#if you just let me loose on a blank page I ramble

[ihrtsevyn]

HOW TO GET THE GIRL: A LOVERS GUIDE

CHAPTER EIGHT: making progress...(726)

WARNINGS: none :)

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The next few days went by much faster than anticipated and you found yourself perched in front of the double doors of the school library. You raised your phone to your face watching as another 5 minutes went past.

You and Riki had a brief conversation the night before planning out the time and place of your first study session.

An agonizing 30 minutes went past before you finally decided to enter the library, it was quiet and nearly empty as you looked around to find a comfortable spot to set up.

You didn't want to lack faith in Riki but your expectations of him coming to any of your tutor sessions were quite low. Because of his position as star player on the school's basketball team, he was able to easily wiggle himself out of academic trouble without any harsh punishments and barely a slap on the wrist. You couldn't help but envy him a little because of it.

While pouting at the thought of the unfair treatment, your mind couldn't help but wander to him. His quiet charm, his tall, muscular but slim figure, his alluring goofy smile, and contagious laugh..

An unknowing smile reached your lips as you fiddled with the loose thread of your cardigan. You were so lost in your thoughts that you had failed to notice the approaching figure of the boy you were daydreaming about.

The thud of his backpack slamming onto the table startled you from your fantasies as your eyes looked up to meet the worried gaze of Riki.

"I'm really sorry." he quietly muttered out, lowering himself into an apologetic bow. You opened your mouth to refute his apology but was soon cut-off by his insistent rambles.

"I got stuck at the convenience store, I-um wanted to get you a drink and something to snack on but I didn't know what you liked." He reached into his bookbag before pulling out a strawberry cream soda and a chocolate bar.

Your confused and slightly startled expression softened into a grateful one as you reached out for the treats and placed them in your own bag. "There was also this really long line and-"

"Riki, it's fine." You softly interjected, putting a halt to his jumbled mutters. "Thank you, I really appreciate it." you continued with a gentle smile before gesturing to the seat across you.

He hesitantly nodded in acknowledgment before sitting down. Your eyes hadn't left his figure since you were made aware of his presence but now that he was directly in front of you and less jittery you were able to take in more of his appearance.

His chest was heaving in heavy breaths while beads of sweat gathered at his forehead. "Riki, did you— did you run here?" You asked slightly exasperated, knowing that the closest convenience store to the school was a mere 10 to 15 minute walk.

"Is it that obvious?" He asks, a weak attempt of a laugh escaped as he grabbed the rest of his needed supplies.

"Riki, you didn't have to do that. And you could've texted me to let me know you'd be a bit late."

"I know I didn't have to, I just wanted to." He responded while flipping through his notebook. "And I was going to text you but I didn't want to spoil the surprise so I decided against it." he added on, his eyes briefly leaving the blank page of his notebook to connect with yours.

You froze for a moment. You felt trapped by his gaze until you suddenly remembered the impassive act you were supposed to be playing up. Funnily enough, you had already failed when you started daydreaming about him but your ego refused to let him get off as easy as he was used to.

You cleared your throat before lowering your head to your books. "Let's start at page 56." You quickly suggested, The lingering stare from the boy sitting across you went unnoticed as you tried your hardest to shift your focus onto the task at hand.

Riki mentally gave himself a pat on the back at your expression, being a mix of shocked and fondness at his simple yet thoughtful gesture.

"Making progress." he thought to himself before looking down at his own book, failing to conceal the growing smile on his face with his fist.

TAGLIST: @sakiimeo @sakuxxi @ilyjxdz @artstaeh @rosas-in-the-garden @k1ttylvr @stilesks @enhagvrl @yourssincerely-mimi @rizzanna-soda @saursoob @haechansbbg @nishislcve @winuvs @kyrojackson @suhiiiies-blog @rikisgeef @soobs-things @jumigurumino @ssukiyakii @baribaaari @eleanorheartschishiya @rikibun @seunghancore @wonik1ss @sheepgardenbahhhh @rksbae @lukesboo @moomis @luvvvash @conwunder @yvjw @bunnbam

[allastoredeer]

If it's not too much work, could you share what your outlining process is like? I always feel a little lost when I try outlining my fics and I know the process is different for everyone but I feel like it would help to know what others do. Every time I try to google help I get processes for original novel writing, and it doesn't feel as applicable to writing a short fanfic.

I would love to :3

There are actually a few different ways I outline, and sometimes it depends on the length of the fic and how complex the plot is.

I'll use one of my saved radiostatic prompts as an example (it also gives me an excuse to sit down and actually outline it hehe)

So, sometimes just the prompt itself is a good enough outline for me (this is dependent on how long I think the fic is going to be. If it's short, sometimes the prompt itself works and I don't need to go in-depth. I say "prompt" but that also can mean a specific scene in your head that you want to write, or a concept, or even a piece of fan-art that inspired you).

Here's the paragraph prompt I wrote for this radiostatic one-shot/short fic (spoilers, I guess):

So sometimes, just this is enough for me to start writing the fic (my prompts do tend to get a little big because I like to add a lot of detail - about the scene or concept that grabbed my attention - so that I capture all the vibes and emotions that I want to incorporate.

But sometimes, it helps to go more in-depth so I'm not overwhelmed trying to get to the part of the fic that I want to write (NOTE: It is totally fine if you write out the scene/parts that you want to write the most, even if it's in the middle or the end. You can always fill in the blanks after. Or you can just post the scene you wanted to write without adding more. It's up to you).

I like to figure out what scenes happen that lead up to the parts I want to write, so sometimes, I'll make a bullet-point list of chronological scenes, plot-points, and details. For example:

And etc... you continue on until you've hashed out the sequence of events that take place in the story. This doesn't have to be super detailed (it can be really brief and to the point) and doesn't it have to be super clinical either. Just have fun and write down whatever silly thoughts you have in your head.

You bullet-point list can be as simple as:

Alastor goes downstairs to do exercise.

Vox shows up to do the exercise as well (invited by Charlie)

They get into an argument about modern technology.

Vox leaves.

It's really just about putting down the sequence of events starting from the very beginning to the very end. You can keep it simple like the above example

OR

You can make it even more detailed by doing an in-depth summary of the fic, scene by scene, plot point by plot point, until you get to the end (this is what I usually do because it gets everything planned out and on the page, down to the smallest details). For example:

And then it goes on like this until I've outlined the entire fic. You can be silly with this. Just have fun. Let yourself ramble and get all you're ideas out. Don't try to stick to a rigid plan, let the story flow naturally.

Then, once I've finished my outline, I use it as a guide as I write the rough draft. The thing about outlines is that you don't have to follow exactly what you planned. It's okay to diverge or adds things or cut things out. It really is just a loose guide to help you through the events of the story and get your thoughts on paper.

Additionally: You don't even have to fully finish the outline if you don't want to. Sometimes you get half of it done before you want to start writing, and that's fine. The rest of the story will reveal itself as you go.

If I'm doing a multi-chaptered fic, sometimes I'll break the overall idea of the story into pre-determined chapters and summarize it section by section. Or, I'll just be a maniac and summarize the entire fic in one big, super long, super detailed block of text. Another staticradio fic I'm currently outlining is 16,152 words long and I'm not even close to being done. I expected this fic to get super long and complex, so writing it out in a very chronological and detailed manner helps it feel less daunting. AND now I have every plot point, twist, emotional scene, and bit foreshadowing planned out and already placed where I want it to show up in the fic. It's great. It makes me life easier when I actually buckle down and write the rough draft.

Just as a final note, I want to say that everyone's process is different. This is how I outline, but I know it won't work for everyone. It's all about finding what method works for you.

I'll say that one of the most important to do while outlining is simply having fun with it. Make it your hype list. Make every scene you jot down a scene you're excited to write. Make yourself want to write it so it doesn't feel like a chore to slog through.

Best advice I've ever recieved: If you're bored writing a scene, the audience will be bored reading it.

Have fun and write the story you wanna write 👉👉

Hope this helped!

[ohtobemare]

✨ to anyone who bothers to read my stuffs✨

this is just a little update to tell you—i’m going through some stuff. some writer-person things. been actively struggling with this for a few months, now, which is why writing updates from me have all but dropped off. 

writer’s sometimes go through this transition phase of where we’re in our lane for a hot minute but then we hit a brick wall. like, full force, ram-that-f14-right-into-the-wall kinda brick wall. i, personally, sometimes loose the plot and get into this groove where when I sit down to write, it doesn’t feel like me. it feels claustrophobic or plain, messy and just not right. like clothes that “work” but aren’t “it,” that make you just the slightest bit uncomfortable and you think you can deal with it, but in reality, it’s just going to bother you all day and sit right in the forefront of your headspace. 

that’s where i am, right now, with writing. 

for a couple of weeks i’ve been so caught up in trying to sound and write like everyone else that i’ve kinda just…lost the plot. i’ve been pulling at this shirt in all its troublesome places and it still just doesn’t fit right. something is off, and i’m gonna get to the bottom of it. i think i just need to sit down, re-read some of the stuff i was definitely confident in, and clear my headspace on the blank page and just…write. 

there’s so much pressure to perform and please and rack up the numbers on top of everything else i’m currently dealing with in my headspace that writing has become, well—it’s felt like a chore. a fight. like i’m Maverick dogfighting a gen 5, out of ammo and out of options. it’s hard and it hurts; is ugly and making me second guess myself in ways that I haven’t in a long time.  i don’t like it, want it to go away, and i’m gonna figure it out. 

that said, i think i’m going to pull my latest Val piece that I started because while it’s workable, it isn’t up to my standard. yeah, sure, some people have feral-reblogged it and commented, and i am insatiably grateful for that, but it’s a personal thing. if i am not smiling-proud of it and being like, “wow, can’t believe i wrote that!” then it isn’t it, fam. maybe it’s a me thing, perhaps others get it. regardless, i want to work at it more, and make it really shine. 

which brings me to a piece i most definitely want to dive back into: abstracts. my beautiful love letter to Val himself; i as a personal thing, absolutely need to finish this story. it’s been crawling around my head for God knows how long and at mach 10, so it needs to get out on paper. i have so much i want to accomplish with Ice and his art girlie, that it just needs to happen. if i can get back in my lane. 

this is a whole ‘lotta rambling to let you know i’m in a funk. and if you’ve made it this far, thank you for bearing with me. almost 400 followers in this space is wild and unheard of, i can barely believe it. i really wanna get this dialed in so i can do something special for my 400 followers celebration that will inevitably come down the pike. 

anyway, ya’ll are beautiful, sorry for being such a crash and burning writer-girl mess. 

xoxoxo, 

mare

[alakazamboni]

New Work: Dream Dial

Hee hee hee. Hoo hoo hoo. Coming in at just over 16,000 words, the first part of Dream Dial is finally posted. Follow along as Reigen must navigate a dream-like, hauntingly empty world. If you like amnesia tropes, come swing by and take a look.

↓ First chapter included below. ↓

Work was work as always. People would call, Arataka would answer, perform his customer service script, and attempt to land a sale. It admittingly wasn’t the most luxurious job in the world, but it was honest enough. Beat being homeless, anyway.

“And is that all I can help you with this evening?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

“It is no problem, ma’am,” Arataka rambled on. That was another commission in the bag. A nice, extra three-thousand yen. Nothing to sneeze at. “I hope you get to feeling better.”

“Oh, bless you,” the woman gushed.

“Bye, now.”

“Bye.”

With a loose pop and snap of his wrist, Arataka dropped the phone on its hook with a hearty plastic clunk. Some odd little blip of heat was bubbling up in his gut, but Arataka just chalked it up to excitement. He was only three sales away from breaking his previous record. That, in his mind, was cause enough to celebrate.

The phone rang again, and he answered. Recognizing the name on the Caller ID, Arataka flipped through his notebook. He could have sworn he sold something to this guy last week. “Can you hold for a moment, please?”

“Yeah,” the man answered.

He turned through his pages, scanning the column of names and numbers. Ah! There he was. “Are you calling about the order you placed on Thursday?”

“Yes, I am!” The man seemed pleasantly surprised that Arataka had remembered. “I was wondering if I could get it delayed.” Arataka nodded along as the man chatted about the vacation he was about to go on. It sounded nice. Arataka wanted to go on a vacation, too.

“I totally understand, sir,” Arataka said. “I will relay your message to our shipping department. They will call you if they run into any issues.”

“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“Oh, of course not, sir.” Arataka smiled, letting the gesture warm his voice. “Please enjoy your vacation.”

“I will. Thank you!”

“No problem. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

Pleased by the job well done, Arataka leaned back in his chair. It felt good to help people with their problems, and even nicer to think that somewhere out there, he improved someone’s life. Was it a little nihilistic? Possibly. But it was what kept Arataka going.

Just then, out of nowhere, nauseating heat flooded his senses. It swelled in his chest, flowing like magma just beneath his ribs. He sat up in surprise, only to find that straightening his back shot the pain straight into his skull. Hugging his stomach, he leaned forward and groaned heavily.

This was abnormal, right? He held his hand in front of his face, watching as his fingers trembled. Yep. Definitely abnormal. Shit. Was it something he ate?

The phone rang. Arataka eyed it. One more customer, he decided. And if the pain didn’t let up, he’d go to the doctor.

Mind made, he reached out and unhooked the phone from the receiver. “Thank you for calling customer service. One moment, please.” Sitting up as far as he dared, he listened to the caller laugh nervously. It was a strangely familiar voice. Maybe this was someone he’s helped before.

Pinching the phone between his ear and shoulder, Arataka grabbed his pen but paused. The Caller ID read ‘Unknown’. The call back number was blank. Huh. That’s never happened before.

“Okay, sir. Sorry for the wait,” he said, ignoring the way the fever was crawling and settling into his cheeks and head. “Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Uh- it’s me,” the voice answered.

Arataka rolled his eyes, but moved on. “And can I ask what number is best to call you back on?”

“Are you joking?”

Ah. It was going to be one of those customers, then. His head felt like it was being hollowed out, so Arataka decided it would be best not to not argue. “Right. And how can I help you today?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you calling to place an order?”

“No.”

“Then, are you trying to schedule an appointment?”

“…” The caller paused in thought. “I guess so.”

“Perfect.” Arataka got ready to transfer the client. “Can I ask who you’re trying to reach?”

“Um… you.”

Full stop. No questioning up tilt in the caller’s pitch. No uncertainty. It was strange, to say the least. “I’m terribly sorry,” Arataka deflected. “I don’t meet with clients. If you want, you can describe what you’re looking for, and I’m sure I can find someone who can help you.”

“No-no,” the voice insisted. “Here… hold on a moment.”

The phone beeped, and the call ended. Dumbly, Arataka listened to the dial tone for a moment before placing it back on the hook. The fever was fading, and his head was clearing. All but extinguished, the bubbling, churning, furious heat now settled into a tame warmth.

An attack of some sort, Arataka figured. A hot flash, maybe? He’s heard of people getting those sometimes. Staring at the now silent phone, Arataka decided he should go to a doctor anyway… just in case.

[authorkimberlygrey]

Hi! I LOVE your blog, seriously my fav writer blog. How and when, and even where do you write? How do you find the energy to write? I’ve been working on a few WIPs for a few years, and lately I’m wondering if I should just throw all my outlines out the window and just completely revamp my writing practices, because I’ve felt so constructed by the outlines, lately. Much love, adore your stuff 💙

I’m your fave?😭😭 awwwwww ❤❤❤❤❤❤ that makes me so happy! I’m glad you like my blog and I hope you continue to like it. 

On to your questions tho: 

First off, feeling constricted by outlines is a Big Mood, my friend, I used to go into super detail on my outlines, I’m talking I planned out individual scenes and blocked out interactions. Which was a pain when, inevitably, I’d have a Great Idea in the middle of a scene that would make the entire outline pointless. 

I can’t stick to an outline, so I just don’t. I make an outline, sure, but the minute it stops working for me? I just chuck it and make a new one. Yeah, I make a lot of outlines, and sometimes having such a thin outline can get me into trouble because I don’t know what I’m getting into (but that’s easily solved by yet another outline.) 

I do some drawing so it helps me to think of outlines as sketches, its a structure for me to put more detail onto, but its not anything final or permanent.

An outline is there to help you, as soon as it's not doing that, toss it and make an outline that is helping.  

As for your other questions, and tips on revamping your writing process, check  under the readmore because I ramble lol

For those of you in a hurry: 

Be kind to yourself, positive reinforcement will always work worlds better than negative. Give yourself rewards for your victories, no matter how small they are. Make writing a habit! I write at 7 every night, it helps to have a schedule, it trains your brain. Go with the flow, but don’t let yourself go over a waterfall. Take breaks if that’s what you need, but make sure its a break not an abandonment.Find the root of the problem, don’t attack the symptoms.  Find what works for you, don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. You can look for examples that will help you, but don’t compare yourself to others. It never makes you happy. 

I tend to think of myself as a pretty laid back writer. I don’t usually sit down at the computer and pound out 4k words a day usually my total word count when I save and exit is 500 words. Sometimes its less. Yesterday I went to bed with 200 words, it wasn’t a lot of progress, but it was progress. 

The secret, for me at least, is finding the balance between being kind to yourself, but also not letting yourself slack off. 

For me, that means I have to actually try at writing for 30 minutes a night. If I sit at the computer for 30 minutes and come up with half a sentence, that’s fine, that means I need to figure out what the problem is and get through it tomorrow. 

I see a lot of writers beating themselves up for not hitting big numbers every night, even I can fall into that a little bit. We want progress, its natural, and when we don’t make progress then it can be frustrating and it's easy to fall into the temptation of putting yourself down over it. 

Resist that. If you sit down and get frustrated and beat yourself up over writing, you’re not going to want to do it. You’re going to dread sitting down to write every night and as a result, you’re going to procrastinate it more and now you’re writing even less. 

Instead, be patient with yourself. Sit down and figure out why you’re not writing. Are you distracted? Are you not sure what needs to happen in this scene? Are you afraid of it being bad? 

If you’re distracted by stuff going on around you, find a quieter place to write, or get some headphones. Even if you don’t play music. 

If you’re distracted by the internet *cough* tumblr *cough* I recommend Forest, its a chrome extension and app that grows a little tree as you focus and you can use it to plant *real* trees as well, so bonus! 

If you’re not sure where the scene is going, outline it! When I’m stuck I go down a list: What Needs to happen, what do I want to happen, and how do I get those things to work together? 

If you’re afraid that your writing is going to be bad, you have to be a bit sterner with yourself, but that doesn’t equal being mean. Sit down and accept imperfection, sometimes I sit down and I tell myself that I’m not walking away from the computer until I get at least one sentence down, even if it means that I stay up all night. I am yet to stay up all night at the computer. Sometimes one sentence is all that I get, sometimes that one sentence leads to another, and another, and eventually I’ve got a paragraph, or a page. 

And if you’re interested in how I do my writing

I hate working at a desk so I have a comfy chair in the living room that I sit in. Sometimes if its too distracting there I’ll go to my room and chill on my bed to write. Like I said above, 30 minutes a night at 7pm every night unless I’m giving myself a break. I recently discovered the wonders of scrivener and have transferred over to that (Ywriter is a good free alternative btw!) OneNote and Microsoft word made too much of a habit of toying with my emotions ((and sacrificing my outline to the Dwellers of the Void)) so I’ve mostly quit writing there. I do save there though because I’m paranoid about losing stuff. 

My elaborate backup system is as follows: 

Every night after I finish writing I save on the computer and onto my USB. (note that I save every night as a new, dated file all in one folder.)

After every chapter, I save onto another document on my computer and onto Google docs. I used to send chapters out by email as well for an additional back up but I’ll admit that I’ve gotten lazy about that. 

and when a draft is complete its saved in every location and onto another back up USB. 

I’ll admit, I’m paranoid about losing stuff. but on the other hand, I also very rarely lose stuff so who’s the real winner here?

Anyway! Thank you for the question anon! I hope you enjoyed my giant rambling answer and I hope your writing goes well going forward! feel free to message me any time if you’ve got more questions or even if you just want to talk, I’m always up for more friends ❤❤❤

[helloalycia]

The Wrong Lifetime – Three // Wanda Maximoff

chapter two | story masterlist | main masterlist | wattpad | chapter four

author’s note: i have nothing to say except enjoy!

Chewing on my bottom lip, I looked over the shelves at the different kinds of stationary the shop had to offer. I needed a new notebook and some ink since I'd ran low at home, so I decided to come into town to have a look.

A brown leather-bound notebook caught my eye and I picked it up, flicking through the pages. Sadly, they were too thin for my liking, so I replaced it and kept looking.

Moments like this were one of the few luxuries I had to myself, where my mother wasn't nattering in my ear about finding a husband and learning to do something useful other than writing, or where my brother wasn't overshadowing me in everything he did, making me feel even worse about myself. No, moments like this, I could just be.

"Y/N? Is that you?"

And there goes my moment.

Plastering a smile on my lips, I spun around and was surprised to see Wanda approaching me with an equally surprised expression on her face. She really was everywhere, wasn't she?

"Wanda, hello," I greeted as she stopped by my side. "It's good to see you."

She looked good, considering I hadn't seen her for a few days. Maybe once when she'd popped in to say hello to everybody before her date with my brother, but that was hardly a meeting. Now, she looked cheery, eyes sparkling with their usual excitement.

"You, too," she said softly, a smile creeping on her lips. Her eyes fell to my hands, where I was holding some ink. "Don't you have servants to do that for you?"

"Don't you have servants to do that for you?" I countered lightheartedly, eyes flickering to the vast amount of paintbrushes and paint in her arms.

