#Duck is rabid

[awarmbowlofhomemadesoup]

I now have one from a cartoon, one from an anime, and one from a novel series.

[augmentedpolls]

Have you or anyone you know ever been exposed to rabies?

1- yes, myself, and the animal was definitely rabid

2- yes, someone else, and the animal was definitely rabid

3- yes, myself, the animal may have been rabid but got the treatment anyway

4- yes, someone else, the animal may have been rabid but they got the treatment anyway

5-yes, myself and someone else, the animal was definitely rabid

6- yes, myself and someone else, the animal may have been rabid but treatment was received anyway

7- yes, someone I know was exposed and passed away due to not receiving treatment

8- no, I don't know anyone who has been exposed to rabies

I'm curious how common it is, I'm in the middle of receiving treatments cause I was bitten by a fox that was trying to kill one of my pet ducks. Good news, the duck survived and got less of an injury than I did, which was thankfully just a bite on the hand that didn't get too deep, no stitches or anything

Thanks anon for submitting, and hopefully no more foxes try to attack your ducks! ;) If you’d like your own question answered, feel free to submit polls via my ask box

[bloodtwin]

𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 。。。

             latest grave robbed: unprompted interactions 。

Anonymous ⸻ ❝ It's "Puck" pronounced like "duke" or like "fuck"? ❞

         HE  LOOKS  HORRIFIED  by the question. Puck pronounced like duke ？Like PUKE ？！Puck pronounced like puke ？！！

Nooooo, no, no, no, no 。。。 

          Ohhhhh, no, no, no 。。。

Very quickly, he blurts, ❝ LIKE FUCK ！ IT'SLIKEFUCK ！！❞

[manicali]

I feel like Hermes would secretly give small trinkets to kids with bad parents bc his dad is known to be bad dad

-Nyx

Im tearing up that’s so sweet. One must imagine Hermes a good father.

[cinnamon-phrog]

Miss Piggy The Muppets and Duck DHMIS should totally lez out

[daenystheedreamer]

feel like im pretty well adjusted to the asoiaf fandom but if i see more than like four stupid posts in a row in a character's tag i start foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. is this normal?

very normal symptom of terminal asoiafism🫡 i haven't ventured into the tags in many moons... solution is if u see bad takes click block and say Goodbye forever

[twodadsandapig]

Just watched a video and it made me compare Duck's tendency to bite people to that one scene in Ratatouille

Y'know, where Remy is trying to tell Linguini which ingredients to use before they put him under the hat?

Yea.

[charliemwrites]

Omegas are the best for the military. Everyone knows that, it’s just common sense.

Omegas are notoriously level-headed and calm, protective without the tendency towards aggression and territorial possessiveness that characterizes their Alpha counterparts. They’re cooperative and adaptable, with heightened senses that at one evolutionary time kept them safe from rabid Alphas.

Now, it’s best suited to sniffing out potential threats, communicating sub-vocally, and noticing the smallest changes in their environment. The military finds them much more economical for combat, special ops, and even espionage compared to Alphas, who are pheromone sensitive, hard-headed, and generally indelicate.

That said, they’re not without their uses. Alphas tend to be lean, fast, and vicious. That aggression makes them both sword and shield in a fight, filing their sense of pain and fatigue down to almost nothing until the threat is neutralized.

Still, having a full-time Alpha in a squad isn’t a necessity except in special circumstances.

Per usual, Task Force 141 is special circumstances.

Four specialist Omegas with a metric ton of trauma per team member has the unfortunate consequence of hormonal imbalance. One thing feeds into another, a heat is put on hold for a mission because they can’t spare the manpower - it stacks and stacks and stacks until sleep is scarce and their usually well-maintained instincts are bursting at the seams. Compound that with the near loss of one of their team members…

The new Alpha is already there when the team returns from their latest assignment.

Laswell is waiting on the tarmac and an operative in black gear is standing a polite distance (plus one step more) from her elbow. Well within peripheral, but deferent. Their hands are clasped behind their back, shoulders straight but loose.

As TF141 approaches, Price expects the Alpha pheromones to waft his way any moment. It’s normal, expected even. A new environment, meeting strange Omegas, Alphas usually burn through their neutralizers quickly. Perhaps a vestigial instinct to carve a space for themselves in the world. Not necessarily their fault, but it happens.

Price is surprised that he smells nothing from the Alpha at all. Just the scents of detergent and soap, clean and standard. A quick glance at Simon confirms their most-sensitive nose doesn’t detect anything either.

Laswell introduces them, an Alpha that she’s personally worked with before and can verify is solid both on and off the field.

The Alpha’s muzzle is heavy duty but long-wear design. Hard-case and rigid instead of the more popular soft and flexible ones. Cushioned but firm at the bridge of the nose, chin, and corners of the jaw. Buckled tight at the back of the head, steel grid pattern across the front.

Price doesn’t arch his eyebrows at it but it’s a near thing.

They duck their head in greeting when Laswell introduces them as Saint, eyes flicking up briefly to each team member, eye-shine reflecting green in the bright runway lights.

Soap whistles, impressed.

“Yer a big ‘un, tha’s fer damn sure. Didnae ken they make ‘em like ye,” he drawls. Ghost cuffs him upside the head, reminding him to behave.

Saint blinks and doesn’t say anything. Curious.

“Let’s do proper introductions inside,” Price decides.

It goes much the same way in the 141’s den as it did out on the tarmac. Saint stands quiet and still while the Omegas take their turns.

There’s no scent to familiarize themselves with, so it’s mostly offering theirs to the Alpha. Except Saint doesn’t duck down to the neck Gaz offers. Instead, they pluck up his hand and bring his wrist to their muzzle. Inhale so quietly that only the swell of their chest indicates that they’re breathing him in.

They chuff softly, hold so loose that Gaz’s hand nearly drops from theirs. It’s approval, it can’t be anything else, but it sounds so… detached.

Still, Gaz chuffs in return, and makes way for the others. Saint does the same to Soap and by the time Simon steps up, he’s already tugging his sleeve up and his glove down.

Simon, to his own surprise, receives the same polite huff as the two sergeants. Most Alphas have found his direct scent to be unpleasant - too sharp and savory, bordering on Alpha. But Saint doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

When it’s finally Price’s turn, the only difference is that Saint swipes their own wrist along his. Scent claim. Not marking the 141 as theirs, but rather Saint as belonging with them.

Laswell, suspiciously amused, takes her leave soon after.

The 141 has an Alpha. A permanent one.

Living with an Alpha would have been a learning curve on its own. Living with SAINT is something else entirely.

For one, they apply clinical-strength neutralizer religiously. They have spares stashed everywhere. In their go-bag, their combat gear, the den, the lockers - even one in Price’s office. It’s better than the ones with fragrance, but if not for their ever-present muzzle, no one would be able to tell that they’re an Alpha.

And speaking of the muzzle.

It goes beyond common courtesy and public conduct. Even in the den, they keep the thing tightly pressed to their face, and don’t remove it for anything. They eat in their room and drink through straws when necessary.

When Price tells them that the team wouldn’t mind if they used a bite guard in the den, they just chuff softly and brush a hand along his shoulder. The muzzle stayed.

It’s not to say they don’t seem comfortable. Day by day, little signs of trust and ease seep into their Alpha’s mannerisms if they know where to look for it. A brush of skin here, a sub-vocal purr there. Spending hours upon hours in the den, available for any of the Omegas to sit with or cuddle or chat to. As much as teammate as an Alpha in the traditional sense.

It doesn’t take Soap and Gaz long at all to start hanging all over them, but Saint takes it with all the patience of their namesake. Price finds Soap lounging in their lap most times that they’re sitting, or leaning hard into their side while they watch recruits.

The muzzle is a no-touch zone, but they don’t get even growl the first time Soap discovers that. They just redirect him with a quiet click of their tongue, and let him nuzzle in when he apologizes.

Gaz is hardly any better, scent marking Saint like some bad Alpha stereotype. Poor thing goes around smelling overwhelmingly of bergamot and honey sometimes, but they never mind, never stop him from pressing his face to their chest or their back or even into their hands. Rubbing his face over any bit of skin or fabric available, even their jugular, despite the vulnerability of such a spot.

Still, Saint is aloof.

They’re perfectly responsive to their Omegas, head tilting at the slightest vocalization, quick to offer physical comfort when asked. They hardly ever seek it out for themself though, and show none of the near-obsessive behaviors associated with even the most mild of Alphas on the spectrum.

