#which is the worst part of writing a book

[s0fter-sin]

pt.2 of my horror au! you can find pt.1 here!

cw mild horror, descriptions of a dead animal (not riley)

to say johnny’s gotten used to the man living in his walls would be the biggest lie he’s ever tried to spin. he doesn’t have a choice but to get used to him

he won’t let johnny leave

he’s always watching him, even if he can’t see him; the walls and ceiling groaning with his weight as he follows him throughout the house during the day, only ever peeking through the vents when the sun’s gone down. if he even gets close to the front door, the vents shake like he’s sprinting towards him and the sheer panic is enough to make him stumble back; his heart pounding in his chest

he was paralysed the first night he saw the man, clutching riley to his chest in the middle of the bed, just waiting for him to come back and do god knows what to them- but the walls were silent

if it weren’t for the lingering damp on his hand and the slight scrape on the side of the vent, johnny could almost convince himself the whole thing was just some twisted waking nightmare

it was only when the sun crept over the horizon that he dared to step off the bed, riley tight in his arms, and held his breath as he escaped out the front door-

only to feel smug eyes on the back of his head when he saw his car tires slashed and random pieces of the motor ripped out and strewn across the yard

the message was clear

johnny can’t leave

the man won’t let him

the next few days passed in a haze of dread. johnny kept waiting for the man to come back, never eating or sleeping except for the snatches his body forced him to take. he can fight but from the glimpse he caught of the man and the weight of the sounds in the walls, the man was big. even if he did knock him out, where could he go? it would take hours of running before he reached another house

he never let riley out of his sight, feeding him in his room after he tipped the wardrobe over in front of the vent. it was only then he realised his phone was missing too

he was utterly trapped; a rabbit with his leg broken, waiting for the jaws to close around him

but the man didn’t come back

johnny’s panic turned into rage. then after another week of nothing turned into confused acceptance and determination

if he can’t leave, he’s not going die in a house with moldy baseboards

“i’m going out the back!” johnny announces loudly in the dining room - the room with the most vents - and almost flinches when he hears the slight reverberations through them. “i’ll come back in when i’m done but i’m not gonna let you stop me from workin’!”

nothing answers him. not a creak or a groan or a scratch. just complete silence

he wishes it didn’t make him feel so much worse

johnny takes a deep breath and wills his hand not to shake as he reaches for the doorknob, wincing at its obnoxious creak, and waits

and waits

nothing

johnny blows out a long breath. “alright, then,” he whispers and looks down at riley waiting obediently at his side. “let’s get to work.”

so he keeps fixing it

he builds new frames for the windows and purposely doesn’t acknowledge the heavy gaze on his back every second he’s outside. he replaces the outlets and pulls out the phone line that looks like it’d been chewed through with teeth far too big to be a rat

definitely too big to belong to the skinned rat he finds in the dumbwaiter after following the smell of gored meat, bled dry and spread out like a gift

a gift offered after a day spent repairing the roof, riley sitting diligently at the base of the ladder. a day he didn’t step a single foot inside

a day he didn’t eat at all

johnny looks at the rat, really looks at it. the skin had been cleanly removed, the meat left undamaged; the guts removed from the abdominal cavity. it’s been perfectly cleaned and dressed like it came from a butcher

from a hunter, prepped and ready for eating

it sends a shiver through him. he swallows and gently shuts the dumbwaiter cover, sending the rat back down to the basement then knocks politely on the wall for good measure. he then takes a bunch of fillings from the fridge, some bread and a cutting board, turns off the light and sits in front of the nearest vent

and waits

his breath is so loud, his instincts screaming at him not to have him back to the room. but he knows the only threat in this house will come from directly in front of him

johnny flinches at a distant thud and an immediate scratching starts, starting in the basement and barreling straight towards him

he’s angry

he swears he can hear his heart racing in his chest as the vent in front of him thunks, something heavy and fast weighting it down- then everything abruptly falls silent

he can’t see him

but he knows he’s there

he’s always there

johnny swallows again and lays out the two pieces of bread on the board, the moonlight coming through the window the only illumination he has. the vent remains silent as he layers on deli ham and a few slices of cheese, finishing off with a couple pickles and mayo

he closes the sandwich up and, eyes flicking to the shadows in the vent, picks it up and takes a bite

he chews slowly and lets out a deliberate hum before he takes another bite, dragging it out like it’s the best damn sandwich he’s ever eaten

johnny swallows his last mouthful, sucks a drop of may off his thumb and braces himself. he stands up and turns his back on the vent. he putters around, puts the food away and fills a glass of water and at some point while he’s washing off the cutting board, the vent lightly groans as the man slowly climbs away

he shivers and wonders how crazy it makes him that the rattle almost sounds thoughtful

💀🧼

there’s a sandwich on the floor

johnny’s still trying to catch his breath after hauling all the old moldy baseboards outside, frozen in the action of wiping sweat off his forehead

the bread’s torn, ham and cheese and pickles clumsily and excessively thrown on with sauce dripping out the sides

but it’s a sandwich, sitting on top of his cutting board

johnny tugs off his gloves and slowly walks up to it. the walls are silent. but that doesn’t mean the man isn’t watching

he picks up the cutting board and a voice in the back of his head screams at him as he brings it in front of the kitchen vent and sits just like he did the other day when he made his own sandwich. he hides a preemptive grimace and picks it up-

but it’s not soggy

despite the amount of sauce piled on it and the juice from the near fistful of pickles, the bread is still soft

fresh

you waited for me, johnny realises and something in his chest catches. you waited until i was done and made sure it would be ready for me.

johnny blinks a few times and bites into the sandwich

he can’t remember the last time someone had a meal waiting for him

his ex certainly never did; he always had to be poked and prodded into cooking, never wanted to eat anything they already had or waste time making something when they could just order in. even in other relationships, sure they would ask if he was hungry or make an extra portion when he wasn’t home so he’d have leftovers

but no one’s ever cooked something just for him. just because they wanted to

johnny thickly swallows the last bite

and doesn’t flinch when he looks into the vent and sees the shine of eyes looking back at him

“thank you,” he whispers

the eyes twitch back, almost like the man flinched, then they cock to the side and sink down into the very edges of the darkness, blending into the shadows like a ghost

but he doesn’t leave

and neither does johnny until riley pokes him with his nose, looking for his own dinner

[httpiastri]

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

LITERALLY JUST WROTE THE WORST MOST DISAPPOINTING CLIMAX OF HALLOWED BODIES BUT AT LEAST IT’S WRITTEN!!!!!!

[mariocki]

"We should stop thinking in terms of 'compensatory education' but consider, instead, most seriously and systematically the conditions and contexts of the educational environment.

The very form our research takes tends to confirm the beliefs underlying the organization, transmission and evaluation of knowledge by the school. Research proceeds by assessing the criteria of attainment that schools hold, and then measures the competence of different social groups in reaching these criteria. We take one group of children, whom we know beforehand possess attributes favourable to school achievement; and a second group of children, whom we know beforehand lack these attributes. Then we evaluate one group in terms of what it lacks when compared with another. In this way research unwittingly underscores the notion of deficit and confirms the status quo of a given organization, transmission and, in particular, evaluation of knowledge. Research very rarely challenges or exposes the social assumptions underlying what counts as valid knowledge, or what counts as a valid realization of that knowledge."

- Basil Bernstein, Education Cannot Compensate for Society, in Education for Democracy (2nd ed., 1972)

[youremyonlyhope]

I'm not a "new musical theatre style music" person. Never have been.

Even when I was doing voice lessons, I'd steer towards the golden age or jazzy musical theatre songs. My voice teacher would have to drag me kicking and screaming towards adding anything new musical theatre to my repertoire. For a while, the most modern song in my book was I Know The Truth from Aida, and I wouldn't count that as new musical theatre style since I mean more the Pasek&Paul or Joe Iconis type.

And now I have an audition coming up for a small production of a show in that style and I'm supposed to sing a song in a similar style. And I'm looking at all my sheet music like... let me do some Cole Porter... or Gershwin... at least Sondheim please...

[excelsior9173]

…

being a person with both an extremely inflammatory temper but also crippling anxiety is an incredibly frustrating experience

i am so quick to anger and want to lash out so badly- i know i’m ridiculously reactionary and most definitely blow things out of proportion. i get so much more vicious about things than i need to be and i hate that

but then when it comes to moments where i feel like i should be defending myself and that anger feels a little more righteous, the panic flares up and i freeze. i end up stuck in this cycle of agonizing over whether or not to say anything, or if what i say is going to come off in a way that is civil and articulate and doesn’t give anyone further ammo to patronize or talk down to me. and then i just end up not saying anything and instead tearing myself apart from the inside out. i end up internalizing everything and it becomes self-flagellation of the highest degree because that anger needs to be vented somewhere and if i contain it to myself then i at least don’t look like a complete asshole to the people around me.

i feel like those videos of dogs you see where when there’s a barrier the dog seems incredibly mean, ready to rip your face off. but as soon as the barrier is removed and you confront the dog it’s immediately submitting and tucking tail. i am a coward of epic proportion. i only bite the ones i love and i have no bark with which to warn

[nerice]

ive been sick for a couple days bc god forbid u have a maskless interaction in this economy but a fun consequence is that fever body aches mapped perfectly onto my rsi zones it's kinda wild how specifically my right arm and upper torso hurt lmao anwy misc life updates! pain doc was fine he wants to put me on lowgrade painkillers (eh) and muscle relaxants (can get behind that) for a while but i also have an unrelated surgery i need 2 schedule so like. im not fucking w meds at this point & at the end of the day physio has been working and continues to work however slow. like at this rate i *might* be able to play elden ring dlc when it comes out at least for 30mins a day or every other day which is!! the thought that keeps me going even thru all this bullshit

[luveline]

Shy!reader and post prison Spence - the first time he calls her a pet name? I love that your Spencers always use “honey” or “dove” or “love” and we know she’d be a mess.

P.S. completely agree with how much I love the gentleness of your characters. The way you write Spencer in love is literally my favorite

ty for requesting <3 fem

“Are you sure it’s okay?” 

Spencer holds a hanging strap. You hold your own, core tense with the movement of the train. “I think I would’ve mentioned it before you got on the train if it weren’t.” 

