#but he couldn't do it awake when he was not thinking. he had time to think he thinks there is no one for ed and blackbeard is out of control

[neeeooon]

Hii how are you? Hope you're well! When I started out on Blue Lock, I thought kaiser had pink hair dye instead of blue. So i thought about reader insisting on dying his hair but got bored of blue and dyed his hair pink. without his permission

LMAOOOO reader is so dead :’) jkjkjk

“oh no, not blue. make it pink!”

michael kaiser x gn!reader. crack, slightly suggestive at the end. cussing

“let me do it this time?”

“no.”

“please?”

“absolutely not.”

you pouted. kaiser crossed his arms tightly over his chest. you gave him the most pathetic puppy eyes you could manage. kaiser sighed. “fine. but don’t do anything crazy.”

kaiser was planning to fix up the ends of his hair since the blue wasn’t very vibrant anymore, and you jumped at the opportunity to help. however, you were growing quite tired of the blue. don’t get me wrong, you thought it looked great and made his eyes pop beautifully, but you wanted something new, something exciting.

something pink.

he was in for a treat.

kaiser didn't suspect anything when you brought home a box of electric blue hair dye. if anything, knowing you, he should have checked the contents before trusting you with such an important duty. you're innocent!

"i've always wanted to wash your hair," you admitted as you ran your hands through kaiser's wet locks, the water making the blond appear more brown than usual. he hummed, eyes closed, as your fingers scraped gently against his scalp.

you kept the soap and water from his eyes as you finished washing out the remainder of his faded blue dye. you couldn't wash all the color out, so once the vibrant pink washed out, the ends of his hair would likely look a little purple.

with your boyfriend dozing off, you helped kaiser towel-dry his hair until it was damp and set him in front of the bathroom vanity. his eyes drooped, and you continued playing with his hair when you realized how sleepy it made him.

"kaiser?" you tested as you reached for the pink dye. kaiser hummed half-heartedly in reply.

with the stealth of a spy, you uncapped the hot pink hair dye and poured the contents into a plastic bowl. it came with a little brush to separate and paint the hair, which you were grateful for.

skillfully, you split his hair into three chunks and painted over the faint blue remnants with the pink. kaiser didn’t open his eyes, and he hardly moved as you worked your way around his ends. it took longer than you expected, but by the time you finished wrapping the last chuck of hair in foil, kaiser’s shoulders were raising shallowly in sleep.

watching him look so peaceful made you feel a little guilty, but you bought a light, temporary dye in case he genuinely hated it. you also had hair bleach, just in case.

you waited for him to wake up after finishing and gently carded your fingers through his damp blond roots. you’d managed to wash the dye out without waking him, but didn’t want to dry his hair and risk startling him awake.

however, the time had come. sucking in a trembling breath, you steeled yourself, owning up to your prank. that’s what it was! a prank! harmless!

kaiser did not think so.

“what the fuck?!” kaiser blinked frantically at his reflection, tugging at the pink ends as if they weren’t real.

you stood by the shower, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “surprise..! what do you think?”

kaiser sighed deeply and braced his hands on the countertop, hanging his head. he was quiet for long enough to make you seriously regret the prank. “it, um, i have bleach, if you—“

“you are really lucky i look hot as fuck in pink.”

you glitched. kaiser looking up, catching your bewildered expression in the reflection before turning around. he leaned against the counter to face you, arms propped over his bare chest.

“you’re not mad?” you stammered, hardly able to maintain eye contact with him.

kaiser’s lip curled into a grin. “no, i’m plenty mad. you’ll get what you deserve tonight.”

your face flushed as pink as his hair, after that.

[pucksandpebbles]

WE DOING THIS AGAIN?, QH⁴³

inspired by an audio from tiktok:

-hello. -where are you? -why are you calling me? -why'd you answer? -cus i like your voice. do you miss me? -maybe. listen, I'm out with my girls right now but i was thinking you could come get me? -we doing this again yeah? -oh, we don't have to. -shut up, i'll come now

a/n : another quick one cos I was inspired but at the same time, couldn't be arsed as it's lateeeee. again, pls let me know if i've made any major mistakes or errors as re-reading my own work pains me and i refuse.

wc : 1.3k

It always happens when you are a little bit drunk. Not hammered but drunk enough off shitty vodka to miss Quinn to the point where your shaking fingers hover over the call contact and you wonder what on earth you are doing. Tonight, you’d snuck off after your fourth drink, eyes watering with the sting of the shot that you’d just downed, and sequestered yourself in one of the club bathrooms. 

For maybe five minutes you just dry retched into the bowl, your whole body heaving with the motion, trying to rid yourself of the nausea that was swirling low in your gut. But it wouldn’t budge and you scrambled to your feet shakily - uncaring for the horrific hygiene of the club bathroom’s floor. You pushed your way out of the stall and stumbled out of a small back exit just off from the bathrooms to a little smoking area outside. There was only one other girl there, leaning against the crumbling brick one with a small cigarette lit up and dangling between her fingers with a nonchalance that also indicated a similar level of drunkenness to your own. 

Your voice came out waterier that you expected when you hobbled over to her, heels digging into your feet like torture devices,

“Can you manage a spare?”

The stranger was wordless as she passed over a cigarette, lighting it up too kindly for you and you took it between your fingers wandering off. With a sigh of relief, you took your first puff and slid your back down the wall, letting your pounding head fall back onto the brick surface. 

Coughing slightly with the inhale, you thought back to Quinn. He had hated your smoking habit, it was detestable to him and he was constantly bugging you to quit. You had tried, for a moment, in the honeymoon period when you thought that you might be able to make it work. But you threw out the packs, chucked away your lighter and a week or two later, you were back out back of a club, taking a resigned puff. It wasn’t all you. Both of you had had your vices, ones that you just couldn’t manage to kick, and that was why you hadn’t worked out in the end. 

After only a couple puffs, you dropped the but - at least half a cigarette remaining - and ground it into the pavement with the flat front sole of your heels. 

Then you opened up your phone, contact already open and you pressed down firmly on the ring button.

Trilling softly, you pressed your phone to the side of your face, leaning back onto the wall and listening to the sound of the ringtone which rang for just a moment too long that you thought it might ring out.

Then, a click.   

“Hello.” Quinn’s husky low voice came through the speakers, reminding you that he was not a party boy and you’d likely just woken him up from R.E.M in the early hours of the morning.

Way to fuck up, you thought to yourself.

But his voice radiated through you like a comforting warmth, and you found yourself wishing, imagining that he was sitting beside you. Arm slung across your shoulders and pulling you in protectively - like he used to.

Without even thinking, the words slipped out of your mouth, courtesy of the alcohol, “Where are you?”

Quinn sounded much more awake when he spoke again, hitting straight back with the, “Why are you calling me?”

It was a good question. 

In all the time since you’d been separated, you’d never actually pressed call, just wondered about what it would be like to do it. Now you were on the phone and you didn’t have any answers for Quinn. Why were you calling? Why did he want to know? 

“Why'd you answer?” That was all you managed to come up with, it felt like a weak response.

Quinn’s tone was soft in response, gentle and soothing, totally calmed from the slight edge that he’d had when he began to question you. 

“Cus i like your voice. Do you miss me?”

Pondering it, you brushed at your bare legs, shivering as the cold night air began to get to you, causing goosebumps to appear on your skin like little pinpricks. That was really why you’d called. You wanted him here. As much as you wanted to deny it, it was the truth - you missed Quinn.

You wanted, needed, him here beside you. 

So with your voice, lilted with drunkenness, you replied, “Maybe. Listen, I'm out with my girls right now but I was thinking you could come get me?”

Quinn was already out of his bed, pulling on some shoes and better clothes - and a jacket for you, you were bound to be sat outside and freezing. Over the phone, you could hear the muffled and hasty shuffling and a slow smile spread across your painted lips; on the other end, Quinn’s was set into a straight line, all that he could think about was being right by your side again despite how he knew it would end. How it had ended last time, and the time before that. You were the right person but never the right time. Doesn’t mean he would give up trying.

“We doing this again, yeah?” He pondered aloud.

With your familiar teasing voice, one that Quinn remembered well, you replied, “Oh, we don't have to.”

Quinn wasn’t about to let you go that easily. He clambered into his car, still pushing off his sleep and exhaustion at the edges, and was starting up the car; he already knew where you were - call it intuition - and was keying in the address of the nightclub.

“Shut up, I'll come now,” were the words out of his mouth as the engine roared to life and he pulled out onto the road.

You stayed on the phone to him, listening to the mild and quiet sounds of Quinn driving until he pulled up in his car, right in front of you.

Jumping out of the truck, he pulled you up from the floor, cradling your head and planting gentle kisses to your scalp as he pulled his jacket around you and led you with both hands towards the passenger door.

As you were about to get it, you turned around to face it, backed up against the door and looked up at Quinn, into the flicker of his eyes under the harsh streetlamps. His eyes flitted down to your lips and you couldn’t take it much longer and closed the short distance between you.

Your lips collided, slotting perfectly together like you’d never been apart and moving delicately, yielding to your every want and need. His arms moved to snake all the way round your back and as you arched your back a little, he held you up solidly and a soft moan slipped from your lips. He was soft and warm against you and you felt as if you were breathing him in and never wanted to exhale ever again. Lapping inside your mouth, he pulled you against him and you simply leaned in further, letting him grip you just firmly enough to lift you up onto the seat - forcing the kiss to break.

“Let’s get you home baby,” He said.

All you did was nod. You were home as long as you were with Quinn, but he didn’t have to be told that - he already knew, because he felt the same.

[chara-cat5]

lads isekai au ch 18

reader is gender neutral, warning: swearing, mdni

masterlist

first 1

previous 17

next 19 (not out yet)

(q/a for any confused readers!!)

you didn't drink the potion. you couldn't. instead, you decided that mia had experienced enough heartbreak. she told you about her visions of past lives and how they always ended horribly. he left her, she left him, she made him kill her, he made her kill him, they exploded. all bad, very very bad... but you knew how to fix it. it was complex spell, one that took you weeks to prepare for. it would take your soul and not reincarnate you till all the others were reincarnated. you stay in a limbo till then, away from this world and it's troubles. it's never been used before, only a theory by the mages of old but it was worth the risk. the chance that one day you'd fix whatever shit storm mia had with her soul bound.

.

.

n3w memory uNloc̸k̷ed 5 star solar-slot memory p̸a̴i̶r̷ [e̸r̸r̷o̶r̷: blossom's wilt]

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your mind woke before your body. there was a weightless feeling over your entire body, almost like you were floating. opening your eyes, everything was cast in a green light. you were floating in a sort of liquid. a beat of panic passed before your realized you had been breathing this whole time. you twisted, running a hand along the surrounding surface.

'am i a chicken now? egg life i guess.'

you kicked at a wall, yelping when it sent you spinning around. you didn't know which way was up or down, but you tried again, launching off one wall into another. the egg seemed to shake off whatever it was resting on, rolling around. you couldn't help but let out a laugh, spinning around the egg space. there was a crack in the shell though and you launched yourself at it again. it spun more, bumping what you guessed was a wall before skidding to a stop. you huffed, bumping around the inside before floating to the crack. whatever ooze you were in was leaking out and non-green light was able to come through. you slipped your fingers through the crack, trying to pry it open. it gave slightly, but not nearly enough. you let out a scream when something brushed your hand, yanking it back inside. a larger hand slipped through the crack instead, yanking at the 'shell' till it broke. you fell with a ungraceful wet flop the fluid spilling all over the ground. looking down, your 'egg' was made of intersecting vines that had hardened around your form like a protective shell.

"so you're finally awake."

you snapped your gaze up at that deep voice, meeting narrowed red eyes. you scrambled back, kicking out. he crouched down, tilting his head to the side.

"... i'm not going to hurt you. do you know who you are?"

you swallowed, nodding your head before saying your name. he hummed, standing back up and moving around the room. it looked like a guest bedroom, the only odd thing being a toppled over podium you assumed held up the vine egg. sylus moved to a side table, pouring a glass of water. you shakily stood up, brushing off your knees.

"how long was i out for?"

he huffed, padding over to you and handing you the water.

"it has been a week. you've been in that ball the entire time."

you narrowed your eyes as you took the water.

"how do you know all that? why am i even here, sylus?"

he chuckled, looking away as he crossed his arms.

"i needed answers and was planning on getting them. unfortunately for me, the one moment you were alone, you turned into a egg."

you grumbled, moving to sit down on the edge of the bed.

"so you kidnapped me? egg- egg-napped me? i was gonna talk to mia the next day. and then she would have talked to you."

"well, sweetheart. i'm not sure how you planned to talk to her from within your shell, but,"

he stepped closer, standing in front of you, threateningly.

"you can explain to me now."

you glared at him, taking a slow sip of the water.

"i actually think i should tell mia i'm okay, thank you."

he dropped his smirk, holding your gaze for a beat longer.