She narrowed her eyes in a playful manner. "Touché."

Rolling my eyes in good nature, I asked, "So, what made you decide to go shopping?"

"I needed some new supplies," she quipped with an adorable smile, lifting her arms which were filled with said supplies.

"And you didn't think a basket would help?" I joked, before turning to grab a stray basket beside the shelves and helping her to put everything in it.

She chuckled, accepting my help, and answered, "Truthfully, I only came for the paint, but then I saw some new brushes I wanted to try, and then there were some new colours in stock and, well, before I knew it–"

"This happened," I finished for her with amusement, handing her the filled basket.

She took the basket from my hands and nodded. "Exactly. I would have sent my servant to get the paint, but last time I did, she came back with the wrong one."

"Oh, the scandal," I teased.

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and it was refreshing to see the shoe on the other foot. I guess I could see the fun in it now – no wonder she teased me often. Plus, she looked cute when she was caught off guard.

"What about you?" she countered, attempting to take the attention off her.

Content smile on my lips, I watched her. "What about me?"

She gave me an isn't it obvious? look. "I told you why I was here. What about you?"

I shrugged, looking back to the shelves. "I just needed some things... and I may or may not get excited when buying stationary."

Her melodious laughter filled the air. "Of course."

"I just don't know which to get," I told her, motioning to the notebooks. "There's so many options!"

She hummed with amusement, stepping by my side closely and reaching out to get a better look. I was acutely aware of her shoulder pressed to mine and tried to stop thinking about it, but obviously, once I told myself to stop thinking about it, it was all I could think about.

"How about this one?" she suggested, picking up a notebook wrapped in a burgundy-coloured sleeve. She was probably biased since it was her favourite colour.

I took it from her grasp as she held it towards me, feeling tingles at the tips of my fingers when they grazed her hand. God, I needed to get a grip.

Before I could look at the notebook properly, I noticed a smudge on her hand, subconsciously grabbing it before she pulled away. Flipping it over so I could see her palm, I saw several smudges of colour and stared with confusion.

"Paint," she explained, mildly embarrassed as she pulled away. "The stuff goes everywhere."

I hid a smile, finding it cute, before looking to the notebook again.

"I like it, but now to see the pages," I said, flipping through them to see if they were thick enough. I hated getting a notebook with flimsy pages that ink seeped through.

"Are they to your liking, your majesty?" she teased, and I looked up to see her tilting her head and watching me through her eyelashes.

"Yes, they are actually," I retorted with a childish glare, before closing it. "Thanks."

She half-suppressed a laugh. "Good. Let's hope it gives you some... vdokhnoveniye."

She paused, scrunching her nose in thought, probably searching for the right word in English. I was too distracted by how enchanting she looked when she did that to care about her struggle to find the word.

"Vdokhnoveniye is like inspiration," she explained, eyes looking back to me after staring up in thought, "but it's something better. It's from the word vdykhat', meaning to breathe."

"So, you want me to get a good breath from this?" I asked, quirking a brow with bemusement.

"No! No." She laughed, running a hand through her curls. "It's like... when you get inspired by something so quickly, as quickly as it takes to take in a breath. Never mind, it's stupid."

"It's not," I reassured her with an appreciative look. "I get it. Thanks. I like that. Russian is definitely a fascinating language."

She seemed glad that I made sense of her ramblings and I smiled, realising there was much more to Wanda than her ability to make me a stumbling mess.

"Have you got everything?" I asked her, glancing to her basket, before quickly adding, "What am I saying? Of course you've got everything. Practically half the store is in there."

She shoved me gently. "Not nice. But yes, I have everything."

I refrained from chuckling at her dismay before leading the way to the till so we could pay. As we took turns, the cashier made conversation with both of us. I knew of him because I'd been here enough times to make a friend, but I was surprised to see Wanda was the same. I was certain I'd never seen her here before. And I'd been here a lot.

When we finished paying, we began to head outside and I decided to speak my thoughts.

"You know, it's strange to think that we've both been coming here for a while and yet we've never crossed paths," I noted. "I mean, unless we have and just didn't know who each other were then."

She shook her head casually. "Oh, no, we haven't crossed paths. I'd definitely remember a pretty face like yours."

I paused, bewildered at her words as they took time to sink in. She seemed to notice as she laughed, holding the door to the shop open for me. I walked outside and she followed after me, eyes glancing at me satisfactorily.

"So, er, what are you doing now?" I changed the subject, recovering from my momentary shock.

She settled with a smile as she answered, "I'm in the middle of adding some finishing touches to a painting I'm working on. I'll probably head back to finish it."

"Ah, the paintings that you talk about but I've never seen," I joked, relaxing under her stare. "I'm starting to believe you're lying to me, love."

She rolled her eyes, though her smile widened, revealing a dimple by the corner of her mouth. "I'm not... You can come with me if you'd like. I don't mind showing you." When her eyes met mine, she quickly added, "If you're not busy, that is."

Humour disappearing, I nodded with surprise. "Sure. I'd love to."

And that wasn't a lie. I was curious to see the Sokovian's work since she seemed to enjoy talking about art so much. Plus, I could appreciate some good art when I needed to and I wondered if hers would fit the bill.

Or at least that's what I told myself when she flashed her dazzling smile my way, making my heart explode with adoration.

—

Just like me, Wanda didn't have a dedicated place to work from because her parents didn't deem her passion an appropriate hobby for a young woman in today's day and age. So, just like I did, she worked in her room and made the most of the space she had.

As soon as we took a step inside, I was amazed by how much stuff there was. Of course there was the expected – a bed, an ottoman, a wardrobe and a desk – but it was as if that was all secondary furniture to the main focus.

Closest to the giant window on the opposite end of the room were several canvases being supported by easels, some painted and some blank. Papers with sketches of literally anything you can think of were taped to the walls, some scattered along the floor and some scrunched up entirely, missing the bin.

Her desk was filled with jars of paintbrushes, oils, pencils, chalk and any other art supply I'd probably never heard nor seen of before. The place was messy, but not dirty. Her bed was made, the sheets as crisp as could be, her books were lined up neatly, her paintbrushes all had a perfect spot. It was clean, but it was a giant mess, and it was the most beautiful mess I'd ever seen. I refused to believe art was merely a hobby for her when it seemed like her room was dedicated to it.

"This is your room?" I asked with disbelief, eyebrows raised.

Clearly mistaking my amazement for critique, she dumped her newly purchased art supplies on her bed before rushing to pick up some loose papers and canvases from the floor.

"Yes," she squeaked, attempting to kick some papers under her bed as she straightened up sheepishly. "Sorry for the mess. Believe it or not, it does follow a system."

I laughed wholeheartedly, heading further into the space to where her makeshift studio was. "Wanda, you don't need to apologise. This place is amazing."

She snickered, glancing around at everything. "You think? I'd love something more – a real studio – but of course, women aren't supposed to have hobbies apart from pleasing their husband and hosting dinners every other week."

The last part she said with a hint of bitterness, clearly repeating what she'd been told before, no doubt by her parents. I was surprised by her vulgarity, but I wasn't in disagreement. She was absolutely right and it was such a shame because women were so much more than their husband. Too bad society would never see that.

"My father only allows me this... sanctuary," she finished with a sigh, before her hand rested on her desk. "It's not much, but at least it's mine."

"Well, I love it," I told her honestly, making her smile as she looked my way. "Can I look around?"

She waved her hand. "Of course. Nothing's off limits,  but do be generous. My ego is easily bruised."

I chuckled at her joke and she flashed me another smile before grabbing her neglected art supplies. As I helped myself to looking around at her work, I heard her rustling around behind me and glanced her way, seeing her making herself comfortable on a stool before a particular canvas. I presumed it was the piece she was working on that she mentioned earlier and got back to my browsing.

She was extremely talented, not that I had any doubts to be honest. There were her bigger pieces, the extremely detailed ones, that she'd painted of grassy landscapes. Some were green full trees with falling leaves, some were cherry blossom trees with pink blossoms floating in the air, some were buildings overgrown with mother nature. I recognised none of them, but they transported me elsewhere like a nostalgic reminder of being a kid and playing in the garden with my mum. Even now, I helped her do the gardenening, but I'd never really appreciated my surroundings until I saw Wanda's work.

And those were just the huge pieces. She'd done sketches that were taped to the wall, to her desk, floating out of sketchbooks. Some were plans for bigger pieces, others were daily observations, all of her surroundings. She didn't draw people, I noticed, it was mainly scenery. But it was all stunning and it brought a smile to my lips as I imagined her producing all of this in her own little sanctuary, as she called it.

"You've been quiet for too long," she called out jokingly, after a while of me perusing her sketchbooks.

I looked up from my seat at her desk, seeing her focused on her painting, but an amused smile ghosted her lips. The sunlight from the window was hitting her perfectly at the moment, and even from where I was sat, I could see the flecks of gold shimmering in her eyes, matching the auburn streaks in her hair. The breath got knocked out of me momentarily, and I almost forgot that she'd said something.

Clearing my throat, I returned her smile. "I'm admiring your work, Wanda. You're bloody talented."

She lowered her paintbrush and gave me an incredulous look. "Tell me what you really think, Y/N."

I grinned, laughing slightly. "I am! I genuinely think this is amazing."

She pressed her lips together, still reluctant to believe me, but she nodded gratefully and returned her attention to her painting. I didn't fail to notice the pink spreading across her cheeks at the compliment, and my heart fluttered at the sight.

"Would you ever sell any of these?" I asked her, standing up and approaching her side to see what she was working on.

I noticed the addition of stray paint that had made its way to her hands and forearms and it made me smile. I don't even think she realised it was there.

She scrunched her nose up at the idea. "I've given some away to family friends because my parents made me. But no, I don't think I'd sell them." Something seemed to make her snort with amusement, then she said, "Nobody would buy them anyway."

I frowned as she sighed, her shoulders sagging at the thought. It was horrible to admit, but she was right. Female authors – questionable, but sure, they existed. Female painters? Let's just say that it was easier to be successful if you worked under a pseudonym and pretended to be a man. Which she clearly wouldn't do, or at least her parents wouldn't allow her to do. Sadly, Wanda Maximoff was in the wrong lifetime.

Hoping to cheer her up, I stood by her side and admired the strokes she made with her paintbrush. "If it's any consolation, if we were in another lifetime where I actually made money, I'd buy them."

She glanced at me, partially disbelieving my words, partially intrigued. "Seriously?"

I nodded with certainty, eyes flickering between hers and her painting. "Seriously. All of them. I'd buy every single one."

She looked away, swallowing hard, then a soft, barely noticeable smile appeared on her lips, and I was glad I'd said the right thing.

Focusing my attention on the painting again, I saw it was a stunning view of a stream, and the way she'd painted it made it seem like it was flowing off the canvas. Her last minute touches, adding white flecks of oil paint on the water, managed to bring the piece to life without any effort. I was amazed at how someone could make nothing turn into something so easily.

"Where is this?" I asked curiously, not recognising the scene, and also wondering where she'd gone for the inspiration since we lived in a busy town that didn't have water sources nearby.

She pointed to her head with the end of her paintbrush. "Up here."

"You made this up?" I asked, surprised for the millionth time since arriving.

"Uh-huh." She tilted her head to study the piece, whilst saying, "I usually paint what's in the garden. Sometimes what I see in town is good, too. But I really wanted to paint water, and apart from the constant rain we get, there is none. So, I made it up."

I was impressed at her ability to make up something like this, but also slightly confused. "Why don't you just visit Blackpool? There's a beach – water, sand, pier, everything. And it's not too far from here. You could make it a day trip."

She shrugged, distracting herself with dipping her brush on her palette. "I don't want to go by myself."

I probably should have recommended she visit with my brother. You know, the man she was engaged to? But my eagerness got the better of me, and I ended up saying, "Maybe we could go together. If you want."

She looked up, a slow smile forming on her lips. "I'd like that."

I mirrored her expression, nodding slightly. "Great. I'm sure we can arrange something. Promise."

She held my gaze for a second longer, saying, "I'll hold you to that, milaya," before looking back to her painting.

"What does that mean?" I asked suddenly, my mind clearly not controlling my words today. "You keep calling me it."

She chuckled, leaning forward to get a closer look at her work with her paintbrush. "Darling."

"Pardon?"

She shook her head, glancing at me with amusement. "No, Y/N. It means darling."

I swallowed awkwardly, certain my cheeks were as red as they felt warm. I wasn't sure what was more embarrassing – that I'd responded to her calling me darling when she hadn't, or that she'd been calling it me this whole time without me knowing. "Oh."

"Pull up a stool," she changed the subject, though my mind was still racing at her revelation. Had she called Y/B/N that? I couldn't recall. "I'll show you how to paint a little if you want."

Dazed, I did as she said whilst chewing on my lip with thought. She watched me, grinning from ear to ear, but said nothing. Was it normal for my heart to flip-flop in my chest like it was? I couldn't tell anymore. And when she grabbed my hand without saying anything, my hand felt like it was on fire with her touch.

The tip of her paintbrush swiped against my inner palm, her soft fingertips holding it up. Every area that her finger touched was burning, sending tingles up my arm and leaving me paralysed. Good thing I was sat down.

"There," she said like it was obvious. "Now you're an artist."

Blue eyes met mine excitedly and I gave her a small smile in return, hoping that these strange thoughts and reactions would disappear soon enough. Because this was definitely not appropriate.

—

My dreams were never anything worthwhile.

For someone who had a creative mind and could string sentences together to create a story I was proud of, my subconscious was the opposite. It was dry and boring and I rarely remembered my dreams unless they were scary enough to wake me up. But this time, this was a dream I was certain I'd never forget...

As with all dreams, I was unable to control what was happening. I was myself, observing from a first person point of view like it was real, but I had no control over my words or actions. Everything was predetermined, like a script I was forced to follow.

So, in this particular dream, I was sat in the back of a carriage, wearing a dress that was fancier than my usual taste. One hand was clutching my purse and the other was in someone else's hand, the person playing with my fingers soothingly.

"We're stopping now. Are you ready?"

It was Wanda. I had no idea why she was in my dream, or why she was leaning into my side comfortably, or why she was playing with my fingers like she did it all the time. I just knew that it shouldn't have been happening.

"Yeah, c'mon," I said with a smile, following my dream's script.

I intertwined our fingers and raised them to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. She smiled with adoration and allowed me to lead her out the carriage quickly. We were at the theatre and the first thing I thought was that my mind was creating a date similar to the one she shared with my brother. Oh, God, this wasn't good.

"Promise you've got the tickets?" she asked as we walked inside, hand in hand.

In my dream, nobody around us seemed to care that we were together, that we were two women showing affection and simply existing in a way more than friends. As wrong as I knew it was to dream of my soon-to-be sister-in-law like this, my mind was at peace, knowing I could be myself in my dream state. I didn't have to hide my identity and it was liberating.

"No, I decided to leave them at home," I answered her sarcastically, smiling.

She squeezed my hand and tugged me close, stopping me from walking any further. Her face scrunched together with a feigned annoyance.

"You don't need to be mean," she mumbled, eyes peering into mine, and my heart raced at the contact of her body pressed to mine.

Grinning, I pressed a kiss to her nose. "I've got them right here, love. Now let's go before we're late."

The dream didn't have a clear transformation. I just knew that one second I was staring at Wanda and the next I was sat beside her in the theatre, waiting for the lights to go down.

"Here," I said, passing her the programme for the show that was in my hand.

When I looked down at it, I was surprised to see a wedding ring on my left hand. Huh.

The lights dimmed when Wanda looked my way, green eyes bright in the dark. She shrugged, grabbing the programme and tossing it over her shoulder to the (thankfully) empty seat next to her.

"Looks like I missed my chance," she said, referring to the lack of light.

I opened my mouth to counter her words, but she didn't give me chance to as she pressed her lips to mine, hand raising to hold the back of my neck and pull me closer. Real me was freaking out, wondering why the hell I was allowing myself to have such thoughts about the girl who was going to marry my brother. And dream me was melting into her touch, shivering at her warmth and the way she began to suck my bottom lip.

"Wanda," I breathed out, pulling away breathlessly, but she continued to hold me close with a stifled grin.

"Isn't that why we got these tickets?" she said jokingly, eyes meeting mine.

My heart raced as she did, the simplest of glances making me weak in the knees. I was beginning to learn that her eyes were irresistibly beautiful.

"Right," I found my words, smiling in agreement as my eyes flickered to her lips.

They were painted red tonight, slightly smudged from the abrupt kiss she gave me, and I could only imagine the state of my own lips.

"We can watch the play now," she whispered, and I just about managed to tear my gaze from her lips to see the entertained look in her eyes.

I hummed in response, not trusting myself to say something comprehensible. Her lips curved into a smile and she linked our arms before settling into her seat, head leaning on my shoulder. I leaned mine on top, kissing the top of her head gently before also getting comfortable.

When I woke up, I didn't remember the rest of the dream, or know if there was a rest of the dream. I opened my eyes and found myself laying in my bed alone, tired and in the dark. It was still nighttime and my mind was foggy with fatigue. It took a moment for me to remember what I'd just dreamed. And then it hit me.

I liked my brother's fiancé.

[atelierwriting]

on outlining: the blank page.

by popular demand from the dog stealing my pillow

outlining is, depending on who you ask, a vital step in the writing process. of course, it all depends on whether or not you are a plotter at all. if you’re a pantser, or somewhere in between, outlining might be a little difficult to get anywhere with. in this multi-part series, i’ll talk about a few different methods i have used as well as some pointers.

first, let’s begin with some general outlining tips to get you started!

THE BLANK PAGE: cultivating your idea.

might seem a little daunting at first. but this is where your story begins. write down any ideas that you might have for your wip. maybe that just means the concept, the premise, or a singular scene that you really want to happen. it doesn’t matter--write it down!

how many povs do you want? first or third person? omniscient or limited? alternating povs or something else? consider why you want this specific type of pov and how these characters can contribute to the story.

think about story structure. how do you want to divide the story up? of course, you don’t actually have to stick to it, but this might help you get started.

what tropes do you want to include? found family, there was only one bed, enemies to lovers, etc. 

maybe make a few graphics, or scroll through youtube for those 1 hr long playlists that just give you vibes. it might help immerse you a little bit more in your idea. make sure you save these things for later--if you get stuck, these could dig you out of a hole.

ramble to friends!! having someone to talk to and bounce ideas off of could get your idea to grow even further.

remember that anything you do at this point is subject to change. you’re loosely setting up how you want to tell the story, as well as figuring out how it’s going to be written. if you find out later down the line that you want to do something else, nothing is stopping you from changing it! 

depending on what sort of writer you are (plotter, pantser, or somewhere in between), the beginning steps of an outline may differ. when i’m putting together my more cohesive outlines, i write a lot more in the first step. when i’m just writing to chase after inspiration, wherever it might take me, i usually just write down a few thoughts that i know have to happen. it all depends on what’s comfortable with you!

what’s next: loose outlining for pansters.

want more outlining tips? send me an ask here!

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Rain Check

Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader

Word Count: 2860

Warnings: Lots of sexual tension and pining and ~heated glances~ or whatever but no actual sexy times. Author plays fast and loose with the canonical details of Spencer’s teaching sabbatical, as well as the logistics of grad school. There’s a teacher-student thing going on, but no weird age gap or whatever. Excessive objectification of Spencer’s hands, because really, what else do you expect from me? 

A/N: For the “mutual pining” square on my @cmbingo​ card! 

You trail off. Spencer’s staring like he’s waiting for you to say something else, even though you’ve been rambling for a while now. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. 

“For what?” 

“You probably didn’t need to know all of that.”

He blinks, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. 

Something about him makes you want to open up; it’s been almost an hour of nonstop conversation, and you haven’t told him what you’re studying or even where you’re studying, but you feel like you’ve known him for years. You’ve talked about your favorite books and assorted high school traumas. He keeps insisting he’s not good at small talk anyway. 

“I really like listening to you talk,” he says, soft and sweet. “I just… I like watching you talk, too. I noticed your eyelashes and — and I got distracted.” 

Your cheeks feel hot, suddenly. You know the feeling. 

“Oh,” you manage.

There’s something about his hands; they’re just very fucking distracting, and every time he tucks his hair behind his ears, you lose your train of thought. It doesn’t help that he keeps absently-mindedly twirling a pen as he talks, long dexterous fingers moving with precise little movements, and — yeah. Distracting is putting it mildly. There’s this constant low flicker of want in your gut. 

“It’s been a long time since I enjoyed myself this much in a bar,” he admits, with a self-conscious little half-smile. 

“Me too.” 

Probably helps you’re not actually inside the bar. You’re tucked in the corner of the deck, leaning on the railing, and even though it’s crowded, you’ve barely noticed your surroundings. Every time you look at him, the rest of the world feels distant, like one of those perfect movie moments where the crowd parts and the hero and heroine walk toward each other in slow motion, meeting in a spotlight as everything else fades away. 

It’s just… those moments don’t happen, not in real life and certainly not to you. It’s never as simple as that: see — want — have. 

You can’t help but hope that this time might be different. 

Spencer’s smiling, and the way he looks at you with those big soft eyes makes you feel like you’re standing in a spotlight. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. It’s just unusual, this jittery, excited, not-exactly-stage-fright thing happening in your chest. 

You have to remind yourself to breathe. 

The pause stretches a bit too long, and in an effort to fill the silence you blurt out, “What are you thinking about?” 

He hesitates, and his tongue slides along his lower lip, drawing your attention to his plush pink mouth as he says, “I was thinking—”

“Spence! There you are!” someone says loudly, and you’d be embarrassed by the way you jump, startled, if Spencer didn’t do the exact same thing. 

