#< Without trying to stray too far from it

[munsonify]

i love the way u write for steve sm! could i please request steve with a more alternative reader? kinda eddie vibes, dustin thinks she’s the absolute coolest person ever and steve is just in awe of how well his girl gets on with his lil bestie? xx

thank you so much! of course, this is literally sooo adorable i love it 🥹🥹 i tried my best to make this a little bit of an alternative!reader without it sounding like super corny so i dunno if i really got the point across but i hope i did!

cassettes and conversations - steve harrington x fem!alternative!reader

summary. when you snag a cassette tape of a new album dustin’s been looking forward to, all steve can think about is how lucky he got with you as his girlfriend

content warnings. fluff, lighthearted teasing and bickering (between r, dustin, and steve), hugging&kissing (sfw), cuddling, very brief non-sexual nudity, pet names (sweetheart). not proofread

word count. 1922

———

when steve introduced you to dustin, you weren’t at all what the boy expected. he knew steve’s type, who he usually goes for. you strayed from that a little. you wore darker clothes, you listened to heavier music, you didn’t care as much about what other people thought of you. that’s what drew steve in to you, and it’s what dustin grew to admire. he admired your shameless attitude and the way you carried yourself. he thinks you’re the coolest, and not just because you’re dating one of his closest friends.

dustin might’ve been more excited than your boyfriend when you’d walked through the front door of the harringtons home. he was quick to drag you into the conversation, a desperation for your opinion on the subject matter.

“perfect timing!” he exclaimed, jolting up slightly in his seat on the couch. while you untied your boots, you listened to the boy ramble, taking in every last word he said with careful consideration. “steve’s trying to tell me pac-man is a better game than digdug, which is totally insane and wrong! y/n, tell him that’s insane. digdug is clearly better!”

setting your shoes on the shoe rack, a smirk played on your face as you thought. you shook your head, standing straight up as you cross your arms, purse still hooked on your fingers as you spoke. “i think you’re both just a bunch of nerds.”

dustin was quick to grumble and pout, arms pushing himself off of the couch and onto his feet. he stomps off while mumbling under his breath about you being no help and how he needs some water. your nose crinkles up slightly while watching him storm off, giggles slipping from your lips. you start your way over to steve, who was already getting up from the recliner to meet you half way. after gently tossing your purse to the couch, you brought your arms up, watching as he walks right into them.

steve engulfs you in a large, welcoming hug, arms wrapping securely around your waist. yours wrap around his shoulders, a smile still on your face as you hug him tight. he begins rocking you side by side gently as he whispers to you, like right up against your ear, careful not to let dustin hear. “thanks for sparing him considering i’m, ya know, completely correctly.”

you shook your head again slightly, eyes rolling quickly as you whispered back. between the way your freshly manicured nails raked through his hair - a deep maroon he loved on you - and the way your breath tickled his skin, he couldn’t help but shiver at your words. even if you were teasing him. “keep telling yourself that, honey.”

truth is, as much as you got along with dustin, you couldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you agreed with him like that. it’d boost his poor little ego too much, so much so you were afraid it would ruin him for life. he needed humbled occasionally, and you were glad to do so. it was practically your birthright.

you pulled away from the hug only far enough to move face to face with steve, your gentle lips moving to press against his in a chaste, long awaited kiss. you hadn’t seen him in two days, and you were dying to get your hands on your boyfriend. this was the most you could get from him for the time being, and you were quick to take it. not that you’d ever complain about his hugs and kisses. you cherished them deeply.

“gross,” dustin said as he walks back into the living room, still grumbling with a crinkled forehead. you peeled away from steve when he walked past you guys, watching the way steve swatted at his chest. “is this what it’s like having a mom and a dad?”

even at 16, dustin still found himself cringing at the sight of affection sometimes. he didn’t mind it as much from the two of you, though. he was glad you’d found each other- the two of you clearly in love -, even if it meant seeing you guys cling to each other from time to time. you grabbed ahold of your purse again as he flops onto the couch, slouching into the comfort of the cushions, sipping on his water.

you began fumbling with the straps and the zipper of your purse, speaking to dustin while in the corner of your eye seeing steve sit back down on the recliner. “keep talking like that and i’ll have to return this.”

dustin’s head shot up in confusion, eyes studying you in attempts to figure out what you were talking about. it was common knowledge that you worked at the record store in town. both him and steve found their way there, usually together, in search of music and your company. one of the many perks of working there was that you were given early access to a lot of the products you sold. one of those products included a cassette tape of the newest album from dustin’s favorite band. it wasn’t on the shelves for another week, and he’d been raving about it from what felt like forever. it was only right for you to snag him one.

“return what?” dustin asked, eyebrows raising as he watched you rummage through your black leather bag. it wasn’t until you pulled out the cassette, the lettering catching his eye quickly that he realized what you had. he sprung up on his feet in an instant, spilling some of water as he practically tosses the cup onto the coffee table. “shut. up.”

you expected him to grab ahold of the cassette tape, to take a better look and to store it away first and foremost. it caught you by surprise that, instead, dustin pulled you into a death gripping hug, arms wrapping around your torso excitedly. he nearly knocked you over with the sheer force of his jumpstart. “thank you so much.”

you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him back just as tight. it was when dustin pulled away that he grabbed ahold of the cassette, his body still very much in your personal space as he admired it in his hands. you didn’t mind it, though, not when he was this ecstatic. he turned around to briefly explain what it was to steve, before turning again on his heels to face you.

“how much do i owe you?” dustin asked, already shoving his hands in his jeans pocket to fish out his wallet. now it was your turn to swat at his chest, your head shaking at his words.

“absolutely nothing. it’s a gift.”

“but it’s not my birthday or christmas.”

“it doesn’t have to be,” you argued back, shoulders shrugging like it was the most casual thing in the world. cause it was. there was no use in arguing with you anymore, and dustin knew that. you were just about as stubborn as him and steve were, the possibility of going on and on with this debate for hours a very real thing.

the three of you spent the rest of the evening talking together, speaking about whatever came to mind. a lot of it was music or movies, some of which steve fell a little behind on. that never bothered him. he was never quite into metal or deep cut horror like the two of you were, even if you were the one that introduced dustin to a lot of it. it was more his style, anyways. steve always made a comment about how odd the boys taste is, teasing and playful. a jab in which he never seemed to carry over to you.

eventually, it was starting to get dark, and since dustin biked here, steve sent him on his way. he wasn’t allowing him to bike at night, especially not after what happened to will. hugs and goodbyes were given out, something you were given extra of from the boy. he made sure you knew just how grateful he was for your gift, despite knowing he was. he gave you a handful more ‘thank you’’s before he went on his way, cassette tape shoved securely in his jacket pocket.

the alone time you were craving with steve was finally here. he practically dragged you up to his room, beginning your usual dance of getting ready for bed alongside each other. while you slipped out of your dark washed, baggy jeans, steve began to speak, sitting a t-shirt of his aside for you to slip into. “that was really nice what you did for him. dustin really looks up to you, i know that meant a lot to him.”

you shrugged your shoulders again, stripping yourself of your bra and shirt just to tug his over your body and nothing more. this was one of his favorite sights. you in his room in just his baggy t-shirt and a pair of your panties. everything about you today has his heart clenching with affection. admittedly, it meant a lot to steve too seeing you do that for him. dustin’s a big part of his life, and so are you. seeing the two of you get along so well meant the world to steve. it was nearly enough to bring genuine tears to his eyes. it’s why he tried not to think on it for too long.

“he’s a good kid, he deserves it. i couldn’t help myself anyways, the moment i saw we had it in i knew i had to grab it for him. he was so excited for the release, i needed to make sure he got it.”

there were steve’s tears, something he was desperate to blink back when you’d turned around to start your way towards his comfortable bed. you were immediately engulfed by his scent when you slid into the blankets, body sinking into the mattress. steve was close behind you, slipping right into bed with you. and, just like every other night, his arms opened up for you, ready to take you in. you rested your head against his chest feeling his arms wrap around you, cuddling you close.

“he looks up to you. he talks about how cool you are all the time. i’m pretty sure he talks about you more than i do sometimes.” steve had a firm hand on your upper back as his spoke, gently caressing it against the expanse of your shoulder blades. it was soothing, and you were sure that it’ll put you right to sleep after the conversation is done.

“all im hearing is that my boyfriend doesn’t talk about me enough,” you teased, one of your hands reaching to brace his side as you poke gently. steve’s chest rumbled slightly as he laughed lowly, head shaking at your words.

“that’s exactly what you’re hearing, sweetheart. i’m horrible,” steve fed into it, his voice dripping with sarcasm. you laughed along with him, shifting your weight closer to him.

“the worst,” you said with a smile, feeling him press a kiss to your hairline.

other than an exchange of ‘i love you’’s, nothing else was spoken that night as you drift off into sleep. you were both content with the day and in each others arms. steve snagged a real winner when he’d asked you out, and every day he thanked whatever higher power had anything to do with it. right here, right now, with you, was exactly where he was meant to be. he wouldn’t change it for the world.

[thatonegirlonhere]

Behind the curtain

Chapter one: Not a Kiss, Not Yet

Seungmin x f!trainee reader

Cw: slow burn, love at first sight, eventual smut (in chapter 4),

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 ||

JYP’s building never slept. Even in the dead of night, one of the floors always had a light on. A rhythm echoing from behind a door. A dream in motion.

You were one of those dreams.

A new trainee, barely a few months in, eyes wide, body aching, chasing a future that felt both far away and one practice away.

Tonight, the dance studio on the third floor was quiet—until you walked in. Your group training had ended, but you stayed late to perfect a routine. You liked it best when no one was around to judge, when it was just you and the mirror.

You didn’t know someone else was watching.

Seungmin had only come to grab a charger he left behind. He didn’t expect to see someone dancing alone—someone he didn’t recognize.

You moved like you were trying to shake off the weight of the world. There was something unpolished, raw, but honest. Beautiful, even when it wasn’t perfect.

He stood quietly just outside the door, heart caught in his throat.

He had no idea who you were—but he felt like he needed to.

You finished the routine with a shaky breath, bending over with your hands on your knees. Your hair stuck to your forehead and your hoodie clung to your skin.

That’s when you noticed him. A tall figure leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. You jumped.

“Oh my god, how long have you been there?!”

Seungmin smiled. Soft, amused. “Long enough to see you almost nail that ending.”

You blinked, still catching your breath. “Were you… spying?”

He shrugged. “Just admiring.”

Your heart stumbled in your chest. “A-admiring?”

He stepped inside the room, pulling his hood down. You recognized him now—Kim Seungmin of Stray Kids. Suddenly, your throat was dry.

“I’m Seungmin.”

“I know.” You laughed nervously. “I mean—not in a creepy way. I just… I’ve seen you perform. You’re amazing.”

He chuckled. “Thanks. And you are…?”

“Y/N. I just joined. Vocal and dance team.” You bowed instinctively. “Sorry if I was disturbing anyone.”

“You weren’t. Actually…” He tilted his head. “You kind of made my night.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“You looked like you were dancing for yourself. That’s rare.” His voice was softer now. “It was… real.”

You blinked again, unsure how to respond. Compliments didn’t come often in this world. Genuine ones? Even rarer.

“I—uh, thanks. That means a lot. Especially coming from you.”

He gave a sheepish smile, hands in his pockets. “Can I watch again sometime?”

Your stomach fluttered. “If I don’t trip and embarrass myself, sure.”

He grinned. “Even if you do.”

——————

After that night, Seungmin always seemed to appear.

In the halls. By the vending machines. During joint company meetings. And sometimes—when you stayed late to practice—he’d be sitting quietly against the wall again, earbuds in, pretending to scroll through his phone but eyes always flickering toward you.

You tried to act cool. But it was hard when Kim Seungmin smiled at you like that.

And harder still when he started bringing you snacks. Or warm tea when he noticed you coughed too much. Or offered to run lines when you were prepping for your first showcase.

Your friends whispered behind your back: “He likes you.”

You didn’t believe it. Not really. You were just a trainee. A nobody. And he—he was already someone.

But then came the night everything changed.

The rooftop of the JYP building was quiet at midnight. You liked going up there when things felt too much. Which was often.

Tonight was especially hard. You’d been scolded for missing a step. Your vocals cracked. You overheard a senior trainer say you “weren’t ready.”

You needed air.

What you didn’t expect was for Seungmin to be up there too, sitting on the edge with a iced americano in hand, staring out at the city lights.

“Rough day?” he asked without turning around.

You hesitated, then walked toward him. “Is it that obvious?”

He glanced at you. “Only because I know the look.”

You sat beside him, your shoulder barely brushing his.

“I don’t think I’m good enough,” you whispered.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Then, softly:

“I knew you were the moment I saw you.”

You turned to him, startled.

“I wasn’t lying that night,” he said. “You had something. You still do.”

You looked away, trying to hide the burning in your eyes.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

You blinked, turning back to him. His eyes were sincere, steady.

“I’m not supposed to like anyone right now,” you whispered.

“I’m not either,” he smiled. “But here we are.”

The silence stretched between you, gentle and warm. Then, with careful courage, he reached out and laced his pinky with yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

But a promise.

———————

Your trainee group was finally set to perform at a small internal showcase in front of company staff and select artists.

It wasn’t technically a debut, but it was the first time your name was printed on a running order. The first time you wore in-ears. The first time the spotlight was yours.

You were shaking.

Backstage, you paced nervously, hands trembling. Your groupmates tried to comfort you, but nothing worked.

Until a stagehand whispered, “Someone’s asking for you in the hallway.”

You rushed out, confused—and there he was.

Seungmin.

Wearing a mask and cap, clearly not supposed to be here. But he didn’t care.

“Y/N.” His voice was soft, eyes crinkling. “You ready?”

“No,” you whispered honestly.

He smiled, stepping closer. “That’s okay. You don’t have to feel ready. Just feel real. Like you did that first night I saw you.”

You swallowed thickly. “What if I mess up?”

He reached out and took your hand.

“Then you mess up. And you smile. And you keep going. Because that’s what the best ones do.”

His fingers squeezed yours gently. “And you’re one of the best ones, remember?”

You looked up at him, nerves still dancing under your skin—but steadier now.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Kill it out there,” he said. “I’ll be watching. Secretly.”

You went on stage.

You danced like it was just you and the mirror. You sang like it was your last chance. You stumbled on one move, laughed through it, and kept going—just like he said.

You finished breathless.

And when the lights dimmed and the audience clapped, you could’ve sworn you saw him in the back, clapping harder than anyone else.

——————

A week later, everything shifted.

Your group was selected to debut in the next rotation. You were ecstatic. Terrified. Overwhelmed. Trainers started pushing harder. Your days stretched from 10 hours to 15.

And somewhere in the rush, you stopped seeing Seungmin.

Until one night—he texted.

“Rooftop?”

You ran. Hoodie thrown over your practice clothes, breath caught in your throat as you pushed open the door.

He was already there, sitting on the edge like before.

“I missed you,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He looked up slowly, eyes searching yours. “I missed you too.”

You sat beside him, silent for a beat.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. “Of what happens if anyone finds out. Of breaking rules. Of ruining this before it even starts.”

He looked at you gently. “Me too.”

Another pause. The city lights glittered below, but they weren’t as bright as the way he looked at you.

“But I think…” He reached over and touched your hand softly. “I’d regret it more if I didn’t try.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

And then—your forehead pressed gently to his. A moment suspended in quiet.

Not a kiss, not yet.

But something even deeper.

A choice.

