#“detective. your hat.” situation

[efverse]

i dont think beheeyem yamask wore his hat/mask for a while after he had first become a ghost...

[gloomwitchwrites]

i’ve never really seen dark and unhinged reader x 141 tbh

You know, anon. I am not one to write an unhinged or dark reader. Not that it hasn't ever occured to me, but I just haven't written it. So, to you, I tip my hat for pushing me out of my comfort zone a little bit. I figured that if I was going to write a reader that is dark and unhinged, then I'm going for it. All in. Give me the blood and gore. I want it all. No limits.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: Stalker AU, Serial Killer AU, Detective AU, Cartel AU, canon-typical violence, descriptions of bodily injury, surveillance, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), arranged marriage, creampie, oral sex, knife play, gunplay, brief blood consumption, hostage situations, abductions, using a knife as a dental instrument

Word Count: 3.2k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish (Detective/Serial Killer AU)

“Need some company?”

While it’s a question, you don’t really intend for the man to answer. You sit yourself on the stool at the bar, one arm resting against the polished wood.

His dreary demeanor shifts, morphing into interest.

“That’d be lovely,” he replies.

The Scottish lilt to his voice is downright sexy. Your smile grows. There is real attraction in it, even if your purpose is nefarious. This conversation is no accident. You did not stumble into this specific bar on the off chance that you’d find the exact man you’ve been looking for.

No. Not a coincidence.

You’ve been stalking Detective MacTavish for the last couple of weeks. It’s not because you want to fuck him—although that is very much on the table now that you’re sitting here—but because this man is hunting a killer.

Not just any killer.

He’s hunting you.

But not you. Because he doesn’t know. No one does.

At least, not yet. That’s why you’re here after all. To worm your way in, to find out if they’re close to fracturing it all, and bringing you in.

By the appreciative look on Detective MacTavish’s face, you suspect that you’re likely in the clear. Yet knowing for sure won’t hurt anything. Plus, Detective MacTavish is easy on the eyes. Having a bit of fun and playing with your food first won’t hurt anything.

“What are you drinking?”

“Scotch.”

“A gentleman’s drink,” you reply softly, almost a coo.

The smirk on his face widens into a devious grin. “Cheeky.” He downs the rest and gestures at the bartender. “Two. One for the lass here.”

When the glass appears before you, you scent it first, enjoying the smoky aroma. You take a sip. It bites—but it’s delicious.

“You like it?” he asks.

You slowly run your tongue over your lip. It’s a calculated move. Seductive. Detective MacTavish notices, his gaze following your tongue like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“Puts some hair on my chest,” you reply, smiling against the glass as you take another sip.

Detective MacTavish laughs. It’s genuine and sweet. Casually, you scan his body. No wedding ring. But that doesn’t mean much. Public records showed no marriage certificates or even divorce papers.

Not that it would matter. This is about saving your ass.

“To be honest, I’ve been watching you.”

Detective MacTavish cocks an eyebrow. “Watching me?”

In more ways than you know.

“I always walk by here on my way home from work. Sometimes I stop. Sometimes I don’t. Always see you though. On Tuesday and Thursday.” You shrug casually. “Thought I’d finally stop in. Have a drink with you.”

“That’s bold.”

“It is,” you agree. You present your hand and introduce yourself.

“John MacTavish. Friends call me ‘Soap.’”

“Why is that?” you ask, placing your chin in your hand.

You already know, but you want to hear what his version is.

“Got it while serving in the military.”

“So, a secret then?”

He nods. “You could say that.”

You give him your best smile. “And what will it take to get you to spill a few secrets?”

Turns out, not much.

Detective MacTavish groans loudly, his skin glossy with sweat. You take him deeper into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head as you lazily suck. He is a gorgeous specimen. Solid, thick muscle in all the right places.

You retreat slowly, lips tightening to suck a bit harder before his cock pops from your mouth.

The next moan from his lips is sweet. Pushing upward with your hands, you lean into him, and he greets you, lips meeting. The kiss is brief and sweet, and then it becomes anything but. Detective MacTavish grabs the back of your neck and drags you against him, deepening the kiss until you’re breathless.

“Get on your back, lass,” he growls.

You obediently do so, spreading your legs in invitation.

The condom goes on and then he’s inside you again. Detective MacTavish has stamina, and you’re near the breaking point. He pants above you, thrusting perfectly deep, making your toes curl. Your legs settle against him, thighs cradling his hips as skin meets skin.

He dives in for another kiss, and then you’re gone. Completely wrecked.

The orgasm claws its way up to the surface, bursting from your throat to saturated his mouth. Detective MacTavish swallows down the moan, staunching the noise with his own pleasure.

It ends with the two of you tangled up. Sweaty. Chests heaving. Eyelids heavy with lust.

“They call me ‘Soap’ because of who well I clean out a place.” His voice is a but rough—a little husky. It’s sex-laced and perfectly content.

“I’m guessing that doesn’t mean you’re a beast with a mop and bucket.”

MacTavish chuckles. “Aye. I’m good with that, too.”

You turn over in his arms, the two of you gently stroking the other until sleep creeps in. At least, for him it does. Once he’s settled and snoring, you slip from the bed, moving silently into the kitchen.

On the table are stacks of files. Carefully, you open each one, scanning them until you find what you’re looking for. It’s the case file on your hits. You comb through it, but there is nothing about you. Not a peep. And the possible list of suspects are just characteristics. They think it’s some middle-aged white man. How fucking wrong they are.

Gently, you return the file where you found it, slipping back into the bedroom.

No. You don’t need to kill Detective MacTavish. Not yet.

You can still have a bit of fun.

John Price

Every step is a second lost, yet ground gained.

Like a swarm of wasps, bullets fly past Price, striking concrete. Little chunks fly, and then whole pieces go airborne.

Price dives. Rolls. Lands back on his feet.

It’s hell on his knees, and fucking worse on his back, but he hardly feels it. The goal is retrieval. The goal is to find you alive.

Teammates don’t leave each other behind. If one falls, they go back, even if it’s later down the line. You pick them up. Drag them if you fucking have to.

The thing is, you aren’t lost.

Just taken. A hostage.

The wankers that took you didn’t make it far. You’ve only been gone for forty-eight hours. Not long, but long enough that anything could have happened.

Price doesn’t want to linger on it. Doesn’t want to think about what may or may not have occurred while you’ve been away. Doing that won’t help things. It will only take his mind off the task ahead. His focus needs to be on you and you alone.

Price’s heart hammers in his chest. It thumps so loud it nearly drowns out the buzzing of the flying metal. Sweats sticks to his brow, rubbing against his helmet.

Lifting his rifle, John pulls the trigger twice.

A sharp cry followed by a spray of dark red paints the surrounding area in a pretty little arc.

“Do you have a visual?” asks Price into the comms.

Ghost’s reply is immediate. “No, sir.”

Sighing, Price peers over the barrier he’s hiding behind.

Nothing.

No sound. No movement.

Slowly, Price emerges, rifle raised. Each step is a stalk, a predator seeking prey. Price will happily empty more lead into the next person that crosses his path.

Entering the next room, he finds this one empty. There are stacks of crates but nothing else. The only thing of note is a door in the far wall. It is plain and unassuming. Price heads for it.

Reaching out, he curls his gloved hand around the handle. He pushes down, quickly pulls back, opening it wide before aiming the firing end of his rifle into the opening.

No one emerges.

No one stirs.

But of course, they wouldn’t.

There is a secondary door behind this. It is solid and made of metal with a keypad. Price enters the code he got from intel and the door beeps, the light turning green.

It swings open, and inside is a bloodbath.

In the middle of the room is a simple, plain table. It’s unpolished, rough wood. Untreated and left to the elements. There are stacks of cards and beer bottles on top, and not much else.

Of the four chairs, only one is occupied.

But the occupant has no head.

It’s not blown off. It’s sawed off. Placed in the middle of the table.

The three other people who must have occupied the chairs are strewn across the room. Some are gutted, insides around their downed corpses like they were yanked out by a rabid animal.

Price steps around them, his boots touching more blood than concrete floor.

“I have four down. Maybe more.”

“You have a visual on her?” comes Ghost’s response.

“No,” replies Price, throat suddenly dry.

He sweeps the room, but no one comes out to fire at him, or to try and halt his progress. It is entirely quiet.

The light overhead flickers. Price turns, noticing another door. This one stands open, revealing a flight of stairs.

Price approaches, and stops at the top.

There is another body here. It’s near the top, arms outstretched, fingers digging like they tried to claw themselves forward. Price steps around it and nearly slips in the blood.

It’s fucking everywhere.

All over the place.

He descends, exiting out into another room, this one much smaller than the previous one.

At first, Price keeps his rifle raised, but then he lowers it, back straightening.

You are there. In the middle of the room.

Sitting.

Sitting atop a large pile of corpses. Your left boot digs into the top of someone’s skull, but you don’t seem to notice. You’re humming a little tune, almost whistling.

There is blood in your hair. Blood on your face.

It is under your nails and soaked into your clothes.

Leaning back, you curl back your lip, the tip of the knife coming to rest between two teeth as you dig something out.

Price swears he sees bloody chunks there, too.

Something comes out, and Price flinches.

Only then do you glance up.

"Took you long enough, Captain."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick (Cartel AU)

There’s a body on the floor.

Not yours. And not Kyle’s.

A competitor. A rival.

You brought the man before Kyle. Tracked him down. Dragged him up for execution.

When the original marriage deal was drawn up, Kyle thought he’d get a pretty face with nice tits that would keep his dick wet and give him some sons to carry on the family legacy.

You do keep his dick wet. But you’re not a spoiled cartel daughter.

Oh, no.

You’re a serpent. A viper.

You are venom and steel.

With you, there is an equal. There is a companion. There is a woman who will give him what he needs to carry on but will happily pull the trigger to see it done.

You are just as fucking bloodthirsty as he is.

Kyle twists his wrist, observing the barrel.

The body on the floor is twisted and broken. The bullet was a mercy.

He glances up, notices the knife you’re holding. At first, you’re not looking at Kyle. You’re staring at the dead man with a blank face. But Kyle reaches out, brushing his thumb across your cheek, smearing red.

You turn then, smiling.

“Open your mouth,” he murmurs.

You do so, presenting your tongue. Kyle slides the barrel over your tongue, and then it’s in your mouth. He fucks your mouth with it, and you take it happily. Kyle grabs the front of your throat, turning you away from the scene on the ground.

The knife goes up, presses against his neck.

“Fucking do it, love.”

Your lips are suctioned around the barrel of the gun. Eyes wicked. Knowing. The knife slowly slides upwards, the flat side pressing against Kyle’s lips. He parts his lips, licks off some of the blood.

Kyle eases his hand on your throat, and the gun slowly slides out with a wet pop.

“Show me that pretty pussy.”

Kyle drops his hand, and you saunter backward. Leaning back on the low table, you present yourself, legs spread, pussy bare for him.

He presses the barrel of the gun to your pussy.

“Safety on?” you ask.

Kyle shrugs, and then he thrusts forward a bit, the barrel breaching. You moan loudly, and Kyle gives you more. He moves it in and out of your pussy, watching it appear and disappear, becoming slicker with your juices.

You whimper, and Kyle retreats, placing the gun on the table. Reaching for the knife you discarded, Kyle runs the flat edge over his palm, removing the blood.

Pressing his palm to your mouth, you lick it off—lick him clean as Kyle undoes the front of his pants.

It doesn’t matter that there is a dead man in the room.

Possibly dead.

Kyle didn’t really look. He just shot. He might have missed something vital. The guy isn’t moving but he must still be slightly aware. In pain. The very idea fuels his erection.

Kyle is inside you and thrusts in seconds, every stroke frantic and needy. You take it all, fingernails clawing at him, tearing at his clothes and likely breaking skin.

When you grin, there is blood in your teeth. Kyle matches the smile, and then he’s kissing you, tasting you and the gore. It is salty. Tangy. And you are sweet.

It sends him right over.

His lower back tightens, and then he’s grinding forward, flooding your pussy with his release. Kyle feels it dripping out and around him.

The kisses slow. Becoming soft.

Your fingers lightly brush against his cheek.

Kyle leans in for one more kiss, but a groan comes from somewhere behind him. You glance over his shoulder, the middle of your brow furrowing.

Without taking your eyes off the man, you reach for the gun.

Simon "Ghost" Riley (Stalker AU)

It’s gorgeously easy. You’re oblivious. A perfect victim.

Ghost will ensnare you in his trap and reel you in until you can’t untwine yourself from him. You will become him. You will have no identity. No want or desire that isn’t dipped with his own.

The shadows are his friend. Ghost sticks to the dark, lingering near corners, observing from afar.

You are so oblivious. So adorable.

Breaking you will be sweet. Delicious.

You live on the outskirts of the city. The house isn’t much on the outside. It is the interior where you’ve curated a space just for yourself. You’ve done an excellent job fixing it up.

At least, Ghost thinks so. He’s been inside a few times. Pressed your clothes against his balaclava just to inhale your scent. Sometimes he’d just walk around, picking things up only to place them elsewhere for you to find. It always makes you uneasy when you come home and everything feels a bit off.

It isn’t the only thing Ghost has done while alone in your home. There are gifts he’s left behind. Cameras, actually. He’s been watching you for months now. Learning your habits. Memorizing your routes and schedules.

Tonight is the end of your work week. There are two full days where you won’t be missed. Ghost plan on taking full advantage of every minutes.

Each step leads him closer. Pulls him nearer.

When you enter your home, he waits a full five minutes before approaching from the back, heading for the patio door. In his pocket is a copy of your house key. He retrieves it, sliding it into the lock.

It clicks as he slowly turns it, and the door gives way without it’s usual screech of resistance. He fixed it when he entered your home to tap your cell phone.

Ghost softly shuts the door behind him, crouching slightly as he observers the space around him. All the lights are off except for a small lamp in the living room. From his vantage point in the kitchen, Ghost can hardly see it. The light only reaches so far, and he is still in shadow.

You are not in the kitchen, and as he stalks into the living room, you are not there either. The little office you have on this floor is also empty. The second floor is his best bet. That will make it easier, too. The only way for you to run from him is down the stairs or to leap from a window. The drop isn’t far but he can’t see you risking yourself like that.

As Ghost turns the corner to ascend the staircase, he comes to an abrupt stop.

Next to the front door is the coat closet. It stands open, all the items inside pushed off to either end, revealing a wall.

But not a wall. No.

It’s another door.

This one stands open, and from it comes an artificial, almost white-blue light.

Frowning, Ghost approaches, pausing to glance back into the rest of the house. You are not there. And you don’t linger at the stop of the stairs.

It is still dark. Still absent of you.

Ghost takes a step inside.

Another. Then, another.

The darkness around him gives way to the light. And it is artificial.

At first, Ghost doesn’t understand. Not completely. It’s just a room. A room with no other doors. No windows. On the opposite side—the far side—are computer monitors. The wall is full of them, nearly floor to ceiling. There’s a small desk in front of them and a folding chair.

The light comes from above.

“I know you’re watching me.”

Ghost spins, finding you in the opening of the doorway.

“I’ve been watching you, too.”

You hold something in your hand. It is black and square. Your thumb brushes over it, and then more light floods the room, coming from behind him. Ghost turns just enough to glance over his shoulder.

The monitors are on. And each one shows something of his.

Every room of his flat. The interior of his car. His place of work. Ghost’s favorite pub. Even the corner store he shops at.

“I didn’t have enough time to prepare a room. But I will! I promise!”

You sound so sweet—so earnest, as if you mean every word.

Ghost turns fully toward you. His muscles clench, and then he’s walking, aiming for you and the doorway.

You jump back, and then the door is closing in his face.

You are too quick, and Ghost’s hands slam against solid metal.

“Sorry!” you say, voice muffled. “I’ll let you out soon. But only if you’re good!”

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[hirschkuh-traumvoll]

Like in your fav movie

the plot is: chralie's planning a movie night for everyone to participate, but you know her films are not much for your and your friend's taste, so you find a good old film and suggest alastor watching it together

words ≈ 5.6k

warnings: alastor has a favourite kiss scene in a movie... not like he likes this movie just because of the scene, but he just finds this kiss scene beautiful because i do so; also, gifs from the silent movie would appear in the text, don't be disturbed by them

author's note: this had been in my drafts for months, like for six-seven months!! because i easily jump from one project to another, but i'm glad i've finally finished it ^^

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

You and Angel entered a video rental store in a search for a movie for tonight. The films Charlie kept came to an end, and none of you wanted to rewatch these toothroting romantic movies and children musicals. Some of you wanted something really entertaining. So Angel and you volunteered to find tapes that would please everyone and at the same time wouldn't violate the rules drawn up by Charlie. At least not all of them. It wasn't easy, but at least going on this mission you freed yourself from her trust building exercises. And this was a huge plus.

Entering the shop you decided to split up, pick out a few tapes that suited the majority's taste, and then discuss together which of these you should take.

You went to the detective section and Angel to the fantasy. Horrors, actions, thrillers and all the similar was out of your list, as it simply went against Charlie's rules, god damn them, why couldn't you even watch a good horror movie in the hotel situated in hell? Did it really interfere with redemption?

But you shook your head. She tried her best for you all, after all. And moreover the lights in the horror section suspiciously flickered now and then… Better stay away from that part of the shop.

The detective part seemed quite boring, though the bright covers with abstruse names dazzled in front of your eyes, persuading you to buy them. You took only two tapes that seemed suitable and moved to the other section when suddenly something caught your eye, making you stop abruptly. You turned your head to the shelves on your right and saw a familiar white and black face without even a hint of a smile. And this film was in the comedy section. The man in the image was holding a book in one hand and a magnifier in the other one. Fake mustache was on his pale face, and a flat hat was on the top of his head.

Your eyes widened in a growing surprise as you pronounced “no way” with a smile curving your lips, and your hand reached to the tape.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

Angel stood in front of you with several tapes in each of his hands, pressing them to his fluffy chest. One tape seemed to stick out right from his fur. Even in his extra section of arms he held at least five tapes in his large palms. And you stood in front of him with just a single film.

“The fuck, babe?”

“I see you've done a great job, Angel! Let's go to the cash desk!” You answered cheerfully, ignoring his frown.

“Wait, hold on!” He wanted to grab your hand, but realised it was impossible for him, so he just stepped out in front of you, bending his waist, not losing a single tape, even the one in his fur, which now was staring right at you. You took a step back, mentally preparing to defend yourself from his sarcasm. He knew what a nerd you were with your strange passion for everything old, including silent movies.

Angel tilted his head, reading the name of the tape you squeezed in your palm.

“1924..? A silent comedy?! Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!”

“You don't understand, Angel, it's a very important film.” You said grandly, but your friend only rolled his eyes, as if he knew why exactly you chose this tape among all the modern movies and even hell made ones. “I know what you're thinking about, Angel,” He looked down grumpy at you, “but I assure you, that I came to love silent pictures long before I met Alastor. I loved them even when I was alive. Frankly, a part of me wanted to become a director, so much I loved cinematography, but, unfortunately, I died.”

Maybe not even unfortunately, you thought. In hell you met people you would die for, so partly you were glad you were dead.

Angel's eyes went from the tape in your hands to your face and back. His expression relaxed, but he was still frowned a bit,

“Eh, do you really think somebody’s gonna watch it? Cuz’ I’m out.”

You came up to the cash register, and handed the precious tape to a cashier, whilst Angel dumped all that he was holding in hands at the desk, making quite a heap of films of various genres. Your eyes quickly ran through the names on the covers and recognised most of them. Your cinematography knowledge was indeed deep and sound. You mentioned that most of the selected films actually met the princess’s requirements (though they were not so ‘harmless’ as Charlie's ones), but, not without a surprise, you observed that some pictures could literally drive Charlie mad if she'd find them.

“I fully trust your taste, Angel.” You answered, paying for the tape and taking a breath to say something that caused a little blush on your cheeks. “But this one tape is just for me and… Alastor.” You confessed with a little hesitation.

“Ohh! So it's a movie date then, huh?” Angel grinded cheeky, propping himself against the cash desk, eyeing at you.

“Don't say so.” Frowning, you tapped your fingers against the tape, imagining Alastor's face when you would suggest watching this film together. You couldn't deny you imagined his polite smile turning into a genuine one, a warmer and softer smile, how he calls you with a precious pet name ‘cher’ rolling from his tongue so sweetly as his eyelids droop slightly as every time you say something pleasant to him. And what could be more pleasurable than an offer to watch a classic comedy together? Especially when it was filmed by a director you both liked?