"i'll let her know. but i can't let this go, sweetheart. i've done my own investigation into you. i know that until about three months ago, you have no history. no digital foot print till three months ago, nothing said you even existed. then there you are next to mia. suddenly, she keeps telling me about her 'roomie'. a roomie i'm sure wasn't there before.

you gripped the cup of water, placing it down on the side table. damn, sylus was through. part of you wanted to just not tell him just to be difficult. but, you knew this would be useless. better to get it over with.

"i'm not from this world."

he blinked at you for a long moment, seemingly picking between two things to say. before he could choose, you carried on.

"in my world you, mia and this entire world is from a video game. that's why i know about you. not because i'm some secert mafia lord out to get you, but because i'm a nerd who played a video game about boys and space."

he blinked at you more and you just knew he was questioning if you were telling the truth or were just crazy.

"... you're from another world. and in that world, i'm a video game character."

you nodded, shifting in your seat.

"yep. that sums it up."

he furrowed his eyebrows, shifting on his feet.

"so i'm supposed to believe my life is just code made for entertainment?"

you blinked, hesitating before shaking your head.

"no, i-... i don't think so? maybe it was in my world, but this world... feels real. i would be more likely to guess that the game was a connection between our worlds. like, infold has some weird crystal ball to see what y'all are doing."

he huffed, flopping down next to you on the edge of the bed. you bounced slightly, at his added weight, pulling your knees to your chest.

"you okay, sylus?"

he huffed, narrowing his eyes at you.

"i'm fine. and for your knowledge, i never assumed you were a 'secret mafia boss'. you clearly don't have the heart for it."

you squawked in offense, sitting up straighter.

"i totally do! i could be a killer mob boss!"

"sure, sweetheart. why don't you practice on mephisto before you make such claims."

you pouted, watching him stand up and move toward the door, when you followed him, he gently pushed you back.

"stay, sweetheart. i'll send someone for you. i don't need you wandering around."

you squinted at him, glancing behind him before realizing there was no out running sylus.

"...you don't believe me."

"i believe you believe yourself. but you have to understand why i may have doubts about being a 'video game character'. give me time. i'll let mia know about your safety, don't worry."

you watched him close the door in your face. you looked back to the room, the floor still a mess of plant juice and dying vines.

great. fantastic.

you missed a week of your life in the past, mia has probably been freaking the fuck out. xavier might have been freaking out too (you aren't sure where you stand with him still). and now, you were stuck in sylus's little (massive) dingy (fancy as hell) base (correct).

awesome.

.

.

affinity level [20]

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taglist: @sleepisfortheweakpooh @plzdonutpercieveme @young-adult-summer @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @asakiyu @leftpoetrymoon @hon3yydew @anemobabygirl @clandestienly @crimsonrubie @beaconsxd @yuurisfavblog @cutiesgaloree @udejoenrlddo @mephisto-with-a-knife @poptrim @rhoswen-drake @szafficat @1ren3n @peachystea

hey...

sorry for no chapter yesterday, i'm not really sure how to write the next chapter. i'm actually publishing this before i finish the next one. i'll try and get the next one done and out tomorrow, but i'm not sure i will. i guess i got writes block finally, probably why this one is kinda short.

thank you for reading!!

-chara <3

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter Sixteen | Signal Lost

🏈 Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) | 8.1k-ish words

requested: nope

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

📝 this story is only posted on wattpad and tumblr under miss_delaney. if you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. 🚫 do not repost, translate, or share my work without permission. 🌻 requests: closed! 💌 want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment or message me.

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

Author's Note:

Hey everyone - hang tight with me on this one. This chapter does some time jumps, and it took me forever to get the timeline right because I don't always write chronologically. Please show me some grace - I'm sick right now and my brain isn't firing on all cylinders, but I wanted to get this posted for you.

Fair warning: this one is heavy.

I also want to address something I've seen in comments and my wonderful beta mentioned, about Riley seeming like a pushover lately. You're not wrong to feel that way - she absolutely is being more accommodating than we're used to seeing. Here's what's happening in my head when I'm plotting her: Riley's never been in love like this before. With Ethan, everything was toxic from the start, so she had her guard up. But with Joe, she completely opened herself up, which changes everything.

She's dealing with trauma responses from her past. Ethan made her feel like she was "too much," so when Joe starts pulling away, she unconsciously shrinks herself because she's terrified of being abandoned again. Plus, she can see Joe is genuinely suffering - physical pain, career crisis, everything. She keeps thinking "this isn't the time to be demanding" and "he'll be himself when he heals."

The success guilt is huge too. Her career is exploding while his is falling apart, so she feels like she owes him patience. She's trying to love him through his worst moment, but she's hurting herself and them in the process.

Sometimes loving someone means we lose ourselves a little. Riley will find her voice again - but right now, she's drowning too.

Thanks for sticking with me through this messy part. ❤️

Thank you @crazytheoriststrawberry!

Joe stared at the ceiling at 5:47 AM, thirteen minutes before his alarm. His wrist was a constant throb, but that wasn't what kept him awake. It was the knowledge that in an hour, he'd be back in that sterile PT room, putting his body through hell for the second time in twelve hours.

"You're ahead of schedule," his therapist had said yesterday, like it was supposed to be encouraging. "Most patients at three weeks post-surgery aren't achieving this range of motion."

What she didn't say was that most patients weren't refusing pain medication. Most patients weren't treating every session like a playoff game they had to win.

Joe sat up carefully, cradling his wrist. The brace felt heavier each day, a constant reminder that his most reliable tool—his body—had failed him when it mattered most.

The 6 AM session was range of motion. Small movements that shouldn't hurt but felt like breaking all over again. Joe gritted his teeth through each exercise, sweat beading on his forehead as he forced his wrist through the prescribed rotations.

"That's excellent progress," the therapist said, making notes on her clipboard. "How's your pain level?"

"Fine." The lie came automatically. Fine was sitting on his couch. Fine was throwing a football. This was torture disguised as healing.

But he couldn't take the pills. Couldn't afford the fog, the distance from his own thoughts. If his body was betraying him, his mind had to stay sharp. Had to stay in control.

By 2 PM, he was back for strength training. Resistance bands and grip exercises that left his hand shaking. The therapist kept praising his dedication, his work ethic, but Joe heard something else underneath—surprise that he was pushing this hard.

Good. He'd rather overdo it than come back weak.

His phone buzzed during the cool-down stretch. Riley, texting from soundcheck somewhere in the Midwest: How was PT today?

Joe stared at the message. He could tell her about the pain, about how his wrist felt like it was being twisted in a vise for four hours a day. But she was two weeks into a sold-out tour, living her dream, and he was sitting in a medical facility wondering if his career was over.

Good. Therapist says I'm ahead of schedule.

That's amazing! I'm so proud of you lovey.

The pride in her text should have felt good. Instead, it sat heavy in his chest. Proud of what? Of doing the bare minimum to fix what he'd broken?

Joe drove home in silence, his good hand gripping the steering wheel. The house felt enormous and empty, too quiet after the constant noise of the facility. He stood in his kitchen, staring at the bottle of prescription painkillers on the counter.

Just one would take the edge off. Let him sleep through the night without the constant ache.

Instead, Joe left the bottle unopened and headed upstairs. Tomorrow was another 6 AM session, another chance to prove he could control at least this much of his recovery.

Even if it was killing him slowly, piece by piece.

* * *

The morning after "Pursuit of Happiness"

Joe woke to his alarm at 6 AM. His wrist was screaming—he'd slept wrong on it again, three weeks post-surgery and he still couldn't find a position that didn't leave him aching by morning. Joe sat up carefully, cradling his arm against his chest, and reached for his phone.

Twelve missed texts from friends and family.

Mom: "Saw Riley's cover on the news this morning! So sweet ❤️"

Ja'Marr: "Bro your girl just broke the internet"

Trae: "Kid Cudi cover was fire. She really did that for you? 😭"

Zac: "Turn on ESPN. They're talking about Riley's song"

Joe frowned. ESPN? He'd expected music blogs to pick it up, maybe some entertainment outlets. But sports media?

His phone buzzed with an incoming call. Mark.

"Joe, we need to talk."

"It's 6 AM."

"ESPN is already talking about Riley's cover. Have you seen any of the coverage?"

"Just texts from friends."

"I'm sending you some links. This is exactly what we were worried about. The narrative is getting away from us."

Joe put Mark on speaker and opened his texts. Screenshot after screenshot of headlines and social media posts. Most were positive, but the negative ones made his stomach clench:

"Must be nice to have your QB boyfriend as PR"

"How convenient that she covers his favorite artist right when she needs album promo"

"Bengals QB more focused on his girlfriend's career than his own recovery"

"This is why he got injured in the first place—too many distractions"

"It's not about the song. It's about what it represents. Your priorities. Your focus." Mark's voice was sharp with urgency. "The front office is already asking questions."

"What questions?"

"About your commitment to recovery. About whether you're taking this seriously enough to lead the franchise."

Joe felt something cold settle in his stomach. "I'm in PT twice a day."

"I know that. You know that. But the optics matter. Your girlfriend just told the world she loves you using your favorite artist, and now everyone's wondering if football comes first anymore."

After Mark hung up, Joe sat in his kitchen staring at his phone. Bill called twenty minutes later with the same concerns, couched in gentler language but carrying the same message: this was a problem.

His wrist throbbed as he made coffee one-handed. In two hours, he had his first PT session of the day. Range of motion exercises that would leave him sweating and shaking. Then another session at 2 PM. Every day for the next month, at minimum.

His phone lit up with a text from Riley: Safe in Denver! Still thinking about our call last night. I love you so much.

Joe stared at the message. Riley was flying high—literally and figuratively. Her album was climbing the charts, her tour was sold out, and yesterday she'd made a beautiful, public declaration of love that the music world was celebrating.

And he was sitting in his empty house, questioning whether loving her back was going to cost him his career.

Love you too. Have a great show tonight.

The response felt hollow even as he sent it.

Joe looked at the bottle of pain medication on his counter, then at his PT schedule stuck to the refrigerator. Six sessions this week. Twelve next week. Every movement designed to rebuild what he'd broken.

His phone buzzed again. Another social media notification. Another comment about priorities and distractions.

This time, Joe turned the phone face down and didn't look.

* * *

Three days later:

"How's Joe doing?" Pete asked during soundcheck in Phoenix.

Riley adjusted her guitar strap, frowning slightly. "Good. I think. He's working really hard in PT."

"You think?"

"He's just... I don't know. Tired, I guess. The recovery is taking a lot out of him." Riley played a few chords, not quite meeting Pete's eyes. "Our calls have been shorter."

"Shorter how?"

"Like, he seems distracted. Or maybe just in pain. I don't want to push."

Andy looked up from tuning his guitar. "Maybe he's getting weird about the attention from your cover?"

"No, he loved it. He said he was proud of it."

"That was three days ago. Sometimes reality hits later."

Riley's fingers stilled on the strings. She'd been trying not to think about the shift she'd sensed in Joe's voice, the way their FaceTime calls felt slightly strained. But Andy was right—the internet had been relentless about the Cudi cover, and not all of it was positive.

"I should call him," she said.

"After soundcheck," Pete said gently.

But when Riley called Joe that night after her show, his phone went straight to voicemail. And when he texted back two hours later, all he said was: Sorry, early PT tomorrow. Great show tonight.

He hadn't even asked how it went.

* * *

One week post-surgery - December 4th vs. Jacksonville

Joe stood on the sideline in Bengals streetwear, his surgical site screaming with every movement. The Jaguars had jumped out to a 14-0 lead in the first quarter, and Joe could feel the panic radiating from his teammates.

His wrist was encased in a hard cast, the incision underneath still raw and angry. Every time someone bumped into him on the sideline, white-hot pain shot up his arm. The prescription bottle in his locker remained unopened—he needed his mind clear, even if his body was falling apart.

Jake Browning threw an interception on the next drive, and Joe closed his eyes, fighting a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with his pain medication.

"The Bengals are struggling early without their franchise quarterback," the announcer's voice echoed through the stadium. "You have to wonder how much Joe Burrow's absence is affecting this team's identity."

Joe gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the game, but every play felt like watching his season slip away in real time. The team managed to rally—they always fought harder when he was watching from the sideline—but the 34-31 win felt hollow when Joe knew he should have been out there leading them.

Standing there in excruciating pain, watching his backup manage his team, Joe couldn't shake the feeling that everything was starting to unravel.

* * *

Two weeks post-surgery - Thursday Night Football vs. Pittsburgh

Joe stood on the sideline yet again, his wrist still months and months away from being cleared for contact. The surgical pain had shifted from screaming to a constant, gnawing ache that made it hard to concentrate. The Bengals were down 27-3 at halftime against the Steelers in front of a primetime audience, and the home crowd was restless.

His cast felt heavier each day, a constant reminder of his helplessness. Joe had skipped the pre-game pain medication again—the third time this week his trainers had offered, the third time he'd refused. He needed to stay sharp, needed to be present for his team, even if every movement sent lightning up his arm.

During a timeout, the camera found him on the sideline. Joe tried to look engaged, clapping for his teammates with his good hand, but he felt like an outsider watching his own life fall apart.

"There's Joe Burrow on the sideline," the announcer said as his face filled television screens across the country. "The franchise quarterback watching another Bengals collapse. You have to wonder if all the off-field distractions this season contributed to the injury that's keeping their franchise quarterback on the bench."

