#oliver wood x links

[blnkppr]

hogwarts x links (mdni, all characters aged up)

harry potter

riding his face

thigh fucking

late at night

ron weasley

boob guy

dude will clock in no matter what

pounding you on your side

fred weasley

this is LITERALLY him omg

him pt2

how he usually fucks you:)

george weasley

he's into some kinky shit

squirting and breeding

waking you up in the morning

neville longbottom

jerking him off

he DEVOURS

riding him

oliver wood

eating you out

rubbing your clit

his fave

[the-colourful-witch]

Twenty-Nine

This illustration was commissioned by @roshnirangwani_ based on her favourite fanfic: Twenty-Nine by Endrina (free to read on AO3). It was so fun to work on this piece, because it challenged me in the best way possible 😊⚡️

Also, this fic is so good! I read it and I have to say, it made me a Percy Weasley fan 🥹🧡 Go read it if you want a really good and really interesting post-war story ☀️

Here is the link:

[megwoodhp]

The first chapter of A Keeper’s Quarrel. An Oliver Wood X Reader fanfic with 67 chapters at the moment. Friends to lovers ❤️ I publish to Wattpad and Ao3.

[kitty-tea]

The accusation

Link to masterlist

Oliver Wood x reader (smut 18+)

A/n: Yay! I posted two stories within a week I’m so happy! Also there’s just not enough Oliver Wood x reader stories, so here I am writing my own:)

Other tags/warnings: NSFW, shower sex, gagging, characters are of age, porn with feelings, nipple play, unprotected sex, enemies to lovers or hate sex (take your pick) once again, do not read my smut stories if you’re a minor thank you

Summary: Oliver accuses you of being the reason he lost the Quidditch game. You’re also on opposing teams.

WC: 2.5k

#gif not mine

“You alright, mate?” Oliver heard one of the Weasley twins ask from the seat next to him.

“Just spectacular.” He clenched his jaw, but his disdain wasn’t directed towards his Quidditch teammates.

Fred and George followed Oliver’s gaze that led to the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. There you were, the only girl on the Slytherin Quidditch team, chatting up with the rest of the otherwise all male team. As soon as he and one of the boys sitting next to you locked eyes, he saw him lean over to you, whispering something to which you laughed as you looked to where he was pointing at: Oliver himself.

“Who does she think she is?” He huffed out from the back of his throat.

“The Quidditch Captain.” Fred’s chuckle died down with the sharp glare that was instantly thrown his way from Oliver.

“You and the rest of the team better hope our early morning practice sessions have paid off for the match today.” Oliver said, initially unaware of how low and threatening his voice sounded until Fred and George scooted away with wide eyes.

Those bastards are lucky they aren’t in the same year as her. They haven’t got a clue what I have to deal with in class. Oliver thought.

There was no denying deep within himself that he was perhaps jealous of you in some ways. As if the steaks weren’t high enough with the circumstances of you being Quidditch Captains in the same year from two rival houses, he was forced to be in close proximity to you in your shared classes where he could not only sense, but was blinded by your gloating with your stupid perfect grades, perfect reputation, and perfect rapport with the teachers. It was too much. Maybe that’s why you infuriated him so much, was because of how perfect and untouchable you came across to him. To Oliver, humans weren’t supposed to be untouchable and perfect. They were supposed to have flaws and faults, but to Oliver, it was as if all this time searching for yours led to nothing (other than your attitude sometimes.)

Your rivalry didn’t stop at the Quidditch pitch. Obviously you could tell that he couldn’t stand being in the same room as you, and you loved it, always sending him that smile in his direction that made his blood boil. To make matters worse, he knew that stupid smile was meant only for him, meaning you thrived on making him miserable.

Speaking of that stupid smile, why were you always wearing lipstick or something else on your lips during your matches? Not that Oliver was intentionally taking a mental note of that habit of yours.

He had to clear his mind and prepare for the game. That didn’t include looking in your direction as he stomped off from the Gryffindor table to see you applying a coat of lip gloss.

It was over for him. He couldn’t believe it. As soon as the Snitch was caught, Oliver knew he had possibly just lost his chances of winning the Quidditch Cup before graduating. Everything was starting to slip out of his hands. Maybe it wasn’t over for him after all, he thought about that as he saw you and the rest of your team walk into the changing rooms laughing and yelling like he didn’t exist.

From his peripheral vision, he could make out the rest of his own team eyeing each other as he stormed over to where you were by the entrance.

“Morning, Wood.” You smiled light-heartedly, as if you were innocent. “Haha get it? Morning wood? Or afternoon, I mean.”

Oliver wasn’t laughing. He never thought those jokes were funny. It was even worse that you were the one telling it at the height of his humiliation.

He crossed his arms, hoping you’d stop laughing upon one look at his enraged frown.

“You’re not as innocent as you make yourself out to be.” He seethed, gripping his broom tighter.

“Meaning?” He could tell through your sarcasm that you weren’t actually interested in all that he had to say.

“You made me lose! You distracted me on purpose!” Lost in his rage, he had let go of his broom, letting it lean forgotten against the wall.

He jabbed a finger at the air between you. Any closer than that, and he’d stick it inside your forehead.

“Stand down, boys. I’ll handle him myself.” You turned around and as you held your hand up to your teammates, who had taken a step forward to attempt to look more intimidating, Oliver assumed although he was used to their antics by now that they had no effect on him anymore.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” You said nonchalantly.

“Why would you ever be sorry that our team lost?!” Oliver’s yelling had eventually caused his own teammates to gather around to observe the commotion.

“I’m not sorry that your team lost. I was talking about your ego.”

That was it. Oliver grinded his jaw, but just as he was about to hurl an insult at you, both of your heads of house came in.

“What is going on here? We thought we heard… What is all this?” Professor McGonagall gestured around to both your teams with her hands.

“She was-“ Oliver pointed a finger at you.

“It was nothing serious, Professor.” You cut him off, your smug smirk had been wiped off your face, leaving Oliver satisfied for now.

“Well I should hope so.” Professor McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Shouldn’t it be time for the lot of you to go to your common rooms?” Professor Snape stated, his glare scanning all the players around the room.

“Come on, guys let’s go.” Oliver heard Angelina say to their team from behind him, ignoring the silent battle he was having with you.

Without another word, the two teachers had left the room, letting the dam that was holding the tension flood through.

“As I was saying!” Oliver was the first to shout. “You made my team lose!”

You scoffed.

“Isn’t that the whole point? We’re on opposing teams for a reason.”

“You distracted me!”

“By throwing the Quaffle and scoring the goal? Come on? What’s next? You’re going to accuse me of cheating? Or was that already just a sneaky way of doing it?”

Oliver didn’t say anything. He was fuming, feeling as if he’d have too much steam inside his ears for his brain to think coherently.

“If you think I cheated,” You began, still yelling at him. “You’ve got it wrong! I was doing what every other Chaser’s been doing! Why don’t you ever go off on them too?”

“Because they’re not you!” It was then that with Oliver’s voice ringing out in the dead silence that he realized all the other players from both teams had already gotten changed and left. It was already bad enough just being with you, now he really wished he wasn’t alone with you.

Oliver felt his whole body shaking at the moment.

“I didn’t… I didn’t say you cheated.” He was having a difficult time speaking through his anger. That must have been what was making it so difficult for him to speak whenever he was with you, because he was always angry at you. No, not anger. Something inside his gut told him, but he ignored it while he chose to continue to stare you down.

Although Oliver wasn’t as tall as other guys, he wasn’t short by any means either. Despite that, he felt at that moment that his stance alone could be enough to intimidate you. You were standing as close as you could get to each other without kissing. Not that he would ever think about kissing you… Because of your rivalry.

Time slowed down for Oliver. He blinked as soon as his eyes gravitated towards your lips, being unsure as to why he’d look there.

He couldn’t stop himself and it seemed neither could you as you closed what little space remained between you.

Oliver moved hard and fast into the kiss. He let your hands explore his body over the layers making up his Quidditch robes eventually touching his skin underneath. A shiver electrified him as your fingernails moved over his sides.

Still cupping your cheek, he pulled away, allowing for the both of you to catch your breath. He licked his lips, tasting your fruity lip gloss.

Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to taste you again. So he did precisely that. The combination of the noises you made against him while you tugged on his hair was enough to make his cock hard. He found himself thrusting against your hips to which you responded just as enthusiastically by following his movements.

He didn’t know when he started to feel hot. He knew he needed to shed some layers to help him cool off.

“What the fuck, Oliver?” You whispered, still breathing heavily.

“I didn’t mean to– I can expla–”

At first he thought you were shocked at his actions or maybe you didn’t like what he was doing. Then you started to peel off the outer layers of your clothes, silencing him.

“Shut up” You said, taking him by surprise as you let your hand hover over his very prominent erection.

By the time you and Oliver had rid each other of any clothing, there was a trail of mostly green and red fabrics leading to the showers.

As Oliver turned the showerhead on, he stepped back, letting you lean against the wall. He let his eyes trail over your naked body, admiring what you often hid under your school uniform. He watched the water drip down your breasts, clinging onto your nipples. The hardened buds, wet and perky, tempted him to flick his tongue or his fingers over them.

You arched your back and moaned as he began to suck on one of your nipples while he pinched and swirled the other one with his hand.

“Oh, fuck! Oliver!” For the first time since knowing you, you sounded weak, like you were about to lose control of yourself. It made his pride go up.

You squealed as Oliver began kneading your breast more aggressively, causing him to take his mouth off your other nipple.

That’s when he looked down to see your fingers rubbing your clit, already slippery from the shower and your arousal.

“Stop.” He demanded, the patter of the water drowning out his voice slightly. He grabbed your hand that you were using to touch yourself.

“Think you can do better?” Your mean, teasing voice was back.

“Watch me.” He said huskily. He was leaning towards your ear so close that he could hear your breath coming out long and shaky, as if you were anticipating his next move.

Oliver kept his eyes on your face the whole time he inserted his finger into your slick hole. Your eyes fluttered shut and your mouth hung open. With his other hand, Oliver brushed away a wet strand of hair that had stuck to your face. Once he could feel your walls settling around his pointer finger, he slowly added in another, making you tense up with a loud moan.

He didn’t know what had spurred him on to keep going: your breathless moans or the squelching noises that echoed the room with each pump of his fingers.

All he knew was that he wanted to be inside you. Desperately.

“Open.” He ordered you as he took his fingers out of your cunt. You obeyed him, and he pressed his fingers upon your tongue, letting you taste yourself. You gagged as he pushed further down into your throat bit by bit.

Tears crept out of your eyes and joined in with the water from above that was running down your cheeks. As if your pleasure-stricken face didn’t already stir something inside him, you moved your tongue between his fingers, the movement languid and snake-like.

You pulled away from his fingers.

“Please… Just cum inside me!” Your voice came out strangled.

There was something satisfying to Oliver about seeing you like this. You were at his mercy now, your infuriating and cocky attitude washed away, but you were still so perfect. Everything about you in this moment was perfect to him, from the way your body gave itself to his mercy, the wanting look in your eyes. Best of all, your body fit just right against him, letting him hold you close as you push him to your lips again.

With your lips still dancing against each other, Oliver hooked his hands underneath your thighs, enabling you to wrap them around his torso.

It wasn’t difficult with his already hard cock to find your slit, more than ready for him to slip into you. As he settled inside you, both of you disconnected your lips, tensing and moaning at the same time.

You held onto his shoulders, squeezing with your fingers tighter as he started thrusting into you.

“You feel so good… Oh fuck.” He didn’t know which one of you spoke, as he was too lost in the pleasure of having his cock squeezed by your soft walls to be able to focus on anything else.

Oliver started off slow, letting himself savor the sensation before he picked up the pace. You ran your fingernails up his neck and through his scalp, softly scratching the surface and tugging on his short hair just right. You had no idea what you were doing to him. He had to stifle a groan and slow down or else he’d spill inside you much quicker than he’d anticipated.

With his track record of letting his temper get the best of him with your previous interactions, he was determined to exercise what little self-control he had left.

You weren’t having any of that. Your cunt had demanded Oliver to fully surrender. You had started thrusting into him as hard as he was gripping your thighs, working to hold you up.

As the heat started to make his blood run much faster to his cock, he knew then that there was absolutely no chance he could hold on for much longer.

“Oliver!” Your hoarse sobbing had only edged him further. “I’m gonna cum!”

“Me too!”

He could feel it as your legs started tensing harder around his body. Your walls clenched around him one last time and that's what triggered him to finally spill himself inside you.

Everything slipped from Oliver’s mind, including his humiliating defeat at the Quidditch match. That was so unlike him. As dedicated as he was to the sport, it was that dedication that fueled your rivalry, adding more fire to his attraction towards you he tried hiding from himself.

When you both had calmed down, Oliver set your feet on the floor. Your knees trembled just a bit, so he had to press your body against him to help you maintain your balance.

Oliver didn’t know how he was going to deal with the consequences of what he had just done later, but for now, he was content with letting you rest in his arms as he rubbed circles along your back.

How could he let himself get like this? How could he let a pretty girl distract him from his goals of winning?

[weasleys-wizard-writes]

weasleys-wizard-writes | general m.list

- Key -

☼ -Fluff ☾ -Angst ✧ - Suggestive ♡ -NSFW

- Series Masterlists - (Coming Soon)

Over The Years (Charlie Weasley x Reader) The Making Of A Weasley (George Weasley x Reader) We Stood In the Sun (Before It Exploded) (George Weasley x Reader) Betrothed (Fred Weasley x Reader x Draco Malfoy) Latency Lingering (Fred Weasley x Reader)

- Characters -

Fred G. Weasley:

Oneshots:

Passion ☼ ☾ How Things Can Change ☼ Strength ☾ Trying ♡ For The Best ☾

Series:

Betrothed - [I] [II] [III] ☾ Latency Lingering - [I] [II] ☾

George F. Weasley:

Oneshots:

The Parent Couple ☼ Girls Night Out ♡ Miles Away ♡ Bright Mornings ☼ ♡ Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder ♡ The Funny Thing ☾ A Minor Injury ☼ The Best Wedding Present ☼ Knowing The Difference ☼ A Weasley Sized Family ☼ ♡ Lucky ☼ When We Live ☼ Forever in the Rain ☼ Wardrobe Mix Up ☼ ✧ Waiting on a Magpie ☼ ☾ Beautiful Ruiner, Damn My Ashes ♡

Series:

The Making of a Weasley - [I] [II] [III] ☼ ♡ We Stood In the Sun (Before It Exploded) - [I] ☾ ♡

Charlie S. Weasley: 

Oneshots:

A Painful Comparison ☾ A Damn Chance ☼ A Big Misunderstanding ☼ Because Of A Bird ☼ How Much I Love You ☼ Baby Blues ☼ ☾ Long Distance Baby ☼ ☾ Unexpected ☼ ☾ Love Me ☼ ✧

Series:

Over the Years - [I] [II] [III] [IV] ☼

Percy I. Weasley:

Oneshots:

Surprise, Surprise ☼

Draco L. Malfoy:

Series:

Betrothed - [I] [II] [III] ☾

Oliver B. Wood:

Excerpts:

Oliver Wood and the MILF Next Door ☼

Regulus A. Black:

Oneshots:

A Sorry Substitute ☾ ☼

Ominis T. Gaunt:

Oneshots:

Return ☼

Excerpts:

Ominis x Childhood best friend Reader ☼

Cedric A. Diggory:

Oneshots:

Fuck Buddies ♡ ☾

- Additional Links -

Prompt List Personal Ask List Ko-fi

[percyweasleyapologist]

Hii!! Do you have any fic recs for Percy x Oliver? I’m not usually a golden trio era fan but I’m intrigued :)

(Ideally not too long and not too angsty)

YOU'VE COME TO THE RIGHT PERSON

I gotchu

Okay so I had to include these two because even though they're long, i love them too much not to put them in:

good old-fashioned lover boy- @aeoneskova (I LOVED this one. It's definitely my all time favorite and you should totally read it! It's basically a fic through all 7 years of his time at hogwarts and it has amazing writing, fun original characters, and soooo much more!)

More than Alright - Always_Coffee (This one completes my top 3 list, it's AMAZING) It's a longer one that goes throughout the hogwarts years and after. It has lots of Penelope and Percy's friendship, angst, fluff, literally everything you should definitely read it!)

It's the truth- SquaresAreNotCircles (this account is great, check them out for more perciver stuff!)

Burn Across the Sky-MoonyTheMarauder1(beforethemoon) (This is a short one and it was one of my first perciver fics and although it doesn't have much, it made me go down a rabbit hole which ended with me being obsessed)

7 times Molly tried to set Percy up and 1 time it worked- wynniwirt (This is in my top  3 Percy fics. It's not too long but it's funny and makes me smile! Also i love @winn-wynn, she's the author)

Percy and the Weasleys and Oliver Wood- EvanescentLife (another fun fic that covers their hogwarts years)

The Oliver Fiasco- audrxyweasley (This is part of a series called 'A Series of Fiascos' by audrxyweasley, it starts with this fic and then continues from there. It's absolutley amazing with angst and fluff and i'd totally recommend that you read all of them :) and this is also in my top three, it's tied bc i couldn't choose)

Still think he's the weakest- Hhhhhheeeeeelloo1 (this is a cute little on shot that i loved)

Home for the Holidays- EvanescentLife (a muggle college au where percy and oliver go on a holiday road trip, it has so much fluff and it's just great)

Strangers- Jade33 (this is a series but it's so good!! it's still pretty short though.)