“Well, I hope.” You admitted. After all it wasn't a secret for Angel that you felt something for the deer man. You never really tried to hide your little crush on the Radio Demon. But you were a little scared of the thought that one day the rest of the crew and then he himself would find out what actually Alastor was to you. So you were very nervous when recently Charlie mentioned how your expression changed every time Alastor entered the room, how a smile on your face was impossible to wipe off, how your eyes never left Alastor, how you leaned closer to him when he was speaking. She was speaking with an understanding smile and even winked at you when you tried to deny.

If she noticed it, could he?

But when you decided to play a cold blooded towards him you appeared close to having your heart melted. It was fruitless to try to escape your feelings for they only grew stronger, wrapping their roots firmly around your tortured heart.

“Ha! I knew you have a crush on Tall Dark And Creepy!” Angel laughed, and, though you were slightly embarrassed, you couldn't help smile back at him — his laughter was too infectious. Even the cashier could hardly suppress a smile.

Angel put his hand on your shoulder and said with a bright smile,

“I’ll make sure Charlie picks the loooongest movie, so nobody will bother you, sugar.” He winked at you, spreading red across your cheeks. Then Angel lowered his gaze to the tape you twisted in your hands. “Hm. Tell me, babe, how long is this?”

You looked up, trying to remember,

“Hmm, about forty minutes?”

“What!?”

“What do you want? It's an old thing.” You waved the tape.

“Pff! This is not an excuse!” He crossed his arms, and you wanted to clarify to him the whole complicated process of filming a movie in the early 20s, and especially this comedy, shot on two films at once for better sales abroad, but Angel hushed you with his forefinger in front of your nose. “Don't you dare explain to me about film shooting again, toots.”

And only when he saw reconciliation in your eyes he continued, combing his white hair back with his gloved hand,

“Okay, that's not so bad. There are still a lot of hot things you can do in forty minutes, especially when you're so foxy. The longest shit I have is about three hours, so even when you, guys, finish you’ll still have about two hours in your pocket.” Angel widely smiled at you, being proud that he’d just organized you a potential date.

But you actually weren't so sure. Alastor was a busy man, it would be a great luck if he’d agree to join you tonight and wouldn’t leave right away as the movie ended.

“Angel, I-”

“No need to thank me, babe.” Angel gave the cashier banknotes, leaning forward to him and moving his hips to the side with grace blended with seduction. He turned to you again. “I'm always glad to help my friends with movies.”

You didn't know why it sounded suggestively, maybe Angel could make everything sound suggestively. You nodded and thanked him, but still thought that his conception of a movie date differed from yours. All you really wanted was to watch a movie that you and your friend/beloved enjoyed. But you really worried about the extra two hours. If Alastor was free tonight and when the others would be watching an Angel's movie, you would be left alone with Alastor… For two hours. The thought made you feel nervous because of excitement blended with fear that Alastor always made you feel: when he cast a look at you, when he placed his hand on your shoulder, when he praised your knowledge, or when he just emerged in your thoughts. And even now, when he didn't even know what you were about to offer him, just a thought of his smile and glowing eyes made your palms perspire and goosebumps ran down your spine.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

When you entered the hotel and looked around the lobby and the bar, Angel whistled above you,

“Hey, look who's up there!”

When you looked up you saw Alastor taking a view of the hotel's lobby from the balcony. He held his hands behind his back, gripping his microphone, and stuck his chest out. But despite the proud look his gaze seemed empty, as if his thoughts were far from this place.

You felt a gaze on you and turned to Angel, who playfully raised his brows at you, and you rolled your eyes at him.

“Go to Charlie, and I…” The shyness occupied you suddenly, making it hard for you to say aloud the name of your crush. Why did it take you so much strength to pronounce the name of your beloved, especially when he was in the same room? Your cheeks blushed brightly as your eyes landed on the man you loved — he met your eyes and flashed you a smile.

“I'm going!” You exclaimed, throwing a paper bag with the new tapes into Angel's hands, and headed for the stairs.

“Break a leg, honey!” You heard behind your back and rolled your eyes, but smiled.

Alastor was about to go but noticing you entering the lobby he remained standing at the railing. So, you came back from shopping with your friend porn star. Wonderful. Now you waved him with your hand, catching his attention, though he was following your figure with his eyes as you were coming upstairs, and he responded to you with a tilt of his head.

You came up to him, keeping one hand behind your back, your left hand tucked your hair behind your ear as you stopped in front of him.

“Hi!” You greeted him. The blush Alastor saw on your cheeks dispelled all his thoughts. Your earthy beauty — so rare in hell and because of this even more precious — was pure and natural, and he couldn't help fixing his gaze on you each time you appeared before his eyes as a dreamy apparition. Just a view of you ignited his chest with warmth. And though just two minutes ago he felt resentment and even jealousy (he hated the fact that he wasn't there when Charlie was choosing who to send shopping, and it ended up with you and Angel going together), now he forgot, or almost forgot, his umbrage. Your smile wasn't so wide, your eyes didn't sparkle so bright, and you didn't tug nervously at the edge of your shirt when you were speaking with anyone but Alastor. And it meant something.

“Good evening, my dear! How was your shopping?” The last word was pronounced sharply, perfectly matching the flash of his fangs in the thin smile, and you, somehow, had to lower your gaze to escape the embarrassment. He looked too damn handsome with his lowered crimson eyelids and this dangerous grin, even when he was obviously irritated for some reason. Although you guessed why he was angry and knew it was fruitless to dispel his emotions with words — Alastor always appreciated actions.

“Weeell,” You drawled and handed him the tape from behind your back. It wasn't taken from your hand right away as you expected, so you looked up at him, seeing him observing the film with the narrowed eyes.

“Ooh,” Alastor's eyes gleamed when he read the title, “Oh my! The Great Stone Face himself!”

His fingertips slightly brushed yours as he took the tape from your hands and looked over it from every side. Looking at the front cover, he titled his head as if remembering something. A melancholic smile spread across his face and, slightly parting your lips in anticipation, you prepared to hear another old story of his past life. You loved his stories, Alastor was a great storyteller, no wonder he chose radio his career. With his smooth voice, perfect articulation and intonation, rich vocabulary he could make any story riveting. When you were in low spirits it was enough of him to tell you an anecdote to make the tears disappear from your eyes. Or when you wanted to hear a scary story Alastor gladly dedicated you to the details of his killings, which made your blood run cold but also brought a strange thrill to your heart. But most of all you liked when he reminisced about his earth life. That melancholic glitter in his eyes, sad smile, and low voice. He didn't share these memories with many people, and there was something intimate in the way he looked in your eyes, telling you about his good old days that he, despite all his pride and vanity, missed. And Alastor liked to share his memories with you. To see this light in your eyes and this genuine smile of yours. What could be more lovely in hell?

“You know, my dear, I once met him.”

“What?!” You exclaimed in amusement.

“Well, yes, my dear!” He nodded as if confirming his words and lowered his gaze, drifting somewhere in his memories, ready to put in language hir recollection. “It happened just once but I remember this day rather clearly.

“It was an evening party at the house of an acquaintance of mine, who, however, was a goner!” Alastor chuckled darkly, but there was nothing new for you that often his acquaintance became his victims. “But he knew how to throw a party. But none of the evenings he hosted wouldn’t be as charming without the people he invited. The man simply didn’t have a talent for entertaining, luckily, he had his guests. And on that evening Keaton was the life of the party.

“You know, darling, what impressed me the most? The smile and hearty laughter of this genius of comedy. It's not a secret he had been hiding this side of him from the whole world, for his whole life, but when it was only him and people around him, and no cameras, he laughed so infectiously nobody could help joining him!” And as if remembering that laugh, Alastor quietly chuckled himself.

“And what splendid headlines were on the next morning! Of course I was famous not only for my radio broadcast, dear. My ever present and, I mention it not without pride, charming smile was a subject matter of pressmen as well as the Buster's deadpan. So the picture of us on the front page caused a sensation!”

“Unbelievable,” You pronounced without taking your eyes from his face, “How many celebrities did you know?”

“Quite a few,” He answered abruptly, “But that's not the reason you showed me this cassette, isn't it?” He arched one brow glancing down at you and handing you back the tape.

“Oh, yeah!”

Now was the most difficult part: to pretend you were suggesting a movie night together as friends, and don't let the blush spread all over your face.

“How about we watch it together? Tonight?”

Your suggestion was delightful! Alastor as a matter of fact planned to invite you someday to the only traditional cinema theatre in hell which was located in the Cannibal Town, and where only the silent pictures were running. But now you were inviting him. Well, he guessed, it might be this new modern fashion of youth when a girl invites a man, but Alastor was more than just glad to hear your invitation. But the next time he wouldn't let you take the advantage of being first. Now he couldn't help teasing you a little bit, so you wouldn’t be too proud of your bravery.

“Shouldn't we watch whatever movie Charlie chooses to watch together?” Alastor asked with a mischievous smile and a head tilt.

“Yeaahh, right, but. I think we won't like whatever she will choose, but this one,” And you shook the tape in your hand, “is for our taste. Only.”

“Hmm,” He smiled like a cat, satisfied with its trick, slyly and pleasingly, and then exclaimed, throwing his hand, “Well, as you wish, my dear!”

You were ready to jump up with joy, but stopped as Alastor continued, “But we are _not_ going to watch this masterpiece of comedy through this annoying and horrible television technology, are we?”

“I'm afraid we don't have any other choice…”

“Nonsense, darling!” He waved his hand, making everything disappear in green flashes and dark shadows.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

You found yourself in the darkness diluted with purple and green spots, and when you got used to the dim light you understood you appeared in a small concert hall of the hotel. Only a few scones and lights on the stage floor illuminated the room with dark red walls, which seemed to absorb their yellowish light just as the black ceiling, so there was not much use in the lighting. As you looked around you understood an oddity — you stood in the center of the concert hall and there were no seats around.

You heard such a familiar static noise becoming louder, and palm with long black fingers lay on your shoulder as though to guide you, and it traced down to link with your arm. Looking up you met the rose red gaze shining even brighter than the scones on the walls.

“Come on, darling.” Alastor led you to a loveseat, which silhouette emerged now from the darkness. The place was absolutely different without furniture and being sunk in velvet darkness. It seemed like the dusk imbibed each sound which was louder than the rustle of your clothes, but each step against the carpeted floor split it, leading you and your friend to the only seat in the room. Approaching it, you noticed that at the piano in the corner of the stage was sitting one of Alastor's ink-servants. The black-and-white imp in a little top hat kept his arms on the keys ready to start to play in any second. Looking higher you saw a huge white screen, hanging down instead of the closed curtains. No, not a screen, a sheet or another light piece of cloth.

Alastor's hand moved to your palm when you were taking a seat on a soft cloud sofa, and you looked around once again. Not only was the lack of furniture odd, the darkness seemed too deep and this silence felt actually velvet, wrapping your ears like rich fabric and comforting you.

But Alastor's solemn tone lay as a new dab on the blackness, painting it with exciting red.

“Now, isn't it a wonderful atmosphere, my dear?” All this time Alastor didn't take his eyes from you, watching your reaction, and he was satisfied, because there was genuine delight in your eyes. His microphone conjured away as he sat next to you with his legs crossed and placed one hand on his knee and another one behind you on the back of the loveseat.

“Absolutely.” You gave him a smile.

“Shall we start the performance, then?” He asked, leaning to you and seeing your nod he snapped his fingers. Right away a bright white beam of a projector pierced through the darkness, placing a black square with the greyish ghostly letters of the title and actors’ names on the white sheet, and at once the ink imp started its tapeur work with a loud, major chord.

As an old proverb, some kind of a prologue for the comedy, appeared on the screen you leaned to Alastor.

Don't try to do two things

at once and expect to do

justice to both.

Well, just as the main character of the picture you ignored the advice of ancestry, but if the young man on the screen was studying the science of being a detective whilst working as a cinema operator, you were on your mission by living through a date without giving a hint that it was a date.

But something, a chance or maybe someone, determined to destroy this facade.

When you moved to Alastor your knee accidently touched his, but even this innocent little hit was enough to make his heart flutter. Alastor knew, you made him too weak, and what was the most scandalous, you were able to do such things to him right from your first day in the hotel, since your first look at him, since your first shy smile and a greeting. It took you disgracefully a little to settle down in every corner of his mind. But never did Alastor feel sorry for this. The way you always excited and thrilled him was so pleasurable. He would be a fool to try to oppose such poisonously sweet torture. And how adorable it was to watch the same reaction from you, especially because of the fact you couldn't keep the same control of your emotions as he could, letting yourself stutter and blush so easily everytime he approached.

So to collect more of such reactions from you and to make his own heart tremble Alastor tilted his head to your side, as if ready to rest on your shoulder, and his hand found your wrist to brush it. A sigh escaped your lips, eyes were fixed to the screen too afraid to see what expression he had and to know if he captured your wrist on purpose or was it a pensive gesture without grounds. But hesitatingly your fingers embraced his, then his thumb approvingly caressed your palm, and you finally intertwined your fingers with his. Alastor gladly hummed, eyeing at you, but you were too concentrated on the movie or you pretended that you did. Anyway you were not about to look at him for Satan's sake, so he could feast his eyes on you, who became even more beautiful with your eyes narrowed in a joyful smile because of another amazing gag of the comedian. But what made you the most charming in all hell was the fact your hand was in Alastor's and you kept him as firmly as he kept you.

There was a special intimacy in watching a movie together. In a way you shared a surprise at the same scenes, how you squeezed each other's hands at the instants of tension, how you laughed at the same gags and witty intertitles. You were not enjoying just yourself or the picture on the screen, it was a delight of being together and sharing one passion for two.

But nothing lasts forever, and the most pleasurable moments feel the shortest. And you knew the film was coming to its end — the main character woke up in his projectionist's booth just to realize that all his feats for his beloved girl were merely a dream. You sighted at the view of the pale face staring at you from the small window of his booth. His sad eyes were full of shreds of his unfulfilled dreams, and he turned away from the camera in a shame of being so touched with illusions of his unrealized love. Your time alone with Alastor was running out as inexorably as the film in the projector, and now you shared the melancholy of the character, not the excitement of your unfulfilled lover who was humming a cheerful tune under his breath. But you didn't see him nervously rocking his foot side to side.

But there a love interest of the protagonist rushed into his room, you knew what was about to happen, and your heart skipped a beat as Alastor whispered closely to your ear,

“And that, my dear, despite my fussy taste, as some might say, is my favourite kiss scene in the whole cinematography.”

Your cheeks burnt when the protagonist, following the movements of the man in the film he was watching from his post, took the hands of his beloved, and felt how Alastor took your hands in his. Now The Stone Face eyed at the screen — at you! — to understand how to flirt with the girl further, and you knew Alastor cast a look at the silent actor as well, checking the timing. His palms warmed yours and you were glad he held them tightly because you had no doubt you were shaking as a leaf in the wind because of the thrill of your emotions.

And what did the protagonist of the protagonist's movie do? He kissed the hands of his beloved woman, and so did his disciple. You guessed what could follow in your movie, in your life, and you didn't know when the fear and excitement had mixed together, giving birth to a new feeling wrenching your guts to numbing, until all you felt was your frantically beating heart. 

“Cher?” Alastor murmured, drawing your hands to him and leaning down. You couldn't look at him, it was better to follow the actions in the film than to believe that your dream was coming true. But you heard very well the sound of a kiss to your knuckles and then the rustle of Alastor's clothes as he leaned to your neck, tracing with his nose a light path to your ear to place a modest peck onto your flushing cheek.

But when the character cast unequivocal, intensive and long look at the girl, and carefully captured her face in his palms, and leaned in to give her a kiss as passionate one as in the movie he'd just seen, he quickly pecked her like an innocent boy kissing his first love, and let go of her right away, to peer his gaze into the screen again to have another hint. And if this character, who so shamelessly broke the fourth wall again and again, if this very character could indeed see what was happening by that side of the screen, he could witness a scene of someone overcoming their shyness and following the mute movements of their beloved. 

But you didn't have a chance to see the kiss scene in the film. Alastor softly took you by your chin, gently drawing your face to him. He was already so close that you shared one sigh for two, and all you had to do was to slightly tilt your head back and let his lips meet yours.

Oh, the famous Pale Face would, for sure, turn into the Blushed Face if he would witness the tenderness of this kiss through the broken fourth wall.

Alastor's lips gently travelled over yours, pressing one feather kiss by another and another one, until you responded to him, slightly bending back and pressing your lips to his as your hands found his broad shoulders. His lips were cotton soft as he brushed them against yours in shy kisses remembering gentle little bites, which sent shivers up and down your spine and made your palms deliriously wander over his shoulders, chest and neck. You felt him smiling all the time, and you couldn't help but playfully catch his lower lip as he put another kiss on you and slightly pull him to you. He growled in low and the sound seemed to come from down of his stomach up to his throat. Hearing the groan you wanted to retract but the palm that appeared on the nape of your neck kept you in one place, whilst his fingertips drew the circles on your chin.

“Do you like this scene as I do, dear?” He whispered slightly leaning back, each word he pronounced made his lips brush against yours.

You opened your eyes and met your own reflection in his dilated pupils finged with rose-red light of his irises. His look was intensive but not lustful; he looked deeply into your eyes, and the entreaty shining through his gaze slowly changed into a command for you, and he didn't even have to use words to make you give in to him again. So you leaned in, parting your lips and sealing a stronger kiss against his smile, when suddenly your ears caught a change in the background music. It seemed the rhythm of your heart was equal to the fragile serene sound of the piano, but then Alastor tilted his head to deepen the kiss and twirled his fingers in your hair, making you flutter, and as his chest pressed to yours you realised your hearts were beating in unison. And the piano melody faded away. The velvet silence wrapped you both again, and again it was disturbed, and this time with the sound of slight moaning during kissing, crackling of static, which became louder every time your fingers touched the nape of his neck, and there was also rustling of the film now coming to the end. The black silence was broken with the sound of love, gentle and devoted.

“Mmm…” The static popped out through his low moan as your tongue brushed against his. You couldn't hide your sounds, too, and they seemed to make Alastor more heated. As your high and helpless moan fell in his mouth, he stole air from your lungs, wrapping his arms tighter around you and delving deeper, sliding the tip of his tongue against your palate, making you quiver in his embrace even more.

He parted his lips from you and cascaded kisses on your neck, and, oh dear, how sweet you were. Just as he expected, even better! So intoxicated and sweet. How long had he been dreaming of tasting this delicate, soft neck of yours? For too long. So now he was savouring each long kiss onto you with no rush, knowing you were now his favourite course he would never refuse and would never have enough. He lightly clutched your soft skin between his teeth, growling at your taste as he moved his tongue along your sensitive spot, and making you even tastier with his name rolling from your tongue.

“Al… Alastor…” You weakly whispered, stroking down his chest. The air in the room felt too hot to inhale, but you were already out of breath, and every caress of Alastor warmed you even more. You simply melted as sugar in his flame embrace, just a few more loud kisses under your ear and you would liquefy into caramel he would consume.

But luckily for you he traced higher, freeing your weak spot and placing a kiss to your temple, the corner of your eyes, several pecks down your cheek to your jaw, and then your lips again, in a final smooth and deep kiss. He heated the fire down, by now you were in very right condition — showing your love without shyness due to his incentive, and by that, influencing him to give you more, so you both could revel in sharing happiness. But the unhurried tempo he had chosen aroused within him something he didn't want to interfere with. Not now. It was too early.

So slowly his kiss became chaster, though his arms never lightened their grasp around you as a silent promise to never be satisfied. Gently your lips were parted, and you pressed your foreheads to each other. Silence was still a warm blanket over you. You dared to look up at Alastor — he was smiling, but not as usual, it was a soft, loving smile. He had a little blush on his cheeks as well, so adorable. And he admired you with the same intensity as you did.

A smile spread on your face as you slightly leaned back. What he did now was divine.

“There was no unwind in your times, right?” You asked with a playful tone, and he immediately caught your hint,

“Of course no, dear!” He answered with theatrical sadness, lowering his head just to quickly lift his gaze up back to you and say in low with half lidded eyes, casting passion at you, “But I could invent one for you.”

His hands on your waist harshly pulled you closer to him and you fell on his chest. He lifted your chin with the tip of his claw and crushed a kiss of a different nature on your lips, in a new, ardent fashion with unambiguous intention to make a whole movie now instead of just a scene.

