#it's all stemming from the same place here

[besidesjustmyamour]

the odds are never in our favor

act one - legacy of cinders

pairing: tribute!gojo x tribute!reader

in district twelve there is not much to be thankful for. somehow the odds are never in your favor, and you end up getting reaped with a boy from your past. the one that haunts your waking days and broke your trust. but is he really what you think he is?

wc: 2.2k

find the series masterlist here!

trope: strangers to enemies to lovers but they didn't have time to love one another

a/n: alright... first chapter how we feeling gang?? lowkey kinda scared because idk how to write conflict (or write at all) suzanne collins a queen for writing thg lowkey. pictures are from pinterest and dividers are by strangergraphics on tumblr!!

find the rest of my works here!!

legacy, what is a legacy?

planting seeds in a garden,

one you’ll never get to see.

Autumn always brought the whispering winds, a tapestry of gold and crimson spinning through the forest, leaves dancing down from their lofty trees, becoming carpets of color rustling with ease.

Everyone sleeps in late today, wanting to spend as much time huddled with their family before the threat looming finally comes back to bite you. The Reaping.

The air grows crisp, a bite of cool delight, as you trudge through the fresh foliage, feet shuffling through the leaves fluttering onto your hunting boots. The last thing you need is to scare away potential game with your loud footsteps.

In the woods is the one place where your facade can fall, where you can shout all your frustrations at the lake below you, calming down as you stare down at it, blurred by your dangling legs. The ledge has always been precariously unstable, but anything to kill time before the Reaping.

Leaning back on your palms, you glance up at the sun searing your face, burning through your dark tunics that help camouflage you during hunts. You can’t consider yourself a good hunter, but at least what you bring in keeps your family from starving.

You strip the nearby bushes of their leaves, their raspberries, the leaves that you had once cultivated with your mother when she was still around. Although it wasn’t allowed, you both made a habit of sneaking into the forest after all the Peacekeepers had finished their patrols to check on your garden. 

You never told her, but you could never resist plucking a few unripe berries from their steadily growing stems, now grown wild and untamed. The taste of the young, still growing fruit from your childhood still lingers in your mind, and over six years later, make it near impossible for you to enjoy the sweetness of the ripe raspberries now.

A melodious chirp breaks through your thoughts, and you twist over your shoulder to see a familiar mockingjay approaching. Its vibrant blue and gray feathers shimmer in the dappled sunlight as it hops closer, a curious glint in its round, beady eyes. With a gentle nudge, you offer it a ripe berry, watching as it eagerly pecks at the fruit, savoring the succulent juices with delicate precision.

“You’re chipper today, aren’t you?” you ask it, keeping your voice light. Just as you expect, the muttation tweets back in the same tone, as if repeating your words back to you.

Only coming from such a free, unshackled spirit, it means nothing.

The nicer part of your district is in the area shadowed by the forest, where none of the residents dare to step foot into what they deem unsafe. If only they knew the danger of hunger.

You pass the bakery, catching the eye of the baker’s son, uninterested, casting shadows on his face as he glances down at his mother’s feet. Her shouts are audible through the thin glass showcasing the elegantly decorated cakes.

You don’t know the boy, but you feel pity for him. Not once in the years following your mother’s death has your father raised his voice at you. He has resigned to heavy sighs of disappointment, which sting more than angry words, you’ll admit.

You stand before the same house in the Victor’s Village, the nicest houses of the entire district, crammed into one courtyard. Most of the houses are empty due to there only being two Victors in the history of the Games; Haymitch Abernathy, a drunken man you don’t socialize with, and the eldest child of the Gojo family, whose name you aren’t bothered or inclined to learn.

You raise your hand to knock but pause, praying he doesn't answer, that he’s not home, and that his mother, a much kinder, forgiving woman, comes to the door. After an agonizing moment, the door creaks open and, just your luck, the younger one’s imposing form fills the frame above. 

You don’t recall his name, either.

The first thing you notice is the red, blaring welt resting calmly on his face. You faintly wonder what happened before realizing that you don’t care. Neither does he, apparently.

“Back to grovel, little bird?” he sneers. 

“Actually, maybe I’ll just head to Haymitch,” you reply, making a show of the flimsy basket holding multiple, freshly snared rabbits. “He might have a use for fresh meat.”

You don’t miss the way he immediately clears his throat, leaning against the doorframe. “I suppose we could make a deal.”

Eventually you’re satisfied with the amount of money in your hands, and he looks equally ravished as he nods to you politely before closing the door in your face. You catch his eyes darting to your lips just as it creaks shut fully.

Whatever’s wrong with him shouldn’t bother you, right?

So why does it?

Suguru raises an eyebrow at the offering. You nudge it towards him, and a smile slowly spreads across his face, overtaking his expression.

“It’s taken quite a while, huh?” he muses.

“You know how much it means to me,” you cheese. “And I want you to have it, just in case…”

“You’re not getting reaped,” he says, as if he’s already predicted who will be safe, like he knows. “Your name isn’t even in there that many times.”

You nod, face warm. "Just in case."

His grin fades. "Don't say that. Your name is drawn just a few times."

"Still a chance," you mutter grimly. "24 slips is 24 too many."

Suguru takes your hands in his. "Listen to me. I survived, didn't I? You're stronger than any tribute here. You'll come back and we'll hunt together, I promise it."

His steady gaze gives you strength. You force a smile. "Okay. And may the odds..."

Your hunting partner, close friend, embraces you. "The odds don't matter. You do. Stay strong—I'll see you after."

Of course, the odds seem to be planting themselves directly against you. But you don’t mention that as you walk to the square, shoulder to shoulder, trusting Suguru enough to watch your siblings as your father makes low conversation with the other miners.

The odds are pointedly not in your favor. Perhaps they never were.

When they call your name, no one moves. You can feel the girl next to you stiffen, as if sensing your breath cut short, hand brushing against yours as you weave your way through the perfectly aligned rows of sixteen year old kids, kids that you went to school with.

If it were any other reaping, you would’ve looked down at them with scorn, glaring at them with a scowl, because no one wants to die, but no one volunteered for you. But the Quarter Quell brings with it new surprises, one being that the tributes reaped may not be replaced.

You suppose you should be glad it isn’t one of your siblings, because where you stand a chance, they would die immediately. Admitting this to yourself is how you temper your own fate. On the other hand, the other twist the Quell brings is that if you die in the Games, there is another penalty to those watching at home.

Your family is publicly executed. Of course. This is the year you are reaped, and you have no choice but to survive. You wish a slow and painful death to whoever thought of that, to President Snow, for picking it. Watching the competitions every year was something you could never stomach, choosing instead to cower in the other room, hands planted against your ears to block out the sickening screams of the dying tributes on screen.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Effie says with a grin far too jovial for the situation, and you know that its her job to encourage you, but they ring hollow given what lies ahead. 

As you walk toward the stage, your breathing comes quick and shallow. A boy with brazen hair and slanted cheekbones catches your gaze, his expression as grim as yours. "It will be over soon," he murmurs, though you're not sure if he means the reaping or your life.

Reaching the steps, you turn to face the crowd, fists clenched. The escort swirls the strips of paper in the empty fish bowl, as if this is simply a game to her. She pinches one between her fingers and drags it out slowly before unfurling it and reading aloud the name.

“Satoru Gojo,” she declares. 

Of course getting reaped isn’t the last of your misfortunes. Although you don’t directly know him, you know what he’s capable of. He climbs on stage beside you, jaw working as if chewing over angry words. 

"No use raging at them now," you mutter under your breath.

Satoru barks a short, bitter laugh. "I guess you're right. Small comfort, that." 

You don’t speak after that, settling into tense silence as your escort waits for the applause that never comes. The depressing gazes of all your loved ones, the people you know, and the people who don’t know you exist, proves to be too much, so you shift your eyes to the ground, pointed at your toes.

There is one more pair of eyes that land on you, eyes that you don’t wish to meet. But when Effie requests for the “lucky kids” to shake hands, you force yourself to drag your gaze from the ground, up his slender legs, the tendon that stretches when he looks down at you, challenging you silently, to his fingertips outstretched, waiting for your hand.

And when you finally shake on it, you remember just who he is to you.

Satoru.

You freeze in your movements, cradling the assortment of berries closer to your chest, the handkerchief tickling your chin. Pale, icy eyes trail down your body, sizing you up, searing everywhere they grace.

You know him, but he doesn’t know you. You’ve seen him, one of the nicer looking kids at your school, always well groomed, arriving to class on time and getting only the best grades.

But no one is perfect, and his flaws are in his arrogance, which doesn’t get any better when all the girls fawn over him, tripping over one another to catch even a flit of his eyes. What would they think now, of him watching you, a poor, peasant girl? You have to hold back a smile at the faint thought passing your mind.  

“Well,” he remarks, unable to hold back the smirk that tugs at his lips, “looks like I’ve finally caught the little bird pecking at my garden, hm?” You flush madly. So he has noticed the previous times you’ve snuck through the fence, collecting his family’s plants. 

"I…I meant no harm," you say meekly, lowering your gaze. "I was only gathering bits of food to help feed my poor family." Playing the pity card is a new low, even for you, but the consequences of mistakes rung through the square often, burned in your eyes, the whine of a leather whip, the sound it makes when it meets tender flesh.

"Hmm, is that so?" he considers, stroking his chin, grinning. "Maybe I’ll let it go, just this once. But you’ll have to pay up."

“I have no money,” you say quietly. “I… cannot pay you, at least not right now. Please, just two weeks-”

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, eyes fixing on your trembling lips. "A kiss, sweet bird, and I'll let your theft go. What do you say?”

Perhaps you’ll suffice to get whipped. Anything over that.

“No,” you say firmly, stepping away, further into the sanctuary of the forest. “I won’t do that.”

“So you won’t mind if I tell the Peacekeepers?” he muses.

“I only took a little!” you plead.

“And I’m not asking for much in return, am I?”

You hesitate, torn between duty and danger. But survival demands sacrifice. Holding back a troubled, irritated groan, you allow him to step closer, lift your chin and capture your mouth with his own, firm but fleeting.

"Now fly home to your nest, little birdie,” he taunts as he breaks away from him, wiping your lips frantically, trying to get rid of the sweet taste of fresh bread and butter that mingled from his tongue to yours.

Does he kiss everyone like this? So hard, fast, as if he’s trying to consume you whole? You feel pity for all the girls he’s left behind with broken hearts, like lost puppies following him everywhere. 

The last thing you expect is to be longing for it again, reaching for the feeling of being held like that, of being wanted, desirable. And you find that nowhere else but with him.

Of course, that feeling only dims slightly when the Peacekeepers knock at your door the next day, pretending to lecture you about theft, but there are no consequences, surprisingly. You suspect it must be because half of your best customers are the officials, the ones meant to enforce the rules, since everyone in the area is desperate for meat and unable to hunt.

You did what he asked.

He ratted you out, either way.

So why can’t you stop thinking about him?

a/n: soooo yeah. drop a comment if you want to be added to the taglist that i may or may not start... because there's still five more parts to this series and.... yeah idk.

likes and comments are always appreciated! lemme know what you guys think!

