#and they could NOT have delivered it more clumsily

[swan2swan]

Annual reminder that Aang wasn't a terrible dad, that one episode was badly written and had poor perspective. Aang was a busy, working dad who had a lot of stuff to do, and then suddenly his third kid was a full-on Airbender and he was literally the only one qualified to teach this baby, so then he finally had an excuse to put his family before his duties ("My family IS my duty now, suckers!!!"), and so Kya and Bumi were all "What the heck, Dad???" because they were now teens (iirc) and they missed out on all that stuff.

It was basically Aang going from "my family has 20% of my time" to "my family has 40% of my time". Still not enough, probably, but Aang could finally go and explore his own culture without feeling guilty about leaving the rest of the world to fend for itself.

[sunnami]

❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.” 

You blink. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making. 

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls. 

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!” 

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze.  Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!” 

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly. 

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.” 

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.” 

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies. 

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”  

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—” 

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.” 

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you. 

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”) 

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—” 

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.” 

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?” 

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.” 

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home. 

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)  

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that. 

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”) 

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.” 

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze. 

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.” 

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much. 

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile. 

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.” 

“I know.” Harry grins. 

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.” 

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally. 

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.” 

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)  

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow. 

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers. 

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.” 

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.” 

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you. 

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast. 

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.) 

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?” 

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.” 

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you. 

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.” 

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze. 

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.” 

“Oi!” 

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.” 

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.” 

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary. 

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.” 

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”) 

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.” 

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.” 

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!” 

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?” 

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically. 

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name. 

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now. 

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?” 

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.” 

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right? 

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.” 

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily. 

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.” 

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.” 

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable. 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced. 

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear. 

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.” 

Harry’s eye twitches. 

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly. 

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.” 

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?” 

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.” 

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.” 

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.” 

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading. 

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands. 

“In your dreams!” You shrill. 

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.” 

Harry nods. “Is it time already?” 

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.” 

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?” 

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.” 

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?” 

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?” 

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat. 

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.” 

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this. 

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes. 

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.” 

“One date, then.” 

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?” 

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.” 

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.” 

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you. 

“And I want to—” 

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” 

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—” 

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.  

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration. 

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases. 

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words. 

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.” 

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.) 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance. 

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.” 

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.” 

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.” 

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.” 

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth. 

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He falls in love.) 

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.” 

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?” 

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.” 

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.” 

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.” 

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.” 

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

[runraerun]

Steddie Amnesia Fic: 1/3

-> Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

cw: lots of head trauma/brain injury/recovery stuff.

Steve wakes up in the hospital with someone snoring loudly on his leg, mouth open, drool getting soaked up into the scratchy hospital blanket over him.

Steve just stares.

It’s… Freddie? No, that’s not right... Eddie! Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson, known delinquent and drug dealer… resting his head on Steve’s lap.

What the hell…?

Steve reaches up with a wobbly, IV-ridden hand to clumsily pat along his head, but instead of meeting messy hair, he meets a thick wad of bandages. He flinches when he hits an especially tender spot.

It’s not much but it’s enough to wake Eddie Munson up with a jolt, and a random jumble of words that sounded something like, “the dice have spoken!”, but Steve can’t be sure. Not with the sharp ringing still going off inside his skull.

“Steve? Steve! Oh thank fuck, Jesus H. Christ, you scared the ever loving shit out of me.” Eddie stood and grabbed at one of Steve’s shoulders, shaking him enough to elicit another wince.

“Oh, damn, sorry. I’m like a fucking bull in a china shop here, man. There’s way too much expensive, breakable shit here. I’m not used to it. I accidentally ripped your IV out the other day... Fuck. The nurses hate my guts.” Eddie chuckles, eyes wide and solely on Steve, talking like they were old friends or something.

But that can’t be right. Steve doesn’t remember saying more than two words to Eddie Munson during the entire time he knew he even existed, and even then it was just to discuss weed prices.

“For real though, talk to me Harrington, how you feelin’, hm? Loopy? Gonna yak again? Apparently they got you on the good stuff,” Eddie flicks a liquid filled bag hanging above Steve and shakes his head, “but they keep cutting you back. Dicks.”

Steve’s eyes try and follow Eddie’s erratic movements but his eyes ache the more he moves them. He blinks against the harsh fluorescents and tries to open his mouth. And thank God, Eddie Munson seems to take this as a sign and shut up.

“What happened?” Steve finally croaks.

One of Eddie’s brows jumps. “You don’t remember?”

Steve gives his head a small shake. Did Eddie hit him with his car or something? Is that why he’s sleeping at his bedside and talking to him like they’re buddies?

“You fell, Stevie.” Eddie makes a whistling noise and mimicks something falling with his hands, then makes a crashing sound when his hand lands on Steve’s bandaged head. “Like a coconut out of a tree. Landed right on that big ol’ melon of yours. There was blood everywhere. It scared the shit out of me and the kids. Especially when you wouldn’t wake up.”

Steve’s throat feels like sandpaper, but he manages to swallow, his throat clicking as he did, and gets out, “The kids?”

Eddie seems to notice, even before Steve can ask, and reaches for a water bottle with a straw already in it, and half chewed. Eddie’s own, no doubt. Against his better judgment, Steve accepts it when Eddie offers it to him. He was just so goddamn thirsty.

“Don’t worry, they’re all fine. They were just shaken up. I’ll radio the little gremlins and give ‘em the good news in a sec.” Eddie’s smile falters a little, seeming lost for words. Like he wants to say something, but can’t quite get it out.

Steve finishes swallowing his few, meager gulps of water before he asks, “What is it?”

“Don’t freak out—“ Eddie begins.

And, okay, that’s exactly the thing you tell someone before they freak the fuck out. Steve’s stomach is subject to a growing, sluggish panic. “What? Dude, tell me—“

“It’s your hair.” Eddie seems genuinely pained at having to deliver this crushing of a blow to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

Steve can hear the beeping from the monitors he’s hooked up to begin to pick up speed as his heart begins racing. “My hair?”

“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’ll grow back! They just had to take a little bit off where the stitches went, you can hardest notice it—well, that’s a fucking lie, you could spot that landing strip from space—but I think if you part it to the other side it won’t look so… y’know.”

“No, dude, I don’t know.” Steve says, eyes wide, brows pinched.

“Like a drunk toddler took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to your mop.” Eddie says, huffing out a nervous sort of laugh.

Steve groans, half due to the bastardization that’s happened to his favorite feature, and half due to the migraine that’s looming on his horizon.

“You’re still pretty, Stevie, don’t worry.” Eddie grins, eyebrows raised, like he’s trying to be cute or something.

That weirdest part is, it’s kind of working.

Steve must have hit his head really, really hard.

The doctors eventually come in and perform all sorts of tests, and he tries his best to comply with them and jump through whatever hoops they make him jump through. He just wants to get the hell out of this hospital bed.

Unfortunately for him, Steve hadn’t exactly aced any of the tests.

In fact, he had failed most of them pretty fucking dismally. He couldn’t remember the date, who the president was, where he lived, couldn’t say the alphabet backwards… although, who the fuck can do that? He stands by that failing grade.

A couple of CAT scans later and it’s clear that Steve’s brain got smacked around a little more than they had originally thought.

Among a pile of other stuff, the thing that sticks out the most to Steve is his diagnosis of something called short term amnesia. They explain it like the past 2 to 3 years has just been wiped from his brain. The last clear thing he really remembers is getting the shit beat out of him by Billy, and then it all sort of gets jumbled. Fragmented. The doctors explain that this is pretty typical for head trauma patients.

He’s a head trauma patient, now.

It’s normal for memories of trauma to link, creating spiderwebs throughout your brain.

Which, that’s great. So when he gets beat up again, there’s always a chance his brain will try and erase his easy, happy years and revert back to a trauma default. Really helpful brain, thank you.

And the thing that sucks the most is that his years after the Billy beat down sound pretty great. Traumatizing, sure, but great. Once the Upside Down shit was locked up, with every scary nightmare fuel monster inside of it, life in Hawkins didn’t sound all that terrible.

He lived with Robin, who’s his best friend, (his ‘platonic soulmate’ even, as she explains it), he’s working a retail job, (also with Robin), and coaches the high school basketball team during the evenings. He’d even been talking with Hopper about joining the force.

Well, he was. Now he’s more or less useless, working full time at re-learning his life, along with a couple of fine motor skills that got glitchy after the fall.

And then there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who’s apparently also his best friend, only their soulmate link isn’t platonic at all.

The strange and weirdly exciting reality was that Steve Harrington had woken up from his 3-day medically induced coma with not only a full fledged relationship, but a boyfriend.

It’s a lot to digest, and part of him still doesn’t even know how to process it, but hearing the stories being told around him, seeing how Eddie is practically living in his and Robin’s two-bedroom apartment, and just… the way Eddie looks at him?

It’s with love—Steve can see it. Feel it. Eddie’s practically vibrating with it.

What’s even crazier is that when Steve looks at Eddie, he feels the exact same way.

It’s like looking at the stars. Steve’s heart skips a beat when those dark eyes of hit him, and Steve wants nothing more than to make Eddie smile—no, better than that, to make him laugh, just so he can watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob up and down and hear that manic, unhinged cackle. It’s downright delightful. Steve loves being in relationships like this, where it’s all consuming.

Steve may not have the memories of falling in love with Eddie, but he has all the feelings.

No one talks about it with Steve, of course. Maybe they think it’s going to be too heavy for him to process that he’s into dudes now, but Steve isn’t a big dumb baby. Sure, he’s got a pretty severe brain injury, and yeah, alright, it takes him a minute to remember people’s names sometimes, and he has a harder time controlling his emotions, but he isn’t a complete invalid. Only a little bit of one. He’s working on it, dammit.

And Eddie is so painfully, frustratingly patient with him. He never pushes. He’s clearly letting Steve retrieve his memories before he makes a move, because despite his whole outward appearance, Eddie Munson is a goddamn gentleman. He never so much as reaches for Steve’s hands, but Steve can tell by the way their pinkies graze when they watch movies late at night that he wants to.

