#and they stare at him dead in the eye for five minutes before seizing him for an EMERGENCY KOHLII CRASH COURSE

[randomwriteronline]

You know its true that out of the four stone toa we know Onewa is the exception due to being An Asshat but i think we could focus more on Pouks being the white sheep of a flock of goats. Hes the only one of them who was like, formally employed and working an actual job as a toa. His siblings are just his coworkers. I dont think he knows a sport. He was so glad Pohatu and Hewkii were nothing like Onewa for all of twelve seconds before dreadfully discovering that they are exactly like Onewa, just in previously unimaginable ways, such as the batshit circumstances of their toahood and accidentally kicking a ball into each others face at mach speeds for fun

[seijorhi]

The Hand That Feeds

Commission for the lovely @tink2kagome I hope you like it bby! <;33 Oikawa Tooru x female reader x Iwaizumi Hajime w.c 5.3k tw: a/b/o, non/extreme dub-con, smut, murder/minor character death, human trafficking, blood, yandere vibes

Measured footsteps echo across the concrete floor of the old, decommissioned factory. Iwaizumi Hajime, features set in a scowl, eyes the line of men forced to their knees before him. 

Five in total; thin, filthy, their faces bruised and bloodied courtesy of the soldiers standing at their backs, the last alone dares to meet his eye. Iwaizumi figures him for the leader, the oldest of the bunch by at least a decade.

Walking forward, he comes to a stop before him and drops into a low crouch.

The acrid stench of Beta fear permeates the air, blocking out almost all else. Yet the man doesn’t break the stare, even as his hands begin to tremble.

“I’ll ask only once,” Iwaizumi says, his voice cold and clipped. Impatient. “Where’s the Omega?”

The man swallows. Licks his lips nervously. “Gone. We lost her during the transport, she escaped. Didn’t– she didn’t understand that we were trying to help her.”

Iwa sighs, the muscle in his jaw tightening. 

He doesn’t have time for this. In a single, ruthless motion, he whips his gun from its holster by his thigh and pulls the trigger.

The Beta, a bullet between his eyes, slumps to the floor – dead before he hits the ground. 

He turns his attention to the next in line, quaking now as Iwaizumi steps in front of him and firmly digs the barrel of his gun against his forehead. “That Omega’s at least six hours into heat. She isn’t running anywhere.”

And true to his word, Iwa doesn’t ask again. 

“She’s long go–” 

Another ringing shot. Another dead body – blood and brain matter splattered across the concrete floor and the unflinching soldier stood behind him.

He has his orders from above; capture and retrieval first and foremost, but they’ll want captives to interrogate and make an example of. This wasn’t a simple snatch and grab, the plan too sophisticated, too many working parts to be solely the efforts of these five. Other Omegas are at risk, and the Commission cannot allow that. 

Iwaizumi has his orders, yes. 

He also has his priorities. 

The third does not sob when the muzzle of Iwa’s gun turns on him. Staring resolutely at the dusty floor, his shoulders rise and fall with a resigned sense of finality. “We’re dead men anyway.”

Under other circumstances, Iwa might be tempted to find the defiance in the face of death almost admirable. As it stands, though–

He lowers his pistol, fires it again. This time, the shot ripping through the Beta’s thigh rather than his head.

He screams, howling in agony as the bullet hits bone, and it’s purely due to the soldier seizing him by the shoulders that he’s kept upright at all. 

“Stop! Please–”

The cry doesn’t come from the injured Beta. Iwa’s head snaps to see the last in the line stumbling to his feet, flinching when the soldiers instinctively turn, guns trained on the perceived threat. Only by the fingers he lifts do they stay their hands. 

“They’re lying. I’ll… I’ll take you to her if you promise you won’t kill them,” he stutters, shaking off the hand that desperately tries to pull him back down. “No more killing, please.”

He’s short, no older than nineteen or so, his frame lithe in a way that borders on soft, and it takes a minute for Iwa to notice that the scent that surrounds him isn’t quite right. 

Not a Beta, as he’d first assumed. An Omega on scent blockers. His eyes narrow, but he agrees with a short jerk of his chin, following with two of his men as the teen leads them down into the maze-like complex.

Groups like these operate under the assumption that they’re helping the Omegas they steal. That a life in fucking squallor, hungry and fighting for scraps, defenceless against any Alpha who might look their way is better than being trapped under the Commission’s thumb. 

They think themselves white knights. Liberators. 

That hypocrisy begins to fall apart the moment they stop in front of a locked, windowless room. 

“I-I don’t have the key, I’m sorry,” the kid mutters, eyes flickering between Iwa and the soldiers, looking half terrified that they’ll lash out and hurt him over the revelation. “The others hid it when they knew you were closing in.”

Iwaizumi’s patience runs thin. 

“Move,” he growls, barely pausing long enough for one of his men to tug the nervous Omega out of the way before using his full bodyweight to kick at the door. The metal groans loudly in response. Gritting his teeth, the vein in his temple jumping, Iwaizumi kicks out a second time.

This time, the lock splinters, the door ripping from its hinges under the force of the blow. The very moment the door gives way, he’s hit by the smell of an Omega in heat. Simmering and heady, sweet and so fucking tempting, it washes over him in a heavenly wave that’d drive lesser Alphas to their knees.

His pupils dilate, heart spiking as the mouthwatering aroma curls around his throat like a noose, overwhelming his senses. Behind his lips, his teeth itch to sink into supple flesh, to mark. Claim.

Even his soldiers stiffen, the sharp intake of air behind him evidence that they’re not as unaffected as they’re trained to be. 

Still, nothing can prepare him for the sight that awaits him when he finally crosses the threshold.

The room is barren save for an old, worn out mattress, a few blankets and an IV hooked up to your shivering, half clothed form. And it’s rage that he feels, pulsing hotly through his veins as your eyes struggle to open, a pained noise leaving your lips. 

“It’s only a mild sedative, we– we had to, her heat–”

But Iwa’s beyond listening. Beyond caring. They’ve taken you. Touched you. Drugged you. 

Dropping to a knee beside you, olive eyes are quick to assess your condition. 

There’s an Omega’s heat and then there’s this. 

Your skin’s pallid, sweat slicked, yet it burns beneath his fingertips when they brush along your neck to check your thready pulse. Drifting between consciousness, you whimper like a kicked puppy in shallow, trembling breaths – the noise ripping at the fraying threads of his self control.

“Take the Omega,” he snaps, tugging out the IV in your arm with as much gentleness as he can manage. “Kill the others.”

You flinch, crying out incoherently when he scoops you up, cradling you to his chest. That lovely, Omega scent wrapping around him like a cocoon. It calms the roaring beast that lurks in his blood somewhat, and Iwa cannot resist dropping his nose to the crown of your head and inhaling deeply, relishing in it.

Home, he thinks, clutching you tighter against him. 

—

They talk about you as if you don’t exist.

Your behaviour, any outbursts. How many days it is until your next heat, that’s all they truly care about. Not you, and certainly not your happiness.

Physically speaking, you’re the healthiest you’ve ever been. Years have passed since the days of starving, of having to hide yourself like a stowaway and steal what you could in order to survive. 

Your hands are no longer calloused and rough, nor your fingernails brittle. Your hair shines and bounces with movement. Even your skin carries a healthy glow. 

Not for your own sake, of course. Nobody wants a sickly, underfed Omega. 

Even with the scars of silvery bite marks on your neck, you still carry some use. Sure, the Commission can’t sell you off to the highest bidder to be mated, they won’t breed you, but the rights to an Omega – even for a few hours – is still a prize worth fighting for, and the Commission knows how to leverage that all too well. 

The soldiers, the higher ups, anyone whose pockets run as deep as their generosity can earn the privilege of fucking an Omega in heat. Out of it, too. 

There’s a new Doctor today, a tall, wiry man with glasses and dispassionate, hazel eyes. Bare as the day you were born, you stand stiff as a rod whilst he appraises you, making notes on his clipboard, occasionally telling you to turn this way or that. 

In the years that you’ve been here, you’ve lost count of how many people have seen you naked, yet under his piercing, analytical gaze, your skin crawls. It’s an effort not to shrink away when he touches you, not to cover yourself with your arms to preserve what little dignity you have left. 

When he notices the smattering of bruises along your throat, the corners of the Doctor’s lips twitch downwards, and he shoots your handler a raised eyebrow. 

She shrugs, the back of her knuckle trailing slowly down your cheek, “The Captain was a touch overeager. He has been duly reprimanded.”

He hums, a short, dissatisfied noise, but makes no other comment. Bruises will heal, after all. 

You’re not one of the prized ones anyway.

—

He’s been watching you for weeks now.

No doubt you think yourself quite the adept little thief, stealing away after the lights of the factory shut off and the last whistle blows. But you’re not as stealthy as you think, and Oikawa would know the scent of an Omega anywhere.

Knows yours now by heart, etched into his very being. 

It becomes somewhat of a game between you two. Whatever he can spare, he’ll leave as a gift, lying in wait for you to crawl out from your secret hidey-hole and steal it away. Mostly it’s rations, sometimes some clothes or a spare blanket. Once, after he’d noticed you creeping around in bare feet mid-winter, a pair of socks. 

(Threadbare and scratchy, but better than nothing, no?) 

Not every night, even you’d get suspicious then, but enough that you keep cautiously coming back. 

And if Alphas are hunters by nature, Omegas are most certainly prey. Watching you stay low, every footfall so carefully placed as you glance furtively around for your mysterious benefactor – or anyone else who might stumble across you – serves as an endless source of entertainment for the man. 

You really are too cute when you think you’re being sneaky. 

“She’s going to get caught,” Iwaizumi mutters beside him one night, having followed him up to the rafters.

The implication of his statement isn’t lost on the brunet. Omegas are rare enough as it is, Omegas running free from the Commission are practically unheard of. Did you slip from their grasp, he wonders, or run off before they ever had a chance to test you in the first place? How long have you been out here, fending for yourself?

“You know what she is,” he continues when Oikawa remains silent. “You keep encouraging her to come back like this and you know what’ll happen.”

Of course, Iwa might just be pissed because this time it was half of his rations he’d left for their lovely little Omega friend. 

Oikawa glances towards him, mouth curling into a knowing smirk, “Would you rather we gave her nothing? You know what she is, Iwa,” he says, parroting his words back at him. “Are we supposed to turn our backs on a poor, defenceless, unmated Omega? Let her starve?”

The glower he receives is answer enough. 

Satisfied, Oikawa returns to his vigil, following you with rapt attention as you spy the hidden food, your face brightening in a moment of sheer, unguarded relief. The rations are hardly more than bread, dried out protein and vegetables – a half portion at that – but you look at it as if it’s heaven on earth, taking a quick nibble of the bread before stuffing the remainder into the pockets of your coat. Oikawa’s coat once upon a time, before he’d left it for you to find. 

Pride thrums through his veins, that baser part of himself preening at the sight. An Alpha’s job is to provide for his Omega, is it not?

“You can’t keep doing this,” Iwa grunts out eventually. “She’s going to get caught one way or the other, either by security, the floor managers, or some other Alpha sniffing after her.”

And there’s enough of an edge in his tone that Oikawa shoots him a curious look, only to find that his attention’s back to being wholly fixed upon you, darting for the exit now that your boon is safely stashed away. 

“Oh?” he quirks an eyebrow, wicked delight tugging at his lips. “And what are you suggesting then?”

You might be light on your feet, nimble and quick, but you’re no match for two Alphas in their prime. 

The deal they propose is simple enough; they’ll give you food, a warm place to sleep, supplies, and in return you won’t run. They won’t hurt you, won’t so much as touch you – at least, not in the way that you’re afraid of – but there’ll be no more night time raids. No more running around on your own. 

They’ll keep you hidden from other Alphas and the Commission. Safe, so long as you stay put and do what they tell you. 

And it’s so abundantly clear from the set of your jaw, the wariness in your eyes as they dart between the pair that you don’t trust either one of them. 

Lucky for them, whether you trust them or not is irrelevant. You’re in no position to bite the hand that feeds.

—

The plan had always been to wait for your first heat.

Slowly work to build your trust, to show you that you’d find no better Alphas to take care of you. By the time it swung around, you’d either offer yourself to them willingly, or they’d wait until your heat truly took ahold of you, and you begged for their knots. 

Iwaizumi could kid himself and say that it was for practicality’s sake. The other workers might not have noticed your scent before, the faint traces that lingered in the room after your nightly break-ins, but having an Omega in such close quarters is a different story.

Their clothes carry notes of warm honey and spice, it seeps from behind the locked door of their room. The others have noticed, their curiosity kept at bay only due to the two Alphas who guard you zealously. 

Violently, in one case.

When your heat sets in, though, and that inviting scent of yours blossoms and spreads throughout the complex, he and Oikawa won’t have a choice but to fight off any who come seeking you out. And they will come, hungry and driven rabid with want. Desperate to sink their cocks into a warm, needy Omega. 

And while the higher ups usually pay little attention to what they do beyond the hours they slave away on the factory floor, a brawl like that certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed. A claiming bite would keep anyone from separating you, even if you were discovered.

Mating you, claiming you before any of that happens is simply pragmatic, but it’d be a lie to say that was the sole reason behind their decision, or even the driving one.

It sings through his blood, the call of like to like. 

There’s a reason Oikawa crawls into the bunk behind you after you’ve fallen asleep to hold you against him, why Iwaizumi himself cannot truly breathe easy until he has you in his sights, safe and sound and tucked away from anyone who’d try to take you from them.

You’re their Omega. 

They planned to wait, to ease you into the bond as gently as they could, but the day the Commission comes looking for you that choice is taken out of their hands. 

“She’s asleep,” Oikawa says, already taking his place on the bed beside you, carefully shifting you into his lap – gazing at you with such blatant adoration that Iwaizumi feels his chest tighten in response. “We’ll do it now. She’ll understand.”

You don’t, and the Commission rips you from them regardless.

—

“If I may, sir?” the woman, whose name Oikawa’s already forgotten, interrupts his perusal of the contract. 

From the crisp, knee length pencil skirt and matching jacket to the slicked back ponytail, there’s not so much as a hair out of place in her appearance. Pretty and bland, a carbon fucking copy of the women the Commission has employed at their various Omega compounds. Not Alpha enough to command any real respect, and lacking in the natural allure of an Omega, she’s merely a shadow of what the Commission can truly offer. 

Oikawa smiles, a genial thing, and sets down his fountain tip pen, gesturing for her to continue. “Of course,” he replies, “speak your mind.”

The woman nods. Swallows, as she carefully mulls over how best to phrase her concern. “I don’t mean to overstep, or to question your… choice in the matter. It’s just that, well, you understand that the Omega you’ve selected has already been mated? She won’t be able to take another’s bite.”

He understands her concern. Truly, he does. 

At his rank, with the importance his name now carries, Oikawa could have his pick, he needn’t be limited to choosing an Omega already bound to another. He could have his own; a fresh faced, untouched jewel, his for the taking.

His smile sharpens. “I’m aware.”

The woman blinks, clearly taken aback by his answer. Quick to remember herself, though, she snaps her mouth shut and offers another gracious nod. “Of course, sir. My apologies. If you’re satisfied then with the contract, we can have her ready and delivered first thing tomorrow.”

He’s waited years for this. Rose from less than nothing to claw his way up the ranks of the Commission by any means necessary, all for the sake of hunting down his lost– stolen Omega. 

He can wait ‘til morning. 

—

Consciousness drifts just out of reach.

There are voices speaking, but it’s like you’re underwater, the words garbled and thick, lost to the ocean that keep you. A pleasant warmth flutters over your skin, dancing along your arms, your cheek, the curve of your throat. As nice as it is, it pales in comparison to the kindling in your blood, the warm, pulsing ache that settles into your core and grows and grows with each passing moment. 

Is it seconds, or hours? 

Thinking hurts, easier just to sleep. Rest, in that lovely, soothing warmth.

… 

……… No. 

No, it’s hotter now. Uncomfortable. You squirm, a low, breathy whine slipping from parted lips, and there’s that sensation again, that feather-light caress at your jaw. 

“You coming back to us, baby?” The voice is deep and rough. You recognize it, though you can’t pull the threads together to remember from where. It stokes the flames inside of you, the fire licking hotter, searing–

Or maybe that’s the scent that accompanies it, deep and rich, like home. Smells so good, you wanna chase after it, bury yourself in it and let it lull you back to sleep. 

The ache between your legs worsens, harder now to ignore. You can sleep when it stops hurting. 

Another whimper, and a soft, pretty laugh sounds on your other side. “Poor thing. It hurts, doesn’t it?” A new voice, this time, sparking that same vague, frustrating sense of familiarity. 

Your eyelids are too heavy to lift, but you manage a shallow nod. 

The voice coos, “Let us take care of you. You want that, don’t you, Omega?”

“Oikawa–” the first cuts in, and your body jostles, the surface you’re lying on – a bed, maybe? Soft and silky, you might actually enjoy the feel of it if every cell in your body wasn’t screaming at you with a desperate, aching want – displaced under a new weight. 

“You need your mates to make you feel better.” It doesn’t sound like a question, yet you find yourself nodding anyway, biting down on your lip to stifle another pained cry. “Good girl, now open your eyes for me.”

Good girl. The praise makes you shiver. It’s an effort, forcing your lids to comply, but eventually you manage. Your vision swims, fuzzy and out of focus, and it takes a few blinks for clarity to settle in.

Gazing down at you from above, you’re met with a familiar, toothy grin. 

Oikawa Tooru. 

And despite the aching, gnawing need inside of you, the fire that burns, seething through your blood, urging you to submit and beg for the Alpha – your mate – to ease your suffering, you still have enough lucidity to recognize the panic that lances at your heart.

“No,” the word slips from your tongue. Your limbs aren’t strong enough to cooperate when you try to scramble away from him, not that there’s any space between you and the headboard to allow for that.

“… When?” your voice is hoarse. Hollow. It’s not that you weren’t aware that the Commission was in the business of selling off prime Omegas to the highest bidder, merely that you never thought it was something that might happen to you.

You were used goods. Useful enough as stress relief, a warm hole to fuck after a long, tiring day, but any Alpha worth their salt wants an Omega they can claim and conquer for their own. The ugly, twin scars on either side of your neck make that an impossibility. 

“Tomorrow,” the Doctor replies bluntly. “Once I clear you medically, you’ll return to your room for the night, and in the morning they’ll transfer you.”

Sitting on the edge of the sheet lined examination table, staring at nothing in particular your mind slowly processes the information. “Why are you telling me this?” 

He’s not usually so forthright, but perhaps that has something to do with the mysterious absence of your handler tonight.

He doesn’t hold you in suspense, shrugging easily. “Because I’m offering you a choice. A way out, if you want it.”

“Oh.” A heavy silence settles between you. Then, swallowing, you ask, “Do… do you know who–” 

Why that’s the first question you have, why it even matters when your freedom’s just been dangled in front of you like a carrot, you can’t say. Only that it does.

And if the Doctor finds it strange, he gives no outward indication. “My understanding is that you’re to be gifted to a young General in the First Army. Iwaizumi Hajime, I believe.”

“No?” he parrots back, settling back on the thighs that straddle you to shrug off his shirt, revealing the taut, golden planes of his chest. He’s so much bigger now than he used to be, muscles where there used to be only skin and bones. 

Years playing the Commission’s lap dog have treated him well, you think bitterly. 

“No, it doesn’t hurt, or no, you don’t want your mates to help you?”

He trails a possessive hand from your throat down the valley of your breasts, coming to a stop just above your navel. And try as you might to hold it back, a keening whine escapes you, the skin beneath his touch igniting like liquid fire.

At the apex of your thighs, thick, viscous slick begins to pool.

More, the Omega within you begs, more. 

“Are you sure?” Oikawa croons, nostrils flaring as your shameful little secret makes itself known. 

“Enough.” 

Your attention darts to your left, where you find your other captor – mate, your subconscious supplies, your gut clenching at the thought – closing in, impatience written across his features. 

Impatience edged with hunger, as olive eyes roam greedily over the bare flesh on display before him. “Enough teasing. I’m the one who brought her home.”

He says it like it’s supposed to mean something. And perhaps it does, because Oikawa sighs, bending down to nip at your mating gland, chuckling lightly when you shiver and whine beneath him. Nevertheless, he lifts himself off of you, settling on the other side of the bed with a half hearted mutter of “Killjoy,” to make room for the stockier Alpha to take his place.

And your heart stutters in your chest when Iwaizumi licks his lips and takes a knee upon the bed. Already, you can see the tenting in his pants, evidence of his own rising need as he coaxes your chin up, forces you to meet that simmering, predatory stare. 

“I killed for you today, little Omega,” he says, neither a condemnation nor a brag. Merely a statement of fact. 

