#i just spent the last two days writing this and banging my head against the wall and nothing else

[macfrog]

rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

main masterlist

When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

taglist: @serenaxpedro @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @pattwtf @pascalpvnk @jediknightjana @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(lmk if i’ve missed you out & check my taglist info for how to be added!)

#frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #francisco morales #bbf!frankie #bbf!frankie morales #pedro pascal #pedro pascal frankie morales #pedro pascal characters #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #enemies to lovers #frankie morales enemies to lovers

[gweninred]

OMFG HEAR ME OUT I've been thinking about this for a while now and I'm going insane.

Reader organizes a very romantic dinner (candlelight, ambient music and all that), making Melissa's favorite dish, getting her flowers..

. and THEN reader gets on Mel's lap and end up giving her lap dance and just makes Melissa feel good and fucking her silly till she's absolutely spent..

ok im gonna go hide now..

Taking care of

I love this request! I’m not comfortable writing smut, so I won’t be writing that part, I’m sorry. Just leave the last part to your imaginations 😭 I hope you like it anyway and thank you for requesting!

-

You placed the flowers you had bought for your favourite redhead in a vase. White tulips. You set them on the middle of the dining table, then starting to make dinner, gnocchi. Once again Melissa’s favourite. She had thought you how to made some of her famous Italian dishes. Following her family recipe you had saved in your notes app to make the dish. You noticed your girlfriend was quite stressed lately, ever since she had to teach two grades, she would come home extremely stressed and exhausted from her day at work. But the oh-so good girlfriend you are, will always be there for her to comfort her and help her relax.

By the time you had finished dinner you had placed it in the oven to keep it warm until the redhead will be coming home. You made sure to light up some scented candles, switch the big lights off and turn on some slow romantic music.

“Baby?” Melissa shouted after banging the front door close. You could hear her bag drop on the floor. “I’m upstairs!” Stroking your hands down your sides you looked at the dress through the mirror. A hum of approval came from the teacher as she peaked her head through the opening of the doorway. “Looks good on ya.” You smiled. “There you are, honey.” You wrapped her arms around her neck, pulling her close. Her arms found its way around your waist, kissing the side of your face. “I missed you.” She murmured against your neck.

“Come with me.” You pulled away to grab her hand, leading her downstairs. You made her sit down at the table.

“I called your mom to get the recipe. I know you’ve thought me how to make it but I kind of forgot.” You giggled, placing the redhead’s favourite dish in front of her.

“This is so thoughtful and sweet, honey.” Melissa grabbed your hand from across the table, she kissed your knuckles. “And you got me my favourite flowers.” Another kiss was placed on your hand.

“I hope it’s good, I don’t want you to break up with me for making the sauce wrong.” You joked, Melissa’s gaze softened.

“Of course not.” She was in a sweet mood, you cooking her favourite dish and getting her flowers clearly did something to her. “Well, I’m not sure nonna is going to let you marry me actually.”

“Oh, hush now, eat.” You popped open a bottle of red wine, pouring two glasses. “Barolo.” You took a sip, humming at the taste. You had bought the bottle of wine on your vacation in Italy, saving it for a special occasion to open the bottle. “And? Would Nonna approve?” Melissa chuckled, her mouth stuffed.

“I think she would, you nailed that.” Proud of yourself you take a bite, nodding in approval.

After dinner Melissa insisted to do the dishes, her filling the dishwasher while you cleaned the rest of the kitchen. “I made dessert for us too, but we can eat that later tonight, I’m full.” The redhead pinned you against the kitchen counter. “Me too.” Her voice was raspy, one hand resting on the side of your face her other hand leaning on the counter, keeping you trapped. Her hand moved in your hair, brushing it through her fingers. Your eyes lingered down to her lips. Closing the gap between you, the teacher kissing you. You caressed her curves.

“I missed the taste of your lips.” You murmured against her lips, kissing her again.

Then Melissa pulled away, to sit down again. “Hey! Get back here.” You whined. A chuckle was heard from your girlfriend. You followed the other woman, taking a seat on her lap. “I’m so lucky to have you, you’re so good to me, honey.” She placed her hands on your thighs kissing you. The kiss was heated and became sloppy.

“No, I’m so lucky to have you!” You pulled away to push your pointer finger against her chest, the redhead giggling. “Just let me make you feel good.” You whispered in her ear, then biting it slightly. Melissa had to drawn back a groan. You got up from her lap and went to stand behind her. Your hands placed on her shoulders, you glide your hands over her breast down to her waist. Melissa placed her hands over your guiding them over her body. Your head was next to hers, kissing her neck.

“You have no idea what you are doing to me.” She rasped out, leaning back into your touch. “What am I doing to you?” You walked around her, taking a seat on her lap again, Melissa’s hands immediately grasping your butt. “You are driving me wild.” She went to kiss you again.

“Have me just like this.”

#lesbian #fanfic #abbott elementary #gwendoline christie #lisa ann walter #gwendolineuniverse #larissa weems #larissa weems x female reader #larissa x reader #larissa x y/n #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti imagine #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti

[its-time-to-write]

Hi there!! I’m the anon that requested the wedding date fic, which was absolutely fabulous, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to write about Jamie and reader’s wedding? It doesn’t need to be a continuation of that fic (and obviously you don’t need to write it if you’re not vibing with it!) I just thought it could be cute 💚

it took me a while to vibe with it, but I finally did!! Thanks for the request!

right words at the right time

“Don’t bite your nails!” your sister shrieks from across the room. You whip your hand out of your mouth. 

“I wasn’t,” you reply.

She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. Sure you weren’t. Here, eat something instead.”

“I can’t,” you say. “I’m too nervous. What if something goes wrong?”

“Like what?” Keeley asks from her position by the mirror. She slicks back a flyaway hair and dabs at the corner of her mouth.

“I dunno, what if- what if I trip? What if Ted forgets what he’s supposed to say? What if Jamie says no?”

Your sister and Keeley exchange a look.

“He’s the one who asked you,” Rebecca says before either of them can can snark back at you.

You’re still not convinced. “What if he’s changed his mind?” you ask worriedly.

Your sister bangs her head against the wall. You weren’t this nervous last night when you were out partying with the girls. None of the women in the room are quite sure what’s come over you.

“He hasn’t changed his mind,” Rebecca says in a placating tone. “Look at your hand. See that diamond? Does that look like something Jamie would forget about?”

“No,” you reply weakly. “But what if he wants it back? Or remembers that he’s famous and rich and I literally am neither of those things. I have a face that was made for the radio!”

“Oh my god,” you sister says, throwing her hands in the air. “He’s marrying you. Please calm the fuck down. You literally have to walk down the aisle in half an hour.”

Your nail is in your mouth again so Keeley reaches up and smacks it away.

She says, “Babes, I love you to fucking pieces, but you seriously need to calm down, yeah? It’s alright.”

There’s a knock on the door and you jump. 

“Almost ready?” Ted asks. “The boys are getting mighty anxious out there.”

‘The boys’ he’s referring to are the entirety of AFC Richmond, who may have been the reason this marriage is even happening. After all, it was Colin who swore he met the perfect person for Jamie and Dani who convinced you to go on a blind date. Sam provided the venue (obviously) and Isaac, Declan, and Richard made sure Jamie didn’t wear something stupid.

Rebecca opens the door a crack. “She’s getting mighty anxious in here.”

Ted frowns. “Pre-wedding jitters are normal, but you got nothing to worry about, darlin’. Two hundred of your closest friends and family are all here to support you on your big day.”

You blow out a breath. “More like thirty of my closest friends and family. The rest are for Jamie. Fuck’s sake, Ted, what am I doing? I shouldn’t be here. Do you know how much money he spent on this fucking wedding? It’s more than I make in two years. Don’t get me wrong, it’s literally my dream, but I just feel like I’m not going to measure up. He’s going to get bored of me sooner or later.”

Ted tilts his head and you feel oddly comforted under his scrutinizing gaze. “Alright, come with me,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “Everyone’s outside, I’m just gonna sneak you down the hall a little bit. You trust me?”

You nod and take his proffered arm. Your sister breathes, “Thank fuck,” as you leave, and you’re pretty sure you hear Keeley echo the sentiment.

Ted leads you to a door at the end of the hall and motions for you to stand against the wall, just out of sight. He knocks. 

“Jamie? You got a minute?”

The door opens and you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from making noise. 

“Your girl’s having a bit of a pre-marital fright, so I brought her down to talk to ya. If you just sit down and stick your hand out the door, she can grab it and you won’t see her before you’re supposed to.”

Jamie says, “Sounds good, coach,” and his head is replaced by an arm. You stare at it for a minute before Ted motions you to grab Jamie’s hand. You sit down, back against the wall, and reach for Jamie who gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“Christ love, your hands are fucking sweaty,” he says and you can tell by his voice that he’s smiling.

Something about hearing him makes tears well up, and you sniff.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Jamie asks. “You crying because you’re so happy your husband is mad fit and mad rich?”

You say, “No. Well, kind of,” and it’s all Jamie can do not to break the stupid fucking tradition of not seeing the bride before she walks down the aisle.

“Tell me,” he says softly. Ted hands you a tissue and then retreats back where he came from.

You sniff. “I’m really excited to marry you. I really fucking am. It’s just- you’re so much, you know? It’s one of the things I love about you. And I’m not, not really. I’m just me, and I don’t want you to realize that you can do better.”

Jamie maneuvers your hand so he can press a kiss to your knuckles.

“You worry too much,” he says. “We’re doing this shit, for better or for worse, yeah? How do I know you won’t realize you can do better than me? Dump me for some fit nerd.”

“You are a fit nerd,” you laugh through tears. “Football nerd, but still a nerd.”

Jamie snorts. “Shit babe, you know how to make a bloke feel special.”

You’re both silent for a minute, taking comfort in the fact that the love of your life is on the other side of the door.

The moment is broken by Keeley’s appearance. 

“Time to go back into hiding, babe,” she says.

You sigh, and Jamie squeezes your hand one more time. “See you in a bit, love,” he says.

Keeley helps you off the floor and back down to the room.

“All good?” she asks. 

“All good,” you reply.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

[starysky1289]

Toxic!Sorority!Vanessa X Reader. Breakup pt2

Part two to This FIC.

TW: Toxic relationship, manipulation, Abuse, Drug mention, Alcohol mention,Angst

It had been only a week sense you broke up with Vanessa, and you’d hadn’t seen her. But it felt like she was everywhere. She never showed up to any of the classes you shared, she was never around campus, she was never in the student building, but her presence felt heavy everywhere.

You spent most your time in your Dorm, when you weren’t in classes or getting food. Your Dorm was the only place you felt real safty. You had finally stood up to her, you weren’t taking her shit anymore, but you longed for her. You longed for her to hold your arm, her to call you pretty pet names and call you hers. You knew it was wrong, you knew she was bad, but something about it made you miss her.

There was a gentle knock on the door, before your roommate Stacie entered. She always had this calming aura about her that helped your relax. But this time she looked distressed, you could see it in her eyes. You quickly got up, holding her up, looked like she seen a ghost. You closed the door behind her, sitting her down on her bed.

“ Stacie, Stacie what’s wrong? “

“ I-I was..jumped…when I was leaving my class…three girls just started beating me, saying that it was from…h-her…”

You knew immediately what she meant, you only held her closer, keeping her head close to your chest. There was another knock on the door, this time it was more of a banging, with mixed laughter behind it.

“ Cmon Stacie! We’re not done yet! Get back out here! “

You quickly wrapped Stacie in a nearby blanket, pressing her forehead against yours to keep her distracted.

“ FUCK OFF. LEAVE US ALONE! “

“ did you hear that girls? She’s in there, hissing away from Nessas eyes. Let’s go tell her the news, she’ll be pleased to hear you haven’t killed your self yet. We’ll be back later Y/N!! “

Your heart raced. You close every window in the dorm, and turned off every light, the only one left was two small LED lights that hung at the edge of your beds, not bright enough to be noticed. This is what Vanessa ment, You’d never sleep in peace again, you were stuck. You could either live and cower in fear for your life, and give in and let Vanessa love you.

*~*

“ are you sure you don’t want me to come get you after your class Stacie? “

“ I’m positive, the last thing you need is Vanessa to find you. Hurry and get to your philosophy class, I’ll be safe. “

Stacie’s bruised were slightly better, she knew she had to keep going or else she’d fail. You hugged her gently, before making your way out of the dorm, making your way to your classroom. You settled into your seat, pulling out your note book and work. The professor started his lesson, and you’d go and write notes, answer questions excitedly, and doodle when you were listening. You revived a sudden notification from Stacie, she must of changed her mind. God you wish it was that.

You were sent a photo from her phone, all you saw was an ambulance, and a disturbing message.

“ you can come and meet with Vanessa before the end of the day, or when your little roomie comes back there won’t be anything left for the docs to save “

You panicked, shoving your stuff into your bag, immediately leaving the room.

“ Ms L/N! Where are you going! “

“ I’m sorry professor, but there’s an emergency! “

You ran out of the building, and only focused on getting to the frats neighborhood where the sorority was. You were running back to a trap, you knew it. But Stacie’s life was more important than anything else, even your own life. You skidded in front of the pink house, quickly knocking on the door. And low behold, Vanessa opened the door, her eyes staring down at you.

“ there’s my girl…”

“ WHAT DID YOU DO TO STACIE! “

“ all i did was what I had to. To get your attention. Come inside, let’s chat. “

You reluctantly followed her in, a few other girls sat in the living room, watching you go by. She sat you down at the kitchen island. She slid you over a High noon, before sitting across from you.

“ I’m not in the mood to drink. “

“ I know. But that’s the first thing you drank in this house. Same exact flavor too. I Remember these things about you y/n. “

She was right, it was the same size, drink, and flavor. You held it in your hand, sighing before looking back at her.

“ I also know how you’ve said you’d do anything for people you love. Rember when yiu got high off my stuff and you didn’t tell the campus police I was carrying anything? You could have told and we’d all be hauled away to jail, but you didn’t. You told me you loved me “

“ yeah….and..? “

“ don’t you love Stacie? You’d do anything for her? “

Small tears formed on your eyes and you nodded, you knew where she was going with this, and you couldn’t stop her. You wouldn’t even try.

“ then let’s make a deal y/n. If you come back to me, love me, be my girl again, I’ll never have Stacie hurt again. I won’t even have her removed as your roomate. And, after some well earned punishment, I’ll treat you better. “

She held your hand, and you silently cried, holding it tightly. You loved Stacie, you both thought you’d have a chance now, but you knew you couldn’t. You knew deep down Vanessa loved you, you had seen it. And you loved her. You had to do it.

“ y-you promise nessy…? “

“ I promise dove. Do I ever lie to you about things like this? “

You shook your head and she smirked, standing up to go comfort you. Leaning against your back and kissing your neck.

“ do we have a deal hun? “

“ y-yes….yes Vanessa. I love you…I-i do..I’m sorry I tried to leave you “

She clicked her tongue, you knew she was smiling like a hyena, but you didn’t wanna look. She kissed you gently, hugging you tighter.

“ oh…my poor girl..why don’t you stay the night hun…I’ll clean up all those tears..”

She lead you upstairs, pass the giggling girls. She let you go sit on the bed, as she closed and locked the door. She gave you the look you knew, she wasn’t going to let you go for hours.

*~*

A few days after the whole ordeal, Stacie was in a stable enough condition for you to visit her in the hospital. She was heavily bruised, and had stitches across her face. Vanessa let you go alone, she said it was part of her being nice.

“ y/n…”

“ Stacie….i went back to her, I’m so sorry. “

You wanted to sob, you wanted to crawl up with her and sob. But you’d give something away to the doctors. Stacie wasn’t disappointed, she was mad or anything.

“ I’m sorry. “

“ it’s not your fault..you really loved me..you had to let me go to keep me safe…”

“ she says she’ll still keep us roomates, and we can still hangout “

She held your hand, giving it a gentle kiss. You let only a few tears fall before wipping them away.

“ I love you Stacie. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, ok? “

“ I love you too y/n…be safe..”

You left the room and the hospital, Vanessa was in her black SUV waiting for you. You sat in the passenger seat besides her and kissed her cheek before she drove off.

“ how is she? “

“ stable, and healing. She’ll be out in a few weeks. “

“ good! Im so happy your friend is ok. I love you y/n. “

You looked down at your wrist, the pink scrunchie lay on it again. You only smile and look back up at her. She was being better to you. Maybe this would be the change.

“ I-i love you too Vanessa “

“ good girl. Now let’s go get you something pretty for the party this weekend. “

Maybe.

