#and all the hell that its been is not helped by how out of whack the vaccine made my hormones

[freedomfireflies]

One Day*

Summary: An extra for 404*

The one where you still hate Harry, but turns out, you might be having his baby.

Word Count: 5.4k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, spanking, brief choking, slight angst (happy ending), mentions of pregnancy and babies! *Please be so gentle with yourself and only continue if you feel comfortable! 💞*

“I’m late.”

“For what?”

You huff. “I’m late,” you repeat, gesturing frantically toward your hips. “A week late. Which I know can happen, but…not really to me, so…I’m late. And I think we’re fucked.”

Harry blinks. Looks down at your stomach. Looks up at your face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” You rear back. “That’s all you have to say for yourself is oh?”

He lifts his left shoulder in nonchalant shrug before flopping down onto your sofa. “I don’t know. What did you want me to say?”

“I…I don’t know,” you huff. “I kind of thought you’d…yell. Or freak out or something. Or ask me if I’m keeping it.”

“Do you want me to freak out?”

“Well…no. Not really.”

“Do you want to keep it?”

“I…I don’t know, I don’t even…I’m not even sure if I am yet or not.”

“Okay.” He nudges his glasses up before crossing his arms. “Well did you get a test?”

You glance toward the pharmacy bag still sitting on your kitchen counter. It’s been mocking you ever since you picked it up. Staring you down, sticking out its tongue. One, tiny little box that’ll determine the next chapter of your life. It’s almost infuriating. 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “I, um…got one on the way home from work.”

“Okay. Have you taken it yet?”

“Not…exactly.”

His brow raises. “Do you…need help or something?”

You scowl. “It’s peeing on a stick, I think I’ve got it covered.”

“Yeah, well, knowing you, you’d find a way to fuck it up.” He smirks. “Sure hope our baby gets my brains instead of yours.”

You grab the pillow beside him and give him a firm whack. “That’s not funny.”

He laughs as he winces. “Good. I wasn’t being funny.”

“Then, stop it. And stop being so calm.”

“You just said you preferred calm—”

“Well…it’s scaring me now. So what gives?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. I just don’t really feel the need to waste a reaction on something we don’t even know is happening yet. Take the test and then I’ll freak out if you’d like.”

“You say that like someone that’s had a lot of pregnancy scares.”

He snorts. “No, I say that like someone who knows freaking out won’t exactly help you right now. So just take the goddamn test, Tinkerbell. And we’ll go from there.”

Unamused, but somehow slightly comforted, you oblige and snatch the box from the table before retreating to the bathroom.

Once the timer has been set, you slowly make your way back to him.

He’s still sitting on the sofa. Calm. Unaffected. Watching you without a care in the world. Like his whole life isn’t about to change. 

It drives you nuts.

“Five minutes,” you tell him.

He nods.

Warily, you sit in the chair to his left, staring holes through your shoes as your heart races inside your chest. You’re not sure how you got here. Not sure where you could possibly go. You aren’t ready for a baby. Not…yet. Especially not one with…him.

“Hey,” he calls, pulling your attention up. “S’the matter with you?”

Your eyes narrow. “What the hell do you think?”

Another casual shrug that makes your teeth grit. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy?” You lean back. “Why on Earth would I be happy about getting stuck with your DNA for the rest of my life?”

He smiles. “I don’t know. You just seem like the type of girl to want a lot of babies.”

You scoff. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I am not.” You don’t think.

“Really? Is that why you begged me to breed you?”

“I didn’t actually mean it. That’s just what you say in a moment like that.”

His eyebrow raises.

You hesitate. “Did…did you mean it?”

“Kind of,” he admits. “I mean, yeah, maybe I didn’t mean right this second, but…I don’t hate the idea.”

“You actually want to be a father?” You snort. “Bullshit. You hate kids. I’ve seen you.”

“I don’t hate kids, I just don’t care about them when they aren’t mine.” He throws his arm over the back of the chair and smirks. “I like my nieces, though. They’re chill.”

You blink. “You…you have nieces? Wait, you have siblings?”

“Yeah. One brother. He’s got two kids and they’re cute as shit.”

“Oh.” Your head starts to pound. “See? We can’t have a baby when I don’t even know anything about you.”

He chuckles to himself before nodding his chin at you. “All right, fine. Go ahead. Ask me whatever.”

“What?”

“Ask me what you wanna know.”

You think. “Okay. How often do you see your family?”

“Often enough. They live in California, and they work a lot. But we call every couple of weeks.”

“Oh. That’s…surprisingly nice. Uh…do you have a history of disease in your family?”

He grins. “Excuse me?”

“I need to know what I’m getting myself into.” You motion at him. “Answer.”

“This isn’t an interview—”

“Answer.”

“No,” he says. “Not that I know of anyway.”

“Great. Do you plan to be a deadbeat father?”

His eyes roll. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

“So, yes? You do? Oh, great—”

“No, because that’s not a fair fucking question—”

“It is a fair question. If I have to raise this baby alone, I want to know—”

“Of course you wouldn’t fucking be alone. Do you really think so little of me—”

“I don’t think about you at all. How am I supposed to know what you’ll do—”

“I wouldn’t leave you alone,” he nearly snaps. He takes a breath to calm himself before adding, “Even if it wasn’t my baby, I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Your lashes flutter and you can feel your heart lodging in your throat. “Fine. Last question.”

He waits.

“Did you ever want kids…before? With…her?”

He doesn’t have to think for very long, but the mention of her makes him smile. “Nah. We talked about it, but we weren’t ready. We liked it being just us, you know? We had a bunch of shit we wanted to do. We were a long way from babies and a white picket fence.”

You try to blink back the tears swimming their way to your eye. You can still see that beautiful picture of her in his room. An entire future of love and life and adventures that he lost. Now…he’s stuck with you.

“Oh,” you murmur.

His brows furrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” You swipe your knuckle along your cheek. “So, you probably still aren’t ready.”

“I didn’t say that.”

You give him an incredulous look. “Harry, come on. You aren’t ready for a baby. I’m not ready for a baby. We…we don’t know each other, we don’t like each other…we can’t do this. You know that.”

“Do I?” He leans forward. “It’s a baby, not a bomb. I think we can handle it.”

“Well, I don’t. You don’t even like me. You can’t have a baby with me.”

“Why not? People do it all the time.”

“But not us.” You give him a firm stare. “Harry, we love our jobs. We want careers, not kids. So having a baby kind of gets in the way of that. There’s…there’s diaper changes, and teething, and potty training—”

“So?”

“So. We don’t work together well. In fact, it’s a rather well-known fact that we don’t get along. We can’t possibly raise a kid. We’d ruin it.” You study him for a beat, unnerved by the nonchalance in his tone. “Why do I get the feeling you actually want this to be real?”

Another shrug and you nearly lunge at him. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, resting his elbows on his knees while he glances at the floor. “I’m older now. Maybe it’s time to…think about settling down.”

Your face scrunches. “Ew. That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

He laughs. “Look, I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it, but…maybe it could be a good thing.”

You stand from your chair and pace the length of your small living room. “This is crazy. This is crazy. I can’t have a baby, I’m…I’m not ready. I’m too young, I…I don’t even know what I’d do with one. Or if I even have a maternal instinct.”

“Probably not,” Harry offers, smirking when you glare. “You won’t really know until you have one.”

“Oh, great.”

“Listen, if you feel like you aren’t ready…we can find another alternative,” he says, softening his voice. “Okay? There are plenty of other options and we’ll find one you feel comfortable with.”

A tad wary of his sympathetic answer, you eye him closely. “Yeah? And what if we disagree?”

“We won’t,” he says calmly. “Your body, your decision.”

“Right,” you snort. “I’m sure.”

“I mean it. I wouldn’t be the one having to carry it.” He nods as though to reassure you. “Honestly, Tink. This would be your decision, one hundred percent. It’s not mine to make. Just to support.”

The tears rush a little faster as you sniffle and step closer. “You say that now, but what if I decide something you don’t like?”

“I will like it. I promise,” he murmurs, standing up in order to move toward you. “If you want to keep it, great. If you don’t, great.”

“I…I…” You suck in a deep breath, unable to slow the wild racing in your chest. “Fuck, I can’t…I don’t know—”

“Hey, okay, easy. Easy, Princess,” he says, quickly reaching out to take you in his arms and ease you against his chest. “Relax. Okay? Just breathe. Breathe for me.”

“I…I don’t think I can—”

“Yes, you can. You are.” His lips press to the top of your head while his hand runs up and down your back soothingly. “I’m right here. Do you hear me? I’m right here. You’re not alone. You won’t be alone. I promise.”

You squeeze your arms together and hold on with everything you have. Right now, he feels like your only anchor in the world. The only person strong enough to carry you both through to the other side. And for the first time since you met him…you feel glad that he’s here.

The two of you stand in the middle of the room for a long while before he finally murmurs, “I think it’s been five minutes.”

Your eyes close and you grip his shirt in your first. “I’m…I’m not ready to look.”

“Okay.” You can hear the smile in his response. “Okay, we can wait.”

So, you do as the truth starts to build in your chest. Inescapable, no matter how hard you try to swallow it down.

Finally, you can’t help but whisper, “You know what scares me the most?”

“Hm?”

“…that maybe I’m hoping it’s real.”

The apartment falls silent again. He doesn’t push you to elaborate, but you can feel his heart beating just a little faster inside his chest.

“I don’t know why,” you continue. “I don’t…I really don’t think I’m ready, but…but what if I should be? What if…what if we met and we started this because…because we were supposed to do this?”

He considers this. “Like fate.”

“Yeah.” You roll your lips into your mouth. “Because I still hate you. I do. I just…I’m starting to get this picture in my head of us. Being a family. Having a big house in a good school district. Tucking them into bed at night and reading them stories. Which is…dumb.”

“No,” he mumbles. “No, it’s not dumb. I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Because I meant what I said, I’d love to get you pregnant. You’d look really fucking hot.”

You chuckle. “Yes, so you’ve mentioned.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh…okay?”

He smirks. “I never had a breeding kink until I met you.”

You lean back and swat your hand across his chest. “You’re so annoying.”

“What? I’m being serious.” He grins and those dimples pop free. God, you hope your kids have his dimples—

No. Nope. You aren’t going there.

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the thought. “Whatever. You’re just horny.”

“Maybe. But it’s still true.” His gentle gaze sweeps across your face. “If you wanna do this…we’ll do it. You and me. We’ll have this baby, and we’ll raise it to be really smart, and funny, and to not take shit from anybody.”

You laugh, brushing away a few more tears. “Maybe we can teach it to write code.”

“Oh, fucking obviously.”

The two of you smile before the excitement seems to fizzle and Harry’s brows pull together.

“You know I don’t actually hate you, right?” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“I know that’s our thing, and I know you said it earlier, but…I don’t actually hate you. This baby wouldn’t grow up with two parents that don’t like each other.”

“Oh…I…I know.”

“Good. Because I don’t want that to be one of the reasons you think we can’t do it. I’d fucking love that baby. And I’d love you for carrying it.”

Instantly, you both seem to still. The four-letter word sounds so loud inside such a small room.

I’d love you.

He clears his throat, shifting a bit as he glances toward the kitchen. “I mean, I’d…I’d appreciate you for carrying it—”

“No, yeah, I know,” you stammer. “I know what you mean.”

“Good. Yeah.”

The two of you fall quiet again before you softly admit, “I think I’m ready to look.”

“Okay.” He squeezes your hip. “I’m right here.”

You take in a deep breath before begrudgingly pulling yourself out of his arms. You already miss his warmth and the way he felt like home and your stomach turns as you slip into the bathroom.

With trembling hands, you reach for the stick that sits on the edge of your sink. And in those three seconds, an entire lifetime flashes before your eyes. 

The good, the bad, and the everything in-between. You see a house and a dog and a big backyard. You see two little kids rolling in the grass and jumping into the pool. You hear them begging for a bedtime story and crying when they scrape their knee.

You see a dozen birthdays and holidays and visits to the zoo. You see their heartbreaks and triumphs, their successes and letdowns. You see a million goodnight kisses and cuddles on the couch. 

And then…you see Harry.

In every picture, every moment. Taking them to their first baseball game and picking them up from their first dance. Sneaking them into R-rated movies even after you explicitly said no and feeding them far too much candy and popcorn.

You see him teach your son how to tie a tie and dance with your daughter as she stands on his feet. You see him cooking breakfast in the kitchen, flour all over his face. You see him curled up in bed, his head on your chest, your fingers in his hair. You hear him tell you how happy he is. How glad that he found you.

It’s a beautiful life. Even if it’s not the one you imagined for yourself. And in that moment, you decide that it doesn’t matter what the test says. If that’s your future, so be it. 

As long as you get to live it with him.

“So?” Harry calls from the hall.

You swallow thickly and slowly glance down.

Negative.

Negative.

No baby. No pregnancy. No white-picket fence.

You stare at the test for at least a full minute. You aren’t sure how you feel. Relieved. Disappointed. Upset. Thankful. Confused.

“Tink?”

You turn around. “Uh…it’s negative,” you report, handing it to him. “False alarm. I guess I’m just late.”

He glances over the stick with a rather blank expression before looking at you. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. This is definitely the better outcome. I’m just…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was just starting to get used to the idea.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, handing it back. “I know.”

You throw the test away. “Sorry for making you come all the way over here for that.”

“Hey, whoa—” He strides into the bathroom. “What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I’d be here.”

“I just…I wasted your time. I should have taken it before I called you—”

“Tink,” he sighs, taking your cheeks in his hands. “Stop. You can always call me for shit like this.” He looks at you, then amends, “You can always me. For anything. You know that.”

A tear slips from your eye without warning, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I don’t know why I’m so disappointed. This is what I wanted—”

“I know,” he says gently. “I know. It’s hard.”

“Yeah.” You hiccup. “But this is good, right? This is better?”

For a moment, he says nothing. He simply stares at you with a rather sympathetic expression. Or maybe it’s forlorn. Maybe he’s disappointed. Upset that you aren’t giving him what he wants.

Then, he dips down to kiss the tip of your nose. “This is good,” he whispers, and you know he means it. “We would have figured it out. And you would have been a wonderful mom. But I know you. And I know you aren’t ready. Not yet.”

You close your eyes and melt into the feel of his palms against your skin. Into the way he reassures you and protects you all in the same breath. You never thought you’d feel so safe in the serenity of his touch, but here you are. Wishing for him to hold you forever.

“And when we are ready, we’ll do it on our terms,” he says. “Okay?”

Slowly, you nod. “This is good,” you repeat to yourself. “It is. Really. Things are going great at work, I’m finally secure financially, and even you and I are…kind of getting along.”

He smirks.

“This is good. This is better.” You repeat the mantra until you really believe it. “Besides, I probably wouldn’t have been a very good pregnant woman anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’d be really cranky. Or needy. My ankles would get all swollen and I’d be hot all the time and nauseous and miserable. I’d probably try to kill you.”

“Oh, you’d definitely try to kill me. You try to kill me even when you aren’t pregnant.”

You gasp. “Rude.”

“What?” He chuckles again before his eyes slowly start to rake down your frame. “But I don’t know. I think it’ll be better than you think.”

You swat him again. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to picture it.”

“Why? I told you, you’d look fucking hot.”

“Yeah…no.”

However, he only nods, moving in to subtly brush his lips against yours. “You would. Be so fucking beautiful carrying our baby. With your tits all swollen and your belly getting bigger every day.”

Truthfully, the image almost makes you grimace, but there’s something about the way he says it. The way he talks about you so reverently. A soft, sultry murmur that goes straight to your cunt. Because you know he’s not just saying it to say it. He means it. Believes it. Would do anything for it.

He tilts your head back, thumb brushing along your jaw. “And I think you like it,” he exhales. “I think you like the idea of holding me inside you. Having a part of me. Knowing that I did it to you. No one else.”