[elluminis]

hgsn be still my beating heart 😭 I’m gonna yap about ep 4 real quick!!!

first of all, the el gee bee tee scene! It was absolutely gorgeously animated and the voice acting was fantastic, of course, but I also love what this illustrates about hikaru and yoshiki’s relationship with each other and their town. hikaru has never felt out of place here, not in the way yoshiki has. whether that’s due to his family’s legacy, his generally easy-going nature, or a little bit of both, he doesn’t struggle with the expectations of small town life the same way yoshiki does. and so, when he hears that the yasaburo’s kid is sick, he doesn’t think anything of it. but yoshiki does. and he says “he isn’t diseased. he’s gay.”

and hikaru doesn’t fully get it…like that LGBT thing? but he also knows that yoshiki is hurt by more than just the town being “too small.” so he says, “well, whenever you want to go to the city, come over to my place instead.” he offers yoshiki companionship and understanding in a place where companionship and understanding are in short supply, and that means more than he’ll ever know.

compare that, then, with “hikaru’s” reaction to yoshiki’s grief. yoshiki starts crying, and those are complicated emotions that “hikaru” doesn’t know how to comprehend or help with. he goes to give yoshiki space…unlike the original hikaru, who knew that yoshiki needed anything but. “hikaru” is trying, and his childish nature might seem similar to the original hikaru’s carefree nature, but he lacks that level of emotional maturity that comes with time and experience. either way, though, when yoshiki stops him from leaving, he stays.

I feel similarly about hikaru’s death, when he begs the thing on the mountain to keep yoshiki company. don’t let him be alone. because hikaru is afraid that the loneliness would destroy him. and it was the strength of those feelings, I think, that drew “hikaru” to covet yoshiki in such a way, but to also long for his happiness and protection. “hikaru” would do anything for yoshiki…and does it even matter whether it’s the original or the monster from whom those feelings stem? how different are they, really?

and, of course, there’s the realization that yoshiki has known all along. did he think it was all a dream, at first? perhaps. did it take six months for him to properly comprehend that the thing in his friend’s body wasn’t really his friend? also possible. but how incredible, the way these boys’ love for each other transcends life, death, and humanity.

anyway, that’s enough of a thought dump for now. I love these guys so very much :)

[doukeshi-kun]

𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 (𝙙𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙡) + 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙨

notes ✥ huzzah! i'm probably not the first to write daniel hall x reader but i need more of his contents since months ago when i saw him in the comics so i'll be the change i wanna see lmao enjoy whatever this is. it's short btw

contents ✥ daniel hall x fem!reader, mild mild fluff, contain spoilers if you don't know the ending, english poopoo unedited

The castle isn’t too far. You gulp, nervous. 

The portal to your realm has long closed and the hem of your dress was torn because of it—it wasn’t a wise decision for you to crawl out through a tiny opening in hopes you would not catch attention.

The Dreaming is dark—it looks like it’s already nighttime, or whatever it is in the realm’s term anyway. You are getting afraid to even approach the palace any closer. You have only met Lord Morpheus a couple times—perhaps in your dreams but dreams are always forgotten—so you know how scary he can be. 

Especially as a forgotten Goddess of The Moon. You were once from here—born from the ideas of humans who believe in the magic of the Moon. But as modern times approach the horizon, it also devours the faith of your believers. Your realm intends to exile you to the Waking World, because of your fading powers. But you refuse—and that is why you escape yourself to The Dreaming. 

“Ugh, since when there is a freaking forest in The Dreaming? Things do change a lot since three thousand years ago…” You grunt as your dress is stuck on a particularly sharp stem from a tree trunk. In frustration, you yank your dress, trying to get it off of the stem. 

“You will tear your dress if you’re being rough like that.”

You jolt, turning around quickly. A tall man in an all-white garment is right in front of you. His smile is as sweet as sugar. His hands are behind his back and his stance is majestic—royalty. Seeing him makes your mind go blank—forgetting the reason why you are sneaking in the first place. 

“Miss?”

“Ah!”

Crap! He would report me to the Dream King! 

You quickly hold both your hands up, surrendering. “L-Listen, mister! I-I am not a threat to the realm, I swear. I’m aware that my way of coming in was very unsightly but I simply just wanted to see the Dream King.” You say—almost like blabbering, really. 

One of his eyebrows cock up as he tilts his head. He steps carefully towards you. “You want to see the Dream King?”

“Y-Yes, mister… Sir… Lord…?” You mumble, not knowing what exactly his title is. He looks new—you only recognise Lucienne, Taramis and Morpheus’ raven. But this man… though he looks unfamiliar, his presence isn't. His eyes are piercing yet curious, as he circles you. “W-Will you take me to the King of Dreams?”

“You’re talking to him, yes.”

“Oh, thanks.” You nod, grinning happily before that grin drops instantly it crooks. “Wait, what?”

The ‘Dream King’ stops right in front of you, close. “I am Dream of The Endless. You’re talking to the… Dream King, yes.” He smiles. His voice is soft—with a tint of boyishness behind it. 

“You are the Dream King? Lord Morpheus? But… he doesn’t… wear… white…”

“I do not have the right to that name but I am who you seek, lady.” He bows slightly, with a hand on his chest. “You seem… baffled about me. Were you not present during the funeral, months ago?”

“Funeral… I remember attending a funeral in one of my many dreams but… I do not remember who it was for…” You admit. Perhaps something has happened to the family of The Endless. Although as a (forgotten) goddess, you should have known about it, you were too focused on your situation in your own realm of gods.

“Will this…” He holds up the emerald stone on his necklace. “… be enough to prove it to you?” The stone gives a brief flicker towards you. The shape, the essence that is emitted from the jewel—it feels extremely similar to the ones you saw many years ago. You look up at him again. He is a different face, same being—Dream of The Endless. 

“M-My Lord…”

You are about to lower yourself, to bow to him, but the king himself quickly holds you by your arms, halting you. “It is fine, Lady. I understand your confusion. Please, do not feel pressured to apologise.”

“Oh, but Lord… I sneaked into your realm uninvited.”

Dream chuckles. “Yes, you did. I sensed a ripple of space shattering not far from here. I do not wish to disturb my palace staff, thus I embarked on a journey here myself.” He says before he steps aside, gesturing you to walk by him. “Would you like to walk with me to the palace? It is proper for us to discuss your matter in my throne room.”

“S-Sure, Your Majesty…!” You fall into steps beside him, walking with a metre space between the two of you. This is strange—Lord Morpheus would not take an intruder like you lightly, let alone allowing you to even walk with him. You glance at Dream but you find his eyes to be already looking at you in interest. 

“You are… a goddess.”

“Yes, I am… or more like ‘was’, really…” You say. Dream hums, curious. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“I lost almost all of my believers, so I am not really a goddess now. My powers are not as great as it was thousands of years ago.” You reply, playing with the pouch you have been carrying. 

“Ah, right. To kill God is to stop believing in Them. I… remember that.” Dream nods to himself, rubbing his chin as if he is reminiscing a past memory. 

“So, uhm, Dream Lord. What happened to Lord Morpheus?” You dare yourself to ask. He smiles. 

“He is no more.”

“Oh… and you're like… his son or heir?”

“No. I was someone’s son but… well, a lot of things happened within my first year of life. But I was neither Morpheus’ son or heir. I am Dream of The Endless. Just as he was Dream of The Endless.” He explains, his smile is a little solemn and unsure. “And I suppose I am fulfilling my function and responsibilities the way he could not.”

“I see… I wish you the best then. Lord Morpheus wasn’t really bright the last time I saw him. I expect myself to be eaten by the gatekeepers.” You shudder at the thought before you suddenly halt with a gasp. “You are not bringing me to the gate and letting me be eaten, are you?”

Dream looks perplexed, blinking confusedly at your assumption before he laughs. “No, Lady, no. I suppose my way of treating intruders has changed too.”

You sigh softly. “In that case, I am reassured. I guess I can plead my case after all.” You hug the pouch tightly. Dream chuckles, shaking his head before he stops his walk. You stop too and you realise that you are somehow already at the beginning of the bridge leading to his castle. 

You look around—you swear your spot was far from here. But this is The Dreaming and almost everything can happen within it just from its master’s wish. 

“That’s so nice of him, shortening our walk.” You unknowingly blubber your thoughts. Dream scoffs before he turns to you, hands behind his back. His white garment contrasting the nightly scenery surrounding you two. 

“I tried my best. Besides, you seem eager to discuss your matter with me. I mean, you did make a portal, crashing into my realm through a tiny opening and rippled the space within it. I will say that… determination… is admirable.” Dream says. You cackle sheepishly, now finding how ridiculous your way to escape your realm sounds. 

“Well, are you saying?”

“Now?” You ask back. Dream shrugs his shoulders.

“Whether you want to discuss it now or later in the throne room, I am hearing you.”

“Now, please, yes, I would like that.” You quickly say, almost holding his arm, but you retract. You fix your posture, hands at the front in the most humble way. 

You take a deep breath, gazing at him. “As we have talked about just now, my powers have weakened. I am no longer the goddess the world and humanity remembers.” You pause. “Many gods and goddesses begin in your realm, including me. I was a forgotten goddess of the moon. My realm of gods will exile me to the Waking World because I lack the divinity and powers to stay a goddess.”

“I refuse to go there. I know that is where my believers came from but… well… to be frank, have you seen humans? Some of them are decent but a lot of them? Not so much…” You murmur your last bits of words, which strangely receives a chuckle from Dream. 

“You refuse to be exiled to the Waking World… And I take it that you intrude The Dreaming to… stay here?” Dream asks, crossing his arms. Your eyes glimmer with hope as you quickly open the pouch in your hands. 

“Yes! Yes, yes, I ask for a place here. A-And I also bring gifts for you, Dream Lord.” You say as you take out a bottle of lavender-infused wine from the pouch. Dream opens his hands and you put the wine on them before reaching into that small pouch to retrieve other gifts. You keep piling up gifts—the wine, a carved onyx, a handful of ground quartz, a haunted antique watch, a piece of demon’s horn and a beating serpent’s heart. 

“You are very… determined, my Lady. I begin to think that you briefly belonged to my sister once upon a time ago.” Dream remarks with a snicker, watching the gifts in his hands. “Anything else from the tiny pouch?” He asks. You flip the pouch and shake it, making sure you have taken out everything. Nothing else comes out other than remaining quartz dust. 

“That is all I have in my possession, Sire. I hope you consider my… wish… to stay here.” You stand straight, waiting for your verdict. Dream somehow looks confused of what to do with the interesting gifts you presented to him but he gives you a warm smile regardless. 

“I wouldn’t say I am unimpressed with your effort, Lady. You certainly do not want to go to the Waking World.” Dream says. 

“I do not think I am that fond of humans…” You answer truthfully, which causes Dream to snort, shaking his head. 

“I suppose you would not be fond of me in the past.”

“What do you mean? You aren’t a human, are you?” You tilt your head as you watch him keeping your gifts into his white coat, slipping into the bright sky of his garment. 

