#i was supposed to write more about the bloodied snow

[meadowsofmay]

first winter:

legolas' first winter on a battle field was... terrifying, to say the least. thranduil still shudders when first snow covers the ground because he can't just erase this empty, tarnished look in his son's eyes from his memory.

even though, he would do anything to erase legolas' memory of the first winter on a battle field.

when his first summer came and he joined his father's king's guard as a mere soldier, legolas was young and eager and full of energy to protect. and the moment legolas went out of the doors of his halls and dissappeared into the woods on his first mission — thranduil knew. he knew he won't be able to hold him back, to hide him behind other, more skilled warriors and more so to pull him back into the safety of their stronghold and save him from the fate of those who pledged their life. he can force him to learn about diplomacy, assign him teachers and make him sit through councils behind closed doors but nothing will stop legolas from coming back to the woods. not when the danger is so near, breathing down their necks and pushing them further and further north.

legolas painfully reminded thranduil about his mother.

and it was easier for legolas, thranduil knows, when summer's grass covered all the blood and century old roots hid dead bodies from the sore eyes. it's easier because you don't always see the damage on darks of brown and green that prevailed in their armor. but the white doesn't hide anything. it's merciless, cruel, — on clear canvas of the field it makes the colors pop, — and it took alot for thranduil to learn to wear it graciously.

and yet, there's nothing gracious in every day battle east or west, or even south, of their woods, for orcs and spiders flood in hoards like a mudslide, dirty and ugly and barely stoppable.

legolas couldn't move when he saw it. his company were staying at the south-eastern base, an order came to check the paths and help in clearing the spider nests, simple and basic as that, and they were halfway done with the day when the horn came. and then, bone-shaking, chilling roar somewhere from below the hill they were on — it made them stop in their tracks, terror chaining their legs to the fresh cover of snow. they were five minutes, no more, away from the gates of the base. but the ground was shuddering for an army marched on them.

their captain yelled at them to run, a sudden sound in the deafening silence of the approaching battle pulling them out of their stupor, and the next legolas knew — his lungs were burning as he did exactly what he was told.

an arrow took the first elf down and then it began.

thranduil ran. he ran as quickly as he could to the healing wards, his robes tangling in between his steps, slowing him down in the haste. the news got to him fast — the south-eastern base was destroyed, orcs has slain almost everyone, barely any were left alive. the only thing thranduil was able to manage was chocked legolas before he ran, not waiting for a reply. he needed to see him, needed to make sure himself that his son is the one who got out alive. he needed...

legolas was here.

he was sitting on the bed and commotion surrounded him — thranduil looked at all the white clothes stained in red and purplish-black, torn apart beyong repair on the floor, healers moving swiftly in between beds doing their job with herbs and stitches and bandages, and it felt like fever overtook him, the king, himself. legolas was alive but he wasn't moving.

pale and weak, he was looking somewhere beyong the walls on the room, his body fully in the possession of the healers that were bandaging his arms and his chest. thranduil heard them murmuring, calling legolas by name, asking but getting no response. and the fever that overtook the king's body just a moment ago was washed over, as if someone dumped a bucket of cold water on him, with a chill running down his spine.

legolas wasn't moving.

healers looked at thranduil, standing across the room as if to not get in the way, and he had to physically force his face to keep the mask of utter calmness even when his heart broke somewhere down between his ribcage. he moved slowly forward, afraid to see what he feared the most.

shock. as if the moment orcs launched at them now forever imprinted on the fair face of his son. legolas was unresponsive. healers were still working on his wounds. thranduil sat in front of him, squatting down on the floor, his own robes covering what was left of an armor legolas wore, and took his cold hands in his own. he called softly, testing waters, and brought legolas' palms up to his face, blowing hot air on the stiff fingers. legolas didn't even blink. his breathing was barely noticeable.

legolas was one step away from completely shutting down and thranduil felt like his heart won't handle it happening. so, he talked. gently, rubbing his son's fingers bringing blood to movement again, taking a seat by legolas' side when a healer leaves and turning his head towards his own.

please, little one, follow my voice...

legolas looked at him more like through him and his eyes were lifeless, the gentle blue of his faded, reminding thranduil more of a wet greyish clouds that spread across the sky during winter months.

don't let the grief take you, come back to me...

cradling legolas in his arms, thranduil nuzzled in his tangled, stained with blood hair. he kept calling him back, again and again, praying that father's voice will reach the further corners of his son's being where he hid himself from all the terror he went through. like a beacon, he wanted to let legolas know that he is safe now and to lead him out, help him heal.

because there was no time for thranduil to heal after his first big battles, after ones that left him scarred not only physically but also mentally, haunting him at night like dogs would hunt a beaten animal and making his waking hours a living nightmare. thranduil promised, swore right there and then, — when legolas finally took a deep, gasping breath and grabbed his clothes to steady himself, — that he will do anything to prevent legolas from going through the same.

legolas babbled, choked on his tears, forgetting all the shame that mature warriors sometimes implant in the heads of the young ones because he needed to tell. to tell his father about the snow, the crisp, fresh snow and the blood, angry red and bright, so bright it made him nauseous right in the middle of the battle.

i am so sorry...

thranduil held back his own emotions, running his fingers through legolas' hair in vain attempt to calm him down. he knew already that those nightmares will be vivid.

none of this is your fault, you did your best.

h-he made me leave, the captain of legolas' company, thranduil had already heard, sent horses with whatever was left of his warriors to the stronghold, but stayed on the battlefield himself, i didn't want to... he is still there...

thranduil knew that he is there. thranduil knew for a fact that he was already dead. thranduil was greatful that he saved the only family that he has left and yet. no words managed to come out of his mouth, no consolation good enough for a soul that was, still dancing on the edge of sorrow and guilt. he could say nothing but silence spoke enough for him.

is this how it's going to be now?

thranduil will never forget the red dawns of the winter when his son looked the death in the eye and accepted his fate.

[thegaysinmyhead]

PROLOGUE

Guys—I never ever ever write Yandere Fics but?? Dead on Main Mutual Yandere??? Ghost Obsessions or Ghost Biology taken to an extreme, leading to bloody and ectoplasmic messes??? DAMN

(Legit wrote this in 15 minutes on my phone lmao)

Jason smirked underneath his mask, a feral grin of all teeth as he dug his nails into the body underneath him. These white suited fucks had been crawling through Gotham for weeks and the Pit snarled everytime he caught sight of one in his territory. It had been months since he had gone into a green-tinted rage, but every time he saw one of the walking stain collectors he had to fight one down. The Pit snarled deep in his chest and begged for violence, begged to turn the eggshell colored tuxedos into a mess of carnage, everytime he came close to the 'agents'.

There was an ache in his gums and a burning underneath his nails, he dug them deeper into the light colored flesh. Blood pooled under the abuse, were his nails supposed to be that sharp?

Jason got tired of watching these guys shuffle through Crime Alley like they owned the streets he cleaned, and the people under his protection were constantly complaining about them too. He was just supposed to come in to question them, threaten them so they learned the rules, he didn't expect the RAGE-RAGE-RAGE that overtook him as soon as he was in range of the eyesores.

It was...different than his usual pit-induced madness. There was a purpose tickling in the back of his brain—a garbled voice he recognized but didn't that was screaming at him.

RAGE-PROTECT-KING

King?

Jason snarled before putting the rest of his strength into his grip, there was an audible snap underneath his palm. The last agent's body fell limp in his grasp.

KING-PROTECT-SAVE

The thing in his chest howled at him as it forced his legs to move, instinct carrying him as he put bullets (real ones, why did he have real ones? He barely used those anymore) into whatever fashion-freak tried to stop him with their Lazarus green guns. Their aim was shit, his was better.

KING-HERE-PROTECT

There was a paines scream on the other side of the wall that had Jason snapping back into awareness, and with strength he didn't know he had he ripped a thick metal door with his bare hands and threw it to the side. The Pit settled in his chest, a grumbling anxious thing instead of the all consuming it was moments ago. Jason absent-mindedly rubbed his hand where he felt the warmth of the green that stayed with him before he stepped into a sparsely lit room.

Glowing green Lazarus water and blood was spewed and mixed across the walls, a chaotic clash of neon and maroon that stunk of copper and acid. There was a figure wailing in the middle of the room as more green leaked from an open wound on its chest. No, not just an open wound, a vivisection. His vision tinted harshly once more as he slowly made his way to the restrained figure.

A man, most likely the same age or younger than him, with snow white hair, tanned skin that looked almost blue-tinted, glowing freckles in the shape of constellations, and green-green-green unseeing eyes as they spilled cold tears. Jason gently wiped the tears away as if pulled by instinct, and cooed softly with and audible echo in his chest. The Pit had never felt like this, not even in his most justified rages. It had never felt this soft either.

The man cried harder as he tilted his cheek further into Jason's bloody fingerless gloves, a pitiful whine escaping his throat as he begged without words. Jason doesn't know why it was so important for him to get this man his king out and to safety, to care for him, but he knew denying that instinct would only hurt him in the future. There was a warmth building under his fingertips before he pulled them slowly away from the freckled skin, the man gasping and blinking rapidly trying to find him again.

scared-help-afraid

There was a rumble deep in Jason's chest as if the soothe the man, and it seemed to work. The strained shoulders relaxed slightly and allowed Jason to move his (clawed?) fingers to the thick iron cuffs with strange electricity running through them. With a clenched jaw, he ripped the metal in half for each restraint, barely holding back the green before pulling needle and thread from somewhere in the room. The man didn't react to being stitched up, but whimpered when Jason's hands left his chest. A green and purple bruised hand shot out to bring his palm back, and Jason murmured softly while interlacing their fingers.

RAGE-PROTECT-HELP

grateful-safe-help?

HELP-RAGE-PROTECT

The being slumped into his arms as Jason pulled him close—the blue-tinted man weighed less than a bag of chips.

They deserved to suffer for the horrific acts they committed to his king the man in his arms. The Pit and him agreed on that.

With a gruff, Jason adjusted to pull off his jacket and cover the weeping wound of the man. He pulled him into a bridal-style carry before making his way out of the horror room, stepping over freshly dead and dying bodies. There was more blood in the previously white hallways than there was in the room he came from, and he wasn't gentle about stepping over still-alive scientists and agents. He ended up crushing skulls under his steel toed boots when the Pit snarled for their blood, but the rest wound bleed out and die slowly.

.

.

.

Masterpost, Pt 1

[uglygirltrying]

summary - enemy!ghost x enemy!reader - both have been separated from their teams. in the middle of desperation, and a snow blizzard, ghost makes the (stupid) choice of helping the enemy.

you kept falling in and out of consciousness, your eyes fluttering open for a moment, and then closing again the next. cold snow surrounded you, as you laid limp on the ground, heavy blizzard blowing down on you and wind hitting your face. the adrenaline started to slowly wear off, and you could to feel the bruises all around your body from the explosion. suddenly, you perked up. footsteps, coming from your three, snow crunching under the heavy steps of whoever was coming towards you. your breath came our desperate and slow. your eyes fluttered open once more. but this time, even through your hazy sight, and the blizzard around you, you could make out a shadow standing above you. your breath hitches, but you couldn't find the strength to keep your eyes open any longer. you went under again. how convenient.

your head throbbed violently, pain radiating around your body. crackling of fire filled your ears. it's warm. hot even, compared to how you were, in your mind, just a moment ago. slowly, and with great effort, you managed to open your eyes. you're in a cabin. not a fancy one unfortunately, a rotten, and dust filled one. but at least you're out of the snow.

"stay calm." ghost didn't want to spook you, but he wanted you to know about his presence. even if it came at the price of your tiny frame tensing up and looking around franticly. finally you found him, your brows furrowed, and your eyes wide, in fear. ghost sighed. he just had to make his life even harder. but he couldn't resist a pretty woman. even less, a pretty damsel in distress. even if she's supposed to be the enemy.

"yer lucky you didn't need stiches. wrapped you up bloody good tho." ghost murmured, standing up from his spot, and making his way closer. he kneeled down beside your form, snug in his sleeping bag. your wide eyes followed his movements, obviously wary of him, the enemy.

ghost ignored your stare, knowing that you're still far too weak to attack him, even if you wanted to. ghost ripped open a mre packet, and began to feed you crackers. embarrassment flooded your mind, being hand-fed by a intimidating enemy soldier. the brit chuckled at the blush decorating your soft cheeks. eventually, he tossed the mre packed aside.

"you gonna let me in, luv?" ghost sighed, pulling down the sleeping bag's zipper. you couldn't keep in the whimper as he slowly moved you. "i know, luv, i'm sorry..." ghost murmured, gently moving you, until he fit next to you in the sleeping bag. his big arms wrapped around your small form.

"you gonna kill me in my sleep?" ghost chuckled, his fingers running up and down, on the bare skin of your arm. your head shook meekly.

"no?"

"bet yer afraid of what i might do..." ghost darkly chuckled in your ear, and nuzzled against your soft cheek. ghost basked in the feeling, when you kept quiet without an answer.

"don't ya worry, luv... i'll make sure we'll be alright..." he told you. his arms were wrapped around you, the fire and his body kept you warm, your wounds were taken care off, and your stomach was full.

maybe you'll be alright.

tried to write in another style. first person pov makes me kinda uncomfortable because i don't like to force the reader to accept one thing without alternatives idk ifykyk 😭that's why she doesn't say anything, sorry if this is crap, im just yapping

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: hello my love! ik you’ve already made a couple but i was wondering if you could make another one of those mouse ones, if you’re not up for it that’s completely fine! thank you for taking the time to read this!

𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: we all need more remus x mouse!!!

𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: please write another remus lupin x mouse fluff please. i love your writing style. it's just perfect<33

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: injured reader, the nickname 'mouse', some embarrassing (possibly?) moments, nothing else i can think of??

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: after convincing the reader to go ice skating, things end up going a bit sideways for the marauders.

𝑨/𝑵: merry christmas (and happy holidays) everyone! here is a bit of a late gift for you all! i was astonished to see the amount of requests for more remus x mouse! i didn't even include all of them here. i'm sorry i've been mia for so long! this one may be a bit rusty, but i hope you all enjoy even if i am a little out of practice! (also this is unedited so if you see any typos/mistakes no you didn't)

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 3.3k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

“it’s bloody freezing out here,” mutters sirius, his voice gruff in the early morning air.

you roll your eyes, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. in your peripheral, you can see his mussed hair and dark circles, as well as the scowl that colours his handsome features. 

“you should’ve stayed behind if you’re going to whine, sirius,” you respond, raising your brows.

he wrinkles his nose, looking an awful lot like he’s smelled something foul. “are you mad? i’m not staying cooped up in that castle when you lot are out here having fun. where’s moony?” he looks at you expectantly.

“running late, i suppose,” you glance at your watch, a christmas gift from remus. it’s charmed, the tiny mice printed on the watch frolicking around as you get the time. your face turns pink, embarrassed although you love the little watch. you hope sirius doesn’t see. you’d never hear the end of it. 

“well, it’s half eight. earliest i’ve been up in weeks.” sirius yawns, swiping his sleeve across his face.

you roll your eyes again. you knew the lot of them would be menaces upon returning from the christmas holidays. sirius spent the two weeks of holiday break at james’s house, the two of them likely driving the potters out of their minds. the pair of them had clearly suffered from a lack of sleep, made clear by sirius’s incessant complaining about being up early. 

you wanted to spend the holidays at hogwarts, hoping that remus might convince his parents to let him do the same, with no luck. you suffered a miserable two weeks at home, your parents refusing to let you out of their sight for a second. you hardly even had time to respond to the owls sent by your friends; notably, a muggle christmas card of lily and her family, an odd photo of sirius and james wearing charmed elves’ hats, and a sweet note from remus wishing you a merry christmas and promising you a gift upon your return to school. 

thus, you are excited to spend a few hours having fun with your friends without worrying about lessons. if only you can wrestle sirius out of his grumpy mood. 

there’s a chorus of boots crunching through snow behind you, and you turn to find lily approaching. james and remus trail close behind, with marlene at the back. 

“what’s with the frown?” lily makes a face at sirius, who makes another disgruntled face.

“hasn’t got his beauty sleep,” you warn, a smile playing on your lips.

“you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” sirius says crossly.

you raise your eyebrows at him.

“simmer down, pads,” james says, bright as ever. “don’t mind him. he’s just peeved because of that detention mcgonagall gave him.”

he pats his friend on the back, accompanied only by a grumble from the long-haired boy.

“yes,” says remus, “who knew she would catch him trying to turn marie littletree’s quill into a bowtruckle?” 

“all right,” says sirius. “i get it. i’ll paint a stupid little grin on my face like prongs here. can we get on with it?” he grins at the confused half-smile on james’s face, then nudges his friend in the shoulder. 

“right,” says marlene. “lily’s got an itinerary.”

“yes,” says the redhead. “first hogsmeade weekend back, and i’ve got plans. now, the three broomsticks is going to be absolutely swimming with people.”

“it’s always swimming with people,” james chimes.

“right,” she gives him a sharp look, and he scratches his neck awkwardly. “i was thinking, we should skip the morning crowd, and have a go at ice skating.”

“ice skating!”

“ice skating?”

james and your exclamations mirror one another, as you both gawk at lily. james looks like a child on christmas morning, and you look… well, terrified. 

“oh, godric, i’m going to be so embarrassed. i can hardly walk, lils, much less skate!” you groan, feeling the exasperation sirius has been bleeding all morning. 

“c’mon, y/n!” james gives you a shake around the shoulders, looking excited. “you’ll be fine. a little arresto momentum, and you’re saved.”

“right, and which one of you is going to babysit me to keep me from face planting?” you glare at him.

“sounds like a job for moony, if y’ask me,” says sirius smugly. he’s already strutting towards the pond, james close on his heels. 

marlene grins, and lily looks at you pleadingly. “c’mon, y/n,” she begs, pouting like a child.

“it’ll be fun,” marlene adds.

you huff, not wanting to feel like a buzzkill. 

remus places a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. you sigh.

“you’ll be all right,” he urges, voice soft. 

you sigh, but concede. “fine.” 

lily and marlene cheer, taking off behind james and sirius on their way to the pond.

you frown, glancing over at remus as you fall into a slow pace following them.

“do i have to?” you wonder aloud, hooking your arm through his as you crunch through the hardened snow.

remus smiles down at you, a gentle smile finding his lips. his cheeks are pink from the cold already, his honeyed hair sticking out in tufts from beneath his knit hat. your stomach does a flip, and you have to force yourself not to look away.

“don’t tell me you’re scared, mouse,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“scared? pfft, i don’t get scared,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“oh, really?”

“really. but i know my strengths. and ice-foot coordination is not one of them. i’m preparing to embarrass the wits out of myself.” 

“it can’t possibly be that bad,” he says.

“have you met me, rem? i tripped over the air just last night.”

“i actually think that was a badly timed jinx from sirius.”

“i hope you’re joking.”

“afraid not.”

“oh, he’s got it coming.” you shake your head, remembering the burn of your cheeks as you tumbled in a heap in the common room. remus came over, smiling to himself as he helped pick up your things. you’d wanted to crawl into a hole and hide for the rest of the night.

as you approach the pond, you blink at the sight of a few other students gliding over the frozen water. you blink, not feeling confident in your abilities. you can feel your legs wobbling already, hearing the sound of yourself crashing into the ice. 