“I dinnae think Alpha likes us,” Soap whines one evening.

Saint is eating in their room, leaving the Omegas to a cuddle pile while they wait for their return.

He’s been lamenting it for a while now, repressing the rejected pang in his gut any time Saint doesn’t vocalize back, or reach for them first.

They work out in the Alpha-Only gym on base and do their laundry in the designated Alpha wash. Neither of those are regulations, it’s a choice they make. And it hurts a bit.

Saint is sweet, but their politeness goes past the point of old-fashioned.

“Course they do,” Simon grunts, dismissive. “They probably like us too much.”

“How do you reckon?” Gaz asks.

“Alpha didn’ go t’ eat ‘til we were all fed,” he replies, shrugging.

And it’s true. Saint doesn’t collect a scrap of nutrition until every one of their Omegas has had something to eat. Even Price, stubborn and work-focused as he can be, is gently urged to eat before Saint fills their own belly.

It doesn’t stop there.

Saint is always the last one on or off a transport, and quick to notice if any of them are injured. They’re always present around large groups of other Alphas, especially recruits.

The sheer amount of time they spend available is unusual, preferring the den to rest in their off hours - even sleeping there on occasion.

Then Gaz’s heat is due. A week out and he’s already feeling it descending - it’s been well over six months since his last one. His skin feels itchy, his senses on overdrive. Thirsty and hungry and generally feeling restless beneath the skin.

“Alpha,” he calls.

Saint’s eyes are on him instantly, one-sided conversation with some other, non-Pack Omega forgotten. Gaz purrs, pleased.

“I want something of yours.”

They tilt their head, a silent question.

“A shirt or something,” he specifies.

And something in their gaze flickers. Gaz isn’t sure what it means, but it definitely looks positive.

Saint brings him something better - a blanket. It’s intimate; it’s perfect. It smells incredible, if… oddly faded. From his most reserved Pack member, it means the world.

Gaz balls himself up with it in the nest he assembles over the next day and a half, until he wakes up one morning with the knowledge that his heat will l well and truly have taken hold before midday.

He puts in his notice and calls his Pack.

Saint is the last to enter his barrack, a huge bag of supplies in their arms. Not just for Gaz, but for the rest of them. No one will be leaving unless duty calls.

And it’s perfect. The best heat Gaz has ever had. Surrounded by Pack and protected by his Alpha, who stays on watch while Price and Ghost and Soap fuck him through the dregs of preheat and well into Heat proper.

Half of him purrs at his Alpha’s dedication to protecting them, to providing for them. The other half protests the Alpha’s attention being anywhere but on him.

“Alpha,” he calls. And when that only earns him Saint’s eyes and not his affection, he barks, sharper, “Alpha.”

They come to him instantly, settled in between his legs, smooth their thumbs along the glands at the base of his neck. He curls into them trilling and chirping and needing more than just social acceptability right now.

And finally, finally, a low rumble sounds through his Alpha’s chest. It’s deep and rich, hits the subharmonics in a way that has all the Omegas going still and quiet. Their voice purrs out a moment later, practically vibrating their skulls.

“Easy, Omega.”

Gaz bares his neck, whispering, “Saint.”

They lean in, breathing loud and deep, warm hands soothing an ache in his lower back. “I’m here, Kyle.”

They fuck well into sundown, Kyle so wound up that he can’t bear to be parted from Saint to even let them breathe. Any space between them is whined or growled or bitten out of existence, the ever-indulgent Alpha soothing their Omega with their body, with the newly discovered vocalizations that he just can’t get enough of.

Ghost and Price have to feed and hydrate him between rounds, working together to manage his clingy limbs and careless (but sharp) teeth. In the meantime, Soap helps to do the same for Saint, who is far more cooperative.

“How’re you still goin’?” Soap wonders, amazed, slipping bites of granola between the bars of their muzzle. Saint is sitting upright with Gaz collected against their chest, sweaty but already breathing evenly again.

Saint licks a bit of chocolate off their lip and meets his eyes easy as anything, serene for how blown out their pupils are.

“I’m your Alpha. I go until you need me to stop.”

Which just sets them all off, each taking (needing) a turn with their Alpha.

By then, their neutralizer has begun to wear off, friction and sweat and fabric thinning the chemical deodorant to nothing. The scent is intoxicating, unlike anything any of them have ever smelled before. It’s overwhelmingly Alpha, overwhelmingly good. Even Ghost and Price, rare to bend the knee to anyone, find themselves weak for that scent.

No wonder Saint keeps it on lock, it’s practically a weapon in itself, not demanding submission but expecting it. A foregone conclusion. In a social setting it would be a brutal domination, rude wouldn’t even be the right word for it.

Saint isn’t just an Alpha, they’re on the extreme end of the spectrum.

The kind that comes with counseling and desensitizing therapies. Etiquette schools and specialized doctors.

The kind of Alpha that can not only manage four chaotic Omegas, but give them what they need.

With types like Saint, Alpha isn’t just a designation, it’s a title. And the 141 is proud that it’s theirs.

[duckmoss]

I hate finding rabid animals at work

Mostly because I seem to always find the larger mammals- never like a squirrel or a bird, so far both times it’s been a raccoon

[fungateshortcakes]

Remember me

Pairing: WeaponX!Logan x fem!Reader

Summary: You thought you lost him. But even in the depths of his broken mind, love has a way of finding its way back.

Wordcount: 1.3k

Warnings/tags: english is not my first language, canon typical voilence, angst, blood, stabbing, wounds, weaponX, light gore (?), happy ending, hurt/comfort

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You didn't breathe.

You didn't move.

This was not how you, Jean and Scott had planned this to go when you came to this place.

The moment you saw him standing in the cold, sterile halls of Strykers facility, everything inside you shattered. You had hoped, prayed, that the nightmares weren’t real. That the rumors of a rabid experiment locked away in a cage were nothing but lies and false assumptions. But here he was, standing before you, bare-chested, bloodstained and wrapped up in steel, wires and machinery. A weapon.

Your Logan was gone.

A strangled breath escaped your lips. You looked behind you, but the others had already rounded the corner, leaving you alone with your husband - or what was left of him - and dead soldiers littering the floor. He didn't react. He stared at you like you were nothing, just another body in his way.

You stared back, holding your breath. Your whole body was taught, standing like a statue, allthough you could feel the tremble deep within your bones.

Then he moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

You barely had the time to duck away before he tackled you to the ground, adamantium claws slashing through the air, embedding into the concrete floor beneath you, right next to your ear. Your heartbeat was deafening, but you stayed still like a deer caught in headlights. You didn't fight against him. Because this wasn't him.

This wasn't your Logan.

It’s what they made out of him.

"Logan" you whimpered out, your voice trembling as the fear of dying was eating you up. His snarl was low and guttural, more beast than man. You could see it in his eyes - the rage, confusion, emptiness.

He didn't emember you.

The truth cut deeper than any wound ever could. You didn't take your eyes off him, slowly supporting yourself on your elbows "It’s me" you whispered. "It’s-”. With a roar, his claws swung again, and this time, you weren't fast enough.

As you registered the twinkle of metal above you, you kicked his legs and tried to roll yourself from under him in a last attempt to save yourself. Pain exploded across your shoulder as the blades sliced through fabric and skin. You managed to get up with a gasp, stumbling a few feet away from him, clutching the wound as blood seeped between your fingers, bubbling under the fabric of your shirt.

But he didn't stop. He stalked forward, prepared to finish the job once and for all. Tears burned in your eyes. Not because of the pain, but because the man you love was trying to kill you.

You still wouldn't run. You just couldn't. Yes, it was foolish. And yet your legs wouldn’t move. "Logan" you pleaded this time, as if your voice would get through that thick iron helmet secured on his head. "They did this to you. Not me. Them!"

His breath hitched. A flicker of something flashed through his blown pupils- hesitation? Recognition? It’s gone before you can catch it.

Then suddenly, he gripped his head, letting out a guttural growl like something inside him was fighting. He shook his head like a feral animal, his claws retracting slightly, though not fully as if he was being held back, his body shaking with unrestrained fury.

You knew what this was. The conditioning, the brainwashing - his mind was screaming that you were a target, but something deep within him was resisting.

Something was still his.

You pressed your hand against your bleeding shoulder, steadying yourself as you straightened up a little more, panting. "You loved me once" you croaked out desperately. "More than anything."

Your words didn't reach him. Not yet.

