#things I wrote at midnight and woke up to the next morning

[children--of--time]

CT what does that mean? CT what the fuck does that mean??

[hauntedestheart]

When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is I reach for my phone. I've seen a lot of articles say that doing this is supposed to be bad for you, you're supposed to limit your screen time and not use electronic devices in bed and blah blah blah... but whoever wrote those articles clearly wasn't living my life.

Hell, I barely know who's living my life.

See, the reason I check my phone in the morning is because checking it is the only way I'm gonna find out what I did last night. Take, for example, the photo I found on it this morning.

Oh god, I'm cringing just looking at it. I didn't take this photo! Yeah, sure, I'm a hot guy who goes to the gym, but I swear I'm not the kind of douchebag who would pose nude like this. Someone else took this photo, and they used my body to do it.

Scrolling through the apps on my phone, I begin to piece together the events of last night. According to some Lyft receipts, my body left the house a bit before midnight and headed across the bridge to uptown, and didn't head back home until around five in the morning.

My bank statement informs me that I stopped at a fancy store to buy a new jacket (which I find in the closet) and then I headed to a bar I'd never heard of where I bought several rounds of shots and a plate of mozzarella sticks. It's even logged in my calorie counter app.

On Instagram I've been tagged in a story by someone I've never met before, and when I click on it there's a short video clip of a man standing on a table in some bar shaking his perky ass around and- oh, yup, the guy is me. I tap to the next video and my body has lost its shirt, probably so everyone can see my abs flexing as I do body rolls, and then in the next clip I'm down to just my skivvies and a stranger's hand is grabbing my junk and shaking it around. Thankfully, that's the last video in the lineup- though there's an ache in my ass that hints that it wasn't where the night ended.

This might sound like the kind of fun, drunken bender that a guy my age might get up to, but that's not what's going on here! I don't know why, but for the past few months every time I've gone to sleep at night, my body has woken back up and gone back out. At first I thought I was just sleepwalking- mom said I did it all the time as a kid -but sleepwalkers don't do the things that my body does.

Sleepwalkers walk. My body hits the town.

I always wake up safe and sound in bed in the morning, which is a small blessing, but everything else is a complete mystery. I don't know what is doing it, or how they're doing it, but I'm pretty sure it's another person. They basically told me so.

A few weeks after it started I bought a night vision camera and set it up to monitor my bedroom, hoping to glean some sort of clue about what exactly was happening to me, but whoever was in my body just deleted the footage. When I woke up in the morning, the only thing I found on the camera was a very long video of my body shoving a dildo up my ass, moaning like a whore while the other hand explored the muscles of my torso... and at the end of it, when my body was finally drenched in semen, it looked straight into the camera and winked.

The me in the video had a cocky expression on his face that I'd never seen before and to be honest, that kinda freaked me out! In a fit of desperation, I decided to leave a note taped to my bedroom door.

What do you want? I wrote. And when I woke up in the morning, someone had written something underneath it:

; )

Which... I still don't know what to make of that. I think whoever is doing this thinks that they're funny. Since then, my body snatcher has gotten into the habit of leaving me little notes and photos like the one up there.

My body snatcher seems to really like my body, which- hey, I'm proud of it too! You don't work as hard as I do on my abs without being a little vain, and if I was gonna snatch someone's body I'd probably go for someone who was packing a dick like mine. I can't even say that I blame them. But the number of photos I've found on my phone of myself groping my pecs, flexing my big biceps for the camera, licking my own armpits... it's a bit too much.

And that's the absolute worst part of it! Whoever's doing it is getting cocky. Look at that photo- the camera set-up, the hand written note, the strategically placed paint... this isn't just some random selfie taken on the spot, this required setup. They're mocking me, letting me know that they've got me where they want me and there's nothing I can do about it.

The pictures have only been getting bolder and more scandalous- some of the more recent ones were taken in public places, and they're starting to involve props. I'm nervous about what they're going to come up with next- but I guess I won't know until I wake up.

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

A hard bargain

Summary: You knew how he could get when he was focus on a case. But he forgot your ten year wedding anniversary, leaving you sitting alone over the dinner you had prepared to celebrate. And even though you were sad, disappointed, you couldn't find it in you to be mad at him when you woke up with him in your bed the next morning.

Pairing: Tim Rockford x fem!wife reader

Wordcount: 2k

Rating: E

Warnings: angst, fluff, kissing, smut (unprotected sex (though it's more implied than actually written out)), cockwarming, feelings

A/N: So this happened lmao I can't believe I wrote a fic about a character in a commercial

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics to get notified for new fic updates

You stared at the candle as it flickered once, twice before it finally went out. Your chin rested on your hand as you leaned with your elbow on the fully decorated table, the dinner, his favourite meal, cold and your glass of wine full, the bottle almost empty. 

You closed your eyes, breathing in deeply, releasing a long sigh as you exhaled, your eyes finding the clock across the room when they opened. 

00:34 am. 

Your husband had officially forgotten about your anniversary. 

Again. 

You did not ask for much. You knew he loved his job. He was one of the best detectives in his department. But he had the tendency to get lost in his cases. Sometimes you did not see each other for days, the only memory his arms around your body as he slipped into bed long after midnight, only to be gone again by the time your alarm went off in the morning. 

But you had seen his calendar for today. Your ten year wedding anniversary marked in big letters on top with dinner marked at 8 pm sharp. 

You and Tim had met twelve years ago on a blind date you had both been set up on by your closest friends. The rest, as they say, was history. 

You knew he loved his job, yet you couldn’t help feeling disappointed that he did not even talk to you today apart from two text messages, the messages you had sent him in the last three hours not even marked as read. Maybe he finally had a breakthrough in his latest case and forgot… No. That still wouldn’t excuse today. 

Emptying the glass of wine you got up from your chair, setting the empty glass down on the table, not bothering to clean the table. You shook your head, huffing once before you went out of the dining room, switching the lights off on your way upstairs into the bedroom.

You took a quick shower, drinking a big glass of water and taking a painkiller for the headache in the morning before you went to bed, cuddling your naked body against his pillow under the covers before you fell asleep.

—-

It was almost 3 am when he came home last night. He was so close to finishing his case, he could feel it. He was in a tunnel, focused on the evidence on everything he had unravelled. 

He had only seen the words ten year anniversary on his calendar as he was searching for something on his desk. The immense guilt he felt towards you immediately was so overwhelming he had to sit down for a moment. 

You were the love of his life. The best thing that ever happened to him. 

And he was constantly letting you down. 

He couldn’t even remember the last time he had kissed you. Really kissed you. Held you. Made love to you. 

Pulling the first drawer of his desk open he grabbed the little velvet box with the ring he had found for you months ago, opening it to look at the diamond ring. 

When he proposed all those years ago he did not have the money to give you the big ring he had imagined for you. The ring you deserved. Even though you insisted the ring he proposed with was perfect, having only rarely taken it off since he put it on you, he wanted to give you something… new. Something bigger. Something to show you how much he loved you and how far the both of you had come. 

He had found the kitchen and dining room with the evidence of the night you had planned for the both of you, feeling more guilty with every minute he cleaned the table off. 

He took a shower in the downstairs bathroom, not wanting to wake you up.

And then, once he was in bed, he had watched you sleep. Your face relaxed, hugging his pillow against your chest, because he had not been here to keep you close, to keep you warm. 

—-

You woke up to the sun shining in your face. 

Slowly blinking your eyes open you sighed quietly, thankful that it was the weekend and you had nowhere to be. Slowly you turned to lie on your back, startled when you found Tim sitting against the headboard looking down at you. He looked tired, exhausted, guilty. 

“Good morning sweetheart,” he said quietly and you sighed. 

“Hey,” you mumbled, still so very tired. 

“How mad are you?” he asked, and you huffed. 

“Too tired to be mad. Ask again in two hours,” you hummed before you pulled yourself up to cuddle against him. His arm came around you as he slipped down to lay on the bed, pulling you against his chest. You felt his lips on your forehead.

“Don’t think you off the hook Rockford,” you mumbled sleepily, lightly slapping his chest. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he hummed. 

“And you better be here when I wake up again to beg for my forgiveness.”

—-

It was your turn to watch him sleep when you woke up again. The clock on his bedside table told you that it was almost noon, yet you could not bring yourself to get out of bed. You were comfortable, you were warm and Tim was here and you knew you should be mad but fuck you had missed him. 

You slowly turned in his arms, your chin resting on his chest as you looked up at him, your fingers tracing invisible lines over the thin shirt he was wearing. 

“Still too tired to be mad?” he asked sleepily and you smiled softly as he blinked one eye open to look down at you. 

“Not mad. Maybe a little sad. But I know how you get when you work and…” you sighed and he shook his head, his hand taking yours that was resting on his chest. 

“Don’t make excuses for me. I fucked up. We’ve been married for ten years sweetheart. Can you believe that?” he smiled. 

“Well you only have been present for eight of those years…” you teased and he groaned. 

“Ouch. I deserved that.”

You hummed before you kissed his chest, just over his heart. 

“I love you,” he mumbled and you smiled. 

“I love you too,” you pulled yourself up to kiss him. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, his hands running under the covers and up your naked back. 

“I…. I think I know how you can make it up to me….” you mumbled against his lips and he smiled. 

“Yeah?” he asked. You nodded, sucking his bottom lip between your teeth as his hands wandered down your body, pulling you on top of him so you were straddling him. Your hands came to rest on his chest as you pulled yourself up, the covers slipping from your body, looking down at him with dark eyes. 

“How did I get so fucking lucky?” he asked himself and you grinned down at him as he pushed himself up, his lips kissing up your neck. You closed your eyes, tilting your head to the side to give him more access. Your hand pulled at his shirt, before you slipped it off his body, throwing it to the floor. 

You could feel him hard beneath you, only the boxers he was wearing separating you two. 

“Tim…” you moaned, your hands in his hair as he kissed himself down, his lips closing around one of your nipples, sucking softly. You slowly moved your hips on top of him, grinding against his hard cock. 

“I can feel you soaking through my boxers. Fuck…” he groaned, biting into your breast, marking you. His hands were on your ass, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as you moved on top of him. 

“Fuck baby….” you arched your back, searching for some friction. Some relief. 

“Need you,” you whined, kissing him hard. One of your hands went down between your bodies, pulling his cock out of his boxers, your fingers wrapping around his length. 

“Sweetheart….” he closed his eyes, his forehead falling against your shoulder. You gathered some saliva in your mouth, letting it drop between your bodies, making him groan as it landed on his cock before you slowly began to pump him. 

He looked up before he brought one of his hands up, two fingers dipping into your mouth before he slipped them between your bodies, finding your clit. 

“Shit, you’re soaked,” he hissed, his fingers slipping between your folds, two fingers entering you slowly, moving deeper and deeper. 

“Think you can take my cock?” he asked, his voice hoarse. 

“Please,” you whimpered.

You let go of his cock, pushing yourself up as his fingers pulled out of you, lining his cock up against your pussy, before you slowly sank down on him. 

You closed your eyes, parting your lips as you let your head fall back, feeling every inch of him enter you until you were sitting on his lap with his cock deep inside of you. 

“Look at me,” he hummed and you opened your eyes, looking down at him. 

“I love you,” he said, tears in the corners of his eyes. You smiled, your hands coming to rest on his cheeks before you kissed him. 

“I love you too,” you smiled against his lips.

“I have something for you,” he said and you frowned. 

“Now?” you chuckled. 

“Yeah. Cause if you move right I will cum immediately. I need a second,” he groaned and you giggled. He reached behind him, blindly searching for something until he hummed and you sucked your bottom lip in when you saw the little velvet box in his hand. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday. And I can’t promise it won’t happen again. But I’m… I will try. Because you deserve the best version of myself. You… I just love you so fucking much and I want to do better,” he said and you kissed him again. 

“I knew what I was getting into when I married you, baby. But I won’t complain if you decide to maybe be home a little more in the future,” you winked and he chuckled. 

“Deal,” he said, kissing your nose. 

He opened the little box then, making you gasp as you saw the beautiful ring inside of it. 

“I wanted to give you a little upgrade for our ten year anniversary,” he said carefully, watching your reaction. You were speechless, looking at the ring and at him. He had joked about giving you a diamond once he could afford one but you had always told him that you do not need diamonds. You had him, and that was enough. 

“Baby…” you whispered. 

“Can I put it on you?” he asked. You nodded. He took your hand, pulling your wedding band and engagement ring off before he pulled the new ring out of the box and slipped it on your finger, followed by your wedding band. Bringing your hand up he kissed your fingers and you felt a tear run down your cheek as you looked at your hand. 

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered in awe. 

“I’m glad,” he kissed your cheek, his arms wrapping around your body, to get you closer, wanting to feel your skin against his. You clenched around him, making him groan. 

“Am I forgiven yet?” he asked and you hummed thoughtfully. 