“okay,” you stop in your tracks, grabbing remus by his wrists. he faces you, eyes expectant.

“yes?” he humours you, looking as serious as you feel.

“promise you won’t laugh if i fall.”

his features crack into a smile, his head falling as he laughs softly. “c’mon, mouse,” he nudges you, draping an arm over your shoulders. he’s warm, and you lean into him as he leads you closer to the water’s edge, where your friends have already conjured up their ice skates. 

“if you laugh, i’ll never forgive you.”

“i’ll keep an eye on you,” he says, “and i promise i won’t laugh.” 

“holding you to it,” you say, joining marlene and lily by the pond.

“here,” marlene takes half a second and conjures you a pair of skates, untied on your feet. 

james and sirius are already on the ice, flitting around faster than you can keep up with. they’re a pair of blurs, their laughter ringing through the air. 

you make a face, your ears burning just at the thought of how you’re going to look trying to keep your feet beneath yourself. you don’t even notice your untied laces as you wobble towards the ice.

“just a second, mouse,” remus says softly, his large frame stooping to tie your shoes.

your face goes red as you glance down at him, feeling sheepish. “sorry,” you say, “i could have done that.”

“i’ve got it,” remus hums, his scarred hands tying your skate laces with expertise. 

he’s towering over you again in half a second, winking at you as he reaches down to grasp your hand. his skin is warm, even through both pairs of your gloves, and you feel a bit better. 

“y’alright?” remus wonders aloud, guiding you to the edge of the ice. he steps on gracefully, somehow able to keep his feet from sliding beneath him. you stare down at his skates, nervous.

you frown. “i’m scared,” you admit, face darkening with embarrassment.

“don’t be scared,” remus says. 

he tugs your hand, smiling warmly. you hate how persuasive he is; his soft voice and gentle smile have a way of turning you into a gushing mess in the palm of his hands. no one knows how to make you feel better like remus does. 

“you’ll still love me if i make a fool out of myself, right?” you wonder aloud, stepping slowly onto the ice. you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, focused on keeping yourself upright. 

“i’d love you even if you made a fool out of the whole world, love.”

he’s laughing as you join him on the ice, the velvety deep sound sending butterflies rampaging through your stomach. he grasps your hand, ever so gently, and pulls you to the center of the ice, where fewer of the other students are. your classmates fly by, agile and quick on the ice. you feel somewhat like a baby deer, your legs wobbly beneath you. 

“see, not so bad, is it?” remus encourages, his features now split in a jovial grin. his tawny eyes glitter with amusement, the corners crinkled by his big smile.

“no, i guess not,” you agree, fingers still gripping the sleeve of his coat in a vice.

“d’you want to try on your own?” he inquires. his long fingers loosen their hold on your wrist, but you tighten your own around him.

“no–not yet!” you squeak, moving closer to him and throwing your arms around his middle. he laughs, his chest rumbling against your cheek. you take a deep breath.

“sorry,” he chuckles, smoothing a hand over your hair. “i’ve got you, m’little mouse.” 

you blink, peeking around his frame to see sirius and lily engaged in a race across the pond, their speeding frames silhouetted by the snowy landscape behind them. a grin spreads over your features, watching as james and marlene cheer them on. 

“i don’t know how they do it,” you muse, shaking your head.

“you’ll be racing them in no time,” remus says teasingly, slowly unraveling your death grip around him. 

“if you say so,” you murmur.

remus pulls you along gently, gaining some speed as you become more comfortable at the feeling of being on the ice. after several minutes, you’re no longer as unstable on your feet. you hardly even shriek when james charges at the pair of you at full speed, spraying you with a shower of ice as he stops at the last second.

“you git,” you hiss, sending a snowball his way with a flick of your wand.

he curses loudly, already halfway across the pond when it hits his back. lily and marlene dissolve into a fit of giggles, while remus chuckles gently. 

you don’t even notice that he isn’t holding you steady anymore. distracted, you’ve released your grasp on his sleeve, and are slowly gliding alongside him. you’re closer to the edge of the pond, your feet steady beneath you as you gather confidence. 

“feeling okay?” remus has spun around, facing you as he skates backwards.

what a showoff, you think, but you say nothing. he doesn’t know it, but you adore just how easily he picks up on the things you find to be absolutely mind-boggling. despite his insistence that he’s nothing special, he picks up on skills with ease. he’s a talented wizard, quick-witted and good at solving problems under pressure. it’s precisely why he excels in school, despite being out around each full moon and sometimes struggling to come out of his shell.

“thanks to you,” you say, flushing. “i wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for you, you know.”

he smiles sheepishly, his wind-chapped face going a deeper shade of pink. “sure you would.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i’m serious, rem,” you say. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me,” he says, looking more than a little embarrassed. 

you reach for him, wanting to hold his hand, but you see concern flash in his eyes. your eyes widen, but before you can say anything he’s already reaching for you.

“watch out–”

but you’ve both reacted too late. another student slams into your shoulder, knocking you off kilter. you squeal, falling to the ice too quickly for either you or remus to react. the air feels as if you’re caught in slow motion for a second; the ice is approaching your face with extreme speed, glistening in the morning sun. without thinking, you brace with one hand, the other halfway reaching towards remus. 

your arm breaks your fall, and there’s a sickening crack as you hit the ice. it’s harder than you thought. you shriek, a sickening pain rocketing up your wrist and shoulder as you finally collapse completely.

“shit,” remus hisses, crouching as you feel his hands on your shoulders, trying to help you up to a sitting position.

you’re too focused on the excruciating pain in your arm to realize that you’re crying. the tears are hot against your skin, burning your cold cheeks as you sit up. you clutch your arm with your other hand, looking at the horrible purple lump already protruding at your wrist.

“merlin,” you sob, “it’s broken!” the sight of the bone jabbing at the inside of your arm makes your stomach do a turn, and you force yourself to look away. remus crouches in front of you, his worried face swimming in your teary vision. 

you hear your friends shouting, and several nasty words directed at the student who slammed into you. you glance over, seeing marlene dragging sirius away by his scarf as he tries to throttle the poor third-year student. 

lily skates towards you, slowing as she approaches.

“oh, dear,” she says, as she sees your arm.

“it’s bad, isn’t it?” you ask, glancing between remus and lily. you can’t force yourself to look back at the arm, feeling as if you’re going to faint if you have to see the bruises blooming over your arm.

“not so bad,” lily lies, offering a forced smile.

“we’ve got to get some help. you need to see madam pomfrey.” remus says. he’s crouched, one hand coming out to wipe the tears from your face. you breathe in his scent, trying to ground yourself. 

james, sirius, and marlene finally join you, sirius still cursing the student as marlene drags him over. 

“ugh,” james says as he sees your injury. 

sirius peers over remus’ shoulder, his eyes blazing with fury as he sees the extent of your injury. “i’m going to curse the bollocks off of that kid!” he hisses, reaching for his wand, tucked into his coat pocket.

“sirius, stop it!” marlene scolds. “we have to do something about that arm. there’s no way y/n’s making it back to the castle in this state.”

“i’m fine,” you insist, though your stomach is rolling unpleasantly. you think you’d likely vomit if you had to stand. 

“you’re not fine,” remus says, his voice stern. “your arm’s gone sideways. you need to be in the hospital wing.”

“we can’t move her like this,” james says, sounding as sick as you are.

“let lily have a go at it. she put my pinky right when that bludger hit it at practice,” says sirius. 

“your pinky?” remus says incredulously. “i think an arm’s a bit more important than a pinky.”

“rem,” you say, nudging him with your foot. “it’s fine. i trust lily. besides, i think i’ll be sick if we don’t do something now.”

remus sighs, his eyes dark with worry. he places a hand on your knee, shifting slightly to let lily get closer. “fine.” you can tell he’s not happy about it. 

“marlene, go get some help, will you?” you say, your head swimming. you feel closer to fainting by the minute, shock setting in.

“‘course i will.” she’s gone in a flash.

“okay,” you breathe, closing your eyes as you wait for lily to fix your arm. 

“right, then,” she pulls her want out of her pocket, leaning closer. there’s a second of silence before she says, “episkey!”

only, the spell doesn’t go quite right. a blinding hot pain blooms in your arm, and you shriek again. this time, you’re not strong enough to keep from fainting. white spots bloom behind your vision, and you collapse. 

you wake hours later, in the hospital wing. you stir, your throat dry as you turn over in the cot. your vision is blurry as you peel your eyes open, finding your arm wrapped in some kind of sling. madam pomfrey is nowhere in sight, but remus is slumped in a chair at your beside.

his eyes are closed, his breathing steady as he sits. his head rests lazily against the back of the chair. you study his face; his scars shine in the sliver of evening light that spills in from the window behind you. you groan as you move, your entire body aching.

your muscles throb, the fall having taken its toll on you. you watch him for a few minutes, the delicate rise and fall of his chest. his hair falls in golden wisps over his forehead and his ears, tickling the nape of his neck. you smile, glad he’s getting some rest. you’re sure he’s been perched in that uncomfortable chair all day. he’s probably missed all of his meals, crouched by your bed worrying.

you smile to yourself, wondering how you’ve ended up with someone so perfect. 

he stirs finally, his eyes crinkling as he yawns.

“rem,” you say softly, catching his attention as he opens his eyes.

“hey, sleepyhead,” he says, a tired smile painting his features.

you reach for him with your good hand, his long fingers reaching out and enveloping yours with ease. his skin is warm as he brings your hand to his lips, holding it there for a moment. your face heats up. embarrassed, you want to sink down into the cot and disappear, but you can’t run from him. he knows you too well.

“have you been here all day?” you wonder.

“of course,” he says, as if you’d be crazy to think otherwise. 

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“yes i did,” he says, frowning. “it’s my fault you went out there in the first place. you wouldn’t be hurt if i hadn’t convinced you to go skating.”

“hey,” you scold, “don’t say that. it’s not your fault. none of it’s your fault.”

he shakes his head, looking apologetic. you sigh, squeezing his hand.

“i’m serious, rem. i don’t blame you. i had a lot of fun, until that kid ran into me, at least.” you grin, trying to lighten the mood.

he can’t help the smile that creeps onto his features. “poor guy,” he says, “sirius wanted to hunt him down so badly. said he was willing to have detention for the rest of the year, if it meant he got his revenge.”

you roll your eyes. “what a hothead,” you laugh. 

“yeah, think the kid was pretty scared too. he send a card up, and some chocolate frogs.” remus passes you a card. you open it up, and a flock of little birds explodes from the paper, as well as a bright, sparkling message that says get well soon!

you smile, feeling much better already. you squeeze remus’s hand again, closing the card as he passes you a chocolate frog. 

“thank you,” you say in response, though both of you know you’re not just thanking him for the chocolate.

he nods in response, leaning over to press a kiss against your forehead.

tags: @delulu4marauders

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Baby, Now We Got Bad Blood

A/N: So, we're told in ACOMAF and ACOWAR that mating instincts ride the males hard and that you should never come between a male and his mate, but one of my biggest gripes with ACOSF is that we never really see that from Cassian. Like come on, SJM! I want to see the Lord of Bloodshed go into Mate Mode(tm)! And so, I decided to write this. I recognize it may not be everyone's cup of tea, so remember that the back button is free, but for everyone else, enjoy! :)

Read on AO3

The tug between Cassian’s ribs is so sudden, so harsh, that he almost drops to his knees right then and there. That golden thread securely tucked there squeezes tight enough that it steals the breath straight from his lungs, twisting and writhing in his chest until he can do nothing except press a palm against his side in hopes of alleviating the pain, until he's sure that he must be bruised. He’s half aware of Devlon watching him curiously, of the other camp lords still sitting around the table, but all Cassian can focus on is the way his blood has run cold, on the ringing that’s taken up home in his ears all from that one tug.

Tentatively, he reaches for the golden thread within himself, sending his confusion and concern down the bond. He skates a finger along it, keeping his touch featherlight, before he plucks, a small, urging question. And then, with bated breath, he waits. Waits for the tug in response. Waits for the soothing feeling that’s not his own to rush through him and calm his worry.

But it never comes.

In fact, there’s almost nothing on the other end of the bond. Just silence. Just an empty, yawning void that has the hairs on the back of Cassian’s neck standing up, that has the pounding in his ears turning into a deafening roar. Genuine fear sparks through his veins, ice cold where it digs its claws into his mind and sends his heart stuttering. He reaches for that golden thread again, tugging more urgently this time, but still nothing.

Something’s wrong.

Cassian knows that Rhys had sent Nesta and Mor to the human lands on some sort of reconnaissance mission. Azriel’s network had gotten some concerning information through the vine, so the High Lord sent Nesta and Mor to blend in with the women of some village and see if they could get more details. It was supposed to be an easy in, easy out mission. He’d even arranged this war meeting in Illyria for when she was gone so he’d be back in time to welcome her home, even had tickets ready for them for the Velaris ballet.

But now, all he has is a silent bond, that single moment of fear twined in that hard tug that festers and burns with his own.

Without a backward glance, Cassian storms out of the room, ignoring Devlon calling after him. As soon as he steps outside into the biting snow of Illyria, Cassian unfurls his wings wide behind his back and takes to the skies. He keeps a hard and fast pace as he tears through the clouds, pushing himself and pushing himself and pushing himself. His back and wings ache with the exertion, but it’s nothing compared to the ache that throbs in his chest like an open wound. Nothing compared to the bloodied and bruised shreds of his heart at the thought of something happening to Nesta.

His mind keeps playing an endless loop of possibilities, each one worse than the last. He tries to imagine a scenario where it’s all a big misunderstanding, where he arrives back in Velaris and Nesta is there with that softness that takes over her stormy blue eyes when she sees him, with that sweet smile meant only for him, and they’ll laugh about this whole thing. But there’s no denying that niggling doubt, those whispers in the back of his mind. They fuel his fear, taunt him, and soon all Cassian can see each time he blinks is the sight of Nesta’s eyes open but unseeing, the color completely leached from her face, seared on the back of his eyelids.

It drives Cassian to push himself even harder, to fly even faster. Each beat of his wings, each thunderous hammer of his heart, it all pounds in time with that twisting thread between his ribs, in time with that call that blazes through his soul.

Nesta Nesta Nesta

He lands hard enough that his knees groan and ache, but he doesn’t care. He presses his hand against the wards, an incessant flash of red sparking in front of him, and steps inside the River House. Rhys steps into the view at the top of the stairs almost as soon as he’s through the front door, as though he was expecting him. The wariness pinching the corner of his brother’s eyes, the way his lips are pressed into a thin line, it confirms all of Cassian’s worst fears. Bile claws up the back of his throat, tangling with the lump already lodged firmly there.

“Where’s Nesta?” Cassian forces out.

“Cass…” Rhys starts slowly, holding his hands up placatingly. Cassian doesn’t miss the way his brother shifts his feet, resetting his stance like he’s expecting a fight.

Cassian is about to ask his question again when Madja comes bustling into the River House behind him, rushing up the stairs and past Rhys. The sight of the healer jolts Cassian into action, and he follows hot on her heels down the hall and into one of the bedrooms, but his steps stutter to a stop when he realizes it’s Mor sprawled across the blankets, holding her hand against a wound in her side.

Cassian whirls back around, ready to check every other bedroom until he finds his mate, but he comes face to face with Rhys again. His brother is still wearing that cautious expression, face still pinched and body still tense like Cassian is some sort of wounded animal he needs to treat with care.

“Where is Nesta?” Cassian demands again.

Rhys holds his ground and raises his chin, his eyes glancing over Cassian’s shoulder only briefly before landing back on Cassian’s face. “There was an ambush. I don’t know how the mortals knew we’d be there, knew who Mor and Nesta were, but there were two dozen of them… with ash arrows.”

“That didn’t answer my question. Where is she?”

“When I got there, Mor was already badly injured. She was going to bleed out if I didn’t get her out of there and to a healer.”

Cassian can feel his patience hanging on by a thread, stepping closer to Rhy and growling out, “where is my mate?”

Cassian feels the press of Rhys’s magic against him, the darkness that begins to creep and rumble from the corners of the room, as Cassian stares his brother down, but Rhys is unmoving, undeterred. He continues to meet Cassian’s blazing gaze, his face and voice an even calm that grates against the last shreds of Cassian’s nerve endings, the last of his sanity.

“I had to make a choice, and I made it.”

It takes a moment for the words to really sink in, to understand exactly what Rhys is telling him, and when it does, it’s a bucket of ice water over his head. He stumbles back a step in his shock. His stomach roils and drops all the way to his shoes, his blood crystalizing into ice, as he chokes out, “what?”

Rhys looks away then, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I used too much of my magic winnowing there already, and Nesta was too far away. I couldn’t get to her without risking Mor, without risking both of us, so I did what I had to do and winnowed us out of there.”

Cassian doesn’t think he’s breathing. He’s sure that his heart isn’t beating because it’s lost somewhere in the human lands, lost with Nesta. “You…” Cassian swallows hard, finding his voice again. “You left her there? In the middle of an ambush?”

“I’m sorry, Cass. I really am.”

“No, you’re not.”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Cassian has always known that Rhys isn’t exactly Nesta’s biggest fan. From the moment they met the sisters, from that first meeting at the manor in the mortal lands, Rhys has always held a certain animosity for the eldest Archeron. He’s always held onto that cool resentment on Feyre’s behalf for what happened when the sisters were young. And despite what happened with the human queens, despite what Nesta did during the War, despite what she did for Feyre and Nyx, that tension has never quite dissipated, that contempt is still there.

“If you were really sorry, why didn’t you go back for her?” Cassian continues, shaking his head in disbelief. “After you got Mor back to Velaris, why didn’t you go back?”

Rhys sighs as if this whole conversation is exhausting. “I just told you. My magic was depleted by winnowing that far, and they had ash arrows. I couldn’t risk it.”

“But you could risk Nesta, right?”

Cassian can feel his disbelief at this whole situation quickly morphing into anger. He can feel the heat of it just beneath his skin where it blazes through his veins. The beast deep within his soul thrashes against its restraints, hackles raised at the idea of any harm coming to Nesta. That rage burns and roars as it twists in dark, crackling tendrils in his chest. It urges him to fight, to raze the whole world to the ground until the debt is paid, until all of Prythian understands the mistake of risking the Lord of Bloodshed’s mate.

“It’s what she would have wanted,” Rhys continues, still using that too calm voice. “You know that. Nesta understood the mission, the importance.”

“Don’t you dare!” Cassian snaps, stepping forward again until he and Rhys are toe to toe, glowering down at him. “Don’t you dare speak of her when you left her to die.”

“Calm down,” Rhys speaks slowly, violet eyes flickering in warning.

“Are you fucking kidding me? What if it was Feyre? What if I left Feyre in the middle of an ambush surrounded by ash arrows? What if I left your mate for dead?”

“Don’t.”

The low tone of Rhys’s voice lets Cassian know he’s hit his mark. That magic and darkness presses a little bit harder, those violet eyes turning cold, clearly unimpressed with the underlying threat toward his mate. Cassian almost wants to laugh hysterically, seeing his own feelings mirrored back to him. It’s a sickening type of vindication.

“That’s the difference, isn’t it?” Cassian continues to drawl, not backing down, the red of his siphons flickering in time with Rhys’s own magic. “I would risk it for Feyre. I would go back for her because I know how much she means to you, but you don’t care. You’ve never forgiven Nesta, not really, and now, you finally got the chance to wash your hands clean of her.”