You suck in a soft breath, knees going just a bit weak. “Harry…”

“What, baby?” His mouth ghosts along your neck. “Are you thinking about it? Thinking about how pretty your tummy would look with me inside it?”

He’s evil. Absolutely evil, and you clear your throat in a desperate attempt to regain control of yourself. “Do you…have a pregnancy kink I don’t know about?” 

His lips quirk up. “Apparently.”

“Mm.” Your lashes flutter and the urge to kiss him grows stronger. “You know…some women get really horny when they’re pregnant.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah. I don’t think you could handle it.”

He scoffs. “Oh, no?”

You shake your head. “I mean, do you really think you could keep up? Going for hours and hours on end? Trying to keep me satiated with your poor, limp little dick?”

He makes another noise, and you tsk.

“I mean, you can barely satisfy me now as it is. But if I was pregnant? Pfft. Forget it.”

Instantly, he’s snatching hold of your hips and yanking you against his chest. “Don’t fucking tempt me, Princess,” he nearly growls. “I’ll bend you over right now.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” you retort. “You’ve gone soft on me. Rubbing my back, kissing my hair. You wanna take care of me and honestly? It’s a little pathetic.”

His head cocks rather deviously and your pulse begins to skip. He could split you in half if he wanted to and you both know it. 

But that’s what you need right now. You don’t want to be coddled or looked after. You wanna be fucked. Tortured and teased until you’re begging for release.

You want an escape.

And in that moment, Harry decides to give you one.

He picks you up and carries you out of the bathroom while your legs quickly work to hook to his hips for stability and your arms snake around his neck.

He ignores your squeals and teasing huffs of annoyance, instead dropping you onto your mattress with a soft thud.

You glare and push up onto your elbows. “You know, you don’t have to manhandle me—”

“Shut up.”

He surges forward, lips gliding against yours as he takes a taste of you on his tongue. And kissing is easy with him. As easy breathing, like you’ve done it all your life. You know exactly what he likes, what he wants. And you give it him.

His glasses are cold against your face, keeping him from getting as close as he’d like, and after a moment, he huffs, and rips them off before tossing them aside. And even though you adore when he wears them, you happen to adore being near him even more.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging on his curls, scratching down his neck. He has the added advantage of being on top, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from turning to putty in your hands. Clay for you to mold to your liking. 

No matter how dominant he tries to be, he’s simply a man that needs to be told what to do. Taken care of. Shown. 

And you happen to like showing him.

You feel him tug on the hem of your shirt. “Off,” he breathes between carnal nips to your throat. “I want this off, Tink.”

Happy to oblige, you push him back so you can lift yourself up before you peel the fabric from your chest. You take your time with the bra, allowing the straps to fall down your arms oh so slowly. You don’t rush to reveal yourself to him, instead letting him anticipate you. Until his heart is racing and his eyes are darkening and he’s resisting the urge to do it himself.

But once he can finally see you, he nearly groans. “Oh, good fucking girl.” 

He resumes his work. More kisses are left to the warm, tender skin, and he happily sucks bruises into each swell and curve of your breast before teasing the nipple with his tongue. His hands are greedy—ravenous. Pulling at your flesh, clawing his way along your frame. 

When he reaches your thighs, you whimper. You’ve missed the way he touches you. The way he pries your legs apart and makes a home between.

In a rush, he snaps your panties off into his fist and you toss him a punishing glare.

He smiles.

You rid each other of your remaining clothes in a frantic fashion until they’re nothing more than a dirty pile on the floor. Messy and familiar. Fated.

He drops down onto the bed back first, effortlessly swapping positions as you’re placed in a straddle over his waist.

“Good girl, let me see you,” he murmurs, running his fingers down your cheek before grabbing your jaw. “Go ahead.”

You reach down and take his hardening cock in your hand, running it along your cunt before teasing yourself with the tip. 

“Didn’t stretch you,” he mumbles, leaving a few stray kisses to your collarbone. “S’might hurt, so—”

You push him in, simultaneously sinking down in an effort to feel a more prominent burn., and you both make a rather lewd noise as the grip on your chin tightens.

“Tink,” he hisses with a punishing look of his own. “Careful—”

You drop yourself further, muscles tensing around the thickness until your thighs begin to shake.

“Hey—” He forces your eyes on his. “Enough. Be gentle, m’not gonna hurt you—”

“I want you to,” you pant. “Please. I need it. I…fuck, Har, I need it. Please…please.”

He’s still frowning but his expression softens. “Baby…not like this. Maybe we should wait until you’re feeling better—"

“No,” you whimper. Desperate. Fraught. “Harry, please, don’t stop. Don’t make me stop—”

“Hey, easy, easy.” He pulls your forehead to his. “Breathe. It’s okay.”

You try to obey. Try to suck in a strangled gasp of air but it’s useless. He’s gonna take himself from you. He’s gonna leave, and you’ll be empty, and alone, and maybe he won’t ever touch you again—

He places his palm on your chest, right over your heart. “Breathe,” he says again. Soft. Quiet. “In then out. Good girl, just like that.”

You follow the sound of his voice. Mimic his inhales and exhales until the two of you fall into a synchronized rhythm. 

“Good,” he says again, rubbing his other hand along your back. “There you go. You’re all right, I’ve got you. Yeah?”

Weakly, you nod. “I’m…I’m sorry. I just…I—”

“Shh.” He kisses your nose. “You’re okay, Tink. I know.”

A long moment passes before you finally feel in control of your own heart again and once you blink the fog from your eye, you see him. Delicate and strong at the same time.

He sweeps his thumb along your lip. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you admit. “Really, I just…I needed to feel you. And I wanted to…move on, I guess. Think about something else. Lose myself for a bit.”

He sighs but nods his understanding. “You could have told me that.”

“I know. I guess I’m just not used to sharing things with you.”

“I know,” he echoes with a small grin. “But we’ll learn, yeah?”

Your gaze grows suspicious. “And why would we do that?”

“Because,” he says simply. “If we’re gonna make a bunch of hot, smart babies one day, we’re gonna have to communicate.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, that won’t be for a while.”

“Fine. Just gives us more time to practice.”

Your eyes narrow. “You really have gone soft on me, haven’t you? All because you thought I was pregnant."

He laughs, fingers slipping around the back of your neck to pull you in for a kiss. “I’d argue I’m actually quite hard right now.”

“Ha. Funny.”

“I can hate you and like you at the same time, right?” he teases. “Because I think that’s my sweet spot. Wanting to kill you and fuck you all at once.”

“Agreed. You’re insufferable but you’re also one of my favorite people. Which only makes you more insufferable.”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “I think we earned a little civility, no?”

You nod and take his lip between your teeth. “And I think we should celebrate with an orgasm.”

He laughs again. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

You dance your kisses down his chest, enjoying the way his head drops back while he sighs at the feel of your tongue. He’s so beautiful and so good and if you’re going to lose yourself, you want to lose yourself in him.

Leaning back, brace your hands behind you on his knees, and start to bounce yourself on his cock. Over and over, faster and faster, until he’s grabbing onto your hips and giving them a firm, encouraging squeeze to help you along.

Your tits bounce right in his face, and he takes advantage of his front row seat, allowing his hands to trace and tease your nipples as you whine. He sucks them into his mouth and pulls them with his teeth. It sends chills along your spine and goosebumps along your arms and when he notices, he smirks.

 Not even a minute later, he’s pulling you down so your chest meets his. His hands land on your ass with a firm grip and he drags you along his cock. Slow and sensual until your eyes flutter shut, and you disappear into the building pleasure.

You feel his kisses on your ribcage as he begins to thrust up into you. Returning to the pace you previously set until you’re both chasing that familiar high. 

“There you go,” he praises through gritted teeth. “Fuck yeah, just like that—”

“Harry,” you mewl, fingers tangling in his hair. “Shit, please—”

“I know.” He leaves another kiss to the inside of your arm before he smacks your left ass cheek. “I got you, Princess. S’okay. Keep going.”

You grind yourself over his lap, knees hugging his waist as you bury yourself in the crook of his neck. Needy. Anxious. You match each other’s rhythm and it’s a dance. An effortless fluidity that brings you closer than ever before.

Then, he sucks two fingers into your mouth, and moves them between your cheeks. He grazes them over your tighter hole, gently teasing them over the other entrance before dropping them down to where his cock is fucking into your cunt. He plays with you a bit, pushing you just a bit closer while you wail—depraved—and beg for more.

“My good girl,” he praises. He spanks you again. “Fuck—that’s it, baby.”

Your staccato whimpers are consistent now. One for every thrust and you can almost taste his desperation as he turns his head in order to kiss your cheek. The sound of skin against skin is crude and delicious. The way your body slides against his. Like butter on a hot day, melting together.

He goes faster, pulls you harder. Fingers digging into your skin so hard it almost hurts. But in the best possible way. In turn, you brace yourself with a palm on his throat. Squeezing it tight as you start to get closer. 

“Yeah,” he groans. “Shit…harder—”

You obey, pinching the sides of his neck until his eyes roll back. 

You can feel his heart racing against yours. You’re both warm. Hot. Shaking. A tangled mess of limps and depraved grinding like animals in heat.

“M’almost…m’almost there,” you whisper.

He nods, looking down your body to watch the way your ass bounces in his hands. “Go. S’okay, go. Let me feel you.”

He leaves more kisses to your side and the tender way his lips feel against your skin makes your brain go fuzzy. 

You grip his throat a bit tighter and just like that…it’s over.

The two of you cum together, the room filling with moans and gasps and promises. He settles beneath you while you ride out the rest of your high but he makes sure to keep his arm around you through every second.

Once you finally catch your breath, he hums. “God-fucking-damn.”

You grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He turns to see you. “I think I’m pregnant.”

You roll your eyes with a swat to his chest but you’re laughing. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet you still like me.”

“I never said that.”

“You said I’m your favorite person.”

“Yeah, well, I lied.”

“Right.” He helps you ease him out before he’s flipping you around and moving himself between your legs.   

You blink. “What the hell are you doing?”

He lifts two fingers and eases them along your swollen pussy. Collecting the white, sticky substance already leaking out before easily pushing it back in.

“Harry,” you scold. “I think we’ve had enough breeding for one day.”

He smirks. “Relax, Tink, m’not breeding you. I just…like to see it drip out.”

Your heart leaps. “…oh.”

“Yeah.” He rests his cheek against the inside of your thigh in order to watch. “S’always so fucking pretty.”

You reach down and card your fingers through his sweaty curls. Happy and content for the first time in days.

He looks up. “One day,” he promises, even though it sounds more like a question.

But somehow, in this moment, it makes everything else worth it.

You grin.

“One day.”

AAA I can’t believe we finally did it!! I’m not gonna lie them being soft with each other is gross 😭 BUT ALSO CUTE!! YAY PROGRESS!!

Thank you so much for reading and for always being so nice!! 🥹💞💞 and of course thank you for the amazing idea hehe

Also, if you see any mistakes……no you don’t 🫶

~  Full 404 Masterlist

Taglist:

@littlenatilda @prettythingsworld @heartateasee @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @monicaalexandraaa

@cinnamonone @triski73 @lemoncrushh @vamprry @lady-lamb21

@lillefroe @kirstiea05 @ribbonknives @lunaharrygurl @harringtonhundreds

@babyyhoneyyy @swiftmendeshoran @sundresstyles @eldahae @becauseheartsgetbroken-hs

@hannahdressedasabanana @sykostyles @lukesaprince @daphnesutton @love-letters-to-uranus

@lovrave @nuggetdean @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @babegoals @lc-fics

[chatsukimi]

ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ ꜱᴀᴠᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ/ꜰʟᴀᴍᴇꜱ (ʜᴇɪᴀɴ-ᴇʀᴀ) "hell is a pit of fire for a reason" ｅｎｅｍｉｅｓ ｔｏ ｌｏｖｅｒｓ， ｓｕｋｕｎａ ｘ ｒｅａｄｅｒ， Ｈｅｉａｎ－ｅｒａ.

A chill washes over your body, as though a presence has come to visit you. Your eyes snap open, drawn to the Cursed Spirit at the door.

Instantly, you recognise it's a Special Grade. And you sense more crawling down the hallway.

This cannot be happening.

You swing your bedside lamp through the paper window and clamber out, only to be greeted by more of those beasts. Never in your life have you seen this many curses in one place. Why are they here?

BOOM.

An invisible force thrashes you into a tree. You mutter, casting a wave of fire at the Curse behind you.

It's only been a week since you and Sukuna's... falling out. He couldn't have...

A little part of you knows the King of Curses bears no mercy. You've seen him slash a whole village. You've listened to his apathy when the numbers are read in court, the casualties. You, first-hand, had heard him say he could not care less if you went missing.

Maybe he sent these Curses after you, to punish you for disobedience.

As your body drags you further up the hill, away, away, far up from the chasing Curses, your soul is drawn like a magnet towards the tower in the distance. The turret stands tall and imposing over Kyoto, its shadows merciless over the temples. Sukuna's.

Another wall of flames.

The Curses dodge.

At the top of the hill, you hands fumble as you transfer your whispers into a tiny ball of flame. Your head doesn't register what you're doing.

A Curse lunges for your leg. Bites.

You shriek, whacking the Curse to tear it off. It is only getting darker.

Sukuna.

His name plagues your thoughts.

If only... if only Sukuna... Sukuna...

You send out the orb of fire surging into the night.

...

The King of Curses paces around his room in the darkness, until suddenly, he swears.

Something is blinding in the corner of his eye. He whips around and watches an orb glint, bobbing towards him.

Fire.

You.

He crosses the room in fluid steps.

"Special Grades... help. Kuna-"

The words seem to burn him. And he staggers back.

Special Grade Curses. What are they doing? Why are they coming for you?

He races out onto the balcony, tracing where the message originated to find you. He swears again. His fingers are shaking.

When he descends onto the scene, the remnants of smoke and ash linger in his memory.

...

Sukuna watches as the curses encircle you, each one trying to land a fatal strike. He sees you fight and thinks back to the last time he had seen you.

You had been running away from him.

His eyes narrow in rage, as he unleashes his domain expansion. He has to be careful to spare you. The shrine instantly obliterates the cursed spirits.

Upon noticing him, you drop down to your knees, your head bowed to hide the tears welling up.

It's been only a week, yet he cannot anticipate your reaction. Would you shout at him to get away? Had you forgiven him, why you called him to come save you?

"Thank you, Lord Sukuna."

Remember, that's all there is between you. A lord and his subject.

Despite the praise, Sukuna can't help but feel a tinge of guilt for how things had played out between you and him. Something more than hurt pride causes you to hide your pain. Sukuna notices the blood that stains your leg, which you move roughly behind your other leg, out of sight.

"You were about to die, and your first thought was to ask for my help," he mutters.

"I'm sorry." You try to keep yourself together. "It's the middle of the night- I'm sorry for waking you."

But speaking it out loud makes it sound all the more real, the distance between you. And you only bow lower.

He tries to swallow down the ache in his throat. Perhaps he had dismissed you too cruelly. He looks anywhere but you.

He had built you up then tossed you into the wilderness, yet here you are, not blaming him, not even asking for an apology. You only wanted to... to thank him.

"Don't apologise," Sukuna says, quietly, as if it were natural for a lamb to rely on the wolf's protection.

You take a leap of faith and look up, whispering, "if there is nothing else you want from me, I think- I should get this fixed."

You hobble to your feet. He looks down at your leg and his gaze softens. You wonder if he cares at all, stumbling away in a trail of blood.

Then, he scoffs (as if you could hide from him) and follows.

When you reach your living room, you close the shoji screen. But you still sense his familiar power, washing through the cold atmosphere, Sukuna.

He asks, hesitant, "may I enter?"

Why is he even asking? He's the King of Curses! He could knock down this place as easily as breaking an empire, he could destroy eons of progress, bend kingdoms to his will, but even he could feel like a little boy waiting outside your door, for your acceptance or refusal, like he knew he was just like the curse, dangerous yet longing for your touch. His need to pull you so close you were bound by blood and flesh. His heartbeat pounds in his ears at the silence.

