#whiplash chapter 8 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xuchiya · 2 months ago

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accidentally have 8 pets || ateez || chapter 5

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. kind of supernatural(?) | mentions: doctors. vets. needles. adoption. a bit cruel. magic starts. abuse to animals. laws. douyin saving the day. TAGLIST: CLOSED

back to masterlist || chapter 6

It had been four months since I enrolled Mingi in the training program, and Bangchan had been kind enough to keep me updated on his progress. A smile tugged at my lips as I stared at the latest photo he sent—a playful snapshot of Mingi and Yeo towering over Bangchan, who was dramatically attempting to piggyback ride them.

I giggled at the sight.

Mingi had come so far.

From a timid pup who once hesitated behind me, he had grown more confident with each passing week. He was learning to trust, to play, to stand on his own four feet. Bangchan had even mentioned how Mingi had leaped to reach the bell outside the indoor playground—either as a challenge for Yeo or to prove something to Bangchan himself.

It had taken time for me to let Mingi be on his own, like a parent nervously watching their child on their first day of daycare. But it had taken even more for Mingi to learn how to be independent. With a soft sigh, I saved the photo and tucked my phone away before heading toward the kitchen. The next batch of croissants wouldn’t make themselves.

Just as I reached for the ingredients, the soft chime of the bell above the entrance rang.

I turned instinctively, expecting to see a new customer stepping inside. But there was no one. The only people in the shop were the usual customers, quietly enjoying their meals. No one stood at the counter. No one had walked in.

My brows furrowed. Shaking off the strange feeling creeping up my spine, I made my way toward the back, where Wooyoung and Hongjoong were eating their lunch. Something felt off. And I had a feeling I was about to find out what.

I gently ran my fingers through their soft fur, giving them a few affectionate pats before straightening up. The comforting warmth of the kitchen wrapped around me as I turned toward the oven, where the golden pies sat nestled inside.

The rich, buttery aroma filled the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of baked fruit. Through the glass window, I watched as the crusts slowly rose, turning a deep, inviting shade of amber. Tiny bubbles formed along the edges, a sign that the filling inside was thickening perfectly. The sight made my mouth water, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in my chest as I anticipated pulling them out at just the right moment.

Moving to the other side of the kitchen, I reached for my gloves, preparing to work on the croissants—only to realize I was missing a few key ingredients. Clicking my tongue in annoyance, I made my way to the back, where I stored the frozen supplies.

"Wooyoung, can you keep an eye on the café?" I called. Wooyoung let out a soft meow, finishing his meal before trotting toward the front. Hongjoong, however, stayed behind, his golden eyes watching me from the floor.

I chuckled, grabbing a small wooden bar to prop the walk-in fridge door open. Stepping into the freezing air, I shivered slightly as I scanned the shelves, grabbing two blocks of butter and a few other ingredients I would need later. A sudden gust of cold air sent a shiver down my spine as I adjusted my grip on the butter, turning to leave, when a sudden, sharp hiss echoed through the cold space, followed by the eerie screech of metal against metal.

My heart lurched, spinning so fast that it almost gave me whiplash, I watched in horror as the fridge door swung shut. The ingredients slipped from my hands as I lunged forward— But it was too late.

The heavy door slammed closed with a resounding thud. My breath caught in my throat as I grabbed the handle and twisted it. It won’t budge and panic swelled in my chest. I twisted the handle again, harder this time. Nothing.

The cold air wrapped around me, seeping through my clothes as my breath came out in short, misty puffs.

No, no, no—this wasn’t happening.

I had propped the door open. I was sure of it. I slammed my fist against the metal, the sound echoing in the confined space. "Anyone! Can someone hear me?!" My voice was sharp, edged with urgency. Outside, I could hear the faint hum of the café, the distant chatter of customers—so close yet completely oblivious to the fact that I was trapped.

The dim light flickered slightly, casting long shadows over the frozen shelves. My breath hitched, shortening as fear slowly crept in. Panic shot through me before I could think. My foot caught awkwardly against the cold tile, and a sharp jolt of pain shot up my ankle as I twisted it in an attempt to step back, the cold from the ground seeping through my clothes instantly. I winced, sucking in a sharp breath as I tried to push myself up, only to feel a dull ache radiating from my twisted ankle.

Something moved at the edge of my vision, making me panic even more. But instead of the threat my mind had conjured, a large, fluffy golden retriever trotted beside me, his pure boba eyes gazing up at me with quiet curiosity. His coat was slightly unkempt, his tail swishing lazily behind him. I blinked through the lingering sting in my ankle, my mind scrambling to process what I was seeing.

Where did he come from?

My mind suddenly had something to be distracted about, “W-Where did you come from?”

The golden retriever woof softly before turning the door as if showing obviously where he came from yet beyond that as I took a short realization. The café door chimed a while ago yet no new customer in sight— My pulse still thrummed from the lingering ache in my ankle as I stared at the golden retriever.

“Was it you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

The dog simply stuck his tongue out in acknowledgment, tilting his head as if studying my reaction. But I hadn’t heard paws against the floor. No scratch of nails, no soft padding of footsteps. And yet, here he was—walking in like he had belonged here all along.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring. The logical part of my brain screamed that this didn’t make sense. No customer had brought a dog in. No stray had been lingering outside. And yet, this golden retriever had appeared out of nowhere, slipping into the fridge like a ghost.

A sudden chill prickled at my skin. My breath came out in uneven puffs as I turned toward the heavy door, still locked, hoping—praying—that someone would notice I had been gone for too long.

Fear crept through my body, cold and suffocating. The flickering lights cast erratic shadows, feeding the anxiety already clawing at my chest. My breath shortened, each inhale jagged, struggling against the growing tightness. The pressure built, making it harder to breathe, my vision blurring at the edges. Even as tears streamed down my cheeks, my body refused to cooperate. My fingers trembled as I gripped my pants, gasping for air, willing the panic to subside.

Then, warmth.

A gentle weight pressed against my side, grounding me. A soft whine broke through the haze of my spiraling thoughts. Blinking past the dizziness, I turned my head, he nudged me carefully, his body solid and warm against mine. His slightly unkempt coat brushed against my arm as he pressed closer, sensing my distress. A low, reassuring hum rumbled from his chest as he rested his head against my lap.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered—rescue dogs. Medical dogs trained to recognize anxiety and panic attacks.

Was he one of them?

Another soft whine, another nudge. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing urged me to match it. Slowly, shakily, I tried. Inhale. Exhale. The weight on my chest began to ease, just slightly.

I wasn’t alone.

The golden retriever stayed close, his warm weight grounding me as I focused on his steady breaths. Slowly, my own breathing evened out, the tightness in my chest loosening bit by bit. The dizziness faded, though my body still trembled with the aftershocks of panic.

Just as I was beginning to gather myself, the dog suddenly perked up. His tail gave a slow, gentle wag before he trotted off a few steps—only to return with something in his mouth.

The butter.

I blinked at him in disbelief as he carefully nudged it toward my injured ankle, his eyes gleaming with what I could only describe as triumph. A startled chuckle bubbled up in my throat. “Such a good boy,” I murmured, my voice hoarse from earlier.

He wagged his tail at the sound, as if pleased with himself.

As I reached out, my fingers sinking into his soft fur, he huffed in contentment and rested his head on my lap once again. I leaned against the cold door, exhaustion settling over me, but the warmth of his presence kept the lingering fear at bay. I absentmindedly combed my fingers through his slightly unkempt coat, finding comfort in the rhythmic motion.

Time slipped by and thirty minutes must have passed before a sudden rattle at the door made the retriever lift his head, ears twitching in alertness. A moment later, the door creaked open just enough for a familiar voice to break through the quiet.

“Noona!” Douyin rushed in the moment he spotted me, his eyes wide with concern. He dropped to his knees beside me, his hands hovering as if unsure where to check first.

“I’m okay,” I started to say, but the slight shift of my leg sent a sharp jolt of pain up my ankle. I sucked in a breath, a small hiss escaping before I could stop it. That was all it took before the golden retriever went over to my side, nudging my arm. I ruffled his fur, pain pumping through my legs, “I’m okay, babe.”

The sound had barely left my lips before another set of hurried footsteps approached, "Twisted ankle?" Taehyun’s voice was calm but firm as he crouched beside me. I nodded, still a little breathless from the pain.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before glancing at Douyin. "We need to get her out of here. Can you walk at all?" I hesitated. The retriever, still beside me, let out a quiet huff and pressed his nose to my knee, as if he, too, was waiting for my answer.

I shake my head, “No I can’t.”

The hospital room carried the sharp scent of antiseptic, softened by the faint traces of lavender from the fresh linens. My ankle, wrapped snugly in a bandage and resting on an ice pack, hadn’t swollen as much as usual, yet the dull ache served as a lingering reminder of the earlier panic. Despite the sterile surroundings, one thing remained unchanged.

The golden retriever hadn’t left my side, well technically, he sat just outside the hospital room doors, his ears perked and his deep, boba-like eyes watching over me. It was as if he had appointed himself my personal guardian.

I chuckled as I waved at him, amused by the way his tongue peeked out and his tail wagged excitedly at my acknowledgment. Near the door, Douyin stood with his arms crossed, observing my interaction with the dog before letting out a deep sigh.

"Okay, this golden dog here kept barking at us when the ambulance doors were about to close. And now, he's guarding you like you're his owner," he said, tilting his head as he eyed the retriever warily.

I sigh, “I am not sure but he could be lost or anything.”

Taehyun hummed, his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall, eyes scanning the hallway. “He was also trapped in the freezer with you, wasn’t he?” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I’m not sure either.” glancing down at the retriever, his warm brown eyes filled with an unspoken familiarity.

“That’s strange,” Douyin muttered, rubbing his chin. “Most dogs would’ve panicked in that situation. But he stayed beside you the entire time?”

“He did,” I murmured, recalling the way his presence had kept me grounded in the freezing darkness. “It was like he knew I needed him there.” Taehyun exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. “Then maybe he smelled something from you.”

Douyin scoffed. “Great. First, a freezer incident— you getting injured, and now a mystery dog that won’t leave your side. What’s next, we’re gonna adopt him?”

“Okay, I was just being sarcastic!” Douyin exclaimed as he helped me into the wheelchair. I chuckled, glancing at the golden retriever, who sat casually by the car Taehyun had brought earlier, his tail thumping against the pavement.

“I didn’t say that,” I said, adjusting the blanket Taehyun had placed over my legs as he began pushing the wheelchair toward the car. “I just want to find out where he came from and return him to his owner.”

Douyin started the car, but his voice carried a knowing edge. “But will you?”

A sudden ache bloomed in my chest at the thought of returning the retriever to someone else. I sighed softly, stealing a glance at the dog, who sat beside me, patiently waiting for me to get into the car. His warm brown eyes held a silent understanding, almost as if he could sense the conflict in my heart.

Taehyun and Douyin must have noticed my change in expression. Douyin crouched to my level, placing a warm hand on my knee. “I don’t know what’s really going on with all of this—the dog, the freezer, that symbol on your wrist—but if you know something, I’ll help you.”

I smiled, reaching out to give his hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, Do,” I said softly.

Taehyun let out a sigh before squatting down as well, his expression serious yet familiar. “And whatever crazy shenanigans are happening in your lives, count me in. I have a feeling I’ll be needed here more than I thought.”

I gave his hand a small squeeze too. “Thank you, Taehyun.” Just then, the golden retriever suddenly hoisted himself up onto his hind legs and let out a soft bark, his ears perking up. We all chuckled at his adorable actions, the weight of the moment lifting ever so slightly.

The ride home is quiet, the hum of the car lulling me into a half-conscious haze. My eyes remain closed, my mind drifting, until a gentle nudge against my hand pulls me back. My lashes flutter open, and I find myself staring into a pair of warm, doe-like eyes. A soft chuckle escapes my lips as I thread my fingers through the golden retriever’s thick fur.

“How are you, baby?” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.

He lets out a small squeak, shifting closer, pressing himself into me as if seeking comfort. With a deep sigh, he settles, his breaths evening out into the soft rhythm of sleep.

From the front seat, Douyin glances at us through the rearview mirror before speaking, “Do you think Min would like a temporary roommate?”

Beneath my touch, I feel the retriever twitch slightly, but my fingers continue their soothing strokes through his fur.

I exhale a quiet laugh. “He already has a playmate he looks forward to seeing every day. Maybe having a temporary one will help him socialize more—see more dogs besides the two felines ruling the house.”

Taehyun, seated beside me, hums in agreement. “That’s actually great for Mingi, though.”

The mention of my husky’s name sends a jolt through the retriever. His head shoots up, eyes darting around the car in search of the familiar presence. I startle for a moment, fearing I may have accidentally hurt him, but then I see it—the flicker of recognition, the way he looks at me with silent curiosity, I smile, rubbing his ears gently. “You’ll meet him soon,” I assure him. “I think you two are going to get along just fine.”

Yet when I observe his ears and body language, he seems anxious.

“What? Is he okay, noona?” Douyin’s voice is sharp with concern, but I can’t bring myself to answer. My mouth hangs open, words caught in my throat as I watch the dog whimper, his wide eyes scanning his surroundings—searching, desperate.

The unease thickens in the car, the tension palpable as we pull up to the apartment. Douyin parked the car and when Taehyun opened the door to help me out, the moment he saw the doors swing open, the retriever bolted.

“Hey! Don’t go!” I call out, my voice laced with panic. But he’s already gone, a golden blur disappearing into the night.

A sharp jolt of fear surges through me. I try to move, to chase after him, but the throbbing pain in my ankle anchors me in place. I sink down in frustration, helplessly watching as he vanishes down the street.

Douyin, seeing my distress, doesn’t waste a second. His seatbelt is off in an instant, and without hesitation, he’s out the door, his footsteps pounding against the pavement as he takes off after the runaway dog.

“Douyin!” I called out, my voice strained with worry, “I’ll be back!” he shouts over his shoulder, his figure disappearing into the dimly lit street.

Even with Douyin running after the dog, my heart refuses to settle. It beats wildly against my ribs, the anxiety pressing in like a vice. My fingers curl into the fabric of my clothes as I stare after them, a sense of helplessness washing over me.

Taehyun’s warm hand finds mine, a grounding touch against the rising tide of panic. “Hey,” he says softly, his gaze steady. “Douyin will find him. Let’s get you inside first.”

I hesitate, my eyes flickering toward the street one last time. But the dull ache in my ankle reminds me that I’m in no condition to chase after anyone. With a reluctant sigh, I nod. “Okay.”

Taehyun moves swiftly, helping me into my wheelchair before guiding me toward our apartment. The air is cool against my skin, but my mind is too preoccupied to register the chill. As we roll up to the door, it swings open to reveal Bangchan’s familiar, ever-cheerful face. His smile, however, falters the moment his gaze drops to my injured ankle. His brows knit together in alarm. “What happened?”

I wave him off with a tired chuckle. “Accidents happen at work.”

He exhales sharply, clearly unconvinced, but steps aside to let us in. “You seriously need to be more careful, your babies being surprised to find a stranger in their territory,” he mutters, giving Taehyun a nod in greeting as he holds the door open wider.

I chuckle, “Mingi loves you, Bangchan.”

“Undoubted.”

The second I’m inside, a blur of movement streaks across the room. Wooyoung and Hongjoong, my two beloved felines, leap from their cat houses, their tails flicking as they meow in concern. Mingi, my husky, is not far behind. He jolts upright at the sight of me, his ears perked before he launches himself forward, nearly knocking into the wheelchair in his excitement.

“Okay, okay, I missed you guys too,” I laugh, reaching out to scratch behind Mingi’s ears as he presses his face on my uninjured leg. Taehyun carefully settles me onto the couch, ensuring my ankle is elevated before stepping back. I lean into the cushions, the exhaustion from the day creeping into my bones, weighing down my limbs.

Bangchan plops onto the armrest beside me, arms crossed. “Good thing I was already on babysitting duty for your little monsters. I got the call last minute when you were rushed to the hospital.”

I smirk, my eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d probably be buried under a pile of fur and bad decisions,” he quips, nudging my shoulder lightly. A soft laugh escapes my lips. Despite the playful banter, a heaviness lingers in the air. My thoughts drift back to the golden retriever, to Douyin still out there searching for him. My fingers tighten around Mingi’s fur as I murmur under my breath, “Please find him.”

Taehyun notices the way she shifts slightly, her breathing evening out, the exhaustion finally catching up to her. Mingi rests his head gently on her lap, while the two felines, Wooyoung and Hongjoong, curl up beside her, their small bodies rising and falling with each soft breath. Bangchan watches the scene unfold, his gaze lingering on the quiet serenity surrounding her.

He exhales, a knowing look crossing his face. These animals aren’t just pets to her—they’re something more. A connection that runs deeper than mere companionship. A bond woven by fate.

A destiny that slowly builds itself up, piece by piece.

Sensing the shift in the air, Taehyun nudges Bangchan toward the door. Without a word, Bangchan gets the message. He moves to grab his bag, pausing only to give a small wave to the resting trio before following Taehyun out of the apartment.

As Taehyun closes the door behind them, he turns to Bangchan. “Thanks for taking care of her babies. And sorry for the last-minute call.”

Bangchan scoffs, slapping Taehyun’s back lightly as they walk toward the elevator. “It’s nothing, man. Besides, taking care of fur babies isn’t exactly new to me.” Taehyun chuckles at that, but as they approach the elevator, something in Bangchan clicks in his mind. His brows knit together. “Wait… where’s Douyin?”

Taehyun lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Well… He ran after a dog, and I don’t know where they are now. I’ll have to go out and look for them.”

Bangchan frowns, his curiosity piqued. “A dog? She adopted another one?”

Taehyun shakes his head. “No. It’s… complicated.” The elevator doors slide open, and they step inside. The air between them grows heavier as Taehyun continues, his voice lowered this time.

“The golden retriever was found inside the walk-in freezer… with her. In her café. It—” he hesitates, piecing the words together, “—it was like it was protecting her. Like it knew something. And to be honest, I have my suspicions…”

Bangchan’s eyes narrow, his mind working quickly. “That’s weird. And what’s even weirder is that she keeps meeting these animals—like it’s some kind of pattern.”

Taehyun nodded, agreeing with him. He leans against the cool metal of the elevator wall, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Think about it. Wooyoung appeared on the night she finished her shift in the cafe that marked her anniversary since opening the cafe. Hongjoong? She met him almost a year ago in the same place where she met Wooyoung. Then Mingi. And now, a golden retriever just conveniently shows up when she’s in trouble?”

