#you must be joking I’d be straight over the edge

[merinsedai]

Eight years ago I was possessed with the idea of doing a ‘30 before 30 challenge’ Then I got pregnant (which, tbh *was* on the list, so… 🤷‍♀️) and thought ‘well I can’t go skydiving, do a tölt on an Icelandic horse, or eat an oyster now, so I (as is my wont) sacked the whole thing off.

Still, I did do the first one- climb Mount Snowdon. And I’m very happy to say that it was a great experience and I will never have to do it again. Why would I when the weather was perfect and the views spectacular the first time? I think I’d be pretty disappointed hiking all up there to low cloud, mizzle and no view. I was obsessed with those lakes. So pretty.

Perhaps I can transfer over the things from original list and try a 40 before 40 😂. After all, I’ve still never tried an oyster…

[fkinavocado]

in which your husband and Harry's wife dragged you both into a situation you didn't want to be in, but as it turns out, everything happens for a reason

Loved, heard, seen- Masterlist, Author’s Notes & Warnings / alternatively, read on wattpad

Part One (word count: 3.6k)

Harry sighed heavily while closing the door to the hotel room behind him. He leaned against it as he watched the young woman pace the room and look around, wondering how he was going to let her down easily.

This was a mistake. He never should have agreed to this.

“I can’t do this.” She suddenly turned to face him after staring at the bed for a long while as if lost in her own thoughts. 

Harry straightened up as a huge wave of relief washed over him and made to reply but she went on, agitated. “I’m sorry. I know this must be disappointing, but I just can’t go through with it. It’s got nothing to do with you, please don’t feel bad–”

Harry approached her and let out a light chuckle, “Please, no need to explain yourself. I feel exactly the same. I was struggling to find a way to break it to you myself.”

“Wait- really? You’re not just saying that?”

He placed his hand over his heart. “Swear to god. And don’t worry, it’s got nothing to do with you either… I just… Well, as corny as it sounds, I realized what a huge mistake this was. Agreeing to this. I love my wife. We don’t need this. I’m sure she must’ve freaked out by now, too.”

“Oh, thank god.” The woman clutched the neckline of her shirt and sighed in relief smilingly, the both of them chuckling at the realization they were on the same page about this. “I’m going to call him. I know it’s against the rules but like you said, I’m sure he’s backing out too by now.”

Harry was already dialling his wife’s number but his serene expression faded as soon as it went straight to voicemail. “Hm. She must’ve not turned her phone back on yet. She’ll call me back.”

“Same here.” Harry didn’t miss the slight tremble in her hands.

“Hey. It’s alright…”

But she kept trying her husband’s number again and again and soon she was panicking, pacing the room nervously. 

Harry tried his wife’s number again, too. Voicemail. He was trying to keep himself in check, and decided to distract himself by reassuring the young woman. “Hey. Let’s give it a moment. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Come, let’s just sit for a bit, we’re on edge.”

She nodded frantically and sat on the edge of the bed next to the man. She placed the phone in her lap and her forehead in her hands, resting her elbows on her knees and tried to breathe in deeply to calm herself. “Why did I ever agree to this? What if he’s actually going through with it?”

Harry placed his own phone next to him on the bed after he double checked it wasn’t on silent. He rubbed his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t want to. She did. It was her idea.”

“Same here. He brought it up…”

“The whole way here I kept expecting her to freak out and tell me to turn the car around and go back home. That this was a mistake. That we don’t need this. But she never did. If anything, she was giddy. Felt sick the whole time. I tried to hide it from her and not be a spoilt sport because I had agreed to it, after all… I don’t think I spoke a word the whole ride here. She didn’t even notice.”

“I kept expecting him to burst into laughter and tell me he couldn’t believe I’d actually fallen for this. That he’d never do this to us, but is proud of me for being so open minded. Kind of like a stupid test I passed that was meant as a cruel joke initially but when I went with it he decided to test my limits. But it never came. When I realized we were getting closer I kept wanting to break down and beg for him to stop the car, turn around, but it’s like I was too stunned that this was actually happening to do something. I just froze and watched it all happen. I don’t even remember picking the note with your name out of that hat. I was too busy looking at all the women, wondering who was going to have a go at my man–”

Her voice cracked and she began sobbing and Harry hesitantly brought his hand to her back, rubbing it soothingly, trying to console her. She turned to bury her face in his side and he took her under his arm as his own eyes glazed over. He felt pathetic for wanting to cry over it just like she was. He’d agreed to this. It wasn’t like he’d found his wife cheating on him in their own bedroom. No, they’d sat down and discussed this, she made sure he was on board 100% over and over, they’d signed up for this and drove all the way up here. He hadn’t been forced into it. 

…Had he?

The woman pulled away suddenly and excused herself, “I need the bathroom. Think I’m gonna be sick.”

Harry stammered something indiscernible as he watched her rush to the ensuite. He couldn’t blame her. He’d felt like throwing up the whole way there. But now he felt different. He felt like punching a wall. Breaking something. And he was anything but a violent man.

He clutched the phone angrily, not even bringing it to his ear as he dialled the number again. He watched as it went straight to voicemail again and dropped it to the floor before he could throw it across the room and smash it against the nearest wall. He pressed the heels of his palms deep into his eye sockets, groaning in an effort to reign it in. 

He stood up and almost stepped on the phone before kicking it to the curb in his way to the minibar. His wife was clearly preoccupied and wasn’t going to be picking up, much less calling him anytime soon. He grabbed an upside down glass from a tray and emptied several mini bottles of vodka in it. By the time the woman reemerged from the ensuite he’d already downed it halfway to what now looked like a decent amount of vodka.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m okay, I stuck my face out the window there for some fresh air and managed to keep it down. Can I have some?”

“By all means. Choose your poison.”

“I don’t care. Make it strong.”

She plopped herself back on the edge of the bed and checked her phone again, and Harry rushed with her glass of vodka double before she could try and dial again. 

“Thank you.”

He watched her try to gulp it down before retching and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Careful, else you’ll definitely end up throwing up.”

“Ugh. Maybe top it up with coke, is there any?”

“Yeah.” He took it back and poured a whole can of lime coke over it before placing the glass back in her trembling hand.

After him sitting back down next to her and both nursing their drinks for a while, she asked in a small voice, “What now? Do we just… wait here?”

“I kind of have to… I drove us here.”

“And I don’t know how to drive.” 

“... Another?”

“Yes, please.”

After raiding the minibar they were both sufficiently able to ease up a bit. She kicked her heels off and he rolled the sleeves of his cardigan to his elbows. He felt stuffy but didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable and remove it even if he did have a wifebeater underneath. She asked about his tattoos and they tried their best to make idle chit chat in an effort to pass the time. Eventually they both sat against the headboard trying to distract one another with different topics of conversation; the design of the hotel room, the quality of the bed linen, the stain on the carpet by the window, the view, the lack of proper parking space, the inconvenient location of the hotel, the bumpy drive to it, the reception lobby, the way everyone else looked- something neither had noticed, too busy with their inner turmoil. 

“What if they landed with eachother, like we did? Should I be worried?”

Harry didn’t mind the question. He was sufficiently buzzed to catch her attempt at a joke to further ease up the tension. “Then you’re in serious trouble.”

“Damn. Is she that much hotter than me?”

Harry shrugged, realizing he hadn’t even taken a proper look at her, in an objective manner. He scanned her from head to toe. He couldn’t imagine her husband had wanted to do this for lack of attraction. “I didn’t mean it as a comparison. But yeah… she’s gorgeous,” he sounded almost remorseful at the admission. “I’m not used to comparing her to anyone, honestly.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“Should I be worried?”

“He’s your opposite, I would say. Jet black hair. Deep, brown, eyes. He’s more bulky, too, he’s a bit of a gym rat.”

Harry gasped in mock offence. “Excuse me? I’m pretty ripped myself, you know. Not everyone pumps steroids, some of us really put in the work for these abs.”

She laughed, “He does not pump anything. He’s just a bigger build than you. Don’t worry, I can tell you’re fit.”

Harry unbuttoned his cardigan and pulled the wifebeater out of his trousers to prove a point, all the same. He patted his stomach and she raised her eyebrows appreciatively, “Oh… okay. Wasn’t expecting a six pack, I’ll admit.”

He covered himself back with a smug smile, it felt nice to be silly for a moment. After a beat, he asked “How about his build…elsewhere?”

She gasped, this time no trace of mockness, then cleared her throat. “He’s… Alright, I guess. He’s the only man I’ve been with, so I don’t really have a term of comparison. Please don’t flash me, though.”

Harry laughed a genuine laughter, “Don’t worry. Although it would be fairly accurate for a case study, I’m a shower, not a grower.” He cleared his throat too, turning a bit serious. “So, he’s the only one you’ve been with and he was just gonna throw that away…”

“I mean, he did throw it away… for all he knows we’re in here going at it,” and then, in a smaller voice, “just like he is.”

Harry kicked off his shoes as well, “Well, Felicity– my wife, that is… she’d been quite, uhm… promiscuous, before we met. In her own words. She’s got quite the body count. I would never judge a person by that, honestly, and I just assumed she hadn’t found the right person for her until we met. She assured me she was ready to settle down and that I was everything she could ask for in a partner. I did have my reservations, though… after being so casual about sex, I was a bit worried she wouldn’t be able to settle for just one man for the rest of her life, but her reassurances put me at ease, and we went through with the wedding. 3 years down the line, though… turns out I was right.”

“...That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugged. “Guess I should be thankful she didn’t cheat, at least. This feels like sort of a loophole, a way to go around it guilt-free. She made it sound like we needed it. Like it was old fashioned of me to believe in monogamy anymore, that it was just a social construct of patriarchy when most men cheat anyway, and that this was a healthy, modern way of approaching a functional relationship. She wanted us to open our marriage and when I told her that I didn’t want anyone else, she suggested swinging to… see how I feel about it, since I couldn’t imagine actively seeking anyone out; so this sounded like a way to test out the waters before we fully jumped into this. But what I couldn’t get across to her is that you can’t just trial run cheating.” He cleared his throat, “Sorry, that was a bit off handed. I understand the concept of an open relationship and why it might work for some, and that it’s not cheating if both partners are fully in agreement…”

“Yeah, you’re right. I understand why it works for some, too. I’m just… not one of those people. It’s not even jealousy, it's so much more than that… I got married thinking this is my person. That it’s us, and us alone. I didn’t even save myself for marriage or anything, it just so happened that I ended up marrying the first man I slept with. We’ve been together 7 years, highschool sweethearts and all that… He’d been with a few before me, and I was glad for it, thought it would help avoid this very issue. I wouldn’t have liked him feeling like he was missing out on experiencing that with other women and one day feel the need to satisfy that curiosity. So that’s why when he sprung this on me… I was shocked, honestly. Swinging? Really? Ugh, I’m sorry… it’s like you said. I’m not judging anyone, but it’s just not for me. I thought… I actually thought our sex life was good, you know? He led me to believe it was, at least… Guess I’m not as… experienced as other women.”

“I seriously doubt it’s got anything to do with that. And likewise, I thought our sex life was good too. More than good. I’m honestly all over her all the damn time. And I’m plenty experienced. She never gave me reason to believe I wasn’t satisfying her, ever. We’re very open about our kinks and curiosities and whatnot. There’s nothing she wanted to try out that I said no to, and that’s ‘cause I genuinely was always on the same page. Except for this. This I’m not ok with, and I tried explaining it to her but it felt like a losing battle if I were to just say no. If I don’t agree to this, what then? Cheating? Sneaking behind my back? At least she was honest with me telling me she wanted more… made me feel ungrateful for denying her this when she was so open about it. I talked myself into it because I was too scared of what she might do if I declined.”

“Ugh, that’s exactly it. That’s why I went for it, too… I kept telling myself most women don’t get to be asked what their take on this is. At least he was being honest with me… that I’m just not enough… I tried asking him to explore more of his fantasies, anything that he felt he could get from someone else, I wanted to be the one to give to him. But he kept telling me he just couldn’t let go and just do all the things he wanted to with me. Apparently he respects me too much.”

Harry snorted, “That’s rich.”

“Right? Like if he wanted to be rougher, degrade me a bit, try kinkier stuff.. he just had to say so. I always wanted that, anyway… but I’m too scared to ask him to do that. It’s very… vanilla. I don’t blame him for wanting more, but I can’t get myself to bring up what I wanna try in the bedroom.”

“Oh… okay. Why do you feel you can’t tell him? You respect him too much?”

She giggled, “It’s not that I can’t. It’s more that I won’t. I don’t want to. I want him to take the lead. I want him to…”

“Dominate you?”

“Yeah.”

Harry clicked his tongue, humming lowly. They were both quiet for a beat. “Felicity is the opposite. She’s the dominant one. It’s not that I mind… But I wouldn’t say I’m fully submissive… I’m more of a switch. I’d like it to be more of an even playing field, at the very least. Like, I like her taking charge, and I loved it at the beginning because I was used to always being the dominant one in the bedroom, and I was actually looking for someone to put me in my place for a change. But she never lets me take the reins. Whenever I try she just blows me off and makes me feel less than. And then she mistakes my apprehensiveness for submissiveness when I give up. It’s something… I haven’t really been able to communicate with her either. She should want me to dominate her, you know? Not be talked into it. So I kinda… suppressed that. But even so, I never thought to myself oh cool now I get to be a dom again with someone else. In fact, it didn’t even cross my mind until now.”

“Hm.” After a beat, she asked “What’s that like? Is it like… I dunno, actually. Porn? Or those Fifty Shades books?”

Harry snickered a bit but then took in her genuine curiosity. “I mean… I haven’t read those books, so I can’t speak about that, but from what I’ve seen in porn, it’s definitely not what I would describe as a healthy dynamic. Uhm, porn is catered more to the male gaze, to put it nicely.”

She laughed, “I’d say. But I don’t like the kind they advertise for women either. It’s just too…”

“Vanilla?”

“I guess? Yeah…” she sighed profusely.

“You never see aftercare in dom/sub porn for instance. That’s so important. Like, they’re leaving out so much. And plenty of other things…”

Harry glanced at her when he thought he heard a faint snore and to his surprise, she had, in fact, fallen asleep. She couldn’t have been comfortable, but he didn’t dare try and move her or even drape a blanket over her mainly because they were sitting atop the duvet. He gently took the empty glass out of her hand so as to not accidentally turn in her sleep and break it, injuring herself. He left the nightstand lights on and tried to sleep too after retrieving his phone from the other side of the room where he’d kicked it.

No missed calls of course.

He tossed and turned for ages, mindful to keep to the edge of the bed and give his companion space and was certain he wouldn’t be able to catch a wink of sleep. He was surprised, to say the least, when he was shaken awake. 

“Uhm… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to wake you–”

Harry rubbed his face and took in his surroundings. He looked at the young woman and took in her dishevelled appearance, it looked like she’d been crying.

“I’m sorry. I’m just… freaking out. I woke up and I can’t calm down… I wanna uber home, but I’m scared to ride alone, it’s 4 am. Could you please give me your number so I could share my ride location live with you? I didn’t wanna ask a friend, no one knows I’m here, doing this, I don’t wanna have to explain–”

“Hey, hey… hey. Calm down.” He tried soothing her. She was a mess. “I’ll drive you home. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, oh no. I couldn’t– Plus, you had a bit to drink…”

“I’m fine. I slept it off. Feels like I’m waking up from the dead, honestly. A drive would do me good, clear my mind a bit. I’ll just run to the bathroom and we can head out, alright?”

The woman nodded, fixing her clothes and looking for her shoes as he went to relieve himself. He looked a right mess. He tried not to dwell on it, running his fingers through his hair and splashing some water on his face, and when he emerged  from the ensuite she was ready to go.

“Thank you, thank you so much for doing this. Really…”

“It’s alright, I promise. Come on. Let’s get outta here.”

“Gladly.”

They made it to his car and she typed in her address into his gps. Harry kept stealing glances at her the whole way; in truth, he was worried about her. She seemed extremely shaken up, more so than originally. “Are you alright?”

“I just… it just hit me, when I woke up with you there, and it all came crashing down, the reality of it. My marriage is over…” her voice cracked and he reached his hand to her thigh, squeezing reassuringly.

“Hey… at least you know how you feel about this, and how he feels about this… If anything, cards are on the table now… Doesn’t have to be over if you really don’t want it to be. Do you?”

“I don’t know what I want… I don’t know if I can get over this… Do you?”

Harry felt his heart constrict at the realization that he did know. He’d been denied a lot in their relationship and this had really put things into perspective for him. Not only could he not dominate his wife sexually, something he would’ve never held against her- after all, he would never force that dynamic on her, he loved her and he’d been ready to bury that facet of his sexuality when he asked her to be his wife. So why couldn’t she let go of her need for more? He couldn’t even keep her to himself. He felt emasculated, worthless… and most of all, he didn’t feel loved, heard, seen.

He parked the car where the young woman instructed and after killing the engine he turned to her “I do. And I think you do, too.”

