#i would be utterly unsurprised

[darcyolsson]

reached the point in 911 where eddie and buck (and carla!!!) are literally just coparenting christopher. you guys did not lie ive seen pride parades less gay than this. literally a gay couple and their aunt who supported them while the rest of the family was still getting used to the idea #lovewins

[cuntvonkrolock]

so is drew sarich like actually gay or is he just the faggiest straight man on the planet?

[somnoir]

Children of Diana - Part 2

Part 1 | Masterpost

Diana had not intended to reveal the existence of her children so soon. But thankfully, Daniel and Dante seemed to agree that it would not be too troublesome for her colleagues to know of them.

She is grateful, at least, that no one suspects Diana Prince to be a mother of three. Instead, the world knows only that Wonder Woman has taken on two young male apprentices. The distinction, while subtle, grants her a measure of control over the narrative. It is, admittedly, a confusing time for some—especially her fellow heroes.

As expected, Batman is the first to approach her.

“You have partners?” he asks, his tone softer than usual, lacking the usual gruffness.

Diana smiles, tilting her head. “Yes. Though from what I understand, they are younger than your Robin.” She pauses, recalling the bright, determined child who first wore the mantle. “The older one is close in age to when Robin first came to be.”

Batman nods, understanding. “Do you require any assistance or advice on the matter? I am willing to offer guidance on mentoring young vigilantes. Though I must admit, I will be lacking in the powers department.”

Diana appreciates the offer. Even she struggles to fully anticipate the depths of Dante and Daniel’s abilities—so fluid, so unbound by the laws she has known. But she appreciates the helping hand nonetheless.

“Thank you, Batman.” She grins. His identity remains elusive, but she respects his privacy. More than ever, now that she has children of her own, she understands why he chooses to remain an enigma when so many of their colleagues have unmasked.

“It’s no problem.” He shakes his head, his cape shifting slightly with the motion. “You may bring them to the Watchtower at some point. Preferably once they’ve received enough training.”

Diana arches a brow, smirking. “The same way you brought Robin?”

Because, of course, Robin had not been formally introduced. The boy had snuck in, startling many before being caught by Kal—moments before he nearly ambushed his own mentor.

Batman grunts, displeased yet faintly amused by the memory. “Hopefully not.”

“I will try,” Diana laughs.

She eventually finds herself back home, where Dante and Daniel are suffering as per usual, trying to wrangle their adventurous infant of a sister to not float out the window. Like usual.

Diana steps into the room just in time to hear the chaos unfolding.

“Hi, Di!” Danny greets, far too cheerfully for someone currently wrangling a two-year-old with the strength and determination of a seasoned warrior. His eyes flicker green before he turns back to the little troublemaker currently biting the windowsill. “Can we borrow your lasso?! Or buy a leash?!”

Diana raises a brow.

“Ellie, stop biting the damn furniture! You’re too young to be traveling the world, damn it!” Dante shouts, trying to pry his sister away from the open window.

Ellie, utterly unbothered, swats at him with surprising force. “No! Wanna go to Greece! Lemme go!”

“You’re not going into the ocean, dammit!” Dante snaps back, only to yelp when Ellie plants a solid kick to his face.

Diana watches, unimpressed but unsurprised, as Dante stumbles. That moment of lost balance is all Ellie needs—wiggling free, she makes a determined beeline right out the window.

Diana sighs. Enough of that.

She catches Ellie by the waist with ease, pulling her back into the penthouse before she can so much as dangle a foot into open air. “Not yet, little one,” Diana says, tone firm but gentle. “As your brother said, you are far too young. Perhaps when you are eight, like Daniel, I shall permit it.”

Ellie whines loudly, puffing out her cheeks and attempting to push against Diana’s hold. It’s adorable, really—her tiny hands barely make an impact against Diana’s chest. Realizing resistance is futile, Ellie huffs and goes limp in her mother’s arms, a dramatic display of defiance.

Diana is unfazed. With one arm, she holds Ellie effortlessly, and with the other, she reaches out to help Dante up.

“Did I take too long?” she asks, amused.

“If you did, she’d already be by the coast,” Dante grumbles, rubbing his face and glaring at Ellie, who resolutely avoids his gaze.

Diana chuckles. It is never dull in this household.

Wraith and Phantom make their entrance as they always do—silently, effortlessly, and unmistakably theirs. They do not linger in the shadow of the League as sidekicks often do, nor do they stand beside any other hero. They are with her and her alone.

The League, naturally, takes notice.

Their presence is striking, their power undeniable. Even their attire contrasts sharply with Diana’s own. Where she stands adorned in gold, red, and blue, they are shrouded in black and white, their cloaks shifting like the cosmos itself. Danny—Phantom—wears the void, an expanse of endless cold that seems to devour the light around it. Dante—Wraith—holds within his cloak the heat of a dying star, the fury of a sun on the brink of collapse.

And then, of course, there are their abilities.

Dante calls forth fire from the earth with a mere flick of his wrist, the ground obeying his command as flames rage in his wake. Danny summons ice from the sky, turning the battlefield into his frozen domain. Opposites in nearly every way, yet when they fight, it is seamless, an unrelenting force that none can withstand.

Barry whistles, watching as Wraith effortlessly hurls the latest villain skyward, only for Phantom to snatch them mid-air and slam them back into the ground with a force that rattles the street. "Okay, lady, you've got two concerningly powerful kids there," he laughs, though the nervous edge in his voice betrays his unease.

Batman, ever observant, merely nods. "Exceptional technique," he notes. "Did you train them yourself?"

Diana crosses her arms, watching as Phantom and Wraith move with fluid precision, their synergy as natural as breathing. "Somewhat," she admits. "They had exceptional mentors before arriving in this world, but I had to reteach them certain things after their transition."

Superman drifts closer, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches the two finish subduing their opponent. Yet their work is not done—Phantom immediately turns to the civilians, kneeling to comfort frightened children, his expression softening. Wraith, meanwhile, sets to repairing the damage they’ve left behind, a flick of his hand mending fractured pavement.

"Amazing," Clark murmurs. "So they’re from another world?"

"Another dimension," Diana corrects, carefully choosing her words. "They were sent here for their well-being. It would be best if you do not pry into their origins. It has been... difficult for them. Leaving home was not their choice."

A quiet understanding passes between them.

After a beat, Batman hums. "Would it be beneficial to introduce them to the others? The Titans, perhaps? They are younger than most of our younger heroes, but it may help them to have peers outside of us."

Diana watches as Wraith floats down beside Phantom, producing a small, unharmed kitten from seemingly nowhere and handing it to a tearful child. The girl’s sniffles quiet as she clutches the creature, Phantom ruffling her hair with an encouraging smile.

A rare warmth spreads in Diana’s chest.

She considers Batman’s words, then smiles. "That would be nice," she agrees. "It would make my day knowing my apprentices are given the chance to make friends."

Althought the prospect would solely depend on the boys' decision. Ellie would join in the vigilantism soon enough but for now...

"Παιδιά! Ελάτε εδώ!" (Kids! Come here!) Diana beckoned them towards her and the two half-ghosts were quick to move. Wraith floated towards her while Phantom slipped into a portal appeared at her side.

"Batman suggested I introduce you to the younger heroes. The Titans—they are led by Batman's protoge, Robin."

"The colorful one?" Phantom's face was hidden but Diana could tell his face was already scrunched up.

"Yes," she sighed, "The colorful one."

"I wanna meet them!" Phantom eagerly said, "Isn't your sister there? Can we meet her too? Ooh! And a speedster!"

Again, Dante looked utterly aghast when the speedster was mentioned.

Alas, this will do.

Masterpost

[balrogballs]

I have never had a normal thought since I realised Aragorn/Estel would have been around 10 years old — more like 7/8 considering his heritage — when Thorin's Company passes through Rivendell, so here are some brainrot headcanons (continued under the cut):

Estel is obsessed with Thorin. Just completely obsessed. Follows him around everywhere like a cat, begs him to play with him, offers to run errands for him. Literally every elf in Rivendell is completely stunned at the behaviour because Estel is, normally, a card-carrying ankle-biter.

The Dwarves, on the other hand, are shocked by the fact that by a few days into the visit, Thorin seems to like Estel too. Gloin would have sworn that he expected Thorin to throw the child off the banisters the minute he made him hold his pet python. Thorin didn't just hold said snake, but played with him, let him do little odd jobs, even letting him sit up with him at the dining halls. On two evenings, he even takes Estel out with a wooden sword, to show him how to "fight like a Dwarf lord". All the Dwarves are just as shook as the elves, minus Kili and Fili, who knew Thorin as Uncle Thorin and are completely unsurprised that he is so wonderful with little Estel.

Lindir and Elrond find a content python snoozing in Elrond's study. Lindir and Elrond are both utterly and irrationally terrified of snakes. After much screaming and climbing on sofas, every member of staff swears Estel had been in his mother's quarters all day. Nobody thinks to mention that they saw Bilbo and Thorin hanging about outside the study, because what relevance could that possibly have?

When the company left Rivendell, Estel was understandably quite unhappy because he'd miss them, also they were going to see a dragon, and he begged to go with them. Thorin does what most parents do before going on a trip, and promises to bring him a present from the dragon's lair when they returned.

Bilbo returns without Thorin, but with the promised present for Estel. He visits the boy in his quarters and they hold each other and share their grief. Bilbo then shows him the present. He explains how Thorin wanted to give him something more substantial than a golden cup scraped off the floor of a dragon's lair — he had told Bilbo, the night before the battle, to give the boy Thorin's own solid gold wristband.

On the same return trip, Elrond expressed his condolences over Thorin's death, and enquired if there were other casualties. When he finds out that Kili and Fili had also died in the battle, a strange, terrible expression twisted across his face and he said, almost reflexively, both? both together? good. that's good. The remaining Dwarves and Bilbo were all stunned, thinking it was Elvish apathy at best, and deliberate disrespect at worst. After all, they had no reason to know that Elrond, like his immortal brethren, found it somewhat difficult to gauge the ages of mortal beings — and had thought the two late brothers were twins.

Decades later on the night before the Fellowship were set to depart, the elderly Bilbo Baggins found it hard to sleep from worry, and wandered onto the balcony, and saw a lone man practicing sword moves in the courtyard. He realises both man and combat style seem faintly familiar, like the heavy striding and swinging and slashing are the steps to an old dance he once used to know, which now lives in a deep, forgotten place within him, under layers of unravelling memories. He can't quite put his finger on it. But there is a strange comfort in the sight, so soothing Bilbo's eyes start to close, falling asleep curled up right there on the balcony. He slips off into a wonderful old dream, lulled by the rhythm of fallen leaves crunching in the courtyard — where Aragorn "fights like a dwarf", solid gold wristband twinkling under the light of the stars.

[natequarter]

She died on Christmas Day. On Christmas Day! I said goodbye on an iPad! Because of the rules! She died alone! And those awful people and their wine fridges, and their dancing, and their parties, and I listened to them, and I let my mother die alone!

anyway for those who for sensible reasons have not been obsessively following british tory scandals: the ruling party in uk government spent lockdown throwing secret parties whilst everyone else was told to stay at home. i'm not a monarchist but i would like to point out that there was some very striking imagery of elizabeth ii mourning her dipshit husband alone; this was a deep albeit utterly unsurprising betrayal, especially for the people whose family members died during lockdown. the partying is not metaphorical. it is not some abstract. it is about conservative mps who partied whilst ordinary people died. in the words of uhhh steven moffat: christmas is a headcount, and this is brutal political commentary

[srslyblvck]

calm to his storm, klaus mikaelson

pairing: klaus mikaelson x fem!reader

synopsis: you are the calm to his raging storm. so what happens when his only calm is taken away from him?

genre: fluff, a little bit of angst,

warnings: mentions of torture

word count: 2.6k

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE ANTIQUE CHANDELIER ABOVE shook slightly as another crash echoed through the Mikaelson estate. Klaus’ rage tore through the air like a hurricane, sending priceless artefacts and heirlooms scattering across the room. Rebekah stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, a mix of irritation and concern on her face.

“Klaus, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped, her own temper flaring. “Must you destroy everything? That was from the 18th century!”

Kol leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded. A smirk played on his lips, though even he seemed wary. “Let him have his tantrum, sister. It’s like watching a storm obliterate a quaint little village. Entertaining, don’t you think?”

Elijah entered the room, his usual calm demeanor strained. He surveyed the chaos—broken vases, shattered glass, the remnants of Klaus’ fury—and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is getting out of hand.”

“And when has that ever stopped him?” Rebekah shot back, throwing her hands in the air.

Another crash—this time a painting flung off the wall—interrupted her. Elijah sighed deeply, his gaze shifting toward the grand staircase. He seemed to consider his options for a moment before turning to leave.

“I’ll fetch her,” he said simply, his voice tinged with both resignation and relief.

Upstairs, in stark contrast to the chaos below, your room was a haven of peace. Soft lamplight illuminated the plush armchair you sat in, legs curled beneath you. A leather-bound book rested in your hands, and beside you on the side table sat a glass of red liquid—whether it was wine or blood was anyone’s guess, and you enjoyed keeping them guessing.

The muffled sounds of Klaus’ outburst barely registered. To you, it was as normal as birds chirping or wind rustling leaves—a background hum of the Mikaelson household. You turned another page, utterly unbothered.

A soft knock at the door broke the tranquility.

“Come in, Elijah,” you called without looking up, already knowing who it would be.

Elijah entered, his steps measured as always. He stood for a moment, hands clasped in front of him, as though reluctant to disturb you further. “It seems,” he began in his polished tone, “your presence is required downstairs.”

You raised an eyebrow, setting the book down carefully. “Klaus?”

“Who else?” His lips twitched into a faint, weary smile. “Rebekah is losing her patience, Kol is doing nothing helpful as usual, and I suspect this will only end peacefully with you.”

With a small sigh, you stood, smoothing the folds of your dress. “He’s really upset this time, isn’t he?”

