#Apart from the OBVIOUS joke it's just...right up my alley

[dorenarox]

Oh. MY GOD. LOOK AT IT!!!

[corrodedbisexual]

Insp. by @pizzaqueen's post about Steddie making each other laugh 🥹

Steve and Eddie hadn't laughed half as much in their entire lives apart as after they got together. They have the dumbest, dorkiest inside jokes they get hysterical about while everyone else just stares at them in complete bewilderment. (Including Robin, sorry babe, you get to have your own inside jokes with your soulmate, but seriously you're too intelligent for the shit Steve laughs about with Eddie).

They'd just be having a normal conversation with the rest of the gang and someone says "popcorn" in a sentence and Eddie and Steve just look at each other and start chuckling. Because Eddie misspelled popcorn as poopcorn on their shopping list that one time and they spent half an hour howling with laughter about it, until they both got hiccups and could barely breathe.

Then there's the obvious sex innuendo jokes. Eddie cannot act normal within 10 feet of any remotely phallic shaped object. They'd be at a grocery store, and he'd pick up a cucumber or an eggplant, glance around to make sure noone's paying them any attention, then meet Steve's eyes, waggling his eyebrows with the most mock seductive expression he could muster, and they both start giggling. Even minutes later, at the checkout line, all it takes is for them to glance at each other and they're back at it again, and Steve's glad he can blame his bright red cheeks on the laughter.

But also there's the more childish, like, Budweiser wassup commercial kind of dumb humor. Like they'd just fixate on a word and start repeating it at each other until it sounds absolutely ridiculous.

~~~

One day they're at a diner, and the waitress brings their order, "here are your burgers boys, enjoy"; Steve stares at his plate for a moment, a chuckle halfway in his throat, and says "burger". He meets Eddie's eyes, which are already sparkling with mischief as he repeats, drawling out the word, "burrr-gerrr". Eddie's face slowly splits into a grin as he parrots it back, voice dropping an octave into his dramatic dungeon master tone, and Steve's already shaking with muffled giggles, playfully kicking Eddie's foot under the table.

It goes on for about a minute, both of them doubled over the table and laughing hysterically by the time Eddie's just repeating "burrrr" and Steve countering, almost roaring, with "gurrrr". Their extremely annoyed looking waitress finally asks them to go outside and take a breather until they can be normal again and not disturb the other customers. Robin and Nancy, returning from the bathroom and witnessing all that, just quietly slide into another booth, pretending they don't know these two clowns.

Some minutes later, when they're sharing a cigarette in the empty alley behind the diner, leaning against the wall, Eddie drops his forehead to Steve's shoulder, wiping his teary eyes at his boyfriend's jacket. "Shit. I love you, dude." Steve smiles at him. "Love you more. Dude." - "Steve, don't you dare." - "DuUuUude." - "I'm serious, I can't, my abs are killing me!" But Steve opens his mouth again, and Eddie has to press his palm against it to shut him up, and of course Steve licks at it, tracing the shape of a heart onto the palm with his tongue, grins at Eddie when he removes his hand. Doesn't even bother wiping the spit off of it as he sticks it back in his pocket. He's so unbelievably gone for this guy who somehow, miraculously, matches his level of crazy.

~~~

PS. Robin and Nancy get them matching "I'm with stupid" T-shirts for Christmas. Eddie and Steve are way too excited to wear them any time they're not in the laundry, making the "oh, we wore the same outfit, how embarrassing!" joke every damn time. They make sure they're always sitting or walking on the appropriate side so the arrows point at each other. Sometimes Eddie's on the right, sometimes it's Steve, because they no longer keep track of which shirt is whose.

[miscellaneoussmp]

Something about Bagi makes my brain go brr. Here's some lost memories a brother and sister might share (cw/tw: blood/violence/death mention, general Cellbit fuckery. Singular mention of throwing up.)

Cellbit's hair was not that long yet, and he kept insisting as such. Bagi wanted to attempt to put his hair up so it didn't fall into his face when he was reading. The tiny argument didn't last long, as soon enough Cellbit was sitting in front of his sister, both sat on the floor. They were in front of the tiny television that also sat on the floor, which was currently on a news channel. The news anchor claimed that were no leads in the large string of murders in the area. Both siblings laughed at the television as if it were a comedy. It was obvious that it was them. If you looked at the clues, the ones they didn't leave. Maybe they just needed better detectives. Maybe the duo were better detectives.

Bagi couldn't sleep, and judging by the lack of snoring coming from Cellbit, neither could he. Their run-down apartment was only one bedroom, so they shared as they always have. Bagi laid on the slightly nicer double mattress, which sat on top of some wooden pallets they stole. Cellbit currently laid on the old worn-out twin mattress they still owned, which lay on the floor. Maybe that's why neither of them could get any sleep. Maybe it was the fact that their thoughts raced too quickly to get any calm. Cellbit finally noticed his sister staring at him and offered to go get them coffee. At three thirty a.m., the witching hour they joked, they both got their coffee. Bagi sat on the countertop while Cellbit just leaned against it.

Cellbit may not seem like it, but he does appreciate routine. Dinner was one of those routines, even though they ate at different times. It became easier for Bagi to eat second, as they could steal cash off whatever body lay cold at their feel and pay for her food. She didn't eat like Cellbit did. Bagi tried to eat like her brother did once, but that ended up with her throwing up into a dumpster in an alley not too long after she ate. She decided then and there to become vegetarian, though she never stopped Cellbit from eating the way he did. Maybe Cellbit just enjoyed the soft moment of cleaning up in the car afterward. Maybe he was relieved to know both of them could eat. Bagi's meal consisted of snacks from the gas station, and of course, Cellbit just had to steal a bit. She yelled at him, clearly trying not to laugh. He didn't try to hide his own laughter.

Bagi was never the best at running, but right now, she had to. It didn't take her long to realize that Cellbit wasn't behind her. They had been planning to leave the country together, but apparently police detectives are smarter than either of the two gave them credit for. The siblings were still better, though. It felt wrong for Bagi to be on her own. She never really had been alone before. She found comfort in the highly publicized trial. Maybe she also belonged in the courtroom. Maybe her brother didn't belong there. It really wasn't long without Cellbit, but seeing her brother again felt amazing. Escaping prison was just his style. It felt great handing him clothes stolen off some random businessman as she put full force down on the gas of the equally stolen car.

Cellbit couldn't believe he finally had a lead on this case that's been bothering him for a while now. Something about it made his brain feel itchy. Bagi had the same feeling as she looked over the evidence and information with him. The years of therapy had both of the siblings confident that weren't chasing something that wasn't there. The case lead had led to a cargo ship, and Cellbit was determined to check it out. Bagi stayed behind to work on a different case. Maybe it was fate. Maybe Cellbit shouldn't have taken a random case from somebody who wouldn't show their face. Bagi was alone again. This time, she was more used to it.

Bagi barely understands why she's on this (prison) island to begin with, aside from the fact she was chosen to come here. She really doesn't understand why this stranger (his name is Cellbit, apparently) looks a lot like her. Bagi doesn't appreciate the déjà vu she gets from looking at him either. Cellbit doesn't understand why this new member of the island (her name is Bagi) looks like him. He doesn't like the feeling of déjà vu he gets when she speaks. Maybe they knew each other before the island. Maybe they knew each other in a previous life.

[benjamin-ovich]

i tore out like half my hairs trying to choose a line. and okay. i'm cheating a little, still. i'm giving you TWO lines and you have to write a soul tearing mini fic about it:

number 7 (there isn't anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, and a bottle of pills) and number 15 (i carried you to the car and drove you home but you weren't making any sense) PLEASE THANK YOU ILY <33333

(send me a richard siken line and i'll write a mini-fic inspired by it)

ok so dani listen. i tried to make this a mini-fic but my brain physically cannot narrow the ideas down to under 1k words. so yeah i'm making this a fic fic instead, snippet below (it's a muggle au for obvious reasons) and i'll gift it to you when it's finished <3

James Potter knows better than to fall in love with boys like Sirius Black. 

Sirius, with his cigarette-ash fingers and quick, dark laugh, burning up an entire room just by standing in it. Sirius, with his gunpowder eyes and long hair and flashing, dangerous smile; worn leather jacket and sleek new motorcycle, the dog tags around his neck clanging as he takes off in a blur of smoke and dust. 

Boys like Sirius are nothing but trouble. But what can James say? These things happen.

It’s a hot, dirty night, swollen with stars. James is in the wrong place at the right time – slightly drunk and strolling aimlessly around the neighbourhood. He’s just down the street from his apartment when he hears a strange, muted noise that stops him in his tracks. 

It’s coming from the alley. James sidles between the narrow walls until he reaches an opening on the other side. There, on the ground, he sees the stranger for the first time. 

The stranger is sitting heaped against the wall, bent over and clutching at his stomach, groaning quietly. The alleyway is dark, save for the thin moonlight, but James can still see the glistening pool of blood the stranger is sitting in. It’s all over his hands and his clothes, staining them like wine. 

“Are you okay?”

The stranger looks up. His face is hostile, unfriendly, lips drawn back in a snarl and all the skin pulled tight over bone. “Who the fuck are you?”

It’s evident he wants to be left alone, and is in a nervous, irritable state, but James isn’t so easily fazed. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, no shit,” the stranger snorts. 

“What happened?”

“Fuck off,” the stranger snaps at him, turning his body away with a dragging, painful-looking twist. "It's none of your business."

James kneels beside him, approaching him the way one might approach an aggressive, feral dog – slow and calm, without making any sudden movements. “You need help. I’m a medical student, I might be able to fix you up.”

“A medical student?” the stranger mutters, rolling his eyes. “So not even a real doctor?”

Now that he’s closer, James can see that most of the blood is from a wound in the stranger’s stomach. “Listen, I don’t mean to be blunt, but – you’ve lost a lot of blood, and that wound needs to be closed up. My apartment is just down the street, will you come in and let me take a look? Because if you don’t, you might bleed out and die right here.”

Something in his words seems to register as vaguely alarming to the stranger, because the latter starts heaving himself onto his feet, groaning with pain as he does. 

“Fine,” he says, stepping toward James and giving him a sullen look, like it’s him extending a favour toward James, and not the other way around. “Let’s go.”

---

“Why are you helping me?”

They’re in James’ flat, the cool fluorescent light stark against the stranger’s marble-pale skin. James has laid out an array of medical supplies on the kitchen countertop, and is now in the midst of pulling a pair of sterile gloves on while the stranger peels his sticky, bloodstained shirt off. 

James smiles. “I like helping people. Why do you think I wanted to be a doctor?”

“To cut people up,” the stranger replies, in a deadpan voice that makes it hard to tell whether he’s joking or not. 

“Here,” James says, holding up some squares of gauze. “May I?”

The stranger doesn’t flinch when James gently dabs off the excess blood so that he can get a better look at the wound. It’s a long gash that runs across his stomach, but fortunately doesn’t look too deep, and seems to have avoided all his major organs and arteries. 

“Am I dying?” the stranger asks in a whisper, and when James glances up he’s startled to see the wet, cautious gleam of vulnerability in his eyes, as though he's genuinely afraid.

“No, you’re not dying,” James reassures him, as he begins working with nimble, precise movements. “I can stop the bleeding and suture the wound closed, but you’ll still need antibiotics when we're done.”

The stranger holds remarkably still as James does his thing, which is impressive given the size of the wound and the fact that James doesn’t have any pain pills on hand. Every now and then James catches his face tightening, eyes snapping shut, but other than that he barely even winces. The minutes flit by in silence, and neither of them speaks until James is nearly done.

“You must have a high pain tolerance,” James comments, straightening up as he finishes his handiwork. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the stranger says, looking down at his stomach. His wound looks far better now that it’s cleaned and closed.  His voice is softer, quite a bit less rough than it had been, when he speaks to James again. “Thank you. For, um – for this.”

James pulls his gloves off. “What happened to you, if you don’t mind me asking? The incision looks like it was made by some sort of large knife, wielded in the hands of someone who clearly had no intention to kill.”

The stranger turns his gaze away. Now that he’s no longer scowling and snarling, he’s actually rather handsome – with elegant, refined features and a willow-thin build, all slender limbs and narrow shoulders. James notices this, and then is embarrassed at himself for noticing, because it’s not often that he encounters someone so good-looking that it knocks the breath right out of his lungs.

"Alright," he says at last, when the stranger still hasn't spoken in several minutes, "will you at least tell me your name?"

The stranger's eyes meet his; they're a light, impossible shade of grey, shining like steel. "Sirius," he says, clearing his throat and holding out a hand toward James. "Sirius Black."

James goes still, dropping the metal pan he's holding with a thunderous, resounding crash. "Sirius Black? As in, of the Black mafia?"

[themculibrary]

Fics In Which Cats Are Involved Masterlist

Accidental Kitten Acquisition (ao3) - SomeSortofItalianRoast steve/bucky G, 1k

Summary: Colonel Chester Phillips. Cat whisperer.

beneath the shadow of atlas (we're all just chasing stardust) (ao3) - GrimRevolution G, 2k

Summary: Carol's gone. She went back to space.

What the hell was Fury supposed to do about the alien cat?

Cat Calls (ao3) - cable-knit-sweater (cable_knit_sweater) steve/bucky T, 4k

Summary: When veterinarian Bucky gives Steve his personal number, he’s pretty sure he’s obvious enough in what he wants him to use it for. But Steve doesn’t call to ask him out for a drink, or dinner. No, when he ends up calling Bucky late at night, it’s not even for a booty call. It’s because of his newly adopted cat. And he continues to call Bucky about his cat. Until eventually…

———-

“Just uhm, doing my job,” he says, waving away the compliment. “So, do we have a name yet?”

“Cat.”

“Yeah she sure fuckin is,” Bucky chuckles.

Steve smirks back at him. “No, her name, I named her Cat.”

Bucky stares at him in disbelief, looking for a sign that it’s a joke. It’s not. He named his cat Cat . He’s not sure if that makes him more or less attracted to Steve. Still, he won’t stand for it.

Cat Dad (ao3) - hulkling616 sam/steve G, 100

Summary: Sam has a new cat.

Cat In The Box? - every-marveler-ever tony/bucky

Summary: What is Alpine Schrodinger’s cat?

Keep the duster and stay away from the sage, cleaner boy (ao3) - BlueAlmond steve/tony T, 5k

Summary: Tony adopts a cat. Or more like, a cat adopts Tony. And because of that, he ends up getting a different cleaner—one that doesn’t complain about Tony’s new roommate.

Enter, Steve Rogers, who likes cats but doesn’t like ghosts that much.

Kittens (ao3) - itsallAvengers bucky/tony T, 3k

Summary: Bucky picks up a kitten. Tony picks up Bucky.

Like Herding Cats (ao3) - whiskeywitch steve/bucky T, 3k

Summary: Steve has a soft spot for the cats that live in the alley next to his apartment building. So when an unexpected blizzard hits New York, he does exactly what you’d expect him to. Bucky isn’t very thrilled.

made as corresponding shapes (ao3) - leashy_bebes clint/phil T, 4k

Summary: Clint doesn’t know why he goes by Agent Coulson’s apartment, but what he finds is…unexpected. Meow.

Of Compost and Kittens (ao3) - SomeSortofItalianRoast steve/bucky G, 1k

Summary: Bucky has to give new kitten Alpine a bath. It goes about as well as expected.

Rescued (ao3) - cooper_west clint/phil T, 20k

Summary: Clint has a cat, and then he has Phil’s corgis. Nothing seems to go right, until it does.

Snow Day (ao3) - neversaydie steve/bucky M, 5k

Summary: [in which Bucky has a bad day in the middle of nowhere, but there are fluffy sweaters and snow and coffee and asshole cats to pet, and Steve makes it easier to be a person.]

Steve Rogers and the Great Cat Compromise (ao3) - Oh_i_swear steve/bucky T, 7k

Summary: Steve Rogers is not a cat person. He doesn't want a cat. Unfortunately, even in his own apartment, Steve doesn't get to make decisions, especially where Bucky is concerned.

Or rather, Bucky adopts a stray angry murder beast and the three of them try to learn to live together.

Still Life With Flerken (ao3) - copperbadge G, 1k

Summary: Nick Fury: soldier, spy, strategist, cat dad.

The Cat Chooses The Witch (ao3) - ibelieveinturtles darcy/wanda G, 1k

Summary: Bucky’s never had his own familiar so Peggy sends him off to visit friends of hers, who are well known for their clever cats.

The Purrfect valentine's day (ao3) - RelentlassHuggerSquad bucky/natasha, peggy/steve G, 1k

Summary: Bucky is sad and kind of third-wheeling Steve/Peggy. So Steve decides to help his best friend feel better by taking Bucky to the shelter to adopt a pet.

[nightwings-circus]

DC Masterlist

(not my image. any images, gifs, and art are the right to the original creatpr.)

* = smut. 18+. Blogs with no age that are completely blank will be blocked.

I have made it VERY clear any blank blogs or minors will be blocked. Disrespecting that boundary is gross and if you do that you need to evaluate your decisions.

ABSOLUTELY NO REPOSTING ALLOWED. Do not reupload my content on any other sites/accounts under any circumstances. I will block you and report you and warn others about it.

my DC Masterlist :) all of my fanfic is here! updated when new fic is posted

Jason Todd (Red Hood)

Fluff:

- Polaroid

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Synapses: random as fuck story Inspired by some dialogue prompts and a tumblr post about a jl couple going as other jl couples for halloween (i cannot find it for the life of me I'm so sorry). Angsty jay. lots of random filler but I really wanted to write it, and i kinda wanted to turn it into a full story at some point. If anyone wants to be apart of a tag list let me know :)

word count: 1,181 words

- Gasoline tears

Jason Todd X fem!reader

Synapses: fluff and angst, also arguing. obvious language warning, also some light smut, no actual sex just some pretty heated make out sesh.Jason has been working on his bike a lot so you've been spending time with his brother Dick, cue to a heated debate followed, a lot of possessiveness and jealousy followed by some sexy making out.enjoyyyyyy!

word count: 801 words

- This is what falling in love feels like

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Synapses: after a smoke sesh reader can’t help but admire her handsome vigilante boyfriend

Warnings: mentions of smoking weed, some making out (nothing too steamy), mentions of feelings of panic (very very brief)

Smut:

- Animal i have become *

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Warnings: heavy smut, Pollen, biting, choking, Dom! Jason, pet names, lots of praise, needy Jay, HEAVY SMUT. It’s pretty steamy folks.

Synapses: Jason was out on a routine patrol and left you at home, but he comes back sprayed with pollen and oh so needy to fuck you into oblivion.

word count: 1,408 words

- Boyfriend *

Jason Todd X fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT. 18+ only. Minors and blank blogs will be blocked. Oral (M! And F! Rec.), full sex, pet names, cheating.

Synapses: Dick leaves you alone at a Wayne gala for a certain outlaw to snatch you up. Loosely Based off the song Boyfriend by Dove Cameron

word count:

- Third times a charm *

Jason Todd X fem!reader X Dick Grayson

NO BATC*ST.

Warnings: 18+. Absolutely no minors or blank blogs. You will be blocked. Pure smut: oral (M! And F! Rec.), unprotected sex (be smarter then them), threesome, choking, fingering, slight BDSM undertones I guess?. I think that’s everything

Synapses: After Jason catches you and Dick in the act, tensions are high. They’re even higher after Dick catches you and Jason only a few days later, the third time however, is a night none of you will ever forget, especially since it’ll determine who gets the girl of their dreams.

Word count:

- the cat and the bird *

Jason Todd X fem! Reader

Warnings:Smut!!! 18+, light(?) Gun play, penetration, caught in the act, some light fluff after if you squint. Pet names.

Synapses: a patrol leaves Jason frustrated and on edge, and Alley-cat (y/n) has to help him cheer up, one way or another.

word count:

Shorts:

- comfort cuddles

Jason Todd x fem!Reader

Synapses: jay has a few days without patrol and comes to hangout with the reader, but reader is so tired they can’t get out of bed. Luckily jay swoops in to save the day with some much needed (on both ends) cuddles

Word count:

- So long farewell

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Synapses: nobody is safe from a heated argument in a relationship, especially not you and Jason, but will it be okay this time?

