#loo's scribbles

[bigeloo]

The one cable i brought to connect my tablet with my laptop didn't work so uh... a traditional piece for once

[looz-y]

nancy and deirdre are bi4bi & im happy for them 💗

[ddejavvu]

Doctor's Note - Sodapop Curtis x Reader

summary: you stand soda up, accidentally

contents/warnings: soda is somewhere around 18-19, mentions of his failed relationship w sandy, distrust/miscommunication, angst -> fluff. based on my very painful experience this morning with crippling back pain

send me requests for the outsiders!

Selfishly, sometimes you wonder what it would have been like to date Sodapop before he'd met Sandy. When he was more carefree, when he wasn't glancing at any man you talked to just a second too long. He's not possessive- and even if he is, he doesn't enforce it. But you know he's wary, and you know it's her fault.

Darrel had warned Soda to stay away from girls for a while, to give himself a break. And he had. Two long years later his hiatus was broken when you'd come into the DX fiending for a coke, and when you'd asked, 'Do you know where I could find a soda 'round here?' his eyes had glimmered with opportunity, and he'd pointed proudly to his nametag.

"Right here, ma'am. No caffeine in me but I could keep 'ya up all night if you want me to."

It had been so wildly crass, so insanely audacious that you'd burst out laughing, both from the absurdity of his name and the brashness of his comment. He'd apologized for it, too, twenty minutes into your conversation that lasted an hour.

"I didn't mean what I said earlier. I mean- I don't usually come on strong like that. Couldn't stop myself- prolly got it from my friend Two-Bit, he's always crackin' jokes like that. Hope you didn't think it was greasy."

"I think it was very greasy," You'd laughed, tilting your chin towards the tin of hair grease abandoned at the other end of the counter, "I thought that was the whole point."

"That's my buddy Steve's", Soda had told you, light dancing in his eyes as he readjusted his elbows on the counter to lean further towards you, "He does these real fancy swirls in his hair, and I've been able to do 'em a few times, but mainly I just slick mine back, and half the time I don't even grease it anyways because I'm just bummin' round the house so there's no need. My other friend-"

He was a natural-born talker, and you'd been just as caught up with talking yourself as you were with listening to him. It had taken the reappearance of his aforementioned coworker, Steve, for you to glance at the clock, and realize that you were 40 minutes past the time you should have been back at work from your lunch break.

You're surprised you hadn't scared Sodapop off with your swearing alone, but you'd managed to scribble your number onto his hand before you'd left. You hadn't even remembered to buy a drink, but he'd brought you one when he showed up for your first date.

Now, three weeks later, you're getting ready to show up to his house. This is a big thing: you're meeting his brothers. He's told you so much about them you feel like you know them, and he's also given you your fair share of warnings, too. Darry's too stern sometimes, and it might take a while for him to warm up to you. Ponyboy's an awkward teen, and on top of it, he'd trusted Sandy- they all had. You know you've gotta prove yourself better than her, and you're starting with some sweet perfume and a bundle of flowers for their dining table.

--

"Get your bum ass off the couch and vacuum," Soda's hands shove roughly at Ponyboy's thighs, "She's gonna be here in thirty minutes!"

"Jeez, Soda, she's not my girlfriend," Ponyboy grumbles, but he stands and heads for the closet where the vacuum lies all the same, "Don't understand why I have to be the one cleanin'."

"'Cause Darry's the one cookin'." Soda glares at him, "And I'm cleaning too. I've been cleaning for days."

"Bathroom looks good, little man." Darry voices his approval from the kitchen, "Thought I was gonna die of shock when I realized you'd scrubbed down the toilet."

Not much conversation is heard over Ponyboy's aggressive vacuuming, but Soda calls the cleaning at five minutes to your arrival time.

"Okay. Rules again?" He looks expectantly at his brothers, and Darry looks irritated that he's being grilled this time.

"No judging." Ponyboy grumbles, but he doesn't think it's fair, because Sandy had seemed so nice and sweet, and she'd run right out on Sodapop. So he feels like he has to judge, because maybe Soda's gonna get hurt again. He doesn't want that.

"No grilling." Darry continues, equally put-out by Soda's request. He wants what's best for his brother. Sodapop's two-year long relationship drought was refreshing, and he's seen the boy blossom into a wonderful man. Still, he can't help feeling some lingering resentment towards Sandy, and he knows it's not fair to attach it to you, but he doesn't know what else to do with it.

"And no arguing at the table." He glances between Darry and Pony both warily, "I mean it, this isn't the night to discuss grades or curfew or chores. Just- be nice to her. Treat her like a real guest."

"Alright, little buddy." Darry secedes, squeezing Soda's flannel-clad shoulder slightly, "Now, you gonna go wait by the door for her?"

"No! I'm not that desperate." Soda scoffs, but Darry notices the way he flops down into his eldest brother's armchair, the only seat in the house with a view of the front walkway. Ponyboy settles himself awkwardly on the couch, watching cartoons even though there's an anxious tension in his skinny shoulders.

You're set to arrive in two minutes, and Soda's practically vibrating out of his seat. There's no sign of the cute little sundress you said you'd wear today, but that's okay, because he thinks it's so considerate of you to show up punctually versus early. if you'd come fifteen minutes earlier you would have seen him near-tears over the spot of chocolate that wouldn't rub out of the wall behind the television. Ponyboy had pointed out that there's no way you would have seen it unless you'd been wedged between their tv and the wall, but Soda was not going to invite you into a messy home.

One minute goes by, and Soda's cuticles hurt from where his nails tear at them. He tries to stop himself- after all, you wouldn't want to hold his hand if his was bleeding. But his next nervous habit becomes fiddling with the hem of his shirt, which isn't nearly as satisfying for his fingers.

He waits for what he's sure is more than a minute, which means you're due to flounce up the stairs in seconds. But he doesn't see you, and he knows Pony's watching him crane his neck every three seconds to look for you. So he tones it down- after all, he's got a 10-minute grace period at the DX for his shifts. If he can clock in at 8:10 and still be 'on time', you can show up a few minutes late.

"Any sign of her?" Darry pokes his head out of the kitchen, seeing the front door still shut. Soda shakes his head- then he catches a glimpse of your hair color outside the window. Upon further inspection, it's a stray cat. Ponyboy snorts at him, and Soda sinks back into the recliner.

Okay, so you've used up your grace period. But Soda gets it- you probably sang one too many love songs about him in the shower, and now you're tripping over your own feet trying to run to his house. Or the bus was late, or you missed it entirely, and you'll show up before the food goes cold.

Fifteen minutes go by, and Darry hovers over the finished meal, wondering whether he should plate it or not.

Twenty minutes go by, and Darry considers removing one plate from the table.

Thirty minutes go by, and Darry turns off the stove.

An hour goes by, and Pony retreats to his room for some homework time. Darry's meticulously cleaning the kitchen, but Sodapop thinks it's more because he doesn't know what to say than because he thinks you'll judge them for a grease stain on the wall.

When Darry's scrubbed the kitchen raw nearly an hour later, he pads softly over to Soda where he still rests in his armchair.

"Soda, I- listen, I don't think she's comin' tonight."

"I told her today." Soda's got his fingernail pinched between his teeth, his leg having long-since stopped its nervous bouncing, "I- I know I told her tonight, and she said she'd be here, but I-"

Darry's hand squeezes his shoulder again, this time tighter, and something awfully familiar resurges in Soda's chest where it's laid dormant for two years.

"C'mon, little buddy." Darry urges him up out of the chair, "Let's turn in early tonight."

--

Soda's not doing his best work despite having gotten eleven hours of sleep the night prior. He's sluggish and mopey, and Steve sticks him on the register so that no one risks a foolish mistake to their car. Soda stares at a knot in the wood grain, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and doesn't look up even when the entrance bell dings.

"Soda-" He hears a voice, one that he'd been waiting since last evening to hear, one that exacerbates that sickly feeling in his chest. He hasn't been able to shake it, and your face had blended with Sandy's in his nightmares last night.

"Soda, I'm- I'm so sorry."

"Why didn't you show?" He barely has the courage to look up at you, but he does, because last time he'd groveled. He'd begged, pleaded, bargained with her to stay with him, and he wasn't going to do that this time. He was going to be the man Darry wanted him to be.

"I'm sorry." You repeat, clutching a paper in your hands, brows permanently furrowed, "It was an emergency. I was getting ready, and- and all of a sudden my back started hurtin'. Real bad, Soda, I- I had to lie down on the ground."

Soda watches, interest piqued, as you stagger towards the counter, clearly limping. Sickness is replaced with worry in his chest, and he watches as you brace yourself against the register.

"My folks didn't get home for hours. I was just laying there, I- I couldn't reach the phone, I couldn't move my legs, I was just stranded there." Your voice thickens at the memory, and you sniffle absentmindedly, "Soda, I would have called you, I just- I couldn't move. I swear. I tried, Soda, I swear I tried to get to the phone, but it was so painful. And then when my parents got home they had to carry me to the car 'n all, and the emergency room took forever, and- and we didn't get home until three in the morning, and I knew you'd be sleepin' so I didn't call, and I felt so bad because I knew you'd be waiting on me, and- and I'm so sorry, Sodapop."

All at once yours and Sandy's faces come undone in his mind, and hers is cast aside as he studies yours. There's tears, big shiny ones lining your eyes, and your chin trembles slightly. You're still clutching the paper, and when you realize he's glancing at it, you gasp.

"Oh! I- um, I got you a doctor's note. I didn't want you to think I was lyin'."

You push the page towards him on the counter, and he takes it with trembling hands.

'Patient Y/N Y/L/N admitted to emergency services at 8:49 PM Wednesday, 30th July. Diagnosed with severe lumbar muscle strain. This patient is placed off of work from 7/30/1968 through 8/05/1968.

Patient would like to add that she did not intend to stand up her date with one Sodapop Patrick Curtis on Wednesday, 30th July. Patient would like to reschedule for another night. Doctor prescribes a calm, laid-back dinner date until patient recovers.'

"Had one hell of a time trying to get him to put that in there." Your sheepish voice pipes up from where Soda's reading the last words on the page, "But I told him you were a nice boy and he said there's not many of those around here. I'm sorry, again. I'm so sorry."

Lumbar muscle strain rings a bell in Soda's head. It's something Darry's definitely mentioned before, the few times they've bullied him into seeking medical attention for all of his blue collar aches and pains. He's sure if you're hurting the way Darry does sometimes, that you weren't lying about not being able to move.

You're staring at him like you're worried he'll send you away, and the piece of paper in his hands is the only thing stopping him from doing just that. But he glances down at it again, and takes a deep breath.

"It's okay. I believe you. My brother Darry, he- he pulls muscles sometimes. Don't usually see him cry, but I do when that happens. Are you okay?'

You visibly relax at his words, but something in your back must have protested the movement, because your face pinches up again.

"Um- yeah. Mostly. It hurts when I move too much." You admit, "But I had to make it down here to see you. I'm so sorry. Were you- were you angry at me?"

He doesn't think so- he was offended, he was disappointed, but most of all, he's pretty sure he was beating up on himself more than he was beating up on you. It felt like it did the first time, and he was the common denominator in both.

"No." He answers honestly, "But- uh, I think Darry probably is."

You wince, and he doesn't blame you. But he holds the note a little tighter, "But I'll tell him what happened. Like I said, he knows what that feels like. Don't worry about it, honey. You- uh, did you want to still meet them?"

"Of course! Of course," You nod eagerly, bracing your weight against the counter, "Do you still... want me to meet them?"

"Of course." He echoes, finally breaking his stoicism with a grin, a shy one as he reaches for your hand over the counter, still clutching the note in his other hand, "Can't argue with the doctor's orders."

[iris-qt]

For You, Only

You find it on an ordinary Tuesday.

A flower — but not one from any Hogwarts greenhouse you recognize. Its petals shimmer faintly under the torchlight, an impossible color somewhere between pearl and starlight, perched neatly atop your Charms textbook like it had simply grown there.

You glance around the common room.

No one looks your way. No snickering pranksters. No dreamy admirers writing sonnets in the corner.

Just…stillness. Homework. Whispered conversations. The crackle of the fire.

You touch the stem carefully. The bloom doesn't wilt under your fingers. If anything, it leans toward you.

There’s no note. No explanation. Just the flower: strange and perfect and left for you.

You glance around again, slower this time. Watching.

The prefect flips a page in his book. A few younger students argue over wizard chess.

No one watching. No one smiling. No one suspicious.

You tuck the flower carefully into your satchel, pretending you aren’t blushing like a fool.

You tell yourself it’s probably some Herbology project gone wrong. A mistake. A coincidence.

But later that night, as you fall asleep with the flower resting in a jar by your bedside, you can’t shake the feeling that someone had meant for you to find it. Someone who was watching.

And somewhere, deep inside Hogwarts’ winding halls, someone is.

And he is smiling.

...

The flower doesn’t wilt.

Days later, it sits proudly on your bedside table still glowing faintly, still leaning ever so slightly toward you whenever you look its way. You've poked it with your wand, whispered spells at it, even tried to press it between the pages of your Charms textbook, but it refuses to die, or even droop.

By Friday, you’ve convinced yourself it must be magical. And whoever gave it to you… well, they knew what they were doing.

You tell yourself you aren’t waiting for something else. You tell yourself you aren’t looking around every corner. (You are. You absolutely are.)

So when you find the book, you nearly trip over your own shoes.

It’s sitting right on your usual library chair: old, leather-bound, the title too faded to read. A piece of parchment sticks out from the top like a crude bookmark.

You glance around wildly. Madam Pince is hunched over the circulation desk, scribbling furiously. A few students mutter in the back, heads together over a shared essay. No one’s looking at you. No one seems to care.

Heart hammering, you slip into the chair and pull the parchment free.

It’s not a love note. It’s not even a full sentence.

Just two words, written in an elegant, slanted hand:

"For you."

You stare at it. Then the book.

Slowly, you crack the cover open. It smells like old paper and wild places, filled with poetry, the kind that sinks into your ribs and stays there.

You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a ridiculous little squeal. Someone left this. Someone knew.

You immediately whip around in your seat, heart racing. Your eyes catch on Eddie Clearwater from Herbology leaning against a shelf across the library. He’s not looking at you. He’s arguing with someone over a potions chart. But still. He is sort of nice. Sort of...awkward.

You eye him suspiciously. Maybe it’s Eddie.

He did let you borrow his notes once. And he wears shoes that squeak. You did hear squeaking earlier.

You huff a laugh into your sleeve, cheeks burning. It’s definitely Eddie.

You don’t see the real culprit, the boy lingering in the deep shadows between the Divination and Dark Arts sections, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his sharp, beautiful face.

Tom Riddle watches you tuck the book into your bag. He watches you smile to yourself.

And though he feels a sharp, unfamiliar twist of irritation at your spectacularly wrong guess, a part of him, dark and greedy and pleased, already wonders:

What will I leave her next?

...

You make a point to smile at Eddie Clearwater in the corridor the next morning.

It’s not even a romantic smile. More of a polite, thank-you-for-the-poetry-book smile. But Eddie looks so bewildered that he crashes straight into a suit of armor, sending a clattering echo through the hall.

You wince. Maybe not Eddie, then.

Still, you’re sure the gift-leaver is someone sweet and bashful. Someone harmless. Someone ordinary. That certainty lasts exactly twenty-four hours. Because the next night, tucked neatly into your bag between your Arithmancy notes, you find it:

A pendant. No — not just a pendant.

It hums faintly in your hand, cool and heavy, the chain finer than spider silk. In the low candlelight, the stone at its center gleams dark red, almost alive. You don’t need a textbook to know it’s enchanted, powerful, old.

Tied to the chain is a tiny scrap of parchment, the same slanted hand as before:

"To keep you safe."

Your stomach flips.

This isn’t something a clumsy boy from Herbology would have access to. This isn’t even something a professor would hand over casually. You glance around the common room, heart rattling against your ribs. No one’s paying you any attention except, for the briefest second, a pair of dark eyes across the room.

Tom Riddle sits by the fireplace, alone as usual, a book balanced on one knee. His expression, as he flips a page, is unreadable. You tear your gaze away, feeling suddenly foolish.

Tom Riddle doesn’t notice girls. Everyone knows that.

(But you also can’t help remembering how the pendant's stone glinted ... the exact color of his eyes when they catch the firelight.)

You clutch the pendant tighter, heart hammering. The pieces aren’t fitting together, not yet.

But you have a sinking feeling they will. Soon.

...

You hatch the plan over pumpkin juice and poor life choices.

It’s simple. Elegant. Foolproof, really. You’ll pick a spot, somewhere quiet but public enough to not seem suspicious. You’ll leave your books unattended, just so, like bait in a snare. Then you’ll wait, hidden, to catch whoever it is, and you can put this ridiculous mystery to rest.

Easy.

So you choose the far alcove in the library, the one with the broken sconce and the creaky chair. You pile your books just messily enough to seem believable. You arrange yourself behind a nearby shelf, heart thudding like a war drum.

And then... you wait.

Five minutes.

Ten.