“Hey. Emily. Um… what’s up?” His voice cracks. He looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar; it’s flattering and oddly endearing. 

“We have a case.” The woman seems to be holding back a smile as she glances apologetically at you. “Meet you up front.” 

Spencer is visibly disappointed as he turns back to you. He gives you a helpless sort of shrug, and for a second, neither of you say anything. 

Your throat feels tight as your eyes lock on Spencer’s parted lips again. It’s been such a long time since you felt this drawn to a person; his closeness feels hypnotic. 

“I’d like to see you again,” he says shyly. “I — can you—” 

“Phone number?” you supply. His hands flutter and his eyebrows rise, like he forgot, for a second, that cell phones exist. Then he pats his pockets, pulls his out, and passes it to you. Once your number is saved, you give it back with a small smile. 

“I’ll probably be out of town for a few days, and then — maybe next weekend,” he says. 

“I’d really like that,” you admit, trying to make yourself take a step back. “This was — yeah. I’m glad I met you.” 

“Spencer!” someone says, from the door, and he waves them off without turning to look. 

“Earlier, when you asked—” He pauses, frowning, shifting his weight like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I was thinking about how much I’d like to kiss you.” 

His voice is soft and husky, and it cracks on the last word like maybe his throat is tight too. You feel hot all over. 

You never even shook hands; there’s been no physical contact whatsoever between the two of you, and now your head is spinning with the urge to reach out, to touch, to get closer... but it feels like you missed your opportunity for that — it doesn’t feel right, not when you know it’d be over much too quickly. You can tell Spencer feels it too. 

Once two magnets snap together, it’s a lot harder to separate them. 

“Rain check on that,” you say breathlessly, and he nods, raising one hand in an awkward wave as he steps back. 

-

This is Spencer, by the way. I’m really glad I met you.

The text comes in just an hour or so later, when you’re sitting in the cab on your way home, and you smile so wide it feels like your cheeks might split with it. 

-

The giddiness lasts until Tuesday morning, when you walk into the first session of your six-week-intensive graduate seminar and see Spencer at the white board, writing down page numbers for your reading assignment. 

Your eyes lock, and there’s another of those moments where you can’t see anything other than him. It’s not so pleasant this time, though. 

Spencer drops his pen, and you promptly forget how to walk, stumbling and spilling coffee down your front. You curse so loudly that the rest of the class turns to stare at you. 

To add insult to injury, the only open seat is directly across from Spencer’s. 

Fantastic. 

You spend the next hour and a half trying very hard to avoid eye contact, and for the most part, you’re successful. He doesn’t seem to want to look at you either. 

You do sneak one glance, though, and he’s just as pretty in the harsh fluorescent light of the classroom as he was in the golden glow of the bar lights. It seems really fucking unfair. 

If it were any other class, you would consider dropping it, but you were lucky to get a spot; this is big for your resume. It’s a special, one-time-only class, and your advisor had described the guest professor as “a genius, and one of the leading names in his field.” 

...fuck. 

Spencer dismisses the class. You start packing hurriedly, convinced he’s going to ask you to stay back, but you get out the door without incident. You’re already halfway down the hall when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 

Can we talk? 

It’d be so easy to lie, say you have somewhere to be, put the rejection off for another day, but instead you take a deep breath and turn around. 

Spencer is sitting right where he was, except now he’s cross-legged in the chair, twirling a pen and frowning at it like it contains the mysteries of the entire universe. He gives you a twitchy attempt at a smile, eyes wide with worry. 

You move closer, sitting down next to him, trying to ignore those fucking fingers as he plays with the pen. This would be a whole lot easier if he would stop doing that, because it’s just like the bar — the same hot, fluttering sensation low in your belly, no matter how much you try to ignore it now. 

“I thought you worked for the FBI,” you mumble and he lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. 

“I do,” he says ruefully. “I just — also teach, sometimes?” 

“Yeah. I got that.” 

His tongue does that slow swipe across his lower lip. You bite your own lip, trying not to stare, and Spencer drops the pen with a clatter. 

“Sorry,” he says, shoving both hands through his hair. “I’m so sorry if I — if this is — is this going to make you uncomfortable?” 

You frown, looking at him blankly for a second, because that was so not the reaction you expected. “Uncomfortable?” 

“Knowing that I — that I’m attracted to you? I’m aware of the power imbalance inherent in the situation and I promise I would never—” 

“Present tense?” you blurt out, and Spencer stops, blinking at you. 

“Well… yes. I thought that was obvious. I meant it, you know; I don’t just meet people like that,” he says, agitated. “It’s usually difficult for me to talk to strangers, and you’re — you’re just — yes. I’m attracted to you.” 

“I figured you would think I was immature, and — I mean, it’s such a fucking cliche,” you laugh, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I usually try to avoid modeling my life on Van Halen songs.” He gives you a blank look and you add hastily, “Never mind. Point is, a student with a crush, throwing themselves at a professor? Seems like a recipe for embarrassment.” 

“Oh,” he says, as a smile spreads across his face. “So… maybe after the class is over, we could—” 

“Yeah?”  

Spencer is blushing. Jesus pogo-jumping Christ, you want to kiss him. 

“It’s just six weeks. We’ll keep it strictly professional — appropriate — for six weeks.” The words are quiet, all husky and promising, and you can’t tell whether it’s intentional or not, but something about that tone sounds very fucking inappropriate. “And then… we’ll take that rain check.” 

You nod and clear your throat. “You’re on.” 

SIx weeks, two classes a week, ninety minutes per class. Easy enough. 

-

It’s not easy. Not in the fucking slightest. 

Part of you wishes he could be a bad teacher, or something. If he was boring — if he had an obnoxious laugh — something. Instead, every goddamn minute spent in his classroom seems like another reason to fall for this guy. 

And yeah, sure, he’s pretty. You catch yourself staring, sometimes: his long lashes, the hint of gold in his eyes, the sharp angles of his jawline, the messy hair… and you’re not the only one. It seems like the entire class is crushing on him by the end of the second meeting, boys and girls alike, and maybe you would make fun of the Indiana Jones-style lash-fluttering that’s aimed his way if you weren’t guilty of doing the same thing yourself. 

Once word gets around that there’s a cute new professor in the criminology department, rumors start to fly left and right. You’ve heard other students talking about him, speculating about the apparently “way more badass than you’d think” Doctor Reid. You hear stories about how he got shot once — was kidnapped and tortured — overdosed on heroin — saved a train full of people by talking down a lunatic with a gun — hooked up with a movie star — went to jail for murder — you name it, every story more far-fetched than the last. 

Well, he did mention getting shot one time, but you’re pretty sure the rest are too absurd to be true. 

Either way, it’s not the looks or the legends that have you hopelessly head-over-heels. 

It’s the way he lights up when he gets started on a subject that interests him. It’s the joy in his expression when a student asks a good question, or when they draw the right conclusion; his smile is bright and brilliant every time. 

The first time one of those smiles is aimed in your direction, along with a half-shouted, “Correct!” and an excited wave of his pen, you’re just about blinded. It quickly becomes one of the driving goals of your day-to-day life: make Spencer smile. 

He’s beautiful, in those moments when he’s grinning and enthusiastic, but the quiet moments are even worse. 

Sometimes he stares as you work your way through a train of thought, eyes glinting as he fixes them on you with a breathtaking intensity and this fierce pride. Sometimes, his voice is firm and sharp, and sometimes when he says things like, “Yes, exactly like that,” it sounds so much dirtier than it should. 

Sometimes — sometimes — once or twice or a dozen times — you fantasize about that voice. You’re only human. 

You never realized there was such a thing as a “praise kink,” but… yeah. That about sums it up. 

At first you worry that he’ll lose interest: that you’ll say something stupid or he’ll find someone else, because in your experience with men, they don’t wait around for six hours, let alone six weeks, once they’ve realized they can’t immediately have what they want. Instead, it only gets worse as the weeks pass. 

It’s nothing obvious, nothing that could be labeled as inappropriate — you still haven’t touched Spencer, not so much as an accidental brush of his hand against yours when he passes back a graded essay. It’s just that his gaze lingers, whenever he looks in your direction, just a moment longer than it would on anyone else. Every time your eyes meet, you have a hard time remembering that the rest of the world exists. It might as well just be the two of you. There’s this heat between you, this crackling electricity, like touching a live wire every single time, like you can’t pull yourself away to break the current. 

It’s the longest six weeks of your life. 

-

“That’s our time,” Spencer says, glancing at his watch. “I’ll get your essays marked and returned to you before break, and on Sunday evening, I’ll submit your final grades, at which point—” His eyes flick to you, and you bite your lip. “— my responsibilities as your professor are complete. It’s been a pleasure.” 

-

“Hi,” Spencer says, without preamble, when you pick up the phone on Saturday evening. “This is — um. This is Spencer?” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning so hard you can barely say, “Yeah, I know.” 

“Right. Um… where are you?”

“Just dropped off a few library books.” 

“I got grades done a little early,” he says hesitantly. “Do you want to… meet me at my office, maybe? We could go out for dinner?” 

You’ve never been there before, but you know where it is. Open office hours with Spencer always seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, because your self-control only goes so far.

“Sounds good,” you say, voice strained, heart racing. “Be there soon.” 

You walk fast. 

The building is mostly deserted, at this hour, and as you walk quickly down the hall, the catch and release of breath in your lungs seems too loud for your quiet surroundings. 

You might be panicking a little bit. There’s still a part of you that’s just waiting for him to change his mind, to realize how dorky and awkward you are, to find someone more polished or accomplished or… something — fuck, this seems to good to be true. 

Spencer has one of the old, cramped temporary offices used by visiting professors, and even though he’s only been here for a month and a half, he’s amassed quite a collection of books in the small space. When you step through the open door, he’s got his sleeves rolled up as he places a couple books gently in a box. He runs his hands through his hair with a sigh, making it even more hopelessly touseled. 

“Hey,” you say, and he turns around, wide-eyed and nervous for a moment before a smile — one of the brilliant too-bright ones you’ve become so fond of — transforms his face. 

“Hi! Um, I’ll come back tomorrow to finish cleaning, I was just — we could go out, I don’t have to — dinner? Are you hungry?” He picks up a pen from the cluttered desk, twirling it like he just really needs something to do with his hands; he seems just as anxious as you feel. It’s comforting, for some reason. At least you’re both awkward dorks. 

“Not hungry,” you say shyly. You close the door, slow and deliberate. 

Spencer’s eyes widen and then go dark, all heavy-lidded and heated. 

He drops the pen, closes the distance between you in two long strides, and cups your face in his hands before kissing you, deep and urgent, dizzyingly perfect. It’s desperate, after all this time, all that pent-up longing and suppressed electricity surging through you all at once, making you gasp at the sharp incredible sting of his teeth nipping your lower lip. 

It’s one hundred percent worth the wait. 

You’re both breathless when he breaks the kiss, but you sway closer anyway, trying to follow his mouth, and blink like you’re coming out of a trance. His lips are red and swollen. 

“Rain check on dinner?” he asks. His voice is suggestive and smoky — there’s nothing appropriate about it. 

When you nod, he just reaches behind you and locks the door. 

.

.

Smutty bit is now here!

.

More CM fic here! 

[hanii-rose]

Ello Ello~! Can I get a garou with a s/o that was kidnapped in the past and has trama now, but acts so chill that you wouldn’t even notice? It’s ok if you don’t want to lol ( fluff please tho- )

Truth

Garou × |Fem|Reader

You sat on the grassy ground of your backyard, knees bent to one side, looking over your garden. The large sun hat you wore casted a calming shadow onto your eyes, allowing you to pick at your tomatoes with ease without the harsh sunlight glaring into your retinas.

You hummed a faint tune, relaxed and uncaring about the world around you. Not that it had anything interesting going on anyway. Your ruffled, beige skirt gracefully fell onto the the ground over your calves, sprawling onto the grass around you.

You eagerly plucked a ripe, juicy tomato from one of the stems it hung from, placing it into the woven straw basket where many of your other freshly picked vegetables remained.

A gentle breeze brushed past, sweeping your hair off of your shoulders. You gently held onto your summer hat and continued picking the ripest vegetables your garden had to offer, unknowing of a certain someone watching your silent movements.

Out of the blue, a sudden shade had been cast on top of your seated form and for a minute, you believed it was a big raincloud blocking the sun due to the large size of it. When you tilted your head up to inspect the sky, you were met with the face of a boy, a scowl on his features, likely due to the summer heat.

He stood above you, shielding the sun's rays, silently observing your expression from calm to surprised to calm once again.

"The hell are ya' doin'?"

"I'm just gardening. What about you, stranger?"

The unfamiliar male picked at the tight collar of his sweater, trying to enable air to pass into it. He raised a brow, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple to his cheek. Blinking at him in confusion, you shrugged, replacing your blank look with a gentle, happy expression.

It was his turn to shrug, rubbing the back of his neck whilst peering over your newly finished picket fence.

"Just out for a walk, huh?"

He gave a single nod, eyes darting from yours to look to the side.

"Say, isn't it a bit too warm to be wearing such a heavy sweater?"

The scowl from his face dropped, and he turned back to you with a look of annoyance on his face.

"What's it to ya'?"

You turned back to your plush tomatoes, chuckling at his childish words.

"At least I ain't half naked like you!"

Half naked, huh? You wouldn't necessarily call wearing an off shoulder top being 'half-naked' but to a boy, things like that are probably way different...

"That's what a child would say..."

You muttered under your breath but it must've been loud enough for him to hear it. He stopped scratching his neck, eyebrows knitted in utter irritation.

"Haaahhh?"

Plucking a shiny, ripe tomato from it's stem, you tossed it at the man, to which he caught expertly with one hand.

You giggled, your expression sly.

"Here, you can have this. My tomatoes taste really good, try one..."

You looked up at him from below, allowing him to get a better look at your face that had been partially hidden due to your large straw hat.

Your pretty, glossed lips took the shape of an attractive grin, sun kissed cheeks gleaming as the sunshine reflected off of them. Beautiful hair swaying as another faint breeze blew over, somewhat lifting the ends of your loose skirt and ruffling your cotton top.

The scene appeared vivid and bright and the boy in front of you seemed to be taken aback by your appearance, his expression no longer that of annoyed or irked.

"Tomatoes ain't that good..."

He stated, stoic and calculative.

You stretched out your palm to him, offering to take the tomato back.

"You can give it back if you don't want it."

You peeked over at him with one eye closed, a smirk itching to take over your lips.

"I never said I ain't gonna eat it!"

Mhmmm, that's what you thought.

"Well stranger, now that I've given you a peace offering, how about you give me a name?"

He looked up at the sun, contemplating your request, ultimately deciding to tell you. It was the decent thing to do anyways...

"Name's Garou."

You nodded, beginning to fill your basket once again.

"I see, I see..."

He waited, leaning on your tall wooden fence, arms crossed, tapping his foot.

You said nothing.

"Well, aren't ya' gonna tell me yers'?!"

Snorting, you grabbed the tin watering can that sat beside you, not bothering to give him a glance.

"Whatever, I'm leavin'!"

He started to walk, straightening himself out and biting into the red, delectable tomato.

"Y/N."

He halted mid-step, craning his head and looking over his shoulder.

"My name is Y/N."

Without a word, he walked off, disappearing over the horizon. What a strange fellow...

🍅🍅🍅 >>

"Yo..."

You craned your neck, tearing your eyes off of the worded pages of the neighborhood newspaper. Your knee length, white dress slowly swayed as you came to a halt on your large, metal garden swing.

"Oh stranger, you again! Back for another tomato?"

Garou folded his arms, leaning on the thick steady metal legs of the swing set.

"Are ya' gonna give me another tomato?"

You shrugged, closing the newspaper and placing it down next to you.

"Sure, if you want. They're really good, right?"

"I've tasted better..."

Garou picked at his nails with a bored look, uninterested in small talk.

"Ok, either way, I'll get you one. How about you sit down here while you wait?"

You patted the empty spot next to you on the large swing but he passed, walking away.

"Now, hold on mister!"

"Oh, c'mon! Sit down while I bring you some vegetables and then we'll talk!"

Before he could walk too far, you latched onto his arm, taut biceps tightening at the feeling of your smaller, smooth limbs around his. Hugging it, you pressed it close to your chest, somewhat leaning into him, squishing up against him. Garou's eyes had widened in surprise at your actions and he tried wiggling out of your grasp but you were unrelenting.

What? Wait...what? Did you just invite him for some vegetable tea-time? Him? The Hero Hunter? Wait, did you just invite him to something? How long had it been since a pretty girl wiggled around his arm for a chance to talk to him?

"Fine."

Oh, right never... Well, since your being so persistent, why the fuck not?

You happily dragged him back to your swing, pushing his shoulders down until he sat comfortably on the seat, legs spread and arms resting on headrest.

"I'll be right back!"

Scurrying off, you carefully began plucking the ripest and juiciest tomatoes your garden could offer and bringing them back to Garou.

"Here, these are perfect for eating."

With that, you handed him a straw basket containing three tomatoes and sat down next to him, placing your fingers on your lap.

"So, how are you today?"

You began, trying to elicit small talk from him.

"...Uh, good?"

"Why are you so confused about it?"

You giggled, asking him about his answer.

"W-whatever! Why do ya' have so many tomatoes?"

You tilted your head to the side, thinking about his question.

"Hm? Oh, well I think they taste good..."

Garou gave you a look, as if saying 'that's it?'

"I also sell them to the local stores. I'm a dropout so I have to earn a living somehow, ya' know?"

"But I don't think he could defeat Goku "

Ah, that makes much more sense. Garou gave subtle nods as you rambled on about your interests, favourite books and the nice grocery man down the street who pays extra for your vegetables. But seriously, what's with you? You grab a random guy off of the street and just start talking to him? Who are you?

"Oh, Y/N! I was looking all over for you in your house dearie, I hope you don't mind, I took a look around..."

Huh, who's this?

A middle aged woman, stood in front of the two of you holding a little ceramic pot in her chubby hands, a mouthwatering aroma erupting from inside of it. Her eyes glanced at Garou but took a sharp turn to look back at you, curly brown bob bouncing as she ecstatically spoke.

"I brought you some cabbage stew. I know how much you like my cooking!"

"Oh, Ms. Keiko, you really didn't have to..."

Garou watched as she handed you the pot, chatting away without a care in the world.

"Oh it's no problem, sweetie!"

"No, no, I can't have you cooking for me everyday. I can do it myself, really..."

You exasperated, somewhat irked because of her interruption.

"What do you mean? Oh, you young people think you can do everything yourselves! Honestly, the government should really do something about people your age, especially people like you."

You rubbed your arm awkwardly, brows knitted and lips pulled into an uncomfortable smile.

"Well, I'd best be heading back now! You know how it is, busy busy!"

"I'll just go put this inside, don't go anywhere ok?"

You ushered her off, nodding at whatever she said until she waddled into her own house across the fence. You breathed out a sigh of relief, turning back to Garou to see him munching on a tomato, uninterested.

The sun had set halfway and Garou had heard enough of your meaningless chatter, heaving a big sigh, he stood up abruptly, popping some bones.

You quickly rushed into your home, setting the pot of stew onto your counter to let it cool off. Rushing back outside, you sat down beside Garou once again, and the two of you began to swing, continuing your pointless conversation.

"Hm? Leaving?"

He nodded, holding his last tomato in his dominant hand, and tilting his head towards your fence door, uttering a bored 'see ya' and leaving. You watched him exit, turning to the sidewalk, giving you one last glance and taking off.

---

The sun moved quickly and the once bright sky had turned dim, little drops of milk decorated the rare clear sky. The streetlights shined brightly, yellow glow illuminating everything within its vicinity. A gentle breeze had blown past and you slumped back in your seat, the squeaking of the swing coming to a halt. Reluctantly, you stretched and pushed yourself off, standing up and giving one last look at your backyard, walking inside your quaint home and shutting the door.

You tossed and turned on your bed, sweating profusely. Twisting your beautiful face into a pained expression, eyes shut tight in terror of your own thoughts. The nightmares of your past haunting you while you slumbered, unable to run, confined within your mind.

The rope burns.

The bruises.

The blood.

The tubes.

The thunder.

You weren't going to get much sleep tonight...

It was all so vivid and dark, and the feeling of suffocation creeped down along your throat, setting itself within your chest, as you heaved and shook. You awoke suddenly, nausea and fright overtaking your form as you trembled, beads of sweat rolling down your sides as you hugged yourself, trembling and disoriented.

🍅🍅🍅>>

Since the last visit from Garou, vegetable tea-time had become a common occurrence.

Garou trudged through the woods behind your house, nearing it slowly, hands pocketed, back arched.

The days only got hotter and Garou found himself sweltering under the sun's powerful rays, anticipating a fresh, juicy tomato from your garden. He would never admit it, but this month had been a somewhat therapeutic time for him. Every time he sent a hero to the hospital, he gave you a visit, sometimes prompt, sometimes prolonged.

All of the blood and injuries had been washed away and packed before that, he wanted to avoid any questions regarding his whereabouts. He feared if you saw his true colours, you'd stop being so sincere with him. A week ago you had proudly declared that you were friends now in your usual rambles and Garou wasn't willing to take any chances ruining it.

Free tomatoes with a cute girl? Yeah, no way in hell he's lettin' you find out who he is.

As he stepped closer and closer to your home, nearing the fence, he spotted you in your usual spot near your rich tomato plants, an unfamiliar girl standing in front of you, carrying two or three compact cardboard boxes.

Hiding behind the blooming cherry blossom trees behind your home, he gave an ear to your conversation.

