#why do I live in a place with stairs and narrow doorways….

[warriorsatthedisco]

I think I may have broken my foot today and then had to walk 3/4 of a mile back to my car 😬

[syoddeye]

animal control

ghoap x f!reader | 1.5k cw: pet play, non-consensual touching a/n: no actual animal abuse is depicted. inspired by all the incredible pet fic i've been feasting on lately, particularly touch me 'till i vomit by @/cordeliawhohung and scrap metal muzzle by @/391780. i adore and admire you both. banner is by @/cafekitsune. ⛓️

you’ve only been in the new place a week, but you’re positive the neighbor is committing animal abuse. 

each time you step out for an evening smoke, you hear pathetic whimpering from an old dog house over the fence. you’ve never actually seen the dog, but the shelter’s huge, maybe built for a shepherd or a mastiff. the stake hammered into the ground in front has a thick chain hooked to it, and its length disappears through the entrance.

you’ve tried throwing food and baby talk to lure the poor thing out of its hiding place, but nothing’s worked. it must be petrified with how it goes completely silent at your attempts. the thought of it shivering alone in its house keeps you up at night.

the icy downpour that picks up after dinner is the last straw. you stand at the back door, toe wedged into it to prop it open, and blow smoke into the wet and cold air. sad little whines punctuate the hammering of rain, pitchy and loud. like the dog wants attention, like it’s begging its owner to take pity on it. the sounds strike fury into your heart, an anger you pursue to your neighbor’s door.

huddled beneath the narrow overhang of the door, you wait for a response to your frantic, angry knocking. an answer arrives as you lift a fist to knock again. the door swings open to a pillar of black.

“yeah?”

big, tall, and as broad as the doorway, the neighbor glares down through a balaclava shoved to the bridge of his nose. dressed entirely in black, his arms test the knit of a jumper as he crosses one arm and picks at his teeth boredly with the other. scarred knuckles matching scarred lips. his eyes swallow the glow from the exterior light, flat and inexpressive, but his head tilts after a second, and they drop to your tits.

you hold onto your nerves with both hands. you can stomach a lech if it means helping an innocent creature. squaring your shoulders, you lift your chin and cut to the chase. “haven’t you ever heard of ‘if you’re cold, they’re cold’? seriously, can’t you hear him? i’m going to ring and report you for leaving your dog outside in this weather! and for all the other times!”

his gaze darts toward your flat, then returns to your face. “you’re the new neighbor.”

“yes, which is why i thought i’d address this directly first, before i call—“

“got a name?”

you inwardly fume at the interruption and ball your hands into fists to squeeze, all but hissing it at him.

he squints and licks his teeth, repeating your name with a sneer. “the mutt’s perfectly fine. unless you wanna check for yourself?”

the offer throws you. this is your first time confronting a criminal, but you don't think they typically allow people to witness their wrongdoings. it could be a bluff. given his stature, he's probably banking that you won't challenge him. perhaps, if you at least catch a glimpse and see if the dog's alright, you could sleep and still report him in the morning.

“as a matter of fact, i do. and your name?”

“simon. c’mon, then.”

when you turn to go to the garden gate, he clicks his tongue. “not gettin’ soaked out there, through ‘ere, pet.” he lumbers further into his home.

you hesitate with one foot off the stairs. simon stares from the center of his living room, and raises a single notched brow in a silent well?

you step inside.

he huffs and holds a hand up when you close the door and start to trudge after him, “oi. shoes off,” he barks, then mutters, “no better than ‘im.”

your socks squelch on the cheap parquet, and his eyes flicker down to them before crawling to your face.

“this way.”

simon leads you through the house; the floor plan is the same as yours, albeit mirrored. it’s obvious he’s lived here long enough to make modifications. dog gates screwed into the walls, blocking off the bathroom and stairs. a set of hooks bearing a lead and keys. scuff marks midway up the wall throughout the hallway.

“you always a bleedin’ ‘eart?”

“i’m an animal lover.” you deadpan.

he laughs. 

you pause again at the threshold to the kitchen, staring hard at the glass door leading into his garden. bowls for food and water sit beside the door on a silicone pad, the name ‘soap’ engraved onto their rims. they do not sway you, though. the bare minimum can be met, and a pet can still be neglected.

before simon can scold you again, you tiptoe past the stringy remnants of meat and an empty bottle on his table. a strange little part of you is glad he’s eaten.

he pushes the door open, and rainfall fills the kitchen. he scratches at the stubble on his chin and peers at you, mouth curling into a grin. “just a tick.”

simon turns toward the dark, then whistles.

“soap! c’mere, boy. come greet our visitor.”

from across the yard, the chain clinks and uncoils. you hear the dog eagerly whine and you tiptoe closer until you’re beside simon in the frame. he shifts sideways to allow it, but it’s snug even with your arms and shoulders tucked.

out of the shadows, though, comes not a shepherd or a hound but a man. dressed in a ratty t-shirt and sweats, his head partly shaved, he lunges, eyes widening when he sees you. his advance cut short as he roughly jerks back, held at bay by the length of chain fastened to the collar on his neck. the pain deters him for all of five seconds before he futilely reaches for you, quickly becoming drenched in the process.

you shriek and skitter back, but the mass of simon’s arm swinging around your shoulders doesn’t let you go far.

this man, this soap, stands with his arms outstretched. chest heaving and body swaying as if he had a tail. one or two more links in his chain, and he’d be able to touch you.

for a moment, you simply gawk in disbelief. mind and body unable to align with the pure shock. then, soap’s teeth begin to chatter, puffs of air briefly form in front of his mouth, drool and spit glossy on the bit gag clenched between his teeth.

“well. look at tha’, ‘e is cold.” 

simon’s hand fists your shirt between your shoulders to root you to the spot, and he reaches one long arm to grab soap’s collar. his fingers rest on the release for the buckle.

“would you like to warm ‘im up?”

you violently shake your head and shuffle uselessly, wet socks slipping on the floor as you try to escape his grip. “please no, no thank you. i didn’t mean to–“

simon ducks his head, nosing your temple. his breath reeks of meat and beer. “bit late for tha’ pet. you stuck your nose in where it don’t belong. you’re a dumb pup yourself, aren’t ya.”

soap makes a low sound in the back of his throat and retracts his hands. his elbows bend, and his hands curl into fists at his chest. he pants behind the bit, big blue eyes fixed on simon. begging and shivering.

the fabric of your shirt strains as you struggle, your head still dumbly shaking as words fail. “i’m not, i’m not–”

“you are, pet. practically a bitch in ‘eat. tossing my dog scraps, cooin’ at ‘im. you want soap to ‘ump your leg that bad?”

you don’t know who’s begging harder—you or soap. if he were a real dog, you think he’d be foaming at the mouth by now. you burst into tears.

“oh, puppy.” simon chuckles into your hair and plants a wet kiss by your ear. he quiets, dropping back into that unaffected tenor from when he answered your knocking, and shushes you. “can’t fault you for being soft, can i? no, i can’t…”

you sniffle and choke back a sob, eyes glued to soap, watching his expression fall. you’re unsure if simon’s talking to you or at you, but you nod hesitantly just in case. whatever gets you out of his place and on the phone with the police faster.

simon’s fingers twitch on the buckle, and your mouth dries.

“‘course. soap’s been a good boy. didn’t break once. and good boys deserve rewards.”

the buckle clicks, the collar falls open, and soap doesn’t give you a chance to scream.

in the morning, crushed between them, you smell wet dog.

[doe-eyed-fool]

Prey | Chapter Five

Alastor x Fem!Reader

Your heart rate began to pick up. Maybe you were just tired, and your mind was playing tricks on you. Yeah. Yeah that had to have been it. It's not like there was anyone other than you and Alastor in the house.

That would be ridiculous, to think that. And it's not like Alastor would have someone here and no tell you. Why would he feel the need to do that? He wouldn't. Simple.

If that were the case, then what did you see just now?

You take a few steps away from the door and narrow your eyes, trying to see in the dark.

There was that feeling of unease again. You took a deep breath, and exhale shakily. There was no one else here. There was no need to be worrying like this.

You should just go back upstairs and back to bed. Alastor would come back eventually. Even though it worried you, you had a feeling he'd be fine.

Suddenly the lights were turned on.

You gasped sharply and turned around, you were met with Alastor standing in the doorway.

"Y/n...What are you doing up this late?" He asked, slightly shocked. "I...I heard some noises outside. And you weren't here." You explained. "I got worried about you." Your attention was suddenly caught by the sight of blood on Alastor's shirt cuffs and hands.

"What happened?" You asked, pointing it out. Alastor was silent for a moment before answering. "I had to take care of some things in that shed. I have a place set up not too far into those woods, for hunting. Brought some things down there for the next time I go hunting, and ended up cutting my hand." Before you could speak, he continued. "I'm fine. You should go back upstairs Y/n, I'll take care of this alright?"

"Are you sure?" You ask. "I don't mind to help you."

"Y/n. It's late, really, you should be sleeping. I'll take care of it." Alastor said, and despite his calm smile, he seemed a bit tense. You sigh. "Ok...Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Alastor watched as you made your way back up the stairs. Once he was sure you were gone, he sighed.

"Might as well turn in too."

The next day, Alastor offered to take you shopping. He insisted, saying now that you were a performer, you should look the part. You couldn't argue with that, and went along with him.

Mimzy had told you you'd be preforming soon, within the next week in fact. It so close by, and as the day came that you would finally preform in front of a real crowd, the more nervous you became. This wasn't like singing front of your parents. This wasn't like singing in front of Alastor and Mimzy.

You'd be singing for a live audience. And as exciting as that sounded, you couldn't help but overthink. What if you mess up somehow? Forget this lyrics, or stumble on stage, or just make a fool of yourself in front of all those people?

Alastor knew you were worried, he tried his best to reassure you and tell you you would do just fine. But his words could only do so much. 

As you were in the dressing room, you started to notice Alastor placing clothes over the door from the other side, that weren't all clothes that you came here for. Some were just casual dresses and a few nice evening ones thrown in too. You raise an eyebrow before rolling your eyes.

"Alastor." You say, in a light scolding manner. "Yes?" Alastor innocently responded. "We came here for just a few dresses for my nights preforming. Why did you pick out so many others?" You ask. 

"Why dear, of course you'd want to look your best outside of preforming." Alastor tells you. "The more you sing for folks, the more you will be recognized outside of the lounge. You can't wear just anything!"

You supposed your normal dresses weren't up to the standards of famous singers. What if one day you did get that far? Wearing old hand me down dresses, some that had to be sewn back together, wouldn't do your image any good. Of course, you would still keep those dresses, as they were given to you by your dear mother.

"Alright. But just a few. Please do not buy out this entire store, Alastor." You tell him before grabbing one of the dresses. 

"Oh? But you'd look so good in everything here." 

You were thankful there was a door hiding your embarrassment and hot face. You decided to ignore that. "I mean it, just a few." You say firmly. Alastor chuckles. "If you wish."

Tonight was a big night for you, your very first performance. You could hardly believe it, your heart was beating wildly in your chest as you stand backstage. You paced back and forth, trying to calm yourself. You kept telling yourself you'd be fine, but your nerves wouldn't listen. 

"Y/n!"

You turn your head to see Alastor approaching you. "Alastor? What are you doing here?" You ask. You knew he'd be here to see you, but what was he doing back stage? Mimzy must have allowed him back here. "I'm here because I had a feeling you'd be a little jittery." Alastor tell you. You sigh and nod your head. "I am..."

"You shouldn't be, dear. You'll do just fine! I've heard you sing, you're a natural! And you most certainly look the part." You didn't doubt that last part. You wore a flashy flapper dress and matching arm gloves. Your hair and makeup were seemingly flawless. You barely looked like your old self, all dolled up.

"I still can't help but worry, Alastor. What if something goes wrong?" Alastor shakes his head with a chuckle. "Like what, my dear?" He asks. "Well, what if I trip on stage? Or, what if I forget the lyrics? Or my voice cracks?" You list. Alastor places his hand on your shoulder. "Y/n, none of that will happen. You are simply overthinking. I'll tell you what will happen when you go out there."

"You will dazzle the audience with your beauty, and then knock them all dead with that lovely voice of yours!" 

Your face heated slightly at his words. "Alastor?" He hums in response. Suddenly your words were caught in your throat. You wanted so desperately to tell him how you felt, that you loved him so much, more than anything. And yet...

"Thank you."

You couldn't do it.

The song that the band was playing on stage had slowly came to an end, as the crowd applauded their performance. You were up next.

"Of course dear. Now, knock em' dead! I'll be right there in the crowd." 

You give Alastor a weak smile before walking ahead, and onto the stage. The crowd clapped as you entered. You gave a small wave before walking up to the microphone. The crowd went quiet, and the music began to play.

Look at me, I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree; And I feel like I'm clingin' to a cloud I can't understand I get misty, just holding your hand Walk my way

And a thousand violins begin to play Or it might be the sound of your hello That music I hear I get misty, the moment you're near Can't you see that you're leading me on?

You couldn't help but think of Alastor as you sang those words. He must have some sort of clue of what he does to your heart, when he speaks to you so sweet and kind. They way he makes you feel so important, so special. 

Surely he knows. Doesn't he? But if he does, if he does know what he's doing, and he continues to do so...

Your eyes found Alastor in the crowd. 

Then perhaps it's better you don't give into his game. If that's what this was. 

And it's just what I want you to do Don't you notice how hopelessly I'm lost That's why I'm following you On my own

Would I wander through this wonderland alone Never knowing my right foot from my left My hat from my glove I'm too misty, and too much in love Too misty And too much In love

The sound of clapping filled your ears, and you take a step back from the mic with wide eyes. They liked it, they like your performance, they liked your singing, they liked you. A wide smile fell upon your face before bowing slightly. You waved your hand before walking off stage.

You couldn't believe it. Your first performance! 

And it was a success! 

[darcymariaphoster]

Antonio and Roderich being Feliciano and Romano's adoptive parents and having a moment for themselves (Italian kids are sleeping or something) after a particularly hard parenting day ...? 👉👈💕

It’s been a while since I’ve really written either of these two, tbh, and I feel like they’re probs a bit OOC. But hopefully this works for the prompt! Thank you so much for sending it in!

The house is a split-level, and, from his spot on his bottom step, Antonio can peer between the bars of the railing and see Roderich’s stocking feet at the entrance of the bedroom door. He’s being careful to be quiet, his footsteps soft and small as he backs away from the doorway, closing the door as he goes. When he hears the soft click, Antonio whispers, “Success?”

Roderich snaps his head around to look at the stairs, eyes narrowed as he makes a shushing motion at him before he slowly turns around and tip-toes towards the stairs. It’s been a really long day. It’s been a while since they’ve had a day quite like this, and they’d hoped that they were over this part of things. It seems that that hope was a bit too premature. Antonio steps down and waits for Roderich as he meets him at the bottom. He ushers Antonio into the family room where they both pause to listen before they collapse on the couch. “Success,” he replies quietly, taking his glasses off and running a hand down his face.

“Any regrets yet?” Antonio asks, slouching down so he can tip his head back to rest on the back of the couch. It’s been about six months since adopting the two brothers, Lovino and Feliciano, and the amount of difficult days have largely outnumbered the good days. Still, almost every time there’s a bad day, Antonio and Roderich check in with each other with this very question. It had started as a sort of reminder as to why they’d made this decision in the first place, to tell each other that they knew what they were getting into and they weren’t going to back out now. And while it’s still often used that way, it’s also started turning into a joke. They’re parents now; bad days happen.

Roderich puts his glasses back on and glances at Antonio briefly before he moves a little closer, resting his head on his chest and wrapping his arms around his middle as he curls up on the couch. “None. You?”

Antonio drapes his arm over Roderich’s shoulders, running his fingers up and down his arm lightly. “Maybe just that we didn’t do this sooner.” That had, honestly, been both their sentiments when they’d first met the boys. A year or two could have made all the difference. But they’re both firm believers that things worked themselves out the way that they needed to, and at least they were able to adopt the boys in the first place. At least they finally have the family they’d dreamt of, talked about for the last few years.

The two of them sit there for several minutes like that, content to soak up the quiet after the day. There are still a few things that have to be done before they can go to bed, but they’re not eager to start any of it. In part because if they aren’t careful, any extra noise could wake the boys, and also just because they’re tired. “I’m grateful to be doing this with you,” Roderich tells him softly and Antonio can hear both the tiredness and affection in his voice.

“Yo tambien te amo querido,” Antonio replies easily, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. “I’ll do dishes. You get ready for bed.” Roderich pretends to protest a bit, but they both know he’s only protesting the idea of actually getting up when he clearly wants to stay cuddled up on the couch. After a bit, though, Antonio kisses the top of his head and wiggles out of his grasp to start on the dishes. With some grumbling under his breath, Roderich gets up as well and picks up the few toys scattered around the living room. The good days will always make the bad days worth it, but he is so very grateful to be doing this with Antonio. He can’t imagine anyone better suited to be doing this with.

[bridgertonbabe]

Could we please get a drabble of Edmund and Violet giving Sophie and Benedict the protection talk?

