#Yes I write fanfiction!! = )

[inkskinned]

please i love you i'm begging you bring back suspension of disbelief bring back trusting the audience like. i cannot handle any more dialogue that sounds like a legal document. "hello, i am here to talk to you about the incident from a few minutes ago, because i feel you might be unwell, and i am invested in your personal wellbeing." "thank you, i am unwell because the incident was hurtful to me due to my childhood, which was bad." I CANT!!!!

do you know how many people are mad that authors use "growled" as a word for "said"? it's just poetics! they do not literally mean "growled," it's just a common replacement for "said with force but in a low tone." it's normal! do you hear me!! help me i love you please let me out of here!!!

[doremimosasol]

⋆˙⟡ MATTHEO RIDDLE is the type of guy who wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you. He’d need to be able touch you in any type of way at all times, gods it’d drive him crazy if you weren’t around.

Hands on your thigh during class or dinner, getting dangerously close to where they shouldn’t be in public. He’d test your limits all the time, aiming for that pathetic whine of yours, pleading for him to stop.

Small touches of his fingertips against yours when you’d walk through the hallway together, a tight grip though when it was packed during the busy hours of the day.

You’d be his personal stress ball, squeezing everything he’d be able to grab on your body. His favorite: thighs. boobs

He’d love to trace patterns on your back when you were sleepy, your head resting against his chest. He even made up his own game of you guessing what he’d drawn, rewarding you with a soft kiss each time you were right. He lies all the time, he’d give you kisses even when you were wrong, he just so desperately wanted your soft kisses. Man, was he a sucker for soft kisses.

Ruffling your hair every time he’d pass by, enjoying the small annoyed frown on your face when he slightly messed it up. You’d do it in return to annoy him, though his reaction went beyond just a small frown. He was just straight up mad, the poor boy spent hours in the morning to make his hair look the way that made every girl fall to their knees.

You on your knees, he’d thread his hands through your hair. Something he did during more cozy times too: when you were asleep, on his chest, when you were reading for him. But make or do sure not to read with your back leaning against his chest, because his hands would be between your legs in no time-

[amoscontorta]

Sylus gets a headache | ao3 | other fics in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus has secured the promise from you that he can use your place as a safe house if he's in the area and needs it. Sylus's definition of "need", it turns out, might be different than your own, as illustrated by the first time he shows up unannounced at your door.

Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, no use of y/n. This story contains: fluff, banter, Sylus has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, legal arguments, bad puns, self-indulgent writing, repetitive finger caressing, insomnia that Sylus is determined to vanquish by any means, Xavier is an innocent victim in all this and has no idea, except has Xavier ever been innocent in his entire life? CWs: insomnia, consumption of alcohol, profanity SFW, mostly. With some filthy innuendos at the end. It's Sylus, after all.

It has been a few days since you had the best night’s rest you can remember on the back of a certain miscreant crime lord’s motorcycle, and you’re once again preparing for a long, torturous night of staring at the ceiling and trying to catalogue all the classes of wanderers in an attempt to lull yourself to sleep—Nero’s suggestion. You have your doubts about whether it will work, but he gave the advice so earnestly after overhearing you talking to Tara about your insomnia that you feel obligated to give it a go. Sylus would probably scoff and say something about ‘people pleasing,’—you shake your head. That man does not get to live rent free in your brain, no matter how suspiciously kind he was the last time you saw him.

The kettle squeals, and you pour the boiling water into your chipped “World’s Greatest Hunter” mug that Caleb had gifted you once you were admitted into the Association’s ranks. The hot liquid steams soothingly into your face as it drowns a chamomile teabag, and you try not to think about the last time you saw him, when he was smiling. Patting your head. Whole, and so, so vibrantly alive. You take a deep, shaky breath.

After a suggestion from Tara, you add some honey and then slice a lime and squeeze the juice into the tea, absently stirring the spoon and gazing out your balcony window. You’re home early for once, and the sun is only just setting. You can’t see it through the high rises around you, but dusk filters down into the streets below your flat. The gentle sounds of the city moving into late evening drift up, the traffic like waves crashing on the shore, laughter and shop bells tinkling, a dog barking somewhere.

Suddenly, your doorbell chimes through your apartment and startles you out of your reverie. Did you forget that you had ordered something to be delivered today?

Without thinking too hard about it, you take your still piping-hot tea and pad to the foyer to answer the door.

Only to have your sense of calm shattered as you fling the mug out of sheer, instinctual self-preservation that Zayne accuses you of not having, when you see who is standing on the other side.

Quicker than your brain can actually process Sylus’s presence outside your flat, scarlet-night tendrils have prevented the mug from shattering on the floor, but have failed to stop the liquid from continuing its projectile path right onto his red, standing collar shirt and black vest.

“The fuck, Sylus?”

“You really, and I mean really, need to work on your greetings, kitten,” he tells you calmly, evol delivering the mug into his waiting hand while he holds the suitcase he has in the other hand away from his body to avoid being dripped on by his now soaked torso.

“Sorry, you were the last person I was expecting.” You wince, heart still threatening to beat its way out of your rib cage.

“Oh, expecting someone, are we?” he lifts a dark silver eyebrow.

“No, but least of all… you.” You flap your hand in his general direction. “What are you even doing here?”

“How about,” he drawls, “you let me in, and I’ll tell you. You wouldn’t want your neighbors to get curious and come to inquire about the mess I’m making on your doorstep, would you?”

You stare at him for a moment longer, trying to think of a way out of having him in your space, again, but you’re tired at the end of another long day, another long week, another long month and this whole entire fucking year. Trying to get rid of him will take more energy than just letting him do what he wants so that he’ll go away again. You run a hand down your face and shuffle aside.

He enters, and the scent of him fills the small foyer, warm and mouth-watering. He sets the briefcase and mug on the floor, removes his dress shoes and places them neatly by your own hastily-kicked-off boots next to the step leading into the rest of your flat. He then picks the mug back up and reads what’s written on it.

“World’s best hunter, indeed.” He snorts softly, eyes flicking from your face to your thin tank top and sleep shorts covered in grinning little bounce, bounce planet blobbus, to your bare feet. “Is this how the world’s greatest hunter always answers the door to unknown visitors?”

“It was a gift,” you say defensively, snatching the mug from him and cradling it to your chest. “And the only people who would be at my door this late is Xavier borrowing a cup of sugar for some doomed baking experiment, or a delivery person. I’m sure they’ve seen much worse than this,” you sweep your hand down your body in a dismissive flourish.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve seen much worse.” Sylus frowns slightly.

“Yeah, so if they don’t like it, they’re welcome to move on to their next delivery.”

“Or buy their own sugar,” Sylus murmurs, reaching out to run a finger along your knuckles as you clutch the mug. “And who gave you this highly accurate mug?”

You hesitate, knowing that his face is going to do something complicated, like it always does, when you mention your family. But fuck it, he asked. If he doesn’t like the answer, he can also move on to whatever his next nefarious errand is. “Someone who was like a brother to me.”

“Brother, huh,” he says softly, still gently stroking your skin. “Well, he wasn’t wrong in this.” His hand falls back to his side. “Invite me all the way in, kitten. With your words,” he commands.

“And why should I do that? The deal was to let you come in. You’re in now. You don’t need to come in any further. Now it’s your turn to honor the deal. Why are you here?” You glare up at him, your foyer feeling minuscule with his big body and presence filling it.

“You offered me your place if I ever needed it,” Sylus narrows his glittering eyes. “I needed it today before you flung steaming liquid all over my clothes. And now I need it even more.” He looks pointedly down at the still-dripping clothes in question.

“What did you originally need it for?” You stall, the guilt of throwing a mug full—half! Half full! of tea at him starting to creep in.

“How about you invite me all the way into your home, with your words, help me take care of this mess you caused,” he waves a lazy finger at his torso, “and I’ll tell you.”

“But you already promised to tell me why you’re here in exchange for the initial value of me letting you in, and I let you in. I already paid. You can’t make me pay twice for the same goods,” you protest.

“Remind me to take you with me the next time I have contract negotiations. You’re more useful than my own legal counsel.” He pauses, considering you. “Circumstances have changed. Force majeure prevents me from fulfilling my original promise without requiring additional time and means to fulfil that promise. You owe me the opportunity to successfully deliver what I owe you.”

“What, exactly, is preventing you from telling me why you originally came to my home right here in my entryway?”

“The consequences of an unforeseeable natural disaster,” he answers with a little helpless shrug. “Namely, the trauma of nearly getting drowned in tea following almost being taken out by a mug launched with your god-like strength. Kitten, your assault is the equivalent of an act of god, and I can’t be responsible for the fact that I now need a dry shirt and a safe place to recover from the shock of almost being murdered by your tableware.”

You can’t help it. It has been so long since you’ve actually laughed out loud, so the noise that comes out of you doesn’t even sound human. You’re laughing, and you can’t stop. The affronted look on Sylus’s face in response to your ugly-snorts, causes you to laugh even more, and you’re suddenly bending over, holding your knees, laughing like you might die if you stop.

After a long moment, when you are finally able to breathe again, you straighten and find Sylus looking at you with a soft expression, one corner of his wide mouth slightly lifted… which is alarming. But you’re too filled with gratitude for the relief of laughing that his absurd exaggeration just gave you, so you refuse to think about anything at all too hard right now. You give in.

“Sylus, would you do me the honor of coming into my home? You can tell me what the hell you’re doing here after I find you a dry shirt.” You sarcastically bow as low as you can, your arms uplifted to gesture him forward.

“I suppose I can’t refuse such a graciously extended offer,” he says, as if resigned to a terrible fate, but his smile is smug and he wastes no time striding into your living room while unbuttoning his vest. He gently lays it over the back of your couch, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. You force yourself to stop staring as the pale skin slowly being revealed with each flick of his long fingers and head to your bedroom.

You paw through your chest of drawers, trying to find a shirt that will fit his broad shoulders and chest, but all you manage to do is make even more of a mess in your barely organized drawers. You stand, remembering the hoodie Xavier leant you after a recent, particularly messy battle on a chilly night. You move to your closet where you had hung it carefully to remind yourself to give it back to him after having washed it. You pull it from the hanger, turn around, and squeal loud enough to shatter glass.

Sylus is standing right behind you, chest bare, black slacks hung low around his narrow hips, and you did not heard him come in.

“I thought we were past the terror stage of our friendship, sweetheart,” he says, cocking his head, the same ruby stud earrings he was wearing at the club flashing in the light. “But that’s twice today that I’ve frightened you to the point of violence. Am I really that scary?”

“You keep… appearing, out of nowhere. A little warning would be appreciated,” you huff, heart pounding. You don’t know why you’re so nervous around him. Really. It has nothing to do with the broad expanse of creamy skin and pillowy man-tits shoved in your face at the moment. “And honestly, considering the fact that our friendship started with you choking me out and keeping me captive for days, it’s a wonder that I’m not more scared of you,” you flare, because yeah, how dare he act like you should be over the absolute shit-show of your first encounter, when you’ve hardly had any time to get to know him. That’s why you’re nervous. There is no other possible explanation. A couple friendly interactions do not make up for how much of an evil bastard he was when you first met him.

“Would you like me to wear a bell when I’m here, then?” he asks, conveniently ignoring the reminder regarding how he treated you not so long ago.

“How about you just stay out of my bedroom and stay where I can see you at other times,” you snap, feeling violent again at the intrusive thought of Sylus wearing a collar around his thick neck, cute little bell dinging every time he moved.

“I’ll do my best,” he says absently, clearly distracted by his thorough inventory of your bedroom as he takes in the tumbling plants in mismatched pots on floating shelves hanging over the unmade bed, the army of plushies scattered over the bunched up mountain of duvet and pillows. Your bed used to be your sanctuary. The place where you could find rest and relaxation after exhausting battles and long days squinting at the computer filing incident reports. Now it just gives you anxiety. You try to pull his attention away from the chaos of your former safe space by holding Xavier’s hoodie out for Sylus to take.

