#her books are such a strange thing for me

[shady-tavern]

"Protect me?" you downright snarled as you stomped towards the unmoving, scattered bodies on the ground. There wasn't as much blood as one would expect from torn apart people, though you chalked that up to the fact that the earth had soaked up most of it.

Beneath your feet, the ancientness of Mother Earth felt sated, a bloodlust to her that most wouldn't expect. But, to you it made perfect sense. All one had to do was look at how animals tore each other apart - how humans tore each other apart - how plants choked out other plants to know that Mother Earth was no wilting maiden.

She could be incredibly gentle and endlessly kind, yes, and she could be viciously ruthless and unforgivingly harsh. She had teeth and claws just like she had beautiful sunrises and blooming meadows.

If there was one diety more devoted to Mother Earth than Chaos, it was Death.

A murder of crows took flight as you shooed them away from your former friends, cawing in upset that you disturbed their meal.

"Look where that got you," you growled at what you vaguely recognized as your old boss. The grizzled warrior looked wan and deflated in death, their remaining eye unseeing and dull. "Idiots, each and every one of you!"

For months you had raged against your old adventuring group, the family you had thought you had found after spending so much time feeling out of place and misunderstood and so very lonely.

And then they had kicked you out, had said all the right things to tear the barely scabbed-over wounds of your heart wide open, to make every insecurity and hidden fear of yours come true.

The final nail in the coffin had been the boss's callous words, all casually said, "We don't need you. Healers are unnecessary if we can just use potions."

It had felt like you had walked around with a festering, downright rotten heart for months and you had pretended like it was hatred driving you instead of bitter pain.

You had always been a good healer, dedicated to your task. Your tiny home back in the city, that you stayed at between jobs and during winter when your group tended to rest, was filled to the brim with books. Books on medicine and surgery and plants and mushrooms, anything to help your friends.

Anything to keep them safe.

"I was the one keeping you together," you whispered as you stared down at exposed bone and slowly rotting flesh, the earth darker where blood had gotten spilled. "What made you morons think you could survive without me?"

You had been their shield against poison and disease, their bulwark against the loss of eyes and limbs, their protective wall against Death's ever present, patient hand.

And with you gone, all they had had was potions.

A part of you, wounded and bitter, hissed that you should leave them behind. They had clearly chosen their fate, thinking you too feeble to stand with them against whatever danger had found them. They had chosen to hurt you over telling you the truth.

But the rest of you remembered being found after wandering the world, lonely and without direction. You remembered laughing around campfires and getting hugs and encouraging words. You remembered being wanted and invited along to parties and celebrations.

You remembered knocks on your door as snow fell outside, your friends piling into your tiny home with drinks and food, filling the quiet space with warmth and chatter.

With a deep sigh you started to properly lay out the bodies before you went and collected the limbs.

You pieced together the boss, the cheeky ranger who had sat with you quietly when you had nightmares, the whip-slim and whip-sharp rogue with a grin that promised all sorts of trouble and mischief, and the mage, the tallest and widest of the group, whose hands had always been gentle.

You examined each and every one of their wounds, noting the strange blackness that surrounded them and that, what at first had looked like a frayed, torn wound, was more like the rough cut of sharp claws.

They really had tangled with something out of their league. It would have been out of your league, too, months ago, before you had stomped your way up to an order of cleric warriors and asked to be taught and trained.

Well, whatever had killed them was probably still out of your league, but you had more of a chance now than in the past.

You sewed them up, fixing the bodies and making them as hale and whole as you could, considering that animals had been picking them apart.

You set everything up for a hours long ritual and settled down, closing your eyes and letting your magic flow, weaving it through the air and around the bodies of your old friends.

When you opened your eyes again, the sun was setting and your entire body felt stiff, your joints cracking as you shifted. Your friends looked perfectly fine now, their sunken flesh filled in, eyes regrown and the stitches were unnecessary now that their limbs had grown onto their bodies again.

Muttering under your breath about the utter idiocy of keeping you out of the loop - and through such cruel means as well - you set everything up for their revival.

It wasn't your favorite spell, far from it actually. You hadn't used it much either in the past and never on your old friends. You had always managed to claw them back from the edge of death just in time when things had gotten really bad.

Only, no matter what, now your friends would not rise again. Their lungs did not fill with air, their hearts did not start beating. It took you a moment to realize why. You couldn't recall their souls, because their souls were not in the afterlife.

You stared down at them and then you took a deep, long breath, before you exhaled slowly. "You guys really never do anything by halves, huh."

So you went and gathered up their bodies, putting them on the cart you had brought along, though you hadn't thought it would hold their lifeless bodies. Instead of the chatter and apologies and explanations you had expected to receive around that time, there was only silence.

And, in all truth, a shitton of rage.

You returned to your home in the dead of night, sneaking the bodies up into your home one by one, until you could return the cart to the kind miller who had lent it to you.

Then you began your research. There were only so many creatures and beings capable of stealing souls, but considering their wounds and the blackness that had surrounded them, that certainly narrowed down your options.

In the end you had to grudgingly conclude that your friends had tangled with a lich. Great. Those were not dangerous and deadly at all.

What had those morons been thinking? Not much, clearly, because a lich was far above their pay grade. Or their weapon- and armor-grade. They had been laughably unprepared for that sort of danger, especially without you at their side.

Sighing, you sat back and the dark, angry part of you, along with the self-preserving part considered leaving them like this. They were dead, gone and lost, and their souls would likely either get devoured at one point or used to power some sort of magical device.

"Fucking shit," you whispered beneath your breath, because you knew you were going to do it anyway.

You spent a few days preparing, since not even your impatience and worry about their souls could get you to be foolish now. A lich should never, ever be underestimated.

Once you were done, you paid your landlady in advance and left a letter with instructions should you not return in the next three months. Your friends would get a proper burial, even if you never returned.

Lichs were rare, but they also had a hard time hiding. You traveled where rumors and stories lead you, to lands where plants grew gray and withered, crows were silent and the rain left weirdly slick smears.

The first gray plants you spotted were small and dotted along the dirt road and they grew the more you traveled. Soon, you were surrounded by shades of gray and a strange shimmer laid over everything, like the slick left by the rain remained even when the sun shone again.

At the moment, the early morning sky was cloudy, the light murky at best and it promised at least a light drizzle later in the day.

You could taste it in the air now, the presence of the lich. Like Death and Decay and searing magic holding everything together. You could almost sense Death, as well, the god waiting, ever patient, knowing that immortality was a lie.

Everything died one day, even those who rid themselves of mortality.

Because sooner or later, someone like you came along, someone carrying Death at their fingertips in the name of everything living. And, in your case, in the name of saving your foolish friends.

The good things was, most lich really liked showing off their superiority, so when you spotted a complete monstrosity of a castle in the distance you knew exactly where to go.

As you got closer, you spotted more and more empty houses and abandoned farms.

There must've been a thriving community here once, but if anyone was still living here, they were hiding. The town surrounding the castle was equally as empty, the cobblestone paths showing a hint of gray weeds that barely managed to grow.

The only animals you saw were silent ravens who stared at you with eyes that seemed too knowing. As if they knew you and why you were here.

And then, you got stupidly lucky.

You had just scaled an abandoned watchtower, trying to get a better look at the castle, when the front gates slammed open and steeds the color of dust and ash thundered out, pulling a carriage of silver and granite, gleaming in the low light of the cloudy morning.

It felt like your attention was glued onto the carriage, a sudden chill filling the air and your body forcibly stilling like a deer spotting a traveling pack of wolves, hoping to go unnoticed.

You drew deeper into yourself, pulling in your energy, your magic, until you felt as gray as the surrounding plants and stone, as easy to overlook as the silent ravens.

The horses raced down the cobblestone roads, pulling the carriage away and you did not move until they vanished into the horizon, until the unnatural chill faded from the air again.

You had to force your body to move again, every muscle trembling as though the very essence of you wanted nothing more than to either vanish on the spot or run as fast as you could.

Cold sweat covered your neck and you stared at the open gates of the castle for long, long minutes, hands trembling and legs feeling like lead, until you managed to take a step.

It felt like it took a small eternity to step through the gate. The castle that laid beyond was an ostentatious one, but for all that it had clearly been built by many talented hands, the planted flowers were gray, the once shimmering, embroidered banners dull and colorless.

Life had gotten leeched from this place and with it, all its true beauty and soul and meaning was gone. It was just a collection of arranged stones and glass now, housing a being just as soulless.

Creeping inside, you saw no one and nothing, which wasn't unusual. If a lich wasn't completely alone, they were surrounded by undead minions. This one hadn't summoned any servants yet, which boded well for you.

It meant this lich was not yet as old as others, or, perhaps, not as powerful. Which didn't mean that it couldn't smear you across the pavement like a particularly squishy fly.

Scurrying through the castle you tried to find something of use - mostly the souls of your friends. None of the doors or chests were locked, as if the lich had never had to worry about a burglar a single day in its life.

You were about to give up, when a small glint caught your attention. A bit of something shimmery caught at the edge of a stone. You touched it out of curiosity, because it actually looked somewhat colorful, as if that smear of glitter had been made of something wondrous once - and the stone gave ever so slightly.

Pushing it inward, grinding gears rumbled from the other side of the wall and a bookcase swung outward, revealing a hidden hallway, illuminated by gray lanterns.

Stepping inside, you swallowed, then walked on as swiftly as you dared to, nerves prickling along your skin. What would await you on the other side?

The hallway opened into a massive chamber and all at once you realized a number of things.

One, there were dozens upon dozens of souls, hanging as faintly glowing coins from the ceiling and two, the lich wasn't a true lich.

Instead, it had captured one within a contraption and was syphoning its power, stealing its magic and life-force, its blessing of immortality.

The lich tipped its head to stare at you, soulless eyes gray and dull, a strange sheen to its skin, as though it had bathed in the rain that was rumored to fall in its presence.

"Mortal," it whispered and its voice seemed to come from all directions at once. "Hast thou come to take from me as well?"

"Uh, no," you muttered, edging along the wall and those gray eyes followed you all the while. There were no pupils, you realized. Just a flatness, an emptiness, a void that hungered for the souls around you.

To replace what could never be replaced, what had been sold for power and to sever the ties of Death's looming embrace.

"Just here for my friends," you whispered, grabbing the nearest soul-coin.

All at once, the lich twitched, an inhuman expression of starvation twisting its features until it looked like a monster out of a nightmare. You knew, the only reason it didn't go for your throat was the contraption keeping it captive.

"Why not free me?" it whispered, staring at the coin between your fingers. "I promise I will aid thee in thy endeavor. Free me and I shall strike a deal with thee."

You were about to decline when you heard it. The grinding of gears, faintly and from the other end of the hallway you had come from. The lich smiled, cold like glaciers and dangerous like a knife held against an unprotected throat. Your heart was pounding so fast it hurt.

"Thou art running out of time," it whispered. "Take mine hand and I shall so as thee bid just the once."

It held out a hand and all at once you tasted death and decay, the blood spilled and the howls of souls devoured. An unnatural chill filled the air as steps walked down the hallway, unhurried in a way that either meant the fake lich had no idea you were there - or it knew and knew it could kill you easily enough.

You looked at the contraption, at the soul-coin in your hand - some type of pretty dwarf, the coin giving off a feeling of loving hands and adoringly crafted sculptures and picking up and swinging around little ones, a chest rumbling with such joy and laughter nothing could ever compare.

It felt like that joy, that love, seeped into you, just a tiny bit, returning a touch of warmth to your fingertips. It wasn't enough to combat the presence of the lich, nor the one heading your way, but it was enough to remind you of your goal.

Of all that you stood to gain, for you had already lost everything.

Clutching the coin tightly and thinking of your friends, their laughter and love, their companionship and their utter stupidity to take on something powerful without you.

And you reached out, taking the lich's hand.

"State thy wish and pull me free," they whispered and you felt its magic coil around you, like devastation and destruction, a thousand plagues and droughts, like battlefields of corpses and the howling mourning of so many murdered it was just one, cacophonous wail.

You reached beneath your cloak, the coin tucked beneath three fingers and with the other two, you pulled out your amulet. Of the deity that had accompanied you all the way here, the one who had found you in your studies with the orders of cleric warriors.

