#either to old age or got killed

[ivyllamauwu]

Sometimes I forget that there’s only a 1cm difference in hight😭 (You’re short Lancelot, Tristan isn’t short though you are)

[beaulesbian]

They may call it a Summer palace, but it’s actually three different structures joined together. The cathedral is at the top. No way in there except from the palace itself. Below that, the whole place is a maze of secret passages, easy to get lost in. And it’s all built atop a sealed temple to the Old Gods.

[in-tua-deep]

had some very plot-y dreams last night!

I was an alien who was disguised as a human. I think I had come to earth as some kind of invading force years and years ago - my lifespan was pretty long actually, so I was only about the equivalent of my early 20s still but I'd been on earth long enough that I looked more middle-aged.

Which was appropriate, because the reason I had bailed/was in hiding is because I had fallen in love with my beautiful wife. She had died, so I was raising our half-alien son by myself and was probably the definition of Overprotective Parent

I never saw what I looked like, but there was a point in the dream where my son was in his alien form. It was actually very beautiful - he looked like he was made of colorful gemstones or glass rather than flesh and blood

But the whole dream's plot hinged on me finding what was apparently some kind of like, alien rehabilitation program where they took someone and made them human and made them experience life as a human as some kind of penance/rehab?

And there was a dude who I recognized as like. a Big Bad species, that I was CONVINCED had a) no ability to feel remorse, b) would indiscriminately kill everyone, and c) was very very dangerous and also in the same town as my son

so I started like, hanging around?? To try and catch this dude being Evil and also making sure everyone was staying The Fuck Away from my kid, right? except this dude just kind of. didn't do anything evil. stone cold poker face and no showing emotions, but no like, killing or anything

at some point into this dream, we find out about a bomb that is under the chair of one of the group, which consists of me, This Guy, and some squishy humans. My goal is to make sure that if the bomb goes off, it goes off with the other alien bc his species is very invulnerable to things like that

long story short, I ended up with the bomb and driving away and got. really really hurt. and the evil alien? he ran over, covered my wounded body with his own, and someone transferred half of my wounds to him and in doing so he saved my life

so... not as evil (or as emotionless) as I thought, clearly

The rest is fuzzy, but I know I let him see that I had a son at one point, though I didn't directly introduce them.

Honestly the whole dream kind of felt like it had a vague enemies to friends to lovers plot going on as we both explored more of his background and history and emotions, and as we revealed the fact that I had once been kind of a bad guy honestly before falling in love with my wife.

something something, second chances

then i had an entirely different dream where I was a princess who accidentally defeated a dragon and bound him to me in human form lol

[ghoul--doodle]

is there a story behind the Phoenix family sword? has it always been in the family or did something happen for em to get it? :D

It hasn’t always been in the family but it has been there for a long time- it started as more of a ceremonial thing! Something for the next head of the family to inherit when the old one passed

But as it passed through the generations it started to change shape and form and the family started to notice the blade having its own properties and abilities- and they especially started to notice it responded to other members of the family better than others or that it wouldn’t respond to some people at all

It sort of gains power through the generations, which is why at some point it became mandatory to pass the blade on before the current head of the family dies, when their kids are of age (if that makes sense)

They wanted to pass it on faster, so it could gain power faster basically

No one knows particularly why the blade started doing what it does, but it’s never negatively affected anyone who’s held it in any case

[gyubby99]

@disneyanddisneyships hear me out

[featherymainffins]

I think it's a hatecrime against me that there aren't any slugs as big as the giant African snail. Why do the snails get to have all the fun I just want a giant slime noodle.

[coffinwoodx]

okey so basically there's gonna be a lot more tf2 on my blog if you haven't already noticed

[shotmrmiller]

single dad simon not knowing how to be a dad. not his thing. doesn't get it. hand him a gun and he can take it apart and put it back together in his sleep. but a diaper? formula? baby food??? knows next to nothing.

so you see him, miserable old man with sunken dark eyes, hunched shoulders and a screaming baby at his doorstep with groceries in his hand and decide to help. (besides, you're also suffering with a lack of proper sleep)

he's not a good dad but he's a protective one. he's at your throat in an instant, baby in arm almost behind his back, ready to sink his teeth into your jugular. you squeak out that you're a part time babysitter. you can help. you've got the most experience with babies her age.

you keep your eyes on him, tired eyes now sharp as flint. it's scary how quickly he'd moved. footsteps barely a whisper. his breath chills your skin.

threatens you with your life if so much as a hair on her head is hurt. he must be really tired if he's willing to accept help being this defensive.

you take the chunky babe and bounce her as he opens the door to his flat. you don't dislike kids but you're not their biggest fan either. babysitting is just a means to an end. easy money that goes toward your tuition.

simon, you come to learn, doesn't care. he thinks you're the missing parent. he doesn't ask you if you can help watch over the child. simply knocks on your door and hands her to you with the diaper bag. mutters that he'll be back and with food.

he helps himself to your couch when you tell him that the baby is asleep. takes off his shoes and is snoring in seconds. simon also doesn't help the rumors going around the building. "a terrible parent, you are. how could you abandon your baby and husband? he's been struggling for months!"

simon leaves you sputtering when he tells them to stop talking about his missus like that or he'll kill them in their sleep. burp the baby, pet, or she'll keep us up all night.

at least he pays well :/

(if you go out for a friends night, which he will drop you off so stop talking about uber, he's telling you to go say goodbye to our baby who happens to be asleep in her crib and if you're wearing a short little number he's gonna watch you bend over to kiss her fat little cheek before he takes you to the bathroom to eat it from the back and is sending you to his car with trembling legs and a slap to your arse. don't look so tasty next time idk)

[gutsby]

Homemade

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky sex tape fun with dbf!Joel ;-) Unprotected p-in-v. Age gap. Daddy kink. Facefucking. Joel being the world’s worst cameraman. Shower sex. Overstimulation via adjustable shower head. Dirty talk. Screaming ‘daddy’ too loud, and your father shows up.

Translations: In Chile, pico is slang for penis. Joel’s is big.

Part of the Waiting Game series

“If this ever ends up on PornHub, I’ll kill you, Miller.”

Joel knew you meant it, too.

The only reason you’d agreed to make this dumb little ‘home video’ at all was because you were headed back to college tomorrow and wouldn’t see him again until May. Doing long distance was tough, but doing long distance while simultaneously trying to keep a risqué, torrid, and totally-not-age-appropriate love affair with your father’s best friend under wraps was infinitely more difficult. This was the safest way to keep desire alive in the meantime.

Immortalized on a Sony CCD-TR70—because neither one of you trusted iCloud to keep a sex tape secret.

It had also been the only video camera you could find in the closet before your dad had plopped down on the couch just outside your room and announced he would be watching Oppenheimer for the third time. You’d had to scurry off fast before he could invite you to join him.

“I’ll be damned—this thing’s gotta be as old as I am,” Joel mused as he stood at the foot of the bed, camcorder pointed at your semi-nude form.

“I didn’t know they had cameras back in the Stone Age.”

Your smirk didn't flinch, even when Joel flipped you off.

You were lying on your side, head propped up on one hand while the other picked at a few loose strings from the comforter. The lacy, pastel pink bustier holding your tits in place was currently making breathing feel like a chore, and your skin was on fire from the warmth of the room, but you tried not to show it. Joel twisted a dial.

“Alright, now...flash ‘em for daddy,” he grinned as soon as the lens focused in where he wanted: your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes.

“A little closer, please,” you said, patting the space in front of you.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. With one hand still cradling the camera, he clambered over the bed so fast he nearly tripped and took a nosedive in the headboard. You had to cover your mouth to contain a shriek of laughter—and terror—as his frame barreled into yours.

“JOEL!”

Fortunately, your cameraman was quick to recollect himself, planting a knee on either side of your chest once he’d knocked you onto your back. Then, from above, he angled the grey-black hunk of metal just a foot away:

“Anything you’d like to say to the folks watching at home, ma’am?” Joel inquired, suddenly assuming all the poise and matter-of-fact elocution of a news reporter.

You stuck your tongue out at the camera and blew the wettest, fattest raspberry you could muster in response.