Bangchan shakes his head, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “Man, you and your suspicions.”

Taehyun smirks, but deep down, he knows Bangchan is thinking the same thing. Then—almost like a silent cue, a shift in the air—they both turn to each other at the same time.

“Don’t you think—” Bangchan starts.

“They’re…” Taehyun trails off.

Silence hangs between them, thick and charged. Then, as if fate itself had been listening, the small monitor above the elevator doors flickers to life. A commercial fades out, replaced by breaking news. Their gazes snap to the screen just as the images of missing idols flash across it. The breath in their lungs stills. A strange, sinking realization settles deep in their bones. Something isn’t right. Reality just became far more complicated than they ever imagined.

Douyin bent over, hands braced on his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest heaved as he exhaled loudly, trying to steady himself. Sweat trickled down his temple, gathering at his jaw before sliding onto his already damp neck. The fabric of his shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, soaked through from the relentless chase. He pushed back his messy hair, strands sticking to his forehead as he scanned the dimly lit street.

He had been running after the golden retriever for at least an hour, weaving through alleys and side streets, only to lose sight of it when it turned a sharp corner. Now, his legs ached, and frustration gnawed at his stomach. He leaned against a cold cobalt wall, pressing his palm against it for support as he reached into his pocket for his phone to call for his friend.

Before he could dial, something tugged at his pants. He froze.

The golden retriever had returned, its mouth gently latched onto the fabric of his jeans, insistently pulling him forward. Its eyes, deep pools of urgency, flickered with something that made Douyin's heartbeat quicken.

“Woah, woah—easy, boy,” he murmured, but the dog didn’t let up. Instead, it tugged harder, urging him toward the shadows.

Douyin hesitated as they entered a dark alley, a place where the glow of a distant streetlamp barely stretched. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and something faintly metallic. He pulled out his phone, its screen casting a bluish glow over the cracked concrete, but the retriever kept leading.

Then, it stopped.

Douyin followed the dog’s gaze—and his breath hitched.

At the far end of the alley, nearly swallowed by darkness, sat a small cardboard box. The golden retriever whimpered before lowering itself onto its haunches, nudging the edge of the box with its snout.

Douyin’s pulse pounded in his ears as he approached. His trembling fingers tightened around his phone, using the dim light to illuminate the contents.

A tiny, frail puppy lay curled inside. Its fur—what little was left of it—was patchy and matted, its ribs faintly visible beneath sickly skin. The rise and fall of its chest were barely perceptible, but as the light hit it, a weak shudder ran through its small body. It was alive. Barely.

Douyin swallowed the lump in his throat and turned to the retriever. “Is he your brother?” His voice came out softer than he expected, almost breaking at the end. The retriever didn’t answer, but it didn’t need to. Instead, it pressed its snout against Douyin’s hand, a silent plea. Save him.

Douyin’s fingers curled into a fist before relaxing. His gaze darted between the trembling puppy and the loyal retriever sitting beside it, eyes filled with desperate hope.

“I’ll save him… good boy.” His voice was steady this time, filled with quiet resolve. The golden retriever let out a soft bark, as if in relief.

Carefully, Douyin adjusted the box, making sure the frail pup was as secure as possible before lifting it into his arms. The retriever padded closely beside him, watching his every move, trusting him.

Douyin took a deep breath and stepped back into the light. There was no way he was going to let the little one die tonight.

That night, Douyin rushed toward Taehyun’s veterinary clinic, his heart hammering against his ribs. The golden retriever ran beside him, ears pinned back, eyes filled with silent urgency. At the same time, Taehyun was already on his way to find Douyin, his phone gripped tightly in his hand as he relayed instructions to his nurses.

By the time Douyin arrived, the clinic was brightly lit, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling the air. Inside, Taehyun and his team were already gathered around the examination table, carefully assessing the frail puppy. The golden retriever sat rigidly by Douyin’s side, ears twitching as he let out a soft whimper, his gaze locked onto his injured sibling.

Douyin swallowed hard and crouched down, running a steady hand along the retriever’s fur. "He’ll be okay," he murmured, his voice quieter, reassuring. "You did a good job rescuing your brother."

The retriever didn’t move at first, his body tense. But after a moment, he nudged his snout against Douyin’s wrist and exhaled shakily, as if absorbing his words. Douyin let out a small chuckle, continuing to run his fingers through the dog’s soft coat.

“Hey, man…”

Douyin turned at the sound of Taehyun’s voice. He gave the retriever one last pat before carefully lifting the exhausted dog onto the clinic's couch. As he approached Taehyun, he caught the relieved sigh leaving the vet’s lips.

“How’s the pup?” Douyin asked, glancing past him toward the operation room.

Taehyun rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze briefly drifting toward the doorway. “The little guy’s stable. There was an infection around his right leg, but it’s healing well. He was probably left out there for days, maybe even longer.” He sighed, glancing at Douyin. “How did you even find him?”

Douyin exhaled, his eyes shifting to the retriever lying on the couch. “I didn’t.” He glanced back at Taehyun, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “He did.”

Taehyun’s expression faltered. His lips parted slightly before he turned to look at the retriever in silent astonishment. “You’re telling me he led you to him?”

Douyin nodded.

Taehyun’s fingers curled slightly at his sides, his mind racing. His conversation with Bangchan earlier—about the strange way animals seemed to find him, to trust him, to appear in his life as if drawn by some invisible force—crept into his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted to bring it up. Not yet. But now, with everything unfolding like this, with Douyin neck-deep in an investigation that seemed to twist further into the unknown, he had no choice.

He let out a slow, measured breath. “Do, I know how much you love your sister and all…”

Douyin raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift. “Are you asking for my permission to date her?”

Taehyun shot him an incredulous look. “I mean, I was planning to at some point, but—” He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.” He hesitated for a second before finally meeting Douyin’s gaze, his voice dropping to something more serious. “You guys don’t know where these animals keep coming from… but I think I might have an idea.”

Douyin stared at Taehyun, “What is it?”

Douyin sat in his dimly lit office, the soft hum of the overhead lamp casting long shadows across the stacks of reports and photographs sprawled before him. His fingers hovered over the latest file—eight new names, eight more disappearances added to an already unsolved case.

The weight of it settled in his chest.

The case had gone cold for years, whispers of missing idols fading into the background of newer scandals and distractions. But now, the sudden reemergence of these disappearances—paired with the fresh addition of eight more victims—had forced the justice system to take a second look. And for reasons still unclear to him, Douyin had been assigned to piece everything together.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as his thoughts ran wild. It was unlike him to be pulled from the courtroom into something this intricate. Prosecutors do investigate but—they build cases, argue in court, and lay out evidence prepared by detectives. Yet, here he was, combing through inconsistencies, looking for a pattern that others had missed.

Douyin’s eyes narrowed as he skimmed the reports again, this time more carefully. The dates, the locations—at first, they seemed scattered, random. But when he laid them out on a timeline, something clicked. The disappearances weren’t as sporadic as they seemed. There was a rhythm. A strange, almost ritualistic spacing between them—months apart, nearly a year apart in some cases.

It reminded him of something.

Or rather, someone.

His fingers drummed against the desk as his mind flicked to his older sister. For the past months, she had been adopting animals—abandoned pets, two that had wandered into her life as if drawn to her.

And there was something else.

His gaze dropped to his own wrist before he slowly looked toward the framed photo of his sister on the shelf. He had ignored it before, brushed it off as coincidence, but now he couldn't shake the unease creeping up his spine.

That mark. That strange symbol that had appeared on her skin. It was similar to the group that she had been idolizing for years before their disappearance.

At first, she’d hidden it, dismissing it as nothing more than an odd birthmark or a smudge of ink. But Douyin had seen it more than once, traced in faint, intricate lines, sometimes more pronounced than before. He had never questioned it—until now.

His heart pounded. Was there a connection?

The rational part of him told him no, that his sister had nothing to do with this. But the prosecutor in him, the one who thrived on uncovering truths buried beneath layers of deception, knew better than to ignore a lead—no matter how personal it felt.

He reached for his phone, fingers hesitating over the screen before dialing. The call rang twice before a familiar voice picked up.

"Douyin? What's wrong?"

He swallowed. "… I need to ask you something." The case had just become more complicated than he had ever imagined.

MEET THE CUTIE PROSECUTOR:

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darklordofthesimp · 2 years ago

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Anything VII (König x Reader)

The 7th instalment in the Anything-Verse

Main Masterlist

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - 7 - Part 8

Like the characters? Read their fics below!

Sunshine Masterlist || Saint Masterlist

Series Summary: A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

A/N: I’ve already got the next chapter mapped out hee hee

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Unrequited Pining || Tension

Warning: Graphic Language

You’d barely slept, how could you?

Though you supposed that you should have been used to broken rest, this time it wasn’t for the usual reasons. There were no nightmares that clawed at your mind, no anger that made you sweat- but, there was paranoia.

There was crippling anxiety that had you wanting to hide beneath the covers, there was fear that gripped you by the throat. The sensation of being stunned was overwhelming, your thoughts were scattered and your world was tipped upside down.

Everything that you believed, everything that you had come to terms with, it was all a lie.

You risked a glance at the clock, groaning as you realised that you’d have to get up. It was a mission, more so than usual. Dragging your sorry ass from the safety of your sheets was proving difficult, but the knowledge that you’d have to go train with König made it all the more impossible.

You took a deep breath in as you pulled your top over your head. It was different now, the lines were blurred and König might not be the enemy that you imagined him to be. If there was anyone that was going to help you unravel this with the same urgency that you felt, it was going to be him.

He’d do anything to prove himself, anything to stay as a sniper.

He wanted to keep the life he’d stolen from you.

Your stomach turned at the thought, the words weren’t sitting as right as they used to. The anger that occupied your chest with relentless heat has begun to cool as of late. If König was truly misinformed, it would mean that he really was just trying to do his job.

It meant that he was paying the consequences for someone else's misdeeds.

It meant that he was also a victim.

A chill ran down your spine and the fire in your chest reignited. Maybe he was a victim, but he sure as fuck didn’t look like one- he didn’t look like you.

You groaned as you stepped through your broken doorway, the reminder of how unhinged König could truly be was unwelcome as always. You thought that the Austrian kicking the door down would terrify you, it told you that you were never safe no matter where you locked yourself up. Instead, the fact that he’d done it to ensure your safety confused you.

You mulled over it as you walked towards the gym, mindlessly stepping one foot in front of the other.

A couple of minutes spent trying to decipher how you felt towards König felt like hours, any small bead of energy expended suddenly blew out to exhaustion. The man was an enigma who left you stranded in your own thoughts, flailing to find land.

“Good morning, Birdy.”

You forced yourself not to flinch away from König’s voice as you stood deathly still in the doorway. The man offered you a small wave from inside the gym, his arm stretched over his head as he loosened his muscles.

You didn’t want to gawk at him, honestly. It was just kind of hard not to.

He was larger than life, something that would never fail to amaze you. The sheer size of him was one thing, but his presence took up the rest of the space in the room. The breath in your lungs dissipated into nothing as you took in his visage.

“Good morning, König,” you managed to say softly.

You both froze for a moment, the gentle return of his greeting had caught the pair of you off guard. You supposed that there had been a shift between the two of you over the past few weeks.

But the way you felt about the man before you gave you whiplash.

Torn between hatred, fear, familiarity and comfort, you wished you could just chalk him down to a psychotic beast that wished you harm.

But he wasn��t and he didn’t.

The path your mind had begun to wander reminded you of the revelation you’d come to.

König cleared his throat, slowly standing upright as if he didn’t want to shatter the fragile friendliness between you both. Finally, you stepped into the room, one heavy foot after the other and your heart in your throat. You wanted to break the silence between you before that unnamed tension could grow, feeding on the quiet and everything that went unsaid.

“What did you have planned today?” You questioned with a raised brow, “anything torturous and terrifying?”

The Austrian snorted softly through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest. The slight smirk that pulled his lips upward had your breath catching in your throat. He cast his eyes downward before flicking that jade gaze back up to meet yours.

“Isn’t everything I do “torturous” and “terrifying” according to you?” König said, the playful tone was obvious but tentative.

You took a deep breath. He wasn’t diminishing the incident, he was finding some semblance of humour between the both of you. You swallowed the small drops of rage that threatened to open the floodgates.

“No,” you said, pushing your hands into the pockets of your hoodie. “That’s just you, I meant the training this time.”

You watched the shift in König’s features, the way his shoulders relaxed and his eyes softened. The olive branch had been extended, received and the see-saw of emotions between you had finally tipped to fall on the opposite end.

“Well,” König offered a small smile, “I promise that the training today will not be as scary as I am.”

You tried to ignore the genuine relief that flooded through your chest, tried to maintain the easy-going air that had settled in the space between you. Despite your best efforts, anxiety threaded itself across your throat as you stepped closer to the looming figure before you.

König slowly uncrossed his arms, sensing the shift in your attitude. It seemed like he always knew, even when you said nothing and your face didn’t change, he knew. Sometimes it irked you, but at times like these when he could read you and adjust, you appreciated it.

“I promise,” he reiterated, that jade gaze as soft as ever.

You took in a shaky breath, then released. “Okay.”

“Okay?” König repeated, taking a step toward you.

“Okay.”

And right there and then was the first time you’d seen him smile.

It was brief, barely a flash of his teeth as he quickly regained control of himself, but it was enough. You knew that you’d never be able to dispel that image from your mind, you knew that you’d be thinking about it as you went through the never ending cycle of wondering whether you hated him or not.

You knew that you’d want to see it again.

A shiver ran along the length of your spine and an unfamiliar heat spread across your neck. You cleared your throat in an attempt to clear your thoughts. It might have been unsuccessful in that regard but it did get König to step into action.

“Right,” he said with a sigh, scanning the space around him. “The sooner we get started the sooner you can escape the torture.”

Now it was your turn to snort as you took your sneakers off. “If only it were that easy.”

König rolled his eyes, approaching you with slow and lazy steps that had your heart racing. You straightened up, letting him move closer until he was barely a breath away. The moment that you had both shared in the kitchen raced across your mind, the scene beginning to look dangerously similar- hopefully Graves wouldn’t appear around the corner to trigger your fight or flight reflex this time.

“Can I help you?” You managed to choke out, dropping your gaze from his.

“Uh, no.” There was mirth in his voice. The man took a step backward, his hands raised with his palms facing outward. “Are you not ready?”

You tried to not look at the size of his fingers, you tried not to remember how they felt wrapped around your throat.

“Ready?” You stammered.

You couldn’t bring yourself to make eye contact, frozen as you stared at those fucking hands. They’d done so much damage, so much.

You tried not to remember.

Saint had always told you to replace a negative interaction with a positive interaction whenever you’d begun to spiral. When you remembered how hard his eyes had been when you'd been on that roof, you tried to remember how soft they were when he spoke to you now.

Your mind fell back to the moment in the kitchen.

“I’m ready.” You nodded, taking in a deep breath as he moved in close again. The scent of him flooded your senses, the faint recollection of his deodorant, something sweet and woodsy.

Those hands slowly lowered and you watched as they fell to rest on your forearms.

You remembered them holding you down, pinning you to the concrete as the weight of him pressed into your stomach. But, you also remembered those same fingers holding you ever so softly as he inspected you for burns.

You let loose a soft breath, forcing your gaze upward. He was already watching your face, his eyes scanning your features for any sign of serious distress.

“Well,” König murmured, his words tasting of the caramel latte he’d been sipping on earlier. “You going to take me down or not, kleine vogel?”

You raised a brow, “you don’t need to cuss me out, I’m getting there.”

The man frowned for a short moment, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find the appropriate response. “I did not swear at you?”

The sentence was more of a question than a statement and while he was stuck in his confusion, you saw opportunity.

You swung your hands around the grip that he had on your forearms, digging your fingers into his skin instead. You dragged him towards you with a sudden jerk that took every ounce of strength that you had.

For a moment, you were worried that the giant wouldn’t budge. However, his whole body fell forward as you dropped onto your back with him above you. Both your feet came up to rest on his pelvic bone, bracing as the entirety of his weight fell onto your legs. The momentum was your best friend with this movement, pulling his hands to your chest as you kicked him over your head.

The sound of 300 pounds hitting the ground hard behind you had your heart soaring. Adrenaline was pumping through your system, propelling you to your feet as you spun to mount your victim.

König’s face was contorted, teeth bared as he gritted them hard. His hands were above his shoulders, fists clenched and you could tell that you’d stunned him.

Satisfaction flooded your being.

You scrambled up the length of his body, pressing your weight onto him as you clenched your knees hard onto either side of his hips. Your hands came down to push against his wrists, pinning his body as best as you could.

The silence between you both was only broken by the sounds of panting. König’s chest heaved beneath, shallow and quick breaths as his eyes slowly fluttered open to glare up at you.

“That was rude,” he groaned. “Smart. But rude.”

“Yeah, well,” you replied with a shrug, taking a moment to try and wet the dryness in your throat. “Fights are often unfair.”

König’s eyes narrowed for a moment before conceding your point. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

You’d seen the signs too late, the way his lips quirked upward before he ripped his hands from yours. You’d felt his fingers grip your waist but you were unable to react before the world tipped from beneath you. The floor met your back hard enough to banish the air from your chest and your body froze as you were spun right back into the disadvantage.

A gasp ripped from your throat, eyes wide as you stared at the man now above you. His hair fell across his forehead, resting atop his lashes as he watched you through a hooded gaze. Neither of you said a word and you didn’t bother trying to fight him off. König made a show of slowly moving to grip your biceps, your fingers scrabbling uselessly against his forearms as he pressed you into the ground.

His body was tucked between your thighs, spreading your legs far enough apart that they were rendered useless from beneath him. You swallowed hard, struggling to catch your breath.

“Very unfair,” he confirmed with a husky murmur.

“It’s always unfair with you,” you rasped, your fingers gripping his skin tightly. “Always, König.”

König’s face fell, any trace of satisfaction turning into something akin to sorrow. He cast his gaze aside.

“Perhaps,” he said. “ But, perhaps if you were prepared it wouldn’t have been so unfair.”

You watched him carefully.

“Wrong place, wrong time.” You whispered.

König met your gaze again, observing you for a long moment before offering a hesitant nod. “Yes.”