He’d done so before, back in the days before their teeth had bloodied your neck and shackled you to them. He’d looked at you much the same, that day. Eyes too dark, frightening in their intensity.

You should’ve run back then. 

You should’ve run the day Oikawa’s hand caught at your wrist, and you learned that nothing – not even the food you stole to abate the gnawing, endless hunger – ever came for free.

And yet you’re near crippled by the pang of shameless need that surges when large hands take you by the waist, rolling you over and shifting you onto all fours. 

Alpha, Alpha, Alpha, your body sings as he grips your hips, the fabric of his pants the sole barrier between his quickly hardening cock and your wet, needy cunt.

His palms stroke at heated skin. “You’re gonna be good for us, Omega.”

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut to stem the tears that well up and blur your vision. “N-no,” you gasp, biting down on the shuddering whine that follows a moment later when Iwa ruts his hips against your pussy, completely unbothered about the traitorous slick that leaves a wet patch on the front of his uniform. 

Not enough, you need more. Need to be filled, need to be fucked–

You’d crawl if you could, if your trembling arms would support you, if it weren’t for Oikawa, whose hands cup flushed, feverish cheeks, arcing your throat up.

The soft clinking of Iwaizumi unbuckling his belt sounds behind you. 

Oikawa’s thumb drags along your bottom lip, dipping into the wet heat of your mouth and holding you there. “Such a needy little thing.”

Iwa’s cock, thick and heavy, drags along your slicked entrance and your hips buck, chasing the friction. It’s all the warning you get.

Oikawa grins over your shoulder, the grip Iwa has on your hips tightens and in one snarling thrust, Iwaizumi slams his cock home. 

The pain is heaven, the stretch a bliss that wracks your body in waves, the lewd, breathy moan that leaves you near pornographic as your pussy tightens, squeezing deliciously around the sudden intrusion.

And Iwaizumi swears behind you. Curses absolute filth, blunt nails digging crescent shaped marks into your soft skin as he holds you there, grinds his cock deeper, lets you feel it throb and twitch insistently inside of you.

A perfect fit. 

You shudder, every last thought eddying from your mind. 

There’s nothing but you and the Alpha, your mate, and the drag of his dick along your sensitive inner walls as his hips draw back to plunge his fat, heavy cock into your sopping heat. Even Oikawa, fingers still in your mouth, watching with pupils blown wide and a flush creeping along his chest, fades into the background in the wake of quaking, wanton relief. 

At least until those fingers are replaced with the flushed, glistening tip of his own erection, smearing pre along your lips like a gloss until they part with a whining moan and he can force the head of it into your mouth.

Your tongue curls around it, lapping obediently at the salty skin. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, biting down on his bottom lip. “Such a good little Omega.”

Distantly, there’s a twisting in your stomach, a warning bell chiming in some vacated back corner of your mind, but it may as well be a whisper, lost to the cacophony of heady pleasure that pulls at the very seams of your soul.

You rock your hips backwards, desperate to meet the fervid thrusts as you do your best to suck and gag on the cock now steadily filling your mouth. Slick gushes from your cunt, coating Iwa’s dick, dripping from his balls to make a mess on the sheets below – adding to the lewd symphony of grunts and skin papping against skin.

You’re beyond shame, beyond sense. Nothing else matters but your mates and the delicious stretch of being split in two. 

And you’ve been fucked by Alphas before, used in and out of heats for glorified stress relief, but nothing like this. Your whole body hums, electrified and oversensitive. 

More, more, more, you wordlessly beg.

Your mates are nothing if not obliging. 

Stuffed to the brim – Iwa behind you, mindlessly pumping into your guts with an animal pace, and Oikawa, one hand fisting at your hair, using your mouth like his own little fucktoy to a chorus of choked, garbled moans and whimpers – the scent of your own arousal thickens in the air.

Pleasure burns and coils inside of you, every snap of their hips driving you closer to a brink you can’t comprehend. The world could burst into flames around you and you’d go down singing sweetly for them.

His grip holding you tight, Oikawa bullies his cock deeper, bucking now into your spasming throat while he coos and snarls in fervent delight. And as your eyes, glistening with unshed tears, glassy and glazed, stare imploringly up at him, Iwa hits that small bundle of nerves deep inside your pussy and you scream around his length.

Your pussy tightens, convulsing as pleasure explodes inside of you like a thousand fireworks going off at once. The bond between you pulls taut, and you feel them–

That rabid mania, the hot, ravenous pleasure that courses through their veins, urging them to take, take, take–

Your eyes roll back into your head, eyelashes fluttering, and you try to submit yourself entirely to ecstasy. 

It should be perfect, it should be enough, but the fire within you’s only been stoked, not extinguished and the unshed tears now fall in glistening streams as you sob in desperate want.

“Please,” you beg when Oikawa pulls back to allow you to breathe, “I need–”

You can’t force the words out. You don’t have to.

“He’s right,” Iwa growls, reaching around to rub rough circles at your throbbing clit, “You are a needy fuckin’ thing.”

He’s jackrabbiting into you now, driving his cock balls deep with each sloppy, frenzied thrust. Your mouth now free, Oikawa having momentarily decided to take a back seat and watch, there’s nothing to smother the whorish moans that fill the room as his knot swells, fucked as deep inside of you as it’ll go. 

At the mercy of his brutal pace, his fingers still coaxing at your clit, you’re helpless to do anything but collapse against the sheets and hold on for dear life, your cunt fluttering around him.

But it’s the soft, whimpering cry of his name that finally pushes him over the edge.

Stilling with a snarl, white hot ribbons of cum spurt from Iwa’s cock, coating your insides. Pulsing, as the waves of his end wash over you both.

Eventually his knot’ll swell down, enough for you two to separate, and that familiar, gnawing ache will set in once more, begging to be satisfied. 

You have another mate yet to cum, days of your heat remaining, but for now you let your mate pull you into sweaty, strong arms, let him nose at the mark he left on your neck and tell you what a good job you did, taking your Alpha’s knot.

For now, that’s enough.

[marrow-and-bone]

Fic: you don’t know how you got here (you just know you want out)

I wrote a fic for the @dtqkbigbang! What better way to inaugurate this Tumblr, yeah?

Title: you don’t know how you got here (you just know you want out) Rating: M Words: 16K Fandom: DSMP Ships: Quackity/Schlatt, Quackity/Wilbur, Quackity/Karl/Sapnap

Summary:

Like every other severed employee of DSMP Inc, Alex exists as two different people, who share the same body but know nothing about each other. Every morning when he goes to work, Alex becomes Quackity, and until now he’s been content to leave his other life a mystery.

But then late one night in a diner parking lot, Alex is confronted by a strange older man with mutton chop sideburns and alcohol on his breath, whom Alex can’t remember having met before but who clearly recognizes him, who calls him “Quackity” and tells him they’ve been lied to. And less than five minutes later, that man is lying dead on the ground.

Notes:

Mind the tags!!!!! This is a weird one!! Q is not having a great time!

I'm also planning to expand on it, so if you enjoy what's been posted so far, definitely keep an eye out for more. :3

Preview:

Alex needs to stop doing this. 

He’s gonna get a formal reprimand if he keeps missing his clock-in window at work — it’s the one part of his job description he’s really responsible for, and warnings keep turning up in his locker, polite anonymous form letters printed on plain white paper. And probably the worst that would ever happen is a ding to his end-of-year bonus, but Alex isn’t gonna risk it. He needs this job – this job in particular, with all its peculiarities, with all the ways it keeps him sane. He needs to be standing in the office elevator no later than nine fifteen tomorrow morning. He should already be in bed right now. 

Instead, he’s alone in a booth at McPuffy’s at one in the morning, nursing a bad-idea coffee with a notebook open in front of him, pretending like maybe he’ll work on his music if he stares at the blank page a little bit longer. He’s primed for a singer-songwriter era right now, after all — if being dumped by one fiance is great material, then two should be a goldmine. And maybe it would be, if he ever let himself think deeply about where he’s ended up — about the cold bed he’ll go home to tonight, or the empty apartment he’ll wake up in, or the rings that sit wrapped in a handkerchief at the bottom of his nightstand drawer. If he sat with how any or all of that felt, maybe he’d be the musician his mama always believed he could be.

But that’s not the choice he’s made, is it? That’s not the road he decided to take.

Funny, how people will judge you if you get blackout drunk every night as a way to cope…but if it’s your job that swallows your days, that strangles the part of you that feels much of anything at all, that’s fine. That’s capitalism, baby. That’s the system working as it should.

Alex doesn’t need to ask his waitress for the check. He gets the same thing every damn time, and he tips the same way — an empty coffee cup and a few crumbs of toast left on his plate, a ten dollar bill pinned under the salt shaker. There’s only one other customer, and he doesn’t look up as Alex takes his coat down from its hook. No one looks at Alex at all as he leaves, and he tells himself that’s how he likes it. 

He’s alone because he wants to be. He chose this for himself.

The night air is a shock — cold in a way that makes all the muscles of his back seize up. He’s already got his keys in hand, tucked into his coat pocket as he walks between pools of streetlight. 

Later, Alex won’t really remember what he was thinking about — probably hoping his car will start, or wondering if he should stop at the all-night pharmacy to buy more melatonin. He’s on auto-pilot, after all, normal thoughts for a normal night, variations on a bone-deep familiar theme.

Alex won’t remember what he was thinking, but he’ll remember the exact moment his night went off the rails; the pivot on which his life would turn.

Someone coughs, wet and painful-sounding and loud as a gunshot in the silent parking lot. There’s a rasp of gravel and asphalt under a heavy shoe.

Alex stops and turns toward the sound, his body humming with fresh adrenaline. He’s small and tired and alone. He calculates how long it would take him to reach his car; he slots his keys between his fingers, makeshift spikes on a fist he hopes he will not have to use.

A figure steps out from behind a pickup truck, stumbling forward into the light. A man, easily twice Alex’s size and at least a head taller – even stooped and shambling like this – leans heavily on the truck as he shuffles closer. He’s coatless and hatless, dressed only in a rumpled suit and a stained white cotton shirt, a cardinal necktie hanging loose around his neck, his dark hair and mutton chop sideburns heavily salted with gray. Even from here — at least ten feet away — Alex can smell that he’s been drinking. He reeks of whiskey and vomit.

Alex’s grip tightens on his keys. His voice is too high — too obviously scared — as he asks, “Can I help you with something?”

The man’s sharp bark of laughter dissolves into more coughing, and he wheezes as he catches his breath. There’s a smirking chuckle in his voice as he says, in a rough-throated rasp, “Jesus Christ, Quackity…you took your fucking time in there, you little shit.”

[splendidissimus]

November 1999 - "You're doing it to yourself."

((Content warning: sleep deprivation, hallucination, abusive parent))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober 2023: day 2: Delirium ))

Genre: whump

Romance level: negligible

Angst level: 5/5

Draco's headspace: depressed / passive

((words: ~1000))

------------------------------------

Draco had been staring through the same page of a book on his desk for some time, the words drifting around unsteadily while he didn't even try to comprehend them, when a familiar voice gnawed at the edge of his attention. He raised his head, blinking, trying to pinpoint it.

Just as he resigned himself to giving up and started to drop his head again, there it was, under the sound of the rustling book pages. He could swear he heard Theo calling his name. 

"Theo?" He pushed away from the desk and stood stiffly, rubbing his aching shoulder. He wasn't supposed to be here. It was months since Father made them part ways, and he would be furious if he caught him here. But coming back against explicit orders and implicit threats just because he wanted to sounded exactly like something Theo would do. Theo who had shown up at the gate calling to see him despite the Death Eaters in the house. Theo who bartered with him in public over kisses because it made him forget he was ill.

He didn't think he heard an answer, but he had to find him before someone else did and send him away where it was safe. 

Outside his door, he paused, listening, but didn't hear him again, so he went for the stairs, figuring he would be downstairs somewhere.

He didn't hear Theo again; he spent a while checking, but there wasn't any sign of him, and eventually he started to wonder what he had actually heard. 

It felt too exhausting to go back upstairs immediately, so he ended up staring out the bay window at the garden. There was a young peacock there, scratching at the edge of a flowerbed, shining white in the watery sunlight. He watched it for a while, not thinking anything, but vaguely relaxed. 

A shifting in the shadows caught his eye, and he was trying to focus on it when iit suddenly resolved into Nagini — striking out with lightning speed to seize his peacock. "No!" He hit the window like that could stop it. 

Then between one blink and the next it was gone. The peacock was looking up at the window in cautious alarm, but there was no snake. 

And of course there couldn't be, anyway. Nagini was dead, he'd seen the body and the head spread across the Hogwarts lawn. She was as dead as her master. He knew that. 

"What are you doing?" 

His shoulders tensed at his father's voice behind him. He wished he had a good answer. "I apologise," he said properly, turning around and looking toward his father's feet.

"That wasn't the question."

He stole a glance back toward the window. Still no undead snake. The peacock was ripping down a flower with its talons now, to try to get the fairy sitting on the top of it. "I thought I saw…" Nothing. He clenched his hands behind his back. "I think something's wrong." He dragged the words out past a mind that didn't want to say them, looking back at his father's face. "I keep seeing things that aren't possible." 

His father studied him. "Like what?" 

"I thought I saw Nagini going after the peacock. Or heard… somebody… in the house." 

"The snake is dead, and no one has been here."

"I know." 

His father came closer to look out the window, then looked him over, studying him for a long minute. "How long has it been since you slept?"

"Not that long," he said quietly, but his hard eyes demanded an answer. "I think Friday," he admitted, even more quietly.

"For Merlin's sake." His voice was sneering and his expression impatient. "If you haven't been to bed in five days, of course you're seeing things. You're not ill, you're doing it to yourself." 

Draco didn't respond. He didn't have any excuse. He looked into the middle distance, his father's words sinking in without resistance.

The lack of reaction seemed to be even more irritating. "Am I supposed to believe," he snapped, "that you need a nurse to tell you not just to eat, which you've obviously not been doing, but also to sleep now? You are a grown man. Even toddlers know to go to sleep when they're tired. Do you need to be told to use the lavatory too?"

He continued to stare impassively, until his father grabbed his jaw and lifted his face, forcing him to answer the rhetorical question. "No," he said, insides crawling with shame. 

"What a positively minimal accomplishment." He threw down his face. "Elf!"

Tolly appeared beside his foot, cringing a look up at him. "Master?"

"Until further notice, Draco's bedtime is ten o'clock. You will put him to sleep at precisely that time, regardless of where he is or what he's doing."

"Don't," Draco pleaded quietly. 

Finally getting a reaction gave his voice an edge of satisfaction. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, Master," the elf squeaked promptly. "Tolly will make sure Master Draco sleeps." 

"Good. Shall we have her feed you as well?"

"No." 

"No? Are you certain it isn't too much responsibility for you?"

"Please." 

That display of submission seemed to mollify him. His father didn't respond, but walked away with contempt dripping from his voice. "Grow up." 

Tolly vanished and swiftly spirited a tea tray into the window to try to make Draco feel better. 

Draco didn't move. He stood there in front of the window, staring at the floor, fighting off every physical reaction he wanted to do. He wanted to mess with his hair, grab his head, clench his fists — he carefully took all of it, all of the energy behind those urges, and pushed it down, down until it was buried and he didn't react at all.

[sabraeal]

The Only Adult in the Room, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Before there was a Mother-sized hole left in the halls of Father’s mansion-- or rather, before Father tried to fill it with That Woman-- Izana’s place had been by his knee. If Father’s associates had thought it odd for a small child to be sorting shapes in the corner of a board meeting, they had valued their own jobs too much to say so. He’d seen profiles from those days, business magazines speculating about what Kain Wisteria’s parenting meant for the board room, whether CEO would become the new ABCs. The sort of journalism that business loved to see if only because it humanized them to the masses, turning a soulless conglomerate into a household name overnight. Cute, but naive.

Perhaps they would have taken a different angle now, knowing how easily he’d been replaced. Or maybe they’d see it the way his father did: a removal of a private failure from the public eye; a cunning leap from a sinking ship of an investment. After all, what else could a son from a failed marriage be but a failure himself?

No matter what they think-- or what Father does-- it can’t erase what he learned. They may say Kain Wisteria is a shark in a suit, but oh, they’ll have to make up a new predator for the splash he’ll make when it’s time. Father may be cunning, but Izana could think circles around him before he left primary school.

It’s only too bad he can’t seem to show it. “Garak-san,” he says, the edges of her name worn from repetition. “We have been over this before. I am not, by law, an adult.”

“Oh come on.” Magnanimity should only be seen as a whim from a position of power, Father had told him, otherwise it’s simply a weakness for lesser minds to exploit. With the way Garak fixes one of her eyes on him, sizing him up like a barracuda does a tuna, Izana is loath to admit he might be right. “You know no one would mind.”

In several cases, some might actively prefer him. However, he knows better than to say so; the last thing Garak needs is to be encouraged. “The headmistress is not paying you to run your errands during work hours.”

Garak flaps her hand at him, as if such concerns were beneath her. “Your mother won’t mind. It’ll just be a minute anyway. I bet if you read a book, I’d be back before story time even ended.”

His breath hisses through his nose. “That’s not the--”

“’Ni-chan?” A tiny hand tugs on his trouser. The girls here might say he’s made of ice, but he melts under Zen’s wide-eyed stare. “Did you say you were gonna read a story?”

“Ah...” More eyes peek up, drawn away from their contributions to modern art and fixing on him. “It was Garak-san who said--”

“That’s right!” Father had laughed when Mother hired Garak-- what use is a drop out?-- but she knows how to seize an opportunity better than any shark in the Wisteria board room. “Izana-kun is going to read story.”

He stiffens. “I didn’t--”

Zen’s always been a particularly adorable child, but it’s the hope in those big eyes that arrests him. “Can it be Sir Panda?”

“Nah!” Obi squawks, tumbling over one of the plastic chairs to get to him. “I wanna read Sentai Squad! Can we? Can we?”

“I...”

He glances up; not for guidance-- he knows better than to expect any help from Garak, unless it’s help making trouble-- but some sort of support, another mind that is not consumed with Saturday Morning Cartoons--

Only to find the space Garak filled empty, and her apron hung up on the door. His only solace is that she at least took Ryuu with her. Hopefully on purpose.

“All right,” he sighs, glancing down at the two dead-weights clinging to his legs. “Get the cushions out.”

Wars were won and lost with simpler logistics than those employed to pull off story time. Generals might issue orders to thousands of men on the field, but all of them took direction better than five children under five.

“Kiki,” he manages, keeping his voice as even as he would with a member of his father’s C-suite. “We all sit on our own pillow.”

 Her eyebrows knit over the sharp line of her nose, her mouth making its mirror beneath it. An expression that would be menacing were Mitsuhide’s cheeks not churning through a dozen different color reds behind it. “You just said to find a cushion. This one is fine.”

“This one,” he says, so calm, “is a person.”

“I-I duwnt mind,” Mitsuhide mutters behind her, resembling a cherry more than a child with every word. “If she’s comfowtibble.”

With extreme patience, Izana drags his attention over her shoulder. “Comfortable. And that’s not the point, it’s--”

“Haki-nee-sama!”

It’s not that Izana’s heart skips; that would be...foolish. Absurd, even. He sees Arleon every day, the sweep of her hair as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Which is only to be expected when he spends six hours a day staring at the back of it.

In class, of course, not for any...personal reasons. He’s not stupid.

It’s only that he stands so quickly. A skip, a pound, a stutter-- all just marks of the work needed to compensate for the blood rushing to his head. Nothing to do with the way the school’s tartan stretches over the swell of her hips, or how the swoop of her side part always sees to fall right over her eye, begging to be pushed behind an ear.

“Arleon.” It’s instinct to meet her eyes, but they flutter dangerously, fixed on where Zen clutches to her knee. His gaze drops, caught on the smooth curve of her lips, the one spreading wide even as she stares, and that’s-- that’s even worse. “Can I help you?”

That smile shutters as quick as a house before a storm. She shifts, a dull rattle following her, that he realizes the she’s carrying something. A large something, considering how much translucent plastic dominates her arms.

“No.” Her chin lifts, like maybe if it gains a few more centimeters, she might be able to look down her nose at him the way she likes. “I was only here to look for, um--” her attention fixes to the wall behind him-- “Shidnote-kun.”

“Shidnote?” He stares, watching the way she squirms in the silence. Well, relative silence, considering how Obi is already showing off the new sentai moves from the last episode. “He’s at practice today.”

And quite frankly, I didn’t know you even knew his name, he doesn’t say, because it’s none of his business, not at all. It’s just...new information. Shidnote might not be in the advanced class with the two of them, but he is the sort of boy girls like to whisper about. There’s always a gaggle of them at the chain link fence when he plays, giggling when he’s up to bat. Arleon had just never seemed like one of them.

“Oh.” If anything, she seems relieved. “That’s too bad.”

