#so i decided to read STRAY DOGS and :) and :))) an...and....:'))))

[kiksniko]

old sketches

[kingzombear]

I'm just too tough to cry tbh. Nerves of fuckin steel tbh (<- read STRAY DOGS for the first time, has been crying abt dogs all day)

[perce]

a tiger is a housecat if you're not a coward

Bungo Stray Dogs Dazai is just a little bit of a menace. as a treat. mostly Atsushi & Dazai, with some of the rest of the ADA showing up here and there. very silly very unserious fic 1 shot, 1.9k words (Dazai has always had a weird sense of humor, but Atsushi can appreciate that at least he’s being harmless.)

There’s a cucumber on his desk. It definitely wasn’t there when he’d left the office the evening before. Kunikida, already seated and typing harshly at his computer, hasn’t seemed to notice it. Atsushi sits down, staring at it. Blinks. Still there.

If this is a warning, it’s a weird as hell one.

Read on AO3

edit: now with a part two!

[jalapenobee]

hugs!!!

[no-brain-just-akutagawa]

I knew this scene felt familiar

[ID: The scene from "Star Wars" of Darth Vader looking at a screaming Luke after he cut off his hand. Instead of Vader there's Akutagawa and instead of Luke, there's a screaming Atsushi. End ID]

[rottenstrawberrigirl]

I strongly recommend everyone check out Quality's "Creatura Innocentiae" series!!! Trust me, you will not be disappointed. It will surpass your expectations. ⸜❤︎⸝‍ ‪‪

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II PART III

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: The people have asked, and so here it is—another story featuring cult Fyodor! (Note: This is not a continuation of Ultima Sacrificium). This will be a multiple-part series, an undertaking that has me shaking in my boots. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I enjoy writing it!

Word Count: 7,000

What is love, exactly?  

Is it the absence of fear—the willingness to be vulnerable? To let yourself be known, to be accepted, and in turn, to know and accept another? Or is it something darker: a devouring hunger, the need to consume until the lines between you blur and dissolve?  

Perhaps love is neither of these. Perhaps love is sacrifice.  

That is what you’ve been taught. That is what you’ve always known.  

Love is the red that stains your hands, the warmth that spills from you into the chalice, filling it until it overflows. Love is the smile of the priestess as she raises the cup to the heavens, the murmured prayers of your people as they partake of your offering. It is the ache in your body after each cut, the burning sting that lingers long after the blade is gone.  

You were born with a gift, the blood of apostles coursing through your veins. Your mother tells you this gift sets you apart—makes you holy. Your lineage is pure, unbroken since the time of the first apostle, the one who communed with God and returned with commandments and covenants carved into his flesh. You are the living proof of that covenant, a vessel of divine will.  

Your blood is sacred. Your body, an altar.  

You are also her favorite lamb.  

The priestess—the High Priestess, your mother—says so often. She says it when her hand cups your cheek and her eyes gleam with pride. She says it when she watches you kneel, docile and sweet, always so docile and sweet, before the altar. You hold very still when they put the rope around your neck, your heart calm, your steps obedient. You trot along so happily when they lead you to the place of sacrifice.  

They do not even have to tie you down. You lie so very still.  

When the blade comes down, it cuts through you like butter. You offer no resistance. You bleed so prettily all over the white robe that marks your holiness. When the crimson pours from you, it is beautiful, they say. It runs smooth and golden, like delicious honey. 

God herself whispers to the High Priestess that you are her favorite lamb. You are the lamb with the softest wool, the lamb with the sweetest eyes, the lamb with the most trusting gait. Your cries are the prettiest, your bell the shiniest. When the blade cuts, your blood flows clean, your flesh opens like a ribbon unwinding, like shining yarn spinning out onto the altar, sacred and infinite.  

And your eyes—your animal, dumb eyes—hold no accusation.  

This is why they love you. This is why they call you blessed. You are the lamb who gives everything and asks for nothing. You do not fight, you do not bite. You do not make them see the burden they place on you.  

You are God’s gift, her favorite. That is why they love you.  

It is another lovely morning. The village has gathered in the grand wooden church to welcome a new life into the fold. The High Priestess, rests her hand on your shoulder as she recites from the tome, her voice soft yet commanding. Your thoughts drift, not to her words but to the bundle of innocence on the altar.  

The child’s arrival is a reminder of the cycle: birth, sacrifice, and servitude. The blood that flows through you—the divine gift passed down from generation to generation—will now mark another soul. Another child to be bound to the community. Another life to be claimed by God.  

Your father stands at the edge of the ceremony, as he always does. His gaze is downcast, his presence barely noticeable beside your mother’s radiance. He is a quiet man, small and obedient, a shadow of the High Priestess’s power. You often wonder what your father might have been like before your mother. What parts of himself he sacrificed to remain in her orbit.  

You kneel before the child, the robe you wear heavy with the weight of your purpose. Though you are an adult, the sheltered life you have lived has left you unformed in ways you cannot explain. Your days are dictated by rituals, by prayers and offerings, by the endless cycle of giving. You have never left the village. You have never known a moment where your body was not watched, your steps not dictated by the expectations of others.  

Your mother calls you divine. You feel more like an artifact—precious but inanimate, bound to the will of those who hold you.  

Her hands, as always, are warm as they guide you.  

You hold out your hand, trembling slightly. The baby’s forehead is smooth, untouched by the world, unmarked by sacrifice. Your blood, drawn from your palm, pools into the small silver chalice. The room is silent but for the murmurs of anticipation. Every gaze is fixed upon you.  

The blade, your constant companion, is an extension of your soul. It cuts so effortlessly—an offering so pure, so sacred. You dip your fingers into the chalice, the blood still warm, and trace the child’s forehead with the mark of the divine.  

The seal that binds this child to the community. The mark that ties them to you and the God you both serve.  

“In the name of our God,” you intone, your voice steady, though your heart wavers. “I bless thee with the blood of divinity. May you give as freely as she does, and may your soul be as pure.”  

The crowd bows their heads in reverence. The baby is returned to its mother, who smiles with quiet joy. You watch, still kneeling, your fingers stained red with the blood that defines you.  

This is love, isn’t it?  

To give everything of yourself until there is nothing left. To be adored not for who you are, but for what you provide.  

But somewhere, in the deepest part of you, a quiet voice whispers: If love is sacrifice, why?

Why does it feel so much like theft?

The sun dips low on the horizon, painting the valley in hues of molten gold and soft pink. The flames crackle in the rustic heart of the community, surrounded by dirt paths and timber homes adorned with garlands of wildflowers. Chants ripple through the gathered crowd, a haunting melody that rises and falls like a breath.  

As you walk among them, hands reach out, brushing against your robes, grazing your fingertips. You keep your eyes cast low, always aware of the weight of their touch. They call you their savior, their precious lamb. They murmur soft praises, their voices as reverent as the prayers they whisper to the heavens. You smile at them all, meek and kind, because that is what they expect of you.  

Because that is what you are.  

But you are not part of their revelry—not truly. You are both above it and apart from it. Too sacred for the mundane, yet too ensnared to escape.  

They came, as they always do, led by one of the cult’s missionaries—strangers seeking sanctuary, redemption, or something they cannot name. A group of four approaches the square, their steps hesitant yet guided by curiosity. Among them, one figure stands out.  

Unlike his companions, who wear expressions of tentative hope or awe, this man moves with unsettling calm. His dark coat sways with each step, and his pale hands rest idly at his sides. His gaze, sharp as razor, sweeps over the scene, lingering on the faces of the villagers who rush forward to greet them. Children dart past him, their laughter ringing as they offer garlands of wildflowers. Women follow, balancing baskets of bread on their hips, their blessings a cascade of honeyed words.  

The villagers’ warmth finds little purchase in him. He bows his head briefly but does not take the offered garland. The refusal isn’t rude—it is deliberate, as though he already knows the weight of the rituals and chooses not to sully them with empty gestures.  

You watch from the edge of the square, though you hadn’t intended to join the crowd. Your role as the sacrificial vessel makes you a fixture in the community, both revered and burdened, and yet his gaze finds you as if drawn by some invisible force.  

When your eyes meet, the world narrows. His are a shade of purple you cannot place—endless, like a winter river, a color that doesn’t belong in the warmth of the valley. A quiet stirring blooms in your chest, like the first pang of a wound, and you quickly look away.  

The High Priestess emerges from the crowd, her presence as commanding and warm as the rising sun. The villagers part instinctively, their heads bowing as she passes. Her voice, kind yet unyielding, carries through the square.  

“Welcome,” she says, her smile practiced and serene. “You have come far to join us. We are honored to receive you.”  

The missionary steps forward, clasping his hands together in reverence. “Mother Maria, these are the seekers I found beyond the valley. They have come to learn the truth, to find purpose in our fold.”

The High Priestess studies the group, her sharp eyes pausing on each face until they land on the pale man. Her smile does not falter, but the air around her sharpens.  

“And you?” she asks, her voice soft but probing. “What brings you to our sacred land?”  

He steps forward, his movements unhurried. Bowing slightly, he clasps his hands behind his back. “I am drawn by the promise of truth,” he says, his voice low and smooth, each word carefully picked out. “All my life, I have sought it, and I believe I will find it here.”  

His companions shift uncomfortably, their nervous energy a stark contrast to his poise. The High Priestess’s smile thins, almost imperceptibly, before she nods. “Truth is indeed what we offer. But truth requires sacrifice. Will you accept what it asks of you?”  

“Gladly,” he replies, his gaze steady.  

The High Priestess holds his gaze for a moment longer, then turns to the villagers. “Prepare the cleansing waters. Our new friends must be purified before they join us at the feast.”  

And so you now stand beside the High Priestess at the stone basin where the sacred spring pools cool and clear. Your hands holding the sacred bowl of anointing oil. Its scent was sharp and metallic, mingled with the faint iron tang of the single drop of your blood that had been mixed into it.

“Before you may break bread with us,” the High Priestess intones, her voice soft yet resolute, “you must set aside the burdens of your past lives. This water will cleanse your path, and this oil will mark the first step toward truth.” 

A trembling woman steps forward first, kneeling before the basin. The High Priestess murmurs a blessing as she dips her fingers into the bowl, anointing the woman’s forehead with a streak of oil. She guides the woman’s hands into the water, watching as her expression shifts from fear to quiet reverence.  

When it is his turn, the pale man steps forward without hesitation. He kneels, his posture straight, his head slightly bowed. The High Priestess reaches for the bowl, but her fingers still as she looks at him. For a fleeting moment, tension crackles between them, unspoken but palpable.  

Then, slowly, she dips her fingers into the oil and presses them to his forehead. The warmth lingers, and he closes his eyes as though in prayer.  

“You carry no fear,” she remarks softly.  

“Fear is a choice,” he replies, opening his eyes. His tone is calm, yet there is a subtle edge to his words—a challenge, quiet but deliberate.

Her expression remains unchanged, though her eyes narrow slightly. She motions for him to wash his hands, and as he does, his gaze flicks to you. You feel the weight of it, sharp and unrelenting.

But you do not look away this time.  

Under the open sky after the cleansing, long tables groan with the weight of food: roasted meats, fresh fruits and steaming bread. The villagers—families, children, elders—gather in celebration, their voices mingling with the hum of the torches and the soft rustle of the night wind. The scent of wine and cooking meat fills the air, thick and intoxicating.  

The feast spills into the courtyard, a sprawling affair where life and ritual intertwine seamlessly. Plates are passed with laughter, cups brimming with wine are raised in toasts, and bowls of fruit are shared between children with sticky hands and shining eyes. Beneath the surface of the revelry lies the unspoken truth: this is a celebration of service, of sacrifice, of taking joy in what has been offered.  

You are not seated among them, not truly part of this gathering. You are both guest of honor and object of worship, and even in celebration, your place remains apart.  

At one of the tables near the edge of the festivities, he sits. His presence is understated but magnetic, drawing your attention again and again. He does not eat much, nor does he join in the villagers’ laughter. Instead, he watches in serene silence, a shadow of a smile on his lips. 

His dark eyes sweep over the crowd, taking in the scene with a quiet intensity that makes your chest tighten. He sees everything—the reverence in their glances toward you, the careful choreography of a community bound by something unseen. His companions sit with him, their discomfort gradually giving way to nervous smiles as the warmth of the celebration softens their edges. But he does not soften. He remains apart, like you, even when surrounded.  

You notice the way he holds himself: isolated but not uncomfortable. Detached but not cold. He moves little, as though every moment of stillness is a choice.  

When his gaze finds yours once more, it is as though the air between you thickens. For a moment, the world around you blurs. The laughter, the clinking of goblets, the soft rustling of the wind—all fade into a distant hum.  

There is only him.  

His dark eyes seem to hold something you cannot place, something unsettling and sharp—a knowing, a deep, calculating curiosity that makes you feel as though you are being seen for the first time. Your breath catches as his lips curl into the faintest of smiles. The expression isn’t warm. It is quieter, sharper, almost as if he carries a secret meant for you alone.  

You cannot look away.  

The moment stretches until your chest tightens with the strain of it, and you force yourself to turn your gaze to the food in front of you. Your heart pounds in a rhythm you cannot explain. You wonder if anyone else noticed the way he looked at you, or if it is something only you could see.  

You feel his gaze again, even when he is not looking at you. It lingers, a rope stretched taut between you both, one that will not break.  

The feast continues. The villagers laugh, their joy spilling into the cool night air. Yet, though you are surrounded by celebration, you cannot stop thinking of him. You catch glimpses of him between the faces at the long table. The others shift and laugh and drink deeply, but he remains steady, his movements as precise and deliberate as his words had been.  

