#the first and third are the absolute best

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Protocol | His Angel

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Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 4K

Summary: You’ve been ignoring Harry’s safety protocols. This comes back to bite you in the ass

Requested

His Angel Masterlist

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The sun beats down on the university parking lot, the asphalt radiating heat in visible waves as students hurry between their vehicles and the air-conditioned buildings. It's late afternoon on a Friday, and the lot is beginning to empty as weekend plans take precedence over academics.

You emerge from the English Literature building, hair piled in a messy bun atop your head, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You’re dressed for the summer heat in high-waisted shorts and a light blouse, your bag heavy with books slung over one shoulder. Your phone chimes as you approach your car—a modest but reliable model that Harry had insisted on having his mechanic thoroughly inspect when he first got you the car.

Checking the notification, you see a text from Harry: Heading home?

A small smile tugs at your lips as you type back a quick Just leaving campus now. Should be home in 20.

Home. The word still feels strange sometimes. This idea that Harry's penthouse has become as much your space as your own small student apartment. Over the past year, the transition had been so gradual you hardly noticed until suddenly most of your belongings had migrated to his place, and you also found yourself spending five or six nights a week there.

Another text arrives as you reach your car: Check everything?

You roll your eyes, though there's no one around to see your exasperation. A year into your relationship, and Harry's security protocols have become a familiar routing. Sometimes comforting, sometimes frustrating, but always non-negotiable.

You send back a thumbs-up emoji, knowing it will irritate him. Harry prefers explicit confirmation, not ambiguous symbols. Sure enough, three dots appear immediately, indicating he's typing what you assume will be a slightly annoyed response.

Before he can send it, you sigh and begin the routine you’ve grudgingly incorporated into your daily life. First, you verify that your location sharing is active, which is easy enough, and you understand the logic behind it, given the enemies Harry has accumulated over the years. Next, you do a quick walk around the car, checking that it appears undisturbed.

The third rule is the one you’re most inconsistent about: checking beneath the vehicle for explosive devices. It had seemed absurdly paranoid when Harry first insisted on it, like something from a spy film rather than a precaution needed in real life. Most days, you give the undercarriage a cursory glance at best, sometimes skipping it entirely when you’re running late or the weather is bad.

Today, though, as you stand in the sweltering heat with sweat beginning to bead along your hairline, you decide to humor him properly. Maybe it's the way his text seemed more insistent than usual, or maybe it's just that the anniversary of your first meeting is approaching, making you more indulgent of his protective instincts.

"Fine, Harry," you mutter to yourself, crouching down to peer beneath the car with exaggerated thoroughness. "Let's check for the imaginary bomb that's definitely not—"

The words die in your throat as your eyes land on something that absolutely should not be there. A small device attached to the underside of the chassis, a red light blinking steadily in the shadows.

For a moment, you simply stare, your brain refusing to process what you see. Then panic surges through your system, heart rate spiking as you scramble backward, nearly falling in your haste to put distance between yourself and the car.

With shaking hands, you pull out your phone, hitting Harry's contact without conscious thought. He answers on the first ring.

"Angel?" His voice is alert, no trace of the casual tone from your texts just minutes ago.

"Harry," you gasp, your voice higher than normal, words tumbling out in a rush. "There's—under my car—there's a device with a blinking light. I swear to God, Harry, it looks like a bomb. I'm not joking. It's really there!"

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line, and then, to your complete disbelief, Harry chuckles. It's a low, dark sound that makes you freeze in confusion.

"Well, well," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "You finally decided to take me seriously, did you?"

"What?" you blink, confusion momentarily overriding your fear. "Harry, I'm not kidding around. There is literally a device attached to my car right now!"

"I know," he replies, sounding infuriatingly calm. "I put it there."

The words take a moment to register, and when they do, you feel a surge of emotions: relief, quickly followed by disbelief, and then indignation.

"You...what?" you splutter, straightening up from your crouched position. "You put a fake bomb under my car? What the actual fuck, Harry?"

"Yeah, and by the way," he continues, ignoring your outburst, "it's been there for two weeks, angel. Took you long enough to fucking notice."

You stand in the middle of the parking lot, mouth open in shock, as the implications sink in. Two weeks. The device has been attached to your car for two weeks, and you’ve been driving around completely oblivious, skipping the safety check Harry had insisted was non-negotiable.

"You..." you start, then stop, not even sure where to begin with your indignation. "You could have given me a heart attack! I thought I was about to be blown up!"

"Better scared than dead," Harry replies, his tone shifting to something harder, more serious. "If it had been real, your pretty little eyes would be scattered across the parking lot right now."

The graphic image makes your stomach turn, but before you can respond, he continues:

"Not that I actually rely on you to check properly. I'm not a fucking idiot."

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, still trying to process the fact that your boyfriend—the dangerous, powerful man you’ve been sharing a bed with for the past year—planted a fake explosive on your vehicle as some kind of test.

"It means," Harry says, his voice a mixture of amusement and exasperation, "that while you've been prancing around campus thinking safety protocols are optional, I've had Zayn checking your car daily. You think I'd leave your security up to someone who considers looking under a vehicle for two seconds 'good enough'?"

The revelation that one of Harry's most trusted men has been secretly monitoring your car every day should probably disturb you more than it does. Instead, you find yourself torn between lingering anger at the deception and a reluctant appreciation for the thoroughness of Harry's protection.

"So what was the point of this little exercise?" you demand, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. "Just to prove I'm not taking your rules seriously enough?"

"The point," Harry says, and you can picture him perfectly. He’s most likely lounging in his office chair, one hand holding the phone while the other fiddles with something on his desk, his expression that maddening combination of arrogant and concerned that you’ve come to recognize as his default when it comes to your safety, "was to make you understand that these precautions aren't arbitrary. They're the difference between you walking through the door to me tonight and me identifying your body at the morgue."

The bluntness of his statement hits you like a physical blow, making you shiver despite the heat.

"That's not fair," you protest, though with less conviction than before. "You can't just put fake bombs on people's cars to teach them lessons."

"I didn't put it on 'people's' cars," Harry corrects you. "I put it on yours. Because unlike most people, you're connected to me, which makes you a target."

There's a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice has that dangerous softness that never fails to make your pulse quicken. The tone he uses when he's deadly serious about something.

"I have enemies, angel. Men who would hurt you without hesitation to get to me. The rules aren't suggestions. They're what keep you breathing."

You sigh, your initial anger fading as the reality of his words sinks in. It's easy to forget sometimes, in the comfort of your domestic routine, just how dangerous Harry's world really is. Yes, you’ve seen glimpses of it, the meetings that end with bruised knuckles and terse phone calls, the nights he comes home with blood on his shirt that isn't his own, the way his men snap to attention when he enters a room. But most of the time, you’re sheltered from the worst of it, protected by Harry's influence and reputation.

"Okay," you finally concede. "I get it. I'll be more careful. But don't ever do something like this again without warning me, or I swear to God, Harry—"

"You'll what?" he interrupts, and you can hear the smile in his voice now. That dangerous curve of his lips that still makes your stomach flip after a year together. "Punish me?"

The suggestion sends an inappropriate heat through your body despite your lingering irritation.

"I'll think of something," you promise, trying to keep your voice stern even as a reluctant smile tugs at your own lips. "So, what now? Do I just...leave this fake bomb on my car?"

"Zayn's on his way to remove it," Harry informs you. "He should be there in about five minutes. And then you're coming straight home."

It's not a request, but you don't bother arguing. The adrenaline from your initial panic is wearing off, leaving you feeling drained and, if you're honest, a little shaken by how easily you could have been in real danger without ever knowing it.

"Fine," you agree. "I'll see you soon."

"Oh, and angel?" Harry adds before you can hang up. "When you get here, we're going to have a very thorough discussion about the importance of following security protocols. Preferably with you on your knees."

The crude implication sends another inappropriate wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself biting your lip to suppress a smile despite everything.

"You're impossible," you tell him, but there's no real heat in the accusation.

"I'm effective," he corrects you. "And now you'll check under your car properly, won't you?"

"Yes," you admit grudgingly. "I will."

"Good girl," Harry says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "See you soon."

As you end the call, you spot a black SUV pulling into the parking lot. It's Zayn arriving to remove the fake device from your car. You shake your head, still not entirely sure whether to be furious with Harry for his extreme methods or grateful for the protection he provides, even when you’re too stubborn to accept its necessity.

One thing is certain, though, you'll be checking under your car properly from now on, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Because while Harry's methods may be extreme, his concern is genuine. And in his dangerous world, sometimes the difference between life and death really is as simple as taking an extra thirty seconds to be thorough.

As Zayn approaches with a nod of greeting, his dark eyes sweep the area with professional vigilance, and you make a mental note to start paying more attention to all of Harry's security rules. Not just because you finally understand their importance, but because the alternative is living with whatever creative "lesson" he might dream up next. And while this one ended with nothing more than a scare and a bruised ego, you have a feeling Harry’s patience for repeated carelessness is far more limited than he lets on.

"He made his point, then?" Zayn asks as he crouches to remove the device, his tone dry, like he already knows exactly what this little exercise was about.

"Oh, he made it," you reply, watching as he efficiently detaches the fake bomb from beneath your car. "Loudly and clearly."

Zayn’s lips quirk in what might be the closest thing to a smile you’ve ever seen from him. "He worries," he says simply, like that explains and justifies everything: the lie, the scare, the constant surveillance.

And the thing is, as you wait for him to finish so you can head back to the penthouse where Harry is waiting, you realize it does explain it. Because in Harry’s world, worry doesn’t show up as gentle reminders or heart-to-hearts. It shows up in through precautions, in backup plans for backup plans, in men like Zayn checking your car every day without your knowledge.

It’s love, expressed in the only language Harry truly understands: protection, control, and the absolute refusal to lose what he considers his. It’s not conventional, and it’s certainly not always easy to live with, but as you slide into your now-cleared car and drive toward the man who planted a fake bomb just to teach you a lesson, you find yourself smiling despite it all.

Because while normal boyfriends show they care with flowers and chocolate, Harry Styles does it with security protocols and staged explosions. And somehow, in the twisted logic of your relationship, that makes perfect sense.

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It's a little past midnight, the kind of autumn night where the air carries a crisp bite that hints at the coming winter. Your student apartment sits nestled in a row of similar buildings, most windows dark as their occupants sleep or study in the quiet hours.

Inside your modest second-floor apartment, you move around in the soft glow of a reading lamp, preparing for bed. Your hair is damp from a recent shower, hanging in loose waves down your back as you pad barefoot across the worn wooden floors. You’re dressed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt stolen from Harry's drawer. It’s a habit you've developed early in the relationship, claiming his shirts were more comfortable than any pajamas you owned.

The space feels emptier without Harry's commanding presence, though he'd only left a few hours ago, called away by a business matter he refused to elaborate on. At this point in your relationship, you know better than to ask for details. Some aspects of Harry's work remain firmly separated from your life, a boundary you’ve learned to respect even as other lines between you have blurred beyond recognition.

Checking your phone, you see a text from him sent twenty minutes ago: Done for the night. Everything locked up there?

You roll your eyes affectionately at the familiar question. 

Doors locked, alarm set, you type back, deliberately omitting any mention of the windows, particularly the one in your bedroom that you habitually leave unlocked despite Harry's repeated warnings. It's a small act of rebellion, one you justify with the logic that you live on the second floor, and no one is scaling the building to break in through your window.

Besides, you like the fresh air that circulates when you crack it open at night, especially now in the cooler months. Harry's paranoia about security is understandable given his lifestyle, but sometimes it feels excessive in the context of your ordinary student existence.

Your phone chimes with his response: Good. Get some sleep, angel. Early morning tomorrow.

You smile at the message, hearing it in his deep voice with that hint of command that never quite leaves his tone, even in the most mundane exchanges. Tomorrow you’re meant to drive out to meet Louis, one of Harry's associates who's opening a legitimate restaurant as a front for something you have deliberately not asked about.

Night x, you send back, then set your phone on the charger and move to the bathroom to finish your skincare routine.

Ten minutes later, you're sliding between the covers of your bed, the window cracked open just enough to let in a gentle breeze that stirs the curtains. The sound of occasional cars passing on the street below creates a soothing white noise as you reach for your book, intending to read a few pages before sleep.

Two chapters in, your eyelids begin to grow heavy, the day's activities catching up with you. Setting the book aside, you switch off the lamp and snuggle deeper into the covers, your breathing gradually slowing as you drift toward sleep.

You're in that hazy space between wakefulness and dreams when a subtle sound registers. A soft scraping from the direction of your window. Your eyes flutter open, squinting into the darkness as your sleep-fogged brain tries to identify the noise.

Probably just the wind, you think drowsily, about to close your eyes again when another sound comes, more distinct this time, the unmistakable creak of the window frame being pulled wider. Suddenly fully alert, Your heart leaps into your throat as adrenaline floods your system.

There's someone at your window.

Frozen in fear, you watch as a dark silhouette appears against the night sky, a large figure maneuvering with surprising grace through the opening. Your mind races wildly. The baseball bat you keep by your door is too far away and your phone is charging on the nightstand, out of immediate reach.

The intruder slips inside with practiced ease, landing on the floor with barely a sound. Tall and broad-shouldered, the figure straightens to its full height, casting a long shadow across your bedroom floor in the faint light filtering in from the street lamps outside.

Your fight-or-flight response kicks in, and you scramble to reach for your phone, a scream building in your throat only to have it die there as the intruder speaks in a low, familiar voice that sends a different kind of shiver down your spine.

"Doors locked, alarm set," Harry quotes your text back to you, his tone deceptively casual as he stands in the middle of your bedroom, having just climbed in through the very window you'd insisted was secure enough left unlocked. "But you forgot to mention the fucking windows, didn't you, angel?"

Relief courses through you, quickly followed by indignation as you fumble to switch on the bedside lamp. Light floods the room, revealing Harry in all his intimidating glory. He is dressed entirely in black, his hair slightly windswept, a dangerous glint in his eyes that suggests he's not at all pleased despite the calm delivery of his words.

"Jesus Christ, Harry!" you gasp, heart still hammering in your chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack! What the hell are you doing?"

Harry doesn't immediately respond. Instead, he moves methodically around the room, checking the locks on your other windows and drawing the curtains closed before returning to stand at the foot of your bed. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

"Teaching you a lesson," he finally says, voice low and controlled in a way that raises goosebumps along your arms. "One you seem determined not to learn through conventional methods."

 You sit up straighter against your headboard, pulling the covers up as if they might offer some protection against the intensity of his stare.

"By breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night?" you demand, your initial fear giving way to anger. "That's completely insane, Harry! You could have just talked to me about the window again if it bothers you so much."

"Talk to you?" Harry repeats, a bitter laugh escaping him as he plants his hands on the foot of your bed, leaning forward. "We've had this conversation six times in the past month alone. Clearly, talking isn't effective."

He straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest as he fixes you with a hard stare.

"So tell me, angel. What would you have done if I'd been someone else? Someone who'd been watching you, learning your habits, waiting for the perfect opportunity?"

The question lands like a slap, forcing you to confront the reality of your vulnerability. You'd been so confident in your assessment that no one could or would climb up to your second-floor window, yet Harry had managed it with disturbing ease.

"That's different," you argue, though with less conviction than before. "You're...athletic. And you knew the window would be unlocked."