“Here, this might fit you.”

Sylus looks down at your offering, crosses his arms, and takes a step back, as if the hoodie is so offensive that it warrants recoiling physically from it. “That’s quite a big hoodie for you, even for days when you want to be comfortable,” he says evenly.

“It’s not mine, but it’s clean, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing I have right now that will fit you,” you say, shaking it a little in the universal, impatient gesture of just take it already for fuck’s sake.

“And who is its actual owner?”

“Xavier.”

“In the habit of wearing your partner’s clothing, are we?” he asks, still staring at it, the disdain now plain in his assessment of the sweatshirt.

“Uh, sometimes? We were on a mission recently and my jacket got torn to the point of uselessness, and it was cold. He let me wear his hoodie so I wouldn't be cold. It's been washed since then, so it's clean. I’ll just wash it again when you’re done using it before I return it. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

After what seems like a ridiculous amount of time for him to apparently make some mental calculations that only he will ever understand, he finally takes the soft hoodie from you, fingertips brushing yours as he grasps the fabric. You can’t figure out why he he suddenly looks more smugly evil than you’ve ever seen, with his lips curved up in a sardonic smirk. “Oh, of course, I’m sure he will not mind at all.” He pulls the hoodie over his head and shimmies a little as he drags it down is body; it’s a little tight around the shoulders, but you don’t think it’s tight enough to permanently stretch the fabric.

After it’s on, he tugs the collar up to his nose and inhales deeply.

“What are you doing?” you ask, as if you can’t see perfectly well what he is doing.

“It smells like you,” he answers, shameless, as if that is a perfectly reasonable answer to your question.

“Well, I did wear it, and wash it with my normal detergent and it has been hanging in my closet for a while, so…” your voice trails off.

“And soon it will smell like me too,” he continues, letting the collar fall with a satisfied flick of his fingers.

What even is this conversation? “Can you just be normal? For once?" A look of boredom is all the response you get, so you continue. "Now get out of my bedroom. Come tell me why you’re here in the first place.” You stride past him, making your way into the living room.

He follows you obediently and plops down on the couch, and just like last time, spreads his legs wide. This time, he is able to rest his arms on either side along the back of the couch, effectively occupying the whole damn thing. He sits quietly, looking at you expectantly.

You stand, arms folded, a safe distance away from the couch near the kitchen island.

“Well?” You prompt.

“It’s customary to offer your guest a refreshing beverage upon receiving them in your home. I believe I offered you wine the first time I hosted you in my own home.”

“Hosted?” He can’t be serious. “What a generous euphemism for ‘unlawfully imprisoned,’” you bite out.

“Po-tae-to,” he says serenely, “Po-tah-to.”

“Sylus,” you warn—about what, you’re not sure. He wants a beverage? Okay, perhaps you’ll fling more hot tea at him if he doesn’t start talking.

“Kitten.” He continues gazing at you, clearly in no hurry to move things along.

“If you don’t tell me, right now, why the hell you showed up at my place unannounced, I will report you as a burglar and have you removed by the authorities.”

“But then how will you explain to Xavier why I’ve been arrested wearing his sweater?” he asks, eyes wide, all concern for what your partner’s thoughts on the matter would be, and what they would mean for you.

“Burglars have been known to be creeps and go rooting through their victims’ closets and wearing their clothes! I’ll just say you were wearing it when I got here. Maybe he’ll be worried that it’s him you’re actually interested in harassing,” you snicker, trying to picture Xavier’s reaction.

As you’re speaking, Sylus pulls out his phone and fiddles with it with a bored expression on his face.  

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I boring you? Perhaps you should go find something more interesting to do and leave me in peace,” you grind out after you’ve finished and notice his complete lack of attention.

Your irritation is interrupted by a notification on your phone. Since Sylus is so busy messing with his, you grab yours from where it has been lying on the counter since before Sylus interrupted your peaceful evening staring out into the city. You see that you have a new message from… the man currently oozing across the entirety of your couch, head lolled to the side and watching you with a hint of amusement curving his mouth.

You open the chat, and your eyes widen at the conversation that never fucking happened currently loading into your chat history, with time stamps corresponding to when Sylus showed up at your door.

You: Oh Sylus, my big, handsome partner in crime, I think there’s an intruder in my flat and I’m so scared!

The Sytuation: What makes you think theres an intruder in your home, kitten? Im on my way.

You: There is sugar missing from my pantry! I just bought a new bag yesterday, and it’s gone! Oh please, my dark knight, come protect me from the sugar thief who should buy his own sugar and stop coming to my place to pilfer mine!

The Sytuation: Of course, sweetie. Go wait by the door, Ill be there in 5.

“What. Is. This. Fuckery,” you demand, thrusting your phone in his face.

He shrugs. “You threatened to lie about why I’m here in a bid to get rid of me. Did you not expect me to counter your move to ensure that no one will believe you?” he pauses, and then narrows his eyes. "Did you really save me in your phone as 'The Situation,' with a Y?"

"Punny, right? My phone doubles as my work phone. You really think I'm going to save your real name in my contacts? I might as well just save you as 'Sylus Qin, leader of Onychinus, most wanted criminal in the N109 zone," you grumble. "And trust me, that's the nicest name I could come up with."

"Punny," he repeats derisively, unimpressed.

“And don't derail. What is this nonsense about a sugar thief?” You wave the phone again.

“Your colleague should learn to stock his own pantry if he wants to engage in… what did you call them? Doomed baking experiments?”

“How did you even… why does it look so real?” You gaze down at the texts that look so authentic that if they hadn’t been filled with such bullshit, you’d be doubting your own sanity about whether the conversation had really happened.

“You’re really surprised that faking evidence, alibis and dirt on my opponents is a part of my vast skill set? I’m hurt that you underestimate me so.” He looks at you like he’s disappointed, a little pout pulling down his stupid beautiful mouth.

“For fuck’s sake.” You’re done. The longer you resist, the longer Sylus will be in your flat, driving you up the wall. “Fine. Fine!” You set your phone down again and throw up your hands. “What do you want to drink, Sylus?”

“Two fingers of gin, if you have it. Or brandy. Or vodka.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m not feeling too picky tonight.”

“I don’t keep hard liquor in my house, you alcoholic. I have a half-open bottle of rosé in the fridge. Will that satisfy his lordship?” You turn resignedly to trod your way to your fridge.

“What vineyard and vintage?” he asks, perking up.

You open the fridge and pull out the bottle. You squint at the label. “I dunno. It has a cute fish on the label, so I bought it.”

He looks at you like you just murdered Mephisto, and you begin pouring the pink liquid into another mug. This one says UNT on the side in big block letters, matching the size of the handle so that when you hold it, the handle looks like a matching C. You walk back to where he’s sitting, and you think that maybe your smile looks as smug as Sylus’s usually does when you hand him his drink.

He takes the mug from you, snorts when he reads the side, and then look at its contents dubiously for a moment.

“You taste it first,” he finally says, looking back up at you.

“Worried I poisoned it?” You’re still grinning.

“As you say,” he says, tilting his head.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t demand beverages from people you don’t trust then.”

“I trust you, just not your taste in wine after learning you choose bottles based on the cuteness of the label. Indulge me,” he murmurs. “Prove to me that you’re willing to drink it, and that it’s not just swill you’re trying to get rid of by offering it to me.”

You take the mug from him and lift it to your lips, taking a sip, watching him over the rim as you swallow. His nostrils flair, and he lifts his hand in a gesture for you to return it to him. Instead of giving it back, you take one more big gulp, and his brow furrows. Only after you've slowly swallowed again do you comply, relishing the warmth spreading through your body as you lower the mug for him to take. He brushes your fingers again as he takes it back. He turns the mug, so that his mouth hovers where yours just was. He then closes his eyes and inhales, gently swirling the liquid inside. Eyes still closed, he takes a sip.

After a moment, he sighs. “Thank you. This is actually not bad, for a rosé.”

“You’re such a snob,” you smile down at him, irrationally pleased that he seems so pleased.

“Life is too difficult, and too short, to waste on inferior experiences. I only like tasting the best,” he says, bright red eyes opening and fixing on you.

He looks up at you like you should be able to draw some deeper meaning from his words, but you’re tired, warm from the wine, and despite how much he winds you up you were just moments ago, right now you’re strangely relaxed for the first time in days.

“Tell me why you’re here, Sylus,” you say quietly.

“You told me I could use your place when I needed it,” he says, just as softly. He takes another drink, rolls it around in his mouth. Swallows, his adam’s apple dipping.

“And why did you need it this evening?”

“I had some negotiations regarding a business acquisition that I’m considering in this part of Linkon City, and they were abhorrently boring. By the time they were over, I had a splitting headache, and the sunlight didn’t help. It would have been unsafe to operate a motor vehicle under those conditions, so I thought I’d come and wait for it to pass in my newest ‘safe house,’ he answers gravely, as if getting a headache was a perfectly logical reason to crash your evening and take over your couch. “Wouldn’t want to endanger the innocent citizens of Linkon City with reckless driving, now would we?”

“Aren’t all of your shady business deals done under the cover of darkness? Why were you here at a meeting during the day?”

He’s holding the mug in one hand by his fingertips now, along the rim, slowly swirling it. He crosses one long leg over the other and answers languidly. “You’re assuming that today’s business was ‘shady.’”

“So your business today was legitimate?” You’ve been standing for awhile now, and begin to shift from bare foot to bare foot.

He hums in acknowledgement. “My business interests are as varied as they are successful. You insult me by looking so surprised.”

“Well I would never want to insult you,” you drawl. “So that’s it? You got a headache and decided you’d crash my evening?”

He nods, touching his temple and grimacing. “It’s still pretty bad, to be honest.”

“The daylight bothers you that much?” you ask, genuinely curious. You have always assumed that it was the nature of his occupation and perhaps just a proclivity for being a night owl that explained his nocturnal existence, but now you’re wondering if it’s not something deeper that has him avoiding it as much as possible.

You finally decide to give your tired feet a break and perch on the little corner of couch cushion that has been freed for use by Sylus crossing his legs. “If sunlight bothers you that much, what could possibly be so important to come out in it today?”

“Are you really asking about the details of my business ventures, sweetheart?” he asks in what you suspect is feigned astonishment.

“And if I am?”

“Then I’ll tell you,” he responds easily.

“Then I am.”

“I’m in discussions for acquiring a chain of entertainment venues in Linkon City.” He leans his head on the couch’s backrest and lets it roll to the side to keep looking at you. He catches the look of disgust that is no doubt obvious on your face.

“Entertainment venues,” you say flatly.

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

“What kind of … entertainment venues?” you ask, hating yourself for wanting to know. It’s his business if he wants to buy porn shops, or strip clubs, or brothels—your stomach twists, and you refuse to consider why.

“What kind of ideas are racing through that fascinating brain of yours?” he asks, reaching up and running two of his fingers along your temple, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

“Nothing,” you bite out, turning your face away from his touch. You normally dislike how you have a hard time concealing how you’re feeling, but you particularly hate it right now.

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs. “Then, to answer your question, it’s a chain of arcades.”

Your brain grinds to a halt. Did he just say—

“Arcades?”

He nods, and winces, closing his eyes. You’re starting to believe that his head is actually hurting him, and you feel bad for throwing dishware and hot tea at him and refusing to offer him more than the one drink he asked for.

“Why would you be interested in acquiring an arcade chain?”

“Even for odious crime lords, it’s always wise to have a diversified business portfolio.”

You have called him a lot of things both out loud and in your head, but you’d never call him odious. Odorous, perhaps, when he’s sweating heavily after being riddled with bullets. But you have to suppress the urge to chastise him about talking about himself that way.

“Which chain is it?”

“You probably don’t know it,” he says, as if bored with the question. “It’s not a very large chain, but large enough for my interests.”

“Try me! I love going to the arcade when I have some free time. I mean, you’ve seen my plushie collection now that you invited yourself into my house,” you bounce a little on the couch.

