#and how it would be better if they didn't or straight up are not there

[bratbarzal]

OK IF YOU'RE TAKING REQUESTS anything smutty with LIH Luke and Reader!!! I think you said you'd do HCs or NSFW alphabet so whatever you're comfortable with! I love you and I love them ❤️

so some of these I've had saved just as character notes for a while bc I think it's fun even if the smut isn't inherently written into the fic to have an idea of what the intimate part of their relationship would be like - I've tried to expand to bulk it out so it sort of goes on!! I took some inspo from the nsfw alphabet but I didn't use it because I repel structure!!!! It’s not even very very smutty it’s more so just describing intimate parts of their relationship

ALSO you don't have to have read either fic to read this, it's sort of general luke and how I conceptualise him as a character tbh!! Idk if I’ll ever write him beyond LIH so I think this is just Luke to me by now but I hope you enjoy regardless!!

word count: 4k+

general warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected p in v, coming inside, coming on, mutual masturbation, oral (m and f receiving), mentions of being tied up and blindfolded, mentions of period sex and I think that’s all

Luke just gives boy moaner vibes. Like he's loud, and he has no concept of just how loud he is because even when he's trying to bite back his noises or be lowkey about it, he's groaning and panting and grunting and you quickly give up trying to get him to shut up because he isn't capable of doing so. And you like hearing him moan as much as you like hearing him speak, which is a lot if you're being honest - you'll let him yap for hours sometimes while you just cuddle up to him or when you're straddling his lap and kissing at his neck and he's going on and on about something that happened in a game or training. Sometimes you think he's so in his head about whatever it is that he's talking about that he forgets you're literally sat on him but then his hands will grip at your hips and get you moving, and he'll slip out the occasional, “Right there,” or “Oh, fuck," when you grind straight against the obvious bulge in his sweatpants.

And he'll talk at you between kisses sometimes, like even your tongue in his mouth won't stop him when he's got something to rant about, but he still occasionally kisses back - lets it drag out a little before he carries on until he's finished - and you just let him because it's always better for him to just say what he clearly needs to say before he gives his full undivided attention.

And he’s bantery even when you’re fucking, even in his dirty talk that he considers foreplay, he’s teasing you - craving that back and forth that you love to give him, saying dorky jokes while he’s literally inside you and you think it’s the dorkiest and sexiest thing he could possibly do - make you belly laugh while he has you pinned down to the bed and your legs are up over his broad shoulders.

But back to the boy moans you don't know how you ever kept your situationship a secret that first summer with just how loud he is - he gives these big satisfied hums whenever you give him the slightest touch - like if you wrap your arms around his shoulders and your fingers tickle at the curls by the nape of his neck, or you're tucking yourself into his side when you all go out on the boat, or one of his brothers are driving and you're nestled up to him in the backseat. He's such a physical touch guy that he can't help the little noises he makes when you give him what he wants, even if it isn't entirely sexual in nature

But when it is, when you're sinking down onto your knees in front of him, and your neck is craned to look straight up and meet his eye while you lower his zipper, he'll literally whine as he watches you take him out of his briefs - watches you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and shuffle forward a little to get a closer angle on him - his breath will stutter audibly the second your lips come within an inch of his length, the mere distance of you causing it to twitch a little as it hardens even more.

When your thumb swipes at the pre-cum leaking from his tip, and you bring it to your mouth as you look up at him, he’s letting out a heavy, blissed out sigh in pure anticipation of your next touch, and you do your best to tease him just to get as many sounds out as you can before he’s a moaning, gasping mess - and that comes when your lips are around his shaft, when his hips are jolting forward and his tip is hitting the back of your throat, and your nails are scratching at the thick muscle of his thighs in response. His groans then are broken and the pitch is a little higher, and sometimes you’ll take his hands and put them in your hair or on the back of your head, encouraging him to fuck into you a little when you can handle it, which isn’t that often because he’s big and you try to surprise him with it when you can

You’d like to think with stuff like that it’s your own version of having some sort of control over him, but in reality, he holds a quiet dominance over you at all times

It isn’t really forceful and it isn’t really loud, but he just always has the upper hand when it comes to being intimate, and you both like it that way.

Even when you’re on top, and your holding him to the bed by his wrists as you’re riding him, hips moving at your own pace, his cock filling you so deep that it’s almost mind numbing but all you can think to do is keep moving and keep holding him down, and it’s a while before you realise he doesn’t need his hands to control you - he rocks his hips at his own pace, filling you deeper than you were managing on your own, thrusting up into you when you bring yourself down and he lets you bask in the illusion of your own dominance, but he never fully submits, not when it comes to sex, because you can mouth off all you want to him - in public, in private - and people can have their own ideas of who takes the lead in your relationship, but as soon as those doors close, you’re his, and he’s the only one who’ll ever get you like this.

and oh my god, back to this - he’s such a physical touch guy!! he HAS to be touching you whatever way he can, fingers hooked through belt loops, hands laid flat in your back pockets when your facing him, or in your front pockets when your back is to his front, like you’re at a concert and you’re stood at the barrier and he’s just behind with his hands on your hips and keeps leaning down to speak right in your ear and his breath is on your neck. If he’s beside you, his arm is over your shoulder, your hips bumping, your legs touching if you’re sat down, and he loves when you lean into him, head on the side of his chest, or when you wrap your own arms around his middle.

Because when YOU touch HIM he sort of loses it - because love languages are sort of a projection right, of how you want to be loved back? So when you trace your fingers along the veins in his arm, or your hands seek him out when you’re laying out in the sun and it’s too hot to be on top of each other how you probably want (plus last time the two of you fell asleep all cuddled together and you had a distinct tan mark that was the shape of his hand on your ass) or you’re absentmindedly playing with his hair he has this big Cheshire Cat grin on his face all the time because he just loves the idea that you can’t keep your hands to yourself, either.

And he’s big into showing off his strength - because he can look sort of unassuming sometimes, but then he’s hauling you up over his shoulder and carrying you upstairs, hand landing firmly on your ass when no one else can see and you’re still squirming, and he’s wrestling you down into the sheets and burying his head between your legs until your kicks of defiance die into your knees flopping in their jelly-like blissed out state - his tongue lapping at your core and his lips closing around your clit over and over in sloppy kisses. Your hands are in his hair - perfect - and your hips are bucking like crazy, and he’s humming into your folds and you feel the buzz of him all the way up your spine. And when he’s done, when you’ve come apart with a pillow held over your face to muffle your screams, and your body is vibrating, and his chin is slick with your juices, he just looks up at you all proud and smug and you kick at his shoulder until he falls to the floor with a thud - and then you follow him down because why not? It would only make the headboard bang if you stayed on the bed.

He shows his strength in other ways, too. Lifts you to reach the top shelf instead of reaching it for you, hands at your hips and smiling big and bright when you turn around to thank him with a kiss. Piggy backs when you’ve spent all day out on the boat and you’re too tired to walk up the dock to the house, and your sticky front is pressed to his sticky back, and he smells like sunscreen and a little sweaty and you smush your face into the space between his neck and shoulder and breathe him all in.

And then you’re showering together and he’s washing your hair and you just about reach up to wash his, and he presses his head into your hands like a touch starved puppy because he’s sweet like that!!