[quokkareactions]

These scenerios are for a very specific audience, but I hope whoever is intrested in this crossover will like them. (also I have like a thousand more ideas for this, so expect one with Seventeen members too)

Stray Kids as Hogwarts dates:

Bang Chan: Prefect rounds and quiet confessions

You're both assigned to patrol the castle after curfew - standard prefect duty. The halls are quiet, the torches low and flickering. Chan walks beside you, hands in his robe pockets, occasionally humming under his breath.

At first, you whisper about suspicious noises and hidden passageways, but soon the conversation shifts. He talks about his first year at Hogwarts, how strange it felt to be so far from home. You share your own stories - some embarrassing, some quiet and wistful. Somewhere near the tapestry of dancing trolls, he stops walking.

"I don't think I ever really felt at home here," he admits, eyes fixed on the empty corridor ahead. "Not until I met you."

The words hang in the air like an incantation. You blink, and he looks back at you, that familiar soft smile tugging at his lips. "It's cheesy, I know."

You shake your head. "It's sweet," you whisper.

He reaches out, fingers brushing yours. A silent question. You link your hand with his, and for the rest of the patrol, the castle feels just a bit warmer.

Lee Know: The Astronomy Tower and the things he doesn't say

You find Minho leaning against the railing of the Astronomy Tower, cloak pulled tight around him, hair tousled by the wind. It's just after curfew - technically off-limits - but he doesn't seem worried. Neither do you. You've always followed him into rule-breaking without a second thought.

The stars are scattered like spilled glitter across the velvet night. Minho's gaze is fixed upward, his expression unusually still.

You stand next to him close enough that your shoulders brush. "What are you thinking about?"

He takes his time before answering. "Everything. Nothing."

Classic Minho.

But then he glances at you, and something flickers in his eyes - softer, quieter.

"You know, stars take millions of years to reach us," he says. "They're long gone, but we still see their light."

You blink, unsure where he's going with this.

"It's weird," he adds. "Sometimes I think... if i vanished tomorrow, would people still feel me, like that?"

You turn to face him. "I would."

That catches him off guard. His eyes meet yours in the dark, wide and vulnerable for once. A few seconds pass like this. Then he shifts slightly, putting his hand on yours on the railing. "Stay until it gets cold?"

You nod, and neither of you talk much after that. The stars say enough.

Changbin: The shy knight of the Yule Ball

You spot him across the Great Hall, tugging at the collar of his dress robes like it's trying to strangle him. The room is glittering - charmed snow falling from the enchanted ceiling, golden light dancing over hundreds of floating candles. The music swells, and students begin pairing off onto the floor.

Changbin, however, is frozen.

You cross the room, weaving between couples and professors, until you're standing in front of him. "You look amazing."

He blushes. "I feel like a toddler wrapped in curtains."

You laugh and offer your hand. "Then let's make you the best-dressed toddler on the floor."

He stares for a second, clearly fighting a thousand internal voices, then takes your hand - wram, callused, steady.

You start swaying, slow and uncertain. Changbin mumbles, "I don't know how to dance."

"Good," you smile. "Neither do I."

But as the music floats around you, your steps fall into rhythm. His hands stay gentle on your waist, his eyes flickering nervously to your face every few seconds.

"You know," he says, "I was scared you'd go with someone else. Someone cooler."

You tilt your head. "Why would I want someone cooler when I've got you?"

Hyunjin: Secrets by the Black Lake

The afternoon sun drapes golden light across the Black Lake. Hyunjin is already there when you arrive, sketchbook in his lap, shoes kicked off beside him.

He doesn't look up when you sit next to him, but he smiles. "Took you long enough"

You peek over at his drawing - it's the lake, the squid's tentacle peeking out of the water, and tiny students lounging on the far bank. It's soft, peaceful, full of movement.

You don't speak for a while. The breeze flutters through your hair. The water ripples like it's humming to itself. And beside you, Hyunjin keeps sketching.

Then he quietly flips to a new page.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Drawing something I can't look at directly," he says. "Because if I stare too long, I'll never be able to look away."

You glance at him. "That makes no sense."

But then he turns the page toward you - a soft sketch of you, half-finished, half-stolen glances. The way you sit, the way you smile when you don't know he's watching.

Your breath catches.

"You're annoying," you mumble, smiling despite yourself.

He grins. "But you like it."

Han: I solemnly swear

You found him in the common room, cross-legged on the floor, grinning like he'd just won the Triwizard Tournament.

"Look what I just found," Jisung whispered, holding out a worn bit of parchment.

You looked at him sceptical. "Did your owl chew on your homework and then spit it back out again?"

"What? No, just watch," he said exasperated.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Ink bloomed across the page - moving dots, secret corridors, the entire castle unfolding like a living puzzle.

Your jaw dropped. "Is that...?

"The Marauder's Map," he beamed.

That night, the two of you huddled together under candlelight, watching the castle's secrets dance across the page. You caught him tracing your name with his thumb.

"You're gonna rub the ink off," you teased.

He smirked. "Maybe I just like seeing us side by side"

And somehow, from then on, your dots always seemed to wander toward each other.

Felix: The smell of Amortentia

The moment Professor Slughorn uncovered the Amortentia cauldron, Felix leaned in far too quickly.

He blinked, sniffed again, then blinked harder.

"Okay. That's not fair."

You tilted your head. "What?"

He looked at you like you were the problem.

"You're standing too close. The only thing I smell is freshly baked cookies and your perfume."

You raised an eyebrow. "I'm not even wearing perfume today... Wait, your Amortentia smells like cookies and me?"

He froze. "I.. No... I mean... Maybe?"

You couldn't help laughing. "Busted."

He groaned, tugging his robes over his face. "Why does magic have to expose me like this?"

Later, as you gathered your notes, you whispered, "For the record... mine smelled like brownies, coffee and your sweaters."

He stopped.

Then, grinning wide, he said, "Guess we're both doomed."

Seungmin: Quiet corners and close hearts

You meet in the library after lunch, your usual corner table already stacked with books. Seungmin's scribbling something into his notes when you sit down, then glances up with his usual unimpressed expression.

"You're late."

"It's Saturday."

"Excuses."

But he nudges your favourite flavour of sugar quill toward you anyway, and you know he's not really mad.

You study in comfortable silence. Occasionally he corrects your sentences or points out a spelling mistake with maddening precision. You retaliate by stealing his quill or doodling small hearts on the edge of his parchment.

Eventually, your feet bump under the table and stay there.

"I like this," you say quietly. "Not the studying. Just... being here. With you."

Seungmin doesn't look up from his notes, but you see the smallest twitch of his lips.

"I know," he says.

A pause

"I like it too."

Jeongin: Butterbeer, scarves and snowflakes in Hogsmeade

The snow crunches under your boots as you follow Jeongin into Hogsmeade, breath clouding the air between you. He's bundled up in three scarves - two of which you suspect he stole from his dormmates - and dragging you by the hand toward the Three Broomsticks.

"I've been waiting for this all week," he says.

"Because you love butterbeer?"

"Because I love you in a wool hat," he replies without missing a beat, grinning.

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm despite the chilly wind. Inside, the pub is toasty and loud, lit by lanterns and alive with chatter. You find a small table hid in a corner, order two hot butterbeers, and huddle close together, watching snow fall through the frosted window.

At some point, he leans forward, face resting in one palm, watching you intently.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing," he says, smiling shyly. "Just... I'm glad it's you."

You bump his knee under the table. "You're kind of sappy today"

Later, you walk back toward the castle, the sky pink with the setting sun. He pulls you closer and murmurs under his scarves, "We're doing this again next year. '

You smile. "Every year."

[noiranamnesis]

By the time he speaks again, Marinette is no longer looking at him, having shifted her focus to nearby displays of fruit- a quiet compromise, offering him space without straying too far. She doesn't meet his gaze, merely listens, nodding once even as a flicker of confusion passes at his mention of clericals. Still, she thinks better than to ask. “All right,” she murmurs, a polite smile forming as she steps past him toward the vegetables. “I won’t take much longer.”

She doesn't attempt to push the conversation further, schooling her expression into the warm, practiced smile she wore so often back home. Yet beneath it, uncertainty lingers. She can sense something unsettled in him- something simmering between them. He’s not comfortable around me. It isn’t something she would ever fault him for, though it leaves her unsure of how to approach him. At times he seems pleased when she speaks; other times, silence settles as morning fog. Maybe he simply prefers quiet, she thinks. Or maybe…we’re both nervous? I hope I’m not imagining it.

Her gaze drifts to the basket in her hand: pomegranates, flour, salt...ingredients for crêpes. Her thoughts catch on the dresses he bought her, on the generosity he's shown, and a small pang of reluctance tugs at her. I agreed to let him pay, but I’d rather not for this.

“I’ve found everything I need,” she says softly, keeping her words as concise as possible. “Thank you for bringing me.” But I’d rather if you didn’t pay. The thought dances on the tip of her tongue, but she can’t bring herself to say it. I don’t want to overwhelm him. She repeats it silently, as if to reassure herself.

At the cashier, she greets the attendant with a simple, Bonjour, without realizing. They look surprised but say little. Marinette slips her card from her purse, turning to Levi with a small smile. “Can I try?” she asks. “I’d like to see if my card works here- or if I’ll need to set up a new account.” It isn't entirely true. Nor entirely a lie.

There is a certain slow delicacy to the way Marinette moves, fingers barely grazing the fruit, eyes dipped down, eyelashes long and curled at the end like in the movies. She really does look like something Hollywood would want to pamper, the kind of old black and white films that his ma secretly watched when they were the only ones home.

She dreamed of romance, of being kissed on the cheek and dancing in the rain and all she ever got was a kiss with knuckles and soaked down to the bone when she was locked out of the house during storms. He remembers once watching through his curtains on one of those days. It was storming so hard the entire world was shaking.

Thunder that shook the window panes and she was in a red dress. He watched her walk out into the field, partly visible with all the water coming down, a blurry figure with spread arms, head tilted back. Even through the storm he could hear the way she screamed at the sky. That sound never left him.

It grafted itself along his spine, laid with him in his own sorrow when she was gone. Levi blinks, startled by the recollection of memory. He's been thinking of his mom today a lot more than he normally lets himself. Stayed too quiet too long, left Marinette wandering the fruits in silence.

"There's lots to do," He says even if it comes too late, "Ranch work is never done. Sometimes it's helpful to have two more hands, but it's ... well it ain't fine work. It's muddy, little bloody sometimes. We got someone who does the clericals."

He can't picture a woman like her riding around on the back of a horse, throwing lassos, tying calves, and getting her knees dirty. But then there's ass in assume for a reason. "I'll give you the run down once things settle and you can see if any of it interests you, even if it doesn't, it's good to know."

[keepingupwiththeboltons]

My bet on if they cave and add nettles to the show, is that they wont have her pop up behind a rock and suddenly exist and already have claimed sheepstealer, but instead theyll do something insane and stupid and have her claim the cannibal or some shit instead

[exchangell]

pretty girls make graves ch. ii : humphrey

in which the young helen bone and simon, chevalier de brimeu deal with the highs and lows of an empty marriage

[digi-diareis]

"We need to talk" Prank

with the LaDS love interests, implied that the LI's are already in a relationship w you

Xavier

Oh he's pulling out the puppy dog eyes immediately, lower lip jutting out and ready to start crying.

"I'm sorry." "What? Do you even know what you're apologizing for? Also, why are you apologizing?"

This guy is ready to admit to any and all the faults he's made the past week, from cooking without permission, eating her secret stash of snacks, forgetting to feed the cat on time, etc.

"Please don't break up with me, please please please please-" "Xavi, baby, calm down, I'm not breaking up with you"

Anyways, the prank doesn't even last a minute because you break the moment he pulls out the kicked puppy look and he starts begging for you.

You guys end up cuddling the entire day because he won't stop sulking and being worried that you're tired of him so you can't really leave him alone because this is your fault.

We love a loser like Xavi <3

Rafayel

Dramatic ass man and pranks like these are like perfect tiktok material.

"Oh, you are NOT breaking up with me. I don't give you permission to." "I don't recall breaking up having to need permission from both parties." "Well, now you know."

Anyways, you're both just bickering over stupid shit now. You've strayed from the "we need to talk" to now pointing fingers at who's the bigger drama queen between the two of you.

Zayne

Oh sweet summer child, takes you very seriously.

"What is it, love? Did I do something to upset you?"

Oh, you just know how guilty you'll end up feeling when you keep up with the prank. You last a solid 3 sentences before you slowly turn quiet because he's listening so patiently and looks like he's truly reflecting on everything you've said.

"Okay, I'm sorry it was a stupid prank but I can't stand looking at you this guilty. You've been nothing but an absolute sweetheart, I could never ask for more."

Zayne sighs, relieved that it wasn't actually something major.

"Please, try not to do pranks like these again. I love you but the way my heart dropped when you said those words is not healthy."

You give him a big hug and lots of smooches to make it up to him, vowing never to do pranks like these on him again.

Sylus

Oh, you are looking forward to this. There's a power trip of sorts when you remember how much power you actually hold over this man. And this is perfect.

Some say this might be a red flag of yours but you're dating a wholeass criminal big boss so it's not really that big of a deal.

When you start the prank, he raises an eyebrow. Feeling like it might be a prank since he did spoil you and didn't do anything to piss you off recently.

"And what is it this time, sweetheart?"

Okay ngl, I think this prank goes way too far because he would correct / contradict / defend every single reason and excuse you come up with. That it just becomes a wholeass debate of whether you even have an actual reason to be unsatisfied with your relationship.

At the end of it all, you are breathless and out of excuses. So you just glare at him. Sylus simply smirks knowing he won this 'argument'.

"I'll get you someday, look forward to the day that you're begging for me on your knees." "Oh sweetheart, I'd get on my knees for you anytime, if you just asked."

Caleb

You feel like this might be the worst idea you've ever had, knowing full well how possessive Caleb can get but anything for the gram or whatever the kids say.

"Say that again, buttercup? I think I misheard you."

Oh, the way his voice dropped an entire octave got you both nervous and also maybe turned on?

You try to be strong and push through, repeating what you said.

"Sure, we can talk. Did I do something wrong? Did I upset you? Did you find out about the hidden cameras? Is it the new guy at work, did he give you any ideas? I knew I shouldn't have stopped at a few broken ribs-" "CALEB WHAT THE FUCK"

Prank is forgotten, you are now giving him an hour long sermon about hidden cameras and not beating up every man who has any interaction with you.

What you say is definitely passing through the other ear for him, he's just pleased he managed to distract you from the original topic. Its better that you feel responsible for correcting him and being stuck with him rather than you getting sick and tired of him.

Caleb - 1 : You - 0

(i tried my best but i feel like these are very ooc aaaaaaa)

[odorefal]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ sukuna ryomen wasn’t used to feeling guilty, but the moment he saw the hurt flash in your eyes when you guys got into a pretty heated argument, he knew he had taken things too far.

the way his own sharp tongue had driven you to silence.

you made him weak. he had always thought vulnerability was pathetic, yet here he was, fists clenched as he watched you step away, regretting every sharp word he had thrown at you.

he vowed to never let those pathetic tears clouding your eyes ever again.

the sight of you curled beneath the blanket, your shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs, made him pause. sukuna’s brows drew together as he opened his mouth, but the words failed him.

his pride made it difficult, but eventually, he managed to whisper, “i didn’t mean it.” the raw sincerity in his voice was enough to make your heart ache. however, your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve, any excuse to ignore the weight of his presence beside you.

when you refused to look at him, he simply grabbed you and settled you into his lap, resting his chin on your head with a quiet sigh and shifted, pressing you flush against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat pulsed under your touch.

his fingers twitched at his sides before he hesitantly reached out, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his usual arrogance nowhere to be found.

finally, he muttered, “...i shouldn’t have said that,” voice low but sincere. another sighed and he leaned in, pressing a firm yet lingering kiss to your forehead. his palm remained on your waist, as though savoring the contact

sukuna didn’t say anything. he just looked at you — eyes laced with regret and a depth of emotion words could never capture.

sukuna had held many things in his life — power, destruction, fear. but this? this quiet, fragile thing between you, where silence spoke louder than words, where his grip on you felt more like an anchor than a restraint; this was something else entirely.

and for once, he didn’t know whether to embrace it or run from it. by silently saying, i don’t want to lose you.

after cupping your face and pressing a lingering kiss against your lips, sukuna’s voice dropped to a low murmur, rough yet laced with something almost uncertain.