And then another voice spoke out, the helmet seemingly sending a sharp spike of electricity through him.

"Weapon X." the scientists voice echoed through the hall. Your stomach dropped as Logans entire body stiffened, his expression going slack, like a machine waiting for orders. "Kill her"

"No" you breathed, but the command was given. His claws unsheathed once more with a bone shattering sound,

and this time, you knew he wouldn't hesitate.

You started running like you were stuck in a dream, only sluggishly dragging your body across the facilitys floors, stumbling around corners and dead bodies on the ground. You cried out for Jean, Scott, Kurt, to anyone who could hear your miserable sobs. But help never came. Your body screamed at you in protest, blood dripping from your shoulder as you weaved through the never ending corridors like mice in a labyrinth. You didn't want to fight him. Not like this. Not that you could fight the love of your life, not even when he was chasing you like you were his prey.

But Logan was steadily catching up to you, running on his claws and legs like a mountain tiger waiting for the right time to jump onto his victims back and rip them to shreds.

You barely made it through the steel doors before he crashed through them, eyes glowing with violent intent. You couldn't escape him. You knew that, especially when you found yourself in a dead end. So you stopped running.

Your back hit the wall as he closed in on you, claws gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His chest heaved, breaths ragged and uneven. The metal helmet around his head made him look even less human.

But he was human.

He just didn't know it.

"Do it, then" you rasped, barely standing up as you held your arm, wincing. The wound was deeper than you thought. His nostrils flared, claws rising right as he stood in front of you- then he stopped. His entire body seized, like something was wrong.

You panted quietly, looking up to his shaking arm, his muscles twitching with restraint "You never hesitated to kill before" you pushed, ignoring the sting of your wound. "Not when you wanted to protect me from harm."

A flicker of something flashed across his face.

Pain.

Recognition.

The tiniest crack in the programming. You took a shaky step forward, flinching when his claws twitched but didn’t move to strike. You took a deep breath, swallowing down your fears "You once told me I was the only thing keeping you from losing yourself." Your voice was thick with emotion, but you kept going, your hands slowly rising to take off his helmet "You said I was your home." you whispered, now eye to eye with him as you loosened the straps.

A sharp breath. A shudder. The world was silent except for the pounding of your hearts. Then, suddenly he stumbled. He gripped his head, teeth clenched as a low, pained snarl escaped his lips. The helmet slipped off his head, out of your hands and onto the floor. The second he saw it, he ripped it to shreds, growling and snarling while pieces of metal went flying against the walls.

You watched with wide eyes, hoping you wouldn't be next. When he was done, he panted and straightened up again, only to turn around to face you. You stiffened.

“…Sweetheart?”

The word was so soft, so broken, you almost thought you imagined it. His voice was hoarse and raw since he hadn't used it to form actual words in a while, only growling and snarling, unfamiliar even to himself. Speaking felt foreign.

His eyes, wild, lost, but oh so scared, locked onto yours, and something in them cracked.

It’s him.

It’s really him.

You didn't think- you just ran into his arms.

His muscles were still tense, still trembling, but his hands- his real, warm hands were clinging to you like you were rhe only thing tethering him to this world. "I’m here" you sobbed into his shoulder. "I’m right here, Logan."

His breath was uneven, hands tightening around you like he was trying to remember. Trying to feel. His hand came in contact with the wound that carried his signature. "What have I done to you..?" he croaked quietly, his thinned out voice cracking. "That wasn't you" you whispered back.

He was not whole yet. He may never be again.

But right now, in this moment, he was yours.

And that was enough.

For now, that was enough.

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So sorry I haven't been active in a while! The writers curse got me and I was in the hospital for a week and besides that a lot happened in the family and school kept me busy. I'm still sick and I've got a few fanfic requests I am still working on.

I just thought I'd post a short little angsty fic to let you know I'm not dead🙏🏻 i haven't watched xmen apocalypse in a while so sorry for any logical errors!

Leave a like, comment and reblog, it makes my day <3

[niccolites]

one of the requests i received from the lovely @crazyweirdnoodles about meeting one or some of the 141 on holiday. bc u said ur going to scotland (period) i am thinking soap for this one

johnny who clocks you as a tourist immediately, catches you staring at your phone to figure out what way you're meant to be going. staring at all the plaques next to statues that the locals don't bother to look at

you look like a sweet thing, so when you duck into a nearby pub, he follows his gut as he does with most things, and follows you inside. slides up next to you at the bar and offers to buy you your first proper drink in scotland, on him. (you've been in scotland for a few days now, but it feels rude to point out now)

he's charming, in the way that, excited dogs are charming. it's endearing, watching someone be so enraptured by you even as he barely lets you get a word in, jabbers on about how he'll be taking over your tour of the town, show you all the real highlights, a real local insight

oh, is he from around this area? no, he beams back, and you forgot to follow up with your confusion when he places a warm palm on your thigh

he was right, you are such a sweet thing, only a couple of drinks in and your letting him tug you into the bathroom and bolt the door shut. letting him slip his hand down the front of your panties and pant into the flesh of your neck

he's army he had told you, chest puffed up as he tried to impress you (and succeeded). you feel it as you cling to his arms and there is no give in the muscle there. dig your nails in and feel the teeth of his grin on the soft skin beneath your jaw.

there's a beat after he makes you come after he had three fingers curled into you and a thumb mean on your clit, and he's tugging down the zip of his trousers. you tell him you don't normally do this, and his ego swells until it suffocates the room

just for him, eh, lovey? he locks his arms around the backs of your knees and lifts until he slides inside you with a groan that's so loud you have to slap a hand around his mouth. he slobbers on your palm and god if that does make you shudder anyway

he's so filthy, running his mouth about your sweet tits, how tight your cunt is, begging you to let him come in you. it's a flush all the way down to the centre of you, white hot, shameful but still causing a pulse to run through you

fucks you against the door of the bathroom, ignoring the pounding on the other side from an angry staff member. too caught up in the flush your cheeks, the sweet part of your mouth as he fills it with his moans, drool slipping down your chins

his brain feels like static when you let him come in you, every muscle tensing and then unfolding until he is around the shape of you. his mouth pressed against the hairline of your temple. the first time he has touched someone there

pulls away from you with a mournful noise, already trying to plan how to get back inside you. rights himself and watches as you try to sort your appearance out to not look like you've just been fucked in a bathroom

takes your hand and guides you out. what a gentleman, glares at anyone who is looking at you (which is the entire pub). you think it's to defend your honour in some strange way, actually soap is almost rabid at the thought of anyone else hearing how sweetly you moan when you took his cock

he still offers you that tour, and you take it (he doesn't tell you that this is the thinnest excuse he has to get you to fuck him in his car, off the nature trail or in another pub again. if you both aren't banned from the entire town by the end of your visit, he's decided he is the worst guide)

[pucksandpower]

Ours to Protect

Charles Leclerc x Reader x Max Verstappen

Summary: life with your boys may be chaotic but, through all the ups and downs, you wouldn’t change it for the world

Warnings: depictions of injury, vague descriptions of pregnancy, and Jos Verstappen being Jos Verstappen

You take a deep breath as you step out of the car, the roar of the crowd already audible even from the secure paddock parking area.

Your stomach flutters with nerves and excitement as you smooth down your outfit and head towards the paddock entrance. This is your first race of the season and the reporters and fans are always rabid at the start of a new year.

As you enter the paddock you glance around, looking for Charles or Max but neither are immediately visible in the organized chaos. You clutch your paddock pass, suddenly feeling self-conscious walking through alone.

The other drivers’ wives and girlfriends are already gathered in small groups, greeting each other with cheek kisses as they exchange pleasantries. A few give you sidelong glances as you walk by, no doubt wondering why you’re alone when the rest of them arrived together with their partners.

You keep your head high, ignoring the looks. Your relationship with Charles and Max has been going strong and so far you’ve kept it private, with only close friends and family aware that the three of you are together. The public and the media still think of you as just a friend and you aren’t sure how they would react if they knew the truth. The three of you have discussed going public but agreed it’s better to wait, wanting to enjoy your time together out of the spotlight for now.

Still, you wish Charles or Max were with you as a buffer from prying eyes. You check your phone but there are no new messages. They must both still be busy with their pre-race preparations. Taking a deep breath, you make your way towards the Red Bull garage first, figuring you’ll find Max there.

As you approach, you spot a small crowd of reporters loitering near the garage entrance. They perk up as they see you coming, immediately descending upon you with microphones and cameras.