Word count:

- Husband zoned *

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Synapses: jason comes home from a long patrol and you decide to play a fun little joke on him, what comes next is a shock.

Dick Grayson (Nightwing)

Fluff:

- New recruit

Dick Grayson X fem!reader

Part one | part two | part three

Synapses: you’re a former member of the league of assassins, and now you’re the newest member of the titans. You meet a lot of new faces, but the leader, Dick Grayson, catches your eye.

Smut:

- One knock away *

Detective!dick Grayson X fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, smut, handcuffs, dom!Dick, praise, implied pain k!nk, pet names (baby, darling, doll, sir a couple of times), thigh riding, all the good horny shit.

synapses: you're the newest vigilante in town, though some people aren't huge fans of you at the moment. when a knock disturbs you and a cop enters your house for questioning connected to the new masked crusader; you meet detective Dick Grayson, formally anyways.

word count: 2,016 words

- Stuck together *

Dick Grayson X fem! Reader

Warnings: smut. Oral (m! Receiving), I think that’s all? 18+

Synapses: you get stuck in an elevator with your least favourite person Dick Grayson and the tension finally gets to you guys 👀

- Third times a charm *

Jason Todd X fem! Reader X Dick Grayson

NO BATC*ST

Warnings: 18+. Absolutely no minors or blank blogs. You will be blocked. Pure smut: oral (M! And F! Rec.), unprotected sex (be smarter then them), threesome, choking, fingering, slight BDSM undertones I guess?. I think that’s everything

Synapses: After Jason catches you and Dick in the act, tensions are high. They’re even higher after Dick catches you and Jason only a few days later, the third time however, is a night none of you will ever forget, especially since it’ll determine who gets the girl of their dreams.

[tiedyemillenialbullshit]

Nightmare

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Avenger Reader Word Count: 3,431 Summary: Your best friend finally comes to visit the compound after you join the Avengers. What starts out as a fun night out, quickly turns dire for you and Bucky. Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Feelings, Mentions of Alcohol and Drugs, PTSD/Nightmares, swearing

“AHHHH Y/N!!” You hear her before you see your best friend running towards you, not a care in the world that your entire team has also turned around to watch you two galavant towards each other like long lost sisters.

You catch Sarah in your arms and spin her around.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re FINALLY HERE! And you’re early! Holy shit like I can’t believe you’re finally here in New York!! Let me introduce you to the team!” You grab her arm after she starts to show hesitance in meeting the Avengers all at once.

“Are you sure they have time? I don’t want to be a bother,” she says sheepishly.

“Oh my god Sarah, I talk about you all the time! They’re just as excited to meet you, come on.” You both walk towards the team still staring at you both near the entrance to the compound doing a quick debrief of a not-so-successful mission the day before.

“Guys, this is Sarah. Sarah this is-“ she cuts you off. “I know who you guys all are. It’s so nice to meet you! I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.” Everyone grins and introduces themselves to your best friend.

Nat smiles at you both, “On the contrary, you’re coming out with us tonight! No if’s, and’s or but’s”

Sarah seems to suddenly catch a second wind from her long flight and lets out a squeal of excitement.

You’re the newest to the “official” team, even though Steve and Fury had been trying to recruit you for years. You didn’t like the idea of the world knowing about your skill set and preferred to live a quiet life back in California. Ever since moving here, you’ve felt like maybe you weren’t home yet. Everyone was so nice and welcoming, but you missed your little house hidden in the outskirts of the National Parks in California. You missed the sun, the familiar smell of your patch of paradise and the general sense of room back home. Most importantly, you missed Sarah.

You were reluctant to invite her out to New York at first, but now that things seemed to be going smoothly, you sent for her via a car and private jet thanks to one Mr. Tony Stark. He was more than happy to help you out given your fresh and maybe sometimes bumpy arrival to the Avengers.

As everyone filed inside to break away before the evening festivities, Bucky caught your arm.

After holding you back for a second he said, “Hey, I can totally hang back tonight if you’d rather just be with Sarah and the team.”

You realize what he’s getting at. He also has some lack of feeling settled at the compound. It was something you bonded over when you first arrived. You both had similar pasts, even though they were at the same time lightyears apart.

“Buck, no. I think we’re all going out to Bleaker’s tonight! What’s a better way to get to know the team than bowling, beer, smoking inside, beer, old arcade games, more beer and maybe dancing?!”

Bucky gives you a quick glare out the corner of his eye before wrapping his metal arm around your shoulders to lead you inside after everyone.

“Fiiiiiiine, but I can’t promise I’ll behave.” You giggle, but suddenly feel a couple sets of eyes on you.

“And what do we have here?,” Tony asks with a smirk across his mouth. Sarah seems to be in the middle of an engaging conversation with Steve, so you don’t seem to have an easy out of this encounter. Bucky quickly drops his arm and steps a foot away from you.

“Uh, nothing. Y/N just seemed like maybe she wasn’t feeling well.”

“But I’m fine so here we are - have you seen Sam? Nat? Wanda? I told them we should be ready in a few hours and I jus-“

“Oh for Christ’s sake guys, your secret is safe with me,” Tony winks at you knowingly. You decide to take that as the end of the conversation and rush over to join Sarah.

“So! You have muscles.” Sarah says clearly at a loss of words looking at Steve in a tight shirt.

You and Bucky share a giggle, but pull Sarah away and save her from further embarrassment.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Sarah is about as red as a tomato as you drag her upstairs away from the awkward encounter. Steve looked a little flustered as well, which you file away in the back of your brain.

“Who cares! Let’s catch up and get ready for tonight.” Sarah is your best friend for a reason. Even though it had been 6 months since you last saw each other, it was like it was yesterday. You two spend the next few hours catching up, gossiping about each other’s families, friends, ex-boyfriends, etc.

“So! How are we doing in the boi department?” You turn around and face Sarah at the inquisitive tone in her question.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m good, I’m… I’m doing great, I mean yeah I’m good. WHY?” You’re stuttering and you don’t even care it’s obvious you’re blushing.

“Oh, you know. I mean, I’ve only recently met a few super soldiers, but I do think I can tell the there’s a spark between one and someone else.” Sarah so wants you to spill the tea but you promised Bucky you’d keep it quiet.

“Let’s just say things are developing and whatever you’d like to take from that you may.” You both launch into a giggle fit of her guessing and you denying certain aspects of Bucky Barnes.

When Wanda wanders into your room a few hours later, she starts laughing at what she sees. “You know you two are wearing like the same thing, right?” Exchanging confused looks at each other, you reply with a “AND?!”

Sam follows in with a smirk of his own. You’re bracing for his jokes but instead says “damn, OKAY! Everyone’s looking sharp tonight. Y/N, have you seen our bionic man around? Is he coming? He better come out tonight or I swear to…”

After Sam leaves to go find Bucky, the three of you wander down to find Nat and start the evening off with a shot or two. You aren’t much of a drinker, so one is enough for you. You much rather enjoy the company of your friend Mary Jane.

The team is getting silly with each other in the kitchen and quickly the room is filled with people yelling at each other to pregame harder, laughing when Nat’s little sister challenges Sam to a chugging contest and wins.

You feel a large hand at the small of your back. You can smell his cologne and know who it is immediately.

“Well don’t you look dashing tonight Sargent Barnes.” You lean in on impulse but stop yourself just as the girls turn around to see who you’re talking to.

“I was just going to say the same thing to you, sweets.” He mumbles in your ear before removing his hand and walking over to Sam.

The alcohol decides to hit you then, leaving you feeling empty that he’s not standing next to you anymore. Neither of you had wanted to have the “conversation” but you knew you were head over heels for him.

“CABS ARE HERE” screams Sam.

“Sam. For the love of God, stop watching Jersey Shore.” Natasha jokes to him.

At the same time Steve screams, “I understood that reference!” Eye rolls are exchanged as you all make your way outside.

The atmosphere is buzzing and you’re so excited to not just be out with your team, but to also have the only bit of family you had with you as well. You finally felt at home, at peace, and were ready for a fun night out.

Bleaker’s is one of those hole-in-the-wall dive bars that from the outside seems like a hard pass, but once you’re in, there’s no other place you’d rather spend a Saturday night. It’s true it started as a bowling alley in the 60’s. That still remains. What’s newer is the arcade in the back, where the old salon used to be. Jimmy bought the space next door, blew out the wall and filled it with arcade games that sometimes work and sometimes eat your money.

After years of being regular patrons, he knows your team well. The minute you walk in, he starts up all your favorite drinks.

“Ah! My best customers! I had a feeling I’d be seeing Earth’s mightiest heroes tonight.” You line up at the bar for whatever Jimmy decides you’re drinking tonight.

“Ah yes, two vodka on the rocks for my little Russian assassins. Sam here’s your vodka red bull which I don’t think you need, but here we are. Steve! Your drink of choice: an Old Style. Wanda, a cosmo for my favorite witch. And who do we have here, Y/N?”

You’re already both in hysterics at the old man behind the bar giving everybody a hard time. “Jimmy, this is my best friend Sarah. She’s visiting from California for a few days.”

“And whatever the lady wants can be put on my tab…” Steve butts in. Sarah immediately turns red but says “well in that case I’ll have vodka soda with lime please!”

Bucky has come up behind you and now you’re both laughing and watching the two of them stare at each other like no one else is in the room.

“Oh no, what did you do Y/N?”

“Let it play out, he’s not completely tripping over his words yet, maybe he’ll finally land a good girl.” You hush to Bucky.

Jimmy stares as well in amusement. “And you two? Your usual?”

“Yes’sir!” You shout over the growing music. Jimmy hands you each a jack and Diet Coke. You tell yourself it’s okay because it’s diet, but you know that’s a bunch of bullshit.

The other great thing about Bleaker’s? The dance floor downstairs. You always joke around that it seems like a nightclub that never closes in Amsterdam or something, but you’re serious. It could be 3 pm and sunny and you’d never know. It’s in the basement, it's always dark and the music is almost always too loud.

Usually that would gross you all out, but the energy tonight is pushing you all downstairs.

You reach back and grab Bucky’s hand not really caring who sees. It’s been months of sneaking around and either everyone knows and is playing it off like they don't or you’re really good at hiding it. Regardless, you’re over hiding. Maybe showing a little PDA tonight will get him out of his shell.

Sarah and Steve are no where in sight, assuming they’re ahead of you, you follow the team downstairs.

Minutes turn into hours. Everyone is dancing, laughing, sweating, screaming the lyrics to every song, and for a little while you can forget you’re a group of superheroes, and can just be normal 30-something year-olds.

You mostly dance with Bucky and quickly realize he’s a better dancer than you thought he would be. Those moves from the 1940’s must still be relevant in some way today, because the way he's grinding up on you and not caring if anyone sees just does something to you.

You work the room, finding Sarah, Wanda, Nat, even Steve for a song before you realize you don't see Bucky. You give it a few minutes thinking maybe he is in the bathroom. After 15 minutes though, you grab Steve’s attention and motion for him to check the bathroom while you check outside.

You race to the alley where you find Jimmy on a smoke break. “Hey Jimmy, have you seen Bucky? I can’t find him.”

“Oh yeah, doll, he took off in a cab about a half hour ago. Looked real flustered, but I didn’t want to press.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You thought you felt his mood shift about an hour ago, he was becoming stiff and quiet. You thought maybe he was just drinking a lot but now you’re realizing the loud music, strobe lights and base must have been triggering him.

“Ugh I’m such a bitch,” you huff as you send Steve a S.O.S text.

You: Hey, Jimmy said he just left. I'm sure he's heading home. I'm going to go find him.

Sire Captain Rogers: Go ahead. I think Sarah and I can find something to do while you find Buck. ;)

You: Yeah I’m sure you can.

You: BEHAVE. She’s my best friend.

Sire Captain Rogers: I know Y/N, don’t worry about us. Let me know when you find him.

You lock your phone and hop in a cab back to the compound.

No one is up or around when you enter through the front. The kitchen has been cleaned up, the dishes done. Probably thanks to THURSDAY, Tony’s beta bot for “cleaning up after you assholes trash the place.”

You smirk and head for the elevators. Heading straight to Bucky’s room, you can tell his light is on but something seems off. You don’t like to use your powers on friends or in the compound, but you close your eyes and reach out with your mind to find his aura. Your eyes snap open. You don’t sense him, you just see red.

Taking this as a good excuse to break into a friend’s room, you burst into the room to find it in disarray. Everything is toppled over, broken glass is on the floor, the bathroom light is on, but all you can see is his blood on the door and the floor. You’re panicked, trying to piece together what happened.

Again, you close your eyes and reach out for the familiar energy of Bucky. You find him in your room on the floor.

“What the fuck?,” you mumble and sprint up the stairs to your apartment. You shoot Steve a text on your way up.

You: Found him, looks like a bad one. I’ll let you know if I need you.

Sir Captain Rogers: Thanks Y/N. I’m just a call away, let me know if you need anything. Night.

Upon entering, you sense he’s in distress. His heart rate is elevated, he’s incredibly sweaty and is panting like a dog.

“Bucky? Buck, it’s me, it’s Y/N.”

Bucky stirs and jumps into a defensive standing position quicker than you can blink. You flip the lights on with a “BABE. Baaabe, it’s me. It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re in the compound. You had a nightmare.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide and alarmed, but you can tell the moment he recognizes you.

Rushing over to you, he takes you into a big hug. “Oh my god. What happened? Are you okay, did I hurt you?”

“No Bucky, no I just found you a minute ago. You had another bad one, what do you need me to do right now for you?”

Bucky stands back and rubs his swollen eyes. “I need to shower, can you help me?”

Typically, this is where it gets exciting, but you knew what he means. Water grounds him. He doesn’t feel like he’s falling in water. It helps him visualize the stress washing off of him.

You help him strip and get in the shower, but before you can even take his jeans off, he jumps in and pulls you in with him. You realize how desperate he is for whatever he’s feeling to pass and your heart sinks.

You’re both standing there, almost fully clothed holding each other. This is the worst you’ve seen him in a long time.

“I’m so sorry if I ruined your night, Y/N. The base sounded like the train, the lights looked like the machine they used on me, what the fuck.”

You aren’t sure what to do so you decide to sit on the ground and pull him down with you. You position yourself behind him so his back is in your chest. Even though he’s so much larger than you, he sinks down enough for you to reach over his shoulders and hold him.

“It’s okay Barnes, just breathe with me. You’re safe. You’re with me, and we’re home. Nobody is going to touch you. I’ve got you, you won’t fall.”

You take in deep breaths so he can match your breathing.

After about 45 minutes, the hot water is out in the tank. Bucky sits forward and turns towards you. You want him to lead right now, so you don’t say anything. Neither does he, but the look in his eyes are telling you something about tonight is different.

With a soft smile on your lips, you cup his cheek until he is really looking at you. “Hun, let’s go lay down, ya? Let me help get you dried off.” Bucky hates when you fuss over him, so when he doesn’t argue, you know to be extra gentle with him.

After getting him up and out of the shower, you think skin-to-skin contact doesn’t seem sexual right now, it feels intimate in a grounding sense, and you know that’s exactly what he needs right now. Bucky seems dazed, almost like he got hit too hard in the head. You yourself are of course a tad over-served, and are quickly realizing the adrenaline of this entire situation is rubbing off.

You get Bucky into bed and turn to make sure his phone is plugged in and that he has a glass of water, but he grabs your wrist before you can move away. “Just leave it, it’s fine.”

“Buck, just let me-“ he grabs your wrist harder.

“Y/N. Please just stay here. Please.”

The entire time you’ve been together, he’s done a lot of things but begging you for anything is not one of them. Suddenly the phone and whatever hell else you were doing doesn’t seem important anymore.

You climb into your usual spot next to him and decide maybe you’ll try to get him to open up. The moment the back of your head hits the pillow, Bucky is facing you. His pleading eyes seem like they want to tell you everything that’s going on in his head, but you know pushing him to talk will just make the nightmares come flooding back too soon.

Instead, you decide to lay on your back and pull him to lay on your chest.

“Just listen to my heart beat, Bucky.” You hear him take a deep breath and settle into your chest.

You start and stop yourself from trying to say something comforting. You’re terrified to say the wrong thing at such a crucial moment. Typically these bad episodes are reserved for a Steve house call. You realize as he’s settling into a comfortable position that he hasn’t asked you to call Steve yet. Bucky trusts you in a way you didn’t realize until now.

You don’t know when, but you start humming the first calming song that comes in your head.

I’ll be seeing you In all the old familiar places That this heart of mine embraces All day through

Bucky picks his head up to look at you. Oh fuck.

“Where did you hear that song?,” he says to you with shiny eyes.

“You sing it all the time when you’re concentrating. I looked it up and added it to my ‘bath time/relax’ playlist. I didn't know Billie Holliday was a favorite of yours."

Bucky was looking at you like maybe this was the first time he saw you, like really saw you. “My mom used to sing that around the house when she was missing my dad.”

“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I can hum a diff-“ you’re cut off with the most searing kiss Bucky has ever given you. He’s crying when he pulls back to look at you again. “Will you keep singing it?”

In that small cafe The park across the way The children's carousel That chestnut tree, the wishing well

By the time you finish the second verse, he has physically relaxed in your arms. You continue rubbing your hand up and down his back and shoulder, stopping to play with his long hair every once in a while.

I'll be seeing you In every lovely summer's day In every thing that's light and gay I'll always think of you that way

“I forgot how much I love hearing this song sung around me.” Bucky whispers so quietly you almost miss it.

I'll find you in the morning sun And when the night is new I'll be looking at the moon But I'll be seeing you…

You stop your caressing when you feel him sit up on one arm.

He leans down to kiss you but stops short to whisper “I love you Y/N.” You kiss him back and wrap your arms around his shoulders, and when you say “I love you too, Bucky,” you’ve never been more sure of something in your life.

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 4:

You’re paranoid. 

Terribly, terribly paranoid, and even if you’re aware of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing you can do to quell the anxiety that wells up every time another person enters your space. Every time their skin nearly brushes yours, even accidentally, just for a split second.

It’s maddening. Nearly debilitating the way you’re flinching away from people. You can see your co-workers notice too, fellow nurses suddenly giving you odd looks every time you reject a high five. Even when you’re wearing your gloves. It’s just a panic reaction at this point- a fixation on trying to keep your quirk as least exhaustive an experience as it can be. 

On one hand, you still really dislike Bakugou- nearly hate him for bringing it up to you- but, on the other hand, he did manage to figure it out. He somehow managed to figure out what you never could, and all in a matter of minutes from your relatively short interactions. It made you think that maybe he could be really smart- if he didn’t spend so much time killing his own brain-cells with every juvenile insult he spewed at you. 

You wondered if that was just him, or he really did hate you that much. Surely he couldn’t be that much of a monster to other people, right? Right? 

Wrong. 

You remember Kirishima, how he apologized for Bakugou nearly the second he walked through the door. It hits you then that you’re definitely not the first person he’d seemed to mercilessly terrorize- you’re not sure if that makes you feel better or worse.

Actually, on second thought, maybe it makes you feel worse. No, it definitely makes you feel worse. So much worse, in fact, that just the sight of his face nearly sends you into an irrational rage. Even now, weeks after the last time he’d personally ruined your day, you were still mad. Still angry. Still cursing every time you saw those red eyes on every billboard, newspaper, and billboard in town.

Well, lucky for you, you didn’t have to look at those printed eyes anymore. Not when the real ones were right in front of you- scaring you shitless as you leave the hospital. 

You had left the hospital from the back exit, tired and crabby from your late shift, grumbling as you stepped out into the alleyway. You’d hardly seen him, just the slightest glimpse of movement behind the tall dumpsters, before he’s practically in your face.

“Jesus!” You gasp, curling your arms around your stomach. Your legs feel like jelly. “Don’t do that! Scared me half to death!”

“Oh, chill the hell out, ya fuckin’ baby. You’re fine.” Bakugou rolls his eyes, falling into step next to you.

He looks worse for the wear, just like every other time you’ve seen him, exhaustion coloring his complexion something sickly. There’s an angry purple bruise covering his cheek, a few cuts, and even more bruising dotting his scarred knuckles. A tiny, vindictive part of you thinks it serves him right, but you keep it to yourself. You’re better than that.

You want to be nice to him, truly you do, but he’s made it pretty hard. Concerning you, Bakugou’s pretty much dug his grave at this point, and he only makes it worse with his next works.