This one doesn't have a title but here's the link- Thewolfprincess (@guess1mjustheren0w is the author and she's one of my fav people on tumblr and she's such a good writer, I think she has one or two other percy fics that you can check out!!! It only has one chapter so far- but i'm excited for the rest :)

Also @elisedonut, @armadilloradio, and @sarkylittlemonster are some great writers that you can check out!! They have a bunch of wonderful perciver/ percy centric fics!

[blurredcolour]

You Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under | Part One

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Dick Winters x Female SOE Agent!Reader

The 101st Airborne's jump into Normandy is filled with unexpected surprises for all parties involved.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Weapons, Death, Blood, Gore, Injuries, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Language, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal of Dick Winters by Damian Lewis. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within. Shout out to my bilingual friend who double checked my French lines for me. Non-English is denoted in italics.

Word Count: 4809

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

Paris – December 10, 1944

The sea of humanity in Gare du Nord was overwhelming as Dick Winters stepped off the train from Mourmelon-le-Grand. Though it was mid-morning on a Sunday, it seemed like everyone was on the move. His height had him standing head and shoulders above most of the crowd as he made his way down the platform toward the exit, nearly bumping into a woman dressed in an olive drab uniform.

“Sorry –” He reflexively apologized in English before correcting it to the local French, though his pronunciation left a lot to be desired. “Excusez-moi.”

You turned back to him, eyes widening with recognition as they flicked over his face. “A captain now.” You smiled as your gaze eventually settled onto the two bars shining on the garrison cap of his Class-A uniform.

“A Canadian now.” He replied as his own eyes settled on the patch embroidered on your shoulder. The hip length jacket, A-line skirt, and peaked cap of the uniform suited you. “Or were you always, Charlotte?” The hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his green eyes met yours.

He did not miss your visible swallow before you recovered with an even warmer smile than before. “I’m sorry you’ve got me confused with my good friend Charlotte Roussel. She’s told me all about you.” You offered your gloved hand to shake as you introduced yourself properly, though he wondered if it was just another cover identity.

Taking your hand in his, he shook it firmly with a bemused expression playing on his face. “Dick Winters. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Captain. If you are in need of a place to stay, I happen to have a recently vacated room in my apartment I would be happy to loan to you, free of charge. The hotels in Paris would love nothing more than to liberate you of your American dollars.”

Dick eyed you curiously, still as full of questions as the last time he had seen you in early June, yet you continued to obfuscate. “I wouldn’t want to impose…” He replied in the time-honored tradition of the polite refusal that preceded acceptance.

“Not at all. Besides, Charlotte would not forgive me if I did not repay you for saving her life.” You insisted with a nod, and he swallowed, noticing the way you now wore your hair to carefully cover your forehead beneath your uniform cap.

“If I remember it correctly, she saved mine first.”

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

Normandy – June 6, 1944

After the rattling and jostling of the plane as it flew through clouds and flak, the drop onto French soil had felt peaceful in comparison. Granted of course, there was the constant awareness that enemy fire could find him on his way to the ground, but by some miracle he made it in one piece. The same could not be said of his leg bag.

After linking up with Hall from Able company, the pair had set off into the woods with only one M1 Garand between them. Dick had done his best to remain calm and reassuring despite how poorly the night seemed to be unfolding already. Small touches of humor appeared to calm the young man’s nerves but they both remained hyper vigilant to all sounds around them. Roughly ten minutes from their rendezvous they heard a noise to their right and Dick signalled for them both to halt and get low, but before Hall could level his weapon, they were face-to-face with the muzzle of German K-98 rifle.

Preparing to lunge at the soldier’s legs, Dick was brought up short when a figure in dark clothing jumped onto the man’s back, clamping a gloved hand over his mouth before burying a knife into the side of his neck. The unexpected weight thankfully pulled the weapon toward the sky before the soldier squeezed off a few rounds in the struggle, but the brutally efficient downward stroke of their blade had the soldier quickly collapsing to the ground, neutralized. Left standing was a woman clad in what first looked like a skirt but was in fact very wide-legged slacks and a wool sweater with a cap over her hair and a scarf covering her neck and face up to her eyes.

“Parlez-vous Francais?” You asked in an elevated whisper as you crouched down to wipe the blade of your knife clean on a corner of the dead man’s uniform jacket.

Dick and Hall both shook their heads in silence, dumbfounded.

“Welcome to France.” You smiled a little as you pulled down your scarf to reveal the rest of your face.

Dick was struck by many things in that moment, first and foremost being how beautiful you were, which he quickly compartmentalized as he’d been well trained to do. The second was the lack of a French accent, of any accent to your English. You almost sounded American and yet…

The stirring of brush to the left had them tensing once more before a young man of no more than sixteen, tall but obviously underfed and in clothes that had fit him several inches ago, emerged to pick up the German rifle from the forest floor. The function returned to Dick’s brain all at once and he looked back to you quickly.

“Resistance?”

You nodded in confirmation, glancing between the pair of them before turning to the young man. “Emile, donne le fusil au lieutenant.”

“Mais Charlotte…” He protested, gesturing at the older rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Maitenant, Ils auront une nuit pire que la notre.” You replied in a firm tone that brooked no argument and he handed it over to Dick who thanked him with a nod.

Hall immediately began to dig through the fallen soldier’s pockets to find him some more ammo.

“You’re a lot further inland than we were expecting you.” Your comment brought Dick’s attention back to you and he did his best not to let his annoyance at the situation show.

“Any idea where we’ve ended up?” He asked as he took what Hall was able to scrounge with a nod of thanks, tucking it into the pocket of his ODs.

“Half a kilometre outside St. Mere Eglise. You have a map?” You asked with a tilt of your head, and he hesitated a moment, knowing that while he did, it was covered in confidential material. He watched as a knowing smirk stretched your lips. “I have one without your top-secret information, one moment.”

You raised up on your knees to tuck your knife into the sheath at your hip before reaching up the back of your sweater, the motion inadvertently pulling the fabric higher to reveal the skin of your midriff. He quickly averted his eyes to the tree canopy above, wondering when the training on attractive female Resistance fighters was supposed to have been delivered.

The sound of rustling paper had him glancing carefully toward the ground and he relaxed to see you unfolding a map across the leaves and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. The four of you gathered around as you took out a lighter, using the weak light from the flame to point out your rough position.

“Easiest way to the coast is the railroad tracks – keep off the roads. There is a squad of about ten Nazis with two officers on a horse-drawn wagon. They are making their way to their favourite spot here.” You tapped the map further into the woods.

“Favorite spot?” He prompted quietly.

“To make members of the Resistance disappear.” You replied grimly, glancing at the simple watch on your wrist. “We set explosives here,” you tapped a spot along the rail line further inland, “to detonate about now. That should help you find your way?” You looked up to him just as the explosion sounded in the distance, a column of orange lighting the sky.

“Bravo, Charlotte. À l’heure juste.” Emile beamed at you, and you nodded in reply with a grin of satisfaction.

“Merci. Any questions, gentlemen?” You asked turning back to the two Americans.

“None. Thank you, Charlotte. Be careful out here.” Dick replied earnestly, hoping you were not headed to the German’s so-called favorite spot, but he held his suspicions.

“Same to you.” You nodded firmly folding up the map as he tapped Hall on the shoulder and the pair began to make their way towards the rail line.

You had been right, the explosion made an excellent beacon. The situation continued to improve when he reconnected with Lipton, Guarnere, Malarkey, Wynn, Toye, and two boys from the 82nd. When he heard the whinny of a horse, he realized you had also given him an accurate warning about the group of Germans.  While Dick presumed it was usually preferable for Resistance to avoid confrontation, with the numbers he had gathered, he preferred to eliminate the threat and arranged an ambush. Mercifully Guarnere’s premature action did not result in the failure of their attack and the men went about cleaning up the mess while Dick took a moment to reprimand him.

They were about to depart down the road when a rustling in the trees caught the hot-headed Sergeant’s ear. “Flash!” He barked out the password challenge in his brash Philly accent, sending everyone’s eyes towards the edge of the road where you stood, flanked by Emile and two other men Dick didn’t recognize.

“Thunder.” He rapidly replied on your behalf. “Don’t shoot, they’re Resistance.” He elaborated, coming to stand beside Guarnere.

“Merci, Lieutenant.” You exhaled. Your reply was muffled behind your scarf, but the relief was still audible.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a dame!” Guarnere hissed, pouring his excess adrenaline into his outburst.

Your barely smothered laugh reached Dick’s ears, making him swallow reflexively as the group watched you make your way to the back of the wagon. One of the older men, his clothes gone baggy under German occupation, carrying a weapon from the last war, grasped a corner of the tarp laying across some hidden cargo. Together you pulled it back to reveal the bodies of two more of your comrades.

“Merde.” Emile choked out and turned to take out his frustrations by kicking one of the fallen Germans at his feet.

Dick could not help the frown as he walked to the back of the wagon, his eyes falling on the form of a young boy no older than twelve.

“Goddamn he’s just a kid…” Malarkey uttered in dismay.

“They’ve got women and kids fighting out here for fuck’s sake.” Toye growled, slamming his helmet onto his head as he wrenched his eyes away from the scene, moving to take watch to the head of the wagon, obviously impatient to get moving.

“I’m sorry it’s not the outcome you were hoping for.” He looked to your eyes, wishing that scarf wasn’t hiding your face.

“But not unexpected.” You muttered back, straightening your sweater before leaning forward over the boy’s body.

“What will you do?” Dick asked as you grasped the boy’s lifeless arm and slung his torso across your shoulders, hugging his legs close to your body beneath your other arm.

“The only thing we can do - take him home to his mother, so she can bury him.” You replied as the fourth man with you, mid-forties with a build not unlike Randleman’s though still wasted away some, stepped forward to gather the remains of the twenty-something still on the wagon. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Good luck.” You met his eyes briefly, revealing your own glistening with unshed tears, before disappearing through the trees the way you had come.

The next twenty hours passed in a blur – finally reaching the assembly point, destroying the 105mm guns at Brécourt, losing Hall. Would that he could return the boy to his mother as you had been able to do with your fallen. As Dick watched Nixon open the can of food he’d been struggling with, he sighed deeply.

“Met a Resistance fighter in the woods after I landed – she spoke perfect English, Nix. No trace of any accent, at all. The men were all looking to her for direction.”

Nixon raised his eyes to meet his meaningfully. “No shit…” He blinked and handed him the successfully opened food. “Sounds to me like you met a genuine SOE agent assigned to ‘set Europe ablaze.’” His tone was dripping with envy. “Division wasn’t entirely convinced by Churchill’s boasts. She must be one tough broad.”

“She seemed pretty proficient, Lew.” Dick replied with poorly concealed admiration, eyeing the contents of the can reluctantly.

“We ought to send Churchill a thank you card, then.” He smirked knowingly.

Dick let out a half-hearted laugh before his face fell serious once more. He looked to his boots before confessing to the loss of Hall, which Nixon tried to make up for by reassuring him the map he’d retrieved would be useful. Surrendering the food with the excuse of lack of appetite, Dick wandered off lost in thought.

Honestly never expecting to lay eyes upon you again, he was stunned to see you in a hamlet somewhere between Culoville and Vierville the next day. It was no more than a tiny cluster of buildings on both sides of the road, too small to earn a name on the map. The road was clogged with refugees, fleeing the conflict, slowing the progress of the armored division they were meant to be traveling with.

Dick had diverted Easy across a nearby field behind the hedgerow, bringing them to a halt to plan their final approach, his officers naturally gathering around him.

“Christ there’s civilians everywhere.” Welsh hissed under his breath as they peered through the foliage.

“So, who’s going to knock on the door?” Compton grinned, his bulk barely concealed by the late spring greenery.

Dick paused, squinting through his binoculars as he watched you carefully set your wagon, filled with suitcases and other belongings like any other refugee, beneath the window of a café. Your gaze was fixed on the boulangerie across the lane, seeming of a mind to purchase some food for your travels. His eyes followed as you wended your way through the dwindling stream of people, clad in a spring jacket with a worn brown dress beneath, a pair of dusty boots on your feet. You stood out to no one but him.

“Dick?” Nixon prompted in a hushed whisper.

“Hold. The Resistance is here. Which means we most likely have Germans lurking nearby.”

“Resistance?” Nixon’s eyes widened as he fumbled with his jacket to retrieve his own binoculars. “You mean she’s here?!” He whirled to face the road, his movements made less than graceful by his excitement, and Dick barely contained his amused grin as you had already vanished inside the bakery.

His amusement did not last long, unfortunately, as a red-faced German solider came charging out of the café.

“Bingo.” Nixon breathed quietly.

Dick’s lips pressed into a grimace as the man re-emerged shortly thereafter dragging you by a fistful of your hair, shouting and pointing at your wagon. Any remaining civilians on the road quickly scattered into the other buildings or the fields beyond.

“He’s upset about the wagon.”

“You don’t say, Nixon” Compton replied sarcastically, a furrow forming between his brows.

Your voice carried to them, the pleading tone laced with fear making Dick tighten his grip on his binoculars. He could tell you were speaking a mixture of French and German, but not much more than that. “Lew?”

“Please in German…Please in French. I was just getting food. I’m sorry in German. I’m trying to get away from the Americans in French. The death in German. Please.”

Dick could hear the men shifting restlessly around him and lifted his head. “Tell them to hold, not yet. That café has got to be full of Germans. Plan on snipers in the fourth and fifth buildings as well.” He described the assault plan for each of the squads as your pleas continued to ring out parried by barked commands from the increasingly perturbed soldier. “But wait for my signal.” He nodded firmly to dismiss them, and they hurried off to their respective platoons.

Dick wanted to trust that you had the situation in hand, but this surely could not be unfolding according to your plan. He raised his binoculars once more to see you desperately plant your hands on the soldier’s chest, several men drawing a collective breath. Dick narrowed his eyes as your gaze shifted to the left, toward the face of your watch glinting in the afternoon sunlight. He tensed noting your proximity to that wagon, convinced now more than ever that it was filled with explosives.

The sharp ‘smack’ of the German’s glove impacting your cheek had your head snapping to the side in a way that had Dick seeing red.

“I’m going to kill him myself.” Nixon hissed under his breath, but Dick didn’t have time to respond as, surging forward, you slammed your forehead into the soldier’s nose, a bloom of red flooding down his face and yours.

He held his breath as you seemed to stumble back, a bit dazed as a commotion sounded from within the café, but he was able to exhale as you regained your feet and used your ankle to sweep the man’s jackboots right out from beneath him. Dick glanced to the wagon once more with apprehension as you yourself dove to the ground before grabbing the back of the dazed soldier’s coat and hauled his body over yours. He had barely shifted his gaze to the collection of five Germans in the doorway when the wagon exploded violently.

“Right on time…” He muttered to himself, tucking his binoculars away and preparing to advance.

Nixon turned to stare at him, speechless.

“Don’t.” He replied warningly, still unsure if you had survived the blast, giving the debris a moment to settle before he gave the signal, heading straight up the road to you.

Much to everyone’s annoyance, the telltale sound of Shermans approached from further up the road – just in time to get all the glory without really having to do any of the work. As planned, the men peeled off to clear each of the buildings as Dick rolled the dead German off your body. He watched with bated breath as Roe appeared at his side to check your pulse, nodding up to him.

“She’s alive, sir.”

The road was filled with broken glass from the explosion, and fearing for the bare skin of your legs, Dick had Roe help carry you into the bakery as Malarkey reported it clear, the medic sliding his arms beneath your shoulders. Dick did his best to ignore how soft the backs of your knees felt against his fingertips as he managed your legs. They laid you down on the floor in the back room amongst abandoned baking supplies and he swallowed as your eyes fluttered open.

“Charlotte, you’re alright, Doc’s just going to look you over, ok?”

You furrowed your brows and glanced down at Roe as he undid your coat, looking you over for injuries aside from the obvious scrapes as Dick quickly pressed a bandage to the split in your forehead from where you had broken the German’s nose.

“You’re in good hands, I need to go back out there alright?”

You sighed heavily and he looked to your eyes quickly.

“I’m sure you’re speaking in that fucking wonderful American accent of yours, Lieutenant but I cannot hear a fucking thing. I’m sorry.” You spoke, seemingly unaware that your voice was obnoxiously loud.

Dick grimaced at your language as Roe barely contained his scoff of laughter before Dick nodded to you to show that he understood. Eyes pinning yours, he pointed at you firmly before forcefully pointing at the floor.

“Stay here. Understood.” You replied with a nod, a loud groan quickly overtaking your voice.

