#and spring only lasted a week and slipped right through my fingers

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Twenty

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.1k words - AO3 Tags: 18+ mdni, nurse reader, feelings of fear and panic, PTSD, references to domestic violence. Trauma, blood. Flashbacks. Dubious ethics and morality, dark content.

“Are ye comin’ inside?”

“I need a minute.” He needs more than a minute. He needs days, weeks. Needs to wind back the clock and slam it into the ground, over and over again, until the springs and hands and tiny numbers splinter into pieces.

Failure. He failed. They failed.

They failed you.

“Wait, go back.” The video pauses and rolls backward, all the way until Simon tells Kate to stop it when you step out of the elevator. ��What’s in her hand?” 

“Dinnae,” Johnny’s nose is practically touching the screen. 

“The recording is pretty low quality; I’ve tried enhancing it with no luck.” Kate’s voice crackles through the speakers from the other side of the laptop, the other side of the world. This is the first time they’ve managed to get a hold of her in weeks, and even now, the connection is half static. 

“Looks like a piece of paper, or a picture?” Johnny murmurs, leaning back. 

“This is just before she bolts,” the playback continues, and they watch as you walk down the hall, bright smile fading when you reach the corner. “She’s here for a minute and then runs…” Simon is glued to the screen, forward on his haunches, and Johnny rubs his back, kneading his knuckles into that ever-present knot in his shoulder. He watches your head turn, your back stiffen, and Johnny sucks in a breath. 

Kate nods the confirmation. She’s already put the puzzle together. 

Graves.

You’re reacting to Graves, seeing Graves. Entire demeanor shifting, changing from their sweet, smart girl with newfound confidence, to a deer, shocked and startled, running from a scope. 

Graves.

It’s simple math. Plain as day. You take one look at where he’s come around the corner, running his mouth, chewing that fucking gum, and split. 

It’s Graves. 

And it all makes sense. 

“-you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t understand. He’s chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I do”

“He’s in the military. Some sort of security work, department of defense, or something. He never really talked about it.”

“He always finds me.” 

“He has resources. Has followed me across the globe more than once. My only saving grace is that when he has to work, he has to work, and it’s usually for long chunks of time.”

“I’m originally from Texas.” 

Texas. Texas. Texas. 

There was a conversation, months ago, that slipped through Simon’s fingers. A wisp of a suspicion, one pushed away by doubt, by disbelief.  

Not possible. A coincidence. 

He was wrong, about being wrong. He was right, all along.

Johnny nearly flips the table before Simon urges him back down. “Where… where does she go after this?” 

“She gets the car,” Simon answers, timeline clicking into place, “she borrows that gits car, comes home, packs a bag, and runs.” Johnny’s hands are shaking, fingers white against his knees. 

They’ll kill him. He’ll paint the walls with Phillip’s blood. They’ll do what should have done in the first place. 

He should have protected you, should have seen it all clearly. Should have applied more pressure and made you crack, if only for your own safety. 

He failed. 

They failed. 

“That piece o’ shite, I’ll-“ 

“Kill him.” Simon finishes simply, and they exchange a look. A promise without words. Simon will shatter his skull between his palms if he has to. 

Johnny nods. The gears are already turning. Are they so different from a man who has stopped at nothing to drag you back to him? 

No. 

They'd burn the world for you, to protect you, to bring you home to them. 

Kate clears her throat. “There’s more.” More? “I was checking some records, looking at her last clock out, when the last paycheck was paid out and I pulled her personal information, her medical chart.” Kate’s tone is wary, hesitant, and Johnny straightens. 

“What is it?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, unsure trepidation that’s so unlike Kate the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stands up. 

“Kate…” 

“She’s pregnant.” You could hear a pin drop. Johnny’s rage turns to panic, and an ocean of blood rushes in Simon’s ears. 

“She’s- she’s what?” 

“She’s pregnant. By now, she’s probably twenty weeks, maybe? I’m not sure. I don’t know much about those things, but her chart notes say both of them are… were in good health. Low risk.” 

“Twenty weeks,” Johnny echoes, faraway look in his eyes. 

A baby. You’re pregnant. 

Pregnant. Pregnant and alone, and scared. Running away.  

From them. 

Simon’s trying to wrap his head around it, but he can’t. The information doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. 

“If she’s twenty weeks, then she’s been pregnant since before she left.” Johnny’s talking to himself at this point, because Simon can’t force his mouth to make words. “Why keep it a secret?” Kate is telling them something about index hits and cameras, but it all amounts to nothing after you board the train, and Simon still fails to make a sound. 

And then, she piles it on. 

“Graves is in the wind.” Simon’s heart stops like he’s been struck by lightning, electricity jolting him alive. 

“How?” 

“He went offline. No traceable activity in the last week or so. Last known location was Texas. After that, I’m not sure. Yet.”

‘He can’t be in the wind,” Johnny whisper shouts, all too aware of Penny upstairs, napping. “We need to know where he is. Now.” 

“I’m doing all I can. He has resources too, you know. A lot of them.” The screen goes black for a second, before she reappears, lips pressed into a grim line. “I have to go. I’ll keep you updated. Sorry guys.”

They can only nod. 

It’s clear as day, what happened now. How you saw them in the hallway, how you drew the conclusion, one that seemed so painfully obvious, connected the dots that appeared in your mind, stringing together bits and pieces until it all made sense.

He knows what will have to happen now. They both do. 

Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s. “We’ll find her.” 

“An’ bring her home.” 

“No matter what.” 

The rest is left unsaid. 

You’re having a dream.

It’s a lovely one, more of a memory than anything else, but a dream, nonetheless.

“This still feels like a bad idea.” 

“Isnae, ye’ll do great bun. Jus’ the ‘hawk now.” You’ve already finished the sides of his head, which were easy enough, but using actual scissors to cut hair is well outside your wheelhouse. 

“What if I mess it up?” 

“It’s jus’ hair, pretty girl. It grows.” 

“How’s it going out here?” Simon leans out the sliding door, Penny in his arms, and you try to plead with him with wide, nervous eyes. He chuckles. “Looks good so far.” 

“See?” Johnny smiles, one of the big ones that stretches his whole face and makes your knees weak. Penny loves them too, and she claps her hands together, giggling. 

“But… I don’t… I’m going to mess it up.” Johnny stands, warm hands on your arms. 

“Ye could shave me bald and wouldnae mess it up, bun.” You nod, but the acid, noxious taste of worry is still there on your tongue. 

“I just… I…” you’re starting to shake a little, fingers squeezing together. He tugs you into his chest, kisses your temple. 

“Ye’re alright.” 

“I know.” You do know. You’re safe. They’d never hurt you, never betray your trust or even yell at you, but muscle memory doesn’t forget. “I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Ye dinnae have to be sorry.” 

“It’s okay, bunny.” Simon murmurs, but it’s not. 

Is this how you’ll spend your whole life? Afraid? Shaking? 

No. 

Not anymore. 

“If I ruin his hair… it’s not my fault.” Simon chuckles. 

“We’ll blame him.” You turn back to Johnny and put your hands on his shoulders, taking a deep breath, surveying the mop of unruly brown strands, and he covers one of yours with his own. 

“It’s okay. If ye-“ 

“No, I can. I can do it.” You don’t know why you’re so nervous. It’s just a hair cut, for crying out loud, but for some reason it feels like plunging into the deep end of a pool. “Okay,” you breathe, making the first snip. He nods encouragingly and you roll your shoulders. 

“See? Not so bad?” 

“Not so bad.” You cut again and again, trying to manage it all into a proper length, shaping as best you can. 

Each snip, something grows. Your hands tremble a little less, your jaw unclenches, lips flexing upward into your cheeks. You breathe deeper. 

When Johnny turns around, he doesn’t care about his hair, or the slightly uneven chunks, or the fresh clippings on his shirt. 

He cups your face, kissing you before pulling away to rub his thumb across your cheek. 

“There she is.” 

Spring rain. There’s nothing like it.

It washes away the gloom of winter. It’s the turning of a page, the spine of a brand-new book snapped open with a splintering crack. Cabin fever becomes walks in the park, lunches and coffees outside, hanging out on balconies and patios.

Dead things turned to soil now sprouting new life.

Like you, you guess.

You’ve been dead before. If someone looked really closely, they could see it in your eyes. The grey of decay, the separation of iris and pupil. Dead and brought back not quite right, every time. Sally, stitched together incorrectly, the wrong pieces of patchwork, poorly aligned.

Every time he ripped another piece of you away, you found a different one, one less like you, to put in its place.

Every time, until you weren’t you at all. Until you were a girl in a mirror. Until you were a ghost.

It makes sense that you don’t know yourself now, haven’t known for years. On the run, there’s not a lot of time to stop and consider things like that, those pieces. Coffee or tea? Chocolate cake or vanilla? Do you like snow? Do you like the beach? 

Do you like yourself? 

You could have had these answers, you think. Could have learned these things, if it hadn’t turned out the way it did. If Simon and Johnny hadn’t turned out to be a hydra, mouths open, waiting to devour you.

Sunbeam kicks. They nail you in the bladder, and you wince, rubbing over the crest of your belly. “You’re killing me, you know that?” You feel like you’ve been hit by a bus, every day. The aches and pains are never ending, your back and hips screaming by the end of a shift. You can’t sleep, the heartburn makes it hard to eat, you’re never comfortable.

The whole time, you curse them, Simon and Johnny.

Their fault, it’s their fault.

And yours too. 

But no matter how tired, how sore, how cranky you are, you can’t bring yourself to regret it, and in your dreams, it’s like all the bad, all the awful betrayal didn’t even happen. You dream of a family with them, Penny holding her little sibling, the five you together. It’s all been buried in your mind, too deep and nearly impossible to dig out. The visions of them, the longing, the good memories. You’re infested with them.

You didn’t want this. You wanted them, you wanted it all, and that might be the hardest thing about it. You weren’t given a choice, this decision was made for you, taken from you, just like almost everything else.

Except little sunbeam. You wanted them, chose them, will choose them, over and over, forever, keep them safe, make sure they know they’re loved.

No matter what. 

It’s the train, always the train.

Not the long rail train, the commuter train. The one that takes you to and from work, the one that’s sometimes-standing room only, though most people offer you their seat, which is surprisingly kind, compared to where you’re from.

Regardless, you feel the gaze on the train, and no matter how hard you scan, dissect, watch the people around you, there’s nothing. All three faces, three sets of eyes, three profiles, are never anywhere to be seen.

It’s overwhelming, unsettling. The stress of this prickling unease combined with the stress and physical strain of your job is taking its toll on both you and Sunbeam, as the midwife likes to remind you.

Take it easy, take some time off, try to relax. Stay hydrated, eat well.

Yeah… okay.

You rub your belly anxiously, tugging your hood farther over your head, trying to look around without being so obvious.

“Excuse me?” You jolt, startled by a man standing at your elbow, pointing to a vacant spot on a bench. “Would you like my seat?” His smile is subtle, matching an encouraging but not overly intrusive demeanor.

“Sure, thank you so much.” He nods, stepping to the side, into the space between the seat and the divider, close to the door. You try to swing your backpack in front of you, but it gets caught, and he snags it before it falls. “Sorry, thanks.”

“Of course, no problem.” You give him another glance. Really handsome, rich brown eyes you could get lost in. He’s got a baseball cap on, but it’s not pulled down over his face like your hood, he’s not trying to hide. “I’ll move when your stop comes up.”

“Okay, it’s not for a while so, no worries.” He might be kind, but he’s still a stranger, and you’re not going to divulge anything specific. Stranger danger. 

Not everyone is a threat but… 

“How far along are you?” You blink.

“Uh, about twenty-five weeks, give or take a few days.” He nods.

“My wife is due next week; it’s been a rollercoaster.”

“Yeah, it’s not the easiest.” You laugh, a little apprehensive, but also, a little glad, secretly, to have a casual conversation with someone. He sticks his hand out.

“I’m Kyle.” Your tongue rolls with the practiced name you’ve memorized, the one you’ve drilled into yourself over and over again. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too.” The next stop is announced, and he moves gracefully, reaching for his bag and tugging it over his shoulder, barely giving you a second glance.

“This is me, have a good day.”

“Thanks.” He doesn’t look over his shoulder at you when he’s getting off, doesn’t watch you through the window from the platform. He’s completely uninterested, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

The box is delivered on a Tuesday.

The Scottish government gives you almost everything you need. Clothes, thermometers, baby books, a changing mat, a mattress, a sheet, a blanket, the list goes on. The box even doubles as a bassinet.

You cry over it. Rifling through everything, tears drip down your cheeks and you bury your face in your hands. You didn’t get to share an ultrasound with anyone, or have a shower, or hold someone’s hand to your belly as sunbeam kicked, but there’s this. A box full of baby stuff, a box that says no matter how hard it is, you and sunbeam will have a good start. Even Sunbeam’s room is halfway sorted at this point, crib set up, dresser half stocked with clothes, collection of diapers and burp cloths and bottles starting to pile up in various places in their room. You’ve made it comfortable, slowly, mix matched furniture and all.

Every day feels like a year, but as each one passes, you slowly adjust to a new normal, a new life. Something you made, again, from scratch, for yourself, your survival.

And now, for Sunbeam.

One day, maybe it will feel like home.

You really need to stop buying so much crap at the store.

You practically have to drag your grocery loot into the elevator, bags overflowing with fruit, vegetables, cans of formula. Random cleaning products, stuff for baby proofing, a new candle.

Apparently, some call this nesting. You just call it annoying.

You lean against the wall and close your eyes for a moment, shifting your weight to alleviate the pressure on your spine.

Thirty weeks.

Ten weeks left.

Ten weeks left. It’s wild to even think about, to even say to yourself, or out loud. You’re going to be a mom in ten weeks. Going to have a whole human depending on you for every single thing, in ten weeks.

You’ll be alone, with a newborn, in ten weeks.

Alone.

It still aches. Stings. Salt in the wound-

Lit end of a cigarette against your skin.

You instinctively cup your belly, thumb rubbing over where one of your burn scars has been stretched by Sunbeam, and shiver.

You’re fine. You’re safe. Get it together.

“We’re home!” You announce to no one, no one except Gus the goldfish who’s swimming circles around his bowl. You got him two weeks ago on an impulse, following a pathetic, sad desire all the way to the pet store.

It’d be nice to have something to come home to. 

You tap a few flakes into the water and watch him gobble them up, oddly soothed by his presence in the flat.

This is how far you’ve fallen. Taking comfort in a damn goldfish.

You blow out a breath and fall onto the couch, swinging your legs up onto the cushions, dragging the pillows under your ankles, or what used to be your ankles. They’re more like overstuffed sausages now, tops of your sneakers cutting into your skin. Every chance you get, you’re finding places to sit at work, caught yourself leaning most of your weight on your patient’s beds, more than once. Thankfully, your coworkers are overwhelmingly understanding.

And when you come home, you do this. Collapse on the couch. Talk to a goldfish, or Sunbeam, or both.

The oddest trio: Mom, baby, goldfish.

You manage to limit yourself to three bites of ice cream before putting the carton away in the freezer. You’re supposed to be watching your sugar intake, apparently, not because you’re at risk for gestational diabetes, but because Sunbeam is already projected to be on the bigger side.

You look mournfully at container, spoon still in hand.

One more. What’s it going to hurt? One more bite isn’t going to turn Sunbeam into a giant, it’s-

Knuckles rap against your door.

Your blood goes cold, colder than ice, and you instinctively find the floor, crouching by the fridge, using it to shield yourself, keeping away from the door’s direct line of sight.

The knocking gets louder.

Someone’s saying something on the other side of the door, but you can’t hear it over the buzzing, beeping sound in your ears.

How. 

How? How did it happen so fast? Where did you fuck up? 

The fear you once felt for yourself pales in comparison to the true fear you feel now. You’re supposed to protect Sunbeam, supposed to keep them safe.

You’re supposed to be a mom. 

A sob claws its way out, and you clap your palm over your mouth, agony squeezing your heart, panic clutching your throat in a vise, choking off your air, throttling you until you’re gasping.

You should run, should sprint into the bedroom and grab the gun from under your mattress, should start crawling out the window to the fire escape.

You should do these things, but instead, you’re trapped, immobile, watching with horror as the deadbolt turns horizontal, sliding the lock free with a bloodcurdling click.

Your baby. You were supposed to keep your baby safe. 

You failed. 

You stand, so unsteady you have to support your weight by leaning against the counter. The only thing in here are kitchen knives, and you rip two from the block, one hiding behind your back, the other brandished in front of your body like a sword.

You’re going to die. 

But not without a fight. 

Tears wet your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you choke, sliding a hand over little Sunbeam, “I’m so- so sorry.”

The creak of the door handle is unmistakable, a metal whine scraping against the frame. You close your eyes.

“Bunny.”

Your heart stops.

The men you thought love you are standing just inside your kitchen, the sight of them turning your stomach, their eyes flicking between you and the shiny, sharp knife in your hand.

Johnny inches forward, his voice a low, gentle murmur, one that cracks your heart. “It’s okay pretty girl, we’re here to take ye home.”

“Get away from me.” The knife is practically rattling in your hand.

"It's alright. We’d never hurt ye, either of ye. We know what ye saw and-“

“N-no,” you sob, voice cracking, shoulders shaking, “don’t come near me.”

“Put that down, sweet girl, it’s alright.” Simon edges around the counter, caution and wary weighing his steps. They’re supposed to be muffled you think, soft, but they ring so loud.

“Stop!”

“Just let us explain, give us a minute-“

“I saw you! I saw you w-with him.” Your vision is blurred by tears, and you look down at your belly, desperate. “Just let us go, please. Don’t- don’t let him-“

“Listen to me, sweetheart. We have nothing to do with Phillip.” His name makes your flinch, and you inch backwards.

“You know him.”

“We do. He tried to kill us, betrayed us, on a mission. Nearly succeeded with Johnny.” The words conflict, mash together into a scramble you don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.

More lies. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know, I know you don’t. I wouldn’t if I was in your position either, but we’re telling the truth.” You shake your head.

“No. You’re just… you’re just trying to trick me.”

“We’re not,” Johnny murmurs, “We’ve always told ye the truth, bun. And we’d never hurt ye.” He steps forward. It’s too close, way too close, and you pivot, both knives still clutched in your hands.

“Put them down.” Simon instructs, a little bit of steel in his voice now. He can obviously see the one behind your back, and your heart starts to sink.

There’s no way out. You should have run when you had the chance. 

Stupid.

The girl in the mirror stays silent. She says nothing.

For all you know, she’s dead already. Killing blow dealt by your own hand.

You think about Sunbeam, all warm and safe, protected from the world, and despair swells in your chest, an entire ocean beneath your feet, waiting to swallow you up, drag you down and drown you.

“Now, sweetheart. We don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You laugh. It’s a sickly, nervous thing, too tinny and high pitched.

You’re falling apart. You’re not a fighter, you’re a runner, shot lame in a race rigged against you from the beginning. They’re closing in, wolves stalking the bleeding lamb between them, predators about to fall on prey.

 “Don’t,” whisper, fingers tightening around the knife in front of your body, unable to hold it steady through the trembling.

“Bunny, listen to us, please.” Johnny is reaching and you get trapped in his gaze, spiraling into the swirl of misery and fear, mirroring your own. “I love ye, we love ye. Ye belong with us, at home, where we can keep ye safe.” You slam your eyes shut, trying to block him out. “I’ve loved ye since the day I opened m’eyes and saw ye leaning over the bed. We’d never hurt ye, we jus’ want to take ye home.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Simon moves. One powerful, huge step, and he’s on you, grabbing your arm, applying pressure to your knuckles to release the knife.

You scream. It’s instinct. Everything shuts down, narrowing down to one objective.

Run.

“Johnny,” he half shouts over your keening, holding gentle pressure against your arm as you try to rip yourself free. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.” You thrash, trying to twist out of his grip, shoulder shrieking in pain, and he goes with your momentum, providing slack so there’s no tension in your arm. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart, you’re okay.”

You’re not. 

You’re not okay. You’ll never be okay. 

The walls close in, and it all becomes so clear. Your future, what will happen if they take you, if you leave here with them.

They’ll take Sunbeam. They’ll turn you over to Phillip, throw you out like trash, and you’ll die.

Are you going to let it happen, just like you let everything else? Are you going to roll over? Let it all be stolen, again and again? 

No. 

Simon reaches for the other knife and you swing it wide, slicing through the air until the blade meets flesh.

He hisses. Blood spills, drips down the handle, coats your fingers, and you stand there, frozen, gobsmacked.

Did you- 

Did you just- 

“Johnny,” he barks, but it barely registers, you’re too transfixed by the blood, hypnotized by it, too entranced to even register Johnny at your side, too stunned to see what’s in his hand.

A needle. 

He whispers your name, cradles your face-

And then everything goes black.

[zepskies]

SISTER, SISTER

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: You and Mark have an emotional reconnection after he finally comes clean. But that also means you have some unfinished business to take care of with your sister, Rachel.

AN: Wrote this last week because I guess I can't stop myself! 😂 So yep, these Mark stories have officially become a series of one-shots called — ‘Til When Do Us Part. This one is also a gif check requested by my friend @lamentationsofalonelypotato for the 5K Follower Celebration. I think this is an important puzzle piece to explore after Catastrophic Blues. 😉

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x02] 18+ only! Reunion smut, fluff, an epic cat fight (lol), angst, hurt/comfort

Series Masterlist

His hair dragged through your fingers again. First soft and loose, then gripped tight—desperate, hot tingles across your skin.

It was almost too much.

A halting moan fell from your lips, his biting kiss along your throat as he moved inside you.

“Fuck. Takin’ me better than ever, baby,” he said into your skin, his words gritted out and tinged with smoke and relief. “Gonna feel me for fuckin’ days at this rate.”

The sound of his voice reached deep into your bones. The safety of his arms caged you underneath him on his bed, the old mattress creaking with every test of the springs. He wrapped an arm around your thigh like curling steel, opening you up more for him, making his rolling thrusts hit deeper. Harder. A man possessed.

You gasped, your pussy already throbbing in time with your heartbeat. Your words were barely syllables, but they escaped you nonetheless. "Oh, fuck. Mark..."

He smirked into your neck. His lips trailed down to your shoulder and nipped harder with teeth, just to feel you writhe against him. You whimpered, your sensitive nipples brushing against his chest when you arched back up into him.

His hot breaths further ignited your skin. Your nails raked down the back of his neck and down his shoulder as you held on for the ride—an obscene squelching of wetness and hot breaths, skin against flushed skin. Your fingers pressed into every divot of muscle, as if you could sink right through his skin and make him feel you. Not for days. Forever.

You didn’t have words to speak. It was all in your eyes when they met his. Raw, vulnerable, glassy with pleasure, your breaths unsteady with emotion.

He pulled back a little, just so he could slip his hand between your bodies and find your slick, swollen clit again. He swept the pads of his fingers in the angles and rhythm he knew would serve you best in between his thrusts.

He swallowed your gasp of his name, your whimpers as you shuddered and came. A sensation like kaleidoscope colors, bursting like so many stars. You fucking squeezed him from the inside out for the third time tonight, finally forcing a ragged groan from his own lips as he spilled into you. His hips stuttered a shaky and powerful release.

You grabbed his face and poured your soul into that kiss, a wet and filthy meeting of lips and tongues.

Panting breaths forced their way through his nose, but he wouldn’t break that kiss for all the world. He finally had you back in his arms. He had the scent of your floral soap in his nose, your familiar sweetness on his tongue, your hair threaded through his fingers. He had it all.

It wasn’t the faded memories he clung to in a brick-and-mortal cell, or the daydreams of what if that had been torturing him whenever he saw a girl in a white dress, or a family sitting at dinner with their little kids in highchairs. 

It was you, solid and real.

Your kiss swollen lips dragged from his slowly, reluctantly, with shaky breaths in between.

He let your thighs slip down to rest more comfortably around his hips, but he didn't move just yet. He stayed buried deep inside you.

He brushed your frizzy hair away from your forehead, his eyes a little softer, less crazed. You sniffled as a tear rolled from the corner of your eye. He swept the wetness away with his thumb.

“I know it was good, but you don’t need to cry, sweetheart,” he teased lightly. There was a tender note in his voice though.

Your heart clenched to hear it. Part of you still couldn't believe this was real. Despite yourself, you laughed a little, breathless and boneless.

“I guess it’s just, um…it’s been a while.”

“Really? You haven’t, uh, been seeing anyone?” he asked, trying to hide the hope from his voice.

You snorted. “No.”

Plain and simple. He quirked a smile.

“And you?” you asked reluctantly, as if the answer wouldn't tear into you if he said any form of yes.

He almost laughed. “I was in lockup for nine months, remember?”

Relief allowed you to relax again. A smirk began to curve your lips as your fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his dewy arms.

“What, you didn’t get yourself a little boyfriend? No ‘drop the soap’ action?” you teased.

Mark’s jaw nearly unhinged. He stared down at you, disbelief and amusement warring for dominance at your cheek.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?”

Your whole body shook in effort to contain your giggles, but you couldn’t help yourself.

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh. Honestly, he should’ve expected nothing fucking less from you.

You were still kee-keeing when you caressed his bearded face with both hands, then twined your arms around his neck. But soon, you sobered up.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… You had to live with those animals for almost a whole year. I can’t even imagine how deeply shitty that was. How scary,” you said.

Mark huffed, shaking his head. He rubbed your arm and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“Heh. I was in hell long before I walked into Palmdale,” he said.

The confession slipped through his lips before he could think better of it, but there it was. Your expression fell even more. With a sigh, he stroked your cheek. Then he carefully withdrew, pulling out of your heat. You both felt the loss with soft groans.

He climbed out of bed just to grab a towel from his bathroom for the cleanup.

This was the first time you’d come to his place, just a couple of days since he took you home from that bar in Downtown. Two days since he came clean to you about what happened in Venice. Two days since you somehow found it in your heart to forgive him.

He still didn’t know what the hell he was doing with you. He hadn’t discussed it with you, hadn’t labelled it. It was almost as if you two had picked up from where you left off, except this time, there was an unknown expiration date.

That reminder literally hit him between the eyes. It forced him to pause in the bathroom and white-knuckle grip the edge of the sink. He grimaced and willed the pain away, stifling a grunt. Fuck...not even a moment's fucking peace.

"You okay?" your voice filtered over from the bedroom. Mark turned his face away from the mirror, just in case you could catch an angle of him.

"Yeah," he said, a little rougher. He breathed in deep, until the sharpest edges were passed. He padded back out and brought the dampened towel back to you.

It was late, but he still checked his phone on the nightstand for any missed notifications. He never knew when he might get called in by Blythe—another thing Mark couldn’t tell you about. He wondered if the taskforce was on your radar anyway, what with how D.A. Valwell was consistently trying to butt into their operations.

So far, you hadn’t mentioned anything weird going on with your boss in the office. Maybe Valwell was keeping you out of it. As he should.

You welcomed Mark back into bed and under the covers, luring him into a kiss as he settled in beside you. He drew you into his arms and couldn’t help but stare. He took in every contour of your face. Every shade of beauty.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I said that yet?”

A slight, sad smile twitched at your lips. Your heart pulsed sharply.

“What’s happening to you isn’t your fault. There’s no reason to be sorry,” you said.

“There is a reason,” he nodded. “I didn’t want to leave you twisting in the wind. I just…”

“I know,” you sighed. You watched his profile as he looked ahead, rather than at you directly. A deep breath ran through him, not altogether steady.

“I love you,” he said. He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Think it’s pretty obvious that I never stopped.”

You guided his face back toward you with a gentle hand on his cheek. Your thumb brushed over his lips.

“It’s become painfully clear to me,” you said, “that I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”

Morning came, and you weren’t ready. You didn’t want to leave this house with its familiar smell and its gray-blue walls, which you and Mark painted together. After he inherited the house from his mother, who passed away a few years ago, you helped him clean and touch it up without losing the character of the house.

You were going to officially move in with him after you two got married and let go of your Downtown apartment that was close to your job, but often so empty. Obviously, that move never happened.

“You’re having dinner with your mom tonight, right?” Mark asked, pulling you from your thoughts.

You finished tucking in your blouse into your skirt and began to fix your hair in his wardrobe mirror. You had to go into work, and so did he. He was buckling his belt over his jeans, already dressed in a dark green shirt and one of his favorite leather jackets—the black one you helped him pick out.

“Yeah, every Tuesday,” you nodded. You turned and reached for the edges of his jacket. “I know it’s your business to share, but…can I tell her about what you’re going through? That we’re back together? She would want to see you.”

Mark hesitated. “I’d like that too, but let's just keep this between you and me for now.”

You frowned. “I still can’t believe you haven’t told your precinct. How long do you plan to work like this? Mark, what if…what if something happens when you’re on the job? I mean medically.”

He couldn’t blame you for your worry and concern. He held you by your arms and gave a reassuring squeeze.

“You know I’m on a case right now. It’s important,” he said, trying to communicate the gravity of it through his eyes, the tone of his voice. “After that’s done…I don’t know. We’ll talk about it. That and the, uh, second opinion stuff.”

Despite your lingering worry, a small smile peeked through. “At least you said we.”

Mark flickered at a smile too. He bowed down to kiss you on the forehead, lingering there with a short sigh. Ever since he left you, he’d been operating with a reckless head and a worse heart. But if you were determined to stick this out with him, like you seemed to be, then it wasn’t just about him anymore.

He’d have to protect you too.

“Mmm, smells good, Mom,” you said, shutting the door of your childhood home behind you. Inside, the modest three-bedroom house was filled with the rich savory smell of something warm in the oven.

Your mom, Lisette, waved you over with her oven mitt hand. 