“In a sense, I was… for eight months. It was a very short time of being human, although I have existed since the beginning of time. Despite so, I still… am not entirely sure of whether things I do is correct or not.” He says before looking at you. He smiles and begins to cross the bridge. Although hesitant, you follow him.

“Was it fun, being a human?”

“I do not think the experience can be called… fun. I was lost… all the time, perhaps.”

“But you are now the Dream of The Endless. Things went well, no?” You say. But your attempt to make your voice sound cheerful rattle when you see his sombre gaze towards the palace. 

“I suppose so…” He murmurs before he scoffs. “I think you are the first goddess I’ve talked to for the past few months. Perhaps you could teach me a few things about divinity and governing aspects of the universe.” He grins, boyish. You let out an awkward chuckle—you, a forgotten goddess, teaching a cosmic entity beyond your power? You are not that egotistical to consider yourself to be on the same level as him. 

But something in his words tickle your mind. You hum and tilt your head at him. “Do you want a friend?”

“… I would appreciate one, yes.” He smiles—warm. 

“Then, I suppose we are friends.” You return a smile to him. “I heard that Lord Morpheus tend to collect a lot of names for himself… but rarely friends. Do I call you Dream? Or do you collect names, just as the other Dream of The Endless?”

“… My mother still calls me Daniel.”

Your smile broadens, satisfaction fills in. You thank Destiny for leading you to this path when you decided to break into this realm. 

“I like that name. It’s cute.” You nod to yourself, agreeing to your own words. “Very, very cute.”

Daniel chuckles. “But that boy is also no more.”

“That boy is still a part of you, Dream of The Endless. Just as Lord Morpheus is a part of you too. Oh— we’re here.” You halt your words as you two reach the entrance of the palace. The gatekeepers are asleep and you scoot yourself to stand behind Daniel. 

“Do not be afraid. They will not harm you.” He says before the door to the palace opens. He walks in but you stay on your spot, not knowing whether to actually follow him or not. He turns when he realises you are still. 

Daniel gestures to the inside of his palace. 

“Come in, Y/N. I believe we have a lot more to discuss.”

Your tongue are tied—you never told him your name. But Dream of The Endless would know you—you were after all existed here before the faith allowed you to leave. 

And so, you step in. 

©doukeshi-kun 2025 — do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, more @/cherikolya

if you like my works, consider buy me a ko-fi!

[kalosinflames]

Elina is nothing if not adaptable. Serena's shunt forward is met by the Vulpix rolling towards Serena slightly to keep herself situated. She truly could not care less for the conversation as it stood; content instead to be pampered by her new friend.

For the first time since they have met, though, Adam sees true and genuine anger on her face. Nothing masked, nothing restrained - and hope, too. This, he thinks, is the one downfall of how Serena chooses to fight the injustices of her world. She would be more than capable of putting an end to things herself if she wished to - but instead she trusts the legal system and the pressure of backlash.

But then again, her path was not his.

"I have, and there was. From what I gathered, the closure was done on fairly sudden terms due to a variety of factors - and given the original plan was to destroy the rig outright until it was discovered it was an excellent habitat for local Pokemon and plant-life alike, I can imagine there was an assumption by some that anything left behind would be lost or destroyed when that took place."

Adam's eyes flick to her, thoughtful. His lips purse.

"I can do you one better than remember, Serena; I have copies of all of the files and other things I took. In my world it is nothing more than an idle curiosity now - but here, it might prove useful in putting things to their own conclusion. Assuming, of course, the details line up. But they seem to, at face value. I will get you the copies themselves by tomorrow."

His brow furrows then, in thought.

"Firstly, you know of Greater Mauville Holdings, I assume? The company behind Mauville City itself, but also New Mauville and the Sea Mauville. They found out the research that their rivals Devon were doing regarding Infinite Energy through - I assume - spies and informants. Several prominent figures in Hoenn worked on the Sea Mauville, and - as you can imagine - it was linked to New Mauville's project through the now Gym Leader, Watson, as the project lead. Watson got cold feet, it seems, and found an excuse to scuttle New Mauville's opening for environmental concerns. The knock-on effect with funding loss and debts was catastrophic and the Sea Mauville was closed, and the company folded. I found a report that made clear that several members of the research team wanted Watson investigated as a traitor."

Adam's took a moment to think and compose his thoughts. His expression is still nothing but sour.

"The rig was run as nothing short of a cult. It went well beyond simply being a harsh workplace; I have the slogans to prove as much. They were forbidden from unionizing, were heavily pressured to not take overtime pay, were forbidden from bringing Pokemon to the rig, were working all hours of the day and night - the works. Given they were - in my eyes - harvesting Pokemon from the ocean for their energy? It would make sense." Adam exhales. "There were diary entries from a child sending messages to his father aboard, and did some digging. The only man I found with the same name as the child worked as a researcher in Mossdeep. He was in his mid-fourties by the time the Weapon was fired in my time. Devon, in turn, must have known about Infinity Energy for decades. Thirty years or more."

His lips curl into almost a snarl. For a moment, Serena can see the fire that pushed him to help fire that Weapon. The passion, so rooted in a good and pure place but so twisted by the inaction of the world around him. For anyone else, it would be terrifying.

"And as I said, most of the team integrated themselves back into general society when the project fell through, knowing the pain they inflicted on innocent Pokemon. Devon and all of those associated should be torn out, root-and-stem. It should not matter that it was decades ago-"

Adam cuts himself off with a sound of repressed anger. His fingers clench into fists before he slowly, painfully, forces himself to relax.

"If Greater Mauville Holdings was doing all of this based on information they gleaned from Devon Corp, then I cannot believe Devon Corp was any better - or indeed, is any better."

          “It is,”

     The agreement slips from the heroine’s lips before she is able to stop it, and in those two words does she allowed her tone to sink, falling to settle alongside his level. Low and venomous. Acidic enough to strip the bones, to sear away at flesh. In any other situation, with any other person, a warning or a promise of retaliation. For Adam, nothing more than an unconscious reaction, an alignment of views in one fact consistent between worlds—the cruelty perpetuated by the hands of the Devon Corporation.

     What follows next is silence. A deepening of the woman’s frown, the look upon her eyes refusing to withdraw. They darken and deepen, and in such short time do the rival the black of night not in shade, but in all of its severity and unknown. A ceaseless void, perhaps where fragments of her hope have long gone to die. And she plays in her mind his words until shoulders prick back up and her stare slides back over to him. Unchanging, but most certainly not directed at the man.

          "Sorry— before, did you say the Sea Mauville...?"

     The question leaves her as nothing more than a trailing mess, though no less serious.

          "You've been there?" She continues to ask, her voice a wavering and louder kind—some mixture of disbelief and dread and hope. Mindful of the Vulpix in her lap, Serena cannot help but to lean inwards, closer to Adam as though the corporation they speak of might have eyes and ears in the very air around them. "You've actually been there, and there were files?"

     Finally. Finally, someone who might be able to tell her the true extent of their horrors. No more rumours, no anecdotes from a friend of a friend whose second cousin worked and met their end in that decrepit facility. Had Elina not been upon her lap, perhaps she would have shifted closer. A blessing, in the end, for in the back of her mind does she fear the look upon her features too intense, her hatred in the face of injustice ugly.

          “I know it might not apply in the same way to the Devon Corporation in this world, but…” She runs her fingers along the fur of the fire-type. Another search for words. “The Sea Mauville exists. New Mauville, too. They were both abandoned and fell to ruin. And Steven’s grandfather also calls the energy given off from the Ultimate Weapon��from Mega Evolution—Infinity Energy.”

     Though Serena notes that his own disgust, in this specific instance, is not something that she finds neither frightening nor unsightly.

          “If there’s anything that you can remember… I'd like you to tell me. I can validate it myself later. They are already exploiting Pokemon here. Pokemon are already dying from them forcing Mega Evolution to harvest the energy. But no-one can touch them. Not outside of Hoenn, and those within it don’t have enough power.”

[dayichor]

TOLERATE IT, anthony bridgerton

twenty three; wisteria, hysteria

masterlist

wp; blueichor / ao3; daybluems

                  The sky was moist and humid as Emma and Lily made their way through the garden, hems browning with mud as they carefully stepped over the wet soil.

The garden was in full bloom that afternoon. Dewy leaves fluttered under bright flowers in the wind, bees and butterflies drunkenly dancing over them. The occasional tweet of a bird could be heard from the trees, and the rare streaks of light between the rainy clouds provided surprising warmth.

Emma hummed thoughtfully as she touched the damp petals of a rose, brows furrowing.

"I think the air is becoming too damp to find flowers to press anymore, Lily."

Lily nodded, adjusting the basket in her arms as she leaned down next to Emma. "It should be alright, Madam, if we dry them for longer under the fire."

"With my luck, it'll probably catch on fire."

The two women continued their way through the pathway, the basket increasingly filling with flowers as they went on.

Sprigs of lavender, red poppies snipped at the stem, delicate peonies carefully placed in the basket.

"Shall we pluck more daisies? I wish to press some for my letters to Daphne..."

"I think I saw a patch where we just passed—would you like me to fetch some?"

"No need, let us go together."

Lily smiled, a gentle one that came from years of familiarity. They walk with their hands clasped tightly together to avoid falling off balance, careful and cautious.

"Did you press flowers often as a child, My Lady?" Lily asked, snipping a daisy into the basket.

"Oh, yes," Emma nodded happily, reminiscing. "I would press flowers in a pattern, and my mother would embroider in the same pattern. My father especially liked using the bookmarks I made with them, and I think his favourite was with violets..." She laughed, "God, I once nearly ruined his ledgers with them! He was livid, of course, but he couldn't bear to scold me when I burst into tears."

"I would've been beaten if I ruined a book in my house."

Emma's smile faded, and she reached over to grasp Lily's palm. "Lily?"

"Oh, I do not mean literally!" She corrected with a snort, "My father was a librarian at an estate, he would nearly cry if a book were ruined!"

"Lily!" Emma huffed, giving her a gentle shove, "Do not worry me like so!"

She giggled, scrutinising a flower carefully. "If we sent some of these to the Vicar, do you think he'd mind us skipping this Sunday's sermon?"

✑ ─────

                     The fire was already burning in the library's fireplace when Emma stepped in, low and warm, casting golden shadows on the shelves as it danced behind the grate.

She balanced the basket on her hip and used her other hand to lift up her skirt, careful to not dirty the expensive carpets with the dirty hem.

She placed it gently near the hearth and was laying out a cloth to dry them when the door creaked open behind her.

"Your maid said you were here..."

"Anthony," She greets with a soft sigh, "What brings you here?"

He pauses for a minute, looking around as if figuring out why, himself.

"Tea." He finally settles. "Will you not be joining for afternoon tea?"

Emma gestures to the flowers in front of her, "As soon as I finish this."

Anthony takes that as an invitation, striding up to her and plopping down beside her on the rug. "I shall lend you a hand."

She decides to just let it go and moves the basket to the space between them.

They are quiet for a while, letting the crackle of the fire fill the space between them as they both carefully dry the flowers out.

