#another hour of Bones rambling in the tags

[bonefall]

So what do your leaders do all day? In the cannon clans it seems like they just sit around at camp all day and let the deputies do all of the work. Until the plot needs them anyway.

Leaders are given 9 lives for a very important purpose; they are supposed to live as their Clanmates do, understand them, and guide them as shining examples of what a warrior should be.

A leader who's inaccessible is considered a failure. Clans can't do anything about this until ASC and it's rare to begin with, but their clan WILL get upset about it.

Patrolling, sparring, hunting, and even cooking are all things a leader should be doing. Is it still very high-pressure? Yes. Ultimate authority rests on them.

So what's a deputy for?

Busywork. Day-to-day decisions that would prevent a leader from actually engaging with clan life. Setting up patrols, gathering news, settling small disputes, etc.

You could consider them a very authoritative secretary. If a Clan is being TOTALLY run by its deputy, that's a problem. If a Clan is BARELY being run by its deputy, that is also a problem.

So, expect to see cats like Firestar just around more often. It's not shocking to see him return from patrol or a little walk, carrying a mouse or two.

[x-nephophile-x]

16 year old me, you had zero fucking taste

''wah no one shuts up about ff7 and aerith and cloud and sephiroth wah its so popular therefore i hate it and ill never try any final fantasy game'

shut the fuck up, go watch Cloud ride a motorcycle and look at Aerith smile and maybe you'll feel better

[dickytwister]

WIP DAY

tagged by: @nuclearstorms tagging: @stars-of-the-heart @perseus-veil @stacispratt @paralytic-states @shellibisshe @strafethesesinners @judasofsuburbia @hopecountyisforlovers @wewillryesagain and whoever wants to do it!!! in an unprecedented turn of event, i will finally post a wip on wip day,,,,,,, i have fallen deep inside the psych rabbit hole and i am now writing shassie fics so this is what you're getting god bless and amen 🙏🏼🙏🏼 i'll try to post oc writing next time i'm posting a wip teehee!!! and thanks for tagging me bones mwah mwah and mwah

It all happened incredibly fast, and yet Lassiter could still see the last ten minutes play out behind his eyelids like detached scenes from a movie.

Shawn had called him at an ungodly hour of the night, rambling like a madman about a psychic vision so strong it had woken him up—Lassiter highly doubted that, just as he did the mere fact of Shawn being a psychic in the first place. He’d given him a location and had nearly begged him to come as fast as possible.

The Riviera Parlour was the kind of high-end restaurant that Lassiter had only ever dreamt of setting foot into. With a waiting list the length of his arm and a menu that averaged his bi-weekly salary, dining there had simply been out of the question. He’d only considered the idea once, a few months after his separation, hoping that Victoria would have seen in this gesture just how devoted he could be, if given another chance.

Shawn, with his green Henley shirt unbuttoned at the neck and pale blue jeans, had seemed out of place in front of the gold ornaments that decorated the facade of the restaurant. What’s more, the torrential rain had soaked him from head to toe, his hair matted to his forehead and clothes sticking to his body like a second skin. He’d looked all the part of a mutt left to sleep in the doghouse, and Lassiter had had half a mind to scold him for taking his bike in such weather. He’d instead held his tongue, had stared expectantly at the other man with a pinched grimace.

The door had been unlocked—Lassiter had glanced at Shawn with a raised eyebrow only for the latter to shrug and squeeze past him into the restaurant. The glow of their flashlights had casted eery shadows on the walls as they’d wandered, Lassiter forcing Shawn to stay behind him even as the faux-psychic had held his fingers to his temples and guided him deeper into the restaurant and into the kitchen.

He’d ‘divined’ that the evidence they’d needed to tie their suspect to the murders was in the walk-in freezer. How he’d come to that conclusion, Lassiter had no idea, and he hadn’t bothered to ask. Cautiously, gun held tightly in his fist, Lassiter had pushed the freezer’s door open and walked in. Shawn had stayed behind to hold the door, peaking curiously with his head tilted sideways, eyes darting across the room with barely concealed interest.

And then, just as Lassiter had been about to complain about the flagrant lack of evidence, Shawn had yelped and stumbled forward, holding the back of his head with one hand as the door had banged shut.

A deafening silence had hovered over the room for two, three full seconds before Lassiter had launched himself at the door. He’d pulled and pushed at the handle, banged his fist on the cold metal and the thick glass of the window, yelled himself raw, to no avail; the door had remained firmly shut, and their suspect had fled, taking with him their only chance of getting out anytime soon.

Leaning against the door with two fingers pinched against the bridge of his nose, Lassiter forced himself to remain calm, even as Shawn’s rambling, which had been going on since Lassiter’s attempts to open the door had failed, went on and on with no sign of stopping.

“Think anyone’ll get mad if I eat some of these frozen raviolis? I didn’t eat before I left and I’m getting a tummy ache, which is seriously messing with my psychic abilities–”

“If you’re not going to help me find a way out of here, kindly shut the hell up,” Lassiter snapped, glaring intently at Shawn as the latter examined the contents of the shelves. There was no mistaking the tremor in his shoulders, previously soaked clothes now frozen solid on his body.

“Don’t worry, I already have a plan,” Shawn assured confidently, though that didn’t mean much when his voice trembled with every word he spoke. “We turn into icicles and, in ten years, they bring us back to life Michael Beck style.”

“Can you be serious for one second? It’s your fault we’re in this mess.” Then, with a frustrated huff, “And who the hell is ‘they’?”

Shawn shrugged with a vague wave of his hand, and Lassiter had to physically stop himself from reaching for his gun.

“Did you tell anyone else about your hunch?”

“You mean my vision.”

“No, I mean your hunch. Answer the goddamn question, Spencer.”

[writersmorgue]

Day 9 - voice loss

Read on Ao3

Word count: 628

TWs in tags

╞╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╡

Shouto is… not sure what’s happening. 

Now he can confidently say he doesn’t normally know what’s happening either, but he thought he had been getting better. This has to be something else.

It’s dark wherever he is, quiet too. He tries clapping a few times, and he can tell they’re moving but there’s no sound, not even of his pajama shirt rustling.

His voice was the same; he could tell there was a noise somewhere, the rumbling vibrations still running along his throat, but it remained silent.

He stands, picking a direction and walking, hoping he’s still on school grounds. He was when he went to sleep last night, so hopefully he’s in the common room like he thinks.

He reaches his arms out, fingers running along something solid. There’s no texture, but he’s not sure there should be. It’s lukewarm and unyielding against his touch.

Something brushes along his arm; the same vague feeling, and he’s not sure if he bumped into something or if he’s not alone anymore. That is if he ever was.

Only I would get wrapped up in this bullshit. Or maybe Midoriya.

He sighs, wrapping his hands around his elbows.

The rough feeling of his calloused hands is missing.

A weight lands on his left shoulder, and he reaches up to lay his on top of it. The feeling yields beneath his fingertips.

Someone is there with him.

He attempts to ask for Aizawa, feeling the rumble of his voice exit his mouth.

There’s silence.

Shouto’s eyes burn, and he realizes he’s forgotten to blink for gods know how long.

The feeling squeezes his shoulder twice. 

No.

“Can you bring him?” He says, probably.

One squeeze; Yes.

The pressure disappears and with it Shoto’s sense of stability.

He frowns, wobbling.

I’m sure it’s fine if I sit down.

“Um, I'm going to sit.” He waits for a silent answer and nods to himself, doing just that.

He folds his ankles under himself and waits, biding the time thinking about the quiz he’ll probably miss in English today.

The hand returns, accompanied by another on his left shoulder. He rotates his torso toward the latter, his teacher’s sturdy grip giving him some semblance of normalcy.

He feels something brush his knee and assumes Aizawa has sat down beside him. 

“Senses are gone, I can feel pressure.” He keeps it short, still unnerved by the silence of his voice.

The hand squeezes once.

“Probably a quirk. Internship.” He vaguely remembers brushing against a criminal, though he had bright orange hair and Shouto naively believed that must’ve been his quirk. Kirishima dyes his hair red, Shouto didn’t know he could be so dumb.

“Do you think it will go away?’ 

Yes.

“How long will it be?”

A pause.

Shouto presses his palms together, “Right, never mind.”

Not that he thinks he’s a weak-minded individual, but Shouto doesn’t know how long he could actually deal with this without going insane. Not that most people would do so well, the quiet is maddening. 

Shouto’s pretty sure he read an article about the ‘world’s quietest room’ and how the longest anyone had managed to stay inside was an hour.

Maybe actually being able to hear his heartbeat, or his bones rubbing together, would be grounding. As it is, he hasn’t been given relief.

The pressure returns in several intervals; Aizawa is patting his back. 

Well isn’t that unnerving?

Shouto frowns, bringing his knees up to his chest.

I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. Aizawa will fix it and it’ll go back to normal. It’ll be okay, Shouto.

Shouto doesn’t see his teacher watching him with a concerned expression as he rambles out loud, rocking back and forth while he stares sightlessly at the air in front of him.

[northern-polaris]

*crawls out from the from eternal darkness* I BRING FORTH THE SECOND PARK OF TAMLIN FIC OMG. I am going to make a part three that will be just self-indulgent to the max. I hope you’ll like reading it as much as I will writing it. I put the title as a tag so you can find the first one if you want. Spoilers for part three: I need to watch how fiddles are played and if anyone can direct to me a quote where it mentions whether Tamlin is right or left handed, that would be appreciated. No beta we die like Andras. Enough of my rambling, enjoy!

I Swear I Lived(2/3):

The bird, seemingly placated from Tamlin’s words, jumped from his snout to the ground with an audible plop. It then started to hop away in the direction of the ruined nest while Tamlin sat there on the ground, absolutely stunned.

An indefinite amount of time passed before Tamlin snapped out of his stupor. Blinking rapidly, He rose back to his feet and trotted over to the bird who was pecking away at the ruined nest.

The bird was tearing it apart.

Standing there in bewilderment, Tamlin watched as this bird ripped through its home, breaking apart the foundation with no hesitation. In mere minutes, the nest was beyond recognition and diminished to just a pile of small sticks and straw.

Tamlin tilted his head in confusion. The bird, ignoring him, surveyed the damages, jumping around to peer at his work from different angles.

With what Tamlin swore was a nod of satisfaction, the bird came to a stop before turning to stare at him. He stared back.

It felt like hours passed before the bird broke eye contact, picking up one of the sticks–the largest one–with its beak and took flight. Tamlin’s eyes followed it to a branch that was connected to the biggest tree in the area.

The bird placed the twig on the branch, eyeballed it for a moment, and then flew back to the pile. It picked up another stick and repeated the same motion. One stick at a time, it slowly constructed a new nest on the branch. Tamlin stayed rooted in place, his eyes never straying.

The bird took a seat in the new nest and started to prune its feathers, evidently pleased with itself. Tamlin opened his mouth to comment but a sudden and harsh gust of cold air whipped his face and through his fur, effectively silencing him.

Suddenly, rain began to pour down from above and pelt him relentlessly. The leaves overhead provided little protection against the barrage. The storm had, at long last, arrived.

The rumbling of thunder grew deafening and lightning illuminated the sky in a beautiful display of unrestrained power.

Even though he was soaked to the bone and his rational mind screamed at him to find better shelter, Tamlin could not tear his eyes away from the nest.