“Cassian—”

“Where?” Cassian interrupts, taking a step back finally and adjusting the straps of his leathers and preparing for a long flight. “Give me the coordinates. I’ll go get Nesta myself.”

Cassian side-steps around Rhys and heads for the stairs, but Rhys is hot on his heels. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you fly all the way to the mortal lands and potentially walk head first into an attack.”

“Try and stop me,” Cassian dares, whirling around with a snarl of warning. “Being mated and a father has made you soft, Rhysand. Do you really think you could take me?”

The temperature in the room starts to drop, Cassian’s siphons flaring brighter in response as magic scrapes along his spine. He’s been itching for a fight since the moment he stepped through the doors, instincts gnawing at his every nerve ending and riding him hard until his hands are clenching into fists, his fingers twitching with the urge to drive into Rhys’s face.

But he doesn’t have time for this.

Nesta is gods know where in the mortal lands, in the Mother knows what state, and he needs to get to her. He waited five hundred years for her. Five hundred years to hold her. Five hundred years to love her. And he’ll be damned if he loses her now. Damned if he fails her again. Damned if he doesn’t save her when he wasn’t there to protect her in the first place.

He turns back around and storms down the stairs, striding toward the door without looking back. His blood has already started to thunder again, that same beat of Nesta Nesta Nesta as he stretches his wings to warm them up.

“Cassian, stop,” Rhys calls after him, but Cassian merely rolls his eyes. “I am ordering you as your High Lord.”

Cassian can feel the magic of the order as it slinks across his skin, taste it on the back of his tongue, but he’s quick to shake it off with a scoff, yanking open the front door. “Fuck off.”

“You step out that door, you won’t be welcome back in this Court.”

Cassian turns over his shoulder, settling Rhys with a deathly cold look. “Good luck finding a new General then.”

Rhys looks genuinely taken aback by that, blinking a few times in surprise. “You’d really throw away everything you’ve worked so hard for? Everything you’ve ever wanted?”

“Nesta is everything I’ve ever wanted. And you knew that. And you still—” Cassian can’t choke the word out, can’t fathom a world where Nesta, his Nesta, his beautiful, smart, amazing mate is gone.

A world where Rhys killed her.

With one last shake of his head, Cassian steps out of the River House and onto the streets of Velaris, the door slamming behind him. It feels strange and wrong to step onto these streets knowing Nesta isn’t here. Knowing that her quiet steps won’t fill the bookshop in the Rainbow. Knowing that her soft laughter won’t fill her favorite bakery by the river. That fear from before grips Cassian tight enough that his steps almost stumble, but he stretches his wings out wide behind him nonetheless, siphons flaring in anticipation.

He’s going to get her back. Even if it’s the last thing he does.

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld​ @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @girl-of-many-floods @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head

[shrekgogurt]

I have been watching one million YouTube video essays about pop culture and emphatically not writing over the past several days. This chapter was supposed to be a shorter one and now it’s shaping up to be the longest one so far and I’m deeply frustrated by it. I want it done. Only 3/6 of the POVs are “finished” (aka beta ready) and one of the Baz POVs needs a lot reworked. Narratively, it was the chapter I was least looking forward to writing and in trying to redeem it (infuse it with more emotion) it’s just getting so big. Nevertheless, so many people are out and about today so I’m serving up the first sentence of each POV.

It’s the first day of classes and I’m already in trouble.

I wouldn’t venture so far as to say I have a spring in my step, but I’m faring better than I was last month.

A man who appears to have walked fresh off the set of a k-pop music video just called Baz’s name and I’m not handling it well.

[this is the POV that needs so much reworking so instead here is one sentence I know will stay] “If you’ve been feeling part of the scenery, perhaps you should walk right out of the machinery.”

As I stare at the three gates blocking our exit, I suddenly wish Penny had more friends.

Snow is a bloody contagion.

Okay I’m a little bit just whining some more down here. But GODDAMN it! I keep reading so many beautiful masterpieces by y’all and getting so inspired and wanting to make my shit better. Which is good! But also! This chapter is now 10x harder to write because I want it to be deeper now than it originally would’ve been. And ultimately, again, that’s good! But it’s so much more effort. And I’m being really really hard on myself and the output. And it’s not currently super duper fun. More like when you know what something could be or should be but you can’t get it to shape properly. Or rather, I’m angsty about putting forth the energy to mash it all up to make it better than before. So…it’s all growth. Just a pain in the ass.

Not to mention, the key to unlocking more depth for the Baz bits is Hejira which is a fucking masterpiece. (How can I be Joni? No one can be Joni!) And he doesn’t start out there! I have to bring him to this place of reflection! And like cover the time elapsed. And it’s HARD! BOO! EVIL! I’m doing it to myself!

May the spirit of poetry hopefully overtake me. It’s terribly lacking in this chapter. (I think I’ll be forever chasing the damn high of chapter thirteen.)

Okay done whining.

Thank you for the tags today! @monbons @roomwithanopenfire @blackberrysummerblog @rimeswithpurple @forabeatofadrum @thewholelemon @artsyunderstudy @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @mooncello

Shorter list of tags because it’s late: @bookish-bogwitch @brilla-brilla-estrellita @cutestkilla @emeryhall @hushed-chorus @ileadacharmedlife @ineffable-grimm-pitch @j-nipper-95 @larkral @letraspal @messofthejess @onepintobean @prettygoododds @raenestee @theimpossibledemon @valeffelees @youarenevertooold @mitranian

[fortloser]

Hello again! Sooo kinda a personal question but what was yalls childhoods like?

(Also, hope u feel better snipes!)

-Terror

Hallo everyone! I finally got my hands on those portraits! Now most of the others became rather uncomfortable when I started questioning them about their youths. I got answers ranging from “why are you so bloody intrested in how im doing! There’s nothing special about me or my childhood, now bugger off.” to more reasonable explanations. I tried calling Scout on his cellular device but he seemed very preoccupied. Oh well, he’ll get back to you on that, onto the testimonies! Brace yourself friends this will be somewhat lengthy.

I first approached herr Demo, and getting him to open up was fairly easy. His favorite alcoholic beverage and a snack did the trick!

“ It must be me birthday if yer spoiling me rotten doc, I guess I can share something about me youth if yer willing to lend an ear. I grew up in Glencoe Scotland, a great place if you like trails and hiking. Me mum and dad were professional monster hunters and me being the wee little lad that I was wanted to impress em with the greatest catch any child could give their parents, the Loch Ness monster! I did it all on me own but it came at a cost,,”

After that herr demo just stared off in the distance and I made a mental note to ask him more about that later, The Engineer was also very open about his youth! I came to him shortly after dinner knowing he would be busying himself with one of his long-term projects and would enjoy some company, his leg was still a little stiff from a rather nasty fall and so movement was difficult at times. He was more than happy to talk while I assisted.

“Luckenbach Texas, everybody is somebody there. It was recently bought by a goat farmer. Can you believe that? He called himself an Imagineer and after that, a bunch of hillbilly musicians started moving in. Can't complain though, It breathed new life into my home, I hated going back and seeing the state it was in. My mom and pop own a small pig farm there, and I still try to visit though unlike my good-for-nothing twin with his stupid fancy job at “NASA”,,

I don't think I should share his personal frustration about his twin with the public so let's move on, yes? The next day I approached Heavy, he was last on my list and seemingly already aware of me interrogating the entire team, and as he was cleaning his minigun he told me to take a seat.

“You want to know about heavy, Da? Then I will tell you about heavy. Grew up in big town near mountain, you would not know it. Had big family, many sisters and brothers but Heavy was oldest. Family was poor but happy, loved summer, snow would melt and grass and flowers would show, heavy likes this. Went to good school had many friends, now heavy works to give family same life. Doctor is happy  with answer?”

I was surprised he was so willing to talk about his youth, I politely thanked him and left to prepare for that day's battle, I suppose that only leaves me left.

I was born in Germany, my mother was German and my father was Dutch and they both moved to Germany so my mother could be close to her family, he was a watchmaker and she was an artist, this relationship did not last and they got divorced. My motherstayed in germany allowing my father to raise me on his own back in the netherlands. I spent a lot of time in my father's workshop while he was trying to fix up old clocks. I didn't have many friends but who needs them when you have books and wildlife to observe? I excelled in all of my studies and pursued medicine, and eventually ended up here writing to you after I just finished up patching the last of my colleagues.

Stay healthy

With kind regards medic

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hiiii! I wanted to write a little something simple for Everlark and decided to lowkey mix two requests! “A kiss on the chest” and “Katniss learning what they did to Peeta in MJ and kissing his scars”. It was supposed to be set Post-Mockingjay but I instead made it a sequel to my “Peeta wasn’t hijacked in MJ reunion oneshot AU”. If you haven’t read it, it’s fine, the title right there tells you everything necessary to know 😂.

I hope everyone who reads this likes it! I loved writing it and I would really appreciate anyone who enjoyed this to like/reblog! It makes me so so so happy 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹. Also thank you to all my constant encouragers, you guys make my day with all your sweetness 🥹🥹🥹🥹.

Summary : Katniss learns more about what they did to Peeta in the Capitol and sets out to try and make him better. [Non - Hijacked Peeta Mockingjay AU].

-

Burned. Check mark.

Whipped. Check mark.

Starved. Check mark.

Shocked. Check mark.

Tortured (with water and [redacted][redacted]). Check mark.

I toss the file back onto the table where it was left by Peeta’s doctors, unable to stare at it any longer. Unable to stomach reading every which way Peeta was harmed while held prisoner in the Capitol. Again. I’ve already read it upwards of ten times tonight.

It never gets easier. Reading the extensive list of his injuries, reading the details they managed to pry out of him, visualizing what horrible acts were done to to him, listening to his doctors confer among themselves in sympathy and disgust, they themselves deeply disturbed by what he experienced at the hand of the president himself.

“Sweetheart, would you make up your mind?” Haymitch snaps. He’s in the worst mood he’s been in a while.

“Huh?” I furrow my brow and glare up at him.

“Either read that thing or stop messing with it.” He indicates toward Peeta’s file. “I’ve sat here and watched you throw it down and pick it back up a dozen times already. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re pathetic, Haymitch,” I say back but there’s little bite in my tone. I’m too preoccupied with the image of Peeta trapped in a freezing cold cell, naked and bloody and alone and terrified, and it’s driving me absolutely insane. It’s suffocating me, from the inside out. It’s taking up all of the space in my head, leaving no room for even bickering with Haymitch.

And Haymitch knows it too.

Of course, he of all people should be able to read me. After all, the same stupid file — and his crippling remorse — is undoubtedly what’s put Haymitch in such an awful mood in the first place.

“Just go see him, Katniss,” he murmurs, giving me a pointed look. “Go. You’re of no use to him just sitting out here, reading about what’s already been done. Get up and go see him.”

He’s right and I know it. As much as I hate to admit it, I know Haymitch has me there.

But still, I stall. It’s not that I don’t want to see Peeta. The opposite, in fact. Since his rescue thirty-seven days ago — not that I’m counting exactly — I’ve spent copious amounts of time with him. I’ve spent every waking moment that I could in his presence and as many of my sleeping ones that I’m allowed.

The doctors aren’t really thrilled about our arrangement there. They want to keep watch on Peeta as he sleeps, to watch and study and take notes and examine him further, but evidently it’s rather hard to analyze his nightmares with me wrapped around his torso all night, like a protective pretzel.

It’s not that I don’t want to see Peeta right now. It’s the fact that I don’t think I can look him in the eye, after reading exactly what those monsters Snow hired did to him, and pretend it isn’t all my fault.

“I don’t think the doctors are done with him…” I mumble, avoiding Haymitch’s eyes now.

“Cut the crap, Sweetheart.”

“Go away, Haymitch.”

“Go see the boy or I’ll find a way for you to spend tomorrow filming a propo.”

I glare at him again. “Would you stop?”

“Coin is getting hungry for some new ones.”

“Okay, fine, you win!” I exclaim, springing up out of my chair. “Congratulations, Haymitch. You blackmailed me into going to see my own boyfriend. Happy?” I hiss, kicking him in the shin as I walk past his chair.

Not hard enough to hurt him apparently. Not even hard enough for him to care. Instead he picks apart my wording with a smirk. “Your boyfriend? How darn cute.”

“Shut up,” I call as I exit the room.

The last thing I hear is him making loud, obnoxious kissing sounds in my wake.

-

I slip past the doctors, both the head and the medical, and beyond the nurses and supply carts and trays of food, into the room where I’ve spent more hours in the last month than I can count on two hands.

“Hi,” Peeta whispers softly as I close the door behind me. He’s shirtless, in bed and seemingly half-asleep already, laying on his side beneath the sheets. Waiting for me.

He looks so much better than he did the night of his rescue. His bruises are healing nicely, he’s gaining weight and muscle back, his hair is clean and curly again — thanks to me and Thirteen’s strong, medicinal shampoo — and his skin is starting to lose that scary, pale, translucent look.

But he’s still so hurt. He’s still injured — internally far more than externally — and I swear, I can feel my heart swell up and break into pieces just looking at him too long.

“Hi, baby,” I murmur softly, crawling beneath the blankets and folding him into my arms. Even with all the weight lost, he’s much too large for me to hold completely, so I make due wrapping my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist and stroking the back of his head tenderly.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, burying his face where my neck and shoulder meet.

A wave of guilt ripples through me. “Sorry I took so long.”

But he shakes his head, still having no room for spite in his body. Even after everything he’s been through, he’s still so sweet. He’s still so warm and kind and generous.

Well, towards me at least. The same can’t be said for his behavior toward Haymitch, who he blames for leaving us both in the dark about the rebellion.

“You were worth the wait,” he whispers. “You’re worth every wait.”

I feel myself blush and cover it swiftly by kissing his cheek. “How was your tests today?” I ask, smoothing his hair back.

He shoots me a sardonic look now and I giggle like a little kid. Every day when his dry humor peaks through the darkness, I get filled with ridiculous, unparalleled — uncharacteristic — delight.

“Still tedious as ever?” I murmur, rubbing his shoulder with my pointer finger.

“Boring as ever,” he mumbles before closing his eyes again. He’s clearly exhausted from all the probing they did today. And I know I should sleep too.

I usually sleep whenever he sleeps, wake only when the doctors make me leave, spend as much time with him as I can before getting sent away. But tonight I just can’t. I can’t make my brain shut off, despite the fact that at least half the compound is in bed, the other not far behind.

And of course, even tired as he is, even with everything going on in his mind, he still notices my distress.

“What is it?” He whispers, not even opening his eyes.

“Hmm?” I feign oblivion.

“Katniss, I can see something’s wrong.” He opens his baby blues, peaking down at me through his long, tangled up lashes. He has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I reassure him, kissing his upper arm because it’s the closest thing within my reach.

“You saw my file?” He’s fully awake and coherent now, his voice much stronger than before. His tone leaves no room for question, even if I could lie straight to his face.

“Yes,” I whisper, feeling suddenly nervous he’ll be angry. Maybe it was an invasion of privacy to read it, I don’t know. The doctors left it out, I just assumed it was okay. “Are you mad?”

“No.” He chuckles lightly before moving his hand down to my hip, tugging me closer if even possible. “No, I don’t care. Read it as much as you want.”

He really means it too. He really doesn’t care if I invade his privacy, dig into his business and overstep my bounds. I don’t know if I’d be so generous if the situation were reversed.

Then again, going by the things I just read, he’s already been tortured and humiliated beyond belief. I doubt he has any concern for privacy left.

“You can ask me anything, you know,” Peeta says after a minute and I cup his cheek in my hand, shaking my head instinctively. I can’t ask him to talk about what they did. That would be cruel.

Instead I lean up and kiss him on the mouth, slowly and softly. Conveying every feeling I have for him, conveying every ounce of affection and gratitude and longing pent up inside me.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Peeta,” I whisper against his lips.

I feel his hand cradle the back of my head, massaging my scalp. “I don’t want to keep anything from you,” he finally says, resting his forehead against mine. “Not anything that you want to know.”

My eyes fall, breaking contact with his. I have questions, yes — understatement if I ever heard one — but I refuse to pry and I’m terrified to ask and I don’t even know where to begin after what I read.

But then something catches my attention. A thick, red, angry line, splayed right in the middle of Peeta’s chest. It stands out vividly against his pale skin and blonde chest hair and I can’t look away from it now.

“What’s this?” I murmur, running my finger lightly across the surface, clocking the way Peeta cringes a little at the contact. “Does that hurt?”

He looks at the wall behind my head for a long moment before nodding. “That’s from a whip.” He meets my gaze again before casting his eyes low. “I don’t remember what I did to earn it.”

“Nothing,” I immediately gasp, my head shaking and brows knitting together. The idea that Peeta earned anything that happened in that mansion blasphemous to my ears. “You did nothing, baby.”

“I know,” he agrees, pressing his lips to my forehead lightly. “I just can’t remember why they whipped me that day.”

That day. Because there’s so many days where he was whipped to choose from. Of course.

My eyes land on another mark, this one dark purple and almost circular, high up on his torso, almost on his shoulder. It’s not a bruise, although at first glance it could be mistaken for one. No, it’s definitely a scar. From what, I can’t tell.

I trace it with my thumb, rubbing it back and forth. It’s raised and rough to the touch, a little jagged even, like it never properly healed.

His hand comes up to touch my arm, almost out of reflex, halting my ministrations. “That’s from the early days,” he explains, with almost a touch of humor in his voice. “They were more creative then… and they had a lot of matches on hand.”

It takes me a beat to figure out what he means by matches. “Fire? Fire matches, Peeta?”

“Yeah.” He nods sheepishly. “Snow had a big supply evidently.”

“I will burn him alive,” I say through gritted teeth before I can think better of it.

“Calm down, firecracker,” Peeta laughs but I’m fuming. I’m fuming mad and ready to fight at a moments notice. I probably could even make a half-decent propo right now, the amount of venom coursing through my veins.

I encourage my own anger, feed it, in fact. Because I want to be angry. I want to feel this rage.

Because if I don’t, I’ll start crying. And that’ll only serve to make Peeta feel even worse. Which I can’t let happen.

I’ve already done that too many times.

I don’t tell him any of what I’m thinking. Nothing good could come from that. Instead I search for a way to mask my anger, protect him from seeing it.

I stretch up and press a kiss against the corner of Peeta’s mouth, traveling to his chin, down the side of his neck and over his collarbone.

He responds by letting out a deep sigh, clearly enjoying the attention.

I journey further down his body until my lips land on his chest, exactly where his scar is.

“What are you doing?” He asks breathlessly, peering down at me now. “You don’t have to-“

“Let me,” I whisper, tracing it again with my finger. He shudders a little at the contact. “Let me make it better.”

I hear him swallow hard. “Okay.” He nods a little, quietly inhaling and exhaling.

I lean in slowly and press my lips to the mark, the whip scar, soft and tender.

I can feel him relax beneath me, deflating almost. I don’t sense any sign of discomfort, so I take that as my cue to continue on, kissing the same spot again and again, moving up and down the length of his wound, creating a circuit and following it repeatedly, waiting until he tells me to stop.

“Katniss,” he murmurs, sounding almost pained, like my name hurts.

“Yeah?“

“Thank you.” His voice is almost inaudible, almost a praise or a plea. Tears leak out the corners of his tired eyes.