It's a bit rich coming from the parents of 8 children.

"Ben. Sophie. Glad I caught you two." Violet said, poking her head from the kitchen doorway as the pair reached the bottom of the stairs. "Do you mind coming in here for a chat?"

The teenagers shared a glance before nodding to her request. Violet stood back to let them through and she gestured for the pair to take seats at the table.

"Now we've just got to wait for your father - oh, here he comes now." observed Violet as she caught sight of her husband returning from the garden shed with Colin, Francesca, and Gregory in tow.

"Turns out we did have a spare cage for Gulliver after all." Edmund smiled at his wife as he entered the kitchen, followed by Francesca, Gregory, and Colin carrying an owl cage.

"Oh good, one less thing to worry about it." Violet nodded, relieved that they didn't have to make a last-minute shopping trip to get Colin's owl a new cage after the previous one had been damaged by Anthony and Kate demonstrating a variety of hexes for the kids the day before and accidentally hitting the cage (though thankfully Gulliver was out hunting at the time). "Ed? Do you mind staying?" she asked, inclining her head in the direction of their second eldest and Sophie as she silently reminded him about what they had discussed earlier.

"Right. Yes. Of course." Edmund cottoned on. "Ah, why don't you see how Gulliver likes that?" he said to Colin, as Francesca and Gregory exited the kitchen into the living room.

But Colin ground to a stop as he curiously looked from his parents to Sophie and his brother.

"What's going on?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Nothing. Just having a chat with these two." Edmund answered nonchalantly.

Colin didn't take his word for it and gave a scrutinising look towards Benedict and Sophie, observing how tensed they became under his gaze.

"What about?" he asked, turning back to his parents.

"Colin, just see if that cage is to Gulliver's liking." his mum insisted.

"But-"

"Colin." Edmund intoned. "Just do what your mother says."

Much to his chagrin, Colin obeyed his father's command and stalked out of the kitchen but not before throwing another suspicion-filled glare over his shoulder - to which Violet flicked her wand, causing all the doors to the kitchen to slam shut immediately, as well as casting a quick Muffliato charm in case anyone tried listening in on the conversation that was about to take place.

"Well." Violet uttered and turned to Sophie and her son across the table from her - before quickly realising just how ill-prepared she was to give such a talk to a pair of besotted teenagers. "Um... Ed?" she elbowed her husband, giving him a pointed look for him to start the conversation instead.

"Oh. Right. Okay." he nodded and looked to his son and his son's girlfriend hesitantly. "So... what we wanted to have a word with you about... you see, when a two people love each other very much-"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait." Benedict quickly cut him off, looking nervously between his parents. "This... this isn't... you're not really-"

"It's okay, Ben." Violet assured him. "We just want to make sure the pair of you are not only comfortable but are being safe,"

"No, no, no, no, no." Benedict shook his head frantically. "You don't have to do this. Really, this isn't a conversation we need to have at all."

"Better to have it sooner rather than later, Benny." his father reasoned.

"Please no." Benedict swallowed.

"What your father was going to say is that when two people love each other very much, it's only natural to want to express their love for one another... physically... and intimately."

"Merlin's beard, no." Benedict groaned and buried his head in his hands.

"Look, we know this isn't the most comfortable of talks to have but it is necessary. As you're under our roof and as your guardians," Edmund said to Sophie, who had flushed bright pink from the topic that was being covered, "it's our responsibility to make sure you're aware and take things into consideration before you take that next step in your relationship."

"Could you not let Colin back in and let him crucio me instead?" Benedict grumbled.

"Now before we go any further; it's important that you only take your relationship to the next level when you both feel ready to, okay? Don't feel like you have to just because the other person is,"

"We, um... we're not... we're still just kissing, to be honest." Sophie nervously squeaked out.

"Yeah and this talk is entirely unnecessary." Benedict jumped on. "We're in no rush, we both want to take our time - we don't need to do this now." he gesticulated desperately, wishing for this whole conversation to be over and done with.

"While that's all well and good, we want you to be prepared for when the time comes and you do feel ready." Violet explained.

"Plus, kissing can very easily lead to more-"

"Merlin almighty." Benedict slumped in his seat and buried his head in his hands once more.

"It's perfectly natural for things to get more heated-"

"No, no, no." Benedict cried.

"And when that happens, we want to make sure you're being safe."

"Kill me. Kill me now."

"Obviously the best form of protection is abstinence."

"And who on earth are you two to talk about that?" Benedict snapped his head out of his hands.

"Now, Benedict." Violet frowned at him. "We're just letting you know all of your options. Abstinence is for the best but well, we know what it's like to be young and in love and wanting more. There's plenty of other forms of contraception; there's condoms on the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet-"

Benedict cried out in pain and his head descended back into his hands once more, all the while a stunned Sophie listened on, her lips gently parted as she listened on with wide alarmed eyes.

"And of course if you wanted to go on the pill or opt for something else, I'm here for you to go through your options." Violet directed to Sophie, who had never felt quite so uncomfortable in Violet and Edmund's presence for as long as she had known them. "And of course, there's other ways to express your love other than penetrative sex."

"Death. I want death." Benedict said into his hands.

"Now, are you aware of what foreplay is?"

"Stop! Just stop it!" Benedict yelped. "We can swear to an unbreakable vow right here and now that we won't do it until Sophie's graduated from Hogwarts; just please, stop talking!"

"Ben, don't be dramatic. Of course we're not going to inflict an unbreakable vow on you both." Violet shook her head.

"And you forget, as previous horny teenagers ourselves we can vouch that keeping an unbreakable vow like that is quite impossible." Edmund pointed out with a chuckle - and received a screwed up face of disgust from his son in response.

"The point is, we'd prefer you both to be partaking in safe sexual practices. Not just for your sexual health but we'd prefer Sophie to finish her studies without falling pregnant."

Benedict screamed into his hands as Sophie's eyes went as wide as saucers.

"Now of course, if that were to happen we'd support you in whatever you chose to do," Violet said encouragingly to an incredibly daunted Sophie, "but take it from me; your NEWTs will be anxiety-inducing enough without morning sickness on top of it all."

At this Benedict's hands dropped away from his face and he stared incredulously at his parents.

"You were pregnant when you were sitting your NEWTs?!" he squawked. "You got mum pregnant before you graduated?! You conceived Anthony at Hogwarts?!"

"Ben, come on now. You know we had your brother just out of school. That can't have come as a shock to you."

Benedict gaped in horror at his parents because while he had been aware that his parents had been very young when they had Anthony, it wasn't until now that he applied the maths of Anthony being born in the January after his parents had finished school and how that meant his brother was conceived while their parents were still in their last year at Hogwarts.

"The point is, we'd rather you two didn't follow in our footsteps." Edmund cleared his throat uncomfortably as the tension in the room became palpable.

"But like I said, if you did we'd of course support you in whatever way-"

"Well you know what? You really don't have to worry because this talk is a form of contraception in of itself." Benedict stated while keeping his gaze averted from meeting either of his parents'. "Now please; can we go now and repress the memory of this talk ever taking place?"

[ethereousdelirious]

FINALLY managed to write something for my special little sensitive crybaby princess OC. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing.

There are a few context things I'd like to explain, so bear with meeee

(He has the flu in this. There's mentions of nausea at the end, but nothing happens with it)

Some Context (this is optional so just scroll down to the bolded text if you want to skip):

I've written about these characters before, but I've changed the world and plot of the novel they're supposed to be in, so if you remember anything about that world, just flush it.

Since this is essentially fanfiction of a story that doesn't exist yet, here are some things you're supposed to know about the characters: All of them are in their mid-20s. Hewitt and Sterling are close friends and have recently met Gilles, who had to move out of his family home after they all moved back to France without him (long story). Or fantasy France. I haven't decided if this fic takes place in the "real" word, so to speak, or a fantasy/alternate world. I'll use real world terms for now to make it easier. Gilles is Black and originally from France. Hewitt is white and British. Sterling is extremely mixed race and American.

You'll see Hewitt making vampire jokes at Gilles and referring to Sterling as "Adonis," which are both references to inside jokes woth the characters that I'm not gonna bother to explain because it doesn't matter

Sterling uses Celsius measurements when he's trying to be courteous to his European friends and Fahrenheit when he's alone or distracted.

Okay das all I think

Story starts here

Gilles’ belongings sat in a disordered pile on the cobblestones, dwarfed by the narrow three-story house looming behind them. He swallowed, throat stinging. This was it.

Sterling bumped him a little on his way to the front door, murmuring his apology. Gilles scarcely heard. Even that light touch had made him flinch, sent goosebumps all up and down his arm. His heart pounded. This was really it.

God, he didn't know these people. What if they killed him in his sleep?

“Gilles?” Hewitt bumped him with his hip. That, too, hurt more than it should have, made him shudder. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

Gilles shook himself and forced a smile. These were his friends. New friends, yes. But friends. “It's only polite, you know.”

“Fine, but just know I have garlic hanging on all the walls.” Hewitt grinned and beckoned Gilles to follow him over the threshold. “Come inside! Oh, but grab a box or Adonis will yell at us.”

“Have I ever yelled at you?” Sterling asked, appearing in the doorway. “Gilles, don't listen to him. I'll need you to help me with the furniture anyway, since Heaven knows Hewitt won't be able to.”

Gilles nodded, following Sterling to his dresser. The glossy wood gleamed in the late summer sun, and the beveled edges dug into Gilles’ palms.

“Well,” Hewitt said, “have fun carrying that up two flights of stairs.”

“There's still plenty of work for you to do,” Sterling said, nodding at the various boxes surrounding them. “But being a distraction is not among them. Ready, Gilles?”

“Ah—” Gilles swallowed and his throat stung again. Worse, this time. “Yes.”

His muscles protested the weight of the dresser at once. Every discomfort, which had felt so insignificant not 30 minutes ago, magnified itself as he shuffled across the living room.

That wasn't right.

He and Sterling had carried this out of his house— out of the house with no problems. It wasn't even that heavy. So why were his legs shaking? Why couldn't he breathe? They were still on flat ground.

“Coming up on the stairs,” Gilles said breathlessly, steering Sterling toward them.

Sterling gave him a quizzical look, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Need a break?”

“I— N-no, I…” Gilles shook his head and had to stop talking to focus on ascending the stairs. His knees bumped the edges of the dresser and the sharp pain rippled outward along his skin. “I'm fine.” The words burned in his throat.

“Al‐right.” Sterling furrowed his brow and hefted the dresser.

He seemed to be doing a lot better than Gilles was, despite the obvious effort. His breathing, though heavy, remained steady as they bypassed the landing and continued up the stairs, and he was remarkably steady on his feet. He seemed to have the layout of the house memorized, oftentimes turning before Gilles could even give him an instruction.

Not that Gilles was good for much at the moment. Pain pooled in his palms. The dresser might as well have sliced them open, though the only liquid on him was sweat. It ran down his temples, down his back.

“It's here on the left,” Sterling said, though there was no need. The doorway to the right clearly led outside, and the only other option was to go left.

Dutifully, Gilles shuffled into the vacant bedroom, and then the dresser slipped from his hands and thudded onto the carpet. His whole body shook, his thighs tensing and releasing in minute spasms. He clung to the side of the dresser, staring at the silver dots glittering across the beige carpeting.

“Gilles?” Sterling sounded like he was back at the bottom of the stairs. But that couldn't be right. Maybe it was just… his breathing…. He was breathing so hard his chest hurt, and it was loud. “Gilles?”

He went down slowly, eyes open, and the room tilted in a sickening whirl of white and beige, and the ceiling light seared his eyes.

Somebody had a hard grip on his ankles, shoving the leather of his low-cut boots hard into the tendons.

Gilles’ throat hurt.

He stared at the ceiling light and his breath came back to him.

“Gilles? Are you with me?” Sterling asked.

Gilles lifted his head. Sterling… Sterling was holding his feet up by the heels, staring at him with clinical concern.

Heat flooded Gilles’ face. “What are you doing?”

Sterling let go of him and sat back on his heels. “Facilitating blood flow to your brain.” He cocked his head as Gilles sat up, staring at him. “Do you faint often?”

“N-no.” Gilles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It hurt to talk. “I've never fainted before.” A wave of chills rolled over his skin and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. How embarrassing. He must have looked like such a fool, overexerting himself like that.

Not that it should have been so difficult. What was wrong with him?

“Er, Gilles. You're shaking.”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles croaked, the words burning like acid in his throat.

“What— No, It's 28 degrees and you're shaking.” Sterling leaned forward and hesitated. “May I?”

Gilles blinked at him, tears pricking his eyes. “28 degrees?”

“Oh—” Sterling huffed and planted his hand on Gilles’ forehead. “You're sweating. That's good. How's your head?”

Gilles' breath caught in his throat. He flinched away from Sterling and coughed into his shoulder, all his muscles complaining at the motion.

“Never mind.” Sterling sat back again.

Oh. Gilles shivered and tried to sit up, but couldn't tear his arms away from his chest. “I'm so sorry,” he croaked, clawing at his collar. “I didn't know— I can—” What? There was nothing he could do. He was sick, and all his worldly belongings were sitting in the street. “I, I can— I can still—” He moved to stand up, forcing his arms down despite the painful chills running through him. Another coughing fit nearly knocked him down again, and he clung to his dresser, legs wobbling.

“Gilles, relax.” Sterling stood and, not asking permission this time, caught him under the arm. “Can you manage the stairs?”

“Y-yes…” He would manage the stairs. He'd have to be half-dead before he'd let anyone carry him.

Hewitt's puzzled expression melted into one of alarm. “What happened?” he asked, rushing forward, then darting out of the way like he'd changed his mind.

Gilles couldn't help but wince in anticipation of his humiliating episode repeated.

But Sterling remained silent as he guided Gilles to the couch, only speaking once Gilles was seated. “Gilles’ come down with something,” he said, calm as ever. “The flu, I think.”

“Really?” Hewitt peered at him like a child, blue eyes gleaming like marbles. “But you helped us move all that furniture onto the wagon.”

Gilles shrugged. If he’d been sore then, he hadn't thought much of it. It was a lot of heavy lifting, and he’d already been for a run that morning. But the reminder sent a spike of nausea through him, and a chill that had nothing to do with his fever. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said, squeezing himself in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. “Really, I just need a moment, and then I can—”

“You're crazy,” Hewitt said bluntly.

Sterling nodded like that settled something and leaned over to open the blinds, revealing the street and all Gilles’ boxes. “Hewitt, make sure nobody gets any funny ideas, will you? I've got some phone calls to make.”

“This is a very safe area,” Hewitt said once Sterling had gone. “No one will get any ‘funny ideas.’”

“Oh,” Gilles said faintly. Words and meanings were rapidly becoming two distinct entities. His body ached with the cold and all he could really do was shiver and think about how badly this all hurt.

“I do wish he'd been a bit more bossy, though.” Hewitt sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I never get sick, and Sterling really never gets sick, so I'm not sure what to do. Do you want to lie down?”

Gilles freed a hand and pressed it to his forehead. This was too much. He needed a blanket and he couldn't just borrow one, nor could he bear the idea of asking Hewitt to search through his boxes until he found one. So he'd have to get up. And find one of his pillowcases while he was at it, because he couldn't bring himself to subject his locs to the tweed throw pillows surrounding him on the couch.

Nothing for it.

Gilles got up.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

His knees didn't want to work and his muscles ached.

But he was standing.

“Oh!” Hewitt stepped back to give him some space. “Look, you really don't have to worry—”

“I just need a few things,” Gilles muttered, and made for the door.

Hewitt followed him. “I could get them for you! Unless they're… secrets? I suppose? Do you have a lot of things you don't want me to see?”

The summer sun engulfed Gilles, soothing some of the pain from the chills. Cobblestones burned under his knees as he fumbled with a random box, his hands shaking.

“Why don't you just let me help you?” Hewitt asked. “I promise, I only judge people I don't like.” He stepped forward and opened the box for Gilles, revealing stacks of folded shirts.

“I just…” Gilles fell back on his heels, head hanging. This was a mess. He was embarrassing himself. “You and Sterling have done so m-much for me…” He stifled a few coughs into his elbow, tears burning in his eyes. He'd taken and taken, accepted their kindness with nothing but a few paltry words of gratitude, and now here he was, taking again. It was terribly rude.

“Well, look,” Hewitt said, “you can repay us by not worrying us sick, alright? Just sit back and tell me what you're looking for. And let me know if there's anything you don't want me to touch.”

This, at last, was too much. Gilles nodded, but the tears pooling in his eyes finally spilled over and he couldn't speak except to choke out an apology in French that Hewitt wouldn't have been able to understand anyway.

“Don't cry!” Hewitt's fingertips touched down on Gilles’ back. “I'm sorry! What did I say?”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles said breathlessly, coughing. “I'm not usually so—” He broke off, falling into another fit of coughing.

“Sick,” Hewitt finished for him, moving his hand to rest on the back of Gilles’ neck. “You're burning up.”

Gilles shook his head. “I'm c-cold.”

“Well, have you got anything in here?”