You fiddle with the hem of your robes, nerves sparking. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe you should—

A faint sound breaks the silence. Soft footsteps, so quiet you barely catch them.

You press yourself against the bookshelf, breath held tight in your chest. Someone rounds the corner. Not Eddie. Not some shy sixth-year with ink-stained hands.

Tom Riddle.

Tall. Composed. Unreachable, like some terrible and beautiful thing from another world.

He moves toward your abandoned books without hesitation, as if this was always the plan. You peek, just barely, between the shelves.

He glances once over his shoulder (you almost faint on the spot), then slips something between the pages of your topmost book. Something small. Another note?

Your heart skitters. You’re so distracted you almost don’t notice—

For the briefest second, after leaving the gift, he pauses. Looks at the flower, still alive, tucked carefully in your bag. Looks toward where you’re hiding.

His lips curve in the slightest, most devastating smirk.

He knows.

You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a tiny, horrified squeak. And then, like a dream dissipating, he’s gone. You stumble out from behind the shelves, heart a frantic, tangled mess. The flower glows softly. The poetry book hums faintly in your bag. And tucked between your Charms notes, on fresh parchment, another line of that beautiful, slanted handwriting:

"You're cleverer than the rest. I hoped you would be."

You press the note against your chest, dizzy. This isn’t some bumbling, blushing schoolboy. This is Tom Riddle.

And he's been watching you.

...

A/N: what a man

...

[msilwrites]

Midnight Snack Mystery (Simon 'Ghost' Fic) Part 2

Wife! Reader Pregnant! Reader Hungry! Reader Possessive! Ghost Possessive! Simon 'Ghost’ Riley Possessive! Simon Ghost Riley Good Cook! Simon Ghost Riley Husband! Simon 'Ghost’ Riley Hungry Wife! Reader By this time he is already Captain or Major! or Lieutenant Col! Simon 'Ghost’ Riley

Part 1 is here AND Part 3 is here

Long, not so-long, but light hearted read. Warning: Don’t read when hungry!! Summary: Simon has finally discovered his wife’s late-night food hunts. Now, Y/N finds herself grounded—not by pregnancy restrictions, but by her overprotective husband who’s not letting her sneak out again without a word. With Simon now on high alert, he’s made it his mission to ensure she no longer goes on her secret noodle adventures. But what happens when Y/N’s cravings hit again? Will Simon give in to her late-night desires or continue his new role as the ultimate food police?

“I, uh…” You scrambled for an excuse, your voice muffled by the noodle still in your mouth. “Toilet break?”

“Toilet break?” he repeated, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting down. “Love, the loo doesn’t serve dumplings.”

Your face burned as you set your chopsticks down, the guilt written all over you. “Okay, fine. I was hungry.”

Simon gestured at the table, his brows lifting in mock exasperation. “Clearly. Could’ve woken me up, yeah? Instead of sneakin’ out like a waddlin’ penguin burglar.”

You folded your arms, pouting at the ridiculous comparison. “I don’t think you’d want noodles at two in the morning. You’re not the one who’s pregnant, remember?” He snorted, leaning back in the chair. “You’re right. Not pregnant—just married to someone who’s got the stealth skills of a tipsy badger and the cravings of a bear.”

Before you could retort, the server appeared, looking slightly concerned as they eyed the towering figure now sitting across from you. Not afraid—just genuinely puzzled. This was the first time anyone had joined their sweet, petite, and very pregnant regular for a late-night meal. The sight of Simon, a veritable behemoth of a man with his piercing gaze and commanding presence, was enough to make them pause mid-step.

Simon noticed their hesitant expression and immediately waved a hand, his tone softer now. “Don’t worry. She’s my wife.”

The server’s gaze darted to you for confirmation, and you gave an enthusiastic nod between sheepish smiles. “He’s not bullying me; promise.”

They relaxed slightly, though their eyes lingered warily on Simon. “Um, then, sir, would you like to order something?”

Simon glanced at your nearly empty bowl, his lips twitching into an amused smirk. “Aye, bring me whatever she’s havin’. Clearly, it’s worth sneakin’ out in the dead of night for.”

The server chuckled, noting Simon’s good humor, and scribbled down the order. “Coming right up.” Once they left, Simon shifted his gaze back to you, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that infuriatingly knowing way. “You’re lucky this place serves good food. But you’re not off the hook yet.”

“It’s not like I do it every night,” you muttered, breaking eye contact and fiddling with your chopsticks. “And off the hook for what? Eating?”

“For sneakin’ out while I’m asleep, waddlin’ around with slippers that won’t do much if you take a bad step. And don’t get me started on the stairs.” He jabbed a finger toward you, his voice full of mock severity. “Grounded. For your own safety.”

You rolled your eyes, pointing at your feet. “Simon, they’re anti-slip slippers. The safest footwear in the history of footwear!”

He gave you a flat look. “Still doesn’t change the fact you’re out here on your own in the middle of the night. And you’re not just anyone, love—you’re my wife. I love you. That means keepin’ you safe, even if I’ve gotta be a stubborn bastard about it.”

His tone softened, but the firmness in his words made your argument die in your throat.

Just then, the server returned with Simon’s steaming bowl of noodles. He took his chopsticks, twirled a bundle of noodles, and took a bite, savoring it slowly before giving a thoughtful nod. “Alright, I’ll admit it—you’ve got good taste, love.”

You smirked, your earlier pout vanishing as your lips curled into a teasing quip. “Of course I do. I married you, didn’t I?”

Simon paused, then let out a low chuckle, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and affection. “Flatter me all you want, but you’re still not sneakin’ out again.”

You pouted, twirling your chopsticks idly. “We’ll see about that,” you mumbled under your breath, though the truth was, you couldn’t imagine slipping out on him again—at least not without thinking twice.

Simon arched a brow at you, clearly catching your muttered words, but he let it slide, shaking his head with a faint smile.

The two of you ate in companionable silence after that, the warmth of the food and each other’s presence settling over you like a comforting blanket.

Simon might not be able to stop your late-night cravings, but from now on, one thing was clear—you weren’t going anywhere without him, especially late in the night.

----------

Simon and you walked back home, his large hand wrapped around your petite frame, the arm draped protectively around your shoulders like a vice. It was almost as if he feared you might just bolt for the nearest food stand at any moment—even though you were waddling, heavily pregnant, and moving at a pace that barely qualified as fast.

And yet, Simon knew better than to underestimate you. You were like a determined badger on a mission, and nothing—not even pregnancy—could slow you down. He even had your eco-canvas cat bag slung over his shoulder, the one filled with all the essentials you might need to escape. He wasn't taking any chances; in his mind, if you did try to sneak off, at least he'd have your necessities— phone, wallet, coin purse, wet tissue, snacks, a hair tie, and, of course, a spare pair of extra socks—in his grasp.

“Those noodles were really good,” Simon admitted, recalling the warmth of the broth and the satisfaction of each bite. “But you’re still not wanderin’ around at night on your own anymore.”

“I can take care of myself,” Y/N said with a raised brow, a playful challenge in her voice.

Simon’s smirk grew. “You’ve been caught, love,” he said, his arms crossing with that smug grin he was clearly enjoying far too much. “And I’m not lettin’ this go anytime soon. I’m your noodle partner from now on. Get used to it.”

You sighed, eyeing the night sky as you thought about the future. You could already feel Simon’s ever-watchful eyes, even when you were supposed to be asleep. “Guess I’ll just have to sleep with one eye open now…”

“Good,” Simon smirked, leaning closer. “Because now I’m hooked, and next time, I’m coming with you.”

You shot him a look of mock horror. “Oh, great. So much for sneaking out in the middle of the night... Guess I'll need to come up with a better escape plan.”

Simon’s smirk deepened. “You won’t need to escape. I’ll be right there next time, love, making sure you’re well-fed and not running off to some noodle shop at three in the morning.” He tightened his hold on you, as if to make his point clear. “Who’s gonna stop us now, huh? We’re a team, like it or not.”

You huffed, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “Guess I’ll have to get creative then..."

----------

As your pregnancy progressed, Simon's vigilance was at an all-time high. Despite his efforts, though, you still managed to sneak out for your late-night noodle runs. But Simon, ever the overachiever, wasn't just sitting back and letting you get your midnight cravings. No, he had plans.

He’d started researching. The noodles, the broth, the dumplings—he'd figured out everything about the shop. And then, to top it off, he went and bought the exact ingredients that the noodle shop used. So, now, when you got that familiar craving for noodles at ungodly hours, you wouldn’t have to go out anymore. He'd made sure to have everything ready for you at home. It was thoughtful, yes, but it didn’t stop you from sneaking out every once in a while for the real deal. The urgency of it all... the thrill of the late-night snack run was irresistible.

But that was before the new discovery.

It was a day like any other when Price’s fiancée—(A/N: oh no, Mama Bear, you enabler!)—casually mentioned something in passing, her voice far too nonchalant for what was about to drop. “Oh, and there’s this kebab place near you—24 hours. Just a block away from the noodle shop. I love it. We should go sometime.” Her eyes twinkled like she was letting you in on some delicious secret.

24-hour kebabs? Your mind practically did a happy dance. A whole new world of 3 a.m. snack options had opened up to you, and you couldn’t wait to start your next adventure.

From then on, your late-night trips became an alternating game of noodles or kebabs? One night, it would be noodles; the next, kebabs. And Simon? Well, he hadn’t caught on in a while. He was still under the assumption that his homemade noodle efforts were keeping you satisfied. Little did he know, you had your own little secret.

But then came the day you were packing Simon’s lunch. It had become a thing between the two of you—making him a lunchbox, especially since the canteen at base was basically a revolving door of the same uninspiring meals. Today, however, something was different. You’d had those mouthwatering lamb kebabs the night before, and they were so good that you couldn’t stop thinking about them while preparing his lunch. What better way to share the joy than to sneak a bit of last night’s feast into his lunchbox?

You chuckled to yourself as you carefully wrapped the leftover kebabs in foil, adding a bit of salad on the side because you were responsible like that. You even included a cheeky little container of tzatziki sauce, just to keep things fancy. “Sharing is caring, right, love?” you muttered to yourself with a grin.

As you closed the lunchbox, satisfied with your creation, you couldn't help but feel a little victorious. You had outsmarted Simon once again—and this time, you were treating him to a little midnight snack surprise, a little gift in kebab form.

Little did Simon know, his lunch that day was the result of your stealthy midnight food hunt.

---------

Simon sat at his table, digging into his lunch, enjoying the kebabs his wife had sneakily packed for him. The savory flavors were a welcome change from the usual bland canteen fare. Just as he was about to savor another bite from the new kebab wrap in his lunchbox, he heard a rustling noise. Johnny or Roach—hard to tell who started it—had caught a whiff of the fragrant meat. Before Simon could react, Roach grabbed the kebab from Ghost’s hand, and Johnny, in hot pursuit, managed to take a bite as he chased after Roach.

It was like watching toddlers fight over a toy—half laughing, half shoving each other.

Simon sighed, rolling his eyes. There went a quarter of his lunch. He grabbed the other kebab wrap from his lunchbox, shaking his head at the chaos.

“Oi, this tastes like the sauce from that kebab place near your home, Ghost,” Roach commented mid-bite, eyeing the meat with newfound curiosity.

Simon paused, mid-chew. “What do you mean?”

Roach grinned, clearly amused by the memory. “Johnny and I went there once when we were completely sloshed. We’d just embarrassed ourselves at a pub, trying to dance to some live band that sounded worse than an angry cat meowing for its dinner. After that, we decided the best cure for our humiliation was a late-night kebab. Had the best one of our lives, though. That place is just a few blocks away from your place, right? The one that’s open 24 hours?”

Simon’s eyes narrowed as it clicked into place. The kebab shop was near his house. Just a few blocks away from the noodle place. And the same one his wife had probably been sneaking out to in the middle of the night.

He let out an exasperated sigh, realizing the pattern.

His wife, who was almost due, had been sneaking out again, by herself, for food. And now, kebabs had been added to the list.

Simon rubbed his temples, a familiar headache forming. He knew he needed confirmation—he had to catch her in the act again. And this time, he was ready.

----------

That night, as she slipped out from under the covers, Simon pretended to be asleep. He felt her gently remove his large hand from her belly, a subtle movement that barely disturbed the sheets. His eyes remained closed as she quietly slid on his hoodie once again, the same one she’d worn for her late-night excursions.

He watched her movements in the dim light of their room as she grabbed her eco bag, the soft rustle of it making his heart race in anticipation. She was being careful, trying not to wake him.

Once she was downstairs, he listened closely, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. She stifled a laugh as she moved around the house, searching for her keys. Simon’s grin grew. This was it. She was slipping up.

She reached for the console table’s bowl where she usually tossed her keys, but they weren’t there. Her steps faltered as she tried to recall where she’d left them. Simon could hear the quiet shuffle of her slippers as she moved to the kitchen, her search growing more frantic.

When she approached the kitchen counter, the light suddenly flicked on. There, standing like a shadow in the doorway, was Simon—his towering frame blocking her path. He jingled the keys in his hand, his voice low and teasing.

“Looking for these?”

“Oh my gosh! Simon!” Y/N exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest in surprise.

Simon raised an eyebrow, taking a step forward. “Scared, love? I should be the one scared. Who sneaks out of the house at this hour with a bag full of snacks and—” He gestured toward her outfit. “—my hoodie? Really? You’re not fooling anyone.”

Y/N’s mouth opened and closed in a perfect imitation of a fish. “I... I wasn’t sneaking out! I was... uh... getting some fresh air?”

“Fresh air?” Simon smirked. “At three in the morning? Really? Or for kebabs?!”

Just as she was about to protest, a sudden shift in her expression caught him off guard. Her face went from flustered to... well, something else entirely. A small gasp escaped her lips.

And then it happened. A loud, unmistakable pop—the kind of sound you never want to hear in a moment like this.

Simon’s eyes widened as he looked down. “Wait—no. Don’t tell me—”

Y/N’s eyes went wide as she glanced down at her feet. “Oh. Oh, no.”

“That’s it. That’s what I was talking about.” Simon sighed, his voice a mix of exasperation and amusement. He shook his head, unable to help himself. This was exactly what he’d been worried about. There he was, concerned she might give birth on the street during her midnight kebab or noodle shop run—and of course, it happened just as he’d finally decided to confront her.

Her water had just broken. She was about to give birth.

Without hesitation, Simon snapped into action. He grabbed the overnight bag he’d already packed—because, let’s face it, he’d been expecting this moment to come at any time—and dropped it by the door.

“Let’s get you to the hospital, love. And next time, I swear, no more kebabs without me.”

He paused just before helping her out the door, turning to give her a serious look. “You’re not going to sneak off again, are you?”

Y/N shot him a glare, huffing in frustration—but the corner of her lips twitched upward into a grin. “Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll let you join me on the next midnight snacking adventure.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Simon muttered, ushering her out the door and toward his 4x4 in the garage.

----------

A few hours later, Simon stood in the delivery room, his heart pounding as he watched his wife give birth to their healthy baby girl. The little bundle of joy came out looking like a tomato—bright red, round, and very, very stout. A little bear cub in the making. Must’ve been all those late-night snacks and kebabs, Simon mused, but it didn’t matter. His daughter was healthy, and that’s all that counted.

But what really stood out, aside from her adorable chubby cheeks, was the fact that she looked so much like Simon. The scowl was unmistakable, like she was already plotting a covert mission—or maybe deciding which target to judge for their lack of culinary taste. Or, you know, plotting murder. It wouldn't surprise him if their daughter had inherited some of that... intensity.

Y/N couldn’t stop laughing, tears of joy in her eyes as she looked at their little one. “Oh my gosh, Simon—she looks just like you! That scowl, the little brow furrow... it’s like a mini version of you. I love it!”

Simon chuckled quietly, his lips curling into a grin. “Guess I passed on the scowl gene pretty well, huh?”

Y/N looked at him, still smiling with a mix of awe and amusement. “I love it. It’s exactly what I wanted. She’s like a perfect little replica of you. Can you imagine her looking up at me with that same scowl when she’s older? I’m gonna love it.”

Simon kissed her forehead gently, feeling a swell of pride. “You’ve got yourself a mini me, love. And I couldn’t be happier.”

Then came the question. The one that always followed the arrival of a baby. “What should we name her?”

Y/N thought for a moment, her eyes flicking from their daughter to Simon. “I was thinking something strong, like... a warrior name, you know? Something tough.”

Simon raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Warrior name, huh? You sure? What about something like... (A/N: Hi reader, I'm giving you the choice to name your daughter with Simon ;) ) (Your Child's/Name) Riley?”

She smiled, a playful twinkle in her eye, and nodded. “Well, then. How about the nickname?”

Simon glanced at her, his mind drifting through the countless food adventures she’d had while he was asleep in their bed. He thought of all the late-night runs, the kebabs, the noodles, and the endless snacks. His gaze moved from his wife’s grin to the little bundle in his arms—her rosy, pinkish cheeks, round like a little fruit.

Then it clicked. The tomatoes in the noodles, the kebabs… it all added up.

He looked back at her with a grin. “We’ll nickname her ‘Tom.’ Short for Tomato.”