Joel hummed, zoomed in on your lips, and nodded.

“Fascinating,” he said, pretending to make sense of the fart noise you’d just made with your mouth, “Have you ever given thought to maybe...sucking cock on camera?”

The swiftness with which he was able to dodge your kick was remarkable. He swayed the camera just out of reach before you could shove it away and say, ‘Joel, quit being GROSS’ and he promptly replied, ‘Ain’t that the whole point of a sex tape, sweet pea? Bein’ a little bit gross?’ And you playfully tried to kick him again, only this time, he caught your foot and yanked you closer to him. He turned the camcorder back to your face and grinned.

“That’s my little pornstar,” he murmured with affection. Then, zooming in again, this time to find your panty line, “Riiiiight there.”

You knew giving Joel Miller recording privileges for an occasion as momentous as this was a bad idea. At the rate you were going now, you’d be seeing the sunrise through the window before you ever got a glimpse of his dick. You needed to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

You crawled on all fours to get to Joel across the bed.

The man, kneeling with the camera pointed in your direction, looked up to cock a brow at you.

“Sweetheart, hey, can ya do that one more—”

“Hush,” you muttered, closing in on his crotch. 

Your head was lowered so you could undo the front of his jeans. Because of this, your back was arched, and your ass was pointed up just the slightest bit. For a second, Joel seemed torn between tilting the lens to your lower half or your face, which was inching ever closer to the bulge in his trousers. In time, he landed on the latter.

He swallowed. That sight never got old—and seeing it displayed on the camcorder’s semi-grainy screen only made it that much hotter. Joel shifted on his knees while you worked him out of his boxers, watching the nimble movements of your fingers as you wrestled the fabric.

“Wanna—” Glancing to the side of the bed, “—maybe—”

“Yup.”

Both of you liked it better on the floor: you on your knees in front of Joel, chin tilted up to see his reactions as you sucked him off. You loved to sink between his legs and then see and feel nothing but him, brain going blank the moment his cock filled your mouth. Joel slid a pillow under your knees before widening his stance some.

“Is it on?” Your hand was wrapped firmly around the base of his cock and your lips were hovering an inch from the tip. You resisted the urge to lick the precum off just yet.

“Darlin’, it’s been on ever since you stepped outta the bathroom in that— that—” Joel seemed to be searching for a word when the head of his cock was enveloped in a kiss. You dragged your tongue across the slit of him and collected the hot, salty beads with a muffled moan.

Then you pulled off.

“Teddy,” you said, reminding him of the name for that pretty little tulle and lace getup you currently had on.

“Teddy,” Joel echoed, his mind a million miles away from any lingerie jargon at the moment. He held the camera tighter as you took him back into your mouth and sank deeper on his cock. He struggled to keep it steady.

It was strange, watching Joel and the rounded glass of the lens as you did this dirty thing that was only meant to be shared between you and him. Knowing it would be recorded, saved for future viewing, displayed on some dimly lit screen in Joel’s bedroom maybe one, twice, or more likely than not, several dozen times over the next three months. You wondered how you might look from this new point of view; though, you weren’t so sure you needed to know what sight Joel was made privy to while you sucked and hollowed your cheeks around his cock.

As it turned out, that uncertainty wasn’t meant to last you very long, because Joel flipped the camera’s screen around two seconds later. Some sepia-tinted, pixelated rendition of your face, framed by the date and time and a bright red flashing dot beside the word ‘REC’ were the first to greet you. You flinched back just a little.

“Joel,” you said, almost bashful, “Flip it back.”

Joel just grinned. Then he laced his fingers through your hair and tugged you closer to him, thumb stroking over your scalp, “C’mon, darlin’, don’t ya wanna see how goddamn pretty ya look on your knees for me?”

You didn’t think you looked pretty at all. In fact, you reckoned your features looked something more like an alien utility funnel than a real, human face as you tilted your chin inward and seemed to be nothing but eyes and a hollowed-out expression, but you let Joel guide you back onto him all the same. You heard a low rumble of pleasure take shape in his chest as your lips slid over his shaft. Your gaze remained glued to the screen as you did.

Wet with saliva and a few faint traces of precum, you continued to bob your head up and down. Joel’s groans grew louder, and your drive to take him further and further surged as well. By the time his hand was tightening into a white-knuckled fist in your hair, you’d nearly taken him all the way to the back of your throat, and your nose was no more than an inch from the soft tufts of hair on his belly. Joel let out a shuttering breath.

“Fuck me,” he heaved. You might’ve smiled if your lips weren’t otherwise occupied. Then he clenched his hand even harder and murmured, “Can you— can I, please—”

Again, you didn’t need him to finish the rest of the question to know what he wanted. You moved your head back just slightly to nod, a low, ‘Mhmm’ reverberating down the length of his dick as you gave him permission. Joel swallowed and set the camera aside immediately.

He placed it on the nightstand, perfectly level with your head, to the side. Then he rotated the device just a bit, took one glance at the screen, and shortly returned to where you were watching him with wide, glossy eyes.

“Ready?” he asked. His right hand now joined the left at the back of your head, but not before thumbing a quick touch over your cheek to get a feel for your approval.

You hummed once more. You watched Joel’s hips move forward, hands secure around your scalp all the while, and you felt a gentle nudge at the back of your throat. Then another. You couldn’t help the impulse to gag, but thankfully, it was short-lived. Joel peered down at you, eyes searching yours for any plea to stop or slow down, but he found nothing. He sheathed himself deeper until your lips were brushing the base of his dick. He groaned.

“That’s a good…fuckin’ girl,” he managed, voice strained, “Takin’ my cock so deep.”

He shifted his hips to move an inch or two out, then slid his cock forward again, bumping that spot at the top of your throat. This time, you were better adjusted to take him and felt your muscles expand and contract around him without activating your gag reflex. Your eyes stayed trained on his face while he dragged his cock back again.

“My pretty girl and her—” Joel stabbed back into you, somehow tender in the way he did it, “—pretty fuckin’ mouth…Sweet thing likes gettin’ facefucked, does she?”

With the increased pace of his thrusts and the grip he had on the sides of your head, you couldn’t quite answer, but Joel could tell from the glint in your eye that you loved when he manhandled and fucked your throat like this. Watched the light sear gently behind those irises as you swallowed every inch of his cock, back and forth, and let your brain break down to little more than a happy, mindless mush. Joel was always keen to oblige you on that front—aroused to no end at the sight of all your thoughts being fucked straight out of your head—and within the next few thrusts, his gut was giving a familiar clench. He pulled halfway out of your mouth, paused, felt the pinch again, then withdrew from your lips fully.

“Get on the bed.”

You straightened back up and made it over to the mattress, quickly. Before you could assume the position you’d been hoping to take on all fours, you felt yourself flipped on your back. Joel yanked your hips to the edge of the bed and kneeled down between your legs. Hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and had them shuffled down your thighs and past your ankles in no time at all. Then, when he lowered his lips to your wet, aching core, you pressed a touch to the crown of his head.

“Joel, wait,” you said. All of a sudden your chest felt tight.

In spite of the fact that your airways were open and completely free from any obstruction—namely, Joel’s big ol’ pico—you still found it difficult to inhale. Some murky, amorphous sense of anxiety weighed over your chest.

When your hand didn’t move from his head and instead pushed him further, Joel furrowed his brows, perplexed.

“What’s’a matter, darlin’?”

You shook your head, more to yourself than to him.

“I haven’t…just— haven’t washed down there today…o-or shaved,” you stammered, “Don’t want you to taste it.”

That was largely a lie. You’d bathed, shaved, and prepared for this just fine, but really were more concerned about the novel optics that loomed overhead. Being filmed in such a singularly vulnerable state without knowing how to act. You were fine when the attention was focused on Joel and his pleasure, but something about having your every whimper and moan laid bare before you on film felt daunting. Unnerving, in a way.

Joel frowned while rubbing your thigh. His brow pinched inward again, as if he were considering something.