#vanessa shelly #five nights at freddy's #sorority!vanessa #vanessa shelly x reader #toxic!vanessa #tw toxic relationship #tw manipulation #tw abuse #tw drug mention #tw angst #tw alchohol mention

[noteveryoneis]

Avatrice as Hogwarts teacher

This is not about my fic, and I desperatly need sleep before my exam tomorrow but I just spent the last five hours writing this so enjoy

Hogwarts is Heaven's Place on Earth, witches and wizards say, thinking dreamily about their younger years and how the world was just on the palm of their hands.

Their children would snicker, looking at each other with playfulness in their eyes and irony sitting on their lips. Because, yes, Hogwarts still is and will always be the best place on Earth, but someone has made it their life goal to be the embodiement of mischief.

That certain someone is Hogwarts' Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ava Silva. For someone who is known to have battled the darkest wizards and witches in America before even reaching the age of twenty, Professor Silva has way too much joy and energy, and even a bunch of pubescent teenagers cannot keep up with her. Her ecstasy would bubble up and rise with every passing second, a devouring smile plastered on her face, short hair bouncing around her head, before exploding with a loud 'Bang!', leaving everyone fighting for cover in her wake. Sure, Professor Silva is chaotic and messy and disorganized, but she is also kind and tooth-rottingly sweet and so good at her job her student would probably all pass their Auror's entrance exam with flying colors.

What makes her so popular is also the playful (on her part) rivalry she entertains with their Charms Professor, Beatrice Young.

Professor Young's default setting is solemnity, never having a single hair out of place, shirt buttoned all the way up and hands folded behind her back. She is known for her rigor, her commitment and her profound disdain for her colleague Professor Silva. But Professor Young has also shown a certain sense of devotion to her students, and she is probably one of the most supportive teacher there is in the world. She believes in them, every single one of them, with undeniable faith and the most sincere certainty that drive her students to give the best version of themselves to the world, in and out of her classroom.

But beside the love they have for both teachers (and the rest of their teachers, in fact) Hogwarts' students absolutely adore every single interaction they can witness between the two professors.

At least once every couple of days, Professor Silva's door would swing open after a very loud explosion probably caused by her chaotic way of teaching, and Professor Young would be standing in the doorway, absolutely fuming with rage, jaw clenched and her hand gripping her wand so hard they were afraid it was going to snap in half.

"Once again," she would say, voice sharp and dripping with disdain, "you have found a way to disturb my teaching, Professor Silva."

Yes, because Headmistress Superion had had the brilliant idea to put their classrooms on either sides of a hallway, and there was no way they can't hear each other — especially when Professor Silva is that dedicated to give Headmistress Superion gray hair.

But Professor Silva is always unphased by her keen tone, flashing one of her sunny-kissed smile at her colleague.

"Come on, Bea," she would respond, bouncing on her toes. "Just take a seat, if you're so eager to see what we're doing."

Professor Young would never take a seat.

"Don't call me that."

Professor Silva would never stop.

And Professor Young would storm out, mumbling angry rants under her breath, and Professor Silva would wink at her students, continuing with her lesson and making a point of being the loudest person around.

Some people believe they are competing for the 'Best Teacher' title, which doesn't even exist (officially), some think they simply have different beliefs and views.

Some cheeky students whisper that perhaps Professor Silva has the hots for Professor Young (they know she is attracted to women, if the dozen conflicting pride flags in her pencil jar is anything to believe) and that this is just some weird flirting.

But they know it's impossible, because Professor Silva is very happy and in love, thank you very much. A simple golden band sits on her ring finger, and she sometimes like to slip little words about her wife when everyone leaves for holiday.

She's going to visit Castelbruxo, the brazillian school of witchcraft and wizardry, where she is from, with her beloved wife during spring break (she promises them Hogwarts is the best, but makes them swear not to tell anyone she ever said that because her wife can't know — nobody has the heart to tell her they don't know her wife either). She gives them a paper exam right before Christmas break, telling them she needs a reason not to visit her in-laws, and they laugh and ask if her wife is okay with that and she scoffs, 'Of course she is, who do you think came up with those questions?' (the test is so simple and they have such good grades that Professor Silva is called into Headmistress Superion's office who suspects they are cheating — they're not). She tells them, sitting cross-legged on her desk and pouting like a fretful child, that her wife forbid her to ever adopt a dragon, and they all send quiet thank you to her wife because they don't think they could handle a fire breathing version of Professor Silva (however, she lets her adopt a Bowtruck that sits happily on her shoulder one day, its arm wrapped into a strand of her hair — 'His name is Halo,' Professor Silva says, buzzing with happiness and excitement. 'My wife says it's a fitting name and now I'm trying to find a way to marry her again.') One day she comes into class red-eyed and with a running nose and they're all ready to go to war to whoever made her this sad until she tells them that she lost her wife's favorite scarf and dramatically plops on her chair repeating that she is a failure and a disgrace to womankind (they all breath in relief and tell her to buy her a new one and just spray her perfume on it when she argues it won't smell like her anymore — she comes back the next morning with rosy cheeks and a bright smile on her lips, wrapped in a sweater that is definitely not hers, and gives them the funniest class ever as a thank you).

Their conclusion is that Professor Young must have given her the impression that she was annoyed by her when she started teaching at Hogwarts — Nobody remembers when it was, Professor Silva just spawned on a random day and they don't remember ever having to watch her introduce herself to anyone — and Professor Silva saw it as a challenge.

And Merlin does she seem to love to provoke her.

She runs into the hall discheveled and covered in dirt after an eventful encounter with a Thestral (it's not a surprise that she sees them, Professor Silva has made the news in America at the age of thirteen for fighting Dark Wizards, they checked the library) , and collides with Professor Young, sending all of her books flying on the ground. She immediately apologizes profusely, picking up her books and papers and shoving them back into her hands before running away once again, living muddy footprints behind her and a sticky piece of meat into Professor Young's hand. It takes all of Professor Young's willpower not to chug it back at her running figure, and she simply straightens, grasps her books with a firm hand and crosses the expanse of grass towards the Forbidden Forest to give the meat back to the Thestral that is waiting for it at the edge of the woods (Professor Young also sees Thestral, but nobody knows who died in front of her and nobody dares to ask).

She makes a show of kicking down the Great Hall's door the time that Professor Young is having a bad day, barging into the room and yelling out 'To freedom!' before releasing a bunch of tiny birds that fly out into the fake ceiling, as she laughs maniacally. Professor Young buries her face in her hands, eyes closed, as Professor Lilith Villaumbrosia rolls her eyes, Professor Camila Delcán lets her jaw fall to the ground and Professor Michael Salvius absolutely bursts out laughing, like he always do whenever Professor Silva does something crazy. Professor Silva looks down at her shoes and doesn't answer when Headmistress Superion reprimands her publicly, and they catch the tiniest of smirks on Professor Young's lips as she lowers her hands, apparently pleased to see her rival finally being scolded for her behavior.

She sneaks up into the late evening class that Professor Young teaches, Ancient Runes, sitting at the back with her feet propped up on the table. Most of the time, Professor Young sees her immediately, and points sternly to the door. 'Get out,' she says, and Professor Silva skips happily to the door, sometime spinning on herself before exiting and yelling out 'Be good for boo-boo, kids!', and Professor Young slams the door in her face and they hear her giggle down the hall. But sometimes, Professor Young's wishful thinking makes her not-see that Professor Silva is here, or perhaps she chooses to ignore it. Professor Silva then makes a challenge of raising her hand in the middle of the class and asking the most out-of-pocket questions ('Would you rather be a Thunderbird with no wings or a Demiguise that can't disappear?', 'Do you think I could have taken Lestrange in a fight?', 'Would you love me if I was a worm?'). Every single question is met with a wand pointed at the door, and a stern 'Get out' and Professor Silva always does, always obeys and leaves.

But on the one time Professor Young doesn't see her rival, and Professor Silva doesn't try to tease her, they see another side of the whole banter. Professor Silva falls asleep with her arms crossed on the table, nose scunched into her elbow, and Professor Young doesn't say anything, doesn't awknowledge it, just takes off her tweed jacket and wraps it around her colleague's shoulders, not even stopping in her lesson. Professor Silva sleeps until the end of the class, and the students linger in the doorway, watching as Professor Young goes up to her table, and (softly) slams her hands on the table. Professor Silva wakes up with a start, looking around with wild eyes and messy hair, as Professor Young giggles — giggles! —, looking mockingly at her colleague.

'It seems like you fell asleep, Professor Silva.'

Professor Silva just buries her face back in her arms, giving her the middle finger, and Professor Young ushers them out when she realizes they're still here.

That's the weird side of the whole thing. Because their banter and teasing and yelling match in the Great Hall is being challenged by other things they do.

Like that one time Halo falls from Professor Silva's shoulder and she all but flings herself out of the window to catch him, gripping the edge at the last second. It's the first year that she's teaching at that moment and they all start yelling and screaming and try to pull her up but they're just eleven year old with scrawny bodies and even thiner arms. The door bursts open, slamming on the wall behind it, and Professor Young makes her way throug the students, iron hands on their shoulders to push them away. How she even know where Professor Silva is is beyond them, but she leans over the opening, letting the edge bury itself into her stomach, grips Professor Silva's wrists and pulls her up, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her jacket, of her belt, not even wasting a second to mock her. Professor Silva falls to the ground, panting, and Professor Young kneels next to her, putting her hands on her shoulder and looking at her in the eyes. 'Are you okay?' She asks. Professor Silva nods, and that's when the yelling begins. Professor Young doesn't even seem to notice that her students have left her classroom and are now calming the first years down, rumors and whispers swirling into the room. Professor Silva doesn't listen, she pats herself until a whistle answer her, and Halo emerges from one of her pockets. 'He flew out of the window,' Professor Silva explains, and Professor Young stays quiet for a few moments. 'So what,' she says, 'If Halo jumped off a bridge, would you follow him?!'. She grumbles and groans and Professor Silva doesn't answer, quiet for once, and the students look at each other with surprise, because not only does Professor Young know the Bowtruck's name, she uses it like she's done it before.

There is also the time where, for once, it's Professor Young's door that swings open, but it's a man that enters. He has Professor Young's eyes and her freckles and he immediately starts yelling and Professor Young just looks at him, quiet, rendered speechless by shock. All Hell breaks loose when Professor Silva runs from her own classroom and jumps into Professor Young's and all but tackles the man to the ground. That's when everyone starts screaming, the students rise and panic, Professor Young orders for them to leave in between frantic 'Ava!' as Professor Silva grabs the man by the collar and hits and Professor Young slams the door behind them. They know they should leave and not stay in front of the door, but everyone wants to be ready to fight too, if needed. Headmistress Superion makes her way down the corridor, all of the teacher arguing behind her (Professor Villaumbrosia yells things like 'I'm going to kill that bastard!' and Professor Salvius tries to reason with her as Professor Delcán cheers her on and Mary — Hogwarts gamekeeper whose real name has been lost in time — is being physically held back by her wife, Professor Shannon Master, as Professor Amulet asks how he even got in). When they open the door, the man is already gone, and Professor Silva sits on Professor Young's desk, swinging her legs as she's performing healing charms on her. Professor Young looks annoyed, mad and tired, but Professor Silva seems calmer, sweeter and also a little bit insane, like she's planning a murder in her head. (Rumours would later reveal that that man is Professor Young's brother, who works at the Ministry of Magic at a very high position and they all promise each other to make his life a living Hell, if they ever were to work in the same department as him.)

There is also that one time when Professor Silva takes them into the Forbidden Forest to practice some ground training and they get attacked by an acromantula. They all make it out without a scratch, except for Professor Silva, who throws herself straight into danger to make sure that none of them will even be touched by a single thing. She promises that she's okay, but she still needs to lean on Diego to walk, the boy letting her put an arm around his shoulder and almost carrying her out. When they make it out of the woods, Professor Young is running towards them, wand gripped between her fingers, some strands of hair flying around her face as she crosses the expance of grass. They don't even know how she knew where they were or that they had gotten attacked, but it doesn't matter as she screams 'Ava!', voice breaking and tearing the air around as soon as she realizes who Diego is carrying. Professor Silva straightens up, she lets go of Diego right as Professor Young catches her in her arms, panicked, terrified. Professor Silva keeps saying that she's okay, but Professor Young doesn't let her out of the infirmary for three days (they sneak her chocolate and 'get-well' cards and ask if her wife is going to be okay without her — Professor Silva laughs so hard her ribs hurt and Professor Young enters the room and yells at them for being here).

They learn about Professor Young's family one fateful Thursday morning, when she enters the room smelling faintly of smoke and with bags under her eyes, a single strand of hair escaping of her bun and framing her face. She's wearing the sweater of a Quidditch team with a curupira for a mascot that they all know is not hers (She might be the smartest person in this school, but the woman doesn't know shit about Quidditch, no matter how much good will she put into learning). She starts the lesson just like she usually does, and if their silence weirds her out, she doesn't awknowledge it. It's Rose Granger that takes one for the team and shyly raises her hand. 'Yes, Miss Granger?' Professor Young asks. 'I'm sorry if it's innapropriate, professor, but are you okay?'. They're all hanging to her lips, and she looks around, wondering if dismissing the question would really bring her peace.

She sighs, rubs the bridge of her nose.

"My wife tried to set the kitchen on fire last night."

She freezes as soon as the words have left her mouth, suddenly blanching and looking up at them, wild panic in her eyes and her chest still, as if she has stopped breathing. Nobody says a word, until...

"Did she do it on purpose?" Diego asks, raising his hand but not waiting for her solicitation.

Professor Young looks around, chest still unmoving.

"I... Don't think so. She's... A really bad cook."

They all laugh at that, and Professor Young grips her wand like she's about to bolt out the door.

"You should introduce her to Professor Silva," Rose suggests.

"Are you crazy?!" Lorcan Scamander says, eyes wide with fear. "They would burn Hogwarts to the ground!"

Everyone laughs even harder, and even Professor Young laughs a little, bringing a shaky hand to her mouth as if trying to retain her smile. But she's breathing again and colors have made their way back onto her face and she sits down at her desk because she looks like she cannot stand on her wobbly legs, but nobody says a word.

"That would be a really bad idea," she says, before continuing with her lesson.

Of course, they are children, they don't let their teacher off the hook that easily.

They eat up every single information they can get on Professor Young's wife, even if she doesn't say much. They know that she likes Quidditch and she has a tendency to spill things on Professor Young's clothes. They know she's trying to bully her into getting a Niffler and that she wants to use said Niffler to wreak havoc into her brother's office, like Professor Young says it relutanctly, it seems, looking away from them as if she's too scared to see their reaction .

How Professor Young could even live with someone that chaotic is a mystery, a miracle. She can barely survive when Professor Silva drops a muddy pair of gloves on her spotless desk, how can she live through someone going through her closet and stealing every single one of her clothes? But Professor Young loves her wife, they see it in the glimmer in her eyes when she talks about her, how she shyly tucks her non-existent loose strand of hair back, blushing slightly like a schoolgirl and then squinting suspiciously at them when she realizes they managed to lose five minutes of their lessons getting her to talk about her wife.

Professor Young's admission is like a fire being lit up; suddenly, some students who were once too scared to admit who they are, to show who they really are are getting the courage to do so and only receive kindness as an answer. The Slytherins hold a 'gender reveal' party for a boy that just came out, Hufflepuffs start a business of colorful flags and pins, Ravenclaw gather money to buy a transgender girl her fist skirt and Gryffindors start taping little notes of encouragement on the walls. An ungoing jokes runs around the castle, and everyone is wondering who will be the next to come out or to start dating someone. Professor Salvius blurts out that he's dating Hogsmead's bartender when they tease him, and it takes them a few seconds to realize Hans is definitely not a girl's name, Professor Amunet lets out a gay joke in the middle of the class and then tries desperately to get them to quiet down as if she is going to get in trouble, Professor Delcán says that she doesn't have a preference for any gender when asked like it's the most natural thing in the world. Mary flips them off when they tease her for being completely smitten with her wife, earning herself a slap on the back of the head from said wife, yelling at them that they are just jealous because her wife is hot and they can't yell back because Professor Matters is undeniably pretty.

They know the world has changed when they see a little rainbow flag hidden in the corner of Professor Young's blackboard.

And when Professor Villaumbrosia catches them talking about sending a 'mockery pride flag' to Professor Young's brother, she doesn't report them. She just gives them his address.

Professor Silva keeps working her magical chaos until she comes in one day tired and nervous and disheveled like she slept in her clothes.

Usually that means that she has convinced her wife to do something crazy and unhinged like suddenly decide to 'run away together' ('When life gets too hard, you gotta know when to take a break,' she had said wisely when explaining that ritual 'The first time I asked her to run away, she refused, and both of us regretted it very deeply after that.'). Usually they would pack a few clothes and pretend to never be coming back, just for a few hours, and go wherever they wanted (the mountains in Switzerland, the beach in Spain, a lake in France or some remote village in Portugal). They would always come back, once the world seemed brighter and lighter, and Professor Silva would always be much more calm (which helped Professor Young too, apparently, because then she didn't have to yell at her to stop blowing things up) ( there was also the scandalous rumor that Professor Silva would also be 'getting laid' during those days, but hey, they were teenagers, rumous were their best form of entertainement.)