And he doesn’t initiate anything because he knows you’re tired, but you lean up to kiss him under the spray of the shower, and you guide him to where you’re pressed against the wet tile, and you hook a leg around him until he gets the message, until he’s got hands splayed at the top of your thighs and he’s lifting you against the wall, and he slips in without any prep because you’ve spent all day watching him just walk around all broad chested with his freckled skin glistening under the sun and he’s yours and the mere fact of it makes you so wet, and he’s been watching you in your bikini, been helping apply sunscreen and slipping his fingers under the straps, been sneaking glances at you as the day has gone on - where your hair gets all sticky around the edges of your face, and your lips wrap around the cool rim of the beer bottle he handed you straight out the cooler, and he doesn’t think he’s managed to hide the effect you have on him from anyone but he’s beyond caring too.

Because now his grunts are masked by the shower spray, and he can hear your sweet little moans right in his ear, and neither of you really have to care about hiding anything, and he’s thrusting so deep inside you that you can barely hold on - scratches down his back that aggravate the slight sunburn he has there, and fingers so tightly gripped around the back of your thighs that they’ll probably bruise, and he’s practically begging you, “Can I come inside you?” And you’re practically pleading back, “God, yes!”

He gets sort of a complex after that, for holding you up while he’s fucking you - he has you against the door of your bedroom, thinks it’s really hot that he can’t wait a single second after you’re through the threshold to have you sometimes, and a few more times in the shower. When the two of you are back in Jersey, there isn’t a surface in your apartment you haven’t christened. The kitchen counters, the couch, the rug on the floor in your living room, the little dining table you have that only fits two chairs although that’s all you need. He likes your apartment - likes being able to have you anywhere, any time, and be however loud he likes - your neighbours be damned.

He likes coming home from a game and you’re in bed with a spot reserved for him, when he comes out of the bathroom after freshening up and you’re sleepily lifting the covers for him to join you, and you wrap your limbs around him like a monkey and the two of you just fall asleep with whispered I love you’s because he’ll tell you about his game in the morning.

And he loves having a routine with you - loves getting up and making you a coffee and a toasted bagel while you shower, and you drink and eat with him before you’re rushing out to get to class - and every day, without fail, you rush back inside for “one more kiss” that turns into at least four and he’s walking you backwards, smiling into your persistent mouth, until he can wave you off at the door - and the last thing you get to see every morning is Luke stood in your doorway, hands up against the jamb until the veins pop in his arms, boxers slung low on his hips and a very promising smile that tells you later - later I’ll satisfy that very obvious hunger in your eyes. And he always follows through on that promise. When he doesn’t have a game, you get to come home to game highlights on your tv, loud enough that they carry through to your little kitchen, where you more or less always find him trying to put together something that will “refuel you” enough for all the ways he’s about to ruin you.

And you like that, too - having someone at home who wants to be there when you are, who cares if you’re well fed after a long day at school, after a longer than necessary commute because you wanted to live closer to him, so close that he’s honestly living with you before either of you realise enough to freak out about it. He goes home to his and Jack’s apartment sometimes, but during the season he wants to be as close as he can as often as he can, especially when roadies are taken into account.

And when he’s on the road, and he has a room to himself or a little privacy, he can usually go a few stop before he’s desperate enough to get himself off. He tries to do it straight in the middle of a trip, give himself time to build up to it and then give himself time to build up to a reunion. He has pictures and videos he can use, and they usually do the trick - he’s conscious if he’s away that he’s behind you in times and you might be asleep, but sometimes he needs to talk to you because it isn’t half as fun when you’re not chirping him mid orgasm. He’ll send a cautious text - you awake? - and you’ll usually call him within a minute. “You horny fucker.” You say when you light up the screen, a wry smile - one of his shirts that you deny you ever where when he’s gone stretched across your torso, the neck hole so loose that it’s hanging around your shoulder, and he’s gripping at his base and squeezing a little as he takes you in. “Miss you,” he shrugs like it’s a reasonable response, and the roll of your eyes sends a twinge straight between his legs. “Tell me about your day,” he says, because he doesn’t even need you to talk him through it, and the two of you haven’t caught up yet today. He pumps himself slowly until you can’t really ignore his little grunts anymore, and you’re asking him to flip the camera and he does, trying to ignore the sight of his leaking cock in the little rectangle in the corner, watching your reaction to it instead as he fists the length of it, a subtle flick of your eyes up and down in line with his own movements. “Fuck, Luke,” you whine, “Miss you too.” And he’ll tell you all the things he misses specifically - misses your hand, misses your mouth, misses pressing his nose into your hair in the morning and breathing you in, misses the way you snuggle into him, climb on top of him, kiss at his skin all the way down to the waistline of his briefs and nuzzle against the bulge beneath them, kissing him through the fabric until it’s too much to bear.

And then you’re moaning, and he hasn’t even realise how far gone you look, that little concentrated furrow in your brow, your bottom lip between your teeth, and he’s telling you to flip the camera.

Your hand is wrist deep under your panties, and you’re doing your best to angle the camera and carry on your handiwork, two slender fingers curling into the heat Luke could wax lyrical about all day. Tight and warm, wet and welcoming, he can’t wait to get home and take the reins.

“Tell me how it feels,” he says - and it’s sort of new territory, because he’s never seen you touch yourself before. He’s usually quick enough to do it for you if he’s around, and he doesn’t think you’ve gone this far on a call.

“Good,” you breathe out, and he’s picturing you with your neck craned, your head thrown back in pleasure. “Not as good as you, but good.”

“Yeah,” he’ll breathe back, like a blissed out sigh, because that’s exactly how he feels. Good, but not good enough. “Take ‘em off, let me see,” and his chest lurches a little at how quick you are to follow his orders. You kick off your panties and perch your phone past your legs, so he can see between them and he can see your reaction to the touch, and he sees how your fingers disappear, can hear how wet you are, and his own hand is moving faster, turned on by how you can get yourself off just by the memory of him at this point, without having to watch what he’s doing anymore. He isn’t quite as strong willed. He times his movements with yours, and it isn’t long before you’re both coming, your pretty moans coming through the phone and his strangled and restrained, because for some reason it’s different when he’s on his own and there’s the risk of a teammate hearing through hotel walls.

“Show me,” you say, and he already knows, flipping the camera to his tense stomach, where he’s slick with his own spend. He comes on you more than in you, probably, and you both just sort of like it that way. You like it on your face, knelt in front of him, eyes screwed shut to avoid anything going in them when his cock is spurting out healthy amounts against your skin, and he likes it on your folds, pulling out with just enough time to aim it there, or on your stomach, or your lower back and ass if you’re already on your front. He likes to watch it drip, you like to feel it, and when you’re apart, he guesses you like to see it, too.

And then you’re both a panting mess when you’re done, and he’ll huff out a groan of “one more week” and you’ll have to correct him like, “two, I’ll be on my period when you get back,” and he’s chewing on his bottom lip all nervous cos you haven’t had the conversation yet, but he’ll be like that doesn’t bother me you know, if it doesn’t bother you - and it opens up a whole new world for the two of you when he gets back, and it’s a lot more shower sex, and a lot more dry humping and a lot more slow, sensual movements with him on top and a towel laid out beneath you on your bed and you couldn’t love him any more than you do when he’s taking care of you after - all attentive and sweet and careful.

And you don’t know why it surprised you in the first place because Luke is experimental - he’ll try anything once, as evidenced by the fuck-it list in the summer where you two tried whatever positions you could reasonably get into together at the lake house with others around. He doesn’t mind you tying him up, thinks it’s cute when you cuff him places thinking that his hands are what he needs to feel you, but he isn’t that big on tying you up - thinks his word is enough to get you into submission, but he likes a blindfold - likes teasing you when you can’t see, and driving you crazy with every little touch - likes it when you do the same to him. When all he can feel is your breath, or your hair when it falls into his lap and makes him shudder.