“does this mean i'm forgiven?”

it wasn’t teasing, nor was it smug; just quiet, almost reluctant, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

“no,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

“tch. brat.” his grip on your face tightened slightly; not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you were dealing with. then, without warning, he kissed you again, deeper this time, as if daring you to say it again.

when he pulled back, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “try saying that again, darling.”

[nanamiskentos]

MAMA, A DIVA BEHIND YOU! — toji fushiguro sfw!

prologue. → toji loves his son, he really does. unfortunately, young megumi is less than receptive when it comes to toji's efforts to impress the pretty neighbour who just moved into the apartment down the hall.

or five times megumi actively made toji's love life worse. and the one time he actually helped.

pairing. toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings. megumi is his own warning. mild age gap implied. non sorcerer au, toji is raising megumi on his own. reader has she/her pronouns. nothing else, just shenanigans :) toji gets knocked down a few pegs by his son 😭 mildly ooc toji <3

word count. song inspiration. paper rings — taylor swift

a/n. this is sooo silly and for fun lol 😭 i feel like you can tell this just isn't my genre or writing style 😭

mp3. i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings <3

TOJI FUSHIGURO didn't have a lot of treasures in life. he just wasn't that type of guy. treasures were for people with their lives together — the kind who budgeted for organic vegetables and owned matching socks. toji's list of prized possessions was short: a semi-reliable pay check, a fridge that kept his beer cold on a good day, and the one channel that aired late-night baseball games.

oh, and his kid. megumi fushiguro.

the little brat was the one thing in toji's life he could call a blessing without choking on the word. but lately? toji was seriously considering the logistics of international shipping. could you send a five year old punk to siberia? where was the paperwork for that?

everything had been fine. hell, downright manageable. until you moved in down the hall.

at first, toji didn't give a fuck. neighbours were usually either noisy or nosy, and sometimes the tragic combination of both. the last guy had banged on his door at least once a week, yelling about toji's late-night weightlifting sessions and muttering something about 'quiet hours.'

toji had pegged you for the same. maybe with a yoga met and too many scented candles.

but then, you showed up on his doorstep with a kind smile that could probably light up half the districts in the city. and a polite, sweet, "excuse me, but could you help me with my bed frame?"

and that was it.

the universe must've been real bored, because that was the moment it decided that toji fushiguro — self proclaimed expert on not giving a damn, was going to lose his damn mind like cupid has struck him with the painful arrows of a crush. and he was a goner.

take #1 — my neck, my back

spring in tokyo had come into full bloom, the kind of day where the air smelled faintly of sunshine, and the cherry blossoms drifted around like lazy, little freeloaders. below the apartment complex, the park wasn't much to write home about — a scrappy patch of grass, a couple of benches that looked like they'd seen some shit, and a swing set that squeaked like it had a vendetta against joy.

but for toji? it was good enough.

he'd figured this 'let me show you around because i'm so friendly' outing would be low effort. easy. casual and neighbourly, even. except now, he was leaning against a tree which was far harder than it sounded when his lower back was screaming at him louder than megumi had this morning about brushing his teeth.

but you stood nearby, smiling that damn warm and disarming smile of yours, gently plucking a stray blossom from megumi's messy hair. the kid, for his part, was pointedly ignoring you both, kicking rocks with the type of dedication usually reserved for a brat trying to avoid his homework.

toji cleared his throat, "so, uh, the area's not bad. quiet most of the time. that convenience store over there's open late. great for snacks. or milk. y'know, the owner's a bit of a bitc —"

"why are you standing like that?"

megumi's voice cut through his rehearsed tour like a rusty knife.

toji shot him a sharp glance. a look that screamed: keep your mouth shut, kid.

megumi just tilted his head, all faux innocence, and then delivered the killing blow with those sea-green eyes gleaming in what toji was certain was pure maliciousness, "dad, your back hurts again, doesn’t it?"

toji froze, scrambling for damage control, but you were already pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh. trying. but he could see the corners of your mouth twitching.

"back's fine," toji huffed, straightening up too fast. something in his spine must have popped loud enough to startle a crow off a branch, "solid a rock, hah! good as new."

megumi glanced at his scuffed sneakers, and then back up, "you said it was hard getting off the couch this morning. didn't you say you're old now and falling apart?"

toji's entire soul left his body. the punk was a traitor to a family name. he should have just sent megumi back to the clan long ago.

"don't you have a rock to kick?" he hissed.

"already did all that."

and that was it. your laugh finally burst out, bright and loud, ringing through the little patch of a park. toji found himself staring at you like some idiot in a rom-com who’d just realised he was completely doomed.

"kids, huh?" he muttered, throwing megumi a glare that promised revenge.

"kids," you agreed, eyes still sparkling as you excused yourself, something about leaving a pot on the stove. you gave toji one last look as you turned to go, warm and soft with that lingering amusement.

toji leaned back against the tree once you were gone, letting out a long sigh. megumi was still standing there, kicking the same patch of dirt, as though he were trying to discover unseen archaeological wonders underneath the earth.

"you're lucky i don’t sell you to a circus," toji grumbled under his breath.

megumi didn’t even look up, "you wouldn’t get that much for me."

smart-ass kid.

take #2 — the liar's pants are blazing on fire

walking someone home shouldn't have felt like scaling mount fuji, but toji fushiguro was now sweating bullet. the evening was crisp, the air cool enough to keep him from outright drowning in these stupid nerves, but it helped little.

the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting a faint yellow glow over the neighbourhood. nothing fancy — just rows of small apartments with laundry dangling off balconies and the occasional stray cat darting under parked car. it wasn't exactly romantic, but in the soft glow of the spring, it didn't look that bad.

you walked besides him, laughing at some half-assed joke he'd cracked earlier. and damn, toji liked that sound. more than he should've. more than he'd admit to anyone, including himself. now though, the silence had crept back in, and he was left psyching himself up for the move.

just hold her hand, his brain hissed, it's not rocket science. come on, man. no! wait, give her a compliment, call her hot. ugh, idiot. don't say that yet -

his thick fingers flexed awkwardly at this side as he tried to look natural. a valiant losing battle when every nerve in his body screamed, you have one job, fushiguro. don't ruin this.

"dad!"

toji's head snapped up like a startled animal, and there he was. megumi. his kid. his little shadow. gasping, clutching his throat, and staggering toward them like a samurai dying in glorious battle.

"dad! i — i can't breathe!" megumi wheezed, voice raspy as he doubled over in dramatic agony.

toji blinked. what the —

"i think i'm dying!" megumi croaked, collapsing onto the sidewalk with all the subtlety of a boulder tumbling down a hill.

toji sighed, already pinching the bridge of his nose. should’ve known. thid kid had been hanging around that white-haired freak downstairs too much. what had that gojo satoru been teaching him? shakespearean death monologues?

"what is it this time?" toji asked flatly, his voice like gravel.

"maybe, maybe it's the peanuts!" megumi sputtered, clutching his chest now, because why not? "the ones i ate at home! i think i'm allergic!"

toji stared at him, unimpressed. this was the same kid who could inhale salted peanuts by the handful, barely pausing for air, like he was training for some bizarre snack-eating championship.

"you're not allergic," toji deadpanned.

"i think i am!" megumi wheezed, dropping to his knees, his little hands shaking dramatically.

"oh my god!" you gasped, wide-eyed. "should we — i mean, do we need to take him to the hospital? i can drive —"

toji waved a rough hand, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left, "nah, kid’s fine. just go on home. i'll handle this."

"but —"

"it's fine," toji insisted, forcing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even as megumi collapsed onto the pavement like he’d been struck by lightning.

you had hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually nodded, "okay… but call me if you need anything, okay?"

toji nodded, biting back the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. "yeah, yeah. go on."

the second you turned the corner, toji crouched next to his "dying" son, who immediately cracked one eye open and coughed weakly for good measure.

"what the hell was that?" toji grunted, "what did i say about huffing gasoline in the laundry?"

"don't do it."

toji flicked the punk's forehead, "mhm, so?"

megumi shrugged, sitting up and dusting off his pants. "thought i was allergic."

"to peanuts? that shit you eat everyday?"

"better safe than sorry, dad."

toji huffed, ruffling a hand through his choppy black hair. he glanced in the direction you’d gone, muttering under his breath, "you're lucky you’re cute, kid."

the next morning, toji opened his door to find a basket sitting on the mat. a pristine, gingham-lined basket packed with golden, buttery pastries and muffins that smelled like heaven. attached was a note:

for megumi! i hope he’s feeling better!

karmic justice demanded that toji sit down, scarf it entirely, and leave nothing but crumbs for the little brat. he'd earned that much.

take #3 — they didn't get my nose right!

toji fushiguro didn’t get flustered easily. fights? He could eat a punch for breakfast. bills? well, avoidance was a valid financial strategy. but you, sitting on his couch, smiling at him like you’d never met a red flag you didn’t want to rehabilitate, while unpacking groceries for him and megumi? that was uncharted territory.

terrifying.

the apartment was...presentable. which was more than he could say ten minutes before you arrived, when he'd barked at megumi like a drill sergeant to hide every suspicious stain and questionable stack of dishes. now, the faint sting of cleaning spray lingered in the air, and the tiny place almost looked cozy. not that toji would admit it.

"you didn’t have to bring anything," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"oh, it's no trouble!" you chirped, beaming like some kind of saint. "i thought you and megumi might like some fresh vegetables. and i couldn’t resist grabbing some sweets for him."

from the corner of the room, megumi's ears perked up at sweets. he dropped the crayon he’d been chewing (toji pretended not to see it) and padded over, all innocent wide eyes and suspiciously good behaviour.

"dad," megumi started, his tone way too angelic for a kid who regularly schemed like a demonic manga villain, “can i show her my drawing?"

toji utterly froze.

megumi never asked to show off his drawings. usually, he just thrust them into unsuspecting hands like a nosy salesman who couldn't take no for an answer. this? this was premeditated.

"uh," toji grunted, squinting at the kid. "maybe later. she’s busy."

but you, bless your overly trusting heart, smiled and said, "oh, i'd love to see it! i'm sure it's adorable."

toji didn’t even have time to stop him. megumi whipped out a crumpled paper from his pocket like he was smuggling state secrets and handed it to you with an air of triumph.

you unfolded it carefully, and toji wanted to crawl into the walls.

there it was: a chaotic, technicolor mess of lines and smudges.

and centre stage?

a terrifyingly accurate caricature of him labeled "dad," locked in what could only be described as a life-or-death struggle with a rabid raccoon twice his size. above his head, a speech bubble screamed, "no!" while the raccoon yelled back, "mine!"

toji groaned so loud it could’ve registered on the richter scale, "kid. seriously?"

your laughter was instant and loud, the kind that made you clutch your sides and tear up. "this — oh my god, this is amazing!" you wheezed, doubling over.

"it’s not even accurate," toji muttered, crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt like they were trying to leave this embarrassing moment behind. "i won."

"dad didn’t win," megumi piped up, as smug as a kid who’d just blown up his old man’s spot in front of a pretty lady, "the raccoon stole the chips."

"megumi," toji growled, pinning him with a glare that would’ve made lesser beings tremble. the kid just shrugged, popping another crayon into his mouth like this was all part of his five-year master plan.

later, after you’d left, still giggling and promising to "treasure" the drawing, toji leaned over the kitchen table where megumi was innocently snacking on his candy.

'kid," toji said, his voice low and dangerous, "if you ever pull something like that again, i’ll eat your crayons. one by one. and i'll make you watch."

megumi didn’t even flinch, cool as a cucumber, "good luck. i hid all the good ones."

take #4 — take your broke ass home!

the neighborhood festival was the kind of event that came together with duct tape and misplaced enthusiasm. a few janky game booths, a cotton candy machine that looked like it ran on prayers, and a ferris wheel that creaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie. but toji didn’t mind. he had a plan.

this was going to be his moment.

he invited you under the pretense of "fun time" for megumi, but really, it was to show you what a catch he was. buff, capable, ruggedly charming — he was ready to prove it all. what better way than with a little festival bravado? he’d win you a giant stuffed panda or one of those oversized bears that could double as a couch. easy.

you and megumi stood by a booth plastered with painted bullseyes, rows of rubber balls stacked neatly on the counter. toji rolled up his sleeves, flexing his arms just enough to catch your attention. he reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled cash like he was buying the entire festival, "watch this."

from beside him, megumi crossed his arms. his eyes squinted with the kind of judgment only an six-year-old could muster. then, like a sniper, he fired off the line that would ruin toji's day.

"careful, dad," megumi said, voice loud enough to turn a few heads. "that’s our grocery money for the week."

toji froze mid-reach for the first ball and his jaw clenched. slowly, painfully, he turned to face megumi, who was standing there with a look of angelic smugness.

"megumi," toji growled through gritted teeth, "let's remember who brought you here."

megumi didn’t miss a beat, "oh, right. i'm just worried that dinner tomorrow is soy sauce soup."

"kid’s got jokes," toji muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his cocky energy now entirely replaced by something closer to "please make this stop."

"oh, i don’t think he’s joking," you teased, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from laughing too hard.

"yeah, definitely not joking," megumi deadpanned, "dad’s gonna start eating protein powder straight from the jar."

"megumi," toji barked, praying for divine intervention that would include his son being carried off by a stork, "you’re grounded."

"for what? telling the truth?"

before toji could escalate into full-on dad-mode, the game attendant — clearly desperate to avoid whatever domestic drama was brewing, handed toji a stuffed panda.

"here, sir, on the house," he said with a strained smile, like he was hoping toji wouldn’t throw a ball through the booth.

toji grabbed the panda and shoved it into your hands with all the grace of a man trying to save face, "here. told you i'd win ya something."

you had just hugged the panda, still grinning ear to ear, "who knew you had a sweet spot? i'll cherish it forever, especially after hearing how hard you worked for it."

megumi, the little bastard, had already wandered off to scope out the cotton candy stand.

toji watched him go, then glanced at you, feeling oddly resigned, "i’m never bringing him to one of these again."

"oh, come on," you said, nudging him playfully, "i'm glad we came. this was fun. besides, he's a sweet kid."

he wondered if you were half-blind, but held his tongue. instead toji groaned, rubbing his temples, 'kid’s not eating for a week."

take #5 — brought the heat back!

it was a quiet thursday evening, the kind of night that lured people into thinking life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. the sky was fading into a smug sort of pink, and a light breeze was making it just nice enough to forget toji's apartment was a little too warm because he’d cheaped out on air conditioning.

you’d accepted his invitation for dinner, and now here he was, a grown man trying to pretend he wasn’t about to impress the hell out of you with his cooking.

see, toji wasn’t just some dude who could barely boil water. nah, this man knew his way around the kitchen — specifically around a bowl of spicy curry that could win hearts. but he couldn’t let you know that.

toji liked to think that he had a reputation to uphold: rough around the edges, dangerously hot, and way too casual about everything.

so when you walked in, he scratched the back of his head like he’d just thrown the recipe together from a vague memory, muttering, "i dunno, figured i'd try somethin’ new. if it’s bad, there’s takeout."

except this wasn’t new. toji knew exactly what he was doing. his curry was legendary in very specific circles — namely, his own ego.

meanwhile, megumi was hanging around the kitchen like a suspicious little gargoyle, all quiet and sneaky-eyed. that should’ve been the first warning sign.

and when dinner was served, toji had to admit it, it looked perfect. rich, golden curry with just the right balance of spice, heat curling off the plates like a victory lap. hah, an easy win.

you had taken a polite bite, smiling at first. until your face suddenly froze like you'd just been slapped by a fire demon.

