know how she’s going to respond, but out of desperation, you ask her anyway.

Calliope shakes her head, offering you a knowing smile.

“Have faith in yourself, in your ability to make the right decisions,” she says.

You bite your lip in resignation. “Can I still come to you for guidance, no matter what I choose in the end?”

“Absolutely,” Calliope nods, seeing the answer to your question in your own eyes before you can even realize it. “We're lucky to live in a time where help can be reached in many ways. As long as you want my help, I'll be here for you.”

***

New Year’s Eve passes by in a blur of fireworks, wine and dancing with Wanda in the kitchen, and the next couple of days slowly settles back to its usual rhythm. The city of Manhattan, once draped in holiday cheer with twinkling lights and a towering Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, slips back into its usual attire.

The days following the celebration return to their familiar tempo, like a song falling back into its regular beat after an energetic chorus. Street vendors replace holiday markets, and the regular hum of traffic replaces carols and festive laughter.

As the first week of January wraps up, you and Wanda find yourselves back in Calliope's office. The session is spent mostly reflecting on your holiday experiences and discussing the eye-gazing exercise Calliope assigned you both. Wanda's vivid storytelling about your LA trip takes center stage, and you find it challenging to stay engaged in the conversation.

Time seems to slip through your fingers, and before you know it, Wanda's thanking Calliope for the session, and it's time to leave. Despite your quiet demeanor throughout, Calliope doesn't prod you for it. She seems to understand where your thoughts were wandering. The short nod she gives you before you could leave tells you one thing: Talk to Wanda.

Wanda, on the other hand, hasn't overlooked your frequent distant gazes, seemingly lost in your own world. She hasn't missed the way your eyes fleetingly dart to her buzzing phone, filled with messages from her customers and suppliers, as you wait for dinner to be ready. She notices your attentive ears whenever she's on the phone, not making any attempt to have private conversations away from you. She picks up on the tension in your features when you're out together, and an admirer's gaze lingers on her for a tad too long.

She can't help but notice the way you're always a little bit on edge. It makes her wonder if you’re genuinely content with how things are. If you’re happy with her. If this is really working for you.

But then, behind closed doors, it’s paradise.

Because when the lights are out, and it's just the two of you, your name is the only one she knows, the only one she calls out into the quiet of the night.

***

Finally, on a quiet Saturday morning, you wake up before Wanda. You watch her sleep, peaceful and untroubled, and you decide–today is the day.

Taking a deep breath, you gently nudge her awake. She stirs, blinking sleepily at you, and you give her a soft smile.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your fingers gently combing through her hair. Wanda snuggles further into the pillow, attempting to shield her eyes from the morning light. For a while, you let her be, savoring the peaceful moment as long as you can.

“Wanda, we need to talk.”

Your voice carries a certain tone that instantly cuts through her sleepiness, washing away the last traces of sleep from Wanda’s eyes. She shifts slightly, propping herself up, her eyes now fully focused on you.

“Alright,” she says, her voice a hushed whisper.

You run your fingers through your hair nervously, leaning against the headboard with your back turned to her. She watches you intently, and you feel the weight of her gaze as you gather your thoughts. Inhaling deeply, you finally speak, your voice soft and almost trembling.

“When Natasha came to see me, it wasn’t just to say our goodbyes,” you begin, feeling Wanda's breath hitch slightly. Her lack of surprise indicates that she's sensed there's been more to it. She's been waiting patiently for you to share what's been troubling you, and now she can connect the dots.

Something had changed after the day you spoke with Natasha.

She shifts closer, an instinctual pull towards you for comfort. You don't resist, opening your arm for her so she could tuck herself into the curve of your body, her head finding its familiar resting place against your chest.

“She, uh, made a suggestion that at first sounded fucking ridiculous to me," you say with an empty laugh. “She thinks maybe I–maybe I need some time. To figure things out...about myself, by myself.”

Wanda's hold on you becomes firmer, drawing you in as if she could meld you both into one. The added pressure makes the looming conversation even harder to continue.

“She believes it might be good for me–and, well, us–to take a break. A year apart from each other, to rediscover who I am on my own,” you say and glance down, hoping to catch Wanda's eyes, but you find her eyes tightly shut as if your words have physically wounded her.

There's a pause. A long, deafening silence that you're not sure you can stand for much longer. But when Wanda finally speaks, her voice is calm, and there's a strange kind of acceptance in her eyes when she opens them.

“And what do you think?” she asks softly.

“I... I don't know, Wands,” you confess, the nickname slipping out unintentionally as you feel the cracks in your resolve. “I love you, more than anything. But I also... I also feel lost. And I hate this feeling, this...paranoia...jealousy... It's not me. At least, I don't want it to be me.”

You sense a faint nod from Wanda, drawing a small measure of comfort from her understanding.

“Before I make any decision, I wanted to talk to you,” you say, finally lifting your gaze to meet hers again. “I…” you trail off as you watch a glimmer form in her eyes.

“Wands, what are you thinking?” you ask.

Wanda takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling against yours. “I've noticed,” she admits, her voice so soft it's almost a whisper. “I've seen how you've been pulling away, getting lost in your thoughts. I just... I hoped it was a phase. But even if it were, it hurts to see you like this.”

You nod, your vision becoming a little blurry. This is harder than you thought it would be.

“Have you reconciled with Natasha?” she suddenly asks.

You shake your head no.

Wanda sighs deeply, the corners of her mouth pulling downwards into a deeper frown. “You remember when we first bumped into each other after our divorce, right?” she starts, shifting closer again as she closes her eyes once more. “I was so determined to win you back. But we both know that didn't end up well. I crashed, you left, and I was alone for the first time in a long while.”

Pausing, she takes a moment to recall everything. “Of course, I missed you. But the thing is, after some time, my perspective changed. I wasn't exactly happy, but I found a sense of contentment. I felt... steady, you know?”

Wanda takes a shaky breath, her eyes glazing over with unshed tears. “Then I reached out to you again, for Sparky. Seeing you, talking to you, it made the dormant feelings I had for you flutter back to life. But things were different this time. I'd had some time to really work on myself, to define my identity outside of…you. Beyond just wanting you and being guilty of what I did. I learned so much about myself during that time.”

Wanda pauses, her gaze becoming misty, the emotions she'd been holding back threatening to spill over.

“And maybe,” she hesitates, her voice becoming thick with tears, “Maybe that's what you need too.”

You stare at the ceiling in silence, the enormity of her words sinking in. Your chest is tight, and your head is spinning.

“Is that what you want?” you ask. It would be easier if this is what Wanda wants.

“I want you to be happy,” Wanda whispers through a cascade of tears and trembling lips. “No, I need you to be happy.”

You look at her, taking in the raw emotion etched on her face. The tears streaming down her cheeks make your heart constrict with a pain more acute than you thought possible.

“You mean so much to me, Wanda,” you choke out as your own eyes begin to sting. “I need to be certain that I'm not only holding onto you because I'm afraid of being alone... or afraid of who I am without you.”

Wanda shifts, her fingers coming up to touch your face. “We're in this together, aren't we?”

The thought of being without Wanda, even if it's for your own self-improvement, leaves an acrid taste in your mouth. It feels so wrong, and yet, it may be what's necessary for you to find your footing again.

“Yes, but this is something I need to figure out on my own. For us,” you emphasize. “For me.”

She looks away for a moment, struggling with her own emotions. “I want to support you,” she starts, “But the thought of losing you, even for a little while, scares me.”

You swallow hard, your heart heavy. “I know. It terrifies me too. But I need to do this so we can have a chance at a future where I'm not always second-guessing and doubting.”

Wanda bites her lip, thinking. After what feels like hours, she finally speaks, “Whatever you decide, just... promise me one thing?”

You nod, urging her to continue.

“That you'll come back to me. No matter what you find or how you change, always come back to me,” she says. “And I promise I’ll always be there, waiting for you.”

“One year,” you whisper as your face becomes wet with tears. No contact. No calls, no emails, no texts. No checking up on each other online.

Total disconnection.

“A year later, on this day,” Wanda nods despite herself. “We’ll meet again at Second Chances.” Her lips twitch into a tentative, poignant smile, alluding to the deeper sentiment that the name of her coffee shop embodies.

Wanda's tear feels warm against your thumb as you gently wipe it away. You're both quiet for a while, the room filled only with the soft sounds of your breathing and the muted ticking of a nearby clock. The decision has been made, the terms agreed upon, and now there is nothing left but to savor these final moments of togetherness.

“Can we... can we just hold each other?” you ask quietly. It's a small comfort, but right now, it's everything. You need to feel her close to you, to memorize the feel of her body against yours before you part ways.

Wanda shakes her head, her eyes burning with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. She needs more than just that.

“Touch me,” she breathes, her words melting into your mouth as she captures your lips in a feverish kiss. “Let me give you everything,” she implores, her hands finding yours in the darkness as her eyes fall shut.

Complying with her heartfelt request, you gently ease her back onto the mattress, your bodies tangled together in a dance as old as time.

And then, in what feels like the mere flutter of a heartbeat, it's a year later.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #agatha harkness #valkyrie

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fortisfilia · 5 months

Text

Promised Part 13 - Tom Riddle x reader

Info: This is a rewrite of a story I've posted on my old account years ago. If it sounds familiar, that might be why :)

Summary: In this story, Tom didn't grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader's sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 3k

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 12 | Part 14

Part 13 - Pranks and proper Paybacks

The quill in your hand scratched lightly over the parchment as you were taking notes for Astronomy in the library. It was quiet, as usual, except for the occasional questions and thereof resulting explanations between Ben and Camille. She helped him study for his upcoming Herbology exam, for which he clearly hadn’t revised enough yet. Silly boy.

Tom was there too and sat next to you, completing the quartet round the table. He tried his best not to hiss at them every time Ben asked something. You noticed from the corner of your eye, how he gulped down every thought that built up in his head when another word poured from Ben’s mouth. It was amusing seeing Tom battling with himself to keep his cool. He still didn’t like Ben very much and would much rather study with you alone. But the fact that he had voluntarily sat down with the three of you, tried to behave and didn’t yell at Ben whenever he opened his mouth, was a sign that he probably didn’t hate him as much as he pretended to.

“So, about the Fluxweed again,” Ben whispered, browsing through his book. “How many days does it have to grow?”

Camille was about to answer when Tom pressed his palm against his forehead and exhaled dramatically. “Sixteen, Ben. It’s sixteen. She’s told you that three times at least.”

Ben took a quick look at Tom, while still fumbling through the book. “I know, mate. I just can’t memorise it. Why do I even need to know that?”

Tom flung a piece of parchment toward him, pointing at the empty sheet. “Write it down, then. There are some things you must know. Get over it.”

“Alright, alright,” Ben grinned, apparently not caring about Tom’s tone at all. “I’ll write it down, see? Fluxweed takes thirteen days to grow. Happy now?”

“Sixteen,” Camille, Tom and you sighed in unison.

“Oh.” He crossed out the number and sloppily wrote the correct one above it. “Sixteen then.”

Camille and you chuckled to yourselves while Tom only shook his head slightly, his eyes back inside his own book. Ben certainly was careless, or to be more precise, a lot more careless than Camille, Tom and you when it came to grades. The way he talked about homework and even exams was astonishing. He hadn’t even studied for his O.W.L. in Care for Magical Creatures in his fifth year, and he still got an ‘Exceeds Expectations’. Or so he had told you. He'd always found a way to talk his way out of things, unsurprisingly. Teachers really seemed to like him. Or rather do anything to stop him from talking once in a while.

“Oh, wait,” Ben said again.

“Just read your book,” Tom grunted.

“No, hang on.”

Ben stood up and stretched his arm out quickly, reaching and grasping for something to your left. You all turned your heads and saw him catching something that had been flying right at you.

“I might be bad at Herbology. But you’re lucky I’m a bloody good Seeker,” he said and twisted the thin thing between his fingers.

“What is it?” Camille asked. “Let me see.”

Ben put the thing down on the desk, still pressing his index finger on top of it. “It’s a quill. I think it’s jinxed. It was flying on its own and headed right for your face,” he said and looked at you. “Still wants to, I can feel it moving.”

The grey quill twitched eagerly beneath Ben’s hand, trying to escape and pointed its sharp tip right at you, ready to pierce into your skin.

“Not again,” you mumbled.

“Again?”

Things, odd things, had been happening during the week. Someone had played some pranks and antics on you. You hadn’t found out who it was yet, but it certainly had become pesky. On Monday, someone had left you a note that said Professor Merrythought wanted a word with you. Once you had arrived at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, however, you were met with a confused teacher and had a hard time explaining yourself. Tuesday, someone had poured Rash Powder over your dinner. You had almost taken a bite but thankfully had noticed the unfamiliar smell in time. Wednesday was more subtle. There had been puddles and slippery spots everywhere you stepped. Avoiding them had been a tedious task. And now, on Thursday, this. The quill didn’t look like it could badly injure you, but its vivid nature was a sign for a hex, rather than a jinx. No matter who it was, all those things did tear on your nerves. Not only because the pranks got to you, but because there was a possibility someone had been following you without you noticing. Every time you had gone to the Come and Go Room you had turned around and checked if someone was behind you, just in case. That was the exhausting part.

“Just some pranks,” you explained. “I don’t know who or why, but it’s getting fairly ridiculous.”

“Could someone”-Ben puffed-“stop this thing? It’s trying to escape.”

Tom pointed his wand directly at the quill and rolled his wrist. It lit up for a fraction of a second and crumbled to dust right after.

“Ouch,” Ben yelped and fanned his hand through the air hastily before putting his index inside his mouth. “Thanks, mate.”

Tom smirked, partly for the spell he had just cast and partly for burning Ben’s fingertip. “Anytime, mate.”

Camille dragged her finger through the ashes, took a good look at them and rubbed it off between her index and her thumb. “Who would do that?”

“I don’t know,” you answered.

“Avery and Lestrange again, perhaps?”

“Unlikely,” Tom said. “I checked on them some days ago. They’re still with Carpe most of the time, scrubbing the floors and polishing trophies. And besides, they wouldn’t dare.”

“Who else could it be then?” Camille asked as she blew the remaining ashes off the desk with a quick cleaning spell.

The four of you exchanged looks around the table. “To be honest,” Tom began. “I was suspecting you for a while, Ben.”

“Me?” Ben asked wide-eyed. “Why would I do that? I just stopped that quill.”

“‘I’m aware, I’ve seen that now.”

Camille hummed, deep in thought. “Wait,” she said. “What about Freda? Freda Morris.”

“The head girl?” Ben asked.

“Yes,” she said. “She was so jealous at Slughorn’s party, wasn’t she?”

Tom looked at you, biting on the inside of his lower lip, then nodded. “That doesn’t sound too far-fetched.”

“I wouldn’t have thought she’d be so creative,” you said while picking up your books. “Well, I’ll keep an eye on her then.”

Once you had gathered your things, you got up and waited for Tom to do the same.

“Where are you going?” Camille asked. “It’s not even seven yet.”

“I have to,” you stopped yourself. You had to tend to the potion in the Come and Go Room again. Needless to say, you couldn’t tell them that. “I have to go and look after Nagini. The snake. She’s shedding at the moment. Talk to you soon.”

“Let us know if something else happens,” Camille said and waved you goodbye.

Tom followed you silently. Of course, they didn’t ask him why he had to come and check on Nagini as well. The perks of being intimidating. Apart from this, Camille and Ben surely didn’t mind studying without him nagging all the time.

On your way out, right when you left the library and headed toward the grand staircase, Tom and you were halted by another student. Platinum blonde and blue-eyed, Abraxas Malfoy, who was one of Tom’s ever so devious sycophants, locked eyes with him.

“Tom,” he greeted and stopped right in his tracks.

“Abraxas,” Tom replied.

Oh, what did he want now? There wasn’t a lot of time until the potion had to be stirred, so hopefully Malfoy wouldn’t keep you from going any longer.

“So,” Abraxas began. “I’ve seen, you like to keep new company these days.”

Tom frowned and looked over his shoulder. Clearly, Abraxas didn’t mean you. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything,” he said and chortled a sour laugh. “I’m just observing. You’re dealing with mudbloods now?”

He was talking about Ben. Malfoy and Tom’s other ‘friends’ had probably seen you in the library together. Or in the Three Broomsticks, some weeks ago. Abraxas must have felt really brave to talk to the head boy in this way. His chest was swollen with pride and the glint in his gaze spoke more than he could have ever said. He was out to get something from this conversation.

Tom only exhaled sharply and stared back at Malfoy, unconcerned about his reproach. “And how come that’s any of your business, exactly?”

“Oh, it isn’t of course,” Abraxas answered. “I was just surprised. Shocked even.”

“I do apologize,” Tom sneered, clicking his tongue in fake sympathy. “That the gathering of other people, who don’t concern you in the slightest, has ruined your precious day.”

Abraxas stared back at him, obviously trying hard to keep calm. His smile still sat neatly on his face; it was his eyes that betrayed him. “No need to worry about me. I merely started thinking, daydreaming, that your Grandfather might not appreciate that.”

Tom took a step closer, his nostrils flared for a moment and a vein on his neck stood out. “Abraxas,” he whispered so spitefully, it almost sounded like he was talking in Parseltongue, words spilling out of him like pure venom. “I’d advise you to worry about your own life. Because if you don’t, wouldn’t it be tragic if your Mother found out what happened last year at your house? When the maid left and never came back? What was the reason again? If only I remembered. Oh, I do.”

Malfoy’s expression changed momentarily, his head sunk and his eyes darted across the floor, trying hard to think of what to answer.

“Do we understand each other?” Tom asked.

Abraxas nodded, lips thin and full of fury. He instinctively retracted and took a step back, keeping his head low and looked up at Tom through knitted brows.

“Good,” Tom said and left Malfoy standing there.

Continuing to walk to the grand staircase, he appeared like nothing but a casual chat between two friends had just happened.

“Well,” you said after Abraxas was out of earshot. “That was interesting.”

“They’re all so stupid, sometimes I wonder how they’ve lived this long,” Tom replied. “I have dirt on every single one of them. And they try to blackmail me. Ridiculous.”

“Idiots indeed,” you shook your head. “Do I want to know what happened to the maid?”

“You don’t. It’s a long, repulsive story.”

No doubt it was. Abraxas was known for his dreadful ways and how he had tormented younger students ever since. He wasn’t like Avery or Lestrange, a dumb follower, who had Hippogriff crap for brains. No, he was mindful, awfully aware of his surroundings and constantly seemed to brood about his next step. He reminded you of Marvolo, they both had the same aura, cold and demeaning, always looking for ways to take advantage of other people’s misery. It was no surprise that he had tried to intimidate Tom, maybe even pass him in their hierarchy by threatening to tell everyone about his association with a muggle-born. But he hadn’t thought it through. Tom Riddle wasn’t one to mess with and he had just made that crystal clear. Ben might have not been his friend, but still, he hadn’t let Abraxas speak ill of him.

“I wouldn’t have thought you liked Ben,” you said once you turned another corner.

Tom opened his mouth and looked at you in disbelief for a moment, as if you had just insulted him, before he started talking. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, it just seemed like it. You came to his defence so quickly. That’s why I assumed.”

“This wasn’t about Hilt. It was about me, Marvolo and that bootlicker Malfoy.”

“Whatever you say,” you grinned while Tom rolled his eyes.

Friday evolved to be the worst day of the week. Not only had you almost gotten detention for falling victim to a Knockback jinx during Defence Against the Dark Arts if Camille hadn’t come to your rescue. Professor Merrythought still hadn’t forgotten about your visit on Monday and thought you were trying to disturb her lesson again. But in addition, your curriculum almost hindered you from tending to your potion completely. It had become nearly impossible to handle everything at once. Your classes, homework, studying for the N.E.W.T.s, taking care of the antidote and on top of all that, those stupid pranks. It had been draining and your body ached for a bit of rest.

On your way to Tom’s dorm, when the sun had already set and you were finally done with everything for the day, you heard the clink of a door handle turning behind you. It almost had gone overheard, the only thing you wanted to do was sit down for a moment and unwind, even if only for an hour. You had already reached the door to Tom’s room and could have just entered to forget about the world for a while. But there was this unsettling feeling inside of you and Camille’s words from the library ran through your head again. You turned around. And thank Merlin you did.

Freda Morris stood in her door frame, smirking with her wand pointed right at you. She must have been taken by surprise, it didn’t seem like she had expected you to look at her. Her wand sank in an instant before she hid it behind her back.

“You,” you muttered, taking some steps her way. “It was you all week, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, mocking you with a smile.

“Just admit it at least. Coward. You know exactly what I’m talking about and you were just trying to do it again, weren’t you?”

Freda shook her head and put a strand of hair behind her ear with her skinny fingers. “I’m head girl, dear. I would never do anything to harm another student if that is what you’re implying. I don’t know what could have given you the idea.”

“Oh shut up,” you spat. “Head girl, yes. An awful excuse for one at best.”

The door behind you opened and Tom appeared from inside. He looked out into the hallway frowning. “What’s all that noise about?”

“Your fiancée’s throwing a fit.”

“Camille was right,” you said, still not taking your eyes off Freda. “It was her. The note, the quill and everything else. I just caught her right in the act.”

Freda heaved one single, shrill laugh at your words and straightened her posture. “I just told you, I would never do such things.”

“What were you doing then? Pointing your wand at me, when I have my back turned on you.”

She pondered, taken aback, while she looked at Tom beside you until her grin appeared back on her face. “You’re imagining things. I was just leaving my room to go and talk to Professor Dippet. That’s when you started to yell at me for no reason.”

“Liar!”

She didn’t lower herself to even look at you anymore. Instead, she looked at Tom. “Is this really what you look for in a woman? Hysterical and hostile? I would have thought you had better taste.”

The need to go up to her and slap her across the face seemed almost unbearable. Your hands were balled into fists and it took all your might not to take out your wand and pay her back everything she had done to you, times ten. Tom on the other hand stayed calm and smiled weakly while looking back at her.

“Don’t worry about my taste, Freda,” he said. “I’d rather worry about your memory. Maybe you haven’t been informed, which would be very unfortunate seeing that you are head girl, but Professor Dippet isn’t in Hogwarts today. He’s been called in by the Wizengamot. How could you have been on your way to him then?”

Freda’s smile faltered, her eyes darting back and forth between Tom and you. “I must have not gotten his owl then.”

“Certainly,” Tom said. “I want a word. Now.”

“No,” you intervened and he stopped his movements to look at you. “I can do this myself.”

Tom stepped back with a small smirk on his face. Freda was in for a treat. You walked up to her until there was only a hand’s breadth of space between your faces.

“Listen now,” you said, your heart pumping strongly inside your chest. “I don’t know what you were thinking. If you were thinking. But I swear, if you ever play another of your pranks on me again, I-”

“You what?” she asked and shoved you by the shoulder. “Do you think I’m scared of you?”

The moment she had touched you, you felt something moving by your feet. Nagini had slithered out through Tom’s open door and hissed louder than you had ever heard before. Freda gasped and took several steps backwards, startled by the snake. Nagini placed herself between the two of you and reared up, looking as huge and aggressive as ever. Her hisses were meant for one person only and when you looked back at Tom, you recognised that he wasn’t talking to the snake. She had come to your defence on her own.

“Take that thing away,” Freda yelled. “Make it stop.”

“Or what?” you asked. “You might have not been scared of me yet, but I promise you, give me one more reason and you will be.”

She didn’t dare answer, still looking down at Nagini in utmost panic and trying to foresee every move the snake was about to make. You savoured on the sight for a moment, fervently enjoying how Freda fumbled for the doorknob behind herself.

“Come Nagini,” you then said as you turned around. “Leave her alone. For now.”

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 14

Tags: @ariachaos @daardyrnitta

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lovelywingsart · 2 years

Text

//AU// Armful

-- Karl Heisenberg X OC (AFAB, She/They) --

Next little story for the Survival AU! These next few might be... A bit shorter than usual. I'm alot better at drawing these situations than I am writing them, so please bear with me...! QuQ"

**Remember, check out the Masterlist for more! <3**

-----

Warnings?: A bit of nervousness in the first few days of parenthood, but a whole bunch of fluff!

Summary: A small offer leads to an affectionate metal man- who apparently has never held an infant a day in his life.

Despite the new squealing and occasional short croaky cries, Heisenberg didn't leave the room unless for a short time. He damn near refused to leave them alone, to leave his mind to wander. No, he didn't want his own mind to play around at the moment... He was too focused on his son, now a few days old, and the one who kept him to her chest constantly. She wouldn't put him down. Not even to settle him on the bed next to her, instead keeping him cuddled enough as if he were a living stuffed animal. It was, admittedly, mildly amusing to watch. It didn't surprise him either, though her current happiness was... definitely odd.

It was something he wasn't used to.

It was as if she had... changed, in a way. As if she had relaxed, like this was some sort of normal life... Like they could go outside to show their neighbors the newborn like a proud parent should. To parade him around town and celebrate the birth of what she had somewhat jokingly described as the 'heir' of the factory. That single thought, that none of that was possible now, mildly dampened his own excitement. But her joy since the birth of the infant admittedly pushed him through, and it was something he couldn't bring himself to be away from. Even he knew it was joy that was very much needed in this hellhole of an existence.

He kept his eyes on them, now watching in interest as the infant looked around with curious eyes. He had completely lost his own focus on written plans he was currently revising, simply staring with his head tilted to the side just slightly. Emelia looked up at him for a moment, having felt his stare through her own focus. But she smiled as she caught his eye, glancing back at their son.

"Enjoying yourself?" She played, making him jump. He said nothing in reply, moving his shoulders in a small shrug. He was still out of it, of course, mindlessly twirling his pencil between his fingers. She kept her eye on him before an idea entered her mind. He still kept his distance, so maybe...

"Did you want to hold him?" She asked suddenly, making him fully jerk out of the trance he was in. He blinked as he moved his head fully to look at her, mildly stunned and... confused.

"I-... What??"

Ah. There was the snap.

"I said, did you want to hold him?" She asked again, tilting her head slightly as he stared. He seemed to think for a moment, his gaze moving between her and their son a few times before he swallowed almost nervously.

"... I... I guess?" He replied finally, and she chuckled.

"It's your decision... I just figured since you haven't yet..."

There was yet another moment of silence before he simply nodded, though the movement was small and somewhat jerky. She smiled again.

"Come, then." She spoke softly, patting the bed next to her. "If I could bring him over, I would..."

"It... It's fine." He managed, pushing himself out of the chair and slowly making his way over.

He finally sat down next to her, his movements slow and hesitant as he kept his eyes on their son. A small noise from the child nearly made him jump, but he calmed relatively quickly as Emelia shushed him with clicks of her tongue.

"Arms, please." She said gently. Heisenberg paused, but listened, moving his arms out towards them.

She shifted how she could, moving her own arms and hands to transfer their son to his father. It was a careful process, though not much of an easy one given the man's own nervous tension.

"It's alright... Easy now..." she cooed lightly, shifting his hands for him as she set the infant in his arms. He watched with a fascinated hesitation as he let her shift his arms and hands, forcing his own muscles not to shake as he felt the weight- albeit little to him- settle against him.

"Keep your hand under his head... Shift your arm-" she paused for a moment before leaning on his shoulder slightly both to stay comfortable and to ease the strain on her own back. She finally set her hand on his arm to keep him steady. "Ah- There you go!"

Within moments, a sense of calm appeared once more as silence followed. Heisenberg focused on the tiny being now in his arms, currently staring up at him with bright eyes and a small scrunched nose. Emelia herself smiled, keeping one of her hands on his to help with the head; but he still didn't move. He was afraid to move. Sure he had seen babies before, but absolutely never within a few feet, let alone a few inches from his own face, and he never once thought to actually hold one. It was so... so SMALL compared to his own hands... Even with the chubby rounded cheeks and general size that made him feel horrible for the mother next to him.

And to think they both started out as this small fragile thing... To think he of all people helped MAKE this small fragile thing... He had to admit it freaked him out quite a bit, as well as fascinated him in a strange way with the concept of such embedded in his brain since the boy was born. It wasn't something he would have ever believed had he not been living through it, so to speak...

His attention remained on the child, their eyes locked in a gaze of confusion and wonder from both as he silently debated on if this was even the best idea. A chuckle from Emelia made him jump slightly.

"Why don't you talk to him?" She asked quietly, setting her chin on his shoulder. He glanced at her.

... Talk???

"... How do I..." he started, though trailed off as she nodded at the infant with a calm smile.

"Just... talk. Say 'hello'." She then raised a brow. "You talk to your Soldats all the time, don't you?"

He frowned.

"I... Those aren't-"

"They still count, as wretched as they are... It's alright, I promise he won't talk back just yet. Not entirely." She joked, and he looked back at the infant in his hands. He remained silent for a few moments, watching as the boys fingers moved slightly while staring. He managed to clear his throat slightly.

"Uhm... H-... Hey, kid..." he tried somewhat awkwardly, earning a small nudge from the one next to him. He gave a glance over to her, but quickly returned his attention to the baby in his arms. This was... difficult.

He was silent for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek before giving a sudden huff. His movements were careful and hesitant as he adjusted his son, managing to cradle the baby in one arm before scooting himself back against the wall with the other. She shifted slightly to allow him to move while watching with mild confusion, though was pleasantly surprised as he eased back into the pile of pillows that lined the wall itself.

"Would you like me to take him-"

"I'm fine." He said suddenly, shifting some of the pillows with his free arm before finally settling and going still once more.

He cradled the infant against his chest now, returning his gaze to the bright wide eyes that observed everything they could with the tiniest hums he had ever heard.

"Feels better, huh...?" He mumbled, carefully lifting his hand. He paused as the infants eyes moved to it, a sudden nervousness in his own.

Emelia was quiet, watching them carefully.

"... He's just curious..." she assured quietly, and he looked up at her for a moment before clearing his throat.

His moments were slow as he moved his fingers, now watching his sons eyes follow ever so slightly- but they kept returning to his face. He let out a questioning hum.

"Not too interested in the big things yet, are you kid..." he mumbled, hesitantly lowering his hand onto the infants chest. He nearly jumped as he was met by a quiet noise from the child, ignoring the soft chuckle from beside him in favor of paying attention to the new feeling that suddenly made his breath halt temporarily.

"Not even a week old and you've got a mouth on you..." he said, raising a brow. "Just like your mom already, hm?"

Emelias face fell.

"Hey-" she started, and he snorted.

"It's a bad habit of yours, Doll."

"Like you're any better...!"

"I think I am."

He paused as the infant made more noise, and he couldn't help but chuckle with a quick glance over to her.

"Told you."

He couldn't stop the small lopsided smile he gave, and he looked down at his own hand as her own face changed. He moved his hand down, hesitantly tapping a finger against his sons balled up fist- only to freeze as it was grabbed curiously and slowly. He watched the tiny fingers move and flex, listening to the calm, yet tiny noises before he ever so gently closed his own fingers around his sons hand-

No, nearly his entire arm.

So... so fucking small...

Emelia shifted as she watched them, her gaze fixed on his face. Heisenbergs own gaze softened to an extent she had never seen as their son reached with another tiny hand and gurgle, and the man looked as if he were about to break almost instantly.

"... So this is how it feels..." he nearly whispered. He watched intently as the small, smooth skinned hands grasped at his larger scarred ones that soon began to tremble.

She was silent for a moment before reaching over herself and placing a gentle hand on his arm.

"Karl..." she started, and he looked at her.

She said nothing else as she met his gaze, simply giving a calm smile. His eyes widened before looking down again. Her look was that of reassurance. Of a gentle reminder that he was ok. That this was all ok... One look at his own hand confirmed it for him; That even he could handle something as fragile as an infant without fear of harm.

He of all people was possible of maintaining innocence without corruption, despite the voices in his head and the horrors he had made his lifes work up until this point.

"A-dal-wulf..." he hummed quietly in a small singing tone, his voice sudden enough to make the child's eyes meet his. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, and suddenly he was... calm.

The room fell silent once more as he watched and even mildly played with his son, using his hand to move the infants arms slightly in any direction and clicking his tongue gently to keep attention. Emelia simply stayed silent, watching the interaction while leaning on his shoulder.

It was if nothing else had existed in that moment- no machinery, no plans, no parasites, no danger... Only the small ray of hope they had within the infant who currently rested in his fathers arms.

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angelofrainfrogs · 2 years

Text

We Found Him, Superstar: Ch. 14

Fandom: Five Nights At Freddy’s: Security Breach

Description: Since starting his new afterlife at the Pizzaplex, Gregory has managed to befriend the Glamrock animatronics and made a surprising discovery—Bonnie’s been hidden in the basement warehouse this entire time, badly decommissioned but still powered on. Along with Bonnie are the endoskeletons that, no longer under the virus’s control, seem much more sentient than normal animatronics… Gregory and his friends are determined to get Bonnie back into commission and figure out the mysteries of what exactly these endoskeletons are—and how to help them, too.

Chapter Summary: Thomas and Leon figure out a new way to communicate with Gregory—and also happen to see an unexpected animatronic in the bowling alley. A plan is put in motion to bring the well-loved rabbit back into the spotlight.

Rating: T

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38728158/chapters/108151155

Gregory must’ve been exhausted for he slept almost the entire day away, only appearing in the crowd during the band’s final performance. That worked out though, as Freddy and Chica’s schedules had to be revised in order for the techs to repair and clean them. Freddy was glad Gregory didn’t have to hang around the edges of Parts & Service while a new torso casing was put on—it might have distressed the boy to see him in pieces.

Eventually, the day ended and Freddy and Gregory returned to their room. It was 12:01 on the dot when the guards knocked on the door, Thomas calling out: “Hey, you two! Can we come in?!”

Without hesitation, Gregory scrambled to his feet and ran over to open the door. Leon watched as it opened on its own, then looked over at Freddy and let out a nervous laugh.

“That's very, uh... nice of you, Gregory,” Leon said slowly, entering Freddy's room with Thomas trailing behind him.

“We brought something for you!” Thomas announced as he stepped into the room, a large drawing pad tucked under his arm and an unopened pack of mechanical pencils in one hand. He put these down on the table and sat on the couch, opening the drawing pad to the first blank page while Leon settled next to him.

“We thought maybe we could try communicating directly by writing to each other?” the guard explained, though it sounded more like a question. To demonstrate, he took out one of the pencils and clicked it a few times until the lead came through, then wrote “HI GREGORY” in large letters on one edge of the paper and flipped it around for the boy to see.

Gregory crouched down and pulled out a green marker from underneath the couch, taking the cap off as he moved to the drawing pad. Instead of writing something back, the boy simply began drawing stick figures with smiley faces followed by his name. Thomas watched the marker move with avid fascination, mouth hanging slightly open as the pictures formed, followed by Gregory’s name in shaky child’s font. He knew the ghost existed, but seeing him actually communicate like this suddenly made the situation even more real.

“I don't know what to say!” Gregory finally admitted, lifting his gaze over his shoulder to meet Freddy’s.

“How about you reply by writing ‘Hi Thomas?’” Freddy suggested, crouching down next to him. He then glanced up at the guards with a small smile as he explained: “He is unsure of how to respond.”

The boy smiled and nodded his head at the suggestion, soon lowering his head. He wrote what Freddy suggested, although it wasn’t the best spelling: 'hi tomus'

Leon read the words with slightly narrowed eyes, tapping his foot and lifting his gaze to meet Freddy’s. “...How old is Gregory?”

“He is ten,” the bear replied, meeting Leon’s gaze and knowing they were probably thinking the same thing—it seemed like Gregory might not be able to write as well as expected for someone of his age… although, they’d need to see more to actually make a determination on what level he was truly at.

“That’s a really good try!” Thomas said, smiling at Gregory’s attempt. He picked up the pencil and spelled his name correctly. “You just missed a few letters—it’s a weird name, I know.” He then nudged Leon’s arm, holding out the pencil to him. “Here, write yours so he can see it, too!”

Leon nodded his head slowly, soon looking over at Thomas as he was nudged. Leaning forward, he wrote his name down with the pencil before pulling back. Of course, he had many questions but... he couldn't voice them now, especially with the boy right there. Gregory stared at the guards’ names before looking up at Freddy again.

“What do I write now?!” he asked, clearly intrigued with what they were doing.

“What other names do you know how to write?” Freddy asked, smiling at Gregory again. He didn’t want the boy to realize he was being assessed while he was simply trying to talk to his new friends. “Perhaps Thomas and Leon will recognize them, too.”