Part Two

A/N: 👀 so yeah, introducing swingrry. with all those WIPs somehow i felt the need for another one! this will have a part 2 and then that's it ahahah i'm trying to keep things shorter! hope you guys like it and are intrigued for what's to come ❤️ come talk to me abt it! thanks to the lovely @freedomfireflies for betaing ❤️

💕 like & reblog if you enjoyed this, lovelies, and most importantly, please come share your thoughts on it here 💌

🦋follow me on wattpad to get notified whenever i post something new/update!🦋

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

Conclusions

Ginny's run out of her good parchment and has been reduced to using something she dug out of the bottom of her trunk, hating the way her quill scratches over the rough surface. As though it isn’t punishment enough to be writing about History of Magic, she’s got to do it on this piece of rubbish. 

“Bloody, buggering fu–” she swears as the point of her quill pierces a hole straight through her conclusion. Apt, probably - it had been flimsy at best. There’s a metaphor here, somewhere.

“Revision going well, then?”

The wry voice startles her so much that she nearly upends her bottle of ink all over her weak – in more ways than one – essay. “Fuck, Harry, I’d no idea you were there.”

She blinks up at him in surprise and finds him smirking, standing at the table she’s claimed in a corner of the library, looking adorably entertained by her plight. His bookbag is slung carelessly over his shoulder, his hair mussed, his stupid face made more handsome by the teasing lilt of his smile. Her heart flutters a bit, because that’s just what it always does with him. She ignores it valiantly, and hates him for it, a little. 

“Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more amused than anything. “Mind if I sit?”

“Course,” she says, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Can’t guarantee there won’t be more swearing, though.” 

He eyes her holey essay as he sits, jerking his head questioningly toward the parchment. “What’re you working on?”

“Something for Binns.”

“Ah, I’d be swearing, too.”

“Fucking hell, eh?”

They share a smile, and Ginny reckons she’d be better off writing an essay about that - the way she knows exactly when he’ll find something funny; the way jokes fall a bit flat when the punchline isn’t his eyes seeking her out, green and piercing and flickering with amusement. She’d fill the parchment with ease. 

It’s easy to write about something you can’t stop reading into. 

Just like she’s madly reading into the way he’s shown up here - no Ron, no Hermione - and sought her out, like it’s normal, like they’ve been doing this for years even though they haven’t. It feels like they have, though. That’s the worst part of it.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, like he might just come right out and say it - to see you.

He doesn’t. She pretends that she can’t be disappointed by what she expects. 

“Transfiguration,” he says darkly. 

“Where’re Ron and Hermione, then?” she prods, picking at it like a scab, like a masochist. I wanted to get you alone, she urges him to say. I’ve been trying to all week and I haven’t even been subtle about it.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. Scabs bleed when you pick them, incidentally. “I can survive an evening without them, you know.”

“Can you? I don’t reckon your track record is all that spectacular on that front, if I’m honest.”

“Hey, I haven’t died even once.”

“Right,” she jokes. “Angling for a new nickname? ‘The Boy Who Hasn’t Died, Even Once’?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Rolls right off the tongue, that.”

“I’ll owl Rita for you. We can workshop something”

They smile.

She wants to shake him until he admits to it, confesses, like this thing brewing between them is a crime. She wants to lay all the evidence out in front of him, the aspiring Auror, and see what he makes of it. He can’t quip his way around the smiles and the banter and the looks he gives her. See, she’ll say, don’t you see?

He’s got shit vision. 

They sit together for far longer than she’d planned to stay. At some point he adjusts in his seat, and his foot winds up touching hers, and he doesn’t even have the decency to move it. She fancies she can feel his warmth through their trainers, but no - it must be her own traitorous heart, frantically pumping warm blood to her foot like it’s the only part of her body that needs it, like the parts of her that aren’t touching him have ceased to matter because maybe they have. 

Maybe she’s been distilled to the edge of her foot.

They talk about strategies for the Quidditch final, and OWLs, and argue playfully about which of her mum’s mince pies is the best. Ginny’s always fancied herself good at impressions, but she surprises even herself with her impression of easy nonchalance. All the while it’s building - each look, each smile, each easy joke they set each other up for feels like a firework she’s adding to the heap in her chest, ready to explode with the slightest spark. 

You’ve got me alone, she tells him. Do something about it.

It’s nearly curfew. They start gathering their things, and still he hasn’t done anything. If he were any other boy, Ginny would cut through the bullshit herself, but something holds her back. She can’t fully articulate, unravel, why, but she needs him to be the one to admit it. She needs him to decide she’s worth the risk. He’s meant to be brave, isn’t he?

As she’s packing it away, Ginny remembers her abandoned essay, still punctured pathetically. She sighs, holds it up for Harry’s evaluation. “Think Binns’ll even notice?”

“Give it here,” he says, and she hands it over. He pulls his wand from his robes and waves it wordlessly, the gaping tear sewing itself together so it might never have been there. Ginny doesn’t know why she hadn’t thought to do that herself. 

“Thanks. Only now, I’ve actually got to write a damn conclusion.”

He laughs and holds it back out to her. “You’re on your own.”

“Aren’t you meant to have a hero complex?” she quips, pushing the parchment back toward him. “Some useful saving-people thing? Have a go.”

To her immense surprise, he shoots her a wry smirk that sends a tingle through her stomach. “Alright.” He pulls out the quill he’d only just packed away, scrawls something at the bottom of her parchment, shielding it from view.  

She’s gone utterly daft. Her heart is hammering in her chest, beating a tattoo on her ribcage; she wonders if her fingers are trembling as they reach across to take her essay back, fully convinced she’ll find the words Go out with me scribbled there. 

In conclusion, he’d written, this essay is over.

She snorts, mostly at herself. She’s officially deluded. Cracked. What is wrong with her?

“Wow. Thanks for that,” she says drily. “How would Binns have known otherwise?”

He grins. “Anytime.”

“Totally unrelated, but do you offer refunds? Perhaps a voucher for another Harry Potter rescue at a later date?”

“Non-refundable. Sorry.”

“I’m going to be honest,” she lies. “I expected a better rescue than that.”

He shrugs. “You expect too much from The Boy Who Hasn’t Died, Even Once.”

She can’t help herself; she laughs. His eyes seek hers out - green, so green, twinkling with amusement and something that looks so fond. She’s going to set fire to the heap of fireworks in her chest, just to get it over with. She’ll explode in color, driven to madness by the boy who hadn’t died even once but who’d killed her, slowly, with smiles. 

In conclusion, she thinks, I’m utterly fucked.

[kny-agere]

Sorry for the double douma asks but I can't help but keeping thinking about little douma! I was wondering if you could possibly do a little douma drabble with cg kotoha? I was thinking it could be about the first time douma really regresses around her and kotoha being a complete mama bear at heart takes it all in stride! This has been going around in mind for a bit and I think that it's adorable! ^^ (as always 0 pressure to do this!!)

-Kerfuffle :3

Nooo worries!! Tbh as long as it’s not everyday I think it’d be hard to bother me with asks :p gives me an excuse to take breaks in between my main blog projects

★彡☆彡★彡

“I don’t understand why you care for him so much, he can’t even do anything.” Douma prodded Inosuke with a sharp finger. The baby simply giggled when his cheek was poked, a horrible survival instinct. Trying to grab the offending object Inosuke missed several times. When he finally caught the finger Douma quickly pulled it away.

Despite the harsh display Kotoha just laughed. “He’s precious to me. I have to be there precisely because he needs me.” She bends over to scoop up the boy. Once she settles back his chubby little feet dangle right above Douma’s head.

“Aren’t I precious to you too?” He’s not sure why he asks. Douma is the most precious man within the building. Kotoha touches him gently like he’s crafted from gold.

“Of course you are.” Her eyes soften. Fingers run through his hair again. She traces the edge of the insignia on his head. “How come I can’t have two nice boys to care for?”

The man’s eyes slip closed. “I don’t like to share.” He scoots back as Inosuke attempts to kick him. “Can’t you just be my mama?” Douma doesn’t know why he phrases it that way. He supposes if he is to stand in opposition of the baby then Kotoha must be in the position of mother for the both of them. It just makes sense that way.

“Oh come here.” She scoops his head into her free hand and places a kiss upon his forehead. Inosuke happily babbles nonsense and tugs on the blonde strands of hair that scatter over his face.

Her honest response was strange, wasn’t this all just a joke? He’d play along for now. Kotoha’s hand brushing along his face was nice. Usually his followers wouldn’t be this close to him save for sex.

“I suppose Ino could go down for a nap, if it really bothers you.” A little frown forms on her lips. It’s not entirely sad, playful in a pouty sort of way. “But I’d love if my two favorite people could get along. Like little twins!”

“Tell him to stop touching me then”

“Don’t be overdramatic, he’s just curious. I think he still gets overwhelmed with all the people here.”

Douma doesn’t want to talk about the child anymore. He decides he’s fine with the chubby little fingers that poke his scalp. “Do you get overwhelmed at all?”

“Hm, I think I’ve gotten used to it now. It helps that all the girls here are so nice! And of course I have a lot to thank you for gracious founder.”

“You can call me Douma if it would please you.” His other moniker was simply given to him one day and it caught on like wildfire. Though sometimes it does feel nice to be addressed in such a grandiose way.

“Douma… It feels funny to call you that.” She giggles again, inspiring her baby to coo as well. “Thank you for having me, in general I mean, but also now. You’re so generous.”

“I am aren’t I?” He burrows closer into her lap. Of course he supplied Kotoha with a new wardrobe upon her arrival, which was mostly light cotton or soft silk. It feels nice against his shut eyes.

She takes the bait in stride. “Such a good boy, you do a good job taking care of me.” The woman attempts to wiggle out from beneath him. “Can I get into a more comfortable position?”

Grabbing tight onto her kimono for a brief moment Douma pulls in before he ultimately parts. It’s hard for Kotoha to move around on his plush mattress. She has to push through layers of pillows in all different sizes.

Instead of crossing her legs she pushes them straight out. Instead of holding her child she positions him against her side. Cushioning him with a few more pillows so he sits properly the woman frees her other arm. Stretching them out she motions for the man to fall back into her lap. He crawls over to tuck his head underneath her stomach once more. The thick layers of her obi are a little uncomfortable. He paws at the stiff fabric. When she doesn’t take the hint Douma tugs at it more stubbornly.

“Stop that, I’m not going to take my tie off.” Her words don’t hold any malice. Kotoha simply guides his hands back towards himself.

Douma turns his face into her lap. Her hands start combing through his hair again but the man isn’t quite as pleased this time.

“Don’t be sour. I’ll wear something more comfortable next time and we can cuddle. We’ll have a pajama party.” She makes a mighty attempt to push his face to the side so she can peer at his eyes again. With Douma’s inhuman strength he keeps himself rooted in place.

With a faux sad tone the woman moves past him. “Oh well, I guess Ino will get some cuddles all by himself.” The moment she reaches for her baby Douma’s hand reaches out to intertwine their fingers.

He slowly reveals her face, lips puckered and ready for a kiss. She aims for his forehead instead, fingers lightly dropping down to his cheeks. “There we go! Such a good listener.” Kotoha leans back again, other arm scooping down to cradle him.

★彡☆彡★彡

[jeremiah-fisher]

you and me,

—a the summer i turned pretty fic starring my first and favourite book boyfriend, jeremiah fisher ♡

「part five, reader insert 」

The weather is characteristically hot for a mid-afternoon day in June. The humidity is violent and all articles of clothing appear to desire one thing only: molding to the shape of our bodies.

I love summer. I’ve always loved summer. For a seventeen year old who’s only ever known school, school, and more school, summer is the one time I get to leave Shakespeare and algebra behind for the sake of surfboards and the burning sun. 

Even still, the idea of three more months of this sweltering heat is nauseating. Especially since I can’t fully enjoy it. 

It was Mr. Fisher’s idea for Jeremiah and I to get jobs this summer. He had insisted on it once or twice (three times–I counted) last summer, both times he visited. He claimed that us working like “individual members of society” at our “ripe age of seventeen” would do “wonders for [our] futures.” He was talking to both of us because we were the only two lounging by the pool playing cards, but his eyes were trained solely on his son. 

Jeremiah tried to make jokes about it, how he didn’t need to work because “didn’t you and Mom set up a trust fund for me?” But that only seemed to tick Mr. Fisher off. He said Jeremiah couldn’t have that money if he didn’t care about how much effort it took to make it. His voice was so resolute, so final, that he reminded me of Conrad in that moment. And it set Jeremiah straight. He called me in May to tell me he got a job as a lifeguard at the country club and that, if I wanted to, he could get me a job, too. I agreed but only because he asked. And maybe also because it meant that I would have an excuse to get out of spending more time with my mother in the house. 

It’s eight a.m. right now and I’m supposed to be getting ready to head out to the country club for my first day. Jeremiah texted me an hour ago saying he’d meet me on the driveway so we could take his car together. He has a Jeep Wrangler and it’s my favourite to ride in during the summer. He got it last year, as an early birthday present from his parents since his birthday wasn’t until December. He treated his car like a new baby, constantly fretting about it getting ruined. It made me laugh because Jeremiah worrying about anything is hilarious. He’s the type to be too busy having fun to worry.

My mother stops by my room as I’m pulling my ‘COUSINS COUNTRY CLUB’ t-shirt over my head. The shirt is two sizes too big, almost like a dress, but I don’t mind it so much. It’s not that I hate my body, not like my mother hates it, but I don’t feel comfortable in tighter clothing. I always felt on display when I wore stuff like crop-stops or decently fitted shirts. My bra size had stayed the same since freshman year, the fat distribution on my body was the same, and I’d only grown a single inch since last summer. There was nothing new. There was nothing to show off.

Besides, who would I show off to? The only one I wanted looking at me was always too busy looking at other people.

My mother doesn’t knock on my door when she walks in. She never does. It must be a mother thing, though, because Belly says her mother doesn’t knock either. I wonder if all mothers in the world get together once a year to make plans for how to aggravate their children. 

She’s wearing a hot pink bathing suit which fits her just right and a sunhat. She has gloss on her lips and a book in her left hand. The Time Traveler’s Wife. It’s her favourite. She reads it every summer while she sits by the pool with a tall glass of wine and oldies music playing on the Marshall speaker. 

“YN,” she says, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. Her eyes scale my body and I feel naked. It occurs to me that I sort of am. I haven’t put on my shorts yet. The black ones which say ‘SERVER’ down the left leg. I grab the pair off the back of my desk chair and throw them on quickly. “I need to speak to you about something. Have a seat.” 

“But Mom, I have to go–” Her eyes are rigid. She won’t listen to a word I have to say. I sit down on the desk chair and hold my breath.

Her eyes glance around my room before settling on me again. “I am going to tell you something and I need you to be mature about it. Do you understand?” 

My brows furrow. “What is it?” 

My mother hollows her cheeks for a second before continuing. “Your father has decided to file for divorce.” 

Everything goes silent for a moment. Everything goes still. It’s like the examination hall moments before everyone flips over their test and rushes to answer the questions. When we all are given two hours to find answers and write them down. But I’m given seconds because my mother is expecting a reply from me. 

“YN, please answer me when I’m speaking to you.” 

I blink fast, very fast, so fast that my lashes almost become wings. “Mom, what are you talking about? Why would Dad file for divorce? He loves you.”

My mother takes a deep breath and crosses her legs. “Yes, well, I suppose some actions are louder than love.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“It doesn’t concern you. I’m merely letting you know. This will be our final summer in Cousins. In September, you will come to live with me in an apartment downtown and your father will be moving closer to your sister.” 

“To Esmé?” 

My mother rolls her eyes exasperatedly. “Yes, to Esmé. You don’t have another sister.” 

“I… I know that…” I mumble, feeling so small that I may as well be a housefly. “But Mom… please tell me you’re joking.” 

She stands up. The atmosphere in my bedroom shifts. The conversation is done. I know she won’t listen to a word I have to say as she walks towards my door. “Things are changing, YN. It’s time to grow up.” 

Tears spring to my eyes. I look away from the door so she won’t see them. She doesn’t offer me much else before she walks out. She leaves as if she was never there. As if she didn’t just detonate a bomb on my entire life in a matter of seconds. I’ve always known my mother to be straight-to-the point. She doesn’t beat around the bush or dish truths with a side of sugar. It’s just the truth as is and that’s that.

I fall out of my chair and to the floor in a heap of tears. They come freely, and so rushedly, that I almost wonder if these tears are about more than what my mother has just told me. The tears fall and fall until they soak my entire face. Until I’m sobbing and gasping for breath. 

My phone plays a Daisy, hey, Daisy! melody in the tone of Jeremiah’s voice. He made it my ringtone for himself four summers ago. I never had the heart to change it. Why would I? I love his voice and the fact that he’s the only person in the world who calls me and I always pick up. 

“Hey,” I answer, trying to hide my sniffles. “Sorry, I’ll be down in a second.” 

From the other end, Jeremiah picks up my voice immediately. “Are you crying? Why are you crying?” 

“I’m not,” I lie, wiping at my face with my empty hand. “I’m coming down right now. Hold on, okay?” 

With that, I shut off the phone and stand up. My legs feel wobbly and my head is spinning. I have to grab the edge of my desk to stay upright. I grab my red bag, a faded Nike backpack, and head downstairs. My hair is pulled back in a high ponytail to keep the strands from mulling my face in the heat, but the moment I see Jeremiah climbing out of his car to come to me, I wish I could hide behind my hair. 