“I don’t know Mr. Rockford. Diamonds are great but….”

“But?” he grinned. 

“An orgasm or two would maybe make me forget about spending our anniversary alone…” you said. 

“And breakfast after,” you added, making him grin. 

“Pancakes,” you said seriously.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Rockford,” he said. You shrieked when he manhandled you, managing to stay inside you until you were laying on your back with him hovering above you.

“But I accept,” he winked, before he began to move. 

[lksvi]

midnight drives

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎⊹ ༚ death island!leon kennedy x gn!reader

‎ ‎⊹ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎summary — driving on a motorcycle at midnight has to be one of the strangest (and the best) dates you've ever been on

‎ ‎⊹ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎content — fluff, pre or post di, kinda messy, not edited

‎ ‎⊹ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎word count — 1.2k

‎ ‎⊹ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎note — dedicated to my lovely friend @spiderchai !!!! please go check out dolly, their works are amazing!! i hope they enjoy this rushed work hahaha!! also feel like the format might be weird so if it is ignore it please

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎⊹ ༚ masterlist

Gentle hum of a radio, moonlight pouring through glass panes. Lavender a phantom smell across your room, stars twinkling against the vast expanse of the midnight sky. Peaceful moments of these are often fleeting, marred by the troubles of life. You don’t let that ruin you tonight, though. Tonight is special.

A few nights ago, a handsome man at a bar caught your eye. Brown locks framed his face, stubble adorning his jaw and above his upper lip. A tight-fitting t-shirt did little to conceal the muscles he had, broad shoulders that had you wondering what he did for a living. What drew you to him were his eyes, though; blue and all-consuming. A cathedral of everlasting faith.

One drink led to another and soon you were being led out by the man, Leon. You swore you saw him shiver when you tested the name on rose-colored lips. He called a taxi for you, waiting with you outside in the chilly air. With an arm around your shoulders, he kept you hugged into his side, a silent apology for not having a jacket to shield you from the cold.

“If you wanna do this again,” He had said, tugging a pen from his jean pocket. Calloused hands gently outstretched your arm, revealing your forearm to him. He kept you steady as he wrote his number on it, outlining the numbers, complete with a sign of his name. “There’s my number.” A final caress of his thumb on your wrist was the last touch he gave you that night.

You can still smell his expensive cologne. Subtle with citrus scents.

When you had gotten home, stumbling inside, you had longed for another encounter with him. Before you passed out on the couch, you had written his number on a piece of paper and tacked it on your fridge. The next morning, when you woke up with a splitting headache, the first thing you had done was text Leon. Over the course of a few hours, you’d planned a date with him.

Oddly enough, it was at midnight. He wanted it to be a surprise, and ever a lover of mystery, you entrusted your night with him.

Now, you’re almost reconsidering. Anxiety nips at your heels as you pace in the living room, nails bitten down to the quick. The radio does little to quell your cynical thoughts. Before you could reach for your phone, make an excuse and cancel the date, you’re distracted by the purring of an engine. You peek out of your blinds to see a motorcycle sat in front of your house, green detailing standing out against the grey.

The motorcycle is parked, a helmet occupying the handle bars, and another coming to rest on the seat. Standing beside it is Leon, a hand running through his hair. He holds something in his other hand, but you don’t see it. You dash away from the window, patting your hair down and smoothing the wrinkles in your clothes out. A knock at your door sounds like the bells of a church.

When you open it, a smile curled on your lips, you’re surprised to see the flowers in Leon’s hand. He outstretches them towards you, a grin mirrioring your own. “For you,” He says. You fail to hide how pleased you are, a twinkle in your gaze as you take them gingerly. You thank him for the flowers, setting them on a cabinet in front of your window. You peer behind him to stare at his motorcycle, gaze drifting back towards sky-light blues. “You ride a motorcycle?” You ask curiously. An eager grin fades into a confident smirk, side stepping so you can come out and shut the door behind you. “Surprised?” He asks, a chuckle leaving him. He guides you to his motorcycle, a hand on the small of your back. He takes the helmet off of the handle bars to hold it up, smaller than the one sitting on the seat. “I hope this fits you,” He says. “Or we might have to find something else to do, hm?” Before you could answer, much less lift your hands to take the helmet from him, he’s gently putting it on your head. He clasps the buckle together, tightening it until it’s firm but not harsh on your head.

“Thank you,” You say, despite your words choked up in your throat. You hope he doesn’t notice how your words crack. He waves you off, tugging his own helmet on, before sitting down. He motions behind him with his head. “Take a seat, sweetheart,” He instructs you, scooting up slightly to give you more room. “Wrap your arms around me and hold on tight.” You do as he says, arms encricling his torso, nerves nipping your skin.

“There you go,” Leon purrs. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Nothin’ to be nervous about, [Name]. I’m right here.” The engine reverberates throughout your body, purring, headlights flickering on. The drive is nice. He doesn’t go fast, like some other men would, instead taking it slow. The streetlights illuminate the road. You lean into Leon, resting against him. You’re able to feel his chuckle.

Stopping at a red light, he kicks the brake, turning back to look at you. “You havin’ fun?” He asks. Surprisingly, you are. You had been incredibly nervous about this date, but you’ve had nothing but a fun time. “I am!” You answer with a grin.

The red light turns green and you’re on the move again. Leon shows off how fast he can go, with your permission first, the engine roaring to life. Laughter is shared between you two, echoing off the streetlights and the trees. For now, it feels like just you and Leon. You two are the only one occupying the space of the road, able to go as fast as you want.

It goes on like that for a while: Laughing and Leon pulling tricks, telling you to hold on whenever he speeds up. It’s a nice contrast to the boring responisibilities of every day life. It feels over all too soon when Leon pulls into a parking lot of an empty park. He parks the bike, undoing his helmet to hang it off the handles. You undo yours in turn, standing up and setting it on the seat.

“That was awesome!” You gush, a grin playing at your lips. Leon chuckles, running a hand through brown locks, taming the frenzy it became beneath the bike helmet. You’re sure your hair is messy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. “So awesome you would do it again?” He asks with a boyish grin, an arch of his brow.

You don’t even need to think about it. You’ve had such a fun time with Leon tonight, shared laughter and corny jokes, that you would be excruciatingly upset if it never happened again. “Only if it’s with you,” You counter, relishing in the slight pink that dusts his cheeks. His eyes widen slightly, but he quickly gains his composure. “Guess there’ll be another date.” “There’ll have to be.” An arch of his brow. “Is that so?” A glance at his lips. “It is.”

“I won’t disappoint you, then,” Leon says.

He takes a step closer. Your gaze meets his. His hand comes up to rest on your face, calloused thumb caressing your cheek. You lean into his hand. Rose-colored lips part in a question. “Can I kiss you?” Anyone else and you would’ve said no. Anyone but Leon. “Please.”

[bingoboingobongo]

givens

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley (Call of Duty) x Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: There are few givens in life, one is that Ghost will always wake up before you, and that he will always fall in love with you.

A/N: buhruh this was supposed to be an imagine about gingerbread cookies so how did we get to a gingerbreadless drabble so fluffy it will rot your teeth (i wrote this in like 30 mins not beta read we die like men).

There were things in life that always happened, no matter what. They were givens; undeniable truths that simply couldn’t be disputed. According to Benjamin Franklin, they meant death and taxes. According to Ghost, they meant that he would always wake up before you, and that he would always fall in love with you.

Honestly, Ghost wasn’t sure how his body always managed to wake him up before you. You were so delightful to sleep with, to wrap his arms around, to hold and caress and savor. You relaxed every tense muscle in his body, calmed every nerve. You were the only person he felt truly safe around; the only person he would let himself actually fall asleep next to.

He slept on missions, of course, but he never woke up truly rested, and he never really fell completely asleep either. He always had an ear listening for anything strange, one hand gripped around the handle of a knife. But with you, he could truly and completely shut down. He didn’t have to stay on constant alert, worried that someone would betray him. With you, he could let his walls down, he could be vulnerable, he could finally feel. He always slept so well whenever he was with you. He woke up, usually filled with a painful but satisfying soreness throughout his body, and he felt unbelievably well-rested. 

There was something about you that just flipped a certain switch in his brain. You turned off his need to be constantly alert, he could sleep deeply, he could sleep for hours. But even then, every morning when he woke up, he would look over and you would still be sleeping. It happened every single time he slept with you. He could wake up at midnight, at five in the morning, at one in the afternoon, and you would still be there by his side, sleeping contentedly.

He didn’t mind it though, because those quiet moments before you woke up were some of his favorites of the entire day. That twilight world where he could roll over and smile at the way you were tangled in the sheets or pull himself closer to you and wrap his arms and legs around you. When he could just breathe in the scent of your laundry detergent and shampoo and delight in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. 

He didn’t even know how it was possible for you to fill him with so much emotion, and yet, every morning when he turned to stare at your sleeping form, he could feel his chest swell with pride and adoration that you were here, with him of all people. You, who could have chosen anybody else, who could have laughed in his face when he asked if you wanted to get drinks alone, you chose him. You chose to sleep with him, and wake up with him, and stay with him. 

It felt like some cheesy time-loop movie, the way Ghost kept falling in love with you. Every morning he saw you by his side he could feel his heart tumbling further and further, leaving him breathless and love-struck. It happened every morning, like clockwork. Even if you guys had had a fight the night before, even if you hadn’t talked to him in days, especially when you hadn’t talked to him in days. 

That was why it was so difficult for him to get mad at you, even when you did reckless things. When you lived life like the world was going to protect you, when you assumed that the next day was always promised, when you told him how great it would be to grow old and die together. On one hand, it was so clear to him how wrong you were. The world never protected people, the next day was never promised, and the chances of him being able to grow old with you decreased every time he picked up a gun. 

But on the other hand, how could he ruin that for you? How could he take your rose-colored world and shatter it with a few simple words? And so for a while, he would torment himself, battling over whether he should tell you or not. But then you would go to sleep, and the next day he would roll over and see how beautiful you looked sleeping next to him, and he would forget about everything. And how could he not? When he saw you, it’s as if every function in his brain except for pure love and gratitude was shut off. He couldn’t think rationally when he was with you, and honestly? He didn’t want to.

He loved you more than anything in the world. He would do anything for you, kill anyone for you. He would let you live in your rose-colored world where you grew old and died together, because he knew the truth was so much worse. And besides, what would even happen if he did tell you the truth? Would you leave him? Would you find someone else who wouldn’t die on the field? 

In a way, you were right, he supposed. Even if he was killed in action, Ghost knew he could never leave you. Even in death he would still be by your side, watching and admiring, unbeknownst to you. But that wasn’t enough, he needed to be able to feel you, to touch you, to smell you. He needed to feel how warm you were and know that it was because you were alive, because there was blood flowing through your veins. And he needed you to know that he was alive, and by your side, because he couldn’t imagine how drab life would be if he could never wake up and see you sleeping next to him.

And so, for the sake of his own twilight world — his world where he was safe and secure, and all rational thought was discarded as he fell in love with you over and over again — he let you stay in your rose-colored one, because if there were any givens in life, it was that he would always wake up before you, and he would always fall in love with you.

[circle-with-me]

‘tis the damn season - part 2

Pairing: Will Ramos x OFC (Genevieve/Viv/Vivvy)

Content Warning: 18+ MINORS DNI, angst, hurt - no comfort, brief mentions of child abuse, panic attacks, mentions of death/dying, brief mentions of violence/threats of violence, Will Ramos is stubborn as hell.

Word Count: 3.3k

Taglist: @concretenoah @deathblacksmoke @midnight-eternals @bngurngheart @malice-ov-mercy @witchyweeb34 @lyschko666 @cookiesupplier @lilrubles @meekahy

If you would like to be added to my tag list for this series or my other work, please click here.

Author’s note: There’s a lot more Will in this part and I promise there will be even more in future parts. Also, this one is probably going to hurt because it hurt me while I wrote it. Soooo…. Sorry 😬 Enjoy 😊

Will’s POV

The snow crunches beneath Will’s feet as he heads towards the cafe. That morning, he woke up with a sore throat and decided he’d grab some hot tea before practice that morning. He couldn’t afford to lose his voice now. Lorna was going on tour next month and they had a lot of kinks to work out with their set.

Leaving the cafe, Will heads in the direction of the warehouse. Traffic in front of the cafe was absurd. He could walk down the opposite way to a slower intersection, cut across and then walk back up. The only problem was that it would take him past the park.

He avoided the park as much as he could

“Man, it’s been eight years. Get over it.” he says out loud to himself.

As he walks past the park, he sees the gazebo. There was a light dusting of snow on the roof and the stairs. Christmas garlands were attached to each railing. Icicle lights were hanging from the top railings and Christmas wreaths were adorning each post.

It looked like something out of a Christmas card.

