#there are gravestones inside my eyes

[donutsalami]

i am filled with despair and emptyness.

tbh this kinda sucks ngl

[sturnioz]

shy!matt who really wants to try something, he just can’t figure out how to build the confidence to ask. he decides to wait, he waits until you’re on his lap, rolling your hips in the way that makes his mind shut off. but it can’t, not yet. he’s trying so so hard to find the words to speak, his internal struggle quickly becoming evident when he isn’t kissing you back right.

“what’s wrong, baby?” you ask, pulling back from his lips to frown, your thumb caressing the nape of his neck. he’s immediately flushing red, avoiding your eyes as he stutters “n-nothing! nothings wrong— it’s just.. i— fuck. i’m trying— i.. i can’t” he breathed out, frustration evident in his face as you quickly shush him.

your hand petting his hair, the other one moving to cup his jaw and force his eyes to yours “hey— hey. it’s just me baby, yeah? what d’ya gotta tell me, hm?” you encourage.

it takes a while, but eventually he whispers a small “i- i wan’ try something” your curiosity is instantly piqued, quick to encourage him to tell you what he wants to try.

“i— can you— i just” he takes a breath “could you turn around, please?” you furrow your eyebrows, but instantly comply. moving from his lap you kneel in front of him, your back to him.

you hear shuffling, unsure of what’s going on until you feel matts presence behind you once more. you hear him fiddling with something in his hands, his breathing labored until he finally moves.

you’re shocked at first, feeling the smooth silk blindfold placed gently over your eyes, his nimble fingers tying it to a perfect tightness behind your head. his hands move from the blindfold, smoothing over your shoulders. “is this— is this okay?”

a sly grin instantly takes over your face, knowing exactly what matt wanted. he wanted control, he wanted to make you feel good, however he pleased. matt was perfect at pleasuring you, the only thing ever holding him back was your damn wandering eyes.

he shows you how much it’s really holding him back when he fucks you completely dumb, finally feeling free to watch you for the first time without worrying about being watched himself. he loves it, loves watching your face scrunch and perfect pink lips drop open. you’re a mess, and he did that.

now afterwards is when he really realises how much he enjoys you taking control, this being a lot of work for him.

he’s not used to using his brain this much when he’s inside of you, but he does love it, he just thinks he loves the idea of you blindfolding him that little bit more.

- 🫧

..... i want you to write this on my gravestone. i also need you to write 95849 pages on this... fucking hell

[frudoo]

Mmmm unethical ER Doctor!Gaz…

Warnings: Fingering, edging, medical malpractice, inappropriate doctor/patient relations. Fem!Reader.

Your toes curl as you swing your legs off the side of the exam table, fingers tapping against your thighs nervously. It took forever for you to get called back, and it seems even longer, now, that you’ve had to wait on the actual doctor to show up. The bright fluorescent lights have started to make your head pound. Biting your lip, you debate on just leaving to try and deal with this… issue on your own again. The very issue that made you seek out help to begin with.

The paper sheet beneath you crinkles as you hop down, cursing yourself for wasting your own precious time. You grab your purse and open the privacy curtain to leave, effectively running into the doctor who had finally showed up. You’re not usually one to bitch and moan to people who are only here to help you, but you’ve been waiting for over an hour and you are in agony, damn it. For the first time in your life, you prepare to chew out a person you don’t even know, sucking in a deep breath.

“About time you… showed… up…” Your mouth drops open when you actually glance up to get a good look at the doctor’s face, immediately feeling your heart drop down to your stomach.

Towering over you with a cocked eyebrow and a cheeky smile is the most gorgeous person you have ever seen in your life. Flawlessly smooth skin and deep brown eyes, maddeningly straight teeth and a perfectly kissable nose. You find it impossible to tear your eyes from his luscious lips, entranced and frozen in place.

“Righ’. Sorry ‘bout tha’ wait. Would ya mind havin’ a seat up there f���me?” He hums, and fuck, even his voice is delicious.

“I- um- I’m so sorry,” you mumble, scrambling back to sit on the exam table once again.

“No’ to worry. I’ve dealt with far worse attitudes than yours,” he teases, and you curl your fingers into the hem of your skirt. “I’m Dr. Garrick, yeah? Says here your problem is… oh. Oh, my.”

You’re mentally cursing yourself. You could literally die right here and the only thing they’d put on your gravestone is ‘idiot.’ A very horny, very broke idiot.

“Yeah,” you tuck your lips into a tight line, humiliation evident in the way your entire body is trembling.

“Alrigh’. I can have a female come in t’do this if you’re more comfortable-”

“No! P-please, I just want it out,” you plead, nearly in tears at the thought of having to wait any longer.

“Hey, hey, tha’s fine,” he soothes. “Go ‘head and remove your bottoms f’me, I’m gonna step outside t’give ya some privacy.”

Dr. Garrick does as he said he would, closing the curtain behind him. With a shaky sigh, you remove your skirt and panties and set them aside, laying back on the table with your feet flat on the surface, knees bent and pressed together. After a few moments, the curtain slides open and the doctor steps back inside, clearing his throat softly.

“I’m jus’ gonna place your feet in some stirrups, alrigh’? It’ll be easier f’me, and hopefully more comfortable f’ya,” he explains, plopping onto his chair and rolling towards the table.

In the cubbies below you, there’s a contraption that pulls out to act as stirrups, and Dr. Garrick helps you guide your ankles onto them carefully. He then drapes a paper slip over your bottom half, giving you a false sense of security given what he’s about to do. You take a deep breath when you hear him go to wash his hands, wishing you were just about anywhere else but here. The seat puffs again and you flinch when you hear him snap on a pair of sterile gloves. Fucking hell. This is getting too real.

“Gonna have a look, now,” he says softly, placing two gloved fingers at your entrance.

Cautiously, he pulls your outer labia open in an attempt to find the object lodged inside of you. Shaking his head, he sighs.

“Can’t see it from out here. Gonna have to push inside,” he explains, gently pressing his middle finger inside of your pussy and feeling around. “Y’know, there are safer options than a hairbrush. I would recommend investin’ in a genuine sex toy, preferably with some kinda base at the bottom.”

“Noted,” you grit your teeth, biting back a moan when he inserts another gloved digit.

You’re already sensitive from having the broken hairbrush handle stuck inside you for over two hours now, and the way his fingers are stretching you out and rubbing against your walls is nothing short of overstimulating. With your eyes squeezed tightly shut, you don’t notice the way your doctor smirks, but you sure as hell feel the way his digits brush against your g-spot.

“Ah, I feel it, now,” he murmurs, curling his fingers to hit that bundle of nerves again.

You don’t expect him to shove his fingers in further, nor the way he speeds up, rapidly massaging your sweet spot. You can’t hold back the whimper that escapes your throat, your back arching uncomfortably, ankles slipping in the stirrups.

“Sorry, I know it’s sensitive,” he says, but there is no sympathy in his tone.

Dr. Garrick rests the pad of his thumb on your clit and circles it tightly, muttering something about needing stability to help him pull the object out. You bite your lip, thighs already trembling as you curse yourself for getting off from this. You simply can’t help it—a pretty man knuckles deep in your pussy, hitting all the right places flawlessly. You’re right on the edge when he pulls his fingers out, popping the hairbrush handle out with them.

“Got it,” he smiles proudly, and if tears weren’t blurring your vision, you might have seen the smug glint in his eye because he knows he ruined your orgasm.

You hear a clank and then the snap of his gloves being pulled off. A weary sob escapes your throat at the newfound emptiness, your cunt clenching around nothing and your swollen clit still throbbing. Dr. Garrick helps your feet back down from the stirrups, watching the way you just lay there limp. He sniffs, hovering over your body and leaning in close to your face.

“Y’know, if ya don’t want a toy, ya can always give me a call. I won’t keep ya waitin’ next time.”

[theshinazugawaslut]

Yall, look at this Sanemi fanart I found — the way I would let this man fuck me raw into oblivion with no protection, no lubricant, no preparation, no warning, no shame, all the way on my mums bed to my dads bed, against the bathroom door to bent over my bath tub, on the toilet and against the cover, from the kitchen sink to the balcony, from my bed to his bed, against the fan and against the wardrobe, draped over the washing machine to hunched behind the fridge, between day and dawn to twilight and midnight, on a chair, on a train, on a bus, during class, on a video call, upside on a tree, in a sewer, on the battlefield, behind a bush, on his mother's gravestone, in a puddle of piss as I scream, cry, whimper, beg, moan his name, huffing and puffing entirely out of breath, I need him biblically as he gives me the most bone breaking, singularity causing, toe clenching, pussy wettening, ass slapping, cheek jiggling, back arching, toes curling, feet snapping, finger popping, hair pulling, writhing, orgasmic, fist clenching, tongue drooling, muscle exploding, eye watering, leg divorcing, knee breaking, shin sucking, nipple bursting, hip thrusting, anus clenching, clit vibrating, knuckle cracking, jaw dislocating, nose bleeding, skin peeling, bone acidifying, hip thrusting, sheet gripping, spinal cord shattering, eyelashes flying off my face, spectacle destroying, over stimulating, cervical mucus ovulating, hormones off the chart, pregnancy inducing, swollen bump causing, ribs expanding to keep inside all his salty cum, nail biting, gravity defying, volcano erupting, uterus popping, ovary exploding orgasm of my life.

[eeunoia]

ENHYPEN Reactions

synopsis: mafia boss enhypen reaction to your death. (hyungline)

genre: angst

warnings: mentions of death and violence.

note: this is just short. been checking my drafts and saw this one. anyway, let me know if you want maknae line version! replies and reblogs are highly encouraged. ily and stay safe.

eeunoia 2024 © all rights reserved.

lee heeseung

lee heeseung won’t take it very well. he will be beyond broken. he didn’t just lose the love of his life, his other half but also the one who kept him in peace.

he will not stop until he took his revenge for you. making sure none of those people involve to your painful death will be alive. he will make them suffer. he will inflict every pain you went through but in much worst way.

after revenge, he will vanish into the mafia world like as if he never even existed. he will buy a beautiful house in a very isolated place, somewhere peaceful. a place you will surely like.

“its beautiful here, right love?” he whispers softly while leaning over the railings of the balcony. the clear blue ocean can be seen from the house, it was the perfect scenery.

“i should’ve listened when you said we should leave that kind of life...” his voice cracks and tears slowly pools at the side of his eyes. his chest tightening just by remembering your beautiful face, regret and longing poisining his whole system.

his grip over the metal railing tightens, knuckles turning pale. “it was my fault.” he bit his lower lip as a tear escapes his eyes.

heeseung lived there ever since. he starts to living his life through the memories of the two of you he kept inside his mind. he made himself believe that you are still there with him. he doesn’t care if he feels pain by this method. his wounds from losing you never healing but he doesn’t care. he just wants to feel you around. he wants to be with you. he wants to hold and kiss you like old times. he will live his remaining days acting like as if you are still alive, making himself suffer even more.

park jongseong

“i’m so sorry, jay.” he pushed his friend away and went to grab his gun before heading towards his car.

he ignored his friends calling his name and just starting driving towards somewhere. the image of your pale skin and lifeless body kept flashing back in his mind. and every time, it feels like a new knife is being stab to his heart. each one deeper than the first ones.

“i’m going to kill all of you.” he coldly spat and continued ending the lives of the people who wronged you.

he can’t believe it. he wanted to scream to the world. curse everyone out for what’s happening. he has never hated being alive this way before. he just lost his other half. he feels like he's already dead as well.

“hey, baby.” he greets lowly, trying to pull a small smile while he sets down a new flower to your grave.

his eyes settles to the flower he just brought yesterday. “i miss you so bad.” his eyes shakes, tears attempting to escape.

he never felt this vulnerable before. he felt lost and dead inside. nothing excites him anymore. he stretches his arm and rests his palm to touch your gravestone. he was gentle, like you’re the one he was holding.

“i wish you are here, baby. i won’t be this miserable with you.”

jake sim

jake held your hand tightly, his lips rests on top of it while staring at your pale face. he’s been like this for hours ever since you passed away. he was denial. he never spoke a word for hours, his tearful eyes enough to show how much pain he’s going through.

“you’re so cold, sweetheart...” his lips shakes a bit as he tries to pull up a smile, still being denial of losing you.

“you’ve been sleeping for a while now,” his voice cracks along with his heart. “please wake up now, hm?”

jake cries even harder when he didn’t receive any response from you. he stayed that way until one of his friends pulls him away because you’re body needs to be taken away. it wasn’t easy to do that as he fights while thinking of being separated with you.

“jake, you have to eat. you will get sick if you keep doing this.” his mother cries while staring at him. he looked lifeless.

“better. in that way i will see her again.” he spat mindlessly that made his mother cry even more, pulling him in an embrace.

“stop saying that! do you think she will like it if you keep acting this way?”

jake looked emotionless. he feels bad seeing his mother cry. but he just can’t continue living if you aren’t with him anymore. he loves you so much. you are the love of his life, the one who kept him alive. and now that you are gone, life is meaningless.

“if i die, i will see her again, right? we will be together, right?” he hopes, tear escaping his eyes making his mother rub his back carefully, crying even harder feeling bad for his son.

park sunghoon

sunghoon’s feet are glued at the floor, body stiffened while staring blankly at your cold body. his eyes went blank, doesn’t want to believe it.

“what the hell...” he utter, “is this?” while trying to deny the reality.

sunghoon will be disruptive. hell will rise, he will explode. he just lost the only person that kept him sane and his the perso he cherish the most.

he hovers somebody and kept stabbing that person straight to his heart. he ignores his whimpers and just continued, blood splashing to him but he’s unbothered. his eyes are dark and deadly.