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

taglist: @milkissesx @moonluna07 feel free to ask to be removed or added

p.s. i made these gifs myself and i had to reduce their quality over and over again because they were too heavy for tumblr and now they look... bad 🥹 but let's say it's an ✨ old silent movie esthetic✨

[toruforuu]

gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall chp.5 incandescent glow

✼pairing:hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating

✼word count: 8.9k

✼chapter: 5/?

a/n: hello lovelies! I always wondered how these writes pull up with long ass chapters and I guess I get it now lmao. I also decided to include my favourite greek mythology legend of the star crossed lovers. the constellation is gonna play a little cute role later! anyway, i am taking another entrance exam this saturday and my graduation process is starting soon as well and i am not too sure when another chapter is gonna come out. hopefully soon, but my psychology and education topics for viva are sure giving me a hard time:<

based on this //  previous chapter // next chapter

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the vision-board

Present, summer of 07’

The ripe age of adulthood felt bittersweet as you stood on a hill, one close to where Arabella lives in the countryside. You couldn’t help but recall those sweltering days in the countryside spent beneath the trees near her house or running up this very hill till your lungs might’ve given out. This nostalgia you’re feeling is a mere proof you are living a life to be proud of, what a privilege it is to yearn for your own memories. But now you’re both grown, almost old enough to use magic outside of the school walls and it’s almost melancholic. Couple of months and the power to wield magic would be yours.

It’s the start of July, only couple of days ago you were at Hogwarts, listening to the speech given by the headmaster. Nothing changed since then, only that you had managed to calm down your racing mind, which was filled with anxious whereabouts about the near future. Arabella stands at your side, a hat sitting on her head to shield her from the heat, strawberry blonde curls tucked away beneath it. The scent of sunscreen lingering in the air. You were anxiously picking at the cuticles around your fingers as you mindlessly waited for the arrival of the misfits along with their port-key. While the heat wave suffocates you and sweat builds up at the back of your neck.

Portkeys are magical objects that allow travel across extreme distances or to places that have been charmed against detection from entering or leaving. Portkeys may send unsuspecting people anywhere, and so they require Ministry authorisation to use and operate. Port-keys are usually disguised as ordinary rubbish so muggles are more likely to ignore them. They are set to activate either at a prearranged time, or as soon as the person comes in contact with it.

“Are you bloody sure this a good idea?” you protest impatiently with arms resting across your chest as bees buzz in the air, blades of grass itching the bare side of your lower thigh. You certainly weren’t keen on the idea of trusting such an important part of your weekend to the hands of the Slytherins who hate your guts since the start of your first year. The white haired disaster to blame for that.

“Do you want to see the semifinals or not?” Arabella huffs a bit grumpily due to the overwhelming intensity of the weather as she toys around with the adjustable strings of her backpack, which is hanging over her shoulders. Cool breeze hits your frames for a small fraction of a second, bringing relief.

“We could have used apparition,” you shrug your shoulder with the intention of blaming your friend for this obscene situation you found yourself to be in. Because your friend refused to use apparition regardless of the fact you had for license for it handful of months now (she was right though, it was dangerous to use it for such a distance). Given the fact it’s your dream to go to the World Cup, not even crossing paths with the boy who made your life a living hell and depending on him would stop you from going.

The Quidditch World Cup is held every four years since the 15th century. The competition has Quidditch teams representing themselves and their countries sprawled all around the world, fighting for the World Cup and the title of champions. It is simultaneously the most exhilarating sporting event and a logistical nightmare for the host nation, which happens to be your country after nearly fifty years of waiting. When it was announced, you begged all of your friends to attend with you. Sadly, the twins couldn’t afford such a luxury. You understood, the ticket was pricey. Whole 40 Galleons at its cheapest. You yourself had to save for months, skipping on your usual purchases. For your sake, Arabella promised to join you, leaving her to do such drastic changes in her shopping as well. However at the end of the day, it wasn’t only you she went for. Her girlfriend agreed to go along with her older brother who happens to be a part of the untouchables.

The poor girl is connected to both your ex boyfriend and the Slytherins, you thought.

“We’ll transport together and go our separate ways, it’s not a big deal,” she presses further, hoping you would drop the subject and take it as it will come. However, you’re not feeling like letting it to fizzle on its own.

“I don’t trust Gojo. He might as well leave us there,” at the sound of your scoff, Arabella tilts her body towards yours.

“But Margaret wouldn’t,” she lets the words out gently and it instantly fills you with guilt, causing your features to soften up. You were so preoccupied with the fact it’s Gojo out of all people, you didn’t realise Arabella’s girlfriend was going to make a difference. Their relationship was complicated and pointing out your worries didn’t do your friend any good.

Margaret came out of a pureblood household, her older brother mentioned earlier was sorted into Slytherin and is part of the group which includes the blue eyed menace. While she is a year younger than you and surprisingly got sorted into Gryffindor. One of a few in her lineage. Her views are not filled with poison and she is open, therefore, a romance could spark between her and the short strawberry blonde Ravenclaw. Though it has to be held a secret, disguised as mere friendship. The outlook of it was already bad if a pureblood of her rank befriended a muggle born witch (especially in the upcoming times). What would it be like if the truth bubbled up to the surface? Her family would perhaps forbid it, or worse. But you’re certain they wouldn’t let it slide.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you try apologising for doubting the intentions of her lover.

You couldn’t continue the interaction any further as a swirl of wind hurled into the space on top of the hill where you stood, bringing four figures along. The first voice you mapped out was the girlish voice of Margaret, her frame running into a prison formed by Arabella’s arms. She hugged her a little tighter. Something that goes unnoticed by those who don’t know, but not by you. You turned your gaze away from the two of them, the blinding sun making you narrow your eyes in order to catch a glimpse of the others. It’s the first time throughout the years you’re seeing Satoru Gojo outside of your shared school, more importantly in summer — the essence of your free time. The casualness scares you. And as you blink away the sun, the outlines of figures inch closer. When you can make out the their existence, you nod your head as a form of greeting rather than using your words, the three Slytherins chose to replicate the action. All of them draped with backpacks, hats and sweat. Margaret then walks over to you, hugging you in a similar way.

Seeing her reminds you of him, your ex boyfriend.

“I’ll crash in your tent, you won’t mind, Y/N, will you?” her sweet voice rings in your ears as she speaks while her hands cage you in a welcoming hug. You assumed she would since her brother and his company is overpoweringly manly, so you weren’t against it. As a matter of fact, you brought a bigger tent which would serve you over the weekend.

“You’re all good,” your hand pats her back in a comforting manner before you pull away.

She shoots you a grateful smile and proceeds to engage in conversation with Arabella, leaving you to listen to them from the sidelines. It doesn’t bother though, you know if it weren’t for this opportunity they wouldn’t see each other during the break as it was that way last summer. They wrote letters to one another, but writing is far from the magic of meeting in person. Your attention occasionally glides over to the intruders, who stand couple of feet away and watch you while they wait for the three of you to finish talking.

“Taking muggles, are we?” one of Gojo’s friends groans out and your ears perk up at the words, your blood pressure instantly rises. Sadly, all you three managed to make out the words. To Arabella it meant nothing. Sure, it still hurt, yet she was somehow used to the insults and willing to let it go. But you aren’t that open minded.

“Hey! I heard that,” you huff out for the sake of your friend and Arabella grabs your hand in the process and steps in front of you to prevent you from doing anything stupid. Your eyes fall onto the grip she has on your wrist . Then they bore into her orbs, which are filled up with pleading.

“I told you to behave, Robin,” another boy from the Slytherin house slides into the conversation and from his words you could already depict it was he, who was the older brother of your best friend’s girlfriend.

“Yeah, your dumb sister,” the initial guy whispers as he turns around to face the other way, utterly ignoring you and your attempt at putting him into his place. The blue eyed wizard next to him chuckles and without any further due begins to stroll towards you, the sight of you almost lyrical.

“Woah, couldn’t have been better,” you utter under your own breath with an eye-roll. Arabella squeezes your wrist before she lets it go, signalling and begging one more to remain calm. And when she steps out of your way, you’re once again facing the one and only, Gojo Satoru.

“Fuming, already?” he piques with his brows arching in playful curiosity, his other two friends closing up the distance as well. The burning sun, humid air and now this, was a dangerous combination for the sake of holding your temper back.

Yes, you were already fuming.

“You better keep your pretentious friends in check, Gojo,” your voice drops a tone so the words wouldn’t reach the said friends while burning a hole through the white haired prodigy with your sharp gaze. Unlike them, you are cautious about your intentions.

“Ah, you wound me,” he places his palm over his chest, long fingers sprawling across it as he pouts his lips in addition. To get even bigger rise out of you. Which he succeeds in, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of voicing it out loud.

“I mean it,” you said, firm and steady. No extra edge in the sound of your tone.

“Let’s gather into a circle and get this over with,” Satoru’s voice calls out a moment later, ending the conversation laced with your snarky banter. His two friends perk up at his words, finally closing up the distance fully.

Satoru pulls out the port-key, instructing you and Arabella on what to do. Or rather what to not do. You both silently listen. He then carefully places the port-key into the grass, crouching down to place a hand over it. His friends crouch down as well, gripping each other’s hands and reaching for their white haired friend. Arabella and Margaret falter down too, hands already intertwined and Margaret grabs her older brother. After that, it only comes down to you.

“You need to hold my hand for it work,” he holds out his hand to you from where he’s crouching and you hesitate. He waits for you to take it. They all wait for you to take it. All five pairs of eyes, however, only one boring into your soul with its depth.

“I don’t bite, come on,” you open your mouth to protest, but decide to close it. You huff out a low sound before you grab Arabella’s hand, squatting down in between her and the Slytherin’s menace. Then you finally take his hand in yours. The contact simple, yet soft. His skin smooth and untainted, a true hand of someone of his rank. He grips your smaller hand loosely, ensuring the teleportation goes without a hitch. The brush of his fingers leaves its mark.

In a blink of a crinkling eye you’re pulled into the port-key, the sensation of being teleported leaving your stomach in knots. The next moment you open your eyes you’re met with a vast quidditch field towering in the distance, busy chatter enveloping you. You watch in awe as other wizards brush past you, the atmosphere of the tournament fulfilling each fantasy you ever had about the World Cup and it hasn’t even started properly. As you scan your surrounding, you realise one small detail. Your hand is still lazily coaxed in his, which makes you instantly retrieve it to your side without sparing the boy any glance.

“Margaret, find some place near us, mkay’? Mom would kill me if anything were to happen to you,” the older brother of Arabella’s girlfriend says as we pick yourselves up from the ground, soothing out dust from your clothes.

“Yeah, I’ll stop by, don’t worry,” she answers with a simple nod of her head, urging her brother to finally take his leave. It was clear to you she couldn’t wait to be alone with her girlfriend. Her brother scanned all three of you without a word, turning on his heel and walking to the opposite direction. Robin, the guy who badmouthed Arabella, and Satoru following his lead.

You haven’t bothered to fetch a place for the tent. No, the three of you figured exploring the area and mostly the food stands would benefit you more. You checked out the menus of the street food businesses and the girls shyly admitted to not knowing the history of the tournament. So you started on with your rambling, explaining the truth behind the scenes as best as you could.

To be qualified for the world cup meant a lot of work. Each team played all of the other teams in their group over a two year period. During the group phase, there was always a timer of four hours on every game to avoid exhaustion of the players. On the occasion that the game ended after four hours of play and the Golden Snitch wasn't caught, the result was decided by the amount of goals scored. A win earned two points. In addition to these two points, a win by 150 points earned five points, by 100 points an extra three points and by 50 points an extra one point. If two teams were level on points, they were separated by whichever team captured the Snitch most often, or most quickly during their matches. The sixteen teams who finished top of the sixteen groups qualified for the World Cup. Throughout the tournament a team who won the most points played the team who earned the least, the team who earned the second most played the team who earned the second least, and so on. This theoretically allowed the two best teams from the qualifying phase to meet in the final. Making it all more exciting to watch. And you were clever enough to wait and pick tickets for the later games, tonight’s being the semifinal. Truthfully, Arabella and Margaret got lost somewhere in the bylines of your explaining, however, they remained focused.

You munched on chips dipped in ketchup while passing all sorts of shops, the backpacks heaving down onto your shoulders. You had to put your hair up by a clip, the heat stronger as it already hit past noon, which meant the sun was at its highest point. Due to that you all agreed finding a place to put up the tent and resting for a bit would be a wiser decision than to wander around.

The tent was easy to put together, one simple verbal spell and the job was done in a flash. You placed it few rows away from the Slytherins. Close enough for Margaret to be near her brother, far enough to ensure you a peace of mind. The tent looked tiny, but as you brushed past the flaps of entrance a humongous room spilled in front of you. Arabella voiced out her excitement through a little giggle, she then proceeded to share the fact she never even knew such tents existed. Clearly glad they did. Margaret was smiling from ear to ear as her girlfriend went on explaining how she missed out on so many things and how she can’t believe she lived without them. You both find it incredibly cute.

Originally, you were supposed to be seated at the highest lane in the very back in the stadium. However, your company ensured you better views and brought you to the VIP section. Mostly due to the charms of Margaret, who was quick to convince her brother to take both Arabella and you along, regardless of protests. From both you and the other Slytherin boys.

It was already past midnight when the mach ended and each step towards the tent felt like a knife to your worn out body.

“I feel bad for even asking, but could you maybe, go out for a bit? Margaret and I need to have a little chat. About us and well, to see if she’s embarrassed of being seen with me,” Arabella rubs the back of her neck nervously as she speaks, shy to maintain eye contact as you both stand in front of the entrance to the tent.

It was true Margaret acted a tad weirder than usual during the match.

“I was planning on taking a stroll around anyway,” you decide to ease her down with a small innocent lie. You are actually mad exhausted from the sprinkling heat and walking all day, nonetheless, you remain understanding of the situation and want to grant your friend a sense of privacy. She repeats the words “thank you” tons of times like a holy prayer, caressing your shoulder to show her gratitude.

“Arabella?” the sound of her name makes her head turn and stop her mid entering the tent.

“Yeah?” she whispers faintly as she looks over her shoulder.

“She would be a fool to be embarrassed by having someone like you,” the silky sound of your voice urges a twinkle of smile to form against her lips. She mouths one last “thank you” before she disappears into the tent. The sudden absence of her presence leaving you in the haze of a warm July night. Crickets crinkle in the background and you let out a heavy breath, wondering whatever to do.

After a small pause, your steps head somewhere in between the rows which separate the tents. You drag the walk out, slowly pacing back and forth through the made up streets of tents. The world is curled up in a blanket of stillness, the air still heavy and thick from the sunny day. You have no clue of what time it was, the passage unclear so you aren’t sure when to return. So you continue to wander, feet aching even in your most comfortable pair of shoes. Most of the stands around the place closed up already, some of them having yet to do so as the owners pack their stuff for the night.

You take one more lap around the area and then head back, unsure whenever they have finished talking, yet too tired to keep strolling around. When you reach your tent you place an ear against the fabric. Muffled voices of the two girls could be still heard as you stood at the entrance again. You don’t want to interrupt them so you sit down onto the damp grass. The stables tickle your legs as you hunch down your back out of soreness, head thrown back to look over the night sky. Leaving you to wonder if the stars look back down on you.

A sound of footsteps pulls you out of your trance, head twitching to the left. A figure walks down your way. A familiar one.

“Got kicked out?” he says when he approaches, you don’t bother to avert your gaze as you had already seen him coming from the corner of your eye. Even when he was meters away. You ponder whenever to answer. More like what to answer, your short-circulated brain unable to make up an act, which wouldn’t blow their cover.

“Look, I am not blind. I noticed,” it made you stop dead in any movement as he plainly hinted at the ongoing relationship between Arabella and the younger sister of his companion. Fear swallowed you.

You don’t answer.

“Can I sit?” the white haired wizard breathes out at last, close to being frustrated at your lack of responsiveness.

“Don’t have a choice, do I?” a snicker escapes your mouth, not attacking nor inviting him.

“Nope,” the p rolls on his tongue before he chuckles and takes a seat next to you on the ground, leaving fair amount of space between you.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he once more hints at their relationship and you don’t answer this time either.

“A constellation. Which one is that, do you know? I don’t think I’ve seen it before,” he asks as he points his finger towards the night sky, eager to make you speak. Your eyes travel in the direction of his fingers, meanwhile curiosity overflows his senses and you easily pick up on the untainted emotion. He’s different to what he normally sounds like.

“It’s called Lyra, and it can only be seen now, around midnight at the start of summer,” you share the information on the collection of stars. The one you are the most fond of ever since the professor introduced it in the advanced lessons of astronomy. Beatrice and you were thriving off the story the moment you came to acknowledge it.

To be fair, you don’t know why you are sharing it.

Out of feeling bad, you guess.

“Lyra? It sounds vaguely familiar,” the young man replies with fascination. His eyes edge the sky, not looking away still as if utterly mesmerised by the sight. Your gaze lingers too, though not on the stars. The side of his face shines, his porcelain skin reflecting the moonlight.

“It’s connected to the greek legend of Orpheus and Eurydice,” the sound of your voice brings his gaze back down to you and you manage to avert yours just in time for him to miss it. And if he didn’t miss it, he decided to go on without giving you a hard time about it. His eyes swirling with intrigue.

“Do tell,” two simple yet powerful words.

“Apollo, the greek God of sun, granted Orpheus a lyre which tunes were so beautiful no enemies nor beasts could resist, and taught him how to play. Later on, he fell in love with a woman named Eurydice and married her. She was a woman of grace and beauty. However, their marriage was prophesied to not last by the Gods. Soon after the prophecy was spoken, Eurydice died. Some stories tell she was bitten by a snake, some that she drowned. It’s unclear,” you flickered your eyes away from him before your lips opened to spill the words pinching your tongue. You chose to stay focused on the story rather than on the warmth building within your body as the white haired wizard truly seemed to be paying attention.

“I’m listening,” his voice is low, head nodding as he wishes for you to continue. This was also most possibly the longest time you two spoke without being at each other’s throats and he wonders what else lies in that thick skull of yours. What else he has no idea of.

“Orpheus portrayed his grief with the tunes of his lyre. The strength of it so strong it moved things in the world. Both humans and Gods learnt about his sorrows. At some point, Orpheus descended towards Hades — the God of the underworld. The God was moved to compassion by the lyre and told the musician he could return to the living world with his wife, under one condition: she would have to follow behind him while walking out from the caves of the underworld, and he could not turn to look at her as they walked. He thought it to be an easy task since he was a man of patience. He thanked Hades with delight and left to ascend back into the living world. Unable to hear Eurydice's footsteps, however, he began to fear the Gods had fooled him. Only a few feet away from the exit, Orpheus couldn’t resist and turned to see his beloved Eurydice behind him. The act immediately sending her back to be trapped in Hades's reign forever,” the sound of your voice dies down, the story picking up its end.

“So he turned around because he had loved her so much he couldn’t resist?” Satoru declares unsurely while you almost cannot hide your shock at how easily he assumes the reason behind the act, most would remain unaware or uninterested.

“Yes. They are star crossed lovers, doomed from the start. Hades himself would have failed the test, you simply cannot cheat death,” the edge of your tone gathers passion as you speak about what ignites a spark within you.

“He killed himself to be reunited with her in the underworld after. The constellation formed, because a God casted his lyre into the sky,” you go on, telling him how the heroic musician’s fate faded into a sloppy calamity at last.

“How tragic,” the dazzling boy mumbles underneath his nose and he smiles a little then at the thought of the story, a smile unlike any other he had given you. Disposed of any irony. The sight nearly illicit to drink in. It made you rethink everything, perhaps he wasn’t as bad as he painted himself to be. Just maybe. And you were willing to let the small acknowledged slip if it contained the small meaningless word maybe.

“I must say I wasn’t a fan of summer till recently, but the story is nice,” he announces as he leans his hand into his palm, elbow resting against his thighs. The sound of his delicate breathing hear-able in the dead of the night.

“What made you change your mind?” the question slips into the space out of politeness.

“Nothing in particular,” you look at him, only to find him already looking at you. A memory of seeing you last summer springs his mind. This moment serving as a mirror to it. Panic sweeps over you, making your gaze flicker away.

“Do you?” he questions in addition to your small talk.

“Yeah, of course. Not my favourite, but sure,” you answer nonchalantly while a wave of something unknown washes over you and then you bring your knees to your chest. Hugging them with your arms. Head falling down onto them.

“I heard your father has gotten seriously ill, by the way. I am sorry about that,” his words make you irk. It’s as if the sentence buries the unusual emotions you had just caught a glimpse of back beneath the surface. Into the unexplored depths.

Your parents returned from overseas in January, spending something over a month there. The treatment they used worked like a miracle, feeding your father with doses of life and you were over the moon to find out the life threatening sickness was retrieving. Only for it fall like a house of cards. It started out with symptoms showing up again, the same ones he firstly proceeded to ignore before he was diagnosed. It’s getting bad and they’re already scheduling another process of treatment. And most people knew. Of corse they did. Your mother had to make it public in order for her to keep her job, without it she wouldn’t be able to fly over to another continent. Without reasonable camouflage she would lose her spot at the ministry.