But that day, she comes in barely human, looking like she just crawled out of an Occamy's nest, and they all know that something is deeply and profoundly wrong.

"My wife is sick," she admits after looking at the bare board for five minutes without finding the chalk in her hand. "I had to fight her to stay at home today."

They all know she would rather be with her today, and so they do what kids do best: they make stupid decisions. She only teaches Gryffindor that day, and so they all gather around and use a Wealsey's Skiving Snackbox and soon they are swarming the infirmary with fake illnesses. Headmistress Superion herself comes down to see what's going on, and sighs deeply.

"It seems like there is a flu going around here," she says. "Truly tragic. It looks like you won't have any students attending your classes today," she tells Professor Silva who looks like she doesn't know whether or not to panic or thank them.

She runs back to her mysterious wife and Headmistress Superion looks away when they all start getting better fifteen minutes after she left.

Professor Young too, seems to be getting down with the flu. But she's not here for them to tell her it's a fake illness.

The secret is broken during an uneventful summer, as Diego is being dragged by his dads to a bar in Hogsmead. He whines and says there is no way he's getting any closer than sixty-thousand feet to school during summer break, but his fathers don't falter.

And that's how he ends up sitting in front of a Butterbeer (which is not really that bad) in the middle of a bar, with his parents talking to some of their friends as he sulks in a corner (later, he'll wonder why he was even mad at all, there weren't any bad side to that adventure).

He's gulping down the content of his glass when something catches his eyes and he can't look away.

It's Professor Young, sitting at a table with her hands folded onto her lap. She's wearing a short-sleeved button-down and her hair is down and she looks younger, softer and lighter, like every worry that was once crinckling her brow has melted away, only leaving a young woman trying to enjoy her life. She doesn't seem out of place, because Professor Young is never out of place, but it feels strange to think of her as Professor Young, like the title is a coat she sheds off when going home. She's playing pensively with the alliance around her finger, lost in her own thoughts.

Diego is thinking about whether he really values his own life before going up and saying hi, when the world breaks.

Because a woman plops down next to her, so close she's almost onto her lap, putting two glasses onto the table and Professor Young smiles and laughs as she catches the drinks and makes sure they don't spill. She wraps her arm around Professor Young's shoulder and throws her head back and laugh, short hair bouncing around her head, and Professor Young looks at her, looks at her like she's the only thing in the world, like she's a fire and Professor Young is a salamander reaching for warmth.

And Diego knows he sould stop staring, knows he should look away, but he can't, mouth hanging open.

Because, halfway on Professor Young's lap, losing her own cardigan and rambling like she's reciting a goddamn novel is Professor Silva. Professor Silva and her clumsiness, Professor Silva and her ability to set things on fire, Professor Silva who knows exactly which buttons to push and how to get away with it.

Curupiras are the brazilian Quidditch team's mascot, and Diego cannot believe how stupid teenagers are. Because all this time, the answer was right in front of their noses.

And as he watches the way they look at each other, he realizes that this is perfect just the way it is. Perhaps they don't want all of their students to know. Perhaps they're just playing their own tricks on them.

It doesn't matter. Diego is happy, and his heart swells in his chest and he feels like he can take on the world.

He doesn't know who sees him first, Professor Young or Professor Silva, but suddenly they're looking at him, surprised to see him there. Professor Young blushes and buries her face into Professor Silva's shoulder, who laughs and raises her arm to wave at him, nearly knocking their drinks that Professor Young catches without even looking, like she has built muscle memory around her wife's clumsiness.

He raises a finger to his lips, he won't tell a soul, and Professor Silva smiles as she wraps her arms around her wife, and sends him a knowing wink.

Professor Silva keeps disrupting Professor Young's classes, and her wife loves her for it.

("Good luck," Diego would tell his little sister years later, watching from the corner of his eyes as two women with matching alliance would try to convince a child to get into the train and not into the baggage wagon. He wouldn't even try to explain himself as his little sister would look at him like he had lost his damn mind. "And tell Professor Silva to go easy on her wife this year. I don't think we can all survive the three of them in the same school.")

#avatrice #ava x beatrice #warrior nun #ava silva #sister beatrice #harry potter au #hogwarts au #renew warrior nun #avatrice as hogwarts teacher

[epithet-beloved]

I know I had a request recently,, however, do you have any ideas for guile and ac sylvie hanging out?

SYLVIE AND GUILE HANGING OUT HEADCANONS! 

synopsis… sylvie has a stranger perception of friendship than guile thought

ft. Sylvester “Sylvie” Ashling, Guile Manning, Dirk Chappy (mentioned), Abbot Arbuckle (mentioned)

tags… platonic, sylvie lives with chappy, guile sucks at feelings (but he’s trying his best), sylvie sucks at friendships (but he’s also trying his best)

word count… 853

a/n… omg the first non-reader insert related request … i’m not too confident in my guile writing but i’m trying my little best!!! ✧ 🦝

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Hoh boy

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 When this kid sputters out an offer to Guile to “hang out” he really had no idea what he was in for.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 He wanted to refuse, he really sort of kinda did. This is literally a kid, and he’s Guile Manning.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 But, Guile is a sap deep deep down and doesn’t want to be cruel to the little guy, so he accepts Sylvie’s offer.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 The utter delight in his eyes is one that simultaneously relieves and pains Guile – is he really… that lonely?

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 It’d be a few days later when Guile opens his emails and almost chokes on his coffee to find that Sylvie made a whole damn itinerary for their hangout.  AN ITINERARY. 

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Guile does think kids are funny to talk to (you ever ask a kid about their dreams? So funny) but Sylvie is on a whole other level.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 A precise hour dedicated to catch-up, then fifteen minutes for snacks, before two hours are spent taking a bus over to a leisure plex where they can play bowling.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 It makes Guile’s head spin how exact and to the point all the instructions are.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Before Guile arrives at his house, Sylvie is PANICKING. He’s yelling at his uncle to scram from the house because he has friends coming over (to which Dirk Chappy exclaims in happiness that his nephew finally has some pals; this embarrasses the boy even more)

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 He has a plan.  Foolproof, fully researched, and optimum for the hangout that will result in a permanent friendship that will be long and fruitful!

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 With this, there’s no way Guile will think about leaving him.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 …But what if it’s too much?  A little seedling of doubt begins to grow rapidly in Sylvie’s mind.  What if Guile is freaked out, and he doesn’t come around at all?  Maybe he’ll politely put Sylvie down, saying he appreciates it but it’s a bit much.  Or maybe—

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Sylvie’s spiralling is stalled by the doorbell going off and Guile at the door with a hood over his head.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 (Seriously, that Arbuckle guy gets way too close to finding him.)

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Guile actually arrived a little early, but per the schedule given, he waited until exactly 11am on the dot to make his presence known.  Give the kid a little leeway…

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 The designated time spent for catch-up ended up going quicker than Sylvie thought, because not much happened in between now and when they last met.  The first strike for Sylvie’s expectations.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 If it were anyone else, Guile would have already started banging his head against the table.  This is going so awkwardly, but he didn’t want to do any bad to the kid.  He just wants a friend.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 And that’s when it clicks for Guile what he must do as the responsible adult in the situation.  He sighs and pats Sylvie’s head as he nibbles on a cookie provided for the two.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 “Listen, Sylvie…” he trails off.  Guile really didn’t know where he was going with this.  He doesn’t want to just say outright that this isn’t how you make friends, but tact isn’t exactly his strong suit.  He just ends up stiffly asking, “what’s up with the itinerary?  Gave me a real surprise there when I got the email.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 He neglects to leave out how professionally worded an email from said twelve year old was.  Gave him the creeps.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Sylvie blinks, before clearing his throat, leaning back in his chair and waving his hand about dismissively.  “Oh, yeah, just thought I should give you some expectations for me!  Had to make sure no one can outdo me in hanging out – I sure know Rick gets competitive.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Guile holds his tongue in suggesting that maybe Sylvie isn’t the only one with friendship issues.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 “...Actually?”  Sylvie continues, and Guile perks up, hoping that the boy has seen the error in his calculations.  “Could you eat your cookie a bit slower?  Our bus isn’t for another hour.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 He had too much faith in him – doesn’t Sylvie have a masters?  “We could take an earlier one,” Guile counters.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Sylvie stirs.  “But the itinerary—”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 “Sylvie…”  Guile sighs.  The boy was starting to get antsy.  Guile really wished he knew better about this sort of thing.  Friendship.  It’d make life so much easier.  Guess he has to betray the kid’s wishes and tell it to him straight; “this is not how you do the friend thing.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 To Guile’s expectations, Sylvie doesn’t reply.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Guile begins to explain how friendship is supposed to be a natural progression, not some masterminded plan to get the person to like you and rely on you as much as possible.  It was blunt, and maybe a little harsh, but it seems like he got through to him.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 His heart aches when Sylvie apologises meekly, his pretentious attitude melting away completely.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 It’s quiet for a bit, and even more awkward, before Guile thinks of something.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 “Hey,” he says, “did you know there’s this special greeting that means ‘peace among worlds?’”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Sylvie perks up a little, leaning towards him in interest.  “Really?”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Guile always thought kids were funny.  Maybe, with enough time, he can consider this one a friend.

#🦝's writings #𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 request ! #anime campaign #anime campaign imagines #sylvester ashling #sylvie ashling #guile manning

[ltlthetrifecta]

You Are My Sunshine

☔️: how do they make up after a fight?

tanbug/tangbug fighting and then making up. pls be kind and gentle w/ my writing. fic/drabble/one-shot requests are open.

ladybug x tangerine: fluff, angst, cheesiness (lots of it) ensues

"Fuck." Tangerine softly let his head bang against the wall in front of him. Ladybug had locked himself in the bathroom mid-argument, something he only did when he was so overwhelmed he just couldn't stand to be in the same room as Tangerine.

They had had a good day, had spent time with Lemon at a board game cafe and had ended the night with dinner at Tangerine's favorite restaurant. The dinner had been going well, so well, until Tangerine's ex-boyfriend had sauntered over to the table like the snake and prick he was.

Ladybug took pride in the fact that he wasn't a jealous or hateful man. But fuck all of that when it came to this man. He knew about Tangerine's past with his ex--he had really done a number on him. Had cheated on him their entire relationship, the last straw being when Tangerine had come home from a mission to see him and his trainer fucking in Tangerine's home, in his bed, with his robe on of all things. I mean fuck--that would've been enough for anyone. But unluckily, for Ladybug it didn't end there. The prick had kept trying to contact Tangerine, especially in the recent months. It had unwillingly become a source of tension for them.

So when Ladybug saw the prick now at the table, he had almost lost it right then and there. Lemon sat there in shock, Tangerine sat there mouth, slightly ajar looking back and forth between Ladybug and him.

"Who's your little friend?" He'd said looking at Ladybug with disdain.

Little friend? This motherfucker, he was Tangerine's fiance that's who. And to his surprise, Tangerine hadn't corrected him, hadn't even told the prick he was engaged. What the fuck was that about? Ladybug could've been wrong (with his limited dating experience and all), but he was sure that when you had a fiance, you introduced them as such.

Hence their current situation. As soon as Ladybug had abruptly stood up looking so upset and hurt, Tan knew he had fucked up. He didn't even know why he had let his ex get to him. He didn't mean anything to him. Not at all. After, he had met Ladybug, the possibility of him loving anyone like he loved him was gone. Ladybug was his everything. His sunshine when his days were dark, the gravity that kept him grounded, one of two reasons he stayed sane even in the times he felt like he might just lose it. No one had ever made him feel the way Ladybug did, so good, so safe, both of which were foreign concepts to him most of his life.

He knocked on the bathroom door softly. "Sunshine?" He heard a small sniffle through the door.

"My love, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking when I introduced you. I wasn't fucking thinking and fuck. I-I. I was just shocked to see him there." Silence.

He had an idea.

"You are my sunshine..." Tangerine started singing softly. He could hear Ladybug pause what he was doing.

"My only sunshine." He heard Ladybug groan softly in the bathroom. He had always hated when Tangerine sang this to him, it was so cheesy he always had to laugh (which is why he loved it). But this time he wanted to be mad and sulky dammit. Nothing as stupid as someone making you laugh when you were mad at them.

Tangerine started smiling softly to himself, he slid down the door to sit on the floor with his shoulder leaned against the frame. "You make me happy--" God, Tan was such a bad singer, Ladybug loved his voice--loved him so fucking much.

"--when clouds are grey. I never told you how much I love you--" he stopped and fell back as the door opened. From his position sprawled on the floor, he looked up at Ladybug, his eyes slightly red and watery, but his face forgiving.

"Please don't take my sunshine away." He sang softly. As Ladybug reached down, he reached up and pulled Ladybug into a hug, both of them now on the floor together.

"Don't ever do that again, Tan."

Tangerine swiped his thumb across his cheek catching a tear before it could fall from those beautiful blue eyes.

"And fuck that fucking prick." Tangerine laughed.

"Yeah, fuck him sunshine."

_________________________________________________________

Not edited so pls be gentle w/ me. I wanted to get this out there.

#cheesy #true parts to this story #no one can convince me #that there is anything sweeter than being called sunshine #i would know #my entire heart #cheesy but if you're in love you do cheesy shit #angst #fluff #bullet train #bullet train ladybug #bullet train tangerine #tangerine #ladybug #ladybug x tangerine #tanbug #tangerine x ladybug #bullet train movie #ltltrifecta

[jcbbby]

prompt: 🪦 like the brightest falling star burning across the sky

🎉 JCBBBY’S 500 FOLLOWER PARTY! 🎉

thank you for not one, but TWO prompts for this prompt party! <3 I'm so glad to have you here!! - "Like the brightest falling star burning across the sky." warnings: not really any? just more Kit being dramatic and emo genre: angst note: I'm so sorry this is very short! :/ -

"Kit!" You banged on the door of his home. "Kit, open this door!"

You had awoken that morning to the delivery of a letter, from Kit. Expecting a beautifully written poem of sorts, given your smitten exchanges over the last several months. However, upon unfolding the paper, your smile fell. It was a letter detailing how he believed you two should break things off, and that he was sorry for leading you on. Your heart sunk as he signed off his letter asking you to just forget him, as if it were so simple.

You continued banging on the wooden door, feeling your fists grow red with each furious rap on it. Suddenly, the door opened, your hand stopped short of landing another blow. There he stood in front of you, stoic but guarded. He leaned against the door frame.

"What on earth is this?!" You spat, waving the letter in front of his face. "Have you so little feeling for me? Was this all just a bit of fun for you?"

"Darling...please. Just go." He sighed, going to close the door.

You shoved your way through the threshold, defiant on getting to the bottom of this. "No. I deserve an answer, Kit. It was just two days ago we were dancing around giggling like children, and now you ask me to forget you? Have I done something to you?"

Kit walked toward his sitting room as you followed, letting the door shut behind you. He didn't answer as he made his way over to his desk, sitting in his writing chair. You stood a few paces from him, trying your best to maintain composure.

"Answer me!" You demanded.

He shook his head, not meeting your eyeline. "No, you've done nothing. You've been wonderful. The problem lies with me...you are not deserving of me."

You cocked your head back, letting out an exasperated huff. "I beg your pardon? Kit, you are a shining star, my love. Can you not see how passionate you make me?"

"Yes... a shining star. Like the brightest falling star burning across the sky... only to then fizzle out, spent and gone." Kit hung his head, before quickly turning it toward the fire. "You ought to leave."

"No, no. Kit, please...just..." You approached him, kneeling down in front of him.

You looked up to him with large, doe eyes, tears stinging them. You took his hand in yours, kissing it lightly.

"Darling..." He began, taking his hand to your cheek. "I am a like a belladonna flower. Tis nice to look at, but the demise of any who dares let it in."

"I care not! All I do care about is you. Why not let me decide my fate for myself?" You placed your hand over his on your cheek.

"I have caused many a person enough pain and strife to last them into the afterlife..." He lightly pushed you out of his way as he stood up and began walking to the fireplace. "I refuse to let another soul succumb to my impulsive temper, or my suggestive activities. You should leave now while you still have your wits about you."

"What are you even on about? Kit, you sound like one of your plays." You crossed your arms over your chest. "Do you hear yourself?"

He spun around, a scowl across his expression. "I am one of my plays, haven't you caught on? Tragedy, despair, pain. Where do you think I find inspiration?"

You were silent, unsure of how to reply. You shuffled on your feet, both holding each other's stare for a moment. "I...I just want to help you." Your demeanor softened.