Steve can tell by the way Eddie teases him, the way he’s there with him through his recovery, that he doesn’t ever make Steve feel stupid when he asks the same questions over and over again, when he cries at the drop of a hat or when he gets sort of confused about the lay out of his apartment—he doesn’t care about that of that.

Because he’s in love with Steve. It’s so painfully romantic, it brings a painful lump to Steve’s throat every time he thinks too much about it.

The two of them are driving to one of Steve’s therapy sessions, Eddie in the driver's seat, Steve in the passengers, listening to a low racket of some kind of heavy metal music. Eddie always keeps the volume low now, for Steve.

He’s just been so intensely good about everything that Steve needs to try and do something good for Eddie in return. He needs Eddie to know that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that they’re both currently lost in.

“I’m sorry about this, y’know.” Steve says when they finally pull up the building that has ‘Brain Injury Recover Center’ written on the front. So all the boys and girls with scrambled eggs for brains know where to converge.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I work the evening shifts, remember? My days are free.” Eddie explains, and Steve wonders if he’s had to be told this bit of information a couple of times now. Sometimes it takes a few times before something sticks to his brain now. His short term memory is still majorly flighty. But no, Steve remembers that Eddie bartends at a local bowling alley most evenings. He’s gone a few times. Not to bowl, of course—too much hand eye coordination involved—but just to hang out with Eddie. He’s pretty decent at Ms. Pac-Man though.

Steve shakes his head. He knows his mind must have wandered because there’s been a lull where no one’s spoken. Eddie never seems to care about that though. “I don’t mean about the drive. I was talking about… y’know.”

“Wha’dy’mean?” Eddie mumbles as he backs into his parking space, hand on the back of Steve’s headrest.

Steve sighs and decides to just come out and say it: “I mean having your boyfriend forget everything about you and your relationship. I just… that must be really tough.”

Everything in Eddie Munson comes to a jarring halt, hand frozen over where he’s turned to ignition off.

It’s sort of unnerving—Eddie is always moving, fidgeting. Damn near bouncing off the walls. But now it’s like someone hit the poor guy with a freeze ray gun.

Steve chuckles softly as he reaches out and touches Eddie’s arm, giving him a playful jostle, to loosen him up a little, “it’s okay, Eddie. I know. You don’t have to keep going easy on me. I’m gay! Or, bi-sexual. Whatever.” Steve shrugs, “see? Not falling apart. I can handle being in love with another dude. You don’t need to keep babying me.”

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a downturned smile that he seems to be trying to hide.

“I know, I know. Not just any dude.” Steve rolls his eyes, a smile still firmly on his face. He takes Eddie’s hand from the steering wheel, and Eddie seems to watch it go in a detached sort of awe. Steve wonders if Eddie’s proud of him for being so cool with it all. “In love with you.”

“Steve, I don’t think—

“Wait, just let me finish.” Steve asks, and Eddie blinks and works on closing his mouth. Knows it’s important to let Steve get his thoughts out quickly, lest they be lost to the giant black hole inside of his beat-up brain now. “I know that I don’t remember any of the important stuff with us. Our first date, or our first kiss or, y’know, any of our other first firsts. So maybe it feels like you’re cheating on the old Steve with me? But… Eddie, I know it’s crazy but even though my brain forgot all of the specifics; my heart didn’t. I look at you, and it’s all there. I’m still so into you, dude. I can feel it, even though I don’t remember how I got here. I’m in l—“

“Steve! Stevestevesteve wait, holy shit—!” Eddie’s eyes snap up from his intense stare at the place where their hands are linked. “Steve—”

“Yeah?” Steve prompts when Eddie doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. He runs his thumb gently over Eddie’s knuckles. It feels so nice to finally be able to hold his hand again. They fit together so well, and Steve wonders briefly if it’s some kind of muscle memory.

Eddie opens his mouth a few more times before he remembers how to make the words come out.

“Steve. Buddy. We’re… we’re not dating.”

Steve’s face falls, and he can feel a lump form in his throat, but he keeps a firm hold of Eddie’s warm hand in his own. “Yeah, I know, I know. We haven’t had any time to be a couple. And it’s probably been torture for you, man. You’re so busy taking care of me and making sure I don’t freak out over everything that you’ve clearly been neglecting your own hierarchy of needs.”

Eddie raises a brow.

Steve chuckles, “Shut up. It’s a therapy term.”

Eddie laughs in his throat. “Steve, you gotta slow down and listen to me.”

He turns his shoulders so that he’s fully facing Steve while he reaches his free hand over and tugs at one of his earlobes. “Got your hearing ears on?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods just the same.

“We… we weren’t dating before your accident,” Eddie speaks slowly, his voice warm, gentle. “Hell, I didn’t even know you were, y’know, into dudes like that. Much less me.”

Something throbs dully behind Steve’s eyes. It’s the start of a migraine—the one that makes it hard to process much of anything. Steve squints, trying to make sense of what Eddie’s saying. “…you’re not my boyfriend?”

Eddie shakes his head very, very slowly. “No.”

Steve snatches his hand back like he’s only just now noticed how burning hot Eddie’s hand is.

He settles back in his seat, staring out the front window. The sounds from the outside world are muffled, and everything feels far away and sort of… Made up. Just like everything he’d imagined was going on between him and Eddie. Not real.

He feels painfully detached from reality. Unmoored. Maybe this was the disassociation thing the doctor mentioned might happen…

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, risking another glance over to Eddie, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him for a second.

“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Eddie snorts.

“Oh, God. This is… I’m—sorry. I’m so stupid. Fuck, I gotta—“ Steve suddenly attacks the door handle with a clumsy fury that has his hand fumbling with the handle for way too long. Fucking busted up, bruised as fuck fucking brain-!

“Steve, it’s okay, dude,” Eddie says from behind Steve, but that’s easy for him to say; he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of his not-boyfriend, definitely-crush, possibly ex-friend—“Steve, wait!”

Steve flees the van on unsteady feet, not daring to look back.

[johnbrand]

The Basement

With @next-pharaoh

“Richie?” Billy called out into the hazy basement. “Richie, are you down here?”

Billy had never thought of Richie as a religious kind-of-guy, nor a Muslim for that matter. What other reason would he have had to come down into the creepy, old mosque? Heck, Richie’s whole family was Catholic, the stereotypical devout Latin family. Billy’s too, although of a Polish heritage instead. That was probably why they had always gotten along so well–they could bond through trauma.

“Richie?” Billy asked once more. The basement was rather small, just a single room with a twin mattress, a few sheets, and a tiny window shining the bare minimum amount of sunlight into the space. The place was covered in dust, something Billy unfortunately had not noticed until he had patted down his all-black outfit, surprised to find it covered in the pale powder.

“Alright, that’s it,” Billy grumbled. “I can’t even get reception down here anyway.”

That was how this had all started. Billy had received an emergency text with a location from Richie that he had been locked and needed help. However, that text had taken over 24 hours to deliver. Billy had rushed over here as fast as he could, but now he could not find Richie anywhere. Perplexed, he made his way back to the basement’s door, not expecting to find it locked.

“No…” Billy spoke to no one in particular. “No, no no!”

Frantically, Billy pulled at the handle, hoping, praying that it would come off. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, it would not budge. It was times like these that he wished he would have participated in some athletics throughout his schooling career, rather than focusing on communications and the arts. 

“Hello!” Billy shouted, banging on the door. “Can anyone hear me?!” He grabbed his phone and quickly sent out a text to his friend, not surprised when it was unable to go through. Backing away from the door, Billy began to consider what he could do. Someone would have to find him eventually, right? Phones had tracking devices, so it would not take long before people questioned where he was. And the window, maybe from there he could-

“Oh-!” Clumsily, Billy fell back onto the twin bed, so preoccupied in his thoughts that he had not paid attention to his footing. The dust flew up in a cloud around him, slowly cascading over his body. The particles coated his sandy-colored hair and fair skin as if he had been hit by a bag of flour. A bit embarrassed, Billy coughed, inhaling some of the dust.

“Gosh, what is this stuff…?” Billy questioned, his head suddenly a bit dizzy. “Is it…powdered salt…?”

Slowly, Billy’s body fell back onto bed, an encroaching weariness enveloping him. Within moments, he was fast asleep while the dust began carefully absorbing into his being.

———

Rashid unlocked the door to the mosque’s basement. He already possessed the keys to the lock, and he knew not to reopen the door until at least daybreak. Well, at least not while the current convert is awake. It was necessary for Rashid to go in while the convert was resting to provide the necessary materials.

“Ah, I see you are awake,” the strong, proud Muslim announced in Arabic as he swung open the door. “And already studying the analysis of the Hadith book I provided you with.” 

“Yes, thank you brother,” the reply came back, also in Arabic.

“Do the pants fit you alright, Bilal?” Rashid asked. 

“They will carry the load.” With his massive hand, Bilal cupped his mighty Arab meat to emphasize his point. Rashid took a once over of Bilal, taking in the bronzed alpha and confirming the dimensions he had hypothesized in his head. Bilal was tall, muscular, a perfect specimen of Islamic masculinity. His chest would ideally slide into the thobe Rashid had ordered for him, and his wide feet would easily fill the Nike sandals Rashid had set aside.

“Now Bilal, are you ready to promote the genetic Arabization of the world?” Rashid demanded. “To defend Arab interests, to sacrifice individuality for global brotherhood?”

Bilal immediately nodded, his fate had already been sealed.

Rashid smiled, “I assume you have already left your past behind?”

Smirking, Bilal motioned his head towards the drying white splurge behind him. By the afternoon, it would become just another part of the basement’s transformative dust.

With a nod, Rashid ushered Bilal up, and the two made their way out of the basement and back into the mosque. They prayed together, feasted together, and were preparing to leave the mosque just as a frightened Asian-American boy rushed past them.

“Billy? Billy!” His shouts echoed throughout the hall as he dashed into the religious hallways. Rashid and Bilal exchanged knowing smiles. They held hands and bid farewell, the keys transferring between their hands.

[rainydayathogwarts]

hi ml! was wondering if i could req a ron x popular!shy!reader? like his friends tease him because they don’t know how he landed her and they think she’s the more outspoken and dominant one but in reality he is and makes her flustered 24/7:) maybe smut if you want but no pressure! thank you <33

So apparently I'm in my Ron era Warnings: Hinting to bi reader, suggestive This isn’t as good as i wanted it to be but enjoy!