Off-field distractions. They didn't say Riley's name, but they didn't need to.

Joe's phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably Riley, texting from whatever city she was in tonight. He didn't check. The movement of reaching for his phone would send another wave of pain through his surgical site, and right now, he couldn't handle both the physical and emotional ache simultaneously.

Joe was icing his wrist after his morning PT session when his phone lit up with a notification from Billboard. Salvage had just hit number one for the third consecutive week.

He stared at the screen, remembering how excited he'd been when Riley first sent him the album. Now, all he could think about was Mark's graph showing his approval ratings plummeting while her career skyrocketed.

His phone buzzed again. Riley, FaceTiming from what looked like a hotel room.

"Joe! Did you see? Three weeks at number one!" Her face was glowing, hair messy from sleep, eyes bright with disbelief and joy.

"That's incredible, birdie." The words felt heavy in his mouth.

"And that's not even the best part. It went platinum yesterday. Platinum, Joe. In three weeks." Riley laughed, the sound pure and infectious. "Rolling Stone wants us for their cover. Can you believe that?"

Joe forced a smile. "You deserve all of it."

But even as he said it, he could hear Bill's voice in his head: Her career is exploding while yours is on hold. The contrast is... challenging.

"Are you okay? You seem tired."

"Just finished PT. You know how it is."

Riley's expression softened. "How's the pain today?"

"Better." Another lie. Everything hurt—his wrist, his shoulder from compensating, his head from the constant pressure. But he couldn't tell her that. Not when she was floating on cloud nine about achievements, she'd worked her whole life for.

"I wish I could be there to take care of you."

"You've got shows to do. People counting on you."

"You’re people too," Riley said quietly. "The most important people."

After they hung up, Joe sat in his kitchen staring at his phone. Riley's Instagram story showed clips from her soundcheck—sixty thousand empty seats that would be full in a few hours. The scale of her success was staggering.

He opened X without thinking, then immediately regretted it. The trending topics told the story:

#SalvageNumber1 

#TheRamblesRollingStone 

#PlatinumInThreeWeeks

But underneath the celebration, the other narrative was building:

"Convenient how Riley Carter's career exploded right after she started dating Joe Burrow"

"From opening act to Rolling Stone cover in six months... what changed? 🤔"

"The Kid Cudi cover was smart business. Get that NFL boyfriend clout"

"Joe Burrow went from franchise QB to WAG faster than anyone in history"

Joe's chest tightened. WAG. Wife and girlfriend. Like that was all he was—just some tagalong to her spotlight.

* * *

After the game - 34-11 loss to Pittsburgh

The locker room was a morgue. Joe sat at his assigned stall, still in street clothes, watching his teammates strip off their uniforms after getting blown out on primetime television. His wrist was throbbing—standing on the sideline for three hours without pain medication was taking its toll.

"This ain't on you, man," Ja'Marr said, sitting down heavily beside him. "We know you're doing everything you can to get back out there."

"I should be out there with you guys," Joe said, cradling his cast against his chest. Every word felt like an effort when his body was screaming for relief he refused to take.

"Nah, don't do that to yourself. You saw that hit—nobody walks away from that clean." Ja'Marr shook his head. "What pisses me off is all the noise people are making while you're laid up."

Joe looked at his teammate. "Yeah, I've seen some of it."

"Social media, some reporters. They're acting like you're not locked in or some shit." Ja'Marr shook his head. "Meanwhile you're out here every day grinding through rehab with that thing." He gestured at Joe's cast. "It's ridiculous."

Joe's jaw tightened. He'd seen more than "some of it"—Mark and Bill had made sure of that. "My team showed me the articles. The fan sentiment stuff."

"Well then you know it's garbage. The whole locker room sees you in here every day, sees you on that sideline in pain, refusing the pills so you can stay sharp for us." Ja'Marr leaned forward. "We got your back, Joe. Don't let the noise get in your head."

Joe felt some of the tension leave his shoulders, though the cold knot in his stomach remained. Even with his teammates' support, the criticism was still there, still building. And every day it felt harder to separate loving Riley from the narrative that was destroying his reputation.

"I just want to be back out there," Joe said quietly.

"We know, man. And when you are, we're gonna be ready. Until then, fuck what anyone else thinks."

* * *

Three weeks post-surgery - Home vs. Kansas City

The Bengals lost 25-17 to the Chiefs in what felt like their season finale. Joe watched from the sideline as his defense couldn't stop Mahomes in the final two minutes, their playoff hopes officially slipping away.

His wrist had finally stopped screaming—the acute surgical pain had settled into a deep, constant ache that he'd learned to live with. Three weeks of refusing pain medication had left him hollow-eyed and exhausted, but his mind was sharp enough to understand what this loss meant.

During the post-game coverage, Joe's relationship became a talking point again.

"Look, I'm not saying Joe Burrow isn't committed to football," the ESPN analyst said. "But his girlfriend's tour is breaking attendance records while his team just got eliminated from playoff contention. The optics are challenging."

"It's a difficult situation," another analyst agreed. "You've got a young quarterback dealing with his first major injury while his rock star girlfriend is having the biggest year of her career. That's a lot of competing priorities for a 27-year-old."

"The question is whether he can compartmentalize. Tom Brady was notorious for shutting out distractions during the season. Aaron Rodgers too. The great ones find a way to make football the only thing that matters."

Joe turned off the TV in the trainer's room and sat in his empty locker, his wrist throbbing in its cast.

The great ones make football the only thing that matters.

But Riley mattered too. She was supposed to matter.

Wasn't she?

Riley texted from the Phoenix airport: Landing in 2 hours. Can't wait to see you.

Joe stared at the message from his PT table, his wrist screaming from the morning session. The surgical site was still angry and swollen, and he'd refused the offered pain medication again. Twenty-four hours. She was squeezing him between Phoenix and Denver, flying across the country to see him for one day.

It should have felt romantic. Instead, it felt like pressure.

* * *

3:30 PM - Joe's House

Riley dropped her bag by the door and crossed the room to hug him, careful around his wrist but pulling him close with her free arm. She smelled like herself—that familiar scent he used to find so comforting.

"How was PT today?" she asked, studying his face.

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

Joe moved away from her, heading to the kitchen. "It's PT, Riley. It's not supposed to be fun."

She followed him, her heels clicking on his hardwood floors. "I know, I just—you look tired."

"I am tired." He opened the fridge without purpose, just needing something to do with his hands. "I'm tired all the time."

Riley leaned against his counter, watching him. "Tell me about the tour," he said, grabbing a water bottle. "How's Phoenix?"

"It was incredible. Sold out, amazing crowd." Her voice brightened slightly. "We did 'Pursuit of Happiness' and the entire arena sang it back to us. Even Pete got chills."

Joe's jaw tightened. That song—their song—being performed for sixty thousand strangers while he sat in physical therapy.

"That's great," he said, but the words came out flat.

Riley's smile faltered. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

His phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Mark. Then another from Bill. Joe picked it up without thinking.

Mark: "New article in The Athletic about QB recovery timelines. Sending link."

Bill: "ESPN mentioning the tour again. We should talk."

"Joe?" Riley's voice seemed far away.

He scrolled through the notifications, his chest tightening with each headline. The same narrative, over and over. His girlfriend's success contrasted with his struggle. Her achievements highlighting his absence.

"Joe." Riley's hand touched his arm. "Put the phone down."

"I can't." The words came out harsher than he intended. "Do you know what they're saying? About us? About me?"

"I don't care what they're saying."

"Well, I do." Joe set his phone down too hard, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. "I care that every article about your tour mentions my injury. I care that they're questioning whether I'm focused enough to lead a franchise."

Riley was quiet for a moment. "That's not my fault."

"I didn't say it was."

"Then why does it feel like you're blaming me?"

Joe didn't answer because he didn't know how to explain that he wasn't blaming her—he was blaming himself for not being stronger, for not being able to separate their love from the noise around it.

* * *

6 PM

They ordered dinner and tried to pretend everything was normal. Riley told him about the cities she'd been to, the fans she'd met, the way "Ego" had become an anthem at every show. Joe nodded and made appropriate sounds, but his attention kept drifting to his phone, dark and silent on the coffee table.

"The Rolling Stone photographer wants to do the shoot next week," Riley said, setting her coffee cup down on his glass table. "They're thinking something stripped down, more intimate than the usual glossy stuff."

"Mm-hmm."

"Joe, are you listening to me?"

He looked up from where he'd been staring at his phone. "Rolling Stone. That's huge."

"It is." Riley studied his face. "But you don't seem happy about it."

"I am. I'm happy for you."

But even as he said it, Joe could see the water ring her coffee cup had left on his table. A perfect circle marring the glass surface he kept spotless. It was such a small thing, meaningless really, but it felt like proof of everything wrong with this moment.

Riley followed his gaze to the table, then back to his face.

"Can you not leave shit on the table?" The words came out harsher than he'd intended, sharp and cutting.

Riley stared at him like he'd slapped her. "Excuse me?"

Joe's chest tightened immediately, the fight going out of him as quickly as it had come. "I'm sorry. That was—I didn't mean to snap like that."

"Then what did you mean?"

Joe stood up abruptly, walking to the kitchen to get paper towels. "Can you just... be more careful? This is expensive furniture."

The words hung in the air between them. Riley stared at him, something shifting in her expression.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Her voice was quiet, controlled, but Joe could hear the hurt underneath.

"I just asked you to use a coaster."

"No, you snapped at me for existing in your space." Riley stood up, watching him wipe the table with jerky, aggressive movements. "For leaving evidence that I was here."

Joe's chest tightened. "That's not—"

"What is this really about, Joe? Because I know you, and this isn't about furniture."

"I'm stressed, okay? The PT is brutal, the media won't leave us alone, and I—" He threw the paper towel in the trash harder than necessary. "I just need things to be... controlled right now."

"Controlled." Riley repeated the word like it tasted bitter. "And I'm messing up your control."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant."

Joe looked at her standing in his living room—beautiful, successful, glowing with the kind of life he felt like he was losing—and felt something crack in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said, the fight going out of him as quickly as it had come. "I'm sorry. That was shitty."

Riley's shoulders sagged. "I know you're in pain. I'm just trying to help."

"I know. I'm sorry."

She moved toward him, reaching for his good hand. "Talk to me. Please. What's really going on?"

But Joe couldn't tell her about Mark and Bill's presentations, about the approval ratings and the front office questions. Couldn't explain that every achievement she shared felt like evidence against him. Couldn't say that he was starting to wonder if loving her publicly was going to cost him everything he'd worked for.

So instead, he just held her hand and said, "I'm tired, Riley. I'm just really fucking tired."

* * *

The Next Morning

Riley's flight was at 11 AM. Joe drove her to the airport in silence, both of them careful around the bruise from the night before.

"I'll call you tonight after the show," she said as they pulled up to departures.

"Okay."

"Joe." She turned to face him. "We're going to be okay, right?"

He looked at her—hair falling in waves around her face, eyes uncertain in a way he'd never seen before—and wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise her that they'd figure it out, that love would be enough.

Instead, he kissed her forehead and said, "Have a good show tonight."

Riley studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. "I love you."

"I love you too."

But as Joe watched her disappear into the terminal, he couldn't shake the feeling that something between them had broken the night before. Something that might not be fixable with apologies and promises.

His phone buzzed with a text from Mark: Can we schedule a meeting this week? Some new developments we should discuss.

Joe turned off his phone and drove home to his empty, spotless house.

* * *

Four weeks post-surgery

Joe was reviewing his PT schedule when his phone rang. Mark's name on the screen made his stomach tighten—these calls never brought good news anymore.

"How are you feeling today?" Mark's voice was carefully measured.

"Sore. But the therapist says I'm still ahead of schedule."

"That's great to hear. Listen, Bill and I want to sit down with you this week. We've been monitoring some trends we think you should be aware of."

Joe set down his coffee. "What kind of trends?"

"Public perception data. Fan sentiment analysis. Nothing urgent, but we think it's important you have the full picture."

"Can't you just tell me over the phone?"

"It's better if we show you. There are some graphics, some articles. We want to make sure you have all the information." Mark paused. "Are you free Thursday afternoon?"

Joe looked at his calendar. PT from 9-11, PT from 2-4. Empty space in between that he usually used to ice his wrist and try not to think about how far behind he was feeling.

"I can do 12:30."

"Perfect. We'll come to you."

* * *

Thursday, 12:30 PM

Mark and Bill arrived with laptops, tablets, and a folder thick with printouts. They set up in Joe's dining room like they were preparing for a board presentation.

"Before we start," Bill said, settling into his chair, "we want to be clear that we're showing you this information because we care about your career. None of this is your fault, and we're not asking you to make any decisions today."

Joe's wrist throbbed. "Just show me."

He spread several articles across the table:

"Is Riley Carter Using Joe Burrow for Publicity?"

