#a certain English professor would be disappointed

[the-au-thor]

Little Witch | Prologue

A/N: I've been working on this for a while but i was too shy and scared to post it. Is not finished and it's supposed to be a love story. Anyway; enjoy it if you want. Remember english is not my first language and there might be mistakes, as always feedback would be very appreciated.

Summary: You and Spencer have to deal with the fact that you are tied to each other for the rest of your lifes because of certain adorable little witch— or how to co parenting without falling in love.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x female reader. [No use of y/n]

Words: 2.5 k

Trigger Warning: read it here!

⇝

Little Witch

Prologue

One thing Spencer didn't like was giving lectures at the university. Surprisingly, academic work had secretly attracted him for a long time, a desire he had set aside to join the BAU. Despite carrying a gun and working with the best minds at the bureau to catch dangerous criminals, they occasionally left fieldwork to visit prestigious universities to attract prodigies to the FBI. Initially accompanying Gideon to his talks, he occasionally attended his classes. It didn't excite him; he was awkward, sad, and socially inept. People laughed at everything about him except his jokes, which he found hilariously funny but stopped making after Derek pointed out that students weren't laughing with him but at him.

Against any logic the bureau made an unusual decision: to send him to give lectures completely alone or occasionally accompanied by a new recruit who would only be there to distribute pamphlets and make a demonstration. He decided he would hate academic work. At that moment, it seemed like an injustice to be denounced with his bad mood and certain unwillingness. However, he rediscovered teaching and the fact that, unlike years ago when he accompanied Gideon or Rossi to talks, he was now a proper professor. He was looked at with respect, and even, though it made him nervous, he caught interested glances from women and the occasional flirtatious comment that didn't go unnoticed.

"Dr. Reid?" A brunette with green eyes approached him with a smile. She had a specific type of smile. The woman took a step forward, too close to his personal space. He pressed some forensic science books against his chest, making his sweater tighten around the area. Not that he was staring. It was just too obvious. Anyway, he raised his hand and waved it in the air as a greeting. She didn't seem upset by the gesture; her smile widened even more.

"My name is Naomie, Naomie Larson, and I must say I loved your seminar. I attended last semester, and I wanted to attend the current one, but my schedule is too tight," she adjusted her hair behind her ear and blinked slowly, "I was wondering... could we share a coffee and a conversation about everything I missed?" Maybe she saw his hesitation because she twirled a strand of her hair around her index finger and tilted her head, looking at him with another one of her smiles, "coffee's on me," she added persuasively.

Spencer didn't think too much and almost instinctively shrugged.

"I'm sorry. I'm heading out. But registrations for the next seminar will be open soon, and my colleague, David Rossi, will be leading other interesting lectures. There's one about the predestination of criminal minds and behavior," he tried to cheer her up when he saw her disappointed look.

She pouted slightly, then shrugged with a half-smile, trying to recover.

"I'll follow your advice. I'm even thinking of joining the FBI. Maybe I'll visit the BAU for a tour," she let out a short laugh and shrugged, "Naomie, Naomie Larson," she repeated, picking up the coffee she from the counter and giving him one last glance under her lashes, "Don't forget, Dr. Reid."

She walked away from him with a careful movement of her legs, balancing with agility, in a way that made Spencer think she was previously prepared and designed to attract attention. He averted his gaze to the barista preparing his coffee with discomfort and waited patiently in silence, smoothing the strap of his briefcase. He wasn't foolish; he could easily recognize a pretty girl, especially if she followed normative beauty standards. But it was difficult for him to see someone and simply find them beautiful according to his own standards. There had to be something more, more than primitive need, and even if it was that, it had to be governed by a more personal and profound feeling, even if it was brief. That's why he usually didn't get stuck in relationships — besides the fact that he was terrible at the art of seduction — everything for him was more laborious, especially romance.

"Are you Spencer Reid?" another female voice interrupted his wait.

This time, however, her tone of voice was neither sweet nor deferential like Naomie, Naomie Larson's. He turned and saw a woman with her hair tied in a neat bun that kept her face clear, and he could see every detail of the pristine face adorned only with natural features; thick lashes, arched eyebrows, and pink lips with a cupid's bow pronounced that caught his attention. She had a small chin with and soft dimples that gave her a childlike air. He knew that face, but at the same time, it was totally different. The last time he had seen those eyes, even a bit lighter, they were sunken and surrounded by dark circles of insomnia and abuse. He could even say that some tired wrinkles had disappeared from her face. She looked fresh, repaired, and even more beautiful than the last time he had seen her.

He knew you wouldn't recognize him; you are the kind of person who would have forgotten many things since then.

You were beautiful. You always were, even in your worst moments, and he had met you just after hitting rock bottom. Both were a tragedy it in different ways. He had lost a battle against death, and you were losing it against life; you were broken, and at that moment, it seemed like a good idea to try to fight it together, combining the forces you had left.

He had left you on the bed, crying in a fetal position, between precarious and worn sheets that could well have been translucent. You had made muttered promises that he could barely understand because he needed to move on, and you simply didn't want to. He didn't want to leave you, not because he loved you, not because he needed you, but because you mattered; you had been important, and he didn't want you to suffer. But if he had learned anything in life that they didn't teach him a college, it's that no one can help someone who doesn't want to receive help. So he moved on with his life and made the conscious decision that you wouldn't belong to his future if you barely accepted your own past. A whole year and a little more had passed since then, and under that bridge, much water had flowed, but not enough to erase sins and mistakes.

Then he wondered if leaving you had been a mistake.

"Mela?" he asked, and then let out a short and surprised laugh, dodging the hair falling over his forehead and approached you, forgetting about the personal space tale. "It's fantastic to see you. You look... different."

You frowned, your eyebrows coming together, and he noticed the change in color. You had always kept your hair in fantasy colors, and he had never known your natural hair.

"Different?" you murmured, and even your voice was different.

"Different good," he clarified, clearing his throat without avoiding his smile. "What brings you here? Are you studying? You always said you would have loved to study art history here, right?" he asked, accepting the cup the barista had placed on the counter after serving it, again.

A wave of sadness passed through your eyes, almost clouding your irises as if it were a storm. It was almost as if that comment had sharply embedded in your flesh, and then he saw you shook, looking down and then at him.

"I'm not Mela," you whispered, and he saw you swallow hard just before speaking again, "I'm her twin sister," you introduced yourself, raising your hand, but you didn't bring it towards him, just under your nose, scratching the tip with your back as if you suffered from some allergy. You didn't say anything more, just looked at him deeply, as if you were studying him not to forget him, "You look different."

Spencer furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Wait, did we ever meet?" he asked almost with fear. He never forgot faces. He never forgot people.

You shook your head, your gaze lost. For a moment, while your body was in front of him, your mind seemed to be somewhere far away.

"No. Never," you answered, and then you rummaged in the pockets of your polo dress.

That was another thing different from Mela, and then Spencer knew why you looked so familiar but at the same time so different. It was the same face, a bit more youthful and clean. And your clothing was the complete opposite of Mela's, who loved wearing jeans and T-shirts with pop culture references. That and the old Converse were the only fashion Mela knew. You, on the other hand, had a graceful and pretty way of dressing, like the typical girl next door. You didn't stand out, but certainly, he couldn't say that you were indecent or neglected.

He had to bend down a bit to get a better look at the paper you were showing him; it was an old instant photograph almost worn out in which he and Mela were at the movies with popcorn everywhere and childish grimaces.

"Do you remember this?" you asked with a serious look, as if the question were much more meaningful, "Do you remember?"

"Yes. We went to see a silent film cycle. She hadn't seen any Charlie Chaplin movies. It was her first time," Spencer answered with a furrowed brow, feeling terribly confused.You laughed with disbelief.

"Mela didn't like movies. She hated anything she had to pay quiet attention to for a long time."

That phrase didn't escape Spencer's attention, and a sharp cold went through Spencer's back with a feeling of deadly expectation.

"Wait, she didn't like...?" he knew before even receiving a clear answer. He didn't need you to nod to know that something had happened to Mela. Something irreversible.

He didn't know how to react. He couldn't say he didn't feel sadness, but neither surprise. Someone like her was precisely a person who would be constantly in that danger unless something had changed in her life since they had taken separate paths.

"She died a few months ago," you seemed genuinely distressed saying it, and your voice lightened and broke at the end of the sentence, but with a clearing of your throat, you looked at him again, "She talked to me about you. A couple of times at least. It was hard to get any words out of her about how... how you met," you said with difficulty, "But two days ago, cleaning her things, I found this photo, and then..." you observed the moment captured in the photo and looked at him, "I tried to contact you at your job, but you're never there. They always told me to leave a message. But this isn't the kind of thing you should talk about so casually," you seemed to apologize and have a deep internal debate at the same time, "I searched for you. I had to see what..." you made another pause, looking elsewhere as if afraid to ask anything, "... Do you have time? I'd like to talk to you."

He could've said no, but he needed answers. He needed to know what happened and why you were looking for him when he had only been mentioned a couple of times and was just a face immortalized on a worn-out paper.

They sat at an isolated table, one by the window, and the daylight hit your hair and skin. Spencer saw your bare fingers and perfectly manicured nails with a pale pink tone. You were the complete opposite of Mela, always so gloomy, distant, and sad. You looked transparent, careful, and serious, but not sad, at least not the kind of sadness that constantly covered Mela's face.

"How...?" he didn't have to continue asking the question. You understood the doubt perfectly, and for a moment, you seemed to enter a trance before answering.

"At first, I thought it was an overdose: she mixed some other drugs with heroin, and that was it," you answered, unconsciously scratching the back of your hand with your nails, "But then, cleaning her things, I found a note. That's when I knew it was on purpose. Mela had been sober for more than year. It made as much sense as it didn't."

Spencer nodded in silence. What could he say that would be a comfort for the situation?

"Did anyone else know about her suicidal thoughts?"

You furrowed your brow.

"Nobody. She attended her NA meetings, and no one suspected anything. I mean, Mela was always a bit melancholic and negative, but never suicidal," you stopped abruptly, as if the sentence had hit you in the face, and blinked rapidly, trying to forcefully expel the idea from your mind. "Why did you stop seeing each other?" you asked hesitantly.

Spencer, caught off guard by that question, didn't refuse to answer. Losing your twin sister had thrown you into a whirlwind, and everything was happening too fast for his usually methodical thoughts.

"Our interests changed," he replied after a brief reflection.

You slightly furrowed your brow, dissatisfied with the answer. "Interests?"

Spencer began to feel his discomfort growing in his chest, squeezing it. He felt like a suspect being interrogated.

"Yes," he replied and started to stand up. "Listen, I really am sorry about Mela," he said sincerely, looking you in the eyes. You remained seated, watching him with sadness. "I know she wanted to recover from her addiction," he murmured gently. "And I also sorry we met under these circumstances."

You then finished furrowing your brow harshly and looked at him with controlled anger.

"So, you're leaving? You know, I hesitated a lot about coming here," you stood up just as he was turning to leave the café. "In fact, I still think it's crazy," you admitted, walking toward him with a stern look. "But I had to see you. I had to know you."

Spencer let out a dispirited laugh.

"I don't think I was that important to your sister. Honestly, I think she might have hated me. Not that she didn't have reasons."

You shook your head frantically. "She didn't hate you."

"She didn't hate me, but she didn't like me either. You said you could barely get any information about me from her."

"That's not the reason," your voice faded as you gave that response. Spencer saw your eyes fill with tears and your lips tremble softly. You took a deep breath before speaking again. "She never told me your name. I knew you existed, I mean, you had to. But I wasn't sure of anything until I saw the photo. Then I connected the dots."

Spencer saw the first tears fall through your cheeks as you looked again at that worn photo in your hands, a photo he suddenly wanted to destroy. It took him a while to string his words together, and no matter how much he thought about them, they still didn't make sense.

"What are you talking about?"

You looked up at him, shaking your head.

"She loved her. Maybe she feared you'd take her away. I mean, look at you; you could have if you wanted," you murmured, brushing your face free of the fine hairs that had come loose from your ponytail and revealed themselves on your forehead. You glanced around somewhat embarrassed, but no one in the café was paying attention. They were too focused on their own affairs.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Spencer apologized nervously. His head was starting to ache due to this strange situation. "Listen, you need to calm down. Our brains perceive loss as a physical threat. Your heart beats fast, you tremble, you sweat, and you can even lose track of time because your body is preparing to defend itself against something that's more emotional than physical."

You let out a humorless, choked laugh, looking around as if searching for the answer to something that wasn't there.

"What the hell am I doing here?" you whispered, lightly hitting your forehead with the palm of your hand. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Spencer Reid."

Spencer saw you starting to walk away, and his internal alarms began to flare with fear. He didn't want it to end like this. He knew what it felt like to lose someone and the pain that came with it. He wouldn't know, however, the pain it would mean for a person to lose their brother, especially someone with whom they shared such a special connection like you and Mela.

"Wait!" He saw you walk out of the café, then turned towards him to hear what he had to say. "Why did you come and look for me?" he asked insistently, gently grabbing your arm.

He didn't do that; he didn't touch strangers unless it was a chase, and he loosened his grip when you looked at him sternly. You pulled away from him gently, even though he noticed you were controlling yourself not to do it abruptly. You took your phone out of your bag, and as you unlocked it, you let out an annoyed huff.

"I'll tell you why," he saw your cheeks redden, and you lifted your chin while showing him a photo of you with a small, smiling girl. She had almond-shaped eyes, dimples on her cheeks, long and curly eyelashes, and platinum hair. She was happy, a cute, happy little girl. "This is Matilda. In January she'll turn one. She's Mela's daughter, and I think she's yours."

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #criminal mind #spencer reid x fem!reader

[wackus-bonkus-maximus]

Hi It is me back at it again with sentitwin telepathy au propaganda. Heres felixs live reactions to adrien and marinette not being able to kiss each other for a painful amount of days

i think you will be pleased to know this propaganda worked, my dearest moonie. upon seeing this art i immediately went into a frenzy and realized i needed to combine my ♊twin telepathy au♊ with the 🤴🏻princess and the pauper au💂🏻‍♂️ to maximize the senti-twins' suffering.

here's a bit of an excerpt from what i wrote 👀

What color was Henry IV’s white horse? Félix stared at the page before him, even more baffled by the abundance of lines beneath the exam question. Glancing around, he found no sign of confusion from the other students filling the auditorium. While some were sneaking glances at the professor stationed down by the podium, or checking the time on their phones, most were bent over the exam booklets, scribbling away as though every question on the test made perfect sense.   It was a trick. It had to be. Maybe Félix hadn’t done all the readings for this English History class, but he was certain this particular question hadn’t been on the study guide.  Gray, came Adrien’s voice through the bond.  Félix started at the sudden interruption, dropping his pen to the floor with a loud clatter. Several of his classmates turned to look at the offending noise; the professor was already glaring his way as he bent to retrieve it.  Would you stop that? Félix shot back, hunching in his seat and dropping his head so low to the paper, he could no longer see anyone else. I’m in class. Henry IV’s horse was gray, not white. Félix pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to look like he was concentrating rather than being pestered by his twin. Are you some kind of historical horse expert now? Most horses that look white are actually gray, Adrien explained with more gusto than Félix’s history professor had ever demonstrated. Their dark coat loses pigmentation over time. There are some pure white horses, but they’re a result of cross-breeding techniques that didn’t exist during the time of Henry IV.  Félix put his pen to the page, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Is that what they teach you in prince school? he asked, writing out Adrien’s answer word for word. That fancy royal education better not disappoint, Your Highness. I’m surprised you didn’t already know the answer, Felix. Adrien’s thoughts turned smug, a hint of glee slashing across the brooch on Félix’s chest. Since you always paid so much attention whenever I had lessons with Kagami.  Félix ducked his head again, face hot as he moved to the next question. Sod off.

basically what's happened is, felix and adrien were separated at birth. adrien went to go be the prince of france while felix was raised as a filthy peasant british boy. they find out they're senti-twins when felix steals the peacock miraculous 👀

it's also love square prpr so all those adrinette almost-kisses would definitely happen, and felix will DEFINITELY be making those faces as he judges his loser twin (even though felix himself is just as big a loser ❤️)

#also klsdfklefagerdf #i just love how felix is more and more annoyed in every frame #like adrinette is just trying to cope with how dumb and in love they are #and felix is just trying to live his life #AND ADRINETTE KEEP INTERRUPTING HIM #that last panel is sending me btw i canNOT #is he breaking the 4th wall or is he trying to run the other way #little does he know he will never escape the love square <3 #princess and the pauper au #twin telepathy au #ml fanfic #miraculous fanfic #wip #adrien agreste #felix graham de vanily #felix f*th*m #senti-adrien #senti-felix #princess & the pauper/twin telepathy au #king henry iv #moonieratty

[whereireid]

little harrington : eddie munson

pairing: Eddie munson x fem!harrington!reader

summary: no matter how badly you claim to hate eddie munson, you can't seem to get him out of your mind.

warnings: enemies to lovers, nsfw content, 18+ minors dni, fingering

-

Hawkins' High has always been a pain in your ass. From freshman to senior year, not once have you caught a break. Frankly, you're tired of Hawkins; tired of the small town, picket-fence life, and you can't wait to get out. It can't come soon enough, really. Graduation is just around the corner, and you have an array of scholarships you can pick from. You’re practically set for life when you decide which college you’re going to. Decisions are hard, though. And you’re not exactly sure if you want to go to college.

But you kind of have to. Because of the stupid Harrington legacy. Carrying the Harrington name is more of a curse than a blessing. From the Rich dad, the housewife mom, and the older brother who was the King of Hawkins’ High?  You don't really have a choice but to be great. If you don't go to college, what will you do? Disappoint your parents and put shame upon the Harrington name?

No way. That is not an option.

Still, it irritates you how hard you have to work for things. How standards are held so high for you and one mistake would make standards slip and ruin your 'good girl' reputation forever. You hate how some people have no standards held to them, how they can easily do whatever they want, when they want, without caring whether or not it affects other people.

Basically, you hate the guy that sits next to you in every one of your classes. Hate how much he relies on you and your notes to get through every test. Hate his long brown curls and the grin he shoots you when you slide your notes over to him. You especially hate how it makes your heart race and your knees weak when he winks at you in appreciation, thanking you softly for how wonderful you are and how the notes are the reason he'll graduate this year.

God, you hate him so much. And yet somehow you can’t stop thinking about him. Eddie Munson and his stupid little guitar necklace and unkept long, bouncy curls are all that cloud your mind, day or night.

Wednesday mornings are your least favorite day of the week. It’s the only free period you have all week - or used to have, anyway, before your English professor ‘politely’ forced you to tutor Eddie freaking Munson during it. You huff as you walk into Hawkins’ high, a scowl on your face. Steve had been busy doing some weird, fantasy saving-the-world shit with his little freshman friends, so he couldn’t drop you off at school. Your only option was walking, which was a pretty terrible decision considering that it was pissing down with rain and you lived half an hour away from Hawkins’ high. You didn’t want to walk to school, especially not that early, in that weather, but you did anyway. Because you had to. Because if you don’t tutor Eddie Munson in your ‘free’ period, your English tutor will make sure the grades you want aren’t the grades that you get. You're certain that deep down your English teacher doesn't actually give a rats ass about Eddie Munson, but just wants him to graduate already, because the dude is twenty and still at Hawkins High.