His brows furrow in concern. “What happened?” 

“Nothing. Can we just go?” 

He places a thumb on my cheek and wipes a tear I must have missed. His eyes are deep blue and they’re looking at me the way I wish they wouldn’t. With pain, with apprehension. Nothing is supposed to trouble Jeremiah Fisher. Least of all me. 

“But–” 

I walk past him to the car and jump inside without another word. He comes around to the driver’s side while I’m buckling myself in. I won’t look at him as he starts the car, but I’m talking. If I talk, he won’t ask questions.

He pulls out of the driveway, tiny pebbles crunching underneath the weight of heavy tires.

“I’m so not ready for a whole summer in this heat,” I tell him, inspecting my nails like the answer to my problems is written plainly on them. “Especially since I’ll be spending it bringing lemonade to rich kids.”

We’ve hardly made it onto the road when Jeremiah pulls over. He cuts the gas then turns his body until he’s facing me. I glance at him from my peripheral, terrified for the onslaught of questions he’s going to throw my way. Jeremiah is nothing if not full of curiosity.

Though, as the seconds pass, he says nothing. He’s quiet, uncharacteristically so. When I finally look at him, I find his expression unfamiliar. His eyes are dark, and his brows are pulled tight. His lips are in a thin line. He’s staring at me so much that it makes me want to disappear.

“What?” 

He doesn’t say anything. For a moment, I wonder if I’m sitting next to Jeremiah at all. He’s never this quiet. Never this… pensive. He doesn’t look like himself. I’m so used to the funny and cheerful Jeremiah that when he gets like this, it scares me. 

“Jere, what?” 

He reaches over, up over my head, and touches the black scrunchie I used to tie-up my hair. In a single second, he pulls it off. My hair fans out over my shoulders. I hold my breath as he tucks a strand behind my ear. He tugs on the edge of the same ear and smiles, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes, and all their focus, is on me. Like I’m the only thing he sees.

“Do you trust me, Daisy?” 

I almost tell him off again. Almost tut, “Stop calling me that.” But I don’t. I can tell now isn’t the right moment for that push-and-pull. 

“Yeah.” 

He uses his left hand to tuck a strand behind my other ear. He smiles at me once before sitting back in his seat and turning on the ignition. “Let’s go.” 

Then we’re cruising down the road. Jeremiah doesn’t turn on the air-conditioning. He doesn’t need to. The wind in my hair is ten times better. 

I pull the window down and breathe it in. That fresh summer morning. That scent which only belongs to Cousins. I had been to other beaches before. I had visited other towns. But Cousins was different. It was different from the moment Dad told us his great-grandmother left us the house in her will and he and my mother began making plans for us to go. It was different from the second I saw Jimmy’s Crab Shack, Pin-Pin’s Ice-Cream Parlour, and all the surf shops. Belly once told me that Cousins felt more like home than her real home did. I think it became like that for me, too.

As we get closer to the country club, Jeremiah starts driving a bit slower. I glance at the time on the little dashboard clock. Twenty minutes to nine. We’ve got plenty of time. 

I sit back in my seat and smile. 

Jeremiah glances at me, one hand on the wheel, and smiles, too. He says, “Penny for your thoughts?” 

I burst out laughing. It comes so suddenly and so openly that it might be the most honest laugh I’ve ever expelled. “Since when do you say things like ‘penny for your thoughts?’” 

“I thought you liked that old school stuff.” 

“What old school stuff?” 

“Mr. Dancy stuff.” 

“It’s Mr. Darcy. And… maybe. Doesn’t everyone? He’s a classic gentleman.” I blow some air upwards to make my hair depart from my forehead where the heat is making it stick like glue. “I don’t think Darcy is the type to say that, though. He barely says anything. He’s quiet and mysterious.”

“And you like quiet and mysterious?” 

“No way. I couldn’t deal with all that.” I think about the last time I was in a relationship. It was last year, a few months before we left for the summer, and he was Ashlynn’s cousin. He said he liked me and we went on a few dates. But he was so quiet the entire time that I almost died of boredom.

Jeremiah hums. We’re turning into the country club parking lot. It’s pretty much empty but he still parks farthest away from the main building. He might be a gym bro now, but I wasn’t. I start complaining about the walk the second we get out of the car. 

Jeremiah rolls his eyes then crouches down in front of me. “Hop on.” I don’t think twice. I jump on his back and he carries me like I weigh nothing even though when I weighed myself last night, it didn’t look too pretty. His hands secure themselves to the backs of my legs and I have to try with all my might to pretend I’m not absolutely, unashamedly in love with the way his hands feel on my bare skin. I’m practically floating. I feel like nothing that happened today matters except this moment.

I start playing with his curly hair. It smells like peaches because they’re his favourite fruit and so Susannah always gets him peach scented shampoo. Other boys would stick to more masculine, earthy scents, but not Jeremiah. He liked what he liked and that was that. 

“I can’t wait for my first paycheck,” I tell him. “I’m going to buy the biggest sundae from Pin-Pin’s all for myself.” 

He pinches my leg. “You won’t share with me?” 

“No way! It’ll all be for me.” 

Jeremiah hikes me up some more. “I’ll just steal some then.” 

“Fine, I’ll buy another one just for you. Okay?” 

I scramble off his back as we reach the main building. There are several people moving in and out. All adults, all dressed in formal attire. I let out a little sigh. I can’t believe I’ll be spending my last summer here. 

“You’re really not going to share your sundae with me?” 

I laugh, playfully rolling my eyes as I look at my friend. He genuinely looks hurt. “Keep your hands away from my sundae, Fisher.” And with that, I’m running away. Jeremiah catches up to me fast, faster than I expect, and he rings his arms around me, spinning me around in the air. I’m giggling so much that I can’t breathe. It’s the best kind of not-breathing, though. The kind that makes you wish all your moments in life were just like this. 

“Jeremiah Fisher?” 

The sound of a woman’s voice makes Jeremiah put me down at once. Our voices immediately lose their humour. We stand side-by-side like military soldiers facing our head commander. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jeremiah greets, smiling a bit. He puts on his charm for everyone, but especially people in authority. It’s the reason why he gets away with a lot of what he does. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Susannah punish him. Even that time Jeremiah and I snuck out to a party last year and got really drunk. Instead of being mad at us, Susannah took the backyard hose and doused us with freezing cold water until we sobered up. Me more so than Jeremiah because when my mother found out what I had been up to, she banned me from going out for a whole week, which in the summer practically felt like a month.

The woman in front of us is dressed in a thick, black pencil skirt and a white blouse. Her brown hair is twisted up with a golden clip which sits neatly at the back of her head. Her feet are tucked inside a pair of kitten heels and her lips are painted a shade of brown. For a second, I feel like I’m seeing my own mother. 

“You’re late.” 

Jeremiah’s joyous expression falls. “But it’s not nine yet–” 

“Nine is when the club opens, Mr. Fisher,” she interjects. “Not when you are to report to work. Is that understood?” Her eyes flitter to me. “And Ms. YLN, is it? Are you planning on being late to work as well?” 

“No, Ma’am. I’m—we’re sorry. It won’t happen again.” 

A flush rises up from my chest. I can feel my heartbeat speed up. This isn’t how I expected my first day on the job to go. 

The woman lets out an exasperated breath but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, she sticks a sheet of paper in our hands then walks away. The sound of her heels clicking against the concrete rings heavily in my ears. 

“Aw, man,” Jeremiah whines from beside me. “Pool duty all day.” 

I chuckle, glancing at my own schedule. Serving by the pool until one and then helping set up the lunch room for the debutantes. “Well, what were you expecting to do as a lifeguard?” I bite my bottom lip. “Hey, what’s this thing with debutantes? They do that here?” 

“Yeah. Mom’s a part of it. They have all these girls come in and dress up for some big charity dinner. Con did it last year.” 

“Conrad was a debutante?” 

Jeremiah laughs so hard that he catches the attention of several people around us. They shoot us dirty looks but neither of us care. “No, Daise. Con took Nicole. He was her escort that Friday when we had our Harry Potter movie night.” 

“Nicole? The girl who’s always wearing a Red Sox hat?” 

Jeremiah points finger guns my way. “That’s the one. Con totally got forced to do it, though. He hates the deb scene more than me.”

“I didn’t think it was possible for any girl to force Conrad to do anything.” We both lock eyes and at the same time, we exclaim, “Except Belly!”

. . . 

For some reason, I’m thinking about Mr. Fisher as I pour my fiftieth glass of lemonade since this morning. I’m thinking about him because it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be at home crying in my bedroom about my parents’ pending divorce while my mother sipped her wine without a care in the world. 

I don’t think there’s a person in this world my mother hates more than Mr. Fisher. She’s said so more than a few times. The first time she said it, we were having dinner and I was telling her and Dad about the overnight fishing trip Mr. Fisher took his sons on the day before, hopeful that we might go on a similar trip. I wanted to try out fishing, too. Dad was listening just to be nice but after one glass of wine and a few bites of her salad, my mother wasn’t having any of it. 

She looked at me pointedly and said, “Adam Fisher is a liar and a cheat. Susannah deserves better.” Dad shook his head at her, but it didn’t quiet her down. Not one bit. “Those boys deserve better, too. If only they knew what their father was getting up to while their poor mother was suffering through chemo.” At that point, Dad pulled my mother out of her chair and took her into the living room. I was perplexed that I just stared at my own salad in confusion. My mother had strong opinions, sure, but she never voiced them so openly. She prided herself in being a woman of class and etiquette.

As far as I knew, Mr. Fisher was just Mr. Fisher. He wasn’t a liar or a cheat. He was my best friend’s father. I knew he worked more than he slept and definitely more than he ate. His skin was pale like a vampire’s and he dyed his grey hair, which he had a lot of even though he dyed it. He was a tall man, although you could never really tell because he was always bent over his newest iPhone or with his nose in a book. When he was around the summer house, the energy was different. It almost felt like it was harder to breathe, like he was sucking all the air out of the room just by standing in it. He didn’t scare me but I knew Belly didn’t have the fondest thoughts of him like she did Susannah. When Mr. Fisher was around, she stood a little taller and sat on the sofa a little straighter. She didn’t laugh as much, and that bothered Conrad so much that he would get into little fights with his Dad, the kind you have to pick with someone just because their mere existence was bothering you. 

Jeremiah, though, worried about his father. Like a father should worry about his kid. And it always left me wondering why the dynamics were so different. Conrad couldn’t care less about Mr. Fisher. Not like he used to. I remember there was a time when Conrad looked at Mr. Fisher like he was some kind of superhero. Over the last two summers, Conrad barely looks at him at all. Not Jeremiah, though. The younger of the two Fisher brothers still treats his father the same, worries about him the same, silently begs for his approval the same. 

Mr. Fisher thinks my dad is a weirdo. Actually, his exact words were “a very interesting person,” which in adult language meant strange. He and dad always greeted each other with firm handshakes and talks about business on the rare occasions Mr. Fisher stayed in Cousins long enough for our families to have dinner together, the dinners Susannah insisted on. But they never invited each other for barbecues or for a game of golf. Dad hated gold anyways. He said it was a lame sport for lazy people. He much preferred basketball, which he used to play a lot with Esme before she got pregnant and became a mom. 

Steven thinks Mr. Fisher is funny, which always makes me and Belly laugh. Mr. Fisher hardly ever acknowledges us girls but he pays a ton of attention to the boys. He once told Steven that he would look “distinguished” in Polo shirts so that’s all he wore for a week. He had to borrow most of them from Jeremiah but he didn’t mind. During the summers, I think Jeremiah has an allergy to shirts. 

He isn’t wearing one now. 

I’ve just finished pouring yet another glass of lemonade for an elderly couple who generously tip me ten bucks when I catch a look at him from across the pool. He’s got a beach ball in his arms and he’s talking to Gigi. 

Gigi I-Don’t-Care-For-Her-Last-Name has a ginormous crush on Jeremiah and everyone knows it. Not because we’re all super sleuths but because Gigi has made it a known fact from the moment Jeremiah decided to start wearing the least amount of clothes as possible. It coincided with the time he started going to the gym on top of being on the football team. 

When we were still in school, Jeremiah would send me Instagram videos of himself working out with Mac Miller playing in the background. I appreciated the videos, of course I did. I even had a special folder for them on my phone. I just hated that other girls were starting to notice him, too. He wasn’t theirs to notice. Not when they hadn’t before. Not like I noticed him. Knew him. Loved him. 

I roll my eyes as Gigi leans into his arm. She’s wearing a pushup bikini top and the thing is putting in the work. Her boobs look great. I can appreciate that even while hating her guts. 

Jeremiah glances down for a second before looking back up at her. He has a smirk on his face like the little shit he is. He thrives on attention even when he isn’t seeking it. Most of the time, it comes to him naturally, as if the very concept was made to worship at his altar. 

He says something to her quickly and then he hands her the beach ball. He walks away as she stares after him. There’s almost a longing in her eyes that makes me feel bad for her momentarily. I might not like her, but I understand her. And somehow, that’s worse. 

I must have been staring for too long because the next thing I know, Jeremiah has his arm in the air and he’s waving at me. Inwardly, I cringe, embarrassed to have been caught in the act. Jeremiah starts walking towards me and I wish on every beach ball in sight that he’ll find someone else to talk to along the way, but he doesn’t. He bounces over to me in seconds flat. 

“Hey, Daise,” he says, smiling from ear-to-ear. I’m trying very hard not to stare at his open chest. “Wanna hear something funny?” 

“No.” 

He ignores me. “Gigi just asked me out.” 

A pile of cars inside my head crash against each other. “And let me guess, you’re going to take her to the drive-in and go to third base?” 

Jeremiah’s eyes sparkle. “Do you think I should?” 

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” I taunt, feeling myself get angry even though I have no right to be, “do you think you can stand an entire summer of being arm candy to the prettiest girl at the country club?” 

“Gigi isn’t the prettiest girl here.” 

My mind draws a blank. The cars inside my head stop making noises. “Then who is?” 

He leans down until we’re face-to-face. His eyes are still so blue, still so beautiful, that I think I could go swimming in them. Right now, right this moment. And he’s not smiling. Not really. He’s just looking at me and I’m trying very hard to keep eye contact. “It’s…” He glances to the left. His whole face lights up. “Shayla.” 

My brows knit together. It feels like I’ve just been punched. “Shayla?” 

“No–” He turns me around. A girl with long, black hair and an air of regality is strolling over to us. Every step she takes feels poised, like the ground should be thanking her for gracing it with her presence. “Shayla!” 

We all met Shayla last year. Well, all of us except Belly. Since she was the youngest, her mother never let her go out with us unless it was very important or if other adults were going to be around. Parties past midnight usually didn’t fit into that.

“Shayla, hey,” I greet her, leaning in for a hug. She gives really good hugs. It’s like she sweeps up your entire soul in her arms and hugs every inch of it. “What are you doing here?” 

Shayla goes to hug Jeremiah, too, before she answers my question. “I’m here for the deb lunch.” Her eyes glance over at the building behind us. “One of many.” 

“You’re a deb?” 

“Yes. I thought I might give it a go this year. I love a good, fancy, sit-down dinner.” It’s true. Out of all of us summer kids, Shayla’s the only one who actually enjoys the adult stuff. She doesn’t just pretend to. “And a chance to wear a white dress? I wouldn’t give that up.” 

From beside me, Jeremiah says, “Steven’s gonna get here tomorrow.” Then he does that thing with his brows where he makes them dance to insinuate something sexual. “Are you gonna rope him into being your escort, Shay?” 

“I won’t be roping any guy into doing anything,” Shayla responds, perfectly mannered as usual. “If Steven is my escort to the ball, it will be because he wants to. Not because I pushed him.”

I slam my knuckles against hers. “Go, girl.” 

Shayla hugs us both one more time before walking away. Her lean legs and beautiful summer hat beam under the summer sun. I stare at her, wondering what it would be like to be so sure of yourself, so resolute, when I feel Jeremiah staring at me.

“What?” 

“Nothing.” But it’s not nothing. I can tell it isn’t. So I push him harder. Literally, speaking. I set my hand on his firm, naked chest and push him backwards. 

“Come on, Fisher,” I tease, feeling my ears heat up from the exhilaration of touching his bare skin, “don’t leave me hanging. What’s up?” 

“I want some lemonade.” He looks pointedly towards the jug I placed on the ground that I haven’t yet gotten in trouble for putting on the ground. “Gimme some.” 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” I chuckle, glancing around to make sure my supervisor isn’t around. When the coast is clear, I hold up the jug above his face. “Open wide.” 

Jeremiah grins then opens his mouth really wide. The pale, yellow liquid goes rushing into his mouth. He ends up emptying the rest of the jug. He wipes his mouth with my t-shirt and I swat at him. “Delicious,” he says, and I think I’m crazy, but he looks at my mouth when he says it. “When’s your break?” 

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. “In an hour. When’s yours?” 

“In an hour.” He grins and tucks my hair behind my ear. Sometimes I think my hair just sits a certain way because it knows Jeremiah will touch it. “Meet you in the cafeteria?” 

“Will you buy me an egg sandwich?” 