You turn to your close friend Hannah when Professor Snape gives the go ahead to start your potions, giving her a look and you both look down into your textbooks to hide your wide grins and bubbling giggles.

"Why hasn't he yelled at us once today though?" Hannah whispers, heading to the ingredient cabinets with you on her heels. "Probably got some head or something." You respond with a shrug only to have Hannah scoff and mutter a quiet "Right" which causes you both to erupt with laughter at the back of the classroom.

"Ladies! Is it necessary for me to tell you to shut it every. Single. Class." Snape roars from the front, his face turning red when you only break down even more at the irony, both of you turning to lean on something.

"That's enough! Ten points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff!" Your hand flew over your mouth in a desperate attempt to keep quiet, your laughter only ceasing when a harsh kick on the back of your leg is delivered by Hermione.

"Oh no please keep it up, you'll only make it easier for Slytherin to win the house cup this year." Pansy states, winking at you as she walks back to her table. Hannah shuffles closer to you, whispering "I bet she has the fattest crush on you. And don't forget her little friends over there."

You look back at Hannah, jokingly flicking your hair over your shoulder. "After that kiss in third year? Of course she has a crush on me." You both sit down at your table, and you start sorting out the ingredients as Hannah flicks through her textbook to find the right page. "Hey Lav? What page is the potion on?" You ask the girl facing you, who stutters as she tells you the number.

Thanking her, you manage to catch the eye of your boyfriend across the room, noticing his other friends glancing at you and you tilt your head, smiling softly at him. He looks down so you avert your gaze, instead starting to chop up some fluxweed seeds.

On the other side of the classroom, Seamus Finnigan mimics your movements rather clumsily as he wanders off into a conversation with the other boys on the table "No you don't understand, every guy in the school wants her and every girl wants to be her. So how did you manage to get her? You don't know how to talk to pretty girls."

"He was probably seduced." Chimes in Dean nonchalantly. "She charmed him hard enough that he got in bed and let her ride him until sun down. She was satisfied with what she saw and decided to keep him around." They all look up, starting to chuckle at Ron's reaction, and add onto the teasing until Neville looks like he's about to explode. 

Ron feels his cheeks go ablaze and he looks up, watching you smile at something Hannah said. As much as he wanted to flaunt the fact that he was the one to approach you, he knew that your popularity painted you as a maneater. No one would believe him. Even as he walks up to you at the end of class, offering you his hand, he feels the boys’ eyes on you both, ignoring the rosy colour that appears on your cheeks. You giggle, taking Ron’s hand, and together you walk down to the Great Hall for lunch. 

You sit next to Ron with his friends listening to Harry, who brings up the topic of romance once more, complaining about his failed attempts to ask Cho out. He looks at you and asks “How do I just ask her? I’ve backed out every single time.” You shrug, pointing at your boyfriend “Ask Ron, he was perfectly fine making the first move on me.” 

Your response brings an unusual silence within the friend group. “Ron? Ron made the first move?” Hermione finally says, which brings alive a lot of questions from the surrounding teenagers.

“Wait I don’t understand… You guys didn’t think I was the one who came onto him did you??” You interrupt, feeling your face start to heat up again. “Yes we did!” States Seamus “This whole time you’ve been the popular girl who for some reason went for this thick in the head ginger! But he’s the one who charmed you… I see now.”

Ron scoffs and shakes his head, pushing his drink away from him and he stands up, offering you his hand once more. You take it, following him, and shrug at Hermione who gives you a questioning look. 

“I’m sorry about them, but i think i have something that can distract you from their questions.” You hum, cocking one head to the side. “And what would that- Oh!” You squeal as Ron pulls you into an abandoned broom closet, firmly pressing his lips to yours, as you shyly place your hands on his chest, pushing him away from you. “You couldn’t wait could you?” You question him, gently pulling him back in, but it’s only when he presses himself against you that you understand why.

[sea-lanterns]

COOL IT DOWN

synopsis: cryo women cooling you down

featuring: ganyu, shenhe, layla, rosaria, ayaka, eula

rating: 18+ n.sfw (minors dni)

warnings: dom! afab gn reader (ganyu, layla, ayaka) and sub! afab gn reader (shenhe, rosaria, eula). temperature play, improper use of cryo vision, scissoring, strap on, face-sitting, oral, biting, breast worship, fingering, dirty talk and slight degradation.

art credits: the love doctor

GANYU

Ganyu whimpered as you ground your hips feverishly against her cunt, slick fluids dripping down her thighs and onto the bed sheets below. You held one of her legs over your shoulder and smiled when she trembled under your hold, cooing at how cute she was with the way her eyes looked up at you under tearful lashes. 

“Ganyu…” you purr gently, stroking one of her calves, “You’re so cold…it’s perfect…”

She lets out a small whine at your words and attempts to smile, the cryo energy emitting from her body cooling the two of you down from the hot blazing heat of the sun… She never would’ve thought to use her vision like this, but since you were the one to suggest it, she quite liked the idea as now the two of you could have sex in the summer without getting too hot…

“Ah…w-wait…!”

With a sudden grind of your core against hers, Ganyu moans and grips onto your thighs while the icy feeling mixed with the heat of her folds makes you groan out in relief. “So nice…” you mumble, smiling down at her with half lidded eyes, “So good for me…”

The half-adepti whimpered pathetically at your words and seemed to bask in your praise, clumsy hands reaching up to wrap around your neck and bring you down for a kiss. Lips hotter than fire as she came all over your thighs. 

SHENHE

You yelped as Shenhe thrust furiously against your cunt with her strap. The cold dick molding itself inside your walls as you tried your best not to cum right then and there. The adeptus student looked quite intrigued at your reactions of ecstasy and held you closer against her to nibble on your ear, minty breath brushing up against your skin as she whispered hotly to fluster you even more.

“Does that feel good…?” Shenhe inquired, delivering low, shallow thrusts that made you feel the spreading coldness of cryo. “You’re holding me really tight…”

Attentive eyes locked on your cunt, she watched as it creamed deliciously over the plastic blue dildo. Tilting her head and letting judgment decide that you were indeed enjoying it. “…That seems like a good sign, I’ll go faster then…”

She started to speed up her thrusts and you gripped her legs to stabilize yourself when you bounced with each hard push. Shenhe gazing lustfully at the way her cock sank in and out with each drag of her hips, and pulling you tighter against her to feel you tremble with each, brutal, thrust.

She was definitely taking her time in making sure you were thoroughly enjoying this, the cold strap on bringing relief to your hot folds as she grinded her pelvis against your ass. “So hot…” she grunts out, starting to lose her cool as she traced the folds of your entrance with her fingers, bending you over into a position that allowed the toy to move in deeper. 

“I’ll make you feel so much better…”

LAYLA

Layla was shivering above you, unable to keep her noises to a minimum as she cried in pleasure from your tongue fucking her from below. She wasn’t used to this, being on top of you I mean. The poor elf clumsily gripping onto the sides of your pillow and rocking her hips gently to ride your face.

“Ah…I’m sorry it’s…mmh…too much…” Layla cried, looking so cute and shy as she looked down at you below her, clearly having the time of your life. “Don’t be…you taste divine…” you chuckle once you come up for air, the woman producing a comfortably cold temperature that made you shiver with delight. 

Layla whimpers at your words and shyly plants herself back down on your tongue. Feeling the tip of your nose hit her clit and cause her legs to buckle at the sensation. “Hm…Mmh…”

You notice her struggling to sit properly on top of you and laugh, the vibrations sending her into ecstasy as she moans into her lips. As she does this however, you reach up to grip her hips and stabilize her so she doesn’t fall. Her skin smooth and cold to the touch as she rocked herself more desperately on your tongue. 

“A-Ah…!” She bit her lip and moved her hands sporadically to your hair, gripping it tightly with pleasure. “More…more…”

She let out a small groan and dropped her head down to look at you, eyes clouded with a fog of lust as her tongue lolled out to show her aching desire for you…

ROSARIA

Rosaria’s tongue was thick and cold as it lapped up against your cunt, legs trembling as the nun used her even colder fingers to pry your legs apart and keep you spread for her mouth. She clicked her tongue in disapproval when she saw you trying to close your legs, keeping her away from the warm flesh that tempted her into tainting her mouth with your sin.

“Stay spread.” She says coldly, not playing around anymore as she kept you uncomfortably pinned to the wooden table below. “You complained about being too hot so here I am, helping you cool down.”

You let out a shaky breath as she thrust her tongue deeper inside you, dragging the tip against the slick walls of your folds and staring up at you with an unamused look in her eyes. She looked bored, but that couldn’t be far from the truth. The contrast of your hot clit wrapped around her cold tongue just made her uncontrollably lust for you, addicted to how she could make you shiver in the heat of summer just by using her cryo vision and her tongue…

“R-Rosaria…” you flinched when you felt her icy teeth latch onto your clit for talking. The feeling overwhelming your senses as the soothing, sharp pain cooled down your burning body.

“I thought we agreed on moans only…” she murmured into your skin, taste buds rubbing harder inside of you as she groaned at the warmness inside. “Stay quiet, or I’ll freeze your lips with my tongue…”

AYAKA

It felt like you were sucking on ice cream when you placed your lips on Ayaka. Tongue swirling over her stiffened nipples as she whimpered and tugged at your hair in response, bringing you closer to her chest while struggling to keep her moans from leaving her lips.

“Is it…haah…is it cold enough…?” Ayaka murmurs with a shiver, closing her eyes as you prodded her right breast with your teeth. The soft flesh puffing up a pretty pink as you detached from it with a gentle pop. “It’s lovely, my dear. Like a cold treat on a warm day…”

You giggle when you see her blush. Such a contrast to the cool, fridge-like feeling emitting from her own body. Vision wielders were incredible…to alter their own bodies like this and control the elements…the possibilities were endless…

You dove back down to kiss her softly, savoring the fleshy warmth of her lips that made your nerves tingle from temperature change. Not too long ago were you sucking on something much colder, and the contrast made your core heat up in anticipation. 

With one last kiss, you trailed your lips down the narrow of her neck, down to her collarbone where you laid a colony of hickies, over the valley of her breasts that made you smile when you saw the teeth marks still embedded, and right above the princess’ bare stomach that iced your hot tongue.

