#or perhaps >> “You want to go on a date?”/[faints and must be dragged away by his shadow]

[crobones]

reminding myself that, even though Evan now has a d20 in Magnetism and essentially a huge boost in confidence, he can exude that energy and still get nervous or embarassed or blushing while twirling his hair and kicking his feet or - and this is most important - feel a true calmness in subspace when being just a really good boy. it just maybe takes a little more oomf to get him there.

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

Chat writes the plot! Time for more 👑🐲🐟 KotD!

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@obimaulartfire @savageopressbignaturals @icequeen8043 @moonsickvampire

~King of the Dragonfish: Chapter 7~

Obi-Wan uses a faint tendril of force to brush over his kyber, sending the animus of it his affection. It murmurs back at him, ill at ease to be handled by the energy signature it knows as Maul.

With a sigh, the jedi holds the hilt out. “Kneeling wasn't in the agreement.”

The other man sways closer, tense and watchful.

“It would please me to see you on your knees,” the sith says, reaching out and lifting the unlit saber from his palm.

Obi-Wan leans back on a hip, and crosses his arms. “I'm sure it would. Beat me up some more if you must, but I won't kneel to a sith lord willingly.”

Maul squints at him, calculating, and he has the uncomfortable realization that the other man may have simply taken that as a challenge.

“Hmmm…” The half dragonfish hums, twirling Obi-Wan's saber between his fingers, then igniting it.

He can feel the kyber song shudder. It does not want to be wielded in darkness.

Maul makes a swift strike, stopping a matter of inches from his hips. “Perhaps I should take your legs as you took mine… would that not be fair?” The man sneers, “Surely you jedi care about fairness.”

“No,” Obi-Wan counters, not giving an inch despite the sputtering heat of his own blade too close to his side, crackling as it resists this use. “The jedi code isn't concerned with being fair, only just.”

Maul grins. The defiance only seems to please him.

The dragonfish sith extinguishes the blade and sways backward on his tail, retreating to the water's edge. “I will return, and then I will take you to a different cave. Be prepared to go, jedi. I will drag you under either way.”

“Wonderful,” Obi-Wan drawls as Maul backflips into the water, hardly making a splash, “It's a date.”

Alone again, unarmed again, the jedi prisoner scowls and goes to lurk beside the magma ball. It's only mildly warm now, the cooled shell being too good of an insulator. The center of it is likely still fluid, but it's thermal radiance is diminished. Obi-Wan still leans back against it, plotting.

He had been too stressed on that first day to pay much attention to the pathway Maul had taken from open sea to this particular cave as he kidnapped Obi-Wan to it. An oversight on his part. They would be going to a new one though, and as much as he isn't looking forward to the blasted cold, it would provide an opportunity to learn some of the area.

He could pay attention to the path between here and there, and then, maybe in a day or two, find a way to make Maul consider the new cave to also be an unacceptable cell. The sith would move him again. Another opportunity.

It would take time, cunning, and no small amount of manipulation, but if he could map out enough of these caves, he may be able to learn a way out.

The next problem would be getting all the way to the surface, slowly enough to not die of drowning or diver’s sickness.

One problem at a time.

Obi-Wan flips where he's leaning on the magma rock, attempting to warm his front side in advance of this next trip. That's how Maul finds him, practically hugging the misshapen ball of it.

“Jjjedi,” the sith calls to him from the water. “Come.”

Rather than waste energy being difficult when he wants to be focused and aware for the trip to the next cave, Obi-Wan opts to approach the water himself, and -with a grimace- take a deep breath and hop in. He manages to not gasp from the immense chill by a small margin of success. The temperature is bitterly cold, shocking even when he'd prepared.

Regardless of the chill, it's beautiful and alive down here. The seaweed drifts like tall, ribbon grass. The moss glows white and blue. Little fingerling fish with translucent bodies school around pink coral and porous stone.

Amid the beauty, the sith swims over to him, black and red and incongruous with it all… yet a part of it. A monster from above with dual citizenship on the ocean floor.

Maul swishes up to him, fast and graceful, and grabs his tunics before taking off.

‘Well,’ Obi-Wan thinks as he relaxes into the hold, ‘at least he isn't coiling around me like a vice this time.’

Maul glides them through the water, into a small tunnel that opens up into a larger one after only a few feet. Obi-Wan can see it going off to the left and right, lit by the moss. The sith takes them left, around a curve in the tunnel. The path splits into a dark corridor. They go left again, then right.

He hopes they arrive quickly, he'd like to breathe soon.

They go up, across the open sands of a massive cave the size of the senate chamber. The space is brightly lit by orange crystals and purple fish that glow in neon stripes.

He's running out of breath.

Their path leads though a hole in the wall. Obi-Wan looks upward, hoping to see an air pocket…

There isn't one.

Alarmed, he wacks Maul in the chest and gestures at his mouth. Where in the blazes are they going? He needs air! Even with the lungs of a swordfighter and the aid of the force, he has to-

Maul presses their mouths together, and breathes into him.

‘What,’ he thinks dumbly. The jedi master feels six different things at once. His thoughts are mangled by the chaos.

Now his lungs are overful, but the edge is taken off from his need to inhale. Obi-Wan lets some of the air escape him, making a cascade of silvery bubbles erupt around their faces. Maul does it again. A second stale breath fills him.

Oh. Right, yes, okay, the sith has made himself into a rebreather.

Obi-Wan breathes out again…

…and the Dragonfish sith gives him air once more.

… and again.

… and again.

They breach a water surface and Obi-Wan opens his eyes, blinking owlishly.

When had he closed them??

'Drat,' he thinks, dismayed.

… he'd lost track of their path.

Maul lifts him onto shore, and he feels heat at his back. Obi-Wan rolls towards it before he's even got his bearings, shivering and disoriented.

Mmmmm. Warm.

“This shall serve. A gorogoro cannot pass the threshold to enter unless it is juvenile, the door is too small,” Maul declares, sounding pleased with himself.

“That's nice,” Obi-Wan tells him, trying to get as close to the fresh magma ball as possible without burning himself. He shrimps around it with a sigh.

“You will drink. There is fruit. I shall hunt, while the magma is still hot enough to cook on. Speak your preference, Kenobi, or I will simply bring you crab.”

“I love crab,” he tells the wonderful black stone before him, “but I've no seafood cracker.”

The sith snorts, “You are an idiot,” the man tells him.

With a small splash, he's gone.

Obi-Wan's desire to be warmer fights with his desperate need to hydrate, until finally he gets up and at least looks for the supposed fruit.

There, not five feet away, is a massive pile of coconuts and laundry. He squints at it, making sure he's seeing it right. Did the oxygen deprivation do something to him…?

No, indeed, it's a pile of coconuts and laundry. There's even a laundry line and clothespins mixed up in it.

“Why-” he starts, then shakes his head, “No, nevermind. Let's see if I can split a coconut with the force.”

He can, but it spills the majority of the milk everywhere. Obi-Wan screws up enough coconut crackings to get his clothes covered in it, but who cares? The swim here might've cleaned off most of the octopus viscera, but he is still wet anyway. What's a little more?

The trick, it turns out, is drilling a hole in the top with a sharp rock, and drinking from that.

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New? Start from Chapter 1! 👇🏽

[rukunas]

—i’m about to show you, baby, slow down!

pairing: eren x fem!reader

warnings: toxic relationship (eren and reader are both major assholes), poor jean thirdwheeling, smut, fingering, name calling, slight dubious consent, possessiveness, jealousy

a/n: erm… i’m back…

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The relationship that you have with Eren Yeager is… flawed, to say the very least. Toxic doesn’t even begin to describe it. Perhaps just catastrophically, utterly fucked up.

He says he doesn’t want a girlfriend— because why would he want to be held down?— but then wants to burn any man who even glances in your direction. You say you don’t need him, but here you are, falling at his feet once again.

“'ren, I can’t.” You gasp as he licks a path from your neck to the back of your ear, biting the lobe.

“You can.” He laughs lowly. You can feel him pressing against your core, aching through his pants in his want. His hands press up on either side above you, caging you in. Overwhelming you.

“I’m serious. You can’t just follow me to my dates and…” You falter as you feel his hands move from the wall to your waist, gently squeezing your hips.

“And?” He urges you to go on, fingers fiddling with the sides of your dress.

“And, do this.” You gesture to him, to the bathroom the two of you stand in. “I’m sick of it, Eren, I’m sick of you—”

His lips cover yours in an instant, the taste of his faint cherry chapstick— the one he stole from you— melting on your tongue and making you moan at the familiarity of it all.

Wait, no.

You push him off, chest heaving. “Stop kissing me!”

Eren runs his thumb against your bottom lip. “It’s the only way to shut you up.”

You slap his hand away. “Stop. I’m on a date with—”

“Jean?” Eren interrupts, scoffing. “You think he’s better than me?”

“I know he is. He’s nice, he actually cares about me, and he’s waiting for me, so we’re done.” You turn to unlock the door, but Eren slams his large hand against it, stopping you from prying it open.

“Eren.”

“Why don’t you get that you’re mine?” He nearly growls, forcing you to turn back toward him with a hand on your jaw. “I’m tired of your fucking games.”

Your heart stills at mine.

His hands drag down, easing your dress up your thighs. The glint in his eyes dares you to stop him, but you simply clench your hands into fists as your skin ignites in heat.

Eren pauses when he sees the black lace of your underwear. His gaze meets yours, and you can practically see the flames flicker in anger.

“You wore this for him?”

Truthfully, no. You’d planned on going home alone and texting Eren to come over. But you are well aware of Eren’s jealousy, especially his hatred towards Jean. You need to play this out logically, teasingly, no matter the risk.

“And what if I did?”

His hand is over your throat before you can even finish whispering the question, your body thudding against the door.

Checkmate.

“Fucking slut.” He sneers, his free hand cupping your heat and making you groan as his palm grinds against your clit. “Can feel how wet you are.”

He pulls the crotch of the fabric to the side, letting his index and middle finger slide through your folds and into your tight hole. The stretch is blissful, making you toss your head back. His thumb flicks your clit in gentle, steady circles. Eren watches eagerly as your brows furrow together in pleasure, how your teeth sink into your plush bottom lip, which is now fully smeared, pink traces left on the surrounding skin.

Eren laughs under his breath at the ease of it— your resolve crumbles from mere touches. There's no way that you'll ever get away from him, not when he has you clutching onto him, sharp nails embedded into his shoulders as you shudder at the feel of his fingers pumping into you.

You must look like a mess, you think. Eren thinks you look beautiful.

"Fuck, 'ren." You whine, pushing yourself against his hand. "I'm close."

And, the asshole he is, he pulls his hand away. He desperately keeps a poker face as he slips his fingers into his mouth, watching the disappointment flood your eyes, tears threatening to fall over.

"Jean's waiting for ya. Don't want to keep him waiting."

Before you can clear the fogginess of your almost orgasm, Eren slips out the bathroom. His job is done. Because in about 5 minutes, he's expecting a call from you, begging him to come over and wait while you come up with a shitty excuse to ditch your date.

Eren almost feels bad as he passes Jean on his way out, the opposing side of his dinner table noticibly empty. But he can't help but grin as he tastes the essence of you on his tongue.

He can admit the relationship he has with you is catastrophically, utterly fucked up.

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[wolken-himmel]

In which Cater plans a small candlelight dinner at Heartslabyul for his and (Y/n)'s one-year anniversary.

Much to his horror, everything that could go wrong goes wrong.

Request by @cynthinesia.

"What are you dressing up for, henchhuman?"

Grim shot you a curious look as you stood in front of the mirror above the fireplace in your shared bedroom. Although the surface was full of dust and grime, it was good enough for you to properly adjust and style your hair.

"Cater invited me over to the Heartslabyul dorm and told me to dress up," you explained in excitement. "I think it's to celebrate our one-year anniversary."

Previously having lain on the bed, the cat jolted upright and shot you a surprised look. "It's been that long already? Feels like yesterday when he dragged you to that hipster cafe for a date." A scowl appeared on his face, and he feigned to gag as he complained, "And the cafe wasn't even that good... Their tuna latte was atrocious."

His comment simply earned him a shrug from you. "I rather liked the mirror-glaze cake I got back then..." you trailed off, though the grandfather clock striking loudly in the living room below made you jump to your feet. With a hastened swing to your pace, you stormed out of the room. "But anyway, I gotta go now. Don't destroy anything while I'm gone."

Grim followed you out to the front door, where he innocently sat down and grinned up at you. "No promises. I might have to destroy the lock on the tuna cupboard if you don't want me to starve."

"You know that the lock is claw-safe and fireproof, so good luck."

Meanwhile at Heartslabyul, everything seemed to be upside down. Outside in the vast garden, Deuce and Ace were busy setting up a table and two accompanying chairs. Inside, Riddle, Trey, and a few other Heartslabyul students worked in the kitchen. The people cooking and baking were in full motion — the ovens were bursting with heat, and the sound of things being diced and chopped echoed through the room. Orders and questions were being thrown around. Smells — good and bad — clashed with one another.

Cater was caught in the middle of it when he entered the lively kitchen.

His eyes gazed around the counter tops as he rubbed his hands together nervously. Simultaneously, his feet carried him over to the dorm and vice dorm leader by the oven in the corner. "Riddle, Trey— How is the food going?" he asked loudly, just to be heard over all the other noises.

The inquiry made Riddle briefly stop with whatever he was doing to raise his gaze and look at Cater. The dormleader's face possessed a strange emotionless look, steely — as if he was done with life. Riddle merely said, "...adequately," before returning to work.

That was when Cater gazed down at the bowl next to Riddle and found the source of the aforementioned disastrous smell. A shrill gasp escaped his lips. "Wait, why are the potatoes black— they look like coal!" Cater cried out, looking like he was about to faint.

"Well, Rule 71 says, 'On the third Friday of the year, the potatoes must be baked thrice as long,'" Riddle explained quickly before going back to whisk the strange shiny, dark blue substance in another bowl.

Trey shot his panicked friend an apologetic look. "Sorry, Cater—"

"Forget the potatoes," Cater said after having regained his composure. "What's important is the mirror-glaze cake."

An aggressive hum escaped Riddle's lips as he poured the liquid into a smaller bowl and added food colouring. "And I'm on it." He gritted his teeth together and let out a heart-stopping sigh after a while, then admitting, "Or I have been for the last two hours! I can't get the glaze to stick correctly to the outside of the cake!"

"Riddle, it's really hard to get right," Trey comforted, and he was right.

Still, Riddle shook his head and went back to work to whisk again. "I need to get it right," he said through pursed lips. "For Cater."

For a moment, the sight of such determination and passion comforted Cater — it assured him that perhaps, tonight wouldn't be an utter catastrophe as he had feared. A grateful smile growing on his lips, he put a hand on his dormleader's shoulder. "I appreciate your determination, Riddle." Yet, Cater tensed again when he realised there was another issue at hand — the table outside. His composure slipping, he anxiously asked, "But actually, where are my two waiters—"

"Right here!" two voices simultaneously shouted from the entrance of the kitchen as they waddled inside.

The sound of Ace and Deuce having arrived initially caused a wave of relief in him, but all of that went down the drain when he turned around properly and noticed how their clothing was dirty: brown mud stains decorated their white shirts.

Cater looked like he was about to faint — again. "Why do you look like someone's dragged you through the mud!"

The first-years shot each other embarrassed glances before Deuce admitted, "...We managed to put up everything— but at a price. The instruction manual bested us."

Cater's eyes looked like they were about to fall out as he grumbled, "What—" But, a few seconds of glaring later, he realised that he was just wasting his time. Taking a deep breath and exhaling quickly afterwards, he rubbed his temples and pointed at the door. "Anyway, it doesn't matter... Just get dressed."

"Cater, sir," another Heartslabyul student announced. "The prefect has arrived."

"Oh no— but we're not ready yet!" Cater cried out and threw his hands into the air. Everyone in the kitchen shot him a pitiful glance before they went back to work, his stress wearing off on them, too. "I-I'll just distract (Y/n) while you guys make the cake and you guys dress up properly." Cater waved them off and zoomed out of the kitchen.

"Yes, sir!" everyone replied at once.

Just as Cater had exited the kitchen, he was immediately greeted with the sight of you wandering up towards him through the corridor. Once your eyes met, a nervous shiver ran down his back as he hurried over to your side. A large smile on his face, he guided you outside to the table. "Hello, (Y/n)! Nice to have you here," he said in his usual chipper tone, albeit too chipper than usually. "Come right in, this way. You know how confusing Heartslabyul can be sometimes, eh?"

However, you saw right through him.

"Cater, you're shaking," you remarked and put a hand on his shoulder when he pushed you down into your chair. "Calm down. You look like you're about to have a heart attack."

The carefree smile he had put up as a facade slipped of his face at once, now replaced by a frown of frustration and distress. Now feeling how tired he truly was, he threw himself into his chair across from you. "That's because nothing has been going right for our one-year anniversary!" he cried out and buried his face in his hands. "Our food will never be ready anyway, and the waiters I hired aren't even dressed yet."

"It's alright," you assured and smiled at him. "I'm just really flattered that you put so much effort into this."

"Of course! Our first anniversary— it has to be picture perfect!"

"Just being here with you alone is good enough for me," you replied, and indeed, the table out in the darkness of the evening with a candle to light the area — there was nothing that could have been more romantic.

And indeed, your words seemed to have reached your boyfriend. A smile on his face, he gazed into your eyes gratefully, silently thanking you for your kindness. At the same time, he extended his hand and put it over yours that openly lay on the table. For a moment, the two of you just stared into each other's eyes silently, no word needing to be said to understand one another.

That was until the mood was interrupted by none other than Ace and Deuce appearing from the darkness. "I'm sorry to say you're not alone," Deuce said awkwardly, looking like he wanted nothing more than to leave. "Can we take your orders?"

Cater furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief. "Wrong timing, Adeuce!"

"But you said we should come ASAP to be your waiters!" Ace cried out in protest.

Cater exhaled playfully. "You're fired..."

[criminalmindzjunkie]

Love Sick

Masterlist

Summary: A story about how Spencer’s worst decision ever somehow ends up being his best.

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day, my loves! This fic is loosely based on a request I got about Spencer faking an illness to keep the reader from going on a date.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: swearing

Word Count: 4k

Spencer has done a terrible, awful thing.

He wants to argue that he doesn’t know what came over him, but that would be untrue and he’s already met today’s quota on little white lies. Spencer knows exactly what possessed him to call you up at seven thirty on a Saturday night, and it wasn’t so that the two of you could discuss the weather or the recent upward trend in the stock market. Spencer’s spontaneous (panicked) phone call to you was a brazen attempt to abate the green-eyed monster that had been whispering dreadful things in his ear for the better part of a week.

To put it simply; Spencer is jealous, and he’s dealing with it rather poorly.

So poorly that he’s resorted to sabotage.

As he sits on his couch and worries at a hole in the bottom of his designated lounging sweatshirt, Spencer attempts to justify his actions. His tiny fib won’t hurt anyone . . . except, perhaps, one annoyingly perfect and stupidly handsome veterinarian. But Spencer can live with that. Potentially scorning an animal care specialist isn’t the thing that has his stomach in knots. That, he can live with. Spencer doesn’t even have pets, so there’s no longterm consequences as far as the vet is concerned. The notion of lying to you, on the other hand? 

Spencer is positively sick with nerves.

He’s not sure why. Spencer’s gotten rather good at lying to you. Several months of pining for you from across the hallway of your shared apartment complex has turned him into quite the master of deceit, after all. He was a sucker from the moment he opened his door and lay his eyes on you, arms outstretched and wielding a plate of homemade sweets. The cookies were lovely, but the breathtaking smile on your face is what really did him in.

Since that first day, Spencer’s gone out of his way to ensure that he’s on the receiving end of that smile as often as possible. His efforts are never in vain; for reasons unbeknownst to him, you seem to enjoy spending time with him just as much as he did you. This mutual fondness results in most of Spencer’s off days being spent in your company. Spencer was certain that, with time, he would work up the nerve to ask you out on a date. He’s halfway to convincing himself that you might even say yes when your cat makes the unfortunate decision to steal a brownie from your plate and gulp the whole thing down.

Enter, aforementioned veterinarian.

The sound of your door opening from across the hall has Spencer breaking out into a cold sweat. His hand is halfway to his forehead, ready to wipe away the perspiration when he pauses. His body’s anxious reaction might just help him sell his story. Yes, Spencer thinks, this is a good thing. Authenticity, and all that.

Several soft footsteps are muffled by the door that separates him from you, and then his doorknob jiggles as you struggle to fit your key into the lock. A jolt of adrenaline surges through Spencer and in the blink of an eye he’s on his feet and sprinting to his bathroom in the name of authenticity. If he wants to keep up this ridiculous façade, and he really, really does, Spencer is prepared to fake it until he makes it. The alternative is far too mortifying. Failure is not an option.

Spencer cringes when he lifts his eyes to meet his reflection. He’s been told more than once that he’s an absolutely terrible liar, and the wide, guilty eyes that stare back at him confirm this. All it will take is one look at him and you’ll know something’s amiss. Perhaps it isn’t too late for Spencer to come clean. It would be embarrassing, yeah, but no less embarrassing than it would be an hour from now when you call him on his shit. But then again, there is always the possibility that you will get angry with him and leave, and Spencer isn’t willing to risk you walking away from him. Not tonight.

Spencer barely has the time to splash some cold water on his face and dive to the bathroom floor before you’re pushing open the door to his apartment and calling out his name. His brain, the part that isn’t rendered useless in his panicked state, reminds him of just how many germs can be found on the average bathroom floor. It’s enough to make him pause, but only for a moment. He takes a deep breath before slumping over against the toilet.

Showtime.

“M’ in here,” Spencer calls out in his croakiest voice. It comes out exactly as he intended, all rough and pitiful. Maybe he can pull this off, after all.

The soft pitter patter of your bare feet makes his heart rate increase exponentially. Spencer steels himself, recites a reassuring mantra in his head. I can do this; I can do this.

Spencer’s poor, overworked heart gets a much-needed rest when you step into the doorway. In fact, he’s almost certain it stops completely at the sight of you in a tiny red dress. A tiny red dress that leaves very little to the imagination. Spencer can’t even see past his mounting panic to enjoy the way you look. That damn red dress serves as a brutal reminder of why he’s sitting in his bathroom floor, clutching his toilet bowl and damn near drowning in a nervous sweat.

The thing is, Spencer hadn’t intended on sabotaging your date with the vet. He had every intention of staying in, wallowing in his sorrows and waiting up for you. Spencer even said this to Derek, who was kind enough to call him and remind him of how big of a jackass he was. Spencer didn’t need the reminder. He was well aware.

But then Derek said something that made Spencer’s blood run cold.

“And what exactly do you plan to do if she doesn’t come home?”

So, really, it’s Derek’s fault that Spencer promptly ended the call and dialed your number. It’s also Derek’s fault that Spencer is about to give the most convincing performance of his entire fucking life.

“I’m sorry I called you, but I didn’t know what else to do. I just feel so awful.” And he does feel awful, just not in the way you think.

You’re quick to close the distance between the two of you, dropping to your knees and brushing stray pieces of hair away from Spencer’s clammy forehead. His skin sings where your hand grazes it. If he didn’t have a fever before, he will if you don’t stop touching him.

“Don’t ever apologize, Spence. I wish you’d have called me sooner,” you murmur. Warm, concerned eyes drag across Spencer’s bedraggled appearance. “How long have you been feeling sick?”

Spencer gulps. “A few hours, I guess. I ate my leftovers from last night for lunch. Maybe that’s what’s wrong.”Lies, lies, lies!

Your brow furrows. “That’s strange. I ate mine, too, and I feel fine.”