"I did not ask thee for help..." He spat. "You would help me by leaving. Forgetting me. Moving on."

You felt your body tense, overcome by frustration. It was clear there was no getting through to him. "Fine. As you wish." You spun on your heels to walk back to the front door. After one step, you spun back around. "You might let yourself indulge in a happily ever after sometimes. Perhaps you wouldn't become so fizzled out, spent and gone. Goodbye Kit."

With that, you walked out the door, slamming it behind you. Kit sighed to himself, walking back to his desk. He sunk down into his chair and quietly picked up his quill. As he wrote, a tear fell from his cheek, darkening a spot on the paper.

#jcbbby 500 follower party! #kit marlowe x reader #christopher marlowe x reader #will tnt #will tnt fanfiction #will tnt kit marlowe #jamie campbell bower #jamie bower

[so-sures-blog]

Sound the Alarm

Emma just wants to get some sleep, keep her little sister in check, and earn her law degree. Relationships are the last thing on her mind.

Her four mental goals are suddenly cut down to one once she meets her crazy next door neighbors.

And it starts by setting off the fire alarm.

(AKA: The Nemma Neighbor AU that no one asked for

This ship doesn’t get enough appreciation ToT)

Based off fic 2 am by shmulia

It was two am, and Emma is going to murder the person who set off the fire alarm. 

She rips the sheets off her body and opens the door viciously. If this was Kitty trying to cook anything but ramen, then Emma is going to kick her out of the apartment and throw away her key.

Emma slit her eyes, looking at the spotless kitchen that was free of her sister, and turns to see Kitty stumble out of her room, more tired than pissed off. 

It had been a long day for Emma; being a law student was a full-time job, with that on top of her other job— keeping her little sister in check. She had an essay that she spent hours writing on, and when it was finally over she had to finish the chores Kitty had clearly neglected before she had wanted to pass out. 

And now some idiot had set off the fire alarm. 

Emma is going to kill them.

Involuntary actions are free of ill will, Emma reminds herself as she stomps towards the door. Kitty crashes on the couch, trusting her sister to give the guilty resident a piece of her mind. 

Emma grabs the doorknob and yanks it open, the door flying open and slamming against the wall with a nasty bang. Emma is too furious to care — the damage would be morning-Emma’s problem. 

Then she stops. Stares. And stares some more, because she is tired and is pretty sure this was a hallucination. 

He is gorgeous. A couple inches taller than her, lean with brown skin and chocolate eyes that seemed extremely wide the moment she opened the door. His fist is raised, like he was going to knock on the door before she whipped it open.

Maybe she hadn't been that bad in a past life, Emma thinks as she takes in the guy in front of her, because God was clearly apologising for the fire alarm. Really, how often did good-looking guys turn up on her doorstep?

Not since her ex-boyfriend Jake, and Emma refuses to give him an ounce of thought this early in the morning and in the face of a guy easily more attractive than him. 

The two stare at each other and Emma waits for the guy to speak.

"Oh. Um. Hey— hi! I’m Noah. I live next door.” He awkwardly scratches the back of his head. “I don't know if you heard the fire alarm go off just now— " he starts, before Emma cuts him off.

"Oh, I heard alright," she narrows her eyes. If Noah reveals that he was the one who set the alarm off, hotness be damned Emma would make sure his death was swift and painful.

Noah gulps nervously.

"Ah, okay. My roommate is kind of responsible for that, and he sent me over to apologise. So. Yeah. Sorry about that."

Emma folds her arms across her chest. "And he didn't come over to apologise because … ?"

Noah raises his hands defensively. "He's just clearing the air in our apartment. He said he'll come out in a minute, but wanted someone to apologise right away — and then he shoved me out of the door before I was even awake!”

Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “No way. You slept through that alarm?” 

Noah shrugs, a small smirk working its way up on his lips. “I could sleep through the apocalypse if I wanted to.”

Emma laughs, and finds herself surprised how genuine it was. She leans against the doorway and notices Noah’s eyes flicking down her body before looking away, his cheeks reddening. 

She realizes she is in her pajamas, consisting of her extremely short shorts and her orange oversized sweatshirt that says The Best Lawyer Sister that Kitty gave her. Emma is unable to stop the small grin growing on her face, and he coughs.

Noah cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to distract them both. "Anyway ... Sorry about the fire alarm," he says.

Emma nods and represses a yawn. "It's fine," she says. She rubs her eyes as a wave of exhaustion passes over her, washing away her anger and replacing it with the desire to sleep. "Just try not to do it again, okay?"

Noah nods. "Sure, no prob— " his reply is cut short by the opening of an apartment door. A big blonde boy emerges from the slightly smoky doorway and his eyes light up when he spots Noah. He bounded across the hallway, coming to a stop next to Noah. He must be the roommate, Emma assumes. 

She is a bit surprised, to be honest — the two were quite the contrasting pair to look at, and it wasn’t just physically-wise. The blonde was literally bouncing on his feet and looking incredibly awake while Noah stood still, looking bored and tired. 

Emma stifles another laugh — it is exactly the same expression she wears when Kitty was being too exuberant. 

"Hi! You must be Emma! We're your neighbours!" the blonde says happily, gesturing between Noah and himself. “I’m Owen, and this is my little buddy, Noah!” 

Another contrast. If Noah was like outer space: deep, dark, and endless; then Owen was like the sun — bright, light (metaphorically speaking), and a big ball of energy. Emma wasn't really sure how to deal with someone this energetic at two in the morning. 

"Er, hi," she says. She frowns slightly as a thought occurs to her. "Wait, how do you know my name?"

"We know Kitty," Owen says. “She’s your little sister, right?”

Emma blinks in surprise. “Yeah, but— how do you know her?" Emma racks her brain to remember if Kitty had ever mentioned the two guys standing opposite her.

"We're in the same photography class," Owen smiles, and a glimmer of remembrance filters through Emma’s memory of Kitty mentioning a boy in her class who was ridiculously nice. Emma could see where she was coming from.

She turns to Noah and he answers her unspoken question. “She’s just a friend of a friend to me. I can only deal with one extrovert at a time.” He rolls his eyes and Emma can’t help but giggle. Oh, she can definitely relate. 

Noah’s eyes glint with satisfaction when he hears her laugh and his gaze flicks to something behind her. "Speak of the devil," he says dryly, and Emma turns around to see her little sister walking towards them, rubbing her eyes.

"Did I hear that right? You guys set off the fire alarm?"

Owen beams, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "I was just cooking a late night snack because I missed dinner, and as I was cooking, I realised I hadn't called my Izzy all day! So I thought, hey, the food will take a while, so I'll just call her now! And Izzy’s phone calls usually last hours, and I guess I forgot that I was cooking until the whole kitchen was on fire!”

Noah nudges Owen, somehow still looking deadpan while Kitty and Emma are enraptured by the story. “Go ahead and tell them the worst part, Big Guy.”

Owen's face twists, his mouth turning downward as his eyes turn watery. "And … I … burned the food! It’s gone! Ruined! Never to be eaten again …” Owen sinks to the floor and covers his face, sobbing quietly. 

The sisters stare at the cheerful blonde on his knees, not sure how to comfort him. Emma stares at Noah. This guy has just sent the most enthusiastic person Emma has ever met to tears in a few words, and he still looks unfazed as Kitty begins patting Owen’s shoulder sympathetically.

Clearly, he has a vicious streak when his sleep is interrupted. 

The lack of sleep must be messing with her mind, because Emma finds that extremely attractive.          

"Anyway, we’re sorry the alarm took so long to turn off," Noah tears his eyes away from the scene. "There was a lot of smoke, and we had to fan the air out of the window to try and clear it."

Emma shrugs, holding Noah’s dark gaze. "Like I said — don’t do it again, and we’re all good.”

For some reason, Noah seems to cringe. “Yeah … Well, I think I should warn you ahead of time, but Owen’s girlfriend, Izzy, is kind of …” he taps his finger against his lip thoughtfully, and Emma can’t even tell if the action is sarcastic or if he’s genuinely looking for the right word. “ … eccentric. Like, psycho-hose beast eccentric. We got kicked out of our last apartment we shared with her because of noise complaints, arson, and fire alarms at ungodly hours of the night.”

Emma stares at him, hoping that she conveys the sheer amount of disbelief in her gaze. “Tell me you’re being sarcastic.” She says — no, more like demands. 

Noah looks back, deadpan, but Emma can tell that he is genuinely sorry. She groans, banging her head on the doorway. God, if every other night was going to be like this, Emma might actually murder someone. 

Noah watches her with something not quite bemusement, but something else entirely. “Don’t worry, I keep her in line.”

Emma looks up from her head-banging, and he continues, flushing a little. “I make sure to watch out for Izzy and keep her from going too crazy. Need to make sure the best lawyer gets her beauty sleep.”

Emma ignores the way her heart jumps; that last part was definitely sarcasm, even though it didn’t feel like it. For some reason, Kitty and Owen have stopped whatever they were doing and are staring at Noah like they can’t believe their eyes. 

Kitty’s gaze in particular flick towards Emma, and she scrupulously avoids her eyes. Her sister knew her like the back of her hand, and Emma didn’t want Kitty to think … certain things. 

Emma is about to respond to Noah, but tiredness suddenly overwhelms her. She attempts to suppress a yawn, but couldn't quite prevent a sigh coming out. She presses her head against the doorframe, blinking rapidly to try and stay awake. 

She doesn’t realise that Noah is still watching her until his voice pulls her away from the slight daze she finds herself in.

"C’mon, Big Guy, it's time for bed. " The smaller boy nudges him with his elbow and nods towards Emma,whose dependency on the doorframe is becoming more obvious by the second.

"Oh, right. Sorry for keeping you two up!" Owen said earnestly. "Is there any way we can make it up to you?"

Emma is about to request "let me go to bed" as her response, but Kitty gets there first.

"Why don’t we hang out?"

Emma straightens up immediately, glancing at Kitty in surprise and warning. She knew she was busy, but Kitty’s eyes flick pointedly to Noah, then back at Emma. She winks slyly. 

The little brat was setting her up!

A blush formed on Noah and Emma’s cheeks, and Owen’s face split into a grin. "That would be awesome! We can go out to eat and hang out — all four of us!" 

Kitty crosses her arms, smiling. "You owe us dinner for waking us up at two in the morning for your dinner. I love a free meal, and Emma needs to get out more."

"Hey!"

"Am I wrong, Miss I’m-married-to-my-law-degree-book?"

" … No."

"Exactly. So, you guys game?" Kitty asks.

Noah’s eyes met Emma’s, and his cheeks reddened further. "Dinner... would be nice," he says, breaking eye contact with her. Owen nodded enthusiastically, grin unwavering.

"Awesome. We'll figure out the details tomorrow. I think Emma’s gonna pass out if she doesn't get in bed asap." Kitty says, pulling her sister out of the doorway and into the room. "See you guys round!"

She shuts the door as the boys say goodbye, and immediately turns around to give Emma the widest smile she’s ever seen.

"So ... you and Noah, huh?" she asks, smirking at the usually unflustered girl.

"Goodnight, Kitty," Emma says, waving as she turns her back on her sister and walks towards her room. 

"You're welcome!” Kitty calls to her retreating back. “And you owe me one!”

"For what?" Emma asks, confused.

Kitty winks. "Trust me when I say that you and Noah are going to get on reeeeally well," the younger girl says, before shutting her door. 

Emma shakes her head and goes into her room to curl up in her bed. As she tucks the duvet around herself, Emma realizes that the smile she wore around Noah hadn’t faded in the slightest as she fell into blissful unconsciousness.

#total drama #total drama fanfic #total drama au #the ridonculous race #td noah #td emma #td owen #td kitty #td nemma

[oluka]

the ghost of a dream

This is an angsty fic (a little over 1k) for @kiyaar. I told you years ago that I wanted to write a sequel to one of my absolute favourite fics of yours, Our Love Is a Ghost That the Others Can't See , and I still hope I will pull it off one day. Here’s a scene from this possible sequel, happening sometime after the end of your fic.

They forgot to turn off the lights. He wonders how long it’ll take before they come back.

He tries to remember what he and Reed used as light source in the plans of Prison 42. Nothing sticks inside his head. He sees a page, filled with incomprehensible lines, crossing themselves, blurring out. Those are the plans. He can’t read them.

He continues to look up at the light. His eyes are watering. He forgot to blink.

 He wonders how long it’s been since his psychiatrist came to see him. He misses her. He wants to talk to someone real again. He closes his eyes, his vision going from white to orange. It’s almost good enough to sleep.

He misses Extremis. It would tell him when to sleep.

If he doesn’t know when to sleep, he’ll forget to. No-one tells him what to do anymore. If he cared about this, he would be distressed. Always surrounded by people, getting told what to do, especially close to the end.

 He doesn’t care. The meds are good enough at dulling him. He can lie like this, eyes closed, until they come again.

 He imagines how it’ll go.

The chains, the barrier, the collar around his neck, as usual.

Maybe she’ll ask him about his sleep.

“How are you doing, Tony?”

He says it out loud, tries to mimic her voice. His voice is too raspy for the imitation to be any good.

She always starts with those words, as if she expects that his state will have changed since the last time they saw each other.

Maybe he’ll answer, this time.

“I’m good, thank you. How about you?”

There. Polite, fitting.

He laughs. It’s just a short hiccup, but it’s there, hollow, damning in the silence.

He wonders why he laughed.

 To his right, in the corner, a rasp.

“Stop it.”

Tony’s left eye spams. Why can’t Steve just leave him be.

He turns to his side, back to the room. He’ll laugh if he wants to.

Just to prove it, he lets another shrill chuckle out.

Sometimes, he thinks that all that’s left inside of him is the laughter. It’s funny. He’s never been a happy man. And now, hollowed out, this is what comes out of him.

Two days ago, or two weeks ago, they didn’t give him his meds in time. He spent a few hours screaming his head off, banging his fists against the barrier, anything to get the numbness back. Feeling and thinking was too much. He hated it. He hated that Steve was back to his full glory, standing tall and proud, his eyes so black that they were holes. The dripping of the blood had driven Tony mad.

The guards had tased him before they gave him the meds. For a second, he’d thought that the electricity searing through him was Extremis coming online.

When he was awake again, he didn’t feel anything anymore, and Steve was hunched in on himself, silent.

All was well again. But he didn’t forget what he’d been thinking during the terrible medication-free interlude.

 Tony shudders. He tries to keep his mind blank, tries to reach into the nothingness and stay there. But the slivers of uneasiness that wormed their way into him when Steve broke the peace are still there.

I’m not myself anymore, the thoughts whisper. The meds are not me. The laughter is someone else inside of me. They’re turning me into a zombie. I’m disappearing. I’m not there anymore. I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead

 Steve grips Tony’s foot and Tony shrieks. The ice-cold claws on the suture points drag his mind back inside the cell.

 “Don’t laugh,” Steve hisses, his face inches from Tony’s, his lips blue and breath a crystal cloud. “Don’t laugh. Stop. Please stop.”

The deep bruises under his eyes are the same colour as the inside of his mouth.

Tony doesn’t move, stays put, feels the freezing cold creep up his calf and stab into his knee. His teeth are chattering when Steve finally lets him go.

 Steve closes his eyes, tired, so tired. He’s not blue anymore. Instead, the slow trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth has started again. He’s back to how he should be.

 Tony wants to sleep.

 Sometimes he sleeps for days at a time. He knows because the psychiatrist told him. Maybe one day he’ll fall asleep and never wake up.

He won’t dream. He knows, because he never dreams. There is only blankness and silence and Steve.

Always Steve.

It must be boring, for Steve. Tony wonders why he doesn’t leave him.

 He thinks he remembers a time when Steve didn’t want to see his face. He thinks he remembers a time when Steve killed him, over and over, without remorse. He thinks he remembers a time when Steve whispered acid into his ears and laughed as he cried.

A long time ago. Steve’s almost as still as Tony, these days. He sits, or lies, just like on the autopsy table, skin white and mouth open.  

Steve doesn’t hit him anymore. He stopped at around the same time that Tony stopped reacting to the blows.

It’s easier to let it happen. When the guards come in the dark, kicking him in the belly, never too much, never like the first time. When Steve slaps him across the face because Tony’s been still for too long. When they cuff him and give him shots and take him away.

He lets it happen, leaves his body, goes somewhere else until it’s over. Gently floats in the beige vastness.

One time he forgot to come back and woke up with two guards holding him up by his arms, the third pointing a rifle at him, and the fourth checking his vitals. The psychiatrist was there too.

She looked worried.

When they saw that he was awake again, they let him go, putting him carefully down on the cot, in such a gentle gesture that Tony couldn’t speak at all during the session.