“s-stop!” the man pleads but he couldn’t hear anything. his mind sets for nothing but to avenge his woman.

“bring her back! fucking bring her back to me! i will make sure you will end up in hell!” he screams continuously, tears streaming down his face.

“bring her back to me!” countless dead bodies scatters around and he was already showering with blood.

he exploded and there's no stopping him. he will be more ruthless, worst now that you aren’t there to calm him down. the monster inside him awoken.

“you are killing too many people, sunghoon. this is not good, many mafia families are bothered by your behavior. if you continue, you will make more enemies. they won’t stop until you’re dead.”

sunghoon ignores it and reloads his gun silently. “this world sucks anyway.”

permanent tag-list:

@rubyanne @map-of-border @hwangjangmi @love13tter @candewlsy @simpforniki @classicroyalty @hime98 @moonsclassyslore @ddeonubaby @yeoungie @acciomylove @mymeloem19 @jvngw0n @dreamjerky @minamoons @clar-iii @herasalvatore @nyfwyeonjun @rcveribin @yizhoutv @one16core @soobin-chois @kyutiepeachy @chareadingpurposes @hwalllllllelujah @solelyenha @90sni-ki @nourhan-8 @nikipedia07 @yangbreads @drunkjazed @axartia @all4haru @sta-rie @purplepuppychild @iceeee @wtfhyuck @tobiosbbyghorl @nikililmj @ayayiiie @aeyeree @heeseung-min @in-somnias-world @psh-pjh @hveanlyanqelic

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius x fem!reader

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (see full series list here)

1995

The house is all commotion the next day. Most of the kids wake up late and this sends Mrs Weasley into a tizzy as she hurries from place to place gathering trunks and belongings and throwing them downstairs in front of the door. You place your own trunk in front of the door, scratching Dubh’s ears as she leaps into your arms and digs her claws into your jumper to hold herself against your chest.

Moody stands at the doorway, both hands on his staff as his magical eye swivels from room to room upstairs. He glances at his watch. “Where is Podmore? We can't leave without him, we’ll be one short.” He taps his foot impatiently.

Mrs Weasley looks up the stairway and clears her throat before bellowing, “WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!”

At once, Walburga Black’s portrait starts screaming and shouting, but no one bothers to close the curtains on her. The noise in the hall will only continue to wake her.

Sirius appears beside you and slips his hand into the back pocket of your jeans, kissing your cheek. “All set?”

You hum, turning to face him. “Hope so. I’m going to miss you so much, you know that?”

He smiles lovingly at you. “I’ll miss you too — I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Talk to Kreacher a lot more, I guess?” You smile cheekily at him.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t even joke about that, it would be hell.”

Ron, Harry, and Hermione come hurrying down the stairs, their footsteps drowned out by Walburga Black’s screeches.

“Harry, you're to come with me and Molly,” you yell at Harry over your mother-in-law's portrait.

“Leave your trunk and your owl, Alastor’s going to deal with the luggage,” Mrs Weasley explains. “...Oh, for heaven's sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!”

Sirius’ hand leaves your pocket and he turns into his dog form, following you as you clamber over the trunks.

“Oh, honestly…” Mrs Weasley says despairingly, “well, on your own head be it!”

She wrenches open the front door and you step out into the morning sunlight, followed by Harry and Sirius. You descend the front steps of number 12 and they vanish the moment you reach the pavement.

You glance at your watch. “We’d better hurry up, Molly.”

“I know, I know,” she groans, lengthening her stride, “but Mad-Eye wanted us to wait for Sturgis…if only Arthur could have got us cars from the Ministry again…but Fudge wouldn’t let him borrow so much as an empty ink bottle these days…How Muggles can stand travelling without magic…”

Sirius, on the other hand, seems delighted. He gives a joyful bark and runs around you, snapping at pigeons and chasing his own tail. Harry laughs and you can’t help but smile. He’s been trapped inside for far too long.

Mrs Weasley purses her lips disapprovingly.

Dubh keeps her gaze laser-focused on the dog, watching him closely and swishing her tail agitatedly when he comes too close, digging her claws tighter into the fabric of your jumper.

On platform nine and three quarters, students and families bustle from place to place carrying their heavy trunks, owls hooting from their cages.

“I hope the others make it in time,” Mrs Weasley says anxiously, staring behind her at the arch through which new arrivals come.

“Nice dog, Harry!” calls Lee Jordan, waving at Harry.

“Thanks, Lee,” says Harry, grinning, as Sirius wags his tail frantically.

“Oh, good,” Mrs Weasley says with a sigh of relief, “here’s Alastor with the luggage, look…”

With a cap pulled low over his eyes, Moody limps through the archway pushing a cart full of trunks.

“All okay,” he mutters to you. “Don’t think we were followed…”

Seconds later, Mr Weasley emerges onto the platform with Ron and Hermione. You start to help unloading the trunks from the cart and nearly have them all off when Remus turns up with Ginny and the twins.

“No trouble?” growls Moody.

“Nothing,” Remus replies, dusting off the front of his jacket.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” Moody says lowly. “That’s the second time he’s not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.”

“Well, look after yourselves,” Remus says, shaking hands all round.

You beam at him when he reaches you and pull him in for a tight hug, laughing. “See ya, Moony.”

“Keep your head down and your eyes peeled,” Moody says to Harry, shaking Harry’s hand too. “And don’t forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”

“If you need to pass anything on, tell me,” you say as the warning whistle for the train sounds and the students still on the platform start to hurry onto the train. Sirius nudges your hand with his head and you gently scratch the top of his head, smiling. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Quick, quick,” says Mrs Weasley distractedly, hugging everyone at random. “Write…be good…if you’ve forgotten anything we’ll send it on…onto the train now, hurry…”

Bewitching your trunk to fly in the air behind you, you hurry onto the train and make your way past the throes of students greeting you in the corridor, down to your usual compartment in the prefects’ carriage. You set Dubh down on the seat beside you and as you sit down, you feel something in your back pocket and curious, you pull out a slip of parchment and unfold it.

I love you

Tell Snape he looks like a gargoyle

You chuckle appreciatively, putting the paper back in your pocket and feeling your heart warm.

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

February, 1977

“Transfiguring something of a larger stature, however, can prove to be more difficult,” Professor McGonagall says, the chalk in her fingers scratching against the blackboard as she writes instructions. “It takes a lot more concentration and practice, so I suggest you use your free time wisely and —”

Sirius sighs in boredom, eyes skimming around the room until he finds the person he's looking for. Across the room, sitting as far away from James as possible, is Lily, and right beside her, you.

You lean over to whisper something to Lily, who chuckles, and Sirius finds himself following your every movement, tracing the line of your jaw with his eyes, the curve of your neck, the way you're swinging your legs under the chair absent-mindedly…

“And then, you put the charm on the ties and I'll keep look-out — hey!”

James slaps Sirius across the back of his head angrily.

“Ow! What was that for?!”

“You're not even listening!”

Sirius snaps out of his daze and looks back at his best friend’s angry face, scrunched up beneath his circular glasses.

“Sorry, Prongs, what were you saying?”

James scoffs, folding his arms dramatically. “You were staring at her again, weren't you?” He makes a noise with his mouth like the cracking of a whip, rolling his eyes. “Pathetic.”

“In my defense, she is very pretty — “

“I don't want to hear it!” James snaps. “Y’know, I liked you better before you got a girlfriend. You were more fun.”

“Oh, shut up, James — you're just jealous ‘cause Lily would rather go out with a toad than with you — “

“That's not true — !”

Someone clears their throat loudly and the boys look up to find McGonagall glaring at them from behind her spectacles, clearly unimpressed.

“Yes, Potter, Black — we’ll all just wait for you to finish your very important conversation and then I can get back to teaching.”

Quiet sniggers ripple through the room. Lily rolls her eyes as her best friend giggles.

“Sirius was distracting me, miss —”

“James won't stop talking —”

“Enough.” Professor McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Pay attention or it's detention for the both of you.”

“Yes, miss.”

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore after he gets to feet for his start-of-year speech. “First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — and a few of our older students ought to know by now too.”

You glance down the Great Hall, skimming your eyes around at all your students.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There is a round of polite applause. You crane your neck to look at the new hire of Professor Umbridge: a small woman wearing a fluffy pink cardigan with mousy brown hair and a pair of small, beady eyes. She has her lips pursed and her hands folded in on the table as she looks out at the student body.

“Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

“Ahem.”

Dumbledore breaks off and looks surprisingly at Professor Umbridge, who has gotten to her feet (though it is hard to tell the difference between her height while standing and while sitting), and clearly wants to make a speech.

Minerva glances at you for half a second, her mouth a thin, disapproving line as she turns back to focus her attention on Umbridge.

Her interruption irks you — no one has ever interrupted Dumbledore in the middle of his speech before. It feels quite disrespectful, though Dumbledore doesn't seem to mind as he sits down and gives Umbridge his utmost attention.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” she starts, her voice sickeningly squeaky, “for those kind words of welcome.”

She clears her throat again, that same little ‘ahem’. “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces smiling back at me!”

You raise your eyebrows, noticing how the faces looking back at Umbridge seem quite far from happy — they actually look highly affronted at the childish tone that she has taken on.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we’ll be very good friends!”

Nobody seems too keen on that idea.

She clears her throat again, but this time her tone becomes more business-like and official. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

She clears her throat again and Minerva’s face tightens as she exchanges a glance with you, her distaste clear on her face.

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. Then again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation…because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

Finally, she sits down, looking expectantly at her audience. Dumbledore claps. You and the rest of the staff start to join in, though you bring your hands together once, maybe twice, before stopping completely.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” Dumbledore says as he stands, bowing to her. “Now, as I was saying — Quidditch tryouts will be held…”

“I suspect we’ll be having an interesting year with her here,” you say to Minerva in a low voice, moving your lips as subtly as possible while keeping your eyes on Dumbledore.

A breath of air whistles out of her nose. “Interesting indeed. The Ministry loves to poke their nose into things.”

You hum in agreement. “You can say that again.”

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

“Now as you all know, next June you will be sitting your O.W.L. examinations,” you say, leaning against your desk and flicking your gaze from student to student in your classroom. “They are, of course, important — failing certain classes may mean you are unable to continue those classes at N.E.W.T. level next year — but they are nothing to get stressed about. Study well and do your best and you will be absolutely fine, there is no need to panic. Exams are not the be-all and end-all.”

Hermione’s brow furrows as though this notion is completely inconceivable to her. You notice the way she has her parchment neatly laid out on her desk at the ready, her book perched at the top, and her quills perfectly aligned with each other beside it.

Beside her, however, Ron and Harry have absolutely nothing on their desks.

“Those who are interested in taking N.E.W.T. level Astronomy in sixth year, I accept anyone with at least a passing grade in my class. I must warn you, though, that the work and curriculum is increasingly hard and quite a jump from O.W.L. level.”

The students look quite bored.

“I'm guessing you've heard all that before?”

There is scattered murmurs of agreements and nodding.

You sigh. “I’ll be honest with you all — you will be sick and tired of hearing about those exams in no time. Have your classes been hard so far?”

They glance at each other, and you hear Dean Thomas snort and mutter to Seamus Finnegan, “Not Defense Against the Dark Arts, anyway.”

Your ears prick up at this and you raise your eyebrows. “Not in Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“Professor Umbridge refuses to let us use defensive spells in class,” Hermione says, frowning.

“What?”

“She's only teaching us theory,” Harry confirms, scowling. “We don't even get to practice the ones we need for the exam.”

“And she called Professor Lupin an ‘extremely dangerous half-breed!” Dean pops up angrily.

This seems to set off the rest of the class, and all at once they start voicing their complaints with vigour.

“What's the point of having a Defense Against the Dark Arts class if we’re not even learning how to defend ourselves in it?”

“You can't learn spells just by reading about them!”

“She's not even a real teacher —”

You wait patiently until everyone has let out their anger before you take a deep breath.

“That’s…ridiculous.”

You pick up your textbook, thumbing through it absent-mindedly as you think of what to say next. “But…if this is what your teacher wants you to do, I should tell you to listen to her.”

Uproar, again — and you hold up an authoritative hand to quiet your agitated students.

“I will tell you to listen to her, but that's not to say you're definitely going to listen to me,” you say with a shrug of your shoulders. “You should listen to me, but not everyone likes to follow the rules…I will tell you not to practice these defensive spells in the privacy of your own dorms because Professor Umbridge does not want you to be performing these spells at all. I will also tell you not to be so open in complaining of your new teacher — you will get into trouble.”

You sigh dramatically, flipping the pages of your book to the first chapter as the students pass mischievous glanced around at each other. “Now, let's get started, shall we?”

⁠After a long day of classes, back-to-school paperwork, and meetings, you relax into your comfy armchair in your office, listening as Minerva talks about how her week went. Your mug of hot tea warms your hands as the typical Scottish rain patters against the castle windows, and Dubh sleeps contentedly on a stack of papers lying haphazardly on your desk.

“I don’t trust that Dolores Umbridge,” Minerva says with a tight-lipped frown. “She sent Potter to my office on Tuesday, for running his mouth.”

You hum. “About her theory-only classes? Yes, I heard several complaints already.”

“Not just about that,” she says. “He told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, which did not go down well, of course.”

“Like talking to a brick wall, I’d say.”