You wonder, if he sees you for what you truly are. Not the lamb, the holy offering, but something else. Something unknown.  

The thought makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.  

Days pass, as they always do.  

The sun had long since set, leaving the valley cloaked in shadow. The High Priestess’s home stood at the heart of the village, a structure of wood and stone adorned with intricate symbols of devotion into its walls. It was a place where warmth was performative, where every smile and gesture carried a double promise.  

Inside, the flickering fire cast long shadows across the main room, its golden light unable to dispel the chill of tension that lingered in the air. You stood beside your father, your hands clasped in front of you, waiting.  

It was tradition: a private supper between your family and the newcomers, an act of hospitality meant to welcome them. But you knew better. Hospitality was a veil, a courtesy offered with sharp teeth behind it. This supper was a test—a subtle but ruthless scrutiny that no one could escape.  

Your father adjusted the goblets on the table for the third time, his nervous fingers trembling slightly. “Are they nervous, you think?” he asked softly, not meeting your gaze.  

“They should be,” your mother said from across the room, her voice sharp yet measured. She stood near the fire, her white robes glowing in the shifting light. “Truth demands reverence. Only those who understand this will remain.”  

Your father nodded quickly—too quickly—and you felt a pang of something close to pity. He never challenged her, never pushed back. You wondered if she even noticed how much weight he carried to keep her world in order, how his silence shaped the foundation of her power. His submission was a lesson you were never allowed to forget.

Your eyes drifted to the table, to the goblets your father had lined so meticulously. You thought of how often he moved in silence, his presence fading into the edges of her authority. His hands trembled not from age, but from the strain of servitude.  

The first of the newcomers entered, hesitant and uncertain, their shoulders hunched under the weight of the High Priestess’s gaze. One by one, every night, they came and went, each leaving with lowered eyes and nervous smiles. You remained mostly quiet, watching as your mother’s words—soft and smiling—peeled back their defenses with careful precision.  

Your father, dutiful as ever, poured wine into their goblets, his trembling hands careful not to spill. You watched him with a tightening in your chest, the tension in the room coiling like a spring.  

And then it was his turn.  

When Fyodor entered, the room seemed to shift. His movements were fluid, as though he had already rehearsed this moment in his mind. His dark coat was gone, replaced by the white robe of a supplicant, but the simplicity of the garment only emphasized the sharp angles of his face, the cool, precise energy that surrounded him.  

His gaze swept the room, lingering on the fire, the worn table, and finally on you. His eyes paused, and there it was again, that unsettling feeling from the way he watched you—not with the reverence you were used to, but something sharper. As though he saw through the layers of expectation draped over you.  

“Welcome,” your mother said, her tone light but pointed. “You honor us by joining us this evening.”  

He inclined his head, his hands clasped behind his back. “The honor is mine, High Priestess.”  

He took his seat at the table, and your father poured his ceremonial wine, the trembling of his hands spilling a single drop onto the polished wood. Fyodor accepted the goblet with a quiet thank you, his eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to your mother.  

“We have found that those who come to us seeking truth often carry burdens from the world outside,” your mother began, her words smooth and rehearsed. “What burdens do you carry, Fyodor?”  

He sipped the wine slowly, his movements deliberate. “We all carry burdens, no? Mine are no greater than those of any man who seeks meaning.”  

“And yet,” she pressed, leaning forward ever so slightly, “You seem unshaken. Most who come to us are eager to shed their burdens, to kneel before the divine. But you... you carry yourself differently.”  

He met her gaze evenly, his expression unreadable. “I hold the belief that I kneel in my own way.”  

The fire cracked softly, filling the silence that followed.  

Your mother’s lips tightened, though her composure did not break. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing slightly. And then, as if testing both of you at once, she turned to you.  

“What do you think of our guest, my child?”  

The question caught you off guard. Your pulse quickened as you glanced at Fyodor, his sharp gaze already on you. His expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking in that moment, and that somehow terrified you. 

“I... I think he speaks with conviction,” you said finally, your voice measured. “It is rare.”  

“Conviction is admirable,” your mother said, though her tone had grown colder. She gestured for your father to refill Fyodor’s cup, and he obeyed quickly, his trembling hands spilling a few drops of wine onto the table once more.  

“Careful,” your mother snapped, her voice cutting like a blade. Your father flinched, dabbing at the spill with a cloth.  

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on the interaction, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, it felt like understanding—something quiet and unspoken passing between him and your father.  

“Your child is observant,” Fyodor said softly, his eyes returning to you. “Rare, indeed.”

“They have been raised to see the truth,” your mother replied sharply, her suspicion deepening. “It is their duty to understand what others cannot.”

He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile brushing his lips. “A remarkable gift, to be so attuned to truth. Few possess the clarity to rise above their own fears and expectations.”

The room fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air. Your breath hitched as your mother turned back to you, her gaze sharp and searching.

“Have you grown timid, my child?” she asked, her words laced with quiet menace. “You hesitate more often than before.”  

“I... I have been reflecting,” you said finally, your voice small but steady. “On the path you’ve set for me. On how best to serve.”  

Her expression softened slightly, though her gaze remained piercing. “Good. Service requires focus. Distractions lead to ruin.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Fyodor, then back to you. “And you are not easily distracted, are you?”  

“No, mother,” you replied, though your voice lacked conviction.  

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on you, quiet and piercing, before he leaned back slightly in his chair. “The strength of their will reflects well on their upbringing,” he remarked. “Few can maintain such clarity when placed under so much... weight.”

Your mother’s lips curled faintly, though the smile did not reach her eyes. “Weight builds character,” she said curtly. “And clarity comes from discipline.”

“Discipline,” Fyodor murmured, as though weighing the word. His eyes flickered to the fire, the light casting fleeting shadows across his face. “A virtue that molds strength and focus, no doubt. And yet... even the finest melodies are not born from silence alone.”

Your mother’s expression did not falter, though the room felt colder for it. “Only weak voices fear silence,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “The strong will always be heard.”

The words hung in the air like a closing door, shutting out any chance for response. The tension that had built over the evening seemed to settle over you like a shroud, heavy and unyielding, wrapping itself around you with quiet insistence.

By the end of the evening, as Fyodor rose to leave, your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm. Her fingers pressed into your skin, a silent command to stay grounded, to remain tethered to her will.  

“Do not stray with him,” she murmured, her voice low and meant only for you. Her words slid between you like a blade, cold and deliberate. “There are paths you cannot walk, no matter how curious you may be. Do not forget your duty.”

Her grip tightened on your shoulder, just enough to make your chest tighten in turn. “Your future has already been secured,” she continued, her tone soft but unyielding. “Do not squander what has been arranged for you with fleeting distractions. You belong where you are needed, my child. Where you are destined.”

Then, her hand eased, and she leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. The gesture was warm, loving, but the weight of it was undeniable. It was not affection, but a mark—a silent claim, binding you to her will. Her lips lingered just long enough for her breath to ghost against your hair. “Remember who you are,” she whispered, the words as much an order as an expression of care.

The weight of her words sank in, unspoken but unmistakable: the engagement. It had loomed in the background of your life like an unfinished prayer, a promise made on your behalf that you had not been given the right to question.

You glanced at Fyodor, who lingered at the doorway, his dark eyes catching yours once more. The air seemed to shift between you, an unspoken tension thrumming just beneath the surface. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, his voice smooth and composed, the words polite but aimed at you rather than your mother.

Your mother’s hand remained on your shoulder, her presence a wall between you and the door. “Do not forget your place,” she whispered as Fyodor turned to leave, her voice as sharp as the steel she so often wielded in ceremony.

Her warning echoed long after he was gone, her words a chain you could not yet break.  

The weeks since Fyodor’s arrival had passed like the turning of a slow wheel, the rhythm of village life unchanged but for the murmurs that followed wherever he went. The people had embraced him and his group with a swiftness that was almost unnerving. Children brought him flowers, their giggles rising like birdsong as they placed the blooms in his hands. The elders nodded in satisfaction, their wrinkled faces lighting with approval at his humility during communal tasks. Even the skeptical seemed disarmed by his quiet confidence and sharp wit, his every action a masterstroke of timing and grace.  

Yet, to you, there was something unsettling beneath the surface.  

You watched him carefully. There was a deliberateness to his movements, a precision that felt unnatural. He walked as though every step was part of a dance only he could hear, every word chosen with the precision of an arrow. And yet, despite your unease, there was a pull to him, like the dark waters of the river: cold and dangerous but impossible to resist. The pull lingered, growing stronger each time you saw him, until his presence became a constant undercurrent in your thoughts. 

And you couldn’t help but wonder—what would it feel like to let yourself fall into those dark, unyielding currents? To surrender to the cold pull, knowing there would be no way back?

The sound of the ceremonial bells pulled you from your thoughts, their solemn toll reverberating through the wooden church. The candles that lined the space cast flickering shadows across the gathered congregation, their flames bright against the deepening dusk.

This was a sacred night, one that would truly bind the newcomers to the community, sealing their integration with an oath to serve the divine. 

The group stood in a line before the High Priestess, their white robes glowing in the soft light of the candles, their heads bowed in solemn reverence. Even in their uniformity, Fyodor stood apart, as he always did. His posture was relaxed but not disrespectful, his expression unreadable. He wore the robe as though it were a costume, an adornment that could be shed the moment it no longer served him.  

In your hands is the small bowl of crimson liquid—your blood, drawn hours earlier, thick with divinity mixed with anointing oil. Its sight sends a shiver through the group, though none dare speak. The ceramic was warm against your palms, though it felt heavier than usual tonight.  

Your mother stepped forward, her voice ringing through the church with a practiced authority that silenced the crowd.  

“You stand here as seekers, strangers to the divine. But tonight, you will be bound to our truth, reborn as one with this community. Are you prepared to leave behind what you were?”  

A murmur of assent rippled through the group. Some voices trembled with fear, others spoke with quiet certainty. Fyodor’s voice, low and steady, cut through the air, drawing your attention despite yourself.  

“Step forward,” your mother commanded.  

One by one, the newcomers approached her. She dipped her fingers into the blood, marking their foreheads with the sacred blessing as they bowed their heads in submission. The ritual unfolded as it always did, a solemn repetition of words and gestures. Yet when it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment seemed to stretch.  

He stepped forward with that same deliberate grace, his movements unhurried but precise. His gaze met your mother’s with an intensity that did not falter, the air between them charged with unspoken tension.  

“Kneel,” she commanded.  

He obeyed, lowering himself to the ground with a calm that bordered on defiance. He looked like a man kneeling of his own volition, not one forced to bow.  

Your mother dipped her fingers into the blood, but instead of marking his forehead, she paused. Her gaze turned to you, sharp and expectant. “Come,” she said. “Place your hands upon him. Channel the divine insight.”  

Your breath caught. You had never been asked to do this before. The bowl in your hands seemed to grow heavier, the scent of the oil rising like smoke to suffocate you. Slowly, you stepped forward, setting the bowl down on the altar before kneeling in front of him.  

Your hands trembled as you reached out, resting them lightly on his head. His hair was softer than you expected, but his presence felt sharp, overwhelming. The noise of the congregation—the chants, the crackling of the candles—faded into a dull hum, drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat.  

You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the divine connection you were meant to channel. Yet all you could feel was him. The steadiness of his breath. The quiet tension coiled in his body. The way his very existence seemed to demand your attention.  

“What do you see?” your mother’s voice cut through the haze, expectant.  

You opened your eyes, startled, and found Fyodor looking up at you. His gaze was piercing, calm yet devastatingly aware. There was no fear in his eyes, no deference. Instead, there was something that stripped you bare—a knowing, as though he could see every thought you had buried deep.  

“I…” The words caught in your throat.  

Then his lips moved, so faintly you almost missed it. A whisper meant only for you:  

“You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?”  

The words hit like an arrow to the throat, leaving you breathless. Your hands jerked back as though burned, and your heart thundered in your chest.  

Your mother’s gaze bore into you, her eyes narrowing. “What do you see?” she demanded again, her voice growing cold.  

You forced yourself to look away from him, your trembling hands lowering to your lap. “I see… clarity,” you said finally, though your voice wavered. “He carries clarity.”  

Your mother studied you for a moment, her suspicion evident. Then, without a word, she marked his forehead, murmuring the blessing with an edge to her tone. She gestured to the congregation, signaling the second part of the ceremony.  

“The waters of renewal await,” your mother announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. “As children of the divine are first welcomed, so too must our newest seekers be reborn.”  

The group was led toward the river, that snaked just outside the church, its surface shimmering like molten glass in the torchlight. An ancient tree’s roots reached toward the water’s edge, twisting and intertwining with the stones that framed the riverbank. The current hummed softly, carrying the weight of generations past.  

One by one, the newcomers approached the river. Your mother took each by the hand, murmuring blessings before the attendants guided them into the water. They were gently lowered beneath the surface, the current swirling around them, and when they emerged, gasping and glistening in the firelight, the water clung to their skin like a second robe, consecrating their transformation.  

When it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment stretched again. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes flicking to yours for the briefest moment before returning to your mother.  

She took his hand, her grip firm, and guided him towards the river’s edge. “This water cleanses,” she intoned. “It washes away the remnants of your former self, the burdens of your past life, leaving you free to serve.”  

The attendants lowered him into the river. For a moment, it felt as though the heavens themselves leaned closer, waiting. The current surged as if tasting him, its pull cold, and the uncanny stillness gripped the air, as if even the wind dared not move. 