“Um…” Gilles blinked away tears. Did he? “Maybe?”

“Let’s have a look.” Hewitt wasted no time, pawing through Gilles’ shirt with total disregard for how carefully he'd folded them. “There's a lot of green in here.”

Gilles wiped his face. “It's my favorite color.”

“Yes, I can tell.” Hewitt continued digging through the box, until he finally produced the gray sweatshirt Gilles wore running on cold mornings. “How about this?”

Gilles nodded and took it, only remembering to thank Hewitt after it was halfway over his chest. The sunlight was nice on his skin but really couldn't help with the bone-deep chills running through him.

“Anything else?” Hewitt asked, his gaze darting down Gilles’ body in short, jagged lines.

Gilles pulled his locs free of the sweatshirt’s collar and nodded. He was still freezing, but… the cobblestones were warm and the street was quiet and…

Hewitt snapped his fingers. “Don't fall asleep!”

“Sorry…” Gilles ran his hands down his face and tried to rally. “Ah… Something. Silk or satin. A shirt, or one of my pillowcases.” He blinked slowly, his vision blurring a little. “Please.”

“Well, you've got a silk shirt in here, but—”

“S'fine.” Slowly, Gilles reached out for it. Even that small motion took twice as much effort as it should have. How was he going to get back inside? He curled his fingers around the fabric and stared at it.

“I think you need to lie down,” Hewitt said hesitantly. “You don't seem… Can you stand?”

Gilles shook his head.

The world softened to a dreamy blur as Hewitt manhandled Gilles inside. The effort of moving was almost enough to make him feel warm, but… Well, he wouldn't notice either way soon.

The couch was the only thing in the living room, the satin was the only thing on his skin. He lowered himself, aiming the shirt toward one of the throw pillows.

Sound came in little gentle washes of awareness and a bitter chill in his chest.

“Sterling!”

“Yes, good to see you, but please keep it down.”

Thudding and murmurs and footfalls.

“He's still out?”

“I don't think he's feeling well at all. Earlier, I mean—”

“He's shivering.”

Unfamiliar voices. The rush of the sink.

“Last one, I think.”

“Oh, good.”

Gilles awoke in sunset colors, curled on his side under a thick blanket. His dry throat burned and his chest spasmed with sharp, deep coughs.

Water.

He sat up, already breathing heavily, his vision narrow and vivid. The kitchen wasn't all that far, but… It might as well have been miles.

“Don't get up,” said a voice.

Gilles flinched and turned and found Sterling seated in an armchair with a book in his lap.

“Unless you need the bathroom,” Sterling continued.

“N…” Gilles started, but his voice cracked and he started to cough again, eyes streaming. His ribs already ached with the strain and now his head pounded with each forceful exhale.

Sterling got up without a word and sat beside him, holding a glass of water up for Gilles to take.

He seized it and drained it as soon as his body would let him, and fell against the back of the couch with his chest heaving. “I'm sorry,” he panted, staring at the ceiling as his face burned. “Th-thank you, Sterling. Forgive me.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sterling said. “You're our friend and we're happy to help you. Now.” He stood up and set the empty glass on the coffee table, where it must have been resting before. “I'd like to take your temperature, and it would be good if you would eat something.”

Gilles occupied himself getting back under the blanket. It was one of his own, thank god, and he'd managed to work it into a tangle.

“You're still cold?” Sterling asked. He moved as though to press a hand to Gilles’ forehead and stopped abruptly. “Here.” He held out his hands. Gilles passed him the blanket and Sterling shook it out, then tucked Gilles in like a child.

“Thank you,” Gilles mumbled, looking down. His own weakness was terribly embarrassing, but the way Sterling looked after him was so matter-of-fact, so natural. How could he resent it? “Why are you doing this?”

“Just as I said.” Sterling looked at him, his brown eyes nearly black in the low light. “You're my friend.”

“Yes, but…” Gilles shut his mouth. This was all extremely rushed, this… this intimacy. This kindness. “You don't know me.”

“I will,” Sterling said. “Is it bothering you? I can go.”

“No.” Gilles pulled the blanket up, unable to meet Sterling's eyes.

“Good. Maybe I take your temperature now?”

Gilles kept his gaze fixed on Sterling's hands, their pale brown looking ghostly in the light that filtered in through the blinds. This connection, however sudden, was perfectly real. If Sterling meant him harm, he'd had a dozen opportunities to deal it.

“I supposed I haven't been entirely honest,” Sterling said, lifting a glass thermometer to Gilles’ lips. Gilles opened his mouth. “There is a reason I like you so much.” Sterling angled the thermometer in, slid it carefully over Gilles’ teeth. “It's because Hewitt likes you. I don't think you know how rare that is.”

With the thermometer in his mouth, Gilles could only look at Sterling curiously. Hewitt had only ever been friendly to him. Albeit his bit about vampires had been an unusual way to break the ice, but Gilles could take a joke.

Sterling settled back into his armchair, bracing his elbows on his knees. “He was making fun of you that day. He didn't expect you to get the joke, much less continue it.”

Silence stretched out between them for a long moment. Gilles muffled a few coughs behind his closed lips, tensing to keep the thermometer in place without shattering it.

For some reason, Sterling laughed and sat up. “No, of course that wouldn't offend you,” he said warmly. “Hewitt is a wonderful judge of character, but his criteria are a bit unorthodox. I'm glad you aren't offended.”

This was more words than Sterling had ever strung together before. It had to be some kind of record.

Gilles sighed through his nose and slumped against the couch cushions. His body heat had finally caught up to him again, but even the thought of letting the blanket slip was enough to make him tense up. His eyes wandered around the living room, though not much had changed since his arrival that morning. The same floral prints hung on the walls, the same furniture filled out the expanse of flooring that transitioned into the kitchen. Only the minutiae had changed, little things Sterling had brought. A glass of water and a pitcher stood on the coffee table beside a small stack of handkerchiefs. And on the couch, Gilles’ silk shirt had been replaced with a proper pillow in a black satin pillowcase. He smiled a little, tracing the lines of his initials on the corner. GB, in wobbly yellow embroidery floss. Adéle had been so uncharacteristically shy when she’d shown him.

“I hope you don't mind,” Sterling said. “Hewitt mentioned you'd been looking for your pillowcases.”

Gilles shook his head, checked himself, then nodded. That was no good; that didn't mean anything. He smiled instead, wearily.

Sterling got up. “Let's take a look at your temperature.”

“Mm.” Gilles took the thermometer out of his mouth and squinted at it. He'd never gotten the hang of translating numbers to English and his head was far too fuzzy to really apply himself to it. He passed the thermometer over to Sterling rather than speak.

“39.4,” Sterling said. He pressed his tongue beneath his lower lip, brow furrowing. “I suppose that's alright as long as you stay hydrated. And lucid.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you lucid?”

“Yes,” Gilles said, and couldn't keep himself from adding, “unfortunately.” Speaking hurt his throat, but the pitcher on the table seemed… inert. Unsatisfactory.

For some reason, this made Sterling relax. “I was afraid you might be too stoic for your own good,” he said, and poured Gilles another glass of water. “What do you want to eat? Anything you want, I'll get it.”

Gilles looked at the water on the table. He'd have to get out of the blanket to pick it up, and it would be cold. And it would sit in his stomach, just sit there. Anything would. “I’m… not particularly hungry.” A few coughs forced their way up his throat.

“I know you're not,” Sterling said patiently, pushing the glass closer to Gilles. “You have a fever of 103. But I also know you haven't eaten since this morning. Just tell me what you think you can stomach.”

If Sterling knew what a particular torture this was, he didn't seem to care. Gilles only just resisted the urge to hide his face in his blanket. “I don't know… Coffee.”

“What else?”

“Nothing,” Gilles moaned, giving into his childish desire to not be seen. He tucked his head under the blanket and buried his face in his hands. Every instinct screamed at him to raise his head and apologize like an adult. Sterling was only trying to help, and he did need to eat.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked after a beat.

“What?” Gilles raised his head. Sterling was looking at him with the same patient concern as always, no trace of annoyance in his face or posture.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked. “Or would you like me to leave you alone?”

Gilles just stared at him. Thoughts came fast and shallow. Sterling… leaving? Not hungry. Shaking.

“You did tell me you were lucid,” Sterling reminded him, but with a small smile. Teasing.

“I know… I just— I can't really think.”

“That's the opposite of lucid.”

“I'm sorry.” Gilles closed his eyes. “I'm not trying to be difficult.”

“It's alright.” Sterling was quiet for a moment, shifting in his armchair. “What about hot chocolate?”

Well, it was better than anything Gilles could come up with. He opened his eyes, staring at Sterling's hands where they rested in his lap. “That would be fine.” God, he was like a prince sitting here, forcing Sterling to dote on him.

Of course, Sterling didn't see it that way. He only nodded and got up. “Good.”

—

Hewitt came in around the time that the taste of chocolate started to go sour on Gilles’ tongue. At least the warm liquid had warded off the worst of his chills, but, as he'd feared earlier, his stomach didn't appreciate the intrusion.

He kept hold of the mug, letting it warm his hands, and looked up at the sound of the door opening.

“Did you miss me?” Hewitt asked, flopping down in the armchair beside Sterling.

“Terribly,” Sterling said, but he kept his eyes on Gilles.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Gilles forced a wobbly smile to his lips and shifted, bending forward a little to try to control the nausea building in his belly. “Where were you?”

“Seeing Adonis’ friends home,” Hewitt said airily. “You slept right through their visit, you know.”

Gilles frowned. He had heard voices, hadn't he? The memories came murky and cold, disturbed by the pressure in his stomach.

“They helped move your things upstairs,” Hewitt continued.

Gilles ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “Please thank them for me…” He shifted again. The nausea was building, but slowly. He just couldn't… Couldn't get comfortable; it pushed on him. Hunching over had only helped for so long, but straightening up didn't really help either.

“We made your bed, if you'd like to go to sleep,” Sterling said after a pause.

They'd both been eyeing Gilles with varying degrees of concern and suspicion; their eyes burned on his skin.

Bed… That would be good. If only he could manage the trip up the stairs. His stomach wouldn't like it. Even just sitting up was nearly unbearable.

“Maybe… maybe in a moment.” Gilles shifted yet again and laced his hands over his stomach.

“You're terribly shy, you know,” Hewitt said. “If you tell us what's wrong, we can help. And you needn't be embarrassed. I told you, we never get sick. Looking after you is a bit of a novelty, to be honest.”

“Hewitt,” Sterling hissed.

They kept saying that, that there was no need to be embarrassed. Something in Gilles just couldn't believe it. All his ailments seemed so childlike, something he should have outgrown.

“Or you can keep your secrets,” Hewitt said. “But we didn't find anything particularly scandalous while we were looking for your bedding—”

“Hewitt.”

Gilles would have smiled if his stomach wasn't bothering him so much. The pressure seemed to have reached a peak, but he wasn't getting used to it at all, just stuck with the sensation of a hearthstone lodged firmly in his abdomen. Instinct took him and he doubled over, both arms wrapped around himself. “Sorry; I'm alright,” he said to ward off any words of concern. “I just… need a m-moment.”

“Now what's wrong with you?” Hewitt asked. “Are you dizzy?”

“It's really nothing. I get like this somet—” Gilles cut himself off with a hard swallow— “s-sometimes when I have a fever. My…” He bit his lip and released it. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why was this happening? “My stomach's a bit upset.”

“That can happen,” Sterling said. “Do you need to be sick?”

“I'd rather not.”

“But do you n—”

“No, Sterling.” Gilles grit his teeth and swallowed again, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm sorry.”

“Sh, it's alright.”

“Do you ever get angry?”

“Oh, he does,” Hewitt chimed in. “Probably won't ever get angry at you, though.”

“Mm…” Who were these people? Gilles’ head spun, thoughts aimless and shallow. He might as well have been falling, picking up speed with every passing second. “I think I need to stay here,” he said. “I… I'll lie down properly in a moment, if— if you could just…” Words failed him then, and a terrible coughing fit jarred his ribs and his stomach, rattled his head.

“Yes,” Sterling said. His clothing raised against the fabric of the armchair as he stood. “We won't go far. Call us when you need us.”

Gilles didn't say a word.

[magic-is-something-we-create]

Whispers Snippet - (1/?)

Happy Not-MS Monday! Word Count: 500 Content Warnings: Arson; references to weaponry, violence, and alcohol. POV: Marika In which Marika prepares to leave her home behind.

Gathering my personal things is far quicker than I ever thought it would be--but I have kept my possessions few, kept them close, for I have always known this time would come. I have always known, from the moment I met Birma, my nose covered in frost and her tavern warmer than anywhere I’d slept in weeks, that our friendship would be cut short.

I have always known this, but when I stand from my packing and find her in the doorway with tears streaking down her plump cheeks, I realize I have never thought of how to say goodbye.

Her hug would snap me in two if I was any thinner, any less strong beneath the narrow frame, and her fingers latch to my scalp beneath my short hair like she is clinging to her life. I breathe in her scent, the rosemary that clings to her fawn-brown locks, and clutch her, too.

When she lets go, I still do not know what to say.

So I say nothing at all before slipping out the door and down the stairs.

I stay silent, as I approach the end of the bar. As I shove an empty keg out of the way, open the hatch underneath, and close it behind me as I descend the ladder into the cellar with shaky breath.

My lungs start to ease, when I light the oil lantern hidden behind a small maze of casks. They steady further, as I gather the papers tucked between two kegs, the stories and lives and futures squirreled away where only I would ever find them once their new owners disappeared with the weight of their life lifted. Where only I was ever supposed to know why they were gone, why their homes were empty, why the tracks in the snow were not those of a person.

I have set them alight before I dare to think of whether the Shadow will punish me for erasing the trail of their past forever.

As they burn, I pick through the spaces between the surrounding barrels, retrieving knives, pouches, maps, trinkets. Donning gloves, hitching blades into the sheathes under my hooded cloak, slipping coin into three different wallets hanging from three different places.

And when I am done, when the papers are nothing but ash smoldering on the packed dirt floor, I stomp the flames out and snuff the lantern, plucking a sprig of mint from the wall by the ladder and crushing the leaves in my fingers to cover the scent of smoke.

Alexei is waiting by the door when I emerge. I shut the trapdoor as quick as I can to keep the smoke from spilling out, dust off my pants to disperse any remnants of soot and rub the mint oil in, and stand with a huff.

“Ready?” he asks, eyes darting back to the stairs as I roll my shoulders.

“No such thing,” I mutter, and take the first step towards my fate in the north.

[the141ghost]

"Soap, those were not your fucking orders!" Ghost shouted back through the radio, brows knit in frustration as he quickly realised it would be like trying to get blood from a stone, having Johnny leave a job half done. "Stay away from the windows, I'm moving to you."

And, as quickly as he could, he did.

Or, at least that was the plan. As another mortar fire shook the ground but didn't even touch the building, Ghost's theory proved correct.

He grasped the radio again. "Soap, have your men take cover in one of the outside buildings, as far as they can away from us," he ordered, boots pounding against the concrete as he ascended another flight of stairs. "They do not want us levelling this place, thinking the mortars might be to keep us still so we can't."

Right now, being outside was more dangerous than being inside with live explosives. Hence why his attention had turned quickly from finding Soap to getting his men off the roof.

By the time he got up there, his lungs were on fire and so were his legs, but his only other option for getting up there would have been the fire escape outside. And, as already proven, being outside and away from the buildings came with its own problems.

He shoved through the heavy door, doing a rapid head count the second he made it out. His question of Martinez's whereabouts was quickly answered.

The private, god bless him, ran straight up to Ghost the second he saw him. "We- We tried giving him cover, but-"

Question answered, he supposed. 

"Oi, enough. Mind on the task, yeah? This shit happens." Honestly, Ghost was more broken up about Martinez being KIA than he let on. He couldn't exactly show it in front of the team, not when he was the one who had to keep everyone whole. He gave the boy a firm slap on the shoulder. "I'll cover MacTavish. You both get down to the building on the west side, we'll regroup with you later but I need you to stay on comms. Clear?"

As he took one of the scoped rifles from the pair, they made sounds of agreement, and promptly left him to his own devices. For a second, the Private lingered in the doorway, looking as if he wanted to apologise to Ghost but decided better of it. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

Despite the situation, as the door squealed shut, Ghost managed a small smile at the thought before he settled himself down on the edge of the roof with the best vantage point.

With his radio set up against the ledge beside him, Ghost turned his focus to the tree line. Through the scope, the heat signatures of their attackers were bright and clear, and Ghost's eye narrowed as he lined up his shot and hit his target in a matter of seconds. Then, he dropped another.

It was going well, he'd managed to take out the two that were manning the mortar cannon. But, it wasn't surprising that two of their companions' heads exploding alerted them to Ghost's presence.

He ducked down a touch, grabbing the radio again and pressing down roughly on the PTT. "Soap, I need an ETA," he said, risking another glance through the scope. 