 Steve is sitting with his back against the cot, now, head resting on the mattress, arms around his knees. It makes him look like a small child that was waiting for his parents to come tuck him in but fell asleep in the process.

 Steve isn’t asleep, though. He’s too tense. He makes for a lousy corpse, Tony thinks.

Tony slides his hand over the mattress. He watches as it smoothes down the thin fabric, leaving ripples in its wake. It’s healed now, one of the fingers a little crooked. One of his nails is gone and he doesn’t remember why.

He hums. There’s no melody to it, but that’s not important.

The tip of his index finger brushes against one of Steve’s hairs. Tony can almost feel it. He doesn’t move his hand anymore, just keeps humming.

 The lights are still on, white and blinding.

A fill for the @stevetonygames, team Fuck, square: Dreams, challenge: Inspired By

#stevetonygames #stony #oluka writes #tony stark #steve rogers #reblogs and comments are very much appreciated <3

[doctorstethoscope]

And the Devil Appears (Part Two)

If there's one thing about me it's that i'm gonna write a happy ending (or at least a more satisfying one) ty as always @hotchs-bitch for betaing for me :)

part one here!

contains: alcohol + tobacco consumption, misogynistic undertones,

wordcount: 1.6k

An unbearable winter had finally broken into an insufferable spring at Atlantis Cable News. Will hated every goddamn second of it. 

To be fair, he was the only one who seemed to be so forlorn. The rest of the newsroom was abuzz with the delight of Mackenzie’s upcoming big day. He could hardly take a step out of his office without overhearing Maggie talking to Tess and Kendra about the dress she’s thinking about wearing to the reception, or catching pieces of the conversation between Don and Jim as they discuss whether or not they should go in on a gift together. Sloan is Mackenzie’s maid of honor, of course, and she’s taken to discussing details with Mac at all times of the day– including through the headpiece during commercial breaks, seated only inches away from him when she’s on for segments. It drives him damn near insane— he can’t keep focused on the broadcast with the inane chatter in his ear.

He takes it all with a vow of silence. He spent all that time punishing Mackenzie, and that which goes around had finally come back. He deserved this, this misery, the torture of watching her happiness infect everything and everyone around them. And she deserved that much happiness too. 

The worst part of it all, was that everyone else in the newsroom seemed to be happier about the news than she was. Planning a wedding was stressful, he reminded himself. Or, at least, that’s what he’d heard. He’d probably never have one at this point. But this seemed different. For better or for worse, he understood Mackenzie, could read the creases in her forehead and at the corner of her eyes with far more ease than he ever read his law textbooks. He could see the machinations of her emotions on her face– this wasn’t stress. This was despondency, apathy, anxiety, or some stomach-churning combination of the three. Which is how he found himself following her to the ACN patio once again, in the middle of her wedding shower. 

He hesitates, this time, in the doorway. These steps had hurt him before. But, at this point, what did he have to lose?

“You know, I think the party in there is for you,” Will remarks gently as he steps out onto the patio, finding her standing against the rail and looking out over the New York skyline.

“It’s my party and I’ll take a breather if I want to,” Mack says, turning towards him and blowing her bangs out of her face. 

“You doing okay?” He asks her.

“I’m great,” she lies, knowing full well that he can see through it. “I just needed a minute. I’ve never liked to be the center of attention, you know that. That’s more Wade’s speed.”

“He seems to be getting along well with the folks inside,” Will agrees. 

“Oh, he’s a regular charmer. He’ll fare excellently on the campaign trail,” she spits out. 

“He’s running for mayor?” 

“He doesn’t fucking know, Billy. In his head he’s running for mayor or senator or governor or whatever, but supposedly he hasn’t put much thought into it and it’s not serious.”

“It seems pretty serious to you,” he remarks, trying to tread lightly.

“He sat me down last week and tried to have a conversation about wifely duties,” she says, spitting out the last word as if it were a curse.  “About what he’d need from me as a political spouse.”

Will nearly chokes on the air he’s breathing in, but does his best to hold back his disgust– this is the most he and Mack have talked since the last time they were on this terrace together, and he was scared to overreact and break whatever spell had temporarily come over Mackenzie and made his presence tolerable.  

“He’s met you, right? And somehow he still said those things and risked castration?” Will remarked.

Mackenzie lets out a humorless chuff. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like he doesn’t know me at all.” 

It’s Friday, June 9th, which is the day before Mackenzie’s wedding. Her last broadcast was yesterday, and Jim is in Will’s ear tonight. It should distract him from the soul-crushing gravity of what’s going to happen in the next 24 hours, but it doesn’t. All he can think is that she’s not in his ear because he fucked up, as always.

He stumbles through it, sends the staff home as soon as the broadcast’s over because he knows they all have to prepare for tomorrow. He’s not in any rush, and even if he was, he’d have to hide in his office to avoid the discussion of tomorrow’s festivities anyways. He hides out in his office and helps himself to a generous pour of scotch.

He’s still not quite ready to face his empty apartment by the time his team has dispersed, so he reaches into his desk and grabs the “secret” pack of cigarettes that everyone knows he has before he heads up towards the patio. The building is nearly empty now, save for the cleaning crew, so he does a double take when he looks out onto the patio to find Mackenzie standing up against the rail. He’s halfway convinced himself it’s the booze by the time he steps out into the night, until she turns to look at him. 

“Of course. I should have known. You always find me here,” she remarks, and he can’t be sure, but she sounds like she’s been crying. 

“I wasn’t exactly looking for you this time. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be drinking with Sloan, or getting a massage, or something. I don’t think work is on the list,” he says, coming to stand alongside her. 

“I can’t do it Billy. I’m not going to,” she confesses, the words tumbling heavily from deep in her throat. 

“Not going to get drunk with Sloan? I think that’s probably in your best—”

‘Can you take me seriously for like two seconds, please?” She practically begs. 

“I take you seriously. I always have,” he assures her. 

“He scheduled a fucking campaign kick off for the day after we come back from our honeymoon. He didn’t even ask me, I got looped in on a stupid email from his fucking campaign manager—”

“He hired a campaign manager without talking to you first?” Will asks, the scotch getting in the way of him restraining himself like he normally would.

“Oh yeah,” Mack insists manically. “And a finance director, and he filled out the fucking paperwork with the FEC, too.” 

“Jesus,” Billy breathed out. 

“I’m not a congressman’s wife. I can’t just bake pies and suck up to people and have babies!” She laments. 

“Of course not. You’re Mackenzie Fucking McHale. You’re a force of nature,” he agrees passionately. 

“He was using me. He thought I’d get him in with you and it would get him good fucking press.” 

If Will thought he was mad before, he was fucking furious now. Mackenzie was the most tediously ethical person he knew— she’d put her own life on the line before she aired a story that wasn’t 100% airtight. She was relentless in pursuit of the truth and indifferent to anything else. This time the truth just fucking sucked.

“He really doesn’t know you at all,” Will offers, and he knows it’s inappropriate, but he needed her to hear it– he knew her, knew what she needed, and knew that she was far better than what Wade had put her through. And, if he was honest with himself, what he had put her through, too.

“I hadn’t found a subletter yet for my place. So I hired movers to get my stuff– they’re coming when we were supposed to be exchanging our vows. So, if you don’t mind, I may still take some time off next week.”

“Take whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Billy,” she says, reaching out for his hand. He squeezes her fingers in response. They sit silently for a few minutes before he speaks up again.

“I have a cabin upstate… I was planning on going away this weekend. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to get out of town,” he offers. 

“You weren’t going to come to my wedding?”  Mackenzie asked, and he knows he’s hurt her a little with his confession, with the truth, once again. He cringes.

“You aren’t going, either,” he points out, ever the master of dry sarcasm, especially in situations where it went wholly unappreciated.

“I suppose that’s fair,” she rolls her eyes. “Give me one of the cigarettes I know you came out here to smoke,” she demands. 

He complies, passing her a cigarette and lighting it before taking one for himself.

“So when do we leave?” She asks. 

“You don’t… want some space?” He asks, confused but not wanting to give the impression that he doesn’t want to be with her. “I figured you’d want to get away from all of this, not bring the mess with you.”

She lets out a little chuckle and shakes her head as she puts out her cigarette. “You are the least messy part of all of this. And I think I’ll lose it without company. Would you come?” She asks hopefully. 

 “Of course,” Will says, trepidatiously wrapping an arm around her waist. “We can leave tonight, if you want. We can do this all at your pace,” he tells her, and she knows he’s not just talking about the weekend. 

“Billy,” Mack whispered. 

“Yeah?” He asks her. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t ready. When you told me last time,” she apologizes vaguely, but he knows exactly what she means.

“You think you’ll be ready someday?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” she answers. “I do.” 

“I’ll be waiting, then,” he assures you. “For now, there’s the weekend.

#will mcavoy x mackenzie mchale #mackenzie x will #will x mackenzie #mackenzie mchale #mackenzie mchale x will mcavoy #will mcavoy #the newsroom #the newsroom fic

[lacytales]

ㅤ️ㅤ️ㅤ️lacy and her tales 𓆩♡𓆪 𝅄 ⋆

ᅠ

ᅠㅤ️act i : who is lacy?

ㅤ️welcome, lovelings. hereby you are entering lacy’s fairytale. now... you may wonder, who is lacy and what do you need to know about her? well, you have taken a great start here. ♡

ㅤ️lacy moeremans is an alter-ego created by aurelie rosetta janvier, a normal corporate worker who spent most of her time crushing herself against life and the problems within while half of her mind wandering around what she called “beyond the universe”. unlike aurelie, lacy is a free-spirited ego who isn’t afraid to speak to her truth. and like a little kid, just as pure and as curious about the world, lacy finds beauty in the mundane; spending her days writing about her layered feelings, to let out what aurelie can’t due to her principals.

ᅠmeanwhile, most people have a back-to-back different alter-ego, aurelie and lacy got each other’s back like a figure and its shadow. what aurelie couldn’t say, lacy would. and what lacy couldn’t do, aurelie will pursue.

ㅤ️both aurelie/lacy often describe themselves as an orange cat, having infp-t as their mbti, and a proud piscesian all the way. she preferred being addressed using feminine pronouns, and in case you are bewildered with all this new information, you may address the human form with both names {let’s just say it’s the same person, different name}. :]<3

ᅠㅤ️act ii : what intrigues lacy?

ଙ♡ generals : lacy/aurelie likes anything pink, sanrio, and positivity contents. she believes in manifestations and the power of mindset; universe, and everything in between. she has always been a one-true worshipper of makeup, skin and body care, food, and perfumery. she indulges in fiction books a lot, as it helps her to write better. and one of her quirky qualities is that she is always curious. be it you started to talk about science, which she isn’t fond of, she will spend her times to search around for answers so she could have a conversation with anyone. she loves strawberry, green tea, and sushi a lot {you would find her talks about these three things a lot}. she loves learning new things as she treasures what’s already there.

ଙ♡ music : she is fond of k-pop music since her early years of living {nowadays her lenses are focused on day6, seventeen, ive, newjeans, xdinary heroes, and xg}. besides those, she is an avid listener of taylor swift, niki, mitski, olivia rodrigo, melanie martinez, laufey, lomba sihir, nadin amizah, gracie abrams, and so much more musicians! ♥︎ her life rotates around music and always will, and listing all her favorite musicians will be a long-life job she couldn’t finish.

ଙ♡ movies and series : during her worst days, she found reading books overwhelming since the letters were running around her head; thus, cinema helped her recover her feelings on those times. two of her favorite genres is romcom and child flick; as she could watch movies with those genre forever. before trilogy, 13 going on 30, 10 things i hate about you, mean girls, wild child, legally blonde, la la land, the devil wears prada, you are the apple of my eye are some of her favorite movies to watch. while modern family, brooklyn nine-nine, young sheldon, superstore, the big bang theory, anne with an e, hospital playlist, reply 1988, extraordinary attorney woo were some of her favorite tv series. she likes cartoons {especially lacy} and barbie is the one who accompanied her growing up. besides that, she loves the baby boss series and studio ghibli productions! well... the list is taking too long, isn’t it? shall we stop now?

ᅠㅤ️act iii : where is lacy?

ㅤ️you are reaching the last’s part of lacy/aurelie’s mega-bank {phew, finally...}! now that you are here and before you find out about where you could directly speak to both lacy and aurelie, i think it’s best for you to know that the place is her safe place; so if it’s uncomfortable for you to stay around with all her stuff going around, please always know that you are allowed to skim her presence from your life. and she would prefer new friends whom she could talk to; so if you aren’t up for that also... please skip this message, kindly. c:

ᅠㅤ️✧ㅤ️lacy’s main-residential

ㅤ️ㅤ️✧ㅤ️ask lacy anything!

ㅤ️ㅤ️✧ㅤ️hot-or-cold tea sesh with lacy

ㅤ️ㅤ️✧ㅤ️lacy and her ancient tales.

and that is that, lacy and aurelie hope you enjoy your short stay here. and she is looking forward to see you somewhere above. see you on the other side! 🤍

ᅠ

[wherejoshwent]

I spent the day lying on my bed with my curtains drawn against the heat of the sun, dreaming fever dreams that mixed with the sound of children playing in the gardens outside. Last time I had this app and wrote on it I was living a very different kind of life. One that I was in the end only able to keep up a few months, despite all my talk of being adaptable.

Before the year had finished I was sat in the front seat of a van between two men who I had hired to move all my things down to London again. My cat was in a case on my knee, all my possessions in the back. The driver asked me what my 5 year plan was, and seemed surprised and a little disapproving that I didn’t have one despite being older than him by 3 years.

There’s still no plan, not really. There are lives I think about, but I fear they may be just like that life I imagined and then went to live in the seaside town — one that I had to get out of, no matter the consequences. It was maybe the first time in my life I just acted completely selfishly, and I did it only because I felt there was no other way things could go. There were other ways in theory, but I was not able to live them out. It’s the age old problem — you can run but you can’t hide. 

Maybe there’s no need to be so dramatic about it after all. I struggle to admit when I am lonely, and perhaps that’s all it was. It was loneliness; I was ashamed to be so lonely. To depend on people around me. But I was, and I couldn’t stand it. I had to admit that I couldn’t be alone any more. 

I’ve noticed I write about myself more when I am wasting time. In the months and weeks that I’m minding my own business, writing fiction and keeping healthy, my diary sees no updates. I went to see a performance from a choir accompanied by a cello and while the music played I had this image in my head of a door banging open and closed in the wind. And I felt that is what I wanted to be like. Not hanging on to one way or another. Putting up no resistance, just existing and moving with the wind. Not clinging to anything. No anxieties for the future or thoughts of the past, just being in the present. Letting things come and go. Destroying any idea of my own ego, not wanting to be liked, not wanting anyone to think anything of me at all. I want to embrace my own insignificance. 

#diary

[lenniewip]

Unknown (A Sterek Wrong Number/Celebrity AU)

11.09 PM Unknown Number

>I’m writing songs about you again.

11.20 PM Unknown Number

>its stiles btw.

>in case you deleted my number

>I did.

>I mean I deleted yours.

>but I still remember it apparently

11:41 PM Unknown Number

>I only have 2 lines so far

11:57 PM Unknown Number

>I bleed you from my veins.

>I grieve you like I love you.

>alone.

>its better with the chords.

>u were always better at writing lyrics than me

12:34 AM Unknown Number

>u were better everything than me

2:00 AM Unknown Number

>I hate that I miss you

2:07 AM Unknown Number

>do u want to hook up?

>I promise not to propose again

2:15 AM Unknown Number

>im sorry.

>ignore me.

>im drinking

Derek blinked bleary eyes. His phone screen was the only source of light in his room, as he read through the flurry text messages.

What the hell is a Stiles?

2:17 AM Unknown Number

<I think you have the wrong number

>Lydia?

<no

>oh thank fuck

>I mean

>I’m sorry

>for disturbing ur sleep

>but im just glad I didn’t drunk text my ex all of this

>bullet dodged right?

>is this what near death experiences feel like?

<I wouldn’t know.

>of course

>hey

>seeming as I have you here can I ask you a quick q?

>all my friends are asleep

<probably because its 3am

<everyone’s asleep

>2.39

>and ur not

>asleep that is

>so?

>I’ll take your silence as a go ahead

>what do you think?

>of the lyrics

<im the wrong person to ask

>never experienced heartbreak?

<no

<all song lyrics just look like bad poetry to me

>oh

>yeah I guess it does

>not everyone can be Rupi Kaur tho right?

<do you want to be rupi kaur?

>sure

>not to be dramatic or anything

>but

>I want to be anyone but me

>think id rather be someone like regina spektor tho

<regina spektor?

>singer/song writer

>shes my fucking inspiration

>her lyrics are like poetry to me

>you should listen to her music

<I dont really listen to music

>what the fuck?

>are you an alien?

<no?