I have to fight to keep my lip from trembling, to stop myself from crying too. Instead I crawl up his body, keeping my legs wrapped around his waist and fold my arms loosely around his neck.

“Let me kiss them all,” I say into his skin. My mouth travels across the top of his shoulder, my eyes closed, moving by the touch of my lips alone, not stopping until I land on his burn.

I press kiss after kiss into the bumpy, rough scar, until I feel Peeta’s breathing even out against me. I feel his heart beating against me and his chest rise and fall with mine, and an ember of hope that my method may be working grows stronger.

“Roll over for me,” I urge, keeping my voice as gentle as my touch.

“You don’t have to do them all,” he says but I can tell he’s enjoying this immensely. I can tell this helping him more than any treatment the doctors have recommended.

“I want to, Peeta,” I insist, no question in my tone.

Slowly and lethargically, he complies, rolling over so his back is facing me. I keep my hold on him, both my arms and legs wrapped around him like a baby animal clings to their mother.

He has a plethora of scars and wounds on his back. More than I’ve been able to stomach yet. Not once since his rescue have I been able to truly face the sight before me now.

I begin at the top, resting the palms of my hands on his shoulder blades, pressing my mouth to the center of his spine, to the back of his neck, the back of his ribs, anywhere with a painful mark or dark bruise.

I keep going, never tiring, as if I can kiss him better. As if my kiss can take away everything that’s happened, everything that I unintentionally caused and everything I ache to go back and stop. I kiss him like I can make him whole again. Like I can heal his fractured heart.

Eventually he relaxes underneath me, his breathing evens out again and he goes slack.

Even then, I keep kissing him. Even in his sleep, I refuse to stop trying to heal his hurt.

“I love you, Peeta,” I whisper against his arm, knowing full well that he cannot hear me anymore. “I love you and I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save you from this. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

My lips are still on his back when the doctors order me out of the room.

-

[lilacella]

🎂 Sirius' Birthday Week Day 6: Birthday Ficlet!

This was supposed to be cute and cozy but somehow it got quite angsty 😬. Sadly, I don't get to choose what the parasites make me write so I hope you enjoy!

You can read this as romantic prongsfoot or not (though I personally encourage you to ☺️).

Birthday Boy (ao3) T rated | 1,2k

"Happy Birthday."

James' quiet voice rips Sirius from his thoughts. A smile creeps onto his face as he turns around to his best friend, who has just emerged from the roof hatch.

The roof of Gryffindor tower has always been Sirius' favorite spot. Especially when it is dark, like now. It is calm and quiet. He can overlook the entirety of the schoolgrounds, right up to the Quidditch field - but noone can see him. Hidden between the chimneys, wrapped in a thick blanket against the cold, he sits and observes the depths that lurk only a meter away from his feet.

On the roof, it's just him, his thoughts and the wind. Noone bothers him up here. Noone, except the people he doesn't mind being bothered by.

Which brings us back to James.

In one hand he is carefully balancing a tiny cake that is too small for the fullsize candle stick James has stuck in the middle. The other is busy clutching two opened bottles of beer. Why he isn't just using a levitation spell escapes Sirius' understanding, but he has to admit that James' focused expression adds to the charm of the scene.

"How's the party going?," Sirius asks nonchalantly and reaches out to relief James of one of the bottles.

"Suprisingly good, considering the fact that the birthday boy has fucked off to the roof before it even started." James drops down next to him and places the cake in front of Sirius' crossed legs. The light of the candle flickers defiantly in the wind.

"Thank you," Sirius says and trails a thoughtful finger through the molten wax dripping down the side of his cake decoration.

James rubs his arms through his sweater. "Aren't you getting cold?"

Sirius wordlessly lifts one side of his blanket and lets James huddle up to him.

He knows what James will say before he does.

"I'm alright, Prongs."

"Are you sure? Because you've got a warm common room full of people waiting for you with presents, and yet here you are, sitting on the roof in the dark like a bloody gargoyle."

"I wasn't the one who invited them."

James sighs. "Well, I'm sorry that I assumed you would want to celebrate your 17th. My bad." He picks a crumb off the cake and eats it, staring straight into the night.

Sirius nudges his shoulder apologetically. "I do. Just not...not down there."

James turns and looks at him thoughtfully.

"You know, Pads... I know you. I know you really damn well. But sometimes I don't get you."

Sirius isn't sure why that sentence stings so much. Maybe he's just sensitive today. He turns away so James doesn't see the tears suddenly prickling in his eyes, threatening to spill.

He feels how James' arm snakes around his waist and how his chin is coming to a rest on his shoulder.

"Talk to me."

It isn't a demand. Not even a request. More like a plea, murmured softly into the wind rushing past his ears.

Sirius hates talking about his feelings. Damn, he hates feeling his feelings. Sometimes they feel like an endless lake threatening to drown him in its bottomless darkness.

But right now he is on the roof. Hidden from views. Just him, his feelings and the smell of frost in the air - the first snow only a few days away. And James.

So it's alright to talk. Up here, nothing he mutters into the darkness really counts. It will simply be swallowed by the night.

"I always thought I would be happy. Once I turn 17. Do you know how long I've been waiting for this day? To finally be of age, out of their control..."

It is a silly question. Of course James knows.

"I always thought I would be happy. Overjoyed, jumping around, singing songs on the fucking table." Sirius takes a swig of his beer. "But I am not. I'm not happy James. Why am I not happy?"

Now the tears fall after all. It doesn't matter. Not here. He takes another big gulp and washes the salty taste off his upper lip.

A gust of wind tugs at his hair, probably blowing it into James' face. If it does, he doesn't complain.

"Do you miss them?," James asks.

The question feels like a punch to his chest and he chokes out a startled sob. The candlelight in front of him goes blurry.

He doesn't know how to answer. He doesn't. He hates them. He is glad he has left. But also he does.

"I think I just miss what could have been."

James nods as if Sirius' words had made any sense. Maybe they did.

"I don't want to go back. I don't want them to come after me. I'm glad they are leaving me alone. But... But it still hurts." He takes a shaky breath. "I always thought they would fight me, you know? Come after me, turn up at the station, write me threatening letters or something. I've spent the past years being terrified of that. And now - Nothing. And I should be glad. I should be relieved. But somehow..." He trails off.

"It hurts," James completes the sentence for him. His fingers rub calming circles on his side.

Sirius wipes at his tears.

"I guess now it is over. After today... After today there's no going back." He angrily shakes his head.

"And I don't want to go back! Fuck them! It's just... It feels weird they gave up so easily. And..." His stupid voice breaks.

"And this is the first birthday they didn't send me a letter."

His tears run down his cheeks like a hot river, almost steaming in the chilly november air.

He has always hated the letters his parents used to write him on his birthday. They sounded formal and fake and always included at least one backhanded compliment, trying to nudge him towards the behavior they deemed fit for a heir of the noble and most ancient house of black. He often burned them halfway through reading them. But somehow the absence of the black envelope on the breakfast table this morning had made him loose his appetite.

It infuriates him. He has left and yet they still seem to hold so much power over him. Ruin his fucking birthday, even! He chokes out another sob.

James gives him a firm squeeze.

"You'll always have me," he states matter of factly.

Sirius smiles through his tears and turns towards him, leans his forehead against his.

"I know," he croaks.

Sirius can feel the warmth emanating from James' skin on his own. He is glad he has come up here.

"You'll never spend a birthday without me again. No matter where you hide, I will find you!"

"I know," Sirius sniffs.

"I love you, mate." James cups his face and wipes the tears off his cheeks with his thumbs.

"I know," Sirius says and tries to find James' eyes behind his glasses but he can only see his own puffy-faced reflection.

I love you too.

James smiles as if he had heard his thoughts. "Then blow out the candle, git."

He does, wishing for James' promise to come true.

[obsessedwithpedritoofc]

Mʏ Oɴʟʏ Rᴇᴀsᴏɴ (Fʀᴀɴᴋɪᴇ Mᴏʀᴀʟᴇs)

ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Frankie Morales × Transmasc Reader.

𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 7,3 k.

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: Both sent to the same prison, with different reasons and different problems to deal with. At least most of them, until one brought them together.

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: au, angst, violence, mentions of blood, shots being fired, mentions of death, mentions of killing, allusion to drugs, mentions of anger problems, mentions of scars, fluff, not wanting to have sex, frankies a sweetheart ofc, similarities with the series "time", actual physical descriptions of reader (but not detailed), no use of Y/N (reader is referred to as Lost). (lmk if i missed any).

𝔸/ℕ: hellooo as i suppose you already know, i LOVED writing this shit. frankie is my favorite pedro character and will always be and whenever i write something for him i get really excited. anyway so, this is based on the series "time", which is why it has some similarities to it but i mainly got inspiration from my own imagination :D whatever, im starting to bore myself lol. enjoy <3

𝕡𝕥 𝕚 𝕞𝕪 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕠𝕟

𝕡𝕥 𝕚𝕚 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

That was it. You almost had it. You just had to pull the trigger...

"Come on, get up!", there was a firm, insistent knock at the door of your cell. You looked at the ceiling, sighed and reluctantly got up.

Of all the bad days you had —and you had many bad days—, that was the worst day you could have been transferred. Your legs were stiff, your knuckles were broken and bloodied, and the scar in your stomach was making your insides hurt more than usual, though maybe that was because of the hunger. But well, it's not like you could even choose when to be transferred or where. That fight hadn't been your fault.

"Move, asshole", you looked up at him. He grabbed the chicken sandwich from your tray.

"Aren't you a bit too small to be a boy?", he laughed. Some of the ones behind him did, too.

"Give me my fucking sandwich back and move out of the way", you tried to stand your ground, not look weak, give them a warning.

"Oh, lookit that! Little girl's gotten all mad—".

You didn't give him the chance to finish the sentence before you smashed your tray right on his face, making him fall to the floor with a heavy thud. You got on his lap and started hitting your fist on his nose, his mouth, his eyes, everything you could hit. Until the alarm went off and you were surrounded and grabbed by a bunch of guards that took you to an isolation cell.

Next day, you were being transferred to a prison thousands of kilometers away from him. You didn't even know where they were going to take you. But you didn't care either. At this point, you didn't really care about anything.

When you arrived to your new home it was snowing and you were freezing. As you were approaching, the driver gave you a brief explanation of how weather and life were like in that prison. You didn't see yourself living in a place where it was always cold and raining —or snowing, that day specifically—, let alone for more than twenty years and between all those freaks.

Your time in that last prison had been cut short barely a month after you got in. You rejected every chance you were given to call your family or whoever close to you, and you didn't receive a single visit. Not like you had anyone close to you either. The only one that had once been was now gone.

You spent your first day in prison like it had been your forever home. The next day, though, everyone knew who you were and started looking at you as if you were their next prey. Or more as if they knew why you were there. Luckily for you, no one approached more than necessary. And luckily for you, you didn't really have to approach anyone at all, since you didn't even have a cellmate.

A week in, though, a group of inmates paid you a visit while you were reading in your cell. One of them looked outside to make sure there was no one dangerously nearby, then closed the door. The man at the front stood still, looking at you and scanning the room. Then, he sat next to you on the bed. You immediately sat up by instinct and scanned them all as well. There was three of them —four counting the on sitting next to you. You really didn't have much of a chance if you wanted to suddenly run away, but you could knock out their boss and one of them if you were fast enough.

"I know who you are", said the one on your side.

"Before you continue, you should know the last person who told me I was small didn't end very well", you spoke fast, looking at him in the eyes with an expressionless demeanor, showing you weren't weak and that you were going to stand your ground.

"Oh, I know that, too", he smiled. "That's why you were transferred here, right?".

You sighed. The situation was starting to be a bit too cliché and boring for your liking.

"What do you want?", you didn't take your eyes off of his.

"Nothing", he raised his eyebrows. "Yet".

Of course, you thought, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

"So?", you crossed your arms. The man beside you stayed silent for a while.

"Do people around here know what you really are?".

Your demeanor immediately changed, shifting from an expressionless one to a scared one. You knew what he was talking about. 

But how the hell did he know?

"Who the fuck are you?", you found yourself suddenly lacking of oxygen. He just smiled.

"I'll come to you when I need a favor", he got up and walked to the door, then knocked. The man behind it opened it. "In the meantime, try not to get in much trouble".

And just like he had walked in, he also walked out. You gasped for air the very second you were left alone. 

Great, one week in that prison and you had somehow already fucked up. 

"Hey", another man was standing by the door now. He wasn't one of the other guy's men. "You good?", he looked around the room as if he was searching for something.

"Uh... Yeah", you frowned. "Why?".

"Those assholes are always up to somethin', wouldn't be a surprise if they were tryna get you in", he put his hands in his pockets and leaned his side on the doorframe.

"Do you want something?", you sounded a bit annoyed.

"No. I, uh, was jus' checkin' you weren't hurt".

"Well, I'm not. Thanks", you forced a brief smile. "You can leave now".

"Right", he pulled away from the door. "Sorry for botherin' ya".

When he was out of sight, you breathed again.

You took some time to think. Maybe if you did what the guy had told you to, you'd be out of trouble. By the moment, the best for you was to stay out of trouble. He had said not to, perhaps so that cops around wouldn't keep much of an eye on you in case he was going to ask you for a favor —you'd be out of suspicion.

You sighed. You knew you were fucked. But maybe you could keep yourself from making it worse.

"Why?", you held up the gun. "Why did you do it?", tears were streaming down your face.

"I had no choice".

"Why did you do this to me?!", you took a step back.

"I didn't know I'd get y—".

"Get the fuck away from me!!!".

And then you shot.

You sat at the back of the dining room. You were lucky to go down early so you could avoid the masses of inmates that fought over the last piece of bread. Unfortunately, the assholes were something you couldn't avoid. Especially the ones that came to you that morning.

"Well, hello", he sat beside you once again, followed by his men.

"What?", your tone was stern, though your face gave away your concern of what he might say. He didn't say anything at first and grabbed the bread from your tray. "That's mine", you spat.

"Not anymore", he looked into you eyes with as much sternness as your tone was holding at first. "I need you to do something for me", he smiled.

Shit, was your only thought.

"What?".

"But I need to know I can trust you before I give you a task".

"No. You tell me what you want me to do and I'll decide if I do it—".

"I think you don't understand how this works", he moved closer. "I tell you to do something, and you just do it. You don't do it, I tell everyone about you. You fuck it up, I tell everyone about you. You tell the cops, I tell everyone about you", he stared into your eyes. "Are we clear?".

You didn't say anything. You didn't want to make him think you were one to submit easily, but you didn't have any other choice either. Luckily for you, he wasn't looking to humiliate you and just let it be.

"A friend of mine's gonna leave some stuff by your cell one of these days", he pulled slightly away. "I need you to hide it and save it until I come get it".

You put on your usual expressionless demeanor.

"Okay", was your answer. He smiled.

"That's more like it", he patted your shoulder and got up. "Good thing we're on the same page".

And like that, he just walked away again.

You looked around, searching for anyone that might have seen you. Everyone else seemed to be minding their own business, except for the man that had gone check on you the first time that group of inmates had gone talk to you. He was staring at you with a knowing look from a couple tables away. You saw him well this time: he was wearing a cap and his moustache barely hid half of his upper lip. He got up with his tray before you could scan him any longer, then walked up to you and sat by your table.

"What did he say this time?", he asked.

"Hello to you, too", you rolled your eyes and went back to eating. "Why do you care so much anyway?".

"Because the last people I saw him approach to didn't end well".

"Well, define not well", you said with your mouth full.

"Beaten up by cops. By himself. Ended in the hospital", he paused to think. "Dead".

You stopped chewing for a moment, then continued.

"And why me?", you swallowed. "There's a lot of people in here, at least one of them all's gotta be in some shit with those guys".

" 'Course they do, but most of 'em want the reward he gives 'em", he took a bite of his own food. "You didn't seem to".

"Yeah, well, I guess he ran outta rewards because he didn't offer me one", you raised your eyebrows while looking down at your plate, having another bite.

"Then why did you accept to do his dirty work?".

"I didn't ac—".

"I saw him gettin' outta here with your bread n' all smiley, you must've said somethin' he liked".

You stopped eating and slammed your hands on the table.

"Look, man. Whatever I do or not is none of your goddamn business, so I suggest you start minding your own shit unless you wanna end beaten up like the last person that fucked around with me", you stared into his eyes, your own set on fire. He threw his hands up.

"A'right", he grabbed his tray and got up. "Sorry for b—".

"Bothering me, yeah, sure, you can go", you shooed him. He knew better than to keep insisting, so he walked away.

You went back to your cell as soon as you were done eating. Damn, you did miss the bread. But to be honest, it wasn't really something you were concerned about. What really worried you at that moment was which kind of stuff was that bastard's friend going to make you hide and what would happen to you in case you were caught in a room inspection.

You hoped nothing too bad.

It was done. You had done it. It was over.

You stood there, looking at the body laying on the floor in a puddle of blood.

Then you heard police sirens.

"Drop your gun!", they broke the door open. They held their gun up. You held yours on the side of your head.

"Get back!", you screamed.

"Drop your gun and get on the floor!", they kept saying.

You saw no better way out of it. So you shot once again.

A knock on your door woke you up. You hit your forehead with the metal bars under the bunk bed when you jumped, startled. You cursed yourself and rubbed the hurt spot on your forehead before getting up.

No words were shared between you and the man at the other side of the door. He just lent you a small paper bag. You hesitantly grabbed it, then he walked away.

You went back inside. You sat on your bed, asking yourself if you should open the bag or not. To be honest, it wasn't really closed, so the others wouldn't really know if you had looked inside. It's not like he had said you couldn't look. Technically, you were doing nothing wrong—

"What did he give you?".

You hit your head again with the bars.

"Dude, what the fuck!", you rubbed the top of your head. You turned to look at the door, finding the same guy that had sat with you on the dining room more than a week ago. "Oh, it's you", you huffed. "Didn't I tell you to leave me the fuck alone?".

"I know", he walked inside. "But seriously, you need some help with that guy".

"Of course, I do", you smiled sarcastically. "Out of the two times he's talked to me, I haven't been beaten up, I'm not in the hospital and I'm not dead!", you threw your hands up. "I didn't even get in trouble with any cops because of him! Of course I need help with that guy!".

The man stayed silent as you gave him your most sarcastic smile. Then you shifted back to you usual expressionlessness.

"Why do you think I need help?", you shrugged angrily. "Is it because I'm not big and buffed like the dogs he carries around with him?".

"That's not wha—".

"You think I'm weak? Is that it?", you stood up to face him. "Well, lemme tell you something, old man. This is not my first prison, and I've been surviving on my own long enough as to be able to beat the shit out of everyone in this place if I wanted to", you stared into his eyes with your brow deeply frowned.

"I didn't mean that", he spoke slowly, definitely more calmed than you. His eyes flicked down for a moment before looking back into yours. "I jus' thought that, in case he wants to fuck you up real bad, you'd be better with someone by your side".

You cleared your throat and stepped back, looking up at him.

"Someone by my side, huh?", you resisted the urge to laugh. "Because I can't handle myself well enough?".

"I already told you I didn't mean—".

"I know", you chuckled this time. "I'm just fucking with ya", you sat back on the bed. "I understand that you feel alone in here and want a friend. And who better than the new inmate, right?", you gave him a knowing smirk. He couldn't help but smile back.