The new nest of the bird not only appeared to withstand the harsh, cool winds, but it also seemed to be sheltered from the water that fell like sheets.The dark and gray clouds dumped what felt like an ocean's worth of water onto the landscape as hours passed, yet Tamlin’s eyes and body would not move.

In some amount of time that he could not recall, the storm had finally eased and the first rays of light revealed themselves beyond the clouds. The bird was still sitting in its nest, both were in pristine health and condition. They had survived what the world had thrown their way.

It was at this moment that Tamlin was able to pry his eyes away and stared at his paws. Water slowly traveled down his legs, carrying filth and whatever unpleasant things ended up on him with it.

Bright, metallic yellow slipped through in the cracks of his fur, which had been previously colored a dull beige from negligence and dirt. Soon enough, his coat was restored to its natural sheen of pure gold.

Tamlin felt choked up with strong emotions that he could not name, gawking at himself and what the storm had done. Suddenly, a rush of giddiness took hold of him, and he felt his lips twitch upwards. Looking up, Tamlin gave a small chuckle; something that he assumed he had forgotten how to.

“I suppose I needed that--”

His bird was gone. The nest was gone. The branch was completely barren. His heart rate spiked in alarm and the rest of his sentence was choked out of him. Quickly, he launched himself over to the bottom of the tree, finding no sign of either the nest or his bird. He searched and searched, but he could not find them.

Tamlin was left alone again, and numbness took hold. With one last search around the tree and stream, he had begun to meander back to the manor.

Maybe there was no bird and no nest. Maybe nothing was there. Maybe Tamlin shouldn’t have expected anything else. This should be a good thing. It reaffirms that he’s absolutely insane, and there should be closure in that, right? It’s an absolute fact. Tamlin likes facts. Acceptance of facts are easier to digest than the crippling terror of the unknown. Being forced into resignation hurts less than being plagued by paranoia and the ghosts of the past. Tamlin knows that for a fact.

Or does he? It’s already established that he doesn’t know anything about reality anymore, so how can he even trust anything? How can he even trust himself?

He would have gone further into the bottomless pit of self-loathing if he hadn’t walked face first into something hard with a loud thunk.

Tamlin swore he heard a crack, whether it came from his skull or the other object would remain to be seen. Staggering back a few unstable steps, Tamlin gazed up at the place he survived in for centuries: the manor.

The manor that he had slept in for the majority of his life. The manor where he had eaten and slept countless times. The manor where he and Lucien would roam the halls, drunk of both alcohol and joy. The manor where Feyre painted on her canvas and danced with him. The manor where his father and brothers would torture him in ways he could not and would not recall. The manor where so much pain and memory was held.

The manor where he had no solid foundation anymore.

Maybe Tamlin had survived here, but maybe he never lived here.

Maybe he could consider trying to live instead of survive.

Maybe, just maybe, Tamlin could consider destroying this old nest and building a new one on a better tree.

[phantombs]

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒.

What does your muse smell like? At any given moment, Cường smells very thickly of deep earth and all things green that grow. He wears a cologne of dried sage, of freshly blossomed roses, bottled up heather, and cardamom bulbs. Yet, underlying these stronger scents, too, there's something sweeter and paler, something summery like sea salt and just peeled tangerines. Laundry, maybe. Hand washed cotton sheets.

What do your muse’s hands feel like? Secure. Warm. Comforting. Cường is a little slight in his body, sure, but his hands run a bit on the larger and firmer, even oddly stronger side comparatively. He's a hard worker and a to-the-bone toiler, so besides swaddling and comforting, his palms have callouses from hours on the pestle and pruning roses, too. They're honest and just a little too rough, admittedly, but somehow, someway, that adds to the comfort those healing hands bring.

What does your muse usually eat in a day? Rice, fish, and pickled vegetables mostly. For dessert? Fresh peeled fruit. He loves baking just as much as he loves cooking, however, and sometimes, as a rare treat, he'll enjoy his choice of dessert puddings, Vietnamese chè, or almond cookies.

Does your muse have a good singing voice? He isn't exactly terrible, but he is off-key and is more a I'm-humming-when-I'm-alone-and–idle guy.

Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks? Cường, for all his making medicines and tending to other people, has the world's most laughable sense of self preservation. It isn't that he seeks pain or any excuse to harm himself, but when pain comes upon him, or fights, arguments, and blistering, misdirected anger either verbal or physical, he doesn't care. A man can wallop him within an inch of his life for his frightening death-ramblings, and he'll let them have their fill until he's knocked out pulp.

What does your muse usually look like / wear? Natural, a little sleep rumpled, and always in dark (though mostly black) shorts that runs both boxy and slouchy. His only personal effect is his dainty gold chain ordained with a jade cut pendant. In all, the whole package makes him lowkey and relaxed.

Is your muse affectionate? How much? How so? Very. He isn't doting in the saccharine big smiles and batting lashes way, though. He's very casual and abundantly serene, but he says the sweetest things sometimes, the most uplifting things, too, and that's often paired with lingering touches, eyes both patient and steady, and someone's hair swept behind their ear.

What position does your muse sleep in? On his side, slightly folded. He sleeps like a rock, too, quiet, not a flinch of his willowy limbs, and that's in spite of his hair-raising nightmares.

Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room? Sure. Cường's quiet, but he's alive, and you can hear it in the ambiance — the shuffle of his bare feet or the way he reads something back to himself sometimes in that deep, sleepy drawl, or him taking a kettle off the stovetop and the pop of his shoulders when he stretches and yawns.

Tagged by: @serpentongue (ty!) / Tagging: @indeath @goldfanged @ebonyforged @aworidwithout @mamoriitai @the27percent @tenderpulsive @gcldbrew @lykaiia

[thelustybraavosimaid]

I posted 7,943 times in 2022

That's 7,943 more posts than 2021!

897 posts created (11%)

7,046 posts reblogged (89%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@songofthewinterrose

@jackoshadows

@silverlight70

@brideoffires

I tagged 1,580 of my posts in 2022

#asoiaf - 216 posts

#jon snow - 87 posts

#arya stark - 80 posts

#ramble - 54 posts

#canonjonsnow - 28 posts

#jonrya - 26 posts

#needleheart - 25 posts

#grrm - 23 posts

#anti jonsa - 22 posts

#canonarya - 21 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#grrm didnt mention this but she was born with lungs made of valyrian steel so she alone has the singing capabilities to make it happen capn

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Reading Fire and Blood made me realise how much Jon's admirations and preferences of what he likes in women is pretty general amongst Stark men.

Alaric:

Lord Alaric had lost his wife three years earlier. When the queen expressed regret that she had never had the pleasure of meeting Lady Stark, the northman said, “She was a Mormont of Bear Isle, and no lady by your lights, but she took an axe to a pack of wolves when she was twelve, killed two of them, and sewed a cloak from their skins. She gave me two strong sons as well, and a daughter as sweet to look upon as any of your southron ladies.”

...

Once the initial frost had thawed, his lordship took the queen hunting after elk and wild boar in the wolfswood, showed her the bones of a giant, and allowed her to rummage as she pleased through his modest castle library. (Jaehaerys and Alysanne—Their Triumphs and Tragedies, Fire and Blood)

Cregan:

Queen Alicent’s captors had slain her guards and were thus condemned to death, but an impassioned plea from Lady Baela herself spared her rescuers from a similar fate, though they too had bloodied their swords by cutting down the king’s men posted at her door. “Not even the tears of a dragon could melt the frozen heart of Cregan Stark, men said rightly,” Mushroom tells us, “but when Lady Baela brandished a sword and declared that she would cut off the hand of any man who sought to harm the men who had saved her, the Wolf of Winterfell smiled for all to see, and allowed that if her ladyship was so fond of these dogs, he would permit her to keep them.”

--

And Lord Cregan, a widower these past three years, had responded in kind. Though Black Aly was no man’s queen of love and beauty, her fearlessness, stubborn strength, and bawdy tongue struck a chord for the Lord of Winterfell, who soon began to seek out her company in hall and yard. “She smells of woodsmoke, not of flowers,” Stark told Lord Cerwyn, said to be his closest friend.

About Alysanne's description:

“A lean tall creature was this wench,” says the dwarf, “thin as a whip and flat-chested as a boy, but long of leg and strong of arm, with a mane of thick black curls that tumbled down past her waist when loosed.” Huntress, horse-breaker, and archer without peer, Black Aly had little of a woman’s softness about her. (Aftermath—The Hour of the Wolf, Fire and Blood)

And Jon:

Ygritte trotted beside Jon as he slowed his garron to a walk. She claimed to be three years older than him, though she stood half a foot shorter; however old she might be, the girl was a tough little thing. Stonesnake had called her a "spearwife" when they'd captured her in the Skirling Pass. She wasn't wed and her weapon of choice was a short curved bow of horn and weirwood, but "spearwife" fit her all the same. (Jon II, ASoS)

--

All the same, the wildling princess was not beloved of her gaolers. She scorned them all as "kneelers," and had thrice attempted to escape. When one man-at-arms grew careless in her presence she had snatched his dagger from its sheath and stabbed him in the neck. Another inch to the left and he might have died.

Lonely and lovely and lethal, Jon Snow reflected, and I might have had her. Her, and Winterfell, and my lord father's name. Instead he had chosen a black cloak and a wall of ice. Instead he had chosen honor. A bastard's sort of honor. (Jon III, ADwD)

--

Why not? thought Jon. They are all convinced she is a princess. Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. (Jon XI, ADwD)

195 notes - Posted October 11, 2022

#4

Before meowing:

After meowing:

221 notes - Posted July 25, 2022

#3

They knew, they knew, they knew, they knew.

George confirmed it.

See the full post

225 notes - Posted August 15, 2022

#2

How in the everloving fuck did Crustin get away with killing Lord Beesbury and Ser Joffrey in broad fucking daylight with zero repercussions but one fucking fight had Ser Harwin disgraced?

Where's the justice in that?

810 notes - Posted October 16, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

mood rn

2,804 notes - Posted July 25, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[bonefall]

Thoughts on a full out Evil!Bramble?

Not a fan, honestly!

I think characters who are a very realistic kind of horrible strike a nerve in people, and there's this reaction that makes them want to make them THE DEMON of a story. I don't like this response; it's uncomfortable to acknowledge that abusers are human, but important imo.

I think making him "just as bad" as Tigerstar take away everything I like about Bramblestar as a villain. He doesn't do things for wanting power, he wouldn't bend reality to ruin Squirrelflight’s life like Ashfur, he displays loyalty and kindness at times

And yet

When he's upset, he finds ways to hurt her. He says things BECAUSE they will make her upset. He becomes blind to his own morality to try and force her into situations she doesn't want to be in, JUST to be secure that she won't leave his side no matter what he does

And then, when he realizes what he did?

He's soso sorry. EXTRA kind and EXTRA loving--THAT'S IMPORTANT!! That's important because the 'honeymoon' makes you not want to leave, no matter what they did to hurt you. Because your abuser is human, you're convinced that you're seeing "their good side" and you're always 'working through it'

Evil!Brambleclaw always seems to strip that away and that... honestly, it upsets me. "Evil" Brambleclaw usually just looks like the writer acting out a revenge fantasy, making Brambleclaw into a cold, unfeeling monster to justify the narrative damning him to hell or killing him brutally, in the process wrenching out what's really complex about emotional abuse.