“Yeah, let’s try that!” Thomas readily agreed. He could tell that something was off by the way Leon was acting, but he was much more focused on the ghost to figure out what the issue was. He’d just ask Leon when they got back to the office. Leon himself wasn't the best with kids, so he simply sat back and let Thomas work his magic.

Gregory hummed, immediately beginning to write down what he was sure of. He wrote 'Freddy Fazbear' on the paper, followed by Chica, Monty, and Roxy, remembering the hundreds of times he’d seen the words plastered on posters and signs throughout the Pizzaplex. Though Gregory’s penmanship was shaky, the names were all written correctly.

“Wonderful!” Freddy praised, ruffling Gregory’s hair, which to the guards just looked like him shaking a claw in mid-air. “Perhaps we can try answering a question or two?” He looked at Thomas and Leon. “What is something you would like to know about Gregory?”

“Ummm… well, I’d ask your favorite animatronic, but that’s pretty obvious.” Thomas laughed, then hummed as he thought of a good question. Something easy and not too deep—he didn’t want to scare off the kid when they were just starting to get close. “Let’s see… what’s your favorite color?”

Gregory smiled and leaned into Freddy's palm, watching Thomas as he spoke. The boy tapped his chin before beginning to write: 'reD'

Leon looked at the answer for a moment before slowly nodding his head, resting his arms against the back of the couch comfortably. “Gregory likes red. Nice color.”

“Ooh, yeah that’s nice!” Thomas agreed with a nod, now catching onto the others’ concern. A ten year old should know when to use capital letters. He picked up the pencil again and turned the notepad around to write “purple,” then flipped it back so Gregory could see. “I like this one.”

Gregory at the word for a moment, a slight frown crossing his face before he addressed Freddy for confirmation. “That says, uh… purple, right?”

“Correct,” Freddy confirmed, keeping his smile wide despite the growing worry in the back of his mind. Clearly, Gregory had missed out on some essential points in his education, and it only made Freddy realize how little he actually knew about his past. Gregory had been living on the street before Vanny caught him, his mother had disappeared, his father was out of the picture, and… what else? For all the times Gregory had called him “dad,” Freddy knew next to nothing about his son’s history.

“I think I forgot something in the security room. Would you like to join me for a minute, Freddy?” Leon offered as he stood, although he gave the animatronic a look that showed he didn’t really have much of choice.

“Oh… certainly, Leon,” Freddy agreed, then met Gregory’s gaze as he put a gentle hand on his head. “Will you be alright with Thomas, superstar? I will not be long, I promise—and you can always call me on your Fazwatch if you need me.”

Gregory fiddled with his Fazwatch for a moment before gently nodding his head. “Okay…”

“Uh, not that I don’t appreciate the quality time, but I’m not ready to deal with a ghost kid by myself yet, Leon!” Thomas whispered, gripping his coworker’s pant leg a bit desperately. Talking to Gregory with the other two there was one thing, but being completely alone with him and, in effect, responsible for him was a whole new level that he hadn’t prepared for.

“We're not going to be far; I just need to talk to Freddy,” Leon whispered back, taking Thomas’s hand and setting it back on the notepad. “You'll be fine—just don't upset the kid.”

Freddy gave Gregory’s shoulder a squeeze and stood, trailing closely after Leon as the guard exited the room. Thomas watched them go with wide eyes, before his gaze shifted to the floating t-shirt that marked Gregory’s presence. His expression immediately softened, not wanting the kid to feel like it was his fault Thomas was so nervous (even though it unintentionally was).

“Okay, Gregory, let’s try some more questions for now—how’s that sound?”

***

“I assume that you noticed the same thing as I did about Gregory’s reading and writing proficiency,” Freddy said when they were a suitable distance away so as not to be overheard.

“I did,” Leon confirmed with a nod, leaning against the wall. “I didn’t want to ask any questions in front of him, but... Do you know anything about his parents?” He frowned softly. “Nothing shows up for him under the missing children, and I'm not even sure what his last name is… It's like he doesn't exist.”

“No, I… I am rather ashamed to admit that I do not know his last name, nor much about his past at all,” Freddy replied quietly, shaking his head. “All he has told me is that his father has been out of the picture for a long time, and he and his mother lived on the streets outside of the Pizzaplex before she… ‘disappeared,’ as he put it.” Freddy let out a heavy sigh. “I have a strong feeling he has not been in any database for quite some time.”

“I see... I guess that makes sense.” Leon gave a sigh. This wasn’t the answer he’d hoped to receive. “Well, don't beat yourself up over it. Maybe you can talk to him about it sometime.”

Freddy nodded. “I think he will be eager to learn, but I need to conduct some more observations before I can fully determine where he is in terms of schooling.” He frowned, trying to take Leon’s words to heart but still feeling bad for not noticing this sooner. “He has simply never needed to write while he has been with me, and anytime I contacted him when we were apart we spoke through his Fazwatch. He picked up some notes during our journey, but… now that I think about it, he always asked me to read them aloud—even if he found one on his own, he would wait until we reunited to ask me what it said… I suppose that was a sign in and of itself, but we were too preoccupied with other tasks for me to catalogue this behavior for future reference.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Leon reassured, a bit unnerved to see the animatronic so worried. Tentatively, he reached out to give Freddy’s arm a light pat. “Like you said, you had other things to worry about. Just try figuring out anything you can from him when you get the chance; I'm sure he wouldn't mind answering your questions.”

“Thank you, Leon.” Freddy gave him a smile. “I appreciate your support—and Thomas’s too, of course.” He tilted his head towards the room, listening closely. He couldn’t make out any words, but he could hear Thomas chattering enthusiastically and Gregory exclaim something in response. “They seem to be getting along as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

Leon let out a soft chuckle, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure Thomas is just happy to actually have the chance to interact with kids—he really wanted to work the dayshift, you know.”

“Did he?” Freddy thought for a moment, then nodded with a small laugh of his own. “That makes sense; he was quite terrified when I first met him, and I could not fathom why he signed up for the job of night guard…”

“A combination of his application being at the top of the pile and him willing to take any job at the Pizzaplex he could get, probably.” Leon looked towards the room, folding his arms over his chest. “Although I doubt he’d switch to dayshift now even if he got the opportunity to—he’s way too invested in this ghost stuff. Ah—I am too, don’t worry. My focus is just more towards whatever the hell is going on with the other kids and what happened to them in the first place...”

“You are doing invaluable research—thank you again.” Freddy’s expression softened in appreciation. “Speaking of, is there anything else you wanted to discuss while we have a moment to ourselves, or shall we go and see what they are doing in there?”

“That's all I have for now—just let me know what you find out.” Leon smiled up at the bear faintly.

“I certainly will.” Freddy nodded, returning his amiable grin.

***

As the conversation between Leon and Freddy was taking place, Thomas and Gregory were finding even more ways to communicate.

Thomas’s eyebrows scrunched together as he scanned the room. He then let out an aha! as he picked up the nearby Freddy plush, placing it on the table next to the drawing pad. He flipped to a fresh page and quickly sketched two large circles, writing “yes” under one and “no” under the other. Then he looked at Gregory with a huge grin. “There! Now if I ask you a yes or no question, you can put the Freddy plush in the circle for your answer! Does that make sense?”

Gregory took a moment to process the rules before nodding… though he remembered that Thomas couldn't quite see him. He moved over to hold onto the plush, staring at the circles for a second before placing the toy over the one for “yes.”

“Yesss!” Thomas cheered, happy that his plan seemed to work. “Okay, this opens up a whole bunch of stuff we can talk about! Let’s see, um… ooh, I’ve got one—I read that ghosts use electricity as an energy source. So, when you sucked the juice out of our flashlights… did it actually give you an energy boost?!”

The boy hesitated before setting the plush on the “yes” circle once again. As much as he wanted to try and speak to Thomas directly by trying to reveal himself like he’d unintentionally done with that dayshift guard a few days ago, Gregory didn't want to scare him... and the ghost also wanted to conserve his energy since he had the whole rest of the night ahead.

“Cool, cool, good to know,” Thomas said with a nod. He didn’t necessarily want Gregory to show himself either—even though it was clear Gregory was just a boy, there was still a tiny part in the back of the guard’s mind that worried a terrifying demon would appear in his place. For now, he really just wanted to know how Gregory’s powers worked. “So, can you take energy from anything electrical?”

“Of course I can!” Gregory replied, then lifted the plushie back up and set it down on the “yes” circle for a third time.

“Interesting…,” Thomas mused, staring at the toy. “Hmm, what next… well, I’d tell you something about me, but I’m not sure what you’d wanna know! Freddy might have to help you with asking your questions for now… but that’s okay! I can tell that he loves you a lot—you know that, right?”

Gregory wished there was a way to project his voice at least, but for now he simply tapped the plushie against the “yes” circle with a vigorous nod. “Yeah! And I love him a lot, too.”

“I figured,” Thomas chuckled. A wistful look crossed his face, then he grabbed the pencil and started sketching something. As he worked, he rambled: “I’ve known of Freddy and his band for a looong time—ever since I was a kid. He’s looked different over the years, but I think this is the best version of him; he’s definitely the most interactive one, that’s for sure… You know who my favorite animatronic is, though?” He finished his sketch and turned the notepad around, revealing a simple drawing of a friendly, grinning rabbit face sporting a pair of endearing buck teeth. “You probably don’t even recognize who that is, do you? My drawing skills aren’t that great, and he hasn’t been in the Pizzaplex for a while…”

The boy watched Thomas closely as he drew, immediately letting out a loud gasp and jumping up as the image was revealed.

“Bonnie!” Gregory cheered, soon settling down to begin writing in a blank area, trying to remember how to spell the name from the signs he’d seen around the Pizzaplex—much fewer than those for any other animatronic: 'bonnie'

Thomas gasped in delighted surprise when Gregory wrote down the rabbit’s name, a huge smile lighting up his face. “Yeah, Bonnie! I always loved him the best; he’s just the mascot for the bowling alley now, but until recently he used to be the bass player in the band!” The guard laughed, giving the Freddy plush a light pat on the top of his hat. “I feel like he and Freddy were always meant to be best buds—what do you think?”

The boy immediately nodded his head as he repeatedly tapped the plush on the “yes” circle. This was perfect! Maybe Thomas would be able to help bring the bunny back after all!

The door suddenly opened, the pair immediately turning to see who it was. Once Freddy was in sight, Gregory ran over and hugged onto the bear’s legs, a bright smile lighting up his face. “Freddy, guess what?! Thomas said Bonnie is his favorite animatronic!”

“Oh?!” Freddy asked, surprised. He bent to place a hand on Gregory’s head, looking at Thomas as he did so. “Gregory said that your favorite animatronic is Bonnie?”

“Yeah!” Thomas replied with another laugh. “I wasn’t sure if he’d recognize him, but he knew who he was right away, even from my crappy drawing—oops.” He grimaced apologetically, pressing a hand to his mouth briefly before continuing. “Anyway, Gregory agreed with my theory that you and Bonnie were designed to be best friends.”

“That is indeed true,” Freddy admitted with a large grin. This was such promising news—maybe at least Thomas wouldn’t be too opposed to being Bonnie’s spokesperson… although Freddy had a feeling that Leon wouldn’t mind all that much, either. From their recent conversation, it was clear that Leon cared more than he might appear to from his outward personality.

“Does that mean we can tell them about Bonnie now?” Gregory asked, tugging on Freddy’s arm excitedly. Leon made his way over towards Thomas, standing near the couch and glancing down at the drawing.

“Hmm… I was always a Foxy fan, honestly,” Leon mentioned, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But Bonnie’s cool, too.”

Freddy remained quiet for a moment as he studied the guards. The worst thing that could happen would be that they either didn’t believe him, or inexplicably decided to vouch for Bonnie staying decommissioned—the second option being so uncharacteristic of what Freddy knew of the guards’ personalities that he couldn’t even imagine that situation. Still… he really didn’t want to overwhelm them with information, even if this was something good. Besides, they’d want proof, especially Leon, and Freddy was hesitant about either taking them to the basement or waiting for Bonnie to make his way up—they did technically have a job to do at night, after all.

“Let us speak with him first,” Freddy murmured quietly enough for only Gregory to hear. “We can probably tell them tomorrow once we’re all ready, okay?”

Gregory hummed, then nodded. He didn’t really understand why Freddy didn't explain everything to the guards now—they were right here after all! But, Freddy knew what he was doing, and he said went.

“Okay, tomorrow then!” Gregory agreed, jumping up and down with his arms raised as a cue for Freddy to pick him up. Freddy complied with Gregory’s unspoken request, lifting the boy into a one-armed hold before smiling at the guards again.

“Alright, I guess we’ll get out of your hair for the night,” Thomas said as he stood up, patting down his pockets instinctively to make sure his things were still there. “You can keep the drawing pad and pencils; we can use them the next time we stop by.”

Leon nodded as he made his way over towards the door. “Yeah, we'll try to bring Gregory other things to play with next time we stop by.”

Gregory looked over at the drawing pad, smiling softly. “Tell them I said thanks!”

“He says thank you,” Freddy remarked, walking the guards to the door and holding it open with his free hand.

“See you both again soon!” Thomas said with a cheerful wave as he exited the room, soon falling into step with Leon and beginning to chatter enthusiastically about his time with Gregory.

Freddy chuckled to himself as he watched them go. When they were out of sight, he tilted his head towards Gregory. “Well, speaking of Bonnie… shall we go pick him up and visit the children?”

“Mhm! I'm ready to go!” the boy replied cheerfully, kicking his legs forward to signal Freddy to begin their journey. “I liked the notepad a lot—Thomas drew some circles for ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ and I put your plushie on whichever one I wanted to say. It was fun!”

“I am glad to hear that,” Freddy said, shifting Gregory slightly to get a better hold of him as they walked. It was clear that the more comfortable and excited Gregory got, the less he could sit still—which Freddy found super endearing. He gave the boy a little hug, suggesting: “Perhaps we can write to each other sometimes, too—it will be good to keep your skills up. I am sure the other animatronics would love to practice with you as well! Our favorite type of presents are handwritten letters and cards, in fact, so everyone would be delighted to get one from you someday.”

“Handwritten letters?” Gregory repeated, resting against Freddy’s chest. If he knew this, he’s have already written so many letters and cards to all the animatronics! “I wanna write more! I like it.”

“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” Freddy agreed with a smile as they made it to the basement elevator. The pair entered and a short ride later the doors opened into the familiar hallway.

“Hey,” a soft voice said as they stepped out of the elevator. It was Ben speaking this time, and he slowly lifted a hand to point towards the center of the room. “We made something for you…”

Lying on the floor were three pieces of paper slightly overlapping each other. The reason for this was clear as Freddy moved to get a closer look—it was a drawing of, from right to left: Gregory, Freddy, Bonnie, and nine child-sized figures, all holding hands with the people next to them. The children’s features were indistinct, looking like the typical faceless drawings of a very young kid, although there were attempts here and there to add different hairstyles or clothes. However, the thing that really stood out were the names over each of their heads (clearly written by one person, as the handwriting was consistent). It wasn’t immediately clear if they were in any sort of order, but they were as follows: Mia, Ben, Robin, Flynn, Ian, Ella, Katie, Lily, and Ivy. Freddy had heard most of them before, but the last two were unfamiliar.

“Wow, thank you!” Gregory exclaimed with a wide grin, bouncing excitedly in Freddy’s arms. “Can we hang it up in the room, Freddy?!”

“We're happy you like it, Gregory…,” Mia said, an obvious smile in her tone.

Gregory quickly nodded his head, smiling joyfully. “I love it! And now I sorta know what you guys look like, so that's cool!”

There was the faintest whispered laugh from behind them, presumably Ben’s, and Freddy smiled around the room. “Thank you, this is lovely. Of course we will give this a place of honor in our room!”

“Hey, guys!” Bonnie said, rounding the corner with a grin. “I see you found the picture; the kids worked really hard on it!”

Gregory smiled happily, waving a hand at the rabbit. “Hi, Bonnie! Yes, we love it! I wanna put it over the couch so I can see it before I go to sleep.”

“Awesome!” Bonnie ruffled Gregory’s hair. “So, where are we going tonight?” He hopped slightly, an excited grin on his face. “If you didn’t have plans, can we go bowling again?”

“I do not think we had anywhere specific in mind, did we?” Freddy replied, tilting his head towards Gregory. “Unless you wanted to show him somewhere else?”

Gregory begin to shake his head, but his eyes were drawn to a nearby unlit hallway as he was distracted by… something. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but the sensation of being watched was suddenly overwhelming. He shivered, hugging onto Freddy as he tried to distract himself. “Um… We can go bowling again!”

“Alright,” Freddy said with a soft smile. He noticed the boy’s hesitancy but figured he was still unnerved by his disturbing nightmares. Freddy bent to pick up the drawing, carefully holding it in his claws. They’d need some tape to stick the pieces together, but that could be easily obtained. “We can drop these off at our room on the way to the bowling alley.”

“Here, let me hold that—you’ve got your hands full,” Bonnie said with a laugh, taking the papers from Freddy’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you guys! You’re the best!” Gregory said, his voice back to its usual chipper tone as he waved to the room before giving Bonnie a thumbs-up. “I'm ready to bowl!”

“Okay!” Bonnie said, leading the way to the elevator. He paused next to Ben’s endoskeleton, giving the hand still hanging by its side an extremely gentle high-five. Quietly, he praised: “Good job speaking up—see, you know they’re super friendly!”

The endo didn’t show any immediate response except a slight twitch of a finger, although after a few seconds the voice said: “…Yeah, they’re cool!”

Freddy smiled softly, his heart warmed by this attempt at communication. As small as it seemed, it was a big deal for the kids; he only hoped the others would start to feel comfortable speaking up soon, too.

Freddy carried Gregory onto the elevator behind Bonnie, pressing the button and sending them up to the main level. They made a brief stop by their room to drop off the drawings and grab the Bonnie plushie per Gregory’s insistence, then headed off to the bowling alley.

“Can I just watch, this time?” Gregory asked, holding the plushie securely as Freddy walked. “Bowling is so hard!”

“Of course, superstar,” Freddy replied, smiling down at him.

“You can cheer for us both!” Bonnie said, then cupped a hand over his mouth and leaned towards Gregory conspiratorially. “But you’ve gotta cheer for me more so I can beat your dad this time, ‘kay?”

Gregory giggled quietly as Bonnie spoke, quickly nodding his head. “Okay!”

Either way, he'd be sure to cheer for both of them quite loudly.

***

Meanwhile in the nearby security office, Thomas and Leon were hard at work. Leon was researching on the computer and printing out anything that might be useful while Thomas checked the cameras, idly switching feeds and scanning for anything interesting.

“This is so depressing…,” Leon mumbled with a sigh, writing something down in his notepad.

“Let me know when you need a break,” Thomas said, reaching for his coffee cup. He perked up upon seeing Freddy walking towards the entrance to Bonnie Bowl, holding a floating t-shirt and Bonnie plush in his arms. “Aw, they’re going bowling! That’s cute.” He took a sip of now-cold caffeine, then promptly started choking as a surprisingly familiar figure stepped into the camera’s viewpoint.

“That's adorable—what the hell?!” Leon exclaimed as Thomas' choking immediately caught his attention. Not wanting to risk a spill, he reached for the coffee and set it down before patting Thomas’s back harshly. “Are you okay?!”

Thomas coughed a few more times before nodding and reaching back to tap Leon’s hand, signaling that he was alright.

“Y-yeah, I’m good—thanks, man,” Thomas answered gratefully, although his attention was quickly diverted back to the monitor. He pointed to it with wide eyes. “Do you see that rabbit?!” The screen showed a purple bunny animatronic following Freddy into the elevator down to Bonnie Bowl, the doors soon closing behind them as if nothing was amiss.

“The fuck…” Leon mumbled, rolling his chair closer to stare at the monitor, blinking a few times before pulling back. “Is that… Bonnie?! I thought he got put on the chopping block.” He leaned back in his seat, taking off his glasses to clean them on a cloth pulled from his pocket. “You know what this means…”

Thomas slowly turned his gaze to Leon, although for once there was a small—albeit still nervous—smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“…We’ve gotta go check it out?” he asked, a hint of excitement in his tone. Surely a mysteriously re-commissioned animatronic was nothing compared to literal ghost children…

Leon nodded as he replaced his glasses and slowly got up from his seat, stretching his arms up over his head. “Ding ding. Let's go.”

***

Inside the attraction, a game was already underway between the two animatronics. They’d already played two rounds, and as the pins were reset for round three, Freddy stood in the lead by a few points.

Gregory was laying down on the floor playing with his plushie while Freddy and Bonnie bowled, completely content in his own world. That is, until he caught sight of the two night guards coming through the door, stunned looks on their faces.

“Freddy, they're here!” Gregory exclaimed, sitting up on his knees and pointing to the pair.

“Who is—” Freddy began, turning around to see the guards standing there, frozen except for their eyes darting between him and Bonnie. Freddy smiled, chuckling a bit nervously. “Oh… hello, Leon and Thomas; we did not expect to see you again tonight.”

Bonnie slowly put down his bowling ball, moving to Freddy’s side and looking the guards over. It was the first time he’d actually seen them, and he was very curious to know all he could about the humans who were trying to help the kids.

“Oh, well...,” Leon cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were going to leave you be but we, uh... noticed Bonnie here. We thought he’d been… away for a while.”

“Yes, you are correct,” Freddy agreed with a nod. “Bonnie was out of commission for quite some time, but… Gregory and I recently discovered him!” He paused, trying to decide what else to say, when Bonnie spoke up.

“I wasn’t in good shape and was stuck, which is why no one could find me—well, until these two,” the bunny added, gently patting Freddy’s shoulder. He grinned brightly at the guards. “The others helped me get fixed up and now here I am! It’s nice to meet you!”

“Nice to… meet you,” Thomas repeated slowly, appearing slightly star-struck.

“That’s good, I suppose,” Leon murmured, not really knowing how else to respond. Clearly the animatronics were pleased with this situation overall, which only made him more curious as to what in the world happened to the rabbit. Leon glanced over towards Gregory, who remained in his spot. “I'm glad you guys were able to find him.”

“Oh! Also, Thomas said you're his favorite!” Gregory chimed in, holding his plushie up towards Bonnie as if to demonstrate.

“Aww, really?!” Bonnie hopped excitedly a few times, looking at Thomas. “I’m your favorite?”

“Y-Yeah!” Thomas agreed, nodding. He finally cracked a grin, looking towards the floating plushie. “Did Gregory tell you that?”

Gregory grinned happily as he finally stood and moved to hug onto the rabbit’s legs. “See? Everyone misses you, Bonnie!”

Bonnie chuckled, then shifted his gaze to Leon. “I’ll save the details of what happened for another time, if that’s okay; right now, I’m just glad to be back.”

“We are sorry for not telling you sooner,” Freddy piped up. “We did not want you to be overwhelmed, as you are so focused on the children…”

“That's very considerate of you; thank you...” Leon paused, a nervous grimace crossing his face as he fiddled with the keys on his belt. “Now that we’re here, is there, uh, anything else you guys haven't mentioned? Like, another animatronic or something?”

Freddy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I believe at this point we have told you everything that we need to right now.” There was no point telling them about William just yet… especially since he was no longer a threat. Freddy paused for a moment, then added: “I am actually happy that you are here, as we were going to bring Bonnie to your attention soon. Currently, he is staying in the basement with the children. He will continue to do so until they are freed, but we were wondering if it might be possible to reintroduce him into the day shift roster?”

Thomas and Leon shared a look before Thomas said slowly: “I mean, I’d love that too, but we’re not management or anything—we can’t make those kinds of decisions…”

“I'd be all for it, too, but I'm not sure how much management will listen to us. I mean, we figured Bonnie had been stolen or something, honestly, what with all the secrecy,” Leon added with a nod. As great of an idea as it was, they'd have to do a lot more than simply bring the animatronic to management—at the very least, they’d need to find a day for techs to come in and inspect Bonnie, let alone figure out all the finer details of what excuse there was for the rabbit disappearing for so long… But that was for someone above Leon’s paygrade to figure out. Still, he and Thomas could at least try something. “Maybe management will take it into consideration if we mention he’s been found?”

“Yeah!” Thomas agreed, shaking Leon’s arm excitedly. “Yeah, we can say we found him while we were doing our rounds or something! I know they’ll probably want details, but then again…” He trailed off with a shrug. “You know how management is—as long as something works properly enough to make money, they’ll go for it…”

“I’ll be ready to come out whenever you need me!” Bonnie said, growing hopeful. He knew he wouldn’t be reinstated immediately, but at least the guards might be able to get the conversation started.

Leon nodded, giving Bonnie a small grin. “Well... We could always do it at the end of our shift tonight, or later whenever you're prepared. I'm sure they'll have to see how functional you are before they do anything towards announcing you’re back—run some tests, do some more repairs, stuff like that.” He gave a shrug. “I honestly don't see your repairs taking longer than a week at most.”

“This is amazing Bonnie!” Gregory gasped, wiggling around with excitement.

Bonnie opened his mouth to insist he was ready right now… but then he paused. A week of constant observation was a long time to leave those kids alone. He figured he could sneak back to the basement at night, but he hated the thought of leaving them completely by themselves during the day.

“Can I have some time to talk to Freddy and the others before we make any moves?” Bonnie eventually said, looking at the guards. “I don’t want to leave the kids alone all day…”

“Oh, that is a good point,” Freddy mused, tapping his chin. “Hmm, perhaps we can check on them in shifts, when we have breaks in our schedules… we will discuss the details tonight.”

“That’s fine,” Thomas reassured them with a soft smile. “We don’t want to upset the kids, either. Like Leon said, we can wait until you’re ready.”

Leon nodded his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Of course, take the time you need. Just let us know when you're ready to move forward.”

“Ooh, ooh! I'll stay with them!” Gregory suggested, jumping up and down with his hand in the air. “I can keep them company! I promise I'll do good!”

“Are you sure, superstar?” Freddy asked, looking down at Gregory a bit worriedly. They hadn’t been apart for more than an hour while Gregory was awake—would he be able to deal with staying in the basement for so long?

“What’s up?” Thomas asked, looking at Gregory curiously. “Does Gregory want to help?”

“He suggested that he can stay with the kids during the day,” Bonnie translated, remembering that the humans weren’t able to talk to the boy directly.

“I can stay with them!” Gregory insisted, now motioning for Freddy to pick him up. “Just promise to come see me...”

“He sure likes being picked up,” Thomas commented with a chuckle, grinning at the sight of Freddy lifting the floating shirt into his arms once again. He realized Gregory might not understand his laugh so he quickly added: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that; it’s super sweet!”

“It's 'cause Freddy gives the best hugs and I feel safer like this,” Gregory stated with a proud grin, resting his head on Freddy’s shoulder.

“Translation: Freddy gives the best hugs and Gregory feels safe with him,” Bonnie said, grinning at the pair as Freddy gave Gregory a loving squeeze.

“Oh geez—he’s so cute,” Thomas murmured, pressing a hand to his heart. Then he grinned as well, doing his best to meet Gregory’s gaze based on the boy’s position in Freddy’s arms. “We’re still working hard to figure out all the cool abilities you might have, by the way! Leon’s been printing a bunch of stuff!”

“Oh! I wanna know, I wanna know!” Gregory exclaimed, kicking his legs eagerly.

Leon nodded in agreement with Thomas, chuckling softly. He wasn't much of a fan of children, but he'd be a liar if he said he didn’t think Gregory was adorable, too. “I have a lot already printed out and written. I want to do a bit more research before I show you, Freddy.”

“That is fair—have patience, Gregory,” Freddy said with a chuckle, smiling down at him before turning his expression on the guards. “Gregory is very excited, as are we all!”

“Yeah, thanks for everything you’re doing,” Bonnie added. “It’s a huuuge help!”

“We're trying our best,” Leon replied humbly. “Now, we'll get out of the way for the rest of the night—as long as we don't see any other random animatronics, that is.” A corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a smirk. “If we see Foxy, I’m heading straight back over.”

“You need only keep an eye out for Monty and Roxy—but I am sure you know that by now,” Freddy said with a laugh. “We will see you tomorrow night!”

“Good to meet ya!” Bonnie said cheerfully, placing one hand on his hip and waving with the other. “Thanks again!”

“Not a problem,” Thomas replied with a thumbs-up, then turned to walk away. He paused after a few feet, quickly whirling around to wave frantically. “OH! Gregory, we didn’t forget you! See you tomorrow, too!”

“Bye!” Gregory replied, waving at the two despite them not being able to see him.

“I know we were in the middle of a game, but… I kinda want to talk to the kids and tell them the news,” Bonnie said, looking at Freddy once the guards were out of sight.

“I think that is a good idea; as we walk, we can discuss specifics of who will stay with them while you are away,” Freddy replied, then hugged Gregory closer. “I know Gregory volunteered, but I do not want him to stay down there every day until you have gotten the tech’s approval… at least not without someone coming to check on him.”

“Yes! Good idea!” the boy repeated. “And maybe we can... Uhh...” He scratched the top of his head, trying to come up with some other ideas.

Freddy chuckled as they set off. “Do not worry, superstar, Bonnie and I will come up with something. Do you want to stop by the room and pick up anything to bring to the children?”

“Mhm! I'll bring some of my toys!”

When they reached Freddy’s room, Gregory was quick to begin grabbing different toys, setting them in his backpack before slipping it on his shoulders. Once Gregory was ready, Freddy held out his hand with a smile. Gregory was quick to take it, giving it a light squeeze. “After they're free they're gonna have to go to the gift shop for their own toys!”

Freddy and Bonnie shared a laugh, then Bonnie said: “We might have to go in stages so the staff doesn’t wonder why half their stock went missing in one night!”

The group then made their way towards the basement elevator, Bonnie quickly taking Gregory’s other hand. As they walked, the animatronics came up with a plan.

The children didn’t need constant supervision, as evidenced by the fact that Bonnie had been out and about these past few nights with no issue. However, Bonnie wanted someone to check in on them once in a while so they didn’t get anxious that they’d been abandoned. However long Gregory stayed in the basement was completely up to him—at this point, Freddy trusted that his son could find him whenever and wherever he needed to. If Gregory chose to stay with the kids for the whole day, that was fine, but he didn’t need to (especially if he started to get anxious from missing his dad). Therefore, Freddy, Chica, Roxy, and Monty would take turns sneaking down to the basement to check in when they had some free time in their schedules. Whoever came would depend on the day—and, of course, if the kids felt safe potentially being alone with another animatronic besides Freddy. He and Bonnie had a feeling that Chica would be no issue, but some of the kids may still be intimidated by Roxy and Monty.

“We're back!” Gregory announced once they’d reached the basement. “And I wanna show you guys my cool toys!”

“We also have good news!” Bonnie said, swinging Gregory’s arm. “We met some friends that are going to help introduce me back into the lineup!”

There was silence before Mia's voice spoke up. “...Really? That's awesome, Bonnie!” An endoskeleton soon began rocking from side to side, seemingly out of eagerness.

Gregory smiled happily, holding Bonnie's hand up. “He'll be as good as new!”

“Yeah!” Bonnie agreed with a soft smile, letting go of Gregory so he could gently pat the moving endoskeleton on the shoulder. “The only thing is, I’m gonna have to be away during the day while the technicians check me over to make sure I’m a-ok. But don’t worry—Freddy and I have a plan so you won’t be left alone until nighttime!”

“Gregory has agreed to stay with you part of the time,” Freddy explained, looking around the room as he spoke. “The other animatronics and I will also stop by to check in when we have breaks in our schedules.” He paused, tilting his head questioningly. “Would that be alright with all of you? If you would prefer that only I come down, that is completely fine; I guarantee the others will not be offended.”

A plethora of whispers filled the room as the children discussed the situation amongst themselves. Soon, the whispering subsided and Mia spoke clearly once again. “...Well, I think we'll all be okay. Having Gregory here will keep us company, too. As long as we're checked up on, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

“Great! Thank you, everyone,” Bonnie said, relief evident in his tone. He honestly hadn't been sure if the kids would go for it—they’d been gaining a lot more confidence recently, but anything could set them back, especially since he knew they all had different associations with each animatronic. He hopped excitedly, looking at Freddy. “You've gotta fill everyone in soon so you can check schedules.”

“Alright; I will be sure to bring everyone up to speed on the situation,” Freddy replied. There was a moment of silence, until a small voice spoke up from a corner of the room. It was so soft that it was barely legible, but Freddy was just able to make out:

“....I wanna play with Gregory some more....” Whoever said this was obviously very young, as they couldn't pronounce their R's and L's correctly, turning Gregory's name into “Gwegowy.”

Gregory heard the voice as well, but his ears weren't able to pick up exactly what it said. He looked at Freddy and Bonnie curiously. “What was that?”

“The twins want to play with you, Gregory,” Mia explained, then let out a small laugh. “A lot of us do!”

Bonnie pressed a hand over where his heart would be. Even he hadn't heard the twins talk yet...

“Well, we do not have any other plans tonight,” Freddy mused aloud, glancing down at Gregory with a smile. “We can stay here, if you would like; you did bring a bunch of new toys to show them, after all.”

“Yes!” the boy chirped, pulling his backpack off. “I brought so many toys.”

“I wanna see...!” Ben murmured as a few endoskeletons shifted excitedly. Freddy and Bonnie stepped back, letting the children interact amongst themselves. The animatronics shared a grin, happy at the progress that had already been made. Hopefully one day they would all be like one big, extended family—animatronic guardians included, of course.

Gregory sat down on the floor in the center of the room with his backpack in his lap. He began pulling out the toys he brought, lining them up on the floor. “And I have some more but they're all in my room! But you guys can have these so we can all have toys.”

“I’ve always wanted toys from the gift shop!” Mia's voice said, sounding a bit closer than it usually did as an endoskeleton shifted to lean forward and look at the assortment of toys.

“Don't you worry—soon you guys can have all the toys you want!” Bonnie exclaimed, seeming to completely forget his earlier worry about missing stock. All he wanted was for the kids to be happy, and if that included cleaning out the Lost and Found and the gift shop, then that's what they'd do. The room went quiet again except for occasional soft squeak of metal as a few endoskeletons cautiously shifted to get a better look at the line-up of toys.

Eventually, there was a small gasp as a certain plushie was noticed, and one of the twin's tiny voices exclaimed: “Chica!”

This made Freddy perk up, thinking back to something that had recently been on his mind related to what was going to happen when all the kids were freed.

“Everyone, I have a question for you,” he spoke up, and multiple sets of glowing eyes suddenly turned on him. He smiled, gazing around the room. “Who is your favorite animatronic? If you do not wish to speak up directly, I would appreciate you telling Mia.”

Gregory scooted back to make more room for the endos to be able to look at the lineup of toys on display. Although, Freddy's question immediately caught his attention.

“…Bonnie is mine. The twins love Chica,” Mia answered softly, going silent after hearing a few whispers.

“I like Roxy...!” a boy's voice finally echoed. “Oh, I’m Robin, by the way!”

“I’m Katie—I like Bonnie, too...,” another girl's voice chimed in.

“I like Monty!” Ben exclaimed, sounding rather proud of this fact. He paused, then added: “I didn't for a bit 'cause of what happened to Bonnie... but it wasn't Monty's fault! Also he's just the COOLEST!” The excitement was obvious in his voice, and it was clear he would be jumping up and down if he could.

“Monty is pretty cool,” Gregory agreed, zipping up his backpack before slipping it back on. “But Freddy’s my favorite!”

“Yeah, we all knew THAT...,” Ben replied, and the animatronics' eyes widened in unison. Regardless of the attitude, this was the most personality they'd ever heard from someone other than Mia. This was great progress, even if it seemed like Ben might be a bit of a handful.

“Ella likes Music Man, and Ian likes Sun…,” Mia added soon after, then waited to see if anyone else would speak on their own.

“Moon is better...,” Flynn softly piped up, and with that everyone's favorite animatronics had been named and catalogued into Freddy and Bonnie's databases for future reference.

“Thank you all for sharing!” Freddy said cheerfully. “It seems like there is a good variation of favorites, which is wonderful news.”

“Definitely!” Bonnie agreed with a nod, then gave Mia and Katie a wink, happy that he had two kids that would stick by his side.

“Mhm, now we know who will be with who!” Gregory added with a bright grin, clinging to Freddy’s leg. Now that most of the children had been able to talk, it seemed they couldn't stop—they were whispering amongst themselves about their favorite animatronic.

Freddy placed a hand on Gregory's head, meeting Bonnie's gaze with a soft smile. He knew the others will be ecstatic to hear that they more or less already have their own kids to take care of in the future, instead of trying to split Gregory's attention all the time—though of course he’d still always have a special place in their hearts no matter what.