“You could say that.” Elijah offered you his arm, a gesture that always made you smile, even after all this time. “Though I must say, I sometimes wonder how you manage him so effortlessly.”

You took his arm, your smile soft. “It’s not effortless. It’s just… understanding.”

The sight that greeted you in the living room was chaotic, but unsurprising. Klaus stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving, fury etched into every line of his face. Rebekah was glaring at him, hands on her hips, while Kol lounged in the doorway, twirling a broken candlestick like a baton.

“Klaus,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a balm.

His head snapped toward you, his wild eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he looked ready to lash out again, but then he saw you—calm, composed, untouched by his rage. The storm in his expression faltered.

“You’ve been shouting for an hour,” you continued, stepping into the room. “Are you okay?”

Klaus scoffed but didn’t respond, his hands flexing at his sides. You moved closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

The smallest touch from you carried a weight nothing else could. His anger didn’t vanish, but it dulled, like a smoldering ember instead of an inferno.

“It’s nothing that concerns you,” Klaus muttered, his voice quieter now.

“It concerns me if it upsets you,” you said, tilting your head to meet his gaze. Your soft tone carried no judgment, just an earnestness that Klaus couldn’t resist.

Elijah silently excused himself and pulled the others with him, muttering about how he didn’t want to witness Klaus being "domesticated."

When the door clicked shut, Klaus turned to you fully, his posture still tense. “You don’t understand, love. This—this betrayal, this treachery—it deserves blood.”

You placed your other hand on his chest, the gesture anchoring him. “Maybe it does,” you said softly. “But you always remind me that timing is everything. You don’t need to act now, not when you’re this angry.”

Klaus exhaled sharply, the weight of your logic pressing against his instinct to lash out. His hands moved to your waist, gripping you gently as if you were the one tethering him to the ground.

“You make it sound so simple,” he murmured, his voice softening further. “But you don’t know what it’s like to carry this rage. It consumes everything.”

You smiled, shy but radiant, the polar opposite of his stormy intensity. “That’s why I’m here. To remind you that not everything has to be consumed.”

Klaus studied you for a long moment, his eyes searching. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “What have I done to deserve you?”

You chuckled softly, a sound that Klaus secretly adored because it felt like sunlight in his otherwise dark world. “You don’t have to deserve me,” you said simply. “I’m here because I love you, Klaus. All of you.”

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the words that he didn’t hear often enough. When he pulled back, some of the tension in his frame had dissipated.

“Thank you, love,” he said softly.

You brushed a hand across his cheek, and for once, Klaus Mikaelson didn’t feel like the monster the world claimed he was.

The full moon hung low in the sky, its light filtering through the dense forest. You were returning to the Mikaelson estate after a quiet evening in town, a much-needed break from the volatile energy that often permeated the house. The path was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves underfoot.

Something was off.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled as you slowed your steps.

They came out of the shadows, cloaked in spells that masked their presence. A coven of witches, their eyes burning with vengeance, encircled you.

“Ah, the little darling of the Mikaelsons,” one sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “The one they’d burn the world for.”

You didn’t wait for pleasantries. In a blur of speed, you lunged at the closest witch, your vampiric strength taking him off guard. He crumpled under the force of your blow, but the others retaliated quickly. Spells lit the night as energy pulsed around you, slamming into your chest like a battering ram.

You gritted your teeth and fought back, feral and determined, but the odds weren’t in your favor. One by one, they overwhelmed you, their magic precise and relentless. You tore through two more of them, leaving them bloodied and unconscious, but a searing pain shot through your veins—a vervain-laced dart embedded in your shoulder.

You stumbled, your vision swimming, but you kept fighting, even as your strength waned. Finally, the world blurred and darkened as they dragged you away, their triumphant laughter the last thing you heard before the void consumed you.

When you awoke, you were bound to a chair in a dimly lit chamber. Your wrists burned where the vervain-laced ropes dug into your skin. The air smelled of damp earth and old magic, and your head throbbed from whatever spell they’d used to keep you subdued.

“You’re awake,” one of the witches said with a wicked smile, crouching before you. “Good. We wouldn’t want you to miss the fun.”

Their leader, a tall woman with piercing green eyes, approached with deliberate steps. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, her tone almost conversational.

You met her gaze despite the pain. “Because you’re bored and pathetic?”

She slapped you hard across the face, the sting sharp and immediate. Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth, but you refused to give her the satisfaction of flinching.

“Brave little thing, aren’t you?” she sneered. “We’re here because of your beloved family. They’ve terrorized witches for centuries, and now, you’ll pay for their sins.”

They tortured you methodically, using spells to inflict pain, cutting into your skin with vervain-coated blades. Every time you began to fade, they used magic to jolt you back to consciousness. They wanted you to suffer, to feel every second of it.

Still, you held onto your resolve, refusing to give them what they wanted. When they demanded information about the Mikaelsons, you laughed through the pain. “Do you really think they’ll let you live after this?” you taunted, your voice hoarse but steady. “You’ve made a mistake.”

It didn’t take long for the Mikaelsons to notice your absence. Klaus was the first to sense that something was wrong. The moment you didn’t return home, his paranoia kicked in, and when they found the bloodied trail in the woods, the fury that followed was palpable.

“Witches,” Klaus growled, his jaw clenched tight as he examined the scene. “They’ve taken her.”

Elijah placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his own expression grim but composed. “We’ll find her.”

“No,” Klaus snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “We’ll kill them.”

Rebekah’s eyes burned with determination. “They won’t live long enough to regret this.”

Kol, always eager for chaos, twirled a dagger in his hand. “Let’s not waste time then, shall we?”

You were barely conscious when the first explosion rocked the chamber. The witches scrambled, their spellwork faltering as the Mikaelsons descended like a storm.

Klaus was the first through the door, his eyes locking onto your battered form. His rage was palpable, a force of nature that seemed to suck the air from the room. He didn’t waste words. In a blur, he tore into the nearest witch, snapping their neck with a savagery that made the others freeze in terror.

Rebekah followed, her fury no less potent. She flung one witch across the room, her face twisted with righteous anger. “You dared to lay a hand on her?” she hissed, plunging a dagger into the witch’s chest.

Kol’s laughter echoed as he dispatched two witches with brutal efficiency. “I’ve got to say,” he quipped, wiping blood from his blade, “you lot make terrible hosts.”

Elijah moved with his usual grace, dispatching the leader of the coven with a calculated strike. His focus, however, was on you. He reached you first, his hands gentle as he untied the ropes and eased you into his arms.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice tight with concern. “You’re safe now.”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, your strength utterly spent. “Took you long enough,” you whispered weakly, a faint smile playing on your lips.

Klaus appeared beside him, his hands trembling as they hovered over your face, not knowing where to touch without hurting you further. His eyes were wild with guilt and rage, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I’ll kill every last one of them,” he vowed, his gaze darting to Elijah. “Take her home. Now.”

Elijah nodded, carrying you out of the carnage as Klaus and the others finished what they started. You heard the screams of the remaining witches as the Mikaelsons exacted their vengeance, but you didn’t feel pity. They’d made their choice.

The house was unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that seemed too fragile, as if one wrong move might shatter it. You lay on the bed, propped up by a stack of pillows, your body still recovering from the ordeal. Though most of your injuries had healed, a dull ache lingered beneath the surface—a reminder of what had happened.

Klaus hadn’t left the room since you were brought back. He sat in the armchair by the window, bathed in moonlight, his hands steepled under his chin. His silence was unnerving.

“You’re awfully broody tonight,” you said softly, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t respond at first, his eyes fixed on the dark forest outside. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but heavy. “I failed you.”

You sighed, shifting slightly despite the discomfort. “Klaus—”

“No,” he interrupted, his tone sharpening. “They took you because of me. Because of who I am. And they hurt you. If I had been faster, smarter—”

“They would’ve still tried,” you cut in, your voice calm but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

He turned to look at you, his expression haunted. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” You held his gaze, your voice steady despite the fatigue in your body. “You can’t control what others do, Klaus. You can only do what you did—save me.”

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he began to pace. “I should’ve torn them apart the moment I sensed something was wrong. Instead, they touched you—hurt you—and I…” He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists.

You watched him for a moment before patting the space beside you on the bed. “Come here.”

He hesitated, the weight of his emotions visible in the tight set of his shoulders. Slowly, he approached, sitting carefully beside you as if afraid his presence might cause you more pain.

Reaching out, you took his hand in yours, your touch gentle. His fingers were tense at first, but they relaxed under your warmth. “Klaus, look at me.”

He did, his blue eyes stormy with guilt and frustration.

“I’m alive,” you said softly. “Because of you. You came for me. You always do.”

“I should’ve protected you better,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“And yet, here I am.” You gave him a faint smile, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to carry this guilt. I don’t blame you.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, his free hand reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. The touch was so tender it made your heart ache.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice raw.

“You won’t,” you replied, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I’m tougher than I look, remember?”

A soft, humorless chuckle escaped him, but the tension in his body began to ease. He shifted slightly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you leaned into him.

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the world outside the room forgotten. His hand rested on your arm, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were real and not some fragile illusion.

After a while, you tilted your head to look at him. “Klaus?”

“Hm?”

“You’re going to need to stop blaming yourself. It’s exhausting to watch.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips. “You always know how to put me in my place, don’t you?”

“Someone has to,” you teased, though your tone was gentle.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered, his lips lingering against your skin.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me. For always seeing the good in me when no one else does.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, your hand brushing against his cheek. “Because it’s there, Klaus. Even if you don’t see it, I do.”

For the first time that night, the shadow in his gaze lifted, replaced by something softer. He leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and fervent, as if pouring every unspoken word into the touch.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet room. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of possession and reverence.

“And you’re mine,” you replied with a soft smile, your fingers brushing through his hair.

In his arms, the lingering aches of your ordeal seemed to fade. The storm that had raged in him had settled, replaced by the calm only you could bring.

divider by @dollywons

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

hinny prompts??? ooooh um maybe write something where harry is being a bit protective of ginny? hbp, post dh, whichever point in time you feel most inclined to write about!! thanks 😍😍😍

“You were right about Vanishing spells,” Ginny declares irritably, dumping her school bag onto the table Harry has secured for their study date in the library. “They’re a pain in my arse.”

“Ah,” Harry says, looking up from his essay with an expression of sympathy. “Bad lesson?”

Ginny throws herself into the chair opposite and scrunches her nose in distaste. “Awful. Might as well have been using one of Fred and George’s trick wands for all the good mine did, at least then I’d have had a laugh.”

“Did McGonagall set you extra homework?”

Ginny sits up rim-rod straight in her seat, makes her lips as thin as they can go, and adopts a lofty Scottish accent, “Miss Weasley,” she chides, in a passable impression of McGonagall. “An essay on the proper wand motion and theory behind Vanishing vertebrates to me by Tuesday.”

“Brutal,” Harry winces. “How many inches?”

“Two hundred and four. And once you’ve finished that, please use your newfound knowledge to Vanish the Chudley Cannons abysmal goal scoring problems, Fleur Delacour’s superiority complex, and Harry Potter’s penchant for danger. And then you can fling yourself from the Astronomy Tower for your trouble.”

Harry snorts loudly. “Oh, is that all?”

“I might just skip straight to the Astronomy Tower.”

“Efficient. Please don’t, though.”

“Honestly,” Ginny grumbles. “She set me fourteen inches. Fourteen! I’ve already got loads of Charms to do this weekend, I’m going to be in the library all–”

Ginny trails off, for Harry had turned in the middle of her rant to scowl rather hatefully at a group of fourth year Ravenclaw girls whispering at a nearby table. “Er, Harry?”

Harry turns back to her, but the scowl remains. “Sorry. Fourteen inches?”

“What’d they do to you?” Ginny jokes, jerking her head toward the girls’ table. They aren’t being particularly loud, and Harry isn’t typically one to become enraged by library volume etiquette.

“What?” Harry says quickly. “Nothing.”

Ginny grins. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“It’s nothing, honestly.”

“C’mon,” Ginny goads. “Were they trying to ask you about the Chosen One rubbish, or something?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. They… before you arrived, they were talking about you,” he says in a tone of combined incredulity and disgust.

“Ah.” Ginny sits back in her chair, utterly unsurprised. “What was it this time? That I’m spiking you with a Love Potion? Or that you’re only interested in me because I’m a tart? Or – ooh, my favorite is that I’m using you to usurp your position as Quidditch Captain. I think they might be onto something with that one, actually…”

Harry doesn’t even laugh at her joke as his expression approaches the realm of horror. “The Love Potion one but… People have been saying that other stuff about you? To you?”

Ginny shrugs unconcernedly. “Not to my face, but I’ve heard it, yeah. Dunno if you’ve noticed, Harry, but a lot of girls fancy you.”

Harry shrugs this off so quickly that Ginny can’t help the feeling of satisfaction and smug glee that sparks in her chest. “But that’s… that’s so fucked.”

“Well, yeah,” Ginny says, slightly amused by his naivety to the Hogwarts gossip mill. “I suppose. But honestly it’s all rubbish anyway, I don’t give a rat’s arse. Let them say what they want, they don’t know the real reason I’m with you - all your gold.”

Harry laughs despite himself, but the concern quickly returns. “But I don’t understand. Why would anyone think you’re spiking me with Love Potion?”

Ginny grins wickedly. “Dunno. Might want to tone down your infatuation with me. It’s very suspicious.”

Harry shakes his head as he lets out another reluctant laugh. “No, but I mean it. It’s… it’s mental,” Harry makes a gesture to her general person, like she’s meant to agree with something. 

“Yeah, I mean, obviously I’d never do that to anyone, let alone you–”

“No,” Harry interrupts. “Well, yeah. I bloody hope not, you’re not Romilda Vane,” he adds darkly. “But that’s not what– I just meant, why would anyone even assume that? Half the blokes at this school fancy you.” He gestures to her again, as though his point should be self-evident.