“There…!” Ayaka gasps, pressing her stomach against your lips and trembling when she feels how hot you are, “Just right there…”

EULA

The aristocrat smiled as she watched her fingers sink deep into the velvety warm walls of your pussy… A tint of blue emitting from her fingers as you squirm and writhe from her icy cold touch, fingers so frosty and long as she plunged them in as far as they could go. 

“Hah, you’re practically gushing over me already…” she chuckles lightly, kissing your ear as she starts to move. “Careful now…if you’re this wet already your walls would stick to my fingers like glue…”

She laughed when you only grew wetter at the thought. Soft, slow strokes thrusting into you as she savored the warmth of your fluttering walls. Eula was over the edge, completely overwhelmed and so in love as she grew obsessed with the way your cunt gripped her fingers. “So… filthy.”

Eula then lunged forward and bit the stem of your neck, basking in your cries as she let her frosty teeth nip at your skin.

“You’re still this hot…?” Eula breathlessly murmurs, pinching your clit with her thumb and stirring your insides even more. “Hmpf. Shame…I expected you to be shivering by now…”

You felt her fingers get colder inside you and you whine at the sensation, knees buckling and struggling to hold yourself up as the aristocrat places a firm hand on your belly, keeping you upright and delivering a cold shock to the bare skin of your stomach.

“Don’t fall now. I don’t want to dirty my knees if you can’t handle my fingers…”

[nemo-writes]

🔥𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹 (𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂) ; 𝘇𝗲𝗿𝗼🔥

✘ various! tf141 x reader ; zombie apocalypse au!one-shot series

✘ chapter summary; you and your small, weary family narrowly escape danger. suddenly, an unexpected encounter ends up leading you into a safe haven, where survival demands loyalty and sacrifice.

✘ warnings; graphic violence, character death and blood

⚠️ one-shot masterlist

All remnants of life lay muted beneath the blanket of snow that covered everything in sight.

You trudge forward with increasing difficulty, holding your baby niece, Paulina, close to your chest, wrapped in layers of tattered blankets. Beside you, your teenage nephew Hugo, struggled to keep pace. Your breaths came out in sharp, frosty puffs, the biting cold seeping through every gap, lingering with an ever-growing hunger.

“I-I don't know how much longer I can g-go.” Hugo panted, lips pale and eyes heavy.

“You have to.” The words leave you as a dry heave. Paulina squirms, as if sensing the tension in the air.

Suddenly, the shadow of a figure appears in the distance, barely visible through the thick foliage of the forest snow. It's one of your pursuers, armed and ready to intercept your small group.

As quickly as you can, you pull Hugo close and hand her his sister and your thinning bag of supplies. You point sharply towards the nearby slope, a spot for them to hide while you distracted your incoming pursuers. His eyes are wide, mouth agape and ready to refuse. Caring very little for his objections, you push him away and hard. “Shut up, and go!”

You watch him leave, his form disappearing into the snow, before moving towards a nearby tree. With a determined shove of your shoulder, you make a heavy pile of snow fall, covering the footsteps of your nephew. Grimly satisfied, you took off in the opposite direction, hoping to lead the pursuers away from the children.

As you scan the forest, a sharp movement from your left catches you off guard. Before you can react, two of them are on you.

With a surge of adrenaline, you lash out at the closest one, catching him off guard with a thick swipe of snow. He stumbles back, but the second attacker was quicker. He lunges at you with a knife, the blade glinting ominously in the dim light. You twist your body, clumsily avoiding the thrust, and use the momentum to deliver a kick between his legs. He curses loudly and doubles over, but before you could capitalise on the opening, the first man recovers and drags you down by the hair.

“Fucking bitch! You’re done now!” The impact knocks the wind out of you, but you fight through the pain, grappling fiercely with your assailant in the snow. Your hands find his throat, and you squeeze, a violent mix of adrenaline and desperation giving you strength. He struggles, his hands clawing at yours, but you hold on, feeling his resistance weaken.

A sharp pain explodes in your side as the second man drives his knife into your shoulder. You cry out, releasing your grip on the first attacker's throat and to clutch at your bleeding wound.

The two men regroup, their breaths coming in harsh puffs as they advance on you again. But before they can pounce, a distant whistle pierces the air, shrill and commanding. They freeze, exchanging glances of alarm. The second attacker curses under his breath, knife wavering.

The whistle sounds again, more urgent this time, and the men hesitate, torn between finishing you off and obeying the call.

Finally, with a frustrated growl, the first attacker spits on the ground and mutters, "We’ll be back." He turns to his companion, nodding towards the source of the whistle. Reluctantly, the second attacker sheatheds his knife and backs away, his eyes lingering on you with a promise of unfinished business.

You watch them retreat, every muscle in your body tense in anticipation of another attack. When they finally disappear back into the snowy forest, you allow yourself to relax, grasping your wounded shoulder in pain.

You turn and stumble towards the direction Hugo had gone, praying that he and Paulina had found a safe place to hide. The forest looms around you, silent and oppressive, as you push through the snow, the weight of your injuries and the cold threatening to drag you down.

Through the haze of snow and pain, you spot something in the distance. You push towards it, and reach a small hidden cave, its entrance partially obscured by a thick curtain of icicles. Inside, you find Hugo huddled around Paulina, his face pale with fear and worry. Relief washes over you as you collapse into the cave, the last of your strength leaving you.

Hugo rushes to your side, eyes wide with concern. "Are you okay?" he whispers, his voice trembling.

You manage a weak smile, reaching out to touch his cheek. "We made it," you murmur, your voice barely audible. "We're safe for now."

As the exhaustion closes in, you cling to that thought, knowing that you had done everything you could to protect them.

. . .

"That's the last of them," says Ghost, voice low and steady. He wipes his knife clean on the crook of his arm, eyes sharp as he took in every detail of the scene. Three men and two women lay dead around him, the blood of their struggle staining the snow. He doesn’t bat an eye as he manhandles the bodies to go through their belongings, taking whatever was useful, and leaving the rest behind.

Ghost had no sympathy for raiders. But it was certainly strange, the lot hadn't ventured this deep since last Spring. Not only was the terrain tricky, but the group that dwelled further south had quickly come to learn not to step into their territory without expecting something like this to happen.

Beside him, Soap holsters his pistol, breath visible in the cold air. "T’easy," he mutters, brows furrowing in suspicion. "Something doesn' feel right."

His partner hums in agreement, gaze shifting to the direction from which the two extra men had come from. "These guys were sloppy, like they were distracted or rushed."

The duo move cautiously, following the barely visible trail left by the men. Soap leads the way, his senses on high alert, while Ghost covers their rear, eyes scanning for any signs of movement.

They don’t go far when they find the first big clue—signs of a fight. Soap crouches down to examine the mix of footprints and blood staining the snow. "One set," he comments, pointing to a big and uneven print, as if the person was favouring one side over the other. "An adult, injured."

Ghost and Soap press on, the trail leading them deeper into the forest. The footprints become more erratic, showing signs of urgency. Suddenly, the first footprints turn into two. Someone had clearly made an effort to hide the new pair.

Soap’s mind races as he pieces the scenario together. "They were being chased," he says, more to himself than to Ghost. "And they split up here."

Ghost’s expression is unreadable under his balaclava.

"They were in a hurry. And look at the spacing—someone was carrying a heavy load." He looks up, his eyes meeting Ghost’s. "A baby?"

His jaw tightens. "Could be."

Soap’s eyes narrow. "If there's a bairn involved, they won't last long out here in this cold."

They follow the trail until they reach a small clearing. The footprints lead to a partially hidden cave. Soap signals to Ghost, and they approach it cautiously.

As they draw closer, they can hear faint voices inside. Soap holds up a hand and creeps forward. Peering into the cave, he spots a young boy huddled with a baby in his arms. Nearby, a young woman lays slumped against the wall, blood staining the snow under her.

Soap steps back to the edge of the entrance, his expression unreadable. "Found them," he whispers to Ghost. "What’s our move Lt?"

Ghost hesitates, his cold eyes betraying a rare moment of uncertainty. "We can't afford to take them in"

Soap's eyes go hard, but there is a glint of stubborness in them. "They won’t make it out here alone. We've gotta help ‘em."

They had a mission, a duty to their own survival. Ever since the world had gone to absolute shit, their group’s survival had been assured by them staying strong and detached. Ghost had dealt with their new reality better than most, but the same couldn't be said about the others. The end of the world was taking its toll, and he knew Soap was eager to find moments like this to vindicate his dwindling humanity.

"Mate…" Ghost starts, but he cuts him off.

"We dannae have to bring them back, just get them somewhere safe. You know it’s the right thing to do," Soap urges, his voice low but imploring.

Finally, Ghost concedes. "Alrigh’, but you’re taking this to Price and Laswell by yerself."

Soap smiles grimly, clapping Ghost on the shoulder. "Understood, Lt. Let's get them out of here."

They enter the cave quietly, their movements deliberate and non-threatening. The boy's eyes widen in fear as soon as he spots them, but Soap raises a hand in a gesture of peace.

"We're ‘ere to help," he said softly. "Yer safe now."

The boy hesitates, his grip tightening on the squirming baby. "Who are you?" he asks, voice shaky.

"Friends," Soap replies gently. "We're here to help you."

As they move closer, the woman stirs, wincing in pain. Soap kneels beside her, ready to assess the wound on her shoulder. Her eyes widen at his sudden appearance, and with a sudden burst of energy, she lashes out, her nails catching him on the cheek. He stumbles back, more surprised than hurt.

Ghost already has the barrel of his gun pointed to her head, ready to take the shot.

"Easy!" Soap exclaims, raising his hands in a calming gesture between the two. "We’re not here to hurt you. We're here to help."

Her eyes dart between the two men, distrust and raw desperation clear in her gaze. "Why should I believe you?" she spits, voice shaky but fierce.

Soap steps forward slowly. "We don’t have to take you with us, just get you somewhere safe. But you need medical attention, and those kids won’t survive out here alone."

The woman sways, her strength fading. The boy, still clutching the baby, looks at her with pleading eyes. "Please, Auntie. We need help."

Her resolve wavers, the blood loss making her compliant. "Alright," she whispers, barely audible. "Help us."