The lich's face turned to one of such fury it made you feel about as tall as a crumb and just as powerful. Still, you held on to their hand and pried your jaws apart to whisper, "I wish for you to die."

It shrieked and beneath it's high-pitched screaming of death and rage, you heard another voice, just as terrible.

The hand in yours withered away, the lich growing thinner and thinner, like a slim tree getting whittled down to a gnarled branch.

And then, just like that, they turned to gray dust and the coin within your hand turned to pure light. All the coins did and they zipped away, racing like shooting stars down the hallway and towards whatever freedom awaited them.

Whatever bodies they might still be able to return to, if they were lucky.

Like your friends. You hadn't seen them anywhere among the sea of coins and you could only hope the lich hadn't devoured them.

Hurrying down the hallway, you left the castle as swiftly as possible, the strange grayness already starting to change, a faint hint of color creeping back in as the weird sheen of rain-slickness faded.

As you left the town, you heard a raven caw, loud and proud, a statement of life returned.

*.*.*

You barely had set foot onto the street your little home was on, feeling utterly wrung out from how fast you had been traveling, when you heard shouting.

A moment later, the bulky wizard had grabbed you into the largest hug of your life and you barely heard their voice before you burst into tears. Slim arms grabbed you around the middle as the wizard lifted you up, calloused, elegant hands patted your back and you heard your boss's rumbling voice.

And then you got so angry.

"You stupid assholes!" you shouted at them. "Not only did you hurt me - you did it for no fucking reason! And then you had the gall to go and die!"

"The lich was coming for us, we did not seek it out," the ranger said softly, making you pause. "We had struck a deal before we met you, to survive a terrible monster when we had been young. We... we thought we could get out of the deal. But when it came, it came for our souls."

"The next time, you tell me," you downright growled, wiping away tears and everyone looking at you with sad, understanding and yet so very glad eyes. Glad to see you, glad to be alive.

"We swear," the boss answered and held out his hand. "With you, we gladly make whatever deal you want." His smile turned a little crooked, a little hopeful. "If you are willing to let us make it up to you?"

You grabbed his hand, because you were willing. Because they had once upon a time slain your loneliness, had given you everything you had ever wanted. Had sent you away to save you from their past mistakes.

The next time they did something stupid, you were going to be right beside them, to yell at them while you saved their lives.

Because Death walked side by side with you, the ancient god ever at your fingertips.

After all, who else, but the clerics of everything ending and vanishing and changing, could safeguard the lives of those they held most dear?

Your a healer and was kicked out of the hero’s party because “Healers aren’t needed, just use potions”. You become powerful using your hate and distain for the hero’s party as a driving force. Only to learn, they kicked you out to protect you

[rottenherbs]

The Things We Dont Say

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader (setting: OftP) Summary: Amidst the chaos of Order of the Phoenix, Harry pushes away his girlfriend Y/N out of fear and grief, only to realize— thanks to Luna —that his silence is hurting the one person he loves most. W/C: 851 A/N: sweet small request! Thank you <3 [Masterlist] Much Love, Saige

It started in September.

Not with shouting or slammed doors, but with the absence of things.

Harry stopped waiting for you after class. He stopped brushing his hand against yours in the corridor. His letters, once so full of scribbled thoughts and awkward affection over the summer, were reduced to polite, clipped notes.

You knew he was hurting. Everyone did. You saw it in the way his shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for an attack no one else could see. In the deep shadows beneath his eyes. In how he flinched at the word “Voldemort.”

You didn’t blame him. Not at first.

But October came, and he snapped at you in front of the entire common room. You’d asked if he wanted to take a walk after dinner.

“I don’t have time for walks, Y/N. Do you think I’m just out here going on strolls while Voldemort is planning his next move?”

Silence fell over Gryffindor Tower. You stood frozen, your lips parted. He didn’t even wait for your response—just grabbed his bag and stormed off to the boys’ dormitory.

You stared at the dying fire, heart beating too loudly in your ears. No one said a word, but you knew they’d heard it. All of it.

———

By mid-November, you started sitting at the end of the table with Luna Lovegood.

She didn’t ask questions, not directly. She never did. But she had this way of knowing things, as if the air told her secrets the rest of you were too loud to hear.

“He’s not really angry with you, you know,” she said one morning, lazily stirring her porridge with a quill.

You blinked at her. “He has a strange way of showing it, then.”

Luna looked up from her bowl and tilted her head. “Angry people don’t usually say what they mean. They say what they think will make the world hurt as much as they do.”

You swallowed, the sting of unshed tears sitting heavy in your chest.

She smiled, dreamy but sincere. “You make him feel like a boy again. And he’s frightened of being one.”

———

Later that week, Harry found Luna waiting for him outside the Room of Requirement after a D.A. meeting.

He frowned. “You need something, Luna?”

“Yes,” she said. “To speak with you.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. “Can it wait?”

“No.”

She walked beside him as he headed down the corridor. He was silent, but she wasn’t fazed.

“You’ve been treating Y/N poorly.”

His steps slowed. “That’s none of your business.”

“She’s my friend,” Luna said simply. “And you’re hurting her.”

Harry stopped.

He turned to her, jaw clenched. “You don’t understand. None of you do. I’m not safe, Luna. People get hurt just by being around me.”

“She’s already hurting, Harry,” Luna replied, softer now. “But not because of danger. Because of you.”

Her voice wasn’t accusing—it was heartbreakingly calm. “You make her feel like she’s losing you. Not to Voldemort. To your silence. Your anger.”

Harry’s breath caught. His hands curled into fists. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Luna smiled faintly. “That’s the thing about love. Intent doesn’t always protect us.”

She left him there, her footsteps light, as though she had never said anything at all.

———

You were in the library the next evening when he found you.

You looked up as he slid into the chair beside you, your quill pausing mid-word. You studied him cautiously—his hair was messier than usual, his eyes heavy with something that looked like guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said before you could speak.

You blinked. “For what?”

Harry gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “How long do you have?”

You closed your book, folding your hands in your lap.

“I’ve been cruel to you,” he continued, voice low. “And not because I wanted to be. I’m scared. I keep thinking if I push everyone away, Voldemort can’t use them. Can’t use you.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak. He looked down at his hands.

“But I didn’t protect you. I just made you feel unwanted. Like you weren’t important. And that’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

Your throat felt tight.

“Luna talked to me,” he added, glancing up at you. “She said I was making you feel like you were losing me.”

“You were,” you whispered.

He looked like he might break. “I’m still yours, if you want me.”

You reached across the table and took his hand. His fingers closed around yours like a drowning man finding a rope.

“I never stopped wanting you,” you said softly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. There were still things he couldn’t say. Still wounds that would take time to heal. But here, in the silence of the library, with the scent of old parchment and ink around you, he allowed himself to be held—not in arms, but in your unwavering presence.

And that was the first time in weeks that Harry Potter finally exhaled.

[deswhomst]

Regulus comes out as trans

James and Sirius look at each other, eyes wide and mouthed open, forming perfect ‘o’s.

James dashed to his dorm before bringing back a notebook labeled ‘queer jokes’ - puns to make fun of whoever came out (Sirius had a feeling) so they would still be a part of the group

hii i love this ahaha!! <333 i wrote it out a little!!

“I’m trans,” Regulus blurted out after all those weeks of planning this moment. Coming out to his brother and the love of his life in the Gryffindor Tower on a random Tuesday was not ideal but he had gotten the words out and he felt strangely proud of that simple act. Running off of that, he continued, “I—um, I chose Regulus. As my name, that is.”

Regulus watched as James and Sirius looked at each other, jaw dropped, mouths forming perfect ‘O’s. He didn’t have time to question it much before James sprinted away as if he had been burnt.

Well, okay, then.

“No, no,” Sirius said quickly, probably noticing the look on his face. “Don’t worry. He just went to get something.”

“Oh,” Regulus said, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another. He didn’t really understand but he didn’t know what else to say, either. “Okay.”

“I’m proud of you, yeah?” Sirius told him and Regulus was so, so relieved to find that it was sincere. “And I love the name. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s from the Leo constellation,” Regulus grinned. He hadn’t expected Sirius to react badly but the way he embraced it like it was the most natural thing in the world made Regulus feel like he was, too. Naturally himself.

“Oh, I know,” Sirius chucked, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Heart of the lion or whatever, right?”

“Or whatever,” Regulus grumbled back but the giddiness was hard to shake and echoed in his voice.

Sirius rolled his eyes with a fond smile. “It suits you, you know,” he said. “Regulus. I’ll call you Reggie—you can’t stop me.”

He had no intention of stopping Sirius but before Regulus had a chance to respond, James reappeared at Sirius’ side, a notebook clutched in his hands with the title Queer Jokes.

Of course. Regulus could not help the eye roll.

“Regulus, you can’t have a kid,” James said seriously but the only thing on Regulus’ mind right now was the sound of his name out of James’ mouth. “I won’t be able to see you. You’ll become … transparent.”

And Regulus, Merlin help him, laughed. A full body laugh that felt like it had been ripped right out of his chest but he wasn’t complaining. In fact, he didn’t remember ever being this happy.

“Okay, James,” he said softly. “No kids until we find a way to make me visible to you.”

James grinned back.

“Oh, here’s another one,” Sirius read off of that stupid book. “We need to make you eat salads because you’re a herbivore.”

James and Regulus both passed him confused looks.

“A her-before,” he elaborated. “A herbivore. Come on.”

Regulus snorted. “James’ was better.”

“How dare you,” Sirius gasped, which set James and Sirius off into a trans pun competition. Regulus pretended to be annoyed at times but, really, he couldn’t be.

Not to mention, some of these jokes were pretty good.

“Okay!” Regulus announced after a while. “I will give my left tit for you both to stop this. And my right. Actually, take them both either way.”

Silence. And then—

“Regulus Black, was that a … joke?” asked James.

“Yes,” Regulus admitted.

[murmiss]

Price's neglected daughter!Reader and kidnapper!Konig

Warning:Brief mention of kidnapping sleeping pills,swearing, possible mistakes in words, grammar. English is not my first language.I might have missed mistakes, don't be afraid to point them out to me.

Finally, everything fell into place and his daughter, his own blood, came home. The days without her seemed like hell, a meaningless confusion of days and weeks, empty and soulless moments of life. But now that Megan was back, nothing mattered. At first, when she first came home, Price insisted that she take an academic leave, but the girl was determined, and with her signature smile and the help of light words, she managed to convince her father to let her continue her studies. She knew the entire program perfectly, which sometimes confused the teachers - how could she know all this? But on the other hand, now she was fine, safe and sound.

When Megan showed up, rumors spread everywhere, and in the tiny town where they lived, calm times finally came. It was as if no one had thought about such basic things and inconsistencies as "why did Megan Price disappear and suddenly appear after almost two years? What happened to her? Where was she all this time?" Everyone seemed to be just happy that she was back.

It was as if Price had come back to life with her appearance.

Clubs, movies, melodramas, a trip out of town to an old family house by the lake? Hell, everything Megan wanted was done instantly with 100% dedication.

Is your phone acting up? No problem, we'll buy a new one, but we'll definitely install an app to track your location. Want a new dress? Order one, here's daddy's card. A party at the university? Oh no, daddy will worry and will wait for you at the university. A few words of concern enveloped Megan from all sides. Price was tracking her, the old lady next door was looking suspiciously at Megan's friend, and the salesperson at the store where Megan went every lunch to buy coffee and a candy bar from the machine, was wary of strange people who were looking at Meg.

It seemed that the entire tiny town had united and protected Megan Price from danger.

Price's colleagues were also the most defensive,

Simon became a loyal "dog" - when Price couldn't, Simon met Megan on his motorcycle. And it didn't matter that you were standing there too, that you also needed a ride home.

Gaz was tracking the location with his devices, Soap was damn busy buying expensive anatomy books, sweets or some complex and unusual wishes for Meg, meeting her after university, like the others.

And where were you? That's right, but on the same day. For some reason, from the very beginning, even your father's colleagues did not accept you, the old lady next door disliked you, considering you "the evil eye of the family", like when you were around, something went wrong with Megan.

So when you suddenly disappeared, changing places with the once missing Megan, no one paid attention. Not your father, not the neighbors, not even the teachers.