He didn't notice the small glimmer somewhere off to the left and a loud crack rang just shy of his head. His grip tightened on the radio, and it made a very displeased hiss at the manhandling, he didn't even have the time to consider that he'd broken it before another shot raced past his head and he laid himself down on the roof, flat on his stomach. He raised the radio up again and swallowed down his nerves. "Johnny, fucking hurry up!"

Everything was going so well, they had the first floor rigged up and ready in no time, but of course something had to go wrong eventually. He cursed inwardly when he heard his radio come to life, Ghost’s voice sounding over it. “Rog. Standing by,” he replied in his radio, gesturing for other boys to hurry up with it.

“Gotta be quick with this, could have hostiles on us soon,” he reported to them, the three of them picking up the pace as they reached second deck.

They had about 2 more minutes of silence before it all went wrong.

Ghost’s voice was heard again, this time quicker in his distress, but he cut himself off and didn't allow Soap a chance to reply. Shit, that wasn’t good. Had something happened to him? The thought of that - of Ghost being shot down or otherwise injured while he was too far away to help - had his heart leaping into his throat. He almost reached up to switch channel so he could ask Martinez or one of the others for a sitrep, but his answer came moments later in a panicked shout from Ghost.

His heart dropped from his throat and out the bottom of his stomach.

“You boys go - I'll finish this off!” Soap gave the order to his team down the radio, the men stationed at the entrances legging it out of there and the two with him dropping what they were doing. One of them hesitated, and while he appreciated the concern he would be fine, he wanted to make sure they got out at least - “Go!”

As they rushed back to the stairs the first shell hit, the impact shaking the whole damn building. It was thankfully at enough of a distance to do no damage, but any of those strike close enough and they weren’t going to need their fucking charges.

He just hoped Ghost was safe out there, getting away, and wasn’t doing anything stupid like running towards the mortar fire out of some stupid, heroic need to get them out of there, putting himself at unnecessary risk in the process.

The second shell hit, the sheer volume of it killing Soap’s hearing for a moment. He pushed through, and once his ears had stopped ringing Ghost’s static-y voice came into focus again, even more frantic than before. He knew it was an order, but-

“Got the others headin’ out now, I’m laying the last charges!” he called back through the radio. He was here to do a job, and he was going to get that job done, mortar fire or none. He was laying the last explosive now anyway - then he would turn and get the fuck out like the rest of them. He could set the building off once they were far enough away, then there would be no reason for them to hang around any longer.

[softlymellow]

not now, not ever - P.P

pairing: Peter Parker (T.H) x reader (Marvel)

word count: 2.2k

warnings: SPOILERS FOR NO WAY HOME!!!! and majorrr angst and death

request : i love your writing! could you maybe do a peter parker x reader based off of no way home where instead of may dying, it’s the reader in her place, but like may is there too (may lives)? tysm <3

a/n: this is so sad :( thanks sm for the req btw !! also you guys are asking for a part 3 for remember me? i honestly would love to do it, I just can't promise it'd as good since it'd be non canon. if you guys have ideas for part 3 send them in !!

The tension that rested in the air could almost kill you any second.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Electro asked, his brows knitted together.

Peter didn't respond, looking between everyone in the room, his eyes filled with distress. You took Aunt May's hand and pulled her to the doorway of the room, sending that something big was going to happen.

Peter closed his eyes, his spidey senses going wild, alerting him that something was going to happen, but he didn't know what. Focusing his energy, he inhaled and exhaled shortly before opening his eyes. He gritted his teeth and abruptly shot a web to Norman's hand onto the table, taking everyone by surprise.

Norman looked between his hand and Peter, his eyes darkening, "It's amazing...That sense of yours."

"May, I think we need to go." You whispered into her ear, your gut telling you it wasn't safe to stay here.

"Norman?" Doc Ock said.

"Norman's not here right now." He said, lowering his head and giving a half-smile.

You looked over at Peter, his eyes wide as he shot you a certain look, nodding your head in response. You slowly stepped back, not wanting to alert anyone with your movements or for them to refocus your attention on Aunt May or yourself.

"Did you really think that I'd let that happen? That I'd let you take away my power just because you're blind?" Norman ranted while you walked over to the table with the treatments. You took the cures and devices off of the table and shoved them inside your bag.

Cautiously walking back into the doorway, you stood next to Aunt May and gave a sly nod to Peter. Holding the bag tightly in one hand, you grabbed Aunt May's arm, ready to make a run for it.

"We don't need you to save us. We don't need to be fixed! This is not a curse, they're gifts." Norman exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. Norman looked over at the rest men, his desire for them to join him and to stop Peter Parker.

Electro looked down at his chest, the device beeping signalling that it was closer to curing him, closer to taking away his blessing.

"Norman, no." Doc Ock muttered, shaking his head.

"Quiet lab dog."

Peter's jaw clenched as he gave Norman a hard stare, "You don't know what you're talking about."

Norman narrowed his gaze, "I watched you from deep behind Norman's cowardly eyes. God's don't have to choose, we take." He shot Peter a cynical smile.

Peter kept his stare at Norman, afraid he might do something if he looked away. "Y/n, run." He warned you.

Pulling May's arm with the bag tight in your hand, you darted across the room. Electro immediately pulled off the device in his chest and aimed his hands for the Stark tech. Electrical beams were coursing through his veins and shot out from his hands, the device flying into his palms.

Norman ripped his hand off of the spiderwebs and threw a fist at Peter, hitting him on the jaw and sending him to the floor.

"May, quick!" You screamed, pulling her behind you to the elevator, your adrenaline on a high. You pressed the button to the elevator multiple times, wanting it to arrive already.

"Come on, come on, come on." You murmured, smashing the button in hopes of it working.

The lights around you began to flicker, causing an uncomfortable eerie feeling to settle in.

May's eyes were darting everywhere but paused on the stairwell. "Quick, Y/n, let's go through here." She whisper-yelled, pulling you down the stairs. You held tightly on the railings, the lights making it hard for you to watch your steps.

You felt the building shake as you almost lost balance, but Aunt May and yourself didn't stop running. The sirens of police cars and the sound of a helicopter only increased your anxiety.

Finally reaching the end of the stairwell, you pushed open the exit door allowing Aunt May to run past with you following behind her. Hues of red and blue flashed before your eyes and the smell of smoke entered your lungs.

The ceiling began to shake as you held May tightly beside you until the roof collapsed in front of you, two figures fell through, both grunting and moaning.

You pulled out the cure in the bag, gripping it tightly as though it was your life saviour. As the smoke began to crawl away, you were able to see Peter and Norman.

Your breath hitched in your throat once you saw the scene displayed to you. Norman on top of Peter, strangling his throat with his bare hands and Peter struggling to breathe. Peter tried to pry Norman's fingers away from his throat, but the intense power he had only led to futile attempts.

Gripping the cure tightly in your hands, you ran up to Norman, your seething resentment towards Norman had reached a boiling point. Norman was continuing his speech to Peter but froze once the syringe was stabbed into his neck.

Peter gurgled and gasped for air as Norman stumbled back, getting up and holding the syringe to his neck.

He pulled the syringe out and stared hard at it, a smile growing on his face. Standing in front of The Green Goblin was scarier than you had thought, his menacing laugh and the dark glint in his eyes.

He threw it away, his attention solely on you. "It didn't work," His voice was hard and raspy. Aunt May ran to join you, in defence of Peter Parker, she pulled a piece of metal that was detached from the ceiling.

Peter grunted, his breath shaky as he attempted to sit up. "So, you're Peter Parker's little girlfriend? Norman was right, he got it from you. That pathetic-" He stomped his feet onto Peter's weak back,"-sickness." Peter's body fell to the floor again due to the impact of Norman's foot. He moaned as Norman knelt and pulled his hair so that we could see his face.

Peter's eyes landed on you, the fear and humiliation were evident in his face that you would see him in such a poor state.

"You're crazy, Norman." You muttered, your eyes burning with hate.

"He tried to fix me, Y/n. Tried to take away my gift."

You shook your head, "it's not a gift, Norman. You're sick." You growled, stepping in front of May.

"Go back..." Peter breathed out, his voice gravelly.

"Now, I'm going to fix you."

The sudden whirring outside alerted you, spinning your head around, you could see the shadow of a glider through the window.

"May, run please." Peter croaked

The glider got closer and the noise increased, if May doesn't move she would get hit. In a last-second split decision, you shoved May to the right, letting her fall to the ground and before you knew it, glass shattered everywhere and the Glider directly collided against your back.

"Y/n!" Peter screamed as he watched you fall into the debris, not moving.

You wanted to scream so badly, the pain unreal and you couldn't feel anything past your hips.

Norman took the chance to hop on his glider, he threw on a cloak and flew in front of Peter, a wicked smirk on his face.

Peter stumbled and tried to stand up but he only fell to his knees. Peter looked up at Norman his facial features expressing betrayal and hopelessness. Peter glanced at Aunt May who was cowering in the corner, her hands trembling over her mouth once she realised you had taken the blow for her.

"Peter, Peter, Peter...No good deed goes unpunished. You can thank me later." Norman took a glance at your fixed body, his eyes wide with chaos. Norman pressed a button on the neon green hand bomb he held and threw it to your body, a malicious smile on his face as he escaped the building as fast as he could.

"No!" Peter screamed, using all of the leftover strength he had, he jumped in the way of the bomb. Peter's fingers stroked the bomb, stopping it from hitting you, but nevertheless, the explosion was loud and hit Peter, throwing him to the back of the wall.

More explosions followed but they occurred outside from where Norman left, cars were blown up and the debris flew everywhere. Loud crashes and sirens were all you could hear, the smoke enveloped everything in its way.

The ringing in your ear and the muffled talking weren't enough for you to miss the stinging all over your body, groaning you turned to rest on your back. The harsh sensation in your stomach was hard to forget, bring your fingers, you lightly grazed the area where the glass is piercing you, whimpering at every touch. You brought your hands to your face to take a look. Your fingers had scarlet red running to the sides, a nauseous feeling kicking in as you stared at your quivering fingers.

Too focused on your stained hands, you hadn't realised Peter was sitting beside you, calling out for you until he took your hands into his.

"Y/n? Y/n, you're okay." He whispered, his eyes tracing around your face.

You inhaled, panic setting in, "P-Peter. I can't feel-" You gulped, unable to keep talking.

Peter shook his head and closed his eyes, "You're okay, Y/n. Come on, let's go." He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tight and slowly tried to pull you off of the ground. As soon as you felt Peter try to lift you, a sharp pain ran through your body and you cried out.

"Peter, I-I can't do this. It hurts so much." You squinted your eyes, feeling the tears begin to fall as you were placed back on the gravel.

"Okay, just take your time and try to catch your breath." He nodded, almost as if he was trying to convince himself. Peter brought his hand out to brush the hair out of your face and wipe away the dirt that sat on your cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere, I'll be here as long as you need me to be."

Aunt May sat behind Peter, every instinct in her body was screaming at her to thank you, to apologise, to help you, but she knew that this moment was for Peter and Peter only. There was no other way to help you, talking to you was the best comfort you could get. The blood that began to pool around you and stain Peter's clothes was too confrontational for Peter to want to acknowledge, he didn't want to believe that this was happening.

You breathed out, your eyes became heavy within every past second. Closing your eyes, you let yourself rest for a second, longing to forget about everything.

"Y-Y/n, don't close your eyes," Peter pleaded, his anxiety growing as you become weaker by the second. "Somebody help! I need an ambulance, please, somebody!" He called out, hearing the sirens wailing in the background.

"Peter, she's not going to-" Aunt May tried to explain to him, her eyes pooling with tears.

"No, no, no.." He whispered, trying to wipe the blood away from your wound, but it only made it worse as more began to flow out.

You smiled for him, wanting to pretend it was okay, but it kept faltering with every sharp stab you felt.

"I love you, Peter." You whispered, taking his quivering hand into your shaky ones.

Peter shook his head, the tears streaming down his face, "Don't say that. Please don't say that, Y/n." He begged, brushing his lips against your forehead.

Peter lowered his mouth to kiss your lips, your cold lips felt softer than Peters chapped ones. Using all of your strength, you kissed back as hard as you could, though it felt weak for Peter. You could taste the blood on Peter's lips as he deepened the kiss further, resting his hand on your cheek.

Pulling away for a breath of air, Peter returned his lips to your forehead, closing his eyes, silently wishing he could kiss you without you bleeding to death.

You felt your body go limb, the pain slowly relieving its self. There was so much you wanted to say Peter, but you just didn't have the energy. You wanted to encourage him, to help him fight, to let him know that your death wasn't the result of him. But as you lied there, you had no energy to speak, instead, you stayed silent, allowing yourself to fall into the depths of the darkness.

Peter pulled away from you, his eyebrows furrowed. "Y/n?" He asked quietly. But you didn't respond.

"Hey, Y/n. What are you doing? Talk to me." He pleaded, blinking away the tears but they just kept resurfacing.

"Y/n, please.." He begged, clutching onto your clothes as his body began to shake. "I love you, come back, please. Talk to me."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Peter whispered into your hair as he shook with sobs. Peter hadn't noticed Aunt May holding him back, telling him that the authorities were outside.

"We have to go, Peter," she said urgently.

Peter kept shaking his head and peppering your forehead with kisses, mumbling incoherent words. He wasn't prepared to let you go. Not now, not ever.

--

a/n: her back was broken but not in the good way

also if anyone wants to get added to a perm tag list for peter or no way home imagines let me knowww + thanks for the crazy amount of support these last few imagines

[jolalibrary]

Paint + Ladders

Bucky Barnes x Pregnant Fem!Reader Summary: Bucky comes home to find you not where you're supposed to be, and instead in the nursery, doing exactly what you shouldn't be. AN: Just fluff. WC: 870

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

Almost eerily quiet when he gets in. Bucky, casting a glance around, narrows his eyes as he places the bag on the kitchen counter. The one filled with things you asked him for as soon as you heard he was going out.

Usually, he’d welcome silence, a bit of bloody peace and relaxation. But ever since you were put on bed rest, you’ve found new ways to make him age.

Not that he needs help in that department.

Walking into the living room, he finds the discarded blanket he saw you in when he left, the television off and the untouched mug of tea he made before visiting Sam. The same mug you'd asked for.

He doesn’t need to call out to find where you are. He knows.

Deep down, he’d suspected the moment you’d asked him ‘how long are you going to be’.

That you wouldn’t do as you were told. You never did.

Sometimes, Bucky swears you have been put in his life to push his buttons. And right now, you were doing as much.

He sneaks as quietly as he can up the stairs, careful to avoid the particularly creaking steps as he listens, hearing the distant hums and mumblings from the half-open door. The scent of paint hits his nose before he’s halfway up, and while he knows his senses are heightened, he knows from all the books a pregnant woman is not supposed to be near the scent, never mind in the same room as it.

Considering his next move, he sighs as he peers through the half-open crack. You’re on a ladder because of course you fucking are. Another thing he told you not to do. Your hand merrily painting, without a care in the world. He wonders if you know he’s home, or if you just don’t care.

In one quick movement, he opens the door, “Doll, you’re killing me.”

You don’t stop painting.

Don’t even turn around to face him.

Just continue, as if you have every right to be on a ladder, painting a bloody nursery.

��Because I’m excellent, amazing and beautiful?”

Bucky sighs. “Yes. But also because you don’t listen.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” you say, throwing him a glance over your shoulder as he walks towards you. "I think you're mixing me with someone else."

He knows your steady, but he holds the ladder all the same. As the look he gives you must be making you smile, because it cracks over your face, lighting your features as he sticks his hand out to help you down.

“Look, I’m very aware I promised I wouldn’t paint alone, and technically, I’m not because you’re here.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I am.”

Bucky snorts. “Heavily pregnant. Which means you shouldn’t be painting or on ladders and should be in that ridiculous armchair you made me carry downstairs or the cushiony bed which you moaned at me until I bought—“

“—Bucky—“

“—because you’re eight months pregnant and as Banner said, we don’t know if the serum…”

Pecking his cheek with a kiss he immediately stops talking. As much as he hates it, he can feel his anger subsiding the moment your feet touch the fluffy carpet he lay last week. He almost melts.

Almost.

Placing his hand out, watching as you roll your eyes before handing him the brush.

“I’m very capable of painting a room.”

“You are.”

Your eyes narrow. “But you’re not going to let me are you?”

“I am not—“

“Bucky,” you groan, moving to the doorway. “You know you’re being ridiculous. I can do things. I'm very fit, healthy and everything else. The fact I'm growing a human doesn't mean I'm rendered useless.”

Placing the brush down into the tray, he raises his hands, half-pleading with you. “Doll, can we—you know—just… can we… y’know, not?”

Grunting, you lean against the doorframe, a hand coming up to brush your stomach. “You know, he may be a super baby.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not,” you say, grinning. “But, maybe the reason why he’s so happy kicking me is that he’s happy I’m up, not reduced to sitting and eating. Maybe he wants more room to, y'know, walk around. Maybe he wants to practise his superhero pose.”

He walks over to you, hiding how impressed he is you’ve got two walls done in the time he’s been at Sam’s. Burying the worry which keeps rising up as each hour passes and you get more and more pregnant.

