#idle idyll

[stellomiacis]

And a god’s tears are bitter

[siriusfelis]

This meme is fun

[talesofadragon]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

Summary: Theodore Nott came to learn that an inciting incident can alter the course of history. Lucius Malfoy’s fall led to Draco’s dark mark and the death of Dumbledore. The rise of the Dark Lord urged Harry Potter into hiding and Death Eaters into prominence. And then there was Amycus Carrow, with his tainted hands on Y/N, who forced Theodore Nott to do the unforgivable.

Warnings: Sexual assault, attempted rape, graphic description of violence, panic attacks

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Non-Slytherin!Reader

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort

Word count: 5.8K

All Masterlists | Theodore Nott Masterlist

𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐥𝐬. The lines between the two flow steadily, each following its own cadence. And yet, despite their distinct course and the light years between them, they somehow find a way to draw parameters of joint space. Somehow, someway, they eventually overlap—meeting each other at the apex of catalysts and the twists between junctures to shape history and write the present.

Today starts like most stories do: quaint and subtle, setting the tone for an inciting incident that will tip this fable on its axis.

It’s a typical day, or as typical as it could get during Y/N’s last year at Hogwarts. She’s sitting at the far end of her Defense Against the Dark Arts class, donning the same apprehensive expression as all her classmates. The turmoil that governs the halls is a jarring contrast to the flourishing and effervescent school of witchcraft and wizardry Hogwarts once was.

In this mangled reality, there are specks of the idyllic tales she’s heard about, and witnessed, growing up. Slytherins and Gryffindors sustain their infamous rivalry while in search of their individual purpose, purebloods hold themselves on par with Merlin himself, and more often than not, students find refuge in a forgotten nuke in Hogwarts when the burden of magic becomes too heavy to bear.

In the first drafts of the story, Hogwarts held its students under one embrace. But now, as we’re nearing a hazy end, an isolating veil drapes over the school, fracturing it into fewer than four houses and dividing it more than ever before.

“Now, as Barty Crouch Junior has so tirelessly shared, you have already been acquainted with Merlin’s three most formidable spells,” Alecto Carrow, one of Voldemort’s trusted Death Eaters explains. Her heels dig into the marble floors of the classroom, their screeches ricocheting across the walls in warning. 

“The Unforgivables,” her brother Amycus eagerly finishes. His yellow teeth wither under the dim light of the darkened sun as his arms open wide. It’s unsettling how he and his sister welcome such misfortune so openly.

As it happens every single time the Carrow twins revel in the darkest boulevards of magic, Y/N shifts in her seat until she’s nearly imperceptible. Each time, her eyes rove the expanse of the classroom, seeking out the comfort of peculiar hazel eyes. Within just ten seconds, her wandering gaze comes to rest on the idle brown walls, a weight of defeat settling upon her.

Upon her reluctant return to Hogwarts this year, Y/N was met with a torrent of unimaginable changes, starting with students being separated not only based on their house but also their blood status.

Purebloods became a procession of peacocks—majestic, refined, otherworldly. Only allowed to flick around with students of the same upper class. 

Half-bloods, on the other hand, belong to inconsistent ideologies. They teeter on the precipice of honor, waiting for Death Eaters like Umbridge and whoever else is in the Ministry to decide their fate. 

Muggleborns, it's best not to get started.

Y/N doodles a few meaningless shapes, swirling her quill around the parchment as she thinks of Theodore. Lately, it's become increasingly difficult to talk to him, let alone spot him, with all the changes in place.

Her classmates know she’s not paying attention and that she's only pretending she has her nose buried deep in her notes. Her quill, which scratches against the parchment, is nothing but a ruse to get the Carrows off her scent. 

This class truly has nothing to offer except for a modicum of nostalgia and a barrage of abuse, so if the Carrows are so gullible to believe that Y/N is actively listening, then so be it. 

By now, she takes it a step further, looking up to meet the eyes of the young children brought forth by the Carrows. She’s mastered the art of stoicism to a T, gazing at their expressions without showing a measly emotion. But every single time, she finds herself transported eons back to a time when things were drastically better.

Her memories vary, depending on whatever catalyst she encounters. She recalls seeing a girl with ginger waves once, and her mind acted on autopilot, bringing her back to the times she and her friends would huddle in their common room to animatedly talk about the latest Weasley prank. 

At the previous hints of pink, she remembered Umbridge when she was finally escorted outside of Hogwarts grounds. 

And today, her memories are not too different. Bittersweet at best and wistful at most. 

She finds a boy biting down on his lower lip. He’s a Gryffindor, judging by the color of his tie, more so by his audaciousness when he decides to lift his head and contain his fear. His eyes are hazel, edging closer to honey brown underneath the dim light of the classroom. And her mind is cruel enough to conjure the image of Theodore hovering above her naked body with lustful hazel eyes and abused fiery lips. 

Theodore doesn’t particularly fancy his eye color—he doesn’t quite fancy much about himself. He’s not oblivious to his popularity, but unlike Draco Malfoy, who shines like the stars, Theodore Nott glows like the moon in a dance of subtlety and intensity; a paradoxical luminosity that always leaves Y/N in awe. 

He never particularly bothered her during their first couple of years at Hogwarts, which explains why they never interacted until their fifth year. Back when Umbridge was foul toward the student population, especially vile toward anyone of lesser blood. 

Dennis Creevey, who had been a first-year at that time, fell victim to her malice. His penance for being born to muggle parents was bloodily etched on his hand. Y/N tried to help him, even though her own hand was hurting just as badly. The healing spells didn’t counter the dark magic infused in the quills, and while she could handle the pain, the poor eleven-year-old couldn’t. 

"May I?" a voice softly breathed from behind her, causing her to jump slightly. She turned to see the unexpected sight of Theodore Nott, dressed in an emerald green tie and an aura of pristine silver. Y/N's breath caught in her throat, and her hands trembled, a reaction heightened by the delicate hints of cinnamon swirling in the air.

When Theodore pulled out his wand, Dennis cowered. And to her surprise, Theodore’s face fell. Yet he quickly covered his crestfallen expression with a mask of pure stoicism.

Y/N’s gaze meandered away from the Slytherin and settled on the young Gryffindor. “It’s okay, Dennis,” she recalled herself saying at the time, even though she hadn’t mentally given her words the green light to tumble out of her mouth. Both Dennis and Theodore seemed equally surprised, turning their heads her way. “He’s not going to hurt you.” 

Maybe it was the softness of Theodore’s hazel eyes, or maybe it was how he abstained from touching the boy's bruised hand and elected to kneel to his level. To this day, Y/N doesn’t know what exactly made her fall for Theodore at that exact moment in time. 

Yet, all she knows in certainty is that she’s in love with Theodore Aurelius Nott. Pureblood, Slytherin Elite, Son of Darkness. But what can she do if one glance at his hazel orbs leaves her drowning in the depths of his moonshine?

“Miss Y/L/N!” 

Y/N’s head jerks when a protruding voice disturbs her reverie. She chances a glance at the front of the classroom, finding Alecto Carrow’s lidded eyes on her. Bright and sage, a stark contrast to the malevolence nestled within them.

“Yes?” Y/N wonders aloud.

“Given your diligence in recording the theoretical aspect of The Unforgivables, I believe it’s time for you to engage in the practicalities of said lesson,” Alecto announces with a tone that leaves no room for negotiation or refutation. 

With a sharp nod, she ushers Y/N out of her seat, beckoning her over until she's two steps away from her. Y/N stands idly, unaware of whether she's going to role-play as the tormentor or the tormented. But her internal questions are answered the moment Amycus Carrow shoves the Gryffindor boy with hazel eyes into her line of sight.

"Go on." Alecto wears a sinister expression as she levels Y/N with a taunting smile. "Demonstrate your aptitude to the class.”

Y/N doesn't step back nor does she shy away. She clings to the apathetic front she's adopted from her boyfriend, her gaze falling on the young boy, and her thoughts drowning out Alecto's sharp voice. By the time Amycus asks her to draw out her wand, she's mustered up enough confidence to answer with a terse "no."

“What do you mean no, you insolent brat!” Alecto bellows, being the first to succumb to her temper. For a snake, she is known to be as hot-headed as a lion. 

“I refuse to perform any curse on anyone,” Y/N clarifies, purposefully refraining from calling her “professor.” And if she had half a brain cell, perhaps she would’ve figured it out. 

“Is that so?” Alecto challenges. 

“Yes.” 

“Very well, despicable half-breed. You know the rules. You’re either the rodent or the snake. Guess you’ll always be the former.” 

She's calm and aloof on the outside, but Y/N is dreading what’s coming next. She’s never fallen victim to the Cruciatus, though she has heard all about it from Theodore and his friends—even once from Harry. 

She watches with steady eyelashes as Alecto draws her wand and points it at her. Although the curse is released, and screams reverberate across the walls, both Alecto and Y/N remain silent.

To Y/N's horror, the young Gryffindor boy thrashes on the ground with clenched fists and agonizing wails. Above him, Amycus stands like a conductor, his wand beckoning the crooked notes of the boy's voice to rise to a crescendo.

Finally, the screams die down, extinguishing and feeding the anguish of every student at once. Amycus turns to address the class, dismissing them all except for one. “You go ahead, Alecto,” he directs toward his sister. “If the little mouse wishes to squeak, then she’ll have to suffer graver consequences than what you have to offer.” 

Whatever Amycus has in mind seems to appease Alecto. Her expression is mirthful as she grabs the robes of the young Gryffindor boy and sweeps him out of the class, using his body as a cleaning broom. 

The students all file out, their glances lingering on Y/N. As the last of the students leaves, Amycus turns to the young girl. 

“Your wand, Miss Y/L/N,” he demands. Y/N debates not giving it to him, but she knows if she doesn’t, he’ll come and collect it himself. So, she reluctantly hands it over. “Ah, pretty little thing. What’s the core?”

“Dragon heartstring.” 

“Fitting for a spitfire like you.” 

“I thought I was a meek little mouse,” Y/N counters, making Amycus grin. 

“You are a lot of things, little girl,” he replies as he twirls her wand in his hand. “The wood?” 

“Larch.” 

“Enlighten me, Y/L/N,” Amycus voices out. If Y/N’s a mouse, then he seems to enjoy being a cat. His long and calloused fingers trace her wand while he circles her, trying to break her resolve. “What does the wood say about you?”

The question strokes her ear, carried by Amycus’ ghastly voice. Y/N stills, not seeing where he’s going. She jolts as Amycus taps the wand against her thigh, particularly the exposed skin between her skirt and stockings. 

“It’s best paired with wizards and witches who possess hidden talents,” she replies tersely. 

The hum coming from her side indicates that Amycus is listening—paying attention, though, not so much, considering he’s rather preoccupied with poking her skin with her wand while rotating around her. 