Then he moved across your body, and your muscles eased with relief at the thought that he’d just let it go and get to fucking you exactly how you wanted. You reached for him, ready to wrap your legs around his waist, when a yelp clawed out of your throat. You found that you didn’t get to touch his chest, or his cheeks, or his big, broad, beefy shoulders, as you were promptly thrown over the latter of the three body parts and lifted when Joel stood up from the bed. He started carrying you across the room, heedless of the startled, ‘What the FUCK, Miller?’ you’d cried the second he took one step.

Hardwood floors transformed to tile before your eyes, and shortly, you realized you were being brought into your bathroom.

You heard the squeak of some metal knob being turned, then a brief sputter, then a spray of water raining down on your shower floor. You were still being held hostage over Joel’s shoulder, try as you might to bite at his lower back or smack his ass in an attempt to break loose.

He set you down a second later, seemingly unfazed.

“Get in.” He nodded toward the shower.

Before you had a chance to respond, he left. You stood back in disbelief—refusing to go into the shower and let Joel have his win—but just as you opened your mouth to call out and tell him as much, his form slipped back in through the door. Naked, now, and wielding that stupid, goddamned camcorder with a devious glint in his eye.

“Will you—” You held out a defensive hand in front of you, cheeks already heating, “—stop with that?!”

Secretly, the corners of your lips were fighting a smile as Joel drew closer with the camera held up to your face.

“There she is, folks,” he announced, as though speaking to a crowd, or else reading off of a script from the world’s most cheesy porno, “My dirty, dirty girl says she needs a shower—don’t ya, sweet pea?”

It sounded so ridiculous and dumb that neither one of you could keep from laughing. Even as you lifted your middle finger in response, Joel grinned and smacked your ass. Steadied the camera out in front, nudged you closer to the shower, and watched you somewhat begrudgingly obey his orders. Once you’d stripped what little remained on your body, you stepped into the tub.

Add to ‘ridiculous and dumb’ just wildly unsexy as well—who the hell needed a soapy interlude to a sex tape?

Joel Miller, apparently. He constricted his grip on the camera and followed you in, tongue already skimming the backs of his teeth in anticipation. You turned away to step under the shower’s stream, and he wasted no time getting a shot of your derrière. You leaned forward and sighed.

The water worked wonders to get your muscles to loosen some, but still, you were nervous. You could clean up now, stall a little longer, maybe even offer to give Joel head again—but what if he really wanted to eat you out on camera? You couldn’t put off the conversation forever.

Or another minute, it seemed.

You let out a shriek when you felt Joel’s fingers sneak up between your thighs. You hardly knew what he was doing, just folding limply when he spun you around to press your back against the shower wall. Your eyes widened to see him descending your body once more.

“I lied,” Joel said, smirk painted clear across his features, “You’re not dirty—I just wanted to eat your pussy in the shower ‘s’all.”

Chivalry was evidently alive and well in Austin, Texas.

No truer words could have been spoken, and yet, you felt wildly uncomfortable the second Joel’s head dipped between your legs and that big, dumb, handsome face started licking stripes up your sensitive core. You cast a glance to the side and saw the camcorder perched on the sink—just through the open slit in the shower curtain, you could see it pointed directly at you.

You shivered and started to push Joel away.

“Can we maybe just—”

“Sweetie?!”

Joel’s lips tore out of your cunt quicker than a sneeze through a screen door. His eyes were wide.

“Y-Yeah, dad?” you squeaked, tone almost fearful.

“Everything okay in here? I heard ya scream,” your dad returned shortly.

You could only imagine the expression of confusion and distress painting his every lineament in that moment. Probably just barely sticking his head through the crack in the door and blinking anxiously through the steam.

Your dad was caring like that.

He just never knew the right times to show up.

No, there were very few times where you would’ve liked to see him less—apart from that one time you’d sucked Joel’s dick under the table at your dad’s birthday dinner. Your heart was thudding a wild, erratic beat in your chest, and you could only imagine how Joel was feeling. Probably seeing visions of a Size 11 boot being shoved up his ass if his friend happened to slide the shower curtain to the side and see him nose-deep in his daughter’s box.

That would be bad. So very, very bad and probably ten times worse than when Tommy had caught you blowing his brother at the aforementioned birthday party. You just couldn’t seem to catch a break these days.

You sucked in a breath and answered anyway.

“I thought I saw a spider.”

“Really?” You could already sense the embittered tinge to your dad’s voice, harking back to the war he’d once declared on all wolf spiders in the home, “Want me to kill it?”

The next thing you heard was two boots thud on the bathroom floor outside the shower, and you could’ve sworn you saw Joel’s whole soul leap from his body. He shot a frantic look around him, spotted a window above, and seemed to wonder for half a second if he might be able to shimmy his 188-pound frame through a space that probably wasn’t big enough to fit a fat raccoon. He slumped his weight against the shower wall and winced.

“No! I— It wasn’t even a spider. Just a…roach.”

Shortly, Joel’s eyes widened even more and met yours, as if to ask, ‘Why the FUCK would you say that?’

“A roach?!” your dad cried simultaneously.

Apparently, you’d forgotten that any derivative of the word ‘cockroach’ was like a sleeper agent activation phrase for middle-aged fathers who wanted to keep their homes free of all household pests. The look on Joel’s haggard, world-weary face communicated as much to you, and for a second, you remembered that he, too, was built the same way as any other semi-old dude you knew.

Just bigger and beefier and…harder below the belt than you would’ve expected most men around his age to be.

You quickly chided yourself for ogling Joel’s dick at a time like this and replied to your father, shrill, “No!”

Then, slightly more composed, “No, no— I already took it out with some hairspray and told it to fuck off to hell.”

An attempt at humor was the last leg you had to stand on. Fortunately, it worked.

Outside the shower, your dad chuckled, and his footsteps started to shuffle off toward the door.

“Ah. Atta girl,” he beamed, ever the advocate for brutal cockroach killings, “If you see another, just holler, okay?”

“Okay.”

You heard the sound of the bathroom door closing, and you almost fell to the floor. Joel probably would’ve been facedown just as well—fear seeping out of his body along with every last ounce of willpower to stand—had he not made a dive for you as soon as your dad had left.

The force of his push sent you straight into the wall, legs forced to wrap around his waist as he buried his face in your neck.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“You’re welcome,” you murmured, swiping the water out of your eyes with a grimace.

Then, just as you were about to request that Joel lower you back down to the floor and out of the shower’s spray, you felt a nudge between your legs. Luckily not a tongue this time—just Joel, or the tip of his leaking cock. The man below you grinned, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a wash of relief. Could it be?

“I’ll still eat you out if y’want,” he started, though speaking with a little less conviction this time around, “But after all that I, uh—kinda jus’ wanna fuck ya stupid.”

Well thank fuck for fake spiders and cockroaches, too; you’d just averted a dreaded tonguefuck, thanks to that detour.

You’d worry about your pornstar moans and on-camera charisma another time—now you could just sit back and let Joel do all the work while he took you against the wall.

Really, there was no need to concern yourself with anything at all from that point forward. Once you’d given Joel the green light, he was sinking you onto his cock with a grunt and making sure you felt nothing but him. His hands found your hips and held you firmly in place as he rutted into you from below, your own fingers latching onto his shoulders for some much-needed support. Both of you knew that you needed to be extra quiet now—seeing how sound seemed to carry in that tight, tiled space—so Joel snagged your lips in his for a kiss.

He was practically panting in your mouth by the time you started meeting his thrusts. His fingertips slid some and must’ve seared ten perfect crescents into the flesh of your ass as he fucked you into the wall.

“Look so pretty like this,” he whispered in between kisses and short, shallow breaths. His cock parted your insides with an excruciating welt of pleasure, and he hardly even seemed to realize it, “Look so damn pretty takin’ cock.”

Then, lips kicking up in a smile when it seemed he’d remembered something, he added, “Can’t wait to play this tape back home and watch us fuck all over again.”

Again. Again. And again. Shit, you could just see it now.

Your eyes traversed the compact shower space once more to find the video camera—still perched, still live, still perfectly implacable and silent atop the sink as it recorded your every grunt, groan, and shuddering moan. You were nearly as curious to know what Joel’s bare ass looked like rutting into you like this as you were to hear yourself getting railed against the shower wall. Maybe you’d beat this fear of secondhand embarrassment after all.