“You invited me, kitten. You’ve had a choice, each and every time.”

“Don’t deflect! Answer the question!” You’re quite excited about this. Maybe if it’s a place you know, that has a location nearby, he’ll give you a discount if he ends up buying them? Like an employee discount or something. Is that ethical? You should check the Association’s employee handbook for conflicts of interest.

He squints, as if preparing to evaluate your reaction, and names your favorite place to play the claw machine.

“For real? You’re really going to buy them?”

“I still have to review the contract that was proposed during today’s discussions with my legal counsel, but if negotiations are successful, then yes,” he says, casually examining his nails.

Your excitement is hard to contain, but you suddenly have a troubling thought. “You’re not going to change anything, right? Like, that place is perfect as it is, and the employees are all really friendly and helpful and clearly work hard to keep it really nice,” you rush out, worried that he’s planning to reduce the staff  or try to jack up the prices for a larger profit margin.

He turns to look at you again, and doesn’t answer for long enough that you’re really starting to worry. But then he says softly, “No, I’m not going to change a thing.”

“Oh? So they’re doing well? It’s a solid financial investment?” You’re so relieved, safe in the knowledge that your plushies will continue to be accessible, insofar as claw machines by design allow them to be.

Sylus laughs softly. “Yes, the financials all look good. Considering your interest in the nature of binding agreements, would you like to look over the purchase agreement with me? I have it with me.”

“I’d actually really like to, but I’m starting to get really tired,” you yawn, the relief you were just feeling—the relief of knowing that Sylus wasn’t up to anything that would leave a blood trail today, relief that he didn’t come tonight to try to force you to resonate or finally kill you for refusing to do so, and most importantly, relief that he wasn’t going to acquire and ruin one of the little pleasures in your life—all of it is now drowned out by a heavy feeling of pleasant drowsiness.

“Then I’ll read it to you, until you fall asleep.”

“Huh? You want to stay?”

“Yes,” he says, hauling himself to his feet and offering you his hand. You take it in confusion, and he lifts you to your feet as well. He sets the now empty mug on your coffee table, and then places his hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you from behind to your bedroom.

“Why?” you ask, not even thinking to object.

“Headache, remember?” He pushes you gently by your shoulders so that you’re sitting on your bed.

“How can you review legalese when you’re suffering from a headache?” You sink into the softness of the mattress.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” he says, nudging you until you’ve scooted to the middle of the bed. “Don’t move. I’m going to get my tablet out of my briefcase.” He disappears through the doorway, and you’re left sitting on your bed, surrounded by all of your plushies, and you have no idea what’s happening. You’re just too tired to argue with him. You really did miscalculate by spending all of your energy trying to get rid of him when he first arrived.

But just because you’re bone-tired, doesn’t mean you’re going to let him boss you around. You get off the bed and pad into the kitchen, passing him as he snaps his briefcase shut, tablet in hand.

“I distinctly recall telling you not to move,” he gripes, pushing up an elegant set of gold framed glasses perched on the uneven bridge of his nose with a middle finger. Huh, you didn’t know he needed glasses to read. He looks almost … cute wearing them, a little less feral. Like a leopard wearing a monocle.

Suppressing the thought of Sylus and cute in the same sentence, you ignore him, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. Then you rummage through your most chaotic kitchen drawer for a few moments, before triumphantly pulling out what you were looking for.

You pad back over to where he’s still watching you, and offer him the glass and the half-used blister pack of over-the-counter painkillers you fished out of your chaos drawer. “Here.”

He looks down at your hands, offering him what you hope is some relief from his headache. His face is impassive, and you’re worried he assumes you’re trying to poison him again. But then he tucks the tablet under one arm, and reaches out with both hands to grasp the glass and the pill pack—except he doesn’t take them from your hands. He envelops yours with his, and pulls you gently closer to him. He somehow manages to pop two tablets out of the pack with his thumb, and they drop into your curved palm. Still holding your hand, he leans down to sweep them from your skin with his tongue. In a complete daze, you watch him lift the glass that you’re still holding to his lips, and he takes a long pull of water, washing the pills down, all the while holding your gaze with his. When he’s done, he slowly lowers your hands again.

“Thank you,” he murmurs “For the benevolence of your heart.” He says it gravely, as if you’ve just saved his life instead of giving him some headache medicine.

“You’re welcome,” you whisper, feeling like you’ve been struck by a truck after… whatever that was, feeling the warmth of his tongue in the palm of your hand like he was still licking it. Sylus then turns and heads back to your bedroom.

You set the glass and the now-empty pill pack on the kitchen island, thinking you’ll clean up tomorrow if you manage to sleep tonight, and follow him.

In the bedroom, Sylus sits, leaning back against your headboard, having needed to gently scoop some plushies out of the way to make room. He stretches his legs out in front of him with a sigh. He looks so soft, wrapped in the white hoodie, silver hair rumpled, surrounded by pillows and cute little plushies.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to remember that the man currently sinking into your duvet and wiggling his sock-covered toes in contentment is the same man who straight up exploded the man who dared kidnap you, and then proceeded to kidnap you himself after choking you to the point of passing out. You try to hold both of these truths about him in your mind at the same time, but the image of Sylus dancing you gently through a press of bodies, of the way he caresses your fingers at every opportunity, the soft slide of his tongue along your palm—these images are conquering every other version of him that you know to be true in your mind. You wonder briefly if this is part of some larger scheme of his, and what his endgame could possibly be. But right now, you’re too fucking tired to care.

“What is even happening,” you ask. You’re exhausted, but you still have enough mental reserves to question how you got here, in this situation, with this man migrating from vanquishing your couch to a large part of your bed. “Is the coffee table, or kitchen table insufficient for your needs? Why are you going to review the paperwork here, on my bed?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how quickly you fell asleep on my back on the motorcycle the other night, sweetheart. I’m just reading you a bedtime story featuring limitations of liability and allocation of risk so that you can finally get some sleep again.” He pats his thigh. “Here.”

You just stare at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, tapping his thigh again with one long finger. Just for that, you glare mutinously at him and fold your arms over your chest.

He sighs again, this time in exasperation, and leans over, firmly lifting you and setting you down so that your head is pillowed against his meaty thigh. He begins to run his fingertips gently up and down the middle of your back. He returns his attention to his tablet. “Now listen carefully,” he commands, before flicking the screen with his thumb and beginning to read in his softly in his deep, rich voice.

But of course you don't. You fall asleep as the skyscrapers light up like a dragon's hoard of jewels in the night sky outside your window, to the sounds of Sylus’s quiet recitation of indeed, a terribly boring contract, and the whisper of his fingers along your skin.

When you wake up, there is another black feather on your pillow, and you are alone. You yawn, once again feeling unbelievably rested despite the chaos Sylus always brings to your door and into your life. You stretch leisurely, spreading your arms wide and turning your head on the pillow, when something catches in your earlobe. You reach up and run your fingers along a stud earring that was not there when you fell asleep. You feel your other earlobe, but it's empty. You grab your phone from the nightstand, knocking over a semiautomatic hand pistol with scarlet flames engraved along the grip that you also don't remember owning onto the floor. You stare at it briefly, ready to commit murder if you check it and find that the safety isn't on. But first things first: you put the phone camera in selfie mode and lift it to your face, but quickly lower it again after confirming that it is indeed a ruby stud in your ear, sparkling cheekily in the morning sunlight.

Later, you're relieved to find that Sylus did actually leave the safety on on your new little ... toy, and you'll find that the mugs have been washed and set neatly away, the empty pack of painkillers placed in the recycling bin. You also see that various takeout containers and other debris that had piled up on a lot of surfaces in your place are also gone, and the countertops are clean, the coffee and kitchen table gleam in the early morning sunlight. You don't notice that the white hoodie is nowhere to be found, until you meet up with Xavier later in the day. He's wearing one that looks exactly like it.

"Thanks for returning the hoodie," he yawns. "But you really didn't have to."

You pause, feeling a thread of panic start to wind its way through your stomach. You decide to just... go with it. "Oh? You found it okay?"

"Yeah, but why did you just leave it hanging from my door handle? You could have rung and come in. I had a new limited edition bag of those cookies you were looking at in the corner store last week. I would have shared some with you... but now I've eaten them all," he admits sheepishly, big blue eyes shimmering with guilt.

You try to think fast. Did Sylus give back the hoodie without washing it? What the fuck was he thinking? He could have been seen! Does this flat have surveillance footage? Does Xavier suspect anything? You realize that you still haven't answered Xavier's question as your panic spirals. "Oh, you know, didn't want to wake you up," you flap your hands, as if you can flap this entire situation right out of your messy life.

"Well, I don't know what you did to it, but it feels brand new. As if it's never even been washed. And you somehow got out the bbq sauce stain that no matter how much I sprayed it with that stain remover stuff would never come out. So you're going to have to teach me some of that laundry magic," he says contentedly, snuggling further into the entirely new hoodie that you now realize Sylus must have somehow, over the course of the night, had hand-delivered to Xavier's place. "Uh huh," you say absently, pulling out your phone to furiously text Mr. Asshat when you see that he has also changed his name in your contact list.

You: What the hell did you do with Xavier's hoodie?"

My Sy: It doesnt matter who it belonged to before me. All that matters is that its mine now.

You: It doesn't even fit you properly! You're too big for it!

My Sy: Nothing a little size training cant fix.

Your jaw drops. He cannot be implying what you think he's implying. This is your filthy mind at work. You decide that you will simply pretend this conversation never happened. Absolutely nothing good can come from trying to figure out what the fuck is going through Sylus's head at any given moment.

You: And 'My Sy?' Really?

My Sy: Its not punny, but it rhymes. And its accurate. Gotta put the phone down for a bit, kitten. Business requires my attention. Ill be seeing you soon.

You stare at his last message for long enough that Xavier asks if you're okay. You're not. You're not okay. You couldn't even bring yourself to ask him about the other earring, or the gun. You just slowly slip your phone back into your cargo pants pocket and try very hard to stop thinking, for the rest of the day.

[deep-space-lines]

okay but like. I just had the weirdest thought about that ‘don’t look I’m naked’ comic. Which is that that’s essentially the same thing Adam and Eve did after they ate the fruit of knowledge of good&evil. So I feel like the theological implications of that could kneecap Gabe if he doesn’t think V1 is a being with free will.

yeah ok. i dunno man. is this anything

((side note. this isn’t necessarily meant to be in-character or story-accurate or take place at any particular point in time, just a way to explore some Thoughts. i was also imagining more that V1’s words aren't actually spoken, more like Gabriel’s more articulate interpretation of whatever garbled mechanical noise V1 is using to communicate. I think an angel could do that.))

and then they fucked nasty the end

[dapper-lil-arts]

Long awaited sequel to this lol. You should read the princess and the peasant its rly good

[skyrigel]

Think about Simon working on his bike, the garage is open, allowing penetrating hot rays of sun inside and then there's you, with little princess jus' woke up hair and a cute pink dress, barely reaching your knees. You are carrying a tray with a glass of gleaming slushie, a cute grin on your face as you step in his work space. “Look at you, working so hard, my baby.” you settled the tray on the desk, already covered with screws and nuts. It was an inside joke and you relished in the way Simon looked back at you, raising a brow in warning, like he was really saying, you want that Mrs.Riley, here ? You raked your gaze to his squatted thighs, watching his groin with your shameless eyes, he noticed it too, smirking as he made a show of getting up, “Good morning lil' dove, why do you have to so sweet, huh ?” he smiled, kissing your cheek as he took the glass, his lips bright in the sun as his throat bobbled, like thrusting, each coil rolling within his skin and your mouth was suddenly too dry, you can already feel yourself getting wet just at the sight of your husband, a remarkable sight indeed, he's not wearing a shirt and his vest is completely drenched in his sweat, allowing you to see through, his abs are so breathless and it doesn't matter how much you had admired his body, he just gets more slutty, “Well couldn't let you work hard and then no reward, phew.” reward, You made a show of walking to his bike, the very beloved bike that he took you home after your second date, and also how things heated up, right there on this leather, oh — you were dripping by now, juice coating your inner thighs and you knew Simon knew it too, he was glancing at your ass like a punky teenager who's never been laid, a feral way that makes you squirm and want him more, and ofcourse you were a naughty-naughty girl, you had earned it, mewling like a proud cat when he called you, “You never taught me riding.” you huffed, jumping on seat from one side and letting him see as you sprawled your leg on the other, leaning back, your back against the tanker, a full display for your already hard husband, you could make out his big dick through his pants, your mouth watering. “Huh?” no offense, but he looked so hot when he got nonsensical like that, he wasn't even pretending, he looked at your pussy and raised a question at you, gawking you deliberately. “You never taught me how to ride—” you pouted, “—your bike.” Simon's breath were already panted, he was sweaty and hot and so needy, sitting upright in front of you and pulling your thighs so you were closer to him, almost pressed, his cock rubbing against your clothed pussy, stiff as a rod, “I think I had before.” he had, his nose nuzzling in your sleepy warm body, “You had ? I don't remember.” You whined, wanting the friction that he was making you crave, wanting him to fuck you so hard, you didn't care if your garage was open, didn't care if Mrs. Wilson might be watching, it just turned you more hot, can you want him any more because you just can't get enough of him, no matter how much he fills you up with cum you're already begging for more, a naughty-naughty girl indeed. “oh, don't worry, you will remember it now for days.” and you'd be a liar if you won't, smiling as your dress rode and his greedy hands and mouth were everywhere, chasing you, good luck Mrs.Riley, because you signed up for it.