And listen; that's fine! Different people need different kinds of stories. If you're looking for a revenge fantasy because you were hurt and that makes you feel more in control, I understand. For me it was unhelpful. I feel it makes everything too simple.

So! I approach Brambleclaw as a villain, but not evil. I want him as an antagonist, the way he is.

[regenderate-fic]

Coming Home (Everything is New)

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: Mature Ships: River Song/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/River Song, Eleventh Doctor/River Song/Rose Tyler Characters: Rose Tyler, River Song, Eleventh Doctor Word Count: 3,973 Other Tags: Reunions, Dimension Cannon, Bad Wolf Rose, Vandalism, Polyamory

Read on AO3

Summary: Finally, Rose is back in the right universe. She's about to start looking for the Doctor-- but River Song finds her first.

NOTES: esther found out how fast i write during nanowrimo and was like why aren't you writing riverrose that fast and i was like uhhh because writing that fast for nanowrimo has resulted in like 22k of woolgathering and navelgazing about grief and sibling relationships in greek tragedy and then he was like i think riverrose would be good for rambling like that and i was like. okay. so anyway i counted this towards nanowrimo and i also wrote it very fast. you're welcome esther.

There was nothing.

And then there was Rose.

She’d spent the last year hopping between the universes, one after another, trying to find the one that held the Doctor.

Her Doctor.

She’d know it when she saw it, she thought: she was sure. She’d learned to feel out the differences between the universes, which one fizzed on her tongue like champagne, which one smelled just a little bit like old socks. She’d learned that some were familiar; others, less so. She hadn’t been back in her universe, the right one, in over a hundred years, but she was sure it would still feel familiar, even if she didn’t remember what it tasted like.

She’d know it when she saw it, and— she opened her eyes. She was on a busy street. She’d left London, in the parallel universe, and she was still in London, and a London that read to her very much as London, in the 21st century, and the people around her were using mobiles and driving cars, which was an encouraging sign.

She took a deep breath.

Yes.

This was it. She’d never smelled this before— the worn-in leather and fresh grass. The comfortable, the familiar, and the new, all rolled into one. Her time senses hadn’t fully developed, the last time she was here. But she was here. She felt it, rolling through her, deep in her bones: this was the universe she’d been born in, the universe she’d spent her first nineteen years stuck, and the next two completely free.

She let out a laugh, giddy, relieved. This was it. Now all she had to do was find the Doctor.

She raised her phone to her ear. “Hello? Control?”

“Rose?” It was Henri, on the other end of the line: a nice girl, young, a new recruit. She was no Clive, no Pete, and certainly no Jackie, but she got the job done. Quickly, efficiently, and well, as a matter of fact: there was a reason Torchwood had hired her. “What can you see?”

“I’m back,” Rose said, the words coming out on a reverent breath. “It’s— it’s the right universe.”

“Excellent,” Henri said. “The dimension cannon will recharge in twelve hours. If you hit any trouble in that time, call and I’ll bring you right back.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Rose breathed. She stared at the sky: the bright blue sky, shining down on her. The sky in the other universe had been a little closer to purple, just slightly, just enough that Rose had always looked up at it and known that something wasn’t quite right. “Thank you, Henri. Tell everyone at Torchwood. Thank you so much.”

“It’s the least we could do for you,” Henri said. “After all you’ve done for us.”

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” Rose replied.

“All right, then,” Henri said. “You’ve got a mission. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Goodbye, Henri.” Rose snapped her phone shut, and then she looked around, getting her bearings. This London and the parallel London had mostly been laid out the same way, but the shops and some of the street names had all been different. Rose looked around, trying to map what she was seeing now onto her map of the parallel London, onto her vaguest memories of what it had been like to live here. She’d done her jump from just outside Torchwood, and sure enough, now she was next to Canary Wharf. From here, she could go to the Powell Estate— but she didn’t think she was likely to find the Doctor there, not after he’d lost her. She could go looking for him: he was bound to show up eventually, considering the whole time-and-space travel situation. Or she could find UNIT or Torchwood, if either still existed, and ask them if they had any means of finding him.

And then she remembered. Jack. She’d missed Jack. She’d barely seen Jack, the last time she was in this universe, before she’d been dropped back on Bad Wolf Bay. He’d be around, somewhere in the universe, and she could find his number, she was sure, and he’d be thrilled to hear from her, and he probably had a vortex manipulator or something.

Right. She would ask Jack. But first— well, she was back in her home London. This was the sort of thing that required celebration.

This was the sort of thing that required— no, demanded— this was the sort of thing that demanded chips.

She walked down the street. She could go to her old favorite chippy, the one around the corner from the Powell Estate— but no, what if it wasn’t there anymore? What if it was different? What if the chips weren’t good anymore? She couldn’t bear that. No, she would have to find a new place. And she would have to find it the old fashioned way, by wandering around London until something caught her eye.

So she began her wandering. She passed fast food chains— banks— supermarkets— everything the people needed to keep their lives running, to keep themselves going in the 22nd century.

Everything except chips. Had all the chippies in London closed up shop, in the last hundred years? Now that was a universe Rose didn’t want to live in. Or maybe she just wasn’t looking right— maybe—

Something caught her eye.

Not a chippy. Unfortunately. Just a woman— or, more accurately, a place where there hadn’t been a woman, but now there was. She was looking around, looking like she was looking for something. A quick scan of her body revealed a cloud of blonde hair— a dress with a shockingly low neckline, compared to the century’s other passersby— and— yes. A chunky black vortex manipulator on her wrist.

“Cheap and nasty time travel,” Rose murmured, and not quietly enough. Immediately, the woman’s eyes locked onto her, and she strode towards Rose with purpose. There was a focus in her eyes, the kind of focus Rose recognized— the kind of focus that hit her every time she looked in the mirror.

The woman looked her up and down. Rose stared back, trying to see past the woman’s delicately composed expression, trying to understand what was going on. Finally, their eyes met, and once again, Rose saw something familiar in the woman’s eyes: a spark of… interest, perhaps. Curiosity. It reminded Rose, somehow, of the Doctor.

“And who are you?” the woman asked. Her voice was low and smooth, bordering on seductive. Rose generally thought herself difficult to seduce, considering her single-minded focus on the Doctor, but she found herself flushing, just a little.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “I believe I asked first.”

Rose sighed. “All right, then. Suppose you can call me Bad Wolf.”

To Rose’s surprise, the woman laughed, her head thrown back. “Now what sort of a name is that?”

“The sort of name I give a strange time traveler I meet on the street,” Rose said.

“Right,” the woman said. “In that case, you might as well call me Melody.”

“Melody,” Rose repeated. “Pretty.” She nodded down at Melody’s wrist. “Where’d you get that, Melody?”

“Why?” Melody asked, borderline purred. “Are you in the market?”

“Suppose I am.” Rose raised her eyebrows. “Are you selling?”

Melody looked at her wrist, tilted it this way and that. “No,” she said. “This thing’s gotten me through too much.”

“That’s all right,” Rose said with a sigh. “I don’t know where I need to go, anyway.” She looked at Melody, tilting her head. “I don’t suppose you know a man called the Doctor.”

Melody stilled. For a moment she was very quiet— and then, just above a whisper, she said, “I think we’re past the point of code names, Bad Wolf.” She stuck out her hand. Full voice, she said, “River Song. Archaeologist.”

Rose gasped. River— she knew that name. Her husband— the metacrisis— had told her about River. In passing, yes, in confusion, yes, but still. Rose had heard of River Song.

“In that case,” Rose said, fitting her hand into River’s, giving it a shake, “I’m Rose Tyler.”

River’s gasp mirrored Rose’s. “No way. I thought you were in another universe.”

Rose tilted her head further, half a grin on her face. “I came back.” An electric warmth was surging in her stomach at the thought that this woman had a connection to the Doctor, at the thought that Rose might see the Doctor soon. Some of that warmth, maybe, was passing between their hands, a friendly spark.

River’s eyes darted down to the yellow button around Rose’s neck, the travel disc: the part of the dimension cannon that allowed her to maintain a connection to the other universe, no matter where she went.

“I can see that,” River said. She still hadn’t let go of Rose’s hand: in fact, she seemed dedicated to keeping their hands connected, their skin in contact. “It seems, Rose Tyler, like we might have a lot to talk about.”

They did find a chippy, after that: it turned out Rose had only been half a block away from one, and if she hadn’t seen River, she would’ve found the chippy in another moment. Still, she thought, biting the end off a perfectly crispy chip, she was glad for the delay.

“I don’t even know what to ask,” she said, staring at River across the table. “I mean— you and the Doctor—“

“It’s complicated,” River said, a smile flickering behind her eyes. “I’d tell you how we met, but it would take days.”

“That’s all right,” Rose replied. “I don’t really need to know.” She shrugged. “It’s after my time, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it’s right in the middle, from where I’m standing.” River raised her eyebrows. “Were you looking for the Doctor?”

“Yeah, but— I mean— if he’s with you— I don’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, you’d hardly be intruding.” River’s smile might have been menacing in any other context, but here it was enthralling, thrilling.

“Well,” Rose said, poking at a chip in the basket with one in her hand. “If that’s the case, who am I to stay away?”

“That’s the spirit.” River grinned. “I haven’t got the Doctor’s contact information.”

For just a moment, Rose’s heart sank.

“But,” River continued, “I’ve gotten very good at getting his attention.”

And Rose laughed. “You’ll have to show me how it’s done.”

“Rose Tyler.” River’s eyes were focused so entirely on Rose, never wavering, never turning away. “It would be my pleasure.”

That was how, an hour later, Rose wound up at the top of Big Ben, decked out in climbing gear and staring from just above the clock face at the city below.

“You know, this was one of my first adventures with the Doctor,” she said. “Spaceship flying into Big Ben. Turned out to be a big hoax to distract from the real aliens infiltrating the government.”

“Oh, the Slitheen?” River asked. “I remember reading about that. ‘Course, the Doctor would never really talk about it. That man.”

“He’s not exactly an open book,” Rose agreed. Of course, she wasn’t either, after all these years.

“All right,” River said, leaning close enough to Rose that Rose could smell the mint on her breath. “Are you ready?”

Rose took a deep breath. “When you are.”

“Excellent.” River jumped out the window. Rose followed, her climbing harness catching her: River tossed her a can of spray paint, and Rose caught it.

“What do I write?” she asked, yelling over the wind.

“That’s up to you,” River yelled back. “If you want to write anything at all. Maybe you’d rather keep yourself a surprise.” She winked, exaggerating the motion to be visible at a distance. “After all, you know he’ll come when I call.”

Rose laughed. The air carried the sound away over the city. “I like you, River Song!” she called back. The way River was— it reminded Rose of the Doctor, it did, but it also had an edge to it, a certain subtext that the Doctor had never seemed quite capable of. He could do dangerous, sure, he could do risk, he could even do seductive, if he wanted to. And he had, plenty of times. But he’d always had rules, and he’d always stuck to them, whether Rose had known it or not. Her husband had told her, years into their marriage, that his original self never would’ve acted on his feelings: no, that was one of his rules.

River didn’t seem so bound by rules. The Doctor never would have dared interfere with such a famous landmark as Big Ben, not unless it was truly life or death. He took history so seriously there was barely any wiggle room, sometimes. Whereas River seemed to see it as something to make her mark on, a canvas to paint.

