#((wc: 1833 words))

[emeowwww-blog]

Fyolai ~ Shortfic + oneshot "I think I can love you"

This is the first writing thing I have ever posted here ._.

im sorry i wrote this in 30 mins it makes absolutely no sense UwU

No NSFW (Sadge /j) BUT some TWs apply: Mentions of past trauma, mentions of gore, mentions of death.

WC: 1833 (Ik its short im sorrryyyyyyy)

THERE WILL BE SOME RUSSIAN IN THIS STORY BC I LITERALLY CAN'T WRITE FYOLAI W/ OUT USING MY LANGUAGE (I HC them using both formal and familiar "you" so shhhhhhh) Just trust that it isn't that important to the story translate it if u want~

"I think I can love you."

~

‘Love’ was a word that Fyodor didn’t understand. It was overused. The Greeks had some greater idea of love, with words for different types. As for now, present day, love could be used for anything from appreciation, to desire, to lust, to joy. Love, the emotion, was perhaps the hardest to understand. Fyodor had never felt love for another person. His mother always told him how much ‘love’ she felt for his father. He heard teenagers talking about loving this boy, or this girl. Love was not an emotion he was capable of feeling. 

It had been this way for decades. No matter how many people claimed to love him, he turned them all away. Looking back, there was one person he had accepted into his life. 

One person who he allowed himself to befriend.

But that wasn’t love. That was tolerance.

Loving Nikolai Gogol was not a possibility in the slightest.

“Dos-kunnnnnnn~” Nikolai whined over his shoulder. “Stop pacing!”

“Вы сука- quiet, Nikolai.” Fyodor waved the man’s words away. “I’m thinking.”

“But it’s midnight!”

“And this is exactly why I was hesitant to share a room with you.”

Second of course is that he would likely kill me in my sleep…

Death at least seemed like an upgrade from life. Nikolai had expressed his urge to kill Fyodor before. It wouldn’t be long before he attempted again.

“Fine then. I’ll sing myself to sleep~”

“No-”

‘Спи, младенец мой прекрасный,

Баюшки-баю.

Тихо смотрит месяц ясный

В колыбель твою.

Стану сказывать я сказки,

Песенку спою;

Ты ж дремли, закрывши глазки,

Баюшки-баю.’

“Stop it.”

Nikolai continued his odd rendition of Cossack.

По камням струится Терек,

Плещет мутный вал;

Злой чечен ползет на берег,

Точит свой кинжал;

Но отец твой старый воин,

Закален в бою:

Спи, малютка, будь спокоен,

Баюшки-баю~

He ended his song on a long note, slightly changing the meaning of the sound. Nikolai’s voice wasn’t exactly professional, but it was soothing. More soothing than Fyodor would have liked it to be.

The Cossack was one of the only memories from his childhood. Its notes were seared into his brain, along with the voice of his mother singing it every night. She would say, ‘Спи, федецчка, будь спокоен, Баюшки-баю.’ for the last line, a smile on her face.

That smile was now gone. 

The new grin he saw every day belonged to a man. A man dressed in white and black with multicolored eyes.

“Dos-kunnnnnnnnnnnnnnn~ come to bed nowwww~”

“Not after that, clown.”

“Come onnnn, you know you love me~”

For some reason, the joke broke his stoic demeanor.

“Like I could ever love someone, let alone you!”

The night was spent restless, memories of that desecrated church, the worshippers coughing up blood, Fyodor standing at the altar with a face lacking emotion. They deserved to die, and yet he still had horrific dreams about it every night. Dreams where Nikolai was in the crowd, where the blood covering his well-worn ushanka was not his, but that of the boy in white. 

In these dreams, Nikolai was the only person left standing, crimson dripping from his nose, mouth, and eyes. He would smile, and say something. The words were always unintelligible, his throat filling with blood. 

Crime and Punishment didn’t only affect the criminal like its name suggested. Anybody who ingested the poison flowing through the veins of Fyodor Dostoyevsky could be brought down with a wave of a hand. Including the people he cared for. 

Today, the dreams changed.

He sat in the first pew, carefully counting and recounting the 33 buttons on the Priest’s coat. Likely made of pure gold. The eyes of the worshippers around him were glazed over, their minds lost and withered to a spell. Everything was methodical and repeated. 

Like usual, Fyodor opened the bible in front of him to recite along with the Priest. 

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

The same line. Romans 8:38-39. At the same time as usual, Holy Communion was announced. Fyodor stood up and volunteered to help. A single drop of his blood was added to the wine chalice. The wine and bread was passed around.

Once the Priest drank, Fyodor activated his ability, standing behind the altar. A shriek rang out from the back pew, and people began to clutch their throats as blood poured from their lips. The man beside him coughed up the foul red liquid. The plan had succeeded, yet Fyodor felt no joy. There was no happiness or sadness from killing. It was simply meant to be.

A boy stumbled out from the dark space behind the pews. A boy dressed in white, with multicolored eyes. Blood dripped from his face and onto the floor. 

“Nikolai?” Fyodor asked, horror seeping into his expression.