“Baby,” he says, taking your free hand as his other rests on top of the one on your stomach, “I’m not budging.”

“You never do.”

He smirks. “I know, but that’s partly because I'm right. And, you know it.”

“Our son is going to love me more, I’m going to make sure of it.”

He snorts as he presses a kiss on your forehead. “I don’t doubt he’ll love you more the moment he rests his eyes on you.”

“Don’t butter me up, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Now, move it before I carry you.”

You move, before you halt, both hands moving to your stomach. And his eyes widen, and his heart stops.

"Ba—"

"Kidding," you smile wickedly, "Just checking to see if you're looking anymore prepared."

Shaking his head, you laugh. "You're a rotten woman."

"And, yet you love me."

[imagine--if]

A/N: Wasn't a request this time, but I've had this idea in my head for a few days and feel like this could be an awesome mini-fic 😁 enjoy reading!! Also I'm gonna see if I can open my blog to post submissions from you all if you want to send some amazing inspiration in 💚

ₓ˚.୭˚○◦˚. Attention, Part I .˚◦○˚୧.˚ₓ Words: 858

• My neighbour's kind of odd, maybe he just likes the attention? •

Living in Gotham comes with its challenges, and working there is just as bad. You know you get paid half of what you're supposed to, and work for far longer than you should have to, working twice as hard for everything. That's why you had to take that smaller flat instead of a proper, private house. That's how you met your neighbour.

Most apartments in the city aren't at all decent places to live, the flat buildings full of dropheads and thugs, a permanently out-of-order lift, spray-painted cement walls and smashed glass sprayed on the odd stair. This building is tall, overlooking the Iceberg Lounge - a place you promised yourself long ago not to go anywhere near - but it's the best you could find, for now.

It was unsettlingly quiet when you got the key to your apartment on the top floor, the cold corridors narrow and dark, the people quiet and glowering. You had a heavy backpack full of your books and gadgets weighing down on your back, and a suitcase dragging and thumping behind you, as you lugged them tiredly up the stairs, night falling quickly as ever outside. God, you hate this place. Why are everything and everyone so hopeless?

When you finally got to your door, the key having to be shoved and twisted several times to unlock the stiff mechanism, you let out a sharp exhale, running your fingers through your hair and back away from your face, dumping your backpack in the doorway. Faint, echoing footsteps could be heard from a couple of floors lower, heading up closer to your level, and you glanced down the staircase apprehensively, pushing your backpack further in and pulling your suitcase past the front door.

Peering in at your new place, your brows furrowed slightly as your eyes wandered the small hallway that branched off into the main room, and two cupboard-sized rooms to the left, a bedroom and a bathroom. The kitchen was connected to the main room, and cheap, grubby appliances stood out against the dirty white walls and dark carpeting. Well. It would have to do, until you can do better.

The footsteps had stopped whilst you observed your new 'home,' and by the time you looked back to close the door behind you, a figure was standing at the apartment door opposite, curious, intense eyes fixed on you when you flinched in shock. It was a man, no older than thirty, with a round face and a soft, dorky look, clear-framed glasses hiding his murky green eyes. But his gaze seemed to bore right into yours, as if he could see through all the layers on the outside and cave into thoughts you keep buried for good reason.

You blinked out of your trance, giving him a worn-out smile, and his eyes widened in surprise, a pink blush dusting his cheeks as he smiled back at you hopefully.

"Hi," you said awkwardly, "I, um, I'm new, so... sorry if I disturbed you or something."

The man stared at you thoughtfully for a moment, shaking his head slowly.

"You didn't disturb me. I've just got back from... from work."

"Yeah, work," you responded with a light scoff. "Fun." You told him your name, lingering at your door as you spoke, wondering if he might just be one of the very few polite people here that just want to get inside but won't say it. Still, he doesn't seem in any hurry, eyes bright and searching, his frame leaning against his door slightly.

"Edward," he breathed. "I'm Edward."

"Oh, okay, well, it was nice meeting you, Edward," you nodded with a half-smile. "I should probably unpack a bit before it gets too late."

"Unpack," he repeated steadily, his stare veering off to the ground in some distant thought, before they snapped back into reality, a dopey grin sent your way. "Right. I- if you ever need anything, I'm just opposite."

"Good to know. Have a nice night, then!"

Edward's eyes didn't leave you as you close the door, locking it back up and resting your hands against the cool, red metal surface. He seemed nice enough. A little eager, maybe. Was he still staring?

Craning your neck up and pressing yourself against the door, you looked out the small peephole, and sure enough, he was still there, his door ajar as he tried to make himself go inside. That bright smile was still on his face, and it took him at least a minute to back into his cluttered-looking apartment, a shrill, weird screeching and squeaking from inside gaining his attention. Edward sighed, closing the door, and you stepped back from your own, bemused.

- hey, how was moving day? or night i guess lol -

You smiled weakly at your phone screen a second after it vibrated, your friend's text popping up on the lock screen. You tapped on the message, thinking for a minute before you responded, Edward's unusually giddy smile in your head.

• My neighbour's kind of odd, maybe he just likes the attention? •

.˚◦○˚ ୧.˚ₓ To Be Continued... ₓ˚. ୭˚○◦˚.

.・ Taglist: ・.

@simestandswithtaylorswift-blog @carley-carley-carley @lostbunn @dencchan @dragovegogrimborn @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @edwardspumpkinpie @murderbimbo00 @sweetums0kitty @beel-mcburger @cml-san @jervis-tetch-my-beloved @r4iner @bimboanime @phoenixgurl030 @vaylordd @dangerouslittlefairy @katjourno @yoyoanaria @yaeyuuki @vinxlsketches @beenz-beenz @ghoulsgraveyard @birds-have-teeth @repostingmyfavs @r3ptiliaaa @for3v3rda1sy @glitterycheesecakegladiator @moonwritesblog @lilyevans1 @httpsunflowers @hxney-lemcn @confusedchildsstuff @callsigncrash @sugahbabieexo @bokksieu @skateb0red @wilburrrsworld @philiasoul @darthcringe @felicityofbakerstreet @bloodypantomime @deadlights-darling @tianotfound @mortem-muse @ireadandream @tinyryder @kpopgirlbtssvt @truecobblepot @jessicainhell

[selfcarecap]

In which Peter helps you clean your bed after two strangers have sex in it

(this is a repost of an old fic)

Peter‘s not great at parties.

He‘s okay when there‘s someone he knows, but Ned started feeling ill at the last second so now Peter‘s exploring the huge house on his own.

Walking up the steps, his attention quickly goes towards you furiously knocking on a door.

He walks towards you as you slide to the floor, hands over your face and letting out a groan.  Peter hears moans from the other side of the door, even over the loud music from downstairs.

His first thought is that maybe your boyfriend‘s in there cheating on you, but you look way too annoyed - rather than sad - for it to be that.

“Hey, is e-everything okay?“ he asks you before thinking. You‘ve probably got other problems and don’t want to be bothered by a stranger talking to you.

Your head shoots up at Peter’s words and your brows furrow in confusion for a few seconds.

“There’s two people having sex. In my room.“

“That sucks,“ Peter comments, not knowing what else to say.

“Yup.”

Despite the way this conversation is going, he sits down next to you.

He looks at you and you smile faintly, making his heart skip a beat.

Your moment is interrupted by more disgusting noises coming from your room.

Peter’s cheeks feel hot as there are more moans and grunting, even screaming at some point.

Both your heads turn as the door opens.

Peter can hear your heart speeding up in anger as a girl and a guy come out, both their hair messed up.

They walk straight down the stairs, not paying any attention to either of you at all.

“Wow,” Peter mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets.

You bang your head against the wall a couple of times, “I guess I have to go in there don’t I?”

“I don’t know, I’d leave the door open for a bit before you go in. Smells a little,” he cringes.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you mumble under your breath.

Peter’s grateful that you don’t question why he’s here as you introduce yourself to him.

He was honestly just lost at the party and somehow ended up with you, but he’s not complaining.

You end up talking about college a little, and you tell him how you usually enjoy living in this huge house with so many people, but at parties and in situations like this, it can get annoying.

After a few minutes of leaving the door wide open, you go into your room with the collar of your shirt pulled over your noise. The first thing you do is open the window too, throwing Peter a look who’s standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

Your eyes narrow at him as he only watches you lift up your blanket with your fingertips, a look of disgust on your face.

“Wait—“ Peter steps in as he sees an unmistakable stain on the grey covers that you’re about to touch.

You immediately let go upon noticing Peter’s interruption.

“What?” you ask and he points out the stain for you.

“Ew. And they couldn’t even use a condom? They’re right there,” you say and Peter’s face heats up when he sees the pack of condoms on your bedside table.

“Okay wait, I don’t want you to end up in one of those stories on buzzfeed where you got pregnant without having sex because there’s.... that on your bed. So let me help you.”

“What no, we barely know each other and some strangers had sex in my bed - it’s too much to ask of you.”

“It is but you’re not asking, I’m offering,” he smiles.

“Oh wait! Come with me,” you say, taking his hand as you go to get cleaning gloves.

Peter blushes even more.

Considering he’s helping you change the sweaty and stained sheets some strangers just came on, he’s having quite a fun time, with you two treating changing the sheets like a medical procedure.

He’s fairly sure you feel the same. You’ve smiled quite often in the time you two have known each other.

The fitted sheet is particularly fun as it keeps snapping back, so he sits on one edge, while you do the opposite side.  While you swap places you nearly end up on top of each other and generally do more giggling than changing bed sheets.

After half an hour of fooling around on your bed, you both collapse on the mattress, the scent of fresh linen filling Peter’s nose.

You look at each other, both out of breath. You roll over to lie on your belly, and you end up much closer to Peter than before and all he can smell now is your lovely, intoxicating perfume.

“Thanks, Peter. I owe you one.”

He smiles at you, looking into your eyes.

His gaze lowers when he sees you lick your lips.

You do the same, glancing at his lips.

He’s about to lean in to kiss you when-

“It’s still a bit gross to think a stranger just came on my bed.”

“Y-yeah, right,” Peter says, sitting up to stop himself from trying to kiss you again. You haven’t even known him for an hour, of course you don’t want to kiss him. He was being stupid.

You sit up too as your door opens again, a guy followed by another guy, hand in hand. They stop as they see you and Peter, “Sorry,” one of them smiles bashfully, closing the door again.

“I really need to get a lock for the door”, you sigh.

“I know a guy that does it for cheap,” Peter blurts out.

Peter does not know a guy who does it for cheap.

But even years later, you love telling the story of how Peter became a locksmith with the help of online videos, just for you.

Or: (stealing Kriti’s comment) “And that kids, is how I met your mother...”

[punkgrogg]

Doorway Duo pt.3

Pairing: Hybrid!Taehyung x Reader, Hybrid!Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Hybrid!BTS, Non idol AU, fluff

Warnings: Pregnancy

Summary: Y/n was abandoned by her long time boyfriend and moves back home to help prepare for the baby. She’s surprised to find two unfamiliar hybrids at her house.

Length: 3,074

Notes: Sorry I took so long! I had to split this update into several parts because I ended up typing out over 6,000 words so another part will be posted in a couple days hopefully I can fix my laptop by then.

Date Posted: 9/4/2021

“Share the heat,” Hoseok complained, tugging the blanket from my cocooned form.

October ‘s days were chilly but as soon as the sun set, it was freezing. I was propped up on the couch, surrounded by pillows and a king sized blanket tucked around me. Mom sat on the recliner to my left, the reason behind my assortment of pillows, and Hoseok was shoving his way into the occupied seat on my right. Well, my legs were occupying it.

“There’s a while couch right there ass hat.” I whined as he lifted my legs and placed them on his lap. This wasn’t so bad- he was warm- but the sibling bond between us made sure to complain.

“I don’t want to sit next to dad, he’s way too excited over the game.” Hobi pulled out his phone and scrolled aimlessly.

“When’s Namjoon gonna be here? His team is kicking ass.`` Dad was lively when it came to soccer. It was cute though and I loved how animated he’d get with each goal. But the kicker is that he and Namjoon rooted for other teams. Hobi, Jin, and I all sided with dad on the sports front but Joonie picked a shitty team that’s been coming up in the last couple of years. Maybe the heart attack he nearly gave dad ten years ago was worth it- if the pride in my dad’s eyes were anything to go by.

Joonie was our wild card, he seemed to pick the most difficult path just because he liked the challenge. He’d always do the opposite of what we expected, whether it was the sudden law school decision or boycotting Christmas one year. But today was probably the most surprising.

Jungkook apparently wasn’t a sports fan until this season started, my dad’s enthusiasm rubbed off onto him and now it was funny to see him white-knuckling a sprite over a bad call. Taehyung was taking a nap upstairs and mom was idly reading some seedy romance novel if the blush on her face was anything to go by. Well it was probably the shirtless man emblazoned on the cover that truly gave it away.

Hobi sighed and tossed his phone over onto the side table, he closed his eyes and melodramatically threw his arm over his face as he rested against the back of the loveseat. I rolled my eyes, “what’s it now buttercup?”

He huffed at my nickname, “Jimin isn’t responding.” He dropped his arm to pout at me as if I could help the situation at all.

“You know he’s probably working right now?” I nudged his arm with one of my feet.

His pout turned into a full blown frown as he made puppy eyes at me. “Yeah but that doesn’t mean i can’t miss him.”

“OH, so you’re going to finally admit that you’re dating him?” The delighted smile that ripped it’s way across my face made the frown completely fall off of his.

“Oh shit.”

His shock made me full bellied laugh, “Mom! Hobi finally sa-”

“Shut up! You tricked me!” he hissed as he covered my mouth, I smiled evilly as I licked the back of his hand to deter him.

“The baby.” Jungkook snapped, ripping Hobi's hand off my face. How did he manage to get across the room so quickly? Beyond me. There was a cloudy sort of anger in his face, one where he knew he shouldn’t be angry but couldn’t help it.

“Kookie, I'm fine.” I reached up to hold his wrist as he let go of Hobi's hand. He looked down on me tersely, his eyes colder than usual.

“Hoseok, how many times do your mother and I have to say to be gentler with your sister? You two are honestly getting too old for this.” Dad scolded, his hand on Hobi’s shoulder. I could see him curling into himself and suddenly I felt small.

“Dad, I'm okay, Hoseok and I were just playing. You know he’d never hurt me or the baby.`` I let go of Jungkook's wrist and tried to sit myself up more. It was hard this late into the pregnancy.

“You need to be more careful too, you’re way too rowdy these days.” he chastised me and I could feel the anger at being talked down to. I’m not a child anymore.

“No, this is my baby and my body, I get to decide when it’s too rowdy. We weren’t wrestling or fighting and I could easily breathe. We were doing nothing wrong, why are you acting like this?” My tone was cold and I forced myself up into a standing position. Jungkook stepped away from the couch so i could have enough room.

“y/n baby, you know i didn’t mean to hurt your feelings-” i cut him off; i was fuming.

“Well you did. You basically said that either my big brother is going to hurt me or that I'm incapable of judging how much energy I can exert. We’re all adults in this room, why did you two have to intervene?” my glare turned to Jungkook, he hardened his gaze.

“The baby’s hormones are-”

“No more baby excuses,” I cut him off. “I know he’s fine, he’s twisting and kicking just as he’s always been.”

“The baby’s hormones are-”

“Stop Jungkook.” I held up a hand, the anger bubbling up to the surface. I needed to cool down before I lashed out. I could feel the heat coursing through my arms and filling my chest.

“No, Y/n he’s right I didn't notice it till you stood up but the baby’s hormones have gotten really strong all of a sudden.” Hoseok chimed in. still seated, he reached out and touched my stomach. Mom crossed the room and shoved her way through Jungkook and dad to kneel in front of my stomach, accessing my state.

“What? What does that mean?” I cradled my bump, the fear seeping into my words. He felt normal there, my doctor told me if anything were to feel wrong then to trust my instincts and immediately go to the hospital. But this was different, nothing felt wrong.

Taehyung thundered down the stairs, “Y/n? What’s going on down here? I can smell the stress from upstairs,” he took a backseat to the worry on my mind.

“Is something wrong with him? Nothing feels wrong.” I turned to Jungkook, the worry overpowering the shame of the argument we had just had. He was the first to notice so maybe he knew what was wrong.

“I was wrong, holy shit, we should make a doctor’s appointment.” Hoseok suddenly exclaimed, he jumped up and held me at arms length by the shoulders. He looked down to my stomach with a shocked expression.

“Honey, get the keys we’re going to the hospital.” mom barked out. I didn’t even notice her leaving the huddle but she was back at the recliner as she tugged on some tennis shoes.

“No! It's okay! The pheromones are showing that she’s okay too.” Jungkook finally spoke up, he threw an arm around me and pointed at the baby.

“She?” The confusion in my father’s voice was only a mirror to the rest of the room.

“Yeah, the pheromones got so strong because there’s two.” Hobi explained as he crossed the room and relieved mom of her purse. He placed a calming hand on her shoulders. Shoulders that seemed to be leveled with her ears with the abrupt stress.