Will walks up the steps and stands in the middle of the structure. He couldn’t remember the last time he had come here. It looked the same but had a fresh coat of paint. A moment of panic sets in as he sets his tea down and steps onto the railing. Hoisting himself up he stands on his tiptoes to look into the rafters.

The entirety of the area had been painted white. Fuck, where is it? He couldn’t see it. It had been forever but he knew it was on this side. He couldn’t see it. His heart sank. It was gone. He started to lower himself down but something caught his eye off to the side. A faint etching into the wood that he would have missed if he hadn’t turned just so.

“W <3’s V 4eva”

Will let out the breath he was holding; a sharp pain shooting through his chest. It was a pain he hadn’t felt in a long time. The feeling struck him so hard it made his knees weak and he had to hold on to the post next to him to keep from falling off the railing.

It should have been a meaningless little thing. He had made that mark when he was a teenager, barely sixteen. Thirteen years later and he can still remember every moment of that day. How she smelled of cinnamon and cherries. The way her dark red hair fell in waves and would get tangled in the buttons of her coat. How red her nose and cheeks got from the cold. Her green eyes sparkling as she looked at the Christmas lights.

God dammit, he hated this time of year.

Will arrives at the warehouse to see Moke and Austin standing outside.

“Get here when you can, brother.” Moke exclaims, grinning.

“Fuck are you talking about, dude? I’m early as always.” Will responds.

“Practice was supposed to start 20 minutes ago, dumbass.” Austin pipes in.

Will checks his phone and he in fact was not early at all. His detour took a little longer than he thought. He looks up sheepishly and both guys burst out laughing.

“Sorry, guys.”

Adam slaps him on the back. “Don’t worry about it, man. Adam and Andrew are inside arguing about guitar stuff.”

“That’s why we’re out here.” Moke adds. “If I had to hear them fight like an old married couple for one more second I was going to shove Archey’s drumsticks in my ears.”

Will laughs loudly as they dramatically act out the guitarists argument.

Initially, he doesn’t see the woman with long dark red hair pass by but he notices her stop suddenly. For a split second he figures that she’s lost but then it hits him. The scent of cinnamon and cherries.

The scent is all-consuming. It fills his nostrils and in a millisecond seven years of memories flash before his eyes. She turns around slowly, making eye contact with him and he’s sure he’s fucking dreaming because it can’t be her.

“Shit.” he hears her say and that’s her voice. How is she here? Why is she here? After all this time..

He calls after her and she doesn’t stop. In fact, she picks up her pace. So, he takes off after her.

“Will! Where the fuck are you going?” Austin yells at his friend as he takes off running but it was no use. Will was on a mission.

Will continues to call after her and she refuses to stop. He feels dizzy, nauseated, and desperate because if he can just get a hand on her. Just touch her so he can know she’s real and he’s not crazy.

“Goddammit, Genevieve, stop!” Finally catching up with her, he grabs her by the arm and spins her around to face him.

They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity. He wonders what’s going through her mind. He can’t seem to gather his thoughts because he’s still trying to grasp onto the fact that she’s actually here in front of him.

Somehow, she was even more beautiful than the last time he saw her.

The last time he saw her.

Will recalls the moment she left and the shooting pain in his chest returns. Anger rushes through him and without thinking, his grip on her arm tightens. Tears begin to form in the corner of her eyes and she shifts uncomfortably. Realization settles in and he lets go, internally chastising himself. It doesn’t matter how long she’s been gone. He knows better.

He glances at her again and even though the tears are still there he can tell she’s not panicking anymore. Her tears are for an entirely different reason. The moment is so overwhelming he can nearly feel his own forming but being the stubborn man that he is, he blinks them away. Will is not going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she still has that much of an effect on him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” she states matter-of-factly.

Will laughs humorlessly. “Seriously? After all these years, that’s all I get?”

Gen narrows her eyes and folds her arms across her chest.

“Right, because ‘what the fuck are you doing here?’ is so much better?”

“I think I have every right to be frustrated, Viv.”

“Don’t call me that.” she says firmly.

Will raises his eyebrows. “And what exactly am I supposed to call you?”

“If it’s all the same to you, Will, I’d prefer it if we just didn’t interact at all. I’m only here because I wasn’t given a choice and I plan to leave as soon as possible.”

A mixture of anger and desperation rises in him again. He wasn’t expecting her to jump into his arms but he didn’t think she’d blow him off like this. He needed something. More than this. He didn’t know how she could just pretend like this moment meant nothing to her when it meant everything to him.

Would he actually admit to that, though? Of course not.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Always in such a hurry to leave. Of course, I'm not surprised. It’s your favorite thing to do.”

This time, Gen laughs, but it’s the coldest laugh Will has ever heard. She steps closer to him and their faces are so close they are almost touching. Her perfume fills his nostrils again and he wishes he could start their conversation over. Tell her he was sorry for everything and kiss her breathless but it was too late. He ruined everything, once again.

All because of his goddamn pride.

“As much as I would love to stand here all day and rehash old wounds, Ramos, I have better things to do. Like bury my piece of shit father, for starters.”

Will doesn’t even get a chance to speak before she’s walking away from him. She never looks back at him for a moment but he watches her until her figure disappears.

Gen’s POV

Gen walks until the tears falling down her face begin to burn and her lungs start to hurt from the cold air. She was two blocks from the lawyer’s office but she couldn’t move anymore. She stops and sits on a bench in front of a random store in an attempt to collect herself.

She scrubs her shaking hands over her face and tries to control her breathing. She’s barely been back home for a few hours and she already ran into him. She hated being from such a small town.

“Always in such a hurry to leave… it’s your favorite thing to do.”

Will’s voice echoes on repeat in her mind until her head begins to pound. He knows damn well why I left. Gen thinks to herself. Who the fuck is he to throw that in my face?

Through the years she must have rehearsed their first conversation upon reuniting a hundred times. It was never something she expected to actually happen, but she was always preparing for shit like that. She knew it would be overwhelming and emotional but when she imagined it, she always handled it in a calm and practical manner.

Clearly, it’s much different when the person who broke your heart is standing right in front of you. It didn’t stop her from regretting the way she reacted. The way he grabbed her and the emotional whiplash from their sudden reunion had her adrenaline pumping. Agitation and being defensive were her go-to responses.

Gen knew that he didn’t intend to grab her like that. He knew better. It was embarrassing that it still affected her the way that it did.

Gen sighs shakily and checks her phone. She had five minutes to be at Mr. Shaw’s office. Her pity party would have to wait until later.

“Ms. Castillo, I’m Nathan Shaw. Thank you so much for coming in on such short notice.” The man extends his hand to Gen and she accepts it. He was younger than she expected, late thirties at the oldest. His dirty blonde hair was slicked back and his eyes were a piercing blue. When he flashes a smile at her, she concludes that feature alone wins a lot of his cases.

“It’s Taylor, actually. I told your secretary that on the phone yesterday. Anna, I believe?”

He glances down at the paper. “Oh, yes! She’s written it right here. My apologies, Ms. Taylor. Or is it Mrs?”

Gen has to bite back a laugh. “No, sir. It’s definitely still Ms.” She holds up her left hand to show him her bare ring finger.

Mr. Shaw smiles softly. “Very good, Ms. Taylor.”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “If you don’t mind. How did you find me? My father and I haven’t spoken in years.”

“He had your phone number and address listed for us to call in the event of his death.”

Gen pauses for a moment, unsure how she feels that he actually had her address this whole time. “It’s just that… I changed my name and my contact information years ago, so that he couldn’t find me. I just don’t understand how he even had that information to give to you.”

Mr. Shaw looks at her over his glasses, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. He flips back to the front page of the packet in front of him and turns it around to where Gen can look at it. She scoots up to the end of her chair to get a better look as he points to a particular paragraph.

I, Gabriel Fernando Castillo, am a widower. I was married to Margaret Anaïs Taylor Castillo on September 13, 1993, who died on August 9, 2007. We had one child, Genevieve Gabriela Castillo, who was born on August 11, 1994.

Genevieve Gabriela Castillo. Her eyes read the one line over and over again. God, she despises that name.

“What are you showing me this for, Mr. Shaw?” she asks, pointedly.

An amused look spreads across his face. “Ms. Taylor, with all due respect, if you wanted to change your name so your father couldn’t find you.” He pauses for a moment, considering his next statement carefully. “Your mother’s maiden name maybe wasn’t the best choice.”

Three hours, one panic attack, and a lot of kleenex later, Gen’s appointment with Nathan Shaw was finished.

Gabriel left her everything. His house. His car. An oddly large sum of money that was left in his bank accounts that she didn’t dare question its origin. Before she changed her name and number for good, he had called her relentlessly asking for money. No doubt having drunk it all up.

According to Mr. Shaw, that was what killed him. His liver failed and he chose to waste away at home instead of in the hospital waiting for an organ transplant. Mr. Shaw warned her that the house wasn’t in the best shape since he spent the last several months bedridden and would rarely let anyone in. He assured her, however, that “the mess” from his death had been cleaned up so she wouldn’t have to worry about that.

Oh, right. If it wasn’t enough for her to inherit her childhood home that held enough traumatic memories for a lifetime, it’s now potentially haunted by the ghost of her father? Nope. Nothing to worry about at all. She didn’t even believe in ghosts, but if anyone would come back to haunt her, that fucker would.

Considering her options, she decided to sell the house and the car. They were of no use to her. The money in Gabriel’s accounts would go towards whatever repairs were needed to make the house sellable and the rest she’d donate to charity.

Gen didn’t need him or his money. Dead or not she sure as hell wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking she did.

So, now, it would appear that her whirlwind trip home would be much longer than anticipated. The realization of which caused her panic attack. Mr. Shaw’s sweet secretary, Anna, came rushing in his office with kleenex and water to help. Once she calmed down, Gen told Anna whatever Mr. Shaw was paying her wasn’t enough. Anna just smiled sweetly and headed back to her desk.

Another hour and a half later, the funeral arrangements had been made. The visitation would be Sunday at noon with the funeral immediately afterwards. A four hour affair where Gen would have to smile and pretend to care as people she hadn’t seen in years told her how wonderful her father was and how they can’t believe she’s been gone so long.

She felt nauseous already.

She took a deep breath, cracking her neck and massaging her jaw in an attempt to ease the tension from the day. She was in desperate need of food and a shower. She decided to head to her hotel, order takeout, and call it a night. She couldn’t bring herself to go to Gabriel’s house tonight. She would go tomorrow when she was rested and her head was clear.

As Gen laid in bed, she reflected on her day. Now that it was over, it all felt like a fever dream. She thought of Will’s face. The way it shifted from frustration to guilt when she told him why she was there. She had called him Ramos. She only called him that when she was mad and he hated it. She knew that, though, and said it on purpose.

She did it for the exact same reason he took a jab at her for leaving. There’s an ache in her. An ache caused by all the years of pain from her mother dying, her father drinking to cope with the loss and the abuse that followed afterwards. Will became her escape. He was always there to protect and comfort her.

One night, Will nearly beat her father unconscious after he had broken Gen’s ribs again for not cleaning the dishes the way he liked them. He was only seventeen at the time. Gabriel was an asshole, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to put himself at risk of an investigation, so he didn’t say anything. After that night, the physical abuse stopped but the psychological abuse became worse. Will promised Gen that as soon as she turned eighteen, he was moving her in with him.

The day of her eighteenth birthday, Will moved her into his apartment. He had saved for months and managed to get one just a few weeks before her birthday. It was small and they barely had any furniture, but she didn’t care. Gabriel tracked her down and tried causing a scene but Will told him if he came near her or touched her again he’d make sure he didn’t wake up that time.

Gen was finally able to heal. She felt safe and secure at home for the first time in five years. They were both working and making enough to pay their bills with a little extra. She started college. For once, everything was going well.

The only problem was that she hated Westwood. It was too small for her and despite the memories she made with Will, it was filled with too many bad ones. She wanted out. She had a degree and had developed a strong skill set in music as an audio technician at the small recording studio she worked at and wanted to pursue a career as a recording engineer.

The owner of the studio had connections all over the country and was able to get her a job in New York. Gen was ecstatic and ran home to Will to tell him the good news. He had been supportive of her dream and told her he’d go anywhere for her.

However, when she told him it was finally happening, his face dropped. A silence fell between them that she had never experienced in all of the years they had been together. He stood from his seat on the couch, looked at her firmly, and told her no.

No? What did he mean “no”?

He meant no. She wasn’t going. He wasn’t going. They weren’t going.

Will’s reason was that she could do the same job in New Jersey that she could in New York. She argued that, while true, New York would give her a lot more opportunities to work with different artists and producers. Not to mention a lot more money.

He continued to refuse. Telling Gen it was a waste of time and attempting to educate her on how expensive New York is but it just came out as condescending. She explained how much extra she would be making and it may be hard at first but it would be worth it in the end.