"You think my enemies are recruiting out-of-shape amateurs?" Harry counters, his voice taking on an edge of frustration. "The men who would come for you because of me are professionals. They'd make what I just did look like child's play."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of agitation that betrays how deeply this concerns him.

"And yes, I knew your window would be unlocked because you're fucking predictable, angel. You say the same thing every time. 'It's fine, Harry, I'm on the second floor', as if height is some magical deterrent to someone determined enough."

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the cooler night air still clinging to his clothes. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to that dangerous softness that never fails to make your stomach tighten.

"Do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened to you because you were too stubborn to take basic precautions?" he asks, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentle gesture at odds with the intensity of his gaze. "The men I've hurt for far less significant offenses than harming you?"

The question doesn't require an answer. They both know what Harry is capable of when provoked. The violence that simmers beneath his controlled exterior, usually kept carefully leashed but devastating when unleashed.

"I'm sorry," you finally say, the genuine concern beneath his anger finally penetrating your defenses. "I didn't think it was that serious."

"That's the problem," Harry replies, his fingers trailing down to your neck, resting lightly over your pulse point. "You don't think about these things because you've never had to. I have."

His hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip in a caress that makes your breath catch despite the tension still lingering between them.

"I don't expect you to live in fear," he continues, his tone softening slightly. "But I do expect you to take reasonable precautions that might keep you alive if the worst happens."

You lean into his touch, the last of your indignation fading as you acknowledge the legitimate concern behind his extreme methods.

"Okay," you concede quietly. "I'll keep the windows locked from now on." A small smile tugs at your lips despite everything. "Though I have to say, your teaching methods are rather dramatic."

Harry's expression remains serious, though something in his eyes shifts at your attempt at lightness.

"Would you rather I'd send someone else to prove my point?" he asks, and there's no humor in the question. "One of my men could have climbed through just as easily."

The suggestion sends a chill through you, the image of a stranger entering your bedroom while you slept is far more terrifying than finding Harry there, even when he was angry.

"God, no," you answer honestly, shuddering at the thought.

"Then consider yourself lucky it was me," Harry says, his hand moving from your face to your throat, fingers wrapping loosely around it, not threatening, but a reminder of your vulnerability. "Next time, I might not be so merciful with my teaching methods."

There's a promise in those words that makes you swallow hard, uncertain whether the flutter in your stomach is fear or anticipation or some complex mixture of both. This is the duality of loving Harry Styles. The protection and the danger are so intricately intertwined that sometimes you can't distinguish between them.

"There won't be a next time," you assure him, reaching up to cover his hand with your own. "Message received, loud and clear."

Harry studies you for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of your words. Whatever he sees in your expression must satisfy him, because some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"Good," he says simply, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of your neck. Then a different kind of darkness enters his eyes as his gaze drops to take in your sleep attire. Specifically, his shirt hanging off one shoulder, revealing more than it conceals. "Now that we've settled that issue, we need to address another matter."

"What's that?" you ask, your voice catching slightly as you recognize the shift in his demeanor. 

"The fact that you're wearing my clothes without permission," Harry says, his voice dropping to a lower register that never fails to send heat pooling low in your belly. "That's my favorite shirt."

The accusation is clearly a pretense, given how many of his shirts have migrated to your wardrobe over the months, but you decide to play along, grateful for the change in mood.

"Oh?" you reply innocently, shifting so that the shirt slips further off your shoulder. "I didn't realize. Should I take it off?"

Harry's eyes darken further, his hand tightening slightly around your throat.

"I think you should," he agrees, his voice a low growl that makes your shiver for entirely different reasons than fear. "Slowly."

As you reach for the hem of the borrowed shirt, the earlier tension of the night transforms into a different kind of intensity  that's become as familiar as breathing in your relationship. By morning, the lesson about window locks will have been reinforced in ways far more pleasurable than Harry's initial break-in, but no less effective in ensuring you remember.

And remember you will, because if there's one thing you have learned in your time with Harry Styles, it's that his protective instincts are not to be dismissed. Especially not if you want to avoid discovering what other creative "teaching methods" he might devise to keep you safe in his dangerous world.

When you wake the next morning to find every window in your apartment not just locked but reinforced with additional security measures installed while you slept, you don't protest. Instead, you simply send Harry a text: Message received. Windows locked. Lesson learned.

His response comes seconds later: Good girl. Let's keep it that way.

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a/n: I mean…Harry's got a point. Safety protocols are not a joke but he was a bit extra hahah. Hope ya'll enjoyed

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated :)

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[rosachae]

lovesick opaleye | megan skiendiel x reader

⁍ song: can i call you tonight? - dayglow ⁍ genre: Hogwarts AU! fluffy. loser gryffindor!megan x ravenclaw!y/n. ⁍ a/n: rewatched the first movie and man, i just love the idea of megan being goofy. had this one in the works, so figured i'd finish and post. ⁍ wc: 5.4k ⁍ warnings: none that i can think of. ⁍ synopsis:

megan skiendiel, a socially awkward seventh-year gryffindor, stumbles across a secret involving a sick baby dragon and a well-meaning, bumbling groundskeeper who’s far too kind to turn away help. the only problem? megan has absolutely no idea what she’s doing. so she turns to the smartest ravenclaw she knows.

the gryffindor common room was nearly empty, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the two seventh years curled up in the mismatched armchairs closest to it. the hour was well past curfew, the other students having drifted off to their dormitories with tired yawns and unfinished essays. someone had left a chessboard halfway through a match on the table near the window, the black queen kept pacing back and forth like she was losing patience.

megan was halfway through her third stolen treacle tart from the kitchens, crumbs dotting her jumper, her legs swung over the side of the armchair in a fashion that suggested she’d long ago given up on dignity. lara sat opposite her, textbook open on her lap, quill tucked behind her ear, trying and failing to focus on the finer points of sopophorous bean extraction.

“you what?” lara blinked, squinting as if megan had just confessed to beheading a unicorn.

“i didn’t mean to!” megan said, through a mouthful of tart. “i only went to ask hagrid for advice, you know? about the niffler i’ve been working with. the little lad’s been getting all fussy lately and i thought maybe he needed a new trinket, something shiny and special, but i wasn’t sure what to give him.”

lara raised an eyebrow. “and instead you—accidentally—discovered hagrid hiding a dragon?”

“technically, i discovered hagrid hiding a sick dragon,” megan clarified. “there’s a difference.”

lara set her book down slowly, like it might try to run if she wasn’t careful. “merlin’s beard, meg.”

“i knocked!” megan insisted. “he just didn’t hear me, and when i poked my head in, he was halfway through the floo network—kneeling in the fireplace, talking to someone in dumbledore’s office, i think—and when i said ‘hiya’, he got such a fright he bashed his head on a hanging pan and yelped like a kicked kneazle.”

“did he say anything? about why he had a dragon?”

megan’s eyes gleamed, the way they always did when she was sitting on a secret just a bit too big for her pockets. “well, after he put out the fire on his sleeve and stopped panicking, he said dumbledore’d asked him to look after it. just for a short while. didn’t say why, and i didn’t ask. you know hagrid—said too much already, looked like he regretted it immediately.”

lara exhaled slowly. “and you told me?”

megan grinned sheepishly. “you’re my best mate. if anyone’s gonna get expelled with me, it ought to be you.”

lara groaned and leaned back in her chair. the firelight cast long shadows on the stone walls, flickering against the worn tapestries. “so what are you going to do?”

“he asked me to help,” megan said, quieter now. “the little one’s ill. he said it wasn’t eating properly, and there’s this weird shimmer all over its scales, like—like glitter, but not. it’s not in any of the textbooks, and you know i’ve read all the ones in the care of magical creatures section twice over.”

“since when do you turn down an excuse to break into the restricted section?” lara teased.

“i would, but—” megan hesitated. “you know reading’s not… the easiest. i get there in the end, but it’s slow, and i don’t want to muck this up. not when there’s a living, breathing dragon depending on me.”

lara studied her for a moment, then smiled that all-knowing sort of smile megan had learned to dread. “well. there is someone who might be able to help.”

megan’s stomach did something traitorous. it flipped like a pancake on a hot griddle. “don’t say it,” she muttered.

lara raised her brows innocently. “i haven’t said anything.”

but megan knew. of course she knew.

there was only one person in this castle who lara could possibly be talking about. one person who read so much it looked like she absorbed knowledge through osmosis. one person who brewed potions with the precision of an unspeakable, took notes in three colours, and had a voice that always sounded like she was explaining something worth listening to.

y/n.

of course it was y/n.

“she’s in our year. clever. kind. smells faintly of ink and lemon balm—”

“lara.”

“and she just happens to have rescued your potion in sixth year before it turned into a sentient blob and started cursing in latin—”

“i said don’t,” megan groaned, dragging her hands down her face.

lara beamed. “you’ve been enamored with her since the moment she touched your cauldron.”

megan groaned again, louder this time. but she wasn’t wrong. not really.

megan remembered it all too clearly. sixth year, late winter, cold in the dungeons. her potion a catastrophic mess of purple fizz and what she thought was a good idea involving powdered moonstone. snape had just started his usual round, already eyeing her like she was a flobberworm on his carpet, and she’d been seconds away from a detention so long it’d have carried over into adulthood.

and then—y/n. soft-spoken, quick-handed, calm like a winter pond. she’d leaned over, said, “you’ve just over-infused it. here,” and adjusted the temperature with a flick of her wand. no judgment. no fuss. just a quiet smile.

and somehow, even with her heart thudding like a hippogriff on cobblestones, megan had watched y/n toss in a twist—something small, deliberate, something that made the potion fizzle out with a hiccup and a dramatic puff of green smoke. just a little something to throw snape off, because he would’ve absolutely known immediately that megan didn’t do it herself. she was far too messy.

megan had passed. barely. but it was enough. the worst part of the debaucle, however, had to be the way y/n smiled at her afterwards. not a smirk. not a tease. just warm and soft, like she saw something worth seeing.

safe to say, megan had been doomed ever since.

“so,” lara said, all casual, “you’re going to ask her for help.”

megan stared into the fire, its gold glow making the shadows dance along the common room walls. she chewed on her lip.

“maybe,” she said. “but not because i’ve got a thing for her.”

lara snorted. “sure.”

“it’s because of the dragon.”

“right.”

“and maybe the thing. a little.”

megan had never been more aware of how often someone could be around and still utterly unreachable.

y/n was everywhere that week. tucked in corners of the library with parchment spread like wings around her. walking with manon and sophia through the courtyard, laughing at something too clever for megan to understand from a distance. perched in the great hall, always surrounded by ravenclaws with opinions too large for their own tables.

manon she recognized immediately—ravenclaw quidditch chaser, fifth fastest in the school, and the reason megan had ducked just in time during last week’s match when a bludger came flying through the stands. she still had the grass stain on her jumper. and sophia—sophia wore her prefect badge like it had been pinned there at birth, always polished, always impeccable. she was the one who confiscated exploding ink in ancient runes last month and offered the culprit a sternly-worded study schedule in lieu of detention.

and then there was y/n. quiet, composed, radiant, unbothered. every time megan even considered talking to her, she suddenly forgot how mouths worked.

“just ask her,” lara had said, for the third time in as many days. “she doesn’t bite.”

“you don’t know that,” megan had argued. “she’s a ravenclaw. they read everything. she probably invented a spell for efficient biting.”

still, megan tried. kind of.

she loitered near the arithmancy corridor. circled the greenhouse after herbology like a lost niffling. even sat at the very end of the gryffindor table during breakfast, dangerously close to the ravenclaw end, pretending to read the daily prophet upside-down while y/n chatted two seats away.

there was one near-success. megan had caught y/n alone for a moment, manon and sophia flanking her behind just several feet away, but it was enough. she sat on the far side of the great hall, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, her usual fortress of books conspicuously absent. megan had approached. slowly. like one might approach a hippogriff, if said hippogriff had excellent cheekbones and a devastatingly kind smile. y/n looked up just as she reached the table, and immediately her eyes lit up. that smile, warm and curious, touched her lips.

megan opened her mouth. but, it wasn’t anything intelligent that came after.

“so… do you come here often?”

pause. megan almost shat bricks. she fought the urge of facepalming herself, internally cursing whatever compelled her to ask such a dumb question. what in merlin’s flaming trousers was that?!

behind y/n, manon choked into her juice silently. y/n, to her credit, looked amused. a soft laugh slipped out, gentle. nothing cruel like megan half expected, nothing she knows a slytherin would have given her. 

“i do,” y/n said after a moment, that same smile still curling her lips. “for the past seven years, actually.”

megan stammered something about porridge. or possibly the weather. maybe both. then she turned on her heel and walked away with the mechanical stiffness of someone who’d just miscast petrificus totalus on themselves.

she was halfway up the marble staircase when she hissed under her breath, “i’m a menace to society.” and that, she thought, was the end of that.

but hogwarts had a wicked sense of humour.

two days later, megan found herself in filch’s office. or more specifically, sneaking into filch’s office. which, in hindsight, was mistake number one. daniela avanzini’s stink pellet had been confiscated in charms, and megan had sworn on her pumpkin pasty she’d get it back. it was a matter of principle. and possibly revenge.

she meant to cast accio.

instead, she cast depulso.

filch’s desk exploded in a small but theatrical burst of ink, old quills, confiscated dungbombs, and a surprisingly elegant set of enchanted dentures. megan shrieked. bolted. tore down the corridor with filch’s furious howling echoing behind her and mrs. norris hissing somewhere too close for comfort. she took a sharp left—then a right—then another left—then, in a moment of desperation, vaulted through a tall arched window beside the entrance hall, not quite realizing it led directly out into the courtyard below.

“oof—bloody hell—bugger—”

thud. megan lay sprawled in the damp lawn of the courtyard, winded and blinking at the clouds above her. she considered simply staying there. becoming one with the moss. maybe she could claim to be part of a herbology project.

above, the window creaked. filch and mrs. norris peered down at her, unimpressed. filch squinted. and then, miraculously, he chuckled. chuckled. he walked away without another word, an aura of ‘serves you right’ in his pleased saunter. megan sat still, a short groan tearing from her throat, lost in a daze of processing what she’d done. she’s snapped out of her stupor when a voice sounds nearby.

“that was… a lot.”

she turned her head. and of course—of course—there was y/n, sitting with a book in her lap, looking down at her with a mix of surprise, concern, and an expression that could only be described as politely suppressed laughter.

y/n stood, closing her book with a soft snap. she approached, hesitating just a moment before extending a hand. “are you alright?”

megan blinked up at her. everything slowed. the haze of embarrassment, the grass in her hair, the sting in her elbow—none of it mattered. it was y/n. kind and radiant and real, her hand outstretched like this wasn’t the most mortifying thing to ever happen to megan in her seventeen years. she reached for it.

“i’ve been better,” she admitted, letting y/n pull her upright.

y/n gave her a quick once-over. “nothing broken?”

“just my dignity.”

y/n laughed. megan might’ve died and gone to heaven.

“not your first dramatic exit, i take it?”

“not even my first this week,” megan muttered, brushing herself off.

a leaf flew from her sleeve and hit y/n in the shoulder. megan cringed, apologetic, however y/n just smiled and flicked it away.

“so,” y/n said, “was that all just for fun, or…?”

“actually,” megan said—before she could lose her nerve again—“i was looking for you.”

y/n blinked, a little surprised. “me?”

