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nemo-writes · 18 days ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter thirteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: things end in tragedy.

⤿ warning(s): character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.5k

Jack is too late to stop the fall, but just in time to witness the aftermath.

For an instant that will brand itself forever, the world goes eerily still. He reaches the railing and leans out, and there you are: crumpled on a tangle of construction scaffold two stories below, Dorian’s body twisted beneath you like a grotesque cushion. Sodium floodlights paint everything sepia; the hum of city traffic wafts up as if nothing extraordinary has happened.

You’re not moving.

The sight punches the air from Jack’s lungs. His fingers clamp the cold rail so hard metal creaks. An animal noise claws up his throat, but training strangles it.

He then sucks in freezing air, pivots, and bolts down the service stairwell three steps at a time. On the landing he nearly collides with a pair of ICU nurses already hauling a backboard. Words crash out of him—“She’s on the scaffolding, eighth-floor façade”—before he vaults past, feet barely touching concrete.

On the seventh floor he bursts onto the scaffold walkway—the world roaring back to motion. The two nurses scramble at your side, desperate hands feeling for pulses.

Jack drops to his knees, palms skidding on grit, and braces your head between shaking hands. Tears blur his vision for half a heartbeat, but then the old medic clicks on: airway, breathing, circulation. Your chest rises in ragged little gasps; a pulse flutters at your neck—the faintest drum, but there.

“C-spine!” Jack barks. Robby is suddenly at his side—face blanched, hands steady—sliding the rigid collar beneath your jaw while a night-shift nurse anchors your skull. Jack’s fingers quake, but his voice stays level, murmuring between commands: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

Just a yard away, Dorian’s body lies where it landed—arms splayed, eyes fixed on the blank sky. No one spares him more than a glance; purpose funnels toward the living. An ESU tech tosses a silver casualty blanket over the corpse—an afterthought glittering under flood-lights—then hurries back to help Robby steady the backboard.

Straps cinch tight; splints cradle your ruined arm; IV lines snake from bruised veins. The moment the stretcher locks and lifts—your weight finally secured—Jack’s composure splinters, a raw, half-voiced sob ripping free before duty slams the door on it. Robby is there, bracing a steady hand between Jack’s shoulder blades—an unspoken stand fast, brother—and the lance of grief folds back into purpose.

Robby’s hand stays planted between Jack’s shoulders as they seize the stretcher handles—Jack with one hand steadying the dripping saline, Robby matching his grip on the opposite rail. Together with the team they surge for the stairwell. Behind them the scaffold creaks; wind rattles the foil over Dorian’s abandoned corpse. Ahead, sirens and shouted clearances funnel toward the harsh, saving brightness of Trauma-bay lights.

The freight elevator bangs open onto the surgical floor, and the gurney rockets out into a corridor already cleared to disaster footing. OR 3’s doors stand wide, lights blazing like a white-hot maw. Your stretcher rolls past stacked crash carts, through teams who yank instrument trays from sterile wrappers with frantic precision.

“Prep time is blood time—move!” Dr. Walsh barks, snapping fresh gloves on. She jerks her head toward Dr. Garcia and Dr. Miller—both technically off shift, both refusing to leave. Garcia yanks on a fresh sterile coat, while Miller chases the circulating nurse for a vascular tray, face chalk-pale beneath exhaustion but set like stone.

Jack jogs beside the rail, one hand on the IV hub, the other cradling your barely-there pulse. Your face, normally lit with sunrise jokes, is gray as surgical steel; respirations hitch against the vent. The monitors scream—heart 140, pressure free-falling despite pressors. Blood oozes past the chest-tube dressing, runs in black rivulets along the mattress seam. For one lurching second Jack thinks he can see your sternum move independently—flail segment snapping like a broken birdcage whenever the bag squeezes a breath.

Inside the suite, an anesthesiologist slams the vent into the wall gas. “ETCO₂ tanking—she’s blowing off nothing. Tubing clear, switching to pressure control.” A tech sponges the brown spill of gastric contents from your cheek where the fall forced bile up your throat.

Before Jack can take another step forward, Walsh is there to plant a palm on his chest. “Line of departure,” her tone’s a scalpel but her eyes flicker with something fragile. “You watching through glass keeps me honest. Get there.”