"Do you do this often?" Anthony asks suddenly, then elaborates at her enquiring look, "You were doing this before too, in July."

Emma nods, smiling fondly at the vivid petals. "My mama and I used to do it together all the time. We loved to press flowers and give them to my f—" She gives him a quick glance and clears her throat. "Anyway, yes, I recently started doing it again."

Anthony smiled at her, the gold fire warming his cheeks.

He shifts, twirling a daisy between his fingers. "How long do these take to press?"

"Careful!" Emma snatches it out of his hands and places it gently on the cloth. "Depends on the flower, really. Daisies and pansies do not take long, but roses and carnations may take weeks."

"That long?"

"Yes. And I wanted some wisteria to make a bookmark for Eloise, but..."

"Do some not grow over our archways?"

"Unless I suddenly grow ten meters and learn to climb walls, I do not have much hope."

He stands up suddenly, a determined expression on his face. "Come with me."

And sure enough, they were standing in front of the archway moments later, staring up at the gentle lavender hues swaying in the wind.

Emma raises an eyebrow at him, "And how do you propose you'll get them?"

"See those vines over there? I only need to climb on them—"

"That can hardly be safe!"

"Would you relax? I've done it multiple times as a boy—"

"You were not an overgrown brute then!"

"Have you seen my childhood portraits?"

Before she could protest again, Anthony had already started climbing.

He hoisted upwards with surprising agility, deftly grabbing on vines as he moved. Emma watched with furrowed brows, torn between anxiety and awe.

His calloused fingers finally managed to seize a branch. "See, Emma? I told you—"

CRASH!

The vines give away, dropping the noble Viscount to the mud.

"Anthony!"

She screamed and rushed to his side, dropping to her knees.

"I got your flowers."

"That hardly matters!" She yells, "Can you stand up?"

"I may have twisted something."

"Oh, gosh..." She groans as she helps him sit up and lean on the wall. She looks at him then, at the patch of dirt splashed on his face, the red bruises on his palms, his white shirt completely tarnished. And the bright smile that she really, really wished to punch off his face.

Instead, she pulls out her handkerchief and furiously wipes at his face. "What were you thinking! I told you this was a bad idea!"

"But I got you your flowers."

"Don't go blaming this on me!" She leans back, assessing him. "I should go call someone—"

"No!" He clears his throat. "I mean... I would rather not have my help see me in such an embarrassing state."

"But you're fine with your wife?"

"You have already seen the worst of me."

Emma thinks her nostrils may become raw from how much she had sighed that day. She slips an arm under him and helps him stand up. His breath came in ragged huffs as he leaned into her.

"Wait! The wisteria—!"

"Leave them."

"I went to such trouble getting it for you!"

With great difficulty, and an even greater sigh, Emma shakily reaches down to pick up the flowers. Trying not to buckle under Anthony's weight, she helps him limp across the yard.

"Serves you right for not listening to me." She snaps.

"And yet, you're the one stuck carrying me up."

Emma decided against dropping him.

taglist ; @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @lxylaluvr @vvmei @marlenamallowan @escapefromrealitylol @kneelforloki @nerawrites @sqfewrd (taglists are open! just comment on the latest chapter if you'd like to be added)

[nerdy-chocobo]

I saw someone say "being a trans man is always rewarded as long as theres not enough femininity there to disprove it"

and that's the fucking thing: there's always enough femininity to disprove it, cisnormative society will find a way to fucking disprove trans men's masculinity no matter what

because think about it, if half of cis men get "transvestigated" or told they're too feminine or too sensitive or too invested in being just kind to be real men, how the fuck do you think trans men are treated?

like seriously, you are so close to getting it

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

Sophie Oliveira-Shepard Alenko-Oliveira and Kaidan Alenko-Oliveira - ME3 (4/?) "So... that's why you actually invited me down here? Not biotic training? The pep talk of the century about how I can finally start fixing all of the shit I broke? The fight with Zaeed about leaving Earth? Dom getting injured because of me? The crappy way I'm still feeling?" "Maybe. It depends on whether or not it worked. But the last time I checked? 'Our shitty problems', right? That includes the way you're feeling. The way I'm still feeling. We solve it together, huh?" Mass Effect 3: Legendary Edition (2021) + Bonus

[sigurdjarlson]

I always found that sweet how a lot of the time in TLG Med would jump to reassure Khadgar or even apologize after snapping at him

And yet in some ways the cruelest thing Medivh said to Khadgar in my opinion was correcting him when he called Karazhan “Our Tower.” And reminding him he was there at his whim and he could send him away at any time.

And he never did apologize for that one and honestly I don’t really blame Med for that per se? It is his tower and Khadgar can’t tell him who is allowed there. What I mean is going by JUST the power dynamic they have as mentor-apprentice, Khadgar is absolutely out of line there

In some ways could have come off quite spoiled and entitled but the thing is I don’t think that was the case at all.

He’s become so comfortable in Karazhan he’d started thinking of it as his home. Then Medivh has in one conversation reminded him it very much was not his home and he could send him away at anytime if he so wished it

He’d finally found someone who cared about him, respected him and treated him as a person. He found a place where he felt he belonged for once in his life and…

No wonder he was so jealous of Garona for a while after that. He’d been reminded that all of it could be taken from him at any moment and here was someone stealing his Master’s attention.

Just thinking about how that jealousy so obviously comes with feeling like he’s not enough and insecurity about his place in Med’s life.

Just very interesting how I think it could very well have went over Med’s head as not that big of a deal too? One of those things he’d be like huh oh yeah I said that? Meanwhile Khadgar is spiraling about it

He could of also been absolutely aware of how harsh it was because Medivh does lash out like that on occasion (especially towards the end of the book as Sargeras gets harder and harder to fight) he can be a little shit we know this

(Don’t really blame him for that given being possessed by the demon lord Sargeras is probably just a teensy bit tiring /s)

Also seen valid and honestly very possibly canon interpretations where he’s also trying to push Khadgar away cuz he knows what’s coming and what Khadgar is going to have to do.

The more attached to him he is the more difficult it will be for Khadgar to do what needs to be done.

What better way to push someone away then hit them right where it hurts?

And yet even then I think those words hurt Khadgar deeper than he’ll ever know :(

[merkerlerspeaks]

on a scale of 1-10 how silly would it be to ask folks to pray that I find a piece of jewelery I lost. It's not particularly valuable monetarily but its very precious to me and Im afraid I lost it outside of the house. I cant find it anywhere it should be. It could be in the pocket of the either the pajama pants or outside pants I wore the last day I saw it (the 19th) or it could be buried under something in my old bedroom, or it could be at my friend's moms house or somewhere between here and there. Trying not to stress over it but its just become precious too me.

[wanna-bee]

soooo this is as good a time as any to say that i separate characters from their actors, generally speaking, but even more when it comes to certain pieces of media. hint: if you see me not rb actors who played characters i post often, there’s usually a reason for that (which is not always negative btw; sometimes its just neutral).

let’s be even more specific and say, for example: i post a bunch about teen wolf, but i haven’t particularly cared about the cast for a long time, for different reasons. my mindset about them is: thanks for bringing to life this character i love, but that’s about it.

i see playing a character and pretending to be someone else as very different from, say, an artist making personal art directly connected to who they are as a person, so i treat it differently. i do not associate an actor’s performance, talent, or physical appearance (however i might personally feel about it) with what they’ve got going on personally; i just associate what they’ve looked like and sounded like when they played those characters with the characters themselves. and ultimately, thats because i do not consider those attributes to be a reflection of someone’s values or character, so if for whatever reason i do not vibe or like or even outright dislike an actor for something in particular, i can separate that from the character.

i understand people who cannot do that; this is just how i feel and operate, with certain personal boundaries. anyone can disagree, and that’s completely fine; in fact, i’m making my stance as clear as possible so that if someone wants to disengage with my blog bc of it, they can do so with no problem.

and i’m not posting this to dig into any recent events or how they may unfold, this is meant as a general psa to explain a stance i’ve held for a long time regardless. that’s all ✌️

[free-luigi-mangione]

also i'll be answering the asks i've already gotten, but please refrain from sending in asks that criticise how commoners are acting about anything, this blog is not a place to comment on people's behaviour even when it might be harmful or morally wrong, what this blog is for is written right in the URL and i will continue to talk about anything regarding Luigi and his cases but nothing about any specific person/group of people doing something that i or somebody else finds unsightly. it might feel nice at the moment to fight amongst ourselves but in the end, it still districts people from what actually needs to be done, which is to make sure to counter the media's narrative as best as we can, to make sure Luigi gets to have the presumption of innocence and that his right to a fair trial is not taken away from him, and most importantly, regardless of whatever the prosecution wants people to believe right now or during the trials in the courtrooms, Luigi should walk free. that's it.

[turigirl]

what the fuck is up with today (its only 1 pm)

[colouredbyd]

The Boy Is Mine

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader

summary: you’re quiet by nature, content in the background, until someone pushes too far. When a girl flirts with Remus, something shifts. With one kiss and a quiet claim, you remind everyone exactly who he ( and Sirius) belong to.

warnings: possessiveness, jealousy, strong language, suggestive content, heated kiss, and public displays of affection.

wc: 3.4k

a/n: i need both Remus and Sirius at the same damn time.

masterlist

You’ve never been the loudest in the room.

You don’t need to be. Not when Sirius is tossing his head back laughing beside you, all glittering chaos and charm, or when Remus leans in close, voice low and deliberate, like every word he says is meant only for you.

They fill the space so effortlessly—Sirius with his magnetic presence, Remus with his quiet gravity—and you find yourself fitting between them like a breath between heartbeats. Steady, constant and soft.

You like watching more than speaking. Not out of shyness exactly, but because you enjoy observing—feeling everything. It’s the way Remus’s thumb circles over your knee under the table without him even realizing. The way Sirius always saves you the last bite, even when he swears he won’t. You don’t need to be loud to be loved here.

They know you. They’ve always known you.

Sirius, who pulls you into the middle of the common room and spins you in dizzy circles until you’re breathless with laughter. Remus, who presses his nose into your hair when the world feels too sharp and mumbles poetry against your skin. 

Between the two of them, you’ve never had to shout to be heard. They listen in the silence. They love you in the quiet.

But sometimes, even the quiet hums with something fierce.

And today, it’s starting to burn.

The loud music thumps through the walls, pulsing in your veins, but all you can hear is Remus’s voice rising above the chatter of the party. He’s talking to a girl, one whose name doesn’t matter.

because you’re already irritated.

Sirius is speaking beside you—his voice low and animated, probably bantering with James about something as thrillingly idiotic as who cheated in the last round of Exploding Snap—but the words barely register. They fade into the background like the bass of the music humming through the party, the way laughter spills and drips from every corner of the Gryffindor common room like syrup.

You’re curled up beside him on the leather couch, soft and familiar, half draped across his lap like you belong there, because you do. His palm is warm against your skin, fingers lazy as they trace circles over your thigh, an unconscious kind of touch that says mine without needing the word.

But your attention isn’t on Sirius.