“yeah. i, um. need your help. with something magical. and weird. and possibly not entirely allowed.”

y/n tilted her head, intrigued. “go on.”

“i can’t really say what it is. not yet. but i need information. and you’re, like… really smart. and good at things. and nice. and—books. you like books.”

“i do like books.”

“so… would you maybe help me?”

y/n studied her, thoughtful. and then she nodded. “alright. where do we start?”

__

they slipped into the library just after supper under the very flimsy excuse of “last-minute studying.” or, well, that’s what megan muttered to the fat friar when he caught her pacing outside the entrance like a wind-up toy with a broken gear. the truth was—she was nervous.

not about the library. and not even about what she was going to ask y/n. but about being with y/n. for longer than three minutes. without combusting into a tragic little firework of feelings and sweaty palms.

this was their first real thing. not a pass in the corridor. not an accidental brush of hands during herbology cleanup. a proper, intentional, capital-T Thing. together.

as soon as they stepped through the library doors, madam pince’s beady eyes lifted over the edge of her spectacles. they landed on y/n first. and, of course, they softened in their own pince-way. pince gave her a nod, almost respectful. like y/n was some kind of sacred academic artifact. then her gaze slid to megan. the scowl appeared instantly. forged in stone. eternal.

megan flinched on instinct. she knew exactly why.

it wasn’t her fault. not technically. she hadn’t meant to send an entire stack of spellbooks flying into madam pince’s head last month. she’d just wandered in, sneezed—violently—and that was that. her whole body jolted like a hexed marionette, and the books collapsed like a game of wizarding dominoes. right onto pince’s noggin.

the memory still gave her phantom sneezes.

but y/n, calm as ever, simply offered the librarian a polite smile and started toward the back tables. megan followed in her wake like a very guilty, very lovestruck puppy.

“no funny business,” pince barked from across the room, breaking her own strict silence policy as if it were nothing. she simply did not trust the gryffindor. not even in the slightest

“no ma’am,” megan winces, already holding her hands up.

“and no sneezing!”

“that was one time—”

“the entire shelf collapsed!”

“technically,” megan muttered, “it fell with passion.”

y/n bit back a laugh as she nudged megan gently toward a quiet corner, where the light fell in warm pools across the wooden floor and the smell of old parchment hung thick in the air.

megan flopped into a chair and waited for pince to disappear behind the tall shelves before leaning forward, elbows on the table. “okay. how much do you know about dinosaurs?”

y/n blinked. “you mean the ancient muggle reptiles?”

megan grinned, wiggling her brows. “no no—i mean dragons.”

y/n leaned back slightly, brow raised. “ah. the wizarding dinosaurs.”

“exactly,” megan said. “but like, the real ones. not just textbook death statistics.”

“those statistics are there for a reason.”

“sure, but hear me out—maybe they’re just really misunderstood.”

y/n narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “they breathe fire.”

“so do some gryffindors after too much pepper imps. that doesn’t make them evil.”

y/n snorted, but said nothing. and then, megan started to ramble.

it began with a casual thought about care of magical creatures, but spiraled—spectacularly—into a half-breathless monologue about how dragons got a bad rap, how it was all human error, how maybe if people stopped poking them with sharp things, they’d be less inclined to torch everything in sight.

“they’re just animals,” she said, hands waving to emphasize every point. “scary, sure, but also majestic. and a bit lonely. like… ancient. wise. brilliant, really. if they weren’t so busy being hunted or chained up, maybe they’d be—i dunno—more like companions. or partners. or, like, big winged—”

she stopped abruptly.

y/n was staring at her. not in confusion. not in judgment. but rather, interestingly enough, in awe. megan felt her face flushing when she noticed. she could’ve sworn she detected the faintest sliver of something soft behind her eyes.

“what?” megan whispered, blinking.

“nothing,” y/n said. then, a little gentler, “you’re cute when you ramble.”

megan short-circuited. she made a sound like a deflating balloon and buried her face in her arms.

y/n giggled. “so, what exactly are we looking for?”

megan peeked up. “dragon anatomy. possibly illness. definitely not for a test. totally not suspicious.”

“totally.”

they found a thick, worn copy of fires and flares: an in-depth look at draconian digestion tucked between two mislabeled transfiguration manuals. it looked older than the castle itself, bound in cracking leather with dragon-hide edges that shimmered faintly when touched. y/n handled it with expert care. megan fumbled it like it was made of treacle.

“right,” megan said, shouldering her bag. “now comes the hard part.”

“what’s that?”

“sneaking this past madam pince without shoving her foot up our rears.”

hagrid nearly dropped his teacup when he opened the door.

“blimey,” he rumbled, blinking down at the both of them. “yeh brought company.”

“this is y/n,” megan said, gesturing quickly. “she’s nice. and also very smart. please don’t worry.”

y/n offered a polite wave. “hello, professor.”

“just hagrid’s fine,” he beamed, already stepping back. “well, don’ just stand there—come in, come in.”

the hut was warm, the hearth crackling with a low fire, and the smell of cinnamon toast wafted in from a plate sitting on the table. fang wagged his tail sleepily near the corner, but his ears perked up when y/n walked in.

“she’s good with dogs,” megan whispered proudly.

hagrid scratched his beard, a little awkward. “’fraid it’s not dogs i need help with this time.”

he led them around to the back of his hutt, just near the fireplace, where a medium wooden crate was partially obscured by a heavy wool blanket. inside, curled like a sleepy ember, was the sickly form of a very small, very iridescent dragon. its scales shimmered with a pale, opalescent gleam—faint blue and green along the spine, and silver near the wings. its eyes were half-lidded, breath coming in slow wheezes.

y/n’s expression shifted instantly. from calm, to cautious.

“oh,” she said. “that’s… not legal.”

“not permanent!” hagrid hurried. “jus’… holdin’ him. on a favour. dumbledore’s orders. very hush-hush.”

“of course,” y/n muttered. “why wouldn’t it be.”

“he’s not been eatin’ right,” hagrid said, rubbing the back of his neck. “wanted meg ter take a look. but maybe yeh could help too.”

y/n crouched near the crate. the dragon lifted its head weakly. she didn’t flinch, though megan saw the way her shoulders tightened.

“this is an antipodean opaleye,” she murmured. “young. male, i think.”

“aye. haven’t named him yet. didn’t seem right.”

“so?” megan asked, voice soft as she watched y/n crouch near the crate again. “what’s the verdict?”

y/n glanced at her. “i’m no dragon doctor but he’s clearly not well. looks like some kind of mild respiratory infection? probably from the cold. these dragons are used to warmer climates—he shouldn’t be this far north, not without enchantments.”

hagrid scratched his head. “blimey. knew summat was off. poor lad’s been coughin’ like a cat with a hairball.”

“what have you been feeding him?”

“oh,” hagrid said. “er… i may’ve given him a bit o’ mutton stew.”

“of course you did,” y/n muttered, standing slowly. “he’s too young for raw meat. his jaw hasn’t developed fully.”

megan elbowed her gently. “you do realize he’s doing his best, yeah?”

“his best could’ve exploded this hut.”

“but it didn’t,” megan said, grinning.

hagrid cleared his throat. “right, well. hate ter leave yeh girls with him, but i’ve got a quick errand in diagon alley. just a meetin’—nothin’ yeh need worry about—strictly confidential—dumbledore business—oh, i shouldna said that—”

“go on, hagrid,” megan said, already waving him toward the door. “we’ll be fine.”

“just for an hour or two,” he said, shuffling for his coat. “keep the fire goin’, and don’t let him out the crate. oh—and mind the tail. he’s swingy.”

he left in a thunder of footsteps and the door thunked closed behind him, leaving a slightly nervous silence in his wake.

megan, of course, bounded straight to the crate.

“alright, you little biscuit,” she whispered, crouching beside it. “time to make a new friend.”

the dragon—small, shimmering, and vaguely sneezy—lifted its head at her voice. it let out a breath that sounded a bit like a deflating kettle, then rested its snout back on its forearms.

“pip,” megan said suddenly. “he looks like a pip, doesn’t he?”

“you’re naming him?”

“someone’s gotta. you can’t just go around calling a dragon ‘the dragon.’ that’s cruel. what if he has an identity crisis?”

y/n stood, stepping away from the crate. she leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching her.

“you really like magical creatures, don’t you?” she asked.

“mmhm.”

“even the ones that could eat you?”

“especially those.”

y/n raised an eyebrow. “and why’s that?”

megan sat back on her heels, tugging at her sleeves absently. “i dunno. they’re just… honest. they don’t pretend to be anything they’re not. if they don’t like you, you know. if they do, you’ve earned something real. and they’re smart, too. smarter than most people give them credit for.”

pip snorted softly.

megan reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny, glinting bauble—a broken earring she’d found outside the charms corridor. she held it out carefully. pip blinked at it once, then nudged it into his bedding with something like contentment.

“you know,” y/n said after a long pause, “there’s a reason dragons are highly classified creatures. the ministry regulates every known species. not just because they’re rare—because they’re unpredictable. they attack unprovoked. they hoard gold. they set things on fire.”

“so do some politicians,” megan said. “should we crate them too?”

y/n blinked, then laughed—genuinely laughed—and megan’s heart nearly stopped.

“okay, but,” y/n continued, brushing a loose hair behind her ear, “they’re also territorial. and deadly. and illegal to breed. i’m just saying… you have a very romanticised view of them.”

megan shrugged. “maybe. or maybe i just believe they’re capable of more than what the ministry says.”

“that’s very gryffindor of you.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“it’s not. just… idealistic.”

“and you’re a realist.”

“someone has to be.”

megan grinned at her, eyes crinkling. “we balance each other out.”

“do we?” y/n asked, tone teasing.

“absolutely,” megan said. “you’re the brains. i’m the charm.”

y/n snorted again. “you fell out of a window this morning.”

“with charm,” megan insisted.

pip let out a soft growl-sneeze, and both girls turned their attention back to the crate.

y/n moved a little closer, kneeling beside megan. their shoulders brushed.

“he really is beautiful,” y/n murmured. 

they sat like that for a while. no more arguments. just quiet understanding and the flicker of firelight casting gold along the floor.

__

they’d been spending more time together.

not always in the library. not always in hagrid’s hut. sometimes it was quiet walks around the lake, with their shoulders brushing and conversation drifting between nonsense and dragons. sometimes it was scribbled notes passed in class, ink-smudged and full of half-spelled jokes. just yesterday it was y/n sitting beside megan in the quidditch stands, scarf pulled up to her nose, pretending she understood the rules as manon zipped past overhead, a hufflepuff chaser hot on her tail.

of course megan noticed the glances. the way y/n’s friends looked at her—pointed, curious, smug. how manon wiggled her brows with absolutely no subtlety, how sophia giggled behind her hands. how lara, the worst of them all, blew dramatic kisses from across the great hall like she was in some kind of romantic play. megan rolled her eyes. every time.

 the truth was… she didn’t mind. she didn’t care.

she was simply enjoying herself. the time. the company. the girl.

she liked the way y/n’s eyes lit up when she solved something difficult. the way she tilted her head when she was curious, or how she’d go quiet—not awkward, just thoughtful—when she was really listening. she liked how y/n never made her feel small for not knowing something, never laughed when megan tripped over her words or misread a line or forgot what she was saying halfway through a sentence. and more than anything, she liked how being around y/n made her feel… steadier. like maybe she didn’t always have to fill the silence with a joke. like maybe it was okay to just be.

megan didn’t say any of this out loud. of course not. but it lived in the way her gaze lingered a little longer than it used to. in the way she started showing up to classes early,  just in case y/n did too. in the way she started carrying sugar quills in her pocket—y/n’s favorite—like it was no big deal.

y/n learned, in bits and pieces, that megan had tried to do the research herself. she just… struggled. not because she didn’t care—she did, fiercely—but because reading long passages and deciphering thick magical texts was hard. harder than it should’ve been. megan never said it out loud. she didn’t need to. y/n just knew.

she started reading things aloud when they studied. doodling diagrams instead of writing long explanations. pointing things out in books with gentle, quiet patience, like it was the most normal thing in the world. like it wasn’t a big deal.

megan noticed. of course she noticed. and she didn’t say anything either.

she just let herself fall harder.

eventually, after about six near-catastrophic experiments, they landed on a plan for pip. a potion. a tonic, technically. brewed to soothe his respiratory tract and reinforce his magical immune system. it required one semi-illegal root and two very expensive herbs. y/n brewed it in an empty classroom after hours. megan stole half the ingredients from snape’s cupboard.

“he definitely knows,” megan whispered as they made their way to hagrid’s hut the next afternoon.

“he always knows,” y/n replied, tucking the warm vial into her satchel. “we’re just pretending he doesn’t.”

hagrid opened the door before they even knocked. “girls!” he beamed, ushering them in with a wave of his enormous hand. “pip’s been waitin’ on yeh!”

the little dragon looked marginally better. still a bit sniffly, but more alert, with clearer eyes and fewer wheezes. he perked up when megan crouched beside him and gave a happy little huff.

“you’re going to feel loads better,” megan said softly, crouched beside the crate. “my ravenclaw brewed you a magic smoothie.”

the words tumbled out before she could stop them.

my ravenclaw. her mouth clamped shut a beat too late, like her brain had only just caught up with her heart. it wasn’t meant to be a claim. then she glanced sideways.

y/n hadn’t flinched. hadn’t stiffened or laughed or even blinked in surprise. instead, there was a tiny, knowing smile at the corner of her mouth. just enough to send megan’s heart skittering sideways. she turned back to pip with a flushed face and a half-choked breath.

“it’s not a smoothie,” y/n muttered, kneeling beside her. “and don’t let him drink it too fast.”

megan held the bottle steady while y/n carefully fed pip the potion in slow, measured drops. he scrunched his nose, blinked a few times, then settled back into his crate with a content sigh.

hagrid sniffled. “bless yer hearts,” he said gruffly, wiping at his eyes. “he’s been like a sack o’ sad potatoes all week, but look at him now.”

y/n smiled politely. megan beamed. hagrid nodded to her with a fond grin.

“yer girlfriend’s got a smart head on ’er shoulders.”

megan choked on absolutely nothing.

“she’s not—I mean—we’re not—I—”

but y/n didn’t even flinch. didn’t so much as glance in megan’s direction. she just tilted her head and said, smooth as honey, “thanks, hagrid.”

megan, meanwhile, went so red she could’ve powered a lighthouse. she kept quiet through the rest of the visit, nodded mutely as hagrid patted their shoulders and called them “a right clever pair,” and barely squeaked out a goodbye before they slipped out the door and back into the fading afternoon.

they made it halfway up the hill toward the castle before megan finally remembered how to breathe.

the path was quiet, the grass still damp from morning mist. birds chirped somewhere above, the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and lavender, and megan was actively trying to avoid combusting on the spot.

y/n, mercifully, didn’t let her spiral in silence forever.

“you know,” she said gently, “i’ve been thinking about what you said. about dragons being misunderstood.”

megan glanced over, still sheepish. “yeah?”

“you were right.” y/n nudged her lightly with her shoulder. “they’re dangerous, sure. but so are a lot of things. doesn’t mean they don’t deserve patience. or care.”

megan’s heart skipped. “told you so.”

“don’t push it.”

they walked a little farther. their arms brushing. once, then again. y/n’s sleeves were pulled down over her hands, but megan still caught the quiet way she fidgeted with the hem of one.