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “He’d do well to keep his head down and out of sight after her speech at the start-of-term feast…” She casts a glance at you from behind her spectacles. “As would you.”

You laugh humourlessly. “Believe me, I am. I’ve been avoiding that woman like the plague — thankfully she’s easy to spot from a mile away with those horrible cardigans.”

As though she doesn’t mean to, Minerva lets out a cat-like giggle, before clearing her throat and regaining her composure.

You smile knowingly at her over the rim of your cup, resisting the urge to laugh.

She yawns, adjusting herself in her seat. “I suppose I best be off, I have a few essays to grade for tomorrow…”

She sets her cup down on the table, standing up. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” you answer honestly, smiling at her. “Night, Minnie.”

When you settle down to sleep that night, your mind turns to Sirius: alone in Grimmauld Place, listening to the screams and screeches of his mother’s portrait. The moment you got on the Hogwarts Express you regretted letting him persuade you to come back to school and leaving him, right after you had just found him.

She opens the door to leave. “Goodnight.”

You've never liked that Dolores Umbridge, not since she drafted some anti-werewolf legislation a few years ago that made it impossible for Remus to find a job. You remember the stress it gave Remus, he had very little money and was reluctant to accept any help from you — despite the large sum of gold sitting in your bank, practically untouched.

As if she senses your worry, Dubh pads along your covers before settling into the bed beside your chest, purring contentedly and bringing you significant comfort just by being there.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

The next morning you wake for breakfast, sitting as far away from Dolores Umbridge as possible, making absolutely sure to avoid all eye contact with the woman. The last thing you need is a Ministry mole rooting around your business when you are technically harbouring a fugitive in your house.

While you poke and prod at your breakfast, thinking about nothing in particular, owls begin to filter in through the windows bearing the morning’s post. A barn owl makes it way over to you and drops off your usual delivery of the Daily Prophet.

“You’re still reading that?” Minerva asks in surprise as you tuck a few coins into the small sack tied to the owl’s leg as payment.

You hum, undoing the twine wrapped around the paper. “Good to know what the enemy is putting out there, right?” As you unfold the newspaper, your heart drops and you let out a small gasp.

“What is it?” Minerva asks, and you wordlessly hold the paper between you so you can both read the headline article.

BLACK SPOTTED IN LONDON

You look up at Minerva, feeling dread sink down through your body.

The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer who killed thirteen people, is currently hiding in London. The Ministry warns the wizarding community that Black is very dangerous and to be vigilant. Anyone with information of his whereabouts must come forward and alert the Ministry immediately.

“I knew he shouldn’t have came with us,” you whisper, swallowing thickly.

Minerva looks at the article again, her mouth thin. “He will just have to stay in the house from now on.”

You frown. “It’ll kill him.” You glance down the table at Dumbledore, currently talking to Professor Flitwick animatedly. “Maybe I can ask Dumbledore if I can go home, just for the weekend — I can’t bear the thought of him alone —”

Minerva looks at you sharply, her expression serious.

“And how do you think that will look to Umbridge? Sirius Black’s wife leaving the weekend without any explanation after he is spotted in London?”

“I’ll just say I’m going to my parents’ or something, I don’t know —”

“They will not believe you,” she hisses. “They have never believed you before, they will not believe you now. Do you wish to end up in Azkaban?”

You look back at her, biting your lip before breathing a long, defeated sigh. 

Minerva gently pulls the newspaper from your grip, flicking through the pages with mild interest. You push your plate away from you, feeling nauseous and without any appetite. Why didn’t you push more for him to stay at the house that day? You were selfish, letting him come with you because you wanted to drag out your time with him as much as possible and putting him in danger. Where is Kingsley, he’s supposed to be staying on top of this, feeding the Ministry fake information and keeping Sirius out of the headlines. 

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

-> all kinds of interaction appreciated ♡

hi everyone, im really sorry for the huge wait!! I know how annoying it can be sometimes to have to wait long periods of time for a writer to post the next chapter, so I really am sorry for that :( I honestly don't really have an excuse, other than writer's block and a busy schedule. You all are the absolute best for your constant patience and support, i love everyone sm <3 Kisses!

a really huge thank you to my taglist loves ♡ :

@mothraantics @wholelottalove05 @izuoyarmin @devoid-swanky @carpe000diem @mooonyxoxo @hyperspeedo @idkman5335 @elanna-elrondiel @murielisacertifieddilf @penelopied @imgondeletedis @wooyoungsrightsock @jennifer0305 @wolfdragon0424 @lovemesomevesey

[actual-changeling]

angels fall by being forced to kill themselves, literally and metaphorically all at once, erasing their old existence so they can crawl from hell's ashes completely reborn.

the angel you knew isn't me, he says, but what he doesn't say is i made sure of that.

it is not a lie, but tell me, how do you confess to someone that you killed the person they loved?

(love?)

that you are murderer and victim alike, and that your hand held the knife, pulled the trigger, led you ahead into a star so you could burn. that angel will never return because it cannot return, the starmaker disappeared into one of their stars and the dust that rained from its supernova eventually created the demon crowley.

he does not say any of that, not the first time he asked and not the last.

because answer him this: if he asked you to return to the scene of your crime, waiting to see the you that no longer is, will you try and rip yourself open? will you grasp into your chest with clawed, desperate hands and turn yourself inside out in hopes of finding them again?

are you willing to pray with blackened fingertips and become your own necromancer?

can you?

would you?

are you the same person you were a year ago? five years? ten?

how many changes can you go through before the person you once were is dead and you are standing over their body smiling? what needs to happen so you don't smile? it was necessary, you will say. inevitable, even. time passes and people change, none of it is my fault, it's out of my control.

tell me, how do you know you changed for the better?

tell me, how do you know what to write on the gravestone?

'here lies the best version of me' - so what does that make you?

now, at last, answer me this: if you loved someone and they loved a you that is long gone and buried, would you point at the dirty, rotting casket and overgrown grave? or would you steal yourself away in the middle of the night and pray, hoping that when you open your eyes come dawn they are you again?

ask yourself, how much decay are you willing to cover if it means you will be loved?

and then look at me and tell me you wouldn't lie. tell me and make me believe it.

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

How to remember? - Simon Riley + John Price*F!Reader

“If we meet in next life, how can I recognize you?” “We won’t remember each other, honey.” “Just tell me.” “Then just know, I love white flowers, okay?”

(The men still remain the memories from their past life, but you don’t.)

Price:

He hates white.

It just reminds him of his past life, your ward painted in flawless white, and you left him too early, in that room surrounded with lackluster white and the solitude ghosted him till the end of his life.

He wonders when will he encounter you in this life, a part of him is afraid, that he never see you again.

The thought clouded his mind as he steps into a flower shop, he comes here to pick up the bouquet he ordered. He gain the habit of decorating his flat with white flowers in his room for you, even though it sometimes brings him sorrow.

but his turmoiling mind drops to silence when he spots you.

You look bothered, there’s a man who keeps shoving different colors of flowers at you, but just no white among them.

“She loves white flowers.” Price strolls to your side, picks up a white rose, and he sees your face beams up when he gently shows you the flower.

“better understand the girl more before trying to flirt with her.

After the man rushes out of the shop with embarrassment, Price turns to face you, only to see you looking at him with gratitude.

He wants to cry, actually, he wants to take you into his arms, nuzzle his nose against your neck, tell you how much he misses you, how long he’s been searching for you.

But he knows too clearly, that you don’t remember him.

“Thank you, Mister...?” You ask with softness.

“Call me John.”

“Thank you, John.” You grin delightfully “The guy’s been keep talking to me since he come in.”

“I think he comes in for you, not for the flowers, love.” Chuckling, he picks up some Lily of the Valley and hands it to you.

“You have good taste in flowers, John.” you laugh along with him “But why do you know I love white flowers?”

“...” Price stares at your diamond-like eyes, confusion is obvious inside.

“Maybe we had met in our last life?” He swallows the bitterness back.

“Don’t know you’re such a romantic person.”

“Well, I’m here to get my bouquet. but...” you wait at the same spot as John walks to the counter, minutes later, he comes back with two bouquets in his hands.

and he gives you the one with white roses and Lily of the Valley, decorated with a sky-blue ribbon.

“Oh John, I can’t take this!”

“Consider it as a gift for our first meeting, eh?”

“Well...” He watched you take over the bouquet carefully and suddenly raised your head in excitement. “I know a tea shop nearby, they got some really nice Earl Grey, if you have time, how about we go there and learn about each other more?”

The white flowers shuffle slightly as you shift in happiness. John takes in your feature, finally, this time he can do this in reality, rather than tracing your figure in his mind every night.

and he smiles, hands resting your lower back to lead you out of the flower shop.

“Of course, my pleasure, love”

(white rose: love, loyalty/ lily of the valley: a return of happiness)

Ghost:

White in his memories always accompanied by red after the crimson stained on the flower necklace you always wore.

The painful color engraved in his mind when he took off your necklace from you, before you got put into the bodybag after the mission.

He brought the necklace you left everywhere, caressing it when he almost lost the courage to keep going, holding it against his chest without a gap in those sleepless and weeping nights when you visited his mind again and again.

Even until his next life, he still can’t see white without the hideous incarnadine.

It brings back the memories, the days he still basked in your warmth, instead of bringing you the white flowers and talking to your gravestone.

He doesn’t have a specific interest in flowers, but he knows you have, so he’s willing to go to every flower show, in the hope of seeing you in the crowds.

Today’s another day for seeking you among the countless people. It’s the opening day for the show, and they organize the areas with colors, so once he steps into the park, he heads straight towards the area for white flowers.

He sits on the bench for hours, eyes searching every corner, scanning every person, but there’s no you inside them.

Simon takes a glimpse at the sun, it’s about to set, and the soothing orange of the dusk covers the red inside his mind a bit.

maybe you’ll be here tomorrow, he stands up and starts pacing back to the entrance.

Just as he’s about to leave, he hears a familiar grumble nearby, and he instantly snaps his head in the direction.

There’s you, dressing in an ivory-yellow sundress, looking at the map, and trying to figure out the path to the white flower area.

Simon doesn’t hesitate before he strides to your side.

“The white flower area is on the right side.”

You jump when you hear someone suddenly talk to you, yet your voice is still full of appreciation when you speak.

“Oh! Thank you! I’m trying to figure out how to go there!” You laugh sheepishly “Are you planning to go there too?”

“Yeah, I can lead you there” He nods “If you want to”

“Great! I’m more than happy if you can bring me there.”

Simon walks slightly in front of you on your way to the area, he assumes standing beside you may pressure you too much, but he can’t help but keep looking back at you.

You look as stunning as the memories he recalls when he was alone, but now you are beside him again, and all he can do is stay silent, so those affection and love managing to slip out of his lips won’t succeed.

“Looks like we arrive!” You fish out your phone immediately and start taking a bunch of photos, he moves til he’s inches behind you, watching you infatuated with the snow-white flowers waving in the breeze.

It sure is beautiful, Simon thinks when he immerses in the scene in front of him— Your flowing yellow dress brings out the beauty of the flowers, but nothing’s more fascinating than the elegant grin spreading along your lips.

“Sorry, I just immediately started shooting the flowers. I just can’t resist the pretty of white flowers” You apologize when you turn around and still find the man leading you here still at the same spot, yet a question comes into your mind at the same time. “but why do you know I was looking for white flowers?”

“I guess...” He looks into your eyes, contemplating if he should say this “I guess we met before, in the past life.”

“Hey, surprising that you’re the kind of person who believes in past life!” You raise your eyebrows “But yeah...”

“I don’t know why, but I feel like I have met you before.”

Simon holds his breath when the words flow into his ears. There’s no doubt that you don’t remember him, but he can feel the soreness forming around his eyes.

“Well, I need to go” Checking the time on your phone, you continue “I haven’t asked your name yet, Sir.”

“Simon.” He mumbles under his breath.

“Simon, it’s really nice to meet you.” Your smiles widen.

“I’ll be here tomorrow at 4 pm., I look forward to seeing you here, and we can go have dinner together too.”

Waving goodbye, Simon doesn’t move his eyes from your rear until you disappear in the distance.

and he looks at the white flowers again, but he blinks twice when his eyes land on the flowers.

There’s no dark red in them anymore, but a hint of comforting yellow is surely spreading across the white.

[jasmines-library]

Just One Big Headache

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Day one, prompt "How many fingers am I holding up?" FANDOM: Supernatural Summary: A routine salt 'n' burn takes a nasty turn when the spirit directs its anger towards you, leaving you with a nasty concussion, but not to worry, the Winchesters are there to look after you. Warnings: Head injury, concussion, loss of consciousness, violence, weapons, broken ribs. Word count: 1.8k Author Note: Aaaaaand its off! Welcome to jedi-archives whumptober 2023! I promise i'm going to try my best to get these out everyday but i can't make any promises. My prompts are coming from a mixture of the official @whumptober prompts and my own. I'm starting off with something slightly fluffy to ease us in. With that said, happy whumping!

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

'it's just a salt 'n' burn' they said. 'it'll be fun' they said. Oh boy were they wrong. 

The air was crisp as you stepped out of the Impala. You watched as the little clouds of air rose before your face, illuminated by the street lamps which flickered haphazardly. Tugging your jacket closer to your body you made your way around to the back of the car, following the crunch of Sam’s shoes as he walked across the frosted grass. Dean propped open the trunk and made quick work of loading rock salt into his rifle and ensuring that there were enough matches inside his pack. The other Winchester hauled the shovel from the car and leaned it against his shoulder; it was hefty and made with iron, caked in mud and rust. The pistol that you shifted between your hands was so familiar, like an extension of your body. It fit snugly in your grip. Flicking the chamber open with a metallic click, you made sure it was fully loaded before snapping off the safety and slipping it in a holster on your belt. 