Spencer doesn’t really have an argument for that, so he fakes a pained groan and rests his head against his arm. He closes his eyes and prays the intro to theater class he took in high school will pay off.

You must deem his act convincing enough because you press a soft kiss to the top of his hair and stand. Spencer hears the sound of a cabinet opening, followed by the sound of running water.

The tender touch of your hand on his shoulder has him raising his head and looking up at you, inquisitive. You place a cold washrag to his forehead, and Spencer melts into the touch. It feels heavenly against his hot skin.

“Do you think you could manage to take a shower?” you prompt, earning a feeble nod from Spencer. He doesn’t even have to fake the way he trembles as you run the damp cloth down his neck. “I think I have some broccoli and cheddar soup at my apartment. I’ll go change and grab it while you shower.”

Elation spreads through Spencer, pouring from his heart until it reaches the very tips of his extremities. He can’t believe his scheme hasn’t blown up in his face already.

With the help of your outstretched hand, Spencer rises to his feet and braces himself against the shower door. You make no move to remove your hand from his, and that gives him the courage to ask his next question.

“What about your date?”

You shrug and an easy smile spreads across your face. Spencer feels faint. He blames it on his imaginary illness.  

“Don’t worry about that. The only thing I’m concerned with right now is taking care of you.”

Spencer bites down hard on the flesh of his cheek to keep a smug grin at bay. This is a victory he’ll have to celebrate at a later date.

--

Spencer enters his living room, freshly showered and donned in clean pajamas, to the sound of your voice speaking quietly into your cellphone. He halts just before he enters his kitchen, straining to catch a snippet of your conversation. As he leans closer to the sound of your voice, Spencer halfheartedly chastises himself. First, he deceives you, now he’s resorting to eavesdropping. Rock, meet bottom.

He’s just about to wrench himself away and retreat to the couch, when:

“I really am sorry about cancelling, especially on such short notice.” A short stretch of silence follows. “Next Saturday? Oh. Um, yeah, I’ll let you know, okay?”

Spencer is very much like a popped balloon; the earlier feelings of elation leave him in a harsh gust. Next Saturday? He barely managed to derail this Saturday’s date! No way he could get away with it a second time.

In the midst of his inner turmoil, Spencer misses you exchanging goodbyes with the vet before collecting Spencer’s bowl of soup. He’s still standing there, absolutely crestfallen, when you round the corner. You nearly collide with his chest, narrowly avoiding it by skidding to a halt in front of him. Your eyes run up his frame, assessing him, until they rest on his face.

“You scared me, Spence,” you chuckle. You cock your head to the side. Spencer imagines his expression is none dissimilar to that of a disgruntled frog. “You feeling okay? You’re not going to puke again, are you?”

Honestly, he might. The idea of you rescheduling your date with the vet is about as vomit inducing as it gets.

“I’m fine,” Spencer says on an exhale. Funnily, it’s probably the biggest lie he’s told all day. “The shower helped.”

His delivery is flat, but you don’t seem to mind. You smile up at him, relieved, and Spencer’s chest aches.

“I was thinking you and I could watch a movie?” you offer, and Spencer nods his assent. He can’t fathom turning you down. Not when you’re wearing an old sweatshirt you stole from his closet and a pair of fuzzy socks with little hearts on them. The ache intensifies.

“What are we watching?”

You plop down on the couch and look at him expectantly. He follows in suit, settling in beside you.

“I was thinking that you could choose,” you murmur as you place the bowl in his hands. Spencer shoots a teasing smile your way as he raises the spoon to his mouth.

“You mean, you’re actually going to let me pick the movie? I should get sick more often.”

His cheek earns him an exaggerated roll of your eyes.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter. “You always pick the movie.” 

He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s gotten to pick the movie.

Spencer is about to launch into an impassioned rebuttal when the feeling of your fingers scratching against his scalp renders him speechless. His eyes dart to your face as you concentrate on scrolling through the TV guide, seemingly unaware of the effect the simple act has on him. Meanwhile, Spencer’s brain is short-circuiting.

You begin to read off a list of potential movies to him, but Spencer barely hears you. He’s practically purring as you twirl his curls around lithe fingers, his eyes threatening to flutter closed as an intense feeling of euphoria washes over him. Maybe it’s because he’s touch starved, or maybe it’s because it’s been so long since someone just looked after him. Whatever it is, Spencer embraces it wholeheartedly.

“-heard it’s pretty good. So, what do you say, Spence?”

Spencer pulls himself back to the present, blinking lazily at you. You’re looking at him, expectant, and Spencer’s eyes flit to the TV. His eyes skim its contents, reading briefly about a movie in which some family moves into a haunted house.

His face breaks out into a grin and he nods, because Spencer’s known you long enough to recognize that watching a horror movie usually results in you pressed tightly to his side and clinging to his hand. He also knows that nine times out of ten, you choose to watch a horror movie over anything else. No wonder he always lets you choose.

And sure enough, not even ten minutes in, Spencer is ditching his bowl of soup and pulling you into his arms. Once you’ve draped a blanket around the two of you settled in, you glance up at him.

“How are you feeling, Spence?”

Spencer responds by saying that he’s suddenly feeling much better. 

Spencer Reid - 1, Veterinarian – 0

--

Spencer’s not sure at which point he fell asleep. All he knows is that he certainly does not remember sprawling out across your body, nor does he remember tucking his head into the crook of your neck. But this is how he finds himself when the sun begins to pour in through his windows the next morning, and Spencer can’t bring himself to care about how he came to be there.

Spencer guesstimates that it’s no later than seven in the morning. You’re still fast asleep underneath him, your chest rising and falling rhythmically with every breath. It’s early, and it’s Sunday, and Spencer can’t think of a single reason to wake you. Instead, he snuggles in closer, because he’d be a fool not to enjoy this while it lasts.

Unfortunately, the shrill sound of Spencer’s ringing phone shatters the serenity. He prays that it won’t disturb you, that you’ll remain oblivious and continue to sleep, but that hope is shattered when you begin to shift underneath him. Spencer makes quick work of peeling himself off of you before dashing to his kitchen and snatching his phone off the table.

He’s prepared to verbally assault whoever has the audacity to defile the sanctity of lazy Sunday mornings when a quick peek into the living room finds you still fast asleep on his sofa. He smiles, soft and fond, before pressing the accept button and bringing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“I was beginning to wonder if you were still alive.” Spencer’s smile transforms into a grimace. Apparently, Derek Morgan doesn’t believe in lie-ins. “I was preparing myself for a rescue mission.”

“It’s seven in the morning. I was asleep.”

Derek lets out a low whistle. “Who pissed in your Cheerios, Pretty Boy?”

“You, when you decided that it was acceptable to ring me before eight,” Spencer whisper shouts. He knows that he’s being touchy, to say the least, but who can blame him? Five minutes ago, he was cuddling with the most beautiful girl he’s ever had the privilege to lay eyes on. Now, he’s shooting the breeze with a colleague. Obviously, Spencer would prefer the former to the latter.

“Jesus, kid. I’m going to take a wild guess and say that girl of yours didn’t make it home, after all. You okay?”

The guilty feeling returns and Spencer cringes. “Uh, define ‘okay.’”

Derek curses on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, kid. Try not to beat yourself up about it, okay? There’s plenty of fish in the sea, you’ve just gotta put yourself out there. How’s this; you and me will go out next weekend and bar hop. I’ll teach you some Derek Morgan tricks of the trade. Soon enough, you’ll have forgotten all about her.”

“I don’t know, that might be hard.” Spencer scratches the back of his neck. “She’s asleep on my couch right now.”

A long stretch of silence comes from the other end of the line, and Spencer thinks for a moment that the call dropped. Unfortunately, he isn’t that lucky. A booming laugh erupts from the speaker and makes him jump out of his skin.

“My man!” Derek laughs, incredulous. “I didn’t think you had it in you, I’ll be honest.”

“It’s not what you think-”

“How did you manage that? Did the Good Doctor make a grand romantic gesture? Damn, I really hate that I missed that.”

“No, there were no gestures. And it’s not-”

Derek cuts him off. Again. “How’d she take the news? I’m assuming she took it well, if she stayed the night.”

“I didn’t tell her anything!” Spencer spits out, frustrated. “I… I told her I was sick. She came over to take care of me, and we fell asleep on the couch.”

Spencer’s proclamation is met with another long silence.

“So, you sabotaged the date?”

Spencer winces. “I did not sabotage it. I just… manipulated the situation a little.”

“Oh, you certainly did,” Derek chuckles. “How did you pull that off? I’ve seen you try to lie. That shit is laughable.”

Spencer opens his mouth to defend himself, but the pitter patter of socked feet approaching him from behind has his mouth running dry.

“Yeah, Spencer. How did you pull that off?”

Spencer had been correct in his earlier assumptions. The inevitable moment in which you called him out on his shit has arrived, and it’s every bit as mortifying as he expected. So mortifying that he can practically feel the blood drain from his face. And the thing is that he knows he deserves whatever you’re about to throw his way… it’s just that the thought of you being angry with him kind of makes him want to cry. And that would only add to the mortification.

He turns around slowly, his body rigid, until he’s met with the adorably rumpled vision of you with your arms crossed and your hair sticking up in all directions.

Spencer’s never seen anything quite so mesmerizing, and it hurts because he knows he’s ruined everything. He’ll never get to watch another scary movie with you tucked neatly against his side, or wake up in your arms again. He’ll never get to kiss you.

And the worst of all; Spencer will never get to tell you how he really feels. It’s a crying shame, because he thinks he could have been really good at loving you.

“Hey, Derek, I gotta go.”

Spencer presses the end call button and immerses himself in what has to be the most awkward stand-off of all time. You stand there, arms crossed, head cocked to the side with one hip jutted out. Spencer isn’t sure how you manage to look intimidating and endearing at the same time. He supposes the fuzzy socks are to blame.

Minutes pass, but they feel like hours. Spencer is approximately three seconds away from dropping to his knees and groveling when you finally speak.

“You sabotaged my date.”

Spencer lets out a strangled laugh. Perhaps humor is the way to go? It couldn’t hurt to try. In his opinion, the situation couldn’t possibly get any worse. “I think sabotage is a strong word. I prefer the term obstruct.”

You let loose a laugh of your own, but this one holds no humor. “And I prefer keeping the company of people who don’t lie to me.” Okay, maybe it can get worse.

Spencer visibly deflates. It was a stupid idea. He’s never been a funny guy.

“I am so, so, so incredibly sorry.” Sorry for lying to you, that is. Spencer isn’t in the least bit apologetic for ruining your date. Given the chance, he’d do it again - in a more tactful way, of course. Preferably, in such a way that didn’t involve him laying in his bathroom floor. 

Spencer attempts to take a step forward, only to be rooted to the spot when you fix him with a look. He’s not funny but he is smart – smart enough to know better than to push it. 

“Why did you do it?”

Spencer was really hoping you wouldn’t ask that.

“I-I…”

Apparently, an eidetic memory doesn’t stand a chance when it comes to confrontations involving pretty girls. One quirk of an immaculately plucked eyebrow and Spencer loses the ability to recall a single word of the English language. It’s tragic, really.

“Spit it out, Spencer.”

“I didn’t want you to go on the date.” It’s like ripping off a band aid, the way the words tumble from his lips. It’s painless at first, but then the sting sets in when he realizes what he’s done. 

Your lack of reaction doesn’t help. Your face remains passive, as if he didn’t just offer himself to you on a silver platter. Spencer squirms uncomfortably.

“Why didn’t you want me to go on the date?”

God, this is excruciating. You’re clearly out for blood, and the twinkle in your eye shows just how much you’re enjoying this. Spencer would have never taken you for a sadist.

“Because…” Spencer trails off and allows his eyes to drift closed. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it his way. With his eyes closed, because he can’t bear the thought of looking you in the eye when you reject him. “B-Because I like you. A lot.”

Spencer hasn’t had a lot of practice at being wrong. In fact, he’s spent the majority of his life being right. It seems the universe is making up for that now, because he can’t seem to get a single goddamn thing right today.

You laugh at him. You actually laugh in his face. Mortified doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

“You like me.” It isn’t a question.

Spencer keeps his eyes shut tight.

“Y-Yeah.”

You know how they say if you take away one of a person’s senses, all of the others are heightened? Spencer couldn’t disagree more. In the midst of his despair, he’s completely unaware that you’ve crossed the room and are now standing directly in front of him until you speak again.

“Well, that’s rather unfortunate,” you sigh. Spencer inhales a sharp breath when he realizes you’re close enough to touch. Still, he keeps his eyes closed.

“Uh, why is that?”

Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin when your hand reaches up and caresses the side of his jaw.

“Because, Spencer,” you murmur, silky and sweet. “I was hoping you just might love me.”

Spencer’s eyes fly open and he’s greeted by a lazy, contented smile. It’s similar to the one that greeted him when he opened his front door on that very first day, but it’s better somehow. Later reflection will determine that it’s better because it’s the kind of smile reserved just for him. And that’s all he’s ever wanted, really.

“W-What?”

“You heard me.” You tilt your head up and rest your palm on Spencer’s chest. His heartbeat is erratic, thundering hard against his ribcage. He’d surely be embarrassed if he wasn’t about to faint from shock. “Do you love me, Spencer Reid?”

Spencer doesn’t even have to think twice.

“More than anything.”

“Good.” Your thumb brushes across the apple of his cheek, eliciting a full body shudder. “I was beginning to think you would never catch up.”

Spencer must be hallucinating. That, or this is all a dream and any second now his alarm is going to go off. He subtly pinches himself on the thigh to test the theory. You can imagine his surprise when nothing changes. He doesn’t wake up in a pile of his own drool, and now the skin on his thigh stings.

“You . . . You like me, too?”

You shake your head. “No, Spencer. I love you, too. Why do you think I bake you cookies and spend all of my free time in your apartment?”

“Because my couch is better than yours?” Spencer deadpans.

“I mean, that certainly doesn’t hurt. But it’s not the only reason.”

“What about the vet?” It must be his guilty conscious talking, because Spencer cannot conjure up any other reason he has for asking such a moronic question. He, personally, could not care less about the vet. Full offense intended.

“Cameron is a nice guy, sure,” you trail off. Spencer doesn’t miss the way your eyes drift down to his lips before returning to his eyes. “But he’s not really my type.”

“And what is your type, exactly?” A giddy grin finds its way to Spencer’s face. He’s notorious for being chronically clueless, but even the master of imperception himself can see where this is going. 

You snort, and it’s adorable. “Liars, apparently.”

It’s impossible to determine who moves first, but that doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the end result of Spencer’s lips colliding with yours. It’s earth-shatteringly lovely; slow and sweet and tentative. There’s no rushing, no frantic fumbling of hands. Just the reverent drag of your lips against his, warm and intoxicating. 

Spencer eventually regains the use of his limbs and when he does, he’s snaking one arm around your waist as the other entangles itself in your wonderfully unruly hair. 

You sigh a happy sigh against his lips and Spencer’s heart soars. In a completely unforeseen turn of events, the possibility of more lazy Sunday mornings is now back on the table. Thank God he’s better at lying than he gave himself credit for. 

God, and Derek Morgan’s meddling ass. 

-

-

-

[allthingskakashi]

• Bells and Balls •

[ Kakashi x Reader ]

Tags : NSFW, Smut

Words : 4.8k

A/n: I wrote over 4k words just to get some dick.

Okay sbsbajash idk I'd been working on this for like a whole week and i couldn't concentrate on anything unless i finished this lmao so here it is whatever, I can't drag this around anymore. Uhhh hope you like it I'm still not very good at writing smut im sorry. This takes place in the post Anbu and pre team 7 era and Kakashi’s a bit of an asshole but you know you still love him. This is also a little similar to my other fic ‘Yearning’ but here you get the s e x and i’m sorry if the characterization is bad, i put more focus on making it hot i guess ok ill shut up now i hope you like it

You give the sheet of paper in your hand one final glance, and look around the room. There’s a long line behind you and you’re surrounded by your fellow jounins, each here to submit their respective lists.

You were extremely happy with the performance of your team and didn’t have to think twice before passing them. You had no doubt that they would make wonderful shinobi. You looked forward to teaching and guiding them, and judging by the chatter around you, most other jounins had passed their teams too.

The trouble, however, remains with Kakashi Hatake.

A few weeks ago, you had all been named squad leaders and put in charge of a squad, and today was your very first day with your assigned teams. As instructed, each of you conducted a test for the genin and depending upon whether they passed or failed, the final list would be announced.

No one till date had ever passed Kakashi Hatake's infamous test, and everyone was sure that no one would this year either. Most genin trembled in fear of him, being aware of his strict methods.

And as it happens, at this moment, this infamous man is right in front you, standing with his back hunched forward as he hands his paper in to the woman behind the desk.

You wait for your turn, your eyes fixating on the red symbol on his vest as you wonder, ruefully, about the fate of the students he must have failed this time.

You take a step forward as he turns around, having submitted his paper, and the line moves up behind you.

Kakashi peeks briefly at your paper as he passes, letting out an audible scoff at the list in your hand before walking on ahead, hands tucked in his pockets.

You’re momentarily confused by this sudden act, but something is already starting to boil up inside you. You aren’t exactly known for being placid, nor for sitting by and allowing people to give you crap. Your eyebrows furrow as you hastily thrust your sheet onto the desk, before making your way to follow after him.

“Do you have a problem?” you call to his back as a few heads turn towards you.

He stops, taking his time turning back to look at you, half lidded eyes looking as indifferent as always.

His demeanour pushes you further to the edge and you take a few steps closer, craning your neck to meet his eyes, waiting for an answer.

“Well?”

He peers down at you unfazed, completely oblivious to the audience around you, as if they are not even there.

“You’re too soft”, he shrugs. “You don’t know how the shinobi world works” he says bluntly, piercing you with his unwavering gaze.

You glare back at him, your mouth twitching with the sled of retorts forming at the back of your tongue.

“Who gave you the right to—"

But he’s already turning away from you, your eyes meeting with the red symbol of his vest once again.

“Hey don’t you fucking walk away from me!” you yell, going forward to stop him, but he saunters on ahead without turning back; his scent lingering in the air as you stand there, watching his figure disappear slowly along the hallway, your fury seething inside you.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

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

 “Thank you! This is just what I needed.” you chime, digging into the hot bowl of ramen in front of you, your mouth salivating just at the look of it.

You take a big mouthful, revelling in the immediate burst of flavours on your tongue.

“Mmmm.” You moan, “You’ve outdone yourself, Ayame!”

The young girl smiles at you in delight, proceeding to serve you another helping.

You take another blissful bite, closing your eyes to relish the moment.

The streets are quiet around you except for the faint chirp of crickets, as is expected at this hour of the night. It must be past midnight by now, you’re not exactly sure.

You had been tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. For some reason, the encounter with Kakashi from earlier today had you feeling bitter and edgy. You hated that he was in your head, you didn’t understand why. It wasn’t like you to be this bothered by some mindless comments from someone. You’d had altercations before, worse ones, but they were never enough to steal away your night’s sleep.

And yet, this time…

You had to do something to take the edge off, ideally punch him in the face, but since that was not the plausible choice, you settled for the next best thing. Going for a run and treating yourself to your favourite comfort food later.  

So here you are now, out at night all by yourself. The Ichiraku shop was still open, bless the lords.

You slurp some of the soup from the bowl and let out a loud smack of your lips.

You can feel your spirits lifting, and you’re glad for it. He wasn’t in your head after all, you were just having a bad day, that’s all.

You shift your focus back to the bowl in front of you, moaning and slurping as you go.

“Whoa there, Get a room.”

The sudden interruption of the familiar voice makes you stop cold.

Are you fucking kidding me?

You look up from your bowl, turning your head around to see none other than Kakashi Hatake, standing smug in all his glory.

The strange pang of bitterness is back in the depths of your stomach and you resist the urge to punch that smug look off his face.

“Ah, if it isn’t Kakashi Hatake, the all-knowing wisenheimer.” you say, your tone snide. “Say, don’t you have somewhere else to be? Some genin to fail?”

He comes around to take a seat on the stool beside you, a smirk evident through his mask, almost as if he’s enjoying this.

“I’ve already failed them” he smiles sweetly at you. “Worked up quite an appetite too.” He says, looking away from you to place his order.

You notice as Ayame notes his order down, the distinct shade of pink that tinges her cheeks as does, before turning away and disappearing into the supplies room at the back of the shop.

Ugh. What is with this guy? Why is it so….

You don’t realise you’re staring at him until he looks back at you, raising a questioning eyebrow. You supress your startlement at being caught, pretending as if you’d meant to be glaring at him.

“What the hell are you even doing out here so late?” you spurt, trying to sound irritated but it comes out sounding almost…concerned?

Thankfully, he doesn’t notice. “I could ask you the same.”

You look away, unwilling to answer. You were out here to get him out of your head, and now here you are, sitting beside him in a ramen shop while the entire village sleeps.

It almost feels like you’re the only two people in the world. The feeling makes something churn inside your stomach.

You dab your mouth with your napkin, before swivelling on the stool to face him. You look at him intently, studying his features. He stares back at you, as if waiting for you to say something.

“Why?” you ask, catching him off guard with it.

“Why what?”

“Why does no one pass your test? What’s so difficult about it?” you ask, gaze fixated on him. You expect him to look uncomfortable but he just shrugs.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m curious” you reply truthfully, watching him smirk at your answer.  

You hate it when he smirks, how his face looks when he’s being cocky.

Ugh.

He swivels in his chair now, turning his body towards you. “Is that so?”, he says through the smirk, resting his elbow on the counter and leaning in.

You don’t know why, but something about his tone and the way he leans in makes it difficult for you to breathe all of a sudden.

But you’re not one to be fazed.

“Yes” you reply, refusing to let yourself crumple under his gaze. Your voice comes out sounding hoarse, and you clear your throat.

He smirks wider at your reply and stretches the next words out.

“If you’re so curious…Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

Your heart thuds like clapper clanging against a bell. You resist the urge to gulp.

Was it this hot when I left the house?

You clear your throat again. “I don’t have the time to take part in your stupid games”

The smirk is adamant on his lips, his gaze unnerving.

He breathes, “Do you not have the time…or do you not have the balls?”

His tone is challenging. Or inviting. Or both, you’re not really sure, you’re not thinking straight anymore.

Your jacket is too hot against your skin, you writhe beneath the thick material.

Sliding off the stool, you walk slowly towards him, erasing the space in between you bit by bit with each step, until your bodies are a few inches away from touching. Your eyes bore into each other’s as if in silent battle. It’s your turn to smirk now.

“Training Grounds in 20 mins” you whisper. Despite the hitch in your breath, your voice is clear. “Don’t be late.”

You walk past him without breaking your gaze, brushing your shoulder against his arm as you walk by, perhaps a little harder than necessary, leaving Kakashi to stare after you.

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

You sit on the damp grass with your back against a tree, waiting. Your jacket lies in a puddle beside you.

You count the weapons in your bag, you hadn’t exactly come out prepared for a fight tonight. Two kunai knives, that’s all.

Would that be enough to take down the copy ninja? You hope so. There’s no way you’re letting him win. It’s time someone taught him a lesson and you would love to be that someone. The nerve of him…to actually challenge you.

He really needs to get a life. But then, here you are too…

Why am I here? What am I even doing?

You close your eyes and tilt your head back against the hard bark, your eyebrows furrowing the way they always do when you’re deep in thought.

Back at the shop… the way he spoke…the look in his eyes— God, Stop. Stop it.

Who the fuck cares about the look in his eyes?

Not me.

It’s okay. I’m good.

We’re here to teach this asshole a lesson. An asshole, that’s what he is. Insufferable and stupid and smug and ridiculously ho— horrible. Ridiculously horrible.