“i’ve really enjoyed this,” y/n said, almost too casually.

megan blinked. “what?”

“us. this whole… project. spending time together.” her voice was soft, but steady. “it’s been… really nice.”

megan’s stomach did a backflip. “yeah. yeah, it has.”

a pause. a breath. then y/n leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek—quick, careful, but certain.

megan stopped walking. just—stopped. like someone had hit pause on her entire nervous system. her heart launched itself somewhere into her throat. her brain made a sound like a fizzing cauldron. and before she could even think about it—before she could stop herself—her mouth moved on its own.

“i’ve been in love with you since potions class last year!” she blurted, voice way too loud for the quiet path.

silence.

y/n turned to look at her, wide-eyed—but not shocked. if anything, she looked like she’d been waiting. like she’d heard something she already knew and was just happy to hear it out loud.  she stepped closer. close enough for megan to see the crinkle at the corners of her eyes, the blush rising on her cheeks, the spark of something warm and bright that had nothing to do with the sun.

“really?” she asked, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

megan nodded. “yeah. i mean. obviously.”

y/n laughed, quiet and bright and just a little breathless. then, without hesitation, she reached out and laced their fingers together, her grip warm and certain.

“finally,” she murmured, tugging megan gently forward.

and then—just like that—she kissed her. not on the cheek. not a quick, shy thing. but a real kiss. sure and steady and soft enough to make time tilt sideways. megan’s breath hitched. the world around her blurred into background noise. all she could feel was the press of y/n’s mouth against hers, the way her nose brushed lightly against megan’s, the way her free hand curled at the edge of her sleeve like she was afraid to let go. it was sweet. and it was clumsy. and it was absolutely perfect. megan felt something behind her ribs detonate in the best, most dangerous kind of way.

she kissed her back, eyes fluttering closed, every nerve in her body buzzing like she’d swallowed a snitch.

when they finally pulled apart, y/n was smiling. so was megan. helplessly.

they stood there for a beat, forehead to forehead, hearts racing.

“so,” megan said, breathless. “do we… tell the dragon first? or our friends?”

y/n snorted. “we’ll flip a coin.”

they kept walking, hand in hand, a little dazed, a lot delighted—like two girls who’d just wandered into the happiest kind of trouble. they walked the rest of the way back to the castle hand in hand. cheeks flushed, minds spinning, steps lighter than air, and absolutely no idea what they were going to tell their friends.

but for once, that wasn’t a problem to solve. not right now.

right now, there was just the girl.

[coolwyous]

┈─★ 𝙎𝙋𝙀𝙀𝘿. [ch 1: the stupid red mustang]

   ➴ wc + a/n: 4.4k. didn't mean to make the first chapter this long but y'all know how i get <3 hope you enjoy the lil prologue moment!

   ➴ taglist: @urmom2314 @iisayfa @s-p-e-c-t-r-e-s @mei2yok @xochitlisbest

   ➴ prev. masterlist. next.

you can pinpoint, with expert precision, when it was that your entire life began to fall apart. to figure out how it might end, you have to start from the beginning, and a part of you wonders if it was always going to be daniela avanzini that ruined everything for you.

your last few weeks before high school, and you’re stuck in detention. it had all started with a morning full of inconveniences. 

to begin, you usually carpooled with your neighbor, who happens to be your best friend, but she’s been hauled off to some stupid detention center after getting caught with weed, again, leaving you alone for the second half of senior year. friendless, aimless, and useless behind the wheel of a car as you drive yourself every morning, lucky to make it out of that chaotic parking lot alive.

the morning you got detention, you’re already running late, made all the more inconvenient when you’re cut off in the middle of the parking lot by a cherry red mustang. you lay on the horn to let her know she’s cut you off, but the boom of insanely loud rap music blaring out from the windows makes you think the driver isn’t listening.

“fucking idiot,” you snarl, your grip tightening around the steering wheel. the red mustang swings around recklessly to steal the parking spot you were eyeing. perfect. 

the new girl, who had transferred into your grade just after winter break, swings out of the car and heads into the building, unbothered by the interaction. you’re stuck seeking out another parking spot, only adding to your stress of being late again.

you try to make it to your homeroom on time, but you hear the disappointed tisk of your principal’s voice as soon as you think you’re in the clear.

“y/ln, this is the third time this week,” he had told you, writing something on a slip and handing it to you. “you know this means detention, and the next one is a truancy call, right?”

you grit your teeth and send a text to your parents that you’ll be home late. definitely not ideal.

you’d rather be anywhere but this empty classroom, embarrassed to be stuck under the hawk-eyed gaze of the dean. it’s you and a few other kids you recognize from fights or from skipping class. you try to keep to yourself, after all, being late doesn’t exactly fit into what the rest of these troublemakers get up to, but your hopes of focusing on your homework are shattered when you feel someone kick your desk.

then again, then again. you realize the person is bouncing their leg, and it’s causing your chair to shake with every movement.

“avanzini, another speeding ticket in the parking lot or what?” one of the guys grins, to which the dean quickly hushes everyone. you realize he’s talking to the girl behind you, the one shaking your desk. the new girl— avanzini, or whatever her name is. you’re perfectly happy with a small friend group, and hadn't made it a point to introduce yourself to her since she transferred, but judging by the fact that she seems to be a regular detention attendee, maybe that’s for the best.

nearly a half hour passes, but she’s relentless. her leg doesn’t stop bouncing, even once, rocking your chair the entire time. the dean steps out to take a phone call. you’re sick of her incessant kicking against the back of your desk, and finally spin around to snap at her.

“can you please cut that out?”

your eyes meet, and you feel a jolt through your entire body. the way she grins at you, her hazel eyes lighting up, is nothing short of absolutely dangerous.

“i gotta be somewhere real quick. vouch for me?”

“why would i do that?” you ask quickly, shocked by audacity.

all she does is lean in, flashing those bright white teeth at you, unafraid of being in your personal bubble, as if she has no boundaries. “i’ll owe you.”

“i’ll get in trouble,” you state the obvious.

“i’ll owe you a massive favor,” she presses on, and it’s painfully obvious she’s not the type who is used to being told no. 

“just go,” you shake your head. she doesn’t seem like the type you can reason with, this avanzini girl. 

you expect her to leave through the front door, so to your surprise, she bolts towards the window and messes with the hinges for a few moments before she manages to get it open. way too quickly, she slips out of the window without a second look back. you’re almost annoyed, that she sneaks out without so much as a thank you, but maybe she’s not worth the effort to stress over being annoyed with. 

a few minutes pass by, and the dean steps back in. he takes count quickly of the bodies in the room, and notices the spot behind you obviously empty. 

“where’s avanzini?”

“bathroom,” you lie quickly. the other students shoot you approving looks, but you’d rather disappear than to have them acknowledging you. the fact that you’re in this position because of this girl has you even more frustrated than the whole chair-kicking thing. 

the dean steps out once more to search the hallways, and within moments, the girl is tumbling back into the classroom, chest heaving. she’s breathing heavily as if she’s been running, or maybe something had scared her, or even both. she slips back into her chair, dropping her head onto the desk for a quick moment before lifting up to meet your eyes with her own. there’s something so intense in her eyes, something so mischievous and alluring at once, that you feel your pulse quicken.

“i owe you,” she says simply, flashing you a smile, before dropping her head back onto the desk for the rest of the hour. 

after that day, you see the red mustang in your school parking lot, but never cross paths with the girl again.

your best friend misses graduation, and you feel suffocated by the weight of another summer in your city alone, wasting your days trying to keep busy. you disappear once the summer ends, college taking over your life, the city forgotten for the next year until you’re back a summer later. same house, same routine, now a year older and a year wiser, hoping you can make it through the boredom of the summer before you head back to school.

your parents had kept your room exactly how you left it in high school, but there’s something very lame about being stuck a whole summer again in your parents house after a taste of freedom your first year in college. you know it’s only 3 months, and you’re lucky to have a place to come back to, but it’s still fair to be annoyed by, isn’t it?

you had just finished unpacking the last of your suitcases when you hear the thud of something against your window, a few taps in a specific pattern against the glass. living on the first floor, you there’s only one person who would be in your backyard, tapping against your window like that. you gasp and swing the window open, just like how you had done almost every day for the past 13 years.

and slipping into your bedroom is your best friend since you were 6 years old, smiling at you in a way that makes everything feel like it’ll be okay.

“heard you’re back in town,” she says nonchalantly, but you’re already scooping her up in a hug before she can ruin the moment. 

“megan,” your heart thuds at the sight of her. pink bangs covering her tired eyes, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, she’s exactly like you last remembered her. ”i thought i’d be stuck all summer without you.”

“you know, i was almost scared they wouldn’t let me out. good thing the judge was feeling super chill about bail,” megan grins, giving you a squeeze back, pointing down to the ankle monitor around her leg. “did you miss me, nerd?”

“you’re a whole ass adult now, idiot. this isn’t just juvie upgraded,” you laugh. “how’ve you been?”

“oh you know,” she shrugs. she digs around your nightstand and finds the secret book the two of you had hollowed out to hide your weed from your nosy family, a few pre-rolled joints hiding. she pulls a lighter out from the fold of her beanie, lighting the joint for the both of you. “remember how i told you i moved out after graduation? i have a spot in front of the shop that my boss rents out to me. it’s not too bad. you should come check it out. we can throw a party or something while you’re here.”

“ugh, i’m not gonna know how to act without you as my neighbor,” you groan and throw your head back, reaching for the joint as she takes a few hits and passes it to you. “you’re finally back and you won’t even be next door any more. i might actually miss you, loser.”

“i’ll miss you too. you kept me out of trouble,” she laughs. “my mom was so mad when you moved away for school. knew i was gonna end up doing stupid shit.”

“well, you’ve got me for 3 months, stay out of trouble until then?” you plead. “can’t go losing you. maybe i’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

you and megan had always joked about the curse that had followed her around— this beacon of bad luck, if something can go wrong for her, it usually would. you’ve tried to argue that she’d have better luck if she stopped making all these dumb decisions, but megan’s pretty set in her ways, and even if you worry about her, you know she’s scrappy enough to figure her way out of anything.

“you can come hang out with me at work. it’s slow,” she offers, taking the joint back from you. you watch as she inhales and holds it, doing silly little tricks with the smoke. “the other guys bring their friends all the time when the shop isn’t busy.”

“i won’t annoy you?” you ask. you know the job she’s talking about— megan, who had always been too hyper for any job that didn’t keep her constantly moving, got hired to work at some shady mechanic shop downtown through some burnout friends of hers. this was perfect for your best friend, who was always fidgeting with things, breaking them down, putting them back together, and the owner had even taken her under his wing and looked the other way with her track record. between the shop job and selling weed, megan kept herself decently afloat. 

you wonder if she’d ever be able to channel that energy into something more, but you know that’s a conversation she won’t want to hear.

“hell, you might even make some money. my boss is hiring— he wants a front desk person,” she tells you, nudging your shoulder. “i’ll put in a good word for you.”

“you want to be coworkers?” you question. “what, like we’re friends or something?”

megan pretends to gag, and the two of you laugh and pass the joint between yourselves for the rest of the night, chatting about her night in jail, comparing it to her months spent in juvie as a teenager. you tell her about college, about the friends you’ve made, and you take comfort in knowing that if you’re stuck back home for a summer, at least you get to be stuck with megan too. 

the next day, you’re at velocity automotives, painfully overdressed, talking to the owner and wondering how the hell this place hasn’t gotten shut down yet. it’s messy, tools strewn everywhere, and there’s no clear organization to how anything is set up. without a doubt in your mind, the messiness suits megan, who you see underneath a car in her navy blue coveralls as you talk to her boss about this job she’s setting you up with.

“all you have to do is take phone calls and book the appointments. i’ll handle the rest,” the guy says. he had introduced himself as viper, and at first, you thought he was joking— that is, until literally everyone there keeps calling him “viper,” and you realize he’s dead serious.

“you won’t be here?” you ask.

“i have other businesses in the city. i own apartments, laundromats, storage units.” he squints at you. “can’t be on desk duty the whole time.”

you nod, and hear a clanging noise somewhere behind you that makes you flinch. viper seems completely unbothered and keeps talking.

“it’s an easy job, so don’t expect to be a millionaire.” he goes on. “and the guys will probably hit on you. just ignore them.”

you grimace, but the pay is decent, and the job is easy enough, plus anything that keeps you busy while letting you spend time with your best friend sounds like a huge win. 

“there’s one more thing,” he says. “i need you to stay in the apartment, above the shop.”

the request catches you insanely off guard. “why?”

“some bullshit from the city,” he gripes. “i have to prove it’s a residence or else they’ll make me pay taxes on it as part of the business.”

“you’re offering me a job and a place to stay?” you question. “what’s the catch?”

“didn’t think you’d sound so eager. you’ve got grit, kid. maybe you are skeindiel’s friend after all,” he grins, before issuing another warning. “it’s not luxurious, and those motorheads get loud at night.”

“um, i grew up on sleepovers with megan. that girl snores like she’s dying,” you reassure him. the arrangement is almost too good to be true.

“how soon can you start?” he asks.

“how soon can i move in?” you counter.

viper smiles once more, a gold tooth shining in his grin. “welcome to velocity. i think you’ll fit right in.”

“why the hell are you dodging all my calls?” megan asks you after you finally pick up after her 6th call of the night. she sounds exasperated, and sure, you could have used her help lugging the few suitcases of your belongings up the stairs, but the surprise you’re about to give her is worth the evasion.

“look outside,” you tell her simply, pulling back the blinds on your window.

“what exactly am i looking for?” she asks, and you can see her nose wrinkle confusedly over the facetime call. this is one of the things you love about megan, her simplicity, her occasional cluelessness— hell, she was so focused on working on that damn car from today, she didn’t notice you slipping in and out of the door as she worked, moving all your stuff into the building literally right over her head as she tinkered away.

“hi neighbor,” you grin out your window.

“no way.” megan flashes a bright smile at you from her window as she spins around, her eyes meeting yours. your places are just a block away from each other, and you’re able to see her through the window, clear as day.

“this is so cool,” you say, admiring the place. sure, it’s just as dingy as viper had warned you, but for a studio, it beat a dorm room, and it way beat living with your parents for another summer. “we should go thrift furniture together. my place is empty as hell.”

“did you get a mattress up the stairs by yourself?” she asks.

“uh, no. there was one in there,” you answer awkwardly.

“y/n, fuck no, sleep on the couch or something,” megan’s eyes nearly bug out of her head on screen, making you laugh. “who knows what’s been done on that mattress.”

“okay, like the couch is gonna be any cleaner,” you roll your eyes, but you make a mental note to prioritize a new bed. “hey, what’s viper’s real name?

megan shrugs. “i dunno. never asked. just assumed his mom loved him enough to name him something badass like that.”

“you’re so dumb,” you laugh.

“wanna come over?” she offers, and you hear the flick of a lighter. it’s the megan you know, constantly smoking, to the point that the sound brings you comfort. “you can spend the night, we can get you a blow up mattress or something tomorrow.”

“and watch you play grand theft auto while you hotbox me out?” you laugh, gathering a few of your things into a backpack. “fine, i guess. see you in a sec, neighbor.”

your first week on the job goes mostly without a hitch.

part of that is mostly thanks to megan, who’s made it her personal mission to make sure you don’t quit within a week, and that starts with making sure all her coworkers leave you the fuck alone. 