Jeremiah leans into me again, like he did minutes ago, and says, “I’ll buy you a hundred.” And then he kisses my cheek. He does it so fast that I almost think he hasn’t. But the imprint of his lips on my cheek is there. And it burns like a million suns. I’m so stunned that I can hardly breathe. Jeremiah walks backwards, keeping his eyes on me, and waves. “Catch ya later, Daisy!”

And then he’s gone and I’m sure I’m in something more than love. 

[piratesfromspace]

Finance Management (Deckard Shaw/Reader)

Deckard Shaw (Fast & Furious) x Reader

Word count: 1.9k CW: mention of food & alcohol, smut

Female reader

Note: This short fic has been inspired by a friend of mine who created the character of the financial advisor of mister Shaw.  Also there is not enough fics with Deckard Shaw so here we are. 

Read on Ao3

MASTERLIST

“Mister Shaw, it’s me again, I’m so sorry but I really need you to call me back please. It’s important. Thank you.”

You let out a deep sigh as you hang up. Handling the finances of rich people is a lucrative and thrilling job, but damn it sometimes those clients of yours are annoying. Especially Mister Shaw.

First, he’s annoyingly busy and unreachable. Most powerful people are, but he can disappear for weeks on end without so much as sending an email.

Second, he’s also infuriatingly handsome and smart and funny. And he has an impeccable sense of style. He has nothing in common with the other clients of your firm, mainly old and boring men, whose only conversation subject is their money and how they hate their wives.

And finally, the worst thing about him is how good of a lover he is. You found out half a year ago, when you ended up in his bed after what should have been a regular business dinner. It was a mistake of course. One that could have cost you your career because it was a very serious breach of contract to sleep with a client.

You never told a soul, and you promised yourself to never do it again. But it was still hard to forget the feeling of him pressed against you, of his hands holding your waist, of his mouth between your thighs...

You try to focus again on your task and stretch your legs, kicking out your high heels. Feet bare on the soft carpet, you walk to the floor-to-ceiling window of your posh office, taking a second to admire the view, as the final rays of the sun disappear over the lake, and Geneva lights up under you. It’s breath-taking, really. But it also means you’re once again staying way too late at the office. Your assistant has gone home a couple hours ago, and your colleagues are either on vacation or on business trips, making you the only person on the building’s 7th floor. You still have a few things to finish so you plop on your leather chair and get back to work, hoping to make it home before 11pm.

That’s when you hear it: the familiar *ding* of the elevator’s door, at the end of the corridor. You tense immediately. You’re not waiting for anyone, and the security guards always use the stairs when completing their patrol.

Steps are coming down your way, and you grab your phone, ready to dial for the security team. And then you recognize his silhouette through the polished glass wall. There is a knock on your door before it opens to reveal Deckard Shaw himself. He’s wearing an expensive suit and an even more expensive watch, a very light stubble is highlighting his perfect jawbone and his deep grey eyes bear a mischievous glint. Handsome, as always.

“Mister Shaw…” you stammer.

“You know you can call me Deckard.” His stupidly sexy British accent and cocky smile will be the death of you.

He’s been in your office for two seconds and you already want to slap him in the face - or climb him like a tree, you can’t really decide.

“It’s quite late, Mister Shaw, you scared me. Anything I can do for you?” you insist on saying his family name, in a feeble attempt to maintain a professional façade.

“You needed to see me.” it’s more a comment than a question, and you’re suddenly reminded of the dozen of unanswered phone calls you made trying to reach him.

“Yes… yes, that’s right, but honestly you could have called tomorrow morning.”

“I’d rather see you in person.” he answers, looking you straight in the eyes. You can feel yourself blushing under his gaze. “Wanted to make sure you’re alright. You’re working too much you know.” he says with a soft smile, as his eyes drift down to your sore bare feet and then to the discarded heels under your desk.

What a condescending prick, you think. But at the same time, he’s right and his care seems somewhat genuine. It will not make you forget you almost lost your job because of him though.

“How did you know I was still here tonight?” you purposely redirect the attention on him, rather than you.

“Well, let’s say I would not leave the woman in charge of my assets without any... supervision.”

“Is that a polite way to say you’ve been spying on me?” you retort dryly.

“Oh I love when you’re getting all angry and snobbish, your French accent is even cuter.”

You’re gonna murder him. You really really want to tell him to go fuck himself, but he’s the one responsible for a very generous part of your paycheck, so you have to keep quiet.

“I would be more comfortable if we keep our conversation strictly professional, Mister Shaw.”

“Everything you want, dear.”

-----

“Mmph, fu-ck... Deckard, don’t stop”

The professional attitude has been long forgotten, since Deckard has pulled you onto his lap on the velvet couch of his presidential suite at the Four Seasons hotel, where you were supposed to only review the important documents he needed to see. But when the room service had brought a very nice bottle of Scotch, you knew you were screwed. You could not refuse a drink, and the warmth of alcohol combined with the warmth of his hand slightly brushing against your thigh had overcome all your resolve.

You are now sprawled on the king-size bed, moaning his name as Deckard Shaw is destroying your sanity very methodically. One foot on the floor, one leg bent on the edge of the bed, he’s pounding into you, holding your hip with one hand, and circling your clit with the other. His pace is calculated, not too fast so you can feel every inch of him, but not too slow so your nerves don’t have any respite, and it’s driving you crazy. Hands tangled in the dark silk sheets beneath you, you try to catch your breath to no avail.

“I won’t stop darling. Not until I can feel you coming again all over me.” His voice is like heavy honey, dripping all over your senses, drowning you in sweet and sinful promises.

You want to close your eyes to focus on the overwhelming feelings, but the view in front of you is too good to be missed. He looks like some demi-god, bathed in the subdued light of the room, broad and muscular chest, abs perfectly drawn. What is his job again? You vaguely remember him talking about serving a few years in the military when he was younger, but he is still definitely hitting the gym on a regular basis.

His muscles flex when he brings you down on his thick cock a little more sharply than before, and you keen as he hits that perfect spot inside of you. You can feel your orgasm build again, and so can he.

“You’re close, princess, aren’t you?”

You mewl in response and he chuckles darkly, keeping up with his ruthless assault on your most sensitive parts. He angles his fingers just a bit differently on your clit, and keeps thrusting into you, stretching you so perfectly you can’t remember the last time someone fucked you this good - wait , actually you can, it was a few months ago and it was by mister Deckard “annoyingly perfect” Shaw.

“Come on, I know you want to, I’ll keep going until you give me one more anyway princess…”

And that's it. You’re gone. Back arching off the bed, you come hard, harder than the first time, clenching around him. You barely hear him hiss in pleasure as you spasm helplessly on the soft sheets, the silk feeling almost cool against your burning skin.

----

“Good morning darling."

You open an eye, natural light is flooding the room, as is the delicious smell of fresh coffee and tea. At the foot of the bed, you spot a room service trolley loaded with breakfast treats and through the open door of the bathroom, you can see Deckard is looking at you in the mirror reflection while buttoning a crisp white shirt.

"Your tea is ready. Black, no milk, right?”

He's right and it's annoying because is there anything this man messes up?

"What time is it?" You ask, suddenly remembering you have a busy schedule today.

"You have 27 minutes to eat and get ready, so I can drop you off at your office in time for your first call of the day."

He knows about your tea preferences and your professional agenda, of course he does , he was not joking when mentioning the whole "spying-on-you" situation, or "supervision" as he liked to call it. He needs to stop it, but you decide to keep this discussion for another day.

You stretch, and rise to put on the hotel bathrobe, sighing at the thought of having to wear the same clothes as yesterday. Last you saw them, they were scattered on the floor all over the room and your underwear were positively ruined.

"The concierge was very helpful this morning, thanks to him I got you a few clothes delivered for today." Deckard adds as he pours himself a cup of coffee from the cart and gestures to the leather armchair where a couple of bags doning logos of luxury brands are perched.

You make your way to the packages, and open the first one to reveal a sophisticated dress, fitted and sexy, but not too much that it would be inappropriate as office wear. The second bag is a thoughtful selection of high end make-up products. And the last one contains a gorgeous set of lacy lingerie, nothing too raunchy but sexy nonetheless. Of course everything is in the right size.

"Thank you..." you whisper, a little stunned. The assortment must have cost him a couple grands at the very least - not that he can't afford it because you're well placed to be sure he can, but still, he did not have to do this.

You have to suppress a smile, because damn he's being annoyingly perfect once more, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction to reveal he was right when promising you could stay the night instead of going home and still look fresh for your day at work.

"I was thinking, I'm free tonight, so maybe we can finally review those documents, you know the ones you were supposed to show me before you jumped on me on the couch last night?" Deckard states as he bites in an apple in front of the window, casually looking at lake Geneva glinting in the bright morning sun.

You blush unwillingly, struggling to find a reply that would save you from admitting you had failed at enforcing your usual work ethic.

"I'm kidding dear!" He barks in a laugh. "I know enough to trust you on this venture, you have my approval to go on with the investment." He continues more seriously.

You open your mouth to answer but he's quicker.

"I'm not kidding about being free though, so what about dinner and then we can see where this takes us…"

When you don't answer immediately, he turns to look at you. Maybe he's realizing the situation can be awkward and precarious for you since you're technically working for him.

"You can say no, I won't take any offense." He adds without irony.

"Yes..." You finally answer, tip toeing toward him until you can snatch the apple he was eating from him. He protests but you shush him.

"...Yes, I would like this very much..."

As he starts to protest again, you take a big bite from the fruit with a knowing smile.

"...but only for dinner. Nothing more."

"You'll be the death of me." Deckard says, falsely irritated, his voice dropping lower.

"At least the feeling is mutual, mister Shaw ..."

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose —  temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

[malfoysstilinski]

Hello love, I absolutely adore your writing. <3 Could you maybe do a tooth-rotting dracoxreader fluff. It can be anything, I just love soft draco sm haha. Tbh I feel like theres no such thing as too much soft draco asjdkhfask.

thank you so much!! hope this is okay :)) 

post shower | draco malfoy (fluff) 

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

summary: you like picking out draco’s clothes for him and playing with his hair after he’s had a shower. and he’ll never admit it, but he likes it too.

warnings: extremely healthy relationship and soft!draco

word count: 1.9k

a/n: there’s a part where draco plays with your hair and i’m sorry if it’s not inclusive to yours (curly, afro-textured, braided etc.), i generally try to keep my imagines inclusive but this idea was just stuck in my head!! it’s quite brief but i thought i’d acknowledge that i realise some poc readers and others with curly hair just might not be able to relate and i’m really sorry about that!! :( but again, it doesn’t make up the whole imagine! <33

also not proof-read!! 

....

18.00. my dorm. prepare for cuddles.

my mother sent over some more of

those sweets you said you liked.

yours, draco

The ripped piece of parchment in your hand included an inked sketch beneath it; the image of a wrapped sweetie surrounded by some scribbled-out love hearts. Your heart skipped a beat at the message written in Draco’s usual rushed cursive, a small smile threatening to twitch at the corners of your lips. Glancing up towards the direction the charmed crane had come in, you sent the blond boy already watching you a small nod of confirmation.

A wink was your reward before he turned back to face Professor Snape at the front of the classroom. It made your heart flutter and your stomach fill with butterflies as you wondered how you’d ended up with a boyfriend as perfect as Draco Malfoy.

Not many would theorise that he was a secret romantic, but then again, not many truly knew Draco for who he actually was. You adored him - the way he looked, the way he smelled, how he loved you, his voice, his laugh, his jokes, and his sarcastic comments. If there was one person on the planet guaranteed to make you smile, it was the Malfoy heir.

You were thrilled to be invited back to his dorm, even if this was quite a regular occurrence that you probably should be more used to by now. The thought of spending the evening after a long day of lessons with Draco cuddled up on his bed eating sweets sent by his mother sounded like a dream come true. There was no other way you’d rather spend your time.

The rest of the day couldn’t have gone by slower, though. You finished your classes and then skipped dinner to shower, knowing you’d be stuffing your face later anyway. By the time you’d slipped on comfier clothes than your school uniform and had dried your hair, it was nearly time for you to head to Draco’s dormitory. He was lucky enough to have his own one as a prefect, with a huge bed and silk green sheets that felt amazing against your skin.

You did some last minute homework for your Herbology class in the morning, though your mind seemed to constantly drag back to your boyfriend. He was like some sort of drug and you clearly had an addiction.

Perhaps the best part was that the love she had for Draco was mirrored back onto her by the boy; their love was a redamancy to be jealous of. Students and teachers alike could see the adoration in their eyes when they looked at each other. They saw the grin on your face and the slight blush on Draco’s cheeks and knew that if what you two had wasn’t love, then love didn’t exist at all.

You had your ups and downs, of course you did. No relationship was ever always perfect. However, it was the way you were constantly able to bounce back and be stronger than before that kept the fire burning between the two of you. It was the way that Draco had worked on his communication, knowing it was the only way he’d be able to keep you, and how you’d worked on being more patient with him that meant the two of you could fall so indescribably in love.

So when you turned up to Draco’s dormitory at exactly 6 pm sharp, you opened the door without knocking, more than certain he wouldn’t mind. He never did. However, Draco was nowhere to be seen in his room. You thought maybe you’d managed to read the note wrong until you heard the running water coming from his bathroom.

You smiled to yourself as you headed towards his bed, dropping on top of the silky sheets you loved so much, your fingers tracing on top of it. Your ears strained to listen out for Draco, a deep hum filling your ears that you knew belonged to him. He had a good singing voice, but he refused to believe it whenever you told him.

You closed your eyes and listened as he hummed in the shower, his voice echoing off the walls in a way that had you wishing you could not only listen but watch him sing it. You weren’t sure when Draco stopped humming or when the water shut off, but the next thing you knew, the bathroom door was opening, steam rolling out as well as the scent of his green apple shampoo.

“Ah, darling,” Draco greeted upon seeing you lying on his bed.

You sat up, beaming at him. A white towel hung around his hips, his platinum hair wet on his head and dripping down his broad shoulders onto his platinum skin. You thought he looked beautiful like this, like some sort of God you’d like to worship. Especially with the smile that he wore upon his face, one that was reserved for you and you only.

“Hi, my love,” you said back, watching as he began to hunt through his drawers for something to wear. “You said six.”

“I must have lost track of time,” Draco admitted, “Cold days are meant for hot showers, you know.”

“No, cold days are meant for cuddles with your girlfriend,” you protested, but nevertheless scooted off the bed to join him by his dresser. “What are you gonna wear?”

“Y’wanna dress me up again, don’t you?” Draco acted as if he was annoyed, but a smile was threatening to tug at his lips.

“It’ll be cosy, ‘promise,” you replied, your hands moving through his dresser, hunting for the pair of black jogging bottoms that you liked on him. “Top or no?”

“No,” Draco replied as he stood in front of his mirror, towel drying his hair.

You found a pair of socks for him too, knowing how he hated if his feet got cold. As Draco cast a charm to dry his blond locks, you settled everything on the end of his bed for him and then began hunting through his drawers once more. You found one of his black tees and pulled your own off, shrugging his on instead.

Arms wrapped around your waist as soon as it went over your head and you shrieked as you were hauled onto his bed. You laughed as Draco suddenly crawled between your legs so he was straddling you a little, his fingers toying with the hem of his shirt.

“Did I say you could wear that, pretty girl?” Draco fauxed a glare.

“Please,” you pouted at him. “It’s comfy and smells so good. Like you.”

Draco rolled his eyes in amusement, smiling again as he kissed your forehead. “You’re lucky you’re so gorgeous. Can’t say no when you pull that face, can I?”

You beamed, feeling your cheeks heat up a little bit. You realised Draco had already pulled the joggers and socks on, his top half naked as he moved to grab his comb off of the dresser.

“Let me do it for you,” you said, holding your hand out.

Draco shot you a look. “Not a doll for you to dress up, you know.”

“‘Just wanna comb your hair for you,” you huffed, sitting on the edge of his bed, your legs dangling over the mattress.

Draco moved to stand in between them, your face level with his body as he began to brush the comb through the back of your own hair. Smiling, you leaned your head against his stomach, wrapping your arms around his middle and enjoying the sensations and tingles that Draco brushing your hair spread through your body.

Your eyes closed and you swore you could fall asleep like it - one of his large palms on your back, his comb brushing through your hair, the warmth of his toned stomach against your cheek and the smell of his aftershave and body wash fresh in your senses.

“You washed your hair, didn’t you?” Draco hummed, his hand moving off your back as he ditched the comb, his fingers playing with it.

“Yeah, had a shower before I came here,” you murmured, not peeling your eyes open, just relishing in the feeling of complete relaxation with your favourite person in the entire world.

“I can tell,” Draco murmured, his fingers gliding effortlessly through your newly-combed hair. “Your hair is really soft after washing it.”

“Good,” you replied, smiling a little against him. “That’s kind of the point of washing your hair, you know.”

“No, it’s to keep it clean,” Draco protested.

“It’s for both,” you compromised, knowing how stubborn he could get quickly. “Now can I comb your hair.”

About a minute later, Draco’s room was playing music quietly and he was slouched between your legs on the bed, the bag of sweets his mother had bought you both on his lap. Your back rested against the headboard behind you, your hands brushing through his silky platinum locks. You put the comb down, beginning to part his hair into tiny sections.

“Sweet?” Draco offered, his mouth full as he lifted his arm behind himself.