“Perhaps we should bring the others up to speed on the new developments,” Freddy commented, checking his internal clock. “It is just past 4am, so we have enough time to at least fill Chica, Roxy, and Monty in on what is going on before the dayshift starts.”

“Good idea!” Gregory added, jumping for Freddy to pick him up again. “Then we can tell Sun and Moon, and Music Man!” Freddy nodded as he lifted Gregory, adjusting one of the backpack straps as it began to slip off the boy's shoulder.

“I think I'm gonna stay with the kids,” Bonnie said, then chuckled. “I'm proud of you all for speaking up, and I want to keep talking to you guys before I'm MIA for a bit!”

“Yaaaay...!” Katie cheered quietly, an endoskeleton a few feet away from Bonnie flexing its fingers excitedly.

“And with Leon and Thomas helping us, we'll get them freed in no time!” Gregory added, nuzzling his face into the crook of Freddy’s neck.

“We will indeed,” Freddy agreed, then gave Bonnie a slightly concerned glance, which the bunny picked up on with a nod. At some point, they'd need to bring the guards down here and introduce them to the kids. Though Thomas and Leon accepted them as a concept, it would be an entirely different thing to see the endoskeletons in person... But, that was a worry for another night. “Have a good time with Bonnie, everyone; we will be back again soon.”

“Bye, bud!” Bonnie said, reaching over to ruffle Gregory's hair quickly as he passed on the way to the elevator. “See you both tomorrow!”

“Byeee!” Gregory said as he waved his hands with excitement, making sure to wave all around the room so no one was left out. As the elevator doors closed, Gregory couldn't help but giggle happily. “Now everyone will have a buddy and they won't feel alone either! I hope Thomas and Leon can find a way to get them out quick!”

“They are working their hardest,” Freddy assured him with a laugh. He hoped they'd make progress soon too, but this was quite a complicated thing they were trying to do that they really knew nothing about. Still, he trusted the guards to work their hardest and find all the potential solutions they could—at this point, Freddy knew they were good people. Freddy stared straight ahead, freezing for a moment before blinking a few times and smiling at Gregory. “I have sent a message to the others asking them to meet us in our room. They should arrive shortly.”

Gregory smiled, clapping his hands eagerly. As the two made it back to Freddy's room, he was quick to set his backpack into his toy box and sit on the couch, kicking his legs as he waited for the other animatronics to arrive. “Are they heeeeere yet?”

***

Masterlist of chapters on Tumblr here!

Please check out The Superstar Series on ao3 for all fics in this series: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2726401

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf sb #fnaf security breach #gregory #glamrock freddy #glamrock bonnie #night guard oc #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #angelofrainfrogs #we found him superstar #the superstar series

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mkstrigidae · 3 years

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CHRIST chapter 13 of APWH is a monster, even after I’ve moved some of it to the next chapter. So far, it’s about 19,000 words, with one brief scene i still need to write, and i’m really annoying MS Word’s spellchecking function with all the Westerosi names.

#I think i might actually have it out by the weekend????#jesus christ this chapter is bananas #APWH #it's lighter than ch 14 is going to be #but there's a fair bit of procedural stuff with Oberyn and Daemon #and a lot of setting up questions to be answered #APWH is part coming of age novel part mystery part psychological thriller part tragedy and part love story both platonic and romantic #idk it doesn't really fit neatly in one genre #although i'm going to have to start adding content warnings next chapter #I think #which makes me sad bc i want to keep my tags abt dunking on rhaegar #bc it is true #but i get annoyed when stories are overtagged #and don't want to do that to people #i think i might need to revise the summary slightly too #because the jonsa is taking a really fucking long time to happen lmao

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acciojaeyun · 3 years

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for what it's worth | george weasley smut

pairing: george weasley x fem!reader warnings: it’s smut. it’s nsfw. it has voyeurism, innocence kink, and george weasley. prompts: "do i look like i'm messing around?" "no. but soon we'll be,"

a/n: all characters here are 18+ for me. in this fic, hogwarts education started at 14.

summary: george fabian weasley was the epitome of annoyance. true to its connotation, it was one of the things that y/n despised when it came to the [in]famous ginger twin.

"Weasley, I don't understand what you think of an assigned pair project is, but for the love of Merlin, please just help me on this!" Y/N whisper-yelled, pleading at the Gryffindor who was pushing her on the edge just by simply ignoring her at dinner in the Great Hall.

Fred looked at Y/N then at George, clearly amused at the never ending spite and tension between his twin and the [Y/H] lady. He never knew how it exactly started. Or maybe Fred did. He would never hear the end of how George thought Y/N was a stuck-up brat in Charms, and Fred guesses it was that bad considering how George said that Hermione couldn't even compare.

"Bloody mad that lass is, I'm telling you," George muttered as he played with a box in his hand, subconsciously thinking of a possible prank that he could muster with the box.

Fred chuckled, waving his hand in revision for Charms one Saturday afternoon since he was amused at George and Y/N's excessive bickering in the class last Thursday. "Do remind me why you hold such prejudice against Y/N?"

"Ah," George tutted, moving his legs out of its position on the couch to face Fred who was perpendicular to him. "No, no, you've got it wrong, dear brother." He started

His twin hummed, urging him to continue. "I don't hold 'such prejudice'," he air-quoted, "I actually despise her, everything she does is basically a disdain to my set of virtues and principles."

"Why do you have a set of virtues and principles?"

"I don't exactly have them," George retorted. "I just exaggerated for the sake of putting how much I hate her in wordings."

All George received was a side-eye and an amused chuckle, it was as if George knew what Fred was thinking as his eyes widened in response, and immediately went defensive over the possibility.

"Piss off, Fred."

"Oi! I wasn't even saying anything!"

"No, no, your body language says everything."

"Well, yours do too whenever Y/N is near. I say, shag it out. See a possible romance, now you could talk Y/N's ear off about Y/N herself."

Y/N turned to look at Fred with her eyes squinted and brows furrowed. Fred made a mocking face of defence while raising both of his hands up, leaving the matter to Y/N who was sure she could rip George's hair out of his head.

"Bloody hell, George Weasley!" Y/N slammed her hands on the table, infuriated. At this point, her action may have been successful since George had already spared her a glance, and of course, a grin.

Y/N groaned, moving slightly at George's line of focus. "George Weasley, I know you care less about Charms because you'll do amazing at it with little to no effort, but will you please just help me on the assigned work?!"

"You flatter me too much, Y/L/N," he smirked, leaning his head on the palm of his hand, eyeing the frustrated [Y/H] right in front of him. "Whatever way I could help you, madame?" he taunted, his playful persona never leaving him.

Best believe Y/N had to contain her anger in a way she knows how to – taking a deep breath. "Just show up in the library for once and I might reconsider giving you points for collaboration. If you don't show up tonight, I'll tell Professor Flitwick and I'll be making sure you'll receive the bid of my sympathy since you won't be able to do O.W.Ls."

"Oh, but I don't need O.W.Ls for my future profession, Y/N. Thank you for the concern, though. Well appreciated."

"Weasley," Y/N warned, making George laugh in response. "Alright, fine. I'm going after eating these mushy peas, is that alright with you? Or am I not allowed to eat these mushy peas with my remaining fish and chips?"

Y/N groaned and rolled her eyes. "No, take your bloody time," she sent him a tight-lipped smile, but faltering in her annoyance as she may or may not have received a wink from George, who now turned to his plate of mushy peas and returned to his conversation with Fred and Lee.

She was sure she was winked at. But of course, Y/N couldn't dwell on the thought. Instead of thinking of it, she shook her head and made her way to the library with doubts whether George'll be coming and help her. Nonetheless, Y/N had already been rehearsing her line to Professor Flitwick. That was, until, after moments of stalling and deciding not to bail on her already and just this once, George had already found her in the farthest table at the library with her head tucked behind her behind her folded arms. He rolled his eyes and made his way to her, poking her arm with the tip of his wand.

Y/N grumbled in response and hoisted her head, eyes squinting from a quick snooze. She was met with the towering figure of George Weasley. And while most of the times she didn’t care how she looked like, she became self-conscious on how she may be having drooling in her sleep.

“George -“

“And here I was thinking you’d be ninety-nine percent finished.”

George took the seat opposite her. His eyes glued to the parchment after parchment which was partially filled with her handwriting. The ginger Gryffindor might have felt tad bit guilty, but he wouldn’t dare apologise to her, no, not to Y/N.

It may have been completely done, if it weren’t for George’s intermittent attention span that always seemed to stall work since he always had to rise up from the table to find a book that just popped randomly in his thoughts.

Also, he may have been doing this on purpose. From time to time, he would take a glance at Y/N and take note on how her aura expresses stress and frustration over the assigned work. George can’t help but feel sorry, now more then ever, to the [Y/H] that he had left alone for the majority of the project.

Though, in his defence, he could just fail Charms just because of this than be paired with her; however, he wouldn’t like the thought of also bringing her down just because of his pride that never seem to falter whenever it was Y/N he was being dealt with.

So, when Y/N had pushed the parchment to him in a sheepish manner, somehow telling him to answer the sections she had left blank because she was unable to answer it, George have not hesitated in grabbing the sheet, his train of thought regarding Y/N halting to focus on each question Y/N knew he deemed easy. George was skilled at Charms, anyway.

Now, it was Y/N’s turn to look at George while he was preoccupied. Y/N couldn’t help herself but admit that while George annoys her to an infinite extent, he was an attractive lad - a hot one, at that. Specifically, her type.

If only George had been nicer to her like his twin brother, Fred, she would’ve made a move on him. Not that she would do, though. However, she couldn’t even tell of the probability.

“You got a question wrong,” George said, snapping her out of her thoughts that, with only a few more seconds of staring, would have been tainted with impurity.

“What?” she whispered, she furrowed her eyebrows and leaned forward to George, making him swoon almost instantly to the faint scent of oak and bergamot, a scent that confirmed to George that it was indeed Y/N whom he smelt of in his Amortentia.

She leaned back, meeting George at eye level, and she couldn’t help but notice how his eyes had increasingly darkened the longer they stared at each other’s eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong in what I’ve wrote!”

“Yeah, there is. You’ve wronged the arm motion description for Entrancing Enchantment. It should be should be clockwise, not counterclockwise.”

“Well, you’re already on it, aren’t you?”

“I’m just pointing it out so that you’ll never get it wrong next time.”

“Yeah, I won’t be needing it anyway. Besides, this isn’t even in the O.W.Ls.”

“You might be needing it in case you like someone and they don’t like you back. However, we might be brewing love potions.”

“Love potions? From you, Weasleys? I’d rather die alone.”

George chuckled, “Your hand isn’t enough to suffice everything you need, you know.”

Y/N met his gaze and shuffled slightly on her seat. Heart beating loudly at the sudden suffocating tension in the rather spacious section in the library.

“Do I look like messing around with you?”

“No,” he smirked, head ducking down to turn his gaze on the parchment, writing over Y/N’s handwriting to correct the mistake. “But soon, we’ll be.” He looked up at Y/N to wink, quickly looking back at the parchment yet again as quickly as he could.

Y/N muttered a cuss word towards George. Trying to alleviate any change of atmosphere that she couldn’t decide whether she likes it or - well, she likes it. She just got caught herself in a situation she knew she wasn’t well-experienced. Considering how she had never been in a relationship before, though she had her first kiss already, she doesn’t even know if that counts considering it was just a peck.

Nonetheless, all Y/N could think of was the augmenting dampness between her thighs. As much as she wants to just not mind it, her constant fidgeting was one key teller and she prays to each existing deity for George to be unable to notice her sudden silence and stiff stature.

As if her prayers were answered given the continued silence, and as George answered the last question in such drawl, it had given Y/N the opportunity to daydream of obscene scenarios with George inside her head.

And it nearly kills Y/N on the spot as George placed his quill down to look at Y/N with his chin on his hand, finger drumming on it. “Am I wrong for assuming that I am consuming your thoughts at the moment?”

“I - uh, what?”

“You’ve been staring at me for quite a long time now, Y/N. If I had been quite the smug one, I would’ve said you’ve been thinking of me fucking you.”

Y/N blushed as she timidly shifted in her seat, and even though she wants to strip away her gaze from the intense scare she’s receiving from George, she couldn’t do it no matter how much every fibre in her body’s been dying to do so.

They’ve stayed like that, really. George testing the waters and Y/N holding herself back from jumping on George. That, or maybe Y/N just wants George to take the lead since she was new to all these things.

"Oh, darling," George drawled. "Tell me to stop and I will."

That was all she got from George, to which she nodded to. And when she met the stern look from George, she had muttered a soft 'yes.' George, on the other hand, had already ducked under the table [rather swiftly] after purposefully dropping his quill on the floor.

He shrugged and made his way to Y/N's tightly clamped legs to which George had eased in loosening from tension by rubbing his hands on it in such a delicate manner. He peeked up to see Y/N already staring down at him.

George swears his cock had already started growing in size as he looked up at Y/N's lustful and anticipating look. "Tell me, love," he said as he kissed her knee, smirking at the slight jerk of her right leg. "How do you want it? Slow?" he asked, pushing her legs slowly apart, kissing the inside of her thighs as he enjoys each squirm.

"Rough?" he continued, biting then on the skin, Y/N lightly squealing which made him squeeze her thighs. "Hush, now, love." he winked at her. "We wouldn't want anyone to know your enemy is going down on you right?"

"Though," George smirked. "I do like me some audience."

Y/N let out a shaky breath. Frustrated over the idea that George has only done very little and yet she was already very putty in his caress. "George, I –" she started as George switched from biting to sucking, kissing to licking the inside of her thighs, as if he was anticipating for an answer to his previous question.

At this point Y/N was already pooling in her underlinen, and even though she just wants to shove her throbbing pussy towards George's face, she had to answer his question truthfully.

"George," she whispered, meeting his eyes. "I - I haven't done this before."

"You mean, you haven't -"

"No,"

"Not even touch yourself?"

"I don't know what pleases me."

George groaned at the thought of him having to teach Y/N about the world of intimacy - if she'll have him, of course. His thoughts were running wild at the thought of just being between her thighs which he may have imagined coming on every once so often.

"Do you want to know how?"

"For what it's worth, Georgie, please just -" she managed to cut herself off as she leaned down a bit to cup his left cheek in such frustration and anticipation, "Just do whatever you like, just touch me."

Y/N was desperate. And George was, too. That's why when he heard the words of approval from her, he had tried not to take her in the table right there at the moment.

Instead, with new information in such intimate manner, George decides not to push things farther from what he thinks Y/N should know of the moment. He continued with kissing the insides of her thighs, with his hands creeping at her arse to take a hold of it as his mouth neared her core.

George took his time, much to Y/N's dismay at some point. But she knew less than George, so she let him be.

His fingers played with her underwear as he kissed her clothed cunt, lapping as though the piece of fabric was the appetiser to the main meal. Y/N gasped, unfamiliar to the sensation that was happening on her dripping pussy.

"Oh, fuck," she managed to choke out, bringing her hand to clasp over her mouth. Extremely lost in the bliss, George had managed to slip down her underwear down to her ankles without Y/N knowing much.

Sensually, George placed a light kiss on her clit [as Y/N assumes], making her audibly gasp and close her eyes. George smirked, knowing he had found in such instant where to pleasure her.

He pushed her legs farther, licking ever so intimately the slit of her dripping core. Tongue flat and warm, Y/N was sure that with such tension and such sinful, minimal act from George, she could be coming within seconds.

"Taste so fucking good, flower," he winked, using his left hand to spread his cunt widely and his right wrangling over her right thigh to keep her still. "Be a good girl for Georgie and keep quiet, yeah?"

Y/N hadn't even got the chance to answer before George had decided to lap on her pussy in an instant. With the lips being spread open by his left hand, George had been hitting the spots Y/N have never dared to let herself travel to.

Kissing, sucking, and licking, Y/N was trying her very hard not to make a noise, resorting to tightly-closed eyes and hardly-bitten fist. She had been giving out slight squeals, making her squeal higher and slightly louder when George warned her about her volume through sucking or biting her labia.

"Oh, my - fuck, George!" she whispered. Her hands moving faster than her mind, as she took a hold of George's ginger hair and pulled him to her pussy closer, to which George groaned in response.

George's right hand reached for Y/N's left hand that was holding on to the edge of her seat for dear life. He intertwined their hands while staring at the beauty that was Y/N, subconsciously not believing how he was the one making her feel good - the first, at that.

His left hand which was opening Y/N had left from its stagnant position, only to push the first two fingers inside of her, with Y/N drawling out a moan and almost sliding off her chair from pleasure.

From two fingers to three, Y/N was positive that she had been feeling rather tingly at the pit of her stomach. And George, having felt her walls clench around his fingers, went to full feral mode.

He instantly quickened his fingering while simultaneously lapping over her clit, as he locked his half-lidded eyes with that of her's who resembled such lust and pleasure.

"That's right, love, come for me." He managed to groan out, spitting on her cunt only to eat out with much more determination than before. "George, ah! What the fuck!" Y/N cried out, hips rolling to George's mouth out of instinct.

"Don't think too much, let your body take control, darling."

"George, please, let me -" she cut herself as she opened her mouth without any moans coming out, eyes closing in the process. Her vocabulary and usually formal composure at the intense euphoria George had been giving her.

"Keep your eyes open and look at me when you cum, baby."

And that was it really, it was if something had snapped in her and she could hear George's string of cuss words as he gawked at the cum dripping on hands.

After Y/N had relieved from her high, George had already lunged himself forward to lick her cum off from her, as Y/N winced from overstimulation.

"Georgie -"

"Just cleaning you out, love."

George wiped his mouth using the back of his hand, and when he brought his fingers for him to suck on, he met Y/N's curious eyes and he moans at the thought of corrupting her innocence.

"You taste so good, Y/N," he whispered. "So," he started kissing her thighs as he bit her underwear playfully as he pulled it upwards using his teeth.

"Fucking," he said as he intertwined his right hand yet again with Y/N's, left hand reaching over to her chest to squeeze one breast. "Good." he winked as he retracted from his position, taking a hold of his quill to sit back where he first sat before the situation.

"Y - you," Y/N started, panting heavily still, "We still have another task to work on." she blushed at her statement, harder when George laughed at what she said.

George ruffled his hair a bit. "Oh, darling," he smiled, fixing his uniform and getting a hold of the parchment. "We still haven't answered the next part, though it's more on practicals." He smirked.

He went over to Y/N and leaned over just beside her ear. "I'll be in my dorm." Winking afterwards.

It was definitely worth it.

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retrievablememories · 3 years

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picture me | johnny (m)

title: picture me pairing: vampire!johnny x black!reader genre: fantasy, romance, smut, fluff, angst summary: you meet a vampire-slash-photographer whose self-identity is increasingly lost to him, and you try to help him find some purpose again. word count: 18.3k warnings: age gap (cuz you know, vampires...but everyone is legal), mentions of discrimination/prejudice based on species, self-identity issues/self-deprecation, general angst, sheltered!reader, mentions of blood and drinking blood, oral sex (female and male receiving), fingering, thigh riding, loss of virginity, corruption kink, use of lube, unprotected sex (do not try at home), creampie, johnny is packing in this fic ok! a/n: today (the 28th) is my birthday, so i’m posting this 100% self-indulgent fic that i’ve been working on between requests since september. it was very hard to get johnny’s characterization right for this fic and idk if i actually succeeded but i’m not revising this for the 1000th time lol. i love this fic with my whole heart tho.

i haven’t seen many vampire fics that really explore the whole “doesn’t show up in mirrors/photos” concept (shout em out if you know em) and...there’s probably a reason for that, this shit is hard af to write and there are some logic issues but whatever 🤪

(the beginning quote is from “criminal,” stan taemin!!)

The moment I fall for you is the end of my innocence

—

He sits in the same coffee shop everyday, like it’s a habit he just can’t break. But who are you to judge? You’re there, too. Watching him like a creep. Or maybe like an interested coffee shop patron, trying to be discreet and failing at it.

He wasn’t hard to notice. You’d never been to this coffee shop before, but your friend recommended it to you mostly for their in-house-made pastries; she claimed the coffee was good, too, but she wasn’t much of a caffeine person. You decided to give it a try when you had time between classes and a moment to breathe, not needing to talk to this advisor or that professor.

You saw him immediately when you walked past the shop window. He was sitting at a table near the front, staring down at his phone with a small cup of coffee sitting in front of him. Its miniscule size was almost comical in contrast to his...everything. He was tall—that much was obvious even with him sitting down—and imposing, wearing all black. His hair was equally pitch-black, his bangs hanging to one side and the rest shaved in an undercut. If you didn’t know much better, you’d think you’d stepped back into 2007 and landed dead in the middle of the emo craze.

He was interesting to look at. Not in a bad way, but in a way you don’t see very often. Deciding to walk in before you made yourself look totally weird staring at him through the window, you’d stepped into the coffee shop, the small bell dinging above your head. A barista greeted you at your entrance. Out of the corner of your eye you saw the man, to your left, still looking at his phone.

You’d given your order and waited for it to be ready before taking it to a table on the other side of the shop. From that vantage point, you had a good view of the man. You tried to keep your eyes on your food and your phone, not wanting to spend the whole time looking at him, but it was a little hard not to.

When you took a bite of your pastry, you quickly discovered it was just as delicious as your friend promised—probably even more so. You made a noise of approval before you could catch yourself, and you glanced around the shop in embarrassment to see if anyone nearby noticed. Didn’t seem like it, at first. But then you glanced over to the man again only to find him looking at you below his eyelashes with a small, amused smile on his lips. He only kept his gaze on you for a second before returning to his phone.

What? You hadn’t thought you were that loud. How did he hear you from over there, and above the noise of the café? Even now, you remember how embarrassed you’d felt, ducking your head and looking away.

The man finished his coffee not long after that; he slipped his phone into his pocket and stood up. You glanced up only momentarily when he stood, but your eyes soon slid back to his form when you noticed something odd. On the wall behind him, there was a big oval mirror sitting pretty in its elaborate silver frame. He stood just a few feet in front of it, yet there was no reflection of him. The only thing you could see was the other side of the café reflected back, with another man sitting alone at a booth enjoying his own coffee. The tall man’s reflection was nowhere to be found.

That was when you figured he must be a vampire.

You’d never met one before. At least, you didn’t think you had until then.

Unbeknownst to you, vampires are notoriously able to blend in more easily than most other supernatural beings—until faced with situations like that one in the coffee shop. Ultimately, there’s no faking a reflection no matter how hard you try to remain inconspicuous.

The man had caught your eye again. Thinking back on it, you aren’t sure of what expression you had on your face or what it must’ve looked like to him. It must’ve been something akin to surprise, though; you weren’t quick enough to disguise your reaction at his lack of a reflection.

He gave you another smile, though it felt sadder than the previous one, and walked out of the store, the small bell on the door ringing at his departure. He disappeared down the street in a swirl of black fabric, almost like something out of a movie, and you watched him retreat until you could see him no more.

You scraped your index fingernail over the wood table your food was resting on, your mind whirring with all kinds of thoughts. Your interest was piqued. And yet there was no way for you to know if you’d see him again.

—

At least, that’s what you believed then. Luckily for you, your subsequent visits to the coffee shop have proven fruitful; the strange, tall vampire is there more often than not, always in the same spot in front of that same mirror. Sometimes he reads a book, other times he looks at his phone, and other times still, he stares out the window at the passersby.

He acknowledges you whenever he sees you, either with a nod or a smile. You’ve never spoken to each other, though you know what his voice sounds like from hearing him talk to the baristas. It’s a nice voice, rich and handsome like him, and you find yourself gradually wanting to hear it spoken in your direction. But you aren’t sure how to talk to him, or what you should say.

There’s a lot you want to know about him and his vampirism, but you don’t think it’s fair to bombard him with questions right after meeting him—if you could somehow work up the nerve for that first step.

When you were young, your parents made sure to keep you safely sheltered away from anyone who could potentially be a vampire or any other nonhuman being. This game kept up until you went to college, where they could no longer “shield” you. Because of their lifelong fear and disgust, your knowledge of nonhuman beings is scarce and mostly inaccurate.

The man’s skin isn’t deathly pale like you’ve heard others say vampires always are. It’s nicely tanned, in fact. Nor are his eyes red, or his canine teeth abnormally sharp. And obviously, he has no aversion to sunlight, otherwise he wouldn’t be out here during the day. The only visible marker of his inhuman nature is his lack of a reflection. Maybe he’s not a vampire at all? Maybe he’s another type of being entirely. That only makes you more curious.

It’s not rare to come across supernatural beings, but they only make themselves known if they want to, or if it’s imperative to their survival. Most of them would rather quietly assimilate amongst humans or stay safe and hidden within their own communities. Humans are still too judgmental towards those who are different from themselves for nonhumans to feel truly safe or welcomed—at least not on a global scale. Small pockets of communities forged with human allies are helpful and sometimes vital for survival, but not always enough.

These small tidbits of information cycle through your mind as September gradually bleeds into October. You continue watching the thoughtful man in the coffee shop and making up your own secret theories about his life. You haven’t told anyone from school about this, because you already know the reaction would be nothing short of awful. Your parents would only let you go to school at the one university in the city that explicitly didn’t allow supernatural beings; it goes without saying that your classmates don’t view them in a positive light.

Part of you feels like you might be breaking the unspoken rules just by being at this coffee shop all the time and allowing this man to take up space in your mind. But who will know what’s inside your thoughts except you?

One day, your friend decides to accompany you on your lunch break, finally stopping by the café she recommended to you. The man is already there, as usual, and he smiles slightly when you and your friend enter. She doesn’t catch this, too busy wondering what she’s going to get off the menu today.

“I haven’t been here in forever, I wonder if Sam still remembers me?” You know Sam to be one of the baristas there, having read it on their name tag before.

“I doubt there are very many people who’d forget you,” you answer.

When you both have your food, you take a booth farther away from where the man sits, though you can still see him easily from this distance. Your friend settles into the seat in front of you.

You try to keep things inconspicuous throughout your conversation, but you must glance over at him one too many times, because your friend eventually raises her eyebrows questioningly. She turns around in her seat, making it obvious that she’s looking, and you groan as you keep your eyes in the opposite direction towards the window.

“Who’s that guy you keep staring at?”

You cough. “No one.”

“He’s obviously someone. Someone interesting enough to hold your attention.”

“I don’t know the man,” you say curtly. You shuffle your napkin and spoon aimlessly, your nervousness rising. What if he has some kind of enhanced hearing and can hear what you’re saying right now? He definitely heard you make that noise that first day.

Your friend looks at the ceiling and blows air out of her mouth. “Whatever. I’ll find out who he is sooner or later.”

You take a sip of your drink and lower your voice to just above a whisper. Although you want to leave the subject alone, you’re curious about one thing. “You mean you’ve never seen him before? This café was your hangout spot before it was mine.”

She shrugs. “No, I think I would’ve remembered someone as...visually striking as him. Why are we whispering, anyway? It’s not like he can hear us above all this noise.”

You think to yourself, I’m not so sure about that, but you merely shake your head.

You spend a few more minutes talking before movement catches the corner of your eye. At this point, it’s practically a reflex for you to look in that direction. You try not to, but your friend has already caught you and turns her head to spy, too. The man has gotten up for whatever reason to say something to one of the baristas at the counter. Your gaze darts back to your cup after you’ve gotten your eyeful, but you’re nearly startled into dropping the cup at your friend’s gasp.

Oh. The mirror.

She grips the edge of the table. “He’s a vampire…?”

You don’t know what to say to that, and you feel oddly guilty for some reason you can’t pinpoint. Like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. “U-um, I don’t know…?” You can hardly finish your thought before your friend is scrambling to grab her purse. She hurriedly stands out of the seat, tugging your arm as she does.

“Come on. We shouldn’t stay here.”

“Are you serious—?” You feel embarrassed heat rip through your body at her display; some other café-goers are already looking at her curiously, probably wondering what the hell she’s doing. She tugs more incessantly, and you already know she’ll get louder if you don’t get up now and defuse the situation. Leaving your half-full cup behind, you grab your things and follow her out of the store, keeping your eyes firmly on her back as you pass by the man. You don’t know if he looked up, or if he could sense the reason for your sudden departure—you’ve never left the shop before him until now—and you don’t want to know.

Neither of you talk until you’re well down the street and around the corner. “That wasn’t necessary,” you huff, your hands still sweating from the spiked adrenaline at suddenly being rushed out.

“Yes it was! We all know bloodsuckers and all these other weirdos are dangerous...even if they think they’re being well-intentioned by living among humans. I hope you don’t go back there.”

“Whatever...you’re the one who told me to visit the café,” you mumble, unable to muster up the energy to say anything more. You both know very well she can’t tell you where to go, but you hope she doesn’t mention this to your other acquaintances on campus and make it into a bigger deal than it is.

When you part ways with your friend and get back to your dorm, you realize you’re missing your planner. The planner with all your upcoming assignment dates in it. You sigh heavily and roll your eyes, knowing it must’ve happened in the chaos of her pulling you out of the shop. Maybe if you’re really lucky, it’ll still be there, picked up by an employee or simply left untouched. Knowing how many people go through that café in a day, you’re not optimistic.

For the first time since visiting the quaint little shop, you’re not anticipating returning and seeing the man again, afraid he’ll ignore you or look at you with distaste—like you’re just another unsympathetic human. And would he be wrong to think that? You’re only strangers to each other.

You try not to dwell on it too hard when you go to bed that night.

When lunch rolls around the next day, you hesitate a couple times on your way to the café, not wanting to show up. However, the desire to see what became of your planner pushes you forward. You don’t even have to stay; if it’s there, you’ll take it and leave. If it’s not—oh well. You can still leave. It’s not hard to buy another.

He’s there when you arrive, of course.

He nods at you when you step inside, though he doesn’t smile as he’s become accustomed to doing. You nod back, but you can’t ignore the renewed rush of embarrassment you feel. You linger at the entrance for a second longer, wondering if maybe you should say something. Apologize, even? But what if he really didn’t know what was going on yesterday? Then how odd would you look for bringing it up?

You decide to move on and go back to the booth to search for your belongings, but his voice stops you. This takes you by surprise.

“Did you come back for this?”

You turn to him to see him holding your planner in his hand. You stare, momentarily dumbfounded, and almost shake your head before realizing it is yours. Definitely the same sticker-covered, scribbled-all-over planner.

“Oh—y-yeah. Thank you.” He passes it to you, though you notice he’s very careful not to let your hands touch. You’re a little perplexed about why, but then the rumors about vampires having cold skin pop up in your mind. Maybe that’s actually true, too. “I usually don’t lose things so easily, but…” Your voice falters, and you don’t know how to finish that sentence without bringing up the other day’s events.

He doesn’t seem to mind as he replies, “It happens to all of us sometimes...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my camera.”

“You take pictures?” you ask, a tinge of curiosity in your voice.

He nods. “I take photos of anything that interests me. Which often ends up being everything I see. I work at an art museum, so I guess having an eye for photography comes in handy.” He hesitates for a second, then says, “I could show you some?” He waves his phone, indicating that the photos are there.

“Oh, sure.” The man gestures for you to sit down in the empty chair in front of him, and you do so. He swipes through his phone a few times until he settles on what he’s searching for, then puts the device on the table and slides it to you. You lean forward to look at it and see that it displays an album full of pictures, simply titled with the emoji “🌌.”

“It’s okay, you can pick it up.” He chuckles. You pick up the phone and swipe through the numerous pictures. Many of them are nighttime shots of the moon, trees, half-empty streets, darkened storefronts. Others depict nature scenes at sunset or the beginning of sunrise, with the sky colored in darker hues. No matter what the subject matter is, they all look to be professionally taken, even for an iPhone.

“Wow, these are nice. You said you work at a museum…are you a professional photographer, too?”

The man shrugs, and as you look at his slight grin, you realize you still don’t know his name. “Something like that, I guess.”

“You should be if you aren’t already,” you say, looking through more photos. “I’m sure you’d make a lot of money.” When you reach the end of the album, you go to hand the phone back to him but realize he’ll probably want to avoid contact again, so you slide it across the table. He takes it and slips it into his pocket.

“I don’t really care about the money,” he responds. “I just like it because…” He trails off, unsure how to convey his thoughts, wondering if he should even get that personal with a stranger. “It...helps me pass the time.” He’s not quite satisfied by that answer—it doesn’t feel like enough—but it’s all he can think of on the spot.

“Well, that’s nice too. It’s always good to have a hobby just for the sake of it...not for anyone’s benefit but your own.”

“Do you have one?” He takes a sip of his coffee. You don’t expect to be asked about your own interests, and your mind goes blank as you try to think. Why does this always happen when I’m asked these kinds of questions?

“Um, just different things here and there.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says, amused.

“It’s not that, I just don’t have a ton of hobbies or anything. I’m kinda boring, so…” And wasn’t allowed to do much of anything until I left home.

“Being boring isn’t always a bad thing.”

You lean back in your seat, shrugging slightly. “Maybe if you see it that way. My friends don’t.”

“Would one of those happen to be the same one who dragged you out of here yesterday?” He speaks casually, putting his cheek in his hand. You slump further down in your seat, feeling exposed. Of course there was no escaping this topic. He notices your mood shift and shakes his head. “You don’t have to feel so bad about it. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

“I’m sorry for all that mess,” you murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “Really, I am.” You stand up from the seat, gripping your planner. “Thanks again for this. I don’t want to take up any more of your time today.” You’re about to turn to leave when he speaks again.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, you know…you could talk with me whenever you feel like it.” That’s the last thing you expect him to say. His voice takes on a quality that’s...not what you’d call begging, but it’s clear he’d enjoy some company. Maybe he’s doing this for your benefit as well as his own, because it’s obvious how your eyes always stray to his little corner.

You nod, giving him an apprehensive smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

The rest of your day after that is uneventful, full of classes and unexciting lectures, but you keep thinking of one thing. Though he appears to enjoy his time in the coffee shop, how lonely must he really be? There’s never anyone else around him. His eyes when he’d spoken to you held a certain sadness.

And you still didn’t get his name.

You don’t see him for the next few days, mostly because you aren’t at the café. You’ve gotten busy with a new project and haven’t had as much time to return to the coffee shop, mostly spending your time in the library instead.

When you finally get a chance to buy lunch outside campus, he’s not there. This disappoints you more than you thought it would, and you wonder what his absence means. Did he just decide not to come today, or has he found another place to frequent? You kind of hope the second option isn’t the case, though you also don’t know why you’re even caring this much about where someone else goes on their own time.

You get a drink to-go this time, deciding you’ll just take it back to the library and continue your studies there. The entryway bell rings behind you as you wait for your order to be made, though you don’t pay it much attention; half of your mind is still occupied with what you need to do next for your project.

When you turn around to leave the shop with your drink, you’re surprised to see the man standing there, waiting to get his own coffee. “You’re late,” you blurt out. You immediately feel silly for saying it, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

He gives you a slight smile. “Yes, I am.” Then he spots your to-go cup. “Are you leaving?”

“Uh, well,” you glance at your drink, “are you staying?”

He nods as he steps up to the counter. “Yeah, I’m staying. My offer’s still open, by the way.”

Right. The offer to talk to him sometimes. You’re tempted to stay awhile and talk to him now, though you don’t even know what about. Your project? That’s boring. Him being a vampire? Too invasive. Your school? Also boring, and probably not the best idea considering which one you attend.

“I...think I’ll stay, then.”

You both sit at his usual table, with you grinning nervously.

“How are you? I noticed you hadn’t showed up in a while,” he asks, settling back in his chair.

“Yeah, I’m doing fine, I’m just busy with school stuff. These teachers don’t give us a break.” You laugh a little, shaking your head.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He grins. “I never did go to college, but I’ve always heard others talk about how tiring it is. And expensive.”

“They’re right.” You roll your eyes at the thought of it. “But I guess it’ll all be worth it in the end. Maybe. If the economy isn’t in the toilet.” The sound of his laughter is nice, and you’re glad you could make him laugh. “Also, I’m sorry—I don’t know how this flew under the radar, but I don’t know your name.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to apologize for, really. It’s Johnny.”

You tell him your name, too. “Since I haven’t seen you lately...how are you doing?” You circle your hands around your to-go cup, feeling its warmth transfer to your palms as you await his answer.

“I think I can say I’m the same as always—which is fine. Life slows down a little when you have a lot of time on your hands.” Johnny’s lips quirk up at that, and you think he might be referring to his vampirism. Your eyes widen a little.