Right now, she was painting the words, Hello, sweetie, in massive red letters on the clock face. Rose marveled at how big the letters had to be to be at all visible: from far away, the clock face looked small, like barely anything, but from where she hung now, she could see it was several times her height. She watched River, her hair escaping its ponytail, grinning as she finished off the lettering. Rose hefted the spray paint can in her hand, feeling the cool metal against her skin, trying to decide what— if anything— she wanted to write. Bad Wolf would’ve been the obvious option, of course. But… maybe that was too obvious. After so much time away… she sort of liked the idea of being a surprise. If she wrote Bad Wolf, he’d know to expect her. And given he was already expecting River… there wasn’t much Rose would have to do to grab his attention.

Finally, she decided on, XOXO, next to a messy heart. That would do: it would look like it came from River, but Rose knew it came from her. Maybe the Doctor would know, too..

“That’s it?” River asked, watching Rose tuck the can into the pocket of her jacket.

“Riding your coattails,” Rose called back. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” River shook her head. “Never.”

There was no need to talk further. Together, wordless, they pulled themselves up to the windows— just in time to hear an alarm sounding. Of course: they’d been noticed.

Rose and River exchanged a look. It was far from the first time Rose had been in a situation like this, and if she was lucky, it would be far from the last.

She pointed at the ground, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head at River, asking a question. River nodded, answering it. Rose held up three fingers— two— one— and when she closed her fist, she began to fall, River alongside her, screaming at terminal velocity until they stopped themselves a mere few feet above the ground. The police were converging on them, of course: Rose hit the ground and unclipped her harness, her hair whipping in her face as she looked around for River. And then, in a second, River was at her side, grabbing her hand, pulling her along, and they were running, darting away from the police, through the streets of London, until finally River pulled open a door and Rose tumbled inside after her, both of them breathing heavily, hands on each other’s shoulders.

“You okay?” Rose asked, looking River up and down. She looked okay— in fact, she looked breathtaking, her hair fallen completely out of its ponytail by now, her eyes betraying her complete exhilaration.

“Never better. You?”

Rose felt herself grinning, felt the grin expanding to fill her whole face, bigger and brighter than it had been in years. “Same.” She looked around, taking in the store they’d run into: it was a used bookstore, shelves towering to the ceiling, stuffed to the brim with raggedy and mismatched books. There was no one at the front desk: instead, there was a sign that said, BE RIGHT BACK.

“Right, then,” River said. “I suggest we get ourselves well and truly lost in here.”

“I second that.” Together, they walked into the stacks, winding their way through the maze of shelves, until finally they found themselves at a dead end in the back of the store, a tiny little nook surrounded by books, featuring a single beanbag chair.

“Oh, don’t tell me we have to fight for it,” River said.

“I don’t know,” Rose said, grinning at her again. “I don’t see why we can’t just share.”

“I see why he likes you,” River replied, sinking down into the chair.

“It’s definitely for my excellent problem-solving skills.” Rose dropped down onto the beanbag, her limbs overlapping significantly with River’s. She found that she didn’t mind. She hadn’t really been this close to anyone in a long time, and it was nice, feeling another person’s warmth. Especially when that person was River Song.

“So,” Rose said. “How long do we have, do you think?”

“Until our stunt turns up in the papers, I should think.”

“Not online?” Rose checked.

River shook her head. “It’s got to be a newspaper. He’ll want something he can hold up in front of my face when he sees me.”

“Well, then,” Rose said. “I suppose we’ll have to find something to do while we wait.”

River shifted her body to face Rose. Slowly, carefully, deliberately, she drew one finger up Rose’s jacket-clad arm. Rose’s skin tingled at the touch.

“I can think of a few things,” River said, her voice low.

“Oh, yeah?” Rose bit her lip, fluttering her eyelashes in that way that had always worked on the Doctor. “Don’t suppose you’d care to share with the class.”

“Not the class,” River said. She leaned forward, her nose almost brushing against Rose’s. “Might consider sharing with you, though. If you wanted to know.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m an excellent learner.”

River closed the gap then, her lips meeting Rose’s in what felt to Rose like a burst of light. Her hand gripped the leather of Rose’s jacket, holding Rose in place, and Rose found her own hands running through River’s hair, gripping at it as she desperately returned the kiss. It really had been too long since she’d been close to anyone— and sure, she’d been looking for the Doctor, but instead she’d found someone the Doctor loved, and Rose was willing to bet she would grow to love River too. She certainly had the like part down, and definitely the lust, if her own gasps and barely-suppressed moans were to be believed.

She tore herself away, still breathing heavily, not even wanting to think what her face looked like after an encounter with River’s lipstick. “You sure this is the place for this?”

“Can’t leave until the police are gone,” River pointed out.

“Oh, come on, like we couldn’t break out of jail?” Rose grinned.

“Fair point.”

Rose moved her face forward until she was almost— but not quite— kissing River. “C’mon,” she whispered. “Let’s take our chances. Find someplace a bit more comfortable.” Not waiting for a reply, she jumped to her feet, holding out her hand. River took it, and Rose pulled her to her feet. Together, hand in hand, they walked out of the bookstore and onto the street, and right away, Rose started running, her hand still in River’s.

“Did you see them?” River asked, raising her voice to be heard.

“No." Rose flicked a glance back at River. “Just more fun this way.”

They weren’t on the street for long. Rose pulled them into the first hotel she saw, and River pulled a trick with a bit of psychic paper to convince the front desk that she was some kind of VIP priority rewards member, and minutes later, they were in a lavish room, the kind Rose had only ever dreamed of as a kid, and River was pressing Rose back against the pillows, unzipping Rose’s leather jacket with one hand.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked, her head hovering just above Rose’s, clear gray eyes staring down. She was breathing heavily, likely a side effect of the running, but equally likely a reaction to what was happening— what was about to happen—

“Yes,” Rose said, closing her eyes. Yes, except— she opened them again. “That is, if the Doctor won’t mind.”

River gave her a wicked grin. “Oh, he knows what I get up to when he’s not around.”

Rose laughed. “Won’t he be surprised this time!”

River’s hand was inching up Rose’s shirt, electric against the skin of Rose’s stomach. “That’s what I’m counting on.” She bent down to kiss Rose again, and Rose let herself succumb.

--

The next morning, they put themselves back together— each with significant hindrance from the other— and stepped out of the hotel to find the TARDIS, parked on the street corner. It was different, a brighter blue, a new emblem on one of the doors, but still, Rose could’ve cried to see it. She probably would have, except that she was saving the real tears for when she saw the Doctor.

The door creaked open, and that creak, it sounded exactly the way it always had. Rose found that grin coming back, that flutter of anticipation in her stomach— and then the Doctor stepped out, and he looked different, all gangly with floppy hair and a bowtie, but Rose could tell. He was still the Doctor.

He hadn’t seen her yet. His face was hidden behind a newspaper, which he was holding loosely in disjointed hands: he held himself like his body was held together with elastic and he didn’t much care if it fell apart. Rose loved it already.

“What do you call this?” he was asking, thrusting the paper out.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

The Doctor’s eyes peeked over the paper, still looking only at River. “Yes. It rather did.”

River reached for Rose’s hand. “And I’ve got company.”

The Doctor glanced at Rose, disinterested, and then suddenly very interested, his body going still, the paper dropping to the ground.

“No. It’s not possible.”

“Well, isn’t that typical,” Rose said, rolling her eyes for dramatic effect. “You jump across universes for a guy, and then he doesn’t even believe it’s possible.”

The Doctor stared. When he finally spoke, it came out a breath, barely above a whisper. “Rose Tyler.” Before Rose could even have a hope at responding, he swept her into a hug, holding her tight, and she hugged him back, and now she was crying, tears streaming down her face, and she clung to the Doctor like it was life-or-death, because honestly, wasn’t it? And then the Doctor pulled back just enough to kiss her, his hands cupping her face, and she kissed him back, desperate, hungry. Finally, she broke away to look at him, to take in his new face from this close up, to brush her hand through his brand new hair.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

“But—“ His eyes searched her face. “How?”

“Bad Wolf,” Rose said.

Understanding dawned, his expression settling into something deathly serious. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve come to terms with it.” Rose grinned. “I want to know what you’ve been up to. How long’s it been?”

“Hundred years, maybe.” The Doctor glanced over to where River was still standing, watching. “Got married.”

Rose’s grin only grew. “Oh, I noticed.”

“Oh, no, don’t tell me you two are getting along,” the Doctor groaned. “That’s the last thing I need.”

Rose laughed, and River joined her, their voices mixing together.

“D’you know what I think?” Rose asked, looking from the Doctor to River. “I think the three of us are going to have lots of fun together.”

And, as it turned out, she was right.

[artemis32]

Bully Bakugo

Here are some thoughts I had on Bully Bakugo (Idk if this qualifies as yandere???? I just put it in the tags because I’d rather be safe):

****

BNHA Masterlist

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Bakugo, who trips you while you walk down the corridor and bumps his shoulder into yours as you pass by him, sneering down at you when you comment on his bad attitude.

Bakugo, who you share a class with, who sits next to you and scoffs every time you raise your hand to ask a question in class.

Bakugo, who treats you like trash, worse than he treats other strangers. 

He’d been nice enough when you’d first met him.

Well, no. Not quite nice, but nicer. 

He’d treated you the same way he treated everyone else, everyone except Midoriya that is.

He hadn’t made jokes at your expense or scoffed when you’d tried to hold a conversation with him.

But it seems you were destined to suffer just as Midoriya had. 

Not quite.

You’re sure he didn’t pull Midoriya’s hair, yanking on it until it tore from your roots. leaving your scalp burning. You’re also sure he didn’t run his hand up Midoriya’s leg, or pinch his thigh like he did to you when you open your mouth to spew protests. 

No, Midoriya didn’t receive the same punishments you did. 

Bakugo can be kind, soft even. Especially when you catch him alone. When it’s just the two of you in the early hours of the morning, he has the kindest glint in his eyes and a small smile while he watches you nervously ramble on about class and your hero internship.

He’s a good person, he really is. It’s just unfortunate that he’s only like that while the two of you are alone.

The moment another person enters the room, he’s back to his usual antics. Roughly grabbing your arm to jerk you around like a doll, interrupting you and throwing you a dirty glare when you try to include yourself in the conversation, shoving you out of his way as he leaves the room.

And you’d assume that his friends, your friends, would help you, call him out on his rough treatment of you. 

But the most you receive from them is a sympathetic glance and an apologetic smile as they pull him away.

You suppose that it’s far better than them actively condoning his actions. After all, instead of herding him away, they could jeer at you as he shoves you to the ground and stares down at you with a cruel glint in his eyes.

And you should also be grateful that Bakugo doesn’t give you more a painful reminder that you belong to him.

No, he reserves those for the people that try to intervene or steal your attention away from him. A small talk and a few broken bones quickly change their minds, and you soon find yourself with only Bakugo for company.

But don’t worry, he’ll be sure to take good care of you, because at the end of the day, he’s the only one you should love, and he’ll make sure that he’s the only one you’re truly afraid of. It doesn’t matter how many people he needs to threaten or hurt. You belong to him, and you’ll figure that out sooner or later.