You freeze.

You murmur, "... OK."

Sukuna inhales a deep breath and steps into the room. He takes in the condition of the messed up furniture, and you, the state of your attempt to patch up your leg. It hadn't worked in the slightest.

"Do you mind if I provide you with aid?"

You lean back in your chair, huffing out a light breath, attempting to cover your nerves. "I didn't know how to do anything but slice your enemies in half."

Sukuna reveals his teeth, a brutally rare thing. "Don't underestimate my abilities. They far surpass the notion of 'slicing my enemies in half'."

You bite your lip and stays sitting as he nears. Your heartbeat begins to quicken and you're too tired to fight off the instinct.

He has not forgotten your connection, no matter how hard he tried. You and your annoying technique of setting his heart alight. He continues to close the distance between you.

He tilts his head to the side, looking down at you.

"Are you not worried about my proximity?"

"No," you whisper.

You ought to be afraid. He is a thousand times the potency of a Special Grade. He could rip you in half- who says he wouldn't, just to play with you?

"I don't like it..." he mutters, his voice soft and hoarse. You cannot imagine the hatred he feels for you. "I hate it... I despise every second you are near me."

Just as you are about to advise that he leave, Sukuna stares at you -crimson eyes in the moonlight- and grits his teeth.

"... but I hate you more when you are far."

He wants to punish you, to make you endure what he had in the past week, but... he can't.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs, his tone laced with resentment.

You close your eyes and feels him kneel to take a closer look at your leg. He slowly traces the gnash with his fingers, and as he does, a cold sensation creeps into your veins. He channels his cursed energy, and you feel the wound beginning to mend itself.

After a few minutes, the process is complete and he stands up.

Reverse-curse technique. You had never seen him use it on anybody. It is the opposite of slash, an abomination of a Technique. Yet something tells you he took his time with you. While you were blind to the vision, you could sense your weakness leaching onto him as he healed you.

"Thank you... Sukuna."

"Do not mention it," he utters, devoid of any emotion. His feet shift, turning towards the exit. Two weights.

You don't know why you do what you do next. You don't know if it's out of gratitude or out of nostalgia. All you know is that the King of Curses is a frightfully cold thing for a person so alive, one shade from freezing, and your palms are warm from the fire. You abruptly capture him in a hug.

He feels your body against his. You stay there, his flame.

He had never felt this close, so interwoven; his body feels more alive than it had ever been.

Sukuna reaches for your waist to push you away, but his arms only drape across. Break free, break free, break free-

The only thing left to lie is his tongue.

"Let go of me."

He had intended it to sound intimidating. It rings more like a plea. He would much rather you fight him, so he would have something real to slice, but this is warm and soft and weak... and it is the most human he has felt in a long time.

"No."

He pushes you against the wall. "I said, let go of me." He dips his head to your level, threatening, "understand? I said," -bumps noses, leans his forehead against yours- "- you will never survive next to me. You will burn out."

He touches his lips forcefully against the corner of your mouth, not willing himself any further. Already the isolation is seeping into his bones from the lack of you.

"Never," you hiss back. "You think you'd be the one to take me out?"

Sukuna raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

"You won't kill your flame,' you whisper.

"Fuga," he commands.

You part your lips. Just like that, he closes the distance.

Hell is a pit of fire for a reason.

[turbulentscrawl]

Protection

Yet another little blurb series that absolutely no one asked me for. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? WHATEVER GETS THE JUICES FLOWING AGAIN.

warnings for violence, angst, and comfort. Use of potentially triggering words like "psycho" and "whore."

The manor was a hard adjustment for any new face, but some handled it worse than others. This mystery man was particularly defensive, particularly paranoid of the manor’s nightmarish circumstances. He was stressed, and scared, and confused, and bleeding out in his first match was the last straw needed to tip the scales towards an outburst.

Norton

You were just trying to be friendly when you spoke to him at breakfast. Really. But looking back you could see how a terrified mind might misconstrue your small comforts and placations about death as mocking. He stormed off mid-meal, and you spent the rest of it stewing in quiet guilt. A walk in the gardens would do you some good, you decided, but Norton was still busy with his second helping of steak and eggs and told you to go on ahead.

So alone you exited the room, lost in regretful thoughts, but you didn’t make it halfway down the hall before the new guy appeared again. He stopped down ten feet from you, coiled tight like a cornered animal. He didn’t look like he had calmed down at all, but then he hadn’t seemed calm since he arrived. In any case, it seemed like the best chance you would get to give an apology.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you earlier,” you said, stepping aside to let the fearful man pass, so he could go finish his meal.

But he reacted to your words like a viper strike, flinching and then snapping forward to put his face in yours. His eyes were wild.

“Don’t play coy about it,” he hissed. His hands, at his sides, itched and twitched to grab and you were too fear frozen to move away from them. “You’re part of this hell too, I know it. All of it an act, AN ACT! But you won’t trick me. You won’t get to make it worse for me!” He raved and threatened in your face for what seemed like forever, so close he took up your entire vision and you forgot where you were. Maybe that’s what it was like for him, right now, you faintly mused, still trying to understand. You hadn’t been like this when you first arrived… you or anyone else that you could recall.

He stopped talking suddenly, eyes tracked on something behind you.

You looked over your shoulder to see what had caught his attention and spotted, back through the doorway to the dining room, Norton tipped back in his dining chair and watching. Watching you. Watching him. A steak knife was in his hand and a dare was in his eyes.

Your attention was drawn back by the sound of the new guy stomping off again, hurried, tail still between his legs. When you looked back at Norton again, he tipped his chin to beckon you. When you stepped back through the door, Norton took his foot off of the table (its placement earned a side-eye from Fiona) to lower his chair back to four legs, and kicked out the empty seat next to him for you to reclaim. You sat down meekly, shaken by guilt and fear.

“I was just trying to—”

“I know,” he interrupted, biting again into his food. “And he’ll figure it out himself too eventually. In the meantime, let him be someone else’s problem.”

In a rare show of public affection, Norton leaned over and kissed you on the temple. “And stick closer to me for a while. You’ll be fine.”

Naib

Shit had hit the fan as soon as everyone was back and healed from the match. You and the new guy had both died—you to the chair and him to bloodloss—but a tie was a tie and worth at least a small celebration. But when he joined you, Tracy, and Margey for the tea party, he completely lost it.

He leapt across the sun room table for you, tipping it and all its contents to the ground, and the girls screamed with a genuine shock and terror you hadn’t heard in a while. Your back and knees smarted, all whacked by the scattering wooden furniture. Hot tea seeped into your shirt and scalded your belly. Sharp, broken porcelain lay dangerously scattered around your head. You couldn’t tell what the girls were shouting because you were too focused on your assailant. On keeping his hands off of your throat, out of your eyes, and getting his pinning body off of you. His nails clawed at your face, you knew that much, but if the matches taught you anything it was to not give up on a struggle.

Just as you started in on some dirty fighting Naib had taught you (pulling, trying to rip his ears off), the man himself came charging in like a bull and tackled the new guy off of you. You got kicked a bit in the process—but that was a fair price to pay for being able to scramble to the other wall and watch, secured by Tracy an Margey, as Naib completely wailed on the guy.

Naib didn’t talk about his background much, but you knew he knew how to fight. This was barely a fight—a one-sided beatdown morelike—but in your bitter soreness you felt it was well deserved. Naib knew how to make every swing count, and it was only well after the new guy was limp on the ground that William showed up and hauled Naib off of him. Emily followed next, running to check on the new guy since you were already being doted on by the girls.

When William finally let Naib go, he huffed and puffed and flexed off some of his remaining aggression before spitting out a spiteful, “He ain’t dead. I ain’t that nice.”

Then he turned and shooed the girls off, scooped you up, and marched right out of the room. He held you too tight for your sore back’s liking, but you couldn’t begrudge him the positioning to keep his nose in your hair while walking to somewhere more secluded and safe. His chest was still heaving against your side, still high with adrenaline and worry. His knuckles were split and bloody. The day had only just started.

“Sorry,” you sighed into his neck. Naib scoffed, mouth still pressed to your scalp.

“What for? He’s the cunt.” He kicked open the door to your bedroom, fully pulling back enough to give you a smirk. “Don’t ever be sorry for me stepping in. I’ll take care of everything.”

Ithaqua

The manor sometimes held garden parties to welcome new inhabitants. Usually, though, it had better timing.

The poor new guy had had the awful misfortune of being a valuable player. He was good at getting in the hunter’s face, and the others did all they could to get him off his first chair safely. Because of the great team effort, he’d wound up bleeding out while the Hunter—Ithaqua, your boyfriend—dealt with the others. You knew that wasn’t Ithaqua’s modus operandi; it hadn’t been on purpose. …but he wasn’t exactly sorry about it, either.

As a result, the party was tense in some areas. Specifically, the areas where the new guy went. He walked around with a deep frown and a nervous jitter. He’d been anxious when he first arrived too, but it was understandably worse now, in witness of the two factions being chummy with one another right after one had just killed him. The hunters avoided him from the get go, and the survivors gave up on conversation with him not long after.

And you, well. You didn’t get to see Ithaqua in peaceful settings often.

That’s how you wound up here, you supposed.

“So you’re a fucking traitor whore!” the new guy snapped in your face. He wasn’t quiet, either. “What’s the matter with you! Those monsters beat and torture us and you turn around and hang all over one? You’re probably no fucking better, some kind of psycho killer! You’re the one who should die! You’re the one who should bleed!”

Not being quiet would be his downfall, though. Picking a secluded corner of the hedge maze to catch you in didn’t matter. The wind carried.

He didn’t get much farther into his rant and threats before Ithaqua came whirling around the corner with his “business” mask on. His axe was back in the manor, but the Hunter’s claws and sheer strength could do harm enough to a survivor. Ithaqua snatched the new guy up by the nape before he had a clue what was happening, and dangled him overhead. The new guy screeched in a way that made you feel sick, but you knew from experience there was no talking Ithaqua down. Shamefully, you turned your eyes away.

“You sure like to run your mouth,” Ithaqua sneered at him, tilting his head in that wicked, owlish way of his. “You know, all the other rats take death in stride around here. You clearly need some more practice with it.” Ithaqua ruffled your hair with his free hand before stalking off around the corner with the squirming offender.

When he came back a few minutes later, he was wiping his bloody claws off on his cape.

“He knows not to trouble you anymore,” he cooed. When he took off his mask, Ithaqua’s blackened eyed are far more serene than they should have been for what he’d just done. “Come, the Geisha brought out those little caked you like.”

[wannaeatramyeon]

Seong Taehoon x Reader: Hansu & Taehoon talk

Before you come back to the studio. Follow up to this one for @razypie. Some Hansu crumbs specially for you 🫶

"When did you and Y/N start dating?"

Taehoons stumbles on his kick, almost missing the sandbag entirely. Regaining his composure, he whirls round on his dad.

"What the hell are you on about, old man?"

Hansu sighs, taking his glasses off and wiping them. Taehoon is in one of those moods is he? Honestly, why is he such a brat. Hansu doesn't remember being such a delinquent in his youth. Must have gotten it from his mother's side.

Patience patience, Hansu is the adult. He needs to gently guide his son. "She's a nice girl, Taehoon. Don't mess around with her."

Taehoon throws his arms out in exasperation, face scowling and defensive. The hell? "I'm not even doing anything!"

"I've seen the way you both flirt when you should be training."

Ok, that claim is all lies and slander. If there is one thing that Taehoon takes seriously, it's Taekwondo. "What the fuck, dad?"

"You're just a very hands on instructor, that's all."

Hands on?! Are you kidding. Taehoon is nothing if not a professional. Well, professional might be stretching it a bit but.

Fuck. His ears redden. Has he been that obvious that even his goddamn dad is lecturing him. So transparent that Hansu saw through his feelings weeks before he could even come to terms with it?

Taehoon crosses his arms tightly, shoulders creeping up to his ears in mortification. He will not look at his dad. He cannot.

Hansu ploughs on, glasses glinting deviously in the light, "And how often you go around to her place."

"You told me to!"

"I mentioned it. And only the first time."

The tips of Taehoon's ear are burning a furious crimson.

"You're there almost every day."

Taehoon can't bear this anymore. He takes to the sandbag again as a form of distraction. If he hits it hard enough, loud enough, he can drown the old man out.

"All the snacks in our house are missing." WHACK!

"I'm pretty sure you didn't eat it all on your own." WHACK!

"You took the last of our kimchi the other week." WHACK!

"And my lunch the other day for Y/N." WHACK!

"She clearly likes you too." WHACK!

"I think she liked you even before she met you." WHACK!

Taehoon outwardly grumbles at this, his kicks landing quicker and quicker. Inside though? Preening like a peacock.

"Though it took some warming up again when she did meet you but-"

"Shut. It." Taehoon spits out, followed by an effortless 1080 kick.

"I'm serious, son. Don't let that one go." WHACK! "I like her."

Oh.

Taehoon stills in his movement.

That makes two of them.

Like a little kid, confessing to his dad that he was the one that stole the last cookie and broke the jar too, Taehoon mumbles, "...I like her too."

Hansu looks on at his son in pride, "Good."

Finally.

Someone to keep his delinquent son in line. Someone on Hansu's side. Someone kind and understanding. That Taehoon can talk to, share his secrets and feelings and worries that he never could to his old man. To help Taehoon-

Suddenly, the cold grip of fear inches its way around Hansu's heart. "Taehoon?"

Taehoon turns around at this, already dreading whatever comes out of his mouth next. This conversation is nothing short of torture.

"I'm too young to be a grandpa."

"DAD!"

[sanjoongie]

𝖛𝖊𝖗ä𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖓

Verändern: the German word for change, modify, vary, transform

Pairing: Fae! Yunho x Changling! Reader (f)

Genre: smut

Au: fae, changling, modern fantasy

Trope: s2l, bonded mate

Word Count: 2,358

Warnings: public sex, slight fear kink, restraints, dom! Yunho, sub! Reader, brat! Reader, oral (f), breast play, penetrative sex with no barrier, finger sucking (f), tummy bulge, gag (hand, fingers), pull out game, jerking off on stomach?

Rated: 18+ MDNI

Summary: one night, during the autumn solstice celebration, you're whisked away by a hooded man, dropping a bomb to your life. Except you kind of believe him. It wasn't the first time someone accused you of being different.

Author’s Note: @flurrys-creativity to my champion, the one who will fight for me when I cannot. My tag for you is ironic considering how much I depend on you. You may make me wanna tear my hair out but at the end of the day, who else would validate my logic? Also i really hope i didn't butcher the title *pained seonghwa emoji*. Happy belated birthday flurrs, I hope you had a good one

Branches pulled at your hair and clothes, almost as if they were trying to hold you back. You would have leaned into their help if not for the tall, Fae man dragging you through said dark and menacing forest.

“Don’t ever enter the Darkling Forest, sweet,” your mother always told you. “You’ll get trapped and never return.”

Was it a different situation if you were forced into said forest?

Rewind to perhaps a couple hours earlier, where you were celebrating the autumn equinox. You had a solo cup full of a neon green liquid that burned down your esophagus every time you chugged it. You might have gone for some beer if not for the rowdy crowd of people permanently stuck to the keg. 

Not that you were one to turn down a good time with some alcohol but you weren’t starting to feel like you shouldn’t have come to the gathering. Your social battery was already at an all-time low from your job and your family. You were starting to want to kick your past self in the but for agreeing to go to this, despite your busy schedule.

Taking another sip from your cup, your eyes skirted around the blazing bonfire near the dark edge of the forest, and your eyes settled on a figure near the edge. The shadows seem to cling to their lanky form. Unlike the rest of the people around you, bundled up in puffy jackets and fuzzy sweaters, this person had a thin cloak that fluttered in the moonlight. You saw peeks of red and gold. You weren’t one to judge someone on what they chose to wear to a party, but this seemed extremely out of whack. 