When that didn’t work, he tried to explain that he had finally become comfortable with his band and didn’t want to mess that up by leaving. He also mentioned his family was in Westwood and they couldn’t just abandon them. She called him selfish and pointed out that New York was less than two hours by train. Not across the fucking country.

Gen was distraught and confused. Where was this coming from? This was not the Will she had known for so long. He had never tried to hold her back or tell her she couldn’t do anything. If she didn’t know any better, he almost seemed desperate to keep her in Westwood with him. But why?

After hours of arguing, he became silent again. He stood in front of the glass door that led out to their patio and just stared into the darkness. After what seemed like forever, he raked his hand through his curls and exhaled harshly like he had to prepare himself for what he was about to say.

“I love you, Vivvy… but you’re not going to make it in New York. You’re good at what you do but they’ll eat you alive up there. You’re not going and that’s final.”

Part Three

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Twenty-five

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none, just more Paris shenanigans

— WORDCOUNT: 3.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

After a filling dinner of duck confit and coq au vin — the name of which made her giggle until her eyes teared up — they returned to the hotel at nearly midnight. They undressed together, washed themselves together, and fell asleep in one another’s arms. Perhaps it was all the walking they had done, thighs throbbing and feet sore, but the bed felt so soft that they melted into it.

They woke up a few times throughout the night. Tom could tell she’d done so when he awoke to find her arms around his waist, or her face nuzzled in his neck, her breath and body warming up his blood. Each time, she found a way to nestle a little closer to him and Tom could only pull her in, burrowing himself into her body like a fox inside its wintry hole, sucking her life energy through every pore of skin like some sort of vampire. He nearly laughed at the thought — or maybe it was a dream — that he had taken that aspect of Oso’s role now, while she took over his work responsibilities. But oh he hoped the fiend had never fed on her… She seemed to know nothing of his true nature nor had he ever seen bite marks on the multiple occasions he’d had to explore her body, but he held her tightly all the same, murderously possessive.

Tom got up before her when the morning came. He rolled out of bed only to turn the radiator higher. He’d slept with his socks on too, to spare her his cold skin when she turned cuddly.

After a brief look out the window at the sprawling and pink view of the city he went to the suitcase at the foot of the bed and started searching through it, keeping as quiet as he could while he looked for his diary. It was a far cry from his first one. No fine leather, no embossing of his name, and not a repository for his soul either. But it was good enough to write his thoughts in and, like the last one, enchanted to hide the text right afterwards. Also like the last one it was purchased from a muggle shop. This one was bought in Rome and had that fancy Italian paper he’d always heard about. At least it scratched less than the parchment he was used to…

He sat in a chair by the window, fished out the pen from his jacket’s inner pocket, and balanced the diary on his knee.

“Montmartre statue,” he wrote, and immediately the page was filled with rows of text, each marked with a date. The very first one had what he needed: directions to the Place Cachée, where he could buy the items for the next part of his plan. The only question that remained was when to slip away…

II

The day was reserved for the arts once again. They went to the Louvre first thing in the morning and picked up where they left off before heading to the Catacombs — at Cavona’s Cupid and Psyche. They walked around it, looking at it from every angle before coming back around, forever ignored by the embracing lovers of stone.

“Does it feel to you too like we’re intruding?” she asked. “Like we shouldn’t see this?”

“Yes,” said Tom with a light grin, “but that is rather the point, I think.”

She chuckled. “To make it seem so real that it makes you feel like a voyeur?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You know, from this angle, she looks a little bit like you.”

“And you know he looks a bit like you, especially when your hair gets curly after you’ve had a bath.”

“Is that so?”

“Minus the wings, of course.”

“Never did like flying…”

“Yes, I hate aeroplanes too.”

The faint blemishes on the statues, yellow shadows brought by age, seemed to make their flesh alive, and the marks of chisels were scars and stretches left on their fair skin. More than once her eyes lingered on the jar behind Psyche, waiting for it to roll to the side and fall.

“What do you think it was? That essence of beauty she was supposed to steal from Persephone,” she asked.

Tom thought about it as he held her close. He could name several magical concoctions but none that were worthy of a goddess.

“Perhaps the moral of the story is that the essence of beauty is secrecy itself.”

She nodded and rested her head against his shoulder.

“What do you think it was?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s obvious. Beauty sleep.”

Tom laughed. In the story, Psyche fell into a deep sleep as soon as she opened the box, so the idea had merit.

Once they had their fill of the Louvre they crossed the street, took a left, and found themselves at the Librairie Delamain. Taller than it looked from the outside, it was all dark wood and sombre, a labyrinth of white fangs peeking out of every corner, books and books and books. It smelled dry and leathery inside with faint traces of salt and cinnamon. They held hands to not get lost, occasionally pulling and tugging on each other when they found something they liked.

The largest section was Romance and Erotica, dominating the whole first five rows as soon as they stepped inside. She leafed with bated breath through a 1904 edition of the 120 Days of Sodom while Tom huddled close to read over her shoulder. He giggled at the most inappropriate of illustrations. She kicked him in the ribs. He bought her a first edition of Cazotte’s Le Diable Amoureux to apologise which she held in her hands and gawked at as if it were made of gold while Tom discretely released the shopkeeper from under the Imperio spell.

“You know what, best put it in your bag,” he whispered as he pulled her away, “before he realises what a steal it is and charges us a bit more for it.”

“Oh it’s alright, I could pay the extra —”

“No,” he hissed, “you couldn’t.”

The next stop was the Religion and Esoterics section. They browsed it with an eye to compare it to Casa Ur, but the selection was less rich than what they had in Rome. Truly rare volumes, few in number, sat beside the most innocuous books and most authors they could recognise were still alive or not long dead. They even found a couple of the Baron’s published works on Eastern meditation and Western magic rites. Nearby were also critiques by other authors, which amused the both of them, but it was all a very civil dialogue between the books.

“Should we buy one for him?” she asked, leafing through a copy.

“It depends on whether you wish to cause blatant offence or not.”

“Well, at this point, he needs me more than I need him.”

Tom regarded her with a smirk as she stood to his right with her head bowed, her attention on the book split open in her hand. She had sounded just then peculiarly indifferent to her work… But he didn’t dare to hope that she would abandon it after all, as he’d requested. That dream was already forgotten.

So they wandered through those shelves of things both old and new, from Cornelius Agrippa’s Three Books on Occult Philosophy all through to Johann Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, with a stop at Waite and Pamela Colman Smith’s Pictorial Key to the Tarot.

“I’ve never liked Divination,” grumbled Tom. “Bunch of abstract twaddle.”

“You sound like me complaining about algebra in school,” she chuckled. “How can you not like this? Look, these illustrations are beautiful…”

“I said nothing of the artistic merits. Colman Smith created a perfectly adequate version of the tarot. Certainly more useful than the Marseilles deck. The symbolism is… pertinent.”

She leaned her head back against his chest as she slowly flipped from page to page.

“Which card do you mostly identify with?” she asked.

“That’s not how it works.”

“I know. Tell me anyway.”

He sighed, the motion moving her chest also, and placed his right hand on the book. In its middle section, it dedicated a page to each card of the Tarot beginning with the major arcana and provided interpretations of their meaning. Above the text were the famous accompanying illustrations. Tom took hold of the book and went to the first card: the Magician. Would that serve as a confession? Would she read too much into it? Truth be told the more she would the further from the naked truth she’d be, but the idea of claiming that card nevertheless amused him. But no, he was no Apollonian figure surrounded by roses and lilies… He flipped a few more pages, past the Emperor, the Chariot, the Hermit, before finally settling on the 13th card: Death. She hummed thoughtfully and nodded, holding the other side of the book.

“On the surface, terror, but in truth it is transformation.”

“An enchanted rebirth,” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek.

“Do you want to know which one I see you as?” she giggled.

“Tell me.”

She went three pages forward to something he did not expect. The Sun.

“Shining brightly, am I? Are you sure you know me at all?”

“It’s not the colours. But it reminds me of you… The calm face of the sun and the carelessness of the free child, together. Look.”

“So I seem careless to you?”

“You do,” she said, leaning her head back to look at him. Seeing him from upside down his frown turned into a smile. “Only a careless person would spontaneously get a job in a foreign country, in an underground book shop, and rent in a bad neighbourhood, and —”

“Alright,” he sighed. “I can see how I might seem that way to you.”

She hummed in approval. “Now, do you want to know what I think I am?”

“Yes, I must see this.”

He expected something grand. The High Priestess, the Star, the Lovers even, but she stopped the page on —

“The Tower?”

She leaned back, cradled in his arms, holding the book alongside him, and gazed wanly at the page.

“Something about it calls to me… The finger pointing at the sky, a vanity like the Tower of Babel, trying to touch heaven through hard work… only to be crushed.”

He nodded. He could see in it her frustrations at the life she had been thrust into and the nothing that became of her, a stranger among strangers, labouring diligently to build something for others, always for others… It might have been his fate as well at Borgin and Burke’s had he not a clear plan to end it on his own terms. But that was still far away. And now he was here, with her. They shared so many of their troubles, more than she even realised, and so many interests and skills — not least of which the stomach to suffer a murder. And pleasures too, though he was loathe to say it. She was like him, or perhaps he was like her… And the thought suddenly struck him, like that bolt of lightning that was on the page, that she was worthy of his love. He wanted to kiss her, so he did, leaning forward and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

“Do you want to know which one I think you are?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He turned to the very end of the chapter at the last of the major arcana. There awaited the Fool.

“Tom!” she huffed.

He laughed, giggling in a way he didn’t often do. She elbowed him in the chest and in her struggle to get away from his embrace she missed the arcana that was on the other page, right next to the one that had offended her: the World.

III

Tom buttoned up his vest at a slow and pensive pace, his tie still hanging loosely around his neck. The floorboards winced as he stepped from one side of the room to the other. Around them, the hotel was slowly coming to life with steps and murmurs echoing their way from down the corridor, but it still didn’t wake his travelling companion. And nothing would. He sighed and sat down on his bed to lace his shoes, then finished by putting on his jacket, his green scarf and his coat, and wrapping himself up for the fresh chill of the morning. He leaned over her form as she lay motionless and curled up on the bed, and had the thought of touching her, but quickly decided against it. He turned and left, closing the door and hanging a “Do not disturb” sign on it.

There was quite a way to go from the hotel to Montmartre so, against his personal distaste, he asked the desk clerk to call him a cab.

“Rue Girardon, s'il vous plaît.”

It didn’t take him long to find the statue once he was there. Tall and tucked between old buildings, its blue bronze face watched over the surrounding muggles. As Tom gradually approached, she moved. Her noble face remained impassive but she obligingly tilted her leg aside and pulled the folds of her metallic dress away for him. He stepped through the pillar and found himself in the festive and arching streets of the Place Cachée.

IV

His first stop was at Le Corbeau Mystique. He wound his way through the cages and crates and placards of advertisements until he reached the feather-laden cashier’s desk. The old witch there, dressed in a screaming fuchsia gown with a chain of fake black pearls around her neck and a mouse nestled in her hair, was quite happy to see him — until he told her what he wanted.

“Oh, no no no, we do not provide mailing services. Would you like to buy an owl instead?”

“I have no place to keep a pet,” he grumbled. It was times like these that he regretted having sold his old owl from Hogwarts, black and ruffled Morgana. Then again she was impossibly loud and it would’ve been a hassle to bring her on his travels.

“Perhaps you can try l’hôtel de Ginestou.”

The hotel was a more impressive building cut in smooth yellow rock. With its heavy metal door and carved pediments it looked quite like a tomb, so he was surprised to step inside and find it pretty welcoming. Young witches and wizards congregated in the lobby, mostly students on a field trip from what he overheard. Gentle light filled the room like a fog of star shine. There was something so alluringly spectacular about the ambience of the place that he almost felt subdued by it.

He went to the front desk and rang the bell. Its crystal chime didn’t carry far but a clerk soon appeared from behind a blue curtain.

“Bonjour, monsieur!” said the boy enthusiastically. His thin pale hands went right to the quill and register.

“I haven’t got a reservation,” said Tom. “Do you offer owl services?”

“Do you mean if we take pets? That is —”

“No. I wish to send a letter.”

“Ah, of course,” said the boy with a thin smile.

Tom took out the folded note from his pocket and pulled toward him a piece of parchment, then wrote the address down and pushed them both back to the boy. He was just getting his wallet ready to pay for the expense when the clerk’s face soured.

“I am sorry, but we only make delivery in France.”

Tom clenched his teeth and yanked the letter out of his hands.

“Any idea where I can get a letter sent to England from this circus of a street?”

“You can try le Griffon Buveur,” said the boy in a trembling tone.