Maybe, this was your chance. This was the opportunity to talk to him about what you suspected, to hear his side of the story entirely. Maybe, if you could sift through the discrepancies between your stories and what his chain-of-command had told him, you could both unravel the mystery.

Either someone was trying to kill you and used him as the weapon to do so or something bigger was at play.

Maybe, both?

“Speaking of,” you began shakily, your fingers nervously tapping against his skin. There was no real way to gently ease into the topic, you’d just have to drop the bomb. “Do you think that maybe the whole incident was a little too… convenient?”

König fell completely still, his eyes baring into yours.

You supposed that maybe you could have been a little more tactful.

You swallowed nervously when his chest didn’t move to breathe, he was as still as a sniper watching for their target. He reminded you of a snake lying in wait, preparing to strike out at any given moment. Suddenly, you didn’t feel so confident that he was the one that you should have spoken to about it.

The man said nothing and you’d begun to realise that he didn’t plan to.

“I just mean that,” you scrambled for words, anxiety clawing at your throat when he only stared. “I just mean that maybe it wasn’t just an accident or a miscommunication, maybe they were using you as a way to get what they want.”

König’s face didn’t change when he spoke. “And what would that be?”

You hated how perfectly still he was.

“To take me out.” You could barely spit out the sentence.

The mans grip tightened against your arms and the small amount of trust that you’d built between each other teetered on the edge of a proverbial cliff. Adrenaline dumped into your system when he took in a deep breath, clenching his jaw. His eyes never left yours, holding you captive not just physically but mentally. You were scrambling for air.

“I think that you are overthinking,” he finally said, relaxing his grip and releasing the tension from his lungs.

Your heart dropped.

Overthinking?

Why wouldn’t he want to investigate this further? It would exonerate him, it would relieve him of the guilt, it would make him innocent.

“What?” You rasped, blinking as though it would clear your confusion. “How can you say that?”

“Easily,” König said, sitting up. His demeanour was suddenly so cold. He let go of your arms, shooting you one last look before he attempted to stand up. “You’ve been through a traumatic event. Overthinking is normal.”

Desperation clawed at your chest. Before you could stop yourself, you reached upward to snatch his hands. König’s fingers interlocked with yours and his eyes widened when you pulled him back toward you. Your hands were trapped between his and the floor once more, his face only a breath away.

But you couldn’t even think about the proximity and, for once, you didn’t even care.

How could he just dismiss you like that?

How could he just try to leave without even hearing you out?

“König,” you whispered pleadingly. “Please, just listen.”

The man shook his head immediately, trying to pull his hands from your grip. You held on as tight as you can manage, his name falling from your lips over and over as you begged him to stay. You needed him to hear it, you needed him to help you.

“Let go, Birdy,” his voice was firmer than you’d heard in months, the sound of it a shock to your system. How the tables had turned, this time you were not the one trying to escape. Regardless, you disobeyed, only tightening your hold on him.

“Just tell me what happened, maybe we can work it out,” the words sounded desperate, even to you. You sounded like a lover pleading for a second chance to make the relationship work. You sounded like you were holding to your last tether of sanity. You sounded crazy.

König’s face was hard when he tugged back again. “We already know what happened, Birdy.”

“Listen to me-”

“Let it go, Birdy.”

“But if you just-”

“Enough!”

You recoiled, flinching as he yanked his hands from yours, breaking your grip as easily as tearing a cobweb. König’s fingers wrapped around your biceps, pushing you back against the floor, restraining you from getting a steady hold on him.

The man leaned down, jade eyes alight with something you’d never seen. He burned, the thunderous expression painted across his features warned you that his blood was simmering beneath his skin.

“Enough,” König seethed, his voice dangerously quiet.

Fear trickled down your spine.

Your heart dropped.

As you watched the Austrian soldier lean over you with a ferocity that rivalled that godforsaken night, you realised that in your desperation you had been so stupid. So, so, so fucking stupid.

König wasn’t going to help you.

König was in on it.

#konig x reader #König x reader #König #könig cod #könig call of duty #call of duty x reader #call of duty #Modern Warfare 2 #könig modern warfare #könig mw2 #COD MW2 #cod mw2 x reader

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taliaarchive · 7 days ago

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Greed on the Grid

☆ pairing. Lando Norris x Reader x Oscar Piastri

☆ word count. 4.7k

☆ dedication. This is for the girls who still believe in soulmates- especially the kind found in the blur of a race car, beneath a helmet, or behind a quiet smile in the paddock. Maybe he’s wrapped in adrenaline and fireproof fabric. Maybe he’s Australian. Maybe his name is Oscar Piastri. This one’s for you. May you never stop believing that love- real, fierce, forever love- can find you exactly where you are.

☆ talia notes. Also, yes- look, I may have done extensive research on the bougiest, most luxurious, most outrageously expensive outfits for this story. But honestly, can you blame me? God forbid a girl likes fashion. If you want to see the whole wardrobe, it's all down below. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. x

☆ synopsis. "He didn’t see her- but I did. Walked in wearing a dress like forgiveness and eyes like war… and I knew I’d never look away again."

You. Beautiful. Loyal. Unshakeable. To the world, you were just the girl next door- Lando’s oldest friend, the one who stood quietly in the shadows of his spotlight. But behind every podium, every photo, every win... was you. The one who held him together. The one who loved him first. No one knows how hard it was to let him chase his dreams while you buried yours. But you never complained. Never let it show. Not even now, after eight years together, when something feels... off. You crossed oceans for him- crossed the line between friendship and forever. Only to find him kissing someone else beneath the same lights he once said were yours. And in that moment, something inside you shattered- and something stronger woke up. He was supposed to be the finish line. But maybe the race is only just beginning.

Oscar. Silent. Calculated. Watching. He saw you before anyone else ever truly did. Before the lights. Before the chaos. Before the heartbreak. You were never his to lose- but he’s been losing you slowly, secretly, painfully from the moment he realised what you meant to him. Oscar never meant to want what wasn’t his. But every time Lando looked away, he couldn’t stop looking. And when he saw you break that night, walking away without a word, wrapped in the silk and ruin of your love- he knew. He would fight for you. Even if it meant standing on the grid, ready to burn the world down for one more chance.

Chapter 2: The Moment Everything Changed

Song: "Will you cry?" – Gracie Abrams

"You walked like royalty leaving a burning castle- like you didn’t bleed. And God, it ruined me more than any goodbye ever could."

8:10 p.m. - Leaving the Hotel

You stood in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing trembling hands down the delicate silk of your gown. The Oscar de la Renta Ombré Silk Chiffon Gown floated around you like a second skin-beginning in soft, luminous ivory at the bodice and melting into a deep, bruised plum that clung to the floor, like twilight bleeding into night.

The silk rippled with every shallow breath you took- too fragile, too alive- the movement ghosting around your ankles, whispering over your skin like something sacred.

The sweetheart neckline cradled your collarbones, leaving your shoulders bare to the chill of the room. The bodice cinched your waist gently- not with harsh lines, but with a kind of reverence- sculpting, holding, as if reminding you that you were still solid, still standing.

The Jimmy Choo Minny Metallic Leather Sandals wrapped around your ankles, the silver catching the light every time you shifted your weight, delicate but grounding.

The Harry Winston Cluster Diamond Earrings winked under the soft hotel lighting- tiny galaxies caught in delicate clusters at your ears. The Boucheron Serpent Bohème Pendant Necklace rested in the hollow of your throat, its tiny diamond pressing against your thudding pulse. And circling your wrist, where your pulse fluttered too fast to hide, was the Cartier Love Bracelet- cool, weighty, a private promise etched in metal: Always, L.

You clutched the Jimmy Choo Cloud Clutch tighter- feeling the hard, glittering metal edges bite into your palm, welcoming the pain.

You looked at yourself in the mirror- really looked.

You didn't look like the little girl who moved to Surrey at six years old, dragging a pink suitcase behind her, shy and blinking up at a boy with wild curls and a mischievous grin who offered you a toy McLaren before even asking your name. You didn't look like the teenager who spent every summer tangled up in kart tracks, grass-stained knees, and laughter that echoed down long English afternoons. You didn’t even look like the girl who stood in Monaco once, wearing his hoodie three sizes too big, cheering so hard she lost her voice.

You looked like a woman who had stitched herself back together every time he left, every time he broke her heart without realizing he was holding it.

You looked like a woman walking herself into a battlefield- wrapped in silk and diamond armour.

You breathed in- and stepped forward.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft, definitive finality.

── .✦

8:14 p.m. - The Car

The Mercedes-Maybach waited at the curb, sleek and rain-slicked under the heavy mist.

The chauffeur- a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a crisp black uniform- stepped forward, umbrella already raised. He tilted his head respectfully as you approached.

"Miss," he said quietly, offering his hand.

You smiled faintly- polite, distant- and lifted the skirt of your gown carefully, the plum-dipped silk whispering against your legs as you stepped into the car.

The door closed with a muted click- sealing you away from the cold, from the noise, from the world you weren’t sure you still belonged to.

You let the clutch fall gently into your lap, its jewelled surface flashing briefly under the muted car lights.

The leather seats cradled you in a silence so complete it almost felt sacred.

The chauffeur settled into the driver’s seat, catching your eyes briefly through the rearview mirror.

"First time in Melbourne, miss?" he asked, voice low, polite.

You blinked, startled slightly by the normalcy of it.

You shook your head. "No," you said softly. "Not the first."

He smiled faintly, understanding something you hadn’t said.

The car eased away from the curb, melting into the stream of glittering taillights. Melbourne unfurled outside your window- a collage of wet pavements, smeared neon, reflections pooling like oil slicks under the dull orange glow of streetlamps.

You leaned your forehead lightly against the cold glass, watching the rain trail lazy, uneven paths down the pane. The hum of the tires against the road was hypnotic- steady, rhythmic, pulling you under like a lullaby spun from exhaustion and memory.

Somewhere out there, Lando was laughing.

Golden and alive.

The way he always was when everything finally fell into place.

You curled your fingers tighter around your clutch, the hard corners biting into your palms.

You weren’t chasing a boy tonight.

You were chasing the ghost of a promise.

Maybe it had never been real.

Maybe it had only ever been real to you.

── .✦

8:32 p.m. - Memories on the Road

The city blurred past the window- a river of wet lights and half-forgotten sounds- and your mind blurred with it, folding backwards into memory.

You remembered the first time you met him- new house, new school, new everything- standing awkwardly in your front garden, too shy to say anything. And there he was- this boy with messy curls and a missing tooth, dragging a toy McLaren car behind him on a string.

He marched right up to you, shoved the toy into your hands, and said, "You can drive better than my sister. You’ll have to race me now."

No introductions. No hesitation.

Just certainty.

And somehow- even then- your heart had shifted slightly in your chest.

You remembered the endless afternoons racing battered scooters down your street- him always letting you win when he thought you needed it, pretending to trip or crash spectacularly at the last moment.

You remembered birthdays- him sneaking into your garden at midnight every year to leave presents on your windowsill. Silly things: a cracked snow globe, a faded comic book, a hand-drawn race map he said would be "yours and mine only."

You remembered your sixteenth birthday- sitting side-by-side on the cracked stone wall behind your house, drinking stolen champagne from paper cups. You remembered him looking at you too long, too softly, saying, "You’re my best girl, you know that?"

You remembered how your heart had nearly broken itself trying to stay still.

You remembered when you told your parents you were dating- Lando standing there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, so anxious he forgot to breathe until your father clapped him on the back and said, "About bloody time."

You remembered dates that weren’t glamorous- not five-star restaurants or grand events- but bowling alleys at midnight, corner shop ice creams after practice, falling asleep during bad movies with your feet tangled under old, battered blankets.

You remembered rainy nights like this one- him pulling you under his jacket, holding it above your heads as you sprinted through London streets, laughing until you couldn’t breathe.

You remembered promises whispered into your hair- "Wherever I go, you go too."

You had built entire lifetimes out of those promises.

Brick by brick. Hope by fragile hope.

And now- now you were here to find out if the whole house had been made of sand.

You blinked hard, smoothing the silk over your knees with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pressed your wrist lightly to your chest- feeling the Cartier bracelet, the engraving hidden against your pulse like a secret no one else could see.

Always, L.

You swallowed back the burn rising in your throat.

One more breath. One more step.

One more chance to find out if the boy who promised you the stars had learned how to hold them.

Or if he had already let them slip through his fingers.

── .✦

8:58 p.m. - Crown Metropol Rooftop, Melbourne

The elevator sighed open, spilling you onto the rooftop as if it were the edge of a dream, you hadn’t realized you were still clinging to. For a moment, you stood there, the threshold pressing against your body like a hand, holding you still. The world in front of you moved too fast, was too bright, too loud, too alive- a kaleidoscope of noise and color you didn’t feel part of.

The rooftop was a living thing. Rain slicked the dark stone underfoot, mist curled through the humid air, perfume and champagne hung heavy and sweet, and the sky above bled neon into the lingering mist. Beyond the glass railings, Melbourne pulsed in the distanceskyscrapers blurred into soft halos of gold and silver, the city lights blinking like slow, exhausted heartbeats far below.

The bass hit you first. A low, relentless thrum, vibrating up through the delicate straps of your Jimmy Choo Minny sandals, up the tendons of your calves, up your spine, into the hollow spaces in your chest. It wasn’t music anymore; it was a second, alien heartbeat rattling through your bones, making you feel simultaneously heavier and lighter than your body could hold.

You took a slow, deliberate step forward, the Oscar de la Renta Ombré Silk Chiffon Gown trailing behind you like smoke. The pale ivory of the bodice caught the rooftop’s sharp white lights, making you look otherworldly, untouchable. The silk skimmed your curves, cinched your waist with reverence instead of restraint, and melted into the stormy plum of the skirt, pooling at your feet with every movement like a living, breathing thing.

Your hair, curled into soft waves hours earlier, now clung slightly to the nape of your neck, kissed damp by the mist. You could feel stray strands sticking to your bare shoulders, a delicate annoyance that somehow made you feel even more exposed. The Boucheron Serpent Bohème Pendant Necklace rested cold against the fevered beating of your pulse. The Harry Winston earrings at your lobes caught the fractured light and threw it back in glittering bursts every time you moved your head.

And then there was the Cartier Love Bracelet at your wrist.

It felt heavier than it ever had before, pressing into your skin with a weight that was almost sentient. As you drifted through the crowd, you slid your thumb along the cool gold absently, the ridges and hidden engraving a silent, cruel comfort. Always, L. It was supposed to be a promise. Tonight, it felt like a shackle.

You floated forward, the gown whispering secrets against your skin, your steps light, measured, effortless in appearance but weighted with everything you could not say. You moved as you had been taught to move- like mist, like royalty, like someone the world couldn’t touch unless you allowed it.

The faces around you turned. Men leaned out of conversations to watch you pass, their glances lingering longer than they should have. Women tilted their heads toward each other behind crystal flutes, their whispered assessments slicing through the thick air. But none of it touched you. None of it mattered.

You had learned a long time ago how to wear your beauty like armour. How to carry yourself with the kind of poise that disarmed, the kind that protected, the kind that kept people from looking too closely.

You didn’t meet a single gaze.

Inside, your heart was hammering so violently it felt like it might split your chest open. It thundered in your ears, drowned out the bass, made your breath catch somewhere shallow and frantic in your lungs. You felt like you were made of glass, vibrating so hard you might shatter. Yet on the outside, you were the perfect portrait of serenity- elegant, ethereal, untouchable.

You tightened your grip around the Jimmy Choo Cloud Crystal Clutch, letting the jewelled edges bite into your skin until the pain steadied you.

The gown rippled around you like a sigh, your sandals clicking against the rain-slick stone with every step. The perfume clinging to your skin, the Baccarat Rouge 540 you had misted into the air hours earlier, still lingered like a memory, sweet and faintly bitter now.

You breathed in the night and exhaled all the trembling, all the longing, all the foolish hope that still knotted itself inside your chest.

You could feel the Cartier bracelet shift slightly as your muscles tensed. You rolled your wrist against it, feeling the familiar weight, the memory burned into the curve of the metal. It was supposed to be a tether, something that anchored you to him. Instead, it felt like a scar.

The city stretched out before you, indifferent and alive, and somewhere among the blur of strangers and sponsors and laughter too sharp to be real-

He was here.

Somewhere, he was breathing the same air.

Somewhere, he was laughing, alive in his victory.

And you- You were still foolish enough to hope he would see you.

── .✦

9:01 p.m. - Lando

He wasn't difficult to find.

You could have found him in a stadium filled with thousands, even blindfolded, even dreaming.

The rooftop was crowded, voices buzzing low over the beat of the music, the misty rain blurring the edges of figures laughing and toasting and spilling champagne across the slick stone floor. But you spotted him instantly, drawn by some old, invisible string tied between your ribs and his.

Lando stood by the glass railing, the city lights casting him in a halo of faint gold, the kind of glow that didn’t come from the neon or the mist- it came from him. He wore a white Tom Ford shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows like he hadn’t cared to fix them after the race, the fine fabric damp where it clung to the lean muscles of his arms. His dark trousers hung low on his hips, casual and effortless, and he still had on those same worn, scuffed white sneakers you used to tease him about refusing to give them up even when he could have afforded a thousand new pairs.

His hair was damp from the mist, curls sticking to his forehead in messy loops, the chain you once gifted him glinting faintly at his collarbone.

He was laughing. Head tipped back, mouth wide open, that crooked, reckless grin cracking his face wide open.

For a second- a full, sharp, excruciating second- you were transported back to being sixteen again, running across his family’s rain-slick backyard, grass stains on your knees, breathless from chasing each other around the garden while your parents called out warnings from the patio.

“You’ll catch a cold!” “You’ll break your necks!”

You had only laughed harder. Because back then, everything that mattered fit between the spaces of your laughter and his.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, once, twice, a sickening drumbeat that vibrated up into your teeth.

You took a step forward. Then another.

The silk of your gown hissed against the stone, your heels whispering sharp, precise clicks in the heavy air.

You gripped your clutch tighter, the bracelet at your wrist pressing into your pulse like a brand- steady, familiar, almost cruel now in its tenderness.

You could already feel it building- the way his eyes would lift, search the room instinctively, land on you, widen with disbelief.

You could feel how the glass would slip from his hand, how his smile would falter, how the world would crack open between you just long enough for you to fall back into it together.