Teheeeeee period wooshhh

Masterlist

[andersonfilms]

eighteen+, mdni.

jock!abby who plays soccer is so head-over heels in love with you, but she promises to keep what you have going just between the two of you. ellie’s your best friend and the two of them can’t stand each other but two months ago at some stupid frat party, too many beers and three joints later abby was eating you out like her life depended on it. you were too high, and she was too drunk but god was she fucking you so damn good. strong arms pinning you to the edge of the bed, as her mouth sucked on your bundle of nerves, before she would let go, letting her tongue soothe over your clit and you moaning her name like a prayer in the process.

jock!abby talks you through it the entire time, and she’s so stupidly pretty with her blonde locks falling over her face like a golden waterfall. her blue eyes are so dark, they’re almost gray and then she has two fingers inside you. they’re thick and long and she’s reaching places you can’t. still, her words making you whine over and over, your hips moving uncontrollably but she pins them down with her brute force.

“Yeah, baby, I know how good this feels. I’m so fucking wet right now from this pretty pussy. You taste so good, baby. I could just eat you up forever. Want me to stay here, crushed by these pretty thighs of yours?”

jock!abby nearly crumbles when she rubs her cunt on top of yours, clits nudging against each other as you practically scream. you know this won’t be the only time you stumble into her bed, you know the next time you’ll be completely sober because god, does abby know how to fuck. she finds a rhythm that’s good for the both of you and she takes control on top. abby can’t help but think about how perfect the two of you fit together, her thighs against yours but she needs a better angle. so, she lifts your leg and places it on her shoulder and you want to come right there.

jock!abby can hear your sweet slick against her, her thighs, god it’s everywhere. she wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve dripped to her sheets, not that she minds. she’s fucking you so hard and you can feel a shiver run down your spine. you want to stay like this forever. her pussy feels so good against yours. you know this shouldn’t be happening. you shouldn’t be fucking ellie’s nemesis but god, the devil has never felt better.

“Be a good girl, baby. Come for me. I’m so close just need to feel your cum on me, need to feel it on my cunt. Please baby, show me how much you want this. Fuck, baby, right there. Yeah? Such a good fucking girl. Fuuucckkkkk.”

jock!abby comes with you, and your body jolts as you feel her slick stick to your swollen lips, it’s so messy and utterly fucking divine, sending both of you into pure euphoria. her biceps are so big, and she holds her weight as she devours your mouth with hers. her skilled tongue staking claim on you. fuck she feels exquisite and her wet pussy is still against yours and you never want her to move. all you want is her sweet, freckled face and the nectar you’re sure tastes delightful as honey, tucked between her thighs.

“You did so well, baby. Now, let’s see how good this pretty cunt takes my cock, huh? What do you think about that, gorgeous?”

[scroofy-was-here]

to all the fanfic authors (and authors in general tbh) out there who have problems with comparing themselves to other fanfic authors and trying to tell if their fic is "good" or not:

I wanna tell you right now that readers do not meticulously compare your writing to someone else's work to see whose is better, they see two separate fanfics that are both amazing and enjoyable to read!! don't be so hard on yourself :D

comparison kills, keep up the good work!!! <33

[comfortless]

Deep Water

nix! König x fem! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. no.. intentional harm done to reader but there are sporadic mentions of murder (drowning), König is kind of a creep here do you guys forgive me (say yes), implied sex; dubcon everything. König is wearing a fishing net rather than the usual hood because. it made sense to me sorry.

notes: yet again, i have found that i can not manage to write anything except for silly fantasy nonsense… bear with me this will pass (it will not). if you’re uncertain of what a nix is, i recommend skimming over this (or tl;dr— a shapeshifting water spirit).

You’ve always been told to beware of the river, especially on nights like this. When the singing starts up you were to run, as far and as fast as your feet could carry you. It would be the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, as well as the last. Whatever beast lies in wait along the silt of the riverbed luring people in with its haunting song isn’t kind. The drowned bodies resurfacing bloated and paled are enough for the townsfolk to assume that assuredly, a monster lies in wait someplace within the glassy water.

For all of the fear, town myths were just that— myths.

As always, there’s no singing when you seat yourself on smooth, mossy stones by the river’s bank. The moon hangs low, casting its brilliant reflection on calm, dark water. The air is alive with the buzzing of cicadas clinging to the trees at your back and night birds calling out to the wind. Nothing is amiss; it’s only peaceful, and that’s why despite the warnings, you often find yourself here when the temperature is favorable.

There are nights when the river isn’t calm, and currents are the most reliable reasoning for the deaths from past summers. The water is full of large rocks with sharp corners, teeming with plants that could so easily snare an ankle, and when the water is frothing and cruel it’s no surprise that one could be thrashed to unconsciousness if they weren’t careful.

You didn’t come here to take your chances on swimming, anyhow.

If anything, it’s a mere reprieve from the bustle of the town. No one wanders here any more since the myths gained traction, passed from mouth to listening ears time and time again, leaving this place entirely untouched. Occasionally the obnoxious teenager would cross your path on the walk here, declaring loudly to their friends about how they supposedly saw some slimy beast, eyes like moonbeams and scales like razors lying on the bank.

During your little adventures here, you often carry a snack with you, but not for yourself. Tonight, it’s just a small package of vanilla flavored cookies. In truth, they were awful— dry and near flavorless, but you suspect your friend here wouldn’t mind too terribly much, and if it got them out of your pantry without wasting it was a win for the both of you.

When the large dorsal fin crests over the water mere meters from the bank, you gratuitously crush the treats in a closed fist and toss the crumbs into the water. Time and time again, you’ve fed the large animal, watching as it thrashes about just below the surface before disappearing back into its depths. You’ve never gotten a good look at it, either, but you imagine it must stretch out past your height or further; some sort of gar or sturgeon.

Just as many times before, it glides further in, fin entirely out of sight now. The only evidence of it ever appearing at all were the small waves rippling in its wake. All is quieted once more as you embrace the placid bliss, readying your small flashlight and losing yourself into the book perched in your lap.

The next night, you’re greeted by a large snake basking over the rock you typically sat upon. It lies still, coiled into itself as it regards you, forked tongue flicking out for several moments before it simply slithers off, hiding itself away beneath the moss and stone.

“Best to leave you alone, huh?,” you ask to it’s retreating tail, feeling a bit silly for speaking to the reptile at all. It doesn’t respond, of course, nor does it bother to come out of hiding either.

You opt to seat yourself on the hill overlooking the water instead.

You find that after a day occupied by tedious tasks, there truly was no greater place to abandon your woes than here. Everything was peaceful; wild yet simplistic. Even with all of the death that seemed to haunt this place, you never feared the thought of ghosts. You’ve even entertained your imagination a time or two, that if you ever did meet one, you would only ask it not to disturb the wildlife you have grown so fond.

There’s a freedom and a mystery to places like this, places without the foot traffic of other people. It brings with it a sense of whimsy, especially when you glance towards the water and see the surface reflecting every twinkling star above.

The fish doesn’t appear, even as you listen to the water in wait, your head tilted as you lie back on soft grass to watch for ripples, for the swell of a large fin moving beneath. Nothing. You read your book as the night progresses, nearly completing it entirely before you make your way back home.

Weeks pass by like this— work, river, home and repeat. Occasionally it’s the same large snake that greets you when you wander there, more often it’s the large fish circling about waiting for crumbs of whatever treat you choose to bring. The bank and the small hill overlooking it have become a separate home to you, one where you can be away with the fairies, talking to your animal friends that never seem to stick around for long.

When the weather grows warmer, you even dare to take a swim.

You’re stood on the slick stones of the bank, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s not proper swimming attire, but you reason that you’re not at the beach, not a soul is around, and it doesn’t really matter at all that you might look a bit silly. The prospect of swimming along that behemoth below is a tad terrifying, but you wouldn’t dare to wander too far in. Maybe the fish would even be intelligent enough to not attempt to eat you after you’ve been so kind to it.

It’s hot, and with a sticky layer of sweat glossing your skin, your worries seem minuscule in light of an easy way of cooling off. You toe at the calm water for a moment, testing its temperature before willing yourself to take a step forward, then another before you seat yourself in the vibrant expanse of darkened blue. Here, you realize, is the best place to stargaze, too; they shimmer all around you, within reach as you tap at the surface of water, watching it undulate beneath the pressure of your fingertips.

You could reach the moon, too, if you swam further out. A few meters from the bank and you would be directly beneath its reflection, bathed in that ethereal glow.

You watch for your friend for a time, trying to prioritize your wariness over your whimsy. When the fish doesn’t tread by you, the water remaining calm, you rise to your feet and take slow, metered steps as the water parts and flows against your shins.

Though the river is disturbed no matter how gently you stride forward, nothing slides out from its depths in pursuit of you. Nothing happens at all when you reach out to splay your hand out against the reflection, the water now gently lapping against your stomach rather than your legs.

You hadn’t expected any sort of shift in your reality, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps some sort of clarity; a further calm for a weary mind. It doesn’t come, and with a disheartened splash you wade your way back towards the shore.

This has been your sanctuary for some time. Excusing the snake, there’s not been any sort of threat to you, not here. A safe water world all your own. Though, that peace is shattered the moment that you make it to the bank and hear the water shift some small distance behind you. Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of a man, the bulky muscular silhouette towering in the patch of moonlight you had just stood in. Bright blue eyes catch the light, reflecting like an animal’s as you scramble back to where you’ve left your shorts.

He stands there, silent and unmoving like an obelisk even as you hastily dress yourself with a thundering heart and breaths that sound more or less like gasps, senses heightened by your panic as you turn tail to run.

No one had been there. You were sure of it when you sunk into the water. There was no sound when this person had swam over to take your place. He was just there, as if he had been the entire time and you somehow failed to notice.

You make your way into the woods framing this place, hurried steps and untied shoelaces. You don’t even bother with your flashlight.

Finding your way back home with aches in every muscle, the desperate rampage you had taken to get away finally coming to a close when the door slams shut behind you, you quickly shower and mull over what’s just happened. A ghost, perhaps. It had to of been. Any other person would have made noise in their approach, especially being that big. The mind could play its tricks; what you had seen was likely not even there at all— a terrifying figment of your imagination. That sets you at ease, somewhat, but not enough.