The grass was damp from the frost that had settled on the grass in the graveyard. It had managed to claw its way up the gravestones and trees like fingers too. It seeped uncomfortably through the toes of your boots as you trudged towards the grave. Small and unkept, it sat located towards the west side of the gravesite. It belonged to a young woman who was brutally murdered a few years ago, but who’s case ran cold. It was safe to say that she was pissed; her revenge taking the form of hunting down those who were associated with the woman who killed her. But what started out as unfinished business soon turned cold and twisted as she turned to others who had wronged. Her grave stood out on the line of tall, pearly stones with dainty flowers laying at their feet. It was dark and clad with weeds. Unloved.  

Dean’s duffel landed with a thud next to the grave, unsettling the ground around it. The shovel went down next to it. 

“Alrighty.” He said, rubbing his hands together. “You know the drill.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but brought out his hands in front of him anyway. “Seriously dude, I don’t even know why we bother anymore.”

“It’s a game of chance, Sammy. Now shoot.”

After the count of three, you and Sam shaped your hands into a fist and brought them forwards. You smirked. Dean had played scissors. With a groan, he pulled his hand back and reeled his body away. 

You laughed. “Scissors everytime, Dean.”

The eldest Winchester grumbled something underneath his breath, but picked up the shovel and begrudgingly began to dig until the shovel hit something solid, you and Sam kept your eyes peeled for any sign of the spirit. 

“Okay. This is it.” he confirmed, hauling up the lid of the coffin. It creaked open on unsteady hinges. The corpse beneath still had skin attached to its discoloured bones. It pooled loosely around the woman's frame. The putrid smell that emerged would have made you gag had you not already had your fair share of salt ‘n’ burns. “Keep an eye out for that son of a bitch.”

Sam lent a hand to haul his brother out of the newly dug pit. From where you were standing, a few feet away, you could see the top of his hair poking out from the top of the opening. Almost mechanically, the brothers began to tip the gasolene and sprinkle the salt onto the body. 

The deathly howl that suddenly emerged in front of you snapped you awake. The spirit raced towards the Winchesters, gritting her teeth and scowling. Her vacant eyes narrowed at them as she got closer, but your fingers were on the trigger before you could blink, sending her away with a shrill cry and a cloud of grey. 

“Hurry.” You told your friends, who had moved from preparing the body to the old duffel on the ground. Dean rummaged around desperately on his knees, not caring about the cold, until he felt the familiar grit of the matchbox against his fingers. Tugging it out, he ran back to the body. Sam tugged the shotgun tighter to him and positioned it in front of himself. The two of you danced around, keeping your eyes peeled for the ghost.

The spirit appeared behind you this time, wailing like a banshee. Sam shot it in the chest before it howled shrilly and disappeared. 

“Dean! Hurry up!” You cried as it reappered again. He was busy fumbling with the matches, which refused to light on the cold box. He pushed too hard against the cardboard and felt the stick snap and splinter. He cursed loudly. 

“I’m trying!” He huffed back through gritted teeth. 

All it took was that one look over your shoulder to Dean for the spirit to catch you off guard. Sam’s shout of your name was a second too late as a ghost appeared behind you, wrapping its cold, bony fingers around you and flinging you away. You cried out in pain as your head collided with one of the neighbouring gravestones and your body slid to the floor. 

“Dean!” Sam yelled out for his brother, firing his weapon at the creature and sending it dissipating to somewhere else on the property. 

The match slipped between Dean’s fingers, twisting in his grip as he tried to create friction between the two objects. Time seemed to stop as Sam raced towards your side to be cut off by the woman re-emerging in his path. That was when the match tumbled from his brother’s grasp, landing on the heap of chemicals and starting the chain reaction of events. 

The woman reeled back as she burst into flames like a candle. The sound she made was dreadful, it cut right through you as she writhed on her feet. When she finally finished her onslaught of screaming and her bones were no more than a dismal pile of ash, Sam fell to his knees in front of you, cupping your head in his hands. It lolled to the side, unable to hold itself up against the throbbing pain in your skull. Sam was suddenly aware of the blood that trickled from your temple and coaxed his fingers, crying out again for his brother, he gave your face a gentle tap. Your eyes fluttered beneath heavy lids.

“Hey, Hey. Kid. Stay with me.” He pleaded, searching your face. “Open your eyes Y/N, come on.”

Your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. Your head felt hazy as you peeled them open, watching Sam swim before you. 

“That's it! Keep them open Y/N.”

Dean was to your left, his hands roaming your body for any other injuries. You whimpered when his fingers flushed against your tender skin on your upper back. You were sure you had a broken rib. Or three. 

“I know. I know sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s face was close to yours as he tilted it upwards. He saw the way that your pupils were dilated; one the size of the fucking moon, the other lagging behind. 

“Shit. Dean?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Dean prompted, “Can you stand?”

He moved to position himself under your arm, wrapping it around his neck. Sam’s arm weaved around your waist and the two of them hauled you to your feet. The movement made you want to hurl and you cried out as the pressure in your head and ribs increased tenfold.

“You’re okay, sweetheart, You’re okay.”

Your movements were sluggish as you floated towards the car. your vision doubled and you were now struggling to differentiate left and right. Your legs trembled in your fogginess, you seemed to lose all control of your limbs, relying heavily on the arms wrapped around you to aid you back to the Impala. It was when your vision blurred and your legs completely folded beneath you like a crushed can that Sam scooped you up into his arms. He cringed at your noise of discomfort, but raced behind his brother to the old car which was parallel parked across the street. 

“We’re nearly there kiddo,” He hushed. “Just keep those pretty eyes open for me, okay?”

You tried to keep them open. You really did, but it just became too much. Your body became slack in Sam’s arms as you gave into unconsciousness. 

~

The light was too bright when you peeled your eyes open again. You were back in the bunker, propped up on pillows in your bed. Your whine alerted Dean to your awareness. His hand, which was clutching yours, moved to wave in front of your eyes.

“Y/N? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Sam rolled his eyes, swatting his hands away. He saw the way you squinted painfully against the light and moved to the switch on the other side of the room to dim it, before promptly coming to perch on the edge of your bed. . Satisfied, you hummed and scanned the room, eyes landing on the two worried Winchesters who loitered in your room. They breathed a visible sign of relief when they saw your eyes focus on theirs. Your ribs still stung, and the throbbing in your head was still present. You reached up and trailed your fingers across your temple. The skin had been cleaned there, the dried blood no longer glued to your face. You could still feel it in your hair where Sam hadn’t quite managed to get it all out. The skin was rough and had begun to scab over. A pair of hands wrapped around your wrist and pulled your fingers away. 

“Don’t touch.” Sam said tenderly, handing you a glass and a handful of painkillers. The glass was cool against your lips as you swallowed them thickly. “It should heal on its own. It didn’t need stitches.”

 You blinked groggily. “What happened?”

“Ghost got you good.” Dean told you. “You have two broken ribs and a concussion.”

“And the ghost?” you asked.

“Taken care of.”

Nodding slowly, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

“I-” Dean stuttered. “You had us worried Y/N”

“I'm sorry.”

Sam shook his head firmly. “Not your fault.”

“But-”

“Nope. Not hearing it.” He said sternly.

You sighed. “So, what's the damage, Dr Winchester?”

The youngest brother chuckled at the remark, glad to see that you were feeling more of yourself. “You are going to stay in bed and rest for a few days. We are going to stay here and look after you.” he told you before you rolled your eyes at the idea of being bed bound. 

“I suppose I could do that.” You shrugged, not opposed to the idea of having the Winchesters as your personal waiters for the next few days.

“I thought you’d be happy.” Dean shook his head, then gestured to the covers and the tv which was mounted on the wall. ��Room for two more?”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

DAY TWO

🏷️ Whumptober Taglist

[all3-stxr]

silent hill

the trees stretched up above the horizon, making this town feel all the more suffocating, paired with the thick fog as dazai wandered the forest. the trail felt much longer than he remembered, though he hadn’t been in here in the last three years, so he couldn’t say much, even as he approached a clearing to a well that he was sure wasn’t there before.

a faint red light emits from the bottom of the well, a pretty shade of crimson dancing across the underside of the roof, like the reflection of water. curious, he leaned in to see inside, the red light casting shadows across his face as he gazed downward.

a sudden pain shot through his head and he grimaced, taking a few steps back in hopes that putting space between him and that light would help. “god, it’s like someone’s groping around my skull.” he rubbed his temple, the pain slowly beginning to subside a few seconds later.

he shook his head, eyeing the well one last time before following the trail in the opposite direction. he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that washed over him with every step he took, like if he ventured too far, he’d find something he didn’t want to see.

but he couldn’t let that hold him back. he was determined to find you, and he’d do just about anything to do it.

he paused, looking up at the tall gates leading into a cemetery. could this be the way? he didn’t know.

dazai didn’t know a lot of things since you died. life felt empty, hopeless as he trudged about, going through his job only to come back home to an empty house.

he missed your hugs, those sweet little kisses you’d give him before he went to work and right when he came home. those little visits when he would forget his lunch even though he told you he wasn’t hungry, you’d always come just in case. how you asked what he wanted to eat every day despite him telling you that you didn’t have to cook, that just you being with him was enough.

he missed you.

pushing open the gates, he glanced around aimlessly until his eyes fell upon a figure hunched over before a gravestone, wiping away at the dust in a futile attempt to read its owner's name.

he tentatively reached out a hand, grasping their shoulder. “excuse me. . .”

he was greeted by a sharp gasp, and the stranger quickly stood up, stepping back a few paces. it was a boy with choppy white hair and large, heterochromatic eyes, his face pale and his eyes sunken, like he hadn't slept in a few days. “i’m sorry, i- i was just. . .” he raised his hands swiftly, regaining his composure as he took a deep breath.

“hey, it’s okay,” dazai interjected, “i didn’t mean to scare you.” he took a step back, giving the boy his space. “i’m kind of lost.”

 the boy closed the distance dazai just put between them, his brows furrowing. “lost?”

“yeah, i’m looking for silent hill? is this the right way?”

he gave him a once over, nodding. “um, yeah.” holding a hand up, he pointed off somewhere in the distance. “it’s hard to see with this fog, but there’s only one road. you can’t miss it.”

“thanks.” dazai hummed, turning on his heel to leave.

“but. . .” the boy hesitated, taking an unsure step forward, prompting dazai to turn around. “i think you should stay away. this, uh. . . this town,” he glanced away nervously, as if sensing the other’s confusion. “there’s something wrong with it. and it’s not just the fog either.”

“is it dangerous?”

he fiddled with the ends of his gloves. “maybe. . . it’s kind of hard to explain, but. . .”

dazai waved him off. “i’ll be careful.”

“i’m not lying!” the boy insisted, raising his voice slightly.

“no, i believe you. it’s just. . .” he paused, thinking about how to phrase it right. “i guess i don’t really care if it’s dangerous, or not. i’m going either way.”

“but. . . why?”

“i’m looking for-” he hesitated, his eyes falling to the ground for just a moment. “. . .someone. someone very important to me.”

the stranger’s eyes widened a little. “me too. i’m looking for the headmaster. i mean, my father.” he corrected himself quickly. “it’s been so long since i’ve seen him. i thought the other kids were here, but i can’t find them either.” he looked around, eyes taking in all the gravestones, wondering if they were the ones six feet deep, but he shook his head and turned back over to dazai. “i’m sorry. . . it’s not your problem.”

“no, i. . .” he smiled. “i hope you find them.”

“yeah, you too.” the boy returned the smile, gradually shifting his focus back to the gravestones.

the fog seemed to grow thicker as he approached the town, the trees growing sparse as he followed the road. silent hill was just how he remembered. . . almost.

cafes and shops at every corner - small businesses that you’d never recognize the names of unless you live there - the many houses lined up along the road, and those few streets that if not for the fog, you’d see the other end of town. but something was amiss, something that any one person would recognize almost immediately.

it was dead silent.

though in its name, silent hill was never usually this. . . silent. the population was around 2,000 - people usually walked the streets, and few cars would pass by every now and then. there’d be greetings, gossip - in a small town like this, everyone knows everyone. but there wasn’t a single soul wandering about.

cars littered the streets, both in the middle and parked along the sidewalk, some windows broken and smashed in, tires deflated and paint rusted. it was like everyone just went up and left, leaving the town in complete disarray.

dazai clutched the map in his hand, glancing from side to side as he took in the mess. was this really silent hill?

it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. it’s as if this place died with you. like the moment you breathed your last breath of air, the town did too, and you both fell together.

he shook his head, trying to convince himself of happier thoughts. you were here. you had to be. even if this town had died, that doesn’t mean it took you with it. he’d make sure of it.

who else could’ve written that letter?

[emilyprentissluvr]

TV (Emily Prentiss x Reader)

"What about the plans we made?"

Summary: In which you're grieving your dead wife. But is she actually dead?

Warning: Angst and mentions of death.

YOU WALKED along the cobblestone path, stepping over the cracks you had come to memorize. The sun was shining while the birds were chirping and you wanted nothing more than to shoot those damn birds and rip the sun from the sky. 

It wasn't fair that beauty could exist when the love of your life didn't.

"Hi Em." You smiled sadly as you sat down across from your wife's grave. 

It had been eight months since you'd gotten the call that your wife was dead.