“Y/N! Over here!” One calls out. “Are you here to see Max?”

You stop short, feeling cornered as they form a semi-circle around you. “Um, yes, I’m just heading to the garage to say hi,” you say carefully.

“And what about Charles?” Another reporter asks, eyebrow raised suggestively. “Will you be visiting him in the Ferrari garage as well?”

You freeze, panic rising. Do they know about your relationship? You haven’t been seen together in public yet. “I-I’m friends with both Charles and Max,” you stammer.

“Just friends?” A third reporter chimes in skeptically. “Our sources say you’ve been getting very cozy with the two drivers lately. Care to comment on the rumors that you’re stringing them both along?”

You take a step back, heart pounding as their questions come rapid-fire.

“Are you cheating on one with the other?”

“How long do you think you can keep this charade going before they realize?”

“Doesn’t it bother you, playing with their feelings like this?”

Their accusations hit you like blows, your anxiety spiking as you find yourself backed up against a wall, cameras flashing in your face. This is your worst fear come to life. You look around desperately for an escape but find only unsympathetic faces staring back at you, judging you.

“I … I have to go,” you gasp out, ducking your head and pushing your way blindly through the crush of bodies. You can hear them calling out more questions but you block it out, focused only on getting away. You’re shaking and feel sick, tears pricking at your eyes.

Is this what it will be like if you ever go public? This is exactly why you wanted to keep it quiet.

Suddenly you collide with a solid chest. Strong hands grasp your shoulders and you look up with a start to see Max gazing down at you, concern creasing his brow.

“Whoa, schatje, what happened?” He asks. He glances over your shoulder at the reporters who have reluctantly backed off but are still hovering nearby. Max’s jaw tightens as he seems to grasp the situation.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” you say shakily, embarrassed by your reaction.

Max studies your face, clearly unconvinced. “Come on, let’s get you out of here,” he says gently, keeping an arm wrapped securely around you as he guides you away from prying eyes.

Once you’re safely inside the Red Bull motorhome, Max steers you over to a quiet corner and helps you sit. Crouching down in front of you, he brushes a strand of hair back from your face. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

You take a shuddering breath, willing yourself to calm down. “The reporters ambushed me outside. They started accusing me of stringing you and Charles along. I just panicked and had to get out of there.”

Max’s face darkens. “Those goddamn vultures. What the hell gives them the right ...” He cuts off his tirade with a sigh, taking your hands in his. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that alone. I should have been there with you.”

You give him a shaky smile. “It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

Max kisses your forehead. “Let me go talk to Charlie so he knows what happened. I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod gratefully. After Max leaves you take deep breaths, willing your racing heart to settle. You knew the secrecy couldn’t last forever but you weren’t prepared for the cruelty of those reporters. The idea of having to face that regularly if you go public makes you feel ill.

You’re lost in thought when another familiar voice says your name. Looking up you see Charles hurrying over, the same concerned look on his face that Max wore earlier. You stand and Charles immediately folds you into a tight hug.

“Are you alright, ma belle?” He murmurs. “Max told me what happened.”

You cling to him, taking comfort in his embrace. “I’m okay now. Just a bit shaken up.”

Charles’ jaw is tight as he pulls back to look at you. “I’m so sorry I was not there. I should have been with you.” His hand comes up to cup your cheek tenderly.

You cover his hand with your own. “You couldn’t have known. I’m the one who decided to come alone like an idiot.”

Charles starts to argue but you cut him off. “Let’s not play the blame game, okay? I just want to put it behind me.”

Charles presses his lips together but nods. “Of course. As long as you are alright.” He kisses your forehead sweetly. “I will not leave your side for the rest of the day, I promise.”

You give him a small but genuine smile. “Thank you.”

Just then Max returns. “How is she doing?” He asks Charles quietly.

“A bit better I think. Still shaken though.”

Max nods, his eyes stormy. “I warned the press to back the hell off but I doubt they’ll listen.”

Your heart sinks. The last thing you want is them continuing to hound you every race. You bite your lip. “Maybe … maybe we should just tell them the truth.”

Max and Charles exchange a surprised look. “Are you sure?” Charles asks cautiously. “We do not have to do anything until you are ready.”

You take a breath. “I’m not really. But I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder constantly either, you know? And I hate feeling like we have to hide.” You look between them. “I mean, only if you both are comfortable with it too. But maybe it’s time.”

Max considers you thoughtfully. “I’m ready when you are. I’m tired of sneaking around too. If this is what you want, I’m with you.” He glances at Charles who nods.

“Oui, I agree. I do not enjoy the secrecy either. I am ready to tell the world you are both mine.” Charles smiles and pulls you close again.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Well it’s definitely not going to be easy, but with you two by my side, I’m ready.” You take each of their hands, feeling emboldened.

Charles grins and kisses your cheek. “Then let’s do this.”

The three of you head out of the garage hand in hand. You hold your head high as you approach the still lingering reporters, flanked on either side by your boys. Their steady presence gives you courage.

The reporters perk up excitedly seeing the three of you together, shouting questions, but you ignore them. At an unspoken signal you all stop and turn to face the cameras head on.

Charles leans in and kisses you sweetly, then Max does the same, before kissing each other with you sandwiched firmly between them. You smile against their lips, the action speaking louder than any words. Then, without giving the reporters time to process what just happened, you continue walking down the paddock, leaving behind an audience with their jaws on the floor.

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as their shocked reactions fade behind you. Let them talk. You have everything you need right here. Wrapping your arms around your boys, you head off to face the rest of the day, and your future, together.

No more hiding. The world knows now. And you’ve never felt more free.

***

The morning sun filters in through the curtains, stirring you awake. You stretch leisurely, reaching across both sides of the large bed only to find it empty. The faint clinking of dishes filters in from outside the room — your boys must be up already making breakfast.

Smiling sleepily, you drag yourself out of bed and shuffle towards the kitchen, eager for coffee. As you enter, you find Charles at the stove scrambling eggs while Max sets the table.

Charles glances up with a grin. “Bonjour, ma belle. Sleep well?”

You hum affirmatively, accepting the mug of coffee Max hands you with a quick peck on the lips. “What time is it?”

“Just after 9,” Max says. “We were going to let you sleep in but breakfast is ready.”

You sip your coffee, leaning back against the counter. “That’s okay. I wanted to go to the farmer’s market this morning anyway. Care to join me after we eat?”

“I wish I could, but I have a training session in an hour,” Charles says regretfully.

Max shakes his head too. “And I have a sponsor meeting.”

You pout playfully. “Fine, abandon me to go shopping alone.”

Charles chuckles. “We would never. But duty calls today unfortunately.” He plates the eggs with some toast and you all sit down to eat.

After breakfast, you quickly get ready while Max and Charles clean up. Emerging from the bedroom, you grab your purse and find them waiting to walk you out.

“Have fun at the market,” Max says, kissing your cheek. “Get some of those apricot tarts I like.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Only if you’re good.”

Charles hugs you tightly. “Be safe out there. Call if you need anything, yes?”

“I’ll be fine!” You assure him with a laugh. With a final wave, you head out the door and down to the lobby.

Stepping outside, you pause in confusion. A large crowd is gathered in front of your building. Fans, you realize. But how did they find your address?

Your heart sinks. Ever since going public, you’ve dealt with heightened interest and gossip. But this feels like a violation of privacy. Biting your lip uncertainly, you start trying to weave through the crowd towards the market down the block.

Immediately people press in excitedly around you. “It’s her!” You hear someone shout. Camera phones are suddenly in your face as people call out questions.

“How does being with the two of them work?”

“Be honest, do you prefer Max or Charles?”

You keep your head down, trying not to engage. Their invasive questions make your skin crawl. “Excuse me, please let me through,” you say as politely as you can.

But the crowd only seems to grow more aggressive, everyone shoving to get close and fire off more intrusive questions about your relationship. You feel hands grabbing at you and start to panic.

“Please, I need to get by,” you say, shrinking away from the grasping hands. But the crowd surges and someone shoves you hard from behind.

You cry out as you fall forward, directly into the path of an exuberant fan. Blinding pain explodes in your temple as her flailing elbow catches you across the face.

You hit the ground hard, vision graying out. Dazed, you try to curl into a protective ball as feet trample around you, completely oblivious.

“Stop, please!” You sob, blood dripping from your throbbing temple. But the crowd is a living entity now, crushing in on you. This is a nightmare.

Suddenly you hear a roar over the din. “GET BACK!”