Y/N laughed, her heart swelling with the love she felt for both of them. “Tom. I love it.”

Simon chuckled softly, gazing at his daughter. “She’s definitely earned it.”

Y/N leaned back against the pillows, content and happy. “Well, ‘Tom’ it is then. Welcome to the world, little Tomato.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed that one! 😄 I might do a part three sometime, maybe when you (Y/N) are pregnant again, and your little tomato is a bit older and already becoming your little accomplice too! 🍅💕

Also, if you don’t mind sharing, what did you name your daughter, Simon? 🤔 Drop it in the comments—I wanna know! LOL! 😄

Edit: And here is the NEXT CHAPTER --------->

[seonghwaddict]

★ NEVER SAY NEVER. [ 010 ] the head and the heart.

synopsis. something about the eight most well-known boys of your campus just didn't sit right with you, so you never gave any effort to interact with them. but after a series of... interesting incidents, they can't seem to leave you alone. pairing. college students! vampires! ot8! ateez x fem! reader. genre. fluff, angst, eventual smut, college au, vampire au.

chapter warnings. heavy angst, blood drinking, student/teacher relationship (not pedophilia), gore, blood, murder, manipulation, very intense heartbreak, knives, strangulation, mention of metaphorical suicide. word count. 3.6k rating. mature for violence.

　　　　　　　　chapter ix // chapter v // chapter xi

choi san had always been a loving soul.

growing up in a loving and caring family, he had been taught how to give and receive affection well. always caring for his friends and family, willing to do anything to make them happy. he was quick to forgive and forget, quick to assume the best of everyone’s intentions. to put it quite plainly, for many years of his life, he only saw the best in people.

but being so loving had its consequences.

he fell in love too quickly.

at the age of 18, he was sat in his literature class in high school. the teacher hadn’t showed up yet, the students scattered around the class and chatting idly. his seat was by the window, on the third row. the weather was nice, sunny with a cool breeze. he remembered this day vividly.

he remembered this day so vividly because it was the day he met jang sooyeon.

though, at first he knew her as ms jang for she walked in with the principle, introducing herself as their new teacher. absently, he noted she was very pretty, and awfully young to be a teacher. as she walked between the desks to hand out worksheets, his gaze was drawn to a dainty, silver anklet.

it all started slowly; lingering looks and touches that rested on his shoulder for a beat too long. ms jang somehow always found him when he was alone. sometimes she’d offer a book recommendation in the library, other times she’d ask him to stay behind after class for a little chat. one day he walked in with a black notebook, poems and prose scribbled inside. noticing the little book, she asked to take a look inside. but he refused; looking at his writings felt like looking into the deepest corners of his mind, little scraps of his soul etched on the paper with his crappy ball-point pen.

but, somehow, at some point, she ended up inside it, nose practically pressed to the ink as she made sense of the inner workings of his brain. though the compliments were nice, he didn’t think too much of them. but looking back, he should have known better.

over time, her little actions and words had his heart swelling with an all-too-familiar feeling. he found himself seeking her out and soon enough, they met up outside of class, outside of school. first under the excuse of san needing tutoring (a pathetic excuse as his writings exceeded the skills of many), but soon he found himself spending time with her outside of school just because he wanted to. making excuses in the first place was stupid, everyone around them knew there was something going on.

he let her in, he cared for her and let her care for him, showing her parts of himself no one else had seen before. for that year, all his thoughts were occupied by her. his love for her grew incessantly, in ways one could almost call obsessive. he wrote about her in his notebook, learned how to bake so he could make her her favourite treats. he showed her his sanctuary, a little clearing tucked away in a forest of his hometown.

he remembered laying on the grass beside her, staring up at the clouds swirling high above. they talked but he couldn’t remember about what. when you were with a loved one the subject of conversations mattered little compared to being in their presence. he remembered her sitting up, twisting herself to look down at him with a soft smile.

looking back at that moment, he realised her smiles never quite reached her eyes.

still, he was so infatuated with her that he couldn’t see beyond rose tinted glasses.

time seemed to slow and he felt their surrounding fade away as he looked into her eyes, realising she was slowly leaning closer. hands clenching with anticipation, he hitched himself up on his elbows. but before he could kiss her a small reflection glinted in the sunlight and his eyes were drawn down to her ankle. the silver anklet glittering in the light, taunting him.

he knew it was a bad idea. he knew he shouldn’t have said anything. but he still looked up at her and quietly asked her to take off the anklet. when she asked why, that should’ve prompted him to come up with some stupid excuse.

but he loved her. he loved her so much that his heart betrayed his safety, previously unspoken secrets tumbling from his lips as he told her about his true identity. without hesitation, he admitted what he was. a bloodsucking vampire.

at first she didn’t believe him or, more accurately, she made him think she didn’t believe him. but his face stayed serious as his eyes begged to be believed, so she tossed the anklet in a seemingly random direction. and they kissed and they kissed and they loved and they held each other until the sun bade them farewell and plunged bellowed the horizon. when they got up to part ways, he missed the sinister grin on her face as she retrieved her anklet.

and she knew she caught him in her trap.

jang sooyeon was many things. calculative, determined, possibly a bit sadistic. but a fool was not one of them. from the moment she had set eyes on choi san, she knew she found what she was looking for in that school. every progression, every action, in their relationship had been carefully planned out to get her to where she was now—her back to his chest as he leaned against a tree stump in their little hideout.

she rested her head against the left side of his chest, just over his heart, staring ahead at the blades of grass and fallen leaves that danced in the autumn wind. a silence settled over them before she whispered a questions.

“sannie… would you do anything for me?”

“yes, of course. why do you ask?”

“but how far are you willing to go?”

he should’ve listened to his brain, the warning signals blaring at her words. but his heart—oh, his naïve, foolish, utterly hypnotised heart—begged and screamed for him to draw her closer.

“i’d do anything for you.”

“if someone bothered me, would you… would you kill them for me?”

he paused at that, glancing down at her. an almost hesitant “yes, anything for you, my love,” falling from his pursed lips.

all things considered, he should’ve seen it all coming. everything after that conversation felt like a blur up until his next memory. it was the first time he killed someone.

she had told him this man had been bothering her, insisting to spend a night with him despite her saying she was already seeing someone. though he was slightly irked by the smile that threatened to force itself onto her features as he agreed to take care of the man, he was more focused on the fact that another man dared to even look at her with such little respect.

so, after some digging, he found himself trailing behind the same man on a dark street. hood up, eyes fixated on him, making sure not to alert him. san’s eyes briefly moved to the entrance of an upcoming alley, deciding that would be the perfect opportunity.

ten minutes later, he walked out the other side of the alley. the corpse of the man left leaning against one of the cold walls, smothered to death.

had there been any reason that didn’t involve her, he may have felt some remorse. but he was convinced what he was doing was right, keeping her safe from this potentially dangerous man.

and then she let him drink her blood.

when she offered it, he was surprised and declined, telling her that he never expected anything in return for what he had done. but she insisted, pulling up her sleeve and baring her wrist. what more suitable way to pay a vampire than in blood?

when the first drop of her blood entered his mouth, he knew he wouldn’t be able to enjoy bagged blood ever again.

after that it became a cycle. he’d get rid of someone for her and then he’d go back to her apartment and she’d let him suck a few drops of blood from her. his once pure heart was slowly stained by something darker, despite how justified he was made to believe his actions were. he lost count of how many people he went after, but he knew it was slowly driving him to insanity. and even though she convinced him he was in the right for killing those people, his heart kept him awake most nights with those dark memories.

and choi san always listened to his heart.

he doesn’t remember when he brought his concerns up to sooyeon, but he remembers they were somewhere dark. it may have been during the period where he refused to go home. he had brought her to his house for dinner and as soon as she left, his parents wouldn’t stop giving him warnings and telling them that they sensed something dark in her. this led to an argument, ending with him slamming the front door and avoiding them for a month to move in with the love of his life.

he should’ve listened to them.

the tv illuminated the the room as he sat on the couch. he heard her footsteps before she emerged from the narrow hallway of the one bedroom apartment. a towel was wrapped around her hair and her fresh clothes clung to her body in areas that hadn’t been dried properly. he looked at her, trying not to get distracted by the way she sat beside him and pressed herself into his hold. he inched away so he could see her better, the changing light of the television illuminating her wonderful features.

“listen, i… i wanna ask you something…”

“is there something wrong, sannie?”

he paused for a long moment, trying to gather his thoughts.

“don’t you think all the killing is unnecessary? i mean, you know i love you… i don’t want to have to do all this just to prove that.”

“oh, but, sannie… these are people that deserve it, they’ve hurt me. would you really want someone to hurt me and get away with it?”

“no! no, of course not. that’s not what i meant. it’s just- it’s too much for me. we love each other, don’t we? we shouldn’t worry about what anyone else does. people bother me, too, but i don’t ask you to kill them.”

“you think that? you think we love each other?”

“well, yes…”

a sharp feeling of dread tugged at his intestine.

“i don’t love you, san. you’re a monster. how could i ever love someone like you?”

she said more, but he didn’t hear any of it. he could feel every fibre of his soul being torn apart; could feel his ribcage being ripped open to reveal that naïve, foolish and utterly hypnotised heart of his. a sharp pain in his chest had him tearing up as if she’d dug a knife into his heart and twisted it in his chest. but he knew she was right. he was a monster and it was a fitting punishment for such a monster.

to want someone so much—to have them in your grasp—and knowing they will never love you the way you love them.

the days after that melted together into a dull pile of memories. he returned home but didn’t tell anyone what had happened, locking himself in his bedroom and skipping meals. he sat on his bed and cried and cried and cried and cried until he could no longer feel anything. his heart had nearly gone numb and he came to the realisation that he would’ve much preferred it if she wrapped a silver chain around his neck and strangled the life out of him.

one time he found himself staring into the mirror, terrified at the person she had turned him into. every time he looked at himself, the same words repeated in his head. monster, monster, monster, you fucking murderer. and he knew it was true. he stared at his reflection, wondering if he had changed enough to turn into a new person, enough for it to be considered some kind of suicide of his persona.

he hated himself. he should’ve listened to everyone, he should’ve listened to his brain. not his no-good, useless heart. if it could even be called that anymore.

when the urge to drink blood lured him out of his bedroom, he found himself in the kitchen opening a bag of a-positive. the familiar liquid slipped down his throat and his hunger was satiated, but not for long.

that night they found out about the blood intolerance, sat in a vampiric doctor’s office after he collapsed and was rushed to the clinic. he thought he was dying, barely hanging onto conscience as his father picked up his limp body from the kitchen floor and placed him in the car. he woke up on one of those hospital beds, his parents, older sister, and his doctor standing around him. the doctor explained that if vampires only drank one blood type for many months, in rare cases it could lead to the body being unable to process all the other types.

something clicked inside his mind. she had killed him. killed his heart, killed his body, killed his soul. she was a murderer, too. he was merely just a shell of who he used to be. the scraps left of his heart and soul screamed for revenge. he had already killed so many people, this was just one more. maybe when she was finally gone, he’d be able to live life normally.

he thought it was odd, really. just a week before he loved her more than anything in the universe, and then he was creeping through her hallways with a knife clutched in his hand. a violent end to his devotion.

the floorboards of the hallway creaked as he crept his way to her bedroom. with a random kitchen knife gripped so tightly in his hands his knuckles turned white, his breathing went shallow. he revised his plan over and over and over again, replaying it in his head like a broken record. nothing could go wrong in the next few minutes, he couldn’t afford any mistake no matter how small. a droplet of sweat melted its way down his forehead and got caught on his brow, he wiped it away with the back of his hand and finally stopped in front of the door, open just a crack.

suddenly, he felt as if his throat closed up; one of the telltale signs of his body’s reluctance to commit this heinous crime. he should be used to it by now, but somehow it felt different when it was the woman he imagined a future with. he swallowed repeatedly, praying the dry tightness of his throat would be eased by his saliva. it took him several more minutes to muster up the courage and wrap his hand around the metal doorknob, pushing the door in as slowly as he possibly could and wincing quietly when the hinges whined

she seemed to be fast asleep, light snores resounding through the spacious bedroom. much like how he revised his plan repeatedly in his head, so did his head telling him to stop. he let his disparity take over as he silently shut the door behind him and walked to the bed like a predator stalking his prey. as his gaze settled on her, a fleeting sense of remorse could’ve swept through him had he been able to see her face, peaceful in her slumber. but, alas, there was nothing to be seen except a silhouette dimly lit by the moonlight beyond the windows.

she didn’t make as single sound as the first stab went straight to the base of her neck, blood pooling around the knife as he sliced through the throat. not a single sound gave away the fact that she was now dead.

he pulled out the knife, the blade suddenly feeling so much heavier in his hold as crimson liquid dripped from the metal and stained anything it landed on. the faint smell of iron wafted into his nose and shot straight to his brain, unleashing some kind of primal urge to continue stabbing at the body despite knowing she was dead. he sunk the knife into any part he could reach—her arms, chest, stomach, shoulders.

once his mind cleared and his rationality returned to him, all he could see was dark splatters surrounding him, staining the bed, her body and his own hands. bile rose to his throat but he swallowed down the bitter taste quickly, stumbling back and dropping the dagger, the ringing of the metal crashing against the wooden floor resonating through his ears. tears pricked at his eyes as he gasped for air. the squelching of the blade as he sank it into her flesh would forever haunt him, echoing through the corridors of his scarred mind.

as he looked away from his bloodstained hands and at her body, he found her head slumped in his direction, lifeless eyes lit by the moon staring right at him. san whipped his body around; he couldn’t stand looking at her any longer. the regret crashed over him like a wave, leaving an icy trail of what-ifs. what if she had been awake? would he have still gone through with it? and yet, as he thought through all the possibilities, he couldn’t help but feel a slight weight lifted off his shoulder.

he made quick work of getting rude of the corpse. wrapping a sheet around her and carrying her out of the building. it was just past midnight, not a chance anyone would be awake. he ducked into an alley and rolled her out of the sheet, placing her in the shadows where she wouldn’t be found. even if she did, it would just look like some angry drunk had done it. those cases were often dismissed by the police. he returned to her apartment and changed the bedsheets.

when the news of her death got out, his family moved away so he could finish the last two months of high school away from the pitiful and prying eyes of his classmates. he hated the way they looked at him when he walked in the halls. he wanted to scream at them.

stop looking at me like that!

like i’m a fucking tragedy.

stop it.

stop fucking looking at me.

after all of those events. he was sure life would never return to his numb limbs. until he met jung wooyoung and kang yeosang in his first year of university. he had pushed them away at first, but upon finding out they had something in common, he accepted their friendship.

with their friendship came five others; kim hongjoong, park seonghwa, jeong yunho, song mingi, choi jongho. they proved him wrong, he could feel alive again. at least with them. it was a rather quick bond, considering themselves a little clan. but as much as he adored them, he knew he would never love some like he had loved sooyeon ever again.

until he was proven wrong yet again. from the moment he met you, he came to the conclusion that there was a reason that old saying—never say never—came to be. don’t get him wrong, it wasn’t love at first sight. but he felt something, a warmth in his heart that he hadn’t felt in years.

he wanted you for his own safekeeping. he wanted your hair to slip through his fingers. he wanted that voice of yours to whisper in his ear, under the bluish moon. he wanted you to rip out his heart and carry it with you in a little box under lock and key.

and as he looked at you now, sitting on the couch with wooyoung and yunho as you laughed and squealed as you played some game with them on the tv, he wondered. he wondered if you’d hold his tainted fingers and kiss his lips. he wondered if you’d love him and his scars and his sickening skin. if you’d love his weak heart and guilty soul. would you love a monster?

when you left, he felt his insides light on fire as you pressed a fluttering kiss to his cheek when you passed him in the kitchen, when no one was looking. since that night in your bedroom, he knew he was doomed.

seonghwa joined him in the kitchen to wash the dishes. san but his bottom lip, trying to desperately swallow down a question that lingered on his mind for weeks.

“you want to say something,” seonghwa spoke over his shoulder, a smile evident in his voice, “say it, sannie.”

“do you…” he sighed and leaned against the counter. “will we ever tell her?”

god, he wanted to know how you’d react. would you embrace them and tell them it’s okay? he wanted to be loved by you so badly his hands trembled.

the question made seonghwa pause, glancing at him and turning off the sink. he took his time drying his hands, eyes turned to the ground. he sighed, walking over to san and placing an affectionate hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

“she’s special, and i think she’ll come to know about us. but we can’t risk rushing anything. all in due time, san, all in due time.”

with one more squeeze, he dropped his hand and left the kitchen.