A heat blossoms over Ginny’s cheeks. “Half the blokes in this school do not fancy me,” she laughs. “You’ve been listening to my brothers.”

Harry stares at her like she’s the one who’s lost her gobstones. “No, I haven’t. But that’s beside the point. It’s just… insulting.”

“Doesn’t paint me in a particularly good light, no,” Ginny agrees, feeling like she’s missing something. “Rather creepy.”

Harry exhales in frustration. “I just meant, how can they honestly think that’s the only reason I’d fancy you? I mean… you’re…” He gestures to her again. 

If she’s meant to fill in those blanks, Harry is going to be disappointed. “I’m… what?”

Harry stares at her incredulously. “You’re… brilliant! You’re the best in the school at Quidditch, you’re always making everyone laugh, and well, you look like,” he gestures to her again, helplessly, “that.”

The heat has spread from her cheeks down to her chest. She might be on fire, actually. “Harry–”

“No, it’s… how can anyone honestly think that I wouldn’t fancy you? It’s really rude, actually, I don’t know why you’re not bothered.”

Ginny is struck quite dumb by this proclamation. A tingly, glowing warmth is radiating out from her glowing cheeks. Ginny supposes it shouldn’t feel so surprising - they’re together, and Ginny doesn’t think she’s alone in how quickly her feelings are escalating; on some level it comes with the territory that he’d think these things of her. But she had been totally unprepared for him to be so indignant – not about being the subject of baseless gossip yet again – but about the insinuation that Ginny would need any help in attracting his attention. 

“I don’t–” Ginny splutters. “Well, that’s– you really think all that?”

“That you’re brilliant at Quidditch?” Harry asks in disbelief. “That you’re funny and beautiful? I mean – yeah? You are.”

“I think you might’ve overdosed on that Love Potion I’ve been slipping you–”

Harry barks out a laugh again. “Come on. Honestly. Of course I think that. You must know that.”

She supposes she did know, but it’s quite a different matter to have him state it so baldly like this, like her brilliance is so wildly self-evident. Harry’s gone and released a jar of snitches in her stomach. 

“Well, clearly the rest of the school’s got a different opinion,” Ginny says, trying to disguise the way his words have impacted her. “Or perhaps you’re underselling your own appeal.”

Harry smirks, and Ginny might die. “Find me appealing, do you?”

“Obviously.”

“Glad my Love Potion’s worked.”

They grin stupidly at each other, and Ginny’s heart is thrumming in her chest. 

“I am sorry, though,” Harry says, his grin fading. “That people have been saying all that about you. I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine,” Ginny says, waving her hand. “Honestly, they’ve done me a favor. Got you to admit how obsessed with me you are, didn’t they?”

“Didn’t realize I was hiding it,” Harry replies, casually delivering the fatal blow to Ginny’s composure. 

“That’s it,” Ginny announces, stuffing her Transfiguration book into her bag. “We’re done with the library.”

“But you haven’t even started–”

“Don’t tell McGonagall, then. Come on.”

Harry doesn’t need telling twice, as he packs up his things with admirable speed. 

They make their way to the Library exit, still grinning soppily at one another, and their path takes them past the table of Ravenclaws. As they’re passing, Ginny thinks she catches a snippet of their conversation, sees a tightening in Harry's jaw: “--so obvious, I bet she gets them from her brother’s joke shop–”

Suddenly, Ginny is being spun around on her heel. Before she has time to react, Harry kisses her, boldly, smack in the middle of the library. His hands come up to cup her face, and Ginny’s heart is hammering in her chest. After several moments, he pulls away, leaving Ginny feeling rather gobsmacked. 

She watches as he shoots a nasty scowl at the Ravenclaw girls, who are all staring in blatant shock. Satisfied, he takes Ginny’s hand again and continues their meandering path from the library, as though they’d experienced no interruption. 

“Er, Harry?” Ginny says, thoroughly gleeful. “Not complaining, or anything, but I’m not sure that helped with the whole Love Potion narrative. And it’s definitely not going to help me beat the tart allegations…”

Harry shoots her a sheepish look. “Fuck. Sorry. We’re both tarts, then.”

Ginny’s grin widens. “Oh really? I wish you’d told me sooner…”

[lets-try-some-writing]

On the topic of Jack's dad leaving and the bots reaction to it, what do they feel for June? Because I can imagine the thought of being left to deal with a sparkling all on your own because your Conjunx and fellow caretaker just straight up abandoned you and the sparkling, does NOT leave happy thoughts in their head. Like, having a Conjunx seems pretty rare as it is, especially in the tfp universe. So to know what is essentially the human version of one abandoned June?

I'm new to this. Straight up never sent an ask on Tumblr before, uh, hope this is all right?... 😶

(I'm projecting because my own dad abandoned me, wait whaaaat, who said that??)

I wish I could hug you through the screen, anon. Sounds like you could use it. That said, I can see the bots both being unsurprised and confused all at once.

On Cybertron it was completely normal for a single bot to take on a newbuild or sparkling to mentor. At the same time, it was generally seen as a good idea to have two or more mentors involved in the rearing of a sparkling in order to diversify their education and ensure their health and wellbeing. With this in mind, the bots were not initially all that concerned when it came to June raising Jack alone. Orion Pax was brought up by Alpha Trion and the Archivists. Ratchet was raised by an entire colony of mechs of similar origin, communal style. Arcee was taught by a school for newbuilds who were not taken in by single or paired guardians. Bulkhead had a teacher who took him in when he was young and got him through school before they parted ways. Bumblebee was the collective ward of Autobot High Command and referred to all of them as his Sires, albeit with slightly different tones. Smokescreen was raised by the Elite Guard pretty much the moment he signed on. Ultra Magnus and his brother raised themselves and Wheeljack grew up in a pack of other wild newbuilds.

Simply put, there was no real standard for a family on Cybertron outside of the higher castes. Your family was what you made it. So June's situation wasn't all that jarring... until it was.

Conjunxing was rare in the extreme back on Cybertron. It was to be bound intimately and permanently in a way that even scientists had to admit had some level of supernatural effect involved. To choose to Conjunx was a lifelong commitment, a true contract for the functionally immortal Cybertronians. It was even rarer for Conjunxed partners to break way from each other, often because both parties failed to survive for long afterwards more often than not. To hear that June had been Conjunxed by human standards and then been abandoned after having a sparkling as well?

Completely and utterly unheard of.

That was not to say it didn't happen back on Cybertron, but to leave ones partner AND a sparkling? That was social execution.

To hear that June had endured that level of abandonment shook the team. According to Cybertronian custom, to try and preserve the lives of guardian and sparkling it was widely accepted that the community was to step up in the other partner's absence. And so the moment the team registered the situation and translated it culturally, there was an instant shift in disposition around June in particular. There wasn't much they could do for the human women, but they could step up in place of Jack's Sire, just as tradition dictated.

June found herself being talked to by Optimus about the loss of loved ones, earning her the story of how the Prime lost Elita-1 in an attempt to connect. Ratchet started leaving either cash that he picked up for June to use as needed, a small gesture to make up for his lack of available time. Arcee took it upon herself to step up and teach Jack the lessons a Sire would have taught, walking him through mature topics and offering the wisdom of her long life. Bulkhead did the same, trying to give what wisdom he could in the absence of Jack's other creator and even going so far as to share a few stories of his guardian back before the war to connect to the boy. Bumblebee, not having much experience in the field of parenting, instead chose to be more of a friend. He and Jack weren't particularly close, but he kept near to keep an optic on the boy in case he was having a rough day.

Neither Jack or June understood why the team adjusted their behavior and they didn't need to know. Custom would be upheld, even amidst war.

[twisted-dork]

Jason Meets May Parker (AKA The Woman of His Dreams Because She Beat Up the Joker)

Jason Todd wasn’t a romantic.

He wasn’t the type to believe in love at first sight or fate or any of that Hallmark crap. (He may read romance books but that’s fiction therefore it has different rules so it doesn’t count!)

But standing in front of May Parker for the first time—the woman who had, without hesitation, beaten the absolute hell out of the Joker—he thought, Yeah, I’m in love.

He hadn’t planned to meet her like this.

After all, he had questions.

Who the hell was she? How did she take down the Joker with nothing but a baseball bat and sheer rage? Why did the kid she was protecting act like this was just another Tuesday?

So, naturally, he did what he did best.

He followed her.

Which, in hindsight, might not have been his best idea, because when she caught him lingering outside the library where she worked, she hit him in the chest with a hardcover book.

Hard.

May: “You gonna tell me why you’re lurking like a creep, or do I need to hit you again?”

Jason, stunned, looked down at the book she had just used as a blunt weapon.

Jason: “…Did you just hit me with ‘War and Peace’?”

May: “It was the closest thing I had. Want me to try ‘Moby Dick’ next?”

Jason, for reasons he couldn’t explain, grinned.

Jason: “Well I would appreciate it if you didn’t, you pack quite the heat.”

Jason didn’t lie that hit actually hurt which only made him more curious on just how strong she is.

May: “Well from what I’ve seen here in Gotham I think that’s a good thing?”

She smirked putting her hand on her hip.

Once Jason convinced her he wasn’t a threat (and after she made him hold out his hands so she could check them for clown makeup because she wouldn’t be surprised if The Joker sent people after her), May allowed him to sit with her inside the library.

She watched him warily over the rim of her coffee cup, the same way one might watch a stray dog that had wandered in off the street—curious, but not quite trusting.

Jason, on the other hand, was watching her.

Because she was different.

She wasn’t scared of him. Wasn’t intimidated by the leather jacket, the scars, the general air of menace that usually made people keep their distance.

No.

She just looked… tired.

Tired, but not weak.

And damn if that didn’t make his brain short-circuit a little. He had only planned to feel her out. Figure out what kind of person she was.

But then (the boy who was kidnapped,) Peter ran up to her, tugging at her sleeve.

Peter: “Aunt May! I finished my book! Can I get another one?”

May smiled, ruffling the kid’s hair in a way that spoke of effortless familiarity.

May: “Sure thing, sweetheart. You want another science book?”

Peter: “Mmhmm! I wanna learn about quantum physics!”

Jason blinked.

Jason: “…You’re like, five?”

Peter (scowling): “I’m sevente—!”

May m: “Careful. He’ll start monologuing about multiversal theory if you’re not careful.”

May cut Peter off handing him a book and smoothing down his curls.

And that was it.

That was the moment Jason knew he was completely and utterly screwed.

Because the kid was hilarious, and May Parker was somehow both the most terrifying and most comforting person he had ever met.

And Jason Todd?

Well.

Jason Todd had always had a thing for dangerous women with big hearts. He didn’t say it aloud, but he knew then and there that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not just because May had wrecked the Joker like it was personal (which by the way he sees how much she loves the kid it’s unsurprising).

Not just because Peter was the most sarcastic seven-year-old he had ever met (at least he’s not trying to stab him like Damian would).

But because she reminded him of the kind of person he wished he had when he was a kid.

Fierce. Protective.

Unyielding in the face of cruelty.

And even if she didn’t know it yet, she had just gained an unofficial bodyguard in him.

Because Jason Todd wasn’t about to let someone like her face Gotham alone.

Not now.

Not ever.

——————————————————————————————————————

I’ll be making a taglist soon so if you want to be tagged then just request in my ask

[nameless-jamie]

Fire and Ice

One-Bed-Trope SPECIAL

Roy Kent x fem! Physio reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Masterlist

TW: cursing, kissing

From the moment Y/N started as AFC Richmond’s physio, Roy Kent knew she was going to be a problem.

She was too smiley, too bubbly, and too damn nice for her own good. Always bouncing into the training room with that stupid bright-colored clipboard—neon pink or pastel yellow or some other shade that hurt his eyes—asking the players about their injuries with a smile that could probably melt stone. And Roy, being Roy, met her sunshine with nothing but grunts, scowls, and the occasional begrudging “thanks” after a particularly rough treatment session.

But despite his best efforts, Y/N seemed determined to worm her way under his skin. She had this maddening habit of teasing him—nothing outright mean, just playful jabs wrapped in a smile that made his chest feel too tight. Calling him “old man” when she iced his knees, poking at his grumpy demeanor, and laughing softly whenever he let out one of his signature growls. And the worst part? She never seemed to notice the effect she had on him—the way her touch lingered just a second too long during treatments or the way her laughter echoed in his chest long after she’d left the room.

And Roy? Yeah, he noticed.

He noticed the way his pulse sped up whenever she adjusted the tape around his knee or pressed her fingers gently into a sore muscle. He noticed the way her ponytail always swayed when she walked across the pitch, bright and bouncy like she belonged in a goddamn sunshine commercial. He noticed the way she laughed at everyone’s jokes—even Jamie Tartt’s—and how she always seemed to find the good in people, no matter how much of a prick they were.

And it drove him mad.

Of course, the rest of the team noticed too. It was impossible not to.

“Oi, Roy,” Jamie would call across the pitch with a shit-eating grin. “Careful, mate—Y/N might smile at you too hard, and your heart’ll give out.”

“Leave him alone, Jamie,” Isaac would add, barely holding back a grin. “Man’s just tryin’ not to fall apart.”

Even Ted and Beard weren’t immune to the gossip.

“Y’know, Beard, I reckon Roy’s got himself a bit of a crush,” Ted had remarked one afternoon, watching as Y/N adjusted the ice pack on Roy’s knee with a soft smile.

Beard, as always, said nothing—just raised an eyebrow and sipped his tea.

So yeah—everyone saw it. Everyone knew that beneath all the gruff words and grumbles, Roy Kent was hopelessly, utterly, pathetically smitten.

The only person who didn’t know?

Y/N.

Richmond was on their way back from a successful away match, in the midst of winter. Naturally Y/N, the teams main physio was riding on the team bus.

But Y/N hated away matches in the winter.