You take a deep breath, opening your eyes and standing up so fast that it makes your head dizzy for a brief second. You start walking around, jerking your arms and legs, stretching your neck, even slapping yourself a few times on the face to make yourself focus.

Yes, I need to focus. The lack of sleep is getting to me.

You crouch down to tighten your shoelaces, before getting up and starting some stretching exercises. Gotta loosen the muscles, make sure you have full flexibility. After all, taking on Kakashi Hatake all by yourself is probably not going to be a piece of cake.

You look down to check your attire: running shorts and a tank top, not fully ideal but it’ll do.

You’re bent over, in the midst of doing rotating toe touches when your eyes fall upon a silhouette far ahead, nearing closer and closer. You pause, standing up straight with your hands on your hips as the figure walks slowly towards you, a faint jingling noise ringing through the air, as Kakashi finally comes near enough for you to make out his face in the dim light.

“Late as always” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

Kakashi stands a few feet away from you, holding something in one hand, other hand inside his pocket. He’s not wearing his jacket anymore either, you observe.

“Sorry, had to go get this” he says, holding up what looks like two small bells with strings attached.

You squint at it, coming closer to get a better look. “What the hell is that?”

“Bells”, he smiles. “That’s the test. You have to get these bells from me. You can use any attack you want but… since you’re not a genin, I’ll raise the stakes a little higher for you. You cannot use ninjutsu or genjustu. It has to be purely physical attacks. You have till dawn.”

This little fucker. He knows taijutsu is not my strong point.

But fine. If that’s how he wants to play this, so be it. I’m taking him down one way or another.

“Dawn?” you chuckle, fixing him with your gaze. “I don’t need till dawn” you sneer, coming forward with a kick aimed to his head. He blocks it just as you’re about to make contact, grasping your ankle in his strong hold.

“I didn’t say start yet” he says through a smirk, letting go of your foot.

You take a few steps backwards, glowering at him as he ties the bells to a loop on his trousers. They hang over his thighs with a jingle, silver metal glimmering in the moonlight.

He looks back up at you, eyes twinkling with an unusual sparkle.

There’s that look again…

“Go” he commands, his body tensing up into a defensive stance immediately, ready for you.

You fix your gaze on the shiny metal of your goal and hurl yourself forward, your arms meeting each other’s in blows and defences. You throw a few kicks to his stomach, making him tumble but not enough to knock him out.

You shift your stance, before directing another punch to his face; he deflects it, sniggering.

Okay okay okay, I’m not focusing. I need to focus.

You take a deep breath.

Kakashi stands waiting, his features emanating pure amusement.

You feel a restlessness brewing within you, a strange energy buzzing through your veins. You’d been itching to punch him in the face and now’s your chance.

You watch him, mentally calculating all your options. His silver hair shines like moonbeams in the dark.

FOCUS.

Drawing a kunai from your bag, you lunge forward, distracting him with a kick to the head as your kunai slashes through the air, just about to cut across the strings when— your hand is caught in his grasp, a ‘slap!’ cutting through the air as his palm clasps around your wrist.

He bores into you, your wrist held firmly in his hand as he turns you around swiftly, gripping both your wrists at the back.

You feel the muscles of his chest against your body as he comes closer, the metal bells hanging over his leg brushing against your fingertips behind you.

You wriggle your hands, trying to break free but it’s in vain. His grip is firm, slender fingers digging into your skin as he leans into your ears, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“Not so fast” he whispers, his lips almost brushing the top of your ears.

The words send a shudder through your spine. You feel the black sky closing in on you, there’s a hum springing through your veins.

He loosens his grip as your hands fall, the kunai held limply in your hand. You turn around, your heart skipping a beat at how close he is to you. You feel your resolve weakening.

No.

No.

Stop.

Your hand flies to the collar of his shirt, the other hand holding the kunai to his throat as you push him backwards with your body, your eyes blazing into his.  

Keeping the kunai at his throat, you lower your other hand slowly, brushing it down his chest, his muscles taut under your hand. You trail your hand down along the line of his sternum, down the firmness of his stomach and further down, your fingers lightly caressing the bulge of his trousers before they almost make contact with the bells alongside, right there, just a flick away—

so close—

Before your wrist is caught in a sudden, fast clutch again.

His grip is much stronger this time, unyielding, hungry. Your bones ache beneath his hold.  

You watch something ignite in his eyes as his shoulders rise and fall in rhythm to your heaves. You suddenly realise how out of breath you are.

In the flash of a moment, Kakashi grips your kunai holding hand, holding it away from his throat as he pushes you, the weight of his body pressing onto yours as your feet scrape along the ground, stumbling backwards till your back slams against a tree, the force making your body jolt. The kunai slips from your hand.

His arms pin you defenceless against the tree, his gaze holding you hostage, burning through your skin.

The touch of his skin against yours feels alien. When was the last time you felt the warmth of someone’s skin? You cannot recall.

He’s so close to you, you cannot see anything beyond him.

In the dark, under the moonlight, the edges of his face look softened.

A wind passes by, the sound of rustling leaves filling through the silence. A volcano erupts within you.

Now.

You gulp. Up this close, you can make out the outline of his mouth.

Now.

Your lips press into Kakashi’s in a desperate lurch, your neck straining to meet him as far as his grip on you allows. Your heart explodes like firecrackers inside your chest as your tongue pushes against the cloth of his mask, demanding to be let in.

You feel his grip loosen around your wrists as the mask is off and he reciprocates, his lips on yours, his hand gripping your chin up as his tongue moves in fervent swirls inside your mouth.

A thousand questions swarm inside your head, buzzing but you’re not being controlled by your head anymore. You can feel the thud of his chest against your own.

He trails his hand down to your throat, holding you in place, other hand exploring every edge and curve of your body before it snakes down the waistband of your shorts, down the elastic of your underwear.

You gasp, arching your back as you feel the touch of his long fingers down there, moaning helplessly into his mouth as he rubs along your wet entrance in rapid strokes.

Your head is a dizzy mess of jumbled emotions as yearning overpowers your senses, your previous resolve weakening into a mushy puddle with every stroke and thrum of his fingers inside you.

He pulls away from your mouth to leave sloppy kisses down your neck, his tongue painting patterns along your skin as you catch a glimpse of his face and you see it— his face, glowing under the moonlight. And you realise.

He’s…beautiful.

An overwhelming ache breaks through your senses, creating a frenzied whirlwind of passion and agony in your mind. Your detestation for him crumbles into pieces underneath the weight of your desire, as you realise…

You don’t hate him.

You never did.

Not even close.

Not even a little bit.

Not even at all.

You pull his face up to meet your lips again, planting urgent kisses on his mouth as your hands tease the hem of his shirt. His fingers slip out of you and you can feel the wetness of your panties, soaked through with arousal.

“Kakashi…” you whisper in pleasure as he looms over you, your foreheads touching, out of breath and heaving with exhilaration. His eyes burn with the same passion that you feel inside.

“We can’t…shouldn’t…here…people...” you mutter in struggled breaths, as he plants another kiss to your lips, the sparks from it fogging your mind

“Since when do you care about people?” he whispers against your ear, his raspy voice enough to strip you off of all your remaining sense and judgement.

You pull his shirt over his head in one swift motion, throwing it to the ground beside as he follows, taking off your shirt and then unhooking your bra, tossing both away as his hands reach for you in hungry clutches.

His hands caress your breasts, pressing them and pulling on your hardened nipples, his mouth following soon after. His lips lock around them, sucking hard as you bury your face into his broad shoulders, biting lightly to keep yourself from screaming.

You sink your fingers into his hair, tugging softly as his mouth moves in a wet trail further down your body, strands of his hair tickling your stomach as he goes, his hands tugging your panties, sliding them down the curves of your hips.

Your heart thuds in your ears as Kakashi sits crouching in front of you, parting your legs. He looks up at you, as if asking for your permission, and you give it to him by pulling the back of his head closer between your legs.

He puts your right leg over his shoulder, spreading you for him, his other hand clutching the back of your left thigh as his mouth teases you down there.

The tip of his tongue flicks at your entrance, before it finds your weakest spot, and you feel your body shuddering, barely able to keep your balance.

You tug at his hair harder as his tongue moves skilfully inside you, fingers rubbing your swollen clit simultaneously. You feel every nerve ending in your body come alive as you moan out his name “K-Kakashi…” through trembling lips.

Your insides shudder and a deep moan forms at the back of your throat, threatening to escape as Kakashi puts his hand over your mouth, before pulling you down on top of him with a sudden tug.  

You come down with a thud on his thighs, your body jolting with the force as you watch him in front of you, the copy ninja… bare bodied and heaving in front of your eyes.

Who would have thought…

You straddle him, admiring his unclad torso, before pushing his shoulders down with your hands, making him lie back on the grass as you stoop over him. His eyes are fixated on you, pure pleasure making itself known on his face.

He really is beautiful.

You bend forward, your mouth exploring the smoothness of the skin on his chest, as a strange cold feeling down there distracts you.

You look down, squinting in the dark to find yourself sitting on two glimmering metal balls placed over his thigh.

The bells.

A thrill runs through your nerves as you smirk, glancing up at him.

He’s noticed it too.

His eyes return the same sparkle of mischief as yours as he lies still, waiting.

You press your hands down on his chest, locking your gaze with his as you position yourself over the bells, tilting your head back as you move back and forth over them.

The cold metal of the bells rubs against you, sending tremors through your entire body.

Your gaze at Kakashi again, watching him squirm at the sight of you, his hands twitching to feel your skin.

You keep your eyes on him as you slide down slightly on his thigh, tugging his trousers down as you go. Your hands find the base of his cock as you allow yourself to admire his throbbing length.

He leans his head back on the grass and you feel him getting harder in your hands.

Forming your hand into a fist around him, you move it up and down along his shaft in slow steady strokes, leaning down to bring your mouth closer to his tip, before swirling your tongue in circles around his skin.

His hips tremble as he clutches onto the grass, writhing.

Your lips clasp around his cock, mouth slurping up and down his length, taking your time sliding down to the base and back up, your hands following suit.

You tease him, switching between the tip of your tongue and your whole mouth, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through him.

He quivers and you sit back up, bending forward over his face and pressing your lips on his. A groan from his mouth erupts inside yours as he clutches your hips.

His hands guide your hips back and forth over his length, your lips trembling as he slips into you, his cock finally inside you, pushing into you, filling you as deep as you can be filled.

A new rush of pleasure burns through your senses, your insides stretching as you move your hips around him, back and forth and then in circles.

“A-a-ah...mm…yeah…”, your muffled moans cut through the depths of the forest in the silence of the night.

Kakashi breathes your name, the eruption of your name from his lips enough to send you to a frenzy, filling your heart with drunken fervour.

You moan his name back in reply, hopping up and down on him as his arm snakes behind your waist and he flips you over in a sudden, swift movement, the weight of his body falling over you now.

You arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet his, unwilling to break away even for a second.

You want him so, so bad.

The pointy peaks of grass underneath poke your skin, your nails digging into his back as he nibbles on your neck, thrusting deep, deep into you.

You feel the familiar shudder from earlier again, your mind getting clouded with waves of pleasure coursing through you. Kakashi’s grunts quaver in your ear as you feel his hips jerk in tune to yours.

There’s a tantalizing jolt of ecstasy through your body as you scream out, your quivering voice matching his grunts as you both put a hand over the other’s mouth, your muffled moans melting into each other’s skin. He quivers inside you for a final time before you feel him slipping out of you, as hot wet cum trickles along the insides of your thighs, dripping into the dewy grass beneath.

Droplets of sweat from his hair drips down on you, tasting salty in your mouth. You heave together in exhaustion as he plops down on you, before rolling to the side.

You lie on your back panting, your entire body damp with sweat.

Languor threatens to take over you as you struggle to keep your eyes open, looking up into the night sky.

You see a firefly glowing above your head. You lift a lazy hand to reach it, but it flies away far above, becoming one with the twinkling stars in the sky.

Soft sounds of Kakashi’s breath echo beside you, his foot still touching yours lightly as the both of you lie heaving under the stars.

He turns his head to look at you and you can feel his eyes on you as you try, with all the fibres in your body, to not look back at him.

You know you won’t be able to hold yourself together any longer if you do.

He extends a hand towards you. “That was…”

“Sshhh… Shut up” you say in a slumberous whisper, moving closer into his arm, putting your own around him, your head buried into chest as you feel your eyes getting heavy…not able to stay awake anymore. You feel Kakashi envelope you in his arms, the warmth from his skin against the cold air lulling you to sleep, your mind becoming foggy as you close your eyes, slowly drifting off somewhere far, far away…

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

Your eyes open to the chirping of birds perched on the branches above, rays of morning light casting a rosy glow in the horizon.

You watch the half light in the distance, rubbing your eyes, smiling to yourself.

The night had taken with it the black clouds of denial fogging your mind, your heart is as clear as day now.

You turn your head just in time to see Kakashi opening his eyes, his eyes puffy, imprints of grass marking his soft cheek.

You smile at him as he looks at you, lips curled into a sleepy smile. “Good morning” he yawns, tapping over his mouth with his palm.

“I won.”

“Hmm?” he asks groggily, eyes still adjusting to the light.

You hold up the two small bells in front of him, they jingle over his face.

He chuckles. “I don’t think so. It’s past dawn”

“I took them off before. I won.”

He laughs again, his face lighting up in a way you’d never seen before. He looks even more beautiful in the daylight.

“In all fairness y/n, there are no losers here.”

You laugh along with him now, reaching across and smoothening the imprints on his cheek, keeping your hand there, cupping his cheek.

“So, I passed?” you ask, looking at him, inching closer.

He looks back at you, with the same look from earlier in his eyes.

But you’re not turning yourself blind to it anymore.

“Top of the class” he laughs, pulling you closer, nuzzling your nose with his before pressing his lips into yours.

Notes :-

Did I quote 10 Things I Hate About You on a Kakashi Smut?

Yes, yes i did.

[obeymeluv]

You Steal the Boys’ Clothes

Something I’ve been thinking of for a while.

Lucifer

It was rare the eldest was without his cape, as everything seemed to be a formal event and he must be dressed to impress. Being dressed to impress, however, means being clean so he gets it cleaned from time to time

Lucifer is a very organized, practical man. Constantly towing the line of obsessive for the sake of orderliness.

He knows where his cape should be, and that it’s not there

With a demon’s-only screech that warns Mammon to stretch his calves and run, Lucifer hunts down the three most likely suspects to interrogate them (Mammon, Satan, and Belphegor).

He tries to get a two-for-one by dragging Mammon into the study where Satan sits smugly with a book (because he knows he didn’t do it but MAN is he enjoying this!)

Imagine surprising not one, but THREE demons when you come shuffling down the hall with a Lucifer’s cape wrapped around you like a blanket.

It whispers and it drags and it absolutely DROWNS you.

Very charming. Ethereal, almost like some sort of wedding wear

Lucifer would’ve never imagined you’d be the culprit, and now his poor brain is trying to save and process the idea of you looking so sleepy-happy in his clothes

And the ex-angel falls all over again.

He catches the little cheek nuzzle and way you bunch it around your body, a foot poking out not to get tangled

Satan and Mammon will probably die laughing instead of at his hands, but Lucifer could really care less

Lucifer idly wonders where you’d curled up that he totally missed you, and escorts you gently but red-faced to your room

Satan and Mammon tag along, and when they see Lucifer come out with his cape they can only deduce he put you to bed.

Mammon

With no homework to do and some money in the bank, Mammon was ready to spend the weekend tearing up the town with you!

He was fresh out of the shower and mostly dressed, searching feverishly for his beloved white and brown jacket

Mammon wasn’t the cleanest person by nature (hello, money hoarder and collector of interesting/valuable things) so he tidied up as he went

As he started to suspect one of his little brothers was holding the jacket for ransom, he sent out a group text asking about it

There were several typical smart-ass responses (Lucifer, Asmo, and Satan) and he was in the middle of a snark fight when you showed up at his door somewhere between bashful and chill

In HIS jacket

Mammon’s brain shuts down.

HIS baby in HIS jacket? HELL YEAH! OH GOD, IT’S TOO PERFECT!

FIEND, TAKING HIS HEART!

“It’s kind of a human thing,” you explain. “There is a one-jacket fee among couples. Usually it’s a hoodie.” you tease, reluctant to shrug it off, “But this seems to be your only jacket so I guess I could give it back.”

It’s very subtle, but he’s worn that jacket for centuries and no amount of detergent can disguise the scent that makes his heart skip a beat

Something about the smell of your skin and a hint of his has him purring

You hold the jacket out to him. Mammon wraps his fingers around it and swings it around until he’s holding it over one shoulder

The yellow takes over in his eyes a little more. Gets a little brighter and intense.

“You want to take anything else off?” he husks playfully

Your day out turns into staying in and Mammon is happy to trade his jacket for a shirt you can sleep in (like, forever. It’s fine. Whatever, dummy.)

Leviathan

It was actually really hard to steal Levi’s clothes because he lived in his hoodie and turtleneck. His RAD uniform was really just for show and that wasn’t what you were looking for, anyways. You didn’t want to chill in uniform.

He was very particular about his merch because certain shirts were collector’s items and he didn’t like people messing with his folding patterns

You went to Asmo with your dilemma and he found it absolutely ADORABLE. It was almost enough to make him jealous, really

Somehow (Asmo being Asmo?), the fifth- born was able to swipe one of the green button-ups Levi wore under his RAD uniform

His first thought was to alter the garment to make it fit you (matching outfits? YES!) but Levi would probably kill him. His big bro hated shopping for clothes unless he HAD to have them.

Asmo gets the bright idea to magically/temporarily alter the fabric to fit you. Maybe Levi will like it so much he’ll just give you a shirt! 💖 (Or get some fucking outside time and go buy more shirts!)

Levi catches his own scent somewhere outside of the door and his brain goes off. He hits the pause button at lightning speed.

No one else smells like him! They haven’t shared bath products in centuries! He already finished his laundry so what’s happening?!

His first thought is: Mammon broke into my room while I was in the bathroom and stole something to pawn!

Levi doesn’t even think to take inventory of his stuff, barging out of his room to hunt down his big brother

He’s yelling and whining before he even sees him. Then he sees you. In his shirt.

All the angry words die in his throat as the absolute mortification and adoration sets his face on fire

SO KAWAII! It basically makes up for your normie-ness.

Levi’s stuck standing there, blushing his head off and unable to say anything as his fists shake with joy and nervousness

He gets a nosebleed. One of his brothers are laughing at him.

You guide him back to his room to take care of him, Levi lets you and becomes very fascinated with the idea of you in his clothes .Lots of petting and figuring out you look DOUBLY MEGA CUTE when the magic wears off and you’re just in a pool of fabric.

He’s totally down for matching clothes and definitely lets you keep the one you’re wearing.

Satan

His wardrobe is very...interesting...to say the least

Colors and personal combinations aside, Satan actually has a very smart wardrobe. Lots of basics and easy layers.

You can’t steal his signature green sweater or the blazer he seems to live in, so you settle for an emerald knit sweater that has a bit of a v-neck/university feel to it

It takes Satan a while to notice, as he’s buried in a book. You two tend to gravitate towards each other and just enjoy a cozy, companionable silence

He’s just finished a book and is debating cracking open one from the stack to his left when the color catches his eye

The smooth, sly comment dies on his lips when he realizes he likes the damn thing because IT’S HIS

You look very cozy and warm. It’s a very ‘cuddle me’ kind of look.

Perhaps you could warm his lap? Or give his poor hands a rest under the hem?

Very cheeky and clever. Grabs you by the sleeve of it just to ‘answer his curiosity about whether it matched his nails’.

Does he have a cute university student kink? If he didn’t, he does now?

There’s a 50-50 chance of you guys having sex.

Will definitely want to hold you and cuddle you close, petting the fabric and whispering compliments into it.

If you don’t already have a business/academic attire, Satan will definitely suggest a few pieces because YES. This is a thing he loves and it DOES things to him.

Asmodeus

He’s the type to let you think you stole something

Probably stages what he wants you to steal just so you take it

Honestly, I could just see him dumping some of his clothes on you because you’re dating now and this is a cute thing he read about!

It’s super likely he’s into couple outfits or coordinating outfits, so he’s either spent time in his closet pre-planning or asked you to try on a million things just because

This cutie pie purposely orders THE BIGGEST thing he can find so you can both fit in it at the same time

Asmo loves you to pieces no matter what, but seeing you in his clothes makes him squeal and hit a note Mammon has threatened to murder him over

Ever dramatic, this is like, THE BEST THING EVER

A MILLION Devilgram posts about it (safe ones, of course)

Do you guys spark a couple’s trend and spade of lover’s stealing each other’s clothes to snap a victory pic? Maybe

Probably fake faints at the sheer glory of you in HIS bomb ass clothes. Definitely fans himself

Spoils you rotten with compliments

This man is weak. “Gorgeous! Smother me.” as he falls back on the bed and gestures to his face

He won’t turn down the idea of sexy times (depends on your libido, comfort, etc.) but sometimes he makes raunchy jokes just to be funny. Smothering could also mean using him like a body pillow (which he’s totally okay with).

You get max cuddles and WILL be the envy of Devilgram

Beelzebub

Beel felt a little guilty for leaving you at the House of Lamentation with his brothers

You guys were supposed to hang out after school but there was an emergency practice. The coach always got pre-game jitters and demanded a few last runs. He showered and ran back to the House, hoping you still had time for him.

He tiptoed quietly into his shared room, unsurprised to find you waiting there for him. You’d been caught in Belphie’s sleepy little aura by the looks of it,

Beelzebub couldn’t help the grin or little hum that made it past his lips. Your eyes were open but he didn’t know if you actually saw him. You looked super cute in his humongous bed though

You were getting sleepier and sleepier, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Beel pulled the sheets over you and gentle untangled the arm you managed to latch on to

Maybe waking up to a bit of food would make up for everything! Beel toiled away in the kitchen, making a cute little snack tray for the two of you.

In reality, it could probably feed at least twenty, and he ate at least half of what he prepped.

Beel returned to the room with what he considered a decent amount (scraps, kind of, but enough variety! He tried! It’s the thought that counts!) and was surprised to see his sheets all tangled and half-kicked from the bed

You were wearing his jacket now, passed out and turned into the furry lining that usually went across his shoulders and neck

DId you sleep walk? He was trying to understand how you’d gotten into his jacket

Beel realized it was the first time you’d been in his clothes and it was enough to make his heart melt

Super huge on you, obviously (extra fabric everywhere), but so cute! He could basically swaddle you in his jacket

“They’re a restless sleeper,” Belphie yawned. “I thought it would help them calm down.”

It used to work on Belphie, so Beel could see why he resorted to it

Beel offered his twin some food, sitting carefully on your other side.

He shifted some of the parka fur away from your face, trying to fix your hair and nudge your chin up so your nose wasn’t buried in anything. He stroked your cheek a little, mesmerized by the sight of you and how you felt.

Belphie declined, muttering something about, ‘Stop looking like that and eat your food! Gross!’ before Beel settled for patting your head one last time and eating quietly

Belphegor

He’s another one that’s hard to steal from

You’d think it’d be easy since he sleeps all the time, but Belphie really only wears 10% of the clothes he buys

Yes, he’s a pajama snob and has all things comfy and cozy, but hardly any of them smell like him because he falls asleep anywhere with little issue (no special clothes required!)

You thought about stealing his blue cardigan with the pocket, but he’s always sleeping in it!

Belphie picks up on your train of thought, and the frustration, because you fall asleep thinking about it. Dreaming about coyly stealing his cardigan and being all cute and snuggly in bed

It’s enough to wake him up, shuffle to you, and break your sleep. He flops down on your bed with his cardigan unbuttoned and says ‘climb on’ while patting his chest

You’re obviously sleepy and confused and he loves it. Belphie slides you onto his chest and wraps his arms around you, resting bits of the fabric on your back as you settle into him

It’s not the same but it’s close enough

Would you be offended if he got you cow pajamas so he could snuggle you like his favorite pillow? He falls asleep wondering about the answer

He wakes up to see that Beel has covered the two of you with his favorite blanket.