Maybe.

Joel’s teeth snagged your bottom lip and bit it, lightly.

“Every chance I get, you can bet I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout this…sweet pussy while you’re away,” he said, voice low and occasionally punctured by a groan, “Say one more thing f’me and I’ll…cum every time I watch this part.”

The kinks at the corners of his lips were endearing. You would’ve liked to supply them with just about anything they could’ve wanted, so when they leaned into your ear and murmured just what it was they needed to hear, you only hesitated a second.

Or maybe two or three, because, well…it was risky.

Moaning ‘daddy’ out loud at a time like this? It might get Joel off quick, but it might send your real dad running even faster. You weren’t crazy about the thought of anything that might draw the man’s attention again.

Joel seemed a little less risk-averse than you, notwithstanding the window-leaping fear he’d felt when your dad had rushed in before. Leave it to a criminally horny man to have the memory of a goldfish, though.

At present, Joel was blinking and gawking a bit like one, too, waiting for you to enunciate that one magic word.

You couldn’t deny he made a damn cute desperate sex fiend when he wanted to be. And you needed to cum.

You figured you could cut a deal with him just this once.

“Alright,” you mumbled against the top of his stubbled lip, “Make me cum and I’ll say anything you want, Miller.”

You weren’t sure if it was a chuckle or a strangled moan that jumped up in his throat when Joel squeezed your sides tighter. All you knew was that he was lowering you to the floor in the next instant, spinning you around, and walking you forward, swiftly and with purpose, toward the opposite end of the shower. Right where the crack in the curtain made you most visible to the camcorder.

Joel’s hand snaked around your front and gently eased between your legs. Then, pressing his chest to your back and nudging you to bend just slightly at the waist, he tipped your bodies closer to the camera’s line of vision and stilled. From the LED screen, you could see the ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he shifted his head beside your own. Next, they were kissing across your shoulder, your neck, that sensitive spot behind your ear, and finally the shell of it, brown eyes trained on the camera lens as he murmured to you, “Stay real still.”

You didn’t know if you could. But you tried. And you damn near cried when his fingers started working circles over your clit. Your body was raised on tip-toes, and your hand was bracing the wall as Joel fucked you from behind and made a mess of your wet, writhing body. In no more than three or four strokes, your fears of looking or sounding stupid on camera trickled away with all the rest of the silent, sizzling liquids circling the drain below. Your cheek pressed against Joel’s rougher one, and with the push of each new thrust, you came more unraveled.

When Joel’s hand closed over the front of your throat, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move—couldn’t move, as the man was holding you still in such a taut, rigid grip.

“What do we say when we get fucked this nice, baby?” Joel whispered in your ear, words almost entirely masked by the sounds from the shower. You still heard it, though.

“T-Thank you,” you stuttered, cockdrunk and faint.

“Thank you, what?”

Your eyes were fluttering closed, but you could feel the smug expression just over your shoulder. You clenched around him and felt him snap his hips ahead even harder.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimpered.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, daddy!” you whined, still scared to be too loud.

Joel wasn’t scared. His hand ascended the column of your neck to pinch your chin between his fingers, jerking your head to the right.

To the crack in the curtain. To the camera.

You could’ve cried with how fast he was fucking you now. You opened your eyes and cast a pathetic look to the recorder. Joel made sure you maintained that gaze, too.

“Who’s makin’ ya feel this good?” he seethed, shaking your whole frame with the breakneck pace of his hips.

“You, daddy.”

“Who’s fuckin’ this sweet cunt like no one ever has?”

“You, daddy.”

Joel seemed sated and somehow not fully satisfied at all. Like he was pleased to see you falling apart for him like this, but needed to hear more. Feel more.

He withdrew from you, and you nearly collapsed with the absence of his arms holding you straight.

You pressed a shaky palm to the wall and almost moaned for him to get his ass back over here, you weren’t done, when Joel returned in a second. To your relief, his muscly arms found their way around your front once more, and his clock plunged back inside you, too—only this time, you sensed you were missing something else.

Water.

It wasn’t on your back anymore.

It was fanning between your legs.

Blasting the full force of its stream toward your most sensitive parts as Joel held the shower head up between your thighs. You would’ve jumped back and screamed were it not for his hand clamping tight over your mouth before you could, his lips grazing over your ear again.

“Try it one more time.”

You released a hoarse, muffled squeal into his palm when he lifted the stainless steel to your clit and started rolling his hips. The strokes themselves were relatively gentle, but paired with the ruthless spate of the water, your eyes were nearly rolling to the back of your head at the pulse.

You couldn’t breathe, much less speak. Joel hummed almost apologetically into your hair but didn’t seem sorry at all as he lowered his hand back down to your throat and squeezed. He continued rocking his hips into yours.

“You’ve said it dozens of times before—what’s’a matter?”

Joel Miller knew what the fuck was the matter. He just liked to see you desperate, fucked-out, and teetering on the brink of going feral before he let you reach your peak.

“D-D-D—”

Damn, you sounded stupid.

“D-D-Do you wanna cum? Is that it?” Joel said, mocking your struggle to articulate words as he fucked you.

In spite of your normal no-bullshit attitude toward him, you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind to be talking back to him. You just nodded and moaned, movements constricted by the grip of his fingers on your neck.

“Use those big girl words for me, honey. I know ya can.”

Again, you parted your lips and started to speak, but the oscillation of the water, the brush of his cock, the patently deprecating lilt in Joel’s string of praises, made it nearly impossible. You ended up sputtering again,

“D-D-ah-fuuuckfuckfuck.”

“That ain’t the word I’m looking for.”

But, just as you ventured to say it once more, he cut in,

“Here. Lemme help ya find it.”

Before you could blink, Joel was pistoning his hips against your ass like he had before, only this time, he held the shower head stationary between your legs as you seized and nearly fell to the floor with the force of all the pleasure coursing through you. Your body seemed to act of its own accord, head dropping to Joel’s shoulder and stomach giving an alarmingly fitful pinch as an orgasm tore through you. You couldn’t control how it came or where it went—or how your tongue jumped up and cried,

“Daddy!”

Joel nodded, fucking you through each violent spasm with all the composure and aplomb of a seasoned pro. While your eyes cycled back in the throes of delirium, he held firm and didn’t slow his hips—or the shower head.

You probably could’ve torn a hole through a cinder block if you’d happened to have one between your teeth just then. That was how fervid and merciless the aftershocks of your climax were pulsing through you, exacerbated to the nth degree by the continuity of Joel’s movements. You managed to grab the forearm that was holding the metal nozzle and plead a wild, slightly stifled, “JOEL!”

In truth, you didn’t really want him to stop. It felt too good. You could tell that Joel sensed this, too, because in the instant after that, his lips were sponging kisses to your shoulder, cock working steadily between your walls.

“One more, sweet pea.”

“Joel—”

“And say it louder this time.”

Were you in your right mind, you probably would’ve chided him for being so reckless and stupid about it all. How the fuck could he expect you to scream out loud when your dad was lounging right outside of your room? Did he really think the drone of Cillian Murphy’s smooth, American-ized tone would mask your unbridled moans? Honestly, you couldn’t be sure—and more importantly, you couldn’t be stopped to consider for much longer. With one last trembling vibration from the shower head and a thrust from Joel, you were cumming all over again.

Squeezing his arm, sinking into his sturdy frame, clenching over his cock in what felt like a hundred convulsions, and casting caution aside, you screamed:

“DADDY!”

You might’ve blacked out for a second or two.

Even a minute, as it was, because the next intelligible thing that reached your ears was the thunder of footfalls. And the thrum of Joel’s own hammering heart as he yanked you into his chest and stilled frozen inside you.

The door swung open on its hinges so hard it hit the wall.

“What is it, sweetie?!” your dad yelped.

“I—”

“Are you hurt?”

Just fucked raw by your best friend and shaking, Pops.

You sucked in a breath when Joel nudged your head with his nose and slowly pulled the shower curtain closed to move you out of view of the camera. But it was still there.

Your dad was still there.