When he emerged, his hair plastered to his face, his eyes sharper than ever, he did not gasp as the others had. He rose to his feet with an unshaken calm, water streaming from his robes. His gaze found yours again, and the weight of his whispered words returned, heavier than before.  A fleeting thought filtered through your mind: Would they bleed for me? As I do for them?   

When the ceremony ended, and the congregation erupted into joyous chants, you found yourself unable to join in. Fyodor stood among the others, his expression serene, but when his eyes met yours again across the clearing, it felt as though the ritual had bound something unseen between you both.

The sounds of the crowd became hollow, their jubilation a distant echo. He was all that remained. The air between you filled with an unspoken understanding that you dared not name.

You were skittish, of course, like a cornered animal. And you squirmed—not to escape, but to inch closer, as though his gaze has already avowed you. But what use is there for such a connection, when the end is as inevitable as the tightening snare, already closing around you both.

The announcement of your engagement came as no surprise.  

For months, you had felt it coming: in the quiet tension in your mother’s tone, the way her hand lingered on your shoulder during evening blessings, and the faint but insistent weight in her gaze whenever she spoke to you. It wasn’t love she offered in those moments, but a kind of ownership—a reminder that you were hers to mold, to shape, to offer as she saw fit.  

The ceremonial bells tolled at dawn, their echoes rippling across the valley. You rose without hesitation, the weight of the day already pressing against your chest. Your mother was waiting for you, her hands warm and steady as they guided you to sit before her. 

She began braiding your hair with practiced precision, her fingers gentle as they wove the strands together. The scent of sage and beeswax clung to her robes, a reminder of the sacred rituals that bound you both. 

"You’ve always had such beautiful hair," she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful. For a moment, her touch lingered, more a mother’s than a priestess’s. "Do you remember when you were little, how you’d fuss when I braided it too tightly?" 

You nodded, though your throat tightened at the memory. "I thought you were punishing me," you replied, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. 

She chuckled softly, the sound rare and fleeting. "Never, my child. I only wanted you to look your best." 

Her fingers paused for a fraction of a moment, resting against your temple. "You’ve grown so much," she said quietly, the words carrying a weight she rarely allowed herself to show. Then her hands resumed their work, and when she finished, she placed her hands gently on your shoulders. "There," she said, her voice soft but steady. "You are ready." 

The warmth of her hands lingered as you rose, her gaze following you with something that almost resembled pride. Yet beneath it, you could feel the unspoken weight of expectation, as heavy as the ceremonial robes draped across your shoulders.

You carried that weight with you as you stepped into the grand wooden church, its high vaulted ceilings towering above like the heavens themselves. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs—lavender mingling with a faint undertone of sweetgrass. Smoke curled upward, coiling like restless spirits toward the intricate carvings that decorated the beams, each depicting scenes of devotion and sacrifice. Candles lined the altar and walls, their soft, flickering light casting long shadows that seemed to shift with the murmurs of the congregation.

People stood in hushed reverence, their faces illuminated by the golden glow. All eyes were on you and your betrothed—Abel—as you knelt together on the raised dais at the center of the sacred space. 

Abel knelt beside you, his head bowed, his posture straight and unassuming. His robe hung neatly on his frame, its stark simplicity emphasizing his earnestness. He was the ideal partner for someone like you: devout, humble, willing to serve without question. You could see why your mother had chosen him. He was what the village valued—what the cult demanded. 

Yet when you looked at him, you felt nothing but a hollow ache. 

Your mother’s voice carried through the church, steady and commanding. Her words wrapped around the congregation like a net, binding them in shared reverence. 

“May this bond bring harmony, as two threads are woven into a single tapestry. May purpose guide them, and may their lives serve as offerings to the divine.” 

Her gaze swept across the congregation before settling on you. The weight of her presence was palpable, pressing against your chest like a stone. 

“Abel,” she intoned, turning to him. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve beside them in devotion and purpose?” 

“I do,” he replied, his voice calm and steady. 

The crowd murmured in approval, a low hum that rolled through the church like distant thunder. 

“And you, my child,” she said, her attention returning to you. Her voice was softer now, but it carried an edge of expectation that left no room for hesitation. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve with him in faith and unity?” 

Your hands clenched tightly in your lap, hidden beneath the folds of your robe. Abel’s gaze flicked to you briefly, his expression warm, even reverent. He looked at you as though you were a gift he had been unworthy to receive. 

The thought made your chest tighten. 

“I do,” you said at last. The words tasted foreign in your mouth, like something borrowed. 

The murmurs grew louder now, the congregation’s approval rising like a tide. Your mother lifted her arms, her robes catching the candlelight as she began to recite the vows that would bind you and Abel together. 

“I give you that which is mine to give. I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.” 

Her voice was steady, deliberate, each word falling like a stone into still water. 

Abel repeated the vow, his voice soft but unwavering. 

“I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.” 

Your mother’s gaze moved to you. The air seemed to still as she spoke the final words of the vow. 

“I pledge to you the first bite from my meat, and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care, and tell no strangers our grievances.” 

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. 

You repeated the words, your voice steady but hollow. They rolled off your tongue like a prayer you had recited too many times to feel their meaning. Yet each word seemed to settle in your chest like a weight, binding you to Abel, to this life, to this role you had never chosen. 

As your mother raised her hands in blessing, the congregation erupted into murmurs of approval. A collective sigh of satisfaction rippled through the church, their voices carrying into the evening as they began to move toward the feast awaiting them. 

But you remained kneeling on the dais, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The smoke from the incense stung your eyes, though you weren’t sure if that was the reason they burned. The whisper of movement behind you was so faint you might have missed it, but then his voice followed. 

“Congratulations.” 

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see Fyodor standing at the edge of the dais. His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes, something that made your breath hitch. His white supplicant robes, so similar to yours, seemed to carry none of their weight. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, though your voice betrayed you. 

His gaze flicked briefly to Abel, who stood a short distance away, speaking with the elders. “He seems... reliable,” Fyodor said, his tone measured, as though he were commenting on a piece of furniture. 

“He is,” you replied, though the words felt bitter on your tongue. 

Fyodor stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the faintest smile playing at his lips. “Do you think he’ll understand you?” 

Your breath caught. Something in his tone—quiet, knowing—stirred a knot of frustration in your chest. “What is that supposed to mean?” you whispered, your voice tight. “You’re always speaking in riddles.” 

“Not riddles. Questions,” he corrected with a soft smile, his voice like a whisper of smoke. “Do you ever ask them yourself?” 

The memory of his whisper at the river returned unbidden. You bleed for them, but will they bleed for you? His words had rooted themselves in your thoughts, growing like weeds in the cracks of your carefully constructed faith. 

“At the river,” you began, your voice faltering. “You said something to me. Why?” 

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Because it’s the truth. You give them everything—your blood, your life, your love. But what do you receive in return? Do they even know you, beyond what you offer?” 

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of your robes. “That’s not how it works,” you whispered, though your voice quivered. “I’m here to serve. To protect them. That’s my purpose. That’s why they love me.” 

He regarded you for a long moment, his expression almost gentle. “And who protects you?” 

The question lodged itself deep in your chest, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “You don’t understand,” you said quietly. “This is how it’s always been.” 

“Ah,” he murmured, the faint smile returning to his lips. “I can understand the comfort of tradition. A powerful thing, isn’t it?” He straightened, his tone shifting to something lighter but no less piercing. 

You turned back to him, anger and something deeper—something desperate—flaring in your chest. “What do you want from me?” 

His gaze lingered on you, searching, and then he stepped back. “Nothing,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ve overstayed my welcome. Enjoy your new kinship, won’t you?” 

Before you could reply, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, his presence dissolving into the sea of voices and movement. His words remained, echoing in your mind like a bell tolling in the dark. 

Who protects you? 

PART II

Dividers: saradika-graphics

[straylaughs]

and fuck you div1/jype for using that stupid ass nickname when he wasn't even there!!

[aleese1111]

Seong je protective over reader🙏

Honestly go crazy

the ribbon she wore | geum seong je x bullied!reader

summary: at ganghak high, she’s a quiet target for cruel games—until geum seong-je walks in. he almost walks past her, just another victim in the background… until he sees the ribbon she once wore while patching him up. he didn’t plan to step in. but some memories don’t stay silent.

warnings: violence, bullying, emotional distress, brief language, mild trauma, physical aggression .

author's note: i did not go crazy on this because i personally think geum seong je is not that type of man who lays a hand on women.. he consider himself romantic afterall . requests ,,

the gym echoed in emptiness, save for the distant squeak of rubber soles and the faint hum of old ventilation systems. a cold draft slipped through the slightly ajar windows near the ceiling, brushing across the glossy floor. fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting sterile white light over the scuffed wooden panels and the faded half-court lines. it was break time, but the gym remained deserted, save for the low murmurs and sharp, cruel laughter resonating from one corner.

she stood pressed against the far wall, her shoulders hunched, trying to make herself smaller. her backpack had already been yanked away, its contents strewn across the floor—books, pens, a half-open water bottle slowly leaking a thin stream that soaked into the pages. her breathing came out in short, uneven bursts. one of her pigtails had unraveled, hanging limply over her cheek, and her glasses sat crooked on her face. the cracked arm of the frame dug lightly into her temple.

"god, you're so pathetic," the taller girl spat, leaning into her space with a satisfied smirk. she shoved a biology textbook hard into her chest, making her stumble.

"didn’t you say you were gonna tell the teacher last time?" sneered the other girl, crouching just enough to pick up one of her scribbled notebooks, holding it up like it was dirty laundry. "what’s she gonna do, huh? save you from being such a know-it-all freak?"

she clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. "i didn’t say anything," she said quietly.

the taller girl laughed. "oh, so now you’re lying too? wow. miss perfect over here’s got claws."

the guy with them—leaning lazily against the folded bleachers—watched on with disinterest, chewing gum, his phone in hand. he barely acknowledged what was going on, except to glance up occasionally and snicker.

the other girl suddenly lunged forward, knocking her glasses to the floor with a harsh flick of her fingers. the lenses clattered, bouncing once before skidding under a nearby bench.

"oops," she said, feigning surprise. "guess you’ll have to read the world in blur now. maybe it’ll match your personality."

the girl flinched as a hand grabbed her collar, pulling her forward and shoving her back again. her head hit the wall with a muted thud. pain throbbed through her skull, but she didn’t make a sound. she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

that’s when the gym doors groaned open.

geum seong-je stepped in, his presence like a ripple through still water. he wore the bordeaux school uniform, its deep maroon fabric tailored to a sharp edge that clung to his lean frame with casual indifference. no hoodie, no earbuds—just the crisp collar slightly askew, his sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. a cigarette dangled loosely from between his fingers, unlit but familiar, like a habit he hadn’t yet decided to break. his eyes swept over the gym, indifferent at first, shadowed by an unbothered calm that veiled something far more dangerous beneath the surface.

he strolled across the court with no rush, hands in his pockets. his gaze passed over the girls, narrowing faintly at the noise but not settling on them.

"yo," he called out to the guy near the bleachers.

the guy looked up and grinned. "finally. thought you ditched."

"almost did. had to smoke out back."

"smelled like trash?"

"worse. like that stray dog that follows you around."

they both laughed, the guy tossing his phone into his backpack. seong-je cracked a faint smile, the closest he got to something resembling amusement.

as they continued trading jabs, the bullying in the background escalated.

the taller girl had now pulled out the contents of the bullied girl’s pencil case, tossing pens across the court one by one like stones into a river. the other girl grabbed her water bottle and emptied it over her hair, slow and deliberate.

"think this’ll help you cool off, brainiac?"

the cold water trickled down her scalp, soaking her shirt and collar. her lips trembled.

"say something," the first girl demanded. "go on. quote a textbook at me. fix your grammar. explain the science of why you're such a loser."

the guy with seong-je chuckled under his breath. "damn. they’re going all out today."

seong-je turned his head slightly. his brows furrowed.

"they’re still at it? thought they'd be done by now."

"they’re bored. that girl’s like a wind-up toy—poke her and she shakes."

seong-je scoffed. "screaming like stray cats."

he turned back, walking past them toward the bleachers again. he didn’t look at the girl. he hadn’t seen her face yet—just another blurred victim in the churn of daily violence.

but then—

as he passed the scene, something flickered in his peripheral vision. a flash of light blue.

the ribbon.

he slowed. stopped.

the taller girl raised her hand again, this time with a clenched fist.

before it could fall, seong-je’s hand closed around her wrist with unrelenting force.

everything stopped.

the girl's face twisted in shock. "seong-je?! what’s your—let go!"

his voice was low. cold.

"back off."

she tried to yank away. his grip only tightened.

the other girl backed up instinctively, nearly tripping over the scattered books. the guy by the bleachers blinked, confused.

"yo, what’s wrong? it’s just some loser girl. you don’t even know her."

but seong-je did know her.

he remembered the way she had sat beside him at the empty bus stop weeks ago, the night sky draped over them like a blanket. she’d seen him bloodied, nose caked with dried crimson, his lip split.

she didn’t scream. she didn’t ask.

she just opened her bag, trembling hands digging out a tiny first aid kit.

she patched him up.

her voice was soft, like a whisper, her eyes unsure but kind. it was the gentlest thing he’d felt in years.

he let go of the girl’s wrist.

only to shove her back hard enough to make her stumble.

"she’s mine," he said, voice like thunder rolling under ice. "touch her again, and i’ll make sure you never touch anything again."

the two girls looked like they’d seen a ghost.