"what, it's too spicy?" toji asked, as he watched you struggle to smile. your lips twitching like they were trying to run away.

"no, no!" you wheezed, "it's — it's really good. just got a lil' kick to it, that's all!"

kick? toji blinked. you looked as though you had been delivering a roundhouse to the face.

suspicious now, he scooped up a big bite himself. the moment it hit his tongue, he nearly choked. his sinuses exploded, his tongue went numb, and he could feel sweat instantly forming on his brow.

"what the fuck," he sputtered, slamming down his fork and lunging for his water. toji guzzled it like a man who’d just escaped a desert, while you valiantly kept nibbling as though your dignity depended on it.

megumi, sitting way too calmly at the table, didn’t even flinch. he was eating like the curry was perfectly fine, which made it even worse. this little freak.

toji squinted at his only child, "megumi. what did you do?"

"nothing," the kid said, wide-eyed and dripping with fake innocence. too fake, tsk, toji knew that look. "just...helped with the seasoning."

toji’s stomach dropped, as his blood pressure rose, "how much seasoning?"

megumi shrugged, stabbing at his rice like he wasn’t actively committing a felony, "i dunno. a lot. jus' wanted to be helpful, dad."

"y'trying to kill me? her? yourself?!"

you laughed nervously through the pain, "ah, toji. it’s really not that bad —"

"don’t lie, doll" toji snapped, shooting you a look, "sweatin' like you ran a marathon."

"so are you!" you shot back, snickering. and you weren’t wrong. toji's forehead looked like he’d just finished a full-body workout.

megumi leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly, and said with an infuriating amount of smugness, "i like spicy food."

toji pointed at him, wondering if it would be easier to pick up the kid and launch him out the window, "you better start liking ramen, ‘cause that’s all you’re eating for the next week."

"fine with that," megumi said, clearly unbothered, "isn't that what i eat all the time anyway?”

toji groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair, which now stuck to his forehead in sweaty, choppy strands.hHe turned to you, desperate for some kind of redemption. "this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. it’s normally amazing. i swear."

"it’s fine," you laughed, even as you sipped water like your life depended on it. "honestly, i think it’s kinda cute."

that threw him for a loop. "cute? what’s cute about this? i just served you a bowl of liquid hell."

you grinned, a little too amused for his liking. "it’s the effort."

toji, for once in his life, had no comeback. he just sighed, defeated, and grabbed his phone to order takeout. megumi, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, even lifting the bowl to his lips to smack away the remnants of the soup that he slurped.

interlude: the peace talks

you’re standing outside toji's dingy apartment building, where even the cracks in the walls look like they’ve seen some things. you’re not entirely sure why you’re here. okay, that’s a lie. you’re absolutely sure— it’s because of him. that rough-edged, broad-shouldered man who can bench press your common sense into oblivion. but of course, you’re telling yourself it’s "just to check in."

totally innocent.

you knock. a few beats of silence, then the door creaks open just wide enough for a face to peek out. it's megumi fushiguro, toji's odd kid, and his expression already screams ugh. the kind of look that says, "what does this clown want?"

"uh, hi," you say, suddenly unsure if you’re allowed to be nervous around a first grader, "is toji here?"

megumi stares at you like you just asked if the sky was plaid, "nope," he says flatly, but doesn’t move. he keeps the door partially open, like he’s either waiting for you to leave or deciding if you’re even worth his time.

"oh. okay, that's fine, i'll just —" you motion vaguely toward the stairs, already regretting this whole situation. but then the kid speaks up.

"why do you wanna see him?" his tone is casual, but his eyes? sharp like sea-glass. too sharp for someone so young. he’s leaning on the doorframe now.

you blink, mind going blank.

"i don’t...i mean, i was just dropping by to say hi. that’s all."

megumi tilts his head, scrutinising you like you’re a suspect in a crime only he knows about, "do you like my dad?"

you choke on what must be your last breath on this earth, "what?! no! i mean, what are you even saying, he's..."

you’re spiralling, and megumi's smug little smirk says he knows it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"sure," he says with a shrug, stepping back into the apartment. he leaves the door wide open like it’s an invitation — or maybe a saw trap. against your better judgment, you follow him in.

megumi plops down on the couch, picking up a laptop like you’re not even there, "you’re not the first," he mutters without looking up.

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

he shrugs again, still not meeting your gaze, "just saying, dad’s got... fans." he says it with the kind of disdain only a kid can muster when talking about their parent, "but you’re, like... different."

"different how?" you ask, instantly regretting it. you shouldn’t engage. this is toji's kid, not your personal gossip columnist.

megumi finally looks up, one eyebrow raised, "you don’t seem as dumb as the other ones."

wow. compliment of the century. "that's way harsh. but thanks," you say dryly, crossing your arms. "and here i thought we were bonding."

there’s a flicker of something else in the child's eyes. a glimmer of protectiveness, maybe, "look, i'm just saying...don’t get your hopes up, okay? i don't think my dad's that type of guy."

you frown, perplexed at having this conversation with a child who barely comes up past your waist, "what makes you say that?"

megumi looks like he’s about to launch into a powerpoint presentation on why toji fushiguro Is a walking red flag, but then he stops. his petulant expression shifts, softens, just a little, "i don't anyone to be sad."

and there it is. the kid act drops for a split second, and you see it. he’s not just being a little punk — he's protecting himself. maybe he’s seen toji screw up one too many times, or maybe he’s tired of people coming and going from their lives. either way, you feel a pang of sympathy.

you sit down on the edge of the couch, careful not to invade his space, "i get it,” you say gently, "and i appreciate you looking out for me, and for your father. but...maybe your dad’s not as bad as you think."

megumi snorts, "yeah, right. i think he's a mess."

"well, sometimes messy people need someone to believe in them," you say, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice.

he doesn’t respond right away, just stares at the laptop screen like it holds the answers to life. finally, he sighs, closing it with a decisive snap.

"fine. you can...hang out with him. or whatever. i won't pull any dumb shit,” megumi suddenly pauses at the slip of his tongue, “wait, don't tell him i said that word. but if this screws up, i'm saying ‘I told you so."

he sounds like he’s just agreed to let you borrow his favourite video game.

you smile, relieved, "deal."

just then, the front door opens, and in walks toji, all feathery raven hair, sweat-slicked muscles, and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he’s just conquered a small country. he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows raising in surprise. "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, voice rough but warm.

before you can respond, megumi pipes up from the couch, "we had important business."

megumi watches you leave, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. you turn back once, smiling at toji like he’s just said something funny — or maybe like he’s not completely hopeless. his dad stands in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically relaxed, a satisfied smirk on his face that makes megumi's stomach churn.

how disgusting.

the second the door clicks shut, toji sighs like some kind of romantic hero from the bad drama his dad loves to secretly watch, running a hand through his choppy black hair and scratching at the back of his neck.

"isn't she cute?" coming from a guy who once tried to flirt with a waitress by asking her how many push-ups she thought he could do.

toji disappears into his room, leaving young, burdened megumi stranded on the couch with his thoughts. his dad — the six-foot-four slab of muscle and bad decisions who calls protein shakes "wizard juice" — is clearly falling for you. and honestly? megumi doesn’t hate the idea. you’re nice. you don’t talk down to him like other adults, and you don’t smell like motor oil and regret like toji's usual crowd.

but toji? his dad couldn’t woo a cactus. if this is going to happen, megumi's going to have to step in. it's the responsible thing to do.

he grabs his laptop again, boots it up, and clicks on the email icon with all the gravitas of a general preparing for war.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: hey gojo i need help message: hey gojo i need help.

he hits send, satisfied. within ten minutes, there’s a reply. gojo's always on his computer nowadays, swamped by senior finals.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: hey gojo i need help message: why are u emailing me. i feel weird emailing a six year old.

megumi rolls his eyes. he’s six, not stupid. he definitely thinks he's smarter than gojo satoru.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: i think my dad has a crush.

there’s a pause. megumi imagines goji sitting in his weirdly pristine apartment downstairs, wearing those stupid sunglasses he insists are cool, trying to process what he just read.

the reply comes in two words.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: come downstairs.

then another one.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: let’s debrief. i got cookies.

megumi shuts his laptop, slides off the couch, and heads for the door. it's time someone with real intelligence got involved.

megumi fushiguro sits at the kitchen table, eating rainbow cereal and trying to ignore the way his dad is pacing the room like a stressed-out gorilla. toji fushiguro, a walking, grunting tank of a man, is mumbling under his breath about "women" and "bad timing" and something about his shirt being "too tight." not that his dad has any normal shirts — just those stupid gym shirts.

megumi, as the only person in this house with half a brain cell, knows exactly what’s going on. his dad's got it bad for you.

not that he thinks that his dad would admit it. no, his dad's strategy for dealing with his obvious feelings is to act like a complete idiot whenever you’re around. last time, he dropped a dumbbell on himself while trying to show off. the time before that, he laughed so hard at one of your jokes he spat coffee everywhere. megumi had to clean it up.

so yeah, his dad was hopeless, and apparently, it’s megumi's job to fix it.

but megumi doesn’t think of himself as a matchmaker. he thinks of himself as a tortured genius, forced to live among lesser idiots. and frankly, he doesn’t even like the idea of his dad dating. because that's gross.

but the truth is, megumi's tired of toji stomping around the apartment like a lovesick rhino, and if getting you and his dad together means toji might finally stop asking megumi if his hair looks "cool," then so be it.

he starts small. when you knock on the door that afternoon, megumi answers and blocks the entrance like a bouncer, just like gojo told him to.

"oh, dad's not here again," he says, casual.

your face falls, and megumi immediately clocks it. bingo.

"you're in luck today, lady. wait here," he interrupts, darting inside, "i'll grab him."

except his dad is in there, muttering something about a broken pipe in the kitchen, while tapping furiously on his phone. megumi marches in, hands on his hips.

"i let her in," he announces, like a town crier.

his dad looks up, like a deer caught in the headlights of his own stupidity, "what? why didn’t you tell me? damn punk," he scrambles for a shirt.

"i'm telling you now, dad," megumi says, dully, "also, you’re acting like a weirdo. just go talk to her. ask her out."

toji freezes, halfway into his shirt, "what's gotten into you, kid? gonna drop a knife on me, huh? what am i supposed to say?"

megumi resists the urge to roll his eyes so hard they fall out of his head, "i don't know. say hi to her. maybe don't mention the gym."

his dad frowns, "you're six, punk. what do you know? people like hearing about that shit."

"not normal people."

once toji is finally presentable — or as presentable as a man with permanent bedhead and a scar on his lip can be — megumi ushers him out of the room. then, like the misunderstood mastermind he is, megumi follows quietly, lurking behind the door to eavesdrop.

toji opens the door to find you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. his usual dumb smirk creeps onto his face, "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, leaning on the doorframe like he thinks he’s starring in a cologne commercial.

"yeah, i was just...in the neighborhood," you say, sounding way too nervous for someone who claims this is a casual visit.

megumi winces. they’re hopeless. this is your neighbourhood, too.

toji scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick Megumi’s only seen when he’s trying not to embarrass himself, "well, uh, you wanna come in? i was just... doing some cleaning. we can...talk, or some shit like that."

megumi knows for a fact that there's a lie in toji's words. the only cleaning his dad's ever done is shoving everything into the closet and calling it "organised."

but somehow, it works. you step inside, smiling at him like he just offered you free ice cream. now, that would be a decent offer.

from his spot behind the door, megumi mentally pats himself on the back. phase one: complete. he decides to clock out, flopping back on his rumpled bed to pull his laptop back out, immediately logging back onto his game.

but by the time you leave an hour later, toji looks like he just won the lottery. you’re smiling too, waving awkwardly before heading down the stairs. and ugh, gross! you lean in and press a soft kiss to toji's cheek before you turn.

as soon as the door shuts, toji leans against it and lets out the most ridiculous sigh megumi has ever heard.

"hah, kid. she likes me," his dad says, grinning like a lovesick idiot.

megumi, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, crosses his arms, "that's foul. but no thanks to you."

his dad opens one sharp green eye at him, and scowls. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"it means," megumi says, feeling a lifetime of bribery for ice-cream excite him, "you owe me. big time."

toji’s standing in the doorway, looking at megumi like he just asked him to join some cult. he scratches the back of his head, giving megumi that look — like he’s trying to figure out what the hell his kid is up to now.

"eh, you look weird today," toji mutters, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. he reaches down and ruffles megumi’s hair like it’s no big deal, making it stick up even more. his hair gets all spiky and untamable, and megumi scowls, smoothing it down, trying (and failing) to get his dark spikes to behave.

"yeah, whatever, dad," megumi mutters under his breath as toji turns and saunters off into his room. toji’s probably about to do a hundred push-ups and gloat to himself. megumi can already hear the dumb grunting from the other room.

as soon as toji’s gone, megumi sits back down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

for once, the apartment is quiet. no random phone calls, no weird people showing up, no random training sessions that sound more like a one-man wrecking crew than “exercise.” just peace.

it’s bliss.

he takes another bite of cereal, enjoying the calm and the fact that someone else is going to have to deal with toji’s nonsense for once. it’s about time.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: mission accomplished message: it worked. my dad's in love.

a few seconds later, gojo’s reply pops up.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: mission accomplished message: that's great! wanna help me with the guy i like?

megumi squints at the screen, blinking twice. he closes his laptop with all the gravity of someone who has just solved world peace.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: mission accomplished message: no.

[ketchuppee]

During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.

It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. I’ve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.

That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.

I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. She’s currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.

One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. She’s fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once she’s out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.

My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesn’t mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.

I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.

I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.

All of this to say, there’s more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, you’ve already lost, but that’s a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.

None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but don’t forget that we need diversity in actions taken.

[novelistwriter]

The Feral Kid of Gotham

DP x DC Prompt

Danny's life was pretty good so far. He's in a good relationship with his parents. His grades have been rising because he's scheduling fights with his Ghostly Rogues. And Clockwork is the Regent while he grows up and lives his mortal life before becoming the Ghost King.

Then, the GIW had come back to Amity to subjugate the entire city. It had become a war, as the GIW had a lot more forces than before. The war was brutal, and many Ghosts and Liminal humans were ended, but the GIW's last attempt to be rid of Danny and the Ghosts was to basically bomb Amity. Danny had saved the remaining people and Ghosts of Amity but was badly injured. The war lasted for four years, which ravaged the entire planet near the end.

He lost all of his fraid in the war, with Jazz and his best friends the last to be ended, his parents died trying to save Dani. Vlad couldn't continue without Maddie, so he slowly faded away. He wants to join them, but he knows that they would want him to live, but how can he live with the pain of having none of his Fraid with him?

He begs Clockwork to send him away, to have a new start somewhere else to grow up. To find a new family and to forget his this life he lived that had ended in pain when the good times ended too early when the war with the GIW started.