Dick hesitated a moment, but Roe was already looking over your face and into your eyes. There was really nothing for him to do here and his men needed him outside. Securing his helmet on his head, he dashed back out into the afternoon sunshine. Aside from one sniper’s nest three buildings down the road, which was easily managed with the help of the armored division, the hamlet was secured with only one minor incident involving Muck and some broken glass.

At Nixon’s urging, which Dick allowed to play out much longer than was needed to convince him, he ordered two stretcher bearers to accompany him back to the bakery to fetch you. He was encouraged to find you sitting with your back propped up against the wall, looking more alert with your knife grasped with one hand, though you had not seemed to have had the wherewithal to unsheathe it. He crouched down in front of you carefully, sliding his helmet from his head.

“I’m just going to take that from you, there Charlotte.” He wasn’t sure why he was speaking, fully aware that you could not hear him, but your grip loosened on the weapon as he reached for it.

“Alright.” You murmured softly in response and his eyes snapped to yours.

“You can hear again?” He asked as he tucked the knife into the pocket of his ODs.

You began to nod before halting the movement abruptly. “Mostly…”

“Good. That’s good.” He smiled briefly. “Do you have any other weapons on you?”

“No.” You replied after a thoughtful pause and patting of your coat pockets.

He nodded before standing, addressing the men lingering in the doorway. “Take her to the aid station, Lieutenant Nixon and I will be there as soon as we can.”

They responded with a chorus of ‘yes sirs!’ before he stepped back out to deliver orders for the company to take a rest while they awaited their next set of instructions. It was not long before they were told to proceed to Vierville where Colonel Sink had set up the battalion command post. It was also, conveniently, where the aid station was located. Once the men were situated for the night, Dick and Nixon quickly made their way to hotel that had been taken over as a medical facility.

They had barely walked in the door, the copper tang of blood just meeting their noses, before the battalion surgeon was calling out to him.

“Winters! Why in the hell did you send me a civilian?!”

“Strategic intelligence asset, sir.” Nixon replied smoothly, stepping in front of Dick to take the heat. “Where might we find her?”

“In one of the back offices. She cannot stay here. She needs to go a hospital whenever you’re done…whatever you’re doing.” He narrowed his eyes skeptically, hands on his hips as made his way over to them between the rows of cots set up in the lobby.

“She going to be alright, sir?” Dick asked, tone carefully neutral.

“Concussion, lacerations, bruising, three stitches to the forehead, hearing gradually returning. Overall malnourishment like all the French civilians. She’ll be fine after a week or two.” He muttered. “In a civilian hospital.”

“Yes sir.” Nixon replied quickly with a grin, grabbing Dick’s arm and pulling him towards the aforementioned office.

For all his bluster, the pair were amused to find the surgeon had set you up in a rather nice space, a blanket draped over your legs and a mug of hot coffee in your hands. Though judging by the grimace you made after taking a sip, it wasn’t to your taste. Your hair pins must have fallen out during the struggle and subsequent transport as the style you’d been wearing that afternoon was lost, and a few swathes of gauze now encircled your head to hold a bandage in place over your stitches.

He knocked on the door frame quietly and you looked up, smiling at little, your eyes shifting to look at Nixon.

“Charlotte, this is Lieutenant Nixon.” Dick introduced his friend who quickly stepped forward to offer his hand.

“Lewis, please.” You took it carefully, shaking it in return.

“Charlotte Roussel.” You replied.

“Would it be alright if we asked you some questions?” Dick tilted his head, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Of course.” You almost nodded again but caught yourself more quickly this time.

Dick stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and perching on the edge of the desk as Nixon took the only chair. He tried not to grin as you sipped the coffee and grimaced once more, obviously failing to conceal his reaction as you apologized.

“It’s very bitter, but very appreciated.”

“I won’t tell the surgeon.” He nodded with a conspiratorial look.

“So, Dick tells me you’re with the Resistance?” Nixon spoke after a moment of watching your exchange.

Your eyes slid over to Dick, and he tensed, briefly concerned you might be upset with him, before you looked back to Nixon. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Any information you might be able to share with us would be of great assistance.” Nixon nodded encouragingly.

“Well, all of my documents were quite recently destroyed but I’d be happy to share what I remember with you. Do you have a map?” Your question echoed one of the first you’d asked him and pulled a small smile from Dick’s lips.

He watched quietly as Nixon produced as clean map of the area and you easily provided all the information you had on which German troops were stationed where, between wincing sips of the hot drink cupped between your hands. The intelligence officer thrust out his palm about halfway through and Dick patted down his ODs until he produced a pencil for his friend, passing it to him so he might jot down the volume of information you were able to impart.

“And what about yourself, Miss Roussel?” Nixon looked up to you once he’d acquired all your knowledge of military use.

“Me?” You blinked innocently.

“Tell us about yourself.” Nixon nodded encouragingly, leaning back in his chair.

Dick noted the way your fingers tightened slightly on the mug, and he realized it bore the logo of the requisitioned hotel, but otherwise your demeanor remained calm and collected. “I was born just outside Paris in 1920. My aunt and uncle have a farm near St. Mere Eglise. They have no children of their own and when my Uncle Phillipe was killed during the invasion my Aunt Sophie asked if I could come help her. There is more to eat out here than Paris anyway, where you can grow it.”

“Why do you speak such good English?” Dick asked, unable to help himself.

Your eyes turned to meet his curiously. “I was a university student before the war, I had an excellent teacher from America. Ms. Jones. She was able to go home before the Nazis arrived.”

There was a touch of envy there, and though Dick was convinced you were selling them a very good story, the desire for ‘home’ struck him as true. He watched as you leaned back against the wall wearily, your eyelids growing heavier.

“You’ve never been to England?” Nixon prodded.

“No, Lieutenant Nixon. I’ve never left France.”

“Your experience with explosives? Who taught you that?”

“Antoine. He fought in the last war, he was a sapper. He was there after you took out the Germans who had captured our comrades.” You looked to Dick who nodded in reply, recalling the elderly man who easily could have fit that description.

He heard his friend sigh a little in frustration as you seemed to have a perfectly reasonable answer for everything – answers that were not what he was wanting to hear. A sharp knock on the door drew the attention of the group and Dick raised his head.

“Enter.”

A runner from Colonel Sink popped his head in the door and Dick sighed internally knowing they had run out of time. “Lieutenants, Colonel Sink has requested the pair of you at battalion CP immediately.”

“Right, thank you Sergeant. We’re on our way.” He looked to Nixon who sighed audibly in defeat before the pair looked to you.

You were barely keeping your eyes open, the mug in your hand tilting precariously. Dick carefully took it from your hold and set it on the desk.

“Thank you very much for your assistance, Miss Roussel. Do take care.” He stood, wishing there was something better to say, but there was too much to do. The landing had barely taken place and was by no means a sure success yet. The best thing he could do for you was to get out there and liberate France entirely.

“I’ll see to it that you’re transferred to a hospital as soon as we can.” Nixon added.

“You’re welcome, Lieutenants. And thank you.” You replied, Dick swallowing as he could feel your gaze following him out of the room.

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

Read Part Two

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

[lilithslittleworld]

Masterlist <3 (By Fandom, character, and type)

Just a little reminder link to my character list and that requests are open!!

Twilight Saga:

Quileute Pack

Seth Clearwater:

Formal Crushing (fluff, oneshot)

Jacob Black:

New Moon if Edward had never come back (Chapters)

New To This (fluff, smut Jacob x Reader oneshot)

Cullens

Alice Cullen:

Our Little Secret (Alice x Bella smut)

Bella Swan/Cullen:

Our Little Secret (Bella x Alice smut)

Headcanons:

How Bella’s (and Alice’s) Graduation Party Actually Went (or should’ve gone): (headcanons)

Divergent Series:

Peter Hayes

All For You (smut, angst, some fluff. oneshot)

Jeanine Matthews

The Exception (fluff and angst oneshot)

Four/Tobias Eaton

Intruder (Four x reader smut, oneshot)

His Girl (Four x reader fluff, oneshot)

Character Headcanons:

How The Divergent Characters Would React To You Being Injured\In Pain (angst, fluff, headcanon)

Harry Potter Universe:

Weasleys

Fred Weasley:

Ambulo Aqua (Fred x fem reader, fluff)

Harry Potter Guys

Oliver Wood

Locker Room Tales (Oliver x gender neutral reader, fluff)

Harry Potter

The Chosen One (Harry x reader, smut)

Marauders era

Remus Lupin

What Better Way to Relax Than Sex? (Remus x fem reader, smut)

Harry Potter Headcannons

Doing It With The Harry Potter Characters Is Like (smut headcannons)

Top Gun Fandom:

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw Hanging In There Series: Part 1 Jake "Hangman" Seresin Hanging In There Series: Part 1

The Hunger Games Series

[darkpeacemusic]

Creepypasta Headcanons: Nationalities

Jeff the Killer - American, Korean

Homicidal Liu - American, Korean

Sully Woods - American, Korean

Randy - American, Irish

Keith - Italian

Troy - Jamaican, American

Ben - American

Jane - American, Italian

Mary - American, Ukrainian

Jessie Richardson - American, Italian

Masky - American, Italian

Hoodie - American, Canadian

Toby - American, German

Kate the Chaser - Vietnamese, Algerian, Canadian

Charlie - American, Mexican

CR - Greek, Canadian

Lulling Lauren - Cuban, Canadian

Cat Hunter - Puerto Rican, Greek

Third Base - American, German

Rouge - Italian, Mexican, American

Wilson the Basher - Chinese, American

Skully - American, Canadian

Chris the Revenant - Finnish, American

Slenderman - Romanian

Splendorman - Romanian, Canadian

Trenderman - Romanian

Tenderman - Romanian

Offenderman - Romanian

Zalgo - Unknown

Laughing Jack - British

Eyeless Jack - American, Argentinan

Dr. Smiley - Russian, American

Nurse Ann - Swedish, American

Dr. Pain - American, British

X-Virus - Mexican, American

Dr. Locklear - British, French, American

Lifeless Lucy - American, Polish

Lily Kennett - American, Scottish

Sally Williams - American, German

Sam Williams - American, German

Lazari Swann - Lebanese

Slendrina - Romanian, German

Nightmare Ally - German, Japanese

Vailly Evans - Japanese, French

Lulu - Vietnamese, American

Bleeding Man - Danish

Shadow Walker - Canadian

Nick Vanill - German, French

Nina The Killer - Mexican, American

Pinkamena - Unknown (Zimbabwean when in her human form)

Rainbow Factory - Unknown (Greek when in her human form)

Kagekao - Japanese, American

Clockwork - American, French

Smile Dog - N/A

Grinny Cat - N/A

Seedeater -N/A

Mr. Widemouth - American

Will Grossman - British, Norwegian

Laughing Jill - British

Jason the Toymaker - British, German

Candy Pop - Icelander

Candy Cane - Icelander

April Fools - Icelander

Nathan the Nobody - American, German

Papa Grande Di Magico - Italian, American

Puppeteer - French, American

Emra - South African, French

Zachary - Canadian

Sonic.exe - Japanese

Tails Doll - Japanese, Canadian

Dark Link - Japanese, American

Herobrine - Swedish

Lost Silver - Japanese, American

Glitchy Red - Japanese

Strangled Red - American

Oliver Henderson - American, British

Stripes - British, German

Rosie - Japanese, Canadian

Scarecrow Girl - American

The Skroll - Unknown (possibly Iranian)

The Rake - N/A

BOB - N/A

Bloody Painter - Korean, American

Judge Angels - American, Polish

Chris Revenge - Mexican, American

Vicky Genocidal - Portuguese, Brazilian

Hannah the Killer - German, Hispanic

Suicide Sadie - Brazilian, British, American

Roadwalker - Cherokee

Zero - French, British

Hobo Heart - American, Australian

Dollmaker - Russian

Killing Kate - American, Costa Rican

Ted the Caver - Australian

Frankie the Undead - British, Italian

Evan - Canadian, American

HABIT - Unknown (possibly American)

Jeff Koval - American

Alex Kralie - German

Jessica Locke - German, American

Amy Walters - Polish, American

Sarah Reid - American, Vietnamese

Seth Wilson - Australian, American

Screaming Dawn (oc) - American, Korean

Queen Blackheart (oc) - French, American

Smiles (oc) - Australian, Irish, French

The Tod Killer (oc) - Indian, New Zelander

Night Stalker (oc) - Indonesian, Slovenian

[snowyslytherinowl]

Most Crushed on Male Harry Potter Characters: A Study (Version 2)

Because I feel that my original study on the most crushed on male Harry Potter characters was flawed, I decided to do a part 2. This time, I looked at all of the characters listed below on every website, regardless of whether they have 10 works or 10,000 works. On AO3, I also looked at original character pairings because I believe the author is usually attracted to the canon character they’re writing about or they’re writing for an audience that is attracted to the canon character. However, I couldn’t look up OC-prairings for Tumblr and Wattpad and explain why under their individual sections. The websites I looked at were AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad. These are the results as of December 31, 2023 (I know I’m late to posting this, but it’s because I forgot to add other edits to this post until now)! 

Included characters: Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, Newt Scamander, Cedric Diggory, Sebastian Sallow, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, James Potter, Tom Riddle/Voldemort, Ominis Gaunt, Neville Longbottom, Lucius Malfoy, Regulus Black, Ron Weasley, Theodore Nott, Oliver Wood, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Blaise Zabini, Mattheo Riddle, and Lorenzo Berkshire. 

Note: I didn’t include Harry Potter (the character) because results for Harry Potter on Wattpad and Tumblr frequently returned results about the Harry Potter fandom as a whole, not Harry Potter himself. 

Original study link (August 6, 2023) here!

*Collage is mine, but all the photos were found on Google

AO3

What I did: The number of works under “(male character)/reader” and “(male character)/you” differed, so the green number is the higher number of works between those 2 tags. The blue number is the number of works in “(male character)/original character(s).” The red number is the added total between the green and blue numbers. The characters will be ranked based on the red number.

Results:

Draco Malfoy: 1,445 + 2,981 = 4,426 works

Severus Snape: 1,128 + 2,769 = 3,897 works

Sirius Black: 952 + 2,236 = 3,188 works

Remus Lupin: 900 + 1,500 = 2,400 works

Sebastian Sallow: 880 + 1,379 = 2,259 works

Fred Weasley: 743 + 1,228 = 1,971 works

Tom Riddle/Voldemort: 361 + 979 = 1,340 works

George Weasley: 684 + 932 = 1,616 works

Ominis Gaunt: 421 + 697 = 1,118 works

Regulus Black: 223 + 878 = 1,101 works

James Potter: 375 + 506 = 881 works

Charlie Weasley: 152 + 548 = 700 works

Cedric Diggory: 232 + 422 = 654 works

Ron Weasley: 212 + 430 = 642 works

Lucius Malfoy: 202 + 384 = 586 works 

Neville Longbottom: 190 + 383 = 573 works

Theodore Nott: 95 + 426 = 521 works

Newt Scamander: 336 + 130 = 466 works

Blaise Zabini: 79+ 322 = 401 works

Oliver Wood: 123 + 198 = 321 works

Bill Weasley: 106 + 170 = 276 works

Mattheo Riddle: 59 + 108 = 167 works

Theseus Scamander: 72 + 25 = 97 works

Lorenzo Berkshire: 10 + 13 = 23 works

Potential problems: 

I think the AO3 results are the most accurate since for the most part, all reader-insert works are under only 1 name of the character, not something like “Snape/Reader” and then “Severus Snape/Reader.” However, I did notice that there were sometimes works with 2 characters where 1 character had a relationship with the character, while the other character was in a loveless arranged marriage or some sort of non-con relationship that the author didn’t mean to romanticize. 

Also, whenever I calculated the the number of works under both “(male character)/Original Female Character(s)” and “(male character)/Original Male Character(s)” it was always less than the the number of works under “(male character)/Original Character(s).” Therefore, I’m not sure if this means I undercounted OC-pairing works.

Tumblr

What I did: I researched “(male character) x reader,” “(male character) x you,” and “(male character) x y/n.” The number of followers under these tags sometimes differed, so I recorded the highest number of followers between the 3 tags. However, I couldn’t count the number of followers for any tag along the lines of (male character)/OC. This is because Tumblr doesn’t provide the number of followers for OC-pairing tags for whatever reason. Also, some characters are tied because Tumblr only shows followers in thousands and hundreds, not the specific number. 

Results:

Draco Malfoy: 15k followers

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin: 12k followers

James Potter: 10k followers

Fred Weasley: 9.2k followers

Tom Riddle: 6.6k followers

George Weasley: 6.4k followers

Newt Scamander: 6.2k followers

Regulus Black: 5.7k followers

Theodore Nott: 5.4k followers

Mattheo Riddle: 5.1k followers

Severus Snape: 4.5k followers

Sebastian Sallow: 4.2k followers

Cedric Diggory: 3.9k followers

Ominis Gaunt: 2.7k followers

Ron Weasley: 2.6k followers

Charlie Weasley: 2.2k followers

Neville Longbottom and Oliver Wood: 1.9k followers

Theseus Scamander: 1.8k followers

Bill Weasley: 1.5k followers

Lucius Malfoy and Lorenzo Berkshire: 1.4k followers

Blaise Zabini: 1.3k followers

Potential problems: 

Because Tumblr doesn’t have a set tag for reader-insert works, I had to look up characters under multiple names, like “Remus Lupin x Reader” and “Lupin x Reader.” 