He felt you lean forwards and capture the sweet between your teeth from where your hands were occupied in his hair, making him chuckle. Draco knew you were making small plaits with the longer sections of his hair, but he closed his eyes and pretended he had no idea. To be honest, he cherished the feeling of you being so close to him, of your hands in his hair, your nails scratching gently on his scalp every now and then.

“Feels good?” You hummed, glancing down at him and seeing that his silver eyes had shut.

They flickered back open at your question, smiling when he saw you looking down at him. “A bit,” he admitted, which was an under exaggeration. He loved it.

“‘Nother sweetie, please,” you called as you moved onto your third tiny plait.

Draco’s hand came back over and fed the sweet straight into your mouth. You giggled as you carried on plaiting, humming lightly to yourself. A tug a little harder than the rest caused Draco to dramatically cry out.

“Ow!” Draco hissed, “Watch what you’re doing, woman!”

“Shh, I’m just braiding your hair,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “And if you call me woman like that one more time I will shove this comb so far up your arse-”

“Okay, okay,” Draco winced at the imagery. “By woman I meant ‘my lovely, beautiful, sweet, kind, intelligent girlfriend who I love with my whole heart’.”

“You’re such a kiss arse, Malfoy,” you replied, running your hand over the small plaits you’d created. “They look cute. You should grow your hair out like your father so I can do really good ones-”

“Y/N!” Draco grimaced, “If I ever grow my hair out as long as my fathers, feel free to cut it off for me in the middle of the night.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you cradled his head in your lap, your nails lightly scratching his skin. “Okay, okay. I like you with this haircut anyway. And I like the lack of gel in it. Looks so fluffy and cute.”

“Not what I’m going for, but thanks, darling,” Draco remarked, grabbing another sweet for himself. “You’re comfy, by the way.”

You simply hummed back as you began to undo the plaits, knowing Draco would be annoyed if you forgot and he had little curly bits in the morning. You grazed your fingers back through, watching his eyes flicker back.

“I love you,” Draco murmured sincerely. “So much.”

Your heart swelled. “I love you too, Draco.”

taglist: @lolooo22 @yyoflam @fjorelaant @cpetrova @bby-gxrnet @draysslytherclaw @dawnmalfoy @miarivic @hpotter3390 @justfangirlthingies @fleurwands @hufflepuffsophie @riddleswh0r3crux @dracosathenaeum @weaselbrownie @Dracoscumwh0re @miraclesoflove @wh0re4blaise @ilovemoviekidd826 @drarrysimp @secret-obsessions @writeandtranslate @aetheralist @wholebigboxofyikes @honeyloverogers @icecubewhat @edithreads @abbott27 @Sweetvnlla @skaratjung @dlmmdl @sw33tgirl @ayaosk @acosmis-t @astoria-malfcy 

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes.

BNHA

see the light of day by achievingelysium

no1allmightfan I got my U.A. acceptance letter yesterday and I haven’t stopped crying… Taking the first steps toward my dream. Plus ultra! #no1 talks 22 notes | Reply Reblog Like

Or, Izuku, social media, and the journey to becoming a hero.

DC

Lugubrious Alarmism by Briarwitched

Magic is always a pain. Superman might temporarily be a toddler, but the League's knows they've gotten off easy this time: everyone's in the proper dimension, there's no annoying entity trying to teach them a lesson, and the de-aging spell should wear off without any weird consequences in less than a fortnight. Babysitting duty gets ten times more adorable with the purchase of a Justice League plushie set. Now Clark can continue his heroic adventures with his friends: fighting crime, spreading justice, and... beheading Batman?

It's gotta be a fluke. Right? Right.

Accidents can happen twice in a row-- no, three, four?-- times. Though probably not by the twenty second. It's definitely intentional by the thirtieth time. Probably.

What the hell, Clark? We thought you were friends.

straight on 'til morning by mindshelter

Kon whistles at his first glimpse into Tim’s living room, grinning with teeth when Tim reflexively rolls his eyes. “Sweet digs, dude,” he singsongs. “Love what you’ve done to the place.”

“I said,” Tim hisses, even as he slides the balcony door open to let Kon inside, “what are you doing here—”

Kon shrugs, peeling his jacket off. If I left it up to you, buddy, he doesn’t say, I’d see you once in a blue moon. “Couldn’t sleep. Gotta say, the empty Gatorade bottles really give this place personality.”

“Like you’re one to talk. I’ve seen your room,” Tim snipes back. “And I actually need the electrolytes. What’s your excuse?”

or; on a whim, kon pays tim's gotham apartment a late night visit. and then he visits again. and again, and again.

The Clone Wars

we hold on together by notquiteaghost

The Republic hasn't had a standing army in over two thousand years. Even before the Reformation, there was no war on a grand enough scale to justify the expense. It feels like a bad joke, when the Chancellor decrees it, when the Senate allows it. The Jedi aren't a military. The Jedi have never been a military.

They give Obi-Wan a battalion. They give him a battlecruiser, a Marshall Commander, they knight his Padawan. He looks over all the clerical minutiae a military runs on and wishes they'd given him a secretary.

cody, obi-wan, and ghost company at the beginning of the war, learning to work together, trust each other, maybe even like each other.

Rescues, Attempted by glimmerglanger

A moment later, the figures leaned over the edge and, without preamble, tossed Obi-Wan in.

Cody jerked, unthinking, to put his body between Obi-Wan’s and the unforgiving stone. It was not that far a fall, but, unconscious, Obi-Wan could not protect his head or neck. Cody caught him as he plummeted, weight catching at his arms and shoulders, but not enough to inconvenience him.

OR, the one where Obi-Wan falls into the wrong hands, and Cody does his best to get him out alive.

J'adoube by hellowkatey

There are only two scenarios that make sense in this moment:

1. The Force has caused a divergence in the flow of time for reasons still unknown. or 2. Obi-Wan has a more active imagination than he thought, and the last twenty-eight years of his life have been one very long, very elaborate dream.

[or, the Force gets fed up with Obi-Wan not taking care of himself and takes matters into its own hands.]

Count My Little Scars I've Got Dozens Inside by nuclearturtle

Ripped from the streets of Melida/Daan by the Force, Obi-Wan finds himself in the middle of a firefight between strange droids and troopers. With no idea of where he is or what is going on but in desperate need for help, so he turns to the only familiar presence nearby, his Grandmaster Dooku.

Unfortunate that luck has never really been on his side.

To Fall, and To Be Alright by Pandora151

Obi-Wan falls, almost at random.

Anakin watches it happen from across the briefing room. He watches Obi-Wan trail off mid-sentence, eyebrows furrowing into a deep frown. He watches Obi-Wan look at Cody and Waxer, at Ahsoka, and then at Anakin. He watches Obi-Wan place a trembling hand on the table in front of him.

And then the moment breaks, and Obi-Wan falls.

Belief by CallToMuster (Note: I enjoyed a bunch of whump fics form this author, but this list would've gotten too long if I'd included them all. So definitely check them out)

“It’s me,” the man tells him for the fourth time. “It’s Anakin. I promise.”

Obi-Wan says nothing. He has heard this before, from others. They too claimed to be Anakin Skywalker and shared his face. This is the eighth such person, in fact. But they were just a product of Ventress’s twisted imagination. Whether this person is the same remains to be seen.

He must be cautious either way.

{Written for Whumptober 2020. Day 11: "Defiance | Struggling". Sequel to my Day 5 Whumptober fic Mine.}

[belphies-cuhm-sluht]

I enjoyed your dad!Lucifer and dad!Asmo stories! May I please request one of dad!Belphie where Satan takes over? 💜💚

Welcome Home (Dad!Belphie Pt. 2)

A/N : I live for this kind of angst, I love it. Although this hurt my Belphie loving heart, these fics are so much fun. (Part 1) Word Count : 3.1K Warnings : children; babies; maternity; mentions of MC's death; mentions of childbirth; dad!character; angst

Belphie stiffened when he heard his son say it, but he didn’t have time to react before the knock came. He groaned as he got up off the floor, picking his son up and walking to the door to throw it open, expecting another Akuzon delivery for Leviathan, or maybe Mammon had just forgotten his keys. “See, it’s not Ma…” He hadn’t even been looking when he opened the door, he was still on edge from his son uttering the word, but the way the child was reaching out towards the door made him look up. “Y/N…” Your name was whispered from his lips, he felt like he was dreaming, this was all just some sick dream that his mind had come up with out of guilt and self hatred. He must have fallen asleep on the floor, that’s what this is. You couldn’t actually be there, could you? “You would not believe how hard it is to get out of heaven. You all made it seem easy, but that guy is a real stickler.” You joked, grabbing your son from Belphie’s arms and holding him against your chest. “It’s been so long… You’ve grown so much. I’ve missed so much… How long was I gone?” You looked away from your son's purple eyes to meet Belphies, but he was still silent. It was like he had gone into shock, which, you wouldn’t blame him. Nobody probably expected for you to come back, but you weren’t going to spend your eternal life up in the Celestial Realm when your entire life was down in the Devildom. “Belphie… Can you atleast breathe? Please? You’re worrying me.” His mouth fell open, but the sound that escaped him was like a mixture between a squeal and gasp, and you didn’t really know what the sound meant, but his eyes were wide and his hands were holding his hair away from his face as if he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You can’t… You can’t be here… I watched you die.” He shook his head, quickly grabbing his son back and walking into the living room, shaking his head in disbelief. “That was one of the worst days of my life… I never thought you’d come back… I never thought I’d see you again.” He turned back around to face you as you walked into the house, shutting the door behind you. “How are you back?” You giggled lightly, trying to remember what happened in the Celestial Realm, but the memories were fading faster than you thought they would. “Well… First of all the line was so long, you would not believe it. They need to make the gates more like an amusement park entrance, maybe like five gates instead of one. It’ll really speed things up.” He didn’t seem to see the humor in it, not right now at least. It probably was the fact that he still didn’t understand how you got back and you were making jokes about the waiting time in heaven, it probably wasn’t a good time to do it. “It took forever to get through those gates, and the entire time I was waiting, I was thinking of you, and I was thinking of him. I don’t even know how I got sent up there in the first place, but as soon as I got through, I went straight to the guy who’s name shall not be said, and I told him I wanted to go back, to be back with you.” You rolled your eyes as little bits and pieces of memories came back to you, the hell that you went through just to get out of there. “I caused so much trouble, and I think I finally just annoyed everyone to the point where they didn’t care and they just gave me the boot… and here I am!” You gave him two thumbs up which your son mimicked back to you, but Belphie was still standing there, blinking rapidly as he tried to process everything that you just said. “So you ditched heaven essentially, to come back to your demon boyfriend and your demon kid who both killed you?” He said it as if it were a weird thing, and to most it probably would be, but to you it just seemed like the only thing to do. It was a pretty quick summary of everything that happened, and you probably could have summed it all up to that, but then there would have been no humor to break the ice and… you kind of felt like the situation needed a little comedy to lighten things up. “You’re such a dork…” He mumbled, but you saw the small smile tugging at his lips. You were

finally back, something that he never thought would happen, something that he never thought would be possible, but it did happen, and it was possible, and you were standing in front of him right now and he didn’t know how he actually felt about it.

“So how long have I been gone?” You asked, your head in Belphie’s lap as you laid on the floor, watching as your son tottered across the floor over to the toys that had been stacked in the corner of the living room. “He’s gotten so big…” As much as you had joked about the wait, it hadn’t felt like it was that long. The events that had taken place to get you up there in the first place were fresh in your mind still, it felt like it had just happened, but how big your son had grown said differently. Belphie pouted slightly as he thought of just how long he had gone without you, how long he had gone through this alone. “A year… and a half.” He ran his hand over your hair, watching your reaction. Your eyes gave away how you were really feeling, he could see how his words upset you, and that wasn’t what he was trying to do, not at all. “I never forgot you. I never got over what happened. I relived that day over and over in my mind… I’m so sorry Y/N…” His head dropped, resting his forehead against yours as he cradled your face in his hands. It was the first time you had ever heard him apologize for anything, and for once, he didn’t have a reason. There was no need for apologizing, not for this. “Hey… Don’t…” You reached up to cup his cheek, craning your neck just enough to kiss him before dropping your head back down into his lap. “I’m here now. You don’t have to apologize. Plus…” You held his chin between your thumb and pointer finger, turning his face to look at his son who was now sitting in the corner playing with his plush farm animals. “It was worth it to me. I have you, and I have him, and I can stay here with you forever. What is there to be sorry for?” You let your hand drop down against your stomach, smiling as you continued to watch your son, but your happiness was short lived as Belphie groaned, pushing himself up off the floor, causing you to roll off his lap. “You’re such an idiot! You think it was worth it? Dying for that thing?! You’re not the human I fell in love with anymore, you’ve changed.” His breathing was heavy as his nostrils flared, his hands shoved into the pockets of his cardigan. “And you may not notice it, but I do. And now… now you’re saying you want to live out the rest of eternity down here with me and the demon spawn.” He sighed loudly, shaking his head, but you didn’t understand why he was acting like this, speaking this way. “I said before all of that happened that I wanted to spend the rest of my human life down here with you, and that once I did die I would come back. I guess the process was a little sped up, but I don’t mind that.” You sat up, eyeing him suspiciously. You didn’t know where all of this was coming from, you thought that he was happy to have you back, and now he was basically saying that he didn’t love you anymore? “You didn’t have a problem with the plan before… And now that I’m here you don’t want me? That’s not fair, Belphie.” You swallowed thickly, digging your nails into your lap as you sat on your knees looking up at him. He looked indifferent , like he didn’t even care that what he was saying was hurting you. What had changed? “You didn’t come back for me. You came back for that, and you can have it. I don’t care. I wasted a year and a half of my life on the thing that took you away from me, and you come back and try to sweep it all under the rug, like it never happened.” You could hear in his voice that he was getting choked up, the lump in his throat causing his voice to crack. “You didn’t see your face… You didn’t see what I saw. I watched it hurt you, I watched it rip through you, and I watched it kill you. You don’t know how hard that was… And you don’t even care. You want to just walk back in where things left off and start playing house and… I’m just… I’m not ready for that.” Your teeth were sinking into your bottom lip as you listened to him, fighting back the urge to cry. He was wrong, he was so wrong. You might now have been able to see yourself, but you felt everything, but that didn’t change the fact that it was your child, that it was his child, and you

loved your son just as much as you loved his father. “What so… So you want me to leave again? You’d rather me just be completely dead and never have come back? What’s the reason? So you can suffer with the memories? So you can hate him forever for taking me away even though I’m right here?” You walked over to your son, lifting him off the floor and holding him on your hip, glaring at Belphie. “You’re utterly ridiculous… I… I don’t even… You’ll have what you want, but I’m not going to let you fill him with guilt for the rest of his life for something he couldn’t help.”