Ghost lowers his gun as the boy scoots over to give Soap some space. His features soften as he looks at them, especially the baby girl. Strangely, maybe even gratefully, she wasn’t crying, just watching him with wide inquisitive eyes. "Hey there, wee one," he coos, Scottish accent soothing. "What's her name, lad?"

The boy blinks, momentarily distracted by Soap’s gentle tone. "Paulina," he whispers.

“And yours?”

“…Hugo.”

"Good names," Soap said, smiling before getting to work on the woman. "She’s a tough one, ain’t she? Keepin’ you both warm and fed, I see."

Hugo manages a small nod, his grip on the baby loosening slightly. "Yeah…she's strong."

"Aye, she is," he continues, "we’ll help her, alright’?"

Soap moves quickly, immobilising her arm for the journey ahead while Ghost keeps watch at the cave entrance. She grunts, sparing him an icy glare, but otherwise says nothing.

"We need to move soon," Ghost says over his shoulder.

Soap finishes and helps the woman sit up, the children following suit. "We'll get ye to safety," he promises. "But we need to move quickly."

The woman nods weakly, her eyes full of determination. "I can walk," she says, her voice stronger now. "Just help me up."

Soap helps her to her feet, and together, they prepare to leave the cave. The journey ahead would be difficult, but they were ready.

. . .

The undead hordes had turned civilization into a chaotic, lawless wasteland.

In the early days, the military had tried to maintain control, to keep the panic from spreading faster than the infection itself. But it soon became clear that this was not a fight that could be won with conventional tactics. The undead didn’t tire, they didn’t fear, and they were hungry.

Price remembered the first time he had seen a city overrun. The streets of London had been choked up with the dead, everything crumbling under the weight of the destruction. The few who survived had no choice but to flee, to leave behind everything they had known and start anew. The ranch, with its fortified walls and organised routines, was one of those places.

Each morning at the ranch began with the change of the guard. The sentries in the lookout towers would report in, and a fresh team would take their place. Price always made it a point to check in with the sentries, ensuring they remained alert.

That day he’d found Laswell on his way to the towers. She was often holed up in the command centre, pouring over maps and discussing plans with their surviving intel officers. It was strange, but not exactly unusual, to find her outside on and about.

Gaz stood by her, leaning in to catch whatever the older woman had to ask of him. "—and I need you to check on the food supplies," she said, glancing up from her notes. "We need to make sure we have enough to last through the next few weeks."

"On it," Gaz replied, nodding to his approaching superior. “Captain.”

Price acknowledged the greeting with a curt nod, his mind already racing through the day’s tasks. "Gaz, Laswell," he said in a gravelly tone. "Anything new on the intel front?"

Laswell shook her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She’d chopped it clean off after they settled into the ranch and had kept it short ever since. "Nothing significant. Some chatter from up north, but nothing we need to act on immediately.”

Gaz then turned to Price. "About Ghost and Soap—they’ve been out longer than expected. You think they might’ve run into trouble?"

Price shrugged as he considered his words. "It's possible. We need to be ready for anything, but I would not worry too much."

They continue walking side by side along the shoveled path, talking about everything and nothing all at once. A gust of wind blew through the trees, rustling the frozen leaves overhead. For a brief moment, it felt like they could breathe easy. But just as Price’s shoulders began to relax, a shout from behind them shattered the moment.

“Captain! Lieutenant! We’ve got a situation at the gate!”

It was the voice of one of the young sentries, breathless and hurried, as she approached them from behind. Her face was flushed both from urgency and the cold, her rifle slung across her back.

“Speak,” Price said, already feeling a headache stirring in the back of his skull.

“We’ve got movement. Two figures coming up the road… looks like Ghost and Soap.”

Laswell's eyes flicked to Price. “And the situation is?”

The sentry bit her lip, clearly unsure of what to make of the newcomers. “They’re not alone. There’s a woman with them, looks like she’s hurt. And… kids.”

Gaz immediately looked over at Price. “What the hell are they bringing back this time?”

Price groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll bet they’re dragging trouble with them.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Laswell muttered as they all began to make their way toward the gate.

As they arrived at the gate, the scene before them told a story even before they stepped closer. The sentries were on high alert, rifles raised but not aimed. A handful of medical personnel had appeared at the ready, tension radiating from the compound.

And there, stumbling toward them, was the source of the commotion—Soap and Ghost.

Soap looked grim, eyes tired, but his focus remained on the woman clinging to him. Closely behind him trailed a young boy—about thirteen or fourteen—looking scared but alert as he took everything in. And on Ghost’s back, wrapped tightly across his chest in the remains of torn rags, was a baby—its small form barely visible.

Price's eyes narrowed as he took in the sight. “What the hell happened?” he muttered under his breath, already knowing the answer but hoping against it.

Laswell was already in motion, stepping ahead to address the sentries. “Lower your weapons,” she ordered firmly. The rifles were lowered slightly, but still held tightly, the uncertainty of what was happening lingering in the air.

Gaz shifted his weight, obviously on edge. “We need to get them inside.”

The medics were the first to step forward, Taylor and Jensen pushing their way through the crowd, wheeling a stretcher with them. Taylor, a burly medic with a calm demeanour, was already assessing the situation as he approached the woman in Soap’s arms. “We’ll need to get her on the stretcher. Looks like she’s lost a lot of blood.”

Laswell stepped forward, giving the medic’s orders as they prepared to move the woman. “Taylor, get them to the medical bay. We’ll need to check the boy and the baby too.”

Taylor nodded, his face hardening. “On it.”

As the medic team began carefully lifting the woman onto the stretcher, Price turned back to Soap and Ghost. “Good work, but I don’t want to hear any more excuses about why you didn’t come back sooner. Got it? Also, I'm expecting a full debrief.”

Soap gave him a sheepish look, his breath frosty, but Ghost simply nodded as he handed the baby girl into the hands of a nearby nurse, the boy hovering nearby and watching the exchange.

“Alright, get them inside,” Price ordered, his tone firm. “We’ll sort this out later.”

. . .

Back at the med-bay, the sterile scent of antiseptic and muted murmurs of machinery ease you into consciousness. Your body aches, stiff and bruised, but your shoulder is definitely the worst. The pain weighs you down against the cot you're lying in. With a groan and squinted eyes, you survey your new surroundings.

The first thing you notice is Hugo’s face—wide-eyed and visibly relieved when he registers that you’re awake. Paulina lies cradled against his chest, her tiny form bundled up in new clothes, half-asleep with her small fingers curled around his shirt.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, leaning forward. “They… they fixed you up. Said it was just a matter of time before you woke up.” His voice shakes just a little. “Paulina and I… we’ve been waiting for you,” he adds.

A knot loosens in your chest, and you give him a weak but genuine smile, reaching a hand out to brush a strand of hair from his face. “I’m sorry, Hugo. You must’ve been so scared…”

He shakes his head quickly, his hand moving to cover yours. “We’re just glad you’re here. I… I tried to keep Paulina calm, kept telling her you’d be alright.” There’s a hint of pride in his voice, a testament to the weight he’s taken on in your absence.

As you shift to sit up, the door suddenly clicks open. A black woman woman with greying hair tied back and sharp, steps inside. She’s wearing a face-mask and simple green sweater and pants, and over it, a crisp white coat, her badge reading "Dr. Laswell."

She offers you a nod. “Good, you’re awake,” she says with a quiet authority. “I’m Dr. Sarah Laswell, head med-chief here. My team and I are making sure you and the kids are treated, especially after that ordeal. You’ll be okay, but you’re in quarantine for now.”

Her gaze softens, and she pulls up a chair beside your cot. “Your arrival caused quite the stir. Two of our best brought you in—that's almost unheard of.”

At her words, memories start trickling back, fragmented images of being helped, lifted by strong arms, voices murmuring assurances.

Sarah continues. “You’re on the ranch now—a community built from survivors. A mix of civilians and military personnel help run it, keeping it as safe and self-sufficient as possible.”

She pauses, eyes flickering over Hugo, her tone shifting to something more serious. “Now, there’s something important we need to address. Since you’ve been brought here, and especially because your nephew was awake for much of the journey, you all know our location. That means… you’ll need to stay.”

The weight of her words settles in your chest, leaving little room for debate. You look over at Hugo, whose gaze is steady and telling you he'll go with whatever you decide. Paulina simply beins to snooze in her brother's arm, unfaced by the sudden revelation.

You give Sarah a slow nod, your heart conflicted, but the decision is clear. You won't object, for your family’s safety, this place is the best option, a fresh start, no matter what came before. “I understand,” you reply, voice steady. “We’ll stay.”

Sarah then gives you a thorough rundown of your condition, her tone straightforward but gentle. She explains that the knife wound didn’t puncture too deep, thankfully, but it will still need proper care and time to heal. As she speaks, her gaze lingers on you with a knowing look, one that softens when she moves on to Hugo and Paulina’s health.

“Your niece and nephew are… doing well, remarkably so. Neither is malnourished,” she says with a slight nod toward them. Her tone is neutral, yet you catch the unspoken understanding between you. You’ve clearly been sacrificing your own needs to make sure they were fed, clothed, and safe. She doesn’t comment further, but you can tell she knows exactly how much you’ve poured into them. Her respect for you shows in the small, quiet acknowledgment, and it fills the room with a kind of warmth you haven’t felt in a long time.

After giving you the essential instructions for resting and healing, Sarah adds, “Once you’ve had a bit more time to recover, a few people from the community will come by to talk with you. They’ll ask about your needs, your skills, qualifications, that kind of thing.”

This catches you off guard. It’s been a long time since anyone asked you about what you needed or where you could fit in. Gratitude mixes with disbelief, and a hint of scepticism flares as well. Nothing has felt this… safe or welcoming since your sister was alive. The world after her loss has been so unkind, especially with the kids to protect.

But for now, you settle into the moment, letting yourself hold onto a fragile glimmer of hope for what this place could mean for you and for them.

banner credit

[hika-ri-petite]

LITTLE PET

English is not my first language, so I apologize for any errors. This is mostly translated by chatGPT JAJAJAJA. Thank you for reading.

Warning: Adult content, minors do not interact, size fetish, Sukuna is not as bad here, real form of Sukuna.