You in his blanket? Against him? Slowly smelling of him and his clothes? It’s the best thing to fall asleep to.

Makes a joke out of your clothes-stealing quest by stripping one of his pillowcases off and putting you in it like a little sack. You have to stay on his bed now because you’re his pillow and all pillows stay on the bed.

“What? You wanted to smell like me! It’s something I use!“ Belphie defends as you wonder whether or not you like this human pillow thing while he snuggles you.

[doodlingstuff]

Coffee first?

Very late @aftgexchange gift for @rainbow-0bsidian Here's a Coffee Shop AU featuring an evil autumn-colored crocheted nanna-rug. Hope you like it!

---

"I don't even know why I'm letting you drag me into this. I have a paper due tomorrow." Jean says, tapping furiously into his laptop as if the excessive noise will make him go faster.

"Because the two of you need to go out more often! Unless you are, you know, like together, in which case-"

"Don't even finish that thought." Andrew threatens Dan from his place, smoking on the window.

Dan crosses her arms. She's in the middle of the room, where she can look at both men at the same time. The truth is, she knows they both have lives. Or sort of... But she doesn't want to go alone to meet the cute beefcake from the gym on her first date.

They've been eyeing each other for long enough without saying anything, that in the end, it had been Dan who proposed having coffee in her preferred place.

"Okay. I'm done." Jean announces, closing his laptop. "Move it, Minyard."

"I didn't sign myself to be her chaperon."

"And I'm not going to be their third wheel."

"Guys, come on! I never ask anything from either of you."

Both men turn to shot daggers at Dan. Technically, she spends most of the week asking things, but that is because she's the team's captain, and they're supposed to fall under her command.

"I'll buy you a slice of each cake," Dan says to Andrew. "And I'll help you finish your paper when we return." She adds to Jean. "Can we go now?"

Andrew shrugs before discarding his half-smoked cigarette. Dan feels immediate relief. She won't go alone. Her roommates will be there, and if everything goes to awful hell, she can always count on Allison and Renee to cry all night.

"How do I look?" Dan asks the men. She still has a few minutes to make last-minute changes.

Andrew swipes her from top to bottom and Jean from her shoes to her hair.

"Could be worse."

"Halloween is coming."

Dan feels her belly churning with dread. It must be the boots, or the sweater, or the hair. Or perhaps she overdid her makeup? What if-

"Wilds, no." Andrew breaks the silence. Dan turns to look at him. If she has to give the tiny man credit for something, is that he knows how to dress when he means it. She should've asked for his help. Or Jean.

Oh, for fuck's sake. She's so stupid! She also lives with a French, and she couldn't ask for advice. This Matt guy is turning her into a puddle of uselessness.

"I said no. Let's go." Andrew cuts in again and storms out of the door.

Dan sighs and goes out, ready to fail.

The way goes silent. Andrew and Jean occasionally type something on their phones. They are closer to each other than they are to Dan. Like real bodyguards. At least that gives Dan a bit of security.

She breathes in the chilly morning autumn air and pushes the door of the Fox Coffee Shop, already scanning the tables. There's no sign of her big man yet. She might have a few minutes to steel herself for the stunning view and relax before he-

"What are you doing? Don't leave me with her!" Jean scowls behind her. She turns on her heels to see Andrew leaving the coffee shop.

"Andrew! What are you doing? Andrew!"

Dan is finally thankful for choosing shoes she can run with. She is so worried about being left alone with the cute man that she doesn't pay attention to the sound of windows smashing at her back and hurries more to step in front of Andrew.

"We got a deal! What's wrong with you?"

Andrew only lifts a brow. It would've been enough to make Dan step aside if she didn't know him so well already, and she hadn't noticed the faint blush on his cheeks.

"Can we go back? I got a date."

"Go ahead. I don't." There's the faintest of inflections in the last part. Dan would've asked if she only had time. Right now, she wants her date to be perfect, and it's coming pretty bad from before the start.

"I'll also get you fancy ice cream when I'm done. Andrew, come on, I need you."

The man looks from Dan's face to the coffee shop at the back. His cheeks blush again.

"Is he worth it?"

"I'll never know if we don't meet."

"Chocolate fudge, rocky road, brownie, and cookie chips. Plus the cakes, and I reserve the right to stab him if he isn't worth it."

"Awesome. You're the best. Come on; he must be there."

Dan makes her way back to the coffee shop, feeling pounds lighter with Andrew going willingly behind her. However, the relief doesn't last long.

There's a crowd of people at the entrance of the place. Dan makes way for her and Andrew to see what's the source of the commotion. A million scenes cross her mind. All of them, except the one with Jean on the floor, cursing in angry French at a blond man who's pressing gauze to his forehead.

"I can't take care of that cut if you keep moving, you know?" The blond says.

"Leave my head alone and get rid of that stupid rug!" Jean protests.

Dan looks at the spot pointed by Jean. There's a crumpled autumn-colored crocheted nana-rug on the floor.

"As if it was the rug's fault that you can't see where you put your feet. Or your whole body, for that matter." Interjects a small man from aside. He gives a few steps to get close to the window that apparently, met Jean's head. "At least you hit with the wall and didn't break the window."

"Neil, can you go back to attending orders?" The blond man asks, still busy attending Jean.

At her back, Dan hears Andrew muttering "Neil" to himself.

"I'm not cleaning his blood." The man -Neil-, says as he goes back to the counter.

Dan doesn't pay any more attention to him and crouches beside Jean. "What happened?"

"I wanted to catch Andrew before he ran away and slipped with their stupid rug. Who puts a rug in the middle of a coffee shop?"

"I did; any problems?" Neil replies from the back of the counter.

"You are a problem!" Jean shouts at the same time that Andrew says it, already in front of Neil. The blush has extended from his cheeks to his ears.

"It's just an attitude problem," Neil says, quieter, only for Andrew to hear, but the whole shop is still silent with the commotion.

"I'll still solve you," Andrew says with a casual shrug that can fool anyone but Dan or Jean.

"At least buy something before."

The blond man. Jeremy reads his tag, just puts his head inside his hands. "This job is going to kill me."

At that moment, Dan can see the instant shuffle in Jean. When he sees the exhaustion in Jeremy, he also goes slack against the wall, all tension between him, the rug, and Neil instantly gone. "I'm sorry for causing you trouble, love. It's just- Andrew's impossible, and our girl Dan here is having her first date with a guy from the gym."

Dan can't think anymore. She doesn't even know what's going on. Jean and Jeremy are holding hands on the floor, and Andrew is having a heavy staring contest with Neil at the counter.

"Love?" Is all she can mutter.

"We've been dating for weeks. We didn't want to tell you because I thought you liked him." Jean says.

"I- What?"

"You come here so often that I thought you might come for me? It wouldn't be the first time. And I know it wouldn't be because of Neil; he doesn't seem your type." Jeremy explains.

Dan feels dumbfounded. Her knees are about to give up below here. This can't be happening.

"I come here because of the morning views, the warm lattes, the pecan pie, and the free Wi-Fi! And I have a fucking date with a super hot guy who's like seven feet of glorious muscle crowned with a perfect smile and the most hilarious sense of humor. Why would I even look at you? No offense, Jean, I can see the appeal."

"Do you think all that of me?" Asks a deep voice behind Dan.

"Fuck me now," Dan mutters to Jean's and Jeremy's entertainment.

"Uh... Thought we could have coffee first? But I can do that too if that's what you want. I mean, who wouldn't? You're like a goddess."

"I- Wh- So- Do you really think I'm a goddess?"

"Hell yeah, I've been wanting to ask you out since spring but thought like your friend's boyfriend that you were into him and I-"

"Shut up and kiss me."

Dan doesn't think as she talks and pulls Matt in for a kiss.

All her nerves melt as soon as their mouths meet. It's so much better than anything she had imagined. Not that she'd put too many thoughts into picturing herself with Matt, but it's everything she ever dreamt of and then some.

"You could do the same someday." Dan listens to Andrew deadpan to Neil. She bursts into laughter at the same time as Matt.

The kiss breaks, but their hands remain holding as they go to get their drinks and officially start their date.

It looks like this date won't be a total failure after all.

[writefightandflightclub]

Return to Sender: (Richard Alonso Muñoz x GN reader)

What is this? This is 4/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. I’m not gonna share the prompt as it’s spoilery, but it was requested by @sergeantkane​ who is a genius for picking this combo! It’s a prompt about LOVE LETTERS! Omg! And thus, it matches perfectly with Richard (trust me, I had NOT made that connection when I made the prompt list :P). Thank you so much for requesting, Clarke, and I hope you enjoy it. I’m excited about this one!

If you’d like to read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Oh, I really quite like this one. Hope it makes you feel as soft as I did for Richard while writing it! Also- it’s my first bash at writing him, so let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who helped with film details too: those not already tagged in the post- @prurientpuddlejumper​ @witchyavenger​ @veuliee2​ @waatermelon-sugaar​ @pascal-isaac​

Word count: 4.5 k. So not a blurb, then? :P

Rating: Mature, for light steam (not explicit, but 18+ or out, please!)

Warnings: mentions of food/eating. Mild angst (but it ends well), Steamy. Kissing, brief non-explicit mention of erection. Implied coitus (cut scene). Richard works in a “correctional facility”. Small mention of attempted break-in. If I missed any let me know.

Tagging: @anetteaneta​ @isvvc-pvscvl​ @nowritingonthewall​ @supernovafeather​ (ONLY READ IF 18+)

GIF by @nathan-bateman​

“Have you ever received a love letter?” Richard wonders shyly, without looking up from his crossword puzzle, his long eyelashes fanned out as his gaze dances over the monochrome squares.

Meanwhile, your eyes snap up immediately from your magazine, which you are idly leafing through, a breath catching in your chest.

You bristle at the question, and yet Richard seems either entirely oblivious, or entirely determined not to look-up at you. Perhaps both. So, instead of looking, he simply slurps the dregs of his milkshake, and pushes his plate of waffle remnants further toward the far end of the diner booth.

When he finally raises his gaze – a gentle prompt for you to answer him- his eyes are large and shining under the fluorescent lights as he peers at you over his glass, dabbing at his thick moustache with a paper napkin shortly after.

“No, never,” you state sadly, heeding his prompt with a small smile and a shake of your head. Not even a love e-mail.

“I’m surprised,” he flatters with a cautious smile. And, if you’re not mistaken, his eyes light-up with the faintest trace of desire. The barest undercurrent of passion, which is enough to have your heart beating like a drum. You notice it sometimes; this dull heat emanating off of him. It is a spark which never ignites, however - to your endless disappointment; you would fan that flame if only you knew how.

You swallow. He’s surprised? He can’t be that surprised, you think, a stone sinking through your stomach as you dwell too long on the topic of love letters, and meanwhile, Richard’s attention seamlessly diverts back to 3 across.

“You deserve one,” he says, still looking at the page, but a smile animating his wiry moustache. “A letter.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, a spiralling sadness catching hold of you. Does he not understand what this is doing to you? This painful reminder? “Can we drop it, Richard?” you say tensely, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are even more soft and cautious than usual, causing you to admonish yourself for the bite in your tone.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course,” he smiles thinly, apologetically.

It’s simply the new job, you think. Director of Communications. The man has letters on the brain. Richard is so considerate, that you realise he must not intend to hurt you in dredging up the past; he would never. In a way though, you think, it’s even worse that he brings it up so… casually. You can only conclude he has forgotten that you sent your letter to him at all. Had your heartfelt words, declaring your love, had so little impact on him?

Maybe that’s it. After all, they seemed to have so little impact upon him at the time. What could you expect years later? On the other hand, you -apparently- remain rather sore about the topic, all this time later. It’s natural to be sensitive though, isn’t it? You’d written him a love letter and he didn’t write you back. He didn’t say it back. Didn’t feel it back.

And, perhaps it still stings so much, even all these years later, because you never did stop loving him, even if he never started loving you.

Feeling a sudden, overwhelming haste to leave, you thumb through the pages of your magazine so furiously that the next table turn their heads to look at you, until you find what you were searching for.

“Here, Richard. The article I mentioned. Dramatherapy for people who are incarcerated.”

You fold the magazine back on itself, fobbing it off on him with an unprecedented urgency, hurriedly signalling to the waitress that you’d like the check. The roomy diner booth suddenly feels suffocating, and you want to get out. Meanwhile, oblivious, Richard chuckles at the title of the article -some kind of pun, you recall- as you try to push down the unpleasant emotions surfacing within you.

“Thank you for this,” he smiles, looking up at you earnestly. Looking concerned as he reads the expression on your face. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes fix on the table, where his fingertips inch hesitantly across the surface, hovering moments from yours as he debates whether to extend comfort. You make the decision for him, snatching your hand back from his reach.

“Yes. I’m Fine,” you say, unconvincingly. “Can we please go? I need some fresh air.”

“Alright,” Richard agrees gently. He looks a little flustered, but, now sensing your urgency, he begins to sweep up his papers and to shrug on his jacket. He pulls out a small comb to fix his neat curls in place, and offers you a soft smile. “Maybe we can go to the park next?” he suggests.  

As much as you want to run, you nod, some of your agitation dissipating now that the prior topic seems to be forgotten. “Okay. Yeah. That would be nice.” You school your expression into something calm, and you offer him a reassuring smile as his soulful eyes dance over you, a lingering but unobtrusive concern there.

As you split the check, you tell yourself for the millionth time that being his friend is enough; but even after the millionth time, you can’t quite believe it.

Still, today -Sunday- is your one day with him this week. And, no matter what you can’t have; you’ll take anything you can get.

He’s too dear to you to settle for anything less.

************

One month later:

You crouch in amongst the boxes on Richard’s front lawn. He is having a clear-out, setting out some items for goodwill, and some for a neighbourhood yard sale happening next weekend.

You are having fun assisting him in sifting through various items, occasionally bursting into a fit of laughter when he reveals yet another ill-informed, late night shopping channel “bargain” – usually some new-fangled, scarcely-used exercise contraption, which he proceeds to demonstrate in good-humour, making you fold over clutching your stomach in mirth. Occasionally, as you rifle through the boxes, you’ll be overcome by a pang of sentimentality when he uncovers an item with a memory attached; and -no matter how useless- he usually sneaks said item into his ever-growing “to-keep” pile.

“But this is the picnic hamper we took to Bound Beach Island! For your birthday, remember?”  

“Yeah, Richard, but it’s battered! It has holes! It needs to go.”

“It was a beautiful day. The light and the dunes were beautiful… and… and y-“

“-Oh my goodness, what is this?! Please for the love of God tell me you never actually wore this!”

You work through the midday sun until you come to a tired, dead halt on the grass, finally parking your ass down and wiping your brow. Richard looks warm too, a “v” of sweat soaking his old, oversized “Save the Turtles” t-shirt. No - he really doesn’t throw anything away. You smile fondly, though, remembering his sea turtle phase. Of course, he’d read some article. He always was looking for a cause.

“I’ll make us some iced tea,” Richard announces with a tired puff of breath, looking more spent than he probably wants to admit after shuttling the various boxes. Still, the way his grizzled curls have fallen away from his harsh side-part appeals to you, sitting disobedient and undone on his forehead.

Thinking of him undone, you hear a faint beating of drums sound in your chest.

You ignore the music though, like always, instead smiling gratefully as he heads inside, and you take a second to collect yourself before dragging the nearest box towards you, deciding you may as well continue. This next box is taped securely shut, and you chuckle quietly to yourself when you notice it’s labelled “workout-gear”.

You peel the packing tape away and open it up, scooping out the pile of miscellaneous papers sitting right on top. Beginning to leaf through, you surmise it’s mainly unopened junk mail; mainly garishly printed promotional flyers - from a pizzeria which closed down years ago, you recognise. Probably hastily stuffed in before his last move and never dealt with. Absent-mindedly, you begin to bundle it up for the recycling pile, when a smaller, more humble envelope drops out on to your lap, a hand-scrawled address on the front. The stationary is resoundingly familiar.

In fact, everything about it is familiar.

Your heart hammers in your chest as it immediately dawns on you.

It’s your letter.

The letter you sent him, all those years ago. You’d needed to be apart from him- needed to go away to take care of family, and you simply couldn’t go without letting him know. Letting him know you were in love with him.

The memory is like a slow knife sinking into your chest as you idly turn it over in your hands.

But… It can’t be…?

It’s… unopened.

All the air leaves you lungs.

No. No. It doesn’t make a shred of sense.

You’d spoken to him right afterward, on the phone. The first time he’d called after you left town he’d almost pleaded with you, giving you an unequivocally clear, and endlessly painful answer that he didn’t want what you wanted. What you’d written about. He’d made it abundantly obvious that he simply wanted to be friends. “I- I don’t want anything to change. I want everything to stay exactly like it is between us – please? Can we still talk every day?”

But if he didn’t read it…?

You heart pounds so hard that you hear blood rushing in your ears.

He doesn’t know.

His words didn’t mean what you…

Oh my god. All this time.  

You shoot abruptly to standing when you see him approach, as if you’ve been caught red-handed, guiltily stuffing the letter into your back pocket before he can ask you what it is, an abundance of thoughts screaming in your head.

He hands you the glass of tea, ice tinkling gently, and you take it from him, the coolness shocking your palms.

Assessing what you’ve been up to in his absence, and noting the carcass of another box, Richard glances down at the pile of papers strewn at your feet. He looks suddenly worried for a moment, as if you might have found an old porn stash or something – and he looks just as suddenly relieved when he sees they are more innocent papers, scooping them up from the grass.

“Richard?” you say, your eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, and the letter burning a hole in your pocket as he drops the items into the recycling. He hums for you to go on. “Do you... You know when I moved away...?” your voice is strained, and you gulp hard. “Just before, do you remember getting any unusual letters or... weird post from me?”

“Like what kind of thing?” he asks curiously, turning back to you.

“I don’t know exactly,” you lie, nervously. “I have a feeling I sent you something? A sappy goodbye thing?”

You see him mull it over, combing his impressive moustache with his fingers. “I don’t remember, sorry. But apparently I was drowning in junk mail at that apartment. Maybe it got lost, or returned to sender?”

Despite everything, you exhale a small laugh. In a roundabout way, you suppose it had been returned to sender after all. You look at the ground.

“Was it important?” he asks, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as he looks at you.

Biding time, you take a sip of your tea while you search for an answer. It’s refreshing.

“It… Uh. It was a long, long time ago. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose,” you muse, masking your sadness, and he nods, looking at least half-satisfied with your answer.

Except, it does matter. It matters more than anything. And, with a sudden, overwhelming need to grab on to the past, you track to the “to go” box, rescuing the battered picnic basket from the pile of junk.

“You shouldn’t get rid of this,” you state, your back to Richard, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your voice falters. You tense as you feel him settle by your side, his hand hovering tentatively at the small of your back but never quite touching. “It was a beautiful day.”

“No,” he insists. “You’re right. I shouldn’t hang on to it.”

His words are like a punch in the gut. You turn your head to your side, where Richard is, your eyes and heart almost overflowing.

Noting your sadness, and connecting it to the picnic basket, he does everything he can to smooth things over, like always. “We can get a new one,” he says, his brown eyes sweet and hopeful and bright.

You love him. You love him still and you can’t help but turn towards him and reach out your arms, dragging him in for a hug.

“No! No, I’m sweaty,” he protests self-consciously, but you don’t care. You just need to hold him, even only for a moment – and, for a moment he stills as you loop around him, never quite clutching you back.

When you pull away though, you could swear that dim spark of passion is present in his eyes again. That spark that never catches, no matter how much or how often or how hard you wish it would. Oh, how you wish.

“Don’t ever change, Richard,” you say sincerely, your voice imbued with fondness. “Okay? You’re a sweet, wonderful man.”

His eyes are immediately soft and bashful again, the colour of his cheeks deepening a little, a crimson undertone blooming under his brown skin.

“Yes. Okay,” he offers, with a nod, his eyes creasing at the corners, and his posture even bolstered by the compliment, you could swear, his chest puffing out proudly.

For the rest of the afternoon, you ignore the unread words in the back of your pocket; but for the life of you, you can’t ignore those drums.

************

One month later:

You bundle the yapping, happy little white dog into your arms, relieved that she’s okay as her little tail happily beats against your arm.

“Are you okay, Lady?” you coo as she nuzzles her snoot into your face, eagerly lapping little kisses on to your cheek. “Thanks goodness, sweet little floof,” you baby-talk as your eyes quickly scan around Richard’s place, setting his spare key down on the kitchen counter.

You’d barrelled across town to get here, after receiving a call about an attempted break-in. His neighbour to the left had your contact details in case of an emergency -it’s not very easy to reach him at work, of course- so here you are. You came to give things a quick checking over, assured that no-one suspicious had continued to loiter. Richard won’t be much longer -his shift has nearly ended, and you’d left him a voicemail so you’re sure he’ll hurry- but you still thought you’d go on ahead of him, especially so that he wouldn’t worry about Lady.

Looking around, thankfully all seems well, and you don’t think anyone made it inside after all. Slowly then, you allow your nerves to calm and your heart to settle, bouncing the little bundle of fur in your arms, and feeding her a treat from the packet on top of the microwave, just in case she’d been stressed out.

Calming, you can’t help but smile as you look around, absorbing all the little details of Richard. You do hang out in his apartment a fair amount, but most often you will meet or sit outdoors, when the weather allows. After all, he loves to feel the sun and fresh air on his face, especially after spending all day cooped-up in windowless rooms. To you though, this Richard-ness is like a breath of fresh air, and you let it all wash over you, drinking in the details of his simple daily routine. The discarded half-plate of frijoles and rice by the sink. The ironing-board piled with identical uniform-issue shirts, pants, and plain white t-shirts. The photos on the fridge door – some of you and him too.

Doing a lap of the living space, you further note the dining-for-one TV table, evidence of his relatively solitary existence, and you can almost see him sitting there. Can almost hear his soft voice relating the far-fetched storylines of his favourite telenovelas. You imagine him chuckling warmly - perhaps shedding a tear sometimes too.

You decide you should pop your head into the bedroom and bathroom to check there too, for good measure, and you set Lady down, the dog trotting along at your heels. Once you’ve done a loop, you sigh, seeking out a fresh task, and you circle back to the sink, scraping his discarded plate and rinsing it, stacking it in the dishrack. Then, you move towards the TV chair, intending simply to sit yourself down and wait for Richard to come home. After all, you’re here now - you may as well say hello; or, maybe you can even prepare him dinner after his long shift, you muse.

As you revisit the small, rickety table, however, your eyes more keenly notice that a bunch of papers are strewn over it, all identical- a series of pastel pink leaves of paper and envelopes.

Letters.

Handwritten, in his familiar scrawl.

Letters addressed to you.

Your brow furrows in confusion, as you wonder what they could be. You don’t want to invade his privacy, of course, but perhaps this is something that’s meant for you? After all, sometimes he leaves you notes when you come over to feed or walk Lady.  

Still, this feels different, and, with a lump in your throat that you don’t quite understand, you pick up one of the leaves at random, skimming the first line, yet feeling only more confused than you did before.  

You see your name at the head of the paper, followed by the words “my dearest love,”, and underneath, some other half-formed paragraphs, scribbled over and crossed out.

No, you shake your head, your stomach flipping over. That can’t be right, you think, even as your fingers scramble for another leaf - for leaf upon leaf, until you piece together what’s going on. Until, with every line you read, fragments of both English and Spanish, you feel as though you are piecing together his heart.

Could it be true? Is this really true?