Clockwork had granted his Prince's wish to start a new life. The Ghost of Time reverted Danny's body to that of a four year old, the age of his Ghost Half, and takes away most of his memories of his previous life and places him in Gotham, where Lady Gotham will watch over the Ghostling while he grows up.

The Batfam has encountered a child all across Gotham. The child is a young boy around the age of five who's pretty feral, fighting over scraps of food with just about anyone, including animals. Jason, as Red Hood, brought the boy to Leslie's clinic when he saw the boy was injured in a way that needed professional attention. The boy had let out a sonic scream upon seeing Leslie and vanished from his spot. The only one to get the boy to stay still for more than ten minutes was Barbara, who was working in the library at the time. She saw that he liked astronomy books and had given him some books related to astronomy to read.

What concerns the Batfam is that when it's night, there are always Talons near the boy, and the boy treats the Talons as his siblings.

The entire Batfam is on board to bring this orphaned boy to the family, even Damian. The boy had admired Damian's fighting abilities and was also loved by animals, as there was an entire colony of stray animals following the boy around whenever Damian was nearby.

[dismalflo]

loving is easy

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ✩ 4.3k words

summary: Being friends with idiots is hard. how long will it take them to realise you and Remus are dating? or a series of events where you become progressively more obvious.

cw: fluff, steamy makeout towards the end but no smut, established relationship

Somewhere between late night study sessions and early morning conversations, you fell in love. To your amazement Remus fell in love with you too, his honeyed words and soft touches taking on a new meaning. What started as quiet,  timid affection bloomed into an all consuming devotion. Happy and safe. 

At the start, you both decided to keep it quiet, nurture it by yourselves with no interruption. But time has a way of slipping past unnoticed, and now the two of you are in deep, and no one else has caught on. It’s not as if you’re hiding, exactly; you and Remus just prefer the intimacy of privacy. And honestly, there’s a quiet thrill in watching how long it takes your friends to figure it out.

The great hall.

The smell of toast and tea lingers in the air as you trudge through the double doors of the Great Hall, hair still mussed from sleep and jumper slightly askew. It’s far too early for the kind of noise James Potter is making, voice echoing off the high stone walls as he waves his hands dramatically about something you don’t have the energy to decipher.

“…and I told her, I don’t care if you hexed my quill, I’m still not going to that—”

He cuts off mid-sentence, eyes flicking past Sirius to you. His mouth snaps shut like a trap. Sirius glances behind him, curious about what could possibly silence James of all people.

You offer a sleepy wave as you shuffle closer, barely catching the way Remus’ head lifts from his folded copy of the daily prophet. His gaze finds you instantly. A slow smile tugs at his mouth, and his shoulders visibly relax, as if just seeing you settled something in him.

“Morning,” you murmur, sliding onto the bench beside him, bumping your knee lightly into his under the table. He shifts just slightly, his hand coming to rest on your thigh in a gentle squeeze, grounding and familiar. You hide a small, content smile behind your cup of tea.

Across the table, Sirius raises an eyebrow over his plate of eggs. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Remus beats you to it, not even looking up from his paper. “Leave her alone, Pads. Some of us don’t spend an hour in front of the mirror every morning.”

Sirius scoffs, flicking a crumb at him. “Jealousy is a disease, Lupin.”

James is still watching you—narrowed eyes, brow slightly furrowed, as if he’s trying to do complex equations in his head. You glance his way, and he startles like he’s been caught.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes flicking briefly to Remus, then back to you. “You look—well, not great.”

You blink at him over your tea. “Cheers, James.” you deadpan, “I’m just tired.”

He opens his mouth to say more, maybe apologize, but Lily slides onto the bench beside you with a rustle of parchment and the kind of purpose only she can manage this early in the morning.

“Did you start the Transfiguration essay yet?” she asks, nudging your elbow meaningfully. “Because McGonagall will have your head if it’s late again.”

You groan, resting your temple against your palm. “Started it, yeah. Finished it? Not even close.”

Lily sighs, long-suffering but fond. “Library after lunch.”

You nod, and the two of you slip into an easy rhythm—first the essay, then weekend plans for Hogsmeade. Remus stays quiet beside you, content to listen, a soft, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

At some point, without saying anything, he sets his paper aside and starts assembling a plate. Two slices of toast, a spoonful of marmalade, a soft-boiled egg, a handful of your favourite fruit. He doesn’t announce it or fuss, just places it gently in front of you, brushing a few stray crumbs off your sleeve with ease.

By then, James and Sirius have resumed their conversation, judging by the rising volume. Lily spots Slughorn across the way and excuses herself with a quick goodbye, already halfway across the room before you can respond.

You turn back to your tea, only to pause. The plate of food wasn’t there before but it’s exactly what you would’ve gotten for yourself. Toast arranged neatly, marmalade on the side. You glance sideways. Remus is already reading again, pretending not to notice your looking.

Under the table, your hand finds his. You link your fingers, gentle and grateful, and when you squeeze, he squeezes back. It’s warm, steady. 

You lean in slightly, just enough so he can hear you over the breakfast chatter.

“Thank you,” you murmur, thumb brushing along the back of his hand.

Remus doesn’t answer right away, eyes still on the paper; but the smile tugging at his lips is unmistakable. Quiet. Fond. Yours.

“It’s nothing,” he says softly, in a way that means everything.

You open your mouth to say something more, because it's not nothing and Remus is the sweetest boy you know, but Sirius cuts in from across the table, dramatically dropping his fork and fixing Remus with a mock-offended glare.

“Why don’t I ever get breakfast made for me, Moony?” he demands, gesturing wildly at your plate. “You’ve known me longer. I’m charming. Handsome. A delight, really.”

Remus doesn’t even look up. He just turns a page.

“Because you’re a right wanker,” he replies, so evenly it takes a beat to register.

Sirius gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been wounded. “The audacity! James, did you hear that?”

James snorts into his tea. “Hard to miss. He’s not wrong, though.”

“I’m hurt,” Sirius insists, turning to you with wide, dramatic eyes. “He used to be so sweet. So gentle.”

You glance at Remus, one brow raised. “Did he?”

The infirmary.

If Remus had to pinpoint the worst part of the full moon, he doesn't think he could. The way his body is violated and his mind succumbs to bestial madness is high up there. Or maybe it's the way his mind is tormented month-round, collapsing from exhaustion afterwards and being plagued with worry for the next. A vicious, never-ending cycle. This time, he thinks, it's waking up the morning after the full moon.

Though he can tell it was a particularly bad one, it’s not the aches and pains. It’s waking to you, curled in an armchair at his bedside, asleep. Remus hates that you worry so much, that it affects you. Your neck is at an awful angle, and there's a faint crease between your brows, even in sleep.

He exhales, the breath barely more than a rasp, and your lashes flutter in response. You shift, not fully awake at first, and then, like something clicking into place, you sit up straighter, eyes flying open.

"Remus," you say softly, already pushing yourself to your feet and crossing the space between the chair and the bed. Your hands find his arm gently, carefully, as though you're afraid even your touch might hurt. "You're awake."

He tries to offer a weak smile, but it falters before it can fully form. "Unfortunately."

"Don't say that," you murmur, frowning as your hands glide down to check for injuries, the kind that bandages don't always catch.

“I’m fine, dove,” he lies, out of habit more than belief.

You ignore him. “Let me get you some water,” you say, already moving toward the small table where a pitcher and glass had been left. You pour it, return, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed, holding it to him with steady hands.

He accepts it, grateful but quiet, sipping slowly. When he’s finished, you set the glass back on the nightstand with a soft clink.

His brow furrows. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice hoarse but laced with genuine confusion. “You usually come after I’ve woken up.”

You hesitate, brushing a bit of hair away from his damp forehead. “You… woke up early. Just for a little while.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I know.” Your hand stills against his temple. “It wasn’t for long. James came to get me. Said you were–” You glance away for a moment, mouth tightening. “You were in pain. And saying my name. Over and over. Apparently Sirius and Madam Pomfrey had to hold you down to get a calming draught in you.”

Remus goes still. Shame rolls through him like a fresh wave of fever. He looks away, down at the rough wool blanket, his hands balled in the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words bitter on his tongue. “I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean to wake you. You didn’t have to come.”

“Stop being silly,” you say, almost fondly, but there’s a steel thread beneath it. You reach for his face again, gentle but firm, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Of course I came. You think I’m going to stay in bed while you’re in pain, calling for me?”

He starts to respond, some garbled protest forming in his throat, but you cut it off by leaning forward and pressing a quick, sure kiss to his lips.

It’s warm. Soft. Gone before he can even react.

He blinks at you, stunned.

“I’ll always come,” you say simply, your fingers still resting at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to be sorry for needing someone, Remus.”

Silence settles between the two of you.

You don’t say anything, and neither does he. It’s not awkward. shifting just slightly on the mattress, curling one leg up under you, you begin brushing the hair from Remus’ forehead again—gentle, patient sweeps of your fingers, like you have all the time in the world. His hair is still damp with sweat, a little tangled, but you don’t seem to mind. You just keep smoothing it back, over and over, letting him rest in the rhythm of it.

Remus closes his eyes. Not to sleep but just to relax. The silence swells around you, filled only by the quiet sounds of the castle waking up; distant footsteps, the occasional creak of old wood, and your even, steady breaths.

Eventually, his voice slips through the hush, barely more than a whisper. “Where are the others?”

You smile faintly. “James is with Regulus. Doing God knows what. Hopefully sleeping.” You roll your eyes, affection bleeding through the exasperation.

That gets a faint huff of a laugh from Remus, which quickly dissolves into a wince. He presses a hand to his ribs.

“And Sirius?” he asks.

You glance toward the door. “Went to get breakfast. Said you’d need something solid, not just Pomfrey’s apparently sad excuse for toast.”

Just as you say it, the door creaks open and Sirius steps inside, a paper bag tucked under one arm and two cups in his hands. The scent of butter and cinnamon trails in with him.

“Speak of the devil,” you murmur.

Sirius pauses when he sees the two of you. You're still perched on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against Remus’ temple, the other curled in your lap. Remus’ eyes are open now, glassy with exhaustion but softer than they’ve been in days. The two of you are close and something about the look on your faces makes Sirius stop mid-step.

Then he just clears his throat and steps forward, saying nothing about it. “Brought food.”

He places the bag and drinks on the nightstand with uncharacteristic care, glancing once more between the two of you. His gaze lingers on Remus, searching for signs of deeper pain or unease, but seems satisfied by what he finds.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says softly, stepping back. “See you later, Moons.”

There’s a quiet fondness to it.

“Thanks, Pads,” Remus says, voice rough but genuine.

Sirius nods and slips out the door with barely a sound.

-

Sirius finds James exactly where he expects: sprawled on one of the beaten-up sofas in the Gryffindor common room. Less expected is Regulus, curled under James’s arm, head tucked into his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. James looks half-asleep, fingers lazily combing through Regulus’s hair, while Regulus is clearly pretending he hadn’t just dozed off.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, stepping over the hearthrug. “Is there something in the Gryffindor water this year? Everyone’s getting domestic.”

Regulus lifts his head just enough to shoot him a glare. “You sound like you’re sixty.”

“And you look like you’re two seconds from sucking your thumb,” Sirius shoots back, dropping down onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, then looks squarely at James.

“You’ll never guess what I just walked in on.”

James, ever patient when Sirius is in a mood, lifts a brow. “Tell me.”

Sirius jerks his chin toward the entrance of the common room. “Remus is awake. Looks like hell, obviously, but that’s not the point. The point is…” He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing meaningfully between the two of them. “Y/N was there. Sitting right beside him. Touching his face. Whispering. Very softly, I might add.”

James frowns. “So?”

“I’m just saying,” Sirius drawls, “it was very couple-y.”

James lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “No way. They’ve been like that for ages, they’re just friends, mate. Remus would’ve told us if they were dating.”

Sirius nods, like that settles it.

Regulus snorts into James’s shoulder.

“What?” Sirius narrows his eyes.

“You two are incredibly dense,” Regulus says without looking up. “They are dating. It’s obvious.”

James and Sirius look at each other, then back at Regulus in perfect unison.

“No offence, Reggie,” Sirius says, raising a brow, “but they’re our friends. I think we’d know.”

“You think you’d know,” Regulus says flatly. “But you don’t. Because Remus is private and stupidly noble, and your friend is just as bad. Do you really think he’s going to announce it over breakfast? What would he even say—‘pass the marmalade, I’m in love’?”

James blinks.

Sirius blinks.

Then they both burst out laughing, as if Regulus is mental.

The black lake.

With the summer months fast approaching, and a week passing since the full moon, the warm weather has called for a relaxing day on the shore of the black lake. You're laid out on a blanket with Remus sat beside you, your head resting on his thigh.

With closed eyes, you can picture the peaceful look on Remus’ face as he reads with his fingers twirling in the ends of your hair.

The sun is warm where it filters through the branches above, casting soft, dappled patterns across your skin. Somewhere behind you, someone splashes into the lake with a shout, followed by a chorus of laughter. But it all feels far away.

You sigh, content, eyes still closed. “If I die right now,” you murmur, “tell Madam Pomfrey I went happy.”

Remus huffs a soft laugh, the vibration of it echoing down through his thigh. “Bit dramatic,” he says, though there’s affection in it.

“Mmm,” you hum, noncommittal. “We’ll see what you say when it happens.”

Another beat of silence. You think he’s gone back to reading–until his fingers pause, then still.

“Everyone’s out of the dorms tonight,” he says casually, “some ravenclaw party, or something.”

You open one eye, peering up at him. “You planning to go?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. I thought maybe… you’d want to come up for a bit. To mine.” His voice dips a little lower. “Just us.”

“I’d love to,” you say simply. “You and me. No interruptions. I’ll finally have you all to myself.”

Remus’s eyes soften. He sets the book aside, turning his full attention to you. “You already have me,” he murmurs.

Your only response is to wiggle your eyebrows suggestively, the grin on your face unmistakably wicked. Remus gives a soft, breathy laugh and shakes his head. “Minx,” he says, voice full of fondness.

You're just about to respond–something equally teasing on the tip of your tongue–when there’s the familiar thunder of approaching footsteps.

Before either of you can move, Sirius throws himself down onto the blanket with a loud oof, landing half across your legs and knocking Remus slightly off balance.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, even as you’re giggling.

Sirius groans dramatically as you swat at him, your hand smacking against his shoulder with no real force.

“You love it,” Sirius replies, grinning like the absolute menace he is.

Before you can retaliate with some biting remark, a familiar voice calls out from behind.

“Y/N!” Lily’s voice rings clearly through the warm air, her red hair catching the sunlight as she approaches. “You coming to the greenhouses? Marlene’s already started without us and Dorcas is claiming all the best pots.”

You sit up with a groan, shoving Sirius more forcefully this time. He rolls onto the grass with a theatrical oomph that earns an eye-roll from Remus.

“On my way!” you call back to Lily, brushing grass off your legs. You turn to Remus, eyes softening, your hand brushing his wrist. “Later?”

He nods, that quiet little smile playing on his lips. “Later.”

Sirius waves lazily from the blanket, still lounging, and you hear him shout a cheerful “See you later, Y/N!”

The two of you start walking toward the greenhouses, and once you’re out of sight, Sirius suddenly sits up. Remus catches the shift in his mood, the way he straightens, a more serious look crossing his features. 

Then, as if deciding to finally ask whatever's been on his mind, he looks at Remus, his voice quieter than usual. "You two are friends, right?" he asks, a slight edge of curiosity in his tone.

Remus, who’s watching you walk away, doesn’t hesitate. "Yeah. Of course." He’s telling the truth, you might be his girlfriend but you were his friend first and you're his best friend now.