>nice fucking try ET

>thats exactly what an alien would say

<…you got me there

>akdjfen

>is this you admitting I was right?

<no

<but this is me going to bed

<because its now 4AM

>already?

>fuck

>ive got an early start tomorrow

>good night random stranger

>and thanks

>for listening

>or reading ig

<good night

//

“You’re late.” Laura frowned, arms crossed.

“Are you going to let me in?” Derek grumbled, still feeling the affects of having stayed up until 4AM the previous night.

Laura didn’t argue she just stepped aside to let him through into her flat. “You’re grumpier than usual.” She noted.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

Derek hated the look she gave him then.

The look that said he was broken. The look that said she wanted to fix him.

“Is…Is it the nightmares again?” Laura’s voice dipped to a whisper, like the question alone would be enough to send him over the edge.

“No.”

An awkward silence defended over the two of them, neither knowing what to say.

Derek clung to the silence like a blanket, wishing things could go back to how they used to be. Back to when they knew how to speak to one another.

But this was enough.

It was enough to know that they were both trying. Failing. But trying.

//

2:40 PM Laura

>I’m here if you need to talk.

//

Derek isn’t good at art, but sometimes it’s the only way he can express himself. Words had never been his forte.

So instead he doodles.

Shitty toddler level doodles that he never shows anyone.

Sometimes he thinks if he could bring himself to show Laura she would like it. Maybe she would even understand it.

But there was a bigger chance that she wouldn’t, and he would feel even more like a stranger to his own sister than he already was.

//

10:18 PM Unknown Number

>I don’t remember it anymore

<You have the wrong number again

>No

>This is ‘not Lydia’ right?

<right

>So here’s the thing.

>I always thought if I needed to text her I could

>And I thought maybe I got her number wrong because I was drunk

>But I can’t remember it anymore

<Oh.

>I have some of her things still

>I don’t think I’ll ever get to return it now

>Unless she messages me first

<When did you two break up?

>Last year

>and I know what you’re thinking

>’it’s October’

>and I should be over her by now

>Trust me I know

>So you don’t need to lecture me

<I wasn’t going to

>Oh

<Stiles?

>That’s weird

<what is?

>I forgot I told you my name

<You should throw away the stuff she left behind.

>you’re right

>I don’t like it.

>but you’re right

>…thanks

<What for?

>for listening

>reading**

>my friends are pretty sick of hearing me complain

>so this is nice

<sure

<anytime

>dope

>no take backsies

<am I going to regret this?

>for definite

>you’re stuck with me now

//

That night Derek saves Stiles’ number as ‘Bad Poet’.

//

Stiles keeps messaging after that.

Stiles messages like they’ve been friends for years, and Derek very determinedly does not analyse why it is he always responds.

Even when there are messages dated from Laura from three days ago that he hasn’t even been able to bring himself to open yet.

He also ignores how when he’s messaging Stiles the gaping pit that had made residence in his chest feels just a little less inescapable.

//

Derek can’t bring himself to tell Stiles his name. He can’t bring himself open up, even though there’s a large part of him that wants to.

He’s not above admitting he’s scared.

//

Derek draws Stiles sometimes.

More accurately he draws a vague pair hands texting on a phone, because he has no idea what Stiles actually looks like.

Derek refuses to let himself dwell on that though, because they are happy drawings.

The pictures of Stiles are pretty much his only happy drawings right now.

//

They don’t always talk about Lydia.

Sometimes Stiles messages Derek song lyrics he’s working on.

Other times it’s memes, or just a bunch of emojis.

Once Stiles had just messaged him what Derek could only assume was a list of everything he had eaten that day.

Sometimes Stiles messages in rambles - and Derek can’t always keep up with the boy’s run away thoughts, but even then he never feels lost the way he does when he’s trying to interact with literally anyone else.

And sometimes it’s 2AM. Those are simultaneously Derek’s favourite and least favourite texts.

//

2:02 AM Bad Poet

>sometimes I feel like too much

>and too little

>at the same time

>u ever feel like that ET?

<not really

>its like I’m infinite, and meaningless

>like a never ending echo

>or a recurring decimal

>I just stretch on and on forever but theres no point to it

>I have no depth

<youre not meaningless

<you’re a rhythm.

<like breathing

>…

>was that a regina spektor reference?

<it might have been

>I thought you didn’t listen to music?

<well someone said her lyrics were like poetry

<so I thought I would check out a few songs

>well fuck

>what did you think?

<she’s good

>you spelt ‘amazing’ wrong

<I still prefer poetry

>of course you do

Derek stared at the texts an ache filling his chest.

Derek was the opposite of infinite. Everything he touched turned to flames.

//

10:30AM Bad Poet

<my sister bought me flower seeds

>I didn’t know you had a sister?

<she’s everything I have

>oh

<and I think she’s trying to trick me into therapy somehow

>…with flower seeds?

<yes

>you sound extremely paranoid

>maybe therapy wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you?

<shut up

>noted.

>keep me posted on how your gardening goes

>also

>as a side note

>you know you have me too right?

>if you ever need to talk or anything, I’m right here for you

<thanks

>anytime

//

On Derek’s birthday Laura insists the two of them spend the day together, and Derek knows better than to argue.

She buys him a cake and they spend hours sat next to one another silently. Two strangers desperately trying to keep hold of one another but with an ocean dividing them.

Once their family had been so alive.

And it was all Derek’s fault that was gone.

They both knew it.

Sometimes Derek wondered if Laura hated him as much as he did.

He was too scared to ask.

//

That night Derek chased the ache in his chest away with a drink.

And then several more followed.

//

1:14 AM Bad Poet

<seh haars me

>sorry bud, you’re going to have to try again

>try spell checking before hitting send

<she.hates mee

>who?

<larn

>are you drunk?

<yeh

<tyongs ndrf

*Out Going Call: Bad Poet*

The phone rings twice before being picked up. “Sorry. Stupid keyboard is so small. Impossible to type.” Derek mumbled, his words slightly muffled by his cheek being pressed into the sofa cushion.

“Wow. You’re really sloshed huh?”

“No.” Derek denied. “Just tipsy.”

“Right. So what was it you were trying to tell me? Someone hates you?”

“Laura.”

“Who’s Laura?”

“My sister.”

“Oh.”

“She looks at me like she wishes she could fix me.”

“That doesn’t sound like she hates you, bud.”

“She should. I can’t be fixed.”

“You’re right, because you’re not broken.”

Hearing Stiles say that Derek could almost believe it to be true.

“I mean it. You’re not broken. You’re just a different shape than you used to be. But the shape you are now is beautiful.”

Derek closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him. “Do you sing?” He finds himself asking.

“What?”

“I know you write songs, but do you ever sing?”

“Oh…” Stiles sounds uncomfortable. “I guess… Yeah. I do.”

Derek hummed in the back of his throat. “I bet you have a nice voice.”

“Th-thanks.”

Derek tried to say something else, but all that comes out is a yawn, which makes Stiles let out a jittery laugh.

Derek tries to memorise the sound of It, but it’s so fleeting, it’s already slipping away from him.

“I think you need to go sleep, ET.”

“Yeah.” Derek agrees.

“Goodnight bud.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Could you stay on the phone? Just for a bit longer.” Derek clutched on to the phone like if he could grip tightly enough it would make Stiles stay.

I don’t want to be alone. The words die on Derek’s tongue.

“Sure.” Stiles didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Sleep pulled at Derek’s consciousness, unravelling his grip on reality.

“Stiles?”

Stiles hummed in answer.

“Your shape is beautiful too.”

A small whimper came from the other end of the phone. “Thanks.”

//

7:50 AM Bad Poet

>how are you feeling today?

<better

>good <3

Derek holds his phone tightly and wishes that he had more to say. Just to keep the conversation going.

He also wishes (not for the first time) that Stiles was more than a faceless entity on the other end of the phone.

But it’s the first time he feels the want like a physical ache in his chest.

Derek had never been good with words, but if Stiles was here in front of him Derek would probably give him a hug.

But everything Derek touches eventually dies, and a larger part of him is relieved for the distance.

//

Derek plants the seeds his sister got him that day.

//

9:48 PM Bad Poet

>would it totally weird you out if I wanted to do another phone call?

>don’t feel like you need to say yes

>I just enjoyed talking to you

>and hearing your voice

>ugh.

>why are words so hard?

<I wouldn’t be opposed to a phone call

*Incoming Call: Bad Poet*

“Hey.” Derek feels breathless as he answers the phone, anxious excitement clawing it’s way up his throat.

“Hey.” Stiles sounds equally out of breath, and that helps.

Derek chews on his lip, scrambling for something to say. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” Stiles admitted. “Anything.”

“Helpful.” Derek said sarcastically.

“I mean. There’s one thing. I didn’t want to ask when you were drunk because it felt a little like taking advantage. And I don’t want you to think you have to answer-”

“Stiles.” Derek interrupts before Stiles could break into a full blown ramble.

“Tell me your name.” Stiles breaks. “Please.”

Anxiety grips his heart. But… he couldn’t stay scared forever.

“It’s Derek.”

“Derek.” Stiles repeats his name in a reverent whisper, as if committing it to memory.

And hearing Stiles say his name makes everything worth it.

//

Phone calls become a regular thing between the two of them over the next month. Always between late in the evening and the early hours of the day.

//

The next time Derek spirals he doesn’t drink before he calls Stiles, but he does cry on the phone.

The next morning he wakes up to a text from Stiles.

6:42 AM Bad Poet

>you need to talk to your sister

And Derek knows he’s right.

//

It’s not easy confronting Laura. He has two separate anxiety attacks on the walk to her apartment alone.

But he forces himself to take the dive.

“It’s okay if you hate me.” He tells her, even though it’s not okay. Laura’s hate might be the only thing in the world that could break him beyond repair.

Laura looks horrified as she stares at him. “I don’t- Obviously I don’t hate you Derek.”

“It’s my fault that they’re gone.” Derek addresses the elephant in the room.

If he hadn’t fallen in love with Kate.

If he hadn’t broken up with her, just to try and prove a point when she refused to say ‘I love you’ back…

There never would have been a fire.

Their family would still be here if it wasn’t for him.

“Fuck that!” Laura let out a harsh noise. “Derek, none of this was ever your fault. You were a kid, and even if you weren’t… You never set the fire.”

“I might as well have.”

“No. If anyone… I was your big sister- am your big sister. But I was so fucking wrapped up in myself. I didn’t even know about Kate.”

The last time Derek had seen Laura cry it had been at the funeral, so it took a second to fully sink in what he was seeing.

He found himself crying to.

“I’m so sorry, Der.”

Derek stumbled forwards pulling Laura into a crushing hug. Laura hugs him back just as tight.

They spend hours refusing to let go of one another.

//

He realises he fell asleep on Laura’s sofa when he woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. But he had no idea where it was, and he was too tired to move.

He feels Laura moving and the sound of the phone ringing gets louder before cutting off abruptly.

“Hello?”

“No - Derek’s asleep.”

“Maybe call at a more reasonable time?”

“Who is this?”

“Your voice sounds familiar.”

“Right.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Derek let sleep over take him once more.

//

2:29 AM Bad Poet

>sorry for calling so late

>you’re asleep so I’ll just take to you tomorrow

//

9:07 AM Bad Poet

<sorry, I was really tried

>no worries man

>you’re allowed to have a life outside of me

<was something wrong?

>no I was just bored, and didn’t realise how late it had gotten

>im fine

>how are you?

<im good actually

<I spoke to Laura

>yeah?

>I’m proud of you

>how’d that go?

<we both cried

<a lot

<and I ended up falling asleep on her couch

>look at you, opening up and shit.

>think I might cry now

<shut up

>literally never

>better men have tried and failed to silence me

//

2:40 PM Laura

>Want to see a movie on Friday?

<sure

//

One night Stiles calls Derek just to say his name in stupid ways, and laugh himself stupid after each one.

“Duhreek.”

“Doreck.”

“Fuck. I’m getting a stitch from laughing.”

“You’re so fucking dumb.” Derek is smiling as he said it.

“Deeruk.” Stiles wheezes out.

Derek just closes hie eyes and listens.

“I’m so fucking glad I know you, Stiles.” The words fall out of Derek’s mouth without much thought.

He only realises the weight of his words when Stile’s laughter pulls to a stop.

“I uh-” Stiles stammered. “Me too. Fuck. You’re the best thing to happen to me in…so fucking long. I’m glad I know you too Derek.”

//

Derek finally admits to himself that night that he’d fallen at least a little in love with the stranger from the unknown number.

//

He keeps trying to draw Stiles, but he can’t. Vague shapes just don’t cut it anymore.

He wants to map Stiles out with his eyes and translate it onto the page.

He wants to be able to see the smile behind the laughter.

He wants.

//

1:58 AM Bad Poet

>do you think you day we’ll actually meet?

>maybe not intentionally

>maybe one day we’d pass each other in the streets and not even know

>maybe we already have

Derek couldn’t imagine a scenario where he wouldn’t notice Stiles.

<is there ever a moment when you’re not talking?

<I think id recognise your voice and know it was you

>maybe your face would make me speechless ;)

<I think id still know

<but if you want to be sure… I could send you a picture?

<of me

>dkfajd

>for reals?

>you would do that?

>you?

<well…not for free

>there’s always a catch

>what do you want?

>my soul?

>a blood debt?

>you can have whatever it is

<I meant you’d have to send me a picture too

<geez stiles

The next text takes an unnervingly long time to come through.

>I could do that

>a photo for a photo

>I kind of look like shit rn

>so no judging me

Derek spends the next two minutes fussing and fidgeting to take a good photo. No matter what angle he took it from the bags under his eyes were noticeable, and so was the week’s worth of stubble he had yet to shave off.

And maybe this was a terrible, awful, idea.

But Derek would send one hundred bad pictures if it meant getting to see one of Stiles.

He forced himself to press send on the last picture he took.

As he pressed send another photo came in.

Derek’s fingers shook as he hit the button to download the image.

His heart stopped.

Stiles was beautiful in every sense of the word, and Derek found himself unable to look away. Even when he heard the small dings of incoming messages.

But he couldn’t ignore them for long, because it was Stiles. And when ever Stiles messaged Derek had to answer.

>Fucking hell

>are you for real?

>you gave me a heart attack

>am I being catfished right now?

>when do you think you were going to tell me you’re the most fucking beautiful man to exist ever?

>how the hell to you look like that as 2AM!?

>Derek

>oh my god

>you gotta respond my dude because I’m freaking out a little bit

>still there?

>did my selfie scare you away?

>I would have tried harder for a nice photo if I knew I was talking to an adonis

>Derek?

<still here

>of thank fuck

>so…

<so?

>come on

>your going to give me a complex

>the selfie…was it okay?

>I know it’s not much

>but we can’t all be greek gods

<its beautiful

<you’re beautiful, stiles

>oh

>thanks

//

Derek is so far gone that he makes the picture of Stiles the home screen on his phone.

//

9:49 AM Bad Poet

<Laura wants me to meet her boyfriend

<this is all your fault

>how is this my fault?

<because she never wanted to introduce us before

<and then you got me to talk to my sister

<and now she wants me to meet him

>…and this is a bad thing?

<yes

>because?

<I don’t make good first impressions

<it’s going to be awkward

>yeah probably

<you’re not helpful

>I wasn’t trying to be ;)

>have fun, Derek!

//

Meeting Laura’s boyfriend wasn’t as awkward as Derek thought it was going to be. But it was strange.

Derek hadn’t been expecting to meet someone so soft and kind. He was nothing like any one that Laura had dated before.

But he also wasn’t used to seeing Laura smile as much as she did around him.

Maybe not all change was bad.

//

Derek tells Laura about Stiles by accident. Or more accurately he mentions Stiles once by accident (not even by name) and Laura had badgered him until he admitted that he had made a friend through a wrong number.

“There’s a lot of weirdos out there.”

“I know.”

God did Derek ever know.

But Stiles is different.

“Just…be careful.”

“I am being. I promise.”

Laura reluctantly lets it go after that. “So…what’s he like?”

“He’s…he’s like bad poetry.”

“Oh god. You’re in love with him aren’t you?”

Derek can’t bring himself to deny it, but he does tell Laura to shut up.

//

Derek fully embraces being in love with Stiles on the day he tells Stiles about his drawings. He’d never told anyone about them before - not even Laura. But telling Stiles had been easy.

‘It reminds me of line art’ Stiles had said when Derek had sent him a photo of the doodle he had been working on. “I love it’.

A warmth flutters through Derek’s veins.

//

It all goes sideways on the day Laura goes on Derek’s phone to check the time.

She’d raised one eyebrow at him looking amused.

“I thought you didn’t listen to music?” She said, a teasing note to her voice.

“I don’t.” Derek shrugged.

“A huh. So why do you have a picture of Stiles Stilinski as your wallpaper?” She asks.