“Are you truly?” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head lightly as you look down on the ground. Bitterness spikes your system, you bite down the urge to burst into your tent. To hide from him and the world.

“Yes, I am not a monster,” his voice declares, layered with customary coldness.

“But you do agree with your family’s views, don’t you?” you laugh out quietly and sarcastically, gathering yourself to stand up from where you’ve been sitting till now.

He quiets down, piercing eyes looking up at you from the low angle. And for a split moment it seems he is hesitant about his answer, eyes flashing with a flee of — and it’s gone. Like he flipped a switch.

It amuses you in all the wrong ways.

“I do,” he states sharply and gets up on his feet as well, towering above you with face set neutrally as if to corner you. You wouldn’t let him. What were you thinking he might be different? He is the pretentious douchebag you had him for. The one who’s been fed nonsense before he could even walk. It was certain, he would surely take after his parents, there was no need to question him. Yet that flicker of something in his-

No.

No.

“Then don’t pity me,” you empathise the word pity as you bravely stare back at him, the peaceful fondness of the conversation forgotten and left in past of the moment.

“I wasn’t. Isn’t it polite to give condolences?” you can’t stand how clever he makes himself sound, rubbing it smugly in your face like salt into a wound. He cunningly ticks his head. Witty charm reappearing.

“Not when you don’t mean them,” you mumble with a shaken voice, the crack in your words would be evident to anyone. He opens his mouth to respond, his shallow ego faltering, but he is not given the chance to speak back.

“Goodnight,”

And with that you brush past him to enter your tent, zipping it up. Thankfully, by the time you do enter, Arabella has finished talking with her secret lover. Margaret had actually fell asleep in her lap during the time spent sitting outside. Her head is cradled into Arabella’s lap, which causes you to grow cautious with your steps, tiptoeing quietly towards your bed after changing into a comfortable set of pyjamas. Your friend who is on the verge of falling asleep herself asks you what went on outside. She heard the conversation between you and the Slytherin distinctively. But you truly don’t feel like talking. So instead of that you wish her a good night of sleep as well, promising to share what’s happened tomorrow morning.

Despite your past exhaustion, falling asleep takes time as your thoughts spiral somewhere you would prefer to avoid.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼

The sun lowered itself down past the horizon, soft pastel spurts of orange, yellow and pink enchanting the sky. Sky clear of clouds, casting a ray of last bits of sunshine before the star would bid its goodbyes. Leaving for the night to take over. The match of the day was already over, not lasting the same amount of time as the night before since one of teams caught a Snitch. You’re leaving tomorrow morning, but it didn’t bother you, the time was well spent anyway.

And now you are lined up in a queue for pretzels, taking one for the team and ordering for everyone. Including the Slytherin boys. Your way of saying thank you for bringing you along with them to the VIP section.

You locate the larger ground chatting in front of the boys tent an eternity later (or at least if felt like an eternity standing in the queue) and give each one of them their pretzel, praying you mesmerised their orders right. They handed you money in return for the food and thanked you.

“Try mine!” you squal out laughing and hand Arabella your pretzel dipped in cheddar cheese. She takes it to take a bite and right away groans in pleasure at the taste. Approving your choice.

“Your sister sure knows how to pick friends,” Robin mumbles to his peers bitterly, the sight of you three happily together not resonating right with him. He hated seeing his friend’s sister tagging along with a muggle and a half blood who is so open.

Though he isn’t met with a reply, because Satoru is busy recalling the events of last night where he unsurprisingly once again caused harm with his actions. He meant to give you his sympathies, show empathy, however it came out wrong. His sights are resting on you and the way your head throws back in laughter. The sunrise throws a hue of colours against your cheeks. Making you glow.

And Margaret’s brother is too focused on enjoying his pretzel.

“I’ll be right back,” Satoru announces to his two friends whose sights are sewn into you three.

They hum. He’s gone. Lost in the crowd.

You finish your pretzels and throw the remains into the bin. All three of you then decide to take a walk through the stands once more time, just like yesterday. To look at trinkets and gifts you could bring home. Jackets of the teams, pins, broaches, hats, photographs. It’s all there. You purchase pins of your father’s and yours favourite team.

The world somewhere in between night and day.

And as you pay, the clouds start to form on the ivory sky. One moment it was clear and another it began to darken. You furrow your brows as the situation only escalates. The stratosphere dipping into darkness, when it was still alluring seconds ago.

The constellation of Lyra peaking from above one last time before it’s consumed by the hurling clouds.

“Margaret, go pick your things up. You two as well. We’re leaving,” Margaret’s brother orders you around and neither of you dares to have any objections. Well, there’s no time really as Margaret is already dragging you away.

Millions of questions pop in your head.

The three of you walk up to your tent, steps hurried and impatient and suddenly — a scream pierces through the air and the world goes temporarily quiet.

The silence bursts into pure horror and hysteria. People begin to yell over one another. Push past each other to get to safety and you wonder why, why, why. Why is this happening?

Do the Slytherins know?

Did they know it was gonna happen?

Another scream cracks into the open and you take notice of remains of a spell flying around in the distance.

“Do you need help?” Arabella panics as her and Margaret secure their backpacks onto their bags, bringing yours out of the tent as well.

“No, let’s go,” you urge them before you speak the bounded spell, the tent slouching down into a squared shape. You pick it into your arms, pressing it against your chest, and throw your bag over your shoulder. The intensity of terror around you spikes.

The three of you run. As fast as the crowd of bodies pushing against one another allows you to. Even though you don’t know what you’re running from. Another tormented screams pierces through the air and it makes you freeze in the spot. Wizards around you are nudging your shoulders, throwing you around while they bolt. You prop your head back and your watery eyes glimpse at the sky in the middle of dawn. The sight of smoke taking the shape of evil on it as if it were a canvas dethrones you utterly.

Incandescent green glow aligns the symbol of the wicked.

Death Eaters.

It hits you, this is truly happening and you’re in the eye of the storm. And another wave crashes over you through the passing moment, you had lost your friends in the crowd. You press the tent formed into a shape tighter against your chest, heart thundering in your body as ringing roars in your earbuds. You slump together a ball of courage to shove away others, slipping into an alley of tents out of the main route, where not as many people are rushing. You do your best and try to ease down the nauseous pit in your stomach. And your legs burn agonisingly, however, you’re not willing to give up.

Orientation in such a panicked state is hard thing to do, but you are successful of mapping the place after few turns and spins. One second you’re back on track running and another you’re shoved to the ground. You hiss in pain and get up anyway. Your knees and palms are muddy, a slight cut is painted over your palms. You mould it into a fist, which causes blood to spill.

You arrive back to where the boy’s tent should’ve been, instead there’s an empty space now. You look around in panic, trying to see anyone you would recognise. But it’s in vain.

They left.

They left

They left.

Fright seizes you, makes you utterly motionless as your gaze flickers between the rushing people. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a caged animal, every beat rattling through your chest. A cold sweat slicks your palms, making them clammy, useless. Your breathing is shallow. Too fast. Too uneven. Your stomach clenches and nausea creeps up the walls of your throat. You try to steady your hands, to make a valiant effort to think of a way to get out, but you’re met with betrayal of your body. And even though nobody can hear the deafening roar of panic flooding your head, drowning out all logic, all reason: it’s all reflected in your expression — body screaming for you to run, to escape, but there is nowhere to go.

Until one face turns into your direction. Your eyes widen in disbelief and this one look skyrockets your adrenaline, causing you to flee. To your dismay, the figure follows. A figure wearing a black hood and a mask with snake-like eye slits, covering the person’s identity. You race through the lanes, heart thumping so loud you can barely hear anything besides it. You don’t have the courage to look behind you, however, the sounds of footsteps closing in on you are unmistakable. You reach for your wand tugged away in the waist line of your shorts. You shouldn’t. You’re not allowed. Nevertheless, your safety is currently of importance. You’ll deal with the Ministry later.

“Protego,” you whisper out of breath and the wand in your grip fizzles out sparks of magic, casting a spell to protect you from any incoming attacks. And it seems it was right on time as the shield bounces off a curse thrown your way. It wouldn’t grant death, nonetheless, it would’ve been very painful.

You take turns in between the alleys, letting yourself fade into the crowd to shake off the masked evil tracing you. Roaring screams echoes again and overwhelming guilt suffocates you. You were the one to lead the evil into the sum of bodies.

“Fuck, L/N, here!” Margaret’s older brother calls out and immense gratitude washes over you. They’re still here. As soon as your eyes register where it came from, you feel like crying in bliss.

You’re too stunned as you reach them and before you can say or do anything, Margaret pulls you by your wrist into the port-key. The teleportation sets at the touch and sends you instantly to the hill where it all started. To safety.

“Merlin’s beard!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,”

“I’m okay,”

Rushed whispers of reassurance pass between all of you. A brief worry for each other is spread through all of you, regardless of your unfriendly past.

“We gotta head back for Satoru,” Robin wheezes out and the sudden calmness of your surroundings startles you. Only then, when he speaks the words out loud and clear, you notice you’re indeed missing one member.

Right, you saw him leave earlier and head for the food stands.

“Don’t be crazy. We’re not going back there,” Margaret’s older brother declares and grabs his sister’s shoulder to shove her behind me in protectiveness.

“Knowing him, he’s already somewhere safe,” he adds and his eyes beam with something simple, only what they can decipher. A moment of understanding passes between. Robin nods and lets the whole situation go.

“Why didn’t you find him?” you make a lazy effort to understand what went on while you were separated.

“You think we didn’t look everywhere?” he spits fiercely. So much that it urges you to take a step back.

You have so many things you want to ask, but so little energy.

“Enough,” Margaret’s brother hisses “we’re going to check his family mansion,” he then places a hand over Robin’s chest to push him away from you and Arabella.

“Okay, be careful,” Arabella manages to mumble out in spite of the panic and rush, the meaning behind mostly served for Margaret.

You don’t say anything. And with that, they’re gone and you finally feel like breathing again. Your head spins and you truly feel like throwing up. You collide with the ground, knees hurting from the impact. Mild breeze caresses your side and you lie down into the grass to catch your breath. Arabella doesn’t interrupt the silence and lies down beside you, dropping her backpack first.

The cool grass cradles your body as it sinks into the earth, limbs heavy with exhaustion. The scent of summer—warm soil, dried greenery, the lingering trace of something sweet in the air fills your lungs. It does little to steady your racing heart. The echoes of what just happened still grip your mind, flashing behind your closed eyes like a movie you’ve just seen. Your fingers curl into the grass, grasping at something real, something solid, as if the earth itself might anchor you. The warm night air hums with the sound of distant cicadas, the world continues as if nothing has changed — though for the two of you, everything has.

Your breathings slow down. Not because the pain has lessened, but because there is nothing left to do but exist beneath the vastness of the sky, small and fragile and utterly human.

The sound of ruffling leaves and bending of grass crunches in the distance. Your friend sits up instantly out of fear. While you can’t be bothered as you’re somehow still processing the events.

“Gojo? Gojo!” Arabella huffs in disbelief and then squawks out as she realises it is truly him. She’s back on her feet, running towards the trees where he is. You tear your gaze away from the sky. His hand is cupping his shoulder. He’s hurt. You too sit up, but your reflexes aren’t as sharp as your friend’s after what you’ve been through so you remain in place.

“I panicked and this was the first place I thought of,” you hear his voice, the rest of their conversation unregistered. You curse under your breath, fingers gripping the stables of the grass and ripping them out before you do the same as Arabella.

“Where the hell were you?” your voice interrupts their conversation sharply and Arabella doesn’t protest, only watches. His head cocks towards you and your eyes slide down to his shoulder where the fabric of his shirt is slightly torn.

“Scared ya?” even at this moment he finds the strength to sound as cocky as ever.

You weren’t worried, although maybe a little, but you thought his actions to be misleading.

Strange.

“No, idiot, it’s suspicious,”

“And how did you manage to get splinched anyway, mister good at everything?” you ask instead of pressing further for answers.

“Wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind as they chased me,” this time his voice sounds more sincere and it’s clear he’s in pain, trying to mask it by his cockiness.

“I have herbs at home. I will bring them, hold on,” Arabella suddenly beams, shooting you both a worried look. Moment later she’s running down the hill through the meadows of tall grass and flowers.

“Herbs?” he echoes.

“She’s the best in herbology, you got nothing to worry about,” you say, not to reassure him down but to remind him.

“I know. She lives around here?” he huffs out, his breathing a little rough.

“Down the hill, behind the trees, yeah,” you look over your shoulder and point to where her house should be.

“Lucky me,” Satoru breathes out in relief and leans against one of the trees for support, his back sliding down.

Silence then hangs in the air as the two of you are alone in the dead of night, both still bewildered from the ruined tournament.

“Seriously, where were you?” you press again, voice smoother and less attacking. Still demanding.

“Picking up drinks,” he shrugs with ease and you can tell he’s not telling you the entire truth.

All sorts of scenarios bubble up.

You don’t pressure him, assuming he wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. You’re not friends after all. And he’s not your responsibility. However, the gnawing distress eats at you from the inside.

“Let me have a look at the splinch,” your body squats down next to him, eyeing his bloody shirt.

“Tenting to my wounds? How heroic of you,” he chuckles smugly with eyes baffled.

“Stop playing,” you flicker his shoulder and he winces in pain as a response.

“Ah, okay, okay. No need to get so aggressive,” voice filled with mockery and fake defensiveness. A pout decorates his lips, nonetheless, you can tell it’s all a facade right now.

Your fingers roll the fabric of his sleeve and he sucks in his breath, keeping quiet. The degree of the splinch didn’t seem to be a life threatening injury. His skin was torn open — no flesh nor muscles missing. Your eyes look up from his shoulders to see his expression, but to your dismay his eyes were fluttered shut so you couldn’t read it.

The wound was unusual. It was no splinching incident. Something else must have happened.

“You’ll live,” you tell him the outcome you’ve come to, pushing away the need for answers.

This isn’t yours to solve, you repeat to yourself.

You’re saved from the uncomfortable silence fizzling in the atmosphere by the return of Arabella who managed to seize the herbs from her room. You leave the job to her since she knows what’s she’s doing the best.

Essence of Dittany. The magical solution to his wound made from dried and crushed dittany leaves and salt water, which posses powerful properties that can be used on open shallow wounds for immediate healing and skin regeneration. You patiently watch your friend work her magic as his porcelain skin begins to bound together, leaving the spot flawless. Looking fresher than before.

From the look on her face you knew that she noticed it was no splinch wound either.

“Y/N,” the sound of your name jolts you back to reality.

You turn your head to the directions from where it came from.

“Mom, how did you-“ you fly to your feet, straightening yourself in an instant. You freeze as her hand lifts, gesturing for you to stop.

Silently telling you to leave it for later.

“You casted a spell, remember? You’re incredibly lucky I came across it before anyone else did,” she speaks slowly and gently, though her behaviour indicating that she is displeased with this whole situation. You open your mouth to defend yourself, but it’s no use, so you close it. You grip the denim fabric of your shorts, telling yourself to keep quiet. You know how vast the punishments for underage wizards were, sometimes so cruel as to expel you from Hogwarts if the circumstances were serious. Which a mere spell of deference such as the one you used wasn’t. Anyway, it could still land you trouble.

And the fact Satoru Gojo, out of all people heard — made you want to vanish from the surface.

He is already eighteen, free to cast spells.

While you aren’t.

And he’s free to report you.

“Get up, boy. I will get you home. Your mother must be worried sick,” her motions are robot like, cold yet polite as she makes the offer. Her gaze fleets towards the only son of the Gojo family. And for the first time you see your mother acting like the true Head Auror of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement she is and not like a parental figure. You saw her at work thousands of times, yet never before like this.

“Thank you, Ma’m,” the young white haired wizard blinks at her before managing an answer. He clumsily collects himself, his arm healed yet still lacking its usual flexibility.

“You two go back to Arabella’s place. Be ready in fifteen minutes,” your mother calls out to you and Arabella as she turns around to face you, wand in her hand. She reaches for Satoru.

“Please, let me explain,” you plea

You’re met with a firm answer: “In fifteen minutes. Go. Now,”

“Bye,” Satoru mumbles awkwardly. His eyes flying over to your friend and then to you, lingering unnecessarily a moment longer before he disappears with your mother. Out of your sights.

Dehumanising sense washes over you. This isn’t how your summer was supposed to start off. It was meant to be sweet.

You turn to look at Arabella who’s staring out into the open, plains of fields which are barely visible as they are tucked away beneath the darkness of the night sprawled ahead. Your voice breaks into the open to encourage her to move, to leave the terror’s of the night behind.

The walk to her house is alien like.

“The spell was a self defence, your mom will surely understand,” she speaks as you head down the hill, muscles of your legs burning from all the sprinting earlier.

“I am not worried about that,” you beam, heading down.

“What do you mean?”

“You saw the wound,”

Arabella hitched lightly at your words.

“I did,” she agrees “you don’t think he-?”

“I’m not sure about anything anymore,” you confess in defeat.

A vivid memory of your conversation with him in front of the tent replays and it bugs you.

I do.

He does.

He does share their views, but surely, he wouldn’t do anything stupid.

Right?

“It’s not any good. They are pressing down onto mom and if anyone finds out what she did for me then- then-“ you break out, however, tears don’t come. Perhaps you’re utterly spent, who knows, but nothing comes out.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” a hand lands on your lower back in a gentle manner, seeking to soothe down your nerves.

“It’s gonna be okay, you’ll see,”

But you’re not so sure about it. Couple of hours maybe, not now.

You stop in front of Arabella’s house and it bittersweetly makes you recall all those times you spent at her house. Endless summer days filled with youth and deprived of any worries. The silly routine you two had leaves a sense of longing in your chest.

“Please. Don’t mention anything to my parents. They were already anxious enough to even let me go and if they figured what happened, it would only worry them,” her voice is low, the lights in her parent’s house out. They must be sleeping.

“Write me, will you?” you pull her into your arms and whisper small promises into her ear. Both about keeping quiet and reaching out. You held her for a moment longer, unsure of everything.

“Take care, Ara,” you rub her shoulder and bid your goodbyes.

And it isn’t long till your mother arrives, empty handed now.

“What were you thinking, trusting that boy?” she starts the second she appears and the words. They sting. You can’t comprehend how she’s able to ask such a thing when the history between you and the pure-blood of the Gojo family is known. And not for its fondness.

“He had a registered port-key and we needed to get to the tournament. That’s all. I never trusted him and I won’t. We were separated and kept to ourselves. When the attack happened, Gojo was missing and he stumbled here,” you explain.

“What if he had been there? Do you think they would have waited for you?”

“Mom, we’re not on good terms, but I am sure they-“

“You shall not be close to that boy again. I do not wish it,” her tone is light as she can’t bear to stay mad at you. Not now, at least. She had been worried sick the second the news of the attack reached her and when she saw your name in the register of the casted spell, she thought of the worst possibilities.

“You don’t need to say that twice,” you slum your shoulders. Your mother drops the act, steps closer to wrap you into her arms and whispers how glad she is you’re okay. Her familiar scent reaches your senses and then you’re hugging her back.

“Let’s go home. Your father is probably going crazy,” she mumbles into the shell of your ear before pulling away.