“Hey, honey. Come ‘ere and taste this.”

She took out a large glass pan filled with beef pot roast, complete with carrots, little yellow potatoes, and charred sprigs of rosemary on top.

“Wow, all that for just the two of us?” you asked, kissing her on the cheek. She just smiled and gave you a forkful after she blew on it first. You took the bite and fairly melted.

“Ughhh, so good. It’s been a long time since you made a whole…” You trailed off as you realized it.

Lisette’s smile turned bittersweet. “Yeah, it was your father’s favorite.”

She took off her oven mitts and left the pan to cool on the counter. She braced a few fingertips on the edge of that counter, as if her mind contained too many memories to sort through. You brushed a hand against her arm, earning her attention.

“Thanks. I brought dessert too,” you said, raising the grocery bag in your hand. You set that on the counter as well. You gave your mom a hug, warm and comforting.

Lisette sighed and hugged you back gratefully. She rubbed your back, like good moms did. But when she pulled back, she noted the smile on your face with a raised brow. It was genuine, not the fake ones you gave to pacify her. In fact, you looked more relaxed, more like yourself.

“You seem…”

“What?” you asked in confusion.

“I don’t know. A little happier today, I guess,” she said. “Did something good happen at work?”

You huffed. “No. Valwell’s antsy and frustrated about something, but every time I ask what’s wrong, he tells me it’s fine. Nothing for me to worry about.”

Not to mention, he’d taken three long lunches at odd times in the past week alone. Every time he got back to the office, he seemed more agitated and upset, storming through the halls like they owed him rent money.

“Well, it’s probably above your clearance, honey,” said Lisette. “If he wanted you to know, he would tell you.”

You frowned thoughtfully, tapping a nail on the counter. Before you could think too hard on it, your mom subtly cleared her throat, the way she always did when she was a bit nervous. She busied herself with grabbing silverware for the dinner table. Your brows drew together.

“You grabbed three sets,” you pointed out.

“Mhmm,” she nodded. “We’re going to be three today.”

“Who else is coming?”

Lisette hesitated, didn’t seem to want to meet your suspicious gaze. “Your sister. I invited her.”

Your face fell. Stony and incredulous.

“You did not.”

“I did. You two haven’t spoken in almost a year.”

“For good damn reason, Mom!”

“I know,” Lisette said, in a sharper voice than you expected. After a moment though, she softened. “I know. What she did to you…it’s frankly incomprehensible. But she’s still your sister. Your father would be sick to know you two are fighting like this.”

A harsh sigh fell from your lips. You rubbed your temples with both hands.

“We’re not fighting,” you said. “I’m just choosing to pretend I’m an only child.”

Lisette gave you a sad frown that spoke more volumes than her words could. You felt a stab of guilt for it, but you didn’t take it back. If you had to see that hateful bitch today, then you wouldn’t hold back this time. It would be on sight.

And…of fucking course.

As if on cue, there was a commotion at the front door. The lock began to turn and click. Then the door slid open, revealing Rachel with her key to the house poised in hand. She was a personal trainer and yoga instructor, so she was wearing her skin-tight Halara leggings (yes, the “TikTok Leggings”), along with a breezy crop top.

She had a chain-link purse strung over her shoulder and oversized sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, but you could still see her eyes widen when she caught sight of you, her steps stopping short in the doorway.

You stared right back at her. Your teeth clenched, like a train grinding against the tracks at a hard stop and shooting off sparks. Everything Mark told you two days ago came rushing through your mind—every unwanted touch, every disgusting, manipulative word she used to try and spin him into her web while he was at his worst.

“What—What’re you doing here?” she said, a frightened little deer caught in your trajectory.

You didn’t even answer. You couldn’t speak.

You just moved, rounding the kitchen counter and cutting through the dining room with a purpose. Rachel squeaked, and she scrambled to back out of the house the way she came in. She flung the door open and retreated.

You followed.

“I know what you really did, you lying, psycho bitch!” you hissed. Your voice carried and seemed to slap Rachel upside the head. She stopped on the stone walkway leading up to the house. She turned around, lifted the sunglasses to the top of her head, and she glared at you warily.

“What’re you talking about?” she shot back.

You laughed in disbelief. “Oh, don’t act dumb now. What you did to Mark isn’t just reprehensible. I should file a report and get you fucking arrested for being a vile cunt.”

Rachel’s eyes flashed. Her face screwed up in anger, so much that she strode back up the steps and slapped you across the cheek. Your head twisted to the side at the stinging blow. You even stumbled a little, but your shock gave way to a grim smile.

Can we say, self-defense?

Her face dawned with realization, just a bit too late. She didn’t even have the instincts to duck your punch.

“Goddamn it. Fucking move, people!” Mark muttered uselessly at the cars in front of him.

It had been a long damn day. It also looked like he and the team were heading to Mexico in the morning. Doing a drug run for Javi, a local cartel boss, would hopefully get them one step closer to finding out who he carried a shipment of goddamn fissile material for. They had to find out who was trying to orchestrate another 9/11 in California. 

Mark was on his way home, cutting through L.A. traffic the best he could during rush hour. His stomach was practically attacking his liver in hunger. He also wanted to see you before he left, hopefully for just a day or two.

Didn’t you say you were over at your mom’s for dinner? Damn, that woman could cook.

How many Sunday dinners had he spent with your family in the past five years? All those Christmases and Thanksgivings, birthdays, Fourth of Julys at the beach and Memorial Day backyard barbeques.

Your mom was a sweetheart, too. She always bought him gifts at Christmas, never forgot his birthday, always saved him a special cut of whatever she was cooking. Truth be told, she was like a second mother to him, especially after his mom passed.

Mark sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his head slowly fall back against the headrest. A warning flash of pain echoed through his skull, like a small oyster knife on the twist.

Fuck me.

It would be good to see Lisette—and be able to share another one of those meals with you too, however many of them he had left.

The traffic light finally turned green. Mark found himself changing lanes, then changing directions. Another twenty minutes had him pulling up to your family home on a quiet residential street.

Well, it was usually quiet.

“Aw, shit.” Was that Rachel out there on the driveway? What the hell was she doing here?

She was beelining up those cobblestone steps right for you. She threw you a slap so hard it snapped your head to the right, making your hair fly in your face.

“The fuck?!” His angry brows furrowing, Mark parked the car and unclipped his seatbelt quick, but when he next looked up, he caught sight of your swift left hook.

“God-damn,” he couldn’t help but laugh. As a man of the law, he knew he should've been stepping in right about now, but this opportunity was a little too satisfying to give up. He stayed where he sat to watch the show.

Rachel went down like a sack of shit.

And you didn’t waste no time. You pushed her the rest of the way down into the grassy front yard and got on top of her, pinning her arms behind her back and wedging your knee in her spine. Before she could swing back and headbutt you, you shoved her face into the grass.

Your dad taught you pretty damn well.

Rachel screamed and cried for help, but all it did was fuel your ire. You felt crazy and deranged, but you also felt alive too, for the first time in a long time.

Meanwhile, your mom watched in worry from the porch. Her protests weren’t strong enough to reach you though.

“Get off me, you fat ugly bitch!” Rachel screeched.

You saw a nice little brown pile the neighbor’s dog must’ve left this morning. It was just close enough for you to grab (unfortunately) with your bare hand. You pulled her head back by her hair and smeared dog shit all over her face—her cheeks, her forehead and chin. Her shrill screech reached new heights.

The neighbors could’ve been watching with shocked open mouths and iPhone cameras raised high, but you didn’t give even half of a fuck. You did quiet her down though, by shoving her face back into the dirt. The lawn was still nice and damp from the afternoon sprinklers.

“Yeah? You like that? Keep talking shit and I'll break your fake-ass nose, which I helped pay for!” you shouted. “I waited in that fucking lobby for hours while they hacked off the old one. I gave you cold compresses for your swollen, puffy lobster face. Now how about I snap that shit off like you’re Mr. fucking Potato Head?”

She cried as if you were killing her. Dramatic, as always. But eventually she stopped wriggling and thrashing so much, just shaking her head and sniveling. Realizing she wasn’t about to get out of this so easily, she switched tactics.

"Okay." She splayed her hands out the best she could behind her back in surrender. "Okay! Jesus Christ, I'm sorry!"

“Oh, yeah? You’re sorry? What’re you sorry for?” you asked.

"I already told you I fucked him! I fucked your fiancé!"

"No, but you tried to," you seethed. "You just couldn't, could you? Because he's a good man, and you're a lying slutbag. Isn't that right?"

Rachel tried to deny it, but the harder you shoved her shit-stained face into the wet dirt, the more she coughed and spluttered. You eased up just enough for her to nod her head, lips trembling.

“I-I’m sorry. I-I was wrong. I didn’t mean for it to end up so bad,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just let me go—”

Tears began to sting in your own eyes. “Do you know what you actually stole from me?”

Your breaths shook, along with the inner most depths of your soul. You bent closer to her ear.

“Time. That’s what you took from us,” you said, a coarse whisper. “Time we’ll never get back.”

Rachel continued to cry pitiful tears. You almost, almost started to feel bad for her.

But then, you didn’t. Too many memories were rising to the surface.

“Why’d you do it, huh? Danny Mendez wasn’t enough for you?” you said. “Oh yeah, you remember him, back in high school. You made out with my boyfriend the night of my senior prom, bitch!”

Oh yeah, that was a fun little memory to unlock from the brain bank. You realized now that it established a pattern of behavior, one you still couldn't completely understand. It hurt your heart.

“Why?” you demanded through blurry tears. “Why do you hate me so damn much?”

“Because!” she yelled. Her own tears had mixed with the shit smears on her face. Her lips wobbled. “Everyone thinks you’re so fucking perfect! Mom…Dad…he practically worshipped you.”

Your brows knitted together. “No, he didn’t. What the hell are you talking about? He rode my ass all the time! Way harder than he ever did to you.”

Your dad had been a good man, but he'd also been a fucking hardass. A former marine turned LAPD, from officer to Homicide Detective, and finally Captain. In typical firstborn syndrome fashion, you took on the brunt of his expectations, and even resented him for it at times. But you eventually saw the wisdom and the work ethic he was trying to instill in you.

Then again, it would’ve been better for everyone if he had paid closer attention to Rachel. She had been a wild child who even you had a hard time corralling. Your mom was a loving, nurturing person, but unfortunately, not much of a disciplinarian. Your father had too much on his plate at work to wrangle Rachel in as much as he’d wanted.

“Because he believed in you!” she said. “He didn’t just pick at you or criticize you or tell you what to do like you were one of his little soldiers. He talked to you like…like a person. Even…even when he was dying. He only ever asked for you, or for Mom. He never asked for me.”

You heard the resentment and immature selfishness in her voice, but you also heard the hurt. The deep kind of hurt that could make you lash out at others, just to try to mask the pain.

After a long moment of hearing her pitiful sniffles, you sighed.

“He did ask for you,” you admitted. “That day, when you and Mom went out to get coffee, and it was just me and him…I think he knew it was the end. He opened his eyes for the first time in days, and he said your name. His eyes went all around the room, like he was looking for you.”

Rachel’s body shook underneath you. Her quiet sobs of realization reached your ears.

“I called you, but you didn’t pick up. Maybe you had your phone on silent because we were in the hospital… Anyway, a few minutes later, he was gone,” you said. “But he loved you, Rachel. He just hated that he couldn’t stop you from becoming what you are. Selfish. Insecure. Immature and vindictive. A truly heinous combination.”

Rachel had long stopped fighting you. She just cried and shook like a leaf.

You jolted at a touch on your shoulder. You were surprised to find Mark, looking down at you with calm reassurance and a tinge of humor in his eyes.

“All right, sweetheart. Think she’s had enough,” he said.

Rachel gasped and craned her neck up as far as she could. Her eyes went impossibly wide, her mouth falling open in shock to see him.

Mark helped you up with one hand on your arm and another around your waist. He guided you away from your sister. Rachel pushed off the ground and scrambled shakily to her feet. She wiped at her disgusting face painted with three kinds of shit, but shame was what radiated the most when she looked up at you and Mark.

“I…I’m sorry,” she said.

It was the first time you actually believed her. You didn’t say anything, but you swallowed tightly.

Rachel shot one last glance at Lisette, who was teary herself with disappointment. Rachel grabbed her purse off the ground and retreated quickly to her car. You watched her go, releasing a deep breath and the rest of your fury.

Mark massaged the back of your neck, pressing a kiss to your temple. He felt a surge of pride well up in his chest for you. Not just for being a veritable badass and handling your business, but for still having the kind heart he knew underneath.

“You good, Rocky?” he asked with a note of teasing.

Your lips tugged reluctantly at a smile. You wondered how much he saw. How much he heard. All you knew was, you really needed to get cleaned up.

“I don’t know. I might still be a danger to myself and others,” you said, a little slyly as your gaze ran up to his. “Might even need you to restrain me.”

His brows rose, his resulting grin showing teeth. You still knew how to catch him off-guard, in the best fucking way.

“Mark, is that really you?” your mother asked from the porch.

You two had to put a little pin in your game, for now, but his green eyes were full of promise. His lips twitched upward and he squeezed your waist. Then he looked up.

“Hey, Lisette. Been a while.”

When you and Mark ventured up the steps to join her, Lisette welcomed him into a warm, warm hug. The kind that sunk into his bones and made his shoulders feel a little lighter.

She later sighed and pulled away, giving you both a raised brow.

“It looks like there’s more to the story of what happened last year,” she said.

“That there is,” Mark nodded. He shared a look with you, and with your clean hand, you rubbed his back in support. However he wanted to do this, you would back him up.

“Well, we can talk about it over dinner,” Lisette said. She opened the front door to the house, giving a small smile. “I made a pot roast.”

Mark’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, I’m excited.”

You and your mom had the same laugh, like sweet sunshine.

“You remember my pot roast?” Lisette asked.

“’Course I do. With the little potatoes, sprinkle a’ rosemary?”

Mark held the door open for you like the gentleman he was, and he shut it behind him.

AN: Sister, sister, dog shit eater. Amirite? 🤣

I have another Mark fic in this storyverse for you guys next week! I do have more ideas too (especially after watching 1x05 😭), so I plan to continue this little series as we get deeper into the season. 💜

But until then, I'd love to know what you guys think of this one! I think reader and Mark deserve a lot more "making up for lost time" moments lol. And was her confrontation with Rachel everything you wanted it to be? 😂

Next Time:

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”

“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a rancid farmhouse and covered in sweat and grime.

“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”

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[theodorenmyth]

A Sky Without You II.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x M!reader

Summary ; After the heartbreak, you and Theodore slowly find your way back to each other—late-night talks under the stars, genuine apologies, and quiet moments that show how much he’s changed. He’s patient, gentle, and clearly hurting too. You’re hesitant, but his sincerity breaks through your walls. You begin to laugh again, smile again, and bit by bit, let him in. Hogwarts watches in quiet awe as you return to your kind, radiant self—waving at portraits, helping first years, and becoming the bright star everyone missed so dearly.

A/N ; thank you so much for being patient and waiting for the last part, aka this one. I love you all so much and thank you for supporting my fics 🥹 it literally makes my heart flutter everytime you guys comment on my silly lil fics :3 Please, enjoy!

Warnings ; Heavy emotional angst, past emotional manipulation, mentions of depression, slow healing, soft reconciliation

Word count ; 6.5k+

You found a letter two days later.

Slipped into your astronomy journal, right between your sketched diagrams of Orion’s Belt and a list of new star names you made up when sleep wouldn’t come. You stared at the parchment for a long time, hesitant fingers brushing the edge.

The letter was written in careful, trembling ink. Like every word had been rewritten a dozen times and still didn’t feel like enough. There were faint smudges at the corner of the page—maybe from rushed hands or maybe from tears. You didn’t know which made your chest ache more.

You unfolded it slowly.

'I don’t expect you to ever forgive me.'

'But I want you to know that I stopped letting them laugh.'

'I told them what they did. I told them who you are.'

I told them how I fell in love with the boy who named 'constellations after freckles and believed in second chances like they were science."

'They said sorry. But I don’t think that’s enough.'

'So I’ll say it too. As many times as you need.'

'I’m sorry.'

–Theodore

You read it once.

Twice.

A third time.

And then you held it to your chest like it was a heartbeat you’d forgotten belonged to you. You didn’t cry. Not yet. But something cracked under your ribs, something that had been ice-cold for weeks.

And in that stillness—somewhere between heartbreak and healing—you folded the letter and slid it gently back into the pages.

Not thrown away. Not forgiven. But kept.

Because even the stars needed time to burn before they shined.

The Astronomy Tower felt warmer now.

Maybe it was the season shifting into spring. Or maybe it was just that for the first time in weeks, you weren’t the only one trying to heal.

You could hear the wind rustling before you even pushed open the heavy door. The night air was crisp, scented with damp stone and starlight. That familiar ache pulsed in your chest the moment you stepped inside.

Theodore was already there.

He stood at the far edge of the tower, facing away, his silhouette half-drenched in moonlight. The hem of his cloak fluttered in the breeze, but he didn’t move. Not even when the door creaked behind you. Not even when your soft footsteps echoed faintly across the stone floor.

He looked like he hadn’t moved in hours.

You took him in quietly for a moment. How his posture was rigid and tight, like even standing there was a punishment he welcomed. His head tilted just slightly upward—toward the stars. Toward the sky you used to teach him to love.

You hadn’t planned to speak.

You hadn’t planned to come.

But your feet had carried you here anyway. Like gravity. Like a force older than reason.

He finally turned when you stepped closer.

The way his eyes widened—it almost broke you. As if he hadn’t truly believed you’d come. As if he’d seen a ghost. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His fingers curled tightly into the edge of the stone railing to steady himself.

You stopped a few feet away. Not too close. But not far, either.

“I got your letter,” you said softly.

His breath hitched.

You reached into your pocket and pulled it out, a little crumpled from how many times you’d opened and read it. You placed it gently into his hand without touching him.

“It’s not enough,” you said, the words trembling but honest. “But I don’t think you’re lying.”

Theodore stared at the letter like it weighed more than it should.

“I’m not,” he whispered. “Every word was real.”

You looked up at him.

“Then tell me one truth. Just one. Something real. Something that isn’t a lie or an apology.”

He swallowed hard, eyes never leaving yours.

“I loved you before the kiss,” he said. “Before the bet ended. I loved you when you started talking about constellations like they were people. Like they had hearts. Like they were home.”

You froze.

He took a small step closer, careful not to spook you. “You told me Altair reminded you of me. You said it pulled its match across the sky no matter the distance.”

You nodded faintly, unable to speak.

“You were so excited,” Theodore murmured, voice tight with emotion. “You pointed and smiled and your eyes lit up like magic. And I—” His voice cracked. “I remember thinking, 'Gods, he’s beautiful. He’s too good for this.' And I kissed you.”

Your chest tightened.

“I kissed you because I couldn’t hold it in anymore,” he said. “And then I went and ruined it. Because I was weak. Because I let them laugh. Because I didn’t know how to be good enough for something so bright.”

He looked down, blinking quickly.

“I know I don’t deserve a second chance,” he whispered. “But I swear, I never wanted to hurt you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Raw.

You let the words hang there. Let them settle into the cold stone of the tower. Let the wind carry them into the sky—into the stars you used to name together.

“I didn’t think you were listening,” you finally said, your voice low.

Theodore met your eyes again.

“I always listened,” he said, softer than before. “I just didn’t know what to do with everything I heard.”

You turned to the sky again, unable to bear the weight of his gaze.

The stars were painfully bright tonight.

“I still come here,” you said. “Not for you. For me. Because it’s mine. It was always mine. I’m not giving it up just because you’re in every memory.”

Theodore nodded slowly.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You stared at the constellations, tracing invisible lines in the air.

“You see that one?” you whispered. “That’s Lyra. It’s where Altair’s match lives. They only get one night together each year—when the bridge of magpies forms between them.”

He nodded.

Your voice dropped. “I always hated that story. But… maybe I understand it better now.”

He said nothing.

But when you turned your head slightly, you saw it—his expression cracked open, bare and fragile. Regret carved deep into every line of his face. But beneath it… something else. Something desperate. Human. Hopeful.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” you said, almost gently. “Not even close.”

“I know.”

“But I came back,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what that means yet.”

Theodore blinked rapidly.

“Maybe it means I’m not done with the sky,” you added. “And maybe it means you’re not completely dead to me.”

He let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh.

“Can I stay?” he asked. “Just here. Just with you. For a little while.”

You hesitated.

Then—without looking—nodded.

“Fine,” you murmured. “But don’t talk. I don’t want to ruin the sky with your voice.”

A soft breath of relief left him, almost a smile.

He leaned beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of him.

You both tilted your heads upward.

And for a few minutes—quiet and slow—the two of you watched the stars.

No lies. No jokes. No forgiveness.

Just space.

And maybe, just maybe, the start of something new.

The air, still crisp, wrapped itself around your shoulders as you slowly took a seat on the familiar ledge of the Astronomy Tower. You didn't offer Theodore a place beside you—not at first. You simply sat there, hugging your knees to your chest, eyes turned toward the sky as if you were bracing yourself.

And maybe you were.

Theodore hovered at a distance. Silent. Unsure.

The stars were scattered across the inky black canvas above you, constellations whispering your name, waiting to be noticed again. You could feel them calling. You could feel the sky exhale when you looked up—like it had missed you.

You finally spoke. “That’s Vega.”

He blinked. “What?”

You pointed, barely lifting your hand. “There. That bright one. She’s part of the Lyra constellation.”

Theodore followed your gaze.

“Vega is one of the most luminous stars in the night sky. They say it burns blue and white—like it's always on the edge of something. Like it’s never really settled.”

Your voice sounded different. Softer. Older, somehow. Like someone who had lived through a galaxy of hurt and was learning how to speak again.

You didn’t look at him as you said, “She used to be the North Star.”

Theodore stepped closer, slow and hesitant, until he was standing beside you. You didn’t move away.

“Used to?” he asked, voice careful.

You nodded. “Stars shift over time. The Earth wobbles, and the stars follow. They don’t stay fixed forever. What used to guide us might change.” You looked down. “Even the stars move on.”

He sat beside you. A safe distance. Just enough to feel his presence, but not his touch.

“I was never your North Star,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

The silence between you was louder than any answer.

For a while, you both just sat there.

Quiet. Looking up.

Breathing the same air.

Grieving the same heartbreak.

Theodore broke the silence first. “After I left you that night—after the Hall—I couldn’t breathe.”

You didn’t look at him.

“But I told myself it was fine. That I did what I had to. That it was over. That it was just… a bet.”

He laughed—short, bitter.

“And then I started seeing your smile when I closed my eyes. Hearing your voice when I walked past the library. I’d catch myself turning toward the Gryffindor table just to see if you’d laugh when Granger said something annoying. I waited for your notes under my door. For your rambling about planets. For anything.”

Still, you said nothing.

“Then the notes stopped. Your smile disappeared. You vanished. And I realized… I hadn’t just lost a bet. I’d lost the best thing I ever had.”

You inhaled shakily.

“The worst part?” he added. “You still look beautiful when you're broken.”

You finally turned toward him. Eyes shining—not with hope. But with honesty.

“That’s not a compliment, Theo.”

“I know,” he said. “I know it’s not. I just— I don’t know how to talk to you without falling apart.”

You looked down at your lap.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t cruel this time.

It was heavy. Tired. Familiar.

“Tell me about the stars again,” Theodore said, almost a whisper.

You blinked.

“What?”

“Tell me what you used to tell me. About the sky. About the way it burns.”

You stared at him, unsure if you should. Unsure if your words could ever be just words again—not pieces of you you’d regret giving away.

But still, you turned your eyes upward.

“There’s a constellation called Scorpius,” you murmured. “Greek myth says it chased Orion, the hunter, across the sky. When Orion died, the gods placed them on opposite sides of the heavens, so they’d never meet again.”

Theodore looked up too.

“That’s sad.”

You shrugged. “Not really. They’re still in the same sky. Just… far apart.”

You felt him shift slightly beside you.

Closer.

Not close enough to touch—but enough for the warmth of his body to reach you.

“I’m not asking to be Orion again,” he said.

You glanced at him.

“I just want to stay in the same sky.”

You swallowed hard.

It wasn’t an apology. Not yet. It wasn’t forgiveness either.

But it was honest.

And that meant something.

You tilted your head back again.

“…That’s Andromeda,” you whispered. “It's named after the mythical princess Andromeda, daughter of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia, who was chained to a rock as a sacrifice to appease a sea monster, Cetus, and later saved by Perseus, who married her and placed her among the stars.”

Theodore looked where you pointed.

“It's kinda romantic if you ask me.”

You didn’t know why you told him that.

Maybe it was for him.

Maybe it was for yourself.

But when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes weren’t sharp anymore. They were soft. Ashamed. Full of something broken but beautiful.

Hope.

Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled paper.

He handed it to you.

You opened it.

It was a sketch—shaky and rough, but unmistakably drawn with care.

A boy, sitting on a tower. Reaching up to the stars.

The boy looked like you.

He had a soft smile.

Your chest ached.

“I started drawing after you stopped talking to me,” Theodore admitted. “It was the only way I could hold onto the parts of you I didn’t deserve.”

You stared at the paper, your hands trembling.

Then—without saying a word—you leaned your shoulder into his.

Just barely.

Just enough to say, I’m still hurt. But I’m still here.

Theodore closed his eyes.

And for the first time in months, both of you breathed under the same stars, under the same sky, and let the weight of the past drift into the silence.

Just a little.

Just enough.

The sun begins to rise over Hogwarts in hues of gold and soft lavender, painting the sky with delicate strokes of warmth. And for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t dread the light.

You blink slowly, the soft morning chill curling around your frame. A coat—his coat—is wrapped snugly around your shoulders. The Astronomy Tower is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the occasional rustle of the wind, brushing through your hair like invisible fingers.

And then you look beside you.

Theodore.

Asleep.

His head leans slightly to the side, lips parted just enough for soft breaths to escape. His lashes fan over his cheeks like ink against parchment. The light is hitting his face perfectly—like even the sun couldn’t help but adore him in that moment.

He looks younger like this.

Softer.

And despite everything, your heart aches with something other than pain.

You reach into your pocket, pulling out a small Polaroid camera—one you haven’t touched since before the heartbreak. You used to take pictures of the stars. The moon. Even his sleepy expression during Astronomy class when he nodded off against your shoulder.

You hesitate for a moment… then lift the lens.

Click.

The camera hums, and the photo slides out with a quiet snap.

You shake it gently as it develops. The image forms slowly—Theodore in the golden morning light, his chest rising and falling softly, lips faintly curved like he’s dreaming something sweet.

You tuck the photo into your coat pocket with a tenderness you didn’t know you still had in you.

And then he stirs.

His eyes flutter open, squinting at the sun before they land on you. The world slows for a second. He blinks once, then smiles—sleepy, crooked, real.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” you reply, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He stretches, arms lazily reaching above his head before slumping back down, hair even messier than usual. “Did we fall asleep here?”

You nod. “You drooled on my sleeve.”

He groans dramatically and rubs his face. “Gods, I’m disgusting.”

“You always have been,” you say, but your smile is warm. Teasing.

He laughs under his breath, and the sound is so familiar—so him—that it loosens something tight in your chest.

“I didn’t want to leave,” he says softly, gaze fixed on your face. “Even in my sleep, I think I knew that.”

You glance away, the early sun making you squint. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I wanted to,” he says immediately.

You don’t know what to say to that.

But your silence doesn’t push him away.

Instead, he reaches out and brushes your knuckles with the back of his fingers—just a light touch, as if asking for permission.

You don’t pull away.

Not today.

────────────────

Later, in the Great Hall

When you walk into breakfast, everything looks the same.

Sunlight pours through the enchanted ceiling. Owls swoop between tables with letters clutched in their claws. First years chatter about a pop quiz in Transfiguration, and someone at the Ravenclaw table knocks over a goblet of pumpkin juice.

But something’s different.

You feel lighter. A quiet warmth sits in your chest, like stardust still clinging to your ribs.

You slide into your usual seat at the Gryffindor table, still wearing Theodore’s coat, your hair a bit messier than usual.

Hermione spots you first.

“Y/N,” she says slowly, brows knitting. “Where were you last night?”

Harry peers up from his plate. “Didn’t come back to the dorms.”

“I checked the Map,” Ron says with a mouth full of toast. “You were in the Astronomy Tower. What were you doing—stargazing alone?”

Neville furrows his brow, concern soft on his face. “You’re okay, right?”

Dean leans forward. “Do I need to hex someone?”

Seamus already has his wand halfway out.

Even Lavender and Ginny pause their whispered gossip session to glance your way. Fred and George are suspiciously quiet, exchanging a look before Fred raises a single brow.

You open your mouth—trying to explain, trying to deflect—but you’re saved by the doors of the Great Hall opening with a slow, purposeful creak.

Theodore walks in.

He looks sharper than usual. Uniform pressed. Hair slightly tousled but intentional. His eyes scan the tables until they find you.

He walks—no, strides—across the hall without hesitation, every Slytherin head turning to follow him.

He stops right in front of you.

In front of your entire friend group.

The hall goes quiet. Not dead silent, but noticeably hushed.

You stare at him, breath stuck in your throat.

He says nothing.

Just pulls a folded paper from inside his coat.

And places it gently on your plate.

You slowly open it—hands trembling just slightly. Inside is a carefully hand-drawn star map. Your favorite constellations. Every corner is scribbled with tiny notes.

'This one’s your favorite. You always smiled when you pointed it out.'

'I stayed awake last night trying to remember them all. Did I get it right?'

'For what it’s worth… I still see you in every single one.'

Your heart clenches.

You can feel every single one of your friends staring at you, speechless.