He’s playing with his food, Y/N tells herself, knowing this is just another trick of his. Somewhere in his sadist brain, his senses are sparking with delight at the prospect of Y/N’s discomfort, relishing the power he has over her.

A part of her wants to jam her wand in his eyes, pluck his eyeballs out, and proceed to stuff each in his nostrils. But another part of her stands idle, not even blinking as he keeps up his ministrations. 

Amycus smiles, taking up more of her personal space. Y/N’s senses are lit on fire as he traces her wand across her body. “Is your mouth a part of those talents, filthy witch? You don’t talk much, but rotten girls like you must know how to use their mouths.”

“To scream, I presume,” Y/N breathes. Her quip hits Amycus right in the face, and the maniac grins. His face is painted with a nefarious glee, that of a predator eager to feast on its prey. 

SA and Attempted Rape Content Begins Here. Skip Through This Scene by Scrolling to "Scene End."

The unsettling sensation against her ribs dissipates when Amycus pulls the wand away, but the apprehension still lingers. As she mentally prepares herself for the inevitable pain that comes along with the Cruciatus, Amycus’ hand cups her chin, and his molten lips crash against hers. The sensation is so crippling and unfavorable it sends her tumbling back into the table.

The pressure on YN’s cheeks intensifies until it becomes sharp and metallic. Fingers dig into her flesh, paving a path for Amycus’ tongue to follow. Though her hands slap against his chest, legs flailing around, he continues his exploration in the depths of her throat. 

It feels like he’s finally thrown her off a cliff, yet with all the energy Y/N can muster, she pushes his body away and slaps him across the face. 

He looks at her with unadulterated rage. Y/N forgoes reading his face in favor of bolting toward the door. But before she reaches the handle, she’s yanked back by her robes. The fabric tears, as does her heart. Amycus then throws her on top of the teacher’s desk and catches both her wrists in his hand. 

“Pitty your blood is impure, little witch. If you had to match your filthy mouth with something, I’d rather it be your pussy than your blood.” 

“Get off me,” Y/N enunciates with a quiver in her voice. It seems to feed Amycus’ wicked desires because she suddenly finds him nipping at her neck in pure delight. 

“You’ve disobeyed my direct order. When witches are bad, they’re punished.”

“You’re sick!” 

“And you’re delicious.” 

Y/N takes a deep breath, burying his face further in the junction between her neck and shoulder. His kisses are filthy, heavy, frigid. They make her body feel like ice—they make her feel as if she's been snatched and thrown into the depths of the Dark Lake. 

Amycus' hands grab her waist and flip her over until her gaze meets the darkness of the desk’s wood. If the sensation of the wand against her thigh left acid in her mouth, then Amycus’ fingers left her with bile overwhelming her senses.

“What a pretty little ass you’re hiding under here. It was made to be ruined.”

Y/N doesn’t have time to panic. In fluid movements, Amycus lifts her skirt, rips off the shorts she typically wears beneath, and spanks her ass. 

She yelps, struggling against the hand against her back that’s keeping her on the desk. She’s hit one more time and then two and three. The slaps are forceful and fiery, leaving her skin scalded and singed. 

A roar erupts from the depths of her soul when she feels a finger easing her thong. The force of her scream catches Amycus off guard, enough for Y/N to elbow him and dive to the ground for her wand. 

“Cruc—”

“Oh, so now you want to cast it!” 

With ease, Amycus manages to slap Y/N’s wand away. He ruthlessly places his palm against her stomach, pushing her back to the ground. 

Her head aches from the force of the blow, a scream barrelling through the space between her lips when Amycus towers over her, digging his obsidian nails into her skin. 

“It’s a shame that the most delightful toys happen to be the filthiest. Maybe this will teach you and your kind that you will forever remain beneath us.”

Y/N cries as Amycus incapacitates her lips. She squirms underneath his body, vaguely aware of the fabric he’s tearing in half, though oblivious to what clothing item it belongs to. 

She tries to non-verbally cast a spell, but her mind is too distracted to focus on the incantation. All she knows is that she needs to get Amycus off her. And yet, no amount of strength in her hands or her spells manages to draw him to a stop. 

His spit traces her lower lip, tantalizingly closing the distance between her mouth and collarbone. Y/N shudders, bellowing at the thought of his saliva trailing her skin. 

She wails, screams, and shouts until she realizes that Amycus probably cast Silencio without her knowing. Though futile, she tries to push his body weight off her, even resorts to kicking his ribs. 

It doesn’t work... until by some miracle from Merlin himself Amycus’ body flies toward the back wall, releasing her.

Scene End

Y/N gasps, pushing her palms against the tiled floor and lifting herself to a sitting position. Her chest heaves as she looks at the discarded fabric of her skirt, the scattered buttons of her shirt, and the remains of her robe that are haphazardly strewn across the room. 

Faint sounds register at the back of her mind. A heavy breath, mirroring her own, emanates from behind, accompanied by an erratic heartbeat that matches hers. Amidst it all, she picks up on Amycus’s forlorn groans, muffled by the surrounding darkness. Resilient ropes now bind his hands and feet, rendering him completely motionless.

“Get Y/N out of here,” a voice orders. It’s far away—at least, Y/N thinks so. But despite the fog around its edges, she can somehow sense the enmity lacing it. 

Before she can process the shadows creeping closer to her side, a robe is draped over her shoulders as arms wrap securely around her.

She thrashes against the man holding her, trying to repel his hands from her body. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he says in a low octave. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. I promise you. He can't touch you anymore.” 

The voice carries a bit of an edge, yet it’s the most soothing sound she’s heard all day. Her lips quiver as she internally fights with her thoughts, head spinning and shaking in defeat. 

The halls around her move fast, time seemingly irrelevant at this point. She’s crying and mumbling incoherently, burying her face in the fabric of this stranger’s clothes, which smell like a familiar blend of mint and citrus. 

The robe is wrapped tighter around her shoulders, and she receives a faint squeeze as she’s brought up a staircase. Words are whispered, a door is opened, and voices mingle with one another until a delicate tone enters her headspace.

“Draco, who’s that you’re carrying?” 

“It’s Y/N,” the male voice, the one belonging to Draco, replies. Draco kicks open a door and places Y/N on the bed. She wails even more at the action, curling herself into a ball—at this point, she doesn’t know if she should be relieved or terrified.

“What the hell happened to her?” 

“Lower your voice, Pansy! Can’t you see she’s scared enough?” 

Pansy stutters for a few seconds before asking again, “Who did this to her?” 

Draco hesitates, looking between the two young women. “Amycus,” he replies. And though it’s barely a mumble, it’s enough to send Y/N spiraling. 

Pansy’s jade eyes tread carefully as they peer over Y/N’s frail body. She sees the red marks on her hands and the blood that seeps from the cuts on her face. “Cruciatus?” she asks, but something in her tone makes it obvious that it’s just wishful thinking. 

“No,” Draco answers. Y/N’s sniffles and shudders fill the air as Pansy and Draco exchange silent glances. Y/N clutches her throat, rubbing it to try and get herself more oxygen. 

“What do we do?” 

Draco's footsteps echo as he retreats toward the door. “You're going to her clean up. If Theo hasn’t killed Amycus yet, I’m going to join him in his pursuit.”

There was something in that last line that clamped agony around Y/N’s heart, squeezing like a vice. She wept, only vaguely conscious of Pansy’s soothing touch in her hair and the remnants of Draco's anger looming around the room.

The mirror in the bathroom captures two girls in its glassy frame. One of them is put together while the other looks worse for wear. Y/N stares at her wild reflection, moroseness painting her irises. A tiny sob escapes her barely parted lips, and Pansy decides to tear Y/N’s attention away from the broken girl staring at them through the mirror. 

She softly holds Y/N's hand and helps her to the shower, turning her head when Y/N undresses and then carefully cleans her blotched skin. Once they’re done, she lends Y/N some pajamas and underwear, giving her the privacy and space to change into them before helping her dry her hair.

Wordlessly, Pansy leads Y/N away from the mirror. Her grip is firm as she swings open the bathroom door. Y/N squints against the sudden invasion of light from the room beyond. Her gaze takes in the expanse of her surroundings and the rich emerald hue of the Head Dorm's walls. Then, her eyes lock on two men. One with platinum blond hair and the other with brunette locks, both embracing the shadows with deadly intent in their fiery eyes.

She bristles, caught between shying away and clutching the attention she’s receiving from them. Y/N doesn’t dwell on their appearance for too long, afraid to develop the ability to read their eyes and stumble across the shame and pity possibly nestled within them. 

Pansy whispers something under her breath, which Y/N fails to hear under the barrage of despondency she finds herself in. She feels Pansy’s hesitant touch on her forearm, briefly catching her and Draco retreating away, the door to the room closing behind them in a soft thud. 

Silence runs freely around the room, undeterred by the confined space. Its loudness disturbs Y/N, forcing her to wince. She wills herself to say something, but all the words are lodged in her throat, searing it from the inside out.

Theodore takes a deep breath, the sound piercing the stillness in the air. But his words don’t leave his mouth the same way his gaze never paces beyond a fixed point on the ground. 

“Why are you not looking at me?” Y/N asks. She’s surprised that she’s articulated her thoughts even though she doesn’t have enough strength to speak.

Theodore shakes his head. “I can’t”. His words have finally forced his gaze away from the ground, although he’s refusing to settle it on her.

“I wouldn’t look at me either. I get it.” Y/N sniffles. Darkness clouds her sight. She’s tired and aching, barely finding her grip on reality. 

She wants to scream, and she wants to cry, but it’s like she doesn’t know how. Like her mainframe has been hijacked and forced to shut down. 

Something in her periphery catches her attention. Theodore is now standing before her, hands trembling by his sides. They move to embrace her waist, to hold her shoulders, to cup her face; but they never do. They only trace invisible lines that mirror her figure. It’s then that she notices the fray in his gaze. Instead of the rejection and the indifference she expected to find, there’s dejectedness, misery, and pain. 

“I would look at you forever if you let me,” Theodore answers with his hands hanging in the space between them. “If you would still allow me.”

“Touch me,” Y/N retorts. Hold me, find me, fix me, love me.

And Theodore does just that with unprecedented gentleness. He traces her cheeks with his thumb and pulls her by the waist closer to his side. His nose nuzzles her neck, breathing in her scent. His lips press against the shell of her ear, his warm breath penetrating her soul and sending a fond tingle down her spine. 

He touches her, not like she’s a porcelain doll or a bomb about to detonate. Theodore touches her like she’s the most precious piece of art he’s ever encountered, and he’s afraid that even one stumbled breath could force her colors away.

“I love you,” he confesses. A loan tear accompanies his declaration, inscribing the words on the fabric of Y/N’s soul. “And I am so sorry. So sorry, my love, for what my absence and negligence have put you through.”

“Theo…”

“No, Y/N. Don’t. Don’t try to say anything.” 