"what the hell is your problem?! she’s nothing—"

"not to me."

the guy stepped forward, trying to de-escalate. "come on, man. chill. this is a joke. you’re acting like she’s your girlfriend or something."

seong-je turned slowly, his gaze sharp. deadly.

"out. all of you."

they hesitated.

he took a step forward.

that was enough.

the girls grabbed their bags, muttering curses under their breath, but their fear betrayed them. the guy followed, muttering "damn, fine" under his breath as they pushed through the gym doors.

and then—

silence.

the only sound was the soft drip of water from her soaked shirt onto the floor.

seong-je turned back. she was still crouched there, arms wrapped around her knees, face hidden by wet strands of hair.

he walked toward her, slowly, until he stood a few feet away.

"it’s you," he said quietly.

she looked up, her eyes wide. red-rimmed. she blinked through blurry vision, struggling to see.

he reached down, knelt beside her.

then, from his jacket pocket, he pulled a small folded cloth—worn and frayed at the edges. the same cloth she had used on him at the bus stop.

"you carry it?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

he shrugged. "didn’t feel right to throw it away."

she took it with shaking hands, dabbing at her face. her glasses were still under the bench.

seong-je retrieved them wordlessly, wiped the lenses with the edge of his shirt, and placed them gently into her palm.

"they’re cracked," she murmured.

"still usable. like you."

she blinked. "was that... a joke?"

"don’t get used to it."

a small smile tugged at her lips, tired but real.

the bell rang, distant, ending break.

he stood.

she followed, swaying slightly. he didn’t offer his hand.

but he stayed close.

they didn’t speak again as they walked out together, side by side.

not friends. not strangers.

something in between. something unknown. but real.

and for now, that was enough.

[g1rld1ary]

let things go - ex!james potter x reader (kind of)

wc: 4455

summary: cleaning out your apartment so your boyfriend can move in, you come across a box of mementos and discover you're maybe not as over your ex as you thought | angst, swearing, problematic boyfriend (not james), a bit of misogyny, lots of flashbacks, modern!magic!AU

me: this is maybe the angstiest fic i've ever written and i'm sorry that present james isnt in it, but i do have ideas for where his story could go, so if people like this i'm open to writing a second part! based off the song let things go from ordinary days!!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

You stared around your apartment, hands on your hips as you mentally prepared to make it your bitch. With Britney Spears’ Circus album playing and garbage bags at your disposal, you were sure you were ready.

You wondered how you could’ve ever considered the place not big enough for all your belongings, grimacing as you imagined the bomb-site it would soon become. But that’s why you were cleaning, right? For the greater good, because you deserve to live in a place not cluttered by trinkets and things stuffed in places they don’t belong. Or maybe because you’re boyfriend had decided he was moving in. Who could say, really?

You flung open a closet door, unimpressed at the mass of clothes seemingly defying physics to stay off the floor. My life has to be more than the sum of this… stuff you thought to yourself, turning your back on that. The closet was scaring you too much to start, you should pick something easier. You looked up at the bookshelf, teeming with novels you’d long since loved, and told yourself to grow up. Today was the day you started cleaning things out. Today was the day you’d start letting things go.

Hours later, you’d made a start and not much else. You stood in the centre of your bedroom, your whole entire history strewn across the floor. Fetched from a box deep in the back of your closet, a treasure trove of trinkets lay in front of you as you decided what you had to get rid of. Years-old planners, dog-eared postcards. Why was I even keeping these? You asked yourself, laughing at the ridiculous thought of you even holding onto frivolous mementos all these years.

But then you shot yourself in the foot. You almost saw it from an outside perspective, bending down, fingers dusting lightly over the various souvenirs until they curled around the planner, decorated with stickers and photos taped to the front. You recognised it immediately, the planner you had for seventh year.

Your stomach dropped as the memories smacked you in the face and you were on the floor before you knew it, furiously thumbing through the pages.

september 1st - first day of seventh year!

september 27th - hogsmeade date with james <3

october 5th - study with james 4pm

october 31st - halloween! common room party 8pm: make sure james’ costume is ready!!!!

november 23rd - sirius’ birthday party 8:30pm

december 25th - christmas at the potters! make sure gifts are here for effy and monty

january 1 - new years day!! to do: kiss jamie <3

february 14th - valentines day! date with james 7pm

april 9th - easter lunch with the potters

may 29th - graduate from hogwarts!! to do: start life with jamie

A year full of James; one of six knowing him in Hogwarts, one of four that you dated. Every other day had something involving James — help him with his essay, going to Hogsmeade with him, kiss him silly (god bless teenage hormones and being in love, why were you writing that in your academic planner?). Every new page and task brought back memory after memory of James and his dumb smile and your stupid dates and the whole relationship you thought would never end.

You snapped back into your real life, forcibly ignoring the water collecting at your lash line. You were fine, everything was fine. Your eyes strayed to a postcard, paper edges fraying and wearing thin from the amount of time you’d obviously spent re-reading and admiring it.

The design on the postcard was cute and kitschy, a vintage style beach picture with a sun lounger and palm tree. You remembered it instantly, receiving it in the post over the summer between your sixth and seventh year. You flipped it over with trembling hands, the familiar chicken scratch scrawl bringing a small smile to your face.

Hey lovie,

I am in Nice! We got in late last night and I’ve been exploring all day — remind me to show you the photos when I get back because it’s so beautiful here. We should come back here together next year.

Anyway, I’ve been walking around town and this older man asked if I fancied a shag — fancy that! I said no, thank you, I’m actually married, just to see how it felt (very good). I can’t wait to marry you when we’re older, gorgeous.

Mum and Dad are absolutely thrilled to be by the beach — I think they’ll be prunes by the time we get back to England! Will send you photos to laugh at in the next letter.

I love you!

James Potter (your future husband)

You sat for a minute, the postcard crumpling slightly from the tension between your fingers. Then, in a flash, you slammed the postcard down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling to stop yourself from crying.

You stashed the belongings back in the box, unwilling to look at them anymore but unable to throw them away. You just couldn’t get rid of all those memories. Still, you needed to clear out some room for Adam’s things, so you tentatively labelled the box ‘maybe’ to pretend you were considering getting rid of it all.

You exhaled emphatically, convincing yourself to think it over and throw it all out at the end of the day. Just after you did the rest of the room.

Things only got worse from there. You’d never thought of yourself as a hoarder of the past, but as soon as you were looking around your flat, you discovered decorative or sentimental items displayed on every surface, hidden in every drawer and cupboard. Birthday cards from years gone by, plastic souvenirs from monuments you’d travelled to, a pamphlet on Van Gogh from when your friend group went to France and wandered around the d’Orsay making fun of the paintings.

You shook your head, physically manifesting the negative thoughts leaving your head. You needed to clean all this shit out! You should’ve done it years ago.

But then you picked up a framed photo — the one that always seemed to fall face down whenever your boyfriend came around. It was your graduation photo, all your friends crammed in like sardines to fit in the shot. You were pressed into James’ side, his strong athlete’s arm wrapped snugly around you. Nothing else about the picture indicated you were a couple, which was how you rationalised keeping it up, but holding it now, you could feel all the memories rushing back to you like it had happened yesterday. The soft breeze, the smell of daisies from the grounds, your friends' beams, the feeling of James’ hands around you.

You could feel the sensation like it was current, but it all seemed like lifetimes ago. You’d seen James maybe once since your breakup, purely by accident, and it was like ripping your heart out all over again, like you were freshly eighteen and experiencing the first heartbreak of your life.

And to be honest, you could hardly remember the last time you’d even seen the rest of your friends. There was no picking sides, no ferocity or anger, but somewhere along the way, they’d faded from your life, much to your regret. Now, you spent most of your time with Adam. And Adam’s friends. Which was great.

Suddenly, you realised how much your life had changed. How much you’d changed. Adam didn’t even know you were a witch, for God’s sake!

Suddenly, the pictures weren’t just pictures, and souvenirs weren’t just hunks of plastic; they were proof that this life was yours — even if you hadn’t been living it for years. And you couldn’t let that go, you couldn’t dispose of the identity you’d just realised you’d lost. So back the trinkets went, returned to surfaces and shelves in pride of place. Small reminders that you were still who you always had been, even if you didn’t feel like it.

How did it happen? You’d torn up your apartment just to decide you couldn’t get rid of anything, painstakingly returning everything to its place.

Fuck! Adam. Adam still needed to move in —well, he still wanted to move in. So you still needed to find some room for his things. But surely he’d be fine? You could get creative, maybe move some of your mementos from out of the closet and into one of the cabinets in the hallway where Adam would never look, so you didn’t have to get rid of any of it. Or maybe some of your things could be stuffed into the spelled secret crevice where you kept your wand stashed whenever he came around.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Adam would be over in fifteen minutes. Everything needed to go back in its place before he arrived, or all hell would break loose.

It was a known fact to you that Adam was jealous of James, even now. You’d met whilst the two of you were still dating, and Adam had, both before and after, always made comments about how you weren’t right for each other. It had irked you a bit whilst you and James were together, but then again, he was right, so… The point was, if Adam knew you were keeping all of these mementos that involved James, he’d flip.

Half an hour later, Adam arrived.

“Hey, Babe,” He unlocked the door with the key you’d given him free access to a few weeks ago, “Turn that shit off, it’s trashy.” He followed the statement with a kiss, which confused your senses. You nonetheless got up to switch off the music, changing it to an album you knew you could both enjoy, something he’d introduced you to.

“So did you clean out some of your stuff?” He fell onto the couch next to you, reaching to turn on the television. You watched him reach for the remote, sighing as you turned off the music.

“Uh, kind of,” You hesitated, searching for the right words, “I moved some things around. I’ll still have to do some work on it, but I’m sure we’ll have space!”

“Babe,” He groaned, putting an arm around the back of the couch, sitting just disconnected from your skin. “I’m moving in in a few weeks, we’ve gotta get this stuff ready. I know you’re a ‘feeler’, but it’s just stuff, you have to make compromises for me.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” You shifted in your seat, eyes glued to the television screen where Adam was clicking through programs, “It’s all just got sentimental value to me. It’s hard to get rid of any of it. But I’ll try, I promise.”

“What about I just do it? I’m sure I can put a bunch of papers and plastic snow globes in the bin.”

“No!” You said, too fast. “It’s okay, I’ll have another try and be stricter with myself. It’s just the first time I’ve looked at any of this stuff in a while. Memories, you know?”

“I get it, Babe, but we have new memories now. And we’ll make more. You don’t need a shitty hunk of plastic from eight years ago.” You made a noise of agreement, not wanting to get into any more detail about what the ‘hunks of plastic’ really were.

After the talks of moving in and cleaning out moved on, your night really was nice. Adam helped you cook some dinner, and you turned on a film he’d been talking about for a few weeks, but something still felt wrong.

You could tell Adam expected to stay over, a fair assumption, and was being touchy enough that you knew what he wanted. To your own dismay, your body was rejecting his advances, knee twitching when he laid his hand on it, subconsciously leaning away when he cuddled in or nuzzled into your neck. You didn’t want to, but everything felt wrong in the moment.

“Hey, um, I think I’m getting my period or something, my stomach feels really weird. Do you mind if we call it here?” It was a cheap shot, you knew, but also not necessarily a lie — your stomach was feeling queasy.

Adam looked at you for a minute, and you weren’t sure if his knitted brows were for concern, confusion or judgment. Probably all three.

“Sure, I guess. Do you need, like, a hot water bottle or something?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll take a painkiller and see if it gets worse. Thanks, though.”

You accompanied him to the door, apologising again softly as he pulled on his shoes.

“It’s fine, I’ll see you soon. Love you,” He said, crossing the boundary outside of your flat. You hummed in agreement, leaning up to press a kiss on his lips.

“Bye,” You murmured, shutting the door softly as he took off. You leant against the door, a sigh escaping you.

You suddenly felt like you were in a video game, anything from your life before Adam illuminating in a glow, calling your attention to them. You stumbled through the apartment, buzzing from photo to souvenir to memento in a haze of memories.

It all came to a head in your bedroom, a box half full of things that didn’t fit in other places still sitting in the middle of the room. You sank to your knees, unable to stop yourself from immersing yourself in the years of memories you were unlocking.

You felt like you were waking up from a dream, a whole reality fading in and out of existence, the pathways of your life splintering as you looked back on where they all diverged. At what point did you make the decision that put you on this specific path? Was it worth it?

You picked up a folded paper flower from out of the box, being taken back to the day you received it.

It was the winter of fourth year, just after the Christmas holidays. The grounds of Hogwarts were covered in a blanket of crisp snow, something that most students found beautiful and calming, but you thought it was isolating, suffocating.

“What’s up, grump?” James approached your spot in the bay window of the library, staring vacantly out at the pristine white grounds. You looked up in surprise, a small smile gracing your lips.

“Just putting off my charms essay, waiting for spring to come,” You sighed. This wasn’t a new problem; all of your friends were well aware of your aversion to winter, but it didn’t mean it ever got better.

“Right,” James laughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “Well, I, uh, made this to help you feel better?” It came out as way more of a question than he obviously intended, causing a rosy blush on his cheeks as he revealed a paper folded flower from behind his back.

“Potter? What is this?” You asked in delight, reaching out with delicate fingers to cradle the flower in your hands.

“My mum taught me how to make them over the holidays. I thought it’d make you happy over the winter ‘cause they won’t die.” You beamed, looking up at James with bright eyes.