[potter-imagines]

Best-friends to Lovers (Fred Weasley x Reader)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Request: can we get like... a lil fred weasley, you guys are good friends and you don’t usually go back for the holidays, and Fred invites you back to the Burrow to spend the break there and y’all like totally fall for each other 🥺

Warning: None (I switched it up just a tiny bit to where they’ve already developed some feelings but they finally admit them sooo hope you enjoy!)

Word Count: 4.5k

It was a flurry and cold winter night, the kind of night when every breath stings the lungs and every exhale chills the lips. The frigid air, the slippery ground and the sheet of white covering the once green grass. All signs winter was here and cold times were ahead. Even in the highlands of Scotland, the winters were ferosus and unforgiving. You despised the freezing temperature, but Fred was far too convincing and a midnight walk with him was something you couldn’t find the words to turn down.

For the first time in the five years you had spent at Hogwarts, and the five years you had been best friends, you had finally accepted the twins offer on spending Christmas at the Burrow with their family. It was a turn of events in your typical holiday plans which were mostly spent alone at the castle. Your first two years at school you had traveled home for Christmas. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t exactly a ‘jolly’ time either. Family time came few and far between. The sparse time you did spend around your family had grown… awkward. Being the only witch in your family didn’t help much either. As the years dragged on, you felt like a stranger in your own home. Your parents spent their entire year with your younger brother, so he had undoubtedly grown to be the favorite and the prized child. They still loved you of course, it just felt forced to engage with them at times.

So it came as a pleasant surprise when you walked into the Weasley’s home and were engulfed in a warmth you had never known. Molly Weasley was the first to greet you, popping out from the staircase with a shimmering grin. Before you could register what was happening, she pulled you into a bone crunching grip rambling on about how good it was to meet you. Arthur hugged you as well and teased about how much the twins would talk about you, especially Fred. Fred would turn bashful but he didn’t deny it.

Ginny showed you around the house, beating Fred and George to the chance. Molly set up a mattress on the floor next to the youngest Weasley’s bed, something Ginny was over the moon thrilled about. She had been longing for a sleepover with you for years now. Ever since her first term, she followed you around like a little puppy. So your first night at the home, Ginny coerced you into a slumber party immediately.

The twins, mainly Fred, weren’t too happy at this. They were the ones who invited you yet their little sister was stealing all your time. Fred was bitter when you hurried off from dinner to go join Ginny upstairs, not even bidding him a farewell.

George insisted his twin was being dramatic- they had an entire month for Merlin's sake! The feelings his brother developed for you, their best friend, was clear as crystals to George. They both shared a crush on you for the first year at Hogwarts but George’s feelings quickly shifted to a friendship, sister love. Fred on the other hand, well his crush only evolved further. George noticed it the second Fred started combing his hair before dinner and always placing himself the closest towards you. It was a topic they danced around for quite some time. He teased his twin for years until the idea came to him that Fred still felt this way towards you even after years. George had devoted his previous two summers to breaking Fred into admission. All he wanted was to hear his twin confirm his suspicions. Not that he needed that really, other people were beginning to notice as well.

One of them being your temporary roommate. Ginny was a top notch observer. During her second year, she started to catch on to the elephant that followed you and Fred into every room.

That first night, Ginny shed light on her theory by offhandedly making a rather large claim late that first night. While the two of you were chatting softly in the dark, the young girl declared out of the blue,

“I think my brother is in love with you.”

In an instant, your whole body froze over like water on a lake. You were thankful for the dark, it kept Ginny from seeing your wide eyed stare of shock.

“What?”

It was now you could see her small frame adjusting in her bed. Even with the lack of light, you saw her sitting up on her bed, propping her weight on one elbow. It could be assumed she had a devilish smile as she probed on.

“Fred… pretty sure he’s in love with you.”

“Why, what makes you think that, Ginny?”

“Quite a laundry list of things, actually. First, he never shuts up about you. Second, he’s always trying to be around you. Third, he’s always staring at you… bit creepy. Fourth, he’s told our nanna about you! Lastly, and most obvious, I heard him telling George right before school started.”

Laying back down, you fixed your eyes on the ceiling taking in her words. Does your best friend really share the same feelings for you? It was too good to be true, it couldn’t be true, you thought. This kinda stuff only happened in the movies and your life definitely was not a film gracing the silver screen. The butterflies went rampant in your stomach, fluttering about wildly. For a moment, you had forgotten Ginny was there, or that you were in her room, until she spoke again.

“So, what do you think of him?” She asked innocently. Tugging the fluffy blue blanket closer to your chest you replied,

“Pardon?”

Ginny wasted no time and reached over to flicker the light switch on her bedside lamp. A bright light broke through the pitch black darkness of the bedroom. You groaned at the act but Ginny spoke over your sounds of protest.

“Are you in love with Fred?”

Running your hand over your face, you let out a sigh. It was getting too late to be thinking about such heavy topics. You had a great friendship with Ginny, you really did, but if you couldn’t even deal with these emotions on your own, you really didn’t want to throw your thoughts on her.

Turning over on the mattress, you rolled your eyes.

“Ginny, I’m not even dating Fred.”

“But you want to.” She confirmed stubbornly.

“I mean… I-I don’t know, Ginny. Can we talk about something else, please?” You wanted to hide under a blanket and avoid the question for all of eternity. She had caught you off guard and although the feelings you felt towards Fred were strong, it wasn’t something you felt ready to face yet. It wasn’t easy being in love with your best friend- there was so much risk, so much to lose if things went south. You settled on keeping Fred as a friend rather than gamble the option of rejection and a change in your relationship forever.

Ginny perked her brow, opened her mouth as if ready to rebuttal, then deciding against it. The corner of her tip twitched to a smirk as she replied,

“Hmm, okay.”

The topic was dropped for the rest of the night as Ginny went to bed shortly after, but it wasn’t completely over. From then on, you began noticing the constant little redhead attached to your coattails. You noticed each time Fred shooed his sister off and demanded she find something better to do. He was edging closer and closer to his point of eruption. This break was supposed to be time for him to spend alone with you and finally confess his feelings. Not Ginny being your shadow and George tagging along for every outing.

Now on your walk almost a week later, your mind hadn’t stopped wandering to that conversation. Ginny hadn’t brought it up again, at least not vocally. During breakfast the next morning after your talk while you're placed between Fred and George joking around with them, she’ll send you knowing looks, giggling to herself. Harry started to pick up on this as well and you noticed Ginny whispering to him afterwards. It didn’t help that Fred would take any opportunity he could to make you laugh and be in your presence.

Last night you found yourself sitting in front of the fireplace with George, Ginny, Ron, Harry and Fred. A steaming mug of hot cocoa was clutched in everyone’s hand. After about an hour of talking softly and sharing stories, Ginny, Ron and Harry decided to call it a night and trudged up the stairs together. You waved to them as they disappeared up the wooden steps, the sound off their feet turning quieter with every second.

As the three of you sat closely, it felt like you were back at Hogwarts in the common room. George was gushing about a Muggle film you had shown him earlier in the day and Fred was silently listening in, a small smile kissing his lips. You were sat at Fred’s side, your backs against the couch and his arm thrown casually around your shoulder. George was laid on the smaller couch across from the two of you, rambling on to himself. As his talking continued, Fred slowly worked to move your body closer to his and nearly in his lap. He did it so naturally you almost failed to notice. The loud, booming tone of George simmer out within minutes. His voice seemed to sooth him into a slumber as his harsh snores suddenly cut through the air, having talked himself to sleep. This caused the both of you to start laughing. Fred’s arm gripped you tighter as his body shook with chuckles. The sensation sent an odd shiver down your spine. It felt… nice, really really nice to be in his arms.

Fred wondered if now was the time. It was the first chance he had gotten alone with you for almost a week, so there was a good probability he wouldn’t get another for a while. He needed to make a move, something at least! Fred hated not having the bravery like the Gryffindor he was to fess up and spit out the words to describe how he felt about you. Closing his eyes, Fred took a deep breath then peeked his gaze open once more. The nerves had calmed and for the first time, he felt ready and he knew he had to act on it. But as he looked down at you, all the confidence had vanished with one glance. His throat dried as your eyes met and a faint precipitation budded in his palms. All the words he had been rehearsing for a year now simply slipped out the back door.

You took note of the ghost white paleness that took over and immediately sat up, removing yourself from his arms to ask,

“You alright, Freddie?” The concern dripped from your words as you examined the face of your best friend. His eyes were lowered, glued to the flickering flames of the crackling fire.

“Of course, love. I’m sorry, was just thinking.”

“Aw, Freddie, we talked about this. You know thinking is no good for you- you’re brain can’t handle it, darling!” Fred’s heart leaped at the adorning pet name. Only recently had you started calling him more loving names, and it drove him absolutely mad. No girl could ever get his heart racing with just one word like you could. He loved hearing such names coming from your mouth, and directed to him. There was only one name he would die to call you and that was his.

“Can I take you for a walk, love?” The request came abruptly, completely out of the blue. Your eyes widen at his question. Any other time you’d say yes without a second thought. Although, it was late and the land was not a territory you were familiar with like Hogwarts.

Your eyes fell on the window behind the couch. Large white snowflakes swirled from the sky and coated the grounds. The heavy black winter jacket you packed was hung up neatly by the door, not having been touched for at least a day.

Turning your attention back to Fred, you realized his eyes were already trained on your face. At your glance, a hopefully smile reached his cheeks.

“It’s nearly midnight I… actually, why not? Sure. But if we run into any wolves, I’m sacrificing you to them, Weasley.” He laughed at your response and quickly jumped up. You set your hands to your side, readying yourself to stand when suddenly, Fred’s large hands attached to your sides and lifted you up to your feet. You stumbled trying to gain balance but once again, Fred was right there to help you.

Unexpectedly, his left hand extended out and intertwined his fingers in yours. Just as you had predicted, his touch was warm, addicting in a way. It set off a pool of security and protection. Instead of fearing what may lie in the open land outside his house, you trusted Fred.

The tall boy walked you towards the door and pulled your long coat from the hook then threw it around your body. You slipped your arms into the fuzzy material as he yanked his heavy jacket on. Watching the never ending snowfall outside, you worked your hands into the black mittens you had stored in the coat pockets. You hoped it wasn’t as bone chilling outside as it looked.

“Here, I think you might need this, love. You can use my scarf too if you’d like. Don’t want you freezing to death, that’d be hard to explain to George and the rest of our friends.” Fred placed an extra winter hat of his on top of your head. Heat slapped your cheeks at his movements. Fred was commonly sweet towards you but lately, he had been extra sweet. Small gestures here and there were adding up and raising a bit of questions in your mind.

You knocked Fred jokingly on the shoulder and remarked,

“Reckon they’ll send you to Azkaban for that one. I’m a saint, everyone loves me, Fred.” You teased him playfully before accepting his offer with a thank you. Instead of handing you the maroon and gold striped scarf, Fred leaned forward and wrapped it snug around your neck. Once finished, his fingertip tapped against the tip of your nose, grinning to himself.

“You’re not wrong about that. We should get going though. The killer trolls will rise from the ground soon!”

“Knock it off!” You scolded him in a hushed tone, careful not to wake his sleeping family as you chased out of the house after him. Running down the steps, you saw Fred waiting near the car for you. There was an open path behind the car, a makeshift road but the kids used it for a walking guide.

He motioned you over waving exaggeratedly.