Huff and puff and I'll blow your house down, you think as you round the corner, heading towards the drama room. To your dismay, on a Wednesday morning, the drama room is the only room that's free in the entirety of Hawkins' high,. You absolutely despise the drama room - how much it reminds you of Eddie Munson and his stupid D&D club and his even stupider band Corroded Coffins. You also hate how much the drama room smells like him and his shitty Calvin Klein cologne, and you especially despise the fact that the drama room is where you are forced to spend your Wednesday mornings to help him pass his classes because he's too lazy to actually bother studying.

You suck in a breath as you walk into the drama room, clasping tightly onto a copy of Romeo and Juliet. There, Eddie Munson sits - a sly smirk on his face, sitting on his chair as though it's a throne. "Well, well, well, look whose finally showed up," Eddie announces from his chair, and you have to hold back the urge to throw your book at him. "What kept you, sweetheart? You're never usually this late for anything."

"Bad weather and I had to walk, Munson," you bite, slamming your books on the table with a thud. You feel his eyes watch your every move, and it makes you slightly nauseous at how piercing they are.

"You're a whole three minutes late," he says numbly, checking the watch on his wrist, unimpressed. "Imagine if I told Principal Higgins about your terrible punctuality."

Nostrils flaring slightly, you glare at him. God, you hate how sickly sweet he smells, and how unkept his hair is from the rain. "No more small talk, Munson," you say quietly, "I'm here to tutor you, and that's what I'm going to do."

Eddie's inquisitive personality conflicts with yours. Where you are uninterested; unbothered, Eddie is curious, and bites at you with questions. "Was big brother Harrington not able to give you a lift here today?" When you don't answer, Eddie presses on, "was he too busy working at Family Video? Or did your dad finally give the King of Hawkins' high his allowance back?"

You hate your brother's name is mentioned around you. King Steve. Basketball champion. Notorious flirt, horrific womanizer. Compared to how Steve was at Hawkins; you're nothing - not even a fly on the wall. You're dull compared to him, incredibly occupied with studying and impressing your parents. You're popular, sure, but are you really liked like he was?

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'curiosity killed the cat'?" you quip back slightly, opening your Romeo and Juliet textbook. You flicker through the pages, bored. You know how to analyse this book a thousand times over, you can recite every one of your notes simply from the depths of your brain. But you have to bring it, because somehow, Eddie Munson never remembers anything you tell him.

"I have, little Harrington,” he raises a brow, getting uncomfortably close to you. His hair tickles your face and you grimace slightly, wide eyes staring at him when he sings out, “but that isn’t how the rhyme finishes.”

You snort. “You’re wrong, Munson. The rhyme finishes there,” you snap, though unsure if it actually does. Your eyebrows are furrowed, eyes skimming the textbook in front of you. You try to focus on anything other than his close proximity, though it’s difficult.

“In all my years I’ve known you, sweetheart, I’ve never ever seen you be wrong before.” A chuckle slips pasts his lips, and he stares at you, his gaze piercing, his eyes suddenly full of interest. The look on his face makes you squirm. “It actually goes: curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.”

“Eddie,” you breathe out, pinching your nose slightly in annoyance. “I wish you studied Romeo and Juliet as much as you do rhymes; because if so we both wouldn’t have to be here.”

Eddie were his lips slightly, his gaze so incredibly heavy and intense it makes you shuffle uncomfortably. “I enjoy being here, sweetheart. ‘S my favourite day of the week.”

His words take you aback slightly, and you frown. He’s never said anything like that before - usually opting to bicker back and complain about your presence. You thought he was going to brag about how dumb you were for not knowing such a simple saying, and the fact he didn’t has honestly left you a little shocked.

—

Applying another layer of lipgloss to your lips, you stare at yourself in the mirror. Your brother is having a party and you just so happened to be invited. He didn't really have a choice but to invite you, seeing as you lived with him.  Besides, all of your friends are coming, and you need to get a particular someone out of your mind.

You feel better than you did this morning; relieved that you've got another tutoring session out of the way. There’s only fifteen more weeks until graduation - so that's only fifteen more tutoring sessions with the devil himself. On a good note, you never have to interact with Eddie Munson again after you graduate. You can just push him to the back of your mind and be done with him.

Somehow, though, you seriously doubt that you could actually do that because you can never seem to get Eddie Munson out of your mind. For the past couple of weeks, after your tutoring sessions with him, you’ve been unable to stop thinking about him. All you can think about is his stupid hair and how messy it is; how hard can it be to pick up a hairbrush? In today's tutoring session, though, he actually seemed to have bothered with his appearance; his hair was not knotty whatsoever, and his breath was so minty it made your eyes sting. He didn’t smell of weed at all; just incredibly strong cologne, and you’re almost certain it’s rubbed off on your own clothes because you kept catching whiffs of his scent when you were walking home.

You almost wonder if Eddie Munson had a date he was prepared for, but you shrug that thought to the back of your mind quickly. You don’t like how unnerved it makes you; the thought of Eddie Munson going on a date with a girl. An actual living, breathing person. And you aren’t sure why.

Steve's loud music seems to vibrate around the entire house, and you bite your lip in concentration as you begin to walk down the stairs. You're in six inch stiletto heels - something you’d never usually wear, but you want to make an impression. Sure, your big brother is known for his parties, but you’re known for your entrances.

And tonight, it’s going to be a big one.

An inappropriately short, sleek black dress hugs your curves. Your tits are almost spilling out of the top, and with each step you take down the stairs, they jiggle. If you bend forward merely an inch you’re certain to expose the black lace panties that you’re wearing. The dress is fun and so incredibly dangerous dangerous.

Also, it was  impossibly expensive. No way in hell were you ever going to be able to afford it, so you made a decision.

Good girl Harrington broke the law.

It had sat in your wardrobe for months afterwards. The thought of wearing it made guilt wash over you like a tsunami wave, but eventually that guilt eroded away, and you became desperate for a chance to wear it.

Tonight is the perfect night. When you finally make it down the stairs, your eyes latch on to your older brother, who seems to be talking to somebody. Who, you don’t know; his obnoxiously large hair is blocking their frame, and you grin to yourself as you walk over to Steve. Your body brushes against strangers, and the boys you slide past let their hands linger on you far too long, but you aren’t bothered.

Their lingering hands and wandering eyes only instils confidence in you. You’re getting closer to Steve, but it stinks of sweat and beer and you crinkle your nose in disgust. These parties that Steve throw aren’t exactly your favourite. Though he is the of Hawkins high, he’s also your big brother. You know he’s down to throw a party for any occasion, and you also know Nancy Wheeler is in the living room playing beer pong, so you want to know why Steve isn’t following her around like a love sick puppy.

“You lost without master Wheeler, Stevie?” you ask from behind him, reviling in the sigh that slips past his lips. “Just saw her in the living room playing beer pong with Byers.”

“I know. I was actually about to go see her now.” Not once does Steve turn to face you, and you narrow your eyes at his back, genuinely curious as to who he’s blocking from you. To whomever it is, Steve mutters, “Have fun with her stubborn little ass.”

When your big brother turns and starts to walk off, it’s like the air has been knocked out of your lungs.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Never, had you ever expected Eddie Munson to be standing in your kitchen. You certainly have never expected for him to be sheepishly holding a beer,  the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he looks down on you, dressed seriously well for once. There’s not a tear in his shirt or his jeans, and you glare up at him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Munson?” you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest. “Can’t give me a moments peace at school, and now you’re in my kitchen? Pretty perverted if you ask me.” You wave an accusatory finger in his face, but he just smirks in response.

“This party was open invitation, little Harrington,” Eddie grins down at you, basking in your glare. “Plus, me and Steve? Pretty good buds, actually. We’ve have more in common than you think, and he suggested that I should come.”

The thought of Eddie being anything more than a stranger to your brother makes your stomach churn slightly. “God, just shut up. What could you and Steve possibly have in common?”

Eddie stares down at you, and you hate how his eyes glisten as he listens to you speak. Like he actually understands what you’re saying and is genuinely interested in your thoughts. You hate how he wets his stupid perfect lips before he speaks, and you hate his answer to your question. “We both think that you’re super fucking annoying—”

“Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know.” You clench your jaw slightly, staring up at the metalhead in front of you. “You know what, Munson? You sure as hell have some nerve, showing up at my house, drinking my dads beer, talking to my brother. Why don’t you get your own life, you creep, instead of trying to take mine?”

You turn on your heel sharply, making your way to the stairs. Tears cloud your vision, and you know it’s stupid to cry over someone like Eddie fucking Munson. And maybe it’s not him you’re upset about. Maybe it’s the fact your own brother thinks you’re an annoying, obnoxious dweeb.

You hate everything about Eddie Munson, you decide when you finally make it to your bedroom. You hate his long, curly hair, his pretty brown eyes, and you especially hate how he always calls you “little Harrington” because you get it - you’re not Steve, and you’ll never live up to his legacy or anyone else’s who carries the Harrington name.

Your bedroom is your haven. Your safe space. It’s comfort. When you slip in there; you finally let a few tears slip, but wipe them away as quickly as possible. It’s stupid to cry over something so small, and you stumble towards your bed, kicking your heels off. Why did Eddie Munson have to show up and ruin everything?

A knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. Trying to salvage any respect that the person opposite it may have for you, you wipe the mascara which stains your cheeks aggressively, trying to make it look as though you haven’t been crying.

It doesn’t work. “Come in,” you murmur, your fingers toying with the bottom of your dress. You look at yourself in the mirror, biting your lip softly as you hear your door click open. You hope it's your brother coming to check on you - you hope he's wondering what's got you so upset just so you can tell him his dickwad friend Eddie Munson is quite literally ruining your life.

Unfortunately, though, it's not your brother. Rather, it's the nightmare of all nightmares, the devil's spawn, or in simpler terms, the person that you hate the most in this world. "You okay, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, standing in your doorway. The hallway light illuminates him, and his shadow splotches on your bedroom floor.

“Munson, why are you up here?” you breathe out, staring into your lap. “Go enjoy the party, scare some babes off, engage in a satanic ritual. Just - just leave me alone.”

“Can’t leave you alone when you’re in such a state, sweetheart.” Eddie decides to step into your room, grimacing slightly as his boots press into your carpet.  “What’s upset you so bad? Failing in a class?”

Chuckling dryly, you turn your head to face him. You know you must look awful, black mascara staining your cheeks and the underneath of your eyes, but you don’t care. It’s Eddie Munson in front of you, not Tom Cruise. “What’s upset me so bad? Maybe it’s the fact you and my brother love shit talking me, Munson.”

“Shit-talking you?” Eddie repeats, slowly edging closer to you. He drinks in your room, slightly amused with what he sees. You love the color pink - he knows that, and he sees it in the little splatters of pink colouring streaking across your room. From pink teddy bears to pink perfume bottles to the pink heels which lay slightly besides your TV cabinet, Eddie sees it - he sees you. “We don’t shit-talk you, sweetheart. You’ve minced my words real wrong.”

“Minced your words wrong? I get that you’re a dumbass, Eddie, and that analysis isn’t exactly you’re strong point, but I think it’s pretty easy to assume that if you and my brother both discuss how ‘fucking annoying’ I am, you’re shit talking me.”

The stare you shoot Eddie is blank, and your eyes narrow as he shuffles slightly closer to you. You hate how short his Dio shirt is, how the sleeves ride up so high on his arms; you hate how the flex of his biceps as he watches you talks makes your stomach flip. You hate his stupid tattoos and you especially hate how he smells so good, and the thought of him putting on aftershave to impress anyone at this stupid party of Steve’s makes you hate him even more.

“Those tutoring sessions of yours has helped out with my analysis, sweetheart,” Eddie tells you, his curls falling in front of his eyes slightly. He absolutely despises how pretty you look; how oblivious you are to his true feelings. “And we weren’t shit talking you. Honest. Swear to Satan.”

You snort slightly at his words, looking up from his lap. He holds his hands up in mock surrender and you’re suddenly hyper aware of how close he is. He’s merely a few inches away, and it’s like a lump is suddenly stuck in your throat. “Yeah?” you question, staring up at him.

“Yeah. I mean, we do sometimes talk about how annoyingly smart you are. Steve’s pretty jealous of that. But that’s it, really,” Eddie murmurs, his fingers reaching out and grazing over your face. His touch makes your heart jump slightly, and it feels like you’re suddenly struggling to breathe. “Got mascara running all down your pretty little face.”

Did Eddie Munson just call you pretty? And more importantly, why the hell is he looking in your eyes like the stars and the moon are in them?

“Pretty, really, Munson? Stop trying to worm your way into my heart and piss off.” you bite, but Eddie ignores your rough gaze, keeping his hand pressed against your face. He feels warm, and on his wrists you can smell his cologne. He floods your senses and you hate how nice it feels.

“Everybody thinks you’re pretty, little Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

You hate how intense his gaze is, how your heart is racing and how your skin lights up with goosebumps as he brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. You especially hate the upwards quirk of his lips as he speaks. “What girls? You ever seen me bicker with anyone else that isn’t you?” he asks, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. “I really do think you’re pretty.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re the prettiest girl in the world.” Eddie can’t help his eyes flicker to your lips. You look so inviting, warm, and he watches as you squirm with nerves under him.

A Munson with a Harrington? There’s no way on Earth. It’ll be just like Romeo and Juliet.

But what if, what if, what if. What if he leans in and kisses you for just a second, will the both of you be damned if he does? Eddie doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to find out.

But it seems like you do.

You hate how soft Eddie’s lips are upon impact. You hate how you had to kiss him first. You especially hate how loving and soft his lips are against yours, how his arms come down to cradle both your cheeks, how they don’t slide down to your chest.

You hate how you have to make all of the moves. You pull him on top of you, and you squeal slightly as he barely manages to avoid all of his weight falling on you. Eddie’s lips work in harmony with yours, his hands gently sliding down to your arms, rubbing soft circles on them. He smells so good and it drives you crazy, and deep down you feel bad for whatever girl he’s made an effort for, because tonight he’s not hers but he’s yours. And you kind of hate whatever girl it is, because who is special enough to get Eddie Munson’s attention? Who is more special than you?

It’s despicable how your stomach twists as Eddie’s lips part yours and he begins to plant kisses to your cheeks and then slowly to your neck. You hate the rush of heat to your core, and you hate how you whimper his name. Steve’s music is so loud in your bedroom but all you can really hear is your own heartbeat throbbing in your ears, wanting Eddie closer. You hate how good it feels when Eddie’s jeans accidentally press against your crotch, you hate how you buck your hips up into him, wanting him to touch you more.

“Desperate, huh?” he whispers against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin gently, tongue lapping at the marks he’s making with what seems like genuine care. “Pretty girl Harrington desperate for me?”

When he grins up at you, you shut your eyes; in genuine disbelief that you’re making out with Eddie Munson. And you can’t actually comprehend the fact that he feels good. “I guess you could say that,” you breathe out as his lips slide down slightly, and he splatters kisses against your collarbone.

His kisses are electric. You feel like yiur entire body is on fire when he touches you and you hate it. Of all people, of all men, why did Eddie Munson have to be the one to make you feel this way?

His kisses begin to falter. Eddie looks up at you, his hands gently toying with your dress. It’s soft and gentle, like a delicate flower; like you, and he’s suddenly all aware that this should not happen, that Eddie Munson and good girl Harrington should not hook up.

But he looks up at you for consent anyway. And when you grant it, Eddie’s fingers latch on your dress and begins to pull it off.

Your dress slides off easily, and your face burns with embarrassment as Eddie drinks you in. He’s still fully clothed, and you feel slightly insecure as he stares at you, his cheeks flushed slightly red. “Are you gonna take your shirt off or something, or are you just gonna leave me here bare?”

“Just enjoying the view,” Eddie says, but he takes his shirt off nonetheless.

He’s more athletic than you imagined. Slightly lean. Your eyes dart over the tattoos which litter his chest, but in the heat of the moment, your brain struggles to comprehend what they are.

“How far do you want to go?” he asks you, gently pressing kisses against your chest, his arms snaking under you to unclip your bra. You hate how your body shivers at the action, how good it feels when it slides off of you.

The cold air pinches at your nipples, and you whine slightly as Eddie’s hands gently begin to toy with them. He rolls and pinches the buds between his fingers perfectly, and you hate to think about who else he has done this to for him to be so good at it. “All the way,” you mumble out as his lips latch onto your breast, and your hands find their way into his hair, fingers dancing and pulling at the roots.

He sucks and nips at your bud, the pain perfect, and you hate how wet your underwear is becoming. You know he’s going to be able to physically see how good he’s making you feel, and if you’re being honest, you just want him, now.

But you’ve never had anyone before. And as Eddie trails kisses down to your thighs, his hands parting them with ease, you can’t help the rush of excitement as you imagine him inbetween your legs, coming undone.

You’ve never gotten this far with anyone. Not even your ex. But there’s something different about Eddie - the rush he gives you drives you wild. Right now, you hate how much he worships you, how his kisses gently lead up to your clothed pussy, how he places kisses on your panties, teasing. You hate how his actions make your clit throb, and by God you hate how you buck into his face.

“Eddie,” you almost growl, trying to force your crotch into your face. He’s a perfect mastermind. You worry he’s gotten you worked up for nothing, worry that he’s going to pull away and say it’s a prank because why the fuck would Eddie Munson and you hook up? “Don’t be such a tease.”

“You backchat even when I’m treating you good.” Eddie pulls your panties to the side, a low whistle passing his lips, his hot breath hitting your pussy with force. It makes you whine out slightly. “Jesus Christ, you’re so wet. Thought I was the last guy on Earth who’d ever make you feel this good, sweetheart.”

You grit your teeth together, squirming beneath him as he slides his tongue from your slit to your clit, making gentle circles around your swollen bud. “I hate how good you are at this,” you breathe out, stomach flipping as he sucks gently at your bud, your hips stuttering as he rolls his tongue up and down you.

“You hate a lot of things about me, huh, sweetheart?” Eddie’s voice vibrates against your clit, and you groan slightly when he pulls away. He’s abandoned his jeans somewhere - you didn’t even notice they were off, and you can’t help the heat rushing to your face as you stare at his crotch.

He’s so fucking big. “I hate everything about you.” Eddie’s gently slips a finger into you, and you whine out at his touch, revelling in how fast he finds your spongy spot. He grins down at you when you buck your hips, satisfied with how good he’s going to make you feel.

“You’re not gonna hate me when I’m done with you.” Eddie’s finger curl into you, slowly toying with your core, and your stomach flips as the cold metal of his rings presses against your slit. He edges another finger inside of you, the burn of his two digits setting your body alight with sparks. “Somethin’ tells me you’re gonna love me when I’m finished here, sweetheart.”

You can’t even bark back a response because his fingers begin to ruthlessly fuck you. They stretch you apart, and you can’t begin to imagine what his cocks going to be like if his fingers are this bad. Squelching sounds fill the room and you’re horrifically reminded about how wet Eddie Munson has made you, but all of your negative thoughts about him fade away when his tongue comes down to lap at your clit when he fingers you.