And you pretty much have similar levels of experience so everything that’s new to you is new to him and you’re discovering it all together which he likes - doesn’t like thinking about you figuring out what makes you tick with someone else even if that’s a dickish thought to have.

He likes that he’s the first guy you ever fucked in the back of a car, likes that he’s the only guy you’ve ever snuck around in public with, likes that he’s the only one who’s ever actually overstimulated you - gone round after round until you can barely string a sentence together, like if it’s a couple days without a game and he’s got pent up energy and you’re all stressed from school and he thinks you need an outlet. No one else has ever got him like you have, and no one’s ever got you like him.

And overall I feel like intimacy with Luke goes way beyond sex - he loves being around you, loves laying up and watching movies with you even if you’re more prone to falling asleep on him when you’re back in school after the summer and his season is underway - loves having a hand creeping up the back of your shirt, or the legs of your sleep shorts, and just holding you with big hands, absentmindedly stroking at your soft skin. Loves nights in the summer when your skin is all shimmery from body oil and your legs tangle with his in the sheets and he wakes up a little glittery from where you’ve rubbed all over him. Loves holding your hand, loves playing with your fingers, tickling at your palms, loves when you do it back, and your fingers are scratching from his wrist to the inside of his elbow and back.

He loves taking care of you, loves plonking his hat on your head when you’re looking a little pink in the sun, or drawing little shapes with sunscreen onto your back hoping he can get an L to tan itself into your skin, loves helping you onto the boat, sitting you on his lap, buckling up your life jacket and kissing your nose when it’s done. He loves carrying your groceries up the stairs to your apartment and actually doing your grocery shopping for you when he knows you’ve not got a lot of time on your hands, helping you put it all away and noticing all the snacks you buy for him considering he practically lives there anyway.

He loves texting you, too. Loves double and triple texting you his every thought like you need to be clued in on his inner monologue, and loves when you send the same sort of stuff back. He has personal beef with the guy who sits behind you in class for smacking his gum too loud - calls him Gum Loser because having all these insights into the part of your life that doesn’t involve him makes him feel good.

And you send each other dumb selfies all the time that end up as contact pictures and lock screens. Yours is a close up of his face from below, and he’s doing something stupid with his mouth like puffing the air up into his top lip until his nostrils flare and you like it cos his eyes look super pretty in whatever light he’s under, his lashes fan out and you think it’s cute he looks a little like a fish or something.

And his is you sat across from him, one of the times he tried to teach you chess, your chin is in your palm, your feet resting on the chair and your knees bent up to your chest and you’re so focused on making the right move that you never noticed him taking the picture - and he loves it because you asked him to teach you, and you sat there and listened and learned, and he has a million pictures by now of you in bikinis and pretty dresses and his shirts, or just random selfies you sent him or pictures you asked him to take for your Instagram but he likes catching you off guard the most.

Loves taking pictures of you asleep to tease you with, and you do the same to him. And you take pictures of him doing the most mundane things just because you can - stood with his hands in his pockets in the line at the bookstore, trying to figure out which avocado looks the most ripe and ready at the grocery store, mid argument with one of his friends while he’s playing video games on your couch. And when you get to go to games you’re always sneaking to watch him in warm ups and he’s always trying not to fall or stumble when you’re there because lord knows you’ll chirp him as much as any of the guys will about it.

But Luke can’t go a day anymore without seeing you or speaking to you, and you’re pretty much the same. However you can get him, you’ll take him.

[theofthevalley]

“Our Love is Tough Love.”

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Telemachus x Male Student of Ares!Reader

⇢ ˗ˏˋ All your life in Sparta has been filled with brutality. You lived in the slums, constantly getting beaten and picked on by people who were better than you. That was until Ares, god of war, came to lend you a helping hand after he saw you nearly get killed by some rich folk. He was your mentor and the reason you could defend yourself. And now it's been a few years since then, and you've already grown to be a strong and fearless soldier.

So when he told you about how a certain prince was being trained by his rival, the god Athena, you couldn't help but wonder how they'd fare compared to you. It was a good thing, Ares was sending you out to Ithaca to compete with the man. Going to a different island was new for you, and being a royal soldier kept most of your time inside the palace. You barely adventure off on your own, but you wanted to impress your mentor, to show how much you've grown as a fierce soldier.

Following orders, you sailed across oceans, finally reaching Ithaca. By the docks, you could see the palace, where Prince Telemachus lies. The one whom you were to spar with, to beat and prove to your mentor that you are superior. There you stood on the boat that brought you to Ithaca. It was a different scene from back home. Here, the docks barely had any people besides fishers and workers. Back in Sparta, the docks would be filled to the brim with people moving up and down the place. Everyone in Sparta was in a hurry.

Yet here in Ithaca, it seemed as if everyone truly lived and enjoyed every bit of life that there is. You walked down through the quiet streets of town and wandered straight into the palace garden with no regard for a proper entrance.

And that’s when you saw him, Telemachus. He was training now, his hands moved with his sword in the air. His moves were sharp and precise, and the blade of his sword cut through the sky. He was elegant; he had a flow to him that you knew you didn't have. It made you worry a bit; you were a brute when it came to the movements you made with your blade.

Even so, you walked up to him, drawing your sword in a quick and threatening motion, pointing directly towards his chest. He was surprised at your presence and backed away slightly. After all, you were a stranger pulling your sword at him. To a prince no less. He was about to speak up before you cut him off.

“Prince Telemachus, I demand a sparring match!”

“What?? I don’t even know who you are!”

“I’m Y/N of Sparta! Student of Ares!”

“Ares…as in god of war, Ares?”

You nod your head at him proudly. That was your mentor, the almighty Ares! Then you declared to have a sparring match with him to see who is better. He reluctantly agreed, and so both of you sparred together. He was quick on his feet, but your attacks were stronger. Each of your attacks would miss him, though just barely by an inch. He dodges every single one of them with ease, yet he lacked the strength to retaliate.

He had his faults and strengths. Even with his very few strengths, he still managed to win by jabbing his sword towards your neck. The blade of his sword had almost, just barely, cut your skin. You tsk at him in disappointment. You then surrender and give him a small bow.

“Congratulations, you win this match.”

“I mean, thank you? But seriously, you can’t just come up to someone and pull out your sword like that…”

“…I’ll keep that in mind then?”

You tilted your head. That was how people back home initiated spars. Then again, you weren't back home; you were in a different land. It should have been expected. Well, that was pretty awkward. You stood there for a moment and just watched him in silence. He stared back at you for a moment before adjusting his throat and inviting you inside for dinner. You had come such a long way just to have a sparring match with him. He might as well pay you back for your troubles.

.

.

.

A few weeks had flown by, and yet you still didn’t leave the Prince of Ithaca alone. Every single day, you would spar with him. Sometimes you would lose, sometimes you would win. He found you incessantly frustrating. Every single day, without fail, you would challenge him to a match. The first few times, he thought nothing of it, but now, he found it tiring. But you both realized that this was helping you improve, so it wasn’t all too bad. Your relationship could be described as a rivalry. One was always trying to one-up the other.