“C’mon, darling! You’re taking forever.” Fred moaned on dramatically as he waited for you to catch up to him.  

“It’s freezing out here, be patient.” You waddled over to his side and stood close to his frame, egar for warmth. Fred took in your shaking body and wrapped his arm around your shoulder and tugged you towards his side.

Snowflakes landed on your eyelashes, conflicting your view. Despite the coldness of the winter air, the landscape was beautiful. There were miles and miles of open plains on all ends of the Burrow. In a way, they were isolated, but the atmosphere was live with activity. It was impossible to be bored when the Weasley siblings were around. There was so much to do, in an exploring sense. You had never felt so free, so open before. It was refreshing to spend time at Weasley's home. As the two of you walked together in the crunchy snow, Fred pointed to a large field, a makeshift pitch if you had to guess.

“Charlie and Bill taught George and I how to play Quidditch over there the summer after our first year. Percy hated playing with us! We’d all gang up on him- even if he was on our team- and try to knock him off his broom. I don’t think he’s played with us since! You would’ve died of laughter seeing how angry he got.” You watched as Fred’s features scrunched in laughed at the memory. His contagious chuckles infected you as you laughed along. It was a recollection you could imagine perfectly, even if you weren’t there. Percy was an easy target but he had done it to himself so there wasn’t much room for blame.

Shrugging your shoulders you said,

“I would say poor Percy but he turned me in for being out past curfew so, I’m proud of you, Fred.”

“Sounds like him, just try being related to him. He runs to our parents for everything! Every. Little. Thing. It’s infuriating.” Your cheeks began to sting from smiling so much, but when you were around Fred, it was a given. He had an affect on you that no one else seemed to earn. Even when you were on the brim of tears, Fred always found a way to bring a grin to your face.

But still, you thought about Ginny’s words and the change in Fred throughout your years as friends. Nights were lost tossing and turning over the thought of that prankster redhead who had occupied all your notions.

Lifting your hand up slightly, you grabbed for Fred’s gloved hand. He gladly accepted your gesture and squeezed on your hand as you continued to walk further from the home. Fred’s attention soon dropped as his consciousness drifted once again. Pursing your lips you drew him out.

“Freddie, what’s on your mind? You’ve been different since we got here. I mean, it’s not a bad different. It’s just… something is different with you and you’re my best friend so I wanna know.”

Fred’s eyes snapped up at your concerning voice and the startled expression met yours. This was definitely not a common act for Fred. Your mind raced at the possibility of what it could be but luckily, Fred didn’t make you wait long for an answer.

His pace slowed, but his feet still dragged in the powdered flakes holding your hand. You wanted to hear him speak so bad although you respected the time he needed and waited in silence as you continued to walk. It didn’t take long for Fred to shatter the thin air,

“Can I ask you a serious question? Like one that could change everything.”

“You can ask me anything, Fred. You know this. It won’t change a thing.” You replied seriously. Fred could hear the truthfulness in your words and it calmed him, only a little though. The looming fear, and reality, of rejection was becoming all too real. Even worse than rejection, Fred had a feeling if he didn’t take his chance now, he might never have the opportunity again.

“Do you see me only as a best friend?” The nervousness in his voice broke the peace of the air. Your feet halted at the cavalier inquest. Fred had asked quite the offhand questions before but this, this was new. Mentally attempting to connect the pieces, you tilted your head in confusion.

“Freddie…” The mummer was faint, almost failing to register from your lips. The Burrow was still in near distance and the moonlight provided enough light to search Fred’s face. You weren’t sure what to make of the inquiry exactly, but your heart race excelled in anticipation.

Fred Weasley shifted in the crystalline snow. His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets and his legs bounced in his stance. You knew him well enough to see the contemplation written across his features.

“Y/n I really really like you. I promise this isn’t a joke or some prank. If you don’t feel the same I can find a way to accept it but I don’t wanna lose you in my life. I just can’t hold it in anymore. It’s been five years of tortue now and… I just needed to get it out, love. I think I might be falling in love with you- if I haven’t already.” As Fred poured his heart out openly, the dripping snowfall ceased all together. It was magically in a sense. The loud slush was now quiet, almost like drizzling rain. His gingerbread eyes were studied upon you, waiting for any sort of reaction to surface. You just gazed up at him scavenging for the perfect words to spill your emotions.

“You’ve liked me for five years?” You asked, stunned. That was impossible. All this time you had spent crushing on Fred and admiring him, stuck in the friendzone, you could’ve just talked to him and been honest. Fred’s eyes darted back to his house then to you anxiously.

“Yeah. I’ve just been too scared to tell you. I don’t want it to ruin our friendship, that’s the last thing I could take.”

Your heart dropped at his words. It was funny in a way, he had the same fears as you. In the same way, you felt guilty for putting him through the same torture you had been going through the last few years as well.

With a surge of confidence, you snapped your head up to Fred and quickly remarked,

“Will it ruin our friendship if I think I’m in love with you too?”

The stillness in the air was unreadable at first. Your gazes trained intently on each other. The uplift gleamed in Fred when he took in your words. All his fears went away like the swish of a wand.

Half out of adrenaline, the other half out of want for years of desire, Fred took one step forward and closed the small gap of space between the two of you by pressing his lips tightly against yours. His hands rested on your face, and the small of your back to keep you steady. This you were thankful for this as his quick actions took you by shock nearly knocking you off your feet.

Your left hand drew up to his hair, finding a tight grip in his shoulder length locks, something you’d been dreaming about doing. The kiss intensified as you indulged in the lock and pressed closer to Fred. Your mouths moved together as if snogging was naturally with you two.

Your lungs demanded air after a few minutes and you slowly pulled away from Fred’s lips and leaned away to regain your composure. You could hear Fred panting at your side, also processing what just took place. Your hands never left each other’s and he suddenly squeezed yours to earn your attention. A genuine look crosses Fred’s face as he whispered into the cold air,

“Can I ask you to be my girlfriend now or do you want me to woo you over on a date first?” His sweet words nearly melted your heart. As easy as you were to please when it came to Fred, this heartwarming exchange felt like the perfect night to declare as a first outing.

“I think I’ll count this as our first date, it was quite romantic.”

Fred rolled his eyes with a smirk. It made him happy that you weren’t demanding or the snotty type. He loved that the small things made you glow with happiness. Even with this, he was still mentally planning a date to take you on before break ended. Although you still had yet to answer his big question.

“So does that mean you’ll be my girlfriend?” You had to swallow back a laugh as you realized you never officially answered Fred. Despite your kiss, he still looked worried you’d turn him away. Shaking your head with a smile you replied,

“Yes, I won’t make you beg anymore.”

Fred wasted no time snatching you by the waste and giving you a small twirl around the snow. A yelp sounded from your lips and you hoped it wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone sleeping at the Burrow. Fred chuckled at your protests and placed you down delicately. Placing his hands on either side of your face, the joyful Gryffindor snogged you lightly, but his passion still seeped through.

“Merlin’s beard, can’t believe it took my stupid arse five years to ask you out. I could’ve been kissing you years ago!”

“Guess we were both missing out. Feel dim for thinking I was going to ruin everything between us if I told you how I felt. But I’m so happy, Freddie.”

“Here, darling,” His gloved hand jerk back to the house, “We oughta head back, now. Mum will kill me if she finds out we were out this late! She thinks you’re an angel so you’ll be fine but I’ll be six feet under by dawn. I can’t wait for morning, though. I can finally brag to everyone that you’re mine, love.” His lips pressed against yours again, desperate to relive the spark and it did not disappoint. Kissing Fred felt natural, like you melted into the embrace. Your lips molded in sync, matching up like magnets. His tongue drew a line across your bottom lips as he kissed you deeper.

Coming back to earth you detached from Fred with a light ‘smack’ noise. Neither of you could wipe the childlike grins off your faces. His plump cheeks turned crimson in the night. Unable to shake off the excitement of the night’s events, you leaned into Fred’s body, giving him a tight hug. He returned the embrace instantly and left a long kiss to the top of your head.

Leaning away, you planted one last kiss to Fred’s cheek then held his hand as you two walked towards his home. The light at the top of the Burrow, assumingly Fred and George's room was turned on. Brightness shone from the window and you pointed up at the sight. The house was only feet away and you started to wonder what George would think of the news.

It could be assumed he wouldn’t be shocked. George spent the last year making comments to you here and there, prying in on you and Fred. Ginny of course wouldn’t be too blown away either, but what about Ron and Harry?

Fred already knew what their reactions would be. He knew without a doubt all of your friends would be thrilled, but no one would be too taken aback by your new relationship. It seemed the only two students who were oblivious to your shared feelings, were Fred and yourself.

“You think they’ll be surprised to hear we’re dating?” You wondered out loud. Fred swung your hand in a back and forth motion as you approached the front porch of the house. Your question obtained a chuckle from Fred as he shook his head,

“Not one bit, love.”

[pantoneyoongi]

like she’s the only girl you’ve ever seen

title ; like she’s the only girl you’ve ever seen you are slowly killing me

notes ; 

part of the till the night is over drabble series. drabbles are not released in chronological order, but the masterlist is set up as chronologically as possible. :)

title is from olivia o’brien’s “hate u love u”

word count ; 1.8k

tags ; college!au, angst, pls go to masterlist for more / general tags 

you stare blankly at the photo of jungkook that is currently lighting up your phone. quite frankly, you don’t know what to think about a jungkook that calls at a normal hour of day - he so rarely does. it occurs to you that you should probably pick up before it hits voicemail, answering with a slightly confused, “hello?” 

“hello,” he sings, and you can hear faint noise in the background, but nothing distinguishable. “quick question. what kinda snacks do you like?” 

you blink a couple times. “huh?” 

“snacks,” jungkook repeats. “what’s your favorite? chips? pretzels? pick your poison, buttercup.” 

“uh,” you say dumbly. “i don’t know. sour cream and onion? the lays one, not that off-brand shit.” 

jungkook snickers. you can hear him rifling through bags at the grocery store, the shopping cart wheels squeaking every now and then. “whatever you say, princess.” 

you scowl, though still a little baffled that he called you for this. then you remember that tomorrow is his party - a little get together for all your friends who have come back home for summer break. his girlfriend is coming too - meeting yugyeom and jamie for the first time, since they’re the only two who don’t attend your college. 

wait. why did he call you and not jisoo? 

the thought is brief, fleeting - because you toss it out just as soon as it comes. dwelling on it will only cause problems. 

you clear your throat. “are you stocking up for tomorrow?” 

“yep,” he answers cheerfully, and you can hear him throwing things into his shopping cart. “just sour cream and onion?” 

“doritos, too, i guess,” you shrug. “cool ranch.” 

you can hear him dutifully throwing another bag into his cart. “anything else?” 

you ramble off anything you can think of. if your heart feels warm you dutifully ignore it - you’re just two friends, trying to figure out a snack situation for a party. it doesn’t mean anything. it doesn’t have to. least of all when his girlfriend is coming tomorrow. 

.

.

.

jiyoung tackles you with a hug as soon as you step foot through the door, wrapping her arms so tight you can’t even choke out the “hi” you’d meant to say. 