The tips of his fingers curl and dance at the spongy spot inside of you, his fingers uncomfortable around your walls. Tightening around him hurts so good, and as his tongue swirls around your clit, your stomach flips, your core exploding with a sensation you’ve never felt before. Eddie looks so good in between your legs - his hair is slightly messy again, and his eyes are trained on you as he pumps his digits in and out of you, seeming reviling in how you whimper and shake at his touch.

“I think I’m close.” You breathe out, scrunching your nose in frustration as his digits slow. Your whole body is on fire, your back is arching and hips are bucking into his fingers in a desperate plea to get him to start again.

“Good girl Harrington gonna cum all over my fingers, huh?” His words ooze like honey as his fingers slowly curl against your spot. It’s so gentle and it stimulates you impossibly well - the stretch of his fingers is pleasureable now, and his rings send a fluttering sensation across your pissy everytime his digits slide back into you. “I wanna go slow, make you squirm. Payback for that foul mouth of yours.”

“My mouth isn’t foul,” you grit your teeth as he fingers fuck you painfully slow, but the effect they have on you are the same nonetheless.

“Maybe not foul, but definitely very ladylike.” He shoots back.

Your legs desperately wrap around Eddie’s head, your thighs tightening on either side. You imagine crushing him for teasing you; but you genuinely don’t have the energy - it’s like his fingers are taking everything from you. Your bedroom has been taken over by the sound of Eddie’s fingers fucking your pussy, ugly slaps echoing around the room. Steve’s music has no home in your bedroom anymore, all that exists is your moans and your squelching pussy tightening around Eddie’s fingers.

And though he’s going slow, he’s bringing you close. No man has made you feel this way. Jason Carver, your ex, couldn’t navigate your pussy if he had a fucking map - he just prodded and poked, impressed with his moves and not bothering to ask if you enjoyed them. But Eddie knows his way around you - his fingers don’t stop curling and you’re core tightens, your stomach flipping, eyes squeezing shut. Your entire body is tingling, and your pussy squeezes his fingers as your legs begin to shake. “Come for me, pretty girl, you can do it,” he coos, and you hate how your body listens to him. You’ve never felt such a release - it’s like you’ve been drowning and you finally came up for air. Your moans muffle the squelching sound, the sexual noise of you squirting all over Eddie’s fingers and clothed crotch, and for once you’re grateful for Steve’s stupid music creating a barrier between your room and the outside world, because without it the whole of Hawkins high would have definitely heard you get fingered by Eddie Munson.

“Enjoyed that, huh?” Eddie asks, his breath fanning at your neck. He plants gentle kisses, and you flinch slightly as his incredibly soaked crotch pressed against the inside of your thigh. “You still hate me, Harrington?”

“Kind of. You’re still real fuckin’ stupid, Munson.” Your hand comes up to Eddie’s hair, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you gently begin to play with the roots of his hair. “But I am beginning to grow a liking towards you.”

Eddie smiles into your neck, his body relaxed against yours.  Your heart is racing against your chest, trying to figure out how he makes you feel this way. How no matter how hard you try, you can’t get him out of your head. And how somehow, Eddie freaking Munson has wormed his way into both your bedroom and your heart.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #stranger things fic #stranger things vol 4 #joseph quinn

[sallow-gaunt]

Angrboða Lestrange (OC)

For anyone curious, Angrboða is my Hogwarts Legacy OC for the purpose of this playthrough!

Etymology: Angrboða is the name of a jötunn in Norse mythology. In Norse legend, she is the mate of Loki and the "mother of monsters"; Fenrir the wolf, the Midgard serpent Jörmungandr, and the ruler of the dead Hel. The Old Norse name Angrboða has been translated as 'the one who brings grief', 'she-who-offers-sorrow', or 'harm-bidder'. The first element is related to the English word "anger", but means "sorrow" or "regret" in Old Norse. The second element "boða" is cognate with the English word bode as in "this does not bode well". Angrboða is also the name of one of Saturn's moons.

Nicknames: Bodhi, Boda

Birthdate: 13th January 1875

Blood-Status: Pure-Blood

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Biography

Angrboða was born in 1875 to the wealthy Lestrange family, an ancient and wealthy pure-blood family that originated in France but has branches in Great Britain. Her parents were Corvus (III) and Eglantine Lestrange, and she had an older brother who was eight years older than her who was named after their father, Corvus (IV).

As a child, Angrboða didn’t seem to show any signs of magical power, much to the disgust of her parents who despised the idea that their daughter was a Squib; the only reason they didn’t rid themselves of her is because of the Lestrange family motto, “Corvus oculum corvi non eruit” - “a crow will not pull out the eye of another crow”, representing how members of the family will not turn their backs on each other. Still, the shame of having what they thought was a Squib for a daughter made them try to hide her away, and many people - including many of their own family - didn’t even know that they had a daughter. As a result, Angrboða was not included on the Lestrange family tree that would later be found by her niece, Corvus’ daughter Leta, at the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise in Paris in 1927.

Growing up, Angrboða tried hard to show her family that she wasn’t useless - that even if she didn’t have magical abilities, she would still worth something to them. It was to no avail, of course; her family despised muggles, muggle-borns and Squibs, and the fact she didn’t appear to have any abilities meant she was completely loathsome to them. Over time, Angrboða developed a love of reading and writing, pastimes that she spent hours doing when locked away in her room or trying to hide from her brother, who quickly developed a penchant for practicing certain spells on her - he never did it in front of their parents, but she knew that they were aware and simply chose to turn a blind eye to it.

Angrboða’s magical abilities only began to show when she was fifteen, and she was both surprised and overjoyed to learn that she was not a Squib after all - she had thought that perhaps her parents might then care for her, that her brother might apologise for bullying and mocking her all those years… but the damage was already done. Of course her parents weren’t going to forbid her from attending Hogwarts, of course she would attend now, but they made it clear that it changed nothing: she would always be a disappointment to them, and nothing she did would ever change that. Still, a small part of her hoped that they might change their minds if she proved herself to them, if she showed them how good a witch she could be.

Other Things

Boggart: Spiders (she's about to have a REALLY bad year)

Wand: Dogwood with Dragon Heartstring, 13 inches and pliant

Favourite Class(es): Care of Magical Creatures, Defence Against the Dark Arts

Least Favourite Class(es): Divination (sorry Professor Onai!), History of Magic (but only because it's delivered in such a dry and dull way - she might like it if it was delivered in a better way)

Favourite Magical Creatures: NIFFLERS. They're little thieves and she adores the absolute fucking shit out of them. She loves all magical creatures except Acromantulas fuck those assholes and if she could, she'd totally try to put a dragon in one of her vivariums.

#will maybe post later about some shippy stuff but for now here’s some info about my MC #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy mc #angrboða lestrange (mc) #slytherin #shadow trio #still haven't decided if she's gonna date seb or ominis or both lol #angrboða lestrange #yes her brother is Leta’s father

[renee-writer]

The Diary Part 2

A/N This continues @ladymeraud and I's previous work, The Diary. It is a one shot in the same universe. Enjoy.

AO3

Dr. Frank Randall loathes Scotland. It is where his ex girlfriend lives with her husband. Both are successful, damn their eyes! She runs a small hospital and he a quite successful wine and whisky company. Yet, he finds himself entering the University of Glasgow. He knows universities, having a Professorship at Harvard though without tenure. This nags at him as he enters the lecture he was searching for, book in hand.

 

A Dr. A. Reed was teaching. He isn’t sure if he is searching for a man or woman, as the book has no author’s photo. He just knows he needs to speak to this A. Reed. He has some questions. So thinking, he slips into the back row.

 

She is an older woman, he discovers. She wears jeans, a large tie-dyed t-shirt, and doc martin boots. Her long grey hair is in a ponytail.

 

“Okay everyone. This is the last class before yule and Hogmanay. You have your folders for next year when we will start the study of South America and Africa. Now would Master William and Mistress Amber please come up to the lectern.” The two walk up. Frank notes that William has red hair like his nemesis, Jamie, his Claire’s husband. His eyes narrow as Dr. A Reed continues, “Master William and Mistress Amber have the highest GPA this quarter. I am proud of them and all of you, as you all have A’s. Well done, the lot of you!” The class applauds itself and it’s star students. Frank just rolls his eyes. On the lectern, she hands William and Amber bags of things they will enjoy.

 

Everyone stands to leave. William says to his professor, “You are coming to Lallybroch for Hogmanay, aren’t you. My brother will be very disappointed if you don’t . He and Claire are looking forward to you being there.”

 

“You may tell them that I will be there and to ring me if I need to bring anything.” He nods and walks away as Frank approaches. “Hello, I saw you enter my class but I don’t think I know you.”

 

“Professor Frank Randall, of Harvard.” Arrogance drips from every word. Dr. Reed forces herself not to roll her eyes.

 

“Dr. A. Reed. How may I help you Mr. Randall?” No master honorific for him.

 

He holds up her book. “You write about the atrocities that you say the British committed against the Scots. Do you really believe this?” He refrains from showing his disgust by spitting on the floor  “What prove have you?”

 

“Mr. Randall, a relative of a certain lieutenant, I presume?” She raises her eyebrows and he nods, curtly, “Follow me. I will show you several diaries that prove it.”

 

She opens a door in the back and leads him down a small hall and into her office. It is bright and cheery. The walls are lined with bookcases. Several contain binders. Off her desk, to the side of it, is a white box. It is hermetically sealed, with twelve books in it.

 

“That one,” she catches his glance of it, “I can’t open. The books inside are over three hundred years old. Their contents, however, are in these binders. She pulls a few down and offers him a seat across from her. “You said you needed prove, Mr. Randall and here it is.” She opens the first page. It is a photocopy of the front of a diary, showing it belonged to Jonathan Wolverton Randall, aka, Black Jack, of his Majesty’s  Light Dragoons. “In his own words.” She turns a few pages and finds what she is looking for. Without preamble, she starts reading.

 

“The woman slapped me! She is English but married to a Barbaric Scot. I will have fun with her. I have Jamie in my hands. I was going to hang him but I think I will have some fun with him first, then hang what is left of him. That witch of a wife has taken my prize. I will find him!” She closes it. “It goes on and on. I have copies of Jamie and Claire ‘s diaries, from the same time period, that authentic what is in this one. I do my research Mr. Randall. Oh, several of the men working under him found that they enjoyed his brand of governance. I have their writings as well.”

 

“May I have copies of these? I have some questions about my family that I believe they will answer.” He is quite a bit humbler now.

 

She nods. “I will make you some copies.”

 

He left Glasgow with the copies in his bag. Entering his hotel, he orders dinner and some gin. It will be a long night.

 

Reading them through, he discovers that he is a relative of Black Jack’s and that Jamie Fraser lived in France and was only in Scotland by chance. He knows, as he boards his plane back to Harvard, that he will need to look into the history of the English and Scot’s in a different way.

#my writing #outlander fanfic #ladymeraud and i's latest #the diary part 2 #one shot #jamie and claire #cannon divergence #outlander fandom #modern au

[xtruss]

World's Sexiest Accent Revealed: It’s European (And The French Won’t Be Happy)! Merde alors! French Has Been Dethroned As The World’s Sexiest Accent.

— By David Mouriquand | Thursday February 8, 2024

What is the accent you’re most attracted to?

A gorgeous Irish lilt?

A rakish Spanish inflexion?

The King’s English, perhaps?

Well, according to language learning platform Babbel, it’s official: French is no longer the world's sexiest accent.

That bold statement will come as a disappointment to many, especially since Babbel previously polled more than 15,000 people in 2017, a group who named French the “sexiest accent”.

So, who has dethroned la belle langue française?

Well, 6,000 people from the UK, France, Spain, Italy and Germany, as well as the US, were asked to rate which languages are perceived as “most sexy,” “most romantic” and “most passionate.”

The findings stated that Italian was perceived by most to be “most sexy” and the “most romantic” by the highest number of people involved in the study.

“There are certain characteristics of Italian that may contribute to its appeal,” Babbel language teacher Noël Wolf explained to UK newspaper Daily Mail.

“The rise and fall of pitch in spoken Italian can create a musical quality, which some people find alluring and attractive," said Wolf. "Certain phonetic features, such as the rolling of ‘r’ sounds, can be distinctive in Italian, which to many is regarded as charming or attractive.”

British English was found to be the “most polite”, while German won the top spot for “most direct” language.

Clearly no expectations were subverted there.

The survey also looked at attitudes towards partners speaking different languages.

According to the survey, more than 70% of Brits polled reported that if their romantic partner had a different native language to themselves, learning the language would help foster a stronger emotional connection between them.

In 2017, linguist Patti Adank, a professor of speech perception and production at University College London noted that “English speakers are drawn to the melody of a language such as French or Italian.”

Other linguists and psychologists have frequently referred to social and cultural associations with accents being a pull factor in these kind of surveys. But, however you want to rationalise it, the results are in and France are going to have to deal with it.

Amor vecchio non fa ruggine, bella Italia. No grudges here.

You win this round.

#Language Science | Languages | France 🇫🇷 | Italy 🇮🇹 | Sexy #Foreign Language

[ptergwen]

I think your requests are open (I didn’t see anything that said otherwise but I suck at this app lol) but I was wondering if you could write a peter x reader (likely college-age) where they have an academic rivalry and just tease each other a lot and lots of fluff and shit? It can be an established relationship or like a friends/rivals to lovers or really whatever you want. Sorry if this is super specific! Anyways, I love your writing, it always cheers me up :)

friends close, enemies closer

ik this is cherry BUT i had to

w/c: 1.6k

warnings: swearing and hints of suggestiveness

a/n: thank you my love ! i’m actually obsessed with this concept so i’m super super happy with how it came out n i hope you are too :,)

-

you wipe sweat from your upper lip, peeking at peter’s laptop screen. he’s more than halfway through the paper your english professor tasked your class to write. he looks to have not a worry in the world as he continues to type away. growling at this, you dive right back into work.

you’ve been at each other’s throats since the beginning of classes when you both wanted the same spot. first row, middle seat. peter had officially claimed it in the end. you’d flopped down next to him and his irritating smirk.

the dude is smart, you’ll give him that. his knowledge of literature is almost as impressive as yours. almost. he raises his hand any chance he gets, effectively stealing your thunder if you dare to participate.

peter is also a bit of a people pleaser. he’ll chat up your professor at office hours, fascinate her with his hot takes on things or stupid anecdotes. you often get so annoyed that you bail before you even attempt to woo her yourself. the sight of you storming off is something peter thoroughly enjoys.

bottom line is, golden boy peter parker never loses. underneath the sweet, innocent persona he hides behind is a ruthless fighter. you’re determined to end his winning streak, thus sparking your ongoing competition to be better than the other in every way possible.

this time, your goal is to meet your ten page paper requirements the fastest. they aren’t due for weeks, but you and peter are banging them out in one sitting.

you’re hauled up in the campus library, sat side by side despite your wishes for peter to get his own table. he’d insisted on sharing with you. why, you haven’t a clue. you can’t stand him, and he isn’t the fondest of you either.

that’s what you tell yourselves, at least.

“progress report?” peter requests from you. “page three. you?” you grunt back. he props his feet up on the table, arms flexed behind his head. “finishing up page seven. you already knew that, though... creeper.”

god, you can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

you glance over at peter, doing your best to ignore how his biceps bulge under his hoodie. nerdy little parker is ripped.

“worry about yours, i’ll worry about mine. thanks.” you reread the sentence you wrote prior to peter’s chiseled body distracting you. “oh, the irony,” he sighs and nudges the edge of your laptop with his sneaker. scowling, you shift the screen away from him.

about a minute of silence goes by until it’s unfortunately filled by peter. he stretches his arms out, finally removing his dirty shoes from the table.

“i’m gonna take five. maybe, you could use it as an opportunity to catch up to me,” peter cockily suggests. “spare me your charity, peter. i’m doing just fine without it,” you retort, letting out a scoff. peter raises his hands in defense. “if you say so, princess.”

here you were, naively thinking peter couldn’t become any more insufferable than he already is.

you slam your laptop shut and jab a finger at his chest. “jesus christ, how many times do i have to ask you not to call me that?” a patronizing pout adorns peter’s lips. “aw, i love it when you get all bossy on me. so cute.”

he grabs your hand still on his chest, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. you’re quick to wipe it off on his hoodie. nevertheless, there’s an undeniable heat rushing to your cheeks.

“well, i hate it when you call me princess,” you deadpan. peter tilts his head to the side. “do you?”

of course not. deep down, you live for the fuzzy feeling you get whenever the nickname slips from his tongue. oh, his tongue and the things it can do. poking out as he focuses hard on a question, running across his pink lips…

you have to reel it in. this is peter parker you’re fantasizing about, your mortal enemy.

“yes. i hate it, and i hate you,” you unsuccessfully convince the both of you. “no, you don’t,” peter rasps, darkened eyes scanning over your features. his stare is intense and intimidating. he grasps your chin between his thumb and index finger, slowly leaning in closer.

he’s not going to stop until you make him. you don’t want to, but you will.

you shove his shoulder, dragging your laptop towards you again. “on second thought, i could use that catch up. you’re not gonna throw me off my game, parker.”

your rejection seems to disappoint peter. his expression matches that of a kicked puppy, brows furrowed and arms crossed over his chest.

“we’ll see,” he murmurs and swings a leg over his chair. “alright, i’m gonna run to the caf. you want anything?”

he’s offering to buy you food now? what’s his angle here?

“i’d say yes, but i’m afraid you’ll poison it somehow,” you half joke. peter hops to his feet. “don’t give me any ideas,” he warns, snatching his backpack off the floor. “i’ll just surprise you.”

although you’re curious what his mystery snack choice for you would be, you can’t accept. you’d be going against your entire dynamic.

would that be so terrible?

absolutely.

you wave him off towards the double doors. “i’m good, peter. really. i’m not that hungry, anyway.” shaking his head, peter throws a backpack strap onto one shoulder. “y/n, your stomach’s been grumbling for the last hour. you gotta eat.”

he’s not wrong. you’re starving, but you’ve been too preoccupied by your essay to break for dinner.

“fine, surprise me,” you concede. peter flashes you a smile, this one void of its usual condescendence. “i’ll be back. try not to miss me too much,” he calls as he walks backwards to the library doors. “i won’t. shoo already,” you dismiss him, a laugh falling from your lips.

peter winks at you, then disappears into the night. you’re left with a serious case of butterflies and a certain freckle faced know-it-all on your mind.

that’s a problem.

you’ve managed to get another page done when peter reappears. he sits back down and slides a bag across the table, you closing your laptop. you dig into it to figure out what he picked for you. you’re not too pleased with his selection, however.

“oh, yummy. vomit in a cup,” you announce as you hold a green smoothie in your hand. peter reaches over and pats your thigh. “it’s good for you. drink up, princess.” you slap him away. “hard pass. i’d rather you have gotten me nothing.”

narrowing his eyes, peter pulls two cookies wrapped in a napkin from his pocket. “i’m guessing you don’t want these either? more for me, then.”

they’re chocolate chip and m&m, your favorite in the cafeteria. they just came out of the oven, so they’re still warm.