Tom guessed from the name that it was a pub of some sort. He found it quickly enough by going to the most rowdy and busy section of the street. It had something oddly noble in its outward display, with wine-red walls cut with the holden silhouettes of its namesake — a griffon. He checked the time as he stepped through and wove his way between the tables plumped around with people. It was already half past ten and he hadn’t resolved even half of what he needed to. If only Parisian wizards weren’t so restrictive with their services he might have found someone to deliver this one measly letter already and be on his way back to his hotel before it was too late.

With much doubt and hopelessness, he went right up to the bar.

“Bonjour,” he said, not even bothering to hide his accent. “Do you deliver letters?”

“Yes,” said the barkeep, a stately woman with a strong beak of a nose and hair that was half silver.

“Abroad?”

“Yes, we do. What do you need, sir?”

He gave her the letter and instructions as to the address and was pleased to learn their owls were well familiar with Diagon Alley.

“And Knockturn Alley too?”

“Of course,” the woman said, her smile pulling softly at the wrinkles on her cheeks. “I will send it with Albert, an eagle owl. He is our best.”

She took his letter and the meagre payment for it and Tom was so happy that he ordered himself a glass of wine. It served as the only breakfast he’d have that day.

V

He checked the time on his worn old wristwatch as he slid through the shoppers in the Place Cachée. As it got closer to noon, there were more people about. And unlike the British wizardry, the French were not skimpy on ornamentation, with a sea of capes and flowing robes, dresses, and scarves, all clouded by large elegant hats. Tom had to crane his neck to see the shop names above. Eventually, he found what he was looking for: Dr. Aziz Branchiflore. He might have detected it by scent alone. The storefront was bubbling with dried herbs, encrusted shells and seeds, shrivelled mushrooms and ram horns. Tom tiptoed around the bulbous jars that completed the scene and stepped inside. There were several more shoppers around so he busied himself checking the displays, from bottled muck to piles of pearl powder and chains of fairy wings. Step by step he approached the counter, obliquely, and waited until the others had made their purchases and left.

“May I help you?” asked an elderly wizard with bushy silver brows who he could only assume was Mr. Branchiflore.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Tom, standing primly with his back straight and his chin thrust forward. “I was wondering if you sell Polyjuice potion.”

“We do indeed. It is costly, of course. Very costly. And we will have to register the purchase.”

“Register?”

“For the Ministry. We keep an account of every purchase of dangerous potions.”

Tom knew that was the French Ministry of Magic he meant, not the Italian or British. And they were not in communication with one another…

“That’s quite alright,” he said with a charming smile. “Where do I sign?”

He ended up buying a potion due to last for twenty minutes which he assured Mr. Branchiflore was for a practical joke. It was small enough to fit inside his pocket and came in a bottle of the sturdiest dragon horn. He thanked the old wizard as he parted with the last of his galleons.

VI

It was lunchtime when Tom was done with his shopping. That wouldn’t be the first nor the last time he’d skipped a meal. He caught the nearest cab once he was out on the muggle streets again and hurried back to the hotel. He knew what he would find inside their room but he stepped in silently anyway. Light poured in from the window to the east, warming the air pleasantly. He put his coat away and made sure to hide the potion in his suitcase before he turned to the bed. She was sleeping soundly, laying on her tummy and hugging the pillow tight.

“Wake up,” he whispered as he ran a finger down her back.

And right away, she took a deep breath in and stretched.

“Mmm… Tom?”

“I’m here.”

She could barely peek an eye open before she was blinded by the light.

“What time is it?”

“Half past twelve.”

“What?!”

“I didn’t want to wake you, but —”

“How come I slept so long?!” she cried, raising herself to a sitting position and reaching for her wristwatch on the bedside table.

“You must’ve been worn out. All that walking,” he chuckled.

“Goodness, I’m starving,” she moaned, then turned her bleary eyes toward him, taking in his clothes. “What’ve you been doing?”

“I woke up rather late too, at around ten,” he lied. “Had a long breakfast here then went downstairs for a cup of tea. I’ll order you some room service, alright?”

“Yes, please,” she whined, hopping out of bed and making for the bathroom.

Tom already had one hand on the phone and ordered her a rich lunch with dessert and coffee and a cup of risotto for himself so that they could eat together. He had a more elaborate plan for their evening which should have served as a tacit apology for him using Imperio on her to make sure she slept until he got back that afternoon — not that she would know what he’d be apologising for.

[delilahcalicocat]

♤~You & Me always Forever~♤

{Rating: Fluff and Smut}

{Warnings: Dom/Sub dynamic, Overstimulation, Unprotected Sex, Swearing, Kissing, Making Out, Sharing a House with two people, Risk Taking.}

{Pairing: Hook x Charlotte Strong}

♡~Special Appearance From: Danhausen!~♡

《Summary: Hook and Charlotte moved in together, Danhausen came with Hook to live since HookHausen is thriving and Hook likes to take risks with Charlotte so this would be perfect》

[WC: Over 1k]

[Charlie's POV:]

I was tidying up my two old guest rooms in my house, Hook and a friend were coming over to move in. Since Hook wanted to move closer to my house so he could visit whenever, but this just made his life easier.

I finished up cleaning and dusting, and mopped out the room so it was spick and span. When I heard the familiar Knock at my door

I went downstairs and opened my door and saw Hook and his friend

"Hey Beautiful" Hook said

"This is my friend, Danhausen he's the one I was telling you about last week" He smiled

"Well Hello!" I greeted

"Danhausen Says Hello to Hook's Girlfriend" He said to me

"Danhausen, Let's go get you settled in" Hook Sighed out to him

"Ok" Danhausen Hummed happily

Hook and Danhausen Headed upstairs while I was downstairs, I was making some random shit I found on my phone I wrote down, it was some fried chicken recipe, most likely one I wrote down from my mother.

Hook was busy settling into his room as I finished the Chicken and talked with my older brother on the phone.

"Yes Roddy, You can come over later but you better be home before midnight." I said before placing my phone down.

I pulled the chicken out of the deep fryer and took the fries out of the air fryer, they were steaming hot.

"Fuck Me!" I shouted not noticing Hook in the living room

"Do you want me to?" He joked

"Hook!" I blushed hardly

He could probably tell I was turning red as he smiled widely as he saw me look away.

♡~Time Skip after Danhausen, Hook, and Charlie Ate Dinner and Danhausen went to bed~♡

Me and Hook were snuggled up on the couch. Watching some boring movie, He clicked through the channels until he found TBS. Where we watched Dynamite for a couple minutes.

Next thing I know, while Samoa Joe is fighting, Hook starts to kiss me. Then he starts making out with me..

Mid-way through the match on TV, We were kissing and full on making out.

Then he's fucking me into the couch as I beg and plead that he stops so we don't wake his friend. I was so scared we'd wake up his friend. But surprisingly he didn't wake up-

"Gah Fuck!" I gasped

{The next Morning}

I awoke groggily to Hook and Danhausen making pancakes, I was still on the couch but with a blanket covering me.

I was so confused when I woke up. Only thing I remembered was Hook fucking me until the point of tears

Atleast he was nice enough to make breakfast.

[Time skip to Dinner]

Hook made some popcorn after we ate dinner and we all watched a movie.

Danhausen went to bed at exactly 11:00pm-

Hook made sure to keep me awake and carried me bridal style to his room.

I knew what was He was doing..

He got some blue Fluffy handcuffs, and I'm now binded to his bed, trying to muffle myself as not to wake up His friend.

God I love him but sometimes he's a little confusing.

[Yippee I finished this at 4:30am, so I get to release it early!!]

[violetszone]

Her beauty

Lewis x fem!reader

Summary: You are a model and people think that the source of your success is your boyfriend Lewis, on the other hand, Lewis is coming with you to Paris fashion week because he always wants to support you.

From this request

WARNINGS: Bad English (I definitely have problems with some words),quick finish (I wrote at midnight)

Dating Lewis Hamilton was always seen as a great achievement for people, they were saying behind you  that "she is famous because of her beauty and also because she is dating Lewis"

Yes you were a model but you've been doing this since  little and, its definitely not Lewis that made you famous.Lewis was also surprised and angry when he came across these comments because he knew how hard modeling was and how it affected your life.

For this reason,He offered to come to the fashion show for the first time with you, and you said you would be very pleased with it, you started packing your bags for Paris fashion week.

The next morning you got up early, you got on the plane and you arrived in Paris, you were rushing to a lot of things.Final details for clothes to wear, hair makeup samples, runway tests, you were forgetting other vital things to do, but Lewis was always there for these, sent your lunch during the afternoon photo shoot and sent a note saying that he insisted you eat.

It made you very happy that he thought so thin, you finished your meal and this time you went back to the hotel and went to the venue where the show will be held and learned the details about the podium.

You walked on the podium for the first time with the shoes you would wear under your clothes and of course the shoes hurt your feet. Finally, when the work was done, you left the venue. while waiting for a taxi to return to the hotel, a car stopped lewis got out of the car.He opened the door for you, you quickly got in the car and fastened your seat belt.

"How was your day honey?" he asked and started driving towards the hotel."It was tiring but it was good thank you so much for the food and for coming to pick me up" he just smiled when you got to the hotel he took your bag from your hand and let you in first.

"YN get in the shower good for tiredness and I'll order food for us, okay?" You nodded and entered the shower. Half an hour later, the door knocked and Lewis announced that the meal had arrived You got out of the bathroom, got dressed and went into the living room.

Lewis had ordered food for the two of you to fit your diet. You sat across from him and started eating your food "When did your foot injuries happen" you finished your mouth and spoke "During rehearsals it was because of the shoes"

he got up from the table without saying anything and went to the bedroom "Lew you have to finish your dinner" 5 minutes later he came back with a cream and a band-aid "Apply this cream before bed and put it on okay it'll be fine" you said thank you and you took the cream and band-aid.when you finished your meal you went to bed because tomorrow is the big day.

You got up at 5 o'clock in the morning, started to get dressed,took the green liquid from the fridge that is your day's meal and drink it.That's when Lewis woke up with you and prepared the bags you need.you left him at the hotel and started running around there until 8pm again

While you were doing your make up at around 7 o'clock, someone brought you a bouquet of flowers and you knew it was from Lewis even without looking at the note inside.you took your phone and wrote a small thank you message and sent it to him

You were shaking with excitement when it was time to take the podium, you took a deep breath and when it came to you, you started walking towards the end of the podium like you did in rehearsal for two days.Seeing Lewis smiling at you in the front, you smiled briefly and corrected your expression immediately.

So in a few hours it was all over and you got through the first day, when you were dressed in your own clothes and ready to return to the hotel Lewis entered the backstage you got up and ran and immediately hugged him

"Thank you for everything you've done for me Lewis, you don't know what it means" he put one hand on your cheek and stroked it "You are so successful, I just wanted to be by your side and support you my love."

"I know and when it's done, thank you very much, let's go, I'm so sleepy" he confirmed and took your hand and when you got into the taxi, he never left your hand, the journalists were trying to catch all the models in front of the hotel and of course they started to shoot you and Lewis, who got out of the taxi.

Lewis brought you closer to him and made you enter the hotel quickly, you went to the room and you fell on the bed "Lewis come here and hug me please I want to sleep"he got into bed and lay next to you and hugged you "good night baby i love you" mumbled you snuggled and closed your eyes.

[lumiolivier]

Nice Dreams

Day 6 of 31 of Kinktober

Prompt: Somnophilia

Word count: 455

A/N: Wrote this while riding out lorazepam. What do you want from me?

L never could sleep.  Not on a normal schedule.  And he envied Light for it.  Every night, ten o’clock, Light was in bed.  By ten-thirty, Light was sound asleep.  But even after taking over the counter sleeping aides every four hours like the box said, L might have blinked.  But it did have its perks.  The quiet in their apartment was peaceful.  Sometimes, Light mumbled in his sleep.  And it warmed L to hear him mumble his nonsense.  How the toaster was on the toilet.  How the magnets on the fridge were chasing after him.  How little pieces of paper made him see demons.  L thought about writing everything Light said down just to share it with him in the morning.  But it never stuck. 

Still, there was one thing L always wanted to try.

One night, L watched as Light slept next to him.  The clock neared midnight and L was still wide awake.  But there was a glow in Light’s cheeks.  One that he had seen many times before.  And little moans escaped the back of Light’s throat.  Those moans were awfully familiar, too.  What’s this?  Dirty dream, Light?  The moans grew a little louder as the blanket began to rise.  L smiled.  Definitely a dirty dream.  We can’t have you making a mess of the bedding, can we?  We just washed the sheets.  That’s when L had an idea.

Slowly, L crawled under the covers and noticed how rock solid Light’s dick was.  Oh, yeah.  I can’t leave you to suffer like this.  I hope I make those dreams nicer for you, Light.  L slowly worked Light out of his boxers, hoping he didn’t wake him, and wrapped his lips around Light’s dick.  Soon after, Light’s hips started bucking into L.  And L smiled a bit.  I see you’re into this more than I expected.  Harder and harder, L kept working his mouth down Light’s cock until it was in the back of his throat.  Light’s moans grew louder and louder.  Until he couldn’t hold on anymore.