Theodore leans down, his voice low, only for you.

“You said you wanted something real,” he murmurs. “I’m trying.”

And just like that, he straightens—and walks away.

You blink, stunned. The map still in your hands.

And then the questions come.

“What the HELL just happened?!” Seamus blurts.

“Did he—was that—WAS THAT A STAR MAP?” Dean chokes.

“He gave you a gift?” Ginny stares, eyes wide. “Did we slip into an alternate universe?”

“Are you two… are you talking again?” Hermione whispers.

Fred leans in with a dangerous grin. “Do we need to have a word with him?”

“Did he kiss you again?” Lavender asks, not even pretending to be subtle.

Neville frowns with gentle confusion. “He looked… different.”

You don’t say anything. You just slide the map into your bag and take a bite of your eggs, pretending not to smile when everyone keeps staring.

Then, across the hall—

At the Slytherin Table

Theodore slides back into his seat next to Mattheo, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just publicly walked across enemy lines.

The second he sits, Mattheo elbows him hard in the ribs.

“What. The fuck. Was that?” he hisses.

Draco’s jaw is practically on the floor. “You gave him a star chart? Have you lost your bloody mind?!”

Pansy leans across the table with a devilish glint. “Was it enchanted? Wait—did you write little notes?” she gasps. “Oh my god, you wrote little notes.”

“Was this some kind of poetic grand gesture?” Astoria snorts. “Who are you?”

Blaise raises a brow. “You’re smiling like an idiot. I don’t like it.”

Theodore leans back in his chair, stretching casually, completely unfazed.

“I like him,” he says simply.

The table explodes.

“YOU—WHAT?!”

“You can’t just like him, Theo!” Mattheo says, dragging a hand down his face.

“That wasn’t the deal!” Draco mutters.

“The deal’s off,” Theodore replies, calm, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I fucked up. I’m fixing it.”

Pansy stares at him, stunned. “You really mean it.”

Theodore gives a slow, lopsided grin as he steals a piece of toast off Blaise’s plate.

“I do.”

And far away, at the Gryffindor table, you glance over your shoulder—

And catch him looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

────────────────

After Charms Class

The corridor spills open with students pouring out like water—laughing, groaning about homework, some still half-asleep from Professor Flitwick’s monotonous lecture.

You’re one of the last to leave, your bag slung lazily over your shoulder, your feet dragging just slightly.

You don’t expect anyone to be there.

But he is.

Theodore stands across the hallway, leaning casually against the wall, his hands in his pockets, tie still slightly crooked despite the morning’s neatness. When his eyes find yours, something in them softens—like it always does now.

You raise an eyebrow. “Waiting for someone?”

He shrugs, walking toward you with an easy pace. “Yeah. You.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile pulling at your lips betrays you. “Bit clingy for someone who dumped me in front of the whole school.”

“Making up for lost time,” he replies without missing a beat.

You huff a quiet laugh, brushing past him as you walk down the corridor. He falls into step beside you, shoulders brushing lightly.

It’s… natural.

Surreal, but natural.

From behind you, soft footsteps falter. Then you hear it.

“Was that Theodore Nott?”

You glance back—just slightly.

Cedric Diggory is standing by the archway with a few of his Hufflepuff friends. All of them are watching the two of you like you’ve grown second heads.

“Wait—are they… talking?” someone whispers.

Cedric tilts his head. “I thought they weren’t even speaking anymore?”

“I thought he hated Nott,” another mutters, clearly confused. “Didn’t he cry for a week straight after—?”

“Shh!” Cedric cuts in, nudging his friend with his elbow. “Look at his face.”

You don’t hear the rest.

But if you had, you would’ve caught Cedric’s small, hopeful smile and his quiet murmur.

“Good. He’s smiling again.”

You and Theodore keep walking, unaware of the stares behind you.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to.

The silence between you now is different—comforting, not empty.

When your fingers brush his, neither of you flinch away.

And just for a moment, it feels like the stars might be aligning again.

────────────────

The library has never been this quiet.

And it’s not the usual kind of quiet—the strict, uptight silence enforced by Madam Pince’s hawk eyes. This silence is gentle. Comfortable. Laced with warmth and slow breaths and pages turning softly under candlelight.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor in the Astronomy section, surrounded by open books and star charts, fingers trailing along hand-drawn constellations. The tower windows are misted with fog, the evening sun just barely casting golden streaks across the floor.

Theodore sits beside you. Not too close. Not too far.

The distance between you is filled with unsaid things—but it’s softer now. No longer heavy. No longer laced with betrayal.

You don’t talk much.

And yet, he keeps passing you books. Ones he found on your favorite stars. One with a fold-out map of lunar phases. Another annotated with old notes in your handwriting—he must’ve borrowed it from your side of the shelf.

He says nothing.

You say nothing.

But when your fingertips brush as he passes you a book, and he doesn’t flinch—

You feel something shift.

Like stardust settling.

Like gravity pulling you toward him again.

────────────────

Later that night.

It’s past curfew when you sneak out to the Astronomy Tower.

Again.

But you’re not surprised when you hear footsteps behind you halfway up the spiral staircase.

“You’re predictable,” Theodore says softly.

“So are you,” you mutter, not turning around.

When you step onto the tower platform, the night air kisses your cheeks and the stars blink patiently overhead.

You sit. He follows.

You both lean back against the stone railing, knees pulled to your chests, gazes lifted skyward.

The silence stretches—but it’s never awkward anymore. Not with the stars watching.

“You know,” you whisper eventually, “when I was younger, I used to think stars were the souls of people who died.”

Theodore turns to look at you, intrigued.

“I thought the brighter ones were people who left behind love,” you continue. “The dimmer ones… left pain.”

“And what about the ones that flicker?”

You glance sideways at him.

“Those are the ones who regret things.”

He doesn’t say anything after that.

But he moves closer.

Just an inch.

Then another.

Until your shoulders touch.

He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out something wrapped in a handkerchief, and silently places it in your hands.

You unwrap it slowly.

It’s a tiny brass telescope.

Old, a little rusty, clearly secondhand—but beautifully cared for.

“Found it in Hogsmeade,” he murmurs. “Figured you’d like it.”

You stare at it for a second—then up at him.

Theodore’s not looking at you. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched like he’s afraid of your reaction.

“I love it,” you say, voice quieter than the wind.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

Three Days Later — The Moment

It happens in the library again.

Theodore sits beside you with a cup of tea he smuggled in, sugar, no milk—just the way you like it, while you flip through a book on star clusters.

There’s a footnote in the corner of one page, faded and scribbled in messy ink.

'That one looks like a bowtie.'

'It’s a nebula, Theo.'

'Whatever. Bowtie.'

You snort softly.

Then you giggle.

Then—before you know it—you’re laughing.

Not the fake kind. Not bitter or tired or forced.

Real.

Bright.

Sharp.

Alive.

Theodore’s head snaps up like he can’t believe it.

Your laugh echoes through the aisles, bouncing off the shelves, cutting through the heavy quiet that’s followed you for weeks.

And it feels like breathing for the first time.

He’s just staring at you, lips parted, eyes wide.

You freeze mid-laugh. “What?”

He shakes his head slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“You’re beautiful when you laugh,” he whispers.

And for once, you don’t shrink away.

You just smile—soft, small.

Still healing.

But smiling.

────────────────

Later That Evening — Back at the Tower

You stargaze together again. This time, lying side by side on an old blanket Theodore transfigured out of his robe.

He lets you talk again—about planets and black holes and why Betelgeuse is your favorite star name. He hums at all the right moments. He even repeats some of the facts back to you later, like he’s actually memorizing them just to impress you.

“You know,” he says after a while, voice barely above a whisper, “I think I used to be a flickering star.”

You glance over at him.

He meets your eyes.

“But now… I think I’m starting to burn brighter.”

You stare at him.

And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—

You reach out.

And lace your fingers with his.

No words. No promises.

Just light.

And warmth.

And the slow return of something that feels like hope.

It began with a smile.

Not a grand one. Not the radiant grin you were once known for. Just a small, fragile curve of your lips when Neville offered you a piece of chocolate during Herbology and told you, “You don’t have to be okay yet. But… we missed you.”

You smiled.

And it cracked something open.

The next day, you nodded at Nearly Headless Nick as he passed by in the corridor. He paused midair, looked back in astonishment, and whispered, “Welcome back, dear boy…”

On your way to the Astronomy Tower that night, you waved at the Fat Lady.

She gasped.

“Oh!” she said, clutching her pearls. “My darling! You’ve returned!”

────────────────

Then a laugh.

Just one.

You didn’t even notice it at first.

It slipped out of your throat during Charms class when Seamus accidentally enchanted his quill to start tap dancing on the table. You were scribbling notes when it happened, and the sound caught you so off guard—you laughed.

Bright. Clear. Unapologetic.

And the whole class turned to look at you.

Eyes wide.

Seamus froze. Lavender gasped. Professor Flitwick dropped his chalk. Hermione covered her mouth, and even Harry and Ron stared like they’d seen a ghost.

And then Harry smiled.

“Merlin,” Ron whispered, stunned. “He’s really laughing.”

You blinked, confused. “...What?”

Hermione’s voice cracked when she spoke. “You’re laughing, Y/N.”

And that’s when you realized…

You were.

And for the first time in weeks, it felt real.

────────────────

From that moment, it was like the floodgates opened.

Suddenly, you weren’t just alive.

You were present.

You started waving to portraits again—the Fat Lady practically shrieked in delight when you greeted her one morning with a bright “Hello, love!”

You helped a pair of nervous first-years find their Herbology class and walked them all the way there, smiling the whole time.

You enchanted a Hufflepuff’s broken quill so it would write smoother.

You gave Luna your last chocolate frog because “The stars say you’ll need something sweet today.”

You told Professor Sinistra she looked radiant under moonlight after an evening class, and she turned to hide the way her face flushed.

You were back.

And everyone felt it.

The air in Hogwarts had changed.

The silence that had haunted the castle for weeks—the hole that your absence had created—was slowly, sweetly, joyfully filling back up with you.

────────────────

By the end of the week, the entire school was buzzing.

“Did you hear him laughing again today?”

“He helped a fifth-year with their Transfiguration without being asked.”

“He waved at every portrait on the third floor—EVEN the one that hates Gryffindors!”

“He complimented Snape’s robes, I swear to Merlin, and Snape didn’t even insult him back—just blinked.”

“It’s like Hogwarts is breathing again.”

────────────────

It wasn’t just your house that noticed.

The professors did too. Professor Sprout nearly cried when you complimented her newest Devil’s Snare. Flitwick paused mid-lecture to smile at you when you corrected a charm with your usual, “Only if you want to avoid spontaneous explosions.”

You returned to the front row in Astronomy class, hand flying up at every question, excitedly correcting Professor Sinistra with a “Well, actually, Betelgeuse’s diameter is over a thousand times that of our sun—”

She stopped. Blinked.

And smiled with tears in her eyes.

“…That’s absolutely right, Mr. L/N.”

────────────────

The Slytherins?

They noticed too.

They noticed everything.

The way the air shifted when you walked past. The way other students lit up like lanterns in your presence. The way your laugh—genuine, golden, infectious—echoed through the stone halls like it had never been gone.

And it haunted them.

Because they remembered.

They remembered how they laughed when Theodore dumped you in the Great Hall.

They remembered the way you stood frozen, the light draining from your eyes like the last flicker of a dying star.

They remembered what they took from you—and what they had cost Hogwarts itself.

They missed your ridiculous facts about galaxies over dinner.

They missed your voice humming on the Astronomy Tower wind.

They missed your jokes, your stories, the way you’d scold them gently if they cheated off someone else's parchment—“That’s not how learning works, darling.”

They missed you.

Astoria caught you laughing with Draco one day—just a small, harmless thing—and her stomach twisted in guilt.

Mattheo muttered under his breath, “We ruined him.”

Lorenzo couldn’t look you in the eye.

Even Blaise… apologized. To Theodore, at first. But eventually, with his eyes low, to you.

“I didn’t know we were breaking the sun,” he said.

You didn’t respond. But you smiled politely.

And that, somehow, was worse.

────────────────

You returned to Astronomy Tower like you never left it.

Blankets, books, starlight.

And Theodore.

He waited for you every night, letting you lead. Letting you be.

He brought snacks you liked. Held your hand when you let him. Sat silently through your excited rants about black holes and nova cycles and how Saturn’s rings might vanish someday.

He didn’t speak much.

He didn’t have to.

You felt him there.

One night, you caught him asleep under the stars, his head tilted slightly, lips parted in a breath.

And without thinking, you pulled out your Polaroid and snapped a picture.

The photo developed in your hands—soft, shadowed, perfect.

You laughed—quiet, heartfelt—for the first time in weeks.

────────────────

The whole castle rejoiced.

Peeves burst into spontaneous poems about you.

The Fat Lady played your favorite tune on her lute every time you passed.

House elves left your favorite desserts in the common room.

Even Snape stopped deducting points from Gryffindor every time you sneezed.

Students passed by you in the corridors just to wave.

Others slipped you folded notes.

'We missed your laugh.'

'Thank you for helping me with Potions last year.'

'Hogwarts is brighter with you in it.'

And one from a tiny second year.

'You're my favorite star!'

────────────────

But nothing hit harder than the moment it all clicked—when the entire school realized just how much they’d missed you.

It was a snowy afternoon.

You were in the courtyard, surrounded by a group of first-years who were trying and failing to make enchanted snowflakes that glittered mid-air. You crouched beside them, smile wide, showing them how to hold their wands steady and how to whisper the incantation with just the right breath.

“You don’t force it,” you said, guiding one small hand with your own. “You invite the magic.”

The snowflake burst from her wand—delicate, shimmering, perfect.

She squealed. The other kids cheered. And just like that—you laughed.

Loud.

Joyful.

Unburdened.

It echoed off the castle walls.

And nearly everyone nearby stopped.

Across the courtyard, Theodore looked up from where he stood under the arches. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even smile.

But his eyes lit up.

As if the stars had returned to the sky.

That night, you returned to the Astronomy Tower.

With Theodore beside you.

He let you ramble about Sirius and Rigel and the lifespan of red giants. He nodded, absorbing every word, even repeating one or two back when you forgot where you left off. He pulled his cloak tighter around your shoulders when the wind picked up and didn’t say a thing when you leaned against him—quiet, content, finally at peace.

And before either of you could fall asleep, you pulled out your old Polaroid camera and snapped a photo of him, eyes closed, mouth parted, asleep beneath the stars.

The camera clicked softly.

And you stared at the photo as it developed—Theodore’s face framed by constellations.

You smiled.

And whispered, “Perfect.”

The school was right.

Hogwarts had missed you.

Its portraits missed your daily waves. The ghosts missed your “good mornings.” The professors missed your endless questions. The halls missed the echo of your laughter. The students missed the quiet kindness you offered like it cost you nothing.

And now, with every word, every smile, every act of warmth—

They got it all back.

You weren’t just returning to yourself.

You were healing.

You were whole.

You were still the same boy who kissed stars into the air with his voice and brought life to even the coldest corners of the castle.

Y/N L/N—the boy who remembered every portrait’s name, who stayed after class to help clean cauldrons, who corrected professors gently and helped students kindly—Hogwarts’ brightest star—had returned.

BONUS SCENE.

The fire had burned low, crackling softly and casting flickering golden light across the Gryffindor common room floor.

It was well past curfew. The castle slept. But you didn’t.

You were curled on Theodore’s lap, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, face tucked into the crook of it like you were trying to mold yourself into him. His back was pressed against the base of the couch, legs stretched out across the floor. Your entire body was clinging to him—like if you let go, he’d slip away into smoke and shadows.

“You’re still worried I’ll vanish, huh?” he whispered, barely a breath.

You mumbled something incomprehensible into his neck. Maybe his name. Maybe “don’t leave.”

Theodore tightened his hold instantly.

“Not going anywhere,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss on top of your head. “I swear."

You sighed against his throat, finally shifting just enough to nuzzle deeper into the hollow of his shoulder. Your arms looped tighter. You were completely wrapped around him like he was gravity and you were scared of floating away.

And Theodore?

He’d sit like this forever if you wanted.

A sudden click echoed across the room.

He flinched slightly, just as a soft flash lit up the space.

You stirred groggily.

Theodore slowly turned his head—and there was Harry Potter, standing near the staircase, holding your beloved Polaroid camera like it was Excalibur. A smug grin was plastered on his face. Hermione stood beside him with both hands pressed to her mouth, visibly vibrating from the sheer adorableness of it all.

“Oh my Merlin,” she gasped in a whisper-shriek. “I can’t—it’s—it’s too precious!”

“Potter,” Theodore said flatly, not bothering to move. “Why do you have his camera?”

Harry just shrugged, shaking the developed photo between his fingers. “Maybe I borrowed it. Maybe I saw the two of you snuggling like sappy lovebirds and thought, this is going in the scrapbook.”

“Give me that—” Theodore reached, but Harry danced back, holding the picture out of reach.

“Too late. It’s canon now,” he grinned, backing toward the stairs.

Hermione lingered just a second longer, eyes soft, practically squealing. “He looks so safe with you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Theo.”

Theodore blinked. He wasn't used to people thanking him like that. Not fondly.

He looked down at you again—your lips slightly parted, your arms still clinging, one leg tucked around his waist as if to anchor yourself. Your hair was mussed. Your brow relaxed. You looked like you belonged there.

You did.

He ran his fingers through your hair again, slower this time.

"You're safe," he whispered, for you and for himself. "I’ve got you."

The fire crackled.

The camera whirred again—Harry, upstairs now, clearly taking another shot through the stair rails before disappearing upstairs with Ron and Hermione following him from behind, their laughs fading.

Theodore groaned but didn’t bother moving you. He just kissed your temple, rested his head back against the couch, and whispered.

“Sleep, starboy. Let them take their stupid photos. I’m not letting go.”

Not tonight.

Not ever.

He stayed like that.

All night.

Holding his brightest star.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

mistletoe

a/n: thanks for helping me distract myself from everything that's happened these past few weeks ৎ୭

polls for the story: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

summary: while spending the holidays for the first time with your boyfriend’s family, you and his stepfather finally snap and a romance ensues. 

warnings:  boyfriend's stepdad!bucky barnes x reader x peter parker, smut, christmas stuff, major age gap (y/n is a uni student and bucky is in his 40-50's), college au, forbidden romance, cheating, established relationship, bucky has a tattoo sleeve instead of the metal arm, lawyer!bucky, dubcon, the classic "stuck under the bed" trope, clothed x naked, polyamory, threesome, kissing, dirty talk, public sex, manhandling, size kink, belly bulge, spit kink, masturbation, mutual masturbation, oral, fingering, multiple orgasms, bondage, blindfold, pussyjob, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie

word count: 8687

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When you five minutes earlier had snatched up the spare key hidden in the flowerpot on the frosty front porch of your boyfriend’s house, the last thing you’d expected to happen next, once you’d tip-toed inside the vacant abode, was the unfortunate entanglement you found yourself in presently.

Trotting up to Peter’s room, not long passed after you’d set down your bag, your mind scrambling for the best spot to plant yourself in to pose perfectly for the surprise you were about to spring on him, that the phone in your palm tumbled out of your grasp and in the hectic flickering that crackled through your senses, your foot accidentally bumped against the device and sent it soaring under the bed that stood in the middle of the room. 

Through the grumbles that swiftly flowed from your lips, you sank down to your knees on the hardwood and twisted your head downward to grant you the perspective needed to spot the still glowing screen in the dusty darkness. 

Soon half of your body had disappeared beneath the bed as you stretched an arm up as high as your reach would let you, though as the tip of your tongue peaked out past your lips and you tried to squeeze yourself further into the dark, only a whisper of your touch managed to graze against the phone’s smooth edge. 

However, when the bright idea hit you to try and find a long item to help you scoop it closer to you, a sharp sting of resistance met your scalp as you reeled to try and crawl back out. 

“Fuck!” you hissed as your right hand soared up to the clump of hair at the crown of your head that had somehow gotten snagged on the underside of the bed frame. 

As you continued to yank and tug without prevail, dread slowly began to settle within your being before a creak suddenly found your ears and washed away some of the flickering panic. 

“Oh, thank god you’re here!” you squeaked from under the bed at the person in the doorway, presumably the guy whose bed you were trapped under, “baby, I–,” an airy giggle couldn’t help but seep out and filter through your sentence as you said, “this isn’t how it was supposed to go, I was gonna lay down on your bed or something, all dramatically, and surprise you, but now none of that matters because I’m stuck,” you laughed at your pitiful situation, your bottom barely covered in your short skirt as it wiggled up at him, “Peter, please, just help me out. I wanna kiss you, I haven’t seen you in two months.”

Though your boyfriend didn’t utter a word as the floorboard groaned beneath each of his steps, slowly crossing the room till you felt his presence behind you.

“It’s my hair,” you muttered, your hand still curled up by your head, “I don’t know if there’s like a nail or whatever’s going on under here, but it’s caught on something, and I can’t get it free.”

Gently, you felt his hand reach under the bed till it was gliding up the back of your neck. Slipping your fingers down to his, the skin felt much more rough and calloused than you remembered, though you swiftly shrugged that observation off as you guided his touch up to the imprisoned strand. 

As he attempted to break you free, his body couldn’t help but slope down against yours in order to reach your hair, and as you unconsciously wiggled beneath him at every futile attempt, you felt a hardness begin to grow and press up against your ass. 

A giggle couldn’t help but slip from your lips as you noticed, “aw, baby. I’ve missed you too,” you rolled your hips and offered him a purposeful grind, “you just gotta get me out of here and then I’ll let you do whatever you want to me… promise…”

But as soon as you’d intentionally rocked back against him, his grasp in your hair began to slacken and melt away till he let his touch travel down the slope of your spine, ghosting across your curves till his fingertips tickled along the bottom hem of your skirt. 

His warmth then disappeared from your frame as he sat back further behind you. Ever since you left your dorm room this morning, an excited spot bloomed and decorated your panties in anticipation of your sinful schemes, though now, hours later, the soaked patch that adorned the cotton that poked out from under your skirt, completely visible to the man behind you, had grown to a nearly embarrassing declaration of your desperation.

Slowly and almost hesitantly, he let his touch ghost over your covered core, catching you off guard by the tickling gentleness that your boyfriend hadn’t had to initiate with for the longest time as you’d both grown too comfortable with each other not to simply be bold in your actions, but this felt as if he was touching you for the very first time, as if he thought you were made of the purest porcelain. 

A heavy breath shuttered out of your frame as his light touch grazed over your covered core, slowly swiping up and down the drenched gusset. Eyes fluttering shut, you quietly joked, “you watch too much porn,” your words came out sounding hazy as the cliché fantasy got to you too, “if you really want to reenact this genre, then I’d much rather do the version with a washing machine and then just pretend that I’m stuck in there, that’s a much less dusty version, plus I wouldn’t actually be trapped.”

But as his tentative touch kept up, you couldn’t help but tilt back into it and feel yourself sink further into the ecstasy.

Soon his fingers hooked in the sliver of cotton as he tugged the gusset to the side, glistening strings of your want clinging to the fabric as he exposed your cunt to him, and as then his touch brushed over you without any barrier to dull the sensation, a breathy moan tumbled out of your lungs. 

Lightly, he rolled your puffy pearl beneath the rough pads of his fingers, the slick sounds of your nectar sloshing and echoing throughout the bedroom as he tickled at your core. 

And when his digits stopped resisting the tempting twitch of your entrance and they plugged it up so perfectly it made your toes curl, you soon found yourself moving even more desperately than his own efforts caressed you as you fucked yourself back onto his fingers in a rock so erratic that the movements ended up being your saving grace as your lock of hair pulled free. 

A dizzy smile found your lips as you finally regained the ability to shift your head without an excruciating sting ripping at your scalp. Though just before you reached your peak, you twisted your head to glance back over your shoulder. Your eyes swiftly widened and your efforts ceased as the man whose fingers were making your drooling pussy sing wasn’t who you had assumed. 

“O-oh fuck!” you quickly scrambled out from under the bed and jolted away out of pure shock as you came face to face with your boyfriend’s stepdad, “Mr Barnes!”

But just as his lips hesitantly parted in a reply, the front door downstairs slammed and caused you to shoot up to your feet, Bucky rising as well. With your chest heaving in your hazy periphery, you could barely think before your palms began to shove at the older man’s broad frame, till he crossed the threshold of the bedroom and his feet began to carry him the rest of the way down the hall till you watched from the doorway as he disappeared into a different room. 

And with the soft click of that door closing behind him, the creaking on the grand staircase suddenly ceased and your eyes snapped over to find Peter frozen at the top step. 

“Oh my god, babe!” he exclaimed, a wide grin swiftly warming up his features, “what are you doing here?” his feet shuffled towards you before his arms enclosed around your form, “why aren’t you at school? I thought you had exams till next Friday.”

Still in shock as you felt your pussy leak down your thighs, “I managed to get done early,” you tried to mirror your boyfriend’s smile as he pulled back to look at you, “surprise!” 

When you last year had found yourself a little internship at the most prestigious law firm in town, it hadn’t come as a surprise to you just how many of the middle-aged men working there shamelessly flirted with you as you brought them their coffees. However, what you hadn’t expected in the slightest was Mr Barnes. 

Though his attempts were much more subtle than the rest, they in no way had the same effect on you as they didn’t make you squirm as the others did, but instead every time you tip-toed past his corner office and he so much as offered you a glance, you felt yourself spiral into a blushing mess and morphed into nothing short of a flustered schoolgirl.

Numerous scorching trays of coffee were nearly dropped, sentences embarrassingly stumbled through, as well as many other minor casualties in the carnage created when the lawyer would flash you a rare smile. 

But when December rolled around, and you found yourself at the annual holiday party, you should have looked up when you sauntered up to him to wish him a merry Christmas, as the dried twig of mistletoe above was swiftly made more than apparent to the both of you as every inebriated colleague surrounding you both grew rowdy, pressuring you till your lips met one another. 

The kiss may have begun as forced and hesitant, but soon it morphed into something much stronger than anything they served at the open bar, causing you both to forget your own names as the buzzing party from around you melted away till it was just the two of you in the office. As the heated kiss broke and you remained incredibly close, blinking back at one another, a heavenly curve found your lips as he gazed down upon you as if he was mere moments away from tossing you over his shoulder and hauling you into his office to have his way with you, not caring one bit about the lack of privacy the fronted glass provided. 

But just as your heart swelled in your chest, rumbles in the crowd swiftly broke it into a million tiny little pieces.

“Oh damn! Interns, they’re trouble. Just don’t tell your wife, Barnes! I know you’re new to that whole concept, what–, has it already been a whole month since the wedding?” 

“Yeah, here’s a lesson for you,” a different man shouted through his laugh, “what happens at the office, stays at the office! Not really a good idea to take the fun and games back home to the missus.”

You almost quit a whole month before the opportunity was supposed to come to an end but couldn’t, as the mere thought of not seeing his face every day any longer somehow shattered your heart even further. 

But one day, as you felt yourself drowning in the torture, Peter, a guy close to your own age showed up in the lobby, waiting for someone he knew at the firm. As his wait drew out and the minutes neared an hour, every ounce of his attention remained glued upon you. In an effort to mend your own heart, you decided that flirting back with him wasn’t the worst method to test out. However, it wasn’t till you began to move on and you actually fell for the sweet guy from the lobby that your world came crumbling down around you. 

The first time that Peter had invited you back to his home, as soon as you walked through the door, the truth of the relation between your newly minted boyfriend and the man, who at that time hadn’t been your boss any longer for a few weeks, was instead tossed in your face like a bucket of ice water. 

Mr Barnes turned out to be the rich asshole Peter’s mom had fallen for earlier that year, the one he often couldn’t hold his own tongue to grumble about as he hadn’t yet warmed up to the new father figure in his life. 

And that was how you got stuck in the bittersweet reality you now lived in. There was no way you could end things with Peter as he was the most wonderful boyfriend you’d ever had and whom you’d genuinely grown to love. But that wasn’t the only reason why you couldn’t do it, since if you were to let him go, then you would also have to let go of Mr Barnes, even if he was just a harrowing haunting of a hopeless dream. 

The house was completely silent as every soul within it slumbered, everyone except for you as plain beige wrapping paper crackled gently beneath the silk bow you tightened over it. You’d slipped into an office, that stood on the opposite side of the upstairs to where the cluster of bedrooms were, to secretly wrap up the handful of gifts you’d hidden at the very bottom of the bag you’d brought with you.

Though just as you sliced a pair of scissors through the paper to cut off a piece for the last present, a small bump suddenly echoed throughout the dark home. 

Getting up from your makeshift workstation on the floor, you peeked out into the dim hallway. Your slow steps caused the floorboards to groan as you took a look around, even casting a glance down the staircase to the entryway that bloomed below, before the noise found your ears once more, snapping your attention to somewhere deeper down one of the shadowy corridors.

Your heart thumped in your chest as you crept closer to the latch you now noticed was open. Ladder unfurled, the abyss of the attic loomed above you and sent a shiver down your spine. 

But then as a broad figure suddenly appeared in the opening, you couldn’t help but let out a shuttering yelp, even after you’d recognised the man whom your sudden shriek startled. 

“Mr Barnes!” your palm soared up to your pounding heart, “I thought you were a ghost or a burglar or something! What in the world are you doing up there?”

Ascending the ladder, you noticed the heavy box he balanced in his arms, “I was just getting some decorations for the tree,” he huffed as you caught your breath, reminding you of the still bare pine tree that stood down in the living room. 