You knew the script. You had lived it before- every time he came off a race, searching the crowd, finding you.

You had believed in it the way children believed in fairy tales- not because they were real, but because sometimes belief itself could be a kind of magic.

You stepped closer, breath caught behind your teeth.

And then-

She reached him first.

Tall. Blonde. Perfect. Wrapped in a Saint Laurent black dress that clung to her body like molten glass, every line of her screaming ownership.

You froze.

Your lungs forgot how to pull in air. Your body forgot how to stand.

She touched him- casually, intimately- a palm sliding up his chest, fingertips dragging over the fabric you once tugged on during long, lazy afternoons when he refused to let you go.

You willed him- desperately, silently- Please look up. Please feel me.

The city seemed to hold its breath.

For half a second- a heartbeat, a prayer- it felt like maybe he would.

And then he smiled.

That same slow, lazy, familiar smile- the one that used to break open just for you- and bent his head.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t drunk.

It was deliberate.

It was certain.

His hand slid to her waist with a familiarity that punched the breath out of your body. He kissed her like it was easy, like it was normal, like it was inevitable.

The world spun violently, tilting the ground under your feet.

The neon lights fractured against the glass barriers, the music twisting into a distorted roar in your ears.

Your heart cracked audibly inside your chest- not just a break, but a full rupture.

Pain lanced up your throat, thick and choking, but you held it in place like you had been taught- like a good girl, like a perfect girl, like a girl who knew better than to bleed in public.

Your nails dug into the jewelled surface of your clutch until you felt the tiny, painful pricks of broken skin.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

Your mind scrambled for excuses- maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was a joke, maybe-

But your heart knew better.

Your heart always knew first.

The Cartier bracelet at your wrist suddenly felt too tight, as if the metal itself recoiled from your skin.

Always, L.

A promise he had stopped keeping long before tonight.

── .✦

9:02 p.m. - Oscar’s POV

Oscar hated everything about this night.

He hated the feel of the Tom Ford tuxedo stretched stiffly across his shoulders, the way the fabric clung and itched against his skin with every restless shift of his body. The shoes pinched at his toes, polished to a mirror shine he didn’t give a damn about. The tie at his throat felt more like a noose than a formality, tightening every time he swallowed another forced smile.

He hated the rooftop- the stone floor slick with mist and rain, the sharp sting of champagne-soaked air heavy with humidity, the mingling scents of expensive colognes and too-sweet perfumes turning his stomach. Around him, the world pulsed and throbbed with bass, the music vibrating in his bones, the kind of synthetic noise that made it impossible to think, let alone feel anything real.

He hated the endless stream of sponsors- businessmen with too-perfect smiles and handshakes that lingered just a second too long. He hated the way they looked through him, not at him, as if he were nothing but a gleaming badge they could pin to their jackets, a name they could brag about knowing before it was too late.

He hated the celebration itself- hollow, brittle, fake. He hated pretending that the night wasn’t suffocating him.

He stood near the DJ booth, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand without any real intention of drinking it, foot tapping impatiently against the slick stone, counting the minutes until he could leave.

He wanted to be anywhere else- a quiet hotel room with the windows cracked open to the rain, a run-down bar where no one cared who he was, even the deserted back streets of Melbourne, soaked to the bone and free.

Anywhere but here.

And then- the elevator doors sighed open.

Oscar didn’t know what made him look. Instinct, maybe. Fate, if you believed in that kind of thing.

All he knew was that when you stepped into the rooftop, the world fell silent.

For one endless moment, it was just you and him.

You wore a gown that floated like mist around you, soft ivory melting into a bruised plum that kissed the rain-slick floor. The silk clung to your body with a reverence that no hands could match, sculpting to your frame, moving with you like a living thing. Your hair, curled perfectly earlier, was now kissed by the mist- soft, wild, framing your face in a halo of damp curls.

You looked like you didn’t belong to the crowd at all. You looked like you belonged to some other place- some quieter, purer world that people like him had no right to touch.

Oscar forgot how to stand. He forgot how to breathe.

His heart gave a single, painful lurch against his ribs, and he realized- too late- that every part of him had been wired, programmed, built to find you.

He wasn’t looking for you. He hadn’t expected you. He hadn’t even dared hope.

And yet- he could not have missed you if he tried.

You moved through the crowd like you were made of something finer- something stronger. Your head was held high, your shoulders pulled back, and yet there was a tightness to your mouth, a slight tremble in your fingers as they curled tightly around the small, jewelled clutch at your side.

Oscar’s stomach twisted.

He watched your eyes scan the crowd- frantic beneath the careful mask you wore- searching. Hoping.

And then- you found him.

Lando.

Oscar watched the hope bloom across your face- raw, reckless, blinding in its intensity.

It carved him open.

Because he knew that look. He knew it better than he wished he did.

He knew what it meant to pin your whole heart on someone, to believe in them against all odds, to wait across oceans and time zones and lonely nights because you knew- you knew- they were worth it.

He saw it light you up from the inside, fragile and bright.

And then he saw it die.

He followed your line of sight.

Lando stood at the railing, white Tom Ford shirt untucked, sleeves shoved to his elbows, curls damp and wild from the rain. His posture was loose, effortless, a drink dangling carelessly from his hand. His laugh cut through the noise- rich, unbothered, golden.

And then the blonde stepped into view- tall, willowy, wearing a slinky black Saint Laurent dress that clung to her like armour.

Oscar watched her place a hand on Lando’s chest- casual, confident- and tilt her chin up in silent invitation.

He watched Lando smile- that same smile he had once reserved for only one person- and then, without hesitation, he bent his head and kissed her.

It was slow. It was deliberate.

It was final.

Oscar didn’t realize he had moved until someone yelped behind him, a champagne flute knocked from their hand as he shoved through the crowd, heart pounding painfully against his ribs.

He didn’t think.

He didn’t breathe.

He just knew- knew he had to get to you.

But he was too late.

You didn’t collapse.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t even flinch.

You just stood there- frozen for one terrible second- as the world ended quietly around you.

And then- you straightened.

You lifted your chin.

You turned on your heel, gown swirling around you like mist, and you walked.

Not hurried. Not desperate.

You walked like royalty leaving a burning castle.

You walked like you had survived worse.

You walked like you didn’t bleed.

Oscar stopped moving, heart splitting open in his chest as he watched you disappear into the crowd- head high, eyes blank, shoulders squared against the storm.

He wanted to run after you.

He wanted to shake Lando until his teeth rattled.

He wanted to scream.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, feeling every stupid, broken, impossible thing he had ever tried to bury about you come roaring to the surface.

You had ruined him. He had let you. And he would do it all over again.

── .✦

9:08 p.m. - After She Leaves

Oscar stood there for a few seconds longer, staring at the elevator doors long after they had closed. His chest was tight, his hands aching from how tightly he had curled them into fists at his sides. The rooftop spun around him- laughter, music, clinking glasses- a grotesque parody of celebration he no longer had the stomach for.

The whiskey still sloshed untouched in his glass. He threw it into the nearest planter without hesitation, the heavy thud barely satisfying.

Then he turned on his heel, heading straight for the last place he wanted to go- the bar where Lando now stood, half-leaning against it, laughing with the blonde pressed too comfortably against his side.

Oscar could feel the anger crawling under his skin like a living thing. He could taste it- bitter, metallic, suffocating.

By the time he reached Lando, the words were already burning his tongue.

"You’re a fucking idiot," Oscar bit out, loud enough that the conversation around them stumbled to an awkward halt.

Lando blinked, slow and lazy, setting down his glass. "Jesus, mate. What’s your problem?"

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice into something dangerous. "You didn’t even see her, did you?"

Lando frowned, confusion crossing his face. "Who?"

Oscar laughed- a harsh, broken sound. "Your fucking girlfriend, who the fuck else Lando? She was standing right fucking there. Watching you."

Lando's face twisted, defensive, brushing it off like an irritating fly. "You’re seeing shit. She’s not here. If she was, she would’ve texted me. She wouldn’t just show up randomly without telling me. You know her."

Oscar stared at him, feeling something black coil tighter in his chest.

"Yeah," he said, voice razor-sharp. "I do know her."

Lando scoffed, looking away, lifting his drink back to his mouth. "If she’s not answering my texts, she’s not here. Probably busy. Not everything’s about your little fantasies, Piastri."

The way he said it- like a joke, like you were a fucking afterthought- made Oscar see red.

"You don’t even fucking know her," Oscar snarled, stepping forward until there was barely any space between them.

Lando smirked, that arrogant edge slipping into his voice. "What, you interested in her or something?"

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

"Yeah," he said, voice low and brutal. "I have been. Longer than you even realized. I see her, Norris. Every fucking time you don't."

Lando’s smile cracked- a flash of something ugly, insecure, flashing across his face.

"You’re full of shit," he muttered, but his hand tightened around his drink, white-knuckled.

Oscar leaned in closer, dropping his voice to something lethal. "I know her better than you ever did. I've seen it- the way she looks at you, even when you don't deserve it. The way she still fucking hopes."

He paused, letting the words sink in, letting the truth rip through the cracks in Lando’s armour.

"And you just threw it away for-"

The blonde chose that moment to interrupt, her voice syrupy and smug.

"Maybe she should’ve tried harder if she wanted to keep him," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her nails digging possessively into Lando’s arm.

Oscar turned his head slowly toward her, eyes flashing cold.

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, the words hitting like a slap. "You’re the reason he’s throwing away the only real thing he’s ever fucking had. You're a fucking leech."

The blonde recoiled like he had struck her, face flushing hot with embarrassment and anger.

Lando immediately moved to defend her, pushing off the bar, stepping between them.

"Don’t talk to her like that," he growled.

And that was it.

Oscar didn’t think- he didn’t hesitate.

His fist connected with Lando’s jaw with a brutal, sickening crack.

Lando staggered back, crashing into the edge of the bar, the glass he had been holding shattering on the floor.

The entire rooftop seemed to fall silent.

Oscar stood there, chest heaving, glaring at him with something dark and furious pulsing behind his ribs.

"Get your head out of your fucking ass," Oscar hissed. "You’re losing her. You already lost her. And if you don't believe me, text her yourself."

He jerked his chin toward Lando's pocket, where his phone sat uselessly.

"Go on," Oscar challenged, voice dripping with venom. "Text her. See if she answers."

But Lando didn't move.

He just stood there- stunned, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, pride bleeding out of him even faster.

He didn’t pull out his phone. He didn’t call after you. He didn’t fight for you.

Oscar shook his head, disgusted, and turned away without another word.

He could feel the blonde’s furious gaze burning into his back, but he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t owe her- or Lando- a goddamn thing.

His only thought, the only thing hammering inside his chest now, was you.

You- walking into the rain alone, shoulders set like stone, the heartbreak written into the line of your spine no matter how hard you tried to hide it.

Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket with trembling fingers, dialling before he could lose his nerve.

You deserved someone who would notice.

Someone who would run after you, even if it was already too late.

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itacats · 6 months ago

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Butcher Shop Connection

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: The fragile joy of connection with Simon is quickly overshadowed by the suffocating weight of home. Confronted by Tom’s cruelty, you struggle to protect yourself, both physically and emotionally, while clinging to the small glimmers of kindness Simon offers. In a world defined by shadows, hope flickers like a hesitant flame, but it’s a light you’re not ready to embrace—yet.

A/N: Ah, the emotional whiplash chapter. One moment, you’re swooning over rolled-up sleeves and car repairs, and the next, you’re wading through the muck of heartbreak and resilience. Hang tight; the rollercoaster isn’t over yet. 🎢

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Part 3 - Cracks in the Foundation

The moment you step through the front door, the warmth and joy from your encounter with Simon evaporate like dew under the harsh light of the morning sun. The house is quiet, but not in a comforting way—it’s the kind of silence that makes your chest tighten and your senses sharpen. The faint creak of the floor beneath your shoes feels deafening as you step into the kitchen.

Tom is there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The shadows from the dim overhead light stretch across his face, making his expression even harder, more menacing. His eyes lock onto yours immediately, sharp and unrelenting. You can feel the judgment radiating from him, an oppressive weight settling on your shoulders.

"You’re late," he growls, his voice low and heavy, each syllable dripping with accusation.

Your heart races as you glance at the clock on the wall. It’s not that late—barely past eight—but you know it doesn’t matter. Tom’s moods don’t follow logic or reason; they’re a storm that sweeps in, indifferent to your explanations or pleas.

"I... I got stuck at the store," you begin, your voice trembling slightly. You hate how small it sounds, but before you can finish, he cuts you off.

"Out with someone else, are you?" he snaps, his voice rising. His face twists, his features contorted into something unrecognizable. "Who is it?"

The questions come at you like a barrage, cold and sharp, each one landing with a sting from his fists. You try to answer, to explain, but the words stick in your throat. Your mind flashes back to Simon—his gentle smile, the warmth in his eyes—and for a split second, you imagine what it would be like to tell Tom the truth. But you know better.

"Tom, please," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. "It was just the car—"

"Don’t lie to me!" he shouts, slamming his hand down on the counter. The sound echoes through the room, and you flinch instinctively, your body betraying the fear you try so hard to conceal.

"I’m not lying," you say, your voice breaking. "Please, just—"

"What? Do you want kindness?" Tom interrupts, his lips curling into a cruel sneer. "You know kindness never looked good on me."

His words hit like a blow, the same venomous refrain you’ve heard countless times before. The bitterness in his tone is more cutting than the words themselves, a reminder of how far you are from the kindness you once hoped for in your life.

That night, you curl up on the couch, your knees drawn tightly to your chest. Silent tears trace cold paths down your cheeks as you replay the argument in your mind, each word cutting deeper than the last, the memory of his hands staining your skin in ugly hues. The house feels colder than ever, the darkness pressing in on you from every corner.

When morning comes, you force yourself to your feet, your body moving on autopilot. You reach for the makeup on the bathroom counter, your hands trembling slightly as you smooth the heavy foundation over the forming bruises on your cheek. It feels like a mask, a way to conceal not just the physical marks but the emotional scars that run much deeper. The person in the mirror doesn’t look like you anymore.

You step into the butcher shop later that day, the bell’s cheerful chime feeling oddly out of place against the weight in your chest. You paste on a smile, the same practiced expression you’ve perfected over time, and make your way to the counter.

Simon is there, his eyes lighting up as he spots you. But the excitement in his gaze dims slightly as he takes in your stiff posture, the way you shift uncomfortably as you dig into your bag for your wallet.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentle and full of concern. The question is simple, but the way he asks it feels different—like he truly wants to know, like he’s ready to hear whatever you have to say.

For a moment, you hesitate. The warmth in Simon’s voice feels like a balm against the chill that’s settled deep in your bones, and you’re tempted—so tempted—to tell him the truth. To let someone else carry the weight for a little while.

But then the walls go up, as they always do. You smile, the expression tight and forced, and shake your head. "I’m fine," you say, the words hollow even to your own ears.

Simon doesn’t press, but the concern in his eyes doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens, and for a fleeting moment, you think he might not let the matter drop. There’s something about him—his quiet determination, the steady strength you’ve seen in the way he carries himself—that makes you wonder if he could be the one to finally break through your defenses.

But you can’t let him. Not now. Not yet.

As you leave the shop, you glance back over your shoulder. Simon is still watching you, his gaze steady and unwavering. In that brief moment, you allow yourself to imagine a life where kindness isn’t just a fleeting encounter but a constant presence. Where the warmth of someone like Simon could replace the cold reality of your world.

"Maybe one day," you think, the words both a hope and a prayer. For now, you carry the thought of Simon with you, a small light in the darkness that has become your reality.

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

Thank you to @ghostlythots for the extra tags that I should have added!

#bt extra #call of duty #fanfic #cod fic #cod #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #gn reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #butcher shop connection #simon ghost riley x reader #butcher!simon #butcher!ghost

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cosmerelists · 8 months ago

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Cosmere Characters Read the Kaladin Chapters

As requested by anon. :)

I once did a post about Stormlight Archive characters reading the Stormlight Archive, which you can find here. This post is similar, except characters are only reading the Kaladin chapters.

(But if you're wondering WHERE Hesina & Lirin are, there're in the first post!)

[Stormlight Spoilers through Rhythm of War!]

1. Adolin

Adolin: So, uh, you and Shallan sure...had a time in those chasms, huh? Kaladin: W-We HAD to huddle together for warmth and stuff! Adolin: [eyes narrowing] Uh-huh. Kaladin: Are you mad? Adolin: Of course I'm mad! Adolin: We've been on TONS of adventures and you've NEVER cuddled ME for warmth! Kaladin: ... Kaladin: That's what you're mad about? Adolin: We are cuddling at the FIRST opportunity we get!

2. Shallan

Shallan: I know that you killed my brother. Shallan: But READING about you killing my brother... Shallan: That was a uniquely horrible experience. Kaladin: I-I had to though. He was killing everyone. Shallan (much too brightly): Oh I know! It's not like I haven't killed my own family members! Shallan: Just saying that if I could still successfully suppress memories, I'd be burying that one! [finger guns] Kaladin: ...This post is giving me whiplash.

3. Elhokar

Elhokar: Um, okay. Wow. Elhokar: So multiple of my guards--including Kaladin Stormin' Stormblessed--really did want to kill me! Elhokar: I was SUCH a bad king that even KALADIN STORMBLESSED wanted to kill me! Elhokar: I'd fall over dead if I hadn't already been MURDERED. Kaladin: I did save you, though. Kaladin: ...The first time, anyway. Kaladin: That has to count for something? Elhokar: Yes, and I was invested enough to see you completely lose it after my actual death so... Elhokar: Let bygones be bygones and all of that. Elhokar: But REALLY. Elhokar: So bad at kinging that even KALADIN STORMBLESSED was in the "kill him" party! Elhokar: Not good for my self-esteem, man. Elhokar: Not good.

4. Bridge 4

Teft: So, lad...that Honor Chasm scene, huh? Sigzil: We knew we were all miserable and angry; we did not know you came so close. Moash: Yeah, you idiot! That was the closest you ever came to dying--by your own hand! Probably the only way you COULD die! Lopen: And it would have meant you didn't meet me, the Lopen! That would have been a tragedy on top of a tragedy! Rock: And no stews either! Skar: What we're trying to say is that we're glad Syl stopped you. Drehy: Yeah. You saved all of us. Kaladin: Guys... Rlain: But also...maybe consider some of that therapy you invented. Lyn: Yeah, for real.