 243 days of existing without your other half. 

34,9920 minutes of wondering why you had to fall in love with the most selfless, heroic, and caring person to walk this earth.

20,995,200 seconds of missing the only person who made everywhere feel like home. 

"I brought you flowers," You said as you put the fresh pair of roses against her gravestone. "The worker at the flower shop said that I must have the happiest partner alive since I buy bouquets so much. How ironic is that?" You chuckled sadly. Not because you found it funny, but because you knew Emily would have. 

'That wouldn't happen if you would stop buying me flowers' Is what Emily would have said. 

"I never understood why you didn't like flowers," You said as you picked at the grass beneath you. "And you don't get a choice now. You broke our promise." You frowned as you threw the small pieces of grass at her grave.

"You need to let that go, my love' Emily would say. 

"I was supposed to go first! That was the deal! But you broke our promise so I can do whatever I want. So if I want to fill your whole damn grave up with flowers then I will." You said indignantly. You knew you probably looked crazy to onlookers. Having a one-sided argument with a grave probably wasn't the best way of coping. Making up your dead wife's side of the conversation probably wasn't the healthiest either, but you didn't care. You didn't care about a lot of things these days. 

'You are so stubborn sometimes' Emily would have said with a teasing smile. 

"We're both stubborn," You said with a small eye roll. "I mean, we wouldn't be in this position if you weren't." Tears start to form at the corner of your eyes. You didn't think it was humanly possible to cry as much as you had over the last eight months. But here you were, the never-ending tears making their way down your cheeks. 

'I'm so sorry sweetheart. I never meant to hurt you' Emily would have said as she consoled you. She would have scooped you up into her arms and tucked your head into the crevice of her neck where it would fit perfectly.

"It's not your fault. None of this is." You sniffled as you reached out and placed your palm against the cold stone of her grave. "It's just not fair! We were supposed to have a lifetime together. We had so many plans."

'I know my love. But just because I'm not here doesn't mean you can't live your life to the fullest' Emily would have smiled, ever the optimist. That had been a surprise when you first met over five years ago. While she may have been a badass, stone-cold agent on the outside, she was nothing but sunshine and warmth on the inside. Of course, you were the only one who got to see her soft interior but you didn't mind, you loved having a part of Emily just to yourself. But now you didn't have any part of Emily. 

"I don't know how to move on without you, Em. How am I supposed to enjoy life when you're not next to me enjoying it too? How can I love anything when half of my heart is buried with you?" You cried, tears still flowing down your cheeks as you leaned your forehead against her grave. You cried until the birds stopped chirping and the sun went down. You mourned the woman Emily never got to grow into. You grieved the life you and Emily never got to live. 

You didn't know how long you'd been there, but after your tears subsided you decided to head home for the night. 

"Bye, Em. I love you." You murmured as you traced her name in the stone before standing up and walking along the cobblestone path once again. 

The drive home was quiet. The radio was playing Emily's favorite station but you weren't paying attention. Maybe that was why you didn't notice the car in your driveway until you parked. You furrowed your brows as you recognized the black SUV, those were the ones Emily drove whenever she was on the job. 

It wasn't unusual for a black SUV to be in your driveway. Emily's team would come to visit you at least once a week. You didn't know if it was because they felt guilty for her death or if they wanted to be close to the closest thing to Emily. You didn't mind it though, it was nice to have company to break up the silence of your house.

However, you knew the team was on a case. Penelope had called and told you that. So you cautiously walked up to your front porch. You shakily grabbed the keys from your purse and unlocked the door. "Hello?" You called as you walked to the living room where you saw a light on.

As soon as you walked in you froze. The purse in your hand drops to the floor. It was a ghost. The ghost of your Emily standing right in front of you. You closed your eyes wondering how your tired brain could conjure up such a perfect image of her. But when you opened them again she was still standing there. 

"Y/n?" Emily's voice cracked as she laid eyes on you for the first time in eight months.

Your brain felt foggy and you couldn't find the flashlight to see through it. Were you hallucinating now? 

Emily could see the shock on your face and the way her presence hadn't registered in your mind. "It's me," The brunette said, wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around you and never let you go, but she knew she had to be careful. "It's Emily," She said as she walked toward your frozen frame slowly.

She was close enough now that you could feel her breath but you didn't dare to look anywhere but into her eyes. The same eyes that had watched you laugh, cry, and love. The same eyes you had spent years memorizing...

Oh my god. Was this real? Was this your Emily and not a figment of your grieving imagination?

Almost as if reading your mind she smiled, "I'm real, my love", she raised her hand slowly and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. You let out a shallow breath as you felt her touch and suddenly the fog from your brain had been cleared. This was real. The woman in front of you was your life, your love, your Emily.

You launched yourself at her knowing she would catch you. You were immediately wrapped into her embrace, feeling at home for the first time since you had gotten that soul-crushing phone call. 

Nothing else mattered to you at this moment. All your questions and confusion could be answered later. Right now you were in your wife's arms and you never planned on leaving

 "Emily." You smiled tearily as you tucked your face under her chin, the smell of perfume filling your senses. "Hi, sweetheart." Emily smiled as tears fell down her face, "I told you I would never break a promise." 

[bingwriterxo]

a love more than love

pairing: wednesday addams x reader

summary: in which wednesday breaks her normal routine to visit you

warnings: mentions of death

word count: 750+

author's note: i posted this on wattpad a while ago, but i really enjoy it, so i wanted to bring it over to this platform, too!

"Isn't this your designated writing time?" Enid asked her roommate, watching with curiosity as the raven-haired girl dug through her wardrobe, looking for a specific piece of clothing. 

Wednesday sighed, drew away from the piece of furniture, and turned towards the blonde. "Yes, Enid, but more important things have arisen."

"Such as...?" The blonde knew it was a dangerous game to pester the other girl, but she wasn't used to Wednesday going against her calculated schedule. It intrigued her more than it should have, and she wanted answers. 

"If you must know, I'm going to visit Y/N," Wednesday admitted. "It's been one year."

Enid's gaze flitted to the floor for a moment before returning to her roommate. "Oh." 

A heavy silence blanketed the two girls, and the Addams turned back around to continue her search, though it only lasted for a moment or two before she faced the werewolf again. 

"Have you seen my sweatshirt? The one with the zipper?" she asked, tapping her foot on the floor as she impatiently awaited a response.

"Thing dragged it under the bed the other day," Enid said, pointing towards Wednesday's mattress. With a curt nod as a thank you, the raven-haired girl walked over to her bed before dropping to her knees and reaching beneath it, her fingers finding the offending item. She pulled it out, dusted it off, and then put it on over her shirt. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Wednesday ignored her question. "I'll be back before night fall."

* * * 

The cemetery was completely empty of anything living when Wednesday arrived. She wandered through the area in search of your gravesite as she hadn't returned since the burial, but it wasn't hard to find: your tombstone--a stark white granite and surrounded by vibrant flowers, all left by friends that had visited that day--stood out amongst the others.

She sat in front of the gravestone, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin atop them, her arms wrapping around her legs. For a moment, she merely stared at the epitaph that had been engraved in the stone:

We loved with a love that was more than love.

It was a quote from your favorite Edgar Allan Poe poem, "Annabel Lee," and was a sentence that Wednesday had heard fall from your lips numerous times. It slipped off of your tongue in such an elegant way that it had seemed almost as natural to you as breathing. 

"We loved with a love that was more than love," Wednesday recited in a murmur. She reached a hand out, traced the words with her forefinger, tried to ignore the feelings that were stirring within her. "I loved you with a love that was more than love." 

Softly, she pressed her palm flat against the stone as though you would be able to reach out and touch your hand to hers, run your pinky along the edge of her own before looping the two together, bring her hand to your lips and press a light kiss to the tips of her knuckles. But you were no longer able to do any of these things, and she would never experience your fingers interlocked with her own again, and that thought alone caused a tear to slip from her eye and roll down her cheek.

"You weren't supposed to die." She pretended not to notice the crack of her voice, the guilt that was weighing in her chest, the sadness that invaded her heart. "It was supposed to be me."

It was Thornhill that caused your death: a single bullet had exited the chamber of her gun, and it had found its home in your stomach rather than Wednesday's. Minutes later, the raven-haired girl was left cradling your lifeless body with a horrible emptiness settling inside her. 

"You loved everyone with a love that was more than love," she whispered, frowning. "It wasn't meant to end so soon." A sob threatened to erupt from her throat, but she swallowed it down. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, cara mia."

With a shaky hand, she pressed her fingers to her lips before touching them against the stone, a gesture that the two of you had made your own. When you first began dating, on days when Wednesday couldn't stand much physical affection--which was quite frequent--you would kiss her by doing that exact motion, and she often found herself returning it. It quickly turned into a normal act of appreciation, and the two of you found yourselves doing it on a daily basis. 

"I will always love you with a love that is more than love."

[beenbaanbuun]

lord huron songs w/ateez

so listen…. i know i said nothing for a few days but sometimes your brain just thinks if something and then you have to do it because if you don’t you’ll forget about it!! anyway… i love lord huron so…

kim hongjoong - louisa

“i’m glad i met you,” hongjoong whispers to you one night as the two of you lie side by side on the hood of his car. whilst you lie watching the stars, distracted by the way the twinkle, hongjoong keeps his gaze firmly on you. the way the moonlight hits your skin has his heart beating at an unnatural rate; if he were to sit here and stare at you for much longer, he doesn’t doubt it would explode in his chest.

“yeah?” you murmur, voice sounding like a wind chime, bringing music and joy to his otherwise stormy life. he sighs, basking in the gentle sound for just a moment. “i’m glad i met you too,” you hum. hongjoong just shakes his head.

you’ll never know how he feels about you because you have a life outside of him. you have brightness and purpose; a job that you love and friends that care for you. you have happiness and passion; he has you and that’s all. monotony and routine take up his day to day, his simple nine to five slowly taking his resolve to pieces bit by bit. ‘good for nothing’ is how he sees himself and that’s how he’ll be remembered. he can only be glad that he met you when he did because now when he passes on in 60 years instead of just soon, loving husband will lie on his gravestone too.

he smiles at you brightly at the thought of you taking him by the hand and pulling him from the grave that he’s already dug for himself. your sweet words and gentle kisses helped him fill in the hole and pat the dirt back down. your tenderness and love spread the seeds and helped the grass grow back over the disturbed ground. it didn’t take long for that grave to become a thing of the past; a well kept secret that hongjoong would never share with another living soul.

he may have died, but your loving raised him.

park seonghwa - la belle fleur sauvage

the beat-up truck that sits outside of seonghwa’s stuffy office block sticks out like a sore thumb, the woman inside of it drawing the attention of each passer by. you don’t belong there, but perhaps that’s why people like to stop and stare. with beauty unmatched and a personality that even the strongest man couldn’t tame, you were nothing more than a fantasy to most of them. not to him, though. not to seonghwa.

he shrugs his suit jacket off and tosses it into the backseat through the open window. it’s lands with a thud, the expensive fabric all crumpled and disheveled. a year ago, the idea of treating his possessions so carelessly would’ve killed him, but as he crawls into the passenger seat, all he can think about is the woman sitting prettily behind the wheel.

“you know, you really don’t have to pick me up from work,” he chuckles as the door shuts behind him. “i appreciate the gesture, my little wildflower, but it’s a little far out of your way, isn’t it?”

you shrug as you start up the ignition, the rattly engine roaring to life.

“when has something being out of reach ever stopped me?” you muse, shifting the truck into gear, “you should know by now that it’ll take a lot more than a little car journey to keep me away from what i want.”

“am i what you want?” he teases, voice lilting prettily as he watches you try to hide your smile. he knows that if you didn’t have to keep your eyes on the road, you’d be sending him a look sharp enough to kill. though, even with that wildness in your eyes, seonghwa can’t think of a more beautiful person on this earth.

jeong yunho - fool for love

there’s a knock at your door, three loud thuds and then silence. a brief look towards the clock tells you that it’s late, but you can’t find it in you to worry. the danger of whoever is behind your door seems to be outweighed by your curiosity; who could possibly be coming to see you at such an hour? you shuffle to the door with determination, pyjama pants dragging along your floorboards as you search for the answer to your question.

your hand finds the doorknob, tugging at it lightly until the door swings open, a dear friend of yours waiting behind it. with a grin on your face, you go to greet him, but before a single word can slip from your tongue, his lips press against yours. it takes you by surprise, and yet somehow you don’t mind it; all it takes is a second or two until you’re kissing him back.

and then he pulls back, chest heaving with each death breath he pulls through his swollen lips. you brush a thumb against them, wiping away your spit.

“i’m leaving,” he says, as if that explains everything, “i’m skipping town and i… i need you with me… please.”

it’s not hard for you to pack your bags. in fact you’d say it’s rather easy. perhaps too much so to say that you’re saying goodbye to everything you’ve ever known. and as yunho loads your belongings into the back seat of his car, you can’t help but smile as you lock your door for the final time.

kang yeosang - until the night turns

you wake up from a dreamless slumber to your boyfriend staring down at you, tears in the corners of his eyes and a rattled expression painted over his pretty features. you frown at him, wearily lifting a hand to wipe away the droplets that had begin to make a path down the side of his face. in your hazy state, there’s not much more you can convince yourself to do; you hope that your wordless comfort is enough to settle him a little.