"My dad only buys tomatoes from you because he takes pity on you."

"Of course, please tell your father I'm grateful."

"I'm not finished! Nobody from class misses you. We all think you're a freak!"

"I'm sorry you all feel that way..."

"The neighbors only talk to you because you're alone all the time."

"Yes, they're so kind..."

"I think it would've been better if you had just stayed missing!"

"Y-you should bring these boxes to your dad now. Tell him I added some extra in there, just to be safe."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Oh, you came today, good! How are you?"

With that, she turned around, her foot purposely on one of the adorable tomato sprouts, mashing it down with the heel of her white sneaker. After the baby-plant murderer left, Garou circled in, greeting you in a casual manner. You visibly brightened up and grasped his arm.

"S'all good... Say, who was that?"

Garou rubbed the back of his neck, brow quirked up, waiting for an answer.

"Remember the store owner I told you about the other day? That's his daughter. Cute, isn't she?"

Garou shrugged, perplexed. You seemed to like her and from the conversation, he could tell you knew her well.

"Hello, anyone in there?"

Then why was she speaking to you like that? And more importantly, what did she mean when she said you should've stayed missing? Was he missing something? Was there something he didn't know which everyone else did? Nah, you told him everything, it couldn't be that.

You waved your hand in front of his face, breaking him from his thoughts.

"W-wha..."

"I've been talking to you this entire time, what are you thinking so hard about?"

Poking his cheek repeatedly, you playfully provoked him and he swatted your hand away.

"Hurry up an' give me a tomato, lady..."

---

Sifting through the soil on the ground, you had found the perfect spot for re-planting that cute, crippled little tomato sprout that the store owner's daughter had squished. But holding it in place while simultaneously patting the soil down to fix it in was proving to be quite a challenge.

You needed some help.

"Oh, Garou~"

"Be a dear and help me with this? I promise I'll make it up to you!"

You sang, batting your lashes and twisting around to face him. He sat relaxing on the garden swing, chewing up a tomato you had given him. He looked at you, contemplating whether he should respond to your strange tone.

He glanced at you, then glanced at the half bitten vegetable in his hand. With one bite, it was gone. Rubbing his hands clean on his pants, he walked over to you, sqatting down to your level and holding the tiny plant in place as you stuffed it's space with rich soil and fertilizer.

"Thank you! You're such a big help."

Aren't you exaggerating just a bit, now? All he did was hold a plant while you did all the work. Nevertheless, your comment added to his ego and he swaggered back over to the swings, chomping down on another tomato, this time with a trail of juice running down his chin.

"Ah, it's dripping onto your beautiful sweater! Hold on..."

You stood up from your squatting position on the floor and took out a pink little handkerchief from your dress pocket. Adjusting your bucket hat, you patted Garou's chin, absorbing and wiping away any juice stains that may have clung to his skin.

"There, that's much better isn't it?"

"...Just like a child."

He nodded, cheek puffing out as he popped the rest of the tomato into his mouth, dirtying himself once again. You giggled to yourself, your fingers helping to muffle the noise.

He ignored you, poking his chin out for you to wipe again. You complied, of course.

Your day happily went by, without any interruptions.

All too soon, it was time for him to leave. The sun had fully set in the distance and the sky had once again been filled with glitter, sparkling in your eyes as you watched it together.

"I'm leavin'..."

You nodded, standing up and walking him to your fence door. Before he could fully step out, you pulled on his sweater with your index and thumb. He turned around slowly, facing you, confused at your foreign expression.

"Hm...?"

Your eyes fixed themselves down on your cobble walkway, trying to shelter your face from his observant eyes. Your free hand grasped and pulled on your skirt, nervously fidgeting in place. He could hear your heart pounding, hammering in your chest...or was it his?

The night had gone silent as you pulled him down lower, stepping up on your tippy toes and connecting a chaste kiss to his cheek.

He was left dumbfounded at your actions and you hesitantly released the fabric of his sweater, bringing it to your chest.

"I told I'd make it up to you, didn't I?"

The look on your face astounded him, leaving him stranded at your gate, as you dusted yourself off, looking up at him with a soft smile.

Garou blinked a couple of times, quickly shuffling to turn around, away from your stare.

"I d-didn't think ya' meant that..."

You looked away, embarrassed.

"W-well, I'll see you tomorrow."

He agreed, and you ran inside your home, standing near your doorway, looking at him walking away.

"Goodnight!"

You called from behind him and he waved with his back turned to you, getting farther and farther from you.

---

The cold air of the A/C hit your skin, calming you as you hugged your pillow close to your chest. Your eyes remained comfortably closed, happy thoughts streamed through your slumbering mind.

Tonight, you had slept soundly.

🍅🍅🍅>>

The booming crashes of thunder bellowed through the unusually quiet city as Garou sauntered past the glossy windows of the street, mindlessly observing the contents on the other side.

𝔹ℝ𝔼𝔸𝕂𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℕ𝔼𝕎𝕊: 𝕃𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕡𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕦𝕚𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕣 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕄 𝕜𝕚𝕕𝕟𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕒𝕟 𝕖𝕟𝕕

Clothing, accessories, toys and electronics all looked the same to him as he carelessly made his way to you. The heavy rain drops made it harder for him to move, his sweater becoming drenched and heavy with water, his usual hairdo slumped forward, impairing his vision slightly. He came to an abrupt halt in front of the big TV store, eyeing the news displayed in bold letters on the screen.

He's reading slowly, focused on the faces of the two bastards on the screen.

...𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕧𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕤 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕖

The images of innocent children flash by and somewhere in his cold, tattered heart he feels thankful for their safety. And then he sees it.

It was you. You, but...but, smaller. You...

Your picture. Dead expression, skin battered with bruises and scratches, large dirty cloth dangling off of your tiny shoulders. Innocent eyes, tearful.

Garou raced through the slippery streets of City M, the downpour only getting worse with every step he took. He could barely see in front of him, the streets had gotten so dark and hazy, the only thing ringing in his ears were the crashes of thunder that blew out through the atmosphere.

Finally!

Unimaginable winds collided with his form, pushing him back, street lights bursting, paper, signs and peices of wood dangerously flew around, nearly missing his body. He was almost there.

His harsh, observant eyes latched onto you, sitting on the floor, eyes tightly shut, your hands locked onto your ears, drowning out the frighteningly loud rolls of thunder. The lights seemed to be switched on, but no light was being emitted from them, leaving the room in a dark state. The power must have gone out.

He knocked on your door, holding onto one of the pillars of your home as to not get blown away. You hadn't responded. He knocked again. No response. Suddenly, a crash came from the inside, just as another boom of thunder shook the ground. He heard you shriek and without a second thought, followed the noise to your backyard, two large french windows open and banging against the walls outside. Climbing in, he grasped the handles, bringing them together and locking it securely, effectively closing it. The sounds outside had been muffled by the warm walls of your home and he turned around, studying the interior.

"Y/N."

He walked over, kneeling down to you, grasping your shoulder as gently as he could. Eyes softening at your face, tear stained and hurt.

"G-Garou, I "

"I-im sorry..."

Another flash of lightning flashed through your windows and you jumped onto Garou, latching onto his torso, face buried within his broad chest, cold and wet from the rain.

---

The storm had frizzled away rather slowly and all the while Garou had held you in his arms, silently, face hidden in your hair. You had cried and sniffled, ruining his already wet sweater with snot. As the rain came to a stable pace of hushed pitter patters, you finally released him from your hold.

You cleared your throat, standing up and rubbing your sides up and down.

"I don't know what came over me..."

Garou steadily rose from the ground, towering over you, face blank, staring at you intently.

"Y-you're here for some tomatoes, right?"

...

"No."

You shook slightly, he noticed. Wobbling backwards, you tripped, teetering downwards until Garou had stopped you mid-fall by your wrist. He pulled back, flinging you into his chest, wrapping an arm around your shuddering body.

"I'm here for the truth."

You but your lip, afraid of coming clean. You had his it for so long, you knew he'd feel bad if you told him now...

"I...um, are you sure?"

He nodded.

"Let me get you a towel first. You're cold..."

---

And so you had begun to explain your childhood. The happy days in the sun, at the park, holding your mom's hand and playing with your little friends.

Subsequently, this lead to many individuals wanting it for themselves or for research. The earliest memory of your childhood was the worst. The day you had been snatched from the warm protective embrace of your mother, into the confines of a cold metal room, fit with a heavy metal door. Tubes and needles poked your sides, dug into you skin, filling you with unknown substances, heightening your senses to the point where it hurt to exist.

You always had a fascination with plants, able to care for them and somehow make them grow quicker and healthier. At first, everyone thought it was your natural green thumb and caring nature but soon you had found out about a power no one else possessed. Growth manipulation. It wasn't just plants. Little animals and insects could be effected as well. Some thought you were a freak, others deemed you a lucky child, blessed with special powers gifted from the heavens.

You were often experimented on, put aside and brought back. It seemed to be a never-ending cycle of loneliness and isolation that kept you silenced. If you didn't comply with your tormentors, they'd tie you up, burning your soft baby flesh in the process, when it rained the lights would go out and thunder would cackle throughout the empty metal corridors, resonating through your small metal room, entering your tiny being. It was horrific, the bruises you received, the blood you shed and the years of your life which you lost.

Seven years. It took them seven years to find you and the rest of the children. You were rescued at last by elite forces storming the illegal research facility, the House of Evolution, more like the house of horrors.

You had been given hope but alas, your mother no longer lived in the same city, no longer cried for you to come back, no longer wanted anything to do with a girl such as yourself. At the tender age of fifteen, you re-entered society, ready to go to school, make friends, study, live. But when the time came, you found it difficult to fit in. Everyone was so mature, so stable and unhurt. It pained you to know no one understood your situation.

Whatever the other teens talked about, you would have a hard time understanding, you had no idea about any of the new trends, never held a smartphone in your life, never went shopping for clothes, never had a boyfriend and you certainly never anticipated anything other than pain. Emotions were hard to deal with in your early years but as time passed and you grew older, dropping out of school and going for therapy, you slowly figured your way around the world, while still staying in your own little universe.

Sometimes, things which occurred in more recent days triggered your painful memories, which triggered your anxiety, which triggered emotions that were unwanted. One of them being fright, like now. Garou listened intently, nodding and opening and closing his fists on his lap, understanding bits and pieces of how you felt. Clueless and naive, almost unwanted.

He sympathises, but still experienced some pain at the fact of your secrecy from him. Weren't you friends? Why didn't you tell him? He never would've guessed you had been through something like this. You acted so...so indifferent. You explained it normally. When people knew of your life, they could react in two ways. Sympathetic to the point where it becomes disgusting or being disgusted by you themselves. Garou was your friend, you didn't want either from him. You wanted genuine emotions from him. He understood again, much to your relief.

"Still, ya' could'a told me..."

"W-well, isn't there something you're not telling me, Garou?"

He gulped, his throat went dry. He scratched the back of his head, acting aloof. He shook his head no and crossed his arms, roughly leaning back onto your couch, looking anywhere but you.

"You're the Hero Hunter, right? I'm not as airheaded as you, I actually watch the news."

"Yeah, so? If ya' knew all this time, why didn't ya' say somethin'about it, huh?"

"Because you hadn't said anything. And I guess, I didn't want anything to change. I liked that you came around for tomatoes. It kind of sounds like I used you since everytime you were here, I felt normal."

"It was like going through therapy all over again. But better, with you... I didn't care what you did, what mattered was that you came back to listen to me and my nonsense...I liked it that way. That's why yesterday, I...."

You leaned into his side, your head falling gently onto his shoulder, your fingers intertwined on your lap. Garou uncrossed his arms, stretching and coyly placing one around you.

"Ya' wouldn't mind if I asked for a tomato, would ya'?"

"Of course not! Let me get you one..."

"No, ya' ain't gettin' it. I want one today..."

He sat up straight, gazing deep into your sparkling eyes, hand grasping yours to keep you from moving any farther.

"Tomorrow and...forever. Now do ya' get it? I wanna listen to you jabber on about how some stupid anime character can't beat another one, or how the ugly store guy gave ya' extra money for yer' plants. I liked it that way too..."

He rose from his seat on your couch, slithering an arm around your waist and inching closer to your face, noses brushing tenderly against one another.

"I'll give you all of the tomatoes I have...forever."

With that, the two of you sealed your lips in an act of pure passion. The kiss was innocent and sweet, and it left a warm feeling burning in your chest.

"You should see the look on yer' face."

Garou whispered and you chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck, fondly eyeing his features.

"Do you want a tomato or not?"

Raw sunlight streamed through your large, pristine windows, illuminating the two of you where you stood. If anyone had witnessed the scene, they would surely deem it ethereal. You felt that way and so did he.

"You're blushing, Garou~"

"Sh-shut up and gimme a tomato, woman!"

In a strange little way, you matched each other, supported one another and existed together, through your highs and lows, through his ups and downs. Suddenly, everything was brighter and easier. You went back to school, working hard, having the courage to do anything you wanted.

Garou found a resolve as well, he left for sometime, but returned to you in one piece, took up a job and continued living. This was not how you had imagined your future to be, but it was this situation that gave you a reason to finally live life the right way. You finally felt happy to be free. And that was more than enough for you. Garou was here, and you were right there with him.

_________________________________________

The fluff at the end BLEHHH too sweet for me. Also, I feel like the ending is so rushed??? Sorry this took months to finish. I was stuck in a prison known as math and had no way of escaping. Hope you enjoyed!

[igirisuhito]

Title: Writing down all the things gone wrong Relationship(s): Komaeda Nagito/Matsuda Yasuke Rating: Teen Summary: Upon receiving a gift from Hinata, Komaeda attempts to learn more about a student who once went to Hope's Peak academy. After a strange nightmare, he contemplates the trustworthiness of his memory. Trigger Warnings: Childhood trauma, Religious discussion (I guess?), Doctor/Patient, Medical angst, regular angst, Treatment refusal, Dementia Notes: Happy birthday Komaeda. I hope you like suffering. 

[Ao3 Link]

『••✎••』

"Hey uh, do you want this?"

Hinata's hand outstretches towards him, holding a thin paperback book between calloused fingers. It appears to be a school notebook; worn, ragged, really in a complete state of disrepair. The once white cover was now a full grey, bearing smudged writing and barely recognisable symbols. If they were symbols from any other organisation, Komaeda probably wouldn't have recognised them and asked why Hinata thought to insult him with this utter piece of trash.

"I know you like Hope's Peak memorabilia, right? This isn't really memorabilia, per say, but…" As he rambles away to himself, Hinata starts to look more and more awkward. Is he embarrassed? Ah, who wouldn't be humiliated, being seen giving such a thoughtful gift to Komaeda in an act of pity.

Before Hinata can try and make some other excuse, Komaeda reaches out, pale digits barely passing over the messy kanji. "Ry…ko… Oto…'s…"

He has to pause, squinting hard at the words. He wonders if there's a chance he's reading it wrong. "Memory notebook? Like a diary?"

Komaeda takes the notebook into his hands, accepting the gift. However, he can't suppress the grin that crosses his face as he looks back up at Hinata, the desire to tease the other just too tempting to resist. "Oh my Hinata-kun… why are you walking around with a girl's diary?"

"I-I got it from the Monomono machine, okay?!" He flushes bright red, beginning to stammer as he shoves his hands back into his pockets. "I-It could be a guy's!"

Doubtful, Komaeda flicks the crinkled pages open, carefully separating each one with his fingers. The way the ink is washed out on every page reminds him of when you would accidentally put a receipt through the wash, full of barely comprehensible writing and doodles. An overuse of love hearts and sparkles, however, proves his theory correct.

"Even if you didn't get it from somewhere weird... I'm not sure if it's really okay for me to accept this!" Sucking in a deep breath, Komaeda grips his elbows in order to calm himself. "There must be some incredibly bad luck waiting for me! For Hinata-kun to go out of his way to give me something so amazing… haha, I feel a little tingly just thinking about it!"

"Seriously, it's no big deal," it seems as though Hinata's face is just getting hotter, he must be truly embarrassed by how much of a fuss Komaeda is making over it. "Just take it, okay? We had a good time today."

"Well, thank you, Hinata-kun. It makes me unbearably happy that you would give me a gift like this!" Smile stretching impossibly wide, Komaeda holds the notebook close to his chest, careful not to crush it.

"Go home, Komaeda."

With an aggressive nod, he says his farewells, "Well then, I'll see you tomorrow, Hinata-kun."

And with that, Hinata turns away, already running off down the beach. He's sprinting like he's trying to escape something, though it wouldn't surprise Komaeda if he was just trying to run away from any possibility of them speaking again. Unfortunately for Hinata, their time on this island isn't nearly over, and he would have to face Komaeda once again tomorrow in Jabberwock Park.

A soft sigh slips past his lips with the thought. He glances towards the horizon, the glowing sea of orange as waves gently roll up on the shoreline. The sun is setting on another perfect day. A cool breeze plays at the strands of Komaeda's hair, knocking it into his eyes. He brings a hand to his face, tucking the loose white locks behind one ear as he glances back down towards the notebook in his hands.

"Memory notebook, huh?"

◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌

Komaeda sits himself down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, placing his gift from Hinata at his side. It has been an unbearably long day, between spending the morning working to collect resources and the afternoon making sandcastles with Hinata, he was worn to the bone.

He leans down to undo the zips on his boots before kicking them off. As he wiggles his toes, he is overcome by the unpleasant sensation of sand sticking between them. With a groan, he begrudgingly pulls off his socks too, all too aware of the sound of the grains hitting the floorboard as he does. A mess to deal with later.

Quickly dusting off his feet, then brings them up onto the bed with him, laying back on the covers. An ache immediately begins to settle in his muscles, and a yawn forces its way out of his mouth. With the warm heat of the evening, it feels as though he could fall asleep right here and now. As pleasant as that would be, he has yet to properly examine Hinata's gift. He'd been brimming with anxious excitement to look at it the whole walk back to his cabin.

Bringing the notebook up to his side, he lays his head against the pillow and flicks it open. The first page is filled with rushed writing done in black pen, ink that has since been washed away. If he squints hard enough, he can just barely make out the characters, fill in some blanks. This is definitely a notebook once belonging to somebody going to Hope's Peak Academy.

How exciting!

He turns the page. There's a two page spread of nothing but blurry sketches and doodles, and from what he can tell, they're incredibly well done. The artist obviously had quite the knack for reproducing realistic details, honing in on fine points such as the eyes and lips.

Carefully flicking to the next page, he finds more hastily scribbled notes and drawings. It's unusual, the subject is the same in almost every occasion, and with each depiction Komaeda finds himself starting to build a better image of that person in his head.

The ballpoint scribbles illustrate a young Japanese man, bearing long shoulder length hair and meticulously detailed eyelashes. His lips are thin, often turned down in a frown, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The owner of the diary was very clearly infatuated with him, and he could understand why. The man was naturally gorgeous even with such a pouty face.

And somehow, he felt strikingly familiar.

Komaeda turns through a few more pages, carefully poring over the illegible kanji and fuzzy details. No matter how hard he squints, he just can't understand what the words read, as though the information is purposefully taunting him, hanging just out of reach. With a sigh, he closes the notebook and allows his eyelids to flicker shut.

"How despairing."

◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌

"Your dementia is progressing quickly." Crossing one leg over the other, the doctor spun around in his chair to face Komaeda.

His demeanour was… laid-back. Much too laid back for a doctor. And mean, harsh, unnecessarily cruel. It was clear on his face that he thought Komaeda was the most revolting thing he'd seen all day, and he was probably right.

"Ah, such is fate for someone as worthless as me. Perhaps I really am meant to die." He laughed softly to himself, gazing down at his lap.

"Shut up," the doctor hissed. "Are you taking your medication?"

Komaeda stared out the window, wordless in his thoughts. The sunlight streaming through the glass felt warm on his skin, unlike the chill of metal on the medical bed beneath him. It was a lovely day brimming with hope, a day he would have liked to be out there enjoying.

"It's a nice day isn't it, M̧̩̹̗͕̮̼̆̋͑a̦̮̟̠̓͜ť̇҉̺̙s̪̦̟̋ͤ̽͗͜ŭ̺͉̖̫͍̯̪ͯ̐͠d̷̬̤̹̩̱̫̻̺͊a̵̯͙͖̙̩͇͂͛̓̊-kun?"

"Huh?" The doctor blinked, before looking up from his clipboard and out the window. "What are you talking about? Answer the damn question."

He remained silent, continuing to gaze out the window at the campus below. There were students socialising, exercising, running to class. Blurs of smiling faces amongst a sea of brown, each student filled with a sense of pride. The air is filled with distant laughter and chatter. It's too quiet in the room.

"Why don't you wear the Hope's Peak Uniform?"

There was a loud clatter as the doctor's clipboard hit the floor. Before Komaeda can react, (as if he was going to), he's risen to his feet and practically pounced on the boy. The doctor's pale hands reached for his chest, securing a handful of his sweater. A soft gasp escaped his lips, being pulled forward until he came nose to nose with the doctor, warm erratic breaths coming short and fast on his lips.

His face was difficult to see when he was on the other side of the room, but Komaeda realised that distance was not the issue. Even when he was so close the details were hazy, Komaeda only barely being able to make a deep frown etched beneath his dark bangs. Every time he tried to take in more details, it was as though he were looking too closely at a painting, unable to take in the full image beyond a few brush strokes.

"I knew it. Of course you wouldn't take them." He spit, teeth bared and eyebrows furrowed. "You just think your fucking luck is going to save you, that this is all some big plan for 'hope'."