Jack’s knees try to root themselves to the floor—leaving feels like desertion—but he obeys, stumbling back to the anteroom. Robby drags him aside, shouldering a silent barricade, as the scrub nurse slaps a No-Entry sign across the doors.

Inside OR 3 chaos becomes choreography. Dr. Garcia slides an ultrasound wand over the upper-right side of your stomach; the screen blooms black—blood drowning your liver. “Big tear—she’s bleeding out,” she calls.

“Get every unit of blood we have!” Walsh fires back. A tech slams thawed plasma onto the rapid infuser; Fin, sleeves soaked crimson, races in with more O-negative.

Miller squeezes the breathing bag with one hand while reading the monitor with the other. “Blood pressure sixty, heart racing, oxygen crashing,” he warns. His glance to Walsh is clear: we’re losing her.

Walsh answers by drawing a long line down your belly with the scalpel. Metal meets skin; bright red floods the drapes. Suction roars as Garcia stuffs sponge after sponge inside, trying to keep pace with the tide.

From behind the glass, Jack sees it all in slow motion: Walsh’s hands diving into the wound, fresh crimson soaking gauze, Miller’s shoulders knotting as he forces each breath into your lungs. Alarm tones layer over each other—howling that time is almost gone. Robby’s fist clenches Jack’s scrubs, tethering him. Dana appears beside them, tears sliding unchecked.

Inside, Garcia’s shout fractures the moment. “Heart’s out of rhythm—paddles, now!” Gel slaps your chest; your body jerks under the jolt, then flattens. The screen still scribbles chaos. Another shock. A beat… another… the wavering line steadies at 40 beats a minute.

Walsh never looks up. “Clamp that liver,” she mutters. Miller drops a clamp into her waiting hand; her fingers disappear into the bloody cavity. Seconds crawl. Then—a sharp, certain “Got it.” The suction pitch drops; the gush slows. Your pressure inches up—seventy, then eighty.

Jack’s knees buckle with relief so bitter it tastes like metal. Only now does he notice he’s biting his lip so hard its started to crack and bleed, Robby’s arm still the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside the glass, the storm quiets but doesn’t clear. Garcia calls sponge counts, Miller pushes life back through IV syringes, Walsh asks for closing stitches. The spleen still has to be checked, your arm is splintered, your head injury lurks unseen—but the bleeding that wanted your life is finally caged.

Walsh lifts her gaze to the gallery. Her nod to Jack is small—barely a tremor of her chin—but louder than every alarm. She’s still here.

Jack presses his palm to the pane, breath fogging the glass—an unspoken promise to the broken figure on the table: I’m still here, too.

The last suture goes in at 03:17 a.m.

Walsh’s shoulders hunch, her cap soaked through, but the wound is finally closed and the bleeding quiet. You’re wheeled straight to the Surgical ICU under a tower of pumps: blood, antibiotics, pain drips, vasopressors. A ventilator sighs at your bedside; a padded brace keeps your shattered arm aligned; your leg is already swaddled for the ortho plate you’ll need tomorrow—if your numbers hold.

They don’t hold for long.

03:42 – Your blood pressure nosedives. Garcia—still in the same stained coat—bolts a syringe of epinephrine to the line. “Come on,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the monitor until the numbers claw back into the 80s.

04:19 – You spike a jagged heart rhythm. Miller arrives with the crash cart; two shocks later the sinus beat staggers upright like a boxer on the ninth round. He leaves without a word, too tired to make a joke, too relieved to curse fate.

05:05 – A neuro resident slips in, pupils your eyes, frowns at the sluggish response, and orders another CT scan. The porter wheels you out; every corridor looks bruised by night-shift fluorescence, the hush broken only by the rattle of your ventilator.

Everyone is on overtime on Surgical. Jules runs sponge counts from muscle memory, Fin brews coffee that tastes like burnt hope, and Margot prowls the quiet bays, snapping gloves just to keep her nerves from screaming. And Jack never sits; he circles the ICU glass, charting every tiny rise in your blood pressure like it’s a sunrise.

Downstairs, the lobby still glows with crime-scene klieg lights. Police techs comb the pathology lab where Dorian Moylan worked. Detective Patel—hair pulled into a weary knot—is giving Gloria and Security Chief Ramirez the bullet points:

Moylan had quietly transferred between three hospitals in five years, each move following a “personality conflict.”