“What’s that like? Having so much free time. I wouldn’t know much about that right now, but…”

“Maybe not as pleasant as you think it’d be. But there’s good in it. Like coming and going when you want to. And you can take up whatever interests you want without worrying as much about busy schedules.” You already know he’s alluding to his photography. “I do like having a job, though…it gives me structure.”

“You’re probably right…I wouldn’t know the first thing to do if I had a ton of free time…like, which hobbies to pick up first.” You consider how you initially thought about him being lonely and wonder if that’s one of the unpleasant parts he hinted to. “Speaking of hobbies...did you take any new pictures lately?”

Johnny nods. “Most of them were on my camera this time, but some are on my phone. You want to see?”

“Yes!”

Johnny lets you have his phone again to look through the newest pictures he’s taken. There are varying shots of car-lined streets and storefronts, some of the latter decorated with glowing jack-o-lanterns for the onset of October. A pigeon sits on a streetlamp during the daytime, holding its head up like royalty upon a throne. In another image, a stray cat and her kittens huddle in an alley, the babies grooming each other while the mother looks quizzically at the camera.

You recognize a few photos from the nearby park; he also had some pictures of it the last time you looked. “Do you go to this park often?”

“Yeah, it offers some great shots. It’s especially pretty if you go just before the sun sets...the light filters through the tree leaves and it looks kinda like a kaleidoscope.”

“Ah, I’ve never seen that before…” you say a little sadly. Your parents didn’t much like taking you to that park when you were younger because of how far it is from their house. And since living away from them, you’ve only been able to visit it during the early hours of the day—like now.

Johnny looks closely at you. “Would you ever want to?”

“If it’s as pretty as you say, I should.” You slide the phone back across the table to him, not catching what he’s trying to hint at as you keep talking. “Do you go anywhere else besides here and the park?” As soon as you say it, you realize this might sound a little rude and try to make a quick save. “I mean, do you have any other favorite places? I’m not trying to say you don’t have a life or anything!”

Johnny laughs at your slight panic at thinking you’ve offended him. “Nothing too out-there, I guess. The bookstore, the photography store, the theater. Pretty much all the same places others visit.”

“The movies are fun.” You trace your finger across the table’s surface, thinking of your own favorite spots. “Me and my friends like to go downtown. There are a lot of cute little shops down there…”

You and Johnny talk for a while longer, and you almost forget you have to get back to campus until you glance at the wall clock. “Oh no, I’m gonna be late.” Flustered, you jump out of your seat and crumple your empty cup. “Sorry to cut it short, Johnny, but I gotta go back now.”

He smiles good-naturedly and nods, his dark bangs sweeping his face. “I understand.” As he watches you gather your things and get ready to go, he speaks up again. “Actually, if you want to see the park at sunset sometime...I could show you? It’s up to you.”

You pause, suddenly curious at the thought of seeing him outside the café. In the back of your mind, you feel a little paranoid and afraid of your friend or maybe even your parents seeing you there with him, though the latter is extremely unlikely. It’s hard to shake that familiar fear of judgment and ostracism when it’s been ingrained in you since childhood. “That sounds good. If it’s not any trouble for you…?”

“Never too much trouble. I usually get off around 4 on Fridays, just before the sun sets at 5. Unless the weekend is better for you?”

You nod, holding your books tighter to your chest. “Friday will work for me! I’ll meet up with you then.”

Johnny smiles. “Great; I’ll see you then, kind stranger.”

Maybe he says it to be joking or quirky, to sound like one of those characters in a movie or drama, but it makes you smile. Nodding to him again, you step out of the café and rush towards the direction of your school. Johnny watches as you retreat, your roles reversed.

You meet up with Johnny at the park that Friday, just as you both agreed. You spot him sitting on a bench near the park entrance, waiting on your arrival.

Johnny’s wardrobe is still mostly dark, but it’s a little lighter than usual today. He’s changed things up with a white polo shirt underneath his black sweater. Seeing him dressed like this, you wonder what he’d be like as a student, or maybe even a university professor.

He stands up when you get closer, hearing the sound of your footsteps approaching and turning towards you. His camera sits safely around his neck, the lens catching in the light of the sun.

When you stop in front of him, he smiles at you warmly. You try to relax into the genuineness of that smile and ignore the still-lingering traces of anxiety about being out with him. “Hi, Johnny!”

“Hi, Y/N.”

You and Johnny walk around the park as he looks for something interesting to shoot. He snaps a few shots of the trees, fallen leaves, bushes, and other natural elements along the way, though it seems like he hasn’t quite captured what he wants yet.

“Are you looking for something specific?” you ask, peering at his camera as he holds it in his hands.

“There’s an aster bush around here,” he responds. “It hadn’t fully bloomed yet the last time I was here, but it should be open by now.”

It turns out he’s right as you two finally come up on the bush. Its blooms make bright purple smudges against the rest of the landscape, which is a monochrome red-and-orange palette from the leaves changing their hues. You watch as he comes up to the bush carefully and quietly, like it’s a small animal he’s afraid to scare away. Johnny is very attentive while taking pictures of it, always conscious of getting the correct lighting and securing the exact angles he wants to capture. “Compassionate” is not a word you’d usually associate with the act of taking photos, but that’s the only word you can currently think of to describe this display. He treats the flowers with a peculiar sense of respect, as if they’re a human subject.

After he’s gotten the images he wants, Johnny offers you his camera to take a few of your own. You’re anxious about holding his prized possession and are afraid you’ll find a way to mess something up, but he promises you it’s fine. You take a few shots of the sky, still with a few wisps of clouds left, and a nearby tree that’s almost stripped bare of leaves. You know the shots will probably end up blurry from your unsteady hands, but Johnny tells you you’ve done a good job anyway.

Something about getting his approval makes a pleasant warmth settle in your chest.

As you both walk down a long trail, you finally ask him, “Sorry if this is invasive, but I was wondering how old are you? Like...as a vampire.” Your voice becomes hesitant on the word vampire, even though you’re the only two in this part of the park.

He chuckles a bit. “I’m 85.” You try not to look surprised. “I’ve been turned for 60 years. Old, but probably a little younger than most vampires you’d think of.”

“Kinda,” you say quietly. “They’re always like 2,000 years old in movies.”

“The ancient vampires are purebloods. They keep to themselves and avoid mingling with turned vampires, let alone humans. Some people are even skeptical if they exist. Supposedly, they use humans as servants or blood banks.” He gives you an apologetic look after saying this, though you don’t really know why. You don’t get the feeling he’d do that to another being, but he is still mostly a stranger... “At least, that’s what my mentor told me.”

Your curiosity is roused at all this new knowledge. “You had a mentor?”

“An older woman. She was also a turned vampire.”

“Turned, huh…”

Johnny nods, toeing at a small pile of leaves on the ground. “She went away eventually, said people are meant to pass in and out of each other’s lives. I don’t think she ever had intentions to stay. But I enjoyed her company while she was there.” Johnny stops at a short bridge above a small manmade lake, and you both look down into the water.

You place your arms on the bridge railing so you can lean over more. You notice he doesn’t have a reflection in the water, and this startles you more than you expected. Before meeting this strange man, you’d never thought much before about why vampires don’t have mirror reflections, but it seems even more unnatural to see this phenomenon happen again in the lake.

You find yourself looking at the side of Johnny’s face, trying to read his expression as he peers into the water’s depths. He turns to you, and you flinch at being caught staring, but he only smiles slightly. You force yourself to form words and break the silence. “What—what did you do after she left?”

“Lived on my own. She taught me a lot of things to help me live independently as a vampire, so it wasn’t too difficult to get along without her...but emotionally? A different story.”

“You sound like you had a very close relationship with her.”

“Yes. Quite close…” Johnny’s tone suggests something deeper, more intimate than a regular friendship. You feel a bit astounded at the idea of him having an older, more worldly lover while being only a newly changed vampire. Your reaction makes you feel foolish, inexperienced. Still, you can’t help imagining a scenario of them living in a big, dark mansion somewhere in the mountains, rolling around in a bed with bloody red sheets—and maybe drinking from the occasional naïve, misled human hiker.

Strangely, too, you feel jealous at his freedom, his ability to go wherever and do whatever with whoever he wants without overbearing relatives always just a step away.

You continue staring at the ripples as they circle in and out of the water’s surface, the motions triggered by a small orange leaf falling into the lake. You’re unsure of what could be the right thing to say to his admission, so you blurt out whatever comes to mind next. “You said she taught you to live independently as a vampire. What does that mean? How do you get...you know. Blood?”

“There are ways,” Johnny says cryptically, which makes your own blood rush faster. He turns to you with a grin, like he finds your naivety endearing. “It’s nothing drastic, though. At least, not for me. I never drink directly.” It does make sense that there are other ways to drink human blood without taking it straight from their necks, though you can only speculate on which methods he prefers. “Drinking directly is lethal, and often not worth it.”

“So, it’s true that vampire bites can kill?” You watch as Johnny pushes himself off the railing, and you follow him as he continues down the trail.

“It’s not false. But it’s never really that simple.” Johnny’s answer is mysterious, and he doesn’t elaborate further. He turns to you. “Where did you hear that, anyway? Your university? The one that bans all nonhuman beings?”

“You know where I go to school?” You feel embarrassed, thinking he must assume you’re like the rest of the student body who hates nonhumans but still nurtures an odd obsession with them.

“I saw it on your notebook one day, the school insignia. I’m not a stalker, by the way.” You laugh only slightly, and Johnny seems crestfallen when he notices your apprehension. “I don’t care if you attend school there. Just because you do doesn’t mean you think the way they do.”

“You must think I’m some weird opportunist, then,” you mutter, heat finding its way to your face. “Asking you all these questions...I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think anything except that you’re a pleasant person to be around.”

You’re quiet for a moment, letting the compliment sink in. You think you should probably give him one of his own, but before you can, he says, “Look. The sun’s already setting.” Just like he told you before, the dying rays filter through the tree leaves and create impossibly intricate patterns on your surroundings. You hold your hand out and watch the latticework that the leaves create dance over your open palm.

You let Johnny take a picture of your hand with the tree shadows flitting over it, but you shy away from the camera’s lens when he points it higher to your face, a questioning look in his eyes. “Maybe some other day.”

You walk around for a while longer until the sky bleeds into a dark purple. “I guess I should be going soon. It’s getting late,” you say, though you’re also a bit sad over your evening with Johnny meeting its end.

“Do you want me to take you back to campus? You shouldn’t walk back alone. My car is just in the parking lot there.” He points to it where it sits in the distance.

You look at Johnny with a confused gaze. “But you can’t come on campus. They have...things to ward off vampires.” Like gates made of pure silver, displaying intimidating, elaborately designed crosses. You don’t know if any of it actually works, but it’s probably better not to find out.

Johnny doesn’t seem bothered by this information. “Yeah…I know. I can just drop you at the street across from the main gate.”

You hesitate a moment longer but eventually agree. He is right; you’d rather not walk alone at night, and getting a ride with him is better—and cheaper—than calling for a rideshare.

The ride to the college is fairly quiet, with the radio filling the silence. It’s not an awkward type of stillness, at least, which you’re grateful for.

As he said he would, Johnny parks on the side of the street that sits in front of the main gate, just outside the immediate vicinity of the campus. The metal crosses stare back at the both of you, glinting in the light of nearby streetlamps. You turn your face away from them, biting the inside of your cheek.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “Thanks again for the ride. I guess I’ll see you back at the shop next week, yeah?” Again, you get the urge to say something, anything, to remedy or cover up the foreboding source of discomfort sitting just in front of you, but there’s no one sentence you could say to wipe away decades of hatred.

Johnny nods and smiles, and still he shows no signs of being disturbed. He doesn’t cast another glance at the gates. “It’s no problem. See you then.”

You get out of his car and cross the street to get inside the gate; it’s early enough in the evening for it to still be open. Any later, and it’d be locked shut to even humans. You risk another wave at him before turning back around and heading for your dorm, which sits a few yards from the entrance. Johnny lets the car idle on the side of the street until you’ve walked into the dorm, and only then does he drive away.

It doesn’t take very long for you to warm up to Johnny inviting you to other places. The next time you and him go somewhere other than the coffee shop, you accompany him as he buys some film for his camera on one of his free days. You don’t know a ton about photography, so you’re more than happy to let him tell you all about how film works and why he buys certain kinds over others.

The place he frequents is a specialty photography shop that still carries older varieties of film—ones that fell out of favor once digital cameras became a thing. The store looks noticeably old, but not in an unkempt or decrepit way. You can tell it’s been around for a while, holding all kinds of history in its structure.

“There are so many different types.” You look over a shelf of film rolls in awe. “How can you tell them all apart?”

Johnny laughs. “It gets easier if you’ve been doing it for a while…or a few decades.” He picks one up from a row of them and holds it in front of you. “35mm is the most common type, which is what you’ll find the most of when you look through any film shop. That’s what I use.”

He sets that one down and walks past another display of film rolls, gesturing toward them. “There’s also 120 and 220 film formats here…those work for even older cameras, sorta like ones you’d see in 1930s movies. You can even turn a film camera into a digital camera.”

You nod to his words, looking over what seems like millions of film canisters—and occasionally glancing at the lines of his broad back as he walks ahead of you. “You should teach a photography class. I’d be more willing to listen to you than some old professor.”

Johnny snickers. “Huh, I don’t know. Not a professor, but I am old.”

You both continue walking through the store, with Johnny giving you the rundown on every item that catches your interest.

Like the coffee shop, there’s another mirror in this store. Many more, actually—there are whole rows of them on a series of shelves, all in varying sizes and shapes. They create a fragmented view of your form as you stand in front of them, though you don’t initially realize you’ve crossed into their glassy line of sight. You’re busier with looking at a roll of film Johnny’s handed you. When you notice your reflection shifting in your peripheral view, you look up.

Johnny’s only a few feet behind you, and you know this because you can hear him and feel his presence. Yet, it’s strange to see yourself as the only person in the aisle.

Eventually, he notices what’s got you preoccupied and comes to stand next to you. Though you see him clearly in front of your eyes, there’s no trace of him in the glass reflections.

Suddenly, you’re hit with the aching loneliness of it—how it must feel to never see yourself. You can see him with your own eyes, and so can everyone else who encounters him, but what must it be like to be virtually invisible outside of other peoples’ perceptions of you? You almost feel utterly alone even though you know he’s beside you.

Noticing your sudden melancholy, Johnny takes the film roll from your hand and tosses it up in the air, making it look like it’s moving on its own in the mirrors. He means to lighten the mood, if only to see the cloudiness disappear from your expression. It works to a degree, though you still feel downcast deep below.

“It’s not good to dwell on it.” Johnny presses the film roll back into your hand, still carefully avoiding skin contact. He has no problem meeting your eyes, though, and you shyly look away from his dark gaze after a few prolonged moments.

“You’re right,” you say softly, turning back to the aisle and away from the rows of mirrors.

—

You and Johnny head to the coffee shop after your trip to the photography store. Once you get your drinks and sit down in your usual spot, he speaks suddenly. “Something’s wrong.”

Your eyes dart around the shop, thinking he’s referring to one of the patrons around you. “What? What’s wrong?” Your voice comes out a bit panicked. He doesn’t want to laugh, but he does.

“No, I mean...something’s wrong with you. You seem far away.”

“Oh…” You wonder if you should even bring it up and potentially ruin the mood. But you have been curious for weeks now, and you don’t think you’ll get a trustworthy answer by asking anyone other than him. “I just...I was wondering why you don’t have a reflection. I know it’s a vampire thing, but I’ve never really known why...you don’t need to answer, though. Like you said, it’s not good to dwell on it.”

Johnny makes a motion like a half-nod once your question is revealed, his eyes darting to the window and back to the table. His fingers trace across the rim of his coffee cup, a thoughtful but stormy expression on his face, and you’re afraid you shouldn’t have reawakened this topic. “You know...being undead means being in two places at once.”

“Two places?”

“We are caught between the living world and the world of the dead. Something that’s not really supposed to exist, yet…” He’s quiet for a moment. “You can only imagine the kind of issues and side effects that can cause. One of them being no reflection.”

“I never thought of it like that,” you say. “Two planes of existence...what does it mean to be a part of the world of the dead?”

“Our blood runs slower. Ours is more like sludge compared to yours. The heart beats only a few times per minute. Don’t need to eat or sleep, either, though many vampires still do.” Johnny pauses. “How much do you really know about vampires?”

“I don’t know much about any of this...stuff.” You gesture vaguely, meaning all supernatural beings and not just vampires. “No one ever told me these things growing up, and it’s hard to tell truth from fiction at school. People will say anything, horrible things, and you just take it at face value, I guess. I never really thought to try to find the reality.” You sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t know anything.”

“Learning is good. You can always learn. I don’t think it’s too late for that.” Johnny’s voice is a little lighter. “Anyway, everyone’s knowledge is different. Sometimes it slips my mind that everyone doesn’t know what it’s like to live as a vampire, though the world never lets me forget for long.”

“Then…do you hang out with other vampires who do understand? Or…maybe humans who can sympathize?”

Johnny gives a humorless laugh. “Most humans are hesitant to interact with us, if not full-out terrified or disgusted. At the museum...it’s less pronounced because all the employees already know. They…tolerate it. But every time someone else realizes what I am and doesn’t take well to it?” He shakes his head, acts like he’ll say something else, and then abandons that line of thought. “And do you really think I’d want to spend my free time around other bloodsuckers?” He tries to play it off as a joke, but you’re more inclined to think he actually feels that way. You can only nod, feeling bad for him but also a little disturbed by his view of his own kind.

“I think you’re a kind person, and you being a vampire doesn’t affect that,” you say hesitantly. “I like talking to you. And even if you feel that way about other vampires, I…wish you wouldn’t feel that about yourself.”

Johnny remains quiet, but he nods. You wonder about the struggle occurring in his mind. The only outward hint of his uneasy state shows in the furrow of his eyebrows and the tense set of his mouth. With his right hand resting on the table, he rubs his fingers together absentmindedly, like he’s analyzing your words. You have a sudden and startling desire to hold his hand, to twine your fingers together and feel his skin on yours for the first time, but you don’t dare cross that boundary.

He finally replies with, “You’re much kinder to me, an old and bitter vampire, than you probably should be. But maybe that’s a good thing about you.”

“I think it’s a good thing,” you agree, your voice low. “Every living being needs companionship. Good companionship, anyway.”

The corners of Johnny’s lips shift in something reminiscent of a smile. He turns a rueful gaze once again to the window, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “Aren’t I lucky to have yours, then.”

On a day when you don’t have as many responsibilities to juggle, you visit Johnny at the art museum after his working hours are up. He’d already invited you to come to the museum any day you felt like so he could show you around.

When you get there, he’s waiting in the visitor’s lobby for you, framed by receding sunlight as the day starts fading into night. He looks the same as he always does when you see him in the café on his lunch breaks, but within the context of the museum, he suddenly seems more…alive? Vibrant? He could’ve served as a muse for one of the many statuesque, perfectly proportional sculptures in the museum, and you��d never know anything different.

Your heartbeat increases at the sight of him, just enough to be outside the normal range.

“Hi, Johnny. I hope your day went well?”

“It was fine, nothing too crazy. But it’s better now.” And he smiles at you, sincere enough to make your heart ache.

“Oh—that’s great.” That’s it? You scold yourself internally, but you aren’t quick enough to think up a witty reply to his comment before the topic shifts.

“Is there anything in particular you wanna see first?” Johnny asks, leading you further into the museum.

“I guess I hadn’t thought too deeply about that…do you have a favorite exhibit? I want to see what you like.”

Johnny smiles faintly. “Let’s see, then.”

The dark-haired man takes you to a section of the museum filled with oil paintings, all by one singular artist. At first, all you see is varying shades of black and gray and red, with some white splashed in between. When you begin looking at the paintings more closely, it’s easier to see that each one depicts a different scene of chaos. Maybe a sort of organized chaos, but disarray all the same.

There is one picture that holds a clearer subject than the rest. One of the oil paintings is of a vampire—obvious by the fangs—with bloodied lips and anguished eyes. You pause when you catch sight of it, your steps stilled by the sheer frenzy in the other being’s painted eyes. Their hands reach out for the viewer as if begging for an escape that can only be provided by whoever’s observing.

“This one was painted by a fellow vampire, you know. The same one who did all the rest of the paintings in this gallery,” Johnny explains. He points at the placard next to the painting that displays the artist’s name and a short description of the piece. The word fellow comes off his tongue wrapped in cynicism. “And it was one of the ones I personally chose for this exhibit.”

You glance at him, a tinge of surprise blooming in your chest. “Really?”

He nods. “Who better to depict the ills of vampirism than a vampire themselves? I thought it was a…fascinating change of pace from all the humans who try and fail to do so, ironic as that is.”

If you look at the painting for long enough, you think you can recognize sadness in the corners of the vampire’s eyes—pure, unadulterated sadness. Different from anguish or panic. A similar mask of sadness you’ve seen on the man next to you.

You say nothing for a while. You simply feel the painful throb of your heart in your chest and listen to the small sounds around you. Even now, there are still other people exploring the museum and walking through this very exhibit, but you can’t hear or see any of them. Johnny notices the disconcerted look on your face, and his forehead creases. “But I’m sure you want to see something less…morbid than this, right? Come on.”

“Uh, I-I don’t mind,” you insist, even though you feel like you’ve just awoken from a painful trance by the sound of his voice. But he’s already gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.

The next set of paintings you end up in front of are a series of sunflower studies. One frame depicts the long green stems; another provides an up-close view of their lined petals. One zooms in close on the flower’s brown center, only small glimpses of yellow left at the edges of the frame.

“This is definitely very different.” You look at him, a small smile pulling at your lips. “But it fits you. I see why you like it.” You remember him back in the park, taking careful pictures of the aster bush and of your hands…and then offering to take one of you. You don’t know why that last one makes your stomach jump.

“I thought you might like it.” Johnny’s eyes linger on your face as he observes your reaction to the paintings. He’s seen these flowers probably a hundred times by now in this permanent exhibit, but the wonder in your expression is new to him.

—

You both walk through a few more exhibitions after that, all with different subjects and mediums—some consist of sculptures, others are clay vases and figures. There’s still a lot to see in the museum, but you’re starting to get hungry, and you know Johnny has already heard your stomach growling.

After the 2nd time it happens and you think you might melt from embarrassment, he grins at you and makes a suggestion. “Let’s go to my office. I’ll get my things and we can eat. The restaurant here is pretty good—or at least that’s what everyone else says…”

When you get to his office, you feel almost like you’ve stepped into a room from years past. Your gaze drifts across his desk immediately; it’s not sleek and modern like you’d expect, considering the rest of the museum’s aesthetic, but wooden and heavy and vintage-looking. It’s olden quality resembles everything else in his personal space. Even his desk chair, a big and plush thing, feels vintage with its soft leather and rustic design.

This feeling is far from a bad thing, though. You enjoy the aged look of the bookcases, the picture frames, the chairs, the small decorations here and there—everything about this room.

Johnny notices how you look around, studying everything in sight, and smiles. “It’s not the most modern, but I like it.”

“It’s perfect. Like a world of its own.”

“A woman of taste, I see.” Johnny puts a hand over his heart, giving an expression like he’s truly touched, and you can only grin sheepishly. When he has his belongings, he leads you out and locks the door behind him.

“Let’s see what they have on the menu today, then.”

—

You get dinner at the museum’s restaurant, just as Johnny recommended, and he even decides to eat too. Maybe he does it so you won’t look odd being the only one eating, or because he really just wants to; he doesn’t let on. Either way, sitting across from him like this in a fancy restaurant with both of you having a nice meal feels almost like a date. You let that thought amble around for a few minutes longer before tucking it back into one of your mind’s many small niches.

“I’ll probably be digesting this for the next few weeks,” he says jokingly, pulling a mock-disappointed face at his plate.

“That sounds like the worst constipation in history.” He snorts at your comment, his eyes creasing as he laughs. You notice he has a dimple when he smiles, and your grin mirrors his. You don’t think you’ve seen him laugh quite so genuinely before, but now that you’ve experienced it, you want to hear it again and again.

Anything is preferable to the perpetual gloom, always slinking around the corner.

—

When Johnny gets back home after dropping you off at the university, he undresses himself and showers and pulls on his bedclothes, which are nothing more than his underwear and a pair of sweatpants. His upper canines ache in his gums the entire time he goes through these motions, like two pulses of red-hot heat positioned on either side of his mouth.

He takes a blood bag from the fridge and drinks it in bed, leaning his arms against his knees. A sudden remembrance manifests itself in his mind; he hears the hazy echo of his mother’s decades-past voice in his head, reprimanding him for eating in bed. A sharp pain grips his chest, and he tries to send it back to the depths where it belongs.

When the blood hits his stomach, the pain is eclipsed by the bloodlust, which is no better. His fangs drop immediately, spiking into his lower lip. Johnny closes his eyes and, very gingerly, allows himself to draw a picture of you in his mind, of your blood in his mouth and your heartbeat roaring in his ears. The way your blood would flow out so delicately, crashing into his tastebuds like the high tide. He is usually better than this at curtailing his bloodlust, not even letting it reach the point of his canines hurting—he can’t remember the last time that’s happened—but being around you sets him on edge. Awakens him in some strange, raw way.

That only makes him more wary. And more guilty about imagining himself drinking your blood. He shouldn’t even be around you if he’s losing his grip on his hard-won control. But although it makes him feel ashamed, it also causes his heart to rush.

He drains the blood bag to the last possible drop. To his relief, it calms him significantly, though the thoughts of you don’t leave. More innocent ones now, of your outing earlier in the evening. Deep beneath, they are tinged with his ever-present guilt at his vampiric nature.

Johnny doesn’t need the sleep, but he drifts off anyway, if only to quiet the conflict sending daggers into his mind.

You’ve known Johnny for a few weeks now, not counting the time you spent silently staring at him in the café, but you find yourself intertwining yourself further into his life. You end up visiting his apartment sooner than you anticipated. You didn’t think of anything as ridiculous as him living in a coffin or sleeping in the rafters like a bat, but you also had a hard time imagining what his place might look like.

You come over on a weekend when you have more time to simply hang out and not worry so much about anything else.

Like usual, he waits in that spot on the side of the street for you to come out. In the daytime, you’re more apprehensive about him being here and someone potentially seeing him and trying to cause trouble for him, but there’s a part of you that likes the rebellious aspect of it. And if he truly doesn’t mind coming near the campus to pick you up, you don’t have much issue with him doing it.

Johnny’s apartment is clean—and a little sparser than you’d expected. Maybe he’s a fan of minimalism. One side of the wall is taken up by a wide bookcase, which features a bunch of different knickknacks, books, and a collection of larger hardcovers that look like photo albums. On the other walls are a few framed pictures of different scenes, and you assume they’re ones he must’ve taken.

“This is a nice place,” you say as he takes your jacket for you and puts it up. “It must cost quite a bit, too…” You sit down on the couch, stroking the soft material of it.

Johnny shrugs. “Thanks. It’s nothing I can’t handle...being nearly a century old gives you plenty of time to save money.” He appears charmingly self-satisfied when he’s able to make you laugh. “Do you want anything?”

“Water is fine…thank you.” Johnny nods and goes off to the kitchen.

Despite trying to keep your eyes on the wall photos, your gaze follows him as he leaves. You discreetly watch him move around his kitchen. With his dark clothes, he’s like a splash of black paint against the pale tile and stainless steel.

There are blood packs in Johnny’s fridge. Lots of them. You know because you saw them from your vantage point on the couch when he opened the fridge door. They look like the blood bags you’d see in a hospital, which makes you wonder how he even gets access to those. Another mystery you struggle to wrap your head around.

He comes back to the living room with your water, and you take it gratefully, though you also feel a little awkward. You think maybe the blood bags are something you shouldn’t have seen, although you know he probably would’ve made more effort to hide them or put them away if that were the case.

“You have a good supply of blood, a nice apartment, and a great job. Does every vampire get these kinds of perks?” Admittedly, it sounded better in your head. Your attempt to stave off the awkward feeling—which was really only coming from your end—only makes it more intense. Johnny laughs dryly in response. You can’t tell if he actually finds it amusing or is just trying to humor you, which makes you feel incredibly silly.

“All of it’s government-issued if you promise never to bite any humans.” Johnny gives a wry smile. “But it’s a mistake to think vampires live glamorous lives, filling up on blood and having no cares in the world.”

“N-no, I get it,” you stutter. “Bad joke.”

“I’m not trying to embarrass you or be mean. It’s just the way things are.” Your roles are suddenly reversed, and now he seems to feel some sort of sympathy for you, like you’re just an ignorant little human who doesn’t know any better. The last part of that is more your insecurities speaking out than anything else, but you try to ignore that and take him for his word.

Johnny gets up from the couch to go over to the bookcase as you sip your water. After looking through the photo albums intently, he takes one off the shelf and hands it to you. You set your water down and hold the album carefully as you open the front cover. The cover itself has a neat little label that reads Telluride 1976 - 1980, so you can already expect what you’ll find in it. There are numerous photos of trees, bushes, snowy mountain ranges, lakes, brilliantly vibrant flowers, and woodland creatures. You stop at a picture of a deer looking straight ahead, its black eyes wide and curious as it examines the lens.

“I lived in the mountains back then, a little after my mentor had left. I spent some time trying to reconnect with nature...and all that other hippie shit people used to do back in that era.”

You chuckle. “Did you wear the same kinds of clothes, too? Bell bottoms and tie-dye T-shirts and all?”

Johnny laughs and shrugs. “Maybe…but that’s only for me to know.”

You grin and look at the photos again. “Well…did your plan work, at least?”

Johnny gives a wistful smile. “In some ways, I think it did.”

You continue looking through the rest of the album, which you could probably do for hours if you had the time—just sit and trace every possible line, curve, and ray of light. Johnny sits beside you as you do, occasionally explaining some pictures and their backstories.

“Lately, I’ve been wanting something else to take pictures of...someone else, maybe.”

“What, like a subject?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’d be nice...I haven’t taken pictures of another person in a while.”

You nod quietly as you flip through the pages—another possible hint flying right over your head. Then a thought comes to you—one that makes your skin warm. “Have you ever taken pictures of anyone you were...involved with?” You don’t say it directly, but you hope he can get the gist of what you’re asking.

Johnny nods as if he doesn’t want to admit to it, a nervous smile gracing his lips. “A few different people…but I always gave them the pictures after we, you know, stopped seeing each other...so there’s none left here.”

“I see…” For a few moments, your thoughts circle around that concept. What was it like to bare yourself in front of someone else like that, immortalized on film? What might it be like to allow Johnny to see you like that, to take pictures of you in your most vulnerable form? The idea doesn’t make you as downright anxious as you expected it to, though you can’t completely shake the lingering embarrassment about it.

After you finish looking through the entirety of his Telluride adventures, Johnny shows you some recent pictures he’s developed, and you’re giddy to see your own blurry creations among them. Now that you’re holding them physically in your hands, you can agree that they look nice, each with its own little personality.

“I thought about putting them in a new photo album,” he says, “but you can keep them, if you prefer.”

You hold them to your chest. “Yes, I’d like to keep them. Thank you.” You smile. “I’m sure I’ll leave you with plenty other photos to put in your album, anyway.”

—

The sun is close to setting again. You aren’t ready to leave yet, though, and Johnny is content to let you stay longer. He pulls out another album for you to look at, this one dated with 1960 - 1964. Unlike the others, there’s no title to describe what’s in it except for that year range.

“This is a picture of me someone took before I was turned,” Johnny murmurs, sitting back down beside you. He turns the album to you, and in the middle of the first page is a sepia-toned photo of him sitting on a bed—or maybe a couch?—wearing a suit. White, handwritten lettering on the bottom right of the photograph reads August 4, 1960.

“Oh wow...” You touch the photo gently over its protective lining. “You look exactly the same. Of course.”

“It’s the only photo I have left of myself,” he sighs, leaning back on the sofa. “If it weren’t for that...I’d feel almost like I didn’t exist at all.”

“Do you remember this day?” you ask.

“…Vaguely.” His answer doesn’t feel like the whole truth, and the way his eyes dart anxiously as he says it confirms your suspicions. Then he sighs again, heavier this time, and he seems to be exhaling all 60 years of his burden along with it. “I was...going to be married. It was for our wedding shoot.”

You’re surprised for a reason you’re unsure of, never even imagining that Johnny could’ve been married at one point in time. Could’ve had an entire life and a family, if it hadn’t been for...

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” You know you never would’ve met him if things hadn’t happened this way, and that knowledge tugs at your heart in a way that makes you feel intensely selfish.

Johnny shakes his head and avoids your eyes. “It was long ago.” He wets his lips and his jaw clenches like maybe he wants to say something else, but he remains silent for a while.

You continue exploring the photo album in silence. With its thin size, there aren’t as many pictures in it as the others—much less, in fact, but each one is still enough to keep your interest. Your mind keeps drifting back to the one of Johnny.

You hand the album back to him when you’re done. He takes it from you, but in a gesture you don’t foresee, he allows your hands to touch for the first time. You make a tiny flinch at the unexpected coolness—not ice-cold, but enough to be noticeable—but you don’t draw away from him. You let his fingers slide across yours as the photo album leaves your hands, and it sends electricity racing up and down your spine.

“S-sorry.” You’re not sure if you’re apologizing for flinching or for making contact at all, though there is no reason to because he initiated it.

“Doesn’t it ever disturb you at all that I’m not human?” Johnny asks softly, still holding the album.

“What?”

“You’ve taken all this so easily...much more easily than many others. You aren’t even disgusted at my cold hands.” A ghost of a grin comes over his face.

“If I were disgusted, I wouldn’t even be here,” you say, trying to lighten the tension. It’s not the kind of tension that arises from anger, offense, or upset, but something else that you are lost on comprehending in this moment. “Some of it’s unfamiliar, obviously, but I’m not disgusted.”

He glances down at the album in his hands, as if contemplating something. Maybe thinking about the only living photo of himself beneath the cover. Or maybe he’s thinking back to how he was turned in the first place and subsequently lost the life he was about to have. He still hasn’t told you anything about how he became a vampire, and though you’d like to know, it’s obviously a sore spot for him.

Eventually, he nods, willing himself to smile at you. “I’m glad.”

—

Night has fallen by the time you’re done exploring the decades of his life, though there is still much you haven’t seen and don’t yet know. You let him drive you back to the school as you stare out at the passing cars, wondering how many more of these people sitting in their vehicles are nonhuman and you’d never know it.

You hesitate after he pulls up across from the main gate.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Uh, nothing really, it’s just—I still don’t have your number or anything.” And I want to talk to you more often. I want to hear your voice more often. You don’t want to say anything overly dramatic or cheesy, so you just keep those last thoughts to yourself.

Thinking it had been something serious, he smirks at your concern. “Oh, I see. I’ll give it to you now, then.”

Once your numbers are safely in each other’s phones, you finally bid each other goodnight.

Though you try to steer your thoughts towards other things, you keep veering back to Johnny. His apartment. His fridge full of blood bags. His photo albums full of years of history. Even when you get into bed that night, you can’t keep him off your mind.

You wake up gasping and sweating when you dream of him with his fangs in your neck, your own blood running down your neck and chest. You glance over at your roommate to make sure you haven’t woken her and rest your head on your knees, trying to catch your breath and settle your racing heart. Your skin still prickles with how you could practically feel his heated breaths on your neck, ice-cold hands gripping your shoulders.

The worst part of it is that you can’t quite say you completely disliked it.

“It doesn’t make much sense to have a Halloween party and dress up as the very beings that you hate, but whatever…” you mumble, looking through a rack of costumes with a certain impassivity. You’re not very enthusiastic about going to this Halloween party, but your friend refuses to go alone. You haven’t been spending as much time with her anymore—partly because of Johnny and partly because you feel even more out of place around her than normal—and with all her begging and pleading, she refuses to let you opt out of this one.

“It’s about having fun, no one really cares Y/N. They’re freaks, aren’t they? That’s why people dress up as them, they’re practically meant for this.”

You become even more apprehensive about the party after hearing that, if that’s even possible. You smooth your hand over the fabric of a witch’s robe and sigh again, shaking your head. It doesn’t feel quite right to keep spending time in her presence—or anyone else who goes to your school—but you feel trapped on all sides, left without much of a choice. You would never hear the end of it if you tried to switch universities…or even drop out.