Today was no different. Here you were again sparring with him, with some light bickering as well. You hate him, or at least you thought you did. You wanted nothing more than to beat him in scores by the next two months. So you could finally go back home to Sparta and tell your mentor you beat Athena’s student. Although, as you fought with him, you noticed he was out of focus.

“Your footing is off today…have you been slacking?”

“No, Y/N…the suitors have been bothering me. That’s all.”

He sighs and then backs away from you, seemingly wanting a break. You stand there and watch him. His mother's suitors have been a bother, you’ve noticed, since the day you arrived. Constant loud laughter and noise echoed from the halls. They annoyed you more than him. They were disrespecting him and his mother’s authority. Back home in Sparta, anyone who dared to disrespect the royal family would have their heads cut off.

“You do know they won’t respect you unless you show them your authority and what you're worth, right?”

“Of course I know that, but what good am I? I can’t fight all those men in there.”

“Hm, you have no backbone.”

A sigh escaped your lips as you told him that there was more you could say to him. But he probably would be furious with you if you were to say your honest thoughts. Although maybe he wouldn’t, he was too far, too kind for that. The last time he tried something, he bit Antinous' hand and almost got killed. At least that’s what he told you, in a rather dramatic way.

He gave you a frown at your words; he knew that. He knew that he wasn’t what he aimed to be. But before those thoughts ruin his mood, you throw a bow at him and grin.

“You need to know how to use all types of weapons; a sword won’t do any good if you’re getting attacked from afar. I bet Athena didn’t teach you this.”

“She didn’t, but I guess you’re right…”

“Exactly! So let’s start with this, I can give you a mini lesson about bows.”

And so, you taught the prince how to use a bow. Did he constantly fumble with the bow? Yes. Did he almost shoot an arrow at you? Yes. Did his aim suck horrendously? Absolutely! By the end of the ‘lesson,’ arrows were stuck all over the trees surrounding the yard. You stare at him in disbelief, did he really suck that terribly with a bow? What in the world was he even learning?

“You’re horrendous! It’s pathetic, really.”

“Ughh, I know, you don’t have to tell me that.”

You snort at how he walks over and lazily pulls all the arrows from the trees. He then sighs and sits down on one of the benches out here in the yard. He then runs his hand through his face and groans.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He then uncovers his face and blinks at you. Once more, he sighs and then shuffles to the side to give you some space to sit down next to him.

“Do you always have to have the last word?”

“Hm…no, but it’s quite amusing to see you so frustrated because of me.”

You grin at him and take a seat on the bench, leaning back against it and taking a deep breath. The yard was a soothing place; no wonder he liked training over here. Well, until you came into his life and made it a bit less enjoyable for him. He didn’t hate you, just found you a bit overwhelming. But it wasn’t only that, he grew fond of you. Not that he would ever tell you that.

Maybe even a slight feeling of…attraction? Admiration? He didn’t quite know or understand what he was feeling. He did admire you, the way you were so fierce and brave. He liked how you couldn’t stand for people talking badly about you. You were everything he strived to be, so maybe that's why he liked you.

But he knows that his feelings are helpless with someone like you who doesn’t even have love in mind. You proved him wrong one day; you were using bows for the day's match, and he had shot an arrow directly into your arm. He immediately went into a panic at the sight, running towards you to help get the arrow out of your arm. Expect the fact that the arrow hadn't even grazed your arm. His shot was so weak that it had made it look like you got shot, but it was actually just caught between the metal scales of your armour.

And the thing was that you acted like you got shot too, wincing in pain and grunting when the arrow supposedly made contact. It was evil, you were evil! And he hated you. That was a lie. For goodness sake he thought he actually injured you yet you were being an ass and faking it?!

But of course, he didn't know that when he rushed at you and started apologizing while panicking in trying to remove the arrow gently from your arm. Until he noticed that the arrow was just stuck between your armour. He glanced at you and saw that shit eating grin on your face.

“You've got to be kidding me...”

“What?? I thought it was funny!”

Telemachus isn't the type to snap, and yet he did. He poured his heart out to you. He was genuinely worried, yet you made light of the situation. Your grin then shifted into guilt, and you stared at him as he went off at you. At first, he was talking about how worried he was, and that was wrong of you to do, but then somehow his conversation led to him confessing his feelings for you.

“You fill up my mind every day! Do you know how awful it is when my mind is just filled with thoughts of you?!”

“Telemachus—”

“And the way you stand up for me when the suitors get annoying—”

“Telemachus!”

He stood there, startled at how you suddenly raised your voice at him. Realization of his words immediately dawned on him, his face paled, and his rant was practically a confession of his undying love for you. So he waited in silence as you stood there contemplating what to say. But instead of speaking, you cup his face and smile at him, confessing your love for the Prince of Ithaca.

“It seems I’ve fallen in love with you, my rival.”

.

.

.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Advertisement: Hey you! Yeah you, the person who read this whole thing, do you like Telemachus? Well this blog is THE place for Telemachus fanfiction. Check my bio if I have requests open and my rules.

A/N: Did I just end it like that with no reaction from Telemachus? Yes I did. I really liked writing this! So thank you to the person who requested this in my comments! Also, we really do need more male readers for Telemachus. Unfortunately, this was only edited once, not twice like usual, so things may be a bit off!

Word Count: 1,925 words

[curious--curations]

You're My Safe Place

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After the Winter Soldier sneaks into your house in search of medical supplies, you decide to offer him a place to stay

Part 2

He followed you to your apartment, his eyes darting around at his surroundings. He was on high alert, vigilant and cautious as always. He seemed to relax once you entered your apartment.

“I have a spare room.”

He nodded, but other wise did not respond.

He seemed to be looking for any signs of danger and therefore was not completely focused on your words. "I'll need to inspect the room first before I can use it."

You let him go through whatever routine he wanted as long as it made him feel safe.

He was thorough in his search, checking every nook and cranny. He looked in the closet, under the bed, and even tested the floorboards. Once he finished, he seemed slightly more relaxed. He seemed satisfied with the room, and he gave a small nod of approval.

Once he was satisfied you immediately went into your role as a hostess. You grabbed him a clean set of clothes that you kept in your house. You went around your apartment complex to collect clothes for a clothes drive and this seemed to be a good way to use some of them.

You set aside anything that seemed around his side and put them in a wash. Then you folded a pair and placed them in his arms.

"Bath is straight ahead. Don't use up all the hot water.”

Bucky gripped the clothes in his arms, looking down at them in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he had a real bath.

"Don't worry, I won't."

"Good. I'll be right back. I have a load of laundry to start in the basement."

30 minutes passed quickly and you returned to your apartment with the laundry you just finished. You almost didn't recognize Bucky after he finished his shower.

He looked like a different person. His hair was slicked back, revealing his sharp features and steely eyes. The stubble on his face was still there, but it looked less disheveled and more purposeful.

By the next day you came home irritated and ranting.

“Never do a customer service job. People can be so rude.” You dropped your purse off on a side table. “How was your day? I'd assume it felt nice not having to run around.”

He shrugged, a smirk on his face.

“It was different being able to have free time.”

“Good different?”

“Yeah.”

“You sleep well?” For some reason he felt like the truth would hurt you, so he lied and said it was fine. He was not sure how long it would take him until he felt comfortable enough to sleep the full night through and it wasn't your responsibility or your fault. He felt like you would just blame yourself for his discomfort. He already felt like you were doting on him so heavily and your efforts couldn't be for nothing.

You made yourself comfortable on the couch next to him. Your sudden proximity pulled him out from his thoughts.