“That is so cute! Thank you, James.” You went to turn back to the window, thinking the conversation was over, when James cleared his throat awkwardly.

“This might be weird or whatever, so, like, don’t even worry, but would you maybe want to go to Hogsmeade with me next time?”

“Aren’t we all going together in a few weeks?” You asked casually, not fully catching on to what James meant.

“Um, yeah, but I meant just the two of us? Like a date?” James was looking anywhere but at you, a stark difference from his usual cocky, borderline obnoxious demeanour.

“Oh!” You broke out into a wide smile, nodding before you could even get the words out, “Yeah, I’d really like that!”

“Cool,” James replied, sporting his own dorky grin. “Awesome. Amazing! Can’t wait.”

“Yeah,” You agreed, a little awkward but excited nonetheless.

“Yeah.” You and James stared at each other for a moment, unsure of where to go from there. “I’ll see you at dinner then!” He waved quickly, practically leaving a trail of smoke behind him.

You watched him go, a smile still lingering on your lips. James Potter just asked you out on a date! Fancy that!

You and James had dated for the second half of fourth year, fifth through seventh year, and made it eight months after you graduated. That was a significant period of your life, pretty much all of your adolescent memories were inseparably associated with James. You put down the flower, carefully preserving it amongst the other items.

You felt a bit like a madwoman, throwing your things across the floor, jumping from memory to memory like you were a starving man coming across food for the first time.

Even the clip in your hair was a gift from him, coincidentally, the same night you met Adam for the first time.

“Here, lovie, got you a clip so you don’t have to have it in your eyes while you’re dancing.” James approached you from behind, offering you the claw clip before wrapping his arms around your middle, smoothly joining in the group’s conversation.

“Is that where you went?” You asked with a happy gasp, reaching around James to quickly put your hair up. You’d been complaining for the last hour since your group had started dancing as opposed to sitting and chatting, your outfit not quite prepared for the occasion.

“Prongs is so pussy-whipped he went to a chemist for a clip on a night out,” Sirius barked out a laugh to Remus, who just rolled his eyes with a smile.

“Forgive me for loving my beautiful girlfriend?” James asked with a spoonful of sass, placing a kiss on your cheek.

An hour later, you were dancing with the girls, carefree as you threw your arms around in the air. Lily nudged you at one point, gesturing just beyond where the boys were crowding near the bar to where another man was watching you. It wasn’t necessarily intimidating or threatening, but you were unused to attention after being so associated with your relationship for so many years. You accidentally made eye contact with him, sparing him a half smile, unsure of what the proper protocol was.

You’d long forgotten about the man once a Kesha song came on, getting lost in the music with your friends.

About an hour later, you were slowly making your way up to the bar for another drink when the man returned, approaching you with a charming smile.

“Hi, I’m Adam. You’re stunning,” He said, taking you aback with his directness.

“Oh, uh, hi. Nice to meet you,” You introduced yourself, strangely reserved.

“Are you here by yourself?” Adam asked, subtly shuffling closer. You leant back, shaking your head.

“No, I’m here with some friends. And that’s my boyfriend over there.” You pointed James out as he laughed at something Marlene said.

“That guy? No way.” Adam shook his head confidently, laughing in a way that had you a little confused. What was funny about that? When you voiced that thought, he tried to soften his statement, backpedalling a little in a way that amused you. “Sorry, it’s just… You are way out of his league. I mean that guy? He looks like every typical high school film jock who has muscles for brains. Like, does he have independent thought skills?” He said it like a joke, but you weren’t sure it was funny.

“James is really smart, actually. Always got top grades in school,” You replied, voice soft but determined.

“Oh, you guys went to school together? High school sweethearts?” Adam had totally changed his tune, maybe because he could see that you didn’t think insulting your boyfriend was entertaining. Still, you nodded brightly, choosing to believe the best in him.

“Yeah, we’ve been dating since I was fourteen! We’re going on four years.” You glowed with pride, eyes straying over to James, who was starting to notice where you were.

“So you’re fresh out of school, huh?” You nodded slowly, suddenly aware that he could be decades older than you. Well, maybe you were being a little dramatic.

“How old are you?” Adam was twenty-four, as he told you, which did surprise you slightly, though you tried not to let it show. In the real world, that’s not crazy, right? Maybe you were still adjusting to being out of Hogwarts.

“Hi, lovely, who are you talking to?” James approached you both, his hand snaking around your waist.

“This is Adam. We were just chatting.”

“Hey, mate.” They exchanged identical greetings, a strange tension growing.

“Your girlfriend’s just been raving about how great you are, mate. You’re a very lucky man.”

“I know,” James said, jaw tensing in a way that was equal parts concerning and sexy.

“Well, it was nice meeting you!” You chirped, pulling away to end the conversation now that James was beside you.

“Yeah, you too, honey. I hope we meet again soon.” You nodded after a slight pause, waving politely as James led you back to your comfort zone and your friends.

“Well, who knew little miss wifed-up still had it?” Remus laughed, giving you an impressed nod.

“Hey, I thought we all knew I was gorgeous,” You joked, tossing your hair dramatically, “But seriously, if I have it, I do not want it.”

It wasn’t until later that you’d met Adam again and struck up a friendship which eventually evolved into a relationship, beginning to bond right before the start of the demise of your and James’ relationship.

God, you felt like your world was beginning to crash down around you, memories you’d had locked away for years resurfacing the second you laid eyes on a corresponding memento.

Everything was too suffocating; you needed to get out. Stumbling around your room, you pulled on some outside clothes, lacing up your shoes as you hopped down the entryway.

Walking down the street, you immediately felt a bit calmer, the crisp air sending shocks through your system and bringing you back down to earth.

With a little more sense in your head, the reality of your feelings began to set in. Regardless of how satisfied you were with your current life, which was something you were simultaneously beginning to reconsider, you missed your old life. In particular, you missed your friends.

Though James was obviously a massive part of your life and dominated most of the souvenirs you’d held onto, you’d had the same friendship group for six years of school. They rounded out every memory, filled the time between classes at school, and helped shape you into who you’d become as you grew into adulthood.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, you’d lost contact with them. Obviously, you hadn’t caught up with James since the breakup (with the exception of the single most awkward interaction of your life) because you were so heartbroken and shattered, but you’d tried not to let it impact your friendships.

Sirius was the first to go, of course, just because he was so close to James, and the other boys followed not too long after, torn between the rift. The girls held on for a bit longer, and you would tentatively say you were still friends today, but the intervals between your catch-ups got longer and longer each time. No bitterness, at least on your part, but you were all busy leading different lives.

Suddenly, it clicked how long it really had been since you’d seen your friends, and how it had steadily declined ever since Adam. Maybe it was just because you were already emotionally distraught, but doubts began to creep in about Adam. The way he’d behaved even before your breakup, his refusal to hang out with your friends after, and insisting you hang out with his friends all the time despite them not really liking you. It felt like something was beginning to add up, but you weren’t sure how to finish the equation.

With shaking hands, you fished your phone out of your pocket, searching through your contacts for a number you hadn’t called in far too long.

“Hello?” The voice on the other side asked, gentle confusion evident.

“Lily?” You asked, voice wavering as relief washed over you at the familiarity.

“Are you okay? Is something wrong?” Lily asked immediately, the intricacies of your speech pattern coming back to her in an instant.

“Are you free to talk for a bit?”

“Um, yeah, of course! Remus is with me right now. Do you want to be on speaker? Or I can go into a different room.” You said it was fine, the desire to hear his voice overpowering in your heart.

“Hi, dove. Been a while,” He said softly, and you could see the expression he was making despite it being a voice call.

“Yeah, sorry,” You choked out, tears beginning to spill again. Without further ado, you began to spill everything. All of the conflicting thoughts and feelings that had stirred within you in the span of a single day. You told them about Adam rushing you to let him move in before you were maybe ready (you’d never said that out loud before), finding the box of memories you’d forgotten had even existed, and the deep, deep longing for the past you’d felt ever since.

When you were finally finished you’d cried out all the water left in your body, but you felt monumentally lighter, even if it was just because Lily and Remus at least knew how much you loved and missed them.

As you began to trail off, worries less prominent, your friends sat in silence on the other side of the line.

“Do you think I’m broken?” You asked, voice ragged from your monologue and the accompanying tears.

“I think,” Lily said, “You need to come over tonight.”

part 2

[mylordshesacactus]

Okay, I didn't want to clog up the notes of someone else's post with something tonally different because that's rude, but. I Need to elaborate some more about no-kill vs open-intake shelters because I feel like some people still don't get it.

I'm gonna use an example here: My cat, Nepenthe, came from a small municipal open-intake shelter (I don't use the term "kill shelter" because I think it's obscene and cedes ground to ARA fuckwits for no reason) in an area with a NOTORIOUSLY awful stray cat problem.

She was on the euthanasia list. She was next in line on the euthanasia list.

They would never have been cruel or manipulative enough to say it that baldly, of course, but...I can read. Status was "at rsk", with two days' grace before ticking over into "extreme risk", the red zone. The ones who have had the most time, the most chance, if the shelter ever runs out of cage space.

I have gone the fuck off on people who hear that and immediately assume I will tolerate them bashing or insulting that shelter.

Because here's the thing about Penny. She is my baby, my darling, light of my life, and if I hadn't come along, euthanizing her would have been not only necessary but an ethical obligation.

She was neurotic, traumatized, and unpredictably aggressive--not "I'm bad at feline body language and ignoring her subtle back-off signals" unpredictable, I mean "we showed footage to a professional feline behaviorist and their immediate reaction was 'oh that is NOT normal'" unpredictable. "Actual legitimate psychological problems" unpredictable. The previous three times she had met with potential adopters, she attacked them unprovoked and had to be recaptured by a vet tech wearing a bite sleeve designed for aggressive dogs. She was the textbook definition of unadoptable.

She could not be fostered. There was absolutely no way she could live in a home with small children, or older children, or an elderly person with thin skin, or anyone who would get upset if they were clawed in the face without warning every few days.

Now, here's some math for you, keyboard warrior writing up a condescending screed about how there's Never Any Excuse for euthanizing a healthy animal:

The average length of stay in that shelter, for a healthy cat, was roughly two weeks. Which means, on average, assuming fast turnover, a single cage space in that shelter can save the lives of 24 cats every year.

Penny, when I met her, had been there for 43 days. A month and a half. Three times the average length of stay.

I love her. She has improved my life immeasurably and there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. Her life is not more valuable than the lives of the other 23 cats who might have been saved by the slot she was taking up. Euthanasia, if space had run out, would have been the only ethical option.

(Yes, obviously I DID show up and I DID choose her. But frankly? I was a grad student with a psychology degree, studying to be a therapist, living alone, no plans to have kids, a private room where she wouldn't have to interact with other people or animals, de-facto engaged to a professional animal behaviorist; I was ACTIVELY LOOKING for an edge-case project cat, and could calmly and intelligently articulate my understanding of the seriousness of her behavior and my plan for helping her. You can't count on that happening. I was a fucking unicorn.)

No-kill shelters have the INCREDIBLE luxury of deciding who to save. They have the luxury of having all the time in the world to wait. And in the meantime, what exactly do you think is happening to the other animals? The ones they DON'T pick? The ones there's no room for? Do you think they magically don't need to be surrendered anymore? Does Santa Claus find them a home, perhaps?

You can't reduce the life of an animal to math. Good, ethical no-kill shelters can be wonderful resources--either taking highly-adoptable animals from open-intake shelters to free up space as efficiently as possible, or else taking in behaviorally or medically complicated dogs who need more time to find their perfect match than open-intake shelters can give.

But if you're going to shit on open-intake shelters, you don't get to be a fucking coward about it. So here. Prove how much smarter you are.

You've run out of space. Every cage is full. The cat cannot be fostered. You've filled all your available foster slots with other cats, to buy her time. The "no-kill" shelters are full--they pulled the cats they thought they could save, and the scruffy, psychologically-unsound, adult black domestic shorthair with chronic herpes? Nobody wants her. In this world her unicorn's not coming.

She's had three times as long as every other cat here. You have given her every chance, wrote her a lovely bio, moved other cats to other shelters to keep space open so you didn't have to make this choice; but she mauled someone else today and there's a sweet, cuddly, highly-adoptable tabby with no problem behaviors being checked in right now. If you can't put that new cat somewhere it's going to be euthanized without even being given a chance, even though it is extremely adoptable and would likely find a new home within a week.

You don't have a magic wand. You can't wish a conveniently empty second shelter into existence. Every option has been exhausted.

Look me in the eye, and tell me which one dies.

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (Masterlist)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Subgenders: Omega! Reader, Beta! Yoongi, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Jimin, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Hoseok, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt and Comfort,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 80k so far

—  Warnings: Violence, Blood, Murder, sexual and physical abuse, PTSD, themes of healing, suspense, mute character's, depictions of eating disorders, healing, hospitals, epilepsy, assassins, spyies,

Before you read:

This is the second version of this story, it's better, edited and longer. But if you want to read the first (near complete) version of this story you can read it on tumblr here, or on Ao3 here. there's like a million words of it lol.

not everything is tagged in this version. there is quite a bit of triggering content. i go into much more greater detail about the m/c and the abuse that she suffered at the hands of Geumjae in this version. if there is anything that doesn't get a tag and you feel it needs it, please don't hesitate to tell me!

This version is a lot longer than V1, and because of that the chapters don't line up, chapters 1-13 cover chapters 1-4.