“how… how did you know i…” you trail off, peter setting the cookies in front of you. he offers you a lopsided grin. “i know a lot about you, believe it or not. i pay attention.” you surprise yourself by returning his smile. “thank you, peter. how much do i owe you?”

“nah, it’s on me,” peter assures you. “enjoy.” pushing aside your unappealing drink, you seize the cookies instead. “you have to eat, too. let me at least split these with you.” there’s a beat before peter nods. “fair enough.”

that results in you two munching on your cookies while pretending to write your papers. you’re sneaking glances at each other whenever the other isn’t looking, in reality.

once it’s about time for the library to close, you’re on the verge of passing out. peter is concluding his essay until he hears a thump from your side of the table.

he finds you with your cheek smushed against your keyboard and hitting random letters, snores escaping you.

chuckling to himself, peter places a hand on your shoulder. “hey, y/n?” he speaks in a hushed tone. you awake with a gasp, drool pooling at the corners of your mouth. “easy there, princess. it’s only me.” he rubs circles on your back, and it’s oddly comforting.

“keep doing that,” you purr, momentarily forgetting how much you’re supposed to despise peter. he lets his fingers dance across the exposed skin of your lower back. “we should probably head out. it’s kinda late,” peter decides.

you sit up, bones aching and eyes forced open. “not yet. have to beat you first.” you start to delete the gibberish you accidentally typed. peter cups your cheek to turn your head towards him, your movements halting. “this one’s a tie. you did good, y/n/n,” he coos. “finish the rest another day.”

“why’re you being so nice to me?” you nearly whisper. peter uses his thumb to swipe the drool from your lips. “‘cuz i care about you. i might not show it, but i do,” he admits with the hint of a smile. “besides, i need you… for the, uh, the healthy competition.”

laughing softly, you twist his hoodie strings around your fingers and tug. “your intentions are pure as always. sure that’s all you need me for?” peter’s gaze darts to your lips, then your eyes. “we’ll see,” he repeats.

rivalry be damned.

“mm. i care about you too, parker. thanks again for tonight,” you hum. a blush coats peter’s cheeks, even in the dim library lighting. his sweet and innocent side might truly exist. “no problem.” peter links your pinkie with his, the gesture giving you that fuzzy feeling. “i’ll walk you back to your dorm?”

you lean over and kiss his pinkie intertwined in yours.

“lead the way.”

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker au #peter parker smut #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland smut #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction

[brywrites]

Lock and Key I

Summary: In which Spencer Reid stumbles upon a GED class at Millburn and feels something like hope for the first time in weeks.

[Series Masterlist]

....

The prison library is a haven, for the few minutes he’s allowed to visit twice a week. It’s quiet, secluded, and full of his favorite things – books. The selection is nowhere near as nice as his personal collection at home, or the public library, but it’s better than nothing. Without words, he’d go mad. He needs stories to keep him sane, to give him a route he can escape by.

Today though, he’s startled to walk into the small space and find twelve other prisoners inside – accompanied by a face he’s never seen before. A woman. What’s even more surprising is that she doesn’t wear the uniform of a guard or an employee. Instead she’s in Converse sneakers and a lavender polka-dotted dress. It’s been so long since he saw that color – any bright color, really. But it’s his favorite and it isn’t until that moment that the realizes how much he’s missed the simplest of things. The sight of his favorite color. Bright images in dull spaces. Things that look hopeful.

Reid isn’t sure what’s going on, but the other prisoners seem to be too absorbed in the books to notice him. Just as he’s thinking he can back away quietly and return tomorrow, she turns around, smiling at the sight of him.

“Well hello there!” she says. “Are you Luis?”

Reid tilts his head, confused. How does this stranger know his friend? “Uh, no, no I’m not. I’m sorry, who are you?”

Her smile drops, though she doesn’t seem annoyed. Merely disappointed. “Oh. They told me Luis would be joining us today, but he never showed up. I’m Y/N. I’m one of the teachers here.”

This is the first he’s heard of such a thing. “You teach?”

She nods. “That’s right! I teach a couple of different groups – a few college classes here and there, a resume workshop. This is my GED class. We’re starting a unit on British Literature so they’ve all come to pick out a novel. You must be new here,” she notes, looking him over. He can feel himself flush under her gaze. It’s been a while since someone looked at him just to see him and not to evaluate his potential as a threat or a tool. “If you’d like, you can join the class. I’ve got plenty of open seats.”

“Oh no, I don’t need a GED.”

“It’s never too late to graduate,” she says. Then, considering him, “But that’s not what you meant is it?”

The way she’s studying him makes him nervous, though he’s certain it’s the same way he’s studied suspects and victims, trying to see beyond the obvious and understand what lies beneath. How strange, to be on the other side of that stare. “I’ve graduated high school already,” he informs her, hoping he doesn’t sound aloof. “And college. Actually, I hold three PhDs.”

“In what?”

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering.”

Y/N holds his gaze, taking this in. It’s as though she’s trying to decide whether or not to believe him. He figures in this environment, perhaps it’s not unusual to be told blatant lies by some prisoners. Delusion and paranoia aren’t uncommon. To teach in a place like this, she would have to be insightful and observant. For whatever reason, she must decide to trust him, because she smiles again.

“Well that’s rather impressive. You’re more qualified than I am. Just a Master’s for me.”

Reid decides against commenting in the irony of the situation, that despite his qualifications he’s nothing but a prisoner here. The same category as every drug-dealer, murderer, petty thief, and gangbanger. No better. But the way she looks at him, it at least makes him feel normal again. She looks at him like he’s a human being, with no disdain or disgust in her gaze, and no air of superiority in her voice.

“What did you study?” he asks her.

“English literature in college, education in grad school. I specialized in literature and languages, though I’m not too shabby when it comes to history. If it’s the STEM field you’ll be wanting though, you’ll have to check in on Tuesdays and Thursdays, my colleague teaches those classes.”

Glancing down at her watch, her eyes widen. “Goodness, we’re almost out of time.” She turns to the other inmates and instructs them to make their choices before she has to dismiss class for the day. To him, she adds, “It was nice to meet you – um…”

“Doct-” he begins, before stopping himself. This isn’t a normal introduction. Here, he holds no title, no position of importance. “Er, Spencer. My name is Spencer.”

“Well, Doc –” He tries not to smile at her casual acknowledgment – “if you ever change your mind, we meet Mondays and Wednesdays in room W15 during the afternoon rec slot.”

Despite having no need to attend a GED class, and for reasons he cannot quite explain, he finds himself slipping into that very room on Wednesday afternoon. Y/N glances up from the whiteboard she writes on, faltering for only a brief moment when she catches sight of him slipping into an empty seat in the back row, but she carries on. They’re talking about common themes in Brit Lit, and she’s explaining the Canterbury Tales, which they’ll be reading parts of. From what Reid gathers, there aren’t enough copies of books for them to all read the same novel, but she’s printed out large sections of the Tales for them to read together. It’s familiar, and for someone whose life has largely revolved in academia, it’s soothing to be in an environment where learning is taking place and discussion is happening. Even though he sits silently in the back row, observing.

The other inmates have all picked out books to read on their own and report on, from King Lear to Brave New World. A few have even selected Bronte and Austen novels, which Y/N applauds them for. When she divides them into groups to read and discuss “The Knight’s Tale,” she slips over to join Reid in the back of the room.

“I didn’t think you’d make it, Doc,” she tells him.

He shrugs. “I – I’ve kind of missed the classroom. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to sit in. If you don’t mind, of course!”

“Not at all.” She smiles, dismissing his worry with a wave of her hand. “The more the merrier. Besides, it’s rare that I have students with such an extensive education beforehand.  You’ll need to file an enrollment slip though, just for official records.”

She hands him a piece of paper and a commissary pen. While he doesn’t need the credit, he could use the normalcy. Discussions about books with other people in a space that feels a little safer – even if it doesn’t look like the classrooms he’s used to. The walls are stark white and bare save for three posters of famous writers and scientists. The two windows have thick bars on them. The desks are bolted to the floor. Every man in the room wears prison issued blues. But there is a whiteboard and a bookshelf and a clock. And Y/N, in a bright blue turtleneck. It makes him think of the sky, which he only gets a glimpse of for a few hours each week. Suddenly, she’s become the most vivid connection to the outside world.

“How long have you been teaching here?” he asks as he writes down answers to the form’s printed questions.

“Almost three years now. It started with just GED classes, but some volunteer programs have helped us bring new opportunities to the guys. It took me a while to convince the warden, but they’ve been a huge success. So are you coming from another facility? I know we had some transfers last week.”

He shakes his head. “I uh, I haven’t been sentenced yet. But there was overcrowding at the jail so they sent me here.” Reid pauses. “I assumed you would’ve known that.” The inmate records are publicly available. All she’d have to do is search his name or the number on his clothing and everything she needed to know would be right there – his charges, his admission date, his identifying information and that ID photo from his first day.

But she just shrugs. “I make a point not to look up what my students have been convicted of. I let them volunteer that information if they choose to, but I respect their privacy. Besides, I’d like to believe all of us are more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

He’s struck by her words. After all, for the last decade his job has been to see people precisely as the worst thing they’ve ever done. To delve deep into those actions and develop a profile of a person on that alone. He has an impulse to dismiss her statement as naïve, but it reminds him of Garcia, of her boundless optimism and her ability to see the best in the world even after looking at the worst of it. That memory and the smile Y/N looks at him with softens the heart he’s been carefully hardening since he arrived here. And so rather than dampen her spirit he asks, “Does it matter if I’ve read all of the books you’re discussing already?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly with surprise. “All of them?”

“My mother was a literature professor,” he says. “And I just really like books.”

“Well, typically I’d encourage you to take the courses we offer for college credit but they’re full. Since you already have your GED, I suppose we could treat it like you’re auditing. It might help some of the guys to have someone with a little more academic experience…” She trails off and then gasps. “Oh wait! How would you feel about being the TA for the class? It’s been so long since I had one for the GED classes.”

“Like… grade papers and things?”

“No, not like that,” she says. “There are strict rules about who sees what here. Being a TA for me would be less typical TA duties and more of mentoring the other students, helping me clean up after class, re-shelving books, things like that. It’s not an official job so there’s no pay, but you would get good time credit.”

Though he doesn’t know what his sentence here will be, if he’s sentenced at all, he knows that any good time credit he can obtain to reduce the length of it is worth it. And so he says, “Okay.”

Y/N’s eyes light up. Her smile is the prettiest thing he’s seen since he got here. “Perfect! Oh, this is so exciting. I’m glad you joined us.” When he finishes the paperwork, she leads him to an empty seat at a group of tables.

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, Porkchop. It’s a love story,” one of the men is saying to another.

“Come on now, Xavier, you know the rules,” Y/N interrupts. “Nicknames stay outside the classroom. We use first names here.”

“Sorry, Teach,” Xavier says. He tries again. “It’s a love story, Carl.”

“That’s more like it. Carl, I can’t wait to hear your response. But first, I’m going to have Spencer join your group, alright? He’s our newest student and our TA for the class. He’s read a lot of these books so if you’re having a hard time or want to talk to someone about the material outside of class time, he’s a great person to ask.”

The group welcomes him – Xavier, Carl, Richie, and Luis. Reid is grateful to be with Luis, the one person he knows he can consider a friend inside. They talk about Chaucer and “The Franklin’s Tale,” and he’s surprised by the critiques and connections his peers make. Their debate is certainly different than the conversation he’d expect to find at a university class, but their ideas are still insightful and interesting. They make connections to their own lives, to the sacrifices they have made and the power of love they have witnessed firsthand. Mothers who never stop fighting for their appeal cases. Friends who send money so they can afford commissary. The difficulty of skipping commissary so they can send money home to their own families outside.

When their discussion finally winds down, Reid asks, “What’s the rule with nicknames about?”

“It’s Miss Y/N’s way of humanizing people,” Xavier says. “She says when we use first names like that, we’re all equals. But it’s different outside of class. We stick to nicknames because that’s what you do, y’know?” Reid shakes his head. Xavier chuckles. “You’re fresh meat, huh. First time you been down? In here, COs turn you into just a number or a last name. So nicknames inside are a way to hold on to some of your identity. Beyond that, there’s some guys in here you don’t want knowing your name, you feel me?”

“Nicknames gotta be given to you by someone else. Can’t make your own. Course, that means they’re usually a little insulting. They call me Porkchop,” Carl says. “Xavier’s Hammerhead. Richie is Spiders. And Luis, he been christened Slim Jim yesterday at chow. But don’t worry, we’ll find one for you soon.” Reid isn’t sure how to feel about the assurance. He doesn’t want to belong here, doesn’t want to fit in or get comfortable. On the other hand, he may be here for a while. Maybe laying low and finding allies wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

He knows one thing for sure – as he walks out of class, Y/N flashes that bright smile at him again. And for some reason, it makes him feel hopeful. More hopeful than any session with lawyers or judges has made him feel. Monday can’t come soon enough.

[Next]

..

Tags: @calm-and-doctor​ @averyhotchner​

#criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #prison reid #prison!reid

[liptonsbabe]

The light is coming [B.W]

Bill Weasley x Lexington! reader

Chapter 1

Summary: The power of the Dark Lord shakes the entire magical community to its foundations, no one is safe as Lord Voldemort  is so strong and the boy who lived becomes weaker; The magnanimous Order of the Phoenix is in dire need to gather all its members and even to recruit wizards beyond the borders of the community.

Albus Dumbledore knows that amidst the reign of darkness, the light will return to restore all that it took and bring with it extraordinary powers, even if it leaves an aftermath that cannot be erased. The Order of the Phoenix will need all the help it can get, including the help of the mythical (Y/N) Lexington.

Harry Potter's parents were not the only ones killed by the hands of Lord Voldemort.

Word count: 1.8K

Warnings: none

A/N:Hi! A new Bill’s fanfic for you all. This story is finished so if you like this part let me know so and i’ll update as soon as i can! Again, reader’s last name is Lexington but is just for the plot of this story 

English not my mother language so please don’t kill me. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Order Of The Phoenix

Charlie and Bill Weasley had returned from their jobs abroad with the only purpose of duly serving the Order of the Phoenix commanded by Albus Dumbledore. For Bill it hadn’t been a sacrifice to return home, things in Egypt were not going at all well and he only asked for his transfer to an English office to work and at the same time help the Order. It wasn’t the same for his brother Charlie, cause he had to leave all his errands in Romania along with all his beautiful dragons.The journey to Grimmauld Place had been complicated cause, despite not missing anything from the countries they were returning from (with the exception of Charlie's dragons) they could quickly get used to the quiet, anti-Voldemort pace of life that the English magical community was vitiated by.

Both brothers were welcomed by their mother Molly Weasley, with tears in her eyes she hugged them as tightly as she could inviting them into the farthest room possible. Bill remembered Grimmauld Place very vaguely, the only time he set a foot inside the house was when Dumbledore asked him to help him clear the rooms and turn them into curse free spaces where they could quietly discuss classified Order business.

No matter how many times they cleaned that place, the old house of Black would always remain with that grayish appearance and the musty smell of worn wood. Sirius didn't seem to have any intention of renovating its fallen parts - of which there were quite a few - but seemed to enjoy watching the house fall apart. Be that as it may, Bill thought that any place was a good place to plan the crazy moves Albus Dumbledore had in his head.

The room was filled with people Bill had met before through letters his mother sent him informing him of the Order's progress, Dumbledore thought the best way to gain the upper hand against Voldemort's dark army was to recruit wizards who were willing to give their lives to protect the magical community. Surprisingly more people arrived than Bill could have imagined in addition to all those wizards and witches who had already been part of the association for years.

Taking a seat by the door, Bill and Charlie recognized the silhouette of Nymphadora Tonks. Not that it was very difficult to recognize her as her short, straight, bubblegum pink hair stood out among all the others. The metamorphmagus managed to acknowledge the newcomers sending them a warm smile before gluing her gaze on the door.

Charlie elbowed his brother's shoulder

“Dumbledore and his crazy schemes making us come here just for the Order business....”

“It was necessary," Bill cut him off, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, "Do you even know what's going on with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, don't you?” Charlie shook his head “it’s a real mess and you'd know it if you didn't spend so much time with your dragons.

“Don't bring them into this”

“They're some of them now?”

“Yeah, we got a shipment of Peruvian Vipertooths in this month and oh, brother, they're beautiful!”

“Wait” Bill frowned ”Those things doesn’t eat people?

“well yes, but that's only part of their diet, they also feed on goats and cows. We keep them in a cage near the forest because that species was supposedly exterminated after being considered dangerous to wizards and muggles alike, but I think they're beautiful”

Charlie's eyes sparkled and Bill couldn't help thinking that he was the odd one among his siblings. His admiration for dragons frightened him even though he found it adorable at times.

“You know, I'm not surprised you're still single. Knowing you as i do, you'll end up marrying one of those dragons or in the worst case, eaten by one”

Charlie didn't like his older brother's comment.

“What about you? As far as I know, you're not dating someone either”

Charlie's sudden criticism made him clear his throat and settle better in his seat. When they looked over at Tonks, they noticed that she was still staring at the door. Charlie hurried him to answer his comment.

“I met someone” His brother's blue eyes widened, amazed “I mean, we met in Egypt, she was traveling and we only went out a couple of times, nothing important.

“That's what you always say, William” Charlie looked at him mischievously ”No one seems to be good enough for you, huh? Or are you still thinking about someone since our childhood?”

Bill knew what his brother was trying to do and immediately shook his head. He had had this adolescent love for a girl who had left to France without anyone knowing the reasons why. Bill was totally hooked on her, yet the disappointment of her being thousands of miles away from him had broken his heart in a way he couldn't explain. Charlie knew about it, because he was the only one of his siblings who was old enough to understand; still, that didn't take away from the fact that he made fun of her misfortune a couple of times.

“Shut it”

Albus Dumbledore brought an end to everyone's conversations after standing up and clapping his hands a couple of times to get their attention. With a sincere smile, Dumbledore dimmed the lights in the room to reveal dozens of candles levitating all over the place. Bill fell silent and looked at the man

“I know that most of you here had to pause your activities just to attend this extraordinary meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, and for that I want to thank you," Dumbledore smiled at them, "We are fully aware of what is happening in the magical community thanks to the terrible presence of Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore ignored the shrieks of amazement from the audience “That leaves me with the advantage of not having to explain what is obvious to you, so the important thing about this assembly is to make it clear that, despite the magnificent increase in our membership over the past few days, we are still in the minority against the Dark Lord's ranks”

The murmurs grew louder and louder, causing Dumbledore to ask for everyone's calm.

“This doesn’t mean that your help is in vain, what I am trying to say is that we need more wizards and witches to join the Order”

“Where will we get more people?”Asked a witch wearing a yellowish hood on her head, "People are afraid, they're not going to join the Order just like that”

“We'll try to convince them," Dumbledore said calmly. "Of course, all of those who want to join will have to undergo proper training.