Your mind strays back to Johnny as always, with his melancholy aura and weird jokes and pretty pictures and monochrome clothes. The smell of his cologne, the lingering scent of roasted coffee beans, and his toothy smile, when he does show it to you. Something in you makes you want to drop everything you’re doing right now and go to him. It might even be nice to settle in his arms, feel them strong and solid around you—though he’d probably need just as much comforting as you.

“Dress up as this!” Your friend breaks the reverie as she prances over to you with a pair of fake fangs, the tips of them painted in acrylic blood. She holds them up to your mouth, and you struggle to manage a smile, if only to sate her enthusiasm. “It actually reminds me of…that vampire at the café. Say, have you seen him since then?”

You shake your head, moving away to sift through another rack of outfits as you try to maintain a detached expression. “Nope, not a glimpse. Haven’t even thought about him.”

When your friend doesn’t suspect anything, you let your expression drop just a tad, breathing out quietly.

The night of the party, the full moon is heavy and bold against the black blanket of the sky, which feels horribly cliché. You wonder if there are any werewolves out tonight, and what they might be doing right now.

“We’re going to have a good time tonight,” your friend insists as you both walk up the front steps of the host’s house. It’s someone you only vaguely know, a friend of a friend of a friend, but clearly a person who has an abundance of money judging by this expansive home. You don’t know why she feels the need to convince you, but maybe it’s because you haven’t seemed very enthusiastic so far. You only give a thumbs up to her words, which feels like an unconvincing gesture. Luckily for you, it works.

After a few hours, the party is still going strong but your head is starting to hurt from the music, and you’re growing weary of all the men crowding in too close, looking at you in your angel costume like you’re something to be devoured. You’ve rolled your eyes at way too many of them and their haphazardly put-together costumes, dressed up as vampires with terrible fake fangs or werewolves with manes of matted up fur.

Your friend keeps flitting around the party, talking to whoever she recognizes from classes or campus organizations, and you’ve given up on trying to follow her around any longer. Every time you turn around, she’s somewhere else. Noticing that you’re currently solo, a guy from one of your history classes comes up to you and begins what he thinks is an interesting conversation on how angels actually look more like Eldritch abominations than the cherubic humans depicted in paintings—so your costume is “technically inaccurate” —and your eyes glaze over as you pretend to listen to him.

You eventually manage to get away from him and get to an undisturbed corner, wedged next to two girls drinking cider and critically rating all the guys’ costumes. You pull your phone out and think about calling for a ride back to campus, but your thumb hovers over the message icon. You press it without thinking too much about it, and Johnny’s name appears as one of your most recent conversations. Though you feel somewhat nervous, you will yourself to open the box and begin typing.

To: Hi Johnny. I hope I’m not bothering you, but can I come over? 🙏🏿🙏🏿🙏🏿 I’m over this party

You put your phone back in your purse, trying not to get your hopes up for a quick response. You know there’s a good chance he’d still be awake at this time of night since he doesn’t need to sleep, but he has his own life and is probably off doing...vampire-y things. Whatever those things could be.

However, your hopes are met when your phone pings only a couple minutes later.

From: Of course. You’re not scared about spending your Halloween with a vampire? 😏

You smile at that.

To: I think I’ll be fine…as long as you don’t bite me.

From: 🦷🩸

—

You get to Johnny’s studio apartment not too long after, and you hang around outside his door for a few moments before knocking, suddenly feeling bashful about your costume. Maybe you should’ve changed before coming over here; what if he thinks it’s childish? Or maybe too revealing? Does he even care about that kind of stuff? Doesn’t matter now, though. You’re here, and there’s no way you’re turning back around.

He answers a few seconds after you knock, wearing a sweater and black pants. You notice his sweater is a cream color and not the usual black. He looks a little surprised to see your costume, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Wow, you look pretty. Nice of you to visit me after falling straight from Heaven.” You cringe at his cheesy line, though you also cannot deny that you secretly enjoy every bit of it.

“Thanks, Johnny...” you say timidly, stepping into his home as he lets you in. “Nice work with changing up the color scheme.”

He’s confused for a moment before realizing you’re talking about his clothes. “Oh yeah, that...um, haha. Thanks.”

Unbeknownst to you, the back of his mind is buzzing with a form of excitement he hasn’t felt in a while. Not the clawing, frantic spikes of bloodlust, but a more physical kind of desire. It’s pleasurable, but he also feels guilty about pining over how sweet and innocent you look in your all-white outfit, stockings hugging your legs perfectly and your dress just short enough to tempt the imagination. Really, you’ve painted a picture of perfect purity, and the only thing he can think about is ruining you. Putting his hands on you and peeling your dress off to reveal the soft skin underneath.

He casts those thoughts aside as you sit prettily on his couch, legs crossed at the ankles—though it’s hard to do so. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? There isn’t a whole lot of food here, but I can order something…”

“Do you ever make your own coffee?” The question seems a bit random at first, and you try to explain. “You know, since you always get it from the café.”

Johnny smiles. “Do you want coffee? I can make it.”

You nod. “That would be nice…whatever you have.”

“I pretty much have your usual order memorized by now, so I should be good on making it.” Johnny walks to the kitchen. “You can look through the albums while you’re in there. The ones you haven’t seen yet.”

“Oh, thanks.” You feel a little nervous to be looking through the shelf of his treasured photo albums by yourself, but you’re also glad he trusts you enough to let you do it. It makes you feel important. Maybe even important to him, as silly as that might sound.

It isn’t long before the scent of coffee wafts out into the living room. Johnny returns soon with two cups of it, and just as he promised, yours is made just the way you like it.

“Thank you.” You set the album back on the shelf and take the cup from Johnny. For a while, both of you talk of nothing important—just filling the space with the details of your days.

“So how was the party?” Johnny finally asks, and he raises his eyebrows as he scans your outfit again. You grin halfheartedly.

“It was…alright. Kinda weird. I think it’d be more fun if I went to a regular university, but you know…”

Johnny shakes his head. “I can’t blame you for bailing out.”

“Yeah…I’ve been to college parties before, but the Halloween theme was a bit…”

“Strange for an institution that bans all supernatural beings?” Johnny finishes your sentence. He doesn’t look offended or irritated by it—only slightly amused.

You shrug, biting your lip. “Yeah, that.”

“Well, look on the bright side. I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in your natural form otherwise.”

This one almost goes over your head, too, but you catch it just in time. Johnny’s compliments make you feel warm all over, like you’re sitting under the sun. You grin and look down into your cup of coffee, unused to receiving such bold praise and unsure how to respond to it. Something pops into your mind, though, and you think it might be a good idea to run with it.

“You could...take a picture of me, you know. If you want to...since I’m all dressed up now anyway.” You meet his eyes only for a second and then look away, twisting the mug in your hands.

Johnny sits up a little straighter at your words, trying to catch your eyes, though you don’t hold his gaze for long. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure. Go ahead! Before I change my mind.” You laugh nervously and carefully set your half-empty mug on the table.

Johnny’s camera is never too far away from him, so he grabs it and plays with the settings for a bit before looking back to you, a small smile on his face. “I’m gonna start, okay?” His voice is surprisingly soft. This, yet again, reminds you of him and the aster bush. He acts as if you might run away at the first shutter click, which makes you feel babied, but you don’t totally hate it.

The first few photos are a little awkward—at least to you. You aren’t sure how to pose, or if you should try to look more casual, though Johnny assures you you’re doing well. He gives you directives throughout, telling you to look in his direction or angle your face a certain way, and you follow his instructions to the best of your ability.

At one point, one of your dress straps slips down. When you go to fix it, Johnny says, “Wait. Could you keep it like that?”

You look at him, your body heating from the suggestion.

“Is that okay with you?”

“…Yes.” Your throat is dry, and your body reacts in a way you don’t expect—little nervous thrills in your hands and feet, though you try to internally explain it away as the coffee’s effects. Johnny takes a few more photos like this, and then he steps closer to gently touch your chin, guiding your face to the angle he’s looking for.

“So good for me.” It slips past his lips in a reverential murmur before he can really consider what he’s saying, and you both freeze. Your heart rate increases, and you wonder if he can hear how hard the red organ is beating in your chest. Probably.

You want to hear him say it again.

Johnny laughs awkwardly, his hand coming back to his side almost a little too quickly to be natural. “Um, I’m really sorry. That was a bit...”

“It…it’s fine.” You avoid his eyes. Johnny takes a few more photos, but the set of his mouth is a little tight, as if he’s stressed about something. Or regretting what he let slip, maybe. You want to tell him you really don’t feel bad about it, but you aren’t sure how to do that without making things more awkward…or revealing your true desires.

When Johnny has taken enough pictures of you to be satisfied with, he sits next to you on the couch, setting his camera on the coffee table and looking suddenly timid.

“I can’t wait to see them,” you say, attempting to break the tension that never really cleared the room after his earlier comment. He blinks for a moment like he doesn’t know what you mean, and then realizes—obviously, he’ll be developing the photos.

“They’ll come out nice, I’m sure. I think you’ll photograph well.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, and now it’s your turn to be unsure of how to resurrect the conversation.

“You’re beautiful.” It’s an abrupt comment. It makes your stomach twist in a pleasant, fluttery way, and you become hyperaware of his form sitting next to yours.

“Haven’t heard that one much, but thanks.”

Johnny turns to you. “Anyone who’d think otherwise is a fool.”

There’s a pause after this where you both simply study each other, watching for hidden reactions that can’t be read on the surface. The way he says it is…decisive, assured. But it also manages to be tender, as if he needs you to know what he thinks of you. Needs you to see yourself the way he does—the same way you do for him. You don’t know where the confidence comes from, but maybe his tone and his words and his endlessly dark eyes have pulled it out of you. “I want to kiss you.”

Johnny’s lips part. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain.”

He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Johnny moves closer to you and cups the back of your neck. Something awakens in his eyes in the seconds before he presses his mouth to yours. Though he wants to drink eagerly from your lips, his kiss is languid to avoid overwhelming you, and there is an audible smack of your lips whenever he pulls away and presses back in.

His mouth tastes like the coffee you just drank, but underneath that you swear you can taste a hint of the deep iron of blood, and you don’t know how to feel about that. You think about what his fangs would feel like scraping against your bottom lip, if he’d ever show them to you, and you moan quietly.

“Do you want this? With me?” Johnny confirms once more, pulling his gaze away from your lips and up to your eyes. His own eyes are yearning, but there is also an element of something like fear roiling in them. As if you’d turn him away, even though you’ve already shown your desire for him.

“Yes. Just you. No one else.”

Johnny’s body gravitates towards yours, and you think he’s going to push you down onto the sofa, but he scoops your legs up and carries you to his bedroom instead. Even his hands on your waist and legs makes you burn inside.

This is the first time you've seen his bedroom. The sheets are cloud-soft when he sets you down on them, and his window lets moonlight shine through the open blinds and scatter in thick beams across the floor. The only other light source is the bedside lamp, which emits a comfortable yellowish glow.

Johnny joins you on the bed and lets you climb into his lap—encourages you to do so. His cool hands pulling at your thighs as you settle them on either side of his waist makes tingles go through your body. You don’t hesitate to bring your lips back together, kissing each other deeply as one of his hands cradles the back of your head and the other settles on the small of your back.

You are certain vampires don’t have any powers of enchantment—that’s for magic wielders. And yet, you feel like you’ve been put in a trance by his kisses alone, and you wonder how you could’ve lived this long without knowing how his lips feel—how they fit perfectly against your own. As if everything up to now has purposely led you together.

You shift in Johnny’s embrace, and the movement causes his thigh to slide between your legs. Your heat is pressed against his thigh directly now, your silken panties catching against the denim of his pants. You murmur against his lips, not really saying anything of substance but wanting to vocalize your desire to him. Johnny’s hand tightens slightly on your back, and he experimentally lifts his leg higher and slides his thigh across you. That draws a gasp from you.

Noticing your positive response, Johnny continues rocking his thigh up against your pussy and kissing you until you’re breathless and your nipples are straining against the fabric of your dress. You pull away from him for a moment to try to ground yourself, feeling like your nerves are already being singed with fiery pleasure. Johnny’s face is noticeably more flushed than before, but he also looks much more composed than you feel at the moment.

“It takes longer to get hard,” he explains, as if reading the lingering question in your own expression. “Since...you know. Slow blood.” You rock your hips over his thigh more enthusiastically, motivated to get him hard underneath you, and you listen to his choppy breaths as you move. Your movements aren’t the smoothest, but he helps you guide your hips in a way that feels good for you both. You’ve never been with anyone before, so it doesn’t much matter to you how long or quick it takes for him to get there as long as he does.

Feeling the bulge grow underneath you excites you. Johnny groans against your lips as you kiss him and rub yourself over his member. The sound comes from somewhere deep inside him, as if it’s something he’s been containing for a long time. Your hand goes to his waist and tugs at his belt loops, then drifts closer to his belt buckle, pulling the leather and metal apart. Johnny pauses when you get off his lap and slide further down, grips your arms like he doesn’t want you to go. “Are…you sure? You don’t have to…if it’s too much—”

“I want to, Johnny.”

With your affirmative, he lets you kneel between his legs, pull his zipper apart, and trace your curious fingers over the bulge beneath the fabric of his underwear. Johnny loses his breath when you drag his underwear down, sliding it over the heated skin of his dick. His length is thick and long—even with him not being fully hard yet—and the tip glistens wet with precum. You weren’t sure what to expect, but this is much bigger than you think you might be able to handle. It makes your face warm and your stomach do another series of flips. Still, you want it and you want him, so you aren’t going to stop now.

You lean closer to press your lips against his shaft, leaving a few soft kisses behind. Johnny’s mouth parts when your mouth touches him.

Johnny gently holds the back of your head as you leave small licks over his shaft, tasting the salty skin on your tongue. He lets out a shaky breath as he watches you, his other hand brushing the side of your face.

“Just like that…” he murmurs, his voice heavy with lust as you circle your tongue around the thick, darkened tip, catching drops of his precum. He never takes his eyes off you, and this makes you feel a little exposed, but you continue with your actions. When you suck Johnny’s tip past your lips, his thighs tense under you, the thick muscle reacting beautifully to your actions on his body.

More precum drips from him, and you find the taste strangely pleasing. It makes you want more of him, of whatever he has to offer you. You wrap your hand around his shaft, though it doesn’t fit entirely around, and begin stroking him in a way you hope feels good.

Johnny’s hand slips over yours to guide your movements and show you how much pressure to apply, what pace to stroke him at. “Like this, baby…yes, that’s so good…” He showers you with praise as you get the hang of it, and he eventually lets your hand go so you can do it on your own, his own hand drifting back to the bed to grip the comforter.

It’s hard to quantify just how much seeing you like this turns him on, you kneeling between his legs with his cock between your lips while wearing your pretty, angelic outfit. His previous guilt about “corrupting” you descends to the very back of his mind as he savors every moment of your hands on his cock and your tongue circling his slit.

“I’m close,” he whispers. You quicken your movements on him, hollowing your cheeks tighter around his dick, and the moan he gives shoots straight between your legs.

Johnny carefully pulls your head back so you won’t choke before he comes, streams of his seed shooting into your mouth and running down his cock. Your hand still squeezes around him as he comes, and he slowly thrusts into the tight circle of your fist as you milk every drop from him. By the time he’s spent, your mouth and hand and part of the sheets are completely sticky with his release. You imagine it must have been a long time since he’s last had an orgasm.

The vampire watches intently as you swallow his cum, which causes his softening dick to throb in your hand. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, uncaring of the taste of himself in your mouth. His hair tickles your face as he kisses you feverishly, his nose bumping yours and his tongue prodding past your lips.

“Come here, angel.” Johnny pulls your body up onto the bed before you can get yourself up there first. The pet name makes warmth flood through your body, like drinking a hot chocolate at the café, except a thousand times more satisfying. Johnny’s hands are once again caressing your thighs, though this time they slide up underneath your dress and squeeze your hips. “Can I take these pretty panties off you?”

“Please.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of them and pulls them down your legs and past your ankles. One of his hands goes underneath your dress to feel you soft and wet against his fingers, and you both moan at the same time. He slides his digits through your lips and over your clit, and him leaning forward to bring his mouth to your throat is enough to have you nearly overwhelmed. His fingers tease your entrance but don’t push inside until you nearly have to beg him.

“Please, Johnny…” You push your hips up to get his attention.

“Do you want my fingers?” he asks softly.

“Y-yes…” At your words, he eases the middle one into you, slowly enough to avoid discomfort. It feels strange to have someone else’s fingers inside you. His finger reaches further than yours can, touching you more deeply than you’ve felt before; it makes you gasp a bit too sharply.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, freezing and thinking he might’ve done something wrong.

“N-no, I’m fine. Keep going.”

Johnny’s mouth edges closer to the cleavage of your dress as he starts thrusting his finger into you, warming you up enough to take a second digit. Shakily, you bring your hands up to slide the straps down and make it easier for him, and his breath hitches when you pull the top of your dress down.

His mouth envelopes one of your nipples as he slides the second finger into you. His fingers encounter a part of you that makes you moan unexpectedly and grab onto him, a little surprised at the sudden spike of pleasure.

“You’re so pretty,” he purrs, his lips moving against the curve of your breast as he speaks. “And so responsive.”

As Johnny’s mouth and fingers work you closer to an orgasm, you marvel at how handsome he looks and how good he feels. He opens his eyes to see you staring at him, your pupils wide and mouth desperate, and he separates himself from your chest to kiss you deeply once again.

When you come around his fingers, Johnny whispers more compliments to you about how good you are and how he wants to watch you come undone because of him all the time. When he thinks you might be on the brink of overstimulation, he takes his fingers out of you, slipping them into his mouth to taste you.

“I’ll take this off now. Is that okay?” He whispers this into your ear with his hands on either side of your hips, caressing the fabric of your dress.

“I-it’s okay.”

Johnny slips your dress off, leaving you in nothing but your white sheer stockings. The sight of you sitting there on his bed, breathing heavily from your climax in your pretty thigh-highs, has his cock throbbing and rising to life once again.

“Lay back on the bed.” You do, and he settles himself between your legs like you did for him earlier. When you glance at him, his eyes are heavy and piercing. In this moment, you are acutely reminded of the fact that he is not a human, with how he looks like a beast of prey about to devour a meal. You are too nervous to look back at him for long, so you stare at the ceiling with your legs shaking from anticipation.

Johnny’s mouth on you is almost jarring in how wet it is, and you arch up into him in surprise and a rush of pleasure. He gently presses your legs back onto the bed and continues licking into you, parting your lower lips with his tongue and making your thighs tremble under his grasp.

If you had to describe it in words, you probably wouldn’t be able to. He kisses your pussy the same way he kisses you on the mouth, passionately and with more than enough tongue to satisfy. Johnny slips his fingers into you again as he curls his lips around your clit, and you moan unabashedly.

You’re quickly spiraling towards another orgasm, maybe quicker than you expected; but it makes sense with you still being so raw from the climax you just had. You gain enough courage to give another glance down at Johnny, and you see the way his other arm moves back and forth from beneath the bed, stroking himself while he eats you out. Something about that pushes you over the edge, and you cry out as you come on his tongue.

As Johnny gives you time to calm down again, he stands and finally pulls his clothes off, baring his body to you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen a man so beautiful.

He goes to get a condom, and your words stumble from your lips before you can psych yourself out of saying them. “I-I’m on birth control.” Johnny looks back at you, his gaze filled with something you can’t quite read. He comes closer to you, holding himself above you on the bed so his face is hovering just above yours.

“You want to feel me raw?” he whispers.

You nod under his burning stare, feeling like you’re on a high you won’t be able to get off of. “I need you, Johnny.”

Johnny climbs fully onto the bed then and positions himself between your legs. His cock is thick and heavy between his thighs as it bumps against your inner thigh and leaves a smear of precum behind. After putting some lube in his hand, he slicks himself with the sticky substance, preparing himself to fuck you open. Something deep in your abdomen shudders, and your walls clench around nothing as you watch him stroke his shaft, the squelching, wet sound of his hand on his dick loud in the quiet room.

When he’s done, he grabs your thighs and pulls you a little closer to him. “If it hurts, tell me, okay?”

“O-okay.”

The slick tip prodding at your hole makes you want more, though you are a bit afraid of how this is going to feel. When it finally pushes inside of you, you gasp. Johnny watches your face for signs of pain as he slides forward further.

With two previous orgasms and the lube to help, his cock stretches you open with some discomfort, but not the kind of sharp pain you expected. Your nails leave little half-moon shapes on Johnny’s biceps as you squeeze his arms and try to keep your lower half relaxed, wanting to take all of him in—or as much as you can manage, anyway. You try to keep your breathing even as he pushes into you slowly.

Your eyebrows crease and your mouth tightens when he slides deeper still, and he pauses. “Johnny…” You worry your lip with your teeth, feeling like you’ve been stuffed to the brim—and he’s not even all the way in yet.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you beg, maintaining your grip on his arms. “Just…try moving.”

Johnny pulls out and slowly thrusts back in again, angling his dick to find that sensitive spot within you. Your mouth falls open silently when he does; this feels much, much different from his fingers. This is better.

Johnny repeats the movement, being mindful not to push himself too deep—only enough for you to handle. Beneath him, your body begins unwinding at the pleasure he’s delivering to you, and your eyes flutter closed as the ecstasy takes over your mind. One of his hands goes to tease your clit as he settles into a good rhythm, and you cry out at the extra dose of pleasure.

“You’re taking me so well,” Johnny mumbles as he sits back and watches himself slide into you, both of your lower halves slick from lube and your own wetness. “So warm and wet, angel…” You can tell he’s using a lot of his energy to keep his pace controlled and gentle enough for you to actually enjoy. The idea of being fucked harder makes you ache deep inside, but you figure it’s best to save that for when you’re more used to this. You already know it’ll be difficult to walk in the morning after this.

Johnny leans forward to kiss your lips, changing the angle again and circling his pelvis into you, and a choked gasp escapes your mouth at the slow wind of his hips.

Johnny lavishes your neck and throat with kisses, and though he is a vampire, you aren’t worried about him biting you. His fangs have not made an appearance since all this started, and you doubt if he would ever bring them out in front of you. You don’t know if you should ask about it, either, wondering if it’s too soon after only a month and a half of knowing each other—but maybe you could say the same about him being inside of you right now.

“Johnny…” you whisper into the air, your fingers scrabbling against his sweaty skin. The mounting tension in your abdomen is close to snapping, and you are almost frightened by how intense it already feels. He moves his face from your neck to be face-to-face with you again and plants a heavy, dizzying kiss on your lips.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your kiss-swollen lips. “I’ve got you, Y/N.”

Falling apart in Johnny’s arms feels like a form of Heaven that’s meant to be kept hidden, because you might become addicted to it otherwise. Your inner muscles squeeze around his dick as you come. His name flows from your lips in a high song. You can’t imagine any physical sensation that could be better than this, his hips rocking into you as you tighten and cream around him, and you know innately that Johnny has ruined all chances of you ever feeling this fulfilled with anyone but him.

The constant pulse of your walls against his dick is too much to withstand for long, and Johnny’s muscles pull taut with pleasure when he comes, groaning into your neck and spilling overflowing streams of thick cum into you. His hips falter in their former rhythm, and he resists the urge to push himself as deep as he can into you.

When he pulls out, you whine from the discomfort of it, but also because you wish he could stay in you forever. You know you’ll be sore when you wake up—and you can already feel the very beginnings of exhaustion and ache settling in your body—but you’d do it a hundred times over without changing a thing.

—

Johnny curls himself around you after he’s cleaned the both of you up, as if he means to shield you from the world. You’re quiet for a while as you listen to his slow-beating heart and feel his cool skin against yours.

You look up at his face, which is hard to see distinctly in the dark of the room. With the lamp turned out, the only source of light comes from the moon now, but you can decipher enough to make out the shape of his lips and his glittering eyes. You know he can see much better than you in this light, and he takes his time tracing his fingers across your face and cheek, studying your features.

“Would you ever…make me a vampire?”

His body tenses at your question. “Don’t say anything ridiculous. You still have a whole life ahead of you to live. What I have here...this is no existence.” He’s not mad, at least not at you, but his voice hardens at the very idea of it.

“But what if I wanted to live it with you?”

Johnny takes a breath, but he doesn’t say anything to that. He just continues stroking your face and looks at you for a long time, like he’s searching for something. You don’t know if you truly expected an answer from him, or how you would feel if he did give one.

Eventually, your eyes begin to fall low, and sleep overcomes you. The last thing you register is Johnny’s chilly hand touching your cheek. When he notices you’ve drifted off, he pulls the covers tighter around you both. Then he presses you to his chest as he tunes out the sound of cars rumbling on the streets below in exchange for the beating of your heart—still alive, so red with blood.

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sunrisefairy · 4 years

Text

Let me take care of you

Pairing: George Weasley x reader Word Count: 2.1k Warning: NSFW! fingering, unprotected sex, female receiving oral, dirty talk, swearing Summary: Y/N is feeling stressed from university so George decides he needs to help her relax. A/N: I dunno, kind of very proud of this one. Tried something new and decided to write some smut. Think it turned out okay. Taglist: I’m assuming these people would still like to be included in the taglist for smutty fics, please tell me if you would like to be taken off or added! @hufflepuff5972 @inglourious-imagines @georgeweasleyswhre

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It was nearing the end of the school year which means the deadline for final assignments and exams were fast approaching. Y/N was in her final year of her psychology degree and had spent the majority of her time cramming in revision or working on some essay.

You could find Y/N either at her part time job at the local florist or at home, hunched over her desk with numerous opened textbooks and half-drunk coffee cups strewn around. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a lot of time recently for her boyfriend, George. He didn’t mind though, he knew how important getting good grades were to Y/N so he would help out where he could, mostly by making sure dinner was ready when she got home from work or running to the library when Y/N needed another textbook.

Normally he could convince Y/N to take a 15 minute break without much persuasion if he presented her with freshly baked cookies, they’d sit on the couch and munch on the treats while George played with her hair before she’d sigh and say she better get back to her essay. But for the past 2 weeks Y/N has hardly moved from the desk chair only getting up when she had work. George has found her on more than one occasion slumped over the many books and papers, lightly snoring because she fell asleep. As soon as George would try and guide her to bed, she’d jolt up and mumble about needing to keep studying.

George was starting to get worried for Y/N’s mental and physical health if she didn’t slow down and rest, no matter what he tried nothing seemed to work so he had one last trick up his sleeve.

Y/N was once again sitting at her laptop typing away frantically, she had gotten off of work at 5pm, scoffed down some dinner and immediately opened up a textbook. It was now 10:45pm and Y/N had no plans on taking a break soon.

“Georgie babe, can you grab me another coffee?” Y/N called out over her shoulder.

George ignored her request and came up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders massaging them lightly. “Darling, I think you’ve had enough coffee for the day. How about you finish up and we can lay in bed and get some sleep?”

Y/N shook her head not looking up at him, “can’t George, I’m so close to finishing this essay.”

George sighed; he could see the dark circles forming under her eyes deciding now would be the perfect time to try the last thing which might get Y/N to relax. He pushed Y/N’s hair off her shoulder. She was wearing one of George’s old band tees which was way too big for her and left some of her shoulder exposed. George lent down and started leaving soft kisses along her skin.

“Georgie, I don’t have time” Y/N mumbled quietly trying to shrug him off.

George persisted and kept leaving kisses along his girlfriend’s shoulder before stopping at the base of her neck and sucking a dark purple mark, causing Y/N to let out a breathy sigh.

“Come on baby, I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long. I miss you, let me take care of you.” Y/N turns her head slightly to see George better and he takes this opportunity to connect their lips. Y/N moans into George’s mouth. “I miss that pretty little pussy of yours, princess. Don’t you miss my cock and how well I fuck you? I’ll make you feel so good baby, promise.”

Georges words go straight to Y/N’s core and she can already feel herself getting wetter by the second. There is no way she’ll be able to concentrate on her work now. So, she nods and stands up, pulling George up with her. “Want you to take care of me Georgie, need you to fuck me.”

George grins and grabs the back of Y/N’s legs, instructing her to jump, which she does and wraps her legs tightly around his waist. Y/N tangled her fingers into George’s red hair and connects her lips to his neck. George walks them to the bedroom and sits on the end of the bed with Y/N now in his lap. He toys with the end of her shirt before pulling it off groaning at the sight.

“Fuck baby, no bra?” He begins peppering kisses down her chest before attaching his mouth to her nipple, his fingers massaging her other breast.

Y/N whines, her body aching for some relief she starts rocking her hips against George feeling his cock harden under his sweats.

“Look at you, being so desperate for me princess. Bet you can’t wait for me to fuck you huh?” George’s hands coming down to grip Y/N’s hips and helping her rut against him.

Y/N lets out a breathy moan screwing her eyes shut, concentrating on the feeling of George’s harden length beneath her.

“What do you need darling? My fingers? My mouth? Tell me and it’s all yours.” George asks kissing along Y/N’s jaw which opens slightly a silent moan falling off her lips. “Gotta use your words baby. Tell me what you want.”

Y/N opens her eyes and connects them with George, “both Georgie. Want your fingers and mouth, please.”

George immediately lays Y/N down on the bed, her head resting on the pillows. His calloused fingers caressing her sides before hooking into the waistband of her pants and pulling them down slowly.

A sharp gasp leaves Y/N’s lips as George nips on the skin on her thigh.

“Already so fucking wet for me.” George rubs his finger against Y/N’s soaked panties before pulling them off.

Y/N spreads her legs further for George, desperate for him. “Please Georgie, need your mouth.”

“Anything for you, my darling” Y/N’s cunt is already glistening and begging for some attention. George wastes no time and licks a strip from her entrance up to her clit before sucking on the sensitive bud. Y/N rolls her head further back into the pillow and attaches her hand into George’s fiery locks shamelessly trying to pull him closer.

George hums sending vibrations against Y/N’s clit while he massages her wet folds with his fingers before he glides two digits into her heat and starts pumping slowly.

Y/N starts rocking her hips against Georges face and fingers silently begging for more.

George smirks as he lightly nips Y/N’s clit continuing to fuck Y/N with his fingers extremely slow much to Y/N’s dismay. His mouth moves to her thigh, mumbling against her skin. “If you want something baby, you gotta use your words.”

Y/N groans at Georges request, he was always persistent in making her more vocal in bed. He knew exactly what she wanted; he was just teasing. She tugs on George’s hair forcing him to meet her eyes, “I need you to fuck me harder with your fingers, please, I need you so badly Georgie.”

If George wasn’t making Y/N feel so amazing, she’d wipe that smug smirk of his face but her thoughts quickly disappear as George adds a third finger and quickens his pace, his free hand pressed against Y/N’s stomach, keeping her still. Y/N whimpers feeling George’s long fingers start brush against her g-spot, her walls clenching around him as pleasure builds up in her stomach, “feels so good.”

“Fuck, look at you taking my fingers so well, darling. Being such a good girl for me, letting me stretch you out for my cock.” Y/N lets out a heavenly moan which goes straight to Georges already throbbing dick, which is aching for some relief in his pants. George starts rubbing circles against Y/N clit with his thumb, determined to make Y/N come on just his fingers.

Y/N starts panting, her hips bucking up to meet George’s movements tightening her grip in his hair, his name falling from her lips, “fuck, fuck. I’m close.” She uses her free hand to pinch her nipples in between her fingers as the arousal in her belly builds.

George sucks harshly on her thigh, stretching her out with his fingers. “Come on my fingers baby, show me how good I make you feel.”

With George’s words Y/N is coming hard against his fingers, her back arching off the bed. George continues pumping his fingers into her cunt milking her through her orgasm. Once her breathing has slowed, he slowly pulls out his digits, his mouth watering with how they are glistening. George lifts his fingers to Y/N’s lips and watches as she opens wide and circles her tongue around his long fingers sucking hard and humming as she tastes herself. He pulls them out with a pop dragging his thumb against her bottom lip, “so pretty. Think you’re ready for my cock now princess?”

Y/N nods her head eagerly, reaching up to pull of Georges shirt, “god yes please, miss being full of you.”

She drags her nails down George’s toned chest while he rids himself of the rest of his clothes. George wraps his hand around his cock and notices Y/N’s eyes glued to him as strokes himself, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “Like what you see babe?” Y/N only rolls her eyes at him.

George leans over Y/N, propping himself up with his forearm while his other hand is wrapped around his cock teasing her entrance. Y/N hooks her legs around George’s waist, bucking her hips up trying to find some friction. “Please George, need you to feel me up with your cock.” Y/N knows she sounds desperate, but it’s been way too long since George has fucked her and now that he’s right here she can’t wait a second longer.

George starts to slowly push forward not stopping until his hips are flush against Y/N’s. “Shit Y/N, you’re so still so fucking tight even after I stretched up out with my fingers.”

Y/N sighs contently feeling George’s cock buried deep inside her, she missed him stretching her out like this. The room is filled with moans and grunts at George starts pounding into Y/N. She can feel the tip of his cock rub against her g-spot with every thrust. Y/N grabs onto his shoulders her nails digging into his skin, most likely leaving marks, but she didn’t care.

“Taking me so well, baby. Such a good girl” He praises, his fingers coming down to rub circle on her sensitive bud, leaving open mouthed kisses against the base of her throat. “You feel so fucking good clenching around my cock, this sweet little pussy is all mine, hey princess? Tell me who this cunt belongs too?”

Y/N bites her lip trying to suppress a moan but failing, “you Georgie, you always make me feel so good. Always fuck me so good.”

George hoists Y/N’s legs around his shoulders allowing him to hit deeper inside her cunt. Y/N’s eyes roll back into her head at the new position, her fingers pinching and massaging her breasts. George is slamming into her harder now and more gasps are leaving Y/N’s mouth. “Fuck Y/N you look so fucking pretty like this. Letting me fill you up with my cock.”

Y/N reaches down to play with her clit desperately needing to reach her second orgasm. “Love being so full of your thick cock Georgie. Feels so fucking good.”

Y/N feels George twitch inside of her, he’s close but she knows he won’t finish until she has. He snaps his hips harder into Y/N causing her to moan his name. George can feel her walls clenching around him causing him to groan loudly.

Y/N tangles her fingers in Georges hair pulling his lips to meet hers, “Georgie. Fuck, I’m-I’m so close.”

George tugs on her earlobe with his teeth “want you to cum around my cock Y/N.” With a few more deep thrusts Y/N comes, her legs shaking from the pleasure rushing throughout her body. She squeezes her eyes shut George’s names leaving her pretty mouth like a mantra.

Y/N pulsating and tightening around George pushes him over the edge and he releases his load inside of her groaning into her neck. He slowly rocks his hips as they come down from their highs before gently pulling out and laying on the bed pulling Y/N into his side.

“I love you” Y/N whispers, tracing patterns into his sweaty chest.

George plants a soft kiss against her forehead. “I love you too darling, so much.” Y/N can feel her eyes getting heavy, sleep wanting to overtake her body. George notices this and squeezes her shoulder. “How about I run you a warm bath, get you cleaned up, then we can get some sleep yeah?”

Y/N mumbles a reply against his skin feeling exhausted. “Maybe I should overwork myself more often if it means you’ll take care of me like this.”

George chuckles and sits up, pulling Y/N up with him and gently stroking her back, “baby you and me both know I always take of you, don’t need a reason.”

Y/N smiles sweetly up at George, feeling very blessed to have such a caring boyfriend.

#George Weasley #george weasley smut #smut #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #fred and george #fred weasley #george weasley one shot #george weasley fanfic #george weasley oneshot #george weasley imagine #harry potter #harry potter smut #harry potter oneshot

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talsiaa · 4 years

Text

Coming Out

Pairing: Young!Remus Lupin x Reader (It’s more fem, but I try not to use many pronouns)

Warnings: None, it’s fluffy (i hope) :)

Word Count: 1,184

Summary: You’re finally ready to come out as bi to your wonderful boyfriend Remus Lupin but you’re scared of what he and everyone else will think of you.

A/N: this is purely because im bi so I hope it brings someone somewhere comfort? It’s not too long, I’m not used to writing for the marauders yet but I hope you enjoy it!

The Black Lake on a summer’s evening was one of your favourite sites, it really never got old. The soft amber and red glows of sunset reflecting from the calm waters made you feel cosy and safe, hence why you were sat there now, your back against a tree and a book in your hand. Although, you couldn’t quite focus on the words - your mind was instead racing with the possible outcomes of the conversation you were about to have with your adorable boyfriend, Mr Remus Lupin.