Nikolai smiled, crimson welling up like tears. Or maybe they were tears, stained red. They ran down his cheeks from his eyes. He appeared to be crying.

“What did you do? Did you take the poison?” The dark haired boy ran down the steps, clutching his wooden cross. 

Nikolai nodded. 

“No.” Fyodor grabbed Nikolai’s hands, shaking them, “You didn’t.”

Nikolai smiled again. But this time, instead of failing to speak his final words, they escaped from his throat.

“I love you Fedya. I always will.”

Fyodor awoke to moonlight streaming across the floor upon which he laid. He had refused to share the only bed in the room with Nikolai after his outburst. Why the inn couldn’t supply them with a double room, he didn’t know. His anger was silly. The word love shouldn’t trigger such a reaction out of a grown man. It shouldn’t be a product of his nightmares. 

And yet here he was, trembling from a dream already fading away. The voice of child-Nikolai echoing in his ears. 

I love you Fedya, I always will.

How tempted he was to say he loved him back. A temptation that he had never felt an inkling of before. Did the dream change because of what Nikolai had said just before he fell asleep? No. He wasn’t able to love. He wasn’t able to love Nikolai, and he never would. His longing was an illusion. An illusion where the only cure was denial. 

Denial led to spending the rest of the night lying awake on the floor until the first light. His eyes closed, the glow from the sun placating his nightmares.

“Dos-kun? Wake up~ you’re shivering.”

Nikolai hovered over Fyodor’s half-conscious form, waving his hand in front of his eyes.

“Are you sick?” He pressed his fingers to the man’s forehead, murmuring at the heat spreading into the tips, through his gloves. “Seems so.”

“Nnnnhh… stop…” Fyodor whispered. He didn’t get sick, yet it was hard to deny the lethargy that spread through his joints as he lay on the floor. “I’m not sick… Nikolai-”

“Shhhhh.” The white clothed man swiped the pad of his thumb across the other’s lips, effectively silencing the feeble protests. “Let me care for you.” 

Nikolai was acting rather differently from usual, but Fyodor was much too exhausted to question it. Placing a damp cloth on his forehead after transporting him to the single bed, Nikolai rested his hand on the other’s. 

Warm and cold, yin and yang. Their hands fit like they were made for eachother. And as Fyodor drifted in and out of sleep, his grip on the other became tighter. 

“Don’t let go of me.”

Nikolai’s face contorted in surprise, but he sat back down nevertheless. Fyodor was his reason for living, and making him feel comforted and happy was his ultimate goal. The only thing left was to get Fyodor to tell him he loved him. He must love him. He had to. Nikolai loved him, so why wouldn’t Fyodor love him back? Wasn’t that how it worked? It seemed that way on the television. If the main female loved the main male, then he loved her back automatically. Female and male…

Fyodor slept through the day, mumbling odd prayers and lines from the bible in his delirium. Nikolai couldn’t pick out many words, as he seemed to be reverting back to his northern Russian dialect, softer spoken.

Until he recognized one:

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Followed by a name:

“Don’t die, Kolya”

No. Fyodor claimed he had forgotten that. Claimed he had left the event in the past. He gripped the sick man’s hand tighter, willing their skin to meld together, to switch bodies and end his suffering. Nikolai knew the nightmares personally. If Fyodor, his Fedya, was still experiencing them now, how long had they been plaguing him?

“Fedya, wake up” The man tried to shake the other awake. “Please wake up. Nothing will hurt you. I’m here.”

No response.

“Please. I promise I'm here. I’m not dead.”

One word left Fyodor’s lips, “...Что?”

The language of their childhood that they rarely spoke in conversation anymore. They used it to talk in secret, not uttering more than a few words. Occasionally to annoy the other (Nikolai’s singing). But never personally, too many memories surfaced.

The song.

It elicited a reaction before, but would it work again?

“Я здесь, Федя. Я здесь”

‘Спи, младенец мой прекрасный,

Баюшки-баю.

Тихо смотрит месяц ясный

В колыбель твою.

Стану сказывать я сказки,

Песенку спою;

Ты ж дремли, закрывши глазки,

Баюшки-баю.’

His voice broke slightly when he saw Fyodor’s eyes flutter.

По камням струится Терек,

Плещет мутный вал;

Злой чечен ползет на берег,

Точит свой кинжал;

Но отец твой старый воин,

Закален в бою:

“Колыа?” Fyodor whispered.

Finally:

Спи, малютка, будь спокоен,

Баюшки-баю~

Nikolai smiled genuinely at the sick man in his lap, “Все кончено. Я здесь. И я-”

“Вы что?”

“Мне так жаль. Я чертовски сильно люблю тебя, и мне так жаль, что я заставил тебя это сделать. Я причинил тебе боль и-”

“Вы любите меня?”

Oh fuck. He did not mean to say that, “...Да.”

“Oh god.” Back to English.

“What?”

“Kolya. I think I love you too. I think I can love you.” He hiccupped as a sob broke from his throat, “Don’t leave me, I don’t want you to die.”