The shower walls seemed to be closing in on you, but somehow, you managed, “No, dad, I’m fine! Just…coulda sworn I saw another spider in here, but it was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Your dad sounded unconvinced, pacing closer. You could’ve screamed, but Joel was likely holding you too tight to make any such sounds possible in that moment. The two of you recoiled, still stuck chest-to-back, away from the edge of the plastic shower liner when a boot thudded just outside the crack between curtain and wall.

You swallowed. Joel squeezed. Neither of you breathed.

“If it’s another roach, I gotta call the extermin—”

“No! No, it wasn’t a roach. I’m just seein’ things, I think.”

That didn’t seem to make your father feel any better, because he didn’t retreat like he had before. A tense moment fell over the compact, fog-infested room, like the man was chewing away at some thought in his head.

Then he sighed.

“Alright.”

Blissful footsteps away from the shower. You smiled.

Unfortunately, the grin was destined to be short-lived, because in the next instant, you heard boots screech to a halt on the tile. Pivoted, then paused where they stood.

Another gut-wrenching dozen seconds passed, and for one short, chilling moment, you could’ve sworn you felt your father’s gaze sear through the curtain and see you.

But he didn’t see you. Or Joel. Or anyone.

Instead, his gaze was fixed someplace else.

Suddenly, his voice rose above all the awful noises of clamor and panic in your brain, and broke out, loudly,

“What’s my camera doin’ in here?”

[nemesyaaa]

buffalo'66 au ! old!serial killer! rafe x young!sugardoll!reader

warnings : daddy issues/kink. slight of rafe having a god complex. smut. sick love/obssession/behavior. age gap. size kink. gunplay. spit. mean!dark!rafe. mentions of kidnapping/murdering. dark content. be careful with the warnings.

author's note : i think a lot about rafe having a god complex. and the way it could fix him to have a girl who cherish him and love him like he's just the only one. as the same i think a lot of rafe being a cult!leader with a sweet lamb. anyways, enjoy !

you knew you weren't allowed to touch his gun, but you couldn't pretend that the forbidden rules didn't excite you either. the proof being that you were still with rafe even though he had kidnapped you. you had found the glock in the drawer, and now you were having fun with it to the point where you hadn't heard your jailer come home. you were too captivated by the handgun to pay attention to that.

“ will you teach me how to shoot ? ” you asked in a soft tone.

“ obviously not. but i can swear to you that if you don't put the gun right in my hand in a second, i will show you how i use it. especially on a little tiny thing like you. now stop playing and give it to me, sugardoll. i already told you to not get on my nerves. ”

“ are you a serial killer or something ? ” you said to him, not aware about his job.

“ no obviously, i'm a babysitter. see ? how well i care about little silly girls ? ” he answered with the most sarcastic tone. “ i think you already know what i am, but you like playing dumb. because you're desperate for my attention. you need me to explain things, to satisfy your need of validation. that's right ? ”

he moved from his place, and placed himself behind you, your small body caged against his bigger size. you could feel all the pressure of his strength on you, and you started to shiver when his breath came near to your ears.

“ since you want to play with daddy's gun so bad, i'm willing to give you what you want. ”

“ no, i don't want to play anymore ! ”

“ oh i'm afraid to tell it's too easy like that, sugar. the game doesn't stop when you decide. the game stops when i’m done playing. got it ? nod your head if you got it.”

you really started to be his doll, accepting to nod whenever he wants, to use you whenever he feels the need, to move whenever he decides. when you nodded your head, giving him a little look, he grabbed the gun.

“ you will kill me ? don't, i can be good ! ”

“ you can ? no, you will. choose your words better, sugardoll. why are you crying right now ? the worse it yet to come actually. now, open that pretty mouth of yours. ”

you refused, shaking your head. you were terrified that he would kill you.

“ i said open it. if i have to repeat it, i swear that i will snap dry this gun further in your cunt, and everytime a sound will come out your mouth, pushing it deeper inside. do you understand me ? now, don't you want to be a baby sugardoll, full of kindness and sweetness ? show me how sweet and pretty you are for me. and listen to me. ”

with tears on your cheeks, you slowly opened your mouth. you could feel rafe’s smile against your neck. you were so submissive, the perfect victim. he had chosen you well the day he saw you. like a true serial killer, he never missed his prey.

“ this is why you call me sugardoll ? ”

“ see ? i'm good enough to give you a nickname. ”

it was sick but you smiled, you felt like you were special in his eyes. maybe rafe had a collection of little dolls but you felt unique.

“ don't kill me. i'm begging you. ”

“ fuck, you don't know how hard you make me when you're desperate like that. but trust me, i will make you see soon how good you make me feel. it will be your reward for being this sweet for me, sugardoll.”

he spread your legs, holding them wide with his strong hand covering your trembling thigh while his other hand brought the front of the gun down onto your skin. passing the coldness of steel across your tummy, while you shivered at the thought of dying. when he got to your underwear. you had heard his smirk.

"oh sure, you don't want to die. you want to be fucked. it's so wet here, i could stick the gun in without even preparing you, it would slide off so easily.” his mocked tone made you yelp.

“ i'm not controlling myself ! ”

“ and you don't need too. let me take care of you. keep your mouth open. i will put my gun in. ”

“ i can't do this ! it seems very dangerous…”

“ then suck it well, sugar. especially, if you don't want me to empty the gun on your gorgeous throat. ” he warned you, while pressing his lips on your neck. it was not a kiss, but you were so soft for this little touch. you wanted to please him, to see him proud of you.

he rushed the pistol between your wet plump lips, and you almost choked on it. “ be careful, doll, daddy's gun it's loaded. ” he said with a smile that made your tears even saltier.

while you had started to do your job, his fingers were lightly pressed on the surface, fiddled with the trigger. he loved seeing your petrified eyes, he loved feeling your blood freeze inside your veins, the way you resembled a frightened and helpless animal. you were defenseless and he had no limits.

you lapped at the cold metal at first, your tongue rolling over the barrel, swirling like a needy pet, and licking every bit of the object. you didn't waste anything, moistening the weapon with your own spit, some trails dripped down your tits. rafe had pushed the gun farther, almost into your throat. you choked, a trail of saliva raining over your jaw.

there was nothing amusing about it, but he found it fun. you sucked like your life depended on it even though let's be honest, it did. you moved back and forth quickly, rushed every movement with a softly sloppy gasp. he loved, no he adored the view of your ruined face and your mouth stuffed by the cold weapon. your great job made his dick painfully hard. you could feel the gun under your tongue, and the way it abused you. you drooled, a batch of saliva engulfing one side of the charger.

“ slow down, sugardoll, you're about to melt. ”

you felt dirty for being turned on by something so humiliating, the way you were pathetic for every single thing he introduced you to. it was as if he knew what you wanted, and how to exploit it. he could destroy you as well as shape you. you were nothing but the doll he wanted to play with. he knew more than anyone how to make you feel good. he knew well how to play with his toys.

you were killing him slowly with the way you were going about it, your pink tongue tickling the barrel, your mouth swallowing the entirety of his gun. every inch moved in and out of your parted lips. you lost count of the number of times you almost choked to the point you could throw up, you did your best.

the cold air of the room hit the soaked fabric of your underwear. it had gotten so wet down there.

you tried to focus on this dangerous game but you saw his bulge growing, his crotch distorting his pants.

“ keep sucking, i'm not done. ”

“ but ..."

he ignored you and took off his pants and boxers, freeing his hard cock. the next minute he was inside you, completely buried to the point where you could feel him all the way to your stomach. you salivated on the handgun, making a rain all over it.

as he filled you up, his thick cock abusing your tight pussy, the position was totally different, you were lying there, still the gun in your mouth, but now he was fucking you. his eyes were on you, and you could feel that motivating him even more to pounded you. your juices pooled on the surface the deeper he went. the slobber gathered around the metal. he rushed away your tears with his thumb.

“ stop whining, sugardoll. you can't cry when daddy takes you so well. ”

you really wanted to listen to him but it was too much for you. you were full of tears and they constantly wanted to come out, even when you felt good. but it was like the more you cried, the more he bullied your pussy, and by that, giving you more reasons to whine.