"The problem arose when he didn't know how to express the tenderness he felt for you. He first noticed that when he "accidentally" pushed you with his arms, something inside him eased"

When Sukuna decided to adopt you as his pet, there was no other reason than that you were very cute; to him, you were just a delightful little thing, like a baby kitten.

The problem arose when he didn't know how to express the tenderness he felt for you. He first noticed that when he "accidentally" pushed you with his arms, something inside him eased. Of course, he didn't want to harm you for real or take it to the extremes because he genuinely enjoyed your company.

He always found a way to tease you, pulling on your dress to make you stumble, discreetly tripping you, making you "accidentally" fall from a small step, always enjoying seeing your small and fragile body falling.It didn't take long for him to develop other interests in you.

He liked it when he held you, and even though it wasn't in a rough manner, your skin would turn red. When he realized that you were much smaller compared to him, these simple details made him reflect, and he discovered that there was something he liked more than seeing you clumsily fall.

That was when he had you completely naked in front of him, with your legs open so he could eat your pussy. Sukuna's tongue simply moved up and down on your pussy while he immobilized your trembling legs with his hands. Spasms covered your body, and you trembled violently from time to time, clutching your hands to the soft wrinkled sheets beneath you.

When you start moving your hips in a gentle sway over his mouth and moan slowly, he knows you're about to finish, so he pulls away from you just to tease and see the tears of pleasure accumulated on your cheeks.

"Pathetic little thing," his mockery only increases the heat in your body.

"Please, please."You beg, but he enjoys seeing you desperate, so he lazily takes out his cock.

You are ready to be filled by him, and anxiety gnaws at you from within as you watch him simply rubbing the tip of his cock on your pussy, from top to bottom.

He gets so excited by the way his little pet willingly opens her legs to feel him more, as your pussy drips with each passing second. He loves that when he finally slides his cock into your hot and tight walls, you're so wet to receive him.

You moan, covering your face and arching your back. His cock always hits that delicious spot, and without further ado, he begins to move, delivering hard and firm thrusts.

His balls hit your rear forcefully. You love to see his hands gripping your waist, the veins on his tattooed arms standing out, his partially open robe revealing part of his abs. It only makes you wetter as you receive his cock with such affection.

You open both arms to hug him, although he thinks it's just a silly show of affection, he approaches to indulge you, but you only want to be crushed by his massive body, feeling like you're running out of air with each thrust, clinging to his enormous back with your legs wrapped around his waist. "Wait—"You scream in desperation as your pussy starts to burn, and you feel like it's going to split you in half, but he simply covers your mouth and continues.

You cry out against his hand and squirm, but he only releases you when he feels your body trembling, squeeze your pussy as tight as it can, sucking on his veiny cock.

He knows you've finished, so he releases your mouth to let you speak, but you simply cry, clinging to him in an hug, allowing the king of curses to keep using your pussy until he's done, and you know you have to wait much longer for that.

Maybe being teased by Sukuna with small falls wasn't so bad after all.

[ahhhwomen]

Wait, no, please share. I need to see the darkness 👀

a/n: you asked for it, also this is half shit written cus its just a blurb lol

WARNING TAGS: Violence, religious trauma, death, blood

Platonic Relationship: MotherFigure!Natasha x DaughterFigure!Reader

You’re a freak, a monster, a killer. The girl under you had told you as much.

The skin on your knuckles splits and tears as your hands continue to collide with the helpless prey beneath you. Small droplets of blood scatter and spray the mats covering the floor.

Please, for the love of god, stop me now.

The girl under you cries and begs, but it only spurs you on. It’s like you can see her life force, clutched in your greedy palms, you just need to use a bit more force. Then the voices will stop, your muscles will loosen, and the fear will dissipate. The bunny beneath you is suffering, you just want to help it.

She tries to kick you away, her legs slamming into your ribs, but as your hands take hold of her hair and smash her skull into the ground, you can’t feel it.

Please, God, embrace thy child and end her suffering.

The priest’s words echo; please God, forgive the sinner, and aid her prey.

You can feel Mira’s fingernails dig into the skin beside your eyes, her fingers slip and glide clumsily against your blank face.

 She’s trying to dig her thumbs into your eye socket but the blood covering both of you makes her falter and you use her momentum against her and violently twist your elbow outward, crashing it into her outstretched arm, and there is a sickening crack as Mira screams in agony.

The redhead´s other hand yanks your hair violently before you can deliver the last blow.

Oh, please God, save this sick child.

Your bloodshot eyes stare widely at her shivering frame, Mira stares back at you, her fear evident in the way her pupils are nothing but a pin needle in a sea of endless green.

 Please God, lay the monster dormant and return thy child to the great heavens above.

When you dig your knee into her stomach, the hand that had previously held you back loses its grip, and you can finally end it. It would only take eight ounces of force for your thumbs to penetrate the thin skin over the lower part of her jugular.

And yet-

You make the ultimate mistake.

As you straddle her and start digging your thumbs in, you look up at her young face. Tears roll down her chin, her face is pale and bloody. But her red hair falls like a hallow around her, and her eyes are the perfect resemblance to a familiar emerald, green.

Please God, save thy child. For thy child is alone.

Natasha was the only person to ever make you feel like you belonged. She was the only one to let you feel hope. Feel love.

Natasha was like the mother you never had.

Your small hands clasp the cross tightly and you kneel in front of the altar. The statues are intimidating as your little frame looks up at them in hope.

“Oh, please God, kill me before I can do more harm.” You spoke as clearly as you could into the cold crisp air inside the abandoned church.

You thought you were alone, but then a tall woman with angelic red hair had found you.

“What are you doing her kid?”

You're frozen above the scared girl as you come too.

“What have I done?” you whisper to yourself and quickly lift yourself to let the smaller girl free. However, just as you are about to stand. A white-hot agony shoots up your spine and you fall, the mat is cold and sticky, and you try to push yourself up with the use of your arms, but you can’t move.

There is something firm lodged in your back.

Natasha stands over your limp frame, she can feel the sweat on her palms glide against every nook and cranny as she stands there numbly, not being able to remove her eyes from the handle sticking out of your small back.

Natasha had done that.

She didn’t have a choice.

You had talked about this before…

That if the day ever came when you lost control.

That the redhead needed to do what was right.

She had to.

She had to.

Her knees creak in protest as they ram into the wet mat. Her fingers clutch and grasp at any part of you she can gather up. Your skin is already losing warmth and she curls around you in hopes of returning it. You wheeze when she pulls your body over hers.

You can’t feel anything, but the force against your lungs worsens as Natasha tries to apply pressure around the metal in your skin.

Thank you, God.

You can feel your mind slipping away from you, and the pressure starts consuming you. You can do nothing but use all of your last strength to muster up the words you never had the opportunity to say.

“I’m sorry mom.”

[writingquestionsanswered]

I’m so stuck in my fantasy novel. My protagonists need to do some sneaking and researching and such to figure out what the antagonist is up to, but I feel like I can’t make it interesting. It’s supposed to be mysterious, but the antagonist is also smart and isn’t just leaving clues in the street. They’ve also been framed for some crimes because he knows they’re coming after him, so they can’t just go ask anybody on the street for help either. But I’m so stuck.

Adding Interest to Fantasy Investigation

Well... in any mystery, no one is "just leaving clues in the street," you know? The whole point of clues is they're subtle hints of an event that were inadvertently left behind.

So, where you can start is with your antagonist's goal and plan... what are they trying to accomplish and how? In other words, when you say your characters are trying to figure out "what the antagonist is up to,' what *are* they up to? And what are they doing in an attempt to accomplish that?

Look at each of the steps the antagonist has to complete in order to accomplish their goal and break those steps into smaller steps. Look at every facet of each step and think about ways clues might be inadvertently dropped. So, for example, let's say you have an antagonist whose goal is to get the current king dethroned and replaced by a heroic-looking usurper who is in fact their puppet, and one of the steps they need to accomplish is throwing a battle which, when lost, will cause the people to lose faith in their king. And lets say one of the steps in throwing said battle is leaking information to the enemy that allows them to ambush a supply caravan that was headed to the king's army. And lets say he accomplishes this leak by paying a peasant boy to sneak into the enemy's camp and deliver the information.

What are some clues that could inadvertently be left behind for the investigating protagonists to find? Well, for one thing, there could be a witness that saw one of the antagonist's associates coming out of a mill where he wouldn't normally have been. And maybe, upon closer investigation, the protagonists discover that one of the miller's sons was seen talking to this man and then disappeared for two days. Maybe they talk to the boy and he claims the man simply asked for directions, and explains his time missing by saying he got lost in the forest. But... further investigation reveals that one of the boy's playmates saw him in the town square, where he climbed into the wagon of a man who fits the description of the antagonist's associate. And maybe the protagonists are able to trace the journey of said wagon through a few witness reports, and find that the boy climbed out of the wagon and followed a particular path into the forest. Looking on a map, they see that this path leads due east into the enemy camp. These are not clues what were intentionally or even clumsily left by the antagonist, but rather little elements that, when looked at closely, became hints as to the bigger picture.

Ultimately, that's what you're going for here... and see how much more interesting that is? Because now there's interest in the process... finding out the associate was in the village, at the mill, and seen talking to a boy. Finding out the boy went missing temporarily. Tracing the wagon's path and they boy's path into the forest... There are many opportunities to create mystery and tension with the investigation.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[xxlady-lunaxx]

Is it okay to ask for SaneMitsu fluff? Specifically Mitsuri making ohagi for Nemi?

YES?? YESYESYES ‼️ (guys i love rarepair asks please they make me so unreasonably happy) /nyways im happy to serve<3

Mitsuri found out about Sanemi’s liking towards ohagi through Shinobu, who found out through Giyuu, who found out through Tanjiro who knew because of the constant aroma of the mochi around the Wind Hashira. The moment the news reached her, she was scouring her kitchen for the right ingredients. After making a quick trip to the store for some red bean paste, she set to work making it. A few hours later, she was on her way to the Wind Estate, directed by her crow. She hadn’t bothered cleaning herself up much—mostly because it had left her mind once the excitement of delivering Sanemi mochi had overcome her thoughts—and the embarrassment of it sunk in as she reached the house. Of course, she could always go back and change, but what of the mochi? What if she ended up dropping it or something on the way back?