“christ,” you wheeze, as she swings you off your feet. something different runs through jeon blood, you swear. all of them are tall, gorgeous, and abnormally strong. “jiyoung, please, i can’t breathe-” 

she sets you down, eyes bright and happy and excited. jiyoung might be five years younger than you, but she’s been taller than you since you were fourteen, and just as prone to liquifying your bone structure via hugs back then as she is now. 

you inhale a deep breath after being released. you wanna say you’re being dramatic, but jiyoung gives what are possibly the most painful yet endearing hugs you’ve ever received. “hi,” you breathe out, a grin crossing your features. “nice to see you too, kid.” 

she giggles, taking you by the hand to drag you into the living room, where jihyo and yerin already are. jungkook stands in the kitchen adjacent, and you pretend the excited, adorable grin that he gives you doesn’t make your heart skip a beat. 

“look,” he flourishes a hand to the table covered in snacks, beaming. they’re all your favorites - the ones you’d helped him choose yesterday, thrown over the table in a neat little pile. “what’ll it be, buttercup?” 

you snort. “obviously,” you swipe a bag off the table. “sour cream and onion goes first.” you flash him a smile and he laughs, visibly pleased when you pop open the bag, hand reaching in for a chip. he ruffles your hair with an affectionate smile on his face, and you can’t help but relax into his touch, the familiar way his fingers thread through your hair. 

then the doorbell rings, jiyoung bouncing off the couch from between yerin and jihyo, shouting, “i’ll get it,” and she comes bounding back with the one person you would do well to remember. 

“hi,” jisoo smiles brightly and you duck your head in greeting, trying not to choke on your chips as you try to swallow them down. jungkook makes his way to her immediately, one arm sliding around her waist, and you resist the urge to shovel down another handful of chips. 

he looks at her with such care. there’s a softness in his expression you’ve only ever seen when he’s looking at someone he’s in love with, a quiet admiration as his eyes trail over her features. “hi,” he presses a kiss to her temple. “thanks for coming.” 

you have to look away. you mutter a quick greeting before quickly moving past her and her pretty sundress, looking effortlessly beautiful with the sunlight filtering in through the massive windows in jungkook’s house. it’s no wonder jungkook fell for her, when she looks like a daughter of aphrodite. 

you curl yourself into a ball on the couch next to yerin, pulling your knees up to your chest with your chips cradled between. you watch as jiyoung - who, among jungkook’s friends, had always favored you - flitted about between her brother and his new girlfriend, asking a million questions a minute. jisoo answers them all with ease, eyes glittering in amusement and following jiyoung’s every move. jungkook’s hand trails along her arm down to her wrist, tangling for a brief minute with her fingers before he disappears to get the door yet again, yugyeom and jamie’s familiar loud voices filling up the large house.  

“do you want any snacks?” you hear jiyoung offer, and you watch as she bounces to the other side of the table, showcasing the variety jungkook had picked up.

“cool ranch,” jisoo muses. “nacho cheese is the way to go.” 

she laughs when jiyoung gasps dramatically, swiping up the bag protectively. “they’re y/n’s favorite.” 

you freeze. your brain is already jumping to conclusions - she’ll know, she’ll know jungkook bought them for you - did jungkook buy them for you? they’re just chips - really, why didn’t jungkook call his girlfriend? why did he call you? - but then jisoo is laughing, eyes crinkling in the corners. 

“i’ll have to change your mind someday,” she jokes, and you manage a chuckle. 

“you can try,” your hand crinkles the bag of sour cream and onion chips. “cool ranch is superior, though.” 

“someone who understands!” yugyeom cries as he enters the room with jamie. 

“that’s bullshit,” jamie shoves him out of the way to snag a bag of pretzels off the table. “oh!” she sees jisoo. “you’re the person we’re supposed to not scare away, aren’t you?”

jungkook drags a hand down his face. 

.

.

.

if there is anything certain, jamie and yugyeom are the loudest in your group of friends. 

yugyeom isn’t loud on a typical basis - generally quiet, if a little cheeky. but with jamie - “kim yugyeom!” jamie shrieks, as yoshi falls off the track yet again. yugyeom cackles, speeding along, then gasps loudly as he falls off due to his own poor steering, while yerin calmly speeds on by with her little baby peach. 

“they never learn,” jihyo hums, hand digging through a bag of pretzel sticks. (the sticks are better than the regular ones. everybody knows this.) 

the screen whirls, baby peach sitting in first place. she smiles, satisfied. yugyeom and jamie didn’t even make second or third. your toad is sitting in third, while a computer player bowser takes second. 

you toss the controller over to jihyo. “i’m going to the bathroom,” you explain, and she shrugs, taking the controller. 

“my turn to kick ass, then.” 

you head out into the hallway, hand trailing absently along the wall as you chuckle listening to jamie and yugyeom bicker. the laugh dies in your throat, smile sliding off your face when you see them. 

it’s just a split second. if you had been even a second later - you wouldn’t have seen them, seen jungkook tugging jisoo into the downstairs bedroom with a mischievous glint in his eyes, jisoo giggling secretively with him. “kookie,” you hear her whisper. “there’s a party. your friends are here.”

“just a minute,” his voice is a low murmur, just before the door shuts. “i just want a minute alone with you.” 

the hand you have on the wall slips down, until your arms are hanging loosely by your sides. your heart aches. it feels so unfair. why you? why are you the one who caught them sneaking away? wouldn’t it have been better if you didn’t see? 

why you?

you’re tired of catching the private moments between jungkook and his girlfriend of the month. it’s so unfair - it can’t just be because you can’t help but stare after jungkook. because this was a coincidence. even a minute later and you would’ve gone on your day without knowing the way he pulled her in close, an arm tugging her by the waist before disappearing into the bedroom. 

it feels cruel, that you’re the one stuck with all these bystander memories of jungkook. 

because you were fourteen - fourteen and trailing behind jungkook and yerin on your way to class, and it should’ve been nothing, it should’ve been nothing - except, for some reason you’ve never been able to forget the way jungkook casually caught yerin’s hand mid-swing, fingers carefully lacing with hers. 

and you were sixteen, sixteen and laughing loudly with your friends for a group photo and at the last second - why did you turn your head? what made you turn at that moment? - because then jungkook is pulling lisa into his lap, and lisa is giggling as he wraps an arm around her waist. and you have to look away, a forced smile on your face as dahyun snaps the photo but all you can think of is the way jungkook does the same with you, catching you by surprise and laughing teasingly in your ear at the clumsy way you stumble and settle onto his lap. 

then you were seventeen, sitting in the dark at prom, watching the spotlight swing across the dance floor. jungkook and jamie, in matching shades of blue, laughing together despite the fact that it’s a slow dance, his hands around her waist and her arms thrown over his shoulders. they came as friends but the way he looks at her is familiar, and your heart sinks in your chest at the realization that they suit each other. 

you remember. you remember and you hate that you do, that all these little moments are burned into your memory, and now you’re eighteen and there he goes with another girlfriend, another moment that doesn’t belong to you. 

jungkook and jisoo burst out of the room, the both of them looking surprised when they see you standing there. jisoo flushes pink when she realizes what it looks like and jungkook rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

you can already hear the explanation on his lips, but you don’t want to hear whatever excuse he’ll come up with. “i was just,” you point towards the bathroom before he can even speak, then disappear, hiding behind the bathroom door, a barrier safely set between you and him. 

you can hear the low rumble of jungkook’s voice, probably reassuring jisoo that you wouldn’t think anything of it. your back rests against the bathroom door, hands curling against the wood. 

these moments don’t belong to you. 

because jungkook has never wanted you. 

other drabbles in the series: (don’t) stay || secrets

series masterlist: till the night is over 

[aquagustd]

Can I please, possibly, get a dom!yoongi getting teased or getting even for getting teased?. Public fun of some sort? Smutty as ya want, if you want.

right now - MYG | M

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: fluff, smut

word count: 1K

warnings/tags: strong language, pet name, mentions of edging, mentions of sexual acts, under the table action

∞

Sitting with your hands under your thighs, straw tucked between your teeth, you watch your boyfriend.

He really knows how to get you all hot and bothered, his index finger rubbing his top lip as he talks to Seokjin. You’re trying so hard not to jump his bones in front of all these people, these normal, decent people who are having decent conversations. You know, decent. The complete opposite of what’s going on in your mind as you drool over Yoongi.

His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his muscular arms, the reason why you had to cross your legs an hour ago to stop the throbbing between them. He’s so oblivious to what’s happening right next to him, too busy discussing some video game with Seokjin.

Seokjin wanted to have dinner with Yoongi, but you missed him too much this past week so he said you could tag along. You didn’t think that a week without him would get you this riled up, so needy and impatient to go home and rip all his clothes off and give him the best suck of his life.

You clear your throat and adjust your pants, you think when you walk out of here, you would be able to hear the squelch with each step, that’s how turned on you are from just watching your boyfriend be himself. He looks extra sexy today, with his black cap and white T-shirt, ring clad fingers gripping his cup as he sips, Adam’s apple bobbing, making you lick your lips.

He turns to you and gives you a smile, the one that has your breath catching in your throat. You return it, hoping that your inner turmoil isn’t obvious on your face. You know that he can detect the slightest change in your emotions.

You almost knock your glass of milkshake off the table when he runs his thumb along your bottom lip.

“You want anything else to eat?”

His voice deep and raspy, sending shockwaves throughout your body. Is it possible for humans to glitch?

You shake your head, not trusting your voice. He leans in close to whisper in your ear, his cologne intoxicating your senses.

“We’re almost done here, we can go home and cuddle, okay?”

Nodding as he leans away to look at you, you go back to your milkshake and laugh to yourself. He’s cute if he thinks you’re just going to cuddle. Maybe your face will be cuddling his-

“Y/N, you okay? You look a little hot.”

“I’m okay, Seokjin, it is a little hot in here.”

Yoongi places his arm around your shoulder, his hand patting your cheek, “you want another milkshake? Or water?”

You’re about to melt into your very own horny puddle of milkshake.

“No, thank you.”

They go back to their conversation, but Yoongi’s hand continues to play with your hair and pinch your cheek, heat spreading from the pads of his fingers. When his fingers brush your neck, you grip his thigh under the table, breaths coming out in soft pants. He tilts his head in your direction and one look at your face tells him all he needs to know.

You see him smirk, then he wraps his fingers around your neck lightly, rubbing against the soft skin, your hand inches a little higher on his thigh. Seokjin continues to ramble about something, you aren’t listening anymore, while your fingers brush Yoongi’s clothed cock, smoothing your fingers up and down until you feel it harden under your touch.

He grips onto your shoulder, squeezing twice in warning but you don’t listen, still stroking up and down until you see him shifting uncomfortably in his chair, his other hand holding onto his cup like he’s trying to ground himself.

Squeezing his dick between your fingers, you hear him sigh, his hand digging into your shoulder, you could almost feel his cold rings press into your skin through the material of your shirt. You squeeze once, twice, then lean forward to take a sip of your milkshake, happy that he’s now just as hot as you are, squirming in his seat while you don’t let go of his stiffening length.

He clears his throat, you’re uncaring as you feel him up, pressing harder as you rub his girthy length, your core throbbing when you think of it stretching you open later, whichever way he wants.

“Hyung, it’s getting late,” his voice is strained as the words rush out of his mouth, you turn your head to look at him. His lips are in a thin line, cheeks dusted with pink.