Theodore wipes her tears, gently tucking some loose strands of her hair behind her ears. Y/N nods, allowing her boyfriend to hoist her in his arms and carry her to bed. She hides her face in his neck, absorbing the lingering traces of his sandalwood perfume. 

When he places her on the bed, she notices the change in his demeanor as soon as she tangles her legs with his and rushes to press his hands against his chest. Her eyes fill with tears, and she fails to prepare herself for the rejection that she’s afraid might be rushing her way. 

To her astonishment, Theodore pulls her into a tighter hug, as if seeking a connection beyond the surface, binding together not only their skin but also the intricate layers below—souls, hearts, atoms.

“Did he…” Theodore pauses, choking on unspoken words. “Did he go far?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. You and Draco came just in time.”

“Barely,” Theodore denies. A stolen glance gives Y/N a clear view of his clenched jaw and crestfallen expression. The war may be looming, yet to find its way to the Wizarding World, but it has already made a dominion in Theodore’s features. 

“Just in time.” Minutes pass while Y/N is cocooned protectively in between Theodore’s strong arms. They encase her, filling her being with the placidity and the tenderness that was robbed of her some time ago. Her eyes close, darkness not as fearful as it seemed now that Theodore’s hands are weaving through her hair, and his voice is carrying a tender lullaby. “How did you know?”

Theodore’s hands falter and the lullaby ends on an abrupt note. His arms pull Y/N closer to his chest as he ruefully explains what happened, “A Gryffindor boy found me. He was frightened and jittery. At first, I thought it was because Draco and I were standing together. Then he said something about Defense class, the Carrows, and the Cruciatus. Your name got suddenly tangled in the gruesomeness of it all, so I rushed to the class as far as I could." 

“They wanted me to hurt him,” Y/N whispers in a small voice.

“I know.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

Theodore looks at her with glassy eyes. “I know you would never.” 

His hands sooth Y/N, featherless touches easing the altercation in her soul. She meets his gaze, heart shattering at the pain he harbors. She knows it’s not easy for Theodore to be a silent witness to torture and heartache, understanding his unconscious pursuit of absorbing pain and rooting it in his very being.

“Please,” she begins, “please, Theo. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I’ve failed you.”

“You haven’t.”

He declines vehemently, “I promised to protect you from the darkness, within me and beyond me. And I have clearly done neither.”

You had no way of knowing! Y/N argued in her head. You, alone, cannot stop this madness! So many rebuttals swarmed her head. She wanted to pelt Theodore with every single one of them until some sense got knocked into him. “Darkness,” he says so loosely as if he’s ever exposed her to any of it. 

All her memories of Theodore exuded radiance, softness, and peace. He’s only ever steered her away from the darkness, whether it was from Umbridge’s rage back in their fifth year or Bellatrix’s terror at the end of their sixth. 

To hear him speak of himself like this, as if he’s one of them, a shadow branded by the mark of death, hurts her more than everything Amycus did to her. 

“What did you do to Amycus?”

The name causes Theodore’s heart to falter beneath the palm of Y/N’s hands. Her eyes trace the veins of his neck, astounded by the voraciousness of their color as his anger escalates. “Do not say that vermin’s name.” 

Darkness, Theodore would call it if he sees himself now. And yet, all the world is witnessing according to Y/N is a darker shade of love and concern: just as sincere, a lot more warm. 

“Carrow,” she concedes. “What did you do to Carrow?”

“I wanted to kill him,” Theodore answers, studying Y/N’s face for a reaction. “I almost killed him.” If he was looking for disgust or worse, fear, he couldn’t find it.

“And why didn’t you?”

“Draco called for Snape.”

Y/N hums, absentmindedly reaching for Theodore’s hand. He hesitates when he feels her fingers entwining with his, his entire body tensing up. Y/N whines, and he takes a deep breath. His fingers lace hers, squeezing her hand before bringing it to his lips. 

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, treasure. No one but that scum is. Snape said nothing. He bound his hands and escorted him to his office.”

“Good,” Y/N replies.

“That’s not all,” Theodore intercedes, catching her attention. She shifts in his arms, waiting for his next words with a bated breath. “We’re getting out of here.”

“What?” came Y/N’s question, loud, sharp, and clear. It resonated across the room, its intensity surprising her.

“I didn’t kill him,” Theodore admits. He’s moved now, body peering away from Y/N’s hold to better study her features. She keeps them the way they are, with no sign of the acrimony or the resentment she suspects Theodore is looking for. “But I uttered the curse. Draco countered it somehow, and it rebounded. Hit the wall instead. It cracked it, the same way I cracked every single bone in his body and watched him bleed.”

As the words fill the space between them, Y/N rushes to grab Theodore’s hands. She inspects them, surprised to find them bruising. How did I not notice this? She whimpers at her late realization—her neglect. But now that his marred skin is beneath the scrutiny of her gaze, she notices that the blue and purple hues are rather dull in comparison to his story.

Almost as if Theodore understood her silent concerns, he says, “Cruciatus.” Y/N bristles, though her body is traitorous. It jolts, feeling the residue of the invisible needles and acid-laced knives. “Sectumsempra and a number of other curses that flew out of my mouth without thought when I saw you lying on the ground, bloody, bruised, broken. Torn apart by a mediocre middle-aged man, who deserves nothing but to be decapitated, torn limb by limb, until there’s not even a speck of his ashes left on the—”

“Theo,” Y/N calls. Her voice quivers, mirroring the tremble in her body provoked by those words. “Stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Theodore sniffs, head bending down. 

Y/N rushes to answer, shaking her head violently. “No. I can’t… I can’t watch you tear yourself apart over something you had no control over.”

“I—”

“Listen to me! Listen to me and not the lies inside your head. Does it hurt? Yes. Does it burn? More than a Fienfyre cast by the Dark Lord himself. But you weren’t there—no, Theo, come back to me and stop traveling in time inside your head.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Theo defended. “Merlin, Y/N. I was supposed to be there! To stop all of this from happening. You’re in pain more than I am. So, stop subduing my anger!”

“I’m subduing your self-deprecation! I’m not blaming you, and I will not fan the flames of your anger. You had no way, no way, of knowing Carrow would do this.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he answers with a little less fight and a lot more shame. 

“And you did, Theo,” Y/N assures, bringing herself closer to his side. “You got me out. You saved me. In time.”

“Barely!” Theodore screams, a deluge of tears running down his cheeks and burying his resolve in their undertow. “But I will save you this time. I’ll get you out. Both of us. I’ll take you away, somewhere you won’t be judged for your blood or your mistake in choosing me.”

“You’re not a mistake,” Y/N refutes, begging him to see. “Look at you. You call yourself a vision of darkness when your love and care are shining through.”

“My love is darkness, viciousness, and cruelty.” It’s almost as if he’s the one begging her to understand.

Tears cascade down Y/N’s cheeks, the saltiness and bitterness of them incomparable to Theodore’s words. “Your love is fierceness,” Y/N professes, taking Theodore’s breath away, “seamlessness, and warmth.”

“I made you live through pain,” Theodore pleads, hoping she agrees. But she doesn't.

“And I will live after it. With you.”

The confession shatters the last of Theodore’s resolve. He pulls Y/N closer, resting his chin atop her head and enveloping her in a secure embrace. “I’m so sorry,” he cries. His fingers weave through her hair, gripping the back of her head, anchoring himself in her presence—convincing himself that she’s here. “You are so strong, treasure. Stronger than life and death, brighter than light, and fiercer than shadows. I love you, my Y/N. And I swear on your head and on my mother’s last breath that I will protect you even if I have to do the unforgivable. No one will ever hurt you ever again.”

“I know,” Y/N nods as Theodore kisses the crown of her head. Each breath he takes, every word he utters, stitches through her soul, mending the threads of herself. “And I love you all the more for it.”

“You’ve endured a war. I’ll be damned if I let you face another,” Theodore promises, capturing Y/N’s lips and seamlessly merging his soul with hers.

Tomorrow remains uncertain, and control extends only so far across the horizon. Yet, with Theodore by her side, Y/N finds the darkness considerably less formidable. Even if he's willing to commit the unforgivable to shield her, forgiveness is a given. His love is the tranquility that follows the tempest, and she's ready to navigate through destruction with Theodore.

I never expected to write about a topic as painful and sensitive as SA or rape.

Hearing the multiple accounts of women around me made me see how these experiences are prevalent yet scarcely communicated. When I wrote this piece, it was with no intention to diminish the seriousness of the issue but rather use this platform as a conduit to raise the matter and bring it to light. Whether you’ve been personally impacted by this disheartening situation or witnessed someone close to you go through this, I want you to know that you are not alone. You are incredibly brave for enduring this, and there is no reason to feel ashamed. You lived through it and will live after it with even more fierceness and courage than you've ever had.

If you ever feel like talking, please know that I am here to listen, without judgment or reservation. 🤍

All-Fandom Taglist: @xxrougefangxx

[literaryvein-reblogs]

One Poem a Day: September

"beautiful" words related to September for your next poem/story

September - ninth month of the Gregorian calendar. Its name is derived from septem, Latin for “seven,” an indication of its position in the early Roman calendar.

Apple-polish - to use flattery or the doing of favors in order to win approval especially from a superior

Anecdotage - the telling of anecdotes (i.e., a usually short narrative of an interesting, amusing, or biographical incident)

Ardency - depth of feeling

Auburn - of a reddish-brown color

Autumnity - quality or condition characteristic of autumn

Bucolic - of, relating to, associated with, or typical of open areas with few buildings or people; idyllic

Cathexis - investment of mental or emotional energy in a person, object, or idea

Ceres - the Roman goddess of agriculture

Churn Supper - a feast at the end of the hay harvest

Cider - fermented apple juice often made sparkling by carbonation or fermentation in a sealed container

Cornucopian - being more than enough without being excessive

Demeter - the Greek goddess of agriculture

Effulgence - radiant splendor; brilliance

Estivo-autumnal - relating to or occurring in the summer and autumn

Felicific - causing or intended to cause happiness

Fête - a lavish often outdoor entertainment

Gemütlich - agreeably pleasant; comfortable

Georgic - a poem dealing with agriculture

Harvest - the season for gathering in agricultural crops

Hearthstone - the place where one lives

Husbandry - the cultivation or production of plants or animals

Moon (away) - to spend in idle reverie; dream

Odeum - a small roofed theater of ancient Greece and Rome used chiefly for competitions in music and poetry

Prosaic - being of the type that is encountered in the normal course of events

Reposeful - of a kind to induce ease and relaxation

Rubicundity - ruddy (i.e., having a healthy reddish color)

Sapphire - a gem variety of corundum in transparent/translucent crystals of a color other than red; a deep purplish-blue color

Surfeit - an intemperate or immoderate indulgence in something

Torridity - parched with heat especially of the sun; hot

Victual - to supply with food

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Word Lists

If any of these words inspire your writing, do tag me or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

[ay0nha]

Idle Hands | Chef Luca

SUMMARY: Sometimes Luca wished he chose rivalry over admiration. But even if he had, you wouldn’t allow it. You would never go back to that world. It was far too demanding; you couldn’t thrive where you didn’t belong. 