You don’t sleep well that night, tucked beneath your blanket and staring at the filtered moonlight through your curtains. Work isn’t on your mind at all come morning until your phone chimes with a notification from your manager, questioning your tardiness. A languid crawl out of bed follows, another shower, an unsatisfying breakfast, all before you opt to send a text back to let him know you won’t be in today.

It could be excused, you’re reliable and decent enough at the job; not one to boast, but far more eager to please than the rest of your coworkers. You would be entirely useless if you went in on no sleep, you reason.

You don’t want to go back there, not under the veil of night, but you find yourself horribly curious the longer that you bide your time indoors. You had to know if the thing that you saw was really there, had to calm your nerves. What if he had always been watching each time, and you simply hadn’t noticed? The forest bordering the river is terribly dark at night, anyone could crouch behind the shield of a tree and remain undetected until they willed the courage to drag you in, cup a palm over your mouth to silence your cries.

Maybe it was the monster the people in town rumored about.

The thought of some strange, silent thing living beneath the water waiting for an opportune moment to take you by the neck and drag you down to the silty floor to watch you drown horrified you. Yet, that’s the one conclusion that sticks. Those eyes… so lurid and haunting, no human being had eyes like that.

You inhale sharply, steeling your nerves as reach for a pocket knife for defense, toss it into the bag slung over your shoulder, and storm out the door.

The trek there is nothing short of dull.

No matter where you look, what shadows rise up beneath the dim glow of a falling sun, there’s nothing out in the woods. The river is equally tame. The water babbles over rock, cicadas buzz off in the distance, and not a thing seems amiss. Your search for footprints that don’t belong to the soles of your shoes turns up empty. The only thing that suggests just maybe it wasn’t all in your head is the book you had neglected to retrieve in your fear the night before.

The cover, every page within, now warped as though it had been pulled into the water and spit out to dry. You pick it up, peeling through damp pages, running your fingertips over the smeared ink. It’s possible that a particularly aggressive splash could have sullied it, but something tells you that that isn’t the case. Either way, it’s unreadable now. You sulk a bit as you slip the ruined thing into your bag and step towards the smooth stones to watch the water instead.

Night creeps in slowly with you there, and you’re on high alert for a time before you begin to relax as usual. Even giggle to yourself at how silly it was you believed you saw a ghost at all as you entertain yourself by skipping small stones across the water.

No large snake, no massive fish, no titan of a man appears before you, only a calming crescent moon and a few wandering wood ducks, gliding down from the bank to splash about. A thought comes to mind as the calm emboldens you: what would happen if you got in just one more time?

There’s nothing to suggest that you’re playing with fire as you leave your shoes neatly in the dry sand. If the ducks could swim unbothered by fish or men, then surely you could, too. You watch the little creatures a distance away as they dip their heads beneath the surface and chitter away amongst themselves while you take your first step in.

You don’t dare to go as far this time, stopping when the water brushes over your knees. You wait there while time seems to slow to a crawl, expecting the absolute worst, glancing further down the river, dipping your hand below the glassy surface until your fingertips brush the sand beneath.

It’s horribly hot and you’re still exhausted from the sleepless night before. The water feels nice, and you feel as though you have some sort of claim to it as you’ve been here more often than anyone else would dare to. Ghosts and monsters be damned, you seat yourself and let the water lap over your shoulders, tilting your head back to watch the stars.

When the singing begins it takes a moment to register just what it is that you’re hearing. It’s not beautiful, not like the myths have said. It’s hissed, a low whisper, a mockery of what a human song would sound like. The voice is rasped, lilted yet cold. The realization that it sings words from your book of poetry is what terrifies you the most, the warped pages all making sense now.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, forward, before realizing the voice is coming from behind you. Cold spreads through your veins as you try to force yourself to stand, but in your fear you find yourself petrified, rooted in water that would surely become your grave.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around, to inevitably find your eyes locked onto the shadowy frame of a man far too large, his eyes glistening and pale like the moon hanging above.

The voice pauses when it finds you unmoving, and you can hear the rustle of the creature shifting its weight where it’s stood on the rocks lining the bank. You’ve no clue how deep the river gets, where the opposite side leads, but your only chance of escape seems to be swimming through in the hopes that this thing doesn’t choose to chase after you. A part of you knows that he would, that that is exactly what he expects you to do, goading you to flee deeper with his eerie song so that he can drown you just as he did the others.

You do the opposite as you squeeze your eyes shut and crawl back towards the bank, making sure to keep some distance despite your willful blindness. You wouldn’t look at it, wouldn’t talk to it, you would just go home and never come back.

“Best to leave you alone, hm?”

You still as your fingers brush against wet moss, the voice no longer a whisper but loud, loud as it echoes your words from days past just above you. Beating back your own curiosity proves futile, because you look up at the damned thing then, expecting to see an impossible terror before you, sharp fangs wet with blood and appendages too spindly reaching out for you. Instead, you see only a man.

He’s crouched, only a meter or so away, and you immediately recognize his broad figure. The same as the night before. From this distance you can make out the finer details, the length of net covering his face and neck, the webbing between each finger. Still a scary sight, but only in the way it’s unfamiliar and imposing rather than instilling any sort of primordial fear.

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself fully out of the water, rising to your feet and taking a tentative step back. You’re prepared to run, a coil pulled too tight on the verge of snapping.

The man, creature, whatever he may be just tilts his head, lets the silence hang in the air for a moment before he has the audacity to laugh whether to himself or at the strange, bewildered expression on your face.

His stare is assessing as he sucks in a breath, follows suit in rising to his full height. From the size of him alone, you know you’re not getting away. A mere stride for him would be two or more for you, a deliberate tug of your wrist from him could snap it in an instant.

Yet, he doesn’t reach for you, only gestures toward your bag lying on the ground with a subtle flick of a finger. You give him a quizzical glance in turn, not bothering to retrieve it. You could come back during the day with a friend, gather it and never return. Only, your knife sits somewhere inside, the only protection that you’ve got. The realization spurs you to bend over and toss the strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

The stare remains fixed upon you as you take another step back, blinking slowly every now and then as you both remain in some strange stasis.

It takes you a moment to put the pieces together. The reciting of words from the book, the mimicking of the words spoken to the snake, the hint at your bag… he’s expecting something and it’s not to steal away your life, only to be fed and have your company. It’s not charming, it’s awfully strange and eerie, but you find yourself giggling at the prospect of taming some murderous, shapeshifting monster with subpar treats and poetry.

You pull open the bag, searching for anything you may have brought along that he could eat, eventually prying out a small package and offering it out to him.

“Is this what you want?,” you ask, voice hushed and trembling.

He shakes his head, rustling the net cloaking him in the process. So, he understands, he’s just been willfully ignoring every other thing you’ve said prior. You store the package away with a perturbed expression crossing over your face.

“Then what?”

Any relief you had felt seems to dwindle when the giant takes a half-step closer. His skin is cool and wet as the river as he brushes his hand over your forearm, curling a set of fingers around it. The touch is gentle, but there’s a promise of violence lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he urges in that harsh whisper from before, delicately squeezing as he pulls you towards him, leading you back to the river with a tight grip and a step back over the stones. Though his touch is passive, there’s a frightening strength lurking someplace beneath his flesh, tacked to bone, and as your gaze trails lower to rest to rest at your feet, the space between you two, the evidence of a life prone to violence and strength is laid bare before you.

You don’t fight the hold as he leads you to water so deep it caresses the base of your neck, right below the milky glow of a waning moon. Deeper still, as you’re pulled below, pressed down to the very bottom with his body lain over you. You can only hold your breath so long before an involuntary gasp leaves you, and a wave is funneled straight into your lungs.

Panic is fleeting, but the adrenaline stays ever-present. You claw, push, kick, to no avail. Pinned down by a hand weighing like an anchor you feel your vision flooding and hazy as his head knocks against your jaw, mouth sealing tightly over yours. It’s not a gentle kiss, the net fashioned into a hood digs into your skin, teeth scrape over your lip until you feel the sting of blood drawn.

All at once, your vision darkens and it’s over.

You find yourself lying back on the shore as the morning sun warms your face, causes your dampened shirt to cling to your skin. Disoriented, but alive, brushing your thumb over your lower lip as you sit up to stare at the subtle waves lapping over moss and rock.

Just a dream, you tell yourself, knowing full well you hadn’t fallen asleep.

Just a dream, even though you avoid the river entirely now. Your route home from work changes too, avoiding even a glimpse of the path that leads down to that place. You don’t even replace the book, you toss what remains of it after fishing through your bag, murmuring something about it surely being cursed and entertain yourself with film at night instead.

Sleep remains tentative, you wake with every sound, and your dreaming is filled with visions of a figure pushing you down into deep water, his weight bearing down upon you so heavily that you can not move until you wake with a start, eyes searching your bedroom.

Several weeks, and the fear does eventually fade.

The morning that the rain begins to fall, you realize you haven’t even thought about the river in days. There’s no monster prowling your nightmares anymore. You lived through what may or may not have occurred, and that was the end of it, simple as it may have been.

A late shift at work has you wandering out into the rain, umbrella in hand. You’re grateful that you live close, that you’re not entirely soaked to the bone when you step inside of the mundane building. Your coworkers notice your change in demeanor immediately, chirping about how glad they are that you’re finally feeling better, looking more yourself as the hours pass you by. It brings a smile to your face, a real one that you haven’t had in place since that last night.

Even in the summer, there’s a chill to the air in the late afternoon as you hurry home from work and make your way inside, stripping out of your wet clothes and setting your umbrella aside. It’s darker outside than it should be, even more so indoors. Reaching for the switch to turn on the lights proves useless— the power’s out.

You light your way with your phone, ignoring the way your pulse quickens and your heart flutters with the fear that something just doesn’t feel right. Your skin prickles with the thought of some unseen pair of eyes watching you, blue and cold. You only relax when you slam your bedroom door shut, locking it and pressing your forehead to the wood as you sigh. The puff of breath that escapes your lips is not the only in the room, you find out when the light of your phone illuminated your bed. Crouched beside it, a towering figure with a face veiled by fishing net. Words don’t come when you open your mouth to speak, and your heart stutters in your chest as you stand shaking but otherwise petrified.

“You didn’t come back.”

Of course you hadn’t.

Most people wouldn’t have.

“No. I’ve been… busy,” you choke out the excuse, hoping to pacify whatever emotion you imagine lurked beneath his tone, undetectable through the hiss of his voice. “I’ll visit soon, promise,” you lie, back pressed against the door as your fingers curl over the knob.

Your fear seems almost unwarranted. He doesn’t move toward you, only stands to wander back to the window where he must have broken in.

“Tonight?,” he asks in a voice so soft, the voice he must use as a lure because tugs at your heartstrings immediately, makes you want to follow despite the threat this thing poses merely by existing, despite everything.

“It’s cold— I’ll get sick,” you murmur. “How did you even find me..?”

“I will keep you warm.” The question goes unanswered.

You find yourself stifled again as he lumbers towards you, brushing cold fingers across the side of your face. It’s not a mockery of a kiss you receive next but a firm bite where your neck meets shoulder, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you shiver, to grip at the wall of muscle that makes up his chest.

There’s a desperation to his movements as he herds you towards the window, pushes you toward the path leading back to the river. You’re soaked to the bone in seconds, hardly able to keep your eyes open past the weight of dampened eyelashes. The rain is so heavy it feels as though every step is like the first you took into cursed water, your feet sinking into the mud along the path with each tentative stride. The realization that you’re there doesn’t even hit you until you’re chest-deep in the chill, violent waves pushing against you, each carrying the threat of toppling you over entirely.

The palm splayed out against your bare back keeps you upright, leading you to a smooth rock jutting out in the midst of what seems a sea of frothing white and blue. The sea above is just as dark, angry clouds roaring as you’re pressed down onto your back, shivering terribly.