“You need to do something for me.” He orders suddenly. “Now.”

“A-are you asking me? For help? Is that what this is?”

“What? No- obviously fucking not.” He sneers, nostrils flaring. “Why the hell would I go and do something like that. That’s stupid. Weak.”

“Oh. Okay. So then two seconds ago, when you were telling me that I ‘need’ to do something for you, what was that?” You squint your eyes at him, eyebrow twitching with annoyance. “That wasn’t you asking for help?”

“No. ‘s an order.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay- an order. Because you’re totally in a position to make those.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.” You spin on your heels, nearly crashing into his chest since he followed so closely behind you. Still, you figure the promixity is all the better for gesturing, so you don’t miss a beat, waving your hands emphatically. “My shift just ended, alright? That means I’m not on the clock, and you’re not a patient. I don’t have to suck it up and help you unless I want to. Understand?”

Bakugou seems to bristle at your tone, eyes narrowing as his lip curls. You just try to shrug it off. If he wants to be mad in the middle of the alley, fine- but you’ve had a long day and you’re going home. You spin around again, walking briskly into the street, and it takes him a few moments to catch up.

“I told you, Bakugou, I’m not helping you just because you tried to order me to.”

“I know.”

“Then what’re you doing?”

“Walking.”

It’s his tone; that same needling, challenging edge to it that has your blood boiling. If anyone else said that, you’d probably believe it. But he’s not just walking and Bakugou’s smirk makes that very clear.

“No. You’re following me.”

“Same fuckin’ direction. Sue me, leech.”

The street lamps cast spots that yellow out his already pale skin, and the longer you walk the more withered he looks. Bakugou seems utterly burnt out, and when you look really close, all his features are slumped. It’s a stark contrast to Dynamite’s turbo-charged public persona, and it makes you wonder why he’d even let you see him like this at all. You figure whatever it is must be making him pretty desperate.

Suddenly that same, sinking, sympathetic feeling has you letting up a bit. You slow your pace, catching his gaze as you internally curse your own soft heart.

“Okay. Fine. What’s up. What can I help you with?”

Bakugou squints his eyes, almost like he doesn’t believe you. You think that’s a little fair- most times, even you can hardly believe all that you’re capable of forgiving.

“Sleep.” He finally says, bitten out tightly under his breath. 

“You want me to help you sleep?”

“Yes. Obviously.” 

“Not obvious.” 

“Would be if you weren’t such a shitty nurse.”

“If that’s supposed to be a dig- save it.” You roll your eyes, trying to tamper down the irritation. “I did notice. That you look tired. Just didn’t mention it out of kindness, so don’t think you can start bringing my skills into question.” 

You turn down another side street, and Bakugou follows. There’s less light so you miss the way his eyes scan the lurking shadows; intense and immediate, like a habit he can’t help himself from indulging in. 

“You really live around here?” He suddenly asks, voice low and gruff.

“Yep. In the apartment complexes just up there.” You point off into the distance. “Why-”

“And your shift always end this late?”

“Yes?”

“God,” He laughs something disbelieving under his breath, rolling his eyes at you. “I was fuckin’ right. You really are the stupidest goddamn person walking the planet.”

“That’s- Do you ever think about your words? Seriously!” You huff, curling your fists. You hope it’ll quell your sudden urge to hit him. “Just because you think it, doesn’t mean you should say it! And who the hell are you to judge anyway-”

“You’re fuckin’ asking to be attacked. That’s stupid. ”

“By who?”

“Weirdos, idiot.”

“You’re the weirdo! You’re the one following me home right now!”

“I’m not following you-”

“Really? You’re not? Because right now, the way you’re walking? Maybe all of two steps behind me? On a dark street? At night? Sort of seems like creepy following is exactly what you’re doing!”

“I told you, you need to do something for me. Not leaving till you do.” He grumbles, digging a bruised knuckle into his temples. “And keep it the fuck down. Your screaming sounds like a dying animal.”

“My-” You seethe for a moment, hardly able to stand his attitude. Then you take a breath because you prided yourself on being a kind person, and kind people do not kill national heroes- even when they’re being asses. “You know, it is almost unbelievable how bad you are at asking for help.”

“Told ya, already. ‘m not fuckin’ asking for help.” 

“Then why are you even here bothering me? Go bother someone else!”

“If fuckin’ anyone else could do anythin’, believe me, I’d go to them instead.”

“God, do you even understand how rude that is?” You ask him incredulously, hand grasping at the door to your apartment building. “No, seriously, are you even aware of what you sound like to other people?”

“Not my fuckin’ problem that other people are sensitive.” 

Your eyes bulge at that, mouth nearly dropping in disbelief. You couldn’t believe him. You just couldn’t believe that a single person could possibly go through life with that callous of a mentality. It was insanity. Pure insanity. 

“So, leech, you gonna put me to fuckin’ sleep or not?” 

Just kidding- that was insanity. That sentence alone was proof of just how ridiculous your life had gotten since he’d crash landed into it. 

Bakugou seems to realize his words simultaneously, his cheeks flushing red under the outdoor lights. You almost laugh, but then he’s glaring, eyes sternly set and murderous. For a moment, you really believe he was gonna blow you up right where you were standing. 

“Say a goddamn word. Do it. I fuckin’ dare you. Leech.” He sneers. “Try me.”

“At this hour? No, uh, no thanks.”

Bakugou does seem to relax at your joke, albeit begrudgingly. He drops his shoulders, rolling his eyes, and clears his throat. “Now, seriously, you gonna fuckin’ do it or not?”

A part of you wants to say no- to hold your gift over his head, to lord it just out of reach until he figures out how to not insult you with every breath. Then you think of your job, of all the civilians who come in swearing up and down that Dynamite was a hero. And you believe them, truly, but you think that Bakugou has a long way to go. An especially long way.

But, even so, your fingers are itching again in your gloves. There’s that urge coursing through your veins, your thoughts a constant loop of heal, help, save and so it’s decided. Quickly. Almost like it was never even a question in the first place- and, knowing yourself, you suppose it never really was.

“Fine. I will. On one condition.”

“Condition? When the fuck did I say it was a negotiation. It’s not.” 

“It is and I’ll tell you why.” You spin to face him completely, jumping back when you find him much closer than expected. Your retreat till your back hits the door, but you feel no less cramped than before. “You need me. You do. Don’t bother denying it because you wouldn’t be here otherwise. And the funny thing is, I would’ve done it! Would’ve done it entirely free of charge if you just asked nicely, and-”

“Will you get to the fuckin’ point already?”

“See! That! That’s why there’s a condition! Because you’re needlessly rude! All the time from what I’ve seen. And that’s got to change. Especially if you’re gonna ask for my help more than just this one time.” 

“God- how many fuckin’ times do I need to make this clear to you? Hah?” Bakugou growls, leaning in even more. You can see it in his wild eyes- he’s trying to scare you, crowding you against the door. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you- You don’t make the fuckin’ rules here.” 

“In this I do.” You swallow nervously, trying not to let your intimidation show. “So you’re gonna listen. My condition is this- if you want me to help you, then you have to learn to play nice. That means no names, no insults, no threats, no complaints, and no attitude. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” 

Bakugou swears under his breath, eyes blazing as he holds his stare. Truthfully, it makes you nervous, but you’re not one to back down. At least, not when there’s no threat of job loss involved. So you just squint back at him, jutting your jaw out in defiance. There’s a tense few seconds of silence, his eyes searching, but then he backs off. Nostrils flaring like a bull, Bakugou relents. 

“Fuckin’ fine. Whatever. Jesus.” He swears, hand curling into a fist at his side. “If you’re gonna be such a bitc-”

“I said, no names, Bakugou.”

He just rolls his eyes, face so very pinched, and you briefly wonder if he’s going to explode. There’s anger as he suddenly shoves you away from the door, yanking it open and letting himself into the building. Then he’s stomping through the lobby, and you’re hardly able to catch up by the time Bakugou stops in front of the elevator. 

“What fuckin’ floor, leech?”

“Once again, I said no names. None. Especially not that one.” You tell him sternly, trying to keep your voice down. “And you didn’t agree. You’re not following me and I’m not helping you unless you agree.”

If possible, you think Bakugou’s expression grows even more irritated, his eyes widening as he sets his jaw. Another few seconds pass, and when he sees you won’t relent, Bakugou nods. It’s tight and strained, stunted like the acquiescence physically pains him. 

“God, you’re lucky I’m nice.” You tell him, nearly stabbing the elevator button as you press it. “Really lucky.”  

“And you’re lucky I don’t have enough energy to beat the shit out of you right now.” 

“No threats, Bakugou. You agreed.” You say easily, stepping into the elevator as it opens. 

“Had to. Because your fuckin’ terms are bullshit.” 

“Hey, no complaints. You agreed to that too.” 

You think you hear something strangled leave his mouth, but it’s swallowed up by the sound of the elevator ascending. 

Now that you’re standing in better lighting, you can see Bakugou’s face clearly. He looked bad before, but he looks worse now. There wasn’t just one bruise on his face, there was multiple- his jaw colored burgundy and his nose and lip split open. There was no blood, but there wasn’t a lot of scabbing either. It was new. These injuries were new.

You think back to that first visit- when he told you he never really got hurt. You wonder what’s been going so wrong for him lately. It seemed like all he’d done since you’d met him was get hurt. 

“Stop fuckin’ staring.”

“I-I’m not. Not like that.” You say. “I’m assessing. You’re gonna need a butterfly bandage, on your nose- skin moves too much. And a cold compress for your jaw. Maybe some disinfectant on your lip. Probably should get your knuckles wrapped too and-”

“Jesus, I fuckin’ get it.”

You roll your eyes, ready to retort, but then the elevator dings. You walk out into the hallway, Bakugou trailing behind you like a shadow. It’s not until you’re at your door, twisting your key into the lock, that you pause.

You’re about to enter your apartment, with Bakugou of all people. A guy you’re not even sure can tolerate you. And yet you’re doing it- because he needs help. Because he looks like walking death and you’ve got a first aid kit under your bathroom sink. Because he’s pretty much proved himself to be an irredeemable asshole, but yet you still can’t bring yourself to leave him out in the cold.

Because you’re an empath, and that, by default, makes you an idiot.

You turn the key. Bakugou, to his credit, looks a little uneasy, but then you’re waving him through the door, and pushing it shut behind him. 

“So, you wait here.” You gesture towards your couch, moving aside a few pillows to make him room to sit. “I’m gonna go get all that stuff I talked about.”

“So, what, you’re just like playing fuckin’ nice nurse again, now?”

“Bakugou. No attitude please- I am nice, okay? All the time. Or, at least when others are nice to me.” You say, levelling him with an unimpressed look. “And even if they’re not, I still don’t like seeing them hurt. Not if I can do something about it.”

“I don’t want your fuckin’ help.”

“No, but you need it. And since you’re too stubborn to ask for it, I’m just gonna have to force it on you.”

“Do you even fuckin’ hear yourself?” Bakugou prickles, voice rising. “Acting like a goddamn savior. Like you’re so fuckin’ good and holy. It’s bullshit.”

“It’s not.” You say flatly. Then you’re pivoting on your heels, leaving him behind and you grab the first aid kit. You open the bathroom door, calling over your shoulder. “And if you have such a problem with it, then leave. Nobody is keeping you here.”

You hear Bakugou swear again, so angry and seething that you almost believe he’ll take you up on your offer; but then you hear footsteps across the floor, the creaking of your couch.

You reach under your sink, pulling out the kit and a few extra rags for a compress. When you look in the mirror there’s exhaustion lacing your features, your eyes worn and dark with bags. The sight makes a part of you want to forget it all- makes you want to surrender to the ache in your bones and tell him to leave; but that’s just a small part. The larger part is telling you that you’re not spent until you’re unconscious, and that right now, Bakugou looks a whole lot worse than you feel. It’s telling you to hurry up and help him and you agree. 

When you walk back out, supplies in hand, Bakugou’s slumped on your couch. He’s got his head tilted over the back, one hand resting on his stomach and the other thrown over his eyes. He shifts at the sound of your approach, dropping his hand and as blinks blearily. You think his eyes look a little duller than before- less like raging wildfire and more like smothered embers. If you didn’t know any better it would look like begruding acceptance- but this was Bakugou, and you knew better.

“So,” You start, setting all of your things down on the couch next to him. “You wanna go to sleep now? Or wait until after I fix up pretty much the entirety of your face?” 

He looks at you unsurely, eyebrows creasing.

“Wait, actually- how are you planning to get home?” You continue, hands on your hips. “Where do you even live? Around here? Close? Because you were out in like, 10 minutes, maybe, the last time I touched you, so it’s gotta be close. You live close right? Because-”

“God, cool it with the fuckin’ word vomit. Shit’s annoying. Shut up.” He grumbles. “I’m sleeping here.”

“Who decided? You?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

“Bakugou.” You balk, striding closer to the back of your couch. You lean over him, forcing him meet your eyes. “This is what I’m talking about! With the learning to play nice thing! I would’ve let you stay here, I would’ve, had you asked. You can’t just bulldoze your way into my house and refuse to leave!” 

“Yeah? ‘n just what the fuck are you gonna do about it if I do?” He scoffs, curling his lip as he snarls. “Nothing. Because you’re so fuckin’ nice, right?”

“Don’t say it like that. It’s not a bad trait and I won’t have you insulting it. I’m not embarrassed of who I am.” You try to work through your frustration, centering yourself with a deep breath. “Look, bottom line is, ask next time. Or I’m not helping you until you do.” 

“Fine. Whatever.”

You try to shrug off his petulant response, taking another calming breath as you shuck off your gloves. You replace them with latex ones from the kit, pulling the material over your fingers as you grab the antiseptic wipes. You decide to start around the cut on his nose. It’s the largest and widest, spanning over the entirety of his bridge and into his right cheek. It’s a nasty thing, deep and red, all exposed nerves beneath a thin scab and you can tell it hurts him. Bakugou fights to keep from wincing, eyes scrunching slightly as you wipe the remnants of dirt and oil from his skin. 

“This from another villan?” You ask calmly, finding an easy peace in performing familiar tasks. “One today?”

“Cuts are from today. Bruises were yesterday.”

Blinking down at him, you’re a little surprised by how easy his answer was. You expected him to fight, to be difficult just because he could, but Bakugou wasn’t doing that. He was lying relatively and still and sated under your fingertips, the only sign of any tension are his minutely pinched eyebrows. Briefly, you check your gloves- for a moment there you were sure you’d accidentally touched him.

“Oh. Okay.” You reply, taking a small butterfly bandage from your kit. You press it over the cut with gentle pressure. “How’s the other guy look?”

“Fuckin’ terrible. Beat ‘em to hell.”

“I’m sure you did.” You snort, moving on to clean the cut on his lip. “Hey, you wanna know something?”

Bakugou peeks a red eye open, studying your face above him. He nods.

“I actually end up treating a lot of your victims, you know.” 

“Criminals. Not victims.”

“Mhm. Sure. Well, either way, they’re always covered in burns. Mostly minor, but sometimes pretty nasty ones.” You try to keep your voice light, even and steady as you dab at his lip. “Honestly, at this point, I’m pretty sure you’re entirely responsible for the hospital’s chronic burn-cream shortage.”

Bakugou does seem to smile at that, exhaling through his nose as his eyes flutter briefly. “Wouldn’t be fuckin’ short if people just stopped tryin’ to pull stupid shit all the time. ‘s not my fault they’re so fuckin’ bad at running away.” 

“Bakugou.” You balk, unable to keep the laugh from bubbling out your lips. “You can’t say that!’ 

“Why the fuck not? Hah? It’s true.” 

“Because! You’re supposed to be playing nice, remember?”

“Yeah. To you.” He mumbles, voice rough and raspy. “Because you fuckin’ schemed your way into forcing me. They didn’t.” 

“Okay- First, I’m like, pretty sure schemed and forced are the same thing, so we definitely don’t need to say them both. It’s just overkill. Second, that’s a borderline insult, so I’m gonna need you to watch your mouth. And third,” You cradle his jaw in your fingers, turning it to the side. “How the hell did you manage to get a bruise behind your ear?”

“I don’t know- probably the same way you somehow managed to become a nurse; even with such shitty fuckin’ bedside manner. You suck, leech.”

Your jaw drops. 

“Bakugou!”

He cracks his eyes open, something small and pleased settling at the corner of his mouth. There’s almost as much venom in his voice as before but his eyes are softer now. They’re kinder, crinkling just slightly at the edges. 

He’s joking. You realize. He doesn’t actually mean it. Not this time.

“You dick.” You reprimand, flicking his hairline lightly. “You absolute dick.”

His eyes just seem to grow a little brighter at that, just for a second, and then he’s shutting them again. There’s still a smirk on his face though- one you’d swear you’d slap off if he wasn’t actually being somewhat pleasant right now. For once in his life, it seemed. 

“Alright,” You announce, rounding the couch quickly. “Your knuckles look just as bad so give ‘em.”

“No thanks.”

“It wasn’t really a suggestion.”

“I don’t need anymore of your pity help, leech.”

“It’s not pity. Not even a little bit.” You sigh. “Look, I know you’re not gonna understand this, but I seriously cannot chill the hell out without at least trying to take care of people. My quirk makes my fingers literally itch when I see injuries. They itch and they don’t stop itching until I do something about it. Helping people, healing people, is hard-wired into me- it’s as much something I do for me as it is something I do for others.” 

Bakugou’s eyes widen at that. He sits a little straighter, fists clenching as he presses them into the cushions. A few beats pass and then he’s grumbling, throwing himself back as he thrusts both of his injured knuckles forward.

“God, you’re so fucking irritating.” He gripes. “If you’re gonna be such a weirdo about it, then get the hell to it already.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead kneeling next to your coffee table and settling on the ground. You take his hands in yours, bending all his fingers to make sure nothing is broken. When nothing is, you look up at Bakugou, planning to tell him the good news, but he’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet, and he blinks, once, twice, before averting his eyes quickly. You think that maybe he blushes too, but he turns his head so sharply you’re almost convinced you imagined it.

You just try to shrug it off, focusing your attention back on his hands. You notice how warm they are again, nearly feverish and strangely unblemished. When you start rubbing bruise cream over knuckles, kneading the joints between your fingers, Bakugou sighs slumps back into the couch. He closes his eyes once more.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“No. Can’t. Fuckin’ told ya already.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me why.” You set his hands back on the couch, moving instead to unravel a bandage. “Not that I won’t help you, but have you tried any other remedies? Melatonin? Or lavender? Maybe chamomile? Any of those?”

“Mhm. Falling asleep isn’t the problem.”

“Then what is?” 

 He opens his eyes, squinting at you from above. “None of your fuckin’ business.” 

“Bakugou, I’m trying to help here.”

“I don’t want-”

“Yeah. I know. You don’t want it. Or you don’t want to rely on it. I get it. But you wouldn’t have even came here if you didn’t absolutely need it, right?” You insist, grabbing his hands into yours again. “God, you know, I’ve had toddlers who were more cooperative than you. Why’re you so difficult?”

“I’m not fuckin’ difficult.”

“No. You’re difficult. Very difficult.” 

“And you’re fuckin’ annoying. Do me a favor and go back to being nice.” 

“Nope. Sorry. Pretty sure you didn’t like me then either.” You start wrapping the bandage around his knuckles, taking extra care to apply the right pressure. “And I was only nice to you because I was working, you know. I’m only actually nice to the people who deserve it.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes at that.

You finish wrapping the bandage, securing it into place with a bit of medical adhesive. All things considered, Bakugou looks better than before. Or at least, better than the death incarnate he’d been portraying himself as.

“All done.” You smile, turning away to start packing up your supplies.

“Finally. Took ya fuckin’ long enough.” 

“God, you are literally devoid of manners, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah. ‘s part of not bein’ an absolute bitch.”

You gawk, spinning around to face him. Bakugou’s relaxed into your couch, arms laid across the back leisurely as he smiles. There’s that same softness to his eyes from before, the crinkling just at the edges.

“Wow.” You scoff, smiling sarcastically. “You really think you’re so funny don’t you?” 

“I do.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Yeah. Because you’re fuckin’ brainless.”