It’s fixed—razor sharp and unblinking—on the girl across the room.

She’s all lip gloss and bright laughter, the kind of girl who doesn’t walk into a room so much as glitter through it. Her blouse is buttoned just low enough to draw the eye, her skirt just short enough to be a statement. She leans in closer to Remus like she’s in a slow-motion daydream, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she giggles at something he said.

Except Remus isn’t laughing.

He’s smiling, but you know that smile. It’s the strained one. The tight-lipped, please-don’t-make-this-weird smile he gives when someone crosses the line and he’s too damn kind to push them away.

And she—well. She’s not backing off.

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass. Not enough to shatter it, but enough to feel it, to ground yourself before the rising tide inside you gets too high. The jealousy doesn’t burn. No, it doesn’t scream or sputter like some childish tantrum. It’s quiet. Sharp. Ice in your veins, snow behind your ribs. It’s precise.

You watch her touch his arm, watch her eyes flutter and her voice pitch just so. You watch Remus stand there with all that quiet discomfort in his shoulders and all that unnecessary politeness keeping him rooted in place.

And something inside you shifts.

You’re not the loud one at these parties. You’re not the girl who shouts or struts or demands. You’re the one who stays curled up in the lap of a boy with stardust in his smile, sipping your drink while the chaos unfurls around you. You’re the calm in their storm, the softness they return to.

But not tonight.

Because tonight, someone is trying to touch what’s yours.

And whether Remus knows it yet or not, whether that girl ever figures out just how royally she’s miscalculated, one thing is already certain.

You are about to stop being the quiet one.

“Moony’s got his fan club going tonight, huh?” Sirius says, his tone casual, his fingers playing with a loose thread on the hem of your sleeve. “I swear, every time he talks to a girl, she looks like she’s ready to devour him.”

You hum, an absent sound, not really acknowledging him. Your gaze stays fixed on Remus and that damn girl, the way she’s tossing her hair back and laughing too loudly.

“You okay, dove?” His voice drops a little, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with a slow, deliberate motion.

You want to lie. You want to say it’s fine, that you’re just tired or distracted, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you give a small shake of your head, the fluttering in your chest too strong to ignore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, a little too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

Sirius’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. He knows you well enough to sense when you need space, but tonight, there’s something different. The energy in the room feels electric, like it’s just waiting for a spark.

Remus laughs again from across the room, and this time, the girl reaches up to touch his arm, her fingers trailing lightly along his sleeve. The sight, the sound, the way her body leans just a little too close to his, sends a pang of something sharp through you. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch her lean in, her lips too close to his ear as she whispers something.

Your fingers grip the edge of the couch, your nails digging into the fabric. You feel like you’re going to snap at any moment, and you’re so sick of it.

Sirius seems to notice the shift in the air. His hand halts on your back, and he turns his head toward Remus and the girl, then back to you. His expression softens, understanding settling in. He leans forward, his voice low as he speaks, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

“Love, I think we’ve reached a new level here,” he says, voice laced with something almost teasing. “You’ve been staring at him for ages now.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep the fluttering in your chest under control. “I’m not staring,” you say, but even you can hear the edge in your voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? ‘Cause I think you’ve definitely been staring. You want me to go over there and break it up?”

“No,” you snap, a little too quickly, and then you freeze, realizing just how harsh you sound. You soften your tone, but the words still feel like they’re cutting you open. “I… I don’t know.”

Sirius doesn’t push you, but he watches you carefully, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You shift uncomfortably, your gaze returning to Remus and the girl. It’s like a magnet pulling you in, the way she laughs again, her hand resting on his shoulder now, fingers tracing the outline of his collarbone.

The thought makes you want to scream.

You watch the girl lean in closer, her breath light against his ear as she says something you can’t hear, but you can see it in the way her lashes flutter and her lips curl. It’s an obvious flirtation, the kind of thing that would make anyone else swoon, but you just feel your stomach twist in knots. Remus gives a tight, polite smile, the one he always does when he’s too kind to be rude, but you know that smile too well. It’s a mask, a shield, and you can see right through it. He’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t stop her.

The touch lingers. And Remus—sweet, gentle, infuriating Remus—doesn’t stop her.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t step back. He doesn’t even glance in your direction.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Maybe he’s just being polite. Maybe he’s too soft-spoken for his own good. Maybe he thinks you don’t mind, that you’re tucked up on the couch beside Sirius, warm and safe and unbothered. Maybe he’s forgotten that while you may be quiet, you’re not blind.

But oh, you care.

You care enough that your drink is forgotten in your hand, the condensation sliding over your fingers like cold sweat. You care enough that your jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking with a quiet fury that pulses behind your ribs. There’s a pressure building in your chest, a weight that has nothing to do with insecurity and everything to do with possession.

You’ve always known what’s yours.

And Remus?

He is yours.

The room around you begins to blur, voices fading into background noise, like someone’s turned the volume down on the rest of the party. The flickering firelight, the chatter of students, the low buzz of magical music—all of it dulls. All you can see is the way she’s looking at him, lips parted in a practiced little smile, eyes batting as if she’s never had to work hard for attention in her life.

You hear her laugh—sharp and high and entirely insincere—and it cuts through you like a blade. Remus chuckles along with her, and it’s that sound, that soft little sound of his, that makes something in your spine snap straight. His eyes catch the light just right, that familiar glint of mischief and charm you’ve seen a thousand times when he’s teasing you softly beneath the covers, and it stings more than you’d like to admit.

And suddenly, you are no longer the quiet girl curled in the corner.

You are no longer the soft one who waits patiently for your boys to come home to you.

You are standing up, not with a shout or a dramatic flourish, but with a kind of cold certainty, like the sea deciding to rise. Sirius shifts beside you instinctively, his hand brushing your back as he senses the change in the air, his voice dipping with curiosity.

“Love?” he says quietly, brows raising. “Everything alright?”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

Because your eyes are still locked on the girl in the too-tight blouse and the too-pretty smile and the entirely wrong assumption that she has any right to touch your Remus like she belongs there.

She doesn’t.

And she’s about to learn exactly why.

It never felt like you needed to compete for Remus’s attention. He had always been yours in that quiet, unspoken way—his careful gestures, the soft smiles he gave you when no one was looking, the way he always made sure you were okay, even when you didn’t ask. You had a bond, something deeper than words. But now, watching him allow her to invade that space, something inside you snaps.

She’s leaning into him like he’s already hers, one manicured hand lingering on his forearm, like she doesn’t see the slight pullback in his posture. Like she doesn’t notice the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sirius’s hand slips off your thigh, stunned. “Where’re you going?”

“To get what’s mine.” you say, and your voice is soft, sultry, but it slices through the noise like a blade.

James chokes on his drink. Lily turns, eyebrows lifting as she watches you stalk forward, hips swaying, jumper slouching off one bare shoulder. You hear someone mutter, “Bloody hell.” and you don’t even need to look to know Marlene is probably grinning like a wolf.

The girl is still touching Remus. Still laughing.

You don’t give her the chance to speak. You don’t give him a moment to explain, or to blink, or to pretend he doesn’t feel the air shift as you close the distance between you like a storm cloaked in silk.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of his jumper, curl tightly into the soft wool, and tug. Hard. Hard enough that he stumbles forward, just one step, just enough to crash into your gravity.

His eyes find yours, startled and wide, and for a heartbeat he forgets where he is. The party, the music, the girl whose perfume is still clinging to the air around him—all of it vanishes the moment your lips catch his.

It is not a kiss built from politeness or affection. It is not the kind of thing meant for privacy or delicacy.

This kiss is war.

It’s bruising and slow and devastating, like a spell whispered in the middle of a battlefield. Your hand tangles in his curls and tugs, just enough to make him gasp into your mouth. Your other hand slides down to his belt, fingers brushing over the buckle, teasing with the lightest hint of promise. You tilt your head to deepen it, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste him.

He groans, low and helpless, the sound caught between your mouths, and you smile against him, smug and sinful.

When you finally pull away, his lips are pink and glistening and parted like he’s about to say something but hasn’t figured out what language he speaks anymore. His hands are still hovering at your hips, and his chest is rising with uneven breath, eyes clouded with something that’s definitely not confusion.

You turn to the girl, and she looks like she’s just witnessed something religious and blasphemous at the same time. Her mouth is hanging open. Her expression is frozen in that awkward no-man’s-land between horror and disbelief.

“Oh,” you say sweetly, voice thick with honey and venom, “were you still talking? Only he seems a bit busy now.”

She blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it. You don’t give her time to think. You trail your fingers down the front of Remus’s chest, slowly, like you’re remembering the way his body feels under your hands and enjoying every second of it. You play with the collar of his shirt, letting your nails drag across the fabric, soft and sure.

Your eyes never leave hers.

“I mean,” you go on, voice quieter now, conversational in a way that is somehow even more intimidating, “I don’t blame you. Honestly. Look at him. He’s got that whole clever boy thing going on, right? The kind of boy who knows all the answers in class and still somehow makes you want to climb into his lap and ruin his concentration. And don’t even get me started on that body—tall and lean and unfair, and the scars…” you let your fingers trail over his chest again, nails teasing the fabric, “Body built like a sin under those clothes, too bad only me and Sirius get to see it though.” 

A grin spreads across your face, wide and wicked like a cheshire cat.

Remus lets out a sound that’s definitely not family friendly and buries his face in your neck for a second, either to breathe you in or to hide the fact that he might actually combust.

James lets out a strangled sound from across the room. “What the actual hell is going on?”

Lily is watching with wide, fascinated eyes, looking between you and the girl like she’s witnessing a lioness dismantle a bunny in slow motion. Marlene, from her spot near the fireplace, raises her drink in silent toast and mutters, “Finally.”

You lean in close to Remus, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear. “But here’s the thing,” you whisper, just loud enough for the girl to still hear. 

“He’s mine.”

Then you pull back and look her dead in the eye, your gaze soft but lethal.

“And I don’t share.”

The girl blinks once. Twice. Then turns with all the grace of someone trying not to run.

Remus just stares at you for a long moment, breathless, hands still planted on your waist like he’s afraid to let go in case the earth tilts and he floats away.

“What the hell just happened?” he asks, voice low, rough, and wrecked.

Sirius appears beside you like smoke, sliding his arm around your waist as he grins like you’ve hung the bloody stars for him.

The girl’s mouth parts, clearly searching for a clever retort, something sharp or self-righteous or maybe even pathetic to claw her dignity back from the floor where you left it. But the words never come. Her lips tremble like she’s buffering. You don’t give her the chance to reboot.

Instead, with calm that borders on cruelty, you turn back to Remus and brush your lips against the corner of his mouth. Not a full kiss this time, but something quieter, more dangerous. A period at the end of a sentence she was never invited to read. 

You feel the way he freezes for just a moment, breath hitching as your fingers slide up to rest at the base of his throat, just enough pressure to remind him—and everyone watching—exactly who he belongs to.

The common room is stunned into silence. Even the portrait hole seems to creak softer, like the whole castle is holding its breath.