There’s a brief pause, and Sirius nods slowly. He makes a soft sound, tapping his fingers absently on the grass, clearly stewing in his thoughts. Remus knows he’s trying to find the right words, the ones that aren’t too blunt but also get at whatever Sirius is really thinking. After another long stretch of silence, Remus sighs, deciding to make it easier.

“Spit it out, Pads. You're not very tactful.”

Sirius huffs a small laugh, a little awkwardly, before shifting on the blanket. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly conflicted. “I was just thinking,” he starts, “You… fancy her, don’t you?”

The question hits Remus like a sharp poke to the ribs. He looks over at Sirius, surprised at the bluntness, then immediately thinks Oh. He can’t help but chuckle lightly, thinking Sirius has finally put it all together–that he and you are already together.

“Well, yeah,” he says nonchalantly, his gaze drifting back to you. “I do.”

Sirius, however, just stares at him for a moment, blinking in confusion. “You… do?” He asks slowly, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “So, why are you not doing anything about it? Do you need help telling her?”

Remus freezes for a second, eyes narrowing. The warmth in his chest from the thought of you is still there, but now it comes with a pinch of amusement. He opens his mouth to respond, but then quickly closes it. Sirius really has no clue, does he? Remus can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head.

“I don’t need help, Pads,” Remus says, his voice an easy mix of affection and slight exasperation.

Sirius scoffs, “If this is some mopey werewolf bullshit, I don't want to hear it. You deserve to be happy, Moony.” 

“I am happy,” Remus stresses, “I’ve done all I need to.” he nods at Sirius, hoping that the boy can read between the lines.

“Okay.” Sirius sighs.

The dormitory.

The evening sun casts its last golden rays over the horizon as the two of you find yourselves alone in the quiet of Remus's dorm room. The noises of the day have faded to a dull hum, and it’s just the two of you now–no distractions, no interruptions.

Remus’ heated touch is wandering, hands gripping whatever part of you he can get to. His mouth is warm on your neck, doting but rough, anything else you were thinking of doing tonight quickly erased from your mind. One of your hands is buried in his hair while the other drifts upwards to his neck and jaw. 

“Rem,” you sigh, breathless and lightly pulling his hair to move his mouth upwards. 

A breathy laugh comes out of him, before he captures your mouth with his own. You sigh into his mouth, and he takes it gladly, his hands moving down to your hips shifting you closer in his lap. His eager kissing is warm, acting like a man starved.

You shift your hips, wanting to be closer, feeling him against you. It elicits a groan from one of you, that gets swallowed between you. Remus’ grip on your hips becomes firmer, working to guide you in your efforts grinding against him, and your moans become more frequent for it.

“Fuck,” he pants, pulling back to look up at you, his grip on you not faltering. He shifts a hand to toy with the hem of your top. “Can I take this off?”

“Please.” you reply breathless and he smiles at you planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth before moving your shirt up and over your head. 

Remus moves in again, his mouth mean as it skims across the top of your breasts. It's bliss.

Neither of you notice the door opening until a scandalised gasp echoes through the room. “Bloody hell!” James squeals, immediately throwing a hand over his eyes and turning around so fast he nearly maims himself on the doorframe. “I’m blind! I didn’t need to see that!”

Remus scrambles to wrap a blanket around your shoulder as you shift to move off his lap. Once the blanket is secured, Remus’ hands grip your waist tightly and he looks at you, eyes pleading, begging you not to move. 

Sirius lingers in the doorway, eyebrows shooting straight into his hairline as a wicked grin stretches across his face. “Well, well, well,” he whistles, arms crossing as he leans casually against the frame. “When you said you’d done all you need to, I didn’t think you meant you were shagging her. I thought you were a gentleman, Moony.”

Remus, who’s gone a shade redder than any of the Gryffindor banners, pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders and groans. “Can you both just– piss off?!” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and he sounds more desperate than angry.

You stifle a laugh against his shoulder, only mildly mortified but mostly amused.

Remus shoots Sirius a glare, ears flushed pink. “That–that was me telling you she’s my girlfriend, you sod.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, in perfect unison, James–still hiding behind his hand–and Sirius both shout;

“What?!” 

“Alright, alright,” you interrupt, amusement clear in your voice despite the heat in your cheeks. You’re still tucked against Remus, the blanket barely doing its job, and your shirt’s rumpled on the bed behind you. “This is really fun, guys, but could you maybe turn around so I can put my shirt back on?”

James lets out a garbled sound still shielding his eyes. Sirius sighs but obliges. 

“What the fuck,” Sirius mutters, and James echoes it softly, bewildered and still shell-shocked.

You grin as you press a quick kiss to Remus’ lips, gentle, grateful, and a little teasing. He’s still beet red, poor thing, but the moment your lips touch his, some of that panic in his eyes melts into warmth.

Then, with a deep breath and no small amount of dignity, you swing your legs off his lap and slip your shirt back on. Remus helps you straighten it without thinking, hands ghosting over your sides like he can’t not touch you, even in the middle of the world’s most embarrassing interruption.

Once decent, you move to sit beside him rather than on top of him, though you don’t go far. Your knees still touch. Always.

“Alright, you can turn around now,” you call lightly, brushing your fingers through your hair.

James turns slowly, eyes still suspiciously squinted like he’s worried he’ll see something scarring again. He takes in the scene, both of you sitting side by side on the bed, fully clothed now but clearly together, Remus still flushed and you not bothering to hide your smug little smile.

“So…” James begins, narrowing his eyes, “when did this start?”

You glance at Remus, who looks as though he’d prefer the full moon over this interrogation.

“Be honest,” Sirius adds, crossing the room to drop dramatically into the armchair by the window. “If you say, like, last week, I will riot.”

Remus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “October.”

James blinks. “October last year?”

You nod innocently. “Started with studying. Got a bit… distracting.”

Sirius makes a sound like he’s just been betrayed. “You mean to tell me you two have been together for months and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like we were hiding it,” Remus mutters.

James gestures wildly. “You were definitely hiding it!”

You exchange a look with Remus, who just shrugs helplessly.

Sirius groans, dragging a hand down his face as if it's all too much to bear. And then, with the weariness of a man forced to admit defeat, he mutters:

“For fuck’s sake… Reg was right.”

Remus smirks, finally relaxed again. “You gonna be okay, Pads?”

“Absolutely not,” Sirius says, already slumping further into the chair. “You’re disgusting.”

But he’s grinning.

James just shakes his head, still in awe. “Next time, just tell us.”

You reach for Remus’s hand, lacing your fingers together, and smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

masterlist <3

[alinathinkstoomuch]

LAP IT UP

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: tweezing your boyfriend’s eyebrows is a totally valid excuse to make him come in his pants, right? warnings | an: dry-humping, power play, dom-ish reader / sub-ish hotch, hotch jizzes in his pants, hotch is a munch and a simp because it’s simply not possible for me to write anything else other than hotchypoo worshipping the ground u walk on!!!established relationship, mentions of sugar baby/daddy dynamic word count: 2.2k

✧ masterlist

“Can I do yours?” you asked, not bothering to shift the mirror as you cleaned up the stray hairs around your left brow.

There was a pause of silence, followed by the rustle of paperwork. Not nearly a sufficient response, so you gently kicked Aaron’s thigh in protest.

“Do my what?”

“Your eyebrows,” you answered, tilting your head as you inspected your reflection, trying to catch the last bit of sunlight streaming through the window. One brow was cooperating. The other looked like it had wandered off and joined a different face entirely.

“They’re not twins,” you muttered. “Barely sisters. Maybe even distant, resentful cousins.”

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. “And what exactly are you implying about mine?”

“They could use a little TLC,” you argued lightly, leaning back to look at him over the mirror in your hand. “When was the last time you did them?”

He looked up from his files, one brow lifting—ironically. “I don’t make a habit of grooming my eyebrows.”

“Yeah…I can tell.”

That earned you the famous Hotchner scowl, though it had stopped working on you several scowls ago—right around the time you realised he was all bark and no bite. Or, at least, never with you.

Without another word, you dropped the mirror onto the coffee table and swung one leg over his, settling into his lap like it was your favourite seat…because it was. He stilled beneath you, body going just a little tense, like he wasn’t entirely sure where this was heading, but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” you replied, fingers already threading through the front of his hair. You tugged just enough to guide, making sure his head tipped back against the couch cushion. “Oof. Would you look at that, Hotchner, I think you’re starting to grow a monobrow.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“She needs to go. Quickly.” You leaned in, squinting like you were about to perform life-saving surgery and plucked a hair right from the middle of his brow before he had a chance to respond.

He flinched.

“Baby,” you teased, barely bothering to hide the laugh building in your throat. “You’re fine.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Obviously. I’m in your lap, holding tweezers, and making you nervous. This is my peak.” Just as you plucked another hair, you felt his hands tighten slightly at your hips.

“Just be quick,” he muttered.

Yeah. There was just one small problem with that. Quick wasn’t in your plans tonight. Aaron might be the boss at work, but at home, it was you who got your way. Always had. And truthfully? You didn’t care all that much about his eyebrows. Or yours, for that matter.

You just really, really wanted to be in his lap.

You let the tweezers hover his face again as you pretended to search for another target.

“Hm…nope, that one’s got character. Can’t lose it.”

He huffed. “You’re not even trying anymore.”

“I am,” you insisted, all sickly-sweet innocence as you adjusted your grip on his shoulders, letting your fingers toy with the collar of his polo. “Just want to make sure they’re perfect.”

He cracked one eye open. “Mh-hm.”

“What? You want me to do a half-assed job? You want uneven arches, Aaron?”

“You’ve got two minutes left.”

Silly man. As if you were on his clock.

You said nothing, just hummed like the consummate professional you clearly were, smoothing out his right brow with the pad of your finger. And then—because comfort was key, obviously—you shifted. Absolutely not intentionally aligning yourself with the zipper of his jeans.

You caught the half-shaky exhale he tried to hide and decided it still didn’t feel quite right.

Goldilocks might’ve had a point.

So you adjusted again, this time with a little more pressure. For once, you were grateful for the humidity that made you choose a dress—and the skimpiest, thinnest pair of underwear you owned.

All, of course, in the name of practicality.

His hands twitched at your waist, fingers flexing like he was stuck between wanting to grip you tighter or stay neutral. (Spoiler: he was failing at staying neutral.)

“This all part of the grooming experience?”

“Me taking my time? Absolutely. You know I give a hundred percent to everything I do, baby.”

"I know, honey," he drawled. "You've called me baby twice in the last three minutes. That's usually when you want something."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He smiled—subtle, smug, and, annoyingly, entirely correct. Because, yes, okay, you did want something. Just... nothing that came with a price tag. This time.

"What is it?" he asked, utterly unbothered because he was synced up to you in that way that meant nothing you said, did, or asked of him could really surprise him anymore. "Vacation days? Shoes? I told you, you don't have to ask. The wallet's in the drawer."

You gave his hair another tug, guiding his head back to the couch cushions like you were placing something delicate. “You know there’s actually a government term for what you’re implying right now.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes drifted closed again, and he looked so… soft. Almost unarmoured. Breakable in the gentlest way. The tension that usually lived in his jaw, his brow, his posture—gone. Off choosing a different victim for the day.

Lit by the delicate setting sun, he looked—

Angelic.

Almost too pure for what you had planned.

Because while he was just trying to finish a stack of paperwork, you were trying to survive the throb between your legs. And your dress, as helpful as it was in theory, wasn’t offering enough friction to solve anything. So you decided to do what any self-respecting sinner would.

You were going to drag him down a little closer to your level.

Make him less divine, and a little more yours.

“Sugar baby,” you blurted, remembering you were mid-conversation and should probably at least pretend you were behaving. “That’s the term. Is that what you’re implying I am?”

He grinned.

And then he was the one to adjust—lifting his hips just as his hands pressed you down harder against him, guiding you into him.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes fluttering as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

He opened his eyes then, and you did your best to keep a straight face. (Spoiler: you were the one failing this time.)

“You think I’d reduce you to that?”

You reached for the tweezers again, if only for something to do, dragging a lazy finger across his brow like you were still pretending to care about symmetry. “You did say the wallet’s in the drawer.”

“I did.” His grip tightened just enough at your waist to make your thighs instinctively clench around him, something you knew he felt. “But that’s because I’d give you anything you ever wanted without expecting anything in return.”

You pouted, feeling the buttons of his polo brush against your nipples, because, yes, humidity had also declared it a no-bra day, and yes, you were prepared to weaponize it. “So you don’t want my sugar?”

“I want all of you,” he corrected.  “Every part.”

Of course he was still angelic about it—still saying all the right things, still making it a priority to remind you of your worth, even while you were actively plotting how to make him finish in his jeans.

Rude.

But also righteous.

And still better than you deserved…which will only make this all the more satisfying.

You blinked down at him, lips parted, a slow breath pulling into your lungs as the weight of his words landed somewhere deep between your legs.

“You’re really not going to let me be shallow for five minutes, huh?” Your fingers slipped from his brow to his throat, thumb brushing his pulse just to feel how not calm he actually was.

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head. “You’re not shallow. Just a little needy.”

You hummed like that wasn’t already obvious, like the need hadn’t soaked straight through your panties and probably left a trail somewhere along your thigh by now. Still, for the sake of appearances you brought the tweezers to his brow again.

“Hold still,” you murmured, right as you bucked your hips into him.

You felt his hands slip beneath your dress, rough and warm against bare skin as they roamed—up your thigh, your lower back, your spine.

“I said hold still,” you repeated, the smile in your voice completely ruining the authority you hoped to fake.

He did the opposite.

His hands kept traveling up your back, and you dropped the tweezers altogether, your hands settling on his shoulders as you forced yourself to grind against him, feeling not just the zipper, but the outline of his hard cock, straining like a sin he hadn’t meant to commit.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the word breaking apart in your throat like glass.

Your lips latched onto the skin beneath his jaw, feeling his skittish pulse under your tongue as you sucked and smoothed over the sting. Aaron’s grip on your neck tightened—a weak, almost pathetic attempt to tame you, to reel you back in, just so he could reclaim a fraction of the control you had stolen.

“This was never about my eyebrows, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t care to. Instead, your teeth scraped lightly over the hickey you were hoping would linger, hips working against him like the truth being unveiled—not the sweet thing he thought you were, but a wicked woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

“You’re not even listening,” he said again, a breathless laugh ghosting across your temple, cut off by the groan that followed when your hips met his just right. “Too busy getting yourself off.”

“Pretty and smart,” you mumbled lazily, the friction turning sharper, your clit throbbing now with every slow drag over the rough fabric of his pants.

His hands slipped under the neckline of your dress, tugging the top down with the sort of confidence that didn’t match his frantic breathing or the way his hips were stuttering into yours.

You pulled back from the crook of his neck, only because now it was his turn.

Aaron’s eyes dropped, and for a moment, he just stared like he couldn’t decide where to put his hands. Then he leaned in, mouth closing around your nipple, lips warm, tongue flicking once, then again, until you gasped and arched into him.

You were close. So close. Though truthfully, most of the build-up hadn’t been physical—it was all mental. The way he looked at you, like you were something delicate, something good. In the way he still hadn’t figured it out, even when you’d pranced past him with the tweezers and the mirror, settling beside him on the couch, legs draped up, spreading just enough to make sure he saw exactly what was on offer.

You could’ve asked. Told him exactly what you wanted and he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. You knew that. He loved to take care of you. He always had.

But where was the thrill in asking, when it was so much sweeter to watch him give in?

And you began to pick up on just that.