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 7 part 3

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

chat what would be *your* reaction if you woke up and found agatha straddling you? (love that she has sensible pants under the skirt)

this is what sex after 50 looks like ladies, take notes

regular timeline: lilia has already joined the trial and was just doing a reading for billy.

lilia's pov: this is the first time she sees billy after he kinda sorta tried to kill her

this delivery from sasheer destroys me

lilia goes from anger to shock to recognition while billy reads her mind and responds to her thoughts

billy sounds so young here. of course he would have saved alice, if he could. of course he's reading her thoughts: he can't help it. he cannot help any of this. it's up to his coven to help and guide him, it was never the other way round.

now that the sigil is gone, lilia recognizes the lost boy from three years ago. not a scary monster, not the son of the scarlet witch. just a boy in a lot of trouble.

and look what jen does here. now that she knows what lilia's going through, she can step in and help her along

meanwhile agatha is making a scene, per usual. and lol she puts the hat back on, she really likes that outfit

love how jen is now 100% lilia's champion. same, girl, same

and jen being jen, she doesn't coddle or anything, she's very practical. she's like, hey girl, focus! you were in the middle of something important. I got your back and I'm going to fill the gaps for you. we can do this together.

yes I know babe the glinda halloween costume is cultural appropriation. could be worse. jen's dressed as snow white's fugly witch forchrissake.

does she have an eye on her crown? that's so neat

THIS shot. billy supporting lilia with his physical strength. jen supporting lilia with her no nonsense attitude. hell, even agatha just jumped in to save her from the falling sword.

agatha realising all that lilia did to protect billy. but also detective agnes getting another precious clue re: billy getting a new body.

lilia cast the sigil to protect billy from any external threats, and to give him the time to adjust to the shock of a new body and new life. again, lilia knew this was the son of the scarlet witch, someone that on paper terrified her. but when she actually met billy, she didn't see danger. she saw a young member of her own community in an impossible situation, and she stepped in. you know if she had met agatha as a teenager in salem she would have done the same thing.

pay attention now. lilia needs to find out what was her past/future self's mistake while reading for billy.

something interesting happens: while looking for answers, she jumps in rapid succession to episode 5 and episode 2. stop, stop, stop, stop, she repeats, like she is trying, for the first time, to direct her jumping. before, she was just a passenger. she's starting to become the Traveler

and where does she land? back to her maestra, where she can find answers to her current problem. she brought herself there, and only half accidentally.

and there's the crucial question.

che peccato, what a shame. a witch requires a coven.

the latin sentence on the table, in nave expeditus sis tam celer quam ventus, translates to something like "on a ship, may you be unimpeded and as fast as the wind". but there's another sentence in front of lilia, we can only read the first word behind her hand: mors. Death.

it's sure not going well now. despite the little step forward with jen, lilia still feels the odd person out, the one that's just too different to fit in. I know many of us, especially on this site, especially with our various but similar issues, have felt like that.

lilia's words are angry, resentful. but she's not angry, she's afraid. she's lashing out because looking in is too much. but like lilia herself said to alice: sad is better than angry.

when an actor gets that single tear forming in their eye... that's the good shit.

YOUR TASK IS NOT TO CONTROL, BUT TO SEE. you were born with a burden? turn it into power. if people don't accept you, show them what they were missing. do it in your own, unique way.

go to episode 7 part 4

[aces-and-angels]

seeing the influx of gfm campaigns on your dash may be overwhelming- the purpose of this post is to help others navigate through the many gfm links that are circulating here on this site- esp. those that find their way directly to you via your inbox. this advice is specific to tumblr- i cannot speak on other platforms (instagram, twitter, etc.) though some things i say may be applicable

disclaimer: i do not vet/verify any campaigns myself. i simply want people who are willing to engage with these types of posts to do so in a safe manner

read more below:

---

what to do if you get a message from an account claiming to be 🇵🇸 in your inbox:

-> step 1: do not immediately dismiss it as spam

to quote one of nabulsi's posts:

"... you cannot generalise with Gazans if their tumblr blog is only a few days or a few hours old.

Gazans on tumblr are making accounts for the express purpose of spreading their fundraisers because it is spreading amongst Gazans that tumblr is a safe place to do so.

They could often be making multiple blogs and even remaking after staff flags them as spam. But don't blanket assume that Gazans are scammers if they're on a new tumblr blog with no pfp or content.

I agree that until a fundraiser is vetted you shouldn't reblog it in case it is someone dishonest taking advantage of the circumstances in Gaza. But you cannot do the opposite and immediately assume they're a scammer. I'm seeing people harass Gazans sometimes who genuinely are people who just don't know how to use tumblr and are falsely raising red flags because of it." (read full post here)

to sum it up: don't hit 'report' right away- marinate a lil and put on a detective hat

-> step 2: background check

the following are accounts that are known to vet/verify gfm campaigns here on tumblr. note- this is not a comprehensive list:

el-shab-hussein

nabulsi

90-ghost* (edit 8/4: recently announced that ahmed will no longer be vetting/verifying new campaigns)

ibtisams* (only has done it on situational basis; is not currently vetting new campaigns- read post here)

rubashabansblog (has been promoting other palestinians who lost their tumblr accounts; currently living under occupation)

heba-20 (unsure if heba takes request to vet others personally but is a reliable source for finding legitimate campaigns)

northgazaupdates

fairuzfan (says they are less active on tumblr these days/not currently vetting new campaigns but is a reliable source)

i recommend giving these individuals a follow if you haven't already as they provide far more information regarding all things 🇵🇸. they've all put in a lot of work to make the process i'm sharing with y'all as simple as possible. also please be respectful if you try reaching out to any of them. they are likely getting a high volume of asks and may not be able to respond to you quickly

important note: it has been recently announced that nabulsi + el-shab-hussein have stopped vetting new accounts for the time being and are only focusing on campaigns that have already been vetted. read their full statement here and here

to start- check out the person's account. this can be a hit or miss depending on how new the account is. however- you may notice that the person in question has stated that they have been vetted:

good signs so far- but better to be safe than sorry. next thing to do is search the username of the person who messaged you on tumblr. it's likely if you got a message like the one pictured above, others may have received one as well and did the digging for you:

if you can't find a clear answer with tumblr's illustrious search bar/want to confirm someone's claim that the campaign in question was already verified, the next thing to do is check one of the following:

el-shab-hussein's pinned post

el-shab-hussein/nabulsi's google sheet

imo, this process is far easier to do while on a laptop/desktop vs. mobile app. ctrl+f is your friend in this scenario as is the ability to click through multiple tabs. for el-shab-hussein's pinned post, i click through the multiple lists and see if any names match. in ruba's case, she was found under List of fundraisers for my direct contacts from Ghazzah & Sudan:

and for the google sheet- her campaign is no. 90 on the list:

tip: to narrow down your search even further- ctrl+f the title of the person's gfm campaign that they've linked on their tumblr account:

-> step 3: share your findings + follow that account

if everything checks out- ✨share le campaign✨ provide the link to it in your response to the ask + where it was verified. make it easier for the next person who gets a message to figure out that the gfm is real

following 🍉accounts is esp. important since the forces that be are keen on suppressing them at every turn. the more eyes on these accounts- the easier it'll be to determine the legitimacy of any new accounts they may need to make

---

okay, but... scams 😬:

-> step 1: seek a master

people can be assholes- and anyone trying to make a profit off of an ongoing genocide can eat glass

anyways- the following are accounts that are known to identify scam posts on tumblr (again, not a comprehensive list. these are just the one's ive seen/most familiar with):

mangocheesecakes

kyra45

kyra45's pinned post contains a plethora of resources to help determine if a post/message is a scam- and not just in regards to 🇵🇸- key goes in on many types of scams. please refer to their guides (and be sure that you are reading the most recent version of key's posts)

-> step 2: if you see sumn, say sumn

we're human and sometimes things slip our radar. so if you ever see someone on here sharing a known scam, do 'em a solid and let them know about it regardless if you are mutuals or not

---

final/misc. thoughts:

it's good practice to double check a campaign's verification with these tools for yourself regardless of how legitimate it looks. note that checking for a gfm's verification is not the same as verifying them. that work should be left to qualified individuals with experience in doing so. this is why it's bad to attempt things you are not qualified to tackle also- i think it's important to remember that transferring 💵 from a gfm campaign to those in need requires a lot of pieces to be perfectly set in place. if you see 🇵🇸 blogs linking alt. methods of raising funds (ex. p*ypal/k*fi) the reason could be that their gfms were frozen/suspended for a myriad of reasons. as always- check credible sources if you are unsure about a campaign you may come across notice how the spreadsheet provided here has over 100+ campaigns listed. generating a list that extensive requires hard work that is undoubtedly both physically and mentally straining to the individuals who are involved in making it. i've seen some accounts myself that have had to announce that they can no longer continue to vet campaigns because it has taken that much of a toll on their wellbeing. do not let their efforts go wasted

other resources:

some other places/grassroot organizations where you can find vetted campaigns:

operation olive branch (oob)

gazafunds

operation poppy flower (now also linked in oob's sheet)

operation watermelon

project watermelon

strawberry seeds collective

ottawa4palestine

camps breakerz crew

gofund(water)me(lons)

flowersfromfalasteen

[sinisterexaggerator]

Final Straw

Nick Valentine x Fem Reader | Ao3

Summary: You're sick to death of listening to people insult and belittle Nick; you take matters into your own hands, much to the Synth's surprise, but your methods are a little bit unorthodox.

Warnings: None, except for blood, violence, and foul language. NICK GETS SUPER PISSED AT YOU, and you also share a kiss. 💋

IT'S FLUFF.

Notes: This is SELF-INDULGENT AF. I hate it when people insult Nick in the game. This is my way of getting them back! And I want to kiss him and tell him I love him so bad. ;-:

Word count: 2k

It was the final straw, the one that broke the brahmin’s back, Nick Valentine left to defend himself against hate and bigotry for the umpteenth time, and you would not be party to it.

For so long you had traveled by Nick’s side, learning of the many facets to his personality. If there was a single thing about him you did not like, it had to be the ease with which he practiced self-deprecation, not knowing how to remedy the awful perception he had about himself.

Oftentimes, he regurgitated what came out the mouths of others; it had been internalized, compartmentalized, processed, and stored in his long-term memory, the detective unable to let things go—just like so many cases that remained unsolved.

“Shit, a Synth— don’t come near me. What a freak, thinks he’s human…”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t go near you if it meant tomorrow I’d wake up from this nightmare.”

Your soul ached, knowing that every insult, every snide remark caused some level of psychic damage to your partner, his expressions all too readable for those times he was robbed of his fragile dignity, though always walking away the bigger man.

A culmination of varying factors led you to this, Nick’s tragic past haunting not only himself, but you; what you wouldn’t give to make it better, only wishing you had the power to convince him he was worth more than half the Commonwealth combined.

If Valentine could equate himself to nothing more than garbage, you could be the one to remind him that someone else’s trash was frequently another’s treasure— in this case, he was yours.

Though not privy to your feelings, you adored Nick completely. So much so, you were not above engaging in a physical altercation on his behalf.

“Say that again,” you threatened scathingly, turning to face the asshole who had just dared to disrespect your companion, and for no good reason.

“I said he’s a freak, lady—and what’s a pretty thing like you doing traveling with him, anyway?” the ill-mannered caravan guard asked, acting as if Valentine was some disease he could catch, making a blatant show of his disgust. 

The hired gun pulled no reaction from the Synth, though Nick stared at you tight-lipped, unnatural, glowing eyes trained hard on your face. His silence spoke volumes, instructing you with a stern look beneath the shade of his hat to drop the matter and turn the other cheek—it was something you weren’t willing to do this time, meeting your newfound enemy head-on.

“Apologize!” you demanded, shoving your adversary backward with a forceful push, both your palms making contact with his ribs. Your cheeks burned, accompanying a rise in your temper, readying yourself for if this vermin should do anything but grovel at Nick’s feet.

“Forget it, this guy ain’t worth it,” Nick offered laconically, hoping to appeal to your common sense. “I’ve heard worse in my time; being called a freak is the least of my concerns.”

“But you’re worth it!” you protested, Valentine’s forehead arcing upward at the conviction in your voice. He had a momentary lapse, his concentration faltering as he tried to get a handle on the situation, Nick having visualized an entirely different outcome based on variables that were currently in flux—namely the sudden change in your mood.

It seemed the shithead had caught on, smarter than he looked, eyeing the two of you with suspicion and derision, as if the very idea you could have feelings toward this hunk of junk was baffling when able-bodied, strong men like him existed.   

“Oh, I get it. You’re real sick, lady, a real pervert—you fucking a machine? What’s the matter, human men aren’t good en—”

The jerk was cut off mid-sentence, your balled up fist coming into contact with his jaw; a resounding crack split sound waves as blood spurted from his lips. His colleagues had already wandered off down the road, not wanting to be a part of whatever trouble he had found himself in, having silently agreed to let this member of their team fend for himself.

“You fucking bitch!” the guard twice your size growled, swinging wildly only to miss. Your leg extended; you were pleased when he stumbled, only wishing he had fallen flat on his face.

“Now, wait a—”

He was quick to right himself, spinning on the ball of his heel—you were quicker, kneeing him in the nuts so hard he doubled over, but you weren’t finished yet.

Lifting your arm to gain momentum, you drove the point of your elbow into his spine, causing the offender to drop onto the dirt at your feet.

“I'd say he's down for the—”

Nick couldn’t get a word out; you didn’t appear to be listening, the android observing your uncharacteristic actions with rapt concern. You were pounding your knuckles into the bastard’s nose repeatedly, sticky crimson coating your fist and the man’s sorely wounded face.

As if coming to from a trance, Valentine whisked forward, snatching your wrist before you could cause the poor schmuck any more damage, thinking he may look worse off than even he, what with his bare wires and metal frame exposed to the elements.

“Hey! What’s gotten into you?!” Nick barked, his tone alone condemning your inappropriate conduct, the Synth yanking you up so fast you audibly gasped.

“There ain’t no excuse for this—this guy may be a jackass, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die!” Nick protested, brows knit in anger the likes of which you had never seen.

You glanced down, only now seeming to notice the extent of his injuries; the man was out like a light. You only cared because he did.

“Nick, I—” you began, voice quavering, losing all resolve as you had been forced to witness Valentine’s sweet disposition vanish, quickly replaced by something undeniably frightening.

You never once imagined yourself to be the victim of his choler, finding you absolutely hated it, breaking down all at once to cry despite not meaning to. You felt simultaneously overwhelmed by guilt and embarrassed beyond measure, unable to look him in the eye.

“Don’t Nick me, this isn’t like you, this—” The man froze, his grip slackening as he loosely held on, thoroughly confused by how you could go from nearly murdering a man in cold blood with your bare hands, to shedding tears in the span of under a minute; he moved to grasp you by your shoulders.

“What’s going on?” he asked, perplexed, the question dry on his tongue. He searched your face for any hint of what the matter was, wondering if you’d lost a screw sometime after leaving Diamond City, as he thought he had a handle on how you operated.

You could not will yourself to respond, vision clouded, droplets pelting your cheeks as you gazed at the ground. You felt worse than a scolded child; you had never meant to upset him so, it being decidedly more terrible than any physical pain you had yet to endure.

“Look at me, damn you!” Valentine demanded, gently jostling you back to the present moment, though your tears only increased, Nick having never cursed at you before.

“Valentine,” you whispered, eyes shimmering, Nick’s fury subsiding to a dull roar as he waited for you to explain yourself. The crease of his brow evened out, the Synth notably more relaxed, though he did not trust you wouldn’t lash out again.

“Go on,” he urged sharply, wanting to get to the bottom of your behavior. It was unnerving, not knowing what else you were capable of at the drop of a dime.

It was an understatement to say that he was surprised when you lifted your arms, pulling the man forward to enfold in your tight embrace. You buried your cheek in the tattered, stained fabric of his coat, crying more softly now as it started to rain.

“Don’t listen to them,” you pleaded, “don’t ever listen to them. You’re perfect just the way you are,” you spoke with earnest, your lips pressing a tender kiss to the spot that lacked a heartbeat, though the gesture stood apart on its own.

“I can’t stand it—the way people treat you, the way they talk down to you—if only they knew—if only they could see what I see—” you sobbed, the sound of your cries muffled against his chest; it was firm, his shirt smelling like coolant and ozone—cigarettes mixed with something earthy—you breathed in deeply, overcome with silent relief when Nick placed his metallic hand on the crown of your head.

“I... I appreciate you, doll,” he started, his voice turning toward a soothing cadence, the way he pet your hair in long, slow strokes comforting you more than it should. “But you didn’t have to do that; would have preferred if you didn’t. Jerks like him get their comeuppance, but it shouldn’t be at the price of dirtying your hands.”

You had never been this intimate with him, nor had you ever planned to be—his words were unscripted, and his affection given of his own volition. You curled in tighter, nuzzling your way into the crook of his good arm, wanting to entomb yourself there for all eternity.

“I’m sorry,” you offered apologetically, feeling the pressure of Nick’s own arms around you, returning your hug, making you feel as if you could die happy at this moment, not minding in the least that there was an unconscious, bleeding man lying only a hairbreadth away. “It hurts me, like I know it hurts you.”

Nick was quiet, mulling over the fact it didn’t do you or him any good to disparage his own person when there were others to do it for him. He had never considered the effect it might have on those around him; it came naturally to want to harp on his own shortcomings—or had it come natural to the real Nick? That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it.

“You’re right, it does. But I shouldn’t let it bother me, not when I have people like you by my side.”

“I love you, Valentine,” you countered, not recognizing the softness of your own voice. You felt a shift beneath you, your head being coaxed to rise by way of a slow tilt of your chin.

Nick stared down at you, gleaming, golden eyes emoting dolefully as he gazed into yours. He held a deep-seated sorrow, not only for you, but for himself, wishing that he was human, if only so he could touch you, hold you, kiss you the way he wanted to.

“That’s not the smartest thing you’ve ever said, but I take it you mean that,” Valentine replied, bending low to brush soft, silicone lips across yours of flesh and blood; they were cool and rough in texture, but not unpleasant. The fact he was kissing you at all was a dream come true.

“With all my heart,” you replied, cupping the Synth's battered cheek in the bowl of your palm, fingers trailing over artificial skin in a light caress.

“So, that’s what this was all about,” he remarked, conjuring up a smile. “You know, I’d give you mine,” he added solemnly, his glum tone indicative of something he was not telling you.

Instead of elaborating, Nick changed the subject, always one to brighten a dark mood. “Next time, just tell me what’s on your mind instead of beating the living daylights out of some poor schmo, all right?”

You managed a smile of your own, delighting in his sarcasm, glad for the fact your confession had taken a lighthearted turn. “I can’t make any promises,” you quipped.

The detective gave a small shake of his head, that lopsided, infectious grin of his spreading up one side of his face. “Taking a page out of my book, are you?”

“I learned from the best,” you breathed, kissing him once more. Though selfish of you, for all you cared, the world could undergo another nuclear war, and you wouldn’t bat a lash, not for as long as you had your funny Valentine.

[coldranger]

It's fascinating to see how easily certain voice's traits carry over when creating a design for them. Like, when I see a new voice line up it's generally quite obvious who's Smitten and who's Stubborn as they're quite straightforward for how one could design them. Smitten's dramaticism lend themselves to easily think of some lovestruck nobleman with frilly feathers to boot or in Stubborn's case a rather large, muscular individual often covered in scars.

Some can look similar to each other, Para and Broken are often more disheveled but you can always tell who Broken is because they're the saddest looking one in the cast.

I think some of the harder ones to identify, and design, can be Skeptic, Oppy, and Cheated. Unlike the others who can have multiple interpretations or different angles to come at it from the ideas they represent are harder to visualize. Skeptic is generally designed as a detective-type with a trench coat and hat but if you're leaving them like Quiet without clothes what do you have left to work with..? What exactly is an...Opportunist? What screams someone who would take advantage of the situation at almost all costs? A businessman? Out here in the middle of a forest? Cheated follows similar lines of logic often with a gambling or card motif. Facial expressions and body language are key as well but again, if Skeptic isn't in a thinking pose would you know it's Skeptic?

The things they represent aren't so clear-cut or have a limited amount of iconography associated with them. Stray too far from the beaten path and it's hard to easily identify them. Of course there are other factors depending on the design philosophy for all of the voices: how abstract they are, do they retain bird-like features, are they even birds, clothes, colors, heights. The list could go on.

Tldr; I love looking at all the voice designs, how they interact, how they act. Be creative with your designs, explore different avenues, look at things from another perspective. Make Skeptic an old librarian or Cold a toucan for all I care. Do art, enjoy art.

[rina-teatia]

Food and porn (18+)

Gallagher is a humble London bartender with a rich martial arts background. Boothill is a master criminal and scoundrel. They can't seem to have anything in common... except kinks.

these are not my arts, but my friend's with whom we had rp by this story! you can subscribe to his social networks (a friend has agreed to publish the art)

X: https://x.com/ahhswan

DA: https://www.deviantart.com/drasterod

tg: https://t.me/drisnyastanOD

Pairing: Boothill x Gallagher

Tags: Human Boothill, Dom Boothill, Weight Gain, Food Kink, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food Sex, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fat Fetish, Fat all

Words: 2,619

The sky over London was habitually covered with clouds. It was evening, about seven o'clock, but the bad weather had made it dark outside. The first tentative drops hit the cobblestones of the streets before the downpour hit the roofs.

Gallagher grimaced at the spectacle through the small window of his bar. He lit a cigar and muttered something like an old man's `huuuuʼ though he wasn't old enough for that yet. A downpour is a shitty thing. Usually even the most avid drinkers in the rain prefer to drink at home rather than drag themselves to a bar. In short, there was nothing economically advantageous about this situation.

His leg, wounded in an old battle, had started whimpering a couple hours ago, heralding rain, and still didn't want to settle down. Gallagher smoked and read the papers. Scotland Yard was reporting again on a mysterious burglar who had already robbed several pawnshops and jewelry stores. The message was terribly familiar, moreover, Gallagher even knew the criminal personally, but he was in no hurry to write letters to the police. After all, the robber was...