[ lilo’s notes ] i apologise for what i have written, though i do hope you all enjoyed it. i also apologise for the long wait, but i really wanted to write something of high quality for my dear readers!! happy new year, please take care of yourselves well <;33

network … @cromernet @blankjournal

taglist … @atinytinaa @marievllr-abg @pocketjoong @rainstarcuts @sarahleighflora @melohwa @kyukyustar @yuntokkie @ateezourstars @kitty4hwa @hyukssunflower @aestheticsluut @neohyxn @mrowwww @darkdayelixer @itsokaytobedumb00 @hwa-sans @purplelady85 @seongfury @meginthebuilding27 @stopeatread @mothworked @foliea @emtrades22 @teezers99 @mulletjoonsupremacy @imalildelulu @sunukissed @aygotnobitches @ad0rechuu @brxken0rex @strawberry-moonpies @bluehwale-main @lightinythedark @hotteokisms @yandere-stories @skz-enthusiasttt @seongwin @huachengsbestie01 @galaxypox @moonminji @lilactangerine @lelaleleb @asjkdk @honey-lemon-goose @stayteezdreams @diorwoo @yunho0o0o0o @majestickitty @shookykookie30 @0325tiny @seongua @90s-belladonna @2holover @satsuri3su @ren-junwrld

[venomwrites]

Despite the fluff this is a ficlet written purely because I 100% believe Vi would leave lipstick prints on Caitlyn before Caitlyn would leave them on Vi. Also on Ao3

“Violet.”

Vi is caught off guard enough at the sight of Tobias standing in the doorframe. The two of them have a fragile sort of truce going. One she’s happy to keep going. It’s centered around Caitlyn, who needs them both. Usually when he comes to get her, it’s for something Caitlyn needs. Tobias looks at her with that tight, sad expression he always makes. Vi is stunned he doesn’t ask her about her intentions with Caitlyn. But she guesses it’s pretty clear what those are since she’s here. She’s given up the expectation he’s going to tell her to get out again. It’s become clear that he actually didn’t have the right to do anything more than question her presence. The house isn’t his. It’s Caitlyn’s. But he doesn’t ask anymore, he just nods when she helps Caitlyn in a way he can’t and she does the same when the tables are turned. But now it’s just the two of them staring at each other. 

“There’s talk of rationing electricity,” he says, “we need to preserve the candles.”

Heat creeps up her neck but she refuses to give into it. She opens her mouth to point out the rations definitely wouldn’t apply to the Kirammans. And besides she’s been rationing candles for seven years. She knows how to get soot from her eyes and not ruin them. When they start rationing matches they can talk. Tobias’s throat works and then he shoves a bag at her. 

“Cassandra always kept a supply. Caitlyn needs something more specialized now,” when she doesn’t move he puts it in her fingers, “goodnight.”

Then he vanishes as quickly as he came leaving Vi standing there with a bag, a blush and not much of an idea of what to do with either. Behind her there’s a shift of weight as Caitlyn tries to see what’s happening. She’s condemned to the right side of the bed where the IV hook was already set up from Vi’s own time there. But that puts most of the room out of her field of vision unless she turns her head. It’s uncomfortable on the best days right now so Vi tries to do everything in her field of vision. She walks over to where Caitlyn is laying and watches something flicker in her visible eye at the sight of the bag. 

“Your dad—“ Vi says holding it up, “said it was your moms.”

Caitlyn offers an almost mischievous curve of her lips and Vi looks down to see the bag is full of that fancy tissue paper stores up here use. Caitlyn taps the side of the bed and Vi walks over. Of all the injuries, the jaw might be the worst for Caitlyn. Vi looks over at the pad as she scribbles what the wires won’t allow her to say. 

Sorry. Didn’t think you’d take it otherwise. 

Vi shakes her head at the apology. Only Caitlyn would feel the need to apologize for something like this. She nods and Vi moves away the paper. Inside are a ton of small boxes. She’s quickly learning nothing in Piltover just comes in its natural state. Especially not stuff you buy. Caitlyn is looking hopeful so Vi tries to smile and tips one of the boxes into her hand. She has a feeling she knows what it is. The candle scolding was kind of a give-away. She braces the black box against her casted arm and slips her thumb under the top flap. There’s a sticker on the bottom of a pinkish red that makes Vi’s heart skip even though it shouldn’t. The world ended. This seems so irrelevant. But her fingers in the cast itch as she tips the container over and the silvery tube spills out. It’s heavy with a band of gold denoting the seam. When she pushes with her thumb, it slides up to reveal a bullet of color. 

One of us needs two eyes.

Vi laughs. The sound strange after all the grief in this room. But it’s the first joke she’s seen on the pages and when she looks back, Caitlyn actually looks pleased. She nudges the bag closer and even though Vi wants to say one is enough. That she doesn’t even need one, she doesn’t want to do anything to take away the pleased look on Caitlyn’s face. Caitlyn motions for the bag and extracts a black case that expands like magic. There are hooks for a mirror, but someone has thought to tuck it away. She opens box after box until the bag is full of them and the case is full of tubes and compacts. Vi wonders if there are any cosmetics left in Piltover, but she’s learned there is always more up here. These are hers. It’s a dizzying array of colors, ones that exist in paintings. Not ones you cobble together out of whatever pigments you can find. The feeling in her chest is strange as she looks at them. Not bad, but not one she’s used to. 

“Thanks, Cupcake,” she says touching the tubes. She goes to close the case but Caitlyn stops her. Strokes her thumb across Vi’s knuckle and looks at the case, “later,” Vi promises. 

Caitlyn gives her a look that needs no words and with more strength than Vi thought she had, she tugs the case towards her hip. Vi watches as she flips it open. Her fingers move towards the mirror and Vi darts forward. They’e not there yet. Caitlyn’s not there yet. But she’ll put herself through it to help Vi. And Vi can’t stand the thought. She tries for something confident as she looks back at the endless array of tubes. 

“Come on, Cupcake, you think we had mirrors in Stillwater?” She says, “I could do this blindfolded.”

Caitlyn gives her a half exasperated look as Vi looks between a forgiving nude and a deep berry. Opting for the latter she thumbs the tube open and glides the color along her lips. She’s known she could do it blindfolded, but there’s still something satisfying about running her thumb under her lip and it coming away clean.

“What do you think?” She asks. 

Beautiful.

The word stings but Vi lets it. The lipstick feels nice against her lips. Better than anything she’s come up with. Definitely better than the greasepaint she was using in the pits. Her lips feel softer than they have in a long time. It’s strange to think that in the life ahead of her, they can be soft and colored whenever she wants. Without her having to barter or decide what she’s willing to sacrifice for a bit of comfort and autonomy. It’s just there. She doesn’t know how to voice that in a way that doesn’t make her sound insane. Or, worse, would make Caitlyn try to push herself to help Vi feel better. It’s a good feeling. Jus not one she’s used to. But Caitlyn is Caitlyn, so Vi is only mildly surprised when a tissue is handed to her and the notepad comes into view. 

Another?

“Oh I see,” Vi says, “you just want a preview for when we’re both better.”

Caitlyn flashes the thumbs down that means no but Vi ignores the insidious voice that says she’s being honest. Vi waves her away and Caitlyn frowns. Vi gets it, she has no idea how any of this will work when they’re more whole. It should be the last thing either of them are thinking about. But she wants to figure that out with Caitlyn. She wants to figure out a lot of things with her. Maybe it’s not fair to put that on her, on their bond, but in her worst moments when she can’t hug Caitlyn it’s the only bright spot that keeps her going. Caitlyn still looks a bit perturbed but it’s in that fond way she seems to reserve for Vi. So Vi finds the darkest color she can and draws it across her lips. Caitlyn swallows but her eye focuses only on the dark bruise of Vi’s lips. 

“Too oil slick?” Vi offers. 

It takes Caitlyn a moment to respond.

Thumbs down. 

No.

Caitlyn taps on the paper. 

Beautiful.

“You can’t say that with every one,” Vi says, “then you’re just being—“

Hot

Vi swallows the word nice as Caitlyn holds the pad up. She’s not as pale as she was, but the flush of color on her cheekbones still makes something warm start in Vi’s belly. Fortunately the smart little case has several pockets in the lid. Vi takes the tube and tucks it into one of them. By the end of the night it’s joined by a nude rose color and a berry tone. Caitlyn falls asleep with a faint smile on her lips as Vi looks down at the case in her hands. It’s hard to wrap her head around it. There’s a dark part of her that points out the frivolousness of the products. How the money could be better spent elsewhere. How no lipstick was going to remove the cast from her arm or bring back anything she had lost. But the rest of her feels something much closer to happiness. Something like when she woke up wrapped in Caitlyn��s embrace before they both fell apart. When she kissed her and Caitlyn kissed back. This was orchestrated by her, but there’s something profoundly selfish in the tubes laid out in front of her. 

They are just for her. 

Even though it’s late, Vi finds herself rifling through for one of the longer sticks. She eases the cap off and drags it across her eyes. She uses the edge of a finger to find the places she wants the pigment to go and then drags it along her waterline. That part is always the easiest. She figured it out first, taught by another prisoner who showed her how to make sure things were clean enough. The pigments now glide smoothly along her flesh, so smoothly she nearly jams the point into the side of her nose. She drags the line across the other with more care. The usual stinging is lessened by the quality of what she’s been given. But it makes her feel better when she presses her eyes shut and feels the slight tack as the lines come together. 

Before she can overthink, her fingers flip open one of the compacts. 

It’s an odd thing to be excited by your own face. To be excited you recognize your own face. She feels impossibly different, but she knows the features that look back at her. More importantly she sees the choice on her face. She’s chosen what to put on her eyes. What color to make her lips. That was the advice of the other prisoner who showed her the matches. The world would take most of your choices, but if you could choose what you put on your face it was a good day. This feels like the start of one. Somehow it feels easier to crawl up to the pillows and lay down next to Caitlyn. There’s a pillow between them to help Caitlyn sleep straight, but her hand usually drapes on it. An invitation Vi hasn’t known how to respond to. This time she picks up Caitlyn’s hand and brings it to her lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. 

When she wakes, Caitlyn is smiling at the back of her hand in a way that sends a warm feeling though Vi’s core. She keeps her breathing even and closes her eyes as Caitlyn very carefully puts her hand back on top of hers. When she truly wakes up, it’s time for bandages changes, liquified breakfasts and all the things that keep them going. Well, mostly keep Caitlyn going. After the latest bandage change Caitlyn goes distant, like usual. But unlike usual, Vi has an idea of how to reach her. She fiddles with the darker tube before swiping it across her lips, picking up Caitlyn’s hand and pressing them to it. It shocks Caitlyn out of her stupor as Vi considers the lip print. Caitlyn stares at her, eyes wide. Vi rifles though the case and picks a different tube. She paints her lips and then presses them to the base of Caitlyn’s thumb. Caitlyn swallows tightly as their gazes lock. Vi nods towards the notepad and Caitlyn gives the barest shake of her head. So Vi picks up another tube and this time kisses her fingertips, brushing something pink and sweet to them. 

By the time she’s done she has no idea what color her lips might be, but Caitlyn’s hand is covered in color. Everything except red. She can guess there’s enough red in Caitlyn’s head when she looks at her hand. So Vi kisses every other color there instead. When she lets Caitlyn’s hand go, Caitlyn brings it against her chest and cradles it close. There’s no scribbled note, but there doesn’t need to be. The soft look on Caitlyn’s face tells Vi everything she needs. And for the first time in a while, Vi feels like she can hear it. 

So she keeps it up. 

Sometimes just the one. 

Sometimes the whole rainbow. 

But there is always a print somewhere on Caitlyn’s hand. It seems to make things better in a way Vi can’t quite explain. But it’s working, so she doesn’t care about anything else. Even though it’s the longest few weeks, it’s still hard to wrap her head around helping Caitlyn into a paper bonnet so her jaw can be freed. They can’t jostle anything else so they want her to be out. She looks at Vi who smiles encouragingly and presses a kiss to her knuckles. Caitlyn pulls her hand to her chest and nods, relaxing as they take her away. Vi sits with her after. Her face is still puffy, but when she shifts her head and her lips part, Vi can see her tongue move. 

“Hey,” she whispers, coaxing Caitlyn back into the waking world. Caitlyn looks at her hazily and smiles.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, sleepily raising her hand to inspect her clean skin. A soft thing she would hate to call a pout comes across her lips, “Vi?”

She has to be gentle as fuck, but Vi leans over and finally gets to brush their lips together. Caitlyn inhales softly into the kiss, her hand steadying Vi’s cheek. When she pulls back, she touches her fingertips to her lip and smiles at the pigment that clings to them. 

“I was hoping you’d do that,” she murmurs but still holds up her knuckles. 

Vi is only too happy to press a kiss there as well.

[astudyintheburningofhearts]

Yeah I don't really know what this is- it just happened. Enjoy?? Hopefully?

__

The realisation had crept up on Sherlock one uncharacteristically sunny autumn afternoon in Baker Street. It had been a slow day, Lestrade yet to come bursting through the doors with a new case for them. John, having finished posting all their latest adventures on his blog, had been sat reading the book he'd been meaning to finish for well over a month at that point. Sherlock, meanwhile, was lounging on the sofa as per usual, one of his favourite books on beekeeping in his hands.

It was when he'd gotten up to get a glass of water that he'd stopped in his tracks, eyes widening minutely before they turned to his hands. He'd gone to get a glass of water for himself, yet here he was, standing barefoot in their kitchen, with two glasses in his hands.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock marched over to John's seat, soundlessly offered him the glass, gave a curt nod in response to John's absentminded "thank you", and returned to the sofa; only this time he was faced away from John.

It had just now occurred to Sherlock that John Watson was indeed his favourite person. Yes, he loved Mrs.Hudson and (reluctantly) Mycroft and Lestrade and his Mummy and Daddy, but if he had to pick his absolute favourite person, he'd simply have no choice but to pick John. The realisation was juvenile, and yet. It made Sherlock burn from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

Ever since the day he'd had the realisation, Sherlock ensured he would make more of an effort to pay conscious attention to John's needs and desires, in order to make sure the good doctor would have no reason to consider leaving, for what would Sherlock do without his favourite person.

Which is why he felt like the stupidest man on the planet when he deduced John's niche interest in astronomy and cosmology. The signs had been right in front of him the whole time – the way John's lips would purse and a wistful longing would shadow his countenance every time someone brought up space; how when Sherlock had shown his utter disdain for learning the workings of the solar system, John had been more affronted than Sherlock had ever seen him; how when he'd moved in, he'd brought a decently sized collection of books on the subject – god, how could Sherlock have been so blind?

After having mentally berated himself, Sherlock set to work learning everything he possibly could about astronomy, just so that John could ramble on to Sherlock about the stars and the solar system and faraway galaxies and black holes; so John would stay.

And so, Sherlock set about learning astronomy and cosmology, first from John's own books, and then from various sources over the internet. Even when he'd had a particularly tough case to crack, he'd taken fifteen minutes each day to read up on astronomy, so as to not hinder his learning process.

By the end of the week, which gracefully had them solving only one case this time around, Sherlock had finished reading all of John's books and was currently working his way through some of NASA's many articles on various parts of the study that had fascinated him, and of course, what he'd picked up from John's books in the form of his little scribbles and highlights.

And really, he hadn't meant to reveal to John in any way what he was doing, at least not until the next time it was brought up in common conversation with someone they knew. In fact, Sherlock was planning on gifting John a short collection of scientific papers he'd found in the archives of Mycroft's vast library for Christmas if the topic wouldn't come up naturally.

His plans, however, came to a screeching halt when he'd left his laptop open on the coffee table while he went to the loo. When he returned, he found John scrolling through an article about black holes and the information paradox, resting his chin in his palm as he did so.

He paused, having been caught red-handed, clearly. John's eyes remained fixed on the screen as he slightly angled his head towards where Sherlock had entered the sitting room and asked, "Since when have you been interested in black holes and the such? Do we have a new case I don't know about?"

Sherlock paused, stood like a deer caught in headlights, unable to speak a word. John, having received no response, furrowed his brows and looked up at Sherlock, "Sherlock, is everything alright?"

Swallowing once and ducking his head, Sherlock embarrassedly went and sat on the seat adjacent to where John was sitting. He clasped his hands and held them between his knees as if he were a child waiting to be berated for something he'd done.

John's voice was softer now, "Sherlock you know you can tell me anything, but if you don't want to, I'm alright with that too."

Sherlock continued staring at his lap as he whispered, "I was reading for you."

"Pardon?"

Taking a breath, he looked John in the eye as he spoke again, "I was reading up on space for you. Not for a case."

John blinked in confusion – "For... me?"

Of course John thought it was odd Sherlock had done that, of course he did. This was clearly a mistake, Sherlock should never have considered doing this in the first place.

Becoming defensive, Sherlock snapped at him, "No, John, I clearly read all those books and articles because – oh."

He'd been cut off by something most unexpected. John had wrapped his arms around him and had half-nuzzled his face into his neck. "Thank you," John breathed.

Sherlock didn't reciprocate for the first minute or so, thinking John would let go, but when he gave no indication of doing so, Sherlock gingerly wrapped his arms around the smaller man as well, resting his head against John's as he did so, and something warm and pleasant settled in the pit of his belly at having his flatmate so close.

"Nobody's ever... nobody's ever really tried learning about something especially for me. They've never expressed interest in learning about the things I enjoyed learning about, so thank you."

John held on to Sherlock for a moment longer after he finished speaking and then he pulled away, leaving Sherlock feeling bereft.

John cleared his throat and returned to his previous seat, "So, what have you learnt so far? Anything that caught your fancy in particular?"