“Brainless? Me? Swear to god, you only know, like, three words and all of them are probably swears!” 

Bakugou just shrugs, looking abnormally pleased. Content even. You figure that’s probably right for someone like him- only happy when everyone around him is devolving into chaos.

“Actually, you know what, I think I’m done yelling for the night.” You say, shucking your gloves off. You wiggle your fingers at him, a smirk plastered across your face. “I think it’s time you’re euthanized, don’t you?”

Bakugou just blinks, minutely shrinking away from you.

“Because you said you wanted me to put you to sleep, right? To put you down. Like a dog.” You continue, nearing him, coming close even as his lip curls up. Bakugou is glaring fully now, fists clenched, and you stop just a few inches out of his reach. “Or, you know, in ruder terms- not a dog, but a bitch.”

Bakugou snarls, lunging at you as you duck away. He’s fast but you’re faster, vaulting behind your couch to create some distance. There’s fire in his eyes, blazing and hot in his irises, but it isn’t scary. If you look close enough, you’re almost sure it’s just warmth. That same rare amusement from earlier.

“You leech. Swear to fuck I’ll make you regret that. Say your goddamn prayers!” 

“Touch me and you’ll fall asleep!” You tease. “Or I’ll use my quirk and see into your brain. So I guess it’s more of a ‘pick your poison’ for you, really.” 

“It’ll be the same for you.” Bakugou growls, hands grasping the back of the couch as he leans in towards you. “Open casket or closed, it’s still gonna be your fuckin’ funeral.” 

“Really?”

“Really. Leech.”

“No thanks.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘no thanks’,” Bakugou mimics your voice, his features twisting. “I’m killing you. You’re dead. You don’t get a choice.” 

“No, I really think I do.”

“And just what the fuck makes you so goddamn confident?”

“This. You not attacking me.” You smile easily, voice daring as you stare right back at him. “If you really wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Isn’t that right, Dynamite?” 

The name sends Bakugou recoiling, shrinking backwards and scoffing in outright shock. You watch him stumble, legs hitting your coffee table and nearly causing him to fold. He recovers quickly though, albeit with his cheeks flushing wildly. 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Nah. Thanks for the offer though.” You smile brightly, before throwing your arms above your head and yawning widely. “As fun as that was, I’m pretty tired. You ready to fall asleep, yet?”

“Jesus fuck, yes. That’s the entire goddamn reason I’m even here. Idiot.”

“No name calling. You agreed.”

“I didn’t agree to shit.”

“You did.” You affirm. “Now, c’mon, like last time, hold your hand out.” 

With surprisingly little dramatics or resistance, Bakugou listens. He thrusts one of his bandaged hands forward as he sits on the couch again. When you touch his fingers, you feel that faint warmth again. Like fire and embers coursing through your bloodstream. It’s uncomfortable, a relentless sensation that has you cringing. You briefly wonder what it would be like to always live with it. Like Bakugou seems to. 

His eyes flutter shut just like last time, and you can see the way he staggers. It’s like the fight leaves him entirely, and then he’s falling boneless into the couch. You can hardly place a pillow onto the cushions before he’s driving his head into it.

“Jesus,” You mutter in disbelief. “How long has it been since you slept? You look dead.” 

“Weeks.” Bakugou mumbles.

“Since the last time?” 

“Mhm.”

If his words alone didn’t confirm the severity of his sleeplessness for you, his response time did. Bakugou answered quickly, without fight, like he’d been wanting to spill for the entire night. And, you suppose, maybe he did; or was trying to. In hindsight, you begin to realize a lot of his screaming could just as easily have read as cries for help- not that you’d ever tell him that. You’d probably have to prepare a will if you ever tried telling him that.

“You want a blanket?” You ask a little unsurely, not exactly confident in your approach to this entirely different Bakugou. “All you’re getting is the couch, but I could probably scrounge up a few blankets.”

Bakugou doesn’t respond. All you hear in response are tiny little snores and slow breathing. 

You find it reminds you of the last time- the way you’re reaching into a cupboard and grabbing out a blanket for him. Except this time, it’s a little bit different. Somehow you’re settling the blanket over him with a little bit of genuine kindness instead of begrudging sympathy.

After all, you can’t help but feel a little bit of pity- no one would ever fall asleep that fast unless they really needed it. Especially not in a stranger’s house. 

--/--

enjoy my lovelies :))

taglist:  @fluffyviciousbunny @definitelynottrin @imsuperawkward @i-need-air @ahbeautifulexistence @brennabooz @jazzylove @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @katsuki-bakubabe @sorrythatspussynal @bakugouswh0r3 @cloudsgathering @un-limit-edd @thekatsukisimp @pollayra21 @the2ndl @officialtrashbusiness @waffleareniceandfluffy @monempathieetmoi @koiwoshinai

[wandsandwheezes]

Regular | G.W

A/N // There are no warnings its pure fluffy fluff from your resident Barista, wishing that georgie was one of her regulars 👉👈

The back end of the Christmas period was always a deep and tedious slog, every single person was desperate for their caffeine fix as they shuffled in one by one. Working in a coffee shop was never your end game, it was just meant to be temporary while you settled in the city. Temporary turned to a year, a year turned to two and every winter morning as you threw yourself out of bed, rising way before the sun did you reminded yourself that it was only temporary. Something about the job made it bearable, you were lucky to work in a team that all got along but it wasn’t your coworkers that made each working day fun, it was the regulars.

Two years on the job and you soon knew your regulars on a first name basis, many stopping by for a chat with their drinks, others the tired workers of Diagon Alley, giving you a thankful but tired glance as they ordered their drinks. Each one of the staff had their favourite regular, but yours seemed to be the most obvious. 

You nearly dropped the jug of hot milk when you saw him first step foot in the shop. He was quite literally breathtaking; Tall, handsome and bright ginger hair, his smile made your heart melt and you recognised him from the papers as one of the owners of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, the stand out shop right in the heart of the bustling wizarding shopping landmark. You had to take a deep breath as you faced the machine when you realised you’d be serving him, turning back around to face him with a smile and a ‘can I help?’.

“A large americano with a bit of cream if you’ve got it, doll.” His voice was deep but was more velvety than any latte milk you could have steamed. You held onto the till to stabilize yourself as you listened to him, you’d come to know just the type of drinks people would order but with him you wouldn’t have placed it, his eyes were gazing over the drinks board above your head as he thought, giving you the opportunity to admire the freckles that littered the bridge of his nose. 

“I suppose I should also get a Large Gingerbread latte, my brother would kill me if I didn’t get him something sweet.” He flashed his smile again, it was pearly white and you knew that it was a grin that could have got him out of many caught-red-handed moments. You handed him his drinks, him handing over the galleons and you prayed you'd see his gorgeous smile again. 

The next day, on the grind again, that same morning slog that didn't want to shift. Honestly you felt like hell, every moment a slow, tiresome push to get you through the rest of your shift, until he walked in again. He had the same boyish grin that lit up the room, every step in his stride was cheerful. You thanked Godric that this breathtaking man had graced your morning once again.

"Same as before?" You asked kindly as he stepped up to your till, clearly taken back by the fact you remembered his order, nodding sheepishly as he pulled out his wallet, your eyes lingering on each others for just a second. 

Every day he came in while you worked, Coworkers even told you they hadn't seen him on your days off, leading you to wonder if perhaps it was you that kept bringing him back in. Perhaps that was too forward of you to think, surely a man of his command couldn't be besotted with a simple coffee shop girl. 

Four months of serving him had given you a lifetime of daydream material. He'd come in as usual, ordering his two drinks and paying with a smile. But today was different, the day was quieter, he got just the one drink but stood and chatted with you for what felt like hours. 

"I hope this isn't too forward of me but, you look absolutely stunning today." He spoke calmly, bringing the drink to his lips, taking a sip all while holding a knowing smirk, watching as your eyes avoided his gaze and your eyes widened with surprise. You were stood before him, messy bun, unforgiving uniform and not a hint of makeup on your face. 

"You take that back, George Weasley." You chuckled as you gently pushed his shoulder, causing his charming laugh to fall from his lips but he only shook his head, watching as you grew more flustered. 

"How about you let me take you on a date, seeing as we've already had coffee together." He raised his eyebrow at you, biting the inside of his cheek hopefully but all the while preparing for a gentle rejection. 

"I don't think it counts if I've made the coffee, but sure a date would be lovely." You felt your heartbeat's pace kick up as soon as the words were falling from your lips, unable to truly process the events that were happening. "I finish my shift in fifteen if you want to hang around, we can always talk a little more about our date."

The date with George went smoothly, after a few days of his planning you'd settled on a beautiful meal and he walked you home like a gentleman after an amazing night. You were so invested in date number one that the second came only a day or so later. You'd managed to convince him that a muggle mini golf date would be fun, George was surprisingly good at it and won the course fair and square. 

"I think you need to admit that wasn't your first game of mini golf." You joked, nudging him with your shoulder as you walked side by side. 

"It most definitely was, I just think it was beginners luck." He quipped back, your arm linking around his, making the smile on his lips grow wider. 

"You could go pro!" You joked

"Oh Yeah? Fred'll love that 'oh sorry freddie, yeah can't run the shop anymore, I've decided I want to be a mini golf professional'..." George returned stealing a glance as you continued to walk. 

Only when you were stood outside your house did you realise that the date was ending and every part of you wanted it to continue forever. As if George heard your thoughts, he had closed the gap between you, lips inches apart as he whispered, "Is this okay?" 

The second your lips touched it was better than any fireworks display, moving together like it was meant to be. He was meant to be. 

Even as your Boyfriend, and several dates later, George still came into the coffee shop, expecting his drinks (which you didn't make him pay for) but now also a kiss. Your job was never meant to be forever, but maybe George was so part of you was glad you stayed, if not for the regulars, for him.

taglist //@starlightweasley @slytherinsunrise @gcdric @theweasleysredhair @whiz-bangs78 @vogueweasley @thisismynerdyself @pansydaisy @pigwidgexn

[writing-in-april]

The Five Stages of Grief

Stage five: Acceptance (5/5)

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader (Spencer’s POV)

Thanks to @zhuzhubii who helped me so much with this series and made this gif for me 🥰

Summary: Spencer going through each of the stages of grief after the death of the reader. Stage five is acceptance.

A/N: Can’t believe my first series on here is done!!! I’m not gonna lie you guys this chapter is super emotional for me- I no joke cried the whole time while writing it and while rereading to edit. I basically have been going through the same thing recently with my Nana. This chapter is very close to my heart and is definitely the most personal chapter for me. The whole series is actually heavily inspired by season 3 episode 19 -one of my favorite episodes of criminal minds- and I also used elements from season 3 episode 15. This also kinda helps explain a lot of my writing choices throughout the whole series if you’re curious. I did my first real attempt at foreshadowing in this series, I hope you all enjoy it! Thank you for all the love and support on this series- with a special thanks to @spencerreidsmiles and @andiebeaword -you all have been so lovely and amazing.

Warnings (All warnings for the whole series are on series Masterlist): Sad Spencer, References to past drug use, References to past suicidal behaviors, Small panic attack, Hopeful Spencer, Unreliable narrator (much less so in this chapter)

Main Masterlist | The 5 Stages Masterlist Word Count: 3.5k (longest chapter)

It’s been a year; One full year since they had died in my arms. One full year since they had been shot so cruelly by a heartless unsub in an alley. One full year since I had been graced with their presence and the sound of their voice.

The elements of my emotions were extremely complex according to my therapist, and surprisingly I found myself starting to feel the benefits with them more every time I went to an individual session or a group session. It was hard for me to realize that I would have to learn to accept my situation.

It was hard to learn how to understand my own emotions when I had been so willing to shut them out, to try and convince myself that they didn’t exist.

I had begun to learn that I carried around the water that felt like I could drown in, the fire that burned so hot that anyone near it would get burned, the earth that I had wished would bury me with the pebbles I had chosen to cope with, and even the polluted air of my sadness around with me everyday. But, now I somewhat accepted the fact that they would always be with me, or at least I was trying to.

I had to learn to accept.

Even if it hurt I had to learn to at least try.

The next goal I had been given by the therapist was the most daunting of my tasks yet in my opinion. Trying to convince myself to open the boxes in the corner of the bedroom I had once shared with Y/N was harder than trying to get clean. The thought that had propelled me forward into getting clean was that I felt as though I would be disrespecting Y/N by not staying clean. They had been the reason all those years ago that I had spilled the clear liquid down the toilet and I needed to do it again, if only for them.

The boxes were something that were easier to ignore. I could ignore them by turning my back to the stack of boxes, choosing instead to stare at the painted walls of my apartment instead. There was no reason for me to stop ignoring the boxes, no one was trying to pressure me to open them besides my therapist. Everyone else in my life had no expectations for me to open them at any time, if ever, including Y/N’s family.

But, it had begun to feel like maybe I could try to attempt to open the boxes. I wasn’t sure what had finally prompted my brain into thinking that perhaps it would be a good thing to stop ignoring it. I stopped trying to understand why my mind works the way it does long ago, I had poured enough time into my life thinking about that.

I had felt this overwhelming urge to be able to look back at things that once belonged to them with some semblance of peace. I wanted to enjoy the memories we had together once more. I was tired of letting the memories get soiled by the unsub, I deserved to still think back on the one that I loved with a smile. I deserved to be able to preserve their memories with happiness and not let them sour with sadness. I wouldn’t let the unsub be able to kill something else while he was behind bars, my memories.

I was ready.

I was ready to open those boxes.

I was ready to at least try.

I was ready to try and look back at the memories.

I wasn’t going to let their memory die too.

My first attempt to open the boxes in the corner of my bedroom consisted of me staring for two hours at the stacks. I knew that I at least wanted to try to attempt to open a box, even if it was the smallest of the bunch.

That day I had gotten the lid of one of the boxes open. That was as much as I could handle emotionally in that moment. There was a small part of myself that wanted to push myself to look inside the box, but I couldn’t do it that night. That night I laid down on the bed, again facing the wall, unwilling to look at the boxes. I knew if I did I’d feel as if I had failed and I had to keep trying to convince myself that small progress was still progress.

I tried again despite the swirling anxiety in the hole in my chest.

I was still willing because I still wanted to have my memories unsullied by sadness.

I still knew that I deserved that despite my volatile elemental emotions threatening to push me into another toxic loop.

The next time I tried to look in the box I had previously opened just a little I immediately got choked, recognizing the contents sat at the top surrounded by other smaller insignificant items. I only managed to grab one of their old tchotchkes that used to sit on their desk in the bullpen. It was insignificant enough of an item that it didn’t make me fall into an endless loop of my emotions. I clutched it all night while I tried to sleep, though I still faced away from the boxes.

I hadn’t given up yet I still wanted to try, if only for them.

I would still try for them, even if I didn’t succeed, I still felt better for trying.

It had taken me awhile to muster up the courage to look at the box again, even though I still wanted to try I was scared that the contents would be too much for my fragile psyche. What I had gotten a glimpse of at the top of the box was something that used to be important for Y/N.

The next time I tried to look I successfully managed to pick up the item that had triggered the painful memory in my mind. It was ironically, it was another box.

The box wasn’t something that was explicitly tied to memories that we shared together. I knew it to be a music box from their childhood, given to them by someone that had meant so much to them. Out of curiosity I cranked the knob on the side and slowly opened the lid, wondering if I could handle the sounds of a song that I had often heard every time they had opened it to listen to the twinkle of the box they cherished.

As soon as the beginning notes of Swan Lake floated into the air I slammed to top shut, unwilling to open up the box of my emotions all the way just yet. I knew I couldn’t get rid of it, it was too important of an artifact in Y/N’s life. Though I knew that this wasn’t something I could keep to myself, this belonged to Y/N’s family. I clutched the box for a second in my arms when I came to the realization that the trinket should be with someone else as if it would be cruelly ripped from my arms right then and there. I felt a little fire being stoked in my belly at the thought of people taking it from me, even though there was no one there in my lonely apartment with me.

I started a breathing exercise that my therapist had told me to use when I felt like this. No matter how much it pained me to admit it, it did help immensely in snuffing out the emotions when I could feel them begin to spiral out of control.

I couldn’t let myself fall into an endless loop of volatile emotions again. I had worked hard to get clean after I had started to write my amends. It had been a hard uphill battle even after I had written down my amends, my grief hadn’t magically gone away that day. Getting clean had been much harder without my rock and the person who had helped me get clean the first time around. I wouldn’t disrespect their memory by going back to dilaudid again.

Once the initial fear began to fade and my breathing had grown steady I forced myself to loosen my grip on the music box. I then carefully set it down in a place that would be suitable enough for a stack of things I’d pass off to other people that had been important to them. I hoped I’d soon be ready to make a donation pile despite that I despised the mere thought of giving something away that belonged to them to a mere stranger.

It was already too much for today, I could only bear looking at the one item. I didn't know how I’d be able to handle it if the box was filled with more trinkets that were important to them. I did however find myself thinking when I laid down on my bed for the night after a hot shower to relax my mind. I found my mind thinking about the trinkets they’d had an affinity for collecting. It still brought tears to my eyes to think about giving away their stuff, even if it was to people who also mattered in their life. But, I found myself thinking about their old cute little trinkets without as much pain, though it was definitely still there.

Maybe tomorrow when I try, I’d do better.

The small box that I had begun to unpack over a series of days didn’t hold anything else seemingly important to Y/N’s life. Besides the music box I had found prior, the small box was only filled with unimportant trinkets that thankfully didn’t spark much meaning in my mind. It was obvious that when the team had initially helped me to put their stuff away until I was ready that things had been put away in a slight haste. They must’ve done it so quickly as a way to try and help me. The animosity that I had held towards my team for the last year because of Y/N’s death had been slowly melting away over time. I still wasn’t as friendly as I had been before, but I knew my frigid nature after the event hadn’t been justified. I knew now that they had only my best interests at heart, even if they didn’t always pinpoint what they were correctly. I had even begun to regain some of my desk duties once I had gotten clean. It had felt good to feel somewhat normal even though the sight of their desk directly across from mine and their still empty round table chair still made my heart pang with grief.

I had even begun texting them more frequently again, though I was still aversive to text, so I guess it still wasn’t that often. Some things really do never change despite the fact that my life had turned on its head in the past year. I had even begun to write letters to my mom again.

I knew I was lucky to still have people by my side, even if it wasn’t the one I knew deep down I still wanted with me.

I thought I could have at least done the box without crying anymore.

That was until I found something at the bottom of the box that made the dam holding my memories back in my mind break to flood my mind. The book would probably seem inconsequential compared to the rest of the items that I knew sat in the other boxes. Most people would assume after just looking at the surface level what items of Y/N’s meant most to me, the ones I wanted to keep. The black paper back was well worn around the edges, almost like if I read it too frequently and I wasn’t too careful that the spine would break. I ran my fingers up and down the battered book as I began to willingly reminisce. To other people the book would’ve looked beaten already beyond repair, maybe as if it had not been loved enough, battered perhaps because of neglect.

But, just like me I knew that Y/N had loved the book more than most people would be willing to.

I knew that I wanted to keep this book, no matter how painful I knew their contents would be for me. I hoped that I’d be able to read it so much that I’d be afraid for the binding of the book, just to be able to feel close to them again. Though I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready to dig up this particular memory, it might still be too painful for me.

I remember they had bought this book for us after I had connected with a grieving father on a case. He had specifically quoted a poem to me that stuck with me for weeks after. Once I had told them of the excerpt quoted to me they had immediately grabbed a copy of where it had originated from, a long Wordsworth poem. The book “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood” became their favorite quickly, in fact it used to take residence in the top drawer of their nightstand. They had often loved to read me their favorite excerpts at night just before bed when my eyes couldn’t stand to focus on the pages anymore.

When I opened the well worn book it flipped open to where they had set their bookmark last, I recognized the excerpt immediately. My breath got caught up in my throat when the words danced around in my vision. I wasn’t sure if I could face this specific excerpt quite yet, or even be able to read any part of the poem. The book held so many memories of them. This specific poem held so much meaning to the both of us.

However, there was something in me that wanted to try. I wanted to be able to read the poem again and remember the memories we shared fondly. I wanted to be able to enjoy my memories with them. I had come to realize over the past year that their memory deserved to be nurtured with fondness not overwhelmed with sadness.