5. Thaidakar

Thaidakar: I should definitely recruit this guy for the Ghostbloods. Thaidakar: Always survives... Never gives up... Collects followers wherever he goes... Thaidakar: This guy could DOUBLE recruitment! Thaidakar: I just need a way to make the Ghostbloods seem honorable...

6. Taravangian

Taravangian: Wow, in a different life, you would have been in Kharbranth, studying medicine. Taravangian: Working at my hosptial. Taravangian: Where I killed people in the basement. Taravangian: ... Taravangian: Very glad that didn't happen.

7. Syl

Syl: I was there, of course. But getting to read it made my realize something... Syl: I literally saved you SO MANY times! Syl: Without me, you never would have made it! Syl: Like, repeatedly! Kaladin: It's true. I needed you. Syl: You may address me as "Syl, my lifesaving savior" forever now. Kaladin: I'm not doing that!

8. Dalinar

Dalinar: You never told me the full story. Kaladin: About what, sir? Dalinar: About how my sending Roshone to a "place where he couldn't do any harm" meant sending him to your actual hometown where he tormented your family and sent your brother to the army where he died. Kaladin: Seemed better not to bring it up. Dalinar: I wish that you had. Kaladin: ... Kaladin: I am surprised that this is your takeaway. Not the fact that I, you know, nearly killed your nephew... Dalinar: You did not kill him. You saved him. Dalinar: If we weighed your almost crimes against my actual crimes, there would be no comparison. I am not one to judge someone else's journey. Kaladin: ... Kaladin: This is where we're supposed to add in some humorous joke to end our dialogue, I think. Dalinar: I don't think that's going to happen. Kaladin: No, I guess not.

#cosmere #cosmerelists #Kaladin #stormlight archive #stormlight archive spoilers

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luciaintheskyainthi · 9 days ago

Note

just read the most recent chapter of ECM… do you hate? Is my heart crushing to pieces as i read peter walk away from jason cursing him to hell with tears streaming down my face fun for you? are you glad that i’m sobbing from the two of them to have (essentially) broken up before they even got together? RIGHT AFTER WE GOT FLUFF FROM THE LAST CHAPTER AND NOW ANGST???? The absolute whiplash i felt and devastation knowing the two of them are now in conflict is hurting me so deep

also adding this in here @cherrybomb4c

(do you see now why I didn't respond to this one in a timely manner? 🤭🤭🤭)

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE HAS BEEN COOKING FOR MONTHS. Legitimately, this particular conflict has been in the books for at good 8 months or so 😈

And I mean.... to say I don't revel in your turmoil would be a lie. I do. I absolutely do 🤭 But also, ch14 or whatever saying my favourite rides are emotional rollercoasters wasn't a lie. It was getting too chummy so I had to throw a spanner in the works. Disrupt the status quo, you know how it is... (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

#i am but a lil gal #existential crisis mode #asks will be responded to in one to five business weeks

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hopelesslygaysstuff · 10 months ago

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50 Shades of Red Masterlist

Started: 7/05/2024

Last Updated: 03/18/2025

Chapters: 12/?

Word Count: 46,245

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

Ao3: @hopelesslygaystuff

Photo Cred: Me

ⴵ ~ Chapter 1 ~ ⴵ

summary: A reimagining of 50 Shades of Grey, featuring a healthy, consensual relationship and safe BDSM scenes. And lesbians, of course. Wanda meets Natasha, and their captivating story begins. word count ~ 4.9k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 2 ~ ⴵ

summary: Wanda returns home to her roommate's many questions, and runs into a surprise guest at her job. word count ~ 4.5k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 3 ~ ⴵ

summary: Kate is excited and there's a photoshoot. And lots of gay pining and panicking. Mostly on Wanda's end. word count ~ 4.5k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 4 ~ ⴵ

summary: Our girls go on a lovely date and there's lots of gay tension. word count ~ 3.7k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 5 ~ ⴵ

summary: Wanda receives a gift and finishes her final exams, then decides to go out drinking to celebrate with her friends and accidentally makes a very awkward phone call. word count ~ 4.2k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 6 ~ ⴵ

summary: Wanda wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, then goes through emotional whiplash. Curtesy of a rich, sexy CEO. word count ~ 4.2k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 7~ ⴵ

summary: Natasha drives Wanda home, where she meets Yelena and debriefs with Kate. word count ~ 3k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 8 ~ ⴵ

summary: Wanda goes on her first helicopter ride, with a hot woman right beside her. word count ~ 3.3k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 9 ~ ⴵ

summary: Natasha shows Wanda around her playroom, and they have a discussion. word count ~ 2.4k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 10 ~ ⴵ

summary: Wanda loses her virginity to the most eligible bachelorette in America. word count ~ 4.2k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 11 ~ ⴵ

summary: Wanda makes breakfast and then has sexy bath time, another first. word count ~ 4.8k+

ⴵ ~ Chapter 12 ~ ⴵ

summary: Natasha introduces a bit of kink and rewards Wanda. word count ~ 2.5k+

All work is my own. None of the content on this blog is yours to translate, steal, or repost on any platform.

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 4 days ago

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The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 8

Source for pic

Imperfect 8

Word Count: 4802

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I'm so eager to share this chapter with all of you that I may be making a mistake by uploading it early! I only have half of chapter 9 written, and I was hoping to write a little bit more before posting this. But, hey, I'll do it! *singing* Besides, which you see, I have confidence in me!! Anyway, please enjoy the emotional whiplash you're about to experience with this chapter. Love you all! Small Warning: suggestive content, I don't think it warrants a specific NSFW, though.

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

You get a text from your dad saying he’ll be out for the day helping Makino’s niece assemble furniture at her new home in town, and that he might not return until dinnertime. He also asks if you’re alright and lets you know that morning chores are already taken care of.

Looking at the clothes you’re currently wearing - Kid’s - it’s actually a blessing he’s not home at the moment, or you’d have some explaining to do.

The rest of the day goes by in the blink of an eye, and around five o’clock you stop by Sanji’s café to buy some donuts and coffee, not wanting to show up at the garage empty-handed. You can’t contain the tingle of anticipation or stop the silly smile from curving your lips when your car comes to a full stop in front of Kid’s shop.

“Heeey, I brought sustenance!” you shout as you step into the garage. Your brow rises, and you set your stuff down on the nearest workbench before heading further inside. It’s all so quiet. No music, no curses, no tools rumbling in the background.

And then you see him.

Kid is hunched over another workbench. His prosthetic lies discarded in front of him, and he’s gripping the edge of the counter as if it’s all that’s keeping him from falling. Sweat dampens the collar of his shirt. His hair is soaked, and fat droplets of perspiration drip down his scrunched brows and heavy grimace. Everything in his posture, including the tautness of his muscles, screams pain and suffering.

And it’s one you know and understand very well: phantom pain.

“Kid,” you start, one hand raised as if you were approaching a wild animal.

“Don’t,” he growls the word, and it hits you like a slap. He doesn’t even turn or open his eyes to acknowledge you. It’s like you can physically see the walls going up and all around him. Again.

“Let me help–”

“Get the fuck out. I don’t need ya.” The poison in his words sucks all the breath out of your lungs. He’s lashing out.

“I can–”

His face snaps towards you, a feral growl shaking his lips as he grits his teeth. “No, you can’t! This ain’t a fucking novel, sweetheart. I ain’t some broken project for ye to fix! Ye can’t fix what’s irreparably broken! Get the fuck out.”

You try to swallow past the giant lump in your throat. His eyes are cold as ice, without a hint or a trace of the warmth he showed you in the morning. This is just another hurdle that you have to overcome.

You want to succumb to the prickling of tears behind your eyes, but you can’t, because weakness won’t get you anywhere with Eustass Kid. He’s trying to scare you away.

He’s not going to fucking do it.

“I’m not trying to fix you!”

“Bullshit!” Kid slams the workbench, and everything rattles with his fury. “Ye think just because we shared some nice moments, I’m suddenly fixed? That I ain’t fucked up? Broken? That we can have a fuckin’ happily ever after with birds singin’ and butterflies dancin’ kinda shit? It don’t work like that!”

“That’s not what I was–”

“Yer not the first pretty face that thinks she can fix me! And ye ain’t gonna be the last.” Kid snorts, and you bite your lower lip to stop it from trembling. “Guess what, sweetheart? Yer about to be just as disappointed as all of ‘em. Ye ain’t special!”

That blow stings like a cut in your chest. You take a trembling step back, averting his cold gaze, and shake your head. “Earlier–”

“Earlier meant nothin’!” His voice doesn’t even waver. “It was just a distraction, and yer a pretty distraction, I give ye that. But it ain’t happenin’ again. I don’t need this - I don’t need ye.”

The silence that follows is crushing.

You finally look back at him, your chest heaving and chin trembling, eyes glazed with unshed tears you’re trying so hard to push back. You’re so angry at him. Rationally, you know he’s pushing you away again, too afraid to be vulnerable, too afraid to reach for help. Irrationally, though, it feels like you’re not enough.

And like you’ll never be able to reach him.

And then you see his eyes tremble, his teeth grit, and his muscles contract in torment. He’s drowning in pain, no matter how hard he’s trying to hide it.

Raising your chin and fighting every instinct that tells you to turn around and leave, you walk past him. Then you fight another instinct telling you to throw a wrench at his stupid, stubborn head, grab the first aid kit, and take out the muscle relaxer cream, throwing it on the couch carelessly.

“Sit on that fucking couch, Kid.” Good. At least your voice still sounds steady.

“Didn’t ya listen to–”

“I don’t give a fuck. Sit. Down.” Your eyes harden like steel as you bore them into his.

“I don’t want ye here,” his throat bobs, and you can tell that’s a blatant lie. One he’s willing to lash out for, over and over again, even if it makes you both bleed.

“Tough shit!” you grit your teeth and shove him towards the couch. “I’m not leaving! You’re hurting, and I’m not going to turn my back on that. I’m not running away, Kid. You don’t scare me!” You shove him again, and he stumbles back, probably too stunned or in pain to fight back your advances. “It doesn’t mean I’m not fucking devastated by what you just said. I’m pissed and I’m hurt, but I’m not running away. Now sit the fuck down.”

He reluctantly sits, still unsure about what you’re going to do. When you sit next to him and start rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he jerks his stump away from you.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

“Kid—” You reach again and he pulls away with more force than before.

“I said don’t! Yer not seein’ this part of me, for fuck’s sake! I ain’t yer charity case.”

God! Why is he so infuriating? Why can’t he just give you a chance? A small opening? Something!

“I never said you were! I just want to help! Let me—”

“Don’t touch me!” He’s not yelling, but it feels pretty damn close. The intensity of his words forms more lumps and clumps in your throat, and your breathing comes out in ragged, hurtful gasps.

At least your tears are still safely tucked away.

You grit your teeth and will some command into your voice. “I will fucking touch you because it will help.”

“It won’t help!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! It never fuckin’ goes away! It’s here to remind me of how I failed ‘em! Fuck!” Kid drops his elbow to his knee, face buried in his hand. His shoulders contract and twist in agony, his whole body coiled in grief.

Silence spreads its tendrils around you again, sinking its claws into your chest, reminding you that Kid is indeed as broken as he claims to be. And that only makes you care for him more.

“Fine. Maybe it won’t go away, but I know I can make it better. And I’ll stay with you through the worst of it. Even if you continue to be an asshole.”

You don’t wait for a reaction, don’t even allow him to reply. You just roll the rest of the sleeve up and get straight to work. Lathering your hands with the muscle relaxer, you start to massage the stump slowly, yet firmly. Your muscle memory is kicking in and reminding you how you used to do this for your dad, all those years ago.

Kid flinches when your fingers touch the scarred tissue, and he looks away, seemingly too embarrassed for eye contact. But you don’t miss the way he lets out a deep breath after a minute or two. His shoulders sag softly, and his brows relax from the everlasting scrunch he has them in.

You keep working the knots slowly, ignoring the way your feet are already becoming numb because you’re sitting on them. You’re too afraid to break this fragile moment.

Kid drops his head back to rest on the couch, and his breathing evens out. You don’t think he’s sleeping, but at least he’s relaxed enough for a small reprieve. Your fingers tremble for a small moment, your breath catching in your throat.

Before you realize or manage to stop it, tears start spilling down your cheeks. Just when you thought you’d made progress, that you managed to break down those stubborn walls of his, he pulls this stunt.

His words hurt much more than you care to admit. Of course you’re not special. Why would you be? But that’s not even the point, you don’t have to be special, you just want him to let you in. To open himself to the possibility of something else. To let someone care for him, to allow himself to be cherished.

It’s like you take one small step forward and two back. A never-ending, frustrating dance.

It’s only when you feel his calloused hand on your cheek, wiping the trail your tears left behind, that you realize Kid’s eyes are open and he’s staring at you. Trembling, you stop massaging him, waiting for another outburst of hurtful words.

It never comes.

He softens his gaze, working his throat and jaw as if he’s trying to free the unspoken words he has trapped there. His mouth finally parts, like he’s about to say something, but you beat him to it.

You don’t want to hear the wrong words now.

“Take off your shirt.”

His brow furrows, and he removes his hand from your cheek, leaving only cold and emptiness behind.

“I need to work on your back and chest muscles, or the pain won’t go away. Take it off.” You lace your words with indifference and command, and he obeys for once; doesn’t argue or grunt in disapproval, just follows your request.

As he’s busy taking the garment off, you swiftly wipe your wet cheeks on your arms, erasing any evidence of your earlier weakness.

You make him turn slightly to the side as you start working between his shoulder blades and neck. He’s stiff as a board, his muscles tight and tense from too many years of holding everything in his shoulders. No wonder the pain won’t ever go away.

After a long stretch of silence, where the only sound comes from his soft, relieved grunts, Kid speaks in a voice so quiet you have trouble believing it’s his. “How d’ya learn how to do this?”

You pause for a breath, then answer. Your eyes never leave the junction of his neck with his shoulder, applying soothing pressure with the pads of your fingers. “Shanks.” Kid hums, and you continue.

“I was just a child when he lost his arm, around ten, I think. Luffy, our neighbor, had a habit of sneaking out of his grandpa’s house, and he would get into all sorts of trouble. This time it could’ve been fatal. Except my dad was there.”

You sigh. There’s much you don’t remember about your childhood, but you clearly remember the day your father was left bleeding out in the field while the ambulance was on the way. Your tiny heart beating out of your chest, not knowing if he’d make it or not…

“The plough was working in the field, and Luffy got in the way. Dad saw it and jumped in to save him. Lost his arm in the process. He used to have phantom pain all the time back then. Mom used to do this to ease him through it, and it worked.”

Kid hums again, so you know he’s listening.

“When they started to fight like they had nothing better to do with every waking moment of their lives, Dad was too proud to ask for help, and Mom got tired of offering. I could see him trying to suffer through the pain with gritted teeth and venomous words.”

Kid stiffens, and you know he’s relating to that bit a little too much.

“So I took over Mom’s place and learned how to help. It became our own thing.”

You move a bit, leaning closer and pushing his back against the couch, focusing on the planes of his chest now, where the scarring is so visible and the scar tissue is pulled so tight, it’s a wonder he’s not in pain all the time.

You can feel Kid’s gaze burning holes into your face, and you would give anything to know what’s on his mind. If he would just let you.

Your thumbs work slowly, kneading the flesh carefully but with firm strokes. You can already feel how much less tense he is.

His question catches you by surprise. “Don’t ye find it disgustin’?”

You stop and stare at him, but he avoids your gaze like the plague, his lips twitching and frowning into an embarrassed grimace.

“Why would I? It’s part of you. It’s just flesh, muscle, and skin. It’s not disgusting.”

Kid tilts his head slowly, catching your eye for a moment before turning away again. You continue massaging his chest until he speaks again.

“Ye should. I’m a fuckin’ monster.”

Somehow, you realize he’s not just talking about his physical scars.

“Stop,” you state with finality. Reaching for his face, you force him to face you. “You’re not a monster. You’re not this ugly, unlovable creature. You’re Eustass fucking Kid.” That draws a small smirk from his lips, but it barely lasts. “You’re just… wounded.”

“I’m broken…” he rasps out, the shadows in his eyes spreading further, dimming its brightness.

“Yes, you are.” He jerks his face away, but you hold it steady, forcing your gaze into his. “And I want all of those broken pieces. The anger, the sadness, the pain, and all of the things you don’t tell me… Kid, I’ll take it all and share that burden with you. I don’t want perfect. I want you.”

He stares at you, his chest shaking with uncertain breaths, looking torn between wanting to push you away and to hold you against him.

It’s a make-or-break moment, you can feel it.

So when he presses his hand against your cheek in a mimicry of his earlier gesture, you let out a relieved breath.

“I don’t know how to be anythin’ else. I don’t know how to be… good.”

You cover his hand with your own, while you lower the other one until it presses against his heart, feeling it beat erratically, madly.

“Then we’ll learn together. You just have to let me in, Kid. That’s all.”

Kid’s gaze burns. He looks torn, restless, like he’s fighting a war he’s tired of losing. Maybe this time, though, he has too much to lose and he’s finally willing to risk it.

You know you are.

With a tentative breath, Kid’s hand finds the curve of your neck and climbs until his fingers curl in your hair. He leans forward, hesitates, and the world stops. He’s gonna pull away. He’s gonna flee again. I’m gonna lose him—

Then he exhales a trembling breath, pulls you gently and presses his lips against yours. It’s a stark contrast to all the other heated kisses you’ve shared. This one feels fragile and precious, just a whisper of a touch.

It’s everything he can’t seem to say to you.

When he breaks the kiss and pulls you gently to his lap until you’re straddling him, his hand stays on your hip, its slight tremble, reminding you how delicate this moment is. You cup his face, and he closes his eyes, your foreheads touching for a moment while the weight of everything settles between the two of you.

When his eyes meet yours again, it’s like you can see a crack in his walls. It’s slight. It’s small. But it’s there.

“I didn’t mean…” he starts, stumbling over his words, brows scrunched so tight you fear they’ll leave permanent marks. “My words, I… fuckin’ hell.”

“Kid—”

“No. Let me get this out.” Kid sighs heavily, his hand gripping your hip harder and harder, his eyes still avoiding yours. “Ye are special. Ye are!”

A choked sob dares to climb its way up your throat, so you steel your emotions, bite your lower lip to stop its trembling, and caress his cheekbones with your thumbs in a comforting gesture.