The bus rattled softly as it wound its way down the snow-covered country road, the faint hum of the heater doing little to cut through the chill. Snowflakes tapped gently against the windows, blurring the view of frost-covered trees and winding roads beyond. Inside, the air buzzed with the familiar chatter of the team—laughter, jokes, and the occasional shout from Isaac or Dani echoing through the aisles.

Seated near the middle of the bus, wrapped in her Richmond-issued jacket, Y/N balanced her clipboard on her lap, flipping through the players’ post-match recovery notes with practiced ease. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, humming softly under her breath as she made quick, efficient notes on muscle strains and hydration levels.

“You hum like you’re starin’ at a bloody sunset instead of injury reports.”

The familiar gravelly voice made her lips twitch as she glanced up—unsurprised to find Roy Kent standing in the aisle beside her seat, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. His signature scowl was firmly in place, dark eyes fixed on her with their usual mix of mild annoyance and something she could never quite name.

“Well, someone’s in a good mood,” Y/N teased, tilting her head with a playful grin.

Roy grunted. “I’m always in a good mood.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, Kent.”

A huff of air escaped Roy’s chest—something that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t Roy Kent.

“Did you need something, or did you just come over to brighten my day with your cheery disposition?” she asked, tapping her pen against her clipboard.

Roy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his jaw working like he was debating whether or not to respond. “…Knee’s still tight,” he muttered, almost like it physically pained him to admit it.

Y/N’s smile softened into something gentler. “Left or right?”

“Left. Felt stiff after the match.”

“Well, you’re not gettin’ any younger, old man,” she teased, her eyes dancing as she scribbled a note on her clipboard.

Roy’s scowl deepened, though the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed him. “Watch it.”

“Or what? You gonna growl at me?”

Roy leaned forward slightly, just enough that she could feel the faint heat of his presence—close but not too close. “Don’t tempt me,” he muttered low enough that only she could hear.

The air between them seemed to hum with something unspoken. Y/N’s pulse skipped, but she recovered quickly, tapping her pen against her clipboard with a teasing smile.

“Careful, Kent. You almost sound like you enjoy our little chats,” she quipped, biting her lip to suppress a grin.

Roy grunted again—his signature non-answer—and stepped back before she could push him any further.

“Make sure you stretch when we get there,” she called after him.

“I know how to bloody stretch,” he shot back without looking over his shoulder.

“Could’ve fooled me, grumpy!”

Roy raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, middle finger extended.

Y/N just laughed, shaking her head as she returned her focus to her notes, the warmth of their exchange still buzzing beneath her skin.

After a while she felt the empty seat beside her shift.

“Oi, Y/N.”

She glanced up to find Jamie Tartt sliding into the seat beside her, his grin already firmly in place.

“Hey, Jamie,” she greeted with a smile. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’ much. Just wonderin’ how you put up with Roy all the time,” he replied, leaning back against the seat with an exaggerated sigh. “Man’s always growlin’ and glarin’ like someone stole his favorite pair of boots.”

Y/N chuckled softly, shaking her head. “He’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Jamie snorted. “C’mon, love—he’s like a bloody bear with a sore paw. Especially when you’re around.”

Y/N blinked, her smile faltering slightly. “Wait…what do you mean?”

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “You’ve not noticed? Man’s always scowlin’ at you like you’ve personally offended him. Isaac reckons it’s ‘cause you’re too nice and smiley. Throws him off, y’know? Can’t handle all the sunshine.”

“Oh.” Y/N’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of her clipboard, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name. “I didn’t think he… I mean, I know he’s a bit grumpy, but I thought we got along okay.”

Jamie tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Eh, maybe he’s just allergic to happiness. Or maybe he just—”

“Jamie,” Sam called from a few seats away, shooting him a warning look. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not bein’ mean!” Jamie protested, throwing up his hands. “I’m just sayin’—maybe Roy’s not your biggest fan. Bloke’s got the emotional range of a brick wall, after all.”

Y/N forced a laugh, but the doubt had already settled deep in her chest.

Maybe Roy really does hate me, she thought, her smile dimming slightly as she glanced out the window at the falling snow.

After a while the bus came to the stop. According to Y/N's GPS on her phone they weren't anywhere near Richmond. The bus driver must be taking a break or something...

Of course, fate had other plans.

“We’re stoppin’ here for the night,” the driver called back, his voice carrying over the groan of the engine.

“What? Why?” Roy Kent’s unmistakable growl cut through the air.

“Road’s closed up ahead. Too much snow. We’ll head out first thing in the morning once they’ve cleared it.”

A collective groan rippled through the team.

“Ah, come on!” Jamie Tartt whined. “It’s just a bit of snow, innit?”

“More than a bit, mate,” Isaac replied. “Unless you fancy freezin’ your bollocks off in a ditch somewhere.”

“Language!” Sam called teasingly.

“Alright, everyone off the bus!” Ted Lasso announced, clapping his hands together as he stood. “Let’s make the best of it, folks. Who knows—maybe they’ve got hot cocoa inside.”

The inn was charming in a rustic, old-world kind of way—dark wooden beams, stone fireplaces, and the faint scent of something sweet baking somewhere nearby. But the moment they reached the front desk, Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry,” the innkeeper said, looking genuinely apologetic. “With the storm, we’re nearly fully booked. I only have a few rooms left—most of them singles.”

Ted clapped his hands together. “Alright, folks, looks like we’re bunkin’ up tonight! Pair up, grab a key, and try not to snore too loud.”

The players quickly began claiming rooms—Isaac and Colin, Sam and Dani, Jamie and Richard. Y/N waited patiently, figuring she’d get the last room left, because she was the only woman on the bus. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d crashed on a too-small sofa or shared a room with Rebecca during away matches.

But when the innkeeper slid the final key across the counter, Y/N had a sinking feeling.

“This is the last one,” she said kindly. “Room 204—queen bed, en-suite bathroom. I hope that’s alright.”

Before Y/N could respond, a familiar presence loomed beside her.

“Wait, what?” Roy Kent’s gruff voice cut through the air.

Y/N glanced up to find Roy standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, eyebrows furrowed in that perpetual scowl.

“The bus driver’s already claimed the last single room,” the innkeeper explained. “I’m afraid you two will have to share.”

“Oh.” Y/N blinked. “Um…that’s fine. It’s just for one night, right?” She glanced at Roy, whose jaw seemed to clench even tighter.

Roy grunted. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

Y/N took the key, plastering on her best smile. “Thanks. C’mon, Roy, let’s get out of everyone’s way.”

The room was cozy—if slightly small. A large queen bed sat against the far wall, piled high with thick blankets and pillows. A small fireplace crackled warmly beneath a stone mantel, and a window overlooked the snow-covered courtyard below.

Roy stood awkwardly by the door, shoulders tense as Y/N set her bag down near the dresser.

“Well…this is nice,” she said, trying to break the silence.

“Yeah. Great,” Roy muttered, hovering near the threshold like a man debating whether to make a break for it.

Y/N bit back a smile. She’d gotten used to Roy’s gruff demeanor over the past year of working with the team. He was all rough edges and sharp words, but she’d learned to see past the scowl to the fiercely loyal, surprisingly thoughtful man beneath.

Not that it made sharing a room with him any less awkward.

“Alright,” Y/N said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s figure out the sleeping arrangements. I can take the floor if you want the bed—”

“No,” Roy cut her off immediately, shaking his head. “You’re not sleepin’ on the bloody floor.”

“Well, neither are you,” she replied. “So unless you’re planning to camp outside in the snow, I think we’re stuck sharing.”

Roy’s brow furrowed. “We can’t—”

“It’s just one night, Roy,” she said gently. “I promise I don’t bite.”

Roy made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Fine. But everyone stays on their side of the bed. No fucking cuddling.”

Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Deal.”

Hours later, Y/N lay beneath the blankets, staring at the ceiling and very much not asleep.

The room was quiet except for the crackle of the fireplace and the faint sound of Roy’s breathing beside her. Despite the wide bed, the heat radiating from his body was impossible to ignore, and Y/N’s pulse seemed to thrum louder with every minute that passed.

Just go to sleep, she told herself. It’s just one night. Stop being weird.

But sleep remained stubbornly out of reach.

“Can’t sleep either?” Roy’s low voice rumbled in the darkness.

Y/N turned her head slightly, finding his silhouette beside her, broad shoulders rising and falling with each breath. His face was half-shadowed in the firelight, but she could still make out the furrow of his brow.

"Not a wink," she admitted quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m too cold.”

Roy exhaled a slow breath. There was a pause—just long enough that she thought he might ignore her. But then—

“C’mere,” he muttered gruffly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets.

Y/N hesitated, her pulse hammering in her chest. “…What?”

Roy huffed impatiently. “I said, come here. Don’t make me say it again.”

Her heart lodged itself somewhere between her ribs as she scooted closer, tentative and unsure—until Roy’s arm curled around her shoulders, pulling her against the solid warmth of his chest.

Holy. Shit.

Y/N swallowed hard, every nerve in her body lighting up like a live wire as Roy’s hand settled lightly against her back, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt. His heart beat slow and steady beneath her cheek, and she could feel the faint rise and fall of his breath against her skin.

“Better?” he asked gruffly.

“…Yeah,” she whispered, her breath ghosting against his collarbone. “Thanks, Roy.”

He made a low, noncommittal noise—a mix between a grunt and something softer, something that made her smile despite the heat rising in her cheeks.

Don’t read into it, she told herself firmly. It doesn’t mean anything.

But as the minutes ticked by and the firelight flickered against the walls, Y/N couldn’t deny the way her heart stubbornly refused to slow down.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

Sleep still refused to come. Now the reason wasn't the cold, but a certain grumpy man, cuddling her.

Y/N shifted slightly beneath the blankets, trying not to disturb Roy—but her movement drew a low, sleepy noise from the back of his throat, something halfway between a sigh and a hum.

Y/N froze, pulse hammering wildly in her chest. “…Sorry.”

“S’fine,” Roy mumbled, his voice rough with sleep and something heavier beneath it. His arm tightened briefly around her, then loosened again, as if caught between holding on and letting go.

Y/N swallowed hard against the ache rising in her chest. The room felt too warm, too quiet, the air thick with things neither of them seemed brave enough to say.

“Roy?”

“Mm?”

"Are you awake?"

"I am now..."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. What's keeping you awake?" he prodded, feeling her uneasiness.

“…Do you really hate me?” she asked softly.

Roy stiffened beside her, his breath catching slightly in his throat. “…What?”

“Jamie said something today on the bus. About how you’re always growling at me. And I just—” She bit her lip, staring at the firelight dancing across the ceiling. “I know I tease you sometimes, but I didn’t think you actually—”

“Christ, Y/N,” Roy muttered, his voice rough with something she couldn’t quite name.

Before she could say another word, Roy tilted his head, his nose brushing lightly against her cheek—just a whisper of contact, but enough to send heat rushing beneath her skin.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as his gaze found hers, dark and intense and impossibly close.

“…I don’t hate you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with something dangerously close to longing.

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. For a moment, they simply stared at each other—caught in that fragile space where time seemed to slow, and the air felt too thick to breathe.

And then Roy kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow.

It was heat and desperation and months of pent-up tension crashing together all at once. His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer, his lips claiming hers with a rough, aching intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.

Y/N gasped softly against his mouth, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she melted against him, her body slotting perfectly against his like they were made to fit together. The kiss deepened, slow and searching, as if they were both trying to memorize the shape of each other—the taste, the warmth, the way their breaths mingled in the space between kisses.

Roy groaned softly into her mouth, a low, gravelly sound that sent a shiver down her spine as his thumb traced slow circles against the curve of her jaw. His other hand splayed low against her back, holding her steady as her pulse thrummed wildly beneath her skin.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Roy’s gaze searched hers—dark and uncertain and so painfully open that it made her chest ache.

“Does that answer your question…I don’t hate you, it's the opposite.” he repeated quietly, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek.

“I mean you made that very clear,” she whispered, her heart lodged somewhere between her ribs. “…Me neither, you know. I actually really like you, Roy.”

Roy huffed a soft, breathless laugh. “Good,” he muttered, his forehead resting lightly against hers.

For a long moment, they simply stayed there—caught in the warmth of each other’s breath, the world outside fading into nothing but snow and firelight and the quiet rhythm of their hearts.

The next morning, when they stepped out of the room hand in hand, the entire team was waiting in the foyer.

“Oi, oi, oi!” Jamie shouted immediately. “Finally! The power-couple, had a nice night, huh?”

“I knew it!” Isaac crowed, slapping Sam on the shoulder.

“Took you long enough, Kent!” Dani added, positively beaming.

Roy glared at them all. “Piss off, the lot of you.”

“Leave them alone,” Y/N added with a smile that was definitely not helping Roy’s case. “They’re just jealous we got the only cozy room with a fireplace.”

“Oh, cozy, is that what they’re callin’ it these days?” Jamie teased with a wicked grin.

Roy growled low in his throat—the kind of growl that usually sent the entire locker room scrambling for cover. But this time, Y/N just laughed softly beside him, squeezing his hand as if to say, I’ve got you.

And somehow, for the first time in a long time, Roy found he didn’t mind the teasing half as much as he thought he would.

Because as long as Y/N was beside him—warm and steady and laughing at his side—he figured he could survive just about anything.

Even Jamie Tartt’s endless teasing.

[midnight-bay-if]

heyy, first off just want to say that i absolutely love the story so far and i'm so excited to see where it'll go in the future <3

anywaysss, how would the RO's react to the MC having to be used as like a honey trap to get info for a mission?

(also my first time doing an ask so if this is messed up, i apologise)

(Thank you so much! I'm also excited, haha. And it's not messed up at all! Don't worry!)

S: They see the benefits of such a plan, but it isn't their favourite method of completing a mission. It often leads to too many complications, most of which would be thrust upon your shoulders should things go awry. It leaves you at the forefront of danger, which they will never be entirely comfortable with. So you had better believe they would be lingering close by, just in case.