The doctor let go, allowing Komaeda to slump back into his chair. He looked distressed, unreasonably so to the point of unprofessionalism. The doctor swept back his hair, giving Komaeda a glimpse of glaring blue eyes before he pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets.

Komaeda couldn't help but chuckle to himself. And before he knew it, he was laughing. Laughing raucously, in a way that made his whole body shake with dread, his mind spin with despair. His fingers wound their way to his scalp and he gripped and pulled at his hair until he could see the doctor's horrified expression looking back at him.

"Hope?" The word dripped from his mouth like venom. "There is no hope in taking that. The disease is incurable! There's no point in messing with that fact! What hope is there in waking up every day sick as a diseased dog just so I can tack a few extra years of suffering onto my lifespan? Do you want me to suffer, is that it? Does the Ultimate Neurologist truly believe he can play God? That you can cure a terminal illness? It's embarrassing, you truly don't know when to draw the line, to give up on a piece of human garbage like-!"

"What the fuck would you know about God, you demented freak?!"

Komaeda bit his tongue, a sickening grin forming on his face.

"You think some God is going to sweep you away from this? There is no damn God!" The doctor near screams the words. "There's you, me, and a miserable little pile of pills. You're the one who refuses to see an expert, you're the one who insisted on seeing an 'Ultimate', and yet you refuse to do what you've been told. I don't know why I bother, shit, you can rot in that empty skull of yours for all I care."

By the time he was done with his rant, he'd fallen back into his chair, dejected, out of breath. Komaeda didn't miss the flush on his cheeks, the way his nails dug into his thighs. What a brash display of emotion.

"I never knew you felt so strongly about God, Matsuda-kun." Straightening out his sweater, Komaeda shot the other a wide smile. "I guess it makes sense, you are a man of science, after all."

The doctor did not raise his head, remaining in his hunched over position. He was shaking, fists scrunching the fabric of his pants as he tried to regain his composure, probably to stop himself from jumping across the room and choking Komaeda to death. He thought he would have deserved it at this point.

"Do you really not understand how privileged you are? Are you doing this just to mock me, to make me suffer? I shouldn't have expected any less from Komaeda fucking Nagito," his voice trembled and cracked. "Am I the incompetent one? Should I be coming to your dorm every night and forcing the damn things down your throat? I can't fucking listen to you, I can't stand you. Every time you look at me with that stupid fucking grin on your face it feels like you think this is all a joke. What if you do die? What do you think is gonna happen to the people who love and care about you?"

Komaeda opened his mouth to refute him, but quickly snapped it shut again when a scalpel zipped past his head, lodging itself in the wall behind him with a thwunk. The doctor had raised his head, arm poised with another scalpel in hand and eyes filled with deadly intent as he glared at Komaeda.

"Get the fuck out of my office you ugly bastard."

◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌

Komaeda opens his eyes suddenly, silently.

It's no dramatic waking up from a nightmare, no shooting up out of bed with his lungs burning and chest heaving. Just a sudden realisation that he is awake and that he has been dreaming. Perhaps he was kicked out of Matsuda's office, but how would he know? It was just as possible that he'd risen to his feet and beaten him senseless.

…Matsuda?

It's a familiar name, but not one that belongs to anyone Komaeda knows. "Matsuda-kun. Matsuda… Hope's Peak?"

He mumbles to himself, attempting to make sense of the information thrown at him. They say dreams are pulled from your memories, so why would he have memories from Hope's Peak? Why would he have memories of a person he has never known?

"Matsuda… I called him the Ultimate Neurologist, didn't I?" He asks the question to the darkness of his room. "I wouldn't forget somebody like that, would I?"

Komaeda sits up, pushing his hair back as he brings a hand to his forehead. "Would I?"

Eyes drifting along the covers of his bed, he spots the memory notebook. "I wonder if I should start keeping one too," he chuckles.

[xoluvx]

paint me like one of your french girls; rue bennett

Pairing: Rue Bennett x Fem!Reader Word Count: 1.5K

“How real can the art be if it’s being taught?” Rue scoffed walking down the hall of the large building. She loosely carried her sketchbook on one hand, the other was tucked into the pocket of her shorts. 

“Regardless, we need the units to graduate.” Her very bubbly friend, Rachel, retaliated. It wasn’t like Rue had many friends so the ones she did have, even if they were the polar opposite of her, she kept around. 

“This is the last time you make do some shit like this,” she stated nonchalantly as she opened the door. 

Rue stopped abruptly when she saw the room was full. Never mind the naked man in front of the huddled group of people with easels and paint brushes. “I think we have the wrong place,” Rue turned to Rachel giving her a pair of warning eyes. Her face was flushed after seeing the man in all his glory. 

“Oh you’re right. It’s the room next door,” the brunette chuckled lifting up her phone with the confirmation email. The room number in bold. This was not the room they were suppose to be in.

Rue gave her an ‘are you shitting me?’ look. 

“Can you imagine if I’d signed us up for that?” She laughed nervously relieved that they were in the wrong room as she led Rue to the correct place. 

The room was empty when they entered. They settled in a corner of the room; too intimidated by real possible artists who could join at any second. Rue nonchalantly opened her sketchbook dusting the blank page. She rested the sketchbook on her lap as she cross one leg over the other leaning back on the chair.

A woman appeared from a door in the room giving the two girls a smile. 

“Welcome,” she breathed. Her aura sweet and welcoming. 

“I’ll be your instructor today. I see we don’t have a full house,” she chuckled glancing at the empty chairs. “Guess this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea,” she joked flailing her arms around the room filled with drawings and art supplies. 

“Our model should be here shortly, in the meantime, I’ll demonstrate some of the techniques you might want to use today. Other than that, you have creative freedom and I’ll be here more to help if you feel stuck.” She rambled turning to the large easel with white paper as she started drawing on it. 

You rushed through the door out of breath.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” catching the attention of the instructor, you placed your bag on a table near her. One hang clung to the strap of your trench coat. 

“Totally fine. We are pretty empty today,” the instructor smiled motioning towards Rue and Rachel sitting in the corner.

“If you don’t mind me asking...why do we need a model?” Rachel asked. Her lips parting with confusion. Her hands clung to her sketchbook, holding it close to her chest. Rue was looking at her wondering the same thing. Her mind jumping back to the male model next door. 

Just as she’d ask her question, your trench coat was slipping off your shoulders. One arm extended towards the woman handing her the garment. She took it, hanging it on a hook that was screwed into the wall. 

Rue instantly straightened up watching you stand on a small square podium. Her eyes tried hard not to linger, but she couldn’t help but give you a once over. She cleared her throat looking away; feeling embarrassed. Her mind fogged with thoughts. Thoughts she hadn’t had in a long time. All of them involving you. 

“I’m sorry, I thought the nude modeling class was next door.” Rachel blushed trying to laugh off the awkwardness she was feeling. 

“Yes, next door is painting. This room is sketching. With pencil,” she clarified smiling trying to offer some peace. 

“Fuck,” she mumbled under her breath only loud enough for Rue to hear. If it were any other time, Rue would totally give her shit over it, but she was still enthralled by you.

“We can’t back out now,” Rue tried to reason looking at her head on. Her lips were doing that quivering thing when she was being serious. Her eyes almost begging her to stay. 

“You can start when you want,” the instructor waived pointing at the model. 

“What exactly do we do?” the girl next to Rue whispered at her. Her brows furrowed.

“You draw her,” Rue whispered back pointing at you.

You tried not to smile as you heard them whispering. Your job was to stand still and let them do the work. Was it a degrading job? No, you didn’t think so. You actually got paid quite a lot and usually the crowds were small. Today was a bonus. Two pretty girls. 

You looked straight ahead, not oblivious to the two different reaction from the girls. The fair-skinned one was nervous. You could feel the nerves radiating from her body as she avoided looking at you by all means. 

The curly haired girl was nervous. But she hadn’t started drawing. In fact, she was peeking her eyes from the sketchbook trailing them down your body as her pencil rested limply in her hand.

Rue didn’t know where to start. She knew how to draw you, but she didn’t know where to start. 

Should she start with your head? Then move down to your ears, draw your chin, and fill out your cheeks. Her eyes traced the outline of your eyebrows, your eyes which were piercing through the wall straight ahead and your pouty lips. They were soft and relaxed in comparison to your piercing eyes. 

She imagined feeling the soft skin on your jawline, tracing the structure of your jaw with her finger as if that were her pencil; your skin the paper. 

Maybe she’d start at your neck whose skin looked supple and ample enough for her lips. Going down to your collarbones which were slightly protruding from the pose you were holding steadily. 

Maybe she’d start with your torso. How soft your skin would feel under her fingertips. Her finger tracing between your breasts down until it dipped in your navel.

Her face grew hot as her eyes lingered down further below your navel. Then back up to your face. Your previously fierce eyes had now softened and she felt her heart caught in her throat. Did you know that she was memorizing every crevice of your body at this very moment?

The minutes seemed to pass like seconds. The instructor’s voice roared over the studio letting them know the session was coming to a close. She touched your shoulder gently handing you a bathrobe. 

Rue eyed as you wrapped the white fabric around your body. Your hand reaching for your bag which she noticed carried your clothes. The clothes you weren’t wearing when you first came in. 

You disappeared into the room the instructor had came from earlier and then she glanced down at her drawing. She didn’t do your body justice, but the image of your body was engrained in her brain. 

“Let’s go,” Rue heard Rachel’s voice beside her as she got up to her feet stuffing her sketchbook in her bag. Rue stood taking one last look at her sketchbook then the door before closing the book. 

She was hoping you’d come out the door and she could get one last look at you, but it’d been minutes and the brunette’s patience was dwindling as she pulled Rue out of the room.

“That was weird,” she huffed feeling the warm air as they stepped outside. Her hand clung to her bag as they walked. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Rue shrugged turning back slightly to see if you’d come out of the building. 

“Are you looking for her?” she gasped stopping as she caught Rue turning back. She tried to play it off, furrowing her brows and shaking her head.

“What? No,” Rue scoffed as if that was the silliest thing that could come out of Rachel’s mouth. 

“Well, she’s looking for you.” She said raising her brows nodding towards the building. Rue had her back to the building and now she was too afraid to turn around. But when she did, she noticed you were smiling and waving almost sprinting to catch up.

“Hey,” you said trying to gasp for air. Rue finally turned to face you. Her lips quivering into a smile. “I know this may be unprofessional, but would you want to go out sometime?” you smiled at Rue completely ignoring the fact that Rachel was standing there with a smirk on her face. 

“Uh-” Rue was at a loss of words watching you as if you were an angel sent from above. She thought she’d never see you again, except in her mind and her sketchbook.

“I think she means yes,” Rachel chirped, peeking from behind Rue’s shoulder. Rue shut her eyes smiling awkwardly before chuckling. 

“Yes, yes we can go out sometime.” She gulped pulling out her phone. Before she could ask for your number, you took the phone from her hand typing quickly before handing her the phone back. 

“I’ll see you soon then,” you smiled sheepishly biting your lip before waving and heading in the opposite directly. 

Rue’s heart was beating in her chest rapidly as she held her phone. She stood in shock watching you walk away hoping you’d look over your shoulder one last time so she could see your face until you met again. 

You did. Until you met again.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Sun Is Coming Up (I Think It’s Time)

Fandom: The Irregulars Pairing: Spike/Jessie Rating: T Word Count: 2047

Summary: Telling Jessie he loved her in the heat of the moment was one thing. Repeating it when they weren't in mortal peril was something else.

Spike glanced back over his shoulder as he hefted the sack filled with his belongings. If that was what it was like living large in a big fucking manor, he didn’t want it. Rituals and horns and murdering all your mates. Billy’d kill him if Spike ever suggested they mess around with a deck of cards to see whether it would bring out anybody’s underlying murder-y feelings. No thanks. The cellar—and all of his friends being this side of the grave—was good enough for him.

“What are you thinking about?” Bea asked.

She nudged him with her elbow while they walked side-by-side, grinding the gravel road underfoot as they left Mycroft Holmes’s place behind.

“How much I love sleeping in a literal hole in the wall,” he told her.

Bea laughed.

“No, I’m serious,” Spike insisted. He counted off the cellar’s best points on his fingers, beginning by flicking out his thumb. “It’s warm. Sometimes. And it’s dry! Mostly… And nothing supernatural ever happens there. Other than Jessie’s bad dreams.”

He could feel that the case he was trying to make about how great their home was wasn’t exactly stacking up the way he’d wanted it to, but Bea was still smiling. It was gentler now than when she’d laughed.

“Yeah,” she said, “Jessie’s dreams.”

“Are you worried about those?”

“’Course. I’m always worried about her.”

“Yeah,” Spike agreed heavily before darting a cautious look at Bea from the corner of his eye.

They crunched along for a few minutes without speaking; the damn stretch of road leading up to the house was so long that Spike started to get nervous, glancing forward and back to make sure the property wasn’t trying to trap them again. But no, the manor was always in its proper place: behind them. Fuck off and good riddance.

It was a clear day after all that night and, as much as he’d rather have never come here, Spike could admit that the fresh air was an improvement on the smoke and the stench they normally breathed. Easier to take a deep breath without coughing and easier to see Jessie walking just ahead. She was on the left, with Billy in the middle and Leo on the right, and though that silky dress she’d been wearing the last couple days (or however long it’d really been) was back at Mycroft’s, Spike thought she looked like just as much of a lady in her own clothes. Something about the swish of her skirt and how her chin lifted when she turned to speak to Billy. Laughing, she was. Possibly at Billy’s expense, going by the scowl on his face. Spike grinned as he watched them.

“She told me what happened on the tower,” Bea said.

Spike nearly jumped out of his skin.

“She did?”

“While we were packing.”

“Uh… all of it?”

“As much as she can remember.”

“I’m sorry she remembers,” Spike said, looking straight ahead, but not at anything really. “She had her mind manipulated by that woman. Might’ve been better to forget and just have a blank.”

“Jessie doesn’t feel that way.”

“She doesn’t?”

Bea shook her head. Even looking at her too long made Spike confused. Felt like promenading with a princess, what with how clean Bea’s face was. She’d probably been washing it in liquified diamonds or something while Spike was almost slicing his fingers off every five minutes as he chopped vegetables with one of Mrs. B.’s terrifyingly sharp kitchen knives.

“It meant a lot to Jessie,” Bea said. She looked like she was studying his face, rifling through whatever she saw there for clues, his eyes like a book of loose pages or a drawer that rattled with odds and ends. Spike snapped his gaze forward again.

“What did?”

“What you said to make her let go of that pole.”

He sniffed and kicked a large rock in his path.

“Can’t remember.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Bea complained. “I know you remember. You saved her life.”

“We all did. Some of us a little more actively than others, if Billy’s been telling the truth about what happened down below while me and Jessie were at the top of the tower.”

His friend released a growl of annoyance and he turned his head in time to see her roll her eyes hard.

“Has he told you that Leo didn’t help? Is that what he’s said? Is that why Billy’s keeping himself between Leo and Jessie, because he’s convinced himself that Leo’s not fit to be near her because he didn’t pound on the door as soon as we did? For god’s sake.”

“More or less,” Spike said with a smile.

“I’m gonna have a talk with him. Jessie doesn’t need him to go all protective like that.”

“He’s only doing it because you do.”

“What do you mean?” Bea frowned.

“For you, the most important thing is protecting Jessie and if Billy protects Jessie he’s doing the thing you think is most important, which will make you happy with him.” Spike noticed Bea’s expression sour into aggravation and threw his hands up in defense. “I don’t think that, he thinks that. I think. Just… think of it as Billy trying to be more sensitive.”

Bea snorted.

“That’s not sensitive,” she complained, gesturing to the way Billy was squaring his shoulders as Leo tried to speak to Jessie around him. “That’s… I don’t know. Brutish. He can’t decide whether or not Jessie and Leo are friends. Jessie can choose that for herself.”

“Just like you choose whether you and Leo are friends,” Spike piped up. “Or more.”

He spotted the red flare of Bea’s cheeks before, smiling, she ducked her head and murmured, “Shut up.”

“Can’t help it. Unlike dear Billy, I’m very sensitive. Got it coming out my ears. Unbelievably attuned to other people’s feelings. What?” he asked, because Bea was staring at him with this knowing look on her face.

“You told Jessie you love her.”

Fuck, she just said it straight out. Spike’s gaze danced around as it sought a place to land.

“We all love her,” he said.

“True, but…” Bea gripped Spike’s arm and hopped in front of him, walking backwards so she could look him right in the eye. “…that’s not what you told her at the time. You could’ve said, ‘We all love you’ or ‘Bea loves you,’ but you didn’t.”

“Well, now you’re just trying to make me feel stupid.” He smacked his forehead jokingly. “Christ, obviously I should’ve started with mentioning you. Jessie would’ve let go immediately. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Bea agreed. “That situation was insane. You didn’t have time to consider every option, you just went on instinct. But all of that,” she emphasized, circling her palm in front of him, “just shows that you knew you had to say the most important thing. Not the most logical thing, but the thing that was truest to you. So you told Jessie how you feel.”

Spike tried to laugh her words away, but Bea just lifted her eyebrows like it was too late, she’d found all the clues and solved the mystery. That was great for her. When she spun away and jogged up to Leo to rescue him from Billy’s dickheadedness, Spike still had those clues flapping and tumbling around inside him like a sack full of junk. He didn’t know how to reach into that sack and pull out an I love you.

He looked longingly at Jessie’s hair, tied back in a slightly changed way to how it usually was. He looked at her hands swinging along at her sides and wanted to hold one.

—

“I meant it,” he told her in front of the fire.

They were home, legs aching from the walk, but not so badly that Spike regretted rejecting Mycroft’s offer of a carriage to bring them back. A carriage would’ve made the journey faster, sure, but what was the cost? It could be that there was some tarot card related to carriages flying over the edges of cliffs or being set on by man-eating bears and, without a guarantee that Patricia Coleman-Jones hadn’t performed a magic spell over such a card, Spike felt safer on his own two trusty feet.

Jessie’s feet were a pair of lumps under the blanket he’d drawn up close for her, so she could be near the heat while she rested her tired body. He should’ve been resting too, but he was pacing. Those three words were the first he’d gotten out since he’d informed Jessie that he had something to tell her.

“I know,” she said, staring steadily up at him.

Her face was aglow in the light and one of her eyes shone—the other was in the shadow he was casting. When Spike realized, he quickly moved to sit next to Jessie instead.

“Yeah, but, I meant it,” he repeated.

“Spike.”

His name was a whine of frustration from her lips, which wasn’t ideal feedback for a love confession.

“I love you,” Spike stated baldly, watching her face with care. “Not like your sister. I mean, I don’t mean that I love your sister. Well, no, I love Bea, ’course I do, but I love her in one way and I love you in another, different way to how she loves you.” He clamped his lips together for a moment to smother the rambling. “How are you feeling about this?”

“Really irritated to be honest. Just…” Jessie reached out and pressed her fingers over his mouth. “…let me speak.”

Behind her hand, Spike nodded, eyes wide and earnest. They touched all the time. They couldn’t not, sharing this den. Always tugging each other up from the cold floor, a pat of thanks on the shoulder or back when one of them cooked the breakfast. The time Jessie tripped up the cellar stairs and didn’t want Bea to know she’d hurt herself so it was Spike who pulled the slivers from her palm and cleaned the blood from the graze on her shin.

When he thought about it, seemed like he’d loved her differently from the others for a while.

“I heard you on the tower,” Jessie said, dropping her hand. “Your voice broke through. It was the only thing that did! It was more powerful than the weather or how Patricia was compelling me. I… I couldn’t understand, not fully, that’s why I tried to do what she said again, even though you’d convinced me once, but I knew more when it was over.”

“What did you know?” Spike asked, and she laid her hand over his on the blanket.

“I don’t love you like I love my sister either.”

“I thought…” His voice trailed off as his gaze slid sideways. “I thought it would’ve been better if it’d been Bea up there with you. She could’ve brought you out of it faster, kept you from trying to obey Patricia a second time.”

“Maybe,” Jessie allowed, “but that doesn’t matter because you did those things.”

“Any of them would’ve…”

Spike didn’t know why the fuck he was trying to be modest now, but his mouth was just set on being self-sacrificing. Thank Christ Jessie didn’t have time for his nonsense.

“Yes,” she said. “But it was you. I’m glad it was you.” Her voice climbed, then lost its footing with a thick, hiccupping cry. “Spike, I could’ve died.”

In an instant, he had his arms thrown around her waist, holding her tight against him with their knees bumping—his outside the blanket and hers beneath it. She curled into him. He felt the flutter of her eyelashes against his neck, then the cold trickle of a tear finding its way under his collar. One of Spike’s hands went up to cradle the back of Jessie’s head.

“Not in a million years,” he said. “Not in two.”

She shook with a laugh and raised her wet face; he wiped her tears.

Spike was glad Bea and the lads weren’t there when Jessie planted a kiss on his cheek. He cupped her face when she pulled back, led with his mouth as he leaned in, and willed their friends to stay away just a couple minutes longer.

[radiorenjun]

Rain Rituals || Z.CL

Pairing: Zhong Chenle x Reader

Genre: Comedy, fluff

Summary: Chenle's high school life was more than tedious to say the least. That is when he caught you screaming under the rain.

Warning: fluff. Comedy. Mentions of detention. Second hand embarrassment. Cliché

Wordcount: 2.8K (it's short)

A/n: please ignore my terrible editing skills and happy birthday Chenle!

Chenle was just a simple rich high school boy who, like any other student, just wants to get school and exams over with as soon as possible. He was bored of waking up everyday only for the same exact thing to happen over and over again.