“Much more than that, I…” It’s painfully clear how much he’s struggling to share the extent of his feelings. His eyes meet yours, and there’s so much emotion in them that you understand all he wants to tell you, even without words.

He really likes you.

And it’s scary as hell.

“Fuck it,” Kid mumbles, then his mouth claims yours again, and this kiss is a far cry from the tentative one you shared before. It’s all-consuming, it’s raging, it’s fire and desire melting into something hot and unbearable.

Kid’s hand slithers below your top and up your spine, eliciting a shudder and a muffled whimper. You respond by rolling your hips against his hardened length, and my God, this just needs to happen. Your hands greedily map the planes of his pecs, scraping your nails hard across the same spot you had been massaging just moments ago.

Your top comes off, your bra comes next, and so does an unwanted thought: you’ve been here before.

Except this time, you don’t let any doubt cloud your judgment. Yes, you’ve been here before, but never has the intimacy felt so raw and vulnerable. This is it.

Your lips collide again, and as you open your mouth to gasp when Kid rolls his fingers over your nipple, he claims your tongue. Your heart and soul go next, and you don’t even fight it.

You’re his.

You’ll always be his. If he lets you.

“I want ye… fuck! I need ye,” Kid drawls between kisses and licks to your neck.

“Then take me.”

And he’s about to. Kid’s fingers trail the waistband of your pants, hover over the button, and—

“AGAIN?” Killer’s outraged scream reverberates off the wall and bounces in an endless, indignant echo. Kid pushes you flush against his chest to shield your breasts from view. “I can’t believe I have to see this again!”

Killer’s stomping footfalls thud around the garage in an angry tirade, and a bottle of pills hits Kid on the head. He growls, but Killer is on a rampage.

“Here are your fucking pills! The ones you were in too much pain to grab! Forgot to ask for condoms too? Fucking shitwipe, there are locks on—” Killer’s angry gaze lingers on the spot you’re both on as he approaches.

Why is he approaching? Has he gone mad?

“That is a fucking communal couch. I take naps there, goddamn it! I’m gonna have to bleach the whole fucking thing!” An exasperated growl escapes his lips as he stomps past you towards the office. “Maybe I should just bleach my own eyes while I’m at it!”

The office door slams shut, and you and Kid sit in silence for a beat, too stunned to say anything at all.

Then Killer opens the door again, hands pressed together as if in prayer against his bandana-covered mouth. “I’m sincerely fucking happy this—” he gestures towards you, “—is happening. But for fuck’s sake and Jesus’ balls, take it somewhere else! You fucking live upstairs, you moron!”

The door bangs shut again, only to fly open a microsecond later. Killer looks at you and tilts his head. “I ain’t mad at you, love. Just at the fucking asshole who can’t keep it in his pants. Now, if you both could kindly take that elsewhere so I can fix the car Kid towed earlier, I’d appreciate it very much.”

When the door bangs shut again, it nearly comes off its hinges. You can’t help but feel bad for Killer. He really didn’t need to see this. Still, the hilarity of the situation makes you muffle your laughs against Kid’s neck, in an almost perfect replay of what happened once before.

Even Kid’s lip quirks into a small smile. “Fuck’s sake… that FUCKIN’ HYPOCRITE should keep his fuckin’ mouth shut! HE’S MADE OUT A MILLION TIMES on this couch before, so he—”

“NEVER WITHOUT CLOTHES ON!” Killer bangs his hands on the inside of the office door, and you keep giggling. “I SWEAR TO GOD, KID! If I sit my ass on something sticky or disgusting on that couch… I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

“CALM YER TITS, DIPSHIT! Nothin’ happened!”

“I’M GONNA BURN THAT FUCKING COUCH!”

“THEN YE BUY A NEW ONE!”

“YOU’LL JUST DEFILE IT AGAIN!”

Laughter booms from your lips as you can’t hold it in anymore. The moment is long gone, but you can’t even be mad about it. Kid stops yelling at Killer and hands you your bra and shirt. When you’re fully dressed, his hand lingers on your hip, his thumb brushing soft strokes across your skin.

“We can go upstairs… if yer still up for it.”

Hell yeah, you are.

You’re about to reply with a teasing comment, but then you notice the slight sheen of sweat on Kid’s forehead. His neck is tense with pressure, and his stump twitches now and then.

“You’re still in pain, Kid.”

You rise slowly, pick up the bottle of pills Killer brought, take two out, and place them in Kid’s hand, despite his barely-there objections.

“Take the pills. Rest. We’ve got plenty of time.”

At least, you hope you do. It’s a feeling you hate, but unfortunately, one you’ve experienced more times than you’d like to admit when it comes to Kid. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, always accompanied by a massive wave of doubt.

Every time you walk away from a charged moment - whether sparked by desire or something far more vulnerable - you leave your heart in Kid’s hands. So far, you’ve come out the other end bruised, battered, but not defeated.

But this time feels different. So maybe walking away is the right step.

Kid reaches for the water bottle you retrieve from the fridge, but instead of taking it, he wraps his hand around your wrist and tugs you gently until you tumble onto his lap with a soft chuckle.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want ye to leave.” Kid’s warm breath tingles your neck as he leans in to whisper those words to you.

It’s all the reassurance you need.

But he still gives you more. Kid presses his lips beneath your earlobe, then along your jaw, and finally at the corner of your mouth, until you sigh, and he drinks it in like oxygen to a dying man.

You’re glad his hand stays steady on your lower back, because without it, you’re sure you’d melt straight into the couch. There’s no strength left in any limb of your body.

The kiss ends abruptly when he pulls back with a groan, muscles tightening. Your gaze softens, and you massage his stump for a few minutes while he takes the pills and downs them with water.

“The pills and lotion will kick in soon. Go to bed and rest, Kid. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

God, you don’t want to leave him.

But you know he needs rest. And the worst is definitely over; he’s no longer at war with himself, no longer trapped in a maze of self-loathing and doubt. He just needs time and sleep to recover.

Which won’t happen if you stay.

After a few more stolen touches, he lets you go, and you drag yourself away from him, somehow feeling lighter than when you walked in. The events took a turn you weren’t expecting, and even though they were painful and pushed both your limits, you can’t help but feel like barriers were overcome and walls were demolished.

Now it’s time to rebuild. One step at a time.

-*-

“Is it safe?” Killer opens the office door and comes out with his bandana tied over his eyes instead of just his mouth.

Kid can’t help a disgruntled, although bemused, sound escape his lips. He’s reclining on the couch, his arm draped over his eyes, muscles taut, and eyes scrunched. The pain has ebbed from fucking unbearable to moderate.

And he has you to thank for it.

You, whom he insulted, pushed, and harmed with venomous words; you who took them with a raised chin and open defiance; you who poured your kindness, your goodness, and your warmth into him - someone so undeserving it should’ve driven you away immediately.

You, whom he definitely cares more for than he should; you, who he cannot relinquish; you, who will be his downfall.

No. Lies.

He’s sure he will be your downfall.

“How are you feeling, man? You were down in the dumps when you called. I could hear the strain in your voice.” Killer sits on the couch next to him, grimaces, and gags loudly before getting up and sitting on a stool instead.

“The couch is clean, dumbass. We were just…”

“Making out like horny teenagers? Yeah, I saw. Oh, was that what happened? You were dying from pain, and she was performing CPR on your dying ass?”

Kid chuckles again. Dumbass Killer, always trying to lighten the mood and alleviate the tension.

“I fuckin’ care for her, Kill.” Kid can’t face him, not yet.

“Well, duh! Haven’t we cleared that already? Because it was pretty damn clear when you returned from the beach date—”

“Not a date!”

“—With lovey-dovey eyes, swooning like a girl—”

“The fuck, man?” Kid finally lifts his arm to stare directly into Killer’s amused expression.

“You more than care for her. And it’s alright to admit it. It’s not like your other arm’s going to fall off because of it.” Killer ducks when Kid throws him a wrench that was wedged between the couch and the arm of the couch. “Missed.”

Kid’s arm returns to act as a shield over his face as he lets out another groan.

“I’m sorry I interrupted you again. In my defense, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to leave the door unlocked a second time, plus I really thought I was going to find you incapacitated.”

“It’s fine,” Kid slurs. The pills are starting to kick in, finally. He was close to resorting to more booze. “I… we better slow down, anyway. I ain’t aiming to do somethin’ stupid, so I gotta do things right.”

He sighs and shakes his head. It’s so fucking hard to expose what he feels, to just get it out there. Why the fuck is it so fucking hard? With Killer, he can be truthful, he knows that, but still…

“That’s… actually wise,” Killer interjects with surprise. “Maybe my interrupting you was divine intervention.”

The bemusement in his tone is clear, but Kid can’t share the sentiment.

“I stopped believin’ in divine anythin’ a long time ago, Kill. I ain’t about to start now…”

Killer slumps in his stool, his back hitting the workbench where he supports himself with his elbows. His eyes fall to the corner where Kid keeps the army photograph. It’s already tucked behind an oil can, forgotten again, like it never saw the light to begin with.

“They wouldn’t want—”

“I know what they want, Kill. I hear ’em. Every fuckin’ second of every fuckin’ day!” Kid gets up, his head feels light from the pills, and he really should take your advice and rest. But they are always there, he’s not lying about that. And their appearances always hurt the most once he starts enjoying himself, once he starts to believe he can be happy.

“They’re always blamin’ me, they’re always laughin’ at me! I know I fuckin’ failed ’em and I need to suffer for it! FUCK!” Kid kicks the couch and grunts in agony, but he welcomes the pain again. The one in his arm is already numbing, and he doesn’t exactly deserve a reprieve.

Killer rises, too, trying to placate his anger. “Come on, Kid, you know they would never do that. They would’ve forgiven you… They have.”

Kid swallows his anger and his pain alongside the rock-sized lump that suddenly forms in his throat. He doesn’t push it further. Killer wouldn’t understand.

“Aye. Whatever. I’m gonna lie down.”

He’s already stomping up the steps to his apartment, not giving Killer a chance to add anything else to this pity party. Killer wouldn’t understand, but it’s not because he didn’t know them or wasn’t there; it’s because they’re his ghosts to bear, and Kid is the one to blame for their untimely deaths.

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7

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#eustass kid x reader #eustass captain kid #eustass x reader #eustass kid #reader insert #kid x you #you x kid #reader x kid #kid x reader #the meet cute #one piece #modern day world au

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rensaries · 3 months ago

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જ⁀➴ one look give 'em whiplash ~ na jaemin smau

chapter 8: working hard or hardly working?

note ʚɞ idk what to say so i guess i'll say that big things are coming...

» next » masterlist

taglist : @urlocalbeaner5 @222brainrot @multifandomania @iamsimplyasimp @joonsprettygf @kukkurookkoo @cherry-rosess @i-kai @mmjhh1998 @kaosuni @f6llsun @sibwol (comment or dm to be added to the taglist!)

#na jaemin #jaemin #jaemin smau #jaemin social media au #nct smau #nct social media au #jaemin x y/n #jaemin x reader #nct x reader #nct x y/n #nct #nct dream #nct dream jaemin #rensaries #one look give em whiplash

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kadextra · 3 months ago

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I finished beast yeast episode 8 🙌

spoilers below!

HEY GUYS! SOOO WHAT WAS THAT

first! black sapphire my new silly!!! his character brought such ~style~ to this chapter and made it extra fun, he’s one of my new favorites now. I loved his and candy apple’s banter too, you can tell they’ve known each other a long time, besties who hate each other <3 and the reveal that candy apple is a jealous yandere- checks out. the scene where she almost got killed by shadow milk made me scared for a second

next, some wildly freaky screenshots I took:

honestly I was shocked like woah okay

ONTO TALKING ABOUT PURE VANILLA COOKIE. king I wasn’t familiar with your game…… I’m impressed, he went to that level and out-lied smilk in order to overpower him. I didn’t guess that would happen at all! but I did guess correctly that it was memory manipulation that happened before, so yippeee!! also his awakened form looks very pretty :D

fortune teller cookie suddenly appearing at the end with pure vanilla as separate entities gave me whiplash 😭 and then they merged? pv said they were both always the same guy, the same soul and spacetime reflections whatever that means so I guess that answers that, I will not question it further <3

NOW.

ogugughghghhhh what a beautiful and touching scene 😭😭 the art is lovely too

and then shadow milk of course got super defensive and angry afterwards but heyyy at least the door is open… maybe a redemption arc could be in the cards? who’s to say

overall combined with episode 7 this whole story was just really good. shadow milk is a fantastic antagonist deserving of his popularity + his followers were great too. pv received some nice development. the angst was delivered in truckloads, yet at the end there was a glimmer of hope and I enjoyed it all <3333

now im going to go do whatever that matching game is. wish me luck in getting awakened pure vanilla 🫡

#cookie run kingdom #crk #crk spoilers #shadow milk cookie #pure vanilla cookie #candy apple cookie #black sapphire cookie #beast yeast episode 8 #arkade

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katyawriteswhump · 3 months ago

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love and other catastrophes at the Omega Cafe (4.2/8)

Aaaaand here's part 2 💚 💚 💚

Summary: Steve is a runaway Omega who gets a job at an Omega café, where he’s basically paid to curl up and purr in Alphas’ laps. It’s legal, and he earns a living, rents his own place. He’s getting along fine for a packless Omega. Then Alpha rockstar Eddie Munson turns up for an hour of ‘kitty’ petting, and shatters Steve’s fragile little world…

Rating: E; No major warnings; Tags: omega steve, alpha eddie, a/b/o dynamics, fluff and angst, sexual content 💚

Chapter 1 on tumblr (also index post) Chapter 2 on tumblr Chapter 3.1 Chapter 3.2 Chapter 4.1

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Chapter 4.2

Chrissy watched Eddie like a hawk as he approached the chais-longue, and…

…dropped to one knee in front of it.

Steve’s jaw dropped.

“Steve,” said Eddie. “I’m sorry. It seems there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Did I tell you that impulse-control wasn’t my strength?"

“I think it’s better than mine,” mumbled Steve, dipping his gaze. Eddie’s sweetness and sincerity was as crushing as anything. Especially as this was undoubtedly, a ‘I’m off, have a nice life, Omega,’ kind of speech. “I’m really sorry. I made a complete moron of myself.”

“No, you didn’t.” Eddie’s hand hovered over Steve’s, which rested, still trembling, on his knee. At the spark of near contact, Steve looked up sharply. “May I?” asked Eddie.

“Uh, yeah?”

Eddie took Steve’s hand properly in his large, warm, wet one, setting Steve’s senses reeling giddily.

“Steve, I had no idea my music would trigger you like… that. I ran, because…” He shook his head, scattering a fresh spray of raindrops into Steve, who shuddered. “Look, I am used to taking what I want, when I want. It’s not a great way to go about life. I’ve been working on that, I swear. Tonight, I… ahem, I guess, you tempted me a little too far, Honey. I almost took something I shouldn’t have.”

“I guess.” Eddie’s damp thumb chafed his hand, and Steve struggled not to cry. Eddie had come to the café for relaxation, not sex. Steve had proven himself a wanton little hussy, one that didn’t even know what he was doing. Clearly Eddie had figured that out, and now this was over. His brain was so busy catastrophising, it took a moment for it to process what Eddie was actually saying:

“Steve, I’ve never felt a pull to an Omega like I’ve felt toward you. You deserve to be courted properly.”

Steve’s chin snapped up: “Say what?”

“I would like to court you, Steve.” Eddie’s gaze captured Steve’s and held it. “Is that something you would consider?”

“Yes… yes! I’d like that very much.”

OMG OMG OMG!

Steve whiplashed from misery to undiluted joy. If he hadn’t been so stunned, he would’ve unleashed the highest, most excited squeal of his life. Chrissy, however, was doing that job for him— transformed from killer-kitty to a bundle of bouncing, jingling excitement.

Steve blinked hard. Okay, reality check. He dabbed beneath his eyes, because his mascara must be wrecked: “Are you on the level? You don’t know anything about me.”

“You know nothing about me.” Eddie chuckled gently. “It’s one of the many things I adore about you.”

ADORE! HE ADORES ME! OMG HE IS LITERALLY TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!

“I’m a runaway,” blurted out Steve. He felt he needed to share something, to at least prod at the barriers remaining between then.

“Stevie, everyone has a history. You need to know mine soon enough, and then you can tell me everything when you’re ready—in your own time.”

“You know that… um, I’m… m-maybe not as innocent as you think,” he stammered.

“I wouldn’t give a damn either way, my darling.”

With that Eddie planted a tender kiss on the back of Steve’s hand, and Steve finally squealed with pure happiness. If Chrissy hadn’t been there, he would probably have thrown himself at Eddie and begged to be mated, there and then.

Instead, he tumbled forward into a relatively chaste hug, while Chrissy looked on, giggling and clenching her fists in excitement.

When she finally scooted off, Steve snuggled up in Eddie’s lap. He buried his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck, finally breathing deeply of Eddie’s scent without pain. Steve was so calm now, so relaxed—unbelievably so, given how revved he’d been earlier. It was like a dream, one he still hardly believed was real. The heat rolling from Eddie seemed to set any dampness remaining on his clothes and skin sizzling. He rocked Steve and soothed him, and then, too soon, he husked in Steve’s ear:

“I’m gonna call two Ubers, Baby. One to take me home for a cold shower, and another one for you. I’ll hit you up with ideas for our first date. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.” Short of clinging to Eddie’s lap like a kitty with its claws in. Eddie passed Steve his phone, and Steve fumbled his number in. “I’m uh, off tomorrow… afternoon… evening… literally whenever.”

Steve would blow off any shift to be courted by Eddie. They shared a dopey grin, till Eddie’s melted into a slight grimace. He reached behind himself and plucked Steve’s kitty ears from between the cushions. “I wondered what that was digging into my butt.”

He slid them back onto Steve’s hair then rose, stooping to kiss the tip of Steve’s nose before he left. Steve waited till the door closed softly to kick his bare feet madly and press his knuckles to his lips to smother his most excited squeal yet.

On the journey home, the driver bitched that Steve was stinking out his vehicle. Then stopped bitching abruptly, and thanked Steve for the generous tip, which must’ve come through from Eddie’s Uber account.

Steve fizzed with excitement even at that. Maybe Eddie’s driver had complained too! It was out of this world! How could anybody provoke such a strong reaction in him? He’d not even skipped any blockers! The whisper from the depths of his soul excited and scared him in equal measures.