Besides, she was sure Sanemi wouldn’t mind. She wasn’t sure if he really cared about her appearance.

As she raised a hand to knock on the door, it opened itself. Startled, Mitsuri squeaked, taking a step back. Sanemi stood there, looking equally confused.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She flushed, suddenly feeling quite foolish. She hadn’t given any prior notice and she was here with some food whilst covered in who knows what. It took her a moment to compose herself, swearing the temperature was rising by the moment.

“Uhm. Uhm, Shinazugawa-san, hello! Hi!” She laughed nervously, repeating herself as she stumbled clumsily through her greetings. “Hi, Shinazugawa-san! Nice to see you!”

“You came here.” He peered at her. “Were you having a food fight or something?”

That only worked to make her face burn and she desperately held up the ohagi in an attempt to spare herself. It was wrapped neatly in what she had thought was cute earlier but now felt stupid. “I brought you ohagi,” she mumbled.

“How did-“ Sanemi paused, an expression of irritation sweeping over him. “God, it was Kamado, wasn’t it? Or Tomioka?”

Mitsuri shook her head. “Shinobu-san, actually. But they did contribute…!”

“Mm.” Sanemi snatched the ohagi, looking at it suspiciously. “Is this homemade or something? Is that what you were doing?”

She nodded. “I wanted to make you some ohagi… I also like mochi, you know? And I thought maybe— Well, if you wanted it… If we could eat together one day? I dunno, well, I- I just wanted to make you some! Because…” She trailed off, fidgeting with one of her braids. His lack of reaction was making her nervous.

“Right.” He opened it quickly, balancing it on his hand almost delicately. He took one tentatively, biting into it. Mitsuri waited and watched, tempted to ask if he liked it but not wanting to sound rude or impatient. After a moment, he took a few more bites from it before popping the rest into his mouth and retying the cloth.

“Ehm…” Mitsuri bit her lip, gazing at him expectantly.

He ignored that, motioning for her to move aside so he could walk past. She frowned sullenly when he just continued down the path retreating from his house. But before she could be any further sad about it—though something like wilting disappointment tried tugging tears from her eyes—Sanemi turned and waved the wrapped ohagi in the air.

“I’m not up for eating together but you’re welcome to make me more,” he called out. Then he turned the corner and was out of her view. Even so, she heard him add, “and I’ll eat the rest later!” and then he was gone.

Mitsuri stared after him for a long moment before barely contained exuberant squeals threatened to convulse her and she wiggled about in her silent excitement, unaware of her crow giving her a concerned look as she all but skipped back home. She swore that her heart was beating fast enough to result in a Demon Slayer Mark by itself, cheeks a simmering red in the best ways possible.

not so much of her making it but here i hope you like it :3 (i think this is my first time writing sanemitsu LMFAO 🙏 i love them so much sughfjkd)

[mlmxreader]

Perfect Enough | Kuai Liang x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hi can I request the prompt "I adore you" with Kuai Liang please? ❞

: ̗̀➛ You and Kuai Liang get to spend some quality time together and sleep together for the night.

: ̗̀➛ n/a

↳ PROSHIP/PROFIC/ETC DO NOT INTERACT

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The floorboards creaked heavily beneath harsh footsteps as Kuai Liang made his way up the stairs, a gentle breeze against his bare chest and a weight on his shoulders; he had arrived late and he knew it, but he hoped that maybe you were still up and awake.

You usually were, even though the clock was edging closer to three in the morning; faintly, he could hear soft murmuring from the bedroom, and for a moment, he paused to listen closely and carefully.

Relief washing over him when he recognised the voice of the protagonist of the television programme you had been watching recently.

With the weight from his shoulders dropping, Kuai Liang peered around the corner, meeting your gaze; your face was illuminated with the soft blue light of your laptop screen, and when he realised that you were smiling, he couldn't help but to mimic it.

You had a good talent for that, making him smile with just a look and a slight raise of your brows.

Slowly, you moved over slightly, enough to reach the laptop and tapped the space bar; you cleared your throat, sitting upright and allowing the duvet to pool in your lap as a scrunched up mess.

"Where'd you put your shirt?" You asked softly, quietly. "Or did someone steal it on your way over?"

Kuai Liang hummed softly as he shook his head, daring to approach as he kicked off his boots. "No, I abandoned it on the hook beside your coat... are you still watching that programme?"

You nodded, patting the bed to your left as you gestured with your head. "Do you wanna join?"

He nodded back, clumsily heaving himself onto the bed. He was quick to take up half the duvet beside you, putting his arm over you when you laid down on your side.

A heavy sigh left him as he sandwiched his leg between yours. "Comfortable?"

You hummed as you pushed yourself back against him, your back against his chest and one arm under your head. "Very... did you get here alright?"

"Without a problem," he told you softly. "Even the traffic wasn't so bad."

"Did Johnny drop you off?" You asked, curious and gentle as you carefully reached out for the laptop.

"As usual," Kuai Liang agreed, pressing his face to the back of your neck as he listened to the programme.

You were comfortable, in all honesty, slowly slipping into a familiar and golden silence with him; dozing off in his embrace as you eventually lost all attention to the programme. It wasn't often that the two of you got to spend time like that, like a normal couple.

Usually, when you stayed with him, he was often pulled away from you at all hours to fulfil his duties as Grandmaster, and when he stayed with you, you were both too tired to do much except have a quick and short conversation before falling asleep altogether.

But you both made it work as much as you could.

You knew that he loved you, and he knew that you felt the same way too, and that was all that really mattered; some quality time here and there, even if it was just sleeping together for one night, was good enough for you both.

He adored you, and you knew it - he never allowed you to think any different.

The little gifts, the home cooked meals, the occasional presents delivered to your door - Kuai Liang never allowed you to think anything other than the fact that he adored you more than anything in the world.

You were his favourite person, and one day, you would also be his spouse.

You grumbled quietly when you felt him move behind you, planting a sweet and soft kiss to the back of your neck; his scruff along his jaw grazing and scratching the skin, almost making you laugh.

"I adore you," Kuai Liang yawned as he settled back down, slowly closing his eyes. "I really do..."

You smiled, chewing the inside of your lip for a moment before you sighed heavily and stretched a little; a few of your bones clicked, and you rolled over onto your other side so that you were crushed against him, able to feel the hair on his chest tickling you as your breathing became slower and softer.

Kuai Liang listened closely for a moment, focusing on the sound of your breathing above the laptop's volume as he allowed himself to eventually drift off.

It was always a massive comfort for him, listening to you when you were at your most relaxed and tranquil; he could have had the worst day of his life, and as long as he came back and could listen to your breathing for a moment, he would be happy.

You meant everything to him. He stretched, letting out a quiet yawn before snuggling back into you as much as he could, a heavy breath leaving his mouth as he felt every ounce of tension drop from himself.

He regretted not arriving earlier, maybe he could have had a few more moments with you; but it was still good enough, and Kuai Liang appreciated every second of it as he could get with you.

Maybe that one day when you became his spouse would come sooner than later; he had a nice enough ring picked out already, thanks to Kung Lao, he just needed to ask.

The morning seemed like a good idea, as he didn't quite agree with the thought of waking you up to ask; it seemed a bit cruel, so he pushed the thought from his mind.

The morning would be a better idea, maybe even perfect - he could make you breakfast in bed and watch some television with you before he asked. He knew that you would appreciate it, at least. Maybe enough to say yes. Hopefully enough to say yes.

But when the phone under your pillow buzzed, Kuai Liang grumbled, pulling you closer; just some quality time together. It was perfect enough.

[runabout-river]

Some incomplete thoughts I had about Gege's way of structuring his manga. This came to me because of how many people get... kinda overrun with their own expectations that are not delivered in JJK but I think there is a valid reason why (some of) those happen.

Gege leaves many, many open ended threads in his manga that are barely ever mentioned again and only get a resolution dozens if not hundreds of chapters later if at all.

And when I say open ended I don't mean it in a way that 1 or 2 pieces are left before it gets complete; I mean that the circle is so open that you could fit nearly everything into it. On one hand, this gives Gege the freedom to write what he wants the further the story gets; on the other hand, the reader is left to their imagination with many different scenarios that could play out but don't because Gege chose to write something else.

This gives us something new and surprising in nearly every chapter but on the flipside, many people have a certain threshhold of 'expectation meets reality' where the story fails for them. Add that Gege is more interested in the battles and plot progression than his characters' interpersonal relationships and some frustrations and disappointments can mount because most open ended threads are about the characters and not their abilities.

I think Gege has a small problem managing his readers' expectations.

Like, the thread that pulls us through the manga is pulled in many different directions while many other threads are laid on top. Where will this go? (An uncertainty that can be positive and/or negative.)

Granted, the story isn't over yet and week to week this problem is worse than when you read after it's finished. Personally, I'm only slightly bothered by this but I'm also a fanfic writer and reader, with something like this I can easily make the jump to fandom spaces to get the fix to my expectations and accept the manga as it is (for the most part).

Now these are just some thoughts I clumsily try to convey and I can be wrong in my analysis. I'm also not someone who memorized every panel of JJK and I should reread all of it, too for good examples and so one but discussions are welcome.

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Hallo!! I have had this stuck in my brain for so long but I just love the idea of a reader who knits or crochets as a hobby and them making little Christmas gifts for the 141? Like a bright green crocheted version of Prices hat or a knitted mask for ghost. I just think they deserve hand made gifts so they know they're cared for 😌

A/N: I love a good holiday drabble

Soap

"What's this then?" He asked, leaning against the doorframe. It was early in the morning and you were lucky enough to get holiday leave. You just had to deliver everyone's presents. Soap's room was next to yours so he was first.

He held the clumsily wrapped package with an amused smile.

"Open it."

"It's not Christmas yet." He said, shrugging.

"Soap. Just open the damn thing." You wanted to see his reaction. He tore at the paper, and his smile grew as he revealed his gift. A knitted scarf made to look like the Scottish Flag.

"I'm never taking it off," he said, wrapping it around his neck. "Did you make this?"

"Yeah, I just had some free-" You were interrupted by him hugging you around the waist and lifting you up into the air.

"I love it." He said, spinning the two of you in a circle.