He spent night breaks pulling unused visitor badges from shredders, soldering chips to clone them.

Two weeks ago he piggy-backed a vendor to the roof and wedged the alarm sensor with a folded coffee stirrer—so small maintenance chalked it up to wind malfunction.

His apartment wall is plastered with photos of you: cafeteria line, parking deck, charity fun-run. Thread between the prints spells an obsession bigger than anger, almost devotional.

“How did he know shift rosters?” Gloria snaps, exhaustion sharpening her words.

Patel taps her tablet. “Key-logger on a volunteer computer in the HR nook. He read every schedule change the moment you clicked Save.”

Ramirez blows out a breath. “He made our cameras blind with coffee stirrers and still waited a month. Why?”

“Because Jack Abbot was on nights,” Patel answers. “Our profile says Moylan wouldn’t act while a protective figure was consistently present. Abbot’s single day off became the window.”

Gloria’s jaw tightens, grief shading into rage.

Upstairs, at 06:12—the ventilator alarm yelps; your chest tube kicks out a dark surge. Garcia dashes in, adjusts suction, sighs when the numbers settle. Jack hovers behind her. She glances back, voice hoarse. “Go breathe, Abbot. She’s stable enough for twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head. “Was supposed to meet her on the roof at sunrise. I owe her the view.”

Garcia’s tired eyes soften just a fraction, her usual bite gone. “Then save it. There’s another dawn coming.”

He grips your badge, his nail playing with the edge of the freshly pressed scalpe sticker, the plastic warm from his sweat, and watches the steady pump of the ventilator. There he sits—until pale daylight begins to leak along the ICU windows.

Your vitals bob in a fragile rhythm. Odds still tilt against you, but each beeping heartbeat writes a promise: not finished yet. And for everyone gathered—surgeons running on caffeine fumes, detectives piecing together the how of horror, friends refusing to blink—the night becomes a vigil, a shared refusal to let the dark have the last line.

Down the corridor a clock clicks to 07:00. Shift change. Another dawn Jack will never see from the roof—but he glances at you, bruised and breathing, and decides this sunrise is happening right here, in the hush between monitors.

. . .

Darkness feels solid, almost architectural—an endless corridor of closed doors. You float somewhere in its center, weightless but not free, a body suspended by medicine while your mind paces on its own.

The first door cracks open, and you are twelve again, kneeling on your bedroom floor with a shoebox of mismatched screws. Other kids build forts; you sort hardware by length, head-type, finish—order blooming under your fingers. The quiet thrill of finding the system beneath the mess settles into your bones like a blueprint. If everything has a place, nothing feels out of control.

Another door: high-school cafeteria. A friend’s asthma attack sends panicked teenagers scattering. You don’t run—you kneel, prop her shoulders, count her breaths, coach her through the wheeze until the nurse arrives. That same thrum of purpose swells in your chest, louder than fear. Method birthed into mercy: There is always something you can steady.

Door three: nursing school, surgical rotation. You memorize clamp sizes the way others memorize song lyrics. Surgeons bark, but your trays are flawless. Patients bleed, but your hands don’t shake. Every precise motion says the same thing: Chaos can’t own me if I meet it with order.

The corridor bends. Lights dim. A door creaks that you don’t remember installing. You push through, and the air shifts—sterile at first, then sour. Cell-phone glow reveals walls papered with photos of you: walking to the parking deck, laughing in the staff lounge, rooftop at dawn. Each image is neatly labeled in handwriting that isn’t yours.

Your limbs feel heavy, dream-slow. Footsteps echo behind you—soft, deliberate. You turn, but the visitor stays just beyond peripheral vision, voice drifting like breath in your ear. “I watched you keep everyone else safe. Even him. But who keeps you safe?”

A glint—a scalpel tip catches the thin light.

Panic splinters the method. You reach for old anchors—breath counts, mental checklists—but the floor tilts, photos sliding like loose tiles. One after another the earlier doors slam shut, trapping you in this room of obsessive order twisted into threat.

You run, but the corridor loops back. Same door, same photos, same voice. “Don’t run,” it coax-pleads, as though worry and menace share the same mouth. Shadows swallow your hands, steal your capacity to sort, label, fix. Pulse hammers your ribs; breath snags.

Darkness thickens until it’s syrup in your lungs.