"Shit, you caught me", he sat beside you as well. "I feel so lonely in this prison", he chuckled. "I'm Francisco, by the way".

"Francisco? What kind of name is that?", you bursted into laughter. 

"Jus' call me Frankie, goddammit. No need to make a big fuss 'bout it", his mumbling made you laugh more.

"Yeah, Frankie's a definitely better name".

You spent a couple minutes like that, just laughing at the stupidity of it all. Truth be told, you hadn't laughed that hard in months. And you needed it.

"So", he said after a while. "What's in the bag?".

"I don't know", you looked down at the paper bag in your lap. "A guy just came and gave it to me".

"D'you wanna open it?", he looked at you with hooded eyes.

"I don't know", you took a deep breath. "I don't think I should, but they didn't tell me not to".

"Are you seriously gonna do what he says?".

"What else am I supposed to do? He's gonna fuck me up real bad if I don't", you let out a deep sigh. "I'll find a way out of it".

"What'd he threaten you with?".

Your blood ran cold at his question. You could tell how your face went pale, and your knees would have failed to keep you steady if you weren't seating.

"I'll take care of that", you said, looking at the ground. "I'll just do whatever he wants me to and stay outta trouble for as long as I can", you opened the paper bag, pulling a small disposable phone. "Huh", you put it back were it was. "What a little shit", you mumbled.

"It's a phone now, but what if it turns into somethin' else?", Frankie got up, still looking down at you. "You have to stand up to him—".

"I said I'll take care of that", you stood up to face him once again. "Whatever he does to me, it's my problem, not yours", you stared into his eyes. "I understand you're concerned, and I appreciate it, but you can't be behind my ass all day long. I'm not a kid, I can take care of myself".

Frankie stayed silent for a minute, processing your words. Then he cleared his throat and spoke again:

"Right", he nodded once. "I'm sorry, you're right".

"Right", you nodded, too. "Glad we're on the same page", you let out a heavy sigh. "Oof, sorry. I get pretty carried away when I'm angry".

"Yeah, I can see that", he chuckled. You laughed back.

"Welp", you took the paper bag with the phone and threw it into your pillowcase. "I better not use this thing before that asshole comes looking for it".

"Yeah, you better not".

You could tell he was uncomfortable now. He didn't now what else to say. You knew you usually did that to people who tended to assume you were as weak as your body showed. That was actually one of the reasons why you had learned to survive using violence most of the time, and probably the main cause of your anger problems. 

Before you could speak any apologies to him, you heard the walls and doors being hit outside, followed by cops shouting.

"Lights out! Everyone get to sleep!".

You looked at Frankie with a regretful expression. You felt bad for having caused him to be so taken aback and awkward.

"I better get goin'. Cops won't see me in my cell, might be suspicious", he said.

"Yeah", you nodded. "I'll... see you around".

"Sure", he walked out. "See ya".

Fuck, you cursed yourself.

Perfect. The first friend you made in prison ever and you screwed up your first non-violent chat. You could swear you had never felt so bad for taking your anger out on someone else.

Wait.

You had never felt bad for taking your anger out on someone else. That was actually what you were the best at.

Frankie was a good man. You somehow knew it. And you somehow knew he didn't deserve to suffer your anger problems as well. You had started off on the wrong foot, you also knew that well. Maybe the first thing you should do to try and fix it was apologizing. For treating him that bad the first times you talked, for taking your frustration out on him, for showing him the you no one like him should meet—

"Hey", a cop outside your door startled you. "Lights out and get on the goddamn bed".

"Yessir", you turned off the lights and laid on your bed as the cop closed your door and walked away.

You sighed, trying to close your eyes while thinking of what you would say to Frankie when you saw him next morning.

A beeping sound woke you up. You eyes opened in a sudden move and you looked around, confused, despaired.

Two cops were sitting beside your hospital bed, not seeming to have noticed you awake. 

Suddenly, everything came back and your memories hit you like a truck.

Your unsteady and heavy breathing alerted the cops. They both stood up and got on both sides of your bed. You tried to get up, a stinging pain in your stomach keeping you laid down. You lifted the hem of your shirt to see it covered by a large gauze, a little bloodied.

Your mind was dizzy as the cops told you about your current medical condition, and about the twenty-five years you were going to spend in prison for murder and trying to commit suicide afterwards.

At least you had gotten rid of your worst nightmare.

"Hey", you sat next to Frankie in the dining room. He smiled at you.

"Hey", he made room for you to sit more comfortably. "You get some sleep?".

"Yeah", you forced a smile. "Kinda", you cleared your throat. "I, uh... Sorry for how I acted yesterday. I didn't have the right to talk to you like that".

"It's fine. I'm like that sometimes, too", he shrugged it off. 

"No, I mean it. I shouldn't have—".

"Hey. It's okay, really", he stared into your eyes. "I understand you have... difficulties managin' your feelings, and it's alright", you saw the beginning of a smirk forming on his lips. "I've seen more o' those around here and they don't deal with it as well as you do".

His chuckle made you laugh back.

"Whatever, old man".

You spent the day talking to Frankie, walking around with him, getting to know him. Turns out you were right: he was a good man. And maybe he was a bit too sweet to be in a place like a prison, but he seemed to be doing well. You somehow knew he wouldn't have trouble if he suddenly got into a fight. 

The next few weeks went just like that. You stuck to Frankie, and Frankie stuck to you. You found in him the first person to be close to you in a long time. You found a friend in him. He didn't judge you, didn't treat you like the rest of people in you life had. It's not like he knew either, but you really didn't need him to know. There were already enough people in that prison that knew. 

Perhaps too many, you thought one of the times you thought about telling Frankie.

So you just accepted the fact that he would probably be your only friend in that prison, and maybe for the rest of your life. Maybe you didn't even have to tell him about—

"Well well well", a pair of hands fell on your shoulders as you picked up your freshly washed clothes. "Look who's alone today, huh?".

"The fuck do you want?", you turned around. There was that asshole again.

"You seem to be nice friends with that cap guy, huh?", he gave you a sarcastic smile. "What did you tell him 'bout us?", his expression shifted very quickly to one of pure anger.

"I didn't tell hi—".

"Bullshit!", he grabbed you by the neck of your shirt and pushed you against the wall. "What did you tell him? You asked for help, huh? Like the pretty little bi—".

You punched him right on the face before he even had the chance of finishing the sentence. He let you go and pulled away to recover, touching his now bloodied nose. The men behind him took a step forward, but he signaled them to stay back. And he just laughed.

"I. Told him. Nothing", you repeated. The guy in front of you sniffed and chuckled again.

"Wow", he stood up. "You have guts, gotta admit it", he fixed his nose. "Maybe I did cross a line there. I'm sorry", he shrugged. "Be careful, though. Next time, my dogs won't be as merciful", he looked back at them and nodded. Then he approached you. "You better not tell that fucker anything of our agreement. Wouldn't want the whole prison —including him— knowing what you really are, huh?".

You didn't say a word, but your silence was enough answer for him.

"Good", he cleaned the blood off his nose. "See ya around, little one".

Once again, he walked away.

Part of you felt relieved because you hadn't gotten yourself nor Frankie into trouble. Part of you still cursed yourself for being so fucked up.

That is how you survived your first year in that prison: doing favors to those pieces of shit and sticking to Frankie. You had learned a lot about him —what he used to do before ending up in prison, how he got there, the reason why he didn't get any visits...

You also told him all of that. What you used to do before ending up in prison, the reason why you didn't get any visits... You might have lied a bit when you told him how you got there, but he seemed not to notice —or at least not to mind that you did. Maybe he wanted to give you some space, and he understood that your situation was complicated. Whatever it was, you thanked him in your mind for not asking any more questions about it.

You became closer to him that you ever planned on. He talked to you every day, seemed to be the only one to care about you in that shitty place, made sure you were doing okay even with the assholes behind you. He even seemed not to want to let you go too far away from him, except when necessary. And even if you hated to admit it, being around him —or well, having him around you— made you feel safer than if you were by yourself. You and him both knew you weren't with him for protection —you could take care of that yourself. But he still made you feel protected, but not weak. And you didn't want to admit it, but you knew you had felt that before.

And it really, really scared you.

Of course, you kept having your disagreements with the group. Many disagreements. But you managed to keep it cool so that they would leave you and Frankie alone, which they surprisingly did. And you didn't get caught by the cops around either, which was also a surprise, but you wouldn't complain. Not when you had managed to keep you and Frankie out of trouble.

Yep, I've fallen so hard, you said to yourself one day. You were scared to admit it, but you weren't doing to lie to yourself about something you already knew.

"Well, hello", you turned around to see him standing behind you on the shower stall, scanning you up and down. You quickly wrapped your towel around your body and started getting dressed, trying to let him see as little as possible.

"What do you want?", you made sure to sound upset this time.

"You got what I was waiting for?", he sat at the bench outside the showers. You grabbed a small bag with herb from inside your pants and tossed it at him. He put it in his pocket. "Good".

He stood there, watching you, but he didn't say anything else. You frowned, trying to decrypt his expression. It wasn't the one he usually had. He seemed to be eyeing you with pity, but had at the same time he had a knowing look.

"Want anything else?", you crossed your arms and leaned on the lockers. He kept his pitiful, knowing look displayed on his eyes.

"Yeah", he looked down for a moment. "I wanted to talk to you about something. It's not about me this time, promise", he moved to the side of the bench and patted the spot next to him so you would sit. You reluctantly did. "You see...", he cleared his throat. "There's one of my dogs that... Well, actually a couple of 'em... that know about your... physical condition", he stared into his eyes.

Your heart started beating quickly, anger cursing through your veins.

"Some of them have been in here for a quite some time now, and... Well, they haven't had fun in a while, and since you're doing me some favors, I thought you wouldn't have trouble doing some to the—".

Your fist crashed against his face, this time harder than the last time you had punched him. Your other fist did, too. One, two, three, four times, you lost count.

"You think I'm some slut you can sell?! Huh?! That's what you like?! Fucking little boys like me?!", you spat on his face, hitting it again and again. "You fucking pervert, son of a bitch, piece of—!".

Now it was his fist what impacted on your face.

You fell to the floor with a heavy thud. He got on top of you, just like you had done with him, and started punching your face again and again and again.

Eventually, you lost conscience of your surroundings. Probably one of his blows hit you somewhere in the brain and left you dizzy. You could just feel more pain in your face and head, even though you couldn't even lift your arms or legs to try and defend yourself. The only thing you got to hear before you fell completely unconscious was how someone pulled him away from you and grabbed you to take you somewhere.

Frankie got there just in time before he punched all the teeth out of your mouth. He pulled him back and hit his head against one of the lockers, leaving him unconscious as well. Then he grabbed you and took you to the infirmary.

He was in his cell with his cellmate —who he usually didn't pay much attention to— when some guy came to tell them some shit about you. 

The truth about you.

Frankie didn't want to believe it at first. He couldn't. But the more he thought about it, more sense it made to him. Aside from your short frame and your beautiful little face —focus, Frankie, this ain't about that—, your explosive personality and your obsession over you being too weak or small kind of gave it away. It actually made sense. It was true.

He went that same day —after the night of your encounter with that fucker— to check on you to the infirmary. He wanted to know how were you doing, and he wanted to hear from you the truth of all the scene those guys were making over you. He was told you weren't conscious yet, but he stayed nonetheless —grabbed a chair and sat beside your bed.

He had been watching you ever since you got in that prison. And when the group got inside your cell that day, his suspicions about you were confirmed. You were exactly what they needed. Why would a little man like you make the cops think you were dangerous? Simple, you weren't. That's why they picked you out of everyone.

You were right thinking Frankie wanted to protect you from them. Not because you were small —he was sure you could defend yourself just right— but because he needed to, because his heart told him it was the right thing to do. That's why he insisted on approaching you as well.

He knew you were going to be close friends the moment you apologized for talking to him in such a rude way. And he knew he liked you too much for his own good. But honestly, he didn't care. The need to protect you made him not care at all. It actually just made him embrace his feelings more. It never really bothered him to be attracted to someone. He knew he was a bit of a lovestruck guy, and whenever he knew he liked someone he didn't hesitate to admit it —unlike you. 

He told you what he used to do before ending up in prison, what he did to end up in there, the reason why he didn't get any visits... He wouldn't usually tell someone that, but it was different with you. He had the feeling that you understood him, that you could empathize with him and wouldn't judge him for just anything. On the other hand, he knew you were lying to him about why you ended up in prison and why you didn't really have any friends —in or out. But he knew it wasn't easy for you —he had already seen how difficult it was for you to keep your feelings controlled, so he didn't want to push things unnecessarily further. He wanted to give you your space, since he knew he had already kind of taken that from you the moment he insisted on continuing to talk with you.

Or at least he wanted to, until he saw that asshole beating the shit out of you in the shower stalls.

Frankie got there just in time before he punched all the teeth out of your mouth. He pulled him back and hit his head against one of the lockers, leaving him unconscious as well. Then he grabbed you and took you to the infirmary. He stayed there long enough to hear them say you were going to take some time until you were fully recovered, and that you would probably be unconscious for a couple days. He also heard them mention the other guy was better than you, that his time in bed would be briefer than yours.

A cop came to them both and asked them about what had happened. Frankie could only say that he had seen that asshole already beating you when he arrived. The cop could only say he would have to do extra work for a week as a punishment for leaving the other guy unconscious, but at least he understood Frankie just wanted to protect you.

"You did good", he said to him.

Then he went to talk to the other guy. And Frankie could only fist his hands and hope no to break anything.

"I was asking him to help me with something in the shower and he just started punching me!", was what he said.

"What about the wounds on his face?".

"Well, I had to protect myself!".

"Sure", the cop wrote something on a paper, then stood up. "As soon as you're out of bed, you're being transferred to the next block".

A smile formed on Frankie's lips as the guy shouted complaints at the cop. Still, he knew you weren't safe. Not yet. Not even with him away. And he knew his dogs were everywhere —this block, the next, the prison some kilometers away from that one...

But he would still try to keep you out of danger.

The next day, he was in his cell with his cellmate—who he usually didn't pay much attention to— when some guy came to tell them some shit about you. 

The truth about you.

Frankie didn't want to believe it at first. He couldn't. But the more he thought about it, more sense it made to him. Aside from your short frame and your beautiful little face —focus, Frankie, this ain't about that—, your explosive personality and your obsession over you being too weak or small kind of gave it away. It actually made sense. It was true.

He went that same day —after the night of your encounter with that fucker— to check on you to the infirmary. He wanted to know how were you doing, and he wanted to hear from you the truth of all the scene those guys were making over you. He was told you weren't conscious yet, but he stayed nonetheless —grabbed a chair and sat beside your bed.

He grabbed your hand softly in his, examining your broken knuckles and bloodied skin. He should have known better than to leave you alone like that in the shower stalls. He should have been with you. He should have protected you, like he had told himself he would. 

"I'm sorry", he whispered.

Distant voices woke you up. A female one and two males. You couldn't make out what they were saying, but you didn't need to. You remembered everything pretty well.

You tried to stretch yourself, despite the way your face was hurting terribly. Still, you couldn't move one of your arms. Your hand was being held by another.

You opened your eyes and saw Frankie sitting beside you, his hand holding yours even with his eyes closed. As soon as he felt you move, he opened them and sat up, staring into your eyes.

"Oh god", he breathed out. A smile played on his lips as he examined you. "You okay?".

His question made you laugh.

"Well, I've been better", you smiled at him. "But I'll survive", you looked around. "How long have I been...?".

"Four days. Well, three and a half", he swiped his thumb over the back of your hand, you figured involuntarily. "They've been taking good care of you".

"I bet...", you looked down at his hand on yours. Frankie pulled away as soon as he saw you do it.

"Sorry—".

"No, it's okay", you were the one to grab his hand this time. "I don't mind...", you whispered that last part. Frankie tried to hold back his own smile. Then something he remembered made it go away as soon as it had come. "What?", you stared into his eyes. He kept swiping his thumb small soothing circles on the back of your hand.

"Will you tell me—", he paused to breathe; "What's the deal with you?".

"What do you mean—".

"I know you lied to me, Lost", he tried to keep it cool, but his eyes gave away how mad he was at you for not having told him the truth and having gotten in so much trouble because of it. "I... I already know... a bit of it, but—".

You turned around to try and find the asshole that had shattered your face, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"They moved him a block away from here", he answered even before you could ask. "He still had the chance to spread the rumor, though". 

"Shit", you whispered to yourself. You looked down, biting your downer lip and trying to stop your own tears from coming out, trying to ignore the stinging pain in your face.

"Hey", he grabbed your chin softly, careful not to hurt you more than you already were, and made you look at him. "Tell me what's wrong", he spoke slowly. "Whatever it is, I don't care. It'll still be you no matter what", he caught a tear halfway down your face, his skin grazing lightly against yours. You took a deep breath.

"A... couple years ago... I had someone really close to me", you sniffed. "I... He got me... pregnant... And...", you dried off your tears. "I didn't want... I couldn't..." you took a shaky deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "He also tried to... run away...", you tried to swallow the lump in your throat. "He was into drugs... and was told to move... Without telling me...", you sighed in an attempt to ignore the way your breathing was starting to get heavy and your chest was starting to hurt. "I couldn't take it anymore", you sniffled again and looked away from Frankie, unable to maintain your eyes on his piercing look. "I shot him. And...", you lifted your shirt just enough to reveal a big scar that went across your stomach. "I shot the baby, too", your voice broke.

"Oh, Lost", he reached out to grab and hug you. "I'm so sorry", he rubbed your back, trying to calm you down a little. You held tight onto him, squeezing him as close to you as you could.

He kept you in his arms for a while as you cried out your grief. Everything made more sense after you told him the truth. He finally felt like he understood you, really understood you and your feelings. And he finally felt like his feelings were resolved, just like yours.

He had to leave when some cops came to interrogate you about what had happened in the shower stalls a few days ago, but he promised to come back to see you that night. In the meantime, you answered the cops' questions and tried to rest as well as your pain allowed you to.

You got out of bed a week after that. The first thing you did was hug Frankie, since he was waiting outside the infirmary. He took you to your cell, staying by your side and not walking more than two steps away from you. Everyone was looking at you either with a weirded out expression or with hungry eyes. As soon as you noticed, you got even closer to Frankie.

That was the moment you gave up on trying not to look small or weak. Every single man on that prison was now trying to fuck you or fuck you up. Damn, you had never felt so vulnerable.

Good thing I have my brick wall over here, you thought.

Frankie could see the looks the other inmates gave you, and the ones you gave them. If he felt like he had to protect you before, now he felt even more responsible —especially since he had let that motherfucker beat you like that. He felt guilty, and even though you tried to tell him it wasn't his fault he couldn't get that thought out of his mind.

"Look at me", you grabbed his jaw, making him look at you, just like he had down a week before when you were still in that bed in the infirmary —though this time you were in your bed. "It wasn't your fault. I told you it was my problem and that I'd deal with it, and so I did".

"I know", he stared into your eyes. "But if I had done something, if I had gone talk to him or—".

"You couldn't, Frankie", you tightened your grip on his jaw. "Look, he had threatened to tell everyone if he found out I told you anything. It would've happened sooner or later, I just exploded when he asked me to do that with he and his men", you let go of him. "Think about it this way —if you hadn't come just in time to stop him from beating me to death, I wouldn't be here right now", you patted his thigh. "So you saved me anyway. And I also got you to keep me away from those creeps", you both laughed at that.