“You mean twins? It's a bit late to find that out don’t you think?” she all but hissed at her third son. Mom was visibly anxious right now, something I had never seen before. She was usually so calm and cheerful around us.

“Mom, you’ve said it yourself, y/n is bigger than most pregnancies.”

“I mean yeah but we’ve gone to the doctor twenty times over the summer and I think he’d find another baby in there.” I chimed in, coming to mom’s other side. I think it helped with calming her down because her shoulders lowered a bit.

“I can smell both, I can smell her all of a sudden alongside him.” Taehyung wrapped his arms around me, his head burrowing into my shoulder. His grip on me was tighter than usual.

“But Tae that doesn’t make sense.” I turned in his grasp, facing the snow leopard hybrid, my disbelief written across my face.

“He’s had a very strong scent and a very strong heartbeat, maybe he just masked hers.” Jungkook stepped into my bubble once again. He was on the other side of Tae but seemed to block off any others from joining in the clique.

“But the ultrasounds only show one baby.” I reasoned out, my right hand reaching behind me to rest on my mother’s shoulder. Accepting there was a second was terrifying, I was barely holding myself together for the one pregnancy. Adding on another? Was I eating enough? Taking enough precautions? Maybe dad was right in intervening today.

“Back in the day they couldn’t find Seokjin’s penis and told us we’d be having a girl. It was a bit of a shock when he came out.” Dad. Of course, I've heard this story before, ultrasounds weren’t always perfect.

“What should i do?” I was scared and it was evident in the shake of my voice, Taehyung only hugged me harder.

“Hey guys, what's going on here?” Namjoon’s voice shattered the tension of the room. Seeing him and the dark haired male next to him gave me a chance to breathe.

Hoseok flitted across the room, his excitement at seeing our older brother evident in the wagging of his feather duster of a tail. “Joon, you're going to be an aunt and an uncle.”

“What?”

“Hobi that’s not how it works and you know it.” Mom chastised with a small shake of her head. Hoseok was a blessing to us all when tensions were high. “Who’s this?”

Namjoon seemed to freeze up a bit before throwing an arm around the guy hovering behind him a bit. Said man flushed lightly at the attention turning to him and in the soft light of the living room I could barely make out a pair of silky black ears atop his head. “This is Min Yoongi, he’s my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” I sputtered out, breaking the moment of silence that enveloped the living room. I could see dad from my peripheral making his way to the doorway with a smile.

“Yeah, problem?” Joonie’s eyes were narrowed at me but eased up at the grin I was sporting.

Pulling away from Taehyung a bit, I sneered at Hobi. “Hoseok- he told us about his boyfriend before you could. How does that feel?”

Hoseok groaned before stomping over to me to grind out: “Oh my god you're annoying and technically i said it first.”

“But you didn’t tell mom and dad.” I taunted, the faux misery on my brother’s face would fuel me for months. Taehyung sat on the loveseat behind him and tugged at the hem of my shirt for me to join him.

“They’ve met Jimin before though and according to you i’m not subtle.” Hobi argued, his hand on his hip. Jungkook followed Tae and I down to the seat and I was wedged between the two with my legs in Kook’s lap. He gently rubbed circles into my swollen ankles as Hobi and I glared at each other.

“Anyway, what's this about me being an aunt now?” Joonie interrupted the stare down with Yoongi by his side, our parents must have finally let them out of their interrogation.

“These three are suddenly claiming I'm pregnant with twins.” I explained with a flick of my wrist, the stress of the situation (that was only a few minutes ago) seemed as if it were twelve years in the past.

“Um, I can smell two scents too.” Yoongi’s soft spoken words brought back the fear.

“Holy shit, mom! What am I supposed to do? Should we go to the hospital?” I tried to push myself up into a sitting position but Taehyung held me gently to his chest.

“The babies are happy, I don't think they’re in danger. “He hummed softly into my ear. I could feel the sincerity behind his words. He rubbed a hand up my arm gently and started to purr. An attempt to ease my anxiety.

“Danger or not- we still need to confirm if there are actually twins. That’s a nightmare in itself. That’s double of everything I was sort of ready for. Wait, what if I give birth prematurely- don’t twins come early?” there was panic rising in my chest.

“Mom and Dad went to their room, they’re recovering from the unexpected news but Y/n it’s going to be okay. We’ll go to the doctor’s tomorrow, together,” Hoseok reminded me, he softly ruffled my hair as he leaned down to kiss the top of my forehead. Still I looked around the room for my mother. The one who holds all the answers to my pregnancy fears. Namjoon, Hoseok, and Yoongi, all stood above us three, all showing a different expression. Namjoon looked apprehensive, which was normal for him. Hoseok looked as if he were trying to tame a wild animal. Yoongi thought he looked stunned, his eyes blown wide.

“Hobi you’re banned from my ultrasound appointments. You almost broke the equipment.” I reminded him with a forced smile. I could still feel the panic but it was ebbing away. I wasn’t dying, I was safe. The babies were safe. Everything will be okay.

“That’s so rude, I apologized and everything.” he crossed his arms, generously taking the bait. Knowing that Joonie would laugh at his expense.

“We’ll go with you, we haven’t been able to go since Hoseok has been.” Taehyung declared, way too happy for me to decline, and I smiled softly at him. I was held up against his torso, his head just a few inches above my own. He leaned down and rubbed his forehead against my own.

“You’re going to scent mark my sister in front of me?” Namjoon sputtered indignantly, causing Tae to freeze all of a sudden.

“Namjoon, that’s not scent marking.” Hoseok laughed and shoved at his shoulder playfully.

“Actually, we feline hybrids scent mark like that instead of that mess you canine hybrids do. I scent marked Namjoon earlier in the same way.” Yoongi crossed his arms and seemed to glare down at Tae. I was a bit shocked to say the least.

Hoseok had explained it to me when we were younger, scent marking was a hybrid instinct, and it had two different connotations. There was a familial way and a romantic way to cover another person in their pheromones. Hoseok would hug us and hold our hands growing up to rub just enough of himself on us to comfort himself that we were his family. Especially when we were younger and playing with larger groups of children or when there was a big event. The familial way would only last a few hours and was more of a comforting thing for family and very close friends to help with bonding.

Hoseok had explained the more romantic way was to imbue another’s scent for a much longer time and it was done by stimulation to the scent glands which meant that they would lick each other’s scent glands. He had been tomato red explaining this to me when he had found another hybrid’s scent on me that was much stronger than his own. When I explained that I was just playing with a hybrid at recess and they hugged me he seemed to melt into the floor in embarrassment.

Taehyung was staring up at Namjoon with an indecipherable expression. The massage on my ankles had stopped at Namjoon's exclamation and my glance at Jungkook showed him to be in the same emotionless stare down but instead he was staring down Yoongi. He knew too, but why hadn’t he told me?

“She’s part of our pack, of course I would scent her.” Taehyung had no emotions in his words, the monotonous response seemed to aggravate my brother.

“Wait,” I held my hand up to the seething man before turning to his boyfriend. “I’m confused. Hobi said that licking my neck would be romantic scent marking and hugging was familial scent marking. Which would this be?”

My question caused all four hybrids to freeze up, Hobi’s face once again lighting up in embarrassment.

“Uh, he said that? Well, uh, that’s wrong.” Yoongi forced out, his face turning a light shade of pink.

“Hybrids themselves decide what the type of scent marking it is when they release the pheromones, and there’s a lot of different meanings that could exist. Typically a more familial scenting would be a hug- so that part is right- but also kissing the top of your head could work. Licking your scent glands isn’t a romantic way for scent marking, it’s more sexual.” Yoongi's face almost matched Hoseok’s at this point. “Romantically speaking there’s a lot of ways you can scent someone- like rubbing your necks against each other which is common amongst the canine hybrids. For us feline hybrids we rub our faces against the person, like he had done to you. The pheromones typically let us know, but he’s not releasing heavy enough pheromones for us other hybrids to notice, but rubbing his face against yours is claiming you as his in feline standards.”

“Oh,” I could feel the hybrid underneath me tense up as Yoongi's explanation came to an end. I glanced up at him to see him still staring down my brothers.

“I’m still a little confused but thank you Yoongi. Namjoon, Hoseok, I’ll take it from here, I don't need you hovering over us for this conversation. In fact, I think I'll take this conversation elsewhere, you three have fun watching the game. Joonie, dad recorded this and last week’s matches for you.” I worked my way into a standing position with Taehyung’s help and made my way to the stairs, both Taehyung and Jungkook glued to my sides.

“It was really nice meeting you Yoongi,” I smiled at him and waved my goodbyes as I made my way up. We made our way into my room, the two hovering in the doorway. Just like I had met them. I took a deep breath and settled onto the bed.

[kohanayaki]

.:Time and Time Again:. (Marauders Era x Reader) Ch 5

Harry confronts you with a familiar piece of suspiciously folded parchment, and you tell him the story of how you helped create it (mostly told through flashbacks taking place in the Marauders era).

LINKS:   CH 1   CH 2    CH 3   CH 4   CH 5   CH 6   CH 7   CH 8

___________________________________________________________

Ch 5 .:Narrow Spaces and New Alliances:. 

Your eyes drifted open slowly, the bright streams of sunlight coming in through your window strangely unbecoming of 12 Grimmauld Place. It took you a moment to get your bearings as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and remembered where you were. As you sat there, looking around Sirius' guest bedroom, last night's events all seemed to flood back to you at once. You groaned into the comforter, feeling your face burn as you recalled blatantly staring at his lips just minutes after crying into his shirt for at least half an hour.

Come on, get it together, you thought to yourself, you're here because Dumbledore summoned you, stay on task.

However, as soon as that memory left your head another replaced it, this one weighing heavier on your chest. You found yourself thinking back to your encounter with Severus. Well, as much as you could call it an 'encounter.' Even when you couldn't see him, you could feel him when you reached out to him with your mind. Severus was good at blocking legillemency— too good, in fact, because you would know the familiar force of his mental shield anywhere. You'd never felt it as powerful coming from anyone else. You almost laughed at the irony of it; the very thing he was trying to use to keep hidden was exactly what had given him away. That, and the smell of him, which took you back to the moment you'd first smelled that damn amortentia potion. . .

You tried to shake off the thought as you properly got out of bed and changed into some casual clothes. The next Order meeting wasn't until tomorrow afternoon, so you had the day mostly to yourself, but you knew the next time you were all in a room together you would have to address some things privately if you had any hope of working together efficiently. You gently padded down the wooden stairs, the door to Sirius' room still closed. He never was an early riser.

As you reached the kitchen you began to put a pot of coffee on when you heard someone approach the room, stalling in the kitchen entrance. You turned around to see Harry in the doorway.

“Morning,” you grinned, turning back to the counter and using your wand to bring some water to a boil, “Coffee? Tea?”

“Oh,” Harry said, a bit embarrassed you'd caught him in mid-thought, “no, I'm okay.”

“What's on your mind?” you asked.

“Um, I was wondering if you could tell me, I mean, if you have the time. . .” he trailed off, reaching for his back pocket, “well, the thing is, a few years ago I found—”

“Kreacher heard sounds coming from the kitchen and did not expect (Y/n)'s return,” Harry jumped at the house elf's sudden arrival, but you seemed unphased.  

“Though master's half mudblood godson remains here,” the elf muttered to himself, “How many more days must it be?”

“Hello, Kreacher,” you greeted him, “nothing nasty about Harry, now, alright? Don't forget he's my godson too.”

“Of course,” Kreacher said, thickly sarcastic but with respect for you in his tone nonetheless. His permanent frown seemed to deepen, however, when he saw you next to the coffee maker. “(Y/n) of house (L/n) should not have to be using the kitchen. Mistress Black would have wept to see a pureblood use muggle equipment. If (Y/n) requires refreshment Kreacher will have it ready.”

“There's no need for that,” you said, “Besides, it's done already, see? You can go on now.”

Kreacher squinted at the cup you poured for yourself. “Always peculiar,” he grumbled, stalking away at your request and muttering to himself all the while.

“He's oddly. . . nice to you,” Harry said, green eyes quizzical behind his round-framed glasses.

“He is,” you chuckled.

“But, well, you're—”

“A blood traitor?” you gave him an easy smile when you saw his expression, easing his fears that he'd actually offended you. “I know,” you said, “he's been through a lot, it's complicated. Trust me, he wasn't always like this to me. It takes time. And it doesn't hurt to be nice to him either.”

Harry decided against bringing up that the nicest person that he knew to the house elf was Hermione, who Kreacher regularly called a 'mudblood wench,' but decided to focus on the 'taking time' part of your statement, wondering  just how long this kind of progress took with the spiteful elf. Besides, you seemed to have some sort of history with him.

“Anyways, what was it you were saying?” you asked Harry.

“Oh, right,” he said, reaching back around him, “um, my friends Fred and George, you've met them?”

“Molly and Arthur's twins, of course,” you smiled, “little imps, they are. Those two could give your father and Sirius a run for their money.”

“Right!” Harry said, “well, that's sort of the point. They're the ones who gave me this.”

As you turned around to face him you stalled mid-stir, nearly dropping your mug as you did. Even as a piece of blank parchment you knew what it was, the distinctive accordion folds that met in the center giving it away.

“How in the world. . .” you trailed off as Harry handed it to you, “but Filch—”

“Didn't do a very good job of hiding it, apparently,” Harry finished, “I thought you might want to do the honors?”

You nodded wordlessly, a pang of unexpected emotion hitting you as you pressed your wand to the map's center.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The faded, brown ink showed itself as its protection charm was washed away, revealing the nostalgia-inducing inscription scrawled in your respective handwritings:

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs, and Fangs are proud to present: The Marauders Map

“Do Remus and Sirius know you have this?” you asked Harry, who nodded.

“Professor Lupin gave it back to me third year before he left Hogwarts,” he said, “but he never told me anything about it after that.” he seemed deep in thought for a moment before looking up at you. “If everyone else is who I think it is, you're Fangs, right?”

It was your turn to nod now.

“I always wondered, how did you do it?” Harry said, hardly containing his curiosity, and you couldn't help but think how much he looked like James in that moment. “How does it work? What sort of magic did you use? All the secret passageways, how did you find them?”

“Alright, slow down,” you laughed lightly, giving in, “I suppose there's no harm in telling you.”

Harry brightened at that, bounding into the living room and taking a seat on the couch as if to say 'we've got all day,' which you did. It warmed your heart to see him so excited, this was one of the only ways he could get to know his parents— through the stories that remained from the people who loved them. If you could help the picture of his family in his mind become a bit clearer, you would tell him any story he wanted to know. He deserved that much after everything he'd been through.

You took a seat opposite him, still nursing your cup of coffee.

“Well,” you said, “it's a long story, starting with how bad those lot were at keeping secrets. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   1974   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Run!” James half shouted half laughed as Filch hobbled after the four of them. Sirius nearly bit his tongue trying to keep in his laughter as the Caretaker slung insults and promises of punishment their way, cat ears and a tail freshly sprouted from his body.

“I can't believe we actually did that,” Sirius cackled, keeping easy pace with James.

“I can't believe you dragged me into this,” Remus panted, his current body not lending itself well to physical activity. For once he actually wished he was a werewolf right about now.

“I don't know if I can keep up,” Peter wheezed, falling behind.

“Oh come on,” James said, grabbing his sleeve and helping him run, “we can out run a gummy-legged old prat like him.”

“I don't know, he's faster than he looks,” Remus pointed out as Filch rounded the corner behind them.

“Damn,” James cursed under his breath, “we'll lose him if we can make it to the one-eyed-witch passageway.”

“We'll never activate it in time,” Remus countered.

“The hallway behind the third floor tapestry?” Peter suggested.

“No, Filch knows about that one now,” Sirius said.

“Why the hell didn't you bring your cloak?” Remus huffed.

“Well getting caught wasn't supposed to be part of the plan, but someone had to let out a laugh before we could get out!”

“Just save your air and sprint!” Sirius hissed.

The extended run time was starting to catch up to all of them now, and when they'd made a wrong turn to a blocked off corridor they thought they were done for.

“Hey, morons, over here!”

Four heads snapped towards the sound of your whisper, but you were nowhere to be found. Suddenly, one of the light pillars began to shift, revealing a large crack in the wall just big enough for them to fit sideways.

No questions were asked with no time to waste, and the four boys clamored after one another so they could fit inside. Your magic moved the pillar back in place just in time, and you watched from your hiding spot as Filch reached the walled-off passage in surprise, grumbling as he looked around for the culprits behind you. You had to stifle a snicker as his cat ears lowered; was that growling coming from the back of this throat or did you imagine that? Eventually he stumbled off in frustration and you sighed.

“Alright, the coast is clear,” you said.

“Why did you help us?” James rose a brow, that signature shit-eating grin back on his face like it never left, “you haven't fallen in love with me since our truce, have you?”

“Dream on, Potter,” you rolled your eyes, pushing him out of the crevice and smirking as he tumbled to the floor.

“It seems like I'm always saving you nowadays,” you said, stepping out of the wall yourself with the rest of the boys following.