Then, the person cocked their head towards the forest and then disappeared into its depths. 

Now, you weren’t a stupid person to simply follow a stranger into the woods. You were more likely to end up on a crime documentary as the killer rather than the victim. But there was something in your chest that was pulling you to follow them. 

You threw your solo cup in a can after downing the rest of the contents, of course, and took long strides to meet the edge of the forest.

Fuck it, the party wasn’t that fun anyways. 

Bathed in the moonlight in a clearing was the person you had been following. The light from the moon seemed to only highlight his light-colored hair that had to be dyed because no one had hair that natural color. His dark eyes under his fringe, however, were solidly locked on you.

“I didn’t think you’d come. Perhaps they are right,” the man murmured to himself.

You sighed tiredly. “Look, if this is a ruse to kill me, I’ve got a knife in my bag, and I know exactly where to dump a body.”

The man smiled, sharp with amusement. “Quite the opposite, in fact. My name is Jeong Yunho.”

You rubbed your chest. You had felt a zing of something in your heart. What had that been? Heartburn from the neon drink?

“ ‘kay, well Yunho, I’m going to need you to be a hell of a lot less cryptic if you think this is gonna be a thing right now,” you said boldly.

Yunho cocked his head at you curiously. “It’s clear you were brought up amongst them, but you’re going to need to find a way to be less blunt if I bring you back.”

“You know, you may be really hot, but you’re not making a whole lot of sense right now. If you’re selling drugs, I’m not interested.” With that, you walked backward, not giving him the benefit of your back or seeing your ass, if you’re being honest.

The black bindings that ran down his left arm snaked out from his body as he stretched his arm out towards you. They raced along the sticks and leaves on the bare ground and finally wound around your ankles, anchoring you in your spot. 

“Leaving is not an option,” Yunho mused. “I’m afraid I can not let you have that much power over your life right now.”

You should have been scared. You knew that objectively. It wasn’t every day that a man controlling shadows wrapped you up in a forest. But you felt something slowly curling inside your chest as Yunho moved closer to you. You didn’t know exactly what it was, but something in you was telling you that Yunho would never hurt you.

Then the moonlight flashed against Yunho’s eyes, much like when a cat’s eyes reflected light and suddenly everything clicked together. The warnings your mother had told you every day that tied in with never going into the Darkling Forest.

“You’re one of them!” You exclaimed. “One of the Fae.”

“And so are you.”

You scoffed at the statement. “Please, if I was a fairy princess, I--”

“Do you have a habit of winding words and working around the truth, or spinning something into how you would like it to sound?” Yunho cut you off.

You rolled your eyes. “Sure, but--”

“A darkness inside of you assuring you of your survival. A sharp mind that can thirst for blood?” Yunho continued, stepping closer and closer. 

“In my defense, that tree had it coming!”

“If you believe I’m Fae, then you know I can’t lie.”

Your mouth shut audibly. Well, he had you there. “Wouldn’t I know if I was a--”

“A changeling?” Yunho’s eyes glinted with mystery. “Haven’t you always felt like you didn’t belong?”

That one hit a little too close to home. “Why now?”

Yunho’s eyes flitted around to the darkness behind you. “They’re coming for you. We have no King or Queen. They’re worried you’ll claim the throne. They want you dead.”

It was your turn to cock your head curiously. “Then why are you here?”

Yunho pressed his lips together, looking at you, then looking at the ground. “You’re mine.”

“Excuse you?!” You shouted in surprise.

“Don’t you feel it? Our bond? They handfasted us as babies. We’re mates.”

Your hand rubbed your chest with an odd sense of warmth at Yunho’s words. “We’re mates?”

Yunho snatched your free hand. “We have to go.”

That’s how you found yourself currently, running through the dark forest with Yunho. You couldn't lie. It was very thrilling; your heart was beating out of your chest and your legs attempting to keep up with the long-legged man dragging you along. 

Then, something zoomed past your cheek, and you cried out. Yunho halted immediately but steadied you with two hands on your shoulders. Your free hand, not currently entangled with Yunho’s, rose to your cheek and came back red. 

“He’s here,” Yunho said, eyes flitting about behind you. 

“My killer? If I’m a Fae, shouldn’t I have cool powers like you? Let me help. Surely, two against one is bet--”

Yunho clamped a hand against your mouth and pushed you up against a tree. “Quiet. We have to blend into the shadows right now. It’s the only way he won’t find us.”

You watched as the shadows seemed to rise from the ground, encompassing the two of you in a bubble of opaque darkness. 

Who was the one pursuing you? You couldn't ask, of course, due to Yunho’s hand on your mouth. So you stuck your tongue out and ran it up and down his palm. Yunho sucked in some breath hard at your moist tongue, licking him, but he didn’t look down at you. That was annoying.

You dropped your jaw so you could draw some of the skin between your teeth. Yunho’s jaw clenched, but still no eye contact. 

You were about to push your hands onto his chest when a twig snapped in earshot. 

A man with long black hair, a red thread making a braid down one shoulder, and a bandolier criss-crossing his chest. He held two knives between his fingers, flipping them there as he stalked through the forest. Was that your pursuer, because if so, he was really fucking hot.

A low growl emitted from Yunho’s chest. You could feel it because of how close he was, pinning you up against the tree. His eyes were finally on you again, and they were burning with anger. 

You smirked against Yunho’s hand. Was he jealous?

Seconds ticked by as hours, but eventually, Yunho lowered his shadows and his hand on your mouth when the other man rushed off in another direction. 

“Don’t you ever look at another man like you want to fuck him in front of me ever again,” Yunho commanded.

You raised your eyebrows. “Or?”

Yunho’s shadows wrapped around your wrists and pinned them over your head against the tree. “I know you feel the bond. Do not play with me, Changeling.”

“Me? Play with you? But I’m just human raised, aren’t I? What’s that to a Fae grown up in.. the courts, I’m assuming? Do tell me how I’m besting you,” you purred.

This was fun. Maybe being a Changeling wasn’t half bad. 

Yunho’s eyes were getting darker. With what, you had a sneaky suspicion you knew. For within your bond, darkness crept through. Darkness of the way Yunho clearly wanted to possess you. His want seeped through the bond. And you wanted to provoke that. 

“Show me.”

Yunho’s nimble fingers ran along your jaw. “You want to cement this? In the middle of a forest, with a man pursuing to kill you?”

You couldn't help but grin. “Wouldn’t that go to show I’m Fae after all? Yes.”

That was all Yunho needed to flip the switch. His fingers dug into your jaw, holding your face in place, as he slanted his lips against yours. You found yourself kissing him back with equal ferocity, a hunger pushing you to be closer to him. 

Yunho grumbled angrily, fumbling at your unfamiliar clothes. Eventually, he managed to push up your sweater and bra above your boobs and was currently sucking on one nipple while massaging your other breast. 

You let out a low whine when his fingers tickled down your ribs, leaving your breast and moving to wriggle under your pants. Your hips bucked forward, looking for that friction that you were craving. 

Yunho grunted, pulling his hand from your pants.

“Wh-why?” You couldn't help but demand. 

“These offend me. They need to be out of the way.” Yunho slipped his thumbs on either side of your hips and yanked down both your pants and your underwear down to your knees. 

Knelt, his face level with your cunt, he spread your pussy lips and started to hearteningly lick at your clit. He had you mewling with the sensation, making your climax built with his skilled tongue. 

“Please, Yunho,” you moaned. “Put your fingers in me.”

This Fae was beyond frustrating. He left your cunt and stood up. You pouted that you weren’t going to feel those wonderful fingers inside of you. 

“I must claim you,” Yunho murmured under his breath. 

His hands moved to his pants and pulled them down under his balls. Your eyes widened in surprise and delight to see that he was long. Fully hard, he bounced against his stomach, and you licked your lips. The weight of him on your tongue would be wonderful, you thought to yourself. 

Yunho bent to scoop your legs from under your knees, effectively bending you in half, your back still against the tree, and your arms still wrapped in Yunho’s shadows above your head. It made it easy for him to slip along your wet folds to aid in pushing into you.

“Oh fuck,” You moaned loudly as Yunho’s cockhead pushed into your clenching hole.

Yunho slapped his hand over your mouth again. His eyes were hooded and looking down at you as he slid into you fully. “You are…so warm.” His lips pressed together, and he closed his eyes like he was taking in the moment. “So tight.”

You found yourself enjoying the domineering man melting for your pussy. You clenched down on him and elicited a moan from his beautiful lips. “Fuck me, Yunho,” You whispered. 

His eyes snapped open, dark and glittering. “It would be my pleasure.”

The tall, Fae man jackhammered into you, hips moving at a speed that was sure to split you apart. You made muffled noises of pleasure against Yunho’s hand. 

And when you sneakily licked his palm again, he pulled his hand away, if only to push his fingers into your mouth. The pads of his tongue pressed firmly down on your tongue, effectively silencing you in a different way. 

Yunho’s other hand pressed down on your stomach, and you found your bonded mate smiling at the bulge there. You only moaned again, sucking down eagerly on his fingers. The same hand pressed against your abdomen moved lower until his thumb began thrum against your clit. 

In no time, you were seeing stars. You screamed with Yunho’s fingers in your mouth. It was that good. Your heart felt so full, so complete. A string of gold showed that both your hearts were connected now, permanently with this action done in the Darkling Forest. 

Yunho pulled out and jerked himself off. He bent your body sideways and sent strings of come onto your bare stomach. He cried out with his orgasm, those pretty fingers of his making himself feel good. Yunho coming was a feast for the senses. 

“I’m…I come from…” Yunho panted as he came down from his climax. “My family is fertile. I can’t afford to come inside of you. I don’t want to share with you anyone.”

You grinned, still bent in half. “You do love me!”

Yunho’s ears turned pink at your claim. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours as he let go of your legs and released your wrists. “I…”

You patted Yunho’s cheek fondly. “That’s okay, if I’m a Fae, I’m sure we’ve got plenty of time for you to admit this to me. Now, are you going to tell me the name of the man trying to kill me?”

Yunho’s eyes darkened and giggled. This immortal life was about to become really fun.

[seireiteihellbutterfly]

Headcanons: Zanpakuto Inconveniences

Sure, everyone’s zanpakuto looks badass when they’re fighting, but realistically, shouldn’t they all have drawbacks?

Jushiro Ukitake: Sogyo no Kotowari

The twin blades constantly argue with themselves, causing Ukitake to have split-second mood swings as he tries to mediate between the conflicting personalities. This often leads to awkward situations where he's caught agreeing and disagreeing with himself. And let’s not forget that rope with the charms. How many times has he tripped over that?

Byakuya Kuchiki:  Senbonzakura

Its thousands of tiny blades can get stuck in Byakuya's clothes at the most inconvenient times, making it look like he's covered in cherry blossom confetti and struggling to pull petals out from under his collar after fights. When he tries to pull them out, they leave little rips in his clothes, much to his ire. 

Ichigo Kurosaki: Zangetsu 

is a bit of a rebellious dramatic zanpakuto. It occasionally refuses to manifest because it doesn’t feel ‘fashionable’ enough or claims Ichigo has been neglecting it. This results in awkward sessions where Ichigo has to find a place to sit down and have a heart to heart with his zanpakuto, reassuring it that he most definitely does not think Senbonzakura is cooler. 

Renji Abarai: Zabimaru 

Zabimaru's extended segmented form occasionally gets tangled in Renji's own clothes, causing him to trip over the coiling snake-like segments while attempting flashy combat moves, resulting in moments of unintentional slapstick. “Now how many times have we talked about this? If I go left, then you go right!”

Shinji Hirako: Sakanade

Occasionally messes with Shinji's perception of reality for the heck of it. Hell, like owner, like zanpakuto. This leads to him walking into doors, stepping into the wrong rooms, and even accidentally complimenting his enemies in the midst of battle due to the distorted vision. It made him accidentally flirt with Hiyori and she whacked him into next week with her sandal. 

Rose Otoribashi: Kinshara

It’s musical abilities sometimes backfire on Rose. Instead of intimidating enemies with his zanpakuto's melodies, it plays embarrassing tunes at the worst times, making Rose wish he could mute his sword.

Examples of Kinshara’s embarrassing playlist include “The Gummy Bear song”, “Baby Shark”, “Low” by Flo Rida, and “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-lot. 

Izuru Kira: Wabisuke

Wabisuke has the unfortunate ability to double the weight of whatever it touches. It has a tendency to sneak up onto women who are on measuring scales and make them heavier than they are. Kira shakes his head in shame whenever he catches Wabisuke in the act. “You realize this isn’t helping our image?”

Shuhei Hisagi:  Kazeshini

Kazeshini occasionally pranks Hisagi by creating small gusts of wind, causing playful havoc by ruffling Hisagi's hair at the most inappropriate moments, such as during serious conversations or formal meetings. Additionally, Kazeshini has a habit of whispering sarcastic comments or witty remarks into Hisagi's ear when he's trying to maintain a stoic demeanor, leading to amusing situations where Hisagi struggles to keep a straight face while dealing with its antics.

[dearharriet]

About Time | Chapter 2

james potter x reader time travel au | 2.5K words | contents

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04:00 — 4 FEBRUARY

Rounding the corner down the back stairs, James came to the kitchen. It was all a deep, thick violet, blending with the world outside. That was a color that the sun wouldn’t touch for another four hours, if that.

He crept into the room, bare toes on cold terracotta tile, and got the electric kettle going. A tiny red dot rose against the dark expanse of cook-ware as the old thing jumped to life. James leaned back, slumping against the counter and retrieving his phone.

The kitchen gained new illumination as he pried it apart, jostling the center button to wake it. He’d done this song and dance every hour of every day since new years—even the ones he did twice—so it was second nature to press the handful of buttons that led to your contact.

The text exchange stared up at him the same way it always did, and he felt his frustration with himself bubble like the kicking kettle.

1 January

Me 14:14

| hello, this is james! (from new years) :)

Y/N! 15:17

| hi! :)

Me 15:20

| hiya. i was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime? this weekend, maybe?

Y/N! 15:35

| oh, that sounds so lovely, believe me!! but I actually live in london :/ i was only visiting for the holiday.

Of course she lives in London, he thought, she works with Marlene.

James never responded.

The thing about James was, he could go back and retry anything he failed at—which left a lot of room to do just that, and he was accidentally making the most of it.

The other thing about James was, he rarely knew when to quit. A month of no contact couldn’t be good, but a part of him wanted to see if he could make it work the first time. Every retry felt like a crawl through hell, having to do everything all over again, having to remember the way things were—the way things could’ve been forever.

No, he wanted to believe he could make something good without turning back. He’d done alright so far. It was just proving to be very hard because of you.

When the kettle was something around halfway done, James swung the phone closed, plunged back into darkness. He went to the press and took down a big mug with an odd decal over the front of it, and then looked to fish a tea bag out of the next cabinet. His hand felt around blindly, and he stubbornly persisted instead of seeking help from the house lights.

“What the bloody hell is goin’ on in here?”

In quick succession, James swung around and the overhead lights flashed on, and then his head whacked the cabinet door.

“Oh—fuck,” he swore, hand shooting up to cradle the throbbing area. The kettle was nearing the end of its duty, roaring as loud as the blood in James’ ears. Somehow too, the lights carried a sound of their own, one that you’d only ever hear when everything else is blissfully silent.

Something began thumping, and James peeked out of a watery eye to watch a middle aged man hobble over to the fridge. He was wearing a matching pajama set, blue and white striped and too soft looking for his very immediate brashness.

“Who the hell are you?”

The man ignored James’ very feeble inquiry and opened the freezer, coming up with a cold compress. When he turned James’ way, the boy had to school his initial reaction.

Layered over the strange man’s face were deep-cut scars, spider-webbing across his features indiscriminately. His right eye was a shocking blue, and the corresponding eyelid was healed wide open, giving it quite a mad look. James wondered how he slept.