PAIRING: Chef!Luca x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 1.4K

WARNINGS: mentions of eating/food, straight fluff, mutual pining, smidge of angst, Luca trying to poach reader for his restaurant, self indulgent, **I am not a chef nor a good cook** etc. 

A/N: I wrote this in one sitting on my phone, so mind the typos and lack of cohesion.  I didn’t think I would finish this, so also mind the rushed ending. Inspired some by things in Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential (he’s my idol). I’m interested in writing more, send some thoughts my way about Chef Luca. Enjoy.

The fog seemed idyllic. It was dense with humidity and carried the dawn light over the horizon better than the days prior; the rain was starting to get to you. It punctured your routine with puddles that were unavoidable and time that allowed your items to go stale because of a slow-trafficked day.

What had gone unnoticed during those days, and frankly underappreciated, was the space the weather provided. You had moved so quickly, your keys almost slipping from your hands as you bustled into the bakery, trying to keep dry. Yet, now your steps were paced by your exhaustion, only stopped by him.

Luca.

He knew better than to bring you coffee, the gesture acting more as an insult to your sleep schedule than a remedy to your dark circles. Instead, he was early, leaning against the brick wall of the bakery, waiting for you. Punctuality was just shy of being an aphrodisiac.

The cooking life was like a long love affair, with moments both sublime and ridiculous. Yet, like any love affair, looking back, you seemed to cling to the happy times the best—the things that drew you in in the first place, the things that kept you coming back for more.

Luca understood this well. Conscious or not, it hadn’t mattered; he indulged just the same. It was why he set on the stoop, day after day, only skipping out when the weather begged him to. Regardless he returned to you, waited for you, and deferred to you, even when his purpose was to poach you.

“I’m starting to lose count—” You refused a greeting. He blocked your journey to becoming a morning person. “—how many days does it take to be qualified as a stalker?”

Luca tutted teasingly, pushing through to find your humor. “Not quite eligible yet.”

“Shame.” You hummed, your key cracking open the rusted door. The click was becoming too screechy to ignore. The rain only proved further repercussions.

Noted. Fingers crossed, a handyman would be looking for something delectable on their break. Just as Luca came to expect your dry humor, you learned his body language just as well. Holding open the door you just unlocked, he held back the offer to repair it.

“Rumor has it you found your sous.” Your voice carried well through the echoing building. It was a small place, barely worth what you pay to keep it open.

Your fingers were stiff from the cold.  You cursed the winter and how it made you physically fumble for the months it endured. It was as though your body rejected how it influenced you. Yet, once your fingers found the light switches, you retracted your afflictions.

“He’s temporary.” Always a man of few words. Pointed and punctual.

“And he knows that?” You scoffed, scarf still muffling your words ever so slightly.

Your back was to him as your question lingered. Luca’s gaze admired your routine, the one he memorized as if each layer of clothing was a recipe in itself. You always saved your scarf for last as if it the way it twirled was an old-fashioned caramel drizzle on a forbidden apple.

“Everyone knows I want you.” He said deftly. Even with your back to him, you were sure he could picture your flattered, flustered features. “...He’s good. Young.”

���Mmm…” You mused, facing him. A part of you was convinced Luca would stop coming by once he’d found his counterpart. But his dissatisfaction still radiated off of him. “How long do you think he’ll last?”

“Depends.” Luca matched your tone. Young meant talent, but it also meant naive. “When do you plan to join me?”

Your laugh was let out as a breath—its presence small but worth it. “Luca—

“I’ll give it a rest.” His promise wouldn’t last very long, but it would do.

Luca reached for the apron that he had donned as his own. He reached the shelves you struggled with, learning within days through observation where to place that for when you finally mosied over. He was envious of your movements, how you found joy in moving slowly, so unrushed and unbothered to the point of pleasure.

It was strange the routine formed. It was just as unorthodox as the relationship. But within the culinary world, nothing was off-limits. There was a vague beginning to the friendship, another fitting mark. You were a friend of a friend that knew a guy. And you were the one that’s rumors claimed you were better than him.

Sometimes Luca wished he chose rivalry over admiration. But even if he had, you wouldn’t allow it. You would never go back to that world. It was far too demanding; you couldn’t thrive where you didn’t belong. You liked when your hands were layered with flour to lay out your dough. To stir a glaze in just the right way so that there was enough for an extra taste. It was you and the stillness without the adrenaline-filled demands.

The quiet of working side by side, the soft clinking of metal sheets and ceramics, was the perfect white noise. The simple patter of packed flour being muddled with oil was far better than the tourists that invaded your senses. You couldn’t decide if it was a welcomed distraction.

“What do you think?” He respected hierarchy. It was perfect. But you valued the imperfections of each unique item.

“Hmm?” You looked to your side. Luca was close; the small layout allowed for it.

“Try it.” He slid the plate to you.

Routines were hard to break. Every morning you skipped breakfast, it wasn’t until your stomach rumbled would you realize you were hungry. Luca learned you loved things sickly sweet, just shy of making your mouth pucker.

You worked alone often; you hadn’t needed the company nor the help. However, the pair of hands that steadied themselves on your hips to pass by made you question your need. It made you question if the warmth that spread through your body was from him or from the oven pre-heating near your knees. It would have been easy to doubt it all if there hadn’t been a ghost print of flour on your black apron.

“Go on…” Luca returned, pushing a found spoon into your hands. “Give me your worst.”

You rolled your eyes. He knew it was good. You knew it was good. The first spoonful was annoyingly satisfying. You maintained your breath through the second bite. If you went for a third, you knew Luca’s ego would soar.

The extra hands were helpful, but you refused to let the aid blind his purpose. So, you deflected, pointing the spoon to him.“I’m sure it’ll sell.”

Luca’s lips played with a frown. You were good at reminding him that his so-called sweetness could cross over into becoming a chore. His thick skin was scarred, burned, and continually tested.  You had the skill to crawl under it and almost get to him.

Accepting the utensil, he tasted his own creation. “It’s missing something.”

“Yeah?” You weren’t shy about plucking your finger into the cream filling for another taste. “What are you thinking?”

There it was, his earlier promise broken. With just a look, you knew what he was thinking; you. It was a tacky way to beg again for you to work with him; it was why he only gave you a look. One that was brief and gone before you could say anything before returning steely.

“Increase the fat content.” You advised, breaking your gaze. It was a test, and you were well aware you passed. It was textbook. Again, you’d proven your mind was in tune with his. “Cut it with acidity.”

He nodded, inked arms crossed against his chest. Luca lacked  the asinine chef bravado. A welcome reprieve. Self-assured, steady, and strong. Your eyebrows pinched when he stumbled slightly, drawing in a breath to say something just to let the words die. It was out of character, a side to him you didn’t believe existed. He seemed nervous.

“It’ll be ready in a few weeks.” His words seemed to settle finally.

“Ah…” You wiped your hands on your chest, reaching for the next thing. The beauty in baking was constantly moving. Even when your patience was being tested while things rose, there was always another something to work on. “...I forgot how much modernist cuisine attracts attention.”

New items meant new clients. New reviews and new criticism. You continued to assure him, chatting softly of what snobs people could be when they were filled with only ignorance. You meant to ease his apprehension, but you realized it had nothing to do with hosting an event.

It had to do with the invitation that flew from his lips. “Think you’re free that night?”

[kokomos]

♡₊           ⅰ.  dolce far niente         ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

— starring     conrad fisher !๑

series: dolce far niente can be identified as a period of blissful idleness, a sweetness one gains from indolence. each part in this collection will focus on various idylls from the reader's relationship with conrad.

prompt: your boyfriend cares more about his stupid video game than he does about you!

tags: fem! reader, bratty! reader, bf! connie; established relationship, mixed power dynamics; fluff.

honey's note: taking requests for this series!<3

“connie ,” you pout, tugging at the sleeve of his tee-shirt.

your boyfriend doesn't even blink at the sound of your bleating, far too engrossed in some zombie shooter game that him and his brother bought three—four summers ago. his eyes held an overzealous glint in the coastal hues, having been trained on the screen for what you could only recount as hours. in actuality, it hadn't been more than fifteen minutes, but that was besides the point. he had been neglecting you.

“what's wrong, baby?” conrad's voice lifts to fit a sympathetic tune, though it's swiftly juxtaposed by the lack of eye contact he offers as he speaks to you in it.

a soft whine parts your lips, “pay attention to your girlfriend.”

“five more minutes,” he starts.

“conrad—”

“i promise, just five more minutes, princess.”

he knows he's successfully pacified you when all that follows is a groan of compliance—and he's more than certain an eye-roll is accompanying the gesture. your insistence subsides momentarily, and you settle for as much affection as you can possibly squeeze out of him given his current priority. your arms slink around his waist and you press a cheek against the sinewy muscle of bicep—you're attached at his hip, both figuratively and literally.

“can't you pause?” you coo, simpering faintly.

“can't you wait five minutes?” he retorts, finally shooting a glance or two your way.

an extra thick coat of sugary adulation envelops your words to ensure triumph over the game, “i can't wait five seconds for you, baby.”

the declaration tugs on his heartstrings, just as you had planned, and his cheeks flush an adorable shade of crimson. before you know it, he's abandoned the game and pulled you into his arms; two firm palms discarded the controller in favor of your hips. you hum in content and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer into your embrace. you feel his lips crease against your skin before he murmurs something you can't quite discern.

three words, was it?

ᡣ𐭩    with love , honey

[grandlinedreams]

Hii! I love your writing! Can you do a Law x shy yn please?

Hiya!! Thank-you so much, that really does mean a lot to me to have people enjoy my writing! Absolutely, I hope this is to your liking!! setting context: uh....just after Wano/defeating Kaido

He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves meㅡ

"There you are." You look up from your idle task as Law approaches. "What are you doing all the way over here?"

"Nothing," you answer, hoping he doesn't notice the half-plucked flower in your hand and the discarded petals by your feet.

"Not in the mood to celebrate?" he asks, moving to settle himself beside you, Kikoku set aside carefully. He's been cleaned up and bandaged well, most of it hidden under clean, untorn clothing.

"Something like that," you answer. You hadn't meant to worry anyone with your disappearance, only that the loud, boisterous energy that the Strawhats seem to radiate is usually too much to handle when you see them. They have reason to celebrate, and you don't want to ruin the mood with your less enthusiastic presence. "What about you?"

"There's only so much of them that I can take," Law remarks dryly, though there's a hint of a smirk when you stifle a giggle. Despite his frustration and outwardly begrudging tolerance for them, you know Law has a growing soft spot for the other pirate crew. (Luffy has that kind of effect, you've noticed. Eternal canon blast cheer and a tenacity for friendship that strangely seems to always work in his favor.)