Remus was thoroughly confused, looking pointedly between you and Sirius. He knew you and James were pretty much friends now, but he also noticed that the hostile air that always seemed to be present with you and the elder Black had diminished. He'd even seen you two talking in the halls lately. Sirius gave him a look; he would explain what happened in the forest with Lucius to Remus later. Mostly he didn't want to admit that Remus was right about you not being so bad if he gave you a chance; you had actually been getting on pretty well since that night.

“You do realize it's no fun winning the house cup when you four practically make Gryffindor ineligible every year with all the shit you get up to, right?” you chuckled, “some competition would be nice for a change.”

“We'll see if you're singing the same tune when Quidditch season rolls around,” James said smugly.

“You're right,” you said, squaring up against him, “guess that's a new competition we've got going for us.”

It had recently been announced that you and James had both been selected to play Seeker for your respective houses next year. It was an arrangement that had the whole school talking, your rivalry turned (mostly) friendship now infamous, even if it was a recent occurrence.

“Hold on, how did you know that was there?” Peter asked you, pointing to the moving column, “even we didn't know about it.”

“Oh?” you crossed your arms, “and are you four supposedly some kind of all-knowing secret masters? Because clearly there's things you don't know about yet.”

Sirius slapped a hand over Peter's mouth before he could retaliate and give away what they've been working on.

“Yes, well, apparently,” he said, ignoring Peter's muffled protests.

You looked at them curiously, all four boys looking suspiciously nervous.

The next day at breakfast, James had brought up the idea of 'hiring' you to help them finish the map.

“I'm telling you, I think we can really make progress with their help,” he pitched, “they clearly know what they're talking about, and we know they can pull a hell of a prank from all the times they've gotten me.”

“How do we know they won't tell anyone?” Peter countered, “I don't know what's up with you, but you're trusting them too fast, James.”

“They're not the type that would tell,” Remus admitted.

“Oh, not you too!” Peter whined.

“I'm just saying, they'll likely appreciate what we've gathered so far and have a fair bit to add,” Lupin insisted, “it could be worth a try if you really want to finish it before we graduate—”

“Finish what?”

The four boys jolted upright, turning to see you and Lily.

“Are you guys okay?” Lily asked, concern written across her features.

“Of course!”

“Never better!”

“Why wouldn't we be?”

Remus just groaned at his friends' panicked answers. This was hopeless.

You and Lily shared a knowing look off the the side.

“Alright, whatever you say. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry laughed heartily,

“Wow, I mean, I know you said they were bad, but that bad?”

“For being expert pranksters who hardly ever managed to get caught, they were remarkably terrible at hiding things,” you said, chuckling along with him, “It didn't take us long to figure out they were up to something, although they seemed to think they were brilliant at covering it up, Remus had to burst their bubble eventually.”

Harry shook his head, smiling fondly and imagining all the scenes in his head as you continued your tale.

“So that was when they were first starting to put the map together,” you continued, “but that wasn't even the biggest secret they were hiding. Of course, I wouldn't find out about that for another year, but we'll get to that part of the story later. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   1975   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This tastes awful,” Sirius complained, trying to ignore the plant prodding the under-side of his tongue.

“Well if you were expecting treacle toffee I'm sorry to disappoint,” James rolled his eyes, equally nauseated by the bitter tinge of the Mandrake leaf in his mouth.

“There's no way someone can do this for an entire month,” Peter said, “How do you brush your teeth? What if you accidentally swallow it when you're eating?”

“You three have fun with that,” Remus chuckled, flipping through an old library book and his mouth gratefully leafless.

“How about some gratitude, Moony?” James said, “We're doing this for you.”

“Please, you just want to see if you can turn into a dragon or something,” Lupin chortled, “and you don't actually have to go through with all this. Who knows if this animagus stuff will actually work.”

“Well, a dragon would suit me,” James mused, “but of course we're going to see this through, mate. You know we'd do anything for you.”

Remus smiled to himself, not responding and not needing to. He knew.

“Hey guys,” you grinned, walking up to the Gryffindor table.

Peter gulped suddenly in surprise as you came up behind him, and his eyes widened in horror.

“Shit!” he coughed out, “I-I swallowed it!”

“Your. . . food?” you questioned, glancing over at the boys who all had that same, vaguely panicked look about them.

“Okay, it was funny at first, but you guys have been acting weird since last year and now it's worrying,” you admitted.

The four looked between themselves and came to a sort of silent conclusion. Maybe in this scenario it was better to tell one secret to keep the other. And so, later that night, they told you to meet them after lights out so they could tell you what was really going on. You snuck out of your dorm room and made your way through the secret tunnel to the Gryffindor common room, a route you'd taken plenty of times to mess with James.

You pushed a loose panel of wood open, coming into the warmly lit space through one of the cabinets. You pushed an armchair that was half blocking your path out of the way as you crawled through the space.

“Blimey!” Sirius jumped, “give us a heads up, would you?”

“Sush,” Remus scolded him, “you really don't understand the concept of an inside voice, do you?”

“Alright, well I'm here,” you said, brushing off your robes, “now what's this big secret? This better not be a trick because I've been working on a new hex.”

“Nothing like that,” James assured you, “we've been working on something we think you might be interested in, if you're willing to contribute.”

He stepped to the side so you could see the floor where they'd been huddled around and your eyes widened.

“Merlin,” you said. The red and gold carpet was covered in at least forty different pieces of parchment. Pages upon pages overlapped with each other, each messily detailing a different part and level of the castle in scribbles of smudged ink. “This is. . .”

“The entirety of the Hogwarts castle and surrounding land,” Sirius said proudly, “complete with secret passageways.”

“This is our lives' work, (Y/n),” James said, “be impressed!”

“What impresses me most is how none of you have any sense of scale,” you said, sifting through the papers, “you should really condense this. Kind of hard to make any use of a map if you have to flip to page thirty-three to find the kitchens.”

“Point taken,” Remus said, “it could do with some reorganization.”

“And probably a bigger piece of paper,” you mentioned.

“Right, that. . .”

“That's not all there is to it, though,” Peter said, “Sirius?”

The curly haired boy stepped forward, pressing his wand to the center of the floor.

“Revelare Popularis,”

You watched in wonder as hundreds of names suddenly appeared across the pieces of paper, all students and faculty you recognized. They were scrawled in Sirius' handwriting, as if he'd written them himself.

“This spell shows where everyone in any location on this map is at this very moment,” he said, “It's not exact, and we've been working on variations.”

“So you can plan ahead without getting caught,” you mused, “how'd you learn something as advanced as this, Black?”

“I get around,” Sirius shrugged, unabashedly showing off. Peter rolled his eyes.

“So, the only drawback, of course, is that the spell doesn't work in real time,” Remus said, “so by the time you get where you need to go. . .”

“People will have moved,” James finished, “we're willing to share this little trove of knowledge with you if you're willing to give up all the secret rooms, passages, and hiding places you know.”

“And we thought you may have a solution to our timing problem,” Remus said, “I could tell from our study sessions you quite enjoy learning ahead of your year.”

Your eyes scanned the pages, and you were admittedly impressed. There was ton of stuff on here you had no idea about, but you knew a fair amount was missing as well. It seemed like a fair trade.

“I'm in,” you said.

“What?” Peter blinked, “it was that easy?”

“This is a useful tool you've got,” you said, “I think we can all benefit from it being improved. And now that you mention it, I actually do think I've read about a similar spell to that paper charm. It was in some Gaelic tome in the restricted section on ancient magic. I'm not even sure it used a wand. It was called the Homunculus charm. From what I read it sounded like it acted as a live feed for people in any given location, clan leaders used it to plan ambushes and keep track of citizens. If we could link it to the entire castle. . .”

“We'd be able to see where everyone is—”

“And what they're doing—”

“—At every hour of every day!”

“True, albeit a bit stalkerish,” you quipped, “you let me in on this if I add in what I know, and you got yourself a deal.”

James put out his hand, and as tempted as you were to turn it green or make all the bones in it disappear, you reached out and shook it.

“I do believe this puts us in a formal alliance, Potter,” you said cheekily.

“I believe so,” James smirked.

“Terrifying,” Remus chuckled, “This school won't even know what hit it.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” James said with a cheshire grin, “let's steal ourselves a book, shall we?”

Read chapter 6 here!

Taglist:  @sleep-i-ness, @blackpinkdolan, @parker-natasha, @ornella0910 @undertaker1827 @thatwierdo-koemi @nxstalgicnxbxdy @calaryssia @aleksanderwh0r3 @mialupin1

[snelbz]

Life As We Know It {Chapter 19}

Summary: After the sudden deaths of Nesta’s sister and Cassian’s best friend, they gain guardianship of their nephew, Nyx.

Based on Life As We Know It (2010) and a prompt sent in by anonymous for our Nessian fanfic contest. This is a modern au.

Instead of doing a tag list for this story, we have decided to have a set posting schedule. Chapters will be posted weekly on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Occasional surprise chapters could be posted at miscellaneous times. Chapters will be posted on both my and Tara’s blogs! >> @tacmc.​

Life As We Know It Masterlist

Shelby’s Masterlist

Tara’s Masterlist

A/N: Well, we promised a chapter today, so we decided to follow through on that. Even if we did post a surprise chapter last night. Oh, well. Enjoy! 🙃✨

Cassian sighed as he opened his eyes.

Another year older, another year wiser.

Well.

Another year older, anyway.

He blinked as he looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 7:58. Two minutes before his alarm would have gone off.

He hated when that happened, when his mind woke him up just before his alarm went off. There was no time to go back to sleep, it was perfect sleeping time wasted.

It was bullshit.

With a yawn, Cassian swung his legs over the side of his bed and got up. He stumbled to his dresser and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, just in time for his alarm to go off.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, quickly turning it off before flinging open his bedroom door.

It smelled delicious.

He meandered down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Nesta was icing a giant cake.

Her eyes darted to his.

He blinked.

“Get out!” she ordered.

“What the hell are you-.”

“Out!” she ordered, yet again.

Nyx babbled something at the top of his lungs that closely resembled, YEAH!

He did as he was told, blearily blinking as he stumbled back into the living room. He dragged a hand down his face. “Can I at least have some coffee?”

“In a minute!” She called and he heard quick footsteps, followed by the back door opening and closing. It opened again and she said, breathlessly, “Okay. You can come in now.”

Tentatively, Cassian rounded the corner and he found Nesta placing a platter of cinnamon rolls on the counter in place of the—

“Where did the cake go?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Nesta was lifting a cinnamon roll onto each of the plates in front of her, cutting the one for Nyx into tiny bites for him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He blinked again, half-wondering if he’d imagined the decorated monstrosity he’d seen on the counter, but he sniffed, smelling the air again.

It mostly smelled like the sweet and spicy scent of cinnamon, but—

No, that was definitely cake he smelled.

“Right…” he said, pulling forks out of the silverware drawer and setting one next to each plate. “You’re up early.”

“Had a lot to do before renovations start this morning. I’m meeting Helion and the contractor at the restaurant at nine.” She sipped her own coffee, not looking at him. Mixing truth and lies, it seemed, since he knew she was meeting the contractor this morning. As for a lot to do, he knew everything at the restaurant was already taken care of. She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t expecting you to be up so early either.”

Cutting into the gooey cinnamon roll, he said, “I gotta be at the bar in an hour. I’m talking with Kallias this morning before my shift starts.”

She set her coffee down and finally looked at him. “You have to work today?”

“Yeah,” he replied, popping the bite of pastry into his mouth. He resisted the urge to moan. “It’s Tuesday. I always work on Tuesdays.”

She hesitated, deciding whether she should speak or not. “But it’s your birthday.”

He couldn’t stop his smirk. He knew there had been a cake.

“And who told you that?” He asked, leaning over to wipe Nyx’s face off. The poor kid had icing all over his face, all the way up into his hair.

“That’s not important,” she said.

“Elain, then,” Cassian went on with a grin.

Nesta pretended like she hadn’t heard him and took a giant bite of her cinnamon roll.

“I’ll take Nyx with me to the bar,” Cassian said. “Viviane texted. She has the stomach flu.”

Nesta cringed. “That sucks. I...wait - you’re taking a baby to a bar?”

Cassian shrugged. “He’ll be fine. I only have to stay until two or so.”

“A baby,” she repeated, blinking. “To a bar.”

“You prefer to take him into a construction zone?” Cassian asked. “One that you’re in charge of? That sounds stressful.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “I can ask Elain to watch-.”

“I’m taking him with me and he’ll be fine,” Cassian said, shaking his head. “I promise.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes. And he held up both hands. “I promise,” he repeated.

“Fine. But call me if you need to and I’ll come get him,” she sighed, shaking her head. “I’ll be in my office most of the day, so it’s not like he’ll be running around in a construction zone.”

“And I’ll take the carrier and physically wear him all day, so it’s not like he’ll be running around the actual bar.”

Nesta groaned. “Fine. Fine. But take the pack-n-play, his monitor and toys. He can entertain himself well enough.”

“Okay,” Cassian nodded, finishing off his cinnamon roll. He pulled Nyx out of his high chair, who was now playing with and wearing most of his food, rather than eating it, and said, “I’ll give him a bath while you get ready.”

“Okay.” He was nearly in the living room when he heard, “Cass?” He turned and looked back at her, still not completely used to the familiar nickname from her. She was blushing slightly. “Happy birthday.”

Smiling, he said, “Thanks,” and turned to head up the stairs.

Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

*

“Any birthday plans?”

“You’re looking at it.”

Kallias chuckled as he observed Cassian, a wiggly baby strapped to his chest, counting the liquor bottles that lined the wall.

“How old are you anyway?” he continued, wiping down the bartop. “Thirty? Thirty-one?”

“You wound me,” Cassian muttered, scribbling a number down on his clipboard, not bothering to tell Kallias just how close to thirty he was getting to.

“I would say we should do shots to celebrate your big day,” Kallias began, taking Nyx’s outstretched hand. “But, I think your little housewife would disapprove.”

Cassian snorted. “If Nesta Archeron ever heard you call her such a thing, you’d lose a very important body part.”

“Not interested in that, thank you very much,” he muttered. “She ever gonna stop in, so I can see this terrifying woman you’ve told me about?”

“About that…” Cassian pulled Nyx out of the carrier and carried him into the back office, setting him down in the play pen. Grabbing the baby monitor, he made his way back into the front room.

Kallias looked up from where he was cutting limes at the bar. “About what?”

He leaned a hip on the bar and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nesta is going to be expanding the restaurant, adding a bar. That’s actually where she is right now, why I’ve got the kiddo with me. Didn’t really want him in a construction site.”

“Hot nanny couldn’t keep him?” Kallias asked, grinning.

Cassian rolled his eyes. “No, she’s sick. But, uh-.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m gonna be leaving and going over there, managing for her.”

Kallias eyes widened. “Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah. And I’d like you to come over there with me. Be my assistant manager at the new place.”

Kallias stopped cutting, mid-lime. “You do realize we are two out of five people that work here, right?”

Cassian nodded, slowly. “Yeah, I do. And I also know we can hire more people here.”

Kallias looked back down at his half-cut lime. “Assistant manager, huh?”

“It’s in a great part of town, we’d get amazing tips on top of already being paid more,” Cassian said. “It’s an amazing opportunity.”

“So I’d be stupid to say no, then?” Kallias asked, continuing to cut his limes.

“Incredibly stupid,” Cassian agreed.

Nyx’s happy babbling came through on the baby monitor.

“I’ll think about it,” Kallias said, at last.

“Think about it, then tell me yes, because I’m not going there without you,” Cassian said.

Kallias snorted. “You’re a shitty liar. You’re going, whether I go or not.”

“And why wouldn’t you come with me?” Cassian asked, facing his friend. He and Kallias had worked together for years, since Kallias came in at twenty-one, during his senior year of college. “You want to be stuck in this dive bar forever? I know you. You’re a creature of habit. If I leave you here, you’ll be here for the next twenty years.”

Kallias didn’t bother telling him it wasn’t true. He just shook his head. “I guess we better start interviewing people, then.”

*

The day did not go as planned. Cassian had to stay and help out until nearly five-thirty, and by the time Cassian walked in the front door, Nyx was knocked out cold in his car seat. He gently set it down and unbuckled him, carrying him into the kitchen. It smelled divine, like roasting herbs and cooked veggies, even if he couldn’t see anything radiating the delicious smells.

Nesta was also nowhere in sight, so he took Nyx up to his nursery and laid him down, setting the baby monitor back up where it usually sat. He slipped the screen in his back pocket and made his way back downstairs, hurrying out to his truck to get Nyx’s diaper bag and the folded up playpen.

As he was setting it back up in the living room, he heard the sliding glass door open and close and made sure he was making enough noise to alert Nesta of his presence.

“You’re home,” she said, leaning on the doorway. “Nyx asleep?”

“Out like a light,” he said, tossing the few toys he’d brought with him back into the pen. “He had fun though.”

“Good. Dinner is almost done,” she smiled. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” he sighed and took another deep breath in. “It smells amazing.”

Turning, Nesta walked back into the kitchen. “Steak, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and green beans, and homemade rolls.”

He watched as she took the carrots and green beans out of the oven and placed them next to a plate of steak she must have just brought in from the grill.