You nod, glancing around the traincar at the other passengers. There's a stout lady wearing a large fluffy sweater, turquoise with two white kittens at her chest nuzzling one another in knit. A man with three bags of groceries sits just beside her. Further down, a teenage girl listens to music through leaking headphones, her phone reflecting blue light on her cheeks. 

“But are you sure I won’t be an imposition?” 

“You aren’t usually. I guess we won’t know until we get there.” 

“Maybe I should just find a hotel for the night.” 

“Y/N, I’m kidding. You’re not an imposition, it won’t be a problem. There’s enough room at my apartment for you to stay however long you want. Between all the books, that is.” 

It’s just not something you pictured asking him for. Your kitchen flooded in your apartment and the landlord had to put you up in a hotel until he could get someone in to make sure the stove wasn’t about to explode or catch light. But the idea of a hotel is rough torture —somewhere unfamiliar, living out of a suitcase, surrounded by people you don’t know without a door that locks properly. Spencer caught you sweating over it at your desk, pulling the story from you in reluctant drags with a hand on your shoulder. 

It’ll be okay, he said, you can just stay with me. 

Which is relieving and somehow a new can of worms to deal with. At least at a hotel there was no chance of seeing Spencer in a towel. Spencer seeing you in a towel, in your pyjamas, without your formal office protections. 

The worst part is the excitement. 

Terrified he’ll see it on your face, you stare at your shoes next to his. Spencer… Everyone told you he was a dork. When you joined the team in his absence, not once did you get the impression that the man who’d be coming back was like this. You feel like he’d been infantilised. Which isn’t to say he isn’t a dork, he is, he tells you the strangest things, facts or statistics to accompany each topic of the day, and he has all the manners and chivalry of someone who knows what it’s like to be as painfully shy as you are. But he isn’t shy. 

Autistic, he’d confided once. Probably. I’m better at dealing with it now. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“Nervous.” 

“I know.” He grasps your arm as the train screeches on tracks, turning a tight bend. You’re grateful, but immediately flushed with heat. 

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.” 

“You couldn’t. I think I know you too well already.”

“You’ve known me for less time than the rest of the team, but you were the first person to offer me a place to stay.” You clench the rickety handle of your suitcase. “Thank you.” 

“That’s okay, angel.” He says it simply and softly, like you really are an angel. Something breathless to wait with. 

Angel, you think, heart skipping a beat, pulse slow and then suddenly ramped. 

His arm slips behind your back. “I don’t want you to stay in a hotel if it’s going to scare you. Besides, it’ll be fun. Like a sleepover.” He laughs. And you, despite your flush, heat sinking across your chest like a bruise, manage to laugh back. “I’ve never had one before.” 

“What?” 

“Never had a sleepover. I didn’t have any friends in school, and I haven’t had a girlfriend stay the night before.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, expecting a retraction. Not that you’re my girlfriend, not that you’re anything like that at all. 

He smiles at you. “Should we get takeout?”

“What were you thinking?” 

“There’s an Indian restaurant between the station and my apartment? We can stop in. Or we can order something to come. Or I can cook, if you want home cooked.” 

“No, it’s fine, you don’t have to cook–”

His lips turn to a quizzical pout. “I don’t mind.”

You want him to call you angel again. You want him to take you home, make you dinner, and you want to sleepover. Like a girlfriend, you want to wake up in his bed. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, “I think I’m just tired.” 

“Are you sure?” You nod. “Alright. I was worried you didn’t like the pet name, but your pupils dilated when I said it–”

You can’t escape him. One hand in the hanging strap above, the over on your suitcase handle, you have no choice but to stand there with his arm around you to keep you from falling, face so hot with it that you’re sure you’d be feverish to the touch. “It’s fine,” you say, too afraid to look at his face that you end up staring at the nice shape of his throat, his black and purple tie. “Call me what you want. Um, I think we should get Indian.” 

“Good choice, angel.” 

[laufeysvalentine]

i want you.

remus lupin x fem!reader | masterlist

summary ༄ remus x best friend!reader -- or in which you're in love with your best friend, but he's not exactly in love with you back... angst

word count ༄ 3.2k

nora’s notes ༄ eeek my first writing post!! i'm so excited. this is kind of bad but IDC part two will be coming and i swear will be better written okay enjoy!! mwah 💘

“moony!” you sing-song as you twirl into his dorm, lips spread into a wide grin. “we’re leaving for hogsmeade, hurry up.” 

he’s on his bed, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he glances up from his book, suppressing a smile when he sees you. “hi, y/n.” 

he embodies the word comfort, you think. he’s wearing one of his trademark warm wool sweaters, an empty mug of tea by his knee, gray blanket draped across his lap, and that smile. it would be the death of you, you were sure of it. 

“hi,” you respond, clasping his book and setting it onto his bedside table. “c’mon, everyone’s waiting for us downstairs.” 

he sighs so deeply you think he might crack a lung, and loops his pointer finger through one of the belt loops of your jeans to pull you onto his bed. “do we have to?” 

as much as you’d like to stay here with him, you also want to buy more chocolate frogs, so you spring back up, tugging at his hand. “yes, please. i’m low on my candy stock.” 

he groans, letting you pull him off of his bed and out of the dorm. “your sweet tooth is killing me.” 

you shrug. “that’s what you signed up for when you said yes to being friends in first year. now you’re just living with it.” 

he just hums in agreement, letting you wrap your arm around his. remus lupin, your best friend. he’s the kindest man you’ve ever met, let alone known. it would be a lie to say you weren’t completely and utterly in love with him, and even more of a lie to say you hadn’t been since before you were a teenager, even if you didn’t understand it then. but, alas, as soon as you’d admitted it to yourself, you also resolved to never, ever tell him. you were sure he didn’t feel the same about you, and why would you carelessly toss away the best friendship and most understanding person ever just for some feelings? 

and so, you waited and hoped, prayed that it would go away. you would move on and keep your friendship. 

and, of course, you didn’t. 

“y/n!” james calls once he sees the two of you walking down the stairs to where the rest of the marauders are waiting. “finally.” 

“we sent you up like ten minutes ago,” peter complains, frowning. 

you shrug. “oops.” 

remus shifts his arm to settle around your waist, nudging you in front of him. “well, we’re here now, so get a move on.” 

you thread the hand he placed on your stomach with your own, thumb rubbing circles onto his. he smiles down on you, and that smile, oh, lord. you could see it a million times and never have enough. you’d jump over bridges to have him watch you like that all the time. you’d sell your soul to be his, really and truly. and the worst part is, you have no shame about it. merlin, you’re in love. 

—

jelly beans or chocolate frogs, that is the question. you glance at one, then the other, then the other again. your shoulders slump. it’s too hard of a decision. you’re about to cave and get both when you feel warm arms wrap around your waist, a chin settling onto your shoulder. without looking, you press a kiss to remus’ cheek. “hi.” 

“hi,” he replies, inhaling your scent, nose tucked between your ear and your hair. 

“chocolate frogs or jelly beans?” you ask anxiously, holding up the two in front of you. “or both?” 

“both,” he agrees with you, and you can feel the tension slowly leaving him as he stands behind you, entwined with you. 

you nod, happy with his judgment, about to speak when someone beats you to it. 

“remus?” a voice yells from behind, excitement coloring her tone. 

you know who this is without looking too, but you wish you didn’t. remus slowly stands back to his whole height, and the sudden absence of his warmth makes you shiver. you turn just as he does, even if you don’t want to see the girl beaming at him. 

you know her, of course you do. doesn’t everyone know celeste huxley, the most beautiful hufflepuff to grace hogwarts’ campus? angels sing when she walks past, men and women fall to her feet in her wake. she’s worshiped, adored. okay, you’re being dramatic, but still. 

you hate her. 

you hate her silky hair, her evergreen smile, her cesspool of kindness. 

and you hate yourself more for hating her. she’s never been mean to you a day in her life, she couldn’t be mean to anyone even if she tried. but still. she’s who you’ve tried to be your whole life. she is the blueprint, the model with cherry-red high heels you wobble and blister your feet in. she has all Os on her OWLs, victoria’s secret hair, people who love on her like a celebrity. and she’s fucking obsessed with your best friend, of course. she could have anyone in the world, and she picked him. why couldn’t she love sirius or james, like half the girls at the school? why did she have to want remus? 

and the worst part is, she deserves him. he deserves someone as perfect as he is, even if that’s celeste. 

as you swallow down your hatred, you realize she’s started to pull remus away from you, pulling on his sleeve towards the jelly slugs, and you almost lob your stupid chocolate frog at her head. tears sting your eyes and you try your best to blink them back as you watch remus watch you, only half-listening to her blabber. he knows you hate her, and the most sheepish, guilty look comes over his face. you ignore him, putting your candy back, too upset to think about eating it. luckily, you spot sirius in the corner and quickly try to make your way over him when you’re pulled back. 

remus has got ahold of your belt loops again, and you watch him whisper something to celeste before gently removing her hand from his sweater and pulling away. he chose you now, but for how long? the thought chills you, goosebumps prickling your skin, your heart. 

“dove,” he says quietly by your ear. “what happened to your candy?” 

“didn’t want it,” you mumble, walking towards sirius. 

“why not?” he’s dancing around the topic, and both of you know it. 

“not hungry.” 

“i’m sorry.” 

“s’not your fault,” you say. you’re not mad at him, you could never really be mad at him, but you’re upset nonetheless. you push away towards the black-haired boy perusing the shelves. “siri, you done?” 

you link arms with your other friend, leading him out of honeyduke’s, leaving remus trailing behind. 

—

“hi dove.” a voice, and its accompanying owner, peeks out from the doorway into your dorm. “may i come in?” 