Nikolai didn’t know whether this was delusion from illness or serious, but he allowed himself to hope. A single tear escaped his eyelashes and fell onto Fyodor’s chest, right on top of his heart.

“Are you serious?”

“... Yes. Fuck, I’m not sick.” tears continued to flow down his cheeks.

Nikolai cried too, “You are.”

“Don’t leave me again… please”

“I won’t. Never again.”

[fmdalyssia]

Self- Paragraph -- The Journey from Da-hee to Alyssia

Premise: Let’s start from the very beginning Word Count: 1, 833 words Time Period: Days leading up to 8th March 1994, the day Park Da-hee was born, to 4 years after that when Da-hee first experiences an encounter with sickness and death through her beloved mother;  Jeju Island Trigger Warnings: domestic, csb abuse, alcoholism, sickness, death Mentions: None Author Notes: I cried so hard while writing this. 

No one knows how Park Minghan manages to bag himself such a pretty wife. She’s slender, willowy and tender-hearted in every way that he is not, with her doe-like almond shaped eyes and delicate features. She’s everyone’s dream girl, delicate, devoted and pure, with a smile that could light even the darkest of the rooms. On the other hand, Park Minghan is nothing like his wife. A strapping male that came to stay in the lesser parts of Jeju Island with his wife Minji, one could tell that the male had been handsome. 

Once.

At the very least, before life and alcoholism took that all away. No one understands why Minji doesn’t leave him, even with the sound of smashed bottles of glass against counters, the soft sounds of the young woman crying by her window entering their ears. Everyone just simply glances at each other knowingly, darkened looks on their faces, and continues trudging their own way.

Its the sickness of the masses--the negligence of many, thinking that none of the issues are something that they should take care of.

Someone will always come along. But its not me.

And so the cycle carries on, and everyone is forced to watch as Minji withers slowly away in front of them. None of them know of Park Minghan and Im Minji’s origins, save for the fact that they’re a couple, and that Minghan is an abusive, alcoholic. But neither do they doubt the fact that Minghan is at the very least 10 years older than the youthful Minji, whose looks could pass for a nineteen to twenty year old. They just know that the couple is one of the many couples, forced to relocate into lower parts of Jeju because of...circumstance. Its a normal thing, and everyone goes through it, one way or another. There’s nothing really too special about it.

Life doesn’t treat them well either, so why care about others when they weren’t self sufficient themselves?

Of course, that didn’t mean that there were one or two kind-hearted souls who offered Im Minji a reprieve to the abusive environment she lived in, the bruises on her pale skin tearing the hearts of mothers, but halting youthful wives with too eager husbands. 

Come with us, Minji. Leave that man alone.

It only breaks their hearts further when Minji shakes her head and offers that too brittle smile, one hand resting delicately on her belly.

I can’t. She tells them, her eyes soft but sad. I can’t. 

Its nine months later that Da-hee is born, and as usual, Minghan is nowhere to be found. Everyone knows by now that Minji’s pregnant, but also know that neither is she in the best of states. Her heart doesn’t keep up with her sometimes, her breaths short and gasping, and face paling at times when her chest tightens, hands clutching onto the back of the seat.

Its asthma. Some gossip. Heart problems. Others postulates. Braxton Hicks. 

Its because of the benevolence of others that Da-hee gets born in a hospital, her birth registered as legitimate. A kind Samaritan that found Minji collapsed at the side of the road, one hand against her heart, the other on her stomach as she pulls through each contraction with pained breaths. He even pays for the medical bills, and Minji doesn’t see her husband until 3 days later, when she’s finally discharged with Da-hee in her arms. 

Da-hee is everything that Minji wishes and dreams of, even as the doctor tells her she’s too weak to have anything else trigger her. Her daughter is soft, warm, alive and cuddly in her arms, and Minji feels nothing but bliss even as her body screams in pain with every move it makes. 

Its through sheer willpower that Minji holds onto her every shred of life. Giving birth to her daughter has made her body constitution weaker than anyone else, with dangerously high fevers during winter, and flus during the summer. She’s glad that inspite of everything, Da-hee never inherits her weakly body constitution, even though she looks like a carbon copy of herself.

The abuse continues, and Minji can only try and protect her daughter as much as she can from Minghan’s calloused hands. She spends four blissful years, watching Da-hee grow, and its everything that Minji can ever wish for. 

...

Da-hee hates the fact that she doesn’t recall much of her mother, save for the last day that she sees her face, and for the fists and warm body that envelops her constantly as her father rains down fist upon fist on their bodies. Its a curse that humans don’t exactly remember their memories of anyone until they’re beyond the age of six or seven, because her childhood is marred with days and nights of a predator, and not of the blissful moments of the woman she calls her mother. 

Da-hee remembers Minji as the warmest ray of light, the delicate ray of sunshine. Her mother was like a plant--wavering in the wind, but yet still strong and steadfast to her will. She never blames her mother for choosing not to leave her father. Where would they go if she did? A young woman and a child, barely ever four years of age, and on top of that, her mother’s body wasn’t in the best shape. It was a tragedy from the very start, and something doomed from the very beginning. 