"The Real Reason Behind That Kid Cudi Cover"

"NFL Girlfriend or Attention Seeker? You Decide"

"From Unknown to #1: How Dating an NFL Star Changed Everything for Riley Carter"

Joe felt his chest tighten. "She's not unknown. Her band's been successful for years."

"Of course," Mark said gently. "But the narrative has shifted. Here's a timeline analysis from a popular Bengals blog."

He clicked to another tab showing a side-by-side comparison: Riley's career milestones on one side, their relationship timeline on the other.

"They're suggesting correlation," Bill explained. "Album release coinciding with your relationship going public. The Cudi cover happening right after your injury. Her tour announcement the week you started intensive PT."

"That's all coincidence."

"We know that. But perception becomes reality in the public eye." Mark clicked to another screen. "Here's what fans are saying."

A sampling of comments scrolled past:

"Love Joe but he needs to focus on getting healthy, not his girlfriend's career"

"Burrow better not pull a Russell Wilson situation"

"She seems sweet but football season is football season"

"This is why we can't have nice things in Cincinnati"

"He was fine until he started dating that rock chick"

Joe's jaw tightened. "Russell Wilson situation?"

Bill leaned forward. "Fans are drawing parallels. Wilson's performance metrics declined after he went public with Ciara. People started questioning whether his priorities had shifted."

"That's..." Joe paused, choosing his words carefully. "That sounds like some racist bullshit, honestly. Black quarterback gets successful, marries a successful Black woman, and suddenly his priorities are questioned? And Wilson's numbers didn't even drop that year—he had one of his best seasons."

Mark shifted uncomfortably. "We're just reporting what fans are saying."

"Fans who apparently don't know stats," Joe continued. "And Brady and Gisele were on magazine covers together for years. Nobody questioned his priorities."

"Different situations," Bill said quickly.

"How? Because Brady's white?" Joe's voice had an edge now. "Or because this was before social media turned every relationship into a conspiracy theory?"

"Joe, we're not making these arguments. We're showing you what's out there."

Bill opened his folder. "We've compiled some research on how successful quarterbacks have handled high-profile relationships. Manning kept things relatively low-key. Rodgers has been private about his relationships."

"What about Brady? You just said he was different." 

"That was different," Mark said. "Brady was already established, had multiple rings."

"So I need to win Super Bowls before I'm allowed to have a public relationship, what are you asking me to do here?"

"Be strategic," Mark said. "Riley's tour runs through February. Your comeback timeline has you returning next season. This might be a period where you keep things quieter."

Joe felt something cold settle in his stomach. "Quieter how?"

"Less public interaction with her career. No appearances at shows. Limited social media interaction." Bill's tone stayed clinical. "Let your recovery be the story, not your relationship."

Mark pulled up another article. "ESPN ran this piece yesterday: 'The Modern Athlete's Dilemma: Balancing Love and Legacy.' It specifically mentions you and Riley."

Joe scanned the article, his heart sinking with each paragraph. It painted their relationship as a cautionary tale about young athletes getting distracted by fame and romance.

"The front office has been asking more questions," Bill said quietly. "Since we last talked to you about this. They're not saying anything officially, but the concerns are growing."

"What kind of questions?"

"About your commitment level. Your focus during recovery. Whether you're taking the franchise quarterback role seriously enough." Bill's voice carried a note of sympathy. "They see Riley's career exploding while you're struggling through PT, and they're wondering about priorities."

Joe's mouth went dry. "My priorities are fine."

"We know that. But optics matter. Right now, the story is that your girlfriend is reaching career highs while you're at a career low. The contrast is... challenging."

Mark closed his laptop. "Look, we're not asking you to end things with Riley. We're asking you to protect both of your careers by keeping things private until you're back on the field proving yourself."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you deal with whatever narrative builds," Bill said simply. "The questions about focus. The speculation about priorities. The possibility that your comeback gets overshadowed by relationship drama instead of football accomplishments."

Joe sat in silence, staring at the stack of articles on his table. Every headline felt like an accusation. Every comment like a judgment on his character.

"We'll let you think about it," Mark said, gathering his materials. "But Joe? The longer this narrative builds, the harder it becomes to change. Right now, you still have some control over how this story gets told."

After they left, Joe sat alone in his dining room, surrounded by the remnants of their presentation. His phone buzzed with a text from Riley: Just got off stage in Dallas! Crowd was incredible. How was PT today? Missing you.

Joe stared at the message. Riley was living her dream—selling out arenas, getting magazine covers, winning industry recognition she'd worked her whole life for. And somehow, that success was being used as evidence against him.

He looked at the articles scattered across his table, for the first time since they'd started dating, Joe didn't know what to say back.

PT was good. Glad the show went well.

The words felt empty, even as he hit send. But they were safer than the truth—that part of him was starting to wonder if loving her out loud might cost him everything he’d built.

* * *

Six weeks post-surgery - Chicago Surprise

Joe stared at his phone screen, thumb hovering over Riley's contact. She'd been on tour for several weeks now, and their FaceTime calls had gotten shorter, more stilted. Not because of anything she was doing—Riley was still Riley, all energy and stories and laughter that used to fill up every empty space in his chest. But something was off with him. The constant ache in his wrist, the sleepless nights, the way his own house felt like a prison.

He missed her. The empty house, the endless rehab sessions, the way every day felt the same—none of it felt right without her.

He pulled up her tour schedule on his phone. Chicago tomorrow night. He could make that work.

Joe called his assistant Sarah first. "I want to surprise Riley at her Chicago show tomorrow. Can you coordinate with her team? They'll need to know I'm coming for security, but ask them not to tell her."

"Joe, are you sure you should be traveling—"

"Sarah. Please."

He also shot a quick text to Pete: Flying to Chicago tomorrow. Don't tell Riley - want to surprise her.

Pete's response was immediate: Holy shit dude she's gonna lose her mind. I'll make sure security knows to expect you.

Twenty minutes later, Sarah called back. "You're all set. Her tour manager Mara knows you're coming and she's excited to help with the surprise. Security will bring you to her dressing room right before show time."

Soldier Field was massive—sixty thousand people, and from what Joe could see through the tunnel entrance, every seat was filled. Riley's crew had coordinated with his security detail to get him in through a side entrance, avoiding the main crowds. His arm was starting to ache from the travel, but seeing the scale of this—her name on the screens, her music echoing through the stadium—made everything worth it.

The security guard led him through a maze of concrete corridors to the backstage area. "She's in the main dressing room," the guy said, checking his watch. "Show starts in thirty."

Joe found her doing vocal warm-ups, already dressed for the show—black corset top with rose details, leather pants, her blonde hair in loose waves. When she turned and saw him standing in the doorway, her whole face went through about five different emotions before landing on pure joy.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Surprise," he said, and she was across the room in three steps, careful when she hugged him but pulling him close.

"Joe. How did you even—this is insane." She pulled back to study his face, and he could see her eyes getting bright with tears.

"Hey, don't cry, birdie," he said softly, brushing his thumb under her eye. "Your makeup."

Riley laughed, a watery sound. "I can't believe you're here. Are you okay? Should you be traveling?"

"I'm fine. Sarah coordinated everything." He kissed her forehead. "I wanted to see this. See you do this."

Riley's eyes were still bright but she blinked the tears back. "This is the best surprise. God, I can't believe you're here."

Mara appeared in the doorway. "Riley, we need to start getting you ready—oh." She grinned when she saw Joe. "Perfect timing."

"Mara helped coordinate everything," Joe said.

"And keeping this secret for the last six hours has been torture," Mara said. "She's been talking about missing you all day."

Riley blushed and shoved Mara's shoulder, but Joe caught the way she glowed.

"I can watch from backstage?" Joe asked.

"Side stage," Riley said immediately. "Best view in the house."

The show was electric. Joe had seen Riley perform before, but not like this—not in front of sixty thousand people who knew every word to every song. When she launched into "Mad Woman," the crowd's energy was so intense he could feel it in his chest.

He positioned himself in the wings where he could see her but stay mostly hidden. Riley caught his eye during "Daylight" and smiled, and for a moment, everything felt right again. This was what mattered—not the headlines or the speculation or his empty house in Cincinnati. Just her, doing what she was born to do, and him being here to witness it.

His phone had been buzzing throughout the show, but he'd ignored it. Riley was in the middle of her encore when he finally glanced down.

Seventeen missed calls from Mark. Twelve from Bill. A string of increasingly frantic texts.

Answer your fucking phone

Are you in Chicago?

There are photos

Joe's stomach dropped. He looked up at Riley, who was thanking the crowd, still glowing with post-show adrenaline. She hadn't seen any of this yet.

The last text from Mark was timestamped three minutes ago: Call me NOW

Joe stepped further back into the shadows, but it was too late. Whatever had happened, it was already happening.

"That was incredible," Riley said, finding him after she'd finished her meet-and-greet. She was still buzzing with energy, hair damp with sweat, eyes bright. "Did you see how they reacted to 'Ego'? I thought the roof was going to come off."

Joe managed a smile. "You were amazing."

"I can't believe you're here. This is the best surprise—" She stopped, noticing his expression. "What's wrong?"

His phone was ringing again. Mark's name on the screen.

"I should probably take this."

Riley's smile faltered. "Joe?"

"It's fine. Just give me a second." He answered the call, stepping away from her. "Mark."

"What the hell are you doing in Chicago?" Mark's voice was sharp, panicked. "Do you have any idea what this looks like?"

"I'm supporting my girlfriend."

"You're supposed to be in Cincinnati, in rehab, focusing on your recovery. Not traveling across the country for a rock concert."

Joe closed his eyes. "It's one night."

"It's never one night, Joe. There are photos of you everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. You in a sling, looking like you should be in bed, not backstage at some concert."

"I'm fine."

"The narrative writes itself. 'Injured quarterback skips recovery to follow girlfriend on tour.' How do you think that plays in Cincinnati? How do you think it plays with the front office?"

Joe looked over at Riley, who was watching him with growing concern. She was still glowing from the show, still floating on the high of sixty thousand people singing her words back to her.

"I have to go," he said.

"Joe—"

He hung up and walked back to Riley, who searched his face.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah." The lie came easier than the truth. "Just team stuff."

But Riley wasn't fooled. "Joe, what's going on?"

He wanted to tell her. Wanted to explain that someone had taken a photo of him watching her perform, that it was already spreading across the internet, that his phone was full of messages from people telling him he'd made a mistake by coming here.

Instead, he kissed her temple. "Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow."

Riley studied him for a long moment, then nodded. But the light in her eyes had dimmed, just slightly.

As they left the venue together, Joe's phone buzzed with another text from Bill: We need to talk. First thing tomorrow.

The night that was supposed to remind him why their love was worth fighting for had just become ammunition for everyone who thought it wasn't.

* * *

Eight weeks post-surgery - Denver

Riley stared at her phone, thumb hovering over Joe's contact. The adrenaline from the show was still coursing through her veins—twenty-two thousand people had sung "Daylight" back to her tonight, and for a moment she'd forgotten about everything except the music.

But now, alone in her hotel room, all she wanted was to hear Joe's voice.

The phone rang four times before he picked up.

"Hey." His voice was rough with sleep.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry, I forgot about the time difference."

"It's okay. How was the show?"

"It was incredible. The crowd was so alive tonight, and during 'Smallest Man' they were—" Riley caught herself, hearing the flatness in his response. "But you're tired. I should let you sleep."

"No, tell me. It sounded great."

But his voice carried that careful politeness she'd been hearing more and more lately. Like he was going through the motions of caring rather than actually caring.

"It's fine. It was just a good show."

"Okay." A pause. "I should probably get some sleep. Early PT tomorrow."

"Of course. I love you."

"Love you too."

The line went dead, and Riley sat in the silence of her hotel room, feeling more alone than she had in months.

* * *

Three days later - Kansas City

Riley sent Joe a photo from her dressing room: a bouquet of sunflowers from a fan with a note that read "Thank you for writing my feelings."

Joe: Looks amazing.

That was it. Two words.

She typed and deleted half a dozen responses before settling on: Miss you.

No response.

* * *

One week later

"You've been quiet," Pete said during soundcheck, adjusting his bass. "Everything okay?"

Riley played a few chords, not meeting his eyes. "Just tired."

"Tired or Joe?"

She looked up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You used to call him every night after shows. Now you barely mention him."

"He's going through a lot with rehab. I don't want to burden him with tour stuff when he's struggling."

Andy looked up from tuning his guitar. "Since when is sharing good news a burden?"

"Since it started feeling like work to get him excited about anything."

The words came out more bitter than she'd intended. Riley immediately felt guilty—Joe was in pain, dealing with career uncertainty, stuck in Cincinnati while she lived her dream on stages across the country.

"Maybe he's just having a hard time," Daniel said gently from behind his kit.

"I know he is. That's why I'm trying to be patient."

But patience was getting harder when every conversation felt like pulling teeth, when his responses to her photos were generic and brief, when he seemed more interested in getting off the phone than staying connected.

* * *

Riley's hotel room - 1:23 AM

Riley called anyway, knowing it was late in Cincinnati but needing to hear his voice.

"Riley? Is everything okay?"

"I just wanted to talk to you. I miss you."