While there are only a few things that have been taken out/restructured, but yoongi and the m/c get a dedicated slow burn love story in this now. i've also added 60k to what we did have so please give this tons of love!

i will not be reblogging these parts nearly as much as the others, because i want there to be less crowdedness on my feed. i will try my hardest to respond to comments if there are any this time around.

~-~

Prologue: Omens

Summary: you watch your husband murder someone, and try not to make it worse

Part 1: The Beta

Summary: Seokjin meets Yoongi when he's at his lowest.

Part 2: The Funeral

Summary: The death of a king pin makes the whole picture come crumbling down. In 120 days, Yoongi will decide who rules the criminal empire.

Part 3: The Alpha

Summary: Seokjin meets Namjoon when things are finally getting good, will the introduction of an alpha disrupt his and yoongi's little pack?

Part 4: Of Violent Dogs

Summary: Kim Namjoon will kill. That is a fact that you can count on.

Part 5: The Pups

Summary: Namjoon meets Jungkook in the Emergency room. "he's sick Joonie, and you can't make him better." that doesn't mean he's not going to try.

Part 6: Prey Animals

Summary: A death and A dinner party (a woman that yoongi can't take his eyes off of.)

Part 7: Hoseok

Summary: Yoongi brings home a stray, but luckily he's going to stay. (Yoongi won't, Yoongi is going to leave)

Part 8: Just Not her

Summary: Yoongi cannot decide if he trusts you or not. After being followed, he interrogates you to figure out your motives.

Part 9: Ribbons

Summary: A dinner at the Moon house prompt Yoongi to get closer and closer to you. But how close can he get before he pricks his finger?

Part 10: Junk Drawers and Daydreams

Summary: Yoongi just wants to figure you out. Just that. He promises.

Part 11: Warm Monsters

Summary: Yoongi's attraction gets harder to ignore, as does your suffering.

Part 12: The After

Summary: In Yoongi's absence the pack sort of falls apart.

Part 13: Bruises and Butterflies

Summary: One life doesn't equal seven.

~-~

Commonly asked questions:

Why the different name? because i thought it would be confusing to have two series's by the same name on the same page

Why are you editing this story? because i want to put it up for physical purchase either on amazon (ew i know) or some other alternative, the beginning of the story had always bugged me because it was not paced the same as the rest of it.

[luffington]

hello i love ur works!! i hope ur doing well! :D for law can i request a law with a f!reader who doesn’t like him at all at first but has an uncharacteristic absolute soft spot for cute things (ie bepo) and he uses that to get closer to her? thank u!! ☺️

➤ pairing: trafalgar law x gn!reader

➤ word count: 1.1k

➤ warnings: alcohol use

this is such a cute concept thank you for suggesting it!! i'm exactly like this and i wanna hug bepo so badly ᕦʕ •ᴥ•ʔᕤ

i'm still not confident in the way i write law so i hope you like this!

Law's heart skips a beat the moment he meets you. That’s very unfortunate for him. 

His social skills are adequate at best, since his awkwardness unintentionally comes off as rudeness, but they get infinitely worse around people he’s attracted to.

Plus, you're a Straw Hat, so you're already seeing him out of his element. Luffy's (unintentional) insistence on ruining all of his carefully planned schemes leaves him perpetually frustrated, uncomfortable, and grumpy.

You frown when his voice comes out harsher than he meant it to. Roll your eyes when he gets upset at your crewmates again for doing what they always do. Mumble something snarky under your breath when the man frantically tries to get his plan back on track, somehow still not realizing that everything works out for Luffy. 

Oh, you must hate him. Law knows it. He tries to give you space to avoid making the situation worse, but that only upsets you more.

But Bepo? You’re obsessed. 

Constantly clinging onto him, rubbing your cheeks against his fur, giggling about how soft and round he is until the poor bear's snowy white face is tinted bright red.

His first mate nervously cries out "Captain!!", clearly flustered but secretly enjoying your praise. You pout, wondering why the cutest Mink you'd ever met is sticking around with an asshole like Law.

It’s not just Bepo – you love everything cute. Chopper always ends up in your lap, happily wrapped in your embrace. You feed stray cats, stop to pet every dog you see, and gush over the Tontattas in Dressrosa (especially Princess Mansherry!). Somehow, you cry more than Franky does at heartwarming stories. 

Law doesn’t understand how someone as adorable and kind-hearted as you could become a pirate. He admires your emotional vulnerability and childlike whimsy as much as he’s terrified of it. 

The poor guy can't win. He can barely talk to you like a normal person, much less have a full conversation with you. It leaves him lying awake in bed at night trying to think of something to say that doesn't make him sound like a dick. 

(Maybe he should read that book Chopper gave him – 'healthy ways to process trauma’ or something stupid like that.)

His crewmates know about his predicament, so Shachi suggests expressing his feelings in a way that doesn’t involve words. 

Law fights off embarrassment and walks into a toy store, looking incredibly out of place. He ends up picking out a black-and-white puppy plushie. (it’s Snoopy hehe)

Anxiety nearly overwhelms him while he waits for the perfect moment to give it to you. When it finally feels appropriate to pull you away from your crewmates, he leads you into an empty room on the Sunny. 

Law can barely look you in the eyes as he hands you the stuffed animal and mumbles, “I got this for you.”

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “Oh, Law…” The long stretch of silence causes him to panic internally, suddenly regretting everything and thinking of ways to explain himself.

Before he can come up with a flimsy excuse, you gladly accept his gift and hug it tightly. “It’s adorable, thank you! It even matches your hat!”

A blush spreads across his cheeks like wildfire. He wasn’t thinking about that, he swears! It’s the same color as Bepo! Yes, he loves black and white, and maybe he subconsciously wanted it to remind you of him, but he didn’t do it on purpose!

At breakfast the next morning, Shachi asks if you like your gift. Deciding not to question why he knows about it, you nod enthusiastically and say it’s so cute that you spent the entire night cuddling it. Law sputters and spills hot coffee on himself.

But now you feel bad. Everything about Law’s behavior made you think he disliked you, but he clearly cares enough to notice your interests. You don't know anything about him.

The next time your combined crews split up, you make it a point to join him and spend alone time together. He’s obviously overjoyed, and he’s already thinking about more gifts to buy you.

Once you get past his awkward exterior, you realize he's actually pretty cute. He has his own nerdy interests, and he genuinely cares about Bepo and the rest of his crew.

He’ll show you his if you show him yours… Obviously that means his limited edition Germa 66 comics box set and your collection of cute trinkets, with the puppy plushie he bought you sitting proudly on your pillow.

When he sees a cute animal or something he knows you’d like, if you’re within Room range, he Shambles you over to him so you won’t miss it.

“Law, what the hell? Why am I three blocks away from where I just was?” With a straight face, he points and says, “Cat.”

Bepo’s also a great wingman. He helps you see his captain’s soft side by telling stories about their adventures together – even embarrassing ones Law wishes he left unsaid. You eagerly listen to everything the Mink has to say and become even more comfortable around Law.

Law realizes you can be soft and strong at the same time. No one doubts Sanji’s strength even though he caves whenever he sees a woman – why shouldn’t that apply to you and your interests?

At one of your crew's famous banquets, you get super drunk and won’t stop clinging to him. Law is completely sober and tries to push you off of him, attempting to prevent you from doing anything you'd regret the next morning. 

But then you tell him you think he's adorable and giggle cutely.

He's stunned into silence for a few moments. "...You think so?" (He'd rather be seen as manly, but he's more than happy with any perception as long as you like him.)

You nod and move to kiss him, and as much as he’s dying to reciprocate, he holds you back. Instead, he half-carries you over to where a group of both of your crews are mingling. You're asleep in Bepo's lap in less than a minute.

Hungover and sleepy the next morning, you timidly apologize for your behavior. Law shakes his head and assures you that it's fine. 

"I still wanna kiss you, though," you murmur quietly. 

So his lips press against yours in a slow and gentle kiss, eventually escalating until your fingers are tangled in his hair and you’re straddling his lap, one tattooed hand gripping your hip and the other holding you tight against him.

Bepo and Shachi’s eyes widen when they see their captain’s flushed state a while later, hair messy and hickies on his neck. In typical Law fashion, he just thanks them with no further explanation.

[quarterlifekitty]

I mean this in the most polite, respectful, do only as you wish under zero pressure, way - I am FERAL for dog Johnny and am drooling and begging for more pretty please and thank you ignore my hybrid kink standing in the corner it’s fine we’re fine…unless you don’t want to :)

Uuuuuuuhhhhhhuuu let me start by saying I owe my dog soap illness to such pillars of the community as @boolger and @frogchiro so never forget that they walked so I could crawl around leaving a snail trail with my pussy.

cw: hybrid stuff

Dunno about you but I know my brain chemistry was permanently altered by lady and the tramp when I was a child. I never stood a chance.

So imagine Stray!Soap and Lady!Reader. He sees you every so often. On walks, laying your head in your owner’s lap as he reads the paper on the porch, scratching your ear, playing in the yard with your other owner as she tends to the garden.

Soap sniffs around in your yard at night, just the lightest traces of your scent drive him a little crazy. He decides to wait around— see if he can meet the little house-princess when she comes out in the mornings.

You have no idea what to make of him. He thinks it’s cute how your ears perk as you inspect him. No collar. Not like you— with your shiny little heart-shaped tag. You’re a little wary, but you figure there’s no harm in him being in the neighborhood.

And you know how it is with Soap. You give an inch, he’ll take a mile.

So he’ll wait right by the door near every damned morning. Just to say hello to the little lady. Smitten as can be.

Heehee and what if you had neighbors, also. Bloodhound!Price. Russian terrier! Or Newfoundland!Nikolai who’ve watched you become a young lady, and warn you to watch out for young dogs like Soap. Always a mess of trouble… you should be with someone who knows enough to look after you. Someone older, maybe. Not some young tramp looking to knot any pretty thing he can sink his teeth into…

[freeabortionslol]

sick day (luke hughes x gf!reader) ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

summary: fluff! reader takes care of luke when he's sick warnings: none! a/n: short lil blurb while I'm writing a longer story. this is straight up just pure fluff. love u all! happy reading! wc: 1.3k

You were standing in the kitchen scrolling through tik tok after a long everything shower, chugging every last sip of water from your stanley cup. Your boyfriend, Luke, was lying on the couch of your shared apartment doing the same thing. You glanced over as his back rested against the arm of the couch. He was wearing a cream colored hoodie, with the hood over his brown coils. You smiled as he sniffled his nose and decided to walk over. You made your way onto the couch where Luke lifted his legs so he could place them on your lap.

“Everything okay, baby?” You asked, your voice gentle as you rubbed your thumb against his knee. 

Luke sniffled, placing his phone down on his lap. “I don’t feel good.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, sending him a half smile. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed, rubbing his hands against his face before speaking. “My ears hurt, my throat hurts, and I'm all stuffy.” He sniffled his nose to demonstrate. You moved in closer, placing the back of your hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

“You do feel a bit warm. I’m gonna go get the thermometer.” Luke nodded, his face softening at your concern. He leaned back against the couch cushions as you got up to grab the thermometer from the bathroom cabinet. When you returned, he had cocooned himself in the throw blanket, just his messy curls and tired eyes peeking out. You kneeled beside him and pressed the thermometer under his tongue, brushing a stray curl from his forehead as he looked up at you with those puppy dog eyes. Once it beeped, you pulled it out and frowned at the number. 

“101.5” you murmured. “Poor baby, no wonder you feel lousy.”

Luke groaned, sinking deeper into the blanket. “I hate being sick.”

“I know, Lu,” you said softly, kissing the top of his head. “But you have me, and I’m the best nurse ever. You want ramen?” He managed a weak smile as he nodded his head. “Okay, go get in bed. I’ll start boiling the water.” Luke slowly stood from the couch, his posture slumping as he made his way to the bedroom. You walked to the kitchen and pulled out a pot to fill with water. When you turned on the stove, you decided to go to the bedroom to stay with your sick boyfriend while the water boiled. You pushed the door open and caught sight of Luke slouching against the headboard with the tv remote in his hand. He looked up as you entered, his tired eyes lighting up just a bit at the sight of you. His hoodie was still pulled over his head, but the blanket was draped messily over his lap.

“What are we watching?” He croaked out.

You sent him a soft smile, moving closer to your side of the bed. “Whatever you want, baby.”

“New Girl.” He mumbled, pressing play as he already had it pulled up. Luke set the remote down and shifted over slightly, patting the space next to him. You climbed into bed, settling beside him and gently pulling the blanket over both of you. He leaned his head against your shoulder with a small sigh, and you wrapped an arm around him, rubbing soft circles on his back. “Sorry I’m gross right now,”

“You’re not gross,” you said firmly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re my favorite, even when you’re a sniffling mess.” 

That earned you a quiet laugh, his breath warm against your shoulder. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Lukey.” You said gently as you leaned your head on top of his.

Luke nuzzled his head further into your shoulder, planting a soft kiss on your neck. “You smell nice.” He murmured against your skin.

You giggled slightly, scratching his back softly with your freshly manicured nails. “It’s that new vanilla body wash.” 

Luke hummed contentedly, his lips brushing against your neck again as he mumbled, “Smells so good. I wanna steal it.”

You laughed softly, tilting your head to look down at him. “You already use half my stuff anyway. Might as well make it official.”

He chuckled, his voice still raspy but laced with affection. “What can I say? Your stuff is better than mine.”

“You just like smelling like me,” you teased, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.