“ jesus, i'm pretty sure that you really like that gun in your mouth. ” he said with a firm thrust that made you squirm, your eyes wettering as the sentence. “ you like being this pathetic ? don't worry, i got you, i'm not judging you, but don't mind if i take advantage of it ? of course, you don't mind. you love being this sick, you're just a needy freak. ”

he pulled out before putting it back in you, inched himself deeper and deeper, letting you breathless. he was more rough this time, his fat length stretching you wider. his hips slammed your skin, his sweaty balls slapping you in motion. you nodded your head, your loud moans echoed in the empty room. his heavy hand on your tiny throat, pressuring it every time your walls tighten him.

his big other hand squeezing your small waist, as your core wrapped him harder. “ see ? daddy's making you a new home, right now. ”

his breath was heavy and short, the sweat of his body pressed against yours, while you were about to explode, so close to the orgasm. you were crying even more. and he covered your mouth with his large palm. he hitted the right spot again and again, without a break. you reached the second orgasm quickly, and you waited for him to explode at his turn. but he was taking his time on purpose. he obviously liked to abuse this little cunt of yours, wrecking like it was nothing your cervix. he glared at your glistening eyes with a proud face, while hurting your sloppy cunt. “ be patient, sugar. it's a matter of time but daddy will make you melt, and you will make a big mess on his dick to show how grateful you are ? ”

you didn’t answered, even when he released your mouth from his hands, because of the overheating.

“ you better answer because i can go to the next round. ”

“ yes .. yes !! ”

“ you're so naive, sugar. trusting me this easy, it's your own fault if old men like me use you. like did you really think we will not go on another round ? i'm about to make you dumb. not only your brain, your pussy, all of you. after this, you will not be able to think, to talk and even to walk. ”

your tears made him cum, and you let out a noisy and desperate whimper. “ it's sad for you that i'm the only god you can pray for, because i'm going to ignore all your prayers, making you on your knees every time for nothing more than my own good. sweet lamb, i'm such an uncaring god. but you can't hate on me, even a little, such a pretty precious thing you are. ”

“ why ? ” was the only word that came out of your mouth.

in fact, you were a little sad about this, because you wished that he cared a bit, even an hint about you.

“ nobody deserve you like i do. nobody deserve to touch you, or put an eyes on you, no one. you're just mine, and i need you to understand that clearly. do you got it ? do you even understand what i mean ? i will never let someone have you. never. ”

“ i really love you. ”

“ not only you love me, sugardoll. you adore me, you cherish me, you can't breath without me. do you understand ? how trapped i made you.”

“ bu…”

“ quit crying. you wanted this, you begged for. ”

“ i thought you only wanted to kill me ! ”

“if i wanted to kill you, it would already be done. i don't mind having blood in my hands, i'm a killer after all. but yours, i promise, i would never dream of, sugardoll. ”

it was very sick. but his words made you smile.

“ i want to hug you ! ”

“ don't make me regret my words. i still can choke you to death. ”

“ can i ask a question ? ”

“ jesus, if you don't yap more than a thousandth time each day, you're dead or what ? i swear, tell me your question, but choose it carefully because it will be the last. so, use your dumby brain very well. ”

“ i just wanted to know…if it's the first time you do this with one of your victims ? ”

“ why do you want to know ? ”

“ you need to answer ! ”

“ and you need to mind your own business. ”

“ i asked you a question ! it's not fair if you don't answer it ? ”

“ you better not try to raise your voice at me because i can shout, and trust me, the tears i will bring in your face will not be that pretty. ”

“ you're still mean to me…nothing has changed. ”

“ and you're still annoying. yes, nothing has changed.”

and you smiled at him, your sweet eyes melted on his unhichanged look.

“ someday i know you will love me too ! ”

“ bold to have faith, better to work on it, sugardoll. ”

you gave him a sweet look, even if he was grumpy, you wanted him.

[sunnami]

❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞

summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.

pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.

word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)

tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.

cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.

note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.

YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.

It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm. 

You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.

No.

You can’t have.

You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers. 

There is no way you are this unlucky.

Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.

Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.

Bloody hell. 

Not again! 

Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.

“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside. 

Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due. 

YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident,  Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors. 

(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.) 

Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head.  You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction. 

It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.

Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams. 

(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.) 

Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else. 

(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)

You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.

You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.   

If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.  

(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)

You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes. 

(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.) 

And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier. 

On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.) 

Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones. 

“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.

(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)

A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback. 

As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.

When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling. 

There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.

After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did. 

Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again. 

As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing. 

You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else. 

After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion. 

For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.) 

The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.

But for how long could you cheat fate? 

Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus. 

There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel. 

Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?” 

You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.

“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”

You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”

True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace. 

“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could. 

“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”

Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”

“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.

The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.

An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap. 

(Damn it!)

(Damn it all to Hell!)

You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh. 

You could not take it anymore.

In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it. 

You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.

A family.

A happy ending.

Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two. 

You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity. 

(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)

Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers. 

On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate. 

Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear. 

Let me die surrounded by my family.

At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.

And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.

TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you. 

“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask. 

(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?) 

There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background? 

His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you. 

There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall. 

“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .” 

“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”

“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”  

Lily stays silent. 

Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.

How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?

But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face? 

He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.

“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company. 

You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words. 

“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!” 

From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback. 

He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.” 

“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?

He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp. 

“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave. 

The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof. 

He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall? 

THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that. 

Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)

Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek. 

You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve. 

(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)

“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”

Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes. 

You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.” 

She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”

A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”

You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)

“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.” 

“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.” 

“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.” 

Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?” 

Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”

(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)

Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.” 

(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)

You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.

You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp. 

It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.

‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’ 

This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?) 

“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well. 

Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head. 

“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun. 

By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.) 

Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?

But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger. 

For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done. 

“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest. 

“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)

Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old. 

Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.

You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.

(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’ 

You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”

“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”

“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”

His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.) 

But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”

While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about. 

A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.) 

But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.

The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned. 

An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)

(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.) 

Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold. 

It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby. 

You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.

You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands. 

(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.) 

You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth. 

You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work. 

(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”) 

They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.) 

That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.

“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done. 

Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?” 

You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”

Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?) 

“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.” 

“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.” 

You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.” 

There is no time like the present.

And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)

You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.

No time like the present.

“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.” 

Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace. 

“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.” 

“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?” 

“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.” 

Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug. 

“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”

“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red. 

“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”

“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .” 

“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”

Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”

“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.” 

Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second. 

“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”

You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave. 

“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes. 

No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes. 

You freeze in fear. 

(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)

The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels. 

They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)

“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.” 

“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.” 

You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”

Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?” 

“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.  

“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”

“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.” 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.” 

“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”

“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back. 

“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”

“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?” 

You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?” 

Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”

You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?” 

“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly. 

“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.” 

And so, you choose them. 

For there was never any other option from the start.

YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor. 

Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.” 

You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper. 

Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same. 

Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more. 

When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.

(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)

a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.

[oetscop]

thank u disturban for another video about a pedophile getting beat to death in prison ❤️😊

[shewolfofvilnius]

I feel sorry for Orin

repurposed from an old Reddit post of mine

Edit: Wrote an epilogue fic where my Durge, Sofija, seeks redemption for her sister with the Gods

Raised from birth in the Bhaal cult and has never known ANYTHING else. Literally the result of incest between her mom and Sarevok (her father AND grandfather) - and for her entire life is actively manipulated and groomed to worship her "Grandfather" second only to Bhaal (leaving a disgusting implication that Sarevok might eventually try again). Literally every single day of her life spent in a murder cult, never knowing anything else.

Her mother is actively manipulated when Orin is seven to try to kill her daughter, only for Orin to reflexively kill her first, at which point Orin was briefly possessed by Bhaal himself (per some Sarevok dialogue). AT AGE SEVEN. And even from a young age, Orin's true gift is her artistry, a talent that outside the Bhaal cult probably could have been nurtured into something phenominal, but inside the cult is twisted into a sinisterness in the kill that, when she's out of earshot is decried as wasteful.

She eventually rises through the ranks (never have had any choice), having never felt a meaningful moment of compassion or kindness and, desperate to be cared about, sees the power and fear and respect her bloodkin (The Dark Urge) has gained and uses their hubris to take them out.