Gaz

Gaz was the next stop. You found him eating breakfast in the mess. You slide into the seat next to him.

"Mornin'." You said, stealing a piece of toast from him.

"Morning to you too, little thief." He said, jokingly slapping your hand away. "You leaving today?"

"In a couple hours but I had to do some things first."

"What are these things?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Delivering this." You handed him a tissue paper-wrapped bundle.

"Fuck, I didn't get you anything." He said rubbing a hand over his head. "You gotta warn me about these things."

"You don't have to get me anything. Just open it now."

He smiled and shook his head as he unwrapped it. It was a pair of mittens, knitted with dark maroon wool.

"You're always complaining how cold your hands are." He slipped them on and cupped your face.

"I'm still getting you something when you get back." He kissed your forehead. "You're making me look bad.

Captain John Price

You knocked on his office door, a light blue bag covered in snowflakes in your hand.

"Come in." He called. You went in. "Aren't you supposed to be home?"

"Trying to get rid of me?"

"You being home means I have one less person to worry about." He leaned back in his chair. He was looking at the bag.

"This is for you." You were shyer about this one than the previous two. You set the bag on his desk. He smirked and took the bag. He laughed as he pulled out the tissue paper. It was a green bucket hat, maybe a little more feminine than you had intended but it was too late to make changes. He took off his hat and replaced it with your handmade one.

"How do I look?" He smiled.

"You look good." You giggled.

"Thank you, dear." He reached into his desk and pulled out a candy bar with a red ribbon tied around it. He tossed it to you. "Have a good holiday."

Ghost

You were afraid you wouldn't be able to find him in time. You had to loop back to the other three and only Soap had the vaguest idea of where he could be.

"Try the roof?" He shrugged, offering to pass the gift on if you couldn't find him in time. No, it had to be in person. You were anxious. He had never been cruel or even outright mean to you but he was intimidating, to say the least. He was also who you knew the least.

Soap was right. He was on the roof. A cup of black coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. You close the door just loud enough that he could hear and have time to pull his mask down.

"Thought you were gone."

"I have to leave right after this, actually." You approached slowly. Your gifting hand outstretched like how'd you let a dog sniff you before going to pet it.

"After this?" He turned to look at you. He paused when he saw the gift. 'Don't bite me, please' you thought.

"For you." You handed him the little wrapped package. He set his coffee down and gave you his cigarette to hold. He was the most gentle with the wrapping, slowly undoing the knotted bow. He pulled against the tape, careful not to rip the paper. It was simple. Just a plain black balaclava.

"Most of yours are polyester and this is cotton so it won't be as harsh on your face." You explained quickly. He was flipping it over in his hands.

"Did you make this?" He asked, standing.

"Yeah." You resisted the urge to ask if he liked it. He pulled you into a one-arm hug.

"Thanks, kid." He clapped your shoulder. "Now get out of here."

He took the cigarette back and sat back down. You hurried away, taking one look back before slipping back inside. He had the balaclava in his hand, just staring at it. You got a quick glimpse of him living his mask over his chin to rub the cotton against it before the door slammed shut.

[teine-mallaichte]

Someone on here at some point mentioned the idea of Whumper leaving Whumpee as a "present" for Cartaker. And someone else (it maybe the same person - I need to get a better filing system) mentioned the idea of euphoric drugs... Anyway my brain has been looping round this idea for a while.

CW: non-con drugging, callus whumper, drugged Whumpee.

Everything is so… sparkly!" Whumpee giggled, their eyes wide and unfocused. "Why are you glowing?"

Whumper grinned, pleased that the drug had worked faster than expected. They steadied Whumpee, who swayed on their feet, and guided them toward the door. "Let's go for a little walk," Whumper suggested gently.

Whumpee nodded enthusiastically, barely able to keep their balance. "Look at all the pretty lights," they murmured, reaching out as if to catch the glowing orbs only they could see.

Whumper laughed. Even before administering the drug, Whumpee had been suffering from an interesting mix of sleep deprivation and hunger, but now... now this was something else entirely. Whumpee giggled again, their footsteps weaving across the pavement. They babbled about the dancing lights, occasionally grabbing at the air and looking confused when nothing ended up in their hands.

"Do you see them too?" Whumpee asked, eyes wide with wonder. "The stars are so close. I can almost touch them."

"Yes, they're beautiful," Whumper lied smoothly, enjoying the sight of Whumpee's state. They laughed as Whumpee stumbled and fell, giggling uncontrollably. Whumper watched with unrestrained amusement as Whumpee struggled to stand, oblivious to the blood trickling from their knee and elbow.

This was even more entertaining than Whumper had hoped. Soon, they’d be delivering Whumpee right to Caretaker’s doorstep, a nice "gift" for them.

The thought alone made Whumper’s grin widen.

Whumpee finally managed to stand, swaying like a leaf in the wind. They took a step forward and Whumper quickly caught their arm, ensuring they wouldn't collapse too soon.

"Come on," Whumper coaxed, leading Whumpee down the dimly lit street. "Just a little further."

Whumpee obediently followed, their gaze darting around in awe. "The ground is moving," they whispered, giggling. "It's like a dance floor!"

Whumper smirked, tightening their grip as Whumpee's knees buckled again. They continued their trek, the distant porch light of Caretaker’s house now visible. Whumpee’s disjointed ramblings filled the silence, their words slurring more with each step.

Finally, they reached the house. Whumper paused at the edge of the property, savoring the moment. They leaned in close to Whumpee’s ear. "You’ve been such a good sport," they murmured. "Caretaker is going to be so happy to see you."

Whumpee’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, their head lolling. "Happy… happy lights," they mumbled, barely coherent.

Whumper chuckled, guiding them up the steps and to the door. They knocked loudly, then quickly stepped back, staying out of sight. The door opened a crack, revealing Caretaker’s cautious face.

"Hello?" Caretaker called, their voice filled with concern.

Whumpee giggled again, the sound tinged with delirium. "Hi!" they exclaimed, waving clumsily.

"Whumpee?" Caretaker gasped, opening the door fully. Their eyes widened in horror as they took in Whumpee’s disheveled appearance, the blood on their knee and elbow, the unfocused gaze.

Caretaker rushed forward, catching Whumpee just as their legs buckled. "Oh my God, what happened to you?"

Whumpee laughed, trying to reach up and touch Caretaker's face. "You’re glowing too," they giggled.

Caretaker’s heart pounded as they held Whumpee, taking in their dazed and fragile state. “What have they done to you?” Caretaker whispered, a mix of fury and heartbreak in their voice.

Whumpee giggled again, their eyes struggling to focus. “I saw the stars, Caretaker. They were so close… so pretty…”

[keepmeinmind-01]

—carved songbird

this is a theseus and leta drabble i scribbled in and transcribed from my notebook. i’m trekking at altitude and a little delirious.

The swan-white of his shirt collar, the curve of his neck, the clavicles pressing against the fabric of his waistcoat like sprouting wings. Her eyes trace the dark curls that cradle the shells of his ears and she thinks of how they are running her lover ragged. Each of his breaths remind him of this. In, out, those bones for flight punching against the fine tailored wool.

Theseus is helping her sort her jewellery for the next Ministry gala. She is watching him from the doorway as he stands before their bed and divides her messy collection eight ways. They have only just stopped being friends. Becoming something more. Perhaps it has been a year, maybe longer.

And perhaps what is emerging is bitter, invigorating. A whole unfolding future that tastes like an entirely different kind of freedom to the rebellious self-destruction she has always sought.

No one knows Theseus isn’t a fan of the galas, of the sparkling displays and grand halls and veiled interrogations disguised as polite conversation. That Theseus is both good at doing what he wants and what is expected of him—that sparks a certain jealousy in her.

She loves the artifice of those events as much as he hates it. Masked galas for a masked girl.

Masks haunt the pair of them. Theseus is tearing his off from where it has grown fused, tightly moulded to his face. Fingernail gouge by fingernail gouge, bloody scrapes.

But when Leta has kohl on her eyes and just the right amount of coldness bubbling through her Slytherin veins to deter intruders, she loves the mask, with the passion of one engaging in a long held, illicit affair.

She watches as he picks out and lays aside a diamond necklace—fake jewels, because they don't have that kind of money, and she’d die before taking her inheritance. And then he rests his long fingers against a precious velvet pouch.

Those wings of his still.

She knows she’s the only one who’s ever seen those blades, those wings. But the stillness—that’s ironic, when she knows what she keeps hidden in there. The two of them are connected enough, intertwined enough, for their magical signatures to cautiously interweave like vibes. Unhurried, deep, passionate, like the warm-fed purple of a flower erupting into bloom. Like their coupling. Like their existence. Illicit to others: a mongrel name like Scamander with a fallen heiress of the sacred Lestrange breed.

But so right.

Right enough she knows he realises what he is holding. That it is special, and secret, and precious.

This is no ordinary piece of jewellery. She did not know her mother long enough for her hands—which she imagines as a darker, warmer, beautiful brown, maybe hands like her own of which she is starved of seeing—to have passed down this singular timepiece.

One day in her girlhood, it had been left on the windowsill of her mother’s quarters in the Lestrange manor. As if hand-delivered by a corvid after her own heart. A note left in a mother tongue her mouth still could clumsily shape, because she’d always vowed Lestrange would never stamp it out of her, even as she spelled her hair to flat silk, crimped curls.

Nothing like the ringlets, soft and coarse, that Theseus spends hours combing out for her on their quiet days together.

Theseus pulls off the velvet covering and gently weighs the tarnished gold pocket watch in one hand.

Watching Theseus be so tender with all that is left of her mother—all beyond the dark onyx pools of her eyes—fragments something inside her.

It makes her go to him, padding on bare feet, and stretch to kiss that swan-spot on the back of his neck. He sighs. The noise mists into their shared bedrooms some trace of the wet ocean of her pain.

I miss her, she wants to say, but I never knew her. Is that silly?

Theseus is dependable, says what he means. His eyes meet hers as she drapes one of his arms to cradle her: closes her hand over his to trap that restless heartsickness the watch contains.

She loves it—she hates it.

In the acceptance, in those gestures, he tells her it’s okay without needing a word. And, for a moment, she imagines she can hear that carved songbird sing.