The footsteps stutter to a halt as the authoritative voice bellows again. “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM HER!”

Then Max is there, somehow muscling his way through the press of bodies to drop to his knees beside you. His face is thunderous as he quickly but gently gathers you into his arms.

“Fucking animals,” he spits, glaring venomously at the stunned crowd as you cling to him desperately. “I’ve got you, just hold on.”

Over Max’s shoulder you can see Charles forcibly holding the fans at bay, yelling expletives in a jumbled mess of three languages. The path clears as Max carries you swiftly back into your building.

Once inside the apartment, Max lays you gently on the couch, hands feather-light as he examines your injuries. His jaw clenches when he sees the gash bleeding heavily at your temple.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he says tightly. “This needs stitches.”

You nod weakly, letting him press a towel to stanch the bleeding while Charles comes bursting in, swearing violently when he sees the blood.

“What the hell happened?” He demands, kneeling beside you. His touch is infinitely gentle though as he brushes hair from your face.

“Got mobbed by those goddamn stalkers outside,” Max growls. “One of them elbowed her in the head.”

Charles’ expression darkens dangerously. You’ve never seen him look so livid before.

“We’ll deal with them later,” Max says firmly. “Right now we need to get her to the emergency department.”

Charles nods, visibly reigning in his anger. “You’re right, of course.” He looks back at you, anger fading to concern. “Are you able to stand, chérie?”

You cry out as simply trying to sit up sends shooting pain through your head. Charles’ jaw ticks as he looks ready to rush back outside and fight the crowd himself, before he easily lifts you into his arms, Max holding the cloth to your cut as they carefully get you down to the garage.

The car ride passes in a haze of pain and you cling to Charles in the backseat while Max drives, exhaustion hitting you.

At the hospital, Max scoops you up, carrying you inside despite your mumbled protests that you can walk. He ignores you, striding right up to the intake desk.

“She needs help now,” he snaps. The no-nonsense tone of his voice has nurses springing into action immediately.

Before you know it, you’ve been whisked off for scans and then into an exam room. A kind faced doctor stitches up your wound carefully while Max and Charles hover protectively on either side.

“Any other injuries?” The doctor asks gently.

You shake your head. “Just some bruises I think.”

She pats your leg. “I’d still like to do a full workup, including a pregnancy test, before we proceed with any other treatment or medication.”

Your eyes widen. With everything going on, your period being late hadn’t even registered. But now that she mentions it ...

Charles and Max go still beside you. “Pregnancy test?” Charles asks tightly.

The doctor smiles reassuringly. “Standard procedure. I’m sure it’s just a precaution.”

Charles grabs your hand, tension radiating off him while you wait on the results. Max paces like a caged animal until the doctor returns. Her kind eyes immediately give it away.

The tests come back quickly and the doctor steps back in to review the results. “No signs of fracture or serious head injury, that’s good news. We’ll get you a prescription for the laceration and ...” she trails off, looking at the chart with a slight frown.

You feel Max and Charles tense on either side of you. “What is it?” Max asks sharply. “Something wrong?”

The doctor looks up. “No, nothing wrong. Just unexpected. The bloodwork indicates that you’re pregnant, about 8 weeks along.”

“Mon dieu,” Charles breathes, stunned. Max ceases his pacing, mouth agape. They both turn to you with myriad emotions swirling in their eyes.

“A baby?” Max says hoarsely. “We’re having a baby?”

You place a hand over your still flat stomach, head spinning. “I guess we are.”

Charles lets out an incredulous laugh and surges forward to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing.

“They could have hurt our child,” he says darkly. You can see the protectiveness rising in him, mixed with anger at those who endangered his baby.

Max’s expression mirrors Charles’ stormy one. “Those goddamn animals,” he spits. “If anything had happened ...” His hands fist at his sides.

You reach for them both. “But nothing did,” you remind them gently. “We’re both okay.”

They take deep breaths, focusing back on you. Charles rests his forehead against yours while Max kneels to press a kiss to your belly.

“We won’t let anyone hurt you again,” Max vows fiercely. “Either of you.”

Charles nods, jaw set. “We will keep you both safe, I swear it.”

Their protectiveness makes you feel warm and cherished. You know with your boys watching over you, nothing can touch you or your child.

“I know you will,” you say softly. Drawing their faces down, you kiss them each lovingly.

A fierce joy lights their eyes now as the shock fades. You’re having a baby, the three of you. Whatever comes next, you’ll face it together as a family.

Charles presses one more kiss to your lips, tender and full of promise. “I love you so much, all three of you,” he whispers.

Max squeezes your hand, eyes blazing. “I love you too. More than I ever thought possible.”

“And we,” your hand drifts to your still-flat stomach, “love you. My brilliant boys.”

***

The paddock buzzes with excitement on race morning, but for once it has nothing to do with fast cars or famous drivers. All eyes turn your way as you make your way through, one hand resting on your growing bump.

At five months along, your pregnancy is impossible to hide anymore. You’d managed to keep it quiet for a while, but last week an overly zoomed paparazzi shot of you in a fitted dress had let the secret out. Now it seems everyone has an opinion on your relationship dynamic and who the father might be.

You keep your head high, ignoring the whispers. Charles and Max wanted to shield you completely, but you refused to be stuck at home or made to feel ashamed. Besides, their steady presence on either side of you is comfort enough.

Charles presses a supportive hand to your lower back. “How are you feeling, chérie?”

You give him a reassuring smile. “We’re good.” Over your head, his eyes meet Max’s, a silent conversation passing between them. Their protectiveness has ramped up tenfold since finding out you’re pregnant.

Nearing the Red Bull garage, Max steers you towards the bathroom. “I’ll meet you inside in a minute, okay? I just need to check in with my engineers first.”

You nod, squeezing his hand before separating. As you exit the bathroom shortly after, a commotion down the paddock draws your eye. Even from a distance, the man’s imposing figure is recognizable. Your heart drops into your stomach.

Jos Verstappen.

He’s gesturing angrily at a retreating figure, who you realize with dread is Max. You’ve never actually met Max’s father, but from what you’ve heard, the man is bad news. Max has only mentioned him in the past tersely, a shadow passing over his face. Whatever he suffered as a child at Jos’ hands seems to have left deep scars.

As you watch, Jos suddenly wheels around and stalks towards the Red Bull garage, no doubt having caught sight of Max going in. Swearing under your breath, you hurry after him. There’s no way this confrontation ends well.

Inside the garage, the mechanics fall silent at Jos’ dramatic entrance. He pays them no mind, making a beeline for Max, who has gone rigid. You slip in behind Jos, catching Charles’ eye where he stands with the Ferrari crew down the pitlane. His brow furrows in concern but you give a small shake of your head — let Max handle this first.

“Max.” Jos’ tone could freeze over hell. “Care to explain what the hell is going on?”

Max’s face shutters. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

“The hell you don’t!” Jos snaps. “I had to find out from the goddamn gossip rags that not only are you whoring around with multiple people, but one of them is pregnant? Have you no shame?”

Max flinches, looking stricken. Your hands curl into helpless fists at your sides.

“Watch yourself,” Charles suddenly growls, appearing behind you.

Jos whirls on him with a nasty sneer. “Stay out of this, playboy. This is between me and my son.” He turns back to Max. “Well? Explain yourself.”

Max seems to steel himself, straightening his spine. “There’s nothing to explain. What we have is no one’s business but our own.” His eyes flick to you and Charles briefly and soften before hardening again on his father.

“Bullshit!” Jos snaps. “Have you lost your mind? Carrying on with that girl while she whores around with this one too?” He jabs a finger at Charles then points at your belly. “And you’re telling me you’re fine possibly raising another man’s bastard as your own?”

Max’s expression darkens and he steps forward menacingly. “Watch. Your. Mouth.”

Charles moves closer too, vibrating with anger, but you grab his arm, shaking your head again. Let Max stand up to his father himself.

“We don’t care about who the biological father is,” Max continues fiercely. “That’s our child, no matter what. We’re a family.”

Jos scoffs. “A family? You’re delusional. What happens when those two get bored and leave you behind? This little fantasy you’re living is going to destroy your career.”

“You’re wrong,” Max says sharply. “I love them, and they love me. I’ve never been happier than with them.” His eyes soften again as he looks at you and Charles once more. “I don’t need or want anything else.”

Jos’ lip curls derisively. “Pathetic. I didn’t raise you to be so weak. This ends now, before you ruin your life even more. You will get rid of her and end things with the boy too.”