And then James, bless his nosy little soul, practically falls off the arm of the couch. He stares at you with something like religious awe, eyes as wide as Galleons, hand clutching his drink like a lifeline.

“That,” he says reverently, voice cracking with disbelief, “was the hottest thing I have ever witnessed. And I saw Sirius in a crop top once.”

Sirius doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s unaffected. He slumps back against the couch, one hand dragging through his hair like he’s trying to keep his brain from melting. His grin is crooked and wild, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

“Merlin’s tits,” he says, almost reverent. “I think I’m in love. Again.”

Lily, sitting upright with her legs crossed like she’s hosting a panel discussion, blinks slowly. Her jaw is slightly ajar, her drink forgotten on the floor.

“Did she just… flirt and threaten simultaneously?” she asks, clearly reevaluating everything she thought she knew about you.

Marlene doesn’t even bother to hide her grin. She claps once, loud and delighted, and leans forward with sparkling eyes.

“Oh, I love her,” she announces with glee. “Someone give that girl a crown and a throne and maybe a leather corset. She just out-Slytherined the entire House.”

You don’t look away from Remus. He’s still breathless, a little dazed, his lips parted like he’s forgotten how to speak. His hands are at your waist now, gripping softly like he needs to touch you just to make sure you’re real.

You lean in, voice velvet-sweet, and say, “Now Remmy, were you going to let her keep touching you or should I start hexing?”

Sirius, meanwhile, is leaning back like a man thoroughly entertained, one arm draped across Remus’ shoulder with a love-sick gaze in his eyes.

Remus just blinks for a moment, his mouth parted, completely undone. Then a sound escapes him, surprised and delighted, something between a laugh and a groan, like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him in the best way.

“I think I’m in love with you all over again,” he says, a little dazed.

And then Sirius leans over, as if conjured by the heat of the moment, slipping in behind you like gravity itself gave him no choice. His hands slide over your hips, warm and certain, like they’ve always belonged there. He leans in until his mouth brushes your neck, breath hot and voice lower than sin.

“That,” he murmurs, lips grazing your skin, “was art. You’ve officially ruined me. I’ll never recover.”

You shrug, casual as anything, but your pulse is thundering and your eyes are glowing and the adrenaline is still singing in your bones like an aria. “Good,” you say simply, and it lands like a spell.

The common room hasn’t even recovered. Conversations haven’t resumed. Heads are still tilted in your direction like they’re not quite sure what just happened, if they witnessed a declaration or a detonation. And maybe it was both. You were the quiet girl. The sweet one. The one with gentle touches and soft smiles who moved like a secret in a room full of noise.

But tonight? Tonight, they watched you stand like you were carved from something divine, watched you kiss Remus like he was yours and always had been, watched you claim your place not as an afterthought, but as a force of nature wrapped in wool and confidence.

And Remus? He’s still holding your waist like he might never let go. Sirius looks like he’d fight anyone who even breathes in your direction the wrong way.

Together, they look ready to tear the world apart if it means keeping you. And somehow, the quiet girl has become the storm they’d die for

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, omegaverse, subjugation, some type of sexism, bad politics, chemically induced heat? institutionalized reader, doctors, wack rehabilitation program, ish brainwashing

fem reader

You’d been difficult to tame. Or, he just didn’t have the time to do it properly—too busy at work and too tired when coming home. He’d wanted a sweet Omega, one who did house chores when he was away and had dinner ready for him when he got off.

You’d looked real sweet at the auction—a perfectly beautiful Omega. You weren’t cheap either—everyone had made their bids, but he’d been the one to walk away with the prize in the end. He can’t say he regrets it—he still has a fondness for you even though you’re not what he’d thought he’d purchased.

You just need some behavioral correcting. And so, he put you in an Omega institution.

It had been recommended to him. It’s not so uncommon, he later found out while reading up on the place. Auctioned Omegas tend to end up a little rough around the edges—here, at the institution, they’ll smooth those edges right out.

Sadly, there’s been a rise in unstable Omegas as of late—he reads on their website. It’s a misguided revolution taking place in several auction homes that’s to blame for it—circling modern ideas of liberation, equality, andindependence. It all stems from a place of fear, the website explains in detail—Omegas seek to stand on their own in the world. Cooped up in auction homes, they fear they’ll never see the outside without a mate—and as the years dwindle on and their prospects become slimmer, they start fantasizing about doing it on their own.

He feels sorry for you while reading it. Your attitude makes more sense now, knowing you’ve been fed a bunch of deluded nonsense. He can’t blame you for getting swept up in it—you’re a little younger than him, after all. But the silly idea of a lone Omega isn’t just laughable but dangerous. It was best of him to make sure any such notions were quashed—for your own good—before you end up doing something you might regret. 

And it seemed this place was the place to do it. In fact, many of his fellow Alphas had done the same, and they’d all sung this particular institution’s praises.

Oh, but it’s been hard. You wouldn’t talk to him much or even keep him in good company at home, but still, he misses your presence. The house seems so empty without your little everyday spats to keep him on his toes.

You’ve been away for a whole month now, and he hasn’t even been allowed to visit, not once. It would ruin the process, he was told. But he’s been assured that the caretakers there have been making great progress with you. He should be able to come pick you up as soon as the start of next week.

He remembers having been skeptical about leaving you here as he walks to announce himself at the help desk. The facility is pristine and sterile—very impersonal, just like any other hospital. He wonders if you’ve been scared. After all, it’s most likely your skittish nature that makes you so hostile, joined with misgivings making you confused. It can’t be easy. He hopes the doctors here have helped you sort things out. Maybe you won’t be so frustrated all the time.

He was led to a private room where he could complete some paperwork for your release while waiting for your discharge. He made quick work of it. A door opens, and your doctor comes through, and then, following right behind him, there’s you—his pretty little Omega.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you quite so subdued—not even when you’d been caged at the auction, there’d still been some fight to your spirit. Now, not so much—taking quiet and careful steps with your head hung, looking at your slipper-clad feet.

You pick your face up when you recognize the scent, and then you look at him like you’ve just seen a ghost. Wide-eyed and lock-jawed—your breathing picks up rapidly, and his name drops from your lips like a pained whimper, followed by a sudden burst of tears and a rush toward him. “You came back—” 

You’re on him before he has the time to blink—pressed against him tightly, skin-to-skin and heart-to-heart, with your face buried in the grove of his neck. Your claws are slightly drawn, but in no effort to hurt him—rather, to cling to him. It’s not any normal hug—not that you’d ever given him one before—but even so, you’re swaddledaround his neck with your legs crossed at his back.

He’s taken aback by the behavior—it isn’t like you at all. He remembers your aversion to his touch, how you’d regard him like a plague, snarling each time he’d get too close. This was beyond new.

But you leave him no opening to comment either, too busy rambling in meek little whispers pressed into his skin, “Thank you, thank you, thank you—I knew you’d come back—knew you hadn’t forgotten about me. I’m sorry I was being difficult, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’ve forgiven me, right? You’ll take me home now, right? Please—”

He’d never been in a position to soothe you before—you’d never wanted it. He doesn’t know what else to do but smooth a hand over your hunched and shuddering back, shushing you like he’d seen mothers do with their sobbing children. You didn’t look much different right now.

“Yeah… we’re going home,” he assures you. 

You hug him a little tighter as a sob wreaks through you.

This isn’t exactly what he prepared himself for. He thought you’d be... well, he doesn’t really know... nicer?Perhaps. Agreeable. Not so violent. But not this—this broken little ball of shivering sniffles holding onto him as if the world was about to end.

He swallows thickly, then looks at your doctor—he doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, he seems utterly unfazed.

It makes him wonder, a little warily, “What have you done with her?”

The doctor seems more than happy to explain—it’s only customary, after all. He’d paid a lot to have you rehabilitated here.

“Each omega requires special treatment suited to them,” the doctor explains. “Yours was particularly unruly.”

You flinch. He feels your claws dig deeper, but they’re too blunt to draw blood and too weak to hurt anyway. But even so, your sentiments are more than clear—you fear this doctor with your entire being.

“We’ve found that in the case of hostile Omegas, the most effective way to correct their behavior is to keep them isolated and let their own instincts remind them of what they need,” the doctor continues. “Of course, we’ve taken protective measures to ensure she wouldn’t harm herself in said isolation and have fed her accordingly at scheduled times every day.” He smiles. “We can assure you she’s been perfectly safe in the pillow room.”

He lifts the silver suitcase he’d been holding, props it up, and pops the lid, revealing a row of ten syringes—a hot pink fluid within.

“This is our recommended medicine.”

You shudder even more, unrelenting in your grip around him—hanging on so tightly as if you fear someone would come and pry you off him at any moment.

“Give one to her if and when she acts up. More instructions come with the case—please read through them carefully.”

He eyes the syringes with furrowed brows, picking one up to inspect it further. They don’t look like anything he’s read about in the brochure or on the website—perhaps a brand new method for treating Omegas? This is a cutting-edge institution, after all.

He can’t guess what they must do to make you cower like that. The spit-spire he left here a month ago wouldn’t cry over a tiny needle.

“What are they?” he asks.

The doctor’s smile stretches. “Nothing dangerous. All natural hormone components.”

He’s not sure what that entails, and so he quirks a brow while laying the syringe back in its designated mold. “And what does that mean?”

The doctor clasps the case shut and hands it over to him while explaining plainly, “They induce heat.” 

He accepts the case before his ears have the chance to draw back at his words. Now that explains your sudden clinginess—why you’re so frigid.

The doctor adds, “Poor thing’s spent quite a few alone in the pillow room, so I’m sure she’ll be grateful to finally be by her mate’s side again.”

He’s speechless.

Spending heat alone, without any relief, is a form nothing short of torture. If he’d known that was what they were doing to you, he wouldn’t have sent you here in the first place. He very nearly chews the doctor out for using such barbaric methods but thinks better of it. If anything were to be done, it would be through a well-worded and filed complaint and a vow to never do business with them ever again.

Though, coming home with you by his side, still clinging to him… he can’t argue with the results. 

So he doesn’t complain. He just enjoys your new and improved wellness and promises never to use those injections on you himself. Yes, they’d forego their expiration date soon enough, dusting away in the back of his closet. He’d never ever put you through something so horrid. That’s his pledge as your mate.

Oh, but then... the honeymoon phase dissolves. And you return to your old habits of teeth and claws.

It’s never-ending barking with you all over again—you want to leave, you want to be alone, you don’t want him to touch you, you blame him for what you went through at the institution, you hate him for it, and you’ll never ever forgive him.

He doesn’t want to—he swears while holding the syringe to your thigh where he’s strapped you down in bed with ropes and knots—he doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t, but you leave him no choice when you act like a wild animal. 

The first time is always the hardest. But he doesn’t leave you alone in a room like they did at the institution—no, he helps you through it. It’s not torture this way. It’s just… well, what can he say? It’s just a little reminder to get you back on your good behavior.

You would rather stay here than get sent back to the pillow room, right?

It’s all too easy the second time around even though it shouldn’t have been. It was only a day of small uproars, nothing all that bad—refusing to greet him at the door, to make dinner, to fix his plate, to wash dishes, to come to bed. He’d allowed you days like that in the past, but this time, he’d felt himself gravitate towards his so-called last resort once again. 