With the same thump thump thump-ing from before, the man approached James, and James looked down to discover a rickety prosthetic leg on one side of his gait. Then, his eyes were back on the scars, his jaw held firmly between thick calloused fingers.

“That’s the last time you’ll ogle at my leg, boy,” the man said firmly, a measured type of coarseness entering his voice. “You’ve seen it now, no need to worry about it any longer. Understand?”

James blinked, still groggy and disoriented, sleep waiting at the edges of his eyes to be wiped away.

“Can I know who you are? Or, why you’re in my house, perhaps?”

A grating laugh escaped the man’s twisted lips, chased by a wide, toothy smile that didn’t match it. Then he forced the compress in his free hand over James’ tender forehead, and a maniacal gleam in his big eye finally caught the light.

“Oh, ow!”

“The name is Moody,” James’ torturer finally revealed, disregarding the pained whines the boy was making. “Alastor Moody. That’s M-O-O—”

“Oh my god, please shut up,” James groaned rudely, feeling a headache come on. Alastor seemed to take kindly by it anyways, or as kindly as he seemed capable of. He snatched one of James’ hands to replace his over the compress and stomped away. James wondered how he’d missed the sound before, when Moody was elsewhere in the house.

Stealing the big mug off the counter and a second one out of the press, Moody set about concocting some tea for the both of them.

“Why are you here,” James pushed again, falling from the wrap-around counter to the butcher’s block island and folding over it.

Moody, pouring a steaming cupful of tea, glanced over his shoulder with a grunt.

“Thought I’m s’posed to shut up,” he replied, a small jest barely recognizable in the grit of it. James almost laughed, thinking it was something one of his friends might say.

“Touché,” he allowed, too tired to justify his earlier words.

Moody slid the piping mug under his nose, holding onto the handle to say, “I’m yer father’s student. Or, I used to be, at least.”

James took the tea gratefully, dropping a big sugar cube into it as his body fell into a tall bar stool. He glanced at the scarred man, who was settling in beside him and sighing at the pressure coming off his legs.

“You’re a businessman?”

The sharp gritty chortle returned, far too loud for the early hour.

“Fuck no, I’m not,” Alastor laughed, “I’m a sad playwrite in London. I took his class on a requirement.”

At that, James perked up.

“In London, really?”

Moody slurped his tea noisily, grunted, and then grabbed two sugars and stirred them into his cup with one meaty finger. After confirming the taste again, he replied, “Yes, really. And don’t believe what those townie twits say about it. London is a miserable barrel of oil I’d like to set on fire.”

James would’ve liked to agree with that, actually, except that he was the victim of a one track mind, and his mind had eyes on you.

Coincidentally, you were in London.

“So why not move away?” James hunkered further over the counter, shrugging in question. “What’s there for you?”

Alastor sighed long-sufferingly, the way someone sighs when they’ve fallen into a pit that they dug.

“A goddamn pipe dream, that’s what.”

“Seems the right place for that,” James said agreeably, pushing up his glasses to appear smarter, somehow.

Moody shifted to look at him.

“What about you, eh?” Alastor sat forward, peering at James oblong with his gaping eye. “I suppose you’ll sit around this cushy place until your old man keels over, won’t ya? Marry some other high-society lass, play out the whole family runaround…maybe pop down to the city for a few years, but not for any big plan, really. Certainly not because you need to.”

He shook his head then, grumbling and taking to his tea. James jutted his head back, slightly affronted, but mostly confused by the jarring flip in Alastor’s mood.

“I’m sure I could, if I had nothing else in mind,” James agreed, his mind focused hard on the one future he was sure of. “Thing is though, I’ve got a pipe dream of my own, sir. A girl I met.”

Exhaling through flared hairy nostrils, Moody glanced at James again, dubious.

“A girl, you say?” James nods. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s what takes all the good ones. Some girl they met once.”

“Thrice,” James corrected. Alastor shuffled his thinning hair about on his head, grunting in question. “I met her three times.”

Moody just tipped back the rest of his tea and wiped the straggling drops from his chin.

Twisting his lips, James persisted.

“This girl y’see, she lives in the city. And I’ve asked to take her out, quite obtusely, without knowing, and now I think I’ll just have to move to her because—”

A big fat hand came down on the counter, rattling James out of his rant.

“Get t’yer point boy.”

Swallowing, James finally asked, “Can I live with you?”

Alastor gave him a long look and then stood, dumping his mug into the big basin by the window. On his slow march out, he turned, casting a sneer over his shoulder that prefaced his following answer.

“Unless that girl is willing to give you a million chances, you’ve already lost her. That’s just the way women are.”

+

04:00 — 17 MARCH

It took four trills for you to realize the song in your dream was a ringtone, and that it was a real pressing matter in the waking world.

One hazy glance at the clock on your night stand told you it was far too early for a phone call, and a quick check on your throat came up dry and unpleasant, not ideal for talking.

You sat up, blinking blearily at the name scrolling across the notification window on your phone, and convinced yourself you were still fast asleep.

‘James :)’ shimmered loud and proud in the pixelated slot of space, perplexing your delirious brain beyond measure. You played with the possibility of going back to sleep, but your curiosity got the better of you.

Opening your phone, you pressed the green answer button and held it to your ear.

“Hello,” you croaked out, more of a question than a greeting.

The other side of the line seemed to lag for a second, like maybe there was no one there, and then James spoke.

“Hel—hi.”

Even though he was only on the phone, hearing his voice made you sit up a little straighter, tamping your bedhead down with a flat palm.

“James?”

He sucked in a breath, and the way it cracked through the line made it sound like a cigarette pull.

“Yeah, um. Yeah. I’m sorry, I really didn’t expect you to answer. You sound so tired, I feel awful.”

“No, don’t be, it’s—” You caught yourself before you could placate him, because no amount of insisting it wasn’t early would change the hands on the clock, “—it’s fine, honestly. My boss is Irish, so I’ve got the day off.”

There was a pause and some shuffling, and then James said, “oh hell, it’s the seventeenth, yeah. I forgot.”

“What?” you exclaimed. “How could you? Everything’s been green for weeks now.”

James laughed, the sound muffled like it was coming from another room.

“I know, I’m sure, I’ve just been too busy to notice. I’m uh, I’m actually moving tomorrow. Or today, I guess.”

“Oh yeah?” You bit your lip, smiling a touch and daring to ponder, “Where?”

Another long pause.

“The city,” James replied, and you thought you could hear him smiling, too. “London.”

Picking at your comforter, you felt your lips ebb and flow, uncertain whether to be happy or sad. You really liked James, perhaps even as more than a friend that you’d kissed once on New Years. He was sweet, and attentive, and he seemed to really like you; Texted you right away, unlike most guys you’d been with.

And here he was calling you, striking up a conversation in the early hours of the morning.

“That’s great,” you said, dredging up all of the joy in your chest to saturate your words with. “Where in?”

He seemed hesitant, thinking about it for a second. “Islington, I think? I’ve only ever been up two or three times, so I’m not really sure.”

You nodded, charmed to silence just by the way he spoke, by the number of things you’d rather have asked him—about his life, about that handful of trips to the big city. You were so involved in the thought that you forgot he couldn’t see you.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes! Yes, sorry, I was nodding.” You laughed a little to lighten the tension. “Um, Islington is great.”

“Really?” James asked. “You’ve been?”

“Well, no.” You laughed some more, and James joined you. “But I live in Shoreditch, actually, so we’ll be really close.”

You hoped that didn’t come off too flirty, and then you hoped that it did, which made you feel terribly guilty. If being on the phone with James was dangerous, you certainly couldn’t be around him in person again.

Eyes closing, you cleared your throat.

“Um, James?”

The boy on the other line hummed in response, and then said, “What?”

“Is there a reason you called?”

It felt rude to ask, but you thought the early hour might cover for you. If you wanted to crawl back under your covers and sleep Saint Patty’s Day away, could he really blame you?

“Oh!” said James, and again your heart thumped hard and cruel in your throat, damming any words inside. “Yes, I’m sorry. I meant to ask you if you were free at all next week? For that coffee I mentioned after New Years.”

Fuzz overtakes the line for the next few seconds as your head falls into your lap. In part, you blame yourself, for being so naive as to think he’d call for anything else. The other part falls on you for different reasons, namely, being on the phone at all with someone you had undeniable feelings for.

For not turning him away in the first place, even though you knew his feelings were just as secure.

“Um,” you started, fighting the frog in your throat, “I’m really sorry James, but I’m actually seeing someone right now. I don’t think…”

You stopped there, because anything that came after would veer immediately into a confession that would hurt you both, and then some.

James was eerily quiet, so much so that you checked your phone to ensure he hadn’t hung up. Then, finally, he breathed out an, “Oh.”

It felt more like a punch to the gut.

For some reason, your face burned with acute embarrassment. Something about admitting to James that you were with someone else felt shameful, like some odd betrayal. Thankfully, he didn’t encourage the feeling.

“Well I hope he’s an alright guy,” James said fairly, and you told him he was. After yet another bout of silence, James just said, “good.”

And then the line clicked.

thank you for reading! xx | masterlist

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[kairiscorner]

Hii! No need to rush but could you do a fic where the reader is also a spider-person and gets sucked into Miles’ dimension just like in itsv and noir and them get a long really well and end up being shipped by the rest? I think it’d be quite cute :D also sorry if this isn’t that elaborate ToT

hiya anon !! ╰(⸝⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝⸝)╯ dw about it !! i just hope you like this <:))

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

well, this was certainly a conundrum. the flashing lights of brooklyn practically blinded you, coupled with the sudden sounds and buzzing from the people, establishments, and cars passing by. you were disoriented, your spider sense was out of whack for the time being, and you could only wonder, 'this isn't my city... where am i?'

you aimlessly wandered around the city, accidentally bumping into people here and there, almost getting run over when you missed the green pedestrian light, and bumping into a few too many streetlamps. you hated how familiar yet foreign this city felt to you; one minute, you minding your own business while swinging around your city, doing your rounds and all. but as you were swinging... you felt yourself gravitate to something. everything else around you--leaves, newspapers, plastic bags, even you yourself were getting drawn to this force.

it turned out to be a portal that opened up from somewhere else into your world; and try as you might to resist it and its pull, you were eventually sucked in and thrown into this city. "what i would give to... find someone who had the slightest clue about what the hell is--oomph!" you exclaimed as you felt a slight tingle crawl up through your shoulders, raise the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck, but the sudden collision between you and what felt like a tall man had interrupted that sense of yours from telling you what, or who, exactly was in front of you.

"oh, good heavens, you okay there?" asked a gentlemanly, kind of dapper-sounding voice. the man you bumped into held you up, with you eventually clinging on to him as you nearly fell over due to how disoriented you were from this new city's endlessly bright lights and loud noises. "i'm fine... sorry." you murmured as the man held you up and dusted you off a little. you got a better look of the guy and he tipped his fedora a little, and you noticed when you glanced at his attire from head to toe, you felt the tingle again through your bones this time--and you could tell he did, too.

"you're like me." you both announced in unison. you sighed in relief and felt yourself smile from underneath your mask. "yeah! yeah, i am, and you are! ok, um... do you have any clue where we are?" you asked him, hoping the monochrome man in the trench coat and fedora had any idea where you two were, but it seemed he was just as lost as you were. "i'm afraid i'm in the dark about this whole place too. i was kind of hoping someone would come along and show me around, but i guess the universe is too much of a joker to take peter parker seriously." he said with a slight chuckle as you sighed in disappointment, now.

"well... guess we're both lost, parker, was it?" you asked him with a raised eyebrow as he tipped his fedora again and nodded. "peter benjamin parker, please to meet ya." he said as he extended his gloved hand. you introduced yourself, and you noticed peter looking over your spider suit in awe. "you have such... a wonderful taste in fashion." he said with a smile underneath his mask. you smiled back, without even seeing his smile. "thanks, i've been told it's a little too colorful, though. i was considering toning it down, but i'm glad you like it." you replied. "ah, i've got the same problem, too. a lot of people have told me my getup is more like a mortician than it is a private investigator, let alone as a 'superhero'." he rambled a little as you listened to him.

"i guess we both have our problems with how people see us, then. but it's better than facing those problems alone, no?" you asked as you looked up at him. "certainly is." he responded. you two had agreed to swing over to the nearest rooftop and find answers from there, and all the while, you two talked on and on about each other's home universes and the lives you two lived there. "sounds cool, your universe, i mean. what if i brought you like, maybe, a glow in the dark ceiling decor?" you offered, to which peter almost lost his grip from his webbing. "you decorate ceilings? with... things that 'glow in the dark'? fascinating..." he said as he held on to his webbing tighter and his hat as the wind threatened to blow it away. "i'd love to have you over, though! maybe after this whole debacle, i can show you all the finest spots my home has to offer!" he said as you two swung around, and you found yourself agreeing to it already before even knowing him for an hour.

after the whole collider fight, you rushed up to peter and embraced him tightly. "i knew you could make it out, with a champ like you, of course you would!" he exclaimed happily as he held you tightly. "and so did you, big man." you said as you chuckled in excitement and happiness at your group's victory. you could feel everyone else's eyes on you two, and the best part was... they were waiting for this moment to happen ever since you two joined their ensemble.

"i told you they had something going on together." peni said with a smile as ham held her hand, blowing a comically loud and exaggerated sniffle into a cloth he summoned from his hammerspace. "they were always destined to be in love!" he exclaimed as he cried into the cloth. you looked up to see them all looking at you and peter, and you immediately took your hands off him, a little hastily and still smiling widely like a dork. "we're just really happy we won!" you tried clearing it up, but peter wouldn't let go of you and still hugged you tightly. "yeah, we won, now lemme hug 'em, yeah?" peter said as the others chuckled, with some crying out of happiness for you two.

you looked at peter, with peter looking back at you. you placed both of your hands on his cheeks and smiled. "can i... visit your world for a little bit, when we find a way to do that safely?" you asked him as he leaned a little closer toward you. "oh, darling... i'd let you be with me every time. i do wanna see your world, too--maybe the universe will finally come along for peter benjamin parker now and let us be happy at each other's sides--" "oooookay, that's enough people, move along, chop chop, let's go home." said peter b as he cut off your peter at the sight of how loving he was being to you. "quick word of advice, if you two get married, never invest in a spider-themed restaurant, they will hate you forever." he whispered to your peter, who took mental note of that.

"guess this is... goodbye." you told him as you held his hand, not wanting to let go. "no, doll... it's a see you soon, i promise." he said as he swiftly planted a soft kiss on your forehead as he let go of your hand and lifted his mask up to show you his face--his charming, sweet smile that promised to meet you again very soon.

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @sabcandoit @binibinileonara @k4tsu3 @luvstarrstruck @maxoloqy @connors-cumslurper

[14th-century-verona-queer]

SOME BACKGROUND INFO:

Heacannon that one day, somehow (don’t ask me how okay its late im running on no brain cells) a speaker in the apartment starts BLARING music

And nobody knows where it came from or how it started but what they DO know is that the speaker is blasting “While You Were Sleeping” by Laufey at full volume. On loop. For 10 or more minutes. But its so loud that you can’t really make out the lyrics that well (so it’s basically just the instrumental and the melody that laufey’s singing without any distinct words ig)

ON TO THE STORY:

“What the FUCK is that noise?? It’s been playing for the past 10 minutes, which one of you idiots put it on?”, Al says irritably.

Wade, being the himbo that he is, (hey! I am not a himbo, thank you very much!) yes you are Wade, the whole fandom agrees, now SHUSH IM TELLING A STORY (my bad) YES YOUR BAD NOW SHH

says, “How do we know YOU didn’t put it on, hmm Al?

Al shuffles over and whacks him upside the head, “I’M BLIND, MOTHERFUCKER. HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO THAT? I DON’T EVEN OWN A GOD DAMN PHONE.”