“how long til you let the first one of us hit?” one of the younger guys asked, tapping his fingers against your desk, knocking the cup of pens off the table with the vibrations. 

“aw bro, if she already let viper hit to get this job, i don’t wanna get in on his sloppy seconds.” the other one eggs on, and you grit your teeth trying to ignore them both as you clean up the spilled pens. you’re hoping the silent treatment will be enough of a hint to leave you alone, but thankfully, you don’t have to wait around and find out. 

megan is slinking through in front of your desk, shoulder checking the first guy out of her way and reaching to grab the second one by his collar. her grease-smeared fingers grip tightly onto his shirt as she yanks him towards her, and you can see the surprise in everyone’s faces at how fast she’s turned this into something bigger.

“talk to her like that again and i’ll crush you under the fucking car jack,” megan threatens, her voice cold and even, her head lazily rolling back and forth to stare between the two of them. 

“damn bro, relax,” the guy holds his hands up, trying to prove he’s no threat. “didn’t know you were sober enough to be listening, skiendiel.”

“wish i could be high enough to tune your annoying ass out,” she grits irritatedly. she drops her grip on his shirt, and by that point, half the shop is busy staring at you, but she clearly isn’t bothered. “if anyone else pisses off y/n again, we’re going to have a fucking problem.” 

“i can fend for myself,” you tell her, mildly frustrated. if she’d just let you ignore them—

“i know,” she says simply, scooping your pens all back into the cup and handing them back to you. “but i made a promise.”

“we were like, 12, meg,” you remind her.

she shrugs, reaching behind you to grab another key off the keyring, starting on her next car. “promise is a promise.”

you shake your head, but leave it at that. you’ll unpack that night another time, your promise with megan to always look out for each other, but for now, you’ll be secretly grateful— the other guys in the shop leave you alone from that day on.

you haven’t figured out the mattress situation, but it isn’t the worst thing in the world. between naps on your couch and crashing at megan’s, you’ve gotten into a cozy enough routine that makes you think your time back home might not be all that bad. sure, viper was unfortunately right about the noise, but you’ve learned to predict the patterns of when the cars will pull up and disrupt your night.

megan’s usually too high to care, or she’ll be too busy playing video games to be bothered, but she’s never really batted an eye at the revving, claiming the noise calms her. you’ll peek out the window just to keep an eye on things, and you’re starting to pick up on a pattern. in the parking lot of the autobody shop, usually around 9pm, you’ll see a bunch of cars pull in and circle around each other.

among them, a bright red mustang.

“hi, thanks for visiting velocity automotives.” your line is too easy at this point, after nearly two weeks of the job being steady and predictable. “what services are you looking for?”

usually, it’s tune ups and oil changes, maybe a tire rotation or a trouble shoot, but about a week after you started, you start to hear the phrase: “i’m here to see megan.”

and that’s it. viper told you that for any appointment where they ask for megan, take down their info, and open the “special schedule.” it’s weird that he’s having you start this, and he changes megan’s schedule while he’s at it, but she doesn’t seem to bothered. it almost starts to feel like it’s code for something, i’m here to see megan, but the girl herself isn’t raising any flags for you.

“what exactly is it that you do?” you ask, hanging back one day to join her for one of those evening sessions. “and how come you only take appointments after 6pm? isn’t it kinda random that you’re the only person that has to work a night shift?”

“i like motorcycles better, honestly,” she tells you, her tongue poking out from her lips in focus as she leans over the hood of her current project, tinkering with the engine.  “i’m just good at mods. viper thinks it makes more sense for me to work nights and do only mods instead of waste time doing oil changes. leave the easy stuff to the idiots.”

“‘cause you’re just that good or what?” you tease.

“i’m just that good,” she grins back. “and he’s paying me good shit too. not a bad deal, honestly.”

“all to make people’s cars look cooler?” you question, watching as she gets into the driver’s seat and cranks the key. the engine rumbles, and then revs like a creature coming to life. megan’s eyes light up like a kid at christmas at the sound.

“make them look cooler, sound louder, drive faster. you’d get it if you cared about cars, y/n, but i guess you’ve always been a loser,” she teases, giving the engine another rev. 

“i’ll leave the car shit to you,” you laugh.

you hear the ring of the door opening, and the response comes out like you’re on autopilot. you’re too busy trying to decipher viper’s weird ass text about ordering more parts (since when was that part of your job?) to bother looking up.

“hi, thanks for visiting velocity automotives,” you say quickly. 

“you.”

the voice is familiar, strangely so. you finally look up, and piercing into you is none other than that intense, sharp hazel stare. she’s grinning, wider and wider the longer the two of you lock eyes. her tongue peeks out quickly to swipe along her bottom teeth, the gesture cocky and eager all at once. 

“and here i was heartbroken thinking i’d never see your face again,” she smirks, leaning over the countertop to tilt her head down and meet your gaze. her keychain dangles from the tip of her finger, inches away from your face. you feel paralyzed, and that stare, confident and unbreaking, makes it even harder to form a coherent thought. 

“service?” you finally breathe.

you remember her clear as day, even with it being over a year now since your detention together. avanzini, with the red mustang and that dangerous crooked smile. 

“i’m here for megan,” she says easily, pointing behind you at the mechanics hard at work within the shop. 

“she’ll only take mods after 6 pm,” you inform her. 

avanzini raises her eyebrow, a perfect arched brow. she gives you a quick once-over, and you feel exposed under her gaze. “will you be there?”

“no,” you say quickly. 

“damn shame,” she clicks her teeth, tapping her fingers on the counter. “set me up for her next opening. please.”

“she can fit you in tomorrow,” you offer, checking the off-hours schedule.

“what’s your name?” she pivots quickly, as if she didn’t even hear your question. her eyes are so, so intense scanning over you, like some sort of predator sizing you up. “you never told me, that day, you know.”

“y/n,” you yield quickly, almost hoping the conversation can end now. “do you want that appointment or not?”

“why won’t you be there?” she presses on, leaning in further again. it reminds you of your first meeting, the way she invades your bubble as if she has no concept of personal space.

“uh, i don’t spend all my time at work,” you state, as if it’s obvious.

“so then what are you doing tonight?” she asks quickly, arching a brow.

“um-” you’re not fast enough to come up with a response before she’s jumping in, cutting you off again, tapping her fingertips inches away from yours to get your attention. 

“come to a car show. by the amusement park next to the pier,” she tells you quickly, one more glance up and down. “dress up. they’ll have drinks and music, and a shit ton of cool cars.”

you don’t know what possesses you to even consider it, but your brain goes foggy with how close she is to you, the pure magnetic pull she exudes. the words leave your mouth before you can even think to catch up with your mouth.

“will you be there?” 

she grins, tongue poking out from behind those perfect white teeth. “of course i’ll be there.”

“i’ll think about it,” you say simply.

“don’t break my heart, okay?” she puts a hand to her chest, pouting exaggeratedly at you. “i’m counting on you. don’t think i forgot about what i owe you. i’m good on my word, alright?”

realizing you only know her by her last name, your next words slip out just as quickly as your first one had.

“what’s your name?” 

“you know my name,” she responds too easily, and your chest pounds in response. 

there’s a beat of silence between the two of you, as she keeps eyeing you, and you wonder what could possibly left of you that she’s looking for. she grins one last time, pushing off the countertop to finally get out of your bubble. 

“daniela. you can put me down for tomorrow, 7pm,” she adds. she swings the keychain one last time on the first knuckle of her index finger, before catching it in her hand and slinking out the door, like a shadow slipping back into the night. “but i’ll see you, tonight, y/n.”

you feel your heart race. if that smile is enough to go off of, trouble might just have found you.

[everrinsly]

a/n; still listening to "god's plan" by drake to write these hahah

blurred lines, best friend vibes.

"nah, there are only three women in my life" series.