Charles growls, shaking off your restraining hand to storm forward. But Max beats him to it, getting right in Jos’ face.

“No,” he says, so firmly it brokers no argument. “You don’t control my life anymore. I won’t let you tear apart my family. Now get the hell out of my garage before I have you removed.”

For a moment Jos just gapes, clearly not expecting Max to stand up to him. His face purples with rage but before he can respond, security is there grabbing him by the arms.

“I think it’s time for you to go, sir,” one says firmly, already hauling Jos away.

He struggles in vain, spluttering furiously. But Max has already dismissed him, turning away. Only once Jos is gone does Max seem to deflate, shoulders slumping.

In an instant, you and Charles are both there, wrapping him in your arms. He clutches you both desperately, face buried in your hair.

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that,” you murmur, smoothing a hand over his back.

Charles presses a kiss to his temple. “You were very brave, mon amour. I’m proud of you for standing up to him.”

Max huffs out a shaky laugh. “Didn’t feel very brave. But I meant what I said — I’m not letting anyone take either of you away from me.”

He pulls back to meet your eyes earnestly. “You are my family now. The only thing that matters to me.” His hand comes to rest gently on your belly. “All three of you.”

Emotion clogs your throat and you see Charles blink back tears. You both lean in simultaneously to kiss Max’s cheeks.

“We love you so much,” you whisper fiercely. “And we’ll always be a family, no matter what.”

Charles nods. “You are stuck with us now. We are yours, just as you are ours.”

The last of the tension bleeds from Max’s frame and he gifts you both with a brilliant, beautiful smile. Leaning his forehead against yours, his eyes shine with happy tears.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he says softly. “I have everything I’ll ever need right here.”

You smile through your own tears, heart overflowing. Together, wrapped in the safety of each other’s love, you know everything will be okay.

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Dissecting is just a hobby of his

barbie dolls: Rosekiller x you

word: 1.1k

summary: ppl spread rumors about you and your boyfriends and the skittles discuss it

warnings: pandora and evan are siblings, regulus goes fucking rabid for gossip he loves gossip, barty and evan are i wanna say raunchy but i also dont, they’re barty and evan ykwim? oh jesus my joints hurt, evan is into dissecting things, barty has a love hate realationship with chess, dorcas is fed up with her friends, skeeter mentioned, a tiny bit of making out and then insinuation that they leave to bang

You quite enjoyed cuddling with your boyfriends in the commonroom. Granted you mostly just cuddled with Evan seeing as Barty couldn’t sit still for longer than seven seconds. Evan had your legs pulled over his lap with his nose pressed to the side of your face. Regulus was nearby in an armchair, reading his newest book and muttering when it didn’t pan out the way he wanted. Barty was investigating his chess set. A week ago while you three were on a date Barty mentioned that he hates how chess looked and worked. It was an odd thing to say seeing as he spent a good portion of his time on the game. His complaints seemed to spark inspiration in himself because within minutes he was scribbling away on the back of his homework designing the “better chess”, his words. Barty kept flicking his wand at the board before turning back to his notes and writing something down. You didn’t see anything happening but you were confident in Barty to accomplish his chess dreams.

Eventually, Pandora and Dorcas came back from studying in the library. Dorcas huffed, flinging herself onto the commonroom couch and dropping her bag onto the floor. Pandora picked up Dorcas’ feet, settling on the couch with them in her lap. You frowned at Dorcas’ exhausted state. Pandora opened her magazine, holding it in front of her face.

“Did the books bite back?” Evan asked. Dorcas snapped her head to glare at him.

“I told you they do, you guys never listen to me. Oh, Barty’s off his rocker again, man fuck you guys.” Barty muttered, mocking Regulus’ voice. You gently knocked Barty with your knee in sympathy.

“I do not sound like that,” Regulus muttered, turning his page more aggressively than before. Barty glared at him. You diverted Barty’s attention back to you as you knocked your knee again.

“It’s okay baby, you have all the time in the world to get your chess game right.” Barty snarled at you, turning back to the board. Dorcas pointed at Evan, you imagined smoke coming out of her ears.

“You and your freaky little partners really need to stamp out the rumors circulating the school,” Dorcas said, huffing and flinging her head back onto the pillow. Pandora dropped her magazine down, meeting your eyes immediately.

“They are kinda getting out of hand. I’m hearing things about my kin that I don’t really want to hear.” Pandora added, grimacing at the memories. Evan groaned next to you, ducking his face behind your shoulder. Regulus hummed.

“I heard you three got caught with your pants down in the headmaster’s office.” Regulus set his book down the second he caught a whiff of gossip, leaning forward to drop his rumor.

“I heard we all detention for giving each other handies in the back of potions,” Barty muttered. You pointed at him.

“See people just talk, they’re going to make up crazy stuff so they can get a kick out of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if this had Skeeter all over it. They should take away her school newspaper privileges. “ Evan nodded against you.

“Though Barty did offer to give us handies in the back of divination.” Barty spun around at Evan mentioning his name. Pandora grimaced and turned her head away from the conversation. Dorcas sat up to pull her braids over one shoulder before settling back down.

“That is just nasty,” Dorcas muttered, smacking her lips like it left a sour taste in her mouth.

“They can’t even get their facts straight.” You whispered. Evan hummed, knocking his nose to your cheek in approval.

“I heard that Barty was drawing raunchy pictures of you both in the margins of his classwork,” Regulus said, an evil grin pinching at his cheeks. You turned to Barty. He was frozen like if he moved he’d get caught. His eyes flickered around as he waited for someone else to talk. You kicked Barty in the side, laughing your way through his name.

“You said you’d stop doing that,” Evan muttered under his breath, glaring at Barty.

“It's not like I turned them in. Sorry, I got bored in class and thought of my lovers. You guys suck ass.” Barty said, rolling his eyes and tossing his chess piece down.

“It's one thing to think of your lovers, it's another to think of them naked and draw it out,” Dorcas said, making Pandora stand up altogether. Pandora stalked out of the room without a goodbye, deciding the conversation was enough for her.

“They weren’t fully naked.” You and Evan both groaned at Barty’s response. Regulus cleared his throat.

“I also heard that people saw Evan sketching out the muscular system and when someone asked what he was drawing he said ‘my partners’ with zero context.” Evan nodded at Regulus.

“That one is actually true.” Evan clairfied.

“you drew my muscular system?” You asked. Evan nodded. You cooed and gently pecked Evan. “I'm flattered.”

“Because of that interaction, people also said Evan dissects you both,” Regulus added. You hummed.

“Well, I think he would if he could. If it didn’t kill us, he would.” Barty muttered, flinging himself back to rest against Evan’s legs. Evan dropped his hand to gently play with Barty’s hair.

“I do give you full permission to dissect me after I die though.” You said, turning to Evan. Evan’s jaw dropped open, staring at you with wide eyes.

“You mean it?” You nodded, smiling at him. Evan leaned forward. ”Love it when you talk dirty.” You grinned meeting Evan’s lips. He pulled you against him more, if it’s even possible.

“See and that’s why you bitches never my extra biscuits at dinner.” You heard Dorcas say. You ignored her, pushing our tongue past Evan’s lips. His breath hitched just enough for you to hear. You pushed back against him. Evan’s hand made it to your shirt, gripping the fabric roughly. You heard a sigh come from the floor. You slide one hand up to the back of Evan’s neck.

“Here I am, sitting here all alone and unkissed.” You pulled back at Barty’s voice. You looked down to see Barty staring up at you with his puppy eyes. You leaned down towards his face.

“Oh no fuck that. Go somewhere else right now or I'm hexing you all.” Dorcas said. You looked over at her to see her covering her eyes with both hands. You glanced at Regulus to find him `all the way across the commonroom, hiding behind his book. He peeked over the edge, shaking his head at you. You shrugged.

“Gladly.” You quickly reached out and took Barty by his hand. He stood up as fast as he could, tossing his wand onto his chess mess. You walked towards the stairs with Barty behind you. You glanced back to make sure Evan was following. Sure enough, Evan was right behind you. He smacked Barty’s ass on the way up the stairs, leaving you both in the dust. You quickly caught up, dragging Barty behind you, on the way to the dorms.