“Guilty,” he murmured, his hand finding yours under the blanket and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re the best.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m making you ramen,” you joked, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Maybe,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “But I’d mean it even if you weren’t.” Your heart melted a little at his words, and you smiled, leaning into him. The sound of New Girl filled the room, but neither of you were really paying attention. The comfort of being close to each other was all that mattered. 

After a few minutes, the faint sound of the pot boiling over caught your attention. “Oops, ramen time,” you said, starting to get up.

Luke whined in protest, reaching out to tug you back toward him. “Stay.”

“I’ll be quick, promise,” you said with a laugh, kissing his forehead before slipping out of bed. “You’ll have your ramen before you know it.” You walked to the kitchen, pouring the boiled water into the bowl with the noodles. You grabbed a gatorade from the fridge for Luke before walking back to the bedroom with his meal. Luke had shifted to sit up more, tiredness evident in his eyes as he crossed his arms. 

“Thank you angel.” He let out, his voice still raspy as you walked closer. You pouted at him slightly, handing him the bowl before climbing into bed next to him. 

“You’re welcome, baby.” you said softly, watching as Luke took the bowl carefully, the steam rising up to his face. He let out a small sigh of contentment, the warmth already making him feel a little better. 

“You even brought me a Gatorade?” he asked, his lips curving into the faintest smile as he glanced at the bottle in your hand.

“Of course,” you replied, twisting off the cap and handing it to him. “Gotta keep you hydrated.” Luke took a sip of the drink before setting it on the nightstand, then carefully scooped up a bite of the noodles. He winced slightly as they were still a bit too hot, blowing on them before trying again. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, his face lighting up as he swallowed. “Perfect, as always.” 

You chuckled, leaning against the headboard beside him. “It’s just ramen, Lu.”

“Yeah, but it’s your ramen,” he said, looking at you with those soft, tired eyes. “Makes it taste better.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your cheeks flushed. “You’re such a suck-up.” 

“Only for you,” he teased, taking another bite. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, Luke occasionally offering you a bite of the noodles, which you accepted with a smile. When he finally finished, he set the empty bowl on the nightstand and shifted to snuggle into your side again. 

“Feel a little better now?” you asked, running your fingers through his curls.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice softer now. “I’ve got my girl, my ramen, and New Girl. What more could I need?” 

You smiled, kissing the top of his head. “Glad I could help.”

Luke tightened his arm around your waist, letting out a content sigh as his eyelids grew heavier. “Love you,” he murmured sleepily.

“Love you too, Lukey,” you whispered, holding him close as his breathing slowed, and the sound of the tv played quietly in the background. You didn’t care if Luke got you sick, you just wanted to make him comfortable.

[thursdaysgrrl]

i bet on losing dogs \ vi x reader

pairing: vi x fem!reader

word count: 4k (oneshot)

summary: you bet on a losing dog and subsequently fall in love

warning: strangers to lovers arc, very fluffy and angsty tbh! + happy ending

a/n: just want to note that reader has a semi-established backstory. shouldn't affect reading experience <3

♬⋆.˚ "i bet on losing dogs" by mitski

vi had been a fighter for as long as she could remember. but when caitlyn left, she didn’t have any of that fire left. every night, she’d get into fights. the sound of spectators chanting was intoxicating. the taste of blood in her mouth almost as addicting as the shimmer she’d replaced cait with. but every night, she would be knocked down, walking down the damp streets of the undercity searching for an alley to call home. you were curious.

you always placed your bets on the same person. vi’d begun to be known as the “dog of the ring”, always kicked but forever returning. and you bet on her every single time. yet she never noticed; she’d fight, she’d come out bloody and bruised, she’d find some comfort in the bar’s never-ending supply of alcohol and it’s customer’s endless supply of shimmer, and then she’d disappear. you’d made it a point of yours to go to the same bar, to dance when your favorite songs came on. one time you anonymously paid for her tab. but never, not once, did vi look at you. she was too lost in her own world. you’d heard the rumors, of course. the undercity’s finest brought to her knees by piltover’s most praised enforcer. and then left by her. part of you wanted vi because of that; she really was a losing dog. you had a soft spot for strays.

you’d stumbled into the bar’s grimy bathroom, slightly dizzy from drinking… something. you weren’t actually sure what. you made a mental note to be more careful next time. annoyed and ready to throw up, you banged on the bathroom door. you were about ready to kick it down when you saw who walked out. vi. you were ready to say something, before your stomach decided to take the lead and… oops.

“dude, the fuck?” vi grimaced, trying to wipe your vomit off of the front of her shirt. “oh my god, i’m—i’m so sorry!” you try to wipe the chunky substance from vi’s chest, concerned, before blushing and moving your hand away. vi smirks. “hey, i know you. you come here all the time, don’t you?” wait, vi noticed? “i… yeah, i do. you’re, i mean, you’re vi, right?” real smooth. vi smiled at you more sincerely this time. “ah, so i am. and you are… ?” you introduce yourself, offering your hand to shake. she takes it. her hands are calloused and rough and disarmingly warm. the tingles in your fingers linger even after you pull away. “how about i make it up to you? drinks on me?” vi considers you for a moment. then agrees. the two of you walk back into the bar, vi zipping up her leather jacket to avoid getting stared at. after ordering your respective drinks, you each take a seat at the bar, knees touching slightly.

“you don’t fight, do you?” vi asks, taking in your appearance. you don’t, admittedly, look like a fighter. “n-no. just appreciate the sport, is all,” you stammer. a more accurate response would be just appreciate watching you play the sport. vi chuckles, seemingly considering the accuracy of your words. “i admit that i’ve seen it as more of a money maker these days.” “oh yeah?” “especially given the fact fight rings are getting more and more tight… they don’t let just anyone compete. i got my ass kicked earlier but a goddamn professional.” you notice the cut under her eye, a bruise blooming on her cheek. you resist the urge to reach out and touch it. “are you not a professional?” vi chuckles bitterly, but not unkindly. takes a swig of her drink. “no way. i’m here to get the bills paid.” “what are you, then?” your question is abstract and catches vi off guard. mostly because she’d been asking herself the same thing for months. “well. people ‘round her call me the ‘dog of the ring’.” “and you agree?” you tilt your head, leaning your elbow on the table. “i’m whatever gets the most people to bet on me.” you hold up your ticket with vi’s name on it. you bet on her. you always did. vi’s lips part slightly in surprise. “well. i’m sorry you lost your money tonight.” your response slips out before you can help yourself. “oh, i didn’t bet on you because i wanted to win.”

and that’s how you got here, sitting in your apartment, you tending to the scrape on her eyebrow with a warm towel. it’d turned out that you two had more in common than you’d previously thought. vi was tough, but there was also something so intimately human about her. you liked it.

vi winced as you pressed the cloth soaked in disinfectant into her wound, and you murmur an apology. “you don’t have to do this, y’know,” vi says through gritted teeth. your voice is calmer, soft in comparison to hers. “i know. i want to.” your pet dog—another stray—lazily nipped at vi’s ankles, curious about a new visitor. “that’s dog” you explain. this makes vi crack a smile. “wow. very creative name.” “i know,” you grin, feigning pride. vi can’t help but think that you have the best smile she’s ever seen. it’s softer than cait’s ever was. “in my defense, i didn’t want to give him something else in case his owners came looking for him.” you add, more quietly: “i don’t think he has anyone else, though.” vi privately thinks, just like me.

you place a bandaid over vi’s brow, rubbing ointment on her cut before looking down at the blood-soaked wraps on her hands. “want me to give you clean ones?” “you’re quite prepared, nurse lady,” vi muses affectionately. that makes you smile, too. “you never know when the dog of the ring is gonna crash your place.” you get up from your bed to get the necessary materials to re-wrap vi’s bandages, before sitting back down across from her. you carefully unwrap the bloodied bandages, lips tightning at vi’s bloody and bruised knuckles before you begin wrapping them up in clean gauze. vi’s taken aback by how tender your touch is; she hasn’t been cared for like this in… god knows how long.

once you finish, you stand back up, putting away everything you used to clean her up. vi watches you, wordlessly taking in your apartment. it’s small, one room with an open layout of a bed, couch and countertop with kitchen island. but it’s cozy, and much better than the alleys she’s been staying in. your voice breaks the silence. “where do you stay?” vi pauses, before deciding to be truthful. “everywhere. sometimes nowhere, depending where'll take me in.” “this could be your where, if you want.” your words catch even you by surprise. “wait, really?” vi gauges your response, suspecting a cruel joke, but she finds none. only sincerity. “sure. you can take my bed. and before you argue, you’re the one who’s recovering. i have a couch for a reason.” vi stands up, walking towards you. “thank you. that’s really nice of you.” you turn around, leaning against the kitchen island. “yeah, sure. in case you didn’t notice, i have a thing for strays.” you motion to dog. vi chuckles, stopping in front of you “heh, yeah, i got that.” you pause for a moment, enjoying the proximity before pushing off the counter and going into your closet to grab some blankets and pillows. you assemble them on your couch where you’ll be sleeping.

“do you need clothes?” vi looks down at her dirt-stained clothes. and dirt-stained skin and… come to think of it, what’s the last time she washed her hair? “could i use your shower, actually?” she asks. “sure thing.” you lead her over to your bathroom, teaching her how to turn on the shower and regulate temperature. she nods gratefully, thanking you for the set of pajamas you laid out for her. you leave her to sort herself out, humming in the kitchen as you make a midnight snack for the two of you. reveling in how well the evening has turned out.

vi comes out looking like a completely different person. with the black paint gone from her face and black hair dye gone—you realise, laughing inside, that she must have used some really shitty dye, and make a mental note to pick up a better one for her—she looks softer. her natural hair is pink, and you realise just how captivating her eyes are. a steel blue that you know you’ll be seeing in your dreams from now on. she wears the clothes you set out for her--an oversized band t-shirt and flannel bottoms. you like the idea of her in your clothing. “hey,” you smile.

a few minutes later, you’re eating toast at the table, laughing about something or other. it’s strange how easy it is to talk to her, and vi feels the same way. she’s not used to people extending such kindness towards her, especially not pretty girls like you. she inwardly revels in how she smells like your body wash—cinnamon and vanilla. how comforting to live like you. dog whines at your feet, begging for some toast, which you scold vi for providing. there’s no bite in your words, though. you just like having someone to find annoying.

your house has been empty since your ex-girlfriend left. you didn’t think you would survive her absence; there were times it felt like the quiet of your apartment was more suffocating than your arguments ever were. maybe that’s why you took such a focus on vi: you needed somewhere to begin, something to care about. someone.

after changing into your own pajamas and giving vi a toothbrush (you especially enjoy your toothpaste that night, knowing it’s what she’ll taste like until the morning), you snuggle into your blanket pile on your couch, vi doing the same in your bed. despite her protests, you’d insisted she take it—at least until she recovered.

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you wake up to the sound of dog scratching at the door. he wants to go for a walk, you realise, feeling guilty. you stretch, gently sliding out of bed as you pad across the wooden floors. you look at vi for an instant; she's still fast asleep.

vi sleeping is a pretty sight. she looks calmer, more at peace than she does during the waking hours. part of you wants to lie down next to her just to listen to her breath. you force yourself to avert your gaze, certain she’ll wake up any moment and catch you staring. why’d i let her crash, again?

you quickly change into your usual clothing, quietly opening the door after putting dog on his leash, silently communicating to vi that you’ll be back soon. and praying she’ll be there when you return.

to your relief, vi is. you’d put her clothes in the wash last night, and she’s since changed back into them. you smile at her; she’s standing in your kitchen making eggs. who knew vi could cook? “hey, where were you?” vi asks, flipping an omelette. you hold up the leash. “taking dog for a walk.” vi nods in understanding, grabbing a plate. “so… you found your way around here pretty quickly,” you observe, motioning to how comfortable she already seems to be in your kitchen. vi cracks an egg in the pan. and cracks a smile. “yeah, i, uh… wanted to be useful.” “well, that’s nice of you.” you catch a whiff of your body wash as she sets your omelette, topped with melted cheese and tomatoes, on the kitchen counter. “dude, this looks great!” and you’re right. if you could cook like this, you’d definitely be about 10 pounds fatter. vi beams at your praise: “i’m glad you like it, princess.”

vi’s words echo through your head all day. she’d headed off to the ring hours ago, but you were still in your apartment, lost in thought. princess. her fucking smile. it’s these thoughts that fuel a painting—you swear you don’t get up for hours on end—of vi laying in bed, asleep, light streaming through from somewhere off the canvas. you’d painted her a bit like an angel, hair hitting the pillow like a halo framing her head. you blush at your work, but are also satisfied. from just memory, it’s pretty impressive. you’ve been painting for as long as you can remember. your mother was an artist. your father was MIA for most of your childhood. but drawing was always your safe space. and, you realise, through the painting, you’d let vi into it.

───────────────୨ৎ───────────────

vi returns late at night. you’d made dinner that had long grown cold. “hey, princess, sorry, matches took longer than expected… “ she takes you in, sitting at the table in the dark, apron over a little dress. she walks over, kneeling in front of you and taking your hands in hers. “i’m really sorry.” “ts’fine,” you murmur, meeting her gaze, your eyes soft. “was just worried about you.” vi thinks for a moment, before standing up. “we can heat this up, right?” she asks, motioning to the food you’d so caringly set out. she takes turns putting each item in the microwave, you watching her silently until she sits across from you at the table, food now warm. “this looks great.” that makes you crack a smile, and you enjoy a wordless dinner, though not uncomfortable. finally, you ask, “did you win your matches?” “yeah. all because a pretty girl patched me up beforehand.” vi grins as pink tinges your cheeks. the same color as her hair. “oh, by the way, i picked up some black hair dye for you. this one should survive wash day, though.” you set a bottle of hair-dye on the table, but vi’s eyes don’t leave you. “wow, maybe i’m the princess here.”