She doesn’t even blame her mother for the domestic abuse they both suffer--if anything, the home that Park Minghan provided covered their necessities, even if they had to suffer blow after blow upon their bodies. 

She does blame her mother however, for not noticing the signs of her father’s predatory behaviour. Its even more sickening that he doesn’t wait till her mother’s fully gone to begin his predation upon her young body. It starts with the touching--its always the touching, the hugging that’s too close for comfort. She’s too young to understand that it isn’t affection, and her mother’s too sickly to know what happens when her father watches over her when she isn’t around. 

And Da-hee remembers always being more worried about her mother, even as a child who didn’t understand things in her four year old mental capacity. To her, mother was always coughing--always crying, always desperately holding on. Her heart hurt her...most of the times, and so did father’s fists.

Da-hee remembers clearly, however--the first time that her father had ever hit her. It hadn’t been accidental, and her mother had always done everything she could in protecting her. Bruises marred her pretty face, her hands always trembling as she touched her all over after each brutal beating at Park Minghan’s hands, and Da-hee remembers that she always cries when her mother desperately touches her body and face. She senses the panic, and desperation--that desire to protect something so precious, and its an indescribable feeling for a four year old to watch her mother being beaten repeatedly till she bleeds, and being able to do nothing about it, because its always her mother that tries to protect her. All the bruises that she knows are supposed to appear on her body and her face--are right there, just on her mother. 

Its tears of helplessness, of terror, of fear, of despair--and even as young as she is--her body instinctively knows it. If anything, Da-hee remembers having inherited the strong-will of her own mother. Its a powerful thing that they both have, indomitable enough for Minji to stay on and protect her daughter for four long years, even though her body has expired, and for Da-hee to still function as a normal child, even under such intense abuse. But the stubbornness and the pride that she has--that was something that she definitely got from her father, as was the unquenchable fury.

She remembers the day she threw herself in front of her mother, screaming at her father as he rained his fists down on her mother’s tiny frame, the desperate cries of her mother to hide back in her arms falling upon deaf ears. It works--as soon as that first few punches pummel with full strength against her small body, and jars Park Minghan to a halt. It works--because he strides out of the room, red-faced and with a wild but shocked look in his eye as she beams widely at her mother, one eye already swelling shut as her mother cries and cups her face.

We match. She tries to say, reaching for the black eye that her mother sports as well, but the pain is too much, and she ends up crying till the blood vessels burst in her tiny face. All she remembers of the day is not the glory that she had, protecting her mother, but the repeated tears and apologies that fell from her mother’s lips as she cradled her in her arms like the most precious thing in the world. 

The fact that she still got hit takes a huge blow to her mother’s health, Da-hee realises a tad too late. She’s four and half and trying to help around the house when her mother suddenly coughs out blood and clutches her heart. Its alarming, and Da-hee remembers the adrenaline that pumps through her veins as she runs from door to door, trying to get the neighbours to help.

But no one wants to help someone who doesn’t want to leave an abusive husband themselves. Its something that she deserves--Da-hee feels it in their eyes as they close the door on her face, condescending and judgemental, and its far too late when she returns back to her house, without a doctor in tow. 

She spends her last moments with her mother on the tiny bed that they share, in the small room that’s apart from her father. 

I love you. She remembers her mother’s last breath as the words of love and adoration from the woman’s lips, the smile of liberation that finally truly graces her lips.

Her father doesn’t even return home until two days later, drunk and smelling heavily of booze. She’s spent the past two nights lying with the corpse of her dead, cold mother, unable to cry as she sits next to her mother, stupefied and traumatized. She doesn’t even feel sorry when Park Minghan collapses to the ground in sobs, grabbing onto her mother’s hand as though it was the most precious thing that he could find in the world.

He deserves it. Even in the mental capacity of a four year and a half year old, Da-hee knows how to differentiate things far too easily--its a blessing and a curse from growing up just a little too early. She wanders out of the room and into the open space, right by the beach where her mother would frequently take her as a tiny escape from the horrible life that they both shared.

See the birds, Da-hee? Aren’t they so carefree.

And she finally bursts into tears.

[battinscn]

TRAITOR — theodore nott x f! reader

CONTENT WARNING: swear words/ infidelity/ parental death

SUMMARY: theodore would never cheat on you, you knew that with your heart. but when theodore moves on far too quickly at a pace that seems almost unbelievable, maybe theodore didn’t cheat, but he was indeed still a traitor.

WC/ AVG. READING TIME: 1833 words/ 9 minutes

return to the theodore masterlist here

return to the sour masterlist here

𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴

"HEY THEO?" YOU asked.

"hmm?" he picked his head up from his plate.

you had been eating in a rather awkward silence throughout dinner.

"you alright?" you asked, concerned. you reached forward to rest your hand over his comfortingly.

"just tired," he shrugged, brushing your hand off of his.

you nodded and continued your dinner, no words were spoken between the two of you for the rest of the night.

𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘣 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸

"i have to go to the office tonight, i'll probably have to stay the night too. don't wait up for me." theodore put on his blazer.

"okay, don't stay up too late." you padded towards him and hugged the tall man.

you chose to ignore how his body tensed up when you enveloped him into your embrace.

you chose to ignore how theodore's hands stayed by his side instead of reciprocating the hug.

you chose to ignore how theodore did not tell he loved you when you did, and how he slightly flinched when you placed a kiss on his cheek.

you chose to ignore how his collar had a faint scent of floral perfume, a scent you never once wore.

𝘪 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘪 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶

"sorry for bothering you," you apologised as astoria let you into the malfoy manor.

daphne was there as well, welcoming you to have a drink with them by the coffee table.

"hey hon', have you seen my quill?" you heard draco call out and tread down the steps.

"oh, hiya mrs nott," draco winked to you while astoria reminded her forgetful husband where he had misplaced his quill.

"a-are you not required to go to the office tonight? theodore said-" you inquired, but stopped when you connected the dots in your head.

you were a brilliant witch, nothing short of dense. it all made sense.

daphne, astoria, and draco seemed to have realised what was happening as well and they had sorrowful looks on their faces.

astoria silently asked her husband to leave the room and the two sisters comforted you.

"i-it's quite alright," you wiped a stray tear away and stood up.

you apparated yourself home and nestled into bed. it hurt being with theodore, but you knew it would hurt more being away from him.

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴

"oi, where were you yesterday?" draco asked theodore when they were in the office the next day.

"out for dinner with travers."

"the new intern?" draco's brows furrowed, "you have a wife, nott."

"it was only dinner. can't two colleagues be friends?" theodore retorted.

draco decided not to reply and purposefully knock into his shoulder when he walked away.

𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘱, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘥

"draco wrote to me and said you were out for dinner with travers," you looked up from your book when theodore walked into the house.

theodore silently cursed at malfoy in his head.

"we're just friends," theodore sighed, "i'd never cheat on you, you know that."

theodore's father had a history of infidelity and he had swore he would never become his father. he would never stoop that low.

"i know," you trailed off, "i just don't know why you had to lie to me." you put your book down on crossed your legs, sinking into the sofa.

"when you lie it just feels like you're hiding something," you admitted.

"now you're just being paranoid," theodore ran his hands through his hair, annoyance in his tone.

"sorry, dinner's on the hob." you mumbled and returned to your book.

𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵

three knocks on the slytherin dorm door.

three special knocks and it was enough for theodore know who it was on the other side.

"go away," theodore shouted.

you magically unlocked his dorm door.

"i said to go away," he growled.

theodore was a strange boy. when he was mad, he would get sad. and when he was sad, he would get mad.

he often used the sadness to try and push people away in a way to convince himself that he did not need anyone.

your eyes trailed to the broken vase in the direction of draco's bed, presumably thrown when draco had tried to convince theodore to leave his dorm.

you threw you backpack onto blaise's bed and joined theodore on the floor.

you kneeled in front of him, opening your arms.

"no." theodore sniffed.

"stop being a dickhead,” you sassed back with just as much annoyance.

you knew the boy like the back of your hand. he was your boy after all.

theodore dove into your chest.

“she passed…r-right in front of me, she left me.” he cried.

“i’ve got you, it’ll be okay,” you consoled, your hand petting the back of his head.

you held both of your cheeks to his hand lovingly, staring into his deep brown eyes.

“she loves you so much, and i hope you know that she never left, because she’ll always be…” you moved one hand down and tapped lightly at his heart, “right here. and i need you to do one thing for me can you?”

theodore nodded his head.

“never forget her. your mum will always be right by your side, looking after you and making sure nothing bad could ever happen to her precious son. and she had given me the very honourable task of helping her split the work because you, my love, can be quite the handful sometimes,” you tapped his nose.

theodore let out an almost chuckle, but that was enough for you to know that he was doing better than before.

“you won’t ever leave me, right?” theodore asked hopefully.

“never.” you kissed him feverishly.

𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳

"don't you get tired?" theodore quipped.

"tired of what?" you replied.

"of pretending we love each other." he said plainly.

"pretending?" you blurted.

"don't play dumb. all we ever do is walk on eggshells around each other, is it not fucking exhausting?"

you licked your chapped lips, "maybe you were, but i certainly wasn't pretending to love you."

"well that doesn't matter does it? it takes two people who love each other to be in a marriage, what we have," he gestured to the space between you and him, "is not that. maybe i did love you at one point, but...i don't think i can say the same anymore."

tears erupted in your eyes. sure you were expecting this, but definitely not the cold demeanour and harsh tone of his voice.

the man who once promised to love you for as long as he shall live.

you tried to open your mouth to say something but all you could let out is a painful sob.

"i can't do this anymore," theodore pushed his chair out and stood up.

"wait." you croaked and gripped onto his wrist, "i just need to know."

"do you feel sorry?"

theodore remained silent as he lightly pulled his wrist from your grip and left you crying in the front room of your empty flat.

𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴, 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳

you signed the divorce papers just a mere fourteen days ago and you had been staying with the malfoys.

they had kindly offered a room for you to stay in till you managed to settle down in your own place.

it was the night of the annual hogwarts reunion and astoria had convinced you to go.

"hi love, you look gorgeous," astoria complimented as you looked at her through the vanity mirror.

"thank you, you look beautiful too," you twirled your friend around.

the three of your floo networked into hogwarts and you found yourselves in the great hall.

it had been decorated similarly to during the yule ball, except the christmas elements were replaced with the four hogwarts colours.

you mingled around with a few of your old school mates, having to awkwardly explain why you were now y/l/n and no longer nott.

the night seemed to have been going rather well when you noticed theodore walk in with a girl on his arm that looked awfully familiar.

"is that...?" astoria whispered to her husband, to which draco nodded.

astoria rest her hand on your lower back comfortingly.

"it's fine, i'm fine," you sniffed and blinked back a few tears. you had no right to cry, he was a single man and could do what he wanted.

𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳

it just came as a shock to you how quickly he managed to move on.

𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦, 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦

when you left you and theodore's old apartment, you hurriedly threw your things into a bag and left.

your clothes were still there and you had arranged with theodore so that you could come and pick them up at eight in the morning.

thus at exactly eight on the dot, you found yourself dusting floor powder off your trousers.

"theodore?" you called out, but you heard no response.

the house was similar to when you were staying in it, except now the pictures of you and theodore no longer lined the walls.

the flat also had a rather putrid smell lingering. you used to light candles around the house because your nasty london apartment had terrible sewage systems. it seemed that now nobody bothered to do anything about the stench.

you assumed theodore had just forgotten and was out, and so you decided it would be much better if you just collected your things alone. that way, you would not have to make awkward small talk with your ex-husband.

you got to your old bedroom and the sight of two bodies in the bed made you widen your eyes.

"shit, sorry." you quickly shut the door.

a few rustles could be heard and the door opened, revealing a disheveled haired theodore and the woman you had come to known behind him.

you trailed your eyes from theodore to travers.

you recognised the familiar looking t-shirt that she had seemingly messily thrown on.

it was your t-shirt. she was in your clothes.

you could not help but to let out a scoff, a dark chuckle escaping your lips.

"forget it, keep my shit i don't want it anymore," you walked backwards slowly.

theodore called out your name, trying to reason.

"no. keep it. i don't want it." you pulled your wand out and disapparated away.

𝘨𝘰𝘥, 𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶

you found yourself by theodore's mum's grave.

"i'm sorry mrs nott, i did all i could do. it's up to you to look after him now." you placed the bouquet of flowers by the gravestone and placed a charm on them to prolong their life.

< previous track next track >

brutal drivers license

join my taglist here!

tags: @lilytoyourjames @pattnscn @haroldpotterson @one-direction-harry-potter1 @harryjamespotterswife @fairydxll @xangel76 @daddysfucktoyslut @grandnerdsheep-blog @eleventhboi

[cno-inbminor]

a/n: iwaizumi occupies an unhealthy amount of thoughts in my head. yay for another drabble dump! kind of recycled a soulmate!au from another fic of mine.

wc: 1.4k; angst; gets a little risque but no smut. 

vampire!iwa, soulmates via red string + reincarnation, person A can see it but person B can’t.

“y’know, roaming the earth for nearly 400 years doesn’t sound that bad.”

“it’s torture in its own way, trust me.”

“haji, i know you’re a vampire and everything, but must you be so angst-y and brooding all the time?”

“leave my house.”

hajime pretends that your laughter doesn’t make the corners of his own lips twitch upward. his attention, albeit divided, is directed towards the book resting atop his crossed legs, a cheek pressed into his left fist with his elbow on the arm rest. the cotton sofa chair he sits upon is a relic from britain that he was given from the king himself in 1833, and you’re amazed that it hasn’t turned to dust yet. hajime thanks the development of good upholstery cleaning products. 

his onyx gaze flickers to where you stand with your hands clasped tightly behind your back, perusing the titles on one of his many bookshelves lined against the walls. though he’s completely desensitized to the smell of human blood, the scent of yours is moderately more tempting than he’s used to. part of him is disgusted with himself, a tiny yet monstrous fraction of his soul simply keeping you around because he’s addicted. the realization sticks to him like grime and muck on skin, a pain to wash off, and grimace settled deep into invisible wrinkles. while his goal wasn’t to achieve complete humanity, he didn’t like being reminded that he exists as a monster, a foretold dangerous creature of the night. 

“you have a first edition of pride and prejudice?!” you cry out, fingers hovering reverently over the spine. you’re afraid that if you touch and try to open it, the pages will scatter towards the cherry hardwood ground quite unceremoniously, and that hajime might rip your neck open for it. 

of course he’s silent in his steps to move closer to your figure, nonchalantly pulling back the book from its position. he relishes in your quiet, nervous intake of air and opens the cover as if to let you know that it’s not as fragile as you believe. the awe in your eyes is captivating, and he tries not to bore holes into the side of your face. you’re charming in many of the same ways as your previous lives, though that’s a secret for him to keep for now. 