But after an indefinite amount of time, it was noticed, and it wasn't your father who noticed first, no. It was the institute. The semester was ending and the session was starting, everyone was taking exams, everything would be fine, but you still hadn't turned up. Then one of the teachers in charge of attendance turned to Megan, deciding to find out what the problem was.

Wednesday, the middle of the day, a woman, a brunette in her forties with a short haircut, dressed in a striped sweater, trousers with clearly ironed creases and patent leather shoes - Mrs. Rocks, stopped Meg, calling out to the girl in a respectful tone: "Miss Price".

Megan, hearing the voice of her philosophy teacher, was distracted, and with a smile turned around, stopping and answering: "Yes, Mrs. Rocks?"

The philosophy teacher came closer, sighing wearily from a week of paperwork. woman stared at her papers, reading the names carefully: "Harris, Bronton, Fox, oh, Price. Megan, I have a serious question for you..." Megan gasped, immediately embarrassed, her eyes still on Mrs. Rocks's speech. "The thing is, your little sister hasn't been around lately. She's had quite a few absences."

Megan sighs sadly, looks down at the floor and fidgets in one place, adjusting her backpack, saying with anxiety in her voice: "Oh, miss.. If only it were that simple.. My little sister is very ill, she is with her mother in Germany now.. We did not want to tell anyone, but it is very serious..". Woman looks up from the documents and looks at the young lady in front of her in surprise. Her heart squeezes at the thought of how hard it is for Megan and her family right now, and she, losing all sternness, replies: "I am very sorry, Miss Price.. I wish your family could get over this as soon as possible..". Woman pauses and after a few moments continues: "Your sister can send assignments by mail, e-mail. I think this will help her stay afloat for a while."

Megan smiles faintly and sincerely replies: "Thank you, Miss, your understanding is very valuable to us" and almost immediately, the girl reaches out to hug the philosophy teacher. This informal gesture was the final note of the game that Megan started. Woman, not expecting a hug, turned out to be damn upset and feeling the mother's protectiveness, the desire to help, hugged Meg back, repeating once again: "I sympathize with your family, Miss Price.."

It was already a dark night, little was clear, but you didn't want to ask questions. Chemistry, anatomy, histology and other subjects were exhausting and torturous, especially when they were difficult for you, so when Konig brought you to his house, you weren't even scared. Was he a friend of your father's? Yes, and that was enough.

The living room was quite dark, despite the light gray wallpaper. The furniture was dark, a black terry blanket was laid out on the wide sofa, and there were strange pictures of owls on the pillows. They were so stupid that you couldn't stand it, grabbed one of them and started squeezing it.

"Tea, coffee? Cherry juice, orange juice?" - you were interrupted by Konig's voice, who entered the living room, in his hands he was holding a gray plastic tray with plates of snacks. The first one, with a tiny red flower, had strawberry marshmallows, the blue flat plate had cookies with marshmallow layers, and the orange deep bowl had little fish cookies mixed in with wafers laid on top.

So delicious. Oh, your father never cared what you drank, like tea or something sweet you wanted.

"Is anyone else coming?" you ask, expecting to see his wife, maybe his girlfriend, or someone from Price's group, because the portion was too big.

"No, just us," he says, sitting down next to you, slowly, as if approaching a fawn that is about to break free and run away. Sitting down next to you, you notice his size again: he is big, an incredible mountain of muscle. He was nervously stroking his knee, holding his head up, he sat tensely, squinting at you and saying nothing. A fucking weird guy, oh well.

"Oh, yeah, right, what drink?" he immediately stands up, couch creaks under his weight, and he immediately turns to you

"tea," you interrupt, sighing tiredly and stretching out your leg, leaning back on the back of the couch and propping your head up with your hand, sitting sideways to him, stretched out like a doe.

He swallows nervously, not taking his eyes off you, but, having come to his senses, immediately heads to the kitchen. His gait was strange, his legs were shaking slightly, and his arms were dangling, as if they were separate. Before he finally disappeared, he glanced at your figure. You had already turned away, resting your head on your hands and looking boredly behind the sofa.

His palms were sweat, hands were shaking, and his head was spinning from just thinking. He took the teapot, the mug with lilies and splashed boiling water, mixing it with the tea leaves. Then he looked around again, checking where you were, and making sure that you had not moved from your place, sitting just as beautifully and perfectly, Konig reached for the sugar bowl, and damn! immediately knocking over the neighboring cans. "Fuck!" - curses flew from his lips. From nerves, he shook even more. Hearing a quiet question: "What happened?", Konig, stuttering, answers: "Everything is fine, Mein Engel." and again grabs the spoon and nervously stirs the sleeping pill, biting his lip.

"He's taking so long," flashes through your mind. You sigh tiredly and look down at your phone. "7:00 p.m." You damn well need to go home and you'll probably have to make do with cookies. You get to your feet, wanting to go home, to ask Konig to take you there, cursing under your breath - if your father notices, he'll scold you.

"Where are you going?" - a confused deep voice sounds nearby, you come to your senses almost instantly and look at him in confusion, saying: "I need to go home", to which Konig only laughs and, putting the mugs on the table, casually puts his hand on the small of your back. Light pressure is enough to make you sit back. At first you want to be indignant, but then you think again: your father wouldn't care, where are you rushing to? What are you even worried about?

"Guests shouldn't leave hungry" - he answers boldly, sitting down next to you again, this time more casually, the sofa creaks again and you jump slightly when the sofa springs from the Konig's weight.

"I thought my father would worry" - you answer, shrugging your shoulders and thoughts fly through your head about how damn stupid all this is. Konig laughs, and your cheeks flush with shame, as if he knew about your suffering, as if he was ridiculing your stupid thoughts about Price remembering you, especially now that Megan was found. You feel like a Dumbass.

You sigh for the umpteenth time, reach out and take the mug, bring it to your lips and take a small sip. The hot, sweet liquid runs down your throat, burning it, and a strange taste settles on your tongue. It must be some kind of specific, unusual tea. You look at Konig again. What a strange mask he has.

Konig smiles to himself, his hands are shaking, and his eyes are wide, as if looking into his very soul. He put on his usual hood, comfortable and hiding any strange facial expressions.

You feel relaxed, as if a heavy load fell off your shoulders in an instant. You immediately stretch your legs, reach for the tray and grab a cookie with marshmallow inside, put it in your mouth, biting off and smacking your lips with pleasure. For some reason it seemed five times tastier. You take another cookie, then a marshmallow, then you take a fish-shaped cookie and smile involuntarily.

"So funny" - you look at Konig, and he looks like stone, frozen in anticipation

For some reason you feel sleepy...

Third chapter is in progress, it will be more interesting there.I'm sorry that this chapter didn't come out for a long time.

If you need to be mentioned in the following chapters, write to me.,

@veryrawknees , @fightmebissh

Part one

[nubianqueensworld]

Chapter 4: The Fire Beneath

The room seemed to close in around them as Stack’s words hung heavy in the air. Monet tightened her fingers around the pendant hidden beneath her shirt, its warmth almost a comfort now. She could feel the weight of her situation pressing down, but she refused to let herself break. She had to think, to act. She couldn’t just drift along like a leaf in the wind.

“What do you mean by figuring out what the necklace ‘wants’?” Monet asked, her voice low but firm.

Stack leaned back in his chair, studying her like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. “That thing didn’t just drop you here for fun, doll. Magic like that—if it’s real—doesn’t happen by accident. Either it’s got a purpose, or somebody does. You’ve gotta figure out which it is.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” she shot back. “It’s not like the damn thing came with an instruction manual.”

Stack smirked, though his eyes remained sharp. “Lucky for you, I know a guy.”

Monet arched an eyebrow. “You know a guy?” she repeated, her tone skeptical. “That’s reassuring.”

“This ain’t amateur hour,” Stack said, the grin fading from his face. “You want answers? Then you play by my rules. And that starts with trustin’ me—at least a little.”

Monet exhaled slowly, crossing her arms over her chest. Trust wasn’t something that came easily to her, especially not in a situation like this. But the truth was, she didn’t have much of a choice. If Stack could help her uncover the secrets of the necklace—and maybe even find her way home—then she had to take the chance.

“Fine,” she said finally. “But if this goes sideways—”

“It won’t,” Stack cut in smoothly, rising from his chair. “Come on. Let’s go see the guy.”

Monet followed him reluctantly, her mind racing as they made their way down the creaking stairs and out into the cool night air. The streets of the town were quieter now, the buzz of the juke joint fading behind them as they walked. Stack moved with purpose, his long strides and unshakable confidence making it clear he knew this town like the back of his hand.

“Who is this guy, anyway?” Monet asked, breaking the silence.

“Name’s Elroy,” Stack replied. “He’s a bit... eccentric. But if anyone knows about strange things, it’s him.”

Monet frowned. “Strange things? That’s what we’re calling this now?”

Stack shot her a quick grin. “What would you call it?”

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure how to describe what was happening to her—or the magic that seemed to pulse from the necklace with every step. Instead, she kept her eyes on the path ahead, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows over the quiet road.

They stopped in front of a small, unassuming house at the edge of town. The windows were dark, but faint wisps of smoke curled up from the chimney, suggesting someone was home. Stack knocked on the door twice, then waited.

After a moment, the door creaked open, and a man peered out. Elroy was older, his graying hair slick similar to Stack’s his sharp eyes flicked between Stack and Monet with unmistakable curiosity.

“Stack,” Elroy said, his voice gravelly. “You only show up when there’s trouble.”

“Good to see you too, old man,” Stack replied with a chuckle. “We need your help.”

Elroy’s gaze landed on Monet, narrowing slightly. “And who’s this?”

“This is Monet,” Stack said. “She’s got somethin’ I think you’ll want to see.”

Elroy stepped aside, waving them in. “Well, come on, then. Don’t just stand there.”

Monet followed Stack into the dimly lit house, her nerves twisting as Elroy shut the door behind them. The interior was cluttered but cozy, with books and trinkets piled on every available surface. A small fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the walls.

“So,” Elroy said, sinking into a worn armchair and eyeing them expectantly. “What’s this about?”

Monet hesitated, glancing at Stack for reassurance. He gave her a nod, and she reached for the necklace, pulling it out from beneath her shirt. The stone glowed faintly in the firelight, its warmth spreading through her hand as she held it up.

Elroy’s eyes widened slightly, a spark of recognition flickering across his face. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “That’s no ordinary trinket, is it?”

Monet shook her head. “It... brought me here,” she said. “From the future.”

Elroy didn’t react the way she expected—no disbelief, no laughter. Instead, he leaned forward, his expression serious. “Tell me everything,” he said.

Over the next few minutes, Monet recounted everything that had happened—the funeral, the necklace, the sudden flash of light that had transported her here. Elroy listened intently, his brow furrowed as he processed her words.

When she finished, he sat back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the necklace. “That’s old magic,” he said finally. “Powerful, dangerous magic.”

Monet’s heart sank. “What kind of magic?”

Elroy met her gaze, his expression grim. “Time magic,” he said. “The kind that doesn’t just happen. Someone—or something—wants you here, girl. And they don’t want you leaving until you’ve done what they brought you here to do.”

Monet’s grip on the necklace tightened as the full weight of his words sank in. Whatever had brought her here, it wasn’t random. The necklace had a purpose, and until she uncovered it, she was trapped.

—-------------------------------------------------------

The pendant seemed to glow brighter in Monet’s hand as Elroy’s words sank in. Time magic. Dangerous. Purposeful. Her grandmother had always said the necklace was special, but this? This felt overwhelming, far bigger than anything she could have imagined.

“So, someone brought me here on purpose?” Monet asked, her voice tense. “Why? What do they want from me?”

Elroy leaned back in his chair, studying her with a look that was equal parts curiosity and concern. “Magic like this doesn’t move people without reason,” he said. “It’s tied to events, places, decisions. Whatever brought you here, girl, it’s connected to something this town’s wrapped up in. But finding the why? That’s the hard part.”

Stack folded his arms, his expression tight. “You mean she’s stuck here until she plays out whatever game this is?”

Elroy nodded. “Pretty much. The magic’s holding her tethered to this time—this place. And until it’s satisfied, she’s not going anywhere.”

Monet’s heart sank. “Satisfied? What does that even mean?”

Elroy tilted his head, his sharp eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Could mean a lotta things,” he said cryptically. “Magic’s a funny thing. Sometimes it needs you to learn something. Sometimes it wants you to change something. Or sometimes,” he added, his tone darkening, “it wants you to stop something.”