“Right, I forgot that’s the plan for tomorrow,” you murmured as you spun around on your heel. Though as you entered the office once more, a glance over your shoulder led you to discover his shadow, “what are you doing?” you asked in a small voice as he followed you into the room. 

“This is my study,” he tilted his head as if that was common knowledge. 

“Oh,” you breathed, “I didn’t know,” and glanced down at the gifts you’d left on the floor, “sorry, I’ll go somewhere else.”

But just as you bent down to gather up your supplies, his deep voice crackled from behind you, “no need, make yourself at home,” he sat down the box before rummaging through it, taking out a few of the delicate ornaments before only tangles of twinkle lights were visible in the container, “I’ll only be a second.” 

Kneeling down beside the electrical socket closet to the door, he then began to check all of the lights, one by one, making sure none of the tiny bulbs were dead. 

And as you returned your hazy attention to the last of your remaining gifts, Mr Barnes then once again filled the silent office with his low tone, “…look, I–…” he hesitantly started, keeping his ocean stare glued to the ground, “you deserve an apology,” he exhaled heavily, “I don’t know what came over me earlier. It was wrong, completely inappropriate, and I can’t believe I let it happen.”

Blinking up at him as he refused to lift his gaze, a quiet, “oh…” shuttered out past your lips as his apology only broke your heart further. It, of course, hadn’t been ideal the way that he’d taken advantage of the unfortunate situation he’d found you in, but that doesn’t mean it hadn’t been a dream come true for you, complicated as it may have been. 

“Kiddo,” he sighed, “I understand completely if you don’t wanna spend Christmas here anymore. You just say the word, and I’ll make the arrangements for you to go back home.”

“Is that what you want?” you heard yourself utter, “for me to go?” 

Finally meeting your gaze, a crinkle found his dark brows, “…what I want can only cause harm…”

As you lost yourself in the ocean of his blue eyes, you whispered almost dreamily, “…do you still remember?” you felt your lips tingle at the memory as you slowly rose back up to your feet, “because up till today I had convinced myself that you were too drunk that night to recall…”

Shifting his gaze, Bucky then let out an exhale, “kid…” the single syllable carrying a gentle whisp of warning. 

“Or is it just normal for you to kiss interns under the mistletoe,” you couldn’t help but go on, “especially like that?”

“No,” he finally murmured as his head found a slow rock from side to side, “it isn’t,” though swiftly met your stare to caution, “and I’d hold my tongue if I were you before you say something that you shouldn’t.”

“Like what?” you breathed, “the truth?” 

“Stop,” he squeezed his eyes shut as his head faintly shook, “you’re my stepson’s girlfriend.”

“That’s true…” you averted your gaze to where your fingers were fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, “but he wasn’t the one that I fell for first… the one that I still can’t seem to get over…”

Your eyes then found one another for a split moment, locking with each other for a single breath before Bucky’s feet began to shift and he crossed the room. Catching your face in his wide palms, he then crashed his lips against your own. 

Your heels instinctively levitated off the ground, lifting you up closer to his towering height as he kissed you like he’d just come home from some mystical war. 

A sigh softly seeped out of your nose and tickled the grey that speckled his beard as you felt his starved tongue silkily sweep against your own. 

But just as the intoxicating taste of him weakened your knees, he tilted his chin and cut the kiss short. Blinking up at him as he kept your jaw in his grasp, you breathed, “Mr Barnes–”

“What the fuck am I doing–,” a faint whisper seeped through his sigh, “I’m going to hell for this…”

“So then stop,” the sound of your small voice beckoned his gaze to find your own, “if you don’t want me the way that I want you,” your fingers tangled in his tie, “just stop and go back to bed with your wife…”

“…I didn’t–…” he hesitantly began, “I didn’t expect to meet someone like you, especially not right after I’d gotten married,” his eyes stayed locked with your own, “I thought I’d finally figured it all out, and then there you were, all fresh-faced, sticking out like a sore thumb among all the suits…” the corner of his lips briefly twitched into a faint smile at the memory, “you turned my world upside down,” his fingers on the side of your face flexed gently as he uttered that declaration, “after you stopped working there, I–… I damn near almost quit myself… but then Peter brought back his new girl, and seeing you again, even if it was just a glimpse every once and a while, it was like I could breathe again.” 

Blinking up at him, dizzy from his honied words, your fingers tangled in his tie, then tightened, and you tugged him far enough down for your lips to lock once again.

Swiftly, his feet began to absentmindedly shuffle till your hips bumped into the edge of the polished desk that stood in the middle of the office. The bundle of forgotten Christmas lights were still glowing on the floor by the ajar door as your boyfriend’s stepfather let his broad hands scoop down over your body and pluck you up to sit on the table. 

It was the hold that you still had around the silky accessory knotted around his neck that caused him to slot in between your parted thighs, just a little tug was all it took for your knees to be needily grazing against his sides. Pulling on the tie, your lips didn’t stray from one another’s for but a moment as you undid the knot, let the fabric slip out from under his collar and tumble down onto the floor below. 

Though when his smouldering touches finally came to ignite against the softness of your tits through your sweater, a whimper tumbled out of your lungs and melted against his tongue, only narrowly getting muffled by his kiss as the sound threatened to fill up the entire room.  

“Shh,” he barely withdrew to hush, only tilted his head to catch a different angle before he dove back into your sweetness. 

“Sorry,” your murmur swiftly got swallowed by his pecks. 

But when his hands continued to rake across your form, making you feel like a flicking star that shot across the night sky, as his grip came down to dent your ass, it wasn’t just a soft whine that crawled up your throat, but a full on moan, as the manner he’d squeezed your curve had sent a tingling bolt straight to your throbbing clit. 

“You gotta be quiet.” 

“Shit,” you cursed as you heard it yourself, “sorry, sorry.”

This time you truly did try to keep your mouth shut, consciously biting your tongue as his burning hands nearly singed the clothes from your frame, but when his palm eventually snuck up the short hem of your skirt and slipped off the soaked panties that clung to your core, the sound that forced its way out of your body when his touch finally grazed through your dripping folds echoed into the night. 

And as soon as the moan tumbled off your lips, Bucky’s hand rapidly vanished from between your quaking thighs as he took a large step back. 

“You’re killing me here,” he groaned as he reached the opposite side of the room to plant his inked palm against the open door, shutting it as he leaned his weight into it, “you’ll wake up the whole house,” the fingers still clutching your underwear caught the lock and flicked it to the side. 

“I’m sorry,” you dug your nails into the polished wood you were balanced on, “I swear I’m trying to be quiet, I really am.”

“Well, not good enough,” he glanced back over his shoulder at where you sat before his vision flickered down to land upon the ribbon only half tied around the last of the presents you’d wrapped. His expression then softened as he slowly picked his stride up once more, “…but, I think I might be able to help…” on his way to where you were seated, he bent down to snatch up the loose strand still not fastened around the wrapped box, and when he stood before you once again, Bucky’s gaze fluttered to your mouth as he then uttered, “open up,” before you parted your lips for him. Your eyes swiftly grew as he first fed you the cotton of your panties before he wrapped the emerald silk ribbon around the stuffed opening and tied it off at the back of your head, “there,” he purred as he pulled on the small bow at the nape of your neck, “that’ll shut you up. Now where were we? Right! It was somewhere around here,” his word was emphasised by his touch as it slipped back up under your skirt, though this time when the broad pads of his fingers slipped through your glistening petals, your purrs were completely muffled against the makeshift gag. 

As his touch tickled at your core and caused your legs to quiver at either side of him, his face stayed close to your own, nose denting your hot cheek as his breath fanned against your skin. He even stayed that close as he began to strip you of your clothing, tossing it all to the floor till you were sitting before him wearing nothing but the bow he’d tied himself to keep you quiet.

Though as you shifted to mirror his actions, he stopped you just as you caught onto the zipper of his pants. 

“Na-ah-ah, kid,” he backed up just enough for the palpable tent in his trousers to disappear from your palm’s reach, “keep your hands to yourself. Be good, and then you’ll get your present.”

However, his whispered warning didn’t sink into your senses enough as barely any time passed before you stopped fighting the urge to touch him again. 

“What,” his chuckle washed over you as he captured your gaze, “don’t tell me you need to be tied up too?”

That notion sent a shiver down your spine before a smile poked out behind your gag as you playfully shrugged, your apparent approval causing Bucky’s light laugh to reappear in a second wave. 

Spinning around, the older man before you then grabbed the cord of glowing lights on the floor before stringing it along to where you were planted. First, he wrapped the vibrant strand of tiny bulbs around your wrists, tying them together in front of your body, before he tangled the remainder of the length around your torso, over your arms and all the way down to your waist. 

As he took a step back to admire his handiwork, that’s when he finally freed his dick, letting it spring forth from his pants as his stare licked up your bound visage. The strokes he swiftly offered himself were long and slow, making you press your thighs together as you watched, a yearnful whine vibrating against the cotton stuffing up your mouth. 

“Aw, do you want my cock?” he mocked as your constricted fingers instinctively tried to reach out for him. Closing the gap between you once again, with one hand, he scooped you closer to both the edge as well as the throbbing girth heavy in his palm, “you want this dick, huh?” he smirked before brushing the bulbous head through the drooling mess between your thighs. 

Your eyes fluttered as he nuzzled his hardness against your buzzing clit, though he somehow kept your stare captured in the intenseness of his own as he dragged the tip through your petals, making them part for him. It seemed like ages that he went between teasing your leaky entrance to sweeping up and flicking at your puffy pearl, though gradually each time he’d near your little hole, crying out for him to sink into, he dipped inside just a tiny bit, each time granting you more of his length till his heavy balls were nuzzled against your slick skin. 

His lips pressed against your cheek, kissing it softly as his girth split you open. A slick symphony echoed throughout the room each time his hips slammed against your own, and as your own cries were hushed, it was only the sinful sound of that, as well as Mr Barnes’ heavy breath and the occasional suppressed groans, that filled the office and lulled you into nothing short of a trance. 

With Bucky’s left hand that he had weaved into a clutch at the twinkle lights tangled at your front, the colourful glow illuminated the dark tattoos that marked up the back of it and caught your hazy gaze as he then tipped you over and layed you back down against the desk, his ruthless rhythm never faulting for a second. 

And as you layed there before him, the both of you creeping ever near to that inevitable end, you watched as his eyes drifted down your frame. From where the string of lights squished against the softness of your boobs, to where he spread your thighs apart further, letting him spot just how perfectly his fat girth sank into you, till finally settling on the dull bulge just above your glistening pussy. The imprint of his daunting size rocking within you, illuminated just sufficiently enough by the string of glimmering lights for his eyes to spot, bloomed a bright grin on his features and caused his hips to snap, feverously slamming his cock so deep inside of you that the tightly wound coil within you had no other choice but just to let go in a burst of vibrant hues. 

Once his length was throbbing inside of you and pumping you full of his cum, breathlessly he removed the gag, though barely let you fill your lungs with air before he locked his lips against your own, both of your smiles blurring the kiss with giggles as you made out sweetly. 

As Peter’s figure appeared behind you in the doorway to the little bathroom that shot off his room, his frame abrupted the bright morning light that streamed in through the window. 

Still only clad in a borrowed shirt, the hem rose up as you bent down over the sink to spit out the toothpaste foaming in your mouth, but just as you did, a quiet click revealed your boyfriend’s presence behind you. 

Peeking over your shoulder, you spotted the Polaroid camera, that you’d remembered to bring from your dorm room, firm in his grasp. 

“What are you doing?” you muttered as you rinsed off your toothbrush. 

“Just growing my collection,” he smiled, leaning against the doorframe as he wafted the small photo the camera had spit out. 

“Hey, I brought that for capturing memories,” you snatched it back as you passed him, “not using all the film for nudes,” before bending down and stuffing it back into your bag. 

The lump of guilt that ached in your chest nearly persuaded you to spill everything to Peter long before you both got dressed and descended the stairs. 

Should you even tell him what had happened and hope for the best or had you just backed yourself into a corner so impossible that you had no other choice but to break things off with him? If that truly was so, then you couldn’t do it yet, not now, at least wait until January if that was the only option. 

Though as soon as you both entered the kitchen, the visage of Bucky fiddling with the coffee machine caused the unbearable knot to slowly melt away the longer that you gazed at him. 

“Hi Honey,” Peter’s mother came sauntering in from the dining room and flashed her son a smile before diving into a drawer for some cutlery on her mission to set up the breakfast table, “did you two sleep well last night?” 

“Yeah, I was out like a light,” your boyfriend uttered before his glance flickered to you, “this one however didn’t come to bed till really late.”

“Oh, did you have trouble falling asleep?” his mom found your eye. 

“Uhm, no,” your glance momentarily flickered to the broad back before the coffee machine, “I just–, uh, I was wrapping presents. Hope it’s okay that I borrowed some paper and stuff.”

“Of course,” she smiled, “if you want a caffeine boost, there’s a fresh pot of coffee,” and nodded in the direction of her husband, “and the mugs are up there.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m actually more of a tea drinker.”

“Well, we have some of that as well,” she tilted her head before crossing into the dining room once again, “take a look in the pantry.” 

Slipping down the narrow path between the central kitchen island and the line of counters, your body brushed against Bucky’s as you passed before crossing into the small storage room. Though as your gaze scanned the stocked shelves before you, a crinkle found your brow. 

“Wait, where is it?” your quiet voice seeped out of the pantry. 

“Up over the shelf where the cans are,” Peter tried to guide you before his stepfather shot him a glance. 

“I’ll help,” he murmured, “she’s probably too short to reach it anyway.”

You didn’t even have to peek over your shoulder to find out he was there as just the warmth of his presence radiating off of him was enough to cause your eyes to flutter closed and your lungs to be filled with a deep breath. Though when he pressed his wide frame against your spine, his low exhale seeping into your soul, a dull throb between your thighs bloomed as an underlying beat to his palms he then let glide over your waist before one shot up to tilt your chin and he craned his neck to plant a kiss to your lips. 

“Did you find it?” Peter’s voice from on the other side of the thin wall caused you to fumble away from his stepdad, nearly knocking over half the contents on one of the shelves at the jolt. 

“Yep! Yeah!” you squeaked, scrambling before Bucky reached above you, plucked a small box off a shelf, and placed the random tea in your fumbling hands, “I’ve–, uhm, yeah!” before you shuffled back out into the kitchen, “water, water…” you murmured as your eyes scanned the space. 

“Over there,” your boyfriend nodded to the electric kettle in the corner before he carried the stack of plates in his hands into the dining room. 

And as you boiled the water and brewed the tea, every chance Mr Barnes got to follow his heart, he grasped with both of his fists. If the others had momentarily stepped out of the room, or even if they’d just turned to face away, there he was at your side, suddenly much closer than what was appropriate for a parental figure of one’s partner to be. If he had the time, his touch would sneak down to tickle you over your clothes, or occasionally his lips would even find your neck and make you too dizzy to even care how risky his behaviour was.  

It even continued long after you’d joined the rest at the dining table as the last two seats remaining were slotted right next to one another, though this time, now that he had the table as a cover, the cocky bastard let his hand grow even more daring than before. 

When his touch teasingly travelled up your thigh before boldly darting straight to his goal and making you nearly choke on your herbal tea as he pressed down on the seam of your jeans, rubbing your throbbing clit through the rough fabric.

“Are you alright?” Peter’s mother cut off what she’d been blabbering about as you almost spit out the hot beverage. 

“Mhm,” you hastily nodded, attempting to keep a straight face as Bucky’s inked fingers kept up their bullying between your thighs, “just burned my tongue,” the mug met the table in a soft thunk, “I’m fine,” you breathed shakily and kept your gaze glued to the piece of toast on the plate before you. 

“Oh, well, blow on it next time,” she said before returning to the topic the secrets beneath the breakfast table had interrupted, “so, what do we think,” she sank her fork into a piece of orange, “should we head off to the Christmas market today or do that a different day?” 

The scent of warm spices wafted through the air from the cluster of booths, selling every scrumptious festive treat imaginable, right next to the windy entrance to a pen where children could ride some sturdy ponies from a local farm. 

“What if we all split up for a while?” Peter’s mother suggested as you all eyed the handcrafted goods displayed by the many snow-dusted stalls, “I know I may or may not have already spotted a few things I wanna buy in secret.”

“Good idea,” your boyfriend nodded as he let go of your mitten-clad hand, “should we meet back here in, what–, half an hour?” he gestured up to the grand Christmas tree, glowing in the centre of the market. 

“Sure,” Bucky’s voice rumbled, “then we can grab a bite afterwards.”

His stolen touches hadn’t become less bold after you’d left the house. From purposefully letting his palm graze against your boob when he’d helped you reach for your seatbelt in the car, to the numerous times at the market he’d yanked you around the corner of a rustic booth to steal a kiss. 

“You know,” Bucky’s voice suddenly tickled the shell of your ear as he found you standing before the line of small children, all waiting for a chance to meet the market’s Santa, “when I get you alone,” he whispered as your eyes lingered on the elderly man in the distance, all clad in red, “you can sit down on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas…”

“Oh yeah?” the corners of your lips tipped up into a smile, “will you also ask me if I’ve been naughty or nice?”

“Well, I already know the answer to that,” he chuckled before twisting you around to face him. 

The gentle giggle that billowed out from your lungs was swiftly silenced as the older man bent down to press a kiss to your lips. 

“Wait,” you suddenly pushed him back as the exposed nature of where you stood sank in, “not here,” and your eyes swiftly darted around the crowd in hopes that they wouldn’t land on anyone you knew, “someone might see.”

Snatching up his hand, you then tugged him with you as you crossed over the small square. Passing by a small ice-skating rink, your snow-crunching steps eventually led you into the maze-like wonder that was the Christmas tree lot. 

Soon, the make-out that blossomed between the dense pines snowballed into you on your knees, on the cold and needle-covered ground, with Bucky’s girth twitching in your grasp as you tilted your head to plant a sloppy trail of pecks down his heavy balls. 

If he hadn’t riled you up all morning, then you probably wouldn’t have desperately kneeled down before him in the middle of a crowded space, just because he’d made your brain melt so fiercely that your mouth itched to be used. That or perhaps you would still have found your way here on your own if he hadn’t given you a push, after all, it had been you who had simply told him to be on lookout before you snatched off one mitten, sank down in front of him and, without any further warning, freed his fat cock. 

As you let go of his sack with a pop, before you could crane back up to swallow his length, Bucky briefly bent down to steal a sloppy kiss before letting you get back to it, though when he broke the peck, a string of saliva keeping you connected a moment as he straightened back up, a soft frown tainted your features as you blinked up at him. 

“You stole all my spit,” you pouted as his lavish tongue had managed to lick up most of the gathered slickness you’d wished to glisten up his dick with. 

“Sorry,” a soft chuckle rumbled within his broad chest as he bowed down to grasp your chin. Prying your lips apart, he then let a dollop of his own saliva drop down and land upon your silky tongue. 

A gentle smile tugged at your lips as they wrapped around his thick girth. Marvelling up at him as you found a playful pace, he only granted himself a rare peek between his neck twisting from side to side, vigilantly keeping an eye out as you sucked him off. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as your drool gurgled up your bobbing. Lips ever parted, his fingers sneaked down to tangle themselves in your hair, “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” he slowly brought your head back till only the tip stayed warm within your mouth, “though knowing you, you probably wouldn’t even pause if someone actually did wander this way,” a short hiss of pleasure flowed out of his lungs as your tongue silkily traced the bulbous head, “even if it was your little boyfriend, you’d probably just yank down his fly so you could choke on his cock as well…”

Squinting up at the dried orange slices strung up and decorating the living room window, you let out a contemplating hum before it morphed into an idea, “we could watch a movie?” 

“Ah,” Peter exhaled next to you on the couch, “I don’t know… what if we went for a walk? It just stopped snowing.”

“No, I don’t really have the energy left for that,” you shrugged, “plus it’ll be dark soon… I kinda just wanna take it easy the rest of today and eat as many of those cookies your mom’s baking while they’re still hot.” 

Glancing over his shoulder at the doorway leading into the kitchen, Peter then nodded, “alright, sure. We could put on some music or something.” 

“Uh!” an idea then stuck you and lit up your gaze, “and we could play a board game, or even better, do a jigsaw puzzle! Do you think you have one?” your body tilted a bit closer, “you have one, right?”

“I think we have more than one,” he cocked his head and got up from the couch, “how hard do you want it?”

“Pretty hard, but also not like impossible,” you breathed, “it would be nice if we finished it before the new year.”

“Alright, I’ll go find one,” his feet began to drag across the hardwood floor, “you go gather provisions. I think I just heard the timer in the kitchen go off.”

A gasp swiftly flowed out of you as you rushed to rise to your feet, “cookies!” before you darted along, leaving Peter to a soft chuckle as he went out into the entryway and popped open the large closet. 

Though as he slipped inside and shifted to switch on the lightbulb dangling above, near the top shelf that carried all of the games, his elbow collided with a few of the coats on the row of hangings off to the side, unfortunately knocking some of them to the ground. Among the casualties were both yours as well as Bucky’s, though when the jackets came tumbling down, a few items also came pouring out of the pockets. 

Glancing down at the polaroids at his feet, even though the backsides were staring up at him, Peter still assumed that they’d fallen out of your pocket. Plucking them up into his grasp, a smirk swiftly curved his lips as he flipped over the short stack to reveal the familiar visage of your nude form. And the deeper into the small pile he got, the more explicit they became. 

But when he reached one that captured you lying on your stomach and with your lips wrapped around a cock, the smile swiftly faded from his features as he caught sight of the hand that reached down from behind the camera to stroke your hair. His hand certainly didn’t have either a wedding ring nor a chillingly familiar tattooed pattern scrawled upon the skin. 

And as he shuffled the deck to reveal the last photo, his suspicions were confirmed as he was confronted with the visage of his stepfather railing you against the sink in the upstairs bathroom. The camera was in his one hand as he held your hazy gaze in the mirror, while the other one curved around to capture your tit, the soft peak decorated in droplets as you stuck out your tongue and let your drool drip down. 

And though confusion, rage and jealousy were the cocktail of emotions to first take over his body, the palpable tent in his jeans beckoned for his attention too and convinced him to take care of it, blindly pumping his dick till his load coated the photos in his palm. 

“Fuck…” he hissed as his stare stayed glued to the cum covered pictures, “…I guess I’ll need to have a little talk with my stepdad…”

“The whole house all to ourselves… however shall we pass the time?” 

Your giggle bounced off the kitchen tile as you hopped up to sit upon one of the counters, only moments after both Peter and his mother had driven off to do some last-minute holiday shopping. 

Leaning back against the kitchen island, Bucky crossed his arms over his burly chest and smiled, “I have a feeling that we’ll think of something to do.”

And that was how you ended up moaning on either sides of the kitchen. 

Though he only loosened his tie, popped open the first few buttons of his shirt and undid his belt to free his cock, you tore off everything except for the red lingerie your clothes unwrapped for him to see and led him to beg for the sheer mesh to stay clinging on your skin while you let your fingertips dip into the waistband. 

But before either of you could finish, the older man snatched you off the counter and hauled you into the living room. 

And as you both stood there, his arms around you keeping your dizzy form upright as he kissed you feverishly, his head then tilted back, a blooming smirk on his lips, before he uttered, “I have an idea…”

The idea in question involved his silky tie being secured over your eyes, a proposal you of course jumped at to outlive. 

Though as you stood there, one of your senses dulled as Bucky’s touch fluttered across your form, the smattering of pecks and caresses had you floating away to some far-off realm. In the blissful fog of it all, you lost track of his touch and swore on occasion that it didn’t add up, as sporadic kisses were planted in places not plausible from where you thought he stood, or his wide hands even seemed as if they weren’t just one pair. 

And as you tried to connect the dots, your fingers fluttered up to push the makeshift blindfold up to your forehead, and the visage that met your eyes promptly caused them to grow wide. 

“Peter!” you gasped as you came face to face with not only Bucky, but also your boyfriend, “I–, I–”

“Hey babe,” he simply breathed as both his own and his stepfather’s touch faded from your half-naked form. 

“Peter,” your heart hammered in your chest as tears began to blur your vision, “I am so so sorry. I–, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh yeah? So you’re not sneaking around with my stepdad behind my back?” he kept your gaze captured in his, “baby, it’s–,” a sigh broke up his sentence, “I was about to say that it’s alright, but–,” a dry chuckle then bubbled out of his throat as it obviously wasn’t okay, before he then shook his head and got to the point, “we had a little chat, Bucky and I.”

“…you did?” you finally shifted your glance and let it flicker to Mr Barnes. 

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, “we came up with a little arrangement so that we’d all get what we want.”

“So now all you gotta do is just tell the truth,” Peter’s fingers floated up to tug a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “did you just use me to get to him? Was anything about our relationship real?” he asked in a soft and sombre tone. 

“It was, it is,” you swore as you raised up your own palm to graze over his that still lingers by your jaw, “I may have lied to you about certain things, but my feelings for you were never one of them.”

“Okay…” your boyfriend’s head slowly began to rock in a nod. As he let you lace your fingers in with his own, another question left his lips, “so, do you think that heart of yours is big enough for the both of us?” 

Your vision then widened before it shifted between both of the men standing before you, “…are you suggesting–”

“Only if you want to,” Bucky tilted his head and awaited your answer. 

“I–,” you gasped as a grin slowly grew upon your lips, “oh my god!” and an uncontrollable laughter bubbled out of you. 

“Is that a yes?” Peter asked, his hand still in yours. 

“Yes! Yes, of course, it is!” you beamed before throwing your arms around him and crashing your lips against his own, only moments before you shifted to mirror the action with the older man still by your other side.

And as the kiss you pressed to Bucky’s lips stretched and drew out, it suddenly broke when he abruptly tossed you down to lay across the plush couch behind you. As he slotted in between your parted thighs and clutched the red mesh to the side in order to finally grant himself some of the sugar you’d teased him with moments before, your head sloped over the armrest before Peter appeared above you and bent down to claim your lips in a kiss to muffle the whine that flowed from them just as his stepdad stretched your open. 

Momentarily, Bucky plucked your hips up off the couch and drove them to meet his own, fucking you like a toy, before he let you drop back down and joined you on the sofa. 

And as the older man between your thighs spread them wider and granted himself the perfect view of how his staggering girth disappeared in your fluttering pussy, your boyfriend above you slid a hand under your head and tilted it closer to the length throbbing in his fist. 

Tapping his cock against your moan, it didn’t take long before he was buried in your mouth, each greedy thrust bringing him further down your throat till the imprint of his cock bulged in your neck. 

“That’s impressive,” Bucky commented on the way the younger man fucked your face, “why haven’t you shown me that party trick yet?” he hummed as Peter roughly yanked his dick back out and granted you the chance to catch your breath. 

Seizing the moment, Bucky flipped you around before your mouth could be filled once again, tossing you onto your knees and letting your forearms crash to the armrest, your head nearly falling face-first into Peter’s lap, lending him to catch you as he flashed the man behind you a grin, “you know that she does anal too, right?” 

A low groan then flowed from Bucky’s lungs as he let his broad thumb sweep across your little rosebud, “does she now…”

“Yep,” Peter grunted proudly, “she might even let us fuck both of her pretty holes at once if we’re real nice. She’s let me do that before with toys.”

“Of course she has,” Bucky chuckled lowly as he eased his fat cock back inside, “what do you say, kid? It is Christmas after all, I think we deserve something special.”

“I–, uhm,” you tried your best to answer him through the ecstasy they tossed you into, “sure.” 

“Attagirl,” Bucky croaked as his heavy balls tapped messily against your puffy pearl, “do you wanna pick who gets what honour?”

But before you could squeak out an answer, Peter instead uttered, “or we could make it a game, let you try and guess,” as his touch travelled up to tug at the blindfold still resting atop your brow. 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[inspectori]

Omg can we have the ‘was that a’ Drabble with more characters please🙈

(ofcc gotta feed yall 🙂‍↕️)

- WAS THAT A… PT.2 -

haikyuu x gn!reader

TSUKISHIMA

You straddle the back of his thighs, kneeling gently, your hands warm against his hoodie-clad back. He’s laying face down on your couch, arms folded under his chin, glasses off, eyes closed.

“This is stupid,” he mutters.

“You’re the one who asked,” you reply, grinning. “Now shut up.”

The first touch is easy, light. But once your fingers dig into his shoulder blades, you feel it — the tension packed tight like a spring.

“Hmph.” He grunts, barely.

Then your thumbs press deeper, right between his shoulder blade and spine, and the sound that comes out of him is not a grunt. It’s higher, softer—somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. He goes still.

“…That was an accident,” he grumbles.

“Uh-huh.” You press again.

“Ah—shit…” His breath catches, his hand twitching against the couch cushion.

You lean down, lips close to his ear. “You’re kinda sensitive, huh, Kei?”

He exhales through his nose like he’s trying very hard not to combust. “If you bring this up later, I swear—”

“You’ll what?” You press into a knot near the base of his neck and he whines—a sharp, breathy noise he didn’t mean to let out.

He covers his face with his arm immediately. “You are never allowed to tell anyone.”

“Deal,” you whisper. “But only if I get to hear that sound again.”

KUROO

“You sure you know what you’re doing back there?” he asks, smug and shirtless, sprawled out on your bed like it’s a magazine shoot.

“I told you my love, I’m good at this,” you say, climbing over his back. “Besides, you literally groaned last time.”

“I groaned in appreciation of your commitment,” he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes and start working on his lower back. The cockiness lasts about five seconds.

“Ngh—” It’s a low, drawn-out sound, almost a growl, except it quivers a little at the end.

“What was that?” you ask, pretending not to notice the way his fingers curl into the blanket.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just clearing my throat.”

Then you hit the top of his shoulder blades, and that is when it happens—a soft, strained noise, something caught between a gasp and a whimper. It slips out like he wasn’t ready for it.