"I will have eyes on you the entire time, darling. If you feel uncomfortable, or you believe your cover to be blown, do not hesitate to call upon me. I will be beside you in an instant."

Rain: They don't like it. They feel sure S should be able to develop a better plan that doesn't involve you acting sweet for such a dangerous person. It isn't jealousy but genuine concern for your safety. They at least trust that S won't let anything too nefarious happen, but there is no way they can sit still while it's happening.

"Are you sure about this, MC? Perhaps I could do it instead?" It sounds ridiculous out loud. Rain does not have the confidence for such a thing. "Fine. But I'm going to be watching. If I sense anything off about their body language, I'm intervening. I can't lose you."

Taj: "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Their vehement refusal holds no real orders. They fell for you exactly as you are; they would never try to change who you are. But their displeasure is palpable. They hate everything about the idea; the danger, the charm, the temptation, all of it repulsive. The sweet, whispered words you share in the dark and under blankets are supposed to be theirs. They want them to be. Perhaps it's greedy, but it doesn't feel that way when they are utterly starved for you.

"There has to be a better way, Koel. Lean on me. Work with me. Let's do this together.

N: They go quiet. What could they possibly say? Luring people with sickly sweet nothings or sensual promises of pleasure has been their weapon of choice for a very long time. Even you did not escape its clutches. People use whatever is at hand to survive. They cannot begrudge you the same, but... this feeling in their chest... it hurts. Indeed, you must realise so much of their facade has been stripped back since meeting you, and all their soft, soothing melodies are yours and yours alone.

"I will be waiting close by, my dear. If you need me, I will be whispering on the edges of your consciousness. Do not hesitate to call."

Umbra: Unsurprising that another would find you so perfectly alluring, but... they do not like it. "There must be a better plan," they suggest hopefully, tugging at their sleeves in a self-soothing gesture. "I could easily corner them in a dark alley and scare the information out of them." It wouldn't be any particular hardship; they understand how horrifying they are. But you deny it. You always do. Soft, brave, kind; it's who you are. You see that in them, too, but the truth is, Umbra is only that with you.

"If they hurt you," they warn, danger edging its way back into their voice, "there will be no where in any world for them to hide."

[iamnmbr3]

There's so much drarry content to comment on in this passage I hardly even know where to start.

1) Harry's animosity is all for Snape. The only time we really see him feel true anger towards Draco is at the end of 4th year. Otherwise he's rarely deeply angry at him. It would certainly be unsurprising if Harry blamed Draco for what happened, even if Snape struck the killing blow. But he doesn't. Quite the opposites in fact. He feels sympathy for Draco's plight and actively worries about him. Because he knows Draco so well that he can see right through him to the kind of person he really is - not a willing acolyte of Voldemort. And because Harry is drawn to and cares about Draco a lot more than his is willing to acknowledge, even to himself...

2) The thing Harry picks that he still blames Draco for is...his infatuation with the Dark Arts. Not his role in Dumbledore's death. Not anything he's ever done to Harry. Harry's nice but he's not usually THIS forgiving. Certainly not with people he doesn't care about or dislikes... And for all that Harry claims to dislike Draco he spends an awful lot of time worrying about him. Both here and in later passages as well as in book 7. In this section of book 6 he also claims Crabbe and Goyle look "lonely" without Draco but given the interactions we see between them in book 7 it's pretty unlikely they miss him so if anyone misses Draco and feels like his presence is something that has always been part of his life and that it's strange with out him...it's probably Harry.

3) It's also notable that even though Draco only had the chance to lower his wand a little bit Harry is utterly sure he wouldn't have killed Dumbledore. And instead of thinking about how Draco missed his chance to come back to the Light and now will fall deeper into the Dark, he worries about what Voldemort is "making" him do. Thus accepting that any further acts Draco carries out on Voldemort's behalf are against his will. He really understands Draco. And cares about his welfare. A lot more than an enemy or casual acquaintance would.

4) As an aside, it's also pretty hilarious that Harry's like 'Draco Malfoy? No I haven't thought about him much' *proceeds to spend an entire paragraph thinking about him and worrying if he's ok and then brings him up again a few paragraphs later*

[revehae]

day and night (2)

pairing ↠ jeno x (f) reader x haechan

genre .. warnings ↠ smut, noncon, mean!dom!jeno, implied sub!haechan, gun play, degradation, slapping, kidnapping, oral (m receiving), sadist!jeno, implied dacryphilia

summary ↠ weeks have passed since you’ve known freedom and you haven’t lost hope of going home, but jeno intends to whip you into shape. eventually, you resign yourself to the fact that your new home is with jeno and haechan, and a part of you begins to make peace with that.

wc ↠ 3.1k

a/n ↠ the second and final part of day and night. this is a repost!

don’t like it, don’t read.

it had been an uncertain amount of weeks since you last had a taste of freedom; though it felt like it had been months. at least you still knew the warmth of daylight. haechan, ever lenient, was sweet enough to allow you to step briefly outside on occasion, in the gated backyard where no one could see you and you could see no one.

and without jeno’s awareness, of course. as far as jeno was concerned, you spent your days there rotting alive at their control. part of you had been long-tempted to make noise, to scream help at the top of your lungs, because you knew that haechan would never hurt you. at least, not to the extent that jeno would. but you had a creeping feeling that he’d tell jeno, because after all, it was their lives and future at stake if anyone were to find out what they did to you. and jeno would be absolutely furious. in preference of not seeing jeno seething with rage any more of which you already had in the past few weeks—because every instance ended with you in a very compromising position—you very wisely decided to brainstorm a little more.

haechan was the subject of all of your various ideas, even the least lethal ones. you had abused his kindness from the moment you were brought into this situation, in your very futile efforts to convince haechan to tell you who was “forcing” him into the crime, and to let you go. he was a willing participant, you achingly learned and accepted, but you would improve your craft this time.

it was one of those nights - you were locked up inside your room and your captors were only god knows where. when haechan entered, you were dreadful, though unsurprised. you came to learn that your captors - him especially - were awfully needy. the long weeks consisted of fueling their need to get off and them using your body to their heart’s content. this was no different, although you appreciated that haechan was at least not intentionally rough. and he was fairly submissive to you. though he followed his needs very blindly, he still had some compassion for you.

haechan looked at you, eyes begging please. seeing as you had no other real choice, you gave in to his desires as per usual, but this time with a plan.

“f-fuck,” he moaned, utterly sensitive. the moment you sank down around him, haechan was weak. it always went like that; as if the barest touch could satisfy his never-ending needs. you knew that wasn’t true, though. haechan’s greed too often overcame him.

you flattened your palms against his stomach, feeling like you were at the top of the world from above him and every bit of him was a puzzle of the earth. his mouth where his pitchy whines spilled, his wincing eyes, and the heaving of his chest like a storming sea. haechan’s every characteristic was a mere advantage to you; his pleasure bound him. it sought control over his body which it successfully conquered, and that was his achilles heel. he could never deny what his body so desperately wanted.

at almost the height of his pleasure, you attacked. by now, it was too obvious to you when haechan was at the brink. the tremble in his body, his voice soaring in pitch. he simply couldn’t stay still nor quiet. “feel good?” you asked, already aware of the answer. he couldn’t speak through his moans, only nodding his head rapidly in response. “don’t you think i deserve a reward for making you feel so good, baby?”

haechan blinked, swallowing to wet his drying throat. whatever you wanted, the way that you called him baby had him ready to give you the whole world if he could. “reward?” 

“yeah,” you sighed, leaning down to gently press your lips to his neck in between your words, “you should let me go… we can rat jeno out and pin this all on him. and then you’ll have me all… to yourself. doesn’t that sound good? you can have me whenever you want and don’t have to share me.”

haechan gripped your hips, and in mere seconds he was cumming inside of you. he hadn’t yet verbally agreed, but that alone told you that he was likely on-board. if there was anything you had discovered during the span of these weeks, it was that haechan put his greed before anything.

and you felt victorious until another voice startled you. 

“well, bra-fucking-vo!” jeno whooped, though you knew his amusement was probably anything but sincere. your eyes widened and you crawled off of haechan, backing away as instant fear shot through your chest. if jeno had heard all of that, it went without a doubt that you were in for a punishment.

oh, this was a classic. either jeno excelled at being at the wrong place at the wrong time or this room was something of cursed, though either way, you hated it when this happened. granted, this was only the second time it had, but jeno had invoked enough fear in you from that day alone for you to dread him ever discovering even the thought of you trying to escape.

“j-jeno, i-”

“j-j-jeno, shut the fuck up,” he mocked, switching on a dime. you could see it clearly then - the rage burning like wildfire in his irises.

haechan had been startled, too. it seemed that he only clearly got back into his head when it was too late; when jeno appeared, and he realized just how terrible of a trance you had him in only mere moments ago. it was far too easy for you to hypnotize him and put him under your enticingly dark spells.

jeno shut the door behind him and then stormed over, but much to your surprise, he didn’t storm over to you. he grabbed haechan - who had very swiftly redressed - by his collar, growling, “you fucking idiot. does your dumbass really think she’s gonna let you off the hook just like that? no, she’s gonna turn you and i both in the very second she gets the fucking chance. think with your head instead of your tiny ass balls for once.”

immediately afterwards, jeno released him roughly, making haechan nearly fall back against the sheets. and then, he finally turned to you. you crawled back, pushing yourself away with your hands, yet you had nowhere you could run nor hide. “and you. boy, do i got something for you,” jeno chuckled, and swung his flat palm towards your face. you shut your eyes, but it never came. jeno paused mid-slap, then said in the midst of his rage, “you know what? i have a better idea.”

jeno left the room. you could only dread whatever idea had suddenly popped up inside his head, and the feeling only heightened when you saw him re-enter some moments later with a gun firm in his hand. the fear on your face made him laugh, but you brought it upon yourself anyways. if you had just been an obedient little plaything for them, he would have never needed to bring out the extremes. though, shockingly enough, he walked over and handed the gun to haechan, who stared at him in confusion. 

“you aren’t off the hook, baby,” jeno said mockingly, nudging haechan. “come on.”

haechan obediently followed him to the other side of the bed where you quivered and cowered. you weren’t the only one to be punished when it came down to displeasing jeno, and you probably wouldn’t believe him if he said that he knew that better than you did. 

jeno grabbed you by your neck, ordering sharply, “get on your knees.”

you dropped to your knees without hesitance, only willing to please him so urgently because you didn’t want to upset him further. and god, he was easily irritable.

“you’re going to suck me off,” he said simply, “and your baby here is gonna hold that gun to your head to keep you in compliance.” 

haechan’s eyes flashed with shock, and he quickly tried to dissuade jeno, “but-”

“no ‘but’s. do you wanna go to fucking prison? kiss your dreams goodbye?” jeno barked, to which haechan shook his head immediately. “then, do what the hell i said. simple as that.”

it took everything in you when you felt the gun being pressed to your head once again not to cry, but you didn’t want to show jeno any signs of weakness. he didn’t care if you sobbed and if anything, it probably got him off even more. sickly enough.

jeno kicked you with his foot, and you bit back a groan of pain. “fuck are you waiting for? get on with it.”

you obeyed, reaching for his pants and pulling them down his ankles. his underwear followed. you didn’t move with intention, heart racing so fast to the point where you hardly felt alive, detached from your body and only physically present. the fear born in you controlled your every move.

jeno was already half-hard, and you mindlessly pumped his dick, him going fully stiff in your palms before you knew it. you latched your lips onto him, drawing him into your mouth. you were at least grateful that he had left you with some control, in spite of the gun haechan was holding to the side of your head. you recalled the many times within the span of the past few weeks where he had given your mouth a rough fucking - stressed from practice and all those sorts of things and letting it out on you - until your throat had gone sore and you could do nothing but croak hoarsely when he fucked you full only moments after. at least for now, the pace was somewhat yours. 

or not. 

you went too slow. you didn’t mean to tease, but jeno surely took it as such. jeno grabbed the gun from haechan and pointed it at your temple himself, then very quickly pulled the trigger. when you heard the click, you prepared to meet your end, the frightened tears finally streaming warmly down your cheeks as the thought of freedom rolled into your brain. but nothing came, and when you glanced up at jeno, teary-eyed, his cock twitched in your mouth.

“that’s what happens when you tease,” jeno said, a wicked grin on his lips, and he handed the revolver back to haechan. “only one of the chambers is loaded. fuck around and find out which one is.” 

you didn’t want to do that, and so you upped your pace, trying your hardest to satisfy him. he tipped his head back, roughly yanking for a fistful of your hair and forcing your mouth deeper down his shaft.

when he opened his eyes back, he laughed. not at you, but at haechan, the one who tried to hurt you as little as possible. come to think of it, the only time he ever did was because of the influence of jeno, which was why his kindness was so easy to manipulate. if only jeno had never popped up when he did. you might have actually gotten away with it. instead, both you and haechan were being forced to do something you hated.