"It's after 1 AM here."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just..." She curled up on the hotel bed, pulling the covers around her. "I feel like we haven't really talked in days."

"We talked yesterday."

"For five minutes. About physical therapy and weather."

Joe was quiet for a moment. "What do you want me to say?"

The question hit her like a slap. "I don't want you to say anything specific. I just want you to want to talk to me."

"I do want to talk to you."

"Then why does every conversation feel like I'm bothering you?"

"You're not bothering me, birdie. PT is exhausting, and by the time you call I don't have anything left at the end of the day."

Riley felt tears prick her eyes. "I know you're tired. I know this is hard. But I'm trying to support you and it feels like you don't want me to."

"That's not true."

"Then what is true? Because something's wrong and you won't tell me what it is."

Another long pause. Riley could hear him breathing, could picture him in his kitchen, probably icing his wrist and staring at nothing.

"I'm just trying to focus on getting better," he said finally. "Everything else feels... complicated right now."

"Everything else including me?"

"Riley..."

"Answer the question, Joe. Am I complicating your recovery?"

"It's not that simple."

But it was exactly that simple, and they both knew it. Riley closed her eyes, feeling the foundation of everything they'd built starting to crack.

"I'm going to let you sleep," she said.

"Riley, don't—"

"I love you. Get some rest."

She hung up before he could respond, then turned off her phone and cried into the hotel pillow until she fell asleep.

* * *

The Next Morning - Riley's text to her bandmates

Riley: I think I need to go to Cincinnati after the St. Louis show.

Pete: Everything okay?

Riley: No. But maybe I can fix it.

Andy: What do you need?

Riley: 48 hours. I need to remind him who we are when it's just us.

Daniel: We've got your back.

Riley stared at her calendar, looking at the two-day break between St. Louis and Nashville. She could fly to Cincinnati, spend real time with Joe, cook for him, take care of him the way she had after his surgery.

Maybe if she could get him away from his phone, away from whatever was poisoning his mind about their relationship, she could reach the person she fell in love with.

Maybe she could save them.

* * *

Nine weeks post-surgery - Cincinnati - Joe's perspective

Joe woke up empty. Riley's words still echoed in his head, sharp and unfinished. He felt raw. Guilty. And more lost than ever.

He wanted to want to talk to her. Wanted to feel excited when she called, proud when she shared her success, comforted by her voice instead of burdened by it.

But every interaction felt like evidence of how far apart their lives had become. She was flying high, living her dream, connecting with thousands of people every night. He was struggling through basic wrist exercises and wondering if his career was over at twenty-seven.

His phone buzzed with a text from Bill: Front office wants another meeting next week. They're asking more specific questions about your timeline and priorities.

Joe closed his eyes. Priorities. There was that word again.

When his phone rang with another call from Riley an hour later, Joe let it go to voicemail.

He told himself it was because he was heading into PT.

But really, it was because he didn't know how to love her and protect his career at the same time anymore.

She didn't deserve silence, but it was all he had left.

* * *

Ten weeks post-surgery - The Final Straw

Joe's phone rang during his lunch break from PT. His mother.

"Hey, Mom."

"Joe, honey, I just wanted to check on you. Your dad and I have been following the season coverage and..."

"And what?"

"Well, some of the things they're saying on TV. About your focus and your priorities." Robin's voice was careful, concerned. "Is everything okay with you and Riley?"

Joe closed his eyes. If his own mother was asking...

"Everything's fine, Mom."

"I know you love her, sweetheart. But maybe this is just a hard time to have such a... public relationship. With your injury and the team missing the playoffs..."

"Mom."

"I'm just saying, when your father was playing, we kept things quiet during the season. It made life easier."

After he hung up, Joe sat in his car outside the PT facility, staring at his phone. A text from Riley lit up the screen: Thinking about you today. How's the wrist feeling?

For the first time since they'd been together, Joe didn't want to answer.

Because how could he explain that every text from her, every headline about her success, every mention of their relationship felt like another weight on his chest?

How could he tell her that loving her was starting to feel like the thing that was going to cost him everything?

* * *

The Realization - Twelve weeks post-surgery

That night, Joe lay in bed scrolling through articles about the Bengals' season. The team had finished 9-8, missing the playoffs by one game. Every piece mentioned his injury. Half of them mentioned Riley.

"Despite some bright spots without Burrow, the Bengals' inability to close out games in key moments exposed their dependence on their franchise quarterback, but questions remain about whether off-field factors contributed to the injury that derailed their season."

"The timing of Burrow's relationship going public coinciding with his worst stretch of play raises uncomfortable questions about priorities and focus."

"Love him or hate him, Joe Burrow's 2023 season will be remembered as much for his girlfriend's meteoric rise as his own struggles on the field."

Joe set his phone down and stared at the ceiling. Whether it was fair or not, whether it was true or not, Riley had become part of the story of his career struggles.

And he didn't know how to separate them anymore.

Maybe he didn't want to.

Maybe that was the problem.

[midnightfictionlibrary]

Space and Time - Portgas D. Ace x Reader

Space and Time - Portgas D. Ace x Reader

Content : depictions of death, grief, upset, last confessions, minor mentions of injuries, recovery, moving on, reader is gender neutral

Word Count : 1.2k

A/N : This was devastating to write and I made myself cry writing it. I hope you like it and to listen to the song I used for inspiration, click the title. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed my work, and send any requests you may have my way.

Space and Time - Portgas D. Ace

It was almost like you sensed it, when the brightest flame you've ever known was snuffed. In the middle of fleeing from battle, you spin, watching as Portgas D. Ace shields his little brother from harm. 

You watch in horror as the magma fist pierces his body, your ears ringing as if this was a bad dream. You couldn't comprehend what you were seeing. Your feet move on their own, dodging any allies' hands that may stop you. Not this. Not him, it couldn't be. 

"Ace!" You scream at the top of your lungs, over the sound of Luffy's enrage and anguished cries. "Ace!" 

Your knees hit the ground, scraping harshly as you scramble to him, turning him over. Your hands come up to his freckled face. Your best friend, your anchor, laying before you, dying. Tears burn the corners of your eyes, and he weakly looks up at you and Luffy. 

He struggles, pulling Luffy closer weakly to murmur to him. "Thank you for loving me." He concludes, and with a face absolutely swathed in grief, Luffy sobs, his face upturned to the sky. Ace's dark eyes slide to yours. 

"Hey, little flame." He says affectionately. 

You swallow, shaking your head at the nickname he had given you so long ago. "There has to be something we can do, Marco-" You start, but he interrupts you. 

"No, baby." He says hoarsely. "He burned me too badly." He says softly. You stop, tears flowing hard, harder than you've ever cried before. "Listen to me," Ace says softly. 

You reach out to him again, thumbs lightly stroking the freckles across his face. "Always," You choke out, and a weak hand grasps your wrist. 

"I can feel I don't have much time. But I need you to know. How much you mean to me-" He says, wincing hard as the pain overwhelms him. "I love you. I love you so much." He says, tears pricking the corners of his own eyes now. "You've been my whole world and-" he chokes a bit, gritting his teeth. Willing himself to continue. For you. "And I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner." 

You let out a choking, sobbing noise. You lean down shakily, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, your forehead collpasing to his shoulder. "I love you too, so much. Since I met you. I love you so much." 

You hear Ace whisper your name hoarsely once more, and you lift your head, ready to give him whatever he needs in the last moments of his life. 

To your utter devastation, the mischief that you were used to sparkling in his eyes was gone. There was no light there anymore. Just the shell of who he had been. You scream, sobbing, cursing. 

"No, no, no, Ace! Please!" You sob, cradling his face. 

You feel two hands grasp your wrists, and you look up, feeling feral, bewildered, like a cornered animal; into Luffy's devastated face. 

"He's gone! He's gone - he's not coming back!" He shouts, and you let out what Luffy thinks is the most heartbreaking wail he's ever heard, collapsing into his chest. 

In the ash and remnants of fire, Luffy holds you as you collapse in his arms. 

When you awake, you're on what you recognize to be the Polar Tang's infirmary. You didn't know what time it was, but it seemed to be either late evening or morning, judging from the purple-blue of the sky you could see from the bed you laid in. You gasp, sitting upright, tears springing to your eyes again when tattooed hands gently push your shoulders back down. 

You look up through bleary eyes to see Law, who gave you a sympathetic squeeze of the hand as he watched the events rush back to your fragile mind. 

"Where's Luffy?" You croak, and Law gestures coolly behind him. 

"Went on a rampage, had to sedate him before he ripped all his wounds open. You had minor injuries but grief seemed to knock you out."

Your head drops to your hands, unable to answer him. You sob, shoulders shaking as you think of Ace. Of his last words to you. What he told you. Law clenches his jaw and looks away, feeling as if this was a moment you needed for yourself. He retreats slowly back to what he had been working on, leaving you to feel what you needed. You were hurting badly, but you appreciated the space to grieve. 

Weeks have gone by, and you pull the orange cowboy hat Luffy had left in your possession down to cover your eyes as the Polar Tang docked into the island you'd be leaving for your training from. 

To your surprise, a letter was waiting for you at the post when you went to send word to Robin, who you'd be joining in training. The letter was surely addressed to you, and scrawled messily. 

You'd recognize that scrawl from all of the messy notes he'd leave on the Sunny for you - meant to ask you to help him find a certain place in town or just give you a smile. Zoro. 

With shaking fingers, you unfold the note, swallowing hard when you read the words written there. "I'm so sorry." It says. 

So there it is. You figure the death of Portgas D. Ace has made it to the papers. You keep your head ducked, trying not to sob out loud as you make your way to the small private dock Robin informed you that the guide would wait for you at. You would get stronger. To make him proud of you. 

When you run off the boat and into Robin's arms, sobbing, she strokes your hair and whispers that Ace always loved you, and always will, no matter where he was now. You thanked the stars that night that you had the Strawhats crew that had always cared for your wellbeing so deeply. 

You fall asleep that night clutching Zoro's note, like it was the only thing that could comfort you in this emotional turmoil. And if you were being honest, it kind of was. 

Two years after Ace's death, Robin and yourself made your way to the dock on Sabaody Archipelago, where the crew had agreed to meet after vigorous training. 

You felt different now. The string of Ace's hat was around your neck, the body of the cowboy style bouncing lightly against your shoulder blades as you walked, ensuring that a piece of him was always with you. You were stronger now, more skilled. There were nights where you'd sit and watch the stars, when the wind would whisper and you swore you heard his voice lilting "little flame". But the hole in your heart was beginning to mend. You were fragile still, but you decided you didn't want to leave this world without letting those you cared about know how you felt. Not after Ace. 

So, it doesn't hurt, it doesn't feel wrong when you spot the Sunny, and you run directly into the arms of a green haired swordsman, who wraps his arms around you as tightly as he can, lifting you while whispering how much he had missed you into your ear. You wanted this space and time with him. 

And when you donned your orange hat and sat on the head of the ship next to Luffy, he slings an arm around you, pointing at the sunset that reminded you both of the bravest man you knew.

[sister-hannah]

Poor little vampire. Hopefully he'll feel better soon enough.

She goes over the day in her mind, still somewhat awake. So many failures of communication, some almost funny, some damn near catastrophic.

Someday, somehow, she'll have to get things figured out, so they can stop talking past each other.

She hates that she was just trying to understand and to explain when she went to his office, but instead she upset him enough to cry. She's going to have to figure out what went wrong there so she never does that again. She's got to be able to ask questions and discuss things without causing so much pain. He was so angry at first, and so much wanting to deny that he was sick, and she couldn't understand why. Why wouldn't he at least have called the doctor, or gotten bed rest, if he didn't want to deal with her knowing? Why the intensive denial? And how did he do this to himself without her seeing him overworking when they spend so much time together? It upset him so much just to have her ask, but how will she be able to help make sure this doesn't happen again if she doesn't know what happened the first time? There wasn't time to make sense of any of it; the need to deal with the worst of the illness of course took precedence.

She's also going to have to figure out where the issue is with him and feeding with her. How he's still in denial about that is a complete mystery to her; she'd thought they'd sorted all that out already. She'd legitimately only brought it up to save him from drinking something nasty on an already-upset stomach, but instead things went sideways, somehow. He still seems to think this is just something in her head, and not something he's been an active participant in on multiple occasions. Maybe it would be easier to just let him use his little circle exclusively. Possibly he's more comfortable with that since there's nothing personal in it, as far as he knows. Then, at least, she wouldn't have to wonder what he was thinking when he fed, whether she was imagining things, whether he would even remember what he'd done or said. She'd been trying to force a connection that couldn't be made, maybe. She'd been so sure it had all gotten sorted, but somehow she'd been completely wrong.

He trusts her so much, despite all this. She isn't sure why, exactly. She loves him, but she's terrible at communicating with him. She's hurt or confused him by accident over and over again. Nothing is ever simple, but the way he seems to feel about her stays the same despite it. She is doing her best. He probably senses that on some level. Possibly that's enough, most of the time.

She sighs quietly, to avoid waking him. She will probably never know the answers to any of these questions. She likely spends too much time worrying about them in the first place. The more she tries to figure things out, the bigger a mess she always makes.