“What does an old man like you even watch to pass the time?”

He rolled his eyes as if he was annoyed but you could spot a smile forming at the edge of his lips, "I may be old, but I can still appreciate some modern shows. I'm not a complete fossil, you know."

"Aren't you older than television itself?"

It was hard to believe the man you were joking with was the same brooding one that held you hostage yesterday. “You seem a lot better than yesterday. You're a different person.”

“Ok ok. That's enough.”

He noticed you were wearing a long sleeve despite it being hot outside. "What's with the long sleeves?"

You didn't exactly want to talk about the bruises he left behind. You shrugged, trying to act casual. "It's nothing, just cold."

“I wasn't exactly gentle during our little altercation yesterday was I?”

You sighed, realizing he was not going to let this go You reluctantly rolled up the sleeves, revealing the bruising on your arms. The marks were dark and obvious, a clear indication of the violent encounter.

“Barely feel them.”

He frowned as he inspected the bruised. He felt guilty and ashamed for causing so much damage. He tried to remain composed, but it was obvious that he wasn't comfortable seeing the injuries he had inflicted on you.

He looked away, avoiding your gaze. He couldn't bear to look at the marks he left on your skin any longer.

He wanted to apologize but it got stuck in his throat. Besides an apology wouldn't change the fact that he hurt you.

You felt him retreat back into himself.

You didn't want him to lose him and have him revert back into his cold demeanor. Not when you were just making progress.

"I should go." He announced.

"No, stay," *You said, reaching out and held onto his arm as he stood.

He paused at your touch, but ultimately jerked his arm away and left to his room. You let him leave not wanting to deny him the right even if everything in you wanted to stop him.

You sat there, feeling frustrated and helpless. Hopefully the next day will be more promising.

[ghostly-bat]

Damian being mentally unwell during pregnancy?

__________

Damian never really has the cleanest bill when it comes to his mental health.

How could he, after all? He spent the first decade of his life being severely indoctrinated and groomed into being the perfect killing machine, fooled to lead humanity into what his ailing grandfather envisioned and later was thrown into a foreign world governed with an even stranger law.

(he loves his grandfather, truly, and he believes the man had loved him back too. However, his love for the world is too big and has doomed him. Has doomed all of them.)

They all hate him then. He wasn't exactly easy to love, didn't really try to be either. He was just another obstacle— a hurdle to overcome, a problem to solve.

(if only Damian knew how much he was loved, how easy it was to love him, how many he has chosen to open his damaged heart to despite being hurt over and over for it. They'd go to war for him.)

So, to say that Damian simply has a few mental health issues would be underestimating it to a huge degree.

He had countless nightmares of people who he maimed and killed, sometimes sees their apparitions linger by the doorway. Even though he had prayed for them to go straight to Heaven, a place he certainly would never see, they're still here.

Jon liked to believe that Damian is comfortable enough to tell him all of these; to rely on him through thick and thin. He is, after all, his husband. The father to their children. He loved to think that, at the very least, Damian would share his burden as partners with him and tell him if it ever gets better.

He couldn't be more wrong.

He should've thought that Damian would become more erratic, more reckless with himself in light of his self-hatred being amplified. Jon has heard stories of new mothers (or, ah, someone who's experiencing pregnancy) subjected to extreme self-loathing following up to their incubation period.

So when Damian declared he wanted to stop taking his medication for a bit in light of his pregnancy, fearing it might negatively impact the development of their babies/baby, Jon should've seen the red flags. They all should've.

Instead, they all only gave him words of advice, before leaving Damian to ferment in the dark world of his mind.

And one day, Damian would disappear.

___________

What do you think?

What do I think? I think this made me cry is what I think 😞 (maybe it's cus it hits a little too close to home for me at the moment with being mentally unwell)

But god this is absolutely devastating and so achingly in-character. you really captured how deep-rooted damian’s pain is — how it festers in silence, especially when he's most vulnerable. the line about how he thinks everyone sees him as a problem to solve?? the kind of thing that just sticks.

And the bit about jon thinking damian would tell him when things get bad... that quiet assumption of trust, only to realize too late that damian’s brand of love has always been about protecting others from himself, even when it kills him. that hurts.

Also the detail about him going off his meds during pregnancy??? so real and terrifying. like of course he’d do it for the baby. of course everyone would think they’re helping. and then of course it’s not enough.

I’m just. Ugh and he disappears. of course he does. this is so good. thank you for writing this 🥲

[steamingstewchunks]

Who’s the best when it comes to handling Sari when she’s cranky?

Sari, when she throws tantrums, is a loud vibrating ball of anger who cannot be held with hands that are smaller than her entirety. She shrieks, she thrashes, and goes for so long that they would need a bot with an astounding amount of patience.

No it isn't Prowl.

The first month or so, it definitely isn't Prowl. He Can't deal with the screeching, and every time she starts to have a tantrum she never seems to listen when he says "calm down" and he cannot manage to hold her still long enough (not that it would have worked regardless) to get her to calm down.

Prowl is probably the worst person to leave Sari with the first month or so in general since that guy has only just started watching the nature documentaries. Not to mention hes caused Bee and Bulk to panic before by disappearing and trying to teach her to meditate in a tree. But that's for later.

Ratchet is second to no, he outright refuses to try when shes throwing a tantrum. "I already deal with my fair share of yelling and yapping from the rest of you, I don't need this thing to be doing it in my audials, at double the decibels."

Bee, eeh, second place, but he spends more time trying to fix the problem and doesn't yet have the patience to wait it out. It takes him only a little amount of time to categorize what cry means what, surprisingly enough though. Once he figures it out it takes someone else noticing before he goes "I thought you guys knew that was the toy cry?"

No, no, the best person in the first month or so to deal with her tantrums? Everyone agrees its,

hes got the hands and the patience (fear, really) to deal with the screaming toddler. really, he tries everything he can if Bee hasnt figured out what the cry means, and goes straight to what he says if he does. but other than that, he just holds her and deals with the screams until she dies down or calms down.

After said month of getting used to a baby and reading the human manuals "babies for dummies", they stop leaving her with bulkhead, only cuz he gets stressed too, and kept on staying stressed till she wasn't in his arms anymore. he managed to open up to bee about it, how he didn't like it and all that, and bee told prime, who by now had a better understanding of how to care for sari and didn't have that fear of hurting her no more too (after close calls). if she was just crying to cry, things are too much and the problem cant be fixed right away, or at the very least in minute,

she gets placed with Optimus. who turns his audial aids down to a bearable while shes crying, and has the patience to wait it out. not to mention its perfect when its nap time and she refuses to sleep.

he refuses to move, and its not like she can refuse sleep that long. especially after a good cry. they nap together.

bee has a lot of photos of this happening.

[sosomonimagines]

Caught in the act (of not hating you) - part one

Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader

Where you, the Slytherin princess, get detention for the first time. And, to your surprise (or not), Fred Weasley is also in detention.

Or

Fred didn't expect the Slytherin princess to be a teenage dirtbag like him

Y/N Malfoy arrived at Argus Filch’s office ten minutes late.

Her blonde hair, tied into a high ponytail with an emerald-green ribbon, betrayed her Slytherin allegiance long before the crest stitched onto her uniform could. Her large eyes, shadowed by long lashes, looked as if they’d been carved by ancient artists—a beauty that summoned long-dead queens, like Cleopatra on her golden throne. But now, narrowed in anger, those eyes didn’t seduce—they intimidated.