Ironically, in the timeline where Durge lives, they get a gift Orin couldn't even dream of - a 2nd chance. With their brain scrambled and the tadpole present but being interfered with, the Dark Urge got a chance to be someone new. (Whether they accept or reject that 2nd chance, they at least got a choice this time).

What did Orin get for her troubles? Her (grand)father openly coveted to either take her out, or worse, take her out - when the time was right, her own allies both detested her (Gortash openly revels at the idea of working with the Dark Urge again)

and most brutally, if you manage to confront her with the truth, any of it? About Sarevok, about her mother, etc? She immediately believes you. And for one (1) moment, maybe there's hope for her.

Hope that Bhaal immediately rips away; an Orin confronted with the truth and showing even the slightest hesitation is immediately forcibly transformed into the Slayer by Bhaal himself, with a strong implication that the core of the old Orin is gone forever win, lose, or draw. "No more doubts, no more fears, no more Orin. Become murder.". Seeing what Bhaal's reaction was the moment Orin had one (1) instant of hesitation also confirms that she'd likely have never had the chance to choose differently, either Bhaal would always step in or else she'd eventually meet her end.

Imagine the AU where Orin takes her CLEAR flair and artistic talent to become a truly great artist. Where she gets the same second chance that Durge got - If she'd been able to use her talent for impersonation and desire to great to do something powerful instead of being forced by her family from childhood into the family business of murder.

She literally never had a chance. Even Bane and Myrkul and their respective cults were never so unfathomably cruel, and she never knew anything else.

At least for my own first game, though, my Durge recognized that without her "sister," she'd have never gotten the chance to save the world, never met Shadowheart, never stopped a century worth of Ketheric's torture on Dame Aylin, never set in motion the liberation of the Githyanki...In the right world states, Orin unwittingly saved the world, but it's a world she'll never get to see or know, and probably never could have.

That's tragic as hell.

[dolche-tejada]

You know, I think this ending would have been slightly less of a fucking disappointment if the heroes hadn't been so unfairly favored by Horikoshi compared to the villains. I mean, seriously

Deku destroys every bone in his body multiple times throughout the story and is warned that if he continues, he'll permanently lose the use of his limbs ? Everything's fine, his body's just got used to being reduced to a bloody pulp somehow so there's no consequences for him. In fact even when he literally loses his arms to Shigaraki, he gets them back two minutes later thanks to Eri because guess what ? Her horn still works even when cut off from her body. How convenient.

Gran Torino gets his ribcage obliterated by Shigaraki ? Don't worry guys, he'll survive that despite his old age and injuries, and this to have no particular role in the plot afterwards.

Bakugo dies heroically trying to buy time before Deku arrives ? Lmao, did you really believe it ?? No of course not, Edgeshot just uses his last-minute Deus Ex Machina to save his life at the cost of his own and- Oops nope he's fine too, my bad !

Hawks murders a criminal fleeing for his life in cold-blood ? The best Hori has to offer is him completely free and in charge of the HSPC.

And no, losing his quirk isn't a real consequence for him because not only it literally played a major part in saving the world with Vestige!Hawks raising an insurrection among AFO's quirks, but also because his quirk has always been the element through which people exploited him.

Endeavor abused his family for years and completely destroyed his eldest son ? No jail time and no media backlash for that, the only blame he received was due to the heroes' failure to stop the League during the Raid Arc.

And don't even get me started on this bs about facing hell or whatever for what he's done : He's literally free and wealthy ; he have Rei, Fuyumi, Shoto, his sidekicks and Hawks on his side ; and all the difficulties he's apparently going to suffer are off-screened.

Deku had to sacrifice OFA and his future hero career to save the world ? Guess what, Bakugo invested all his time and money to make him an Iron-Man suit and now he can still be a hero with everyone else.

There are plenty more examples of this but I think you get the idea. Now let's take a look at the villains' ending :

Toya is now a piece of charcoal kept artificially alive for the few years he has left, unable to move a finger, and whose few minutes a day during which he can stay awake will be spent talking to his father who abused him as a child.

Toga, a literal teenager, killed herself to save Ochako and because she knew it's still better than rotting at Tartarus her whole life.

And not only did she die but she did by bleding to death. Let me repeat for those who have trouble grasping what I've just said : In a manga where the heroes can survive having their heart blown to bits, being impaled Kakyoin-style or smashed against buildings like a fly on a windshield, one of the main antagonists died of a fucking hemorrhage…

As for Shigaraki, after learning that his very birth and all the tragedies of his life have been orchestrated by AFO, after all this development and narrative promises about him being saved in the end... Deku just kills him.

Because despite all his speeches about saving him, it seems like the best he could do was beating him both physically and mentally until he crumbles to dust…

Compress on his side is apparently locked up for life and kept alive by machines too.

A begging Kurogiri tried in a desperate attempt to save Shigaraki, only to be unceremoniously blown up by Bakugo and dying off-screen without anyone giving a shit, including Aizawa and Mic.

And Spinner will now spend the rest of his life struggling with the extra quirks inside him that affect his body and mind, while having to cope with the thought that his boyfriend best friend and companions have either died alone or are locked away for life in horrifying circumstances.

Clearly not the same as with the heroes...

Now don't get me wrong, even if they suffered just as much from the consequences of their actions or the plot as the League, this ending would still be a disaster in terms of writing but AT LEAST it wouldn't reek that much of hypocrisy.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you write about the reader being either Ford or stans controversially young spouse? Like they're close to their 20s instead of their 60s

Ooh to be their controversially younger spouse what a dream I wish I could live lmao 🤣

Before you became Ford’s spouse, the man would always use the age gap between you two as the sole reason as to why you shouldn’t be together romantically, he’s sweating bullets and loosing sleep over it because it’s just so glaringly obvious to him that you shouldn’t.

However this was all just a cover up for the fact that he did indeed feel things for you in a romantic sense. You were great with Dipper and Mabel, encouraging their passions and even getting involved in them should they need someone to be dazzle in gems or go out into the woods to look for the supernatural.

You even got along with Stan, which was only an added bonus for Ford but still he kept reminding himself that he was far, far too old for you that he might as well have been old enough to be your father/ grandfather! Wasn’t that enough to disturb you?

He knew some people held a liking towards older people but believed it was more for their wisdom and life experience, not the romantic kind.

Apparently it wasn’t because Ford accidentally over heard a conversation between you and Wendy regarding his age;

Wendy: isn’t he too old for you?

You: negative, I love older men. Especially older men who are smart, a little socially awkward and plays dungeons, dungeons and more dungeons.

Wendy: …respect dude.

Needles to say after hearing that Ford’s face became as red as cherries and his worries regarding how you felt towards the age difference seemed to have dwindled slightly, but still he worried that others would view you as weird for being with a man more then twice your own age.

Sure there wasn’t many…worthy candidates to date in Gravity falls but surely he couldn’t be the only one worth your gaze? Mabel must’ve at least tried to set you up on more then one occasion, but according to her you just never seemed to jell with the people she set you up with, saying that you had a distant look in your eyes as though you could be anyone else then at the date.

When Mabel confronted you about it one day, you told her that you liked men a little older then you, Mabel then asked why but you only ruffled her hair and told her that she might see the vision one day. Ford was now being presented with more proof that you would be more then content with dating him, it was undeniable and he even indirectly heard it from your own mouth, so what else could he possibly be held back by?

Fear and rejection from society if they ever were to see you both in a romantic setting?

Then again you both lived in gravity Falls and there were things far weirder than an 20 year old dating a 60 -pushing 70- year old man. And thus began Ford’s new hypothesis; how to win over a 20 year old’s heart.

After you stated dating, you beating the other ladies and men off with a stick because that sexy silver fox was yours! FINALLY! It was your turn to have a sexy older man in your bed!

Other then that you loved being with Ford as no two days were the same, you could be going out with him to look for supernatural as a date, thankfully surviving when Ford got a little distracted by spouting facts on what was trying to kill you both and ending up sat on the porch of the mystery shack and laughing together afterwards.

Or be in his lab and watching him work while admiring how handsome he looked with greying hair and an aging face, but Ford would see it otherwise and become a little insecure and reserved.