two women and a plus one with miya a. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more reads!

~~~~~

You really shouldn’t be here. Not because Atsumu didn’t want you here—because oh, he absolutely did. He called you at 3AM and practically verbally-forced you on the earliest train to Osaka.

—But because sitting front row at a sold-out MSBY game in a VIP seat with Atsumu's team jacket ('MIYA' scrawled over the back like you were claimed, by the way) draped over your shoulders felt like the loudest, most terrifying spotlight you’d ever stepped into.

God—you'd never get used to Atsumu's extravagant world.

But when he begged relentlessly with those stupidly warm honey eyes and that "C’mon, it won’t be the same without ya,” voice (with a few 'please, sweethearts' thrown in the mix).

You were doomed. How could you ever deny him?

So here you were.

The game ended in a blur of cheers, glittering lights, and one too many slow-motion moments of Atsumu smirking your way after every perfect set and and every service ace.

The jumbotrons caught every cheeky little smirk, fan-service off the charts.

He knew what he was doing. And now, while the stadium buzzed with post-game energy, he was holding the court with the press like a king in his throne, all sweaty, smug, and annoyingly charming.

He shone radiantly. Literally. All bright and beautiful.

You watched from a discreet corner, half-hidden behind a few other VIP guests.

Still, he was loud, and his words floated toward you in bursts.

“—Yeah, it felt real good today. The team’s clickin’. You saw Bokuto flyin’ out there, huh?”

Laughter. Banter. Then, another reporter leaned in with a grin, the cameraman panning straight on Atsumu's face.

“Atsumu, you’ve been getting a lot of attention off-court too. Fans have been speculating... there’s a rumor going around that you and Kari Sato—the star libero on the women's team—are getting close. Thoughts?”

He blinked. “Oh, yeah. Kari…?”

Then he laughed, loud and unfiltered, dimples in full effect. “I mean, she’s pretty. But... nah.”

“Oh? Why not?” another reporter called out. “Are you seeing someone?”

Atsumu tilted his head. His warm eyes—sharp, gold, dangerous—scanned the crowd and landed right on you.

You froze. He smirked.

“There are only two women in my life,�� he declared, holding up two fingers. "And a plus one."

The reporters leaned in like bloodhounds.

And you heard the fangirls behind you inhale a sharp breath.

Oh no—what's he gonna say—

“My mama,” he said first, with a fond smile.

“Aww,” someone cooed.

“And…” he paused dramatically before tilting his chin towards you. “Her.”

Every camera swiveled. You nearly choked on air (you did choke).

“She took the earliest train from Tokyo to Osaka just to watch me play,” Atsumu said, voice lighter now.

He continued. Even softer. “She’s my best friend, my longest fan, and one of the few who can really handle me at my worst. And damn am I difficult to handle."

“So she’s your girlfriend?” A reporter from the far back of the cluster called out.

The reporter closest to Atsumu shoved a microphone closer—

But Atsumu just grinned, eyes narrowed with mischief. “Don’t disrespect her like that. That’s too small a title.”

The press lost it. The crowd was in uproar.

Fangirls?

They were crying in pain.

But you?

You just wanted to hide.

Just when you though it was over, another reporter shouted over the noise, “Wait, what about the third person? It's Osamu, right?"

Atsumu lit up. “Ah, yeah. He’s the plus one. Two women, plus one angry onigiri chef.”

The internet exploded in real-time—

#TwoWomenAndTheOnigiriMan trending immediately.

And later, after all the post-game celebrations, in a quiet booth of Onigri Miya, Atsumu found you curled into the corner of the seat. Osamu's beautifully-crafted pickled-plum onigiri (made especially bigger just for you, by the way) only half-eaten because you were desperately trying not to combust.

He dropped beside you, smug as ever. “So?”

You peeked at him. “You really said all that… in public.”

He grinned. Then, his voice dipped, warm and slow. “They deserved to know. Mama's important. 'Samu's important... even though he's a shi—"

"I dare you to finish that, you sick-ass bastard—"

"AND—" Atsumu began loudly, cutting Osamu off, eyes locked on you. "You’re important to me.”

You giggle softly, patting his cheek. "You're pretty important to me too."

He only wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered, “Next time, I’m bringin’ you on center court."

You melted. Once more.

[growth-opportunities]

"I'm a therapist, so I try my best to be impartial and non-judgemental. But, I mean, come on. Doesn't this all sound a little ridiculous? Women's breasts growing just from being around you? That's not something that happens."

Dr. Kurenka tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. Dainty fingers flipped the pages of her notebook, her eyes scanning the words. "I just... I don't even know what could cause such a delusion. Affection can change the way we view people, but you're saying it's more general than that. Your boss's secretary, the clerk at the dry cleaners, not anyone who you would have strong affection for." The buttons on the doctor's blouse strained as she sat up straight, pushing her chest forward. "I'd assume this is some sort of delusion brought about by watching too much porn, but your consumption doesn't seem abnormally high or niche."

The fabric of Natalia's shirt was thin enough to show the outline of her white bra and, as she set aside her notebook, you can see the way her breasts bulge out of the clearly inadequate cups. "The most damning evidence is that you've been seeing me for weeks now and, well, I haven't grown, have I?"

She had to be joking, right? The pert A cups she had been sporting when the two of you first met had ballooned over the last month into heavy, round, full tits. Getting her shirt buttons was a feat in itself! How did she not notice?

Her face betrayed no hint of irony, even as the first button blew, sending a wobble through her tits. Your eyes widened at the exposed cleavage, the diamond of soft flesh spilling out. A look of concern flashed across your face, glancing back up at the doctor. She smiled sweetly, making a decent attempt at not being condescending. "I know it's a bit unprofessional, but it's important for your healing. This whole growing thing? It's a delusion. It's not real. I don't know if it's mommy issues or simply a bizarre fixation, but I assure you, it's not real. Sure, I've always wanted to be larger myself. I've wanted that since everyone I knew outgrew me. I've imagined so many times what it'd be like to put them in their place. But I let those fantasies remain fantasies. I don't try to project them onto the real world."

The second button and third button popped together, all the way up to her collar. Her breasts swelled with each breath, more of her tits bursting out of her bra than contained by them. Dr. Kurenka didn't even flinch.

"If it were real, my boobs would be huge by now, wouldn't they? Just absolutely fucking huge. Gigantic wobbling milkers."

The doctor grabbed her notebook and leaned against it, pushing her tits forward, a subtle but sly smile on her lips.

"Yeah. I can see we're gonna need at least a few more sessions. Maybe up it to twice a week. Don't you agree?"

[ghost-bison]

the doctors and companions as animals that fit their vibe

nine: dolphin. i had a friend who used to say "nine scares me, he looks like a shark" and everytime it would make me grouchy. she was kinda right, though. but i think dolphin is closer. i know dolphins aren't actually that nice, but today we're mostly judging based on looks and nine most definitely has the vibe of a dolphin: gentle eyes, a huge smile, a very loud, fantastic voice, fast, cheeky and excited. oh, and a big nose as well

rose: seahorse. idk, it just fits. it's the fact that they're colourful creatures maybe, and the shape of the jaw, or also how magic they are... can't really explain it! rose just reminds me of a seahorse

mickey: tiger. it's in the face shape and those facial expressions he gets when he stands up to the doctor or anyone who goes against his beliefs, i think

jack: american black bear. not grizzly bear, not polar bear (although i did hesitate with polar bear), american black bear all the way. first, cause he's american so it's funny. second, cause bears are massive creatures and jack is tall and muscular. third, again, the head shape (which is why grizzly bear was out of the way). fourth, both are hug shaped, wild and actually dangerous

ten: fennec. do i really need to explain that one? big brown eyes, cute af, high-pitched voice and funny jaw... yeah, ten is a fennec

martha: zebra. this one i really can't explain! but i'll still try: i'm not really familiar with zebras, so idk how they behave, but they look gentle, and i've heard they're intelligent, sensitive creatures as well. which is what martha is. i think it's also in the pretty brown eyes with long lashes hihi

donna: doe. maybe some of you will be mad i didn't just say fox, or disagree cause the doe is known to be a fearful, quiet creature, and donna is absolutely none of this. but hear me out: she is gentle and when she's not screaming at the top of her lungs, there's something so soothing and ethereal about her. they are both very maternal, and red hair holds -to me- a connection to nature that no other colour does. the doe has huge brown eyes, and donna's eyes, although huge, are blue. but when you look into them, you can see a gentleness that knows no bounds and that is why i chose it as donna's animal. also the little spots on baby deer remind me of her freckles (yes i am in love with her shut up)

eleven: racoon. well... yall got stuck on the giraffe but eleven is a little shit and so is the racoon. i absolutely do not have anything deep or smart to add to this, i just feel it in my gut

river: leopard. fast, dangerous, elegant, and also the colour palette kinda fits. and! the female feline usually does all the work so that's the tea for today

amy: red panda. red hair, round face, big eyes, cute... yup, amy's a red panda for sure

rory: koala bear. they both look like they get screwed over on a daily poor little guys. gentle and slow, the koala bear is rory's perfect fit. also, they have a similar nose shape

clara: elf owl. just like that bird, clara is small, has enormous brown eyes, a cute little mouth and a sorta heart-shaped face. i think it's one of my best choices

twelve: crow. crows are smart, edgy, actually very sensitive and like to hang out with living creatures even though you often see them alone, and they're also annoying af, can't stfu, hold grudges and take their revenge. twelve is mostly all that. also if i remember correctly he seemed to relate to and like crows

missy: peregrine falcon. idk, missy does have a bird face with her long sharp nose and big blue eyes. i even think michelle gomez mentioned it in an interview (like, she compared herself to a bird. maybe i'm delirious). falcons like to prey on small defenseless animals. missy does too

bill: horse. she kinda looks like a horse i think (it sounds mean but in my head it really isn't i promise). at first i said pony but then i remembered my mum saying ponies are dumb, petty creatures. bill on the other hand is smart, sensitive and gentle. she does still have a sharp edge to her, won't hesitate to kick your arse if so deserved, even if you're a 40000000 or whatever y/o time lord who looks like your local knowledgeable cool grandpa. which is why horse is a very nice fit for bill

nardole: penguin. the choice was so easy to make cause the man is bald, bitchy, weird and kinda walks like a penguin. we love you nardole, never change

thirteen: kangaroo. i don't have a clue as to why tbf. it's the sheer adhd, also the colour for some reason fits her, and the fact that they look nice and peaceful but are actually very dangerous, destructive creatures lol

yaz: hare. another one i can't explain. just fits. yaz, to me, didn't reach her full potential as a character, but what i did notice in her was her intuitiveness and how she usually kept her guard up. reminds me of hares. not just that but also the general vibe as well

graham: beaver. graham had this cute quirky little obsession with building a home and with his "fam" and that's what beavers are known for. apart from his blue eyes that differ from the beaver's own brown ones, he also physically reminds me of a beaver. and if beavers could talk i'm certain they would sound like graham o'brien

ryan: labrador retriever. i had a labrador once, they're goofy, awkward, impulsive, friendly creatures. and just as cats show severe signs of autism and adhd, labradors absolutely display symptoms of dyspraxia, which is what ryan has. both are disoriented and clumsy. they also will do anything to protect people they love, and then be like "oh shit" cause they actually can't really fight and keep putting themselves in situations

dan: wolf. idk he just really looks like a wolf

fourteen: coyote. we're staying in the canine family for david tennant. i did want to choose something other than ten's for fourteen cause they have such a different vibe. there's something really pitiful about coyotes that fits this man perfectly. again with the high-pitched voice as well. anyway. fourteen is a coyote

fifteen: panther. fifteen is seductive, pretty, slim and smoothe af. he's also dangerous and yet you still wanna hug him don't you? yeah that's how panthers make me feel

ruby: dormouse. ruby is cute as hell, i think we can all agree on this. i chose this rodent specifically because of its slightly rounder face shape (hamster might have been more accurate but i hate hamsters so much man, ruby deserves better). she's always so stressed and jumpy as well, which is why to me a small rodent was an appropriate choice

belinda: european robin. she has the elegance of a robin, she's adorable, she's fierce and quick and physically reminds me of a little bird for some reason and that is all honestly

[anzekopistar]

Once again the DOPS, and the league as a whole, is proving itself to be an absolute joke. This is the third time in as many years that Sam Bennett has given another player a concussion (slammed Knies' head into the ice in '23, sucker punched Marchand in '24, hit Stolarz in the head in the crease in '25) as the league continues to deny the connection between hockey and CTE. Bennett has previously been suspended twice, once for boarding and once for a hit to the head. Are you seeing a theme here?

Throwing in this quote from Brad last year for no reason

I also have no doubt that race and racism play a significant role in this. Brown and black players like Nazem Kadri and Evander Kane who play similar styles of hockey and have had equally questionable hits as Bennett have been suspended every single time, while Bennett has avoided any discipline from the Knies, Marchand, and Stolarz hits despite having been suspended twice for plays involving hits to the head. Sounds about white right

In 2019 the league invented a new type of suspension just for Kadri. After a crosscheck in Game 2 he was suspended for the rest of the first round. You read that correctly. He was not suspended for a set number of games like every single other suspension ever, he was suspended for however long the first round lasted, and at that point the series was tied 1-1 so it could have been anywhere from 3 to 5 more games.

And then we get to the Colin Campbell of it all. Executive vice president and director of hockey ops Colin Campbell's son Gregory is the AGM of the Florida Panthers. In 2010 it leaked that Colin Campbell had complained to the league about his son getting penalties, complained about the refs who gave him penalties, and claimed that Marc Savard, who drew the penalty, was a "little fake artist". In 2010 Marc Savard was blind sided by a hit to the head by Matt Cooke, which Campbell decided did not warrant any suspensions. Savard only played 25 more games before post-concussion symptoms forced him to retire.

In case you were wondering, whether or not Campbell was punished for any of this and for clearly being biased to help his son (who once again is the AGM of the Panthers) the answer is no. In fact he was inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame last year.

This league is a joke, DoPS is a joke, and now that the league has once again shown that they don't care about the health and safety of their players you can expect to see this type of play more often. The league has said head shots to goalies who are in the crease is fine. That means players in all remaining series are going to make riskier plays because they know the league won't punish them. I'm willing to put money on the fact that the Leafs/Panthers series is going to get completely out of control because the league has shown that they don't care about actually keeping these players safe time and time again.

If this league had any credibility Gary Bettman, Colin Campbell, and all of the unqualified nepotism hires would be gone. But this is the best sport with the worst league, and every single player injury that is going to come because of the riskier plays that the DoPS has said are okay is on Bettman, Campbell, and DoPS

[flyfreeskylark]

I’ve been thinking a lot about Bix today. Yesterday, before Andor S2, episodes 7-9 aired, I was thinking to myself, oh gawd! Bix is gonna die in these episodes because she’s not around in Rogue One and has clearly been gone for some time. I’m glad they didn’t kill her off. I wouldn’t be surprised if she died fighting off screen because this is a Rogue One prequel after all, and it’s a story about the true cost of war where no one outruns death.

In S1 of Andor, Bix is a badass. She exhibits tons of agency and likes to be busy, industrious and contribute to the cause and community. We see people try to take these things from her: Gorst’s torture and being hunted down and assaulted as a refugee in the first arc of season 2. I don’t like seeing her as a punching bag because a) I love her, b) no one deserves that, and 3) abuse is too often used as an impetus for character growth in women, or worse, for the men in the story. I hate this trope so much because it justifies the abuse, implying that the cost is worthwhile when actually, it absolutely is not. But that’s not what happens in the story. Nobody is unaffected by abuse, badass Bix included, and we see the realistic effects of PTSD in episodes 4-6. Their relationship is strained; Cassian is controlling and paranoid and Bix is disconnected and struggling with addiction. I do love that she gets revenge on Gorst and kills the rapist because this is fiction and why the hell not.

I love that in the third arc (ep 7-9), Bix and Cassian have built a real, beautiful home together, full of love, where they are free to come and go. Seriously, I love that treehouse. They both so desperately wanted this in the second arc after all the trauma they’ve both been through. But it’s still not perfect. Cassian is still controlling and dissatisfied with his work for the rebellion. Bix is still a bit isolated, and crucially, she’s unfulfilled. I’ve seen a lot of criticism that her character really fell flat in this arc because all she does is hang around the house being beautiful. But I think that’s the point and one of the reasons she leaves. She knows that Cassian loves her so fiercely and just wants to protect her. He thinks the best way to do that is to leave the fight and find a nice, quiet home. But from what we know of Bix from season 1 and the first arc of season 2, Bix thrives when she is productive, in community and helping others. She knows that Cassian’s perfect idea of the future is not what she wants or needs.

I think you could interpret the force healer’s vision as the reason Bix leaves. WE ultimately know how Cassian is the messenger because of Rogue One. I did love the suggestion from the healer that maybe Bix was his home because it’s a beautiful idea, but we know that it’s ultimately not true. Cassian said, “Welcome home” to Jyn because he was welcoming her to HIS home. I hope we see how that’s been established in the last three episodes. I didn’t love the implication that Bix left so he could fulfill his destiny as the messenger because this show and Rogue One are the antithesis to the concept of destiny. I want to believe that the force healer could see the future as a result of their choices, rather than their fate. Yes, Bix forces Cassian to choose the Rebelion by leaving him, and maybe that’s not fair. But by leaving, Bix also chooses the future that SHE needs that will fulfill her: fighting in the rebellion. In the end, it also fulfills Cassian. And it’s heartbreaking.

[tired-truffle]

My Soul to Keep

A Viktorxfem!reader fic

Chapter Word Count: 4k

A/N: Rises from my Dragon Age cave to throw this at you - sorry for the delay! Hopefully it won't take me as long for the next chapter <3

Tag List: @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @ihascat5 @pebble-bb @goooofy-goooober1121 @furblurwurblur @potatointhedirt @webofwhimsy @mad-simp420 @xo-mingx @patchs-curiosity-corner (Let me know if you'd like to be added or if I missed you!)

Chapter 3

Masterlist