I’m not entirely sure how Tumblr rounds the number of followers under a tag, but the number of followers can vary drastically for characters that are tied depending on how Tumblr rounds. For example, Sirius may have 12,900 followers and Remus may have 12,009 followers, or Sirius may have 12,499 followers and Remus may have 12,001 followers. Therefore, the lack of an exact number of followers under a tag has the potential to mess up the accuracy of the total final results. 

I noticed that not every single result under the tag was actually a reader-insert post. However, I don’t think this is a major issue since I counted the number of followers under a tag who are under the impression that every post with that tag actually adheres to the tag title. 

Wattpad

What I did: I searched for “(male character) x reader,” (male character) x you, and (male character) x y/n. The number of results under these searches sometimes differed, so I recorded the highest number of results between the 3 tags. I didn’t search for anything along the lines of (male character) x OC (refer to “potential problems” for my explanation). 

Results:

Lorenzo Berkshire: 59.3k results 

Draco Malfoy: 48.7k results

Neville Longbottom: 46.2k results

Newt Scamander: 42.9k results

Cedric Diggory: 41.5k results

Ominis Gaunt: 30.3k results

Theodore Nott: 22.2k results

Ron Weasley: 19.7k results

Remus Lupin: 17.3k results

James Potter: 14.9k results

Sirius Black: 14.3k results

Severus Snape: 13k results

Fred Weasley: 11.6k results

Tom Riddle/Voldemort: 11.1k results

George Weasley: 9.2k results

Oliver Wood: 4.8k results

Regulus Black: 3.4k results

Blaise Zabini: 3k results

Lucius Malfoy: 2.5k results

Mattheo Riddle: 1.8k results

Bill Weasley: 1.6k results

Charlie Weasley: 1.4k results

Sebastian Sallow: 400 results

Theseus Scamander: 175 results

Potential problems: 

I don’t think these results are very accurate, especially since Lorenzo has only 23 works on AO3 yet somehow has more results here than Draco. Because Tumblr doesn’t have a set tag for reader-insert works, I had to look up characters under multiple names, like Remus Lupin x Reader and Lupin x Reader. 

Searches for James, Potter, and Remus frequently returned Marauder fanfiction collections which didn’t separate works for the individual characters. 

As I stated above, I didn’t research pairings with OCs since many of the results didn’t even return OC pairings. For example, the very first result for Snape x OFC is literally a fic of James Potter x Snape. 

If you compare my results from the original study, some of the characters have fewer results than they originally had. I’m not sure if this is an error on my part, if Wattpad changed how it returns results for searches, or if some fics were deleted. 

Wattpad doesn’t provide the exact number of results for each search, so this has the potential to mess up the final total results.

Final Total Results

Draco Malfoy: ≈68,126 admirers 

Lorenzo Berkshire: ≈60,723 admirers

Newt Scamander: ≈49,566 admirers

Neville Longbottom: ≈48,673 admirers

Cedric Diggory: ≈46,054 admirers

Ominis Gaunt: ≈34,118 admirers

Remus Lupin: ≈31,700 admirers

Sirius Black: ≈29,488 admirers

Theodore Nott: ≈28,121 admirers

James Potter: ≈25,781 admirers

Ron Weasley: ≈22,942 admirers

Fred Weasley: ≈22,771 admirers

Severus Snape: ≈21,397 admirers

Tom Riddle/Voldemort: ≈19,040 admirers

George Weasley: ≈17,216 admirers

Regulus Black: ≈10,201 admirers

Sebastian Sallow: ≈6,859 admirers

Mattheo Riddle: ≈7,067 admirers

Oliver Wood: ≈7,021 admirers

Blaise Zabini: ≈4,701 admirers

Lucius Malfoy: ≈4,486 admirers

Charlie Weasley: ≈4,300 admirers

Bill Weasley: ≈3,376 admirers

Theseus Scamander: ≈2,072 admirers

Once again, I doubt the accuracy of these results, so take these results with a grain of salt. However, I do think these results are more accurate than my last research study since I tried to be more precise. Also, these results aren’t necessarily indicative of how much a character is crushed on since there are probably plenty of people who don’t write fanfiction, follow tags on their loved character, or interact with fanfiction/the fandom in general. I will do this study on female characters sometime in the future, but I don’t know if I’ll redo this study on male characters. Thanks for reading! 

[aeoneskova]

Fanfic Author Interview Tag!

Thanks for the tag @pretentiouswreckingball <3

How many works do you have on AO3?

Eight so far! Working on another :)

What's your total A03 word count?

623,855 words... that is bonkers to me

Your top 5 stories by kudos:

Honey Honey - Marlene McKinnon PoV, post-first war, she becomes a muggle primary teacher and raises Harry. I'm hoping to fully edit this fic so you might want to hold off if you're planning to read it.

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy - Percy Weasley x Oliver Wood, 1st-7th year slowburn, the epitome of "they were roommates."

The Funny Tricks of Time - a companion fic to Honey Honey

Seven Dials (Pointing At You) - wolfstar one-shot based on something that actually happened to me during a trip to London.

Just In Case - the first fic I ever posted, a one-shot about Halloween night 1981. I think my later halloween one-shots are much better than this one to be honest.

Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I read every single comment and reply to as many as I can. The only time I might not is if you've left multiple comments over many chapters - then I might just respond to them all in one on the latest comment.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Hmm... pretty much all my fics in the Halloween Archive one-shot collection are equally as angsty and depressing so I can't really choose one over the other

Do you write crossovers?

I haven't so far, however I do have some fic ideas that are inspired by other stories but not necessarily crossovers. Like I have a wolfstar astronaut au planned, inspired by the Martian, but you don't need to know anything about the Martian to read it.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I've had some hate on Honey Honey. As much as I have my own issues with the fic, I wrote that as a child. Which I know might be surprising considering its content and length, but I wrote that whole thing as a minor and those comments could've easily dissuaded me from writing altogether. Don't leave hate on fan work!

Do you write smut?

Not so far. Like I said, I wrote a lot of fics while I was still a minor so I didn't feel comfortable with it. I will likely start to expand on intimate scenes now, though I doubt it would be full smut.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not...

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of - I've received a lot of foreign language comments before which makes me wonder if someone has? If so, I'd appreciate them letting me know, at least then I could link the translations to the original.

Have you ever co-written a fic?

No, and as much as I like the idea of collaborating, I think I'd be too stressed about it :/

What's your favourite all-time ship?

I have to say wolfstar, my beloveds. But I do also enjoy drarry.

What's a WIP you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Oh god... I have a LOT of wips that I do want to finish, but realistically? I'll go with the wolfstar astronaut au I mentioned, it's called A Hopeless Romantic's Guide to Life on Mars. As much as I love that fic idea, I think it'll be a while before I can get round to prioritising it. But you never know - if you asked me that a few years ago, i'd have said Honey Honey and GOFLB, but look at them now!

What are your writing strengths?

Descriptions maybe? Or my characters. I like to think I put a lot of work into making my characters complex and building their relationships, but idk

What are your writing weaknesses?

Procrastinating. God do I procrastinate. And I make things way more complicated than they need to be. Realistically, Honey Honey could have been half the lengths it is, but I draw it out too much and that's why I think I need to go back and give it a good edit. But I need to stop procrastinating first.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? For me personally, I wouldn't do it because I'm not fluent in any other language. If I had to, I'd write the dialogue in English but tag it as "she said in French/spanish/etc." I can understand other people using it but I also find it difficult sometimes to scroll up and down between translations in the notes. But that's just me

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Stranger Things, probably, I love steddie fics. I also recently finished All for the Game and have been binging andreil fics but idk if I'd ever write my own. As for other ships, I have a drarry idea in the works which I hope to get to eventually :)

What's your favourite fic you've written? For fics I've posted on Ao3, I'm torn. I love the writing in both Seven Dials and Another Bloody Mary the most, so I'm most proud of them quality-wise. The wip I'm currently working on (a wolfstar pirate au which I've written half of) will probably be my favourite once its finished <3

Open tags for any other fic writers!

[abbyzenken]

Alright you people.... SPLITTER GIRL HEADCANON EXPLOSION TIME!!!! :3

In my days of using Tumblr but I have never posted headcanons nor think much about tuem... but splittet girl is making my head full of tjem so here we go

1 . She is roommates with chemical girl. Splitter really loves annoying the shit out of her and even calls her "chemical-X" (funny powerpuff girls reference... eeheheheh);; on a side note, they live on a duplex

1.1 Some stupid shit Splitter really LOVES to do is push bowling balls down the stars, blasting very shitty music and so on ^^ To annoy her roommate even more, she blasts this super shitty "song", at max volumne, not even bothering to turn it off nor be even more quiet; she just sits there and dances like a drunk lady. Hell, she will even laugh like a bitch (song link below, view at your VERY own risk, it is so fucking shitty oh my god someone please take away this guy's suno activies)

• Speaking of this... she dances like an idiot^^

...anyway I apologize for putting a shitty """song"""... back to what I was ramblign about

2 . Splitter girl REALLY loves doing parodies of children's books and those fuckass AI ""songs"", and oh boy are they so fucking funny;; She made alot of parodies of the shitpiece linked below

3 . Her room is just a bunch of wires, cables, chargers and whatever the fuck,, Weevil said that she'd have a shitty depression room but I personally think it would be shittier. There would be posters of badly drawn stickmen, unorganized wires under her bed and so on

4 . Speaking of the stickmen,, she draws like Brewstew:pp she also watches Brewstew alot because it suits her humor and gets a super good laugh ay them,, not to mention has merch^^

5 . She has VERY shitty hair. Like it is all knotty and shit, super hard to detangle that someone, regardless if it is her roommate or somebody else, has to make her go to a super professional hairdresser

6 . She makes ramen when she is SUPER high. When I say super high I mean like, a fucked up combination of someone smoking a blunt, Lindshey Lohan and an extremely shitty person. When making ramen, she would put all sorts of random bullshit - makeup, olives, anything, INCLUDING wood and metal. And then she dumps it all into the toilet and. fucking clogs it. And then her roommate would wonder what the hell happened and who made knock-off fairy dust and calls a plumber to fix that shit

7 . Unironically plays knockoffs of well-known games. Like instead of "Uno", she would play a very shitty knockoff called "Cnuno". I'd like to imagine that she just brought it one day and shoved it on chemical girl's face. It went like this :

"HEY GIRLIE!!!! LOOK WHAT I BROUGHT!!" "oh, that's nice^^ what is it, the game uno? "Oh Chemical-X, it's better! Do you wanna play... THE SHITTIER VERSION CNUNO?^^" "...what the FUCK is a Cnuno?!"

8 . Fast typer. Like in her journal entry she has so much spelling mistakes (such as "me/.", "norma;l" and so on). Not to mention she would also not put a comma where needed, and would put all caps letters when making a sentence sometimes (sOmethign lik;e This; yes I am typing like splitter just for this example)

9 . She absolutely LOVES getting drunk and going to sobriety tests. She would hope that her table will be the drunk table and if it is, she will scream so fucking loud and immediatly get as much as she can, and on the sobriety test, she is absolutely fucking shitty

10 . She and chemical girl would go to the same school and would share some of the same classes^^ For example, they would share woodshop class - chemical would be extremely good at it, meanwhile splitter sucks ass at it

That's all I have^^ I will share more splitter headcanons and possibly of the other girls (including chemical) tomorrow, so please look foward to it:3

[kitty-tea]

Like father, like son

(Link to masterlist)

Read part 2 here

Read part 3 here

Summary: Harry and his father James are similar in so many ways. They like Quidditch, they’re both Gryffindors, and they have you in their lives. The difference is that you feel something for James that you’ll never feel for Harry who is younger than you.

A/n: originally supposed to be a single part but it was too long so I turned it into multiple parts.

Pairing: James Potter x reader

NSFW 18+ only!

Word count: 3.8k

Tags/warnings: mature content, love triangle (kind of), masturbation, sexual content, fluff, angst, mentions of death, reader is of age, heavy sexual tension, borderline adultery, one-sided crush, James lives, doesn’t follow the main storyline at all, conflicting feelings, accidental groping, innocence kink, slow burn

Ever since your parents were murdered by Death Eaters, you had never been in a stable living situation. You never stopped moving in between the Potters’ house, the Weasleys’ Burrow, or Sirius’ ancestral home. Out of everywhere you’ve moved, it was those three places you spent the most time at. When you were an eighteen-year-old in your seventh year, and your friend Harry was fifteen and in his fifth year, you got the news that your childhood home had been burned down. Harry and the surviving adult members of the Order decided it was then that they would introduce themselves to you, and the secret society your parents were a part of. They knew it was the Death Eaters who were responsible for your parent’s demise, but with no evidence of their responsibility, the Ministry had no arrests.

Everything in your life began to change and move too fast for you to keep track of from then on. The pain of losing your parents was easily numbed out by all the studying you subjected yourself to, but it wasn’t until after you graduated that the pain settled into the void that was once filled by academic stress. The members of the Order understood that you were in no place to go out and find a job, so they gave you allowance money for doing house chores for them.

You first met Harry formally when he, as a first year, was introduced by Oliver Wood, as the new Seeker for your house’s Quidditch team. You were skeptical about having a first year player on the team since it was against the rules, but Wood and McGonagall told you to trust their judgment, and Harry had won his first match. You congratulated him, and after that, you’d kind of taken him under your wing. Being older than him by three years, you weren’t close with him in the same way he was with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, but besides that, he never had a big sister, so that’s how he came to see you as. But that was when he was younger.

When you visited his family’s home in Godric’s Hollow over the winter holidays, you met his parents for the first time as they gave you their sincere condolences for your loss.

Another thing in your life that moved at you too fast was the little crush you were starting to have on your little friend’s married father. The moment you met James, you got straight into bonding over Quidditch since the both of you played the same position for Gryffindor. You were eighteen years old, you never had a crush before, your life was a stressful mess, and you didn’t need the guilt of being attracted to a married man to be added to it. You wondered if it was normal to feel the way you felt about having a crush on somebody. You’ve heard the other girls at school giggling and smiling about their crushes, but they were boys their age, not married, and they weren’t dealing with the type of stress you were dealing with.

Out of every family whose house you stayed at you spent the most time at the Potters’. Lily had come to see you as the daughter she never had. James on the other hand, was someone you were so desperate to hide your attraction from his wife.

Since you didn’t have much clothes of your own, you had to wear Lily’s hand-me-downs, or God forbid, whatever Sirius’ mother used to wear in her teenage years. Between those two women’s fashion senses, it was easy to say you favored Lily’s bright sundresses over Walburga’s gowns that reeked of darkness and death.

The sight of you wearing Lily’s old clothes around the house was enough to make James lose it if he wasn’t in front of his family with his wife complimenting you on how adorable you looked. Lose what? His sanity? He didn’t want to know.

That night as his wife was asleep next to him, you asleep on the living room couch, and his son asleep in his own room, all of them blissfully unaware of his racing thoughts, he couldn’t get the image of how you looked out of his mind.

James felt guilt and arousal overcome him as he pictured the way Lily’s dress (now yours) clung so effortlessly to your figure, showing off your thighs, barely leaving anything to the imagination.

Those days that you went to go live with other families were a breath of relief for James as much as it was torture. Relief because his mind wasn’t clouded with his filthy thoughts about you that he had in front of his wife, and torture because he missed everything about the intoxicated feeling he’d get from your addictive scent when you’d walk past him to the fierce pounding in his chest that made him feel the same way he felt about Lily.

Speaking of looking at you, he didn’t think you’d catch onto how his son started looking at you, but he did. He was a boy once, he understood the signs of a lovesick boy, and Harry checked all the boxes. He hoped that he wouldn’t be pursuing a relationship with you. He was a fifteen-year-old boy, and you were a young woman, of course the feelings his underage son had were no less inappropriate than the feelings he had for you as a married man!

To go behind his wife’s back and act on his feelings would not only be a betrayal to her, but to you and his son as well. It would ruin the family dynamic that the four of you had been building up. And he didn’t want to take that away from you. Even though you were an adult, Lily and James referred to you and Harry as “the kids.” Lily might’ve thought it was cute to have herself and James call you that, but to him it made him feel disgusted at himself, for it only reminded him even more that while you were closer to his son’s age, you were not a kid.

The day he’d almost crossed the line of no return was during the hot summer of his son’s sixteenth birthday, when Lily told you, Harry, and James that she was going out to meet friends, leaving the three of you alone. James decided it was a good idea to take “the kids” out for some ice cream in town.