“…Don’t say anything,” he mumbles into the pillow.

You grin. “Wasn’t gonna. But now I know what buttons to press.”

He lets out a long, shaky sigh, melting into the mattress like a cat in the sun. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You lean over and kiss the back of his neck. “Only if you keep sounding that pretty.”

ATSUMU

Atsumu rolls onto your bed dramatically, flinging an arm over his eyes. “Alright, ‘m ready for ya. Gimme your best.”

You climb up beside him, laugh already bubbling in your throat. “You say that like this is a challenge.”

He smirks. “It is a challenge. Betcha I won’t make a sound.”

You just hum, brushing your fingers across his bare shoulders, watching him relax… right before you press your thumbs into the knot beneath his collarbone.

“Ah—!” he jerks slightly, voice pitching high. “W-Wait—!”

“Oh?” you say sweetly. “What happened to not making a sound?”

“I wasn’t ready!” he huffs. “Ya ambushed me!”

“Mmhm.” You press deeper, and that’s when he whimpers. A real, breathy, broken sound—like the tension has been holding him hostage for weeks and you just cracked him open.

His cheeks go pink instantly. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that…”

“Like what?” you ask, innocent as ever. “Like I just made the number one setter make noises like that?”

“You’re evil,” he groans. “Evil and warm and too good at this…”

You chuckle, fingers still working slow circles into his back. “Flattery will get you more massage time.”

“…Okay but can ya go lower? My hips are tight too.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You gonna whimper again?”

He groans into the pillow. “Yer never lettin’ that go, huh?”

“Hell no.”

(made the reader more sassy bc i stan sassy and flirty readers 😼)

[theethighpriestess]

Light My Fire

Summary: Lyric engages in a bit of self-care to decompress from a stressful week, only to be interrupted by Stack and his insatiable appetite.

Suggested Listening(s): Chicago Boy x Ari Lennox, Speechless x Beyoncé

Pairing: Vampire!Stack x Black OC (Lyric Aucoin)

Warning(s): 18+, MDNI, This is porn with some plot sprinkled in

Word Count: 2K

A/N: I was randomly scrolling Tumblr last night and came across the above gif, which inspired the title. It's been a minute since I wrote some smut & ya know, sometimes you need to get ya soul snatched by a 130-year-old vampire. (Lyric, I'm living vicariously through you, girl!) There were a few girlies who asked to be tagged in my Heathens fic that I added here as well. I hope this holds y'all over until I finish that.

♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️

Needed some Ricolas, stepped in CVS

Saw you in the corner, I was lookin' a mess

You didn’t notice Jason was instigatin'

I wanna bring you closer, tired of waitin'

Tired of waitin’, ooh

The forgotten AI speaker plays faintly in the background. The Bondage Sex & Cheerios playlist featuring Ari Lennox’s sultry voice was the perfect soundtrack to Lyric’s current task. Breathy moans slip past her lips as her burgundy curls stick to the back of her neck, damp with sweat and satisfaction. The air is thick with heat and the heady sweetness of her latest fragrance obsession: KAYALI Sparkling Lychee. The scent of juicy lychee, sweet vanilla, and sugared amber clings to her skin like the satin sheets tangled around her thighs, a testament to the work she’d been putting her body through for the last 30 minutes.

She exhales deeply, her fingers gliding down her stomach like they had a map to a hidden treasure. She needed this. A recalibration after surviving another week of being the smartest bitch in every room she entered.

Monday had been back-to-back labs. Tuesday, a grown man had cried over a broken grow light like it was a dead pet. By Friday, she’d survived two pop-up dispensary events, a tense meeting with her supplier, and a DM from a Tinder fling that read simply: “you up?”

She was not then.

But now she was. Wide awake. Lit up from the inside out, toes curling and jaw slack. Her breathing syncs with the pulse in her ears. She doesn’t rush the finish. This is a slow burn. A drawn-out love letter to herself written in soft gasps and low whimpers.

Said listen, baby, I know that I'm speedin' up this vibe

Is you gon' judge me if I fuck you 'fore I catch this flight?

No freakin' worries, I just want to get you comfortable

I need you now, but I don't wanna get your feelings broke

Her latest sex toy haul had proven successful. She’d finally given in to temptation and purchased the viral rose toy she’d seen all over Twitter. Its soft petals press snug against her clit, gently suckling her pearl with deadly percision. Not too much, not too little. Just enough vibration and focus to make her thighs tremble and her toes curl. She squirms against the sheets, hips grinding ever so slightly, like her body was trying to meet the toy halfway. Every nerve in her body buzzes like static.

She was right there. So close she could taste it, feel it rising in her like a heatwave. Her stomach clenches. Her spine arches. Her thighs start to shake. And then…

Let me tell you ‘bout this

Super fly, dirty, dirty

Third coast muddy water

Shawty pop that pussy if you wanna

Alexa springs to life without warning, her chirpy tone slicing through the air like a blade. Lyric groans dramatically, regretting every life choice that led her to this moment. The bass to Big K.R.I.T.’s Country Shit thumps hard like it knew what she’d been doing seconds ago.

“Bitch,” she mutters, dragging the back of her hand across her flushed chest as she sits up. Her mound still aches, lips swollen and begging. Her fingers hover over the screen like it is a landmine, and like an idiot, she answers.

“Whaaaaat?” she whines, voice thick, breathy, and unbothered by the fact that she is still glistening between her thighs.

Stack’s face fills the screen, lips twisted in a smug smirk. The glow of the streetlights cast him in shadow, but she could still make out his outfit. Signature maroon hoodie, gold chain, and that eternal ‘fuck-you’ confidence only 93 years of immortality could breed.

“Well hello to you too, Sunshine.” His tone drips with faux annoyance. The sound of heavy boots echoes through her speakers. He’s walking, eyes still that deep violet, evidence that he’d just finished feeding. “What took you so long to answer the phone?”

“I was busy.”

His smirk deepens as he climbs the steps to her building, moving like the night bent around him.

“Doing what?”

“Why?” she screeches, sliding a hand between her thighs in an effort to discreetly finish her mission. It wasn’t discreet enough.

“Babygirl if you was playing wit ya pussy just say that,” he teases, silver fangs glistening in the moonlight.

Lyric rolls her eyes so hard they nearly get stuck. “Goodnight, Elias.” She hovers her thumb over the red button, eager to return to her unfinished masterpiece of self-care.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he laughs, voice crackling with heat. He could see it. Her pouty lips, barely-there robe, the look of irritation and arousal bleeding together on her face. His dick throbs in his jeans. This woman would be the death of him, and he was already undead.

“I wrote something,” he says quickly, walking faster now, determined. “I want your opinion.”

Lyric’s interest flickers, but barely. Her thighs shift as her hand inches toward her rose toy, pink and blinking like a tiny little haloed demon.

“Can it wait until morning?” she pouts, grabbing the toy like it was a lifeline. “I really need to finish this.”

“It’s a poem,” he says, now right outside her apartment. “And it ends with me tongue deep in your soul.”

Her thumb freezes. He couldn’t be. Goddamn him.

“If you’re at my door, knock once and shut up.”

“If?” he grins. Then, black. A second later. Knock. Once. Just like she’d instructed. She stares at the door, toy still humming in her hand. This man was about to ruin her night. Again. And she was going to let him. Because sometimes self-care means letting the vampire in.

–

Do you think of me when you touch yourself?

The question is barely audible, but Lyric heard it loud and clear. Echoing in the back of her psyche like a never-ending song. She wants to curse herself for being here in this moment, trapped in his powerful gaze once more. She watches almost helplessly as he stalks towards her, fangs twinkling in the dimly lit space. He’s since ditched the hoodie, allowing her to stare at his bare, tattooed chest lustfully. His chest had always been one of her favorite things about him.

Do my words caress your mind the way my hands used to caress your body?

Committing every dip, curve, and dimple to memory

His voice is hypnotic, slowly luring her back into her most vulnerable state. He was the flame and she the moth, constantly drawing her into his aura, to use anyway he saw fit. 

I’ll ask again, do you think of me when you touch yourself?

Do your thighs still shake at the thought of me diving in

Plunging deeper and deeper into the abyss 

Exploring parts that you didn’t even know exist

Do you think I can still make you cum from just a kiss?

Do you?

Her eyes flutter closed, and she’s instantly transported back to their last sexual encounter. His body towering over hers, Cuban link chain thumping against his chest as his member thumped that sweet spot inside of her. 

“Stack..” 

Her moans were breathless as he continued to do the Lord’s work on her body. He looked down at her and flashed a devilish grin. 

“That’s not my name, Sunshine. Now say ‘ahh’.”

Do you still taste me on your tongue?

Does my essence linger on your senses?

Triggering earth-shattering orgasms as your mind replays all that I’ve done to you between those sheets

Her breath hitches, palms sweating the same way they did when he crossed her path for the very first time. He was different now. His once smooth, chestnut skin was now riddled with tattoos, a testament to how much he liked the way the times had changed. Instead of the slicked down do of old, he now sported a low, tapered fade. Immortality had been good to him.

“God he’s beautiful,” she muses to herself, finally opening her eyes to see him standing directly in front of her. 

Do you still scream my name as you bring yourself to completion time and time again?

Willing your fingers to work double time to make your love rain down the way I used to 

Do you?

He smiles and she freezes, knowing full well he meant what he’d said about being tongue deep in her soul when he was done. Before she could process the action, he catches her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up until their eyes lock. 

“I asked you a question, Sunshine.”

Do you think of me when you touch yourself?

Her throat is dry and wanting. She doesn’t answer with words, instead, she kisses him like her body had been aching for this exact chaos. She bites his plump lower lip hard enough to taste a hint of copper. It was different, but she liked it. He groans. Loud. Animalistic. He walks her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the couch. She falls with a gasp, and he follows, kneeling between her thighs, spreading them like scripture.

Where you been baby?

Waited for you all day

Waited for you to use the key

That opens my place

My heart starts trembling

As I hear your footsteps pace

Lock opens, doorknob turns

There appears your face

Beyoncé’s siren-like voice coos from the speaker as Stack presses kiss after kiss to her inner thighs like he’s laying offering to his goddess’s altar. His grip is rough, possessive. One hand anchors her leg over his shoulder while the other is splayed possessively across her stomach, holding her still because he knows she’ll try to run once he gets started.

His tongue flicks against her skin in lazy, teasing circles, dragging hot trails over the sensitive crease where thigh meets pelvis. Her hips twitch, desperate for contact, but he just chuckles against her. The vibrations make her shiver. Her fingers clench the couch cushion behind her head.

And when he finally reaches her dripping center, tongue dipping into her like a starved dog, Lyric sees stars. Not metaphorical stars. Not cutesy cartoon ones. Real ones. Galaxies behind her eyes. Pulsars in her chest. A blinding cosmic explosion behind her ribs as his tongue circles her clit, slow and deliberate, like he’s drawing sigils for a spell only her body can complete.

Speechless, all I can say is

Yes (Yes), yes (Yes), yes (Yes)

All I can say is

Yes (Yes), yes (Yes), yes (Yes)

He groans into her, and her hips jerk.

“Fuck, Stack!”

Her voice cracks, high and breathy, one hand flying to the back of his head to push him deeper into her sex. He grabs her thighs tighter, grounding her, eating like she’s the last meal before a century-long famine. Her legs fall open wider, trembling. Her eyes roll back, mouth slack as his tongue works her with surgical precision, lapping, sucking, flicking until the coil in her belly is so tight it feels like she’s going to spontaneously combust.

Then, without warning, he does it. Stack sinks his fangs into the supple flesh of her thigh, eyes fluttering closed at the sweet taste of her blood on his tongue. Lyric explodes in his mouth, clutching his head with both hands like she’s drowning, legs shaking as her orgasm rips through her like lightning. He doesn’t stop. He slows down just enough to ride the wave with her, kissing her through the aftershocks like he’s sealing a promise in the mess between her thighs.

He stands, admiring the sight beneath him. Lyric lay on the couch, beautiful sable breasts heaving as she pants. Her soft curls now a mess of frizz atop her head. He licks his lips, relishing in the delicious cocktail her blood and cum made. He presses a soft kiss to her temple before taking her spot on the couch. He allows her to rest against his chest, rubbing his hands up and down her back to ground her.

“Still think of me when you touch yourself?” he asks again, voice low and smug.

She doesn’t answer. She’s already asleep. Dripping. Dreaming. And completely ruined.

TAGS: @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @soufcakmistress @thickemadame @blackpantherismyish @kumkaniudaku @youreadthatright @post-woke @chaneajoyyy @kissmyafropuff @empressdede @melodyofmbaku @blktinkerbell @turbulentvoids @writerbee-ffs @jasssdee1 @cerya @hearteyes-for-killmonger @theegoldenchild @theogbadbitch @honggihwa @dashhoney25

[msmk11]

Best Friend's Mom Part Two

MILF!Wanda Maximoff x college age!fem!reader (Billy and Tommy's best friend)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Word count: 5.6k

CW: Age gap (legal), best friends' mom, MILF!Wanda, fluff, consumption of alcohol, mentions of food, mentions of absent parent, hints of angst, light smut in the middle, full smut at the end

Summary: You and Wanda had just slept together. You had just slept with your best friends' mom. But what happens after? Will the best night of your life be a one-time thing?

A/n: GUYS. Thank you SO MUCH for all the love on part 1. I was so anxious to post it because I had never written for Wanda before, and I thought it was lowkey crap. But you guys have been so kind, and loving, and supportive, and it made my week. I was feeling a little bit of pressure to write this next part because part one did so well, but I'm happy with the finished product. I've also decided to have a part 3 and 4 to finish up this story because I want it to span the whole week of reader's spring break. I hope that you all enjoy it and if you want to be added to the tag list for this series just lmk.

Seriously all my love, MK <3

There is something hot blowing on your neck when you first wake up, and your sleepy brain is a little more than confused. Through your bleary eyes you look for the source, and that’s when everything from the night before comes rushing back.

Wanda.

You and Wanda.

Sleeping together.

Not only are you currently sharing a bed with your two best friends’ mom, you slept with her.

What makes it worse? It was fucking amazing. And you want do it again.

You know you’re going to hell. You’d just crossed so many boundaries, and you aren’t sure Billy and Tommy will ever forgive you if they find out.

When they find out.

“Detka,”

Your racing thoughts, and also heart, comes to a halt at the soft whisper of Wanda’s own personal nickname for you- one that sounded so different less than 12 hours ago as you made her hoarse with pleasure.

Cautiously, you roll on your side to meet Wanda face-to-face. Even in the morning she looks so incredibly beautiful, with her red waves sprawled out on her pillow, her green eyes soft and warm, and her pink lips just a little swollen from the night before.

“What’s that pretty little mind of yours thinking about so early,” she asks quietly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You lean into her touch and close your eyes, “You. Us. Last night.”

Her hand pulls away and you open your eyes, “Do you regret it, Detka?”

“No Wanda, of course not. I don’t. It’s just, this-“

“Makes things complicated?”

You sigh and nod. You chew on your lip anxiously as all the racing thoughts come back.

“Honey, stop,” Wanda says, placing her thumb on your bottom lip, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

She pulls you into her arms and places the softest, sweetest kiss against your lips. You melt into her embrace and decide to ignore all your problems for just a little longer. Anyways, how could anything really be wrong when Wanda holds you as if nothing could hurt you?

“We’ll figure it all out in time, baby. But for now, just lay with me for a while, yeah?”

You press a gentle kiss to her neck, an action that speaks far louder than any words, and snuggle closer into her. With her fingers running gently through your hair, and the rhythmic sound of her heartbeat against your ear, you are lulled back into a dreamless sleep.

When you wake up a little while later, the spot next to you is cold, and you know that at some point Wanda slipped out while you were sleeping to avoid suspicion. You know she did the right thing, and that it’s for the best, but the secrecy of it all is just a little painful.

You shrug it off, however, and crawl out of bed. Until you can assess the state of your skin- Wanda’s mouth had been all over- you throw on sweats and a hoodie. As you traipse down the hall you’re met with the smell of pancakes and quiet chatter. Before you step into the kitchen, you admire the pretty picture before you- Wanda sat between her two boys at the table as they all eat pancakes and reminisce about the past. You almost feel bad ruining it.

Almost.

But your hunger wins out.

“She finally decides to join us,” Tommy teases as you step into the kitchen.

You stick your tongue out at him as you sit down to his right and begin to pile pancakes onto your plate.

“I was starting to worry that you were dead,” Billy adds, and you roll your eyes.

“I must’ve just been worn out,” you reply, briefly glancing at Wanda before looking down and shoveling food into your mouth.

“Did you not sleep okay, honey?”

You look up at Wanda again and notice a glint of mischief in her green eyes, “Just always a little restless sleeping in a new bed, but I fell asleep eventually.”

“You just let me know if I can do anything to help,” she says sweetly. And then, she winks.

You choke on your pancake a little and Tommy starts patting your back. When you finally get a little air back in your lungs you cough out, “okay, thanks, Wanda.”

She’s gonna be the death of you.

*****

The boys decide that the four of you will head into the beach town today to look around the shops and restaurants. You’re more than grateful for this, especially with the alternative being that you’d have to see Wanda in a bikini yet again.

You’re dressed simple in cutoff blue jeans and a plain white tank top, and you’ve tucked your hair under a white baseball cap. Wanda, it seems, is still trying to tease you, wearing the cutest flowy, white skirt with a maroon tank top. It’s maddening and you almost scoff at her audacity. If her boys weren’t with you, you’d probably drag her off to a bathroom right now and take her right then and there. Alas, they are, and so you have to practice self-control. It’s still easier than maintaining self-control around her in a swimsuit, so you feel grateful to walk around with your friends and fawn over little trinkets you absolutely do not need. You plan to do your very best to forget that Wanda’s even there, but she has other plans.

Wanda’s hands are all. over. you. all. day.

Mind you, all of her touches are subtle enough that Billy and Tommy would never suspect a thing. But they’re not subtle to you. You feel every touch tenfold, and it leaves you a little dazed after each interaction.

When you get to the first shop, a mini boutique, Billy, ever the gentleman, holds the door open for you and Wanda. The redhead doesn’t just motion for you to go inside first. No. Instead, she places her hand on the small of your back and guides you into the store, letting her hand linger a little near your ass until Billy and Tommy step inside.

At the book store, you find a copy of the romance novel you’ve been dying to read but couldn’t find anywhere. Unfortunately, it’s up on a high shelf that you can’t quite reach. Just as you turn to look for one of the twins, Wanda saddles up behind you touching your shoulder, “I got it, honey.”

She uses you as a balance as she stands on her tip toes and grabs you the book. It’s in your trembling hands the next moment and then she’s disappeared to another aisle.

The local thrift store in town is packed full of clutter. Realistically, only one person can walk down a row at a time because of how narrow they are. Wanda, of course, ignores this unsaid rule entirely, at least when it comes to you. As you sift through the racks upon racks of clothes, Wanda wonders over and begins to make small talk about your thrift finds. Then, without warning she says, “excuse me, honey,” and grabs your waist, shifting you so that she can pass by. Her tits rub up against your back when she does it, and you shiver.

The four of you have lunch at a cute cafe, and sit at a circle table on the outdoor patio. Unsurprisingly, you end up sitting next to Wanda, and her hand magically finds its way to your thigh. You desperately try to keep your cool throughout lunch and hope that your face isn’t too flushed. Near the end of the meal, her hand begins moving up and down your thigh, creeping a little closer to where you want her. You cough and stand abruptly, getting startled looks from your friends.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick.”

You rush inside and splash water on your face.

Throughout the day, even when Wanda isn’t touching you, she somehow always manages to drive you crazy. At the tourist shop, Wanda decides to try on a sweatshirt. When she’s taking it off, her shirt rides up a little and you see a little patch of her soft, beautiful skin. When you grab a treat from the ice cream shop, you nearly lose your mind as she licks whipped cream off her fingertip to “sample it.”

Wanda’s teasing is nonstop and relentless all afternoon. By the time you get back for dinner you’re a complete and utter mess. But you’re not guaranteed any relief because Billy and Tommy drag you away to swim. Even though you shoot Wanda a desperate glance, she only winks and gets back to cooking.

*****

The evening had been spent by the pool, getting out occasionally to eat a little, and then jumping back in. You competed in races with Tommy, dove for pool sticks, and convinced Wanda to join you three for Marco Polo. As night settles in, the air cools down and the pool becomes much too chilly to bear. Not wanting to go inside just yet, you move to the hot tub. As you sink into the bubbling, hot water you sigh loudly. Your tense muscles ease and you begin to regain some feeling in your chilled fingers and toes.

You rest your head against the edge of the tub as you call out goodnight to Billy and Tommy. Wanda goes in with them, taking the dishes to the kitchen, and you have to admit that you’re a little disappointed she doesn’t stay outside.

The door shuts with a resounding thud, and you are left alone with your thoughts. It’s quiet, and the only thing you can hear are the crickets chirping and the bubbling water in which you sit. You’re blanketed in darkness, even the moon asleep for the night, save for the stars that sprinkle the navy sky.

The peaceful evening soothes you, and you close your eyes. You hear the wooden door open and close again, and soft, padded footsteps across the deck. You’re too scared to open your eyes and see who it is- for fear of disappointment. This time, you’re not disappointed.

Eyes still closed, you feel soft lips capture yours and you gasp softly. When Wanda pulls away your eyes flutter open and you find hers staring back at you fondly. She hasn’t yet joined you in the hot tub, but is rather standing at its edge, leaning over to kiss you from upside down.

You smile softly at her, “Hey, Wanda.”

“Hi Detka. I missed you,” she whispers against your lips.

“You were with me all day.”

“Not in the way that I wanted to be.”

“Well you sure got your fair share of teasing in,” you fake scold, “did that satisfy you enough?”

She slowly shakes her and rasps, “no.”

“We’ll have to fix that then.”

Wanda walks around the hot tub to the stairs and wades into the water. She slowly, tantalizingly, makes her way towards you. You sigh out her name impatiently and then finally, finally, your lips connect. You grab her waist gently and pull her closer to you.

Wanda’s hands find a home in your hair as she tugs on it a little and you moan.

“God, I’ve been dying to touch you all day,” she murmurs.

“I could tell,” you pant, “such a fucking tease, grabbing my hips, touching my shoulders, rubbing my thigh. It’s too bad Billy and Tommy were there, or I would’ve had my way with you.”

“Not very nice to say about your best friends.”

“Hard to care about them when you’re in front of me,” you admit, “all beautiful, and interesting, and alluring.”

You press a final kiss to her lips and then pull away, kissing her cheek, then her jaw, then behind her ear, her neck, her collarbone, and then right between her tits.

You keep your mouth there, hoping to leave a mark behind that will be just out of sight when she wears a tank top or a revealing dress. She grabs your head and pushes it forward, burying it deeper in her chest. Her soft moans and sighs make you grip her waist harder, and you pull her onto your lap where you’re sitting in the hot tub. When you nip slightly at her skin she whimpers and you moan against her.

“You sound so pretty Wanda,” you tell her, voice muffled.

You place kisses back up her chest as your hands move downwards to squeeze her ass. She squeals a little and you press another kiss to her lips to silence her.

“Wanna see you, baby,” Wanda tells you.

Her hands creep around your back and slowly untie your swimsuit. Your top falls away revealing your tits to her. It’s too dark for her to see much, but she still whispers, “so beautiful, Detka.”

She leans forward and presses a kiss to each before reaching out and groping them. You throw your head back and sigh. It’s a relief, finally having her hands on you again after all the teasing. She slowly massages each of your tits and you pant, gripping her waist so tightly you’re surprised she hasn’t yelped in pain. When her thumb runs over your sensitive nipples, your hips buck up into hers.

“Wanda, I-“

“I know, baby.”

Just as she is leaning down to take you into her mouth the door to the house squeals open. You jump apart, a string of curses leaving your mouth as you cover yourself and sink lower into the water.

Tommy peaks his head out, “Guys, come watch a movie with us. We’ve got it queued up.”

You quietly groan.

Thankfully, Wanda responds for you both.

“Okay, moya lubov. We’ll dry off and be in.”

Tommy closes the door, and you groan much louder now, letting your head fall back against the hot tub in defeat.

Wanda chuckles lowly, “we’ll finish this another time, baby. Promise.”

You sigh and nod.

“Here, let me help you put this back on,” Wanda says kindly, picking up your discarded top.

You turn away from Wanda, and she wraps it back around you. She breathes on your neck as she ties it back in place, and her fingers just ghost over your back. You hold your breath, savoring every moment.

When she’s done, she places a kiss to your neck and pats your ass, “there, all done. Now let’s go watch this movie.”

*******

The rest of your evening had been 2 hours and 12 minutes of torture, and then bedtime. You’d sat in an armchair cuddled up to Tommy while Billy and Wanda had laid on the couch together. You don’t recall a single second of the movie because you had been too busy watching Wanda the whole time.

You adored the way her nose crinkled when she laughed, how her frown during sad scenes was a little crooked, and the way her brows furrowed together when a character was being particularly ridiculous. No matter what face she was making, she was beautiful. And you couldn’t understand how anyone could have been interested in watching a movie when the picture of grace herself had sat before you.

It was mind-numbing, the way Wanda seemed to consume every waking and sleeping second of your mind. There was nothing you could do to ease her from your thoughts, and she was so clearly not keen on helping you out either. You desperately wondered if you’d ever get another moment alone before you headed back to college in four days. If you didn’t, you weren’t sure what you’d do.

Was death by longing even a thing?

Your bed had been cold that night, and you weren’t sure how you’d ever slept without Wanda by your side. Her warmth eased your tense body, her arms kept you safe, her tender kisses reminded you you were alive, and her sweet words whispered into your ears filled your heart to the brim. You knew you were totally fucked, but in a state of denial, you hoped that just one more good fuck would get it out of your system.

The next morning is calm and peaceful, the late night before having kept everyone confined to their beds until a much later hour. You opt out of breakfast and instead lay sprawl out on your bed, fan blowing cool air on you and the windows cracked to hear the waves. You decide to finally start the new book you got in town, and you cozy up in your comforter excitedly.

You open the paperback and crack the spine a little with a resounding pop. This and the smell of fresh pages sends a shiver up your spine and you kick your feet happily. Your eyes eagerly scan the first few pages as you take in the plot, setting and characters. You can feel yourself slowly sinking into the magical fictional world before you and you feel triumphant. Finally, finally, you’ve found something that distracts you from Wanda.

And it does. For a little while. But about twenty pages in a flash of red hair crosses your mind. You shake it off and read another page. Green eyes pierce your vision. You blink it away rapidly. Her perfume seems to waft into your nose, and you stuff your face into your shirt. You try to persevere, but when you realize that you’ve read the same line about ten times now and have yet to process it, you know it’s hopeless. You’re never one to treat a book unkindly, but you’re so frustrated that you toss it across the room and bury yourself under your covers.

Since your brain seems so keen on it, you let yourself indulge in a fictional scene of your own- one of domestic bliss between you and Wanda.

It’d be a hot summer day, just like this one, and you and Wanda would be at your shared cottage home in the countryside. The fan would be humming softly above you while birds and bugs chirped and buzzed through the screened back door. You and Wanda would be on your long, white couch with colorful throws, bare legs tangled. It’d be too hot be fully dressed, so you’d each just be in a pair of underwear and the other’s shirt. Maybe Wanda had made you two some ice-cold lemonade that you sipped on slowly as you casually drew patterns on her leg. Wanda, on the other end, would have a book propped open. She’d be reading it to you, in that soft, sweet voice that makes you melt. When you’d get lost in her eyes instead of listening to her read, she’d playfully scold you.

You could almost hear her now saying, “Detka, Detka. Are you paying attention?”

It’s when an arm touches your shoulder that you realize the real Wanda is actually before you, talking to you.

You jolt and inhale quickly, “huh? What? Sorry I was daydreaming.”

She chuckles and you notice that she’s sitting on the edge of your bed as she smoothes out the wrinkled corners, “I just came to tell you that we’re going out for a nice dinner tonight and that our reservation is at 6:00. Do you have something to wear?”

You do, luckily, and you thank past you for thinking ahead, “yes, I have a few options to choose from. What time should I be ready by?”

Wanda thinks for a moment, “5:00 probably. I want to get some pictures of everyone dressed up too before we head out. And you know how my boys are about photos, always so particular.”

You snort out an understanding giggle, recalling the many times you've taken ‘unsatisfactory’ photos for your friends, and then having to redo them all.

Wanda stands then and smiles sweetly at you, “well, that’s all I had to say, but I’ll leave you to your daydreaming now.”

And when she’s sure no one is coming down the hall, she presses a few hurried kisses to your lips and then leaves the room and you, yearning for more.

*****

You decide to doll yourself up extra nice for the occasion and try to convince yourself it’s all for you and not… others.

You’re wearing flowy blue pants made of a silky material and a white tank top with a scoop neck and wide straps. A dainty gold necklace sits prettily against your collarbone and one or two gold bands rest on your fingers. Strappy white sandals are your shoe of choice, and you make sure to paint your toes a blue color similar to your pants. You keep your makeup simple, only a few swipes of mascara and a quick brush of your brows.

You head out into the living room and whistle lowly, “what a group we are.”

Tommy and Billy have dressed up rather nicely. The former is wearing a nice, short sleeve white shirt and khaki pants. Billy has on a nice red polo and black slacks.

Instead of rustling the boys’ hair like you usually would, you pat their cheeks like a fond grandmother, “look at you two, my boys. All handsome and grown up.”

You wipe away a fake tear and they roll their eyes at you, exasperated.