Yourself and Remus had been together since fourth year and now, in sixth year, you still feeel all giddy while you talk to him. You had always been nervous around him, even when you started dating, but it was a good nervous - the type where your stomach feels like its doing somersaults and your heart just won’t slow down because you’re so in love. This time however, you felt nervous like you were about to sit an exam you hadn’t revised for, your tummy was sinking with your heart drumming too loudly and it was just all overwhelming. Despite your body trying to tell you otherwise though, you knew you were ready to tell someone and that someone had to be Remus.

“Hey, dove,” Remus’ voice caught you off guard as you spiralled, making you jump a little but still force an uneasy smile at him as he sat down next to you. You couldn’t help but admire how beautiful he looked, especially with the golden sun rays dancing across his scarred nose, with his tie loosened and his uniform slightly askew. Usually he was, of course, very smartly dressed as an example to the younger years (he was a prefect, after all) so you enjoyed this, looking at him with his sleeves rolled up and his hair ruffled. Remus was another one of your favourite sites.

“Hey.” you tried to say, but it came out as a soft whisper as you pressed your lips together, hard.

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve asked me on a top secret trip to the black lake?” he nudged you, both teasingly and apprehensively, not knowing why you were suddenly all quiet and jumpy. You took a deep breath.

“I need to talk to you, Rem.” you looked back at the Black Lake, trying to anchor yourself to this moment and prepare for the worst, setting your book down next to you.

“Oh Merlin,” he mumbled, causing you to look back at him. His face was full of fear now. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What!?” You cupped both of his cheeks in your hands, moving onto your knees next to him. “No, no of course not. I love you, I’m definitely not breaking up with you.” his hand came up to hold your wrist and draw soothing circles on it while you lent forwards to lightly kiss his nose (it always brought out a beautiful smile from the lycanthrope). “It’s something I-I need to tell you,”

You settled back down with your back to the tree but now Remus placed his arm around your shoulders, pulling you towards his so you could rest your head on his shoulders. His other hand still held yours, drawing different shapes onto your palm.

“You can tell me anything, sweetheart. Promise,” Remus gave a quick kiss to the top of your head.

“You won’t be mad? O-or break up with me, or tell everybody or call me some awful name?” you stammered, knowing full well that Remus would never do anything your head was telling you he might. This only concerned Remus more, pulling you closer and stroking your hair as some tears started to fall down your face.

“I love you more than anything. I promise you I won’t be mad or break up with you or any of that. I don’t want to pressure you into telling me, though. If You want we could just go on a walk while the suns still setting?” how Remus found the words to make you feel so safe and loved every time was a complete mystery to you. He was simply perfect.

“Thank you.” you whispered, building up your courage to just tell him already. “I’ve been confused and frustrated with myself for a long while now. I didn’t fully understand certain thoughts and feelings and it made me miserable but since I figured it out - figured myself out - it’s something that feels so right and I just know this is what I’ve been lacking for ages now. I-It’s like a jigsaw puzzle and I’ve finally found the last piece and I want to be proud of it and I want the people I love and care about to know.” you filled your lungs with another deep breath. Remus just silently listening to you so intently, still caressing your hair and giving the occasional kiss to your head was just so comforting. Now that you were doing it, you were so glad. It felt very right. You lifted off of his shoulder, facing him and taking both his hands in yours, very confident in what you were saying. “Remus, I love you so much and I want you to know that this doesn’t change the way I feel about you one bit. I’m bisexual and I think that you deserve to be the first person I tell.”

Remus’ brows pushed together a little, his lips parting then pressing together again while he gave your hands a squeeze. “Darling, please tell me if I say something wrong, okay? I really, really don’t mean to, I just don’t know a lot about all of this.” he brought one of your hands up to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Firstly, is bisexual where you like men and women? Sorry for not knowing properly, I just-”

“Don’t worry, Rem.” you cut him off with a smile. It was the 70s after all, there was a massive stigma around LGBTQ+ and it wasn’t exactly taught about in schools (although 50 years later you would’ve thought it might have at least it’s own official section in PSHE). “I didn’t expect you to be an expert in all things gay and yeah pretty much.”

“Right, good. I understand. So secondly, I’m so glad that this is something that makes you feel whole and I’m so proud of you for telling me. I know that must not have been easy for you and I’m honoured I’m the first person to know. I love you so much and I just want you to be happy, above all else.” at this point you were overcome by so much joy that this had turned out so perfectly and pulled him closer to you for a kiss. It was quite possibly the best kiss you had ever had and you both poured so much love into it.

“Thanks, Rem,” you said softly, pulling away from him.

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for, darling. You’re happy and that’s what matters.”

Godric, he’s literally the sweetest, most perfect person on the planet.

#remus lupin #young!remus lupin #young!remus x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin x reader #marauders #young!marauders #harry potter #fanfiction #reader insert #bisexual #gay #coming out #comfort #fluff

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kentokunn · 4 years

Text

false accusations; (erwin smith x reader)

chapter one; gambler (3k words)

SUMMARY: Erwin Smith has always been a gambler. His decisions have always had promising outcomes. However, when one of his gambles ends with you in the custody of the Military Police accused of perjury, he is forced to come up with a scheme that will have only one solid outcome, the one which he needs to happen for thee wiring your safety.

His plan- to any other bystander -looks to be another one of his unpredictable gambles, but his long time friend Nile Dok knows Erwin's smile all too well to know that he had predicted every single consequence and what the outcome would be to the bitter end. The military Commander had proved to be far too clever for his own good on multiple fronts.

[canon divergence; season 2]

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my first time writing for Erwin that isn’t a headcanon. It’s also my first time writing a chapter story in months. I’ve had crazy writers fatigue so I had to take some breaks, but the idea for this story made me excited to write again! This chapter may seem like it drags on and is kind of dialogue heavy (at least I think it is), but it’s mainly just an introduction chapter to prepare for the actual story. So far, what I have planned out is 10 chapters and a prologue but it might change in the future. I hope you all enjoy, and feel free to leave feedback or constructive criticism!

It was the afternoon before the Scout Regiment was to make their way to the capital within Wall Sina. The Commander stood at the head of the oak wood table in front of a map of Stohess that covered the length of the table. The map was covered in short nails and strings with red, green, and black dots, made with ink, marked along certain points. Erwin was hunched forward a little, pointing to one exact spot on the map and revising over the plan that he and the young recruit, Armin Arlelt, had come up with to capture the Female Titan.

Tapping his finger on the map, Erwin looked up at the four sitting along the sides of the table. "Here. This is where Armin, Eren, and Mikasa will be leading Annie Leonhart for the capture squad to trap her." After a brief moment of silence, an invite for somebody to speak up, he continued. "While I am likely being detained by the Military Police, Levi and Hanji will be planted in Stohess already to engage should anything get out of hand," directed Erwin, who looked at the two in question for confirmation. He was satisfied once both nodded.

"Good. Now, Miche will be supervising a group of recruits in an isolated base located in Wall Rose. We can assume that there are more titans similar to Annie and that they could be conspiring together, Armin suggested this would be a good way to avoid interference from others," Erwin explained, lowering himself into his seat. "This plan has already been told to Mikasa and Eren but I'd like you four to talk with them at dinner to confirm that they're prepared. Everyone is dismissed."

Miche and Levi, who both sat across from you and Hanji- who was on your right -stood and saluted the Commander, Levi sharing a few words with Erwin, before they left the office. Hanji took a moment to gather the map they had brought for the demonstration and said a quick goodbye to both you and the Commander before exiting as well.

You remained seated, brows furrowed slightly in confusion. "Sir?" you asked, as he stood and made his way towards his work desk a few feet away. It was sitting by a window that stretched a large part of the back wall, overlooking the training grounds. The desk was filled with papers and had a few ink stains that must have been only a day old since the desk looks to have been cleaned fairly recently.

"Yes, Squad Leader?" Erwin questioned mentioning your name after your assigned title, raising a brow as he looked up to you from the letter he had grabbed before taking a seat.

You sat, silent for a moment in confusion. "Commander, what would you like me to do tomorrow?" you asked, standing and pushing in your chair, walking closer to his desk so that you stood in front of it.

Erwin placed the letter down at his desk, giving you his full attention as he folded his hands on the desk. "You'll join me to the capital. I'm expecting to be arrested by the Military Police once they find out about this plan so I'll need you by my side. Once the situation is explained I'm sure we'll be let go and allowed to join the others, but until then I'll need you to be with me in case a tricky situation arises," Erwin explained. "I was going to mention this later in the night since I'm still questioning whether it would be better for you to be with Miche, but for now the plan is for you to accompany me tomorrow. Understood?"

You fixed your posture into a salute and nodded. "Yes sir!" you exclaimed. Erwin offered a tight smile in response and dismissed you, returning to his paperwork.

Walking out of the office and shutting the door behind you, you made your way to your room. It was at the opposite end of the hall along with Captain Levi's- who had a slightly larger room than you -Hanji's, and Miche's. This floor was reserved for Squad Leaders, the Captain, and the Commander.

Your room was a decent size, comfortable for one person. It had a bed, bookshelf, desk, and lounge chair that fit comfortably within the room without feeling like it was cluttered. The bathroom and closet doors were beside each other on the left wall, both providing enough space for what they were required for. Your room had two windows on either side of the bed and two gaslights hung just barely above them.

All in all, the room was perfect for somebody who didn't spend much time in it. With most days either on the training grounds with your squad, in town gathering supplies, or on expeditions not much time was spent here. However, now was the perfect opportunity for you to take an hour or so to relax in bed before dinner time.

Grabbing your matches, notebook, and calligraphy pen off the desk you made your way to the right side of your bed, striking the match and igniting the gaslight. You walked over to the left side to do the same before blowing out the match and tossing it into the empty glass on your bedside table that was once filled with water.

Sitting up in your bed you grabbed the notebook and pen you had placed beside you. Using the ink container on the bedside table to dip your pen in you began to rewrite the plans explained earlier by the Commander. This was something you did often to keep everything you needed to know fresh in your mind so that should any mistake happen you could readjust a situation to fall along the original path intended.

This habit had come in handy many times throughout your years as a Squad Leader and has saved many misfortunes from happening. Your quick thinking and leadership in tough situations were often praised by young recruits and even your fellow veterans alike.

While writing your last few sentences the bell atop the headquarters had rung, signaling that the clock had struck six o'clock and that it was now dinner time. Lying the notebook open on your bed to dry and closing the ink container, you stood up and made your way to the mess hall once you put on your boots.

Hanji had left their room at the same time you had, calling out your name and walking up to you to join you on your walk downstairs. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" Hanji asked, pushing the door that leads to the steps downstairs open for you both.

"I am. In fact, I'm currently writing everything down in my notebook," you informed, quietly thanking them for the door.

Hanji clapped their hands together once, the sound echoing in the stairwell. "Great! That may very well come in handy tomorrow, especially since the plan is set to take place inside Wall Sina," Hanji said, opening the door to the mess hall once more.

You hummed, bowing your head down slightly as another thanks. "Yes, that's a little worrisome, but I trust Erwin and his plan so really, I'm more anxious for tomorrow to come than I am worried about it going wrong," you replied.

"I feel the same!" they exclaimed, taking a seat once you both reached your usual table. Levi was already sitting with his tray of food while Miche was grabbing both yours and his. Levi had already grabbed Hanji's tray for them.

You smiled at Miche when he returned, setting the tray he got for you down. You gave a small thank you and properly sat down so that you were across from Levi. The meal was relatively silent between you four while the others in the mess hall were rather rowdy as always. Miche was the one to break the silence.

"We should ask Eren, Mikasa, and Armin to join us quickly to confirm the plan with them like Erwin asked," he suggested, setting his fork down on his empty plate.

You nodded in agreement, "yes, we should. I'll go gather the three of them quickly." With that, you stood from your seat and walked over to the table where Eren, Mikasa, and Armin sat. "You three," you pointed to them, "follow me." You gesture with your finger to follow the order, leading them to the table. Usually, you'd have been more polite in requesting them to follow your orders, however with how few people knew of the plan and you didn't want to arouse suspicions and questions you were required to be more firm.

Once you led them to the table Levi instructed them to each take a seat, to which they took across from you- where you now sat beside Levi. "Commander Erwin requested that the four of us went over the plan with you three to ensure you guys know what needs to be done tomorrow. Are there any questions?"

Eren looked to be holding something in while Armin and Mikasa remained silent and shook their heads. You frowned at noticing Eren's inner conflict. "Jaeger, what is it?" you asked.

The brown-haired boy looked up at you, eyes wide for a moment before he sighed. "Are we really sure that Annie is the Female Titan?" he questioned. "Look, I know how smart Armin is and I'm not saying that his suspicions are wrong, but well... what if they are?"

Mikasa was quick to elbow him, her face as blank as ever, but a sound of disappointment left her lips. "Come on Eren, you know that all the signs point to Annie. You will see the truth tomorrow, accept it." That was the harsh truth. A young girl that the cadets had grown up with was a traitor.

Eren shook his head quickly, clearing his thoughts. "Yeah yeah, you're right, I'm sorry. I'll be prepared tomorrow, no matter what. We'll catch her, I promise!" Eren vowed, growing more enthusiastic with each word.

"You better be," was Levi's reply. "We need you three in order to get Annie to where we need her to be, so please, don't fuck this up."

You frowned, flicking Levi's shoulder. "They're children! Stop putting so much pressure on them!" you scolded, turning your head towards the cadets. "Just do your best, Hanji, Levi, and the others will be there as a backup just in case," you assured, alleviating some of the worries you saw in Eren's and Armin's eyes.

Once the three of them nodded you allowed them to stay with you for the remainder of dinner until the bell rang, signaling it was time to make their way to their rooms. You and the others remained still in the mess hall, however. Nanaba, Moblit, and a few other Survey Corps veterans joined you at the table.

It was common for you all to share a bottle of beer each before a serious plan. Not enough to get even close to drunk, but enough to mask some of the stress if even for a few hours. So, as Miche and Moblit returned back to the table with the bottles of beer, everyone cheered and took a swig from their bottles, settling into a small conversation.

The conversations went from one topic to the other, even a few stories shared amongst one another until the doors were heard creaking open. Everyone's head turned, assuming it was a cadet that'd have to be ordered to return to their room immediately, but everyone was surprised when they saw the Commander.

It wasn't often Erwin came down to the mess hall for dinner, typically getting his meals sent to his office so that he would be able to continue his work, but occasionally he'd make his way down to get his meal himself. He hadn't yet noticed everyone, since he was at the complete opposite end of the large room, but a quick glance around and his eyes had landed on your table.

He made careful steps towards you all, his eyes roaming each and every one of you, and then the bottles you all possessed- some empty, some nearly there, some barely dipped at. "Everyone," he greeted, dipping his head just a centimeter as a sign of respect.

"Commander," was everyone's reply, followed by the same action. You and Levi moved closer to the end of the bench you both were sitting at as an invitation for Erwin to sit, which he gladly accepted.

"A beer sir?" Nanaba asked, offering to grab him one from the kitchen.

"Please," was Erwin's answer. As Nanaba made their way to grab a beer for the Commander, he took the opportunity to ask a question. "Stressful night?" His lips formed a slight smile, almost like a knowing grin.

Levi scoffed, drinking what little was left in his bottle before placing it down on the table with a little less force than a slam. "You know damn well it is Eyebrows," he said.

You rolled your eyes, "Oh please, not this again!" you groaned. "Does it ever get tiring of using the same old stupid nickname? Honestly, be more creative!" you told Levi, causing Hanji to let out a surprised laugh beside you, nearly spilling the beer from their mouth and covering it with a napkin.

Levi was about to retort, pointing his finger at you when Erwin interfered, reaching his hand across the table to gran the beer Nanaba offered him. "Thanks," he said before looking at you both. "Now you two, is there ever a day you both get along?"

"Hey! We get along just fine," you defended, looking surprised when everyone laughed. "Oh come on! We just have a sort of sibling relationship, fuck off," you said, feigning anger when you grabbed your drink and took a sip.

Conversations once again picked up, this time with Erwin participating this time round. It was a nice relaxer before a day like tomorrow, and it was nice for you to see the Commander so at ease. Everyone knew how much he overworked himself, but all attempts to remove himself from his desk were rendered fruitless when he was so focused on his work. It was only at times like these did he allow himself to take time for himself, and times like these also helped everyone else.

Seeing their Commander with a slight smile and loose shoulders, enjoying himself, was a relieving sight for all soldiers. It could even be a sign of hope for some of them, much like yourself. With little driving you forward, other than the freedom of humanity, it was difficult to find reason in why you fight. It was not uncommon for you to question your goal when it seemed unattainable at times, but when the leader of it all seems to have the hope and the drive for it, it gave you the motivation to do the same.

But unfortunately, like most things, all good things come to an end and it was time for everyone to rest up for what tomorrow would bring. Clean-up and 'good nights' were done quickly, everyone departing towards their rooms, all but Erwin who stayed seated. He allowed you to take a few steps forward before calling out your name.

"I've decided on a definitive plan for you tomorrow," he started, standing up and making his way towards you. He tossed out his beer in the trash near you. "I'll need you with me. Miche can handle the cadets by himself, and should he need help Nanaba is going with him. I don't yet know what tomorrow is going to bring, and you're one of our best when it comes to easing a tricky situation. We need you on the front lines, so you'll come with me."

His tone gave no room for questions, Erwin's plan was settled and nothing would change. Still, you replied with an, "understood sir," before making your way to your room again. You paused when you reached the door, and without turning around, said, "good night Erwin."

"Good night," he responded, a hint of a smile in his voice. Allowing the doors to shut behind you, you walked up the stairs and into your room, deciding to take a quick, cool shower. The cool, almost warm, water helped to clear your thoughts so you only focused on the temperature of the water. It wasn't your usual or go to temperature, but on nights like this, it was a good way to get your mind off things without writing yourself to death.

Once out of the shower, you dried yourself, brushed your death, and did your usual nightly arrangements before walking towards the bed. You took a few minutes to think to yourself, like you did most nights, and allowed for yourself to soak in the silence. Zoning in on one particular spot in the ceiling, you thought about tomorrow.

Everything about this plan Erwin had come up with was a gamble. It relied on the soldiers there to capture Annie without trouble, but there would be no idea what would happen. Stohess was in the center of civilization, in Wall Sina, and the fear of Annie transforming into a titan within that wall was frightening to you.

You had good reason to be frightened too, with what the results of this plan, this gamble, could mean for you and for many. However, while many feared for the lives of their family and themselves, you feared the truth that may arise, because although discovery could be a great thing, change was often terrifying in a world ruled by titans.

But, Erwin had trust in himself and his soldiers. He believed that sacrificing lives for change was necessary in war, much like many leaders before him would agree. Death was a result of war, and Erwin risked people's lives. However, he was a gambler after all.

And he would regret that by the time the sun set tomorrow night.

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nctsjiho · 3 years

Text

Can’t Go On Like This

warnings: none

era: beginning of May 2021

❀ When, the one and only, Lee Soo Man joins one of JiHo’s meetings, he reminds her of what her future could look like if she’d stop sabotaging herself

The noise of fingers tapping against the wooden table in the otherwise silent meeting room, sounded absolutely deafening. The tension was so thick, JiHo was sure you could cut it with only the sharpest of knifes. It was a suffocating feeling, even after having been in this same exact room for hours almost each day of the past month or two.

A fake cough caught everyone’s attention and all eyes were on the one and the only, Lee Soo Man. JiHo’s eyes were blown wide and were lingering with slight fear but more so pure youthful naivety. “JiHo…” The man started which caused the girl to sit up straight and nod in acknowledgment.

“We don’t want to take you out of the group. You know this. But JiHo… We can’t let you go on like this.” JiHo knew exactly what he was referring to and it was embarrassing that it came to a point were the staff she’d previously talked to had to get the founder of the company involved.

The man continued. “There’s no reason to keep you here if you keep declining our offers, it also looks very bad on us. Your fans want exactly what we can, and have tried, to give you.” He put emphasis on that last sentence which made JiHo want to bury herself deep into the ground, but she kept her composure as to stay professional in the situation. “If you keep saying no however because of, what your managers have told me at least, is your lack of confidence, then we will have to let you go and not try to save your contract.”

JiHo could feel the eyes of her closest female manager burn into the side of her face. Kim Yebin had been working with her since 2019 and had practically become her best and closest (female) friend. She was a bit like a older sister or a cool aunt that took care of her, but also treated her as an equal. She only wanted the best for JiHo, and sometimes the that meant that she had to be a little harder with her. The young idol wasn’t particularly stubborn, but when it came to her confidence or her own mental health, JiHo didn’t know how to take care of herself in that way.

For the past few weeks, and even over the course of her working with JiHo, Yebin had always pushed her to be more confident and sure of herself. She always had to remind JiHo that she had no reason for her to doubt herself and JiHo would usually listen, but the second Yebin turned her back, JiHo started doubting herself again.

“JiHo it’s time to start believing in yourself. We already do. Me, your fans, the boys, your family and even the whole company does. There’s no reason for you not to do so yourself.” Yebin pressed a few days ago.

Remembering the words JiHo’s manager had told her, she quickly glanced her way and send her a small smile, before focusing on Lee Soo Man again.

“We’ve given you so many opportunities many idols and trainees can only dream about. We as a company spent a lot of energy in not only NCT but you as an individual member as well. Don’t let that energy go to waste. Now that we cleared up the misunderstandings it’s time to move on and move up. Understood?” JiHo nodded before answering with a firm “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth before he started to exit the room.

“Tomorrow we’ll have the meeting with Kim So Yeon, the CEO of Esteem. I want to move that meeting to the second floor lounge, so I need someone to reserve that room and notify the front desk so they sent our guests to the right place tomorrow.” He explained to the staff and not long after he left the room.

JiHo let out a big breath she didn’t realise she was holding in before dropping her head on the table in front of her. Her body trembled slightly as the nerves that had started to build up from the second she knew that Lee Soo Man was joining the meeting until now, began to subside.

JiHo felt the small hand of her manager start to run up and down her spine to sooth her. “Unnie~” The girl whined. “I know JiHo. Just... I know I’ve said it so much lately, but honestly, stop doubting yourself.” JiHo tilted her head so she could look at Yebin who watched her with a motherly gaze. “It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough...”

The girl sat up and looked straight into her manger’s eyes. “It’s like when they asked me to join Dream.” A small sigh escaped JiHo’s lips. “It’s not that I wasn’t confident in my skills. I just felt like Dream should’ve been only the boys. I didn’t think I’d look good with them.” Yebin and one of the group’s other mangers sighed and shook their heads. “This is exactly not being confident in yourself.” Yebin explained which made JiHo mouth an “oh” in realisation.

“If you debuted in Dream, all the fans would have know was Dream with the seven boys and you. And they would’ve loved it, just as much as they love you with the boys now.” The other manager decided to add on to Yebin’s words. “It would’ve been just the same as if you agreed to debut with NCT U back in 2016. You did everything! Sang the guide for the song. You participated in making the performance. You did so much, you proved you could do it and then one day we hear that you decided not to go through with it and continued on as a trainee leaving the boys oblivious to the fact that you were planned to be added to the group since the start. JiHo you didn’t just have to potential, you had and still have the skill to back everything up. So believe us when we say that there’s no reason for you to ever decline an opportunity because you can do it.”

Even though the words were meant to be words of encouragement, JiHo couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about everything. She had never told the boys about what kind of opportunities she had gotten from SM before and even after her debut. She felt guilty for keeping it all a secret, for changing how things could’ve been.

Being aware of JiHo’s internal turmoil, Yebin placed a hand on JiHo’s thigh and gave it a friendly squeeze. “Cheer up baby doll! From now on things will be better. And to start things off I’ll treat you to dinner.” The mention of food sparked a bit of excitement which was very clear to Yebin and made her chuckle. “You’ve become too much like the boys. You’re all just little kids.” She dramatically ‘complained’. Yebin reached out for her purse and then beckoned to JiHo. “Let’s go!”

When Yebin walked out of the room she heard a rushed shuffling and a taller figure retreating towards the practise rooms. The brown locks and the stature of the person seemed a bit familiar. But with the amount of people Yebin saw daily - whether that was consciously or not - Yebin couldn’t quite put a name to it. It probably wasn’t someone too close to her, since she prided herself in being good with people - names and appearances.

“Unnie, what are you looking at?” Yebin’s eyes must have been lingering in the direction the person disappeared for a while, because she didn’t notice JiHo joining her by her side. “Oh nothing! Let’s just go.” She sent the confused looking girl a warm smile before they headed towards the elevators. “Good, because I’m starving! I was so nervous for the meeting, I couldn’t eat all day.” JiHo complained while holding her stomach of which she was sure could start growling any second now - thank the Gods it didn’t start while she was still in the meeting. “JiHo! I told you not to skip meals even when you don’t feel like eating. You’re already getting so thin lately.” “I’m sorry, I’ll try to eat next time.”

With that both woman left the building to enjoy a meal together and take a break from the endless meetings and stress filled situations.

---

Side Note: The title might change as well as the little description/summary, and this wasn’t proofread because I’m on a little time crunch. I’ll revise it asap if needed! Also who was that, who Yebin spotted???

Have a good day/evening/night <3

#jiho.writings #nct 24th member #nct addition #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct female member #nct extra member #nct additional member #kpop!addition #kpop!oc

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fortisfiliae · 4 years

Text

Promised Part 13 - Tom Riddle x reader

Summary: In this story, Tom didn’t grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader’s sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Disclaimer: Please be aware that I don’t condone any of this in real life. (GIF is not mine)

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 3.1k

Part 13 - Pranks & Proper Paybacks

Tom was there too and sat next to you, completing the quartet round the table. He tried his best not to hiss at them every time Ben asked something. You noticed from the corner of your eye, how he gulped down every thought that built up in his head when another word poured from Ben’s mouth. It was amusing, to say the least, seeing Tom battling with himself to keep his cool. He still didn’t like Ben very much and would much rather study with you alone. But the fact that he had voluntarily sat down with the three of you, tried to behave and didn’t yell at Ben whenever he opened his mouth, told you that he probably didn’t hate him as much as he pretended to.

“So, about the Fluxweed again,” Ben whispered, browsing through his book. “How many days does it have to grow?”

Camille was about to answer when Tom pressed his palm against his forehead and exhaled dramatically. “Sixteen, Ben. It’s sixteen. She’s told you that three times at least.”

Ben took a quick look at Tom, while still fumbling through the book. “I know, mate. I just can’t memorise it. Why do I even need to know that?”

Tom flung a piece of parchment toward him, pointing at the empty sheet. “Write it down, then. There are some things you must know. Get over it.”

“Alright, alright,” Ben grinned and didn’t seem to care about Tom’s tone at all. “I’ll write it down, see? Fluxweed takes thirteen days to grow. Happy now?”

“Sixteen,” Camille, Tom and you sighed in unison.

“Oh.” He crossed out the number and sloppily wrote the correct one above it. “Sixteen then.”

Camille and you chuckled to yourselves while Tom only shook his head slightly, his eyes back inside his own book. Ben certainly was careless, or to be more precise, a lot more careless than Camille, Tom and you when it came to grades. The way he talked about homework and even exams was astonishing. He hadn’t even studied for his O.W.L. in Care for Magical Creatures in his fifth year, and he still got an ‘Exceeds Expectations’. Or so he had told you. He had always found a way to talk his way out of things, which was reasonable. Teachers really seemed to like him. Or rather do anything to stop him from talking once in a while.

“Oh, wait,” Ben said again.

“Just read your book,” Tom grunted.

“No, hang on.”

Ben stood up and stretched his arm out quickly, reaching and grasping for something to your left. You all turned your heads and saw him catching something that had been flying right at you.

“I might be bad at Herbology. But you’re lucky I’m a bloody good Seeker,” he said and twisted the thin thing between his fingers.

“What is it?” Camille asked. “Let me see.”

Ben put the thing down onto the desk, still pressing his index finger on top of it. “It’s a quill. But it appears to be jinxed. It was flying on its own and headed right for your face,” he said and looked at you. “Still wants to, I can feel it moving.”

The grey quill twitched eagerly beneath Ben’s hand, trying to escape and pointed its sharp tip right at you, ready to pierce into your skin.

“Not again,” you mumbled.

“Again?”

Things, odd things, had been happening during the week. Someone had definitely played some pranks and antics on you. You hadn’t found out who it was yet, but it certainly had become pesky. On Monday, someone had left you a note that said Professor Merrythought wanted a word with you. Once you had arrived at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom however, you were met with a confused teacher and had a hard time explaining yourself. Tuesday, someone had poured Rash Powder over your dinner. You had almost taken a bite but thankfully had noticed the unfamiliar smell in time. Wednesday was more subtle. There had been puddles and slippery spots everywhere you stepped. Avoiding them had been a tedious task. And now, on Thursday, this. The quill didn’t look like it could badly injure you, but its vivid nature was a sign for a hex, rather than a jinx. No matter who it was, all those things did tear on your nerves. Not only because the pranks got to you, but because there was a possibility someone had been following you without you noticing. Every time you had gone to the Come and Go Room you had turned around and checked if someone was behind you, just in case. That was the exhausting part.

“Just some pranks,” you explained. “I don’t know who or why, but it’s getting fairly ridiculous.”

“Could someone,” Ben puffed. “Stop this thing? It’s trying to escape.”

Tom pointed his wand directly at the quill and rolled his wrist. It lit up for a fraction of a second and crumbled to dust right after.

“Ouch,” Ben hissed and fanned his hand through the air hastily before putting his index inside his mouth. “Thanks, mate.”

Tom smirked complacently, partly for the spell he had just cast and partly for burning Ben’s fingertip. “Anytime, mate.”

Camille dragged her finger through the ashes, took a good look at them and rubbed it off between her index and her thumb. “Who would do that?”

“I don’t know,” you answered.

“Avery and Lestrange again, perhaps?” she asked.

“Unlikely,” Tom said. “I checked on them some days ago. They’re still with Carpe most of the time, scrubbing the floors and polishing trophies. And besides, they wouldn’t dare.”

“Who else could it be then?” Camille asked as she blew the remaining ashes off the desk with a quick cleaning spell.

The four of you exchanged looks around the table. “To be honest,” Tom began. “I was suspecting you for a while, Ben.”

“Me?” Ben asked wide-eyed. “Why would I do that? I just stopped that quill.”

“‘I’m aware, I’ve seen that now.”

Camille hummed, deep in thought. “Wait,” she said. “What about Freda? Freda Morris.”

“The head girl?” Ben asked.

“Yes,” she said. “She was so jealous at Slughorn’s party, wasn’t she?”

Tom looked at you, biting on the inside of his lower lip, then nodded. “That doesn’t sound too far fetched.”

“I wouldn’t have thought she’d be so creative,” you said while picking up your books. “Well, I’ll keep an eye on her then.”

Once you had gathered all your things, you got up and waited for Tom to do the same.

“Where are you going?” Camille asked. “It’s not even seven yet.”

“Let us know if something else happens,” Camille said and waved you goodbye.

“Tom,” he greeted and stopped right in his tracks.

“Abraxas,” Tom replied.

Oh, what did he want now? There wasn’t a lot of time until the potion had to be stirred, so you hoped Malfoy wouldn’t keep you from going any longer.

“So,” Abraxas began. “I’ve seen, you like to keep new company these days.”

Tom frowned and looked over his shoulder. Clearly, Abraxas didn’t mean you. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything,” he said and chortled a sour laugh. “I’m just observing. You’re dealing with mudbloods now?”

Tom only exhaled sharply and stared back at Malfoy, completely unconcerned about his reproach. “And how come that’s any of your business, exactly?”

“Oh, it isn’t of course,” Abraxas answered. “I was just surprised. Shocked even.”

“I do apologize,” Tom sneered, clicking his tongue in fake sympathy. “That the gathering of other people, who don’t concern you in the slightest, has ruined your precious day.”

Abraxas stared back at him, obviously trying hard to keep calm. His smile still sat neatly on his face; it were his eyes that betrayed him. “No need to worry about me. I merely started thinking, daydreaming, that your Grandfather might not appreciate that.”

Now he had gone too far. Tom took a step closer, his nostrils flared for a moment and a vein on his neck stood out. “Abraxas,” he whispered so spitefully, it almost sounded like he was talking in Parseltongue, words spilling out of him like pure venom. “I’d advise you to worry about your own life. Because if you don’t, wouldn’t it be tragic if your Mother found out what happened last year at your house? When the maid left and never came back? What was the reason again? If only I remembered. Oh, I do.”

Malfoy’s expression changed momentarily, his head sunk and his eyes darted across the floor, trying hard to think of what to answer.

“Do we understand each other?” Tom asked.

Abraxas nodded, lips thin and full of fury. He instinctively retracted and took a step back, keeping his head low and looked up at Tom through knitted brows.

“Good,” Tom said and left Malfoy standing there.

Continuing to walk to the grand staircase with you, he appeared like nothing but a casual chat between two friends had just happened.

“Well,” you said after Abraxas was out of earshot. “That was interesting.”

“They’re all so stupid, sometimes I wonder how they’ve lived this long,” Tom replied. “I have dirt on every single one of them. And they try to blackmail me. Ridiculous.”

“Idiots indeed,” you shook your head. “Do I want to know what happened to the maid?”

“I guess not. It’s a long, repulsive story.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you liked Ben,” you said once you turned another corner.

Tom opened his mouth and looked at you in disbelief for a moment, as if you had just insulted him, before he started talking. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, it just seemed like it. You came to his defence so quickly. That’s why I assumed.”

“This wasn’t about Hilt. It was about me, Marvolo and that bootlicker Malfoy.”

“Whatever you say,” you replied teasingly while Tom rolled his eyes.

Freda Morris stood in her own door frame, smirking maliciously, with her wand pointed right at you. She must have been taken by surprise, it didn’t seem like she had expected you to look at her. Her wand sank in an instant before she hid it behind her back.

“You,” you muttered, taking some steps her way. “It was you all week, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said smiling, trying to take the high ground, but you wouldn’t let her.

“Just admit it at least. Coward. You know exactly what I’m talking about and you were just trying to do it again, weren’t you?”

“Oh shut up,” you spat. “Head girl, yes. An awful excuse for one at best.”

The door behind you opened and Tom appeared from inside. He looked out into the hallway frowning. “What’s all that noise about?”

“Your fiancée’s throwing a fit.”

“Camille was right,” you said, still not taking your eyes off Freda. “It was her. The note, the quill and everything else. I just caught her right in the act.”

Freda heaved one single, shrill laugh at your words and straightened her posture. “I just told you, I would never do such things.”

“What were you doing then? Pointing your wand at me, when I have my back turned on you.”

“Liar!”

The need to go up to her and slap her across the face seemed almost unbearable. Your hands were balled into fists and it took all your might not to take out your own wand and pay her back everything she had done to you, times ten. Tom on the other hand stayed calm and smiled weakly while looking back at her.

Freda’s smile faltered, her eyes darting back and forth between Tom and you. “I must have not gotten his owl then.”

“Certainly,” Tom said. “I want a word. Now.”

“No,” you intervened and he stopped his movements to look at you. “I can do this myself.”

Tom stepped back with a small smirk on his face. Freda was in for a treat. You walked up to her until there was only a hand’s breadth of space between your faces.

“You what?” she asked and shoved you by the shoulder. “Do you think I’m scared of you?”

“Take that thing away,” Freda yelled. “Make it stop.”

“Or what?” you asked. “You might have not been scared of me yet, but I promise you, give me one more reason and you will be.”

She didn’t dare answer, still looking down at Nagini in utmost panic and tried to foresee every move the snake was about to make. You savoured on the sight for a moment, fervently enjoying how Freda fumbled for the doorknob behind herself.

“Come Nagini,” you then said as you turned around. “Leave her alone. For now.”

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mldrgrl · 3 years

Text

The New Addition

by: mldrgrl rating: PG-13 Summary: Hanella welcomes a guest for the weekend

Even more rare than a call from Becca was a FaceTime. Texting was more her style. So, when Hank picked up his phone and saw the incoming video call, he answered immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“That’s how you answer your phone?” Becca said. “Why does something have to be wrong?”

“Many apologies, Daughter, but the infrequency with which you grace us with your face from a remote location are rare as natural breasts on a porn star.”

“Do you think that’s an appropriate thing to say to a daughter, Father?”

“Fuck no, but surprise calls make me nervous. What’s up, Kitten?”

“Don’t ever call me that again. Is Stella there?”

“Yeah, I think she was grading some exams or something, hang on.” Hank turned away from the phone and leaned over the sofa to try to see down the hall to the back room she was using as a study. “Stella! Stelllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Oh my god, why are you screaming at her?” Becca said.