───────────────୨ৎ───────────────

over the next few weeks, the two of you settle into a steady rhythm. vi makes breakfast. you make dinner, though you’d started serving it a bit later into the night. you wake up earlier than her to walk dog, she goes to bed later because she likes watching you sleep. she goes to the rink during the day, you paint or go to the shops to sell your creations. in such a short span of time you’d become comfortable around each other, an odd little family. but you can’t deny the flutter in your stomach when she smiles at you, the blush that creeps into your cheeks when you tend to her wounds, just another excuse to touch her.

tuesday 7:13am

yesterday, i helped vi dye her hair black. god, it was a mess! got dye all over the floor and i swear my bathroom hasn’t smelled the same since… it was fun, though. it felt very… i don’t know. domestic. she got dye on her nose and i rubbed it off. why’s she so cute? you know what, i’m gonna go walk dog now. clear my head. hopefully clear those thoughts, too.

friday 9:40am

why am i up so late, you may ask? because last night vi was showering at 1 freaking am. either way, the sound woke me up and i had trouble falling back asleep. even though i bought her her own body wash—one that smells a bit more, i dunno, manly—she’s still using mine. i don’t know what to make of that. it’s a waste of money, that’s for sure.

saturday 8:46am

we kissed! oh my god, it was wonderful. she came home one night all bruised (as per usual. it’s starting to bug me, tbh) and i was just putting some ointment on her cheek and… and she kissed me. just leaned forward and did it.

diary, i think i’m in love.

also, unrelated, but we started sleeping in the same bed. or related?

───────────────୨ৎ─────────────

vi thinks she might be happier than she’s ever been. happier than she was with caitlyn. happier than she was when her life’s mission was reuniting with jinx. much happier than she was fighting with no reason to win. now she fights her hardest every night because she doesn’t want you to worry, doesn’t want you to think she can’t hold her own. god, she’s so pretty. it’s become a reoccurring thought in her mind. from when you wake up in her arms, hair messy and eyes blurry with sleep, to when you’re sitting at your desk with paint on your fingers, too focused to notice vi staring. you're pretty when you’re smiling, when you’re tending to her wounds, when you’re fast asleep beside her; she’s more content than she’s felt in a long, long time

vi’s so in love.

───────────────୨ৎ───────────────

“you’re late.” your voice comes out harder than you want it to. more edged. but you can’t help it; vi’s been less punctual lately, coming home late into the night with bruises and scratches all over her skin. even your kisses don’t help as much as they used to. “i’m sorry, princess.” vi closes the door behind her, reaching for you as you stand, arms wrapped around yourself, next to the door she’d just entered through. you pull away. “you always say that. but when’re you gonna stop?” you look up, arms uncrossing, a new fire in your voice. “when’re you gonna leave that shithole and get a real job? stop wasting your potential in stupid little fights?” vi falters. for the most part, you were a calm person. but this was a side of you even she was unfamiliar with. colder. “s-stupid fights? those stupid fights make us money!” so she reverts to the only defense she knows—anger. “much more money than your drawings ever made us.” “i thought you—i thought you liked my art.” your face says it all. vi knows she fucked up. “wait, princess, I didn’t mean it like that—“ “whatever. i don’t want to talk to you right now.” you swat away vi’s extended hand, storming into the bathroom and locking the door.

vi waits for you to come out. you don’t.

it’s late, 3 in the morning, you’d guess, when you come out. your eyes are red and puffy from crying, and though you know vi’s likely mirror yours you can’t bring yourself to care. or maybe you are trying to pretend you don’t. vi’s sleeping on the couch, a fact that pains your heart—your traitorous heart which you quickly scold—and the bed feels cold to the touch without her beside you.

when vi wakes, you’re still asleep. she wants to climb into bed with you, wrap you in her arms and rock you back and forth until everything’s okay again, but she knows she shouldn’t. she simply watches the steady rhythm of your breathing, trying to time hers with yours. she does this until she has to go back to the ring.

vi being gone when you wake is in instant reminder of your anger towards her. your first thought is that she’s gone. gone for good. and then you remember that’s not how it works. you remember, despite everything, she’s not your ex and you’re not caitlyn. though you curse your words, you have to admit their sentiment was true, even if they were expressed incorrectly: vi’s job does stress you out. you thought once you gave her a place to stay she’d find her place in the world. but she wouldn’t leave that filthy fight ring despite how much you pleaded with her to please be sensible. it’s not that you don’t trust her, as she’d accused you of when you first brought the topic up. it’s that you don’t trust yourself without her.

so you go to the bar. the bar where you and vi first met. the bar where you invited her over. and once she arrived at your house, she never really left. you, once again, regret accepting a mystery drink, and as you stumble into the bathroom, banging on the door, you get a sense of deja vu. the nauseous feeling in your stomach. the bright—too-bright—lights, the person standing in front of you as they open the door.

“princess? princess, please don’t go.” vi grabs your hand as if she expects you to run away from her. instead, do the next best thing: you vomit.

───────────────୨ৎ───────────────

“well, that’s a… full circle moment right there,” vi jokes as you scrub the sick off of her assaulted shirt in your kitchen sink. she sits at the table. her voice becoming quiet when you’re unresponsive. “hey, princess, could we please make up?” you take pity on her. your gaze feels like the first sign of spring at the end of winter. “vi, i was serious. i don’t like you fighting there. i don’t like you fighting, period. and i get it—i get that it’s a part of your identity. i don’t want to take that from you. i just—i just don’t want you to be taken from me.” vi stands up before she herself registers it, in two strides wrapping you in her arms. vi inhales, as if ready to make a big speech. “i love you. and i get that, much like part of loving me is loving how i fight, part of loving you is loving how much you care. so we can compromise, yeah? i’ve been thinking, i mean, i’ve actually been thinking of this for a while now, that i could start my own academy. teach people to fight. a teacher, not a fighter.” you look up into her eyes. “really? you’d do that? you’d sacrifice that for me?” vi tousles your hair. “it’s not sacrifice. it’s love.”

“oh, i’m so kissing you after i brush my teeth.”

epilogue──

“hey, v?” you readjust your head on her chest so you can look up at her, your bodies lost in sheets and bathed in morning light from the window. vi tangles her fingers with yours, absentmindedly rubbing your smooth knuckles with her calloused thumb. “what’s up, princess?” “you ever think about getting hitched?” vi sits up instantly, you grumbling as you fight to stay on her body. “what, like, married?” “yeah,” you say, your voice more nervous now. “you asking me to marry you, princess?” vi wraps her arms around you, planting kisses all over your face, messy and wet and so full of love. “haha, stop!” you protest, your face scrunching in a smile as you pull away, breathless and giggling, nestling your head into the crook of her neck. “your stupid hair’s tickling me.” you sigh, content. “hey, don’t speak that way to your wife.”

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© 2025 thursdaysgrrl don't steal my work please !! (not that anyone would care enough to but js saying)

[luvmailing]

mean when i'm nervous.

「 tws + notes: no tws, unedited as BAWLS, dc writer newbie but im very enthusiastic abt the comics and shows and movies, dog metaphor but insane and unsubtle, explicitly vigilante!reader in dick grayson’s part, dramatic asf but not really angst 」

「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic <3 」

↳ ft. bruce wayne, clark kent, richard "dick" grayson, and john constantine

author's note: so. we all know what my favourite thing right now is (⌒_⌒;) i still adore everything i used to write for,,, but i’ve been on my comic motives recently (*ﾟｰﾟ*) ! reading dc mostly but spider-noir and deadpool have been picked up along the way!!! um. anyways. if i get comfy enough, i might do more dc stuff but i get that this isn't my exact audience on this blog— sorry my loves (´＿｀。) </3 might write a part two cuz i love jason. and booster gold. and like every single one of them (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) halfway through writing this i realized everything feels very literal, so i feel the need to mention that this is not dog hybrid reader stuff but if u fw that u can imagine it that way

perhaps the habit of burning bridges you’re actively crossing isn’t a good idea. and you’re not an idiot, not in the slightest— but even if you were, everyone knows that needless self destruction when developing relationships is counterproductive.

you strike the match anyways, like it’s just a force of habit. another instinct.

if you spent life knowing that the hand only beats. why would you expect it to do anything else when it’s lowered towards you?

you learn to keep your hopes down, ears alert, and teeth sharp. you learn to get used to the taste of blood. to make things messy and complicated, and to end things when they need to be ended, because god knows it’s only self preservation when you do it.

you learn that the only way to survive is to bite— to hurt before something hurts you.

and one day, an unfamiliar hand that extends towards you decides to feed instead.

why do you still bare your teeth?

▸ BRUCE is unsure why he sticks around. he’s understanding, but also reasonably frustrated with your antics. it doesn’t evade him that they stem from something deeply rooted in your past— but he doesn’t know what to do about it. if there is anything to do.

at his core, he's a detective. he's got an eye for digging into strange pasts and a knack for knowing things he isn't supposed to. but in spite of his paranoia and hunger to know, bruce doesn't pry too much. he can do research on his own, without you ever having to realize.

you’re self-sufficient, he’ll give you that. you’re unsure sometimes of whether he’s proud that you can take care of yourself or irritated that you consistently insist on doing so. he’s unsure too. not like he lets you know.

it’s a mutual understanding the two of you share— he stays, you bite. yet bruce, unsurprisingly, doesn’t mind being bitten. he’d hope that the reason he’s sticking around is for the selfless reason of making sure you’re alright. though, the reality is, you’ve grown on him, whether you realize or not.

bruce has always been fond of strays.

▸ CLARK is nothing but patient. and that scares you beyond reason.

he sees the way you bare your teeth whenever someone gets too close for comfort to you. he knows when to back away, when to speak, when not to— he’s always attempting to never make you feel backed into a corner.

somehow, it makes you more anxious seeing just how much he understands about you. he knows just how to coax you out of the corner of your cage, how to bring you in closer, and it almost, almost convinces you to let your guard down.

the thought of that is terrifying.

you try barking, you try biting— and none of it works. clark doesn’t coddle you when you’re wrong— but he’s absolutely nothing but gentle. patient and understanding, sometimes you wonder how a man of steel can be so soft for someone like you.

▸ DICK isn’t dumb. it’s fairly easy for him to put two and two together. quickly, he figures out what he’s dealing with when he encounters you.

his conversations with you are never without a note of levity— a deliberate action on his end, you’re certain. he knows, you know, and because of it, everything feels oddly tense around him, even with the attempts to banter.

it’s too late to run. his observant gaze has caught a glimpse of you through your one way glass, and he’s chosen to meet your eyes with a smile. there's a sense of foreboding that gnaws at your gut, anxiously anticipating what might be lurking under that grin of his.

on his end, there are no malicious intentions. he doesn’t really have ulterior motives when it comes to you.

most times, he chooses to defend you and be the one standing at your side when no one else does. you don't understand why he insists on offering you friendship when all you do is pull away.

after a long night of patrolling the streets of gotham, you find the two of you leaning on the railing of a rooftop side by side. your eyes are on this cityscape of gotham. his are on you.

“you keep on insisting i’m not as bad as i seem,” you mutter under your breath.

late nights make for loose lips. he’s pleasantly surprised to hear you continue the thought instead of attempting to take it back.

“do you just hate being right?” you snort, allowing your gaze to flit over to him just for a second.

"no." dick smiles, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “i think you just hate the fact that i could be.”

▸ you tried not to bother with CONSTANTINE. the day the two of you met, you didn’t even introduce yourself.

john constantine’s presence alone reeks of trouble, as acrid and suffocating as the cigarette smoke that clings to his tan trenchcoat. you are attuned to things like that. he notices.

one thing you actually enjoy about him? he doesn’t chase. he’s a nosy one, for certain, sticking his nose into places no one in their right mind would— but for the most part, he steers clear of yours. initially, you think it’s because your urge to be left alone by him is so prevalent that he’s just chosen to heed the warning and not approach when unwanted.

but he’s not a man known for abiding by rules. he’s much more curious with you than you notice or prefer. in a way, your distance has made you more myth than man, more tale than tangible— you are a rumor passed through whispers between lips, a silent shadow lurking in the corner of the room… and he loves a good mystery.

“c’mon. you're actin’ like ‘m gonna bite your head off, luv,” he chuckles, lighting up the cigarette between his fingers.

i'd probably be the one doing that if i got any closer. you keep that thought in your head, standing with a gap between the two of you as always.

he doesn't miss how you avoid looking into his eyes like his gaze could murder, instead, focusing your gaze on the cherry of the cig, burning bright red.

“not much for a wee natter, hm?”

the quick shake of your head only makes his smirk grow. you could just walk away… so why exactly were you sticking around?

“fine by me. quiet company’s welcome.” that’s a sentence he’d probably never say to anyone else. in a strange way, he feels like he knows you well enough to be comfortable with the words that hang in the air.

it’s weird. you’re completely unknown, and yet, an irrational part of his mind keeps nagging at him to look just a little closer at you. sometimes, when he listens to it, he catches a glimpse of something silent in your eyes— an all too familiar pain of a person who can’t help but hurt the things that they cling onto.

so that’s why you’re keen on keeping everyone at arms length. it almost makes him laugh to think how similar the two of you are, plain as day, and yet unnoticed by you— a person who won’t even meet his eyes.

— reblogs always appreciated!