While..all that..is going on, Logan (who had just woken up from an alcohol-induced nap) stalks into the kitchen wearing a pair of Wade’s hot pink Hello Kitty pajamas, with his eyes reduced to slits (cause yk, hangover and stuff ig?) is like

“what the hell are you guys screaming about and what the fuck is that noi-“

And then he cuts off because Wade and Al just very slowly, very carefully, turn in his direction and stare at him (al kinda just turns in his general direction)

“What the fuck are you guys looking-?”

“I can’t see, honey”

“sorry Althea, facing my general direction, for?”

“..is that my phone, peanut?”

“….yes…what about it, bub” and Logan, bless his oblivious soul, crosses his arms and scrunches his nose up, confused.

“Is that my phone, open to SPOTIFY, CURRENTLY PLAYING THE SONG THAT HAS BEEN BLARING ON LOOP FOR THE PAST 10 FUCKING MINUTES? I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU GOT THE PASSWORD TO MY PHONE, BUT THAT IS A QUESTION FOR ANOTHER DAY CAN YOU PLEASE TURN THAT FUCKING THING OFF ITS GIVING ME TINNITUS.”

and Logan, now mostly awake, slowly pauses the song, and just stares at Wade, waiting for a reaction

“Uh…yes. This is your phone. And what about it?”

”Honey badger..did you put that song on..? See I could be wrong, (even though I never am *logan snorts* HEY!) and I couldn’t hear much, but it sounded a bit too classical and was a bit too jazz pop for the big bad Wolverine to listen to. But now I’m curious sooooo can I see? Pleeeease?”

And Logan, being down bad obviously reluctantly gives it to him cause who is he to not please Wade when he’s begging?? He can’t just NOT when Wade looks so pretty and earnest and is genuinely curious and he knows he won’t make fun of Logan no matter what and he’s pretty and HE’S JUST REALLY PRETTY WE GET IT SHUT UP NOW INNER MONOLOGUE.

Wade gently takes the phone from him and knits his, what would be eyebrows, together

“While you were sleeping?? Kitten (Logan almost chokes at that btw) are you stalking someone? Why didn’t you tell me I could’ve helped!” Wade jokes “Okay but actually, who’s Laufey?”

Logan’s eyes widen and his entire face turns red, not from a blush but from anger. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW WHO LAUFEY IS SHE’S AN AMAZING ARTIST AND ACTUALLY TALENTED HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW HER?? I’ve been alive for 200 years, bub, but she’s one of the best artists I’ve ever listened to in my god damn life! How DARE you insult her by not even knowing who she is.”

Wade, who was not paying attention, (Yes i was!) don’t lie to yourself Wade you literally weren’t.

I JUST wrote that you weren’t paying attention, now FOLLOW THE SCRIPT OMG (okay okay but keep going youre making the readers wait too damn long) SHUT YOUR YAP I KNOW ALREADY OH MY FUCKING GOD.

Anyways, Wade was looking at the lyrics instead of paying attention to Logan’s passionate rant (ooh I wish he was passionate with me) Wade actually shut up (okay sorry) you SHOULD BE.

“I'm dancing down streets, smiling to strangers Idiotic things?? I trace it all back, three-thirty AM, that night, something turned in my heart While you were sleeping, I fell in love??” He says confusedly

“Who’d you fall in love with, hmm Peanut?”

To be continued..

Thank you so much for reading!

This is pretty much the first little story that I’ve ever written, so apologies for anything that doesn’t make sense

Yea I’m splitting this into multiple parts because I’m actually kind of considering making this a small little story?

Not quite sure yet! (You better!! I wanna get to the good stuff! Like where Logan ***** while he *** and *****) Wade there will be NO smut in this story PLEASE do not get ahead of yourself. (Oh c’mon!) Sorry dude I’m ace I (personally) do not know how to write any kind of convincing smut, nor do I want to.

(Sorry to any readers who were hoping for that kind of content!)

I have no idea how it went from me just yapping to like actual story jargon, but I am quite aware that it’s weird and will be updating later! (If anyone wants a part 2 ofc)

If you all want a part 2 I’ll make it more “story-like” and won’t have it start off however the fuck it started off this time.

Thank you so much for all your love and support! It means the world

Sorry for the cliffhanger btw loves (not rlly hehe)

-Cori

[mangoshorthand]

Arrow of Time: Chapter 4 [Five Hargreeves/ F Reader]

(Hard Feelings Part 5)

SUMMARY: When the mother of all teenage tantrums causes time itself to fracture, Five has to travel back to 1831 to repair the damage. But will he be able to cope with what he finds there?

On to Chapter 5 >> << Back to Chapter 3

Five makes plans to rescue you, but it's been far longer for you than for him.

Chapter 4: At Home With Reginald Hargreeves

Five chose a Glock 19 and filled his jacket pockets with as many spare pre-loaded magazines as he could carry. At 33 rounds each, he prepared to leave sitting on a respectable level of firepower; he just hoped he wouldn’t need it .With any luck, he thought, he’d arrive in something like the early 2000s and she’d be there waiting for him. He hoped for the best but prepared for the worst.

The heavy coat was a just-in-case choice. He knew from bitter experience: a decent coat was worth its weight in gold if you were stuck in some wasteland away from people. On the off-chance that Five wouldn’t be stuck in some wasteland away from people, some of Reginald’s gold antiques could be easily sold to help him get by. While Five was in the armory, Diego had searched him out a spyglass, what looked like a snuff-box and a pocket watch, all in gold or gold and enamel. 

“That should keep you going, hermano,” he said, giving Five’s shoulder a squeeze. Apparently, he’d chosen to forget Five’s meanness earlier. Despite Five’s favourite taunt, Diego wasn’t dumb: just then, he could see past his brother’s bluster of confident action to the just-veiled panic within. 

“You’ll find her.” he said, reassuringly, “she’ll probably be standing right on a street corner in 1970 or somewhere yelling about how Nixon’s a fascist.”

Five had cracked a smile at this before looking down again at his shoes.

“Diego…I don’t know for sure what’s going to happen. And…”, he’d sighed fitfully, indecisively,  “what the hell am I doing? If I go, she could be losing both parents.”

Diego squeezed the hand still on his shoulder. 

“If you don’t go, she could die. We all could. You know it, Five.”

Green eyes met brown as Five looked up.

“If we don’t come back, then-” he couldn’t finish the request, voice squalling as he choked on the words. 

Diego shook his head, laughing softly at the fact Five thought he even had to ask. 

“Like she’s our own. Tu hija es mi hija .”

Five nodded, some of his worry removed and, in a move as rare as it was heartfelt, hugged Diego. They broke apart after much throat-clearing and back-slapping. 

“Come on, Number Two,” Five said then, throwing off gravity with as much irony as he could muster.

Back in the study, Lila was trying her best to extort a smile from Aoife- to keep her relaxed despite Uncle Luther’s grave expression.   

“Honestly, sweetie, that’s got to be the most epic teenage meltdown in history. Whacking your Mum through a rip in time? That’s genius : that’s the stuff of teenage dreams. I just wish I’d thought of it when I was your age.”

As Five and Diego walked in, her father dressed to leave, Aoife began to leak from the eyes again.

The others tactfully averted their eyes as Five beckoned her to him for one final hug, giving them a little privacy .Aoife whispered unintelligible apologies and Five loving reassurance. Though it was mostly in Italian, the tenderness in Five’s voice was enough to let them know that this was for his daughter’s ears alone.

Five tried to put as much as he could into that hug: years of love, guidance and comfort that he might now never be able to give her. 

“ Ti voglio bene. Tua madre ti ama.”

“Dad, I’m sorry!”

“Stai sempre al sicuro, sappi che ti amiamo e comportati bene. Sono orgoglioso e non smetterò mai di esserlo, ok?” 

He held her tight for a few more precious moments before letting her go and stepping backwards. He was nervous or, more accurately, terrified. He hadn’t wanted to suggest that Aoife may not be able to replicate what she did; he didn’t want to plant even a shred of doubt in her mind. He knew it was entirely possible that she wouldn’t be able to send him after his wife but he had to go on pretending: for himself as well as for their daughter.

“Go on, cara,” he said, mustering a grin as if this was just a game of soccer and she was preparing to take a penalty against him, “send me wherever you sent Mom. Just do exactly the same thing.”

“Okay.”

She took a couple of deep breaths and shook out her limbs, bracing herself against the floor.

“That’s my girl.”

She rubbed her hands together and he felt her power up. This was a good start. 

“Come on now,” he encouraged, buoyed himself, “just a big push and we’ll be back before you know it.”

She nodded, fervently, eyes still sparkling with tears. Did she believe him or was she nodding with the force of how much she wanted it to be true? She closed her eyes and sprang at him.

He breached the film-like seal easily. She’d done it: he spiralled into senseless static storm. He fell (or maybe falls?) through time, screwing up his eyes against the turmoil. 

And he lands, amazingly, on his feet. His knees buckle only slightly. Straightening his back, he looks over his shoulder at the tear, watching it disappear in a sag-like collapse. No problem: it’s still there, only invisible.

He hurries out of the alleyway, brain much cooler than he’d imagined it would be, and scans the crowded street for a glimpse of his wife. Nothing. A setback, but only a slight one. He calls her name experimentally. Nothing but a few haughty looks from passers-by. Okay: reconnaissance time.

It’s old-timey times, that much is clear. He doesn’t know much about fashion but if that woman’s hat is anything to go by, it’s certainly pre-20th century. Carriages on the road: definitely 19th century. There’s a chill in the air: so winter, maybe early spring? He’d be thankful for the warm coat were it not attracting so many stares. So where is he? 

He strolls into the street, still scanning the pedestrians for a glimpse of your face. The accents of the passers-by certainly sound American and this is clearly a city, so he decides to work on the assumption that he’s traveled further through time than he has space. Those accents weren’t precisely what he’d expect from local New Yorkers, but he knows enough about linguistic change to know that accents shift over centuries. If these people sound a little more Irish or English or Italian or whatever, it’s to be expected.

He takes off the coat and drapes it over his arm. In exposing his suit, he hopes to look slightly less out of place than he does in the coat with its obviously modern fabrics. At least a suit will be a recognizable garment to these people, even if he’s wearing one that looks completely bizarre to them.

Though Five doesn’t know it, his next move mirrors yours when you arrived here, although he has less care for being polite. Across the street, a man slightly more down-at-heel than the relatively affluent people around him carries a newspaper under his arm. Five blinks across to him, appearing directly in his eyeline and causing him and several others to call out in shock.

“Is that today’s newspaper?” Five says, abruptly. He’s unwilling to tread softly: he wants to find you and get the hell out of here.

The man nods and Five holds out his hand expectantly. He thrusts it towards him and hurries away. Five knows he and the others will already be trying to rationalize what he saw: of course that strangely dressed man didn’t appear out of nowhere, he just stepped out from behind that carriage extremely quickly.

Five shakes out the front page. It’s a copy of the New-York Evening Post, dated March 6th 1831. That answers two questions: yes, he is in the nineteenth century and yes, he is still in New York. But none of this answers the more important question of where the hell his wife is.

Stuffing the newspaper into his back pocket, he blinks back to the alleyway, checking the walls for the hope of some sign: some calling card you might have left. Nothing. 

Hell, is he in the right place? Did Aoife somehow send him somewhere else? He didn’t think it was possible but he would have expected to have seen something by now if you were here. You knew how things went down in Dallas: you knew how he’d had to find his siblings like a trail of more-or-less idiotic breadcrumbs. You’d leave him some way of finding you again, he knew it.

Tracking people down was never a huge part of his skill-set, either when Dad was training them or when working for the Commission. Indeed, the job that had made his name in the Commission, (Paris: 1938) had been notable because he’d had to improvise after being unable to track the target down in time. Nevertheless, he’d had enough experience with it to know how to begin in a situation like this. 

He walks back to the alley where he arrived and puts himself squarely in your shoes. Knowing you almost as well as he knows himself by now, he’s at an advantage: it’s time to reconstruct your first moments here.

You were a first time time-traveler without the aid of a briefcase and his supportive arm…you’d be disorientated. You’d have fallen onto the cobbles. He crouches down, trying to get to the level you’d be at. You’d be scared, obviously. He looks into the sky behind him, where the portal would have just disappeared: you’d be looking for help, looking for him… but clearly he wasn’t there.

Still immersed in your headspace, Five looks around into the street. You’d probably panic, maybe run into the street and cause a stir. People would stare at you like they’d stared at him…except you were in your pajamas and robe: braless and exposed…you probably wouldn’t get much help from people on the street. They’d think you were mad.

His stomach lurches at this. If there’s one thing he knows about the 1830s, it’s that mentally-ill people were not treated well. So that puts asylums firmly on his list, unless he can find a better lead. Shit, a woman on her own in 1831? 

The realization makes him pause, blood running cold; if you’re here, then you’re probably in serious danger. He needs to find you, and quickly. He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if you’re here alone for even a few days. He bats away the thoughts for now and returns to his process. 

Vulnerable, unsure where (or when), you were and attracting stares from people dressed like a period drama. He crosses his arms over his chest as you would likely have done, to hide prominent nipples. Inside…you’d want to go inside and get off the street.

He hurries into all the establishments on the street: he blinks from church to pawnbroker and bookstore to butcher: neither the preacher nor the store’s clerks can recall a woman of your description. 

In the pawnbroker, he makes his first mistake. He’s so distracted by first enquiring after you and then selling the antique spyglass that he doesn’t notice something in the window: something that could lead him to you much more quickly. As it is, he walks straight past that item, folding the two hundred and ten dollars he got for the spyglass and placing the notes in his jacket pocket with two of the Glok’s spare clips.

If Five hadn’t been concerned with concealing the ammunition, he might have caught the sparkle of rubies and spotted your engagement ring in the window for sale. 

He’d initially overlooked the Milliner’s shop right beside the alley entrance. When he blinks inside unexpectedly, the two women comparing the shade of ribbon on two bonnets give little screams of surprise.

Ignoring them, Five focuses his attention purely on the shop’s startled proprietor:

“Did a woman come in here? She’d be dressed strangely. In a pair of pajamas and a robe?”

“Pajamas?” said the clerk, clearly not understanding the word.

Five tries to keep his frustration under the surface, “Like a cotton shirt and pants? With a floral pattern and a white robe on top? Probably panicking.”

There’s a spark of something like recognition in her eyes. Her disposition towards him, (already chilly), seems to cool even further on learning of his association with her.

“Yes sir, though it was a long time since.”

“How long?” 

“About a year now, I’d say.”

A year? Five rubs a hand down his face. A year? While he collects himself, the clerk looks him up and down.

“You wouldn’t be her husband, would you?”

His eyes snapped back to hers, heart leaping,

“Yes. What did she say?”

“As I say, it was a long while ago now and I’m afraid I shooed her out right quick. I can’t say I can remember all she said.”

Five leans threateningly over the counter.

“Well, think.”

The shop’s customers behind him whisper among themselves. He ignores them, eyes boring into the clerk’s. She stammers slightly as she responds,

“I didn’t set much store by it. She seemed mad to me, I’m sorry to say. She was raving about being separated from her husband.”

Five tries extremely hard not to snap, “She was separated from her husband. What else?”

She quails under his look, backing up towards the door to the back of the store. 

“S-she said to tell you where she was staying if you came enquiring for her.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. Why this woman can’t just get to the point , he has no idea.

“Yes, and where was she staying?”

“At the tavern,” the clerk said, as if this was evidence in itself of his wife’s ill-repute. “The Bull’s Head. It’s a block away and it’s got one or two rooms overhead.”

As the church clock strikes four, Five starts to lose his cool; he found the Bull’s Head and the owner had remembered a woman matching your description stayed a few nights until she could no longer pay and then vanished without a trace. He’d pressed the guy as much as possible, but that’s all he seems to know. Combing the immediate area had also yielded nothing. He has no leads: nothing, zilch.