They stand there for a long moment before he offers, “You could wait for him, if you wanted. He’ll be here to pick up his brother--” the clock is behind him-- “sometime soon.”

At least, so he hopes. Shidnote might like to play at being too cool to be seen with his littler brother, but there’s an apron with his name on it with a reason.

“Oh no, that’s fine.” For someone searching for Shidnote, Arleon isn’t too concerned about finding him. Instead her gaze floats to the floor, fixing on the few children still sitting on it. “Are you watching the children all by yourself? Where’s Gazelt-san?”

“Out.” It comes out too terse for casual, which is how he prefers to be seen with Arleon around. Comfortable even. In control. “We were just sitting down to story time.”

Her brows raise. “By yourself?”

Ah, that’s right. Arleon has definitely been here for one of these before. Tore up his favorite-- ah, a very nice set of her stockings fishing Shirayuki out of the bushes.

“Of course,” he informs her, lofty. “The children are very well behaved--” mostly-- “it’s not as if it’s an issue.”

Her mouth rounds, a perfect ‘o.’ “I wasn’t trying to say-- eek!”

“Whatcha got there?” Obi must have picked up some skills from his shows; one minute he’s standing in the middle of the circle, the next he’s pawing up Arleon’s leg, struggling to get a look at her container. “Is it a snack?”

“Obi!” Izana’s never approved of Shidnote’s method of concussive discipline, but he’s starting to see the appeal of it now. With one swooping movement, he pries the offender off her, depositing him safely on the floor. “Please show some decorum.”

“De-cor...?” Obi blinks up at her, wide and wild like a cat. “Oh are they decorated? Like cookies?”

“Cookies?” Zen rests his chin on her thigh, eyes practically sparkling. “Haki-nee-san, I like cookies.”

“Oh?” Her eyelashes flutter, dark against the smooth porcelain of her cheek, a similar curve to the one pulling at her lips. “Well, I did just make some in Home Ec club. I was going to bring them home, but I suppose if you all would like some...”

It’s a scramble then, toddler climbing over toddler to follow her to the play mat. She kneels, giggling as Zen and Obi trip each other up to get to her, sprawling on the carpet. Izana’s half afraid there will be tears until she says, “Let’s all sit nicely, shall we?”

Father always said that women were a civilizing presence; if the board ever got to squabbling so bad the table shook, he’d buzz one of his personal assistants in with a fresh pot of coffee and watch the room remember itself. He’d claimed it was the reason he hired them exclusively for the position; one Izana believed right up until he married the last one. It’d always struck him as a bit ridiculous anyway-- Mother might be calm and composed, but Garak existed as well, and, well, she was anything but.

So it’s with something akin to annoyance that he watches every one of his wayward little dependents take their seat around her with the sort of reverent awe usually saved for fish tanks.

Mitsuhide is the one to snuggle close, fitting his small thigh right next to hers like two pieces of very different sized puzzles. “Don’t wowwy,” he hums, patting her stocking with one chubby hand. “I’ll pwotect you. I wun let anyone grab anyfing or nuffing.”

As far as Izana’s been able to puzzle out in his few months here, Arleon is the nice girl of this school, the one boys dream about bringing home to their families and then coaxing into their bed. A pretty face with a nice smile with a body straight out of a magazine, Shidnote told him once, grinning the whole time. Plus I heard she cooks as good as your mom.

That stymied him for a moment. My mother can’t cook.

Fine, Shidnote huffed. As good as everyone else’s mom. And she’s top spot for exams.

Or at least she had been, until he outscored her. He’d never had much cause to interact with her beyond the perfunctory niceties the children of long-time family friends were expected to perform, but oh, he did not get any sweet smiles after that. No, the Arleon he knew and the Haki-chan she showed to everyone else were worlds apart.

Which is why it’s so strange to see that polite mask melt into a smile bright enough to warm the room. “Oh, well,” she murmurs in a tone that would make his palms prickle, if he gave in to that sort of nonsense. “My hero must get the first cookie, mustn’t he?”

She opens the container with a flourish, pulling out a cookie that’s still so warm the chocolate smear against her fingertips. And Mitsuhide’s as he takes it, red cheeked and dazzled and sure to smear it everywhere, but even still, Izana’s attention is arrested on Arleon. Those slender fingers rise up to her mouth, pink tongue flashing out before she reaches for another--

“No.” Kiki glowers from her cushion, twisting her chin away. “I don’t want one.”

“O-oh?” Arleon blinks, her soft confidence evaporating under the force of Kiki’s disapproval. “Are you sure?”

Mitsuhide bites into his, cheeks puffed out as a chipmunk’s. “It’s sooooo good.”

If anything, Kiki grows icier. “Quite sure.”

“Well, if I suppose if you really--”

“ME NEXT!”

There’s no stopping it; Izana catches only the briefest glimmer of hunger in his wide eyes before Obi’s off like a bullet, tearing across the nursery with a speed even Shidnote might struggle to match. Every older brother instinct he has sends his hands out, and perhaps if it were Zen, too trustful and with the reflexes of a rather slow dog, he would be safely caught. As it is, Obi dodges around his grasp, barreling toward Arleon with a single-minded purpose.

And with all the grace of a three-year-old, his foot catches on the carpet. His fall can’t take more than a second, maybe two, but between one blink and the next, Izana has time to see his hands fly out before him, those cat eyes closing in faith and fear, hoping he’ll be caught. It’s no one’s fault, no one’s at all--

But that doesn’t stop him from landing palms-first on the most protruding bit of Arleon’s anatomy. Or from Shidnote rounding the corner, just in time to witness it.

“Oh!” Haki gasps, the sort of noise that makes his teeth clench down hard and hair stand on end with the same uninvited frisson he felt when he first saw where the pattern of her tights ended. “Oh my!”

Obi blinks down, his eyes flashing like a spun coin behind them. It’s speculation, not fear that weighs in them now, and it’s with mounting horror that Izana witnesses him squeeze.

“Hey!” There’s always been an unevenness to Obi’s mouth, one that always makes his smile into a smirk. It’s worse now, considering the circumstances. “These are way bigger than my mommy’s!”

There is a confluence of events, all at once:

First, Arleon’s cheeks flush, a tide that starts as a pretty bloom high on the apples and then quickly overflows its bounds, flooding up to the pale roots of her hair and down below her collar. That’s where his focus sticks for a second; he is only human, after all, and on skin so soft and smooth as hers, it’s only natural to wonder how far it might extend.

Second, Shidnote storms into the room, his palm already raised, “Obi!” echoing over the walls.

And thirdly, Kiki steps forward. Her small arm extends, and with a cacophonous crack, slaps Obi square across the nose.

He’s not ready for it; Izana hardly is, and he’s not even on the receiving end. Obi’s socked feet leave the floor-- strange, how he only notices now that they have little grips on the bottom, arranged like the pads of a cat-- and he lands hard, albeit on a bottom that is at least made for it.

An impressive show of strength; if Shishiyama-sensei were to witness it, there would most certainly be a level of hooting and hollering unbecoming of an adult. Probably ask Seiran-san if he’d ever considered putting her on a softball team with an arm like that. Even Izana’s gut instinct is to commend her, but the words hardly have time to gather on his tongue before Obi blinks-- once, twice-- and then bursts into tears.

With cool efficiency, Kiki turns to Shidnote, still frozen one step past the door, and informs him, “I handled it.”

This is, apparently, too much indignity for Obi. He struggles to his cat-padded feet and tears off to the play kitchen, taking refuge in one of the cabinets. Shidnote doesn’t give him more than a glance; instead he looks down at where Kiki stands and says, “Nice arm, kid.”

Seiran’s don’t beam-- such displays are frowned upon in the board room-- but Kiki does radiate with satisfaction, tromping straight up to Arleon and jutting out her hand. “I’ll take that cookie now.”

It’s here Arleon’s inexperience truly shines: she gives it to her.

Although out of sight, Obi is clearly not content to be out of mind. Holed up in a plastic cabinet he’s only just small enough to squeeze himself into, it does nothing to muffle the wailing and carrying on inside. Like all younger siblings, he was born with both the ability to shriek and the resolve to use it.

“I’m sorry,” Arleon says, or at least he thinks so; it’s hard to hear anything over Obi’s wails. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. And I certainly shouldn’t have reward Kiki for--”

“Nah.” Shidnote’s grin pulls lopsidedly across his face. “He deserved it. Trust me, not even mom will mind.”

Knowing Shidnote-sensei, she’d probably thank her for it. Maybe even give Kiki a gold star. And that’s before she heard any of his...commentary.

“I don’t know what to do.” Arleon’s slender hands clap to her face. “He seems really upset, should I--?”

“Is fine.” A small hand pats her own, and Shirayuki gives her the sunniest of smiles. Even with all the screeching, he can’t shake the feeling that it might all be just fine. Funny how a girl who can’t even put on her own shoes can make it feel that way. “I help.”

She holds her palm out, eyebrows taking an encouraging lift. Hesitantly, Arleon hands her a cookie, the chips all cooled to the proper shape. “You want...this?”

“Uh-huh.” She gives a big nod, enough that she nearly topples. “Tank yu, nee-chama!”

With a determined waddle, Shirayuki cross the room dropping down to hands and knees to get past the fridge doors, hanging open on their plastic hinges. She stops, mouth screwed up with concentration as she shuts them, softly, quietly, making sure not to spill any of their contents. It’s the sort of attention to detail Izana appreciates; no one else is going to painstakingly puts the food in its place when the day is done.

“O-bi?” she calls out when she finishes, pigtails shivering as she hops along on her knees. Right up to the cabinet door, where she knocks. “Ohhh-bi?”

The wailing stops. A second later, the door creaks open. “W-what?”

Shirayuki holds out the cookie, a beatific smile rounding her cheeks. “For you!”

The door trembles, and by inches, Obi’s face emerges from behind it, uncertainty and hunger all rolled into one.

“I dun...” He swallows hard, eyes never moving from where the cookie sits. “I dun want it.”

Her smile only pulls wider. “Yours!”

He stares at her, then at the cookie, paralyzed. It’s clear what he wants, but he’s too much like his brother, too filled with senseless pride to take it. “N--”

Shirayuki leans forward, shoving it into his mouth. “I help!” she tells him. “Yum yum!”

Left with nothing else to do, he bites into it. The cookie might not still be warm and melty, but sitting there, half in and out of the cabinet, with Shirayuki clapping as he chews, Obi is.

“Well,” Shidnote grunts, rubbing at the back of his head. “That’s gonna be a problem in a few years.”

“W-what?” Zen drops the cookie in his own hand, letting it crack to three pieces on the mat. “Me too!” he yells, getting to his feet. “Me too!”

“Now that--” Shidnote grins-- “is going to be even worse.”

“Next time we see Haki-chan, you’re gonna apologize,” Shidnote informs his brother, pinching his leg where it’s slung over his shoulder. “And you’re gonna mean it.”

“Fer what?” Obi folds his arms sullenly over Shidnote’s hair. “I didn do anyting wrong!”

“You touched her-- her boobies,” Zen hisses, so helpful, from Izana’s arms. “Dat’s not allowed.”

“You’re supposed to ask before touching another person’s body,” Izana corrects, cutting over Shidnote’s half-baked grumbling. He’s not a man that often wrangles with whys, and it shows. “Especially the personal parts.”

“But Kiki sits on me with her butt all the time!” His arms flail wildly, nearly topping him off. “And she never asks first!”

“That’s a little different--”

“It’s your fault,” Zen informs him, so calm. “You’re annoying!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am--” Obi squiggles, mouth folding into a pout-- “lemme down! I’ll show him who’s annoying!”

There’s a park on the way home, one with enough grass that the kids can tussle a little without hurting anything more permanently. Izana still worries, watching Obi tackle Zen to the turf, but if there’s anything he’s learned the past few months, it’s that sometimes it’s better just to let them get it out.

“The worst part,” Shidnote sighs, “is that I can’t even blame him.”

“Hm?” Izana blinks up. The boys have found a bit of goose poop, they’ll be shouting stinky at the top of their lungs for at least another ten minutes at least. “About being annoying?”

“What? No. I can blame him all I like for that.” He shrugs, his shoulders taking up too much space for someone their age. “I mean the thing with Haki-chan.”

“Oh.” Something about that-- about hearing Shidnote say her name like that, Haki-chan-- irritates him, like sand stuck in an oyster’s shell. The rest of the school might buy her act, but Shidnote-- Shidnote knows how she really is. He doesn’t need to be acting like she’s some sort of girl.

“Well, of course not,” he says instead, stamping out any sign of his annoyance. “It was an accident.

Shidnote huffs, too amused. “Are you kidding me, Wisteria? I don’t care about that. Have you seen the rack on her--” he mimes, so helpful-- “I’d squeeze ‘em too, if she gave me half a chance.”

Izana experiences...something. Something strange.

There’s a pounding in his head, like another heartbeat between his ears. His vision narrows too, growing more acute the louder that second heart pounds, and his chest--

“That’s no way to talk about her,” he manages through the ache, wishing he knew more about the symptoms of a heart attack. Nothing’s gone numb, but that feels like it’s only a matter of time. “May I remind you, Arleon-san is far more than just her cup size.”

He’s certain, after the words are said, that this will pass. Already the pounding grows less pronounced, and the sweat on his palms does not renew after he wipes them on his trousers. All in all, it’s as if it never happened, except--

Except Shidnote stares at him, leaning down as if he needs a closer look, and grins.

“Oh-ho,” he hums, at the precise pitch of a swing of an executioner’s blade, “so you do have a crush on her.”

[reilliane]

Bleed

— Concept: It's always good to travel with someone who has a knack for healing, 'cause then, the team is in safe hands. Well, that's supposed to be what it's like. But not if you have an apathetic sadist guy for a healer. — Blood, death (mentions)

Sauntering forward through the pile of disintegrating bodies is a man with a grimoire that hovers at his side.

He clicks his tongue in distaste at the chaos' aftermath before stopping in front of a kneeling—and bleeding—[Name], whose sword is present on the grass.

"You took a lot of time today, were they that strong?" Scaramouche starts with his usual jeer, "Oh wait, let me rephrase that, you just got weaker, which says little, y'know, since you're already weak."

"I was already injured, for the record. And you were standing at the back not even helping! Now, will you just heal me?"

The Harbinger rolls his eyes at the response, walking around his companion with little care. He's quick to sneer in disgust when he steps on the blood-stained grass, courtesy of the swordswoman.

Bleeding. Such weakness, he mulls, waiting for the lady to get back up on her feet.

"What's someone like me supposed to do other than wait the battle out at the back?" he yawns, "If I die, you're as good as dead, too."

A scoff is heard, followed by a, "Maybe heal your ally while she does all the work and not let her bleed to death?"

"It's your fault that you're bleeding in the first place." is all that he responds as he trudges on with a haughty 'tsk'.

Five minutes haven't passed when he's already pausing his steps.

He glances over his shoulder to see [Name] lagging behind, dripping with crimson, and the Harbinger finally flicks open his grimoire.

With a repeat of the swordswoman's weaknesses, the latter moves to punch him in the face, but he evades it with a snicker. Oh, she's slowing down, for obvious reasons.

"You're such a pitiful sword wielder, I'm not going to waste my energy on someone like you,"

He says this, yet he seizes the lady by her arm, his hand pulsing with a gentle violet. His grimoire is already open and flicking its pages.

"Look who's talking," snarkily remarks the girl.

"Zip it and let me work. You're not leaving me alone in this hellhole of a world."

The cauterizing warmth of Electro is oddly tame, almost comforting as it closes all open wounds with zipping and stitching lines of violet.

He hears [Name] sigh in relief, "Leaving would actually be better-"

"Shut up and sleep."

With another pulse of Electro enough to tap into the lady's nerves, she falls forward, eyes closing.

Scaramouche catches her in his arms with little complication and stares at her peaceful visage before hoisting her up so they can continue their journey.

He will not admit such things, but there is a twinge of worry whenever he sees her spill even a dribble of blood.

a/n: HEALER SCARA BECAUSE UGHHSHGAIUWEHFAUFH just imagine, lovelies lmao-

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane

[darkorderaf]

Can I request Kiss prompt 19 with cm punk? Can it be where they’re not supposed to be kissing (and eventually get caught-) bc she’s his younger trainee?

Now, that’s a spicy and fun idea. Apologies for the wait on this; I hope you like it!

Pairing: CM Punk x OFC. Prompt: “If we get caught kissing we’re dead but let’s risk it”. Rating: T. Warnings/Content: None; mutual pining and kisses. Word Count: 1141.

Tag List: @alyhull @beingthelite @simoneinside @sillynilly27

(I don’t own gif; credit to orange-catsidy!)

From day one, she knew she was absolutely fucked. She vowed to take an extremely professional approach to her training no matter what and that wouldn’t change just because her trainer was CM freakin’ Punk. Her style in the indies matched well with his and after her signing with AEW, he took it upon himself to get her acclimated to the big leagues.

Right, she told herself. She could do this. Keep it professional. She wouldn’t think about the little race in her pulse when he congratulated her on a win or comforted her after a loss, his arm around her shoulder. Or how he would brag about her nonstop to anyone within earshot, a cocky grin on his handsome face. Then when they were alone, he checked on her and cracked a joke. It was so easy.

Shit. She had it bad.

He tried to keep the professional in professional wrestling too. Not only was he her trainer, he was a little over a decade older than her. There were layers that he reminded himself of every time they stepped into the ring together. Then sometimes she got her own cocky grin on her face whenever she hit a move she doubted herself on and it took him a minute to formulate a ‘good job’, his eyes on her.

Once their conversations switched from wrestling to what they did when they weren’t at work, they knew they were fucked. Walked and talked on their way away from the arena, down city sidewalks she hadn’t seen before as he showed her Chicago. They talked about movies, comics, what her childhood pet was called. All the things that would have been a security question answer and she never got that way with anyone in the business.

It was a dangerous game and she knew it. But he was easy to talk to and he cared. She never doubted that. Once she realized how open she was, she clamped back shut and kept their conversation short after that. She would not admit she had a crush on CM Punk. On her trainer.

And of course he noticed. How could he not, when twenty word answers were cut down to ten, to five? Especially when it looked like she wanted to say more and that it killed her not to. He understood it, he did, but it drove him crazy. A month of short answers was all he could stand.

He watched her from across the ring, the pair of them exhausted and drenched in sweat from their session. Her eyes were almost shut, her head angled down to stare down at the mat.

“Hey.”

She lifted her head up and stared across at him. Through him as she waited.

“Will you talk to me?”

“Did I mess something up?”

Try as she might to keep her voice level, it shook and he frowned at her.

“It’s not--” He shook his head and swept his hair back. “It’s not about the session. It’s about you. You’ve been closed off. I mean, hell, you’ve barely said ten words to me this week alone and that right there was five of them. What’s going on?”

She clenched her jaw and glanced away, her hands flexed tight around the ropes. He folded his arms and waited for her to answer. She shrugged and looked at him again, her eyes hard.

“It’s complicated,” she finally said. Being short and difficult was better than the other option. “Are we done?”

She pushed herself off the ropes and made to go under the top. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she didn’t hear him crossover until his hand was around her wrist. It wasn’t particularly strong but it stopped her in her tracks. She stood back up, the small distance between them a sudden pressure that seized her breath. His eyes cut a path along her face.

“Talk to me,” he urged. “Maybe we can uncomplicate it. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“It’s not professional,” she said. Forced out from behind her teeth. “Alright? It’s not professional and I’d just like to forget about it. You’re my trainer and--”

She cut herself off, her face flushed with embarrassment. His thumb circled gently along her wrist and he looked down at their nearly-there hands.

“I get it,” he said. His eyes picked back up. “Really, I do. I’ve been thinking too. All I’ve been doing lately is thinking.”

“About what?”

“About you. I’ve been thinking about you and I know it’s unprofessional. And to be honest with you?”

She stared at him, every emotion she was capable of running through her. Exhausting her that she almost felt her knees buckle but he was there, a step closer to keep her up.

“To be honest with you,” he whispered. Shook his head. “If you don’t care, I don’t either. But if you do, we can forget about it and go back to how things were. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Say the word.”

The way his eyes held her, the tone in his voice, she knew he wasn’t lying. That even though he felt it too, he would respect her wishes. He would respect her. They were out in the open now, in more ways than one, and part of her knew it was stupid. As private as the moment was, anyone and their mother could walk in on them. She kept that in mind even as she settled a hand against his chest and leaned up into him, pressing an unsure kiss to his lips.

He held her face like something delicate and kissed her back, no more words necessary.

“No one ever really comes in here right now, so I think it’d be a great ti--”

The gym doors squeaked open and the pair in the ring froze, lips still pressed together and arms around each other in something that definitely wasn’t a hold. The Best Friends stared at them, Sue by their side. Punk pulled away first and paced to the other side of the ropes. All she could do was stare at Chuck. Trent immediately turned the group around with an apologetic, confused half-wave.