He keeps his promise though, a tight grip on each thigh as he pries your legs apart, sinks in between them and blankets you from the rain. Even with the cold pressed to your back, you feel the warmth of a summer sun above you, scorching from inside, just as blazing as the look in his wild eyes. The last of any resolve slips when you’re pulled beneath the violent waves, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses coaxing oxygen into your lungs. Each roll and pull no less tumultuous than the waves overhead. A placid end when the rain comes to an impromptu halt, just as he stills over you. Hands rush to cup your face with one final, desperate and biting kiss.

When the morning sun pulls you from sleep, cool moss against your back and the weight of his head resting over your middle, the shallow water lapping lazily at your figure, you find that you no longer fear drowning.

[babymetaldoll]

BFF (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Spencer meets his best friend from school after 12 years apart.  Requested: Yes, a million years ago... sorry for the delay!   Warnings: None. I don't even think I cursed.  Category: Hardcore fluff  A/N: Hey!! I'm still alive!  Masterlist

Spencer Reid knew he had fallen in love. It happened when he was just eight years old and his heart had never beat for another girl again, not the same way after he met her. (Y/N), his neighbor, three doors down the block.  

Never, and he was 24 years old already.

It all started on a random afternoon after school. 

- “You are such a nerd, Reid!”- Spencer heard a boy yelling as he shoved him down to the ground. Reid grabbed his glasses and made sure to keep them safe and in place, even when he was on the ground. The other kid, Lucas, was two years older, and for some other reason, that was nothing but kids being cruel, he had always treated Spencer like scum. And that day wasn’t the exception. 

- “Why are you so mean?”- Spencer whispered as he tried to stand up, but Lucas shoved him back to the ground, mocking him. 

- “Why are you so mean”- and the kid chuckled- “I don’t know, why are you such a baby?”

- “Didn’t your mom tell you you should never hit a kid wearing glasses?”- (Y/N) shouted as she stared at the scene from a safe distance, holding her bike. Spencer turned to look at her and for a moment, he thought what he was feeling was a panic attack. His heart kept beating faster and faster as he stared at the girl in awe.

- “Stay out of this, girl”- Lucas yelled and clenched his fist looking at little (Y/N). But she didn’t seem to be afraid. In fact, she left the bike on the ground and walked a few steps closer. 

- “Why are you calling me “girl” like it’s a bad thing?” 

Spencer looked at her with wide-open eyes. Sixteen years had passed since that day, but he could never forget the way she stood completely fearless in front of a bigger boy, and crossed her arms on her chest, almost daring him to reply. 

- “Why are you defending the nerd? Are you in love with him?”- Lucas teased and shoved the girl. But instead of tumbling or even falling, the girl moved faster and kicked him right in the balls. Lucas yelled and fell on the grass, crying in pain. (Y/N) quickly grabbed her bike and turned to Spencer. 

- “This is when you run!” 

He had never felt his heart skip a beat the way it did that day. He was only eight years old, and it never happened again. 

- “What’s your name?”- the girl asked when they reached her front porch, running away from danger. 

- “Spencer”- he whispered as he tried to catch his breath.

- “I’m (Y/N), do you want some juice?”

And just like that, Spencer Reid had a friend. He followed her into her house and froze when he saw two older kids, around Luca’s age, in the living room watching tv. 

- “Those are my brothers, you can ignore them. I do.”- she explained as she kept walking. 

- “So you finally made a friend or are you forcing the kid to hang out with you?”- one of them asked and the other chuckled. But (Y/N) didn’t reply. She walked straight to the fridge, grabbed two juice boxes and some cookies, and continued her way to the backyard. Spencer followed her closely, climbed to her treehouse with her, and shared a snack. 

That was the first of many afternoons they spent together. In the years to follow, (Y/N) and Spencer became best friends. It didn’t matter that he was already in high school by the time she was in middle school. He always took the time to help her with her homework and tutored her in math and chemistry. And she always got his back. Whenever there was a bully around, an asshole making him miserable, or anyone trying to make fun of Spencer, she was there. Kicking ass. 

Kids in school would make fun of them, telling them she was his bodyguard, his guard dog. Someone even drew them in the gym locker room. Spencer was a bunny and (Y/N) was a wolf. It was supposed to make them mad, but they didn’t care. They had their own bubble, their world. And they loved it there. 

Until Spencer had to go. They were twelve, and Spencer had already graduated from high school. Caltech was waiting for him. 

(Y/N) stood by the car as Diana loaded a few boxes. They had to move to Pasadena, and even though neither of them said a thing about their feelings, it was clearly heartbreaking for the two of them.   

- “You are not gonna cry, are you?”- she joked as Spencer tightened his jaw and cleaned his glasses with his shirt. He didn’t reply, he was in fact, fighting the tears back. 

- “Who is gonna save your ass whenever you are in trouble now?”- (Y/N) asked and punched Spencer’s arm softly- “I should have taught you how to fight. You could have a black belt by now.” 

- “Did you know the best age to start martial arts class with a good balance of discipline and commitment is from eight to twelve-year-old?”- Spencer blurted facts because that was the only thing that made him feel safe. 

- “Well, make sure you take a self-defense course in Caltech or whatever. Don’t let anyone kick your ass”- she added and he friend just nodded. They stared in silence for a moment, until Diana called her son, ready to go. 

- “So… see you around?”- (Y/N) simply said and Spencer nodded. 

- “Can I write to you?”

- “Sure! can I send you my homework, so you can do it for me?”- both of them chuckled. Spencer wanted to hug her, but even after all those years, he still didn’t feel comfortable enough to do it. So he just waved, and she waved back, and before he could comprehend what was happening, he was in a car with his mom, driving from his home to a new destination.     

- “I’m gonna miss you.”- (Y/N) whipped off the tears from her eyes as she stood in the middle of the sidewalk staring at the car. She didn’t know why she couldn’t just tell her best friend those words instead of making fun of him, but she figured she didn’t want him to think she was weak. He made her feel that way. Weak. Soft. Giddy. Nervous. 

She had a crush on him, obviously. No wonder why she had spent over four years defending him from every bully in school. She never told him, though. She felt so stupid, so silly, and so freaking girly, she couldn’t stand it. So she locked her feelings, hid them underneath thousand sarcastic, witty comments    

- “Bye, (Y/N)”- Spencer whispered, staring at her through the rearview mirror, as tears kept falling from his eyes. He knew his heart was breaking, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Skip twelve years, and Spencer still cherished every letter he had shared with (Y/N). They had long stopped writing to each other, but he always wanted to find her again. He missed her, like a part of his life that had been ripped from his chest, from his fingers. From his heart. But life was now filled with chaos. He worked at the BAU, he chased serial killers for a living. He didn’t have time for his personal life. He only had time for work. 

- “Local police department asked us to assist on a case”- Hotch announced early that morning at the briefing meeting of the team. Spencer looked at the Unit Chief and nodded, taking notes on the case they had to help with. They had worked with the local police a bunch of times, and so far it had been a good experience. 

- “I heard there is a new Sergeant in that department.”- Morgan comments as he drove with Spencer to the city police office - “As far as I know, she is very young but severe. Some of the officials said they were scared of her.” 

- “Most men are threatened by female bosses.”- Spencer replied, reading the case file for the fifth time during the trip. He didn’t take his eyes off the paper as he added - “A study indicates that women in positions of authority meet with more resistance in their interactions with male employees because those men perceive female bosses as a threat to their masculinity.”

- “And how would you deal with a female boss? Can you picture a woman as Unit Chief?”- Derek was just teasing his friend, mostly ‘cos he was bored.  

- “I don’t feel threatened by women.”- Spencer nearly stuttered as he replied, which made his words considerably unbelievable. 

- “Yeah, that’s not what I remember from the last time you talked with a woman.”- Morgan just chuckled and shook his head. 

- “Shut up.” 

Hotch, Gideon, Elle, Morgan, and Spencer walked into the police station. The Unit Chief and Gideon headed straight to the chief’s office, and the rest of the team waited in the bullpen. Most of the officers were there, doing paperwork, nothing out of the ordinary. Until one voice captured Spencer’s attention. 

- “How many times do I have to tell you, Smith? You can’t make that kind of desitions on your own? What if someone got hurt again?”- (Y/N) was scolding a young official, who glued his eyes to the floor, embarrassed. - “Now go before you get another suspension.” 

- “(Y/N)?”- Spencer whispered and turned to her. He was beyond shocked, not even in his wildest dreams he thought he would see her again. 

- “It’s Sergeant (Y/L/N).”- (Y/N) corrected and looked at the young agent. And for a moment, she forgot where she was. She opened her mouth, but not even one word came from her lips. There he was, her first love, looking cuter than ever. 

- “Hi.”- Reid mumbled and waved. She stood in the middle of the police office and simply stared at him in silence. 

No one understood what was going on. Morgan looked at Elle, who just shrugged. Everybody at that office was confused. The officials had never seen their Sergeant being emotional, and it was clear she was having a moment, right there in front of everybody.  

Suddenly, (Y/N) took a step closer to Reid, and then another, until she stood right in front of him and wrapped his arms around his neck. He moved immediately and hugged her tight. That was the very first time they hugged. 

- “Are you really here?”- she whispered and giggled, moving from him and staring t him with a big smile - “Is it really you, Spencer Walter Reid?”

- “Walter?”- Elle tried not to laugh and looked at Morgan, who seemed to be trying not to laugh as well. 

- “When did you move to DC?”- Spencer asked, staring at his best friend, neither of them moving from each other’s embrace. 

- “Last month! How long have you been here?”

- “Two years. I lost track of you after Caltech. I missed you.”- Spencer confessed right away, and (Y/N) nodded. 

- “Me too… and what are you doing here?” 

- “The team was called to collaborate on a case.” 

- “You are with the FBI?”- (Y/N) wide opened her eyes, surprised- “Look at you, Smarty.” 

- “Reid.”- Hotch interrupted their reunion and took them back to reality in a second. (Y/N) let Spencer go immediately and stood straight. 

- “Nice to meet you. Seargent (Y/L/N).”- (Y/N) extended her hand to Hotch, who shook it right away.- “The Chief told us you were coming to help with the case. Thank you for your time.”

- “(Y/N) is my best friend from school.”- Spencer explained to Hotch, and the team because they were all carefully listening. 

- “Nice to meet you. I was just talking with the Chief, we are meeting at the briefing room now.” 

Both (Y/N) and Spencer nodded and started walking, following the team. They had to make a major effort to focus on work. Neither of them could take their eyes off each other. Spencer kept smiling the whole time and looking at his best friend in adoration. Meanwhile, (Y/N) tried her best to remain calm. She felt exactly as she did when she was twelve. Her defense was down, Spencer made her feel weak and in love. Who knew first crushes could last that long? 

By the end of the day, a team of police officials plus Morgan, Elle, and Hotch had gone after the unsub. Spencer, and (Y/N) remained at the station, along with the Chief and Gideon. 

- “I still can’t believe you are here.”- Spencer whispered and looked at (Y/N), as the two of them stood in the middle of the kitchenette, getting another cup of coffee. 

- “Me neither.” 

- “I have so much to tell you. How are your brothers?” 

- “Married and with kids. I still can’t believe they are responsible grown-ups.” 

- “I might need proof to believe that as well.”- Reid smiled and (Y/N) chuckled at his words- “My mom still remembers you.” 

- “How is she? I miss her classes and her reading sessions.”- Spencer opened his mouth to reply, but Gideon interrupted him. 

- “They got him, we are ready to go.”- Reid nodded and turned to (Y/N), who sighed and cut him a short smile. 

- “At what time does your shift end?”- the young agent asked her.

- “Two and a half hours ago, yours?”- she replied with a soft chuckle. 

- “I think I am free now… do you want a better quality coffee?”- both of them smiled and looked at the mugs. 

- “And maybe something to eat. I’m starving.” 

- “Are you still a fan of Mexican food?”- Spencer asked and (Y/N) could barely hide the blush on her cheeks.

- “You still remember that?”

- “I remember everything.”

Reid and (Y/N) walked around after dinner. They had spent their time catching up with everything they had done since the last letter they had shared. He told her about college, his master's degrees, and PhDs. She told him about how she became a sergeant at such young age, and how she ended up in Washington DC. 