“hi rem,” you say in response, beckoning him in, putting your book to the side to let him crawl onto you. “can’t you always?” 

his shoulders sag slightly, slumping into your bed as soon as he reaches it. his head is in your lap, and he closes his eyes once you begin to massage his scalp with your fingers, pressing a kiss to your exposed hipbone next to him. 

you don’t say anything, you just let the silence dance between the two of you. 

he’s so pretty. you brush some of his sandy strands out of his face to let yourself just admire him. the towering giant and all his gentleness. your fingers trace the outlines of his face, the scars that decorate it, all the way down to his right pinky, where he has the cutest tattoo. 

i love you is all you want to say. the words pulse at your throat, begging you to let them free. but you can’t. you can’t lose him. anyone else, sure, you would do it. but not him. not remus, your remus. 

when he wakes, groggy but grounded, you have a hot cup of tea ready by your bed, ready for his consumption. you hand it to him as soon as he’s fully awake, pulling himself off of you to accept the mug. “i don’t deserve you, dovie.” 

“don’t say stuff like that, rem. if anything, you deserve better.” you press a kiss to his cheek, smiling. 

“there’s nobody and nothing better than you,” he promises, hand landing on your lower thigh to massage it gently. you smile, letting the quiet linger between the two of you a little longer before speaking up. 

“you wanna talk about it?” you ask, watching him sip his tea. 

he gives you the most adoring smile, and you want to put it in a box and lock it up and keep it forever. “just tired.” 

“okay,” you say, searching his face to verify what he’s saying. “you can always talk to me, you know.” 

“thank you.” remus is always sincere, it’s one of the things you love about him, but he seems especially sincere now. “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, y/n.” 

“and you are to me,” you whisper, eyes dipping to his plush pink lips. you want to kiss him so badly right now, but you know he just means it like a friend, as much as you wish it wouldn’t. 

swallowing, you wipe those ideas away, choosing to rest your head against his fleece sweater-covered shoulder. he drops a kiss onto the top of your head, and you sigh in contentment. this is why you refuse to tell him you love him. you couldn’t live without these moments. 

“there’s a party tonight at nine-ish,” he says softly. his thumb is rubbing circles on your knee. “sirius is dragging me along. will you come?” 

you contemplate it only briefly. “i’m tired, rem. you should go, though.” 

“i’ll stay back with you,” he decides with resolution. your heart melts, it’s sweet of him to want to stay with you, but you want him to have fun. plus, you can feel in how his body coiled with excitement when he talked about it–he wants to go. 

“no, go.” you glare playfully at him. “i won’t forgive you if you don’t.” 

“i’ll stay with you,” he repeats, staring right back at you. “it’s just a party. i’d stay with you forever, you know? you’re my favorite person.” 

“i’ll be mad at you if you don’t go, i swear to merlin,” you egg him on, heart melting. 

“no.” he’s too stubborn for his good. 

“i want to be alone,” you lie. you know he wants to go and you refuse to hold him back. “i might come later on, just not at nine. i’ll be there at ten, maybe.” 

“and i’ll wait for you,” he promises. 

“please, remus.” you put on your saddest tone, gaze up at him pleadingly. “i just need some alone time.” 

“you want to be alone?” he asks cautiously, searching for any hint you may be lying. 

“yes.” you cross your toes, tucked under your quads. 

he’s hesitating, and as if in perfect timing, a knock sounds at your door before a familiar head of black hair peeks through. 

“moony, let’s go. leave poor y/n alone.” sirius clicks his tongue. 

you push remus’ shoulder lightly, gesturing for him to go. he casts one long look at your face, as if memorizing every ridge. 

“she’s not going to change while we’re gone, get a move on,” sirius groans from the door. you nod at the statement, and remus concedes. 

“i’ll be here the whole time,” you promise. 

“call me if you get lonely.” he makes you swear before reluctantly getting up. you kiss his hand to send him off. 

you were lying when you said you would join him at nine. five minutes after he’s out the door, you’re fast asleep under the covers, the ghost of his touch comforting you. 

—

as soon as your eyes open, you let out a sound of disappointment. you can tell you haven’t slept through the night, as none of your roommates are in their beds, and they always sleep in. the clock reads that it’s only a bit before eight forty five, and you roll over in your bed. you know you won’t be able to fall back asleep, but you try anyway, until the door slams and your eyes fly open. 

it’s lily, face flushed with the cold and excitement. the second she sees you kissed by sleep, she covers her mouth. “sorry, y/n! were you sleeping?” 

you wave her off. “no, i was already awake. what’s up?” 

“james is going to be at the party tonight. will you come? please, please, please? i don’t want to go alone with him,” she begs. “please.” 

you weigh your options: if you stay here, you’ll just lay in bed, not sleeping. you might as well go with her, you’ll see remus there too. 

“okay,” you agree, and she practically drags you out of bed, she’s so happy. 

—

even though lily’s the one who dragged you here to keep her away from james, she’s off with him in a corner within ten minutes of you getting there, leaving you in a sea of other people, alone. of course, you know most of your housemates that are stuffed into this crowded common room, but you don’t know any particular one of them enough to properly go up to and chat. you sit awkwardly on a couch for a few minutes, next to couples making out, before finally just giving up and getting ready to leave. 

you saw sirius going into a bedroom with someone, so he’s out of the picture, peter’s smoking in the corner with some ravenclaws you have no interest in speaking with, james is alone with lily, and he’d kill you if you interrupted them, and you have absolutely no clue where remus is. 

whatever. you walk towards the door to the girls’ dormitories, stumbling over students on the way, when you just barely catch a glimpse of sandy hair outside on a balcony. you’d know it anywhere–that’s remus. you scramble towards him, eager to see a friendly face, hand cracking the door open, when just as quickly as it came, the excitement dies in your throat. 

because just behind remus is a girl you hate to see. celeste, hair floating behind her. if you blink hard enough, you see a breeze wafting through her hair as her fingers knot around remus’–your remus–neck. his hands are on the small curve of her waist, and he’s pushing her against the railing and, oh god–they’re kissing. 

you let out a thick gasp and your hand slaps over your mouth. you turn and flee. they probably heard you, but they can’t maneuver through the crowd like you can. within seconds, you’re sure you’ve lost any trace of them, darting through people as you sprint outside to the outside of the castle. sure it’s past curfew, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

no one will see you now. 

he’s supposed to be yours. he was yours, he was yours in more than just a best friend. those nights when he fell asleep in your bed, having you wrap your arms around him for warmth, he was yours. when you always visited him post-full moon in the apothecary, and as much as he wishes to push you away, you never let him, he was yours then. when he lets you in, truly and fully, and lets himself cry against you, letting you take care of him for once. you’re the only person he’s ever let himself cry in front of.

and even though you’d deny it a million times, and you did, to sirius, to james, you’ve always hoped that he liked you back. deep down, in the parts of your soul you only ever showed to him. he didn’t have to love you, even. just like, that would be enough. anything would. 

but that was too much for him, clearly. 

you’re crying. tears, fat and hot, soaking the skin on your cheeks. head in your hands, letting your open palms pool the salty water. you feel nothing but yourself and the wind against the cold of the stone steps, whipping your hair around. 

“dove.” 

you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’re hallucinating, praying the voice you just heard wasn’t real. you couldn’t see him right now. that would be humiliating. 

“y/n?” 

you crack your eye open when you hear the same voice, trying to swallow your sobs back and failing as they manifest into ugly hiccups. you’re not hallucinating. merlin damn it. 

in front of you, peering up at your blotchy face, is remus lupin, your best friend. the man who’s not yours. 

he’s on the step below you,  but one hand snakes its way onto your knee, soothing your skin with his slender thumb, the other finding your hand to intertwine your fingers. fuck, his touch both makes you lean into him and want to throw up at the same time. his eyes are chock-full of compassion, and god, you hate it. “what’s wrong?” 

his words send you blubbering into tears again, rubbing at your eyes as something splits open in your chest. “n-nothing.” 

“something’s wrong, love. let me help you. let me in,” he pleads in the softest tone, and you have to fight to not give in, to wrap your arms around him and never let go. remember celeste, remember that terrible sight of his lips on hers. 

“remus, leave me alone.” you’re shaking, but somewhere inside you, you find your resolve. you stand, pulling away from him, and make to run back inside the castle, but his long legs catch up to you easily, arm shooting around your waist when your knees buckle and you collapse onto the floor in sobs. 

“y/n, you’re scaring me,” he says, panic accumulating in his voice. “please tell me what’s wrong and i’ll fix it, i promise. please, baby. it’s killing me hear you cry.” 

you’re so close to the doors, you can see them. you stand again. “you don’t get to say that.” 

“what?” his arm’s still around your shoulder and you shove it off. 

“stop it! you’re so mean, remus. you don’t get to call me dove and call me baby and say stupid things like how there’s nobody better than me and i’m your favorite person and then go off and kiss other girls,” you spit out on the verge of hyperventilating. you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. it’s just coming out, spewing out of your mouth like the vomit that’s sure to follow. but even as each word shocks you, you know they ring true. “i hate you for it. i hate you for leading me on for years when i’ve loved you since we were kids! you’re terrible, remus. i hate you.” 

he’s absolutely stunned trying to process your words, and you use the momentary distraction to race back into the school, gunning for your dorm and locking it once you’re inside. the image of celeste and remus plays through your mind all night, so much that you can barely even think about how you confessed your love to him.

masterlist | next part

tags @lydiasfalling @dancingwithourhandsuntied

[neil-gaiman]

I'm sorry Neil, although I love your writing and agree with your opinions on most subjects I have to disagree with you on the writers' strike. No-one should have a more privileged life as a result of being clever and creative. I worked from the age of 15 to the age of 65 in low-paid jobs, taking 1 year off to go to drama school and 3 years off to get a fine art degree. I worked in terrible but necessary jobs, labouring, stacking boxes, unloading trucks, running errands, filing, going to work on a bicycle at all hours of the day and night on shift work in all kinds of weather. Even when I was a student I was still working in part-time cleani8ng jobs and even during periods of unemployment I worked in volunteer jobs for charities and social services.

According to Mensa I have an IQ of 160 and according to Plymouth University I have a BA hons in Fine Art but I cannot accept the idea that writers and other creative people should avoid normal jobs like driving an "Uber" or working in an office/shop/factory/construction site. To accept that idea would be to create a new aristocratic class when we should abolishing the old princes and aristocrats.

What we need, I feel sure, is a redistribution of labour so that everybody who can do so would spend some time each year in blue collar work and everybody who can would get higher education and a chance to make art of one sort or another.