Seokjin looks at his wrist, that has no watch, “it’s still so early.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired, but it’s okay,” he stands up from his chair and adjusts his shirt, “let me just go to the restroom then we can all leave together.”

Yoongi gives him a thumbs up, unrelenting with your hold on his twitching cock, thumb joining in to rub around the tip.

He watches Seokjin turn around the corner and disappear into the restroom. His eyes scan the restaurant, probably checking if anyone is looking at the two of you. When his gaze meets yours, you almost moan at the look in his eyes, blazing with lust, pupils blown.

With the arm that’s still around your shoulder, he yanks you forward so that your lips are brushing, his other hand coming up to squeeze your jaw, his thumb pressing into your cheek, your lips pushing out against his. You whimper, knowing your boyfriend well enough to let go off his dick. He’ll probably edge you until you’re crying later on, his thumb digging into you is a threat.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge, kitten.”

His tongue darts out to wet your lips, gaze flickering to your cleavage, “you’re going to regret what you just did.”

-

⤺Shorts Masterlist | ⤺Main Masterlist

[whump-town]

The Traveling T-Shirt

No Pairings

No Warnings

It's just Morgan's t-shirt traveling through the BAU one person and story at a time

It starts with a coffee spill in Seattle. With Aaron, startlingly enough.

Six days in the rain and it seemed even their cleanest, driest clothing was damp with the chill from the constant downpour. Though, six days on their feet with clothing they’d already worn at least twice that week on their backs, they looked more and more “rag-tag” as the hours bore on. Even Hotch had lost his cookie-cutter charm. His white t-shirt crumpled where it was typically pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. His hair wouldn’t stay gelled into the style he liked it in, leaving it fluffy and soft on the top of his head. He looked significantly less like SSA Aaron Hotchner and a lot more like Aaron.

Maybe he had lost SSA Hotchner somewhere along the days and victims because SSA Hotchner would never spill coffee on himself. But Aaron would and Aaron did.

Derek watched the whole thing take place, unable to take his eyes off of Hotch since the second that he walked in. Something about his tired zombie-like lurches just couldn’t break Derek’s curiosity and he had to know what would come out of Hotch’s current state. Despite the far-away look in Hotch’s gaze, the tired bags of discoloration under his eyes, Derek would not have predicted this as the outcome. Hotch is so out of it that all he can do is stare at the mess he’s created, glaring at the mess of coffee grounds across his less than pristine white dress shirt.

“Here,” Derek shakes his head, has to manually clear the fog occupying his brain. He pulls at the loose clump of napkins someone had left atop the coffee table for this exact situation, presses the mass into Hotch’s stomach. It feels akin to something else, distinctly deja-vu. Like he’s pressing into a wound, holding him together with nothing more than cheap napkins.

The physical contact brings Hotch back to the Earth and with a few blinks of his blood-shot eyes he sighs irritably and mumbles, “I don’t have any more clean shirts.”

Derek would argue the one he’s currently wearing is not clean either. It’s got a few dots of red expo marker on the left elbow where Reid bumped into him, rambling quickly about his map and the geographical profile. On the cuff of his right sleeve, there’s something brown or black which could be something from a pen or an expo marker or something else he’s just stuck his hand in. God knows what else is on this shirt.

Hotch puts his hand over Derek’s, holds the napkins himself. Derek pats his shoulder, “it’s alright, man. I’ll get you a shirt.”

They could go just about anywhere and just buy him a shirt. It could be some looney graphic t-shirt from the boy’s sections of some store down the street or another white dress shirt to replace the one he’s wearing but Derek just gets one of his. It’s a light grey, the color worn down by how frequently Derek wears it. Where it fits Derek snugly, hugs his chest and back tightly, it fits Hotch oddly. Displays to them all just how right they were in the assumptions they have held about how his recent divorce is affecting him.

He’s lost weight.

Too much.

One thin grey Hanes t-shirt can’t fight off the chill and overtop it, covering his visible bones, Dave throws him a sweater. He stays buried in that sweater and shirt all day, long into the night as they go hunting out in the streets with flashlights. Rain comes down heavy and thick.

Dave gets his sweater back. Folded neatly and smelling of the distinct fabric softener Hotch uses, it makes his whole office smell nice and Dave nearly can’t bring himself to wear the thing again. Doesn’t want the scent to fade, every inch of that sweater is now stitched together with something more.

The t-shirt gets left at the bottom of a drawer, to be discovered months from now.

Emily finds it six nights after Foyet left Hotch in Saint Sebastion’s hospital held together by sugrical staples and the stubborn will to live. All of his clothing has been hunted through, his shirt drawer is nearly empty. JJ and Penelope had undertaken the job of finding Hotch clothing for the hospital -- anything that he could just slip his arms into without having to lift them above his head. The only things left in his drawers are regular t-shirts and jeans, meaning Emily doesn’t have a whole lot to pick through right now.

She hadn’t anticipated this need and as much forethought as she put into staying the night was assuming Hotch would have clothes she could steal. She hadn’t really thought she’d be here tonight but she doesn’t think she can leave him alone. Doesn’t think it would be kind of her as his friend to see him like this and still choose to leave him for the night.

She decides on a thin grey shirt that she finds, turning her nose up to his university t-shirts (as if she’d wear those) and a pair of sweat pants on his floor that she thinks are clean or at least don’t smell bad. It’s not the best but she came unprepared and she’s not going to complain, both are comfortable even if the pants are giant on her.

To her surprise, he’s still fighting off his meds. Hazy brown eyes blink open when she steps back out into the living room, following her as she comes to the couch. She’s careful, even if she does it nonchalantly, as she moves his legs a little so that she can sit down beside him. He’s stretched across the couch, too big so he’s pinched up in places, but he doesn’t want to sleep in his room. Stubborn like a child being asked to take a nap -- “but I’m not tired”.

“T’as not my shirt,” he mumbles into his blanket. He’s got the heating blanket pulled up his nose, wrapped tightly around his shoulders and hands.

Emily looks down at it and frowns. “Well, then who the hell else’s is it?” She reaches for the TV remote on the coffee table, turning it on without waiting for his answer. Clearly, she doesn’t care who’s it is, she’s not taking it off now. His grunt, muffled by the blanket, means he doesn’t know and he doesn’t really care enough either to figure out who it is.

He doesn’t last much longer, falls asleep with her squishing him on the couch (though, arguably, he’s squishing her). She’ll brush off his timid embarrassment at having to need her around the next morning, for waking up in the middle of the night having to be held down. Sobbing incoherently about something, neither of them really sure what. Only calming down when she put his head in her lap, stroking his hair back until he fell back asleep. Which is how he wakes up, his head in her lap and his hand holding her’s hostage.

But she shrugs it off and says she only did it for the free shirt, “don’t worry about it.”

She keeps the shirt, uses it several more nights as they graduate from sleeping on the couch to him finally going back to his bed. To being mentally present enough again to fight her about taking meds, to walking her to the front door every night, and watching her leave.

She buries the shirt too. It feels too tight on her skin, wrong. She touches the material and remembers seeing him hysterical, writhing in pain, and unable to be comforted. Can smell the antiseptic from his skin. Can hear the doctor warning her about his heart. That shirt feels like losing her best friend but she can’t bring herself to get rid of it.

JJ uncovers it a year later (before Emily has done the unspeakable, the unimaginable, and died and come back to life). It’s a girls night gone wrong but not impossibly so.

“Just grab one of my shirts,” Emily says, still laughing.

JJ glares back at her. She’s covered in water from the sink -- Emily sprayed her with the faucet. It’s revenge, payback for the pasta sauce JJ swiped down her cheek.

“You two are devious,” Penelope insists, waving her fingers at them. She’s still chopping up mushrooms, trying to size them as best as she can so that they are spread evenly throughout the alfredo sauce. “Behave before you ruin the sauce and I have to tell Dave that I not only shared his recipe but that you two ruined it.”

JJ has to search for a shirt from Emily’s pajama drawer. She doesn’t want any of the old college shirts and certainly doesn’t want any of the dopey graphic t-shirts Emily is so partial to. She ends up on a grey shirt, worn and old and soft.

Emily knows the shirt the second the JJ comes out and it takes her a moment to hide and stifle the anxiety that its presence gives her. Hotch’s health is better, he’s got a routine down with the medication he’ll be taking for the rest of his life because of that attack, but he’s smiling again. It’s harder than it was before to win one out of him but he can do it, they happen.

“Which one-night stand is this?” JJ asks, plucking the shirt with her fingers and raising an eyebrow.

Emily shakes her head, clears her throat of the residual guilt, and smirks, “trust me, you don’t want to know.” Hotch would be mortified at the insinuation but it’s funny and what he doesn’t know (and what they don’t know) can’t hurt him. She’s sad to see the shirt go, it’s a door closed, but relieved of its burden she can breathe again. Feels Foyet leave her completely.

JJ goes unburdened.

That old shirt is a comfort. She nurses Henry through fevers in it. Uses its edge to wipe his tears from his face. It’s always at the top of her laundry basket, the first thing she puts on when she gets home from a rough case. Will isn’t sure where she got it from because he knows it’s not his. It’s not the first time JJ’s stolen someone else’s clothes (he’s picked up enough of them to know that Reid wears a size small, that dark shirts sized medium are Morgan, and that white t-shirts in a medium are Hotch’s). He thinks it’s cute, she’s been stealing his shirts for as long as he’s known her.

In October, the fall of the same year that Emily leaves for Interpol, JJ gets held up in a meeting with Hotch. Something to do the with Department of Justice and all she manages to get out over the phone is that she’s absolutely pissed and Reid can just faintly hear Hotch offering her a coffee before she thanks him and the line goes dead. Will is on night shift and he can’t come home. So Reid fills in, their impromptu babysitter for the night.

It’s fine, calm… for the most part.

Reid lasts about an hour and a half before he finds himself in need of a change of clothes. He’s got pumpkin all over him and his fun little idea to let Henry carve a baby pumpkin was obviously a bad idea. He just didn’t know that in advance. He’s watched Jack enough times to feel fully confident in his skills but the age gap between Henry and Jack is severe. There are a lot of developmental differences in children only two years apart in age, Reid was not prepared for that.

He feels weird about stealing a shirt but his own is soaked in pumpkin guts and Henry’s bathwater.

JJ doesn’t notice the shirt exchange. She just grins at the sight of Spencer and Henry curled up on the couch, Will sitting beside them eating popcorn while “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” plays softly.

Three days later Morgan sees his shirt on the back of the couch. It’s been washed and is waiting to be returned to JJ but he knows damn well that it’s his. “How the hell did you find this?” Morgan asks, lifting it up. Reid had called him over to fix a leaking pipe (Reid is supposed to call his Super who has a mechanic who can do it but he’s too anxious for that) and Morgan was less than prepared to find his missing shirt.

Reid frowns, confused, “that’s JJ’s. I borrowed it Thursday night when I babysat.”

Morgan shakes his head, no this is his shirt. He’s sure of it. It’s been gone for years. He thought the washing machine ate it. He couldn't remember where else it would have gone off to. That or he left it in some hotel but here it is. Grey and worn and soft, it’s his.

He takes it to work in his go-bag and all but rolls his eyes into the back of his head when he watches Garcia stumble and drench herself in cold, left-over tea. He stands from his desk, sighing hard, “it’s alright, baby girl. I’ve got a shirt you can borrow.”

He’s never getting this shirt back.