“Just kidding, it’s a bad time.”

The doors squeaked again as they left. Alone once more, they looked at each other from across the ring. He looked like he wanted to go back over to her but he held back as he climbed out. He looked at her again, a small smile on his face.

“We can talk about it later, alright?”

She nodded.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Just before he left, he paused. His hand hovered over the door. He glanced back.

“I missed you, you punk.”

She huffed a laugh and turned away, her smile hidden.

“Yeah, yeah. I missed you too.”

[thesevro]

desert rose / ryomen s.

ryomen sukuna x reader angst word count: 1.4K words

WARNINGS: Explicit SMUT, angst, character death

➠ 

SUKUNA TREMBLES WITH wrath. Pain and rage surge through him like a twin pair of vicious snakes.

"I told you to leave her alone, you deranged paupers." A snarl curls his lips. "And yet you still didn't listen.

"So now you have to watch me burn your wives, and cut all your minute little pricks off until you die twitching with your hands around your sorry cocks."

Sukuna grabs one woman by her neck. She clutches a child to her breast, one she shoves into the hands of who must be her husband. Sukuna holds that man in place with cursed energy. Holds the family hostage as the rest of the village goes up in smoke around them.

But through the chaos, many still choose to watch the brutality.

A black nail traces the woman's stomach, slides up to hold her face in his fingers. The nail rips her garments with ease.

None of you will ever be the same as her, Sukuna thinks with dead eyes, sliding his finger into the woman's mouth with an unnatural gentleness before pointing it upward and driving the finger in further. The tip of his nail meets the wet mass of her brain after a few moments.

The woman struggles in his four arms, flailing about like an asphyxiating fish. Her husband watches in horror. Screams with her as her throat erupts with gurgled screams of agony.

Sukuna blinks with slow somnolence. Sees the child wailing in its father's arms as its mother dies in his. He retracts his finger from inside the woman's brain. She cannot die without seeing this.

Sukuna pulls the child out of his father's arms with only one hand. The father lets his flesh and blood go with an ease that sickens Sukuna.

If this were his child, he would protect it with his life, with whatever powers fate would let him have past death. You would never forgive him if he let your child go.

The things we could have done. Sukuna holds the child by its head. Its arms and feet dangle helplessly. The mother watches with terrified eyes as Sukuna crushes its skull inward with five fingers. His thumb pops one of its eyes open. Its blood wets its mother's and father's faces.

The things we could have made. He smells smoke as he tosses the dead child aside and onto the dirt. It is trampled upon by the scrambling feet of its fellow village men and women.

Sukuna raises his hand into the air and over the head of the woman in his arms. She lets loose one last scream before he plunges his hand into her stomach to split the flesh there wide open.

He fixes numb eyes on the only one left in the tiny family he has murdered. The man shakes his head. Knows what approaches him as Sukuna drags him closer by his neck.

Sukuna bends closer to stare straight into the man's scared eyes. He speaks his question with the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

"Do you regret letting them die?" he asks. "If you don't, then I will let you live. I will see it as a show of courageous human apathy."

The man nods slowly. Then his head bobs in vigorous nods. Sukuna kills him immediately.

How dare you care so little about your wives. Sukuna drops the corpse. Disgust contorts his features. When it was so easy for you to take mine, the only person I have ever loved.

Sukuna looks up at the black sky. Gray smoke curls upward to darken it further.

"(Y/N)," he says, so softly the fires swallowing up entire houses drown his words out. "Come back to me, my love."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Um... um, Sukuna-sama, do you know what a flower crown is?"

The King of Curses tilts his head. He regards your open face with curiosity. Most of his previous concubines had only let him have his way with their bodies. You... you have been trying your damndest to make him as open as you.

It had revolted him at first. Now... it no longer bothers him as much.

"No," he admits without care. "Show me, human."

"Would you kindly allow me to sit in your lap, Sukuna-sama?" He starts at this. "I will not be able to put it in its correct place if I remain here. You are... very tall, after all."

Sukuna offers you a begrudging nod. You brighten. He does not know it but the smile on your face has lifted the frown from his.

Sukuna opens his arms to you as you rise from the grass. You barely fit into his lap. Too small to seat yourself on him properly.

He holds you upright with two hands on your waist. Sukuna cocks his head at you as you purse your lips and your face goes red. Your heart palpitations have risen to a surprising one-hundred and fifty-four.

You do not meet his eyes as you raise your arms to sit the makeshift crown of flowers on his head. You grin at how it looks on him. It is a laurel of pink and white.

Yet you still do not share his gaze.

With the most infinitesimal edge of violence Sukuna moves one hand up to grip your chin between two long fingers to force your gaze onto him. Your eyes flash with fear.

"I—I'm sorry, Sukuna-sama. Was I acting too intrusive? I did not wish to—"

"Quiet, human." His hand parts from your chin to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You look so surprised by the gesture that it hurts him. He only wants to see you with that smile on your face. "I'm sure you were able to make it look... satisfactory on me."

"Oh." Your smile is hesitant this time. "Thank you, Sukuna-sama."

"Although, human," he says, "I need none of your apologies. So you must stop spewing them like the whores of your village spit praises at your backwards men."

A soft giggle leaves you at this. When he sleeps, the sound lingers with him.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"S-Sukuna-sama!" His name is a moan out of your mouth. It sends shivers down his spine. Reminds him of how roguishly animalistic being human can be as remnants of the human parts of himself tell him to fuck you until the sun rises.

"That's it, human," he sneers. "That's how you fucking do it. Riding me so well."

It is the first time he has let you lead the pace. Somehow it gets him off more than it should. You squat over his cock, riding with him fervor he only ever sees from you when you are around him. Your hole spills slick all over his cock. Clenches him hard enough to drive his head back into the pillow.

One of his hands reaches forward, sliding over your leg to rest between your shaking thighs and settle on the puffy pearl of pleasure budding at the top of your weeping cunt.

He briefly considers using the nail of his index finger. But the possibility of hurting you while he was this high on sex... it would pose as too great a risk.

Sukuna instead thumbs at your clit with a pressing finger. His whole body seizes up as the warm fist of your pussy wraps tighter around his cock. You toss your head back and whine his name, begging, begging so enticingly for more.

So that is what he gives you. It is what he will always give you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You had brought peace to the land, and ruin to his heart.

Does he regret loving you? He never will. Pain has not stopped him in the past.

This village will not be the last. These women will not be the last he kills. These men will have to watch as he steals the lives of the ones they love.

He will make sure they suffer as he did when you gave him your last smile with that bullet in your back. Will make sure they have to watch as the life seeps out of the ones they love, just as he held you to his chest as your blood painted his hands.

[sunder-soul]

𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖛𝖊

❶·❷·❸·❹·❺·❻

Chapter One: There's just something about those Riddle murders that doesn't quite make sense... Wordcount: 2.3k Content warning: language, allusions to bigotry.

Permanent Taglist: @jujugentle @weirdowithnobeardo @pearlstiare @fromthehellmouth @whoevenfrickenknows @moatsnow @voidmalfoy @lucys-brain @sunles @arana-alpha @tallyovie @expectoscamander @nothinghcppens @itsjustfics @mikariell95 @suicide-sweetheart636 @toasterking

Name: MORFIN GORMLAITH GAUNT

Age: 46

Wand: fir, 10 ¾ inches, dragon heartstring

Residence: Gaunt Estate, Little Hangleton, Yorkshire

Marital status: -

Offense charge: three counts of murder in the primary degree

Date of charged offense: 1st July, 1943

Offense Detail: prisoner entered the residence of the Riddle family (Muggle, IM-00) and inflicting the Killing Curse (UC-001-1717) upon the three members of the Riddle family present; Thomas Riddle (63), Mary Riddle (60), and their son Tom Riddle (37). Use of the Killing Curse has been confirmed by Prior Incantato (see report DMLE-619-1951-BLE, SA: Robert Odgen).

Date of Testimony: 3rd July, 1943

Prisoner plea: guilty

Sentence: Azkaban, 360 years

Date of Sentence: 3rd July, 1943

You frown.

It’s very late, the candle your desk is barely a stub, the little flame hovering nervously on the surface of a broad pool of wax, and you’ve been copying over these stupid reports to the new, tamper-proof parchment forms for seven hours now – but something is extremely odd about these dates.

“McCollin,” you say slowly. “Did you work this case?”

“Hmm?” McCollin doesn’t look up at the desk beside you, head resting heavily on one hand and his spine curled into a perfect and truly concerning C-shape over his own stack of files. He looks close to passing out right there and then, salt-and-pepper hair a little greasy, scruffy five o’clock shadow, eyes bleary and shadowed.

“Gaunt,” you read, “1943. You were working with Odgen then, right?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I remember that nutter.”

“What happened?”

“Guy was from one of those ancient pure-blooded clans, you know, one of the real fanatical ones, inbreeding and liquidated assets and all,” McCollin yawns, dragging his hand down his face and smearing ink across his whiskered cheek. “Hated Muggles like nobody’s business."

“Yeah he killed three Muggles, right?” you peer at the report.

McCollin nods at the form he's copying. “Went off the deep end one day. Walked right up to their house and murdered ‘em. When they brought him in he was ranting and raving about how they’d had it coming for years.”

“He was arrested, charged, and sentenced within three days,” you say slowly.

He finally looks up at you. “So?”

“That’s the fasted processing I’ve ever seen.”

“The guy admitted to it, kiddo,” McCollin says in deadpan, “he had snakes nailed to his door and his family tree was basically a Christmas wreath.”

“Yeah, but… what made he snap?”

He laughs again, shaking his head despondently as he returns to his form. “You got a lot to learn.”

His tone wants to be fond but it just strikes you as patronising, especially considering the amount of times people have said that exact same stupid line to you. It’s like half the bloody department think being Muggle-born makes you incapable of understanding the subtle and unique intricacies of wizarding culture – as if bigotry and supremacists and assholes are exclusive to the magical world. “What?” you say a little too defensively.

“Families like that… guys like that… they’re not right in the head. Hate Muggles just to hate ‘em, reckon they’re all that’s wrong with the world. Honestly it’s a miracle he didn’t do it sooner.”

You look back down at the report, suspicions anything but assuaged. “Yeah,” you say quietly, “it is.”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“Did you ever watch Gaunt’s testimony?”

“You’re still going on about that?” McCollin drawls, heaving the towering box of finished files up a bit as he heads for the lifts.

“I looked him up in Records and the memory’s only available with supervisor permission,” you push, following him quickly. “If you signed me off then I could get Owler to –”

He slams the button and stares at the little golden arrow above the elevator grate slowly sliding towards the basement floor. “And why in Merlin’s name do you want to watch the Gaunt trial?”

You slip your hands into the pockets of your purple Ministry robes. “I’m interested.”

“Interested,” he echoes, shooting you a look. “Is that so?”

“He was processed in three days, McCollin. If it was that obvious he was guilty, it must have been one hell of a trial.”

“It was,” he scoffs as the lift dings and the grate grinds to a noisy open. “Fine, but only if you finish Johan’s quota by five.”

The triumph is impossible to keep off your face and McCollin rolls his eyes at your immediate glee. “I’m on it,” you grin, spinning around and racing back to your desk to get started.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“Merlin’s beard,” McCollin mutters, shaking his head at the stack of completed transcripts. “I gotta hold stuff over your head more often.”

“Just sign the slip, McCollin,” you smirk.

He sighs and grabs the quill from your hand, and you hold your breath as he scribbles his initials on the slip. “You’re obsessed,” he drawls.

You seize the slip and round on the lift, heart racing with excitement. “I’m interested.”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

The trial is absolutely insane.

Morfin Gaunt looks like a Witch Weekly cartoon caricature of a fanatical blood-purist and he rambles in a manic-edged, ceaseless torrent about how much he enjoyed murdering the Riddles as the Wizengamot mutters and blithers disapprovingly for about three hours – but something catches your attention right near the end. Something you can’t help but ask Owler about the second the memory ends and you’re thrown back into the Records Room.

“Who’s Merope?”

Owler’s sallow face looks about as thrilled at your question as he was at your request for the memory in the first place. “Merope Gaunt,” he says in a flat, nasally voice, waving his wand at the Pensieve and sending the memory swirling back into its phial.

“Merope Gaunt?”

Owler’s thin, anaemic lips downturn even more. “His sister.”

You stare at him. It is not at all what you’d expected. “And why did he call his sister a mud-soused, scumsucking slut?”

“Ask your supervisor.”

“He seemed to be saying he killed those people because of Merope, why on earth would his sister be why he –”

“I keep the records, I don’t conduct the investigations,” Owler interrupts with not inconsiderable disdain. “Now if you could please –”

“Did they bring Merope in for testimony?”

Owler gives your continuing presence a very dirty look. “No.”

“Why not?”

He pushes the door to the Records room open and stares at you.

You try to hold your ground but Owler is unrelenting, and you're forced to step past him with a curt sigh. “Right, well, good afternoon, Owler, thanks for –”

The door slams shut behind you.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“Get what you wanted?” McCollin smirks as you collapse stony-faced into your chair.

“I forgot how impressively unpleasant it is to talk to Owler,” you mutter, resting your head in your hands. “Did you know about Merope?”

“Merope?”

“Yeah, Morfin’s sister.”

“Didn’t know he had one,” McCollin says disinterestedly.

“He was saying some stuff that made it sound like she’s why he killed those Muggles.”

“Uh huh.”

You lift your head, giving him an incredulous look. “He said she’s why he murdered three people, McCollin. How does that not interest you?”

McCollin throws down his quill and sighs sharply. “Look kiddo, the guy’s rotting in Azkaban, he admitted to the murders, they found the curses in his wand, and he had a memory of the whole thing. What exactly are you hoping to achieve here?”

You can barely believe it. “Why isn’t Merope Gaunt mentioned in any of his trial documents?” you say sharply.

“Either she wasn't relevant to the proceedings, or she's dead, or he made her up,” McCollin shrugs, “like I said, the guy went off the deep end.”

“But why doesn’t it say –”

“Just drop it,” he sighs impatiently, “you have work to do, and I won’t have you wasting clocked time on some case from nearly a decade ago.”

“Come on, McCollin, can’t you admit that it’s weird that –”

“I said drop it,” he says sharply, “don’t make me be the big mean supervisor here, you know I hate it.”

You glare at him. “Fine,” you say through gritted teeth.

It’s almost too easy to pull Morfin’s old file from where it’s still sitting in the refuse pile and subtly charm a copy of it that evening.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

Merope Gaunt, as far as you can tell, fucking vanished off the face of the earth in 1925.

There’s nothing, no addresses, no marriage or death notice, no registered Floo connections, no DRC calls for gnomes or doxies or even the odd kappa, not a single trace of her after Morfin and their father Marvolo had a stint in Azkaban for assaulting Bob Odgen back in the 20s.

It seems like the second they were locked up, she scarpered.

You sit back in the Archives Hall and let out a long breath, flipping the folder shut dejectedly. Morfin’s file is a thick wad of anti-Muggle hate crimes rivalled only by his father’s, and closer inspection had revealed that the Gaunt family estate sat a cool twenty minutes' walk from Riddle House where the murders had occurred. If Morfin had lived so close to some of the Muggles he hated so much, he’d been sitting on a clear motive for murder for years.

So why suddenly snap?

What had pushed him over the edge?

Why did he cite Merope in his deranged testimony?

Why talk about her in that way?

Where the hell did she go?

There are endless questions and zero answers. Plus, you kind of get the feeling that if McCollin saw you hunched in the Archives after-hours trying to find those answers, you’d get your pay docked.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

That night, you sit bolt upright in bed with a surge of electric realisation.

Mud-soused… scumsucker…

You’ve heard that language before. You’ve processed about four hundred case files of harassment with that language.

“Idiot,” you breathe, smacking your forehead and falling back onto your pillows with a thump. “Idiot, of course…”

Because that’s the way Pure-blood extremists talk about witches and wizards who've fallen in love with Muggles.

Suddenly, you have a pretty good idea where Merope might have disappeared to the moment her blood-obsessed brother and father were out of the picture, and a pretty good idea of where you might be able to look to find her. Because you’ve been looking in the wrong place.

You’ve been looking for her in the wizarding world.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“I have the craziest news for you,” you grin, slamming a silver Sickle on the counter and taking your seat at the bar.

“You say that twice a month,” Mori grumbles, setting your drink down and sliding the coin into his huge, calloused hand.

“It’s true twice a month.”

“It’s true half as much as you think.”

“I found her.”

Mori’s dark brows raise. It makes his gruff face look slightly less intimidating. “The lady from that old case you're into?”

“Yeah,” you beam, seizing your drink and leaning forward. “Started going through marriage certificates, and –”

“You’re telling me that your big-shot Ministry intern arse has been working this thing for a month and you didn’t even check marriage certificates?”

“Not Muggle ones,” you smirk.

Mori takes a glass off the bar and starts to clean it as he peers at you. “Go on.”

“She married the same guy her brother murdered, Mori,” you breathe, glancing around to make sure none of the shady denizens of Moribund’s are listening – it’s not like the bar's regular patrons are so welcoming to your big-shot Ministry intern arse on the best of days considering you’re half-way down Knockturn Alley in the dead of night. “They fucking ran away together!”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Mori mutters.

“Exactly!”

“What are you going to do about it?”

You shrug, taking a sip of your drink and feeling supremely pleased with yourself.

“What, you spent that much time investigating this thing for no reason?”

“Nah,” you say quietly, lips still in a smile. “I have a feeling there’s more to it than this. I still have to find out what happened to her after they got married and her brother murdered his new in-laws.”

“And what’s this guy’s name again?”

You give him a dry look. “You know I can’t tell you names, Mori, I’m pushing the bounds of my contract telling you this much already.”

He shrugs his massive shoulders, casting a wary look around the dark bar. “If you’re looking for people who might know a thing or two about murderers and Muggle-haters, you’ve come to the right place.”

“I’m here to talk to you, Mori, not the murderers and Muggle-haters.”

“You’re here to drink cheap and rant to someone who won’t rat you out to your boss,” he growls.

You give him another grin. “Cheers to that.”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

You find Merope’s name in a record tome of an old church parish almost by accident. There’s barely any information there, just one name on a huge list of those buried in the pauper’s graveyard less than ten blocks from where you’re sat amongst the looming shelves of the Muggle public archives at that exact moment.

But there is something.

It says she died in a place called 'Wool’s Orphanage' on New Year’s Eve in 1926. It’s not hard to guess why she might have been there, and how she probably died.

Merope Gaunt had a child.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

❶·❷·❸·❹·❺·❻

Reply/message me to get added to the tag list! 💖

[morganaspendragonss]

give me all your love now

full credit for the idea goes to jamie ( @silvarafael ), i am just the person lucky enough to be trusted to write it. thank you for letting me, lovely, i hope i did it justice 💚

title from we might be dead by tomorrow by soko

ao3 | 2.6k | 2.12 fix-it of sorts

The fire is everywhere, and all TK can think is that they’re going to die here.

For all his training, for all his experience, panic still has him by the throat; he’s been trapped in fire plenty of times before, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been his house, never been his boyfriend in danger. Carlos’s terrified gaze locks onto his as they crouch on the bedroom floor, and TK has to force himself to focus because it’s not just his life on the line anymore — Carlos needs him to take charge.

He searches through the smoke for something, anything, that could help them, his eyes eventually alighting upon the window. 

“The window,” he says, coughing. “How far down do you think that drop is?”

Carlos frowns. “Um, I—twenty feet? Twenty-five?”

TK barely manages to suppress a wince; a twenty foot drop is no joke, and visions of all the different injuries they could receive flash through his mind, ranging from a few bruises to a broken neck. But the flames are getting ever closer and the smoke thicker, and he knows that there’s no other option.

Either they jump, or they die.

“Come on.” He grabs Carlos’s arm, one hand on his back to keep him low, and they stumble over to the window together. Carlos seizes a chair and slams it into the glass until it shatters, grunting with the exertion.

He takes a step backwards when it’s done, tossing the chair away and looking at TK nervously. TK understands that fear, but he refuses to let it show right now, not when Carlos is so obviously struggling as it is.

“Go on,” he says, “you go first. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

“Okay.” Carlos nods and turns to the window, and TK takes the opportunity to let his mask slip. He folds in on himself with a hand pressed against his chest, closing his eyes as he fights to take a breath. His vision is going hazy at the edges and he knows they need to get out as soon as possible—but he refuses to leave before Carlos does. 

As much as Carlos would protest, TK knows that he is the priority in this situation. He doesn’t care what happens to him, as long as Carlos gets out and lives.