There's a lapse into comfortable silence, the sound of some distant nighttime animal echoing as you twirl the flower stem between your fingers. It feels foolish to put any kind of merit into the sway of a childhood game ㅡ you're smarter than that, you know better than that. (Curse those romantic notions you've read so often in books loaned to you on occasion by Ikkaku.)

"Something on your mind?" Law's question makes you look up and over, finding him watching you with soft amusement. "You were sighing pretty heavily. What's going on in that head of yours?"

Your cheeks warm, the half-limp flower spinning faster now between your fingers, an outlet for nervous energy. "Do you think..." You trail off, fighting for the right words. "Do you think we deserve a happy ending?"

It sounds dumber now that you've said it out loud, giving a voice to those idyllic fantasies you've so often found yourself mentally entertaining as of late. Especially so in voicing it to Law, when you know he's a man of science and logic.

"I think so." Law's quiet answer makes you jolt, watching him in surprise. He isn't looking at you, gaze focused somewhere off in the distance as he speaks. "I didn't used to, not when I was so sure that I'd die trying to bring down Doflamingo. And I made my peace with that, so long as I got revenge for Corazon."

Carefully, tentatively, you scoot closer. "And now?"

"Now..." He trails off as he lifts his arm, wraps it around your shoulders to press you closer to him. "I want that. It's what Corazon would want, too." He turns towards you, raising an eyebrow in question. "What about you?"

You spin the flower stem, watch the whirl of the remaining petals before letting it slip from your fingers. You don't need that, not with the weight of Law's arm around you, the quiet, tentative requital of your own feelings. "Yes," you answer at last, "I think we do."

[daenerys-daario]

@tyrionsource's event: TYRION'S SEASONS OF LOVE ↴

SUMMER:

The summer verses of 'The Seasons of My Love' in Tyrion's chapters reflect his yearning for love, acceptance, and an idyllic youth. Summer is Cersei laughing with him, instead of her laughing at him. Summer is his sister's love, his family's acceptance, and that time when he was in love for the first time with a woman who loved him not because he was a Lannister, but because he was Tyrion. Summer is idle dreams of a little cottage by the sea, that always remains warm by virtue of Tysha's sincere love...

[quizzyisdone]

Take On Me | Fem! Bell Reader x Frank Woods

A/N: Hi!! I know it has been forever since I post for BOCW and honestly, I miss it a lot. Adult life just doesn't really lend itself well to having creative hobbies (shocking). But here's a little something for Valentine's Day that definitely is not projection at all :) Masterlist Pairing: Fem! Bell Reader x Frank Woods Word Count: 3.2k Synopsis: Woods has always hated Valentine's Day -- it's just a pathetic marketing gimmick for big businesses to take your money and for society to make you feel bad if you spend it alone. Bell, on the other hand, would beg to differ. Warnings: Strong language, mentions of alcohol, Woods is a jackass at one point but don't worry he makes up for it

*Title inspired by Take On Me, by a-ha

You walked glumly down the sidewalk, attempting to avert your eyes from the restaurants that lined the streets, young couples all enjoying a nice Valentine’s Dinner inside. Even the damn weather was romantic.

 Light flurries of snow cascading around everyone, intricate snowflakes landing delicately in your hair and onto your coat. It wasn’t bone-chilling cold either, perfect for a stroll down the street, holding hands with the one you loved. Warm yellowish hues from inside the various buildings emanated onto the street, along with the sound of laughter and idle chatter as well. It would’ve been the perfect atmosphere to set the mood for a date with Woods. The idyllic late winter day.

You clutched the brown paper bag filled with his favorite beer to your chest, careful so as not to drop it. It was your little Valentine’s Day gift, small and inconsequential enough to play off as just a kind gesture and completely not at all related to the present holiday. Admittedly, your feelings were a little hurt when Woods had gone off on a sarcastic tangent about how much he hated Valentine’s Day the other day and that it was just a stupid corporate holiday. 

He was kind of right, but it was still fun to celebrate, at least for you. A nice little date, free from the worries of either of your jobs or maybe at least a gift from Woods would have been nice. You two had never even been in the same state, or even country for that matter, during the holiday since you started dating. 

Maybe missing Valentine’s Day was kind of your fault anyways, since after his little joking tangent both of you agreed not to celebrate or do anything -- it was just a normal day. Ironic, considering a day with Woods could scarcely be considered normal due to your work with the CIA and his with the Marines. A normal day wasn’t getting called into work and both of you just sitting on the couch, too exhausted to truly spend time with each other in a manner other than physically being in the same room.

Truthfully, life had been rather boring lately, your relationship wasn’t missing love per se, but it was missing that old excitement.

You turned off of the street and into the apartment building where you shared a flat with Woods. After climbing up two flights of stairs and finding your door, you reached into your coat pocket for your keys, opening to the door to find Woods putting his own jacket on and grabbing the keys to his truck. 

“Hey babe.” He said, barely giving you a glance in acknowledgment as he tied his boots. 

“Hi.” You said, confused and frowning. You crossed your arms. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, over to this dive bar with Adler, he just got back into town, thought I’d get a drink with him.” Woods explained, none the wiser to how upset you were. You harshly placed down the brown bag. “Uh, what’s in the bag?” He asked.

“Something I got for you. I wanted to do something nice for you.” You crossed your arms and put on the angriest expression you could muster to hide how defeated you felt. He opened it, revealing a six pack of his favorite imported beer, very difficult and expensive to get in America. Instead of a smile and a thank you, he furrowed his brows, frowning.

“We weren’t supposed to get each other anything.” 

“It wasn’t for Valentine’s Day. It was meant to be a nice gesture” You spat, stomping off and into the living room adjacent to the foyer. “Not even a fucking thank you.” You whispered under your breath.

“Thank you?” He yelled from the other room, following you, now clearly just as angry as you. “We agreed not to get anything for each other. I don’t fucking want your gift if you’re just going to be an ass about it.”

“I went to seven different liquor stores across the entire Philadelphia city limit in the snow and paid nearly fifty dollars for a six pack of special imported beer that you’d go through in one sitting because I knew this was your favorite and now you don’t want it. Some gratitude would be nice. ”

“Why would I want it if you’re gonna act like a bitch?” Woods bellowed. ‘Bitch’ had hit a nerve, he had never called you that before, but then again the two of you never got into any bad arguments before. Regardless, you stood your ground.

“Maybe I’m acting like a bitch because your first response was to chastise and question me for getting you a present and now you’re yelling at me.”

“I didn’t even want to celebrate Valentine’s!”

“Maybe I did because I never get to be with you anymore, you’re always too tired or too busy to fucking be my partner.” Your pitch became quieter and you suddenly became aware of the tears streaming down your cheeks in a torrential downpour. “You haven’t touched me in forever. I miss you. I wanted to celebrate it with you, I never got to experience any of this.” You said through clenched teeth.

Evidently, the tears did not sway Woods, as he continued yelling. 

“Well I have and it’s not that fun. Sorry I’m exhausted from saving the entire fucking free world, Bell.” He retorted.

You scoffed.

“Get off your fucking soapbox, Woods. You and I do the exact same thing, and I still make time for you.” You turned your body away from him facing the wall, not even wanting to see him. “It’d be nice if you could do that for me too.”

“I do!” He explained, almost childlike in his declaration -- like a toddler so boldly claiming that the sky was green because he said so. 

“When was the last time you even took me out when it wasn’t my idea?” Woods paused, attempting to remember (to which he couldn’t). “See? You don’t even remember. Go and hang out with your buddy, don’t bother coming back if you don’t want me anymore. I’ll get the hint.” You said dejectedly, walking off to your bedroom but stealing a glance at Woods, who only glared daggers at you, brows furrowed, looking almost annoyed with you. 

You lightly shut your bedroom door the exact moment Woods slammed the front door shut, the vibration of which could be felt against the wall and you could hear a distant clang and glass shatter. You placed your back against the wood, slowly sliding down into the floor and placing your head between your knees, sobbing.

You instantly regretted that ultimatum you just gave him, Woods was the only person you have after MK-Ultra, while he had everyone. He didn’t need you, you needed him. To ground you, to keep you sane.

---------

Woods stomped off to his truck, angrily shoving the key into the ignition. The drive to the bar was erratic and rage-filled, as he gripped the steering wheel with an iron clasp and swore under his breath, muttering counter arguments that he could’ve used in an attempt to justify his actions.

Arriving at the bar, he slammed the door shut, scanning the front of the building for Adler, whom he found almost immediately, nursing a cigarette as per usual. The person who stood next to him, however, utterly enraged Woods. Fucking Hudson.

Despite himself, Woods strided to where they were standing, waiting for him. 

“Hey Adler.” He greeted the scarred man. Adler nodded back in acknowledgement.“The fuck you doing here, Hudson?” 

“Well aren’t you in a great fuckin’ mood.” Hudson retorted, jabbing Woods’s shoulder. “Come on, we can argue inside when we’re sat down and drunk.”

Woods reluctantly obliged him, opening the door and scanning the room for a table, considering the bar was completely full. He found a high top table and sat down, beckoning for a server, for which he ordered three whiskeys and a round of shots for the table. 

Silence ensued for a brief moment before Adler broke it.

“So why the hell are you in a bad mood this time, Woods?” He asked, exasperated in a way that indicated that it wasn’t so uncommon for the sergeant to swing by in a sour mood. Woods immediately went on the defensive.

“The more important question is why the fuck Hudson is here? Don’t you have a wife and kids to celebrate Valentine’s with? She pissed at you too?” Woods spat, and Hudson sighed deeply.

“So that’s what this is about.” Adler chuckled to himself.

“If you have to know, Jenny’s not in town right now,” He explained. “Few days ago she was really upset and needed a vacation, so I told her I’d watch the kids while she went down to her mother’s house for some alone time.”

“Oh and so I guess you just left the kids at home by themselves.” Woods retorted, realizing belatedly that his statement was a bit unfair. For all his faults, he had always known the man to be a devoted husband and father. Hudson rolled his eyes.

“What kind of father do you take me for? This sixteen year old girl down the street needed some pocket money so I’m paying her to babysit them. Happy?” He rolled his eyes and Woods let the matter drop. “So now that I’ve answered your question, what has put you in an even worse mood than usual? Is it Bell?” Hudson asked.

Woods groaned. “Yes, okay? We got into a fight.” 

“About?” Adler beckoned Woods to explain.

“Well,” He began. “So a few weeks back, right? I went off on some rant that Valentine’s Day is stupid and we agreed to not celebrate it. But today I guess she went back on her word and got me a gift and made me look like an asshole for not getting her anything. Then we got into a fight. That’s it.”

“That can’t be it.” Hudson scoffed. This time it was Woods’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Fine.” He huffed. “Words were… exchanged.”