Your fingers dive for a sheet more developed that the rest, where you see paragraphs of writing, and you devour the words like you are starved of love; for you are, aren’t you? Starved? And yet, you suddenly feel so full. Brimming.

My darling,

There are infinite ways to fall in love. Some are elemental, like a raging fire. A shock of lightning on first sight. Some are slow-burning and constant, the heat of friendship warming your hearth, defrosting your iced fingertips when you come in from the cold.

There are infinite ways to fall in love, and I should know, my heart, as I have experienced every one of them with you.

You can barely read the rest as tears blur your eyes, and your hand comes to clamp over your mouth as realisation sinks through to the pit of you, the page quaking -like a leaf- in your fingers.

You make my heart beat like a drum. When I look at you, I am music, without being played. When you’re with me I am dancing, without movement. If only you would touch my skin, I feel like I would sing. If only you would-

“-Are you safe? Are you alright?” Richard asks from behind you, and you tear your eyes away from the page with a start. You were so absorbed by this swell of beating music that you didn’t hear the scrape of his key in the lock. You didn’t hear his hurried footsteps coming up behind you.  

“Richard,” you suspire, and for once his touch is on you without hesitation, his hands clasped around each of your shoulders, slowly running down your arms, and you nod quickly to reassure him, your mouth opening wordlessly. You’re safe.

His touch is warm through your clothes, and you think he is right- your skin would sing for him too if he touched you. Your love rattles you, like drums beating musically in your chest, pulsing through your body.

Then, Richard clocks your sideward, guilty glance at the pile of letters, and you see his panic instantly surface at the thought of all his unsent and unspoken words laid bare before you. All the pieces of his heart exposed.

At first, he looks apologetic, but then you step forwards a little more, into the circle of his arms. Arms which suddenly fall, unsure, at his sides once again. And, achingly slow, endlessly sure, you lift up you hand and you place it on his chest, over his heart, smoothing over his shirt and over the cool metal of the shield he wears there. You feel his heart really is beating like a drum. His chest is rising and falling beneath your hand, his breath quickened – eyes nervous.

You step a little closer, and your fingers continue their slow crawl, dancing up around his collar, inching further up until your fingers finally brush the bare skin at the nape of his neck, pushing up into the curls behind his ears, your thumb skimming his sideburn. You touch him, with your fingertips, and he does sing for you, a half-choked moan leaving his mouth at your tender caress.

“Richard,” you say breathily, searching his face, eyes openly appraising his beauty. “Don’t worry, sweet man. I love you too.” And, when you next meet his eyes there is no nervousness there. Not any longer. Instead, you find his dark, expressive eyes brewing with adoration, and that gentle but ever ascending note of passion.

“Darling, can I kiss you?” he pleads, his voice dogged by desire, his brow knitting together and his hands slipping bravely to your waist, circling you as you arch into him.

“Yes. Yes,” you say, and his mouth meets yours in a desperate, tumultuous crush. You sing too, your skin thrumming as you finally know the feeling of his thick moustache brushing against you. As you taste the sweet flavour of cherry sucker on his kiss. As you finally feel the texture of his slicked curls beneath your fingertips.

You kiss, urgently, until you are each smiling too broadly to continue, and instead Richard beams and presses sweet, intermittent kisses all over – your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, your neck- his moustache tickling wherever it touches. His hands are everywhere they can be politely, roaming over your back and your arms and your hair, and it feels so good to finally be held like this.

Eventually, he pulls back, his smile no longer tugging at his lips so keenly -lips now kiss flushed with deep colour- but shining in his liquid eyes. “How long have you loved me back?” he asks in a still choked, disbelieving voice.

You bite your lip, but then allow your face to split in a radiant, unrestrained grin.

Always. Always. I loved you first, you think.

You reach for your bag, reluctant to break from him so trailing your love’s hand in yours- and you fish out the letter. The one you’ve carried around since it was returned to you. “Take a look, Richard,” you encourage.

He looks from you to the small envelope, turning it in his spare hand as you pass it to him. “What is this?”

His brows rise in confusion as you tap the stamped postmark with your index finger. Years. Years ago.

“I sent you a letter,” you explain. “Telling you I loved you. That I love you,” you correct, squeezing his hand tightly in yours, amazed at how natural it feels already, to touch him.

He audibly gasps in air, looking pained. Devastated. “I never got it. I would’ve-“, he fumbles for words, but he can’t finish them, the magnitude of all those years lost to yearning too big to wrap his lips around. “I never got it,” he repeats sorrowfully.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about that now,” you soothe. “I got your letter.” And, as you engulf him with your arms a soft smile takes over his features once again. He can’t help it.

“I’m so glad you did,” he beams, drawing you to him for another kiss, which you eagerly accept, opening your mouth to him.

God, he’s a good kisser, his tongue in you deep and eager, and the heat generated is quick to catch, a fire lit in the pit of you. That moustache is a divine thing too, his lips soft and full beneath, his mild-mannered tongue positively sinful as it works against yours.

Letting the kiss grow, you grab hold of him by the belt to draw his body closer to yours, arching your hips into his, and you feel an impressive bulge greet you as you do so.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers bashfully, angling his hips away from you, in case you’re not ready for… that yet. “You’re perfection. So perfect, I… I’m a little bit, uh, excited.”

You don’t blame him. You’re a little bit excited too. There’s a drum beating in your chest. Music in your heart. A song everywhere. A dance in your body.

“W-would you like to take me to the bedroom, Richard?” you purr, softly. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

You wish you could capture the bliss which sparks in his eyes then, and keep stoking it forever more. His whole being glows as if you are the sun shining down on him. He loves the sun on his face. He loves you.

He loves you.

*******

Later that night:

At some point after round three, Richard is ravenous, and so you head to the kitchen to grab some snacks. One of Richard’s plaid shirts wards off the slight chill, settled over your otherwise naked body. As you microwave something quick, you can barely keep the smile from your face – even more so as you glance over at the table full of half-finished letters. As the microwave pings and you grab out the plate, another idea occurs to you, and you simply can’t help yourself.

So, you pad mysteriously back towards the bedroom, where Richard is waiting. The blanket is slung low over his hips, skimming the dark trail of hair which draws your gaze down beyond his abdomen. He is covered, and yet you bloom blissfully with heat at your new-found knowledge of what lays beneath. He’s laying with one hand folded behind his head, and one hand rested on the soft, roundness of his stomach, which you had laid your head on only moments ago.

Richard’s eyes shine with unadulterated admiration as you enter, and you flash him a mischievous smile as you transfer the plate to his hands, and subsequently tip a cascade of his letters into the middle of the bed.

“What’s all this?” he asks, with a contented laugh as you bounce eagerly into bed by his side, humming in equal contentment as you slot yourself under his arm.  

“I want you to read them to me. Will you?” you ask, sweetly, and he looks bashful all over again. “No-one has ever sent me a love letter.”

“Me neither,” he chuckles. “Or I thought so…”

He hesitates, perhaps feeling shy, but he wraps his arm around you securely, nuzzling you into his side as he picks up the closest leaf of paper.

He hums gratefully as you begin to stroke his smooth chest. He really does sing whenever you touch him.

“They’re not finished,” he caveats. “I wanted to find the perfect words and I… I couldn’t.”

“The words don’t have to be perfect. It’s more important that they’re delivered,” you say, your voice soft as you sink into him, and so, he gently clears his throat and he begins to read, his words and his rich, soothing voice filtering over you like warm sunshine.

After a moment listening, and letting his love and his letters envelop you, you interrupt him gently. “My sweet man. Promise me you’ll never write me another love letter?”

“Are they that awful?!” Richard exclaims.

“No!” you laugh, into his chest, tipping your chin up to look him in the eyes. “They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It’s just… I think I hate love letters, Richard. They’ve only ever kept me from you.”

His expression becomes wistful, lost in thought until a smile finally captures him. Then, with a finger curling gently under your chin, he dips down to plant a small kiss to the very tip of your nose.

“No more letters then,” he promises softly. “Let’s always promise to say it out loud from now on. Let’s talk every day.”

You heart full, you bring your hand up to caress his cheek, before planting a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips; and, despite what you’d just suggested, you plead for him to keep reading to you, his voice and his love lulling you to sleep in his arms.

With the love letters as kindling, your dim spark finally catches, your fire now blazing. You set it in a hearth in your chest, and you vow to keep it stoked for always.

THE END

Bonus:

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm. 

Masterlist here 

AO3 Link here

‘Y'know, when I asked you to manage 'Tsumu, I never imagined you'd manage him like this.’  Osamu states bluntly, eyebrow raised as Atsumu spends yet another evening seated right by her spot at the till, lobbing playful insults and jokes at her until she snaps at him to ‘shut up for the love of all that is holy and stop disturbing the other customers’ . 

‘Like what?!’ she splutters unconvincingly, her cheeks turning red. 

Osamu gives her a knowing look before he turns away to welcome in another batch of customers. 

Osamu closes the shop on the anniversary of its opening, and throws a small party at a rooftop bar that a friend of his owns. She’s told that her attendance is absolutely mandatory, so even though she has class early next morning, she finds herself with a drink in her hand, staring down at the crowds of downtown Osaka. If she squints, she can see a child pulling her mother to a stop, pointing overhead at the rainbow of neon street lights in awe. 

‘A hundred yen for your thoughts?’ She doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Atsumu, his lazy drawl far more pronounced than Osamu’s. 

The child in the street below remains rooted to the spot, causing a buildup in the crowd despite her mother’s attempts to pull her away. It makes her think of the first time her parents brought her to visit the city more than a decade ago, and how overwhelmed she felt, surrounded by people and buildings tall enough to touch the sky, so different from her hometown of rolling hills and bamboo groves. 

‘Did you feel sad when you left home?’ she replies with a question of her own. 

‘Nah - was excited, really. Always dreamed of playin’ volleyball in the big leagues, so stayin’ home wasn’t gonna cut it for me, y'know?’ 

‘Heartless. Probably made your mother cry’, she accuses him, and he acknowledges it with a careless laugh. 

‘What about you? Thinkin’ about home?’ he asks, coming to stand beside her, eyes trained on the thin line separating building and sky. 

‘Leaving was necessary’, she responds simply. 

Especially with two older brothers blessed with both brain and brawn, far better suited to inherit her father’s steel forge. But while her father might spend most of the day teaching her brothers how to craft the sharpest knives, his evenings were spent at the kitchen table with her perched on his lap, learning to balance numbers in his account books. And with her schoolteacher mother drilling into her head the importance of an education, moving down to Osaka for an accountancy degree seemed less like a choice and more like an inevitable conclusion. 

He frowns at her silence. ‘Did you get kidnapped by aliens or somethin’? Usually you’d be snappin’ at me, or scolding me, or shouting at me for being a dick – completely undeserved, by the way’.

‘I just seem quiet because you talk too much. Has anyone ever told you that?’ she retorts. But there is no fire in her words, and he only chortles in response. 

They watch in silence as the crowd below them slowly starts to thin out as the dusk fades into night. The cold night air bites through her thin sweater into her skin, and she shivers, unconsciously shifting closer towards Atsumu’s warmth. He shoots her a look that’s halfway between a smile and a smirk as he slides his jacket over her shoulders, and she pretends the flush on her cheeks is from the alcohol in her drink. 

But she can’t help but lean into him, letting herself drown in the heat of his hand on her hip and the storm in his eyes. 

Osamu’s eyes cloud in disapproval when he finds out she and Atsumu are dating. ‘He’d better not run off my accountant, that’s all I can say’. 

‘Osamu! Atsumu’s your twin!’ she scolds, arm deep in a vat of rice water. 

‘Exactly’, he responds with a snort. ‘I’m not sure you realise how much of a dick ‘Tsumu can be, ‘specially when all he’s hungry for is chasing a win. I hope you’re ready to handle that.’ 

‘You’re just worried because you’re too cheap to hire a qualified accountant to do your books’ she grouses and he looks like he’s about to snark back, but the chatter of their first customers of the day entering the shop signals the end of their conversation. 

Dating Atsumu isn’t as bad as Osamu makes it out to be. She’s careful not to ask too much of him when he’s busy with training and competitions, and in any case her schedule is full enough with school and her job, but they make the effort of video calling each other at least twice a week if he’s travelling, and if he’s in town, they spend Friday nights with multiple boxes of pizza (Atsumu’s appetite is enormous) , bickering over what movie to watch next. 

He insists she watch as many games of his as possible, and he spends so much time crowing about his plays that she should be annoyed, but she finds herself charmed by the childlike enthusiasm in his voice. ‘That’s probably why you’re the only one that can stand him’, Osamu comments but she pays him no mind. He’s in the audience cheering for her when she graduates, and takes her out for a fancy meal when she lands her first job ( no, Osamu, working at Onigiri Miya doesn’t count, no matter what you say). 

Their paths might not always converge but when they do, there’s the quiet contentment of finding shelter in each other, and she quickly becomes addicted to the warmth of that feeling in her heart. 

‘Stop being a baby’, she scolds, as she peels back the sports tape on Atsumu’s back with deliberate care. ‘It’s your fault for going for practice with a strained shoulder and not listening to your physiotherapist!’

‘Don’t nag darlin’, I had to – it was Hinata-kun’s first practice with us!’ He’s practically buzzing in his seat with glee, and she can’t help the soft smile that grows on her face. 

‘There - all done’, she says, and she can’t help but run her hand to rest in the dip of his spine.  

‘What would I do without you?’ he asks, shooting her a roguish smile that distracts her long enough that he’s able to pull her into his lap. 

‘Idiot’, she huffs fondly, and he chuckles in reply, the sound warming her heart. ‘Hey ‘Tsumu?’ she says again, pushing his wandering hands away. 

‘You called, doll?’ he quirks an eyebrow at her, hands heavy against her hips. 

‘I love you’, she whispers against the broad expanse of his chest. 

‘I know’, he says with light laughter in his voice, and swallows her outraged cry ‘arsehole!’  by sliding his mouth over hers until her breath starts to stutter and she closes her eyes. 

There is a storm raging outside, but she pays it no mind. 

Her stomach churns when she sees the faint line on the test she bought in a panic during her lunch break, and she now wonders whether the nausea she’s been feeling the past week was not a bug she thought she caught, but actually morning sickness after all. That thought makes her feel like puking her guts out again and she does - unceremoniously every morning for weeks after that. 

Atsumu’s in the middle of a series of matches away from home, and she knows he’s warned her again and again not to distract him especially when the championship is within his team’s reach, but the rising swell of panic in her throat outwrestles any rational thought she has left in her head, so she finds herself blurting it out to him the minute they log on for their twice weekly call. 

‘You’re pregnant?’ he echoes blankly, rubbing a disbelieving hand over his face. ‘How?’ 

‘D’you remember the gala night for the opening of the season when I was on antibiotics for an ear infection?’ He nods dumbly, and she twists her fingers in her lap. ‘Yeah… Well I figure it must have happened then.’ 

The connection of their call crackles, and she strains her ears for his response. It doesn’t come. 

‘Tsumu?’ 

‘Right.’ he finally says. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘I...don’t know,’ she confesses. 

They’re both barely on the cusp of adulthood, and the thought of bringing a new life into the world that she’d be wholly responsible floods her with a tidal wave of fear and dread and anxiety that does not ebb away. She’s not sure her boss will take too kindly to finding out she’s pregnant, much less so out of wedlock, especially since she’s barely a year into her job, and she doesn’t even want to think about the dishonour and shame she’ll bring to her family - though a part of her is willing to brave her father’s disapproval and her mother’s tears just to feel their arms around her again. 

But her hands are drawn to the slight swell of her belly, and perhaps it’s sentiment clouding her mind, she’s not sure she has it within her to stamp out the flicker of life budding within her after nights filled with dreams of a child with her smile and Atsumu’s eyes. 

‘Look - I’ve got to go. We’ll talk when I get home, ok?’ he mutters, logging off before she can say goodbye. 

But he doesn’t - not even when his team wins the championship and she finds out from the team’s social media that he’s returned back to Osaka. 

Her calls go unanswered, her texts remain unread, and with desperation rising in her chest she turns to Osamu - even though she initially swore to herself she wasn’t going to drag him into the messes that Atsumu tends to make. But the laws in Japan require the consent of the father if she wants to get rid of the problem (though it feels wrong to term it like that), and he’s the closest male friend she trusts enough to step up to the plate. 

‘Fuckin’ pig’ he snarls, slamming his fist down on the counter so hard it makes her jump back in shock at seeing the normally mild-mannered Osamu lose his temper and react with such obvious rage. But he calms down quickly to close his shop early and walk her home. 

‘It’ll be fine’, he promises her. ‘You’ll see’. 

She’s not sure she trusts Osamu’s definition of fine, not when Atsumu turns up on her doorstep that same night with a smear of blood under his nose and a purple bruise over his right eye. She stares at him, her arms folded across her chest.

‘What do you have to say for yourself, Miya?’, she says, and he winces at her use of his surname, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.  

‘I freaked out ok? Finding out that you got pregnant - that I’m going to be a  dad  made me panic ‘cos I’m totally not ready for that  shit  - even though Osamu’s right, I’m a piece of crap and you’re probably going through so much worse and I should do right by you -.’

‘Atsumu, what are you even saying?!’ She interrupts, exasperated. 

‘I’m asking you to jump off a cliff with me’, he says, lifting his chin to return her stare.

‘Wha-’ 

‘Marry me.’ He cuts in softly, bringing his hand to cup her face, brushing his thumb across the corner of her lip. ‘It’s gonna be one hell of a ride, but you and I - we’ll get through this together’. 

She’s struck dumb, suddenly reminded of how being with Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. While there’s the thrill of being near enough to witness the sky collapsing into a torrent of rain and hear the wind descend into howls of rage, there’s also the lingering fear that the next flash of lightning might mean pain, or even death. 

But Atsumu’s eyes are clear pools of light, and she can only see  hope  reflected within it. She wonders if it mirrors the hope in her heart too. 

So she says yes, and catches his smile in her hands. 

They hold a small wedding at the Miya family shrine with their respective families as quickly as they can before the swell of her belly is unable to be hidden by the folds of her shiro-muku, the traditional white of her kimono a stark contrast against the black and gold of Atsumu’s montsuki. Her face is hidden under the weight of her headdress and her hands tremble as she clasps her kaiken, a blade her father forged himself, and her mother’s bamboo fan to her belt. She does not breathe until she and Atsumu take their third sip of sake from the nuptial cup. 

Osamu is obviously appointed as the best man, and after the ceremony is over, he slaps Atsumu on the back before pressing a careful kiss to her cheek. ‘You’ve downgraded from being my accountant to my sister’, he tells her, and she has to hide her teary laugh behind her hands. But her heart is full and she throws her arms around his neck until Atsumu clears his throat playfully and she pulls away to greet her family. 

‘Take care of her’, her father says, the threat in his and her brothers’ eyes amplified by their wedding gift to her of their sharpest knives. Atsumu meets their gaze evenly and laughs, unfazed. 

‘I will’, he says, and he kisses her with his promise still on his lips. 

[damn-stark]

Slytherin vs. Gryffindor

Chapter 16 of Different light

A/N- Got to enjoy the last happy moments in this series while we can :):

Warning- Angst, Fluff!

Pairing- Harry Potter x Malfoy!reader

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

————

Darkness caved in the class whilst thick white smoke slowly crept out of the cabinet and filled the room in an eerie presence. The whispers of curious students who anxiously waited to see what scared you, slowly died down and instead let silence echo loudly in the class.

Fear was the lesson for today’s Defense against the Dark Arts class. Snape said that fear is a weakness, and we must all face our fear to grow stronger in these troubled times. And you knew your fear, you’ve met your fear. And yet you didn’t grow strong either of the times you’ve seen him. Doubtful that much would change now as you faced the Boggart.

You wanted to just leave class, you were filled with the temptation. Yet you stood still as you watched the thick white smoke turn green, casting the room in its bright green hue and cloud in front of you. It took a moment to take form, the smoke just slowly floated towards you, causing you to swallow thickly and curiously step forward to pull your arm from your side and hesitantly reach your fingers towards the smoke.

At first you expected to feel nothing, but the moment your fingers went through the thick green smoke the tip of your fingers began to sting sharply. You pulled your hand back and found that the moment you did, the pain ceased to exist, your fingers didn’t throb, or burn anymore. But that was it right, the fear, it poisoned your mind. It made you believe that the smoke was something painful when it really wasn’t, when it really was something much worse.

The moment you tore your eyes from your fingers and looked up to the smoke, you saw it hastily form into Voldemort and Nagini. Their bodies and faces perfectly vivid in front of you. You tried to raise your wand to say the spell to get rid of what taunted you, to transform them into something funny, but the forms in front of you were paralyzing; they made your breath catch in your throat and your heart violently thump inside your chest. Everything around you blended with the dark room as your eyes solely focused on Voldemort and Nagini.

Professor Snape tried to snap you out of the spell fear casted upon you, but his voice just travelled to the back of your head. All you could do was watch as Voldemort's cold eyes pierced into your soul and Nagini slithered towards you, stopping a few inches before you and raising her head to snap at you and make you flinch back.

Again you could do nothing but stand there until Snape stepped in and made the boggart disappear, relieving your withered soul and letting you release a shaky breath of air whilst your focus returned to your surroundings. A fact that let you hear the whispers behind you, see Snape's dark soulless eyes burn into you and trigger you to hastily run out of the class and go to a lonely dimly lit hall.

You proceeded to check that no one was close by before you pressed your back on the stone wall to slide down to the floor, basking in the silence and loneliness to gently touch the scar on your cheek created by the man you feared. Soon thereafter following by lowering your hand and your eyes to look at your arm, hesitating for a few seconds before you slowly pulled the left sleeve that covered your skin to show yourself the black brand that was on your arm. Knowing that it was a cruel reminder that’d you always face your fear.

As long as he was alive you’d have to live with your fear.

——

“How about,” you pause and hesitate, softening your voice and hearing a faint quiver in your tone. “How about we send it to him some way? I don’t trust just letting someone deliver it. It’s too dangerous.”

“Have you gone soft?” Draco scolds you as he swings back to shoot you a narrowed gazed. “If we send it, we’d get caught, our mission would fail and…” Draco pauses this time and his blue eyes drop to the package in your hand before his shoulders stiffened and he finished his comment. “He would kill us.” His gaze lifts to meet yours and his eyes harden on you again. “If you don’t want to do it, just say so,” his voice rises, causing you to glance out the creek of the door to make sure no one was walking by so you could step toward your brother and shush him.

“Draco, not so loud,” you say in a loud whisper. “They'll hear you.”

Said boy scoffs and rolls his eyes, stepping back to continue. “There's no room for the weak, do it, or die yourself.”

You stay quiet for a moment and challenge his gaze, seeing his hand inch towards the package in your hand before you pull it closer towards you and let out a deep groan. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Draco pulls his hand away and fixes his coat instead, nodding stiffly and pointing his head to the door before he lets out a quick comment. “Be careful.”

Your lips twitch slightly and you playfully hit his shoulder. “I will.” You offer him a quick assuring look before you turn to try to head out the door, albeit stopping as he speaks up.

“Perhaps I should do it instead,” Draco swallows thickly, his steps towards you echoing in the unoccupied room in the Three broomsticks. “You still seem hesitant and we can’t afford any mistakes.”

You look over your shoulder to meet his concerned gaze. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, turning his eyes away and shoving his hands in his pants pockets to finally let you leave. And it wasn’t an easy task, as you walked out the door it felt as if your feet were being weighed down by the weight of your guilt, every second of that short walk to the kitchen was a cruel torture. The smile that had been plastered on your lips was lost the moment you shut the door. Your mission became your priority and also your biggest regret.

But Draco was right. It was either do, or die. No room for mistakes or second chances.