“i had a bad dream,” he explains, deep voice wavering like a scared child, “the world was ending and i just,” he cuts himself off with a sigh, “it sounds silly but i wanted to spend my last few hours with you.”

you can’t help but give him an amused smile. only he would let such a silly dream get to him this much, your sweet boy. it’s clear he needs comfort, and even with your brain only working at half the speed it should, you’re quick to tug him close and wrap him up in your arms; if it’s comfort he wants, then it’s comfort he’ll get. your lips find his temple.

“we can stay awake until the sun rises,” you offer, voice gravelly with sleep. he hums in appreciation as he huddles in closer.

“but what if the world does end?” his voice is pitiful and weak. you give him one long squeeze with your arms.

“then at least we’ll be together when it does.”

choi san - the man who lives forever

“you know how people say that no one wants to live forever?” san murmurs to you one morning. the two of you have yet to move from his bed, despite the clock on the nightstand letting you know that moon is rapidly approaching. the alarm has rang through the room at least thrice, and yet neither of you have dared to slip from the other’s arms. perhaps its what you both need, a full day of nothing, drowning in one another’s love. “i think i’d want to if you were with me.”

the words make you lift your gaze, your head that rests on his bare chest pivoting until you can see his face. it’s set in stone, expression deadly serious as he declares his intentions to live forever with you by his side. a petite grin finds its way to your lips.

“oh yeah?” you taunt, “and why is that?”

a large hand finds its way to the top of your head, gentle fingers caressing your hair as the man they belong to mulls over his thoughts. his expression twists thoughtfully as he pieces together what he wants to say. he’s handsome like this, not that he isn’t all the time. its just that the way his nose scrunches and his lips purse make you realise just how cute he is. you could fall in love with him all over again.

“because i think i could live in this moment with you until the day i die, and i’d still think it was too short,” his nails scrape against your scalp in a way that makes you instantly relax. you curl up into his body with a hum. “i want to have you in my arms until the sun explodes and takes us with it, and i’m not even sure that’ll be long enough.”

song mingi - moonbeam

“i had a dream about you last night,” mingi hums as you pass him a bowl of popcorn in preparation for your bi-monthly movie marathon. you toss yourself down onto the couch beside him, leaning in close as you grab a fist-full of popcorn and begin to slowly feed yourself. he takes your silence as a gesture for him to continue, popping a piece of the snack between his lips first. “yeah, it started off as a nightmare and then you came along and made it all better.”

you snort at the idea of saving your best friend from whatever demons choose to haunt his nights. you can’t imagine it’s anything too frightening; the big baby gets intimidated by the smallest of things. it really wouldn’t take much for you to be his night in shining armour.

“and how did i make everything better?” your voice is teasing as it comes out, but you genuinely are curious about the answer. you let your gaze meet his, taking no notice of how close his face is to yours. if you thought about it for more than a millisecond, you might have registered the way you can feel his warm breath against your face, or the way his pupils keep flicking between looking you in the eye and looking down at your pink lips.

“you kissed me,” he whispers, and despite your proximity, you barely hear it. “and suddenly everything was okay. all my bad thoughts were gone and it was just… you.”

you look at him with wide eyes, unsure of what to say to his confession. of course, it’s a shock to hear something like that from your best friend, but that’s not to say it’s unwelcome. he chuckles lowly at the way you stare at him.

“oh, don’t look at me like that,” he inches even closer, lips barely grazing against your own, “you can’t tell me you can’t see how much i want to love you.”

jung wooyoung - cursed

wooyoung moans into the kiss that you press against his mouth. hot and mouth wateringly delicious, he can’t seem to get enough of the way your lips feel against him. it’s like you’ve laced your lipgloss with cocaine or something because at this point, it’s an addiction, and try as he might, he can’t seem to kick it.

at this point, he isn’t even sure he wants to.

“holy fuck,” he mumbles against you, opening his eyes for just a brief moment so he can take you in in all your glory. puffy wet lips, swollen from all the lust and passion wooyoung had put into the kiss. a pretty pink tongue darts out to lap at the layer of his spit that glazes them, and he feels his brain go foggy. “i think you’ve cast a spell on me or something, baby. it’s the only reasonable explanation for why i’m so fucking obsessed with you.”

his lips find yours once more, tongue intertwining easily with yours. they play with one another for a short while before he lets you take over, relaxing his jaw a little to let you lazily lick into his mouth. something about you taking him up on his offer of control has him groaning into your mouth. you’re so adorable, even when you’re in charge.

“i’ve not done anything,” you whisper against his open mouth, pulling away ever so slightly to catch your breath, “it’s hardly my fault you took one at me and decided to make it your life’s mission to worship me.”

“shut up, brat,” he chuckles against you, chasing your lips with his own, “i wouldn’t feel the need to worship you if you hadn’t laid some sort of curse on me.”

choi jongho - mine forever

“if you never want to see my face again, i’ll understand,” the weak voice warbles from the other side of your door. it hurts to listen to after the fight you had last night, the wounds still fresh and aching. it’s even worse to listen to when you know your boyfriend doesn’t so easily cry, and yet here he is, sobbing on your doorstep. you swallow the lump in your throat, wiping your own tears away in a desperate attempt to pull yourself together. “just please, give me closure so i know how you feel.”

if you weren’t so upset, the situation would’ve probably made you laugh. it had been less than 24 hours since you walked out of his apartment and walked it back to yours, and yet the poor boy was acting like you’d left him with nothing for weeks. even despite the pain that swims through your veins, you can’t help but find his dramatics adorable, and you find a small smile gracing your lips as you finally move to unlock the door.

he looks a state, red, puffy eyes, hair matted and stuck to his forehead, lips chapped and bloody. you want to hold him in your arms, comfort him through his suffering. then you remember he caused this suffering himself, as well as all the pain that resides in your own chest. you fold your arms in front of you.

“you look like shit,” are the first words to leave your lips. he just stares at you blankly.

“i can’t sleep without you,” is all he says in response.

“you mean you haven’t slept since last night?” he shakes his head, and you feel your heart crack just a little. so much for pulling yourself together.

“i can’t live without you, baby,” he whispers as you invite him into your arms, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, “and i’m too young to die.”

[rashoumon-homo]

The Bar Lupin (Dazai x Reader)

Dazai x Male Reader, SFW

-> Content Warnings: alcohol mention, hurt/comfort, grief, anxiety attacks, happy ending

-> 1.2k words

Author’s Note: long time no see! I just finished up my class the other day so now I have more free time to write, yay! This one is super tame, but I do have a NSFW Atsushi x Reader in the works so you’ll get your smut fix soon!

Request sent by @suru1990 - enjoy!

♡ ♡ ♡

Ever since Oda’s death, Dazai had avoided the Bar Lupin. It just felt too sentimental, like a holy place that would be tainted if he were to step over the threshold. There were too many memories tied up there. Ones where he was truly happy, which felt somehow worse to dwell on than the more traumatic memories did. When he was in hiding after leaving the Port Mafia, he had a reasonable enough excuse to avoid the place. After all, it was a place he had visited frequently and the Mafia was sure to look for him there. But then the years passed and he joined the Armed Detective Agency and settled in. The Port Mafia knew where he was and didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore about his reasons for staying away from the Bar Lupin.

Dazai made a habit of visiting Oda’s grave every year on the anniversary of his death. He’d just sit there in silence, leaning back against the gravestone while dappled sunlight shone on them both through the tree above. Sometimes he’d talk, but mostly he’d sit there quietly. He also had a ritual for spending Oda’s birthdays- getting blackout drunk on whiskey and sake and subsequently calling in sick to work for the next several days to sleep off the hangover. He jokingly called it a “hard reset” but his coworkers exchanged glances rather than laughing when he did.

He and Oda and Ango used to all spend each other’s birthdays at the Bar Lupin, laughing together about who knows what. It was on one of those birthdays that he’d tried whiskey for the first time.

It had now been four years since Oda had celebrated a birthday. Dazai tried not to think about those memories, but they rose to the top of his head like ramune bubbles, determined to resurface. He’d been fighting them all day. Now alone in his room, the weight of them made his chest and throat feel tight, so he threw back yet another cup of sake. And maybe his nose was tingling a little, like it does before he cries, but he was decidedly not drunk enough to deal with that. So he pulled on his coat and went for a walk to clear his head.

Turns out his half-drunk, emotional mind was a bitch. He stood outside the front door of the Bar Lupin, grinding his teeth. He felt so goddamn stupid for being afraid of a building. A building! He was an ex-mafioso. He’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of people die in front of him in the most gruesome ways. And yet the ghosts of memories had the power to scare him away from the place for years. He was sick of it. His eyes pricked with tears and that was enough to push him forward, opening the door.

As Dazai walked down the stairs, he was surprised to see that the inside of the bar was nearly identical to the last time he’d been there. The decor was the same as always; the soft music just as he remembered. The calico cat that used to hang around was curled up on one of the barstools, sleeping. Even the smell was the same - it was like stepping back in time.

Dazai glanced down the row of barstools and froze. There you were, sitting in Oda’s usual seat. You were about the same height and wearing a similar trench coat, and for a horrifying moment, he thought you were Oda. Startled, he stumbled backwards, bumping into the wall with a muffled thump. You looked over in surprise, but the attention was lost in the haze of adrenaline and humiliation clouding Dazai’s perception.

It wasn’t Oda. Of course it wasn’t. How fucking stupid could he be? Tears sprung to Dazai’s eyes and he swallowed thickly. God, he hated crying.

You stood up and started walking over.

“Stay back!” Dazai warned, flinching away as he saw you approach. He felt the air shift as you crouched down beside him.

“Here, take this,” you said.

He hesitantly lifted his head, gaze flitting to your yellow converse - definitely not something Oda would have worn. He glanced further up, to the handkerchief in your extended hand. Your eyes were softened with concern, but not pity. At least there was that. He took the handkerchief.

You sat on the ground beside him and leaned against the wall, then closed your eyes. “Slow, deep breaths,” you said. “In for 4…” You demonstrated for him, not caring whether he was actually paying attention. “Then hold for 4,” you continued. “Out for four…” You let your breath out slowly through your mouth. “And hold for another 4.” You peeked over at him and were pleased to see him breathing along with you.

The two of you sat there, breathing calmly, for the next few minutes.

Dazai shifted and ran his fingers through his hair. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Doing better now?” you asked.

He finally looked you in the face and wow he had the most beautiful brown eyes you’d ever seen. And long eyelashes that glistened with tears. His nose was a bit red, and his eyes still looked puffy, but somehow the vulnerability was attractive in itself.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked finally. He blushed, then quickly added, “To repay you for helping me.”

You smiled and stood up, then held out your hand to help him to his feet. “I’d like that,” you said.

Now that he looked closer, Dazai could see the hint of a tattoo just under your collar. And the hand you’d extended to help him up was covered in rings, your nails coated in chipped black nail polish. When you smiled at him, it was wide and genuine and a little crooked. You were nothing like Oda.

“Actually,” Dazai said suddenly, “maybe we can get coffee instead? I’ve already had a bit to drink and this place just doesn’t feel right anymore.”

“Um… sure!” you said, warming up to the idea. “I’m new to the area, so maybe you can show me around on the way!”

As the two of you chattered together and walked up the stairs, Dazai couldn’t help but feel lighter. Somehow, that was all the closure he needed. He was looking towards the future now; not giving the past any more weight than it deserved.

Dazai sneakily grabbed your hand as you walked through the front door, smiling to himself as you blushed into the collar of your coat. “You blushing?” he teased.

“It’s cold out!” you insisted, only turning pinker. He laughed at you and the two of you started down the sidewalk. After a few seconds, he spoke again.

“I’m glad I met you,” he said. “Feels like fate or something.” His tone made it hard to tell if he was being genuine or just messing around, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes when he said it.

“Hmm… I think it’s a bit early to say for sure,” you said playfully. “But I’m glad I met you too.” You squeezed his hand and smiled at him. The two of you turned the corner and the sign for the bar was out of sight.

♡ ♡ ♡

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[adore-laur]

COME HOME TO MY HEART

— an angsty continuation of home is a feeling that takes place months after ☕️

——

Standing under a bleak sky copious with death, Harry is just another person in a black ensemble of mourning that rivals the white winter scene. Snowdrifts heap over inscribed gravestones, and willow trees weep frigid tears along with everyone else at the street-corner cemetery. It's a sorrowful evening; not even the pastel pink wisps of a brumal sunset are able to lift spirits. 

As the coffin is lowered into the ground, its sleek wood collecting flurries from above, the surrounding air grows colder in lamentation. 

A departure from life is impossible to prepare for, isn't it? 

Harry hangs back from the crowd by a bare maple tree. He wears a long black coat with deep pockets for his hands. To anyone else, he's an intruding spectator, but in actuality, you personally invited him to be a crutch of support since your parents can't be that right now. 

He promised you he would be here, yet the way you've been gazing up at him with indecipherable eyes every now and then tells him you didn't quite believe him. 

When you had called him out of the blue and relayed the upsetting news about your grandfather's passing, his heart had ached in a way it hadn't ever before. It ached for you, his grief-stricken girl, and also for your family, who were always generous throughout the years. In the week since he arrived back in his hometown, he gave you time to deal with the initial grief independently. There was no need to barge into his ex-girlfriend's life and attempt to be your saving grace. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, he'd wait for you to ask and then lend it to you without a second thought. Your level of comfort with him isn't something to be presumed. 

Nonetheless, it's an unfortunate circumstance just to be able to see your face again. 

The crowd disperses once the loose dirt is shoveled back into the ground. Crumpled tissues in hands and hushed chatter signify the end of the funeral burial. It didn't feel right for Harry to attend the service, as it was for close family and friends only. Even now, a nagging feeling inside his gut tells him he doesn't belong in such a sensitive area. 