“haechan, your hands are shaking like crazy,” jeno remarked teasingly. then, he looked at you and mocked, “you better pray your baby doesn’t fuck around and kill you.”

it was that day you began to accept that you would never know freedom again.

jeno wanted to be sure you knew it, though, just so that you would never forget and in case you needed the rough reminder. and also because he simply loved the look on your face as all the hope was drained from it, and you realized once more that your fate lied in their hands.

once jeno found out about you and haechan’s backyard escapades, he forbid haechan from ever taking you back outside, allegedly because being out there was giving you ideas. and it was, but they ultimately always fell through, obviously, and most of them were too stupid to even dare be attempted.

on occasions where he was feeling extremely cruel, he would fuck you with the news channel playing in the background, forcing you to listen to the news anchor talk about your disappearance and how they were, fortunately enough, still searching for you, though the police had little leads. he would taunt, “soon, they’ll give up and stop looking. no one’s going to save you, whore.”

and that broke you like nothing else had. it stung to think that this was what had become of your life ever so suddenly, in the blink of an eye. this was the lifestyle that you were being forced to adapt to, one where you felt more like a pet than a person. a doll than anything even breathing and alive.

then, weeks became months, and you were beginning to see your captors in a different light. perhaps it was the lack of vitamin D and other human interactions getting to your head, but there came the realization that they were attractive. you had simply been too blinded by hatred to accept it. though now, you were becoming attracted to them.

soon, you began snooping around. usually they kept you barricaded upstairs (they took preliminary measures to ensure you couldn’t escape, locking the windows and doors and such.) so when you were certain that both of them were in class, you left your room and ventured into one of theirs. it was haechan’s that you entered, you realized sooner than later. the pictures of him and some of his friends or family on the walls, his gaming chair and console very telling. you ignored the box of tissues on his desk, glancing around elsewhere. it wasn’t tidy or messy, but you got the undying urge to clean, and that you did. in all honesty, you had nothing better to do. 

then, you went to jeno’s. his room was clean, surprisingly so, though also terribly bare. the only pictures he had were ones taken after his teams had won games and he was holding the trophy. he had a case busting at the seams with trophies from the endless amount of achievements he had made in his lifetime. to you, that part made sense.

“fuck are you doing?” 

you jumped, startled. though you weren’t surprised when you turned around and saw jeno standing at the door frame. scratch your bedroom being cursed - if they all weren’t, then he definitely just knew how to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. 3 times was certainly not a coincidence.

in an instant, you replied, “i wasn’t messing with anything, i swear-”

jeno burst into laughter. he liked it too much that you were afraid of him. all of the fear that flooded you in moments upon noticing his presence was what he lived for.

“were you gonna clean up my room, too?” jeno asked teasingly, stepping forward. for once, he didn’t seem mad. not that you had done anything to merit his anger - yet. so you only stood there, hoping he wouldn’t switch up. “like some fucking maid or something?”

gulping, you stammered, “i thought you were in class.”

“yeah, it got canceled last-minute,” he shrugged, now at your side and playing with your hair. something about his presence was constricting. you held your breath, unable to ignore that he was there almost whenever he stood in the same room as you. “we can do something better though, right?”

at the same time, you were so used to him lashing out and punishing you whenever he caught you doing something that this was too unfamiliar and didn’t feel right. sure, he was still mean enough to mock you, but jeno never played with your hair; he played with you. it was something haechan had gotten accustomed to, the more unshocking person. jeno’s every move aroused suspicion in you.

jeno pulled your hair a little roughly - reminding you that you forgot to respond - and asked again, more firmly, “right?”

and there it was.

“right,” you answered swiftly.

“knees.”

so down on your knees you went. you unfastened his belt and pulled down his clothes, and stroked him stiff. it was a well-practiced routine, though the difference now was that you seemed to suck him with greed, taking him in your mouth as if you hadn’t eaten in days (and as cruel as jeno could be, he never starved you). which did not go unnoticed by the man you knelt before.

“just like that. keep it up and maybe i’ll reward that stupid cunt of yours.”

and you hated that that excited you. you were only glad that he wasn’t inside of you, because he would have felt you tightening around his dick if he was being needy, or his fingers if he was being nice.

much like haechan, jeno also had obvious signs of being close to the edge. when you were giving him head, he liked to grip your hair and take matters into his own hands, quite literally, guiding your way around his cock until he came. nothing had changed today. he was groaning, pulling you down further down. he didn’t care if you gagged, either. it was none of his concern if you couldn’t breathe. he had one goal and that was to use your mouth for his pleasure.

and he liked to see you swallow. so, when he came, that was what you did, but some of his cum streamed down your chin and dripped onto the floor in a tiny puddle.

you tried to stand, but jeno pulled back down. you glanced at him, confused, but he only shot you an expecting look. “where do you think you’re going? you have a mess to clean.” 

your eyes flickered a couple of times, and then you realized he meant the puddle. “i can go get some napkins,” you said, trying to stand again. 

jeno didn’t allow it, pulling you again, and with a fistful of your hair in his clutch, he lowered your head down to the floor, ordering sharply. “clean. it.”

after you blinked a couple of times, that was when you realized what he meant. and the more you waited around, the more violent he got, lifting your head and slamming it back down, just above the floor to give you a scare. so you did as told, licking the puddle away with your tongue. easily one of the most shameful things you’ve done.

you didn’t realize he was recording until you were finally able to lift your head up, and saw his camera pointed in your face. “haechan’s gonna lose his fucking mind,” jeno chuckled. “should we give him a show?”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Cozened Indigo - Part One

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes. Word count: ~4k

Summary: Unhappy with the assignment she has been given to work on for the Duskendale Gazette, she opts to pursue her own story, not quite realising what she's getting herself into.

Author's note: I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Chewing the end of her pen, she leans closer to the computer monitor as her eyes scan the Reuters website almost frantically.

Aemond Targaryen, son of late billionaire, Viserys Targaryen, charged for the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Case pending trial.

Nervous excitement swirls in her gut, as she leans back in her uncomfortable, creaky office chair. This is the first mention she has seen of such a scandal, unsurprising considering how high profile the Targaryen family are in Westeros. They’ll have worked hard to cover this up, however, with a court case imminent, the news is now public knowledge.

She knows that every media outlet from Dorne to Eastwatch will be all over this, but it will be nothing beyond surface level detail, the most basic of coverage. None of them will be able to get the family to talk, but she can, that is her specialty – was her specialty.

Essos Fraudster Glorified by White Cloak Magazine.

The headline passes through her mind like a stormcloud, a dirty mark upon her career that she can never scrub out. She had been duped, it was an honest mistake, but it had cost her dearly.

When whisperings began regarding an oligarch from Essos having shady business dealings in King’s Landing, she had set out to investigate, feeling it was a story worth telling. To her surprise, he had agreed to an interview, and she had been spun a tale of a man born into tremendous wealth, who was now looking to give back by setting up charitable foundations across Westeros.

She had done her due diligence, followed up on all of the sources at her disposal. Every phone call she made checked out, verifying his claims, and so the glossy double page spread had run in White Cloak Magazine, painting a picture of a misunderstood, altruistic individual who just wanted to share his wealth.

It had been the crowning achievement of her journalistic career, until two days later when the Blackwater Post had run their own story, utterly destroying hers. The oligarch was in fact guilty of tax evasion and money laundering, the charities he had founded mere fronts, empty shell corporations and hedge funds used to hide large sums of money that were never intended to be donated. The sources he had provided to back his claims had all been disreputable business associates of his, posing as bankers, accountants and employees.

He was jailed for his crimes and White Cloak was made a laughing stock for the piece they had run. As the person who had written it, it was her head that was placed upon the chopping block, a blunder of such enormity could not be overlooked.

Her humiliation had felt as though it would swallow her whole. She ought to have been more thorough in her research, but hindsight always possesses more clarity than what is right in front of you. She had considered just giving up and pursuing a different career path entirely, yet despite the shame that shrouded her, she had known that the urge to write would never leave her, an insatiable itch that must be scratched.

For a year she had looked for another job, had applied to just about every magazine and newspaper that existed in Westeros. If she had to relocate to Dorne, The Reach, or even The North then she’d do it for the sake of her career. Unfortunately, the blemish on her record was well known, and nowhere reputable would touch her.

That was until the Duskendale Gazette had taken a chance on her. The pet project of Royce Baratheon, it is a small, localised publication, a far cry from the nationwide reach of the high end White Cloak, but they were willing to hire her, the salary covers her rent, and it means not having to move away from King’s Landing.

For the last eighteen months she has occupied a desk in a darkened corner of the Duskendale Gazette’s offices, lovingly nicknamed “The Wall” by those that sit there - a place where writers at the end of their careers or close to retirement are sent to die.

It has been a slow, painful death, covering everything from disputes over fishing permits in Blackwater Bay to the implementation of a one way traffic system in Rosby. Discovering the news regarding Aemond Targaryen feels like the shot of adrenaline that her career needs to bring it back to life, provided he’s willing to speak to her – provided she can get sign off to write the story in the first place.

She sets down the biro she has been gnawing on and looks at the time on her computer. 9.02am. Glancing over her shoulder towards the big, glass walled meeting room that sits at the centre of the newsroom, she can see that Royce, along with the other editors and department heads are settling around the table, preparing to plan the next round of commissions.

Anxiously biting her lip, she considers her options. It would look bad to just walk in uninvited, however, if she doesn’t ask now then she’ll never get to do it. This is a story worth writing, surely they’d see that? Abruptly, she stands up, drawing in a steadying breath.

Fuck it, I’m going in.

She knocks at the door, not awaiting an answer before pushing it open. The men around the table furrow their brows, falling silent as they turn to look at her.

Royce shuffles the papers in front of him, sighing in irritation. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

Undeterred, in spite of the way her heart thunders in her chest, she steps further into the room towards the head of the table where he sits. “I know and that’s why I’m here. I saw on Reuters this morning that Aemond Targaryen has been charged with the murder of his nephew. I–”

“You won’t be covering that,” Royce interrupts, standing from his seat and lifting a sheet of paper from the pile. “I’m putting you on the upcoming curfew that’s to be implemented in Flea Bottom.”

“Royce, please, there’s something here, I know there is,” she presses, attempting to push down the anger that simmers hotly under her skin at his dismissal. “This could be huge for us.”

“You’ll write the story you’re assigned,” he insists, thrusting the paper towards her, “the last thing we need is a profile of some spoiled aristocrat, especially from someone with your track record.”

There it is. Someone with your track record.

“Just give me a chance–”

“You will write what I’ve commissioned, and be grateful you’re getting anything at all.”

“So you’re just going to ignore this?”

“We’ll place a court reporter on it once it goes to trial, but that is not your concern. Focus on your own assignment.”

She turns on her heel, storming back to her desk. Her skin burns with humiliation, tears blurring her vision as she sits down, slapping the commission sheet down next to her keyboard. Drawing in a steadying breath, she scrubs her hands over her face in an attempt to calm herself.

Scanning the assignment she’s been given, she scoffs. A curfew enforced by King’s Landing Constabulary as a means to curb the violent and drunken behaviour that’s rife in Flea Bottom. It's a soulless story, she knows she’ll be expected to simply present the facts, alongside a media ready quote from the police force, instead of addressing the rampant poverty in the area that is the catalyst for such problems. The final product will be better used as ad space.

It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, and wanting to prove Royce wrong, she decides to press ahead with the story that she wants to write anyway. Opening her internet browser, she searches the Targaryen name, presented with hundreds of links and articles regarding the family.

There is nothing she doesn’t already know; they’re from old money, own most of the banking and legal services from here to Oldtown and there is a rift that divides Viserys’ second wife, Alicent, and her children from his first daughter, Rhaenyra, and her family.

The remaining patriarch of the family, Otto Hightower, owns a law firm called Red Keep Solicitors which is based in the centre of King’s Landing. A good enough place to start for her background research. Scanning the office to ensure no one’s looking, she stuffs her assignment sheet into her bag and slips out unnoticed.

As she steps out of the taxi that has pulled up outside of the high rise office block, she is surprised by the lack of media presence. She had assumed that with the information that leaked this morning, there would be a line of news station vans parked along the pavement, with journalists all clamouring to get a vox pop from someone from either the Hightower or Targaryen family. Besides a steady flow of traffic down the street, it’s dead. Whoever is working to keep the media away is doing an exceptional job. For once, she is thankful she works for a small, local newspaper; no notoriety means being able to fly under the radar.

The polished black marble of the foyer floor causes each of her footsteps to echo around the lofty reception. The space is modern and minimalist; the reception desk placed at the far wall, the motif of a castle with the company name emblazoned across the wall behind it. A forest green, crushed velvet sofa sits off to the side, serving as the waiting area.

“Good morning,” the young woman seated behind the desk greets her. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Otto Hightower,” she says, smiling politely. The less she gives away, the less likely she is to be turned away.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not. I was hoping he might be able to squeeze me in for a quick consultation?” She asks hopefully.

“Hmm,” the receptionist’s eyes narrow, regarding her with suspicion, before she taps delicately at the keyboard of her computer. “I’m afraid Mr. Hightower is fully booked for today. Can I take a message?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll wait,” she replies, keeping her tone light, attempting to appear casual. She moves to the sofa, taking a seat and crossing one leg over the other. She ignores the receptionist, who is now eyeing her intently.

Plucking her mobile out of her bag, she pretends to look busy as the woman behind the desk picks up the phone and speaks in a hushed tone into the receiver, clearly alerting whoever is on the other end to her presence.

Thirty minutes tick by in uncomfortable silence, during which she has checked just about every app on her smartphone and read through most of her emails. Her head snaps up upon hearing the elevator ding. As the doors slide open she sees a tall, much older, bearded man step out. There is no mistaking that this is Otto Hightower.

Jumping to her feet, she follows him as he walks quickly past her, out of the building.

“Mr. Hightower, might I have a moment of your time?”

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even turn to look back at her, his tone clipped as he tells her “I have no interest in speaking to the press.”

Undeterred, she lengthens her strides to keep up with him. “I understand your concern, but I’m not here to drag anyone’s name through the mud. I’d just like to understand more about what happened with your grandson.”

“No comment,” he says flatly, pulling open the rear door of a sleek, black Mercedes that pulls up to the curb and climbing in.

Before she has the opportunity to say anything else, he’s slamming the door closed and the car is pulling away.

She groans in frustration, walking back towards the entrance of Red Keep solicitors and leaning against the wall. She isn’t ready to give up, not when she’s had a small taste of what it’s like to work on something she actually cares about again. This is just a minor setback, she’ll find someone willing to speak to her. For now, she just needs to get back to the office and plan what the next step of her strategy will be. Pulling out her phone, she opens the taxi app, preparing to head back.

“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”

The quiet voice pulls her attention away from her screen and she glances over her shoulder to be met by a dark, curly haired man, leaning heavily on a cane, an orthopedic shoe on his left foot.

“Excuse me?”