Once the three of you sat down next to one of the coffee tables, taking refuge in the cool air circulating around the ice cream shop, Harry sat on the couch next to you while James took his seat on an armchair across the table from you.

Harry congratulated you on finishing your magical education, telling you how strong you’ve grown after everything you went through in your last year. You then shifted the focus of the conversation onto Harry’s upcoming sixth year, asking him about the classes he’ll be taking.

James watched as you and Harry talked for a while. Even though his eyes never left you, he could sense the lingering looks his son would give you, and it made him seath inside. James didn’t know if it was cute or pitiful that you made it very clear to Harry that when you would tell him you saw him as more than a friend, you meant that you saw him as a little brother.

When Harry had finished his ice cream, he pulled out some Muggle coins from his pocket and told you to join him in the arcade area of the shop when you were done before running off.

Even though you were still in a public space, James felt like he was alone with you.

With the way you were licking your ice cream off the spoon slowly while keeping your eyes on him, it would’ve been easy for onlookers to mistake it as an attempt at seduction. Even he would’ve mistaken it as such if you didn’t know he was married. He thought you might’ve been spacing out, unaware that a drop of the sweet threat had stuck near the corner of your lips as you finished the bowl.

Only when he called out your name to get your attention did you jolt out of whatever daydreams you were immersed in.

That sweet look you gave him with your doe eyes almost made him forget what to say until his eyes fell to your lips.

“You’ve got something. Right here.” He pointed to the spot on his face to mirror where the ice cream was stuck.

You stuck your tongue out swinging it near your cheek and failing to reach that spot which made James chuckle. You looked so silly with your whole face scrunched up in concentration.

“Did I get it?” You asked hopefully.

“Here, let me help you.” He said without thinking as he got up from his seat and plopped down next to you. Right to where your exposed thigh was touching the fabric of his jeans.

He was so close to you he felt like he could get drunk just off the scent of your strawberry shampoo. You looked so small and innocent, looking up at him like a deer in the headlights.

It was as if his heart was possessing his body and controlling his hand that brought itself up to your cheek, his thumb wiping across it. He could’ve just let go of you, or better yet get you a napkin to clean yourself up which is what he should’ve done in the first place. You were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, you weren’t a little girl. That thought still didn’t make him feel like less of a pervert.

He was for sure spacing out because the next thing he knew, he found his thumb had landed on your bottom lip. He miraculously found it in himself to stifle a groan that wanted to escape him as he felt your tongue give out a small, hesitant lick.

“All done!” You let go of his thumb and gave him a cheery smile as if you hadn’t just almost made him cum right there. “I’m gonna go see what game Harry’s playing!”

You stood up with your empty bowl and threw it in the waste bin before running off to join Harry, leaving him to feel disgusted in himself.

He was indeed disgusted in himself for how he had imagined for a split second that it was his cum all over your pretty lips instead of the ice cream.

One of your favorite activities to participate in was dueling. The older adults in the Order thought dueling was something important that should be incorporated into your life post-education. You thought it was interesting how each of them had different styles for training you. With Sirius, he would throw insults to purposefully catch you off guard, to simulate fighting with the enemy, while with Molly, she would tell you what a good job you were doing and to keep it up.

It was Remus who first brought up the idea to have everyone take turns training you. You couldn’t stop blushing as he bragged to James and Lily about how you and Harry were one of the most talented students in your years he saw potential in. And now that you were out of school, it was the perfect time for you to focus on learning how to fight to expand on that potential.

You usually had your training sessions in the Potters’ or Weasleys’ backyard since there was way more space and less risk of property damage than Sirius’ family home in London.

It was a guarantee that Harry or the younger Weasley children would come and watch you, seeing that it would be a good learning experience for them too.

Harry sat next to his father on a bench, giving you a thumbs up as you stood in front of Sirius, preparing for the sparring session in the Potters’ backyard. It was just you, Sirius, and the father son duo out there. Lily was out once again this time at her job.

You and Sirius got to it straight away firing spells at each other. While Sirius used Protego, you knew you weren’t as skilled in the shielding charm, so you opted to move out of the way when he’d blast at you.

“Don’t you know you’re just tiring yourself out with all this moving!” He shouted at you. “Bombar-”

“Arresto momentum! Descendo!” That combination had him slow down his movements before suddenly thrusting him onto the grass.

“Nice one!” James clapped his hands. “You’ve got good reflexes! Keep going!”

“Shut up James, you’re distracting her! That’s my job!” Sirius turned to him, giving you an opportunity to cast Flipendo, sending him rolling backwards.

“I win!” You held up your arms as Harry jumped up and high-fived you. “Who’s distracted now?” You stuck your tongue out at Sirius, who was still on the ground, rubbing his head.

“That’s not fair! James, it’s all your fault! It’ll be our turn after the break!” He pointed accusingly at his best friend.

“I’ll be looking forward to it. You won’t stand a chance against me, old friend.” James smirked.

“Both Sirius and your dad are such show offs.” You laughed with Harry. “Typical Gryffindors.”

“Hey, don’t pretend like you’re not one of those too, young lady!” Sirius snapped his fingers at you.

“Ugh. I’ve got to use the loo. I think she flipendo-ed my bladder.” He groaned, standing up. You and Harry only looked at each other and burst out laughing as he disappeared through the back door.

“You’re getting so much better! I can’t wait until I’m old enough to use magic outside school! We can practice together!” Harry praised you.

“Aww, Harry you’re so sweet! I love you!” You smiled at him, reaching out to ruffle his already messy hair.

“I… love you too.” James knew that one sentence had two different meanings depending on which one of you said it. Besides, what did the young boy know about love? What he was experiencing was a silly teenage crush. He couldn’t fall in love with you, he was too young for you. He wondered if his own son even knew how poorly he was concealing his little crush from him. He might have you fooled, but James knew him better than you did in terms of how he showed his feelings.

“You’re the best little brother I never had!” You opened your arms, letting Harry into your embrace.

“Yeah, thanks.” He wrapped his hands around the small of your back. Both you and James could see the frown forming on his face. James was glad in a way that you and Harry weren’t the same age or else he would already have asked you out, he was completely sure of it.

“What’s wrong?” You innocently asked Harry, tilting your head. You looked as though you were wondering what Harry was thinking as you caught him staring at you.

“Nothing… I’m just-I’ll just be standing outside the bathroom and telling Sirius to stop hogging it.”

It was just you and James now, standing alone in the middle of the grass.

“Is that how you’re preparing for your turn with Sirius? By standing around doing nothing?” You spoke first.

“Yes.” James shrugged. “He’s got no idea what’s coming for him.”

You could feel a blush creep up your cheeks as you thought you saw him wink at you. You awkwardly shifted your weight from one foot to the other, trying to find something to keep the conversation going.

“You did well. You’re still young, and you’ve got so much to learn.” James said. You didn’t know when you had moved so close together to the point of your toes nearly touching. “Show me your stance again.”

You put your wand out in front of your face and flicked your arm.

“Darling, I’m sorry, but you’re leaving yourself open to an attack. Try this.” Your breath hitched in your throat as James got so close behind you to the point his chest was lightly pressed against your back.

He took your fist that was clenching your wand, lowering it slightly so that it wasn’t as in your face anymore.

“There. Now you can see your target much better.” His voice dripped into your ear like sweet honey, making you feel weak in your chest.

You were however more horrified with yourself at the ache that began to grow between your legs as you felt the tips of the fingers of his other hand brush through your hair before tucking it behind your ear.

“Why don’t you try again?” He whispered, his lips almost touching your earlobe. “This time, bring your legs apart more.”

“Wh-What?” That was the only word you remembered how to say at that moment. You were so distracted by his smooth voice you couldn’t stop the image of yourself naked with your legs spread in front of him from forming in your mind.

“To help you balance.” James clarified. Okay, he didn’t mean anything sexual by that. You had to remind yourself as you felt a shiver run through you along with his hands that slid from your arms to your waist and hips before landing on the cotton hem of your shorts.

You could feel the heat between your thighs grow as James gently squeezed the soft flesh that was dangerously close to your pussy. You were glad you wore panties that day or else you would’ve soaked through the thin material of your shorts by now.

You didn’t know what you were thinking when you squirmed and you felt James’ forefinger grazing just the lightest bit against your pussy. You could’ve sworn you heard him whisper a cuss word.

“James?” You tried to bring him back. “How am I doing. Is my stance good now?”

“Yeah… you’re doing excellent.” He breathed out.

You had never felt an erection against your body before, but you were sure you could feel something hard pressing against your ass at that moment.

“I’m going to let go,” thank goodness. You didn’t know how much longer you could take it with him manhandling you like that. “And you’re going to cast a spell with the new stance I taught you.”

You felt like you could finally breathe as the weight of his body disappeared from behind you.

“Engorgio.” The flower nearby ballooned up.

“Good girl.” You didn’t know whether his eyes had darkened or it was the lighting.

James was as equally disgusted in himself as he was intrigued. He had come this close again to crossing the line between what was and wasn’t inappropriate with you. Actually, he was sure he deserved time in hell for how he was touching you earlier as it was definitely considered inappropriate. He was intrigued because he was now sure the attraction went both ways.

The slightest whimpers he could hear coming out of you was something he couldn’t get out of his mind as his hand softly squeezed around his cock, with his other hand planted against the shower wall.

It was like his eyes had suddenly been opened to the glances you’d cast at him that would linger a little longer than what was normal. Speaking of normal, he knew he shouldn’t be shaming or ridiculing you for these feelings you were having. He knew it was normal for young women to catch feelings for older men. He’d seen it in the way Nymphadora Tonks looked at his best friend Remus, even if Remus himself tried denying it with excuses such as, “I’m too poor, I’m too old, I’m a werewolf.”

He imagined that instead of his hand pumping around his cock, that it was yours, or any body part of yours. Your lips, your pussy, your tongue, he wanted it all. He let himself admit it.

He could never go back to telling himself that he only saw you as a daughter. He may be able to convince everyone otherwise, but not himself.

His mind went back to how his finger had accidentally grazed over your clothed pussy, where he could feel the heat of it along with the outline of your inner lips rubbing against the seam of your shorts.

He started wondering how you would taste on his tongue. He imagined you would be an addicting treat to him that he couldn’t get enough of.

He then got curious about how tight your walls would feel around his dick. He deduced from your conversations that you never had sex from the lack of boyfriends mentioned. At this point, he was so desperate for his seed to spill into your virgin cunt, to the point he shut his mouth abruptly as he caught himself grunting your name. He knew no one in the house would hear him over the sound of running water, but he could never be too careful.

With one last stroke of his cock along with the image of you bent over in front of him, water glistening along the soft curves of your body, he let himself go. He wished it was your tits his cum hit not the shower walls. He squashed that thought out of his mind almost as soon as it crept in.

Trying to escape those thoughts, he aggressively yanked the shower head off the rack, desperate to wash away any evidence of his indecent activity.

Even behind your innocence, you had to be hiding a beast that was waiting for the right man to have it lured out. He wanted it to be him, but he couldn’t betray everything he and his family had worked for, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time.

Why couldn’t he just look at you the same way his friends looked at you?!

There was definitely something wrong with James because the way he looked at you was not how any father should look at his daughter.

Then, there was Harry. The way he looked at you was not how any brother should look at his big sister.

Harry’s little crush he had on you seemed innocent, the extreme opposite of James’ sexual attraction towards you.

For a second James envied his son. He was too innocent to have his mind plagued by these wild fantasies of you. All he got was a fluttery feeling in his stomach from looking at you which translated to a poorly concealed blush to other people’s point of view.

He understood Harry’s feelings towards you. You were a beautiful, kind, young woman, how could he not be smitten by you? How could he be angry at his son for feeling something so natural for any boy to feel?

He could just be angry at himself. Yes, he deserved to burn in hell after all.

[weasleys-wizard-writes]

Note:

For those who want to learn more about them before voting, here are the applicable links associated with the WIPs above:

Oliver Wood x Single mom Reader Preview

Ominis Gaunt x Childhood best friend Reader Preview

Ominis Gaunt x Childhood best friend Reader series concept

Masterlist (for incomplete series - Betrothed, The Making of a Weasley, We Stood In the Sun (Before It Exploded), Over the Years)

<3

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part II — The Weaver and the Loom

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.  

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: sexual assault trauma responses, murder, canon-typical violence. 

A/N: Arthur will make his appearance at the end here ♥ thank you THANK YOU @the-halo-of-my-memory​​ for beta-ing 💞 

Part I | ao3 link

                              ~ II — The Weaver and the Loom ~

Snick. 

The bolts inside the cabinet lock slid free. Between your finger and your thumb, the tarnished key in your grasp opened a long-latched door, a swoosh releasing dormant air. Inside the stale cell, relics of the past awaited, felty with dust. A chatelaine belt rested on the shelf, ornate with filigree, alongside a satin pouch, a crystal hat pin, silver spurs with brass rowels, and a wedding bouquet, its once-white roses shriveled and decaying. You paused once, running your fingers over the cool rivets of a sapphire brooch, and overlooked it all, instead retrieving a new vase for the kitchen table—one that would not shatter into pieces when it fell—and a tattered recipe book. 

With the book settled in your lap you opened it with a crack. Antique, creamy pages inked with words fluttered past your fingers, food stains mottling the margins alongside cursive pencil scrawls. A flattened sprig of poppy bookmarked the page for an oatmeal pie recipe. You tucked it back in for time to keep safe. A few gentle turns later you found what you were looking for and rose from the floor of your grandmother’s room, relocking the cabinet, and shutting the door behind you. You donned an apron and began your work.

The rugs, the curtains, all were taken down and rolled up, flapped outside, and beaten with the handle of your broom. You swept the floors of broken vase shards and stray leaves, replenished the oil in the lamps, trimmed the candle wicks, tossed out last night’s dinner, laid a new tablecloth, filled the silver ewer from your grandmother’s cabinet with water and fresh flowers, and scraped the ashes out from the fireplace. Wood clopped as you piled it up in a canvas carrier outside and lugged it in. Soap suds splashed your wrists as you scrubbed the dishes spotless. All the while the clock ticked on, from hour to hour, the day waning, until you could no longer prolong the inevitable, and commenced your grisly task. 

You propped your family recipe book open on the counter and fetched a large stew pot from the wall rack. The cutting board hosted the full spectrum of ingredients you needed, so you set the pot over the stove flame and warmed a dollop of butter and olive oil. The yellow onions you chopped sizzled as you added them in, and, using a knife, you deployed your special ingredient from the cutting board. A few dashes of salt and pepper joined the mixture next, and once the onions popped their flavor, caramelizing, teaspoons of dried sage and thyme hand-picked from your garden snowed from your hand with clumps of chopped garlic. 

Stirring, mixing, curdling, after a few minutes a pour of red wine and a splash of vinegar came next, making the soup bubble fragrantly. You scraped the copper bottom with a wooden spoon, stirring the browning bits of onion and garlic around, and drowned it all in three cans of beef broth from the general store. Two bay leaves fluttered in last before you covered the pot with a lid to let it simmer. 

The Sheriff would have a fine last meal. 

When the first three stars appeared in the evening sky, your cottage was aglow with soft light and welcoming with the scent of a rich dinner. Fine dishes and silverware sparkled on your table with a basket of bread in the center beside a lit candelabra. A fire warmed the hearth, and the alluring shimmer of dusk slipped in through the clean curtains. All was set. You sat in your armchair and waited, staring at the flames. 

Hoof beats. Sweat chilled your palms as the sound drew nearer and you stood to peer out the window. The dot of a lantern bloomed in the distance. You tucked your shirt into your belt and clutched your shawl tighter, holding your heart to tame its wild beating, fingertips bumping the band of your mother’s ring, still hanging around your neck from a chain. The most important thing for you to do was breathe, slow and even, so your blood could thrum throughout your body as it was supposed to and give you strength. It flowed into your heart and you closed your eyes. 

“Ease up,” a voice called. His voice. 

A horse nickered, blowing out its nostrils. Leather creaked as he dismounted from his saddle and the bit tinkled as he hitched the reins, whistling. You could imagine it all, him fixing and grooming himself as he walked up, expecting a girl who would be so happy to see him and enamored with him that she made her home all nice to welcome him after a noble day of hunting outlaws. 

The jingle of his spur was as foreboding as a snake’s rattle as it marched up the flagstone path. You positioned yourself in front of the stove, bending over the pot with a spoon and stirring the flavorful broth, a smile schooled on your face. 

“Honey pie, you home? It’s me.” 

The picture of a perfect wife, you thought, standing in your inviting home in a cooking apron. He would only see what he wanted, blind to you being capable of anything else. 

“Door’s open!” You chimed, and the doorknob turned. 

Some change at once went through the room. In a heavy, dominant rush it all came back, like the strong winds the night before that rattled the window panes and made the trees plunge and bow. You spent all day distracting yourself from the flashbacks of his lurid words, the fondlings, and the sound of his labored breaths. Anguish seized your throat at the footfalls entering your home once again and the pillar of strength you constructed within, had leaned upon, began to crumble. 