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

He’s spent one of his dollars on a night’s room and board on the understanding that he may be staying longer. He’d asked specifically for the room you hired: he doubted it would help, but it makes him feel closer to you somehow. The bed is saggy, the mattress filled with some kind of husk and the thin feather-filled bolster on top does little to compensate. Sure, the room isn’t exactly the Ritz, but Five’s had worse accommodations in his time. He’s spent most of his life without plumbing; at one time, he’d have thought pissing into a chamber pot the height of luxury, and the latrine in the yard out back meant that he at least didn’t have to bury his shit. 

He was used to slumming it, but you weren’t. In your fifteen years together, Five had never known you to be anything other than prissy about your bathroom habits. The reflection made him feel a strange squirm of amusement and pity. How you’d cope in this environment, he had no idea…but you would have adapted; you’d have had to.

Now, he drums his fingers erratically on the bar, drinking beer that tastes like warm piss. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing that he’s sitting on the newspaper still in his back pocket. He’s exhausted all his options for today: it can’t hurt to scour the news for some sort of clue.

He’s surprised by how much of the paper is taken up by advertisements. The entire front page is full of bullshit like: ‘Doctor John Ashton’s most efficacious elixir for relief from ladies monthly courses’ and how ‘Miss S. Campbell is pleased to announce her opening of a store for the wholesale and retail of fine silks and muslins’ but Five scours through them all nevertheless, hopeful for anything, anything at all.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

As the church clock strikes four, Five starts to lose his cool; he found the Bull’s Head and the owner had remembered a woman matching your description stayed a few nights until she could no longer pay and then vanished without a trace. He’d pressed the guy as much as possible, but that’s all he seems to know. Combing the immediate area had also yielded nothing. He has no leads: nothing, zilch.

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

He’s spent one of his dollars on a night’s room and board on the understanding that he may be staying longer. He’d asked specifically for the room you hired: he doubted it would help, but it makes him feel closer to you somehow. The bed is saggy, the mattress filled with some kind of husk and the thin feather-filled bolster on top does little to compensate. Sure, the room isn’t exactly the Ritz, but Five’s had worse accommodations in his time. He’s spent most of his life without plumbing; at one time, he’d have thought pissing into a chamber pot the height of luxury, and the latrine in the yard out back meant that he at least didn’t have to bury his shit. 

He was used to slumming it, but you weren’t. In your fifteen years together, Five had never known you to be anything other than prissy about your bathroom habits. The reflection made him feel a strange squirm of amusement and pity. How you’d cope in this environment, he had no idea…but you would have adapted; you’d have had to.

Now, he drums his fingers erratically on the bar, drinking beer that tastes like warm piss. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing that he’s sitting on the newspaper still in his back pocket. He’s exhausted all his options for today: it can’t hurt to scour the news for some sort of clue.

He’s surprised by how much of the paper is taken up by advertisements. The entire front page is full of bullshit like: ‘Doctor John Ashton’s most efficacious elixir for relief from ladies monthly courses’ and how ‘Miss S. Campbell is pleased to announce her opening of a store for the wholesale and retail of fine silks and muslins’ but Five scours through them all nevertheless, hopeful for anything, anything at all.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

AT HOME WITH SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES Newcomer to the Manhattan set, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, will be entertaining to a select group of Ladies and Gentlemen on March 9 at his home in LeRoy Place. Though one of the latest of an increasing number of British arriviste, Sir Reginald has made quite the impact on Manhattan society, and is already acquainted with the finest people. The evening will be devoted to music, dancing and social chat and promises to be a most fashionable occasion...

It makes him double-take. He can practically feel the blood draining from his face and into his extremities. Dad? Here? Throwing a party!? It just seems too much of a coincidence to not be significant. And how? How old was he? He knew he’d been around in the 20s, but to be here nearly a century earlier? 

He knows time’s in a fragile state right now, and if there’s one place he shouldn't go, then it’s that party, (the last thing he needs is to kick off another Sparrow Academy scenario), but he also can’t not go to this party. His Dad and his wife, appearing in a timeframe where neither of them had any business being? This wasn’t a coincidence: it simply couldn’t be.

…but he couldn’t just burst in and scream: ‘Hey Dad, where’s my wife and what are you doing here?’ It was essential to travel under Hargreeves’ radar and if he was going to do that, he had to be disciplined. No blinking, no yelling, nothing that could make him stick out. He hoped this ‘select group of ladies and gentlemen’ wasn’t too small so he had half a chance of blending in.

And if he were even to have a quarter of a chance of blending in, he needs to look the part. 

Then, Number Five makes his second mistake: He tears the society page out of the newspaper, folds it and hurries to the bar to ask for the nearest tailors or gentleman’s outfitters.  When he hurries out of the door, he leaves the rest of the newspaper on the table. If he'd kept reading to the personals section, he would have seen something even more useful than the piece about Reginald.

NUMBER FIVE - If a certain gentleman wishes to correspond with an old acquaintance, then he might apply to the editor of this newspaper.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88, @nevillescomslut (sorry for double tag Nev this is just to aid with my creation of the next post!)

On to Chapter 5 >> Masterpost

[astrolavas]

i think it’s kind of interesting with the hexside tracks convo. i actually think construction magic is the only coven-specific type of magic we’ve ever seen hunter do? with that big earth fist he whacked amity with in eclipse lake. i don’t know if that would be an argument for or against him taking it as a class, but i feel like everything else we’ve ever seen him do is like,, not tied to a coven besides that one spell

(this is related to this old post but i put the answer in my drafts and the option of posting it vanished from my memory lmao)

tbh that IS true, i forgor it can be technically considered construction magic kxjsjks

i feel like there are so many spells and different "sub magic types" and magic courses that are kinda unclear which track they'd be taught at or where they fall under, especially since there are some tracks/magic types that we've only seen used in a very general way; like construction or oracle. we've seen manyyyy possibilities for some tracks, like abomination (like what darius vs alador vs amity can do, how differently it can be used) or bard (how at first glance it just feels like a "yeah we use instruments to fight and do spells" but then we also find out how much you can truly do with it and how much actually falls under bard magic through raine) or illusions (everything that gus, and graye, have been shown to do) etc. but some tracks/covens we have really just been kinda... shown from a very surface level lol

hell, i still wonder why anyone would ever choose a potion coven in a world during belos' reign, where you have to choose to only have one magic type, because... from all we've seen it seems like in order to make potions you don't really need any magic (having magic can help but it's not necessarily needed) so what magic DO you get??? you have to get something (maybe magic that can assist you in making potions?) but we have no clear idea what. also considering how oftentimes potion-making is also tied in with other magic types (like plants or healing or beast-keeping) it almost feels like it should be a sub-type of each magic or an addition rather than its own thing. BUT KXJSHSK YEAH like, we don't know! i wish it was more clearly fleshed out in the show.

there's also the fact that now that belos is gone, the society is able to take back their culture and history and practices that were lost to time and as we can see in the epilogue they're actively working on making the boiling isles less... belos-influenced. they're working on that process of decolonization and it's going to be a long LOOONG while until traces of belos' impact completely disappear, but there are already clear changes. the sky is clear again (just like it was in the "savage ages" - a contrast to the pollution we see in the emperor's coven era), palismen are being carved again and palistroms are coming back from being endangered, selkidomus is doing good, the once a police precinct in latissa is now a hospital and the hostile architecture around it (the spikes) is gone, there's now a way to remove sigils and everyone is free to pursue whatever they want. the society is healing. etc.

and covens, magic being split into these clear subtypes- was not ever really something natural. like yeah, there ARE magic types that seem very clearly "thematic" like you can very clearly separate bard magic from plant magic, and a witch can be naturally skilled in a particular thing (like willow or gus) but there are also some spells that overlap and some that seemingly don't fit into any covens at all. belos made up covens in order to limit witches' bodily autonomy and control their abilities, in order to seem more powerful and to create this structure of power. so i imagine that if you are in a coven, in any coven, there are spells that don't quite fit any of them, or some that fit all.

i. ngl i completely derailed the ask and forgot where i was going with this LMAO but yeah

[bleachedjuice]

'To Whom The Bells Toll'

König x reader

Warnings: foul language

So, this will be as lengthy or possibly longer than adrenaline high, and so the possibility of an every two day posting or day to day base will most likely not be possible. So there will be either one to two parts posted weekly at scheduled times on the respecting days:Monday and Thursdays.

These chapters will also be much longer,give or take the range of 1,500-3,000 words or longer for each chapter.

Parts of the fan fic are not a part of the campaign as I do not like to stick to the game, so be warned if things are a little out of whack. As well as locations will also be made up.

Enjoy:)

Just as your back had struck the cold metal of the choppers belly,you felt relief from the harsh heat that broke down onto you and your team. Respectfully, Laswell had assigned you to the task force 'Dark' given your team, and you have had your fair share of doing things behind the scenes and doing thing sometimes even the government isn't even aware of until Laswell herself gets word from your team and report it back to base and then the government. And now you all were on your way to a touch and go base somewhere out in the Pacific coast line of Australia... to help or well give extra set of hands to the task force 141, and you'd be damned if Captain Fucking Price though he'd be commanding your squadron. Your team. Your family. As far as his bucket ass is concerned, your title as Captain holds you as commander on your team.

And his on his.

Turns out some sort of uprisen activity of a wanted fugitive, Hassan. Had missiles. American missles, and now here you were being sent out to help these boys out due to the uncanny fact that they got screwed over by the US governments task force : the Shadows.

Your pack lay hard against your back as you pondered what the hell made you stay. After taking a bullet to the face and surviving with basically the left side of your mouth exposed to one of your first missions to date for a commanding officer, you were "saved," but had been given the offer to stay or be departed from your team... you stayed. Scared and knurled, you climbed your way bitterly to the top, and now found yourself captain of your beloved team.

Your fingers subconsciously traced the mutilated side of your face. The scar ran down to the bottom of your chin to culr its way up to your lip or where they'd be on the left side. All that was left was a pinkish thin line of scar, and what was left of them on that side. The scar left no skin to protect your upper gum and teeth area. Leaving your teeth and canines exposed on that side. You were once ashamed of it. Before realizing that It showed you truly were a survivor.

And as the people at base call you and your team, "Laswells Hell Hounds".

Fitting to the monstrosity of things you've all seen, been through and have been left scarred with. Either mentally or physically.

Glancing over your members. Your eyes ghosted them as they conversed, gladly leaving you to be alone for the time being until you were to speak. They knew how you got on choppers. On alert. Hostile even. You never liked choppers. Always gave you the feeling of being open to being popped right out of the sky.

Almost 3/4th of your squadrons members had visible scars or mutilation from missions.

Others had them worse behind clothing and the protection of cloth.

Only 5 of you.

And you 5 where utter machines.

And you could it feel it. The urge itself to move even while sitting on the chopper. The way you shifted in your seats, your eyes scanning over everything, the constant checking of your guns.

You all were bred for it. Best of the best. Weened right off of the teat of the training programs and chucked right into others to morph you all into the beings you are now.

Like rapid dogs, you all tore up the battlefields. Secreted dread from any other teams you where placed on.

And as the wind weeded unto your now sweat dried face, you only would imagine what awaited you five when you stepped off this chopper.

Imagine, funny how you couldn't lay a finger on what would happen, yet here you all were. Standing in a dust filled room with the sun slowly creeping in like a shadow would, dancing with the dust with its rays that danced off parts of skin and wretched its way harshly onto the outlines of the guns still held in your hands like defensive dogs.

And give or take you held a scowled look, almost a snarl on your face. Couldn't help it with how you face looked now.

Scoffing at the words of your own sourness as your eyes danced along the members of the others team.

You've worked with some of these men before.

Soap Mctavish. Simon Riley. And Price.

But a new face caught your eye.

One who was hidden behind a snipers mask but was evidently too tall to even be a sniper in the first place.

Intestresting.

And you felt his eyes lock onto yours. Crocodilan. Sharp.

You felt the hair on the back of your neck. You felt your face scrunch up slightly, your teeth baring harsh together as you forced a quick smile. And you could feel his eyes narrow at you, his back straightening and his shoulders squaring.

You could just feel that you two would be butting heads.

Feeling yourself space out at him like a rapid dog, you snapped back into motion with a blink before cocking your head audibly toward Laswells voice, the tall ones figure kept in the corner of your eye. All of their team was kept in the corner of your eye as she talked.

"The main goal is to get Missiles back out of the hands of Hassan. So far, we have gotten one missile out of this bastards hands. But there are two missing. Mind you, these are American, leading in for us to believe that Hassan had some ties with the Shadows and Sheperd. Which also has come to the lead of Hassan having ties in Russia. We may have a lead on the Missile."

"Where?"

Her gaze snapped to your voice as it rung out, your brow quirked up, waiting for her to answer.

And she seemed pleased to see her "hounds" ready.

"Russian Town on the border of Ukraine,океан or ocean. He is believed to be there as well. He is the second primary target of this mission. Capture or kill. Do what you may, but we need to get that missile out of his hands. You all will take one jet out. And then will weave through the rear end of the border between the town and the ocean cutting at the base of them both. And through the border, you will split. 141, your duty it to ensure a clear path way for the recovering chopper, Gaz will take an overlook and snipe. After that, Y/n will take their team and swipe the ground clean and recover the Missile and hopefully kill or capture the mad man behind this all. You have until tomorrow evening 6 sharp to rest and prepare. Dismissed"

And with that your Team had already weaseled past the rest, leaving you to shoo them off as you stayed back with the expected look from Laswell to stay and wait for the other to leave. And the rest did. Besides the hulking crocidle next to you.. of a man they called König.

And she spoke.

"König will be with your team. He is big and large and will divert eyes enough to pry attention from your guns to take the eyes eye ."

"Ma'am, I will allow him to work with My team. But he will stay clear of my way."

"As I expect him. And I expect you to ensure he stays clear out the jaws of your team. Dismissed."

And with that, you turned and left. Your eyes narrowed at König as you walked past him. And he followed After, before shoving past you like a child.

"Ah, excuse me bitte."

And with that and a heavy Austrian accent, he was gone as you both spoke in unsion.

And as you walked out after him you faintly heard a voice..Laswell.

"Don't blow it Y/n..one shot."

Fuck...

[snowdice]

Unplanned Consequences (Part 3: Remy) [Sometimes Labels Shift Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Remy & Logan, (background) Remy/Emile

Characters: Remy, Logan, Emile (briefly)

Summary: Remy is asked to help with something.

Notes: This takes place after Best Laid Plans

Part 1 Part 2

When the doorbell to the safe house rang, Remy found himself flinching to his own embarrassment. However, when he looked at Emile over the little kitchen table, the tension around his eyes told him he wasn’t the only one on edge.

“Probably just someone trying to sell us solar power panels,” Remy said. “I’ll go tell them we rent.”

Emile nodded and followed him without a word. He picked up the gun that had been laying on the table between them and carried it with him. Remy knew Emile wasn’t exactly a fan of guns, so seeing him pick it up with so little hesitation both made him feel better and worse.

Emile hung back out of sight of the door while Remy approached, though he did his best to stay where he thought his shadow couldn’t be seen through the pulled curtain on the front door window. Cautiously he stretched so he could glance out of the curtain.

The fear that had been rolling in his stomach swiftly transitioned into being pissed off.

He almost ripped the door off its hinges. He probably would have if Logan was any worse at picking safe houses. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Logan himself in all his dumb motherfucking beaten to hell glory was sitting (not standing because Remy was well aware he had a broken leg) outside the safe house.

“Good evening, Remington,” he said irritatingly calmly. He was in a wheelchair. What had Patton been thinking getting him a wheelchair? Now he was mobile. And a mobile Logan, as was evident, was an idiot.

“Give me one reason,” Remy said, gripping the door frame so hard he was afraid he might bend it, structurally sound or no, “not to finish the job right now you bitch.”

“There is a task that must be done, and Patton is not in the mental state to do it.”

“And you’re in the physical state to do it?!” Remy asked. “How the fuck did you even get here?”