The way his breath caught against your nipple, the scrape of his teeth getting less careful.

The way his hands clutched tighter at every piece of skin he could reach. The way he started meeting your hips with his own. Slow at first, then harder, like this had been his idea to begin with.

You kept moving and so did he, the friction messy and desperate between you. His head dropped forward, breath stuttering out against your collarbone, his hands squeezing your waist.

Then his hips jerked up into yours, your name falling from his lips in a voice he almost never used. His body tensed one last time, and then you felt it—the heat flooding between you, a groan torn from his throat as he came.

Your greed had been satisfied.

And with one more roll of your hips—feeling his release spread beneath you, mixing with your own slickness—that was all it took to tip you over the edge. Your body locked down, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm hit, splintering and all-consuming.

You didn’t move from him immediately, hands now toying with the collar of his polo as you caught your breath.

“Happy?” he mumbled against your skin, voice still rough around the edges.

You lifted your head, the curve of your smile slow and smug. “Very.”

You expected him to stay soft beneath you—to let you linger, revel in the mess you’d made of him.

But instead, his hands slid to your hips again, and before you could react, he was lifting you off his lap in one fluid motion, placing you down in his seat as he stood over you.

Your legs dangled off the edge, dress still bunched around your waist, thighs glistening with wetness. You pushed yourself up slightly, elbows braced behind you for balance, about to ask what he was doing, pausing just long enough to admire the wet patch on his jeans.

But your confusion melted into a shit-eating grin as you watched him lower himself to his knees in front of you. Though something told you that whatever he was about to do wouldn’t be for your sake, but for his.

And that control you were so desperate to keep?

It was practically nonexistent now—crumbling at a breathtaking pace, resting in the same hands that were sliding your soaked panties down your thighs.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[iris-qt]

physical affection

& how the slytherin boys show it

I. MATTHEO RIDDLE

Mattheo Riddle showed love the way he did everything: loud, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore.

“Pumpkin Pookie Pie!” His booming voice rang through the corridor as you buried your face in your hands. He’d been calling you that for weeks, his new favorite way to get under your skin.

Before you could respond, his arm slung around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “What’s wrong? Too shy to admit you love it?” he teased, his grin wicked.

“Too mortified to acknowledge your existence,” you shot back, trying to wriggle free.

He only held on tighter. “Oh no, you’re stuck with me now,” he said, steering you down the hall as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Later that day, you found him perched on the edge of your study table in the library, nudging your quill off balance with his finger.

“Mattheo,” you hissed, grabbing it before it rolled onto the floor. “Some of us are trying to pass.”

“Pass? You’ll ace it,” he said confidently, leaning closer until his face was inches from yours. “I mean, you’ve got me, don’t you?”

“You’re a distraction.”

“And yet,” he quipped, flicking your nose, “you’re smiling.”

You were. Begrudgingly.

Then there were the bear hugs. Merlin, the bear hugs. Mattheo had an uncanny talent for sensing when you were stressed, usually followed by him swooping in and pulling you into a hug that could rival a skull-crushing bludger.

One evening, as you stared blankly at your parchment, trying and failing to organize your thoughts, he came up behind you. Without warning, his arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you clean off your chair.

“Mattheo!” you yelped, flailing.

“Shh,” he said, spinning you around. “This is a medical intervention. You were looking far too tense.”

By the time he set you back down, your frustration had melted into laughter, your cheeks warm as you leaned back into his arms for a moment longer than you’d care to admit.

But there were other moments, too. Quieter ones, where his teasing gave way to something softer.

The common room was nearly empty when he found you curled up on the couch, a book in your lap but your eyes distant. Wordlessly, he sank down beside you, close enough that your knees touched.

You expected a quip or a joke, but instead, his hand reached out, finding yours where it rested on the page. His fingers laced through yours, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over your knuckles.

The playful grin he always wore was gone, replaced by something calmer. “You’re too brilliant to stress like this,” he murmured, his voice low.

For once, you didn’t argue. His hand in yours felt grounding, his words a quiet reassurance..

II. THEODORE NOTT

Theodore Nott didn’t need grand gestures to show he cared. He was subtle, deliberate, and always knew exactly what you needed without a single word.

Like now, as you struggled to balance a precarious stack of books in the library. “Need a hand?” he asked casually, appearing out of nowhere.

“I’ve got it,” you huffed, shifting the stack.

“You mean, you’re about to drop it,” he corrected, plucking the books from your arms with ease.

“Show off,” you muttered, but the corners of your mouth twitched.

He gave you a small, amused smile as he set the books down on your table. Then, without a word, he reached forward to brush a stray strand of hair out of your face, tucking it gently behind your ear.

“Better,” he murmured before sitting down across from you. It was so casual, so effortless, but your heart still skipped a beat.

Later, in the Great Hall, it was his hand on your lower back guiding you through the bustling crowd of students. It wasn’t pushy or overbearing, it was just enough to let you know he was there, steady and constant.

“Theo, I’m not made of glass” you teased as you sat down, and he leaned against the table beside you.

“No, but you’re terrible at dodging elbows,” he quipped, nodding toward the chaos of the lunch line.

He was right, of course. He always was.

And then there were the little things he did that were so infuriatingly him.

Like the time he stole your quill mid-essay. “Theo!” you snapped, glaring at him.

“You’ve been using it wrong,” he said nonchalantly, twirling it between his fingers like a wand duelist showing off.

“How can you use a quill wrong?”

“You can. You’ve been gripping it like you’re stabbing someone. Here.” He handed it back, his fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary. “Relax your grip, or you’ll snap the nib.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help noticing how much smoother your writing felt afterward.

And then, on a rainy afternoon when you were both sprawled in the common room, you’d been flipping through a book while Theo quietly worked on an Arithmancy chart. Without looking up, he reached out and nudged a mug of tea toward you.

“You’re looking a little pathetic,” he said, his tone completely deadpan.

“Thanks, Theo,” you said dryly, but you took the tea anyway, smiling softly as you sipped it.

It wasn’t until you glanced over later that you noticed his gaze lingering on you, a rare warmth in his usually calm expression.

“What?” you asked, raising a brow.

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Nothing.”

But as his hand reached out to brush against yours once again, you realized that with Theo, even the smallest touch felt like the loudest declaration.

III. LORENZO BERKSHIRE

Lorenzo Berkshire loved quietly and warmly, his affection woven into the small, steady ways he touched you.

Like the way he always grabbed your hand without thinking, his fingers threading through yours as naturally as breathing. It didn’t matter where you were: in the middle of a crowded corridor, walking to Hogsmeade, or, as it happened today, dodging Peeves’ latest chaotic masterpiece of enchanted water balloons.

“Quick!” Lorenzo yanked you behind a suit of armor, his hand gripping yours firmly as water splashed past.

“You could’ve warned me sooner!” you hissed, clutching your soaked sleeve.

“I did warn you,” he said innocently, his grin betraying no remorse. He squeezed your hand before letting go to wring out his own robe. “Besides, you’re lucky I’m here. Imagine if Peeves got you while you were alone.”

“Yeah, I’d never survive without you,” you deadpanned, earning a soft chuckle.

Then there were his hugs: warm, steady, and impossible to resist.

One afternoon, you’d been pacing in the common room, ranting about something ridiculous Professor Snape had said in Potions. Lorenzo was sitting on the couch, watching you with a quiet amusement, until you threw your hands in the air in frustration.

“Am I wrong, though?” you demanded.

Instead of answering, he stood, stepped forward, and pulled you into a hug. It was so sudden, you froze.

“Lorenzo, what are you---”

“Shh,” he murmured, his arms snug around you. “You’re spiraling. Just… stop pacing and let me hold you for a second.”

For a moment, you considered pushing him away, purely out of principle. But his embrace was so warm, so comforting, that you found yourself leaning into it instead.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered against his shoulder.

“And you’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” he said, his voice muffled but teasing.

Then there were the casual touches that seemed second nature to him, like the way he always rested a hand on your shoulder when he leaned down to read over your notes.

“Did you mean to write ‘infusion’ here?” he asked once, pointing to your parchment.

“Yes, Enzo,” you said, your tone mockingly patient. “That’s exactly what I meant to write.”

“Good. Just checking.” He gave your shoulder a quick squeeze before walking off, as if correcting your work was the most normal thing in the world.

But perhaps the most Lorenzo thing he did was during Quidditch practice. You’d shown up to watch, cheering loudly enough to embarrass him in front of the whole team.

After practice, he jogged over, damp and out of breath, and pulled you into a sweaty, enthusiastic hug.

“Lorenzo!” you shrieked, trying to push him off.

“Just sharing the victory,” he said with a grin, tightening his grip.

“Victory? You missed three goals!”

“Details,” he said, leaning back just enough to grin at you. “Besides, I know you secretly love this.”

And as much as you complained, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Because with Lorenzo, every touch, whether it was a hand in yours, a shoulder squeeze, or a hug that left you blushing, felt like home.

IV. DRACO MALFOY

Draco Malfoy had a way of turning even the simplest gestures of affection into acts of grandeur.

“Y/N,” he drawled, stepping into the courtyard where you were waiting. “Your scarf is a disaster.”

You looked down, confused. “It’s just a scarf, Draco.”

“It’s an offense to fashion,” he corrected, already closing the distance between you. Before you could stop him, his gloved hands were carefully unwinding the scarf from your neck.

“Draco, it’s cold!”

“Shh.” He ignored your protest, methodically rewrapping it, each fold placed with the utmost precision. “If you insist on walking around like this, the least I can do is ensure you don’t embarrass me.”

Once he finished, he stepped back, inspecting his work like a proud artist. “There. Better.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though you had to admit the scarf did feel warmer.

Later, during a stroll to Hogsmeade, he offered his arm with a flourish.

“Draco, we’re not at a ball,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he said, his tone prim, “you look like you might trip over the cobblestones at any moment. I’m merely preventing a tragedy.”

You rolled your eyes but slipped your arm through his anyway. He gave a satisfied smirk, his fingers resting lightly over yours.

Then there were the smaller gestures, the ones you weren’t entirely sure were affectionate or just Draco being Draco.

Like the time he spotted a speck of dust on your robe during dinner.

“Hold still,” he said sharply, brushing it off with the utmost seriousness.

“Draco, it’s barely visible---”

“Barely visible isn’t invisible,” he cut in, flicking the imaginary lint away with a look of triumph. “You’re welcome.”

Sometimes, his gestures were less about precision and more about necessity. During a Quidditch match, the wind had ripped your hair tie loose, leaving your hair whipping into your face. Draco, seated beside you, sighed audibly before pulling out a spare ribbon from his pocket.

“You carry ribbons?” you asked, bewildered.

“Of course not,” he said, already tying it into place with practiced ease. “Mother always says to be prepared for emergencies. Apparently, this qualifies.”

“Does it?”

“Obviously,” he said, brushing a stray strand out of your face. “Imagine how ridiculous you looked before I fixed it.”

You stared at him, torn between laughing and being annoyed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re lucky I am,” he replied smugly, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Whether it was adjusting your scarf or offering his arm, Draco's gestures always came with a quiet, meaningful undertone: he cared more than he’d ever admit.

V. BLAISE ZABINI

Blaise Zabini’s affection was effortless, delivered with the same smooth confidence he carried everywhere he went.

Take, for example, the way his hand always found your thigh when you sat next to him. It didn’t matter if it was in the library, the common room, or even during a particularly dull History of Magic lecture. His hand would settle there, light and casual, like it belonged.

“Are you even paying attention?” you whispered once, glancing at him while Professor Binns droned on about goblin rebellions.

“Not really,” he said, smirking as his fingers tapped absentmindedly against your leg. “But you are, and that’s far more interesting.”

His casual touches extended to the little things, too. Like the time you’d been sitting together at breakfast, distractedly spreading jam on your toast while skimming your notes. Blaise had leaned over, taken the knife from your hand, and spread the jam evenly in one smooth motion.

“You were going to ruin it,” he said simply, setting the toast back on your plate.

“It’s toast, Blaise,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“Precisely. There’s no excuse for sloppy toast,” he replied, his lips quirking into a half smile as he rested his elbow on the table and leaned closer.

He was equally casual about his protectiveness. When you walked into the common room one night, balancing a stack of books, Blaise, who was lounging on the couch, arched a brow.

“Drop one of those, and I’ll laugh,” he said lazily, though he was already standing.

“You’re so helpful,” you said sarcastically.

But before you could move, he reached out, took the books from your arms, and placed them on the nearest table. His hand brushed your back as he passed, light and deliberate. “There. Now you don’t have to make a spectacle of yourself.”

Even in the rare moments when you were annoyed with him, his touch had a way of disarming you.

Once, after an argument about which Quidditch team was better, you’d crossed your arms and turned away from him. Blaise, unbothered, leaned back against the couch and stretched his arm along the backrest until his fingers lazily grazed your shoulder.

“You’re mad,” he observed, his voice amused.

“No, I’m---” You stopped mid-sentence as he lightly trailed his fingers down your arm. It wasn’t much, just enough to make you shiver and forget whatever comeback you’d been forming.

“Hmm?” he prompted, his smirk growing.

“Nothing,” you muttered, glancing away, which only made him chuckle softly.

VI. REGULUS BLACK

Regulus Black wasn’t one for grand gestures. His affection was quiet, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. But you always noticed.

It was in the way his fingers would brush against yours as you walked side by side through the castle corridors, his hand lingering just long enough to send a silent, unspoken message.

“Regulus,” you teased once, glancing down at where his hand hovered near yours. “You can hold my hand, you know. I won’t bite.”

He huffed softly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Sure you weren’t,” you replied, your voice laced with amusement. But before you could say anything else, his fingers laced with yours, quick, almost shy, but steady.

In the common room, when you were bent over a pile of parchments, furiously scribbling down notes, he would sometimes come up behind you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” he said one evening, his voice low and steady.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, not looking up.

He didn’t argue. Instead, his thumb brushed against the fabric of your robes, a small, grounding gesture. “Just don’t forget to breathe,” he said softly before slipping away, leaving behind the faint warmth of his touch.

And then there were the moments that caught you off guard, like when you’d been lost in thought by the Black Lake, the chilly wind tugging at your cloak. Regulus appeared beside you silently, slipping his scarf from around his neck and draping it over your shoulders without a word.

“You’ll freeze,” you protested, clutching the soft wool.

“I’ll survive,” he replied, his tone so matter-of-fact it made you smile. He didn’t move to take the scarf back, though he did stand close enough that his arm brushed yours.

And then one evening in the library, you were both pouring over ancient texts for a Potions essay, the quiet hum of the room interrupted only by the scratch of quills. Without looking up, he reached over and adjusted the candle near your book, tilting it so the light fell more evenly across the pages.

“Thanks,” you said softly, glancing at him.

He shrugged, not meeting your gaze, but the faintest hint of a smile played on his lips.

VII. TOM RIDDLE

Tom Riddle’s affection was as precise and calculated as everything else he did.

You were pacing the length of the common room, muttering under your breath as you reviewed your notes for the tenth time that evening. Tom, seated in his usual armchair, watched you with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

“I can’t help it,” you replied, not stopping. “I need to make sure I’ve got everything memorized.”

Before you could pass him again, he stood, closing the distance between you in two measured strides. Gently but decisively, he cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Stop,” he commanded, his tone low but unyielding. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, a gesture that was oddly soothing despite the intensity of his stare. “You’re better than this frantic display. Calm your mind.”

For a moment, all you could do was blink up at him, the warmth of his hands grounding you in a way that words never could.

“Better?” he asked, his dark eyes searching yours.

“Better,” you admitted, your voice softer now.

He stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides, though he lingered close enough that the heat of his presence remained.

There were other moments like this, too, where his touch was both a command and a reassurance.

Like the time he found you struggling to reach a book in the library. Without a word, he appeared behind you, effortlessly plucking the book from the shelf and handing it to you. When you opened your mouth to thank him, he tilted your chin up with a single finger, his expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have to struggle,” he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper.

Or the time you were arguing with him over something trivial (probably his refusal to let anyone but himself tutor you).

“You’re insufferable,” you’d snapped, crossing your arms.

“And you’re too intelligent to waste time bickering with me,” he replied smoothly. Before you could fire back, he placed his hands on your shoulders, his grip firm but not unkind. “Now, sit down and let me help you. You’ll thank me later.”

Despite the commanding edge to his touch, there was something deeply reassuring about it. A promise, unspoken but felt in every deliberate move.

Because with Tom, every gesture carried the same message: You’re mine, and I’ll make sure you never forget it.

A/N: SURPRISEEE just temporarily back bc i missed writing and I missed you guys

Taglist (for those who asked to be tagged in everything) = @smut-anarchy, @marikajhaha, @nottinmyheart, @hzdhrtss, @babene-e

love u guys

[chronicowboy]

Eddie calls him about ten minutes after he finishes unpacking. And Buck doesn't—panic. He doesn't! He has no reason to panic. Tommy doesn't know a damn thing about him and Eddie. And Maddie, well. She doesn't know anything either. Not this.

Nobody but him and Eddie—and Chris—understand what they are to each other, and that's okay. Buck made his peace with that long ago. Long before he even knew he liked guys. Which. Not that that matters or has any sway on his perception of his and Eddie's relation—friendship. They're just BuckandEddie. Doesn't need to be any more than that. Just his best friend.

All this to say: when Eddie calls, he doesn't panic. He takes a very respectable three deep breaths, tries not to grimace at the leather squeaking under his ass and hits the green button with a hand that absolutely isn't shaking.

Because he's not panicking. He's happy. He's so happy. He gets to talk to Eddie. For the first time since he left. Why would he be panicking? Because of some stupid assumptions from an insecure ex? Sure, right. Like he'd ever let that touch him and Eddie.

Competition, he thinks, like Tommy ever could have competed with Eddie Diaz.

"H-hey, E-eddie." Buck isn't sure why he stumbles over Eddie's name. He's had enough practice over the past few days. Said it enough times in his life that it should be able to slip out seamlessly every damn time.

"Hey, Buck." And there's Eddie sounding sure and confident and a little tired and warm and soft and so much like his best friend. Buck aches. "Just finished unpacking. Told myself I couldn't call until I was done. Incentive, y'know?"

And Buck grins. Grins so big his face hurts and he forgets all about the stupid leather couch underneath him. He imagines the two of them unpacking at the exact same moment, finishing in the same breath, still in sync even 800 miles apart. And then the second part of it hits him. Calling Buck his reward for menial, mind-numbing labour. The idea of hearing Buck's voice getting him through all the organising and reorganising and rereorganising. Fuck, he misses him.

"I, uh, I-I actually just unfinished packing too," Buck replies. A beat too late maybe. Doesn't matter. Eddie huffs a laugh, nothing matters but that.

"No shit. Should've known it'd take us a while to shake off the synchronicity." And Eddie's voice is so warm, so fond, it soothes the ache of the inevitable loss of their bond. That special tie between them that never let them stray too far soon to be severed. And then, like Eddie can hear him, "still a team even two states apart, huh?"

"Always a team," Buck replies, too soon this time probably. Doesn't matter. Not when he can hear Eddie's smile.

"How's the house treating you?" he asks, words shaped into something beautiful by the curve of Eddie's lips. But still, Buck's heart drops right out of his ass.

How does he answer that?

I missed you so much I couldn't sleep here without you. I didn't unpack because the house still feels like yours. The house still feels like yours because I wish it was. Yours. I couldn't sleep because you weren't snoring down the hallway. And the one night I did sleep here I had to fuck my ex as a distraction just to try and forget that you should be the one in that bedroom.

But he can't say any of that. He can't.

"Uhhhhhh." He blinks. Has forgotten every word in the English language.

"Buck?" Eddie's smile is gone.

"Why'd you stop talking to Tommy when we broke up?"

Silence. Fuck.

"He broke your heart, Buck," Eddie says slowly, evenly, too controlled. Hiding something. "Why the hell would I talk to him?"

"B-because. You guys were friends before me and him got together."

Eddie's straight. Tommy scoffs. Friends.

"And I promised to have your back five years before I even knew he existed," Eddie replies simply. "There was no competition there, Buck."

Oh. Oh, shit.

"How, um, how did you find out about that anyway?" Eddie asks when Buck's silence stretches on too long. "Not that it was a secret or anything. I just... I didn't tell you because I didn't think it mattered. And I know you didn't call Tommy, so..."

"No, n-no, I didn't call him." And he didn't is the thing. Didn't call him to apologise like he said he would to Maddie. Just. Let it lay.

"What aren't you telling me, Buck?" Eddie sighs. Buck misses his fucking sighs.

"Ravi called him. Well, found him. At the bar. And brought him over."

"Jesus Christ." And Buck can see him clear as day, bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "Remind me to send Ravi a strongly worded e-mail on how to be your partner."

Buck kind of really wants to read that fucking email.

"We slept together," Buck blurts out.

Silence. Fuck.

"You and Ravi...?"

"No." Buck barks out a laugh. A startled sound. "No, not Ravi."

"Okay, okay, good," Eddie breathes out. "Because that would not be one of the points of the e-mail." Buck snorts again. Sobers instantly. Gets a sharp little pang in the pit of his stomach. No reason. "So. Tommy."

"Yeah." Buck ducks his head. "Tommy."

"Did you..." Eddie struggles with something for a moment, and Buck finds himself sitting up straighter, bracing for whatever comes next. "I mean, did you... When you... y'know, did you go to his or-or... yours?"

Buck bluescreens. Blacks out maybe. What the fuck?

"Um, y-yours or, no, mine. M-mine. It was closer. To the bar. And I—" And he what? What? What is it lurking in the shadows of his brain, slipping through his fingers like sand every time he thinks he's close enough to hold?

"Okay." Eddie says it like he's taking a punch.

"Is-is that, I mean, th-that's okay, right?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd classify sleeping with your ex as okay." Eddie makes some sort of noise. Half anguished and half furious. "Where the hell does he get off—" your bedroom, Buck thinks deliriously "—hooking up with the guy who's heart he broke?"

"He didn't break my heart, Eddie." Says it. Realises it's true.

"Oh, yeah, sure."

"He was scared I was gonna break his, remember?"

"Dumb," Eddie says succinctly. Buck snorts.

"I'm not getting back together with him or anything. It was just a one time thing. You don't have to worry about me showing up on your doorstep to brood again."

Silence. Again. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

"I think I'd be okay with it, if it brought you to my door," Eddie whispers.

Tears sting in Buck's eyes. He presses the bottom of his phone into his forehead until it begins to hurt. Clears his throat.

"How's the fixer-upper?"

Best friends. Nothing more. Nothing less. But.

[tfwbluu]

PAIRING — ni-ki + f!reader

WARNINGS — idol!ki, pillow humping, guided masturbation(?), pet names (doll, baby, etc), riding, ki’s big (as always tho), raw sex (stay safe!), sweet at the end but it goes back to spicy.

WORDCOUNT — 1.6K

NOTE — long time no post, here’s a little something for my ki girls~ going back to the roots :3 might be a bit rustic so don’t mind that plsjdks

Fuck, you were downright needy. It wasn’t necessarily your fault either—but it definitely was his.

Riki had been looking way too good lately, effortlessly charming, the kind of allure that left you restless and wanting. And despite your growing desperation to get your hands on him, his demanding idol schedule kept him away, leaving you a frustrated, aching mess.

Every text, every teasing phone call, every fleeting moment you managed to steal with him only made it worse. You needed him, badly.

Finally, you found yourself lying on your side, a pillow lodged between your thighs as you desperately rutted against the soft fabric. A breathy moan of relief escaped your lips, but it was fleeting—nowhere near enough.

It had been minutes since you started trying to ease the ache between your legs, the rustle of bedsheets and your soft whimpers filling the room. The friction was there, but it wasn’t satisfying, leaving you restless. You shifted and squirmed, tossing and turning in search of the perfect angle—one that would finally bring you the pleasure you craved.

Frustration built with every roll of your hips, the pressure teasing but never quite satisfying. A desperate whimper escaped your lips as you shifted, straddling the pillow instead, gripping it tightly as you rutted against it.

You were too lost in the feeling to notice the door creak open.

Riki leaned against the frame, watching with hooded eyes as you helplessly grind against the pillow—his pillow. His jaw clenched at the sight, arousal stirring at the way your face twisted in frustration, small whimpers slipping from your lips.

“Need some help, doll?” His voice was low, teasing, yet laced with something darker.

Your eyes snapped open, glassy with need. “R-Riki… please,” you whimpered, cheeks burning in embarrassment but too far gone to care. “Need you so bad…”

He cocked his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But you looked like you were enjoying yourself,” he mused, stepping closer. “Mind if I enjoy a little more of the show?”

Before you could protest, his hands found your hips, gripping them firmly as he guided you back into rhythm against the pillow, forcing you to keep going.

“Fuck! Ki…!” you cried out, your moans swallowed by his lips as he kissed you deeply, his grip on your hips unwavering.

“That’s it, doll,” he cooed, breaking away just enough to watch your expression twist in pleasure. “You just needed a little help, yeah?”

His hands trailed up your body, fingers ghosting over your heated skin, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake. He let you take control, watching with dark amusement as your hips moved on their own, desperate and needy against the pillow. “Such a pretty sight,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Keep going for me.”

“Rikiii,” you whimpered, your desperate eyes locking onto his, frustration spilling over in the form of unshed tears.

“What is it, baby? Use your words,” he coaxed, feigning innocence as he wiped a stray tear from your cheek, his touch deceptively gentle.

“Need you to fuck me… need your cock inside, pleasee,” you pleaded, voice trembling, your soaked core pressing against the now-damp pillow beneath you.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Mhm, since you asked politely.” Without hesitation, he stripped off his clothes, the sight alone making your breath hitch. He wasted no time pulling you onto his lap, tossing the pillow aside, his hands gripping your thighs as he spread them apart. His gaze darkened at the view before him, fingers grazing your inner thighs.

“You’re dripping, doll,” he mused, aligning himself with your entrance. “Guess I should give you what you’ve been begging for.”

A loud moan tore from your lips as he pushed inside, not giving you even a second to adjust before he bottomed out. The stretch was intense, his tip pressing right against that sensitive bundle of nerves, making your back arch. A slight bulge formed in your stomach, a clear reminder of how deep he was.

You tried to move, but your limbs felt weak, trembling from the overwhelming sensation. Riki chuckled, his hands firm on your waist as he teasingly thrust up into you, making you yelp.

“Aww, poor little thing,” he cooed, his tone laced with amusement. “Come on, you can do it. Use me like that pillow, baby.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you forced your body to move, rolling your hips against him, your walls clenching around his length. His grip tightened, helping you set a pace, his low groans only adding to the pleasure building inside you.

“So d-deep… hngh, Riki… aah!” you whimpered against his ear, your voice trembling as you buried your face in his shoulder. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, nails digging into his skin as you rocked your hips, fucking yourself on his cock with desperation.

“Feels so good inside me… please, please, please…!” you sobbed, your walls fluttering around him.

Riki groaned, his grip tightening on your waist, guiding your movements as he thrust up to meet you. “That’s it, doll. Take what you need,” he murmured, his lips grazing your neck. “Such a needy little thing… so greedy for me, huh?”

“Mhm, only for you—ngh!” you moaned into his ear as you eagerly rode him.

Riki groaned, feeling the way your walls clenched around him, hot and desperate. His grip on your waist tightened, guiding your movements as he thrust up to meet you, his pace growing rougher. His fingers dug into your skin, surely leaving behind light bruises.

“So eager for me,” Riki murmured, his voice thick with amusement and lust. “I’m way better than that pillow, hmm? Filling you up so good. Tell me, who do you belong to?” His words were a taunt, but the way his hands roamed your body told you he was just as desperate.

His palm pressed firmly against the bulge in your stomach, making you arch against him, a long, needy moan spilling from your lips. The sensation sent another wave of pleasure straight to your core, your body tightening around him in response.

“Haa.. ‘m your—hngh! Yours~!” you gasped, fingers gripping his hair tightly as you tried to ground yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.

Riki chuckled darkly, his hand suddenly twisting into your hair, yanking you back just enough to make your eyes lock onto his. His gaze was filled with hunger, his dark eyes drinking in your fucked-out expression.

“Yeah?” he whispered, lips brushing against yours teasingly. “Then show me, baby. Show me just how much you need me.”

His lips crashed against yours, devouring you in a messy, desperate kiss. Your moans tangled with his as you moved in sync, bodies chasing that intoxicating high. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your walls clenching around him as the pressure built unbearably.

Breaking away from the kiss with a breathless whimper, you gasped, “F-fuck, ‘m close… Ki…!” Your hands clawed at his back, your hips moving desperately, bouncing against him as you chased your release.

“C’mon, doll,” he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. “Let’s cum together.” His pace turned erratic, his hips snapping up to meet yours in deep, frantic thrusts. His fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent sparks through your trembling body.

With one final cry, the knot inside you snapped, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body quivered in his hold as you came undone, your walls pulsing around him. The sensation dragged him over the edge, a low moan leaving his lips as he spilled inside you, filling you up with his warmth.

Your body collapsed against him, chest rising and falling rapidly as the aftermath washed over you. His hands smoothed over your back, grounding you with gentle touches. “Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Do you feel better?”

“Mhm… I didn’t know you’d come home,” you mumbled, burying your face into his shoulder as the realization of what had just happened made your cheeks burn.

Riki chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through his chest. “If you needed me this bad, you could’ve just told me, doll. I would’ve made time for you, y’know?” His words were teasing, but the sincerity was there.

“You always seemed so busy and tired… I didn’t wanna bother yo—mph!” Your words were cut off as his lips crashed onto yours, swallowing your protests with a passionate kiss. His grip tightened around you, holding you close as if he wanted to erase any doubt from your mind.

“Don’t say that,” he murmured against your lips, his tone softer now. “You’re never a bother to me. I love you so much, and I’ll always be here for you if you need me, princess.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a small pout forming on your lips before you pressed a sweet kiss to his nose. “I love you too, Ki.”

The moment felt warm, intimate—until he suddenly smirked. “Say… how about another round?”

You gasped, smacking his chest playfully. “Ki!”

His laughter filled the room, but his amusement only grew as he felt your walls involuntarily clench around him. His eyes darkened, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, princess… you’re squeezing me so tight. I think you want it as much as I do, hm?”

Before you could protest, he flipped you onto your back, pinning you against the mattress effortlessly. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart as he hovered over you.

“Let me make it up to you, yeah?” His voice dripped with desire, his pace painfully slow, each deep thrust leaving you breathless. Your bodies were slick with heat, every movement drawing out soft whimpers as he used the mess between you to glide effortlessly inside.

“Be a good girl and take it,” he whispered against your ear, his lips tracing along your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

He filled you over and over, dragging out every ounce of pleasure until your mind blurred with nothing but him—his touch, his voice, the way he claimed you completely.

And as he filled you up once more, you knew the night was far from over.

taglist @kikidoul @rikiives @contyynishimura @ziiao @lilmarsh-t @bxcndd @laylasbunbunny @d-dilemma