“You couldn’t really have believed that showing up here unannounced would get you an interview, surely?”

She scowls. “And who might you be?”

“Larys Strong,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers.

She turns fully to face him. “And how do you know what will or won’t get me an interview?”

His lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, eyes moving slowly from her head to her feet and back up again. It unnerves her and she can feel herself involuntarily shrinking away from him. 

“It’s my job to know. The Hightowers are keen to prevent any unwanted…whispers from occurring, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“So, no one from the family would be willing to speak with me?”

“Absolutely not. But I might be.”

“You? How would you be able to help me?”

His eyes seem to glitter, almost malevolently, as he stares at her. It sends a shiver up her spine.

“Oh, I provide all kinds of help to all kinds of people.”

He produces a business card from his inside pocket, handing it to her.

Larys Strong, Harrenhal Associates.

She gives a quiet thanks, fishing around in her bag and handing him one of her own. He glances at it quickly, before slipping it into the pocket from which he’d taken his own.

“Come by my office around seven this evening,” he tells her. “I’m sure we have much to talk about.”

Watching in stunned silence as he turns and shuffles back inside the entrance of Red Keep Solicitors, she knows she should feel excited – she finally has her in, dubious as it may be – however, she cannot shake the feeling that she has just unwittingly stepped into the midst of something sinister.

She whiles away the remainder of the day back at the Duskendale Gazette, ensuring she knows everything there is to know about the Targaryen and Hightower families – at least everything that’s publicly available anyway. She also looks into Larys Strong; there’s little to be found about him, but what she is able to dig up is impressive. He’s a solicitor, and has seemingly never lost a case for any of the clients he’s defended. She has an eerie feeling that the means through which he achieves this are far from ethical.

By the time seven o’ clock rolls around, she’s stood outside of a dingy brick building, located off of the Street of Silk. It does not even come close to the grandiosity of Red Keep Solicitors, without even so much as a sign to indicate it’s a place of business.

Ignoring the voice at the back of her mind that screams at her to turn and run, she presses the buzzer, pulling the door open as it’s released and making her way up the rickety wooden staircase to the top floor.

The room is dimly lit, small and stuffy, worn out carpet lines the floor, complete with furnishings that are likely older than she is. What strikes her as most odd is the abundance of flowers, there’s a vase on every flat surface and they look strangely out of place, a lurid splash of brightness against their darkened surroundings. She wrinkles her nose, the cloying scent of patchouli is overpowering. It’s either being used to cover up the odour of something else or is a misguided attempt to suggest opulence, but instead comes across as tacky.

Larys hovers in the doorway to his own personal office, watching her as she takes in her surroundings.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he eventually says. “I appreciate that an out of hours visit is less than ideal, but I’m sure you understand the need for discretion.”

She nods, nerves swirling in her gut at the sudden realisation that no one knows that she’s here.

“My secretary has left for the day, so please leave your phone and any recording devices on her desk. I trust you realise that anything discussed this evening is strictly off of the record?”

“Understood,” she replies, deciding to just leave her entire bag on the desk as she follows Larys into his office.

It’s even smaller and more cramped than the tiny space that serves as the reception area. Overstuffed shelves of books line the walls, and the room’s only illumination is a lamp which sits upon the desk.

Larys settles into a leather armchair behind it, gesturing for her to take the seat on the other side.

“Can I ask what your involvement with the Targaryen family is?” She finally asks, once settled across from him.

He sits back, fingers moving absentmindedly over the grip of his cane. “I provide counsel to them. I will be acting as Aemond’s legal defense in the upcoming trial.”

She raises her eyebrows in shock. It’s surprising to know a family as wealthy as the Targaryens would be willing to trust such a delicate matter with someone who operates their business out of a seedy back alley. “You? Why?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, upturning the palm of his free hand. “Who else would? No one from Red Keep Solicitors could represent him, it would be a conflict of interest. And besides, I get results, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, I do, as I’m sure you know all about me. Which leads me to my next question, if the Targaryens don’t want the media involved in this then why have you agreed to speak with me?”

Larys is silent for a moment, fingers stroking delicately over the petals of a red flower that sits within a vase upon his desk. “My reasons are twofold,” he says, finally looking up at her. “First, both sides of the family have come to a mutual agreement that neither one will talk to the press. I feel that is a mistake. Aemond needs all the help he can get. I don’t necessarily mean starting a media circus to report upon his every move and dig into his past, just one reputable source to give him a leg up while he’s at a disadvantage. Second, I have chosen you because I’m aware of your past…indiscretions. The future of your career rests upon this, so I know you will treat it with the due diligence it deserves.”

She scoffs in disbelief, running a hand through her hair. “The guy’s been charged with murder, how much care could he possibly need?”

“The prosecution will be pushing for a sentence for murder, yes. I’ll be arguing for a lesser sentence of manslaughter.”

“So, he didn’t mean to do it?”

“I think it’s better said in his own words.”

“You can arrange an interview with him?”

“I can arrange a visit for you to speak with him where he’s currently being remanded in custody, at Dragonstone Prison, yes.”

She attempts to remain neutral as her excitement bubbles unrestrained internally. “When is the trial?”

“In three weeks, so we have to act swiftly. I believe this concludes our discussion. I shall be in touch regarding your visitation.”

She is taken aback by the abrupt ending to their conversation, rising slowly from her seat as she leaves his office and collects her bag. It’s unnerving that even as she descends the staircase she can still feel his presence, the sweet, heady aroma clinging to her clothes like an invisible fog.

True to his word, Larys gets her her visit, and two days later she sits in the ferry terminal for Dragonstone Prison. Having had her identification checked, and her details input onto the system, she is issued a number and has to wait for it to be called before she can board.

The wait is agonising, and a full hour passes before she is called forward, scrambling to her feet towards the boarding area. The grey waters are choppy, causing the ferry to rock slightly on its short journey across the Gullet, until the craggy isle that houses the criminals of Westeros comes into view. The high, cement walls of Dragonston Prison are imposing and bleak against the skyline.

Disembarking the ferry, she is guided through the visitors’ entrance and searched, her personal effects rifled through as she walks through a metal detector, and her electronic devices taken away, to be returned to her upon her departure. Her identification is checked once more, and her details input onto the system again. She is told to take a seat, her name will be called when it’s time for her visitation to begin.

The hard seat is uncomfortable, and without the distraction of her phone she is left to stare at the clock on the wall. Its relentless ticking is maddening, the minutes feeling as though they crawl past. So absorbed in watching it, she jumps when her name is finally called, struggling to compose herself as she’s ushered through into the visitation area.

A series of tables and plastic chairs make up the startling white windowless room, and she is led to one in the far corner. Unsure of what to do, she simply stands beside her seat, awaiting the man she is to meet.

From the photos she has seen, Aemond cuts an imposing figure, dressed all in black. She hopes that the softness of the grey prison uniform will render him less intimidating. However, those thoughts are dashed the moment she sees him walk slowly through the door on the opposite side of the room.

He is in no rush, his steps are methodical, unhurried, a predator stalking its prey as he moves towards her. The photographs do not do justice to his height, long and lithe, he towers over her, and she feels herself holding her breath as she takes in the sharpness of his features. His long, platinum hair is pulled back into an immaculately styled ponytail, giving her an unhindered view of his chiseled jaw, aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones, though spoiled slightly by the ragged, angry looking scar that runs the length of the left side of his face. The eye within the socket sits milky and lifeless, but it does little to lessen the intensity of the brilliant blue of his right.

She notices the slightest dilation of his pupil as he stares unblinkingly at her, making her heart race as the cold sweat of fear prickles the back of her neck. So preoccupied with simply getting her story, it has not occurred to her until now that she would be face to face with a killer.

Certain he senses her fright, she sees his lips twitch with the faintest of smirks. The fact that it does not reach his eye makes her blood run cold.

Part two || Series masterlist

[happyhauntt]

famous last words — james potter

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: you and james are sworn enemies. you quite like it that way.

─── pairing: james potter x quidditch player!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, banter, swearing. if you're a reader of my cedric series oh, captain! then you might find this familiar, it's a reworked version of chapter three. this was so much fun honestly i love sassy stuff like this.

─── word count: 2.1k.

     BY THE TIME THE TRAIN WHISTLES ITS ARRIVAL AT HOGSMEADE STATION, all you really want to do is go to bed. The golden glow of warmth has suffused your bones completely, lulling you into a delightfully sleepy state. You're curled up against the window when your friend Beth jostles you awake and practically carries you off the train, where you are utterly unsurprised to learn that the weather is terrible.

     The downpour does a spectacular job at waking you up. Droplets of freezing rain slip past the collar of your shirt and down your spine before you manage to pull your cardigan up over your head. A disgruntled scowl tugs at your lips as you race ahead of Beth to get a space on one of the carriages. Once you are safely situated in the dry, you look out into the rain, expecting to see Beth scarpering up the platform right behind you. Instead, she's sauntering towards the carriage, a wide smirk on her face, happy and dry beneath one of the big black umbrellas Hagrid is handing out on the platform.

     You frown, folding your arms over your chest, feeling distinctly soggy. Beth climbs into the carriage, giggling as she sits down beside you. You merely stick your tongue out at her.

     "Hey," Beth says, folding the umbrella back up before raising her hands in defence, accidentally splashing you both with rainwater, "you're the one who ran away. Don't blame me for being more observant."

     "I reject that," you reply indignantly. Beth offers up a hair tie from her wrist and you take it, still scowling, to tie your damp hair into a messy ponytail. "I am absolutely observant. Just not... all the time." Which basically means where sports isn't involved. Teachers have noted in their reports that you're easily distracted in class, with a mind that tends to wander rather than focus on the task at hand. Your mother used to call it butterfly brain. Thoughts light as air, settling down on one flower for a few moments until a prettier, more interesting flower comes into view. She didn't mean to make you feel bad about that, but it doesn't help when all your teachers are saying the same thing.

     The prettier flower is usually Quidditch. With a muggle upbringing, you hadn't been exposed to the brilliance of magic until a mysterious letter appeared on your eleventh birthday (delivered, you recall, stern-faced woman in peculiar emerald robes. If you'd known then that Professor McGonagall's first impression of you would be a wide-eyed child whose front tooth had just been knocked loose by a rogue cricket bat, well, you probably would've died of embarrassment. Now she's your Head of House. And most unfortunately, that's not the only time she's seen you missing a few teeth.) When you got to Hogwarts and saw students playing Quidditch for the first time, whizzing like arrows through the air on actual broomsticks— You'd been in love with the sport ever since.

     Almost every corner of your brain is taken up by Quidditch. A hundred different game plans and plays running on repeat. So Beth is totally wrong; you are very observant., and you are never more observant than when your eye is on the prize.

     This time, though, the prize was shelter. Skittering off through the downpour to get to the carriage without properly checking your surroundings wasn't the smartest route, but it worked. Sort of.

     Your pride hurts a little bit.

     Beth's just about done laughing at you when a knock on the carriage exterior catches your attention. A familiar face appears at the door. "Is there any room in here?" James Potter's smile is crooked, and his dark hair is damp and floppy from the rain, water dripping from the strands into his face. Bright eyes dart back forth between you and Beth, and suddenly you remember that only almost every corner of your brain is occupied by Quidditch.

     There's a stubborn little spot right in the middle, little more than a speck, really — but it's filled with nothing else but James fucking Potter.

     "There was a mass exodus from the train as soon as it arrived," he continues as his glasses start to fog up, "and the only other carriage left is full of second-years."

     Oh, you feel that one in your soul. Second-years are okay, sometimes, but usually they're excitable, too ready for the start of another year at magic school, and thus only bearable in small doses. By third year, the excitement is all about getting to choose which classes you take, and you understand this to a degree (you chose Divination, which sounded cool at the time but was an absolute fucking mistake, because you might enjoy the spooky muggle stuff but predicting the deaths of all your friends is not fucking fun, no matter how good your end-of-year grade was for it ) but the novelty quickly wears off.

     You suppose that's why James has chosen to risk his life by sitting in a confined space with you, instead. The three of you are well-seasoned veterans of Hogwarts and its bullshit by this point and, as a result, are appropriate company.

     The fact that both of you are his teammates is probably a nice bonus, too.

     You, however, offer a merciless smirk. James Potter is, without doubt, your worst enemy, and it fills you up with glee to inconvenience him at any opportunity. "You snooze, you lose, Potter. Off to the second-years you go!" You even make a shooing motion, just for good measure.

     Beth smacks your arm and rolls her eyes, offering James a pleasant smile. "There's loads of room, ignore them," she says, and while you're busy dramatically rubbing your arm and muttering expletives, James takes a seat on the bench opposite you. Rain hammers against the roof, somehow louder than it was a moment ago, and a self-satisfied grin creeps onto his face as the carriage begins its journey to the castle.

     "Where are the rest of the merry morons, then?" You ask, quirking a brow at him. You're pretty sure you can count on one hand the number of times you've seen James without at least one of his comrades in mischief. Frankly, it's rarer than spotting a unicorn in the wild. You wonder if you should take a picture to commemorate the occasion.

     He looks sheepish as he pulls his glasses off to wipe away the condensation. "Lost a bet."

     He doesn't elaborate, and you don't care enough to ask him to. You've been at school with them long enough to know that, honestly, it's probably best not to know.

     Beth reaches out and plucks a stray leaf from your hair. She waves it in your face, tickling your nose gently before letting it flutter to the ground. You slip your hand into hers, linking your fingers together. Beth is soft and sweet when she wants to be, and you're certain there's not a soul in the world who knows you this well. She has wormed her way into your heart, and you'd have to carve it out of your chest to be rid of her now.

     "Does anyone know who our captain is yet?" You ask aloud, after a few seconds of silence have passed. You're tired enough to curl up on the floor of the carriage and fall asleep right then and there, lulled by its gentle rocking and pitter-patter of the rain, but you should probably be conversational. There's very little worse than awkward silence, especially with James sitting there, staring at you with that dopey half-smirk on his face.