The idea of doing other jobs to supplement writing or drawing shouldn't be seen as a terrible thing, a punishment or a suffering. Sharing the jobs around should be seen as normal.

I mean, I've done my half century of sweat labour and it didn't hurt me too much. I'm retired now and still making art of various kinds and I've never asked anyone to pay me for any art piece I've made. making art, writing, drawing etc. is the fun stuff which we get to do in exchange for the blue collar stuff which puts food on the table.

The worst pop song ever written was Sting/Dire Straits song "Money for Nothing" which ridicules the working class from a position of educational privilege.

So what's my question? My question is: What's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet? Sounds perfectly fine to me.

Nothing's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet. Writers and artists have been doing that since the dawn of time. Actors too.

But by the same token, there's nothing right about assuming that writing isn't a blue-collar job, or that writers and other people who make art can only make it for love and that thus they need other jobs to subsidise their craft.

I like living in a world in which the people who make the things that make the world worth living in get paid for their work. For me, that includes the people who make films and TV, books, art and music and comics.

Having spent a lot of time on film and TV sets, it's a blue-collar world on set, and everyone is working long and hard to make the shows you love. I'm never going to suggest that the riggers or the gaffers or the make-up team or the focus-pullers should drive ubers in order to have the privilege of being on the set and working there.

Or to put it another way, from the most blue-collar writer I ever knew...

[darkstaria]

Yandere Batfam - Soulmate Soul animal Au.

Chapter 8:

Summary: You awake in the manor, to the horror of yourself and the delight of others. What will happen to you now..?

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7.

Happy April fools!!! The joke is my writing schedule!

----

You were surrounded by a cloud. Soft, fluffy sheets swarmed you in its embrace, tugged you down into a gentle slumber.

You could barely make out a few words under the haze of a fever

“..... our… mate…!” One voice whispered, a trace of devotion in its words.

“Calm… vitals………to….okay.” This voice was grounded, trying to comfort.

In comparison to theirs, your own voice was weak, muffled. But you tried anyway.

“What…?” You muttered. The faces turned towards you. You squinted.

“Who…?”

One of the faces reached out. A hand rested on your cheek, stroking it, before moving to touch your forehead.

“Increase…dose.” Was the last you heard.

----

You woke up in a daze. Everything was hazy, and it took you what felt like several minutes to regain any sense of what had happened, let alone where you were. A subtle warmth nested close to your body, like that of a teddy bear. You pulled it closer.

Your head felt like it had been stuffed full with marshmallows. It was a weird mental image, but all you could think of. You reached out, feeling the texture of bandages around your head.

Well. You thought to yourself. That's not good. Your eyes snapped open.

Swiftly, you shoved the sheets off yourself, inspecting for injuries. The only bandage on you rested on your leg. You decided to leave it alone. There seemed to be some cuts and scrapes, which was expected. They were all treated though, which was not expected.

What was even less expected though, was the teen lying next to you on your bed. Strong features were softened by the pull of sleep, from whom you could only guess was Damian Wayne. The both of you were seemingly surrounded by bats and birds. They were all there, all six of them. Wait.. six? Didn't you have seven soulmates? You turned around in confusion, and made direct eye contact with the bat that rested on a nearby desk.

Ah. So that’s where Batman’s soul form went.

You froze, unsure of what to do with this new development. The bat just stared, watching.

You didn't run. You didn't hide. It was paralyzing, that stare, freezing you down to your very bones. What could you do in the face of eyes that saw all?

In the end you decided to gently tug yourself out of Damian Wayne’s clinging arms, inch by inch. It took longer than you wanted, but the method worked. You didn't look at the bat anymore, it scared you.

Done with your self inspection, you turned forward, finding yourself in an ornate room, about twice as big as the room you lived in at home, and triple as expensive. You slowly stood up, beginning to gaze around the room.

Shelves were lined with your hobbies, your favorite books lined the shelves, hell, they were even collector editions. You picked up a plushie that was lying on your bed. You twisted it around some.

“What the…?” You whispered.

It was completely identical to the one you had at home. Every mark was identical, down to the stitches and stuffing. How did they make them the same? …Were they the same plushie?

The worst part of it all was… the room felt like you. It felt familiar, as if it was you that had put it together, that you had designed it. Every detail, down to the colour of paint, felt like it had been designed by you. Just 100 percent more expensive. Well, except for one detail.

There were golden bars on the window.

They were the darkness in the familiar light that was your room. Out of place, as unnatural as the teen resting on your- The Bed. A part of you urged to investigate, the other wary of who you were rooming with. In the end, you came to a simple conclusion. It’d be better to leave the room.

You slowly slunked over to the opulent door, inch by inch, step by step. Your heart began to hammer, increasing its beat with every decrease of distance to your salvation.

You didn't look back. There was no point.

It was only when your hand rested on the handle, ready to pull it down and escape that you relaxed. Muscles unclenching, breathing deeper.

“You’re awake.”

Only to tense right back up. You turned around.

Damian Wayne was awake.

And… so were the soul animals. Or maybe they were already awake, just watching, staring.

His stare was piercing, hiding an emotion you couldn't quite comprehend. He wanted something, something you weren't sure you could give to him.

There was only one thing you could do, at that point.

The door slammed open. Short tight breaths kept you company as you escaped, deep into the darkness that is Wayne Manor.

----

Wayne Manor was a maze. It was a giant, sprawling beast, lined with corridor after corridor, hall after hall. You'd suck into one room to check if there were any escape routes, only to find more barred windows. The next room gave the same result.

These efforts began to tire you, the adrenaline fading out, leaving you alone with the aches and sores developed by the past few days. You blinked away the sleepiness. You couldn't stop now.

Or… Maybe you could actually, as you opened the door and came face to face with what could only be Wayne Manor’s butler.

“Good Evening.” He stated, giving no reaction whatsoever to your disheveled appearance, nor your horrified face. “My name is Alfred Pennyworth. I am the Wayne family’s butler.”

Ah… You paused for a moment. Well that confirmed it, didn't it. Batman was Bruce Wayne. Or at the very least closely tied. For him to be telling you this…Batman must think you'll never get a chance to reveal his identity. You weren't a threat.

You're in too deep. The shallow water you were born in has finally started to drag you down.

You're sinking.

You struggle to focus on what the butler is saying, but you remember some of it. Something about lunch..?

“I.. um, actually Alfred.” You pause, thinking of the right words.

He pauses too, taking a moment to observe you. “Yes? What is it?”

“I was wondering actually, if you wouldn't mind showing me to the exit? I don't think I should be here.” You fake a laugh, as if you could just wave the situation away.

“Ah. I do think that is something you'll have to talk to Master Bruce about yourself. If you'd like, I'd be happy to show you to his office.”

His office?

“Haha….” You smile. It feels as fake as you feel. “No thanks, I'd rather just go to.. um, lunch, was it? I wouldn't want to bother him anyways.”

“I rather suspect he’ll be coming down to see you anyways, now that you're awake.” The butler replied, matter-of-factly.

“...Actually I'm not hungry.”

The butler just raised an eyebrow.

You gave an awkward smile, turning away just as an awful stomping sound rang out, and a body collided with yours.

Your name was shouted, in such a gleeful tone, arms tightening around your waist in a collapsing hug.

“You’re awake!” The face of who could only be Dick Grayson greeted you, his soul animal fluttered down to your shoulder and rubbing its face against your cheek, just as clingy as its owner was.

“Ah. Hi.” You attempted. Oh god.

“I'm so happy to see you!” You attempted to grapple out of his grip, but it was like wrestling with an octopus, he perfectly countered every attempt you made with a grin, until he managed to pin both your arms to your back with a single hand.

“I was so worried for you! You’ve always been an expert at avoiding attention, but even the Joker isn't just someone you can avoid. You aren't still hurt anywhere, are you?” Grayson maneuvered you around a bit, checking you over in all different places. Even the robin was contributing, peering deeply to look for any ‘injuries’. You put a stop to it once he attempted to lift your shirt.

“Excuse me!” You protested. “Can you please stop pawing at me, we just met! And mind you, shouldn't you be aware of any injuries given that I've been treated for them here?!”

He paused, staring at you. You continued.

“Look, I'm sorry for shouting, but I've had a really bad night, and I'd greatly appreciate it if I could just go home.” The end of your sentence turned into a sort of a plea, desperation you were loath to reveal sneaking through.

If you played your cards right, perhaps they'd let you go home. Maybe with extra security or some nonsense, but you could still remain disconnected from this hellish family. That was what you hoped.

“Oh, little one, I'm sorry.” Dick Grayson replied, even more concern seeping into his face. “But you don't have to worry any more. After all…You are home.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“Haha.” You stated.

“You meant I am at your home, right?” You were breaking down. Denial was all you had left.

“No silly!” He replied.

“This is where you belong, where you've always belonged. You were always going to be with us, just as you should be. Otherwise, why would we have your soul animal?”

He smiled. It was a brilliant, searing sun.

It burned.

You teared up. You sniffled.

“Awww, baby.” He cooed, warmly stroking your cheek. “Don't worry. You'll always be with us now. Now and forever.” Soft condescension was reflected in his eyes. You couldn't bear it.

He rested his head on yours, eyes closed with a warm grin. His hug was tight.

The bandage on your leg throbbed.

----

You were not enjoying lunch. Oh sure the food was delicious and the view inside the manor was immaculate but that wasn't that problem.

It was the company.

‘I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home.’ You silently chanted in your mind, feeling sweat go down your cheek.

You had just barely managed to extract Grayson from you, as a matter of fact he was currently sitting right next to you, chair far too close to comfort with a beaming grin.

The atmosphere was very awkward, at least you would say so, as you were currently being stared down by some very eager faces. To your relief, not everyone had shown up yet (although if the butler was to be believed they would all be arriving very eagerly for dinner).

At the table was obviously Dick Grayson, but also Bruce Wayne, and… Tim Drake.

You didn't want to look at him, to face his betrayal, so you kept looking away, although that didn't stop his insistent gaze. Unfortunately your own turning away came with a caveat that was instead locking eyes with Bruce Wayne, which was somehow even worse. You silently wondered how noticeable your shaking was. Grayson’s hand sneakily grabbing your hand from under the table told you that it was very.