“Ahhhhh…” Light groaned as he filled the back of L’s throat.  But then, he began to stir.  And L made his way back up to the pillows, giving a hard swallow.  That was when Light woke up.

“Are you alright, Light?” L worried, “You seemed like you were having a nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t say a nightmare,” Light wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and pulled him into his chest, “Definitely not a nightmare.”

“Nice dream?” L assumed.  As if he didn’t already know.

“Very nice,” Light nodded, “It almost felt real…”

“Well,” L pressed a kiss to Light’s cheek, “Why don’t you go back to sleep, ok?”

“Good idea,” Light agreed, ��Good night.”

“Good night…”

[multiverse-of-fanfic]

the lovely people in the obikin discord server shared this post from @obi-nob-kenobi (a professor au where anakin is the professor and obi-wan is an older student he accidently slept with before classes started), and I was so obsessed with it that I wrote 4k words about it. sooooo, here & enjoy:

Anakin knew he shouldn’t be there; he could hardly believe he even let Padmé and Ahsoka drag him out at all, five days before the start of the semester no less, let alone to a bar.

He still had so much to do, still had plenty of things to keep him busy over the weekend, plenty of things that would keep him up burning the midnight oil until he finished them.

The syllabus for his new class needed to be finalized, a syllabus he should have finished weeks ago, but Anakin’s plate was filled to the brim with other responsibilities for his graduate robotics courses, and unfortunately the freshman algebra class Mace practically begged him to take fell to the wayside.

Anakin was only twenty-six, but after he finished his own graduate degree in robotics, he dove straight into the world of academia. He lived and breathed calculus, prayed at the altar of circuits, dined at the table of computer science.

Anakin poured himself into work; he woke before the sun rose and stayed on campus until long after it set. Recipient of two university-wide faculty awards after his first year on the job (best new hire and teacher of the year), and a repeat of the latter along with a research grant after his second year, Anakin roared ahead the rest of his colleagues on the fast track to become the head of Graduate Admissions for the whole department—if the upcoming year went according to plan, that is.

He would have liked to be able to say he took on the load of an extra class from Mace out of the goodness of his heart, but after the Faculty Christmas Party debacle his first year on the job which cemented the older professor’s dislike for him—not to mention Mace’s prestigious place on the committee to appoint the next head of graduate admissions—Anakin found that it was in his best interests to at least try and get on his good side, no matter how jampacked and impossible it seemed that he would actually be able to successfully teach the class.

Anakin’s disastrous need to people please saw him successfully wrangled up—dressed in a loose flannel and skinny jeans; contacts in, because apparently his glasses made him look frumpy—sat on a vinyl barstool next to Ahsoka. The material sighed against the denim of his jeans every time he leaned forward to lazily take a sip of his Long Island. He took a long moment to appreciate the sweetness of the drink as it slid down his throat, no hint of alcohol, exactly how he liked it. He traced the beads of condensation that rolled down the side of the glass, the trails left in their wake glimmering under the subtle glow from the overhead lamps.

Anakin should’ve been paying attention to whatever it was Ahsoka was talking about, but he just couldn’t find it within himself to actively engage. After all, his social participation hadn’t been part of the deal. Their whining focused on nothing more than his apparent need to get out of this apartment.

You’re working yourself to an early grave, Ani, Padme had said, genuine concern glittering in her eyes. That, and you’ve been no fun. You need to get out and drink. Live a little, Ahsoka had said in her carefree teasing tone. He knew she was worried about him, too, though.

But even still, the ambiance of the bar turned out to be the only thing about the night so far to catch Anakin’s attention.

The atmosphere was purposeful in its darkness, every fixture dimmed, casting the whole place in a veil of shadow, much like a room only half lit by flickering bulbs. Just enough light to clearly see anyone within a ten foot radius, but anything past that was distorted in a haze, a dense morning fog that even the brightest headlights couldn’t penetrate. It reminded Anakin of the bars from all the old movies he’d grown up watching with his mom; rooms clouded by plumes of cigarette smoke, large burly men belonging to biker gangs leaned up against a half-dead jukebox in their vests and bandanas.

Gone were the days of jukeboxes, and—much to Anakin’s chagrin—the chances of finding burly men from a biker gang. Not that he would’ve had much success in a bar located near the college block of Downtown Coruscant.

There was, however, the light scent of cigarette smoke in the air, and it mingled with the citrusy aromas that wafted over from the Hookah Lounge next door. The odor concentrated around the pool table—the only section of the bar smoking was allowed—and the clouds of thick smoke lightly shimmered under the stained-glass bar lamps. Bar lamps of the same kind hung over all the circular wooden tables that were scattered around the vast space, varnished to a sleek shine, sanded down to a smoothness that left no resistance when Anakin dragged his fingers across the surface.

The 501st was a relatively new bar, just a few blocks away from his apartment, but far enough from campus that Anakin didn’t run the risk of coming face to face with any students. The last thing he needed to follow him around were whispers from strangers that they’d caught Professor Anakin Skywalker in the middle of a scandalous drunken escapade. That would accomplish nothing but making a mockery of himself and destroying his carefully curated reputation amongst the student body. Not to mention shattering his career prospects in the process.

“Anakin are you even listening to me?”

“Of course, I am,” he lied.

Ahsoka crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. “Alright,” she cocked an eyebrow at him. “What was I saying?”

Anakin filled the awkward silence with a long drag of his straw, the sound of popping suction as the glass emptied breaking the tension.

“I’m sorry,” Anakin groaned, planting his forearms down on the bar while he loosely grasped Ahsoka’s wrist. “I’m just incredibly bored.”

Ahsoka’s eyebrow shot up even further, sending Anakin into a frenzy of spluttering. “Not that you’re boring, Snips. You aren’t,” he ran a nervous hand through his messy curls, “there’s just so much work I have to do and—”

An elongated growl, paired with a matching scowl, cut Anakin off mid-sentence.

“Anakin, I get it. You’re busy. You’re stressed. But let’s be serious for a second,” the tumbler of amber liquid she nursed clanked firmly on the wooden bar, and it took more effort than Anakin would admit suppressing a flinch. “Padme’s just as busy as you are, but you don’t see her sulking.”

Anakin followed her pointed gaze, angling his head slightly to find Padme; drink with a frilly pink umbrella in hand, pressed up against a tree of a man with chestnut hair—styled in a way that screamed pretentious bastard—beady green eyes, and sharp cheekbones, an arm casually draped over his shoulder.

He opened his mouth to rebut, but Ahsoka cut him off first. “Nuh uh,” she tutted. “I don’t wanna hear it. She’s busy, and I’m busy. If anything, you’re less busy than her because you have me as your TA.”

Anakin wrinkled his nose, effectively silenced. She was right, after all. Having a TA significantly lightened his workload, loathe as he was to admit it. Ahsoka would never let him live it down if he said as much.

He silently reached for his drink, affronted to find it empty. The universe had it out for him, he was certain of it. What was next? Abduction by a magical alien cult?

“Anakin,” Ahsoka sighed, her voice softer and more tender. “You spend so much time working, we just want you to have some fun,” the corner of her lip turned up slightly. Someone who didn’t know her as well as Anakin might have mistaken it for pity. But he knew better.

“In fact,” she purred, eyes darting away from Anakin’s face to a point behind his left shoulder. “Why don’t you follow Padme’s lead like I am?”

She started swaying over with purpose toward a man with a blond buzzcut and a very intense square face.

“What about me—”

Ahsoka stopped at his side, a hand on his shoulder, her eyes not leaving Mr. Serious. “Be spontaneous. Go wild,” her eyes flicked over to a rowdy group of men by the pool table, jerking her chin in their direction. “Why don’t you go talk to one of them? I know how you feel about older men.”

“Hey—ow,” he whined, Ahsoka’s hand retreating back to her side from its previous position on the swell of his ass. Seriously? Were they twelve?

“Have fun,” she called over her shoulder, throwing a lazy wave in his direction without sparing him a second glance.

Anakin gulped, peeking over his shoulder at the men standing around the table, boisterous laughs leaking around the bar.

He could approach them. Totally. He knew how to have a good time. Just because it had been a while didn’t mean shit. He was just out of practice is all.

Turning to the bartender, Anakin ordered two tequila shots and downed them one after the other, grimacing through grit teeth while the burn slid down his throat. Liquid courage would get the job done, surely.

He’d partied on his own time in college. Granted, those parties’ robot to attractive men of a certain age ratio was a little skewed in the opposite direction.

Probably.

Definitely, Anakin decided with a nod to himself.

He hadn’t even taken five steps before the cluster of men parted for him like he was Moses. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of the man stood in the center of the pack.

Anakin felt incredibly off balance. The floor seemed to wobble beneath him, vision blurring at the edges, left to focus only on the rough scruffy looking man in front of him. He was all hard lines and prickly edges, immersed in a cloud of wispy cigarette smoke and an odor of tobacco and whiskey.

A picture of pure intimidation save the pair of crystal blue eyes that sparkled under the fluorescent lights. Anakin barely had time to file the mental picture away before the guy threw his head back in a laugh. The soft copper of his hair against the light cast a dim halo around his head, and Anakin was certain the world was spinning.

The man leaned lazily against the pool table, a cue stick set between his open legs. He brought a cigarette to his lips where it hung loosely from his mouth, and Anakin found it incredibly easy to imagine himself on his knees between those strong looking legs instead of that damn billiards tool. On his knees, hands pressed up against the smooth leather of the pants that stretched around a pair of thighs Anakin knew could be nothing but pure muscle, thighs that could probably crack a watermelon clean in half. A shiver jolted down his spine at the thought.

Anakin’s eyes traced the way fingers wrapped loosely around the thicker butt of the stick, veins following the lines of bone to thick arms corded with muscle, a tattooed bicep threatening to break free from the plain green tee he wore.

And now those blue eyes—vast oceans that Anakin could drown in, really—were looking at him. Looking at Anakin Skywalker like he was the only one in the room. Just like one of those cheesy romcoms where the world goes all hazy leaving only the love interests in focus.

Except the bar’s haze wasn’t the result of special effects, but the cigarette smoke at work again.

And the man, who Anakin had rightfully deemed Billiard Babe in his head, wasn’t staring because they were star crossed lovers fated to end up together. Instead, Anakin’s own feet, treacherous beasts they were, had carried him over right in front of the man.

The man looked at Anakin, his eyes slowly raking from head to toe, and Anakin’s body lit up under the attention. The weight of the stare tore through his lungs, leaving him breathless. Every movement of those blue eyes left behind a searing heat that sent the nerves on his skin into a frenzy of fireworks.

“Hello there,” the man had the audacity to say. Anakin’s brain short-circuited, Billiard Babe’s British accent frying all the synapses and paths. If he were one of his own robots, he would’ve been scrapped for parts already.

Anakin was vaguely aware the man of his dreams was speaking to him again, but he didn’t hear a word, too focused on the way the fine bristles of his beard shifted around his words.

His lips stopped moving, and Anakin looked up at his face, painted with an expectant expression.

Anakin, using every ounce of brain power and higher education opened his mouth.

“Nghh.”

His mouth hung open in absolute horror. Anakin wasn’t going to die of overworking himself, oh no. He was going to die in a bar. Cause of death: Clownery.

But the man wasn’t scowling. His mouth quirked up in amusement, his beard—perfect for ravaging Anakin’s sensitive skin—moved with it.

“Don’t tell me a pretty little thing like yourself has stage fright,” the bastard teased.

Anakin was a man of science, of reason, he could compartmentalize, get his brain up and running enough to speak, to say something smooth. Well, smooth-ish. Padme would be the first to check him on his lack of suave.

“I don’t have stage fright,” Anakin said, finally, before petulantly adding, “and I’m not little. I’m taller than you.”

The older man smirked, one eyebrow sliding up his forehead. “Ah, but you agree. You think you’re pretty?”

Anakin faltered, eyes going wide, heat prickling up the back of his neck. That wasn’t what he’d meant to imply. The last thing he wanted was for momentary slipup to send Billiard Babe away.

But he didn’t seem deterred. The man pushed off the edge of the table and crowded into Anakin’s space, his broad shoulders and firm chest only inches away when he paused.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, love,” he purred, hungry, dark eyes roving over Anakin’s face, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “A good man knows how to treat something pretty.”

“And are you?” Anakin swallowed around the dry lump in his throat. “Good?”

“When I want to be,” his breath was warm on Anakin’s skin, a light puff of air pressing against his own lips.

Molten heat pooled in Anakin’s gut, but their intense stare-off was interrupted by the jeers of the other men around the table.

“Come on, general,” a man, who looked eerily like the one Ahsoka had gone off with, shouted with a beer haphazardly swaying in his hand. “You can make googly eyes later. Now is for pool.” 