You had a hangnail on your thumb. You discovered this while squeezing your fist tight, tethering yourself to the present. It was a welcome, soft twinge of pain for you to focus on and you picked at it, fixing your eyes on the window. The candle before it illuminated the glass, and you watched the sapphire heart of the flame waver, heard the little hiss of it, and glanced beyond. A sky wistful with waning blue, a sunset throwing gold on all that was green, a hush of wind passing through the leaves, and your reflection blending in between. To take it all in brought you forward in time, to a crackling fire and a bubbling soup, and a purpose hanging over your heart. 

It is not happening again, you reflected. And it will never happen again. 

You were safe, you reminded yourself, safe in the present, grounded, and irrevocably turned to face the man who hurt you in a way no one ever had. You looked at him without seeing him, a dish towel in hand. 

“Come on in, I have some dinner on the stove. It'll be ready in a jiff if you want to hang up your things.” 

“I would be delighted,” was his reply. 

He took off his Stetson, hung it on the hook. The sound of his coat being tugged down his arms and his gun belt unbuckling made your heart beat fast and your fingers curl into your palms again. Shaking, you gripped the edge of the counter. Steam from the bubbling pot kissed your cheeks.  

A chair scraped across the floor. “It smells delicious, sweetness. I’m downright famished.” 

You breathed in and out slowly. He folded his leather gloves beside his table settings and you prepared a dish for him. With a gulp and a clench of resolution, you dipped the ladle deep and unearthed the chunks of vegetables, pouring them artfully into a bowl, spoonful after spoonful.

“Any luck tracking down that gang?” 

He sighed, deep and tired. His elbows knocked on the table as he reached for the loaded bread basket. 

“They slipped through our fingers last night, but we almost had ‘em.” Pulling the loaf apart, he ripped a piece and tucked it into his mouth. 

You rounded the table and laid the baleful meal on his place setting, in a daze as he happily snatched up his spoon. 

“Oh my,” he marveled. The polished silver of the utensil disappeared in the broth and came back up replete with the softened wild bulbs. 

“These onions are quaint,” he commented. 

The lie came to your tongue easily. “They’re called pearl onions. I have them growing in the back.” 

And with a pleased grin, he feasted. You sat across from him with your own bowl, your spoon a special porous one so you could pretend to eat alongside him. He dipped his bread in the soup and drained his glass greedily, refilling it himself from the pitcher you set on the table earlier. Before long he scraped the bottom of the bowl and you replenished it. 

You tried not to pay attention to his sordid aspect. The way he sniffed loudly and chewed openly, the dirtiness of his face from riding, the grease slicking his unwashed hair and the matted tips of his mustache, his eyebrows also unkempt and overgrown. You fixed your eyes to the grain of the wood instead, ate your bread with a slice of cheese and a handful of walnuts, munched on the salad of spring greens you prepared, all the while waiting for time to take its natural course as the toxins of the ostensible pearl onions invaded his system. 

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed. His hunger appeared to sate as he scraped up the last dregs of his supper, affording his utmost attention back to his hostess. “Why won’t you look at me?” 

You lifted your chin from your palm. Something in his expression shifted with awareness. 

“Is this about last night?” he went on. When you remained simmering in your silence, he deflated. “Listen, I–I didn’t mean to get so rough with ya. I was drunk, and I’m sorry.” 

Your insides twisted and flamed, refusing to be quelled. You shot up, turning your back to him and crossing your arms as you faced the window. 

“You’re sorry?” you seethed. A drum pounded in your ears; it was the mad pulse of your heart. Tall in your judicial resolve, you whirled and directed your fury towards him in its full magnitude. “Not a bone in your body is capable of being sorry,” your voice shook, low in its tenor. “You saw an opportunity to take advantage of me and seized it. The way you spoke to me—degraded me—it’s impossible for me to believe you didn’t enjoy every moment of your vulgarity.” Split flew as you scoffed at him. “Regret is not within you. Not when I see now that you planned it. All along.” 

He broke into a laugh of disbelief and leaned back to survey you. The worst kind of smile distorted his face, as if your fit of temper delighted him. 

“Yer actin’ like you didn’t want it. Like your cunny wasn’t drippin’ wet for me–” you lunged forward, vision red and nostrils flaring, ready to seize his neck in your hands and crush his windpipe like the frail stalk of a vegetable, but stopped, grasping the back of your chair instead. You despised the idea of having to touch him and were reminded that you would not have to get your hands dirty to kill him. But you were prepared to. How much longer could you stand his gloating and his shameless iniquity? The wood of the chair’s cross rail creaked beneath your unforgiving knuckles. The Sheriff smirked at your little display. 

“I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it,” he argued, pointing his finger at you; then he shook his head. “What nerve you have, bein’ a little cocktease with me. But I didn’t treat you like those whores in town, no, I went out of my way to…to enamor you, bringin’ you flowers while you greeted me in your garden in your lace and your pretty smiles, a pie coolin’ on your windowsill. You know my dear Carolynn never blessed me with a child, and here you were,” he gestured to your frame and the home around you. “Takin’ on the responsibilities of housekeepin’ all by yer lonesome. All you needed was a man to take care of you, and I could be that man. Honey, I want to marry you. I could make you happy! Can’t you picture it?”

Flushed from his diatribe, he pleaded with you, half-rising from his seat until you thrust out a hand in warning. Surprisingly, he heeded your tacit command. Disgust curled your lips into a sneer. 

“Marry you?” you echoed, hollow with disbelief. Your vision blurred and you blinked against the mounting tide of revelation washing over you. His mindset, his reasoning, it was unfathomable, and you struggled to piece together a sentence. “This whole time…that was your object? And you thought that by—by trapping me, and giving me no other choice, that I would accept you?” 

His eyes rolled heavenward and frustration flashed across his oily face. “Lord knows I’ve been patient,” he gnashed his teeth, voice raising a note higher. “I didn’t want any other man to have you. What, you think you’re meant for one of those half-witted grangers in town? They don’t know the first thing about women, let alone how to keep one as pretty, smart, and pure as you. You know it’s downright sinful to keep such gifts to yourself.” 

His words were worse than his touch. You had not one to describe your own sensations; the shock of his inflicted on you completely suspended your power to think and feel. 

“Sinful…” you wandered over his meaning. “You’re a hypocrite.” Releasing the chair, you stepped away a few paces and shook your head, huffing to contain your brimming despisal for this man. You refused to listen to him any more. All throughout the day strands of thought had weaved through your head, firmly knotting into what the shame made you believe about yourself. That you were ruined. That you were worth less. He must have thought he was paying you some kind of compliment, saying what he said. The refutation rose in you to a forbidding height, like the dust before a whirlwind, and your lips parted to release your final judgment of him. 

“You don’t know the first thing about me: about what I want, or what I need. What you did was assume. You assumed I wanted someone to come around and sweep me off my feet, save me from my solitude, and you assumed that I wanted you. A gluttonous, arrogant, entitled pig who can’t take responsibility for his own actions, who would rather blame them on the beast at the bottom of the glass,” you spat with venom. Emotion began to wrack your voice, lifting and dropping it like the swell of a wave, but you plowed forward, pinning him to his seat with the fearsome gleam in your tear-stricken eyes. 

“The worst part about it is you could’ve made your intentions clear! I could’ve been spared from all this pain if you had only the stones to be straightforward. But I guess the prospect of your hurt pride was too much to endure. Deep down, you knew the only way you could have me was unwillingly.” 

Your hand clutched at your breast, wrinkling your shirt and tangling in your necklace chain. You let go and charged forward again, and this time, the chair rail snapped in your hands at your final word. 

“You had no right. You’re the most pathetic excuse of a man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll be glad to see you drop dead.” 

At the crack of wood he sneered. No longer tolerating this speech, he stood, and for a fleeting moment you shrunk back. Until his hand—his fat, pallid hand, still bearing a wedding band—braced itself on the tabletop and he wobbled on his feet. Blood rushed to his face and a delta formed in his forehead as he blinked at the ground, as if his vision was filled with spots while his legs drooped unsteadily beneath him. He clenched his gut and groaned. 

A griefless laugh croaked from you. “You know, they say that wishes and dreams have a winding way of coming true. It looks like you are gonna spend the rest of your life with me, Sheriff.” 

His sight fixed itself on the bowl in your place setting, at the spoon resting in it, and how none of your portion was consumed. He had the look of a man who realized something too late. The vein in his neck fluttered and his breaths sawed in and out of his lungs. Sweat dotted his temples and a thread of saliva spilled from his wobbling lip. 

“Wh–what did you d-do?” He choked out. 

The compass of your soul spun and whirred, before the ruby-tipped point settled decidedly south. 

“What I had to.” 

As his knees gave out beneath him, the Sheriff clutched the table’s edge, and the peaceful, law-abiding chapter of your life ended. The scent of bile fouled the air as he retched and retched, his body rejecting every morsel of the Death Camas he had stomached, and the pallor of his skin colored to that of fish’s belly before the monger’s crude knife carves it open. Not a twinge of sympathy or regret rippled inside as he fell helpless to the floor. Not at his struggle for breath, at his uncontrollable muscle spasms, or the chunks of undigested food dangling from his chin. He would lie there, wheezing and convulsing in a mound of his own vomit, until his heart stopped. You had no desire to watch, and you had no desire to wait any longer for your meteoric flight from this tainted place of grief and despair. 

You unlatched the trunk in your bedroom and sifted through your belongings. Two saddlebags quickly filled. You packed the essentials: bedding and a camp outfit, medicine and provisions, clothing for severe weather, and valuables to fence. Rummaging through the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cabinets, you moved mechanically, occupying your mind with a plan moving forward, all the while a man lay dying on your floor, twitching and choking, sightless and inert. His breath was a mere rattle as you dressed yourself for travel and long riding, laying your necklace with your mother’s ring inside a sack for safe keeping. This was not the time for thoughts and moral ruminations, it was the time for action. 

It would buy you time–and perhaps forego a bounty altogether–if you buried the body. His absence from town would not go unnoticed, but—Oh, yours would not either. Regardless, your next course of action began to formulate itself. You would need a shovel, a rug or a blanket, and a lantern, for the sun had dipped below the horizon and would not light your path. 

As the night closed darkly in, the sunset folded its wings over the rib cages of clouds; the last pulse of color on the shore of the world a glowing, molten shade of marmalade. Insects clacked and clicked in the dusk as you stepped out in your hunting jacket, hoisting your supplies over your shoulder on the dirt path to the stable with a lantern swinging in your free hand. White moths flittered around the light and followed in your grim, resolved wake.

You hung the lamp on a hook behind the creaking door, illuminating the hay-strewn space. Bridles, bits, and martingales populated the wall inside the stable, with rakes and shovels propped up from the ground. An empty wheelbarrow served as a temporary home for your provisions, setting them inside so you could perch yourself on a stool in the corner to strap on your spurs. 

Willa shifted on her hooves to adjust to the weight of the various sacks and pouches you affixed to her saddle, but she complied with a trusting snort. You spoke to her kindly, stroking her forehead, knowing that she was listening in her own way and understood her importance to you. Without her, you would be alone. Without her your future, your freedom, it would all be infeasible. You led Willa out into the night, a shovel tucked under your arm and your lantern restored in hand. 

An owl hooted and a pack of coyotes yipped and yowled, the sound carrying throughout the valley. Willa’s keen ears flicked, along with her long tail, and you gestured for her to wait behind the cottage, hitching her to an oak sapling. You intended to trudge through the muck of the funereal situation as quickly as possible while the night breeze slipped cool fingers through the forest and snuffed out the last tendrils of daylight. You marched back into the firelit house for the last time.  

The stench hit you first. Foul and nose-wrinkling, you tugged your collar up against the smell and regarded the log of the Sheriff’s body, lying rigid. In death, he soiled his pants, as all men do. The body releases everything and the muscles stiffen and lock, blood stagnates in the veins, the skin purples, the tongue lolls out, and the eyes fix wide open to meet the unknown. Nature takes its course. Flies are drawn by some promising whiff of a feast in the air and consume the dead flesh in a quivering swarm of greed. Time passes. Maggots crawl. And bones will be all that remain, until, some day, they are dust for the wind to claim. 

He was the one you rushed to when you found your grandmother cold in her bed. He was the one who arranged for the church to collect and prepare her body for burial beside your parents in the local graveyard. He was one of the persons who offered you words of comfort during the funeral. 

He was the man who hurt you most in the world. 

And he was no more. 

It was a yawning, black moment, the one in which you stood, hesitating on some windy pinnacle, reflecting on not what will be, but what, long since, has been. Your throat choked around nothing. What has become of you? The future stretched out before you gray, interminable, and desolate. Thoughts crowded thick and fast in your mind, and you imagined carrying out the rest of this act—covering his body, dragging it across the floorboards, the weight of it, the slack look on his face, the creases of his fat fingers outstretched from his limp hand, and you knelt to the floor with a gathering horror of your deed, a tremor pulsing in your throat, your heart crumbling to the same ash dropping in the dim fireplace. 

A numbness possessed you to pull up the corners of the rug, to nudge his body to the center of it with your foot, to wrap the carpet around his form and tuck him inside. To do what needed to be done. Your mind turned off. It had to, for it was the only way to endure. There was no choice left for you. But you wished you had listened. To the night, to the change in the wind, for the footsteps of fate and the creeping shadow of the terrible god of chance stepping into your doorway, eclipsing your hope of escape from this dire strait. A darkness was gathering in the hush; the kind something crouches within.  

Fate is a weaver, poised at a loom; the spider over your garden gate. It works silently and unseen, amidst an intricate and silvery web, attaching invisible strands of possibility along a path leading to an inescapable epicenter. Fate, with its nimble clutches, spins and entwines, pulls one thread, wends the other, until the time comes when the unwary traveler reaches a pivot point, the moment when their life goes down one path or another, and the spider strikes the grappling victim caught in its web.  

Back first, you dragged the carpet bearing the Sheriff’s body outside your door. His boots stuck out from the roll, thumping along the ground as you grunted with the effort of transporting him, using the strength behind your legs to shuffle farther along. The light from inside spilled out along the flagstone path, and as you stopped to establish a stronger, more efficient grip, your ears pricked at a pair of unfamiliar spurs clicking and scuffing to a halt behind you. 

A pin-drop silence encased the air. 

Your heart froze. Ice enveloped your ribcage and crystallized the blood inside their elaborate vessels, each breath serrating through your chest like a razor. For a time, only the stars moved with their twinkling. Slowly from the ground, inch by inch, you turned your head and your sight rose to the face of the intruder, the sole witness to your grisly act, and you almost laughed at how twisted fate could be. 

A faltering deputy was fixed in place on the path, taking in the undeniable scene before him. He was no stranger. You recognized him in that slant of dandelion light by the curled tip of his nose, his ruddy cheeks, and the cleft in the middle of his chin. His beard was strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin, and he had grown into his jaw, the line of which had become more pronounced and square. He wore wrinkled pants tucked into worn, dusty boots, with his lanky frame swallowed by a long duster, a vest beneath it buttoned all the way, and a gun belt sagging around his hips. Ungloved hands hung at his sides, fingers that long ago squeezed the curves of your budding body dangling emptily. 

Though he scarcely looked it, he was the boy from the orchard with russet hair and dimples all those years ago, whose mother treated you like her own; but he had grown since that uncomplicated beginning. How a broken collarbone led to a friendship, which ripened into an affection and concluded in bitter resentment, was unforeseeable at the time. You never guessed that the two of you would end up like this.    

“Gideon,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

The hungry, sweeping motion of his mouth against yours invaded your mind. In the blink of a moment like this, despite the current of the years that swept past and weathered away the discomforting, stony edges of the memory, you could relive the minutest details of your past with him: the sloppy tangle of tongue and teeth and the scratch of an adolescent mustache; the mopey, beseeching expression on his face, begging for more of you. A chill crept across your skin at the remembrance of his neediness and desperation, making it hard to look at him, shame rooted so deeply in you. 

He uttered your name in the same stunned tone, his mouth agape until he swallowed his alarm. “It’s been a long time,” he said, and his eyes, murky, silver, and cold—like a pond in winter—cut to the sagging roll of carpet in your arms. An unmistakable pair of boots stuck out. “And I see much has changed.” 

None of your muscles moved—but the weight of the deceased tired your arms and you ached to rest them. You slowly lowered the rug to the ground, your eyes never leaving one another’s.  

“This isn’t what you think it is.” 

A disbelieving scoff left him. “What I think it is,” he echoed. “I’m thinking that better not be who I think it is. I’m thinking ‘she went from breaking men’s hearts to stopping them altogether’,” his long legs carried him forward and your spine stiffened. His face came into the light. You shrank back. “Something tells me you don’t have one of Dutch Van der Linde’s boys wrapped up in there. See, I knew the Sheriff would be here tonight, and that’s his horse hitched there,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the animal. “You have five seconds to produce the man I’m looking for alive and well or I’m taking you in.” 