“you know what’s absolute batshit crazy? this alone could cover my living expenses for two or three years.”

hajime shrugs. his sense of money has also gone downhill over the years, but he’s a simple man with very few material needs. the most sizeable portion of his tremendous wealth goes towards art and literature, and he believes it pays off in moments like these. 

“i could cover your living costs until you die,” he supplies and another soft peal of laughter leaves your chest. your inevitable, human death doesn’t trigger a twinge in his chest, not at all. he’s past that -- it’s been over ten lifetimes, this one won’t be any different. 

“that’s sweet, but i don’t need a sugar daddy,” you chuckle, sliding the novel back into the shelf. “there are plenty of others who could use your help. go build homeless shelters, donate a shit ton of money to charities and causes. or you can be a sugar daddy for other people. plenty of people would sign up in a heartbeat knowing that you were willing to give money without asking for some favors in return.”

“i have built homeless shelters and made large anonymous donations to several places over the years. what do you take me for?”

“a dark, brooding vampire that pretends the sun still burns his skin.”

hajime rolls his eyes and walks away, choosing to return to his seat and open his book again. he feels you adjust and balance yourself on his arm chair, leaning above him to read the words as he goes along. you know that he slows down his reading speed for you, turning the pages at a more human pace to accommodate your needs. it’s charming and quite touching, romantic in a similar vein. perhaps it’s silly that you’ve developed a crush on an immortal creature, but you and hajime seem to click so well. even just after a few weeks of getting to know him, he feels so familiar, like a best friend you’ve known all your life. so incredibly reliable, protective, helpful, intelligent, ridiculously handsome that it should be a crime, and caring -- it’s frightening to some degree, but also comforting more than anything. 

“you’re a 400 year old vampire, yet you choose to waste your time with me,” you mutter, the words tumbling off your tongue before you can stop yourself. “compared to you, i’m pretty much a child, probably extremely immature. so why bother? boredom? curiosity?”

hajime almost stares incredulously at you for such a ridiculous assumption, though severely underestimating how close your face is to his. once again, he finds himself getting lost in your gaze. it’s as breathtaking as the first time those centuries ago, and you are so painfully unaware of the effect you have on him. the bond, the red string of fate becomes the center of gravity. after all this time, he can’t control and stop himself from glancing at your lips then back up, trying to give you time to deny his advances. though like always, you reciprocate his actions, leaning closer towards him, mouth slightly parted with bated breath and electric anticipation. 

the warmth of you quite nearly sears his skin, and he can’t help but sharply inhale at the first touch of contact. god, he’s missed this so much. he’s missed branding the shape your lips into his brain, he’s missed how alive he feels in these moments, he’s missed being able to hold you in his arms and claim you as his yet again. hajime wants nothing more than to pick you up by your thighs and carry you to his bedroom to remind you just who exactly you belong to, who you’ve always belonged to. the passion nearly hums in his veins but he keeps the pressure against your lips to a minimum, relishing in how soft they feel against his own. he never wants this to end -- fuck needing blood for survival. 

you’re all he needs. 

a soft moan sneaks away from him when you push harder against him, seeking fuller contact -- who is he to deny you? he places a tentative hand on your nape to keep you stable, though it doesn’t take long for you to slide into his lap and straddle him. your own hands fist his obsidian strands, tightening and tugging when you pull back for air and he finds refuge in the skin on the column of your neck. he nips and sucks until you’re almost whining to kiss him again, his hips grinding against where you might need him most. 

it’s almost too much, but you can’t find it in yourself to stop. there’s something inside you that screams you’ve been craving this, that this intimacy with hajime is everything that’s been missing from your life. you feel so complete, a sensation so terrifyingly thrilling because you couldn’t imagine what would happen if hajime ever left you. 

“i need you,” you gasp against his lips, grinding down on him for extra measure and throwing shame out the window. your scent washes over him in crashing waves and intoxicates his soul yet again, the grasp of his hands on your waist surely bruising your skin now. it’s the tipping point, the slip in the house of cards, the leap into another endless rabbit hole that will only bring him torment again in sixty years. and though every lifetime he tells himself that he’ll keep his distance, that he’ll be nothing more than a good friend, he can’t help but relapse and give in. it’s too hard not to, and all the pain, suffering, and agony of waiting for you to be reincarnated is worth it if he can have you again. 

“if you’ll have me,” he murmurs. it’s silly that he’s trying to make sure you’re aware of your own actions, as if the soulmate bond wasn’t tugging on your heartstrings this whole time. there’s no one more perfect for him than you, nor him for you. written in the stars, foretold in the legends, there was no escaping it. 

“please,” you beg, driving the metaphorical stake through his chest. it ensures another death, another ending that most would spend eternity running from. 

but effortlessly lifting you with one hand beneath your thigh and the other wound around your waist, he takes it all, prepared to die once more.