“In a moment,” Anakin’s auburn Adonis called back without breaking eye contact. He leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of Anakin’s ear. “Blow me?”

Anakin pulled back, spluttering. “Wh-what?”

His head pounded, nothing but rushing blood and static in his ears. He must have heard wrong. Men who looked like him didn’t say things like that. Not to Anakin, at least.

“Blow for me, darling?” he asked, waving the tip of his cue stick in Anakin’s face, flashing a primal grin.

“Oh,” Anakin laughed, though it was more of a rushed exhale, shaky and anxious as it was. He knew he hadn’t imagined being called darling. No one had called him that since he was little, and that’d been his mother. He would have remembered if they had, if the way the bottom of his stomach dropped was any indication. “What for?”

“Good luck, of course.”

Anakin went a bit cross-eyed staring at the stick, stumbling back a couple inches.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. They were close. So close. “I think I’d feel silly.”

“Blow,” his stranger growled, low and gravelly.

Anakin shivered, an emotion he couldn’t name flickering across the other man’s face. And as if compelled by some internal force, he leaned back in, pursing his lips. He met the man’s wild eyes and blew, the huff of air unlodging particles of chalk from the tip.

With a wink thrown Anakin’s way, the man turned around and positioned himself over the table. He leaned down, face just inches above the green felt, and aimed. The stick clanked lightly against the cue ball, the ball rolling swiftly until it collided and broke the triangle, a few of the solids landing in the pockets.

A few of the men booed, but Billiard Babe straightened up and smiled. “Let’s see any of you do better.”

He sauntered back over, snaking a hand behind Anakin’s back, his hand a heavy weight on Anakin’s hip.

“Looks like that’s settled,” he whispered, words hot on Anakin’s skin.

“What is?” Anakin exhaled, breathless and quite aroused.

“You’re my good luck charm.”

“Oh?”

A hum of agreement vibrated through Anakin’s skull, a nose ghosting along Anakin’s jaw bone.

“Guess you’ll just have to keep blowing me, darling” the untrimmed beard dragged along Anakin’s neck, and he bared it further, barely able to bite off a moan.

----------

Anakin faced the whiteboard, eyes closed, his black, deliciously bitter coffee in hand. He let the scalding tendrils of steam swirl under his nose before inhaling, the deep rich aroma blessedly staving off the beginnings of a headache that lurked at the back of his skull.

Despite what the students liked to think, the Professors didn’t line up outside the registrar’s office to volunteer for the Monday morning eight o’clock slot. No, that—like many of Anakin’s other professional misfortunes, he’d come to realize—was thanks to the personal request of one Professor Windu. His generosity knew no bounds apparently. Neither did his taste for revenge, it seemed.

Anakin had spent the remainder of the past week finishing and polishing his syllabus for freshman college algebra. It’d been no simple feat all things considered; between fielding last minute emails and calls from frantic graduate robotics students and his apparent inability to focus on his work for more than twenty minutes at a time.

He’d also, through no fault of his own, spent an inordinate amount of time nursing a terrible hangover, because apparently his body could no longer ‘hang with the best of ‘em’—as some haunting apparition in leather at the bar had pointed out to him somewhere between tequila shots three and five. It was between bouts of nausea and dry heaving that he found himself thinking of a pair of piercing blue eyes and the feeling of beard burn that lingered between his thighs.

Both things were completely unrelated to Anakin’s inability to focus, by the way.

Nevertheless, Anakin soldiered on, bravely thwarting alcoholic demons and ghosts of one-night stand’s past. The weekend came and went, Sunday night a flurry of collated welcome packets and tearful sobs to Padme and Ahsoka, but the sun rose Monday morning and he found himself in the classroom bright and early.

He heard the click of the lock unlatching in the door followed by the mumbling of students filing into the room and gave himself a few private moments to himself. He checked his wristwatch for the time and nodded to himself at the small hand pointed towards the Eight. One large swallow of coffee and a silent peptalk later, Anakin turned to face the auditorium seats full of students.

After a cut and paste welcome speech in which Anakin did his best to make sure the students felt comfortable and encouraged to do their best and follow their dreams, he appointed two students who bravely sat in the front row to pass out the welcome packets and syllabi.

One did not become a Teacher of the Year winner by assigning classwork during the unofficially deemed Syllabus Week. As such, Anakin took to going over the boring bare bones structure of the class; what they could expect from each lecture, what percentage of their grades exams and quizzes counted for. The basics.

Anakin found his groove rather quickly, and near the end of class found himself back at the whiteboard outlining the standard format for homework problems, when one of the heavy metal doors at his back swung open. He cringed as the slab hit the brick wall outside, a collective startled gasp pouring out of his students.

The interruption was met with an expletive from the offending student that Anakin couldn’t make out, and he dared a glance at his watch again.

He found the time a quarter to nine and huffed to himself. Typical, there’s always one.

“Settle down everyone,” Anakin said to the murmuring crowd behind him, still facing the board. “And thank you for joining us—” he paused, allowing the student to answer while he grabbed the clipboard with the roll from his desk.

“Kenobi. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Professor.”

There was something about him that gave Anakin pause. The name didn’t ring a bell, though Anakin had seen it when he read over the attendance sheet at the beginning of class. It must have been the accent, Anakin thought to himself, but he couldn’t put a finger on where he’d heard it before.

“Thank you, Mr. Kenobi,” Anakin drawled. “Please try to be on time from here on out. You won’t get much out of my class if you’re consistently showing up fifteen minutes before it’s ov—”

Anakin finally turned around to face the class plus his newest tardy student, but the rest of his sentence dried up in his mouth.

Stood in front of him, clearly hungover and sporting a pair of aviators, was his one-night stand from the bar.

AKA Billiard Babe.

AKA Obi-Wan Kenobi.

AKA his student.

Shit. Shit.

Anakin was fucked, and not in the good way—the way he had been Wednesday night, his mind very unhelpfully supplied.

Of all the things he could have gone and done to mess up, sleeping with a student had not been at the top of his list. It hadn’t been on his list at all. Not even on the same notepad, or in the same Office Depot in the same damn state.

Sleeping with students was what weirdos did. Weird wrinkly predators in their mid-to-late forties who were looking for a power trip, who emotionally manipulated kids to get their rocks off.

Anakin was nothing like that. He’d never even gotten a fucking speeding ticket. He’d sat in his car and cried on the phone to his mom for forty-five minutes when he got a warning from a traffic cop about jaywalking for crying out loud.

Oh, God. He was going to end up on the news, wasn’t he? One of those disgraced pervert teachers that got fired for sleeping with a student.

Oh, God. He was going to prison. He was going to end up sharing a cell with a man named Sal who knew people on the outside.

Anakin’s life flashed before his eyes. He was too pretty for prison, wouldn’t last a week before he ended up in some man’s back pocket being called ‘doll face’

It didn’t matter that Obi-Wan was at least a decade older than him, the school had policies against teacher-student relationships. Sure, it wasn’t illegal, but there were clauses in their contracts to prohibit those exact scenarios.

Oh, God. Anakin was so getting fired.

[shaguagua]

虛空爲鼓須彌槌，擊者雖多聽者稀。

Emptiness like a drum with a tall mountain beats, there are so many who beat when no one hears.

半夜髑髏驚破夢，滿頭明月不思歸。

In the midnight my dream is awaked by skull, the full moon hope never setting down.

It's a poem by 释子淳(shì zǐ chún) in 宋朝(Song dynasty). He became a Buddhism monk in early age, wrote religious poems, which is about reaching Nirvana.

It's actually one of Buddhism prayer in Korea about 1000 years. 摘自楞嚴經(zhāi zì léng yán jīng) it's shorted as 楞嚴經. When in china, they don't agree its historical value. Ironically, Korean monks had interpreted the book and it is now a national treasure.

Also, in the drama, Qin huizhang carved the 不思歸(bu si gui), when his son reached 滿月晏(man yue yan; full month celebration). Which means in old china, they celebrated a baby's a month old celebration. Because it was common they would die before that. Qin huizhang must had be really happy that he would not go back where there isn't his son. Think about their story it's really sad.

It's fully religious meaning unfortunately I'm not a Buddhist, I searched quite many references but it seems it's only used as prayer. So here again, I'm guessing,

People are beating the drum with their mind empty, so nobody really hears whatever they are beating. Then a dream breaks with skull, this skull has a story.

There was a monk who were traveling, one day he was stuck with heavy rain in a cave, day became dark so he tried to sleep a bit. He was having such a wonderful dream then he felt so thirsty, so he drank water nearby, which tasted like Nirvana. The next morning he woke up, then found the water in the skull in his hand. What he drunk was that water in the skull. He felt disgusted, then he realised what it is in the world not so important but what it is in the mind. How to think what happens would change the meaning of life.

In this context, also the poet was Buddhist monk, I guess this skull means realisation. So who ever got their realisation, they don't want to loose it. Either one doesn't want to go back before the realisation.

!!~~SPOILER ALERT~~!!

It also might mean he would NOT have any connection with the main government. How I understand the relationship between Qin huizhang and Zhou zishu's father is friend. As Zhou was calling Jin wang as a older cousin, it shows Zhou family's nobility.

Zhou's father must had been close to the king, whoever it was. Qin huizhang found the secret chamber and he let Zhou father know about it. Zhou father told that to his king, the king haven't convinced the truth of the secret cave. So the king killed Zhou father, and Jin-wang knew about it so there are possibilities. Qin huizhang was dead by Jin-wang's plot. So He could use Zhou family easier.

I would like to know more about the relationship between Zhou family and Siji house. Because of many reason so many things had been omitted. What I can do is only guessing 🥲

[cobbledcrossroadtavern]

Prompt #7: Unnatural life in a picture

Jeremy enjoyed his wall calendars. He wasn't weird about it, he didn't collect them or have a closet full of them or anything. It wasn't a point of contention in his marriage and his children didn't make fun of him for it. It was just every year he found a calendar that he liked and hung it up on the wall and wrote important events on them, like one does. Nobody in the rapidly-approaching-mid-21st century used wall calendars. But Jeremy did. He looked forward to the changing of the months so he could see what the picture for the next month was. He didn't stay up til midnight on the last day of the month; he wasn't a weirdo. He didn't even rush over to it first thing in the morning. Sometimes he'd even forget until after work. But whenever he did get around to it, he'd enjoy seeing the picture he flipped up.

So it was with some surprise that his entire family woke up on June 1, 2023, to a shrieking sound none of them knew Jeremy was capable of making. His wife Margaret leapt out of bed and sprinted down the stairs. Jeremy stood in front of this year's wall calendar, one hand claw-rent over his mouth and the other pointed at June's picture.

This year's calendar was something silly--Nuns Having Fun. It was, as they say, all there in the title. June's picture looked more or less like all of the others to Maggie: a woman in a habit and a wimple in an improbably whimsical situation. In June's picture, a very white nun held a trombone among a street jazz band. It looked like they were really swinging together. And for some reason Jeremy stared at it in utter terror.

"What on Earth is the matter with you?" Maggie slapped his arm. "You scared me. You scared the girls."

Jeremy looked in terrified confusion back and forth between his wife and the painting. "You--you don't--you can't see it?" he stuttered.

"See what? It's a trombone-playing nun. No more terrifying than the nuns playing soccer in their convent or the nun being chased by seagulls at the beach." Maggie suppressed a shudder. That one had actually given her the willies. She did not care for seagulls.

For a few more moments Jeremy looked dumbfounded at the calendar picture. "It's gone! But I saw--in the picture--they were--"

"Come on, Jeremy. It was the remnants of a nightmare. Come make toast while I put coffee on." Maggie made a mental note to change the calendar over to July after Jeremy left for work. She didn't know what got him so bent out of shape, but she didn't want it to happen again.

[azaleaniath]

based on our last conversation, imagine leon lending you his cloak 'cause you’re always cold, and just having these cute moments where you’re cuddling in his cloak and it smells like him 🥹😭

There u go bestie 💜

I had so much fun writing this even tho I can't relate 😂😂 Also I think this is the first fanfiction i wrote that does not include much physical touch. I'm proud of myself and I earned this 😭🎖️

_____________

Sir Leon x Reader

includes: fluff, cuddling, stealing clothes, swearing, comforting, freezing

word count: 1k

_____________

The coldness felt like needles on your skin. From head to toe, you were shaking, not even feeling your fingers anymore. You walked through the halls of the castle, making halt at one of the torches to warm up your hands.

It was pitchblack outside since it was almost midnight. Your work had ended already and you were on the way to your room.

A few guards passed, as well as one of the knights.

It was Leon who walked across the floor, his eyes catching sight of you.

"You're still up at this hour?" he asked. His breath was visible in the air, veiling his face in the mist.

"I'm on my way to my room, I'm all done for today" you answered, still shivering. Luckily, it was hard to tell that you blushed at the encounter since your nose already had turned pink.