The smallest grin appeared on Sherlock's face, "You first Doctor Watson, what part of astronomy catches your particular interest?"

John smiled back and shut Sherlock's laptop as he settled in, "Well..."

And Sherlock found that though he doesn't particularly care for when people have to ramble, finding most of them to be dull and boring either way, he hardly minds when John rambles to him. In fact, he found he rather enjoys listening to John ramble.

And that was how the rest of the evening was spent, engaged in conversations about the cosmos and accompanied by an eventual Chinese takeout dinner.

AO3 Link – https://archiveofourown.org/works/59543044/chapters/151856185

[theartsynebulawhodoodles]

Ink Sans’s Soul Torn; a practice writing I did. [TW: Suicidal Tendencies]

This is a practice writing I did of Ink’s backstory (well, a fragment of it)! I hope you all like it!

Ink didn’t remember who we was before. Those memories were buried behind in his forgetful mind. Yet, memories never leave one’s mind.

Even if those memories are forgotten.

Piles and piles of papers stacked on a determined and burnt out creator’s desk, stress and struggle clearly expressed on their facial expression as they quickly scribbled sketches after sketches. Over and over again. Ink slowly watched from one of the papers dangling slightly off the desk, curiosity in his eyes watching his creator. He was filled with hope. Thoughts filled his mind of what his AU would be. 

Yet, after hundreds of sheets of papers were drawn on, the creator gave up. The creation became a chore for them. They eventually put down their pen, and left the unfinished art buried away behind other art. Ink stood in the blank papers, looking at the white surroundings. The surroundings of nothingness felt disappointing for the draft skeleton. 

Yet, the odd feeling of determination fueled his hope, making him desperate to find something. Anything. He began running through the hundreds of papers, looking around for anything. All he saw was sketches of surroundings, monsters, and even himself.

It felt dead. None of it felt real to Ink. He couldn’t believe it. Collapsing to the ground, he sat on his knees with his hands covering his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw all the monsters.

They stared at him with nothingness. Yet it brought a sense of sadness to Ink. Seeing the ones he was supposed to live along with and see everyday in his life miserable felt odd; like it wasn’t normal. Ink desperately tried to make jokes to cheer up the sketches of the monsters. Nothing except a blank expression were on their faces hearing those jokes.

Days after days of Ink desperately trying to find something, there was nothing. His hope drove him insane knowing it wouldn’t be fulfilled. He isolated himself away from everything, sitting in a blank piece of paper. For the first time, he began to cry. The clear tears slowly dropped to Ink’s lap and the floor, his hands clenching his lap.

After days, months, years even, he didn’t know. All he knew that he was giving up. After everything,

He couldn’t take the emptiness anymore.

He reached deeply into his chest, slowly bringing out his soul into his hand. Looking at the white soul with a soft rainbow light around it felt sorrowful. Watching the pulse of the soul as it beat was the last thing Ink saw of his soul before he began to tear it apart. His fingernails dug deep into the soul, clenching it tightly as the soul beat even faster. A grunt came from his mouth as tears dripped down his face.

After getting a good grip, he began to pull the soul apart. The soul made noises of agony, like it was screaming in pain. Ink kept crying in pain. It felt so unbearable. His consciousness begged him to just end it completely. 

After the few moments of agony, the soul was torn apart. Black smoke emerged from the soul, curling around Ink’s skeleton. Ink felt relieved, watching as his soul dusted away in his hands. He wanted it all to end; he couldn’t handle being conscious in an unconscious area permanently. He felt so happy the deed was done.

He kept himself isolated in that single piece of paper for days.

No matter how long Ink waited, he never dusted away. He never witnessed himself dust away. He didn’t feel the pain of dusting away. He didn’t feel the sadness thinking he was dusting. He didn’t even think about the sadness and grief of his loved ones knowing about his death.

He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t feel pain. He couldn’t feel emotions. There was nothing left.

He stayed isolated for days, just staring at the ground with blank eyes. His arms were hugging his knees as he sat in his own area of nothingness. However, he began to hear drops. He looked up, seeing a bright color of yellow slowly falling onto him. A loud splash came from the watercolor dropping onto him.

He was stunned, looking at his now yellow covered self. The color began to pulse through his skeleton, coating it in the watery color. Yet he began to feel. He felt..happiness. Joy.

He couldn’t remember the last time he even felt something. He didn’t even think he would remember what the word was.

He eagerly watched as more and more colors dropped down upon him, craving each new emotion like it was water during a dehydration. It felt..heavenly.

(Ink Sans belongs to Comyet)

[mrjsbunny]

Late Hours

Ledger!Joker NSFW

Warnings: afab!reader, she/her reader, smut, Dom/sub dynamic, punishment, orgasm denial, impact play, choking, rough sex, oral sex, humiliation, degradation, choking, use of “good girl”, pet names like bunny, sweets, and pigeon.

HUFF. The boredom might just kill you. Waiting on J to figure out a strategy could take hours. Total silence is required. One can’t even breathe a little too loud or else J is liable to snap and break the nearest fragile object. J is also silent in this time, you suppose that makes it fair. He just needs thinking space. It would be nice if he didn’t also need your muted presence to “get the gears turning” as he puts it.

HUFF. In your wanderlust state you forgot to suppress your sighs. J noticed the first one but let it slide. When the second one came around he wasn’t keen on ignoring it again.

“Bored?” He barked rhetorically. His arms are caged in front of his chest. Tangled and taught. The fitted dress shirt he’s steadily unraveled for comfort is protesting the stretch of his muscled form beneath it. The top buttons have been separated and the cuffs have been rolled up just below his elbows. He’s definitely not in the mood for games. Your mind is at his mercy, though, it can’t help but to meander through its wildest fantasies.

You jump when he breaks his long-stood silence. Taking in his appearance as it comes to you. His eyes are smudged with remnants of makeup he had put on God knows how long ago. The white paint only clings to the edges of his face. At his jawline and temples. The signature red of his lips settled into the lines of his scarring, the only evidence it was there in the first place. He’s completely disheveled. You know him well enough to know that this is J unhinged. Not what the public sees. So curated and meticulous. Right now he’s a frenzy of ideas and feelings he’ll never address. Completely mad.

“It’s rude to stare, ya know.”

“My fault.” You shoot back blankly.

His brow twitches upwards and he shakes his head as if to shake himself to the reality that you just copped a tone with him.

“Try again, sweets.”

You weigh the outcomes of your next move. You could sheepishly apologize. Roll over in submission and bask in any affections he decides to share with you. Or…

“What’s taking you so long, J? I thought you said one and done earlier.”

His jaw clenched. Questioning his abilities was a no-no for anyone who wanted to keep their limbs or life.

“Loo-k, bunny,” he gestures to his plans in front of him and returning his attention to them, “no, really…come look.” His hand absently reaches out to receive yours. Letting your left hand lead you to your fate, you take your place next to him. Bare feet burning against the freezing floor of the storage room, the dim glow of orange street lights shine through the high windows. It’s a dark, sinister place. A burrow of sorts.

He continues pointing out bits and pieces of the floor plans and scribbles laid on the rickety desk.

“If I lead us through this way, there’s security cameras. Normally I’d just avoid them but if you’ll notice-,” he pushes two fingers to your cheek, shoving your face away from where it’s angled to look at him, “-ah, nooo blind spots.” He gives you a pointed look.

“J, you know I-,”

“Aht, hush. You know I’m responsible for these men. And whatever happens to them. They don’t die unless I tell them to. Got i-t?”

Well, now he’s just being rude. You feel defiance bubbling up rather than tamping down like usual.

“No offense, J, but I thought after all these years you’d be a bit more efficient.” Your emphasis on “all” implying his age is noteworthy was not lost on him.

“Doll..,” he trails off, tracing the outline of your relatively small hand splayed on his important work. He thinks for a moment he should really put his foot down and tell you to go wait somewhere- and sit pretty. He does need this done ASAP. Otherwise he will be improvising the whole deal and that always ends in more collateral damage. He also thinks he needs a break.

“Doll, you have no idea what you’re talking about. And I can prove that.”

“Okay.”

J flips through his notebook. A couple pages back and forth while he searches for his next task.

“Aha,” his chest rumbles against your backside where J has insisted you lean into him, “-what would my options be here?” He emphasizes his final word by pointing a calloused middle finger at a pile of chicken scratch. You stare, feigning deep thought. You have no idea what any of it means.

“Well…?” J presses. Knowing you have little to no clue what the words on the page are let alone what they could be referencing. He knows this so deeply he’s willing to risk you actually having an answer for him.

“You bring more ammo.” You say smugly. It’s a shot in the dark but hopefully a reasonable one. The accomplished feeling is fleeting as J throws his chin to the sky, cackling away. Your face turns red and your vision blurs and pricks with tears. You look away, casting your gaze to a bland gray wall to will the tightness in your chest away.

“You’re so entertaining, bunny. The perfect comic relief. Maybe I should get you a- uh, little jester costume, hm?” He grins, tucking a rogue section of hair that laid against your cheek behind your ear, “Then you can be a pain in the ass. Jester’s privilege, ya know.”

J bites back his urge to push you to the floor, bruise your knees on the dirty concrete and make you grovel. He’s torn between this urge and his curiosity. Curious to know how wound up he can get you without even hinting at sex.

“You have a lot of nerve, pigeon. Who is it that always needs help? Is it me?”

You shake your head slowly. Your gaze still glued to the wall.

“Then pray tell..how dare you?” His tone has shifted. You’ve sealed your fate on this one. He’s a runaway train and it’s headed straight for you and your cocky behavior.

“J I just wanted attention. I was bored, please, I’m sorry for questioning your plans.” You look him in the eye with your apology. You’re in for it regardless, but a saccharine apology might make him a little happier.

J leans back in the old office chair. The leather squeaking quietly while he adjusts himself casually. You’re nervous for his next move. He keeps it that way.

“Hop on my desk, bunny.” He calmly orders while collecting his work into a neat pile to the right of him. You take less than an instant to comply. You’re crawling up onto his desk before you can worry about why he asked. J watches you with his temple rested lazily against two fingers on his left, while he rolls his pointer finger in a lazy circle to silently tell you to keep it moving.

“Face me…mm.” His praise is limited to positive-sounding hums. He’s not quite ready to say you’re good. Definitely not a good girl.

J unceremoniously reaches his right hand under your slip, pulling it up just enough to peek at what’s underneath.

You’re bare.

“Ohhh what have we here, hm? Not even a little lace, huh?” J teases you while you’re fully exposed to his stare. He’s amusedly inspecting your pussy like it’s an artifact. Your blush is almost painfully hot. Averting your eyes to rest on the pile of papers and books next to the two of you to ease the embarrassment. J takes notice and follows your line of sight.

“Look at me.” He grumbles through a tensed mouth. You don’t.

J stands suddenly, completely covering you in his shadow. He grabs the side of your head by your hair, abandoning your outerwear to clap his right hand to your jaw and ear.

“LOOK at ME.” He roars, eyes blazing.

You yelp, totally unable to ignore the pang of arousal you felt now. Casting your wide eyes upwards, daring to meet his. His right hand goes back between your thighs, pushing them open as it goes.

“I needed a break anyway. I need a little release. Can my bunny come out to play?”

You shudder and nod.

“Tsk..”

“Yes sir, sorry sir.” You corrected your lack of answer.

J swallows and hums, still raking his eyes over you.

“Be good, now.” He implores, although halfheartedly. He knows as well as you do that the defiance is gone. You’re pliant.

J takes his time brushing rough digits on the most sensitive areas on you. Your lower stomach twitches when he lightly runs his pinky across it. Your legs jerk when he pinches your inner thighs. Hips bucking when he spreads his two first fingers to drag them along your outer pussy, down to the cleft of your ass.

Finally, J settles himself back in his chair and uses his left hand to spread you open, grabbing your thigh and making his thumb do the work of holding you open. He steadily, albeit gently, pushes his middle finger into your wet heat. You gasp and swallow a moan. There’s nobody around, but there’s no sense in theatrics. J isn’t really doing this for you anymore, judging by his focus.

“I clout you, you soak yourself…what sense does that make?” He grins, never taking his eyes off of your pussy. “You’re not cumming, by the way.” J states calmly.

“What?!” Nearly raising your voice to him, you protest his declaration.

“‘Whaaat??!’” J mocks. “Whaddya mean ‘what’, you’ve been nothing but a brat.” He’s moved on to two fingers and a firm hold on your hip with his left hand.

“J I said I was sorry.” You reasoned. It didn’t get you far, J stops what he’s doing and gives you the signal to get on your knees as he’s standing back up. He unbuckles his leather belt, opting to take it out of the loops and set it on the desk behind you. You’re knelt between him and the solid wood behind you (and in front of you…you suppose). He unzips and maneuvers his length out of his boxers. He uses his thumb to bob it just in front of your face, smirking lewdly and jutting his hips forward.

“Opeeeen.” J sing-songs. He’s almost giddy about what’s about to happen. You open your mouth slacking your jaw and letting your tongue loll just past your lips. His large hand held the back of your head, guiding you to his cock.

“There we goooo…” his shaft slides steadily into your waiting mouth. He doesn’t stop until your nose is crushed to his crotch and your mouth is obscenely full.

“Breeeeeathe, bunny…through your nose,” J pushes the back of your head and grinds your face into his body, shoving his cock impossibly deeper into your throat. He pulls you back by your hair, off of his dick, leaving it slick with viscous spit you produced in your struggle.

“Good girl, you know exactly what you’re supposed to do…you just need a little encouragement, huh? Yeah?” J chastises you. Poking fun at the simplicity of your dynamic. It doesn’t take anything more than a firm correction from J for you to slip into your assigned role.

J grows bored of sliding his cock over your lips. He takes a moment to look over the red blotches and spit spattered across your face before standing straight again, tucking himself back, and pulling you by your arm to stand back up. J looks around the room. You follow his eyes, hoping to catch on to his plan. Once he realizes he does not want to fuck you here he looks back down at you for a moment and suddenly reaches for your middle. You gasp in surprise but don’t refuse. J tosses you over his shoulder, adjusting you to get the right balance, and heads up some stairs towards the living space you shared.

“I’m too stressed out by that work to focus on fucking you.” J explains as he keeps a swift pace to the bedroom. You pass the kitchen area. You pass a lounge room with a tv and four goons staring intently at it. Only one takes any notice of you and J and he clearly is more concerned about J being angry than you with little to no clothing. He looks away quickly.

You reach the bedroom and he flicks on a lamp by the door. It casts a calm glow on the whole room. J leans forward to let you flop onto the bed from where you were perched on his shoulder.

“Stri-p.” J mumbles. “I can’t do anything with these rags in the way.” He gives your clothes a once over. You make your moves quick, getting the last scrap of cloth off of you. It’s odd, essentially a prey animal bearing herself fully vulnerable to her predator.

“Mmm…so soft, bunny.” J points out. His marred hands running up your splayed legs.

“J..”

“What.”

“I need you.”

Oh, and that got him going. J grumbles and unbuttons the rest of his shirt, pulling it down his arms and tossing it aside. He starts at his pants next, unzipping them and letting them fall. He kicks them and his boxers to the side with his foot.

“Breathe, pup.” J might think it’s hilarious that you forget to breathe around him. He may find it flattering. But he does need you to be conscious for this.

A deep breath in and out through your nose and you’ve relaxed a tiny bit more. J looks you in the eyes intensely. He reaches to your neck with his right hand, placing it firmly under your chin and wrapped tightly around the sides of your throat.

“Legs up.” J commands. Your legs are tucked up to your chest a moment later. Holding the back of your thighs with your hands.

J slides his cock through your wetness, watching it coat him. He sighs. He’s holding back a little. Only because he wants to enjoy this fully.

“Jaaaay…” You pout.

“Oh, shut up.” J responds, but he’s slipping himself inside your tight heat as he says it. His jaw goes slack, every ounce of frustration melted away in an instant.

“Fuck, J, you’re big.” Your brow furrowed and your breathing labored as you tried to take what he gives you. J chuckles, more than flattered.

“But you take every inch, don’t you?,” J teases, shoving two fingers into your mouth, “you let a dirty old clown fill any hole he can reach, huh.” You whimper around his digits and close your eyes, trying to push down your embarrassment.

“Let’s get the show on the road, shall we.” J removes his hand from your mouth and starts a fast pace. His hips thrusting into yours with such force you can’t keep your breath. You’re moaning as soon as he gets going. J tightens his grip on your throat, pulling your body down to meet his like you’re nothing but a toy. Your hands idle by your head, twitching, wanting to hold on to something. Anything.

J pushes you up the bed a bit, allowing himself to kneel on it as well. He shoves your thighs back to your chest and watches his cock as it goes in and out. He’s almost surprised he can fit.

“You can’t cum like this.” J probes.

“No, I can’t.” You whine back through lewd moans.

“Ah, good.”