Monet shivered at the weight of his words. “Stop something? Like what?”

Elroy shrugged, his posture relaxed despite the gravity of the conversation. “That’s for you to figure out. But I’ll tell you this—time magic’s tricky. It doesn’t care what you want or what you fear. It’s gonna put you where it needs you, whether you’re ready or not.”

Stack glanced at Monet, his expression tense but composed. “So we figure out what it wants,” he said. “Fast.”

Elroy nodded. “That’d be wise,” he said. “Especially if Silas is sniffin’ around. That man doesn’t touch nothin’ without a reason.”

Monet swallowed hard, the warmth of the necklace a constant reminder of the strange power she carried. The idea that the necklace had a purpose—some hidden directive—made her stomach churn. But she couldn’t afford to crumble. Not here, not now.

“What do I do?” she asked quietly, her voice steadier than she expected.

Elroy leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “You listen,” he said simply. “To the necklace. To this place. To the people around you. Magic like this? It’ll give you clues. But you’ve gotta pay attention.”

Stack gave her a sharp nod. “That’s somethin’ I can help with,” he said. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s this town and its secrets.”

Elroy chuckled dryly, his eyes flicking to Stack. “And you ain’t afraid to twist those secrets when it suits you, huh?”

Stack smirked. “Gotta survive somehow.”

Monet watched the exchange, her mind racing. She didn’t trust the necklace, didn’t trust this magic that had uprooted her life and tossed her into a world she didn’t understand. But Stack and Elroy? As much as she hated to admit it, they might be the only allies she had.

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice firm. “Let’s figure this out.”

Elroy’s sharp grin widened. “That’s the spirit,” he said, rising from his chair. “I’ll do some digging. If there’s somethin’ about this necklace I’ve missed, I’ll find it.”

Stack nodded, his posture shifting into action mode. “And I’ll keep her safe. If Silas is lookin’ for her, we can’t afford to let her outta my sight.”

Monet exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation settling fully on her shoulders. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, or why the necklace had chosen her. But one thing was clear: she wasn’t leaving this town until she unraveled its secrets—and her own.

———————————————————————————

If you want to get added to the tag list let me know….next chapter is coming very, very soon ;)

Taglist: @marley1773

[quinnverse]

"I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." She grinned, scrunching her nose in playful defiance. In reality, Emma didn't know what he had done right. There were quite a few things that she could think of that both of them had done rather incorrectly, but as for what worked, she didn't even know. Maybe that's how soulmates worked, though, she thought. Maybe nothing right or wrong had to happen for things to work out the way they did.

"Okay, perhaps its not your malice that I enjoy. But I think there's always a bit of charm to rebellious natures, don't you think?" There was something attractive in a man that didn't follow rules, she supposed. Or a man that made his own. It was one of the main reasons Emma could never imagine herself falling in love with a Lord or Duke or Baron or what-have-you in England. They were all perfect, down to the way they wore their socks. Emma may have blood ties to families in the ton, but she didn't belong there. And maybe the thing she'd been looking for had been not so out of reach the entire time.

"And is that what you want? To marry me?" As he uttered the question, a trail of goosebumps prickled across her skin. Was it what she wanted? The idea sounded far more appealing when wrapped in his embrace, but she knew better than to fall for a fantasy so easily.

“I… I don't know.” She swallowed, turning the idea over in her mind. “To tell the truth, I’m not against marriage as a whole. But the circumstances have to be right. I refuse to feel threatened into a marriage, and I refuse to be hammered down into submission, especially when my family’s business is involved. If I’m to take a husband, he must be patient and, most importantly, he must not be afraid to let me take the spotlight every now and then." The corners of her lip quirked up as she let out a slow, dramatic sigh. "But, alas, it seems like those are all impossibly difficult to find in a man."

The mention of extramarital kissing sent a wave of fluttering through her stomach and it took her a moment to realize she'd been holding her breath. It was no secret that she wanted him, both physically and emotionally. But, despite her haughty behaviors and brash outlook on life, Emma still held onto her morals.

"You draw the line at kissing, but not climbing into bed with me? You're truly a strange man, John Bolton." Although she attempted to use a tone of flirtatious confidence, her voice wavered as she asked the question. Emma couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, idly tracing circles across his skin as she spoke. "What if you're wrong about it, though? What if I'm not not cut out for married life, and we only made each other miserable? By all accounts, a wife ought to be submissive and docile. If that’s what it takes to be a good wife, I don’t think I’m fit for the job."

His snort was contagious and Emma's body trembled with laughter as she explained. “I didn’t require a literal boot. And I didn’t say anything too out of pocket. Scout’s honor. I was merely caught up in the books, and it was closing time." Her lips pursed into a pout and after a beat, she continued. "But I may or may not have made a show about it all when Papa came to retrieve me.“

She may have also threatened to go stay with her aunt Caroline a number of times, but the hopeful look in her father’s eyes squashed any sense of victory. She knew he wanted her to be happy. The life of a spinster would be hard and her father merely wanted her to find love the way he and her mother had once upon a time.

But such things had always sounded so far away. The business was palpable and real, right within her grasp while love and marriage seemed like little more than a pipe dream. But now, as she lay in his arms, the notion didn’t seem quite as far fetched as it once had.

Benjamin hummed, smug amusement dancing across his eyes. "Well, am I allowed to know what I did right, so I can ensure this winning streak?" he asked. "Or am I to remain at the mercy of your hot-and-cold mood swings?"

The idea of a police buggy being romantic made him grin, his nose scrunching in disbelief. "You like my malice, do you? I wasn't aware I was falling under the spell of an absolute masochist."

“What better way to ‘keep the romance alive’ than by insulting one another?" she fired back. "Father says Mama used to tease his relentlessly until he asked her to marry him.”

Unbidden, Benjamin's pulse quickened. Idly stroking along her arm, he asked, "And is that what you want? To marry me?"

Mere days ago -- hell, arguably mere minutes ago -- Emma had hissed and sniped at him, insisting that the idea of marriage would be nothing short of the greatest of tortures, and now she was very well possibly demanding it? He could scarcely keep up... And, admittedly, he delighted in the thrill of it all.

When the silence persisted a little too long for his liking, Benjamin was quick to tease, "Well, perhaps you only wish to marry me to 'put that silver tongue of yours to use,' as you so claim. Call me old-fashioned, but the first woman I intend to take to bed will be my wife." Nudging his forehead into hers, he murmured, "Though I'm not opposed to extramarital kissing."

Emma's voice grew soft and dream-like, and for one moment, it felt so attainable, so real, that Benjamin could scarcely breathe. But then she shifted, and the dream went with her, reminding him that this could not be -- not unless she accepted him and his politics, and how his entire soul was devoted to the American Cause.

The charming furrow returned to Emma's brow, and she muttered, “My father and I went to Connecticut once for a small business summit, but I spent the entire day in a bookstore... in exile. Women, of course, do not have the constitution for business deals."

Benjamin grinned. "Clearly, that is a falsehood," he replied. "You've certainly sold me on the idea of you as a wife, and if you can make me view you as anything more than a shrew, that is quite the feat."

Emma rolled her eyes, but continued on to explain how she'd been quite literally thrown from the negotiations.

Benjamin snorted. "And what, pray tell, did you say to deserve a literal boot? But be careful with your phrasing: there's no sense in setting my loins aflame anymore than they already are."

Despite the words (mostly) being said in jest, he flushed and was careful to tilt his hips away from her, lest she try and tease him further.

[moonydustx]

law x mythical zoan devil fruit eater reader that has some like tiger based devil fruit?💕 law would probably find it cute

Hi! Thanks for the request! I hope you don't mind, but I think that - not on purpose, pinky promise - I focusing more on the zoan side than the mythical one. I hope you can still enjoy it.

✦. 　⁺ 　 . ✦. 　⁺ 　 . ✦. 　⁺ 　 . ✦. 　⁺ 　 . ✦. 　⁺ 　

Law knew it was a very well-planned ambush, but he believed he could handle it. His belief was soon dispelled when he saw the group scatter and your scream echoed throughout the small forest, scaring some birds and causing a tightness in the chest of your crewmates. It was your scream, a pure noise of horror.

"Captain..." Bepo's voice sounded lower than usual, an overwhelming concern crossing the eyes of those present.

"We need to split up and find her." Law replied, releasing the breath he hadn't even realized he had held. "Bart to the south, Bepo to the north and I'll take care of the other corners. Our meeting point is still the polar tang." The other two agreed and left.

You fell from the tree as soon as you felt the bad taste of the fruit on your palate. It lived up to all the complaints you had heard, it was horrible. The pains went away, but you could feel that your body had changed, you had become something new, but something inside you told you that this was something to be checked later.

Running through the trees, it didn't take long for you to find part of your group - more precisely, your captain in trouble. Without thinking much, you threw yourself towards the man who was attacking him, strangely noticing a huge paw coming out of you. What had you become?

As soon as you defeated him, you could see Law looking at you in surprise and it didn't take long for everything to go black.

Your first thought was "can I stay in bed for another five minutes?" and it passed as quickly as it had appeared, after all, you shouldn't even be there. As much as you tried to get up abruptly, two hands stopped you.

"Calm down! Calm down! It's all right, we're back at the polar tang." Law's voice sounded calm, his hands still holding you by the shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"What happened?" The question worked more like rhetoric, with your mind overwhelmed by memories. "Oh shit, what did I become? Your face was terrifying!"

"About that..." he began, seeming to be searching for something. As soon as he reached the book, he turned the image to you.

A white and huge bengal tiger apparently furious. Next to it was some information about what the animal was.

"A tiger?"

"A tiger." Law said and if you didn't know him well enough, you would say he looked dazzled. "You attacked our enemy and then passed out."

"Shit, what do I do now?"

"We can't go back, I think the best scenario is for you to adapt to the fruit, understand how it works." He explained and tried to sound as welcoming as possible. "But before that, you were already injured before you even ingested the fruit, so you're out of commission for a few days."

"Captain, I should..."

"Rest."

"And me too..."

"Complete rest." He said even more firmly. "Two days, I'll reevaluate you and we'll see how we can test your fruit."

The two days dragged on but still passed. As soon as Law said you were free, you ran to the nearest mirror - and somehow, pretended not to see him and the others following you to spy on what you were going to do.

Trying to concentrate, the first thing you managed to do was transform into a hybrid. Black and white stripes adorned your body along with a feline look and sharp claws.

"I don't think that's what I turned into." You said, turning to the small crowd of people at your door.

"Yeah, it really wasn't. Try to concentrate a little more." Law said and again, the curious glint was present in his eyes. Almost like a fascinated child.

Inhale, exhale. You concentrated as much as possible thinking about what had made you transform and nothing came to mind. Your other option to focus was the image Law had shown you. A huge white bengal tiger with black stripes, sharp fangs and an admirable posture.

"This is it." Law's voice caught your attention and when you opened your eyes, you could see the tiger there in the mirror, in your body.

You felt even stronger and more agile, but it was strange to be in that kind of body, that new kind of you.

"Oh look, she's turned into a kitten!" Bepo was the first to approach and even with the screams asking him to wait, he stroked your head and it was strangely comforting. "See? She's still our crewmate.

"I want to pet her too." Some voices said in unison.

Trying to save you from the many hands that wanted to touch you, Law invented that he needed everyone to leave, giving you time to get used to it.

"I can imagine that everything is different." He bent down to the height of your tiger form. "Can you speak?"

When you tested it, only a roar came out of your mouth, which drew a light laugh from the man.

"Okay, I think it's too early for that." He touched your head and slid his fingers to the back of your ear, giving you a brief caress that made you purr involuntarily.

Law just smiled at you and stood up, waving before leaving you alone. He would resist admitting it, but you had become even cuter.

It wasn't long before you returned to human form and established the agreement that you would gradually try stay in your animal form, trying to get used to it and Law couldn't take his eyes off you.

He had already caught you licking your own paws and even trying to nibble Bepo - who ran around the entire submarine - besides Shachi and Penguin having discovered that you would react like any other puppy when seeing a ball or a string hanging down. You had noticed that you had instincts that went beyond your will too.