[finnpoeficrec]

Cute marriage/kid fics... without r*ylo? I don't want to be hater but theatres so many tags for them they show up in every search!!!!! I just want Poe and Finn being good space dad's please! ty!

of course! I set up two searches for you to further browse and there are a couple of fics below too.

Click Here for a search of marriage fics with no reylo

Click Here for a search of kid fics with no reylo 

Somebody To Love by ginevraknifehands, spudbud

rating e | wc 101474 | notes kid fic, teacher au 

In which Finn is Professionally Concerned about one of his students, Poe is trying to keep his life and his daughter together, and they both need somebody to love.

(Or, how Finn accidentally goes from teaching Bea third-grade math to helping raise her by trying to get into her dad’s pants.)

the spirit is too blunt an instrument by Deputychairman

rating g | wc 1833 | notes kid fic, first kiss

There’s no strategic value in the tiny human who’s finally let go of his neck and is falling asleep in his lap, except that he won’t grow up to be a Stormtrooper. Finn knows better than anybody that one Stormtrooper more or less doesn’t make any difference to anything.

so take my heart, if it suits you by redsquadronblues (clockworkcorvids)

rating t | wc 2937 | notes post tros, fix it, marriage

There’s a brief moment of heart-wrenching panic, of everything falling to the floor around Finn and then dragging him down too, and then he doesn’t even think about it until after the words are out of his mouth; it’s intuitive, instinctual, the first thing that comes to mind, and the implications are secondary—to him, at least.“Dameron. Finn Dameron.”

*hope this helped! mads :)

[battinscn]

BRUTAL

CONTENT WARNING: injury, reader's a bit fruity

SUMMARY: being a witch was not all that easy

WC/ AVG. READING TIME: 1833 words/ 9 minutes

return to the sour masterlist here

"TWELVE INCH ESSAY on the ethics of using animals to practice conjuring charms due tomorrow. class dismissed." professor mcgonagall instructed.

you groaned internally and stuffed the crumpled pieces of parchment into your haversack.

you already had a stack of homework on your desk in your room from snape and flitwick, what you didn't need was even more from the transfiguration professor.

salazar slytherin, did the professors ever catch a break?

you rubbed your face lazily and dragged your feet out of the classroom.

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪'𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮

when you were a first year, all you wanted was to grow older so that you could have more freedom around school.

seventh years got to have later curfews, longer lunches, and an earlier dismissal time.

and now, being a seventh year, you absolutely dreaded it. curfews were later because of the sheer number of assignments required of you to complete in just a day. lunches were longer because you no longer had breaks in between your lessons. dismissal times were also earlier because you were expected to spend the rest of your day doing revision on the content you had learned that day.

𝘪’𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱

oh how you wanted to be a year one again, where your biggest worry was whether to have a pork or chicken chop for dinner.

you weaved through the crowded corridor. you felt as if you were being suffocated and picked at your nails as you ducked under students and finally made your way to the library.

you slumped into the chair with a huff and opened your transfiguration textbook.

𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴

"hi sexy," pansy slipped into the seat next you, daphne in the one opposite.

"you look dead," daphne studied your tired features, reaching across the table to rub your underlies with the pad of her thumb, "you alright?"

"i'm so bloody tired. i haven't had proper sleep in a week." you complained.

"i'll get you some sleeping draught if i can later, snape's quite daft sometimes, he won't notice if a bit is missing. hopefully you'll sleep better," pansy suggested.

"thank you. i love the both of you so much i could kiss you," you leaned your head on her shoulder.

"nothing we haven't done before," daphne winked, insinuating one of the many times the three of you had a tad bit too much to drink while in your dorms.

𝘦𝘨𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦

you said goodbye to your friends and walked to the slytherin quidditch tent.

"knobs in your pants and trousers up, girl entering tent!" you announced from the outside.

you waited a few seconds before pulling the curtain aside and walking in.

you dropped your bag by a bench, having already been dressed in running shorts and a your team jumper, you walked back out onto the pitch.

"hi pretty boys," you ruffled miles' and draco's hair when you dropped next to them.

the three of your sat cross legged, leaning on the back of your palms in front of the pile of brooms, waiting for flint to start practice.

the two boys gave you a hum in reply as you lazily closed your eyes, wanting to appreciate the few minutes of silence before your long practice was to begin.

"i still don't get why she's on the team and i'm not, i'm more fit compared to her," goyle practically whined as he trailed after flint like a lost puppy, gesturing towards you.

"oi, sod off dickhead. there's a reason why you're benched and i'm not," you flipped him off and picked up your broom.

marcus ignored gregory and blew his whistle, starting practice.

everything was going as usual when your last name was called and the last thing you saw was a bludger flying right at you.

the bright rays of sunshine that shone through the stained glass windows of the hospital wing caused your eyes to slowly flutter open.

you wanted to sit up to observe your surroundings when the excruciating pain from your broken rib caused you to wince.

you decided it was better if you just laid straight, head one the pillow, staring at the plain stone ceiling as you let out a tired sigh.

𝘨𝘰𝘥, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦

next track >

traitor