“So you're asking for more Aurors?”Minerva McGonagall asked. Professor Dumbledore smiled broadly

“Indeed”

The hubbub in the room intensified for a couple of minutes before Albus Dumbledore called for silence. Bill agreed with everyone that this was sheer madness. It was practically impossible for aurors to enter something as sensitive as the Order of the Phoenix - with the exception of Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody, Bill thought those two were insane - without them reporting every movement of Order members to the Ministry. Yes, the aurors were the best trained people for this kind of work, however, they were the hardest to convince

“Why don't we just make Harry a part of the team?”Asked  Sirius from the middle of the room. Molly Weasley let out a shriek of indignation.

“What are you talking about? Harry's just a boy!”

“Molly, please, the boy knows more about this situation than any of us put together!”

“Even so, it's still dangerous for him”

“It is for everyone. I don't see what difference it makes if Harry is in on it, that way he'd have more support from the Order and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would stay away from him”

-If it is true what Sirius says," Dumbledore interjected, "It's no less true that Harry can't be a member of the Order yet. Not until he fixes the problem he has with the ministry after he used magic in front of a Muggle trying to ward off the Dementors that are getting closer and closer to non-wizards. Right now Harry should be being moved to this place to stay at least until the new school year begins.

“And in the meantime what are we going to do?” Severus Snape asked. Bill raised his eyebrows, noticing how Nymphadora Tonks raised her hand to give her opinion.

“I hope this isn't too hasty, but I've been sending some letters to Beauxbatons College in France in search of a response from the Aurors. It is well known that none of them have been willing to give us their help, but this afternoon I received a letter from one person who is willing to help us in any way she can," Tonks looked at everyone before continuing, "I know that one person doessn’t represent a great addition to our ranks, but I am absolutely certain that she is our best option”

Bill's eyes flicked from Nymphadora to Dumbledore repeatedly. He had that strange feeling that Dumbledore knew who she was referring even though she hadn't said the name yet. Dumbledore nodded a couple of times asking Tonks to continue. She cleared her throat

“She should be here soon”

“We’ll wait patiently”

Dumbledore's nod wasn't necessary cause seconds later the door flung wide open letting in the light from the main corridor. Bill glanced at the newcomer noting your expensive French clothes and your perfectly coiffed hair in a ponytail. His breath quickened as he took a close look at your face and recognized those features he remembered from when he was a teenager. A quick glance at Charlie was enough to confirm that what he saw was not an illusion.

The whole room rose to their feet, and as you entered the room raising your hands to the sky, the room was filled with a bright light that caused everyone to take cover before it blinded them permanently. Bill caught a glimpse of Tonks' pleased giggle before you reached Dumbledore giving him a handshake as a greeting while keeping the light alive with your opposite hand.

Your wand was in your jacket pocket and from your hands an endless fountain of light gushed forth, bringing peace to the members of the order.

The mythical (Y/N) Lexington didn’t needed a wand to have magic.    

#bill weasley #bill weasley imagines #bill weasley x reader #domhn #domhnall gleeson imagine #domhnall gleeson x reader #harry potter imagine #harry potter cast #charlie weasley #fred weasley imagines #order of the phoenix

[aeonghaseyo]

Your Trace, My Treasure

Summary: Marc and Nathaniel write and draw, respectively, on each others' notebooks because it's DEFINITELY a couple thing to do.

Word Count: 2105 AO3 link

Relationship/s: Nathaniel Kurtzberg/Marc Anciel Category: M/M Characters: Nathaniel Kurtzberg, Marc Anciel, Alix Kubdel (mentioned), Marinette Dupain-Cheng (mentioned), Juleka Couffaine (mentioned), Rose Lavillant (mentioned), Alya Cesaire (mentioned) Language used: English Author's Note: The creators of MLB really need to give the side characters screen time. The love square isn't the only romantic set of ships in the show and there are much more cute ships to write about. And so in my first time of writing a Miraculous Ladybug fanfic, it's about a ship that's entirely not part of the love square. This is my final workshop output from a creative writing class I enrolled in during the summer to get units in advance. Special thanks to my professor and two of my classmates for their feedback; I couldn't have made this work even more wonderful without their help. For the non-love-square ship and this being a successful workshop output thus far, I think I'm gonna give myself a pat on the back and more fanfic ideas to write. :)

Compared to the courtyard at Françoise Dupont High School where the lively chattering of students can be heard and the scrambling of footsteps were a staple, the art room was its own entire world of silence.

It was supposed to be a calming silence in that same art room where Marc and Nathaniel were to work on art-related endeavors of their own, but the former found this unwelcoming and rather deafening. It weighed down on his being that the atmosphere was unbearably awkward, much like he was most of the time even before he met Nathaniel and became his partner in creating comic books about Ladybug, Chat Noir, and their akumatized alter-egos who turned good and served as part of the superhero duo’s akuma-fighting team. Despite a remarkable development from being acquaintances, to newfound partners, and now to a bloomed romantic couple, Marc Anciel, as awkward as ever and still testing the waters on this newfound relationship, couldn’t shake this nagging feeling of inadequacy as someone’s significant other.

It just goes to show him that even though his romantic feelings for Nathaniel had been reciprocated at Day 0, it does not remove the remaining unease that Marc currently feels at Day 1. It was his first time in a relationship, and it was with the boy whose drawings he admired so much from the school paper. Simply put, it was too good to be true.

Unfortunately, the awkwardness Marc felt wasn’t masked enough, and Nathaniel immediately noticed from his place by the table beside his raven-haired beau. How could he not? It was very obvious, from the way Marc’s hand shakily distorted his usually refined, elegant script while writing the next chapter of their comic to the way his expression was contorted as if he was constipated. Nathaniel thought to himself that it was still an adorable sight, but clearly, something was up, and it wouldn’t do well to just ignore whatever troubled his beloved partner. Attempting to break the ice, the redhead cleared his throat, then spoke to call Marc’s attention.

“Marc.”

The novelist jolted in surprise at the utterance of his name. “Y-yes, Nathaniel?”

Leaning in for a better view of the page Marc was writing on, Nathaniel replied, “Your handwriting’s different.”

“W-wait, really?” blurted out Marc, quickly covering the page with his gloved hand. “I d-didn’t know you were p-particular with handwriting.”

Nathaniel placed a gentle, caring hand on his boyfriend’s with a smile aimed directly at him as he clarified himself, “It’s not that, Marc. I’ve seen it and it’s great. Right now, it just looks… wobbly. You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

Even if Nathaniel was a recluse in his own class, he could very well read into the emotions of people, but he doesn’t show it that often. As endearing as it was as a show of concern towards shy Marc, it was also overwhelming for the raven-haired novelist to have been the subject of such deep perception, even from the boy his heart palpitates for.

It was then that Marc’s fight or flight response reminded him in a split-second that he needed some sort of diversion for Nathaniel not to remind him of his own awkwardness.

“Isn’t it weird that our art teacher didn’t come here?” Marc rapidly questioned as he struggled not to look at the red-haired boy beside him. Despite this attempt to keep Nathaniel’s focus off of his disposition, glancing towards the door and not at Nathaniel did not help stop the blood from rushing to the novelist’s fair cheeks. His partner might be tired of this, of him, already, but that light chuckle of pure amusement coming from Nathaniel disproved that thought.

“Hey, hey, settle down Marc,” chided Nathaniel, “he might be running late. It’s okay for us to use the art room so long as it’s reserved around this time. Good thing that he reserved it at an earlier time than usual.”

With innocent green eyes, the raven-haired boy looked his boyfriend in the eye and asked, “H-he can do that?”

“Of course, he can. Let’s just wait for him, okay?” reassured Nathaniel, his left hand making its way on Marc’s right shoulder discreetly. “I’m sure my other classmates will arrive here shortly too.”

A shy smile emerged from Marc’s face as he replied, “Okay, Nath.”

Suddenly, a ringtone from the phone which was in Nathaniel’s pocket sounded audibly enough to catch both the boys’ attention. The redhead immediately fished out the device from his pocket and unlocked it, revealing three unread text messages from his close friend Alix.

Hey Nath! Something came up and I couldn’t swing by the art room. Love troubles again with Marinette. Juleka and Rose are also helping out with me so they can’t come.

I can’t believe that Marinette got invited personally by Adrien to his photoshoot but she can’t even give him her handmade gift or ask him out. Because she’s such a wuss, I got dragged here in the park by Rose because Mari needs all of her girl friends to push her towards Golden Boy Agreste YET AGAIN.

And apparently Alya alone couldn’t do it. Sorry! You’ll have Marc to keep you company anyway. Have fun! ;)

So much for those girls coming over to the art room. Nathaniel let out a sigh as he muttered, just enough for Marc to hear, “I stand corrected. The others aren’t coming.”

Catching on his partner’s crest-fallen demeanor and gazing at his face with sympathetic green orbs, Marc replied, “Guess it’s just the two of us for now.”

The next minutes were spent in silence again, with Marc continuing to finish a paragraph while Nathaniel sketched a bird’s eye view of the Eiffel tower as the background in one panel of the comic storyboard in his notebook. After several minutes elapsed, however, curiosity got the best of Marc, and so, with the tip of his pen lingering on the period of his last sentence, he kept on glancing at Nathaniel and the storyboarding he was working on. Besides the sheer focus that was evident in Nathaniel’s turquoise orbs, the shy novelist couldn’t help but notice the fine, steady strokes his beau’s hand were making with his fine-pointed mechanical pencil. So neat, so pristine. It’s amazing how he didn’t need an eraser to erase certain portions of his drawings over and over.

Marc had seen artist sketches himself of both people and objects, mostly done by his friend Marinette. As someone aspiring to become a fashion designer, she would be engrossed in sketching designs day by day, passion ignited by the sparks of inspiration she draws from around her. However, since Marinette’s sketches had obvious hints of disorder, as it normally is with crude artist sketches, it clearly contrasted with the otherwise structured sketches Nathaniel makes for his comic books. Marc, fully in awe, couldn’t help but take a break from his writing and stare at the red-haired illustrator’s creative process right next to him.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel, thanks to the strong, overbearing feeling of being watched, was getting overly conscious of his work. Keeping his composure to the best of his ability, he quickly turned to Marc and asked, “Do you need something Marc?”

Snapped out of his trance wide-eyed, Marc inwardly panicked. ‘Oh no, I must be staring at him too long! I hope I didn’t spook him too much.’

Scrambling for a sensible response, the novelist stuttered out, “I-i want to write something in your notebook.”

Setting down his pencil while his turquoise eyes were still on Marc, Nathaniel blinked inquisitively. “Oh, why would you want to do that?”

“B-because,” the shy writer reasoned, “I want to write something to remind you of me. T-that is, if y-you don’t mind.”

The red-haired teen averted his gaze from his partner as he remarked, “You know I don’t let anyone write on my notebook, Marc.”

This response triggered the disappointment that Marc had anticipated from the moment that they started continuing to develop the rest of the comic book they were working on together. It was even more daunting for the timid writer that their art teacher and the rest of Nathaniel’s classmates who were usually in the art room with them did not show up at that moment, or even at all. Marinette would tell Nathaniel that it’s a great idea for his newfound love to leave special traces on his personal notebook while Rose, somehow finding this romantic, would gush at this gesture with Juleka mumbling to herself in response. But what would have been the cherry on top for Marc at the moment is that if Alix was there to egg on Nathaniel, pressuring him to give in and let his boyfriend write something in his notebook. At least the comic relief from Alix’s teasing would help alleviate the collective awkwardness the couple felt at that moment. God, if only it wasn’t just the two of them in the art room at that moment.

But alas, he was alone, helpless and daunted, and he was facing the dragon which was Nathaniel, or whatever Nathaniel thought of him at that moment.

However, all of the fears and doubts that plagued Marc left him when Nathaniel continued with a small, endearing smile on his face, “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

The novelist beamed at his boyfriend, green eyes sparkling with delight. “R-really?”

“In one condition.”

Marc took and held in a quick breath. “Anything, Nath.”

The illustrator picked up his pencil once again and uttered, with an outstretched hand right by Marc’s notebook, “Let me draw in your notebook.”

It was at that moment when Marc could feel his heart flutter, accompanied by the butterflies in his stomach as he opened his own notebook to the very last page and laid it out right by his beau’s workspace.

“It would be my pleasure.”

In a span of 2 minutes while Nathaniel was drawing on the last page of his boyfriend’s notebook, Marc, fidgeting and tapping his pen softly on his chin, racked his brain for a simple yet memorable piece to write on the first page of the illustrator’s notebook, which was left empty out of personal preference by its owner. Hoping to obtain bit by bit of inspiration, he glanced at Nathaniel, then at the empty page, then at Nathaniel, and so on and so forth. This went on, albeit unnoticed by the redhead, until mere seconds after, he scribbled away on the page once he had gotten attuned with his creative writing flow.

After both of them finished leaving their traces on each other’s notebook pages, Nathaniel and Marc gave each other back their notebooks and instantly opened them to where they each left their special mark. Struck with awe, the novelist softly traced the outline of the drawing and his emerald eyes were drawn to Nathaniel’s signature which he left underneath the recently drawn portrait. A tinge of pink formed on Marc’s cheeks as he admired every stroke that constituted this drawing of him done by none other than the boy he once looked up to, now loved, and who loved him back.

“No one’s written me a poem before,” Nathaniel uttered as he perused every line written by Marc on that now extra special page in his notebook, eyes taking in every word written in that distinct elegant script that served as an epitome of beauty that the redhead beheld. One particular line at the end of the writing, however, caught him by surprise: the words ‘Je t’aime’ accompanied by Marc’s signature in that same fancy handwriting the illustrator adored dearly.

Having regained his composure, Marc turned to Nathaniel and asked, “Do you like the poem? I-i thought of it on the spot so it might not exactly be to your liking, but-”

“I love it,” interrupted the red-haired teen breathlessly, wrapping an arm around his significant other and squeezing his shoulder. “Really Marc, you make the most wonderful written pieces.”

An expression as bright as day graced Marc’s features as he replied, albeit with a bit of shyness in his voice, “Y-you really think so?”

Nathaniel threw any single hint of hesitation in his being out the window as he placed a tender, loving kiss on Marc’s forehead. “I do. We’re meant to be partnered together, after all.”

And just like that, the uncomfortable awkwardness that haunted Marc was instantly warded off, and in a flash, he enveloped Nathaniel in a tight, warm, loving embrace and leaned into him in newfound solace. The silence in the art room has never been this comforting as the couple relished in this seemingly endless embrace together.

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous tales of ladybug and cat noir #miraculous fanfiction #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #mlb fanfiction #nathaniel x marc #nathaniel kurtzberg #marc anciel #marcnath #mlb fanfic

[elysianslove]

hi! how have you been since the hell that ensued after halloween is?

also could you do a batboys college au? like their major and how the reader would meet them and all that jazz? 👉👈

-🐥

hi anon!! i’m not sure what ur talking about @ the halloween stuff hvsdhjs but! here are the batboys hc’s! i’m not very familiar with duke thomas’s character enough to write about him tbh, so he’s not included here :( but if you want me to add him let me know!! i hope you enjoy!!

dick grayson

out of all the batboys i really didn’t know how to choose a major for him

but

i think he’d do law tbh, specifically criminal law 

his main motivation to become a police officer in bludhaven had been to be able to help people in any way he can 

i forgot if it’s canon or not but he does realize how corrupt it is and he quits but that’s another thing we won’t get into that lmao 

anyways yes let’s just stick with law 

meeting you ! 

he shares one or two courses with you

one that’s really early in the morning 

and one that’s later on in the afternoon 

dick is like a magnetic okay

anywhere he goes people are just attracted to him

like literally he will breathe 

but someone call the ambulance there’s a person that’s passed out bc of how beautiful he is

but this is an 8 am class 😃

so there’s no way ur awake enough to notice him

coincidentally he sits next to you one time

and this is the one time

you decide

yeah lemme just fkn sleep is uni even worth it 

dick definitely notices right away but he doesn’t say anything 

he thinks you look so cute passed out on your desk like this 🥺

when the professor signals the end of the class, he watches as people file out and then he just leans over and nudges you slightly 

you nearly punch him bc he scared you ❤️

he just laughs and goes “class is over” 

you just sigh like the guilt starts to hit you and your heart begins to sink

and he sees your disappointed face and just goes 

“i took a lot notes. i can share them w you?”

lifesaver in every single way dick grayson 😻😻😻

you had another class that you had to run to and you were rushing

he was like “dw i’ll just give them to you whenever i see you next” 

and you 🏃🏻‍♀️ outta there

imagine ur surprise when u enter class at 12 pm and he’s there in all his glory 

after the lecture is over, he walks up to you as you’re packing and asks if you want to go to the coffee shop nearby 

to take his notes of course

and you finally register just how handsome he is 

so obviously you say yes wtf

and the rest is history 😼

he asks you out, properly, pretty early on tbh 

so unfazed lmfao 

now you take naps on his shoulder instead of the desk 💞💞💞

soooo into pda 

kisses u when he first sees you

when you’re parting ways

when he feels like it

straight up cuddles w during lectures i’m not even joking 

it’s disgusting how cute you two are 

gets you coffee for all those 8 am classes u have w him hehe

study dates always turn into karaoke sessions somehow don’t even ask lmao

jason todd

english literature 

this is a collective agreement right? 

right

definitely english literature 

i dont even think he wants to go to uni but he’s going to waste time plus this is bruce’s money 😏🤑

your major doesn’t necessarily have to be english literature as well

but you share one class

and my god 

you two disagree on everything

like every little thing

at this point if he says something and you slightly agree internally you’ll still say some opposing shit 

that’s kinda what draws you to him 

at first you genuinely had nothing against him

but then this kind of rivalry developed for no specific reason 

but it was fun

and he was hot

so seeing him get flustered or angry made him even hotter somehow 

but then

but t h e n

you’re not sure if your professor like ships you or something

so you’re assigned a debate topic on one of the books you’d discussed in class/one of the books you’ve read outside, and within each group are the two sides for and against 

not only were you in the same team as jason, but you were on the same side as him

so you had to work with him

the audacity of the professor omg 

but jason needs this course 

and 

well you don’t but it’s too late to back out now 

you two meet in the campus library after deciding on a book with the other two of your team

and 

honestly??? 

you two work so well together 

like insanely well

during the debate you destroyed the other team 

spoiler alert 

doing so well with jason kinda made you like hot and bothered 

seeing him in his zone

sexy <3 

what i mean to say is

you both end up making out in some storage room lmfao 

or hate sex 😏

professor has a phd in matchmaking 🤔😻

i think you two don’t admit you like each other

bc you’re both stubborn as fuck

but eventually you’re literally on his lap on his couch and it just hits you

and you lean back and go

“wanna go out w me” 

and he just shrugs and goes “sure” and pulls you in for more kissing hehe

he’s not v good at the boyfriend thing tbh

you have to chase him around and be like “sir!!! did u forget about me huh!!!”