Still, he’d felt a little guilty about it. 

It would be easier to refrain if it didn’t work like a charm.

Now, he goes and finds the briefcase at the drop of a hat. Say something snarky or look at him funny. Give him any opportunity, and he’ll abuse it—even things you don’t even mean to do, like burning the food, shrinking his clothes in the wash, or forgetting to make the bed in the morning. He’s on you with the syringe deep in your flesh before you can even mouth the words “I’m sorry—”

You’re limp and sweat-drenched after a few hours. He spoons you as the spasms continuously ricochet through you—his spent leaking down your thighs. Even after several rounds, the hormones are still brewing up a bad storm within your gut, thundering in your heart as its lightning zips along your limbs. Your head is a rainy cloud—heavy and full yet soft like cotton.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—it was an accident—” you mumble between labored breaths, not entirely sure what error you’d made this time, shivering against his warm chest as he cups your breast in one big hand and your swollen cunt in the other.

“I know, I know it was, baby,” he coos. “But you need to be more mindful—can’t be making so many mistakes all the time.” His lips brush your skin as he purrs, placing small pecks against your cheek and neck. “How can I trust you with my pups if you’re gonna be such a scatterbrain, hm?”

The mention of pups makes something roar more ferociously in your underbelly, and you whimper meekly in return. “I’m sorry—I’ll do better.”

“Good. I’m sure you’ll get there, sweetie.”

The storm within crackles, rumbling with a deepening hunger. Even though you feel battle-worn and ever ready for the sweet escape of sleep, there’s something even needier and heedless that makes your body feel all but set ablaze.

You’ve cum so many times already, but it’s still not enough—it’s never enough. It takes everything in you to make sense of his words—to act civil even when all you want is to jump his bones—make him fuck you until your fever breaks, then allow you rest.

But act in any way out of turn, and he’ll only drag this out. Be sweet, you remind yourself—sugar, syrup, honeycomb—sweet and soft like velvet—no teeth or claws or growling. No matter what, don’t let the animal out of the cage.

“No matter how many lessons it’ll take…” he murmurs. “I’m here to help.”

“Thank you—” you wince while rubbing your thighs together—grinding against his hand in desperation. “Can you… can we—”

He chuckles fondly, feeling you rub your ass back against his crotch wantingly. “Oh? Another round so soon?” 

You bite your lip at his teasing. Far beyond proud to not be begging, “Yes, please—pretty, pretty please—”

The sweet warble in your voice is so pitiful and cute—he can’t help the smile it brings him. “Alright, honey,” he hums while shifting, getting up with a hearty sigh, then leaning over you to give your pleading little pout a kiss. He feeds you his next words with a grin on his face, “Let’s see about that needy pussy of yours.”

He spreads and shimmies himself between your aching thighs, nice and snug against the weeping little thing between them—looking down at you with heavy-lidded eyes and a smug smile that makes you feel like the most hopeless little Omega in the world.

He places another kiss upon your forehead—dwarfing your hand in his big one, braiding your fingers together while the other carries his meaty cock, holding it steady up to your fluttering and glossy slit. 

The size never fails to make you squirm as you look down at it—wondering why you crave it so badly when it only serves to make your body twist and scream from the stretch it gives you.

 “Don’t worry, sweetie,” he soothes the tiny cry that cracks from your throat once he starts easing the length inside the snug comforts of your walls. “Your Alpha’s here to make it all better.”

♡ BNHA – old man Bakugou, Deku, Kirishima, Enji ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Kusakabe ♡ HQ – Daichi, Ushijima ♡ AOT – Erwin

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[queensparklekitten]

anyways after that minecraft movie trailer i'm tempted to change my skin back to that one based on crimson/warped duality out of spite

they called the nether "a place with no joy or creativity at all" like just tell me you're too scared to go there and thus haven't experienced

-joining in on a group of piglins hunting a hoglin, letting them keep the loot, trading with them afterwards, i find that this temporarily cures the loneliness of singleplayer

-the dance they do afterwards sometimes literally just the piglin dance, hitting shift repeatedly with them

-literally just the nether music at all

-that CRESCENDO in rubedo

-that brief minor key reprise of sweden in dead voxel hhhhhhhhhhhh

-occasional crimson roots in a soul sand valley like oh there's still some life here

-wither skull hunting and recruiting piglins to help you by luring them to the fortress with gold (+ giving them gold helmets so they don't put on the skulls) i love the ways this game lets me fight alongside piglins if i want to

-the subtle animated texture of crimson and warped stems like they feel so ALIVE with that one small detail

-seeing a nether tree growing through another one

-and an extremely tall nether tree amidst the normal height ones

-and weeping vines hanging from the ceiling

-passing by a piglin that's wearing enchanted iron boots and immediately knowing you've met and traded with this one before

-parkour challenge basalt delta

-also the particles in that biome look like snow if you turn down your render distance

-STRIDERS. Literally just striders. They're like bonded creatures to me, honorary tameable mobs, you put a saddle on the one mob in the nether that would never hurt you and then go on a journey together across the deadly lava ocean avoiding ghasts together and you can't remove the saddle now unless you kill it which you can't do because it's your ride back to the portal, once that strider is saddled it is Your strider and even if you release it into the wild you will immediately recognize it by the saddle if you see it again and in such a dangerous world you have found a companion you can always trust and idk bout you but i always bond so hard with them

-and also they're kind of cute, esp with the little waddle walk

-seeing a baby strider on top of an adult one

-literally just the fact that nether biomes have all this constant looping ambience and particles in the air that makes them feel so immersive and so alive, each biome has its own unique soundscape and ambience, can you imagine soul sand valleys without the wind and the whispers and wails

-aside note the particle effects are like the animated stems in that they're such a subtle detail but they add so much, i never really noticed them until i was netherite mining and started using them to tell which biome i'm under

-the nether was doing ambience and immersion 5 years before the Spring Drop allowed the overworld to finally catch up to it

-the adorableness of baby piglins

-esp when they ride on top of baby hoglins

-PIGSTEP. FUCKING PIGSTEP. the piglins have music and it's SUCH A BANGER i've thrown ingame parties with this music disc

-seeing warped fungus in a crimson forest or crimson fungus in a warped forest

-biome borders between the two that have all this warped foliage in the crimson forest and vice versa as they blend into each other

-nyooming across a soul sand valley with soul speed 3 boots, laughing at the skeletons and ghasts who can't land a hit on you, bonus if you add a speed potion to the mix

-doing this and realizing the subtitle says "soul escapes" and you're surrounded by blue particles and realizing you're freeing them from their imprisonment (and presumably the piglins who made this enchantment are doing the same when they use it)

-the rib and snout armor trims

-gilded blackstone it's so pretty and nice and a great building block (and you can't craft it only the piglins know how to do that)

-bastions have chiseled blackstone

-and their own exclusive banner pattern

-some of them have that gold-and-quartz decorative thing that looks like some kinda statue

-apparently part of the Bridge type of bastion is designed to resemble a piglin head with the mouth as the entrance

-someone in the notes mentioned glowstone and YES how did i forget it when originally making this post, glowstone my childhood favourite block that's in my current mc username, pretty and shiny and also the way piglins used it to invent spectral arrows

-getting lost in the lore implications, noticing the huge fossils and the implications of the name "warped forest" as well as the names of some of its ambience sounds and the fact that basalt comes from rapidly cooling lava irl and next thing you know you've got a whole red string theory going that edges closer and closer to cosmic horror

-ik the fossils look like ribs but one time i wondered if they might be the fingers of something unfathomably huge

-the time i encountered a baby piglin running from a zombified one so i pushed the zombified piglin off the fortress and then gave the baby piglin a gold nugget

but hey what do i know i'm just a nether enthusiast on the "romanticizing and finding beauty in the horrifying and the forsaken" website huh

[romerona]

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

You sat at the table, doing your best to appear interested as your date droned on about his latest work achievements. Something about managing accounts, sealing big deals, and being “essential” to the success of his company. You’d lost track of the details five minutes in, your polite smile starting to feel like a workout for your face.

“…but you wouldn’t get that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, like you were a child. “Teaching kids and all. It’s like... coloring books and snack time, right?”

Your smile faltered, and you tightened your grip on the stem of your wine glass, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Not quite. It’s actually pretty challenging—teaching is about shaping young minds, not just... crayons.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, nodding like he wasn’t really listening. “But you have to admit, it’s not exactly high stakes.” He leaned back in his chair, a smug grin stretching across his face. “I mean, no offense.”

“None taken,” you replied tightly, though the bile creeping up your neck said otherwise. You took a slow sip of your wine, hoping the glass might serve as a buffer between his words and your patience. Spoiler: it wasn’t working.

Inwardly, you cursed yourself for agreeing to this. What had Ava said when she pitched the idea? “Girl, you’re way too cute to be single and wasting away in that apartment of yours. You need to get out there. Shake things up. And this guy? Total catch—tall, successful, and probably rich. You’re welcome.”

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Ava’s relentless confidence had rubbed off on you, and the idea of putting yourself out there sounded... productive, if not promising. After all, your secret crush on your cute neighbor wasn’t going anywhere.

Carmy.

You couldn’t help but think about him as Ben prattled on about his “huge network.” Carmy was quiet, focused, and sweet in a way you didn’t think he realized. But he was also impossible to read. Sure, you’d had a few conversations here and there, shared a laugh or two, but he’d never made a move. You hadn’t either—paralyzed by the thought of misinterpreting things and embarrassing yourself.

Which is how you’d ended up here, with Ben. Wonderful, condescending Ben, who clearly thought your life’s work was a joke.

“And this place,” Ben said, gesturing around the restaurant with a smug grin. “Pretty great, right? Super exclusive. I know a guy who knows the chef here. Heard he’s like, a genius or something. Figured we’d go all out.”

You glanced around the dimly lit space, suddenly more aware of the upscale decor—the polished wood tables, the soft amber glow of the overhead lights, and the quiet hum of conversation that seemed to fill the air like music. It was... fancier than you’d expected.

The Bear.

You’d heard of it, of course—who hadn’t? It was one of those places people raved about, where getting a reservation was an accomplishment in itself. The kind of place where you know the food would be incredible, but the bill would make you question your life choices. Nice, but you were pretty sure you could only afford, like, a cup of water here.

Ben leaned in closer, grinning smugly. “This chef guy? Supposedly some kind of prodigy. I don’t know the details, but people say he’s a big deal. Good thing I’ve got connections, huh?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, noncommittal, as you glanced toward the bustling kitchen. A wave of heat and light spilled out from behind the pass, where you could just make out the shadowed figures of chefs moving in synchronized chaos.

As you sipped from your wine glass, trying to find something redeemable about Ben’s endless self-promotion, you wondered if maybe Ava had oversold this whole “dating adventure” thing.

Carmy spotted you the second you walked in.

He’d been at the pass, focused on plating an intricate dish—a delicate arrangement of seared scallops and edible flowers—when his gaze drifted toward the dining room. His hands paused mid-motion, a faint crease forming between his brows as he recognized you.