“I’m just glad you were able to dress up nice,” Tommy retorts, “instead of your usual sewer rat look.”

You scoff, more than offended, and this time do go to ruffle his hair, “did your mother never teach you manners?”

“She taught us to respect those who earned it. You haven’t yet,” Billy deadpans.

You smack his arm rather hard, and you don’t miss the way he winces and rubs the sore spot a little.

“Would it really kill you to tell me I look nice?” you ask, hands on your hips.

Billy dramatically groans, “fine, fine. You look… nice.”

You look at Tommy with a raised eyebrow.

“You know you look beautiful,” he replies, “do I need to say it?”

You sit on the arm of the couch next to him and wrap your arms around his shoulders, “just feels nice to be appreciated sometimes.”

Tommy scoffs playfully, “as if we don’t spoil you rotten with attention.”

You wave him off dismissively and reach out to grab Billy’s hand, giving him a kind squeeze.

It’s in this warm embrace that Wanda finds you all when she emerges from her room. She looks absolutely breathtaking. Of course, she always does, but this. Wow.

Wanda has pulled her hair back into a slick bun and is wearing a slim-fitting, long green dress. It’s an emerald green that looks so nice against her pale skin, and the red lipstick on her lips makes them look even more kissable than usual. She has dangly silver earrings in, a chunky silver necklace, and a small chain bracelet for jewelry. You’re literally speechless, your mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Well, how do I look?” She asks with a little spin.

Tommy stands and gives her a side hug, “beautiful as always, Mama.”

“The prettiest lady ever,” Billy agrees, joining his family on his mom’s other side. She presses tender kisses to the sides of each of their heads, a big beaming smile on her face.

“Honey, could you get a picture of us?” She asks you sweetly.

You simply nod, too dumb to talk, and take Tommy’s phone. They stand together, arms around each other, and they look like a perfect little family. Wanda is clearly so proud of her sons, and them so devoted and loving to their mother. It makes your heart ache, not only because of fondness but also regret.

Billy and Tommy have opened up to you about how hard it was for Wanda to put their lives and family back together after their dad left. And now, seeing them together, so happy and complete, you feel like an intruder. Out of place. And when you think about Wanda, you want her so badly. But you wonder if you want her enough to risk tearing down everything she’s worked so hard to build.

“There, that should be good,” you say quietly.

Wanda steps forward, “here let me get some pictures of you three.”

When she takes the phone from you, your fingers brush, and you jolt away a little. You try to play it off coolly and go stand in Wanda’s place between the two boys. You smile widely, your arms wrapped around each brother, but the ache is still a little present in your throat.

“Okay, I’ve got some,” the redhead tells you, “but I want a few with you too, honey,” she says, looking at you.

“But why, mom?” Billy asks.

“Well I have to document the best Chicken duo this world has ever seen,” she says with a teasing voice.

The boys groan simultaneously and roll their eyes.

“No need to rub it in, mom.”

She smirks a little as she goes to stand next to you.

“They’re just jealous,” she says, with a stage whisper.

And then, when they’re not paying attention, she actually whispers, “and stop worrying, Detka. Everything is going to be okay.”

“How did you-?”

She briefly glances at your lips and you realize that you’re chewing on them yet again. You stop immediately and she squeezes your side reassuringly. You face the camera and wrap your arm loosely around Wanda’s shoulders. This time, your smile is much more genuine.

*****

Dinner had been amazing. Red sauce pasta with a delightful layer of cheese, and rolls that seemed to be coming out as soon as a basket was emptied. You all had indulged in a little red wine too, and you felt perfectly relaxed and full. The night had been near perfect. But something was missing. Dessert.

You don’t have to go looking far, because it presents itself in the form of Wanda Maximoff, sitting there at dinner looking so delectable in her emerald green dress, teasing you with her sneaky looks and seductive red lips. It feels like ages since you’d last really touched Wanda, and you don’t think you can hold off much longer. You hope your eyes tell her so as the four of you sit around the living room coffee table playing various card games. Eventually, you feign a yawn, and proclaim that you are calling it a night- wine always making you a little sleepy.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth. You are wide awake and alert. You waltz off down the hall, but you don’t go into your room. Instead, you take a turn into Wanda’s and quickly shut the door behind you. You wait for her on the soft, bouncy mattress.

It seems as if you’re waiting for Wanda for ages. But you suppose impatience on your end and her need to prevent suspicion only makes it seem so. Finally, you hear the faint creak of the floorboards coming closer and closer to the door. It cracks open and there she is in all her glory. She shuts it softly behind her and you both share a giddy smile like scheming little kids. She uses the door handle as a balance as she slips her heels off and tosses them to the side. Then, she reaches to her hair and pulls out all the clips and hair ties holding the bun together, and her long red waves cascade down her shoulders mesmerizingly. She slowly slinks towards you, drawing you in with her seductress powers. She slots herself between your legs at the edge of the bed and bends down to kiss you deeply.

You inhale sharply against her lips and hold her jaw with your hand. After a few deep kisses she breaks away and whispers, “take that shirt off for me pretty girl. I want to see you.”

To her surprise, and maybe even a little to yours, you say, “no.”

She raises her eyebrows in shock and then they furrow into worry, “do you not want this? I’m sorry if I misread the room I-“

You place a finger to her lips gently, “No, Wanda. You didn’t read anything wrong. I do want this. I want you. But I don’t want you to do anything. I just wanna take care of you. Is that okay? A woman like you should be worshiped.”

Her features soften into what you’d almost coin adoration, but you don’t get your hopes up.

She moves around the side of the bed and lays down up against her pillows, “okay baby, you take charge. Do whatever you want.”

You groan at how soft, and vulnerable, and open she is to you.

God, there are so many things you want to do to Wanda right about now. But what you need most is to taste her. You crawl up to Wanda and place yourself between her legs. You place your hands gently on the back of her neck and lean in for a tender kiss. It’s slow and deep and Wanda just sighs softly. Her hands find a home on your back as you continue to kiss her, slowly adding in tongue. As your hands begin to travel from her neck and down to her sides, just barely grazing her breasts, the kisses get a little more passionate and your breathing heavier. Like last night, you begin to trail kisses down her body. But this time, you don’t stop at her chest. You keep going, pressing kisses to her clothed stomach. When you get to her legs, you teasingly slide your hands up under her dress, fingers dancing around her ankles.

“I need you higher,” she rasps, and you smirk smugly just a little.

“Anything for you, gorgeous.”

You slowly push the hem of her soft, green dress upwards, revealing more and more skin as you go. You push it all the way up, letting the dress pool around her waist. You start at her ankles again, this time pressing soft kisses up her legs until your hot breath is on her thighs. She nearly whines at you being so close to touching her, and you giggle, “be patient, sweetheart. I’m almost there.”

And then with one or two more gentle kisses to her inner thighs, you place the softest, teasing kiss on her clothed center. That alone causes Wanda to moan, her hips bucking up into your face a little.

“Detka, please,” she sighs.

You grab the top of her underwear and pull it down her legs, tossing it across the room somewhere.

“Such a beautiful pussy, Wanda,” you sigh.

You lean forward and press another kiss to her, this time, bare cunt. You know she likes it because her legs squeeze your head encouragingly. You lick one strip up the middle and she moans so prettily you squeeze your own legs together. After you’ve gotten one taste, you’re ravenous. You immediately dive in headfirst, licking and sucking at her soft, pink pussy.

She continuously lets out sighs and moans of your name, honey, or Detka. You hold onto her thighs as you continue to eat her out and squeeze them gently, letting her know how good she’s doing. You can tell when Wanda starts to get close because she only gets wetter and wetter. She reaches down and grabs your hair roughly, shoving your face further into her pussy. She lets out a whine and her back arches, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“F-feels so g-good,” she stutters out.

You hum against her and you know it feels good because she lets out yet another moan. To get Wanda to her orgasm, you decide to double the stimulation. Your face moves downwards, sending your tongue in and out of her wet hole. Then, you add a finger to the mix, rubbing small tight circles on her clit quickly. Her back arches again at the newfound pleasure, and the grip she has on your hair is almost painful. But you don’t stop. You continue to thrust in and out while pinching and rubbing her clit. Her moans are so consistent and fairly loud that you’re a little worried her boys will hear. But you’re so lost in her pussy, and she in her pleasure, that you don’t care. With one final hard thrust of your tongue, Wanda plummets over the edge. Her thighs squeeze tightly around your head and your hair is wrapped around her fingers in a coil. Her back arches off the bed significantly and her body shakes in waves of pleasure. The pretty little whines and moans she lets out as she comes makes you want to instantly go for round two. But you don’t, letting her come back down from her high. When she does, she looks a little dazed.

“Well?” You ask slyly.

“Detka,” she sighs, and then she pulls you upward by the shirt and passionately kisses you. When she tastes herself on your lips, she moans again.

You and Wanda are all over each other for quite awhile, and you’re both left feeling pretty fucked out and spacey. Everything with her felt and feels so good. And you know you’re ruined for anyone else. You lay on her bare chest, legs intertwined, and she strokes your back softly. Your eyes flutter shut at her featherlight touches and you’re sure you could fall asleep right then and there. Paired with her slow, quiet breathing, you are in bliss.

“You’re so perfect and beautiful, Detka,” she whispers into your ear.

It tickles and you shiver a little. You place an affirming kiss on her bare chest and snuggle in closer to her side. And as she holds you, as you begin to fall asleep in her arms yet again, you know for sure now that you are fucked. You know then that you are not just attracted to Wanda. You have feelings for her. And the once pleasurable, fluttering butterflies in your stomach are replaced by a big, solid rock.

______________________________________________________________

tag list: @xenaizogie @alexawynters @eclipse727 @idkwhatever580 @opp-jumpscare @starynn @alessiaswifey @noturlondonboy

[mapiforpresident]

after a breakup reader is seeing images of mapi everywhere, in the street, hearing her name in random conversations, and little reminders of mapi from their relationship and realizing that she still wants to be with her!

I think I still love her

Mapi x reader

warnings: breakup

Thank you so much for the request I really loved this one!!!

Requests are still open for blurbs (or longer fics too)

~~~

The bell above the door jingled, a sound I’d grown so used to I hardly heard it anymore. The scent of espresso and cinnamon lingered in the air, dancing with the spring breeze that slipped through the open window of my little coffee shop in the heart of Barcelona. Business was steady, regulars greeted me with tired smiles, but I moved through it all on autopilot. Ever since Mapi and I broke up, something vital had gone quiet inside me.

We were together for two years. She used to sit at the corner table, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on, pretending she wasn't famous. She'd sketch tattoo ideas in her notebook or doodle tiny hearts on napkins, leaving them for me behind the bar. Our life was quiet in a way I think she craved, a secret haven between matches, away from the roar of the stadium.

Now, it feels like Barcelona is conspiring against me. Yesterday, I passed a mural near the metro, Mapi’s face towering ten feet above me, eyes fierce, mouth caught mid-roar. Spain’s warrior, it read. My chest ached. I turned away quickly, but not fast enough to stop the rush of memories, late-night walks along Barceloneta, her arm slung around my shoulder, the way she whispered my name like a secret only she was allowed to know.

This morning, someone left a signed jersey on the shop's community board. Number 4. Her number. “For auction!” it read, “All proceeds to women’s sports programs.” I stared at it for too long, my fingers tracing the stitching before I realized I was holding my breath.

Even her name follows me. Two women at table six, tourists, probably, laughed over their cortados and said, “Did you see Mapi León’s tackle last week?” One of them clutched her chest. “She’s unreal.” I dropped a spoon I was drying. It clattered loud enough for them to look up. I smiled tightly. My heart was making too much noise.

Everywhere I turn, there she is. Not just in images or conversations, but in the echoes, a song she loved playing in the background of a TikTok, the chamomile tea she used to drink now suddenly the most requested blend, a dog wearing a Barça scarf that made me laugh like she would’ve.

I thought I left our relationship behind when I asked her to go. It wasn’t her fault, her world was loud and bright and endless. Mine was this coffee shop. Steady. Small. I thought I was doing the right thing.

But today, when I found one of her old napkin doodles stuck between two espresso manuals, a heart, slightly smudged, with “amor” scribbled inside, I sank onto the floor behind the counter and realized the truth I’d been dodging for months.

I still want her.

I don’t know what I’ll say, or if she’ll even want to see me again. But tomorrow, I’ll walk to the stadium. Not as a fan, not as the owner of a quaint coffee shop. But as someone who once held her heart, and hopes, desperately, to do so again.

~~~~

Buy me a coffee here.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Roommates? (Melissa Schemmenti x f!Reader)

Synopsis: You move into Mel's spare room

Words: 3.6k

Warnings: praise kink if you squint, swearing, mentions of alcohol

AN: Written after 3x07.

You groaned as you dropped into your seat in the break room, not hungry for the lunch you’d packed for yourself. Burying your head in your hands, you did your best to try not to think about the email you’d just received. It was hard when your stress was becoming all encompassing after weeks of it.

“What going on with you?”

You groaned again, even when you felt the brush of an arm against yours. The floral scent you’d grown accustomed to over the last few years wafted towards you. Melissa. Your closest friend at the school, and the person you’d been pining after for so long you’d lost any self respect you might have had.

“That place I was going to move into fell through,” you said, “I feel like I’ve seen every spare room in this city and there is no where to live.”

You peeked at her from between your fingers, hating to sound so whiny but knowing that your stress levels had reached breaking point. She was looking at you with a raised eyebrow and an incredulous look. You sighed, sitting up properly under her watchful gaze.

“You know Jacob’s looking for a place too,” Gregory said from the other table.

“I know,” you groaned, “he suggested we look for a place together and I can’t commit to living and working with that man. He once tried to rap at me about the Martin Luther King Jr and I can’t have that in my home.”

“I get that,” Gregory replied, “why are you even looking for a new place to live? Your place is nice.”

“My roommate keeps watching me when I sleep. Sometimes I wake up and she’s standing at the end of my bed just staring at me. It freaks me out.”

“Well hey, I’m thinking of renting out my spare room. Would you be interested, hon?”

You hadn’t expected Melissa to say that.

“Really?”

She gave you one of those small smiles that you’d never seen her give another person. Your heart fluttered and you found your cheeks heating up.

“Really,” she said, “you can pay rent, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” you replied.

“You can move in this weekend,” she said.

Come Saturday, your things were in boxes and bags, and you had a spring in your step. You were humming to yourself as you packed up your car, your entire life filling the seats and the trunk. You took one last look at the building, sighed, then got in your car and drove to the next chapter of your life.

It wasn’t until you were standing in front of the door that the reality of what you were about to do crashed into you. Living with Melissa. Being in her space all the time. Existing in close proximity. She was going to see you first thing in the morning. You were going to see her late at night.

Your crush was going to either get so much worse or dissipate when you saw all of her annoying habits.

The door opened before you could knock, revealing the red head who starred in so many of your dreams. You blinked, rearing back, not having expected her to suddenly appear. Her lips quirked up, hand snapping out to grasp you around the elbow before you could fall backwards.

“Were you planning on knocking or do you wanna live on my front step?” she asked.

“ I was… just about to… can you help with my boxes?” you asked instead, switching tracks without having to explain yourself.

“Sure, hon,” she chuckled, slipping past you.

Watching her lift your heavy boxes set off something primal in you. You followed behind her, your own arms full of your stuff. She led you up the stairs and into her spare bedroom, placing the boxes down on the made up bed.

“Well, here you are. Bed, dresser, the bathroom is down the hall. You can have a a shelf in the fridge. Your key is just there. Let me know if you need anything else,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Do you need help with the rest of your stuff?” she asked.

“Only if you want to. I can do it myself. It’s no bother.” You had no idea why you were saying no. You felt flustered. You always felt a bit flustered around her.

“Come on, hon,” she said, giving you an indulgent smile, “the sooner we start the sooner we’ll be done.”

She left you alone after pttling the last of the boxes into your room, leaving you to unpack and settle in. Sorting your clothes into colours helped to ease your thoughts, the mindless work turning your head empty. It calmed you, getting your life in order so you could get your thoughts in order.

It wasn’t going to be so bad living with Melissa. She was being nice to you which was more than Jacob or Janine had been able to say after their cooking lesson with her. Accommodating was the word. She was almost going out of her way to be nice.

And most importantly you could keep your crush to yourself without ruining it all.

That night, she made dinner, offering you some and then curled up on the couch with a glass of wine. You were hesitant about joining her, hovering until she rolled her eyes and tugged you to sit beside her.

But it was easy to fall into a routine with her. Surprisingly easy. So easy that you didn’t even notice until a few weeks in.

Sitting at the table on a Wednesday night, doing the puzzle you’d started over the weekend, you listened to her hum in the kitchen. Something was bubbling on the stove top, the smell mouth watering. You looked up as fingers pushed a piece towards you.

“Thanks,” you said, looking up at her.

She was already smiling at you and you couldn’t help but smile back. It was an instinctual response. You couldn’t help it when it came to Mel.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“Always,” you replied, knowing it was the answer she wanted.

“C’mon then, hon, make some room. Can’t have you starving before you finish that patch of sky,” she said.

“You’re teasing but I saw you get excited when you finished the boat,” you said, clearing your pieces away from one end of the table.

Sitting across from her, the lights soft and warm, there was always something a little romantic to the feeling. Of course, you were sure it was all in your head but you couldn’t help but enjoy it, just a little, more than you should. She would look at you, those twinkling green eyes making you flush, and her smile had butterflies erupting in your stomach.

Still, every night felt like domestic bliss. Coming home with her, in the bubble of her house, the quiet night pressing in on the window, it was the kind of life you hadn’t known you’d been missing.

“You’re a goddess in the kitchen,” you said.

She’d waited for you to try her food, just as she always did before beginning to eat her own meal. Her foot brushed against yours under the table, making you jump. She chuckled, doing it again and you felt your cheeks heat and your heart stumble over itself.

Some days it almost felt like she was flirting with you.

“You’re sweet, hon,” she said.

You found your foot brushing against hers again, emboldened by her bashful response. Those green eyes flicked up to you, something twinkling in their depths. You weren’t sure how you looked but you were worried you’d shown your hand to her.

Dropping your foot back to the floor, you averted your gaze down to the plate of pasta she’d laid down in front of you. Her foot nudged yours before resting against it, length to length, the warmth of her skin seeping into yours.

She kept silent the rest of the meal, following your lead. You weren’t sure you could say anything, not with her foot against yours. Certainly not if she was watching you.

You remained silent as you cleared the table once she was done. Standing shoulder to shoulder at the sink, you did the washing up together, working in companionable tandem. You were so in tune with one another after living together for those few weeks, working together came without flaws.

“Are you gonna be watching our show tonight?” she asked into the silence.

You didn’t say no.

Sitting beside her on the sofa had always been trouble for you. Shoulder to shoulder, lit by nothing but the flickering screen, sharing a bowl of popcorn until your hands brushed together, it had always been a specific type of torture for you. The air always felt electric to you, and you knew it didn’t for her.

Except this night her head fell to your shoulder and her body curled towards yours. You froze until she admonished you, doing your best to relax your muscles. And there you stayed until she went to bed, feeling as if you had entered some kind of parallel universe.

Thursday night you’d put the entire odd experience behind you. She hadn’t mentioned it over breakfast or on the car ride over to school. On the ride back home she’d sung along to the radio, keeping her hands and feet to herself. You’d thought it was done. You thought you wouldn’t be tortured anymore.

But after you’d changed out of your school clothes and into something more comfortable, a knock sounded on your door. Opening the door, you found her in the hall, wet hair clinging to the skin of her neck, a towel wrapped around her body. You stumbled back a step, blinking at the vision before you.

“Um…” was all you managed to say.

“Have you seen my Eagles hoodie?” she asked.

“No,” you replied faintly, doing your best to not let your eyes wander further south than her chin.

“You sure? Because I can’t find it,” she said.

“Did you check in the washing?” you asked, hoping that would send her away.

“I thought you mighta borrowed it,” she said, lips tipping up into a small smirk, “you always seem to like it when I wear it. Can’t keep your hands off me.”

You felt your cheeks heat even further, deeper, almost uncomfortably. You looked down at your feet, terrified to be caught staring at her. You didn’t need to come across as a creep to her, ruining your friendship completely and irrevocably.

“I’m just teasing, hon,” she said, shoving your shoulder, “it’s probably in the wash.”

You were left staring at her retreating back as she left you be with your swirling thoughts and thundering heart, breathless from the image of all that skin on display. You were slow to close your door, leaning back against it as you breathed out a long sigh. Pressing a hand to your chest, you could feel the beating of your heart against your skin, practically bursting from your body.

The after image of her in the towel stayed in your mind until you could bring yourself to venture downstairs.

She was standing at the hob, stirring something on the stove, dressed in the familiar grey hoodie she’d been looking for. You blinked then stepped further in. She turned, smiling at you over her shoulder.

“Wanna help me out here?” she asked, seeming not bothered by the interaction upstairs.

“Sure,” you said, wanting to move past it too. Clearly, it hadn’t effected her the way it had effected you.

“Can you keep stirring this for me? I gotta start on the chopping,” she said.

“Sure,” you said again.

Your fingers brushed over hers as you took the wooden spoon from her. She paused a moment, eyes roving over your face. You held your breath, frozen, waiting, wondering what she was thinking.

“Keep stirring, hon,” she whispered, hand guiding yours, the skin of her palm warm against yours.

Slipping away, you kept your eyes on the pot, not wanting her to see the way you were beginning to come undone. One day you could brush off as weird, two made you wonder what was going on.

A warm hand landed on your hip, practically burning through the fabric of your leggings. A soft chin rested on your shoulder, looking over you as you continued stirring. You didn’t know what to do but keep stirring. If you focused on the warmth and the soft body brushing against your back you might melt into a puddle of goo.

“Good job, hon,” she murmured, lips brushing your earlobe.

A small squeak came from your parted lips and her throaty chuckle only made you feel as if you were crumbling in her arms. Those hands on your hips gently pushed you out of the way, fingers plucking the spoon from your hand.

“Go on, go finish that patch of sky. I can finish up here,” she said, sounding as if she had no idea the turmoil she was causing you.

You simply nodded and wandered back to the dining table. You sat, staring at the pieces, trying to reel your thoughts back in. A finger absently ran along the sides of the puzzle, feeling the gaps for the missing pieces. It wasn’t that Melissa wasn’t tactile, sometimes she could be, but this whole thing was something more. A step further.

A little closer to the kind of relationship you wanted with her.

That night she curled up against you again, cheek resting on your shoulder in the flickering light of the tv, hand resting on the thigh hers was resting against. You spent the entire time holding your breath until she slipped away to her room.

Friday left you on tenterhooks. Once again she was normal right up until your return home after a day at school. You were considering retreating into your room and not emerging for the rest of the night. It felt as if she was playing a game with you and you hadn’t been informed of the rules.

And yet you kind of revelled in the attention, if only because it might be your only chance to pretend she wanted you the way you wanted her.

You weren’t given the chance to make the choice for yourself.

A knock on the sounded on your bedroom door once again. You flung on a shirt, covering up as best you could while in the middle of changing out of your work clothes. Pulling open the door, you looked down, finding yourself in one of the lacy camisoles you’d been trying on last weekend when going out with friends for a drink. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, trying to contain the groan you wanted to release. When you opened your eyes it was to find a smirk and sparkling green eyes turned in your direction.

“I was coming to offer you a glass of wine but it looks like you might be going out,” she said.

Her eyes swept down your body and if you were a betting person, you thought her gaze might have lingered on the cleavage on display. You found your back arching, just a moment, until her eyes swept back to yours and her smirk only deepened.

“Come on down, hon. You ain’t going anywhere in those sweat pants,” she said.

“I’ll take that wine,” you said, needing to drown your embarrassment in something.

You trailed behind her down the stairs into the kitchen. It truly was the heart of the home in Melissa’s house. You hoisted yourself onto a bench as she poured the wine. As she’d pointed out, there was no chance you were about to head out in the sweats you were wearing, even if the lacy cami on the top was more dressed up than was normal for slouching around the house on a Friday night.

When she turned back around, her eyes seemed to light up. She sauntered towards you, both hands holding glasses of red wine. Offering you one, she drew closer. You took a deep drink, needing it more and more as she took another step closer to you. Her thumb came up, running along your lower lip, wiping away a drop of wine before she sucked it into her mouth, maintaining eye contact with you.

“Mel.” You felt as if you’d woken up into a dream, breathless and unsure of what you could do.

“Yes, hon?” Her voice had turned so husky you weren’t sure you were existing in real life anymore.

When you didn’t reply she took one last step forward, right between your thighs. One hand ran up your leg making fire lick through your veins and your cheeks heat under her gaze. Her lips ticked up into a smirk again, seeming to enjoy the trouble you were having at forming a sentence.

“What are you doing?” you finally managed to get out in a whisper.

“Aren’t you enjoying it?” she asked.

“I don’t…” It came out strangled, “Mel, please.”

“I’m trying to seduce you, hon,” she said, “is it working?”

You nodded, not sure you were capable of forming words. Just the thought she was trying to seduce was enough to send you into a coma. You hadn’t thought she would ever look at you the way you looked at her.

“C’mon, hon. You can do better than that. Say it.”

“It’s working,” you whispered, not sure you could deny her anything in this moment.

“Good girl.”

She drew ever closer, breath ghosting over your lips. You froze, eyes fluttering shut, waiting to see what she was going to do. A brush of lips, a soft sigh, fingers clenching around your thigh. You barely had the chance to enjoy it before she was stepping back from you. The whimper that came from you was embarrassing but the look on her face when you opened your eyes was smug.

“Mel,” you said again, not sure there were any words other than her anymore.

“Do you know the hell you’ve put me through since moving in? You’re so fucking hot and I don’t think you even know it. You’re the exact woman my Nonna warned my cousin Vinny about,” she said, almost groaning.

“I haven’t been doing anything,” you said, addressing the only thing you could.

“Parading around in your tight leggings and these little tops and those fucking shorts in the morning. And when you’re thinking about something your tongue pokes out and then all I can think about is reaching over and kissing you. Also did you know you hum to yourself when you think no one’s around. Fuck, when I see you in the kitchen humming and dancing I just want to pin you to the closest surface and fuck you until you can’t do anything but say my name.”

You weren’t sure you had a good response.

“Yeah but you wear tight trousers pretty much every day at work,” was your only come back.

“But you weren’t looking at me in them and thinking what it would feel like to have my legs wrapped around you,” she replied as if it was the most natural answer in the world.

“I fucking was,” you snapped, at the end of your rope. She’d been playing with you long enough, “christ sake, Mel. I’ve been thinking about you since the first time we met. You’re literally the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen. I didn’t think you were interested.”

“Hon, I let you move into my house. What part of that says I’m not interested?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” you said, sounding angrier than you expected, “you might have just been trying to be a good friend.”

“Then let me be very clear.” She took a step back between your legs again, “I am very interested in you.”

You legs tightened around her hips, holding her in place as you lent forward. Your lips ghosted over hers and you were surprised by the noise that came from her. It was whiny and needy and she was straining towards you. You chuckled, drawing back.

“If you plan on seducing me, I expect to be wined and dined,” you said, “no more fooling around until you put some effort in and prove I’m worth it.”

“You fucking brat,” she laughed, a hand curling around the back of your neck to pull you closer.

She kissed you deeply, tongue licking into your mouth, sending your thoughts spiralling away from you. Your knees tightened on her hips, your hands cupping her cheeks, indulging her for long enough to let her think she’d gotten her way. You nipped at her lower lip before drawing away.

“Wining and dining, Mel. I’m not some common whore,” you said, “I deserve romance.”

“There’s your wine,” she said, shoving the glass back into your hands, “I’ll make a start on dinner.”

You bit down on your lip, watching her slam down a knife on the cutting board, grumbling under her breath, trying to hold in a grin. The glare she gave you broke the flood gates as giggles tumbled from your lips.

“You keep on like this and I’ll stop seducing you,” she threatened.

“You stop and I’ll wear those shorts you like all weekend,” you retaliated.

You caught her arm, drawing her in for another kiss, just enough to remind her what was waiting. She softened, gently squeezing your leg before going back to cooking. You watched her, finding yourself falling more and more for her, the anticipation delicious, the woman beautiful.

And maybe moving into her home was the best thing to ever happen to you.

[mysmuttyself]

My care for you

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Rating: 18+

Summary: When Y/n's baking session is interrupted by the magnetic presence of Dean Winchester, their encounter in the kitchen heats up far beyond the oven's temperature.

Tags: Smut, p in v, kitchen sex, pure filth, improper use of pie, possessive Dean, dirty talk, established relationship,

Word count: 809

A/N: This is basically just me pining for Dean freacking Winchester. I baked i pie last week and i got inspired. Please be nice English is not my first language. Enjoy ;)

Everything was ready. The dough had been stored in the fridge to chill. Y/n expertly sliced the apples, the knife gliding through the fruit with practiced ease, she then drizzled them with lemon juice, before pouring the slices in a pan to simmer with sugar and cinnamon.

She was just adding the last touch, a sprinkle of nutmeg, when she felt two strong, calloused hands surround her just below the waist. His scent enveloped her, a combination of musk and amber, strong enough to weaken her knees.

"De" said Y/n in a plaintive tone. She had leaned his head against his solid, muscular chest. "Would you like me to finish this pie for you?"

Dean's lips curved into a playful smile against her neck. He continued to stroke the skin around her ribcage.

"I know baby, it's that you look so damn hot when you cook for me my favourite plate, so caring and sweet, good enough to eat."

He peppered kisses along her neck, and she melted in his arms.

As Dean continued to trail kisses down Y/n's neck, his hands moved lower, slipping under the hem of her shirt to caress the soft skin of her stomach. Y/n's breath hitched, a shiver of anticipation running through her as she leaned back into his touch.