[thesweetestofdreams]

Collapsed- Steve Harrington AU

Steve Harrington apocalypse au - 1.8 k (part 2, part 3)

Hello love, if you're here strictly for marauders content stick around because there will certainly be more, but in the meantime welcome to the Steve Harrington apocalypse au that has haunted me for years. I was at a very impressionable age back when dystopian was all the rage so I eat this shit up. Also if you like this stuff then please go read @luveline 's zombie au or just anything she's written because she's a reason I started posting on tumblr in the first place.

warnings: general gore, rabid animals, wounds without too much detail

~

When you were a child, you used to run through the aisles in the grocery store. Brightly packaged chips and sodas a blur as you passed, hair whipping behind you. That is until you were quickly stopped by the disaproving looks of adults wondering who this rambunctious child belonged to.

Now as you run through the grocery aisles they're still a blur a dull blur of empty shelves. Your eyes search for a weapon anything that you could use to defend yourself. The dog was quick on your heels no matter how many times you turned or jumped over spilled carts. It certainly wouldn't tire before you.

Your sneakers slide across the tiled floor as you turn down another aisle. The front doors were on the other side, towards the dog. If it could even be called that anymore. Its flesh grew distorted over its muzzle, stretching to fit a shape that nature would never make on her own. The rest of them say demodog, like an alien, they said. This one still had a collar on. It was someone's pet fallen prey to the infection. If you didn't think of something soon that would be your fate.

Since the front door wasn't an option. You searched frantically for some kind of exit sign. The dog was gaining, you could smell the rotting on its breath. You whipped around the next aisle, pulling an end cap down behind you. It gave you one extra step. An extra second to find a way out. Then you found it, in the back corner was an emergency exit the sign a dead beacon of survival.

Then a snap of jaws and a tug at your backpack nearly pulled you backwards. Your breath caught in your throat. And visions of your gruesome death flashed through your mind. You slid your arms through the straps, adrenaline pushing you to run faster than even before.

You crashed through the heavy door, pushing it shut behind you. You pressed your weight against it. Your breath came tearing through your throat, not doing nearly enough to fill your lungs. You had to go back inside. As much as it filled you with dread. You needed that bag, or at least what was left of it. Nancy would have your head if you spent the whole day to come back with less than you left with. Not to mention Steve would never let you hear the end of it. Maybe it would be the final push he needed to convince the rest of them to kick you out. Make you go it on your own, a death sentence for a backpack.

Chest still heaving you looked for a weapon. If you were going to risk it anyways you could at least put down the poor animal, maybe save the next sad shmuck to pillage the store.

A long metal peice of rebar sat next to the dumpster at your right. Spear it is then. The store was earily quiet as you returned inside. From the left the dog pounced, but this time you were ready, at least you hoped so. You ducked to your knees as the dog flew over head jumping higher than you thought possible. You turned on your heel, makeshift spear at the ready in front of you. You finally got a good look at the dog as it snarled in front of you. Foaming drool fell from its mouth and its claws left scratches in the tile.

In the dark patches of fur that were still left between bubbling flesh you could see the traces of a pet that used to be. This close you could see that the collar had flowers on its design. Traces were the only thing left of what the monster in front of you once was. It bared its teeth followed by an unatural clicking of its jaw as its muzzle split down the middle. Its face flayed into three brandishing old and new teeth ready all the same to tear you apart. Your stomach flipped as it raced forward again. Your only option was to go low and stay away from its mouth. Ducking again as the dog jumped you threw yourself down and thrust your makeshift spear up right into its chest. You prayed to whatever was left that you hit its heart.

The monster made a sharp screeching sound as it felt the spear. The force pushing you down further as the animal struggled. Its jaws snapped so close to your face you could feel the heat of its breath. Gathering your strength you pushed the metal spear up into the air pushing it further into the dog's chest. The tag on her collar read "Bella." Bella struggled above you and as you pushed the spear up she tried to force herself down to you. You felt the other end of your "spear" press into your side, as Bella thrashed the spear dug into your flesh burning as you did your best to slide out from under it. Bella was finally slowing as the spear kept digging. Hands shaking you finally pushed the spear to the side letting both it and Bella fall to the ground.

You caught your breath, now even more ragged than before. Pulling up your shirt you saw long red scratches you hadn't even noticed that Bella left behind. Luckily only a few broke skin, you hoped the infection didn't spread that way. The real problem was the blood quickly pouring down your side. Your breath caught as ran a hand around the wound. It was as long as your index finger. It would need stitches. Of course it would, just your luck.

Finally you left the store with a tshirt duct-taped to your side and a large black shirt covering it all under your jacket. Along with the meager amount of food you found in your backpack, like you, also sporting a duct-taped hole.

"You sure took your sweet time." Steve was leaning against an abandoned car in the parking lot.

"Missed me then?" You joked. You knew he didn't, he was just counting down the minutes until he could ditch you.

"Funny," he said, not smiling as he fell into step beside you and soon in front of you. He did that, walked in front, it usually pissed you off, but you didn't have it in you to care at the moment. "All that health nut food store had was oatmeal. I'm so tired of the shit if you ask me."

You debated whether or not to tell him about the dog, he wouldn't ask, instead, you said, "I got brown sugar." You think you might have seen a hint of a smile. Then again it may have just been a shadow.

--

Steve flinched at the sharp noise of a branch cracking under your step. He turned his head in time to see you pitch forward catching yourself on a nearby tree. "Okay, what's with you today?" He tried to keep his tone light, but after the third stumble, he'd started counting.

You looked at him wide eyed almost like you were surprised he'd spoken to you at all. "I'm fine," you all but croaked. "The sun's gonna set," you said, brushing him off as you continued forward. If you weren't going to tell him then he wasn't going to pry. Even if you were the reason, you'd be late heading back to camp. You took forever to leave the convenience store, and he couldn't work out why. It had basically all been picked over weeks ago.

Sometimes he thought he really should be friendlier to you, but maybe the end of the world took that out of him. You didn't know any of them not really. When everything went to shit you just fell into their hands. He still didn't know the whole story.

Nancy did her best to keep things fair, include everyone in the decision making but four was much easier to divide than five. He hated himself for thinking it but sometimes it would be easier to have one less mouth to feed. One less person to keep track of. Like now, he'd be back at camp already. Maybe he would have run, not to run from something as was so often the case, but just because it felt good. He always used to appreciate the way girls looked at him after a good run on the track.

Stumble number six turned into an actual fall. "Okay seriously what gives," he threw his hands out wide as he turned, "are you drunk or something?"

"Funny," you deadpanned, not looking at him, but instead staring resolutely at the ground. He watched closely as you stood, he saw the scrunch in your brow. You seemed tired, winded almost. "Camp's just over the hill, pretty boy," you said patting a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't call me that," he groaned. He kept pace behind you now, closer than he had been. Pretty boy was all you ever called him. As much as he hated it, he'd grown used to it and this time the name lacked its edge, you just sounded tired.

Jonathan had already started cooking by the time you arrived. "We waited as late as we could," he offered. You only gave him a soft smile trudging off to the log where Robin sat. Steve didn't even have time to drop his bag before Nancy was on him.

"Where the hell were you guys? We were about to go searching for you both."

"But after dinner," he teased giving her a smirk that he knew would only piss her off further.

She crossed her arms glaring at him. She softened when Jonathan came to stand next to her sliding a hand across her back. "We were just worried," he said.

"It was just a slow day. The sun's setting earlier." He left out that you were the reason things moved so slow.

"Ugh, I know, and it's going to get cold. We don't even have proper tents, or sleeping bags," Nancy went on, pulling her hands through her hair in her frustration.

"Don't spiral, we'll figure it out." Jonathan pulled her hands into his, squeezing them.

Steve let his bag fall to the forest floor, tired of its weight. "There's an outdoor supply store out in Creeley."

"That's hours away by car Steve," she opposed, but he could tell she was considering it.

"Seems like it's our only option, unless you want to sleep in a pile of oatmeal." He pulled two tubs out from his bag emphasizing his point. He was starting to get really tired of the stuff.

For some reason in the late hours of the night Steve found himself still thinking of your treck through the woods. He couldn't remember if you always stumbled that much but he was pretty sure something was off. You hardly said anything at dinner, not even any snide remarks thrown his way.

You never said no to anything Nancy asked of you, and you were always first to volunteer to do something in somebody's stead. Maybe they were working you too hard.

[sadplaguedoctor]

grief

⤷ silco x fem!reader

summary: you’ve been taking silco’s death rather hard and found yourself doing almost anything to remember him, even if that means masturbating in his chair.

tags: solo masturbation, referenced major character death, scent kink, grief, angst, hurt no comfort, you are going slightly mad

It’s been two months. Two whole months since Silco had gone and died and left you here alone to fend for yourself— something you had gotten used to not having to do after so many years of being with him.