It’s so startling to hear Stiles name coming out of Laura’s mouth that Derek’s brain refuses to function properly. “How do you know Stiles?” He asks weakly.

Laura laughs. “He’s not exactly a niche celebrity Der. He was a really famous YouTuber before he started selling albums.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. He blinks as his world slowly unravels before him.

No.

She had to be wrong, because Derek couldn’t be in love with a celebrity. Stiles couldn’t be…

“Hey are you okay? You look really sick?”

“He’s famous?” His throat is dry.

“Yes? Are you okay? What’s wrong? You’ve got to speak to me Der. Use your words.”

Derek just shakes his head because he can’t.

“It’s him.” He manages to get out.

“What are you talking about?”

“Laura. It’s him.”

It takes a moment to click but Derek knows when it does because a look of thunderous wrath takes over Laura’s face.

“I’ll kill him.” She seethes, shaking with anger. “What kind of fucking punk thinks that this is a good prank to play?”

“What?”

“No one is getting away with catfishing you, Der. I’m going to hunt this fucker down, and then I’ll rip him so many new ones that he going to look like SpongeBob when I’m done with him.”

And god, Derek hadn’t even considered the thought that Stiles might not even be Stiles. The thought of Stiles being a liar…

The gape in his heart grows a little bit bigger.

And it all falls apart.

//

It takes hours before Derek can convince himself to confront Stiles.

11:08 PM Bad Poet

<you’re stiles stilinki

>fuck

(And yeah, it was really him).

>how did you find out?

<Laura

>I was going to tell you

<Were you?

>Yes

>I’ve wanted to for ages

>It just never felt like the right time to bring it up

<I wish you had decided on the right time was sooner

>Me too

>I’m sorry

>Please don’t hate me

Derek did not think it was possible for him to hate any part of Stiles.

<I don’t

>Thank fuck

>seriously

>can I call you?

<sure

Derek closed his eyes after sending the text and waited for Stiles to ring. A heartbeat later his ringtone sounded off.

“Hey.”

“You believe me right?” And Stiles sounds more frantic than Derek had ever heard him before.

“I believe you, Stiles.”

“Are you sure, because I can prove it if you want? I can do a video call? Or I can tweet literally anythi-”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Stiles lets out a small whine, that reaches through the phone line and yanks at Derek’s already tattered heart, unraveling him just a little more.

“Meet me.” Stiles said, taking Derek by surprise.

“What?”

“Please. I meant to throw a please in there, I’m just really fucking nervous right now. Meet me please. In real life. I uh- I was going to ask when I finally told you about the whole being a celebrity thing. It’s still weird to say that out loud. That’s part of why it was so hard to tell you. But the point was you beat me to the punch with the whole reveal thing, but I still wanted to ask.”

“Stiles…”

“And it’s not that I was trying to use my influence or fame to pressure you into meeting me. I just wanted to be in a space where we were one hundred per cent honest with one another before I asked you. You can still say no. Of course you can, I don’t know why I’m- my point is I hope you don’t say no.”

Derek feels his heart break in two.

“Stiles…I can’t.”

“Oh.”

He hadn’t fully realised just how many worlds apart the two of them were when he had fallen in love with Stiles. It felt even more impossible than it had before.

“I’m sorry.” The words leave him feeling hollow.

“No. Don’t apologise. This is just me getting carried away. It’s okay.”

I love you. The words never leave Derek. They can’t leave him.

There was no way this could work, and he was far too scared of breaking the tentative connection they had with his useless words.

It was better for him to just… fall out of love.

//

6:17AM Laura

<it’s really him

>are you sure

<I’m sure

>what are you going to do?

<nothing

>Derek you’re in love with him

<I’m aware

<it doesn’t matter

<it wouldn’t ever work

>I’m sorry

<don’t be

<I’m going to be fine

>Im coming over with wine

//

That night Derek fills pages and pages of his notebook with drawings of Stiles.

When he gets a message from Stiles at 11PM- for the first time since they started messaging- Derek leaves it unopened.

//

He never ignores a message again after that, and life moves on. Stiles still messages him all the time, but he never asks to call anymore.

Derek misses his voice so much that he goes onto youtube and listens to his music.

He buys all three albums Stiles released and it still doesn’t feel like enough.

//

He fills an entire notebook with doodles of Stiles.

It’s still not enough.

//

1:11 PM Bad Poet

>I wrote you a song

>I know you don’t listen to music

>but it felt weird to not a least send you a link

>bad poetry at 2:00am

The link leads Derek to a youtube video of Stiles holding a ukulele and staring with a soft smile at the camera.

“Hey guys. It’s been a while, huh? But I guess I finally found inspiration. So here we go.”

The song is beautiful, but even more beautiful than that was Stiles.

When the song reached the end Derek doesn’t hesitate to hit replay.

He listens to the song ten times before he realises he’s crying - and he knows that he’s never going to ‘get over’ Stiles because he doesn’t want to.

//

3:00 PM Laura

>have you seen the video?

<he sent me a link

<he wrote a song for me Laura

<I love him so fucking much and he wrote a song for me

>fuck

<what do I do?

>what do you want to do?

<I don’t know

>I think you should look at his twitter

<?

>I wasn’t going to say anything because you said you wanted to get over him

>but I think you need to see it

>@stilesstilinki

//

@stilesstilinski

I want to hug him

@stilesstilinski

Get you a guy that will stay up with you until 4AM talking about literally anything

@stilesstilinski

Why do I alway fall for people so far out of my league? rip me I guess.

@stilesstilinski

He makes me want to write poetry

Derek spends hours scrolling through Stiles’ twitter.

He scrolls far enough back that he gets to the part of his timeline where his twitter is littered with pictures of Lydia, which causes the ache in Derek’s chest to grow. But he can’t stop looking because Stiles looks so happy.

And Derek falls impossibly more in love.

He lets himself acknowledge for the first time that Stiles might love him back.

And everything else?

It’s worth it.

Because Stiles is worth everything to Derek.

//

2:00 AM Bad Poet

<so I looked at your twitter

>fuck.

>how much did you see?

<all of it

>tight

>please excuse me while I go die now

>bye

<don’t leave yet

<I had something I wanted to ask you

>did you want me to delete the tweets?

>I can do that

>I’ll just delete the whole account

>I am my own worst enemy so this won’t be a problem

>actually Jackson Whittemore is my worst enemy

>but I’m a close second

<stiles?

>yup?

<Will you go on a date with me?

>alkdjf

>yes?

>Ofc yes?

>are you being serious?

>because this would be a cruel prank if you’re not serious

<I’m serious

>yes.

>yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes.

>holy shit

>theres no fucking universe where I say ‘no’ to that question from you

>im so fucking in love with you

>is it too soon to say that?

>I don’t even care

>I’m speaking my truth

>you obviously don’t have to say it back

>im going to woo you so hard Derek

>you’ll have to love me back eventually

>I’m going to write you poetry

>hell I’ll even read poetry for you

>ill give the whole fucking moon to you

<why would I want the moon?

<im not gru?

>despicable me

>that was a despicable me reference.

>you don’t listen to music, but you watch despicable me?

>you’re such an enigma to me Derek

>god I love you so much

<stiles?

>too much?

<no

<I don’t think I could ever have too much of you

<I love you too stiles

<so much

<I just don’t want you to get your hopes up

<I might not be able to live up to it in real life

>impossible

<seriously stiles

>I am being serious

>I’m already in love with you Der

>you don’t have to do anything more than you’ve already done

>you could wear a potato sack, and spend the whole night not saying anything at all

>and I would still be in love with you

>all you have to do now is show up

<…I can do that

>perfect

//

TWO YEARS LATER

@stilesstilinski

Hey @JacksonWhittemore, remember when you told me I would die alone? Well I just got engaged to the love of my life. So checkmate fucker.

#sterek #eternal sterek #what am i even doing? #i just spent the last two days writing this and banging my head against the wall and nothing else #should i write this into a full fic one day? #i probably wont #hope you guys enjoy #sterek drabble #5k words of them being idiots #i cut so much out how is this still 5k? #stiles stilinki #derek hale #laura is the only other character that makes an appearance #im supposed to be sleeping #but here we are ig #texting #wrong number #celebrity stiles

[saintlike78]

Little one [L.M.]

A/N: This is an au where both Voldy (mr. no-nose) and Narcissa don’t exist. Lucius is just mean, but not evil, yk

Pairing: Lucius Malfoy x fem! reader

Words: 3.4k

Summary: You start your internship at the ministry, working for the infamous Lucius Malfoy. You’re scared after only having heard horrible things about the man, but will your opinion change. (Take a lucky guess)

Warnings: NSFW! 16+, vaginal sex, oral (fem receiving), overstimulation, mention of cum, soft dom! Lucius, slight implication of older man/younger woman, slight sir kink, intern reader. As always lmk if I missed anything.

Fixing and smoothing out your skirt, you took one last look in the mirror before releasing a long nervous sigh and headed out the door. Your internship at the ministry was starting today and you could feel the bubbles of anxiety in your stomach churning, your hands slightly clammy at the thought of who you were interning with - none other than the infamous Lucius Malfoy.

You had almost cried when you received the owl carrying the letter to inform you who you’d be interning with, having only heard horrible things about the man.

You’d heard that he was rude, mean, and had absolutely no patience, especially not with interns such as yourself, his last three interns having quit within the first week of working for him.

——

Your body was trembling slightly, your heart beating out of your chest as you stepped off the elevator and into the long hallway.

The doors were tall and dark, emphasizing that behind them sat important wizards, more important than you would ever be.

You walked past three doors before you were met with one with bold gold lettering spelling out ‘Lucius Malfoy’.

You took a deep breath, lifting your hand slowly before knocking on the door loud enough for it to be heard on the other side.

“Enter,” a dark voice announced from the opposite side of the door.

You took another breath before opening the large door with shaky hands; you almost toppled over from the weight of the door, but you managed to enter the office without embarrassing yourself.

The office was bigger than you could’ve ever imagined, the interior decorated with a black, green, and silver color scheme - the owner had obviously been a Slytherin during their time at Hogwarts.

Your eyes looked all around the room taking in all of the expensive detail such as a black marble fireplace and a reading area the size of a small library, lastly, your attention fell on the grand black wooden desk placed in front of the large window. Your breath hitched when your eyes finally landed on the man seated behind the desk; his long blond hair falling to rest upon his black coat, his figure proud and tall even in his seated form. His icy eyes burned into you, looking you over and raising an eyebrow.

“Are you done looking around, girl?” his unimpressed tone pulled you out of your trance, your heart pounding once more.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy,” you apologized, your fingers fiddling behind your back to keep away the anxiety.

“Hmm, and who might you be?” Even though he was the one asking the question, his slow bored tone made him seem less interested than if he’d kept quiet.

“My name is y/n… I’m an intern… I’m supposed to be taught by you, I got an owl explaining everything… maybe there’s been a mis-“ your rambling was cut off by a raise of Lucius’ hand, your mouth instantly clamping shut.

“I am well aware of the… internship program,” he said with disgust, “well get over here and make yourself useful.”

With a few quick steps, you were standing in front of his desk, looking at him and waiting for instructions.

“What you would you have me do, sir?”

He pointed at the chair beside you, then at a stack of paper on your side of the desk, “I’ll only be explaining how to do this once… I will not be disturbed when I am working, you will keep your mouth shut and do your work, and then maybe you’ll be able to get through the month.”

You nodded quickly and listened to him explain how to do your work; he explained slow and simple as if you were a child, his voice still unimpressed.

“Now, get on with it,” he dismissed you, your head quickly dipping to focus on the paperwork in front of you as he went back to his own work, silence soon filling the large office.

——

You were afraid to make even the tiniest of sounds, but you found that the silence was a comfortable one - Lucius wasn’t as scary in silence.

The silence was interrupted by a loud knock on the door, your head shooting up to look at the door, but Lucius’ focus was still on his work.

“What?” he grumbled, loud enough for the person on the other side to hear.

The door opened slowly, a young nervous-looking man, holding a cup, entered the office.

“Mr. Malfoy, s-sir, I’ve got your c-coffee,” he stuttered, his hands trembling as he reached the desk, giving you a glance and a sympathetic smile, before placing down the coffee.

Lucius didn’t say a word, only stopping his writing to grab the cup and bringing it to his lips as he took a small sip. You found yourself oddly mesmerized as you looked at him; you couldn’t deny that he was awfully attractive, but you quickly shook your head burying that thought deep down.

His naturally displeased face turned into one of disgust, his lips turned down in a scowl.

“Are you that incompetent that you cannot remember a simple order? Once again it is wrong,” his tone was laced with distaste, his right hand grabbing his cane before loudly banging it against the floor causing both you and the young assistant to jump.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t bother coming into work tomorrow or ever again,” he said calmly, but still with his naturally disgusted tone.

With another bang to the floor, he raised his voice, almost to a yell, “now… get out!”

The young man bowed, almost comically, before practically running out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

Lucius let out a displeased ‘humph’ before letting his focus go back to the work in front of him, his finger tapping gently on the wooden desk.

Your eyes were still trained on his face, not sure what to think, but knowing to not cross him.

“I’d advise you to get back to work and quit your staring, girl… unless you want to also not come back tomorrow,” Lucius said without even looking up at you.

You were slightly embarrassed to have been caught staring, but quickly went back to your work as to not agitate him further, mumbling an almost silent, “I’m sorry, sir.”

As your focus went back to your work, you missed the small smirk that played at Lucius’ lips.

——

A week had passed and already you felt much more comfortable in the presence of the tall intimidating man, the silence that filled the office every day comforting to you as you did your work.

Throughout the week you had dared to ask him for help a couple of times; the first time he had helped you with a displeased frown, but each time he helped he seemed less hostile and more willing. One of the times there had been a problem you were too inexperienced to fix by yourself and Lucius had made you move your chair to the opposite side of his desk to sit beside him, to look over you and help. You were surprised that when you went to move your chair back he stopped you with a raised hand, “you might need more help with this problem and I do not want to listen to the scraping of the chair again.”

You were even more surprised when you had moved the chair back, only to find it beside his chair the next morning, a small space cleared out for you on his desk, giving you enough room to work beside him.

——

More days passed and you found yourself in quiet conversation with the man, small fleeting smiles shared, much to your surprise and pleasure.

He was much more pleasant the more you conversed, the more time you spent with him in that office.

One day, you left the office with him to deliver some of your paperwork and grab some more for you, you having worked faster than anticipated and finished the prescribed paperwork before your deadline.

Stepping off of the full elevator you had to maneuver yourself between numerous amount of people, the ministry bustling with hard-working wizards.

Lucius had placed a large hand, the one not holding his cane, on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. You looked up at him in surprise, but his gaze was set forward, his icy composure never leaving him outside of the office, yet you felt the warmth from his hand and warmth on your cheeks from the blush.

You made your way through the ministry, successfully dropping off and gathering new paperwork.

On your way back to the office you ran into a pair of Lucius’ more respectable colleagues - respectable in the sense that it was the colleagues he respected enough to converse with.

You stood silently beside Lucius as he spoke with the two men about Merlin knows what, that was until one of the men acknowledged you.

“So is this a new one?”

Your head snapped up, confusion written on your face, having no idea what he meant. Lucius placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a subtle squeeze only noticeable to you.

“Yes, but this one has at least lasted longer than a week,- not as incompetent as the last ones,” he grumbled and you understood that they were talking about the previous interns, feeling a little dumb for the quick feeling of jealousy that had passed through you.

You nodded slowly and smiled at the men before yourself and Lucius trudged the rest of the way back to his office.

You entered the office with Lucius close behind you, closing the door softly.

You made your way over to his desk to set down the paper, placing them gently down with your back to Lucius, not hearing as his steps came closer to you.

“What was that back there?” Lucius questioned, his tone as gentle as it could be.

You were about to answer, but your breath caught in your throat when you turned around and you were staring directly into the chest of Lucius Malfoy, your neck craning to look at his face.

“I-I… what do you mean?” You stuttered, trying to compose yourself and not focus on the closeness of his being.

“Don’t play dumb now, little one,” he smirked, “I know jealousy when I see it.”

He pressed you against his desk, cupping your cheek with one hand before leaning down to be level with your face.

“Why were you jealous, my girl?” he whispered, the smirk still evident on his much too smug face.

You shivered at the nickname, “I-I wasn’t,” your face was red, your voice was low almost a whisper.

“Hmm, don’t lie to me,” Lucius spoke, his tone reminding you of his superiority as he rested his cane against the desk and used his now free hand to squeeze your hip.

“I’m sorry,” you said as you broke your eye contact, feeling slightly embarrassed, cheeks burning under his intense gaze.

“Look at me, little one, no need to feel embarrassed,” he stroked your cheek softly.