J begins chasing his release. Knowing his punishment is secure and his reward is barreling his way has him on top of the world. You put him on top of the world. J’s hips are stuttering and wild as he thrusts his cock as deep as he can inside of you. His breaths are at the mercy of his pleasure, only coming at brief moments. He’s staring at your face, mouth hung open, brows drawn tight. You’re a wreck. There’s spit dried across your chin and cheeks. Your eyes are welled with tears. Your lips are swollen and wet. He’s totally enamored.

“Tell me about it, bunny, tell me.” J releases your neck from his grasp allowing you full range of your own voice. You let out a long drawn out yell while he continues pummeling you with his thrusts. J is laughing and smiling. He’s in his element here.

“Open your eyes, sweets.” You comply.

“J…”

“Shhhhh.” He covers your mouth with his left hand. He grips your hip with his right. His thrusts become untimed and even rougher. He’s barreling to his finish.

“Do. Not. Cu-m.” He threatens, pulling his hand away so you can speak.

“Yes, sir.” You don’t even know why you’re replying.

J looks down, not letting you fully see his face. He groans, a guttural growling moan from deep in his chest. His hips lock at his deepest point inside you. You feel his cock throb with each wave that rocks him. You hope there’s a lot to be said for this session…

“Don’t get any of that on the bed.” J switches back to his calloused self. You nod and roll to the edge of the bed so you can scurry to the bathroom. J watches you as he puts on boxers and a plain shirt. In his after glow he does something he very rarely does. He tosses you a black t shirt from his wardrobe and turns to leave the room. Before he exits the door, he turns over his shoulder to give you a final message of the night:

“Quit being a brat, I don’t have time for this when I’m working.” J admonishes. You hear the grin from where you are stood at the bathroom sink. You smile to yourself knowing damn well this is happening again very soon.

Oh god oh man first fic

[kanmom51]

This needs to stop

I really contemplated if to put these words down, but I am so angry and disappointed and sad at this point that I felt I had to vent.

Disappointed. I think that's the key word for what I am feeling right now.

I understand that people are upset/angry/enraged by the shit that followed JM's release of his first solo album Face. I understand because I am enraged as well.

I have no doubt in my mind that he was wronged.

He succeeded beyond anyone's dreams and probably kind of ruined certain dreams some of these people had of their own.

But to take that anger and to turn it on the one person that supported and supports JM beyond any of us is infuriating to me.

Turning on JK?

Because of what? A shithead called Scooter Braun, who has his own personal agenda and history shows us has zero real interest or care in the actual artists he is pushing?

Do people forget who JK is?

Do they need a reminder course here?

I guess I will have to give them one.

JK is JM's favourite person in the whole world.

And a full masterlist to show it:

JK is JM's number 1 fan and showing it to us whenever he just can, with or without the company's permission.

JK is one of the most artistic and creative people there are.

Suga about JK

And maybe read what one of the stylists working on the Seven concept had to say about JK and the concept.

JK's concept. He came ready to the table. He knew what he wanted to show, what message he wanted to send.

He was given option, other concepts, other ideas, and he chose what he chose.

JK didn't steal JM's ideas. He didn't utilize them for the lack of coming up with original ideas of his own. Don't believe me, believe JK's talent, his artistry.

JK CHOSE this. This is what he wanted us to see.

It's not about copying. It's about showing us who inspires him.

It's about showing us, not only telling us, who his catalyst is.

He CHOSE the EXACT same leather pants that JM wore.

Do you see the scribble at the bottom of the jeans?

JK CHOSE the jeans with the mud.

He CHOSE.

He did not copy or plagiarize.

He took artistic liberty to mirror JM's photoshoot to an extent.

Sending us all I'd say more than one message.

First one is what I mentioned above. JM is his inspiration.

Second is connecting himself to JM, to Face, to Like crazy.

Perhaps his way of showing us he's that person that stood by JM's side when he was struggling. The one that tread mud with him. The one that tried to wake him up, save him, but JM wasn't ready for that just yet at the time. The one that let JM embrace him while trying to escape reality.

And instead of seeing what JK is trying to tell us, his fans, Jikookers as well, are turning on him?

Making JK out to be someone that doesn't have an original idea and goes and steals JM's is disrespectful to both JK and JM, btw.

This coming from people that supposedly love and know JM and JK?

JM is a 27 strong willed young man. And evidently, JM has no issues with JK of late.

JK is a 25 yo creative artistic young man, who adores and admires and lives for JM, and would NEVER steal something from JM, never take something of JM's and pass it on as his own.

Do they not understand that JM is joking when he calls JK his copycat? Has been for years now.

Did they not see the joy and love in his eyes when JK said "I'm hyung's copycat"?

He knows that JK looks up to him.

He knows that JK is inspired by him.

He lives for that.

And to go and to make it into something ugly it's just so infuriating.

JM was wronged. We can agree on that. The COMPANY could have and should have done better.

THE COMPANY.

Not the other members.

Not JK.

I get the anger and frustration. But do we take it out on the one person that did right by JM? Do we take it out on the one person JM loves more than anything? The person that JM will stand by and support and root for to succeed? How is that loving JM?

Since when did two wrongs make a right?

Don't go around saying you won't support JK's single.

Support him all while continuing to support JM's songs.

[with-a-ghost-mr-holmes]

Fluffbruary: Day 11

Inspired by this lovely fanart I came across some days ago.

Sherlock made a grumbly noise on John's lap. John patted his head and kept on writing. He probably was tickling his back, but he wasn't going to quit doing his crossword. He was halfway done and was hopeful of finishing the darn thing for once.

Anyway, it’d been Sherlock's decision to climb onto his lap and collapse there... John didn't even want to think about what would happen when he'd need to use the loo. He was also getting peckish. Maybe the sound hadn't been Sherlock but John's own stomach? John shrugged and kept on scribbling on his makeshift table.

Tags:

@fluffbruary @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @helloliriels @peanitbear @pressurepoint221 @dubiouslynamed @yellowpamonha @ehuether @lgcgjd @gomielka @kittenmadnessandtea @chriscalledmesweetie @justnerdystuffs @missdeliadili @topsyturvy-turtely @fullyouthwerewolf @chinike @iamjustreading @effulgentcorruptedpov @strawberrywinter4 @thesilliestofallthegeese @seagoing-nerd @annaofthenorthernlights @keirgreeneyes @brightbquirky @mazaherstuff @naefelldaurk @kettykika78 @whatnext2020 @dinner--starving @under-loch-n-key

Let me know if you want to be added/removed!

And an immense THANK YOU for reblogging/leaving comments/liking my stuff. It means the world to me, and interacting with the fandom is one of my biggest joys 🥰

[shostakobitchh]

Chapter 69 sneak peek

This is a VERY VERY VERY rough draft

Miss Evans worked her jaw — the sharpness made Severus’ chest constrict again before she reached for the chalk, stalling as she wrote, slower this time. 

What if it’s me?

Severus massaged his temples, his patience wearing thin. "Miss Evans, we have been over this. There was a — unseen reaction with the potion. I will find the cause, and I will remedy it. In the meantime, you are meant to rest.”

She shook her head vehemently, auburn hair flying, and began scribbling on the chalkboard again. The words were jagged and sharp, like the expression on her face.

That doesn’t answer my question. 

Severus clenched his jaw, his black eyes boring into hers. "You are not broken." 

Miss Evans let out a huff through her nose, shaking her head again in frustration. She swiped the eraser across the board and started writing once more.

I almost died. I can't talk. I can't do magic. What else would you call it?

"Healing." Severus stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. He moved to stand before her, looming over her hunched form, putting his hands on either side of her as he leaned onto the mattress. "You are healing, Miss Evans. It is a process, not a permanent state. You need to exercise patience — patience which you seem determined to eschew in favor of petulance."

Miss Evans stared up at him, her black eyes swirling. She jabbed the chalk against the board, her hand shaking.

I don’t believe you. 

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. He could feel the heat of her magic simmering beneath her skin, begging to be released. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"You must give it time," he forced through gritted teeth. "I know patience is not your strong suit, but in this case, you have no choice."

She glared at him, a muscle ticking in her jaw. Then she shoved the chalkboard into his chest and pushed past him, stalking away and into the loo. Severus caught the board before it could clatter to the floor, his eyes following her rigid back until she disappeared through the door, slamming it shut behind her.

He looked down at her last message, the words seared into the slate.

Liar. 

Severus closed his eyes, his head falling back. He understood her frustration, her feelings of helplessness, more than she could possibly know.

Was he lying to her? Or was Severus lying to himself, thinking he could fix this, fix her? The weight of his failure pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He looked towards her closed door, imagining her on the other side, hunched over the sink, drowning in despair. He had done this to her — and now he had no idea how to undo it. 

Severus let out a shuddering breath and waited. He stared at her closed door, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. This couldn't go on. It was becoming a nightly occurrence, spurned by Pomfrey’s visits that always ended with a resigned shake of her head and Miss Evans looking crestfallen. 

After several minutes the girl returned, slipping back into the infirmary bed with her back to him. He moved to the opposite side and sat down on the edge after a while, the mattress dipping under his weight. Miss Evans didn't stir, but he knew she was awake. He could feel the tension radiating off her rigid form, could see the white-knuckled grip she had on the sheets.

Severus sat there in the darkness, listening to her shallow breaths, unsure of what to say. He was not equipped for this — for comforting a teenage girl, especially not one he had nearly killed — his own daughter. He’d always been rubbish at comfort. He’d tried very hard not to make Lily cry, and even when she’d come to him for support, it had only ever ended with her becoming more frustrated. The only person they’d ever really been able to commiserate over — that Severus had made her feel better about when he’d bothered her — had been Potter. Severus had made her laugh so hard she’d cry, a reaction that had waned over the years until it had disappeared completely. At one point, everything he’d said to her had been wrong. 

He’d made countless mistakes with their daughter. He’d made the girl cry — he’d tried hard to make her hate him — but this — this one act of something besides cold disdain and utter terror in the face of the unimaginable — of her being his — was teetering dangerously close to Severus’ breaking point. 

He needed her to understand that it was he who was flawed. She was — she was — 

"Your current state is my fault." Severus’ voice cut through the heavy silence. "I brewed the potion. I made an error that I cannot yet identify, and you are suffering the consequences."

He paused, his dark eyes fixed on her still form. She did not turn to face him. 

"Wallowing in self-pity will not change anything," he continued, his tone sharp. “But you must understand that this — this is not your fault.” 

At this, Miss Evans finally rolled over to glare at him, her obsidian eyes flashing in the dim light. She opened her mouth as if to retort, then snapped it shut again, her lips pressing into a thin, angry line.

Severus met her furious gaze, unflinching. "You cannot speak, and your heart is weak, which means your magic is unstable. You cannot risk straining yourself and risk damaging it further. These are facts, not judgments. Railing against reality will not alter it."

Miss Evans sat up abruptly, the sheets pooling around her waist and reached for the blasted chalkboard once more. 

The Patronus potion is pure Light magic. 

He looked up at Miss Evans, his black eyes hard. "Yes, it is. And your point?"

She snatched the board back, erasing the words with a furious swipe of her sleeve before scribbling again, the chalk scraping harshly against the slate.

So why did it almost kill me?

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. "I've told you, there was an unseen interaction —” 

Miss Evans slammed the chalkboard down on the bed between them, cutting him off. She jabbed a finger at her previous question, her meaning clear.

"I don't know," Severus snapped, his frustration boiling over. "Is that what you want to hear?  I — don’t — know. I've been analyzing it for days, trying to determine what went wrong, where I made a mistake, and I've found nothing. Not a single bloody thing."

Then it's not the potion. It's me.

"Don't be absurd. You are not inherently incompatible with Light magic. If anything, you have a natural affinity for it."

She shook her head vehemently, auburn hair flying.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "You are not incompatible with Light magic.” he repeated. “The very notion is ludicrous and beneath you."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand, silencing her. "No. You will let me finish. Your magical core is not tainted, or broken, or whatever other nonsense you've concocted in that overwrought mind of yours. You are a witch, and an adequate one at that. This setback does not change that fundamental truth."

Miss Evans stared at him, her obsidian eyes swirling with a maelstrom of emotions — frustration, despair, a flicker of tentative hope. She picked up the chalk with trembling fingers.

Then why can't I cast a Patronus? Even before the potion?

Severus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his dark gaze boring into hers. "Because, Miss Evans, the Patronus charm requires a depth of emotion that, quite frankly, you do not know how to wield. It has nothing to do with your magical ability and everything to do with your emotional immaturity."

Her nostrils flared. 

That’s not fair. 

"You think your suffering makes you unique?" he snapped. "That your pain gives you some special insight the rest of us mere mortals cannot possibly comprehend?"

She erased her previous message with a violent swipe.

That’s not what I mean and you know it. 

"I know you better than you know yourself," Severus sneered. "A petulant child, so wrapped up in your own misery that you cannot see beyond the end of your nose.”

She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. For a moment, hurt flashed across her sharp features before it was replaced by a mask of icy fury.

You’re a foul git. 

Severus' lip curled. "And you are an insolent brat. But by all means, continue to wallow in self-pity. It's clearly serving you so well."

She wiped the board clean with a vicious swipe of her palm and wrote again, the chalk shrieking against the slate.

You have no idea what this is like. To feel empty. Powerless. Like a part of me is MISSING.

Severus met her furious gaze evenly. "You're right. I don't know precisely what you are experiencing, but I do intimately understand what it means to feel powerless in the face of circumstances beyond your control."

She blinked rapidly, thrown off balance by his sudden shift in tone. The chalk hovered over the board for a long moment before she slowly wrote out:

How?

He looked away, jaw clenching. Memories flashed through his mind unbidden — 

Cowering before his father's raised fist, the sickening crack of bone — 

— his mother's vacant stare as she lay unmoving on the kitchen floor — 

— Lily's cold dismissal, the finality in her green eyes as she turned her back on him — 

— a windy hilltop under a starless sky — 

Severus stood abruptly, his dark robes swirling around him. He strode over to the window, resting his palms on the stone sill as he gazed out into the inky blackness of the night. The moon hung low and full, casting a sickly yellow glow over the Forest's skeletal tree line. An icy breeze whistled through the cracks in the ancient panes, raising goosebumps on his skin.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog the glass. The memories receded like a dark tide, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his chest. He could feel Miss Evans' eyes boring into his back, her unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air between them. But he would not - could not - give her the answers she sought. Those scars ran too deep, the wounds still raw and festering after all these years.

"Come here," he said finally, his voice a low rumble in the stillness.

There was a long pause, then the soft shuffling of footsteps as she crossed the room to stand beside him. Severus kept his gaze fixed on the shadowy grounds, studiously avoiding her searching eyes.

Miss Evans stood silently at his side, the chalkboard clutched to her chest. She shifted restlessly, her fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against the slate.

After a long moment, she reached up and touched his sleeve, the barest brush of fingertips against wool. Severus stiffened but did not pull away. Her hand hovered there, tentative, seeking permission. When he made no move to stop her, she slowly slid her palm down his forearm until her fingers curled around his wrist.

He looked down at her then, at the slim, pale hand resting against the black fabric. Her skin was startlingly white in the moonlight, the blue veins visible beneath the translucent surface.

She lifted the chalkboard to him. 

I’m not angry with you.

He felt the sudden urge to laugh, a bitter, broken sound that lodged in his throat. Of course she wasn't angry with him.

Severus forced himself to meet her gaze. Her obsidian eyes were luminous in the moonlight, filled with a swirling mix of emotions he couldn't begin to untangle. Despair, frustration, a desperate plea for understanding. For a fleeting moment, he saw another pair of dark eyes superimposed over hers — eyes that had once looked back at him with the same raw vulnerability, wishing to make it all — better. 

His chest constricted painfully. He tore his gaze away, fixing it once more on the night-shrouded grounds. "You should be," he said hollowly. "I am the reason you're in this state."

Miss Evans shook her head, erasing the chalkboard with quick, jerky movements. She began writing again, the chalk scratching harshly against the slate.

It was an accident. You were trying to help me.

Severus let out a sharp exhale through his nose. "My intentions are irrelevant. The outcome remains the same."

She underlined the word "accident" several times, the chalk squeaking. Then she turned the board to face him again.

I don't blame you. 

He stared at the words, his jaw clenched tight. The sincerity in them made something twist painfully in his gut. She had every right to rage at him, to curse his name and wish him a thousand painful deaths. Instead, she offered him absolution he did not deserve.

"Your forgiveness is misplaced," he ground out. "I am unworthy of it."

Miss Evans made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. She wiped the board clean with an impatient swipe of her sleeve.

It's not about worthiness. I'm telling you how I feel.

Severus finally turned to face her fully, his black eyes boring into hers. "And I'm telling you that your feelings are misguided. You are young and naive, with no concept of the magnitude of my failings."

Miss Evans glared at him, two spots of angry color appearing on her pale cheeks. She jabbed the chalk at the board.

I'm not a child. Stop treating me like one.

"Then stop behaving like one," he snapped. "Wallowing in self-pity, lashing out in petulant fits, refusing to heed the instructions of those trying to aid your recovery — these are the tantrums of a spoiled brat, not a rational adult."

Her mouth fell open in indignation, obsidian eyes flashing with hurt and fury. For a moment Severus thought she might hurl the chalkboard at his head. He braced himself for an eruption, for the board to go flying, to feel the sting of her palm against his cheek.