Best to let it go. The less said, the better.

Eventually, she sleeps. As she's drifting off, she resolves to speak more through touch than words whenever possible. It's the one thing she can always use to make herself understood with him that she knows won't likely go astray.

It started with a rumor.

There was a fancy dinner party that night to introduce the other higher-ups in the ministry to the new Papa, as well as discuss some newer policy changes and agendas. All had been going well until one of the attending ghouls came back to the Abbey, frantic and panicky. It wasn’t long before everyone had heard the news: the new Papa had collapsed at the party. Allegedly.

It’s only an alleged claim because no one has actually seen Perpetua since the rumor got out. A couple days have passed at this point, but there is no sign of him. As far as anyone knows, he’s stayed locked in his office, not stepping out even for food. Sure, ghouls tried to knock and check on him, but he either didn’t respond or shooed them away. He isn’t talking to anyone. Worst of all, he hasn’t talked to Hannah.

Despite his sudden disappearance, mass hasn’t be cancelled yet, neither have any of the other weekend gatherings. Paperwork is still being submitted on time with his signature scrawled shakily at the bottom. No matter what’s going on, work is still somehow being completed.

Currently, Perpetua is kneeling over the toilet in his bathroom. He had just tried to drink from one of his emergency blood stores, but it wouldn’t stay down. Various people had passed by, knocking on his office door and asking if everything was alright, but they received only silence.

Until he hears a knock that is all too familiar.

(@ask-papavperpetua)

By this time, Hannah was frantic.

The original rumor had been bad enough. She knew enough about Church politics to suspect a poisoning attempt or something of that kind. She still wasn't sure what had happened, exactly, but it simply wasn't like V not to turn to her in a crisis. Even if he had just managed to get food poisoning or something of the sort, she'd have expected him to let her know somehow. She'd waited at first, figuring he wanted to recover a little before he reached out, but this was longer than it should have been by her guess.

She had heard he was in his office, at any rate, so that was where she went when she decided she couldn't just wait any longer.

So she went to his office, and she knocked.

"...Papa? It's me...can I come in?"

[eraserbread]

that first trimester was terrible... but, your husband, nanami, swears the second one is personal

"kento?" you whisper, shaking his wide frame in your arms. he worked all day, so he has every right to his sleep, but you couldn't calm the throbbing between your legs. it's come back with a vengeance after your time in the shower this morning with him, and now you couldn't settle. kento doesn't budge.

"please." you try again, whining in his ear and squeezing the flesh of his chest. "I love you so much... p-please." beads of cold sweat have began to form on your skin, reacting to the throbbing deep inside of you.

where you can't see, kento opens his eyes at once. remaining stoic in your arms. you're humping against his leg, whining sweetly into his back. he lets you, too tired to move.

"can we do it? please?" kissing over his rippling back, the skin blooms red in the darkness of the night bedroom.

if he were a bit more awake, kento would understand and be a bit sweeter, but he was exhausted. "this can't wait until the morning?" he grumbles, still so thoughtful and quiet in his daze.

you won't lie and say his tone didn't strike you, so instead of kissing him again, you press your forehead into his shoulder and pull away.

swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you take a second to catch your breath, whining softly in your throat as the change of position makes your core tremble and cry out for help. you're crushing your thighs together, head hanging between your shoulders as kento drifts back off.

overcome, horny and emotional, you start crying. sniffling and hiccuping in your fist. It felt like every vein in your body was screaming for release, and it's painful.

of course, kento can't truly fall back asleep when you're crying next to him, pitiful and whiny because you refuse to bother him further. he'd have to bother himself, he comes to terms when he sits up, peeling his eyes open again.

"don't cry, now i feel bad." he's muttering, closing his palm over his face to rub some sense back to his features.

"g-go back to sleep." you whimper, wiping at your tears just for more to fall. "I'm sorry, I hate bothering you."

"come here, it's fine. i know what you need." kento refuses to look at a clock -- he refuses to see how much sleep he's losing. it's a problem he'd face five hours from now, not when you're a sniffling mess at his bedside.

"really?" there's a tinge of hope there, excitement buried under your pitiful tone as you turn over your shoulder. he's shirtless, staring back at you through the dim moonlight. hair ruffled, eyes low, lips pressed together. grumpy and sleepy. but, as your eyes trail down his body, you can see the hardened lump in his underwear, peeking from the blankets.

you crawl to him.

straddling his lap is so familiar, kissing down his neck - letting your sweet skin drag across his shaved stubble feels right. he's genuinely letting you do all the work right now, yawning every few seconds as you attack another area of his skin in kisses.

you're starving -- grinding on his thick erection with a drunken fervor. he thinks your eagerness is cute, endearing in the right situations. not when he's so tired.

and you see that just enough to take advantage of it.

sure, he was dozing off, but the second he feels your teeth latch around his nipple, he's shooting them open.

"now, this is just pointless," he grunts, closing his hands over your hunched shoulders as you're sucking and biting at his reddening nipple. you're moving like you're trying to spout milk from him -- left hand massaging his left pec.

"nooo. i wanna."

kento's pulls a hand back to his face, bunching it in a fist as he lets you have your way. if you weren't five months pregnant, he'd throw you back down on the bed and press you so stupid with his cock that you had no choice but to cum, then fall right back asleep.

so, yes -- this was a sticky situation. he wouldn't manhandle his pregnant wife. not without a dangerously guilty conscience to deal with in the morning.

but once you had your fill, pulsating lips switching from nipple to swollen nipple, laced with a handful of his thick, delicious muscle, you pull away and kiss lower. that little dip in attention has kento wrapping his arms around your waist, digging his fingers into the skin as he grabs and pushes you off of him.

you squeak, not expecting such a drastic change. laying out on your side, arms splayed to catch some footing, he's kneeling over you. a hand shoves into the front of his briefs, swallowing a groan as his suffocated cock springs free.

"would you just behave?" that patience is dwindling now as he crawls in behind you. he's shivering slightly, teasing the bead of pre back against the flushed tip of his cock. you're flicking between the lewdness and the look on his face, heart pummeling when you see him bite over his bottom lip.

"y-yes... please put it in." your voice is wrecked, lips tingly and red. he mounts you, long legs splayed behind as he blindly makes that familiar descent between your thighs, trailing against your ass and dipping into your sopping, messy cunt.

he sighs, neck twitching as you slurp him up like you've never been fed before. pregnancy sex is just so different -- so lewd with you and your crying body. there's so much fluid, a mess of slick coating yours and his thighs.

so, it takes nothing -- i mean, nothing, for him to coax that first messy orgasm out of you, and you're squirting everywhere. screaming his name like you're on the verge of death, and he's the culprit.

his big hand clenches onto one of your thighs, fucking you into the wet sheets like a dog as he eases all that cum out of you.

when you're done and dumb with pliancy, you're rolling back over kento when he settles in his spot. your side of the bed is soaked, so you spend all night sleeping right on top of him, belly smushed into his and legs twisted together.

you would definitely hear about this uncomfortable situation tomorrow before he shrugs off to work. you'll also definitely jump his grumpy, tired bones as soon as he steps foot through the front door that evening. you're smiling at nothing anymore, finally satiated and sleepy enough to drift off to dreams about kento and your baby.

[nana-au]

More bff!mark content please I BEG YOU

(Bonus points if it’s smut)

absolutely anon! MDNI

𝐁𝐅𝐅! 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 | your first time together gets ruined by sex pollen

note: this is rlly shitty mb i just wanted to write some dirty freaky nasty smut

warnings: corny sex pollen trope, afab/fem! reader, unprotected sex, slightly rough sex, tummy bulging, marathon sex, cum eating, sloppy gross makeout im sorry

bff! mark who always pictured your first time together as this slow and sensual moment where he confessed his deepest desires. he imagined himself taking his time - kissing up and down your body until you're putty in his hands... until you are so pliant and needy and breathless. he always knew he wanted to massage the fat of your thighs, the same ones he practically drools over whenever he has the pleasure of getting to see you in shorts. he knew he wanted to play with your tits; he was desperate to find out how sensitive they were. always wondering if he could make you come just from sucking on them. all and all, mark knew for his first time he wanted it to be special. unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

bff! mark who goes on some random mission cecil sends him on one hot summer day. he expects to be there and back by the days end, and he was. the alien creature that was disturbing some beach goers was shockingly easy to defeat. the only thing he wasn't expecting was the sweet gas it let out upon its death that left mark woozy. his flight home was a blur - he couldn't remember the plane he narrowly missed or the flock of birds he frightened. all he could think about was getting home. not to his - but yours.

bff! mark who stumbles through your bedroom window - not before flying right into it first. you were surprised it didn't shatter from the impact. you jump upon hearing the loud thunk of his body hitting the glass before running to your window to see mark in a daze on the ground below. your friend rips his mask off in an attempt to orientate himself and you call out to him. he shakes himself awake, floating back up and gliding into the now open window.

bff! mark who is not acting right. he's sweaty and jittery and completely out of it. he can barely form a sentence let alone a thought - unless it has to do with nestling his cock deep in your pussy. it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realize what is happening. at first you think he must've lost too much blood - all though he looks pristine all things considered. your hands search over the fabric of his suit, trying to feel for what your eyes are obviously missing as mark all but hangs onto you. your palm skims over the ridges of his abs while your other arm shakes from supporting his weight on yours. he digs his face deep into your neck upon the invasion of your hand on his abdomen - his body practically vibrating under your attention as he lets out a soft moan. "mark, talk to me. what happened?" you ask, desperate to discover what has your best friend acting like this. the only response you get is his raspy breath in your ear. your skin tingles from his heat on you and you struggle to keep the both of you up right.

you guide the two of you to your bed, setting mark down on the plush fabric of your comforter causing him to slump over. he groans from the loss of contact - his eyes squeezing shut while his mouth pleads for you. "i need you, please," he begs. his arms feeling heavy as he reaches out for you and his whole body shakes, like he was suddenly in pain.

"mark what happened?" you ask, grabbing his hand that was lamely searching for your body. he wastes no time dragging you down beside him - suddenly having no issue finding his strength.

"please," he sobs, pulling you flush against him. "it hurts when i can't feel you," he admits which only leaves you more confused.

"i don't understand, mark," you tell him. his eyes shoot open and it's then you notice how large his pupils are. "jesus mark..." you gasp at the sight, his eyes almost completely taken over by the blacks of his pupils. "we need to call cecil," you tell him and he groans.

"don't need cecil... i need you," his bottom lip quivers and his hands abandon you as he searches for a way to get his suit off. you watch your friend struggle with the suit he wears every day - desperately grabbing at the fabric before ultimately deciding to rip it off. you hear the tear loud in your ears as he rips it down the center, exposing his glistening skin and a whole lot more underneath.

"mark, oh my god," you cough out, not before looking away upon the realization he is completely naked underneath. you can tell he is struggling ridding his limbs of the tight fabric from the way the bed shifts under his weight.

"i think we really need to call cecil," you tell him shyly, refusing to look over at him. you hear him groan again - much more childish then before. he's getting frustrated - and desperate. his hand reaches for yours and you jump at the contact.

"c'mere" he practically whispers, pulling you by your hand back into him. you close your eyes when your head makes contact with his chest - terrified of seeing your friend's naked body in such a vulnerable state. you can tell he successfully freed himself from his suit by the soft skin of his legs rubbing against your own - clad in only your sleep shorts. you lay tense beside him, unwilling to move which just wont do.

bff! mark who pulls your body onto his. he picks you up like you weigh nothing just to plop the fat of your ass against his dick. you're rigid against him, realizing you can feel his dick throbbing against the curve of your rear. "fuuuuuuuck," he lets out, his own body relaxing after finally getting an inch of the attention he's been needing.