Law tried to just enjoy it, but it was impossible not to want to pet you as soon as you lay down at the foot of his table for a nap or when you - in your tiger form - tried to steal the snacks from his food plate. It was adorable, but he wouldn't admit it.

On cold nights, the group would cuddle up to you and Bepo trying to find warmth in your fur - even Law would get between the two of you. And in the heat, everyone else had to deal with the tantrums of the two of you too.

And that's why Law would always give you ice chips, and that Bepo would never know that you would earn a little more. And also that Law would always give you some kind of affection whenever he passed by you. Having a tiger on board wasn't as scary as it seemed.

Extra:

With all the tests, changes and incidents that a pirate life can have, you hadn't told your allies about your transformation and that was all Law needed to take away Kid's peace.

While the two were talking, you silently transformed into a tiger and appeared behind him. The man's first reaction was to scream in fright, moving away and cursing Law for not helping him. As soon as he got ready to attack, Law promptly acted, taking you away and placing you next to him while, amid cynical laughter, he explained to Kid that you were his partner. And as always, his tattooed fingers slid through your black and white fur. The gesture becoming a sweet and involuntary habit.

[mostly-marvel-musings]

Chapter 2 – Terms and Conditions

A/N: Here we are, the second chapter. Let me know your thoughts :)

Pairing: Tony Stark x Wife! Reader

Warning: angst, slow burn.

Terms and Conditions

.

The Morning sunlight spilled through the glass walls of the Stark penthouse, arrogant and golden. It didn’t ask if anyone had a hangover or a quiet existential crisis brewing—it just swept in, warming untouched countertops and echoing the silence in the space around you.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, still in the soft silk set you’d changed into after peeling off the remnants of last night’s masquerade of matrimony. Your first morning as Mrs. Stark, and the husband in question was nowhere in sight.

The place was too quiet, except—

Thud.

Whirrrr.

You blinked.

From behind the island counter, a small robotic arm appeared, swaying from side to side with the unmistakable energy of something both curious and clumsy.

“Oh,” you said, a smile twitching onto your lips. “You’re definitely not a Roomba.”

The bot beeped twice, almost indignantly.

You crouched down, peering at the strange little thing yellow casing, single arm with a clamp at the end, and what looked suspiciously like a paint smudge on its base.

“Let me guess… Dum-E?”

A mechanical chirp. One spin in place. Confirmed.

“Well, hello to you too,” you said, warmth rising for the first time that morning. You stood, opened a cabinet after three failed attempts, and poured cereal into a bowl. “Guess it’s just us for breakfast.”

Dum-E buzzed beside you, trying to reach the drawer with the spoons and knocking it half-closed in the process.

You handed it to him. “No offense, but you’re not exactly subtle.”

A happy beep in return.

You ate in silence, half expecting Tony to make an appearance. But the longer the seconds stretched, the clearer it became—he wasn’t coming up. And he hadn’t all night.

Tony Stark was married, but still a ghost in his own home.

By noon, curiosity and a sense of polite obligation won out. You carried a small tray, leftover smoked salmon toast and espresso, the kind you read somewhere he liked. You tapped lightly on the door to his lab, but surprisingly, it was already open.

Inside, the space was awash in blue light, projections dancing mid-air. Tony was in his element, hair a mess, dark circles even darker, and his body curled forward in a way that screamed fatigue.

He didn’t look up.

“I brought you lunch,” you tried, voice lighter than your pulse. “Well. More like brunch. Or breakfast, depending on which timezone you’re living in.”

He typed something mid-air. A snort. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

“You’ve said that before, haven’t you?”

Tony finally looked at you. And just for a second, you saw a flicker of something—guilt, or maybe just weariness. He was charming when he wanted to be, but you were starting to learn the difference between the mask and the man.

“I appreciate it,” he said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Really. Just… knee-deep in something right now. Rain check?”

You nodded, biting back whatever response hovered at the edge of your tongue.

“Sure,” you said, lifting the tray a little. “I’ll just leave this here. In case caffeine stops working.”

“Unlikely,” he muttered.

As you turned, Dum-E met you at the door, as if escorting you out of a room you were never meant to enter in the first place.

Afternoon stretched like taffy. You explored the penthouse, unpacked a few things, also passed by Pepper in the hallway.

She stopped just short of acknowledging you.

“Mrs. Stark,” she said, coolly.

“Pepper,” you replied, lifting your chin with polite grace.

Her eyes flicked down at the throw blanket you’d tucked over the living room couch, or maybe the open book you left on the side table.

“Making yourself comfortable, I see.”

“Should I not be?” you asked, sugar-laced. “I do live here now.”

“Of course.” She smiled, but it was the kind that said you’re a guest in a house I built.

Then she walked away.

You stood still for a long moment before muttering, “…well, that wasn’t needed at all.”

.

Later that afternoon, you found yourself wandering into a room you hadn’t properly noticed before, likely because you’d been busy dodging small talk and champagne last night. The door was ajar, the lighting soft, and the scent of packaging paper and cologne wafted through the air.

Inside sat a mountain of unopened wedding gifts. Some were wrapped in matte black with gold ribbons, others in over-the-top luxury packaging.

Your gaze fell on one particular parcel near the top of the pile—white wrapping paper with red twine, utterly simple in contrast. Taped to the top was a card. You picked it up immediately: Bucky Barnes.

You opened it with a smile.

“To the newlyweds—Good luck surviving the Stark tornado. He grows on you. Eventually. Love, Buck & Steve.”

(P.S. You should open this one first. It’s a cocktail shaker. God knows you’ll need it.)

You laughed, unexpectedly warm.

On a nearby console, a sleek glass screen flickered to life as you passed. A touch-sensitive guestbook, no doubt a product of Stark’s own tech. Curiosity got the better of you.

You scrolled.

Some messages were standard-issue wedding fluff.

“Wishing you both love, laughter, and infinite bandwidth.” – Vision

“Please don’t blow up the honeymoon suite. Or do. I’m not judging.” – Sam Wilson

“You already know this, but I’m writing it down for the record: you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, and it’s about damn time someone did. I don’t usually believe in happily ever afters—but if anyone can make one out of a merger and a mess of a man, it’s you.

You’ve got steel in your spine and kindness in your eyes. Keep both. And if he ever forgets how lucky he is, remind him you’ve got me on speed dial.”

—Nat

Then came one that made you pause:

“If you break her heart, I’ll help you hide the body. Vice versa.” – Lt. Colonel James Rhodes

You stared at the screen for a beat, feeling a strange warmth spread beneath your ribs. You were surrounded by strangers, but maybe… just maybe, not entirely alone.

You shut the guestbook gently, the soft click echoing in the room.

The hallway beyond stood quiet. The penthouse was still too large, too glassy, too much like living in someone else’s dream. But little by little, it was starting to feel… curious. Open.

Not home. But not hostile.

And for now, that was enough.

.

The golden light from the setting sun spilled across the penthouse, brushing warmth onto the sleek floors and cold corners. You’d just finished flipping through the last entry in the digital guestbook—some snarky comment from Happy that made you snort-laugh despite the dull throb of isolation that had been pressing down all day. Tony was still sealed away in his lab, probably halfway through his fourth cup of bitter coffee and deep in his own mind. You hadn’t seen him since breakfast.

So the knock at the door startled you.

When you opened it, Natasha Romanoff stood on the other side, dressed in casual jeans and a fitted navy tee, a bakery bag in one hand and two takeaway cups in the other.

“I figured you could use some company that doesn’t require biometric access,” she said with a smirk, brushing past you like she belonged there. “Also, the coffee’s from that little place down the street. The guy says you’ve got good taste.”

You blinked. “You bribed a barista?”

“I charmed him,” she corrected, settling into the armchair like it was made for her. “I told him you just married Tony Stark. He took pity.”

You snorted and followed her in, heart easing a little. You weren’t used to kindness without strings in this house—not yet. But Natasha? She felt like the calm before a storm. Measured. Unshakeable. You needed a bit of that tonight.

As you sat across from her, wrapping your hands around the warmth of the cup, she leaned in slightly, studying you with that uncanny sharpness of hers.

“He’s not gonna come up for air for hours,” she said gently, meaning Tony. “But you don’t have to sit in the silence waiting for him.”

Your throat tightened, but you managed a quiet, “Thanks for coming.”

Natasha smiled, soft and knowing. “That’s what friends do.”

You both sipped in silence for a few moments, watching the city fade into shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It should’ve been calming. But your shoulders stayed tense, your fingers tight around the cup like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Natasha was the first to break the quiet.

“So,” she said casually, “you surviving yet?”

You gave a soft, huffing laugh. “Define ‘surviving.’ I’m married to a man who doesn’t eat unless bribed, is one lab tantrum away from burning out, and who avoids eye contact like it owes him money.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Sounds like Tony.”

You looked over at her. “You know him well.”

Natasha nodded, setting her cup down on the side table. “Well enough to know he’s never brought someone into his life like this before. That means something.”

That lump in your throat returned, heavier now. “Some days it feels like I’m just a… strategic acquisition. A pawn in a merger that got too personal.”

Her brows lifted, then softened. “You’re more than that. I knew it when you walked into the reception like you weren’t afraid of him. Most people flinch around Tony Stark—especially the ones who want something. You didn’t.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet steel in her voice.

“Trust me,” she continued, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “It takes guts to stand beside a man like him. But it takes something else entirely to reach him when he’s shutting down.”

“…Yeah, well,” you muttered, fiddling with your ring, “he hasn’t exactly made that part easy.”

“No. He doesn’t.” She smirked, but gently. “But that’s why I’m here. I figured you might need someone who speaks fluent Stark-induced chaos.”

You laughed again—truly, this time—and the tension finally cracked. “You offering to be my Stark translator?”

“Among other things.” She reached into the bakery bag and tossed you a lemon shortbread cookie. “Friend. Partner-in-crime. Occasional voice of reason.”

You bit into the cookie, warmth curling in your chest. “And if I need help hiding a body?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll bring the shovel.”

You grinned. “You’re hired.”

As the city lights flickered to life and the night settled around you, something inside eased. Maybe this place wouldn’t feel so cold after all.

.

The sun dipped behind the skyline. Manhattan glittered. The penthouse buzzed in the quiet way all machines do when they’re waiting for someone to notice something’s wrong.

And down in the lab, Tony staggered, fingers shaking as he gripped the edge of the worktable. His breathing was uneven, shallow. The light from his arc reactor flickered once. Then again.

“Not now,” he muttered to no one, tugging open the panel in his chest with trembling hands.

The arc reactor came free—burning hot in his grip. Sparks snapped and hissed at the edges, the metal sizzle loud in the sterile quiet of the lab.

Blue veins spidered out across his chest like cracks in porcelain. For a moment, Tony just stared at them. The room tilted. Or maybe he did.

He forced the new core in place, wincing as it clicked, hissed, then steadied.

Tony exhaled slowly, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His face was pale. His lips tight.

He would tell no one.

Because he was Tony Stark. He could fix this.

He had to.

[maybelilairhead]

I'll imagine we fell in love

#arranged husband! gojo X fem! reader (referred as she)

(English is not my primary language. This little fluff is in my mind for a long time. It's a common headcanon that Gojo is not into long commitments. But I feel he could, if given ample time. The story is set before JJK 0. Gojo is 25 here, and reader is 23. Hope you all like it! )

Word count - 942

Read on Ao3

It's been nearly an year since she is married to one and only Gojo Satoru. The strongest, and still the most desirable man. Even after their marriage, his mother flaunts how noble clans of Jujutsu society are still ready to give their daughters to him. Sometimes, she thinks it's better if he had chosen another girl. She often dwells on the idea that it's marriage of convenience, and that's it. She had to get married by 28, and he was a bachelor. He rejected 56 proposals before meeting her!

No, let's rephrase- before meeting her cousin.

It was simple. He was going to meet her super talented, beautiful cousin. Her cousin who baths in elegance, unlike her, who makes herself worthy by being good at other things due to lack of curse energy. She still remembers how her cousin flaunted and was damn sure he would select her.

But boy oh boy he broke her cousin's ego too bad. She was crying and cursing him for seeing through her facade of being nice. He picked how she was fake, and is only surviving because of parents' backing.

But soon, her own mother approached and pushed her to meet him too. She was at front of him , nervous, and scared. After all, he's the strongest. But soon she started blushing seeing his blue eyes behind the sunglasses. She always loved blue, and that particular shade melted her heart. She didn't know her fascination with his eyes has melted his heart too.