Then hands are on his face, gently bringing his head up. TK meets Carlos’s eyes, aching at the raw pain in them—Carlos so rarely lets his worry and fear show openly like this, and TK knows that the same thoughts he’s been having are running through his boyfriend’s mind.

“If we don’t…” Carlos starts, shaking his head. “If we…”

His jaw clenches, eyes going wide, and TK puts his own palms on Carlos’s cheeks, steeling himself for what they both believe might be the last words they say to each other.

He keeps his voice as calm as possible when he says, “Hey. I love you too, okay? Now go!”

He pushes on Carlos’s arm for emphasis, and lets out a breath of relief when Carlos nods and turns back around, stepping to the window. His hands clench briefly at his sides before he seems to steady himself and climbs onto the sill. Carlos sends him one last backwards glance, and TK forces a smile, a fresh pain stabbing through his heart as he gets one in return.

Then Carlos is gone, disappearing through the window with a barely audible yell. TK waits a minute, praying that Carlos is unhurt—or, as unhurt as possible—then moves forward, reaching to haul himself up.

But, before he can, the bedroom door crashes open. TK whips around, his watering eyes taking a second to recognise the bodies in the doorway as his dad and Billy.

“TK!” his dad calls. “Follow us!”

He stumbles over, gratefully accepting the damp cloth from Billy. “Dad,” he croaks. “Carlos, he—” He gestures to the window, hoping the message gets across as another coughing fit almost sends him to his knees. He’s steadied—he doesn’t know who by—then almost dragged out of the room, only aware of a guiding hand on his back and the sounds of his home collapsing around them. Dimly, he registers another voice, another set of hands, but TK can only focus on putting one foot in front of the other, everything else blending into a distorted mess of sensations.

Fresh air, when it hits, is both a blessing and a curse. TK heaves, falling to the ground as he tries to take in lungfuls of clean oxygen, but his throat is raw and his chest tight, and black spots dance in his vision as he fails to breathe. He’s vaguely aware of shapes moving around him, of the searing heat still at his back, but the burning inside him and the pounding of his own heart in his ears overwhelms it all; panic settles deep within him, and TK begins to slip as the darkness only grows.

It feels like a blink, but when he comes back to himself, the scenery is completely changed. He’s no longer outside, rough tarmac under his palms, but flat on his back, staring up at what his clouded mind slowly comes to realise is the inside of an ambulance. 

TK sits bolt upright, ignoring the dizziness that washes over him, and bats clumsily at his face until he manages to dislodge the oxygen mask someone must have strapped on him. He blinks hard, trying to clear his vision, but someone steps in front of him before he has a chance to figure out what’s going on.

“That stays on, Strand,” Captain Vega admonishes, replacing the mask over his mouth and nose. TK squints up at her, confusion clouding his thoughts.

“Cap? What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too,” she says wryly, before appearing to reconsider. “Actually, no, it’s not. Next time we’re in an ambulance together, please try and make sure that it’s because you’re doing your job, and not because you’re the patient.”

It takes a second for her words to process, but when they do, it’s like a puzzle finally falling into place. TK’s eyes widen and he shoves at the gurney, attempting to drag his uncooperative body into a standing position. He fails fairly spectacularly, his frantic wriggles leading him to almost roll off the gurney and onto the floor — if it weren’t for Tommy catching him at the last second, he’d probably have a broken nose to add to his list of injuries. Whatever those injuries are, anyway.

“Woah, woah, woah!” she cries. “What do you think you’re doing?”

TK takes a moment to breathe, the exertion setting his aching lungs aflame, then looks up at Tommy through watering eyes. “Carlos,” he gasps, the single word taking all the air he has.

Tommy’s face softens and she glances out of the ambulance. “Paramedics are with him,” she says, and TK’s heart plummets when no further explanation is forthcoming. That means… Well, he knows what it means. 

It means that Carlos is hurt, badly, and Tommy doesn’t want to tell him.

He opens his mouth to argue, to plead, to do something, but before he can, his dad appears, switching out with Tommy in the ambulance. Other paramedics he thinks he vaguely recognises from calls jump in too, slamming the doors shut behind them. One of them tries to guide him back onto the gurney, but TK fights against them, panicking as the rig rumbles to life.

“No, I can’t leave. Carlos — I need to see him. Please. Please, I—”

“TK!” His dad is gripping onto his wrists, pinning them down, and TK is too weak to stop him. “You need to calm down, okay? You inhaled a dangerous amount of smoke back there; you have to focus on breathing for us.”

“But—Carlos—”

“Is already being transported.” His dad sighs, loosening his grip. “Son… He fell twenty feet. They wanted to get him to hospital as soon as possible.”

The information sinks in slowly, the guilt following much faster. TK slumps, a sudden, intense weariness overcoming his body even as his mind goes into overdrive with worry. He still itches to know how bad Carlos is, but his imagination fills in the gaps plenty, and TK feels sick with the knowledge that whatever happened, it’s on him.

Carlos fell twenty feet, and TK was the one to tell him to jump.

This is all his fault.

*

“You should not be out of bed.”

TK looks up from pulling on the shirt Paul had donated, scowling at his dad. “I’m fine,” he counters, though his lungs decide to betray him by sending him into a coughing fit.

“Want to try that one again?”

When he’s recovered, TK takes a couple of deep breaths, then looks his dad dead in the eyes. “Sure. I’m fine.”

His voice is raspy and talking grates at his throat, but no coughs follow this time, so TK considers his point firmly proven and continues getting dressed. He can feel his dad’s gaze burning holes in his head, but he ignores him, pushing himself up onto unsteady feet.

His dad shakes his head, but walks over and lets TK lean on him. It’s frustrating to need the support; TK is grateful for it, but it also means that he can’t go anywhere without his dad agreeing to move, which he knows he’s going to refuse to do.

“The doctors wanted to keep you overnight.”

“It’s not like I’m going to leave the hospital,” TK points out. 

“But you won’t be getting any rest either, and they specifically told you to do that.”

“What do you want me to do, Dad?” he demands. The outburst hurts, but TK swallows down the pain and focuses his gaze on his dad, setting his jaw. “I need to see him; I need to know that he’s going to be okay.”

“I know that, son,” his dad says, sighing. “But you can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I’m barely hurt. You were there too; you heard them say that the smoke didn’t do any real damage.” TK looks down at his shoes, bitterness welling up in him and bleeding into his voice. “‘Lucky’ was the word they used. Wish I felt it.”

A brief silence falls, then his dad shifts, pulling TK’s arm over his shoulders. “Alright, then,” he says wearily. “Let’s go.”

The walk to Carlos’s room is both too short and too long. It feels as though it takes forever to get through the endless corridors, but, by the time they’re standing outside the door, TK hasn’t even begun to prepare himself for what’s waiting for him. His dad had given him the cliffnotes version—burns, a broken arm, a nasty head wound and probable concussion, a shattered kneecap that had needed surgery, and more bruised skin than not—but hearing and seeing are two very different things.

It’s only his dad at his side that gets him to take those final few steps into the room, his hands trembling as he nears Carlos’s side.

He looks… TK wants to pretend that he’s just sleeping, but there’s a slackness to his face that betrays the lie before he can even tell it. Carlos is a light sleeper—not a restless one, but if he were truly sleeping, he would have woken up at this point, roused by so many people being in the room. 

Andrea looks up at their entrance, immediately standing to give up her chair for him. TK goes to protest, but she sends him a stern look and he wilts, accepting the seat with a grateful nod. She rubs his shoulders gently, her gaze so kind and motherly that it almost breaks something in him.

“He’ll be okay,” she murmurs.

TK swallows, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears begin to slip down his cheeks, and he twists away when she reaches to wipe them away. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “This is all my fault.”

The frowns of everyone else in the room are practically audible, and TK burns with shame under the weight of all their gazes.

“What do you mean?” Gabriel asks, his tone hard—though TK knows the anger isn’t directed at him. “You didn’t start the fire; this is the fault of that sick bastard who rigged your house.”

“Not the fire,” TK corrects quietly, opening his eyes but not daring to meet anyone’s gaze. “Carlos. Jumping out of the window was my plan. We didn’t know if or when help would come and I just… I guess I panicked because I couldn’t think of anything else, and I told him to do it. All I wanted was for him to get out safe, and now look where we are. If I’d just gone first, then—”

“Then, you’d be in the bed instead of Carlos, and the rest of us would be in exactly the same position,” Andrea interrupts. “You had no way of knowing what was going to happen, and I know you did the best you could. What matters is that you’re both alive; the rest we can figure out.”

TK shakes his head, wanting to argue, but all the fight has left him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt and sorrow. Andrea pulls him into her side as sobs wrack his body, the physical pain paling next to the open wound of seeing Carlos so still before him.

*

“Are you okay?”

TK sighs, wearily looking up at the sound of the hesitant voice from the bed. “Don’t ask me that, Carlos, please. Not now.”

Carlos purses his lips, but nods, understanding clear in his eyes. He’d woken up a day ago after sleeping for two, and to say he’d been struggling would be an understatement. The total loss of their home and all their possessions had hit him hard, and they’d spent much of that first day he was awake just holding each other, words irrelevant and unnecessary.

Today, though, has been different. The team has been trickling in and out, making attempts at light conversation and, when that’s failed, offering up reassurances and, several times, their homes if TK and Carlos need it.

TK appreciates it, but he’s glad for the quiet in this moment. It’s just the two of them, his dad taking a breather with Carlos’s parents in the cafeteria, and he feels he can finally let some of the exhaustion of the past few days show on his face.

Not all of it—he still has to keep up some sort of façade for Carlos’s sake—but it’s not as though Carlos can’t see through it anyway. They know each other too well for that.

“Hey, um, back there,” Carlos starts nervously, not needing to clarify what he means by ‘back there’, “just before I jumped. I thought… I thought we weren’t going to make it. And I just—I just couldn’t say it. I don’t know why. But it kills me that we could have died and I didn’t tell you that I love you, I—I’m sorry, TK.”

TK frowns, reaching to grasp at Carlos’s hand. “What are you talking about?” he says. “Carlos… I know you love me. You don’t need to say it for it to be true. I promise you, I know.”

“I know you do,” Carlos says. “I still should have said it.”

“Baby, no.” TK leans over and kisses Carlos’s palm, lips lingering for a long moment. “No. Don’t… Don’t think about it, okay? We’re alive, and we have the rest of our lives to say it; can we just enjoy that?”

Tears shine in Carlos’s eyes, but he manages a wobbly smile as he meets TK’s eyes. “We can try,” he allows. He sinks back into the pillows, squeezing TK’s hand as hard as he can. “I love you.”

TK smiles. “There we go,” he says softly. He kisses Carlos’s temple, resting their foreheads together and closing his eyes.

“I love you too.”

[linskywords]

Awful first meeting + Arranged Marriage AU please for 1988

Jonny first meets Patrick Kane when he throws up on his shoes in one of the best clubs in Winnipeg.

The worst thing is, Jonny’s horribly attracted to him.

It doesn’t make any sense. Patrick Kane is objectively a disaster: his hair is all sweaty and plastered to his forehead; he’s wearing a suit that looks like he picked it out in the discount section of a Canadian Tire; and, most importantly, he is falling-down drunk. But Jonny looks at that plush red mouth, the one that just finished throwing up on him, and is seized with the terrible urge to know what it tastes like.

“Sorry,” Patrick says, blinking up at Jonny with dazed-looking eyes that are way too blue for Jonny’s mental health. “I can--buy you new shoes? I’m gonna buy you new shoes.” He puts his hands on Jonny’s chest.

Patrick’s friend shows up then and tows him away. “Sorry about that,” the other guy says, while Patrick’s still looking over his shoulder at Jonny.

“Who the fuck was that?” Jonny asks, watching them go.

“Oh, that’s Patrick Kane,” T.J. says. “You haven’t met him yet? His family just moved to town.”

“Unfortunately for us all,” Jonny says, watching Patrick disappear into the crowd. He’s gonna dream about that mouth. He’s never been so aghast at himself in his life.

He does dream about that mouth. It’s exactly as glorious and horrifying as he expected.

But, real life must prevail. Jonny’s mother has been nudging him for weeks to start looking seriously at the candidates who’ve put themselves forward for his hand now that he’s reached 25.

“I don’t know, maman,” he says, as she comes into the living room with a folder of the new offers she received this week.

“It is tradition, cheri,” she says. “You know it would mean a lot to your father and me.”

“But it’s just so…” He trails off, not wanting to insult the arrangement that worked so well for his parents. “There are so many people who meet other ways these days.”

“And I’m sure that works very well for them,” she says placidly, leaving the folder conveniently next to his coffee mug.

In the end, he agrees to let her arrange a meeting with one of the candidates she’s most excited about. “Something casual,” he adds.

“Of course,” she says, typing into her phone something that looks suspiciously like champagne brunch.

She does schedule the champagne brunch. It’s with both families. “But you will like this one, cheri,” she says. “He has just taken over the Canadian branch of his family’s business and saved them from financial crisis in his first year. Very responsible and committed.”

Jonny likes those things, in theory. He certainly tries to be those things. But the idea of marrying someone who’s like that...he’s only 25. He likes to have fun as much as he likes to be serious. He can just imagine himself, spending the next ten, twenty, thirty years of his life next to someone who spends all his time straightening his suit and worrying about the bottom line, and he wants to run in the other direction.

He’s just always liked the idea of meeting someone spontaneously. He would never say it out loud, or be caught dead at the kind of movie that endorses the idea, but he feels like there’s a kind of...magic about that. Meeting the person who’s going to be yours in some kind of everyday moment, and your whole life has changed and you don’t even know it.

But he can’t tell his mother that, so he’s hurrying down Academy in a terrible mood, trying to get to the dry cleaner’s to pick up suits for him and his father to wear to the brunch, when he runs smack into Patrick Kane.

Almost literally. Patrick’s the one who steps back this time: he’s wearing a slightly better-fitting suit (only slightly) and carrying a cup of coffee. “Whoa! You okay?”

“Yes.” Jonny’s managed to catch himself on the nearby bench. “Yes. Sorry.”

“No, I’m--wait.” Patrick looks at him closer, and what the hell is Jonny’s problem that part of him is enjoying that? “You’re Jonathon Toews, right?”

“Yes.”

Patrick makes a face. “Shit. I’m so sorry, man. Sharpy told me what happened afterward. Can I buy you a new pair of shoes?”

“What? No. You don’t--” Jonny’s pretty sure he’s blushing. “I can buy my own pair of shoes.”

“Yeah, but let me at least buy you a cup of coffee.” Patrick gestures with the one in his hand. “One I didn’t almost spill all over you.”

“I--” There’s no reason for Jonny to say yes. But he wants to. “Uh. Maybe some other time? I have to get to the dry cleaner’s.”

“Sure.” Patrick smiles at him. He has dimples, for God’s sake. “Here’s my card. Call me up, we’ll make it happen.”

“Thanks,” Jonny takes the card, and the suit really is only slightly better, but Jonny still finds himself staring for two of the five minutes the dry cleaner is still open.

He keeps the card in his pocket and fingers it over the next week. Objectively, it would be a stupid idea to call. Patrick Kane is obviously a disaster; Jonny met him while he was throwing up on his feet at a club. Even if Jonny were going to bring home someone who wasn’t an arranged match, it couldn’t be a two-a.m. drunk connection. His parents would never forgive him. So why can’t he stop thinking about it?

Maybe it’s not about Patrick personally. It’s about Jonny not wanting an arranged marriage. He’s 25 years old, and an independent person; as T.J. would tell him, he needs to learn to stand up to his parents and make his own way in life. He doesn’t want an arranged marriage, and that’s that.

He tells his mother that as soon as he shows up for the champagne brunch. “Maman,” he says firmly as he meets her in the foyer of the restaurant, “I’ve decided I don’t want to do this.”

“This brunch?” she says.

“No,” he says. “Well, yes. But all of it. I appreciate what you and Dad are doing for me, but I don’t want to do it this way. I want to meet someone on my own, in a way that feels right to me.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her eyes on his face. “All right, cheri,” she says finally. “But will you come to this brunch? The family is already here, and the young man is truly charming.”

Jonny sighs. He came here resolved to say no to everything--but he can feel himself weakening. “I don’t know if I--” he starts to say, and then he follows her around the corner and stops dead.

There, surrounded by a laughing group of Jonny’s family and presumably his own, is Patrick Kane.

He looks up, and his eyes meet Jonny’s. His face fills with horrified recognition.

“You were saying?” Jonny’s mother says.

Jonny clears his throat twice before he can speak. “Yes,” he says, his throat dry. “Yes, I’ll stay for brunch.”

Whatever is on his face, it must be good, because slowly, like the sun rising, Patrick’s face lights with a smile.

[infinitebells]

you’re annoying (r. sukuna)

genre: enemies to lovers, suggestive

description: fighting with sukuna was annoying to say the least, until the frustrations between you two rose to a dangerous level (itadori is aged up to 18 just because the fic is slightly suggestive, reader is 18 too)

word count: 1740

warnings: fem!reader, fighting, cursing, episode 4/5/6 spoilers

a/n: yeah i’m just a whore for this man so enjoy this enemies to lovers drabble

✧   ✧   ✧

the only thing you can hear at the moment were his taunting laughs reverberating around the room. you were hunched over, panting as you tried to regain your breath. you wouldn’t be stuck in this situation if sukuna hadn’t killed yūji during the detention center incident. now, you were the only student who was aware that he was now alive. gojō had put you in charge of taking care of yūji and making sure sukuna didn’t destroy everything while you trained with him. at gojō’s suggestion, you would spend an hour a day training with sukuna in order to become stronger.

“if you don’t shut the fuck up i’ll slam your head into the wall and knock you out until next week,” you growl out. his laughs grow even louder at your very obvious annoyance.

“aww, are you mad you can’t win? maybe if you were stronger you’d be able to finally beat me,” he teased. you knew he was simply taunting you to try and rile you up. it was a tactic gojō had used on you multiple times before, and you had simply brushed off his attempts. however, with sukuna, you couldn’t help but take the bait. you looked up to see him leaning against the wall across from you, hands behind his head. his face was set in a devilish smirk, staring you down. you say nothing as bursts of cursed energy curl around your clenched fists. you zoom forward, arm cocked and ready to sucker punch him. just before your fist connects with his face, he flickers and disappears from in front of you.

“wha-“ you don’t have time to finish before you feel someone grab your wrists from behind, pining them behind your back and shoving you into the wall, another hand slamming into the wall next to your face. you know who’s behind you, but you refuse to turn and face him.

“come on love, you have to try harder than that,” his voice is low and gruff in your ear, and you have to suppress the blush that threatens to crawl up your cheeks. growling in frustration, you wrench your hands from his grasp, whirl around and grab his throat before throwing him down to the ground. a resounding crack sounds throughout the room, as his body makes contact with the concrete ground.

“holy fuck,” you whisper out. in your shock at your surprising strength, you fail to move as he opens his eyes to glare at you from the floor. you still don’t move when he shoots up and wraps his hand around your throat, pushing you into the wall. however, due to his momentum from moving so fast in such anger, his lips brush against yours. your body seizes, refusing to move as your eyes widen. any anger or frustration on his face is wiped off from pure surprise, only staring down at you. if you had a dull spoon it would still probably be sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. it did not help that he refused to train with a shirt on. your tank top was thin enough for you to feel the immense amount of body heat radiating off of him as both your chests heaved from training so hard. his hand finally fell from your throat, leaving the two of you to stand in front of each other. your eyes hadn’t left his, and vice versa. another moment passes before he finally steps back and clears his throat.

“let’s uh, let’s take a break brat,” he says before turning around and grabbing a water bottle and chugging half of it in one go. you sigh, fixing your ponytail before speaking again.

“i’m gonna step outside, take a breather,” he only sighs, not turning towards you at all. you scoff, still annoyed he wouldn’t even turn to acknowledge you. you stomp out of the cellar-like room, stepping out into the night. leaves crunch under your feet, the moon glowing above you. you look up to stare at the constellations above you, leaning your back onto a tree trunk behind you. you remembered gojō once telling you that the stars above you were old jujutsu ancestors who were looking down on you to protect you. you snorted out loud at the silly idea.

your mind drifts to the curse you were fighting earlier. this time, you can’t help the blush that spreads along your cheeks and to the tips of your ears.

“hey brat! where the hell are you?” you hear his voice from behind you, causing you to whirl around from your tree to move to the other side of it, facing sukuna who was standing a few feet away from you. frowning, he moves closer until he’s inches away from you.

“where the fuck did you go? you were gone for ten damn minutes,” you could hear the anger in his voice, but you snorted in amusement at his attempt to scare you.

“i was 20 feet away from the cellar the entire time, calm down,” you push past him, walking down the stairs and into the room once again. you hear him follow after you, but you don’t bother to turn and face him. that is, until you feel his hand tug on your arm, turning you around and pushing you back until your body hits the wall. his other hand comes up next to your face while the other stays on your arm. you can’t help but feel impossibly small beneath his gaze as he stands above you, staring down.