Wake up. Eat. Go to school. Endure hell for 6 hours straight. Go home. Eat. Study. Sleep.

Repeat.

It was boring to say the least. Chenle wanted something to spice up his life, anything to make life more worth living. He wasn’t one to pay attention to whatever’s happening around him, he just wasn’t interested. But one faithful day, a chaotic social hazard of a Chemistry classmate of his decided to change that. Well, technically, the situation was unexpected and absolutely ludicrous for the young boy’s mind to comprehend.

It was a cold, raining evening. Chenle was just getting out of basketball practice, sweat trickling down his forehead as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. Chenle was just on his way to the parking lot, fumbling with the car keys in his hand, his uniform blazer draped over his head to prevent him from getting even more wet than he already is. 

A loud scream pierced the quiet atmosphere, causing Chenle to flinch at the sudden sound. His head rapidly turned to see where the scream had come from before his eyes squinted at a blurry figure standing in the middle of the school garden. 

‘What the fuck?’

Curiosity kills the cat, as they say.

Chenle went closer to the figure who let out another alarming scream, his brows furrowed in confusion as the figure became clearer and clearer with every step. The soles of his new Air Jordan’s making soft sounds as they made contact with the puddles that formed on the ground.

He leaned his head to the side when he was close enough to see the figure clearly. His eyes widened to see none other than you, the class clown of his grade. Also known as ‘That Girl Beside Me Who Wrote Three Pages Worth Of A Test Answer To Spite The Teacher’.

You were quite infamous for your extroverted demeanor. Making friends and cracking jokes left and right as if it was as simple as breathing air. Joking around and riling up teachers as if they were your closest friends.

To Chenle, you were quite peculiar.

But the sight before him was more than odd. You were standing soaking wet in the rain with your arms stretched out, your hair sticking to your forehead as you leaned your head up as if you were doing some kind of satanic ritual or religious sacrifice. 

You let out another scream before groaning in frustration. “Jesus Christ!” you cursed out, kicking a puddle with your shoes as if it would do anything to make your frustrations go away.

Chenle just stood awkwardly not far behind you as he watched you throw a mini tantrum for whatever reason, his pupils dilating in concern with a frown on his lips. ‘This is just sad and embarrassing,’ he thought with a shake of his head.

The second hand embarrassment Chenle felt as he watched you push your wet hair back, letting the raindrops hit your face was almost as extravagant as the time when he watched his seniors attempt to flirt with one of his classmates.

 A part of him wanted to just leave before someone (or you) catches him staring at you with a look of disappointment and sympathy. But another part of him was interested to see what you were whining on about in the middle of a heavy rain at 4:57 PM in the evening when you could be doing all this nonsense in the comforts of your own home like a normal person.

“God dammit!” you cursed once again. “Why the fuck am I single!?” 

Chenle’s frown deepened when he heard those words exit your mouth. ‘Seriously?’ he thought with a click of his tongue, ‘she’s screaming out here like a lunatic all because she’s single?’ 

“Come on! Being single is a choice, right? I didn’t choose to be the only single one in all of my friend groups, so why the fuck am I single?” You rambled, letting out a loud groan afterwards. Chenle shook his head in disappointment, he wanted to walk away instead of looking at whatever you were doing. But yet again, he was far too entertained to even look away.

“Oh God.” you clasped your hands together, intertwining your fingers and shutting your eyes tighty. “ If you can hear me up there. If you can hear me screaming my lungs out like a lunatic. Please, oh please, give me a fucking boyfriend! I think I deserved that much for being good for all my life, right?”  You paused at the last part, opening an eye as if to rethink your words before you shut them tight again. “Well for the most part of it, anyways!” you added.

Chenle couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight, his arms crossing as he let out a soft laugh. ‘This is just getting really sad, I almost feel bad for her.’ he thought before looking down at his Apple Watch, eyes widened at what time it was. He turned to make a run to his car, pulling out his car keys to unlock it.

As Chenle dried himself off with the spare towel he usually keeps in the compartment box of his car, he made a mental note to himself to bring this up to you the next time he sees you. He’s sure that your reaction to him having blackmail is just going to be absolutely satisfying.

You were sitting in your desk, listening to your friend ramble about the things she did with her significant other after school the other day. A small sad smile forming on your lips as you try to listen to her conversation without feeling too sad about your pathetic, almost nonexistent, love life. 

But yet again, it’s been a couple of days since you threw a tantrum at the school garden. Cursing at the sky and rain to give you a boyfriend. Only for the principal to come up to you to tell you to go home and get some rest, her expression filled with worry and concern. She probably thought you had your screws loose. And honestly, you couldn’t blame her.

You screamed till the boys at the basketball team had already gone home, your parents scolding you for being out so late in the rain. You spent two days in bed with a fever, worrying if anyone saw you acting like a delusional maniac for two hours straight. But you were relieved to see that it’s been a while since your little outburst and nobody had brought up the topic of you screaming and yelling in the middle of the rain.

Not even the janitors.

That is until you had your Chemistry class. 

Your desk mate, who was none other than the infamous Chinese rich boy, Chenle came up to you with a grin spread across his face. You had never spoken to Chenle before, mostly because he was quite cute and you didn’t know what to say to someone so adorable and quiet.

You were just minding your own business, jotting down notes that your friend lent you because you couldn’t make it to school last class because of said fever. “Hey,” Chenle greeted, nodding at you as he placed his bag on his chair. You look up in surprise, eyes widening slightly at the fact that Chenle was actually talking to you and starting a conversation with you.

“Hi?” your throat was dry as your mind went blank, trying to use your extrovert powers to desperately try to come up with something to keep the conversation going. “What’s up?” you added, looking down at your notebook as you continued jotting down notes. Chenle sat on his chair, staring at you with a suspicious smirk spread across his lips.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hummed a small ‘yes’ under your breath, eyes scanning your notes.

“You have to answer it truthfully, though.”

You replied with another small hum, nodding slightly.

“Were you that girl screaming like a lunatic in the middle of the rain the other day?” he asked with a casual hum. His words made your hand stop writing, your eyes going wide as you felt your heart almost stop beating. ‘Shit. Oh god. Oh Dear God, no. You can’t do this to me,’ you thought with a nervous bite of your lip. 

You attempted to shrug it off casually, keeping an emotionless expression as you continued writing on your notebook. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded, feeling your heartbeat nervously against your chest. Chenle’s smirk widened at the way you gulped nervously and avoided eye contact when he brought it up.

“You sure? I’m pretty sure I saw you kicking and stomping puddles the other day, cursing and what-not,” Chenle taunted, watching as your hand weakened their grip on your pen. You cleared your throat, “again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Really? You sure you weren’t the girl who screamed ‘Dear God, give me a damn boyfriend already?!’ in the middle of the school garden like some kind of deranged maniac?”

“You saw that?!” you gasped, your head shooting up to glare at him with wide eyes. You then cupped your mouth when you realised you accidentally gave yourself away. Chenle let out a laugh, pointing a finger at your reaction. “Called it! So you were the girl doing a satanic ritual the other day!” he exclaimed, an amused smile playing at his lips.

You frowned, rolling your eyes as you looked back down at your paper. “Shut up, Zhong Chenle,” you grumbled with a small pout on your lips. “Come on, Y/n. What the hell happened to make you go all bat-shit crazy like that? I mean, not gonna lie it was quite amusing, you should definitely do it again,” he chuckled, leaning his chin against his hand, his elbow propped up on his desk.

You gave an exasperated sigh, looking up at him with a tired expression. “God I wished I took a video of it. Sadly, my phone ran out of battery at that time,” he added with an innocent smile. “You done? I get it, I publicly embarrassed myself. Is there anything you would like to add to that?” Your lips twitched in annoyance when Chenle took a moment to actually think of an answer.

“Give me a minute,” he hummed.

“That was a rhetorical question,” you frowned.

“I publicly embarrass myself on a daily basis, Chenle. What do you want from me?” you let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head at the boy. “Threatening to spread the information isn’t going to embarrass me that much. I’ve done worse things,” you added, finishing the last few words of your notes. 

“No shit, you walked into the boys bathroom to hide from some guy.” Chenle exclaimed with a laugh. “Survival is a reasonable explanation. I still wanted to live, you know! I’ll have you know I only got two weeks of detention for it,” you closed your notebook with a huff, getting up from your seat.

“And was your little tantrum under the rain another part of your survival instincts?” Chenle provoked, causing you to clench your teeth. “I don’t think doing a religious sacrifice on a rainy school day can be called survival, Y/n. Especially whining about how single you are,” he snorted against his palm.

You flushed in embarrassment, turning your body away as you grabbed the notes you borrowed from your classmate. “Shut up. I should’ve performed a demonic ritual to wipe you off of the face of the earth instead,” you spat back, walking away from your shared desk to head on over to your classmate’s.

“It still won’t get you a boyfriend, though.” Was the last words Chenle said to you before you walked away.

It was safe to say you had to apologize to your friend for crumpling their notes.

“I still can’t believe screaming like a lunatic under the rain actually works,” you shuddered, sipping your hot cocoa with a traumatized expression. It’s been almost a year since then. You graduated high school, now you’re in your first year of college.

It was honestly a surprising journey but a couple months after your little tantrum, you manage to find yourself an actual boyfriend, who you now share a flat with. It’s all just ironic really, you screaming under the rain like a deranged psycho was supposed to be something to laugh at in the near future.

But now, the story became even more laughable when the world decided to drop your boyfriend right in front of you not too soon afterwards. Even though you didn’t get along very well at first, it was still pretty worth it, if you say so.

“You still can’t believe what, babe?” you heard your boyfriend call out from the kitchen, the sound of his spoon stirring inside one of your ceramic mugs hitting the air. You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you scrolled through your old picture file on your laptop. Pictures you and your friends took before you all graduated high school to capture your last moments with each other.

“Remember the day I screamed and cursed at the sky because I was tired of being single?” you laughed, remembering the moment as if it happened only yesterday. There was a small pause before a loud dolphin-like laugh pierced your ears. “Oh my god, that was so iconic!” he exclaimed, tapping the spoon against the edge of the mug.

“Right? God it was so embarrassing! I finally stopped when I realised the principal was going home. Damn, thank god I didn’t get detention,” you joked, opening a picture of you and your boyfriend laughing and smiling under the heavy rain. “I’m still pissed off that I didn’t record it, it could’ve pinpoint the day I decided to talk to you,” Chenle chuckled, coming out of the kitchen with a mug of his own.

“Shut up, I know for a fact you’re never going to let it go if you actually did record it,” you stuck your tongue out teasingly, scooting over to the edge of the couch to make room for him to sit. “Indeed, it could’ve gone viral, you know. I could post it on Tik Tok or Youtube with the caption ‘Girl Screams At How Single She Is Not Knowing That Her Future Boyfriend Is Standing Right Behind Her, Recording Her For Epic Black Mail!’” Chenle grinned, emphasizing his words with his hand.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up, I hate you,” you huffed, pushing the laptop closer to the two of you so he could see. “What are you looking at by the way?” he asked, leaning over to see your screen clearly as he sipped his beverage. “Old photos from high school, you were way more annoying then,” you commented, giggling.

“I’m not annoying now?” he raised his brow at you, making you grin. “You still are, don’t worry. Just slightly less than back when we started dating,” you pinched his cheek gingerly causing him to chuckle. “That means I’m not doing my job as a good boyfriend,” he pouted, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Chenle, no.” You shook your head at him.

“Chenle, yes.” He nodded with a cheeky grin.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you deadpanned, turning away from him to continue scrolling. “Sure you would,” he said sarcastically, wrapping an arm around you lovingly. “You love me too much to even think about breaking up,” he said, grabbing your cheeks in both of his palms, turning your head to make you look at him. He pressed your cheeks together, making your lips pucker up for him to press a loving kiss against them.

“Remind me why I like you so much?” you mumbled against his lips before he pulled away. He hummed, thinking it over for a moment. “I’m just too damn amazing. Plus, a clown like yourself deserves someone to over-clown you,” he giggled. “I prefer the term ‘rival’ because over-clowning  isn’t a thing but go off, I guess.” you let out a soft laugh, nuzzling your nose against his.

“Maybe you should do what I did and start screaming at the rain to make us rich,” you suggested.

“Y/n, no. You’re not funny.”

[curious-menace]

Have I really ever requested one thing of you (the pegging telltale Riddler h/c)? Time to change that; let's see how the Eddies would respond to being told by their partner that they're a "bad boy" and "need to be punishment" (sexually, of course) - Pegging Anon.

I really enjoy these kinds of asks. honestly just give me a blank check for mayhem, unleash me upon the riddlers like a plague of locusts 

nsfw below the cut

Arkham! Riddler

please be careful with this riddler. He has problems reading peoples tone and if he thinks youre angry at him you're liable to send him into a panic.

he really doesn't like dirty talk. dont call him a slut or a whore or anything like that. Not only is it demeaning and humiliating( 2 things this riddler doesnt deal well with) its just a terrible way to get him to do what you want.

again, the idea of punishment in a sexy setting is a turn off for him. He’s afraid of being strangled or choked and he doesn't find being hit sexy.

to put it simply, this riddler reacts better to the carrot than the stick. if you want a good reaction out of him, praise and affection work better. call him a good boy, give him pets and rewards. 

IF you were to coax him into it, safeword, soft restraints and reassuring from you that everything will be ok, he’ll still probably cry. he might enjoy himself but the emotional stress will still leave him in an utter state.

i know some people use BDSM to cope with trauma but maybe dont try this on him. pitch the idea and let him mull it over. dont bring it up more than once or twice and let him decide

he always needs a lot of aftercare. he needs to be constantly reassured, not just after sex, that you love him , that he’s done well. lots of kisses and soft words and let him rest from the heavy stuff for a little while. 

Blacklight riddler

another riddler you need to tread carefully with. he’s a kinky shit but like...a soft kinky shit who bruises easily.

He wont need coaxing. its either a hell yes or a hell no and you shouldn't push that. He likes sex games but he’s got trauma, sometimes something that was fine yesterday is triggering today so please be gentle and respectful with him.

He doesnt mind being called a bad boy, just not too often. mix it up and don't patronise him all the time . you can tell him off without treating him like a kid. 

he likes edging and orgasm denial as a punishment. just dont ruin his orgasm or he wont let you do it again. 

please don't ever hit him during sex. a playful thump on the arm when he’s telling a bad joke is one thing but if you touch him roughly during the act, even if he knows its coming, he finds it triggering. 

He’s pretty exclusively a sub but don't think that means he’s into punishment all the time. mostly he just likes his dominant to take care of him.

BTAS Riddler

i feel like it would throw him for a loop. he’d be confused as all hell, even if you said it in a sexy voice he might not get the message.

 he’d probably scoff at the idea. the notion that he’s anything other than perfect is laughable. he’s certainly not some sort of bad boy. you should sit on his lap and get him on the same page as you. watch his mouth go dry and his eyes go wide as you explain all the things you're going to do to him for being bad. he’ll do his best to stay composed but we both know its you who’d be wearing the pants by the end of the conversation. 

he’d want to be tied up. he’ll be gibbering and rambling the entire time, desperately trying to stay in control of the situation.  He’ll try to do things for you but a gentle reminder that you’re in control and if he doesn't anything he’ll be punished more will have him biting his tongue. 

I think humiliation works best on this one. im imagining something with rope or his suits since he’s so fond of them. maybe try and make him cum while still clothed? maybe some shibari under his suit jacket? i’ll let you decide. 

he doesnt have a safeword bc he thinks its strictly a bdsm thing and refuses to admit he’s into that. he prefers to use the traffic light system. although you probably had to teach him that. before hand he was using some nonsense riddler made system involving humming different songs. ode to joy for fun/keep going and  vivaldi winter for slow down.  you will have to gently explain what a batshit insane idea that was. 

Original Riddler

I imagine he’d be into it, moreso initially than the others. He doesnt have so much emotional baggage and he’s game to try anything once. 

I dont know if he’d find the idea of punishment sexy but he’ll try it for you. he’d probably just prefer you to frame it as impact play or degradation or whatever “just because” you wanna try it. something about it being a meant as a punishment just seems weird to him 

he does like being called names but in a cute playful way. he’s not liable to take offence at anything you say, inside or outside the bedroom but digs at his appearance do sting a little. even if youre “in character” so to speak when you say them. just reassure him after that you dont really think those things.

He’s one of the tallest riddlers and also has zero shame so you’ll need to be inventive when thinking of punishments. tying him up could actually hurt him with his circulation, he runs around in glittery spandex all day anyway so good luck trying to humiliate him. 

Because he is so tall and strong, its hard to hurt him. you could try spanking him, ask him to count out the spanks and listen as his voice gets higher and more unsteady with each one. 

actually in that note and given his penchant for dress up maybe you could try sub/dom roleplay? pretend you're a doctor/nurse or something and you're punishing him for his bad diet? if the punishment thing doesn't work out at least you’ll both get a giggle out of it. 

Telltale Riddler

Oh he is absolutely going to fight you on this one “i think YOU'RE the one who needs punishing , love.” . if you want to punish him you’ll have to fight for that right

he’s never really subbed before he met you. He’s happy to show you how to punish a sub but he really needs practice letting someone else hold the reins.

he pretends he doesn't like dirty talk. if you get him riled up and start whispering filthy things in his ear he’s going to melt a little. 

I cant think of a specific he’d like or something he’d find egregiously offensive, so i think you've got a blank cheque for mayhem here. do what you like and he’ll tell you then and there if he’s into it or not.  

but no blinders or restraints though. he’s claustrophobic after being in that icebox. He IS an escapartist mind you. even if you put him in something he’ll have wiggled out of it before you can blink . he MIGHT tolerate something just there for aesthetics or because the fabric feels nice, like maybe his tie or your hair bow tied loosely around his arms.

in the same vein, he’s sensitive so maybe you could lightly torture him with some sensory stuff. ice cubes or wax play?

Zero year Riddler

i Cannot stress to you enough what a horny fuck this one is. at the mere MENTION of sexy punishment he’s like “oh yes punish me ive been bad “ wiggling his ass in the air like a target. will call you Daddy regardless of your gender because we all know he has  issues. 

He’s 100 percent going to lean into it, goad you and taunt you to punish him more, get angrier or hit him harder. he gets off on the pain, yes but he also just really enjoys being an insufferable shit. 

“EDWARD THIS IS PUNISHMENT YOU ARENT SUPPOSED TO ENJOY IT” - you, probably. 

i dont think the traditional sexy punishment things will work on this one. youre going to have to get creative. like tell him you are in charge of his wardrobe and death traps for the week. 

something that MIGHT work would be forcing him to wear a toy or even just some lingerie under his suit. He’s going to be embarrassed as all hell because this riddler is a big buff cheeto puff who takes his appearance seriously. BUT he cant deny the thrill of maybe the lace poking out over his waist band when he bends or the outline of a bralette being seen under his shirt, isnt a little arousing.

please dont be surprised when he turns around a week later and pulls this exact same shit on you. 

there you go nonnie !  this one was quite a lot of fun! i have a rule of trying not to write more than 6 points for each but it was hard to compress down this time around. so much variety in personality and temperament in the one character there's a lot to write about 

got something you wana talk about? send me an ask or a dm! im always game to talk about our favorite curious menace 💚💜

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, callofthemoon!

For @callofthemoon​. Have a very merry Christmas, with this themed fic!! <3 I hope this story is a good read for you (: I hope you like it!!

Read On AO3

*****

Suitcases and Snowglobes

Letting his eyes drift over the interior of the loft, Stiles felt his brow furrow. The walls were bare, the few pieces of furniture sparse and far between.

Derek sat on the threadbare couch, his back hunched as he faced away from the teen. The moment was short, but Stiles felt his mouth tug down at the corners as he saw, for a split second, how life for Derek was whenever the rest of the pack wasn't swarming the loft.  Alone .

Feeling his hand flex slightly around the plastic bag he was holding, Stiles cursed as Derek looked over to him and the noise of crinkling plastic, his face expressionless except for his mouth: downturned in a frown. Stumbling forward, Stiles offered him a crooked grin, choosing to bury his previous thoughts at the present, deciding he'd mull over it when he left.

"Merry Christmas, Sourwolf!" He said, his forcibly jovial voice echoing loudly off of the bare walls.

Derek glowered. "Don't call me that."

"Sourpup? Wolfenstein?" He ventured, backing away hastily when Derek made to stand up. "Never mind," He added, dumping the bag onto the counter behind him.

Letting out a drawn-out sigh, Derek gave him another withering glare.

Just as Stiles finished fishing through the contents of the bag, pulling out a bag of Cheetos triumphantly, Scott and Allison entered the loft, arms heaped with gaudy presents wrapped in crinkling paper.

"Hey guys ," Stiles said cheerfully, ignoring Dereks look of disdain as he opened the bag of Cheetos, spraying a cloud of fine, orange dust into the atmosphere.

"Merry Christmas!" Scott chirped, dumping a pile of wrapped gifts on the chipped counter with a thump, immediately turning to envelop Allison in a hug, no doubt the hundredth in the time they'd seen each other that evening.

Stiles watched, inwardly rolling his eyes before he remembered the melancholy thought he'd had about Derek earlier, his eyes flitting to the Alpha still sat on the couch. Derek's eyes were blank once more, also fixed on the couple, but Stiles had learnt to interpret the nuances of the different types of "blank" the alpha displayed. He was upset, seen in the slight grimace and how he was clenching his teeth- the downwards tilt of his eyebrows as he struggled to look ambivalent to the situation.