he doesn’t mean to i promise

he gets all blushy and flustered once he realizes 

only ever into pda if he’s insanely jealous 

will straight up make out w u regardless of where u are or who ur with lmfao 

he’s still getting used to the little intimacies and all 

debates in class are so much more fun now cause he finds it so hot when u get all riled up hehe

that eng lit professor is so happy for you two omg

tim drake

okay i also couldn’t really decide for him

but maybe he’d study something like physics (or maybe computer engineering/computer science) 

idk u have to have a death wish to wanna major in physics so tim’s major it is

i’m not sure how it works for every other uni but my uni requires 6 credits of sciences to graduate 

so let’s say for the sake of this hc u take like just the first level of physics to get 3 credits 

and 

you’re struggling 😃👍🏼

so you like approach your professor with a few questions before the quiz 

but tim is also there

and he kinda makes small talk while you two wait outside the office

and he asks why you’re here

you show him

and he’s like “oh i took this course w the same professor as well, i could help?” 

it’s like an angel had descended from the heavens for you personally 

you take his number and decide to meet up with him after a few hours 

he’s of so much more help than your professor would’ve been, even if ur prof is a really nice and smart person 

and he’s super like

patient with you? 

also he pays for all the coffee and snacks you’re getting after you already get them 

ur like bruh i didnt 

dont pay pls

and he’s like no im loaded let me 😼

swooning <3 

and guess what!! 

you ace the quiz out of some miracle

first thing you do is text him and he congratulates you 

and then

bc ur not blind and tim is so fucking cute

you’re like “can i take u out to thank u” 

tim’s brain stops working but ! 

he does say yes eventually 

he becomes your designated physics tutor + your amazing boyfriend

being with tim is so like

chill

it’s a very relaxed time 

lots of study dates! and cafe dates! all hours of the day whether the sun is up or not 

into pda but to a certain degree 

like yes of course have a kiss pretty baby 

but also it will only be a small peck

any time anyone passes by like common rooms you two will be there snuggling on the couch, one or both of you completely passed out 

damian wayne

business major 100% 

or a bsba econ major, which is basically the business side of economics 

he has to take over his father’s company one day duh 

also i genuinely think damian would excel in this field 

he’s a very keeps to himself kinda guy in uni

like you only ever see him in your common classes and then he just

disappears 

anyways there was this party that everyone was going to, and damian wasn’t planning to

but dick accidentally read some groupchat’s messages and was like are u going

damian went 🏃🏻‍♀️

but dick was like go and try to make friends !!!! 

and dames cant say no to his big bro 🥺 so he goes

stays in a corner on the settings app the entire time

like half an hr in he just leaves and is walking home/back to his dorm when you come like rushing up to him 

you’re zooming 

and then you just latch onto his hand and lean up to press a kiss to his cheek, whispering in his ear “this person’s been following me for like 15 mins just please go along w this” 

he kinda stiffens but when he does notice that there’s a person eyeing you he slips his arm around your waist and just carries on walking

he walks you to your home/dorm and is like

so awkward 

but it’s okay ! ur a people’s person enough for the two of you 

you thank him so much over and over 

and then you’re like 

“can i take you out on a real date?” 

and then he becomes ur real boyfriend hehe

is still super stiff but it’s only bc he’s so hyper aware of how attractive you are

and i’m super positive he doesn’t have that much experience with dating so 

you hold the reigns 

but he’s a great boyfriend all in all tbh 

super attentive, super protective, and so loving 

isn’t into pda especially on college campus but he does like subtle pda

things like linking your pinkies or giving you his hoodie to just parade around campus hehe

end note; i’m sorry if these feel rushed or anything like. i used to be an avid writer for the batboys, but i just haven’t been feeling it lately. i still love to write from them bc i know these boys so well eeeeppp. anyways feel free to request some more!!

#dc comics x reader #dc comics headcanons #jason todd x reader #jason todd fluff #jason todd headcanon #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson headcanon #tim drake x reader #tim drake headcanon #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne headcanon #batboys x reader #batboys headcanons

[fanficflaneuse]

Let Me See It

A/N: So this is my very first Harry Potter imagine ever (it is, in fact, my very first fanfic ever). I’ve got a few things to say before we start. First, if anyone read the very long rant I wrote the other day (my first Tumblr post ever lol), I haven’t read all the books yet and I haven’t watched all the movies either. I’m currently on the third book. Why would I write a sixth year Draco imagine when I have virtually no canon idea about it? Well, my friends, I’ve read a lot of fanfiction and imagines about it so I kind of have all the main plot points and I wanted to give it a go. It’s absolutely self indulgent. Hopefully once I’ve finished all of the books my writing gets better. Also, English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes, please tell me and I’ll correct it :) I hope it’s not too bad and I really hope you like it. 

Details: 

Draco Malfoy x Reader (She/her pronouns...If this goes right I’ll try my best to write gender neutral as well). 

Word count: 1529 

Summary: The reader is Harry’s friend and in a secret sort of relationship with Draco. She is the one who’s hit by the sectumsempra spell and wakes up in the hospital wing to an angsty/fluffy situation. 

Warnings: my terrible writing, some angst, some fluff, perhaps a lot of wordiness, sectumsempra, soft Draco. 

When (Y/N) woke up, she felt as though she had been drowning and could finally take a breath. Her whole body ached and her chest felt tender in the worst of ways, open even. Engrossed in the sensations, she didn’t pay much attention to her surroundings at first. Then she felt the raspy fabric of the infirmary’s bed and it all came back to her. The commotion in the bathroom, spells casted and dodged, the water gushing from the broken sinks, Moaning Myrtle’s shrieks…even remembering it gave her a headache. 

When Harry had rushed to the girl’s bathroom, (Y/N) had been quick to follow him. When she got there, her best friend was already casting spells towards the boy she fancied. Draco seemed distraught. He was dishevelled and unkempt. He had grown thin and he was so pale that the bags under his eyes stood out. Shaking as he held his wand, he looked as though he was in the midst of a panic attack.

(Y/N) had noticed all of this, of course. Whenever they met he’d brush it off by telling her he was going through something rough. She had an idea of what it might have been, she had discussed it countless times with Harry (Ron and Hermione would usually dismiss them when they brought the topic up). So, when they had their secret rendezvous in the Astronomy Tower, she’d hold him as he cried. They’d talk about dreams and interests. They’d imagine different futures together. Sometimes they’d snog. Shyly or passionately, it’d feel wonderful until he’d tell her how it was dangerous for her, how he carried baggage she didn’t deserve. They weren’t a couple, but they certainly were past the “friends” category.

Seeing him standing there, standing helplessly against a sink, (Y/N) felt her heart shatter. She had to do something. Fast.

Draco wasn’t even thinking at the moment, casting spells left and right and making sure none of Potter’s hit him. Conjuring the first thing that came to mind, he was about to cast an unforgivable when he saw her, his beautiful (Y/N), standing wide eyed just a few steps away from Potter. He was about to tell her to leave when the scene unfolded in front of his eyes as if in slow motion. He saw (Y/N) running towards him, pushing him out of the way as Potter casted a spell he had never heard of. He heard her name leave Potter’s lips in a sob when she was hit. He saw her fall, lifeless, as her blood poured from her chest. He saw him running towards her, taking her in his arms. It all seemed unreal.

Then he heard Potter sobbing, babbling, begging her to wake up: “(Y/N/N), (Y/N/N) please, open your eyes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”.

He held her to his chest. And Draco, enraged and panicked, ran towards both of them.

“What did you do, Potter? Fix it, fix it I am begging you,” he pleaded as he tried to take (Y/N) from his arms.  She was growing paler by the minute, her uniform soaked in so much blood it made Draco sick.

“Don’t touch her, death eater,” he spat as he rocked her back and forth in his chest and sobbed.

“Fix it!” he barked.

“I…I don’t know how,” babbled Harry, holding even tighter to his best friend.

They both looked at her helplessly, hoping for a miracle. Guilt-ridden, Draco started sobbing as well. He fancied her. Merlin, he could even swear he loved her. She saw the good in him when nobody else had bothered to even try. She overlooked how nasty he had been to her friends and even to her in the past. She showed him the meaning of true friendship, opened her heart to him to give him nothing but love and care. By her side, he started considering different ways of conceiving the world. She believed in him as he evolved into a person who hated everything the mark under on his left forearm meant. In the last year and a half, (Y/N) had become the person he probably cared for the most (apart from his parents, if the Dark Mark was a testament to something). Now she was there, bleeding on the cold, wet floor of Myrtle’s bathroom as the two boys and the ghostly girl sobbed for her.

After what seemed like hours, the miracle did come…in the form of Professor Snape. He quickly chanted a counter spell he had never heard of either. Draco concluded his aunt Bellatrix wasn’t a very good teacher as she was the one who taught him every Dark spell he knew. With one icy glare, Snape got Harry to let go of (Y/N) and took her to the hospital wing. Both boys followed behind him, their bloodied clothes alarming the whole school.

Three days later, both of them were still there, glaring at each other, waiting for (Y/N) to wake up. There were times when Draco thought she’d stay in her stupor forever. He buried his face in his hands, feeling empty and guilty, until he heard a gasp. She had woken up.

Draco rushed from his seat and took her hand. Harry had done just the same. As she squeezed both their hands, Draco and Harry shared a sigh.

“I am so sorry, (Y/N/N). I didn’t – “

“Don’t even start, Harry. I’ll scold you later,” (Y/N) interrupted. Even though she felt tired, (Y/N)’s voice had a bit of playfulness in it, which humoured Harry and brought warmth into Draco’s heart. (Y/N) gave Harry a meaningful look; her way of telling him she needed to talk to the Slytherin in private. He gave her a curt nod, not very convinced, but still let go of her hand.

“I’ll come later with Ron and ‘Mione,” he said.

Draco gave him a thankful nod as Harry closed the curtain around them. His heart was pounding hard as silence engulfed them again. Their eyes met. He felt relieved that she was with him, but also uneasy and guilty. (Y/N)’s eyes travelled to his left arm. She swallowed hard.

“Let me see it,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

Draco held his breath. His eyebrows furrowed in sorrow. He didn’t put up a fight when (Y/N) took his arm and gently pushed his sleeve up. (Y/N) knew what she would probably find under the sleeve. She thought she was prepared. And, of course, she wasn’t. She gasped loudly as she saw the black snake protruding from a skull’s mouth. She looked at the blond Slytherin, feeling the pain and disappointment seeping from her gaze, as well as a couple of tears. He didn’t meet her eyes. He was ashamed. The guilt, the pain, and the self-hatred were eating him up.

(Y/N) saw a few tears silently slipping from his eyes and her heart broke again. Draco sobbed. He was certain he had lost her now.

“I am so sorry, (Y/N/N). They made me do it. I had no choice…He’s going to kill my parents and I can’t –,” his pathetic little apology was cut short by his sobs. He was certain he was a bad person, but having to hold himself accountable in front of the one person that truly saw him for who he was felt unbearable.

He felt (Y/N)’s fingers gently caressing the dreadful mark. He mustered all of his courage to look at her and found a sympathetic expression that made him feel better. She pulled him to her and he gave her a hug. Draco started crying again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” he cried, bringing her closer to his chest as though she could disappear any minute.

She pushed him just a little, enough to allow her hands to travel to his face and clean his tears with her thumbs.

“Shh, Dray. Don’t cry. I know that mark isn’t you. I trust it isn’t you. I know you wouldn’t join them on your own volition,” she soothed.

(Y/N) made room for him on her bed and he slither in, careful not to hurt her in any way. He buried his face on (Y/N)’s neck as she whispered sweet nothings in his ear. She caressed his hair gently as Draco sniffled. He was still heavyhearted, but she felt like home and it made his heart swell.

“Dray”

“Yes?”

She thought about making him promise to make it right, to fight by her side. But she felt tired. Her body still ached. And, regardless of the circumstances, snuggling up to him felt wonderful. So, she closed her eyes and blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.

“I love you,” she said almost inaudibly. Draco was so close he heard alright. He couldn’t believe she had actually said those three words for the first time under the circumstances. He didn’t hesitate to answer back.

“I love you too, (Y/N/N)”.

When Madam Pomfrey came around and opened the curtain, she found both (Y/N) and Draco fast asleep. Draco’s face was very close to (Y/N)’s neck. One of her hands was still buried in his platinum hair. And they looked so peaceful, the healer could only close the curtain and let them rest.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy x you #draco x reader #draco malfoy #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagines #draco malfoy inserts #draco imagines #draco malfoy imagines #draco x you #harry potter fanfics #draco fanfics #draco malfoy fanfics #x reader #draco malfoy fluff #fluff #sectumsempra #draco #draco fluff #draco malfoy x female reader

[rosy-cheekx]

Hypothetically

 @aspecarchivesweek Day One: Wish

I wish to make you happy.

Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker

This was it. Jon fiddles with the pale green collar of his shirt; eyes focused resolutely on the version of himself in the mirror that hung on the wardrobe in his student flat. Tonight’s the night I’m going to ask Georgie to…

He shakes his head to himself, wincing at the end of that sentence. He knows what he’s going to do tonight, what he wants to do tonight, what difference does vocalizing it make, even if it’s just to himself?

Glancing down at his watch, Jon chews his lip. He was meeting Georgie at the bar in thirty minutes. The bar was ten minutes away…He should probably leave now, right? In case he needed to find them seats or use the loo or if the walk ended up taking longer than the dozens of times he’s been there before? He doesn’t want to be late, that would just make everything worse-

Huh. He’s pacing. Jon forces himself to stop and stands in the middle of his bedroom, wrapping his hands around his sides, thumbs digging into his back, feeling his diaphragm push his ribs out and in as he breathes, focusing on the solid movement of his body. Why am I so nervous? His therapist had talked to him, years back, about identifying sources of his anxiety. He hates that it works, hates that it means confronting his own brain and acknowledging his faults.

Is it the bar? No. This bar, The Addison, is one of the few pubs Jon actually enjoys. It’s always got a bit of a draft so even in the busiest nights it never feels like the heat of the room is inescapable. Jon’s not the biggest fan of beer, per se, but he can knock back a pint with the best of them, so long as he has something in his stomach first, and the pretzels and beer cheese The Addison makes are his favorite. The thought of them make his stomach growl.

Is it Georgie? No. He has a lot of strong feelings for Georgie, feels comfortable being himself around her. He drops his stuffy academic persona and can be his regular, less-stuffy-but-still-academic self, the one who speaks to her flatmate’s cat in a higher-pitched voice but still with proper Queen’s English, because “they deserve to be treated with respect, don’t you Madame?” She cares about him, too, he knows that, and he’s enjoyed their months as friends and the past few weeks they’ve been a couple.

As a couple…He feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest that makes him flap his hands instinctively, a quick stim to ward off the impending doom building in his belly. Ah. Found it. He and Georgie have only gone on a few dates: a coffeeshop on a Saturday morning, and a movie night in Georgie’s flat, an evening which had been planned to be a movie marathon of Georgie’s favorite bad horror movies, the B and C rated films that were truly just a vehicle for half-naked women sprinting down alleyways and gratuitous fake blood effects. Any excuse for them to laugh over popcorn and predict the plot points, except Jon had fallen asleep partway through the second movie and had woken up the next morning on Georgie’s couch, a worn fleece blanket over his slumped form. But this? This was a proper night-time date, involving alcohol and a walk home and, Jon was sure, a “mind if I come in?” and it would be different because it wasn’t a friend he was talking to, it was his girlfriend and there were expectations and he was a virgin and didn’t want to disappoint her because he knows Georgie is experienced and she deserves to have a good time and it’s his responsibility as a boyfriend to do that, even if he’s terrified because he hasn’t before—

Woah. Jon takes a deep breath. That was a lot. He did a full Sims, as Georgie would say, letting things snowball in his head until he explodes. He closes his eyes, wringing his hands again, just a gentle flutter at his sides. It’ll be fine. She’ll understand. She has up to now. Georgie has understood his weird studying habits, his deep aversion to spiders, his need to be early everywhere, his sudden shutdowns and stimming habits and how he loves to be held and touched. She can certainly handle him being a nervous virgin.

Jon slips a condom in his wallet and then, hesitating, tears off two more and throws them in. In case he messes up the first time. Checking his watch, he sees its quarter to eight. If he leaves now he’ll only be five minutes early. Perfect.

--

The Addison is a healthy dose of busy on a Thursday night in late autumn, the hum of conversation and music floating over Jon is just the right amount of chaos for him to reach equilibrium, feeling enthused by his nervous energy. He’s sitting at the bartop, spinning the cap to his beer bottle, watching it whirl, whirl, whirl, clattering on the stained wood and spinning all the while. It’s entrancing.

Georgie is speaking to him now. She smiles warmly at him and feels his stomach flip. God, she’s gorgeous when she smiles. Her hair’s in braids this month, pink and orange weaved tightly together, contrasting with the tight black turtleneck dress she wears. He catches himself staring at her profile, the planes of her face animated as she tells him a story about her professor and his alleged vow to fail her this semester. His face is warm. See, he soothes himself, you are attracted to her. You’re just nervous.

“Jon. Jon?” Georgie’s eyebrow is quirked up and she’s smirking at him, like she’s caught him in a lie. “Everything alright? You’re staring.” Jon feels another rush of blood to his cheeks, prickling at how exposed he feels to have been caught up in his thoughts about her.

“Oh-uh, yeah,” he nods, hesitating before reforming his own features into a smile. “I-I was just thinking. Well. How nice you look tonight.” Georgie isn’t immune to compliments, he knows this for certain, and its reaffirmed as she ducks her own head briefly, smile shifting from teasing to soft.

“O-Oh. Thank you, Jon.” She sips her drink, preferring something a little harder than Jon’s beer, usually a vodka cranberry she can nurse throughout a night or throw back when she needs a little something more in her bloodstream, fogging her mind. “You look really nice too, you know. Your green shirt is my favorite.” She gestures to the button up and he nods absently, glancing down at it. When he looks up, her face is close to his, hand weaving into the curls by his ear. He sighs and leans into the touch, feeling a shiver run through him when they kiss. He tastes the cranberry on her lips, vodka on her tongue, her liquid courage enthusing him as well as her (not that she needs any excuse to be bold, really), and makes a choice.

When they pull away for air, he grins wildly at her, the face he makes when he knows he’s about to a very Not-Sims thing. When the bartender makes his rounds again, a pale man in a black button-down, Jon orders his own ruby-red drink. Georgie’s eyebrows meet her hairline as he does so, folding her hands together. “Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan Sims?” The chuckle behind her voice balances the sternness of her words. He just grins at her and takes a sip of his newly-acquired vodka and cranberry juice, the dry flavors curling on his tongue and making his head feel light and warm after even half the glass.  

-

Jon is drunk. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. He knows he’s a lightweight and even the divine soft pretzels he’s been munching on since his arrival can only handle so much. He’s finished his second hard drink on top of the beer and is feeling properly light and airy. Like a cake, he giggles to himself. He’s having fun, chatting with Georgie about life and cats and uni and their plans for the future. Jon’s entertaining a couple of options, a few research jobs in London, and Georgie is poking his side, making him laugh as she teases him about his studying skills being useful for something more than exams.

“At least I have studying skills!” He says, pushing her off his side, linking their fingers together to inhibit her from poking him again. “You can’t ride my coattails forever, you know.”

“I won’t have to! It came in today.”