“I like to take the opportunity to rehearse my Stanley Kowalski impression when I can. Here she comes.”

Stella came down the hall with her hands on her hips and her brows raised. Hank held his phone up so she could see Becca on the screen and she immediately dropped her hands from her hips and softened her brows, but she quickened her step.

“Becca, darling,” Stella said. “What’s the matter?”

“This is why I only text,” Becca said.

“Well, if you called more, we wouldn’t think shit had hit the fan somewhere.”

Hank opened up his arm as Stella came around to the sofa and sat down. She leaned against him and he adjusted his grip on the phone so they were both in the frame and so that she could also see Becca.

“I have someone I want you to meet,” Becca said.

“How the hell did you meet someone during a pandemic?” Hanks asked. “Oh my god, are you online dating? You know those people usually turn out to be serial killers.”

“Dad!”

“Darling, don’t worry, it’s still statistically a very low probability even if related crimes have been on the rise. Give me his name and social security number and I’ll run a background check.”

“Or her,” Hank interjected. “We’re still holding out hope she’s a lesbian.”

“This is the last time I am ever calling you,” Becca said.

“Does your mother know about this guy?”

“Or girl,” Stella added.

Becca sighed and rolled her eyes. She leaned down and tilted her phone at the same time so the view was of her ceiling and then she came back into frame with a small, brown poodle. “This is Ziggy,” she said. “A friend of a friend of mine was giving away her dog’s puppies and I picked him up this morning.”

“Lovely,” Stella said. “He’s very handsome.”

“I haven’t even met him, but I guarantee this is my favorite guy you’ve ever introduced me to,” Hank added. “Now you’ll be far too busy for online dating.”

“I’m not online dating, but I’m wondering if you can do me a favor?”

“What’s the favor?”

“Next month I have the writer’s retreat scheduled upstate. It’s just for a long weekend, Friday to Monday, can you watch Ziggy for me? He’ll probably be housetrained by then. Maybe. Hopefully.”

“Of course,” Stella answered, as Hank also said “Not a chance.”

Becca grimaced slightly. “It’s just that I’d really rather not have to put him in a kennel. I guess I can call Mom and see if she can pick him up, but it’s so far.”

Stella squeezed Hank’s knee. “You don’t need to call Karen,” she said. “We would love to watch him.”

“Fine,” Hank said.

“Thank you.” Becca smiled and held the dog closer to the phone. “Ziggy says thank you as well.”

Hank ended the call and then turned to look at Stella. She tipped her head back to look at him as well. He tried to scowl and she smiled.

“Why did you say no?” Stella asked.

“Why did you say yes?” he countered.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“Because I don’t see a reason to say no.”

“Because I got her a dog once and where do you think that dog is now?”

“I wouldn’t know, where is it?”

“I have no fucking idea, that’s the point. I went through all the trouble to steal the little fucker from the boyfriend of this woman I was...uh, actually it’s irrelevant how I acquired the dog, let’s just say I got a dog for Becca and fuck if I know what happened to the late, great Cat Stevens.”

“What in the world does Cat Stevens have to do with it?”

“That was the dog.”

Stella patted Hank on the knee and then tried to get up from the couch, but Hank pulled her back down. “I have to grade papers,” she said.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew about the naked shower party I’m having tonight.”

“Wouldn’t any shower party be naked by virtue of being a shower party?”

“That’s a very good point, Sherlock. I’d revise the invitation, but I’d rather just be redundant.”

“Mmhm.” She pushed on his knee and this time he let her up. “Text me the details, I need to get back to grading.”

“What, like a dick pic?” he called after her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him with one eyebrow raised. He waited until she was back in the study to unbutton his jeans.

*****

Becca dropped the dog off on a Friday morning, bright and early. Stella was awake to prepare for one of her classes, but Hank was still asleep. He didn’t hear the drop-off, but when he woke up and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee, he tripped over the dog, stubbed his toe, and shouted a ‘motherfucker’ so loud he was pretty sure he was going to get scolded for it later. The dog ran away.

“Yeah, you better run,” Hank mumbled, limping to the coffeemaker. “Fuck.”

Stella startled him not a minute later when she smacked him on the ass. He jumped and rubbed at his stinging backside, turning to her with a pout. She was holding the dog in her arms and it was whimpering and holding on to her neck with its head turned away from him.

“What was that for?” he grumbled.

“First, for shouting expletives whilst I was on a lecture.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to. Did they hear me?”

“No, fortunately, I was on mute. There are student presentations today. Which I must return to.”

“The damn dog tripped me and I stubbed my toe. It might be broken.” He leaned against the counter and lifted his foot up to show her his foot. “See.”

Stella reached out and took a light hold on his toe. He made a face at her and she gave it a rough tug to which he yelped and pulled his foot back.

“You’re fine,” she said.

“You’re mean.”

“Please don’t make enemies with Becca’s dog for the weekend.”

“He started it.”

Stella handed the dog over to Hank and gave it a scratch on the head before she walked away. “I put the instructions on the refrigerator,” she said. “Give them a read and then make yourself useful and take him for a walk.”

Hank pulled a sheet of instructions out from the magnet on the refrigerator and read through them. They were very detailed. Too detailed. He wanted to crumble them up into a little ball and burn them.

“Ridiculous,” he said to the dog. “When we left Becca with the babysitter the only unwritten rule was just not to kill her. You’re a dog, you should be pretty self-sufficient. Just don’t piss on the rug and don’t shit in any of my shoes and we’ll get along fine. Deal?”

The dog twisted and wriggled in Hank’s arms to be put down and so Hank put him on the floor. The dog sat down and then lifted a paw to scratch at Hank’s knee.

“Make up your mind, Zig. Up or down, what do you want?”

The dog barked once and then sneezed.

“I don’t speak canine.”

Ziggy whined softly and pawed at Hank’s knee again. The coffeemaker beeped behind Hank and he turned around to shut it off. He poured the coffee into a travel mug and left the cap off so it could cool a bit.

“Okay, Stella says you need a walk,” he said. “I need to put some pants on. Don’t lay anywhere where you blend into the floor. I need my toes.”

The dog followed Hank into the bedroom and immediately jumped on the bed. Hank shooed him off and undaunted, he explored from corner to corner, sniffing the walls and the furniture and the clothes on the floor. Hank snatched up the jeans Ziggy was nosing and put them on. He grabbed a fresh t-shirt from the closet and then went to dig through a duffel bag that Becca left for the dog’s leash.

It took Hank several attempts at getting the harness onto the dog. Number one, because he kept stepping out of it as soon as Hank got it on one foot. Number two, because he initially put it on backwards and didn’t know how the clip could possibly work when it was under the dog’s chest. He finally figured it out though and it seemed secure. He grabbed his keys, his wallet, a mask, and the coffee and headed to the elevator.

The half an hour walk with Ziggy made Hank understand the meaning of the term ‘boundless energy.’ If it wasn’t for the coffee, he couldn’t be sure he’d have made it. When they got back, he unclipped the dog from his harness and even though it felt like they’d just run a marathon, Ziggy dashed across the room and hurdled himself onto the sofa where Stella was now sitting. To Hank’s surprise, Stella laughed as she dodged excited kisses from the dog and didn’t scold him at all or tell him to get down.

“I am exhausted,” Hank said, collapsing onto the sofa beside Stella. He grimaced and let out a pained ‘oof’ as the dog stepped on his crotch and up onto his chest. “Fuck me, this dog is trying to kill me.”

“Have a nice walk?” Stella asked.

“That thing had to piss every five feet and terrorize all the squirrels and pigeons in the neighborhood.” Hank pushed Ziggy away when he tried to lick his chin and the dog laid down on his chest, panting hot and heavy in his face.

“How’s your toe?”

“What toe? Oh. Not broken, I guess.”

“Lovely.”

“He is a total chick magnet though,” Hank said, waggling his eyebrows at Stella. “Ladies were flocking to me like flies to honey. Almost got a few numbers.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t worry I told them my wife would kick my ass before she let me take a hot girl’s phone number.”

“I think I might join you for this afternoon’s walk.”

Hank chuckled and nudged Stella’s leg with his knee. “Kidding, Sherlock. Some kid did ask me if Ziggy had an Insta and then had to explain to me that any dog who’s anydog has an Instagram account and we should get on it the sooner the better if we want him to be a doggie influencer.”

“A what?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Looks like you have a new nap partner.” Stella inclined her chin towards the dog, who had dropped his head down to Hank’s shoulder and let out a deep sigh as his eyes closed. She smiled a little and stroked the dog’s back a few times.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs so much,” Hank said.

“More of a cat person, really. I don’t mind them though.”

“Did you read that list Becca left? It’s more complicated than the Treaty of Versailles.”

Stella chuckled. “It is a rather overly complicated schedule. For a dog.”

“I say fuck the list. I kept her ass alive for the requisite 18 years without a list, I can probably handle a dog for a weekend.”

“Tell that to Cat Stevens.”

“Oh yeah. Wherever the fuck he is. Okay, maybe we better stick to the list. Though I would like to point out, Cat was Becca’s dog.”

“Maybe that’s why she made a list this time.”

*****

Ziggy was sound asleep when Hank turned off the lights in the main room. The dog was passed out on his back, in his bed beside the couch, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Hank tiptoed past him into the bedroom and quietly shut the door. Stella was in the bathroom brushing her teeth. He came up behind her and pressed her into the counter with his hips, sneaking his hands up her shirt to massage her breasts.

Stella grunted slightly through her nose and pushed her hips back into Hank’s. She put her hand up to hold her hair back and Hank pulled his hands out from her shirt to do it for her. She leaned over to spit into the sink and he held her hair with one hand and stroked her neck with the other.

“Thank you,” she said.

Hank finger-combed Stella’s hair up into his fist at the top of her head while she wiped her mouth and then he let it go and rubbed her shoulders. She turned around and he held her by the hips.

“Where’s the dog?” she asked.

“Outside smoking a cigarette.”

“Do you think he should go outside once more?”

“He’s dead asleep. He was like…” Hank imitated the dog, rolling his eyes back and sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

“You’re the one that was worried about him urinating on the rug.”

Hank pouted his lips and then nodded. “Fine, I’ll take him upstairs. But, you better be naked when I come back, or else I’m sleeping on the couch with the dog.”

“I don’t think that’s the threat you believe it to be.”

Hank narrowed his eyes and pinched Stella’s hip before putting his mouth to her neck and nipping lightly at the back of her jaw. She laughed and pushed at his chest until he let her go. He playfully slapped at her backside on the way out of the bathroom and she swatted his hands away.

The dog was still sleeping when he opened the door, but he whistled softly and Ziggy startled to his feet and then shook himself. “Come on, hairball, we’re going outside.” He snapped his fingers a few times and the dog followed him to the door to the roof.

Ziggy was hesitant on the stairs, taking them slowly and pausing every few steps to get his footing as he hopped up. He ran around the newly landscaped deck, sniffing just about every nook and cranny and lifting his leg on half of them. It had gotten chilly since the sun went down and Hank, in bare feet and a t-shirt, hopped up and down a few times and rubbed his arms as he called the dog back.

Hank was forced to carry the dog down the stairs when he wouldn’t budge from the top. He made a few false starts, but ultimately sat down and wouldn’t move. When he put him down, Ziggy stared up at him and then stayed closed to his legs as he went back to the bedroom.

“You, stay,” Hank said, pointing to the dog bed.

Ziggy sat down next to the bed. Hank closed the door. Stella was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine or journal, which she set down on her lap and took her reading glasses off.

“Did you really think that’s going to work?” she asked.

“He’s fine.”

Before Hank even finished, Ziggy was yelping and scratching at the door. Stella raised her brows and Hank sighed. He opened the door and the dog came flying through, jumped on the bed and leapt onto Stella with his paws on her chest, wagging his tail and kissing her cheek and chin.

“Settle, darling,” Stella said, turning her face away and pushing the dog back. He gave a whining bark as he dropped down.

“Do they make ritalin for dogs?”

“He’s just a baby.”

Hank kicked the dog bed into the bedroom and then pushed it against the wall with his foot. “Go get in your bed,” he said.

Ziggy laid down where he was, next to Stella. He put his head on his paws and lifted his eyes up at Hank.

“Now he’s giving me puppy dog eyes,” Hank said.

“Shockingly, I believe that’s where that term came from.”

“Well, I don’t like it. It’s too effective.”

“Resign yourself to the fact that we have a little guest for the weekend.”

Hank grumbled under his breath as he went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He stripped to his jockey shorts and snapped off the overhead lights on his way back. Ziggy looked up from beside Stella like Hank was the intruder. He even had the audacity to give a little growl when Hank leaned over to give his wife a kiss. Annoyed, Hank flopped onto his back and the dog scooted closer and rested his head on his arm.

“Oh, now you want to be nice,” Hank said, reaching over to scratch the dog on the head. “I’m surprised Becca hasn’t called.”

“What do you mean?”

“To check up on the dog or let us know she made it to the retreat.”

“She’s been texting me all day.”

“What? What did she want?”

“Checking up on the dog.”

“She doesn’t trust us?”

“You didn’t question her motivations five seconds ago when you were surprised she hadn’t called.”

“I like to be fickle to keep you on your toes.”

Ziggy sighed and squirmed until he was on his back, all four paws limp in the air. Stella chuckled and rubbed his chest before she closed her magazine and tossed it onto the nightstand.

“We’re letting this thing stay up here, then?” Hank asked.

“Yes.”

“I think I’m more of a cat person too.”

*****

Hank was surprised that the dog was no trouble during the night. He woke briefly when Stella, always an early riser, got up and said she was going to take Ziggy for his morning walk and when she got back, would be entering in project results into her electronic gradebook for a bit. He grunted in response and mumbled a reminder to leave him some coffee.

When he finally woke fully, left the bedroom far more cautiously than he had the previous morning. Ziggy was nowhere to be found, but as soon as he started puttering in the kitchen, the dog appeared. Hank crouched down and gave him a few scratches.

“What were you up to, hm?” he asked. “Getting into trouble?”

Ziggy followed Hank as he went to the bedroom, most likely interested in the piece of toast in his hand. Hank held the toast between his teeth, wiped his hands on his jeans, and picked up his phone from the nightstand to text Becca.

Morning sweetheart. The furball is good. Not to worry. Haven’t shipped him off to a kennel yet and probably won’t. Have a good time at the retreat.

Hank took a bite of his toast and then tore a piece off and tossed it to the dog. Ziggy caught it mid-air. About thirty seconds later, he heard Stella calling his name and he snapped his fingers at the dog to get him to follow him out of the bedroom.

“What’s up?” Hank asked, and shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth.

“What did you say to Becca?”

“Hm?” he mumbled, mouth full.

“She just texted me and said you’ve implied the dog has been sent to a kennel and wants proof of life.”

“No I didn’t,” he said. “I said I haven’t sent the dog to a kennel so she doesn’t need to worry.”

“Why would you say that to her?”

“So she wouldn’t worry.”

“Well, she’s worried.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I’ll send her a photo. Ziggy, come here, darling.”

Stella kissed the air a few times, but Ziggy thought trying to be caught was a game. He bounded away from Stella and then stopped and bowed down, his hind end in the air and tail wagging. She patted her knee for him to come, but he just jumped a few feet to the left and went back into the same pose.

“I’ll get him.” Hank started towards the dog and Ziggy barked and then ran to the kitchen. Hank ended up chasing him around the butcher’s block several times before he was able to catch him, but keeping hold of him was difficult. “Stay still, Zig.”

Stella knelt down and quickly opened the camera on her phone.

“What’re you doing?” Hank asked.

“Taking a photo.”

“A selfie?”

“Do you have another suggestion?”

“I don’t know, I don’t do selfies. Unless they’re dick pics.”

“Yes, I am aware, but we won’t be sending your daughter a photo of your penis.”

“Well hurry up, this guy is a bitch to hold onto.”

“Smile, darling.” Both Stella and Hank smiled as she held down the photo button, but Ziggy wriggled and squirmed.

“Anything usable?” Hank asked, setting the dog free.

“A little blurry, but they should suffice.” Stella got up and texted the photos to Becca. “She says thank you, and for you to never fucking text her again.”

“Brat.”

“You started it.”

*****

The day passed. They took the dog to the park. He napped when they got back. Hank worked on his book. Stella worked on a report for her class. In the evening, they lit a fire in the new firepit on the roof and cuddled up on the daybed with the dog between them.

“Should we get a cat?” Hank asked.

“Do you want a cat?” Stella countered.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

“It is kind of nice having this little hairball around though. Not that I want him to stay. He’s also annoying as fuck. But, nice to have around. For an hour or two. When he’s asleep.”

“Kind of like you.”

“Hey!”

Stella laughed and Hank pushed her down onto the bed, rising to his knees to lean over and nuzzle her neck. It was a ticklish spot for her, especially when caressed lightly, and it made her laugh harder. Ziggy barked from where he was wedged beside Stella and under Hank. He wiggled out from under them and then jumped on Hank’s back with his front paws, barking and growling.

“Relax, man,” Hank said, rolling to one hip off of Stella.

“He’s being a good protector,” Stella said, laughing when Ziggy nipped at the blanket over their legs and tried to pull it away.

“He’s being a cockblocker.” Hank wrestled the blanket back from the dog and then grabbed him under the chin, giving him a few firm scratches. “You know what, Zig? You be a cockblocker. You be the best cockblocker you can be, at Becca’s place. Cockblock the shit out of Becca, okay?”

Ziggy barked and wagged his tail.

“Good boy,” Hank said. “Good little cockblocker.”

“Don’t say that to him,” Stella said.

“Why not?”

“One day you will need to face the fact that your daughter is a grown woman who deserves a healthy sex life.”

“Oh my god, I’m going to throw up.” Hank groaned and flopped down onto the bed with his arm over his eyes. “Consider me officially cockblocked.”

Stella moved up onto her hip this time and put her arm over Hank’s chest. She kissed his chin and then pulled his bottom lip between her teeth. He grabbed her around the waist and grunted softly into her mouth. Ziggy trampled the both of them and stuck his cold nose into Hank’s cheek.

“Gah!” Hank groaned.

The licked furiously at the both of them and Stella released Hank’s lip with a laugh and a scrunched face. She buried her head down into Hank’s neck while curling into his side and Ziggy tried to wedge his snout down to keep licking her face.

“We are officially never, ever, ever, ever getting a dog,” Hank said.

“No argument from me,” Stella answered, sliding away from the dog and Hank and stepping off the bed. “Meet me downstairs and I guarantee you won’t be cockblocked.”

“Oh?”

“Naked shower party for two in ten minutes.”

“The naked is redundant!” he called after her as she walked away. He waited until she had started down the stairs to take Ziggy’s face in his hands. “Listen. This is a cockblock free zone, you got that? Keep it up and you just may end up like Cat Stevens. We good?”

Ziggy gave a short, gruff bark and then lifted his paw. Hank nodded and they shook on it. He got up and let Ziggy explore the roof for a few minutes while he folded the blanket up and put out the fire. Not for long though. He had a naked party to get to and he didn’t want to be late.

The End

#i wrote this #hanella #humor #DOGS #hank moody #stella gibson

70 notes · View notes

biaswreckme · 3 years

Text

looking for something right | jjk/knj

Summary: When Jungkook needs to find a new apartment with a roommate to share expenses, he thinks that the universe must be either laughing at him or conspiring in his favor. Because when he finally finds an ad that fits his budget, his roommate is the tall and handsome man from the coffee shop.

Pairing: Namjoon/Jungkook

Member: Namjoon, Jungkook, Jimin, Yoongi

Length: 3568 words

Genre: smut, fluff

Type of AU: roommates au, university au, coffee shop au (kinda) (yes i used all my favorite tropes and aus in one fic)

Rating: 18+

Triggers/Warnings: heavy pining, slightly dom!Namjoon, slightly sub!JK, dry humping, handjob, dirty talking

Project: @thebtswritersclub April project with the theme Bloom 🌸

A/N: A huge thanks to my lobely beta-readers @taegularities AND @voiceswithoutlips for help in revising and editing ♥ and also @voiceswithoutlips for the conversation that inspired the smutty scene :3

cross-posted on AO3 too!

Jungkook had seen him around campus before, more specifically in his favorite small coffee shop just outside the university that was much cheaper and actually catered to students’ financial range when it came to prices. He always had a book with him - usually a tome so big Jungkook thought he could do some real damage to someone with it -, reading and taking notes in the margins, which Jungkook thought was an atrocity, but the other boy didn’t seem bothered or apologetic.

He must be an early riser, because he was always there before he arrived, a steaming cup of hot coffee on the table and a bottle of water next to a small open pencil case and sticky notes. He looked too well-put together to be an undergrad, so he assumed he was a grad student. Philosophy maybe? Or something that demanded a constant consumption of large books. And maybe - just maybe - Jungkook shouldn’t have been spending so much on coffee when he could be brewing it at his apartment, but his apartment didn’t have the tall boy - man? - to discreetly look at while having his morning drink.

What his apartment did have was Jimin, his close friend and dance major that moved from Busan at the same time as him. They’d been sharing a place for some time now, but things were about to change. Jungkook knew this had been coming, but the day Jimin came home announcing that he’d been accepted for a scholarship abroad and that he would need to move soon came as a shock. He was extremely happy for him, but they would need to rush the process of moving out and Jungkook finding a new place or roommate.

They opted to let the apartment go, and so Jungkook began his search for a new place to share. He’d looked at listings, visited some places that were out of his budget, and then he found it. It was a small poster at the coffee shop’s cork board from a guy named Namjoon; the place was a block away and it fit perfectly into his budget and what he wanted for the location. It seemed too perfect; there had to be a catch, right? He texted the number - who calls anyone these days anyways? - and arranged to meet him at the coffee shop the next day before classes.

The catch. Oh, there was a catch.

He entered the place as usual, and the only person there was the tall man with a book on the table, steaming drink in his hand. He looked up at Jungkook who froze for a second, nodding his head and going to the counter quickly, barely mumbling his order to the barista trying to not freak out at the eye contact. So he avoided it for the next few minutes, until he heard his name being called out. What? How did he know his name?

“Jungkook?” the man repeated.

“Yes?” he took a deep breath and turned around at the sound of the deep voice.

“I’m Namjoon,” he introduced himself, standing up and motioning for Jungkook to join him at the table. No, no, no. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be him. The universe had to be joking. “Nice to meet you.” He reached out to shake Jungkook’s hand.

He was touching him. And he smelled so good. And his voice was so deep. Jungkook felt like a schoolgirl with her first crush, sighing at the very sight of Namjoon, whose name he now knew. He nodded in response and looked at the counter, trying to take a break from that smile, pretending he was checking if his order was ready. It was not.

“So, you’re interested in the apartment, right?”

“Ah, yeah… my friend and roommate right now, Jimin, you might have seen him around campus? He’s an amazing contemporary dancer, so he got this incredible and super rare scholarship to go study at this academy... I forgot the name,” he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and stop his rambling - to no avail, “anyway he’s moving too soon and I need to find a new place but everything’s so expensive. Yours fits the budget and is so close to uni and I couldn’t help but check you out, I mean, check it out…” He closed his eyes in embarrassment at the slip up, hearing Namjoon’s soft chuckle.

“Alright. What are you studying? Undergrad or grad school?”

“Media. Photography, film making, this stuff. I’m into it. I mean. Excuse me,” he was saved by the barista calling him, and as soon as he got back to the table, he took a sip, burning his tongue - but at least it stopped him from babbling for a second. “Undergrad still,” he complemented.

“Cool. I’m in grad school for social studies, so I’m a TA, but I also work with music production,” Namjoon began, but upon Jungkook’s raised eyebrows and brown eyes rounding up, he continued. “I wanted to get a better grasp on understanding society, so I can write better lyrics and try to integrate that into the music writing itself, you know?”

Jungkook nodded, fascinated. So he was cute and smart. And captivating. The interview didn’t really seem like one; it was so easy to fall into conversation with Namjoon that he did not notice time passing, and soon enough they were cut short, remembering they still had classes to attend.

“Alright, Jungkook. You don’t seem like a serial killer, so how about you visit the apartment to see if you like it?”

Jungkook choked on the last sip of his drink, and he really wanted to answer that he did not need to see the apartment to know he liked him, but he managed to catch himself before letting it out. He knew what Namjoon was seeing right now: his eyes wide open in shock, maybe even a light blush on his cheeks? His ears certainly felt hot. Dear lord, he needed to get a grip on himself.

“I’m not a serial killer, I promise. I’m a law abiding citizen. When are you free? I have classes the whole day today, but I’m free around lunchtime.” Jungkook wanted to dig a hole and hide right in there. Did he sound too eager?

“The sooner the better, but wait,” Namjoon stopped midway while getting up, looking very serious all of a sudden, “I forgot a very important question that might change my mind.”

Jungkook inhaled deeply, dreading the question that was about to come. Did he seem too forward and let the other man know he was into him? Would that be a deal breaker?

“Can you cook?”

“Ah… yes?” Jungkook was caught by surprise, confusion stamped on his face again. “Yes, I can. The basics at least.”

“Oh great! I can’t cook to save my life and I can’t really afford to live on take out anymore, so… we can work something out with that for sure!” He laughed, those dimples adorning his cheeks appearing again.

Soon Jungkook would learn that not only could Namjoon not cook, but he was actually a disaster and walking hazard in the kitchen. The man didn’t even know to properly hold a cutting knife to chop some vegetables or kimchi for a simple plate of fried rice. They attempted cooking together one time and that was enough for Jungkook. That was his kitchen from now on, Namjoon would be responsible for other chores but he himself would do all the cooking in the kitchen. Namjoon was even forbidden from boiling water on an electric kettle; that was the level of disaster-waiting-to-happen that he was.

The apartment was cozy and filled with books and musical equipment, and soon enough Jungkook’s filming materials were sharing the same space. It warmed his heart to come home in the evenings after class and see how his camera bag would be sitting beside Namjoon’s headphones, or how his black chunky sneakers rested beside the other man’s boots at the entrance. Whenever he put on or took off his shoes - which was almost every single day of the week, mind you - he would get a fuzzy feeling in his stomach. He would tilt his head quickly to try and shake the thoughts away, not letting himself hope too much. He had no idea or indication if Namjoon even liked men, and he had no idea why he was even wishing for something more.

He was not exactly sure if he could pinpoint the precise moment in time when his adoration had turned into real infatuation with Namjoon. Maybe it was the fact that the older one was a disaster in the kitchen and always thanked Jungkook, each and every single meal the younger one cooked. Maybe it was the look he sported whenever he was engrossed in a book, glasses almost falling off his nose before a finger would softly push it back up (and Jungkook had found out that he only used his glasses comfortably at home, preferring contacts whenever he was out).

Maybe it was the way he always listened to Jungkook’s ramblings, no matter the topic of interest, from deep art films he had to watch (and Namjoon would actually sit down and watch with him) to the new game he’d been playing. Maybe it was the way he would always wish him a good morning and a good night with that dimpled smile. Maybe it was the way he offered to produce a freaking song to be used as a soundtrack to one of Jungkook’s short films. Maybe it was the way they ended up watching the first snowfall of the season together, side by side, looking out of the living room window. Maybe it was the way Namjoon’s left arm enveloped Jungkook’s shoulders in a soft side hug while they watched the snowflakes drift down and when Jungkook didn’t move, those dimples appeared on his cheeks.

But that was the only physical proximity for a while. The next day Jungkook could barely look at Namjoon and spent the day over at Yoongi’s place. He arrived just in time when Jimin was video calling his boyfriend, and proceeded to freak out about watching the first snow of the season together and it had to mean something, right? He put his arm around him while they stood in front of the window, Jimin, what the hell did it mean?

All the while Yoongi watched him with a cocked head, as if he was thinking hard about something, and then an amused smile shaped his lips. Jungkook thought it must have been because he had never had such a strong reaction for a boy - a man - before, especially one who was his roommate. Was it a brotherly hug? Namjoon hadn’t said anything or done anything else, did it mean he was interested in him or did he see Jungkook as a little brother? He was full of questions and asking them to the wrong people for sure, but he did not want to risk the little he had with Namjoon.

It was winter. The small affectionate moments he had with Namjoon were keeping him going, fueling and warming his heart enough to get through the coldest season. They watched movies together on the couch, huddled up under a blanket with cups of tea warming their hands. Going to the coffee shop in the morning for a cup of coffee before classes. Namjoon waiting for him outside the media building with a cup of hot chocolate in the evenings when he had classes later, walking back to the apartment together. Watching Namjoon work, focused on creating the loop he had been struggling with for a while, nothing seemed to fulfill what he wanted. Namjoon watching him work, editing an experimental short film he filmed for a class group project.

The freezing weeks passed like that, with Jungkook cooking different types of jjigae for them, Namjoon being allowed back in the kitchen mostly to keep him company, telling Jungkook he was hungry and will it take much longer?

He visited Yoongi once a week, calling Jimin together so he could freely talk about his growing fondness for Namjoon and get some advice he was keeping for when he thought the timing was right. Yoongi told him he had to create the right timing and he would actually probably be surprised if he acted on his desires. But Yoongi couldn’t know. He still had no clue about the mystery that was Namjoon’s love life, only that he had never taken anyone to the apartment.

Whether he was even interested in that, Jungkook had no idea, but he also had no courage to ask. Jimin suggested he did what he knew best: work with images. So he had been filming small snippets of their lives, their walks to their coffee shop, comfortable scenes at the apartment when no one else was looking but Jungkook through the camera lenses. Sometimes Namjoon asked to film Jungkook too, or positioned the camera so both of them were caught in the recording.

Winter went and spring came. Just as the flowers were starting to blossom on the street outside their windows, Jungkook was getting ready to show Namjoon the film. As he edited throughout the weeks, he noticed more than once how fondly he would look at the older man, and he could almost swear the gaze was reciprocated when he was not looking, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He made Yoongi promise he could crash at his place for a while in case things got weird and Namjoon kicked him out, to which Yoongi had let out a full laugh, something the boy had never heard before, and merely gave him a Sure, almost as if he was mocking Jungkook.

And so the day came. He chose the perfect song, adjusting his editing to fit the rhythm and lyrics, hoping it would express his love. Yes, he would call it love. He fell in love with the good person that the man was, with all the small quirks and imperfections.

He told Namjoon he had something to show, that he had finally finished his project and wanted to him to see. He waited for Namjoon to come back from his day out nervously, heart racing as he made them some tea while the man showered and got into more comfortable clothes. The video was ready to be played and Jungkook almost gave up, but decided this was the time.

He could not hide his feelings anymore.

And so he pressed play and closed his eyes. He had heard that song over and over again while editing, perfecting each millisecond of the final product. His heart was beating almost as loudly as the song, the sound filling his ears, his fingers clenching the fabric of his oversized black t-shirt, a shaky breath leaving his nose when he heard the final notes.

“Jungkook?”

He took a deep breath before opening his eyes, suddenly finding Namjoon’s face much closer than he was expecting, the man’s eyes staring into his own.

“I love you, too.”

The words had barely registered in his brain - although they had been imprinted on his heart - when Namjoon’s pillowy lips pressed softly against his, one of the man’s hands caressing his cheek, wiping at a tear he did not notice had fallen. He sighed into the kiss, relief perpassing his entire body. He loved him. When it finally clicked for him, his brain finally sent the necessary signals that made his arms go around Namjoon’s neck, his fingers entangling in the man’s hair and pulling him even closer. They moaned almost in synchrony when their tongues touched for the first time, Jungkook’s body almost undulating in a way that made Namjoon tug his hips towards himself, making the younger man sit on his lap.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” the older broke the kiss, staring into Jungkook’s eyes, “been waiting for you,” he murmured against the younger’s lips. As their mouths clashed in an open-mouthed kiss, Namjoon pulled Jungkook’s longer hair, making him bend back so he could have access to the expanse of his neck.

Jungkook moaned when Namjoon’s lips pressed onto his skin, licking and biting and sucking and definitely leaving some marks, and all he could do was clutch the older’s biceps, shifting his hips to try and alleviate some of the pressure that was making his pants tighter. The hand that was not entangled in Jungkook’s dark strands made its way down his body, grabbing a firm buttcheek first, then going to the younger’s hip.

“Wanna ride me?” Namjoon asked low on Jungkook’s ear, biting his lobe after.

“Yes, hyung” the word came out as a whine from Jungkook’s lips, his hips starting to move aided by Namjoon’s firm grip. “Your thighs…” he started, but couldn’t continue when he adjusted his hips just right and his hard erection pressed against one of Namjoon’s thighs.

“Yeah? I’ve seen you looking at them, Kook. So go on, ride my thigh, come on,” he said as he flexed his muscles, his other hand joining the one at Jungkook’s hip, one on each side now to help him move, to watch him fall apart.

Jungkook just closed his eyes and surrendered, his hips moving on their own accord, pressing his cock closer and closer to Namjoon’s, soft whines and pleas tumbling out of his mouth as he lost himself in the movements. It was too much and not enough, his erection pressing just right so his skin glided back and forth on the fabric of his underwear stimulated by the older’s thigh, the couch too small for this - yet he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else at the moment. He needed it, and the sense of urgency overtook his body, his movements more frantic as he gripped the older’s hair and kissed him sloppily, letting out his breathy whimper against Namjoon’s lips. He wanted it.

“I’m… I’m close, hyung,” he had to pause to whimper again, a shiver going through his body from how close he was. “I want to touch you, hyung.”

“Touch me, Kook, make me cum with you, hold on just a bit,” Namjoon all but moaned into his lips when one of the younger’s hands reached into his pants.

Namjoon’s cock was heavy and hard and big, yet the skin was so soft in his hand, and Jungkook immediately closed his fist around it, his palm wet from the precum that had already gathered on the bulbous head, aiding his movement. And if Jungkook thought Namjoon’s speaking voice was deep, his mind and ears were certainly not prepared for the low guttural moan leaving those swollen lips, his own hips stuttering, pleasure coursing through his entire body, from the tip of his toes to the ends of his hair, his cock pulsating with release inside his pants as he pressed it against the strong thigh beneath him. He took a second to breathe and enjoy the tingling in his body, but soon noticed his hand had stopped. His gaze met Namjoon’s, his hand moving up and down inside the man’s pants.

“Cum for me, hyung, please,” he begged, wanting to pay attention to that moment of euphoria when it crossed his hyung’s face. And so it did; he watched as Namjoon threw his head back on headrest of the couch, hips raising and fucking into the tight grip around his cock, that heavy moan escaping his lips again as Jungkook felt the thickness of the release coating his hand. But he kept moving, prolonging Namjoon’s pleasure until it became too much and his hand was stopped, a smile stamped on the older man’s face.

There were no words needed for a while, until it seemed to finally click for Jungkook.

“Wait, you said you love me too.”

“I’ve been trying to express it for a while... And your eyes do this cute thing where they widen whenever you think you are caught and should change your gaze, so I noticed you were interested too. Plus Yoongi told me.”

“Wait, what?” He turned his head fast to look at Namjoon again, “You know Yoongi-hyung?”

And so he explained how they’ve known each other for years and how they’ve collaborated in music production before, under the names of RM and Agust D. He’d heard of RM, even heard Yoongi mentioning it more than once, and thinking back, he kept talking about RM more and more after he moved in with Namjoon. Oh. And then he remembered Yoongi’s smirks and head shakes, his certainty that Jungkook would not be turned down.

“You still haven’t said it.”

“I love you, Namjoon-hyung.”

And as Jungkook woke up the next morning, warm and cozy under Namjoon’s blankets, legs entangled and bodies pressed together, he breathed easier, lighter, happier. And he made a mental note to thank Jimin for applying for that scholarship and being so good that he’d gotten it. Maybe he would have met RM at some point, but he didn’t want to think of other possibilities. Living together and falling in love, getting to know each other was perfect for now.

They met in autumn, got closer through the cold days in winter, and their love bloomed in spring.

He could barely wait to see what summer had in storage for them.

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,506

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, major injury, seizure, character death

Chapter Summary: In which the sun rises.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One: morning sun

He has a lot of thoughts on poetry. Poetry, he often finds, is just music without the tune. The rhythm is there already, and the words can be their own melody, if they’re written right, with a shape and a contour and a buildup and a decrescendo. He knows poetry. And poetry can tell stories, too, can tell whole narratives, can show a hero’s journey from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end, because something he noted a long time ago is that in the old stories, the old poems, in the meter and rhyme, there are few heroes who get happy endings. There are few stories that end with the hero growing old and finding peace. The heroes in the stories he was drawn to, the stories that Technoblade told him as they grew from children to lanky teenagers to adults, the heroes in those stories come to tragic ends.