He pushes himself off the tree trunk and searches for your familiar figure that has suddenly disappeared. He mentally prepares what he'll say to you and is highly aware that there's no right way to go about condolences. He just needs to be as gentle as possible. 

Eventually, you emerge from a huddled group and lock eyes with him again, with a slight smile that mends his aching heart for the time being. 

"You look like a spy," you say, your boots crunching in the snow as you walk toward him. 

He laughs softly but doesn't say anything. Instead, his empathetic side takes in every part of your face, looking for an emotion to pinpoint so he can comfort you in the most chivalrous way possible. He notices your dissociative eyes with prominent bags under them, your tinted nose from the cold, and your chapped lips that make him yearn to kiss the rawness away. 

He's so close to you again. Has your hair gotten darker due to the seasons changing? Why do you have such beautiful eyes, even on a dreary day? Does the eyeliner you have on come from the pencil stub you've owned since high school? 

Knowing his own boundaries, Harry thumbs a quick swipe across your shivering chin and then wraps you in a tight hug. You instantly melt into him, your arms looping around his torso—just like that one night on the rooftop. 

"Your hair is so long," you mumble into his coat. 

He releases you before the intimacy starts to hurt too much, but he keeps a protective hold on your upper arms. "Do you hate it?" 

"No, it suits you." You swallow and look at him, your teeth chattering a bit. "Thank you for coming." 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replies sincerely. "Gramps was a great man." 

"He liked you a lot." 

"Did he?" 

You give him an almost scolding expression and say, "Of course he did. When I brought you home for Christmas the year we started dating, he took me into the kitchen and told me you were a keeper." 

Harry's posture stiffens. "I didn't know that." 

"It was our little secret," you say quietly, snowflakes falling onto your eyelashes. "Um, have you had a chance to talk to my parents yet?" 

"I don't think they'd want to see me," he says while removing his hands from you. He tucks them back into his pockets since they're becoming numb. 

"Why not?" 

"I just have a feeling." He's been having a lot of those lately. "Not often that an ex-boyfriend shows up at a funeral, you know?" 

Frowning, you glance around and say, "It's not like they hate you or anything." 

God, he hopes not. Yet he wouldn't necessarily blame them, considering he broke their precious daughter's heart. 

"Where are you going after this?" he asks, not wanting to delve into his regrets. 

"My parents' house," you reply, your breath visible in the frosty air. "To my childhood bedroom. Hopefully, I'll get some sleep for once." 

You haven't been sleeping? He could've guessed, but he didn't want to assume. He wonders if you still light vanilla candles and turn on salt lamps to rejuvenate your energy, according to you. 

"Did you drive here?" 

"No, I rode with my mom and dad." 

Harry shifts his footing and clears his throat. "Would they mind if I stole you for a bit?" 

You blink quickly. "What do you mean?" 

"I just want to talk," he elaborates, scratching under his nose. "Catch up. That's all." 

There's an apparent hesitance when you nibble on your bottom lip. "What do you want to talk about?" 

"Anything you want." Truthfully, he just misses hearing your voice. "I'm staying here with my mom for a while since my winter break starts soon. And, well, you're the only person in this town I enjoy talking to." 

"Are you kidnapping me from a funeral?" 

"Maybe don't put it like that." 

A genuine laugh escapes you, and Harry's knees almost give out. "Sure, let's go," you say with a smile and a lighthearted shrug. "Being here is making me sad." 

"Okay. Let me say hello to your parents really quick." 

You scan the cemetery, then ask, "Do you need me to come with you?" 

He scrunches his nose and toes the snowy ground with the front of his boot. "Please?" 

After he politely shakes hands with your dad and gives your mom a long hug, he walks you to his black Jeep parked on the side of the road by the first row of graves, his elbow hooked with yours so you don't slip on the pavement slush. The first thing he sees is that his windshield has iced over from the bitter cold. 

He sighs and fishes for his keys, then unlocks the doors. "Here, start it for me and turn the heat on. I need to scrape the ice off." 

You take his keys and slide into the passenger seat. Harry makes sure you're situated and then grabs his ice scraper from under the backseat. After a few minutes of manual labor, he gets behind the wheel and shakes snow flurries out of his hair. 

"Where on earth are your mittens?" he asks when he notices your hands are tucked under your legs. 

"I didn't bring any," you reply defensively. 

"Love," he stresses as he pushes his hair back. "It's bloody freezing out. Give me your hands." 

"Maybe if your stupid Jeep didn't take forever to warm up." 

Harry doesn't make a snarky remark since he knows you're sensitive right now. He just cups your hands between his and blows warm air on them to increase your circulation. They're soft and fit so well between his palms, like they were molded to be held by only him. 

"Ready to go?" he asks between blowing breaths, focusing his gaze on you. 

You study the snowflakes sticking on the windshield. "Where?" 

He gently sets your hands in your lap and then reaches across to buckle your seatbelt before fastening his own. "Is Edge of Town still your favorite café?" 

"Yeah," you say bemusedly, turning toward him with widened eyes of innocence. "Why?" 

Putting his car in reverse, he places one hand on your headrest and smiles at you. "Let's get some coffee there, yeah? For old times' sake." 

——

Sitting across from Harry at a corner table in the dimly lit café, you can't believe you almost forgot how handsome he is as you both sip from cinnamon lattes, careful not to disrupt the intricate art made from steamed milk on the surface. 

All the slight changes since you last saw him have become your focal point, his hair being the most staggering. It's now tied up into a bun, and you're not sure why, but it makes him look different. His facial features have gotten slightly older; the high school baby face you fell in love with now showcases physical maturity. 

He's different, but somehow all the same. 

You've spent the last half hour catching up with him, which has proved easy since college is a relevant topic in both of your lives. You learned that he's getting his degree in the spring of next year, and then he's going to find a job somewhere in Europe to start the next chapter of his life. You're proud of him. He's always had a good head on his shoulders. 

"Have you ever had marshmallows in your coffee?" Harry asks, tapping his foot against yours under the table. 

You set your cup down and blankly stare at him. "No, you freak." 

"It's good," he claims, wiping his lips with a napkin. "You should try it." 

"You know, your taste in beverages hasn't improved over the years. Don't even think for a second that I forgot about the ginger ale." 

"Excuse me," he says offendedly, "it helps fight the common cold and digestion problems. It's the perfect drink to have in the wintertime." 

"Absolutely rancid," you mutter, taking another sip of your coffee. 

As you continue your subtle ogling, your eyes catch brown leather peeking out of his coat pocket. The familiar journal of his catapults you back in time, flashbacks playing in your head from all the vivid occasions you've seen him carry it around or write in it. He had never let you look at his entries, always making a show of hiding his secret words from you. Looking at it now, you see that a page toward the end has some sort of bookmark sticking out. 

"You still have that?"

Harry looks confused. "What, digestion problems?" 

"No, oh my God," you say with a burst of laughter. "I meant your journal. You've had that thing for ages." 

"Ah." He pulls it out and sets it next to his coffee cup. "Yeah, I still have it." 

You admire how worn the cover is, decorated with permanent marker scribbles on the cracked material. "Are my terrible drawings still in there?" 

Nodding, he smirks and leans back into the booth, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll show you later. They're quite abstract." 

The space fills with comfortable silence for a while, and before you know it, you're walking out the door with him and into the night. You don't remember ever getting up, but the numbness in your brain might have caused it. The past week has felt like a fuzzy dream you've been stuck in. Grief is a peculiar thing.

Under the snowy sky, hometown nostalgia in the dead of winter creeps under your skin. When you look around at the sidewalks you used to walk with your grandpa, everything suddenly hits you hard. Your lips wobble as you try to blink back the tears, but they fall without warning. 

Harry quickly wraps both arms around your shoulders, resting his cheek on top of your head. "It's okay to cry," he whispers, kissing your hair. "I promise you it's okay." 

You sniffle and say, "Whenever we see each other, I always end up crying." 

He hums. "Sorry. I don't mean to." 

"No, it's not you this time." You bury your nose in his coat and let the woodsy scent of his cologne distract you. "I just always realize how lonely I am when winter comes around. It gets harder as I get older." Swallowing and shaking your head, you continue, "I used to adore winter as a kid. I would play outside in the snow for hours and then come inside to drink hot chocolate. I wouldn't care if the sky was gray or if my fingers would freeze. Nowadays, I just stay in my room when it's gloomy, unless I need to go to work. Growing up isn't as fun as I thought it'd be." 

"You still have my number," Harry replies softly, pulling you closer. "You can always call or text me when you're feeling lonely." 

"I had to pay by the minute when I called you about my grandpa since you were in the Netherlands." 

"And is that so bad?" 

You smile and sniffle again. "No, it isn't. To be here on an empty street in the freezing cold, crying and joking around with you—I've missed it. Not the crying, but you know what I mean." 

"I know," he murmurs. "I've missed it too." 

"Will you be celebrating Christmas with your mom?" you ask, hearing a car drive by. "She's still living here, right?" 

"Yeah, I'll be at her house." He cradles the back of your head and gently pulls it away from his coat. "You should stop by. She always thinks of you." 

You look at him and say, "All good things, I hope." 

"Always." Taking your hand, he starts walking further down the sidewalk. "Follow me." 

Harry stops at a streetlight and releases his hand to pull his journal out again. He flips through the pages until he gets to one toward the end. "When we said goodbye in the summer," he says, "I walked around town and wrote about all the places we used to go—places where we had good memories. You can read what I wrote if you want." 

"Really?" you ask. Harry nods, so you take his journal from him and read the black ink that fills half the page. 

The streetlight on the corner of Lawton Avenue. I kissed you under it on New Year's when the clock on my phone turned to midnight. Your lips were cold, but they lit a fire inside of me. What I would give to feel them again, even if they just pressed against my cheek like you did when we said goodbye. 

"Lawton Avenue..." you trail off, your eyes dancing around the area where you stand. "Isn't that—" 

"This is the same streetlight," Harry interrupts quietly. 

You exhale incredulously, gazing up at the familiar light. "It is. I remember now." 

"This feels right, doesn't it?" He steps closer until his boots touch the tip of yours. "Me and you being here. It's like something keeps bringing us back to one another. Does that sound crazy?" 

"Gramps," you choke out. 

He tilts your chin up with his knuckle. "Hmm?" 

You take a deep, shaky breath. "I almost wasn't going to tell you that he passed, but then I thought about how much he liked you. He always went on and on about how nice of a boy you were. How he saw the love in your eyes." 

"He loved you. I only saw him a few times, but I know that he loved you so much." 

"I know. I think he brought us back together." 

"Well, he was right about the love in my eyes," he says, his gaze piercing your soul. "I don't think it's ever completely gone away." 

Logical thinking goes out the window when you tell him, "I love you. I shouldn't anymore, but I do. 

Harry cups your cold cheeks. "Stop. You don't get to say that." 

"I love you," you repeat, your voice becoming thick with emotion. "You still mean so much to me. Just like what you said to me back in July." 

"Right person, wrong time. That's what we decided on the rooftop." 

"But I didn't mean what I said." 

That night was five months ago. It's wild how one day and one look at him can change all your feelings. The love you thought you lost with him is coming back as an unraveling epiphany. 

Sighing, Harry looks down at the sidewalk blanketed in snow. "You told me it would never work," he says. 

"I didn't know what I was saying," you reply hastily. "It was so overwhelming seeing you again after two years." 

"I don't understand," he says, slightly frustrated. "You made it seem like we were better off never seeing each other again." 

You wipe your tears that are either from the brisk air or your own misery. "I'll be your friend, I'll be a one-night stand, I'll be anything. I just want to be someone to you again." 

He glimpses at your lips. "You are. You're everything to me." 

"But the distance—" 

"Fuck the distance." 

It was the only thing that broke the relationship. 

"You were so good, Harry." Resting your forehead against his, you breathe out a landslide of emotions. "Such a good boyfriend. You loved me better than anyone." 

"I still love you," he says, placing both palms on your neck. "Years ago, it was high school love that I didn't fully understand. This... hey, look at me." Your chin is tilted back up with his thumb. "This right here is even more real to me. This is why I asked if we could try again." 

"So, what now?" you ask, looking into his eyes. "Do we try again?" 

"We try again." 

"How?" 

"If the distance fucks everything up," he says with his warm breath hitting your lips, "then we know we aren't right for each other. But I'll go through that possibility if it means I don't have to love you from afar anymore." 

"Just come home," you plead desperately. 

"I am home. Technically, right?" 

"No, you don't get it." You grip his shoulders. "Come home to me. To my heart." 

He kisses your cheek twice, the first quick and the second longer. "I'm right here, baby. I'll stay for as long as you need me to." 

"I want you to stay here." Your own voice sounds distant. "I miss you all the time." 

"I will," he affirms, his eyes fluttering shut and his voice fading. "I'll come home to you." 

Just as you're about to kiss his lips, something taps the back of your hand. The streetlight you're under goes dark, and the vision in front of you fizzles out as you blink rapidly to find yourself back in the café, staring at your latte. 

"Hey," Harry says tentatively, squeezing your fingers with his. "You all right?" 

Snapping your head up to him, you blurt, "Sorry. I zoned out for a bit." You shake your head and repeat, "Sorry."

"That's okay." He looks out the window—the snow is falling harder than it has been all day. "I was just saying that your parents will probably want you to get home soon since the roads will be getting bad. I can drop you off." 

Your throat tightens. "Um, sure. Yeah, I'm ready to head out if you are." 