Belphie watched as you left again, walking out of the house with a luggage in one hand and his son’s hand in your other. “Well, that was stupid.” Satan said, appearing from seemingly nowhere beside Belphie, watching you walk down the pathway to the gate. “You finally got her back and… you let her leave again. You make no sense. Weren’t you the one crying every night because you missed her?” Satan’s eyes never left you, watching until you were too far off in the distance to even make out. “Shut up, Satan. You sound like Lucifer.” Bephie grumbled, slamming the door shut as he turned his back to his older brother and headed back up the stairs to the attic. It was supposed to be a low blow, but Satan knew that Lucifer wouldn’t have butted into his brother's business like he did. He waited to hear the attic stairs before walking out the door, sprinting down the walkway and out of the gates until he caught up with you. What Belphie… What none of his brothers knew was that he was infatuated with you. You were graceful, beautiful, funny, smart, sweet, and so much more. His heart had been torn as he watched your stomach swell with his brother’s child, and it had completely shattered when he watched that child rip through you, rip you away from Belphie, away from him. “Hey, you look like you need some help.” He said breathlessly, running his hand through his hair as he smiled sheepishly down at you. You were just as beautiful as you were before, even with the tear streaks that stained your cheeks. Your eyes glistened as you looked up at him, but it was only from the tears, tears that someone as wonderful as you shouldn’t have spilled for someone as shitty as Belphegor. “Oh… Satan… I uhm…” You sniffled loudly, dropping the luggage to the ground as your eyes overflowed with more tears. Satan did the only thing he knew to do, what he really wanted to do for so long, pulling you into his arms and holding you close as you cried against his chest, your words mumbled as you spoke into the fabric of his sweater. “I don’t know where to go… I don’t know what to do… I thought he’d be happy… He…” Your voice broke off into quiet sobs as his hand rubbed soothing circles into your back. Of course he knew that the only reason you were holding onto him like this was because you were broken, and you felt helpless, but he hoped that in due time you’d hold onto him like this for other reasons, because you wanted to, because you wanted him. He pulled back, sliding his finger under your chin to tilt your head up, using his other hand to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “Shh, it’s alright. I’ll help you. And if it makes things any better… I’m happy that you’re back. I’ve missed you, Y/N.” It felt good to finally get that off his chest, originally fearing the repercussions that those words would bring him if he said them anywhere around Belphie. It didn’t matter now though, Belphie had done the damage, and Satan was here to try to clean it up. He cleared his throat, kneeling down in front of your son who looked at him expectantly. “You’ve missed her too, haven’t you?” Your son nodded quickly as a child would, smiling wide up at you before looking back to Satan. “How about ice cream?” He looked up at you, waiting for your okay and how could you say no? Those two words had your son tugging at your hand, pulling you in the direction of the ice cream shop and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Are you sure this is okay?” You asked, stopping right outside of the door that you had walked out not more than an hour ago. “He doesn’t want me here, I’m sure me and the baby can stay at a hotel until we find somewhere else to go.” You didn’t want to admit it, but you were scared to go back in, scared to face Belphie again. Would he be mad that you were back? You didn’t want to deal with that, and you shouldn’t have to. You were only doing what you thought was right, and in Belphie’s eyes it had been all wrong. How were you supposed to know that he wouldn’t be happy? “Nonsense. You’ll stay here until you find a place. I’m not letting you spend all your money on a hotel room and food when you could stay here and get both for free. Plus, your room is still open, it’s still yours.” It was his idea to keep it, not that he’d tell you that yet. There was a time for everything, and right now what you needed was for him to be your support system, a friend that you could turn to and a friend that would be there. He opened the door for you, having to practically push you in as your son ran back into the living room to find his toys. “What the hell…?” You heard Belphie’s voice, clearly confused as he rounded the corner, his eyes landing on his son first before glancing up at the door to see you and Satan standing there. “I thought she was leaving. I thought they both were leaving.” His words stung, but you tried not to let him see just how much it hurt you. He didn’t deserve to know he had that much hold on you and your emotions. “Why the hell did you bring them back?” He eyed Satan suspiciously, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for answers. “I couldn’t just let her walk around the Devildom with a child that small by herself. I was doing the right thing.” He turned to face you, his eyes were soft as he read every emotion on your face. He could see the pain that Belphie’s words alone were causing you, and it irritated him more than he’d ever admit. “How about you go up to your room, get you and the baby situated. I’ll bring you both something to eat.” You nodded slowly, calling your son over and quickly carrying him up, glad to be away from the looming glare of Belphie. As soon as you were up the stairs and out of earshot Belphie let loose, coming at Satan and not holding back. “You’re a fucking liar. I know exactly why you went after her, you sick freak. You think that just because I needed a break to sort things out in my own head that you could rush in and try to take over?” He shoved Satan back, not even caring that his brother was the embodiment of wrath and pushing him like this was sure to have them both brawling. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” “What’s wrong with me? Shall I quote you? ‘You’re not the human I fell in love with.’ Do you remember, Belphegor?” He hissed the words, standing tall as Belphie shrunk away from him, backing up as his own words were repeated to him. “Or how about the fact that you won’t even call your son by his name, you only call him it or that. What’s wrong with you?” He scoffed, shaking his head at his youngest brother. “You know, I loathed you for what you did to her. You were the reason she died, you just couldn’t control yourself. You killed her… And you had no right to pity yourself, you should have only felt guilt. But then… she came back.” He chuckled loudly, stepping closer to Belphie to get in his face. “And you screwed up again… So tell me… What is wrong… With you?” He cleared his throat, standing up straight once more as he fixed his sweater. “Anyway, I have to go make her something to eat, she and the baby must be hungry. It’ll be a nice way to welcome her home, don’t you think?”

[heyyyharry]

Deja Vu (part 2 of 'Drivers License')

(inspired by deja vu by Olivia Rodrigo)

Word count: 2.5k

Read part 1 here

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.

.

“What the fuck is this?”

Harry flinched as his girlfriend shoved the phone at him. He’d just got out of the shower, hair still dripping wet, but it wasn’t so out of the ordinary that she would start a fight first thing in the morning.

He sighed and gently pushed her phone away from his face. “Baby, if it’s another rumour about me cheating on you...I was with you this whole week!”

“No.” She lifted the phone up to his face again. “That girl just released another song about you.”

Even though Harry didn’t let it show, whenever he heard about Y/N, his heart would always skip a beat. He couldn’t remember exactly when the last time they’d spoken was, but he knew in his last message to her, he’d congratulated her on that new song about him. She’d never replied, and he’d taken it as the answer — they could never go back to the way it was.

It had broken his heart to listen to ‘drivers license’. Y/N had never been the kind of person to be vocal about her feelings. Or maybe she’d expressed it through actions instead of words, and he had been too nonchalant to see? He hadn’t meant to break her heart and leave her in the dust. After all, she used to be his best friend.

“Y/N’s a songwriter. She writes about her own experience the same way I do. Maybe that song is not even about me, babe,” he calmly told his girlfriend, who was standing in front of him with fresh tears in her eyes. He hated to see her cry, and he hated that this wasn’t the first time she’d done it because of him. He tried to reach for her but she stepped back, shaking her head.

“Listen to the song.”

“Baby.”

“Listen to the song,” his girlfriend repeated without looking at him. “Why are you so afraid?”

“I’m not.”

“Then listen to it and tell me it’s not about you, and that she’s not throwing shades at me. I’m so tired of this girl telling the world about how horrible we are as if you had even dated her in the first place—”

“Fine,” Harry exhaled sharply, his eyes pinched shut. He hated that when his girlfriend got mad, she would get so mean for no reason, and the last thing he wanted to hear right now was her insulting Y/N. He knew Y/N. She had always been respectful to his new relationship. However, he wasn’t in the position to tell his girlfriend how to feel about this situation. He knew it was all his fault, so he stayed quiet, took the phone from his girlfriend and sat down on the edge of the bed. His girlfriend stood with her back against the wall facing him, waiting for him to play the song so she could see his reaction to it.

“Go on,” she told him, her voice emotionless.

Harry looked at the song on Spotify. It was titled deja vu. He took a deep breath and one last look at his girlfriend before finding enough courage to press play.

Y/N’s previous song about him had been blasted in every shop he’d visited, all the time when he was filming, every time he was in the car, and now, the moment he heard her voice again, it really did feel like deja vu.

Car rides down Malibu

Strawberry ice cream

One spoon for two…

.

.

.

“Are we there yet?”

“No, stop being so impatient! Just keep on driving!” Y/N said and looked out of the window on the passenger side. The sun was going down, and the horizon was gradually turning the colour of an egg yolk. It was their last day in Miami. They had been filming for every day that week, and this was the only day they could spend just for themselves.

Harry stole a glance at Y/N and saw that she’d finished half the strawberry ice cream while bobbing her head to the song Uptown Girl on the radio. He frowned, making her laugh when she noticed.

“Open your mouth,” she said and fed him a spoon of ice cream.

“Ahh, brain freeze!”

“But it’s good, isn’t it?”

“So good.” Harry licked his lips. The face he made got Y/N laughing harder.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at a secluded beach. Y/N had found this place when she traveled to this city alone two summers ago and almost got lost.

Together, she and Harry carried their picnic things through a palm forest, and by the time they saw the ocean, the moon had made a fading presence on the pink Miami sky.

Y/N picked up her shoes and ran towards the waves, letting it chase her back into Harry’s arms and nearly knocking him over. Their laughter echoed in the wind as their shadows stretched out long and lanky on the empty beach. In that very moment, it felt to Harry as if they were the only people in this world, and he had a sense of peace that he might never be able to experience again.

“You don’t get to see this in the city,” Y/N said dreamily as she pulled Harry’s jacket tighter around herself. It was dark now, and the sky above them was full of stars. They sat shoulder to shoulder on a picnic blanket, listening to the whispers of the ocean and the wind. Harry used Y/N’s jacket as a blanket because it was too small for him to put on. They’d laughed for five minutes straight when she told him he looked like that monkey from Aladdin and took plenty of photos just to prove the point.

“I don’t want to leave tomorrow,” he said, still looking at the sky.

“Me neither,” Y/N sighed, her shoulder brushing his. There was a pause, and he could feel her eyes on him, so he turned and saw her looking. “When I get home,” she said with a small smile that made her eyes sparkle, “I’ll learn to drive, and when we come to Miami next time, I can drive you to this beach.”

“I’d love that,” Harry said, then made her pink-promise him.

.

.

.

“They went to Miami last week.”

Y/N blinked. The beach and starry sky disappeared in a second, and she found herself once again standing in the fitting room with her stylist and best friend.

“What?” her best friend marched over to where she stood in front of the full-length mirror.

Her stylist was holding the phone up to show her the article. “Here. Harry took that actress to Miami last week.”

“Don’t show her these!” Y/N’s best friend grabbed the phone and put it on the vanity desk as she gestured to the stylist. “You do your work. Enough chit-chatting.”

“I took him there,” Y/N said. She didn’t even recognise her own voice at first because she was too in shock. She didn’t think Harry would do something like that. But let’s be honest -- how much did she really know about him?

It had been a few months since his last text to her, which she had ignored, and now her song had been overplayed, and nobody cared about the drama anymore. The whole world had moved on, and she had, too. Or so she’d thought. Now, seeing these pictures of him and his girlfriend on that Miami beach made Y/N feel betrayed.

“Asshole,” her best friend said and grabbed her shoulders. “Don’t worry baby. You’re prettier.”

Y/N worked up a smile and opened her mouth to say that she was fine, but then she heard someone call her name and turn around. They weren’t calling for her. Just a name similar to hers that had become an inside joke between her and her friends.

The moment she locked eyes with Harry’s girlfriend, her heart seemed to stop as she held her breath, her lips thinned as if to hold back a scream. She didn’t know the girl personally and had never run into her before today. How unfortunate that they had to be in the same room after Y/N had seen those Miami pics.

“What is she doing here?” Y/N’s best friend asked the stylist the question Y/N was too afraid to ask.

“Fitting for an event, I guess,” the stylist said.

Y/N told them to just ignore the others and mind their own business. The sooner they got the measurements, the faster she could leave. Or she could leave right now and come back another day, but that would make it look like the other girl’s presence was bothering her. They were both actresses, and so they would have to run into each other at some point. She must be professional about it. This was normal. Just act normal.

“He’s so unique,” Harry’s girlfriend said while laughing with her team. Y/N didn’t mean to overhear the conversation, but apparently, the girl was making sure that Y/N heard her loud and clear. “We were watching reruns of Glee last night, and he even sang to me and told me he loved me inbetween the chorus and the verse. Don’t touch the jacket! It’s Harry’s and it’s Gucci. We exchange jackets sometimes. Isn’t that adorable?”

“Show off,” Y/N’s best friend scoffed while shaking her head.

Y/N didn’t say anything. In her mind, she agreed with her best friend for a second and immediately felt that she was being petty so she forced herself to just be nonchalant about it.

She could not. She could not ignore the fact that she’d been replaced as if she didn’t matter. Harry was doing all the things he used to do with her with his new girl. Even taken her to that Miami beach. Their place.

Y/N bit her lip and tried to hold back the half-formed tears in her eyes as the stylist went on talking about the fabric. She chose a random one just to get this over with.

“I hope that fucker gets deja vu.”

“What?” Y/N blinked at her best friend, who gave a mean shrug as she glared at the girl.

“He’s probably thinking of you while doing all that shit with her.”

Y/N pondered over it. Over and over. Even after the girlfriend’s laughter had faded down the hallway, and Y/N was also packing up to leave the studio. Her best friend’s words stayed with her as she got into the car and watched the street of London pass by her window.

That night, when she was alone in her living room with her piano. She sat down and started playing a few experimental chords. Then, she cried. Her tears blurred the handwritten lyrics on her notebook as she tried again.

“I have this idea,” she told her manager on the phone before sending the recording. It was three in the morning.

“Oh my god,” her manager exclaimed, sounding much more enthusiastic than he had when picking up her call. “This song...is so gonna win a Grammy!”

.

.

.

Y/N’s song had won a Grammy.

They had talked about it for so long. Harry had encouraged her to pursue a singing career, because she’d started out as an actress but was blessed with the most beautiful voice he had ever heard.

Ironic, wasn’t it? Now he was sitting at the front row and looking up at her as she received the award from an artist she looked up to, for the song written about him. She smiled at the crowd as the light shone on her and everyone was cheering because she deserved this. She said her thanks and expressed her gratitude to her family, her teams and her fans. She didn’t say his name. He hadn’t hoped that she would, because he knew there was no way his name would come with a positive message. So he was kind of glad she hadn’t mentioned him.

His girlfriend squeezed his arm as if she knew what he was thinking of. He smiled at his girlfriend. A smile of reassurance. They had put it behind them and promised to try again after all the fights about the song they were playing right now. Nothing would change after tonight. Because there was nothing Harry could change.

He caught Y/N’s eyes for one brief moment as she ascended the stage. Although he was sure he loved his girlfriend, there was something about that look that made him sad. Would he be happier to come here with Y/N tonight instead of his girlfriend? He wouldn’t know, because that would never happen. He didn’t even know if she still resented him, or if she was still the same person he remembered. A lot could change in a day let alone many months. And it was scary to think someone you used to know so much had become a complete stranger. The opposite of love wasn’t hate. It was indifference. And Harry felt it deeply as Y/N never paid him a second glance.

At the after-party, he worked up the courage to approach her when he found her standing alone texting on her phone.

“Hi. How are you?” he said.

Y/N looked at him as if she couldn’t understand English. If she ignored him and walked away, this would be the most humiliating moment of his life.

But no. She pressed her lips into a gentle smile and said, “I’m good. How are you?”

“Good.” He nodded, wanting to shake her hand, but his fingers stayed glued together behind his back. “Congratulations on your win.”

“Thank you.” She picked up the glass of wine on the table beside them, and Harry knew he’d lost his chance of shaking her hand tonight. “Did you like the song?”

“Yeah. It was good,” he said, finding it difficult to hold eye contact with her. There was something new about her that unsettled him, and he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For speaking out about it.”

“Oh.” Y/N showed no emotion as she shrugged. “It’s alright. I only said the truth. The song was fictional, and I don’t want anyone to get hate for it.”

They both knew it wasn’t true, and he couldn’t tell her that his girlfriend had almost broken up with him for it. Even if he had told her that, he didn’t think Y/N would care. She didn’t look like the Y/N he knew anymore. Suddenly, he recalled that night on the beach, when she was still looking at him with feelings.

“Look, Y/N, I—”

Before he got a chance to form a proper thought for what he was going to say, his girlfriend, who was obviously drunk, shouted from somewhere behind him. “Babe, Jeff’s wearing a tiny jacket! He looks more like the monkey than you!”

Harry looked at Y/N. She held his gaze. The corners of her red lips quirked as she raised her glass. “Deja vu?”

Just like that, she left him standing there all by himself.

[nev3rfound]

keeping an eye out : h.z

whilst Bucky and Sam are out in Riga looking for any information regarding the flag smashers, you are instructed to watch Zemo. and it's safe to say you definitely kept a close eye on him. (1.8k)

masterlist / permanent taglist / etsy shop - requests open!

requested: not really? i remember someone asked for some kind of zemo smut and this was my best attempt lmao with angst and fluff of course warnings: brief mentions of poorly written smut, mentions of tfatws series so if you've not seen it minor spoilers ahead (I think)

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website without being credited, it has not been approved to be shared by me. all rights reserved.)

Standing in the streets of Riga. Bucky could feel the civilians watching the two of them closely. "She answered yet?" Sam asks whilst Bucky continues to pace around in a circle with his phone to his ear, listening to it continuously ring waiting for you to answer.

"Does it look like she's answered, Sam?" Bucky quickly retorts, glaring over his shoulder causing Sam to huff loudly and take his phone out from his pocket.

"Let me try too." He mutters, dialling your number and listens for himself as it goes straight to voicemail.

"You get through, huh?" Bucky questions, hanging up as your voicemail message plays for the eighth time in a row.

Burying his phone back into his pocket, Sam looks around. "Got any bright ideas?"

Bucky shuffles on the spot. "It's not like she can be busy, she's babysitting Zemo." Bucky reminds Sam who nods along.

"Hardly a handful for her." Sam jokes as he and Bucky carry on through the streets of Riga, hoping to find some answers.

Yet, back at Zemo's apartment, you were technically keeping an eye on Zemo since he was currently above you in his bed.

"Fuck, Zemo, don't stop." You pant heavily against his ear, faintly hearing your phone ringing from the bedside table.

Zemo reaches down and grips your face. "Focus on me, liebling, nothing else." He breathes out, keeping his eyes fixated on yours. "Is that clear, princess?"

Nodding in response, you can feel the coil inside of you tightening as a moan escapes your lips. "Helmut, I," You stutter, only to feel Zemo pick up his pace, slamming his dick in and out of you faster.

"Hold it, just think what would happen if James and Sam walked in, seeing you begging to cum beneath me." Zemo chuckles, feeling your nails claw at his back, begging for your release.

"Helmut, please," You try not to cry, but you can't hold on for much longer as he continues to thrust into you.

"Cum for me, Y/n." Zemo demands. "You can let go, princess." He softly tells you, watching you become undone beneath him, causing a smile to grow on his face as sweat gleams across your forehead.

Slowly pulling out from you, Zemo moans as he pulls off the condom and heads to the bathroom.

When he returns, he can feel his heartbeat accelerating at the sight of you lying in his bed, the sheets around you creased, your legs still parted and your eyes remaining closed.

"Y/n?" Zemo speaks up, watching you slowly opening your eyes only to see him holding a towel for you. "How about a bath, liebling?"