To Y/N, it was inconceivable to be treated as inferior by someone like Argus Filch. A man without magic, without elegance, without a name. A man who dared to order, scold, punish—and worse, punish her for what she saw as poetic justice, not disobedience.

Yes, she had broken Seamus Finnigan’s nose, that idiot Gryffindor. Yes, he had bled so much the color blended into his Quidditch robes until it looked like an act of war. But the real crime had been his—mocking Slytherin, ridiculing her for losing the match, as if being a woman, captain, and exceptional Beater were flaws instead of feats.

She was the best Quidditch player at Hogwarts—not among the girls, among everyone. Her strength, her precision, her refined brutality made her a legend within the castle walls. But like all legends, she carried scars. Her team was a circus of incompetence, and among the clowns was her brother—who’d only made Seeker because their father had demanded it. Blood isn’t talent, Y/N knew that better than anyone.

And now, there she stood, staring at Filch as if he were the monster even Frankenstein had rejected—ugly not just on the outside, but within. A man who thought he had the right to raise his voice at a Malfoy. She wouldn’t bow her head. She never did. Not for men. Not for blood. Not for fear.

When Y/N Malfoy stepped into the detention room, the first thing she noticed was him.

Great. Fred Weasley.

Of all the insufferable souls wandering Hogwarts with that loud Gryffindor arrogance, Fred was, without question, the one who annoyed her most. Always with a stupid remark at the tip of his tongue, always ready to blow something up or laugh at the worst possible moment. He was an addiction to chaos—and not the interesting kind.

Fred, meanwhile, was already there, lounging in his chair as if detention were a second home. And it *was*. Argus Filch’s office was practically his living room. He knew every floorboard crack, every way to pass the time without serving a single punishment. But when Y/N walked through the door, something shifted in the air.

For a second—just one—he froze.

The first thing he noticed about her was the same as always: Y/N Malfoy was stunning. A kind of beauty not meant to please, but to dominate. She didn’t enter a room — she occupied it.

She wore black stockings with lace details that looked like spells woven into her legs. Her skirt was a few centimeters above regulation length, which, for Y/N, was a silent manifesto of power. The Slytherin blazer draped perfectly over her straight, elegant shoulders. A subtly shimmering necklace drew attention to her long neck, the soft curve of her collarbone, the definition of her shoulders—as if she’d been carved from marble.

And her face… Merlin.

Hair pulled into a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place. A slightly upturned nose, sharp gray eyes like cut glass, and lips that always seemed on the verge of a scathing reply.

Fred Weasley was many things—reckless, rebellious, a joker—but stupid wasn’t one of them. He knew Y/N Malfoy would never look at him with anything but disdain. He also knew that no matter how beautiful she was — and she was, beautiful in an almost offensive way — she was still stuck-up, arrogant, cold. A Malfoy.

And now, for some reason that left him unsettled, she was here. In detention.

He watched her sit with the same fierce elegance as a queen taking her throne before an execution. He didn’t say a word. But he thought, with a flicker of fascination:

Merlin help me, she’s going to ruin me.

"The Slytherin princess in detention?" he asked with a crooked grin, his voice dripping sarcasm. He tried to sound confident, like always. Tried not to seem affected by her presence. Tried… not to fail miserably at it.

Y/N didn’t look up from the old oak drawers. She was searching for something—maybe cleaning gloves or a damned enchanted rag. Filch had a sick pleasure in domestic punishments.

"Shut up, Weasley," she said, dry as a blade, not even glancing at him.

He laughed, still trying to steer the conversation—which was nearly impossible when everything about her screamed you’re not in charge here.

"You’re not actually going to clean the corridor, are you?"he pressed, with that careless tone she hated. He spoke as if the world were just a stage and he the only one with lines.

"Hm?" She finally lifted her gaze, and for a moment, Fred felt the floor vanish beneath him. Hell. She really was absurd. A hurricane wrapped in silk.

"Filch doesn’t actually watch us," he continued, lower now, almost conspiratorial. "He sits in the next room with that possessed cat of his, dozing over The Poet’s Diary. It’s a ritual: stale tea, dusty blanket, and snores. No one’ll notice if you don’t touch a broom."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. For the first time, she looked almost — almost — intrigued. Not by him. By the information.

"Do you really spend that much time here to know that?"

"Enough to memorize every crack in this floor."He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but watching her every move like she was a puzzle to solve.

Y/N pulled out a chair and sat with the imperial calm of someone who did no favors, not even for time itself. She crossed her legs slowly, leaned back, and looked at Fred.

"So what do we do, then? Just leave?"

"No way. If his cat notices we’re gone, she’ll claw our faces off herself. We stay. Wait. Fake remorse."

"Ugh. If I’d known, I’d have brought a book." She huffed, then turned slightly toward him. "What about you? What’d you do this time?"

Fred arched his brows, genuinely surprised. Was she… making conversation?

"Wait… The Slytherin princess talking to a mere Gryffindor peasant? Careful, that might cost you your inheritance."

"Already regretting it. Thanks for the reminder."The shift was instant. The faint spark in her eyes snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Cold. Cutting.

He noticed. And tried to backtrack.

"Hey, relax. Just thought you’d stand there, all stunning, like a marble statue. Not talking to anyone."

"You think I’m beautiful?" she asked, tilting her head with a half-smile, though her gaze was hard to read.

Fred blinked, surprised again. But he answered without hesitation.

"Don’t be stupid. You’re the smartest person in our year... Maybe the smartest in all of Hogwarts"

Y/N turned her face away, as if hiding a smile—or deciding whether to hex him.

"I put ink bombs in the Hufflepuff unity feast desserts," he said, almost proudly.

Y/N laughed—the first time he’d ever heard it. It was different. Light. Unexpected. It filled the stifling room with something alive. Almost… beautiful.

"I thought you only picked on Slytherins."

"Of course not." He shrugged, as if it were obvious. "I pick on everyone. Chaos democracy."

"Genius."

"And you?"He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "What’d you do to land here?"

"Punched Seamus."

"Fair. But… why?"

"Because he’s a jerk"

"Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m asking the specific reason. What’d he do this time? Must’ve been something big to deserve a full Malfoy punch."

"Mocked our loss in the last Quidditch match."** She rolled her eyes. "Guess I lost my temper. Was already pissed. My idiot brother ruined the whole game."

"Your brother? The new Seeker?"

"Yeah." She exhaled sharply. "My father practically forced me to put him on the team. ‘Give your brother a chance.’ ‘Show leadership.’ ‘Don’t traumatize the youngest.’ If I refused, I’d have to deal with a dramatic family saga. And honestly? I don’t have the energy for another Malfoy existential crisis."

Fred laughed.

"So you punched Seamus… because your brother’s bad at Quidditch and your dad’s a walking soap opera."

"In summary? *Yes."A small, unrepentant smirk tugged at her lips.

"You know…" His voice softened. "You don’t have to do everything your father says."

Y/N looked away for a second, as if torn between laughing and ignoring him. She did neither.

"Of course I do."

"Why?"

"Because he’s my father."

Fred tilted his head, watching her with a rare seriousness.

"But you’re not an extension of your parents, Y/N."

Silence. The kind that wasn’t empty, but full of unspoken memories. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter—not weak, but restrained, as if admitting something she’d never said aloud.

"In my family, being yourself isn’t an option. It’s a risk."

Fred studied her. For the first time, he didn’t just see the breathtaking beauty, the sharp sarcasm, the perfect posture. He saw someone fighting not to drown under the weight of a name.