“And what the hell exactly did you say to her?” Adler piped up. Woods rolled his eyes again, slamming his beer bottle down. 

“Fine.” He huffed, beginning to regale every single gritty detail of a five minute fight, seeing as Hudson and Adler would’ve pried everything out of him some way or another. Throughout his story, Woods kept stuttering over his words, pausing, taking deep breaths. He still couldn’t get over that ultimatum. 

“You called her a bitch?” Hudson stared at Woods, his eyes glaring daggers. 

“That was your first mistake.” Adler snickered. 

“No, that was his hundredth mistake. Your first mistake, Woods, was ranting about Valentine’s Day in the first place.” Hudson paused, noticing the very displeased expression of the man across from him. Not wanting to get into a bar fight tonight, he chose his next words carefully. “Hear me out, I can tell you every reason why you’re wrong, if you want. If you don’t, that’s fine. Drink your pain away and let your relationship with Bell go down the drain.”

Tense silence filled the air as Woods retreated back into his head. He certainly hates Hudson, doesn’t think the man does a damn thing right, but he’s been married for the better half of a decade for a reason, right? Woods slowly nodded his head, it couldn’t hurt to hear the man out, and besides, even in his rage, even after the ultimatum you gave him, losing one of the only people he actually cared about was one he couldn’t bear.

“Okay. Well, as we all well know, Bell doesn’t remember anything about her life.” Hudson glanced at Adler, who suddenly found a keen interest in the glass of whiskey in front of him. “And in the past three years, she hadn’t been able to celebrate any holiday other than Christmas last year because of schedules. Everything is a first for her, making it special to her. So your first mistake was ranting about Valentine’s Day.”

“Wh- How?” Woods sighed. 

“Jesus Christ you’re so fucking dense.” Hudson mumbled to himself, rubbing his forehead. “It’s her first and she has someone who she loves dearly to celebrate it with. Probably felt like a gut punch. And still yet, she tried to make it special in spite of you. You practically spat on her for it. You called her a bitch and yelled instead of just accepting it and spending the night with her. That’s all she wanted.”

Oh. Maybe he was onto something.

“You are all Bell has.” Hudson stressed, the way he was explaining the situation to Woods, you would think he has experienced this exact situation. Perhaps he has, Woods did find that break up letter to Hudson from some girl like fifteen or so odd years ago. “And she’s probably feeling pretty neglected.”

“So why do you all of the sudden like Bell?” Adler asked, shame from the mention of what he did to you still painted on his expression.

“I like her well enough, and she’s proven herself.” Hudson took a sip from his drink and laughed softly. “But I like proving Woods wrong more.”

“Shut the fuck up, baldilocks.” Woods grumbled and Adler snorted, while Hudson let out a small chuckle at the creative insult. “I’ve gotta go.”

Unceremoniously, Woods removed himself from the high barstool, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet. He placed a twenty on the table, leaving without a word.

“Y’know he’s never gonna admit that sometimes you’re right.” Adler said, a cigarette between his teeth as he popped open his zippo lighter. 

“I know.” 

__

Woods glanced down at his watch as he approached the door to your shared apartment. It was only seven when he left. Fuck. He hoped you might still be awake. As quietly as he could, with a bouquet in one hand and his keys in the other, he unlocked the door.

“Bell?” He whispered, hoping to hear at least a TV or the radio playing. Instead, it was dark, with only a small glow emanating from the oven light in the kitchen. “Babe?”

No answer. Shit. He set his keys down on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room and turned on a lamp. Gingerly, he made his way to your shared bedroom, opening the door softly.

On the bed, he found you asleep, facing towards the door and your hand lazily resting on the pillow on his side. He sighed, it was clear you had fallen asleep crying, your eyes puffy and cheeks red even in sleep. Woods took off his boots, setting down the bouquet on the nightstand. 

As stealthily as a man of his size could manage, he crawled into bed, facing towards you. He held the hand that was resting on his side in his own hand, bringing it to his, softly kissing your knuckle. 

“Bell.” He rested his free hand on your hip, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs. Woods smiled softly as your eyes fluttered awake. Instead of returning his soft gestures, you simply grumbled, taking back your hand and flipping over on your other side. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. “Baby, I’m sorry.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk. Go to bed, you'll feel differently in the morning.” You said, sniffling and barely audible. 

“I didn’t drink anything. Baby girl, I am so fucking sorry.” He scooched closer to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush to his form. “I’m sorry for complaining about Valentine’s, I’m sorry for the beer, I’m sorry for calling you a bitch, I’m sorry for being a fucking jackass to my girl.”

Silence ensued for a few minutes, only interrupted with your occasional sniffle. You sighed, sitting up and facing towards him. You gave a sad smile.

“Frank, I just want us to be normal.” Your voice cracked as the tears began again. “I don’t want this shitty military stuff anymore. I just want to be a normal couple who does normal couple things.”

“Oh, baby girl. Honey, I am so sorry.” He shushed as he sat up, holding you in his arms so tightly, as if he was afraid you’d shatter into dust and leave him forever if he didn’t. 

“Baby, we can be normal. I’ll take you to the movies, I’ll take you on more dates, I’ll bring you flowers, I’ll win you the biggest stuffed animal at the fair, I’ll even celebrate Valentine’s Day with you.” He kissed your temple, pulling you even closer as sobs racked your body. “Please, I just need you in my life.”

“Please don’t ever leave me.” You whimpered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.” He held you, strong and steadfast, guilt from the events that transpired earlier sweeping over him. “I couldn’t live without you. God, I’m so fucking sorry, baby girl.”

“Me neither.” The two of you remained there, locked in an embrace and peacefully silent. For hours, you felt as if he was going to leave you, and without him, you’d quite literally have nothing. Without him, you’d have to crawl back to the man that hurt you the most. 

To have the normally gruff, brash Marine sergeant here, admitting to you how much he needed you in his life, it almost felt that for once in your life, that you were a normal person. Not some brainwashed freak.

“I got you a present.” He pulled his head back to look at you. A soft smile creeped across your features. “It’s not as good as those beers you got me,” He reached over the nightstand, presented the bouquet of flowers. “And it took me forever to find, considering every florist was either closed or sold out. But you deserve this, and so much more.”

“Oh, Frank. They’re perfect. Thank you so much.” You gave him a quick peck, looking over the bouquet with a proud smile on your face. Your first flowers from him.

“Bell, I also have a very important question for you.” He smiled earnestly at how your eyes were lit up, just from flowers. You nodded, beckoning him to ask. “Will you be my Valentine?” 

Your happiness turned into straight glee as you practically exploded with joy.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” You exclaimed, pushing him down and straddling him. You giggled and peppered his face with little kisses all over as he grinned, chuckling along with you. “Of course I will.” You said softly, pulling back as you placed the flowers on your side’s nightstand. 

You returned to his side, cuddling up flush against his chest as he smiled down at you, like today never even happened. Your hands drew small circles on his chest and you sighed contentedly, this was a feeling that you had missed these past few months. Just you and Woods -- nothing else.

“Baby?” He hummed. You let your eyes close, the threat of sleep drawing ever near.

“M’yeah?”

“We’ll do something more fun tomorrow, okay?” Woods grinned as he also let his eyes close, pulling you even tighter towards him.

“This is good enough for me.” You lazily smiled against his chest.

So needless to say I'm odds and ends But I'll be stumbling away Slowly learning that life is okay

[stellomiacis]

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

[siriusfelis]

THERES 2 COPIES OF THUS POST MONTHS APART IN MY IDLE IDYLL TAG …. Mirage is that much of a failgirl

[midnightmagicks]

FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge Day 6: Halcyon

Halcyon: Denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful.

As time spent within the walls of the quaint city of Gridania often went for E’mal, he found himself yet again tied to a group of conjurers. And as it often was the case, he found himself in charge of the less experienced bunch. Today, they had been tasked with the never-ending quest to gather more medicinal herbs for the guild. As if this wasn’t always the assigned task. 

The droning of the native insects thrummed around E’mal’s head. The idle chatter of the group around him making his head spin when in combo with the, to him, not-so distant bustling of the city. He could feel himself losing focus on his task, sprigs of greenery slipping through his fingers and falling lightly to the ground in an undignified pile. He shut his eyes and took a shaky breath in an attempt to calm his slowly unraveling nerves. Everything was entirely too much. The city, the people around him, it was all too loud. 

His mind wandered as he tried to keep himself in check. He remembered the times when he was a child where he would simply run into the woods when it all became too much. When the sounds of people scratched his brain in all the wrong ways. The feeling of freedom and fearlessness as he climbed trees and explored the underbrush, jumping from branches and swinging vines over creekbeds. Those halcyon days seemed so far from him now. And yet…. An idea came to mind. Spur of the moment thought that needed nothing further. His eyes finally opened and he dropped his bags on the ground with a resounding thud. The noise startled the conjurers around him and they all paused, turning to see what exactly their current guide was up to. But E’mal didn’t pay them any mind. Not right now. He was in the middle of untying his robe to throw it to the side. He stood in an undershirt and calf-length trousers, inhaling deeply. A grin came to his face and he slid out of his boots and socks, feeling the soft grasses and moss under his feet. The group was now…confused. And a little concerned. They did not, however, get the chance to inquire before E’mal turned, a playful smirk on his face.

“I’m sure the elder’s will have my head when I get back, but good luck. I can’t be bothered to do this anymore! It’s painfully dull.”

Finishing his statement, he turned and bolted into the treeline, a childlike cheer of excitement as he did. His knowledge of the forests of the shroud never seemed to have left him as he sprang forward fearlessly, much like he did all those years ago.

[praazlwurm]

Codename: CARVER challenged you to battle!

Lore and close-ups below the break

(❁´◡`❁)

Y'all ever struck by the realization your self-insert immortal incongruently-wizard-coded character can, in fact, have pink hair and eyes?

Okay so anyone happening across this, this is my blorbooo, Magpie, who got isekai'd into the Pokemon world in my pair of fics here and gets runic-flavored quasi magical abilities and immortality by blessing of arceus

Feat. the conceptual design for a Survey Ball - modeled after the Origin Ball and the first/only pokeball Magpie has built out of unown-inscribed starshards since she was experimenting with using shards as charms in tell-the-stars

Anyway Magpie redesign because my poor girl is sick of ruining shirts when she does a Big Magic, hence sleeveless top and experimental runic-imbued greatcoat that can withstand all but the Biggest Magic. In my mind she got pinged by InterPol but refuses to "be a cop" (even if the IP isn't exactly like irl cops) - instead she and Volo serve as consultants and Big Guns whenever the local evil team gets too big for their britches or things like the Ultra Beast/paradoxmon/rediscovered Ultimate Weapon crop up.

Besides the coat she's got unown-style colar chains, her old survey corps badge and the (now empty) Hisui ball to remember her first team of pokemon by.