"Okay," he says while standing. "Stay here. I'll start my car since it takes forever to heat up." 

You just weakly smile as he walks out of the glass doors. Sinking in your seat, you try not to think about where your mind has drifted. It felt so real, so wildly vivid. His voice, his words, his touch—all of it made sense. In your head, you do everything right. You let him in, not push him away. You talk it through, not avoid the burden you carry. You keep your chin up and do not give up at the first sign of doubt. 

After lightly slapping your cheeks, you sigh and put your coat back on. When you get up to shove your arms in the sleeves, you see that Harry left his journal on the table. It sits vulnerably next to his empty coffee cup, the string tied loosely around the cover. 

You shouldn't, but you do. 

Quickly opening it and flipping to the page with the bookmark, you skim the messy ink on the damp page. It looks fresh. Dried dots from snow darken the paper in various places, but you only focus on what the words spell out. 

She's under the willow tree, more beautiful than the weeping branches crystallized with icicles. I sit here in my car, wishing there was a way to let her know that I would do anything she wanted me to. 

My love for her warmly courses through my blood, protecting me from the brutal winter. If she opened her heart to me, I could make her my home again. Light those vanilla candles and kiss her like I used to. Tell her all about how she makes me a lovesick fool with no cure. Give her my time and apologize for ever walking away from the best thing that slipped through my fingers. 

Where she goes, I follow. There's some powerful force that refuses to keep us apart. Why can't she see it? I can't be with her if she doesn't yearn for me like I do for her. I understand the distance and why, in retrospect, she sees the potential downfall. However, I see the beauty that could flourish from it if we just tried. 

I want to come home to her every day, but how do I even begin to tell that to a girl who doesn't feel the same? 

Fuck the distance. 

The café door suddenly opens with a chime, making you slam his journal shut. Thankfully, Harry doesn't notice since he's too busy looking down and stomping his snow-covered boots on the welcome mat. 

You pretend you're picking up his journal for the first time and say, "Don't forget this." 

He glances up, eyeing what you hold. "Shit, thank you." He walks over and takes it. "Wait, I never got to show you your drawings." 

"It's fine," you tell him. "They're probably really embarrassing." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Positive. I'm pretty tired." 

His gaze dances around your face, then falls to your hands, fidgeting with the zipper on your coat. "Let's get you home," he says softly. "You can try to sleep on the way there." 

You end up doing just that until he pulls into your parents' driveway. Opening your eyes, you squint at the bright beams of the headlights reflecting off the house's windows. You look over at Harry and find him staring at you, his face barely visible in the dark. 

"We're here," he whispers. 

You nod sleepily and unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you for… making today a little easier." 

"Of course." He rubs the back of his neck, not knowing where to look. "I hope you get some sleep tonight." 

A chasmic pang. A searing sting. A residual twinge. 

Why? 

Because the words you tearily whispered to him before shutting the car door cause you to fall into bed and clutch the blanket until sleep overtakes your heartache. 

You're a good man, Harry. 

——

[httpscomexe]

Slice

Day 9 of Kink-Tober - Knife Play

Summary: Two men have their eyes on you and just when you're about to end it all, they take you.

(Find What I’m currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Parings: Bucky x Reader x Loki

Warnings: (I honestly hated this, it was super rushed) Breaking in, oral, double oral, fingering, knife play (Lmk if I missed any)

Tags: @cellyx33 @foxherder @shybluebirdninja

Word Count: 2256 (Find my Kink-Tober list here)

P.S. If you would like to be added to the Kink-Tober tag list, just let me know.

“This one smells good.” Your friend held a bouquet of flowers up to your nose, and it made you sneeze.

“Does it matter if it smells good?” You hate to be the pessimistic person here, but… “I mean they’re just gonna sit in front of a headstone.” She groans, clearly not liking your response.

Most people hate shopping with you. You’re bluntly honest. If they look fat in the dress, you tell them. If the shoes make their feet look like circus clowns, then you tell them. And of course, if they want to get flowers for a dead man’s gravestone, a yearly tradition for your best friend. Then honestly what’s the point in buying the ones that smell good. No one was going to bend over in the middle of a graveyard and smell the flowers.

It was cruel.

But you were honest.

“I knew I should’ve brought Kayley.” He huffs, putting the bouquet back in place before storming away from you, and you sigh. It wasn’t the first time she got mad at your honesty. You’re used to it.

“No wait, please… come back.” You don’t bother shouting. You’re quiet because you don’t want her to hear you.

You shove your hands in your pockets, fidgeting with the little keychain of your car keys as you stare down at another set of flowers. Sunflowers and other little white flowers that looked like little cotton balls on a stiff vine. They were cute, your favourite flowers were sunflowers. Probably not the best for a funeral though.

You sigh, more of a groan as you throw your head back. Normally Tiffany forgives you after an hour of being enraged, you were sure this time wouldn’t be any different as you picked up a bouquet of roses, some of them dyed to be black.

“Is this all you’d like?” The cashier asks, and you don’t bother responding, you just hand her your card and the fake smile on her face drops. “Okay, your total is $26.17, have a nice day.” You stare at the screen that says “approved " with a little green check mark before leaving the little store in the mall, grabbing one of the free “To and From,” cards from a little basket, which you scribble your name and Tiffany's on, along with a, “P.S. Sorry for being honest, and btw, these flowers are more appropriate for a graveyard than hibiscus. Those are for tea.” Before tying it around the stem of the roses and heading towards the parking lot.

“Of course.” You mumble to yourself. Your car is parked where you left it, but her car is gone.

She left you alone at the mall, at night, in the dark, where your two cars were the last ones there. Until now, it was just you.

Along with a motorcycle and a big ass black hummer, conveniently parked just across from your yellow beetle. Two men standing outside, one smoking a cigarette.

One of the men was tall, and skinny, but still muscular. You could tell when he flexed his arms as he crossed them over his chest. His hair was long, black, and greasy. You could see the ice blue eyes he adorned from a mile away. It was ridiculous.

The other man was a little shorter, but definitely more muscular. His hair was also long. He was wearing a red Henley with a nice jacket over it, a ball cap fastened on his head with a little ponytail peeking out from the back.

They both stared at you as you approached your car door. Your movements are hesitant. You were a little scared, reaching for the pepper spray in your pocket without them noticing.

“A little late for you to be out alone.” Greasy finally spoke up as you reached your door and opened it, quickly getting inside after saying something back.

“Good thing I’m going home.” You shout, closing the door and quickly starting the engine of your car, not wasting any time in backing out and leaving the parking lot. But also not missing the angry looks that both men give you.

You didn’t bother feeling bad for what you said. You just don’t have the energy to care much anymore.

She’s ‘threatened’ to stop being friends with you before. And it sounds fake, but you honestly wouldn’t care.

You just got out of a 5 year relationship because your fiance cheated on you with some other girl. Your cat got run over, and you lost your job because you’ve been sleeping in lately because you’re literally depressed.

So, tonight was the night.

You set your keys on the counter in their little bowl before typing your hair up into a high ponytail, leaving two little strands down for your bangs. Then you pull off your hoodie, you know your body heat is going to rise substantially. There was the bottle, sitting on top of your fridge. An entire glass bottle of vodka. And on the counter were sleeping meds and pills.

Tonight is the night.

You tell yourself again. Grabbing the bottle and pouring it into a mug, mixing the sleeping meds into the mug with every last one of your prescription pills, then you reach under your sink and grab your bleach, filling the rest of the mug with the liquid.

You turn around, pulling out your sharpest knife from the knife block on your counter, then you head to your bathroom. Partially excited, mostly scared.

Your biggest worry was your body might forcefully throw it all back up.

Hence, the knife.

If drugging yourself didn’t work, nor alcohol poisoning. Then surely blood loss would.

You turn the knob to your bathroom, freezing in the doorway as your eyes land on the yellow and white flowers, curiously tilting your head.

What the fuck?

The flowers you’d seen at the store… were just sitting there?

You place the mug on your bathroom counter, deciding to figure out why the fuck there were flowers there in the first place. Obsessed ex? Apologetic stalker? Normal stalker? Whoever it was, they knew your favourite flower.

You crouch down, lifting the bouquet into your hands and inspecting them before standing up, your eyes glued to the note wrapped around the stems, the little to and from card had words scribbled on it. Your heart dropped a little as you read it.

Y/N. We’ve been watching you. We know you. We know where you live. What you do every day. And soon, you’ll know us. Watch your back.

“What the actual fuck?” You say aloud, turning around as a sound suddenly comes from behind you. It sounded like the kitchen.

You grab your knife, which you’d set next to your mug.

Yea, so what if you wanted to die. Didn’t mean you wanted to be murdered. Plus, this sounded like a stalker situation, so you’d rather not be tortured.

“Hello?” Fucking hello? Did you think this was a horror movie? Shut up. You slowly stalk around your own home, searching for whatever caused the sound.

“There you are.” You spin around, almost losing your balance as you turn on your heels at a full 180. “Did you like your flowers?” The man asks, his same greasy hair from earlier was now half tied up, and his fingers were locked behind his back.

“Who the fuck-”

“Is the knife necessary?” A deeper voice asks from behind you, making you turn again. The other man, still in his red henley, his ball cap off and his jacket thrown over the back of your couch. “How about you put that down.”

“How about you both get out of my house.” You didn’t plan on using the knife honestly. It’s not like you would’ve been able to overpower these two men. Both of them alone with each three times your size. They could cough and knock you over.

“You have a bad attitude.” He grins as you face him, the knife tip pointed at him almost accusingly. “She’s snarky, isn’t she Loki?” He asks the other man, slowly stalking towards you.

“Oh I believe she is, maybe a little much for my liking.”

“Such an attitude…” Suddenly, two large hands are on your waist. Causing you to jump forward and quickly turn around again, the hands are replaced from Lokis’ to the other man's hands, but he keeps you still in a much firmer grip as Loki gets unbearably close, his snake-like fingers reaching up to cup your face.

“Remember us darling?” He whispers, bringing his body flat against yours as he doesn’t give you time to speak, leaning down to press his lips to your throat and the other man takes the other side, both of them leaving marks. “James and I aren’t very happy with the attitude you gave us…” He growls, biting you carefully before pulling away again to look into your eyes, and you feel fuzzy. In the reflection of his eyes you see green, and your body feels numb, almost limp as you stand there before your feet move on their own, taking Loki's hand as he brings you to your bedroom, Bucky following close behind.

“Go ahead and lie down darling.” You listen without a word, crawling into your bed and lying down, even voluntarily opening your legs for them.

“Now she’s being good?”

“A little mind control never hurts anybody.” Your eyes watch as they both get close, Bucky reaching over his head to pull off his shirt as Loki moves his hand, a green light fog-like substance emitting from his fingers before a dagger appears, and your eyes widen. “What’s the matter darling?” He teases, then holds up the dagger before crawling between your legs. “This?” He brings the blade close to your throat then carefully drags it down to your chest. “This is just in case you decide not to behave.” He whispers as he gets close to your ear, James’ hands holding you still by your waist, and one of his hands moves down your waist, to your hips, to your thigh, then between your legs, under your shorts.

“Get the fuck off me…” You try to shout, but the attention felt amazing. You didn’t want them to stop, you wanted them to tear you apart.

“Hush now darling…” Loki grips the knife in his hand, and the blade gets caught on your shirt before he begins to drag it up, completely tearing it away from your body, leaving you on full display for the two men, and you keep still, the knife trailing down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, was enough to keep you quiet. “Tie her down..” You lips part open, James’ hands wrap around your waist, lifting you up as he pushes you against the headboard and two light green strands of light circle around your wrists before they secure you to the bed frame, turning into vines, another one joining to cover your mouth, silencing you.

“Alright…” James starts, crawling between your legs, his lips attaching to your neck. “Let's get started already…” You’re about to start yelling at him, to beg him to get off, but then you whine in pain, the blade of the knife dragging down your thigh and James moves off of you slightly, making room for Loki to bend down, his tongue licking at the trickle of blood that seeps out of the side of your thigh.

“Shit…” You groan, and James' metal arm comes around, his fingers attaching around your neck as he lifts your head from looking down at your thigh and your eyes glue onto his before his lips connect with yours in a fierce kiss. Now it starts. You realise as Loki straddles one of your legs, his lips attaching to the other side of your throat as his knife pokes at the soft skin of your stomach. You weren’t sure what they would do with you after they were done with you, and honestly you weren’t too ready to know.

“She takes fucking amazing…” James groans, his hips bucking slightly to meet yours, and Loki pulls back for a moment, the knife trailing along with him as he leans down, pressing kisses to your bare thighs, then his knife hooks around your shorts, tearing them and his hands make work with your panties.

“With as much as I want to tear these off of you, they’re to fucking pretty to shred.” He tells you, pulling them off of your legs and down your thighs until they’re off and thrown away somewhere in the room, and he wastes no time and leaning down, pressing his tongue to your heat as he licks from your hole to your clit, biting it gently before repeating the movement, and they already have you a moan mess, James leaning down to suck at your nipples, twisting and pulling what he can’t grab. You let out another moan, Loki's fingers finding their way to easily slip into your cunt, and he thrusts his fingers, his digits finding the spongy spot inside of you which made you feel feral as he stroked it perfectly. His other hand busy with the knife as he presses it further against your thigh, James leaning down to immediately clean your skin of blood as they switch places, now with James's metal fingers inside of you, Loki's lips attached to yours, and you could taste yourself on his tongue as you sat still for them, unmoving at Loki’s mercy.