Smiling, you shuffle off of the bed with Zemo's help, his hand remaining in yours as you walk into the lavish bathroom, the tub close to full already.

"You better not try and escape whilst I'm relaxing, Baron." You quickly comment, looking over your shoulder, watching Zemo leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

"On the contrary," Pushing himself off from the door frame, Zemo reaches out and brushes his fingers along your shoulders, feeling you shudder in response. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you." He whispers into your ear.

You quickly turn around, looking up at those brown eyes intently. "Helmut," You start, but Zemo shushes you before you can object.

"I mean it, Y/n." Zemo tells you, lifting his hand up to cup your cheek softly. "Now, come, the bath might overflow if you don't get in." He chuckles and brushes past you to turn the tap off.

"Thank you, Helmut." You mutter as you climb into the warm water, letting out a sigh of contentment whilst you lower yourself and close your eyes.

"How is it, mi schatz?" Zemo knows it's the perfect temperature, noticing how you're fully relaxed, a rare occurrence since he's known you.

Humming in response, you open one eye, noticing he's still stood there in a robe. "Why don't you join me? There's room for two I'm sure." You tease, bringing your legs close to your chest.

"Are you sure?" You can tell he's hesitant, but once you nod he removes his robe and motions for you to move forward, allowing him to slot in behind you.

The water spills over the edge at the sudden movement, but you lie back against Zemo's chest, your wet hair brushed over your shoulder as his hands settle on your thighs.

"Can you tell me a story?" You speak up after a moment of silence settled between you both.

Smiling down at you, Zemo nods. "What would you like to hear?"

"I, I'd like to know more about Sokovia. I know I wasn't there when," You trail off, knowing you don't have to explain yourself. "but, it was your home, part of who you are Helmut and I'd like, no I, I'd love to know about it."

You can feel your heart begin to hammer in your chest at Zemo's prolonged silence behind you. Yet, you can't bring yourself to glance up to see what he's thinking.

However, Zemo is trying to remain composed. "Of course," He eventually answers, hearing the breath of relief escape your lips. "well, when I was a child, my father had a farm which we used to visit on weekends,"

*

Pulling the soft robe tightly around you, you couldn't help but struggle to keep your eyes open as you wandered around the kitchen.

"Tired?" Zemo can hear you yawn before you're able to reply, listening to you laugh at yourself whilst he leans against the kitchen counter. "Why don't you lie down, you know I'm not going anywhere." He reassures you, seeing your limbs growing heavy as you shuffle around the counter to stand in front of him.

"I'll be fine, the boys won't be much longer." You mumble through another yawn, feeling your body craving sleep after that relaxing bath. "I blame you, Helmut." Pointing to him, you try your best to glare at him, but the sound of Zemo laughing makes it impossible.

Motioning to the sofa, Zemo rests his hand on your lower back in an attempt to guide you to the said sofa before you fall over. "Now, I'll be right back, I promise." He mutters as you pull on a cushion, burying it beneath your head. Leaning down, Zemo gently brushes your damp hair out from your face, taking a moment to admire how truly beautiful you are and kisses your forehead delicately.

"You are joining me, right?" You mumble through thick sleep, not even able to open your eyes to see Zemo nod as his heart melts.

"Of course, liebling. But I must change first." He assures you before retreating upstairs, knowing there's a fair bit of mess to clean up.

Whilst occupied in the bathroom and you in a deep sleep, neither of you hear the doors opening in a panic.

"Oh thank god." Sam sighs in relief to see you curled up on the sofa, not taking into account the robe you're wearing.

"Where's Zemo?" Bucky tenses up as he scours his peripheral where Zemo is nowhere to be seen. "Check on Y/n. Make sure she's not been given anything."

Rushing toward you, Sam pauses at the sound of footsteps approaching the main living space of the apartment.

"Ah, I was wondering where you two might've been." Zemo walks in, wearing a matching robe to yours as his hair is slicked back. "Did you have a pleasant adventure?" He smiles at the pair who only glare back in response.

"What did you do to Y/n." Bucky snarls, encroaching on Zemo's personal space.

"Nothing." Zemo answers, holding his hands up. "She could barely keep her eyes open so I insisted she took a nap." He explains, glancing over to your sleeping form, remembering how mere hours ago you were screaming his name.

"I doubt that." Sam comments, kneeling down in front of you as he shakes you lightly. "Y/n, come on." He mutters, causing you to stir.

"Helmut?" You whisper, unaware of Sam snapping his head around to Bucky and Zemo.

"Did she just?" Bucky doesn't even finish his question before Sam nods. Averting his focus back to Zemo, Bucky can't stop his frustration from rising. "What did you do to Y/n." He asks once again now clenching his fists tightly.

Opening your eyes, you rub them quickly at the sound of commotion. "What's going on?" Sitting upright, you blink a few times to see both Sam and Bucky standing by Zemo with heavy frowns. "Hey guys." You wave, covering your mouth as you yawn again.

"How long has this been going on?" Bucky demands, evidently disappointed as he looks over at you.

"James, please calm-" Zemo starts, but Bucky grabs the empty whiskey glass beside him and throws it against the wall, causing you to jump whilst Zemo remains stoic.

"How long." He asks again, not daring to take his eyes off of Zemo.

"Since Madripoor." You speak up, keeping your eyes trained on the ground as you tug on your robe. "Bucky,"

"I don't wanna hear it." Bucky cuts you off. "We can talk about this tomorrow." He sighs and heads back out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

"I'll go talk to him." Sam comments. "I, I don't agree with whatever this is, but I trust you Y/n, and Bucky does too." He nods to you before following after Bucky, leaving you and Zemo alone once more.

"Y/n," Zemo starts, but you can't help but crumble.

Tears start to fall from your eyes without hesitation as you curl up on the ground. Zemo sits beside you, wrapping his arms around you and turns you into his chest. "It's going to be alright, liebling." He hushes you, running his fingers through your hair.

"What if they won't forgive me, Helmut?" You hate to imagine what could happen, but you knew your actions would have eventual consequences.

"Oh, Y/n," Zemo sighs, wiping away your tears. "I know they'll come around. They're your friends after all." He admits, not adding the fact he might not be around for much longer. "Come, let's go to bed, yes?" He suggests and helps you to your feet.

Walking together in silence, you enter his bedroom again only to see the bed made with fresh sheets.

"Did you?" You look up at him to see a light blush crossing his cheeks. "You knew I'd end up back in your bed, huh?" You joke playfully, listening to Zemo chuckle whilst he shakes his head.

"I didn't know, but I'd hoped it would be the case." He shrugs his shoulder before pulling the sheets back and climbs in alongside you. "Now, whatever the morning brings, we'll face it together." He whispers into your lips before kissing you softly, never wanting to forget any of these moments with you.

Pulling away, you sigh. "You promise?" You whisper, just about making out his expression in the moonlight.

"I promise." He smiles at you once more before you bury your face into his chest, falling asleep within minutes whilst he remains wide awake. Zemo knows there are watchful eyes never leaving him and won't until he's back where he belongs, without you by his side.

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[heliads]

Rainstorm

Y/N and Newt have been best friends ever since she arrived in the Glade. However, she might find that her feelings over the blond boy have changed, especially after the events of a rainy day.

masterlist

There’s a great clamoring around you, the tearing and shrieking of metal. You feel like your head is being pounded by an anvil, and you clap your hands to your skull, desperate to stop the pain. You realize you’re moving, the floor beneath you swaying as it is dragged up by some unseen chain. There are boxes around you, crates of something that you can’t see in the dark. The worst part isn’t the echoing din, or the insufferable darkness lit by sporadic bursts of fluorescents. The worst part is that you have no idea how you got here.

After a couple of seconds, you force yourself to stand up straight and look around. There are boxes littering the ground, yes, but you’re in a larger box yourself. Is that what this lurching, moving metal room is? There are four walls and a ceiling that seems to press in on you with every waking second. Just as you come to this conclusion, the room stops moving with a sudden jolt that sends you to the ground. Panic crests over you and you throw yourself to the edge of the room, hiding behind the stacks of boxes just as the ceiling is lifted away.

Bright, overwhelming sunlight flows into the room like a wave. You squint, careful not to make a sound even as your eyes water from the sudden light. You can see the dim silhouettes of a group of people standing over the room, looking in on you. They must not see you, because you can hear dim snatches of conversation being tossed back and forth in the space above you. “Shouldn’t there be a greenie? Where’s the new kid?” You have no idea what a greenie is, but you do have a sickening feeling that they’re expecting someone, someone who will turn out to be you.

After another moment of indecision, a boy jumps down into the room, causing the floor to shake slightly from the impact. He peers between the crates. Your breath comes harsh in your chest as you realize he must be looking for you. Your hand closes around something in an open box, and as you pull it out slowly, you realize your fingers are clenched around the grip of a knife. It’s not much, but at least you have a weapon.

The boy calls out to you now. “Hey, we know you’re there. There’s always someone in the Box. You can come out now, we’re not going to hurt you.” He takes a couple of steps closer, and you realize there’s no getting out of this. Might as well use the advantage of surprise while it’s still in your court. You stand up suddenly, stepping away from the shelter of the boxes. You point your knife towards the boy’s throat. For a second, the two of you stand there- you with your blade, him with a look of surprise coating his eyes.

Now that you’re both standing in the sunlight, you can see more of him. This boy has light dirty blond hair and warm brown eyes. His hands rise by his sides the second he sees your knife. “Hey, there’s no need for that. We’re not trying to hurt you.” Then his brow furrows and he takes a step forward, surprise overwhelming his previous hesitation. “Wait. You’re a girl.” You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be a girl?” The boy glances up at the silhouettes of the others still standing over the box. “Back off, guys. She’ll be fine.”

He looks back at you. “Let’s start this over. My name is Newt. You’re in the Glade now, with a few other shanks. I’m just surprised because they’ve never sent a girl up before, that’s it. Now, can you please put down the knife? What would you do with it, anyway?” You keep the blade up, feeling slightly defensive. “I could use it.” Newt lowers his hands, humor outweighing any sense of self-preservation. “For what?” You gesture with the blade. “To, I don’t know, stab someone. It’s a knife, what else would I do?”

Newt grins. “Maybe not stab me? We’re going to be here for a while, I’d appreciate it if you didn't kill me immediately.” You lower the blade at last, reaching over to put it back in a nearby box. “I’ll consider it.” Newt offers you a hand to help you out of the Box. “Can I help you up? You can trust me, you know.” You consider him for a second, taking in everything you know about the boy. He looks at you encouragingly, smiling with all the peaceful freedom of a dove, and you relent. After a second, you stand blinking in the sunlight, turning in a slow circle to stare at the massive walls surrounding you. “What is that?” Newt comes to stand beside you. “That’s the Maze. Keeps us all stuck in here. Once a month, the Box sends up some new sap. This time it’s you.”

You glance around you at the other boys pretending to do their work. “There’s not that many people here. How long has this been going on?” Newt shrugs. “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe six months or so? Alby’s been here longest, he’ll have a better answer. Alby’s in charge here, by the way. I’m second in command.” You nod. “And you really don’t have any other girls here? That’s awful.” Newt laughs. “Don’t worry about it. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine around here.”

Newt, as it turns out, is right. You talk and laugh with the other Gladers like you’ve known them your entire life. Conversation flows freely that first day, and after a few hours, you already remember your name, taking joy in turning it over in your head like a smooth stone from the river. You make fast friends with Minho, the runner, after he hears the story of how you nearly stabbed Newt back in the Box. Alby talks Glade politics with you, Gally seems to tolerate you far more than the others. However, your closest friendship will always be with Newt.

Maybe it’s because he was the first friendly face you saw, the reason you ever agreed to enter into the Glade at all. Maybe it’s because Newt hands away his trust like a gift, free of charge. You couldn’t stray from him if you tried. You exchange quick chats and stupid jokes in between shifts, and you find that you look forward to every minute shared with the blond second-in-command.

One day, Newt and his track-hoes are forced to give up their gardening to retreat underneath haphazard awnings from an encroaching rainstorm. Even the builders have hurried away, trading in their bricks and wooden slats for the dry cover of the few buildings in the Glade. You lean against a tree conveniently growing underneath a cloth shelter, eyes alight as you watch the rain pour down over the Glade. A faint smile plays on your lips. Newt walks up beside you, an eyebrow raised as he takes in your peaceful expression.

“You know, I’ve never seen someone look this happy over a bloody thunderstorm. We’re all forced indoors and we can’t do anything, and you look like someone’s just won you a million pounds.” You turn to face him, grinning. “I just think it’s nice. You’re the track-hoe, I thought you’d be happier about it. If it doesn’t rain, all your plants die. Honestly, we should both be celebrating.” Newt shakes his head in horror. “You’re ridiculous. I mean, look at Gally. He seems like he’s going to kill somebody just because of a few clouds.”

You reach out a hand, feeling the burst of the fat raindrops against your palm. “You want me to be like Gally and hate everything in the world? Not a chance.” Newt watches you, an amused expression entertaining itself on his lips. “I’m not asking for that, I’m asking you to stop looking so excited about a rainstorm. You’re making the rest of us look like miserable downers.” You grin at him. “Maybe you are. Have you considered that?”

You crane your head out from the awning, gazing up as the drops rain down upon you. “I’m going out there. Come with me.” Newt scoffs. “And be soaking for the rest of the day? Not a chance.” You look at him, a mock pout tainting your eyes with incredible sorrow. “It’ll be fun. Not everyone has to be a miserable downer, you know.” You reach out to grab his hand and pull him into the rain, but Newt dodges your grasp. Instead, your hand darts down to his pocket, and you steal his prized pocketknife, holding it up teasingly before him. Newt lunges for it, but you run out into the rain-drenched clearing, forcing you to run after him.

Newt’s carried this one knife around with him for what feels like forever. He uses it for everything- gardening, threatening greenies, lending it to Chuck for the boy’s latest carving project. It won’t rust in the rain, but it will be important enough to him so that he’ll follow you out into the storm, away from his shelter. You sprint through the clearing, Newt chasing after you. You can hear him shouting. “You’re a terrible friend, Y/N, you know that?” You risk a glance backwards, feeling a laugh bursting on your tongue when you realize he’s only a few feet away from you. “That’s just mean!”

Eventually, he catches up to you, reaching out an arm to stop you in your tracks. You come to an abrupt stop, still doing your best to hold the knife away from him. Newt laughs to see your last-ditch efforts. “You’re insane, you know that? Absolutely insane.” You beam at him, feeling the rain pour down over you. “Maybe so.” Newt lunges for the knife and the sudden shift in balance makes you slip on the soaking wet grass. Newt leans over, catching you, and for a second you feel like you’re frozen in that moment, his arms around your waist and the rain pounding around you.

Then he’s straightening up, knife held triumphantly in his palm. “Told you I’d get it back.” You grin at him. “That wasn’t the point. We’re both out here now.” Newt looks up, as if finally realizing that you’ve goaded him into leaving the tent. He tosses a playful glare your way. “I thought we were friends.” You laugh. “We are. That’s why we’re having such a good time.” You tilt your head up towards the sky, taking in the crisp, clear freshness of the rain. Newt groans, but you can see the smile he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide. “Maybe it isn’t that bad. Not all of it.”

When you look back, you see his smile, the rain pressing his hair against his face. You can feel your own breath coming sharply in your chest after the running, the cool of the rain against the heat in your cheeks. You’ve never felt this way around him, and you can’t figure out what it means until that night, when you lie awake for hours, mind still turning around the storm from earlier. The truth comes to you after a while, letting itself in without so much as a knock. You love Newt, no matter how much you’d like to hide it. 

The only problem is that Newt would never feel the same way about you. He constantly refers to you as his friend, even his best friend, and that’s all you’ll ever be. The fault lies solely with you, for falling in love with such a sunbeam of a boy and expecting that he’d look back at a matchstick of a girl, someone who’d light up only to die out seconds later. The only thing you can do is try to get over your little crush, hoping you can snuff it out like a candle.

This proves to be more difficult than you’d thought. Your first attempt is to just forget the whole thing ever happened. This plan runs into the ground as soon as you look at him the next morning, and feel all of your heart’s pounding rush over you. Your only idea after that is to edge slightly away from him. Maybe the distance will keep your mind from turning to him, from falling in love so easily. You still sit with him at mealtimes with all your other friends, but you don’t run to him at every break. Honestly, this is for the best. He probably thought you were too clingy anyway, this is just making things even better.

Yet it still hurts when you feel his absence, like a phantom limb that should have always stayed by your side. Maybe you’re just kidding yourself, but you could swear that Newt looks for you when you’re not there, like there’s a one in a million chance that he just might feel the same way. After about a week of this, you’re sitting in a quiet, empty part of the Glade on a rest break when Newt approaches you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits down right next to you. From the second you saw him, you noticed the crease in his brow, the look of unhappiness that seemed to permeate his every movement. Whatever he’s about to say, it won’t be good.