Monitors far away chirp frantic warnings—yet they feel foreign, as if wired to someone else. In here, time is a wheel rut: your methodical past feeding the stalker’s meticulous terror, spinning, spinning.

You try to scream for Jack, but medication drags the sound to the floor. Only a thin exhale leaves your lips in the real world—just enough for the ventilator to notice.

In the black corridor, you press your back to the wall, palms bleeding invisible splinters. There must be a place for this, you think, wild and desperate. Even nightmares obey some order. Your mind claws for a schema, some way to sort fear as you once sorted screws, but the photos multiply, falling like snow, until every scrap of vision is your own image, your own vulnerability catalogued.

The voice fades into a hiss—tireless, self-justifying—yet beneath it, softer vibrations reach you: the steady pump of a ventilator, the ripple of an IV, a distant heartbeat stronger than your own. You can’t see Jack, but the memory of his hand on your pulse thrums like a beacon. It isn’t method—it’s devotion—and for the first time in this loop you feel something stronger than dread.

Somewhere outside the morphine fog, voices pledge that dawn is coming, that hands stand ready to guide you back. But here, in the induced night, you walk the length of your own history—methodical footfalls echoing against walls lined with fear—searching for a door that leads forward instead of back.

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#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #small age gap

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dee-writes-anime · 8 days ago

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I am requesting the saddest most gut wrenching deku x reader angst ever

So imagine reader with a transformation quirk right? And every time she shifts she gets more tired? And one day after the war she just never wakes up again.

Do as you please with this

Can’t wait for deku’s reaction 🫩😈

MONTY! Eat sleep drink!

We Did It, Didn't We?

FEATURING Izuku 'Deku' Midoriya x Reader

SUMMARY for the world, the war against All for One is over, but inside a hospital, a war still rages for Izuku against time.

CONTENT WARNINGS hella angst, major character death, greif and loss, pain, descriptions of war

AUTHORS NOTE medical related fics just seem to keep finding me these days, hope you enjoy this gut wrenching angst monty! Remember, you asked for this MUAHAHAHHAHA

The war was over.

That’s what they kept saying. Like it was some kind of comfort. Like it meant anything at all.

The world outside was already beginning to rebuild. Streets once leveled by destruction were now lined with scaffolding. Windows gleamed again. Flags waved in the summer wind, bright and proud, as if plastering over the ruins made the scars disappear. People cheered in the streets, called him the Symbol of Peace.

But none of them were in this room.

In here, the war still lived. In here, it refused to end.

The hospital room was cold and sterile, the soft hum of machines filling the stale air. An IV ticked steadily beside your bed. Monitors blinked with quiet indifference, beeping rhythmically as if mocking the fragility of life.

Your life.

You laid so still.

Your skin was pale under the fluorescent light, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in careful, mechanical rhythm. Not your breath. The machine’s breath. A steady imitation of life.

Izuku sat beside you, slumped forward in the chair he rarely left, his broken frame a stark reflection of the price paid.

His arms—what remained of them—rested awkwardly in heavy prosthetic braces that clamped around his shoulders and torso. The metallic frames gleamed under the lights, still unfinished, still temporary. His real arms were gone. Torn away in the final battle, shredded beyond anything Recovery Girl or even Eri could fix. His body had been salvaged. His heart… less so.

Even now, months later, he still woke up forgetting they were gone—only to try moving them, only to feel nothing but the weighted pull of the harness, the dull ache of phantom pain.

He stared at your face as if he could will your eyes to open.

You hadn’t opened them since that day. Since you collapsed in his arms on the battlefield.

Your quirk had been a double-edged sword from the beginning—a transformation ability with near-infinite potential. You could shift, adapt, mold your body into weapons, shields, whatever the battle demanded. You were brilliant. Fearless. Terrifyingly strong. But every shift drained you. Every transformation took something you couldn’t get back.

And in that final fight — when everything was ending — you gave all of yourself to shield him.

He replayed it constantly, that final moment.

The way you threw yourself in front of him, shifting your body into armor as a blast tore toward them. You screamed through the transformation, muscles shredding, cells breaking apart under the strain. He could feel your heartbeat weakening as you braced against the blow that would’ve ended him.

You smiled through the blood.

"We did it, didn’t we?" you whispered, right before your knees buckled.