So, I decided to try.

The memory’s attached to the excerpt immediately began flooding back even as soon as I read the beginning words. The bookmark had landed on the page that had been quoted to me by the grieving father, the words holding even more meaning in my life now than ever before.

“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my-“

The tears in my eyes blurred my vision, so much so that I had to stop reading for a moment to wipe my eyes. I didn’t know if I wanted to continue, just those first few lines were already weighing heavily on my mind. I was already focusing on the radiance that had left my life forever. A radiance that was once so bright, but was now snuffed out, forever taken from my sight. My sorrow was creeping in with small little waves in my mind, I just had to hope that it wouldn't drown me. I didn’t want to get stuck on an endless loop of emotions again, I had just gotten fully clean a little while ago.

Even though I was feeling intensely emotional over just the first few words I wanted to keep trying. I wanted to read this poem and smile. I wanted to be able to look back at our memories with love, to take back what had been polluted by the acts of a heinous man. Once I had somewhat collected myself and my thoughts I began to read again from the beginning of the excerpt-

“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,”

My entire being could not help but ache as I read the words, still aching for the presence of the one who had been forever taken from my sight. When I reached that part that I remembered asking the grieving man about all those years ago, the words held an even deeper meaning to me now than I ever thought possible. There was nothing I could do to bring back the hour where I was still in my lover’s embrace. I wanted to be back in the moments of splendour in the grass and glory in the flower, I knew that soon I’d have to fully accept that it wasn’t possible.

Again I had to wipe tears from my eyes before continuing to read the stanza. This time a few tears dribbling down onto the pages, marking them with my sadness forever no matter if it dried into the parchment or not. I continued to read the page despite the saltwater that continued to drip down my face,

“We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind”

I felt a small watery smile creep onto my face, it had been so long since I had remembered to smile with sincerity. I was thinking about some of the times they had read this to me as I tried to drift off into a most likely restless sleep. Though I had always slept better when they read to me. At the time the words hadn’t meant as much to me as they did now, I now had a permanent connection to the feeling of grief that would never be erased. For the first time in a long time thinking about them didn’t hurt as much for a moment, I actually smiled, even though it was rather watery. No matter how small or sad the smile was, I was still smiling. And, I knew in that moment that Y/N would’ve been proud of me.

I pondered on the stanza’s meaning in a deeper way than I had done before. The things stated in the stanza about how I would gain strength from this situation made me contemplate what Y/N would’ve wanted me to do after their death. They wouldn’t want me to give up as I had done before, they had always wanted the best for me. They would want me to gain strength from the situation.

They would want me to grow from the pain that sat in my chest.

They would want me to move on, to accept.

I didn’t know if I’d ever find someone else that I’d ever love as much as I loved them. I didn’t really ever want to, I had found my true love already. Maybe one day I’d find someone to fall in love with again and if I did I knew they would be happy that I was able to move on with someone else. Even if I ever did move on with someone else there’d always be a part of my heart that belonged to Y/N. For now I was ready to move on in a different way. I was ready to live my life without them, by myself.

The trauma of losing them would always weigh heavily on my soul, I’d carry that with me until I rejoined them in the earth. But, I was now ready to keep living, if only for them. I felt less guilty now since I had grown to realize that they’d want me to try and live the rest of my life as fully as I could. They’d want me to try and find happiness. I didn’t know if I would ever truly find it again, whether it was on my own or with someone else.

They may have been forever taken from my sight, but I found comfort in the fact that the radiance they brought into my life would always reside in me. Instead of letting the deep hole in my chest gape until the hour of my death, I’d let it fill with the radiance of their memory.

I was ready to try.

I was ready to try even if I knew the water that felt like I could drown in, the fire that burned so hot that anyone near it would get burned, the earth that I had wished would bury me with the pebbles I had chosen to cope with, and even the polluted air of my sadness around with me everyday would sometimes take ahold of me again no matter how hard I tried.

I’d always carry those emotions with me, but I knew I was ready.

“Nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.”

I knew I was ready because their memory would always be with me to give me strength and to guide me. They’d always be there to help me try to live the rest of my life peacefully.

When I slept that night I faced the boxes while clutching the book to my chest.

Even though it still would always hurt on some level, I was ready to live in a reality where I could accept.

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All works:

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5 stages of grief:

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[inkandpen22]

Beautiful Angel of Darkness (2/?)

Pairing: Spike x Female! Reader 

Warnings: Swearing, violence, angst, mentions of death 

Word Count: 2k

Part Summary: Y/N considers Spike’s offer, but for obvious reasons she’s hesitant. However, she can’t deny the pull feels toward him. 

Masterlist

“Forever is an awfully long time,” I state quietly, torn between the options of life or living forever.

“Um yeah, that’s sort of the whole point,” the stranger retorts as he pulls out a cigarette for himself.

“aw yes, that’s the way to get a girl’s permission to bite her,” I remark sarcastically. “Sass her to death!”

“I don’t need your permission, Pet,” he so ominously reminds me.

“I suppose not, but you prefer my compliance. Am I wrong?” I challenge. 

He glares at me while lighting his cigarette. “You’re such a tease, you know that?” He mumbles bitterly.

“And you’re a hard ass,” I fire back, unfazed. He stares at me with raised brows. “Oh I’m sorry, are you the only one who can name call?”

His eyes roll dramatically with a huff of annoyance. “I couldn’t pick a mute girl to be interested in.”

“I imagine she’d bore you,” I predict, crossing my arms over my chest.

He shrugs, “you’re probably right.” Casually, he hops up onto one of the nearby headstones and sits down.

“Get used to saying that sentence frequently,” I snicker, moving to sit on the headstone across from his.

“So, you want to be vamped out?” He waves me along, growing impatient.

“Oh, so I do have a choice?” I tease, pretending to be surprised.

“Not if you keep talking,” he grumbles, taking a hit of his cigarette.

“I have family and friends I have to consider,” I state matter-of-factly.

It’s true, I have a mother, my siblings, friends from school, all of whom will wonder what happened to me. I can’t just let that go.

“They won’t be a thought once you’re mine,” he claims, smirking at me mischievously.

“Why the sudden interest?” I inquire, genuinely curious. I imagine he could have anyone in the world, why me? Why now?

“I lost someone,” he answers, avoiding my gaze as he focuses on tapping his cigarette against the tombstone. “My girl, Druscilla.”

“So I’m the rebound,” I clarify, nodding in understanding.

His head snaps up, meeting my eyes directly. Apparently, I’ve hit a trigger point. He hops down from his tombstone and rushes over to me. The man pries my legs apart and stands between them. He cups my face in his hands, making me stare into his emerald eyes. “You will be far more,” he assures me with such certainty in his voice I can’t help but believe it. “You will be my reason for existing.”

My chest rises and falls at a rapid rate as I process it all. The longer I stare into his marble-like eyes, the more convinced I become. How could I ever deny him? “Okay,” I finally grant him my answer.

An amazing glimmer appears across his features and he steps closer. “Okay, what?” He repeats as if he isn’t sure he heard me correctly.

I place my hands over his that caress my cheeks. “Make me like you, but under one condition.”

He rolls his eyes, “should’ve known this was coming,” he grumbles. “What is it?”

“Tell me your name,” I request simply.

“Spike,” he answers without hesitation.

“What’s your real name?” I clarify, almost certain that ‘Spike’ couldn’t be it. “And not just your first name either, I want to know the whole thing.”

He frowns, evidently growing frustrated with the subject. “Why does it matter?”

“Because it does!” I argue.

“But why? It’s stupid,” he dismisses sharply, removing his hands from me, but remains between my legs.

“Because if we’re going to spend forever together I’d like to know your real fucking name so just say it!” I snap at him, earning a look of surprise.

Visibly, there’s a strong debate occurring in his mind. He sighs, shaking his head as he glances around the cemetery then back at me. “William, alright? My name is William Pratt, happy now?”

“Over the moon,” I joke with a giggle, reaching up and holding his cheek in my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Will.”

“Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you too,” he pretends to be hard and disinterested in the charm of it all, but I can tell by the way he subtly leaned into my touch that he truly longs for it.

____________________________________________

Becoming a vampire is by the far the most freeing experience of my life or should I say undead life? Either way, Spike has broken me free of all torments and has opened the gates to the world. There is nothing we can’t do together. The entire world belongs to us. All we have to do is reach out and take what we want. Each night, I wake up with a strong urge to destroy and devour. I’ve never felt more powerful and entrancing.

I’ve been a vampire for a few days now, but Spike has kept me confined to the crypt for safety reasons. He claims I’m fragile in the early days until I become used to my new status. To build my strength, he brings me humans to feed on and is teaching me how to defend myself. I’m still learning how to fight in case I ever run into the Slayer or her team of misfits. Her very existence is annoying, such an inconvenience. According to him, I’ve been adjusting rather well, better than usual actually. So, to celebrate my growing strength and swift adaptions, Spike is taking me to The Bronze tonight. It’ll be the first time I’ve been outside the crypt in a week! There’ll be so many people to feed on and every opportunity to terrorize, I’m so excited!

Spike grips my hand protectively as we travel through the crowd of the club. I rarely had enough time to visit this place when I was human. Taking care of my mom and siblings all while balancing school consumed most of my days.

“Oh great,” Spike grumbles, tossing his head back.

I grip his forearm and squeeze his hand worriedly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The Slayer and her clan of party killers are over there,” he growls, his eyes directed sharply at a nearby table.

I purr, watching the table of oblivious teenagers hungrily. I spot the blonde Slayer as she chats with her friends naively happily. So, that’s the infamous Buffy Summers. Spike has described her to me frequently. Apparently, we go to the same high school, different grades. I never really branched out of my grade or friend group for that matter. Immersed in the idea of snapping the Slayer’s neck for myself, I move to approach her. Imagine what her friends would do if I killed her right here and now.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Spike repeats quietly in my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist to stop me. “Not here, Love. Wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

“But I thought you loved the dramatics, Darling,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on Buffy with a pout.

“I do, but we mustn’t yet.” He brushes my hair away from my neck slowly, planting a pattern of kisses on my neck. “Let’s go dance.”

I smile, spinning in his arms to face him. Spike takes my hand, leading me to the dance floor. We pass the table of goody-goodies and chatter ensues amongst them. I whip my head around and find the Slayer. Her eyes narrow at me, a confused expression across her features. I turn my attention back to Spike right as he stops in the middle of the dance floor. He brings his hands to my waist, pulling me in closer. I drape my arms over his shoulder loosely and meet his exquisite emerald eyes. God, he’s gorgeous.

Seductively, Spike and I dance as though we’re alone in the building. I see no one else but him. He stares into my eyes so deeply that I can feel it in my soulless body. I would wreck the world for him. I would do anything if it brought him pleasure. Spike is now my purpose in this undead life. My purpose is to make him happy. If we were to ever be parted, I don’t think I’d survive it.

“Get away from her, Spike,” a voice interrupts us.

Our heads whip to our side in unison. The little blonde Slayer stands with her arms crossed. A serious expression plaguing her face. Aw, why the frown Buffy?

Spike snickers, tossing his head back mockingly. “Won’t even wait five minutes, will you?”

“Get out of here,” she commands sharply to him. Then, Buffy turns to me with softness in her eyes. She grips my forearm pleadingly, “he’s not who he says he is.”  

Oh, this is funny, she thinks I’m human. She assumes I’m an innocent defenseless victim. Okay, I could work with this. This may be the opportunity Spike and I was looking for, the perfect charade.

My eyes go wide and I step back from Spike anxiously, “what... what do you mean?” I move to stand beside Buffy.

Spike frowns at me as though I’ve lost my marbles.

The Slayer takes my hand, ready to pull me away, “he’s-”

“Must we cause such a scene?” Spike rips me away from Buffy, grabbing my wrist roughly. “Come on, Y/N, let’s go,” he instructs, wrapping an arm around my waist and escorting me to the door. I interlock my hands instead of leaning into him as I usually would keep up the act. Once we’re out of hearing range of the Slayer and her team, he whispers to me harshly. “What the bloody hell was that?”

I suppress a snicker, “you’re far too simple-minded sometimes, Baby. Buffy is going to follow us and I need you to just go with it.”

As he opens the door for me leading out into the alley, he glances at me in amazement. Finally, the pieces are coming together. “You’re trying to pull one on her.”

“Precisely,” I confirm with an evil grin.

Alone in the dimly lit alley, Spike squeezes my waist and tugs me into his chest. He bites down on my lip, peering down at me with a pleased smirk. “You are by far the most miraculous woman I’ve ever met.” Eagerly, he leans down and smashes his lips to mine. My fingers comb through the back of his hair and grip the edges in a fist. He growls against my lips and it only drives me crazier. Will, it ever subside, the wanting him?

The metal door to The Bronze squeezes and I instantly shove Spike off of me with a scream. He stumbles back, still in a daze from our kiss. “Help!” I scream, “someone helps me, please!” I pretend to be distraught and soon Buffy is by my side, ushering me behind her safely.

“I’m not going to let you take her!” She yells at Spike bitterly.

“Well that’s really up to her, isn’t it?” Spike mocks with a cheeky grin on his lips.

“She’s human, Spike! She doesn’t know what you are,” she argues, acting as the big-bad defender of man.

“What is he?” I squeak, sounding all poor pitiful. Honestly, it’s kind of annoying playing the victim. I sound like such a cry baby. Plus, if I were human, I definitely wouldn’t follow a strange man into an empty alley. I’d be asking to get murdered. No, I just talk to them in empty cemeteries in the middle of the night.

Buffy turns to me urgently, doing everything she can to keep me safe, how sweet. She grips both of my forearms, leading me away from spike. “Look, Spike isn’t a good guy, okay? He’ll hurt you or worse! You need to run!” She urges, gesturing down the alley to the road.

“But-” I stutter, glancing at Spike. Then, in one swift motion, I yank my arms free of Buffy’s hold and leg sweep her. She falls to the pavement with a smack. I tower over her with a giggle. “You know, grabbing people without their permission isn’t nice. Where are your manners?”

Spike jogs over and pulls me into his chest. I rest my arms over him around my waist and he places his chin on my shoulder with a cheeky grin. “Beautifully done, My Love.”

Buffy pants, staring up at us in confusion, “what the-”

“Surprise! Didn’t see that one coming, did you?” I laugh wickedly, steadily approaching her like a snake going in for the kill.

______________________________________

Masterlist 

Tags: @currently-obsesed-with-spike​

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Rivals

A/N: @obsessedwithrandomthings​ requested some Neville angst in the form of enemies to lovers from me so here is what I hope is Neville angst! Honestly, it’s more rivals with a lot of unresolved sexual tension but I still hope you like! She also made this wonderful banner! I also don’t know if you can tell but I am really inspired by greek mythology and witchcraft lore in general (I'm a historian, what can I say?) and this fic is full of it so if that’s not your thing, then I apologise! Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Rival professors

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, gets a lil bit steamy

Word count: 4.7k

There wasn’t a man on the earth that could infuriate you more than Neville Longbottom.

And you had known Draco Malfoy for over a decade.

There was a history between the two of you; a natural hatred that came with the Slytherin/Gryffindor rivalry, but there was always something more. A deeper attraction that ran between the two of you despite how hard you rejected it.

He felt it too; and he fought it with every breath.

You thought you would get some reprieve upon your appointment as the Divination professor at Hogwarts, but as you entered the staff room your first week there, Neville Longbottom was stood speaking to Headmistress McGonagall.

“You have got to be shitting me?” You cry.

“Professor (Y/L/N)!” McGonagall admonishes.

“I’m sorry Headmistress, but seriously? Longbottom?”

“I’m not thrilled about the prospect of working with you either.” Neville drawls.

McGonagall looks between the two of you, a small frown pulling down the corners of her mouth, “I do hope you’ll get along in front of students.”

You glare at the tall brunette, “There’ll be no issue with that on my part, Headmistress.”

Neville returns your glare with just as much acid, “The one thing we’ll agree on then.”

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

It’s the little things he does that bother you; such as smirking at you from across the Great Hall or taking the last of the milk in the staff room. Neville knows exactly how to get a rise out of you, and he does an excellent job of it.

The rivalry that had seemingly ended upon the end of your education, promptly started back up again.

Constant competition broke out between Neville and yourself: who got the higher grades? Who had the highest pass rate? Who got the most laughs out their students?

It never ended. He would goad you, and you’d goad him right back. Practical jokes would be played on each other often. You were both frequent customers at the Weasley twin’s joke shop where materials were hoarded, and plans were formed.

McGonagall watched the two of you bicker in the staffroom; a regular occurrence. She watched the both of you argue from across the room with a fond look on her face. The rivalry would always be present between the two of you; and she was surprised – to say you were a gifted seer, you had not foreseen the palpable tension between Neville and yourself.

She watches the back and forth between the two of you; head moving as if watching a muggle tennis match. Insults and jibes are thrown between you both and yet, despite the bitterness of the words, there was no major malice in your voices.

McGonagall sips at her tea, rolling her eyes at the two of you. She supposes that it would only be a matter of time now.

----------

The week before term starts you get a letter of rejection in your notice box. Your application for the money for new textbooks had been denied. You scrunch the paper in your hands; feeling the all too familiar emotion of frustration running through your veins. Your argument for the textbooks was sound; it would be easier for the school to purchase the materials for the students than to rely on the students to use their own money.

You knock on the heavy, wooden door of McGonagall’s office; entering upon hearing her grant permission. “Headmistress, why has my application for new textbooks been rejected?”

“We’ve had to siphon funds for the Herbology trip.”

You see red, but keep a lid on your temper in front of your boss, “Pardon?”

“Divination is an elective subject; Herbology is compulsory through all seven years.” McGonagall reasons.

“So because of that, my students have to use textbooks that are falling apart?”

“We can add the material onto the reading list if that makes anything better?”

You sit back in your chair, “Term starts in a week. Students will have bought their books already. The very reason I applied for the textbooks was so that students didn’t have to buy them.”

McGonagall holds her hands up, “I’m sorry, Professor.”

You sigh through your nose, standing to leave, “Thank you for your time, Headmistress.”

Anger rises within you; all directed at the maddening Herbology professor. You understood that Herbology was a compulsory subject, and that it was very useful in determining a student’s future career as a Healer or a Potioneer. But Divination was becoming increasingly popular among the muggleborn students who grew up knowing the tales of tarot reading, palmistry and clairvoyance. And after the war, so many students sat in the class hoping for a relief in their grief – to find an answer to the well-asked question, do they find peace?

You confront Neville in the staff room, “The reason I cannot get new textbooks for my Sixth Years is because you’ve used the money for a trip to London to meet Herbert Beery?”

“He taught Herbology here before Professor Sprout, it is a worthwhile trip!”

You pause the rant sitting at the tip of your tongue; letting his words settle. “Repeat those very words for me, Longbottom.”

Neville frowns, “What?”

“Repeat. Those. Words.” You enunciate; each syllable pronounced.

“Herbert Beery taught Herbology here before Sprout. It’s a worthwhile experience for students interested in taking the subject further.”

The cushion in your hands hits Neville in the face. He looks at you astonished as you shout, “You’re taking students to meet an ex-professor?”

“What aren’t you understanding about this?” Neville questions as another cushion hits his face, “Stop doing that!” he yells.

“Why didn’t you bring him here?! He knows the school; it’s known territory! And it would have saved enough money so I could get my textbooks!” You throw more cushions at him; enjoying the way he has to dodge them. “You didn’t think this through at all, Longbottom.”

“Calm down, (Y/N). Your students can always buy the textbooks.”

“Not this close to term starting!” You throw yourself down onto the couch with a groan, “You’re an arsehole.”

Neville glares, “This trip is a once in a lifetime experience for my students. Herbert Beery is officially retiring from the field after this lecture.”

“And yet you couldn’t invite him to Hogwarts?”

“No.”

You stand, shoving his shoulder as you pass him to leave. “I can’t even begin to tell you how pissed I am. I can’t even look at you right now.”

Leaving him there, surrounded by couch cushions, you take a breather in the courtyard. Inhaling the fresh air, you start to see things more clearly. It seems that a friendship would never exist between the two of you; the rivalry stemming from Hogwarts running so deep that it could never be breached by kind words and actions.

A plan forms in your head for the perfect revenge, and it would mean a visit to Diagon Alley.