“What a weather, partner!” A large figure wrapped in a red, worn poncho walked into the bar. A wide black hat was pulled over his eyes, and half his face was hidden by a red handkerchief. The man's mud-splattered boots shuffled across the floor, sticking out of chaps that were equally muddy near the end of his pants. The man tossed his long black-and-white hair back and grinned, pulling off his handkerchief. “You weren't expecting me?”

“God, why aren't you home?” Gallagher sighed heavily, setting aside the newspaper and slowly standing up.

“The rain washes away the odors! No bloodhound can smell me. By the way, this is for you.” The man chuckled and put into Gallagher's hands a handmade gold watch on a chain with a cover inlaid with small stones. The man grimaced as he looked at the gift. “Pour me a bourbon, dear.”

“Boothill, you're insufferable. Lock the door, damn it.” Gallagher stood behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of bourbon with a heavy sigh. Boothill removed his hat and poncho, spreading them out on a nearby stool, and adjusted his vest, which was tight against his round belly.

Well, they were notorious old lovers who never seemed to be able to be together. Gallagher had worked for Scotland Yard as a detective in the past, before the leg injury that had forced him into early retirement, he'd been a top-notch bloodhound. Now the old dog was working in a bar and trying to forget his past glorious life.

Boothill, on the other hand, was a hardened criminal. He had come from the New World to good old England for a new life, but his language was sharper than his nine-millimeter ammunition, and no one was in a hurry to hire a foreigner with a nasty American accent. He could have written a book called `Why Men Killʼ but it would have had all the pages written in the short and succinct `MASSACREʼ in big letters.

Gallagher happened to own Boothill's secret when he almost turned him in to the constables. The old policeman still had his powder in the bottle, and perhaps if it hadn't been for Boothill's eloquence, he'd be hanging from the gallows right now....

“Your bourbon, as usual, is the worst stuff I've ever tasted.” Boothill smiled and squinted one green eye that was visible from beneath his bangs.

“Why do you drink it?”

“Hell if I know... I could drink diesel or kerosene if I wanted to.” He wiped his mouth with his hand and grinned through his shark teeth, glaring at Gallagher. “We really haven't seen each other in a long time. You've gotten even fatter, I see.”

Boothill reached across the bar and playfully poked the bartender in the belly. Gallagher rolled his eyes.

“I could say the same about you, Mr. Robber. At this rate, you won't fit through any bank window or sewer manhole.”

Boothill chuckled, slapping himself on the thigh. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and tipped more liquid into his glass before greedily chugging it down.

“Son of a bitch! You're damn right I am! How about a bet?!” The cowboy held out his hand for Gallagher to shake. “You win, I become your pet kitty and never rob anyone again, just like you always wanted. And if I win – you'll like it too. But that's later. Agreed?!”

“What's it gonna take?” Gallagher put his hand to his cheek. He wasn't in a hurry to agree to shady deals.

“Shoot that deer in the eye.” Boothill drew his heavy American revolver and twirled it playfully in the air. “Don't you think so, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Have you forgotten how to hold a gun yet?”

Gallagher followed his gaze. It was about the trophy deer head on the far wall of the bar. The room was elongated in length, and the end of the room extended quite far from the bar. Gallagher calculated the distance and the target. Not an easy task, of course... But he had a better chance than Boothill, sober as he was. He was on his third glass of bourbon. The idea of making him stay home was very appealing. Normally, Boothill lived with him on a raiding basis, like an ancient Viking - looted and gone on his way. In their case, though, he fucked and ate all the food. That's why he'd been blown up to the size of a medium-sized boar. Gallagher offered to move in with him a long time ago, but Boothill apparently liked living in a basement with rats and fighting in a dump with raccoons for half a hot dog.

“All right. Go ahead and shoot.” Gallagher snorted and turned his eyes to Boothill. He burped and shoved the revolver into his lover's hand.

“Ladies first!”

It was foolish to argue with him, so, rolling his eyes, Gallagher accepted the weapon. The revolver was indeed heavy, with a carved wooden handle and a graceful, thin barrel. Gallagher remembered how constables were taught to shoot. You take aim, point the muzzle straight at the point - the eye of a deer, freeze, hold your breath, pull the trigger without jerking your hand, and!..

There was a loud pop of gunfire in the bar. When the small cloud of smoke and powder cleared, Gallagher looked at his target. The bullet had entered the deer's forehead.

He missed.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Boothill laughed when he saw the result of the shooting. “Is that what they taught you at Scotland Yard?! No wonder I'm still alive! Those sons of bitches are total assholes!” He resolutely took his revolver and slid in next to Gallagher. “Out of my way, senior citizen. Daddy's in the building. I'll show you how to handle my gun.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Gallagher grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. While Boothill took aim, he picked up his glass and took a sip. Boothill was right-it was nasty. At that moment a shot rang out. Gallagher shuddered with surprise: he was sure the tipsy Boothill would take fifteen minutes to aim. The bullet stuck out proudly in place of the deer's eye.

“Ha! Well, snatch?” Boothill shoved Gallagher in the side, chuckling happily. “You lost me a wish!”

“What?! How did you do that?!” Gallagher even stepped closer, not believing his eyes. How does Boothill do that?! Sick bastard.

“You can't beat talent.” The cowboy smirked smugly, took the unfinished glass of bourbon from him and ʼclinkʼ with his revolver.

“What do you want?” Gallagher sourly returned to the bar and propped his arms on his chest, leaning against it. He watched Boothill grimly. He glared at him. Gallagher stood up so well that his thick chest was literally poking out of his shirt, forming a lush cleavage. Boothill yanked at his half-unfastened tie and grinned.

“I want those fat tits first. Them, and also to feed you to your heart's content.” He rose from his seat and licked his lips. He pulled his tie back on, tightening it around the stranger's neck in a tight loop. Gallagher gritted his teeth, but made no attempt to resist. His cheeks, overgrown with dark stubble, trembled in a blush. Boothill swung easily over the bar and got right up to the man. One of the cowboy's palms slapped him hard across his stomach, pushing his shirt up cheekily. Boothill gagged him with a wet kiss, wrapping his tie around his hand and nearly strangling Gallagher with it.

“You asshole. Wandering around, and now you think I'm going to give it to you like an obedient whore?” The bartender breathed heavily, his hands loosening the pressure of his tie a little.

“'Come on, sweetheart. You're not a whore, you're my dear partner. You didn't like the watch? You know, you got off easy on that bet! I can already feel how hungry you are for... everything.” Boothill kissed him again and gave him a little distance. “Come on, be a good girl, sit tight, I'll be quick. I hope your pantries are stocked with snacks as usual?” He laughed and opened one of the doors to the staff room. This wasn't the first time Boothill had been here, so he felt right at home. “Wow! Damn you're a hoarding old bear!”

Gallagher slumped weakly in his chair as he watched Boothill rummage through the pantry and rattle dishes. The bar did indeed offer not only booze, but quite a few appetizers as well. Gallagher was never in a hurry to cook during his shift, so he kept his own convenience foods in the freezers; mostly meat, but some freezable meals as well. It was easy enough to heat them up on the fire or throw them in hot oil, and then serve them immediately to guests. The quality didn't suffer much, though, so for the unsophisticated average person, it was fine. People came to the bar to drink, not to eat, so no one turned up their noses.

Boothill had gutted the stock almost completely. To be honest, Gallagher was afraid to go in there, because the pantry and the adjoining kitchen were rattling, hissing and clinking with metal and plates. Gallagher was well aware that he was about to be thoroughly fed. It was another unusual aspect of their relationship. The bartender lowered his gaze to his stomach, resting softly on his lap and pulling up the buttons of his vest. In his youth, he'd been a slender and muscularly handsome constable, the rare sort of man. But after his injury and retirement... Well, he'd let himself relax, sought solace in food and drink, hence the slight fullness. And he never thought anyone would like it. What's more; he'd like it on someone else, too. However, Boothill always knew how to surprise him. In fighting, shooting, appetite, sex; the cowboy's possibilities were endless.

“Waiting?” Boothill returned to the bar, purring something under his breath and carrying a cart full of greasy appetizers. His only visible eye gleamed predatorily, as did his sharp teeth. Gallagher's stomach rumbled-not from hunger, but rather from excitement.

“Who's going to pay for all this?” Gallagher asked sourly.

“You. Or me. We'll figure it out later.” Boothill shrugged nonchalantly, sitting down on the bartender's lap. His palms gently squeezed his tiits before pushing the fragrant-smelling cart closer. “Come on, get on it. I bet you've missed this since the last time we met.”

Gallagher knew what that meant; he was being offered to eat until he burst. Boothill had some pretty perverted fetishes, and it seemed Gallagher did too, because he obediently took a bite of the hot, spicy steak. There was much more in the cart: roast beef, reheated pork pies, apple pies, lots of fried sausages in a thin film that burst in the mouth, spilling hot juice into it; fish and chips, sandwiches and some of today's puddings. Under Buthill's watchful eye, all this splendor began to be slowly eaten.

“If you end up getting caught, I'll personally go and report you for violence.” Gallagher exhaled heavily, finishing one of the pies. He was already feeling quite full! It had only taken a few meals to reach the line that separated satisfying hunger and excessive satiety. But that was the line Boothill wasn't interested in. He was pushing Gallagher further, to the line of "horrible gluttony."

“If that's what you wanted, Mr. Detective, I wouldn't be here a long time ago. What's to stop you from dialing Inspector Argenti right now and telling him all about me?” Boothill gently poured some beer into his mouth to wash it down. Gallagher exhaled, feeling his belly gradually rounding into a full sphere.

“Idiot…” Gallagher wiped his lips. He was beginning to breathe heavier. Boothill, sitting on his lap, unbuttoned first the man's vest and then his shirt. Gallagher realized wistfully that he would not button it again today.

“Is your tummy bothering you?” Butkhill grinned playfully, wrapping both hands around the man's heavy belly and kissing it slowly a few times. He leaned down to Gallagher's ear and whispered with an almost manic tenderness: “Keep it up, and I'll show you how good I am with your shaft, too.”

“I hate you…” Gallagher grumbled as deft hands fed him another sandwich. He felt stuffed almost to the brim, but Boothill wasn't done with him yet, forcing him to eat without interruption.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

The belt of his pants was starting to dig painfully into his lower abdomen, and his pants creaked threateningly. It wasn't just Gallagher's growing girth, but also his growing erection. His belly was big enough to put a little weight on the rising bump with his weight, and when Gallagher moved a little, rubbing himself and it caused a whole flurry of sensation. God, he's getting so fat...!

Boothill, as always, was the epitome of attentiveness. His deft hands undid the belt and fly of his pants before they could burst. Gallagher seriously feared this might happen, for his belly was as round and taut as a ball, and it protruded proudly forward and wide, offset by his broad love handles. Boothill was frankly enjoying his lover's helpless position, stroking him, caressing every crease and beginning to rub his aroused cock as well. Gallagher was breathing heavily; the pressure inside his belly was almost unbearable, so much so that it converted itself into arousal. He wanted to cum excruciatingly badly. Boothill was slowing him down, torturing him, squeezing all his juices, squeezing out the presperm drop by drop. The cowboy himself was squirming impatiently on Gallagher's lap, from which he was slightly displaced by his impressive belly.

“Ha... Shit... Ha-ah!” Gallagher gave a low shriek, collapsing back in his chair as Boothill's hand became damp with whitish liquid. He grinned.

“You should see your face when you cum... I'd paint a picture like that and hang it in my room above the frame.” He stood up slowly, giving Gallagher one last pat on the belly. “'I've got to go, sweetheart. You know, the constables are already out hunting for my head. Don't get bored in here.”

He climbed back over the bar, put on his poncho and hat. The red handkerchief returned to the bottom of his face. Boothill walked over to Gallagher one last time to smack the bartender, completely exhausted from gluttony and orgasm, on the cheek.

“I'll come by again tonight. Don't forget to leave the window open!” With those words he disappeared into the night, as he always did, leaving Gallagher alone with the consequences of their games.

haha im sorry guys english isnt my native language btw i hope u enjoed it!

[honeyryewhiskey]

02. takes one to know one

ᯓ★ story index abt, you join your new friend, outlaw!dean, in a little game of cops and robbers. warnings, robbery, guns, suggestive language, sprinkle of angsty hidden feelings, there's only one bed couch (more of that in prt3!!) 2.7k words

The sheriff had a lot more going on than just civil duties, the vast ranch set picturesque before you can attest for that. The house itself is massive, pure white siding glowing in the moonlight. Beyond that, a sleek brown barn cuts into the night sky. From where you and Dean sit, crouched behind one of the dozen jagged shaped trees that line the outskirts of the property, it looks deceptively peaceful. 

But you know better.

This stash of gold Dean assures you is hidden within those walls, isn’t gonna be an easy swipe. Guards patrol the quiet ranch, a few are pacing the front as you watch and search for a blindspot. 

“You sure about doin’ this, darlin’?” Dean drawls in a hushed whisper, his eyes light and playful, almost daring you to say no. 

Your narrow-eyed gaze goes toe-to-toe with his, your lips curling into a smile. “I was born sure, Winchester.” you quip, not missing a beat. 

Dean’s husky voice drops lower, momentarily lacking it’s usual cocky drawl, “you just stick to the plan, alright? You do that for me ‘n we’ll be swimmin’ in gold before sunrise.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of adrenaline in your veins. The plan—Dean’s plan—was simple enough: get past the guards, crack the safe and get the hell out of dodge. Simple, of course, was a relative term when talking about breaking into the home of a man who probably shot first and asked questions—never. 

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” you tease, tucking your body closer to his. Your chin grazing his leather-clad shoulder as you both keep steady eyes on the ranch. 

Dean gives a quick glance, the moonlight catching in the green of his eyes. That pretty grin of his making a slow return. “Because you couldn’t resist me.”

Playfully hitting his arm, you shoot back at him, “or maybe I couldn’t resist the payday.” His eyes are back on you, lingering as his lashes slowly lift as he takes in your features at this newfound closeness. He merely offers a quiet hum in response, brushing against you as he shifts to hand you a small set of lockpicks. 

“Figure, with the way you work a cue stick,” he mumbles, voice low and as teasing as his eye contact, “you got this part handled.” He places the small box in your hand, clasping his large hands on either side of yours as he smirks, “And I’ve got a knack for getting into trouble. Perfect match, huh?”

Before you could reply, the sound of boots crunching on gravel causes both your heads to snap towards the ranch. A guard passes by, just a few yards away, his rifle glinting in the moonlight. Dean’s playful demeanor is entirely consumed by a sharp alertness that makes you wonder just how many times he’s been in a situation like this. 

The stillness passes as the guard meanders away, the sound of his boots dying out in the quiet of the desert. Your new partner’s shoulders relax at the false alarm. That lopsided smile playing at his lips again as he tugs you closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone.

“Showtime, baby.” Dean whispers, pulling back with a wink as two fingers reach up to tip his hat. 

The two of you slip through the shadows of the ranch like ghosts. A mere step between your bodies as you stick close to the edges of the house where the moonlight doesn’t touch. Dean leads, moving with surprising stealth for someone so broad. Every now and then, he glanced back at you, giving a little nod of reassurance. His focused eyes softened slightly each time he turned back. 

Moving through the property was easier than you thought, but Dean’s uncanny sense for danger has made it so. He pauses just before a light sweeps over your path, his hand shooting out to pull you into the shadow of a nearby tree when he detects movement before you do. The guards are predictable, too. Their routes timed perfectly to give just enough room to duck behind a stack of barrels or hop over a fence. One guard left his post at the backdoor, leaving an opening to slip into the darkened home. 

You follow Dean’s silent lead of avoiding spots of creaky floorboards as you step inside, pulse thrumming with adrenaline. As you move through the dark, Dean peeks through doors with deliberate slowness. You watch between him and the back door, until he’s motioning you over with the flick of a finger. 

The study was just as grand as you’d imagined—dark wood paneling, glass cases displaying expensive weapons and memorabilia. A massive desk cluttered with papers sits before two large windows. In the center space, a portrait of some grim-faced ancestor takes up most of the wall. 

Dean’s already hovering over it, inspecting the frame. The sharp edges of his side profile illuminated by the moonlight spilling in through the window. His eyes finally catch yours, nodding for you to come over, a sly grin on his lips as he leans down over your shoulder. 

“These rich sons of bitches are always so predictable.” He laughs dryly, “go on ‘n tug on that side of the frame for me, Sweetheart.” 

You don’t waste a second, pulling on the frame until it pops open. Swinging like a hidden door, revealing a built in safe on the adjacent wall. Pulling the small box of tools Dean gave you earlier, you get to work on the silver lock. The tumblers click softly as you go, each sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Dean stood behind you, close enough to hear his steady breathing. Keeping an eye on the door, his hand resting lightly on the gun tucked into his waistband.

“Got it,” you whispered after what felt like an eternity. The safe door swung open, revealing stacks of gold bars that gleamed even in the dim light.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a sight.”

You quickly began transferring the bars into the canvas bag Dean had brought, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. 

This plan of his had gone so smoothly, too damn smooth to be more accurate. 

Just as you finish zipping the bag, heart still hammering in your chest, a muffled voice barks from the hallway, “check the study!”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he reached for the gun tucked in his belt, but the door burst open before he could draw. Two guards stormed in, their guns trained on you both.

“Drop the bag,” one of them ordered, his eyes narrowing.

Your mind raced as Dean slowly raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. His smirk returned, cool and steady, as if staring down the barrels of two guns was just a typical Thursday night for him.

“Well,” he drawled, his gaze sliding to you. “Guess now’s a good time to make a confession.”

Your stomach dropped. “Dean—”

“I mean, might as well, right?” he continued, cutting you off. His smirk softened into something maddeningly sincere, his eyes holding yours even as the guards barked for him to shut up. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. And if I were a better man, I’d have asked you on a proper date. Y’know, steak dinner and all that crap.”

You blinked, completely thrown, but before you could respond, Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing the desk lamp and hurling it at one of the guards. The heavy base struck him square in the face, and chaos erupted.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He ducked under the second guard’s arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the floor. “Move!” he shouted at you, his voice sharp.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Snatching the bag, you bolted for the window, Dean hot on your heels. He shoved you ahead of him, glass shattering as you both tumbled through the opening and into the cool night air.

The shouts behind you were nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart. Bullets whirl through the air, but Dean grabbed your hand, dragging you across the open yard and toward the safety of the rugged desert terrain ahead.

You didn’t stop running until the ranch was a distant glow behind you, your legs screaming in protest as you collapsed against a tree.

Dean slid down next to you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. A laugh escaped him, soft and incredulous. “Hell of a night,” he muttered.

A wicked laughing fit hurls out of you through panting breaths, reeling from the cooling adrenaline icing your veins. “You really had me for a second, y’know,” you manage through heavy breathes, “d’you mean any of that? Or was it all just part of your plan?” 

Dean smirked, taking off his stetson to run a hand through his messy hair. “Which part?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, biting your lip in mock-deep thought. “The part about me being the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Or the bit about steak dinners?”

Dean chuckled, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, lazily tilting to peek down at you through his lashes, “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, didn’t I?” He’s doing it again—that smug little smirk—a sweet boyish charm that tempts your nerves in the most unfamiliar way. 

You turn away from his gaze, settling your eyes on the bag in your lap and letting your hair fall around your face to cover the blush that’s creeping in. “Mhm,” you hum into the quiet between, “careful now, cowboy. I might just hold you to your word.”

He doesn’t answer, and you pretend there isn’t a slight twist straining your heart for half a beat. Quietly, he places his hat back on. Pressing into the ground, he rises to his feet with a huff. Dean extends a hand, his eyes scanning the distance as you take his offer. 

Boots kick up dirt as you walk side by side down the dusty terrain. And for a moment—in the quiet of the desert, with the bag of stolen gold between you, the danger of the heist morphed with the dawn settling in the horizon. A warm toned thing, burning at the edges of your cold exterior, new nerve endings bleeding light between your thoughts of Dean and the feelings he keeps insighting. 

Trudging on, the sheriff’s ranch is out of sight. The weight of the gold was growing heavier, hanging from your shoulder. But you’d be damned if you let him carry it, not when it felt like grasping some essence of control. 

“So,” you drawl, kicking at a red rock, “you looked like a real professional back there. How long’ve you been sniffing out trouble like this?”

Dean shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets as he considers his words. “Sorta spent my whole life in some type of trouble.” he states plainly, voice quieter as he continues, “Been on my own a couple of years, give or take. Found the type of trouble I like best in all that time.”