Feeling his cheeks heat up, Stiles turned away as Derek's eyes turned to him, catching him in the act of analysing his expression. "Right," Stiles said, clapping his hands on his knees and delving into his Cheetos once again. "-lets put on a movie, I'm thinking Home Alone, but suggestions are welcome," He rambled, going over to tug Scott to the couch, giving an amused Allison a cursory glance and a smile.

He grabbed the remote, raising his eyebrows as Derek sighed, indulgently moving to the far edge of the large sofa when Scott and Allison sat down, immediately entwining into a comforting hug at the opposite end. Stiles pressed the remote into Derek's hand, waggling his eyebrows. "I trust you to pick a suitably cheesy Christmas movie, are you up to the task, o' great Alpha?"

"No," Derek said flatly, his hand lax around the remote as he fixed Stiles with an unimpressed glare.

"Knew I could count on you!" Stiles said gleefully, his hand going to pat Derek on the shoulder, then thinking better of it as Derek fixed his hovering hand with an incredulous look.

Just as he headed to the small kitchenette, the loft door opened again, this time for Lydia, Jackson, Erica and Boyd. The previously subdued quiet of the loft rose in volume again when the pack began to interact, Jackson trying to persuade an indignant Scott to let him and Lydia have the spot on the couch as Erica put on a sweet voice as she tried to persuade Derek to let them erect a Christmas Tree in the loft, claiming "-it's not like you don't have space! Plus, you said we needed to bond as a pack- this could be bonding!"

The hubbub washed over Stiles' as he fished in one of the many bags the pack had dropped off containing enough food to feed a large army...or a small wolf-pack. He found the packets of microwaveable popcorn, rifling through them in search of the buttered popcorn, grinning in triumph when he found it. After slamming it into the ancient microwave that sputtered to a start with only a small sizzle, he jumped onto the counter, letting out a drawn-out sigh and closing his eyes as the noises of the pack washed over him once again.

"Stop sitting on my counter."

Stiles jumped, eyes flying open with a start as not even thirty seconds later, Derek stood before him with a suitably chagrined expression on his face. The popcorn let out its first pop, as Stiles turned from the sizzling microwave to Derek again, before reluctantly sliding off of the counter.

Derek stood there, fixing Stiles with an unreadable expression, as Stiles fiddled with the loose hem of his plaid shirt. "Did you...find a good movie?" He asked, for lack of a better comment. The alpha nodded towards the TV, where the silky tones of Hugh Grant filter through the noise of the settling pack.

"If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around...."

"Love Actually, really?" Stiles grimaced.

"Lydia's choice," Derek explained, Stiles nodding with understanding. The two stood in silent companionship in the kitchenette, whilst the pops of the popcorn began to peter off, the mouth-watering smell of buttered popcorn wafting towards them.

As they stood, Stiles thought about how Derek had gradually eased up as the loft became fuller, as the pack littered themselves and their belongings around the room and lounged across the furniture. Eyeing the bare walls, he found himself unsurprised that the dull interior wasn't a place of solace for Derek.

And then, in the way that inconvenient thoughts often do, one came to him, and wouldn't leave until he took the time to think about it. What if he made the place look a little more liveable? Just little by little, not anything  too  obnoxious or noticeable, he could just...make it a safe place for Derek. One that he could be  happy  in.

Absentmindedly, he got the popcorn out of the microwave, hissing as the bag burnt his hands, nearly dropping the inflated packet until Derek intervened with a sigh. Stiles grinned at him, observing the tiniest uptick of a smile on Derek's face.  Progress.

Letting one end of his headphones dangle down the front of his shirt, Stiles hummed tunelessly as he walked along the aisle, hunched over the shopping cart as he scanned the rows of produce. Slowing to a halt, he eyed a particularly beat-up looking eggplant, the skin dented and bruised, spying a label peaking from the side of the vegetable, he let out a triumphant " aha !" and grabbed the eggplant, nodding in satisfaction at the thirty cents off. Another win for his dad's cholesterol.

Rounding the aisle, he spotted a bedazzled stand, the gaudy letters spelling out " Christmas in Beacon Hills! ". Drawing closer, Stiles grinned as he spotted the snowglobes. He squinted at the little scene inside, an aerial shot of the small town and the surrounding forestry. Blocky letters proclaimed a Merry Christmas to all in Beacon Hills, making Stiles raise his eyebrows, as he stared at the mini figurines of the streets, houses and trees where so many supernatural disasters had occurred. Without a word, he picked a snowglobe up and tossed it into his cart, moving on to the tinned goods aisle.

"Where did this come from?" A confused voice came from behind the couch, making Stiles twist to see. Derek was holding the snowglobe, giving it a cautious shake as though it was going to explode any second.

"Found it whilst grocery shopping" Stiles replied nonchalantly, turning back to the weathered bestiary and flipping to the next page, sighing at yet another page of Archaic Latin. Time for Lydia to step in.

The others looked over inquisitively, Jackson rolling his eyes. "Why is it here?" Derek asked slowly, his tone unimpressed as if he was talking to a particularly slow toddler.

"Decoration?" Stiles shrugged. Derek paused, then slowly put the snowglobe back down, staring as the fake snow settled over the small, fake town. Maybe it could stay.

"Okay, so you fold the first section over the other half, then flatten that down-"

"Why are we doing this?" Jackson demanded, Lydia elbowing him in the ribs without taking her focus off of the origami tree taking shape on the table in front of her.

"Best one gets a prize" Stiles prompted, pushing his phone forwards, a cheerful woman explaining how to turn a piece of paper into a 3D Christmas tree.

"Is it food? 'Cuz we'd get the food anyway," Isaac interjected, making Stiles sigh and chuck a piece of paper at his head that he smoothly caught.

"It's the  principle  of the food, plus, if you win, you get the whole pan of brownies for yourself, you don't have to share," Stiles said smugly, watching as the pack looked up in succession, suddenly far more interested in winning than before.

"And you're baking them?" Jackson asked stiffly, Stiles nodding. "I guess I'll have to beat these untalented fuckers, not that there was any doubt anyway," He sniffed, making the others complain, their babbling rising over each other as they fought for their spot as victorious origami-creator.

With only a few mishaps, there was a group of 3D Christmas trees lined up on the counter in front of Stiles an hour later, a row of teens standing hopefully behind them.

Letting out a hum, Stiles turned to the figure behind him, Derek, stood watching the display with a disbelieving face. "As Alpha, I feel like it's your responsibility to judge which one's best," Stiles said lightly, beckoning him forwards. Derek sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I'd better hurry, then,"

Stiles set the two overflowing bags onto the counter with a grunt, Derek staring at them in confusion.

"What,"

"Decorations," Stiles said, flashing the 'Were a grin. "Be prepared, 'cuz Erica's arriving with a tree in five,"

"We didn't agree to this,"

"We didn't agree to me holding you up in a pool for eight hours but we both liked that outcome a lot, didn't we?" Stiles said cheerfully, rifling through the bags and unearthing a seemingly neverending string of tinsel, wrapping it around Derek, who snarled in response. Stiles only laughed as he fished out his speaker, humming along as the jovial tones of Mariah Carey filled the room.

As Stiles promised, Erica soon arrived with a tree, and half of the forest along with it, covered in dirt and a maniacal grin, the others sheepishly following after.

This place has some feeling to it.  Stiles thought with satisfaction.  He was getting somewhere.  

The evening was still, the afternoon heat diminishing for a fresh night. Stiles laid against the window of the loft, eyes closed as he tried to visualise the Archaic Latin in the book.

A luna sicut lupus in caritate-

A love like a wolf to the moon.

"There are some cardboard boxes, under my bed," A voice spoke,

Stiles jumped, eyes flying open as he banged his head against the window, glaring halfheartedly at Derek who stared on, unmoving. " Jeez, warn a guy! Next time I fall through this window, I'm blaming you " He grouched, rubbing his head before the 'Weres words caught up with him. " Wait, whats in the boxes ?"

Derek let out a slight sigh, capturing Stiles' full attention. He looked at the Alpha, whose shoulders were slumped, face tired and unguarded.

" Under my bed, " Derek repeated, before slumping onto a bar stool nearby, " -there are some decorations I salvaged from the fire, you should- " He let out another breath, the sound rattling in his throat. " You should see if any are worth putting up. "

Stiles stared, lost for a moment, shocked at the vulnerability Derek was showing. For a second they stood, staring at each other silently before Stiles spoke. " Yeah! God, yes! Derek, I'll definitely do that, thank you, for letting me ," He said, the words catching as he tried to mask his gratitude and shock. Watching the downward slope of Derek's shoulders, Stiles' mind reeled as he thought about the trust Derek was giving him, making a small part of him light up, the warmth settling behind his ribs.

Stiles eyes slowly tracked to Derek's bed, seeing a dusty cardboard corner peeking out under the handknitted woollen cover- a gift from the pack. Looking back to Derek, he realised the Were was staring at the box too as if the contents might leap out and kill him if he got too close. Maybe that was why he wanted Stiles to look through it. Because he couldn't.

As Stiles reached the box, he heard a sharp exhale from behind him and turned in concern as Derek stood up, the bar stool screeching against the concrete floor. " I'll be outside if you need me,"  His voice was stony, making Stiles nod. Derek walked out, the door closing heavily behind him. He wanted the decorations to be out, but he couldn't handle doing it himself. Stiles sympathised, gently opening the cardboard box as he thought back to how long it took him to be able to bite into a pierogi dumpling from his mom's cookbook without a feeling of nausea overwhelming him.

The box was a treasure trove. As Stiles sifted through the contents, they clinked softly and rustled, their fragility constantly at the forefront of his mind. Old fashioned glass ornaments, their surfaces painted dusty-pink or emerald green with intricate patterns on their frail surface. Creased Christmas cards from family friends, the edges singed and the words yellowed and faded. Clumsily made pottery, obviously shaped by children, in the abstract shapes of angels, stars and hearts. And under it all, wrapped in cloth, a crudely carved wooden ornament, the surface worn and smooth, the Hale Triskele.

Feeling himself let out a sigh, Stiles carefully rewrapped the triskele and gently laid it back in the box, it was beautiful. He ached for Derek, thinking of the memories he'd missed, the heirlooms and pictures, burnt now to a crisp. It was an easy decision, deciding to put the ornaments on the tree, and one Stiles was truly honoured to do. Derek  trusted  him.

Looking under the bed once more, Stiles squinted, seeing a large shape. Pulling the object out, he found it to be a clunky suitcase, leatherbound and cracked. The material was stained, and a small T.H was engraved on the corner. Talia Hale?

Looking over to the door Derek had exited from, Stiles spent a second debating his curiosity, but it outweighed his dubiousness as to whether he was allowed to look inside.

Cracking open the lid, he grunted as it swung open with a puff of dust. The suitcase was old, and the contents were covered by a soft, creased blanket. Tracing it slowly with his fingers, Stiles felt again the pang of sorrow he did whenever he remembered the monstrosities Derek had suffered. Pulling back the cloth, his breath caught in his throat as his hand brushed over a photo hidden just under the blanket.

It was a blurry photo, dated in the corner for well over a decade before the current date. There are eleven people in the photo, all hugging in front of a homey mansion, presumably the Hale Mansion. The light falls gently on the people, evidently taken at dusk as the people in the photo smile sunnily at the cameraman. Looking closer, Stiles stares in shock at a familiar figure sitting in the front of the picture. It's Derek, only younger and more carefree than Stiles had ever seen him. He's reclining lazily against another girl, who glares playfully at him, the signature Hale eyebrows a striking feature on her face.

Just as Stiles goes to flip the photo over, Stiles jumps as the door to the loft opens again, Derek entering the room. His head was bowed, until he shot up, staring at Stiles, his eyes slowly tracking down to the trunk lay open beside him, and the photo in his hands.

Stiles sprang back, letting go of the photo and apologising profusely as Derek rapidly approached, no words coming from him. His face, though, was murderous. Stiles went still, as Derek grabbed his shoulder, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. Derek rapidly strode back across the loft with Stiles in tow, stumbling across the floor.

"Get. Out." Derek growled, his features turning feral and his eyes beginning to glow as Stiles felt pinpricks of claws in his shoulders.

"Derek! I'm so sorry, I know it was an invasion of privacy, I just wanted to help-!" His words died as the door was slammed in his face, leaving only a distraught feeling of  wrong  and the throbbing of his soon-to-bruise shoulder.

Fuck.

"I've tried calling him over a hundred times now, Scotty, he hates me," Stiles said mournfully, as Scott huffed, cradling a meowing kitten in his hands as he brought it over to the examination table at Deaton's.

"Why are you so bothered about this, Stiles?" Scott asked, putting the small kitten down and gingerly unwrapping its bandaged leg. "Not to be a dick, but Derek's  always  pissed at you,"

Stiles scoffed but didn't say a word, because...yeah, he kinda was, and he had a point. It was a tale as old as time. Stiles had been pissing Derek off since the dawn of time. "But it's different this time," He wheedled, banging his head against the wall in defeat and then wincing at the dull pain it caused.

"Why, because you've realised you actually like him?"

"No, I just don't want things to be awkward-"

"Or you realised you have a huge crush on him," Scott countered.

"I do  not -"

Oh. Shit.

Scott stared smugly as Stiles gaped, starting to freak out a little. When did this happen? When did he start to see Derek as someone he wanted to get to know more, to get to know the  best ? Fuck.

"Look, dude, pack meeting's tonight, talk to him, apologise, tell him how you feel!" Scott deftly fastened a new bandage to the kitten's leg, who mewled in protest.

"Easy for  you  to say, Allison practically fell into your lap!"

Scott fixed him a stare, making Stiles shift guiltily, because...no, she didn't.

Fuck.

Stiles approaches the loft door, the others looking suspiciously at him as he heard his heartbeat drum through his ears. Jackson pushed it open, sauntering through and the others following suit.

"Remember, apologise," Scott said sternly, making Stile nod, secretly pleased at the sudden positive turn Scott had had towards Derek's wellbeing.

Walking into the loft, he shuffles to one of the couches and perches on the end, fiddling with his sleeve as the meeting progressed. As the others spoke on the current matters, he stayed silent, tensing slightly whenever he heard Derek speak. As the formalities drew to a close and the others turned the TV to a Christmas movie and brought out snacks, Stiles sighed, and finally got up to get a drink, the uncomfortable-ness prickling at the back of his throat.

Filling a glass, he let out another sigh, letting his eyes wander. They came to rest on a photo frame, holding a familiar photo. The family picture. Squinting at it, he felt a shock course through him. Why had Derek decided to put it up?

Feeling a throat clear behind him, he tensed again, turning to see Derek staring at him, impassive.

"I-" Stiles started, ready to begin his apology speech.

"Don't," Derek said, shaking his head. "I know you're sorry, and I'm," He struggled, seemingly not able to find the words. "I'm glad you found it. O hadn't seen it in years, and now, I want to see it," He admitted, making a small smile curl at Stiles' lips.

"I'm glad," Stiles returned, smiling at the Alpha, who reluctantly smiled back. A silence lapsed between them as the noises of the jovial pack filtered through to the kitchen.

Staring into his glass, Stiles shrugged, turning to go, but before he could leave, Derek enveloped him in a tight hug, making Stiles freeze.

"Thank you," He mumbled into Stiles' chest, clinging onto him. Feeling his mouth open in shock, Stiles clung on just as tightly.

"Anytime, big guy" He smiled.

The two stood like that for a few minutes, breathing each other in and feeling everything they couldn't say.

Finally, Derek stepped back, his cheeks flushed. "Would you want to go out sometime?" He asked bluntly, Stiles blinking in shock.

"Like...on a date?" Stiles asked hesitantly, wondering if he should celebrate just yet.

"No, on a murder mission," Derek replied flatly, Stiles taking a second to recognise the sarcasm before huffing a laugh.

"Fuck, Derek, I'd love to," He answered honestly, watching as Dereks face broke out into an honest-to-god  grin .

And that is how Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski embarked on one of the best adventures of their lives, and one they'd find to be very enjoyable. One they would never ever regret.

[ificanthaveu]

Snow in California || Shawn Mendes

Description: After a snow emergency, Shawn is left having to spend Christmas with your family. It’d be completely fine if it weren’t for the fact that they all assumed he’s your boyfriend.

Description per my notes (aka JUMBLY): you’re stuck in LA for Christmas but lucky for you my family’s here so you can just come with me….except there’s a catch, I told my family I have a boyfriend

A/N: Dani is EARLY with a FIC? ya bc she got plans tonight ope anyway ok this is LOOSELY based on “Snow in California” by Ariana Grande, and that wasn’t on purpose but then I was thinking of a title and I’m like wait it’s kinda like the song so I just rolled with it bc this bitch sucks at titles :) also there’s a lil part that parallels “A Christmas Miracle” and I wanna see if anyone catches it ;)

Word Count: 5.9k

12 Days of Ficmas

You watched the clock carefully, waiting for it to hit noon so Shawn would be done with this interview and you could finally get something to eat. You clicked through emails and scheduled a few more things before it would start to die down with Christmas being two days away.

You got lost in trying to schedule an interview for Shawn when you felt something kick your foot. You looked up to see Shawn looking down at you.

“Ready for some damn lunch?” He said, obviously just as hungry as you were. 

“Hell freaking yes,” you said as you slammed your laptop shut and followed him out the door to your car. 

You threw your bag in the back seat and started down the road to a small restaurant the two of you had been wanting to try. 

“When do you see your family?” Shawn asked once you pulled on top the main road. 

“I’ll probably leave midday tomorrow. See my grandparents on Christmas Eve night, and then hang out with my family on Christmas Day,” you said with a smile, not being able to wait for it to be Christmas. 

“Your flight leaves at 6:00 tomorrow, right?” you said as you glanced over at him.

He nodded his head with a small smile. 

“It’s only three days, but I can’t wait,” he said softly. 

You pulled into the parking lot, and Shawn stayed in the car while you ran in to grab your take out order. You got back in the car and plopped the large bag of food on Shawn’s lap.

“My place or yours?” You asked before you backed out.

“Mine. I need to bounce that song idea off you,” Shawn said. 

You nodded your head, remembering what he had told you before. 

“As long as we’re at that meeting at 5:00, we should be good,” you thought out loud as you turned onto Shawn’s street.

You and Shawn made your way up to his condo, getting ready to eat the food you could smell the whole ride home. 

You opened his door and were met with his cheerfully decorated living room that he spent so much time on. You sat down by the island and started pulling out food, wanting to try a little bit of everything. Shawn sat across from you, taking the food as you handed it to him. 

You ate in silence for a few minutes as you looked at your phones. A weather alert popped up. Blizzards around Toronto. You didn’t say anything, hoping it’d pass by or Shawn would never see it. 

You set your phone down after a while, talking to Shawn about the interview he just did, and your plans for your few days you both got to spend at home. You couldn’t get the blizzard warning out of your head. 

“Hey, did you see the weather warning?” You asked casually. 

Shawn furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. 

“There’s supposed to be blizzards around Toronto starting tonight,” you said slowly and carefully. 

Shawn’s face stayed blank, thinking it through. He picked his phone back up to check his email. His face dropped. 

“My flight was canceled,” he said under his breath. He scrolled mercilessly, trying to refresh the page, hoping this was a mistake. 

“Can you maybe find one for Christmas Eve?” You said, immediately pulling out your laptop to search for a new flight for him.

Thirty minutes of Shawn scrolling on his phone, and you looking at every possible way home on your laptop, it was hopeless. There were no flights going into Toronto until two days after Christmas. 

You sat on the arm of his couch, watching him pace back and forth as he talked to someone from the airport. He tugged at his hair and finally sat down on the edge of the couch right next to you. You moved your hand carefully to his back, rubbing it up and down as he tried to speak calmly to the person on the other end. 

“No…no, it’s fine. I get it. Yeah…thanks anyway,” Shawn said as he hung up the phone throwing it on the ground and resting his head in his hand. 

You continued to rub his back, and after a moment, he leaned into you, resting the side of his head on your knee. You could feel his wet cheeks soaking into your jeans. You threaded your fingers through his hair, not talking quite yet. 

You could feel his body shake as his shoulder bumped against your thigh. You moved your hand back down to his shoulders, resting your hand on his opposite one. 

“I’m so sorry, Shawn,” you finally whispered. 

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he let out a sob he definitely didn’t mean for you to hear. At that, you gently pushed him over a little, moving directly next to him and pulled his head into your chest. He adjusted to lay on the couch, his long legs hanging off the end as he rested his head on your lap and you continued to play with his hair. 

You typed out a quick text to Andrew, telling him what happened. He promptly canceled the meeting that was supposed to happen in an hour and asked if he could help with anything.

But there wasn’t.

Because it was two days before Christmas, and Shawn just found out he can’t spend it with his family. 

Instead of saying that, you just told him you’d let him know. 

You sat there with Shawn’s head laid in your lap for longer than you could keep track of. You watched the sunset from his living room window, still running your fingers through his hair as a gentle reminder that you were there when he needed to talk.

After probably an hour, he finally said, “This fucking sucks,” as he turned over to look up at you.

You nodded your head slowly as you looked down at him, “I know.”

It went silent again as he stared up at the ceiling. 

“What am I going to do?” He said barely above a whisper. 

“Anyone here will be glad to have you over. You could always go with Andrew or Josiah, and my family would love to have you as well,” you said. 

“Would they?” He asked as his voice broke.

You nodded your head and said, “Of course, you know they love you.”

He fell silent as he continued to look up at you, and you awaited his answer. 

“When are you leaving?” He asked.

“Tomorrow around 1:00 probably. We’re just going to my grandparents,” you explained. “And then Christmas morning we have breakfast and open gifts just with my family and spend the day lounging around doing absolutely nothing.”