Sometimes you thought though, when you were doing these secret endeavors, why you couldn’t have been born in a different family. You loved your family, yes, but it was because you were a Malfoy that this responsibility was laid upon you. It was just a passing thought, it appeared but usually disappeared like the wind.

Just like it did now as you entered the kitchen. You waited for Rosmerta in the shadows of the room with your wand in hand, taking note of her tardiness and growing angsty on getting this over with. It had felt like hours until she stumbled into the kitchen, when in reality it was only a few seconds.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she stammered, her eyes instantly finding the package in your hand before she looked at you as she waited by the door.

“It doesn’t matter,” you mutter whilst you push yourself from the corner of the room to lift your wand and point it at her body, “this will just take a few seconds.” You narrow your gaze and block out any emotions that could spoil your plan. You become cold and unhesitant. “Imperio.” You command, stepping forward and slightly tilting your head to continue, “you’ll give this opal necklace to a student you seem fit, hex them and have them deliver it to Dumbledore.” You swallow thickly and drop your hand to put your wand away and walk past her, stopping just as you push the door open. “Don’t waste anymore time.”

“I won’t waste more time,” she slowly repeats in a monotone-like voice. You add nothing else in return and hastily exit the kitchen room to stride back to Draco, feeling the guilt you had tried to hold back slam down on you and causing tears to sting your eyes after you dropped the cold demeanor you tried to act on before.

It was hard to hold back your tears, to break down in that cold hall. But you had to show yourself and Draco that you were strong. Because you were. You were. You could do this.

“You did it?” Draco’s voice registers in your head as you absentmindedly enter the same room you had left him in.

Your eyes slowly drag up to his face and you nod once. “I did it.” You sigh and avert your gaze. “Can we go now? I have work to do.”

Draco’s silence echoes in the room as his eyes search your face, as he tries to read the emotions that were spilt all over your watery eyes. But he wasn’t able to look at your eyes to receive his answer. Leading him to instead sigh, “yeah. We wouldn’t want to get caught.” He walks past you and holds the door open so you could walk out first and hastily lead the way out of the Three broomsticks, with your head hung low. Unknowingly passing Harry and friends in the same pub.

Not like you were paying attention to who was in the pub, or really in the mood to talk to anyone at all. Draco had made a sly comment about seeing Harry, but you were thinking of other things to even capture what Draco had been mumbling about. All you wanted to do was get away from the pub and return to the comfort of school. Or really your dorm.

It was there where you did the opposite of what you told Draco you were going to do; where you could block out everything in the protection of your bed and under the security of your blankets. Where you could numb yourself to feel nothing at all, to avoid the guilt you were riddled with as you watched the candlelight dance on the black brand on your arm. And perhaps it wasn’t the smartest idea, but it felt like the best. All until Clementine came to drag you out of your secluded bubble.

“What are you doing?” She questions as she yanks the blanket off your body. “It’s dinner time, you’ve already missed lunch and our study date, are you okay?”

“No,” grumble as you roll to your other side. “I feel sick.”

Clementine scoffs and then throws herself on your bed, looking at the ceiling and then giggling. “That’s a bunch of bullshit.”

You pull your sleeve over your arm and bury your face in your pillow. “I have a fever, I think. It’s really bad.”

“Come here,” Clementine orders, waiting for you to roll around to face her so she could gently press the back of her hand on your forehead and try to feel for what you claimed, her smile faltering and her dark eyes wandering over your head as she concentrated on her task.

Nonetheless her dark eyes brightened moments later and lowered to meet your own gaze to then slowly smile brightly and say her findings. “Oh yeah I feel something,”

“Fever.” You groggily confirm.

“Just a high amount of bullshit,” she snickers and smacks your forehead before she tears her hand away and snuggles closer to you. “Don’t you want to go see your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you correct her, “we’re just dating, but he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yet,” she grinned smugly. “Regardless,” she sighed, losing her grin and instead dropping her gaze into a calm expression. “Don’t you want to come eat with your best friend and our annoying brothers then?”

You huff out and shake your head. “No on the brother part, but,” you sigh, “yes on the friend offer.”

“Good.” She interjects before she rolls off your bed and drags you out of your spot, letting you shove your shoes on before she took you downstairs to the main hall and sat you down beside Harry and friends.

“Hello everyone,” you greet warmly, meeting Harry’s blue eyes and offering him a sweet smile.

“Hi, y/n.” He greeted whilst he let his eyes linger on yours before he slid them to Clementine. “Clementine.”

“Hello,” she replied as she served herself a plate of dinner.

Hermione proceeded to greet the both of you, while Ron lazily did so, hardly even paying either of you any attention at first until he realized what was on Clementine's plate. He seemed to light up after that, like he had just received a nice present. He then proceeded to ramble on with her about the food on their plate as if neither of them have either eaten the same meal before. Not only that but they went on about food they’ve tried outside of school, both sharing their dislikes and likes like a bunch of school children. It was pretty nice you did have to admit, Ron and her getting along; it was really something truly unexpected.

And it seemed that Hermione had a lot of thoughts she didn’t share about their interaction too. And you had the temptation to press on the matter, but she was quick to change the subject. “We saw you at the Three broomsticks, y/n, but it seemed you didn’t see us in your hurry. Were you okay?”

Slowly you peel your eyes from your plate to meet her gaze across the table. “Yeah,” you nod, “I was just feeling bad.” You avert Harry’s gaze and clench your fists. “I’m sorry I missed you guys. We should meet there soon.”

“Are you sure?” Harry probed, his hand sliding on top of yours and making your eyes slide to him. “If your brother said something to you…”

“No,” you cut him off, “he didn’t do anything, I wasn’t feeling good so I left.”

“Well he seemed to be upset and in a hurry.” Harry continued, making your hand stiffen under his and for your eyes to leave his again. “Are—”

“Harry.” Hermione sharply cut him off, “drop it.”

Said boy swallowed thickly and hesitated but didn’t fret to listen, his hand sliding off yours and returning to his fork before he changed the subject into something much more upsetting. “I feel bad for Katie Bell, she's still in the medical wing. They can’t seem to find a way to wake her up.”

“Katie Bell?” You ask slowly, feeling your eyebrows pinch together and your heart thumping wildly in your chest. “What happened to her?”

“Hexed,” Hermione answered in a mumble. “After she touched something she wasn’t supposed to. A cursed object.”

At the sound of the words that came out of her mouth your whole body freezes and your breath hitches, the familiar stinging feeling fills your haunted and deeply guilt ridden eyes; not like they caught it with your sudden eruption to escape the table. “I don’t feel good, I’ll be back.”

——

“Reparo,” you chant once, elegantly moving your wrist and fingers to produce the spell from your hand and watch the fragmented teacup float up from the floor and slowly connect like pieces to a puzzle.

Only the moment the cracks connected to build the teacup whole, it all crumbled down again, falling to the floor with an echoing crack on the wooden floor. “Shoot,” you whisper before you sit back down and sit in silence to listen to the rain patter on the roof above, feeling a chill run throughout the perimeters of your skin as a cold gust of air blows into the bell tower.

After abruptly leaving the main hall with your heart in the pit of your stomach, you escaped here, you watched the sunset and stars twinkle in the sky until dark clouds invaded the scene. At first you just basked yourself in the silence and torment of your own guilt, watching the sky change, but soon you began to experiment with different variations of mending spells you could use on the broken enchanted teacup; trying to mimic fixing the vanishing cabinet. But just like that object, failing to fix the teacup.

Not like failing hundreds of times stopped neither Draco or you, you both still continued trying to find a way to fix the cabinet even outside the help of Borgin. Fixing this teacup was an example of that.

So you give your best efforts again, opening your hand again and in your head saying a different variation of the mending spell, once again watching the teacup fragments float into the air and begin to connect…

“Fancing a tea party?” You hear a voice ask from the stairs, the sudden sound breaking through the room making you jump and drop your concentration on your spell, ending with the teacup shattering into smaller pieces on the wooden floor. You swear under your breath before looking to where the voice had come from to see Harry’s deep blue eyes peeking over the wooden floor.

“Not anymore,” you groan as you turn back to the mess on the floor and hear Harry slowly make his way across from you, admiring the rain drops crashing onto the roofs outside that created a soothing melody before he sat down to face you. “How did you know I was here?”

You lift your eyes from what you were cleaning on the floor and notice Harry hesitate, a mischievous smirk pulling on his lips before he answers. “I just….made a lucky guess.”

You scoff and nod slowly, “well alright. What a lucky guess then,” you smirk, leaning over to collect the leftover pieces by his feet, feeling his fingers brush yours as he helps you clean up the pieces. “Thank you.”

“What were you doing?” He finally asks after you take the pieces from his hand.

“Uh,” you hum as you put the teacup away. “I’m practicing mending spells, the known ones, the more unknown and some I have tried to make myself.” You beam up at him and sit up straight to finally meet his gaze.

“Really?” He quirks a brow, “what for?”

You shrug, “practice. If I want to be an auror, I need to practice to be the best. Or try to anyway.”

His eyes roam on your face and he doesn’t respond to the comment you had just shared, instead he changes to what you were dreading. “Are you feeling better? You left in a hurry and never came back. You missed Clementine and Ron’s food competition.”

You snort. “Well maybe I was better off missing it,” you snicker, “who would’ve known they’d get along.”

“Right,” Harry agrees, “especially because Ron is so against Slytherins.”

You laugh softly and hope he'd drop it, but you should have known better.

“But really are you okay?

“Yeah,” you nod, dropping your gaze to your finger tracing circles on the wooden floor. “I’m...fine.” You sigh and lift your gaze to look at him and finish with your assuring comment. “You’re here so I’m better.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly before he blinks to try to act casual even if a faint blush grew on his cheeks. “Glad to hear that,” he continues whilst he scratches the back of his head and scoots in closer. “You had me worried.”

A soft smile spreads on your features and you move to be at his side instead, feeling his arm instantly loop around your shoulders to pull you closer to his side.

You could feel your heart flutter in your chest but you try to ignore it to keep yourself collected. Even if the next words just clenched your stomach and quickened your heartbeat. “Thank you for coming to look for me...thank you also for being my friend regardless of who my family is.”

Harry shifts and you could feel his stare on you before he parted his lips to answer you. “You've always been kind, there's no reason for me to treat you any other way. You’re not like your family.”

The smile you had painted on your features slowly drops and your face turns more serious, the beating of your heart beginning to race for a completely different reason this time. Guilt once again resurfaces and the question that had been pestering your mind comes out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. Regardless of what he had just said. “Do you think I’m an evil person?”

Harry parts away from your side far enough so he could see your face, so he could show you that he was being genuine. “No. I don’t. Not even a bit.”

Your lip quivers and your voice cracks. “Even if my father is a death eater? Even if he tried to kill you?”

“You’re not your father,” Harry assures you, his eyes piercing into yours as he made his statement clear to only you. Even if you still doubted yourself and his answer.

“Even if I turned on you that day in the ministry of magic?”

“Did you mean to?” He queries.

You shake your head, “no. I didn’t.”

“Then no,” he clarifies, as he grabs your hands and secures them in his hold. “I think your choices were justified and I know that if I were in your shoes I would've done the same.”

“No,” you mutter, “you wouldn't have because you’ve got a good heart Harry, you would've done the right thing.”

“If my family were alive I would have done the same,” he reveals, his eyes blinking away for a few seconds as a sad expression flickers in his eyes—“I know you love your family, y/n, I know that’s why you make the choices you do, I know that even if your family is on the wrong side, they love you. I know that’s why you make the choices you do. Anyone would too.”

His words hit you like a blade to the flesh, they hurt and stung. Every meaning behind it was genuine and sweet, you could feel it, see it in the depths of his eyes. And that wounded you more, it shook you to your very core. You tried to fight the need to cry and say the truth about everything. You ached to tell him the truth about the brand on your arm and how Voldemort frightened you, how he hurt you that day you returned from the ministry of magic.

But you didn’t say anything, even if your throat burned to spill the words trapped within you. It was better to keep things a secret. In many ways it felt good not saying the truth, it made you feel normal and not like some monster, nor an enemy he hated.

Harry made you feel safe. Which is why you kept being at his side, kept talking to him. He had a way to make you feel like you weren’t the monster whispered about in every corner, he made you happy in this gloomy war. Everything felt better with him, which is why you were selfish and continued by his side.

“Could you,” you begin in a whisper, flickering your eyes behind his shoulder to watch the silver raindrops pour down on the roofs outside. “Forgive an evil person?” You continue unsurely, blinking to meet his intent gaze.

Harry sighs but doesn’t hesitate, “I guess it depends, doesn’t it?”

It may be too on the nose, or he may not catch it at all, but you had to say it. You needed to know. “If they had no choice but to be that way.”

“Then yes,” Harry answers confidently, softening his gaze and holding onto your hand tighter until you threw your hands around him and pulled him in for an embrace, snuggling your head into the crook of his neck and balling the material of his shirt under your hands.

Said boy returned your embrace and stroked your back, leaning his head on yours and staying put until you chose to pull away. Albeit you didn’t part away, you only turned around and sat in between his legs to enjoy his company a bit longer.

“Can I show you something?” Harry later asks, breaking the silence.

“Sure,” you nod, feeling his hand dig into his pocket to pull out a potions book that he showed you the moment he swung his arm around you. “Your potions book?”

“No, no...well yes, but just read what’s inside.”

You scoff but take his book nonetheless, opening it and flipping through the pages to notice all the pages were littered with notes. “Wow,” you gasp, “Harry when did you—” you cut yourself off as your eyes land on a page that had a note that read, “property of the Halfblood Prince.” It makes you smile and tilt your head up to look at Harry’s chin until he looks down to look at you. “Are you trying to insinuate something?”

Harry doesn’t understand at first, his eyebrows pinch together and his eyes narrow in utter and innocent confusion. “What?” He stammers, “what do you mean?”

“Look,” you smile, “it’s a clever name. It’s cool, it’s nice. But just give me some time to call you that okay?”

Harry’s eyes widen and he instantly exclaims out, “what? What no! It’s not me.”

“Oh,” you sigh in relief, continuing to laugh and look down at the book. “Good, great. You had me worried for a second.”

“Did you really think I would call myself that?”

You shrug, “who am I to judge? I mean you’re the chosen one, yeah? Maybe you wanted a different alias to match with that title, I don’t know.”

Harry laughs, making you grin whilst you felt his whole shake as he did so. “Well then, who is the Halfblood prince?”

Harry shrugs, “that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

——

Today was an exciting day because Slytherin was going to play against Gryffindor in quidditch. Every student anticipated today’s match because of the known rivalry Gryffindors and Slytherins have. Students cheered for the players as they walked inside the brightly decorated great hall for breakfast, while others booed (i.a. Slytherin students) when Gryffindor students walked in.

Since you were a Slytherin and had friends in the Gryffindor team, you represented both teams naturally, wearing a nice uniform that matched Clementines, since she wanted to represent both teams for her brother and her friends too.

“Good morning my friends,” Clementine smiled sweetly at Harry and Hermione as you both sat down across from them on the Gryffindor table.

“Good morning girls,” Hermione responded in the same happy energy with a smile that matched yours, her eyes only briefly pulling away from her newspaper.

“Excited for today?” You question as you look at Harry.

Said boy nods after taking a bite of his breakfast. “Should be exciting.” His eyes roam your uniform and he smiles brightly, “what are you wearing?”

You look down at your clothes and then look up to Harry and Hermione both examining your and Clementine's outfit alike. “Since we’re cheering for both teams, Clementine made us both matching uniforms.”

Said girl nods and grins, “pretty smart, yeah?”

“Very,” Hermione agrees, her eyes going to the green and red paint on your cheeks that Clementine practically forced you down to put on. “It’s cute, you made it all yourself?”

“Mhmm,” Clementine nods, “I make some of my other clothes, but it’s just a hobby for now though.”

“Well it is pretty smart,” Harry finally adds, his eyes going to the doors to watch as Ron walked in with a long gloomy face painted on his features. The sight of him however making Clementine shoot Hermione a smirk before the Weasley boy dropped on the seat beside you.

Ron’s eyes dropped on his meal and for the first time since you’ve had meals next to him, he wasn’t frantically digging in like it was his first meal in ages. Instead he looked up to his two best friends in front of him and looked to Clementine to ask, “So how was it then?”

“How was what?” Hermione queried as she put the newspaper down.

“Your dinner party?” He clarified in a louder voice.

“Oh right,” you interject as you take a sip of your drink, “I forgot you guys had that.”

“It was pretty boring actually,” Hermione revealed before Clementine snickered and cut her off, eyeing the red head boy beside her.

“Although I think Hermione enjoyed desert.” Clementine glances at said brunette before her and Harry share a mischievous smile. “It was quite savory and eye-catching, wasn't it Harry?”

You glance at Harry and see him just nod before Ron and you share a confused look, for the first time looking eye to eye and not shooting daggers at one another. Needless to say before either of you could ask what the duo meant, Hermione was quick to change the subject. “Slugghorn is having Christmas too, you know. And we’re meant to bring someone,” she finishes as she sets her article down and looks at Ron.

“I expect you’ll be bringing Mclaggen.” Ron points out in an accusatory tone. “He’s in the slug club isn’t he?”

“Actually I was going to ask you.” Hermione surprisingly reveals, making you choke on your food just for a bit before you drank more of your drink and tried not to smile like an excited child.

“Remember to chew your food, Malfoy,” Clementine discreetly snickered. You rose your cup her way and just chugged it before a sweet blond came skipping behind Ron, shooting you a rather scary glare.

“Good luck today Ron. I know you’ll be brilliant,” she finished in a whisper, walking off just like how she had arrived. The whole interaction however made Clementine, Hermione and you share a look, made you remember that she was the same girl from the stands when they had tryouts.

“Oh wow, congratulations Ron, you have fans,” you pat him on the back, making him wince and take one last look at the blond at the end of the room before he turned back to Harry and leaned in.

“I’m resigning,” he panicked, “after today’s match, Mclaggen can have my spot.”

“Have it your way,” Harry said as he reached his hand over to slide Ron his cup. “Juice?”

“Sure.” Ron said glumly.

“Hello everyone,” a soft, higher pitched voice greets beside Clementine. When you look over you see Luna dressed in a lion costume facing your group. “You look dreadful, Ron.” Her eyes then drift to Harry, “is that why you put something in his cup? Is it a tonic?”

All eyes fall on Harry to wait for a response, but all you recieve is just ignorance from Harry as he puts a flask away, only aggravating Hermione and making you smirk down at your food as she was quick to protest. “Liquid luck. Don’t drink it Ron!”

Ignoring her completely, Ron raises the cup to his lips and doesn’t hesitate to chug the whole drink and look at her in a much brighter manner.

“You could be expelled for that.” Hermione argued to Harry, but received nothing but ignorance again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ron grins and begins to get off from his seat. “Come on, Harry. We’ve got a game to win.”

Both boys cheerfully part away from the table and walk out of the great hall, letting you call after Harry as he did so. “Good luck!”

He looks back and shoots you a smile before Ron and him disappear out of the hall, letting Clementine add a sly comment. “It’s no wonder you and Potter get along so well.”

You only smile before looking out the window and admiring the falling snow.

——

The falling snow thickened as the game played out, it seemed to match the aggressive competition on the field as it poured down onto the earth, making the air bitter but tolerable since everyone’s bodies were pumped with excitement as everyone cheered for the great match. As you let yourself get swept away and for once forget what you were facing outside the field, the reason why Draco hadn’t joined the team this year.

Like the crowd you cheered, clapped and jumped as scores were made, or swift moves were shown off. You watched the players soar in the sky; their feces red from the icy air that hit their faces as they zigzagged across the field to block and make scores. More intently you watched Harry on the field with a cheerful expression on your face, yet also watched with your heart on your sleeve when he would get hit or be disappointed because he couldn’t find the snitch. Your stomach churned when he would make steep dives, but regardless you cheered for him proudly, letting your own cheers soar in the sky so he could hear you.

Needless to say though, Ron was the one that took you by surprise if you had to be honest, with his quick saves that he made at points with the tip of his fingers. He carried a smile on his face now, a much happier look than the uneasy one he had plastered for breakfast. He also let himself get swept away and seemed to be cocky, and you had an idea why. Not only because students started to cheer “Ron is our King,” but because of the drink that Harry gave him that was filled with nothing but pure encouragement and nothing else. But for the sake of Ron’s confidence Harry let him believe so.

Anyhow the colors of your uniform would change from Red to Green as you cheered for both sides. Or really when you just cheered for Blaise on the Slytherin team. That color changing stopped albeit when you watched Harper from the Slytherin team collide into Harry before he sped off after the Snitch—“I think Harper of Slytherin seen the snitch!” Zacharious Smith shouted through the megaphone. “Yes he’s certainly seen something Potter hasn’t!”

Not before long, after Harry appeared to be contemplating, he flew up into the sky, following after Harper. Literally causing you to stand on the tip of your toes, with your hand shielding your eyes to watch the bright white sky for Harry and Harper who both raced to catch the snitch. And since it was so high in the sky, if they had shared comments to one another, everyone would be none the wiser since their voices didn’t carry down, all you had to go on was the heart wrenching anticipation as Harper had the snitch just inches away from the snitch, but missed it, or let it pass as he did a double take on Harry who passed him by swiftly.

There were faces expressed, but again nothing was clear with them so high in the sky, all you could do was clutch onto Hermione and Clementine as you all watched Harry dive down, not giving anything away as he was finally at a good view in the field. Not until a few seconds later where he grinned briefly and threw his fist into the sky to show off the golden snitch to the crowd; making it end instantly with the sound of the whistle and causing the crowd to erupt in an excited cheer.

You also clapped and cheered at the top of your lungs, feeling Clemtines arm wrap around you to pull Hermione and you in for a happy embrace. And of course without a moment to spare, and while the Gryffindor players were cheering she pulled Hermione and you down to the field where most students ran down to as well to personally congratulate the team.

However, before you could reach Harry, Clementine and you stop when you catch Blaise walking to the dressing rooms—“you did well, Blaise! I’m proud of you!” Clementine complemented her brother as she threw her arm around his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he whispered with his head hung low.

“Yeah,” you added, “you were great, that goal before halftime was very impressive!”

His eyes fly up to you and he nods, “thank you, y/n.” Blaises eyes linger on you for a second longer before he fully looks at his sister. “Cheering for opposing teams now, are we?” He shoves her arm off him and all she does is smile with pride.

“Yes, I have friends on the Gryffindor who I want to support, don’t be jealous now because I cheered for you too.”

Blaise scoffs and then looks at you again. “You should’ve joined the team, Draco says you're a good chaser. Could’ve used you out there now with your brother off.”

You wave your hand to brush his comment off. “Draco is just exaggerating, plus I play just for fun.”

“Well I think she’s better off in the stands. Wouldn’t want them hitting her pretty face,” Clementine teases.

“I’d like to see them try,” Blaise throws out before he walks off and leaves the both of you behind.

Clementine falls silent, her smile falling as she stays frozen to her spot for a brief moment and just watches her brother walk off and then just stares at his footprints on the snow covered ground. Unlike you on the other hand who finally spins around on your heels to run to Harry, maneuvering through the excited crowd of students until you pushed yourself to the middle and saw them cheering Ron and him on.

“Harry!” You call out, instantly stealing his attention and having him turn around to face you and smile wider. At the sight you run the final steps towards him and throw your arms around his neck, feeling his arms secure around you before you slid your hands to cheeks to pull him in for a short lingering kiss that had some students whooping and cheering louder for him.

Harry was caught by surprise but he didn’t pull away, he enjoyed the heart racing moment like you did, you let yourself get swept off in the moment, not caring who saw your daring actions, not caring what they’d say after. All you cared about was Harry and your kiss, how your heart felt like it was going to tear off your chest with how fast it was thumping, or how utterly happy you felt with him by your side.