You managed to dodge any questions by simply pointing to your food whenever you were asked, an effort that the butler supported you in. It wasn't polite to talk with your mouth full, thank god.

You barely managed to eat enough of the food, it's delicious flavours landing like lead in your stomach.

“I’m finished. Can I be excused? I need to use the bathroom?” And hopefully find the nearest window to launch myself out of, you silently added.

“I’ll take you!” The joint voices of both Grayson and Drake called out, to their own surprise and subsequent glares.

‘Oh boy.’ You silently thought.

“Boys, boys.” The rich voice of Wayne called out, disrupting what was the beginning of an argument. “We can all go, I'm sure it's about time we take them to their room anyways.” Great, you officially had your own room. At least that meant you'd have some expectation of privacy… right?

The walk was just about as enjoyable as lunch.

So it was horrible.

Wayne Manor was an abyss, a dark void that stretched on and on and on. How any of the residents navigated it on any consistent basis was a complete mystery to you.

What was worse was Grayson’s insistent questions and rambles, often countered by Drake’s own questions and counters. It felt less like a conversation and more like a tug of war. It even became a literal tug of war for a bit, as Grayson’s tugging at your hand prompted Drake to do the same to your other.

Thankfully, you arrived at The Room before things got too out of hand.

You stared at it. It was right beside the room you woke up in the morning. That was not a good sign.

Grayson flung open the doors, shouting out a joyous “Welcome home!” that you tried your best to ignore.

The Room was beautiful, was your first thought.

It was like some sort of bird paradise. Countless places for birds to land, pillows lining the room. In the very middle lay a gigantic bed, lined with what looked to be the softest cushions you had ever seen in your entire life.

But the windows were still lined with golden bars. Just like the room you awoke in.

And beside that bed, was Damian Wayne. But for once, a Wayne family member’s attention wasn't fixated on you, instead, it was on his arm, where a little, fluffy, bird rested.

It was a dove.

----

Reader's soul animal reveal AYOOOOO yes I planned it to be a dove from the start, isn't that cool, also the bars on the windows are golden because reader is quite literally a bird in a gilded cage, please clap.

Where was Damian during the whole lunch? Keeping Dove Reader company as well as the other birds. Bruce didn't want to overwhelm and Damian is always particularly concerned with the welfare of animals, so it's like getting two birds with one stone (okay that's admittedly an odd metaphor in this context).

Heyyyyy. So uh, I guess I took a while?

Okay I'm sorry.

I have three excuses. I'm very recently dealing with very unfortunate family matters that sucks. Also, I kinda just fell out of the fandom for a bit because I got sucked into a different one (dude why does Zelda have so many fanfics). And finally I just had writers block, I invested so much time into thinking about the journey of getting kidnapped forever that I just didn't think too much about the aftermath haha.

But! I did write other short Batfam stuff! And I really wanted to post that, but I felt it wouldnt be what everyone wants, so I held off. Now that I've updated, I'm free to! So you hopefully that's fun.

And I think I'll make a short separate post for this, but I'm not going to add any more people to the taglist. It's very difficult for me to manage, and I'll shortly be sorting out my ao3 so people can get update notifications without any faff.

Thank you to everyone who reached out, I am in fact okay, and very happy I managed to write this chapter.

Taglist: @moonchild-artemisdaughter @jjsmeowthie @madine11-blog @xxrougefangxx @hadesnewpersephone @neerathebrightstar @mel-star636 @jaythes1mp @rosecentury @lov3vivian @gaozorous-rex-blog @victoria1676 @vrsin @silverklaus @ryukyuin @kurai-hono-blog @thisisafish123 @isawyourbrowserhistory @ain-t-no-way-bsfr @realifezompire @lunaluz432 @nickey-diano @sukiiluvs @sara0055 @alleakimlala @kdidgg @paperhermits @alishii @emmbny @sirenetheblogger @fantasy-angelo @andrasia @vinnvinnvintage @nyra-42 @armystaysatnct @beyond-your-stars @starsdotalk @adeptusxia0 @jailbimbo @yandereheros @sxftiebee @i-have-three-feelings @toast-on-dandelioms @lyl-3 @sitepathos @pato-spoiler-27 @ghostdoodlen @phoenixgurl030 @problematicreblogger

@sociallyakwardpanda @imaginarydreams @zanzie @yuyuzi-ling @soriansick @f1lover4ever @kiikkey @elizzsush @raincxtter @luoyi85 @yune1337 @erikasurfer @thekingofsimps @chaosbeanuwu @snowy-violets @nommingonfood @yandere-enthusiast @nb-babygirl @demonqueen-1 @h0rr0r-10ver-69 @winter67890-blog

[sugarwarachan]

driving you crazy

pairing: tsukishima kei x f!reader

summary: being in the same phd program as tsukishima kei was already the worst, and that was before you and the snarky bastard were tasked to teach the same class together. during a late-night run-in at the library, will things finally come to a head?

(note: reader writes smut on the side to make some extra money, since phd students barely make shit *sobs*)

content warnings: tsukki being a degrading lil shit *barks*, like so much sexual tension, slight exhibitionism (gettin' nasty in a library), slight angst, dry humping

word count: 2.1k (an anon ask turned into this, whoops!)

art credit: @ynk_vv2 on x

You shouldn’t have kissed him.

Not even as a joke in the back of that shitty dive bar you’d taken him to because grading papers was making both of your eyes cross. But he’d looked so fucking handsome underneath the neon lights, sipping coolly at his beer, that you couldn't help dragging him by the collar into that alley and sucking his soul out through his mouth.

Fuck.

Staring down at the battered copy of Macbeth and your scattered pile of notes, you’re no closer to chasing him away from your thoughts than you had been the night before, achy and desperate in your bed.

Ever since you began your PhD program, Tsukishima Kei has been an ever-present pain in your ass. Sarcastic, flippant, and irresistibly intelligent in a way that makes your heart speed up every time you spar with him.

You hate him, perhaps just as much as you want him.

It's cowardly to hope he won't find you here, but you need to get work done, and the library feels like a good spot to avoid him in. He hates being around people, even when they're confined to calm spaces like this.

“You’re not hiding from me, are you?”

Of fucking course.

When you look up, he’s smirking, all self-assured arrogance while he leans against the library stacks. You want to strangle him and straddle him in equal parts.

“Why?" you snort, turning back to your notes. "Because of one kiss? You’re not that good, Tsukishima.”

(He is, though. You’ll be thinking about that kiss until you die.)

Maddeningly, he says nothing, only pulls out a chair and settles in across from you.

You really wish you could read him better, but the best course of action seems to be to shut your mouth and pretend you’re not affected. For a guy as detached as him, you think that’s the right choice.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

The fuck?

Looking up from the notebook you’re scribbling non-notes into, you see what appears to be concern on his face.

“Umm. Yeah.” You’re pretty sure you’re looking at him like lobsters sprouted out of his ears. He's never once asked about your well-being like this.

He nods. “Good. We did stay up late talking about Kantian ethics.”

That's certainly one way to boil down last night.

“And to think it came to blows only once,” you shoot back.

A small smile curves his lips before he takes out a book and some notes, seemingly content to start working on something.

Fine.

If he won’t bring up the kiss, neither will you.

Silence lapses, the only sound the scratching of pens on paper. You’re not sure how much time passes; it’s hard to be around Tsukishima for very long because of how much he seems to slow time for you.

You sneak a look and immediately wish you hadn’t, because you notice the edge of a sheet of folded paper and recognize notes you lost two weeks before.

Your entire body flashes cold.

You write down ideas all the time as they come to you. What can you say, you’ve got an actively flourishing sexual mind, which has helped tremendously in your choice of second income. Smut doesn’t just write itself.

But the last thing you want anyone to see, let alone Tsukishima, is a scene where you couldn’t stop picturing him as one of the participants…

You try not to let your thoughts race away from you. You can only imagine how much he’d tease you for it, how actively humiliating it would be to admit to Tsukishima fucking Kei that your fantasies more than often than not star him.

“You can’t be alright.”

“Excuse me?”

Golden-brown eyes confront you. He’s frowning.

Why the fuck can’t you lust over someone normal?

“You heard me.”

“There’s a book on Shakespeare and gender in the stacks I need to find,” you say, ignoring him and ignoring the fact that you already have that book sitting to your left.

He regards you carefully. Each second that ticks by, you know he’s weighing what to say. The hush of the library does nothing to calm the din in your chest, the awful racket of your heart furiously pounding behind your ribcage.

He smirks and waves a hand at the stacks. “By all means. “

Surrounded by a wall of books, you take a deep breath. It’s just as likely he hadn’t even seen the notes he’d accidentally snagged from you. All you have to do is get them back, right?

“You always deflect when you’re uncomfortable.”

Whirling around, you see Tsukishima leaning against the stacks like a Lothario in a Victorian play, and fuck, you must have it bad, because he actually looks good doing it.

“Might it have something to do with this?” He pulls out that folded-up sheet of paper, and you watch in horror as your notes literally unfold in front of you.

You know exactly what’s written there.

His eyes pin you in place and you feel like a bug wriggling on a cork board, helpless under his gaze.

“This is what’s bothering you.” He shakes the paper a little, like a master shaking a treat in front of a dog. “You didn’t want me to read it.”

Anger sparks in your chest. “Brilliant fucking solve, Sherlock.”

He glosses over the sarcasm and takes a step forward. You retreat one step back.

“Why didn’t you want me to read this?”

You stare at him, incredulous.

“Because it’s private, asshole.”

The look he gives you screams, Try again.

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a smut scene, Tsukishima. Do I really have to spell out why that would be awkward for you to read?”

“Why? Because you imagined me while you wrote it?” Condescension drips from his words. Below your navel, your insides pull taut.

“What makes you think that? Because I deigned to kiss you last night?” You’re flirting with fire and you know it. You lean in, and so does he. “Come on, Tsukishima, you’re gonna have to do better than that. Where’s your hard evidence that I think about you like that at all?”

His eyes flash, and a near-feral smile splits his face.

He taps the side of the paper.

“Because you wrote this.”

And there, in small, nearly-smudged writing, are the words: Stop picturing Tsukki.