“Are you sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

“Shawn, my uncle’s ex-wife’s kids with her new husband came to our family Christmas last year. Trust me, everyone is welcome, especially you,” you said. 

“Ok,” he mumbled. “Should I bring flowers or something?”

“You don’t have to, but my grandma is a sucker for flowers,” you said as a small smile finally spread across his face.

“I feel like I should get your family presents, too,” he said as he thought this all through.

“You know you don’t have to,” you said. “Your presence is gift enough.”

He finally sat up and stood up quickly, stumbling a little as the blood rushed from his head.

“Will you go Christmas shopping with me?” He asked quickly as he glanced at the time. “The mall should still be open for two more hours, and I don’t know what your family likes.”

You nodded your head and stood up, following him to the door and then to his car. 

You took a few minutes in the car to call your parents and let them know. 

“Hello, dear!” Your mom cheerfully answered her phone.

“Hey, how are you doing with the Christmas prepping?” You asked as you played with the bottom of your shirt.

“Really good! I wish you’d bring that boyfriend of yours though,” she said with a huff.

You side glanced at Shawn, hoping he couldn’t hear what your mom was saying to you on the phone. Your mom had been trying to set you up with every guy around your age for the past few months, so you told her you were seeing someone. You “refused to tell her his name” so she didn’t “stalk him on social media,” but really, he just didn’t exist.

“Well, I am bringing someone actually. Shawn’s coming with,” you said.

“I should’ve known Shawn was the guy you were seeing! The way you two are always together even when you’re not working. Oh! Your dad will be so happy to hear this,” she rambled on.

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. “Mom, I don’t-“

She cut you off before you could finish, “I gotta go, honey, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

And with that, she hung up. 

You dropped the phone into your lap and banged your head against the window.

A look of panic spread across Shawn’s face.

“They don’t want me to come, do they? I should’ve known. It’s fine, really-“ 

You cut him off, “No, no, they’re really excited you’re coming,” you said with a little too much sarcasm, confusing Shawn further. 

“That doesn’t sound like you’re serious,” he said slowly.

“They think we’re dating,” you said, not daring to look at him, as he whipped his head around to look at you. 

“Why?” Shawn said with a laugh. 

You groaned and rested your face in your hands, shaking your head as Shawn continued to laugh to himself.

“I told them I was seeing someone to get them off my back, and when I saw I was bringing you, she assumed,” you said. “And before I could correct her, she was hanging up on me.”

“If this were to happen to literally anyone, it’d be you,” Shawn said. 

“I’ll call her back later and explain,” you mumbled, looking down at your phone.

“Don’t,” Shawn said quickly.

You looked over at him and raised your eyebrow as he kept his eyes on the road.

“I mean…you’re letting me spend Christmas with your family, the least I can do is pretend to be your boyfriend, so your family gets off your back,” he said. 

You studied him as he stayed serious. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” You said with hesitation evident in your voice.

“[Y/N], it’ll be easy. It’s for three days. I’ve just gotta throw my arm around you occasionally and embellish our everyday stories a little bit. Trust me. No one will even know,” he said with maybe a little too much confidence.

“So, when did we start dating?” You asked him.

“Well, what did you tell your mom?” He turned the question back at you. 

“I first said I was seeing someone…beginning of October? So we’ve been together since September,” you said.

“What day?” He said. 

“Does it matter?”

“Well, yeah. What if someone asks each of us individually what day, and we say different days?” He said.

“Alright, then it was the twelfth,” you said, thinking of a random date. 

“We were in New York that week. Perfect,” he said as he pulled into the parking lot of the mall. “How did we find out we had feelings for each other?”

“You wrote a song about me,” you said with admiration in your eyes and a hand to your heart. 

He gave you a look, “Really?”

“Yes, really. Come on, it’s really not difficult to believe at all,” you said with a scoff. 

“Is it?” He asked as he parked and got out of the car. 

You followed suit and walked towards the entrance with him. 

“You write songs about every girl that’s looked at you. Of course, you wrote one about me,” you said.

“Ouch,” he said under his breath. 

“You’re only saying that because I’m right,” you taunted. 

“Ok, fine. I wrote a song about you. How did you find out it was about you?” He diverted.

“You played it for me, and you referenced a specific memory that happened between the two of us. So I was able to put two and two together,” you said as the two of you walked in and started walking down the first row of stores. 

“And what’s the memory?” He continued.

“I’m doing all the hard work. You pick the memory,” you said, turning into one of your sister’s favorite stores. 

“Does it have to be a real memory, or can I make that up?” He said as you tried to find the sweater your sister wanted.

“It probably should be real, so we can stay as close to the truth as possible,” you said. 

“Alright…” he trailed off, thinking about his time spent with you. “That time we went shopping at midnight, and then you got me in that car accident.”

“It was not my fault!” You defended as you threw the sweater at him. “She’s been looking at this for weeks, and my mom couldn’t find it anywhere. She’ll love you forever.”

Shawn held up the sweater and nodded his head, “Perfect. And it was totally your fault.”

You and Shawn wandered around the mall as you helped him pick out gifts for your family. Two hours later and you walked out with four gifts and the perfectly fabricated story. 

It was late by the time you got back to your apartment, plopping down on the couch, wanting to go to bed, but knowing you had nothing packed yet. 

Shawn was coming over at 8:00 the next morning to ensure you had all your lies in order, so the packing had to be done now. 

You slowly got up and trudged to your bedroom. You grabbed the outfit you were wearing for Christmas Eve and hung it up on your door to put on the next morning. You threw your Christmas pajamas and your Christmas Day outfit along with some other clothes into a suitcase. 

After packing everything up, you sat on the edge of your bed and stared at your dresser in front of you. On top of it sat a little black box. The gift you’d picked out for Shawn weeks ago.

You had contemplated whether or not you had wanted to give it to him since the moment you ordered it. You knew he’d like it. But you didn’t want him to think it was something someone who was “more than a friend and a coworker” would give him. Even though you definitely wanted that. 

You stood up and grabbed the box, opening it up to run your finger across the cool metal of the bracelet, an almost exact replica of the one he had lost when you were in New York. 

You closed it back up and put it in the bag of gifts for your family. It’d make this relationship more believable. You’d at least try to convince yourself of that. 

You tossed and turned all night, and so did Shawn.

He couldn’t stop stressing over how he was going to ruin this. He ran every single possibility through his head, and he just knew he was destined to somehow mess up the story. 

Of course, it was incredibly hard to mess it up since most of it was true. He had fallen for you in September. It was when you were in New York. He was writing songs about you. 

The small box on his nightstand seemed to be screaming at him.

You’d been complaining for months about needing a ring that matched the bracelet you wore every day. Shawn found one. And it was perfect. The perfect gift a boyfriend would give to his girlfriend, but you were only pretending, and he didn’t want you to feel weird about it. 

Without letting himself regret it, he stood up, grabbed the ring and put it in the top pocket of his duffle bag. 

Both of you fell asleep only a few hours before Shawn had to be at your apartment, so he showed up with two very large coffees.

Once you opened the door for him, he carried in his duffle bag and his own bag of presents. 

“Merry Christmas Eve!” He said as he set his things down. “Alright, babe, let’s practice,” he said with a wink as he handed you your coffee. 

“Well, thank you…honey?” You said with hesitation.

He slightly shook his head at you, “You’ve gotta commit.”

“Thank you, honey,” you said with a small smile as you sat down on the couch. 

“Incredibly believable. When did I ask you out officially?” He asked, sitting across from you.

“September 12. We were in New York, and I walked in on you practicing a song you were writing. I knew it was about me after I asked you to sing it for me,” you said. “How did you know you were falling for me?”

“Well, you were the only person who would call me out on my bullshit, and I wasn’t used to people doing that. So it just drew me to you. I slowly fell for every other aspect of you,” he said. 

Your heart skipped a beat as you had to remind yourself this wasn’t real.

“What’s our favorite thing to do together?” He asked.

“Walks in the park with ice cream from that little shop down the street,” you said, taking a drink from your coffee. “What’s the song that’s about me?”

“Well, it hasn’t been released yet, and an artist never reveals the project before it’s done,” he said with the softest smile. 

“I think we’re good,” you say with a shrug. 

“I just gotta make sure I’m always near you with an arm around you or holding your hand,” he added. 

“Exactly,” you said. You glanced down at the time. It was barely 9:00. 

“We really didn’t have to meet this early,” you whispered. 

“I know, but I was nervous,” he whispered back. 

You spent the next few hours practicing random facts about each other and going over memories you had to make up while you both sprawled across the sofa. 

“Do you think it’s going to look…unnatural?” Shawn asked as he sat up. “With my arm being around you. Do I look comfortable?”

He brought his arm around you, resting it on the top of the couch as you leaned slightly into his side. 

“I feel like we look good,” you said, looking over at him. “Hold my hand.”

He slowly laced his fingers with yours as you both fell silent, staring down at your intertwined hands. 

Shawn coughed after a moment, pulling his hand away. 

“Yeah, looks good,” he said, not meeting your gaze.

You nervously tucked your hair behind your ear as you checked the time. 

“If we leave now, we can get more coffee on the way there,” you said with a hopeful smile. 

“Sounds fantastic to me,” he said as he stood up, turning around to help you up. 

You grabbed your things and walked down to your car waiting in the parking lot. You threw your things in the back, quickly checking to make sure the box was still in the bag. 

A little more than an hour and you were back home, pulling into your parents’ driveway. You parked your car and looked over at Shawn. 

“Are you ready?” He asked. 

You looked out your window to see your mom waiting at the door. 

“Let’s do this,” you said as you got out of the car and waved to your mom. You went to grab your bags, but Shawn stopped you. 

“I got it, babe,” he said, brushing you away. 

You tried not to make it obvious at how shocked you were at how he was playing it up already. This might be easier than you thought. 

I greeted your mom with a big smile and a hug as Shawn followed behind you with his arms filled with bags. 

“Merry Christmas!” She said as she held you tight. She let you go after a moment and watched Shawn struggle. 

She quickly took the two bags of gifts out of his hands, and you both had the same expression on your face. 

“I can take that, Mom,” you quickly said as you grabbed your bag of gifts.

“And I can take that, no worries at all,” Shawn said with a smile. 

Your mom patted him on the shoulder as you both walked into the house. 

“Where is everyone?” You asked as you peaked into the living room.

“Your dad and Rachel ran to the grocery store, Aaron is meeting us at Grandma’s,” your mom explained as she shut the front door. 

“Well, we’re going to go put our stuff upstairs,” you said as you gently nudged Shawn to move forward. 

You slipped in front of him as you lead him to your old bedroom. You kicked the door open and set the bag down in the corner of the room. 

You turned around to see Shawn beaming as he looked at the pictures that lined your walls. You slid the bags off his arms as he continued to look around your room. 

“You were so cute,” he said softly as he pointed at a picture with you and your best friend in second grade. 

After setting the rest of the bags down, you stood next to him, looking at the picture. 

“Who’s that?” He asked as he pointed at a picture of you and your high school boyfriend. 

You cringed as you reached up and tugged the picture down. 

“That was supposed to be thrown away,” you said, tossing it in the trash. 

“Ah, gotcha,” he said. “Now you have to fill the empty space.”

“Shawn, I don’t live here anymore,” you reminded him. 

He shrugged, “Well, yeah, but still.”

For the first time, he turned around and looked at you, his eyes then drifting to your bed. 

“We’re going to have to share that, aren’t we?” He said quietly. 

You nodded your head, “Well, you are my boyfriend, so of course, we’d share a bed. And we don’t have a guest room.”

An awkward silence came between you two. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” you said with a pat on his shoulder as you tugged him out of your room, gently lacing your hands together as you pulled him down the stairs. 

You were met with your mom baking in the kitchen, finishing up cookies to bring to your grandma’s house in a few hours. Shawn leaned against the counter, and you leaned gently against his side. 

“Need any help?” You asked. 

Your mom simply shook her head, “Nope, I’m in the zone. Rather you did not interrupt me, dear.”

Your jaw dropped as Shawn laughed at your mom. 

“We’ll just get out of your hair then,” you said a little too dramatically as you tugged Shawn into the sunroom at the back of your house. 

You settled into the couch in the corner, crossing your legs and facing him as he did the same. 

“How are you doing?” He whispered. 

You nodded your head, “good,” you whispered back. “This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“It’s because I’m a really great boyfriend,” he said with a confident smile. 

Before you could respond, the back door opened, and your dad and sister walked in with a few bags. 

“Hey!” Your dad said cheerfully. You stood up and gave him a quick hug, and Shawn followed, shaking his hand. 

“Nice to see you, Shawn,” he said with a small smile. 

“You too, sir,” he said back. 

“Well, we’ll leave you two,” Rachel said as she motioned for your dad to follow her into the kitchen. 

You sat back down on the couch in your original spot, this time turning to rest your head on Shawn’s shoulder. 

“Tired?” He whispered. 

You nodded your head gently, “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Me too,” he said, settling back into the couch and pulling you with him so your head lay on his chest. 

“We still have two hours,” you mumbled.

“Then nap,” Shawn whispered.

He didn’t have to tell you twice as you relaxed into him and fell asleep. It felt too real. That this was your actual boyfriend, and it was his first holiday with your family. You had to beg yourself to not believe that. 

You felt someone tug on your foot, and you jolted awake, smacking your head on Shawn’s jaw as you both groaned. 

You shifted up to your knees, rubbing the top of your head as you brought your hand to Shawn’s jaw. 

“Oh my God, I am so sorry, honey,” you said through a laugh as you traced your thumb across his jaw gently. 

“Not the first time, won’t be the last,” he said as he smiled sleepily up at you. 

Your heart skipped a beat. You didn’t even realize what you were doing before you leaned in and kissed the side of his jaw where your head hit. You could feel his breath hitch. 

“All better,” you whispered, as you pulled away, his eyes not leaving yours. 

“Alright, love birds. We’re leaving for Grandma’s,” Rachel said, being the one who tugged on your foot. 

You both nodded and stood up, finding your shoes and hopping into your car. You drove the short distance to your Grandma’s house as the car was silent. 

“That was good,” Shawn said as he broke the silence. 

“What?”

“When you kissed my jaw, that was good. As in, like. Very believable,” he stumbled over his words. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you said. “Rachel’s a sucker for shit like that.”

The silence fell again as you pulled up and parked before making your way into your grandma’s house. 

The night went exactly as it was supposed to. Shawn met all your aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents, while also being introduced to other people who showed up. You spent your night in the back corner of the couch with Shawn’s arm draped around you. You barely stood up all night, as any time you needed something, Shawn said he’d get it and would leave with a gentle pat on your knee. 

Your aunt slid into his spot one of those times, giving you a look. 

“Quite the gentleman, huh?” She said. 

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah, he’s pretty perfect.”

“How long has it been? And how come I just found out yesterday when your mom called me?” your aunt asked. 

“Since September, and you know how it is. His private life has to be incredibly quiet for it to stay private,” you said. 

“Are you ok with that?”

Out of all the questions you were prepared for, this wasn’t one you practiced. 

“Um,” you paused. “Yeah, I am. I mean, I work for him,” you said with a chuckle. “Some people wouldn’t take that too well.”

Your aunt nodded her head, “Well, when it’s real as it is between you two, people shouldn’t even think that but that’s just how it is sometimes,” she said with a sigh. “One day.”

“One day,” you repeated, your heart beating out of your chest at how she said this was so real. You wanted to shake her and tell her it wasn’t but you wanted it to be so bad.

She stood up and went back to her spot as Shawn came back and handed you your glass of wine. 

“Am I going to have to drive?” He asked with a smirk as you took another drink.

“Yep,” you said, curling into his side again. 

The night flew by after everyone ate dinner and opened gifts. Everyone was eager to talk to Shawn and you about your relationship. The two of you answered every question perfectly. No one suspected a thing.

Before you knew it, Shawn was driving you home as you dozed off in the front seat. He pulled into the driveway behind your parents. He rounded the car and opened your door. 

“Come on, love,” he whispered, kneeling down by your door as you looked at him. 

“Do I have to?” You mumbled. 

“Want me to carry you?” He said with a small smile.

You nodded your head as he turned around, and you slid onto his back. He shut the door and walked toward the back door with the rest of your family as you rested your head on his shoulder. 

You heard a chorus of goodnights before you felt Shawn shut your bedroom door and set you on your bed. You laid back and shut your eyes, as you heard Shawn rustling around, presumably changing. 

“Come on, [Y/N],” he said with a quiet chuckle, poking your side as he said it. 

You groaned as you opened your eyes and met his gaze just inches away from you. 

“You’re going to regret falling asleep in jeans,” he whispered. 

You sighed as you finally got up and trudged to your bathroom. You glanced down at the bag of gifts before quickly changing and going back into your room. 

“I’m going to run these downstairs real quick,” you said as you saw Shawn laying in the bed, scrolling through his phone. “Want me to grab yours?”

“No,” he said a little too quickly. “No, I can do it tomorrow morning.”

You walked downstairs quietly and rounded the living room towards the Christmas tree. You took a deep breath as you put the gifts under the tree among the rest. The box holding Shawn’s gift stayed in your hands a little too long. You hesitated before standing up and bringing the gift with you into the sunroom, setting it on the tv stand. 

You went back upstairs to your room, seeing Shawn curled up in the covers with his eyes closed. 

You crawled in on the opposite side, pulling the covers up and facing him. 

“I didn’t get to ask you what side you usually sleep on,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed. 

“You guessed right,” you said. 

His eyes flickered open, and he smiled at you as you returned it. 

With that, you closed your eyes and fell asleep to the sound of Shawn’s deep breaths. 

Shawn woke up first. In fact, Shawn woke up with your head on his chest and his arm around your waist as your arm gripped his middle. He looked down at you peacefully sleeping and again reminded himself that this could never happen. You would never feel that way about him. 

He gently removed your arm from him. You shuffled away, turning the opposite direction and burying your head in the pillow, not waking up. 

Shawn breathed a sigh of relief as he stood up and grabbed his gifts, tiptoeing downstairs. 

He set your family’s gifts among the rest and held the small box that held yours in his hands. Without letting himself think too much, he set it at the very back of the tree. 

He stood up to see your brother leaning against the doorway. 

“Merry Christmas,” Aaron said as he moved to sit on the couch. 

“Yeah, Merry Christmas,” Shawn said back, sitting across from him. 

Aaron motioned to the tree with his head, “What did you get her?” 

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Shawn said. 

Before Aaron could pry further, you walked into the room and sat down next to Shawn as he moved his arm to wrap around you and kissed the side of your head. 

“Morning,” you mumbled.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered. 

You smiled up at him, “Merry Christmas.”

“Coffee, anyone?” Your dad asked as he peaked into the living room. Everyone said yes as he started brewing a pot as Rachel and your mom made their way into the living room. 

Your dad brought everyone a mug as presents were started. 

Your family all loved their gifts from Shawn, commending him on how well he did, and continuously saying he didn’t have to bring anything. 

The gifts dwindled down as Shawn watched the box get closer and closer. Finally, it was the only present left. 

“Who’s that for?” Rachel asked as your mom grabbed it. 

“[Y/N],” she said as she handed it to you. 

You turned to look at Shawn, “You got me something?” You said quietly. 

Shawn nodded his head as he grabbed the box from your mom. 

“Yours is in the other room,” you whispered. 

“Want to go over there?” He asked.

“We’re going to go, uh-“ you stuttered. 

“Just in the other room,” Shawn finished.

“Yeah, to open ours,” you said with a nod. 

Everyone shrugged their shoulders and nodded as you stood up and tugged Shawn to the sunroom, grabbing the box off the stand and settling into the couch. 

“Who’s going first?” He asked. 

“You can,” you said, the nerves setting in. 

Shawn carefully unwrapped the box and pulled off the top. 

“Oh my God,” he said under his breath. “How did you...I can’t believe-“ he was speechless as he traced his finger across the cool metal of the bracelet. 

“It’s the same one, well almost,” you told him. “I somehow found that place in Thailand and had them send me one.” 

“[Y/N], I don’t know what to say,” he said as he looked at you. 

You shrugged your shoulders, trying to control the heat rising to your cheeks. 

Without another word, Shawn handed you your gift. 

You hesitated before unwrapping it and then opening the top. 

You gasped as you looked at the ring staring back at you. 

“Shawn,” you said slowly as you took the ring out. You slid it on your finger carefully. “It matches,” you said with a small smile as you looked down at it. 

“I know you’ve been wanting one that matches your mom’s bracelet, and then I found that one,” he said. 

Silence fell between you two as the realization hit both of you. 

“Shawn,” you said slowly, looking up at him. “This isn’t a gift you give your coworker.”

“Neither is this,” he whispered back. 

You went quiet again, not being able to look at him again. 

“What if I don’t want you to just be my coworker?” He whispered as his voice shook. 

You looked up at him, finally. He looked nervous. 

“What if I want the same thing?” you whispered back.

“Then Andrew isn’t going to be too happy,” Shawn responded. 

You both smiled, leaning in closer and closer. 

“But who cares what he thinks,” he whispered before finally pressing his lips against yours. 

Sparks flew as Shawn leaned back and you followed, resting your hand on his cheek as he deepened the kiss. After a few moments, Shawn carefully pulled away. 

“I could kiss you all day and more, but I don’t think your parents want to see that,” he said with a smile before you pressed another quick kiss to his lips. 

“I know it sucks, but I’m glad your flight was canceled,” you said as you curled back into his side, this time it was real. 

Shawn rested his head against yours after pressing a kiss to your head.

“Me too.”

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