“What did?” His thoughts are clouded, edges of anxiety smoothed over into something more ignorable.

“My microphone! So I can start my podcast about spooky shit, remember?” Georgie squeezes his hand and finishes her own drink, far along as Jon in liquid consumed but not nearly as affected as he is. “I’m going to uncover the world’s mysteries and teach my faithful audience about the supernatural. I’ve got the title nailed down, too.” With her free hand she paints a banner in the air. “What the Ghost. ‘Cause it’s like ‘what the fuck’ and I can talk about all sorts of weird shit.” Georgie swears a lot, and more when she’s tipsy.

“Can I see it?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them through. “The-the microphone, can I see it?”

Her eyes widen and she nods, “Oh, yeah of course! I haven’t been able to test it out yet, so maybe you can help me.”

Jon insists on paying. So does Georgie. They resign to splitting it, each vowing to pay next time and knowing they will never outsmart each other.

-

Jon doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he’s walking the five minutes to Georgie’s flat. Tucked into her side, the air is cool around his face, the wind an icy hand cupping his cheek. Everything feels smeary, liquid, warm. Hands in the pocket of the peacoat he knows he bought for the aesthetic and not to keep him warm, he fingers his wallet, feels the circular outline inside, and feels…nothing. Good. He can do this.

He’s always loved Georgie’s flat. It is warm, all orange and yellow lamplight, houseplants, and a cosy cluttered look. Her roommate exists only in residuals, the sneakers she leaves by the door and the dishes she does at odd hours more proof she exists than anything like conversation. Jon respects that. Georgie’s room is a lot like the rest of the flat, which means it’s a lot like Georgie herself. Warm, dark, soft, and scattered, with hidden elements of cat hair no matter how many times she cleans. Jon throws his coat over his desk chair and collapses onto her bed, reveling in how her pillows feel under his back. He takes a moment to greet the weird smile-faced stain on her ceiling before sitting up, watching Georgie fold herself next to him and open a carboard box, taking out a chunky black microphone with a USB cable. She brandishes it like a sword, before angling it to her face.

“This is BBC 4 with breaking news,” she intones into the microphone, putting on a crisp RP accent and lowering her voice an octave. “Ghosts and ghouls have been discovered at King’s College, Oxford, residing as university professors. News anchor Jonathan Sims has the story. Sims?”

Jon presses back his giggles and leans into the character, accent already pretty close to the posh voice she puts on. “There’s been an error, actually. They’ve been the students all along. Journalism student Porgie Parker has been found out to have been a ghost. These discoveries were made after her boyfriend, English Literature student…Bonathan Bims, realized she had never picked up a textbook because she couldn’t! Her hands went right through them!” By the time he’s gotten to the word textbook, Georgie has pounced on him, microphone forgotten as she wrestles him to the bed, alternating between poking and tickling him until he lets the bit trail off, voice a mix of giggles and pleas for her to stop.

When she lets off, Jon abruptly realizes the intimacy of their position. She’s straddling him, her hands pinning his wrists to the plush pillow behind his head. They’re both breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and smiling.

Jon isn’t sure who started the kiss, but it doesn’t really matter. His arms are wrapped around Georgie’s neck and her hands are cupping his face, cool to the touch, nails lightly scratching his jawline. The bed is soft and Georgie is warm, pressing in from all sides, and it feels good. This he likes.

She kisses along his jawline and he feels heart rate pickup, flexing his hands (when did he curl them into fists?) as she presses against his neck. He wishes vaguely she’d put her hands back in his hair, he likes that soft feeling of pressure on his scalp. The smile on the ceiling is smirking at him now, the curve of the water stain looking more vicious than it had earlier.

Her hands are on his chest, she’s unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands feel too cold now, the shiver running through him one of anxiety, not desire, and Jon is sitting up before he knows what he’s doing. Fuck. Georgie, the saint, backs off him and kneels beside him on the bed. Jon’s hands flit to the undone buttons, fingertips circling them, suddenly unsure what to do.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Georgie’s voice is softer, eyes searching his face as she wedges her hands underneath her knees. He watches her wrists, the swing of her braids as she cocks her head, anything to avoid her eyes.

“I-” he gestures to her vaguely. “Y-You know I haven’t before, right?”

“Oh. Oh.” Georgie nods, understanding maybe a little better than he expected. “No offense, but I kinda figured, Jon. Not in a bad way!” She backpedals. “I just figured, you know, there’s no rush.”

“I mean, there’s a little of a rush,” he admonishes under his breath. At her hum of confusion: “You know, the whole-” he gestures again, as if he could pluck the word from the air. “-third date…thing.”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs his name, voice soft and so patient, a voice he doesn’t think he’s heard used anywhere else. “There’s no rule saying what we have to do when. Or how. Or ever, for that matter. It’s no one’s business what we do except ours.” She reaches out a hand, waiting for a slight nod, before taking his thin hands in her own. “Is that why you drank more than usual today?”

Jon nods, feeling a sag of relief spread throughout his body. “I just- I want to make you happy.”

“You do make me happy, you twit. That’s why we’re friends and it’s why I’m dating you.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need sex to be happy. Is it fun? Yes. But not necessary.”

Jon frowns, chewing on his lip and eyeing the window of her bedroom, tracing the rectangle with his eyes over and over again. “I-hmm.” Georgie watches him search for words; she knows how he ticks well enough to know they’re coming if she waits. “What if, hypothetically, I never had sex with you? Ever.”

“Well,” she gave his hands a light squeeze. “Hypothetically, I’d be totally okay with it, though I’d ask if you were asexual and make sure we had appropriate boundaries.”

“Huh?” The word draws him back to her face, the deep brown eyes that search his own. “Asexual. Like, no sex?” She nods, again, ever-patient. “Huh. Asexual.” He drops the pretense. “Maybe.”

Asexual. The word felt good as he rolled it around in his mouth. He traced the letters with his fingertips in cursive against his thigh as Georgie let go of him, rolling off her bed to pull on sweatpants and a t shirt instead of the dress she was wearing 

“Let’s look into it, if you want. Together.” Georgie grins at him now, rye and warm. “I will have to ask you if want hypothetical crisps, because I’m hypothetically fucking starving.”

#aspec archive week #jonathan sims #Georgie barker #cw alcohol #cw internalized acephobia #/confusion #just some good confusing feelings #based on my own experiences? said who? #also! important note: Jon's stims are reflective of my own habits #just sayin #asexuality #ace #ace flavor: who knows? not even Jon

[berlinbabylon]

Hi! A few weeks ago, in an answer, you made reference to Volker Bruch's role in Unsere Mütter, Unsere Väter. I've never seen it and had been wanting to (although I'm arguably less motivated now that Volker Bruch has been so ... ugh lately), but would you mind expanding upon what you meant? This whole situation is so disappointing and frustrating (but I say this as someone who only discovered BB/VB in December of last year)!

Oh boy, where to begin! The issues with Unsere Mütter, unsere Väter are so layered. I guess I'll break it down into: (1) Issues with the miniseries itself, and (2) issues with the reception of it.

1) So as to the first point, it's been a long time since I saw and I don't want to be too negative about it. It's well-made and some parts of it are better than others. I remember that I didn't think the writing was great (that's true for many German productions where the scripts tend to be the weak link), like it relied too much on coincidental meetings of characters in unlikely scenarios and so on. But okay, whatever. The actual issue with the miniseries arises from the way in which it was titled and marketed ("our mothers, our fathers" – of course Generation War sounds a bit more oblique in English and obfuscates that the people behind the miniseries wanted to do something that was supposedly representative of what "our" immediate ancestors went through during the war). From a historian's POV, the group of young people that they chose to focus on was really not in any way, shape or form representative of most young German people at the time and you can't blame the Polish for being pissed about the representation they got (which painted the Polish partisans as antisemitic and the issue with that wasn't that antisemitism didn't exist among Polish partisans but rather that the way the miniseries emphasizes their antisemitism while being way too revisionist about the German protagonists in that regard is just not a good look). A history professor put everything into words that I was thinking back then, it's in German but you can put it through DeepL and I highly recommend the read, regardless of how you feel about the miniseries: https://taz.de/Unsere-Muetter-unsere-Vaeter/!5070893/ ("Nazis are always the others" – yes there are some evil German Nazis of course, the cliché ones, the commanding officers, the Gestapo guy and so on but we are not invited to identify with them, we are not invited to consider them part of our ancestry and we are also not invited to consider that most Germans at the time were not victims of circumstance but active participants in the system, unless we're talking about resistance groups which were obviously the exception and not what the miniseries posits as the core 'generation' – one who, we might add, would've been exactly the one to have gone through the whole youth indoctrination unlike older people at the time). So yeah there's a lot to unpack there in terms of how German remembrance culture works and I'll leave it at that, it's a huge topic that would need its own essay. The miniseries is 'fine' TV but it has a certain role in cultural memory production that is, at the very least, questionable and should be considered with some critical distance from its qualities as a drama.

2) There's another issue though and that's more what I was referring to. Basically Volker Bruch playing a Wehrmacht soldier in that miniseries gained him quite a following of wehraboos and in some cases straight up Neonazis. For the longest time, whenever you were searching for posts about him here on Tumblr, they came from accounts that... man, how do I say this. Okay first of all wehraboos are Wehrmacht stans and I came across a big number of them in this context (and in the context of Volker Bruch fandom specifically) where their tumblrs were all about the aesthetic~ of German Wehrmacht soldiers and I just... to say that I found these blogs disturbing is putting it mildly. Often these were run by young women from countries like the Netherlands, Italy or wherever else in the world and my only explanation for this phenomenon is that they grew up with a very stereotypical view of Germans during WWII = evil, so when they discovered that some of them were young (sometimes handsome) men who were also just regular guys, they took this to mean that everyone had been terribly mistaken to lump in 'regular' soldiers with the SS and so they ran in the other direction. I mean, obviously there are distinctions to be made. But the Wehrmacht was also heavily involved in war crimes, so. All that teenage fawning over black and white pictures of real people who may have been involved in real atrocities... well. But that was still comparatively mild. When I first made Babylon Berlin gifs (before it was shown in the US on Netflix, before I made this sideblog, before there was a sizeable interest in these gifs aside from Volker Bruch stans), the accounts that reblogged them... I mean, there were actual Neonazi accounts among those. One I will never forget. Back then I still looked at reblogs to see if people had some commentary in the tags and so I opened this one blog and it was dedicated to Reinhard Heydrich, the "Butcher of Prague". On the front page, there were reblogs of Hitler gifs. Hitler greeting some kids, people doing the Nazi salute. The rest I've blocked from my memory. I had accidentally stumbled across a corner of Tumblr that was entirely sinister. I felt so sick. I ended up blocking and reporting it but this hellsite never gave me a reply so who even knows if anything happened.

So long story short: Ever since then I've resented the fact that Volker Bruch being in Unsere Mütter, unsere Väter gained him Neonazi followers (also tells you something about the miniseries, doesn't it) and I also resented that me just wanting to make Babylon Berlin gifs meant I had to see this stuff. So I stopped making any BB gifs (or at least any containing him) for a while and it's also the reason I never made many gifs of Gereon unless requested. I don't want to say that I feel vindicated after finding out that Volker Bruch is a complete idiot because I never paid much attention to him personally but I was also never his biggest fan, I find his acting range limited, he has a certain vibe and look that goes well with certain period dramas (actually only 20th century ones because he looked rough in the Goethe movie... I actually much prefer Alexander Fehling as an actor but that's neither here nor there). Anyway, there you go.

#ask #reply #anonymous #volker bruch's wife miriam stein is also in the miniseries #(and in the goethe movie) #honestly they both always gave me a vibe #now that i think about it #but i just thought they were hipsters #(also welcome to the babylon berlin fandom!) #(it's actually been a much better place since it's not just volker bruch fans anymore lol) #(also: normal volker bruch fans exist and i mean no offense to them at all) #(this is just about a certain kind of following he acquired through unsere mütter unsere väter)

[lowkeyorloki]

A Study In Suit Chapter One

Summary: You’ve worked too damn hard to get into Professor Laufeyson’s advanced course, and you’re not about to let your pesky attraction to him get in the way. Your professor, however, has other plans...

-> Read it on ao3

Taglist: @myraiswack @lucywrites02 @uada-animus @theatrelove3000 @crystal-28 @country-cowgirl-101

Taglist is open! Message/dm/reply to this post to be added!

Updates every Thursday

~

You didn’t want to admit that being in Professor Laufeyson’s class was the biggest accomplishment of your life. That seemed stupid, ridiculous even. Sure, it was the hardest English course your university had to offer, and sure, you had gotten in even though students your age weren’t usually permitted. And yes, you have maintained an “A” so far in spite of that, thank you very much.

Maybe it wasn’t the biggest accomplishment of your life, but it was one of them for sure. Right up there with getting into this university in the first place, winning that one bet with your fifth grade best friend…

More recently, not completely losing your composure as Professor Laufeyson leaned over you.

“Dehumanization of women in 1984.” he reads from a very, very messy outline in your notes. His breath just barely tickles your neck. If this was any other professor, you would jerk away from the closeness. But this was Professor Laufeyson, with his tailored suits and slicked back hair. You respected, for lack of a better term, the absolute shit out Professor Laufeyson. You had already learned more in his class than all your years at college combined, and were exposed to ways of thinking you never would have considered had you not taken this course.

Despite that, like so many others, you weren’t immune to his charm. You felt your heart beat faster as your professor’s body lingered over your shoulder, waiting for a response. You pull back slightly so you can meet his eyes.

“I know it’s not a super original take.” you say, a bit of uncertainty creeping into your voice. “But it’s something I feel strongly about. This is the fourth time I’ve read the book, and I dislike it more each time.” you pause, suddenly worrying it may seem like you’re criticizing Professor Laufeyson’s materials list. “Not that I’m upset I had to read it again.” you begin to stutter. Professor Laufeyson steps away and towards an empty desk, leaning against it and folding one long leg over the other. 

“It’s quite alright.” he says, smirking. Silently, you breathe a sigh of relief. The man is smirking, clicking his ballpoint pen slowly. You sigh in exasperation: he was bantering with you. “1984 is not my novel, after all.” he explains. “You’re taking a risk, though. You don’t think the book should be taught in schools?” you blink in surprise. How had the man managed to read your notes so fast?

“High schools.” you correct him. “I don’t think it should be taught in high schools.”

“Why’s that?” Professor Laufeyson challenges you. The students around you begin to listen in. You feel your face heat up.

“Because Winston is never explicitly stated to be a bad person. Not in regards to his views on women, at least.”

“That’s nothing a little critical thought can’t fix.”

“Critical thought? In seventeen year olds?” you scoff, and Professor Laufeyson cocks an eyebrow at you. You clear your throat. “With the language Winston uses, that’s not a risk I think the public schools should take, professor.”

Your professor has stopped clicking his pen, looking down at you with dark eyes. He’s quiet for just a bit too long, making you acutely aware of the rest of the class watching you. 

“And what will make your argument so different? You said it yourself, your criticism isn’t a new one. What will make your paper stand out to me?” Professor Laufeyson’s tongue is tapping his teeth, like he’s amused. That, among other things the sight makes you think of, makes you squirm in your seat.

This was what you liked about this class. A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you prepare to continue the conversation.

“Perspective. Experience.” you shrug. “I remember what it was like reading this when I was that young. It’s not a hypothetical to me. It was a real experience.” you finish. Professor Laufeyson nods, his brow slightly furrowed as he takes in your words.

“I thought seventeen year olds don’t have critical thought. Or were you just the exception?” a laugh ripples around the classroom.

Well, shit. How were you supposed to answer that? You lean forward, crossing your arms over the desk.

“Doesn’t matter if I had it then, sir. I’d like to think I’ve got it now.” is what you decide to go with. Something about Professor Laufeyson’s posture changes, and he lets out a low chuckle. 

“I suppose so.” he stands up, walking towards his desk. “I’m looking forward to reading your essay. You have yet to disappoint me.”

Pride swells in your chest at your professor’s praise. You pick your pencil back up, hoping to work more on your outline, but you can’t do anything more than doodle for the rest of class. 

~

“You have yet to disappoint me.” Natasha proclaims. You shush her, but quickly giggle after.

“Thanks for coming to my defense. You didn’t even try to get the class to stop paying attention to me.” you tease with trace amounts of truth in your words. Obviously, you liked talking to Professor Laufeyson. But you didn’t need, or want, an audience. 

“Please. He was so checking you out. Of course the class was going to watch.”

“Nat!” you stick an elbow in the redhead’s ribs. “Don’t say that. He’s our professor!”

“I know that went to your head just now. And why not say it? It’s totally true.” she grins. “Or do you not want me giving you false hope?”

“Okay, one, everyone thinks Professor Laufeyson is hot. You can stop acting like it’s just me.” Natasha holds up her hands in defeat, admitting you’re right. You continue. “Thank you. And second, I’m more interested in just getting through this class without distractions and with an A. Some of us need those to keep our scholarships, you know.”

“Okay, okay, point taken.” Natasha concedes. You’re both quiet for a minute as you walk out of the building. “He was checking you out, though.”

“Nat!”

~

That night, you pulled out your notes for Professor Laufeyson’s class, hoping you could get a head start on the essay. You open a new tab on your laptop, signing in quickly and preparing yourself for an all-nighter.

Dehumanization In 1984: How Casual Language Can Create Meaning

No, that was a dumb title. You delete it. 

Women In 1984: How Julia’s Character Is A Disservice

What? You weren’t going to blame the twenty-something year old woman for Winston’s inner monologue. You delete that too.

Groaning, you lean back in your chair and pinch the bridge of your nose. Why was this hard?! You felt anxious now, knowing your professor would most likely be especially critical of your essay. 

Your professor. You close your eyes, playing back the events from earlier. Despite your best efforts, you think about how Professor Laufeyson’s warm breath felt as his body closed in over yours. How his tongue made multiple appearances when you were talking. You remember the dress shirt your professor had been wearing, how certain buttons seemed to be strained over tight muscles. You wonder if Professor Laufeyson had noticed your own shirt. It was low cut enough, and probably showed off a fair amount of skin, especially once you had leaned forward…

You snap your eyes open. What were you doing? This was your professor you were thinking about! There was absolutely no way he thought of you like that, and even if he did, he... He…

Oh, you were in trouble.

#loki #loki imagine #loki x reader #loki au #loki x you #loki fic #loki fanfic #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson imagine #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson fic #loki laufeyson fanfic #loki laufeyson au #professor laufeyson #professor! loki au #professor! loki #professor! laufeyson #professor! laufeyson au #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x you #marvel x reader #avengers #avengers imagine #avengers x you #marvel au #professor laufeyson au

[sunseteyes]

“kita kita” — i see you

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ STARRING: café bartender/teacher!shinsuke kita; student!gn!reader

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ THEMES: mutual pining, fluff, angst, very very slow burn

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ WORD COUNT: 4.5k words

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ SYNOPSIS: shinsuke found a stability in you, but will he be stable enough to insert himself in your life?