"Dean," she moaned, her voice barely above a whisper, "what about the pie? I could burn the filling"

Dean's smirk only widened as he murmured huskily, "Screw the pie, sweetheart. Right now, all I want to do is fill you up"

She just had the time to turn off the stove before he spun her around, pressing her against the kitchen counter with a hungry urgency. His lips crashed against hers in a heated kiss, tongues tangling as desire surged between them. Y/n moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair as she surrendered completely to him.

Dean's hands roamed eagerly over her body, pulling the fabric of her skirt up.

“Look at the mess you made baby, is this all for me?” He asked moving the dampening panties to the side to reveal her wet core. Y/n arched into his touch unable to answer, aching for more as he started to tease her, rocking his till clothed shaft against her wet folds.

"Dean," she gasped, her voice thick with need, "please..."

Her plea hung in the air like a silent prayer, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for his response. Dean's darkened gaze met hers, a flicker of primal hunger flashing in his eyes as he leaned in close, his lips grazing her earlobe with a tantalizing whisper.

“Tell me what you need sweetheart” he breathed, his sultry low voice sent shivers down her spine.

“I need you, I need your cock” Y/n begged him. A primal growl rumbled from deep within Dean's chest. His desire for her burned hot and fierce, matching the intensity of her own need.

"Then you shall have me" Dean husked, in one swift motion, he freed himself from his clothing, his throbbing length springing eagerly into view. Y/n's breath caught in her throat at the sight. He was beautifully thick, if a cock could have been defined pretty, it was Dean’s.

Without a word, Dean positioned himself between her trembling thighs, his hands gripping her hips possessively as he guided himself to her slick entrance.

“Are gonna be a good girl? Take me nice and deep?” He asked her in a so very low tone.

“Yes, yes, Dean please” With a slow, torturous push, he entered her, the sensation of their bodies joining sending waves of pleasure coursing through them both

Y/n gasped as Dean filled her completely, every inch of him stretching and filling her in the most delicious way imaginable. She clung to him desperately, nails digging into his back as he began to move with a rhythm that was both primal and intoxicating.

With each thrust, Dean drove Y/n to the brink of ecstasy, his name falling from her lips in a breathless mantra of desire.

“Tell me that you are mine” His words, laden with desire and command.

"I'm yours, Dean," she gasped, her voice trembling with need. "All yours."

With each thrust, Dean claimed her as his own, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony. When Dean's calloused hand reached to stimulate her clit, it was too much for Y/n.

She exploded in a climax of lust, and Dean reached his own orgasm a couple of thrusts later, moaning her name.

They looked at each other for what seemed like endless seconds. Then he finally smiled and said, “Looks like we worked up an appetite” murmuring as he reached for the nearby apple pie filling. He sucked on his finger and then fed it to her.

[cowboykento]

cw: weed (edibles)

splitting an edible with cowboy!kento while you sit out on his porch in the cool spring evening.

you sit next to him on the swinging bench while you wait for it to kick in, your legs tucked against you and your pinky finger wrapped around kento's. you tell him about your day at work, and he replies with his own questions and comments as you go.

you can feel it behind your eyes and floating in your head first, in the middle of kento's question, and you wonder if he notices the way your eyes have slowly started to squint.

he can, but only because he's so aware of the tingling in his cheeks and the floating sensation in his head. he looks at you like you're a vision, his own eyes falling almost shut just like yours.

"'m sorry, what did you say?" you ask, too distracted by the sensation overtaking you to really have heard him.

"asked ya how that project ya started last week was goin'," he smiles widely at you, a kind of goofy grin pulling his lips in a way you don't think you've ever seen before. "y'gettin' distracted?"

you giggle at him, scooting in closer to him so that you're neatly tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder and your fingers intertwining with his.

"little bit," you reply. "hard not to with the way you were looking at me."

he nuzzles his cheek on the top of your head, "and how was i lookin' at ya, darlin'?"

you think about how much thicker his accent is already now that he's starting to really feel his high. you want to tease him about it, but the thought slips out of your mind as easily as it comes. it's easy to get distracted feeling kento so close next to you.

"like you're stupid in looove," you poke at his side, teasing him. "biggest grin on your pretty face, ken. mmm, you're so handsome."

he tilts his head and presses a kiss on your cheek, "i am stupid in love with ya, sweetheart. you already knew that though, don'tcha?"

you smile just as widely as him, turning and facing him so you can kiss his lips. you bring your hand up to cup his jaw, your fingers pressing against his skin gently, lovingly.

he kisses you back enthusiastically, letting himself melt into you, fully indulging in the feeling and taste of your lips on his. his head may feel like it's in the clouds, but your lips are what tethers him to earth, and he thinks that it's just perfect.

"i do," you pull away, taking a quick, smiling breath. "i do know that. you're the most perfect man in the world. can't even imagine not loving you."

he pulls your lips back against his before replying, "oh, darlin', i love ya more than anythin'," he kisses you again, pulling you onto his lap. "more than anythin'. it's so easy lovin' you, my perfect angel, oh i love you."

you giggle against his lips, your heart warm as you wrap your arms around his neck. kento's always loving, but you can't get enough of his affection right now.

his hands come up to hold your face tenderly, his love pouring out through his lips, his hands, and his heart all the same.

cowboy!kento masterlist || sfw masterlist

[boneapplet]

A Love Born in Blood pt.2

Relationship: Angron x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: slavery, implied forced sex work and abuse, minor character deaths, minor injury descriptions

Word Count: 1463

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16 | pt 17 | pt 18 | pt 19

Weeks passed since their chance meeting. Angron is confined to the cell deemed his barracks. The cell reeks of blood and smoke. Stone walls damp from sweat and the spray of violence. The match had ended hours ago—five combatants dead, though the victory rings hollow. It feels like being allowed to live just to bleed a little longer.

Slouched against the wall, half-naked, the cuts across his ribs crusted and raw. The Butcher’s Nails pulsing behind his eyes, hungry and electric, whispering with that low, mechanical itch that never truly stops. Tense silence being interrupted by the sound of the latch clicking open.

Springing onto his feet before he knows it, towering, muscles twitching, teeth gritted. But it’s not a guard, he’s greeted by the sight of the mystery woman. She slips through the half-open door, quiet as a shadow. No scraps of silk that barely count as clothing tonight. Just a rough shawl around her shoulders and a simple dress of a thick material, feet bare that move like someone used to hiding every sound. Lacking any chains as well. Carrying a small flask and a strip of cloth in her hands.

“I wasn’t sent,” she quickly informs him before he can growl.

Angron’s breath is slow, measured, the Nails want him to do something. Fight. Lash out. React. Using what restraint, he has as not too, deciding instead to take a seat on the floor.

“I know,” he retorts.

Kneeling without being told.

“You’re worse than last time,” she mutters. “I saw the end of the match. Heard the crowd. They always cheer louder when you’re close to breaking.”

He doesn’t reply, just watches her.

“I brought water. And cloth. And quiet.”

She sets the flask down gently and begins soaking the strip of cloth. He lets her touch the wound along his side. This time, he doesn’t flinch away. The Nails hum ever present, waiting. But not screaming. Not yet.

“I used to do this for my brothers,” she says. “Before they died.”

His eyes flick to look down at her “They were gladiators?”

“Yeah. Not like you. They didn’t last long,” pressing the cloth to a fresh gash along his ribs, careful not to meet his gaze.

“They tried to run,” she informs him.

“Why didn’t you?”

Her hands pause, softly saying “Wasn’t ready to leave them behind.”

He nods once, slow. Understanding that answer in a way few others ever could.

“Me either.”

Utilizing a cloth she had kept hidden wrapped around her bicep to bandage his wound and leans back slightly, fingers still streaked in blood.

“Evara,” she says suddenly. “That’s my name. In case you wanted one.”

He blinks like the word doesn’t belong here. Like it’s something pulled from a story, not a slave pit.

“That name… it doesn’t fit this place.”

“Neither do I.”

Evara doesn’t wait for permission. Doesn’t look back, either. Gathering the flask, and steps toward the door. Right before she disappears into the corridor, she pauses.

“If they don’t catch me, I’ll come back.” She says before disappearing out the door.

For the first time in years, Angron thinks of a name without wanting to rip it from his skull: Evara.

She visits in no more than a fortnight. The corridors are silent as she slinks through them. Only the hum of the street outside and the occasional distant clink of chains. Evara knows the rhythm now—when the guards slack off, when the arena sleeps. Keeping her head down, stepping light, breath shallow. As she turns the corner to his cell, she hears it. Not the standard silence, a sound. Thud. Thud. Thud. Heavy, repetitive, she realizes that it’s not something but someone.

Evara slips to the edge of the door, heart rising in her throat. Peeks through the bars, being greeted by the expected sight of Angron inside though not sitting still as usual. Instead, he’s pacing like a caged beast, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are bone white. His breath comes in short and labored. The Butcher’s Nails are glowing faintly under the skin of his scalp, like coals just starting to smoke. His cell’s walls bear the marks of his fists—new cracks, blood spatter. He’s yet to notice her, he’s talking to himself.

“No... not enough... again—again—AGAIN—!” slamming his fist into the stone repeatedly.

Evara pushes the door open “Angron—”

Spinning toward her so fast she nearly stumbles. His eyes are wild, barely human. She freezes under his gaze. For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing. The Nails humming like angry wasps in his skull, feeling like claws trying to carve through his flesh from the inside out.

“It’s me,” she says. “Evara.”

She doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t raise her hands or plead. Just says it, steady, like she’s trying to call someone back from a cliff’s edge.

“You’re not in the pit anymore. There’s no one to kill. You’re bleeding.” Saying the last part softly.

He stares at her, chest heaving, blood dripping from his palm. Something flickers behind his eyes. Recognition. Hesitation.

“They... won’t stop,” his voice cracks. “Inside. Screaming.”

She nods slowly. Still not moving.

“So listen to me instead.”

And finally, finally, his body sags. Shoulders fall. The tension doesn’t vanish—it shifts. Becomes exhaustion. Collapsing to his knees, breathing hard. Walking towards him slowly, careful, like she’s approaching something wounded. Kneeling beside him. Setting aside the flask and bandages, not yet touching him.

“You’re still here,” she says gently.

“You stayed.”

He doesn’t answer. Just lets his eyes close, as if keeping them open hurts too much. Evara sits there, quietly, the way she always does. Not trying to fix him. Just there. He never speaks the name aloud. Though in his mind, as the Nails hiss and coil and claw for purchase, something holds them at bay. One thought, flame. Small. Fierce. Not gone yet.

               The memory of her quiet comfort is what soothes him when she doesn’t visit for a few months. It’s almost midnight when the cell door inches open. She opens it slowly, carefully, easing inside like she’s done it a hundred times before. Angron is already awake, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them. Not pacing. Not growling. Just... waiting. He doesn’t realize he was doing that until he sees her. Jaw tightening, something’s different this time.

               Evara is wearing her shawl not only around her shoulders but has it around her head as a hood as well today. It’s wrapped tighter than usual, as if she were cold. His keen eyes notice the way her steps are shorter, the way she doesn’t meet his eyes right away. Eyes locking onto the purple blooming under her right cheek, just beneath where the fabric brushes her jaw.

“Who.” It’s not a question but a demand.

“Don’t,” she mutters.

She sets down the flask and cloth—ritual by now—but her hands are shaking just a little. He doesn’t move, though he doesn’t stop with his probing.

“Was it the guards?” he asks. His voice is flat, dangerous.

“It doesn’t matter.” Trying to brush the topic aside.

“It does to me.”

Finally looking up towards him. That’s the part that stuns him. She’s still here. Still showing up. With blood on her lips and bruises adorning her, she came back anyway. Then—she does something unexpected. Pulling out from under her shawl a small, cracked bit of ceramic that resembles a clutch. Inside it: A cube of something pale. Sweet-smelling. Food. Real food.

“Stole it from one of the overseers,” she says, almost proud. “He was too drunk to notice.”

Placing it beside him, gently. “You don’t have to eat it now. But I thought... maybe it’d taste better if you weren’t bleeding.”

               Angron stares at it like it’s a live grenade. No one has ever brought him anything that wasn’t a weapon or a command. He doesn’t touch the treat. Instead, he reaches out slowly—very slowly—and brushes his fingers along the edge of her bruised wrist. Just a moment of contact. Careful. Gentle. Like he’s afraid to break her. She flinches, then relaxes into his touch.

When their eyes meet, he says—soft, rough, and more uncertain than she’s ever heard “You shouldn’t come back here.”

“They’ll break you.” His voice roughening with the hint of the storm of emotions lurking beneath.

She smiles, small and tired “They already tried.”

               They sit, shoulder to shoulder, and say nothing for a long while. Somewhere deep in his mind, the Nails writhe in confusion. She brought him a sweet thing, a quiet moment, and didn’t ask for anything in return. Again, in his mind: Little flame.

[prettycalla]

|| i fell (for you) ||

Pairing: Ralph Penbury/Reader

Summary: You and Ralph had tied the knot only a week ago and now, all of a sudden, he was avoiding you. You were determined to find out why.

Word count: 2.3k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, a teensy bit suggestive at the end (but no smut), no use of Y/N.

(Here I am once again, driving my little clown car. This can be read as a standalone fic or as a vague part two of my last Ralph fic.)

Masterlist || Taglist

Your wedding day had been the most perfect day. April showers bring May flowers, as the old saying went, and that had certainly rung true; you couldn’t have picked a more beautiful day in late spring to celebrate. It had been a whirlwind from beginning to end, and through it all was your dear Ralph, who looked at you the entire time as though you had hung the very stars in the sky.

Truly, it had been magical.

It had also been a week ago.

Ever since, Ralph had been like trying to hold onto a wet bar of soap - the more you tried, the more he seemed to slip right through your fingers.

The first night, you were both completely exhausted from the day itself. If there was one thing the Penburys were known for, it was their love of a lavish celebration, and you had all but dragged each other into bed that night, hardly able to keep your eyes open. Lying in your now husband's arms had been more than enough excitement for you.

The second night, Ralph had complained of a terrible headache that just wouldn’t leave him be. It had been so dreadfully hot for a spring day. You had let him lay his head in your lap and gently rubbed his temples until he’d drifted off, snoring softly with his hands clasped loosely across his chest. Quite the picture he made, you thought to yourself with a lovestruck little sigh.

Then came the sudden cold. The most ridiculous illness you had ever been witness to. One moment, Ralph was bedridden, practically at death’s door; then the next, it was business as usual, and he was absolutely fine again - as if he was turning it on and off like a tap. He also coincidentally seemed to be at his worst when you were in the room. Funny that.

You weren’t laughing.

By the seventh night, you had had quite enough, thank you very much. In a few days, you would leaving for your honeymoon, and you were not going anywhere until this entire ridiculous situation had been sorted.

Ralph had been pottering about the bedroom for the best part of half an hour, and rather aimlessly, you were quick to notice, as he had long since gotten ready for bed. As had you, wearing one of your nightgowns that left more than enough to the imagination, but not so much that you resembled an old maid. The book you were pretending to read was now developing grooves in the cover from where your fingers had been starting to dig into it.

Eventually, Ralph stopped his pointless clattering and got into bed. You took your time sliding your bookmark into place and set the book on your bedside table, turning your attention to your husband.

“Oh! That reminds me. I forgot my book,” he said suddenly. “Silly me. I must have left it in the parlour, I won’t be a moment in fetching it.”

As soon as he drew back the covers, you were already out of bed, making a beeline for the door. You held the doorknob with both hands behind your back, pressing yourself firmly against it.

Ralph stopped in front of you, confusion etched across his face.

“Darling-” he started, immediately silenced by the glare you were now levelling him with.

“Ralph Penbury,” you said lowly.

The colour drained from his face. You only ever used his full name when he was in trouble. And oh, was he ever in trouble now.

“You have been avoiding me.”

He let out a nervous laugh, his eyes looking everywhere but at you. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

“Avoiding you?” he echoed, his voice just a touch too high. “Darling, please, as if I would ever-”

“Ralph,” you said again, through clenched teeth.

He pressed his lips together, his hands wringing nervously.

You pointed to the bed.

“Sit,” you commanded.

He blinked at you a few times in surprise, before finally doing what he was told. He perched himself on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He didn’t move an inch, carefully watching you. His hair was loose from its usual pomade and was starting to curl naturally again; his pyjama shirt sat just a little too loose around his shoulders.

He gave you a small, almost bashful smile, and just like that, you felt yourself soften. You never could stay angry at him for very long.

It was one of the many things that made you love him so.

He patted the spot on the bed next to him, and you crossed the room again, sitting down beside him. Neither of you spoke for a moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Ralph's hands fidgeting. You reached out, placing one of your hands over his in a comforting manner.

He looked up at you then. His wide eyes could melt a crueller woman's heart, truly.

“I have a confession to make,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head to one side.

“What is it?” you asked.

“I, um, I have been avoiding you,” he admitted, his expression apologetic.

You pretended to look surprised.

“Whatever for?” you asked.

Ralph shut his eyes for a moment, huffing out a nervous breath. You could feel his hands moving under yours once more, and you gave them a light squeeze. He stopped.

“Well, I- As you know, I haven’t- Well, I've never-” he stammered nervously.

He paused to clear his throat.

“And I didn’t- What I mean to say is-“

You gently pressed a finger to his lips, effectively shushing him.

“Ralph,” you said gently. “Just tell me. Please.”

He took your hand in his, trying his best to meet your gaze.

“I’m frightened,” he finally confessed in a small voice.

Perhaps you were a crueller woman than you had realised.

“Frightened?" you echoed softly. "What could you possibly be frightened of?”

“Of not- Of not being good enough for you,” he whispered.

Oh, how easily he could break your heart.

The last of your frustrations melted away entirely.

You took his face in your hands, keeping your gaze fixed on his.

"My sweet boy," you murmured affectionately, with a smile as his cheeks flushed under your attention. "You already are good enough for me. Too good sometimes, in fact."

Ralph laughed nervously. "Oh, I doubt that-" he began to say.

You shook your head vehemently. "Shush. You are. You really and truly are."

He ducked his head in embarrassment, as best he could while still in your hold, his teeth grazing his lower lip nervously.

"What can I do to reassure you?" you asked, your thumbs lightly brushing his cheeks.

It took some time before he could gather the courage to look at you again. His hands came up to meet yours, gently holding your wrists.

“One more night, darling,” Ralph said, a quiet plea in how he spoke.

He pulled your hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to one, then the other.

“I promise I will make it worth all of this dreadful waiting that I have made you endure," he said sincerely.

You gave him a warm smile in return.

“One more night,” you agreed, leaning in to kiss him.

The next day, you found yourself feeling rather jittery. Ralph’s words played over and over in your mind, and while you wanted so terribly to believe your dear husband, he had not exactly convinced you thus far. On this matter, at least. You knew that he was a most trustworthy man in many other aspects, and so you tried to reassure yourself of that, and carry on with your day.

Even so, you found yourself attempting to glean any kind of information from Ralph. Each time you did, he would give you a mischievous smile in return and carry on with whatever he had been doing. He wasn’t exactly helping matters.

You supposed you would just have to wait.

Ralph had disappeared fairly quickly after dinner. At this time of the evening, you were normally curled up in your favourite armchair - the one closest to the fireplace in the parlour - with a book in your hands, while your darling husband did everything in his power to divert your attention to him instead. How like a puppy he was, you would think to yourself fondly.

Now that you finally had the peace and quiet to read that you so often sought, you found yourself unable to concentrate without the normal racket that Ralph would be creating. The irony of the situation was not at all lost on you.

With a sigh, you closed your book. A glance at the old grandfather clock told you that it was just past eight o'clock.

You bit your lip nervously. Surely it wasn't too early to retire for the night.

...Was it?

The nerves that had followed you throughout the day had settled themselves quite happily in the pit of your stomach. You drummed your fingers along the cover of the book in your lap.

There were no rules against going to bed at such a time, were there?

As if there was anyone there to argue with you. With a resolute nod to yourself - if only to steel your nerves - you rose from your seat, all but marching yourself upstairs. If any of the household staff could see you, they would surely think you mad. But then, the Penbury Manor had always been rather...eccentric. You may well have appeared dull by comparison.

You faltered as you drew closer to your bedroom. You presumed that was where Ralph had tucked himself away for the evening - although God only knew why exactly.

Well, you supposed you had your suspicions, you thought with a blush, as you turned on your heel in the direction of the bathroom.

Standing in front of the large oval mirror, it struck you. With Ralph secreted away as he was, you were quite trapped in your day dress for the foreseeable future.

You let out a frustrated huff. Of course he would make even this difficult for you. You looked around the room with your hands on your hips. You supposed you would just have to make do and mend.

Mercifully, your hairbrush and some of your make-up still lay on the countertop from this morning. You tidied up your hair, deciding against resetting it for the evening, as was your usual routine. You knew that you would regret it in the morning, but your previous night’s set was still holding up fairly well, despite the hour, and you wanted to look pretty for…whatever you were to find waiting for you.

You smiled to yourself as you reapplied a touch of rouge and tidied up your lipstick. After a little more fussing and preening, you took a little breath to calm yourself, and made your way to your bedroom once more.

You weren’t exactly sure of what to expect, but it was certainly not what was to be found on the other side of the door.

Soft music floated through the room from the gramophone that sat in the corner. Across the floor lay a little trail of rose petals that led all the way to the bed, stopping at the feet of your dear husband, who stood waiting for you, dressed exactly how he was only a week ago. In his hands was a bouquet of roses.

“Hello, darling,” he said, with a smile so fond, it was enough to melt your heart.

“Ralph…” was all that you could manage to say in return.

“Surprise,” he said with a little nervous laugh. “I do hope that it’s alright.”

“Alright?” you echoed. “If I had known you would go to this much effort, I would have worn my dress. Oh, I could have had my hair perfect, and my make-up too-”

Sensing your growing anxiety, Ralph quickly crossed the room to you. He gently pressed the bouquet into your hands.

“Dearest, you have nothing to worry about,” he murmured, dark eyes watching you intently. “You are just as beautiful now as you were last week, and the very first day I saw you, and every single day in-between.”

He smiled then, wide and ever so handsome. How he made your heart flutter.

“My darling wife,” he said softly.

And without a word of warning, you threw yourself into his arms, dragging him into a fervid kiss. He let out a noise akin to a squeak in surprise before he slowly began kissing you back, his hands pressing gently at either side of your face.

Now that you finally, finally, had him where you wanted him, it was difficult to bring yourself to let him go. He looked so handsome in his suit, you could hardly deny it, and yet...

Well, it had been a long week.

"Do you realise how difficult this week has been for me?" you asked between kisses, walking him backwards towards the bed.

"I, um- I believe I'm starting to, yes," he replied breathlessly.

You pressed your hands to his chest.

"Good," you said simply.

With a gentle shove, he fell back onto the bed, a soft gasp escaping him as his back collided with the mattress. You were quick to follow him, climbing into his lap. He didn't dare move, blinking up at you as if in utter disbelief.

You laid the bouquet of roses to one side, before the poor things took any more unnecessary damage. Besides, it wouldn't do to have your hands occupied with anything else at this moment but your darling husband.

"Thank you for allowing me another night, my love," he said softly, his expression nothing short of besotted.

Overcome with adoration, you leaned down to kiss him again, your grip tight on the pressed lapels of his coat.

You need never have worried at all.

No matter what, you knew he would be worth the wait.

He always would be.

Taglist 💖: @glassbxttless @getaapologist

[ishkabibblethings]

March 23rd

A fluffy Suits ficlet | Marvey (established) | Rated G "I had your secretary clear your afternoon. It's time we hit up that spa again, especially after the last few weeks." Harvey declares distractedly as he flips through their mail. Mike is still working on his breakfast at the kitchen counter and only mumbles an agreement. A real vacation is out of the question while they're so occupied at the firm, but an afternoon off together still sounds beautiful.

"I'll make us something nice tonight," Mike offers.

"Let's go all in, I'll find us a table somewhere good," Harvey replies and Mike can't find a reason to disagree. Mike secretly suspects that their time at the spa is more for Harvey than he'll admit but he's got no complaints.

"That sounds wonderful. It's been, what, like a year since we had a day like this? Good idea, dude." Mike moves around to the sink to drop off his dishes and pecks Harvey on the cheek as he passes by. "I'll just be a few minutes and we can head out."

"Don't call me dude, puppy," Harvey responds with a grin and watches Mike disappear into their bedroom.

Mike is in the bathroom wondering what it was that made Harvey plan another spa trip. Was his personal grooming slipping? They've been living together long enough but he's heard no complaints. He thinks back to their last trip, and the one before that, just when they'd started dating. It's a rare indulgence, and now that Mike thinks about it, it's always happened in the early spring.

Wait, now that he really considers it, picturing his work calendars, it has happened on this date each time. March 23rd. A knot starts to form in Mike's stomach. Fuck. Some sort of anniversary, it has to be something important for Harvey to move work around for it. Mike searches his brain, picturing every calendar he and Harvey kept, trying to remember similarities and differences, the reasoning behind the repeated treat day.

He must have taken longer than he realizes because Harvey comes to check and see if Mike's ready to go.

"You okay?"

"Uh yeah I'm good," Mike responds and checks the mirror again. He slips on his shoes and grabs his messenger bag.

In the car, Mike checks Harvey over for signs of emotions tucked away - disappointment, grief, frustration - notices nothing alarming and finds himself relaxing just a bit. Nothing he's done wrong, at least. Time to test his hypothesis.

"You know what, Harvey I forgot I've got a thing with Katrina this afternoon. Let's move the spa appointment to the weekend?"

"What thing with Katrina? Your secretary said she could move everything."

"I don't know if it ever made it in the books, she needs help with an in house thing for Louis." Mike bluffs.

"Well I'll encourage her to let you reschedule. It was hard to get these appointments today and you deserve a break." Harvey reaches for Mike's hand between them and laces their fingers together.

"Harvey, what's special about today?" Mike tries to keep his tone neutral.

"Aside from my stunning good looks and charm?" Harvey hams, and Mike actually scoffs.

"That's the same every day and you know it. Really Harvey, what's today?"

"I just want to give you a treat today, can't I do that as your loving boyfriend?"

Harvey's gone playful, so Mike knows he hasn't messed anything up. Harvey is also still avoiding the question so Mike knows he's on the right path.

"Of course you can. And I accept. But when my loving boyfriend happens to want to take me to a spa and dinner yearly on the same day without context, one is driven to wonder."

Harvey chuckles, knowing he's been caught.

"You really thought I wouldn't notice. Me, of all people? Twice is a coincidence, three is a pattern."

"Oh really, smart ass? Think back further." Harvey challenges.

"We weren't dating bef-"

"No we weren't together before that. Think back anyway."

Mike's eye focus on nothing in particular, and Harvey trusts he'll find it.

"The ties. You gifted me ties." Mike's head tilts a little in confusion and it's all Harvey can do to hold back a laugh.

"And lunch too," Harvey offers, feeling generous.

"I don't get it. Harvey, tell me. What's today? Why today?"

"So it started as a stupid joke, but you never caught on so I just kept going with it to see if you ever would." Harvey shrugs like he's almost embarrassed it's become a thing. Mike just watches him expectantly.

Harvey leans until his breath and lips are just close enough to make Mike's ear and neck tingle. Harvey's voice is private and Mike can hear his fond smile. "Happy National Puppy Day, Mike."

[minnielvrr]

Warned you

Lee: Seungmin Ler: Changbin Word Count: 1k

A/N: Wrote this in an hour😋🤭Got the idea from a random Skz funny moment video🤗💞

“Is this you? Celebrity!” Changbin exclaimed, waving his phone around. Seungmin giggled at his silliness, playing along when the older asked for his autograph.

“Sign my back!” Changbin handed him a black marker and leaned forward, baring his sensitive back.

The playful puppy drew a light squiggly line over the dwaekki’s back with the still uncapped marker, laughing out loud when it had the older yelping and flinching away.

“Yah!” Binnie scratched over the spots, trying to erase the ticklish path the pup had drawn. Continuing his fanboying over Seungmin as the puppy massaged his shoulders.

“Don’t test me Minnie.” He hissed at the younger, smiling when he turned back to face the camera. Seungmin just snickered at him, raising his hands in surrender.

“Look a celebrity!” He told the camera, relaxing in the pup’s hold. Seungmin smirked at his oblivious hyung, using the fact that his guard was down to scribble over the same spot with fervor.

Changbin let out a loud ‘AH’, arching his back away and springing out of his chair. Seungmin giggled, scampering away, not expecting Binnie to follow him.

“W-whahait! Hyung I was jushust johoking!” He lied, breaking out into aa run when he saw that Binnie was quickly catching up to him.

Seungmin made it to the practice room, slamming the door shut only for a shoe to be jammed through the doorway at the last second.

“NO!” He tried to push the foot away with his own as an increasing pressure on the door pushed him back, inch by inch.

And then Changbin slipped in, locking the door behind him. “I warned you puppy. Are you ready for some revenge?”

Binnie’s wiggling fingers had him stumbling back, nervous giggles leaving his lips as he was backed into the wall. “Hyung! Hyung really I can explain!”

“Oh really? What exactly is there to explain Seungminie?” Cue more nervous (and anticipatory) laughter. Seungmin knew what was coming.

“I—I was just…just trying to…”

“Go on.” Binnie had a challenging but slightly amused expression on his face.

“It’s not my fault you’re so ticklish! I used the marker so lightly and it still tickled you hyung! How is that my fault.”

Changbin’s face was flushed, the smug expression wiped off his face completely, replaced by a flustered one.

He sputtered and when words failed, actions always come through. So he tackled the thrashing puppy onto the floor and squeezed at his sides.