But it never came. Instead, she closed her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration as if wrestling some internal demon into submission. When she opened them again, the fire had dimmed, replaced by a cold, steely resolve.

She lifted the chalk to the board and wrote with slow, deliberate strokes.

I forgive you, you great git. You promised you’d let me. 

"You impossible, infuriating girl," he muttered. 

Miss Evans' lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. She tapped the board with the chalk.

You forgot brilliant and charming.

“I’d say delusional.” 

Runs in the family.

[ghosttotheparty]

a mess of holy things 8 also on ao3 // prev. // next cw: mentions/brief descriptions of childhood neglect & physical punishment

There are sheets of paper littered around Steve’s entire room. Across his desk, filling his trash can, spread over his bed, each page filled with scribbled notes, his handwriting worse and worse as the words make their way to the last lines. The pen is smudged on most of the pages, the side of his hand stained with ink.

He’s been studying for hours today, and yesterday, and the day before, writing and rewriting rough draft after rough draft for his essays, revising and revising and revising, and he’s bored out of his mind.

There are three textbooks on his desks, all of them open to different topics, marked with pencil and more smudged pen ink.

His head hurts. His hands are sore from writing, from gripping his pencils and pens so tightly. He finds himself nibbling on the cross around his neck, the chain draping from his mouth, his teeth bumping over the ridges of Jesus’s body. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t be biting it, being a family heirloom, being something holy, but his fingertips haven’t bled in a while. He hasn’t tasted any blood.

He’s got the curtains open today, letting the morning sunlight in.

The phone rings as he’s letting his head fall back, stretching his neck and closing his eyes to rest them, fingers still gripping his own tightly. He startles at the sound, and he drops his pen, reaching for the phone.

“Hello, this is Steve.”

“Hey, Stevie.”

“Hi,” Steve says, voice softening. “How’re you?”

“Uh, I’m good,” Eddie says, but he sounds unsure. Hesitant. “Uhm…”

“What’s wrong?” Steve says, lifting his head, eyes watching the tree outside his window.

“Nothing, just…” Eddie pauses, clearing his throat. “Uhm. I have to— to tell you something.”

Steve blinks.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “What is it?”

“I…” Eddie is quiet for a moment. “I’d— I’d rather tell you, uhm, in person.”

“Okay,” Steve says again. “Should I— Do you want me to go to your place?”

He’s quiet again.

“…You know that cafe near mine? With the teacup sign outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you meet me there?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Okay,” Eddie says softly, almost whispering.

“…Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says with a light laugh. “I’m okay, I just… I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Okay,” Steve says, furrowing his brows a little bit. “I’m gonna go catch the next bus.”

“Okay.”

There’s traffic on the way into town, and Steve watches the cars all pull to a stop from where he’s sitting at the back of the bus, chewing his thumbnail. His knee bounces up and down anxiously, and he does his best to ignore the way his stomach is twisting, flipping over with nerves.

Eddie sounded so off on the phone. Off in a way Steve’s never heard him before. His voice was short, almost breathy with every Uhm… and too-long pause. It sounded like he was keeping his voice steady, like it wanted to shake and waver and he wouldn’t let it.

It’s drizzling when Steve finally gets off the bus, thanking the driver quickly, and he squints even though the sun isn’t that bright anymore. He avoids stepping in the puddles on the sidewalk as he makes his way to the cafe, swerving around pedestrians that are walking too slowly.

His jacket is spotted with rain when he finally gets to the cafe, and his hand gets wet when he pushes his hair back, out of his face. It’s warm in the cafe, and the stark difference hits him the second he steps inside, exhaling with relief. He takes off his jacket as he scans the cafe, spotting Eddie on the other side of it, sitting by himself at a small table, holding a mug, looking at it. His hair is down, falling over his shoulders, over the soft knit of his black sweater.

“Hi,” Steve says as he sets his jacket over the back of the other chair. Eddie looks up at him, smiling a little bit, but it’s tight, strained, forced. “What’s going on?”

“Uh.” Eddie takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he watches Steve sit. Steve moves closer to the table, leaning over it to look at Eddie intently. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve says again, raising his eyebrows, smiling hesitantly. “You okay?”

“I’m okay, I just…”

He fidgets with the handle of his mug, flicking his thumbnail over it, making a quiet tapping sound that sounds kind of like the rain hitting the roof. He swallows, looking away, his cheeks rosy.

“Eddie,” Steve says softly, his stomach twisting. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie lets out a weak, humorless scoff, dropping his head and then shaking it.

“Sorry,” he says to his lap, holding his mug tightly.

“You don’t have to be,” Steve says gently, twisting his fingers together to stop himself from reaching out and taking Eddie’s hands. “Just… You’re worrying me, I…”

“You don’t…” Eddie shakes his head. “You don’t have to be worried, it’s just, uhm… Okay.” He takes another heavy breath, sliding his tongue over his lips as he looks away again. “Uhm. I didn’t… I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s… It’s getting too hard to just ignore, I guess.”

“Did I do something?” Steve asks, his throat tightening as nausea threatens his stomach.

“No,” Eddie says quickly, shaking his head. “No, you— you didn’t do anything, Steve, I…”

Steve.

Not Stevie. Not sweetheart.

Steve feels like he might cry.

“What is it?” he asks weakly.

“I, uhm…” Eddie lifts a hand and rubs his cheek. Looks away. Looks back at him. “I have feelings. For you.”

Steve blinks.

“Like…” Eddie pauses, looking at him, stammering for a moment. “Like— Romantic feelings.”

“Oh,” Steve says softly. Eddie looks away again, his cheeks red, and he rubs his own forehead before he pushes his hair back behind his shoulder.

“I— I know it’s just me, so I can just—”

“You like me?” Steve says weakly, and he knows he sounds like a child, like his friends in high school sounded when they gossiped about their classmates.

Eddie is quiet, looking at him, and his eyes look glassy. He swallows, nodding a little.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly.

“...Why?”

Eddie stares for a moment, and then he scoffs, smiling softly, his eyes shining brightly at Steve even though he still looks so… helpless.

“You have no idea how amazing you are,” he says quietly.

Steve’s cheeks flush with warmth, and he blinks again.

“You…” Eddie pauses, shifting in his seat, looking away, down at his coffee. “You’re brilliant. And you’re funny, and you’re creative, and you’re so… so fucking nice. Like…” He exhales, looking up at Steve again. “You’re, like, the kindest person I’ve ever met. Even though your parents are shitheads, and they— they raised you to be like them, you’ve only ever been kind to me, and I…” His voice shakes a little bit, and he cuts himself off, looking away and blinking his eyes repeatedly.

Steve’s throat tightens.

“I miss you when you’re not around,” Eddie continues after a moment, looking down again, his voice soft. “I… I like your voice. I like listening to you talk, even if you’re just complaining about your classes. And I like how you sit on the sofa like you’re trying to hide from something, like you— you make yourself as small as you can and it’s fucking adorable, and I like how you bite your pens when you think really hard, and how you scrunch your nose up when you laugh, and…”

He exhales sharply, blinking at Steve, and he looks like he’s going to cry again.

“And you’re so beautiful, Steve,” he whispers.

Steve’s eyes sting.

No one’s ever called him beautiful before. It’s never even seemed possible. But Eddie is looking at him like he’s the sun or something, like it hurts to look at him.

“You’re gorgeous,” Eddie says softly, weakly. “You’ve got these eyes that could— could make flowers bloom, and your smile’s like the fuckin’ sun, and you…” He exhales shakily, eyes flicking back and forth between Steve’s. His voice trembles when he speaks again. “You understand me. In ways that no one else ever has.”

Steve’s lip quivers.

Eddie looks away. Clears his throat.

“Sorry.” He takes another breath. “Uhm. I know it’s just me. So. If you wanna just… pretend I never said anything, that’s… I understand. Or if you… If you just don’t wanna see me, that’s— that’s fine.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Okay, uhm.” Eddie looks away, rubbing his nose and sniffling, twisting his mouth. “I’m gonna go.”

Steve’s vision blurs as he watches him stand, and Eddie’s name is stuck in his throat, but it can’t make its way out. His hands are shaking just the slightest bit, still clutching at each other under the table, and he has no idea what he feels right now, what name belongs to the feeling that’s tangled in his chest, in his stomach, but he wants to let it out.

But he can’t.

He doesn’t know how.

He watches Eddie go, silent.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there.

Staring at the table, Eddie’s words on repeat in his head.

I have feelings. For you. Like… Romantic feelings.

Steve’s never thought of himself as someone worthy of romantic feelings.

He heard rumors a few times that there were girls that liked him, but it’s never mattered. They never told him, never asked him out or anything. Not that he would have gone out with them if they had. He was raised with the belief that marriage is the only option, that everything is saved for the one.

He picks absently at one of his nails, his eyes trained on the mug Eddie left on the table. It’s almost empty.

He hadn’t meant to ask why. He knows it’s a stupid question.

He’d meant to ask how Eddie knows he likes Steve.

Which also might be a stupid question.

He doesn’t know.

But his friends never really went into detail about how they knew they had crushes. They only ever went into detail about their crushes, about their hair, their waists, their lipgloss. It was always She’s so hot. And other things Steve just pretended he didn’t hear.

And that was all he thought romance was.

His parents have never been in love. He knows that.

He’s never seen romance in movies or on television, he’s never read about it in books.

He remembers one of his friends in junior year gushing about his girlfriend, leaning back against the bleacher behind him with his eyes closed. Guys, I think I’m in love with her.

They’d all laughed. Teased him. Poked at his face and ruffled his hair.

But Steve couldn’t stop thinking about how blissful he’d seemed, and it was so wildly different from his idea of what romance was (which was what his parents had, which…) that Steve daydreamed about it. Liking someone so much it made him smile just thinking about it.

He still thought it was still… Well. Physical.

But…

I have feelings. For you. Like… Romantic feelings.

Steve’s never heard anything talk about him the way Eddie talked about him. He’s never been called beautiful, or gorgeous, or creative, or brilliant, or funny, or amazing.

And Eddie said it all so sweetly.

Like it was all real. About Steve.

And Steve believed him.

The taste of blood blossoms on Steve's tongue, and he blinks. His eyes focus, and he pulls his hand away from his mouth, huffing as he watches blood rise to the surface of his skin around his fingernail. There’s a napkin on the table next to the mug, and he reaches for it, wraps it around his finger tightly, squeezes. Watches the blood seep through the paper.

His heart hurts.

It’s never felt like this before.

His whole chest aches, like there’s an absence, like something is missing.

His fingers find the cross around his neck, twisting it and twirling it, blinking tears back as his eyes burn.

You have no idea how amazing you are.

Steve’s stomach twists, and he leans over, lets his forehead press to the cold wood of the table in front of him. His shoulders shake as he suppresses a sob, hides it from the rest of the cafe, from the eyes around him.

He doesn’t think Eddie has any idea how amazing he is.

How smart, and gentle, and sweet he is. How kind. How safe.

Steve’s hands are trembling as he grips the end of his sweater tightly. He wishes, instinctively, habitually, that he was wearing one of Eddie’s hoodies, and the thought drags through him, pulls at his muscles until they all ache.

And he misses him.

He misses him in a way he never thought was possible. He misses him so much it hurts. And he’s stuck here. Sitting at a table by himself because he can’t have Eddie’s arms around him, which is all he really wants. Eddie to hold him. To comb his hair back the way he does, to call him sweetheart.

Steve presses a hand over his chest, rubbing over his heart so hard the sweater he’s wearing slides over, scratching and folding.

His parents would kill him.

He’s thought that countless times in his life. Every time he’s missed a prayer, every time he’s skipped grace. Every time he’s gotten a bad grade, forgotten an assignment or a chore, every time his awful friends have said something blasphemous or sinful.

They’ve never killed him.

They’ve locked him in the cupboard under the stairs, in the dark. He had to start bending over in it when he was twelve, when his limbs started stretching overnight. He’s always hated it there. But they insisted it gave him space to think, with nothing to look at, nothing to touch, nothing to do. He’d curl up into a ball, the broomstick and mop handles pressing into his back, head ducked, eyes closed, to pretend the dark was just his eyelids and shadows, to pretend it wasn’t surrounding him completely.

They’ve confiscated his things, his favorite shirts, his comfortable shoes. They’ve sent him to bed without dinner, to school without breakfast. They’ve kicked him out for the night. He didn’t have a key for the front door until he got older, and when it was locked he was left on the front porch, shivering until the sun came up again.

They’ve smacked the backs of his hands with switches, with rulers, until his knuckles were bruised purple and blue. They’ve dragged him by his ear and by his hair where they want him.

For misbehaving. For forgetting.

But for this, Steve doesn’t even know what they’d do. If they’d lock him in the broom closet for a full day, if they’d withhold all three meals. If they would beat sense into him, if they’d force him to his knees in prayer until it hurts to straighten his legs. If they would cry. If they would be angry. If they would call him names. If they would kick him out for good instead of for the night.

He feels sick.

So he stands, his chair scraping back over the floor loudly, and he goes outside, pulling his jacket on. The air is cold, rushing over him as he opens the door and steps out, and his eyes burn, tears finally falling down his cheeks, leaving cold tracks in their path.

He sits on a bench facing the street. There’s melting snow on the curb, grey with soot and dirt, and the road is wet from rain. It’s still raining, but it’s so light Steve barely notices it, wiping tears away from his skin as mist is dropped on him from the sky.

He likes Eddie.

He supposes it should have been obvious sooner, but he would have had no way of knowing. Of realizing.

He wishes knowing could make something settle inside him. He wishes it could calm the storm inside his chest, that it could soothe him the way Eddie’s hands do, but it doesn’t.

He also wishes knowing Eddie likes him back, that it’s reciprocated, could make him feel better. It doesn’t.

Because what is he supposed to do?

He wants to go to Eddie. To hug him until nothing hurts anymore.

He tastes blood again. He almost lets out a weak whine, like a child, and he presses his finger to the side of his leg, watching blood stain the denim of his jeans. He raises his shoulder to wipe his cheek on his jacket. The zipper scrapes his face a little bit.

His parents used to talk about queers.

They didn’t talk about it often, but enough for Steve to know where they stand in regards to it. They taught Steve about it when he was old enough to know what sex was, when he was old enough for them to tell him his body will change, that it will tempt him, that he must not give in. They talked for far too long that night, describing God’s loving design, telling Steve that intimacy is for a married man and wife. That he mustn’t give into covetous desires.

Steve still remembers the verses they gave him that day, the ones they had him highlight in his bible in orange.

1 Peter 2:11 Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.

Matthew 15:19-20 For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false witness, slander. These are what defile a person.

Ephesians 5:3 But among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people.

And of course:

Leviticus 18:22 You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.

Though Steve supposes that, in a way, he’s already disobeyed that particular verse. He’s laid in Eddie’s arms, let Eddie hold him tenderly the way he’s supposed to hold his wife. He’s twisted their fingers together, traced the art on his skin, played with his hair. Gazed at him. Whispered to him.

Longed for him.

Steve’s skin feels like it’s on backwards. Like it’s inside out.

The rain starts coming down harder, and the world turns a blurry shade of gray. Raindrops get caught in his hair and in his eyelashes, and as people hurry past him, rushing to canopies and doorways to escape the clouds, none of them can tell that he’s crying.

He doesn’t know how he finds himself here.

Soaked in rain, starting to shiver, under God’s eye.

This church is bigger than the one his parents attend; there are rows of pews, more options for where to sit, more stones lining the floor that click quietly against the bottoms of his shoes with every step he takes. The sounds echo in the church, and it sounds for a moment like he’s completely alone, surrounded by stone walls and glass saints.

But there are a few others here, kneeling, praying, whispering to God. Steve’s eyes linger on a woman wearing a pale blue veil over her hair, kneeling at a pew with a rosary clasped between her hands. As Steve passes by her, he hears her voice, so soft he almost mistakes it for the rain hitting the roof.

He slides into an empty pew. Looks forward to the altar. There are candles flickering, sending golden light across the front of the church, making it all gleam even though it’s dark and cold and gray outside, and Steve’s eyes raise to find Jesus above it all, arms outstretched, pinned to an ornate cross. His hair is a little bit curly. It makes Steve think of Eddie.

Jesus blurs in Steve’s vision as his eyes fill with tears again, and for a moment, he feels filthy. Like he needs to leave his flesh and bones out in the rain, like he needs to bath in holy water. Like that will fix him.

He slides off the pew, falls to his knees, just like when he placed his head on Eddie’s lap and felt himself melt into the floor. But he doesn’t feel fingers running through his hair, and he doesn’t hear a quiet voice murmur sweetheart to him.

He hears the rain outside, pouring from the sky, and he hears the soles of someone’s shoes clicking against the floor. He hears someone whispering a prayer. He hears the kneeler beneath him creak under his weight.

He bows his head, rests his clasped hands on the pew in front of him. Squeezes his eyes shut when they start to sting even more, ducking his head as though to hide.

And he talks to God.