‘Don’t you think it weird?’ He’d ask you one day.

‘About us?’ You didn’t have to hear him respond when you knew that Ford was still a little uncertain with your age difference still after seemingly accepting it. You sigh and walked over to him and sat on his lap, making him blush and his eyes widen as you hold his face between your hands.

‘Ford, sweetie I don’t care about what they think, I’m just glad that I got to be with you after pinning for so long. I understand this is new for you but all I ask is that you trust me,’ you kissed his nose softly, ‘and trust in our relationship, there’s nothing weird about it unless you make it weird.’ You add with a smile as Ford rested his head against you, his hands now resting comfortably on your waist.

‘You’re right my sweet,’ Ford said, ‘I’m just worried that you might find someone close to your age more appealing then some old man.’ You couldn’t help but chuckle as you leant further into him.

‘Who could I ever find more appealing than you mr sixer?’ You asked rhetorically, ‘you’re more than perfect the way you are and I’m the lucky bastard who gets to call you mine, so everyone else can stay jealous for all I care knowing I have the most perfect man ever.’ You add as you kissed his lips this time and smiling when Ford reciprocated it with his sweeter, soft kiss.

You probably have moments where you recall something Ford wouldn’t understand and Ford would reference something that was older than you, it’s funny regardless of how you looked at it.

Ford’s body still has aches and pains despite keeping himself healthier than Stanley and so you would help him during these times and coddle him lovingly, while reminding him that he needed to take it easy on himself once in a while.

Ford apologises for it but you only shut him up and remind him that he has nothing to apologise for.

You didn’t treat each other differently because of your ages, if anything you made Ford feel young again and Ford gifted you advice and made you feel just that little bit smarter, which boosted your confidence in yourself. It was a beautiful relationship that was pure and sweet it could give anyone cavities.

Stanley didn’t give a shit you were dating his brother, he knew you liked men above a certain age when you kept eye fucking Ford whenever he walked past you, or how Ford would look at you longingly when you weren’t looking . He saw this shit coming from a mile away as it wasn’t exactly subtle on either end and may have made a bet with Wendy about how soon you’d come to him to announce you were dating his brother.

Stanley won the bet much to Wendy’s dismay.

You saw Ford shirtless once and went apeshit much to his surprise because weren’t people your age into six packs and hairless upper bodies?

Nope, not you, you loved his tummy and body hair that you clung to his side and spent the afternoon kissing his scars and embarrassing tattoos he kept covered in turtlenecks while whispering reassurance that reminded him that you were attraction to him was more then surface level. Ford would return the favour when you had episodes of insecurity would remains you of such by comparing your every insecurity to something beautiful.

Acne? Constellations/ clusters of stars

Stretch marks? Lighting strikes

You’ve got a tummy and thick thighs? Didn’t you know that they(thick thighs) saved lives?!

Needless to say that you came out with a newfound love for yourself afterwards.

You constantly held his hand and kissed each finger to show that you didn’t care about anything but him and his wellbeing, it warmed Ford’s heart as he found to love himself a little more with your help, and in doing so he was able to show you love by kissing your cheek in greeting or making you breakfast in bed or draping his coat over your shoulders when he saw that you were cold.

It was sweet and innocent but still it was enough to have you smiling and feel loved, which is all Ford ever wanted you to feel while with him.

Ford’s love was chivalrous, stubborn and awkward, but you wouldn’t want it any other way as you wanted Ford just the way he was and thrived when you saw his eyes gleam with excitement as he makes a discovery, leading him to grasp your face and kiss you on the lips while holding you close to his chest as he explained what he had done; all the while you stared at him with awe and love because he was really attractive when he was talking about things he was passionate about.

Ford would then catch himself and apologise for rambling but you would kiss him on the cheek and ask him to continue, to which Ford happily obliged, now aware that you were staring at him as though he had hung the stars in the sky.

Ford would find himself looking at you in a similar fashion when you were going on about what you and Mabel did in town, and Ford couldn’t help but hone in on your smile, shining eyes and hand gestures that told him that you enjoyed the hijinks that had happened while wearing the sweater that Mabel made you the entire time.

You’d catch him staring intently at you and suddenly you’re flustered and playing with the sleeves of your bright and vibrant sweater. ‘It’s kinda corny isn’t it?’ You’d ask as Ford chuckles, reaching out to hold your hand reassuringly in his.

‘No, not at all my sweet, I in fact find your adventures with my niece and nephew endearing and sweet. So please continue to tell me how you drop kicked a gnome into Mabel’s leaf blower.’ Ford said and within seconds you were back to being bright and talkative about your adventures of fighting off gnomes, barf fairies and pulling Mabel away from fae traps.

You both were each others listeners and would remember anything and everything said because you actually liked to hear where the other got up to when apart from one another.

Bonus; you definitely have a spot in his journal where he goes in depth of your relationship before ending it with: ‘they’re someone I don’t think I could envision a future without, for they make me young again while loving me regardless of our differences in age and much more. Thank you for loving me y/n, even when I don’t think it’s deserved.’

[ghost-bxrd]

okay so this is an idea I’ve seen brought up maybe once before, but maybe Jason (before the Bats find out who he is) accidentally lets something slip that makes them realize that he’s literally, like, a child (seventeen, sixteen, I’m not sure how old he is at that point exactly, but either works)

and Bruce “adoption addiction” Wayne promptly looks at this obviously traumatized teenager and decides that he should adopt Red Hood.

I just think Jason would be so confused (maybe a little pissed too)

I’ve touched on that a little bit in What you’re longing for (you claim to abhor)!

I think this trope is wayyy underrated. Like, Jason is still so, so young. Basically a child. Even if he died at sixteen and then spent two years with the league (even if we’re counting the time he spent dead as aging). He’s barely even legal when he returns to Gotham. Or if we’re being generous let’s say he’s nineteen.

Doesn’t matter, he’s barely out of his teens (maybe he’s still IN his teens if you bend the timeline of your fic a little) and he’s experienced horrors that would have most people become utterly unable to function. But Jason? That boy takes his trauma and channels it into anger. Which, not exactly healthy, but well.

Anyway, getting off topic:

YES. Jason is still basically a kid when he debuts as the Red Hood, and you know what else he is? A good boy who’s not gonna touch any alcohol until he’s officially 21.

“But why would he do that? He grew up in Crime Alley! Ain’t nobody got time for age limitations!”

Hear me out! Let’s assume he grew up in a household where his father, Willis Todd, drank quite a lot on the regular in addition to his mom’s addiction. Jason experienced the aftermath of this (perhaps domestic violence?) every time his dad returned from a job/jail and he grew to loathe any and all substances, including alcohol. Knowing Jason and his convictions it wouldn’t be too far fetched to assume he’d never touch a single drop of alcohol at all.

So that’s one way he could slip up while taking to his goons (and having the bats overhear) or even straight up talking to one of them where maybe Dick banters a bit and goes “Hey, perhaps you should chill out a bit. Have a drink maybe” and Jason just instinctively goes “Fuck you Dickwing, I’m seventeen/eighteen/nineteen! I’m not allowed to drink!”

And Dick just— bluescreens. And immediately goes to tell Bruce, obviously.

OR

The Bats assume Jason is this old guy (Bruce’s or Drathstroke’s age maybe) and consequently they keep alluding to things that happened way before Jason was ever even born and at first he’s so? Confused??? But eventually it just gets really annoying and eventually he just— snaps.

“How the fuck would I know which Nokia gen hit the market that year? I was born in fuckin’ XXXX, I’m an iPhone kid!”

“Stop referencing the Cold War dipshit, I’m fucking seventeen! I’m glad I remember my own damn birthday!”

“I don’t know, I was like— two back then.”

Bruce, obviously, would take .1 seconds to realize:

“Omg. That’s- that’s a whole child. That’s a whole damn TRAUMATIZED child, killing people and sawing off heads. Omg someone must have hurt him so bad. Don’t worry tho, son, Batman’s got you. You won’t have to hurt anybody ever again. We’re here for you. Would you like the room next to Tim’s or Dick’s?”

Meanwhile Jason: “what the fuck”