You glance up at him, his skin soaking up the orange light peeking over morning clouds. The warmth of the hue makes his eyes impossibly green. Like the cactuses zig zagging your path, sharp and rich in color. “You like it? Being on the road?”

“Yeah,” he sounds unsure, pausing with his lips parted, “Most of the time, I do. It’s… simple.” His hands return, moving with each word, “No strings, no one to answer to.” 

You hum back, nodding in agreement. It’s a sentiment you can agree with, the same idea you've convinced yourself of for much longer than just a couple years. 

“But,” he sighs, eyes flicking across the landscape, “I miss my brother, Sam.” The name makes a smile creep onto his lips as he mutters, mostly to himself, “m’little Sammy.” 

There’s a softness on the name that makes your chest ache, “Why don’t you go see him, then?”

Dean hesitates, jaw tightening, “not that simple.” He let out a low breath, running a hand over his chin. “I don’t even know where I’d start. And if I ever tried to show my face to my old man…” His voice trails off, the words tangling in a wide-eyed huff that says it all in one motion. 

You part your lips to reassure him, daring to give the advice of it’s-never-too-late to a soul you know won’t take it. But, before you could he hummed a low, dismissive note. 

“Anyways,” he quips, a lazy grin returning to his face, “look at me, turning into a regular chatterbox. This your doin’, pretty girl?” His eyes find yours, but the usual playfulness isn’t as prevalent as it has been all night. In its place is something dark, trying desperately to work its way out. 

A look you know better than to pry at. 

Leaning over to nudge his shoulder, you offer a small smile. “Maybe I’m just easy to talk to.”

Dean’s grin shifts into something softer, but he doesn't answer. With a deep inhale his chin is up in the air again, eyes looking at anything but you.

 A splotch of brown you both assumed to be more rugged desert hills comes into focus—a vacant ranch tucked between scattered fields of jagged trees and cacti. The barn had collapsed, its frame a shadow of what it once was, but the house stood stubbornly, its roof intact and its windows dark against the rising sun. 

Dean raised his brows, eyes glancing over, “looks cosy.”

You scoff, giving him a worried look, “if your idea of cozy is ‘haunted ranch on the hill’, sure it is.”

“Better than sleepin’ out in the dirt,” he shoots back, already heading for the porch. He spins on the heel of his boots as he walks backwards, “‘sides, darlin’, if there’s a ghost around I’ll keep you safe.” 

With a wink that works a giggle out of you, Dean jogs up the creaky steps and disappears into the run-down house. 

 The inside is covered in a layer of dust and dirt, but there’s furniture scattered around—a worn couch covered by a sheet sits in an otherwise empty space. A creaky dining table in the kitchen, where you plop the heavy bag of gold, a cloud of grey puffing around it. 

“Not too shabby,” Dean coos, coming down a set of weathered stairs. “Just an old mattress on the floor with, uh, minimal stains and a whole lotta dust. Looks like we’ve got options.” He crosses the creaky floor until his boots are inches from yours. A smirk shining down at you, as his voice finds that teasing tone again, “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of ghosts.” 

Your eyes roll at his taunts as you cross your arms. “Please. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Uh, huh,” his brows furrow, lips twisting with contemplation as his eyes dance across the curves of your face.

“Yes, huh. Cross my heart.” You swear with a reassuring nod. 

His eyes fall to the couch, and then back to the stairs before they settle back to you. His thoughts written in the smirk on his lips. “Mattress is kinda gross, actually. Couch could fit two—”

You cut him off, throwing your palm up with a humph. “Look, Cowboy, I may look the type but it takes a whole lot more than a game of pool and stealing gold to get me all cozied up on a dusty ‘ol couch in the middle of the desert.”

Dean barks out a laugh, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey—’m not suggesting a thing, little miss.”

You arch your bows with a “mhm,” the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Dean follows as you walk into the living room, discarding the sheet and plopping onto the cushion with a sigh. The couch dips under Dean’s weight on the opposite end. A quiet set in for a moment, comfortable and as warm as the growing heat of the sunrise. 

“Will say, though,” Dean sighs, his thighs sprawling over the soft surface as he relaxes into the creaky furniture, “I’d be a gentleman—”

“Shut up.” you shoot back, unable to hide the laugh that slips between the words.

hmmmmm should they boink in the next part???? hmm hm hmm

tags <3 @the-fandoms-onceler @a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles

[ka3mika]

NIGHTS AT THE BAR WITH YOU

Who knew a Mafia executive could be such a gentleman? [gn!reader]

Dazai had recommended to keep away from the gravity manipulator and you simply chuckled, mumbling a ‘of course I will, he’s a mafia executive.’

The problem is, you hadn’t thought you’d ever meet him after the conflict with the guild, seeing as you’re a member of the armed detective agency.

But, of course, you just had to meet him once more at a bar randomly.

“You’re not too bad, for an enemy.” He mumbled, drunk out of his mind as he swirled his drink on a stool.

“Ah, really?” You asked, a sigh leaving your lips as you watched your phone battery drop to 10%.

“Yeah, not as bad as that asshole colleague of yours.” He slurred out, finishing off his drink slowly.

“What, Dazai?” You tilted your head, gaining a groan from the executive.

“Damn right..”

It was silent after that and your mind wandered to whether people around him even know if he’s a mafioso.

“What’s on ya mind, hah?” His voice brung you out of your thoughts, sort of raspy thanks to the drink.

…Huh, is he a lightweight?

“Nothing much, I should probably get home soon, since I’ve got work tomorrow.” You explained, looking for your coat to be under you but instead finding it fallen off on the floor.

He nodded, getting up from his chair with a small stumble as he leant down and grabbed your coat for you.

“Huh, thanks.” You grinned lightly, eyes widening slightly as he places it on you.

“No problem.” He grumbled out, adjusting his hat and sliding money across the counter.

You went to pay too but paused as the bartender nodded to Chuuya and said that ‘he’s payed enough for both of you’.

“Don’t ask.”

You blinked silently for a few moments before a small smile graced your lips and Chuuya wondered if he’d ascended to heaven.

Who was he kidding, he’s definitely not going to heaven.

“You’re not too bad for an enemy either, Nakahara.” Your smile turned into a grin as you picked up your phone, waving at the man.

Shit, he was definitely in heaven, godknows how he made it up there but he can’t be anywhere but heaven with that grin of yours directed at him.

“See you around?” You had asked, a silent invitation for him to join you once more.

“Yeah, sure.” He nodded, sending a grin your way as you turn to leave.

After you left, he wondered briefly whether he should of offered you a trip back but quickly refuted the thought, groaning as he turned to meet the bartender hiding her amused face.

He knew he was doomed from then, that he’d come back the next week and end up in the same situation.

And he was right, you ended up sitting with him more and more at that same bar, that same bar he didn’t even need to go to because he had tons of wine at home.

[theroadtosomewhere]

Dazai never claimed to be a fast runner.

He could run fast when necessary – when push came to shove, his feet hit the ground with haste rivalling prey escaping predator. This wasn’t something he doubted. Running was somewhat of a trademark, if one asked any item from his past.

There were three deadly forces whose enemies fled if they knew what was good for them.

Mori wasn’t a fast runner. He was a strategic one, observing the pace of his opponents and reading their movements for the best course of action to overtake, cut them off or remove them from the race entirely.

Kouyou wasn’t either. If she was, maybe she and her lover would’ve escaped that day.

Hirotsu was quicker than he looked, better known as a somewhat silent achiever, doing what was required with class and poise. The man could move, as expected from the squad leader of the Black Lizard.

In Dazai’s youth, they were his examples. Three deadly forces whose enemies fled if they knew what was good for them. They had nothing on how Chuuya made him run.

Fifteen with a stolen tacky hat in hand; sixteen on the battlefield in a fight that ended with a foreign weight in his lap; seventeen on Double Black’s deadliest missions, more often than not chasing the blur of flame obliterating the enemy; and eighteen with a lump in his throat, imagining the embers rising from a getaway car, and for a moment, his partner’s face when he realised exactly what had happened.

Thump.

One foot hit the ground, then his other.

Thump.

Heat surged under his skin with every pulse of the ugly thing in his chest, pumping blood he’d rather see spilling out of him.

Thump.

His lungs ached. His legs burned.

Thump.

It would end like it always did – Dazai suppressing the wave of emotion that arrived with the acknowledgement of how many times he’d put himself in life-threatening situations for Chuuya to pull him out of; Dazai leaving Chuuya’s apartment after doing the bare minimum, keeping the arms-length distance that didn’t exist during the sweet spot of their partnership.

Thump.

This was excessive, though.

Thump.

Just excessive.

Thump.

It wasn’t Corruption, but the brunette didn’t like how quickly the flash of red darted out of sight. The Black Lizard was just around the corner for support, but–

Thump.

It wasn’t their job to look after Chuuya. Not really.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

There. Crouched low behind a shipping container like a damn gremlin, signature scowl pulling at his lips, clutching his… his–?

“Piss off,” the redhead spat at the approaching figure.

“You’re sloppy today,” Dazai mocked, tone falling flat. It was enough for recognition to spark in the other’s eyes, but not enough to comment. Good. The last thing he needed was for Chuuya to bring up how quickly he’d have to run to get to him in such a short time from a distance.

“Make yourself useful and get out of here. We can handle our own fucking territory.”

Whoever thought it was a good idea to challenge the Mafia here? He mused to himself while eyeing their surroundings. It was a decent fight with numbers on both sides. “There must’ve been a hole in your intel somewhere. The bomb is on the other side of the port.”

Chuuya swore, shifting but not standing. Alert to his surroundings, the mafioso missed the detective’s eyes raking over him, eyes drawn to the hand pressed beneath his left ribs. “The new shipment of ammunition just arrived.”

He shrugged, meeting manic eyes. Still in the habit of giving away crumbs of information without meaning to. That, or the slug could just admit Dazai’s presence was some small relief when things went to shit. “I could just disarm it.”

“You do that, maybe you’d get there in time to be blown up if you ran as fast as you just did.”

The brunette huffed. Chuuya knew how painful getting stuck near explosions was – he was there. “How painful…”

“Just get the fuck out of here, I don’t have time for you.”

As tempting as the shot at death was, Dazai found himself accepting the dismissal. If the explosion didn’t get him first, the heat would kill him before the ball of fire could. It did not make for the painless death he was looking for. Nor would it be productive while his mind was fixated on the protective hand over his old partner’s stomach.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

His vision blurred at the edges but he couldn’t afford to blink. Not when that end – that end – of the port exploded. The rumble came first, devastatingly loud, and the ground was still vibrating beneath his feet as he set off.

Dazai did not like running. He never did. Just like he never liked the idea of going to the gym, but carrying a 5'2 comatose lump of muscle to the extraction point after using Corruption necessitated that.

Already injured. Already pissed. Already manic. Chuuya was not at his best for this. He must’ve been fresh off another mission. He must’ve slept badly. Something must’ve happened. Something always happened. The redhead was the strongest ability user in Japan for fuck’s sake, not including the fact that he had a sadistic boss.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Searching the angry cloud of smoke surging into the atmosphere, Dazai couldn’t find a sign of Chuuya. No floating mafioso, nothing manipulated by gravity in the general vicinity. That used to happen a lot. There was a fine line between overusing Upon the Tainted Sorrow and it was one they learned to tread together.

Case in point, sometimes asserting control over his ability while extremely fatigued yielded less than ideal results. It was those times that Dazai used his ability for the same reason he offered it after Corruption. It was kinder than watching the other struggle and lose to himself.

Thump.

Thump.

Nothing of the sort was happening, which wasn’t any relief, much to the brunette’s chagrin. At least if there were random things floating, he knew for sure Chuuya was alive. Which he would be, obviously, because Nakahara Chuuya wouldn’t be taken out by something as pathetic as an explosion.

Thump—

The world was silent bar Dazai’s panting. His chest spasmed in protest to the wheezing from his lungs. The sight of smoke curled in thick, suffocating ribbons through the wreckage was almost enough to slow the detective down. The acrid stench of fire and dust clung to the air, stinging his nose and eyes.

Shattered concrete lay strewn across the ground, twisted metal groaning under the weight of its own collapse somewhere close by and somewhere further away. The blast had torn through everything — jagged edges of destruction stretching outward like a scar, a wound in the heart of Mafia territory.

Dazai moved through it, numb to the debris shifting beneath his feet and deaf to the distant wail of sirens and panicked shouts. His coat billowed with each step, dirt-streaked and torn, but he barely noticed. He was searching.

And then—

A flash of red. Barely visible through the rubble, half-buried beneath the wreckage. A body, too still, too quiet.

Dazai’s breath hitched, his stomach lurching. His legs carried him forward before he could think, before he could prepare himself for what he might find. His shoes scraped against concrete as he dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they reached out – hesitated – before finally grasping fabric.

Chuuya.

____

Read the rest here :)

[kittycatasaurus]

Love Flavoured Chocolates (2023 Willy Wonka/Reader)

(Cross posted to my AO3, I'm obsessed with Wonka and wanted to share this purely self indulgent reader insert because there simply isn't enough out there and hey it might encourage me to write some more if other people can also enjoy my writing!)

Word count: 3.2k

Willy had come to the Galéries Gourmet with nothing but his love for chocolate making, a wish to once more see his mother, and a hat full of dreams. One thing he certainly hadn’t accounted for was falling in love. He’d first had the pleasure of meeting you the first time Noodle smuggled him out of Scrubitt’s.

You'd befriended the young girl in passing on the street after she’d bumped into you with her laundry cart while neither of you were paying quite enough attention to where you were going. Though the collision was soft enough to keep you both on your feet, she had knocked the book your face was buried in straight to the ground causing you both to startle. Immediately the pair of you burst into apologies (which had made you laugh, despite the girl’s sincere panic), “You’re alright little missy, that was entirely my fault for not looking ahead of me, I simply can’t put this one down, I’m so close to finishing this new tale of a young detective!” You attempted to ease her worry with a big smile, it seemed to work as the girl’s face shifted from concern to interest. “Is-is that the latest Nancy Drew story?” She asked eagerly, trying to get a better look at the book in your hand. With a simple nod, keeping the easy smile on your face you answered, yes. From there the pair of you spent at least a half hour chattering excitedly about the fantastical feats of the young investigator until a nearby clocktower chimed, making her realise she was falling way behind schedule and would soon have to return to the wash house with a few deliveries still to make their destinations. “It’s been wonderful talking to you miss, but I’m afraid I really must hurry along, I hope I run into you again, my name is Noodle in case you see me before I see you!” The girl, now known to you as Noodle, what an interesting name, jumbled out as she made off to scurry away to wherever she needed to be. “I hope I see you again as well Noodle, you’ve been a delight to talk to! The name is Y/N” You called out after her and continued your stroll once she was out of sight, only somewhat more aware of your surroundings this time.

After that initial encounter you had run into each other a few times, eventually budding a wonderful friendship wherein you shared books and life stories with one another. Gradually you learned of Noodle’s more than unfortunate living situation and provided her comfort and reassurance in any ways you could, be that a book from your collection which she hadn’t yet read or a warm hug and shoulder to cry on, the girl became a younger sister figure to you.

This was where Wonka came into the picture, you and Noodle by this point had been friends for the better part of two years and saw each other frequently so you were understandably concerned when you hadn’t seen her around for the last couple of weeks. Just when the worry was getting to the point of you preparing yourself to storm into Scrubitt’s and demand to know about the wellbeing of your friend you saw her, tucked away from the main roads and pathways, talking to her trolley? Now that is upsetting, such a beautiful young mind lost to the madness of her circumstance. As you were about to approach, rounding the corner of the wall you’d hidden behind, a man emerged from the trolley clearly in conversation with the young girl. If not for your sheer confusion, you would have hastily approached the stranger as instinct kicked in to keep Noodle away from any potential danger. She didn't appear frightened or startled so logic told you this was no stranger to her, and therefore not a threat. Upon the realisation, you called out to your friend whom you’d missed in the two weeks of absence, “Noodle! Where’ve you been, little lady?” Immediately, both heads turned to face you and your breath caught in your throat as the mystery man turned and you finally caught a glimpse of his face. It was a beautiful face too, puppy-like hazel eyes, framed by fluttery long lashes, thick full eyebrows sat above them, complimenting his slender, pale face. Both pairs of eyes were wide upon you but you were still taking in the gorgeous man before you, to the point you failed to hear Noodle as she repeated your name, asking “Y/N? What are you doing here?” At the lack of response, she followed up “Earth to Y/N?” with a somewhat exasperated sigh after. Seeing the man turn to face Noodle shook you from your reverie and you let out a sharp little “Hmm?” “I said, what are you doing here Y/N? Were you following me or something?” Her look caused a twang of guilt for a second until you registered that, no you hadn’t been following Noodle, just actively looking out for her as you’d thought her to be missing. “Of course not you numpty! I heard your voice coming from a sketchy alley and saw you talking to your laundry pile, I only wanted to check you were alright, especially considering I haven’t seen you in a few weeks kid! It’s completely understandable for me to be at least a little worried, even more so after seeing a strange man come out of your trolley,” Your voice was taking on a bit of a scolding tone as you softened it to turn to the aforementioned man “No offence.” He shook his head as though to imply none taken as his eyes flitted between the two of you, the friendly smile never once leaving his face. “I take it this is Y/N, Noodle?” his eyes remained on her this time as she nodded back to him. Well that was unexpected, this mysterious dreamboat knew who you were courtesy of Noodle, and while you were flattered she told this new ‘friend’ about you, you worried over what she said in order for him to deduce your identity.

Together, the pair of them explained their plan to get the money to free themselves of Scrubitt’s unfair debt, going into detail about the wondrous and impossible chocolates made by who you now know to be ‘Willy Wonka, future chocolatier extraordinaire’. In all honesty your mind is positively racing to keep up, but with such bright smiles on their faces you can only nod your support and shoot a smile back, albeit a smaller one.

———————————

That had been a while ago, though it felt even longer. By this point, you had collectively put a stop to the chocolate cartel and Scrubitt and Bleacher. Wonka’s chocolates were doing better than ever and with everyone from the wash house going back to their old lives, Willy was alone again, well mostly. Abacus Crunch had been happy to remain the financial adviser for Willy and the group would do their best to stay in touch thanks to Lottie Bell and her phone operator gig but it was definitely lonely, going from all those people around him, that warm environment to nothing again. Although, you were still around weren’t you? You and Noodle? While you both saw her often, upon finding her mother and the library where she stayed, it was less and less that you found yourself in the young girl’s company, she had years of catching up to do after all. You wanted to believe that was why you were seeing less and less of Willy too, but the pair of you had no reason not to see each other often, after all, you’d quit your boring old job to help out and work with Willy at his shop as soon as it had been acquired. So then why did it feel like he was avoiding you, or attempting to shut you out.

This is where you find yourself as you sit with Noodle outside her mother’s library one warm evening. “I don’t understand Noodle, he seems lonely, it's simply a fact that he thrives off of being around other people so I don’t understand why he’s shutting himself away” a too big sigh leaves your mouth. “I miss him, I miss his cheshire grin, the confusing way he talks, even just seeing his garish purple coat” “Hmmm, kinda sounds like you love him” “Yeah, I just don’t know what’s u- WHAT?!?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN NOODLE?” Your face burns red as your brain takes a minute to register what the young girl chimes in with. In response she holds up her hands, palms facing you, “I’m just saying it as I see it.” With a shrug she shakes her head. Though her words do make you stop and think back to the many months you’ve known the eccentric chocolatier.

The first day you’d successfully sold Wonka’s chocolates on the street had resulted in a quick getaway where you and Willy had ended up lost in the tunnels below the city, escaping the corrupt chief of police for an hour or two as you attempted to meet up with the others to get Willy back to Scrubitt’s with the others in time for roll call. At this point you hadn’t yet been alone together, and the lack of familiarity seemingly made Willy nervous to the point his breathing got panicked and you shared a rather intimate moment where you helped ease his discomfort with a simple breathing exercise and hand massage. “Willy, give me your hand please,” you spoke in the most gentle tone you’d ever mustered after his laboured breaths stabilised, he acquiesced rather quickly as you reached out to him, gently cupping his hand. “I’m gonna trace the lines of your palm okay? It might tickle but I promise you, you’ll feel better.” The smile on your face eased any remaining nerves and once you started to caress his palm with your thumb he seemed to lose the last of the tension. “See,” your voice was still incredibly gentle, but now you were both smiling though his was significantly smaller than usual, “You’re okay, sweetie, I’m here” The pet name left your mouth so naturally neither of you reacted, though a moment later you flushed realising the implied closeness of calling him such a name. With level heads you managed to safely navigate your way back to the others in time and wished Willy a restful night. In retrospect that may very well have been when you first started to develop feelings for the man, you could no longer tell, in the objectively short time that you’d known him, you could think of at least a dozen other times that may have stimulated this apparent crush of yours. Though one particular memory comes to mind more often than the rest. The most recent to boot, the day you reunited Noodle with her mother!