Newt fixes you with a quiet stare. “Why are you avoiding me?” The question, so blunt and straight-forward, demands an answer. You’re not sure that you want to provide one, so you try to steer away from his interrogation. “What are you talking about? We sit at the same tables at meals. We talk all the time, actually. We’re talking right now.” It’s a nothing answer, and Newt knows it. “We’re talking now because I came up to you. We used to spend a lot more time together, and then you decided that I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s not what I thought at all! I-” You break off, wishing you could hold your tongue for once in your life. You almost gave it all away. Newt sees this sudden silence and presses it. “You what? I was closer to you than I was to anyone else in the Glade, and now I barely see you a couple of times per day. There’s always a reason, Y/N, and I would like to know why.” You sigh, but keep your mouth shut. Maybe he’ll hate you right now, but it will be better than the disappointment and even disgust when he finds out that someone he sees as a sister has fallen in love with him.

Newt’s voice is quiet. “I guess this was a mistake. You what, regretted all of this? You’re trying to pretend that we were never friends?” Your eyes flash. “I never regretted a thing. I loved you, and it was a stupid mistake that I’m trying to fix. Is that what you wanted to hear?” There’s silence for one heartbeat, two. You look away, furious with yourself. Then there’s a hand on your cheek, guiding your face back to his. Newt’s lips are on yours now, and you stifle a gasp of surprise.

At last, he breaks away, a smile dancing across his face. “You could have said that a lot earlier, you know.” You stare at him. “You liked me? You actually-” Newt chuckles softly. “Have for a while. I was trying to tell you, but you made it so bloody difficult sometimes.” You feel like you can’t think straight. “I can’t believe I never figured that out.” Newt’s smile is intoxicating. “I’m glad you know now. Makes it a lot easier to do this.” When he kisses you again, it’s even more breathtaking than the first.

[blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms]

Prom- Eddie Munson (4)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Characters: Eddie Munson

Warnings: N/A

Request: N/A

Word Count: 479

Author: Charlotte

Eddie drove you both straight to your local drive through and ordered your normal food orders. He paid and handed you the bag of food before driving out to the secluded spot that the two of you often went to, overlooking the late to avoid the rest of Hawkins. You both hopped out of the van and walked around to the open back doors of the van to perch on the edge, giving you the nice view of the lake and also have access to the music playing from the cars radio.

“Your burger, Lady Y/N,” Eddie smiled handing you your dinner.

You thank him, unwrapped the paper that surrounded the burger and taking a bite from it.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked, looking out to the lake.

“Shoot,” you said through the mouthful of food.

He turned back to you. “Why’d you want to go to prom if you just wanted to leave? Like I don’t mind, but you must have spent a small fortune on that dress for a dance you didn’t even really want to be at.”

You let out a sigh, lowering the burger. Normally you didn’t hesitate to tell him the truth, but it felt stupid and far too close to the truth of how you felt about him.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I guess I just dreamed of some perfect night dancing with a guy I liked and treated me like a princess. I just forgot that being in a room full of people I don’t like didn’t exactly make that an easy thing to enjoy. I wanted to feel beautiful and special for once.”

He furrowed his brows. “You are beautiful and special.”

Once again, your face started to become warm. “I don’t mean in the way you have to think it. You’re my best friend, you have to say nice things to me. I just wanted to be someone’s princess.”

To hide your frustration, you took a sizeable bite of your burger, feeling the sauce and fillings slip from between the buns, smearing onto your lips and chin.

A small smile curled onto Eddie’s lips. “You’ve always been my princess, even if you’re a messy one.”

He reached out his hand, gently cupping your cheek so that he could run his thumb over your lower lip and chin to remove the sauce but to send a warm fuzzy feeling into your chest.

“Even with ketchup on your face, you’re the most beautiful woman to me.”

It felt as though your heart was about to pound out of your chest.

“This isn’t a joke, right?” You whispered.

Eddie grinned at you. “Do you think I’d put on this stupid suit if I didn’t like you?”

It was a good point.

“I’ve been in love with you since day one,” he admitted. “And I may not have wanted to go to prom, but I greatly preferred going with you rather than seeing you going with anyone else. I couldn’t handle the thought of someone else touching you or kissing you.”

You warmly smiled at the guy you had been madly in love with for so many years, feeling like this moment was a dream, after how many times it had been. You put your burger back into the paper, leaving it on the floor of the van as you stood up outside of the vehicle, holding out a hand to him.

“Will you dance with me, Eddie?” You smiled.

“It would be my honour.”

[winchest09]

Miscommunication - Chapter Seven

Pairing: Dean Winchester x British!Reader

Word Count: 2757

Summary: After moving to America, British hunter Y/N never expected her life to unfold the way it has. She never anticipated finding two brothers, who would quickly become her found family and she certainly never envisioned falling in love with one of them. Following her attempt to shield her heart, she failed to protect her body, leading her straight back to the Winchesters. So when the language barrier deepens her connection with a certain green eyed hunter, will she succumb to her deepest feelings or keep them at bay?

Rating: 18+

Warnings:  Pining, mutual pining, mentions of suicide, description of death, mentions of murder, mentions of domestic violence, detailed description of a wound.

A/N:  Thanks so much for reading this guys, your comments really make my day and I adore them. Hope you enjoy number 7!  Massive thank you to my darling betas on this. @deanwanddamons​​​ & @cockslut-padalecki​​​, I’d be lost without you both!  Your encouragement gets me through daily! I love youssss! __________________________

Get five weeks ahead on Patreon! __________________________ Miscommunication Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Let me know your thoughts!

Entering their hotel room, Y/N held the door open wide for Dean to pass through with the box of findings in his hands. Once he had, she allowed the barrier to close on it’s own, only giving it a nudge to ensure the lock had caught. There was still an uneasy bubble surfacing in her stomach in regards to this case, and the hunter’s previous statement about it being too easy kept wandering around her mind. There was more to this, and she just knew that there was a clue or a piece of this jumbled up puzzle that they were missing.

“Sammy?” Dean’s deep voice reverberated off the walls as he called out for his little brother, noticing that he wasn’t in the main area of the room. When he was met with no reply, the older Winchester looked towards the huntress with a quizzical expression.

“He must still be with Steven,” she stated with a slight shrug of her shoulders, toeing off her footwear before she made her way to one of the double beds, sitting herself down on the edge just as the box was placed to the side of her.

“Didn’t think it would take this long,” the older sibling muttered, one hand coming to scratch the back of his neck and Y/N couldn’t help but let her eyes wander to the now flexed bicep due to his arm curling.

“H-he might have actually got him talking,” she stammered unexpectedly, trying to cover her obvious stumble with a slight cough. It didn’t seem like it had been noticed however, and for that she was thankful.

“Or he’s been keeping him waiting,” Dean fired back with an annoyed sigh as he mirrored Y/N’s position on the bed, sitting on the other side of the box, his attention on the objects that were inside.

“For what possible reason?” Of course, there were plenty of reasons but she had hoped that her earlier discussion with the owner hadn’t been obvious enough to get him to be suspicious of anything.

“Look into us a little more? Try to find out if we have any ghosts in our closet,” he stated simply, taking out albums of photos before he started to slowly thumb through them.

“Well if he searches long enough, he’ll find more than a wayward spirit or two,” she joked, a small chuckle leaving her as she reached for the one item that had piqued her interest since they had found Hilary’s possessions. Her journal.

“Orrr,” Dean started, a smirk pulling at his lips as he looked over towards her, “he could be choking his chicken while thinking of you. Poor Sam if he has to walk in on that.”

“Poor Sam? The poor animal!” Y/N automatically exclaimed, slapping the book in her hand to one side as she reached for her phone, completely missing the older brother’s amused expression. “That is cruelty and I am reporting him right now. I didn’t realise he kept livestock at this place but I will not stand by and let an innocent chic--”

“--what?” He interrupted, rushing to place one of his large palms over the screen of her cell, effectively stopping her from making a call, all as he tried not to laugh. “No, sweetheart… I mean choking his chicken.” The words left his lips a little slower this time, his hand now formed into a loose fist as he motioned it up and down but the huntress was completely oblivious. “Charming the cobra? Making the bald man cry?” He continued but he was getting nothing. It caused Dean to stop his hand gesture and instead, pinch the bridge of his nose. “Getting off, Y/N. Masturbating.”

“Ohhhh,” she replied in realisation before she crinkled up her nose in disgust at the thought. “Ew, Dean.”

“I’m just saying,” he laughed as she threw her phone down by her side, once again picking up the journal as she shook her head.

“Well don’t,” Y/N pushed back, a little chuckle edged around her words, “you know my feelings on that guy.”

“And you know I’ve got your back,” Dean replied, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She didn’t reply, instead she just offered him half a smile and a small nod, swallowing deeply. It was then that he slid his fingers under her chin to get her to look at him. “Hey, as long as I’m around, no-one is going to lay a finger on you without permission, okay?”

Y/N felt his thumb brush back and forth softly over her skin, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes briefly at the contact. He always had a way of soothing her, of calming whatever uncertain storm would rage within her soul. He provided her with a stillness that captivated her, and when she finally gained the courage to look at him, she became hypnotised by the forest green orbs that were staring back at her. She noted how his mouth was parted slightly, and how his freckled skin looked a little flushed. Somehow, a moment that was intended to be lighthearted and funny, had evolved into something a little more serious and her heart could only pound in her chest.

It took the sound of a loud bang outside of the hotel room to snap them out of whatever reverie they were in, and instantly Dean withdrew his hand to place it back on the box. Y/N could only clear her throat before rolling her lips together, gesturing towards their findings that were still resting between them.

“Okay, so let’s look through this stuff,” she suggested, her fingers tapping against the leather cover of the book in her lap. “I’m going to start with this, her journal.”

“And I'll go through the rest of the crap,” he sighed, already rummaging through the boxes of jewelry and the rest of the items they were yet to identify.

“Don’t sound too excited,” she teased, pushing herself further back up the mattress so her elbow was resting on her pillow, helping to prop her up in a comfortable position before she started to read.

“Oh I'm thrilled,” Dean responded, pretending to be excited all the while looking at her with a serious expression. She couldn’t help the small laugh that left her as she shook her head, her eyes falling to the first entry of Hilary’s diary.

Gently, she reached out to the delicate pages, careful as to not damage them beyond what they already have been. This journal was one that was well used, the pages filled with memories and stories about the life she led. For one, Y/N was fascinated at first to see what a confident, intelligent woman their ghost seemed to be, or have been. There was a love behind her words, a fondness that you could feel when you read the tales of her time with her family and dear friends. There was something special about seeing things still handwritten in these times, when everything is digital. It gave the huntress a real feel for Hilary’s character and personality.

Thirty minutes into their research, and as the huntress turned over the page she was reading, she took a chance to glance over at Dean as she did so. He was going through all the photos he had found, separating them into categories to refer back to later and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about the moment they had shared not too long ago. Should it be something that they talk about? Was it meant as a friendly gesture from his point of view?

Letting out a small breath, she forced herself to go back to the pages beneath her, trying to lose herself in Hilary’s words but knowing that the older Winchester was distracted caused her to risk one last glimpse. As she did, she locked eyes with Dean who was gazing in her direction from his placement on the bed. He sent her a beaming smile in return and she had to tighten her toes to prevent herself from letting out an audible sound.

“How’s the diary diving going?” He suddenly announced, coming further up the mattress so he was now basically opposite her, mirroring her posture. “Do we know her first boyfriend or who she was secretly crushing on?”

“Funny,” she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes at his playful tone and boyish expression. “Just, day to day things so far. Seems her and Steven were trying for a baby.”

“Really?” He asked, seeming quite shocked at that revelation and Y/N could only nod her head slowly, removing her one hand from her hair as she sat up straighter, bringing the journal with her.

“Yeah, but this entry here is two months later and her point of view is completely different,” she informed him, her forefinger tracing the flowing ink of Hilary’s words.

“How so?” Dean sat up to rest his back against the headboard, his eyebrows knitting as he waited for his partner to explain, the expression deepening when he noticed how she took a deep breath and began to shake her head slightly.

“Because he had started to hit her.”

It was like a heavy blanket had been placed over her heart and the cogs in her mind just started to turn. She knew something was off about this case, her gut telling her all along that this was too easy, that this just wasn’t your average black and white case, that there was more here that met the eye. And she had been right.

“What?” His word left him on a breath and Y/N could only nod her head as she tried to swallow down the sadness that was creeping into her being.

“Here, look.” She pointed to the page, scooting closer to him on the bed so he could read the words while she spoke them aloud. “March 22nd. Today marks the sixth month since we said we should start a family. He hasn’t touched me in over a month, not like that anyway, he’s laid his hands on me in other ways. He said he was sorry, that he was just frustrated but I saw the anger in his eyes. I know he meant it, and I probably deserved it.”

“Holy--” Dean started, but Y/N didn’t wait for him to finish before she fastly turned the page and continued to read.

“--April 19th. I had to lie to a guest today when they saw the cut on my eyebrow and the bruises that surrounded it. Said I’d had an accident while renovating one of the rooms. I don’t think they believed me, their facial expressions said it all when they saw Steven leave the back room with Taylor. I know he’s screwing her. So much for my happy ending.”

Y/N had to swallow down the lump that was forming in her throat, her mind clearly picturing the infliction the poor woman had suffered at the hands of this thug. It didn’t seem fair that Steven was alive and well, flirting with women and still appeared happy in his home when Hilary’s life had not been her own for so long.

“Why didn’t she walk away?” Dean asked softly, leaning ever closer to the huntress next to him as he watched her turn the page.

“It’s not always that easy.” And that was the truth. She had never been a personal victim of it but she had known someone who had been, and she had seen first hand the manipulation the abusers use. “N-next entry after that is April 30th.”

Her stammer threw Dean off and it forced him to look at her, something she noticed through her peripheral vision. “You okay?”

“There’s blood on this page,” she clarified, clearing her throat before turning the journal so Dean could see. The thought of Hilary writing this in agony, while she had fresh injuries was gut wrenching. Still, they needed to know this entry, so she took a deep inhale to compose herself.

“It hurts. Everything hurts and it’s painful to breathe. I forgot the blueberries for his pancakes this morning, I’m so stupid. Steven was angry due to not having the breakfast he wanted, so took the pan I was meant to be using and hit me with it. Over and over again. My face, my ribs, my stomach. I’m not good enough for him, he’s made that perfectly clear. I deserve what he does to me, I understand that his punishment is because I need to do better, I need to be better but I don’t know how. He’s still sleeping with other women, telling me that I could learn a thing or two from them. I fear I won’t be able to, and that will be the end of it all.”

There was a morbid stillness that overcame the pair of hunters, an uneasy peace enveloping the room as they processed what they had just read. Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes off the words, her finger sliding under the paper to turn the next page but she had to bite down on her lip when she saw that Hilary had written no more.

“What a piece of--”

“--she was murdered,” she interrupted, her voice stern and face stoic as she placed the journal on the sheets in front of her in anger. “Dean, this wasn’t a suicide. Her life was taken from her by the cowardly piece of shit that runs this place. That was her last entry.”

“So the autopsy was wrong?” The older Winchester thought aloud, asking the question.

Y/N could only shake her head, frantic as she quickly made her way over to Sam’s laptop that was still neatly resting on the small desk. She impatiently bounced her leg as she waited for the screen to load, her fingers pouncing on the trackpad and keyboard as soon as the device booted up. Thankfully, she knew how the younger sibling liked to organise his virtual workspace and she quickly found the folder with all the information about this case. She double clicked on the j-peg file that was titled ‘Crime Scene. H.R May 001’ and picked up the computer to bring it back to the bed as it loaded. Immediately, the screen was filled with the gruesome photos of Hilary’s death and as she settled back down on the mattress next to the green eyed Winchester, she couldn’t help but zoom in on the scene, not wanting to miss a single detail. Her neck had been cut, nearly from ear to ear before being left to bleed out next to the water. One leg was twisted up behind her body, her head angled to the side almost as if she was watching someone walk away as she gasped for her last breath. This wasn’t a suicide.

“Look at them, Dean,” Y/N instructed, placing the laptop on his thighs as she pointed to all the details that she had just noticed. “These pictures, compared with her journal entries and domestic violence? I’m not saying that it doesn’t happen but to take your own life that way on a riverbank, to be looking back towards the hotel all while still holding the blade? Doesn’t it all seem a bit staged to you?”

He took a deep breath as he analysed all of the pictures, rubbing one hand across the small bit of scruff that adorned his cheeks and chin. “I mean...maybe?”

“I don’t know why I didn’t see before,” Y/N whispered to herself, realisation of the real reason behind her previous encounter with the ghost hitting her like a freight train. “Hilary wasn’t warning me to stay away because she loved Steven, she was warning me to stay away to stop me from getting hurt.”

“Well if that’s true, why impale the love birds of room 308 into the wall?” He asked, his eyebrows in his hairline as his focus was completely and utterly on the huntress next to him. Y/N just moved off the bed so she could stand, her hands resting on her hips as she paced slightly from side to side.

“Dean, she’s pissed, she’s tormented from being tortured, mentally and physically for all that time,” she surmised before she suddenly stopped in her path and turned back to her partner who was watching her every move. “She’s out for revenge, and nothing or no one is going to stand in her way.”

——————————————– Chapter Eight  ——————————————– A/N: I hope you truly enjoyed Chapter Seven! Ohhhhh the truth is coming out! More chapters are available on patreon right now! Thanks so much for reading! Tag list is open! If you want to be tagged, then let me know HERE :)

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