     You want to smack him. You want him to think you're extraordinary. You're not quite sure how to cope with such emotional extremes, but there they are, coexisting at the front of your mind. They war with each other, an itch you can't scratch because if you, you'll keep going until there's blood.

     His, preferably.

     It's not even that you hate James. Not really. You used to, only a year or so ago, because he made it so easy. With his smug little smile and the skip in his step, with his quips and jokes and way his hair curls over his brow, you'd fucking despised him. He'd set himself up as your rival back in second year, when you made the Gryffindor team at the same time. With the blurred stretch of years between then and now, you can't remember quite how it began, or what he did precisely that sparked this eternal grudge, but what followed is years of goading one another, pushing and pushing and pushing to outdo one another.

     The rivalry has made you so much better than you ever could have dreamed. Quidditch is your life and honestly, without James Potter, you're not sure where you'd be with it. Still good, perhaps. But maybe not very nearly the best.

     (You'll die before you tell him that, though. Or he will. You're not that picky and he does seem to have a death wish.)

     The carriage jolts as one of the wheels dips into a pothole. The thought of skipping the feast entirely sneaking past Professor McGonagall to go straight to your dorm is a tempting prospect. You know Beth won't let you do it, because if she has to sit through Dumbledore's speech then she'll drag you down with her, but it might be worth a shot.

     The silence persists for a few more seconds, growing steadily more awkward. When no one responds to your question, you press on. "We should've heard by now, right? Team captains get picked in the summer, and we need a new one because Hilary graduated last year." Do you sound a little bit agitated by your teammates' lack of urgency? Yes. Just a touch. But the look on Beth's face is fucking suspicious, and James... Well. He looks like he'd rather die.

     You narrow your eyes. "What are you not telling me? Spit it out, the pair of you."

     James coughs once, raising a hand to cover his mouth as he does so. For once the typical arrogance is gone, washed away with the rain. He looks dreadfully uncomfortable, turning bright red as he bashfully says, "Well. Uh. I am, I suppose. The new captain, that is." He has the good sense to look frightened.

     You hope, suddenly, that his cough means he caught pneumonia or something. Nothing fatal, obviously, but just enough to put him out of commission for a little while. You don't really mean it (you're not quite as horrible as some people would like to think) because James is one of the best on the team. Sometimes, you'll begrudgingly admit that he's even the best on the team   ━   but only if you get to be second best, obviously.

     Which is why you're a little shocked, of course, but not surprised. Not surprised at all, because he is good. Even as you sit there, pondering the many ways you could kill him and make it look like an accident, you know he's good. Too fucking good.

     Which is why you say, "Tell me you're kidding."

     James furrows his brows. "I'm not kidding?"

     You can feel Beth's shoulders shaking beside you, trying desperately to smother her amused cackles. James' expression softens a little as he realises this is a joke, sort of, and he begins to grin.

     "No, really," you say, this time the hint of a smile forming on your own lips, "tell me you're kidding. I'm begrudgingly proud and all that, because it had to be one of us," you wave your free hand at him, you'll have the captaincy one day, "but also, like, tell me it's a joke."

     "Why?"

     "Because I'm genuinely considering pushing you out of this carriage."

     James shrugs his shoulders, as if to say 'yeah, that's fair.' He gets it, he really does. You love that someone gets it. "It's not a joke, I'm afraid. Better luck next time, though!" He says it in a jolly tone of voice, and oh, you hate him.

     That's the thing with the two of you. You're sworn enemies, right, but you make each other better. He tries harder because you light a fire under his arse and bloody hell, you're itching for a chance to burn him, and vice versa.

      So you smirk, now. Square your shoulders. You've baited him into a competition, and you are absolutely ready to deliver. "Famous last words, Potter. Famous last words."

[writeforfandoms]

Run Wild 2

Find the series masterlist

Transitioning into a pack isn't easy, but you're giving it a try.

Warnings: Swearing, shenanigans, shifter dynamics, pack dynamics, paintball game.

Word count: 2.2k

Eventual Horangi x König x f!reader, established Horangi x König

You weren’t an idiot. You knew that you were more or less under probation as far as Horangi was concerned. He’d be an idiot to immediately accept you into the pack fully, even if he had given you access to the pack room. And he was not an idiot. 

So you weren’t surprised when he insisted on running drills with just the three of you. Had to make sure you all actually worked well together, after all. 

Running drills with them was… interesting. König and Horangi clearly knew each other well, working seamlessly together. Which left you a little uncertain where you’d even fit in. 

Honestly, they were intimidating, in a way you often weren’t. They were big and powerful and ruthless, moving through drills like they’d been working together for years. And maybe they had - you had no idea, and you weren’t going to ask. 

Still. A little disheartening. 

König found you after the second day of drills, sitting next to you with a little sigh. But he didn’t speak, apparently content to just sit. 

Waiting you out. Dammit. 

“I know,” you groaned, tipping your head back. “I’m not doing well with this working as a team business. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I didn’t.” König blinked at you, even as you shoved to your feet to start pacing. 

“I’m still figuring out how to work with you two,” you continued, hands waving for emphasis. “It’s just… not easy.” 

König huffed softly. “We know,” he said, watching you pace. “You are nervous.” 

You blew out a sharp breath. As much as you wanted to deny it… he was right. You were nervous working with them, because you didn’t measure up. You didn’t have the experience. Yet. 

He slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Come,” he said, holding your gaze for a moment before he walked out. 

You dithered for a moment, debating. And then jogged after him. 

“You swim, ja?” He didn’t even glance back at you as he asked.

“Of course.” You frowned at his back, not sure where he was going with this. 

“Gut.” He pushed into the pool room, ushering you further in. You were utterly unsurprised to find a tiger in the pool. You were surprised when König ushered you over closer. “Go.”

“What?” You blinked at him, surprised. 

He simply made a shooing motion at you. 

You looked between him and the tiger, who was lazily watching you now too. Well. If they really wanted you to… do whatever, sure. You could do that. You shrugged and bent to remove your boots, tossing them to the side (more or less out of the way), and then paused to debate. You could strip down your skivvies and jump in, or you could shift and jump in. 

Well. Horangi was shifted. You might as well too. 

It took only a moment to shift, and you fit easily out of the neck of your shirt. From there it was a short run to the edge of the pool, and you immediately dove in. 

You’d almost forgotten how nice it was to swim. You dove under the water, doing a couple underwater flips, just for fun. 

You surfaced near Horangi, the big cat blinking at you. But he seemed content to simply watch you. 

At least until you swam up to him, a little slower now. He lowered his head to sniff you and then nudge you on your way. 

Which you would have listened to. Really. 

Except it was more fun to duck under the water and investigate his toes. You didn’t even bite him! You just… poked and prodded. 

You felt the growl vibrate through the water, and his paw moved to swat you. Too slow - you were already darting away, amused. You surfaced a few feet from him, chittering playfully. His eyes narrowed, muscles coiling before he pounced at you. You dove again, maneuvering faster than him in the water, swimming under his belly to get to the far side of him before popping up again. 

Horangi turned when he heard your chitter again, almost taunting him. (Okay. Taunting him a little.) He growled a little and lunged at you again. You dove away from his paws and escaped. This was actually pretty fun. 

This time, he didn’t give you any warning. He just lunged. And kept swimming after you, trying to catch you for at least three solid minutes. You swam under and around him, almost literally swimming circles around him. 

This was definitely fun. 

Finally, he hauled himself out of the pool and shook off vigorously. Meaning all over König where the other shifter had watched from the sidelines. König grumbled and crossed his arms over his chest. 

You squeaked and rolled around in the water for a while longer. You really had missed swimming this way. Now if only there was a pond with fish nearby… 

Something splashed in the water, catching your attention, and you turned to look. A hand. You swam over carefully, well aware of how small you were. But König merely wiggled his fingers at you. 

So you play-attacked him, rolling over under the water to grab his fingers with your paws, teeth very gently closing over the heel of his thumb. He flipped his hand and scooped you out of the water, chuckling at your annoyed hiss. 

“See?” he murmured, lifting you up to eye-level, so you clung to his hand, because this was much too high for you holy hell. “Not so bad, hm?” 

You squeaked at him until he put you down. Horangi, you finally noticed, was gone, wet paw prints leading to another room. A changing room, probably. Whoops. You ran over to your clothes, shifting back and shoving them on despite still-wet skin. 

“What wasn’t so bad?” you asked, pulling your shirt on. 

König huffed at you but didn’t answer, simply giving you a little space to get dressed. 

At least until Horangi emerged, once again fully dressed and covered. And shoved the larger operator into the pool. 

König fell with a squawk, eyes comically wide behind his hood. He landed with an impressive splash.

You were tempted to laugh at him.

Until you realized Horangi was after you next. 

You booked it out of there with a startled yelp, not even pausing to retrieve your boots. 

Interestingly enough, your boots reappeared beside your bunk at some point before you went to bed. A little damp, but otherwise fine. You eyed them for a moment before you huffed softly, amused. 

Training the next day was easier, actually. The three of you were playing a variation of Capture the Flag against another team of three. 

The plan was simple. König would act as a distraction as much as he could, Horangi was on overwatch, and you were going to sneak around to do the actual stealing of the flag. 

Which shouldn’t be too hard, really. You were smaller than both of them (not surprising considering König’s size) and all but one member of the other team. 

Hopefully you’d be sneaky enough. 

You three started off on your side of the field, and you took a moment to observe the layout. Dummy buildings and a few water towers separated the two teams, along with various forms of cover. A gutted car sat in the middle of the field, making for a good hiding place if you could get to it.

“Which way are you going?” Horangi stood next to you, paintball gun resting against his chest for now. 

“Left,” you decided after a moment. “Around those two buildings, under that tower, then see what else I can use to sneak up to their flag.” 

Horangi nodded once. “Keep me updated,” was all he offered, tapping the com in his ear once. 

The timer sounded, and you immediately scurried away. 

The playing field was larger than you’d first guessed, which was not a problem. Gave you plenty of room to sneak around. You made it past the first four buildings before you even paused, taking in the area. You couldn’t hear anyone around, or see anyone. Good. 

You moved forward with a little more caution, crouched a bit to make yourself an even smaller target. 

You got lucky that you heard the member of the other team first. You froze, listening to the soft creak of a floorboard. Inside the house just to your right. You breathed in slowly, listening for further clues. Another soft creak and a curse so soft you doubted a human would have heard it.

Good thing you weren’t human. 

Lips pulling back in a grin, you lifted your paintball gun, weighing your options. There was a window just above you that would allow you to get a good shot, but you’d only have one chance. 

Then again, chances were they were looking interior. König was not exactly being quiet. 

You took the chance, popping up through the window. You were right - he wasn’t facing you. So you popped him in the back twice, bright green splashes exploding against the back of his vest. 

He turned around and then groaned when he spotted you. “Dead,” he reported to his team, nearly pouting. 

You grinned, amused. “Sorry not sorry,” you chirped before continuing on your way. You had thirty seconds before he could report his position. You did radio in the “kill” to Horangi.

“Good,” he murmured, low and not quite purring. The approval sent a little thrill down your spine. “Keep going, you’re clear as far as I can see.”

“Copy.” You could just see where their flag was now, out in the open. You paused at the edge of the last building, looking around. There were spots someone could set up to watch the flag and shoot anyone approaching. 

But that was a risk you’d have to take. 

You crept forward a few steps, listening, gaze darting around. Nothing. A few more steps. Still nothing. 

Maybe you were getting lucky. 

You jogged forward to grab the flag, the velcro letting you easily tug the flag to you. 

“Flag acquired,” you told the other two over comms, jogging back to cover. “Heading back to base.” 

“I’ve got eyes on one,” Horangi rumbled. 

“I do not,” König murmured. “But I will.” 

Briefly, you wondered what the big shifter had in mind. Then you shrugged. You might well find out. 

You were halfway back to base when you heard the footsteps behind you. Acting on instinct, you threw yourself around a corner. A paintball exploded on the corner you’d just run around, blue paint splashing into view. 

“Got one on my tail,” you said into comms, flat out booking it now, darting between and through buildings to break sight lines. The fewer chances you gave him to shoot at you, the better. 

“I see him,” König replied, something bloodthirsty in his voice. “Come to the center.”

You didn’t object, just jumped through a window. Now you could see him, paintball gun up, gaze focused past you. You ran straight for him. 

“Drop.” The command was low, and you didn’t even think. You obeyed. You hit the ground, mere feet from König. There were three puffs as he shot, skidding, and then a groan.

“Dead,” came the voice of the other team. 

König huffed a victorious noise, and before you could even get up he had scooped you up. The way his eyes crinkled gave you the impression he was grinning under the hood. 

“Go,” he said, setting you on your feet more gently than you expected. “I will follow you.”

You blinked at him, just once, before you nodded. You set off at a jog, his longer legs keeping up with you easily. 

“Heads up.” Horangi sounded almost bored on the comms, and you glanced up, wary. Just in time to see him make a leap from the water tower, farther than you’d guessed he could jump, rolling onto the roof of a building below. Without missing a beat, he rolled off the roof and landed on his feet, cat-like, shooting the last member of the other team through a window. 

You hadn’t even seen her on the other side of the building.

Your jaw dropped. “Holy crap,” you breathed, a little in awe. His glasses weren’t even askew. 

“Hurry up,” he called, still bored. 

“They’re all dead though,” you pointed out, walking towards him. 

His mask twitched, smirk clear in his voice when he said, “We’re adding insult to injury.”

You laughed, delighted, and nearly skipped back to the flagpole to attach your captured flag. König rumbled a laugh, pleased, while Horangi simply patted the top of your head. 

“Good job,” he murmured, and you gave yourself a moment to bask in the approval from the alpha. Not quite your alpha, not yet, but you had a feeling you were a little closer now. 

That feeling was only amplified when the two of them found you after dinner and pulled you into the pack room to watch a movie.