Two days later - on a rare day off for Viktor - the call came. You’d been lingering in the apartment while Viktor worked at his desk, scribbling notes that you couldn’t understand. He’d answered the phone on the third ring, and you watched as his face remained impassive.

“It’s what you suspected,” he said after hanging up the receiver. His voice was distant, his mind already three steps ahead. “The doctor diagnosed consumption.”

“Oh.” His illness had a name now - what you’d guessed it to be. That made it feel real in a way you hadn’t expected. “Did they say what to do?”

“They requested that I return to the clinic urgently for further testing.”

You’d accompanied Viktor without further delay. Once he’d arrived, they brought him back for x-rays - needed to determine if it was a latent or active infection. Thankfully, you’d been right about that too. An hour later, after the radiologist had taken a look, it was confirmed to be latent. They’d started him on medication and sent him on his way.

Back at his apartment, still prior to noon, Viktor paced.

“I should have known you’d be right,” he said, not looking up. “You know impossible things. It leads me to believe I should at least attempt to prevent this, ah, shitty future you spoke of. What would you have me do?”

The question caught you off guard, but only for a moment. You’d prepared for this in the past few days, mulling over exactly what you wanted to say. “Okay, what I’m going to tell you may sound a little far-fetched, but I need you to work with me. And remember, if you think I’m crazy and I turn out to be a figment of your imagination then that means you’re crazy too, so don’t judge me ‘till after I prove it. 

Viktor finally met your gaze, intense amber boring into your translucence - could your panties get wet if you were the only one who could feel it?

“I’m listening.” “Great. The first thing we need is Jayce Talis’s address. He’s a student at the Academy. I’m pretty sure he lives in an apartment that belongs to the Kirammans.”

Viktor hesitated, clearly puzzled. “Why do we need his address?”

You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the conversation you’d been dreading. “What he’s working on will start a chain of events that leads to…many deaths and a civil war. We have to stop it before it starts. I don’t know if his work is salvageable, but first things first, we need to get to him before his work is stolen. That’s what starts it all.”

For a moment, silence hung between you like a third presence in the room.

“Eh, why not?” Viktor strode to his desk, rummaging through piles of paper and notes until he found what he was looking for - a directory.

You watched as he flipped through pages with deft fingers, pausing occasionally to check names and addresses. His focus was absolute; this man would one day change the world. Whether he changed it for the better remained to be seen.

“There.” He tapped a line on the page with more force than necessary. “Jayce Talis. The address matches one owned by House Kiramman.”

Perfect. Though what you planned to do once you got to his apartment was a vague idea at best. You couldn’t necessarily do anything, but Viktor could. If Jayce listened to him.

Viktor’s eyes searched your translucent face for guidance, or perhaps reassurance.

“Shall we depart?”

You nodded, reticent to waste any more time.

Floated closely behind him, he moved through the apartment building. Out on the street, Piltover was alive with activity - the clatter of carriages mingling with the sharp whistles of enforcers directing foot traffic.

As you approached the district where Jayce lived, Viktor adjusted his pace, falling into rhythm beside you.

“What if he doesn’t believe us?” Viktor asked quietly when he was sure there was no one around to hear him.

“We’ll make him believe,” you said. Though your voice carried more confidence than you felt, there was no room for doubt now - not when there was so much at stake.

Fuck, this was a terrible, half-baked idea. You only hoped it didn’t get Viktor in trouble. At least he’d have you for company in his jail cell, right?

Finally, the building came into view, a vague memory swimming in the back of your mind. You’d never seen it from a street angle, but you recognized the golden railings and fine stonework. Viktor glanced up at it briefly before charging straight ahead toward its entrance.

This was it - the moment when everything could change. Or nothing would. And Viktor would become the Machine Herald. Probably.

Through the opulent but cozy foyer and up the stairs, Viktor caught Jayce just as he was stepping out of his apartment, a satchel slung over one shoulder. His hair was tousled in a way that suggested an early morning soak and he had the expression of a man already late for something important. It almost made you laugh. Though you were more partial to him with a beard, his height and broad shoulders were entirely different to witness in person.

“That’s him,” you whispered to Viktor, forgetting for a moment that only he could hear you. And see you. Fuck.

“Are you Jayce Talis?” Viktor asked, stepping towards the larger man.

Jayce hesitated, eyeing Viktor with vague curiosity. “Uh, yeah? Look, I’m about to head out, can this wait?”

“I assure you,” Viktor said, planting himself firmly between Jayce and the hallway, “it will only take a minute. I’m here on Heimerdinger’s behalf.”

The name-drop gave Jayce pause - and Viktor’s academy robes gave his statement credibility. That and Jayce was much too trusting for his own good. This was the man who’d paid full price without bargaining for goods in Zaun and thought he wouldn’t get targeted.

He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Fine. Come in.”

As they entered, Viktor glanced around with discerning interest while Jayce closed the door behind them. The place was sparsely furnished but refined - clearly Kiramman-owned.

You hovered impatiently before making a decision: you floated down the hall toward what you remembered as the back office. Sure enough, the door stood closed at the end of the corridor. You passed through it like a whisper of guilt.

Inside was exactly as you’d feared - a half-eaten sandwich on a desk cluttered with notes and blueprints. Your heart sank faster than the Hindenburg, which didn’t even exist here - all your references, tossed out like a baby with the bathwater.

Unless Jayce left sandwiches lying around every day - a likely possibility, if he didn’t have the Kiramman funds for a maid - that meant Vander’s kids were coming today.

Outside, Viktor was engaged in conversation, calm as always. You held back a scream of panic. To have arrived when you did, this must have been some sort of sick fate.

“Professor Heimerdinger believes your work to be promising,” he said carefully, “but I have reason to suspect it could lead to grave consequences.”

Jayce leaned against a bookshelf, arms crossed in skeptical defiance. “What are you talking about?”

Viktor hesitated just long enough for you to slip back through the walls and rejoin them.

“There is much at stake,” Viktor resumed when he saw you hovering urgently at his side again. “I fear it might cause…unnecessary harm.”

“What do you know of my work?” Jayce asked in a suspicious drawl, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge Viktor’s intentions.

Viktor fell silent, and amber eyes flicked toward you in a way that made the truth sting - you hadn’t told him anything about Jayce’s research. You, ghostly and useless, with your half-baked plans and vague ideas.

You rushed to fill the gap. “The desk by the balcony,” you blurted out. “Lift the papers in the middle.”

Viktor moved slowly, as if contemplating, and Jayce huffed his irritation. His cane tapped across the ground as he crossed the room to the large desk that sat beneath the window. He reached for the stack of notes just as Jayce pushed off the bookshelf.

“Hey, wait! Don’t touch—”

But Viktor already had them in hand. The papers shifted like leaves in autumn, revealing a glimmering but rough gemstone beneath.

Jayce lurched forward, panic and frustration in the deep set of his frown. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help,” Viktor insisted, though he was staring at the gemstone in awe. Perhaps you should have warned him. It pulsed gently with light, casting blue shadows across their faces.

“Help?” Jayce’s skepticism hardened into anger. “This is sabotage!”

“It’s still intact, and no harm has befallen your work. I fail to see how that is sabotage. I came to help, that is the truth.”

Jayce rubbed his temple as if warding off a headache. “And I’m supposed to take your word for it? You barge in here uninvited—”

“Technically, you invited me in,” Viktor cut in, regaining some composure.

Jayce's scowl deepened. “And you think showing up with a warning about ‘grave consequences’ is going to get me to trust you?”

“If you are as smart as I’ve been led to believe, you will listen.”

“Then explain,” Jayce challenged. “If you know everything, tell me what these ‘grave consequences’ are.”

Viktor hesitated for a fraction of a second, and you swooped in with the frantic energy of a hummingbird on caffeine. “Jayce was tailed when he came back from Zaun. These kids are coming to rob him today since they know he has money and didn’t even try to get a better price at that pawn shop for pretty illegal shit, they took him for a sucker.”

“You were followed you back from the Undercity,” Viktor said smoothly. “You purchased illegal components, and now they believe you have more wealth than sense. The would-be thieves are planning to strike today.”

Jayce's anger wavered, doubt creeping through indignation like a crack across thawing ice. You were about to breathe a sigh of relief when his stubbornness rallied for one last stand.

“Why should I believe any of that?” he asked, pushing back. “You expect me to just take your word on blind faith?”

Viktor’s eyes flitted towards you - maybe he wanted more help, or maybe he was wondering how long before he blew his entire cover. Probably both.

“They’ll be here at some point during the day, but I don’t know when. If we wait, we can prove it,” you offered, cringing at how terrible a plan it was. Would he even agree to wait potentially hours? “Jayce is trying to blend magic and science, but it's unstable. One wrong move and it could blow up this entire apartment. You are the one who will help him stabilize it.”

Viktor’s expression shifted subtly, interest sparking in his eyes, though he kept it masked under indifference. “You realize that magic is illegal in Piltover. If the authorities were to discover this—” he gestured toward the gemstone, “—you would be expelled from the Academy. Most likely arrested.”

Jayce paled slightly, a bead of sweat tracing his temple. “So this is blackmail?”

Viktor ignored the accusation and continued steadily. “It is fortunate that I am here, and not Professor Heimerdinger.”

“What?” Jayce’s confusion was almost comical.

“I want to help you with your research,” Viktor said simply.

Jayce laughed incredulously. “I don’t even know you.”

“Not yet,” Viktor replied, calm as ever, “but you are about to be burgled and lose everything, I’d imagine.”

“How do you—” Jayce began, defensive suspicion flaring once more.

Viktor rolled his eyes with exasperation. “Do I look like I’m about to rob you? Relax. I have informants.”

Jayce wiped a hand down his face, frustration mingling with reluctant acceptance.

“We can wait,” Viktor suggested. “I’ll prove it when they try to break in.”

“No offence,” Jayce countered warily, “but I'd rather get the Enforcers to deal with this.”

“They’re just kids,” you insisted urgently to Viktor, wishing you could tug at his sleeve. “They’ll come back unless they’re properly scared away. I have an idea that I think will work, but I’m going to need you to do it. And to trust me.”

Knowledge could be a weapon if applied precisely.

Viktor gave an almost imperceptible nod before addressing Jayce again. “The Enforcers will not stop them permanently; they will be back the moment your guard is lowered. I can ensure that doesn’t happen.”

Jayce eyed him skeptically. “And how exactly will you do that?”

Bobbing his head from side to side, Viktor made a non-committal noise. “That depends on how they react.” A smooth cover, but at the widening of Jayce’s eyes, Viktor was quick to correct his assumption. “And no, I’m not going to hurt them. They’re children.”

Jayce’s nose crinkled. “I’m…going to be robbed by a bunch of kids.”

“Precisely,” Viktor said with too much enthusiasm, but you couldn’t deny how cute it was.

Jayce threw his hands up in exasperation. "Whatever, fine. But if this goes south, it's on your head."

"Says the guy with the illegal parts," Viktor retorted dryly, tapping his cane against the floor as he glanced meaningfully at the gemstone.

Jayce gave him a withering look that could have wilted a cactus, but said nothing more.

You floated closer to Viktor, and began to explain your plan. His eyes widened slightly at certain details, but he nodded to signal his understanding.

"Jayce," Viktor addressed the taller man, "wait out of sight of the balcony and open a window in your study so you may listen when the time comes. I'll inform you when the coast is clear."

"And what exactly are you going to do?" Jayce asked, suspicion in the tightness around his mouth.

"Prepare," Viktor replied simply. "Now go."

With obvious reluctance, Jayce retreated to the adjacent room, glancing back over his shoulder several times before finally disappearing around the corner. There it was again, too trusting for his own good, even of someone he was suspicious of. Viktor moved to the bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines until he selected a worn book on theoretical physics. He settled into an armchair partially hidden from the balcony behind the bookcase, crossing his legs as if he had all the time in the world.

"Do you really think this will work?" he whispered, barely audible as he flipped through the pages.

You hovered near his shoulder. "It has to," you whispered back, unsure why you felt the need to match his volume when only he could hear you. "Trust me, I've seen what happens if we don't intervene."

Viktor nodded, his eyes never leaving the book. "I find myself wondering why I trust you so implicitly," he said quietly. "Perhaps I truly am going mad."

You smiled through the tension. "Maybe. Or maybe the universe just decided you needed a ghost friend."

"A ghost friend," he repeated as if testing out its validity. His lips twitched into the faintest smile. "How peculiar."

You returned his smile with one of your own. “I’ll wait on the balcony and let you know when they’re coming.”

You slipped through the glass doors, passing through the solid barrier as if it were nothing more than water. Being a ghost had its uses. The bright sun shone through you, creating no shadow as you hovered above the balcony floor.

Time ticked by with excruciating slowness. You paced back and forth, floating just above the railing, scanning the neighbouring rooftops for any sign of movement. The waiting gnawed at you, setting your nerves on edge.

A restless energy began to suffuse through your limbs. It started as a subtle tingle in your fingertips, then spread rapidly through your limbs. You tried to calm yourself, focusing on the mission at hand like the good little ghost lookout you were trying to be, but the strange energy pulsed more intensely.

Without any further warning, your perspective shifted dramatically. The balcony suddenly grew larger around you, the railing now above you rather than at waist height. You glanced down to see paws instead of hands. You extended your claws, to test, though what exactly it proved you were not sure.

For fuck’s sake, not this shit again, you cursed internally, your tail – yes, your tail – twitching with annoyance. Somehow, you'd transformed into a cat again. The timing couldn't have been worse.

You were about to turn back and alert Viktor to your predicament when movement caught your eye. There, skipping across the adjacent rooftops were four small figures. Even from this distance, you recognized them instantly – Powder with her vibrant blue hair, Vi leading the pack, Claggor's bulky silhouette bringing up the rear, and Milo, nimble and quick, already pulling ahead as they approached Jayce's balcony.

There was no time to dwell on your feline fuck up. You darted back through the glass doors. Inside, Viktor remained seated in the armchair, his nose buried in the theoretical physics book. You were sure it wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Was there anything science-related he wasn’t an expert on?

You bounded across the room, meowing loudly.

Viktor looked up from his reading, eyes widening slightly at the sight of you. One eyebrow arched upward in a curve of surprise, but to his credit, he recovered quickly. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you like that before.

You pawed at the air in the direction of the balcony, and he nodded his understanding.

The clicking sound of a lock being fiddled with reached your cat ears, and Viktor stood, setting his book aside, and took quick strides to approach the balcony. Before Vi could smash through the glass, Viktor yanked the doors open, slipping out onto the balcony and causing the young thief to stumble backward with a startled yelp.

Four pairs of eyes widened in shock as Viktor stood before them, his thin frame towering over them. His cane rested over his arm and despite his scholarly appearance, there was something commanding about his presence that made even Vi take a cautious step back. To see them all so young…a bittersweet burn swirled in your chest. If you could stop them from experiencing the horrors that awaited them, maybe they could finally get the happiness they deserved.

Milo and Claggor could see adulthood. Powder would never become Jinx and neither she nor Vi would lose their father. And then lose him again years down the line. Was Isha even alive at this point in time?

"Uh…we were just…" Milo stuttered. "We thought this was…our friend's place. Yeah! We were supposed to water his plants while he's away."

You snorted - a strange sound coming from a cat - and circled around Viktor's ankles. The absurdity of the excuse was almost painful to witness. Not a single plant was visible on the balcony and you knew there were none inside.

Viktor's face remained impassive as he regarded each child in turn. "Milo," he said, nodding at the boy who was frozen post-excuse. "Vi." The pink-haired girl's fists clenched reflexively at her sides. "Claggor." The larger boy shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Powder." The smallest of the group peered up at him with wide, curious eyes.

"How do you know our names?" Vi demanded, stepping forward protectively. Her stance was defensive, ready to fight or flee depending on what happened next. "Who the hell are you?"

Viktor didn't answer her question. Instead, he leaned slightly on his cane and asked with disarming casualness, "Does Vander know you're out here, attempting to burglarize private Piltie residences and disrupt the peace he has worked so hard to achieve?"

The mention of Vander's name sent a visible ripple of tension through the group. Claggor glanced nervously at Vi, whose face had drained of colour. Powder shrank behind her sister, while Milo's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

"I don't know who you're talking about," Vi finally said, but the tremor in her voice sold her out.

"I wonder," Viktor continued, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone, "what would happen if I were to send word to the Enforcers right now. They might decide to make an example of you."

You could see the calculations running behind Vi's eyes as she weighed their options. Fight? Run? Neither seemed particularly promising. It was four versus one, but Viktor’s calm confidence had her wary.

"Or," Viktor continued, "I could pretend I never saw you here today and we can forget this ever happened. Well, after Vander receives the message I sent earlier this morning informing him of your activities."

A bluff that he pulled off with fascinating ease.

Fear flashed across Vi's face for a brief moment before her defiance returned. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Viktor asked, and even you began to question - but no, he hadn’t known who they were earlier. He was simply a good actor. "You may have noticed I knew your names without introduction. I know about Vander. What else might I know?"

Vi's lips pressed into a thin line as uncertainty crept across her face.

"We didn't mean any harm," Powder piped up, and you had to resist the feline urge to rub your face against her. "We just needed—"

"Powder, shut up," Vi hissed, nudging her sister.

"Money," Viktor finished for her. "Yes, I'm aware. The Undercity is struggling even more than it was when I lived there.”

You padded around Viktor's legs, your eyes fixed on the children. This wasn't how things had gone in Arcane. These kids were supposed to break in, get caught by Jayce, and end up fleeing with the gemstone that would eventually tear apart their lives. But now Viktor stood between them and that fate, rewriting history. God this was absolutely insane. You were insane. But fuck it. You could at least let yourself enjoy your insanity a little.