"I guess you're right", he sighed. "Still sorry".

"Didn't I just tell you not to be?", you crossed your arms and stared into his eyes with a frown. He couldn't help the smile that crept on his lips.

"But I still am", he crossed his arms as well. "What, am I not allowed to be?".

"Not if I tell you not to be".

"Ooh, getting bossy", he chuckled. "I like that".

"Okay, now you're acting like one of those freaks out there".

"Come on, y'know I'm not like—".

"Shut up, old man".

You grabbed his face and pulled him in for a kiss. A slow, passionate, nice kiss. Frankie stayed still for a moment before replying with just as much passion. You then pulled away to look into his eyes. You were both smiling.

"Wow", he whispered. "Didn't think you'd take the lead".

"Well, someone had to, and you didn't seem to be going to, so...", you grabbed his hand. "I couldn't bear the sexual tension anymore".

"Oh, sexual tension?", he rolled on top of you. "We can fix that...".

"No! Gross! Get away!", you laughed and pulled him off of you.

"Why?" he approached again, leaning down to leave a trail of small kisses down your neck. "I wanna...".

"Frankie, no", you pulled him off again, this time with a serious look on your face. Frankie's smirk was immediately deleted when he saw you, and seemed to be asking for an explanation. "I... I can't", you looked down. "Not like this, I'm... not ready", you cleared your throat before looking back up at him.

"M'kay", he grabbed your hand once more. "We won't do anythin' you don't wanna".

You smiled at him, thankful. He understood that you needed space and you weren't ready yet to show him that part of you. And he would respect you and your decision not to. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable, make you push him away from you. So he put it back in his pants and gave you a comforting smile.

He stuck with you all the time, by your side, not daring to leave you alone. Whenever some guy would look at you with a weird face, he gave him a warning look —or push him away from you both. He didn't let anyone other than the cops get close to you, which you thanked him for in multiple occasions. For once in a long, long time, you weren't afraid of being too small or weak. You weren't worried about your looks anymore. You weren't worried about anything with Frankie beside you. He was your only reason to want to keep going despite being in a place such as that damned prison. The only reason why you wanted to keep going at all.

The only reason why you preferred spending twenty years in prison before being back out in that shitty world.

[shattersstar]

Bestie it is me, the anon from a couple of days ago, many mutual kisses for my favorite tumblr writer!!! I am a teensy weensy (read: very much) cross faded and was wondering if you would be willing to write just a little thing with the “desperate kiss in the rain” prompt from the list featuring Jason Todd or Adrian Tepes? I feel the need to be In My Feelings about fictional romance lmao

ghost of love

pairing: jason todd x reader

prompt: a desperate kiss in the rain

a/n: wrote this stoned lmaoo so twins <3 and thank u for the request ur so kinddd im actually p happy with this so here goes my first fic of 2023 besties. feedback is always appreciated!!!

—

Ghost of love bound unto your name

So it be running through my veins

Yesterday I fell out of grace

I made you feel bad again

I wanted all your reasons explained

Guess I wanted too much

Guess I wanted too much

—

Spring had made its way to Gotham, snow melting into slush and flooding the streets as the days grew longer and the winter chill started to recede. It crept into the past as singing birds and allergies were to come. It was supposed to be a time of happiness, of excitement for warmth before the general population complained about the heat plaguing the city in a few months time. But Jason watched the rain that had cleansed the city for a week already with certain disdain.

His apartment was silent save the rain’s ambiance—it hadn’t been this quiet in ages. Hadn’t been so hollow and empty since you came into his life. A presence to warm the space even when you sat in silence scrolling through your phone. Or when you cooked and hummed to yourself or when you took phone calls in his bedroom and didn’t think he could hear you sing his praises. It should’ve made his heart swell, flattered by your adoration of him, and yet it made Jason anxious. Nausea flowering in his throat at the sounds of your lies on his behalf, covering up the life he lead all while admitting how deeply you felt for him. He had heard that phone call so many times, a quick tangent usually, but it stuck with him nonetheless.

It was those moments—sweet and tender—he turned into something dark, twisted. The way you unabashedly reached for his hand at the grocery store, or called his name in a room full of people felt…wrong. You weren’t supposed to be like this with him, no one was. Jason didn’t deserve such kind words and outward gestures of love, and you didn’t deserve to be trapped with him. Stuck in something that could never really be anything. You were too good for Gotham and for him. He had always known it, tried to ignore it and just dwell in the bliss that came from being with you, but his guilt was stronger. More consuming than the feelings he had for you. It made breaking your heart painful, but a necessity.

He wasn’t yours to love, to have. He had said those words to you, “I’m not for you to love, or to be with. I’m sorry, but I can’t keep playing house anymore. This isn’t my life. You aren’t.”

His voice was cold, empty as he spoke. You couldn’t hide the hurt in your eyes, tears threatening to spill. “Then go.” It was all you were able to muster, standing in your apartment as he let himself out without another word.

He wanted to add it was because he loved you, but it felt cruel. He had to remind himself he wasn’t yours to love. Jason wasn’t for anyone.

And he believed his words, for weeks on end he told himself over and over again that he made the right decision. Threw himself into work and tried to burn you from his memory with violence and power. Jason ignored what headlines you might see—what you might think of him. He had never let himself care before, you told him what he did with that life was not for you to be apart of if he choose to keep you separate. You said it casually, with a shrug like Jason was supposed to know. Know that respect and privacy he could never ask from someone was being offered freely.

Jason supposed you’d keep your word, keep your distance from the bloody and chaotic side of his life despite him leaving you. You were good like that, honest and uncompromising when you needed to be. It made him smile despite the torrential downpour, knowing there was something good still in Gotham. Something—someone worth fighting for.

Yet, as something akin to peace washed over Jason, fate played its hand and it sent him reeling. A notification lit up his phone sitting on the kitchen table. It drew his attention away from the window he had been staring out of for a while, compelling him across the room and to read the two words that broke his heart.

I’m moving. A message you sent a minute ago, two words hanging in the ether that left Jason short of breath. He had already lost you, but this was like sand slipping through his fingers all while a tsunami rushed the shore. It made his stomach knot and guilt trickled into his chest like a steady stream. You couldn’t leave the city you had made a life in because of him. Because of the pain he caused you—no that grief, that guilt, would swallow him whole. Devour him till he was nothing, but bone to burn to ash one day.

Jason was out of his apartment in record time, not dawned in his suit, but enough tactical wear to hop across rainy rooftops safely. He ignored the chill of the rain that drenched him in mere minutes, he slicked his wet hair back and regretted his leather jacket as he landed an apartment over from yours. He huffed out a few breaths, calves flexing and whining from the amount of work he just put them through to get here. Jason steadied his breathing as best he could, grappling over the alleyway and to his surprise, landing right behind you. You were next to a small pigeon coop someone kept on the roof, the stretching piece of plywood was a makeshift roof you just fit under. You had a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the bottom corner wet with rain water likely from the puddles on the roof.

He let out a sigh that caught your attention. You glanced over your shoulder before your face fell. Your phone was still in your hands and Jason wondered if you texted him because you were up here. Staring out into the city and thinking of him as he was you. “You’re moving.” He found himself saying, more accusatory than he intended, but he couldn’t help himself. Not when desperation wafted off of him in waves.

“Yeah, I just…can’t with this city anymore.” You turned fully, you had never looked so small before. So withered and tired. You look like you had been crying recently and Jason’s resolved weakened. He assured himself that cutting you out of his life was right, to save you pain in the long run, but the pain you wore so clearly now was a gut punch. It was wrenching and Jason didn’t know what to say to fix anything.

“When?” He asked instead.

“Not sure, Im gonna stay with a friend in another city for a bit before I figure everything out. Think I have someone to take over my lease so…” The idea of someone else living here made his head spin. This space was an extension of you—he could see your interest in what you hung up on your walls, your love in the plants littered around the space, your happiness in the smell of food mixing with the candles you burned and even your old grumpy cat belonged to this space as much as you did. It was one of the only places in Gotham Jason could…breathe. Think or not think and he was losing that and you—

“No.” He gritted through his teeth.

“No?” That wasn’t meant for your ears, he was trying to silence his own thoughts. He cursed to himself and turned away from you, rain soaking his face as his only then remembered it was pouring. “Maybe I shouldn’t have sent you that text…I think I knew you’d show up here—I’m sorr—“

“No.” This time it was for you, even if he still refused to face you, let you see the regret plain on his face. “I don’t want you to leave Gotham like this…not because of me.”

“I know, and I wish I could stay, but Jay its too hard. Being here and trying to move on is killing me.” You were calm, calmer than he anticipated. He wanted anger, he wanted you to throw his words in your face, scold him for showing up when he was the one that forced you away. And yet, you tried to apologize and were being honest with him.

“I wouldn’t ask you to stay, but I’m sorry for how I ended things. You don’t—didn’t—deserve any of this.” Jason was never one to admit his wrongs, but this was the end of something that meant everything to him once. He couldn’t let you go with resentment between you two. You let a beat of silence pass, eyes fallen to the ground between your bodies as you processed his words. Your brows pulled together and you took a step closer to him. You weren’t out in the rain yet, but stood close enough to the edge to make sure your words hit him clearly.

“What did you mean by that? Didn’t deserve…what? What we had before? Didn’t deserve a good relationship? Didn’t deserve to be happy? I know I don’t deserve how you’ve treated me since, like I never existed, but what didn’t I deserve before? You?” Your tone was jaded, it wasn’t angry, but hurt. It made the knot in his stomach twist, his heart wrenching at the thought of you undeserving of good things. It was all you deserved, it was all he wanted for you.

Jason whipped around as he spoke, breathless before the words even left his mouth, “You didn’t deserve to be in a barely real relationship. I can’t be the person you deserve to be with, I can’t offer that much of myself to you.”

Another beat, you hovered by the edge of the makeshift roof, before letting you blanket slip off your shoulders behind you. You stepped into the rain and took him in properly, soaked from head to toe, but Jason was still bathed beautifully in the moon and streetlights that barely touched buildings this high.

“I knew all of that, I knew it wouldn’t always be normal, but I accepted it Jay. I chose to look past the parts of your life you didn’t want to share, because I didn’t care. I still don’t. What we had was a real relationship Jason, to me at least, and I didn’t even think anything was wrong when you broke up with me. I thought it was actually great, for what we were working with.” You laughed at the end, watery, but your voice stayed strong. You meant what you said, Jason blindsided you more when he left you than with his Red Hood confession. His admittance to the double life he lead was a blow, but one you could digest. Jason leaving you? It was a grenade set off from within your ribcage that left no survivors. It was pain beyond grappling with the violence that surrounded the man you loved.

“But that isn’t fair to you. I can’t give you everything, but I know I’ll take everything you can give. You get half a person and—“

“I make that choice, not you. I’ll take half a person if its you. I’ve always known I’ll love you more, be able to give you more because I’m sharing you with a city hellbent on destroying itself. When you’re the only person I want to share anything with, of course you can have it all.” He was silent, staring into the dark skies and wondering what he did to deserve you. Had he suffered enough that it was finally time to enjoy the peace?

You put your hand on his arm, urging him to look. He let his eyes meet yours reluctantly as you sniffled. “I don’t need what you think is real Jason. I just need you.” Your voice was a soft plea, fingers tightening around his leather jacket. He stared down at you, so much ache in his chest for ever thinking life made more sense without you there. He wanted to apologize, again and again until his voice went hoarse. He wanted to fall into your arms and sleep for days after weeks of restless nights. He wanted to cook your favourite meals you always said never tasted as good when you did it. He wanted to forgive and be forgiven for all the hurt swirling between the two of you.

But all he could manage was a plea of his own, almost drowned out by the spring rain that washed away the cold weeks you both spent unbearably lonely, “Don’t leave Gotham.”

You nodded, “Don’t give me a reason too.”

The knot churning inside his stomach disappeared with your soft words, making him breathe out a laugh. It was surprised, relieved and everything you needed to hear. A smile broke over your face and the tears brimming in your eyes finally spilled over as you closed the distance between you two. Your hands rested on the lapels of his jacket. He let his cradle your jaw as the rain engulfed you both, foreheads pressing together as the moment overtook you two. It felt like a dream, like everything Jason wanted was suddenly in the palm of his hands and he couldn’t believe it. Believe he had let you go and somehow managed to get you back. He couldn’t decide what you deserved, but god he’d try be the person you needed him to be.

He wanted to say that, promise you he’ll try, but words failed him at times like this. Jason was all need, desperate for you to understand how much he loved you. All he could do was act, fingers tightening and tilting your head up before his mouth crashed into yours. It was hungry and pleading, begging and convincing you to stay with him forever. To know his love forever. You kissed him back with as much urgency as you could muster, just as desperate for his touch as he was yours. It was deprave how you both nearly crumbled when his teeth tasted your bottom lip. You hands had slid under his jacket, pulling you flush against him as your fingers fisted the dry fabric against his spine. He shuddered into you, pulling away with a heaving chest. You rested your chin on his sternum, blinking up at him with happy tears still overflowing. He brought this thumbs to the corners of your eyes, brushing them away before kissing you again.

His lips met yours slower this time, mending the harshness from his last kiss. It was just as needy, lips finding the corners of your mouth, cheeks and jaw before he found his way back to your mouth. Jason’s tongue swiped over your lips, one of his hands moved to cradle the curve of your skull, letting your head fall back as he left open mouthed kissed against yours. Your tongue slid over his and you wished you were in bed. Sat comfortably atop him and making out on some boring Tuesday afternoon. It was always those moments, those days when everyone else was consumed with jobs and school and life, where you and Jason flourished.

Or embracing on a rooftop, in the pouring rain, during the dead of night, while everyone slept.

It was moments where you fell into the corners of life, missed by the bustle of the city and enraptured by each other. It was all you ever needed from Jason, and he was ready to give.

—

Gonna stay humbled to this rock

Silently when I know that I belong

Tell me stay on the right track

You know I got faith and beliefs

In my life and just

I guess I wanted that much

Yesterday I fell out of grace

I made you feel bad again

I wanted all your reasons explained

Guess I wanted too much

Ghost of Love - Marie Fisker

[call-sign-shark]

Pop Goes the Rat || Modern Arthur Shelby x Reader

Summary:  When Arthur Shelby was discharged from the Special Air Service Forces due to his PTSD symptoms, his whole life fell apart. As his mental health declined, his wife divorced, and he became a drug addict. But recently Arthur is more than committed to getting his shit together. He even goes to drug anonymous meetings. If he manages to stay clean and get better, he will be reintegrated into his unit. And if he is, maybe Linda will come back.

That being said, you had never been part of the plan. And yet you're here, ready to wreck his life and rob his heart. Who are you? Where do you come from? How did you end up in the streets? No one knows. What they know though is that you call yourself "Rat".

Words: 2.5k

TW: Mention of drug use, otherwise it's kind of cute and funny. The vibes are grumpy veteran x unhinged punk girl.

Notes:

♠ Even though I tried to keep "Rat" as Y/N as possible, there are two physical traits described: she has blue and long hair.

♠ This is not supposed to be a series but I had to exorcize this idea. If some people are interested in the concept I might write a few blurbs or one-shots for Rat and Arthur!

MASTERLIST

“I see a new face here! Welcome dear. I am proud you joined us in today’s session. What’s your name?”

“Arthur.” He mumbled, feeling awkward.

“Hi Arthur.” The whole participants replied in unison.

Arthur nodded to greet them but remained silent during the whole meeting. At first he was convinced that going to these anonymous groups was nothing else than bullshit, but as people shared their experiences and struggles he had started to feel better. To the point a faint smile flattered his lips. When the chairman clapped in his hands to signal the end of the discussion, Arthur got up from his chair and grabbed the leash of the huge malinois that was sleeping at his combat boots. Hannibal was his military dog, a fierce animal who had accompanied him throughout his most dangerous missions. Most of the time, he was also his only friend. The dog woke up and stretched his body, yawning. Even though the meeting had been a positive experience Arthur did not feel to talk with the other addicts. All he wanted now was to go home, take a hot shower and try to sleep. He left the place to go grab his jacket in the cloakroom. That was when he first saw you, your hand in the pocket of his utility jacket, seeking for his wallet.

“Oi! The fook are ye doing?!”

You jumped, heart missing at least two beats. To be true, you did not know what scared you the most: the man’s hoarse voice or the dog barking at you? But despite getting caught, your survival instincts kicked in and you exited the house through the window with a surprising agility. Arthur did not really bother running after you, for you had left his wallet. Moreover, he did not want Hannibal to tear you apart.

“Bloody hell.” He said out lout, barely processing what he had just seen. Was the young woman and her long blue hair really there or had he imagine her?

The second time you met, Arthur had just got out from the 24/24 shop nearby and was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot. Whenever he could not sleep, the soldier opted for a night walk and a snack or a cigarette rather than staying at home with his crippling anxiety. Usually he would take Hannibal with him but tonight he wanted to be alone, for he felt at the verge of relapsing into his bad habits: he was torn apart between the need to buy cocaine and his will of staying clean.

“I can’t. Fuck, I can’t do that.” He whispered to himself as his throat tightened at the sole thought of snorting some snow. The need was too overwhelming to resist — just one line, it could not be that bad right? Just one line, he told himself. It was at the moment he had made up his mind about whether or not to get high that he saw a familiar face.

A young woman with blue hair rushed out of the shop, a few stolen goods pressed against her chest. Her two long braids were floating behind her as she ran past him like some kind of feral pixie. Arthur frowned as he recognized that naughty little thief from the drug addicts meeting. Maybe that was why he grabbed her by the arm and forced her to stop.

“What the —“ You exclaimed, almost stumbling because of the sudden stop. You flickered on your legs a little bit and turned around in one vivid movement, your heart racing as you realized a man was keeping you from escaping.

“Nice to see you again, thief girl.” Arthur said, one brow raised.

You blinked several times, not recognizing him at first, but when you did your eyes widened even more, “The fuck is wrong with you dude?! Leave me alone!”

“What did you steal this time, eh?!” He replied. As he did his lips stretched in a carnivorous smile that showcased his pointy fangs.

“It’s none of your business, fucker! Let me go! Lemme go or I’ll scream!”

“You must be kidding m—“ Arthur could not finish his sentence for the shop holder hailed him. Truth be told, the man was fuming.

“Here you are stupid bitch!” He roared, one thick vein pumping on his forehead, “Thank you for catching her!” He said to him before shifting his attention back to you, “who’s laughing now? I’m going to call the fucking cops!”

“No, no, please, no.” You started to plead all the while pulling your arm in a desperate attempt to free yourself from the soldier’s grip but his strength outmatched yours. From then, everything happened really fast: first Arthur looked at your face and realized how young you were. Judging by your physical traits, you were in your start/mid twenties. The second detail he noticed was the pathetic content of your loot. Indeed, what you had stolen was literally a pack of menstrual tampons, a sandwich, a bag of chips and a bottle of water. Arthur clenched his jaws and his heart ached a little bit. Despite his violent outbursts he was far from being devoid of empathy. Somehow, it was quite the contrary.

“Listen lad, she’s me girlfriend. We had an argument and she’s a bit drunk. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. I’ll pay for what she took. “ Words left Arthur’s mouth before he could even fully understand what he just said.