It’s because he’s your soulmate… Woah, Harrington, seriously? Even if he deigned to mate you, it’s not like he can marry you…

Steve was too excited to listen to the demons. Before he’d got home, Eddie texted suggesting a meal at his place the following night. His uncle would be there, and he suggested Steve brought a ‘friend/chaperone.’

He burst through his front door and instantly called Robin. He told her everything in a garbled rush.

Including exactly who Eddie was.

When he finally shut up, her silence deafened. “Robin? Did I bore you to death or have you ODd over there?”

“Don’t move!” she screamed, setting him yelping. “I’m coming over. Now. Don’t… just DON’T!”

“Don’t what, Robin? I—"

She hung up. Ooookay. That was weird. What was he not supposed to do? He was reluctant to shower, but he fitted in a quick one, because she’d given him the jitters. He was towel drying his hair, when she let herself in. She rushed over, braced his shoulders and shook him.

“Steve! Do you know anything about Eddie Munson? Anything at all?”

“I know he’s a rockstar. Carol mentioned something about him being a ‘bad-boy’ but that’s part of the gig. Um, Robin… you’re hurting me.”

“Shit, sorry.” She lessened her bruising grip, steering Steve over and sitting him down on his bed. “Steve, you need to listen. Eddie Munson is more than a ‘bad-boy.’ He’s in and out of rehab like a yoyo. His last stint was, like, a month ago. They managed to keep it relatively hush-hush, but it’s an open secret if you look on social media. Even if he’s no longer off-his-head on cocaine, or whatever nasty shit, he apparently drinks like a fish and—”

“Sssstop it!” Steve hissed, shaking himself free from her lingering clutch. “He drinks coffee, Robin.”

“So do we all! Especially after a night out boozing! Seriously, Steve?” Spotting the angry tears in his eyes, she softened her tone and sat down beside him: “Listen, Eddie Munson gets through sexual partners like you get through double espressos. Rumour has it that his latest rehab stint was for sex addiction.”

He let that little bombshell percolate through him.

She squeezed his knee. “I’m not sure you should go tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m going!” He slammed her with a glare, lip hitching slightly. Truth was, he heard her. He didn’t care: “I want you to come with me tomorrow. Listen, he’s renting a place in the swishest part of the Alpha quarter. I know how you mainline all those ‘Ultra-Alpha my Pad’ property shows—that’s your addiction, huh?”

She crinkled her nose. “You’re really dead set on this? Ugh, I suppose at least you’re not lying to me this time!”

“I’m sorry about that. All I know is how he makes me feel. Tonight, I practically threw myself at him! I was out of control. He could’ve done what he pleased with me, taken whatever he wanted. Instead, he asked if he could court me. Why should I believe all that crap about him, when he’s been nothing other than a perfect gentleman?”

“Uuuuuugh!” She pulled him into a hug, which set his heart glowing. His mind raced ahead to some dream future where Eddie and Robin were besties, the stars aligned, and the whole world was as one.

A world where when Eddie whispered the word ‘home,’ it referred to a nest.

Steve’s nest. Their nest.

The anxious grit in her tone threw him, ever-so-slightly: “Just this once, Dingus. I don’t care if he’s a rockstar Alpha or Prince fucking Charming. If he hurts you in any way, if he makes you sick… I’m literally gonna rip his throat out.”

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Chapter 5.1 on tumblr💚 If you enjoyed, every little like and reblog or comment means a lot to me so thank you💚

Chapter 5 on AO3

I am always happy to tag, pls let me know, or you can follow the tag #steddie omega cat cafe 💚

tags 💚🐈‍⬛💚 @disrespectedgoatman 💚 @bumblebeecuttlefishes

@katethetank 💚 @themoonagainstmers 💚 @chaotic-waffle 💚

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#omega steve harrington #alpha eddie munson #omegaverse steddie #steddie omegaverse #steddie omega cat cafe #rock star eddie munson #steddie au #steddie fluff #steddie #steddie fic

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scary-grace · 24 days ago

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Enough to Go By (Chapter 26) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Chapter 26

The mingled scents of disinfectant and antiseptic rouse you from unconsciousness, and your mind comes back online in pieces. The room you’re in is fluorescent-bright, like a hospital. The air smells like a hospital. You’re not lying flat, but reclining, the same as you’d be in a hospital bed. The evidence suggests you’re in a hospital. Whose hospital?

You open your eyes, but they’re blurry and crusted, and when you raise one hand to rub them, it stops halfway. You pull a few times, confused, before the answer occurs to you. You’re in the heroes’ custody. You might have gotten away from Hawks, destroyed Hawks’s quirk, but you didn’t escape after all.

How long have you been here? You blink until your vision clears and sit up as far as you can go, looking around the room you’re in. You’re alone in a room with white, featureless walls, the kind most hospitals have been phasing out because they make patients feel like they’re in an asylum. There’s a door in one wall and a window next to it, but you can’t see out of it, so either it’s specially treated or there’s no one there. It’s quiet in the room other than your breathing and the hum of the machines they’ve hooked you up to.

The door opens, and someone steps through. Or rolls through. The man is in a wheelchair, and his face looks familiar. You know he’s a hero, but he wasn’t at the battle, and there’s a reason — he’s one of Stain’s victims. “You’re awake,” he says. No kidding. “As you might have guessed, you’re in custody. I’m not here to ask you questions, just to explain your medical condition.”

You nod, and the man reads off a tablet, stumbling over some of the phrasing and terminology. “You came in with a spiral fracture of the right radius and ulna, as well as a superficial laceration to your throat. In addition, you sustained whiplash injuries when your fall was broken. You’re consistently tachycardic, and your blood oxygen level is hovering at eighty-nine percent, which is why you’ve got that thing on your face.”

You can’t see it or touch it, but you’ll bet it’s a cannula. It won’t matter. As long as Tenko’s out there fighting, getting injured, your quirk will sap your energy to keep him healthy. “You’re also anemic, deficient in vitamins D and B12, and experiencing the effects of severe sleep deprivation. We took you off of sedation three days ago. You’ve been asleep ever since.”

“I’ve been here for four days?”

The hero grimaces. Apparently he wasn’t supposed to tell you that. “Because of all of the above issues, you can expect your healing process to move at a slower rate than a healthy person’s would,” he continues. He glances down at the tablet again and an awkward, uncomfortable expression crosses his face. “Finally, you, uh — you had a miscarriage. It says you were four to six weeks, er, along.”

Your mind goes completely and totally blank. The hero looks even more awkward than before. “Sorry,” he says. “Anyway, that’s it. Somebody will be by to read you your rights soon.”

He turns and wheels out the door, and you slump back against the bed. You’re in custody. You’ve been here for at least four days, and somewhere out there, Tenko is still alive. The heroes have you, but they didn’t win — but you don’t know who else they captured, and you don’t know how whatever is happening is going. You’re not badly injured, but you’re not in great shape, and until recently, you were pregnant.

You’re not going to think about that. It’s not even slightly important. What’s important is figuring out where you are, how long you’ve actually been here, what’s going on outside — and more important than the rest of it, figuring out how to get out of here, so you can get back to Tenko, where you belong.

The hero said someone would come to read you your rights, but instead of that, a quartet of armed guards comes in. One drops a set of clothes on the end of the bed while another uncuffs your wrists, and then three of them turn their backs while the fourth one — a woman — watches you change out of the hospital gown. Out of the hospital gown, and into an orange jumpsuit, which tells you exactly where you are. You wonder what you’re being charged with. At this point, they probably have a list of things.

Once you’re changed, they don’t cuff you — just surround you, shepherding you down the hall. You do your best to orient to your surroundings, peering over the guards’ shoulders and trying not to trip over your own feet. The more you look around, the weirder things get. You might be wearing a prison jumpsuit, but you aren’t in a prison. You’re in a school.

You’re in a school, and the room the guards hustle you into used to be a classroom. There’s a chalkboard at the front of the room and a blond man you don’t recognize sitting behind the desk. He looks like he’s barely awake, but when you step through the door, he sits up, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Over there,” he says, and the guards direct you into a chair on one side of the room, then set up a chair directly across the from you. “Thanks. You all can wait outside.”

The guards file out, and the man comes from behind the desk to sit across from you. “Under ordinary circumstances, we’d be able to hold you for twenty-three days without filing a charge or reading you your rights. Under martial law, however, we can hold enemies of the state indefinitely. Want to guess what kind of law we’re operating under, Saintess?”

You don’t need to. If Hawks was right, if the country’s descending into civil war, then you know exactly how bad your situation is. “Still,” the man says, “at times like these we ought to be civilized, so I’ll inform you that you have the right to remain silent, as well as the right to an attorney at trial. If you can’t afford an attorney, the government will appoint one for you. Do you understand these rights?”

You nod. “Now, in the interest of transparency, I’m going to show you just a few of the cards in my hand,” the man says. “This is what we know about you.”

He starts with your name, then your age, then your birthplace. The schools you went to, the jobs you held in high school before starting your apprenticeship, your friends. “A bunch of delinquents, but given who you associate with now, these guys might as well have been angels,” the man says. You grit your teeth and keep quiet. “I already know you dragged one of them down with you. Kiyohara Kazuo. You know he used to be a hero?”

“It’s not my fault he isn’t one.” You won’t let a lie like that stand. “He didn’t drop out of UA because of me. That was on you.”

“You know what wasn’t on us? Convincing him to pass classified intel on to his ex-girlfriend who’s screwing Shigaraki Tomura.” The blond man’s mouth twists around Tenko’s name. “You’re listed as quirkless since birth, but you must have something pretty special going on to convince a hero to switch sides like that.”

“Or maybe you didn’t give him a good enough reason to side with you.”

The blond man scoffs but doesn’t challenge you. “Here’s the thing, though — our records have you living your perfectly boring little life until a year and a half ago. Then you show up at the ER with some weird injuries. Nine months later your clinic gets stuck handling casualties from Kamino, and three weeks later you blow up on a crisis counselor. She called it a case of PTSD. I’d buy that, maybe — except then a yakuza thug posing as a delivery driver collapses from radiation poisoning on your doorstep, and later that same day you drop off a kid the League of Villains kidnapped at the police station. The day after that, you vanish off the face of the earth. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, we started hearing about a member of the League of Villains none of us had ever seen. Or at least, we thought we’d never seen. Turns out you were right under our noses the whole time.”

He shouldn’t be surprised by that. You aren’t. Your quirklessness took care of everything — part shield, part invisibility cloak, ensuring that no one with the power to stop you would ever see you as a threat. “But I don’t want to talk about that,” the blond man says. “I want to talk about this.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic bag containing one of your quirk-canceling bullets, needle exposed, already spent. “We’ve seen quirk-canceling bullets before. But we know damn well that these are manufactured differently than the previous versions we’ve encountered. Who made them?”

“I did.”

“Cute. Who made them?”

“I did,” you repeat. The blond man scoffs. “I made them. It was me.”

“Sure. And I bet you made all the Nomus too, right? And you’re the one who Frankensteined Shigaraki into the juiced-up psychopath he is today.” The blond man shakes his head. “Don’t make me laugh. Who made the bullets?”

“I made them,” you snap. Is this really where you’re going to lose your cool? Yes. You have to vent it somewhere, and nothing you say about this will damage Tenko’s position, whatever it is, wherever he is. “What, you think being quirkless means I’m brain-dead or something? I made the bullets. If you think about it, doesn’t it make more sense that a quirkless person would create something like this? The rest of you are too obsessed with quirks to even think about taking away someone else’s.”

The blond man laughs bitterly. “When you put it like that, it does make sense,” he says. “Most of us rely heavily on our quirks. Take them away and most of us are a lot easier to defeat. Leveling the playing field really is your only move. Tell me how you did it.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No,” you say again. You cross your arms over your chest. They haven’t restrained you at all. There’s nothing to stop you from launching yourself at your interrogator and clawing out his eyes. “Is that really what you want to ask me?”

The blond man raises his eyebrows. “What else could I possibly ask you?”

You’re not going to give him ideas, but if you were in his spot, you can think of a few things. Anything about the League’s vulnerabilities. Anything about their quirks. Anything about the PLF’s strategy, capabilities, or ultimate goal. Based on the man’s response, he’s thinking along similar lines. “You mean, about what your friends are up to? Sorry to disappoint you, but we have other prisoners to talk to about strategy. We’re really not interested in Shigaraki’s pillow talk.”

He’s trying to bait you, you think. He wants you to blow up at him and reveal something useful. Your siblings used to do the same thing — needle you until you got mad, then use your anger as an excuse to try their quirks on you. “If you had anything useful going on, Hawks would have told us about it,” the blond man continues. “So you can either tell us who makes the bullets or I can put you back in your cell.”

“I told you who makes the bullets.”

“Then you’re going back to your cell.” The blond man summons the guards, and you get to your feet. “I wish I could say it was nice to meet you, Saintess, but it wasn’t. We’ll see each other again when you’re ready to be honest.”

“I was honest,” you say, but the man turns his back, and the guards hustle you out of the classroom again.

You weren’t in a cell before, but you’re clearly headed for one. The guards take you down a different hallway this time. One side of this hallway is made up of windows, and when you peer out, you can see columns of smoke rising across an unfamiliar skyline. The sky itself is cloudy, roiling, purplish-grey shot through with orange. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it looked like the end of the world.

You don’t know what kind of room your cell used to be, but whatever it is, it’s split in half. The other side of the room is full of fog, so thick that you can’t see through it. The longer you look at it, the more ominous it seems. “Who’s over there?”

“A friend of yours.” The guard who watched you change clothes tosses a blanket at you. “Have fun.”

A friend? Your mind goes instantly to Kazuo, who you know is in police custody, but it could just as easily be Mitsuko or Ryuhei. Or maybe it’s one of your new friends — someone from the PLF, someone from the League? Or they could have been sarcastic, and it’s one of your enemies. The door shuts behind you, and the fog begins to shift. You back away until you’re against the far wall, which doesn’t feel even close to far enough, and watch as an all too familiar figure emerges from within it. Your jaw drops. “Kurogiri?”

Kurogiri’s wearing an orange jumpsuit, same as you. Something about him looks odd, and the longer you look at him, the clearer you can see the outline of a face within the mist. His footsteps are unsteady. He looks disoriented, and when he speaks, it’s in the cadence you recognize as belonging to the older brother. “Where’s Tomura?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he captured?”

“No,” you say. You’re sure of that. “He’s still out there.”

“Is he safe?”

“I don’t know,” you say again. “I’m sorry, Kurogiri.”

Kurogiri shakes his head. “I’m — not. Not —” he grimaces, eyes narrowing to slits. You’re not used to seeing him with facial features. It’s weird. “Not Kurogiri. Shirakumo.”

“Shirakumo,” you repeat, puzzled. “Who’s Shirakumo?”

“I’m the one who protects Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri or Shirakumo or whoever he is says. “Like you.”

You remember him saying that once, a long time ago. “I tried,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

Shirakumo’s expression shifts. It looks like he feels bad, or something. It’s hard to say. “How long?” he asks. “Since they took me?”

“Months.” You think back. It was before you left Yokohama, during the League’s involvement with the Shie Hassaikai. The last time you remember seeing Kurogiri, it was when he brought you and Tomura back to your apartment from the crashed plane. “Six months. What have they been doing to you?”

“They’re helping me.”

That doesn’t sound right. “What?”

“My friends.” What little you can see of Kurogiri’s expression through the mist softens. “They want to help him, too.”

No, they don’t. If the friends Kurogiri is talking about are heroes, they want to kill Tomura. Heroes aren’t against killing people. Hawks was fine with killing you. “Who are your friends?”

“Shōta and Hizashi.”

That tells you nothing. “Are they heroes?”

“Teachers.” Shirakumo almost looks proud of them, even as his features shift, trying to settle into neutrality. “They teach here.”

You knew you were in a school. “Which school?”

“UA.”

You’re at UA. Since when is UA a prison for captured villains? Shirakumo is studying you, head tilted, concern breaking through the mist. “How did they get you? Tomura wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”

“He didn’t let anybody hurt me.” You feel your chest grow tight, feel your eyes begin to sting. “I’m the one who messed up.”

You did. You couldn’t get away from Hawks without winding up captured. You couldn’t keep Tomura from getting distracted during the fight — and getting hurt right now, if your slowed healing and symptoms of physical stress are anything to go by. You couldn’t convince the hero who was interrogating you that you were the one who made the bullets, which means they’re still looking for the doctor and his lab, which means access to the Nomus and the means to make them could be lost at any second. You fucked all of that up, and you got Kazuo in trouble, and maybe Mitsuko and Ryuhei, too. And then there’s the other thing, the smallest, stupidest mistake, the one that would have been so easy to avoid. You were stupid about sex, so you got pregnant, and you didn’t know it, and now you’re not pregnant anymore.

It’s not what you’re upset about, not really, but it’s the easiest thing to be upset about. Easier than thinking about how you might never see Tomura again. Your eyes well up, and when Kurogiri or Shirakumo or whoever’s in charge of the mind and body at the moment asks if you’re okay, you ignore him. You sit down with your back against the wall, draw your knees up to your chest, and rest your forehead against them as the tears drip down your face.

“No.”

You know, just from the voice, that Kurogiri is back in the driver’s seat. You look up and find him watching you from the far side of the glass. “No,” he says again. “They are watching. Do not let them see even a hint of weakness.”

Right. They’re treating you like a villain. You are a villain. Villains don’t cry. You wipe your eyes and sit up straight in a hurry. “Besides,” Kurogiri says, “you cannot believe that Shigaraki Tomura will leave you here. Which will be more beneficial to him once he has liberated you — your tears, or any information you might gather about your surroundings?”

Kurogiri’s right. Tenko won’t leave you here. He’ll come to find you, and when he does, you want to be ready to help him as much as you can. Crying won’t help at all. You make eye contact with Kurogiri and nod once. He nods in response. “We are the ones who protect Shigaraki Tomura,” he says. “Welcome back, Saintess.”

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There aren’t windows in the room they’re keeping you and Kurogiri in. Kurogiri gets to leave more often than you do, and he always sounds like Shirakumo when he comes back — and because he sounds like Shirakumo, he’s a lot more willing to talk to you about what’s going on out there. Shōta and Hizashi tell him a lot more than your interrogator tells you, at least. You spend hours staring up at the ceiling, turning it over and over in your head, watching the picture of what’s happening in Japan come together slowly. It’s not pretty.