---------

If there was one thing that your education at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry had taught you, it was if you were going to prank someone, you had to make it a good one. George and Fred Weasley are more than happy to help you enchant the chalk; neither asking too many questions – they see the mischievous glint in your eye and know not to interrogate too much.

Neville walks into his classroom to find his students already sat in their seats. He lets them continue socialising as he sets up his materials for the day; this lesson focusing on the theory behind Herbology rather than hands-on practice. He grabs his chalk from the bottom of the board, proceeding to write the date and title before turning to his class, pulling their attention away from their friends and on to him.

It takes him two minutes to notice to amused expressions and the stifling of laughter.

It takes him five minutes to figure out why.

On the chalkboard behind is a caricature of his face on the body of a baby Mandrake. He’s crying big, fat tears that make their way down the length of the board before turning to dust at the bottom.

Neville can feel his face heat from the anger building within him and coursing through his veins, setting them alight. He knows exactly who’s behind this, and it isn’t any of his students.  

--------

Your class settle into their assigned seats; the crystal balls already placed in the centres of their tables. Once upon a time, students would groan at the sight of them, but now they regard them with interest.

You grin at your students, knowing what lesson they had last, “How was Herbology?”

Thomas Wadsworth in Ravenclaw begins to laugh, “I knew you would have something to do with it, Professor.”

“Was it obvious?”

He shakes his head, “Not really, but everyone knows of your rivalry.”

“How did he react?”

Shea Bard in Gryffindor raises her hand, “He went very red and muttered some curses before teaching us something else.”

You rub your hands together, “What else? Was it funny?”

“Very,” Shea nods, “But we didn’t dare laugh, no-one was in the mood to get a detention no matter how funny it was.”

You clap your hands together, pleased with the outcome. You’d have to send a thank you card to the Weasley twins for their genius minds.

“Why do you have this rivalry with Professor Longbottom?” A voice from the back asks.

Other students turn their eyes from their crystal balls to you; more interested in this topic of conversation rather than predicting their neighbour’s future.

You shrug, “We’ve never liked each other. He’s a Gryffindor and I’m a Slytherin.”

Thomas scoffs, “That can’t be it, surely? Give us something more, Professor.”

“What more is there? We went to school together and we never got on.”

Shea smiles, “With all respect Professor, you have to be aware of the tension between the two of you.”

“Tension?” You question, eyebrows furrowing.

Thomas raises his hand, counting the syllables off with his fingers, “Sex-u-al ten-shun.”

You stare wide-eyed at your class. Shea frowns, “Oh man, you weren’t aware of it were you?”

You clear your throat, “I have to know, how did my personal life become the topic for this class?”

“Since you won’t make a move on Professor Longbottom.”

“Thomas!” You chide.

He frowns, “I’m only saying what everyone else was thinking. It’s so obvious you fancy each other, it’s sickening.”

“Professor Longbottom and I have never gotten along. The most you’re going to see out of us is rivalry and cold stares.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, “Okay, Professor. If you get together before Christmas, Frances owes me Butterbeer for a month.”

“I’ll be sure to keep your bet in mind, Thomas, thank you.” You drawl with an unimpressed look, “Let’s get back to our crystal balls shall we?”

And just like that, the conversation over your personal life and your relationship with Neville Longbottom was over.

--------

The sound of your classroom door slamming shut has you jumping in your spot. You press a hand to your chest; trying to slow your racing heart as you take in the angry figure of Neville Longbottom.

“I know it was you.” He states, enunciating every word as if they were its own sentence. “I know it was you that planted the enchanted chalk in my classroom.”

You place a hand on your heart, grinning, “I am hurt that you would accuse me of such a thing, Longbottom.”

He stalks towards you, pressing you into your desk. He’s so close that you can smell the dirt from the greenhouse; it’s become the scent you associate with him.

“I spoke to the Weasley twins.”

Your grin shifts into a sly smirk, “The jig is up, you’ve caught me red-handed.”

The atmosphere between the two of become charged. The electricity in the air becoming magnetic; stirring something deep within your gut. Your eyes run over his face; taking in the widened pupils and the deepened breathing. He’s feeling it too; feeling it just as intense as you.

You resist the urge to drag him in for a kiss. You resist the urge to taste him; to memorise every inch of him with your fingers and mouth.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” You ask, voice breathless. He pushes himself away from you, stepping away quickly as your words land.

Neville storms out of your classroom; running both hands through his hair with a frustrated groan. You watch him leave, trying to slow the racing of your heart to no avail. He had no idea the reaction he could pull from you, but you were also unaware of the reaction, you could evoke from him.

You push your hair back from your forehead as you analyse your feelings for the Herbology professor; wondering when they had started to lean more towards to love than hatred.

You need to consult someone or something whether it be your cards or your tea leaves; everything feels so gnarled and scrambled, it felt impossible to make heads or tails of it all.

----------

Neville begins to enact his revenge a week later.

It starts with sitting next to you at the weekly briefings; sitting close enough to you where you can feel the warmth exuding from his body – sitting close enough to you where his thigh presses against yours. Through the briefing, he’d lean into you, whispering into your ear, asking for your thoughts. You clench the hand that’s resting on your thigh, and you feel rather than hear Neville’s amused snort at your action. He pulls away when McGonagall calls the end of the briefing and you’re left feeling suddenly cold at the lack of his touch.

He then moves onto catching your eye at every meal time. Upon which he smirks, running a hand over his jaw, not missing the way your eyes track the movement of his fingers. You turn away with a frown, drawing Professor Flitwick into a conversation about the latest journal on charms.

He decides to interrupt one of your lessons on the second day of his revenge. He enters your classroom using the ruse of searching for a student. Your mouth dries as you run your eyes up and down his body. His work overalls are tied at the waist; his muscles gloriously defined by a tight white t-shirt spattered with dirt from the plants, and the tattoos he got in memorial for the second wizarding war stand out against his lightly tanned skin.

In the years you had known Neville, you had watched him transform from a bumbling teenager into what could only be described as a Greek God.

The expression that falls across his face as you take in the sight of him makes it very clear to you that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You refuse to let him see how he’s getting to you. You shift your attention back to your class; not missing the way Thomas Cresswell points at Frances Bainbridge across the room, calling for the outcome of their bet. You roll your eyes at Thomas and Frances as you let the student Neville came for leave the classroom.

-----------

“What are you doing?” You hiss at him on the third day of his revenge.

He smirks, “Absolutely nothing.”

“If this is your revenge for my prank, it’s messed up, Longbottom.”

Neville’s eyes widen; his face the picture of perfect innocence, “What makes you think that?”

He walks away before you can answer, leaving you questioning the last week of your life.

You finish your week confused and frustrated. The feelings that had always been present for Neville were riled up; you were thinking of him more often, remembering how his thigh felt pressed against yours and the attention he paid you from across the Great Hall at every meal time.

Your heart races every time you think of him, and your stomach erupts in butterflies. You  spend your free periods thinking of how he would feel pressed against you, and how his stubble would feel under your lips. More often than not, you would find yourself with your head in your hands, cursing the day you ever let the Herbology professor into your life.

----------

It was the very last thing you wanted to do, but it was something you needed to do. A headache had been brewing now for three days, ever since Neville cooled off with his revenge for your chalkboard prank. The headache was making you sharper with your students that you intended to be.

This wasn’t a usual headache though; it had stemmed from your witches-eye - becoming a seer’s headache very quickly. The only way this could be relieved was to fall into it; opening your eye and being shown what you needed to see.

You find Neville in one of the many greenhouses dedicated to Herbology. He stands over the freshly potted Mandrakes, sprinkling fertiliser on them. You lean against the door to the greenhouse, rubbing the centre of your forehead. “Longbottom, I wouldn’t usually ask this of you, but I need access to the restricted greenhouse.”

Neville frowns, “Why would you need to go there?”

“There’s a plant I need. Would you please take me?”

“It’s nothing dangerous is it?”

You shake your head, refusing to speak as it would give away your lie.

Neville takes a set of keys from his pocket, searching for a minute for the lesser-used key. You follow him as he leads you to the restricted greenhouse. Such as with the library, the greenhouses had an area controlled against student use for it grew plants that were not only dangerous, but deadly. Mandrakes were one thing - the plants grown here had helped dark wizards gain fame, fortune, power, and all at a cost.

Neville waits at the door as you walk through the greenhouse, looking for the pale yellow flower covered in veins. You find it in little to no time at all, picking a few flowers from the plant. A petal would be fine for now; Henbane could be deadly if used in large quantities. Taking more than what you needed was your way of assuring that you wouldn’t need to bother Neville again.

You make your way back to Neville, smiling smally at the questioning expression on his face. “Did you get everything you need?” he asks.

You nod, patting the little bag in which you had stored the Henbane flowers, “I got it. Thank you, Neville.”

The walk back to the staff room is in silence. You make to walk back to your tower, ready to start the drying process for the Henbane flower, but a hand grips your wrist. You turn to find Neville holding you in place, “You’re being careful, aren’t you (Y/N)? There’s a reason that greenhouse is restricted.”

You pull your wrist from his grip, “I’ll be fine, Neville. Thanks for your concern.”

You walk away before he can say anything else.

--------

Nothing felt clear; everything felt frazzled and vague. It was as if the very threads of your life had become a tangled, snarled mess. Your realisation of your feelings for Neville had left you in a lurch; you’ve caught him watching you multiples times now – all with a puzzled expression on his face, as if reliving the restricted greenhouse and the revenge from your prank on him.  

Your hands run over the top of scrying bowl. The bowl had been handed down to you by your grandmother who had been a powerful seer; it depicts the Triple Goddess in her three forms – maiden, mother, crone.

Incense fills your office; the scent of the Black Henbane given to you by Neville. Henbane had been demonised for centuries; scholars noting that it was used in ointments and could help with conjuring of spirits.

You inhale its smell; your witches-eye opening, more sensitive in the right environment. So few witches possessed the gifts of a seer, it was rare for you to use your talent – usually letting the prophecies and such come to you naturally.

But this was needed. You needed answers for why your tea leaves were conflicting and why your tarot readings were not making sense.

An ethereal voice calls out in greeting, signalling that you had reached the other side, “You called me, daughter.”

“The path is foggy, and I’ve lost my way. I thought I was certain but now I’m not.”

“There is no way forward that does not have him in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The one who gave you the Henbane to call me forth. He is with you through it all.”

Neville? Neville.

“He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me.”

“Do not be too sure, daughter.”

Your eyebrows pull together, a puzzled expression taking over your face. You knew your feelings for the professor had changed; had felt the long dormant passion flare again but there was nothing to be done about it.

The pull of the spirits is intoxicating; you can feel their hands on your shoulders and arms, caressing your face, pulling you closer and closer – begging you to help them find peace, to answer their questions, to help pay the ferryman but you cannot.

A male voice shouting your name has you refusing the screams of the spirits.

The voice shouts again; it’s closer now, corporeal hands shake your shoulders in an attempt to pull you out of your trance, but there’s no luck.

The goddess bids you farewell before everything falls black.

----------

Your vision comes back to you slowly; black spots still dancing across your view of the vaulted ceiling of the hospital wing. You groan at the pounding in your head, bringing a hand up to rub at your forehead.

“(Y/N)?” A male voice asks; a familiar voice.

The feeling of a cool cloth being pressed to your forehead has you sighing in relief, “That feels nice.”

Neville’s face comes into view; his eyes run over your face, checking for what – you don’t know.  “You’ve been in contact with higher powers – that’s why you asked for Black Henbane, isn’t it?”

You take the cool cloth from him, “I needed to see something.”

“You put yourself at risk doing this.” Neville bluntly states.

You groan, “I know.”

“Was it worth it?” He asks, narrowing his eyes, “Did you get your answers?”

You nod, averting your eyes – focusing on the vaulted ceiling rather than the man sitting next to you. Shame washes over you from the tone of his voice – reproach mixed with something akin to worry. You smile a little, “Neville Longbottom,” you tease, “Were you worried about me?”

“What was so important that you needed to contact higher powers? You know how addicting they can be!” He chides; ignoring your question completely.

You purse your lips, refusing to answer.

Neville leans forward in his chair, bracing his elbows on his knees, “What was so important?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“I was the one who found you, did you know that? I found you bent over your scrying bowl, talking to spirits and the higher powers. It was me who pulled you out before they could take something more permanent.”

“And I’m grateful for that, Neville.”

“But you won’t tell me why you had to consult them?”

You push yourself into a sitting position slowly; pausing only to stave off the wave of dizziness and nausea. Neville stands, his hands outstretched to help but you wave him away, telling him you’re okay. He doesn’t look like his believes you, but he steps back, nonetheless.

“I needed some answers about my future, about my feelings. It’s all so blurred, even my tea leaves don’t make sense!”

“So you decided to use your scrying bowl? (Y/N), you had trouble with this when we were students.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“Of course I remember, why wouldn’t I?”

“We weren’t exactly the best of friends.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t notice you.”

“You noticed me?”

“I always notice you, that’s how I found you. You asking for Black Henbane had me consulting my own textbooks and when I read it was used to help see the future more clearly, I followed you.”

You both lapse into a heavy, charged silence. Neville throws his hands in the air before setting them on his hips as he paces the two steps in front of your bed. You want to groan in frustration; want to scream and shout but it would do no good.

“What are we doing, Neville?” You finally ask, voice tired and head foggy.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean us. The pranks, the teasing, the unresolved tension.”

Neville sits back down, crossing his arms, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

You pull the cloth from your forehead, glaring at the brunette, “Oh that’s a load of bullshit and you know it.”

He glares in return but doesn’t say a word.

“We have been dancing around this for years, Neville. I’m sick of having to pretend I hate you.”

“You don’t hate me?”

You shake your head, “You piss me the fuck off, but I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you either.” He whispers.

“So what do we do?”

“Honestly, I’d like to take you out to dinner,” Neville states, confidence running through his body.

“Dinner?”

“What’s wrong with dinner?”

You bite your lip, running your eyes over him. He’s standing again, as if unable to sit still through this conversation. His eyes are bright with happiness and another emotion you can’t quite put your finger on; he’s entirely delectable. Merlin, in for a penny, as the muggles say, “How about we skip dinner and go to back to my rooms?”

Neville leans in close; his breath fanning over your face. He smells like recently mown grass, freshly fallen rain, and a hint of lime. It’s intoxicating. His eyes search yours for permission; you granting it as you tilt your face up to meet his, you close your eyes at his proximity, taking it all in. He lightly brushes his lips against yours, with a feather-light pressure that has you chasing him for more. He pulls away with a light chuckle at the look of frustration on your face.

“After dinner,” he promises.

The note of promise in his voice has your breath quickening and your toes curling. In the time that you had known this man, you had hated him but now, all you did was crave him.

His touch, his look, his attention. The goddess had promised you that there was no version of your future without him in it, and now...

And now, you were more than ready for that future.

“I’ll hold you to that.” You murmur, breathless from the thoughts running through your head.

---------

A month later:

Neville finds you in your classroom writing the information for your first lesson of the day on the board in chalk. He leans against the door as he closes it. Neville watches you; his eyes running over every curve and dip in your body, thinking of how less than twelve hours ago he was worshipping it with his mouth and hands. He bites down a groan at the memory; your gasps and moans echoing in his ear – he can still feel the dull ache of the scratches on his back, from your fingernails reaching for purchase.

He struts over to you; enjoying the surprised yelp that leaves your mouth as his arms wrap around your stomach, but he loves the way you soon relax into him, your hands coming to rest on top of his. Neville presses a kiss to the crook between your neck and ear, smirking against your skin as he hears your breath hitch.

Neville leans close, his mouth to your ear, “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”

You hum happily, arching into the touch of his hands as they trail lower, starting to undo the fastenings to your skirt.

You knew he would come; you’d played another prank on him, but this time you knew what the outcome would be.

You turn your face, pressing your lips to his cheek before trailing them across his jawbone, enjoying the look of your lipstick staining his skin. “What did you have in mind?” you whisper, breathless from the excitement coursing through your veins.

He smirks as he bends you face down over your desk.

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

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen​ @obsessedwithrandomthings​ @harrypotter289​ @dreamer821​ @kalimagik​ @heloisedaphnebrightmore​ @nebulablakemurphy​ @the-hufflefluffwriter​ @figlia--della--luna​ @bforbroadway​ @idont-knowrn​ @summer-writes​

[remmushound]

Beyond the Bay chapter 3: What we’ve become

@brightlotusmoon @scentedcandlecryptid @selfindulgenz @ilo-artistry @digitl-art-monstr

The yelling started early today. Donatello was already working in his lab when the shouts reached him and he moved only to close the door before continuing his work; the muffled argument was a little less annoying, and he wasn’t going to let that new everyday occurrence disturb him. He just hoped they’d get over it quickly this time. His room felt hot as a sauna with the door closed. Michelangelo was still sleeping when the argument came to its peak and, though he woke up with the violence just outside his door, all he did was curl deeper into the blankets and try to ignore it.

“Why can’t you just trust that I’m right on this one?” Leonardo’s voice was softer than his older brother’s, but carried a viper's poison in the sharp words.

“Because you’re not!” Raphael boomed, his shouts like a deep base drum bouncing off the wall. When he prodded Leonardo’s chest, the slider hardly moved. “You think you are, but you’re not!”

“And you think you know what’s best for everyone, but you don’t, Raph!”

“I never said that!”

“You didn't have to.” Leonardo hissed through his teeth, and when he advanced on Raphael, the snapper kept backing up until he met a wall and could escape no further. “You keep acting like a dictator and won’t take our thoughts into consideration!”

“I DID CONSIDER THEM!” Raphael shoved his way past Leonardo to escape the interaction, “Don’t get in my face, you know I can’t stand that!”

“I didn't mean to.” Leonardo said, and there was truth in the statement; the relapse of calm didn't last very long as he pursued Raphael, “This is a lose-lose situation, Raph, and we need to choose what’s better for him!”

“Or what’s easiest for you.” Raphael snarled, his eyes darkening as he snapped back to look at Leonardo.

“You think that’s what this is about?” Leonardo pulled back, his mouth agape as he stared at his leader.

“Isn’t it?” Raphael flashed his teeth, “You just don’t want to put in the work. Like. Usual.”

Leonardo’s face was hot and flushed, his eyes burning, but still he stared into Raphael’s cold gaze. “You really think I would do that for something this serious…?”

“Right now, I don’t know what to think Leo…” Raphael lost his sharp tone, but his words were still bitter as he turned his back to his brother. 

“Guys.” Donatello knocked on the wall to announce his presence, startling both mutants. “I’m getting a strange inter-dimensional reading from downtown; we should check it out.” 

Donatello took his leave quickly before he could be addressed or questioned. Raphael started to give a response, but Donatello was already gone. Instead, he sighed and turned to Leonardo.

“We are not done talking about this.”

The trip over was spent in silence, Donatello in the lead of his brothers to guide the way. Raphael wanted badly to talk with Michelangelo, but when he saw the look of pure sadness imprinted on his youngest brother's face, he thought better of it. Michelangelo’s eyes were heavy, a small frown etched into his features where there had once almost always been a smile. One by one the brothers dropped into the alleyway, the younger two looking to the left and the older two to the right to make sure there was no obvious danger to them. When their shared mindspace revealed nothing but peaceful solitude, Donatello flipped his goggles down over his eyes to search for the signatures unseen.

“Maybe our friends came to visit…?” Michelangelo suggested hopefully, his voice painfully soft as he fiddled with his mask tails.

“No, there’s only one signature.” Donatello hummed as he started to track the signature, “It’s not mystic, but it… doesn’t seem quite mutant either. There’s definitely mutagenic properties though…”

“So… a non-mutant with mutagen?” Leonardo asked, his doubt creeping into his voice with a scoff. “Makes sense.”

 Donatello pulled up his goggles so he could face Leonardo unobscured. “Or a potential baddie transporting mutagen. Wouldn’t be the first one to attempt to recreate mutagen with his own sick twist.”

“He’d be the first to succeed though.” Raphael muttered, his voice low. “Doctor Feral has been trying for years to get it right according to Draxum.”

“Well today might just be his lucky day.” Donatello commented.

“Or unlucky.” Leonardo said, “Can you track where he or his lackey went?”