His office was quieter than before, and cold. So very cold. You no longer had the option of pushing yourself up next to him despite his grumbles about “distraction” and “important business”. You no longer felt his arms wrapped around your body late at night. The rise and fall of his chest was now forgotten.

Though, you were determined to keep him alive in any way you could. You slept in his bed, wore some old jewelry of his, wrapped yourself up in the clothes he had gifted you time and time again. Even sprayed yourself with his cologne— just a bit, making sure to get it mostly on his clothes that were saved for bedtime.

His pillows still faintly smelled of him. The amount of times you had turned your head to shove your nose into the fabric all while burying your fingers within yourself was lost to you.

Sometimes, you would cry. Cry because your fingers weren’t his and would never be his again. They didn’t reach the areas that he touched with so much grace, nor were they as rough. It was a reminder of the empty husk he had left you to wallow in.

“I still feel your presence,” you spoke quietly, talking to a figment of the past as you dragged your fingertips across Silco’s desk. “I still see you. In the dark, in our bed.”

There was no doubt that your sanity had been slipping ever since the incident. You would hear his voice speaking to you and guiding you throughout your day. Sometimes, you’d see him duck behind alleys or stand silently in the corner of his bedroom. You often found yourself fighting the urge to follow these hallucinations, but then with one simple blink, he disappeared.

“Jinx tells me I’m going crazy, but I see it in her eyes. She feels the same. We all do.”

It broke you to see the distant look in Jinx’s eyes when she thought no one was looking— but it hurt even more to see the rabid, pure unadulterated fury in them. Sure, you both got to see and feel different versions of Silco, but the pain of loosing him was similar. It was sorrow, it was dejection, it was rage.

But, truly, what good did crying do? It wouldn’t bring him back. No matter how many times you screamed into his pillow, begging for one little sign that he was still watching over you. You remained cold.

His chair still felt the same against your body, the softness of the plush leather stuck to your skin the same way it used to. It kept you warm during nights spent staring off into space, reminiscing on old memories you could never experience again.

Though, you were weak. You could only spend so much time inhaling his scent without becoming eager and internally frustrated.

One arm rest dug into your back as your legs draped over the other— head turned so your nose could press against the back of the chair, taking in as much of his lingering scent as you could without having to gasp for air.

Jeans pooled at your ankles and your legs shook, fingers hurriedly pumping in and out of your cunt while you wriggled and writhed on the leather.

“You were always so desperate with me. I must say, I’m quite pleased to see that spark never dulled.”

You could hear him. His voice echoed in your mind like his lips hovered by your ear, taunting you.

“Damn you,” you whispered, closing your mouth quickly after to muffle any sounds of pleasure that dared to escape you. “Damn you for leaving me.”

A jolt shot through your body and your thighs clenched tightly around your wrist, head thrown back as you choked on your own breath. Your movements were feral, unhinged and like he said, desperate. So were the tears that cascaded down your cheeks, pooling at the corners of your lips which began to part and make way for broken sobs and groans.

When you came, you kept your fingers tucked inside you— not ready to get rid of that stretch, that sensation of being full and his. Silco’s name bubbled up in your throat and died on your tongue, the taste sour and grey.

“Good girl,” he whispered once more, a light pressure pushing against your temple. You clung to that. Clung to the phantom kiss that would fuel your desires and delusions for days to come.

He was gone, you knew that. But the figure that vanished the moment you opened your eyes, promised otherwise.

Even in death, he haunted you.

i wrote this the very moment i woke up this morning and posted it an hour after. this wasn’t the first and will not be the last time i wake up to the thought of silco.

[sophrosynesworld]

Reintroductions

Katsuki Bakugo x Badass! Reader

Let's be honest. When Katsuki Bakugo first laid eyes on you, he wasn’t impressed.

You were just another face in the class, another name on the roster. On the first day at U.A., he scanned the list of students, his eyes narrowing as he read over your profile. Top of your class in academics. That was a given. Your combat scores in the entrance exam were decent—not extraordinary, but solid enough.

During Aizawa's first exam, he couldn’t understand why someone like you had even been accepted into U.A., a school meant for future pro heroes like him. He dismissed you as another academic overachiever, someone who could ace tests but would crumble under real pressure.

To him, you were still a small fish in a pond filled with sharks. And Katsuki Bakugo? He was the megalodon.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Bakugo’s feet come to a halt as he hears someone shout. His crimson eyes narrow, scanning the city streets. A few students pass through the main gates, chattering excitedly about the day ahead, not noticing the commotion. He’s about to brush it off and head inside when he hears the voice again.

“You don’t think you’re better than us, right?”

There you are, surrounded by several older students from another high school, one of them gripping your wrist tightly. Bakugo’s eyes lock with yours, and for a split second, he sees something burning within them.

He doesn’t want to get involved, really. This isn’t his fight, and it’s none of his business. But he knows that if you get hurt and he just stands by, Shitty Hair will be on his ass for the rest of the school year. Bakugo clicks his tongue in annoyance, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Hey, you!” he calls out, drawing their attention to him. Your eyes widen as the guy holding your wrist lets go, the entire group turning to look at your classmate. Bakugo cocks his head slightly, a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips as he locks eyes with the one who grabbed you.

“Got a problem here, buddy?” Bakugo takes a step forward.

You slam your knee into the back of the guy with spiky black hair as hard as you can, feeling the shock ripple through him as he buckles. Before bolting, adrenaline surging through your veins as you run as fast as you can, your heart pounding in your ears.

The older students whip around at your sudden escape, their shock quickly morphing into anger.

“Get her!” a girl shouts, and within seconds, the whole group is after you, their heavy footsteps pounding against the pavement.

Bakugo’s frustration flares as he watches them chase after you like a pack of rabid dogs.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, his eyes rolling. This was supposed to be quick—one glare, one threat, and they’d back off. But no, you had to make things complicated.

With a growl, Bakugo launches himself forward, catching up to the closest one. He grabs the back of the guy’s uniform and yanks him off his feet, slamming him into the ground with a deafening thud. The boy next to him barely has time to turn before Bakugo’s palm connects with his chest, a small explosion sending him flying into the school fence.

“Stay the hell down,” he snaps, barely sparing them a glance before taking off after the rest of the group.

You sprint down the street, your lungs burning as your legs threaten to give out underneath you. You spot a narrow alleyway up ahead and take a sharp turn, hoping to lose them in the maze of backstreets.

But as you skid around another corner, your heart sinks. Three more of your old classmates are waiting for you, blocking your path with smug grins. You stumble to a stop, eyes darting around for another escape.

Bakugo appears at the mouth of the alley, his expression dark as he glares at the three surrounding you. He’s ready to step in, but before he can move, you’re already throwing yourself into the fight.

He watches, stunned, as you duck under a wild swing, countering with a punch to the guy’s ribs, your knuckles crack against his side with a force that makes him double over in pain. Spinning around, you slam your elbow into the face of another, sending him stumbling back, blood streaming from his nose.

The third one lunges at you, his arm swinging toward your head, but you’re already a step ahead. You sidestep smoothly, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back with a vicious yank. He cries out, his face contorting in agony, but you don’t let up. With a swift kick to the back of his knee, you send him crashing to the ground, your knee pressing against his spine as you twist his arm harder. An expert display of grappling your teacher showed you just days before. How long did you stay up to perfect that?

Bakugo’s jaw drops, the air around him suddenly still. He expected you to be helpless, maybe throw a few weak punches and get overwhelmed. But this?

For the first time, he’s genuinely in awe, unable to look away as you dominate the fight.

The guy you kneed in the ribs tries to get up, but you’re on him in a flash, your foot swinging hard. His head snaps back, blood spraying from his broken nose and splattering up your legs as your school skirt flares in the wind. The others stagger back, clearly rethinking their life choices as they scramble to their feet, clutching their injuries. Your old friends run past Bakugo, shooting confused glances back at you. They can’t believe it either—what happened to the girl who used to cry when they picked on her?

A slow grin spreads across his face as you turn, breathing heavily, your eyes scanning the alley for any more threats. There’s that same fire in your eyes, he saw earlier.

“Thanks for the help back there. I could’ve handled them, though,” you say, wiping the blood off your mouth.

For the first time ever, Katsuki Bakugo is genuinely impressed.

Authors note: mama didn’t raise no bitch.