You never expected it to be pretty. You weren’t that naive. But the scale of the destruction you’re hearing about is horrifying. Every time Shirakumo comes back, it’s with the report of something else that’s gone. Shiroiwa — gone. Musutafu — gone. Morioka — gone. Nagano — gone. Civilian casualties are lighter than expected, courtesy of the PLF giving mountains of advance warning of where they’re headed next, but heroic casualties are sky-high. No matter who they throw at the situation, the heroes don’t have a good way to stop Gigantomachia. And if what Shirakumo says is true, most battles end the instant Tomura sets foot on the field.

You and he had talked about ways to destroy the old world, and you’d agreed on wanting at least something left to work from, but it sounds like Tomura is leveling cities to the ground every other day, leaving nothing there but dust — or, in the case of the city the two of you were born in, leaving a crater in the earth two miles wide. You can always tell when there’s been a heroic counterattack, because you can always tell when he’s being hurt. You get nauseous, lightheaded, tachycardic, short of breath, as your body strains to match whatever punishment Tomura is taking. The vast majority of the times you’ve been allowed to leave your cell, it’s to receive medical treatment for a condition no one can diagnose, a condition whose origin you wouldn’t admit to even under torture. They might have a way to erase quirks. You can’t breathe a word without risking Tomura.

Even with Super-Regeneration, he’s suffering. You’re starting to think that the injuries he takes during each battle are the only reason Japan hasn’t been completely laid to waste already.

Your interrogator is getting frustrated with you. Frustrated with Shirakumo, too. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he explodes, after you ask him about the rumor that more heroes than civilians have died in the fighting. “Does he just run to you with everything?”

“There’s not much else to talk about in there,” you say. “If you don’t want him to talk to me, put one of us in a different cell.”

“See, we can’t do that,” the blond man says bitterly. “We have to keep Shirakumo on the straight and narrow. Part of his rehabilitation is giving him someone to look after.”

“And you picked me?”

“Yeah. He knows you, you look pathetic as all hell, and you’re the closest he’s going to get to Shigaraki in this lifetime.” The blond man rolls his eyes. “Somebody who’s not me decided that the constant information leakage is less important than helping him feel like himself again.”

You agree with them, whoever they are. It’s not like you have anyone to tell. “Who’s himself?”

“Shirakumo?” The blond man raises his eyebrows. “Why should I tell you that?”

“There’s not much else to talk about in here,” you say. “You ask me about the bullets every time. My answer doesn’t change.”

“Because it’s true.” The blond man rolls his eyes, like he does every time, then hits you with the last thing you were expecting him to say. “It is true. The bullets haven’t made an appearance in any battle but the first one, and nobody we’ve captured from your side has known the first thing about them. Even the highest-ranking creep we bagged — silver hair, blue eyes, bad attitude —”

“Ice bitch.”

Your interrogator wheezes. “What?”

If you ever see Dabi again, you’re going to tell him about this. You clam up, and after a few seconds of poorly muffled laughter, your interrogator sobers up. “Even he doesn’t know about where the bullets came from,” he says. “So either it’s somebody we’ve never heard of making them, who’s suddenly stopped in spite of the fact that they’d be an invaluable weapon in this war, or you’re a mad scientist in addition to being Shigaraki’s quirkless arm candy. Which is it?”

“I answered you the first time we talked,” you say. “The answer hasn’t changed.”

“Well, the questions are about to. How’d you do it?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“Things will maybe go a little easier for you once this is over if I can tell the prosecution that you cooperated,” your interrogator says. “And since we just found out you haven’t been lying to us the entire time, your case for being a trustworthy source is pretty good.”

You are a trustworthy source. You haven’t lied at all. But you don’t buy your interrogator’s change of tune for a second. “Are you hoping to make some of the bullets yourself?”

“Are you joking? We’re not all savages like you.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “I know the charges you’re holding me on. There’s some serious stuff in there. But it’s taking quirks away that makes me a savage? Those are some messed-up priorities you’ve got there.”

“Someone who’s quirkless wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand just fine,” you say. “I understand that you’re asking me how I made them to see if you can reverse the process.”

Your interrogator stays quiet for once. You can’t tell if you’ve thrown him or not, but you can’t resist taking a final potshot. “You’re at war. You aren’t winning. And you’re here questioning me about how to get four people their quirks back. Like I said — your priorities are really messed up.”

“Four people,” your interrogator repeats. “You hit five.”

“Four confirmed quirk cancelations. I’m pretty sure Eraserhead cut his hand off in time, and I didn’t get a chance to shoot him again.”

“Oh, so you would have?” A spark of anger flares in your interrogator’s face. “It wasn’t enough to end two students’ careers before they began? You had to take out a hero, too?”

“I’m not the one who brought kids to fight a war,” you say. You’ve triggered something here. You don’t know what it is. “Targeting Eraserhead wasn’t personal. It was strategy.”

“You just said you were going to shoot him again. Didn’t you trust your bullets to work on the first shot?”

No, you didn’t. You didn’t end up adding All For One to the mix inside them, which means there was a time lag of about four seconds before the cancelation occurred. Eraserhead almost certainly cut his hand off in time. “I wanted to make sure.”

“You disgust me.” The interrogator laughs. It’s an awful sound. “You’re quirkless. The world you live in would be hell if it wasn’t for heroes. Your life has probably been saved by heroes more times than you can count. And how do you repay us? By quite literally hopping into bed with the villains and —”

“Repay you?” You can’t lose your temper. You can’t. “Being a hero is a choice you made. I didn’t ask you to do it. And I’m going to take a wild guess that you didn’t choose to become a hero just out of the goodness of your heart. There’s big money in being a hero, isn’t there, Present Mic?”

You weren’t quite sure when you said the name, but Present Mic makes a mocking bow. You keep talking. “The government takes my taxes and pays you to be a hero, and you make money off your radio show and sponsorships, but that’s not enough, is it? I’m supposed to kiss the ground you walk on, too?”

“Given where your mouth has been, I don’t want you kissing anything I’m going to touch.” Present Mic’s mouth distorts into a sneer. “Lifting the Hero Killer’s talking points now, are we? Have you ever had an original thought in your life?”

“Have you?” you fire back. “Villains don’t just fall from the sky. Society creates them. You have to, or else you and Eraserhead would both be out of a job.”

“And now we get to it,” Present Mic says. “I’ve been wondering how somebody who looks like the dictionary definition of civilian could justify siding with Shigaraki. You’re going with the “it’s our fault for not saving him” defense? Really?”

“I wouldn’t give you that much credit.” That should be enough, but the words slip out of your mouth anyway. “It’s my fault, too.”

Present Mic gives you a weird look, opens his mouth — and then his phone pings. He glances down at it, and when he looks up, his expression is full of rage. “That abomination you’re defending just obliterated Yokohama. Why don’t you stop pontificating and start telling me exactly how to get the heroes you crippled back into the field?”

Yokohama’s gone. Your apartment’s gone, the clinic’s gone, your friends’ houses are gone. Are your friends gone, too? Did they get out? You sink your fingernails into your palm and try not to let it show. “You’re a hero. You’re fighting a war, and you’re losing. Why are you wasting time talking to me?”

Present Mic’s eyes flash. A low hum travels through the air, and for a moment, you’re certain he’s about to unleash his quirk on you. Then the air stills. “You��re right, Saintess. You are a waste of time.” He turns to leave the room, throwing the words back over his shoulder. “Midoriya should have let you fall.”

You’ve been wondering who caught you. Which of the heroes would see a falling villain, a villain who’d just crippled a beloved hero, and decide it was worth it to catch her. You’d assumed it was someone who was thinking of your strategic value — if Hawks saw you as important enough to use, then clearly you were worth keeping around. But somehow you don’t think that was Midoriya’s reasoning. Everything you know about Midoriya Izuku, everything you’ve heard Toga swoon over or listened to Tenko bitch about, tells you that Midoriya Izuku acts on instinct. He wasn’t thinking about strategy when he saved you. He saw someone in trouble and wanted to help.

That reminds you of someone else, too. Someone who’s just wiped the city you found each other in off the map. You dig your nails deeper into your palm and wait for the guards to bring you back to your cell.

But they don’t come back. You sit there for ten minutes. Half an hour. Two hours. No one comes for you. You aren’t chained to your chair — you can move around — but when you try the door, it’s locked. There’s nothing in the room but your chair and the one Present Mic usually sits in. Four hours. There aren’t windows, either. Five. Six. Seven.

You’re hungry, and thirsty. Something must have happened to Tenko in the battle for Yokohama, because your heart is racing at a hundred and forty beats per minute, and no matter what you do, you can’t catch your breath. You lie down on the floor as spots fill your vision, elevating your legs to try to keep some blood flowing to your head, and stare up at the ceiling. The connection between you and Tenko is omnipresent, but blind. You can’t see where he is, feel what he feels, know what he’s thinking. All you have are memories.

Tenko didn’t use to have nightmares. Not as a kid, not when you met him as an adult — but after he came back from receiving the quirks, he did. You always knew when he had one, because he’d lie there shaking in the dark for long moments before he turned to you. It felt like he was trying to drown himself in you afterwards, sometimes with sex, sometimes through kissing, sometimes just by crawling into your arms and holding you tightly enough to make your bones ache. If he stayed awake long enough, he’d tell you what he dreamed about. Never the whole dream. You knew that by the way he hesitated. But enough of it to give you nightmares, too, if you didn’t already have your own.

It was the quirks. Even the copied quirks carried imprints of the last moments their owners possessed them, and sometimes a little more than that — and the last moments before a person’s quirk was stolen by All For One were terrifying. You remember holding Tenko close in the dark, your body folded around his, trying to soothe him. “It didn’t happen to you,” you remember saying. “You’re safe.”

“It happened to them.” Tenko sunk back into your arms, pressing even closer. “When this is over. Promise.”

“Promise what?”

“You’ll take them away.” Tenko’s voice caught for a split second, then blurred almost into incoherence. “I don’t want them anymore.”

You didn’t even know where you’d start. “Tenko —”

“Promise.”

“I promise,” you said. “I love you.”

“Love you.” Tenko settled even closer, already falling asleep. You were glad he could sleep. At least one of you needed to rest.

You didn’t know how, but you started thinking about it. You’re still thinking about it now — how to remove the quirks the doctor transplanted into Tenko, which ones you’d leave, which ones he’d let you leave. Would he want Decay gone, too? How would you get rid of something that’s in his hands? You don’t know. But there has to be a way. As the hours tick past, you let it consume you, the question of how you’ll bring Tenko back to himself, how you’ll make sure the nightmares leave him for good. He’s winning the war. You’ll find each other again. Everything will be fine. If you tell yourself that enough times, maybe it’ll come true.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but when you wake up again, you aren’t in the classroom anymore. You aren’t in your cell, either, or in the room where you first woke up after you were captured. You’re in what looks like a proper infirmary, with softly painted walls and multiple beds. The ones that are occupied have curtains drawn around them, and you can hear the soft hum of life support machines. You’re not on life support, are you? You raise your hand to your face, surprised to find that you aren’t being restrained, and find a cannula tucked under your nose, again. That’s not great. But it’s not life support, either.

“You’re in our medical bay,” a weirdly familiar voice says from next to you. You glance over at the chair next to your bed and nearly jump out of your skin.

It’s All Might. All Might is sitting there, looking like a skeleton with a mop of blond hair, eyes sunken and shadowed, with a file and a tablet folded in his lap and what looks like a nurse’s call button in his hand.

<- Chapter 25

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hart269 · 1 year ago

Text

Slithering Hearts

Chapter 8

Pairing : Regulus Black x Fem! reader

Synopsis : You begin an unlikely friendship with the little Black. And soon your whole life seems to have become a tumultuous pathway. The catch, James Potter is your brother.

A/N : The Altair and Vega lore deepens.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

The chill that ran down your spine stopped once you entered the owlery, nose crinkling as the musty smell of birds attacked you. You silently waved your wand to a cleaning spell. Clutching the letters you searched among the rows of owls for your beloved Altair. A frown perched upon your face not finding him in his designated place. You didn't remember sending anything. You wondered if James used your owl.

You gave out a call, "Altair". Hearing a loud hoot from the east corner, you turned to see your beloved with his beloved, Vega. You gently picked him up, nuzzling his chin, "Shoul'dve known, you can't live without your girlfriend can you?". The owl hooted in response. Handing him the letters, you chuckled. That's when your eye caught something strange.

You moved cautiosly, remembering the symptoms from the 'Fantastic Beasts and where to find them' and general owl behaviour. As Vega moved towards you, your thoughts were only confirmed the more you stared. Well, that was unexpected.

Returning back, you plopped down on the sofa, "Hey Reg, how do feel about kids"

Barty snickered, "As he feels about his mother"

Regulus rolled his eyes, "They're fine as long as they don't annoy me".

You hummed, raising your brows.

"Wait, you're not adopting another cat are you"

Barty looked confused, "Don't you have like two already?"

You let out an offended gasp hitting his shoulder "Hey, you're just jealous cats love me"

Regulus smirked, "Sure they do". You scoffed, "Atleast beetlejuice does"

His voice was laced with confusion, "You named it Beetlejuice?"

"It is a mighty fine name, it took a long time to figure it out" you were going on about the names, before realising that it was going off track. "The point is you are gonna be a parent and I am ready to pay child support"

Barty almost whiplashed turning between you two, "When did that happen?"

"What, did you.... did you hit your head?" he speculated, turning your head after pushing Barty off the sofa.

You shook it out of his grasp, "Noo, Vega is gonna lay eggs"

"What?" he asked, processing the unexpected news.

"Yes" you admitted, "Altair is the father"

He drawled, "So, like who's gonna keep the kid"

Your brow furrowed, "Shouldn't the mother keep it?"

"She should" He nodded, he knew so but he was rightfully worried about taking it back to Black manor. Raising another owl there, he'd have to careful with that.

"I'll help you for sure, I mean it was my Altair because of which...this happened, but you shall not worry, it'll be a nice owlette" your rambling halted, noticing the melting gaze on you.

"Then if I'll have if you with me, I guess we raise a damn good owlette" His hand laid on top of yours, you squeezed it gleefully. "But I am not letting you name it"

You pouted, "I'll give it a good name". He rolled his eyes, "We'll see about that". He suddenly stood up, closing his books.

You looked up, "Where are you going?". He lend out his hand, you grabbed on it as he pulled you up. "To the owlery, to check on Vega"

"It's cold and I just came back" you groaned. He smirked, "You said you will take responsibilty right?". He chuckled at your unenthusiastic nod, dragging you with him.

Barty just went grumbling to Rosier, "They always disappear together, don't they."

Regulus checked Vega while you watched from the side. He turned to meet your gaze, "She really has been for some time". He would have noticed sooner, if sending or receiving letters to family had been a regular thing.

You seemed to realize the same time as him of your closed proximity. His nose was tinged red, cheeks flushed, eyes shining as his did when he looked at the stars. You wanted to stay frozen in this moment, until you were over the exhilaration though you doubted any amount of moments would be enough.

But you needed to move, it was not a right thing. To look at him that way, to feel that way about him, but you couldn't force your legs to move. You subconsciously moved foward, you think he did too because your breath mingled.

"Do you know why I named my owl Vega?"

"Why?" you asked, wondering why he chose to bring that up now.

"Vega was the godess of the sky who fell in love with Altair, a mortal. She promised to bring him to heaven, but it angered her father. Though he granted her wish, he separated them by the Celestial River. Yet each year, a bridge of magpies forms across the river. And then they meet." he paused, taking a breath, "So that day when I heard you had named your owl Altair, I could think of nothing but Vega, I hadn't even named her at that time but then no other name seemed perfect."

"It is perfect Reg" you muttered, grinning from ears to ears. You moved a strand of stray curl from his cheek, you were so full of the things you wanted to say to him, it was on the verge of overflowing. "Reg, I-".

"It's cold isn't it, we should return" he interrupted your chain of words.

Your face warmed up and you nodded, stepping back. "Yes, of course".

The walk back to the castle was awfully silent, yet you didn't wish to fill it. It remained such so for quite a while. Neither of you brought it up, and you assumed there was nothing up to bring. You were the one with terribly high hopes, and it had been wrong of you to assume he had felt the same. Still you couldn't shake the image of him up so close, but you guessed you could live with this thing inside of you rather than live without him.

The black and white motion picture across the page of The Daily Prophet led to quiet murmurs of distress and apprehension. A skull of shadows loomed pver the sky, a shadow snake protuding out of its mouth. The article "TERROR RISES AS THE DARK LORD DOES", showed another story of muggles and wizards being attacked. Houses set ablazed in flames, while humans, and animals eiyher ran or lay dead on the ground.

You teared the article trimming its edges, sticking it into your collection. With the whisperings of the upcoming war, you saved all of whatever information you could find of him. Voldemort as called by his lovely death deaters and those who feared him simply referred to him as He who must not be named.

His morphed face either raised deep terror in the hearts of the people or resentment or in some both. You however resented him, just for the sake of power, he had killed innumerable innocents. The thing you didn't get was the amount of lust he had for power. He was already probably midway through his life, what will he do with such power. He had no heirs either. Though you had heard some claims, all turned out to be false. But then his mannerisms were similar to Grindelwald, however Voldy did have a penchance for show off.

You were determined, to find out what you could about the supposed lord. Though you knew if you were to fight in the war, you not only had to defend yourself against the dark arts but learn them too. You glanced at the hidden copy of "Magick Moste Evil" on your nightstand that you had "borrowed" for a while. It was time to begin studying. It was better to think about this rather than what happened at the owlery.

To say Regulus didn't regret moving away would be an understatement. He did, but he thought he would have regretted giving in more, you were already in the deep mess as it goes, to pull you in deeper in the trenches of his life, he doubted he would be able to forgive himself. He knew, he knew for sure you would never side with his family, you hated them with a passion, he did too. Yet, he was a part of it. The house he was forced to call home was the place he could return to, and he had to, not like he had a choice.

It was way past midnight a small black cat could be seen slithering in the shadows of the darkened hallway, heading towards the doors of the library. There it slid past the books to the back of the library, sliding past the robes it reached the section it needed to be, the forbidden section.

It then transformed into a human, its dark curls merging with the shadows. A whisper of lumos, then a hand skimmed delicately through the titles of the books, before stopping and picking up one.

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