Cassian’s mouth was damn near watering.

He looked at the spread as she spooned the mashed potatoes onto his plate. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Nesta tensed, then something like nervous laughter sputtered out of her mouth. “Well, I had to cook red meat for you on your birthday.”

“Does that mean you’ll be having yourself a steak, Archeron?” he asked, taking the full plate from her outstretched hands.

She gave him an amused look. “Hell no. You get both. I have a chicken kabob on the grill.”

Cassian licked his lips as he took his plate to the table. “Consider me a lucky man. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said, clearing her throat. She piled her plate high with potatoes and veggies before going onto the deck and coming back with a grilled chicken kabob on her plate. She sat across from him. Cassian’s mouth was already full.

“How is it?” Nesta asked, cutting up a carrot before popping it into her mouth.

“Delicious,” Cassian said, mouth full. “So good.”

“If you don’t slow down, you won’t be able to enjoy the flavor,” Nesta said, knowing full well that he wouldn’t listen. Cassian practically inhaled everything on his plate within minutes.

He moaned, stretching back in his chair before running a hand through his hair. “I must say, Nes, you really outdid yourself.”

“Well, it was the least I could do after you worked and were on baby duty all day,” she said, popping a few green beans in her mouth.

They talked about their days as she finished eating. He told her about Kallias’ agreement to move to the restaurant, she told him about the beginning of construction.

They’d kept half the restaurant open, putting up a temporary wall to keep as much noise and dust out as they could, but the sooner the build was done the better. They both agreed on that.

“So, despite your switch with the cinnamon rolls this morning,” Cassian said from where he sat as she rinsed off their plates, “I’m fairly sure I saw a cake when I came downstairs.”

“Really now,” she said, and he saw the small smile on her face.

“Mhmm,” he nodded. “And, you know, I like cake.”

“And why, exactly, would I make you a cake?” She crooned, that little smile remaining.

“Because I’m the world's best roommate and uncle, obviously,” he said.

Nesta laughed as she stood. “Yeah, whatever.”

After exiting through the back door, she returned a moment later with a big, homemade cake.

It was exquisite.

Perfectly decorated and topped with vanilla and buttercream frosting, it read Happy birthday, Cassian!

As Nesta placed it on the countertop, Cassian asked, “Nesta, when the hell did you find time to make this?”

She shrugged. “Stayed up later and got up early. Didn’t have to be too early since you decided to sleep in today, but…” Her words trailed off. “I figured it was the least I could do.”

His mouth tightened, emotion he wasn’t expecting hitting him and he cleared his throat. “You gonna sing to me?” He asked, cracking a joke to break the tension that was slowly growing.

Nesta threw her head back and laughed. “Absolutely not.”

Cassian bit back his retort and the monitor in his back pocket went off, crying coming from upstairs.

“I’ll get him,” she said, standing up. “I’m sure he’s hungry. Will you cut up green beans and carrots for him?”

He nodded, the cake forgotten as he did what he was told, and Nesta returned with a bleary-eyed Nyx a few minutes later.

“Hi buddy,” Cassian said, chuckling at Nyx’s hazy expression. He was already sitting at the table with a plate of cut up food.

The second Nyx saw the display, he was whining and reaching for it.

“Slow down, you need to be buckled into your seat first,” Nesta said, shaking her head.

“I can’t blame him,” Cassian said, as Nyx was strapped into his high chair. “I’m starving when I wake up, too.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Men.”

The second Nyx’s diapered butt hit the seat, he was stuffing his mouth.

“I guess we should wait for him to eat the cake,” Cassian said, looking longingly at the cake.

Nesta chuckled. “No patience?”

“When it comes to homemade baked goods?” Cassian scoffed. “No.”

She snorted, which had Cassian raising an eyebrow. She looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head. “That was just…cute.”

Nesta didn’t reply, but he swore she could see her cheeks heating as she turned to put the leftovers from dinner away.

Once Nyx’s plate was cleared, Nesta cut three slices of cake. One was barely a sliver, one was mostly icing and one was damn near a quarter of the cake. She took the one with extra frosting for herself, placing the small one in front of Nyx and the larger one in front of Cassian.

Again, Nyx wasted no time scarfing it down. Cassian didn’t either, helping himself to another, much smaller piece afterwards, but not touching it yet.

“You sure you don’t want to sing to me?” He asked, taking a bite of the cake. “It would complete my day.”

Nyx, an impending sugar crash, was already dozing again. Apparently, his day with Uncle Cassian had well and truly worn him out.

She rolled her eyes and wiped the excess cake off of Nyx’s face. Pulling him out of his high chair, she said, “No, I think I’m good.”

“I’m just saying,” Cassian pushed. “If you wanted to really wish me a happy birthday, a song would do.”

Nesta snorted, taking Nyx in her arms and swaying, back and forth. “You’ve never heard me sing.”

“If your singing is as good as your cooking, it must be amazing,” Cassian promised.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Have I told you that you’re full of shit?”

Cassian pretended to debate it. “Maybe once or twice.”

Nesta chuckled, and said no more about it. “Finish your cake, Nazari. This little monster is ready for bed. I’ll put him down. It’s your birthday.”

It wasn’t that putting Nyx to bed was exhausting. Although sometimes it could be a chore, Cassian nodded and took another bite of his cake as Nesta and Nyx disappeared.

In their absence, Cassian cleared his plate.

The cake was delicious.

He knew Nesta was an amazing cook, but didn’t know that her baking skills were just as good. It was the best cake he had ever eaten. He was even considering getting himself a third piece, but decided against it as she rounded the corner back into the kitchen.

She sighed, falling into her chair. “That may have been record time to get him down. He was practically asleep before I’d even pulled the curtains shut.”

“He had a big day,” Cassian said, eyeing the piece of cake on her plate that she hadn’t even touched. “Taught him how to make a mojito. He’s a pro. Maybe we should hire him on at the bar.”

Shaking her head, Nesta cut into her cake and took a bite. She chuckled. “I’m sure that doesn’t violate any labor laws.”

“Nah, we’re his guardians,” Cassian said, waving a hand. “We can certainly get some free labor out of him.”

She rolled her eyes. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.” She took another bite of cake, and Cassian’s eyes dipped to her mouth. He was quiet for long enough that she asked, “What?”

He hesitated but said, “You’ve got a little—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead he leaned forward across the small space between them and swiped the frosting that was on the corner of her lips away with his thumb.

Nesta didn’t move.

She didn’t push him away, didn’t tell him to stop touching her, either.

Cassian’s thumb lingered against her lips, and when she looked up, he was already watching her, quietly.

She opened her mouth to say something.

What? She wasn’t sure.

But, when her lips moved, Cassian’s did, too.

He kissed her, softly, slowly, and Nesta melted right into it.

[arrowflier]

I wish you would write a fic where the gallaghers + kev & vee find out about ian's 87% comment and they all give their opinions and ask why mickey, ian's husband who's been a part of ian's life for nearly eleven years only gets 87% of his heart, if the other 13% goes towards his toxic exes and why since they're not in his life anymore, ian explaining himself and ends with ian taking the comment back so mickey has 100% of his heart

I decided this was perfect for Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It! Thanks as always to @gallavichthings for hosting💖. Also on AO3.

Eighty-Seven Percent (Anatomy of a Heart)

It was a normal morning in the Gallagher kitchen.

That is to say, it was chaotic.

Carl and Liam sat across from each other at the narrow table, tossing dry loops of off-brand cereal at each other over Franny’s backpack, which lay open between them. The girl herself was running circles around them both in her pajamas, Debbie chasing after her with a stern face and a frilly dress held in outstretched hands.

“Come on, Franny,” she muttered impatiently as her daughter evaded her again by diving under the table, “just put on the dress!”

Mickey laughed when Franny ran to him instead, trying to hide behind his legs where he stood by the brewing coffeemaker. Ian ruined her attempt by swinging her up into his arms and twirling her around until Debbie snatched her from him, resulting in an angry shriek as Franny writhed in her hold.

“For fuck’s sake, keep it down in here!” Lip hissed, coming in from the living room where Tami had just gotten Fred settled in his play pen. “If you get Fred crying again, I swear I’ll fucking end you all.”

If anything, the kitchen got louder as everyone there chimed in in their own defense.

Mickey just snorted as he grabbed two mugs and got to pouring the fresh coffee. “Good luck with that,” he offered to Lip, amused. “You get one Gallagher going, you get the whole fucking pack.”

Lip glared at him, opened his mouth the say something undoubtedly scathing and most likely regarding Mickey’s place in the family, when Carl laughed and chimed in from the table.

“Funny, man, that’s what Trevor said to me and Ian at the station yesterday.”

The room went quiet.

Or maybe it just seemed that way to Ian, who could see the way his husband’s back immediately tensed at the familiar name, the way he gripped the handle of his mug a little too tight and poured the coffee a little too high before setting down the pot with a hard clack.

“Trevor, huh?” Mickey asked, voice deceptively mild, and Ian winced behind him.

Carl didn’t get the memo.

“Yeah, you remember him, right?” he checked. “He still works at that youth place, came in to post bail for some kid when Ian was bringing by lunch.” He shrugged, tossed a handful of cereal into his mouth. “We chatted a bit,” he mumbled as he chewed.

Mickey gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white under his tattoos. “Funny,” he said quietly, “Ian didn’t think to mention that.”

Ian sighed, ignoring the eyes of his family on their quickly unfolding drama. They’d been fighting a lot lately, a lot more than they used to, and today had been shaping up to be better, damn it. Now he had to do damage control again instead of enjoying a quiet day in with his husband.

“We’ve talked about this, Mickey,” he started, a tad bit exasperated. It must have come through in his voice, because Mickey’s shoulders went up. “Trevor’s not a bad guy, and I’m not gonna avoid him if I see him around.”

Mickey released the counter to grab his coffee again, taking a long, scalding swallow. “Right,” he said finally, not looking at Ian. “Not a bad guy at all. Just wanted to leave your ass rotting in jail when you couldn’t be his poster boy anymore, that’s all.”

“Mickey…” Ian warned, but it didn’t stop him.

“Tell me, Ian,” Mickey mused, turning to face him with hard eyes. “How much of that thirteen percent belongs to him?”

Fuck. Not that again.

“Wait, what’s he talking about?” Debbie was the one to ask first, voice cutting through their palpable tension. She’d even stopped trying to force the dress over Franny’s head in the interim, allowing the girl to escape up the stairs unscathed. “What thirteen percent?”

“Oh yeah, he told me about that,” Lip butted in. “Said Mickey got all bent out of shape cause Ian still thinks about his exes, or something, right?”

Ian closed his eyes against the hurt in Mickey’s as his brother revealed that he knew about their squabble. Fuck his family right now, seriously.

“Not quite,” he gritted out, but when he opened his eyes again, Mickey had schooled his face back into disinterest.

“No, that’s just about it,” Mickey confirmed. “Got my nose out of joint because Ian, here,” he gestured at Ian with his mug, ignoring the hot coffee that splashed over the side, “said I only got eighty-seven percent of his heart.”

Someone whistled, low and long. Ian couldn’t tell who.

“It’s not that big a deal,” he insisted yet again. “My whole life is a fucking shrine to you, Mick. If my heart was a room, there’s be posters of you on every fucking wall.” He took a step closer, until Mickey’s mug pressed into his own chest, leaving a wet spot on his shirt.

“You really can’t let the others have a little space in that room? Not even in the bottom drawer of a dresser that nobody uses anyway?”

Mickey was still, and silent. Then he spun around and slammed his mug back down on the counter, shoved past Ian, and stormed off up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Ian called after him.

“To clean out the goddamn drawers!”

It was quiet in Mickey’s wake, and then—

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” Carl said frankly, and Liam nodded in agreement, eyes wide.

“Did you really say that?” Debbie asked, sounding horrified, and before Ian could answer the back door slammed open.

“Morning neighbors!” Vee greeted as she came through, Kev on her heels. She was holding something, a dish covered in foil, and a carton of juice hung from Kev’s hand.

“We brought you guys some…” Vee trailed off when no one even looked at her, noticing the tension in the room.

“Uh,” she voiced, confused, “what did we miss?”

Carl answered, still looking at Ian in disbelief. “Ian told Mickey he keeps stuff from his exes in a drawer, so Mickey’s up there looking for it.”

“Oh, that’s cold man,” Kev breathed, and Ian exhaled.

“It was a metaphor,” he muttered, and Vee heard him.

“A metaphor for what?” she asked, curious.

“For the thirteen percent of Ian’s heart that belongs to other people,” Debbie revealed, and Vee set down her dish with a clatter.

“You said that to him?” she clarified, and at Ian’s reluctant nod, shook her head and turned to Kev.

“You ever say shit like that to me,” she said firmly, “I’ll cut off thirteen percent of your dick.”

—

A few long minutes later, after he had finally escaped his family’s inquisition about the state of his relationship, Ian made his way upstairs, alone.

When he got to their bedroom, Mickey wasn’t actually going through their things. He was just sitting on their bed, back to the wall, spinning his wedding ring round and round on his finger. Next to him, balanced on their folded blanket, sat the little box with the fancy ones they used in the ceremony just so they wouldn’t have to take theirs off.

Ian’s heart beat harder. That box had been sitting safe in the bottom drawer of their shared dresser.

The one that nobody used.

“Hey,” he said softly from the doorway. Mickey didn’t look up.

“You okay?” Ian asked, and that at least got a response.

“Do I look fucking okay to you?” Mickey returned, eyes on his knees.

He didn’t. Not really. He looked haggard, and upset, his hair spiky where restless fingers had combed through it. Ian couldn’t see his eyes, but he had a feeling they were rimmed in red.

Ian let himself into the room, sat opposite Mickey on the bed with his feet still firmly on the floor. He reached out to trace a finger over the rings in the box, and then the ring on Mickey’s finger.

Mickey let his own hand fall away when he did.

“You know that’s not how I meant it, right?” Ian asked, suddenly desperate to hear Mickey agree. He needed to know that Mickey understood, that just because he remembered his past, it didn’t mean he wasn’t dedicated to his future.

But Mickey just shrugged.

“Not a lot of ways you can mean it,” he said, and shit. Ian had really fucked up this time. “Either I have your whole heart or I don’t,” Mickey continued, “and I don’t. So,” he shrugged again, “whatever.”

Ian took a moment. A long one. He thought of Mickey’s reaction the first time he had said it, when he was mostly just teasing. The way he had been shocked to think that Ian still had fond thoughts for other men. And he thought of his family downstairs, each one more fucked up than the last, all in agreement over the severity of his error.

And to be honest, he still didn’t quite get the uproar. But maybe that was because none of them got his side, either.

“You’re right,” he began, “you don’t.”

Mickey tensed further, pulling away from him on the bed, but Ian wasn’t done.

“You have all the good bits, you know,” he continued. He went to rest a hand on Mickey’s chest, saw his stiffness, and pointed at his own instead.

“You have all four chambers,” he told him. “Atrium and ventricle. You keep my blood moving, keep it useful, keep me alive. And you have my valves,” he added, trailing a finger side to side to point to the right spots as he spoke. “Mitral and aorta, pulmonary and tricuspid.” He smiled. “You keep me going in the right direction.”

Mickey was softening, he could tell, the tension seeping from his limbs as Ian droned on. He kept going anyway.

“You have all my arteries, Mick,” he whispered. “You’re in all my veins. You said I was under your skin, once?” Ian laughed. “Well you’re under my skin, too. And in my muscles, and in my blood.”

“And the others, they’re like…” he hesitated, searched for the right words. Better words than he had used before. “They’re like cholesterol,” he settled on, “plaque. Or…like the scar tissue from a triple bypass, the parts that don’t work anymore.”

Mickey’s lips quirked, despite himself, and Ian counted it as a victory.

“You have a lot a heart surgeries, Gallagher?” he questioned softly, catching on.

Ian smile widened, and he reached out to take Mickey’s hand. This time, Mickey didn’t pull away.

“Maybe a few,” he admitted. “And maybe I’m better for it.”

He lifted Mickey’s hand to his lips, held it there.

“I don’t mind the broken bits,” he told his husband. “The pieces they left behind. Because you pushed through them every time, and made me healthy again.”

Mickey fidgeted, and nudged himself off the wall to settle closer to Ian’s side.

“Alright,” he allowed, “I get it.”

“Do you?” Ian asked earnestly. “Because I want you to, you know.” He dropped Mickey’s hand to hold his face instead, gently stroking a thumb over his cheek. “I want you to know that that thirteen percent, it doesn’t really matter. All that matters are the parts that are you.”

"I chose you, Mickey," he murmured. He reached out blindly for the spare rings in their box on the bed, worked one free. Slipped it onto Mickey's finger without looking away from his eyes. Mickey's hand clenched around it, around Ian's hand, and held tight.

"I married you," Ian added. "Because I love you with every real part of my heart, every little bit that works."

“All eighty-seven percent?” Mickey prods with a soft expression, leaning forward until his nose brushes Ian’s.

“All eighty-seven percent,” Ian confirmed, and kissed him.