After three months of courting (him pestering her to meet ups), and a shock to whole jujutsu society, the strongest married the weakest. Reason? No one knows. Gojo Satoru, who has refined taste in everything , whether it is his clothing, food and anything, would go for a non sorcerer (Try to ask him about this, he would shoo you off).

He's not like those mean husbands, neither he's a lovely person. He's good, respects her, and treats her well , better than her family. But sometimes, she feels weird in her stomach. How he knows she loves chocolate and vanilla combination ice cream? Or how he knows she doesn't like smell of room freshner? Or how every month books from her wishlist are on her desk? Or why does he hold her hands while sleeping on their shared bed? Or why does he leave his infinity off near her?

It's a husband's duty after all, to keep tabs upon his wife.

So one fine day, while sitting on the sofa watching news about politics, she asked ,"why did you choose me?"

Satoru turned his head to her and looked a little surprised.

"What do you mean?"

"Just asking."

"we have been married for a year, and now you have risen this question!"

"i-i was nervous."

"So why now?

She looked in his eyes and rambled ,"Our one year anniversary is coming. And i-i just wanted to know why you chose me to be with you, rejecting my sister, and anyone who is more capable, and is a curse user, unlike me."

Satoru sat and looked at her with his bare eyes, no glasses no eye mask. She looked into those ocean blue eyes, shining just because of him not his technique.

"I imagined we would fall in love."

She blinked twice. He looked nonchalant, as if he spoke something which is obvious. Her hands were slowly taken in his, and she looked in his tender blue eyes.

"I imagined I would love you more than myself. When I saw you for the first time, my heart had this strange feeling. When I saw you gushing over my blue eyes, I fell in love. Nobody saw my eyes as my eyes. They are always weapons, the strongest technique or seductive, not the soft blue eyes that belongs to me. Hell, I never saw them in this way. Do you remember? you said that my eyes are soft and tender. I never looked at them in that way."

"the three months we courted, you made me human. I learned that I can smile without guilt, and I have a heart. A heart, who is born from your kindness. I imagined we would walk on the beach, you in my arms and ocean breeze touching us. I imagined I would find the love I read secretly in books, hiding them behind magazines."

She felt him playing with her platinum wedding band, shining baby blue just like his eyes. He continued.

"and since our anniversary is coming, i thought to confess you. You are all i want. I want to nap under moonlight skies with you. I want to leave my heart in your care, in your hands."

He kissed knuckles of her hands.

"Let me fly with you."

"Will you be forever with me?"

Tears fell from her eyes. She smiled softly and engulfed him in her arms. She always imagined finding this love, sweet and fulfilled. Never in her wildest dreams she dreamt that she will get it from a man whom everyone sees as a cocky, ungrateful baster.

"My heart is not being able to contain the love I have for you, my wife. I love you. I took vows with you, and I mean them. I don't know what you want, but I am willing to do anything for you. And judging by your reaction, *chuckles* I think you like your man too"

She pulled back and looked at him.

"My man?"

"Yes your man."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. She whispered slowly, but he heard it. A tear rolled from his eyes too.

"I too imagined we would fall in love."

[phoebeegreen3]

Capri Persson (F1) ⸺ 04. MY BIGGEST FEAR

🏎 SUMMARY: What if the best driver of recent years isn't actually him? What if the best driver is actually hiding something else? Would he still be the best? Or just a simple fraud? 📓 GENRE: secret identity / rivals to lovers / he felt first, she felt harder / soulmates / slow burn 📧 WORD COUNT: 3639 📬 PARTS: book one (two parts) / CP9, book two (one part) 🏁TAGLIST: @heyyurl @dreadity @moonchouus @wierdflowerpower @anunstablefangirl @deaddumblbumble @a-bbles @freyathehuntress (let me know in the comments if you want to be part) 🏆 CAPRIPERSSON.MASTERLIST

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

I was beginning to believe that it wasn’t necessary to arrive just in time for Grand Prix weekends. I could arrive early, wander aimlessly through the paddocks, watch others endure the weight of the press, the photos, and the cheap questions thrown at them by the worst journalists in the industry. I liked drinking coffee in the hospitality area, sitting near the windows to watch everything others had to suffer and I was lucky enough to avoid. I hadn’t noticed how many things they had to do that I had negotiated with the federation not to. The Netflix cameras harassed anyone they came across, and even though I was part of the group of drivers who entered F1 after Netflix and its whole production, I was grateful not to have a camera on my shoulder 24/7.

I hadn’t seen Carmen again since the Saudi Arabian GP, but I had made sure to send her a new pair of pants to replace the ones she gave me to help me out of a jam, along with a thank-you card. She had been very kind and warm to me, and I felt a strong need to return the gesture, even in the smallest way. If she hadn’t given me a nudge to ask for feminine hygiene products, I might not have even been able to race due to the discomfort. I could handle a flooded track, but menstruation was another matter.

I returned to the motorhome when I got a message from Sarah—my masseuse, trainer, and companion since I started racing. Sarah and I weren’t the closest people in the world, but along with Jean, she was one of the only people I’d known since the beginning, and she had always done an excellent job with me. So we were like a strange, long-term, open marriage.

"Did you miss me in Saudi Arabia?" she smiled when she saw me, and I gave her a welcoming hug.

"You can’t imagine what happened to me."

"Having kids sucks. Don’t do it," she joked, and I laughed as we started warming up. Sarah had become a mother two years ago, but Sid—her son—had gotten sick a few weeks back, and if she wasn’t the one helping me train, it wasn’t going to be anyone else. So when I couldn’t have her around, I just did what I could on my own.

"... and since we started, Nyck hasn’t stopped crashing the car. I don’t know what’s going on, he’s good. He has a lot of potential, and now he can’t even blame the car because it’s obvious it works with me," I explained to Sarah what she had missed so far. "I don’t want to think about it, but I don’t know how much of a future he has if this continues."

"Haven’t you thought about talking to him?" she asked from behind me while helping me stretch.

"In three years of sharing with Gasly, I’ve never said a single word to him. What makes you think I should talk to Nyck?"

"The fact that you’re scared of having to change teammates again. I don’t know, think about it. Maybe it’s time to start telling everyone the truth—as a sign. You could even encourage him, you’ve been in his shoes too."

"No, no. I was a rookie too, but I never had to retire from more than two races in less than half a season," I explained.

"Is it really that bad?"

"He’s not bad, don’t get me wrong, he managed to finish Saudi Arabia. But for how the season’s going, it doesn’t look good, and Franz has already hinted that the team bosses are starting to move pieces."

I stared at a fixed spot in my motorhome room while Sarah gently massaged my shoulder blade as I sat. I was deeply worried, not just about Nyck but about the constructors’ championship. At this rate, it didn’t matter how much I won if he kept causing problems.

"I barely talk to my teammates, and when I see they’re at risk of being replaced, I grow fond of them. I don’t know if I can get used to someone new all over again," I shook my head, and then I heard the door open without warning, making my whole body tense—until my eyes met those bright, playful blue eyes laughing at my reaction and that ridiculously blond hair.

"You’d die to have me as your next teammate, wouldn’t you?" he laughed teasingly, but with his usual innocence, and I jumped off the massage table to hug him tightly, bumping into his chest.

"Finally, you show up! Has being part of Mercedes gone to your head?" I punched his shoulder, and he laughed loudly.

"You’re dying of jealousy, that’s what’s happening."

"At least I’m a full-time driver, not a reserve," I teased, and he laughed even though it stung.

"Low blow, Persson. Extremely low blow," he shook his head.

"I’ll leave you two alone. Good luck, Capri," Sarah said, picking up her things and leaving the room, closing the door behind her. Mick sat down with his characteristic shyness on one of the couches, and I handed him a water bottle.

"I waited for you all winter. Do I need to send you a formal invitation to remind you we’re friends, Schumacher?" I pulled my suit out from where I had it stored and laid it over my leggings and T-shirt.

"Sorry, I know I should’ve called, but you know… Dad," he sighed.

"I know, Mick. You don’t have to explain anything to me," I turned to him, giving him my full attention, and he smiled wistfully.

My friendship with Mick wasn’t something I had planned; in fact, it was a strange accident back when we used to race together in F3. Before the Baku race in 2017, I had to use the restroom and, to avoid holding things up, I ran into the nearest one. I took off my helmet to go into the stall and came out to wash my hands without it, thinking no one would come in since everyone was already getting ready for the race—but I was wrong. A rushed Mick came into the bathroom, and his already big eyes seemed to take up half his forehead in shock.

"I can explain after the race," I said first.

"Okay..." he replied, still stunned by the news. After a great race, we met again at one of the paddock cafés.

"So..." he took a few seconds to say something once he sat in front of me, but even trying, no words came out of his mouth.

"I thought it’d be easier, but there’s not much to explain," I swallowed hard from nerves, and Mick slowly nodded, still amazed.

"How did it happen?"

"When I realized I didn’t want to be seen as the only woman on the track but as a driver like the rest of the guys," I explained, confused by my own words. I had never told anyone that and never planned to—except Mick at that moment. "It doesn’t affect anyone, and I race under the same conditions as the others."

"Then why don’t you tell everyone that you’re... a woman?" he asked, the echo of his surprise present in each word and his hesitant tone.

"Because I’ve already accepted that no matter how much inclusion and equality they promote, if they find out Capri Persson is a woman, they won’t see Capri Persson anymore. They’ll see ‘the girl on the grid,’" I explained without looking him in the eyes, fixing my gaze on the coffee I had ordered but wasn’t drinking.

"Aren’t you proud of being the girl on the grid?" he kept asking, innocently.

I thought about it for a few seconds, looking out the window at the rest of the paddock.

"No," I shook my head. "I want to be Capri Persson."

Mick sighed and nodded, never taking his eyes off me, as if still processing everything. He was the first to make me understand how heavy it was for the world to accept certain truths about Capri Persson. But Capri wasn’t an alter ego—it wasn’t a game to me. My real name is Capri América Persson, and I wanted to be recognized as such. Not as the only woman on the grid, because no one recognizes Ayrton Senna for being a man on the grid. Everyone recognizes the name, the legacy, the story—not just a label.

"I guess now that I know, I’ll have to sign a few things, right?" he asked, a little worried.

"You know too much now," I narrowed my eyes at him, jokingly threatening, and he laughed. "We can be friends, and that’s enough. Let’s not make it bigger."

"Okay, sounds good," he smiled, placing his hands on the table to get up.

"Mick," I called, and he turned to see me holding my pinky up toward him. "Do you solemnly swear not to disclose anything discussed in this private meeting of two premature friends?"

Mick smiled, showing all his teeth with that contagious grin.

"I swear on my family," he said, linking our pinkies.

"You’d better. Now you know too much. It’s our friendship or your death," I joked, and he laughed so loudly that everyone in the café turned to look at him, and he quickly covered his mouth.

"You’ve got a great sense of humor when you’re not trying to kill us on the track."

After that, Mick was the only person I could lean on, but then I moved to F2 and then F1, and he stayed in F2. We couldn’t see each other often, and I accepted that making friends in the paddock was tough. We didn’t have time to meet outside races, and when everything happened at the end of last season, Mick checked in on me, but his father was going through health issues he didn’t want to talk about. Then he moved from Haas to Mercedes, and we lost touch. It was like realizing your high school friends now had completely different lives from yours, and despite the friendship, they were strangers. It was accepting that we’d grown up, that we weren’t 17 or 18 anymore, and that we didn’t race together anymore.

"Don’t you want to talk about it?" he asked as I zipped up my suit.

"No, I don’t want to talk about it."

"It wasn’t a bad season, anyway. You were runner-up," he crossed his arms.

"Are you going to keep talking about what I said I didn’t want to talk about?"

"Sorry, I forgot you’re a trust-issues character written by Taylor Swift," he raised his hands in defense as he began to pace the room.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Too much time with Laila," he muttered, and I laughed.

"I love Taylor Swift, but this isn’t about my trust issues. How would you feel if, in the last lap, the last corner of the entire race, of the entire season, you crashed into the wall when you were just seconds—milliseconds—from the finish line and becoming champion?" I challenged, getting worked up. Mick handed me my helmet. "I was so close, Mick. So damn close..."