They walked arm in arm under the starry sky, like time hadn’t passed by. They talked about everything they might think of. But there was one question Spencer needed to ask her before the night was finished.  

- “I sent you so many letters after Caltech, but they all came back. They said “Not at this address”. Why didn’t you tell me you were moving?” 

And that was the one question (Y/N) wasn’t longing to reply. 

- “You were my best friend. My only friend and you disappeared. Why?”- Spencer stopped walking and looked at (Y/N). She sighed and bit her lips, trying to find the right words to explain her truth. It was hard, and she had tried her best to avoid it for too long. But if life had put Spencer back in her path, she couldn’t escape anymore. 

- “I’m sorry I hurt you, Spencer.”- she whispered and took a few seconds before she added - “That wasn’t my intention.” 

- “Then why did you disappear?” 

- “I needed some distance”- she tried to explain, but Spencer frowned. 

- “You and your family had moved to New York, I was in Los Angeles. We hadn’t seen each other in years. That wasn’t enough distance to you?”- (Y/N) had never heard Spencer raise his voice, but to be fair, they hadn’t talked about their feelings ever before. 

- “I needed to get over you!”- she murmured and bit her lips one more time, obviously nervous about his reaction. She was trying to be honest. - “I couldn’t continue in love with my best friend forever. I had to move on! I was already eighteen and I never even had a date, ‘cos I was waiting for you.” 

Spencer stared at her in shock. Of all the answers he thought he might get, that was not the one he imagined. He thought she was bored of him and grew tired of his letters. That she had more interesting things to do with her life than talking with a pen pal. 

(Y/N) sighed, relieved to take that from her chest, but scared of Spencer’s answer. She stared at him for a few seconds, but he didn’t react. So, she continued walking and slowly left him behind. 

Spencer tried to connect all that info, but he couldn’t believe it. He stared at her back as she walked and called out her name, jogging. 

- “(Y/N), wait.” 

- “No Spencer, it’s ok. You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry I was so immature and hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t… I am so sorry.”- she blurted out and kept looking at her feet as she spoke. 

- “Don’t be.”- the young SSA whispered and held her hands. She raised his eyes and stared into his. She could still see the same sweet kid she had met at eight years old. - “I am sorry I never told you how I felt either. I was just so scared to lose you, and I lost you anyway.”

The two of them stayed in silence, processing what had just happened. Neither of them moved. Neither of them knew what to say next. So they just stood in silence for a few minutes, Spencer kept holding her hands the entire time, slowly and carefully caressing her fingers. 

- “So… what now?”- she finally whispered and Spencer sighed. 

- “Would… you… like… going out on a date with me?”- he asked and (Y/N) was unable to control the smile on her face. 

- “Are you serious? What did we just have? Dinner and ice cream count as a date.”- she teased him and Spencer blushed immediately.  

- “Ok, would you like to go on another date with me?” 

- “I would love to.”- she replied and started walking again, this time hand in hand with Spencer. He chuckled and stared at her from time to time. 

- “What is it?”- (Y/N) asked, knowing he was looking at her. Spencer chucked again and stopped walking. 

- “If this was a date…”- but he couldn’t finish his question, ‘cos (Y/N) held his face with both hands and kissed him. It was short and childish, and both of them seemed shocked after they parted. 

- “... I was wondering if I could walk you home?”- Spencer finished asking, and (Y/N) closed her eyes embarrassed, and even held her breath. 

- “Sorry… I thought you were….”- but this time, she couldn’t finish talking ‘cos Spencer held her face and kissed her. But that kiss was neither short nor childish. It was sweet and slow. Spencer kept rubbing his lips against hers, making her feel the entire world had stopped spinning. 

- “Sorry… I couldn’t help myself.”- he whispered as he moved his lips from hers, still cupping her cheeks with both hands. 

- “It’s ok.”- she managed to murmur as she giggled. - “I wanted to kiss you since we were twelve years old.” 

- “Me too.”- he confessed and looked at her blushy cheeks, knowing he looked the same.

- “So, are you gonna walk me home?”- (Y/N) asked and felt Spencer hold her hand as they started walking again. He intertwined his fingers with her and turned to her for a second as they started talking again. He knew this time he wasn’t going to let her go.  

Taglist General @spenxerslut @ash19871962 @muffin-cup @cynbx @meowiemari

Taglist Spencer @calm-and-doctor @malboroniights @lovejules888

[escelia]

DP x DC PROMPT/FIC

Gotham Portal

(If you get the notif for this post like 2 days ago, no you didn't! I wasn't done yet! You were imagining things!)

Where the story takes place in Gotham instead of Amity Park, the Fentons having moved before the construction and testing of the Ghost portal due to the high saturation of ectoplasm in Gotham. So, Danny's accident ALSO happens in Gotham, except he has no support system at all.

Enter the Bats stage left!

Danny couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. His parents had uprooted their whole life to move to Gotham. They said they'd need all the ambient ectoplasm there for when they built their portal. Jazz had been thrilled! After all, Arkham was a shining beacon of mentally ill people, and Jazz was like a psychology moth to a flame; it would be the perfect place for her internship after college.

His parents had wasted no time assembling the portal from their blueprints in the basement of the run-down apartment building they'd bought outright just on the edge of Crime Alley, complete with the Ops Center parked right on top. They'd gutted the place and completely redone it before they moved in. (Danny had no idea when they accomplished that. Maybe they'd been planning it for a while and only thought to tell their children two weeks before moving day.) He was genuinely surprised the local vigilantes hadn't stopped by yet to ask questions.

But anyway, back to how he was royally screwed! He'd just wanted a cool picture for Sam and Tucker now that he'd moved away. His parents weren't home (they'd gone back to the hardware store after their last test), Jazz had stayed after school to try and butter up her new teachers by running a study group, and he'd been alone. He'd even followed all the safety precautions his parents had told him about! He'd put on the hazmat suit and tried not to touch anything. But he'd tripped.

Through the whirling of green and the static buzzing in his ears, he remembered screaming, though he hadn't recognized it as his own. Every nerve in his body was on fire, and he just wanted it to stop. Stop, please stop, why won't someone save me, please!

He woke up to the smell of burning flesh, but he woke up. He was okay! Disoriented, a little disgusted by the smell and throat a little raw, but okay!

At least he'd thought so at first.

He'd begun to... change colors? And float, he floated sometimes, too. But the most irritating of all was that he would go through things. Forks and glasses slipping, quite literally, right through his fingers.

He hadn't told his parents. He'd been fine, after all. A little shaken up, but they'd been so excited he'd gotten the portal to work, who was he to put a damper on the mood when he was fine?

That brought him to now, staring at the mirror in the school bathroom in horror. He'd fought his first real ghost that morning around breakfast. He'd kept it together fairly well, in his opinion. Got through three whole classes before making an excuse to the teacher, slipping off into the blessedly empty restroom.

He'd been getting better and better at controlling his form, and he transformed in front of the mirror, taking stock of his appearance.

Odd colored hair: check.

Bright glowing eyes: check.

Floaty hair: check.

Could walk through walls, disappear, and fly: check.

He raised his finger to his pulse point and felt... nothing.

"I died," he whispered to himself in shock. "I... died," he repeated, this time in despair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian Wayne was not usually one to keep tabs on his classmates. They weren't his friends, therefore he saw no point. However, the new kid, Daniel Fenton, had begun to act strange.

When Daniel Fenton enrolled in Gotham Academy it hadn't been anything special. He'd started the year a little last due to his family moving, but families moved for all sorts of reasons. He hadn't tried to immediately make friends with Damian like so many others had, much to his relief. But he hadn't tried to make friends with anyone else, either. Maybe he liked to be alone? It really wasn't his business.

But then the boy started getting skittish and clumsy. Clumsier than he had been when he started school. He'd developed a miniscule tremor in his left hand, so he'd probably sustained an injury. He began dropping things in Chemistry. So often, in fact, that he'd been banned from doing practical labs and was instead assigned extra book work.

If Damian had been anyone else, if he hadn't been raised by assassins or had his night work as Robin, he wouldn't have noticed. He wouldn't have followed Fenton to the bathroom under the guise of needing to see the school nurse for a headache. Perhaps if he were anyone else, Fenton might have noticed him following.

There was an alarming flash of light as Damian peered carefully around the corner. Fenton had changed forms. Something had happened to him.

"I died," he heard him say. Damian thought he was being dramatic until he watched him raise his fingers to his pulse point. His glowing eyes dilated in panic, and he repeated himself. He watched as his classmate, looking fragile and lost, curled in on himself floating in the air, and sobbed.

Damian didn't confront him that day. He watched, waited, and researched. He found the research of Dr's Fenton on ghosts and ectoplasm, most of which he was skeptical of up until actual ghosts started to torment them during patrols.

Ghosts were real, it appeared.

He also concluded that their findings on ectoplasmic entities being non-sentient and inherently malevolent was incorrect, having met the ghost of a little girl caught up in a rouge attack that killed her and her family.

Damian watched Daniel Fenton for about a week while he ditched class in a poorly hidden effort to fight and contain the ghosts that he and his family were having such a hard time dealing with. His father was even nearly considering contacting John Constantine, which was never his ideal solution. Damian had been rolling an idea around in his head for a while and he decided now would be the time to bring it up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner at the manor was more of a full table than Damian had expected. Not everyone was there, Jason's relationship with them was still a bit strained, so he was not in attendance, and neither was Stephanie. But Duke was home, and Dick was actually there early for patrol later. Tim was there, and so was Cass, so almost everyone.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat politely. "Father, I wish to recruit a new member."

The chatter around the room came to a halt, the clatter of silverware ceasing.

"What exactly do you mean, chum?" Bruce asked carefully.

"I have a classmate I believe would be a valuable asset in light of our trouble with ghosts recently. However, he has no training or support, so I'm asking for your assistance."

"Did... demon brat make a friend?" Tim asked bewildered and a little bit terrified.

"Tt. No, I've never even spoken to him." Damian rolled his eyes. "My classmate, Daniel Fenton, transferred to Gotham Academy about a month ago and started acting strange soon after. He came to school with a tremor and a Lichtenberg figure you can just barely see starting on his left hand and traveling up his arm. I believed he'd been in an accident, and my suspicions were proven when I saw him use meta abilities to ditch class and fight a ghost in the courtyard of the school. From my observations, they are newly acquired, but he has decent instincts and an inclination toward heroism. I believe it would be safer for everyone involved if we approached him first."

"What?" Tim muttered. Dick was smiling gently at him, though, as if he were doing something he was proud of.

"Do his parents know?" Duke asked. Damian scoffed.

"I highly doubt it."

"Wait, Fenton as in the ectobiologists?" Bruce asked. The ex-assassin nodded.

"And considering their research is not reflected in our own interactions with ghosts thus far, I do not believe we should tell them."

"Not safe?" Cass signed. Her brother shook his head.

"The abilities I've observed resemble that of a ghost. He even has an alternate ghostly form."

The implication that they'd be endangering him hung heavy in the air. They'd all seen the Fentons' research. It mostly consisted of theoretical analysis and blatant biases with a long list of proposed experiments they'd run if they ever caught one. They'd all agreed that the Fenton ghost hunters were not a viable option for their ghost problem, especially after seeing how they drove, which in itself nearly put them on the Bat's rogue list.

"We've been meaning to investigate the Fentons properly anyways," Dick pointed out.

Bruce attempted to massage a headache out of his temples. The stuff his kids stumbled into, really. But Damian was right. If his classmate was a new meta with no support, it was only a matter of time before the rogues zeroed in on him, and since his family lived there, he couldn't tell the kid to leave.

"I'm not saying yes just yet, but talk to him. Find out any more that you can."

"Of course, Father."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Danny finally felt like he was getting the hang of his ghost powers. He was pleasantly surprised, and also mildly horrified, that his parents' inventions actually worked on the ghosts he was now beginning to fight regularly. His favorite was by far the thermos, which did no ghost mutilating whatsoever.