"mark," you can barely get out, swallowing roughly while you feel your best friend rock steadily against you. his precum wicks against the fabric of your shorts and you feel the cold, wet fluid on your right cheek. "mark... what are you doing," you ask him - unsure if he even knows. he doesn't respond, just grunts while bucking pathetically against you and you feel terrible for taking note of just how big he is - but how could you not? it had sprung out of his suit painfully red and stiff and here he is rubbing it on you. you begin to grow dizzy from the realization of what was actually happening to you: mark, your best friend, the guy you grew up with and had a painfully pathetic crush on is hot and bothered underneath you, of all people. while you're deep in thought, he shifts, grabbing the base of his dick and shoving it into the right leg hole of your shorts before continuing to rock - savoring the feeling of his cock sandwiched between your shorts and underwear. you're speechless - utterly confused yet entirely turned on. you feel guilty - sure that mark has absolutely no clue who you even are at this point.. that is until he grunts out your name which causes your eyes to open. you look down at him, his usual doe brown eyes are black and his mouth is slack from looking up at you in awe. his hips start to pick up pace upon seeing your eyes on him - his body burning for more.

bff! mark who can't wait anymore. he needs to be inside you. "in.. in.. in.." he's chanting, moving your body as he pleases without so much as a struggle. he flips you around until you're beneath him, his toned body resting just above yours. you can practically feel his heat wafting off of him - threatening to cook you alive. his eyes are still glued to yours - like they're the only things he wants to look at. they're intense which causes you to look away, now focusing on his wide shoulders encompassing you. you feel oddly safe underneath his strong body before an overwhelming wave of arousal ripples down you. he shivers above you - his whole body shuddering like he felt the exact same sensation as you just now. he reaches down - ripping your shorts and panties in one go - freeing them from your body and giving him access to where he wants the most. his hand reaches down to check if you're ready for him and you both gasp at what he finds. his warm fingers explore your cunt - running his calloused pads against the velvety skin that is slick with your desire for him. it's almost like his brain has a moment of clarity - like he knows its his first time seeing your cunt and he should take the time to savor this moment - to feel your walls snug against his digits but that goes as quickly as it comes and he's back to his mission of getting his dick as deep inside you as possible.

bff! mark who all but forces his way in. he's on autopilot - plunging his tip past your entrance and sinking himself in. he can feel your pussy resisting his girth and a whine catches in his throat. "mark.." you cry out softly, "go slow... please," he hears you and normal mark would rather die than hurt you. normal mark would have taken hours to prep you for him to ensure when he finally sunk into your warmth that you would be ready for him. but this wasn't normal mark - this was mark high on something and the only cure for it was his tip kissing your cervix. he continues pushing himself deeper and deeper and your body has no choice but to accept him completely. you're uncomfortably full when he reaches the hilt and he breathes out a sigh of relief. you sniffle below him and instead of pulling out and apologizing until his vocal chords fry he only reaches down to kiss the tear streaming down your cheek.

"d'you feel me?" he can't help but ask... god do you feel him? he can see himself poking through your tummy! "s'sooooo good," he murmurs, dragging his dick out of your gummy walls, only to shove himself back in. he's hypnotized, watching how when he inches out the bulge disappears - only to reappear when his cock slides right back in.

"mark -god," you cry, feeling his veiny cock drag against your walls, each drag sweeter than the last as your body gets used to his intrusion. your winces turn into whines that mark catches in his mouth. his lips are soft against yours and they feel like the missing piece to your puzzle. you move your lips against his and he sinks down lower, resting on his elbows. your bodies rub against each other as mark fucks you. you can feel every bump of his perfect abs and smooth pecs beneath the fabric of your tank top. the same tank top that has ridden up your body from each snap of hips that fuck you into your sheets. you reach behind mark, running your palms down his muscled back - enjoying the feeling of the individual muscles moving as he guides himself in and out of your sweet cunt.

bff! mark who you realize can last for hours. he's been fucking you for what seems like an entire day - failing to run out of steam - or even cum. he's fucked you in every position imaginable. you've been on your back, on your stomach, your knees, your side, on him....

you two only have the sounds of your pussy - stuffed full of his cum - to listen to. the squishy sounds bounce off the walls of your bedroom and into your ears. the sweet snap of his hips punish your g-spot repeatedly - his full weight on top of you, his cock slipping inside of you from behind. by this point you are more out of it than mark, who by his fourth orgasm is finally starting coming back down to earth.

"i always knew you would feel this good," he huffed out, breath hot in your ear while his tongue reaches out to lick the ridges of your earlobe. you can't speak at this point, the only thing on your mind is the rhythmic plap plap plap of his hips against yours. both of you are covered in each other's arousal - spreading it all over every time your skin meets. his v-line is drenched in your sticky arousal and he doesn't think his body could look any better than this.

"you still with me?" he asks you, calling you by your childhood nickname. he chuckles to himself when you don't respond to him, still just focused on his fat tip reaching places you didn't know existed. he's been in his right state of mind about two orgasms from you ago, but instead of that causing him to stop - he realized he only gets one time to give you a good first impression. and he was definitely going to give you a good one if he could help it.

bff! mark who doesn't hesitate to eat his cum out of you once everything is said and done. what can he say? nothing in this world could taste better than the flavor of you both connecting in the most intimate way possible. his tongue drags and slurps against you while you twitch and cry. of course he's eating you out from behind, ensuring his nose teases your entrance while his tongue flicks on your little clit. you're laying flat on your stomach, face buried in one of your pillows from the overwhelming feeling.

when he finally comes up he's drenched - lower face coated in your mixture and he pulls your head up to give you a sloppy kiss. ensuring you, too, get the essence of the both of you on your face.

[kitkatscabinet]

SNUGGLE BUG

Summary: The boys try to get out of bed, their partner has other plans.

Pairing(s): Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, x reader

A/N: unedited

DICK GRAYSON

Dick's always been a physically affectionate person, far more so than the rest of his family. It's why he'd been so ecstatic when he'd found you, a partner that was just as, if not more affectionate than him.

On more than one occasion his siblings had been given front-row seats to the snuggle show when they broke into his apartment, served them right really.

What Dick hadn't accounted for, was just how difficult it was to peel himself from your arms in the morning. Torture would hurt less he's sure.

"Ten more minutes," you whined childishly, burrowing your face into Dick's bare shoulder, tightening your arms around his torso.

"We've already said that three times." Your partner laughed, wriggling out of your hold but with far less strength than you knew he was capable of.

Both of you were fully aware just how quickly he could extracate himself from your arms should the neccessity rise. Technically speaking he did have to go to work, but surely it couldn't hurt to be a little late?

Though a quick glance at the hello kitty alarm clock on the bedside table confirmed he was already late.

"Dickie, can't you just call in? I wanna cuddle."

Fuck. How could he say no to that?

It wasn't like he really needed the money anyway.

His boss's ire is worth it to feel the way you smile into the skin of his neck, your warm breaths and little laughs as you lay tangled together.

So worth it.

JASON TODD

"You planning on letting me go anytime soon?" Jason grunted, though you know him well enough to hear the smile he's attempting to hide.

"Never," you mumble into the skin between his broad shoulder blades, the mattress slouching beneath the combined weight of you and your boyfriend.

Jason, undeterred by your attempts to drag him down, stands with a grunt. A cracking noise you know to be his knees rings out, and though you feel a little bad, you're unwilling to back down in your quest to get him back into bed.

Unfortunately for you, your boyfriend is built like a brick shithouse and is just as stubborn as you. Slowly, he manouevers around your small apartment all the while you hang off his back like a drunken Koala.

"Babyyyy," you whine petulantly into his ear, arms tightening around his neck in an attempt to only slightly choke him into submission.

Sighing, Jason starts to wander back into the bedroom. Just when you think you've won, he spins around, falling backwards onto the mattress and crushing you beneath his bulk.

In the minutes you spend winded, recovering, from being squished like an ant, Jason makes his escape. When you finally manage to come back to yourself you notice something incredibly distressing.

"Clothes! Why are you wearing clothes!" you wailed, sliding off the mattress and onto the floor in a pathetic slump.

Despite himself, Jason smiles at the sight, bundling you up in his arms before hopping back into bed with you. "Ok, you big dramatic baby."

Hey may have sounded put out, but the both of you knew he wanted to cuddle just as much. Besides, nothing was as important to him as you.

TIM DRAKE

He’d tried to be quiet. Truly, with years of training in the art of stealth Tim had intended to simply slip out of the bed and leave you to the sleep you needed.

He’d almost made it, both feet on the floor and the mattress no longer bearing most of his weight when all of a sudden a hand darted out, grasping his wrist.

Tim froze, slowly turning to look down at you with wide, guilty eyes. You're glaring up at him, sleep-addled face far more adorable than threatening, not that he'd ever tell you that, for fear of getting his ass beat.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" your voice is hoarse and gravelly from sleep but the threat is evident.

Mouth suddenly dry, Tim awkwardly chuckles, "Oh, babe, you're awake."

"Thanks to you," you grumbled sleepily, guilt and fear in equal measurements settling heavily in his chest.

"M'sorry, tried not to wake you but I gotta get to work on this case."

"No." You grunted, wrapping your arms around Tim's waist with freakish speed, nuzzling your face into his side.

He can't help the way his heart skips several beats at your casual affection. Tim's always been starved for touch, for the soft loving touch that you've always provided as if its as natural as breathing.

He should be used to it but despite the years worth of love and affection you've poured into Tim in the time you've spent together he still hasn't acclimated.

Tim knows, that you know, just how weak to your touch he is. It still doesn't prevent his resolve from crumbling when you refuse to let him budge, tugging him back down into your warm embrace.

"Good boy," you murmur against the skin of his neck, wrapping around his back like an octopus and trapping him against the expanse of your chest.

His skin runs hot at your words, mind numb to anything that's not your touch as he's eventually lulled back to sleep to the soothing sounds of your breathing.

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

*

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

[alastor-simp]

Alastor x Reader - Sleeping On His Lap

Here is my attempt at a Alastor x reader fanfiction. Took me awhile to kinda get into his character so please don't be mad if Alastor seems a bit off. Enjoy!

Sigh, it was another eventful day at the Happy Hotel, or Hazbin Hotel as it was now called as a certain deer demon decided to change the name. You had spent all day doing certain tasks around the hotel such as helping Charlie create posters for the hotel, clean the rooms with Nifty, break up the brawl between Vaggie and Angel Dust as he had pissed her off one too many times and organize the bar for Husk as he was passed out drunk. You could have refused to do these things, but you enjoyed helping people, so it made it all worth it.

You had started working at the hotel after you had saw Charlie singing on the 666 news about the hotel and redeeming demons, only for her idea to be made a laughing stock upon everyone who watched the broadcast. You actually had mixed feelings about the whole redeeming thing, seeing as you weren't sure if someone like you could be sent to heaven, despite not being a very big criminal during your time when you were alive, but apparently doing a little shoplifting is enough to send you a one way ticket to hell. Charlie's words did inspire you a little bit, so even if you felt that you couldn't be redeemed, others probably had a better chance, so you decided to head to the hotel and ask for a job after the broadcast was cut off from the brawl with Charlie and Katie Killjoy. You were hired in a split second and immediately pulled into a bear hug by Charlie, and then introduced you to the others.

Back to the present, you began to feel extremely exhausted from moving around everywhere, so you headed over to one of the rooms with the long couches so you could take a rest. Heading into one of the rooms, you peeped around and saw that no one was there, which made it better as you really needed some peace and quiet. Heaving a deep sigh, you sat down on the couch, turning and falling back, as you laid your body down, with your head facing the front of the couch. "What a long day", thinking to yourself as your eyes slowly began to close and you were lulled into a deep sleep.

**2 Hours Later**

As you were sleeping, you felt the sensation of someone petting your head, the soothing feeling had awoken you a bit, but you quickly fell back asleep at the warm touch. You could feel that you were holding something in your dreams, and you assumed it was one of the pillows on the couch, so you brought it closer to your face and nuzzled it. "Mm, smells nice ", as the scent from the pillow was making you more relaxed, as it reminded you of a being in the middle of a deep forest. After sleeping for 30 more minutes, you slowly began to open your eyes, and try to make out what was in front of you. Expecting to see a pillow, you saw red stripes in front of you, "Huh?" As you were still trying to make out what was in front of you, a loud voice interrupted your thoughts: "Ah, awake now are we?", said a static voice above you. Eyes opening wide, you looked up from your position and saw Alastor staring down at you with his trademark smile. Slowly, you began to piece together that you were laying on his lap, and nuzzled into his chest as you were sleeping. "AHHHH", jumping up from your position, you rolled off his lap, and your body fell to the ground as you stared at Alastor in shock, as he continued to look at you with his glowing eyes, amused at your reaction. "Um, h-how long was I sleeping on your lap?", you softly asked, as your face was red, but your eyes were showing fear, as you remembered that Alastor did not like to be touch, and you happened to hug him in your sleep. "HAHA, For quite a while, darling. It was a very busy day, I assume?", Alastor said as he placed his arm on the armrest of the couch, and his hand against his cheek, smiling even wider.

Nodding your head, you slowly got up from your position, and started apologizing to Alastor, eyes aiming towards the ground and fingers twiddling together. Alastor raised an eyebrow and wondered why you were apologizing, to which you answered that you had hugged him in your sleep, and that he made it very aware that he did not enjoy physical contact from someone unless he initiated it, feeling extremely bad if you made him uncomfortable. Listening to you, Alastor's smile relaxed to a small grin as he looked at you with gentle eyes. He did admit that he was not use to being touch by others, and was quite surprised from the sleep hug, but he didn't detest it as much coming from you, which boggled his mind completely. It must be due to your kind and innocent nature that made him react different around you, as he was used to more of the common riff raff being terrified of him or trying to battle in a turf war, but how you were with him, made his black heart melt.