"Things happen for a reason. God must’ve wanted it that way..."

"I don’t believe there’s a God out there, Mick. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s the perfect comfort for other drivers, for you, for everyone. But not for me. God was never there for me, and I stopped believing in that a long time ago," I took the helmet and put it on while Mick watched me and adjusted the cables.

"You must believe in something when you go out there," he suggested.

"No," I shook my head simply. "Ordinary people need to believe in something to keep from being afraid."

"Let me guess—you’re not ordinary?"

"No, Mick," I laughed, knowing exactly what I’d say. "I’m not afraid."

"Whatever you say," he chuckled, and I took a deep breath, getting ready to leave. "There’s a party on Sunday, just a regular thing. Everyone’s going," he said.

"Okay, sounds fun. I hope you have a good time."

"Yeah, I hope so too—because you’re coming," he replied, adjusting the collar of my suit.

"No, I don’t think so."

"That wasn’t a question, Capri."

"I don’t have anything decent to wear." That was partly true. If I knew there wouldn’t be any important events that weekend I had to attend, all the clothes packed in my suitcase were either sportswear or team-branded outfits. Not much else.

"Well, I’ll take care of that with Laila, because I’m sure you'll tell me you don’t have time to shop for anything. You're going to that party whether you like it or not."

"Reasons?" I stopped him before he could cross the door convinced the conversation was over. No way. Mick looked at me, confused. "What are the reasons I should go?"

"There are plenty of reasons."

"Then pick the best one to convince me."

"That you start seeing the other drivers as your teammates, not your enemies," he crossed his arms with a satisfied smile.

"Good thing I told you to use the best one."

That Friday's practice went pretty well, we had done a great job and Nyck had managed to escape his streak of bad luck, setting a record for the fastest lap count of his season so far. It was a big achievement for my teammate, so when I got back to the garage, I didn’t hesitate to give him a thumbs-up. That was as far as I’d go. Franz and the team looked happy and confident, and we were all excited about the results since the cars didn’t have any issues requiring major changes. Saturday's qualifying session was perfect — I placed behind Alonso and ahead of Max, securing third position. The race atmosphere already felt as close as victory, but everything went to hell in the pits on Sunday.

When you're going 375 km/h, you never imagine that your worst enemy will be the moment when everything stops. Pit stops are one of the most normal things in F1 — necessary and part of the strategy — but your car refusing to move? Not normal.

"What’s happening?" I almost screamed inside the car in the pits with the entire crew around me waiting for me to go. I changed gears, hit the accelerator, but nothing happened. I could hear the cars passing on track and mentally counted the positions I was losing. Your mind splits into hundreds of pieces to think separately and form conclusions while trying to get the machine working.

"What the fuck is going on?!" I shouted over the radio and exchanged glances with Franz and John from their spot across the pit lane.

"Keep trying, we’re working on it," John said over the comms.

"Well, it doesn’t look like it, because this shit isn’t working!" I cried out in frustration, pressing every button I could to get the car started.

I couldn’t lose my position — and I already had. I couldn’t drop below fifth — and I was already tenth. I hadn’t worked so hard all weekend just to end up here. I wasn’t getting out of that car until I crossed the finish line in first place. I wasn’t going to give up.

I had never retired from a race in my entire F1 career until... that day.

I had a flashback — one of those no driver should have in the middle of a race, especially not while trying to revive a dead car. But seconds felt like years in that moment, and I hadn’t felt anything like it since Abu Dhabi. The sound of the cars flying by, the panic in my chest, the heat on my neck and ears, the pounding heartbeat, the wildfire growing silently inside. I had never retired until Abu Dhabi. I had never given up until then, and now... now everything came rushing back like it was the first time.

But unlike back then, I didn’t step out of the car defeated. Somehow, I found the solution buried in those bad memories and that overwhelming desperation that clouded my ability to process the present. Without saying a word and in less time than a regular pit stop, I was back on track.

If I had been just any other driver with 26 laps to go and a massive disadvantage from last place, I would’ve started praying. But I didn’t have time for that kind of nonsense, so I started racing.

Even Nyck was four positions ahead of me. In moments like that, you can’t think about failure. You can’t dwell on the frustration spreading through your system like bad medicine administered in the pits. You can’t focus on the rage flowing through your body like fuel in the car. You can’t overthink.

"Distances," I asked over the radio, and John replied immediately. I had already passed Magnussen and Albon was ahead, with 25 more laps and a goal to chase.

"Don’t mess this up," I whispered to myself. "Don’t you dare, Persson. Not again."

"Good, Capri! Good!" John shouted over the line when I pulled off a double overtake on Sargeant and Leclerc. "Nyck is ahead of you, we’ll tell him to let you pass."

"No. I’ve got 25 laps ahead of me, I can waste one on him."

"Capri..."

"Let him build his confidence, okay? He needs it." I concluded, and I wasn’t lying. I wasted half a lap battling Nyck, and although it meant nothing for the competition, I knew he needed that. How would he feel after seeing I couldn’t take down the rest of the grid, and now the two of us were fighting for position? It’s not the same comparison — I don’t even know if Lewis had the same intention back then — but I remember the first time I felt like a giant for fighting Hamilton for a position. I gave it everything, and I wasn’t going to back down — and neither was he — and although he passed me and I ended up third... I had made things hard for Hamilton, and no rookie gets to enjoy that. But I sure did.

Ahead were Ocon and Gasly — another double overtake — before I reached Carlos Sainz Jr. Son of a bitch. He was good, I wouldn’t deny it — extremely good. But not good enough. When I passed him, he tried to take the position back from the outside, and that’s when his confidence crumbled. If you’re going to break the rules, at least do it right.

Twenty laps to go. Ten places to steal. I couldn’t fail.

"Capri," John called. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Your heart rate, Capri."

"That’s what happens when you actually race, John. If you don’t have anything important to say, we’ll talk later."

I hated those unnecessary interruptions, but he was right. The moment he mentioned it, I became aware of the sensation — like my heart was about to burst out of my chest, like I didn’t have full control of my head, and while I raced, I fought my thoughts, my memories, that memory. I passed Zhou and had a flashback, overtook Piastri and another memory came rushing in.

It felt like I was driving straight and brakeless back in time, to that moment, that pain, that disappointment, that irrational force I couldn’t fight. It was bigger than me. Stronger than a race car at nearly 400 km/h.

"That was brilliant, Capri! Keep it up!" John exclaimed with excitement, and I didn’t even understand what had happened until I checked one of the mirrors. Triple overtake on Hulkenberg, Norris, and Pérez. Impossible. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to focus on the race, on the data John was relaying, on feeling the car as an extension of myself.

"P5, Capri, that’s amazing. Six laps left. Stroll is 0.132 ahead. If you pass him, it’s enough. You’ve done an incredible job in 20 laps."

"It wouldn’t be incredible if I finish fifth," I replied, and I could picture John shaking his head. "Positions?" I asked.

"Verstappen leads, followed by Hamilton, Alonso, and Stroll."

"Come on, Capri. Do it," I told myself, holding back tears. I couldn’t control it anymore. I gripped the wheel tighter so no one would see my hands shaking. Sometimes I couldn’t breathe, and I found comfort in the strategy John and the team had prepared for me. I passed Lance quickly, then Fernando. Just 3 laps left. Lewis and Max. My tears mixed with sweat as I fought sentimental thoughts pulling Abu Dhabi back into my mind like a magnet.

"Capri, you’re doing an excellent job," I heard John say again and again between race data. It was the final lap, and once again it was Max and me, at war for first place. There was far more at stake than anyone could see. Would these tormenting memories help me understand how much it hurt to lose against Max? Would everything I had endured over the past 26 laps help me learn I couldn’t keep coming second to Max Verstappen? Did I need anything more to pressure myself?

Apparently, I did. And that "more" was about to show up. The gap between our cars was almost nonexistent, but Max wouldn’t let me through for anything. He made aggressive moves, and I tried attacking with equal aggression, but nothing worked. I could hear the crowd’s screams getting closer, and I tried. I gave it everything I had to overtake him, but our tires made contact, forcing me to fall back by a few hundredths — giving Max a quarter of a second lead over me. And as we reached the finish line, I saw him cross it first.

This time, I didn’t pretend to be okay. I didn’t wave as I got out, I didn’t even celebrate. I ran to the motorhome and ripped off my helmet, struggling to breathe. The look of panic on Jean’s face burned into my memory as he called the medical team. It would have been less ridiculous if they had diagnosed me with a terminal illness right there, but my soul sank when, in less time than my pit stop had taken, the team doctor said I had suffered a panic attack.

There I was again. Me and my worst enemy, living in the same body. Me and my greatest fear.

[redheadsramblings]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by the lovely @starfleetteddybear, and what's this, I'm actually doing it on a Wednesday? Don't get used to it is all I can say 😅

Here we have some more of Vorgoth Gets A Crypt Baby (working title) which really should be Vorgoth & Myrna Get A Crypt Baby, but that doesn't flow as well

---------------------------------

Myrna stood to make herself a fresh cup of tea, crossing towards her small kitchen she became aware of a strange noise echoing down the corridor outside and by her estimation getting closer. Goodness, what was making such a racket? The last time there's been such a noise in the Necropolis was when some Junior Watchers had accidentally brought back some of the Shrieking Sands. Not being aware of the protocols, had not placed it in the appropriate container. It had taken weeks to find it all, and the shrieking had continued until it was all gathered. Shuddering at the memory, Myrna placed the cup and saucer down on the counter and moved towards the door. Thankfully, she hadn't reached it when the portal was flung open with a resounding crash into the wall and Vorgoth flew through the door with a ragged wrapped bundle that was the source of the wailing.

Myrna had never seen her friend flustered, in fact she wasn't even sure such a thing was possible, but it appeared she and everyone else had been wrong. Vorgoth could indeed be flustered, as the evidence before her showed. They came to a stop in front of her, holding the bundle out to her while simultaneously trying to cradle it closer and in a louder voice than she'd know they were capable of exclaimed.

"IT WEEPS AND I KNOW NOT HOW TO SOOTHE IT!"

Taking the shrieking bundle from them and holding it carefully, for Vorgoth's gentle care told her whatever it contained was infinitely precious, she pulled back a fold and gave a soft gasp at the contents. A tiny babe, pale, screaming and letting the world know, a tiny elvhen babe she realised, noting the delicately pointed little ears that stood out from the skull. Spying a dangerous blue hue noticeable on the tips, Myrna lifted a hand to feel the child's skin and gasped again, though this one was louder and leaning towards anger.

"The child is freezing! No wonder the poor thing is screaming, I've felt Shades warmer!"

Turning on her heel, Myrna moved towards the fireplace, snagging the plush fur throw from her chair as she passed before kneeling on the floor before the hearth and laying the fur down before placing the baby on its softness. Unwrapping the shroud, she noted that the baby was female and chilled through. She began to gently massage the tiny limbs to stimulate the blood flow again as the child continued to wail. Without looking at Vorgoth she gave them instructions in a voice that booked no refusal.

"Firstly close the door, the draught will do the poor thing no good, and then fetch me a basin of warm water and clean cloths. They're filthy"

---------------------------------

Tagging with no pressure @themontess @lizziemajestic @sunny374940 @andthekitchensinkao3 @mercars-musings @crimsen-khalessi @paramortality @draco-illius-noctis @woundedsoul12 and anyone who sees this who fancies a go tag you're it 😁

[pisces-reader]

Beginning of the End

Pairing: pre outbreak!Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: You return to Texas for summer, greeted by Joel — your dad’s best friend — whose presence stirs up long-buried tension. The air crackles with heat, not just from the sun, but from glances too long and words too careful.

Rating: 18+ (but who am i to tell you what to read)

WC: 2,823

Warnings: smut with a bit of plot, Modern Day AU, Dad’s Best Friend, Age Gap (Reader is in her 20s, Joel in his mid 50s), Forbidden sexual Tension, oral (m!receiving), public sex, unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it), light breeding kink, light dumbification (like one sentence lmao) and i hope that’s it

A/N: these new pictures?!?! EXCUSE ME I CANT I NEED THIS MAN BIBLICALLY OKAY BYE. So i did the only right thing - wrote some smut 😔✊🏻 also, this it not really proofread so don’t come at me for mistakes

18+ under the cut!