“Yes, that should be no problem…” Donatello said, distracted as he started to play around his his holographic screens. 

“Is there a separate problem then?”

Donatello didn't immediately answer. He finished up whatever he was working on, his brothers waiting impatiently, before he responded. “The signature is definitely inter-dimensional and Feral has never shown any interest in the subject. I’m just wondering how he could’ve gotten his hands on something capable of making a controlled black hole without us noticing, or without ripping himself apart. It’s a really delicate process.”

“So maybe it’s not Feral…” Leonardo mused, “Maybe it’s someone else?”

“We’ll just have to see.” Donatello sighed, his spider arms deploying and digging into the stone of the closest building to carry him upward. “Come on, signature’s this way.”

His brothers hopped after him one by one, leaving the alley and its single, hidden occupant in silence.

Following Donatello, the brothers took the rooftops straight for a long while before taking a sharp turn. They passed a water tower, and what remained of Cassandra’s bakery; the brothers stopped for a moment in silent mourning of the burnt-out building before carrying on. Thirty minutes into the search and Donatello hesitated, tapping the device that had been guiding him.

“What’s up, Don?” Raphael asked, approaching his brother's side to peer down at the machine; he couldn’t tell if it was broken or not by just eyeing it, so he asked a followup question. “Is something wrong with the tech?”

“I don’t know…” Donatello mused, tapping the machine several more times with a furious growl. “It stopped calculation…”

Leonardo looked around, and then pointed to the same water tower they had passed by ten minute earlier, “Looks like it was taking us in circles anyway.” 


“Odd.” Raphael said, narrowing his eyes slightly, “Don, explanation?”

“Working on it.” Donatello said, and he was.

“Donnie’s tech malfunctions all the time.” Leonardo commented, a smirk splitting his face as he leaned against a nearby wall to wait. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Can it, Nardo.” Donatello growled softly. “It was working just a few minutes ago.”

“If you say so.”

While the rest of the family waited, Donatello paced, mumbling lowly under his breath as he fiddled and tinkered. It didn't take long at all for Raphael to grow anxious; every moment they spent in the same place was another moment they risked being spotted by the Foot Clan or, even worse, the AMA. The city streets that used to be so quiet at this hour weren’t nearly so anymore; catching sight of a small group of humans in the streets below, Raphael and his brothers all ducked for cover. Donatello had to be practically dragged out of view and away from his hyper-focus on his tech issue.

“We can’t hang out here.” Raphael said, “We’re exposed. We can go back to the lair and Don can fix his geek tech, then we can come back.”

“But Feral or whoever it is could be long gone by then.” Leonardo brought up.

Raphael pursed his lips and gave a low rumble. Leonardo had a good point. With new mutants popping up what seemed like every day, they really couldn’t afford even more mutagen being produced and released to the public. They already had enough to deal with as the new super swarm of oozesquitos were emerging, and it would only get harder to contain them. Then he reconsidered again, and when the potential for injury or capture resurfaced, he quickly made his mind up.

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take then. We’re sitting ducks out here, and unless you want to find out if the rest of you are bullet proof, then we should hustle back home. Snipers could be anywhere.” Raphael winced at the painful memory of the bullets striking his shell, doing little damage but still hurting beyond measure.

“Ah yes, the infamous night snipers.” Leonardo rolled his eyes, “Sniping in the night. Gotta fear them.”

“Not funny, Leo.” Raphael snorted, “No time for joking, so let’s head home.”

The lair was painfully quiet when the brothers entered and called out to their father to announce their presence. There was no response, but then again they hadn’t been expecting one either. Raphael gave a nod of dismissal to his brothers before he strode off toward their fathers room. Donatello separated from his brothers quickly, still muttering his agitation at the device that refused to cooperate. Leonardo was waiting for Michelangelo to take off first, most likely toward his room or toward the kitchen for a quick snack, but the youngest brother didn't move. He was taller than Leonardo now, making the blue brother the smallest of the four, but still he clung tightly to his brother's arm like he always did; it was a habit not easily broken.

Leonardo frowned, but then tried to smile as he wrapped an arm around Michelangelo and started to lead him toward the gaming room.

“Hey Hermano, what say we squeeze in a quick game before Don fixes his doohickey? Might be a good way to pass the time.”

“Leo?” Michelangelo pulled away, resisting his brother's attempt to steer him away.

“Yeah, Miguel?”

Michelangelo, not expecting to actually be heard, was at a loss of words for several moments. He averted his gaze, arms folding behind his back as he hung his head low. His feet danced a nervous dance, tracing against the ground. Leonardo put a hand on his brothers shoulder, angling his head to try and get a glance at Michelangelo’s hidden expression.

“Bro…?” Leonardo asked softly, and when no response came, he pressed his nose to Michelangelo’s neck and gave a snorting chuff. Michelangelo giggled and pushed him away, and Leonardo smiled at the response. “Come on, you can talk to me about anything!”

“I… it’s just that…” Michelangelo rubbed his arm anxiously, “Would you wanna have a movie morning in the morning? You know, after Don fixes his thingie and we do our thing? You know, us, April, Casey, and… and dad? It’s just… we haven’t had one in a while and we used to really like them.”

Leonardo nodded slowly, his smile growing more genuine by the moment. He gave Michelangelo a solid pat on the shoulder. “Of course. I’d love to have movie morning with you, baby brother.”

Michelangelo scrunched up his beak. “Leoooo! I’m not a baby anymore!”

Leonardo practically hung on Michelangelo, using his baby voice to further mock and annoy Michelangelo. “You’ll always be a baby to me!”

“We were mutated on the same day, Leo!” Michelangelo giggled.

“Mikey, when you get to be my age—“

“You’re seventeen!” Michelangelo groaned.

“And you’re fifteen~” Leonardo booty-bumped Michelangelo. “And someone has a sweet sixteen coming up~”

Michelangelo bumped him back. “You know mine’s still a month away.”

“You’re already planning it, aren’t you?” Leonardo smirked.

Michelangelo gasped at the accusation. “I can’t plan my own surprise party! Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Leonardo’s expression didn't falter, simply staring at his brother with an even smile. It didn't take long for the box turtle to break under the pressure.

“I have a five page wish list already…”

“Of course you do.” Leonardo ruffled his brothers head, “I’d expect nothing left from the master of all things party!”

“What, say what?! That is not my title!” Michelangelo and Leonardo started to walk side by side toward the gaming room.

“Oh? Then what is it, oh Party Master?”

“Definitely not that!” Michelangelo laughed, “Buuuut I’ll think on it.”

“We have all the time in the world, little bro.”

[starkidpotty]

Should’ve Known Better [GW]

After the Second Wizarding War, the wizarding world faces a great recession that puts you and George in financially and morally compromising situations.

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: swearing and terrible use of tenses (im sorry for the grammar)

A/N: written for angst prompt #14 for @kalimagik​‘s 1.3k writing challenge!! congrats on 1.3k again!! <3 

You had always been good–exceptional, actually–at writing since your teenage years. Essays you’ve written for work assigned by Professor Flitwick managed you top marks. Hell, even Snape commended your writing from time to time (if he wasn’t too busy taking away points from Gryffindor.) Throughout your years at Hogwarts, you entered multiple wizarding writing competitions and won them all. It made sense to you to seek out a job at the Daily Prophet after graduating from Hogwarts to put those writing skills  to good use. 

Your first year at the Daily Prophet was difficult, to say the least. You were paid almost next to nothing and writing on an empty stomach while worrying if you had enough galleons to pay rent was terrible for your creative process. On top of that, it seems as though whatever piece you made never satisfied your boss, Angel Hornbeam, editor of the Tragedies and Mishaps section of the paper. Each piece you wrote was either sent back with red ink splattered across the parchment with scathing comments on how sophomoric & crass your writing was or outright discarded. You didn’t know what Angel hated more: you or your writing. 

There you were walking down Diagon Alley after a grueling day at work. You made two pieces today–only two pieces–that were immediately thrown out to the rejection pile at the corner of Angel’s office. Roan Staghart, a colleague of yours, accidentally spilled pumpkin juice all over you which Angel pointed out and subsequently prompted her to give you a long-winded lecture on how unbecoming it was to sport such an unprofessional appearance in a place of work. You made your way down Diagon Alley with your path only being illuminated by the lights in the shops you passed.  You were downtrodden and hungry and lonely and unmotivated and uninspired. You thought about the eviction notice plastered to your flat’s door that you received earlier that day before heading off to work. You thought about the empty pantry in said flat, which then reminded you of your empty wallet. Lost in thought and not looking directly straight ahead, you ram your head straight into the open door of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Your arse lands on the cobblestoned path and you’re clutching your bleeding nose with your right hand, while your left provides support. 

“Merlin, I’m sorry!” says one of the Weasley twins as he hurriedly walks toward you. 

“Georgie, go get her some ice.” says the twin to the other behind him, still clutching the door open. 

“Fred, right? Sorry, I’m shite at telling you and your brother apart.” You say while letting out a humourless chuckle, wincing in pain as you clutch your nose. Fred crouches down to your level.

“S’alright, just know I’m the better looking one.” He pauses, “You’re [Y/N], you were in [Hogwarts House], correct? I remember you selling a pre-written essay  to Lee in our fourth year. T’was the only he got an O for, if I recall.” says Fred with a joking grin. George runs back with ice wrapped in a handkerchief which he passes to Fred, which Fred passes to you. 

“Had to make money to buy butterbeer at Hogsmeade somehow.” You answer him as you bring the wrapped ice to your nose. Both the brothers smile at you and you smile back. 

“Fred and I were actually headed off to dinner at our flat, join us. I suppose it’s the least we could do after the damage we’ve inflicted onto your poor nose.” George proposes. 

“I couldn’t impose–” 

“Nonsense!” They say in unison. Fred offers you a hand, which you graciously take. He pulls you up and you walk with them to their flat.  

You were now at the Weasley twins’ shared flat at the edge of Diagon Alley. It was the best meal you’ve had in weeks, not to mention the twins’ presence was a morale booster in itself. Dinner lasted an hour, but the conversations after lasted well into the night. You wondered why you weren’t friends with the twins during their school years. Perhaps if you detached your hand from your favorite quill and parchment, you would have been. Regardless, that night sparked a friendship. 

You were stopping by the shop on your way home from work on the daily and the twins enjoyed your presence so much so they offered you a small, part-time job as a stock keeper as a means to keep yourself afloat while your work your way up the Daily Prophet ladder. They’d come to visit you in their spare time at your dinky flat  on the border of Knockturn and Diagon alley. As hard as your first year at the Daily was, your newfound friendship with Fred and George made it all the worthwhile. While you and Fred remained friends, you and George had begun to engage in a shameless “flirtationship” as you coined–always dancing on the border of friends and being more than friends. Stealing kisses in the shop, holding hands underneath dinner tables, George reasoning out to Fred that you needed help at your flat only for him to spend the night, writing little notes for George before he left in the morning. Everyone around you knew you and George were it, as much as you and he tried to suppress it. One day, George decided to make it real and official.  

Your personal life had improved immensely after your horrendous first year as a journalist. You were dating George Weasley, your pantry was always full now, and you didn’t have to worry about getting evicted anymore. Your work life wasn’t as terrible as before as Angel Hornbeam turned over a new leaf and was much more forgiving at work. You were finally given a small promotion–not a choice Angel made, but by a higher-up as you stayed loyal to the good of the wizarding world–which offered you enough stability to leave the shop. 

The wizarding world at this point in time, however, was not improving. Death eaters infiltrated the ministry and your beloved Hogwarts. They started censoring pieces at the Daily Prophet, much to your chagrin. You couldn’t write or report about tragedies happening as the Death Eaters wanted the media to depict dark wizards as righteous and justify their actions. You moved over to making crossword puzzles for the paper as opposed to spewing lies about Lord Voldemort and his mission to take over the wizarding world. Fred and George had to close down shop for the time being as the Weasleys went into hiding.

Then the Battle of Hogwarts happened. You fought alongside Fred and George, casting spells and charms. Blasting death eaters left and right. You did everything you could to fight against the Death Eaters. But you couldn’t save Fred, nor could George. George was never the same after Fred’s death and neither were you. You were both deeply resigned to grieving and still continue to do so everyday. The sun still rose and set like it always did, but Fred was gone and the world just kept spinning. It left you and George no time to breathe. 

The wizarding world slowly built itself back up after the war, with Kingsley Shacklebolt acting as the Minister for Magic. He’d done a bloody good job of it. He purged out the dark wizards from the ministry and from the Daily Prophet, effectively returning most things back to normal. You were back to writing in the Tragedies and Mishap department, but the wizarding world hit a great recession after the war. People were losing jobs left and right; you knew for a fact that your neck was next on the chopping board if you didn’t come up with a good piece soon. Though George was slowly reopening the shop, with the help of his family, it wasn’t enough to keep you and he afloat. Losing this job would bring your right back to where you were your first year out of Hogwarts and you were determined to avoid that. 

--

It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon, two hours to the end of the work week. You haven’t written anything substantial in a while and your desk was evidence. The brown wood was stained with droplets of stray ink from your quill, but they weren’t as obvious because of the crumpled pieces of ripped parchment scattered across the desk. Your hand was ink-stained and your hair was in disarray. To say the least, you looked a mess. 

“[Y/N], I need you in my office,” Angel called out to you, peering out of her office door. 

You stood up, straightening out your top, trying to look as presentable as possible. Walking over to her office catches the attention of your many officemates. Your stomach begins to feel like a vacuum, sucking in all the air around you, ineffectively trying to get you to breathe. Were your fears getting realized? Was this it for your writing career? So many thoughts raced in your head as you walked–slogged, rather–the distance from your desk to Angel’s office. You reach the archway of her door and she instructs you to close it. You gulp heavily. 

“Yes, Angel? Anything I could do for you?” You anxiously choke out. You feel like your guts are about to unceremoniously find its way out your mouth and onto her office floor. 

Her office was decorated all in black, from her quills to her velvet wallpaper. Angel stood out in the gloomy decor of her office, sporting an all-white outfit. She says it’s a metaphor–tragedies are both light and dark, simultaneously and she wants to embody that. A little pretentious, but she’s right nonetheless. 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to fire you, darling.” Darling, a term of endearment, but never when it came from Angel’s lips. “I’m close, but I won’t. I have a proposition” 

You look at her intently, your eyes almost bulging. 

“I want an editorial piece on grief and love. I want romance wrapped in despair, topped with angst.” Angel mused. 

“I beg your pardon?” You muster out.

“Write about lost love, the war did just happen–it’ll be fresh, uncut,” Angel pauses for dramatic effect, “Absolutely raw.” She clenches her fist in such a theatrical manner, it's almost comical. 

You stay silent, unsure of what to say or do. Your face must’ve looked bewildered, as she slouches and rolls her eyes. 

“Godric, I want you to interview someone who lost the love of their life because of the war, so to speak. It’ll do wonders for readership. Have you read that muggle story–Romeo and Juliet? Love and tragedy create such a spicy little mix.” She says in response to your look. 

“Wouldn’t that be exploitative, no? Everyone’s still grieving.” You question Angel. 

“That’s journalism.” Angel’s brows are furrowed and you can tell she’s trying to control her temper. “I better have a damn well-written editorial on my desk come Monday morning. May I remind you, you are the last of your colleagues to have either been promoted up or let go. Do you want to be the latter?” 

You gulp, she hasn’t threatened you since your first year at the office. You shakily let out a soft no. She returns with a softly-said good and points you to the direction of her door. 

--

You were on your way home to you and George’s shared flat in Diagon Alley. Your mind was raking itself for who you could possibly call to satisfy Angel’s wants. The gears were grinding hard until you had the aha moment–Angelina. Her and Fred’s relationship was complicated to say the least. They weren’t friends but they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, but they didn’t want to see other people. You could no longer recall what they were and with Fred gone, the answer didn’t seem to matter anymore. The “almost” aspect of the relationship would provide the angst–unfinished business, if you will. Fred’s death and the love that could’ve been. You lit up at the ideas forming in your head, but you feel your conscience gnawing at you. However, you and George had to keep the lights on somehow. 

George had beaten you home that night and was eating a packed dinner from Molly on your couch. You hang your bag on the rack next to the door, taking your coat off as well. You walk over to George, plotting your body next to him. Resting your head against his shoulder you say, “How was your day?” 

You each share quips about your days at work, leaving out Angel’s request entirely. A silence ensues and you find this to be the most opportune moment to ask him. 

“D’you mind having Angelina over tomorrow? A light catch-up? Haven’t seen her since, well, y’know when.” You ask George. His face stiffens. 

“Alright, would be good to see an old friend, yeah?” He manages to say. He gets up to write an owl to Angelina. He sends the owl off and within the hour, Angelina’s response comes back. She agrees. 

-- 

It’s the day of your interview-not-interview with Angelina. You are in the bathroom getting ready while George waits by the door for Angelina. Your self-writing quill for note taking and its accompanying notebook are hidden in a cupboard at the corner of the kitchen that could not be seen from the dining room, ready to start writing at your will. 

“Love, Angelina’s here!” George says through the bathroom door. You quickly get out, rounding the corner to get to the living room and see Angelina sat on your sofa. You bring her in for a hug which she happily returns, you feel the guilt creep up again. You try and dismiss the feeling as hard as you can but it lingers like an unwanted guest. Trying to ease your nerves, you invite her to the dining room, where food you cooked in the morning lay waiting. 

Angeline told stories about her life as a bigtime Quidditch match commentator and you entertained her with stories from the Sports department. You were both marveling at how much time has changed things since your graduation from Hogwarts to the war to life now. Now’s a good a time as any, your mind reasons out. You muster what little courage you had and shift the topic over to Fred. 

“So, Angelina, how have you been holding up, since the battle?” You ask her. George looks at you strangely, as he notes the shift and tone in your voice. 

“Uh, well I’m here. Coping. Grieving.” She responds.

“We’re here for you, tell us more.” You say, trying to probe more information out of her. A slimy feeling makes itself known in the insides of your stomach and you try your hardest to ignore it. 

Angelina stays silent and then starts, “It’s been rough, Fred–” The winning ticket. 

“What about Fred? It was a bit complicated before he died.” Cutting her off, you were siphoning as much information as you can. 

“Yes, it was. You know that.” Angelina deflected, but she continued. “I wish there was more time. More time with him.” Her voice grew heavy, but you tried to turn up the pressure.

“Tell me, what would you have done with that time? Were there things you would’ve said? Done?” 

Angelina takes an ugly pause. 

“Well?” You don’t mean to say this in such a crass and impatient manner, but you do.  

At this point, George stands up. He gets uncomfortable and goes to the cupboard to fetch himself a glass of water. As he inches to the cupboard, he hears scratching noises like a quill writing on parchment. He knows exactly what you’re doing now. Opening the cupboard he sees your quill and notebook scribbling away. On the pad is written, “‘A love lost, an almost,’ says Angelina as she begins to tell me about what could’ve been had Fred avoided his untimely death…” George stopped reading. It clicks in George’s head now. It explains the sudden decision to send an owl over to her last night. George’s jaw tenses up. 

He grabs a glass, closing the cupboard, while leaving the quill and notebook in there. He heads to the front of the refrigerator where you’d be unable to see him. It gives him time to rethink his next move while calming down. He knew journalism would be gross, but he didn’t think you’d prey on your friends–especially since you knew how everyone was still mourning the loss of his twin brother. 

Angelina begins to cry from the other room, but you continue to hound her with questions. “What would you be doing now if Fred were still around? Do you still dream of a life with him? What else have you been doing to fill the space? Do you wish there was more you could’ve done?” The words were practically marathoning out your mouth. The guilt in you subsides and all you feel now is a desire to get the truth out of Angelina. It’s as though you were watching this unfold from the corner of the room; it wasn’t you shoving questions down Angelina’s throat, but an entirely different entity. 

“Merlin, will you stop!” Angelina boomed. “I’m leaving. I missed you and George, I really did. But, how dare you. We’re all grieving and if this is your sick at attempt at therapy, I’ve damn near had it.” 

You’re silent and you feel yourself float back to your body, sat in front of a tearful and red-faced Angelina. She angrily gets up, dropping her fork onto the table. She makes a beeline for the coat rack, grabbing her things, and leaves–making sure to slam the door. 