So, he knows poetry.

Is there poetry in death?

Once, he would have said yes. Once, he would have said that death, perhaps, after a long fight, after a struggle lost, after all the world goes caving in and the hero stands alone knowing how far he has fallen, knowing there is only so much further to go, knowing that every cliff has its bottom and every sea its floor, after all of that—once, he might have said that death, after all of that, was the most poetic thing of all.

But he thinks he knows better now. He thinks that death is not poetry at all. He thinks that death is pain and suffering and hurting those who were left behind, and death is an ending that cannot

(is usually not, and perhaps he needs to examine that, too, needs to start considering himself lucky for the second chance that no one else ever gets, because he gasped back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes and there has been so much pain since then but there has been beauty and now revelation)

be revised once the pen has left the paper, and all the best stories are edited before they are consumed.

But life is not a story, and he is a person, not a role, even if that thought turns everything upside-down, forces him to consider everything he thought he knew about the axis on which the world spins.

And dying cannot be poetry, because he thinks he is dying, and there is nothing lovely about it at all. Not now.

(and not then, either, though you were not ready to know it)

“Shut up, you’re not fucking dying,” Tommy says, and with the words come a wash of cold clarity, focus that he clings to desperately. It might be a mistake, because the pain comes back to the forefront, too, sharp and everywhere and overwhelming and he wants to retreat from it, and he thinks he’s going to retreat from it, if it keeps on like this, so it’s a matter of how long he can manage to hold on.

He’s only just recovered his footing. He’s not going to let himself slip away. Not when he’s only just figured out he wants to keep standing.

And then his heart spasms, sending a burst of hot pain ricocheting in his chest, and he is reminded that he might not have a choice in the matter. He tries to draw in breath, and finds his airways blocked. He tastes iron on his tongue. He tries to draw in breath, and he can’t, and his lungs are burning, burning—

“Turn his head,” Tubbo says sharply, “turn it, he’s choking—”

Someone wrenches his head to the side. He coughs, once, twice, and then he’s wracked with them, curling in on himself as best he can, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, his throat, and he can feel the blood spilling from his mouth, pooling in his cheek and splattering on his lips. Blood. It waters the vines, the vines that are turning to dust. The blood vines are watered, and nothing at all happens, because the vines are dead.

The vines are dead, and he is dying, because he’s pretty sure that his internal organs are all giving out.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Fundy says, near hysterically, “why is he coughing up blood, what’s wrong with him—?”

“The Egg hurts you when you hurt it,” Tommy answers, matching his tone, his high pitch, his fear. “The Egg—and I fucking forgot, oh my god, why did I let him do it, we should’ve figured this would happen—”

“Does anyone have pots?” Tubbo demands. “Does anyone have pots, because I don’t.”

“I didn’t grab any,” Fundy says, “it all happened so fast, I didn’t think to grab any—”

“Wait, shit, I’ve got one,” Tommy says. “Here, c’mon.”

He feels hands on him, gently pushing him out of the position he’s folded himself into. And then, he’s leveraged to sit more upright, and he groans, something in his abdomen screaming in protest at the shift. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, so he lets it fall back, and it hits someone’s chest. He’s propped up against someone, and as his vision clears, just a bit, he sees Fundy crouched to one side, hands hovering over him, and Tommy kneeling right by him, tugging on the cork of a potion, so it’s Tubbo that he’s leaning against.

“Here, Wilbur, just,” Tommy starts, and then the glass is being held to his lips. He parts his lips compliantly, and he feels the liquid slide across his tongue, but there’s too much blood in his throat for it to go down smoothly, and in the next second, he’s coughing again, sputtering, trying to suck air into a throat that’s too clogged and lungs that won’t quite inflate. He jerks, and Tubbo’s arms come up from behind him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him steady even as his body tries to escape the inescapable.

“C’mon, Wil, please,” Tommy says, and his eyes are wide and so very blue, and there’s a sheen across them. Tears. He’s making Tommy cry. “Please, you’ve got to swallow.”

He can’t get in a good enough breath to be able to tell him that he’s trying, that he would very much like to swallow, it’s only that absolutely nothing seems to be cooperating with him at the moment. But surely Tommy knows that, knows that he would if he could, and he’ll keep trying, even though—even though everything hurts, and really, there’s no other way to put it than that. Everything hurts, every inch of him, like his skin is being stretched too tight and he’s boiling from the inside out.

(but then again, Tommy doesn’t know the realization he’s just come to, he just sees his brother limp on the ground and fading away before his eyes and coughing up the potion he’s given him, coughing up what might be the best chance they have to save him, and that is what Tommy sees, so is there any wonder that he automatically assumes that)

No. No, he needs Tommy to know. He needs all of them to know that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t want to go, that he’s not giving up.

Tommy presses the potion to his lips again, desperate, insistent. He parts them again, and this time, some of it goes down. A bit goes down the wrong pipe, in fact, setting him to coughing again, but that burn is nothing compared to everything else. He can feel the magic begin to take effect right away, racing inside of him, trying to repair what has been broken and torn apart, and because he can feel it at work, he can feel exactly what’s wrong, can feel it try to patch holes inside of him that the Egg’s death throes ripped open, can feel it surrounding his heart, trying to encourage it to beat in a steady rhythm again, can feel it in his lungs, trying to reopen one that has half-collapsed. He can feel it all, and he knows that even if he managed to down the whole flask, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for this.

Because magic can only do so much. Because magic only goes so far.

Despair pools in his chest along with the fire, but he bucks against it, because he doesn’t want

(he doesn’t want to die and it took him so long to decide as much to understand himself enough to realize it and he doesn’t want to die but his body is giving out even as he fights to stay and this cannot be how it ends, it cannot be, because the world is cruel and the world is unfair but he cannot believe that it would be so unjust as this, so unjust as to take away what he has only just realized he wants to keep)

(but then again, the world does not often listen, does not often care for what is good and what is fair, because the world simply is, and that was a lesson he learned long ago, chased from the podium, the arrow in his back, betrayal and desperation playing a counterpoint melody, and it would never have happened if fairness was something the world at large took into consideration)

(but then again, does the universe not listen, when it well and truly counts? though to say as much would be to imply that it never counted before, when it did, did and still does, still does, because perhaps he can heal if given the chance but he will not forget and neither will anyone else)

to die. He doesn’t want to die. And if ever there was a moment to fight against despair, to fight against despair and win, for once, it is now. It is now.

“I’m trying,” he gasps out, and then immediately has to stop, has to struggle for air again, his chest heaving. He’s shaking, his bones trying to flee his skin.

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know, just come on—” The potion is back, and it’s the last of it, and he manages to force down some more. His vision sharpens, his breathing becoming just ever so slightly easier, but it’s not going to be enough. His heart falters, skips several beats, sends deep pangs shooting through his ribcage, and he knows it’s not going to be enough.

“I am trying,” he insists, as soon as he has enough air for it, “I am, I don’t—I don’t want to go—”

He coughs. Something inside him shifts, grating against other things, and fuck but that hurts, and there’s blood dribbling down his lips again. Hot and sticky. Damning.

“Okay, okay, that’s good, you’re not going anywhere,” Tommy says, “you’re not, we’re not gonna let that happen—”

“Comms are still down,” Fundy says. “I’m not getting through to anyone. Should I—should I go and get someone? I’m a fast runner, I can make it there and back.”

No.

No, no, he—it makes sense, what Fundy is suggesting, but he doesn’t want his son to leave him, because what if he leaves and he—he never gets to tell him all the things he wants to say, all the things he should have said a long, long time ago, what if he leaves and the last that Wilbur sees of him is his retreating back and that’s all, that’s all there is for either of them, what if he dies here and now and he never gets to—

(a scene, imagined: the sun setting over the water, a warm, lazy breeze rustling his hair, and they are sitting side by side, quiet and companionable, and they are fishing, their lures bobbing together in the lake, and all is not fixed and all is not forgotten but there is peace and forgiveness and an opportunity to repair the once-burnt bridge and he wants that he wants he wants)

He moves his arm. The first time, it flops back down uselessly, but he tries again, expends far more effort than he should, and he hooks his fingers into Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy stills, and Wilbur looks at him. Really looks. Meets his eyes and keeps his gaze there. And he doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know how bad he must appear at the moment, but though there is worry on his son’s face, there is something else there, too, something more complicated.

“Wil?” Fundy says softly.

He might not get another chance for this.

“I love you,” he says, and he can feel the words sliding into each other even as they leave his mouth, but he hopes he’s comprehensible. He prays, because he needs Fundy to know this. “I love you, and—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be better this ti—”

His heart squeezes, like it’s doing its level best to collapse in on itself, and he breaks off with a strangled squawking sort of noise. And Fundy makes an odd noise of his own.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re not—you’re going to be fine. Stop talking like you’re going to—you can’t leave again, okay, you can’t do this to me again, you can’t—”

He’s hurting his son. Hurting his son just like he has all along, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless once again. And there is some measure of gladness in it, in knowing that Fundy does not want him dead, but he is hurting him, hurting him when he never wanted to do so again. When all he really wanted was a chance to make things better, if he could. If he would be allowed.

He tightens his grip on Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy’s face shutters, and then he reaches over with his other hand and pries his fingers off, and Wilbur thinks that actually he might die right here and now.

Except then, Fundy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers, clutching them tightly. He tries to squeeze back and only manages a flutter, but it’s enough.

(because all is not well between you and perhaps it never will be, but know this, know that your son still loves you)

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says suddenly, and he can’t crane his neck to look at him, so he has to settle for listening to the words. “If I hadn’t used the totem, maybe—”

“Oh my god, don’t fucking say that,” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur quite agrees, because if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem, then perhaps this would feel very different, and perhaps he would not be terrified of the sensation of his life slipping away from him, because he would have death’s most effective preventative measure resting in his hand, waiting for his heart to still in order to repair the damage. But if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem—and he didn’t see exactly what happened, occupied as he was, but he can guess well enough from the still-present echoes of terror on Tommy’s face—then Tubbo would be dead. And that is not an acceptable loss.

“It’s the truth,” Tubbo insists.

“No,” he forces out, “no, that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be any better—”

And then, his muscles seize. His back arches, and he hears himself cry aloud, and then the world goes away for a bit.

When it all returns, it crashes in on him at once, and he feels disoriented, exhausted, like his brain is seeking anything recognizable, anything to help make sense of what’s happening, and coming up with nothing. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, what’s just happened, and even then, he feels dazed, almost outside of himself. He still hurts, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s lying fully on the ground. There’s something soft under his head. A jacket? There is no one holding his hand, and a low keen rips itself from his throat. But no one’s listening—sound filters back in, and it takes effort to parse the voices from each other, speaking over themselves as they are.

“—going,” Fundy is saying, and Fundy, Fundy, he’d like Fundy to come back and be next to him, but he forces his head to flop to the side and sees that Fundy is standing now, standing with the rest of them. “I’m going, we need help, he’s—he’s literally dying right now—”

“He’s not fucking dying,” Tommy says, “would you stop saying that, he’s not—”

“If you’re gonna go get help, then go and hurry up up about it,” Tubbo is saying at the same time, and—

That’s right. He’s dying. He might have just had a seizure. That’s probably what that was. Caused by—seizures can be caused by traumatic brain things, right? Injuries? Having the Egg fucking around in there probably counts, and even beside that, he felt it die, felt it as the power of the universe flowed through the sword in its hand and tore it apart, even as it took him down with it.

(and there are some things that a mortal mind is not meant for, and surely, surely, the universe in its glory and its infinity is one of them and yet it is in your head always humming always there and it will not leave even when you do not pay it heed)

So that’s that. He’s just had a seizure, and he thinks his body’s gotten to the point where it’s given up on trying to fix anything, because the pain is fading, fading back into numbness, as if all his nerves have collectively decided that this situation is a little too fucked up and there’s nothing they can do, no point in working on it anymore. No point in signaling that anything’s wrong when nothing’s being fixed.

He’s dying.

(he doesn’t want to go)

“No way he gets back in time,” someone says. “You’ve got minutes at most.”

He’s not sure who spoke, but he agrees. Short of a miracle, he’s—he’s dying, and he wants to cry, because he doesn’t want to go. His surroundings blur.

He’s alone. Why isn’t anyone next to him? They’re standing, around him but not with him, talking to each other, voices so frantic and scared, and they’re just kids, and it’s so unfair that any of this is being put on them at all, and he doesn’t blame them for it, of course, but he thinks that if anyone was going to go for help, it should have been done right away. Not now. It’s not going to do any good now.

If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to be alone.

(he intended to die alone, at the end of it all. he intended for himself to be the only one to be hurt. that’s one of the only reasons why he didn’t blow it all to hell sooner, because people were there, people talked him down, people like Quackity, people like Tommy, and they didn’t talk him out of wanting to do it but their presence reminded him that he didn’t want them to be hurt, he only wanted himself to hurt, because that was what was fair and that was what was right)

(but he didn’t die alone, at the end of it all. Phil held him, and he felt a little less afraid under all that relief, and the last thing he remembers from that day is warmth overwhelming, and if he’s going to die again, he doesn’t want to be cold, alone, alone)

He tries to talk, to say something, but he really is having trouble breathing now. His chest rises and falls in quick, short pants, too shallow to supply enough oxygen, too little to support his voice. He tries to move to get their attention, but his limbs don’t respond to his commands.

And then, Fundy’s taking off, running for the entrance, and no, no, no—

He finally manages to meet Tommy’s gaze. Tommy’s crouched by him again in an instant, and Tubbo is, too, grabbing his hand, and he’s glad of it, glad for the contact, but—

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells him. “You’re gonna be fine, Wilbur, Fundy’s gonna go get someone, and they’ll bring more pots, and, and another totem, too—”

His vision is darkening. He wants Fundy to come back. His heartbeats are growing more erratic, slower, weaker.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, voice small, and stops. Tommy goes silent for a moment.

“No,” he says, then, and his voice is a sob. Wilbur wants to comfort him. He can’t move. “No, no, this isn’t fair—”

He knows. He knows, and he can’t do a thing about it.

“I—” he manages, pushing the word out with what little air is circulating through his lungs. “I don’t want—”

He can’t finish.

“I know you don’t want to go,” Tommy says, “I know, so, so you won’t, you won’t, you’re going to be fine—”

“We’re here, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. “We’re right here.”

He’s glad. He wants to stay with them.

“Jesus, Wilbur.” There’s that voice again. Not Tommy’s, not Tubbo’s. Soft and exasperated, and perhaps a little bit concerned, but he’s not sure. His ability to think, to reason, is slipping from his grasp, and one some level, that terrifies him, but on another, he can no longer care. “You giving up?”

The peculiar combination of derision and amusement is familiar. He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Above him, a face hovers, upside-down from his vantage point. Dark hair, scruff, chipped horns, a blue sweater. Schlatt.

How long has he been here?

“Is this how you’re gonna go out?” Schlatt asks him. “Taken out by a—whatever the hell this was? You know, I’m still not clear on that. None of you assholes ever explained it to me. Some kind of demon bullshit. But you’re just gonna let this happen?”

Somehow, his voice cuts through the haze that’s filled his mind, cuts through even where Tommy and Tubbo’s voices have blended together, becoming one with the background. Perhaps it’s the sudden burst of annoyance, an energy he thought he no longer had; of course he’s not letting this happen. There’s just not a whole lot he can do to fight against acute organ failure. Does he look as if he planned this?

“You don’t want to go, though,” Schlatt says. “I heard that. Good on you, I guess. Deciding that life’s worth something after all. I’m real proud.”

He tries to glare at him. He has no idea whether his face is doing anything or not. If it is, he hopes that the boys don’t think he’s mad at them.

“Okay,” Schlatt says. “Okay, you know what? Let’s give this a try. You’re a real jackass, though, you know that? I want to make sure you know that. I need you to remember that to the end of your days. I want you to put it on your tombstone when you do finally kick it. Here lies Wilbur Soot, he was a real jackass.”

He doesn’t understand what Schlatt is trying to say. He’s rambling, as if to himself. And the world is sliding away again.

(he’s trying to hold on but there’s only so much he can do if the entire cliff face gives way there’s only so much he can do to fight against it there’s only so much)

But then, he feels it. The tether. The rope that binds them. The trailing connection. It opens up, pulling like gravity on his heart, and there’s that familiar sensation, energy leaving him, flowing down the line, except this is energy that he truly doesn’t have to spare, and the last embers of his panic flare up again, because surely Schlatt can feel it, can feel that he has nothing to give, that this is only going to kill him quicker, within seconds if he keeps this up and he may not have much of a chance here but he doesn’t need Schlatt making it worse—

“Holy shit!” he hears Tubbo say, backed up by, “What the fuck are you doing?” from Tommy an instant later. He can’t see them. He can’t see anything. Their voices are far away, and he’s trying to reach them, but he’s falling, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop himself, and the void is close.

(and he’s scared)

“Hey Tubbo,” he hears Schlatt say. Distantly, from a long way away, and getting quieter. Everything is dim. He’s floating. “You deserved better than me, kid, you really did.” A pause. “Tell Fundy the same thing, would you?”

His heart beats. Once. Twice. And then does not beat again. He’d be in pain if he could still feel it. But it’s all gone. All falling away, and the void is close, the void is reaching out to him, and he is—

And then, the tether reverses.

Energy flows back into him. What Schlatt took, and somehow, inextricably—more.

He slams back into himself all at once, gasping for air, back arching off the ground as he is hit with—everything. Sensation, in his fingers, in his toes. Pain, in every inch of him, every atom. Lungs that inflate, barely at first and then more fully. Ruptured places repairing themselves. A heart that starts again, and beats, beats, beats.

“C’mon,” Schlatt is muttering, over and over, and though Tommy and Tubbo are still talking, it’s the only voice he can latch onto. “C’mon, c’mon.” His hand is splayed across Wilbur’s chest, firm and solid, pressing down. “C’mon.”

He has sight again. Schlatt is still there, is still leaning over him, strain written on every line of his face, and Wilbur doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t understand where this energy is coming from, doesn’t understand how it’s—healing him. It’s healing him. Though—Schlatt is a ghost, is usually intangible, has to rely on Wilbur’s lifeforce if he wants to do anything, but perhaps that doesn’t mean Schlatt has none of his own. Perhaps it’s just not enough to sustain him. Perhaps it’s not enough to form him a body, not enough to create life from death.

But perhaps it’s enough for this.

Just as he works through it, Schlatt loses his solidity. His hand slips down, passing through Wilbur’s chest, and he shudders at the sensation, tingling and cold. But Schlatt doesn’t pull away, and the energy keeps flowing, and then, Schlatt starts to flicker, his form wavering in and out of reality.

And finally, Wilbur thinks he understands.

(reciprocity is something they both know well, and a connection once opened can flow both ways)

“You’re giving too much,” he says, though he’s practically mouthing the words, so thin is his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Schlatt says, his voice echoing and distant and staticky. Like a snowfall. “Maybe I want you to prove me wrong.”

Prove him wrong?

(a sunny day, flowers twisted absently in his hands, blue flowers to match the blue sweater, blue sky above, and Schlatt’s voice saying, people like us don’t change, and he once believed that, believed that his role was set and there was no going back, and he believed that for Schlatt as well, believed that for the both of them there could be no redemption, but now he isn’t so sure, and he looks into Schlatt’s eyes and he thinks that perhaps)

“Schlatt,” he whispers, and Schlatt gives him a long look. Hard, but not cruel, measured, but not mocking, considering, not dismissive. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little bit of regret there, too.

(regret for the boys they once were, full of life and ideas and hope, tongues sharp and minds sharper, and what good friends they used to be, in the days of their youths when they were free and unburdened and war was a tale from the past and politics a distant future and betrayal a joke and a game, when they were young, when they were young)

“Prove me wrong, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and then, he is gone. He winks out of existence, and there is no shimmer of blue in the air, no feeling of being watched, of eyes on him, and the tether breaks, snaps apart, and he lets out a soundless shout as the backlash hits him, like a rubber band snapping back into place. The energy stops, and there is nothing in its place, and he reaches out, instinctively, searching, and finds nothing. Where the ghost was, there is blank space. Only the world, and no hum of the stars.

(the hum of the stars is in your mind and your mind only and you are alone inside of it and there is no other not anymore)

And he is alive.

“What the fuck,” Tommy is saying. His hands paw at his neck, pressing up to find his pulse, and Wilbur can feel it. The touch is warm. “What the hell did he do to you, that fucker—Wilbur? Wilbur, c’mon, answer me, man, are you still—”

“Here,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. “I’m here.”

He is here. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the vines are still turning to dust above him. He is here, and he hurts, still, deeply and acutely, every inch of him aching, but his heart beats steadily, his lungs expand when he breathes, and there is no catch in his throat, no urge to cough, no churning in his stomach, no convulsions wracking him, and his vision is clear.

“Wilbur?�� Tubbo asks. His voice shakes.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going. I’m still here.”

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, and then, Tommy’s all but on top of him, lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him, knocking the breath right out of him, and Tubbo follows a short second behind, taking up all of the space that Tommy isn’t. He wheezes, but it’s a good sort of wheeze, even if it hurts. It definitely hurts. But he’s hardly about to get them to stop.

They pile on him, grabbing onto him like their lives depend upon it,

(or like his life depends upon it)

and he feels warm, and present, and here. Still here.

(safe)

(alive)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. That’s about all the volume he can manage; his throat feels shredded. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tommy chokes out. “I thought you were gonna die.”

“I thought I was too,” he says. “But I didn’t want to. I fought it, I swear. I don’t want to go. I mean that.” They’re on top of his arms, pinning them. He gives them a nudge, experimentally, but they don’t give an inch, so he’s going to have to settle for not hugging them, apparently. “I’m staying right here. I don’t want to die.”

The words are novel. He thinks he’d like to say them over and over again, just to test them out, to feel the truth in them. He doesn’t want to die, and more than that, he rather thinks he wants to live. What a revolutionary thing it is, to want to live.

“You dickhead,” Tommy mutters, and buries his face in his shirt, which becomes damp in short order. He won’t call him on it.

“Please don’t do that again, though,” Tubbo says. “That was actively terrifying.”

He manages a laugh. The sound of it surprises him. “I’m not planning on it,” he says.

Despite the heavy weight of two teenage boys resting on him, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. Since he woke up in that forest, rain falling on his face, and turned to the arctic, to the snow and the tundra and the promise of family that he didn’t know how to feel about, the promise of a family that was scattered and broken into too many pieces. Since seeing his brother again a scarce day later, standing in the rain, the notes of the guitar fading in the air. Since the Egg, since the prison, since arguments and tentative reconciliations and everything that’s happened between now and then. And the thoughts still lurk. He can sense them in the shadows of his mind, ready to swell forth again, ready to tell him all about what he deserves and how he will be betrayed and how everyone hates him and he hates himself but for now—

For now, in this moment, he wants to live, and he wants to live well, and he pushes aside the whispers of what he deserves and lets himself be, and lets himself love.

(and lets himself be loved)

And then: footsteps. Several pairs, rushing down the corridor. He can’t get a good look, and the boys don’t seem inclined to take much notice, either. But he has a feeling as to who it is, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later, as Fundy’s voice floats toward him, saying, “—bad, I mean, it’s really bad, I really think he’s literally dying, and I don’t, I just don’t—” He sounds as though he’s been keeping up this litany for some time, perhaps more as something to say than anything else, something to focus on, something to distract him a bit. His voice gets closer, and then stops. “Oh my god, is he dead?” His voice pitches upward, and overlaps with a sharp inhalation—Phil’s, he recognizes.

So there’s only one thing to do.

“Help,” he rasps, “I’m being crushed.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he almost wishes that Tommy and Tubbo would get up so that he could see the looks on their faces. Almost, but not quite. He’s content to stay like this for a good while longer.

“Oh my god, he’s alive,” Fundy says, and there is a sharp exhalation, also from Phil.

“You fucks,” Phil says, relief audible. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“I wasn’t,” Techno says. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

Finally, Tommy stirs, lifting his face from his chest and glaring off in the direction of the entrance. He also lifts a hand and flips them off.

“Fuck off,” he says. “We’ve just had a traumatic experience, we have. Are you going to stand there and be—and be twats, or did you bring anything useful? Like—” He stops, looking back down at him. His face is vaguely tear-stained, though Wilbur’s pretty sure that most of it is in his shirt. “Do you still need some pots? Or did—what the hell did he even do, anyway? How did that—you were definitely dying, and then he was there, all, all like that, and then he disappeared and you were better. What did he do?”

“Changed, I think,” he murmurs, and judging from the expression on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t get it. But that’s alright.

“Okay,” Phil says, and then he’s sweeping toward them and kneeling. His wings are on full display, he notes, no effort at all put toward hiding them, and maybe it doesn’t really mean anything, but he can’t help but feel glad. Phil should never have to hide his wings, no matter what condition they’re in. “Alright—here, Tubbo, could you move over a bit?”

Tubbo shifts off of him, too, his breathing unsteady. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed to match Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, just shuffles to the side so that he’s sitting next to Tommy. Phil shoots a quick smile at him, one that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as strained, and then, his hands are on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“You think you can sit up, Wil?” he asks, and Wilbur tries. He tries, but immediately gives it up as a lost cause as all his core muscles cry out in immediate protest.

“Sitting up ability is currently on strike, I believe,” he says, and Phil’s brow furrows in concern, but he takes it in stride. Behind him, Fundy and Techno are both hovering—though Fundy’s far more obvious about it. It is a bit funny how they’re both doing it, though, and the contrast between them, Techno’s bulk and general everything next to Fundy’s fidgeting. Fundy keeps casting glances at Techno, too, nervous ones.

Phil pulls him into an upright position, and he moans, his head swimming for a second before the lightheadedness abates. He hunches forward, letting gravity pull him back down a little; he thinks he’d flop over like a ragdoll if it weren’t for Phil steadying him.

“Where are you hurt the worst?” Phil asks, voice quiet. “Fundy said you were coughing up blood. And that you had a seizure, I’m guessing, judging from what he told us.”

He can still taste it on his tongue. Sharp iron. And his limbs are all very sore.

“A bit everywhere,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure all my organs were giving out on me at once, so I don’t think there’s one specific area that needs attention.” Phil’s expression widens into open dismay at that, and something very much like fear, and perhaps he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about his imminent death in front of the man who he begged to take his third life and definitely emotionally scarred in the process. But he’s still a bit wrapped up in the fact that he’s alive at all, alive and glad to be so.

“Okay,” Phil says, in a way that implies he definitely does not think that it’s okay, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Okay. That’s—okay. Do you think you could get down a regen?”

He pulls a face, but nods. Regen potions have never been his favorite; their magic is rough, unsubtle, far more concerned with function over comfort. But he likely needs one, or two, or several, or as many as his body can keep down, because he is alive, but probably far from alright, still; the continuing ache is evidence enough of that, and he’s fairly certain that if he tried to stand, he would tip over immediately. Phil has no reservations, bringing out a pot from his inventory and holding it up to him, a mirror of Tommy’s actions a minute before. Only this time, he brings up a shaking hand to help support the glass, even if he can’t hold its full weight, and he swallows all of it without coughing.

It gets to work. He winces, and then decides that he’s been on the ground long enough. The energy from the pot is more than enough for him to attempt to get up.

“Whoa,” Phil says, “wait, Wilbur—”

He’s up. His vision blacks out for a second, but when it clears, he’s still up, if woozy. He imagines he might need help to walk any significant distance, but he won’t need to be carried, at least. Which is nice. Being carried is undignified.

“You should absolutely not be standing up,” Tommy snaps, and he raises an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he says, spreading his arms. Once again, he gets the impression that he’s being far more casual about all of this than he should be. He imagines that it will hit him later, the horror of it, seeing Niki’s face twisted in rage, letting the Egg inside his mind once again, almost being unable to pull himself out, almost dying right after he figured out that he didn’t want to. It will all his him, he’s sure, but for now, he would like to walk out of here under his own power, his family by his side, everyone alive and unharmed, the trouble dealt with at last. “I’m alright. I actually mean that. I’m not going to keel over.”

He inhales. Wrinkles his nose. Actually, it doesn’t smell very nice in here.

“Is the rest handled?” he asks, glancing at Phil. Phil is standing very close to him, wings flared, likely ready to catch him if he needs it. He won’t, though he appreciates the gesture.

“We felt the Egg go,” Phil says. “It was like—like the world itself distorted for a second, and then patched itself back up. We were already on our way here when Fundy came to get us. In a nutshell, yes, it’s handled. Dream was still up when we left, but the rest of the Egg people just sort of—stopped. And nobody on our side went down hard. Eret and Puffy got the worst of it, but they’ll both be fine, last I saw.”

“But Dream was still up,” he says. Beside him, Tommy’s shoulders hunch.

“Not for long,” Techno says. His gaze is fixed behind them, on the Egg. “We would’ve stayed if we weren’t sure of it.” His eyes drift to Tommy’s for a second. “The others are handlin’ it. But we can go see.” And then, to Tubbo: “The totem came in handy.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tubbo says, expression inscrutable. “It did. Thank you, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs. “I gave it to be used,” he says dryly. “Let’s not make a habit of it.” And that is a Techno way of saying you’re welcome, of burying the hatchet as much as he is able, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a first step. And then, Techno literally steps forward, and Wilbur is a little too concerned with the way that Tubbo stiffens to notice exactly what his intent is, which is why it takes him by surprise when Techno takes his head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.

Just for a second. But it’s an old gesture, a familiar gesture, and not one that he ever expected to receive again. His breath catches.

(you were kids the first time he did this, the first time he butted his head against yours, impossibly gentle, tender in a way you hadn’t realized Techno knew how to be, and it wasn’t until later that Phil explained it to you, explained piglin instincts and the concept of a sounder and how Techno always, always feels far more than he lets on, and always, always cares, perhaps too much, and he still does, despite everything, he still does)

And then, Techno walks forward, past them, to the husk of the Egg that lies behind, and the moment is over. But it was there. It was there, when it didn’t have to be, when Techno would still be well within his rights to hold back from them, from him, to keep his distance. But here he is, displaying open affection, and he’s not naive enough to think that means it’s all fixed, but—

Hope is a dangerous thing, but he feels in the mood to indulge. And beside him, Tubbo relaxes, and Tommy, just for a second, wears an expression that suggests a bit of hope of his own.

He turns to watch Techno as he roots through the dust, a crumbling, greyed-out monument that barely holds any shape. A reminder, and nothing more. An empty shell, and that, too, will disintegrate soon enough, leaving a room of dust and lava pools, and statues long abandoned.

Techno huffs. Reaches down. And from the middle of the Egg, he pulls out—

“Is that fucking Skeppy,” Tommy states, flat as a fucking pancake.

He blinks. Because it—is. Somehow. Fucking Skeppy. Though he looks different; parts of him are the same blue, but many patches are discolored, greyish white, and as Techno hoists him up, Wilbur thinks he sees red slipping off of him, like runny paint.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Was the Egg Skeppy this whole time?”

“I was wonderin’ where this guy got off to,” Techno says, and throws Skeppy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, apparently unconcerned. “He hadn’t been by to bother me in a while. And BadBoyHalo kind of just sat down and started cryin’ about him, which, I won’t lie, I had no idea how to handle, not my area, but I thought he might be here. Are we leavin’ these two here, or takin’ them?”

Niki and Jack. Both on the ground, chests rising and falling. Free of the Egg, now, but he’s not sure where that leaves them. Though it would likely be—

“Leave ‘em,” Tommy says, startlingly vehement. “Just, we’ll come back, leave ‘em here for now.”

“I don’t think he meant to,” Tubbo says quietly. “I think it just happened really fast.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy says. “Leave ‘em.”

He looks back and forth between them. Gold still dances across Tubbo’s skin. And he wasn’t turned around, didn’t see what happened, but he thinks he can guess, based on everything, based on Niki’s sword at Tommy’s throat and Jack pinning Tubbo to the ground, based on their desperate, misdirected need for vengeance and the way Jack shouted and a boy who would do just about anything to ensure Tommy’s safety. Hears I don’t think he meant to, and thinks about other times, darker times,

(and meaning does not always matter, because intent is washed away in impact, and he never meant to hurt them)

and he decides not to ask. Not now. Not yet. Though it should be addressed. A lot of things should be addressed, a lot of things that they have not, yet, because there has been no time, because everything has been moving at a breakneck pace, but the pace will be slower now. The pace will be slower, and they will have time.

He looks to Fundy. Fundy stares back, not saying anything at all. His eyes are wet.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Fundy murmurs. Quiet enough that he doesn’t think anyone else hears it.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

A start. A first step. There are so many of those that still need to be taken. For now, Fundy’s lips curl into what might be the ghost of a smile.

They will have time.

***

The scene they return to is this: some are standing, some are sitting, all gathered in the courtyard of the castle. The gates lie wide open. The vines are gone. The sun is rising.

There is Eret, standing tall, though blood still runs down from a wound on their shoulder and another long gash on their arm. Their crown is blood splattered, their glasses still perched on their nose, though slipping down, and Wilbur glances away before he can take in something he’s not meant to see. There is Puffy, kneeling, her blood on the grass around her; it is her leg that is wounded, though it is difficult to tell how badly. There is Sam, shifting, uncertain, a lost look in his eyes as his fingers flex around his trident. There is Purpled, on the outskirts, on guard but perhaps an ally, though he has no reason to be. There is BadBoyHalo, sitting, curled into himself, tears running down his face, which is less ashen. The other members of the Eggpire cluster around him, seemingly in various states of shock. None of them move. They are mostly ignored.

There is Ranboo, also sitting. His eyes are wide. Tears are streaming down his face, too, and a bit of steam rises from his skin. He pays no mind. He’s trembling, occasionally gasping for breath through a sob.

There is Quackity, still standing, hands clutched around an axe like it’s the best protection he knows how to have. He wonders if there’s any truth to that; Quackity has never been one for fighting, though he tries.

(he wonders if Schlatt wanted to say anything to him, too. wonders if it would have done more harm than good)

And then there is Dream, lying on the ground. There is George, crouched by his side. There is Sapnap, kneeling, all his weight on the sword piercing Dream’s chest. Dream’s chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, and nobody moves. Sapnap’s face is flushed, tears in his eyes, and whether they are from anger or grief, he can’t tell.

Dark smoke puffs out from under Dream’s mask and dissipates in the air. Tommy makes a small sound, and Wilbur fits his hand into his. Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look away from the sight in front of them, but his fingers curl around his.

Sapnap moves as if to draw the sword out. Dream’s hand comes up and wraps around the hilt, stopping him.

“No,” Dream says, voice a reedy whisper, free of shadow. “You need to be sure it’s gone.”

And so they stay. The only sound is crying, and Sapnap’s harsh breaths, hitched and desperate. Both angry and grieving at once. George’s hands inch forward until they’re curled into Dream’s hoodie. It’s like a painting, the three of them. The sun crests the walls of the castle, and the rays fall on them like a caress, and the smoke stops appearing. The sigils carved into the sword dim.

Dream stops breathing. Quietly, and without fanfare. Like a sigh.

As one, more than a dozen communicators chime.

Tommy exhales shakily.

(is this closure? is this what he wanted? he doesn’t know, but there is no going back, no going back to the old days, when they were all still friends and the war was a game)

(and after everything that Dream did perhaps it feels wrong that this should end so abruptly or that he should not shove the sword in his chest himself for what he did to Tommy or that Tommy should have no say in his fate but at the same time perhaps it is right and perhaps this is the way the circle breaks at last)

Techno sighs, walks over to where Bad sits, and dumps Skeppy in front of him. As if a spell has been broken, Tubbo moves, too, crossing to Ranboo and crouching before him, speaking to him in low tones. Several others start moving, like the world was on pause and has only just resumed. Sapnap draws the sword from Dream’s chest, but he remains there, kneeling by the body.

Dream looks peaceful. Though with his mask still on, it’s impossible to tell. No one motions to remove it.

Tommy presses close to him. On the other side, Fundy steps closer. Against his back, he feels one of Phil’s wings brush against all of them, a promise of shelter, of safety. Perhaps this time, it will be kept.

Just like that, it is over. Can it be over?

(is it ever truly over?)

(but in every ending there is a beginning, and the world still spins, and the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue, and finally there is more reason to look forward than back)

The sun rises. Is rising, has risen, will rise again and again and again. And he’s lived to see it.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #fundy #technoblade #philza #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #deep breaths everybody deep breaths

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