Blood pools in your cheeks. There’s no way he’s going to let you live this down, not ever.

You finally notice the red ink in the margins, his own annotations littering the page underneath your imaginings.

“Did you make fucking critiques?”

His laugh is so immediate it startles you. “I think you might call them suggestions.”

He’s close now, his hip nudging yours back along the books. Spines dig into your shoulder blades.

“If you’re fucking with me right now—"

One hand settles next to your head.

“One word, y/n,” his breath ghosts over your temple. “One word, and this stops.”

The rational part of your brain considers the consequences of messing around with someone in the same program, let alone someone like Tsukishima.

The rational part of your brain doesn’t answer.

“I don’t want this to stop.”

Exhaling sharply, he takes a step forward, his body now completely aligned with yours. You suppress the small moan climbing up your throat.

You were right, damn it to hell. This already feels better than most things you’ve ever done: your back curved against the books, the musty smell of paper, Tsukishima’s shirt shifting with yours.

One hand possessively cups your jaw.

“In that scene you wrote, were you picturing yourself?”

“Does it matter?”

His eyebrows rise. “Does it matter? How do you ground yourself in the scene if you don’t picture the characters?”

It’s an obvious taunt, but as you stare at the hollow of his throat, all you can think about is the fact that he smells warm and spicy, and you want to lick the column of his neck and wipe that fucking smirk off his dumb, handsome face.

You want him to be as affected by this situation as you are.

“If you tell me why you wrote all over the scene, I’ll tell you.”

He exhales. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“The hardest.”

He presses a knee between your thighs, spreading your legs apart. Without thinking, you grind your core down onto him, brain firing as soon as the pressure on your clit increases.

His hand grips down hard on your hip as he pulls you close, whispering furiously in your ear. "I read over this scene a hundred fucking times and I added what I would do. That’s what those notes are.”

Pleasure spreads over your chest; you barely remember your promise. 

“I pictured myself. In that scene. I pictured you watching another man fuck me until you stepped in and showed him how it’s done.”

Tsukishima makes a noise like a whimper and a groan in his throat. His head falls forward on the stack, right next to yours. “Goddamnit, y/n.”

He presses his thigh more insistently against you, hand near to bruising on your hip. 

“Did that not figure in your notes?” you ask, fisting your hands in his shirt, greedy for him to touch you more.

With strength that makes your pussy clench, he picks you up by the waist and drags your core along his leg. You can feel how wet you are, the slide of your cunt slippery in your underwear.

And we’ve barely done anything, a giddy part of your brain whispers.

“If it was real, no one else would be able to make you cum like I could," he's saying, voice low. "But I bet you’d love to see them try, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Fuck them in front of me until your sloppy pussy needs me to step in and fuck you like the little whore you are.”

His words travel from your ear down to your clit, and a low ache twists in your gut. You fall forward onto his chest, hands twisting around his shirt collar.

You're already climbing toward release with each slide of your core against his thigh.

“Please, Tsukki.” A whine erupts in your throat. “Please. Fuck, I’m so close.”

He doesn't even entertain your implied suggestion. “You’ll come on my thigh, y/n, I know you can. I can feel how much of a mess you’re making through your jeans. How wet would you be if I pulled those off?”

“Take them off and find out," you pant into his skin.

His hands deftly shuck your jeans down your legs, just enough to expose your underwear. You should feel ridiculous riding a man’s thigh in the back of a library stack with your pants around your knees, but you can’t be damned to care.

Fingertips trace over your pussy, outlining the lips through the cotton of your underwear. He skims a thumb over your clit.

“You’ve ruined these.” He sounds delighted.

“Fucking take them off, Tsukishima, for fuck’s sake.” You’re begging, and you hate it, but at this point, you’d do anything to feel his touch on your bare skin.

“No,” he says softly, tempering the denial with a kiss to your temple. “You’ll finish like this.”

You’re glad your face is pressed against him. This way he can't see how affected you are, how every time he drags you against his thigh, you practically drown in pleasure.

Little gasps and pleas fall from your lips, muffled against his chest. One more drag and you cum violently, your hips chasing after your orgasm with such intensity you feel like you’re floating.

You come down slowly, ears ringing. You're pretty sure you hear Tsukishima talking to you, but the only thing drifting through your mind is that you haven’t cum like that in years, and of course it’s with the man you can’t stop thinking about, for better or for worse.

You look down and take in your soaked underwear, the damp stain on his trousers.

He hands you back the notes and helps you right yourself on shaky legs.

Somehow, this feels more intimate than anything you've done with him so far. His hands are calloused and strong, and you want to hold onto him a little longer.

The thought jolts you, and before you can stop it, the words are out.

"This was a mistake."

And what takes you aback is not that Tsukishima agrees with you, but that he looks almost sad when he does.

masterlist here. reblogs and comments always appreciated <3

[jennaflare]

So Disco Elysium is the only game you've ever really liked

I get it! It's a phenomenal game with superb art and writing, and its themes are consistent and deeply explored. It sets a high bar for video games. But there are other really, really fantastic games out there. This is a list that is 100% my own taste of things that aren't necessarily similar, other than the fact that they're really fucking good. (A lot of these are on sale for the Steam Summer Sale until July 11 2024!)

In Stars and Time

In Stars and Time is a time loop game where you play as Siffrin, the rogue of a party at the end of their quest to save the day by defeating the King, who is freezing everybody in time! But something is wrong: every time you die, you loop back to the day before you fight the King. You're the only one who remembers the loops, so it's up to you to figure out why it's happening, and how to break out.

In Stars and Time is a heart-wrenching dive into mental health, friendship, and love. It's about feeling alone, and how awful it is when the people who love you don't notice (and how awful it is when they do). It's about falling deeper and deeper into your worst self and your worst tendencies, and how to come back from it.

The creator also did one of my favorite Disco Elysium comics ever, which is only tangentially relevant but worth mentioning.

Roadwarden

In Roadwarden, you play as the titular Roadwarden for an undeveloped and "wild" part of the kingdom. Monsters roam the forests and roads, and it's your job to keep people safe. On paper, anyway. Your real mission is to find out what is of value in the area, and how to take it from its people. How well you perform this task is up to you. It's an oldschool text-based RPG, and I take a lot of notes by hand when I play.

Roadwarden explores exploitation and industrialization by making you look in the face of your potential victims. You can only learn what your bosses want you to report on by getting close to the residents, after all. There are mysteries to be solved, secrets to be gathered, and hearts to win.

The Longing

The Longing is an adventure-idle game where you play as the solitary servant of a sleeping king. Your task is to wait for him, for four hundred days. Time in the game passes in realtime (for the most part). There are caves to explore, books to be read, and drawings to make.

The Longing is about loneliness and depression. It's about whether or not you decide to stay in that hole, and if you do, what you do with yourself while you're there. Maybe you'll wander. Maybe you'll stare at a wall. Maybe you'll just sleep until it's all over.

Papers, Please

Papers, Please casts you as a newly hired customs officer in a country that is rapidly tightening its borders as its fascist government tightens its fist. This game is stressful. Sometimes you intend to help out the revolutionaries when they asked, but then you got so stressed out trying to make your quota so you can feed your family and pay your bills that you didn't notice the name of the person they were hoping to contact while going through their papers. Sometimes someone puts a bomb in front of you and expects you to defuse it. Sometimes someone suggests you steal people's passports so you can get your family out, and with the horror you see daily, the idea tempts you more than you'd like.

Papers, Please is all about hard choices and testing your moral fortitude. Everything you do has consequences. Being a good person in this game is hardly ever rewarded, but not in a way that feels overly cynical. Papers, Please asks you what kind of person you want to be and what you're willing to sacrifice to get there.

The Return of the Obra Dinn

From the creator of Papers, Please, The Return of the Obra Dinn is a game where you play as an insurance investigator for the East India Trading Company. The ship the Obra Dinn has just floated back into port, its entire crew missing or dead. It's your job to figure out what happened aboard the vessel. For insurance reasons.

I don't know how to go into the themes of this too deeply without giving away too much, but the mechanics of the game itself make the game worth playing. You have a magic stopwatch that allows you to go back to the moment of a person's death, allowing you to try and figure out who (or what) killed them, and how. And the soundtrack is extremely good.

Outer Wilds

In Outer Wilds you play as an unnamed alien, and it's your first day going to space! Your planet's space program is pretty new still, so there's still lots to explore and discover on the planets within your system. There are ancient ruins from a mysterious race that once lived in your system, long before your species began to record history. Why were they here? Where did they go? How are they connected to the weird thing that keeps happening to you?

The fun of Outer Wilds is in the discovery and answering your own questions. The game never tells you where to go, and it never outright tells you anything. There are clues scattered through the system, and it's up to you to put them together and figure out your next steps. It's about the way that life always goes on, no matter what, even when it seems like the end of everything, forever. I'd recommend NOT reading anything else about this game. Just go play it. Seriously, the less you know, the more fun this is.

If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers

In If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers, you explore the circumstances of the deaths of four individuals.

This is a short one that took me about two and a half hours to play. If for no other reason, play it for the stunning pixel art. The game explores sexism, racism, and homophobia in the Victorian era and leans heavily into horror themes. Best of all: it's completely free!

Pentiment

Pentiment takes you to the 16th century, where you take the role of Andreas Maler, a journeyman artist working on his masterwork in the scriptorium of an abbey. When someone is murdered, Andreas takes responsibility for finding the culprit.

The game is set over 20~ years and you get to watch how Andreas' actions affect the village in various ways (who's alive the next time you come by, have people gotten married and had children...). It's an exploration of how the past affects the future, and what parts of that past we choose to keep or discard. It has beautiful art, and fans of both Disco and Pentiment often compare them.

Other games you might wanna check out

Night in the Woods, Dredge, Oxenfree, A House of Many Doors, Inscryption, Slay the Princess, Citizen Sleeper, Chants of Sennar, Loop Hero, The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood, The Pale Beyond, Where the Water Tastes Like Wine, Elsinore, Her Story, Before Your Eyes, Pathologic (not delved into above because the venn diagram of Pathologic fans and Disco fans is basically a circle)

[donat-senpai]

Yandere!Maomao X Reader X Yandere!Jinshi Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! tw: possessive behavior, eunuch-related themes, stupid funny youth ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶

Part one, Part two

Misunderstanding

It was nearing lunchtime. Maomao finally decided to take a break. She set the box down on the table, wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, and glanced around in search of you. You were nearby, carefully arranging ingredients in their proper places. She wanted to call out to you to invite you to eat together, but she didn’t get the chance.