"You don’t seem like the type to bend easily."

"I don’t bend. But sometimes… I pretend to. It’s easier than fighting all the time."

Fred smiled faintly.

"You’re more Gryffindor than you think, you know."

"Careful, Weasley. Say that again and I’ll punch you too."

He grinned.

"Noted."

Y/N didn’t know why she was opening up to Fred Weasley. It was strange. Unexpected. But for some reason, it felt right. As if, in that small, dusty room, it was safe to be honest—maybe for the first time in years.

"The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Gryffindor,"she whispered. "But I asked for Slytherin."

Fred blinked.

"What?"

"If you ever tell anyone, I’ll kill you."

"I’ll pretend I never heard that." He raised his hands in surrender, but with a small smile. Then, just as quickly, it faded. Y/N’s expression had shifted. There was something there—a quiet sadness, an old exhaustion, like a crack no one else saw.

And for some reason he didn’t yet understand, he felt an almost urgent need to make her smile.

Without thinking, he stood. Held out his hand.

"Come on. I’ve got an idea."

"Where are we going?"

"I know how to sneak out without anyone noticing. If we’re back in time, no one’ll know. Trust me."

"This is risky."*

"I know Hogwarts like the back of my hand. The whole Hufflepuff house can vouch for that, remember?" He winked. "It’ll be fine."

She hesitated. Looked at his hand like it was a dangerous proposal. Then, without a word, she took it.

Her fingers were cold, like porcelain. His were warm, restless. When they touched, it was like two extremes that shouldn’t fit—yet somehow, inexplicably, did.

Fred led her down a narrow staircase, then through a corridor lit only by flickering torches. Finally, they stopped before a painting of a lavish feast, fruits and magical cakes piled high.

"Where are we?"

"Hufflepuff common room."

She grimaced automatically.

"Relax, we’re not breaking in." He squeezed her hand. "Just passing through."

Before she could protest, he pulled her through a hidden passage behind the painting. When they emerged, they were inside Hogwarts’ massive kitchen. The smell of fresh bread and pumpkin pie filled the air. House-elves bustled about, too busy to notice the intruders.

"How do you know the Hogwarts kitchens?"

"When you’ve been skipping class and dodging detention since second year, you pick up tricks." He shrugged. "I know this whole school."

As she looked around, Fred strode confidently to one of the enchanted refrigerators and swung the door open with a flourish.

"So, Miss Malfoy… What’ll it be?"

Y/N hopped onto the polished marble counter, crossing her legs with effortless grace.

"What are my options?"

"Everything.Literally everything."

"Chocolate," she said without hesitation. A small, unguarded smile escaped.

Fred nodded solemnly, as if accepting a royal decree.

"Chocolate it is."

As he searched, she watched. It was funny how… *comfortable* she felt. As if this hidden kitchen were a pocket of time where surnames didn’t matter. Neither did rivalries. Or masks.

Just two teenagers, hands still linked by a coincidence that now felt inevitable.

After grabbing two bars—one milk chocolate, one dark with chili and sea salt—Fred turned and, as naturally as breathing, held his hand out to her again.

Without thinking, Y/N took it.

"Where now?"

"Surprise." That mischievous grin again.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Being… nice to me. I’m insufferable, remember?"

Fred paused, still holding her hand. The torchlight caught in her blonde hair, and her gray eyes looked softer now, as if something inside her were thawing.

"You’re not insufferable."

"Yes, I am."

He sighed, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

"Your brother’s insufferable. Your dad, even worse. Your brother’s friends? Worst of all. But you? You just think you have to be that way. Cold. Superior. Untouchable. Like you can’t just be… a normal teenager. Like you have to control everything, all the time."

She looked away, as if his words had struck deeper than intended.

"And after what you told me about your family… I get it. I think you just never got the chance to figure out who you are when no one’s watching."

"And what, you want to be my personal therapist?"

"No."He grinned. "I want to be the guy on your shoulder, convincing you to make the *chaotic* choice. I want to watch the world flip upside down because a Malfoy decided to break the rules."

Y/N laughed—surprised she’d laughed at all.

"That’s not happening."

"We’ll see." His eyes sparkled as he pulled her along again.

And for the first time in forever, she let him.

They followed dark corridors until they reached a place like the Astronomy Tower—but here, the stars seemed closer, as if the sky had dipped down just for them. The full moon cast a silver outline on Y/N’s face, one Fred knew he’d never forget.

"I guess I don’t know Hogwarts as well as I thought." She sat on the ledge with the ease of someone who belonged there.

"Aren’t you afraid of falling?"

"I’m a *witch*." As if it were obvious. "I can’t afford to be afraid. I have to be ready for anything. Know my wand’s on me… know I can save myself from anything"

Fred watched her, admiring the steel in her voice but seeing the cracks beneath.

"You shouldn’t have refused Gryffindor."

She turned slowly, eyes sharp.

"What did I say about mentioning that?"

"Right, right, my bad." He held up his hands, then sat beside her, offering the chocolate.

"Thought you were scared of sitting up here."

"Didn’t want to look like a wimp next to you."

Y/N laughed — a real, unfiltered sound that echoed into the night like a forgotten song.

"I was mad Filch gave us nighttime detention… but this was worth it."

"I always make nights worth it. Hidden talent." He nudged her shoulder playfully.

She laughed again—and in that moment, Fred knew he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life and never tire of it.

"What’s it like? Having a family that cares?" The question slipped out, quiet, as she nibbled the chocolate like chewing too fast would betray the moment.

Fred blinked. That one had weight.

"What do you mean?"

"You’ve always… fascinated me. The Weasleys. You all seem happy. Even without money. Your mother cares. Your father too. Your brothers seem… together."

He exhaled, staring at the stars for a beat.

"It’s good. Most of the time. But it’s hard, too. We never starved, but we never had *much*. Almost everything I own was someone else’s first. Clothes, books, even my broom. Except my wand. My wand’s mine. Guess that’s why I love it so much. It’s… an extension of me, you know?"

"I understand perfectly."

"Sometimes… it’s like there’s no room to have a personality. Because there’s no way to afford one. Can’t choose what to wear, can’t have ‘my style.’ And with a twin, it’s worse. Love George, but…"

"Do you feel like you're not a real person, but just an extension of him?"

Fred looked at her, surprised.

"Yeah. Exactly that."

"People don’t know how to you guys apart. But I’ve always known who you were."

"Really? How?"

"Your freckle pattern’s different. You’ve got a mole on your left temple, really noticeable. And your nose is straighter—less crooked than George’s."

Fred laughed.

"How’d you even notice all that? Been staring too much?"

"Don’t be stupid." She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide a tiny smile. "I’m just observant."

He smirked, but this time, without teasing.

"I was joking. *Obviously* you weren’t looking at me. I mean… you’re you"

"What’s that supposed to mean? ‘You’re you’?"

"I mean… you’re the most beautiful girl at Hogwarts."

She froze, eyes locked on his for a second too long.

"You really think that?"

"Everyone thinks that." He met her gaze, utterly sincere. "But I think I’m the only one who sees that’s not even the best thing about you."

She looked away, speechless. For the first time that night, Y/N Malfoy had no retort.

A sharp beep shattered the quiet.

Fred jumped, yanking an enchanted pocket watch from his robes.

"Damn it. We have to go. Now."

"What time is it?"

"Five minutes. And we’re way too far from Filch’s office."

"Merlin. Why’d you take me so far?"