You hesitated a moment before meeting his gaze once more, his eyes soft as he looked down upon you.

You swallowed down your nerves, your mind not fully being able to comprehend that this was happening, but you tried to ground yourself slightly by reaching your hands up to rest upon his shoulders.

“Lucius, please,” you whimpered, earning yourself another smug smirk from the man in front of you, but your whine was the only confirmation he needed before he leaned down to connect your lips.

The kiss was anything but slow, your mouths working hungrily against one another as your bodies melded together. Your arms were holding him close around his neck, your hands grabbing onto the black fabric of his jacket. His hands were placed firmly on your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh; he used the grip on you to lift you onto the desk, your legs instantly spreading for him to get in between.

Your whine broke the kiss, your hips bucking involuntarily into his for friction. He chuckled, both of you breathless, his grip on your hip tightening to keep you in place.

“So desperate, little one,” he taunted, lightly grinding his hips into yours, a gasping moan ripped from your throat.

He picked at the hem of your skirt, “you’ve been driving me mad with all these small skirts of yours,” he said as he slowly started hiking your skirt up enough for your soaked panties to be visible for him.

“Is this okay,” he asked, pecking your lips a couple of times, waiting for your consent to continue with what he had planned.

“Yes, more than okay, Lucius,” you nodded quickly, leaning in to reconnect your lips in another heated kiss.

Your hands ran through his hair, feeling the silky blond strands between your fingers as he snuck his tongue into your mouth to work against yours.

Lucius broke the kiss, too soon in your opinion, which you made clear with a whine.

“Patience, my sweet girl,” he said with a grin; you tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear as you stared into his eyes, waiting for him to continue.

Slowly he got down on his knees before you, hiking your skirt up with a lift of your hips, your heart was beating fast with anticipation.

He placed a thumb right on the center of your panties before releasing a pleased hum, “look at that, all wet for me.”

You let out a small whimper, “Lucius, please.”

“What do you want? Use your words, little one,” he smirked.

Your cheeks burned, “please, want you to… taste me.”

His smile was wide as he dragged your panties down your legs, “good girl, such good manners,” he praised.

Lucius wasted no time, leaning in to place a kiss on your aching clit, pulling the nub between his teeth gently sucking before using his tongue to put pressure on it.

Your breath caught in your throat at the actions and multiple moans could be heard throughout the large office, your hands gripping his hair while also keeping him in place. His arms reached under your thighs, holding you to his face, his hands squeezing at the smooth flesh.

“Oh, my gods, Lucius,” you moaned, head tipping back as his tongue went in circles around your clit occasionally stopping to put pressure on it or to softly kiss the nub.

Shutters ran up your spine as you grew closer to the familiar feeling of an orgasm, your eyes fluttering slightly at the effort of keeping them open. Your right hand had moved from his hair to grab onto the top of his hand on your thigh; his hand loosened its grip on you, letting you place your hand under his, holding onto it for comfort.

“Lucius, I’m gonna cum,” you announced through moans, but it only made Lucius pull away from your drenched, pulsing cunt, prompting a disapproving whine to leave your mouth.

“Remember to use your manners, little one, that’s not how we ask for the things we want,” he scolded lightly, leaning into kitten lick at your clit to keep you right on edge.

“I’m sorry… please, may I cum, sir?”

Lucius smirked and hummed in content, “go ahead love,” he gave his approval before he dove back in, suckling at your clit till you were shaking in pleasure.

The pressure snapped, a loud moan torn from your throat as you came all over Lucius’ tongue, which he used to lick up everything you produced for him. Your hand gripped his tighter as he worked you through your orgasm, your vision blurred and your cunt pulsing around the air.

He gave one last kiss to your clit, making you jolt before he unhooked his arms from under your thighs and stood up to tower over you once more. He used his thumb to wipe away the wetness on his chin before guiding it to your mouth prompting it to open for him, suckling your release off his finger.

“Are you ready to take my cock in that sweet little cunt of yours, my sweet?” he asked to which you nodded furiously, with his thumb still in your mouth.

“Ah ah, words, darling,” he said with a stern look, “tell me what you want.”

He removed his thumb from your mouth to let you answer him, “fuck me, please.”

He chuckled at your bluntness but chose to let it slide as he reached down to free his painfully hard cock from his trousers.

With it freed, he lifted you with his hands hooked under your arms; you immediately wrapped your legs around his hips and clung to him as he moved you over to a wall of the office. He placed you against it, wrapping an arm behind your back holding you to him, his other hand placed behind your head.

He maneuvered your body down, his cock sliding into you with ease, both of you releasing simultaneous breaths of satisfaction.

He waited a moment for you to permit him to move, but your impatient nature shone through when you started moving your hips, trying to bounce the best you could in the position you were in. Lucius chuckled but understood and started moving, bucking into you, taking over for you.

You moaned, the overstimulation running through you at every thrust of his hips to yours. The feeling of his cock sliding into you slowly to savor the moment, his arm keeping you close to him and his hand holding onto the back of your head to keep you from banging against the wall, it was all heaven.

“You’re taking me so well, little one,” Lucius grunted, his thrusts picking up speed, to bring you both closer to your release.

Your fingers gripped onto his jacket tightly as your whimpers and moans picked up the frequency, “L-Lucius.”

You fell forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you felt yourself grow closer after each thrust of his hips, his hand followed your head, holding onto you tightly.

The tip of his cock deliciously prodded at your g-spot, his pubic bone dragging over your clit creating mind-numbing friction and you clenched around him.

He understood and picked up his speed, leading you right to the edge.

“Lucius, please may I cum?” You pleaded between moans, wishing desperately to be tipped over the edge he had left you on.

“Go on, cum for me, my sweet girl.”

With his permission you were over the edge in seconds, your body shaking and twitching in his strong grasp; your cunt pulsed around him as he thrust you through your release, but the sounds of your moans and the feeling of your warm walls milking him prompted his release.

He gave a couple of hard thrusts before he stilled and released a long deep moan, filling you with his warm seed. You moaned at the feeling, unburying your head to be face to face with him once more, leaning in to connect your lips in a slow kiss as he worked you both through your orgasms.

After he was done filling you up, he walked you over to the desk again, pulling out and setting you down slowly on shaky legs, yet he kept his arms around you to make sure you didn’t collapse. He grabbed the cane resting against the desk to collect his wand and clean you and himself up before he tucked himself away and bent down to grab your panties that were thrown on the floor.

He helped you put them on, tapping each of your feet to get them through and up your legs; Lucius kissed your thigh before rising to his full height again to smile softly at you.

“I still have work to do,” he stated, but he regret his tone after seeing your face drop ever so slightly in your bleary headspace.

“Oh, of course… do you want me to leave?” you avoided his eyes as you asked the question, afraid that he would say yes.

Lucius let out a light chuckle and shook his head, “of course not, you’ll stay here, darling girl.”

He hooked his hands under your arms once more, lifting you up, making you wrap your limbs around him once again. He walked around the desk towards his chair, sitting down on it with you, he turned you sideways on his lap so you could watch him work if you wanted to, but also giving you the freedom to just rest on him.

You watched his face, memorizing his features, thinking back to how nervous he made you, how scary he seems to everyone else and how lucky you were to have been granted access to a whole other side of him, only for you.

Tags: @teenwolfbitches28, @emma67, @sprucewoodlover, @i-love-scott-mccall, @pottahishotasf, @mjoubertt-1, @methblinds, @maraudersbijj, @samaraaaaa,

#lucius malfoy x you #lucius malfoy #lucius malfoy x reader #lucius malfoy smut #lucius malfoy fluff #lucius malfoy x y/n

[frogtanii]

[buckle up; this one is a long one (1.6k words)]

things weren’t supposed to turn out this way.

she was supposed to show up, apologize “sincerely,” and the boys, her boys, were supposed to welcome her with open arms and swiftly discard of you.

instead, she was sitting in the back of a cramped police car with two pigs, one of which had a horrible b.o. problem and an affinity for sauerkraut.

it was so frustrating.

and, of course, it was all your fault.

you’d been blocking her from true happiness ever since the beginning when you’d first met in middle school. it was crazy because you’d actually seemed nice; kind, understanding, and you didn’t judge her for what her father did to her mother or for how she acted out because of that.

sure, you were a little weird and sometimes you could be downright rude to other kids in your class but you cared for her in a way that no one else had before.

(un)fortunately, you didn’t come alone — you were a packaged deal. your childhood friend, daishou, came into her life right along with you. she didn’t mind at first; daishou was fun when he wanted to be but he was mostly full of snarky comments and sarcastic quips.

the three of you spent all your time with each other; from playing at the playground to helping her begin her makeup youtube channel in 8th grade.

you all got along pretty well up until you got to highschool. once there, you threw yourself into your studies, sort of retracting yourself from her and daishou.

how selfish.

she couldn’t help but feel betrayed by you—you knew how bad she was at making friends and you didn’t even care, leaving her all alone to fend for herself.

well, not all by herself.

daishou was a constant. no matter where she was, or how alone she was feeling, he was there to provide entertainment at the most, and his presence at the least.

it wasn’t always the healthiest, most functional friendship, she could admit that. there were weeks that daishou would choose to ignore her for no apparent rhyme or reason, citing his explanation as he just didn’t feel like it.

obviously it sucked but he was her only friend, ever since you so cruelly abandoned them. i mean, you still ate lunch with them every day and invited them over to study and hang out, but it was not the same.

with you so absent, she grew closer and closer to daishou to the point she was spending almost every waking moment with him. and, as the story so goes, she fell for him, head over heels.

she knew it was a bad idea, if their friendship was anything to go off of but she didn’t care. she was desperate for love and physical affection and he seemed willing to at least give her the latter.

after she decided to confess, nerves all the way in her throat and a box of chocolates behind her back, daishou took her virginity in the back of his ford fusion, hard, fast and nothing like she’d imagined.

the next day, she’d cornered you in the library (where you always seemed to be) to tell you the good news. your face was unusually blank as she detailed the best night of her life to you, your response being less than stellar when she was done. “please be careful,” you had said.

what did that even mean? you clearly wanted to keep daishou safe from her which was ridiculous because weren’t you supposed to be her friend too? she’d stormed out of the library after that, determined to demand a kiss from daishou to make her feel better.

that day was one of the last that she’d see you for a while. you got caught up with clubs and schoolwork (and apparently therapy for god knows what) while she got caught up with daishou.

things with him weren’t... great. they never really were but things were getting even worse. his random bouts of silence got longer and though it was only freshman year and they’d been dating for less than 5 months, he’d meet with her after school with a hickey plastered on his collarbone that she knew she didn’t put there (she sucked even harder over the spot to claim it as her own).

as she said, things weren’t great but they weren’t horrible either. they remained that way all the way up until sophomore year.

you and her had drifted even further, hardly speaking to one another unless it was for a project or to vaguely greet one another in the halls. it was okay though. you had all your other friends and she... well she had daishou.

speaking of, her “boyfriend” had been more distant than usual. she wasn’t an idiot and she knew he’d been seeing other girls on the side, but she believed she would be the one he’d end up with, the one he’d marry.

how foolish she had been.

it was prom night and she felt beautiful. her beauty channel had finally begun picking up traction (she’d just hit 13k subscribers the night before!!) so she filmed a prom night makeup tutorial, making sure that every square inch of her face was perfect. donning a silky blue floor length dress, she felt like a princess and she certainly looked the part.

she showed up to daishou’s house about 30 minutes before the event, ringing his doorbell with an elated grin painted all over her face. he had mentioned in passing that his parents and older sister would be out for the weekend, leaving the house for themselves. that meant sex and sex meant being wanted.

after the third ring of the bell, she started to get nervous. maybe he wasn’t ready yet? maybe he needed help with his tie? just when she was about to wring the bell again, the door swung open to reveal daishou... not in his suit.

“oh, it’s you,” he’d grumbled. “‘m not goin’ to prom.” she felt her breath catch in her throat. she’d protested and begged for an explanation but he wouldn’t give one to her. eventually, she’d followed him into his house, furious because how could he do this to her? on her night?

it didn’t take very long for him to get fed up, his snake-like eyes honing in on her, filled with venom. “‘m not goin’ because i don’t like you anymore. you still look pretty though.”

just like that, with just a few words, he’d shattered her heart. she was frozen in place, completely disconnected from daishou, her love, as he not-so-gently pushed her out the door, slamming it in her face.

she felt tears stream down her cheeks and before she knew it, her legs were carrying her to a place she hadn’t been in months.

banging frantically on the door, she cried out, begging for someone, anyone to hear her. the door opened quickly and there you stood. you’d clearly been studying but as you took in her frazzled appearance, it seemed as though your heart broke.

you ushered her inside, sat her own the couch, and began to make her a cup of tea, your parents having been out for the night as well. once the kettle went off, you quickly prepped her drink and gave it to her, the words flowing out of her like liquid once she had taken a sip.

she didn’t know why she was even there but despite the animosity between the two of you, you seemed like you truly... cared. (neither of you mentioned the tears that stained your favorite t shirt or the quiet apologies you muttered into her hair).

that night quickly went and passed and by the next day, she was feeling rejuvenated and more like herself. however, that feeling quickly dissipated when she caught you in the hallway between classes speaking with daishou behind the stairwell in hushed tones.

within the span of a few hours, her heart had been broken twice and she was sure she’d never felt such heartache before.

she turned on her heel and darted away, avoiding your every attempt to talk to her for weeks and weeks until you just... stopped trying. after you’d cut off conversation, yet again, the sadness quickly festered and morphed into anger.

that anger only grew when she watched you graduate at the top of your class in your senior year, your smile blinding as you accepted your diploma. it only grew when she saw that you had made it into the university of your choice on your instagram story, her own rejection letter torn up in the bottom of her wastebin. it only grew when she saw you’d made your own youtube channel, her own going untouched and neglected (her last video had been a half-assed “get ready with me” that had more dislikes than likes due to her horrible makeup and even worse attitude).

soon enough, the rage had intensified until it had taken over her whole being. she was just so angry at all that you’d done to her, all the ways you’d ruined her life that she couldn’t keep herself from plotting your demise.

when she got the email from the hyper house management team that invited her into the house and offered the option that she could pick someone she wanted to move in as well, her anger turned into excitement.

this was her chance. this was her moment to turn your life into a living hell, to make it at least a fraction of what she went through by your hands.

she was going to make you pay and god, was it going to feel great.

the metal of the handcuffs chafed her wrists as she adjusted herself against the cool leather of the cruiser, the discomfort removing her from her reverie.

yeah, right. it seemed as though she was the only one “paying” right about now.

she tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, tears filling her eyes but refusing to fall.

things definitely weren’t meant to turn out like this. not at all.

℗ poker face

not like this

series masterlist

(●’◡’●)ﾉ

an - OMFG THE BACKSTORY REVEALED I AM SO OVER IT >:(( this took me forever to write and i still wasn’t able to include everything i wanted to so hop over to my asks if you need any clarification!! oh oh && just a reminder, this playlist is from meiko’s perspective so chances are, things didn’t exactly go just like this wink wonk KAJS ANYWAYS DONT FORGET TO FEED ME ILY <3333

taglist - if your name is in bold, i cannot tag you

@boosyboo9206 • @geektastic84 • @elianetsantana • @trashy-simp • @infinitebells • @6mattsun9 • @suhkusa • @katsulovee • @kotarosbabygirl • @fucktheworlddude • @insomniacwreck • @calumsfringe • @saltylettuce • @chai-blu • @al3x1ss • @hawksyoongi • @jooleuuh • @loubells • @kissungjae • @liberhoe • @tetsurocore • @animeoverdosee • @duhsies • @saiKishaircLip • @afire24 • @premiyagi • @kit-kat428 • @doctorspencereid • @daphnxy • @kyomihann • @maer-333 • @sinoflust19 • @peteunderoos • @peachiikichu • @iidanotlida • @yongboxerrr • @kac-chowsballs • @tanakaslastbraincell • @memorableminds • @risjime • @starry-magicshop • @sugavwara • @smuttyanimeslut • @kiwibirbs-library • @haijkk • @airybnb • @crybabygumi • @iwaisa • @decaffinatedtealover • @notameera • @kawaii-angelanne • @rintarovibes • @urlocalsimp • @keiarma • @shrimpypenis

the rest of the tags will be in the replies!!

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #hq smau #haikyuu x reader smau #haikyuu smau #haikyuu #hq x reader smau #haikyuu angst #hq angst #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff #atsumu x reader #osamu x reader #kenma x reader #kuroo x reader #bokuto x reader #akaashi x reader #daichi x reader #sugawara x reader #oikawa x reader #iwaizumi x reader #sakusa x reader #tw toxicity #tw toxic people #tw toxic behavior #tw toxic relationship #haikyuu social media au #hq social media au #℗ poker face