“you were gone for a while and i didn’t want to have to fucking explain to your sensei how you’d gone missing in the woods,” he almost sounds worried, and you want to second guess it but the look in his eyes isn’t one of the usual mocking look he holds when he looks at you.

“well i’m fine now, so no problem,” your voice is quieter than you mean for it to be, but it feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the bubble he’s put you two in.

“good. i’d hate for something to happen to a brat like you,” your knees are threatening to give out on you at this point. the space between you seems too much and not enough all at once, and you can’t find it in yourself to push sukuna away.

“fuck this,” he mumbles before closing the space and crashing his lips onto yours. you’re frozen for a moment before your body takes over and you’re reciprocating the kiss. it’s all consuming, messy, and overwhelming. nothing about it is gentle as one of his hands grab your hip tightly while the other grabs the back of your neck to keep you close. his tongue explores every millimeter of your mouth, leaving no corner untouched. his teeth brush against your bottom lip, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth is encouragement enough for him to continue.

“jump,” he pulls back for a moment to speak into your mouth. your instincts take over and you jump, feeling his hands move to grab at the bottom of your thighs, holding your body close to his. you can feel him move you both, but you can’t care enough to protest. he pulls away for a moment to drop you on the couch in the corner of the room. he doesn’t give you time to react before he’s on you again. his touch invades your senses and makes you dizzy. the way his hands slide up your body and grab at you makes your head spin. his mouth on your own is intoxicating, and that combined with the way he grinds his hips into your own elicits a guttural moan from your throat. he pulls away to mouth at your jawline and down your neck.

“fuck i need to hear more of that,” his voice is husky, and sends chills straight down your spine. needy whines make their way out of your throat before you can stop them as his teeth sink into that one spot just above your pulse spot. his fingers grasp your waist, pushing them up to meet his. you can feel him through your thin shorts, neither of your bottoms leaving much to your imagination. all of a sudden, he stops, hands still on your hips, mouth still at your neck.

“someone’s coming,” he says. your eyes widen in shock, and with some unknown strength you push him off, flying off of the couch and to the other side of the room, panting like a dog. sukuna stands up from the floor, and approximately five seconds later gojō walks through the door.

“how’s training going guys?” his cheerful voice does nothing to help the bright red painting your face.

“fine. the brat’s still weak as ever,” sukuna’s gruff voice finally pulls you out of your trance, turning quickly to face gojō.

“eh, with time she’ll get stronger. keep working! i’m going to kikufuku, bye!” and a second later, he’s gone with the door swinging shut. a shaky breath from you breaks the silence between you and the curse.

“are you gonna stand there like an idiot or are you gonna say something?” your eyes train on sukuna from across the room.

“i don’t know what to say. we just made out and you’re still annoying. what happens now?” it was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but the way he’s moving towards you makes it seem as though he’s taking it seriously. he stops just before you, using a finger to pull your chin up to face him.

“well, i’ll kiss you again, call you annoying, then switch back out with the brat after another round of fighting,” before you can protest, his lips are on yours once again. this time, they’re much gentler, more passionate. you can’t help but move against him as his arms wrap around you to hold you close, your coming around his neck. he pulls away to look you dead in the eye, before flashing you his infamous smirk.

“you’re annoying,” his voice has that usual bite when he speaks again. it’s familiar, comforting in a way.

“so are you,” you’re about to move away before he tightens his hold on you, turning your attention back to him once again. he leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. his close proximity to you sends shivers down your entire body, and you can feel him smirk before he speaks.

“that won’t be the last time i kiss you by the way.”

[vennilavee]

poisoned apples

pairing: levi x reader- grad school/boxer au summary: you tell your parents about levi and they aren’t too happy. so you do the logical thing and break up with him.  word count: 4039 warnings: blood, fighting, angst, oc’s family is very annoying (her family is against her and levi being together), levi is lowkey creepy for like 1% of this story, SMUT AT THE END (18+) a/n: another installment of perpendicular heavily inspired by the first gen experience and dating...enjoy. and ty to @bbygrgu​ for catching when i made dad a mafia boss by accident

The first time you had told Levi that your parents wouldn’t approve of him, he had shrugged it off. What did it matter, anyway? He’s never known you to care very much about what other people think.

But your parents’ approval was different.

You’ve always been the apple of their eye, their youngest princess who could and would do no wrong. Even when you kept your grades up in high school, when you were the picture perfect daughter- they didn’t know what you were up to. You had maintained your image of innocence until the moment you could move out for college.

They didn’t know what you were up to behind the scenes in college. And now, in graduate school.

They didn’t know that you smoked with your boyfriend, that your boyfriend had split knuckles from boxing more often than not. But they also don’t know that your boyfriend works two jobs to support his sick mother, that he’s in the top ten percent of his masters in computer science program and will surely have a job lined up after graduation.

They don’t know that you love him. They don’t know how much he loves you- how he’d walk the ends of the earth for you. How he’s your pillar, your person. They don’t know that despite the cold steel of his eyes, he has the biggest beating heart of anyone you know.

Because you haven’t told them. You know your parents better than anyone- that they’ll judge him before they know him. 

You’ve been together officially for the better part of nearly a year. And officially, it’s been a little longer. Levi can tell when something’s on your mind by this point- from how your pout turns a little thoughtful and your eyes are far away.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders and rubs your upper arm. “What is it?” Levi asks quietly.

“Huh?” You ask, breaking out of your reverie and turning your gaze towards him. A fading bruise sits on his jaw, and you thumb the area around it tenderly.

“You’re quiet today.”

“Maybe I’m just tired.”

Levi raises his eyebrow at you, as if to wordlessly say “really?”

You’re silent for a few moments before sighing and leaning into his chest. “I think I want to tell my parents about you.”

Levi will never pressure you about things like that- he knows where he stands with you and you know where you stand with him. But he won’t deny the small upturn of his lips.

“I’ve already met your mom and your uncle,” You continue softly, “I think I’ll tell them.”

You’ve told Levi about your parents before- about how you had to secretly and cleverly maneuver through the invisible rules they had you under. How you still find trouble spreading your wings. How most of your childhood was mainly you being told not to bring trouble, that your parents had it hard as it was-

“Always knew it.”

“What did you know?” You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re naughty,” Levi smirks, “You put up this pretty princess persona. But I know you. You’re smart and vicious and not afraid to get dirty.”

“You sure? You know it’s nothin’ to me if you wanna wait,” Levi murmurs, nose in your hair.

“Yeah,” You nod, “I think it’s about time. I… want them to know you.

“I love you,” You say almost shyly and Levi drops a slow kiss to your lips in response.

And that’s that.

Needless to say, the next time you saw your parents a few weeks later you were planning on telling them about Levi. Nerves seized you- despite your attempts at convincing yourself that they’d be happy for you- that you’d found someone who loves you wholly and completely…. You can’t help but think that something is about to go wrong.

It’s over dinner that you’re planning on telling them. Your older brother and older sister are in town as well, and are helping Mom with setting the table as you wash the pots and pans.

This is where you grew up, and yet you’ve never felt so uncomfortable.

Once there are five plates of hot food and glasses of water in front of your parents and your siblings, you take a deep breath.

“I have something to tell you,” You say clearly, resisting the urge to pick at the hem of your brown corduroy skirt.

Four pairs of eyes turn to you curiously and expectantly.

“I’m seeing someone,” You say, your voice a little less confident than before. Mom gasps excitedly, bringing a moment of relief to your senses. Your siblings stare at you unnervingly, as if they can see right through you. Dad only looks at you with wide eyes.

You don’t know what to think.

“Tell us about them!” Mom says eagerly.

“Umm… well,” You stammer with heated cheeks, “He treats me well. We go to the same school, he’s doing a masters in computer science…”

That makes Mom and Dad’s eyes light up. You roll your eyes. Still, your siblings say nothing.

“Show me a picture,” Mom demands, stretching her hand out for your phone. Desperation for her approval clings to your heart like a synapse that never stopped surging. 

“He looks oddly familiar…” Mom murmurs with narrowed eyes, “Do you know him? Where do I know him from...” She turns her head to your brother and sister. 

They’ve never been particularly good at lying. Or rather, this time- they just didn’t want to. 

“That’s the guy,” Your sister says, not meeting your eyes, “The one we saw her with. The one we told you is in a fight club-”

Your jaw drops, and no noise comes out of your throat. Horror lines your tongue and you have to squeeze your nails into your palms to stop panic from flooding your veins.

But your brother is shameless and always has been. He looks you dead in the face, something cruel spinning in his irises and says, “His name’s Levi. Ackerman. We saw-”

“So you’re spying on me now?” You hiss, the full weight of their actions not quite hitting you, “You both don’t have anything fuckin’ better to do?”

Mom gasps at your language. You scoff at her, throwing a nasty look her way. She deflates only slightly- because she’s never seen such a look on your face before.

“You’re our baby sister,” Your brother says, and you stand abruptly from the table, pointing an accusing finger at him. “We only want you safe.”

“I don’t need your concern!” You hiss at him, eyes narrowed to slits and flames licking your words.

“If it wasn’t for us, you’d be parading around with a washout who boxes illegally! You should be thanking us,” Your sister says, returning your fire.

“No,” You seethe as tears of frustration spring into your eyes, “He treats me well, he’s so good to me. He respects me, isn’t that what matters?”

Before anyone can counter you-

“Enough!” Dad bellows as he stands from his seat. The heat in your belly extinguishes, but only barely. You tear your blazing eyes away from your siblings and to your father, about to scream right back at him. 

“If this is true,” Dad continues, “If this Levi boxes illegally-”

“He doesn’t have money either, Dad,” Your sister supplies. 

“Oh my god,” You screech, “You’re such a-”

“If this is true, you won’t be seeing him anymore. I don’t want to hear about this again. And if you think about seeing him behind our backs… we’ll know. And you won’t be getting that tuition money for school anymore.”

You’ve never hated them as much as you did right at that moment.

Your heart hasn’t felt the same since you were home that weekend. It’s been a few days, and you haven’t reached out to Levi yet.

You need to break up with him, you know it. You won’t risk your education on him, no matter how awful it is for your parents to very much blackmail you with it.

It hurts that you don’t have their approval. 

You’re delaying the inevitable. So when Levi shows up to your apartment on the following Wednesday with your dinner from your favorite Thai restaurant, you feel your heart shattering already. 

“Hey, princess,” Levi says smoothly, dropping the food to the dining table and trying to pull you into his arms for a kiss. You turn your cheek at the last minute, not able to look him in the eye. 

Levi immediately knows something is wrong- you’re never this silent. Your hands are pressed against his chest, almost holding him away from you. 

In the last year and change that he’s known you, he’s never known you to reject his touch. Not like this.

“What’s wrong?” Levi asks, cradling your cheek. Your lips are parted, a shaky exhale expelling from them. Your eyes are a little red and puffy.

You’ve been crying. You’ve been crying and he had no idea.

“Levi,” You mumble in a small voice. As if you’re trying to memorize the way his name feels on your tongue.

“Princess,” Levi replies, worry beginning to creep into him.

“I told my parents about us,” You mumble, the confession adding to the tension of the room, “And my brother and sister.”

He stays quiet, waiting for you to continue.

“I can’t… they said I can’t be with you. They said they won’t help me with school if I’m with you,” You mutter, feeling foolish as the words slip from your lips, “They don’t want me to be with you.”

Levi steps back from you exactly two steps and it feels like he’s plunged a knife into your chest. The loss of his touch echoes in the emptiness of your hands. You cross your arms across your chest unsurely. He stares at you in silence for a few deafening moments. Your ears might bleed from the silence.

“So what are you saying?” He finally asks after a minute.

“That I can’t be with you. I-I’m… I’m breaking up with you, Levi,” You finally muster out. Unshed tears sit in your eyes and Levi is too in love with you to resist comforting you when you’re this distressed- even if you’re breaking up with him and breaking his heart.

Levi gathers you in his arms and thumbs away your falling tears. You broke up with him, and he’s comforting you- the thought makes you choke out another sob.

You both stand like that for a few minutes, your tears staining his black coat. The silence between you both is palpable and suffocating. 

The only viable option you see is letting him go. But you don’t want to, god, you don’t want to- not when this man is your other half. When he’s your best friend, your favorite person, not when he gives meaning to the word love. 

Levi finally speaks.

“I won’t tell you what to do. But just know I’ll treat you right and you’ll never feel caged with me,” Levi murmurs, tendrils of adoration tinting his words, “I love you.”

He presses a long kiss to your forehead before leaving your apartment. His kiss feels unfamiliar, and when your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, a sobbing mess, you realize why-

It tasted like goodbye.

One month. Two month. Then three.

You’ve never been the girl helplessly in love. You’ve never been the girl who wouldn’t be able to get by without the reciprocated love from your lover. You’ve never been the type to spiral recklessly. You’ve always been fine after breakups and dates that had gone sideways.

You can live without Levi, but you don’t want to.

But loving and losing Levi hurts worse than any kind of pain. You see him everywhere on campus- a tuft of silky, black hair here, a glance of a similar looking backpack there… You even think you see him at the coffee shop that you met him at. If you were stronger, you’d avoid that coffee shop altogether. But you don’t want to let go of the memory of your first time meeting him, and you don’t want to let go of the opportunity to watch you both in your mind’s eye.

Everything reminds you of him. Everything brings tears to your eyes. You’re just a stupid girl in love with a man you can’t have.

You haven’t spoken to your siblings since that day, despite their many attempts to reach out to you. Texts, claiming that they were just looking out for you and that they loved you, went unanswered by you.

You can’t bear to speak to them. You think if you’d ever muster the courage to reach out to him again… You wonder what you might do. A small part of you hates that your family still has this grip over you- that you’re in love with a man who respects and loves you and protects you, and because they don’t approve- you can’t be with him.

You hate it. You hate that you succumbed to it. You hate that you hurt him- the heartbroken kiss he had given you has been replaying in your mind every day. Every night.

It still hurts as if it’s fresh, as if three months haven’t gone by since you broke up with him. You often wonder what Levi is doing-

After all, he hadn’t put up any type of fight for you. But you don’t allow those thoughts to get very far. It’s not like you had positioned it as something to discuss. You had made the final call and pulled the trigger on your relationship. 

It was because of you. Was it worth it? To break up with him? For your family’s perceived happiness?

The questions leave a dull ache in your heart. You feel as if you’ve been spoiled with his love, and you had carelessly ripped his heart into shreds.

Today, you’re walking to one of your exams in your building and you swear you catch sight of Levi’s hair in the atrium of the building. But it’s gone as quick as it comes. And you head inside, putting thoughts of Levi behind you to focus on your exam.

Levi has been distracted for the last three months. Even if it doesn’t show- even if he’s doing spectacular in school, even if he’s on a new win streak in the boxing ring- his mind is almost always elsewhere.

His mind is always on you. What are you doing? Do you miss him? Is your relationship with your family improving? Is it worth it?

He’ll never tell you what to do, or what decisions to make. He only wants you to make a decision with no regrets, if that decision is truly what you want.

But damn, he wonders if you regret this decision. Levi has always been good at compartmentalizing- he lives by the same philosophy. Make a choice with no regrets. He’ll never regret following your lead and giving you what you want.

But what if you hadn’t wanted it? And what if… he hadn’t wanted it either?

Levi sees you more and more in the last month or so- showing up to places that you both used to frequent as a couple and places on campus. The coffee shop, some of your lecture hall buildings. He remains in the background, as a shadow. Only to catch a glimpse of you. Are you happy? 

Your eyes are sullen, your smile dimmed. But he’s sure nobody can tell. Because you’re good at that- being the perfect princess.

He feels like a ghost in his own life. Is this living?

Levi has to move on. He loves you, his love for you still burns as bright as it did months ago. But he has to move on.

Erwin tells you that there’s a boxing match tonight. It’s the finals of whatever the equivalent of playoffs in the boxing world is-

“He’d like it if you were there,” Erwin says, voice uncharacteristically soft.

“So he can tell me himself,” You say somewhat bitterly, “We’re not...together anymore.”

You choke.

“You and I both know he won’t tell you himself. Not when you broke up with him.”

“So it’s my fault then?” You exclaim. Erwin only watches you with wary, calm eyes.

“I’m only telling you what’s true. You don’t have to come, but he’d like it if you were there.”

Over the last few weeks, really since the first night without Levi, regret has been settling in your bones. Had you made the right decision? Was it worth it, to be this unhappy? Just to maintain harmony with your family? You think if you hadn’t rushed to break up with him, you could have talked about it. Levi has always been level-headed, almost too level-headed (like the way he had just accepted you breaking up with him). 

You think you could conquer anything with Levi standing next to you.

You can’t stay away. So you’re in the stands of the ring, watching Levi warily. He looks good- he’s bulked up a little. But you can see the lines of weariness beneath his eyes. 

You still ache for him. You are still his. Seeing him this close only solidifies what you already knew. 

You are undisputedly his. And he is yours.

Watching him, throw punch after punch, and sidestep jab after jab… All for his mother. To support his family. 

Tears well up in your eyes. You want to be part of his family. The epiphany hits you like a freight train- but it’s a welcome one. 

You want to love him the way you know how. You want him to love you.

You wait in the locker room for him, anticipation surging up your spine as you pace around the locker room.

Erwin looks like he’s got a stick up his ass, and Levi doesn’t hesitate to mention it. Levi rolls his eyes and walks into the men’s locker room.

But nothing prepares him for the sight he sees in front of him.

It’s you. 

It’s you, sitting on the bench, looking as pretty as ever. Gold hoops hang from your ears, a sunflower yellow blouse with the top three buttons unbuttoned and a plum colored skirt hugs your hips.

You bite your bottom lip, tearing through your skin mercilessly. Your heart slams right out of your ribcage. His eyes are narrowed at you, drinking you in. 

He’s a man dehydrated and you are his oasis.

Before you can whisper his name, he beats you to it. “Why are you here?” Levi asks sharply. His voice is flat, but you can hear the undercurrent of anger in his voice. Hurt masked by anger.

“Yeah, I missed you, too,” You mutter, standing up from the bench. You keep your distance from him, feeling the iciness in his glare. “Erwin told me you were fighting today. Somethin’ about the playoffs. Just...wanted to see you.”

He quirks a thin eyebrow at you. “Wanted to see me three months later?”

You immediately get defensive, “It’s not like you were dying to see me, either.”

A flicker of annoyance, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just let me go- you could’ve… You could’ve fought for me! You just fuckin’ let me go,” You exclaim in frustration, tears pricking your eyes.

“Don’t- you picked your family,” Levi says harshly, “When we could’ve figured it out together, you chose to be alone. Don’t put that on me.”

“I didn’t know what else to do! I thought I was doing the right thing,” You hiss, tears falling down your cheeks openly now. You’ve never been good at hiding your feelings from Levi. “You just let me go. As if the last year meant nothing to you-”

“The last year meant nothing to me?” Levi asks, his voice perfectly level. He takes a few steps closer to you and your breath hitches.

Your head is spinning. He hasn’t been this close to you in months- and yet it feels like no time has passed. 

“I love you,” Levi says quietly, “We would’ve figured it out. If the last year meant nothing to me then, this,” Levi darts out, grabbing your hand and pressing it to his bare left pec, “Wouldn’t be yours. It’s always yours, princess. But damn, baby. It hurt.”

“Levi,” Your voice is strangled, in pain, “I’m sorry, my love-”

“You made a choice,” Levi says pointedly, “Do you regret it?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “But I’m scared for us, for you-”

“We’ll figure it out,” Levi promises, cradling your face in his rough hands. He catches your stray tears with his thumb and presses his forehead to yours.

“I missed you,” You choke out with a sob, “So fuckin’ much. I’m sorry, I hurt you. I hurt us. I love you, I love you, I love you. I know we have so much to work through. But I love you, and I believe in you.”

“Let’s go home,” Levi mumbles, resisting the urge to drop kisses to your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

“Will you let me love you,” Levi rasps, cupping your cheek as he rocks into you slowly. The head of his cock brushes against your walls prettily, as if no time has passed since the last time.

He belongs here, inside of you like this. You mold to him and he molds to you.

Levi squeezes your waist, dipping his head for a harsh kiss. He kisses you as if he’s loved you for a thousand years, and he’ll love you for a thousand more.  He peppers soft kisses to your face and you moan into his touch, notes of his name escaping your lips.

“I love you,” Levi grunts as he rolls his hips into yours in movements of honey.

He’s not usually this talkative. But he knows you both need it. Levi sucks a mark, then another, over your tits and you tug your hands through his hair.