The front door swung open, and Jinshi glided in as gracefully as a butterfly, with his indispensable assistant at his side. To Maomao’s displeasure, the eunuch immediately captured your attention. You greeted the men politely, offering them a gentle smile. Maomao clenched her teeth so hard it felt like they might crack.

Maomao liked working in the pharmacy. She enjoyed handling medicines and having space for her poison experiments. She liked being useful, even though she rarely said so out loud. To her surprise, she also liked her apprentice. Curious and diligent, you had grown on her more than she cared to admit.

From the very beginning, you showed remarkable determination in your desire to learn her craft. Like her, you wanted to be useful to the imperial court. You wanted to ease Maomao’s workload, something you once admitted to her. You paid close attention to her every word, absorbing knowledge and striving to remember it for future use. Since you arrived at the palace, you had come a long way—transforming from a timid, frightened slave who couldn’t even write into a charming pharmacy assistant whom Maomao could already trust to manage a full day of work on your own. She was proud of you.

But, like any blossoming flower, you started attracting all sorts of insects.

Unfortunately, you weren’t only admired by Maomao. Lately, Jinshi had been visiting the pharmacy suspiciously often. At some point during your brief interactions, the eunuch-pervert (in Maomao’s one and only opinion, of course) had taken a liking to your delightful reactions. You were sweet and kind to him but didn’t swoon over his charm like every other girl (and not only girls) in the palace—excluding Maomao herself, who felt like vomiting every time he turned on his so-called charm.

He kept coming back again and again (though he could’ve easily assigned such trivial matters to any servant!) and flirted with you unbearably long—at least, as much as his status allowed (which, according to dear Maomao, was obscenely too much). Sometimes he grew bold enough to touch your shoulders or your hair (How dare he?), and—worst of all—he made you laugh. A lot.

Maomao snapped out of her thoughts and, deciding for now not to throw a book at the eunuch, smoothly slipped between the two of you, greeting the visitors in a (she tried) friendly manner.

“You’re here again, Lord Jinshi. Could it be that you’ve fallen ill? The sick are supposed to stay in bed and not get up.”

“Oh, not at all, dear Maomao. I’m here merely for a consultation,” Jinshi replied, ignoring the sly remark with his usual refined grace.

“With such burning enthusiasm for consultations, be careful—your manly virtue might awaken again,” Maomao fired back, choosing an especially sharp comment to jab at Jinshi and subtly remind you that he could never be a proper husband, so there was no point in even considering him as one.

“If that is fate’s will, then perhaps I’m destined for another purpose,” Jinshi responded lightly, as always unfazed by her mockery, casting a brief glance in your direction. Maomao’s eye almost twitched.

“But then you’d be dismissed from service. The entire harem would mourn such a loss. You’re of great value to us. If that ever happens, I’m ready to secretly prepare a special decoction just for you,” Maomao said with polite courtesy, omitting the fact that, instead of a decoction, she’d much rather put a hammer to good use. Perhaps to knock something else off the eunuch—like his head.

You watch their bickering closely. Your heart skips a beat with a sudden realization. You bring a hand to your mouth and whisper softly:

“Oh. They’re… madly in love with each other. How did I not see it sooner?”

Gaoshun, standing nearby, became an unwitting witness to your conclusion—and couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He slowly turned his head, casting a shocked glance at you.

But you noticed nothing, too lost in your own fantasies.

Gaoshun let out a heavy sigh. These young people would drive him insane.

[viperify]

oneshots | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

☾₊⊹ To The Moon n’ Back.

Short Summary: This year you’ll spend another ordinary Valentine’s Day, all by yourself. Or that you think—until you receive a mysterious letter.

Warnings: 18+ only! soft impact play, brief fingering, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, also this is kinda ooc!Tom bc how do I make this man engage in Valentine’s Day activities.

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day!!! 💋🩷

wordcount: 2,4k

part 2

Tom Riddle does not do love.

So why is it that every time you walk past him, his heart beats just a little bit faster?

He’s done everything to distract himself—drowning himself in books, studying more than what is usual, even for someone called Tom Riddle.

Yet, you never fail to leave his mind. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to get the thought of you—specifically your lips on his—out of his mind.

By sweet Merlin, that’s the worst part of it all.

──

It’s Valentine’s Day.

Safe to say—you aren’t interested in a relationship.

So it shouldn’t bother you that all of your friends are out with their partner. But it does, your chest tightening at the thought of spending another night alone on a day that’s meant to be celebrated with your loved ones. It’s always been like this though, they’ve had their fun, and you—well, you stayed behind.

You decide to head to bed early. Right after dinner, which was awfully boring with none of your friends around, you make your way back to your dorm. Or try to, at least. Because as soon as you turn the corner, someone bumps into you.

Not just anyone—Tom Riddle. Head boy, former prefect, top student in every class, teacher’s favourite, award winner… you could go on like this for hours. There is probably nothing in this world that he hasn’t achieved—except for finding a Valentine’s date, it seems.

“I am sorry,” you mumble as you crouch down to pick up a piece of paper he has dropped. And it’s really not that you wanted to know what was written on it—it must have been the familiar number that caught your eye—the number of your dorm to be exact.

Though slightly taken aback, you hand him the paper—or better—he rips it from your hands. For a moment when his lips part slightly, you think he might want to say something in return—maybe apologize for bumping into you—but nothing ever comes.

So you leave, shooting him a weak smile.

It’s not like you expected an apology from him. He has his close circle of friends, all of whom are from renowned pureblood families. Even if you wanted him to like you, look at you the same way you’ve looked at him for years, it wouldn’t change a thing. Tom Riddle was unreachable. Any girl that has ever been interested in ended up getting rejected, and you wouldn’t be one of them.

Yet, the rich scent of his perfume lingers, the way his eyes flickered to your lips for a brief moment imprinted in your mind. His hands brushing over yours briefly, feeling his warmth, the warmth you’ve been craving to feel on your skin—

You shake your head. You’re interpreting too much into it.

──

Tom curses himself for almost blowing his cover.

After hours of contemplation, hours of sitting in front of a blank piece of parchment, he finally writes something down.

My dear—

He scoffs. Pathetic.

Scrunching up the paper, he discards it on the wooden floor of his dorm.

I hope this letter finds—

Definitely not.

Please meet me at the Astronomy Tower tonight at—

Please? Who is he to beg? You should be the one begging for— fuck.

Twenty crumpled-up pieces of parchment later, Tom’s had enough.

He opts for something shorter.

Astronomy Tower. 9pm. Don’t be late.

Perfect.

──

You are tucked under your duvet, putting the romance novel you had started on the nightstand. It was only 8pm, but with nothing else to do, sleep didn’t seem like the worst option. Soon enough, your eyelids flutter closed, and you drift off to sleep.

Though, it isn’t too long before a sharp knock on the glass of your window wakes you. It’s your owl, delivering a letter. Quite an unusual time for you to receive something, yet curiosity gets the better of you, and you open your window to get it.

No sender.

Reluctantly, you tear the envelope open, and your eyes skim over the words written on the parchment.

“Astronomy Tower. 9pm. Don’t be late.” You whisper, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. You don’t recognize the handwriting as anyone's you know, and as soon as you wipe over the words, the ink smears, vanishing, leaving you with an empty parchment.

At first, you are quite unsure whether to go. There’s no name on the letter, and especially on a day like today, there will be stricter enforcements of the curfew rules. Though, knowing yourself, you would have probably gone anyway. Even on a day like this, the moon and the stars are the only company you crave.

So you change, folding your PJs neatly on your bed, putting on the first skirt you find—though as soon as you step out of your dorm, you regret your decision. Tonight is cooler than usual, a soft breeze brushing past your skin, having you shiver. It’s too late to turn around, though. So you make your way, walking the route you normally take when you sneak out past curfew.

As you ascend the stairs to the tower, a figure leaning against the railing catches your attention. Only when you take a few steps closer do you recognize who it is. The brunette curls are unmistakably Tom’s, and for a moment your breath catches in your throat, halting your movements. Knowing that he is most likely on his patrol, you turn around to return to your dorm, but as you do just that, his voice stops you.

“You came.” He remarks quietly, without turning around.

It is him.

“You wanted to see me?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “Riddle, if this is some kind of—“

“Come closer.”

You walk forwards then, though reluctantly, and lean against the railing next to the brunette. It’s silent between the both of you for a while before he speaks up again.

“They fascinate you, don’t they?” He asks subtly, staring into the distance of the night sky. You follow his gaze, taking in the stars and moon on the otherwise pitch-black horizon. “You watch them each night when you can’t sleep.”

You turn your head then, looking at him briefly. You want to ask how he knows, yet you decide to keep it to yourself. Instead, you answer honestly.

“It’s a rare constant in my life. They help me calm down, especially after a long day.”

He gives you a soft nod in return, and silence returns between the both of you, left with owls howling in the distance. There’s still snow on the ground, and it must be below freezing temperature, because when another cool breeze brushes past you, you shiver, scrunching up into yourself.

“Why am I here, Riddle?”

Tom finally turns towards you then, a spark of something softer shimmering in his otherwise so strict chocolate-brown eyes, and he takes a measured step closer.

“You didn’t have any other plans tonight, did you?” He asks, in a way that’s implying he already knows the answer—because what does he not know—and you shake your head no.

“Then that is why.”

You part your lips to question him but are interrupted by his hand reluctantly reaching out, fingertips ghosting over your cheek, trying, testing, before his hand wanders to your neck. His thumb draws small, soft patterns on your jaw, and you tense slightly at the contact. He stops then momentarily, watching your softened expression, but when you don’t complain, he continues.

His gaze flicks to your lips, the air between the both of you growing thick with tension as he slowly leans in. Your surroundings fade into a blur, and before you know it, his lips are on yours.

Tom Riddle is kissing you.