Team would probably vary by region, the one here is the like ideal aesthetic/lore team (ft allotted quasi-legendary, single shiny (after a couple centuries of idle breeding rather than concentrated focus), and ever the necessary cute mascots Irony the unown and lil baby inkay)

The most mainstaying 'mon on her team is Otto the golurk, which she inscribed-to-life herself in a drawing that I… procrastinated on doing the background on with this character page lmao but here's a sneak peak at that:

ft. chienpao bc it loves Volo a lot, Volo's spiritomb and togetic in the background bc this is their idyllic home in paldea ig (im probably going to redraw mags, ursa and maybe inkay down the line because i remain intimidated by the background i tasked myself with RIP

anywho im going to work on making this a proper pinned post with links and tags for all of the Lore so expect to see it updated lol

[atallephoculary]

—- G o s p e l —

[ @extristitiavenit ]

Hope County was truly a beautiful place; the cascading mountains and rolling hills of fertile farmland seemed to stretch for miles and miles, disappearing into lines of thick spring pines that dotted the horizon. It seemed like it was such an idyllic place; Marion often found herself reminiscing about her childhood home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana whilst on her lunch breaks due to the overwhelming amount of very beautiful but very foreign scenery… A swampy transplant into an arid tundra, a fish out of water. Being sent all over the country was hard enough as it was, but never being able to stay in one place long enough to grow some roots was harder. It was always something- a new job, a boyfriend, loss of income— something- something- something… Deputy Fuller had hoped that a change of scenery into the God fearing farmlands would strike down whatever wandering roots that would grab soil. Maybe this could actually be the place she settled down and called it good. Maybe it was the place where she would live and die quietly after she finished with whatever dumb prospect this job was.

The station was quiet, though as usual there was a gentle chatter over the radio between squad cars and her co-workers idle conversations flowing through the air in a gentle hum while the air conditioning unit whirs quietly overhead. As nice as it was to have such down time, it did put a slight alarm through her. Could it be quiet here for longer than a day? Probably not- there was always something happening over the radio, with those Peggies meandering around the valley and mountains- the ‘Eden’s Gate’ project, or whatever.. She really didn’t care. It didn’t affect her life, (well- it did- it did so much she ended up in Hope County, Montana to fill in a position that was, in fact, permanently vacant); and the ways it did affect her were easily written off with a nice blunt and a cold drink at her small cabin after work. Quitting time was always on her mind- her hazy green hues darting over to the white bubble clock that hung over the dirty front door. 5:15 p.m.- another 15 minutes until she could clock out and head home… Outside, a caravan of white vehicles with that stupid cross painted on the sides of them head down the main thoroughfare- honking and blasting their music loud enough to be heard all the way inside the station offices- “Keep your rifle by our side!” The tune hangs high in the air like a flag, and soon the cacophony of tires and engines and guitars fade into the distance until there was nothing left but the gentle clicking of the clock and the hum of the air conditioner. Marion rolled her eyes, stretched her arms up above her head and let off a loud yawn; hands unceremoniously rubbing her face and pushing back her mess of black curly hair. What a boring day. Nothing but paperwork and emails, two phone calls from the F.A.N.G center and one from the Chief to keep an eye out for a package that may or may not show up. Again. What a thrilling job; (Junior) Deputy Sheriff and she may as well have been a fucking secretary.

Another shift, another day completed; clocking out with an actual time punch was always one of the best parts of the job, one of those ‘little things’ her therapist back in Los Angeles told her when she was in her early years of being on the force.. What a lifetime ago, freshly 18 and just wanting to do the right thing— a road to hell paved with the best of intentions.. The old machine reams the paper with a clunk and Marion is out the door with her bag and glasses in hand, headed out to the old Ford truck in the parking lot.. The sun was setting by now, the sky being painted in brilliant chunks of reds and oranges and pinks.. A nice view for the drive home too, tires whirring down the evenly paved road down into Holland Valley. Farm land, for miles and miles. At least, she thought, it didn’t stink like some parts of the country she had stayed in.. These people out here took good care of their livestock and it showed. When the engine of the trucks begun to rattle and almost scream with uncertainty, it made her flicker back to reality and ease off the road and onto the shoulder; smoke flooding from the hood of the car as the lever under her seat was pressed with trepidation and concern for how she was now going to get home.

Standing over the fried engine, lit cigarette between her lips and flashlight in her southpaw, she felt like a real tool standing out there in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, nothing but trees and fields and cars that scooted by almost hurriedly as the night settled into the valley. Marion didn’t blame them- things tended to get sketchy at best when night came.

“Aaaah fuckin’… Ya’ piece of shit, perfect fuckin’ timing to die out on me huh. You juss’ loooooove causing me issues.” The bayou woman scoffed and slammed the hood down after settling on a diagnosis: Fried radiator and snapped belt, transmission broken. Absolute destruction. Leaning now with her back to the warmed metal of the hood, she idly flicks through her phone— no signal— no reach. There was nothing out here, and she wasn’t exactly able to take a radio from the station. That was priorly a write up. So with a scoff and a groan and a few more expletives, Marion cleared the cab of her belongings and shoved them unceremoniously into her leather backpack, turned off the lights and slammed the truck door closed with a thud. There was nothing now but the eerie silence and the air current moving through the trees- if she didn’t like the dark at home, she surely hated it when outside. There was a certain fear that comes with walking alone at night, but hopefully, hopefully, the 13 mile walk in almost pitch darkness wouldn’t be that bad.

[ay0nha]

When shall we meet again in thunder, lightning, or rain? | S.G. (I)

SUMMARY: You avoided addressing him directly, not quite due to fear but rather apathy. It took coaxing for you to even allow him to stay and now, without thought, you unknowingly beckoned him closer.

PAIRING: Satoru Gojo x Fushiguro!reader (Megumi's aunt/Toji's sister)

WORD COUNT: 2.2K

WARNINGS: Found family vibes atm, slight enemies to lovers, reader and gojo figuring out their dynamic through emotion constipation, angsty convos and feelings, canon-typical things, kid megumi, rushed ending, etc.

A/N: This took longer than I thought, but I want to take my time and really put effort into this one, so I hope you all enjoy. BIG shout out to @benzywenzymeowmeow this wouldn't have happened without your help. Much love. Again, based on/inspired by @stsgooo's post (here!). Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts.

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED. PLEASE.

prologue part ii

The bliss was idyllic.

Your wrist balanced on the windowsill as you lazily tapped the ash of your cigarette. The cool air caressed your arm and gave you goosebumps that reminded you that you were still alive—human. 

Your senses were perked. 

The city outside kept you attentive as your head rested back. The day was long, but hearing the taxis carrying bubbling people made it worth it. You imagined how some were on their way to find warmth in their home while others were dressed for an endless night of laughter.  

You loved how you contrasted the city; your living room was empty and quiet. You could no longer hear Megumi’s shuffling feet above you. The tranquility was still a fresh oddity. The new life created was a semblance of happiness. You traded hyper-vigilant nights for bedtime stories, cooking meals only for the kids for family dinners, and Gojo’s scarcity of communication for peaceful nights like tonight.

The privilege that came with Gojo’s name made your stomach churn. It was simple at first, pushing Gojo into a subconscious level. However, the task became daunting; an ache emerged from so deep within that it took months for you to realize he was responsible. 

You were overdue for an interruption. You answered the door after the third knock. 

“Gojo.” The cigarette dangled from your lip and bobbed with every syllable. “Megumi’s asleep.”

“Already?” Gojo feigned surprise; his intentions were obvious that he wasn’t here for your nephew. “It’s only—

“Midnight.” You sucked in a crackling breath. With pointed eyes, you took his presence in. On your breath out, the smoke clouded his face, “What do you want?”

“I didn’t know you smoked.” He used your question as an invitation, pushing past the threshold. He was always amused learning more about you, able to store away the details for later torment. 

With a chastised drag, you smothered the tobacco on the closest thing. “I don’t.”

There were reasons habits quickly morphed into vices, something immoral and wicked. You turned to smoking when you were young, disappearing seamlessly into a crowd that did the same. It grew into something that was seen as an extension of yourself—something nervously born only to be counterintuitive. 

You had gone to the store tonight for something so trivial that you struggled to remember what it was. The itch on your palm was a distraction from it all as you pointed for the pack behind the counter. It seemed like the right thing to do to combat stress, especially as you purchased a cheap lighter to follow through. 

It hadn’t been a comfort you thought it would be, but it was the only way you knew best to preoccupy yourself. You weren’t used to such repose surrounding you. You felt—safe. 

Now, each push forward felt unreliable and fuzzy. You didn’t like the way you felt so exposed. 

“Megumi’s getting stronger.” You couldn’t stand the idle silence, mainly when its weight rested on your shoulders. “The other day, this place was flooded with rabbits.” 

Gojo’s laugh flittered against the walls, challenging the warm breeze that swept through the place. It was apparent you hadn’t settled into the home completely; it was still devoid of personality and belonging. 

You hadn’t realized how each of Gojo’s visits revealed more. Something about seeing dishes in the sink and mail littering the counters lightened him. It was a simple indication that he was finally doing something right. 

“He’s a clever kid,” Gojo said lowly as if the neighbors would hear. His voice followed you even when you resumed your sedentary position, “He’s holding back, though…” 

“Isn’t that a good thing for you?” You were critical. You barely lifted your wrist, making a vague gesture of importance. “...and your so-called destiny…”

The constant friction between clans failed to excite you. It served as a reminder that those below them would most feel the repercussions. The day would come when the six eyes would meet the tenth shadow, and you would be left to clean up the mess. 

“It could be...” He answered so casually. You knew it’d be a lie if he promised you anything different. “...but that doesn’t mean Megumi shouldn’t reach his full potential.”

“How noble,” You cooed. 

Silence settled after the soft scoff to your chide. Often, you sat in silence, something Gojo was still learning to adapt to. If he had it his way, you would sit in rapture in his company. Yet, it was far more welcome than before. 

But the obvious question was still floating between you. 

Gojo could have entertained you with lies of being nearby. However, what drove him to your doorstep was a new sensation. It started in his chest, an unassuming feeling that he ascribed to staving off sleep. There became lesser justifications when it infiltrated every extremity. 

It had only become unbearable when missing posters began to overlap, the various faces becoming warped from exposure. The curses responsible were low-grade, but Gojo couldn’t ignore the threat even then. As they drew closer, he employed crows to line the telephone wires. Yet, he could only keep his distance for so long. 

“You’re stalling, Satoru…” 

You avoided addressing him directly, not entirely due to fear, but instead apathy. It took coaxing for you even to allow him to stay, and now, without thought, you unknowingly beckoned him closer. 

“Tired of me already?” His smirk could be felt. 

“Something like that…” You sighed. “If you’ve come here to hide more of those things—” You sat up, reaching for the dingy box that stored a gifted cursed object. “—don’t.”