The Texas heat hit like a wall the second you stepped off the plane, thick and unrelenting. You adjusted the strap of your bag, squinting against the sun as you scanned the crowd for a familiar face.

“Over here, sweetheart!”

Joel Miller stood leaning against his black pickup truck, a pair of Ray-Bans pushed up into his dark hair, arms folded across his broad chest. His voice cut through the airport noise like warm honey — familiar, grounding. You smiled, heart doing something odd in your chest as you walked over.

“Hey, old man,” you teased, tossing your bag into the backseat before hugging him.

Joel grunted, arms wrapping around you with a little more force than necessary. “Still smart-mouthed, huh? What do they teach y’all in college these days?”

“Nothing useful,” you quipped, pulling back just enough to look at him.

He hadn’t changed much — maybe a few more lines around his eyes, a touch more gray at his temples. But he was still Joel. Still the man who taught you how to fix a flat tire, still the one who made the best barbecue in the neighborhood, still your dad’s best friend.

Still completely off-limits.

You shook the thought away as you climbed into the passenger seat.

Sarah was waiting at the house when Joel pulled in, grinning as she all but tackled you in a hug.

“Two months,” Sarah beamed. “I’ve already got a list of parties, movie nights, and absolutely nothing responsible planned.”

“Perfect,” you laughed. “I’m not even unpacking my textbooks.”

Joel chuckled behind you both as he headed for the kitchen. “Just remember y’all are under my roof. I better not find any strange boys sneaking out the back door.”

You threw him a look over your shoulder. “That’s a pretty outdated assumption, Miller. Maybe I’ll be the one sneaking out.”

He paused at the fridge, glancing at you — a little too long. “That’s not funny.”

Your stomach flipped. The air shifted — just barely — but enough that Sarah rolled her eyes and tugged you upstairs before you could say anything else.

Later that night, while you and Sarah were watching TV and Sarah had dozed off on the couch, you padded into the kitchen to grab a drink. Joel was there — nursing a beer, leaned against the counter, lost in a book.

He looked up when you walked in. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

His eyes flicked over you — bare legs, tank top — and then quickly back to his bottle.

“You should get some rest,” he said, voice quieter now. Rougher.

You lingered near the counter, fingers brushing the condensation on your glass. “You still dating that woman from the hardware store?”

Joel blinked. “Lisa?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Didn’t work out.”

You nodded slowly, and when he looked up at you again, there was something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something dangerous. Something that made you feel like you were balancing on the edge of something sharp.

“You’ve grown up,” he said softly. “A lot.”

“I’m an adult now, Joel.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched, heavy and charged.

Then he cleared his throat and stepped back. “You should head to bed.”

But the way he looked at you before turning away — like he was trying to remember every line of your face — told you everything you needed to know.

This summer was going to be different.

The house was quiet.

Sarah had gone out to some party, promising to be back late, and Joel had stayed home, claiming he was too tired for the noise. You hadn’t planned to stay in — but when Sarah left, you found yourself lingering. You told yourself it was because the couch was more comfortable than going out. Told yourself the wine in the fridge was reason enough.

But really, it was him.

Joel sat on the back porch, one leg propped up, beer in hand, looking out over the yard like the summer night held answers he was too tired to ask for. The porch light cast shadows over the sharp angles of his face — the stubble along his jaw, the deep lines that came from years of hard work and harder choices.

You stepped outside, barefoot, cradling your own glass of wine.

He looked over, eyes trailing down your legs, lingering on the curve of your hips beneath the oversized shirt you were wearing — his shirt, technically. One you’d stolen out of the laundry days ago and never gave back.

“You always steal clothes from men twice your age?” Joel asked, voice a low drawl.

You raised a brow, settling into the chair beside him. “Only the ones I’m not supposed to want.”

The air cracked like lightning between you.

Joel’s jaw tightened. He took a slow sip of his beer and didn’t answer.

You leaned back, eyes on the stars above. “You’re always looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me,” you said softly, “and hate yourself for it.”

That did it.

In one breathless second, he was out of his chair and standing in front of you. His hand cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing your skin, and his eyes searched yours with something between a warning and a plea.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, voice tight.

“I do,” you whispered. “And I don’t care.”

Joel didn’t move.

So you did.

You stood, close enough that your chest brushed his. You tilted your head up and kissed him — soft at first, testing. But the second his lips touched yours, the dam broke.

He groaned — low and deep — and kissed you like he’d been waiting years for it. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, mouth greedy and desperate. You moaned against his lips, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as your back hit the porch wall.

“You’re so goddamn young,” he muttered against your neck, voice strained as he pressed hot kisses to your skin.

“I’m old enough to know what I want,” you whispered, tugging him closer.

His hands slid under the hem of the shirt, fingers rough on your bare thighs, and he cursed under his breath. “You shouldn’t want me.”

“But I do.”

Joel kissed you again — harder this time, almost angry. Not at you, but at himself. At how fast he was unraveling.

Your mouths met again and again, each kiss a confession both were too afraid to speak out loud.

He gripped the back of your neck, forehead resting against yours, breaths shallow.

“If your dad knew—”

“He’s not here,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his. “And you’re not thinking about him right now. Are you?”

“No,” Joel rasped. “Right now all I’m thinking about is how much I wanna ruin you.”

A breath hitched in your throat.

And still — he didn’t stop. His hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you arched into him with a soft whimper.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn’t.

You pulled him down to kiss you again instead.

And that was it.

Joel groaned, deep and ragged, as he lifted you effortlessly onto the edge of the porch railing, standing between your legs. His lips moved down your neck, teeth grazing skin, hands roaming freely now.

There would be guilt later. Shame. Regret.

But in that moment — all heat and tension and low moans swallowed by summer air — both of you didn’t think.

And you sure as hell didn’t care.

The porch was still, crickets humming in the background, but the air between you was electric.

Joel’s hands were on your bare thighs, fingers tight like he didn’t trust himself to let go. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, pressed between your legs, breath coming heavy against your neck. And still, even as he kissed you like a dying man tasting water, his voice was a strained whisper:

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know,” you breathed, fingers moving to his belt, “but you don’t want me to stop.”

His head dropped to your shoulder, a guttural sound leaving his throat as you unfastened his jeans with quiet, practiced ease. You slid down from the porch railing, knees meeting the old wooden deck as you looked up at him.

“Jesus…” he muttered, torn between pulling away and thrusting forward.

Your hands moved slow, teasing him free from his boxers. He was thick and heavy in your palm, already leaking at the tip. The sight made your thighs clench, made you ache.

Joel looked down at you like he couldn’t believe this was happening — like he was waiting for the guilt to catch up and knock him out cold.

But then you licked a slow stripe along the underside of his cock, and he swore harshly, head falling back with a groan.

“Fuck…”

You wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked — soft, warm, gentle at first, just enough to make him twitch in your mouth. Your tongue circled the head, tasting salt and skin, before you slid lower, taking him deeper with each slow pull.

Joel’s hand found your hair, fingers tangling almost involuntarily.

“This is so wrong,” he breathed. “You’re—fuck—your daddy would kill me.”

You hummed around him, and the vibration made his knees nearly buckle.

“You’re my best friend’s little girl,” he groaned. “You grew up with Sarah, for Christ’s sake…”

But he didn’t stop you. Couldn’t.

Not when you looked up at him like that — eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips stretched around his cock like you were made for it.

He tightened his grip in your hair, guiding you just slightly, the conflict etched across his face even as his hips rocked forward into your mouth.

“Goddamn it, baby,” he muttered, voice ragged. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You pulled back for just a moment, breath hot against him as you whispered, “Yes I do.”

And then you took him again, deeper this time — gagging slightly, but pushing through, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with wet, determined strokes. Your hands gripped his thighs, pace unrelenting.

Joel’s free hand hit the porch railing, knuckles white. His breath came fast, sweat beading along his brow. “Baby—shit—I’m gonna—”

You moaned around him, and that was it.

He spilled into your mouth with a strangled growl, hips jerking, head falling forward as he came hard — messy, hot, and overwhelmed. You swallowed every drop, then licked your lips slowly as you sat back on your heels.

Joel looked down at you like you were something unreal. Dangerous. Sacred.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said hoarsely.

“You didn’t stop me,” you whispered.

Silence settled over you like a blanket.

Joel should’ve walked away.

He should’ve pulled his jeans back up, told you to go inside, locked the goddamn door behind him and slept this lust out like a bad dream.

But when you looked up at him with spit-slick lips and glassy eyes, his cock still twitching from the way your mouth wrecked him, Joel knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Get up,” he rasped.

You blinked, breathless. “Wha—”

“Get up,” he growled again, hauling you to your feet in one swift motion.

His mouth crashed onto yours, messy and hard, tasting himself on your tongue. You moaned into it, fingers clawing at his shoulders, legs shaky as he spun you around and pressed you against the porch railing.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me,” he muttered against your neck, biting at the skin. “You don’t have a goddamn clue.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

That snapped something in him.

Joel shoved your shirt up, baring you to the warm night air, and pushed your panties to the side with a rough grunt.

“You’re soaked,” he growled, dragging two fingers through your folds. “You got this wet just from suckin’ me off, baby?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “Want you. Want you so bad—”

And that was it.

Joel didn’t hesitate.

He lined himself up, thick and still hard, and shoved inside you in one deep, brutal thrust.

You gasped — loud, sharp — as your body arched, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

“Joel—!”

“Shhh,” he hissed, biting your shoulder. “You want someone hearin’ you like this? Want the whole neighborhood to know what a filthy little thing you are for me?”

You whimpered. “I don’t care. Let them hear.”

That sent him spiraling.

He started to move — slow, dragging thrusts at first, like he wanted to savor every inch of you. But it didn’t last long. Joel was already too far gone. His hands gripped your hips tight, pulling your back onto his cock over and over, until all you could do was sob his name into the wood slats of the railing.

“You feel that?” he grunted, hips snapping against your ass. “Feel how deep I am?”

You could only nod, lips parted, eyes dazed.

“Fuckin’ made for me,” Joel muttered. “Takin’ me so good, baby… just like that…”

Each thrust shoved you forward, body jolting with every punishing snap of his hips. Your legs shook beneath you, knees threatening to give out, and Joel wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice dark and wrecked. “Let me fuck you dumb, sweet girl. Let me ruin you for anyone else.”

“Already are,” you slurred. “Already ruined.”

Joel groaned — feral, raw — and drove into you harder.

You were gone. Eyes fluttering, mouth open, fucked out completely. You babbled his name like a prayer between moans, fingers clawing at the railing like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He reached down between you both, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that made you scream. “Come for me, baby. Right now. Let me feel you.”

You shattered with a cry, pussy clenching around him, soaking his cock as your orgasm tore through you. Your whole body trembled, and Joel fucked you through it, still chasing his own release.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned. “Wanna see it dripping down your thighs. My girl.”

“Y-Yeah—please—” You gasped. “Do it. Want it. Please, Joel—”

He came with a strangled sound, spilling deep inside you, hips jerking as he filled you completely. The heat of it made you whimper, still twitching around him.

You stayed like that for a moment — pressed together, breathing hard, sweat-slicked and ruined — before Joel finally pulled out, watching his cum leak from your swollen cunt.

He stared like he couldn’t believe what he’d done.

You looked over your shoulder, dazed and glowing. “You still think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Joel wiped a hand over his face, chest still heaving. “Fuck.”

You both knew this wasn’t just a mistake.

It was the beginning of the end.

A/N: u made it! lmk what you think!! likes and reblogs are welcome <3

[fictionadventurer]

The Rosemary Tree is the first time I've had to put down a book so I could sob over how beautiful it was.

[nerdsandbabyteeth]

Objects

[spookygibberish]

Made a faintly insane list of of every animated movie I have good enough memories of to feel confident ranking, although some of them I would probably move around if I saw them more recently....

[northern-passage]

all of the book recommendations i got for stand alone fantasy:

piranesi, jonathan strange & mr. norrell by susanna clarke

babel by R.F. kuang

the sword of kaigen, blood over bright haven by M.L. wang

house of hunger by alexis henderson

dark lord of derkholm by diana wynne jones

the raven tower by ann leckie

starless by jacqueline carey

the goblin emperor by katherine addison

spinning silver by naomi novik

dreamsnake by vonda mcintyre

juniper & thorn (and other books) by ava reid