It was the day you’d put an end to the cartel, Willy would finally be free to run his chocolate shop and live out the dream he’d shared with his late mother. The celebration in the Galéries Gourmet seemed to go on forever as everyone enjoyed the chocolate fountain filling up cups seemingly endlessly. A group effort had the shop back together in no time, looking as good as new. As the sun was finally descending from its high perch, your friends from Scrubitt’s all said their goodbyes and well wishes to Willy, Noodle and yourself. Leaving the three of you to lounge about in comfortable silence for a while. “We have a surprise for you, Noodle!” You said excitedly to the young girl who was almost falling asleep where she sat. Exchanging eye contact with Willy, you rose with Noodle in tow. Wide awake after jolting her about, she rushed to keep up with both of your longer legs as you sped away from the shop. Stopping abruptly outside of the library, Noodle gathered her bearings with a confused expression on her face and heavy breaths leaving her lungs, “The library?? What could possibly be so important in there you felt the need to sprint AND drag me along too no less!” She was understandably irritated, but you knew it would be worth all the effort soon enough. “Close your eyes for a second for me Noodle-dee!” Willy told her cheerfully as you approached the door holding onto the girl’s hand to bring her with you. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. “Now open them…” You whispered just loud enough for her to hear and comply. Before her, stood her mother, finally reunited after years of wishing and hoping. Immediately the two shared the warmest embrace you’d ever witnessed as you backed up and gave them their space, returning to Wonka’s side and overlooking the tender moment. A soft sniffle from beside you reached your ear and you glanced over to see Willy’s eyes glossy with unshed tears, the poor boy must’ve been reminded of his own mother in that moment, your heart hurt for him. “Come here sweetie,” you hummed to him, pulling the chocolatier into a comforting hug. “She’d be so proud of you right now, you know?” You got a teary chuckle in response to that as his arms wrapped around you. Noodle and her mother looked over to you now and you raised your arm in a wave to let them know you’d be heading back to leave them to catch up on all the time they’d spent apart.

The walk back wasn’t far, but it felt much longer without Noodle especially since you’d run practically the whole way there and were now strolling very leisurely. Neither of you said anything but you were touching in some way the entire time, holding hands for part of the walk, then switching to linking arms, even simply resting your hand on Willy’s back. Eventually you made it back to the shop, with the lights off, it was as though the magic was sleeping. As you entered ahead of Willy, you looked back to examine his expression, he wasn’t upset, of course not, he just reunited his dearest friend with her mother whom she thought long lost, perhaps forlorn was more accurate. The cogs in his head were clearly turning as he wrangled with his feelings, particularly regarding his mother and the seemingly impending loneliness he was soon to face. He stopped walking as soon as he entered, eyes still downcast as though expecting you to turn around and leave right then and there as well. With a low sigh you finally broke the silence “Willy, I’m not leaving you, not after that, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I just walked out after seeing those tears in your eyes.” He looked up, this time they had escaped and he had a sad pout on his beautiful lips. “Can you tell me about her? Have you got any pictures?” You’d not heard much at all about his mother from him aside from how much he loved her and that she was the inspiration for his dream turned reality. Willy gave a little nod and led you through the store to his makeshift office/home/break room, and on the desk sat a framed photo of a beautiful woman with a very familiar smile. “Wow this is her then? She’s beautiful Willy, you look so much like her.” You said the last bit somewhat under your breath as you realised the implication of what you said (as much as you meant it, it seemed a bit forward). You picked up the picture and sat down on the sofa in the room, patting the seat next to you for Willy to sit beside you, the rest of the night was spent listening to stories of his childhood and asking questions. The pair of you laughed, you cried, and eventually Willy fell asleep with his head on your shoulder. Getting as comfortable as the pair of you could, you let yourself join him in the land of dreams shortly after.

Now, it had been a few weeks since you and Willy had experienced the almost intimate exchange of life stories, as well as your chat with Noodle and you had the day off. Willy was on a break from work and went to visit Noodle at the library to tell her all about that night and how great a person he found you to be, gushing over how ‘kind, pretty, sensitive, and funny’ you were but somehow avoiding the ‘L’ word and seemingly ignoring his feelings for you. Eventually, the girl could take it no longer and burst out “Either ask her out, or I will do it for you! You’re such an idiot Willy, it's so obvious you love Y/N and I don’t understand how you’ve danced around it for as long as you have!” Noodle’s frustration was apparent from her face alone, if her words somehow hadn’t conveyed exactly what she meant them to. Willy’s eyes went wide at her outburst and his face started to resemble a tomato almost in how brightly he was blushing. As he opened his mouth to make a retort, Noodle interrupted him with a raised finger and a look that shut him up before he could even make so much as a noise. “Go see her now Willy, or I will.” Was all she had to say to get him standing up and practically sprinting out of the door.

A hurried knock at your door startled you out of your thoughtless stare out the window, you sat up abruptly, I’m not expecting any visitors, you thought to yourself as you walked cautiously over to the door. Through the peephole, you spotted the one and only Willy Wonka, pleasantly surprised, you opened up the door to be pulled into a tight embrace. Despite the initial shock, you quickly recovered to hug your dear friend back, “Heya, what’s gotten into you, sweetpea?” Genuinely confused as to the context despite reciprocating the affectionate action. Pulling back from you to look into your eyes, Willy responded, “I love you, Y/N.” Cue the widening of your eyes as you started to stammer out a reply, “Wh-what, huh, I-” “I love you, Y/N, I can’t believe it took Noodle calling me an idiot to realise it but I’m hopelessly, wholeheartedly in love with you.” He affirmed with a fire behind his gaze. You realised then that he wasn’t joking, this wasn’t a prank or him using the word in a friendly sense. “You, you do?” Tears started to well up in your eyes as you looked into his, “I love you too, Willy Wonka.” Not wanting to keep him in suspense, you confessed right back. A laugh broke free from your mouth as the tears started to fall from your eyes. Gently cupping either side of his face, you brought your lips together in a sweet kiss that felt like it could last forever, his hands finding a comfortable perch on your hips as you held each other close. Breaking apart for air, you both giggled, and leaned back into each other for another kiss, this one escalating a little past wholesome as you softly tugged at his bottom lip with your teeth. Breathing heavily now, you separated once more to stare into each other's eyes. Willy Wonka had confessed his love to you and you were ecstatic to say you felt the same. This would be the start of something beautiful, of that you were sure.

[elizais]

your version of poodle

bsd x fem!reader!! summary if you don't want to watch the video: you and __ have a random word that you use to confirm whether the other is telling the truth or not to make the other happy/quietly tell the other you love them. warnings: suicide mention (dazai) includes: dazai, chuuya, akutagawa, kunikida, jouno

osamu dazai, "citrus"

you had to go on a mission for the agency, you had to go undercover at a party. you had a specific dress to wear that had a microphone in it so that the detectives could gather the information from you. yosano was doing the back of your hair whilst you done your makeup at your desk. not the best studio, but it would do. and osamu loved watching.

everyone was discussing the mission, some people (ranpo) jealous of the food you had freedom to and all you really had to do was sneak into some conversations.

standing up after your hair and makeup was finished, you smoothed out your dress and walked over to the mirror. turning a wall to face the mirror, grimacing behind the wall the separated you from their conversation, you didn't see osamu sneak a glance and quickly walk back to his desk. you walked back plastering a smile on your face although you didn't feel your best, and grabbed your bag as everyone wished you luck.

osamu walked over as you grabbed a few things from your desk and put them in, he stroked your shoulder lightly before saying " you look gorgeous, bella. " trying to assure you of that fact. "citrus?" you asked. "citrus." he smiled.

"what's citrus?" atsushi asked dazai as you left, speaking for everyone as dazai explained with a chuckle. "it just means you have to be telling the truth."

"why citrus?" kunikida followed up. "oh! well one night we were watching a movie and someone said something about commiting suicide from citric acid, i contemplated trying it and i forgot that it's basically just orange juice." he shrugged with a smirk.

chuuya nakahara, "fedora"

you were both sat in the same executives meeting discussing last month's faults and then it came to the section that you controlled. "y/n, what exactly went wrong in that mission?"

mori asked as you sighed, remembering that mission when you had to turn back from the enemy with your most feared group. the mission that was meant to be a straight success.

"they had an ability that countered most of ours, the safest thing to do was to turn back. " you explained. "are you certain?" the boss pried.

"i'm absolutely certain, chuuya, don't you agree? you read the mission overview." you responded more agitated than before, trying to get help so that mori doesn't kill you then and there. "yes sir, fedora." chuuya agreed with you but realised the word he had used when you started laughing.

the word only you two knew the meaning of.

"what does fedora mean?" mori grilled. laughing, you explained the origin of what fedora meant to you both and how it came from chuuya claiming he would never lie about a hat. somehow, you both got out of the tough situation mori put you in.

ryunosuke akutagawa, "rash"

ryunosuke was not one for affection or pda, and you were perfectly okay with that fact. so, how you came up with a word showing how much you love each other was like this:

when you first heard him talk about rashomon, it was when you had first met him and you were just listening in to conversations as you walked along port mafia corridors. you had innocently thought that he said "rash of mine" and thought nothing of it.

but then once you and ryu became closer months later yet not anything official, you were talking one night and messing around with your abilities. when he called out rashomon, you couldn't help but be overcome by giggles.

looking at you confused, he couldn't ask what is funny before you turn to him and realise you never told him. "when,," you giggle "i once heard you talking about rash-" you giggle again.. taking a deep breath in "i thought rashomon was called 'rash of mine' for a couple weeks."

so after you both hung out more and became something more, your small way of showing that you love one another when neither of you were too keen on pda was a quiet whisper of "rash" or a squeeze of the other's forearm. you could both agree your favourite part of this secret language was that you were the only ones who could speak it.

doppo kunikida, "salmon"

this one is simple because doppo enjoys fishing. it became a thing when you were very early into the relationship and he took you fishing.

you weren't keen on fishing but you wanted to try it since it was something he liked. he took you to his favourite spot and you admired him as he spoke whilst fishing. and he caught one! a huge salmon..

you were so happy to be with him you forgot how much fish freaked you out, so when he shown you the monster of a fish he got you froze up. he saw you and immediately laughed whilst asking "do you want me to put it back, y/n?" and you nodded slowly in response.

so ever since, when he wasn't sure if you were sure on something and vice versa, a one word question was asked. "salmon?" "salmon." and when used in front of colleagues, to say it confused them to see (in dazai's words) "prime minister of meeting procedure land acting insane." would be an understatement.

saigiku jouno, "soy sauce"

whilst saigiku can tell when you are uncomfortable or lying from his heightened senses, so he didn't really have to call "soy sauce". but it is no secret he doesn't enjoy tecchou's habit of matching foods of the same colour together. so naturally when you found out about this pet peeve you just had to tease him about this!

but over time the phrase slowly evolved into whenever you aren't sure whether he was uncomfortable in a situation (which isn't often, he is very vocal about his likes and dislikes) you would just ask him, "soy sauce?" and a yes was simply that he was uncomfortable and a no was that he wasn't.

or when you saw him unusually stressed in the hunting dog's HQ, he heard you walking up by him and as he is another one who isn't overly fond of pda, a hushed "soy sauce" could be heard.

if tecchou ever heard your soy sauce thing, jouno would never admit what it means.

[brainrotbee]

Foolish Pairing Fest Day 1: Kingham x The Ghost Postman

~

“If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to suffocate myself with that dandelion.”

Kingham cracked an eye open. Didn’t Litty know not to bother him while he was sunbathing? The vitamin D was seriously lacking inside the jar. “We’ve tried literally everything.”

“You know, I could always use you as a battering ram,” Litty said in that snotty tone of hers. “Since you’re just laying there, being useless and everything.”

Kingham closed his eyes again. He was so not in the mood. “It would work better to use you. You weigh more.”

Litty gasped. “I do not.” She picked up a handful of dirt and threw it. Kingham sputtered, wiping it from his forehead.

“You definitely do. I told you to lay off the pollen.”

“Shut up.” Litty crossed her arms. “Your hollow skull would be perfect for the job.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Oh my God,” Litty groaned. She dragged her hands down her face. “You’re so fucking unhelpful, it’s unbelievable.”

Kingham turned away. Sprites never did well in close proximity. Look at what happened at Litty’s 271st birthday party. Kingham felt like he was still pulling glass shards out of his hair. “Back at you. What have you done besides getting us the sweater?”

“It’s not my fault we were captured by a toddler who has the backbone of a party balloon.” Litty kicked her hat out of the way. Kingham scoffed.

“Oh really,” he said in a mocking voice. He was at his limit and it wasn’t even four in the afternoon. He kicked the side of the jar in frustration. This was like cabin fever on steroids.

Before Kingham could really lose it, a man suddenly appeared in what’s-her-face’s bedroom. Like out of thin air. He was some old guy holding a handful of letters, looking around the room from behind his stupid-looking glasses. Kingham gasped. A way out.

“Hey!” he shouted. Litty gave him a sharp look but he ignored her. It was pretty easy to do. “Over here,” he said, waving his arms above her head.

“What are you doing?” Litty whispered.

“Are you blind?” Kingham whispered back. “Or just stupid?” He pointed at the man who—now that he thought about it—was definitely a ghost. “We just found our ticket out of this God awful jar.”

Litty narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “How are you going to convince him to let us out?”

Kingham smirked and smoothed back his hair. Despite the contrary belief, he was a charmer. The only reason he’d never gotten past the situationship stage was because he could afford to be choosy. It had nothing to do with his amazing flirting skills. “So you’re a mailman?” Kingham began casually. He leaned against the jar, trying to look casual. “That’s pretty hot.”

The ghost mailman didn’t respond. He scratched his head and looked around. Kingham took it as a sign to continue. “I like a man who can support me and cares about the postal service.”

“Jesus Christ,” Litty muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“You ever met a sprite?” Kingham wriggled his eyebrows. “We have quite the reputation for… writing letters.” Sweat was beginning to form on the back of his neck. This was going worse than Litty’s 128th birthday party. “Looks like we have a common interest, babe.”

Finally, the ghost mailman heard Kingham and bent down to investigate. “Oh,” he said pleasantly. Kingham grimaced. British. As if the situation couldn’t get any worse.

He winked at the guy. “How are you?”

The ghost mailman—or postman, in British speak—pulled out a few envelopes and slipped them underneath the jar. Kingham and Litty both fell over when the jar was lifted. “Watch it,” Litty spat.

“Make sure these are delivered to the Dead Boy Detectives.” The ghost postman began to walk away.

“I got this,” Kingham assured Litty through a fake smile. He wasn’t letting the opportunity get away that easily. “Wait.”

The ghost postman turned around. “Yes?”

Kinghim gave him the sultriest look he could muster. “How do you feel about unscrewing the lid of our jar?” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to give it that sexy, tousled look. “Hot stuff.”

The ghost postman’s cheerful expression didn’t change. “No,” he said simply. He tipped his cap before disappearing just as quickly as he’d come. Kingham stood in shocked silence. Rude much?

“That,” Litty began, taking a measured breath. “Was pitiful.”

“Oh, like you could do better,” Kingham said. He went to the area where his coat and hat were lying and sat down. He was about to make it his new brooding corner.

“I know I could do better.”

“Fuck off.”

He could hear Litty’s smile. Oh, it was bad. He shook his head and laid back down on the ground. The sun was still in the right position to bask in it. Litty could wait

[leggerefiore]

Can I request Giovanni is s/o's ex and is jealous that theyre now dating nanu? Ever since you wrote that drabble about RR in alola its lived rent free in my head!! Its also so interesting considering Giovanni calls Nanu an "old friend" in the anime

nfjdjdnd I'm not quite sure what RR drabble you're referring to (I have a few... I can think of specifically, though you might be referring to). Time to try to write Giovanni again... also since this is RR Giovanni, multiverse confusion

cw: jealousy,

pairing: Nanu/Reader, Previous Giovanni/Reader

🚀🐈‍⬛️Giovanni & Nanu❤️‍🩹🐈

🟥 The Rocket Boss was not immune to the beauty of Alola. While his focus should have, perhaps, been entirely on his goals, he was curious about the world they had invaded. Information was most pertinent, was it not? He had to wait until the UB experiment fully was ready for acutely processing. The other team leaders that he had pulled in seemed too distracted to be of concern for now as well. So, he had picked an island and found himself wandering in more casual clothing. Of course, Rocket grunts would accompany, while his executives remained to help manage the remaining members around their new hideout.

🌑 Ula'Ula had caught his eye for the architecture reminded him like that of Johto. The garden itself made him feel as if he were back home. The scenery put his mind at ease as he wandered. Everything was going well. Giovanni always worked to make sure his plans gave him the result that he wanted. He sat on a bench to observe the passing people of Alola with an interest. What pokemon of interest were here? His ponderings were interrupted by the arrival of two familiar people. He allowed his hat to obscure his eyes as they approached the stall. Nanu... The International Police officer was Alolan if the Rocket Boss recalled correctly. But, the person at his side made Giovanni grimace. You. Your arm was wrapped around Nanu's own while he squinted at the menu. It was plainly obvious what the connection was between you two. His grip nearly shattered the tea cup in his hand.

🟥 You – his mind raced. He was not going to pretend he was the most romantic man on the planet. There were times he simply lost himself in his plans. Yet, Giovanni felt that he provided nearly everything that you had wanted. There was some rare-vested attachment that he held. You challenged him. You had the strength to prove yourself… He almost wanted to keep you like his prized Persian. It was not to be. You left. No words were spoken – Just gone. He wondered what had been the breaking point, but you were impossible to find. Except, here you were. It all made sense now. If anyone could hide you away from him, it would be Nanu. The Elite Officer was amicable, but it was clear he had some sense of justice always on his mind. His harsh exterior only masked his soft heart.

🌑 Something in him broke at the sight of Nanu's arm going around your shoulders. You leaned into him in return. Giovanni remained silent. He did not make any sudden movements. His competitive spirit burned within him. What could you see in Nanu? He appeared so dishevelled now. Whatever the Rocket Boss had seen in him as an officer was replaced with a different man. Yet, you seemed to happily enjoy a confectionery with the red-eyed man. While this you was not the same one that he held a relationship with, he doubted that the situation of this world was so far apart that this you and him were disconnected from each other. What did he lack that Nanu offered? He struggled to think of anything.

🟥 A sudden gaze from the retired International Police officer had him silenced. Had he been detected? He wondered what the next few actions would be. Part of him debated if he should simply walk away, yet another part of his foolhardy pride demanded that he stay. Nanu's arm left your shoulder. Giovanni finally tipped his hat up enough to reveal his face. Their eyes met. Words were not spoken, yet they clearly could understand the other's feelings. You turning your head to see what caught Nanu's attention led to your eyes growing wide. Giovanni almost smirked. That was recognition, purely and simply. You leaned into Nanu, trying to hide, but all three of you were aware of the situation. His envy burned brighter.

🌑 “Ah, I had always wondered where you had disappeared away from me to,” Giovanni stood up and approached you both, “Nanu… I should have suspected something like this. Who else could outsmart me?” He felt around in his pocket for a familiar box of something. “… Is he truly better than me?” His dark eyes swelled with something ominous. Doing something here was too stupid, and he was beyond a childish reaction of violence. “I assure you that I can offer you everything more than he can,” Giovanni would not say he was desperate, but he would admit he did not want to back down. Nanu cocked a brow up at him while shooting him an intense glare. A chuckle left him.

🟥 Your denial hit him hard. You still clung to Nanu. The Kahuna seemed to attempt to console you and hide you behind him. Giovanni felt his smirk fall. Stubborn. He supposed this was the end for now. Turning away from you both, he wandered out of the gardens. There was time to work on this later. Giovanni would establish himself here, and perhaps then his influence would sway you. He could only hope things continued to go smoothly.

🌑 You turned to gaze up at Nanu, searching for an answer, yet he seemed lost in his own thoughts. His arm remained around you. Lidded eyes lowered even further as his lips forced themselves into his usual frown. Something was now afoot. He could feel the upcoming stress in his bones. Looker had suddenly started blowing up his phone, but he tried to ignore it. This must have been why. “We probably shouldn't stray too far from each other,” he spoke in his usual lazy manner, “… You did date Giovanni, eh? What a choice.” You could only look at him, I'm bewilderment. Was he jealous? The situation really seemed a mess.