“I designed my vehicle years ago for adequate functionality no matter what my physical and mental state,” Logan explained. Remy glanced behind him to see a car he’d never seen before and didn’t recognize the make or model of at all.

“You have a concussion, dumbass.”

“It is mostly self-driving when needed,” Logan waved him off.

“Mostly?! I fucking hate you.”

Emile had approached, sans gun after hearing the conversation going on. “Perhaps we should keep this conversation quieter,” he suggested, in a more level tone.

“That is likely for the best,” Logan agreed.

“You can shut your mouth,” Remy snapped at him, though he did keep his tone quieter. “Why don’t we go inside?”

He realized his mistake instantly when Logan glanced meaningly at the porch steps. Right. That explained why the man hadn’t used his complicated secret knock. He couldn’t get up onto the porch and was likely still suffering from power exhaustion. Fucker shouldn’t have even put forth the effort to ring the doorbell. “Or I’ll just come to your car,” Remy said, glancing back at Emile. Emile nodded and stepped back into the house.

Remy went down the steps and whacked Logan’s hands away from the wheelchair wheels.

“I managed to get here,” Logan reminded him, a little bit grumpy which was actually a nice change from the businesslike tone he’d been taking so far.

“You are supposed to be on bedrest, so fuck you,” Remy replied, moving to push him towards the car. “Now how do you get in and out of this thing?”

“Step back,” Logan said. Remy did with a raised eyebrow and then had to bite his tongue to keep from making a loud exclamation of shock. It went too fast for him to quite make out what happened and if he didn’t know better, it looked like the car basically just… swallowed Logan wheelchair and all. In a blink, Logan was in the driver’s seat.

Remy gaped at him for a moment before shaking himself and rounding the car to get into the passenger seat the normal way.

“Okay,” Remy said, once seated. “Explain to me why I’m not driving you immediately back to Patton so he can put you into a medically induced coma until you heal.”

“Well, for starters, I am in the driver’s seat.”

Remy rolled his eyes.

Logan took a breath. “I am very injured,” he said. “In a way I cannot hide in my personal life. At this point, it seems unlikely we are already compromised. Delaying returning to our normal lives is very quickly becoming more of a risk to our identities than continuing to hide.”

“And?”

“We need to crash my personal car,” Logan said, “and I need to go to the emergency room.”

“Oh… shit.”

“Will you help me?”

“Well,” Remy said, “I’m not letting Patton or Virgil for that matter do it, so I fucking guess.”

“If it helps, I believe my powers have recovered enough that neither of us will need to be in the car during the crash.”

“It doesn’t help. I hadn’t even been considering that. Fuck you.”

Logan was silent, giving him a moment.

Remy took a deep breath. Man, this had been a fucking disaster of a few days.

“You better…” he said. “You better get better soon, so I can beat the shit out of you myself. Okay?”

Logan didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared out of the windshield with an expression on his face Remy couldn’t identify. It was a bit terrifying.

“I appreciate it,” Logan finally said. “You are a good friend.”

“Yeah, well,” Remy said. “Fuck.”

“‘Fuck’ is a good summary of recent events,” Logan said. “At least it’s a better summary than I can come up with.”

Remy snorted out a laugh and shook his head.

Logan moved his hands on the car wheel very slightly and Remy was startled when the car hummed to life under them.

“We will also need to cover for the fact that my injuries are already beginning to heal once I get to the hospital,” Logan said.

“Yeah, I can handle that for you too,” Remy promised. It would be a long night, but not the longest one in recent memory.

Want to read more? Click below!

Labeled Master Post.

My Masterpost.

[silviafae]

You've gotta stop, hun. I'm sorry you got involved with DoL at its literal conception and were young enough that it did your mental state substantial harm. I'm not of the opinion that all sexual material should be kept away from anyone under 18, but 9 years old is just insane to me and I don't think anyone in their right mind would allow such a thing if they found out; particularly because 9-year-olds aren't likely to have the freedom and open dialogue with safe adults required to prevent things like porn addiction. Genuinely, that sucks, and I know there's nothing that can be done to fix it now.

That said, it's no one else's fault unless someone knew about your age and deliberately got you into the game. Then it would solely be their fault. Your understanding of porn and sex in general seems to have been skewed by your negative experience, but attacking the game and the people who play it isn't helping. This fandom really can be wonderful and wholesome; I can't tell you how many people (myself included) found it therapeutic after their own negative experiences because it deals with hypersexuality, a common result of such experiences, and being able to take back control. The fandom can also be very toxic at times. I don't want you to get dogpiled. Please back off for the sake of your own mental health and wellbeing and focus on healing instead. No matter the situation, thinking about something that hurt you so much is never good for you.

On the other hand, the people in the DoL fandom don't need it either. There are a lot of heavier mental-health-related things here you don't understand yet (I'm referring to your posts here; not your age) and that's okay. You don't have to understand them; you can live and let live here and safely assume that the 18+ y/o people playing this game have their own agency and can decide what's right for them. What someone else does in their free time does you no harm, so please do not harm them.

I say again: Please stop with the discourse and focus on your happiness. People are going to defend the things that help them heal from their traumas to hell and back, so you're really whacking a bee hive doing this.

I appreciate your kindness, and I understand where you’re coming from.

Honestly I was gonna write something long but new meds are kicking my ass, so all I’m going to say is, you guys should probably find new media, I don’t hate the players, moreso the game and its writers, and I know I can’t shut down the whole fandom. Also i know ive made the fandom hate me now, but it would be super cool if you labeled all DoL content mature and didn’t make crossposts with other fandoms, because thats how I found it.

I’ll back off a bit and shift to making fun of other dark content (like the fic about gojo and a lesbian) but I will respond to my inbox.

Thank you for your kindness, I hope you evenually heal from what happened to you, and censor shit

[mega-ringsandthings-world]

I know we’ve talked about this via messages, but I wanted to ask again about health issues (mental aside) they’ll have to deal with from being tortured for two and a half years straight.

Not just that, but also the scars they accumulate—do those cause issues? Is part of their bedtime routine putting on scar cream so the skin can move less stiffly through out that day? Is it a ritual every night that they try to perform without fail? Does Mihawk let Shanks get his back? Does Shanks let Mihawk treat his Haki burns?

Are some of their joints messed up from being dislocated so many times? Do they hate cold weather and winter islands most of all? Can they feel an oncoming storm or the weather patterns just from the aches in old broken bones?

Are some days so bad for Mihawk's hands, which are scarred and broken to hell and back, that his fingers just shake all day? Does Shanks get crippling migraines from all the times he was punched in the head?

Do they take medication? For the pain or for their mental illnesses? Now I’m just imagining them dragging themselves miserably to Drum Island for a checkup to make sure nothing’s going to kill them physically or have long-term effects from their captivity, and Dr. Kureha just taking one look at these two miserable kids absolutely riddled with PTSD and going, "Okay, whack that shit out," and prescribing them Lexapro.

Not to mention the stress probably rewired their brains, and the brain damage from getting beaten around so many times. What about their immune systems? High stress and lack of proper nutrition can mess that up forever. Oh, and weight gain is going to be different as well as bone density and muscle loss. They are going to be a mess.

There's also the grief that comes with the loss of bodily autonomy in this way. They had a bright future and young, healthy bodies that have been traumatized. Now, not only will they live with the mental scarring but also the physical scarring that will affect them in fights, breathing, or just being for the rest of their lives. Think of Mihawk just staring at himself in the mirror, grieving the health he had before, how he's scared he’ll never be the world's greatest swordsman, that they taken that away from him like so much else. Think of Shanks crying over the thought he might not get to explore the world because of his migraines.

But at least they have each other! Hopefully, they also learn to lean on each other when shit gets bad and take up accommodations for their issue. I don't know; Mihawk is headstrong but more about efficiency, and if wearing a brace or taking a certain med means he'd be at his peak, then I can see this Mihawk swallowing his pride and doing it. Shanks, on the other hand... I don't know, maybe?

Ooh, more logistics. Bodily logistics, that it. The severest issues come from the initial healing process, like the scar on Mihawk's leg which keeps him bedridden for months. When they heal, it falls to the people who are treating them to maintain continuing treatment for the scars that are left, because they won't be in a fit state to do that at first. But yeah, they get into a routine of care for themselves as they get better mentally, Mihawk especially. And while he wouldn't let Shanks near the scars on his back for quite a while, he'd insist on treating Shanks. The Haki burns are going to be something he's guilty about, naturally. Hm, Shanks' left arm was fractured at the elbow and the burns on Mihawk's knuckles would have damaged the tendons there, and they both have dislocated a shoulder/wrist/rib/knee numerous times. Cold weather/pressure drops/high humidity all exacerbate injuries, so yeah, they'd avoid all of those if it could be helped. Shanks spends a lot of time slumming on beaches for that very reason. Mihawk would probably like cold better than he does heat, so his preferred basking spot is Kuraigana, which was picked for its atmosphere. Yes to them sensing storms. Shanks in particular actually finds that useful. So, dislocated wrists, damage to the nerves/tendons from the burns on Mihawk's knuckles would cause tremors even if his hands were never broken outright, and those mixed with stress/anxiety/sleep depravation can get nasty. Shanks develops migraines due to the head trauma, that come in varying levels of severity. Suffice to say, there's days when neither of them are in any state to do any daily tasks, or much of anything. (they still push themselves to, though) Pain meds, mostly, Mihawk self-medicates on Haki, Shanks alcohol. Sedatives in the early days, when they need to be calmed down. They do get taken to Drum Island at some point, and they'll get a cocktail that takes them off the edge. More on that later. (Kureha would have stock of Lexapro somewhere lol) Speaking of which, they might need short-term anxiety medication and help mitigating (they won't go away) the stress responses they've developed. They amount of head trauma would probably mean permanent damage in real life, but memory issues here, probably. They're kept marginally well-fed, seeing as how they need to be kept alive, and they get enough that their growth isn't stunted to the extreme, but it's not the nutrition that's up to par for two-young men. They'll grow up leaner, having to work to put on muscle definition. Their on and off EDs don't help, and neither does getting sick more frequently until their immune systems regain full health. It looks hopeless to them at the very start of their recovery. Looking into the mirror at every flaw and bleeding wound, feeling utterly weak in every cell, it'll be hard for them to imagine returning to even a shadow of their former selves, let alone advancing past that. Which brings it's own mental issues, of course. And the horror of having to be so weak in front of each other. Which makes them reluctant to have a hand on each other's recovery, at least up until the need to be with each other takes over. After a while Mihawk treats the accommodations he needs as just another thing he needs to do to stay on top, like exercising, doing sword drills, sparring. In canon Mihawk obviously takes care of himself and it's the same here (mostly). He adds it (braces, pain meds, exercises) into his meticulous routine and that's that. Shanks, on the other hand, tends to lean more towards curing the issue than preventing the issue, he'll wait until something can't be ignored to do something about it, out of his own pride. And then it's fuck it we ball and washing down pain meds with liquor, which always gets Mihawk pissed at him.

[doctorstrangereview]

Strange Tales #145

Cover Date: June 1966 On-Sale Date: March 10, 1966

This is Steve Ditko's penultimate Strange Tale. This is another departure from the main arc; and even more so than any previous distraction. Previous departures were tangentially related by being caused by something in, or involving characters from the main event. This is a genuine interlude and introduces a new villain. Except for the installment in Strange Tales #129, all these Strange stories are Stan Lee/Steve Ditko productions. Issue #129 was scripted by Don Rico. I forgot to mention this when I wrote that one up and I'm too lazy to go back and edit it in. This issue is scripted by future superstar Dennis O'Neil. Stan being Stan still manages to put himself first in the credits by giving himself an edited by credit smack in front! No one could accuse you of modesty, Stan.

Hearkening back to the old days, we begin with the villain committing a crime. Mr. Rasputin is in a little European country plundering state secrets using illusions to scare their guardians. The super honest Mr. Rasputin also screws over the traitor who helped him out. What a guy!

Damn, Mr. Rasputin is sinister looking! Yes, he's a descendent of Grigori Rasputin who was shot, stabbed, frozen, emasculated and a few other things I can't quite remember. The scene is repeated all over the globe with a nice symbolic image to keep this from taking up too much real estate.

Our villain, by a lucky coincidence, winds up in Greenwich Village. Funny that, eh? He practices his illusions and our series gets its first mention of Ikonn. Ikonn will be invoked frequently and even show up in person in about 15 years. Ditko gives us an idea of what the fellow looks like. I have to give credit to Gene Colan who made Ikonn resemble this initial look when he shows up for real.

This tips of Doc who just happens to be doing his virtual patrols with the still yet-to-be-name Orb of Agomotto, which still looks like a classroom globe in a fancy stand. Doc goes flying to find Mr. Rasputin. Along the way he calls the ritual of Ikonn forbidden. Doc will use this "forbidden" ritual as often as he breathes in the future. Doc arrives in Mr. Rasputin's rented loft masked in shadow. It looks really cool!

Naturally, a battle ensues and even though he's still weak from his clash with Tazza in the previous issue, he's easily Mr. Rasputin's better.

Magic bolts fly and clash into shields. Mr. Rasputin realizes he doesn't stand a chance in a fair fight. What, oh what, will our enterprising, yet cowardly foe do? Why, pull out a gun of course!

The tables have turned. Doc uses his cloak to float into the window of a nearby hospital. How fortunate for him that a doctor and nurse happen to be in the room he floats into. Hooray for diversity! The doctor is black! He's one of the first non-white, not-Asian characters in the script. The colorist does him no favors. I present a scan of the original instead to the usual Masterworks restoration.

After surgery Doc is interviewed by the police. His cloak is hanging around upside down. It's not shown before or after, but perhaps it likes to rest like a bat. Or it may have just been tossed over the door.

Thinking fast, Doc realizes where his buddy is heading: His own Sanctum Sanctorum! Going ghost Doc finds him there. Yup, still no freaking security, physical or magical. Everyone just walks in.

While Doc is checking out Mr. Rasputin, a thug has been sent to whack Doc's body in the hospital. Doc has sent for his cloak which is flying to the Sanctum. Now we know why Ditko drew Doc's entrance earlier the way he did.

Mr. Rasputin's like "Oh, crap! You're supposed to be dead! What the hell do I do now? I know! I'll shoot him again!"

Very clever Doc! You can be a deceptive little SOB too! Realizing what's happening, Mr. Rasputin attempts to banish Doc's ghost to the netherworld. He nearly succeeds, but Doc sends the ghost version of his amulet's eye to entrance his foe. Mr. Rasputin manages to resist the eye until Doc uses the cloak to wrap itself around him and suffocating him until he passes out. Doc returns to our plane and uses the cloak to haul his buddy to the hospital.

Entering his room, he finds the thug entranced by the physical version of the amulet. Whew! It woulda sucked if that didn't work! There's one last task Doc must perform. He non-consensually wipes Mr. Rasputin's mind of magical knowledge. The coerces him and his minion to confess their crimes.

One day the Ancient One will need to sit Doc down and have a serious conversation about consent! Doc's doc says he'll be released in the morning. Doc's like "Don't worry none! I kinda like it here and need to catch some z's." The magic business must be lucrative if he can afford an extended stay at a New York City hospital. It'll be a good investment. There's something big coming next month!

While it happens in the middle of an arc, it's unrelated to what's happening around it. It's also the last villain of the week, standalone story we'll see for quite awhile. Everything is multi part arcs from now on. Fortunately, none of them will span 17 months like this one. I like Mr. Rasputin. He's not arrogant, is aware of his limitations and is not afraid to stoop to dastardly deeds to get his way. He's clever and thinks on his feet. He's not the bungler that Mordo devolves into. Since the foes that Doc mindwipes have a high rate of recidivism, it would have been nice to have him as an occasionally recurring villain. He does pop up again in the future, but not as a the primary antagonist. Let Doc get his rest, he'll have bigger fish to fry next month.