Seungmin barked out a laugh, cackles following soon when Binnie kept up the rhythmic motions of his hands.

“Nahahahaha it tihihickles! Changbin hyungahahaha!” The dwaekki was way stronger and no matter how hard Seungmin tugged at those torturous hands, he was left helpless.

He twisted left and right, laughter rising in pitch when Binnie went for his ribs to get a better grip.

Seungmin’s shoes squeaked on the shiny floor as he kicked out, head shaking and hands tapping on the ground.

“Aww who’s the ticklish one now Seungminie? Is this too much for the baby?” Changbin teased him, drilling into each rib as he counted them out loud, feeling giddy when Minnie’s squeals dissolved into frantic yet happy laughs.

“FAHAHAAHAACK!! Move spots! Mohohove spohohots please!” He begged when Binnie stayed on his ribs for what felt like forever.

“Oh? Change spots? Not stop? If you wanted to be tickled so bad, you could’ve just said so puppy~”

Graciously Changbin shoved his hands in Seungmin’s underarms, leaning down to press ticklish kisses to his neck as the puppy giggled and squirmed under his weight.

“Youhohous jeheherk! You’re the one thahahat wants to behe tickled!” The back talk only earned him more tickles and Seungmin couldn’t say he was entirely opposed to this.

The stressed look had been wiped clear from his hyung’s face and the tiredness he’d been carrying all week from their hectic schedules had finally morphed into giddiness pooling in his belly.

After exploring how ticklish Seungmin was on his torso, Binnie curiously scooted down until he was seated on the pup’s calves.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Seungmin was buzzing with eager anticipation. “How bad are your thighs, Minnie?”

The puppy squeaked at the question, opening and closing his mouth but unable to get anything out….until, ”Not as bad as yours.”

“Still being a brat hm? I guess I’ll have to change that.” He gave the pup’s slender thighs a testing squeeze, smirking when just that got him a resounding squawk.

“Cute! Do that again~” All hell broke loose. Changbin’s hands latched onto Minnie’s legs, kneading and squeezing and scribbling the ticklish skin.

As he did, Binnie learnt that Seungmin’s inner thighs were worse than his sides and of course he had to have some fun with that knowledge.

Whines mixed with cackles and peals of laughter as the puppy was thrown into hysterics.

His hands couldn’t reach far enough to defend himself so he clutched at the hem of his shirt as he flailed and giggled.

“SHIT! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HYUNG NOHOHO! PLEASE!! BREAK! I NEHEHED A BREHEHEAK!!”

Binnie laughed at his reaction, letting up and rubbing at the spot. Seungmin gasped for breath, enjoying the short minute he had before the torture would inevitably continue.

“Ready for the finale puppy?” Changbin threw the pup’s shirt up, taking a deep breath before attaching his lips to Minnie’s belly.

Seungmin squeaked and begged but the assault of raspberried that followed made him forget how to even speak.

He threw his head back, hands pushing and slapping lightly over Binnie’s shoulders as bursts of laughter escaped him.

He arched his back, kicked his feet and even tried to conjure up proper words but nothing seemed to work.

It was only when Binnie’s hands now began massaging the sides of his tummy so ticklishly as he continued to blow raspberries that his brain began to function.

“PLEHEHEASE STAHAHAP IHICAHANTTAKEITANYMOHOHORE!!” Seungmin’s words were incoherent, his loud desperate laughter drowning them out in seconds before going completely silent.

Tears streaked his red face and the prettiest of smiles adorned his handsome face.

Seungmin’s usually impeccable hair was an absolute train wreck and Binnie couldn’t help but coo at the cute sight, stopping after a few moments.

“Learned your lesson pup?” Binnie asked smugly, pulling the tired boy into his lap and gently rocking him side to side as he gulped down breath after breath greedily.

“Mm not a baby,” he retorted, giving in easily when a warning poke to his side reminded him otherwise.

And just like the pampered little puppy that he was, he demanded to be carried back by his loving Binnie hyung as he quietly plotted his revenge.

[edupunkn00b]

Prince Hollywood and the Silver Serpent

Written (very late) for the @sanderssidesgiftxchange for @prince-rowan-of-the-forest. Thank you for your patience as I struggled through the edits for this little Roceit Superhero/Supervillain tale. Rated: G - WC: 5147 ~

Torchlight flickered through the third floor windows at the National Archives secured repository. A little after midnight, it was well-past visitor hours for the display levels and only museum staff were permitted on the upper level. Easily visible from the front gardens, the lights danced, announcing the presence of ne'er-do-wells skulking about in the dark museum.

That was the thieves' second mistake.

Their first mistake was daring another break-in attempt so soon after the smash and grab at the Natural History museum last week. And right in the heart of Prince Hollywood's own city.

It would be their last.

Prince Hollywood leapt up from the bushes where he'd been watching the building, cape fluttering in the damp spring wind. He landed softly on the open windowsill—likely how the burglars got in—and slipped inside. Three people, dressed head to toe in black, bustled about near the shelves housing the Southern Ignots. One turned, his profile revealing the ornate voice changer curled over his neck and mouth. The Silver Serpent! Hollywood might've guessed there was only one villain in this city audacious enough to attempt this break-in.

Cast in shadow, the Serpent didn't see him and he returned his attention to the large crate his henchmen carried to the door.

"Freeze!" Hollywood shouted.

The Serpent's lackeys froze on the spot, but glowing yellow eyes turned to him, the rest of his face illuminated with his torch's glow.

"I knew it was you behind these thefts, you… you fiend!"

"Carry on," the Serpent muttered, flicking his torch toward the door.

"Halt!" Hollywood shouted, but they continued.

The Serpent crossed his arms, torch pointed down at over-polished shoes. "Or…" he prompted, laughter in his voice.

Hollywood slid out of the shadows, letting the cold moonlight shine on the emblem on his chest. "We'll see who's laughing when you're on your way to prison, you snake!" He stepped closer. "Your dastardly deeds are ov—" Too late, he felt a shimmer near his ankle. Before he could react, something—a rope, perhaps?—dusted in gallium tightened on his calf and hauled him up in the air.

He hung, spinning slowly, nearly six feet above the floor.

Laughing, the Serpent approached. "It looks like you're the one who's over, your Highness."

"My name is Prince," he hissed through gritted teeth. He tried to curl up, stretching with weakened muscles to tug at the binding on his leg. After a few attempts, he went slack, gravity too much to fight. Definitely gallium. And a lot of it.

"Besides, prison is where convicts go," the Serpent continued as though Hollywood hadn't spoken. He walked a slow circle around the hanging superhero, torchlight bouncing with each jaunty step. He was enjoying this. One more item on the debt column for when he finally got out of this. "The last I heard, I was guaranteed to be considered innocent before proven guilty." The Serpent chuckled, tapping Hollywood's cheek with two gloved fingers. "Your Highness, I believe you meant to say jail."

His proximity to the rare metal left his skin feeling paper thin, the friction of the rope around his leg burning. But the Serpent's touch was gentle, his gloves soft as he traced just under the edge of the mask concealing his identity. Shaking off the Serpent's hand, he growled back, "Let me down, you fiend!"

"Temper, temper, your Highness," he tutted, removing his hand. "All in good time."

They both looked up at at a soft cough from the hall. Another of his henchmen stood watching, this one dressed in a black suit covered with a long white lab coat. The Chemist! Since when were they working together?

"We've located the last of the artifacts in the basement reliquary," he said, clipped words sounding more like a robot than ever before. Hollywood craned his neck and spotted a bit of the same voice-changing circuitry the Serpent wore. Damn. "Ready when you are."

"Excellent work," he said and the Chemist disappeared from Hollywood's view. The Serpent turned again to Hollywood. Head tilted, he sighed. "I regret this is the time for us to take our leave, your Highness."

He tried again to reach the rope twisted around his leg but succeeded only in getting a bit of the gallium dust on his fingers, numbing his hand. He fell back and scowled at the Serpent. "The museum's antiquities collection is worth more to the city than whatever you can sell it for. Surely even a thief such as yourself must know that."

"Oh, you would be surprised at who else wants this collection," the Serpent purred, nudging his shoulder. The light touch sent him into a slow spin. "There are some who'd pay through the nose at auction for some of these pieces."

"And you'll keep the rest of the 'loot' for yourself, I suppose?" Hollywood spat, eyes closed against a growing dizziness.

"Really now, your Highness. How little you know me," he huffed. "I'm an autumn. I only wear gold. All of this collection will go to those who want it most."

The spinning stopped and Hollywood cracked open his eyes, glaring back. "Only a terror like you would deprive the world of priceless cultural artifacts all so you can make a tidy profit!"

The Serpent made a show of examining his nails through his gloves then hummed, "Yes. You're right about that. Well, this had been fun, but all good things, etc., etc.," he said, waving his hand vaguely. He looked just past Hollywood's shoulder and nodded. Twisting, Hollywood spotted the hulking figure heading toward him too slowly to dodge and the last thing he saw was a large, green-gloved hand covering his mouth.

~

Hollywood came to sprawled on a pile of coats on the floor of the museum check room. He jolted upright—too fast—and slumped back against the wall. Fuzzy words, Lost and Found floated before his eyes and he grunted. The Serpent's joke wasn't very funny.

Panic shot through his veins at the thought of that two-toned terror and he reached for his mask. Still firmly in place. Surely that devil took a peek while he was unconscious? He tugged at the edges, spirit gum still perfectly sealed. Unless the Serpent completed all of his robberies with a bottle of the stuff in his pocket, he'd left his mask undisturbed.

Which was more than he could say for the museum's antiquities collection. Even one crate was too much for him to have gotten away with, adding on to whatever the Chemist had found… Hollywood shook his head. Whatever they'd found they'd need to sell to make the theft worth it. Perhaps there was still a chance he could track them through the art markets.

Pushing up to his feet, Hollywood was surprised to feel his full strength returned. His suit leg was damp and clean… They'd actually taken the time to wash away any lingering dust from their rope. This really was just a big game to him, wasn't it?

The night sky outside was still mostly dark, with pink blooming in the east. He couldn't be spotted here. Wincing in anticipation of screeching emergency alarms, he pushed his way through the nearest exit. Nothing. Blinking in surprise at the bar, he spotted a bit of wire poking out, the edge smooth and freshly cut. So that's how they'd got in. Shoulders slumped, he made his way to a clear spot and took off for home.

Without a sound, Hollywood touched down on the roof and thumbed the lock on the emergency door. Without the cape and mask, feigning paranoia over stalker fans had made it easy to convince the property manager to install it just after his big break. Before then, he'd left the door unlocked, reliant on old spy tricks and a nerve-wracking level of vigilance each time he returned home.

A close call ten years ago taught him to leave all signs of his secret identity at home. Flying in the skies mean flying without any trappings of his human-appearing life. No keys, no wallet. No phone. When he was young, he'd thought he could keep that little rectangle of plastic and glass safe.

He'd been wrong.

The door locked behind him and he slumped back against it. He sighed as microwave's clock ticked over to 5:00. Damn. He was due at his new manager's office by 10 tomorrow, well, this morning. Just enough time for a shower and a couple hours of sleep. It would be enough. It had to be. He'd already rescheduled this introductory session three times and no matter how much this Mr. Jack said he wanted to represent him, surely his patience had begun to run a little thin.

~

One small, surreptitious flight later, Hollywood made it to his new manager's office with thin seconds to spare. After double checking his hair in a stairwell mirror, he took a deep breath then, shoulders back and smile at the ready, slipped into his actor persona. Tugging open the heavy oak door, he admired the polished gold lettering, J. Jack & Associates. At least he was in the right place.

"I'd know that face anywhere." A low, smooth voice greeted him from the other side. "Roman Reyes." Tall, with soft brown eyes and a smirk that said he knew more about you than you wanted him too, his brother's old college roommate approached, hand outstretched. "It's so good to see you again!"

Head whipping back over his shoulder as though he could read the lettering on the door through the wood—he could, but Janus didn't know that—Hollywood blinked back at him. "You—you changed your name."

Laughing, Janus gave his hand a little squeeze as they shook. "'Janus Sokrovishche' doesn't quite roll off the tongue the same way," he smiled. "But we all make concessions with our names in this business, don't we?"

Hollywood could get lost in those eyes. Up close, he spotted flecks of gold and three different shades of brown behind impossibly long lashes. Janus hadn't let go of his hand and was now practically holding it, gently sandwiched between his own. Janus seemed to notice at the same moment and he slowly lowered his hands and released it.

He mourned the loss more than he should, reminding Hollywood yet again of all the reasons he'd kept his distance from his brother's flirtatious roommate all those years ago.

"Well," Janus said, smirk returning. "Let's get comfortable in my office while we go over the new contract. Virgil?" he called without dropping his gaze.

His last manager's assistant popped in from the a doorway on the left. "Yeah boss? Oh, Roman! Glad you finally made it!"

"What are—" Hollywood shook his head, looking between them. "Since when do you work for Mr. Jack?"

"If you saw what he was paying me, you'd understand," Virgil drawled.

"Indeed," Janus murmured, drawing back Hollywood's attention. His eyes were still on him, scanning his features like they held some secret. They did, but Janus had no reason to know that. "Virgil, will you order us some coffees from downstairs? Get one for yourself, too. We've got a lot of work ahead of us." It was only when he winked that Hollywood noticed the deep shadows through Janus' artfully applied make up.

"You got it," Virgil said, giving them each a little two-fingered salute. "Back in a bit."

Alone together, Janus' crooked smile softened and he pushed open another heavy oak door, this one simply labelled J. Jack. "Please come in."

The office inside was even larger than the lobby. Centered before the giant floor-to-ceiling window stood a massive wooden desk, polished until it gleamed. It was spotless, adorned with only a built-in computer monitor, a fountain pen stand, and a small antique-looking globe. The overstuffed leather chair behind it looked more like a throne, high-backed and commanding. Surprisingly, the visitor's chair Janus ushered him into, though smaller, was comfortable and kept him at eye-level with Janus when he took his own seat.

"Do you hear from your brother much?" Janus asked, opening a drawer behind the desk and pulling out a leather-bound portfolio.

"Oh, well, this morning, actually," Hollywood shrugged. "He's backpacking… out near Lima. But, yes, he called me." The sight of his not-quite-twin's number on his caller ID had been a pleasant surprise. The relief in his brother's voice when he'd picked up an even greater one. He'd covered quickly with a raunchy joke about staying up too late with his latest conquest, but… Remus had sounded genuinely happy to hear he was alright.

"Excellent," Janus nodded, something warmer than he'd expected behind his eyes. Clearing his throat, he opened the portfolio and turned it to face Hollywood. "Shall we begin?"

~

They'd barely begun to review when Virgil returned with their coffees—and a small sweet-smelling tray.

"Once Pat heard who was up here," Virgil had smiled, shaking his head, "He insisted I bring up some cookies and sandwiches."

Janus and Virgil exchanged a look that Hollywood couldn't quite read. Was he concerned about the cost? He glanced around the office. Gold fountain pen, leather chairs, well-equipped bar where the entire thing was top shelf. Unlikely.

He looked back and found Janus' eyes on him. Ah. No, he's just like his old manager and concerned about his diet. Hollywood tilted his head, wondering the best way to explain his non-human physiology made it easy to maintain an inhuman physique for the cameras.

"Have you eaten?" Janus asked, indicating the tray as Virgil set a coffee next to him. Two milks, just the way he liked it.

Hollywood gave them his best autograph-line smile. "I take care of the vessel," he winked. "You needn't worry about that." Nodding at the contract between them. "I trust you have a clause in there to cover it."

Janus frowned and looked back at him with narrowed eyes. He exchanged one more look with Virgil, who silently excused himself with another little salute. Bringing his own cup—tea, by the herby-scent of it—Janus sauntered around the desk and took the chair next to him.

"You should not 'trust' me with anything until you've read the contract," he said, setting a large sandwich and two cookies in front of Hollywood before taking a sandwich for himself. "I suspect you'll find I don't work the way your former manager did." Janus smiled at him then, soft. Warm.

Hollywood swallowed hard, unable to break away from his gaze. He didn't want to.

"Here," he said after a moment, passing Hollywood a napkin. "Let us break bread like civilized people and then go through our new contract."

They spent hours pouring over every page. Without any visible prompt from Janus, Virgil returned mid-day through with tea and a tray of finger foods. Finally, cups and minds drained, they reached the final page.

Hollywood read it three times before he finally asked. "This says I can end our contract at any time without cause but you need to provide me written notice a year in advance." He frowned at Janus. "Am I interpreting this correctly?" His last contract had been 'at will.' With an N.D.A.

"You're reading it correctly." That little smile was back. Not a smirk, not a leer. Not even starstruck. Just... Gentle. Real.

"That hardly seems fair to you," Hollywood looked back at the contract. What had he missed?

"I get paid when you get paid," Janus explained as he signed the contract with a flourish. "This only incentives me to be sure you are happy with the work you do that pays the both of us." He offered him the pen, eyebrow raised.

Hollywood accepted the pen, weighing it in his hand. The nib was gold, as was most of the barrel. Wordlessly, he signed above the printed name, Roman Reyes.

"Excellent," Janus murmured, offering his hand to shake. Smooth and a little cool, his hand curled around Hollywood's just right. "I'll get a copy and you retain the originals. Then we can discuss your goals and—“

After a quick knock, the door opened and Virgil stuck his head through. "Hey, Boss?" Janus looked up, sharp. But not annoyed. Curious.

"That guy from Sotheby's is on line three for you," he said, pointing to the flashing light on his—silenced?—desk phone.

Sotheby's?

The auction house had been on the short list of places to watch for the stolen artifacts. He caught Janus watching him, waiting for him to politely excuse himself, perhaps?

"I should let you take that," he said, rising from his seat. "I can return tomorrow, perhaps... in the afternoon?" He might be in for another late night.

"That would be most helpful," Janus said with a little bow even as he reached for the gold-trimmed receiver. "I appreciate your kindness. Virgil will confirm a time with you."

~

The remainder of his visit ended in a flurry of scheduling interspersed with several phone calls. "Yes... Yes, it's not a rumor." Virgil winked at him and Hollywood suddenly felt less bad for listening. "Mr. Reyes is now exclusively represented by J. Jack. Mr. Jack has an opening next week..."

Hollywood turned to leave but Virgil gently tugged his sleeve. "Just a moment," he mouthed, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he clicked and tapped one-handed on his computer.

As Hollywood waited, his eyes darted over to the inner office door, where Janus' conversation had grown louder.

"Tomorrow morning at ten works for me." Hollywood didn't need to see him—his new manager—to envision the way his lips curled as he spoke. "And it's for the entire lot? No piecemeal?"

Janus' voice paused, listening. After a moment, he chuckled. "Very good. I will be there tomorrow."

"So tomorrow night?" Phone call finished, Virgil sat with his hands folded on the desk and smiled up at him.

Cheeks aflame, Hollywood realized he's been caught eavesdropping. "Wha—I..." He drew in a slow breath and smiled. "Are you asking me out?"

"Oh, no," Face dusted an adorable pink, Virgil laughed. "Nah, Boss Man would have my head for that." He jerked a thumb toward Janus' office. "In case Mr. Jack's other plans go long, will you be available tomorrow night for a dinner meeting?"

Hollywood's eyes flicked over to the still-closed office door. A take-the-lot auction was guaranteed to garner a lower price than selling each item individually, no matter the skill and prestige of the auction house. It would also be undeniably faster.

It sounded precisely like the kind of trade off someone who was desperate to dump stolen goods and get out of the country before they were caught. Tomorrow morning at ten… Hollywood might not yet know what his night looked like, but he certainly knew what he'd be doing tomorrow morning. If the Silver Serpent's theatrics were any indication, he'd likely be in attendance at tomorrow's auction.

And so would Hollywood.

"Tomorrow night looks like it's going to be wide open." He gave Virgil his best grin and leaned in close. "Say… you wouldn't happen to know where that Sothesby's auction is going to be, would you?"

~

Dressed in a rose-red blazer and slim-cut turtleneck, Prince Hollywood ducked past the winding valet line outside the auction hall and down the alley to the staff entrance. He flashed a grin—and a fifty—to the porter out for a smoke and he waved him in through the propped open door. The previous night's patrol had been unusually quiet, granting him a better night's rest than he'd had since the start of this nasty string of museum robberies. The extra sleep plus the tantalizing promise of finally apprehending the Silver Serpent put an extra pep in his step and soon he'd woven his way through the maze of greyspace out to the central auction hall. He selected a seat near the back, his other-wordly height advantage providing him a vantage of the room's entire occupants.

"Welcome one and all," the auctioneer began as soon as Hollywood sat. "We have something special for you today, a full lot of Incan antiquities, certified to date from fifteenth through sixteenth century South America. the collection is valued at well over five point five million dollars." A thick hush fell over the gathering, and a Ken and Barbie-type couple sat near the front and dressed in coordinated suits nodded to each other.

Janus was in the second to last row, watching them. It didn't look like he'd noticed Hollywood, and he didn't look in his direction.

"Included in the lot is this silver totem depicting Huari and Inti…" His assistant lifted several engraved silver pieces nestled on a black velvet tray. "These are the only known specimens in the world."

"Shall we start the bidding at one point five?" Like leaves rustling in a breeze, the auction paddles remained low, but ready as their holders waited for the number to drop. "One point four?" The auctioneer prompted, looking pointedly at Janus before scanning the crowd for any takers. "One point three-five?"

The interested couple shifted and, for a moment, Hollywood was convinced the man had looked over his shoulder directly at Janus. But he made no move to bid.

"One point two?" The auctioneer's confidence began to slip. "One point one, then."

"Half," Janus said, voice quiet but carrying throughout the hall.

"Sir, the bid is at one point one," the auctioneer insisted, addressing Janus with eyes beseeching the crowd. No-one would meet his eyes. "Anyone?" he said, gavel twitching for a moment before he quietly laid it on its side. "These artifacts would be the centerpiece of any collection. Never exhibited. Absolutely priceless and revered by the Chechua of the Andes."

The attendees sat in silence, a few risking a glance back at Janus. Every paddle remained flat on the holder's lap, hands folded primly over top.

"Half going once?" The auctioneer eyed the gathering, pleading with his eyes. He hadn't even picked up the gavel. Swallowing hard, he called slowly, "Half going twice?"

Janus smiled, one eyebrow cocked.

The auctioneer swallowed hard—hard enough for Hollywood's hyper-sensitive ears to pick up—and picked up his gavel. "And sold!" he cried with a soft bang. "For half a million dollars to Mr. J. Jack."

Janus stood then and nodded to the auctioneer. Smiling at the room, he straightened his lapel, the gold threading glinting under the hall's old-fashioned chandelier. Then he turned and looked right at Hollywood. Inclining his head with another of his soft smiles, he winked at him, then left.

The room erupted in hurried whispers as the attendees followed Janus' gaze and saw him, Roman Reyes, quietly attending a Sotheby's auction. A few attendees sporting bright orange Press passes muttered urgently into their recording devices. Another swapped lenses on his camera.

Hollywood slipped out before any had the gumption to approach him.

~

A handful of news outlets picked up breathless reports of his attendance at the invite-only auction, but his appearance was quickly eclipsed by Janus' announcement of his intent to donate the entire lot to the Chechua Historical society, an indigenous-owned and controlled not-for-profit that sought to repatriate artifacts stolen from their ancestral lands.

A single news report hinted of speculation the Sotheby's auction might have been related to the recent spate of museum break-ins, but even that article's use of the words 'allegedly' and 'coincidental' dismissed the connection as pure happenstance.

Hollywood was unconvinced.

"You're quite newsworthy this afternoon," Hollywood remarked when Janus invited him into his office.

"Oh, I am?" he smiled, laughter in his voice. "What could I have done that is more newsworthy than signing you as a client?" He gestured at one of the overstuffed armchair on the other side of his office, two steaming cups of tea already sitting on the low table between them.

Hollywood chuckled. He hadn't missed that each article he'd read had ended with an announcement that he had just finished contract negotiations with Roman Reyes, leading man and star of the three upcoming feature films. Virgil hadn't even looked up when he'd entered, fielding a seemingly never-ending stream of phone calls.

"Was that all this is?" Hollywood asked. "A publicity stunt? You know…" Thrumming his fingers, he inched forward in his seat. While revealing his true identity was out of the question, he couldn't allow his new manager—or his brother's friend—to become ensnared in the Silver Serpent's nefarious deeds. Even tangentially. Even if Janus had somehow managed to find a positive outcome. "I read an article these artifacts might not have been obtained legally."

Picking up his own tea, Janus traced the gilt flowers adorning the delicate handle for a long moment before speaking. "They had not," he said, thoughtful. "Not originally. The Incan Silvers are five thousand miles away from their home. By winning that auction, I can play a tiny part in getting them into the proper owners' hands." He sipped at his tea and smiled. "If I am able to use that to gain a little publicity for you in return, is that really so bad?"

"But…" Uncertainty, sharp and unfamiliar, stabbed at his gut and he sat up a little straighter. "The museum that owned them—"

"How do you suppose those artifacts got to that museum in the first place?" Janus set down his tea and leaned closer, brushing his fingers over the back of Hollywood's hand. His hand was warm and Hollywood looked down, briefly tempted to flip his own hand around and grab on to it before he could pull away.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Janus' hand lingered over his, resting over top. A shiny gold band dotted with bright yellow citrines adorned his index finger. It matched the gold stud in his left ear. Gold.

'I'm an autumn. I only wear gold. All of this collection will go to those who want it most.'

Hollywood's heart thudded in his ears and he pushed to his feet. "You!"

Nodding slowly, Janus rose. "Yes?" He met Hollywood's eyes, still calmly smiling.

"You're the Silver Serpent?" He stepped back, shins hitting the chair.

"Who?" Janus—the Serpent—asked, one hand pressed to his chest. "I can't possibly know who you mean." He titled his head, smile growing. "Your Highness."

"You fiend!" Hollywood hissed, eyes darting to the door separating them from Virgil. He had to get the other man out of the Serpent's clutches. "I can't believe I almost fell for your—"

"Now, Roman, calm down," the Serpent murmured. He approached, slowly, with both hands up. Like Hollywood was some spooked horse on set.

Eyes now locked on the Serpent, he slid away from the seat and stepped backwards toward the door. "Don't try to talk your way out of this, I'll—"

"Hey, Boss," Virgil called through the door just before it opened. "You have a—"

"Virgil, run!" Hollywood called and rushed toward him, scooping him up as he dashed to the elevators.

"Ro! Put me down right now!" Virgil snapped, whacking his shoulder until he set him back on his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You don't know who he is!" Hollywood moved his body between Virgil and the Serpent. "I'm getting you out of here!"

"What?" Face scrunched in confusion, he shook his head. "What are you talk—"

"He knows." The Serpent's voice rose above their bickering.

Hollywood's heart sank to his feet as Virgil moved to the Serpent's side. "It's about time."

"No," he muttered, leaning back against the elevator buttons. "No, he's gotten to you?"

"Ro," Virgil began, stepping closer and reaching for him. "Hear him out. He's—"

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Hollywood backed inside and slapped the 'close doors' button. He pressed every floor and then, before they could guess where he'd gotten off, he pushed up through the emergency hatch and out of the elevator shaft.

He had to figure out his next steps.

~

Hollywood kept to the rooftops, leaping between the taller structures through a winding path to one of his less-traveled safe houses. The Serpent knew his address. He couldn't return there. Finally, he arrived, three miles south of his home and five miles north of the Serpent's office. He let himself in, locked the door, and drew the shades before flicking on the light. He'd just sat down when his phone rang. His heart sang when he saw the caller ID.

"How's it hangin' Ro Bro?" The phone crackled with Remus' laughter. "Ya miss me yet?"

"Ha! You wish!" he laughed back, not quite as brightly as he'd wanted. Right now, he wanted his brother as far from this mess as he could manage. "The thin air up in the Andes must be—"

The Andes. The Andes?! The stolen artifacts were originally from the Andes.

Hollywood sank down into a chair and the phone slipped from his grip, landing with a quiet thud at his feet.

"Ro? Ro! C'mon, man!" Re's tinny voice spilled from the earpiece, distant and echoing.

No. No no no no, no! Re couldn't be all mixed up in this. He'd tried so hard to shield his human brother from his second life, his real life. Over twenty years, he'd never revealed his secret, cheated and snuck around, feigned weakness. Lied when Re found that old baby photo from before he'd arrived. Before he'd joined their family.

"Ro?" A pounding on the door drew Hollywood from his spiral. Re's voice wasn't coming from the phone anymore. "Ro! Lemme in!"

Moving automatically, Hollywood's feet took him to the door. He opened it without looking.

Backpack slung over his shoulder, Re stood on the doorstep. Flanked by Janus and the cheerful little barista from his favorite coffee shop. "Hey, Ro Bro… Let's talk."

~

Spring came late to Sapporo the following year and Hollywood stood in the shadows beneath gently flowering sakura trees outside the capitol's art museum. In a cynical attempt at appeasement, the National Archives had launched a global tour of the Parthenon Marbles. Security at the first three cities had been airtight. Even his brother and his half-mad, half-genius partner had been unable to find a whole in the defenses at any of the first museums they visited.

It seemed to have led the last museum's curators to let down their guard.

The team's torches danced against darkened windows above Hollywood's head as he scanned the street for approaching peace officers, radio at the ready. The city was quiet. Not even the stray dogs were out this late.

"Your Highness?" His earpiece crackled, Janus' true voice wrapping around him like a blanket. "We're nearly done in here. How are things from where you're standing?"

Hollywood chuckled, eyes still sharp on the street. "Boring without you."

"I see." A low chuckle poured over the speaker. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we?"