“Baby,” You whine, “Wanna give you everything...Love you, I love you, fuck, I’m sorry I hurt you-”

“You are everything,” Levi says, his nose in your neck, “Gonna give you everything, princess. Fuck-”

Levi nearly loses his rhythm at the gush of wetness that floods his cock. He groans and looks between you both, at the way his cock pushes into your wet pussy. This is where he belongs, in between your soft thighs.

You take Levi’s hand in between yours and squeeze. You think you could stay like this forever, with him moving so unhurriedly above you. His hips melting with yours, the broad expanse of his back pliant under your nails.

“Be mine again,” You beg, “Please, baby, be mine again-”

“Will you let me love you,” Levi asks again, gazing deep into your eyes.

“Yes, yes,” You moan, “Like that, baby- fuck, o-oh- Levi…” You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer to you as your tits brush against his glistening chest. You see the moon gazing at you through his irises.

You want everything, and he is everything.

You’re boneless in his arms, tucked into his side with the sheets covering your bare body. A leg is thrown over his waist and you rub mindless circles over his chest as he holds you close. Not wanting to let you go. 

Your breaths are soft against his warmed skin. Your eyes are still puffy, from crying but Levi always thinks you’re pretty. 

And having you in his arms, in his bed, after three months is an added plus.

“I meant it,” You mumble sleepily, “I love you.”

“What about your family?” Levi asks, squeezing the hand resting on his chest.

“I don’t know,” You say shakily, “I’m scared. But wanna figure it out with you. For you, it’s worth it. For you, everything is worth it.”

Levi only answers you with a soft kiss that makes your toes curl. He doesn’t know what tomorrow might bring, but he has you today. After this long, he has you for today. 

And tomorrow will come, the sun and moon will rise separately, but you’ll get through it together.

tags: @simpingmaize​ @captainchrisstan​ @bbygrgu​ @alrightberries​ 

[littlemisspascal]

The Last Mandalorian

Chapter One: The Warrior in Carbonite Part 2

Fandom: The Mandalorian / Pedro Pascal

Eventual Pairing: Din x Togruta!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3,400

Rating: G

Summary: A series that is a mixture of Mandalorian, Star Wars, ATLA, and my own imagination. The Imps have seized control of the majority of the galaxy, including your homeworld Shili. You and your sister Ahsoka have developed a daily routine despite the stormtroopers keeping your village imprisoned. One morning you make a startling discovery that will change the course of your lives forever.

Warnings: plot plot plot, mild descriptions of violence, worldbuilding, dialogue heavy, sloooooooooooooow burn – seriously, we’re just getting started so it’s gonna be a bit before feelings are involved, reader is 17 and Din is 19 so I’m going to warn this as underage even though nothing sexual or even vaguely romantic happens in this chapter.

Author Note: The plan right now is for there to be 3 parts of Chapter 1. Tumblr isn’t doing a good job notifying my taglist, so I apologize if I bother anyone reblogging this a few times trying to get it to work. Thank you everyone out there for each like, comment, ask and reblog! The support means the world to me 🥰

Part 1 Part 3

Cross-posted on AO3

The village is a small community with less than a hundred citizens living there total, yet it is visible from miles away due to the bright paints used to decorate the houses. Murals depicting the village’s history and its residents adorn every house with details added by each new generation so that no one is ever forgotten. Back when visitors would pass through, they would always compliment the village’s beauty, but there is nothing beautiful at all about the electric fence the Imps erected shortly after seizing control, emitting shocks harsh enough to kill.

Originally the stormtroopers said it was to protect the village from threats, but nobody believed the lie. The only threat to the community was the Empire. They don’t bother making up excuses anymore, now they like to remind everyone the whole village is their prisoner, usually by a show of violence so unbelievably malicious it stuns everyone into compliance.

There are some horrors time will never erase from your mind.

Juni trees grow beside the fence outside the perimeter, the only species of tree amongst the shrubbery and turu-grass, and they are tall enough for their thick orange branches to extend over the uppermost wire. In the mornings, Ahsoka climbs out your bedroom window, slides down the sloped roof of the house and leaps onto a nearby branch. You follow after her, trusting that she won’t let you fall when you stretch out your hand for her to catch you and lift you up using a bit of Force to give you a boost. The two of you sneak back inside the village using the same tree, only instead of leaping at the house, you drop the short fall onto the ground beneath. Five years and the stormtroopers haven’t caught onto your trick yet. 

Except now the tree isn’t an option. Not when you both are half-carrying, half-dragging two-hundred pounds of flesh and metal. 

Hiding behind a clump of coyal bushes, you and Ahsoka scout the entrance booth where a pair of stormtroopers dressed in their characteristic white armor stand guard, holding blaster rifles. There are others on patrol, walking along the fence and checking its integrity, gradually stepping further and further out of view, but they will be back eventually. Your window of opportunity is limited. 

You adjust the warrior’s arm over your shoulders, quietly groaning when your muscles protest the heaviness. “What are we going to do? Stormies might share one brain cell, but they’re definitely going to notice this heap of metal we’re carrying. And as soon as they find out we don’t have passes, they’re going to start shooting.”

Passes are only given to a handful of the community’s traders each week. It is a three day ride on a repulsorlift speeder to the capital where they have a short span of time to sell their goods and then return home within the week with essential supplies. To ensure no one tries to run away, the Imps set up strict rules. If the traders are late, even if only by a few minutes or due to reasons outside their control, the rest of the villagers pay the price. Usually the punishment is a public beating, but sometimes the stormtroopers get creative and tie their chosen victims to a pole overnight by their head-tails. 

Nobody, not even the younglings, sleep those nights.

“We’ll be fine,” Ahsoka answers, firm and confident, gaze fixed upon the gate. “Just follow my lead. I’ve got an idea.”

She doesn’t spare you a second to protest, stepping out into the open and forcing you to follow or else drop the warrior’s body. 

The stormtroopers spot the three of you immediately, relaxed postures stiffening with alarm, and you have to remind yourself over and over to breathe, to not let them see any hint of the anxiety buzzing beneath your skin.

“Hold it right there!” One of the stormtroopers orders when the distance between you and them has shortened to a mere three feet. You freeze at once, heart pounding as fast as a thimiar’s seconds away from being eaten. A quick glance at Ahsoka reveals no fear in her expression. She stares at them indifferently, as if she is about to talk about the weather. 

“Explain yourselves.” It is not a request.

You squirm, nearly knocking your head against the warrior’s bowed head, on the verge of losing your composure, when you notice Ahsoka lifting her arm.

“You will let us pass,” she says, adopting a suggestive tone while waving her hand in front of their visors.

They respond in unison, seemingly entranced. “We will let you pass.”

You bite your lip as you and Ahsoka pass between the stormtroopers and through the gate, not wanting to break the spell by letting loose the barrage of questions forming on your tongue. What your sister had done was as amazing as it was frightening. She had manipulated them with such confident ease you are certain this isn’t the first time she has performed the trick on someone. 

“When did Aunt Shaak teach you that?” 

“She didn’t,” Ahsoka replies lowly, casting a quick glance around. “I taught myself.”

Your skin prickles as you also become aware of the increasing number of eyes staring at you. With the sun fully awake and bringing morning light with it, several villagers are carrying on with their daily routines outside of their homes. Most of them seem a mixture of confused and concerned about the stranger, but you spy the Elders looking displeased by the new addition amongst their ranks. 

You are not looking forward to being inevitably summoned and interrogated by them.

“How?” you ask, copying her hushed cadence. Then, a pulse of panic blooms in your chest. “Have you ever—?”

“No, I haven’t messed with your mind before. Never even considered it,” Ahsoka interrupts, sensing your worries. “I don’t practice often, but when I do it’s just harmless little suggestions. Like convincing Huno to give the younglings an extra sugar biscuit when he has some to spare or persuading Jaelee to go to bed early when I know she’s been overworking herself. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really sure the trick would work on those bucket heads since I’ve never tried it on two minds at once before. Lucky us, right?”

You nearly trip over your own feet. “What?”

Is she being serious right now? They would be dead right now if her gamble hadn’t paid off.

Ahsoka pretends not to hear you, nodding her head towards the blue-painted house up ahead. “C’mon, Maar probably already knows we’re coming.”

Maar Vashee has been the village’s healer for a little over fifty years. The purple-skinned Togruta helped deliver you and Ahsoka, and was considered by your mother when she was still living to be a dear friend. Her connection to the Force is especially sensitive due to her intricate relationship with the flora of the planet, using various herbs and plants to create remedies, and as such she developed a type of sixth sense where she instinctively knows when her skills are needed.

Entering her home that doubles as her clinic, you find Maar had indeed anticipated your arrival and set up a cot to place the warrior upon. Once he is laid down, you roll your aching shoulders, biting back a wince as the movement irritates the headache lingering at the back of your head. 

The warrior hadn’t made one noise the entirety of the trip bringing him here. Even now as he rests on the cot, his breaths are so quiet you would fear he wasn’t breathing at all if not for his chest moving. You touch his hand impulsively, laying yours over his gloved one. There is no response, not a twitch or spasm.

A sharp gasp of surprise has you whirling around, eyes landing upon Maar standing in the doorway between the clinic and her living quarters. She clutches a glass jar of spotted red herbs labeled nysillin against her chest, staring at the warrior like she is looking at a ghost. 

“Maar,” Ahsoka calls out softly, coming to stand by your side. A long moment of silence passes before the older Togruta manages to drag her gaze away to focus on you and Ahsoka, green eyes a bit too wide-eyed and haunted. Your sister’s gentle tone remains when she inquires, “What’s wrong? Do you...do you know him?”

Maar chokes out a brittle noise sounding like a cross between a dry laugh and a derisive scoff. “Personally? No.” She moves closer to the cot, the white circular markings around her eyes softening with what you confusingly identify as sympathy. “I’ve heard stories of his kind though. Years ago, many considered the Mandalorians the only ones capable of defeating the Imperials.”

“Holy frak,” you gasp before you can stop yourself.

As a youngling, your mother used to tell you stories about the fiercest fighters in the galaxy known as Mandalorians. They lived on Mandalore and had a special connection with their weapons, a bond nobody else could understand or mimic, trained to handle guns and knives as soon as they could walk. They defended the galaxy from unlawful rulers and the threat of enslavement, unafraid to spill blood when they knew peace would follow. Your mother told you they never lost a battle. Defeat was a word unknown to them.

At least until—

“Mandalorians were wiped out during the Decimation of Alderaan,” Ahsoka interrupts your thoughts, voice pitched high with disbelief. “And the few who lived were hunted down shortly after. The Imps made sure there weren’t any left to challenge them.”

As if triggered, you recall a detail from your brain glitch, a thought that had crossed your mind when you were flying through the storm. You had been looking for Aldera, the capital of Alderaan. 

It’s just a coincidence, you think. But a voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like your Aunt Shaak counters, there are no coincidences. 

And as much as you loathe admitting it, that voice is right. Having the image of a mudhorn slip into your brain shortly before you find a warrior—no, a karking Mandalorian of all people—with the same creature on his armor? It is too precise to be a coincidence. Your paths were meant to cross each other.

If only you had the slightest clue as to why.

Maar sets the jar down on a nearby table, then picks up the Mandalorian’s wrist to check his pulse. “That is what we all thought,” she agrees after a minute of counting has passed, dropping his hand. “His armor is characteristic of their kind. Nothing in the galaxy is as strong or valuable as their beskar. Let’s pray to Ai our beliefs about the Mandalorians’ extinction are mistaken,” she nods towards the unconscious warrior, “especially for his sake.”

Realization creates a sickening pit in your stomach. 

Regardless of the status of his kind, when he wakes up his whole world is going to be flipped upside down.

__

Three hours later, not much has changed except the room is brighter, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window, and smells sweet due to the bowl of herbs Maar left simmering on the table near the Mandalorian’s head, explaining the aroma will cure him of his hibernation sickness as he breathes it in.

“He’ll wake up when the marg sabls open tomorrow,” Maar told you with a gesture towards the potted red-and-pink flowers in the windowsill. They grow all over Shili, popular because they open their petals in a sunburst shape every morning. 

Ahsoka comes and goes, blessedly not criticizing your decision to sit at the warrior’s bedside when you have a list of chores to complete—doubled now that you lost your bet with Ahsoka earlier. She intercepts curious younglings hoping to sneak a glimpse of the Mandalorian whose presence has become known throughout the village. Nothing stays a secret long in the community. Gossip spreads as quickly as colds and takes twice as long to get over. 

If the stormtroopers catch on, the consequences will be disastrous. For once, Ahsoka shares your fears, admitting she isn’t capable of tricking a whole platoon. 

“The Elders aren’t happy,” Ahsoka says in-between sips of bone broth. “They think it’s too dangerous having him here.”

You swallow your mouthful, shaking your head. “I think it’s the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

Averting your gaze towards your lap, you scratch at an imaginary stain on your leggings. “Just a feeling I have.”

Ahsoka leans forward in her seat, pointing an accusing finger at you, causing your head to jerk back up. “The Force connected with you again, didn’t it? I knew you were acting weird before we found him.” She frowns, hurt flickering in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I never wanted to be special, Ahsoka,” you reply honestly. “I never wished or prayed to have visions, to have these random details pop into my head, to feel others’ emotions so strongly it’s like I’m trapped inside their bodies. There is nothing cool or entertaining about it. It’s…” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, forcing you to take a pause. You inhale a shaky breath. “It’s terrifying.”

“I had no idea you were struggling so much,” your sister murmurs, voice soft with contrition.

“How could you when I didn’t even want myself to acknowledge that I was?” you counter, feeling as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders as the truth sinks in. “I tried to ignore it all as best as I could. If not for meeting our friend over here,” you tilt your head in the Mandalorian’s direction, “I’d probably still be in denial. But I can’t ignore the Force this time. Not when the message is this important.”

“What is it?”

“We were meant to find him. To bring him back with us. I think—I believe he’s important. Remember what Maar said? About how people used to believe Mandalorians would beat the Empire?”

Ahsoka’s brow furrows incredulously. “You really think one warrior can defeat Emperor Gideon’s army? The rebels have been trying for years and the Emperor is always one step ahead.”

You can’t help deflating a bit, shoulders slumping. “Well when you put it like that…”

“Have you considered an alternative reason why he’s important?” she asks. When you don’t answer right away, she takes it as a cue to continue, “Maybe you’re right and he is going to change the galaxy for the better. But he could also be a warning. The Imps wiped out his kind, what if they plan to do the same to us?”

Your lips part to respond, only to close again wordlessly. You thought by accepting your brain glitches as messages from the Force they would become clearer, easier to understand. A lantern guiding you through this maze of darkness epitomizing your life.

But you have never felt more lost.

__

Falling asleep is a mistake. 

You didn’t know this when you rejected Maar’s suggestion to head home and sleep in your comfortable bed instead of curling up on her spare cot that squeaks whenever you move. The prideful side of you believed it was best if you were the first face the Mandalorian saw when he woke up because he would remember you and the promise you swore. He would trust you to explain everything to him.

Within a second of waking up, you realize how naive you were to think you had even a shred of influence over him. 

The sound of something shattering has you nearly tumbling off the side of the cot, jerking awake with a sudden burst of fear. You blink rapidly to clear the haziness of sleep from your vision, struggling to make sense of what you are seeing.

Pieces of Maar’s ceramic bowl litter the floor along with bits of charcoal and ash. Ahsoka and the Mandalorian stand on opposite sides of the room, staring each other down, poised to fight. The Mandalorian has a vibroblade clenched in his hand, while your sister crouches low, fists raised. You know Ahsoka can hold her own in a fight, even without the advantage of a weapon, but fear winds its way down your spine, cold and slimy, when you can’t help but notice how small she looks compared to him. Not only because he is a few inches taller, but because he also exudes an undeniable aura of intimidation: his unwavering silence, the skilled manner he wields his knife, even the sharp gleam of his beskar pieces reflecting the pale morning light has your chest tightening with dread.

The clinic’s lights flick on right as Maar announces her presence by cocking a blaster pistol. It is the Mandalorian’s own weapon, removed from his holster when Maar examined him earlier. “Alright,” she says to the room at large as she fully enters, dressed in her sleeping robe. “Let’s all settle down. Blood isn’t an easy stain to clean and I’d prefer it if none was spilt.”

You see the moment the Mandalorian decides to comply, shoulders loosening beneath the pauldrons and stance shifting from defensive to neutral, as he processes he doesn’t need to fight his way out of here. The vibroblade is sheathed within his right boot in one fluid motion and it is startling, truly, how quick he transforms from a dangerous threat to a potentially dangerous threat. 

Ahsoka is reluctant to yield, staring him up and down for a drawn out moment that does little to soothe your frayed nerves. Only when Maar pointedly clears her throat does your sister finally obey, straightening to full height with a hand propped on her hip, the picture perfect image of nonchalance. In another life she would have made a fantastic actress in a holovid drama.

“That’s better.” Maar nods, satisfied. “Now why don’t we—”

The Mandalorian moves so quickly that you jerk in anticipation of attack, eyes widening to the size of moons as you watch the pistol fly out of Maar’s hand and straight into his outstretched one. Your lungs seize up, a single thought flashing through your mind. This is it, the moment we all die. 

Except instead of shooting, he re-engages the safety mechanism and promptly holsters the gun at his side where it belonged. Without saying anything.

Ahsoka’s slack-jawed expression would have been comical if it hadn’t matched your own stunned face. Even Maar, who has witnessed over fifty years worth of shocking spectacles, looks awed by the unexpected display. 

You recover first, somehow managing to piece together the right words to ask a coherent question. “Are you a Jedi?”

It is only because you are staring directly at him that you notice the virtually imperceptible tilting of his head. “I’m a Mandalorian,” he answers bluntly, oblivious to how your heart skips a beat. “Weapons are part of my religion. It’s important to earn their trust.” He addresses Maar then, adding, “Especially if they’re stolen from us.”

His baritone voice has changed from when he spoke on the ship. Without the exhaustion wrapped around his vocal chords you are able to hear his normal timbre. Due to the modulator in his helmet, it has a husky quality, an intriguing mix of smoke and honey. But that is not what has your montrals prickling and your spine straightening. 

“I disarm all my patients,” Maar replies, back to being her cool, calm, and collected self. “I would have given it back—”

“How old are you?” 

You don’t realize you have spoken until two pairs of eyes and an expressionless visor look at you. 

The Mandalorian’s fingers curl and uncurl at his sides once, twice. “Nineteen,” he answers after a few seconds of lapsing silence.

“Oh Ai,” Maar murmurs, vocalizing your own thoughts.

All this time you have been thinking of the Mandalorian as a man beneath the amor. A hardened and seasoned fighter who has seen a lifetime of bloodshed and violence. But the reality is he is only two years older than you. Standing right on that thin, blurry line between being seen as a teenager and being considered an adult. 

“Who are you?” the Mandalorian asks, glancing first at you then your sister and back to Maar. Frustration and wariness blend together, sharpening his voice. “Why am I here? What happened?”

Ahsoka meets your eye with a question in her gaze, one you don’t have the answer for: where do we even begin?

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[just-dreaming-marvel]

Love and Medicine ~ 1

MASTERLIST

Word Count: 2,300ish

Summary: You begin your intern year at Avengers Medical Center

You let out a little groan as you turned around. You immediately knew you were naked as the cold wood floor sent chills down your bare body. Slowly opening your eyes, you took in your surroundings. You were home, in the house you had just inherited, boxes still pilled high around the living room you were laying in. Suddenly, someone else groaned beside you. You teased, clenching your eyes shut. The headache you had been ignoring since you woke finally broke free and you realized that your late night drunkenness must have caused you to bring a guy home.

You let out a long breath as you reopened your eyes and looked over at the hopefully-still-asleep man beside you. He wasn’t bad looking at all. You had really done well. He was blonde with a chiseled body. He had to have been at least six foot, which didn’t hurt. He was naked though, all out in the open on your living room floor. Cringing, you sat up, pulling one blanket from the couch to quickly cover yourself before standing and pulling one over him. You stood up silently, and began making your way out of the room. It was your first day of your intern year as a doctor, you couldn’t afford to be late.

You successfully made it to the doorway of the living room without a sound before the floorboard beneath you creaked. You should there, frozen, closing your eyes in hopes that the man sleeping behind you wouldn’t wake. You could hear him turn over, letting a small moan out of his mouth. Waiting a few more seconds, you started going again.

“You know…” the man started, clearly in his morning voice, “it’s usually rude to disappear on someone after spending a night with them.”

You quickly spun around to see him, still laying on his stomach, looking up at you with a sly grin.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “it’s my house, so it’s not that rude.”

He stood up, not grabbing the blanket as quick as he should have, letting you have another look at him. When you met his eyes again, it was clear that you had been caught staring and that he was enjoying it.

“Why the rush to silently get out of here?” He asked, tucking the blanket around his waist. “Have a husband or a boyfriend you have to hurry and get ready for?”