“What the fuck was that, [Y/N]?” George shot at you, as he emerged from the kitchen. He was holding his glass of water with his fingers by the brim, both his arms by his side. The expression plastered on his face was a mixture between disappointed, frustration, and anger. You stay silent. 

“Answer me, what was that?” George repeats again. You still stay silent, you don’t know how to answer him. “Were you trying to make a piece out of Angelina?” 

You look down at your lap repentantly. “Angel said she’d fire me if I didn’t.”

George makes his way over to you, placing his glass on the dining room table. He doesn’t take a seat, instead he looks down at you in anger. 

“She’s our friend. She’s grieving, mourning–like you and me fucking both.” George was fuming, “You were being a prick and I didn’t like it, obviously neither did Angelina. I could say more, but out of respect, I won’t.” 

“George, we have to eat one way or another. I didn’t want to lose any more income than we already had!” You tried very hard to justify your reasons as to why. 

“At expense of a good friend of ours? Merlin, [Y/N].” George rebutted. “I can’t even look at you right now. I know you love writing, I do. I love your writing, in fact. But, this is low. All for what? A few fucking galleons? Merlin.” 

George turns his heel and stomps to the door, grabbing his coat and slamming the door shut in one swift motion. He presumably chases after Angelina to apologize on your behalf. You hang your head, trying to recollect yourself, and think about what to say to Angelina and George. 

You decide right then and there that you were going to quit your job at the Daily Prophet–there was always a need for writers in the Wizarding World anyway and jobs of that sort were probably not as exploitative in nature. Deciding to write a Letter of Resignation later that night, you trudge your way to the door, grab your coat, and run after George. 

--

masterlist here

[commonwealthoccurences]

Cheers (Elder Maxson)

Note: We’re assuming Sole is around the same age as Maxson in this; a middle-aged Sole with 19 year old Maxson is an iffy concept to me. Thank you to the Discord server for fixing my writers block! Also, weird analogies for 500, anyone? Mildly OOC Maxson.

CW: Potential death mention, abstract/rhetorical poisoning

It’s easy, Sole thinks at the end of the day, to drink poison. To tilt your head back and surrender to what may come, no matter what. It’s easy to allow yourself to be captured in the will of whatever's been mixed into your glass, slightly acidic, barely masked, and pretend to be unknowing. Knowing Elder Maxson has been like drinking poison, and so, they think it must be very easy to allow oneself to do so.

They’re staring into the wine that’s been handed to them, a deep plum color swirling in the foggy glass it’s been poured into. In another timeline, this wouldn’t be the last they’d share with him, and there was a much more content life waiting for them at the end of their internal battles. But they often told themself they weren’t one for wishful thinking, and with that, returned their attention to the man himself, who sat, quiet and contemplative, across from them.

On any other evening he’d be lounged across the plush cushions next to them, a sharp contrast to the usual appearance he showed every other member of the Brotherhood. There’d be a lazy grin on his face, a little too much wine wiping away the stern expression that’d been burned into the lines of his skin, and the two of them would be deep in the throws of a playful debate. Sole had lost that privilege, though.

Just as Maxson had lost the privilege of seeing them with their head tilted back, a laugh shaking their frame, delight taking over the weight of the world that they held between their strong shoulders. Two friends, or something more, turned strangers. What a twist. “Is this it?” Sole spoke up. Maxson had resumed his public facade, and they knew he wouldn’t be the one to break the silence.

“I suppose it is.”

The meeting of their gazes brought both of their internal battles to the forefront, images of warfields flashing between the pair. Sole clenched their jaw and tilted their head up, still trying to remain casual in the way they spun the wine in the glass. They didn’t dare take a sip; they wouldn’t put it past him to actually poison it, and as much as they cared for him, there was a reason the air was so tense.

Sole had made it into the Brotherhood a little shell shocked from their experiences with the Wasteland, looking for structure and someone to have their back as they fought to survive. Of course, the Brotherhood was much more than that, and didn’t hesitate to introduce their bigotry, disguised as defensive beliefs, as soon as Sole stepped through the doors to the Prydwen.

They were unsure at first of where they stood. Ever the scholar, they tried to remain neutral and stand back, observing, as they made their way through the beginnings of their Brotherhood experience. Other than Nick Valentine, they had never met a synth; maybe he was an exception, and the Brotherhood was right in the idea that they weren’t to be trusted. They’d found themself in the company of Elder Maxson more than once at this point, eager to look through the cracks of the mask he wore and get to know the man behind the ideology, the intense scowls, and the unwavering leadership. They’d begun to debate as a pastime, and slowly, as the tapestry of his beliefs came into full view, they found themself suffocated.

The threads were frayed, woven by generations beforehand. Maxson’s contributions were made for no reason other than that he was told it was right, to add strength to a fabric that only caused pain to those that were innocent. Sole found themself edging closer to the tapestry with a thread ripper and magnifying glass, wanting to take apart every argument and excuse and bring forward the man behind the brainwashing that the Brotherhood was so fond of, but it was too late. It seemed that the threads had been woven into his skin as well, leaving no person outside of his anti-synth ideology.

They needed time away, and after one particularly intense debate-turned-argument, they asked for it. Maxson knew what was happening as soon as they were hesitant to look him in the eye, and when they finally did, there was no vulnerability like he was once given access to. They were choking on the smell of his soap and aftershave, suffocating on the tenseness flooding the room, and needed to get away to think.

After a month in Sanctuary, listening to synths and humans alike recount their tales, their life experiences identical in the way that both types of people hurt and thrived, became overjoyed and mourned losses, Sole went to seek out answers. In the back alleys of Diamond City they heard whispers of an organization, and went to find the Railroad.

They had a long talk with Deacon, looking over his own tapestry with a magnifying glass, shielding their eyes from the reflective, joking threads, so they could see the life lessons hidden beneath. Despite how hard it was to access, they found his tapestry much warmer, if not a bit worn from how many had taken refuge under its fabric. Every time they dug in and pulled at the threads, trying to find a fatal flaw, it held together like no other. One month away and they knew what they had to do.

It was hard to return to the Brotherhood, knowing their days there were limited. They’d seen the people before the ideology, instead of the other way around, and once considered many of them friends. But at the end of the day, the ends of their tapestries were coming loose, and Sole could no longer justify sticking around. They were smarter than that.

Maybe it was obvious, and a little immature, but they avoided Maxson upon their return to the best of their abilities. He tried to reach out to them, calling them in for meetings, upon which they kept their answers short and didn’t give any information as to what they had been up to during their escapades away from the Prydwen. But at the end of his third try, when his expression changed from curious and a little hurt to hardened and stern, they knew he understood. They had their own tapestry now, and didn’t need the refuge of any others. Certainly not his.

So when he invited them to one last evening together, they accepted. There was nothing they weren’t prepared for as they walked through the doors to his quarters and settled down on the couch. It was easier than they expected it to be, but they supposed the time away had already given them the opportunity to sever any hesitancy they would’ve once held.

They found themself indifferent to the intense discomfort in the air that would’ve pinned them to their seat just a month ago. Their breath remained in their lungs, their hands didn’t shake. They tilted their glass and stared at the liquid inside before placing it on the table in front of them and folding their hands together in their lap. “I sincerely hope you don’t plan on doing anything stupid, Sole.” Maxson’s voice was harsh, biting. He sipped his own drink.

They found a small smile betraying their lack of fear of the man in front of them. With a light sigh they glanced out the window. “Arthur, please. Let’s not pretend you haven’t been picking apart my brain for the last few months in the name of getting to know each other. Do you really believe me to be stupid?”

“I didn’t. And then you left for a month and returned doubting Brotherhood ideals. It seems you still have time to prove me wrong.”

“I think we can both agree a resistance to brainwashing is the exact opposite of stupidity.”

Sole sighed and brushed the palms of their hands down their thighs. They stood with little hesitancy and made their way over to one of the windows that decorated the walls of Maxson’s quarters. The view was one of the few things they’d miss about the Prydwen.

Of course, they supposed they could understand how members of the Brotherhood became so out of touch with the Wasteland. Everything felt so untouchable from their perch in the sky, rocking gently in the light winds that flooded the ground with radiation. Staying, surrounded by the hivemind and far away from any contradicting opinions, would’ve been the death of any independent thought from Sole.

They would miss Arthur, not Maxson, and the way they thought they were two separate people just a few months ago. It was easy to pretend, when he had been less than sober and forgot everything he thought was his responsibility. His thoughts flowed more readily into speech; the first slip he had made was calling Sole beautiful as they leaned against that very window, looking up at the stars that almost appeared to be within reach from where they sat in the sky.

It had caught Sole by surprise, though they supposed it shouldn’t have. Yes, Arthur was in a position of power, arguably one of the highest in the Wasteland across the factions, but they had spent enough time with him at that point to know he fell victim to alcohol. Well, that’s what they pretended.

Arthur was no lightweight. They could see it in the way his movements still remained controlled in contrast to his words. It was an excuse, they’d realized, after just two nights, to say what was on his mind instead of what he had been taught to say.

Maybe that’s why they thought they could get to him at first. Unravel some of the tapestry that had dug deep into his skin and latched onto his mind. It seemed as if he wanted free of the Brotherhood mindset and the way everyone looked to him. It showed when they were together in the low lamplight of his quarters, alone in a space that didn’t allow for his facade, and he looked 19 again instead of aged beyond recognition.

His hand brushed across their cheek and they fought hard to keep their attention out the window; they wouldn’t let him exploit vulnerability that should’ve never been given in the first place. They were hyper aware of the placement of his hand, knowing that into two smooth motions they could be on the floor, dead. Instead, he hooked a finger under their chin, and they felt a kiss placed to their forehead. Then, he was out of their space and across the room, busying himself behind his desk with paperwork. They were dismissed, for the last time.

Just a week later, it was easier than expected for the words to spill out of their mouth and into Deacon’s ears. Descriptions of the Brotherhood’s guard shifts, the weakest point of their aircraft, protocols and every hidden weapon they knew about. They didn’t choke, didn’t waver. They had seen too much upon their return to the Railroad; synths injured from the hate the Brotherhood had spread, members fatally wounded when they jumped to defend. Sole had reveled too long in the privilege of ignorance and the company of a man who, despite being tragically indoctrinated, they could no longer lend sympathy to when they had to bear witness to the consequence of his actions.

Maxson’s last mistake was assuming that the silent goodbye they’d shared just one week earlier would be their last. Sole was ready to take a torch to his tapestry, and they were the last person he should’ve assumed was stupid enough to let him go easily.

[ssajj]

Daisy

You're a stripper and you meet Dr. Spencer Reid on a case. He's interesting in a way men aren't usually.

2.1k

Warnings for language, kidnapping, non-graphic violence.

(this is my first reader insert. hope it's okay ✌)

The colors alone always feel like enough to get you drunk. You can spin in them in hours, throwing your head back and basking under their heat. You don’t know what it is about them. The others like to laugh and tease you about it, even if they seem to understand that they really mean something to you. You don’t know what, though. Those are always your best shifts; making the most money and with your favorite customers. The nights without them are always the worst, but you try to make it up with bright glitters and higher heels. 

It’s still pretty early. Only a handful of people have wandered in so far and three of them are seated firmly at the bar, refusing to even look at you and the girls. It’s hard for you to not roll your eyes at them. If you’re going to come into a strip club, don’t be so stuck up that you can’t look at the strippers. To you, that seems like an obvious thing. And yet. 

At least the lights are on. 

“Hey,” your best friend whispers, pulling at your shoulder so she can whisper in your ear. Neither of you are on the main stage, since the newbies tend to get stuck with the shitty sunset hours. Less cash. “Fresh meat.”

You look over to where she’s gesturing, a low whistle building in your throat. Two people are hovering at the entrance. You can already tell that they don’t belong. Their posture, their facial expressions. “Think they’re cops?” You ask. “Cops fucking suck at tipping.”

Without waiting for an answer, you start striding over there, thankful that you’re dressed, even if it isn’t close to modestly. 

A man and a woman. The woman has shiny black hair, gently curled around her shoulders. You’re briefly jealous of her bone structure before that feeling turns into something more akin to lust- you don’t look like her, no, but she’s hot. The all black ensamble, frankly, is doing wonders for her. She seems dominant and powerful. Maybe not your type, then. You’re a bit of a control freak. The guy, though. You lick your lips, looking him over as you get closer. He’s about as submissive looking as they come. His shoulders are hunched, hands crossed nervously in front of him. His eyes are darting around the room and you’d think he was looking for an exit if he wasn’t currently standing in front of one. He’s got some of the fluffiest hair you’ve ever seen and it shouldn’t look good on him, but it does. Really good. He’s tall too, towering over the woman, and- huh. Now you know it’s possible to be hot in a sweater vest. 

“Hey there,” you purr as you reach them, leaning against the table closest to them. You see their attention snap over to you, eyeing you up in down the same way you did to them. The man blushes and the woman arches an eyebrow. You just smile. “Anything I can help you two with? We do discounts for couples.”

The man sputters. “We aren’t-”

“SSA Emily Prentiss and Dr. Spencer Reid.” The woman interrupts him, flashing her badge. He follows suit. “We’re here from the FBI.”

You put your hands in front of you, pretending that they’re bound together at the wrists. “You here to arrest me?” You ask, pouting. 

Emily rolls her eyes. Spencer shakes his head aggressively. 

“We’re here about the recent string of murdered sex workers,” Emily says.

You flinch, some of your tougher exterior slipping away. When you’re working, you try your best not to think about those girls, the ones that ended up in alleys with their stomachs cut open, their contents beside them. Four, so far. No one from your work, even if there were whispers that your luck’s running out. It’s only a matter of time.

“I didn’t think anyone cared about a couple of murdered whores,” you mutter, letting the bitterness seep into your words. You aren’t stupid enough to trust FBI agents anymore than you trust cops. “And I don’t see why that’s brought you here, anyway. None of them worked on this street.”

Spencer takes a step forward. “We care,” he tells you. You’re too smart to believe him, even if the gentle look in his eyes makes you want to try. You blink a couple times, trying to clear your thoughts. 

“Can we ask you a few questions?” Emily looks less gentle, although not unkind. Life’s made her hard, you think. Any kindness she has, she’s probably had to fight for it. It’s not a concept you’re unfamiliar with and under different circumstances, you think you could’ve been friends. 

You glance back at the stage before agreeing. “We can either keep yelling over the music or go to one of the private rooms,” you tell them, “But there’s a lot of velvet and leather in those.”

You take them into one of the rooms, but you aren't there for long. Most of their questions seem generic. Boring.

“Call us if you think of anything else,” Spencer says, handing you a card with his name and phone number on it.

You take it, tucking it into one of your boots. “And if I want to call you so I can hear your cute voice again?”

Emily has to pound him on the back after that one, his face on fire as he goes into a coughing fit. You can’t help but grin wickedly. Maybe you’d feel bad if his partner wasn’t laughing. 

“Oh, I’m so telling Morgan about this,” she says, electing a groan from Spencer. 

Once he’s mostly settled again, he turns back to you. There’s still a blush raging on his cheeks. You like knowing that you’re the one to put it there. “Stay safe, okay?”

“Sure,” you nod, like the other girls hadn’t begged for the safety, like they weren’t all on high alert already. If someone gets you, it won’t be because you were an easy target. “I could probably stab him with my heel or something.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but Emily nods like you just said something smart, which is a little concerning. 

--

A week later, you reflect that you probably should have used your heel, considering your current situation. You’re in a dark, unfamiliar room, your vocal cords already torn apart from screaming so much. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mutter, trying to look at your surroundings. It’s hard to see anything and even harder to focus. Your head is pounding. You don’t touch it. You don’t want to feel the blood gathering and clumping in your hair. That’s a problem for later. If you survive this. “Fucking cute skinny FBI agent didn’t do shit for me. We’ll get him,” you mock, raising the pitch of your voice. “Biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard. Should have caught him before he kidnapped me.”

You don’t know how long you’re in the dark before a door opens. A man you don’t recognize enters, making you scramble back to the furthest corner of the room. 

“Scared?” He asks. You can’t make out any facial features, even though there’s a voice inside of you that’s telling you he’s grinning. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, going for false bravado. You told yourself that you wouldn’t go down without a fight, and you were going to keep that promise. 

Then you notice that he has a knife. You have to force the fight back into your body, imagining that you’re back at the club, rainbow lights searing into your skin, making you powerful, making you invincible. You bare your teeth at him, a growl escaping. 

Survival of the fittest. 

--

“Y/N?” A soft voice rouses you from your sleep. It takes a few seconds for it to register in your brain, but Spencer’s the one speaking. 

Your eyes flutter open. “Oh, you’re blurry.”

“An ambulance is on the way,” he tells you. He’s cradling your head and you get a weird urge to cry. His voice is so soft. “It’s okay if you fall asleep, the idea that you can’t fall asleep with a head injury is mostly a myth. I’ll be there when you wake up.”

You believe him enough to drift off back to sleep.

--

The next time you wake up, you’re in a hospital room. The lights are blinding and white, making you miss your colorful ones. “I better get time off,” you groan. 

Someone laughs beside you. You turn to see Spencer again. 

"You're here."

He leans forward. "You sound surprised."

"Keen observation. Don't you have like...official FBI stuff to be doing right now?"

Spencer shrugs. "I wanted to make sure you were okay before I regrouped with the team."

"I don't really remember what happened."

"You killed him."

You frown. "No shit? Seriously?"

"JJ- she's another agent, you haven't met her- and I were the ones to go down to the basement. That's where he was keeping you," he explains, hands starting to wave through the air. "When we got down there, you were both laying on the ground. He was dead. Shot three times. You were shot once in the side. Thankfully, the damage seems to be minimal. You also have a concussion from when he presumably hit your head to capture you."

"I shot him?" You look down on your hands like you're going to see blood on them. They're cracked and dry. You flip them over just in case. Nothing, still. "I don't feel any different. Are you supposed to feel different after you kill someone?"

"There haven't been any studies on people's brain patterns right before and right after they've killed someone," Spencer shrugs, then pauses. "Although you most likely weren't looking for a scientific answer. Sorry."

"No, it's good to know."

Spencer fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, a small smile playing on his lips. He's got that same blush he did the first time you met him, the light one. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Has the offer to call you expired?" You ask, feeling bold. 

The blush deepens. "No."

You grin. "Nothing like getting kidnapped to set the mood, huh?"

You don't think he gets the joke. That's okay. 

--

A week later, you're on the phone with him, propped up on all the pillows your roommates could find in your little apartment. 

"Hey, cutie pie," you grin. 

"Hi, Y/N. How are you feeling?"

This was the third phone call. The same number as how many times you shot the man that tried to kill you. Each time, the first thing Spencer did was ask how you were doing. You keep lying to him. It makes guilt swirl around in your stomach. You tell yourself that it's okay, that he probably doesn't want to hear how you actually are. The feeling still lingers. You want him to care, you realize. It's nonsensical, you barely know him, but you want him to hold you when you wake up screaming, when you remember flashes of that night, and when you have good moments. And in turn, you want to get to know him. You want to see what his face looks like while you're dancing, you want to know what his degrees are in, you want to know what makes him happy, if you could make him happy. You want to make him happy. 

"I'm doing as well as I can be." It's the most honest answer you've given. "How's being a fancy FBI agent? Still on that case in Wyoming?"

"We're wrapping up, actually. We arrested our unsub this morning. She was going after unfaithful men."

You pause. "Good for her."

He sputters. "It's murder, Y/N!"

"I killed someone," you point out quietly. 

"You know that's different."

You do. 

Don't you?

Your hands itch. 

--

After a month of phone calls, you get to see him again in person. You're still healing, still scarring over, but you get to touch him. 

Neither of you ever bring up the conversation of defining what this is between you. When you see him, you race toward him, halting to a stop once you get close. 

"Is touching okay?" You ask. 

He gives you the biggest smile you've ever seen before pulling you against him. You fit snugly against him, his chin resting on the top of your head. "Yeah," he mumbles. "Touch is good. Thank you for asking."

"I'm a stripper," you laugh, pulling back enough to see his face. "We're big consent fans."

He hesitates. You can see his thoughts racing, can see him making a pros and cons list in his head. "Can I kiss you?"

Your lips split from your grin. "I've been waiting for you to ask, hot stuff."