The kiss isn’t what you’d expect of someone like him—it’s soft, tender, your lips moving in sync as his second hand rests on your lower back, pulling you closer.

Soon enough, he has you pressed against the railing, lips only parting from yours when a soft moan falls over your lips. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, then he goes back to kissing you as his fingertips trail up the soft skin of your thighs, stopping at the hem of your skirt.

“Okay?” He murmurs, waiting for a verbal agreement before turning you around, adjusting your position with a firm grip on your waist. He bunches the skirt around your hips, delivering a soft smack to the round curve of your now exposed ass.

A soft whimper falls over your lips, and you slightly lurch forward at the contact, but he is quick to reposition you, pulling you back to him.

It is most likely the choice of your underwear that has him go silent, fingers softly tracing along the lace of your burgundy thong, though he is quick to rid you of the last piece of fabric covering your lower body. Tom makes you step out of it, crouching down to lift your leg. You only faintly notice that he puts it in his pocket, and time to complain is sparse because his hands are back on your exposed skin within a second, cutting off your thoughts.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, drawing a soft mewl from your lips, “even more so than I thought.”

Another gentle smack, and you feel his hand gently massaging your thighs before they wander up further. He doesn’t proceed—he waits, lingering there for just a moment.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.” He instructs, his voice soft, and you obey, parting your thighs to allow him better access. A whimper escapes your lips when Tom fully presses himself against you, making you feel the problem you’ve caused him.

His hand leaves your thigh, traveling up until he reaches your already soaked heat, humming as his fingers swipe through your folds, collecting your arousal. One finger slips inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit, and you can’t help but buck your hips into his touch.

A second finger enters you, stretching, preparing you for him. You appreciate it—but all you want is to finally feel him.

“Riddle, please— I need you.”

His fingers withdraw then, hand wrapping around your throat instead, tilting your head backwards as you feel his hot breath ghosting over your ear.

“What’s my name?”

“Tom, God— please let me feel you, Tom.” You croak out, whimpering in defeat.

He lets you go then, the sound of him undoing his belt cutting through the night. “Good girl. Sounds so good when you say it.”

He casts a warming charm on you, a pleasant heat spreading through your body, and the next thing you feel is his tip nudging against your soaked entrance, slipping inside of you with a single, slow thrust. He groans when he’s inside of you completely—and it might be the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

He’s told you to stay quiet—though that order is quickly forgotten when he sets a steady rhythm, fingertips pressing hard enough into your skin to leave bruises. He stretches you perfectly, filling you completely with every snap of his hips, knuckles turning white from how hard you are gripping the railing. The sound of your skin colliding with each thrust fills the air, accompanied by your moans and whimpers and occasional low groans from the man behind you.

“Spread your legs a little further for me, love.” Tom breathes, hand slipping between your legs once more as you do. Again, he finds your sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing the bud in slow, circular motions.

As your moans grow louder, walls clenching around him, he angles his thrusts slightly differently, his tip brushing over your most sensitive spots inside of you.

“Oh— Tom, don’t— don’t stop, fuck—“

His palm lands on your ass once more, but this time you arch your back into his touch, thighs trembling at the electrifying sensations shooting straight to your core.

With one of his hands on your waist, pulling you back into the sharp snaps of his hips, the other wraps around your throat again, pulling you flush against his chest. Like this he is able to reach even deeper, tip brushing against your cervix with every thrust, providing you with the perfect mix of pleasure and pain.

“Fuck— squeezing me so tight. That good?”

You only manage a nod in return, eyelids fluttering close as you near your climax, walls fluttering wildly around his invading length.

“Open your eyes and look at the sky when you come, darling.”

So you do.

With one last high-pitched moan, you tumble over the edge, hot, white pleasure rushing through your veins as your cunt clamps down around him, his hands on your hips as they stabilize you when your knees are about to give in.

Soon after, your mind still hazy with the aftereffects of your own orgasm, he empties himself inside of you with a low groan, hips stuttering as he is buried to the hilt, making sure you take all of him.

Both of you stay like this for a while, catching your breath. Only when the warming effects of the charm he casted on you wear off does he pull out of you slowly, drawing a soft whimper from your lips at the loss. He fixes your skirt for you, takes care of his appearance before his arm wraps around your waist, helping you stand upright.

“I will need that back,” you say, pointing to the lace half hanging out of his pocket.

He tucks it away completely then. “Don’t know what you are talking about.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, leaning back against the railing.

A slight smirk plays at the corner of his lips but fades as he studies you in the faint glow of the moonlight, his expression turning more serious.

“Did so well for me,” he says after some time, voice soft again, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

You blink in confusion. Surely he didn’t—

“I wish you could see yourself the way you see the stars and the moon.” He goes on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are worthy of love.”

You shake your head. “Tom—“

Before you can protest, he presses his lips on yours, cutting off whatever words you were trying to form.

“I want you to teach me,” he exhales then, wrapping his coat around your shoulders, “how to love. Teach me how to love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

this was requested by my lovely @riddleswhcre 🩷 thank you so much for requesting baby!! you already know I am not particularly happy with how this turned out, but I hope it was still somewhat alright. <3

part two coming April 13th! <3

[monstersflashlight]

The curse (part 2)

A/N: Hello there, my lovelies. By popular request (and bc I’m very self indulgent), here the second part of this story. I wanted to finish it, but it looks like it will need a third part. Enjoy!

Demon x fem!reader || sfw, hurt/comfort (kinda)

It happened many times after that.

You got to the bookstore and he was there, waiting for you. Your memories would rush back and he would fuck you. Then you’d have to leave and you’d feel compelled to come back the next day. It was like a force inside of you kept pulling you to him, but still you couldn’t remember him outside the bookstore. And it pained you. Every time you left, it hurt more and more. Not only because he looked devastated when you didn’t remember him the next day, but because your heart felt heavier each time you walked throughout out the door.

You spent hours upon hours trying to figure what was wrong with you, just to walk into the bookstore and be greeted by the main reason your heart felt heavy and painful outside of it. It was sad in the worst possible way, and you still couldn’t figure out how to make it work, how to break the curse.

You tried writing tiny notes, but as soon as you closed the door, they disappeared from your purse. You tried writing at the edge of the books you bought, but that, too, disappeared when you left. It was maddening in the worst way possible. Every time you walked in, you tried to figure out a new way to remember, and every time you walked out, it disappeared.

And this time around, it wasn’t different. You walked into the bookstore and he was waiting for you across the threshold. He was smiling down at you, his fangs showing and his tail wriggling a little behind him. He made you remember with a tiny peck on your lips, and as soon as you had your memories, you grabbed his neck and pulled him into a deep kiss.

But you broke it a couple seconds later, breathing hard and feeling his hard on against your stomach. “I don’t want to fuck today,” you announced. You had plans.

Yesterday, when you were recovering from the amazing session of depravity, you thought of a plan, and weirdly enough, you got to execute it. You thought you needed a free day, and when you got home, you asked for one. You didn’t know how that happened, you only knew that you asked for tomorrow free, and you got it. So your plan was in motion and the curse didn’t seem as dangerous as before.

“What? Why?” He looked confused, pouting at you as if that would make you want to suck his dick. (Truth be told, if you weren’t a woman on a mission, it would probably work.)

But instead of craving into your dirtiest desires, you took a deep breath and stepped back from his embrace. “Because I’ve seen how you look at me. I’ve seen the longing in your eyes and it hurts my soul to see you like that.” Telling him that hurt your heart a tiny bit, because it was true. It hurt more and more every day, and you were so tired of it.

“Come on, human, don’t be like that,” he was arguing but you knew that voice wasn’t his. He was repeating what somebody told him, and you wouldn’t have that. “We both know this can’t be as deep as I want. The bookstore won’t allow it.” That statement hurt more than you would like, but only filled you with more anger, which would be helpful.

You look at him with fire in your eyes. “Maybe it can’t be as deep as you want, but it can be as deep as I want. And we are about to spend the afternoon figuring out how to make me remember you outside these walls.”

He blinked slowly, and you could see the confusion in his eyes. “You… You… Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now let’s go. We have work to do. Where are the magic books?” You asked.

“We don’t have that here,” he said. But it didn’t sound like him. It was different, like a compulsion to tell you that. You raised an eyebrow at him.

“Liar. I know you have magic books, and I bet you’ve read them all a thousand times trying to figure out how to get out of here.” He huffed, but you knew calling him on his bullshit broke something, you could feel it. He looked over his shoulder, pointing at the back. “Good demon,” you told him as you patted his chest, passing him on your way to the back room.

Just as you predicted, there were hundreds of books about magic there. And when you asked which ones talked about curses, he repeated the same phrase “We don’t have that here”. You called him out on his bullshit again, and the air felt electrified. He moved around the room until he pulled out a dozen of books, setting them on the table and staring at you as if you were a wonder.

You looked through some of them, until your eyes felt heavy and your back was hurting awfully. The sun was setting on the horizon when he tapped on your shoulder. “I need to close the store, human. You need to leave.”

“No, I don’t.” You answered, passing another page and writing down some things you thought could be useful.

He gasped, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. “What do you mean no?”

You looked up at him, amused. “Are you going to kick me out?”

“I don’t think the curse would…” He tried to argue, but you cut him.

“Then we’ll test it. Sit down, we have a lot to go through still,” you ordered. He looked at you, dumbfounded.

He looked anxious, but he complied, sitting next to you and staring blankly at the pages in front of him. “But what if it does something to hurt you? I… I don’t want nothing bad happening to you.” His voice was pained and you wanted to kiss him senseless. But you knew that would make you want to do more than kissing and you were a woman on a mission.

“I know, but we need to figure out something. I doubt the curse is going to hurt me, as far as I’ve read in these books,” you pointed at one pile of three books on your right, “the curse is supposed to keep the demon in, but not hurt humans.”

He glared at you, his frown deep and conflicted. “Why do you care this much?”

And then you snapped, turning to look at him with fire in your veins as you almost screamed: “Because I’m in love with a demon who’s been cursed to never leave this store. And I’m damn sure I can break the damn curse so he can come to sleep on my fucking bed.” He was staring at you, speechless, but the smile at the corner of his lips was enough to make your insides feel all warm.

You’d figure it out.