All you cared about was the last happy moments before the inevitable would happen that would change everything.

.

.

.

Tagged- @peter-laufeyson , @swiftlymoniquesblog @spideyyypeter , @gsvshsjsbs, @accio-prozac , @cherriesanwine , @kokomaesadie , @april-14-blog , @prettypinkpeachh , @pest-ill-ence @ilovespideyyy @m3ssytrash @hogwarts-babe-blog , @yodaboo @rafeyybabyy

[cheesyficwriter]

idk if you have, but i would love to read prompt #1 from list 5 <33 thankssss ily

Hey there anon! Thanks for the lovely first kiss request 💜 hope you enjoy this take!

Prompt #1 - “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

Making It Count

Kissing someone for the first time is always exciting and nerve-wracking. It’s an intimate act that you should only share with someone else once you are absolutely ready. 

15-year old Hermione Granger touched her lips instinctively. She had yet to experience a true kiss like the ones she read in books or seen in movies. Of course, she was a realistic person and was vastly aware that life wasn't as perfect as those depictions often perceived. Real life kisses were probably awkward, especially for first-timers, and especially if it was with the wrong person. 

There was Viktor Krum last year. He had pecked her once lightly on the lips just after the Yule Ball. It was hardly a kiss, not in the way that truly counted anyway. She refused to let that particular encounter be deemed as her first, real kiss. 

If you're unsure what to do, the best advice is to set up the scene. Pick a time and a private location. Ideally, you will probably want to be alone with the person you want to kiss. 

It was a Tuesday night. Nothing particularly special about the date or time, but it was the location that peaked her interest. She was on prefect rounds, often ducking her head into secluded classrooms to check for students out past curfew. The corridors were quiet and bare. 

Make sure that the other person you're with feels comfortable with being alone with you. 

She walked side by side with Ron Weasley, her best friend of many years. They were alone together quite often this year after being chosen as prefects for Gryffindor. At first it was slightly odd, being alone so much with Ron. Before, they were hardly together at a time when Harry wasn't. They were a trio. A pack that moved together. Always. 

As her arm brushed naturally against Ron's arm, both clad in black robes, she felt the spark that trickled through her body. A sensation she experienced on a regular basis nowadays. They were together for rounds several days a week. When they began their duties at the start of term, they practically walked as far away as they could from one another, each claiming a wall on opposite sides of the corridor. With each passing day, that distance disappeared. She hoped she wasn't imagining it all. 

Flirt with them to set the mood. Make sure you're smiling, leaning in, and keeping your body facing the other person to show your interest. 

"So...tell me about how the Chudley Cannons are doing this year."

Ron almost stopped mid-stride to gawk at her. He tilted his head sideways and peered down at her curiously. "Since when are you interested in Quidditch?" 

Hermione jerked her head upwards slightly, but kept her eyes focused on his azure ones sparkling back at her. 

"I've always been interested in Quidditch, Ron."

Ron made a sound that was a half-snort and half-chuckle. "Yeah, sure…" He kept walking briskly and Hermione's short legs were struggling to keep up. Merlin, he moved fast. 

She was just about to ask another question when he must have decided to answer her after all. 

"Well, they're still living by their team motto, I suppose. Let's all just cross our fingers and hope for the best." He grinned and laughed to himself, "If Gudgeon could get his head out of his arse and actually catch the damn snitch for once, maybe they'd win a match…" 

Hermione hadn't the slightest clue who Gudgeon was, but she did her best to politely nod along and show that she was listening intently. 

It wasn't until Ron had paused again, in the middle of the corridor, that she realized she may have been trying to listen a little too well. Ron was now looking at her like she had grown two heads. 

A slow grin curved onto his face. "What is up with you tonight?" 

Hermione tried desperately to hide the flush of pink that crept up onto her cheeks. 

If they're looking back into your eyes, smiling and laughing, it is likely that they are also interested. 

He was still grinning at her brilliantly, his eyes lit up in amusement. All signs suggested that he was in a flirtatious mood, given the way his feet were now pointed directly at her and how he was standing so close to her that she could reach out and touch the freckles on his cheek. 

Behind Ron's mass of flaming hair she spotted an empty classroom. Biting her lip, she grabbed his hand and guided him into the classroom before she lost all of her courage. 

She turned swiftly back around to face him, squealing when her face almost collided straight into Ron's chest. Apparently he was following behind her much closer than she had anticipated. His hands gripped her shoulders to keep her from falling over. 

Lightly touch them on their arm and hold their gaze.

Hermione latched onto Ron's arm to steady herself. "So you were saying, about the Seeker…"

A line appeared between Ron’s brows. "Are we still talking about this?"

"Only if you want to…" She was positive that her cheeks had reddened to a similar shade as his hair. 

He gave her a once-over; his eyes fell down to the hand she still had positioned firmly on his arm. When he glanced back up at her, she noticed that his ears had turned pink and his pupils were dilated. He appeared to inhale sharply as his lips parted.

"Well," Hermione gulped, suddenly aware of the growing perspiration on her palms, "what do you want to talk about?" 

“I...don’t know if I want to talk anymore.” 

His confession elicited the tiniest of sounds from the back of her throat. He was studying her reaction closely, holding her gaze with determined eyes, leaving her so dazed that she forgot what she was even going to suggest next. 

“Me either," she finally admitted in a breathy whisper. 

Hermione braced herself from the inevitable. This is the part where everything becomes awkward and confusing. This is the part where Ron will step back, flush, and exit the room as quickly as possible. They would pretend that the moment never happened. 

Except...

“Can I…" His voice was scratchy, and he had tilted his head, a clear question in his eyes. 

It was then that Hermione became certain that he didn't want to step back. And neither did she. 

His gaze flickered from her eyes and down to her lips. She parted them instinctively, her labored breath now giving away her anticipation. Did she put on lip balm this morning? She couldn't remember, and only hoped that her lips weren't chapped from the dryness. 

“...kiss you?” She finished the thought for him, and his eyes flashed with a different emotion. Perhaps it was desire? 

Hermione didn't have time to dwell, for Ron was already leaning forward, eyes closed. She remembered one more piece of advice. 

Make sure to tilt your head in the opposite direction to avoid bumping noses. 

She did as instructed, letting her lashes flutter closed, inhaling Ron's faint scent of peppermint and chocolate as he drew closer. It made her wonder what kind of pudding he had for dessert in the Great Hall that day…

His lips brushed hers so lightly that they felt almost like a feather tickling one of the softest parts of her face. It was brief, quick, no more than a peck. Hermione let out a surprise gurgle as he pushed back unexpectedly, breathing heavily. 

"Wh-what?" She opened her eyes, crinkling her eyebrows.

"Just...just give me a minute…" Ron placed his hands on his hips and jerked out of her embrace, deciding instead to pace the length of the room. 

Hermione watched him, wide-eyed, blindly confused as to what just happened. Her happiness faltered. Could he be regretting the kiss? It was barely a kiss anyway, and she was definitely not going to let that one be the one that counts as her first experience. 

"Ron…" She called out softly, biting her bottom lip. "Do you - do you even want to kiss me? It's okay if you don't-"

"Bloody hell." He marched back over to her and stood directly in front of her, feet yet again facing forward. "You're driving me absolutely mental, you know that? One minute you're talking Quidditch stats, and another minute you're dragging me in here, doing everything imaginable to distract me and…" 

His breath hitched in his throat and he was now looking at her like a puzzle he was trying to so desperately solve. In fact, she recognized the look on his face. It was one that she often saw him wearing in the common room, out by the lake, walking the corridors during prefect rounds...and every time he was looking at her. Every. Single. Time.

"Yes. Yes I do," he definitively answered. His knuckles were white as he clenched them tightly to his sides. He stood up so straight that he seemed even taller than she had ever noticed before. 

Hermione wasn't nervous anymore. She held out her hands for him to grab and then tugged him forward, resuming their earlier closeness. "Then let's try again, shall we? I think we can do better than that first one."

She initiated this time, standing up on the balls of her feet to reach his face. She intertwined her hands around his neck to tilt his head downward, his hair falling into his eyes. Her heart beat faster and faster as she puckered her lips up towards Ron’s. With a final inhale, their lips meshed together once again, this time lingering long enough to feel each other’s warmth and taste of their skin. His lips were soft, so soft. Tentatively, Hermione parted her lips and allowed herself to sigh deeply into his mouth, taking an unconscious step forward so that there was no physical space left between their bodies. She barely registered Ron’s hand as it trailed up her shoulder, gently pushing her hair back over her shoulders, before entangling his fingers into her hair. 

It was...exactly how she imagined her first kiss, yet it wasn’t. It was more. It was Ron. 

When they finally pulled back a second time, their lips just mere centimeters apart, Ron quietly asked, “Have you-have you ever kissed someone before?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate to answer. “Not in any way that counted...until now.”

Follow up with the person you kissed the next day. Show them that you are interested if you want more. 

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to expect the next morning, as she hovered by the portrait hole, chewing nervously on her nails as she waited for Ron to emerge from his dormitory. 

She was so lost in thought, drifting in and out of awareness, that she entirely missed his arrival. 

It wasn’t until she felt the warmth of Ron’s hand as he intertwined his fingers with her own that she was transported back to reality. 

Judging by the shy smile on Ron’s face, reality was looking pretty good. 

[evarcana]

Get Your Act Together

Ev changes her plans for the evening and goes to the theatre.

words: ~3,2k

warnings: mentions strangling but it is not what you think it is.

notes: I don’t want to commit to calling it Chapter II but this fic takes place not long after these events, and really is just silly.

“No, seriously, at first I thought it was just people talking but the idiot really never parts with his wine glass,” says Ev and reclines in the chair, exhausted by her own dramatic tone. She throws her head backwards, the dark hair, colour of burned bronze, falling down in soft glistering waves followed by the drapes of her silk jacket, and drags both hands across the face with a sigh, trying to wipe away the apparent annoyance, but the creases between her brows are too stubborn and she decides to hide it instead, burying her face under the shadows of her palms. “Ignorant alcoholic,” she hisses through her fingers.

Ev is sitting in the sun outside of the wine merchant at the narrow cobbled street conveniently tucked away between the hustle and bustle of the Main Square and the glamour of the Heart District. Back in the Prakran capital the street so central would be full of people running errands and the neighbours talking in front of the doors despite the afternoon heat and humidity but here the only signs of life at four o'clock are languid piano exercises played somewhere behind the closed shatters and the faint but energetic drumbeat of the carriage passing in the distance.

“So what happened?” A young woman with eyes which are lighter than the sky sets a jug of rosemary lemonade and a glass on Ev’s table and looks down at her, pressing the tray against the black apron decorated with the embroidered grapevines.

Ev lifts her hands an inch and peeks at the woman from the shadows, her eyes narrowed and gleaming with anger. “He kicked me out,” she states flatly.

“Why?”, the woman in black apron asks somewhat wearly and turns to the shop’s entrance where a small jar of paint and a brush are waiting on the tea towel covering the stone step below the door. The paint on the brush is the same deep burgundy as the woman’s shirt.

Ev considers meeting Anais to be her only luck in Vesuvia. Not only does she run the excellent wine shop which also functions as a small bar but she is living in the flat above it and seems to be permanently bored and ready to entertain Ev with some gossip and tips about the city, which makes her a perfect neighbour for somebody who has just moved to the new place completely alone.

Ev’s nose wrinkles at the sharp smell of paint as she watches Anais dipping her brush in the jar. “I made one of those little dolls which they use for cursing people up North and brought it to the palace,” she says. It had a little braid made from silk and wool threads and Ev painted its face with the thinnest makeup brush she could find in her vanity table. Ev smiles to herself thinking that it was the most crafty thing she has done since she was thirteen but notices Anais staring at her with the expression of the person questioning somebody’s sanity, and quickly raises her hands defensively, palms up. “Listen, I am not proud of that.”

Anais rolls her eyes good-humouredly and for a few minutes they both watch the brush moving rhythmically tracing precise lines on the wooden door frame in silence, before Anais turns to Ev again. “Didn’t it happen on Tuesday too?”

“Kicking out?”, Ev responds without lifting her eyes from the jug of lemonade, “it did”. She is busy poking slices of orange with a rosemary stem.

Anais watches Ev’s face, clearly expecting her to continue. But she does not. The silence between them is interrupted only by clicking of the ice cubes against the glass. Anais tilts her head to the side and says in a careful tone, “But you seem to be more angry today.”

Ev stabs the slice of blood orange she fished out to the liquid’s surface and it splatters the sour juice and bitter oils which make her eyes stink. She blinks a few times and gives the orrange a disapproving frown. “He called the guards,” she says. Her juvenile prank got out of hand. She definitely is not proud.

“What?” Anais’s voice raises in surprise and her paintbrush makes an uneven stroke which she rushes to cover.

“Yeah, I know.”

“But I don’t understand. Aren’t you a diplomat? They can’t really - “, she pauses thinking of the right word, “- stop you, can they?”

“No, but I can’t necessarily stop him neither”

Anais goes quiet, weighing Ev’s words in her head, while she paints. “So why do you keep on... talking to him?”, she asks finally and waves her brush in the air, “you don’t have to.”

Ev gives her a pointed look and then drops her eyes down, frowning once again. That is a very good question. Why does she keep on talking to him?

For the last few weeks Ev has stuck to the same routine: she comes to the palace daily, enquires a servant politely about the consul’s schedule for the day, finds Valerius, tosses a pile of paper in front of him, takes a seat opposite him and proceeds to picturing herself strangling him. Bare hands. The skin on his neck gets hot and damp with sweat underneath her fingers, his body is struggling against hers while she presses her knee against his chest holding him in place. She squeezes, and squeezes. Sometimes however she would get lost in her own imagination and her hands would slide up, fingers getting buried in the hair, her thumbs tracing delicate lines behind his earlobes. She doesn't know what happens after that, because she guillotines the thought. Those are moments of weakness and are luckily rare. It would be easier if he was ugly, and stupid. But he is pretty much the opposite. Yet another proof that she had no good luck in Vesuvia. After the weakness comes the inevitable irritation, which Valerius seems to sense like a sniffer dog, and before she knows they are engaged in one of their already signature yelling competitions which the servants undoubtedly gossip about in the corridors and kitchens. Ev would be surprised if the whole Vesuvia is not calling her a madwoman by now. Her only hope being that they think even worse things of their consul.

Hating someone is exhausting. Every interaction makes Ev’s blood boil, and her heart beat heavy and bright. Her mind does strange things and she honestly does not remember the last time she thought about something other than making Valerius do what she wants for longer than an hour. She wastes precious minutes of her life on someone who genuinely despises her.

She wishes he did not despise her though. She wishes that there was more to him than being prickish, judgemental asshole, then perhaps this whole thing could be just about bearable. That is why she keeps on talking to him. But Ev cannot tell Anais that because it is the same as admitting that she has lost and that he has won, so she huffs irritably and says “Because it is my job, why else” instead.

“Good to know that you are both as stubborn as mules.” Anais grew up at her parents’ vineyard in the rural part of Venterre and except the times when she talks about wine all her comparisons are based on farm animals and other attributes of country life.

Ev folds her arms. “I don’t think you know me well enough to say that.” Despite whatever is happening in her imagination in the moments of weakness, the idea of having something in common with Valerius, not only an asshole but the surliest man alive, makes her feel irrationally violent.

Anais only hums something to herself. “Anyway, no more of this talk, what are your plans for tonight?” she asks Ev with the trained cheerfulness of a person chatting to customers daily, “You know we are not opening tonight”, she adds, now sounding more concerned than cheerful.

“Because you are going on your adventure date with Theresa and your brother has not come back yet.” Ev waves her hand, “I remember.” She thinks of all the unopened letters on her desk at home and some notes she managed to scoop in her bag from Valerius’s desk in the palace, the risky act which would probably earn her another look from Anais, and adds, “just working”

“Why don’t you go to the theatre? The Goldgrave is doing their first performance since the plague. I think you should still be able to get the ticket at the door.” Anais wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, still holding the brush. “Actually, the guy who runs the show is Theresa’s neighbour, I will have a word with him. I am sure he will let you in for free if you promise to write a review.”

“Why would he want my review?”

“Oh come on! One of the Prakran dignitaries attends their humble performance, that’s like the most international exposure they have ever had!”

“Fine,” Ev says sceptically.

***

The man at the entrance didn’t lie about all the tickets being sold out, the small theatre is full and buzzes with anticipation. Ev had to endure a small torture of exchanging pleasantries with the overexcited theatre director and at least a dozen of guests, who all seems to know Anais and each other, after she introduced herself. But it all paid off and she is now sitting in the three-seat box closest to the stage, probably the most expensive seats in the whole of the theatre.

Ev eyes an empty seat to the far left. The seat next to her is taken by the old lady wearing simple but tasteful clothes and wrapped in the wooly shawl. She smells of the lily-of-the-valley perfume and apple pie. “Excuse me, are you expecting someone? I think the lights are about to go down”, Ev asks, giving the old lady a soft smile.

“Oh no, darling, I am here to watch my husband perform on stage.” She sounds proud. Ev tries to recall the last time somebody called her darling.

“That is really sweet, he must be thrilled to have you here,” she says, and the kindness in her voice is genuine. Ev finds her new neighbour positively charming, in a way only the older generation can be.

“And what is such a lovely young lady doing in the theatre alone?”

Ev shrugs her shoulders playfully. “I am here to keep you company. You have to tell me when your husband comes on stage,” Ev says, returning the smile.

The old lady covers her mouth and her laugh sounds youthful and bright. She is delighted at their little exchange.

That’s it, most people do like me.

The lights dim and just before the performance is about to begin, the curtain behind Ev’s seat moves letting the beam of light in the box and a dark figure walks in. A man, Ev thinks, who appears to be nicely proportioned. She watches temper and agitation in his movement, as he takes his seat silently. Ev thinks about her peculiar company for tonight, as the boxes are usually reserved by the group of guests. Is he here to watch his loved one too? Could he be from the newspaper?

The old lady nudges Ev’s elbow excitedly.

***

Ev has seen this play before. It is a story of the marriage proposal, full of humorous fights between the groom-to-be and his bride. The sweet old lady’s husband plays the father. He is a tall man with fluffy moustache (although those might be fake, you never know in the theatre) and genuine comedic talent. She wonders whether there is an apple pie waiting for him at home. Even through the dark Ev can see the lady looking lovingly at her husband.

Something makes Ev feel strangely out of place here. She bites the tip of her thumb lightly and replays the events of the day, remembering the old lady’s question from before and Anais asking about her plans. Her mind continues wondering and Ev catches herself thinking about what Valerius is doing tonight. The thought makes her stomach twist. Crying himself to sleep, hopefully.

She leans forwards to take a discreet look to her left, hoping to get a better view of the stranger’s face. He is hidden by shadows but the outline of his profile certainly makes her want to see more - high cheekbones, slightly convex nose and angular jaw, query full lips. He looks familiar.

Ev is now leaning so far forward her elbows are pressed on her knees, squinting and trying to recall where she might have seen this profile. She hears the old lady clearing her throat politely, and retreats, reminded of the theatre etiquette. Maybe it is nothing and he is just her type. She has been so busy recently, making plans only to watch them being discarded, thorn to shreds and thrown away, and so consumed by her anger, she did not really pay attention to the other people around. This feels nice and refreshing.

The curtain closes and the audience stands up to applaud. Ev shoots another look at the stranger. Beautiful posture, gloved hands, oh, mysterious. Maybe it would be nice to have plans with somebody like him. Before she can build up excitement about the lights coming up, the mysterious stranger turns around abruptly and disappears behind the curtain. All Ev sees is the flash of white light before her eyes, as empty and boring as her cold sheets back at home. She gets off her seat and runs after him. Maybe she is a madwoman after all. She does not have any plan, frankly, she doesn't even know why she is doing this, so she decides to go for the most obvious thing - she reaches the man’s shoulder from behind and places her hand as softly as she can considering her rush. “Ah excuse me -”, she says slightly breathy, “have we met before?”

The man turns and the disappointment that Ev experiences the very second she sees his face can only be compared to one of a child who unwraps the present only to find out that it is the older sibling’s jumper, in the child’s least favourite colour, the very same jumper the sibling was wearing the day they broke the child’s toy, most definitely on purpose. Ev is sure that she has seen other men in this city but apparently she is that unlucky.

“You,” says Valerius, baring his teeth. His eyes are slits of hatred, like he is contemplating ripping the skin off her. Ev can relate. She wants to punch him in the face. Ev clenches her jaw thinking about all the insults that he is about to throw her way.

“Consul,” she says in her best theatrical tone.

Valerius glances over his shoulder immediately, eyes wide. He does not respond, frantically scoping the corridor, which is starting to fill in with guests. Ev watches his expression and to her surprise there is no usual arrogance in it. This is unlike him. The moment draws her attention to what the consul is wearing - dark navy fitted coat, with discreet design, his long hair tucked in its high collar, cravat, high boots, gloved hands. Very unlike him. Ev studies him more carefully. There is no wine glass. This is getting disturbing.

“Are you incognito or something?”, she asks, snorting with amusement.

“None of your business”, Valerius spits. He reddens a little straight away and throws more nervous glances to his surroundings.

Oh. Tension. This is awkward, and juicy. Ev’s curiosity is officially piqued. The sight of Valerius’s discomfort is revitalising. She can feel blood pumping through her body and there is sparkle in her eyes. She smirks at him, even though he studiously avoids her gaze. Sensing the tiny hint of vulnerability just at the edges of his expression, she locks her arms around his and with the push of her hip turns them both away from the building crowd of chatting guests. “So you are incognito.” Ev really can't hide her excitement.

Both his eyebrows ratchet up, and Valerius opens his mouth as his eyes go wild, but he does not seem to be able to say a word. This is wonderful. A sensation of pure elation floods Ev. She has been dreaming about this day. She presses her body closer to Valerius and sinks her nails into his arm, like a cat toying with prey. She is thinking about this new power she has got.

Valerius looks down at Ev. “Your face looks… filthy”, he says and tries to shake her off. “Let me go. Now”

“No way. You can try screaming for help if you want.” This is the first time Ev has got the upper hand, and however little, she is not letting this opportunity slip.

“You are insane.” Valerius pulls his arm closer to his body, protectively.

Ev ignores him, right now she is busy thinking. “I know!”

“That you are insane?”

“You are stingy,” Ev says with the look of triumph in her eyes.

“What?!”

“Look, there is only one explanation. You came to the theatre once, they asked you for donations because everybody knows you are filthy rich but you refused, again and again, and now you are hiding. ”

“It is not the case.” Valerius makes another attempt to shake her off, but the sight of the theatre director walking their way through the crowd makes him stop. He turns away.

“So explain yourself then, dear consul”, Ev whispers in his ear, her voice full of venom. The group of guests walks right past them without giving them any attention. They must look like a couple, Ev realises, and eases her grip on his arm.

“No,” Valerius says sternly.

Ev stares at him for a moment, considering her options. “Fine, but you owe me”, she says simply.

“I owe you nothing”, he barks back.

“You know I am going to make a scene, maybe even mention you in the review which I kindly agreed to write for the local newspaper”

Valerius’s mouth twitches once and Ev can almost hear him gritting his teeth. At least, the man knows how the gossip works. “What do you want? How much?” The look he gives Ev is both smug and irritated.

“You are not the only one with the money here”, she makes her voice sound bored. It’s not the first Ev’s negotiation.

“I won’t ask you again, witch.” His voice is rough with anger but he bites it quicker than she expected.

“We can discuss tomorrow. I promise, it is just a small favour.”

Valerius does not say anything. He rubs the bridge of his nose and turns towards the exit, forgetting that Ev is still hanging on his arm.

“So, you like theatre?” she asks curiously as they leave together.