With furrowed eyebrows he watched your face closely. "God, your lips are blue already!"

You shrugged, rubbing the palm of your hands next to the flame of the torch. "It's freezing cold today."

The knight raised his hands to his throat, unbuckling his red cloak.

Quickly draping the fabric around your neck, he adjusted it over your shoulders. Once he closed the buckle again, you gave him a shy smile.

"Thank you, sir Leon. That wouldn't have been necessary, you'll probably need it yourself."

The man smiled back at you and shook his head, the curls of his hair bouncing with the movement.

"Don't worry, I'm going to take a hot bath now."

You lowered your hands from the flame and grabbed the fabric of his cloak gently.

"You can bring it back to me in the morning, I'll probably be in the armory."

With a nod, you looked up into his face. The sight of his reddened nose and cheeks made you giggle quietly. He looked pretty cute like that.

"I'll make sure to bring it back to you. Enjoy your bath, sir Leon."

The knight simply nodded as a goodbye and went on his way again, as did you, walking into the opposite direction.

It was impossible to hide the big smile on your face. Even if you were still cold, the interaction had made you feel better immediately.

Once you were in your room, you changed into your night dress, took your shoes off and cuddled into the thick blankets. But something was missing.

You had hung his cloak over the end of the bed, watching it closely. A few moments later you decided to reach out for it and drape the red linen cloak over your body, snuggling into it.

It wasn't some soft velvet, or even comfortable warm fur, but the scent of him still lingered on the fabric.

As you inhaled his scent, the wide smile showed up on your face again. It smelled a lot like iron and horse, but also like him in general. While you cuddled into the cloak more, gathering some of the fabric in front of your face you closed both eyes.

'It's just a cloak' you thought to yourself pathetically.

But no, it was more than that, to you at least. It was his cloak.

It was a real treasure.

As you woke up in thr morning, the first thing you noticed before even opening your eyes was the scent of Leon.

"That's how a good day starts, I could get used to this..." you mumbled grinning, deciding to stay like this for some more time. You buried your face deep in the linen cloak for a good while before starting your day.

Once you had dressed yourself, you folded Leon's cloak together. A clever idea appared in between your thoughts.

'What if I just keep it?'

And damn, did you make that choice quickly.

You opened a drawer of your cabinet, lifted one of your folded dresses and hid the cloak in between your own clothes.

Before heading off to the armory, you went to the knight's storage room, fetching a new cloak from there. They had plenty of them here.

"I hope he won't notice..." you mumbled before heading over to the armory. As promised, you found the knight in this room, alone.

"Good morning, sir." you greeted him and paced over to the tall man.

He greeted you with a smile.

"I brought you your cloak. Thank you for lending it to me."

He sat on a barrel, tightening his vambraces and pauldrons.

"Luckily it's a bit warmer today." he stated, looking up to you with a soft expression.

With both hands, you reached the cloak to him and he thankfully reached out for it.

"Is that all?" Leon asked, which you agreed to shortly.

You turned to leave, walking towards the door.

'Please don't let him notice...'

As soon as you left the room, his voice echoed through the hallway.

"(Y/N)?"

'Fuck.'

A sigh ecaped your lips before turning back, walking towards the armory again.

You peeked through the doorframe and saw him gesturing you to come closer. From his expression, you couldn't tell if he was mad or just serious.

A quiet "Yes?" was all you answered as you noticed the knight inspect his cloak closely.

As his eyes went up to find yours, a cold shower ran down your spine.

"... Why did you bring me a new cloak?"

Before you could answer, he added "Don't lie to me. I can see that this one hasn't been worn yet."

You gulped, turning your head away shyly. It didn't take long until your cheeks burned bright red. There were a hundred excuses you could've told him.

It ripped, it had to get stitched up in some place, it had been washed, the list in your head went on. Yet, you just stood there with a red face, unable to look him in the eyes.

Soon it clicked in his head, and his serious expression softened.

"(Y/N)?" as he realized, he almost felt bad for embarrassing you.

It took a while until you found the courage to meet his blue eyes. But instead of looking angry, he gifted you a gentle smile.

"You can keep it."

[usmsgutterson]

The Halloweek of Angst: DAY ONE

Letters left to Grieve- Kaz Brekker

Okay! Day one of this event!

Pretty much what it is is one fic a day every day during the next week leading up to Halloween. All of them vary from pretty heavy angst to hurt/comfort with a happy-ish ending. On the final day, if I can swing it, two fics will come out. One of them will be sort of short, the other one a bit on the longer side. Most of this event is pretty flexible, though, so if I can write enough, there could be a good chunk of things coming out for Halloween! I don’t quite know much just yet, I’m mostly writing and playing it by whatever ideas come up. 

The crows are all around 23-24 in this one!

Fic type- this one is angst! 

Warnings- mentions of stab wounds

“He wanted this to go to you,” Rotty said as you arrived at Kaz’s floor. He was holding a shoebox, but as you picked it up, you couldn’t help but notice its weight. “His will is at the top of the pile. Said it was only relevant that you saw it, anyway.” 

“Thank you,” you said, proceeding through to his office, and then going to the bedroom that you’d once shared. 

Once you sat on the bed, you opened the shoebox. At the top of a pile of letters was a simple, small note, written thickly in black ink on an aged and weathered, coffee stained scrap of paper.

Y/N,

All of it goes to you. 

You set the note on your nightstand, fending off tears as you plucked the first letter from the top of the pile. You read it carefully, cherishing every single word, every nickname, every remark, every single word that Kaz had written on those pages. 

You read the second, and the third, and the fifteenth and the twentieth. You didn’t sleep until well after midnight, but even then, you only ended up sleeping two hours, and the moment you woke up, your reading of the letters in the shoebox only continued, until you reached the last one. 

Y/N,

I write this to you at 7:53 am on Monday morning. It is the day of the heist, and I’ve been lying to you for weeks. I’ve told you that I anticipate no deaths, that I’ve planned around them, but that’s not the truth. 

You’ll find it in the books. I wrote out two plans. One of them involved you dying, the other me. I rather not think it selfish to say that I chose myself. You might, and I get that; I do.

All I ask from here on out is that you do not let my name be lost to time. 

I love you in life and death both, 

Kaz

With a shaky hand, you set the note on your nightstand, atop all of the others. 

For a moment, you hated him. You hated that he chose the route in which he died. You hated that you would have to live forever without him, felt like the time you’d gotten with him was not enough, like it never would be. 

But then, as you threw the shoebox to the ground, listened to the sound of cardboard meeting hardwood flooring, you heard a distinctive sound. One that you’d heard on the rare occasions Kaz’s rings had fallen out of the pocket of his trousers, having loosened from the chain where he kept them, the one to which his pocket watch was welded. 

Carefully, hesitantly, you walked to where the shoe box had landed, lifted it from the ground, placed it on your bed. 

It was in doing so that you found the ring that matched the one hidden at all times on a chain, beneath the collar of your shirt or between the layers of clothes that you wore on colder days. 

Kaz’s rings. Engagement and wedding band both. 

As you picked them up, unable to hear the sound of Inejs feet landing on the ground as she swung herself in through the open window, you broke into sobs.

“He wrote me letters,” you sobbed. “He wrote me letters. I--he knew--he--” You inched back until you met the side of the bed. 

“He knew what he was doing. It was me or him and he chose to get himself killed. He chose to die.”

Inej came and sat beside you, meeting your tearful eyes with calm, collected ones. 

“I don’t know how much you like the bloodied revenge route, but if you need, I have names. I have locations of residence. Jes has Kaz’s cane. It was lifted from Black Veil.”

“I loved him, and he’s gone,” you sobbed. “I loved him so much, and I never get to see him again. How am I supposed to deal with that?” 

“There’s revenge,” Jesper said as he opened the door to the office. You were able to hear him because your room was just beyond a small archway past it. “Bury him with the cane or use it. It was Kaz’s once, but it’s yours now.” 

You did your best to wipe the tears from your eyes, resting your head against Inejs shoulder.

It felt like you’d been stabbed. When it would go away was something you did not know.

-

You grinned as you sat down, pressing your back against Kaz’s headstone, hand trailing down the length of his cane as you did.

“Both the words ‘no mourners’ and ‘no funerals’ don’t really apply to you anymore,” you said. “Far as funerals go, we had a small service for you yesterday. Mourners? Counting the Crows, there were no less than eleven, though in recent, I’ve begun to wonder if we perhaps had twelve people in attendance.” 

The funeral service had been small. It’d been you, Jesper, Inej, Nina, Wylan, and Matthias. That, plus Annika, Pim, one Colm Fahey, two of the sargeants in the Dregs, and, while you hadn’t seen him at the funeral service in and of itself, you’d noticed a redhead with a face that looked only like the kind of face that was tailored to look entirely different to how it normally did standing and staring sadly at Kaz’s gravestone in the hours and days after. 

“I killed the people who killed you,” you said. “The employees who stabbed you four times in total. I killed the owners of the building we raided, and mysteriously, the two who’d alerted them to your presence in the third-floor hallway died in an elevator accident yesterday. It appears as though two of the wires were cut mid elevator ride, but the cameras had cut out, so there are no suspects to what most apparently think was a murder.” 

You looked, for a final time, at the crows head cane. 

“I figured you’d want this back,” you said. “I’m going to leave it here. Nina has a friend who’ll ensure it’s with you in your coffin by the end of today.” 

Carefully, you stood, not looking at the cane or Kaz’s gravestone as you walked away. 

[elithe31st]

SMASH

bakugo x gn!reader {platonic}

req: me

desc: reader is bored...reader decides to play smash with bakugo, but he doesn't know what it is. reader makes it their life goal to play at least one round with him

'ohhhhh bakugooo!~' you barged into his room with a piece of notebook paper and a pencil.

bakugo turned and looked at you in annoyance.

'what the hell do you want, (mean nickname)?'

'i thought we could play a game, since i'm soooo bored!' you closed his door and trotted over to his desk, setting his studying aside and placing the paper down. it had "SMASH" on the top written in red pen.

'can't you fuckin' see i'm studying here!?' he threw his arms up, grabbing his papers.

'set that shit aside for now, fingertips! we're gonna do something that's worth more time.' you moved beside him, perched on the ground as you drew a line under a couple lines and put two bubbles, bakugo's first initial in one, and yours in the other.

'so how the hell do you even play this shitty game?' he put his elbow on the desk, watching the paper.

'you'll see, be patient.' you wrote izuku's name on the paper first. and then iida's, then ochaco's, then finally mina's.

'kay, pick a person on this list.'

'why should i!? i'm not touching that thing if it has damn deku's name on it!'

'JUST FUCKING DO IT BAKUGO.'

'tch, fine. i pick round cheeks.' bakugo rolled his eyes, putting his head in his hands.

you crossed off ochaco's name and put a 'k' next to it, then, you crossed off iida's name and put (your first initial) next to it.

then, you wrote down places.

school, a warehouse, the league of villians hideout, and best jeanists hero training place.

'pick a place, any place sir!' you laughed as you spoke, looking at him with a sly smile.

'fuckin' god, this is so dumb. uh, the league of villians hideout?' he pointed to the paper.

'what the fuck is this even for anyways?—'

'SHUT THE FUCK UP BAKUGO, LET ME WORK MY MAGIC.' once again, you crossed out the l.o.v. hideout and put a 'k' next to it. then you crossed out the warehouse and put (your first initial) next to it.

you wrote down surfaces. table, floor, bed, bench. bakugo read them aloud as you were putting them to the paper.

'what the hell are these options? table? what kinda game are we playing here!?' bakugo ran a hand through his hair. 'if i have to pick again, i'm picking the bed.'

you burst out laughing as bakugo yelled at you.

'oh man, this is gonna be funny...' you did the same routine, line, initial, line, initial.

'aaaalright, final round. I'll FINALLY let you be.'

'oh thank fuck. i'm already tired of your whiny voice.'

finally, you wrote down pro-hero names. mount lady, midnight, miriko, and ryuko. you handed bakugo the paper as he looked at the new scribbles.

'miriko.' he sighed angrily as he handed you back the paper. you didn't even bother to write your answer this time.

'alright alright folks! time for the results!' you stood up, and bakugo turned his chair to look at you.

'bakugo! you would fuck—'

'I WOULD HAH!?! THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY EXTRA!?'

'SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME FINISH!' you put a hand over his mouth. bakugo clawed and grabbed at it.

'alright bakugo! you would fuck ochacho IN the league of villians warehouse, on one of the beds! and you would bring miriko along with you.'

you let your hand off of bakugo's mouth and he tackled you to the ground.

'BAKUGO! YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO PLAY!!'

bakugo's hand lit up, rage in his eyes.

'I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!'

the next morning, you woke up on bakugo's floor, your face burnt.

now, bakugo will never play any game you want to play with him.