He discovered he had a ghost sense and enhanced hearing and vision, which was cool and all, but now he could hear all the shitty things his classmates said about him behind his back. Which, rude! He didn't even talk to them, what did they have to be shitty about?

He also noticed that one of them, Damian Wayne, had been watching him. From what Danny had heard, Damian was the richest kid in school, a Wayne. Son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, to be exact. And his attitude reflected that. His standoffish, holier than thou rich guy attitude made Dash and Paulina look like they lived below the poverty line. Apparently, he generally didn't talk to anyone at school unless it pertained to class, so Danny saw no point in introducing himself.

That made it extra weird that Damian was following him.

It was right after lunch when a hiccup had a cold breath tumbling from his lips. He raised his hand and asked his teacher if he could use the restroom. He made his way to the bathroom on the other side of the building this time, hoping it would be too out of the way for Damian to follow. But soft rustling of his classmate's school uniform gave him away, no matter how imperceptible his footsteps were.

When he entered the restroom, he made his way to the sink instead, splashing some cold water on his face as Damian walked in behind him loudly as if announcing his presence.

"I know what you've been doing," he said confidently, crossing his arms and standing in front of the door so Danny couldn't leave.

"Oh, hey! Damian, right? I'm in most of your classes, but I don't think I've ever introduced myself. I'm-"

"Daniel Fenton, I know. You've been fighting ghosts." Damian had to give him at least a little credit; he'd become a great actor over the last week. Though, that probably had a lot to do with the fact that he probably didn't feel safe at home anymore.

"My parents are ghost hunters, but I don't think shooting a ghost in the face with a lipstick laser then running for my life counts as 'fighting ghosts'."

"Tt. You are lying."

"Dude, what are-?" Danny cut himself off when his words came with another misty breath. Crap! He'd taken too long!

The ghost of the day, an ugly, mutated, bird looking thing with claws at the ends of its wings and a full set of dangerous, pointed teeth, phased through the door behind Damian, poised to strike.

Without warning, Danny grabbed Damian's wrist and whipped him out of the way, throwing himself between the two. A green shield formed in front of him just as the bird slashed at them with one of its wings.

"Well, that's new," he said startled as the bird geared up for another attack.

Danny groaned at his miserable luck before throwing caution to the wind and transforming. He'd just have to force friendship upon one Damian Wayne in an attempt to keep him from telling anyone about his whole magical girl transformation. He tried to activate his shield again, but when nothing happened, he was flung across the room into the wall. God, this was embarrassing.

The next time the ghost tried to attack him, Damian yanked him aside in a dodge and bolted out of the bathroom with Danny in tow. He was dragged through the winding halls to one of the side exits of the school. In costume or not, Damian's priority was luring the ghost away from the other students.

"Hey, so uh, you won't say anything about this," he gestured wildly to himself, "will you?"

"Tt. Of course not, but I believe you have more important concerns at the moment."

“Right!” Danny patted at the sides of his hazmat suit. “Crap, I left my thermos in my locker!” He dodged another attack and retaliated with an ectoblast, trying to keep the ghost's attention off of Damian as much as possible.

"Your lunch? Really?" Damian shouted. Dang, Danny must have been doing a decent job if Damian had the spare time and attention to be exasperated with him.

"No! It's a containment device! Besides, ghosts are basically soup anyway!"

"Distract it," Damian instructed, "I'll retrieve the device." The boy took off. Danny had to wonder how he even knew where his locker was. The ghost tried to follow him, but Danny shot another blast at it.

"Hey ugly, auditioning to be one of Gotham's Birds? Sorry, but you don't really look the part." He had no idea if the creature could even understand him, but the way it turned to him and lunged again suggested it had done the trick. This time, his shield did work!

Danny could have cried tears of joy at finally having some consistency with it. The next few minutes of the fight felt like an eternity while he dodged and shot ectoblasts at it. The creature wasn't really that strong, and it didn't seem to have super dangerous abilities like some of the other ghosts he'd fought like Skulker or Technus. It ended up being a great opportunity to practice his new shield ability, actually. But he knew the longer he took, the more danger his classmates would be in.

The bird ghost slammed into his shield with a particularly vicious strike, slamming him into the ground and creating a small crater.

"Note to self, remember intangibility," Danny groaned.

In that moment he noticed a door opening on the school building. It was Damian! He was finally back with thermos in hand! Unfortunately, the other ghost noticed too.

"Oh no you don't!" Danny yelled, latching onto one of its feet as it tried to fly toward his classmate. He dug his fingers in hard and sunk into the ground partway to anchor himself.

"Big green button by the lid then the button immediately below it!"

Damian wasted no time popping the lid open and sucking the ghost into the device, the lid closing with a quiet pop. He had to admit, though the design was questionable, it was sturdy, light, and very clearly effective. He wondered if he could get away with sneaking off with this one to have drake examine later.

"That was some incredible timing, thanks." The ghostly form of his classmate floated over to him, taking the thermos from his hand. Damian did not pout.

"We should probably get out of here before the Fenton's show up." He could already hear the screech of tires and his dad's voice over the megaphone tearing through the air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Don't worry honey, we'll catch that nasty ghost boy next time," Jack Fenton comforted his wife. True to form, the Fenton's had arrived to the scene late, and most of the damage to the school yard had been from their vehicle crashing into things upon their arrival. Parents had been called and classes ended for the day, which was how one Bruce Wayne found himself at Gotham Academy trying to help the teachers talk the two down from storming and searching the school.

His son was standing off to the side with one of his classmates. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, lanky frame; Bruce could have mistaken the child for one of his own, but looking between the hulking man in front of him and the kid standing next to Damian, the resemblance was obvious. That had to be Daniel Fenton, the meta his son had told him about. Which meant he'd been the one to deal with the ghost before anyone else had gotten there. The classmate Damian had suggested they recruit for his safety.

"Danno, did you see where that spook went? When I get my hands on him, I'll rip him apart molecule by molecule for even thinking of attacking your school!" Bruce saw Daniel's breath hitch with fear.

"Sorry, no. I was coming back from the bathroom when I saw him fighting another ghost through the window. I was scared so I hid," he lied, gripping his left wrist while he spoke.

Bruce was impressed. The boy's fear was real, and he used that to his advantage to really sell the lie to his parents. His heart ached for him. He couldn't imagine seeing any of his boys looking at him like that, with such fear and distrust.

"That's okay sweetie, we'll get him next time. We're just happy you're alright. Let's get you home," his mother comforted, though Bruce knew it wasn't very comforting at all.

"Yeah, we'll teach you to use the Fenton Bazooka," well that was horrifying, "that way next time you can just blast him!" Danny wanted literally anything else.

"Actually," Damian interrupted politely. "We were assigned a project in class earlier on the history of Gotham. As Daniel is relatively new to town, I offered to assist him with the assignment. Father, would it be acceptable for him to join us for dinner?"

Bruce would have been incredibly surprised his son was inviting someone over for dinner if he didn't see exactly what he was doing. Daniel wasn't safe at home. And he clearly wasn't comfortable with the way his parents spoke of the 'ghost boy'. If his defeated expression was anything to go by, it hadn't been the first time they'd said something like that, nor would it be the last.

"What do you think, Mr. and Mrs. Fenton? We'd love if Daniel could join us for dinner."

"Please, call us Maddie and Jack. That sounds wonderful Mr..."

"Wayne. Bruce Wayne, I'm Damian's father," he introduced. If the two recognized the name, they didn't show it. It worked out rather well in his favor.

"Mr. Wayne. If its not too much trouble, that would be wonderful. It's about time he made a new friend, he's been sulking since the move. Now, we have a ghost to catch!" Maddie planted a kiss on Danny's forehead, leaning her blaster on her shoulder as her and her husband made their way back to the homemade assault vehicle parked haphazardly on the lawn of the school.

"Be sure to call us if you plan on staying the night! We'll let Jazz know she doesn't have to worry about dinner for you! We love you, have fun sweetie!"

"Are they always like that?" Damian asked after the two had pulled away. How had those two even gotten their driver's license? It was truly abysmal, he dreaded the thought of anyone getting into a vehicle with them. And then there was the speed in which they'd dumped their son into their laps, even suggesting they'd be okay with him not coming home that night.

"They mean well, but yeah," Danny replied, heaving a sad and defeated sigh. "Thank you, by the way. For inviting me over, even if you didn't mean it. They can be a bit much."

"Clearly," Damian mused back.

Bruce watched the two interact and felt pride well up in his chest. Meeting the Fenton parents just once was enough to convince him that their son needed help, maybe even their daughter too. That Damian had taken the initiative to bring this to his attention, that he had stood up for Danny and offered his home as a sanctuary for him, made him so incredibly proud as a father. He wasn't as prickly with Danny the way he was with other people, even his own siblings. That was a very good thing indeed, considering it was looking more and more likely this would end with another adoption.

Maybe Clark was right, he did have an adoption problem.

[myownworstenemyyy]

[xxbimbobunnyxx]

✰ Eric Draven Masterlist ✰

✶ ALL WORKS ARE FEM!READER AND 18+ NO MINORS ✶

Beautifully Broken

Ever since you arrived to the rehab facility you were sent to, you can’t keep your eyes off of him…

I Think I Could Love You

After narrowly escaping rehab you and Eric finally get some real time alone together

Pussy Liquor

It’s a slow, boring night at the club until he walks through the door.

Divider is by @strangergraphics

[sporesgalaxy]

me when the ship fic is not also an in-depth thesis with multiple cited sources proposing an analysis of one or both characters' psyches down to the most fundamental level

[wantonlywindswept]

forgotten fox ficbit

With Palpatine's dying breath, he curses Fox to be Forgotten.

(Fox isn't really bothered.)

---

There was a personnel transfer authorization sitting in Marshal Commander Thorn's crowded inbox.

He didn't remember requesting a fourth commander. The Guard was in desperate need of one following Thire finding Palpatine's wrinkled ass dead in his office, and the ensuing shitshow about the former Chancellor being a Sith and also controlling the war from both sides. Interim Chancellor Organa was incredibly competent and parsecs better than their previous natborn overlord, but even he was being swamped by the uproar in the Senate and the peace talks with the Separatists and the doubled amount of assassination attempts and the petabytes and petabytes of datawork--

Thorn couldn't remember requesting another commander, but he also couldn't remember the last time he slept.

Commander Vertex stood calm and at the ready on the other side of Thorn's desk, all-black helmet tucked under his arm as he waited patiently for Thorn to remember how to read. His hair was stark white, and there were vine-like scars wrapped around his neck that disappeared down into his blacks. The remnants of Sith lightning, Thorn knew, now that they'd been briefed on what that kind of thing looked like. 

Vertex's file was sparse, mostly redacted, and marked him as coming from the Special Operations Brigade, which Thorn could entirely believe.

"This isn't part of an investigation, is it?" he blurted, brain-to-mouth filter entirely gone after five too many cups of caf and an inadvisable number of stims over the past month. "The Guard was already cleared of suspicion involving the former Chancellor's death--"

Vertex held up a hand. Thorn's mouth snapped shut. 

"It's not," Vertex said, his voice firm, reassuring. There was something about it that made Thorn relax, as if his beleaguered hindbrain knew that the other commander had everything under control.

Spec Ops troops were amazing.

"The GAR is just reallocating resources given the recent upheaval," Vertex continued. Thorn nodded along like that all made sense. "I'm here to help with anything you need."

The word 'help' triggered a sudden burst of manic hope in Thorn's chest, and he lurched forward across his desk, grabbing Vertex's free hand in both of his own. The commander didn't even blink at the sudden movement, calmly meeting Thorn's wide, desperate eyes.

"Can you--" Thorn struggled to keep from sounding like he was begging, which he definitely was. "Can you do datawork?"

Vertex's sigh was entirely exasperated, and the roll of his eyes oddly, familiarly fond.

"Yes, Thorn. I can do your datawork."

---

Pt 2