"You're from the Undercity?" Milo asked, his suspicion momentarily giving way to curiosity.

Viktor inclined his head slightly. "I am. And I know what it means to be desperate enough to risk crossing into Piltover for a chance at something better."

Vi's stance softened, though not completely. "Then you know why we're here."

"I do," Viktor agreed. "But thievery is not the answer you seek."

"Easy for you to say," Vi shot back. "You got out."

Your tail swished impatiently as you watched the exchange. This was taking too long, and Jayce could emerge at any moment, potentially ruining the delicate balance Viktor was maintaining. His impatience could ruin everything. You hoped he was listening intently from the study, and you eyed the cracked open window.

"I did not 'get out' through crime," Viktor replied evenly. "I used my mind. And each of you has something valuable between your ears as well, if you would only apply it differently."

Claggor shifted uncomfortably. "We don’t have time for school, mister."

"Perhaps not formal education, no," Viktor conceded. "But there are other ways to learn, to create value. Should you wish to apply your talents, you may contact me here.” He produced a business card from his pocket, holding it out towards VI.

Vi snatched the card, her eyes narrowing as she studied Viktor's face for any sign of deception. "Why would you help us?"

"Because someone once helped me," Viktor said simply. "Now go, before the Enforcer patrol makes its rounds."

The children exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Vi pocketed the card with reluctant acceptance and gave a curt nod.

"Come on," she said to the others, already backing away. "Let's get out of here."

Powder lingered a moment longer, her curious gaze fixed on Viktor, before scampering after her sister.

The four of them disappeared over the balcony's edge, their small bodies retreating the way they had come. You watched them go, relief washing over you. They were safe - for now.

Viktor remained at the balcony rail until they were completely out of sight. Then he turned to you, his eyes meeting yours. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, shoulders rising in a shrug that seemed to ask: Was that what you wanted?

You meowed in response, unable to communicate properly in your current form. The absurdity of the situation - you as a ghost cat, Viktor standing on Jayce's balcony after averting a historical catastrophe - left you spinning.

One catastrophe down, only…a few more to go.

A/N: I hope that all made sense! There are a lot of moving pieces, and we have more to explore and Jayce to deal with, but the crisis has been averted…for now.

[teabeexo]

𝚃𝚎𝚊’𝚜 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚔𝚢𝚞𝚞 𝙾𝙲𝚜: 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞

with a special/bonus feature!

Information and images continue below the cut!

Special Acknowledgement

💚 ┈➤ thank you Dira!

Fools by @dira333 is what absolutely, wholeheartedly inspired Shinju as a character. I read it for the first time and fell in love with the characterization of the reader, as well as the dynamic presented between her and Atsumu.

I also want to apologize for leaving you hanging whenever you asked about my other Haikyuu OCs — I didn’t realize that I had missed it until last night (writing this on the 6th of May)! For your convenience, here is my Haikyuu OC masterlist: enjoy!

Information

📝 ┈➤ just the basics!

Name: Shinju Kita

Age: 18 (pre time-skip), 24 (post time-skip)

Affiliation: Karasuno (third year)

Birthday: May 16th

Height: 5’1” (ft), 155.0 (cm)

S/O (if applicable): Atsumu Miya (eventual boyfriend)

Notable Friends: Kymora Iwasaki (oc), Noa Higashi (oc), Kiyoko Shimizu, Shinsuke Kita (cousin), Aran Ojiro

Character Overview

🗒️ ┈➤just the basic idea! complete lore/stories will be shared elsewhere.

Shinju Kita, in theory, should have an easy go of it. After all, she was raised on a gorgeous farm, born into a steady financial life, and has parents who love her. Alas, for Shinju, it has never been so simple.

Being an only child and the only other new-generation Kita child besides Shinsuke, her parents (her mother especially) felt it was only natural that Shinju and Shinsuke should be the inheritors of the family's work, as well as believing they would follow in the footsteps of their ancestors in terms of lifestyle. But Shinju has always felt unfulfilled by this fate. What if she doesn't want to become a farmer? What if she has no desire for children and the "traditional" path at all?

Shinju, feeling as though she was disappointing her parents due to her deviance from tradition, began to seek other means of making them proud. If it was available, she strode for perfection: academics, athletics, and the arts. And for the most part, all of these routes only ended in self-flagellation and emptiness.

That is, except for one thing: charcoal art. Specifically, portraits: she could draw others, and her surroundings, in the same hues as her very own hair. This newfound love couldn't shake off her residual feelings of fear surrounding disappointment, though. Such a hobby wasn't sustainable, nor generally considered to be a great accomplishment when pursued as a career.

She's stuck. Between family and calling, and practicality and desire. And at the end of it all, how could others love her for what she is when she struggles to love herself?

Letters of Recommendation

✉️ ┈➤ A. K. A. how she’d be described!

If Shinju is anything, she is understated. Her presence and words float and land like an airy breeze -- softly, gently, and with just a little gusto. She's as polite as can be, never intending to trod on well-respected social boundaries. Even so, she knows how to speak her mind. When there is something that needs to be said, she does not mince words. Being straightforward is best.

Shinju's naturally meek nature allows for the full extent of her kindness, but also opens the floodgates for her follies. She lacks a lot of the confidence that she somewhat makes up for with her blunt words. She also fears the rebuking, and most of all, the disappointment of others. This, in turn, is turned inwards. After all, others can't be surprised by finding disappointment in her if she's already disappointed in herself.

Gallery

🖇️ ┈➤ photos! (drawing of her and Atsumu hopefully coming soon — feeling a little burnt out so I’m not sure how long that’ll take)

follow/check her oc tag for content about her, or the tag OCxC: Atsuju for stuff about her and Atsumu (+ writing by others that I picture as encapsulating their relationship).

and an itty bitty tag for @cryptid-flower because… haikyuu OC <3

[jpnriikicore]

── fast and left ( smau )

paring pato o’ward x nascardriver!reader ( masterlist )

yourusername posted !

📍bristol, tennessee

🎵endor . pump it up

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yourusername sadly i could only be here for quail, but best wishes towards arrowmclaren 🧡

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📍talladega superspeedway

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📍fort worth, texas

liked by ryanblaney10, williambyron, racerbia and 811k others

yourusername everything is bigger in texas, right?

teamhendrick mclaren

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racerbia 🧡🧡

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liked by daniel_surezg, patricooward, nolansiegel, elbaoward, schecoperez, kylelarsonracin, chaseelliott, williambyron and 920k others

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© JPNRIIKICORE, 2025

[gremland]

in honour of the marinat smoke sesh au overwhelmingly winning the poll (so far) please enjoy a preview of the first 500 words (not yet edited) 🍃(tw recreational drug use)

Mari enters the basement apartment without knocking, greeted with the familiar, if stale, scents of flat beer, weed, and inhabitants who aren't afraid of their own natural musk. The ghosts of many cigarettes smoked in both the distant and recent past live in the godawful carpeting throughout the basement along with decades of stains hidden within the deep red shag—frankly, Mari struggles to believe the wood panel covering the walls was ever in style. Still, this has become one of her favourite places in her hometown. The house itself belongs to Kevyn Tan's maternal grandmother who kindly offered to let him live in the basement suite after graduation for next to nothing in rent—an offer he in turn extended to Nat. The timing was serendipitous as shortly after they moved in, his grandmother began to complain about a family of skunks infesting her backyard and luckily, her beloved grandson was there to help. Though he's been hot on the case for nearly three years, he somehow hasn't been able to to catch one of the sneaky buggers yet. Maybe one day. Nat's splayed out on the couch in boxers and a loose tour tee for a band Mari doesn't recognize, lost in the music softly playing from her record player. Like most of the furniture in the basement, it's absolutely ancient but she prides herself on her extensive vinyl collection she gets to indulge in thanks to Kevyn's family's crap. She says it almost makes the lopsided couch worth it. The bean bag chair is one of the few contributions to the space from Nat—sure it's cliche and the ugliest shade of orange, but it's also the most comfortable place Mari's ever sat her ass and it's perfect for melting into after a hit. As the ever gracious host, Nat gives her the courtesy of taking the best seat when she visits. The air puffs out as she lets herself fall into it. A black lighter adorned with alien heads lands in her lap and Nat nods to the worn coffee table where a bong depicting a red-eyed Pepe Le Pew in the glassware sits. "Bowl's filled." "Natalie Scatorccio, did you break out the fine china for little ol' me?" she beams, while Nat widely swings a leg towards the bean bag chair. The kick misses. There's rules when it comes to smoking with Nat. First, don't make your bullshit her problem. Second, this is her job—she's not running a charity, pay the fuck up—and third, do not, under any circumstances, touch her Pepe Le Pew bong. Mari's had the privilege of smoking from the sacred glassware on a few occasions over the last couple years—each time Nat watching her like a hawk—so this really is rolling out the metaphorical red (shag) carpet. Then again, this is the only time they'll see each other before Mari drives back to campus for her senior year of college.

[practicecourts]

Hi @jamesunderwater & @neverenoughmarauders

thanks for tagging me and thanks for suggesting this amazing game!

I think there might be so many more that I could highlight with this game so perhaps we just keep it going ;-) From @petals2fish's fic Only Nineteen (she has written so many wonderful Jily stories, I picked the last lines of a rather angsty/thoughtful fic but her jily is still so hot and bothered for each other as well as very much alive ;-)

Lily watched James’ eyes shine from the fresh tears he had held back. He still had the boyish charm to his handsome face that she’d fallen for in fourth year. “I love you,” she told him gently. “I love you, more.” They were only 19. Fighting for themselves, fighting for their baby, and fighting for peace. Love preservers, and even though she felt like the world was still crashing down, love makes life worth living. 

From the absolute ruler of angst (and also capable of fluff I know i know) @jamesunderwater I picked a few lines from Dead to me. I could have picked so many lines. but I finally chose a conversation in the Infirmary when both James and Lily are there. Maybe theses lines so singled out are nothing special but the amount of feeling james has created for these characters (and the level of pain they go trhough, don't even get me started on the last chapter(s) i've still to read the last posted one. these lines also sum up how well the dynamics between these friends are brought to life in this fic. Can't recommend enough. (just don't forget tissues)

The girls glanced at one another, but it was Mary who spoke up. “She wanted to know if we knew anything—y’know, about what could have gotten Lily so upset.” She glanced down at her roommate, her face deeply sad. “And?” “And, it’s none of your business,” Dorcas countered, glaring at Sirius. “Fuck me, it was just a question.” Remus stayed in Pomfrey’s office for nearly twice the time Mary, Marlene, and Dorcas had. James tried to ignore this. He was itching to bounce his legs, to do anything at all to be out of this situation. So Lily confided in Remus, so what? He didn’t care. So Remus was allowed to care about her, but James was just like Snape for claiming to give a shit? He didn’t care.

I could also have copied the whole chapter about the flies with and without wings... the letters... it's all so well done!

for the third "lines" I'd like to ramble about a certain phone call a certain James Potter makes with a certain hung-over Lily Evans from a fic you can't read at the moment (unless I'm mistaken) by @formerlympp, but that conversation (from James's POV) has my heart so I can't not mention it.

But for the game I'm posting lines from Up In Arms

Mary truly was a bad influence. ....

“Uh-huh. Best arms?” “Er—what?” Lily asked with a laugh, wondering if she’d over poured her latest drink. “Did you say arms?” Mary rose onto her elbows. “Yes, arms.” Lily straightened, picked her drink up from the bedside table, and took a sip. “I hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest.” “Oh, come off it! You’ve been lying this entire time, Lil, just admit it!” “Lying? About what?” “All of the blokes you named aren’t your first choices! They’re all your second choices at best. You can’t deny it when it comes to arms though, so don’t even try.” “I–! Err…”

also... can't forget to mention @chdarling

and adding a few lines from her amazing TLE story of my favourite character and favourite chapter (although if completely honest most chapters of Dark Marks have stolen my heart.

“Daddy,” she said, and her father looked up from his Bible, smiling. “Do you ever wish that I wasn’t…that I was different from the way I am?” Her father frowned “The way you are?” “You know. Magic.” “Now why would I wish a thing like that?” Lily sipped her tea and gazed around at the books that lined the walls, the desk, the floor. “It can’t be easy for you, having a witch for a daughter.” “Nonsense,” said her father, busying himself with the teapot. “And the Bible has some pretty choice words about witchcraft and the suffering of it. ‘Thou shalt not,’ I think it says.” Her father poured a blossom of milk into his tea and gave it a little stir. “The Bible also suggests that shellfish is an abomination, but your mother used to make a very nice prawn cocktail of which I remain dearly fond.” Lily rolled her eyes. “Daddy. I’m being serious.” “As am I.” He took a sip of the tea and regarded his youngest daughter with a gentle gaze. His pastoral gaze, Lily would’ve called it in other circumstances. “The way I see it,” he said, “‘magic’ is just another word for miracle. And you, my darling daughter, have always been a miracle.” He patted her arm. “So no more of this sorrow. Remember your Romans 9:20.” “Remind me.” “'But who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, ‘Why have you made me like this?’ You are a gift, my love, just the way you are. Never doubt it.”

so I guess this means I'm tagging @formerlympp, @chdarling, @petals2fish and @jamesunderwater (with zero pressure) to play this wonderful game!

A different kind of tag game?

Hopefully people are keen and @annabtg, @tedwardremus and @jamesunderwater aren't going to kill me for picking them.

I wanted to highlight something of their work that did something to me, and I am hoping at least one of them picks up the ball from here. I want this to be low pressure. It's not necessarily about favourite lines or passages (which dear lord how to narrow that down - there are too many good writers and fics?!). It's more about recreating a bit of the last line / WIP snippet logic with other people's works.

I wondered whether to flag spoilers as two of them pull lines from towards the end, but I wouldn't actually call any of this spoiling. If you read To Shine a Light of Truth, and don't know how it ends, you haven't read the books.

The Chaperone by @annabtg

"Too magic for Petunia, too Muggle for Hogwarts."

Eight words that have stuck with me, to the point the idea manifested itself in one of my fics, something I only realised a couple of months later, re-rereading it.

An Unexpected Ally by @jamesunderwater

Lily Evans had yelled at him, just like always.

I mean I've said it before, this fic broke me. It just did. Obviously, it's a little personal.

To Shine a Light of Truth by @tedwardremus:

There was no obituary in the Daily Prophet. No statement from the Ministry. Just another name gone missing. A whisper in dark rooms occupied by people hiding in a war that was all but lost.

Perfect All Quiet on the Western Front (one of my FAVE novels). It was the most perfect ending to this most perfect fic. And speaking of influencing, Benjy is now a journalist in my story too. I can't not picture him like that after this.

[freaky-flawless]

Well...I just finished the final Ghoulfriends book (not counting the Ghoul it Yourself book) Not really sure what to take away from it?

Its the case where the story builds up to this big reveal, where all the pieces are supposed to come together only for it to be underwhelming and obvious. Like...none of this would have happened if they'd just gotten rid of the dragon lady after the first book.

I've been under the impression for years that this story had its own version of how Hexiciah Steam is found, only to find out just this moment that this isn't the case. It's revealed in the story that Ramses De Nile had something to do with his disappearance, and in the epilogue Cleo finds a clue as to his whereabouts and hands it off to Robecca. And thats where it ends. There's apparently a continuance in the Ghoul-It-Yourself book of the ghoulfriends trying to track him down and I guess they just don't??? He's fully normie in this series, and his life goal was to find a way to mechanically extend the life span of normies, so they just kinda blindly hope that he managed to do that for himself and has secretly been alive for 100+ years. So the only version of Hexiciah's reemergence is in his SDCC doll diary, which doesn't tie into this at all.

Wydowna was another major disappointment. She only appeared at the very beginning of the book and the very end, and her role in the story is left weirdly vague. (She also got arrested in the third book which was wild #ACAB) I think she was supposed to be a spy for the villain but its not really spelled out exactly what she did. The only people she seemed to be spying on were high schoolers who had no idea what was going on. A LOT of weird shit happened around the school in the second book that must have been her, but no one in the story makes that connection? And its not mentioned at all. Like at one point Rochelle literally wakes up in a cocoon of webs for no reason, and no ones ever like "Wydowna what the fuck??" (Unless I'm wrong and it wasn't her, in which case its just never explained) And on top of that, despite the cover of the book showing her hanging out with the mains, they don't even end up as friends. In fact it seems Wydowna grew way closer to Cleo and Toralei at the end of the book who had previously taken any chance they could have to bully her lol. Such a wasted use of her character, and its such a shame considering she rarely features in the main canon, and she's so cool!

Oh Skelita and Jinafire were real useless too. They just showed up randomly following the villain around and that was it. Jinafire gave them a kung fu (or kung boo I guess) lesson out of nowhere which was weird and uncomfortable.

To give the book some credit though, I did like how the parents were included in the story. It was really refreshing, though I think Ghoulia's mom was mentioned more times than Ghoulia herself (who would have solved the entire mystery in less than an hour, but like I mentioned in a previous post, everyone but the main 3 are stupid)

I also like Sue Nami quite a bit, I was so worried that she'd end up being some kinda cheap twist villain, but nope! She has a fun pun name unlike a lot of the other characters (like...Fred Onarrival...c'mon man...) Definitely stealing her character for fics.

Sooo. Yeah. I have mixed feelings about this series as a whole. The first book was just plainly bad for sure, and the over arching story was disjointed and predictable (and actually follows a similar theme with monster supremacy as Frights Camera Action, just a lot worse) but once I accepted the fact that they were bad I could enjoy them a lot more. There were cute moments here and there, and starting each chapter with a Darko Dark illustration was delightful.

[starlingstalk]

The human centipede movies where lowkey blasphemous to those beautiful creatures like the it should not be the first thing that comes to my mind when seeing a centipede but it is

[lunarriviera]

[雪迷宫 | the first shot, episode 6]