You wished to heaven you could think of a way out of this. What vestige of freedom you could still secure was within your grasp and it made your teeth grit that the bitter waters of life would surge high once again at this crucial hour. It figured; the final wave for you to overcome came in the form of Gideon Taylor, the pouty boy who you had no remorse for jilting. Your fists clenched beside you and you lifted your head, standing tall, measuring and meeting the danger of his presence. 

Holding his stare unblinkingly, you pitched your voice low, words growing frost. “You should leave.” 

Though he had a gun and lasso on his hip and an inflated sense of superiority to empower him, Gideon hesitated. 

“I will, once you tell me where the Sheriff is.” 

His spurs jangled. He spoke to you cautiously, as if you were a skittish animal about to bolt for an impenetrable thicket, the flit of his eyes gauging your every move, and his hand rose out to you while he subtly reached beside him. 

Before you a narrow avenue of escape flickered, shrinking smaller and smaller like the last sliver of the moon in the dark of an eclipse. 

When lightning flashes, the precise amount of moments that pass between the initial burst of light and the thunder that follows measures the distance between the strike and the listener. A blink, a heartbeat, a slow breath. That was how much time you had to act, before the thunder came and the earth trembled. In that slow, blinking, beating instant, you knew how this would play out. 

When his gun began to clear leather your instincts kicked in, quick as a snap. You leapt backwards into the house, throwing the door shut. Fumbling with the bolt, the rusty metal bar slogged its way through the lock, making you cry out in frustration as you strained to jiggle it forward. The bolt slid home the instant Gideon’s shoulder rammed against the boards. 

Your teeth rattled at the battering of the frame. He charged against it repeatedly and your eyes, in darting about the room, snagged on a buffet table. Praying the old lock would hold, you rushed to push it in front of the door and the furniture groaned as you shoved it in place, only for Gideon’s attempts to break in to cease. 

“So, we’re doing this the hard way?” Gideon yelled through the door. Your heartbeat thumped in your ears and your face grew hot at the rushing of blood. You moved to extinguish all the lamps and candles, flooding the room in darkness and the lacy scent of candle smoke. His voice came again a moment later.

“Shit, what the hell did you do to him?”

The body. Beyond the threshold. He must have peeled back the rug, looked upon the Sheriff’s vacant eyes and felt his clay-cold cheeks. A leaden weight sunk into the pit of your stomach. There was no escaping what you did. But a small chance remained to evade capture. You could sneak through the back window and mount Willa quietly, get a head start before Gideon gave chase. You could lose him in the woods near Lady Face Falls and follow the water north—

A bullet crashed through the window. You dropped to the floor. Moving forward, you crawled towards the bedroom, covering your head with your hands whenever glass shattered and chunks of wood flew. Along the way your foot slipped through a sludge of the Sheriff’s vomit and your knee banged against the wood. You bit your cheek so as not to cry out in disgust and pain and shuffled slimily onward by the heels of your hands.

Gideon fired off six shots in total before you made it safely to the other room. Quietly, tortuously, you unlatched the window and pulled it up by the handles in increments to prevent any sound while outside Gideon cursed to reload his weapon faster. You winced as it gave a squeak, but the noise was muffled by the breaking of a window in the front room. A heavy stone’s thump followed after. 

Gideon called out in the dark. “Are you gonna come willingly or do I have to shoot you? There’s nowhere to go!” 

The night air beckoned. Without another thought you swung a leg over the sill and ducked out, making a break for Willa. Behind the cottage, you slid down a slippery bank of pine needles until you reached your moonlit mare, grasping the smooth horn of the saddle and clambering astride to get a move on.

“Ya!” With a kick to her flank, Willa gave a jolt and a toss of her head before starting forward. Moments. You had bought yourself moments to escape, merely. Snatching up the reins, you seated yourself properly and urged Willa through the grove of trees, hunching low to dodge the lash of branches. 

She moved with a swift determination beneath you. With hooves heavy upon the earth, she sensed your urgency. Twigs snapped and spears of moonlight shot through the pine canopy as you wove through a wide belt of trees, your breath coming hard and fogging in the air. 

The lane of a meadow came into view and you burst through the tree line, into the moon-bright open. Willa vaulted over a fallen log and landed in the muddy grasses, your rear hitting the saddle hard while pellets of ice flecked your cheeks as she scudded over a sheaf of unmelted snow.  

“Go, go, go!” Crying out, you nudged her flank again, and Willa obeyed, breathing hard. The prospect of speed and gaining distance from your pursuer outweighed the risk of exposure, riding in the open like this. Her pace transcended into a gallop. You clung tight, blinking against the cold air as it pricked your eyes. The thunder of her feet matched the beat of your heart and the landscape became a blur of stubby trees and boulders smudging past you. In the wind she made Willa’s mane flowed, and you trusted her completely to deliver you from danger. 

A gun fired off in the distance. You were forced to let up, arming yourself with your father’s hunting rifle, the stock firm against your shoulder as you peered down the sight and readied your aim. A quarter of a mile off a glint of moving light came from a lantern, and it struck your heart with a pang to do it—to fix your sights on the pulse of it and fire with violent intent. The sound split through the valley. The empty cartridge ejected. 

Astride his horse, Gideon shouted as it reared up. Your round pierced the dome of his upheld lantern and sent glass and kerosene raining. In the briefly purchased interval you prompted Willa onwards, back into the ponderosas that environed the open meadow and the darkness their bristling boughs afforded before he and his horse finished screaming. 

The farther into the woods you ventured the thicker the trees crept in, until you were forced to a walk. Into the silence of the night you listened, straining for any sound of pursuit. Nothing, only the cold shadows, dim moonlight, and scaly bark of pines passing by your knees. You propped the rifle against your thigh and loaded another brass round into the breech before hopping down from your mount. If the necessity rose again, it would be easier to aim on solid ground rather than swiveling on horseback. 

Pine cones and fallen twigs scattered at your step, and you took care to prowl lightly through the snowmelt. You held Willa’s bridle in one hand, her bit jingling, and led her until the murmur of flowing water pricked your ears. Miserable cold began to set in. At every rustle and riffle of leaf and breeze your eyes snapped to each corner of the woodland on high alert. More than anything, you wished for the warmth of your hearth—to be nestled in your favorite chair like any other evening spent in the solitude of your home. Not gripping a loaded gun in a dark forest, heart racing for your life. 

But at home, you remembered, lay the body of a dead man. To return to such a place was to hold to your ear a shell from the sea of the past, filling you with the hollow echo of what once was and no longer is. Those chapters from before fluttered away—as the seasons did. 

The soil turned mossy and spongy from the lush influence of the river, with trilliums springing up between tree roots and felled, sun-bleached logs. You let Willa walk on ahead, and the music of the water dampened the far-off sounds. Your breath came out slowly as you surveyed the wooded area behind you. 

How smart had Gideon grown in the past few years? Could he track you, undetected? Was he stalking you through the woods, with the patience and guile of a hunter?  In truth, you had no idea what he was capable of, and it made your fingers twitch towards the trigger. Then again, what were you? 

The treetops stirred. A gale whistled down from the mountains, hauntingly cold, and spliced through your jacket, meanwhile the starlight twinkled on. The moonlight turned the river iridescent. Willa drank her fill of water and you settled back into the saddle to trudge downriver. Gideon would lose the tracks you had no time to cover once he reached the stream, but could easily piece together your route. You stowed your rifle and formed a grip over the reins, knuckles over, and moved to fit your boots into the stirrups to give Willa a kick. 

You wondered how you could not have heard it: the low, whisking sound of a twirling lasso. By the time it dropped around your shoulders, it was too late. With a violent lurch you were dragged backwards from your horse into the numbing, snow-fed water. Hard and unforgiving rocks bashed into the side of your face as you slammed into the streambed, the taste of coins flooding your mouth as your teeth cut through your lip and tongue. You wrestled with the unyielding hold of the rope amidst the water flowing around you, the shock of which soaked ice in your blood instantly. Black flowers blossomed behind your eyes. A hard yank snagged the air from your lungs and pulled you free from the chaos of the current. 

Coughing, spluttering, blinking and gasping, twigs and gravel scraped your palms and before you could brace your hands against the silt someone else’s pinned them together and pushed you on your stomach. 

“You’re not gettin’ away now,'' a voice hissed. You remembered those hands on you years before, stronger since, and contempt flamed up in you, compelling the fight in your limbs to kick and scramble beneath Gideon’s hold. 

“Quit makin’ this harder for me than it already is!” he snapped. With force, he wrapped the rope around your wrists in a tight bind. All that was left to fight him with was your ankles and you thrashed your knees to shake him off, but the solid weight of him prevailed. 

“No,” you groaned, and it took all of your strength to. The rope bound your feet together, and a stupor sludged your limbs from the shock of the cold water. You were flipped onto your back, flinching at a face you were loath to look into. Gideon shook you by the shoulders and your eyes rolled.

“Tell me why! Why did you kill the Sheriff?!” 

The river still roared in your ears. Water dripped down your neck, bunched in your lashes. You thought they might turn into icicles, like the great big ones that hung from the cottage roof in the wintertime. Senses dulled and dazed, you could hardly see from the blur of tears and cold, but you caught the echo of his question, and the vial of indignation within you overflowed past the chatter of your teeth and the shivering of your limbs, unable to contain the seething words any longer. 

“You have no idea–” a cough interrupted your speech. “What kind of man you are defending.” 

Blood from the cut inside your lip spattered onto his face and he only blinked as if it were water. His astonishment was beyond expression. By the moonlight, the dark of his eyes narrowed, and you wormed beneath his glaring sneer. 

“He was a great man. Everyone saw the good he did. But you–” he yanked you up from the rocky bed by the elbow, your head lolling. “You were all he talked about. And I tried to warn him about you! You know what he did? He just laughed at me and said I wasn’t man enough to handle you.”

His statement stunned you into silence. Upright, your senses were slow to sharpen with the fog accumulating in your head. The idea of the Sheriff boasting about you to his fellow men sickened you more than the memory of his touch almost. But you had no time to harbor the thought before Gideon dragged you to his mount like a lamb to slaughter. 

Within the narrow, binding circle in which your ankles could shuffle you were pushed along, stumbling over pinecones and driftwood. You were too cold and cut up by the rocks to fight him, but you dug in your heels as you approached the tan horse’s flank, the gelding’s tail twitching. 

You rolled your shoulder as he shoved you harshly forward by the center of your back and searched for your horse desperately. Willa had taken off during scuffle, trotting down the opposite side of the riverbank. You whistled for her, and her head swung in your direction.

Gideon lost what little patience he had and pulled you up by your underarm. “Do I need to gag you as well?” You braced your arm against his horse’s side to keep your footing. “I think I should, since you’ll be savin’ your confession for the judge.”  

“Gideon, stop. Please,” you wheezed. “There was a wrong done to me.” You hoped the pain in your voice would make him pause and see the misery in your eyes, think about the weight behind your words. Maybe he would remember the girl you used to be, and recognize that she was gone, wondering what took the light from her heart. A minnow of doubt darted across his face and his grip nearly faltered, until the breeze blew cold and snuffed any flame of apprehension sparking inside him.

“And you call what you did makin’ it right? Killing a man is against the law,” he elucidated. His spit sprayed across your cheek and you flinched. “But I’ve heard all that I have an ear for. You’re spendin’ the night in a cell.” 

Gideon crouched and lifted you from around the legs, hefting you onto your stomach over the horse’s rump. Blood rushed to your head as your weight gravitated to your abdomen and your muscles strained to support it. The steed’s legs shifted underneath you and you lifted your head with a painful effort to speak your mind as he rounded the horse. 

“The law doesn’t tell you what’s right and what’s wrong; it only says there’s a price to be paid for certain actions,” you snapped. Disdain pulsed through your veins, your blood humming with contempt. 

“Yeah?” Gideon’s feet slotted into the stirrups and he gave a kick, gripping the reins and flicking them to the right. “And you are gonna pay—with your life. What’s that tell you?” 

You balled your fists and squirmed, the weave of the rope digging into your wrists. Gideon started forward, roughly, back into the darkened forest. Your chin knocked against the horse’s hide and you held your head up again. “Men like the Sheriff bend the law in their favor whenever it suits them to get what they want and never pay that price. The law doesn’t protect those beneath it.” 

“Spoken like a true degenerate.” He tossed you a look over his shoulder and scoffed. “God, if my mother could see you now.” At the memory of Mrs. Taylor and her old warmth towards you, you flamed up again, voice coming out in a growl. 

“Oh, you don’t have room in your head for more than one idea!”

“I know better than to listen to this. I know you. A man’s heart is your joy to play with–” 

“And it’s your joy to play the victim! Even now you can’t fathom why I despised you. You filled me with shame. Men like you and the Sheriff, all you care about is what I can give you. My heart, my feelings, they don’t matter. In the face of your desires they mean nothing. They don’t so much as cross your mind. The Sheriff took advantage of me and he would do it without a second thought over and over again unless I stopped it!”

“Shame?” Gideon turned back to you. The cold pinked the tips of his ear and nose, his knuckles also red from their place on the bridle. He went quiet for a moment before going on, the scenery passing by vaguely in shadows and shafts of moonlight. Your sternum ached at the pressure accrued from resting on it, and every time your head bounced along with the rhythm of the horse you glimpsed your bound feet on the other side. 

He spoke softer this time. “You must not remember how sweet I was on you when we were together. But the way you turned so sour so suddenly, when I could’ve sworn you liked me just as much…it made my head spin more than anythin’. I didn’t know what I did wrong.” 

The confession strummed a somber chord within you, twisting your expression grimly. You stepped out of the present, back into the years, while Gideon emerged from the cover of the woods and picked his way onto a pale ribbon of trail that wriggled ahead like a snake. A sign post at the fork heralded the one mile marker to the main road into town, painted white and chipping.

“We were so young. We were children, Gideon. It wasn’t love.” 

It struck you that, at the age you spoke of, you did not know how to say no—the word not being something girls were taught. What you knew of women’s’ relationships with men was the expected role they fulfilled: giving. Giving affection, pleasure, children, companionship. In theory the rationale was not so terrible. Love was a dream. To be in love was everything. But your tryst with Gideon acquainted you with a breed of men who were used to taking what women were expected to give. Your kiss, your touch, your embrace and your body, these were all special to you; a gift to be bestowed, the chance to do so reveled. Not things you were expected to surrender to the first boy who looked at you lustfully, unconcerned with your true, inner value. You wished you knew that then. 

The train of thought led you, for a glimmer of a second, to believe you could have stopped the worse act inflicted upon you by the hands of the Sheriff. As quick as it came it died. He would have found a way to get what he wanted, regardless of pleas, or strength, or precognition. You were not to blame. Bad people would always exist in the world and take advantage of others, and it was no fault of yours. 

Gideon shook his head, sighed, and muttered to himself. Pivoting, he looked down on you with a pinched mouth, his eyes hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “Yeah, well. We still knew what we were doing.” The cutting edge of his words dismissed you and he spurred his horse into a faster trot. 

 I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it. A ghost whispered. The soft choke of his death rattle gripped your memory and you flinched from it.

The hardheaded hold Gideon held on his grievances made your teeth clench. If only the perfect string of words existed to compel him to release them, you would draw the strands from the air, thread them together into a net, and cast their influence over his mind to pluck his heartstrings and make him remember the boy he once was; the one who looked upon you so fondly. But the notion came to a halt at that, for was he ever a boy capable of thinking beyond his own wishes, considering the thoughts of others? 

“You’re so selfish. You’ll never change,” you found yourself saying without thinking. But he did not catch your words, and you spoke up as your despisal surged anew. “Maybe you knew what you were doing when you groped me, and ground yourself against me, and kissed me slovenly, but I didn’t. Because maybe you’ve forgotten, but I just sat there. You only ever cared about making yourself happy.” 

He scoffed. “As much as I know you’d like to think it is, this isn’t about what happened between us. I stopped thinking about you in that way a long time ago, along with asking myself why. What you offered—” Gideon cut a withering look to your frame and grunted. “Wasn’t that special. There’s plenty of other girls out there. I’m just glad I didn’t end up in a goddamn carpet.” 

Further and further away your hope slipped. Your heartbeat pounded in your head, making it throb and ache as you hung over the horse’s side and your feet grew numb. Inevitably, water pricked your eyes. A chill breeze brushed past your nose and snot began to dribble from the end of it while your vision blurred and your voice broke.

“There is no getting through to you, is there?” 

In reply, Gideon only spurred his horse to trudge an incline in the road and leaned back in the saddle, steering away from the deeper patches of snow. A knot formed in your throat as you choked down useless tears. He owed you nothing. His nature was not understanding, or reflective, or critical of himself. It was self-righteous and vindictive. The conviction rested in his eyes as unyielding as the laws of justice. An ounce of sympathy from him was as likely as drawing blood from a stone.

Bitterly, your head fell, and you sucked your quivering, gashed lip. One last time, you tried to implore him. One last time, you sought your freedom, because it was the only thing you had left to lose. 

“You can let me go. I’ll never come back here! Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t have to–” 

And he slapped you across the face to shut you up. 