The shop owner looked at him with surprise, his thick brows furrowed in confusion, “That crazy chick is your girl?” He asked, his eyes shifting from him to you several times in a row. When he finally looked at you longer, you awkwardly offered him your biggest toothy smile, “Erm yeah okay. It’s fifteen bucks, man. But next time I see her in my shop I’ll call the police. Got it?”

“Hm.” Arthur replied with a grunt and, with his free hand, he took fifteen pounds from his pocket and then handed them to the man. The latter took the bills and left without further ado, leaving the two of you all alone in the parking lot. Arthur, who was still firmly holding your arm, lost himself in his thoughts a few long seconds. That was your annoying voice that snapped him out of his bubble.

“Your girlfriend?” You exclaimed, outraged. With one quick movement you managed to break free from his grip. Wincing, you massaged your sore skin, “I’d rather kill myself”

“C’mon, I’ve saved your ass. The least ye could do is show some respect. Kids these days…” Arthur growled, his piercing blue eyes staring at you.

You replied by poking your tongue out — which properly astounded him. What a fucking brat, he thought, “you want me to thank you and repay you the favor? Spoiler at fucking eleven, I’ve got nothing to offer. And if you suggest me to suck your dick I’ll punch your bollocks off.”

Arthur opened his eyes wide, his sharp face adorned with an almost cartoon-like shock. God, you had a fierce spirit for such a small creature. Yet he had been in combat zones all over the world and met a wide sample group of people, “Bloody hell. Calm down, midget. Yer a kind of psychotic Smurfette or what? I wasn’t going to ask you these kind of things.”

“Oh? Erm. Really? Yeah, whatever,” Once the fury faded away from your pretty juvenile face, all was left was an indescribable adorable pout. Your eyes fled his.

“I’m serious. I wasn’t going to say that. No need to repay it. It’s only fifteen bucks.” A tint of amusement appeared in his blue irises as he observed your facial expression, similar to a kitten caught in the middle of doing something stupid. He slightly tilted his head to the side, observing your more in details. You were irresistibly cute for a little criminal, “the name’s Arthur Shelby by the way, eh.”

“Well, thank you Arthur Shelby.” You finally said a bit reluctantly before walking away. You had barely made a few steps when Arthur’s voice echoed behind you.

“Oi! Wait a minute!”

You did not. Quite the contrary, you ran away before the soldier’s steel blue eyes, who looked at your slim silhouette disappearing in the shadow of the night. All that remained from you was the soft sensation of your skin against his that was still tingling on his fingertips.

What you loved the most about spring was the fact you could sleep outside without freezing. Curled up on a bench lost in the midst of a parc, you tried to rest but Morpheus refused to bring you to his Kingdom. A little growl escaped from your lips as you wiggled, trying to find a comfortable position. But the wood was hard, and your backpack was an awful pillow substitute.

“Doesn’t seem comfy, eh.”

The gruff voice that just talked caused you to sit on the bench in one vivid movement, all your senses on alert just in case you needed to run away from a potential threat. Living in the streets was harsh enough for those who suffered from this life —but when you were a woman, the struggle became even worse. However, your muscles relaxed slightly when you saw Arthur’s face.

“You’re stalking me or what?”

“Fook off, kiddo,” He rolled his eyes, annoyed, then he made a quick head gesture toward his legs. When you looked down, you saw the gargantuan malinois sitting at his feet. Even though the brute did not move, his dark beady eyes were carefully observing you, “I always walk my dog here during the night.”

“That? A dog? Looks like a fur rocket. It barked at me.”

“Ye were trying to rob my wallet, eh.” He refreshed your mind.

“Whatever,” You sniffed and crossed your arms.

Silence fell above you. The only noise that could be heard was the light murmur of the leaves moving at the wind’s discretion. Arthur’s charming blue eyes looked at you a few long seconds as he thought about his next words. Contrary to Tommy, his little brother, he had never been skilled with them. He was too easily flustered and always ended up looking more stupid than anything else.

“I don’t even know your name. That’s what I wanted to ask you last week but you ran away.”

You looked at him, surprised.

“Rat.”

“Rat? Bloody hell, girl. Your parents really didn’t love you.”

“Hey! Fuck you!” You retorted, your eyes burning with a blazing annoyance, “ That’s what people call me! Not my real name.”

“Why do they call you rat? That’s… Fookin weird.” Arthur asked, taking a flat silver case out of the pocket of his cargo pants. Then, he slipped one cigarette between his teeth.

“Gimme one?” Your eyes shone at such a sight. You dreamt about a good smoke for days but cigarettes were incredibly hard to steal.

“The magic word?” He teased, the gravel in his voice coated with genuine amusement.

“Fuck off, Arthur.” You retorted.

“That’s a right answer, stinky rat.” As he spoke, the soldier pushed you with a nudge and slumped on the bench next to your frame. Hannibal looked at his master, then lied down between his parted feet. Arthur gave you a cigarette and lit it up when you brought it to your lips. A sigh of relief escaped from you juicy lips as you exhaled a cloud of smoke from your burning lungs. It did not take long for the pleasant effects of nicotine to alleviate your anxiety. Admittedly, it felt good. Glancing at you with utter curiosity, Arthur could not help but give a faint smile at how adorable you looked when fury left your face, “So, why do they call you rat?”

“Because of him,” Following a show-don’t-tell policy, you slowly moved your left shoulder. Arthur raised a brow and truly wondered what you were doing, twitching your shoulder like that. But his interrogations soon found their answer when a tiny pink snout appeared between two blue hair strands. Then followed the little and furry white head of an albino rat.

“What the — how fookin adorable that is,” Arthur’s face enlightened with awe. He expected you to roast him but all you did was blessing him with a genuine smile for you were delighted by his reaction. Usually, people would were quite disgusted when they saw your little friend, “His name’s Plague.”

“Ah!” Arthur’s loud and hoarse laugh rose up to the sky, “what a cool name. I like him.”

Plague wiggled his pinky snout, smelling the fragrances of both the stranger and his dog. When he was over with it, he just disappeared again behind one long and thick blue braid.

“Yeah, he’s a bit shy. “

“Hm.”

Another silence. But contrary to the awkward previous one, it was pleasant. Almost comforting. It felt like the rest of the world had disappeared in a void, and that all was left was you, him, your pets and this bench. A feeling of surprise dawned within as you caught yourself smiling.

“Oi, Rat. I know that sounds weird, and I don’t want ya to think I’m a kind of creep or something but —“ Arthur paused and exhaled loudly through his nostrils. He could not believe je was going to say that… As he did, your eyes observed the dog tags that were hanging from his neck, “If ye need a place to sleep tonight I’ve got a comfy sofa. The only con is that you’ll have to share it with Hannibal.”

The dog barked joyfully, as if it wanted to agree with his owner.

“Why would you do that?” You asked, palpable hesitation filling your words. Your reaction did not surprise Arthur, who was kind of expecting it. He was well aware his invitation sounded a bit strange.

“The night you ran from the shop and I grabbed you I was about to buy cocaine,”

The vivid memory of your first meeting assaulted your mind, “Wait. But I saw you at the anonymous drug addicts meeting.”

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur paused and looked down at his dog. But you did not need to see his blue eyes to understand the shame that had bloomed within him, “I was ready to relapse y’know. Sometimes me head screams so loud the only thing that soothe me is drugs. But me mind got busy taking care of your bullshit. As stupid as it sounds, you kept me from snorting cocaine and ruining all my efforts.”

“That’s not stupid,” You said in a rather friendly tone, “Well… I’ve got nowhere to go and I see threatening clouds in the sky so… Okay” You answered after mentally weighing the pros and cons, “But don’t say I’m your girlfriend ever again,” You teased with the brattiest grin ever, “Deal, old dog?”

“Deal, stinky rat.” He repeated.

You gave him the finger, but truth was he could not get mad at you, for your smirk was so beautiful it made him forget about the stars.

[spooky-pomegranate]

So I found your “Violence and Timing” fic which led me to ao3 and I binge read every chapter. It is really good. Like really good. Like really fucking good. Like I was up all night last night just reading through those chapters because it’s so good. I just had to let you know because wow. I’m kinda sad I finished all the chapters so far because I feel like I just finished a tv show and I always get sad whenever I finish those. So yeah… just letting you know your writing is top tier.

It Was Supposed to Be Simple:

Captain Price x F Reader Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: For Price, it was supposed to be a simple mission. For you, it was supposed to be the most important meeting of your life. But nothing ever goes to plan, does it? (A/N: Thank you so much @peepawsbeardhair ! That's incredibly sweet to say. I've put a lot of excerpts from that story on Tumblr and people seem to eat it up, but I've never posted the first chapter. Maybe it's time?! )

--------------------- RUSSIA. DECEMBER 2022 ---------------------

“Bravo 5 how copy?”

Captain Price’s surveillance crackled to life in his ear as Gaz responded, “Approaching Building 1 from the west now sir.”

“Rog. Ghost what’s your status?” The bitter winds burned his lunges with each deep breath.

Another crackle, “In position on the east. Ready to breach on your order Captain.”

The blizzard had made for good cover. In the ten minutes Price had occupied his overwatch position nearly half an inch of snow had gathered on his back. His fingers ached as he pinched his radio.

“Alright lads. On my order in 3, 2, 1. Go!”

For the next several minutes gun smoke, fire, and blood filled the air. The mission was simple. Enter the building, kill any armed guards, and secure the intel.

The location, albeit currently freezing Price to his very core, hadn’t been a complicated one either. An old remote KGB intelligence outpost deep in the heart of Siberia; small, run-down, minimally guarded.

“Nothing that’ll win you chest candy.” Ghost had quipped when Laswell briefed the trio on the mission.

While Price fired another sniper round into the building, he thought back to the last words Laswell had said to him before he had boarded the helo at base.

“We have solid intel the Russians are planning something John. Something big. I know this isn’t the type of job I usually ask of you boys, but we need this intel and we need it now.”

Price didn’t mind that it was a straightforward mission. In fact, he was looking forward to something simpler. Scars and nightmares often reminded Price of his more complicated missions. He hoped this trip wouldn’t add to either of his unwanted collections.

Another cackle over the comms, “Captain, the building is clear.”

“Copy you Lieutenant. You have eyes on the intel?”

“Yes sir. But Captain…” Price heard Ghost’s voice waver ever so slightly. The most minute change in pitch.

“Bloody hell Price, you’re gonna want to see this.”

--------------------- LONDON. DECEMBER 2022 ---------------------

“Just a hot coffee black. You know what actually, can you add a shot of espresso in there? Sorry, yeah thanks.”

“One red-eye. Anything else today?”

“No, no that’s all thanks.”

You knew the caffeine wouldn’t help your shaky hands. The extra shot certainly wouldn’t quell your uneasy and empty stomach either, but you moved onward, grabbing your order and heading out to the street. You had more important things to worry about today.

As you took your first sip a text came through on your cell.

“In the lobby now. They want to move meeting w/ Deputy CTO up. Didn’t say why. Can you be here in 10?”

Luckily you’d been pacing around the same three London blocks for 20 minutes now.

“Be there in 2.”

You crossed the street and made your way into the towering high-rise lobby. It was crowded with businessmen. You tried to scan the room for your boss. Where the hell was he? Damn it, all these men in suits looked the same.

“Didn’t get me a coffee then?”

“Jesus! Oh my god, I didn’t see you sitting there. Why the hell did you scare me like that!?”

You nearly spilled your coffee whirling around to face your boss. He’d been quietly sitting in a corner, briefcase and winning smile in tow.

“And why are there so many people in this goddamn building right now anyway?”

You tried to calm yourself a bit. The espresso was a bad choice. Your nerves were on fire.

“Did you forget who we’re meeting with today? Half the people in here are Secret Service. We’re lucky the CTO has a few minutes to spare for us between these international summit meetings. ”

You looked around the room. Now that he’d said it, you realized there weren’t a lot of grey hair men in the lobby. Most of these guys were younger, closer to 30, and their posture was straighter than anyone who normally spent 8 hours a day slumped over a desk.

“Right, yeah that makes sense.”

“Hey.”

You looked back at your boss. He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“We got this okay. Don’t be nervous. You’ve made something that’s gonna change the world, so let’s change it okay.”

You took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay. You’re right.”

“I’m always right.” He huffed out a low chuckle. “Let’s head to the elevators. We’re meeting on the 56th floor.”

Your boss grabbed his briefcase, you clutched your coffee, and the two of you made your way across the room. As you waited for an elevator you took a final look over the cramped lobby when you thought you saw… him. He was in a black jacket, dark jeans, boots, and a hat pulled low over his face. You were sure it was him. It couldn’t be. But it…

“You coming or what?” Your boss’s voice cut through your racing thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m coming” You entered the elevator and tried to put the man’s image out of your mind. It was probably just the coffee and your nerves. A mirage brought on by stress and anxiety. You really didn’t need that extra shot.

A very official-looking staffer met you on the 56th floor. She led you to the meeting space, a modern but sterile-looking conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows, tinted glass separating the room from the hallway, and a massive oak table with a dozen chairs.

“The Vice President and Deputy Chief Technology Officer will be with you both shortly. Please have a seat.”

“Wait the Vice President? Like the Vice President of the United States? He’s coming to our meeting? I thought we were just meeting with the Deputy?” The sentences jumped out of your mouth quicker than you would have liked.

“Yes, as you may know, the Vice President has made technology and anti-terrorism efforts a focus of his office for several years now. He’s been briefed on your work by the CTO and is eager to discuss further details with you both.”

And with that sudden news, the staffer disappeared, slipping back out into the hallway.

As you watched her figure move down the hall behind the tinted glass, the walls felt like they were starting to push in on you. Could the ceiling be dropping in on you too? You took another sip of your coffee, nerves fully on fire again.

Several more minutes of pacing and pep talks occurred before the conference room door opened again. The staffer was back with important friends this time.

After the most formal introductions of your life, your boss took over with his presentation. It’d been decided a long time ago he’d handle the flashy intro and you’d seal the deal with the demo. This was your baby after all and no one knew it better than you.

As your boss finished the pitch you stood from your chair, resting your hands firmly on the briefcase he’d brought. The leather was cool and soft.

You locked eyes with your boss. His eyes crinkled at you again. You felt the air come back into your lungs and the walls didn’t feel so close anymore. You could do this.

As you slipped your hands inside the briefcase the sound of heavy boots echoed outside. Black shadows in the shape of half a dozen men darkened the tinted glass separating the conference room and the hallway. Then came the voices; deep, angry, decidedly unAmerican.

“If you fucking muppets don’t let me into that room I promise you you’ll regret ever stepping foot in this bloody country.”

An agent whipped opened the conference door, nearly tumbling over as four combat-clad men pushed their way inside.

“Diaz, what’s going on?” The Vice President eyed the fumbling agent.

“Sir, we need to move you to…”

The agent's voice was cut off as the windows behind you exploded rocking you forward. Shards of glass rained down on your back as your ribs collided with the oak table. Every ounce of air was knocked from your lungs as you crumbled to the floor. The table toppled over onto its side in front of you while behind you the room opened up to the London skyline.

Total silence enveloped the room except for a high pitch buzzing that felt like it was crawling its way out from deep inside your ear.

Enormous pain rippled throughout your chest as you reached above you for the briefcase now precariously dangling off the edge of the table. You pulled the smooth leather to your chest.

As your braced your forearms on the ground and pushed yourself up to your full height you heard a murmur of a deep voice. Someone was trying to penetrate the ringing in your ears, but you couldn’t understand. The buzzing was still too loud.

Fully upright you came face to face with one of the foreign soldiers. He towered several inches above you, a British flag squarely on his chest. His steely blue irises glanced over your body and when his eyes came back to rest on your face his pupils were nearly double in size.

Then the soldier lunged at you.

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

Price wrapped one of his hands around your waist and the other on the back of your head as he tackled you to the floor. He didn’t care about the bruises he’d leave on your hip as he pressed his full weight roughly against you. He needed you on the ground now.

“Get down! Sniper on the roof across the street. Soap take him out now!”

“On it!”

Before Soap could pull out his rifle the first shot rings throughout the conference room. Price watches as it slams into a businessman’s chest ripping flesh and bone. He can taste the terribly familiar scent of coppery blood in the air.

Before the crimson cloud can even reach the carpet, another shot. This one takes down the stubborn agent who delayed Price getting into this room. A mist of blood plumes where the man once stood. Price grits his teeth.

Then another bang. This time the staffer is down.

Soap fires next. His Scottish timbre yells out, “Sniper down.”

Ropes drop down outside the building. Price knows this means the fight is just beginning. He quickly kneels removing himself from you and grabs your hand, yanking you to a seated position. He can see tears forming in your eyes. He can’t worry about exfiltrating a civilian now. Secure the high-value officials and eliminate the threat, those words repeat in his mind like a command he’s ordering to himself. There are only seconds before this room will be invaded.

But he won’t leave you here out in the open, he can’t watch another civilian die if he can stop it. So without saying a word he looks at you and points to a spot behind the overturned table. He hopes you’ll understand his wordless intention. You hadn’t answered him when he’d asked if you were alright after the blast, a shot eardrum from the blast most likely.

Price lets out a small breath as he watches you scurry to cover behind the overturned table.

He reminds himself of his own order, secure the officials. Price barks, “Gaz, Ghost get the VP and CTO out of here now! Roof’s compromised take the stairs. Go!”

“Moving now sir.” Ghost answers.

Then comes the smoke, the Russian voices, and the sound of boots crunching on carpet and broken glass. Prices slides in next to you behind the cover of the large overturned oak table, shoulders and thighs pressing up against each other. He can feel your body shaking. He doesn’t need to see your face to know that tears are down your cheeks by now.

Price peers around the table. The smoke is thick. Wait, he tells himself. The haze will thin out soon with the windows blown away. Wait … for the moment to strike. Wait… for the enemy to compromise themselves. Wait… because everything in Price’s life depends on the perfect balance of violence and timing.

One of the Russians get’s impatient and fires a rogue round into the ceiling. Patience pays off and Price shoots his pistol. One down.

The smoke is clearing fast now. Price moves from his cover behind the table. Soap emerges from the receding smoke with him. They fire and fight together, pushing their way forward toward the London skyline with bullets, knives, and brute force. Russians falling one by one in their wake.

There’s no one left in front of Price to gun down when he hears a scream from behind him. You’re standing by the door, briefcase clutched to your chest, and knife to your throat. One of the Russians must have taken the stairs from the roof down, sneaking into the room during the fighting.

Price tries to remind himself to wait. To wait for the right moment. To pair his violence with perfect timing… but your eyes. Your eyes beg him not to. Your eyes beg Price to move now, to fight now, to save you now.

So he moves. Price raises his pistol and fires. But at that same moment, you move and two bodies hit the floor.

Fuck. What had Price done?

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

(Read the rest of this story here)

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Daughter of the Rain and Snow

Concept: Around ten years after the events of Crooked Kingdom, 25-year-old Captain Inej Ghafa frees Maya Olsen from a pleasure house in Ketterdam. Maya is looking for revenge against the man who put her in her position, a man who she knows nothing about except his name: Kaz Brekker.