He prays silently, facing the floor, letting his tears fall to the old embroidered cushion beneath his knees. He doesn’t see the tears seep between the seams, bleeding into the threads to stay.

He remembers what it used to be like when he prayed. His head would empty except for the words he whispered to God, and in those brief moments, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything except the next word. He just spoke, and let himself drift, let himself find the peace in it, in knowing someone was listening even if he couldn’t see Him. He used to pray in the cupboard under the stairs a lot; there wasn’t anything else to do except cry, and he got tired of that, so he would find himself talking to God, telling him how tired he was of the dark, how scared he was in the enclosed space. And God listened until his parents finally opened the door again.

It was easier to pray then. Easier to find the words. Easier to feel a response.

Steve doesn’t feel anything now.

He doesn’t even really know what his prayer is for, really. He supposes he’s asking for guidance, for instruction, for something, but his prayers turn to pleas, and then he’s just begging under his breath, tears streaming down his cheeks. Please, please, please, please, please….

God doesn’t answer.

When he finally stops crying, he lets his forehead rest on his clasped hands. His hair is still wet, cold on his fingers, and the chill of his wet jacket is finally starting to reach him, but he can’t stand the idea of going back to his dorm room. Somehow that seems even more lonely than sitting here.

He sits heavily in the pew, looking back up at Jesus, and he kind of wants to hold a grudge now. How dare He hang there, within earshot? How dare He not say anything?

Steve wipes his face with his hand, sniffling. He feels like such a child. Crying in church.

“Hello.”

Steve startles, blinking and looking up.

He kind of wants to cower when his eyes meet the priest, when they find the white tab in his collar, but the priest is smiling kindly, softly.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, nodding to the space beside Steve in the pew, and Steve hesitates before shaking his head silently. The priest smiles and sits next to him. He’s quiet, looking ahead like he’s admiring the crucifix.

Steve looks at him. He’s an older man, around Steve’s father’s age, but the years show on his face instead of the way he carries himself. He doesn’t seem as tired as Richard does, or as angry, and Steve wonders what the difference between them is; they both have God, but only one seems to reap the benefits.

“What’s bothering you?” the priest asks after a few quiet moments.

And Steve can’t just say it.

That he has a crush on his best friend, on his only friend, that he has a crush on a man.

So he’s quiet instead, looking at his own hands. He’s bleeding again. He hides it with the sleeve of his jacket. Somehow it feels sinful to bleed in church. His blood isn’t holy like Jesus’s.

The priest waits for him. Unprompting and patient.

Steve’s voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“...I don’t find peace in prayer anymore.”

The priest hums, nodding, and Steve glances at him. He feels like he’s going to be in trouble, like he’s going to be pushed into the cupboard under the stairs until he can pray properly. But he doesn’t sound angry when he speaks again.

“Where do you find peace?”

Steve’s throat tightens.

He’s so tired. Exhausted.

He rolls the question over in his mind, searching and searching and searching for the place that would make his heartbeat slow, that would make his mind quiet, and his eyes burn as he sees the letters on Eddie’s fingers, as he sees the leaves and blossoms wrapped around his arm, as he sees the bat resting over his throat. Steve closes his eyes, stifling a weak sob, remembering the way he knelt by Eddie’s bed, the way it didn’t actually bother him that he couldn’t finish that prayer.

“Home,” he says finally, his voice soft and weak, and the priest looks at him. He looks sort of sad, sympathetic. Kind.

Steve’s father has never looked at him like this.

“Why don’t you go there?” he asks gently, almost whispering.

Steve looks away. Stained glass isn’t as beautiful when it’s dark out.

“Shouldn’t you be… telling me to pray harder, or something?” he says dryly. “Telling me to go to God?”

The priest laughs lightly.

“Maybe,” he says, shrugging in a way that seems almost childish. “But…” He sobers, hesitates. Looks at Steve again like he’s considering something. “You deserve peace,” he says softly. “Even if it’s not with God.”

Steve blinks.

The priest seems to notice it, the blankness, and he keeps talking, looking back up at the crucifix, his voice too casual for what he’s telling Steve, for what he’s making him feel.

“It’s okay to find peace elsewhere. And if you decide to try again, to come back…” He looks at Steve, but his face blurs. “God will still be here. He isn’t going anywhere.”

Steve’s hands are shaking, and he tightens his fingers around each other, squeezing so tightly it hurts his knuckles. He looks up at the priest after a few moments.

“Go home,” the priest says softly.

Steve nods.

The priest gives him another kind smile, and then he leaves him alone. Steve hears his shoes click on the floor as he walks away, back down the center aisle. Steve inhales deeply, slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

Steve’s jacket is soaked. His hair is dripping, and he’s cold, and he’s shaking, and the rose on the door is blurring in his vision as he knocks.

Please.

He tastes blood as he waits, biting the skin next to his nail. The stairwell is so quiet he can hear his own breathing, uneven and choppy and on the verge of panicked.

Please. Please.

He chokes on his own breath. His hands are trembling so hard his finger pulls away from his teeth.

The door swings open.

Steve’s chin quivers, and he drops his hand.

Eddie’s hair is tied back in a ponytail, loose curls falling around his face and his neck, and the collar of his shirt is stretched out, draping loosely over his collarbones. His eyes are shining, his cheeks and nose rosy, and Steve can tell he’s been crying. He wonders if Eddie can tell that he’s been crying, too.

“Hi,” Eddie breathes.

Steve’s whole body aches. It feels like it’s been months, years, since he’s seen Eddie, even though he saw him just this morning.

Eddie’s hands are bare, ringless, still holding the door open. Steve can’t tear his eyes away from him, and he’s never felt more desperate in his life, even though he doesn’t know what it is that he’s dying for.

The quiet stretches on. Steve’s eyes flick back and forth between Eddie’s like he’s trying to use telepathy, like just looking at Eddie can make him know.

Until Steve finds his voice.

“It’s not just you.”

Eddie blinks.

“…What?”

“You said— You said you know it’s just you, but it— it’s not.” Steve’s voice wavers, and he blinks tears back. “Me too.”

And Steve can see the words sink in. Eddie’s expression shifts, relaxes. His eyes widen. His lips part.

“…Oh.”

♡ permanent taglist: @estrellami-1 @theplantscientist @spectrum-spectre @carlprocastinator1000 @starman-jpg @romantiklen ♡ holy things taglist: @stevesbipanic @pearynice @ao3whore @slowandsteddie @swordsandflowercrowns @dragonmama76 @mikeys-thoughts @sofadofax @cyranyx (comment to be added/removed to/from either list!!)

♡ art of steve and eddie ♡ pinboard // playlist ♡ buy me a coffee

[misguidedasgardian]

The Lifeaters (I.5)

V. Back Home

MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: You never expecting entering Hogwarts was going to bring you… so much change 

Pairings: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader (platonic)

Warnings: Cursing, magical objects, Mugglephobia, 

Wordcount: 2.1 k

Notes: I’m cutting first year to 8 chapters only… jeje they are just babies yet and like I said, this is for setting the tone for what comes next… jeje

You were fairly smart, you were, the point is, you were truly outstanding in things that TRULY interested you, so you learned when the Slytherin Quidditch team practiced, and you would sit in the boxes no matter how early or how late, scribbling in a small diary you started to call your playbook, writing and describing all the plays, it was quite fun, even Marcus Flint and Terrence Higgs, the players noticed and waved at you

“Are you going to try out next year?”, he asked 

“Of course”, you’d answer happily

And from then on, you became some sort of cheerleader for the team, even helping them in planning plays after the Hufflepuff VS Ravenclaw match that of course you watched and made Draco watch it too.

You were happy, you felt at home in Slytherin and even in potions class

“Who can tell what would happen if I add to the concoction a rat’s tail?”, asked Snape, “Basilik?”, you swallowed hard and looked at home ide eyed

“It would cause a purple colored-explosion?”

“Are you asking me?”, he asked back, annoyed, raising one of his eyebrows. It was the longest seconds of your life, you stammered as Granger raised her hand

“no Ser, i’m saying”, you managed to mumble, and you could swear you saw a hint of a smile on his face

“Indeed”, he said quickly, “5 points for Slytherin, anyways…that is why you must be very carefully in selecting rat’s hair on the back of said rat instead…” and the class continued without a hitch, you and Draco exchanged big smiles at the points given

And the smile couldn’t be wiped out of your face for the rest of the day. No matter how much Matthew teased you, Draco was making everyone laugh telling you how the Gryffindor team was going to replace Potter with a wide-mouthed tree frog.

You always admired Draco’s sense of humor

The days were already shorter, and even started snowing, Snape’s class was in the dungeons and it got really cold down there, so you had to put on your gray jumper under your cape, but you were really happy because, you had been paired up with Theodore for a couple of classes for a special brew, and it made you giggle

Theodore Nott, your housemate, friend of Draco, he was very cute and sweet, he smiled softly at you, he had this beautiful green eyes that look a bit sad but its because they way they are shaped, you and daphne had discuss it at length 

You acted a bit dumb when you were near him, but you thought Snape had paired you both together because you could defend yourself pretty good in Potions, but he was useless in that subject, you had to carry it for four weeks, but you were happy to do so.

Now you were in the common room with Theo, you weren’t allowed in the laboratory after classes, so, the only place you could hang out and study properly, besides the library, but they didn’t let you bring potion making instruments… So here you were.

“It’s ¾”, you said softly, “not 3,4”

“Oh sorry”, he muttered, you only smiled, knowing that little error could make the potion exude a lethal smoke that would kill you both

“You still on that?”, the peace and nice atmosphere that you had created was eliminated by barely a sentence of Draco, who showed up accompanied by his own partner, Matthew

You could see Theo’s face twisting in discomfort

“We just hadn't had the time”, you said simply

“We finished days ago”, they didn’t leave, they just sat there in the leather couch next to the table that you were working on 

You finished the best you could, feeling like you were being watched, and you had to use the loo so you left them to go to the bathroom

When you came back, you heard them

“I don’t know why she keeps insisting on the potion, maybe she fancies me”, muttered Theo, “and that’s why we keep working together”, and that broke your little heart. Draco frowned at this, without noticing you

“She doesn’t fancy you”, he said, with a disgusted face, and you had never been more grateful, especially with Matthew laughed at Theo

You pretended like everything was fine, you tried to ignore Theo’s guilty face, he was embarrassed, it was him that didn’t understand potions, but he was embarrassed to say so, and then, you were relieved that Draco stayed there with you.

“So, if I make this potion wrong it can explode?”, muttered Gaunt as he read your scribbles in the parchment, “interesting”

“No it's not”, you said quickly, “many potions could explode”, you said then quickly, Mathew and Theo exchanged looks that didn’t promise anything good.

They actually made the potion explode, underneath Filch’s desk, luckily he wasn’t there but Mrs Norris’ tail caught on fire that thankfully they were able to extinguish without much damage to the poor cat.

You found it horrible

But Matthew and Theo laughed 

You loved cats, and even though her being there was a sad accident, you couldn’t shake the bad feeling of your gut.

Matthew was a bit mean, and when you remembered him bringing the pumpkin to life… before he started carving it, it brought you chills.

Professor Snape was called, and Slytherin was taken 50 points.

When you were alone with Theo, he kept being nice to you, and the last class that you needed to work together, he ripped the page of the potion off of his book, and he folded you a snowflake with magic

You felt so happy you became giddy, even though he had lied to your friends 

As the weeks went by, the floor started to become white, as the snow started to stick 

But snow would only mean one thing… that you were most excited about

Christmas

Christmas is coming!

Between classes, and making friends, days turn into weeks and even months, and you were barely realizing it, Christmas was around the corner.

Every year you spend Christmas Eve with your Aunt, and then the next day you were invited to the Manor to spend the day with the Malfoys and their friends until the evening where you attend their annual Christmas Ball, it was always breathtaking, witches and wizards in their best dress robes ni black, white or red, and the decoration and food was out of this world

And this year, according to your aunt, it was going to be no different, you had three weeks of christmas break to go home, and you were going to spend it with Draco, the Malfoys and your aunt

You packed your trunk religiously, and even Umbra hooted in her cage happily, like she knew she was going back home

None of your teachers had left any homework, unless of course Professor Snape, who had given you a list of items you could find to make potions, so you needed to fetch them from your house or garden, he assured you they were things that could be easily found, trying to prove that potions could be brewed from almost anything

Anyways

You found Blaise in the great hall, he was staying at Hogwarts for the Holidays

“My mother is spending christmas in Greece with her new husband”, he muttered sadly

“I’m sorry Blaise”

“Other people are staying, so it's fine”, you had to go, Draco, from the other side of the Hall, was waving at you to go 

The train ride back to London was very pleasant, Draco couldn’t stop boasting about his list of presents and how he was sure he was going to get everything he wanted, he asked you about what was in yours, but you only had three items… a Nimbus 3000, Quidditch riding gear of the Holyhead Harpies and a dragon

You knew you were being silly, but you always wanted a Dragon, a small one would suffice, you had seen them, miniature versions of real dragons, that you could handle. 

And you promised your aunt that you could sell your current broom, a Quicksilver 2.0, so you wouldn’t have two, you were hopeful, you had been saving from your allowance, but still, professional brooms such as those had to be purchased by an adult 

So you were now even more hopeful, but you were surprised to discover actually Matthew was going to spend Christmass in the Malfoy Manor as well

When you’d ask Draco about his family, he would answered with evasives, probably he didn’t know who he was either

But still you found it odd

You forgot about personal compartments, your group of friends had gotten so big you preferred those open ones with tables on both sides so you could all speak to each other

You had gotten accustomed to being around them all day and even nights, it was going to be a bit sad when you got home, only you, your aunt and some house-elves.

“Are you going to the ball?”, you asked Pansy who was sitting right next to you, as you were seated on the other side of the aisle with the girls

“Yes, my parents were invited”, she muttered

“Mines too”, muttered Daphne

“It will be fun”, you said with a big smile

“Why are you and Draco so close?”, asked Milicent as she leaned in and whispered to you

“We are best friends”, you said softly

“But why?”, she insisted

“We know each other since I can remember, our parents are really close”

“Do you like him?”, she teased

“No”, you answered quickly, “he is my best friend”, all girls were looking straight at you, like they were cornering you, “for real”, you insisted, and that seemed to calm them as they giggle

“I think Theo is really cute, you were so lucky to had that huge project with him”, fanned over Daphne

“I think Matthew is cute”, added Milicent, you were leaning over the table and whispering, so they wouldn’t hear

“I don’t think any of them are”, you said with a sad voice, thinking of Theo

“My mom is having my robes custom made for me”, said Daphne with a soft smile, “for the Christmass ball”

“Really? how lucky! I think we are just going to Madam Malkin”, muttered Pansy

“Lucky you because my mother loves to shop in those muggle stores in central London”, said Milicent

“Some of those stores are nice”, you offered, you really liked muggle fashion sometimes, your aunt would take you in London and you were only able to watch at the showcases, some dresses were truly astonishing

“They are muggles”, she said as that was reason enough

The trip became longer than the one that goes to Hogwarts, it that made any sense

Now that you weren’t at Hogwarts, you wanted to get home already.

“Anything from the trolley?”, asked the sweet old lady, bringing her cart full of sweets

“Uh! me! Do you have any chocolate frogs?”, you asked

“Of course dear”, she said, passing one you exchange for a couple of Sickles

“Thank you”, the boys bought thighs to, you frowned when you looked at the frog, the spell not starting yet

“I’ll do it”, said Draco from the other side, you passed the package, he opened and the frog came to life, before it could jump, he snapped one if its legs to break the spell, not it was just chocolate

He passed it back to you

“Thank you”, he ate the chocolate leg and you ate the rest

“Why?”, asked Parkinson

“I don’t like it when they move, they look too real”, you said simply, “Uh! I got Cirse! I’d always wanted her!”, you admired the ancient witch in that card

Your aunt, as always, was waiting for you

She hugged you tightly, caressing your hair softly, you had missed her 

“Let’s go home”, you greeted the Malfoys, and from afar you could see Theodore, who was being received by an old man, you guessed he was his father.

“We will see you at Christmas”, my aunt muttered, and you started walking. Meek, your house elf appeared, grabbed both your hands, as you had your things in the other hand, and he apparated you back home, as easy as that 

Tea was served for the two of you, with your favorite small sandwiches and pastries

“Now, you will tell me EVERYTHING!”, she said with a wide smile 

[agereoneshots]

Hop age regressing for the first time and confusing his Wooloo? :3

Hop sat on his back porch with a coloring book. He had let his pokemon out to let them wander within the fence. It was a nice day and Leon had bought him a new pacifier too! Hop continued to scribble in his coloring book when Wooloo came up to him.

"Wooloo!" Hop cheered, slightly muffled from his pacifier.

"Woo?" Wooloo gently nudged his arm, curious.

"'m colorin!" Hop showed Wooloo his book, specifically the wooloo he was coloring.

"Loo?" Wooloo nudged him again, this time he nudged his cheek.

"Bubby got me new paci! It's you!" Hop pointed to his paci, which was in fact wooloo themed.

"Woo." Wooloo laid down next to Hop. Hop leaned against his soft fur and went back to coloring.