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ INTERMISSION: the meaning of “kita kita” is “i see you” in english and this is a part two of “mahal kita” — i love you. it’s your choice if you’d like to read that first, but i do suggest you should because it’s the reader’s point of view in this fic. after finishing this, i thought i shouldn’t make a part three to leave it as an open ending but if you want me to write i can always satisfy our kita shinsuke needs😌 anyway, have fun reading!! no need for tissues but be prepared to have your heart broken slowly :)))

shinsuke was used to having constant changes in his life, but it didn’t mean that he was pleased about all of them. he knew that change is inevitable, but to experience so much at such a short time, it makes him want to question fate itself, whether he just had bad luck all along.

“everything happens for a reason, shin.” says his grandmother one time when he was little, to which he could still remember up to this very day. he understood, he always has, since he knew the elderly have much better things to say than a child like him. and yet, he couldn’t seem to find a logic to that very phrase. how can something as simple as a bug flying to your face have a reason? why does everyone need a reason for everything?

he grew up asking those questions to himself, but never to other people. he simply observed them, minding his own business, making sure sure he does well in whatever he does.

that’s until he met you.

“may i ask for your order, please.”

shinsuke was the first to look at the other’s face, his eyes boring onto the way yours looked up to the menu, as if you were still choosing what you wanted to order, but you said nothing further, and it seems that you came alone at the same time.

“what could you suggest?” and then your gaze was suddenly on him. instantly, there was a glimmer that showed in your look, as if you had just washed your face and felt refreshed afterwards.

shinsuke thought you were beautiful.

“uh-” he pauses, not really used to a customer asking him that kind of question. although, since you were indeed a customer, he decided there was nothing wrong with suggesting to you something he thought you’d fit well with.

“a chocolate-chip frappe. if you don’t like it, you can tell me so i can suggest another one.”

you didn’t even contemplate it and merely shook your head no, offering a gentle smile whilst telling it was alright.

“oh! and uhm maybe size venti, please?” you say as you glance down, probably grabbing a bill to pay your order. though it was also a possibility that you didn’t like having to make contact with other people much, just like him. there were customers like that, apparently.

ever since, shinsuke had always seen you at the same time of the day, and that kind of change became a constant that he unconsciously expects daily, ordering the same drink, only changing it when he suggests something else. well, that’s until the moment you opened the glassed doors of the cafe, with someone.

“the usual choco-chip frappe, please.” a smile playing by your lips, just like you would any other time, but it was obvious that you were very much comfortable with the person you were with. then, you turn to your company, asking him, “how about you, tobio? are you buying?”

shinsuke watches, something that he think was the only thing he could do as you talked to the other man named tobio. he wasn’t eavesdropping, he’s merely observing the way you two converse. may it have been because of his mere curiosity or not, he wasn't; he tries to keep calling himself out when he thinks that you might have caught him staring, and he first thought that you had indeed done so. that day, you still waved goodbye to him when you went out with tobio, and that’s only when he was certain that he was safe, but from what? why was he acting and thinking weird?

and he couldn’t talk about it to his grandmother openly. there was an unknown nagging feeling inside of him that tells him he shouldn’t. yet, he was proven guilty the moment his grandmother noticed him, no matter how hard he tried to pretend that his mind wasn’t as messy as it usually was, that he was the same as usual.

“is something the matter, shin?”

shinsuke talked to his grandmother about how he felt throughout the day, what had occurred, and what was occurring. the words that came out of her chapped lips bore itself in his mind that he still couldn’t forget it to this very day.

“you must really like them, for you to feel that way.”

like? shinsuke could admit that you stood out above any other customer he had encountered throughout the days of his job as a cafe bartender. he might have liked you as a person, but he was not that dense to not think of his grandmother’s words to be different than that idea.

shinsuke wanted to talk to you, he liked talking to you. and yet, the only times he could were when you come up to him to say your order and when he tells you of a new special or additional to the menu, which doesn’t even happen often, most probably every month or any special event such as new years, valentines, and so on. for short, he doesn’t even speak to you that often.

so how in the world will he like you in the way that his grandmother implied? maybe he was just daydreaming and she didn't mean it that way?

“shinsuke-san?”

he awoke from his own thoughts, the very figure of the subject of them standing in front of him, with the bar separating the two of you. he has you on arm’s length, and almost in an instant, his mind turned blank.

which is very unusual.

“do you mind if i could order a cinnamon bun for take out? i feel like i’ve been craving a lot today so i’m going to eat one on the way home.”

he still listened to you, he did, but his eyes were dropped to the sides of your face; your cheekbones porturded in a cutest way possible, and shinsuke had to tear himself away to punch in your order, packing the best pastry that was on display and before you could even hand in your payment, shinsuke spoke.

“it’s on me.” and do believe him if he ever said that he was also surprised himself.”think of it as a thank you for being a regular here.” it was a good thing that he didn’t seem to show much emotion and held on his straight face. shinsuke had never expected to ever hear himself like he would in this very situation. what was that word again? flirting? a friend of his said he was bad at it, and he was relieved that that fact helped him this time.

“oh, really?’ the smile wasn’t on your face anymore, but you didn’t look disappointed or uncomfortable. instead, shinsuke thinks you even looked flustered. “u-uh-are you sure? i don’t think it’s right for me to-”

“it’s alright,” he says, “if you’re uncomfortable with it, like i said, think of it as a way of thanking you for always coming here, or a prize, take it as you may.”

the pondering crosses your face for a long time, at least for him. he watches as you bite your lip in uncertainty and hesitantly pull your hand back to your sides, keeping the money back in your purse.

when you shyly hold up your hands again to take the drink, a ghost of a smile crosses his face when your fingers touch, even for just a second or two.

and that’s when he realized, the moment you slowly walked towards the door, offering a shy but cute smile before doing so, that maybe, you liked him too.

shisuke knew not to expect what he gives, and it eventually became the same for you, but unlike other people, he found it difficult when it came to you.

still, life goes on.

“kita! i found a new job for you!”

when he heard reon, his friend said that shinsuke's heart skipped a beat. his reaction was far from what he would expect way before when he was so desperate to find a job other than the current one. for months, he had been trying to, but why was he hesitating now? it’s not like he’d rather work as a bartender than the job that he had studied for. why now?

“where is it?” he inquired, unfocused and almost uninterested.

“remember the school that i just got in to substitute the counsellor? one of the professors backed out and i instantly referred you to the position! plus, it’s your favorite subject too, isn’t that nice? it’s like it’s fated for you.”

if anyone else was listening to the call, they would either see or comment about how unresponsive shinsuke was, yet at the same time, anyone who knows him already expects this side of him. unbeknownst to them, he was feeling the same thing as others perceive it to be.

“yeah,” he says, trying to not think of the nagging thoughts that much, persuading himself in his mind why such an opportunity should not be taken for granted.

“i’ll come by later, do you think it’s alright?” he says, making his way towards his room and grabbing a jacket to wear for the day, making sure that he looks appropriate enough to go to the university. after all, the school that reon is currently at is a private institution and even if it wasn’t it is disrespectful of shinsuke to not fix himself before presenting or introducing himself to see the premises and his co-workers, just to see the surroundings and all of that, basically inspecting if he’d be comfortable going to work there.

and guess who he found the moment he was done being toured by reon himself, on his way towards the faculty where he was supposed to see the teacher who he’d replace.

when he saw you, you had bumped into someone and then you just… froze, as if you had seen a ghost; pale, unresponsive, a look of shock and horror in your face, and a lost look in your eyes that he had never seen before. . and when he came over to check on you, he kept calling, but you didn’t answer, merely keeping your eyes on an area far away, as if your mind had separated from your body--or maybe it was your soul, but he knew that would be impossible. you had just bumped into someone, it’s not as if you had suffered from a fatal injury, did you?

that moment and day bothered him, much to the point that he failed to realize that it was the very first time you two had a proper conversation that was out of his work, and not related to it. however, shinsuke was not dumb. he eventually got to realize everything when he struck another one the next day you came to the cafe, on a weekend at most.

“you’re here.” he says, which was then followed with, “how have you been?”

the sight of your smiling face greets him once again, but he could tell just by the bags under your eyes, and the slight tension on your expression that what anyone else could see outside is far more different than the feelings that you’re probably feeling inside.

“i’ve been great, i slept a lot too.” so obviously, he saw the lie in your words, but he didn’t speak of it.

which is very unusual.

“can i order the same thing please? i’ll be staying here the whole day so can you also add a cheesecake, perhaps?”

cheesecakes, another rare thing for you to order. actually, it’s not really that rare, for you do order it every once in a while. yet one thing that shinsuke knows is that a sign of your ordering cheesecakes is not a good sign.

because whenever you do that, it means that you’re stressed.

quizzes, midterm exams, final exams, thesis projects, shinsuke knew that whenever the word cheesecake comes out of your lips, it meant that there’s something that you needed to do, and in order for you to distract yourself even for just a tiny bit, you don’t order a cinnamon bun. you order something sweeter, but not that sweet, one that is fluffier and easy to bite, no need for even a knife to cut it down to pieces.

of course, he knew.

“are you taking an exam?” he inquires, his curiosity banging out of the window that it’s difficult for even a cool-headed person like shinsuke to handle.

“oh, yeah, i will.” you answered, knitted brows and somehow a small, unsure smile, your eyes dropped down, as if you were trying to hide them from him. “i’m taking an entrance exam for a new school.”

that moment, shinsuke knew it was all too late--he was too late.

“an entrance exam?” he questions, appalled, “are you… going somewhere?

“yes,” you answered, “me and my brother are going to where my mother is.”

“is it far?” shinsuke should stop, he knew that he should. this is a personal matter, what does he have to do with your decisions in life?

“hmm, quite.” you say, twiddling your fingers, “uh, i’m going to go to the table now.”

the curve on your lips were still the same, even if you seemed to have tried to widen them for a tinge, as if it would assure him of something that you clearly had no idea of--something that shinsuke still haven’t told you about.

“i love you”

when you said those words to him yesterday, he didn’t believe it. practically, you have never known him; how could you love him by just merely being a regular customer of his?

he didn’t ask you again, and he thought this kind of sudden change would be something he’ll just go through.

and he thought wrong.

“shinsuke-san?” like before, he felt that familiar tingling at the tips of his fingers the moment he heard you call his name and when he was able to see your face. however, it all loses by its own when you still showed the same kind of expression you had last time; a melancholy look that he thought never fitted on your face, and he was actually willing to do anything to help you lose that kind of expression, but he knows his capabilities are not on par with your situation especially when he doesn’t know much about it. what he didn’t expect, is that he will sooner do, and that soon was today.

“do you mind if i could treat you to a drink? uhm- what flavor would you like?”

“no, it’s alright-”

“i insist,” you say, determination swimming in the intensity in the irides of your eyes, and it made it difficult for shinsuke to deny you further.

“okay, but why?” he questions, and he saw how your eyes changed in almost a n instant, as if realizing what you had gotten yourself into only now.

you avoided his gaze, but you were able to speak up after a couple of seconds of contemplation, “i want to talk to you, if that’s alright, that is.”

usually, shinsuke doesn’t accept anyone who tries to get him alone. of course, there will be customers who would notice him and try to get his attention, but he immediately turns them down. it doesn’t even matter if they're regular or not, but it will only get difficult on both sides if he drags on to it a little bit longer. for him, he believes that even if the truth is harsh, he’d rather do or say it than lie or hide something.

with you, it’s different. everything’s different.

and he thinks he knows why.

“okay, sure.” he replies, sounding rather unbothered, which he is, in a way, but it’s not as if he didn’t care about it, he just knew what he wanted to answer.

your reaction, though, despite shinsuke not seeing it directly since he was preparing himself to get off of his shift and he'd consider this as the last order he’ll take--well there was a smile that threatened to plaaster itself on his lips, but he was able to hide it, thankfully. if he wasn’t able to, you may have found it weird.

and why is he thinking of what you would think again?

“i have to change from my uniform, do you mind waiting for me?”

“oh, sure, no problem. i’ll just wait for you outside.” you say, then taking the beverages that you ordered for the two of you and proceeded to do what you said. shinsuke watches before he instantly does the same, not before asking permission to his boss, who is also a friend of his. after all, he only planned working for a short time and apparently his friend has a newly-built cafe that needed a couple of workers.

“osamu, do you mind if i go early? there are not many customers anyway, i will just be around if you need me.” he states, earning the attention of the boy, who didn’t seem appalled, but it might have been with the way he is not also a showy type of person, much like shinsuke himself.

“fine by me, i can cover for you.” osamu says, “did anything come up?”

shinsuke wasn’t used to leaving job early, for he doesn’t have anything to do afterwards other than look after his grandmother. thus, he wasn’t even surprised that osamu was asking him a question like that.

“nothing, i’ll just be talking to someone.” shinsuke says, removing his apron and stepping towards his locker to sooner change into casual clothes. unexpectedly, osamu follows him, leaning to one of the lockers, crossing his arms there.

“is it the regular that likes you?”

shinsuke turns to the other, sending him a look, “they don’t,”

osamu scoffs, “now that you’re resigning here, i doubt that they will come to the cafe after you’re gone.”

“i doubt that too,” shinsuke says, “they’re going to go far away before i can even resign.”

the other doesn’t reply, but it was obvious that he was watching shinsuke’s expression like a hawk, trying to see any unusuality that might stand out.

eventually, he had left osamu inside the cafe and went to where you were, sitting by the cafe’s patio, sipping on your usual choco-chip frappe, your eyes focused on the road, watching the car in a sense of peace that shinsuke finds himself with whenever he also stares at nature, thinking of nothing but how beautiful the world could be.

shinsuke didn’t want to disturb that calmness, and he even tried silently pulling the chair from your same table, but you immediately pulled yourself from your trance and turned his way.

“you’re here,” you smiled, “you look good on casual clothes, “shinsuke-san.”

shinsuke, as someone who usually didn’t mind compliments, furrows his brows, looking down before replying with “thank you, you didn’t have to.”

now that he was beside you, shinsuke found himself lost with what he was about to say. he usually knows these things in an instant, his mind aligned with his mind and each and every muscle of his body, but unfortunately for him, with how much he wanted to bring up, the connection was in tangles.

until you spoke up.

“thank you for accepting my offer, i’m sure you found it weird to have a customer treat you to a drink in exchange of talking to you. though i’m also sure that others have tried it too, did they?”

“there were customers who tried,” shinsuke replies in an instant, his brain starting to work its mechanisms once again, connecting its gears as fast as a lightning bolt. “-but i never really accepted their offers. this is the first time that i accepted this kind of offer.” he answered truthfully, clearly recalling the circumstances of the past few months, confirming his statement to himself.

“oh-” you were silent for awhile, merely looking at him with a distinct expression that he cannot fathom whether you were observing him or you were just thinking of something to say back. “-then why did you accept mine?”

shinsuke paused, but he recovered almost immediately. “i don’t know,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “-it’s alright when it’s you.”

again, you had this look that he cannot describe; eyes narrowed by a tiny bit, lips shut tight and pressed together, not moving by the slightest, and even to the point that he thinks you’re not breathing.

“why? is there something wrong?”

“do you remember what i told you the day you went to our school, shinsuke-san?” instead of answering his question, you responded with one more, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing why you were giving such a look. although, that thought was eventually removed from his mind when his memory bank brings him back to the scene that you were referring to, your voice echoing on the back of his head towards his attention, reminded of the words that you proclaimed to him bravely that day.

“i do,” he says, “you told me you love me.”

love; such a foreign word in shinsuke’s tongue, one word he rarely says, except for his grandmother, the only person aside from his parents that he was comfortable saying those three words freely, not that he had ever tried it to anyone else aside from his family. his love life is not something that he had ever put priority on due to the fact that it was not that important for him right now. don’t get him wrong, he still wanted to marry someone when he was ready and when he found them, but for now, he was putting that to the sides to build up their financial stability, and he was beginning to save up for his future as well, just from his extra savings that was not allotted to anything important.

love had never come to mind, until lately, when you came and said those words to him, as if lighting a spark inside of him, as if reminding his mind of the word “love,” and how it can be used for other people as well, not just to his blood relatives. he loved his friends, but he never told them, he found there was no need for it. when you told it to him, his heart reacted faster than his mind, thumping like a crazy highschooler crushing on someone that he had never been when he was that age. the more he thought about it though, he convinced himself that it was a mere admiration, one that didn’t cross the line of the “love” that couples say to each other, or when someone is professing their feelings to another that they bore those feelings on.

despite it all, he wasn’t convinced of that idea himself.

“do you?” shinsuke was curious, he had always been curious if what he thought was right, or if he wasn’t he was curious if you really loved him in a way that made you see him as a person, and not just of an outside appearance that he never bothered throughout his years. though he was also curious as to how? how could you love him like that when you never really talked to him a lot, saw him a lot, and even heard him a lot? how was it possible for someone like you to harbour feelings for someone like him; a mere cafe bartender you were a regular customer of?

“i do,” you say, gazing at him with a certain calmness in your face, before then turning away, towards the same road you had been watching earlier, the gentle wind along with the fresh air passing by your forms.

and after an intake of air, you spoke again.

“when we first met, you saw me.” your eyes were glanced over at one of the people that were crossing the road, watching them as if you were trying to mentally protect them as they were in the process of doing what they were doing. you had no idea what you were saying, and was letting out what you needed to say, and apparently, this is the topic that your mind wanted to talk about. you never have talked like this to anyone, and for you to act like this with someone you barely were a friend of. how you do it is something you’ll think about after this situation.

for now, you’re going with the flow of the words that slips out of your lips.

whether you’d regret it or not depends on the future and the future alone.

“i know this might be a little silly, but remember when i asked you what flavor you’d like to suggest? i was new to the cafe so i asked that question. i never expected to like the flavor, but i eventually did. although, that’s not really what made me a regular in the cafe.”

you met his eyes then, giving him the most genuine look you could muster. “i saw how you treated one of the elderly customers and you guided them through even if it almost took you more than usual. i even doubt you were annoyed even if you didn’t show much emotion, shinsuke-san.”

“by that reason, i saw you were a good person, through and through, and i commend you for that, you know?”

you chuckled, almost to yourself, “you kind of reminded me of my brother. he was a very kind person who always prioritized me and my parents above everyone, even as to giving up his dream job here to work and do something else to another place.”

shinsuke listened. he listened intently, not because he thought he should, but this was the answer he was looking for, yearning for.

so it must be the reason why his heart was pounding like this, then.

right?

was that reason enough? will it suffice?

“so thank you, shinsuke-san, for being an inspiration. i’ll always love you, no matter how little i know of that phrase and you yourself.’

that conversation with you stuck to his head for as long as he could remember. days passed by and weeks did, even until he got the job that ojiro referred him to, everything passed by like a blur without you in it.

he thought the answer he had been waiting for was answerable when you finally talked to him, thinking they must have lied there in between your words and sentences, but they weren’t.

“what? you mean (y/n) sugawara? their brother is the same teacher who resigned for the same position you got, shin.”

how naive of him to think that way--to think that only you had this feeling named “love” towards the other. because now, he could only suffer from the consequences of not being able to see those feelings that he himself harboured--the same kind that you had for him.

“i love you too,” he should have said that very day you confessed.

but it was all too late.

#shinsuke kita #kita x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #kita x you