Tags: @wraith--2 @lunarthecorvus @just2bubbly @real-fragments7 @ethereal-maia @cartoon-clifford @origami-butterfly

If anybody else wants to be added let me know :)

Content Warnings: in more general terms I want to remind people to be aware of the nature of Kaz and Inej's experiences and relationship since even if I'm not directly addressing these things they tend to be implicit in any writing about them, but specifically to this chapter there's ptsd references and responses, murder, surgery (suture), blood and gore, violence, homelessness/rough sleeping, death, and implied sa (not explicit).

Chapter 16 - Aimee

Aimee had been at the Tulip Mill for 263 days. She had not been in the shelter for even one day. She had been hiding in the dark corners of Ketterdam for almost two days.

She hadn’t had a chance to change into other clothes before Maya dragged her from the shelter, and crouched uncomfortably in her pale orange silks and an old knitted jumper Maya had stolen and shoved quickly over her to try to keep her from the cold. Aimee didn’t understand. Maya had been so angry, Aimee had little marks on her wrist where she’d gripped her. But then she stole her a jumper.

Aimee wasn’t sure where she’d got it. Maya had made them promise to stay still and stay quiet in an alley in the Barrel before she vanished for about an hour. Princess Aimee could have formulated a plan, could have taken the opportunity to run and find her knight. To get out before she was stuck with a new monster. But Aimee was cold and frightened. She may have been Kerch, but it would buy her little favour in a city she didn’t know dressed in the silks of a girl from the Mill. Maybe they would drag her straight back - surely if Yen was gone another monster had taken up the ugly mantle. And there were other things to think about too. Like Kiada.

Kiada hadn’t spoken in 31 hours. Aimee counted them. When Maya had left them in the alley (1 and a half hours), the Zemeni girl had blinked, sat down, hugged her knees, closed her eyes. Aimee had watched her in stunned silence, no idea what to do to break her from her trance. Maya had returned at 2 1/2 hours and pressed the jumper into Aimee’s arms.

“It’s going to be cold tonight,” she said, as if it weren’t already cold, “This was the best I could get you,”

Aimee had said nothing.

“It’s going to be okay,” Maya whispered, “I promise,”

When Kiada did not move to Maya’s gentle asking, she took her hand and coaxed her to her feet. Aimee thought pain might have briefly flashed across the Fjerdan’s features, but it vanished so quickly she could have imagined it. Kiada let Maya lead her onwards as though she’d barely noticed they were walking. There was nothing else for Aimee to do. She followed.

She was regretting that now.

Maya had found them somewhere to hide in the dark, in a burnt out corner under a bridge, and then revealed that she’d also stolen a surgical needle and black thread. Aimee and Kiada had sat against the wall, watching as Maya removed her shirt from beneath her vest, so her arms and the bloody wound were exposed. She threaded the needle with deft agility, then dug it quickly into her flesh - Aimee supposed so she wouldn’t have time to think about it. It was nothing any of them hadn’t seen before, Aimee suspected both Maya and Kiada had done it themselves at least twice, but it still made Aimee wince to see it. She’d never done it herself - an older girl would always seem to find their way to her when she needed it done - and when her own cuts had been sewn she’d averted her eyes from the process, usually biting into a piece of ripped fabric the girls would give her. Maya clenched her jaw and closed her eyes, but she made no sound. Aimee stared, fixated, at the blood and the throbbing and the shimmer of the needle. Kiada looked blankly at the air, as though she could not see anything at all. 3 hours.

When Maya was finished, she wrapped the needle in her torn, bloody shirt and threw it into the canal. Aimee’s head hurt. Kiada leant against the wall, eyes flickering like she might be asleep.

By hour 10, Maya was angry again. By hour 12 she was crying - she thought that Aimee and Kiada were asleep. Kiada might have been, but Aimee wasn’t sure. By hour 15, Maya had seen Aimee stir and wanted to check if she was okay. She found some strip of fabric Aimee barely registered the shape of and wrapped it over the younger girl’s shoulders. Even though Aimee didn’t think she was safe, she knew that she was cold and tired and confused, and so she let Maya hold her through the makeshift blanket and whisper soft things as she closed her eyes. She didn’t sleep for long; when she did her dreams swam with her princess and her knight. But it was wrong. Off they went on their daring adventures, and everything was normal, then it all came to a sudden stop and a dark drop and Aimee awoke with cold sweat burning on her forehead.

She sat up slowly, breaths shaking, the world coming slowly into focus. Kiada was curled over herself, face shielded from the very beginnings of daylight, and Maya sat a little beyond her.

“What time is it?” Aimee had whispered, as though speaking any louder would be akin to breaking something.

“A little after 5 bells,” murmured Maya, “Try to stay rested if you can. We have a lot to do,”

“Maya what’s going on?”

“Be quiet,”

Maya got to her feet and brushed off her trousers. Her arms were bare since she’d shed her shirt and left her torso only covered by a knitted vest, and Aimee could see the thick black stitches near her collar bone. She shivered.

Maya was erratic - even more so than she’d been last night. Aimee tried to entertain thoughts of a plan, of an exit, of a way back to the shelter. But she was coming up short. She didn’t really know where the shelter was, or where they were now for that matter, and she couldn’t think of any way of safely bringing Kiada with her. She’d tried to get the girl’s attention and she’d flinched away, arms thrown over her ears as she flung her head deeper into her lap.

“We need to move,” said Maya, “I have a little money, we might be able to find somewhere real to stay,”

Aimee didn’t ask why that hadn’t been an option last night. She wondered if Maya had stolen the money, or if it was from the man who she’d said paid her for information. Aimee hadn’t understood everything she’d heard in the shelter, but she was piecing it together. She climbed slowly to her feet, the air cold on her half-bare legs as the makeshift blanket fell away. Her skin prickled and she rubbed her hands along the sleeves of her jumper. Kiada hadn’t moved.

Maya seemed to lean forward to place a hand on the Zemeni girl’s shoulder, then think better of it and pull away.

“Kiada? Come on, we have to go,”

Kiada blinked.

“Kiada,”

Aimee tensed.

“Kiada,” demanded Maya again

When there was still no response, Maya’s questionable patience snapped. She was shouting again and Aimee felt her feet anchor in place as though they weighed a thousand pounds. Maya yelled something that turned to buzzing in Aimee’s ears, and suddenly she’d grabbed Kiada by the hair and forced her closer. Kiada cried out in pain as her braids were almost ripped from her scalp, thrashing to try and break free of Maya’s grasp.

Princess Aimee would do something. She would help. She was strong.

On Day 126 at the Tulip Mill, Aimee had witnessed her first death. She’d lost before, grieved and mourned; but she had not seen the moment itself until Peony, a scrap of a 15-year-old you wouldn’t have thought was older than Aimee, had released a near-painfully loud screech of a scream from the room next door. When there was no rushing of footsteps along the hallway after a minute had passed, Aimee summoned enough courage to creep out of her room and slip inside the next. Peony had stood in the centre of the room, staring blankly at her blood-soaked hands. The man on the floor was shaking violently.

Aimee had later learned that the man had scared Peony so badly that she’d screamed and plunged a knife straight through his stomach. No-one knew more detail than that. No-one knew where Peony had got the dagger. There were ceaseless whispered rumours, passed between walls and partly open doorways.

It was his knife, she’d heard one girl guess, brought it with him so he could gut her when he was done. Can’t blame her for getting in first.

She kept it in her mattress, and was planning on killing Yen with it.

She’d killed clients before; this was just the first time she got caught.

She was deranged.

He was deranged.

He wanted to slice her into neat little pieces and rearrange her like a jigsaw puzzle.

But that all came later. In that moment, on day 126, two girls had locked eyes over a nearly dead body. The man’s blood had gurgled and it made Aimee feel sick, but she could not draw away. Peony sighed, when he died, as if she were glad it was finally over. She looked at Aimee, her eyes feverish and wild and frightened - and protective.

“Hide,” she’d whispered, and Aimee had.

She’d bolted into her room and sat with her back against the closed door; listening. She heard footsteps and shouting and someone screaming again. But she did not leave her room. She heard new voices, authoritative voices she realised with a harsh crack must be Stadwatch. That they would come here, would arrest Peony but not Yen, that they would see everything that happened in this building and not blink an eye until they took one of those poor, pretty girls away killed a tiny little something inside of Aimee. That, she thought looking back on it, was the second death she witnessed.

From her window, Aimee had watched them drag Peony away. And for a second, a barely imperceptible movement as the girl looked up at the Mill, Aimee thought their eyes might have locked again.

The older girls said Peony would swing. No-one ever confirmed it.

Maya dropped Kiada’s hair and let her fall against the pavement. Aimee did not want to hide. She wanted to be brave and strong and she wanted to be able to save herself. She wanted to be able to rescue Kiada. She wanted her body to be as strong as her mind, but it was not. She wanted her actions to be as fierce as her will but they weren’t. More than anything, she wanted to go home. She couldn’t.

Princess Aimee would intervene. She would protect Kiada, find a way to fight the monster with her mind. She was strong. She was fierce. She could argue; stand up for her beliefs. She could. She could. She would.

Aimee opened her mouth, but her voice did not exist.

[racfoam]

More Professor Gaunt. (because I wanted to write a kiss)

-----------

The next few lessons (Hermione and Ron had told her there was absolutely no way Professor Gaunt was Voldemort because he ‘isn’t terrible enough’) were absolute torture for Harry.

Harry was terrified. She fought off panic attacks every few minutes, stopped writing down things from the board, and the only thing that didn’t suffer was the wandwork.

Harry was honestly just glad she didn't find out during OWLs or she would have flunked all of them. She remembers how normal it all was (even Neville was confident and performed every charm on his first try during the practical), how prepared Professor Gaunt made sure they were. Harry had seen Fred and George grinning ear to ear after their DADA NEWTs, and they even sent Professor Gaunt chocolate frogs without any ulterior motives. Every NEWT and OWL student was pleased with the DADA OWL exam.

Harry remembers how she talked Professor Gaunt’s ear off after the exam from happiness, telling him about getting extra credit for the Patronus (how embarassing, she was puffing up pridefully like a bloody peacock) — nobody else got extra credit.

Now, Harry couldn’t believe she'd been so open, friendly, and vulnerable with him — Voldemort.

First, Harry was sad. Hurt. One would think she'd stop giving DADA teachers any trust after last year, and of course, it’s come to slap her in the face. Stupid, foolish Harry.

Then the hurt disappeared and anger came. How dare Voldemort do this? How dare he lie to everyone? Why did he even bother coming here? To spy on Harry? Maybe.

Sadness came again, this one a sad acceptance. Voldemort would always lie to everyone, including Harry, as long as it was for his own gain. It was almost relieving, that acceptance.

It almost felt good not to be angry, or betrayed, to just be... disappointed and exhausted.

Suddenly, everything made sense. Why his face was so familiar... because it was Voldemort’s face. Just not white, not as snake-like, with a nose, black hair, chocolate brown eyes, slender, masculine fingers and pink lips.

Harry thumped the back of her head against the wall, welcoming the pain. She was in a cupboard, skiving off the next to last lesson of DADA. She couldn't look at him anymore. It hurt too much.

------

“You’re not even going to deny it?”

“No,” answered Gaunt calmly. “Nobody will believe you.”

Harry breathed a bitter laugh. It sounded a bit mad, but what did it matter?

“Suppose it was fun for you, having us trust you —”

“Harriet —”

“Was it fun, Voldemort, lying to me again?!”

The yell died out into silence. That was the worst. Harry wanted Voldemort to yell, too. Harry wanted to fight him, argue with him, anything to chase away the pain in her heart over another betrayal.

“You fucking —” And she was stepping forward now, looking up into his striking features, watching the glowing, red irises and the slitted orbs instead of round ones, and she shoved him on the chest, hard, with both hands, just pressing him into the wall of the small cupboard. “—fucking liar —”

Warm, strong hands cupped her cheeks, and the red eyes stared down at her. There was a softness to his features now, an openess to his face, a vulnerability. The hands stilled her, and the gold and sunlight warmed her cheeks upon their touch.

No touch brought that except his. It really was him.

“I wanted to spend time with you,” he whispered, the timbre of his voice soft and hypnotising — like a lullaby. “Keep you out of trouble.”

Harry was stunned for a moment.

“You...” Her brain stopped functioning properly. “What?”

“I wanted,” he repeated, leaning down, pressing his forehead to hers. He smelled on snow and yew leaves. “to spend time with you.”

“You —” she growled, trying to cling onto the anger, not let her fluttering heart or butterflies in her stomach win. “you think I care —”

“I know you do,” he said, brushing a few strands of hair away that obscured her forehead and cheeks. “You care about me, Harry.”

It was too soft, too kind, too understanding. Harry hated it. She hated it. It was difficult to be angry with him when he spoke like that, when he looked so vulnerable, when he gave her some sort of Dark Lord puppy eyes that were really effective and Harry hated it because she just wanted to be angry — to hold him and be held by him — and he looked like a kicked puppy, the bastard —

“That doesn’t —" snarled Harry, struggling to stay angry. “— it doesn’t change anything —”

“It changes a lot of things, Harry.” he said, smiling that wonderful, broad smile, putting Harry's racing heart into full gear, like a speeding train —

His face got very close. His nose brushed over hers, nuzzling. Voldemort cupped Harry’s cheeks, leaned down, and stole any other argument by claiming Harry’s mouth in a kiss of starlight and liquid gold.

His lips were the softest thing in the world.

[time-is-restored]

fellas that last ted lasso episode. hmm.

listen i'll be real no matter what im gonna be out here gushing abt trent crimm cause he's my special little guy and im obsessed with him, but considering the Literal Paragraphs ive been writing abt all the shit i LIKED about the show, i didn't know how else to process these Less Good emotions than by blurting it all out over like two hours (instead of doing the dishes, lmao).

tldr; s3e2 was such an emotional high point for me, since i really felt like it had something concrete + specific to say about physical violence + social/emotional violence, and how they're BOTH highly valued as masculine ideals. but the episodes since then...

it kind of feels like im watching the result of a long and bloody fight between different writers? writers who, apparently, wanted Very different things from this last season, so now we're getting this. bizarro world mish-mash of two hypothetical shows, where tone + content + themes vary WILDLY and inconsistently from episode to episode - and even scene to scene!

[cw: discussions of sexism + racism, in a doylist context, also s3e5 spoilers]

specifically, i feel really disappointed and hurt that they went that direction with shandy's arc. i understand that we're only half way through the season, and obviously anything could happen between now and then but... really? like, is there some kind of budgeting issue here? we can't afford for there to be more than three (complex, not sexy lamps) women in any given episode? is that why the second jack appears, barbara loses any depth (what happened to that lovely moment of connection with the snow globes????????), and THEN the second SHANDY goes off her head it's. jack time? apparently???? like. this would feel a lot better as a viewer if at this point the show hadn't PRIMED me for jack doing something insanely stupid + cruel for no reason except 'haha Keeley Bad At Her Job'.

like. the first thing we see of shandy fine is her pride in keeley, and genuine appreciation of her hard work and skill. she's CLEARLY not stupid, otherwise why would the rest of her introductory scene be her helping keeley out with filmmaking advice (the extras thing) AND random, life experience shit (knowing how to deal with goat shit)?? she knows her way around a set, and she doesn't make any of the footballers feel judged, even when she's clearly thrown by the clips they're providing her.

so why in the space of like, barely a few weeks, does ALL of that get thrown out the window? 'condoms for balls'??? why are we supposed to just take for granted that she's stupid + overly ambitious (other than the Fucking Obvious!) when the show put NO effort into actually setting that up???? like, if her first scene was her monstrously fucking UP the shoot for keeley, and keeley hired her on pure sympathy then like. sure. whatever. no room for bleeding hearts in business. but that ALSO sucks as a story line for ted lasso, a show that (according to its OWN press releases!) is supposed to be about kindness and human connection and breaking cycles!

it just. it hurts? in a way where its like, i don't believe even a little bit that this was what the writers were aiming for with those scenes, and it frightens me that there could be such a wide gulf between intent and result. especially when bonding about The Shandy Incident is what got keeley and jack together (which i am trying... So hard to feel positive about, because explicitly confirming keeley's bisexuality is amazing, least of all bc it makes her jokes with rebecca feel a lot less mean-spirited on the writers' parts, retroactively)... like how am i supposed to be enjoying their moments together when i feel like the show's whole premise has been betrayed???

and really? the one moment nate gets to feel good in this WHOLE season, it's bc the server at the restaurant who previously could not care if he dropped dead right in front of him showed him some affection + validation?????

like, sure, i GUESS im happy that this random excuse for an arc has lead to a slightly more sympathetic female character existing at least in the PERIPHERY of the show's main storyline, except no im fucking not? i don't care about this fucking restaurant, and even though ive been DESPERATELY trying not to hate jade (even though the writers themselves can't seem to decide if she's Literally Racist or just a depressed service worker) NATE shouldn't care about jade! the ONLY way i can see this being an actually interesting arc for nathan is if its another exploration of his inability to leave behind the things + people that have hurt him, combined with years of conditioning where he's never allowed to express being annoyed/upset at anyone (which richmond!!! contributed to!!!!!! 'if you're mad, count to ten. if that doesn't work, count again'??? cool speedrun tips for resentment ted!). like, an arc where we see that distance away from richmond hasn't helped nate as much as it's removed some of the worst triggers, so a taste of athens ends up in the same awful pit of resentment + loathing as ted did. which nate clearly hates! he doesn't LIKE being that person! he apologised to a PAINTED DOLL of ted!!!! but when he doesn't have the framework or tools or SUPPORT to do anything else...

like. where is his team? obviously im not expecting the show to start being about a bunch of football players that AREN'T from richmond but? even just a small moment of appreciation? or hell! maybe they hate him! if we could see LITERALLY ANYTHING abt the sport which nathan has dedicated his life to, and how his Actual Coaching style is positively or negatively impacted by the lessons he learned at richmond? this is a show ABOUT football!!!!!

i just. a taste of athens? again? a-fucking-gain?????

and honestly, the worst part is that i REALLY liked the little monologue that nate got to give about how important the restaurant was to him! as much as it showed that nate is still just as passionate + earnestly defensive of the things he loves, it ALSO shows that he 1. spends that energy explaining his passion to people who don't deserve it/won't care, and 2. gets attached to things that really fucking hurt him! and like. i am on my hands and KNEES for that to be the 'point' of this arc but at this point i feel like that's me being naive! but if fucking JADE from fucking ATHENS is the civilising white gf who FINALLY talks nate down from him ~ ignorant, vengeful crusade ~ against the absolute ~ matyrs ~ of goodness at afc richmond, i just. like. what are we even DOING here gang?

i don't know. it hurts that sam's gone from being an almost principal character in s2 to only getting passing lines in s3. it hurts that rebecca's off in her own world, talking to strangers, having life-changing revelations on her own, surrounded by sets we're never going to see again, where every scene she DOES get to spend w one of the richmond members feels hasty and rushed, like the episode wants to get a few characters obligatory appearances out of the way asap. it hurts that all the chekov's guns around zava's arc (jamie's resentment, ted's lack of guidance, dani being 'demoted' + colin being benched) were apparently all just blanks, to be hastily plastered over with one big long speech about... ted wanting everyone to have higher self esteem, or something?

and listen, more the fool me if another episode comes out next week that i completely adore, and i spend like five days singing its praises. im mostly writing this so i can go INTO the next ep without feeling resentful + upset! i'll be STOKED if i was wrong and all of those little details ARE actually important, and these arcs have more to them than this! but for now im just sad and annoyed :(