And you never woke up again.

Izuku exhaled shakily, the movement making the prosthetics hiss softly as the internal servos adjusted. His breath misted slightly against the chill of the room.

"You didn’t have to do that," he whispered, voice raw. “You didn’t have to protect me like that.”

His voice trembled, eyes burning behind red, sleepless lids.

"You always did this," he continued, his words cracking beneath the weight of guilt. "You always pushed yourself further. You took on more than anyone ever should’ve asked of you… and you smiled like it was nothing."

He tried to swallow the lump building in his throat, but it caught and burned.

"You promised me you'd stop pushing yourself so hard." The words slipped out like a prayer. "You promised me you'd rest after this."

He shifted forward slightly, the braces creaking with effort as he leaned toward your hand. His shoulder tensed under the straps as he tried to raise his prosthetic to touch you but failed. The weight of his ruined body mocked him again.

His head dipped instead, his lips brushing against the back of your cool hand. The small contact was all he could manage now.

"You saved everyone," he whispered. "You saved me."

The machine's steady beeping filled the silence like a cruel metronome, counting down seconds that stretched endlessly.

Sometimes, he still talked to you like you were here.

"Maybe tomorrow," he always told himself. "Tomorrow she'll wake up. Tomorrow it'll change."

It was foolish, childish even. But hope had always been his curse.

Outside the window, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the floor. The world kept moving. People kept living. The war heroes were honored. Statues raised. Newspapers printed stories of victory.

Victory.

But what did victory mean if you weren’t here to see it?

Izuku’s breath hitched sharply, and the tremor in his jaw returned.

"I was supposed to protect you," he whispered. "I swore I wouldn’t lose anyone else."

His shoulders shook as silent tears fell freely now, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into your blanket. The cold steel of his braces dug into his sides as his broken frame curled tighter into itself.

"I wasn’t strong enough," he sobbed. "Not for you."

Then— A sharp, piercing tone filled the room.

The monitor flatlined.

Izuku froze, blood draining from his face. His stomach hollowed out instantly.

"No," he whispered. “No, no, no, please—please—”

The door burst open as nurses rushed in, calling out orders, moving like a well-rehearsed dance.

“Code blue!”

Hands tried to gently pull Izuku back, but he fought them weakly, stumbling against the bed with the awkward weight of his braces pulling him off-balance.

“She was stable!” he gasped. “She was stable—!”

The nurses didn’t answer. Their eyes said everything.

He watched them work—compressions, shocks, the frantic movements—while something deep inside him shattered completely.

He saw the doctor glance at the clock. Then the slow, painful shake of his head.

"Time of death — 5:42 PM."

The words struck like a blade to the ribs.

Izuku collapsed, knees hitting the floor beside your bed. His body trembled as he fought to breathe, as if his lungs refused to keep going without you.

His broken, prosthetic-wrapped frame hunched over as his forehead pressed against your lifeless hand.

"I’m sorry," he sobbed. His voice broke into nothing but raw, breathless sound. "I’m so sorry… I couldn’t save you."

The weight of his failure bore down heavier than any injury he'd ever suffered.

The nurses stepped back, leaving him alone with you. The world outside faded entirely. All that remained was the quiet hum of the machines shutting down, the fading warmth of your hand under his trembling lips.

Victory meant nothing.

The war was over.

And yet, here he was.

Alone.

Izuku stayed long after the room grew dark.

And though the world crowned him as its Symbol of Peace, though monuments bore his likeness, though people spoke his name with reverence—

He carried you inside every shattered piece of him.

The battle was over.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #my hero acedamia #my hero academy fanfiction #dee's asks #mha #izuku midoriya #mha izuku #bnha izuku #izuku x reader #midoriya #mha deku #deku #bnha deku

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tianjinwellmadescaffold · 2 years ago

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scaffolds-supply · 1 year ago

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Reliable Scaffolding Clamps from Scaffolds Supply!

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winntusformworksystem · 1 month ago

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One particular innovation that's making waves across the sector is Aluminium Formwork. While it might seem like just another construction component, its impact is anything but ordinary. From speed and efficiency to long-term savings, this advanced formwork system is helping contractors transform the way structures are built.

#Aluminium Formwork #Cuplock Ledger #Scaffolding Clamp

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scaffoldinghouse · 8 months ago

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rapid clamp

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moonflower-rose · 2 months ago

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May Prompt Thingy!