The strike stung like nettles and your ears rang. Shrinking away, your mind blanking with static and noise and blinding white despair, fresh blood spilled from your lips from the slap and your trembling body remembered how cold your dip in the river had been. Worse was the wind, billowing down from across the distant mountain peaks, and the shivers set in deep. The trot of the horse went on, up a hill and off the trail through the terrain once more.

In silence, in anguish, in defeat, you wept. Over the side of a horse, bound, slapped, and subdued, you wept and embraced the taste of salt. For your lost girlhood. For the grandmother who raised you and the mother who did not have the chance. For your life, for the ruination of your dreams, from the unfairness of it all. Was this the harvest of all that had been planted for you? Bone-weary, you slumped against the animal’s hide and let yourself rock with each step. If only sleep could take you. You were ready for all of this to be over, to be a dream you could wake from in a sweat and try your best to forget. Bleeding and shivering, you longingly ached for something to fetch you out of your present existence, and lead you upwards and onwards, but you had no heart left for anything. 

Glancing up at the sky, a bank of clouds enveloped the moon. Over wood, over water, the flood of its silver radiance receded, the ensuing darkness weaving a mystery in every drop of dew and creaking branch. An owl hooted, but its mate did not answer. The stars did not have any either as you searched for them.

The tall trees rustled, violently unsure, and the night breeze carried a sickly sweet scent in its passing, as if stirring something hidden under rotting leaves. As Gideon passed beneath them, the ragged shadows cast from the spruces closed in, and in the gloom an old stone rose from the earth like a grave. It may as well have been your own. Darkened by the color of moss and damp, the granite ledge presided over the forest, sundered by some glacial movement from the mountains eons ago while death and rebirth churned in the woods all around. 

Unable to face what was to come, you turned your head. But in so doing, you caught sight of Willa trailing you from a short distance, the spot of white on her forehead unmistakable, and your tears subsided. Your heart glowed and lifted; a wobbly smile dimpling your cheeks. Graceful and poised, steadfast and resilient, she trotted in the passing shadows like she was of its fabric, her coat the same shifting shades of moonlight while she moved like a river, the sinews of her forearms and chest a changeful, inky black above her socks of white. Her hooves were too soft to hear in the spongy dirt. 

Willa’s softly brown and gleaming eyes held a star in them. Every journey you embarked on, she was beside you. She carried your bushels of burdock root and feverfew and fireweed back to your cottage without complaint, conveying you home through the forests and switchbacks countless times, and in turn you took care of her since the day your grandmother bought her from the livery.

The events which occurred in the past day loosened your foothold on your sense of self. But in that moment, pondering Willa, it came back to you. You remembered who you were, and what you believed you were meant to be. A girl brought up to respect the Earth and revere it, who kept hope in her heart always, and dreamed that she could be loved. With crystalline clarity, your mind broke free from its chains and a wind stirred a flame back to life inside of you.

From a drained well of will, you gathered your strength, braced yourself for another struggle and one last trial of endurance. While you raced to think of a way to cut your binds, Gideon’s head snapped around, and you stopped. His revolver was drawn in a flash and his horse whinnied and raked its hooves. He fixed his eyes on the tree line and you strained for any telltale sound while his gelding started to canter to the side uneasily. Something spooked it.                                

“What is it?” you hissed. He ignored you.

A twig snapped close by. “Who goes there?” he called out. Not far off, a ribbon of campfire smoke wove up into the night air and you squinted at the shadows.

Gideon tugged the reins hard to the left and clicked his spurs, venturing to investigate and evade the open clearing. Your head joggled with the movement and you grunted. A patch of ground ahead, though sideways from your point of view, appeared odd, misshapen, the thick carpet of pine needles too obvious to be natural. But Gideon was not watching his tread and aimed his horse’s walk right over it.

A dire creak made you freeze.

“Look out!”

It was too late.

A shrieking snap, and next, the wind was in your ear as the earth gave out from beneath. With a cry, the horse stumbled and reared and everything went upside down. Your heart seized during a timeless, weightless, airless second as a lattice of concealed logs collapsed beneath the load of Gideon and his horse, and you all fell in an outcry.

The sap and pine scent of fresh wood rushed up your nose as it cracked all around you. Unable to reach out for anything or protect your face, the sharp edges of branches snagged at your clothes and stabbed at your sides, needles scraping and stinging your skin. When the slamming force of the ground ended it all, a spike of wood tore a scream from you as it impaled your thigh.

The tumult fizzled to a static in your ears. You roiled on the dirt floor of the manmade pit, curling into yourself like a pill bug at the hot, pulsing throbs of pain in your leg surrounding the intrusion. You cried out at the unbearable and debilitating burning shooting throughout your body. Throat raw, vision white, breath sawing raggedly, your senses came clear enough for half a moment to observe Gideon, still astride his hysterical animal, gripping the bridle and urging the horse out of the pit. He kicked it harshly to vault over the rim back to solid ground.

He spared you one glance before riding off, and left you.

Tears stung your eyes and you wailed out your pain freely. Scratching at the rope around your wrists was useless, your nails only drew blood. All over, your body ached with bruises and fatigue, and it depleted all of your strength to focus on your breathing alone. Frustration and pain tangled in your chest like a mass of snakes, warring each other, and all you could to do alleviate the pain was roll onto your uninjured side. Your leg gushed like an oil-well.

Once everything started to fade, time ceased mattering, and you slipped in and out of consciousness. You blearily wondered why you were still fighting. A cold sweat chilled your neck and your chest palpitated unbearably.

Sounds from afar, beyond the pit, invaded your ears. There were hoof beats. The shouts of more riders, pursuing Gideon most likely. He would be rounding up what was left of the Sheriff’s posse, going after this gang that has been troubling this valley the past few days. No doubt this pit was dug by them, a trap for someone who got too close to where they were camped out. The whole town would be in a frenzy, meanwhile you...fading, languishing in the dirt…no one would find you in time…

With a quavering sigh, you began to let go. There was only so much your body could take; it would so much easier to sink into this grave than crawl your way out. To breathe became like listening to a lake lap a shore with its waves, growing fainter, quieter, and more still.

The moonlight was serene, and the coolness of this cavity of earth was welcome. Tree roots poked from the stratified layers of dirt, worms and centipedes clinging to the moisture therein. Above, a scuff of needles and a snort announced the presence of your most trusted friend.

Willa whickered, eyes finding your curled form in the pit. She paced around the edges. What remained of your hope ached. Through a glaze of tears you tried to speak, to soothe her, but no sound broke from you other than a whimper. But you were not alone. Never alone…in these woods…these mountains…with these familiar stars above…until unknown, male voices dispelled the cloud hovering over your thoughts.

“I’m telling you, I heard something. Someone in pain.”

Footsteps, a pair of them. You fought to stay awake, aware, but your willpower was slipping like the final sands through the waist of an hourglass.

“It’s probably another one of them law boys,” someone grumbled. “Maybe we caught one.”

“As soon as Dutch gets back we need to skip town without kissin’ the mayor goodbye.”

“You’re telling me. We should’ve left after that business last night.”

A haze began to drift over you again, sweeping you under the blessed numbness unconsciousness promised. Your eyelids were so, so heavy.

Willa nickered, the white of her eyes showing as the pair of men presumably approached her.

“Whoa, easy there.” One of the men regarded her, gently shushing and calming her in a matter of moments. In a way only you could—

“Look.”

“It’s a girl. Tied up like a steer.”

A gun being holstered, a thump of feet, and you were no longer alone. A shadow passed over the moonlight on your face. It was too dark to see, to know if you were about to be saved or damned by whoever was crouching over you. Dimly, you hoped you looked too powerless and broken to be mistreated.

“Pl—please,” your weak words tasted of copper. The apricot glow of a lantern warmed your face, and you looked up into a pair of eyes you trusted instinctively.

“What happened here?” The man who asked you this was older, with graying blond hair swept beside his temples. You had never seen him before. He had deep lines beside his shrewd eyes and his mouth was grim, but a kindness of understanding softened his countenance. It had been such a long time since any sincere compassion had looked at you through eyes other than your grandmother’s.

“Deputy—was bringing me in—left me here—“a spasm of pain interrupted your slurred speech. Wincing, you gestured to your thigh with your chin, seeing the pool of red darkening your pant leg for the first time. “Can’t move.”

The older man’s companion joined him in the light of his lantern. He was younger; tall and well-built, with a gun belt slung across his hips replete with ammunition, the brass of his bullets shining. A satchel hung from his side and he unsheathed a hunting knife attached to his belt. The quick gleam of it filled you with uncertainty.

“Easy, miss,” he raised his hands. “We don’t mean you any harm. I’m just gonna cut you free. Hold still.”

In a few saws of the blade the rope loosened its pitiless hold over your limbs; the relief of clutching your wound with your own hands was enough to make you sob. The men grew quiet, considering your condition. All of the blood was draining from your head, like it was all racing to escape out of your leg. The chunk of wood was buried in it, likely holding back a gushing torrent of crimson like the river miles and hours back. You wanted nothing more than to yank it out. It had not gone all the way through.

“We need to take her to a doctor,” the older man asserted, and his companion made a noise of protest. “I don’t know if Susan and Bessie can patch this up.”

“No—“ you cut him off, as forcefully as you could. “I can’t—I can’t go back there,” your breath began to labor and dizziness crept in as you moved to sit with your back against the packed dirt wall of the pit. “They’re gonna—gonna hang me, for killing that awful man.”

Clutching the wound, the blood oozed out warmly between the webs of your fingers, the dark, iron scent of it pungent in your nostrils. Air hissed out sharply between your teeth.

The two men looked to each other in mute discussion.

It left you in a sad whisper: “You should just leave me here.”

“We’ll help you.”

“We will?”

“Arthur.”

The fading began in earnest. You were incapable of protesting what came next. A pair of hands grasped your elbows, guiding you to your feet, which only stumbled because there was no strength left in your legs. Boneless, a broad chest caught you, your head lolling in the pillow of an arm, your nose grazing the fur of a jacket, and you burrowed into the scent of smoke and forest with a groan.

“We need to get back.” The lantern flame was doused, and the arms surrounding you lifted you in their hold. Your lashes fluttered to catch a glimpse of him, the man who held you, but his hat cast a shadow over his gaze and the night around him was dark with blue.

“You’ll be safe with Arthur, miss,” a voice said, but you were far away, lost to memories and hollow dreams. They dragged you down deep with pictures of bluebells in a water puddle, of lightning flashes through a curtain, of useless wrists beside you.

Your last awareness was of a sky made of woods and branches, with all of its stars perishing.

[cruelsummer-ficfest]

Hey Kids—Reading is Fun!

Dear Readers,

Your mods (@femme--de--lettres and @greyeyedmonster-18) are beside themselves with how many of you have participated in Cruel Summer Fic Fest: The Eras Tour this year.

From full novel-length fics to poetry, from microfics to multi-chaptered works and everything in between, we've been blown away—enchanted, even—by this year's submissions. This fest started as a labor of love for both of us as avid Swifties and HP fic authors and we couldn't have imagined in our wildest dreams the way you've embraced it with open arms.

With that said, we're pleased to offer the below list of this year's love stories. Due to tumblr restrictions on tagging, we weren't able to tag all of the individual author tumblr accounts (something something look what you made us do something something) so we've tried to link to ao3 as much as possible, but if you like a fic—check out that author's ao3! We've tried to connect you as directly to the mainstream of what each author writes in that respect, so if you happen to find a new fave, you can show them more love on the rest of their works!

To make a long story short, the majority of these works can be found in the Cruel Summer Fic Fest: The Eras Tour collection on ao3—with a catalogue of over 100 works, there's something for everybody, and we hope you'll take a peek at this year's truly incredible works.

We've had the time of our life fighting dragons with you, but sometimes, you know in your soul when it's time to go.

Thanks for making this cruel summer another one for the books.

Until Next Time,

Your Mods (Grey and Andie)

Cruel Summer Fic Fest: The Eras Tour

(all fics are followed by the character, relationship, or pairing that each work focused on. for the purposes of our list, both "x" and "/" indicate some level of romantic relationship, while "&" entails a platonic or otherwise friendly one)

Era One (Debut/Midnights)

Stay Beautiful (Regulus x James)

Sweet Nothing (Ted Tonks x Andromeda Black)

Midnight Rain (Sirius x Remus)

A Perfectly Good Heart (Harry/Fred/George)

Bigger Than the Whole Sky (Lavender x Pansy)

Anti-Hero (Sirius x Remus)

Tim McGraw (James x Lily)

Invisible  (Harry x Ginny)

Should've Said No (Ron x Hermione)

Dear Reader (Draco x Astoria, Part 1 of 6)

Glitch (Bellatrix Black x Voldemort)

The Outside (Ron x Hermione)

Bejeweled (Ron x Hermione)

Maroon  (Ron x Hermione)

Teardrops on My Guitar (Ron x Hermione)

Mastermind (Ron x Hermione)

Era Two (1989/Evermore)

Wonderland (Snape x Trelawney)

Dorothea (Sirius x Remus)

New Romantics (Regulus x Lily)

You Are In Love (James x Lily)

Wildest Dreams (Sirius x James)

Long Story Short (Draco x Harry)

This Love  (Pandora x Lily)

All You Had to Do Was Stay (Hermione x Pansy)

Shake It Off (Draco x Harry)

I Wish You Would (James x Lily)

Blank Space   (Ron x Hermione)

I Know Places (Draco x Hermione)

Gold Rush (Ron x Hermione)

Welcome to New York  (Sirius x Remus)

Style (Bellatrix x Voldemort)

Happiness (Narcissa Black x Emmeline Vance)

Tis the Damn Season (Harry x Bill Weasley)

It's Time to Go (Teddy x Victoire)

Cowboy Like Me (Astoria x Hermione)

Champagne Problems (Draco x Astoria, Part 2 of 6)

Era Three (Red/Lover)

The Moment I Knew (Ron x Hermione)

You Need to Calm Down  (Draco x Harry)

Sad Beautiful Tragic  (Draco x Astoria)

Nothing New (ft. Phoebe Bridgers) (Ron x Hermione)

All of the Girls You Loved Before (Sirius x Remus)

State of Grace (James x Lily)

Miss Americana & the Heartbreak Prince Draco x Astoria, Part 3 of 6)

We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together (Harry x Tom Riddle) 

The Last Time (ft. Gary Lightbody) (Ron x Hermione)

All Too Well (Ron x Hermione)

The Archer  (Pandora Lovegood x Lily Evans)

Babe  (Ron x Hermione)

Run (ft. Ed Sheeran) (Narcissa x Lily)

Cornelia Street (Percy Weasley x Oliver Wood)

Everything Has Changed (ft. Ed Sheeran) (Sirius x Remus)

The Very First Night (Ron x Hermione)

Girl at Home (Alecto Carrow x Narcissa Black)

Forever Winter (Draco x Astoria)

Afterglow (Ron x Hermione)

Holy Ground (Romione)

Stay Stay Stay (Blaise Zabini x Daphne Greengrass)

False God (Bellatrix x Voldemort)

Era Four (Fearless/Reputation)

Come in With the Rain (Ginny & Hermione)

Look What You Made Me Do (Ron x Hermione)

That's When (ft. Keith Urban) (James x Lily)

Fifteen (James x Lily)

Tell Me Why (Harry x Charlie Weasley)

The Best Day (Percy x Oliver Wood)

Call It What You Want (Ron x Hermione)

You Belong With Me (Ron x Hermione)

Untouchable (Narcissa x Lily)

Change (Ron x Hermione)

Superstar (Draco x Hermione)

Forever and Always (Piano Version) (Draco x Astoria)

King of My Heart (Ron x Hermione)

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things (James x Lily)

Fearless (Ron x Hermione)

The Way I Loved You (James x Lily)

Gorgeous (Ron x Hermione)

Bye Bye Baby (Ron x Hermione)

White Horse  (James x Lily) 

…Ready for It? (Blaise Zabini x Daphne Greengrass)

Don’t You (Ron x Hermione)

I Did Something Bad (Draco x Astoria, Part 4 of 6)

The Other Side of the Door (Sirius x Remus)

Era Five (Speak Now/Folklore)

Haunted (Bellatrix x Lily)

Enchanted (Ron x Hermione)

Innocent (Draco & Narcissa Malfoy) 

Back to December (Ron x Hermione)

The 1 (Ron x Hermione)

Exile (ft Bon Iver) (Ron x Hermione)

Mad Woman (Draco x Harry)

Invisible String (Sirius x Remus)

Cardigan (Ron x Hermione)

Epiphany (Padma Patil x Theodore Nott)

Mirrorball (Draco x Harry)

Mine (Harry/Fred/George)

Mean (Ron x Hermione)

This Is Me Trying (Marcus Flint x Percy Weasley)

Timeless (Ron x Hermione)

My Tears Ricochet (Ron x Hermione)

Seven (Sirius x Remus)

I Can See You (Sirius x Remus)

Foolish One (Angelina Johnson x George Weasley)