[spiderling-space]

I’d like a Halloween request please! Did you know many people believe on Halloween the borders between worlds are at their weakest? Can you please do a ficlet of a Yandere Malleus taking advantage of the border between our worlds being weak on Halloween to drag the MC back to Twisted Wonderland many years after they managed to get back to their homeworld?

I thought it was the door between living and dead but I’ll go with multiverse. Ngl putting my works to AO3 made me want to write longer ficlets but the story will decide the length itself.

Italics indicate thoughts

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

Malleus Draconia

Warning: Yandere tendencies, mentions of PTSD and night terror, panic attack

It had been 7 years since (Y/N) managed to escape hell or as it was officially called Twisted Wonderland. It took lots of therapy sessions and support from their loved ones for (Y/N) to feel normal again. It took over a year for them to have a good night’s sleep. Waking up screaming from nightmares was their nightly habit in year 1. It took them 2 years to finally go out just by themselves and 3 years to date someone again.

(Y/N) finally moved on, breaking free of their chains that were called Twisted Wonderland. They had a job, moved out of their parents’ house, spent Friday nights out with their friends, get on Tinder, go on dates and have one night stands. Life was good again…

Today was Halloween night, the night they could wear the weirdest outfit and no one would bat an eye. (Y/N) and their friends went to the party downtown and got drunk. (Y/N) called Uber to get back to their apartment after saying goodbyes to their friends. They locked the door after getting in their home and threw their shoes to the side. After chunking 2 glasses of water, they went to their bedroom.

(Y/N) just wanted to sleep, dreading to remove makeup and wear pjs since it was too effort so they threw themselves to their bed, closing their eyes. Sleep was taking over but there was this crackling sound that was preventing them from sweat dreams. On top of that, a light was coming over to their face. Is it morning already? I just need 5 more hours. (Y/N) put their pillow over their head to ignore the light and the sound and it was working since they stopped. Finally, on to the dreamlands! Their happiness was cut short as they felt something touch their arm, stroking up and down along their bicep. Well dear bug, I'm just gonna ignore you. No sir, I’ll finally sleep. They were so certain that it was just a bug until a hand rested on their cheek. Oh shit! It’s a burglar or killer or a rapist! They couldn’t just lay there and risk getting hurt. He opened their eyes and grabbed the extra pillow on their bed, swinging it to the other person in the room as they got up and put distance between them. But there was something wrong. The pillow didn’t land on the invader at all, in fact, their arm was frozen in mid-air and the invader wasn’t holding them either.

Alarms bells started ringing in their ears, recalling the last time something like this happened. No No No! It’s impossible! Crowley said it was a one-time opportunity! (Y/N) started taking short breaths as their heartbeat quickened. They finally looked at the invader, taking in the figure for the first time. The room was dark but the lights from outside illuminating enough to see the invader’s outline. The figure was tall, as tall as him. They were dreading to look up to the figure’s head, afraid to see horn shape and making them confirm their suspicion but they had to do it.

Their palms started to sweat as finally looked up to the figure’s head. Horns… Their arm that was holding the pillow started to tremble as their mouth felt dry. (Y/N) just wanted to run but their body didn’t move.

“Hello, Child of Man,” His voice caused shivers down their spine. “It has been a while.” Malleus moved to stand right in front of (Y/N). “I missed you.” He placed his hands on each side of their face, connecting their foreheads.

His touch was burning their skin, they just wanted to get away from him. “Don’t touch me!” (Y/N) yelled, feeling helpless as they couldn’t move to push him away. They were feeling nauseous, maybe from being near him or maybe it was the alcohol or they triggered one another. “How did you get here?!”

He ignored their question. “All these years passed yet you still throw tantrums.” He was talking as if they were a toddler. “Don’t worry anymore, you can finally return home.”

“This is my home! Not Twisted Wonderland, certainly not your kingdom!” (Y/N) felt faint but they were trying their best to stay conscious. They were hoping this was just a nightmare, their night terror making a comeback but deep down they knew it was the reality.

“You are not well, Child of Man. Are you perhaps as excited as me to be together again?” (Y/N) didn’t know if he was deliberately ignoring what they were saying or was he so fucked up in the head to not realize that they hated him?

“FUCK YOU!”

Malleus’ expression turned sour and the aura he gave became darker. “That is not how one should speak to their betrothed.” He was tut-tutting them as if they were a kid who did something they shouldn’t have.

“WE ARE NOT ENGAGED! I FUCKING HATE YOU! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!” (Y/N) tried to move their arms once again to push Malleus away but it was a futile attempt.

What (Y/N) had said must have angered him since he furrowed his eyebrows and his hold on their face tightened. “I hoped you would stop acting like a baby after all these years but it seems you’ve never changed. Worry not, Child of Man, since you will learn how to behave once we go back to Valley of Thorns.” He let them go both physically and magically. Their arm dropped to their side. Malleus was rummaging their stuff. “You will not be needing any of these since I’ll provide you anything you need, my love.”

He is distracted, if I can make it to the kitchen, I can get a knife and at least defend myself. When his back was turned, (Y/N) bolted out of the room, “(Y/N), stop.” But something prevented them, making them stop in mid-motion. “Come here.” Involunteeringly, (Y/N)’s body turned to Malleus and walked towards him. Their mind was screaming to get back but their body was moving on its own as if it was on autopilot. (Y/N) stood in front of Malleus. His voice was soft, almost tender as he was stroking their face. “That is enough of your games. We are going home.”

“No!” (Y/N) tried to take control of their body once again which ended with failure.

Malleus turned to look at the body mirror in their bedroom. He extended and twisted his hand, muttering some words as the mirror started glowing. “(Y/N),” he reached out to hold their hand. “Walk with me through the window.”

(Y/N) was helpless as their body did what it was told. Soon after, they landed in Malleus’ castle in Valley of Thorns. All those memories crashed down upon them. All the things that were done to them there flashed through their eyes. They started to panic again and it only got worse as Malleus tried to calm them. When he understood his words won’t work on (Y/N), he used his magic to calm them down. “Finally you have returned home, my love.” Malleus planted a kiss on their lips. “This day shall be celebrated every year as this night brought us back together. I believe you humans call it Halloween. We shall rename it in your honour and celebrate it in the Valley of Thorns.”

(Y/N) knew there was no way to get back to their world now. They would be stuck with Malleus forever or until they died.

All I ever wanted was to have my own life and be with whomever I want. Why can’t I have that?

————————

The reason why saying the name worked

[elnierah]

Valentine’s Day Short

I decided to write a little Shukita short for Valentine's Day! I know I haven't released anything for a long time, so hopefully, this shows I'm still working! I've just been extremely busy lately, so apologies for that! 

 Please enjoy! 

 NSFW-ish!

____________________________________________________________

The sound of footsteps, chatter and busy hands filled the exhibition room as each and every prepared the gallery for view. With a clipboard in hand, Yusuke instructed his employees on their tasks, ensuring his perfect vision was met. While it wasn’t his first attempt at an art exhibition, it was the first he organised on his own, without the help of managers or the restrictions they imposed. All of this, from the stress of directing others to the burden of advertisement, was the fruition of his dreams, even if it, unfortunately, landed on another day of importance.

“Yes, please place that over there,” He gently ordered, gesturing his hand to guide. “Oh, that? Just over there is fine.”

Various voices sought his guidance, wishing to complete their tasks with the utmost efficiency. Yet, one was unalike the others,

“Kitagawa-san, it seems you have a guest.”

“A gust? If the wind is a problem then please curtain the-” His words tapered off, slowly realising what his assistant meant as his eyes shifted towards her. “A guest…? Why would someone come here now? The exhibition isn’t finished nor is it the proper date.”

“I-I’m not quite sure. He just requested to see you.”

“He…?” At the consideration of whom it may be, Yusuke released a sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let him in.”

The assistant gave a quick nod and scurried towards the main door, beckoning and permitting their ‘guest’ within. With a bouquet of flowers far too large, Akira, his lover, stepped inside and approached the moment their eyes met.

Abashed by his sudden appearance, Yusuke sought a minute of respite. “Please, excuse me for one moment.” He then quickened his pace, meeting his partner halfway. “W-What are you doing here…?”

As usual, his words were met by a warm smile.

“I apologise for dropping in so suddenly, I just wanted to see you.” As if he realised, Akira perked up and offered the bouquet. “Oh, and to give you these.”

Inspecting the flowers, Yusuke sensed they were a custom request as the colours and breeds harmonised in a way he preferred and often painted. For his partner to be so attentive, even on a day they couldn’t celebrate in its entirety, touched his heart and warmed his cheeks. However, despite his adoration, he had an image to maintain and a job to resume.

“Akira… I am working.”

“I know, but does that really mean you cannot accept my gifts of love?” With a curious tilt of his head, Akira revealed a heart-shaped box of chocolates in his other hand. “I also bought you some designer chocolates too, blended to your exact preference.”

“...” As a glimmer of warmth flickered within his eyes, Yusuke glanced around to witness some of his employees watching on, giggling amongst themselves.

“It seems there is a man out there capable of melting Kitagawa-san’s frozen heart.”

At the sound of their gossip, a smirk curled Akira’s lips, making it quite clear he intended to tease. 

“...Come with me.” 

Reaching outwards, Yusuke grabbed his partner’s wrist and dragged him towards a storage room. Once inside, he slammed the door shut.

“You truly love embarrassing me, don’t you?” He exhaled and averted his eyes as a faint blush enveloped his cheeks. “It’s a shame it works every time...”

“It’s not my fault you’re so cute when flustered.” Akira chuckled, emphasising his ulterior motive even more. “Plus, it’s not like I came here just for that. I did truly wish to see you.”

“...” Further abashed by his tender words, Yusuke chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I am...touched, however, we agreed to celebrate tomorrow due to my exhibition. Why couldn’t you have simply waited until then?”

Stepping closer, Akira narrowed his eyes in a seductive manner. “Because I really wanted to see you, Yusuke.”

“N-Ngh…” 

A slight sound of discomposure slipped from Yusuke’s lips. 

“Did you not want to see me too?”

Taken aback, Yusuke blinked in surprise and met his gaze. “O-Of course I did…!”

“Hm~ That makes me very happy.” Glancing around for a moment, Akira placed his gifts down upon a table and leaned even closer, causing Yusuke to press against the wall. “May I touch you…?”

Gulping down the temptation, Yusuke gave a meek nod. “...O-Only for a short while, okay? I must return to work, after all.”

“I’m not sure if I can accommodate that, but I can at least try~”

Despite the spoken warning, Yusuke didn’t think twice and pulled Akira into a kiss via his shirt, their warm lips desperate for the touch of one another. Soft fingertips caressed and explored, growing more adventurous as their hot tongues intertwined, rubbing together in a feverish desire. 

Clothes rustled, unbuttoned and exposed skin to the cold air as their reason resigned, enticing them both to cross the line.

                                                   ~~~~~~~~

The storage door creaked as Yusuke and Akira snuck out of it, an air of shame lingering around them.

“W-Well, I’ll let you get back to work now.” Akira gave an awkward grin and slid his foot backwards. “I’ll see you later tonight, right?”

“Y-Yes, later, not now.” Yusuke stammered, attempting to hold his partner’s gifts as he corrected his clothing. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

Akira just chuckled and waved. He then headed towards the exit, blowing Yusuke a final kiss.

“...” Yusuke simply sighed, his cheeks still flustered, and sought his assistant. “Umi-san.”

At the sound of her name, she perked up and approached.

“Y-Yes, Kitagawa-san?”

“Could you please ensure these are kept in a safe place?” He asked whilst offering the bouquet and chocolates. “I won’t be able to carry them and work at the same time.”

“O-Oh, of course!” With an attentive nod, she carefully grabbed them, then allowed her gaze to roam. “I don’t mean to pry, but...you took quite some time in there. Did something perhaps happen?”

“W-What? No! Of course not!” Fumbling for an excuse, Yusuke brushed his hair aside. “He can...just talk a river to drought, and I didn’t wish to be rude.”

His assistant remained silent, prompting him to attempt eye contact, yet all he witnessed was her staring at a particular ‘bruise’ on his neck.

“Umi-san.”

“Ah! Y-Yes...?”

“Let us return to work. We have a schedule to maintain, after all.”

“R-Right… I’ll go find a spot for these.”

An awkward aura pervaded within the air as his assistant walked away, determined to find a safe location for his gifts. 

With a prolonged, embarrassed sigh, Yusuke pulled his collar up and resumed the preparations of the exhibition, even if it meant warding off thoughts of forbidden acts for the rest of the day.

[maggiec70]

The Fictional Take on Jean-Claude

As I've said before, fiction often presents the opportunity to write really nest things and in an engaging way that non-fiction, especially the historical type, rarely allows. So here is yet another scene from the Longest-Running WIP, this one about Jean-Claude, and what Jean-Boy thinks of this entire mess for which he was responsible:

Mariana sat opposite Jean in a small paneled study tucked away at the rear of the house. The two south-facing windows stood open, midmorning sunlight falling across the country pine table, a faint breeze stirring the edges of papers spread out in front of him. While she went to Mass, Jean spent his Sunday mornings with account books and other documents. She knew how little his extravagant properties in Paris and Saint-Germain-en-Laye meant to him, and he cared nothing about their management. He’d bought them both at Louise’s insistence and the emperor’s decree, as he’d often reminded her. Yet his acres, vineyards, farms, and other properties here mattered very much. She had felt his deep-rooted attachment from the first day she’d come to Lectoure and walked into this house. For a long, peaceful moment broken only by the scratching of his pen and a dove cooing on the window ledge, she pictured Louise living luxuriously in Paris. In contrast, she and Jean lived here in simple bucolic harmony. A perfect dream—she and the seigneur of this lovely hill town, the lord of a small realm who didn’t care if he got dirt on his hands and his breeches and who could—and did—pick grapes with the best of his tenant farmers.

“I waited for you before having coffee,” Jean said, and her sweet fantasy popped like champagne bubbles. “How was Mass?”

“Spiritually refreshing, as always. You should go,” Mariana replied and rose to fetch the coffee. She returned a few moments later and set a tray on one end of the table, away from the inkpot and the account books. “I saw a young boy, perhaps a year or two older than Augie, after Mass,” she said, pouring the coffee from an earthenware pot and sliding a cup over to Jean. “He must live in that house across from the cathedral, the one with the three iron balls over the gate. He was playing with an enormous fluffy white dog in the courtyard.”

Jean set his cup aside, untouched, and gazed out the window. His face was suddenly as featureless as a frozen plain scoured by a cruel winter wind. “Nothing unusual about that. There are plenty of children from one end of town to the other. Plenty of dogs, too.” He spoke to the windows, not to her, and his tone was flat.

Mariana swallowed half her coffee and leaned forward, the cup cradled in her hands. “This boy looked so much like you that I stopped where I was and stared at him. He saw me and grinned back, as you sometimes do, with a little wave more like a salute. Who is he? Do you know him?”

Jean stood in a single fluid motion and strode to the windows, his back to her. The silence spun out, no longer peaceful but heavy with something she couldn’t identify. Dread, perhaps, or anger, even fear. She could almost see a dark aura settle around him despite the bright summer sun, and leaned back in her chair, coffee forgotten, everything forgotten. He turned from the windows and crossed to the door, shutting it so hard with his fist that the wood rattled in its solid frame. Dragging a chair around, he sat opposite her, very close, almost touching. She didn’t move, waiting for whatever he chose to tell her, the chill of unease growing in her breast.

“We won’t speak of this again, ever. Do you understand?”

She gazed back at him. The blank expression and flat, unemotional tone had gone. Now his eyes were dark, as stormy as the Irish Sea when she had crossed it eight years ago. The lines on his face cut deep and stark, his voice harsh. Suddenly she wanted her coffee, but the cup was out of reach, and she dared not move.

“I understand.” Her voice was no more than a dry whisper, the best she could manage.

“I told you once that Polette, my first wife, was a flirt and liked anyone in a uniform. Do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“She married me because of my rank, the amount of gold braid on my uniform, and because I told her a good story. She told good stories too, and so did her mother, as it turned out. Afterward, all Polette wanted was money, status, and a big house, the biggest in town. Our marriage was already in ruins when I met you. I told you that, but not in any detail. It didn’t improve later that summer, when she insisted on coming to Lombardy—” Her gasp interrupted him, but only for a second or so. “She got nothing from me then, Mariana, other than some jewelry and a gown or two to wear to Bonaparte’s festivities at Mombello. Nothing—do you understand that?”

When she nodded, past the ability to speak, he continued. “It ended in Egypt, or rather because of the Egyptian campaign. We didn’t get much news in the desert, but we got enough. Some member of Bonaparte’s family cheerfully wrote him of his wife’s presumed infidelity, and my brother Bernard wrote me that Polette had given birth. Bernard was cagy about the date, but he swore it wasn’t my child, that she’d been carrying on with someone even before I’d left. Several nights later, Bonaparte drank too much wine—he rarely did, then or now—and told me women were worthless, faithless sluts, and we both would do well to cut ourselves loose the moment we returned to France.”

Jean glanced away from her to the earthenware pot beside their abandoned cups, and reached for it. He poured quickly, his hand steady, and slid her cup toward her. He did not touch his. “This isn’t Bonaparte’s story, though. It’s mine. By the time I reached Toulon in October, I was outraged, and I hated Polette, truly despised her. I’d gotten another letter from Bernard, this one telling me my mother had died. He wrote that she’d been distraught over the erroneous report that I’d been killed at Saint-Jean d’Acre, and very upset with Polette’s behavior. So I went straight to Paris with Bonaparte and left the matter of the divorce to Bernard and Dominique Montbrun, an attorney here I’d known all my life. Montbrun was a snake, utterly ruthless and doubtless unethical, but he succeeded, and that’s all I cared about. He beat Polette down at every turn, playing on her naiveté, producing witnesses who swore they’d seen her at one time or another with every male in town over the age of sixteen. No one would believe a thing she said, even when she fought back and told the truth.”

He stopped and picked up his cup, draining it in two quick gulps. Mariana was surprised he didn’t choke. When he set the empty cup down, his hand shook badly. She didn’t move and didn’t speak. It was not the time to say anything. That much was evident in his eyes, still stormy, but something else hovered there too, something she didn’t recognize. Hands clasped in her lap, tighter now, she waited for him to tell her the rest of what was already a sordid story.

“I divorced her for adultery. That was easy, and I never regretted it for a moment. I still don’t, although I often wonder if the divorce was even legal. But I never took the final, separate action that would have declared her child a bastard, deprived him of my name, and any rights to whatever I owned or would own. Montbrun hounded me about that, so did Bernard and everyone else I knew. I didn’t listen to them, and I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.”

She understood in a flash of painful clarity why he had not taken that final legal step. And now she recognized what had been swirling and growing stronger in his eyes—guilt, and shame. She clenched her hands tighter still and said nothing.

“Polette had traveled to Toulon before I left for Egypt, not because I wanted to see her but because she was her usual willful self. So there she was, saying she wanted to see me, be with me, before I left for what she described as the ends of the earth. I suppose the empty-headed daughter of a minor bank official from Perpignan did think Egypt was the end of the world.” He looked down, but there was nothing to see but their knees nearly touching and the tips of their shoes touching. Her nails, clipped short, dug into her palms, and every finger ached. She had no idea how she managed to breathe quietly, steadily, while at the same time, her heart lurched from side to side, and her mind raced in frantic circles.

“I slept with her, Mariana, somewhere north of Toulon, in a nondescript posthouse I don’t recall to this day. And not just once. I admit that to you now just as I admitted it to myself then. Yes, I could count. For selfish purposes, for wounded Gascon pride, for whatever pointless reasons you can imagine, I refused to acknowledge that child publicly because I hated his mother so much that I wanted to get rid of her at any cost. Because I knew the real possibility—the real probability—that the child was mine, I couldn’t sever that last legal tie. Now it’s too late.”

She forced herself to tamp down the emotions roiling up and clamoring to spill out in a loud and messy pile in her lap or his. She breathed steadily, certain that her nostrils were flaring like Odysseus’s did after a hard gallop, and struggled to keep her face calm, expressionless. Surely he could see what must be flashing in her eyes. If he did, he should run from it.

“Polette remarried a year or so later to a respectable and prosperous man who treats them both well. Jean-Claude has a step-father, two step-sisters, a step-brother, and a mother who dotes on him. He’s happy and cared for. He always has been, I believe.”

Mariana stood so quickly that her wooden chair rocked on its back legs and crashed to the floor. Stepping around it, she moved to the windows, where the warm breeze cooled the heat rising from her breast and up her neck to her cheeks. She unclenched her hands and flexed her fingers, not caring that her breath came in short, audible puffs.

“I was afraid you’d be upset—”

“Upset? Oh, yes, upset, and furious,” she replied, whirling around to face him. “Not for the reasons you think, you and your stupid male pride. I’m not angry because you had sex with your wife after you’d made all sorts of promises to me. I’m infuriated because you allowed Bonaparte to influence you—again—and poison your mind. You never stopped to think for yourself. You didn’t weigh what your brother said or what your lawyer did and come to your own conclusions. You let other people make intensely personal decisions for you. Worse, you never thought about how your dreadfully cavalier actions might affect other people, especially that little boy. That’s what makes me so furious with you. Sweet Mother of God, has Louise ever seen him?”

“She doesn’t know about Jean-Claude, and she’s never seen him.”

“That’s something to be grateful for, I suppose.” Mariana remained by the window, thumbs hooked in her sash. Even from this distance, she saw that shame was writ large on his face and was glad. She had many things she wanted to say, all of them sharp and hurtful, and none of them serving any useful purpose.

“How do you think Louise would handle a challenge to your estate from this young boy if anything happened to you?”

“I’d hate to think of what she’d do to protect Augie and the boys, even little Joséphine, from anyone challenging what she believes belongs to them and to her. She’d be lethal, like a lioness with new cubs.”

“So, Jean, because of your pride and pigheadedness, six children and two women may well find themselves in an impossible legal situation at some point. Of course, you won’t be around to see what a disaster you’ve created. Did this never occur to you? It’s not as if they would be squabbling over a ten-acre vineyard, either. People unused to wealth, status, and possessions often lose their reason when those things become part of a vast inheritance.” She picked up the chair and collapsed onto it, hands on her knees, and concentrated on catching her breath from the last outburst before beginning the next. Judging from Jean’s expression, she would have ample time to recover. Beneath the guilt and shame, a slight glint of hope swam to the surface of his eyes. She had seen this before, not often, but enough to know he wanted her to make it right and patch up—or clean up—whatever mess he’d made of something. Not this time, though, and not the way he wanted.

“I can’t help you with this. It’s a matter for lawyers, a roomful of them. It’s also up to you, and only you, to decide if you will acknowledge him as your son, perhaps not in the legal sense, but in the most elemental, personal way. But it might be too late now for even that.” She rubbed her forehead, over her right eye, where a headache had taken hold. “What would you do, Jean, if I had your child, unlikely as that may be?”

“Take care of you and of the child. You know I would, so why ask?”

She stood, her anger spiking along with the persistent throbbing in her temple. “Polette might have thought you’d do the same for her and Jean-Claude. She was wrong, as it turned out. I asked because we’ve spent the past half-hour discussing a child you didn’t take care of. You’ll do it, now, though, by all the saints, you will! Somewhere in these books and papers you care so much about is a tidy inheritance for Jean-Claude. You probably can’t touch what the emperor’s given you, and it wouldn’t be fair to Louise and Augie. But these lands and properties are yours to give. So do it, and do it now. I want to see what you’ve drawn up, ready for a lawyer’s finishing touches, when I get back. I will choose the lawyer for this task, however. No more unethical snakes.”

“Where are you going?”

“To light a candle for your son and an even bigger one for you.”