"Because I wanted to do something cool!" He grabbed her hand, already running.

"You’re insane!" But she was laughing as they sprinted.

"I know. But admit it—you had fun."

Y/N tightened her grip on his hand, breathless between laughter and running.

"Only a little."

They arrived at Filch’s office panting, footsteps echoing on stone. Just as they crossed the threshold, the caretaker appeared, suspicious as ever, clutching Mrs. Norris with her wide, unblinking eyes.

He glared, sniffing the air as if sensing mischief—but with a grumble about "useless youngsters," he scribbled on his parchment and waved them off.

"You’re dismissed. For today"

Fred and Y/N exchanged a look. Not of victory. Of understanding.

She spoke first.

"Thanks for tonight, Weasley." A small, unfamiliar smile played on her lips.

"All my pleasure, Malfoy." He tried to sound casual, even as his pulse betrayed him.

She turned and walked away. He stayed just a second longer, watching until her silhouette vanished into the shadows.

And then, like a Bludger to the chest, he felt it.

Damn it.

He was in love.

Author's note: If it works out, I have so many ideas! Sex, Hogwarts wars, running away from home, moving in together... God, there really is so much.

[wwwaegoncom]

modern!aegon x reader

summary: reader is drunk and crying, hoping that Aegon will comfort her warnings: 18+, targcest, noncon, no actual smut but allusions to it, intoxicated reader, reader is aegons niece, no use of y/n, tell me if i forgot something notes: just something short i wrote a long time ago i felt like posting... modern!aegon is just something so special to me. something about this feels off to me, but I kept rewriting it, but im just going to post it

You stood outside the apartment Aegon lived in, drunk and crying. Even though Aegon was irritated that you had shown up out of nowhere, he still led you into the apartment, not realising how drunk you were yet. You had thought about calling Helaena and going to her house, but you knew she would be asleep this late. Helena was always a source of comfort to you, but you hoped you could still find some comfort with Aegon. 

When he let you in you went straight to his couch, his living room was messy, beer bottles, dirty bottles and an overflowing ashtray. Aegon helped you take your shoes off when you started to fumble with your shoelaces, which also made him realise you were drunk. Aegon started to tell you that you couldn’t be in the living room crying, you would wake up his roommate, but you couldn’t recall him ever having a roommate. 

As you entered his bedroom, which was even more disheveled than his living room, you tried your best to step over the piles of dirty clothes and take out boxes. You stumbled through his cluttered room, trying to ground yourself, holding onto his window sill for support. 

The reason for your tears were long forgotten, you probably forgotten about it before you even knocked on his door. Perhaps it was simply because you had too much to drink and now your emotions had started to overflow. But you didn't care why you were crying anymore, you simply sought comfort, a distraction from your own thoughts. 

Aegon was never good at comforting people, let alone himself. Seeing you drunk and crying in his apartment, made him want to comfort you, it really did, But not as much as it made him want to take your clothes

You hadn't even realised his intentions yet, the direction this night would take. You stood by his window, looking down, The view of the rundown streets below and the grime tracing along the windows, you had almost forgotten where you were, too focused on the traffic and the occasional shouting that could be heard outside. You felt Aegon stand behind you, his arms wrapping around you, in a way that should have been comforting, but as this rare display of affection from Aegon started to make you feel uneasy. Aegon was never kind without it being conditional. 

You had felt him kiss your neck, before stopping by your ear, whispering alluring words into your ear, telling you he could make you feel better. His words, his wandering hands, it was all making you feel better, but not in the way you wanted. You tried stop his hands, your ears barely registering his whispers. You knew he couldn't give you the comfort you so desperately sought, but you still made no real attempt, so instead you settled onto the floor, hoping your head would stop spinning. Aegon sat down beside you. He asked if you just wanted to drink even more, a tempting offer you thought. You agreed all to eagerly and mentally told yourself you wouldn't cross anymore lines with him.

But then you felt your back hit the floor, the room swirling as your suddenly exposed skin made contact with the cold floor. While Aegon was above you, his hands dug into your sides, making sure to leave a bruise. His voice had become a whisper, a faint whisper in your ear telling you that you were okay, that it was okay. 

You weren't sure if he was trying to comfort you, or trying to convince you that what he was doing to you was okay. 

[wild-magic-oops]

I've read a lot of absolute dogshit takes about DATV but "Davrin should've been a templar" takes the cake with its bizarre existence and complete wrongness

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Trapped in a vicious cycle of pining? Try gay sex! (More things to learn over at Tiger Tiger!)

[demonic-radio]

Alastor did not appreciate being laughed at. No, it wasn't anything more than a smirk, but that didn't make it any better.

"Telling them what, Husker?" Alastor took the offered bottle as a peace offering, refilling that empty cup so as not to drink straight from the bottle. What was he supposed to say? That they shouldn't make assumptions? That he wasn't asexual, and they needed to shut up? How would he tell them that?

He swallowed from the cup before setting it back down with too much force.

He hummed curiously as he listened to the other, his ears twitching and his tail swishing behind him. He yawned somewhat as he scratched behind his ear. “Have you tried telling them this?” He raised a brow and as the other slid the empty cup to him he nodded. Smirking somewhat. “It’s been awhile since you have come to me about something like this.” He admitted quietly cracking the bones in his neck as he looked under the bar, trying to find his largest bottle. Once he did he took it out and slid it back over, popping the cap with one of his claws. Before going back to his own cheap booze, though as he went to take a drink he remembered he’d finished it, he huffed grabbing another bottle from under the bar and opening it with his claw before taking a swig, his tail wagging somewhat as he did.

[origami-butterfly]

Reminder for pride month that queerness is not limited to whiteness and if you erase non white queers, when talking about the community, every queer person who isn't white gets to throw rocks at you and shoot you out of a cannon 💖

[brionysea]

when max is depressed we know something's wrong because lucas says with his words that he knows something's wrong but when mike is depressed we don't think anything of it because will's right next to him rolling his eyes about how stupid straight people are

[rotisseries]

the "caitlyn is the daughter ambessa wanted" rhetoric around act 1 means that now i have to see tiktok comments like "ACTUALLY she would never want a daughter who could be so EASILY manipulated" like well i think you're both wrong about how ambessa felt about caitlyn. i think it's a secret third thing

[kawaiichibiart]

I need more fics of Zuko working at a teashop with Iroh (be it Pao's (iirc) or the Jasmine Dragon) but he's just really fucking short. Because can you imagine, be it Jet, Katara, anyone who's met Zuko (either as Zuko or as Li) stumbles into the teashop, makes a scene and comes off as a bad guy because they bullied this little boy?

I think I've read just one fanfic where this was a thing and I need more people to adopt the idea.

I just think it'd be funny if Katara tried to do what Jet did (let's say this happened a few days prior to Azula capturing Ba Sing Se), left because she realized no one believed her, returned later with the rest of the Gaang, Sokka tried backing her claim, he ALSO gets reprimanded for making stuff up about a little boy, and meanwhile this is all happening Aang and Toph are having a delightful time with their new friend "Li." Should they do something? Maybe. Will they? Nah, anyways Li what tea would you recommend?

[cryptdfish]

“white mourning.”

[cursed-spirit-manipulation]

jjk is about a lot of things but most of all with regard to Shoko Satoru and Suguru it's about how if you don't interact with people who aren't in your weird fucked up school with like 10 ppl total on a regular basis you WILL become an incredibly interesting adult in a way that makes people pity you