The object mocked you daily, occupying space it wasn’t meant to atop the living room’s end table. Although it was sealed deftly with layers of protection, you were convinced whatever was within was alive—living and breathing to torment you. The house felt heavy with something that breathed down your neck, and praying, you turned to face it. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Playing coy wasn’t a strong suit for Gojo, not when he’d already hidden another cursed object just above the door frame. 

You hadn’t thought your paranoia was shared despite its contrast. For you, the odds were that harm would find you, and you’d be vulnerable to it all. However, Gojo could handle anything but never fared well with things threatening his control. His thoughts would begin to loop, slowly morphing into images that haunted his nights. 

It drove him to unassigned missions based on rumors of the whereabouts of cursed objects. The more he found, the deeper he placed them into the bones of the building you slept within. It took time for you to catch on, only finding these items when you cleaned, behind old books, in forgotten drawers, or in places just out of your reach. 

“Look—” Gojo started again, denying you the chance to argue. “Megumi’s getting stronger; you said it yourself.” He paused, treading carefully. “There will be a time when you wish these were enough.” 

—

Time passed fiercely. 

Megumi grew at a pace you could hardly keep up with. His sleeping figure was becoming too heavy for your hip, your dexterity failing as you felt for your keys. Then, you felt the weight shift on the opposite side of the door. 

Your struggle ended when it opened. 

“What are you—

“Shh—” Gojo held a finger to his lip, a smile imminent under it. “You’ll wake him.”

With your arms tucked under Megumi’s legs, you held him tightly to your chest as if the person before you was an intruder. Gojo watched as you slowly regained your composure, shoulders reflecting relief and the indent between your eyebrows evaporating.  

Even over the rim of his opaque glasses, Gojo knew better than to think his presence was welcomed. You readjusted your sleeping nephew lightly, frowning as you pushed past Gojo. You felt his footsteps copy your own, closely as if teasing the thought of bumping into you. 

The home was warm as if Gojo had been there for hours. Perhaps he was; you’d lost count of how long you’d been out. Especially as your arms grew tired and the river’s humidity still clung to your skin. 

“It’s late, Satoru…” You murmured over your shoulder. Your body melted from the exhaustion it carried, leaving droplets of yourself as a trail. “Whatever it is can wait…”

Gojo had always been blunt, frequently tactless in his childish rapport. However, he stood before you uncompromisingly as if your absence was a grave mistake.

“The door was unlocked—” His opaque glasses could shield his annoyance, but his words dripped with accusation. “—you weren’t here.” 

Your hold on Megumi remained secure. “He’s been having trouble sleeping.”

Megumi exchanged sleep for taming shikigami. He was diligent in understanding the world of jujutsu. You expected that alone to intimidate him, but he was already above it all, jaded about the idea of becoming a sorcerer. 

Although young, behind Megumi’s neutral expression was immense introspection. Despite his disposition, his morals weren’t laid bare yet, but he knew he wasn’t that person. That alone was enough to weigh him down.  

As his mentor, Gojo failed to notice. His focus was on your oversight. “Someone—something could have—”

“It was just a walk,” You sighed. 

The lights streamed in from the street you’d just wandered on. It cast shadows against the mess of the place. Your stress unravelled into the discarded, forgotten jackets sprawled on random chairs. 

Every surface had some mark that Gojo indulged in. They told stories he could piece together; the stains of coffee on the counter attributed to your tardiness. He could picture how you hurried before school, toast in your mouth as you fitted Megumi’s school tie and ruffled a free hand through his unruly hair. 

“He’s fine.” You promised with resignation. Gojo blinked back to the present, ignorant to how you misinterpreted his wistfulness for further criticism. “The walks help, I think.”

“You realize it’s the middle of the night, right?” He scoffed, pedantic with his dry laugh. “All my efforts, just for you to dangle yourself—

“Come on…” Your hum was half-hearted, looking at Megumi. “Lately, your efforts seem to be only convenient for you.” 

Walking away from the conversation, you did your best to keep busy. You were afraid that if you stopped moving, your world would collapse. If you stopped moving, time would consume you. 

The Zenin clan didn’t take Gojo’s loophole lightly. He responded with a few years worth of nurturing Megumi; money was siphoned to you for his care, a place was already carved for him at the school, and any sugar craving was indulged. 

That left you counting the seconds you still had with your nephew. The walks calmed you, holding Megumi so closely. His arms wrapped tightly around your neck to loosen as he was rhythmically rocked to sleep. 

You weren’t afraid to walk alone. With your whole words encased in your arms, there wasn’t anything you weren’t willing to do. Even if that meant letting go at the end of the night. 

Despite uncanny perception, Gojo was blind to how crushing that felt. 

“I can’t see what he sees, what you see.” You continued aloud. Gojo was wise to hold back on an ill-timed wind-up, able to hear your admission clearly. “But I can feel what it does.”

Megumi groaned lightly, eyebrows furrowing from your chest’s vibrations. You paused, waiting for him to settle again. The night was almost over, and you weren’t sure how long your posture could support your position. 

“Let him be a kid.” You whispered. 

Gojo’s heart had dropped to his stomach, the curtains behind you rhythmically moving in a dance that mocked him. The few words made his fingers twitch. The thought of turning into his worst nightmare was comforted by a tight breath. 

If he genuinely desired to foster the next generation—to have Megumi be his equal—any unsympathetic cruelty didn’t have space to exist. Gojo’s breath deepened, filled with promise. 

Pushing the brief turmoil out, a lightness took over him. “Are you inviting me over for a playdate?”

“He may have a funny way of showing it…” You started. Megumi could be aloof and quiet, but you knew him better than anyone else. His eyes lit up even when he complained about Gojo. “...but Megumi—

“My head’s big enough already.” Gojo stalked toward you, saving you both from something neither of you was ready for. “Let’s make a deal, hmm?”

Carefully, Gojo’s hands brushed under your arms. Their coolness made you prickle, almost taking a defensive position as he offered help.

“These strolls of yours.” He mused. “Call me.” Any protest was lost; all you could do was nod. “I’m overdue for fresh air.” 

The transfer was seamless as he took the weight of your responsibility into his own arms. Megumi was deep in sleep, unaware of how the strength of his mentor was enough to hold you up as well. 

Gojo jutted his head toward your room, hold confident on Megumi. “Go get some rest.”

[ladamedusoif]

Books (Professor!Ben x OFC Lydia)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 14

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist.

Follow @ladameecrit for my writing updates!

Pairing: Professor!Ben x OFC!Lydia (part of the Visiting universe)

Word count: 848

Warnings: Language, angst, pining

Rating: Teen

Summary: What’s the harm of imagining an alternative future, when you’re lonely this Christmas?

This Fic-Mas story can be read as an add-on/deleted scene to Chapter 8 of Visiting, 'Sister Winter'.

Iceland has this thing called Jolabokaflod - literally, “book flood”. It can mean the rush of new books published for Christmas gifts, or it can mean the tradition associated with them. 

Put simply, the idea is that on Christmas Eve, you exchange books with your nearest and dearest. And then everyone snuggles up in bed, armed with hot chocolate and candy, and reads their new book. 

It sounds like heaven. 

The book flood tradition pops into your mind as you place a neatly-wrapped selection of books under the tree at your parents’ house on Christmas Eve. And with it, a pang, and another thought. 

Ben would love that. 

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, trying to fend off the thoughts of him. “I think it’s time for bed.”

You creep up the stairs, last one to turn in for the night, and nestle in with your hot water bottle. 

You wish he was keeping you warm, girl. 

“Fuck.”

Sleep doesn’t come easy. And you begin to imagine, to let yourself daydream (if one can call it that) about an alternative reality, an alternative future, if only for the night. 

It is Christmas, after all. It’s canonically a time for what might have beens, for counter-factuals. What was A Christmas Carol, if not that? And - even more obviously - what of It’s A Wonderful Life?

Alright, you think, maybe it’s not quite the same. Clarence the Angel had to show George Bailey how much better he made the world, and how wonderful his life actually was. And Dickens showed Scrooge terrible things, to help him change - a far cry from the cosy scene you were about to conjure up. 

Still, the point stands. What if things were different? What if things could be different? 

You close your eyes and let your mind wander, telling yourself it’s just idle fantasy. It’s not hurting anyone. Right?

So indulge. Find comfort in thinking about how it might be, could have been. Imagine the comfort of books, of warmth, of him.

You had thought for a long time about the book for Ben. Eventually, you settled on a personal favourite, one that reflected your personality, your interests, yourself: The Belly of Paris, by Émile Zola. You knew he hadn’t read it - “just Thérèse Raquin and Germinal”, he’d told you as you raved about Zola’s books - and you wanted to see what he thought. 

The edition is a recent translation, a handsome paperback, and you wrap it up in brown paper and add a length of dark red ribbon, placing it under the tree to await Christmas Eve. 

The next day, it’s joined by a matching book-shaped gift: this time wrapped in dark green paper, your name written in his distinctive handwriting on an old-fashioned gift tag. 

Christmas Eve is idyllic: mulled wine, old movies, talking and preparing food for the next day’s meal as the snow falls softly outside. By about 8 that evening, you’re settled cosily on the couch and your eyes land on the little packages. 

“Time for book flood, I think.”

Ben smiles as you reach under the tree and retrieve the gifts. “You want to open them here?”

“I’d rather do it in bed, baby. C’mon, grab some hot chocolate.” 

He follows you upstairs to bed, making you giggle as he purrs in your ear: “Gonna make you read soooooo much, Lyd. We’re gonna read so hard.”

You wiggle your eyebrows at him as you join in the suggestive jokes, pulling him close to you. “Well, you know I can keep reading for hours, Benjamin.”

You can. And you do. 

Ben’s book gift to you is a gorgeous vintage copy of Love in the Time of Cholera, which you clutch to your chest in delight. He opens his parcel carefully, a wide smile spreading across his face as he recognises the title. 

“Émile. Of course.”

And now it’s just the two of you, side by side in bed, the only sounds the occasional crackle from the tall candles you’d lit in the bedroom, one or both of you sipping your hot cocoa, and the turning of the pages. 

Without lifting his eyes from Zola, Ben’s left hand finds your right, and holds it: safe, secure. Your thumb traces over his tattoo, making him hum quietly with pleasure. 

“Imagine if we hadn’t figured things out”, you muse, eyes still fixed on Garcia Marquez. 

Ben turns and looks at you, eyes warm and expression most serious. “Not figuring things out was never an option.”

When you wake in the grey light of Christmas morning, it takes a moment for you to remember.

The pain hits you all over again. The fantasy - simplistic and all as it might have been - had been too convincing, and facing reality feels even harder. 

You can hear your family already waking and pottering about the house, little nieces stampeding out of the spare room they’re sharing with your sister and brother-in-law for the holidays. 

Craving the warmth of a familiar hand on yours, you turn over and cry into the pillow.