You were hard to miss, sitting near the window in a corner booth, your posture poised but just slightly tense. Dressed in something a little sleeker than usual, you looked... different. Not in a bad way—never in a bad way— Not that you ever looked anything less than beautiful, but tonight, something about you seemed… striking, enough that he found himself staring longer than he should’ve.

His eyes flicked to the guy sitting across from you. The guy who was laughing too loud, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, gesturing with wild hands as he talked. You, on the other hand, wore a polite smile that didn’t quite light up the room as it usually did.

Carmy’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t sure why the sight of you with someone else tugged at his chest the way it did, but it lingered, heavy and unwelcome.

It’s none of your business, he told himself, forcing his focus back to the dish in front of him. You weren’t his to worry about.

You weren’t his at all.

Still, his gaze flicked back toward your table, almost involuntarily, catching the way your date seemed oblivious to your discomfort. Carmy’s stomach twisted at the thought. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe for the guy to notice the way you played with your napkin or to tone down his boisterous tone—but it wasn’t this.

“Chef?” Sydney’s voice broke his focus, sharp but professional.

“Yeah,” he muttered, snapping back to reality. His eyes returned to the plate in front of him, the arrangement now slightly skewed from his distraction. He adjusted it quickly, his movements precise but tighter than usual. “Thanks, Chef.”

As Sydney moved on, Carmy risked one last glance at you. The corner booth, the dim lighting, the guy who couldn’t seem to shut up—it all felt wrong. But he pushed it down, buried it under the quiet rhythm of the kitchen, telling himself it wasn’t his place to care.

And yet, he did.

He cared enough to, like some kind of creep, step out of the kitchen and hover near the hallway that led to the restrooms. It wasn’t a plan—not really. He told himself he just needed a breather, a moment to clear his head and shake off the knot in his chest. But he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.

The low hum of the restaurant buzzed in his ears as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t even know what he’d say if you saw him. Maybe he’d play it off, and act like he just happened to be there. But then, what were the odds you’d even notice him? You were here with someone else, after all.

It was ridiculous, he knew that—irrational even— he should go back, really what the fuck was he thinking--

But the sound of heels clicking softly against the floor pulled him from his spiralling thoughts. His breath hitched as you turned the corner, and your expression turned to one of shock when you spotted him.

“Carmy?” you said, stopping mid-step. Your voice carried a note of surprise, but there was something else there too—curiosity, maybe, or even relief at seeing a familiar face in such an unfamiliar situation.

“Hey,” he said, standing a little straighter, as if he hadn’t just been loitering near the hallway like a guilty teenager. He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You blinked, your eyes flicking over his clothes—the crisp white uniform. The realization dawned on you, and your brows lifted in surprise.

“You work here?”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight slightly. “I, uh... I own it.”

Your eyes widened, and you couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped you. “You own it?”

“Yeah,” he said again, a bit softer this time. His lips twitched into a faint, almost sheepish smile. “I started it a while back. Kind of… a long story.”

You took a moment to process this revelation, glancing around the restaurant as if seeing it in a new light. The warm lighting, the carefully plated dishes you’d glimpsed on their way to other tables—it all made sense now. Of course, this was Carmy’s place. It was thoughtful, deliberate, but somehow unpretentious.

“Wow,” you said, meeting his gaze again. “That’s... impressive.”

Carmy shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets. “It’s just work. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy?” you repeated, a small laugh escaping as you gestured toward the elegant decor. “Carmy, this place is gorgeous. You’re way too modest.”

"Thanks," His lips twitched into a faint smile, but his eyes lingered on you, searching before he added, “You didn’t look like you were having a great time out there.”

You blinked at the sudden change in topic, your surprise melting into something closer to embarrassment.

“Oh,” you said, glancing toward the dining room before meeting his gaze again. “Yeah, it’s... it’s a date.”

Carmy’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, though his expression didn’t waver.

“Figured,” he muttered, his voice steady but low.

“Not a great one,” you admitted, your lips quirking into a dry smile. “Blind date, courtesy of Ava. It’s... fine, I guess. He’s just... not my type.”

Carmy raised an eyebrow, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What’s your type, then?”

The question caught you off guard, your breath hitching slightly as his words hung in the air. You laughed softly, deflecting. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t treat teaching like it’s a hobby or call it a job anyone can do.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, and he shook his head in disbelief. “He did not say that.”

You groaned dramatically, closing your eyes as if the memory physically pained you. “Oh, but he did. Word for word, and I quote: ‘Teaching is important, I guess. But it’s gotta be, like… easy, right? Summers off, finger painting, all that?’ And then—then!—he laughed. Like he’d just unlocked the secret to stand-up comedy.”

Carmy blinked, his smirk fading into something closer to incredulity. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were,” you said, sighing dramatically. “You’d think he was trying out his Type Five for open mic night. And the pièce de résistance? He throws in the classic ‘no offense.’ Like that’s a verbal Ctrl+Z or something.”

That earned a real laugh from Carmy this time, his shoulders shaking slightly as he shook his head. “What the hell? So, this is what you’re dealing with?”

“Oh, but I’m thriving,” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm waving your hand dismissively. “Peak romantic energy. Nothing like being told my career is a glorified arts-and-crafts workshop to really get the sparks flying.”

Carmy leaned slightly against the wall, crossing his arms as he listened. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation, maybe, or quiet disbelief. “And you’re still out there?”

“Excellent question, Chef Carmy,” you said, pointing at him with mock gravity. “I think it’s a mix of morbid curiosity, sheer stubbornness, and maybe a touch of guilt. I mean, he did spring for the wine. Even if he did refer to it as a ‘top-shelf pour.’”

That made Carmy snort, his head dropping slightly as he tried to compose himself. “Top-shelf pour, huh? Sounds like a real charmer.”

You laughed softly, though there was a bite of bitterness in it. “Oh, totally. It’s been a real dream date. Honestly, if he makes one more crack about teaching being ‘easy,’ I might just—” You mimed strangling someone, your hands curling dramatically as you added a mock growl for effect.

Carmy chuckled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you shot back, your grin sharpening. “It might get me out of this date, but I’m pretty sure assault charges aren’t a great look for me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Fair point.”

Your playful energy dimmed slightly as you glanced toward the dining room. “Anyway, I should probably get back out there before he starts mansplaining the wine list to the waitress. Again.”

Carmy’s lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, but instead, he straightened up quickly, the weight of his role as head chef settling back onto his shoulders. “Yeah, I should... head back to the kitchen too. Got a lot to wrap up tonight.”

You turned back to him, your expression softening. “Thanks, by the way,” you said, holding his gaze. “For... checking in, I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged a gesture that looked casual but felt like it carried more weight. His voice dropped slightly as he replied, “Yeah, I did.”

The words hung there for a beat, his meaning lingering just beneath the surface as the two of you locked eyes. The air between you felt heavy, almost tangible, like a thread being pulled taut. You wanted to say something—anything. Maybe a joke to break the tension, or maybe the truth: that you liked him, that you wished it was him sitting across from you tonight, making you laugh instead of testing your patience.

Unbeknownst to you, Carmy’s thoughts ran dangerously close to yours. He’d been replaying every interaction with you since the day you moved in next door, every laugh, every casual smile. The thought of you with someone else—someone who didn’t seem to notice the little things about you the way he did—made his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.

But before either of you could give voice to the thoughts swirling in your heads, the faint sound of your date’s voice carried through the hallway, breaking the moment like a needle scratching across a record. You winced slightly, the weight of reality pulling you back.

“Ugh. That’s my cue,” you said, shooting Carmy an exaggerated grimace. “Duty calls.”

Carmy nodded, his expression carefully neutral, though the flicker in his eyes betrayed the emotions he was trying to keep in check. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks,” you said with a wry grin. “I’ll need it.”

Despite his words, his gaze lingered on yours, as if searching for something unspoken. For a moment, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d say something more, but instead, he stepped back, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“See you around,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, your heart squeezing as you turned to head back toward the dining room. “See you around.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were leaving something unfinished behind. And Carmy, watching you go, felt much the same, his hands flexing at his sides as he fought the urge to call after you.

When he finally turned back toward the kitchen, his jaw tightened, the moment still playing over in his mind. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing himself to focus as he pushed open the swinging door. The familiar clatter and hum of the kitchen greeted him, but it did little to drown out the thoughts circling his head.

He barely made it three steps before Richie appeared, leaning casually against the counter with his signature smirk firmly in place.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” Richie drawled, crossing his arms. “What’s the matter, Cousin? Lose track of time out there? Or were you too busy making googly eyes at the customer? Can't blame you thought, she's gorgeous.”

Carmy’s jaw ticked, his shoulders stiffening. “Shut up, Richie.”

--------

Your date’s voice droned on, a monotonous background noise to your growing sense of regret. Why had you agreed to this? Why hadn’t you just stayed home with a glass of wine and a good book?

Just as you were contemplating an excuse to leave—feigning a sudden headache, maybe, or an urgent call from a friend—a waiter approached your table. It wasn’t the same one who had been serving you throughout the evening, but an older guy with an easy smile and a glimmering of mischief in his eyes carrying a small plate in hand. The plate held an assortment of beautifully arranged pastries, each one delicate and intricate, like a tiny work of art.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” you said, your brow furrowing as you looked up at him.

“It’s from the chef,” the waiter replied, his tone polite but with a glimmer of something knowing in his eyes.

Your eyes widened slightly, your breath catching as you glanced instinctively toward the kitchen pass. Sure enough, Carmy was there, leaning slightly against the counter, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze was fixed squarely on you.

Your heart gave a little jolt, heat creeping up your neck as you turned back to the table.

Your date, meanwhile, was entirely oblivious to the silent exchange. He grinned widely, puffing out his chest a little as he gestured to the plate. “See? Told you this place was top-notch. They must’ve recognized me. Perks of being a regular.”

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing. Instead, you bit back your amusement, your lips twitching into a barely restrained smile as you reached for one of the pastries.

“Right,” you said lightly, turning the pastry over in your hand. “Must be your VIP status.”

As you took a bite, the pastry practically melted in your mouth, a perfect blend of buttery richness and delicate sweetness. It was so good it almost made you forget the company you were keeping—almost.

“You know, this kind of attention doesn’t happen just anywhere. It’s all about knowing the right people.”

“Mmm,” you murmured, taking a bite of one of the delicate confections. It melted in your mouth, rich and buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness.

When you glanced back toward the pass, Carmy was already gone, disappearing back into the kitchen as seamlessly as he’d appeared. But his gesture lingered, wrapping around you like a quiet reassurance, a small thread of comfort in an otherwise unbearable evening.

And for the first time that night, your smile wasn’t forced.

A/N: Heyyy I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you to all those people who comment, like and reblog. Like fr you all make my week. Always looking for some ideas so please feel free to ask.

Also, please tell me if you want to be tagged. Be safe out there, please the world is too crazy at the moment. <3

Tags:

@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe

@akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1

@darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake

Next part 7