Part 6 - Floral

Pansy Parkinson dresses like she's personally trying to dismantle the statute of secrecy. But somehow, with enough money, dressing exactly like a wizard in Muggle public really just makes you seem like you're stupidly rich. And she is (definitely rich and a bit stupid, which Harry feels just a tiny bit bad for thinking even in the privacy of his own thoughts).

She's got actual pyjama bottoms on, satiny floral flowy ones with a visible tag from Primark on the leg. And then a vest that looks like she's nicked it off the washing line from a local farmer but which Gin's admiringly said is actually Gucci, and Harry doesn't even know where to start with all that. What does Ginny know about Gucci, and why is she looking at Parkinson like that? Parkinson who hasn't seen fit to wear a bra under her coal miners vest and who has an insane pair of platform boots on with her shiny, beflowered sleepwear. Like, how is she upright without magical scaffolding for her ankles or something?

"So what was this all about again?"

Malfoy rolls his eyes at her but he does it in a way that anyone with functioning vision (or prescription specs for light to moderate myopia) can see is pure affection.

"It's one of our little perks for being tops in the department, the reward and recognition program. I've told you about seven times, Pans, do you actually retain anything or is it unable to penetrate the hat?"

Right, Parkinson also has on the biggest hat Harry's ever seen, a humongous wide brimmed floppy black thing that she refused to take off even in the pub, at well after nine at night. It’s got Audrey Hepburn proportions, and it’s weird that Harry knows who that is actually but he’s acquired a lot of strange knowledge since becoming chummy with Draco Malfoy.

"We've got our certificate up on the wall at the office and now we're making our way through the drinks voucher."

"We've made our way through that already and now we're into a healthy bar tab." Ron's draining a pint and looks like he might chance another if Hermione allows it. She's on her fourth glass of party petrol, so she just might.

"I'll cover the tab tonight, darlings. So proud of you Draco, making Magical Law Enforcement your bitch. How, specifically, did you do that? Short version please my duck."

Malfoy pretends to be wounded (a long-standing talent of his). “Do you doubt our prowess as a crime fighting team? Are you suggesting I may not be the prodigy of charms and transfiguration that the establishment is constantly affirming me to be? I’m first name on the plaque, you know.”

“Firstly, it’s a certificate not a plaque, you self-aggrandising wanker.”

Malfoy has his finger up the second Ron starts to speak. “Oh ho, ‘self-aggrandising’, someone’s been getting lessons from wifey.”

“Secondly, your name is only first because it’s in alphabetical order-”

“D’you think one day they’ll actually punch each other?” Ginny asks in a low voice, and Harry tilts his head to the side and remembers dozens of arguments and fingers thrust in faces, and shoulder checks in doorways.

“Nah. This is pretty much recreational now.”

“And thirdly I think she’s understandably curious as to how we could be such a high performing team considering two of you are as thick as shit.”

“So fucking thick,” Ginny adds and Harry turns to her again with a frown.

“Oi, what do you mean thick?”

“It’s a colloquialism Potter, referring to a person who’s rather built in the lower regions.” Malfoy must have had a bit much to drink because he’s suddenly got a mighty wine flush and he’s clamping his lips together like he’s trying not to spill state secrets.

“Who, Ron?”

“Oh Salazar, he really is fucking thick.” Parkinson rolls her eyes like she can’t quite believe how thick. “Thank you for the linguistics lesson darling but I actually meant very stupid, not…beefy.”

“Hey!” Harry’s honestly not following but he’s always been able to tell when he’s being insulted and it’s definitely coming from all sides at the moment.

Parkinson sips her scary-looking cocktail and bats her lashes at Malfoy. “Darling have you been brewing amortentia again? You’ve gone terribly pink.”

“Everyone knows Potter does the brewing you shrew, he’s tops at potions.”

Harry feels a flush rampant across his whole entire face and he hardly has enough space in him to have another mouthful of his lager.

Ron sighs. “Fucking thick as shit I’m telling you, it’s a wonder we’re not killed daily.”

Prompt List

Part 1 - Key

Part 2 - Black

Part 3 - Coffee

Part 4 - Pathetic

Part 5 - Hang

#drarry #may prompt thingy 2025 #my ficcy bits

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