“Neither,” you responded, tightening your hold on the blanket covering you. “I’m running late for my first day of work. So, if we’re done here, you should go.”

“We don’t have to be done here.”

“I think we do.” You kicked up his shirt, grabbing it, and throwing him at it. “You need to go.” He caught his shirt, slipping it on slowly over his clear cut abs. “So, um, goodbye… um…”

“Steve,” he reached his hand out.

“Steve. Right,” you shook his hand. “Y/N.”

“Y/N.” He smiled. It almost took your breath away, but you couldn’t let it show.

“Yeah.”

“Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah. Bye, Steve.”

You fled up the stairs, hoping that by the time you were done getting ready, Steve would be gone.

~~~

You made it to the Avengers Medical Center just in time to meet up with the other interns in your year. The Chief of Surgery, Dr. Nicholas J. Fury, was leading a small tour to the ORs. He started talking as the interns took in the OR.

“Each of you comes here hopeful. Wanting in on the game. A month ago you were in med school being taught by doctors. Today, you are the doctors,” Fury stated. “The seven years you spend here as a surgical resident will be the best and worst of your life. You will be pushed to the breaking point. Look around you. Say hello to your competition. Eight of you will switch to an easier specialty. Five of you will crack under the pressure. Two of you will be asked to leave. This is your starting line. This is your arena. How well you play? That's up to you.”

He then told each of the interns which resident they were assigned to. You got Dr. Gamora. All of the interns were then taken to the locker room, where each of you were assigned a locker and given scrubs to change into and start your long day.

“Only ten women out of thirty,” you muttered as you slipped your scrubs on.

“Yeah,” the woman with fiery red hair next to you responded. “I heard that one of them was a model. Seriously, like that’s going to help with the respect thing?”

“You’re Natasha, right?”

She nodded. “You’re Y/N?”

“Mhm,” you hummed.

“Which resident did you get assigned to? I got Gamora.”

“Me too.”

“You got Gamora?” A male intern repeated beside you. “So did I. At least we’ll all be tortured together, right? I’m Clint Barton, uh, we met at the mixer. You had a dress with a slit up the side, those shiny heels…” You and Natasha exchanged looks. “Now you think I’m gay.”

“Uh-huh,” Natasha hummed, heading out the door.

“No, I’m not gay! It’s, ah, it’s just that, you know, you were, I mean… You were very unforgettable,” Clint rambled as you both followed after Natasha. You shot him a sympathetic smile before hurrying to catch up with Natasha. “And I’m totally forgettable.”

“Barton, L/N, Romanoff, Valkyrie, Lang,” a doctor called at the door way.

“Gamora?” Natasha questioned that doctor that called you.

“End of the hall.”

The five of you that were called began walking. At the end of the hall, you saw a pretty woman working on paperwork. She didn’t look as threatening as you had heard she was.

“That’s Dr. Gamora?” Natasha wondered.

“From what I heard, I thought she’d look scarier,” the other male in your group of five said. You guessed it was Scott Lang.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “I thought she’d be… well, bigger.”

“Same,” you added.

“Maybe it’s professional jealousy,” a woman in your group suggested, Valkyrie, you presumed. “Maybe she’s brilliant, and they say things about her because they’re jealous. Maybe she’s really nice.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re the model,” Natasha said.

“Wait…” Clint said, looking at Nat. “I thought you were the model.”

Valkyrie shot Natasha a look before turning to Dr. Gamora with an extended hand. “Hi, I’m Valkyrie, but everyone calls me Val.”

Gamora looked her up and down, not even moving to shake Val’s hand. “I have five rules,” Gamora stated, clearly unimpressed already. “Rule number one, don’t bother sucking up, I already hate all of you, that’s not gonna change.” She turned and pointed to things on the counter. “Trauma protocol, phone lists, pagers. Nurses will page you, you answer every page at a run. A run, that's rule number two. Your first shift starts now and lasts forty-eight hours.” 

Gamora began walking away with you and the others quickly following, after each of you have grabbed the things off the counter. 

“You’re interns, grunts, nobodies, bottom of the surgical food chain, you run labs, write orders, work every second night till you drop and don’t complain!” She continued. Gamora led you to a door, opening it to reveal a room with bunk beds. “On call rooms. Attendings hog them, sleep when you can, where you can, which brings me to rule number three, if I'm sleeping, don't wake me, unless your patient is actually dying. Rule number four, the dying patient better not be dead when I get there, not only would you have killed someone, you would have also woke me for no good reason, we clear?” There was a brief pause before you nervously raised your hand. “Yes.”

“You said five rules,” you tried to hold back a cringe as you spoke up. “That was only four.”

Suddenly, Gamora’s pager beeped. “Rule number five. When I move, you move.” She ran down the corridor, followed by you and the other interns. “Get out of my way!” She yelled at a few doctor’s blocking the hallway.

You had the others followed Gamora to the ER. There was a bustling trauma room that the six of you entered. There was a young female on the stretcher, already being hooked to the machines.

“What’ve we got?” Gamora asked.

“Savannah Chase, fifteen year old female,” the paramedic still in the room stated. “New onset seizures, intermittent for the past week. ID lost en route. Started gran mal seizing when the ambulance pulled up.”

“Alright, get her on her side, Val, ten milligrams Diazepam.” Val started to do as she was directed while the rest of you watched. “No, no, the white lead is on the right, righty whitey, smoke over fire, a large bore IV. Don’t let the blood haemolyse, let’s go!”

Val injected the young woman with the diazepam and she stopped seizing. A new Doctor entered the room.

“So I heard we got a wet fish on dry land?” The man asked.

“Absolutely Dr. Banner,” Gamora responded.

“Dr. Gamora, I’m gonna shotgun her.”

“That means every test in the book, CT, CBC, chem seven, a tox screen,” Gamora clarified for the interns. “Natasha, you’re on labs, Clint, patient workups, Y/N, get Savannah for a CT, she’s your responsibility now.” Gamora began to walk away.

“Wait,” both Val and Lang called out. Gamora turned back around.

“What about us?” Val asked.

“You two—honey, you get to do rectal exams.”

~~~

You were currently in an elevator with Savannah, the patient, trying to find your way to CT. Since it was your first day at the medical center, you didn’t know where anything was and you were too stubborn to ask.

“You’re lost,” Savannah stated.

“I’m not lost,” you defended. “How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling? I’m missing my pageant.”

“You’re missing your pageant.” You wheeled her out of the elevator and around a corner, still not knowing where you were headed.

“The Manhattan Teen Miss? I was in the top ten after the first two rounds. This is my year. I could’ve won.” Savannah sat up as she was wheeled back around the same way. “Hello? You’re so lost. What are you, like, new?”

“I’m— just tell me what happened.”

“I twisted my ankle. I do rhythmic gymnastics, which is like, really cool. Nobody else does it. And I tripped over my ribbon, and I didn't get stuck with someone this clueless. And that was like, a nurse.”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to be over-the-line rude to a patient on your first day. It took you almost another forty five minutes to find CT. You helped her with the scan before taking her back to a room. Before you knew it, it was lunch time. You grabbed some food from the cafeteria, finding your group of interns alone at a table.

“Savannah Chase is a pain in the ass,” you grumbled as you sat down with your tray. “If I hadn't taken the Hippocratic oath, I'd Kevorkian her with my bare hands.” The others around her just stared. “What?”

“Good afternoon interns,” a new doctor came up. “I’m Dr. Maria Hill. It’s posted, but I thought I’d share the good news personally. As you know, the honor of performing the first surgery is reserved for the intern that shows the most promise. As I’m running the OR today, I get to make that choice. I’ve been watching you all and I have to say, you’re all something. The intern I’ve chosen is, Scott Lang.”

Scott coughed up the drink he had been taking. “M-me?” He questioned.

“You’ll scrub in for an appendectomy this afternoon. Congratulations.” Then she left.

“Did she say me?”

“I can’t believe you were chosen over me,” Natasha grumbled. “It’s already clear that I’m a better surgeon that you.”

“Did she say… I’m sorry. What?”

~~~

After lunch, you went back to Savannah’s room to take care of her. As you did, a man and a woman, not doctors, came in.

“Savannah, honey, mom and dad are here,” the woman said, coming over to Savannah’s bedside.

“They gave her a sedative for the CT scan, so she’s a little groggy,” you informed them.

“Will she be alright?” The mother asked.

“Our doctor at home said she might need an operation, is that true?” The father wondered.

“What kind of operation?”

“She’s, um, well, you know what,” you tried your best to sound professional through your nervous stuttering, “I’m not, I’m not the doctor, uh. I am a doctor, but I’m not Savannah’s doctor, so I’ll go get him for you.”

You quickly left the room to go find Gamora. Thankfully, she was at the nurses desk just outside of the room. You hurried over but were too nervous to start speaking.

“What?” Gamora questioned, not looking up from the paperwork she was doing.

“Savannah’s parent’s have questions,” you responded. “Do you talk to them, or do I ask Banner?”

“No, Banner’s off of the case. Savannah belongs to the new attending now, Dr. Rogers, he’s over there.”

You follow in the direction that Gamora gestured to. You only made it a few steps before freezing. The man Gamora gestured to was talking to another doctor. But that wasn’t the reason you froze. Dr. Rogers was none other than your one night stand, Steve. Your eyes widened and you turned to go, but it was too late. Steve glanced your way, having to do a double take. You quickly left, feeling his eyes on the back of you.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

next chapter >

NOTES: Yes, this has been posted before, but I deleted it. I’m trying again. From now on the taglist when be added by a reblog. I will reblog it using my second account, @just-dreaming-marvel-2​. Just so that my main page doesn’t get too cluttered.

If you want to be added to the tag list, please dm me or send in an ask.

[givemeweasley]

Back To You

Fred Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: fluff and angst (sorry bout that), there’s also mentions of death

A/N: this ones not as long but I’m currently reading Deathly Hollows (yes I know what happens unfortunately) and I had to write this out because I couldn’t focus until it was. 

Back To You pt. 2

-----

“I don’t think you should come.” Fred sighed, crossing his arms.

 You were both sitting on Freds bed at the Burrow the day before you were going to be sent to take Harry. The other Weasleys were running around pretending not to want to listen in on your conversation. The only one who was genuinely busy was Mrs. Weasley in preparation for Fleur and Bills wedding in five days. 

“Fred, I’m not crazy about the idea either. But, Harry is our friend.” You tried to get Fred to meet your eyes, but he was determined to stare out the window.

“Mundungus could take your spot-”

“No one trusts him. There’s no point in risking it, especially when I’m here and willing to do it.” 

Fred uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his already messy hair. He stood up, beginning to pace the small room. “I don’t like it, Y/N.” His footsteps echoed. “It already feels like half the Weasleys are going and that just means less could come back.” 

He stopped and looked at you. “If you didn’t come back-”

You abruptly stood and gripped Fred’s cheeks between your palms. “Fred Weasley.” You licked your lips. “When have I ever not come back to you, Freddie?” Fred relaxed a fraction and closed his eyes. Your hands lowered and came to wrap around his midsection as his arms wrapped around your shoulders. 

“Never, love.” He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Just don’t start now.” Fred’s kisses started to lower. From your forehead, down until he reached your lips. You groaned against his mouth as he started to back you both up towards the bed. 

You began to laugh against his lips. “Fred-” You mumbled. “Fred!” You pulled away still giggling. But Fred wasn’t listening, he just fastened his lips to your neck and pushed you back onto his childhood bed. He climbed on top of you and swept down to kiss you again. Only your hands pressed against his chest pushing him away stopped him.

“What, woman? Can I not kiss my beautiful girlfriend?” The bastard was smirking. 

“Not if it leads to… things when your family is in the house!” You squealed as Fred pushed your hands aside and continued to kiss your neck, moving down to your collarbone. “Fred…” You groaned again.

 His lips left you for only a second as he looked up and smirked. He pulled out his hand and pointed it at the door without looking at it. “Muffliato!” He winked. “Problem solved.”

The complaints stopped pretty quickly after that. 

-----

You rode on the back of Mad-Eye’s broom with him. Your heart was pounding as your arms were wrapped tightly around Mad-Eye’s waist. Fear had been a pretty daily companion for a while now. Ever since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came back. You couldn’t help but think about all the outcomes of the night. There were a lot of different combinations of who could die and who could live. Even you knew it was unlikely that you all came out of this unscathed. As long as Harry made it back safe, that was all you cared about. 

Well, that was a lie. 

You wanted everyone back safe, even at the cost of your own life. You knew that much. Especially Fred. You knew you couldn’t live without Fred, but you knew Fred would be alright without you. Not that you intended on dying that night. 

Did anyone ever intend on dying? 

You ignored that thought. 

Finally, Mad-Eye landed the both of you in front of 4 Privet Drive. Everyone hopped off their brooms or Thestral while Hagrid jumped from his motorbike. The lot of you strode inside, finally getting the chance to see where it was Harry grew up. Well, at least for you it was the first time.

 Fred immediately came to stand by your side, his hand wrapping around yours as Mad-Eye explained the plan to Harry. It was no surprise when he didn’t like it. “If you think I’m going to let six people risk their lives-” Harry started.

“-because it’s the first time for all of us.” Ron replied rolling his eyes.

Fred leaned down to whisper in your ear. “You’d think after a time or two he’d get used to the fact that we’re helping him of our own free will.” 

You tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Would you?” Fred held his tongue at your response, choosing instead to respond to George’s comment.

“Yeah, thirteen of us against one bloke who’s not allowed to use magic; we’ve got no chance.” Fred said, attempting to keep a straight face. You sent an elbow into his side that caused him to laugh rather than grimace. 

With a bit more arguing, Harry finally conceded and pulled out some of his hair for the Polyjuice Potion. Each of you received a small teacup filled with the golden substance. Before you knocked yours back you grabbed Fred by the collar and pulled him down to meet your lips. 

“Sorry.” You shrugged. “I didn’t want to have to kiss Harry as Harry.” Fred only laughed before drinking his, so you followed suit. The potion didn’t taste bad, surprisingly, it tasted like chocolate frogs.

 Suddenly, you felt your limbs grow and stretch. You hair warped and changed as you slowly became Harry Potter. You shifted from foot to foot feeling out your new body. You looked at Fred, who now looked like Harry. Then at George, who was also Harry. 

The both of them laughed before saying at the same time, “Wow- we’re identical!” 

You had to slap your hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. 

“I dunno, though, I think I’m still better-looking.” Fred winked over at you. 

“Psh, George looks pretty dashing if I may say so.” You raised a brow as George shot Fred a smug look.

“Can’t disagree with your girlfriend there.”

With that, Mad-Eye was shoving a bag of clothes at the group of Harrys. You grabbed a random t-shirt and jeans and did your best to preserve Harry’s modesty. Plus, you really didn’t want to have that image scarred in your brain anymore than he wanted all his friends to know what his junk looked like. 

With everyone changed, Moody began dividing everyone up. You were to go with him. Fred with Mr. Weasley. Harry with Hagrid. 

When the time finally came, you all piled outside and got into position. You frantically searched for Fred’s gaze, even behind Harrys eyes.

 Luckily, he was already looking at you.

I love you. He mouthed.

Stay safe, Freddie. You mouthed back.

 And with that, you all shot into the sky. If your grip on Moody had been tight before, it was nothing compared to now. 

“Don’t worry, Potter. We’ll make it alright.” Mad-Eye said over the wind. You pursed your lips, a tight feeling in your gut. But he was right. The first few minutes of flying was peaceful. 

Until they weren’t.

Out of nowhere Death Eaters were circling you. 

Voldemort in the middle.

 Moody took off like a lightning bolt, you whipped out your wand and began to shout spells left and right. Barely aware of what was coming out of your mouth. You thanked Godric for the DA meetings which left you more equipped than you would’ve been otherwise.

“Impedimenta! Impedimenta! Petrificus Totalus!” You shouted pointing your wand in the direction the Death Eaters seemed to be. Fear raced through every vein in your body as flashes of green and red shot out all around you.

 You could hear Mad-Eye shouting curses and jinxes at the Death Eaters. You knew it was fruitless, when you turned to see Voldemort pointing his wand at you. 

“Avada Kedavra!” His voice hissed, the green light flashing towards you. Time slowed in that moment. 

You could see the green spell slowly making its way to you. But before it reached you, an unexplainable pain seized your body. You tipped backwards off the broom as your body shook with pain. You could barely focus as you watched the green light hit Mad-Eye. 

And then as if someone had hit play, everything came back in motion. Voldemort and the Death-Eaters disappeared all at once as you saw Moody’s body falling alongside you. You were screaming. The Cruciatus curse was reeking havoc on every inch of your body, yet it didn’t compare to the sight of dead Moody falling with you thousands of feet to the ground below. You knew you would die. But your fingers were still tightly gripping your wand. You had maybe seconds before you hit the ground. 

Fighting against the grinding of your teeth from pain, you spat. “Protego!” In hopes that it would shield you from the ground. It was your only hope.

 As you slammed into the shield, you almost blacked out. You managed to mutter one more spell before you left the world. 

Your last thoughts were on a boy with beautiful red hair and kind brown eyes, whom you loved more than anyone in the world.

-----

Bill and Fleur stumbled in at last. Mr. Weasley ran over to check up on them. But Bill looked pale and shook his head.

“Mad-Eye is dead.” Bill choked out. Fred and George stopped laughing.

 Fred stood up from his brothers side. Bill seemed not to want to meet his eyes. His head hung. 

Fred opened his mouth, but no words came out. Mr. Weasley seemed to understand his dilemma, swallowing, and asked the question no one else seemed to want to ask. 

“And Y/N?” 

Fleur released a wretched sob and clung to Bill's arm. Bill only shook his head.

 No one seemed to want to look at Fred who was still standing. George attempted to sit up and grab Fred's hand, but Fred’s hand just hung limply in his brother's firm grip. 

“What happened?” Mr. Weasley choked out. 

Bill cleared his throat. “They appeared out of nowhere. Y/N and Moody started firing of spells and jinxes when Voldemort aimed a the killing curse at Y/N-”

Fred collapsed to his knees, but Bill pressed on.

“But another Death Eater hit her with the Cruciatus curse and she fell off the broom. The Killing curse hit Moody who then fell off the broom with her. I- I tried to see if she was still alive-” 

“‘Zey were everywhere.” Fleur mumbled, still wiping tears from her eyes. “I ‘eard her scream cut off when she ‘it za ground.” Fleur stared at the floor like she would be hearing that sound as long as she lived. 

“No.” Fred groaned from the floor, his hands pressed over his temples as he gripped his hair seemingly on the verge of tearing it out. “No.” His cry felt as if someone's heart had been torn out of their chest and crushed. Which was very likely how Fred felt. Tears began to fall from his eyes as he sobbed openly on the floor of the living room.

 Mr. and Mrs. Weasley converged around him almost immediately. But before they could wrap their arms around him, his head snapped up. His eyes were red, his face contorted into one of absolute agony. 

“Why didn’t you go back for her?!” Fred shouted, his voice cracking. “She could’ve been alive-” But his voice broke under the weight of his cries. 

Mr. Weasley wrapped his arms around his shaking son, as George looked on helplessly from the couch. “Fred, there was nothing they could’ve done.” Mr. Weasley mumbled quietly. 

But Fred could only cry and moan in pain. After a few minutes, George couldn’t stand it and despite the pain, shifted off the couch and pushed his parents aside as he pulled Fred into his embrace. Fred and George sat there clinging to each other as they both cried for the girl Fred was in love with. For the girl that died.

 -----

Fred had been doing nothing but laying in bed for four days. He knew Fleur and Bills wedding was the next day, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be excited about anything at the moment. His chest felt empty. He should be glad no one else died. That’s what he kept trying to tell himself, but to no avail.

 It’s not fair. 

She said she would always come back to me. 

Fred tried desperately to cry, but his tear ducts were dry. He was all cried out, it would seem. Every now and then, someone would stop by and knock on his door to make sure he was alright. But Fred couldn’t answer.

 He could barely talk to George.

 A loud commotion rang out from the living room beneath him. Fred simply turned over on his bed, facing away from the door. Fred couldn’t take another guest for the wedding. Not now. Not when the very thought of marriage made him sick. 

But the voices were slowly becoming more frantic and clearer. 

“Wait!” His mothers voice rang the clearest. “Please, dear! You shouldn't be-”

 A knock resounded on his door. 

He ignored it.

The knock sounded again.

 “Dear!” His mothers voice called.

A loud thud echoed into his room from the hall. Fred whipped out of his bed, wanting to know what was so important they had to bother him. Fred wrenched his bedroom door open to see practically the entire Weasley household a few feet back from his door crammed into the hall glancing from him to the floor in front of him. Fred furrowed his brow. 

A hand gripped his ankle. 

He looked down and tears gathered in his eyes. 

“Told you I’d always come back to you, Freddie.” 

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