Feeling that Alastor was upset as he didn't respond to your apology, you quickly excused yourself and began to head over to the door to leave. A loud SNAP was heard and before you knew it, you had been teleported back on to the couch, this time being seated on Alastors lap. "A-Al, what are you doing?!", your face began to become as red as his hair, while your eyes stared at Alastor in shock. Smiling at you, Alastor moved his hand to your chin and tilted your face up: "There is no need to apologize, darling. If I had been upset about you hugging me, you possibly w̩͉͍̱̍̂̉̊o̫̼̐̎̋͜u͚͌l̳̓d̠͉̗͋̔͞'̼̳̣̼͊̏̾̾t͜͝ ͕̱͐͠ḇ̅e̙͗ ͍͓͔̱͍͛̔͌͘͞a̝̜̘̎́͒ḽ͒í̱̙̈́v̧̌e̠͠ ̢̹̜́́̈̀ͅr̲͇̳̅̽͌i̩͈̒̅ĝ̲̦̎ẖ̛̳̲͙̀͌̽͘ͅt͉̅ ͖̞͍̞́̋͛͛ň͚̫̦́͂̿͟o̱͌w̡̕" he said, as his eyes flashed for a second into radio dials. "However! I am not opposed to be touched by you. So no need to apologize, my dear.", Alastor said as he continued to smile at you widely, but his glowing eyes were looking at you softly, letting you know that he was not angry with you. Feeling shy, you turned your head away from Alastor, muttering a soft okay, as your heart was beating rapidly. "Smile my dear!" Alastor said as he moved his hand from your chin to your cheek, to have you look at him again. Baring through the embarrassing situation, you gave Al a small smile, which pleased him. "You always over do it, darling. While Charlie and I appreciate your efforts at helping the hotel, it does no good to work yourself to the point of fatigue. If you are ever feeling exhausted and need a break, don't be hesitant to come find me, as my radio tower is open to you. Understand, my dear?" said Alastor, as he leaned closer towards you, making you flustered again.

Nodding your head was enough to let Alastor knew you understood as he chuckled, while sliding you off his lap, and as he stood up from the couch. "Now then, we should probably head back to the lobby before the others get worried about our lack of presence.", He said, as he straighten his coat out, while turning towards you, extending his hand out for you to take it. "Yeah we should", as you grabbed his hand, and made your way with him back to the lobby. You were still trying to process what just happened between you and Alastor, but you feel like you both have become much closer then before, and you didn't mind it one bit.

[woantohae]

Close to you || (Bob Reynolds x reader)

Summary: AU! Where Yelena asks Y/N and Bucky for a big favor while they're on a mission: to save Robert Reynolds, a friend of hers. Thinking it would be an easy mission to carry out, they readily accept, only to be surprised to find that it won't be as they thought.

And Bob is nothing like he pretends to be.

Author's note: Hello! So this is basically a dream that I had last night and I couldn't not write it. I hope you enjoy it 💌

Content warnings: au! fanfic, fluff, curse words, void being a flirt kinda? (i know he's not like that in the comics, but a girl can dream), bucky and reader acting like sister and brother, bob having a soft spot for reader, shy! bob, hints of angst.

"What's his name again?"

"Robert Reynolds," Yelena says through Y/N's earpiece "They've had him there for a long time, and I promised to go get him once I knew his location."

Bucky prepares his weapons, his brows slightly furrowed, as he listens to the blonde through the communicator in his ear as well.

"Old friend or an ex from the past?" Bucky asks, to which Y/N ​​smiles in amusement.

Yelena laughs sarcastically.

"Ha, ha, ha. Yeah," she says. "He's just a friend. I could never see him that way in my life, and he thinks the same. I'm not his type, anyway."

"We'll do our best, Yelena," the girl assures her, starting to walk with Bucky to the back entrance of the place.

Yelena thanks them, then leaves the duo on their own. They both act stealthily and cautiously to avoid being seen by the guards. Bucky is in charge of throwing a rope that sticks to the ceiling of the compound, giving it a couple of tugs to make sure it's secure.

The black-haired man watches her.

"You coming?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Of course," she begins to rise into the air with the ease of her powers. "See you up there."

Bucky complains and curses, while Y/N laughs. She is the first to reach the roof and waits a few seconds until the man reaches her side.

"Sometimes I forget you can fly," he says, letting go of the rope and letting it fall from the ceiling.

They start walking to the ventilation duct, which Bucky easily opens with his metal arm. He lets Y/N go through first, and she cautiously squeezes through the ventilation duct, complaining about the space in the process. With great care and effort, they begin to walk through the limited space until they reach the grate that leads to the lab where Robert was. The duo stays on their knees, crouching, peering through the grate, a bright orange light emanating from it.

"I think it's here," Bucky says, adjusting the weapon in the small backpack on his back.

"Do you know the plan?" Y/N nods as she peers through the grate, looking at a man lying on a stretcher in the fetal position. "You ready?"

"Are you?" He looks at her, to wich she confirms her answer with the movement of her fingers that open the metal grate.

Bucky is the first to go down, trying to make as little noise as possible, then raises his arms and embraces Y/N in them. They make sure no one is watching them, so they give Yelena the sign to lock the glass room they're in. Suddenly, the deafening sound of the metal doors slamming shut is heard, jarring the brunette awake, who falls off the stretcher and onto the floor.

"Ouch!" he groans.

Y/N walks over to him and crouches down to check on him. Bob's eyes are still closed from the impact, a look of grievance on his face.

"Are you Robert?" she asks, frowning.

Bob opens his eyes and finds himself staring at the girl in front of him.

He swallows and nods repeatedly.

"Yeah, yeah."

She smiles and brings her fingers to the communicator in her ear. "We got him, Yelena," she says triumphantly.

The brunette sits up, resting his elbows on the floor and looking at her with hope in his eyes. He remembers the blonde-haired girl who stood by him when he needed her most. Until Valentina's team managed to capture him again to continue turning him into their weapon. Time passed and his hope faded, but now a calm slowly invaded his being.

"Good job, guys. Thank you" says Yelena and the smile on her face can be heard through the earpiece.

Y/N looks back at Bob and gets up from the ground offering her hand to help him, which he accepts. Robert notices Bucky who is looking at him carefully and cautiously, alert to any sudden movement.

"Well, Robert. We need to go. Now," Y/N says.

Bob nods, not questioning her decision.

He feels the blue-eyed man's cold glare and swallows, suddenly feeling small; it's as if he hates him without even knowing him, and doesn't understand why. But he doesn't have time to continue questioning that, as a deafening alarm suddenly sounds. The metal doors begin to rise, revealing several guards pointing guns at them behind the glass.

"Shit," the girl curses and positions herself next to Bucky.

"I thought we had more time, Yelena," Bucky says, sounding exasperated.

"Fuck, I didn't think they'd discover us so quickly."

"Really? Well, they did," Bucky says, readying his weapon.

He signals Y/N with his hand, indicating the vent for them to leave. "Go, I'll distract them."

"Come on," she says taking Bob's arm —not thinking twice, the girl knows Bucky can take care of this on his own.

They move as quickly as they can.

"Can you get in?"

"I-I think so."

Y/N lets the brunette climb first, then pulls herself up and enters, feeling Bob help her by wrapping his arms around her waist. The pair crawl through the duct quickly until they reach the exit to the roof. Soon they both step out, but stop abruptly when it can be heard the sound of guns pointed at them. There are some guards who went up to the roof to catch them.

"Stop! Don't move!" one of them shouts.

Both Y/N ​​and Bob raise their arms in surrender, until the girl decides to move her hands and take the guns from them, while Bob throws them away through the air, letting them fall while hearing their cries for help. She looks at him in surprise and raises an eyebrow, to which Bob glances at her, as if what he did was wrong.

"Wow, that was good."

Bob smiles and shrugs.

"Thank you. You too."

The moment of victory doesn't last long, as Bob feels something stinging his neck. He reaches for his neck and pulls out a dart, staring at it with a frown. The girl notices that one of the guards is left in the corner, and before he can attack them, she uses her powers to shot him with one of the guns that was on the ground.

"Fuck," Bob says.

Y/N's eyes widen and she reaches for him when she realizes he's about to faint. The girl's arms wrap around him as best she can and she tries to communicate with Bucky.

"Bucky, we have a problem here."

"Yeah, me too!" he replies, while she hears the bullets on the other side. "Do you think you can make it to the car?"

The girl looks down at Bob, who is unconscious, and considers her options. She can fly to the car without a problem, but she's never carried someone in her arms while doing so. However, Y/N would have to do it if she wanted to complete the mission.

She sighs and nods with her head, even if Bucky can't see her.

"Yeah, i can do that."

"I'll be there in a minute. I need to take care of something before. Be careful" he says the last thing in a concerned tone.

"I will. You too, Bucky" she asks.

Without waiting any longer, she grabs Bob's body in her arms and soars into the air until she reaches the car. She opens the door with a flick of her fingers —without needing the keys, and carefully puts Bob inside, then gets in the car and closes the door, checking that no one else is near the perimeter. Y/N catches her breath as she adjusts Bob's body so he's sitting in the car and she puts on his seatbelt.

Y/N brushes a strand of hair away that's falling from the man's forehead and looks at him, scanning the details of his calm face. But the calm doesn't last long because Bucky decides to jump into the car without a warning.

"Fuck, Bucky! What the hell!" she exclaims, feeling her heart race in shock.

"No time to yell at me! We have to go, now!" Bucky yells as he starts driving.

The black-haired man drives like there's no tomorrow, and they get as far away from the scene as possible, feeling the bullets hit the car, but the sound of an explosion steals their attention.

"Shit. That was you?" she asks, looking over her shoulder.

"I had to stop them somehow," Bucky says, his eyes fixed on the road.

"Not bad," she says, pouting and shrugging.

Bob slowly wakes up, opening his eyes and looking around.

"What happened?" he asks in a soft tone.

Y/N looks at him and smiles.

"Everything's okay. We managed to escape, don't worry," she comforts him in a soft tone, noticing how Bob's frown softens and she can see the relief on his face.

"Is everything okay back there?" he asks, looking at them in the rearview mirror.

Y/N nods, but the man abruptly turns the car to take a shortcut, causing Bob's body to move —and the brunette's face to land directly on Y/N's breasts.

"Fuck, sorry!" Bob says panicking.

Y/N feels a heat spread across her cheeks at what happened with Bob, even though she knows it was a complete accident. Unlike Bucky, who glares at him as he continues driving at top speed.

"Hey, it's okay," the girl says, and Bob immediately pulls away from her.

"You seemed to enjoy it, Robert," Bucky says in a serious tone.

"Bucky. Now's not the... Watch out!"

The car is hit by another vehicle, causing it to flip through the air. Y/N rushes to try to use her powers and stabilize it, bringing it back down to earth, only now they're upside down.

"Are you okay?" Bucky asks, groaning.

"I think so," she replies, looking at Bob, who's grimacing from the impact.

From one second to the next, the girl is yanked out of the car by someone, while Bob and Bucky shout at her to stop and let her go. One of the guards who managed to reach them grabs her by the hair and pulls her head back, putting a plastic syringe down her throat. If she makes a false move, he'll inject her with it.

"You're not that useful with your magnetic powers now, are you?" the guard says in her ear.

Bucky blows the driver's door open and immediately gets out, pointing a gun at him. Bob still hasn't gotten out of the car.

"Ah, easy there. I can inject this into her anytime if you shoot me, soldier."

Y/N looks at him, her eyes telling him not to do anything. Bucky clenches his jaw and lowers the gun, then drops it to the ground and raises his hands in surrender.

"We'll do this: you give me Reynolds, and also I take the girl with me, and no one gets hurt," he offers with a mocking smile.

"Eat shit," Bucky replies, gritting his teeth.

"Yeah, I don't think so," a voice identical to Bob's is heard.

The rest watch as Bob walks toward them slowly but surely, with a much darker and more confident aura than a few minutes ago when they rescued him.

"You're going to let her go, and then I'll take care of you so you never show up again," he assures, standing in front of the guard.

"How are you going to do that? Are you going to beat me up?" He laughs, and Bob just smirks.

The brunette stretches out an arm and uses his hand to make the guard choke suddenly, freeing Y/N, who is instantly rescued by Bucky. They both watch as Bob chokes the life out of the man without having to touch him, then disappears, leaving a dark, black trail on the ground.

The pair stares at him in perplexity, and he turns to look at them, specifically at Y/N, whom he approaches, standing in front of her.

"You're safe now," he says calmly.

A few months had passed since Bob had arrived at the home, greeted by Yelena, who was happy and relieved to see him alive.

The pair shared a unique connection and a friendship they had forged over the years since they met in the laboratory where they were subjected to a series of torture experiments. They had promised to seek each other out once they had found the location they were in. Although it had taken a while, they were now reunited.

The rest of the team had also welcomed him well and were getting to know him over the last few days to integrate him into the group.

Yelena had explained to them that Bob tended to have his good moments and his bad moments—like what happened with the guard when Y/N and Bucky rescued him. It was as if they'd possessed poor Bob, turning him into a more confident, powerful man with dark intentions. It wasn't that they judged him for that; everyone there had done things they regretted, but this was different. Something beyond their capabilities.

The rain was now pounding the roof of the compound. The ambient temperature was low, and every time Y/N blew air through her nose, she could see white steam rising from it. The girl had a cup of tea in her hands that relieved the cold a little, while she sipped it, appreciating the rainy landscape in front of her.

The house was completely silent, allowing only the soft sound of falling raindrops to be heard. It was the perfect weather and occasion, according to the girl; she could enjoy it all day with nothing to do and no one to interrupt her. John was spending time with his baby, Ava was on a first date with Yelena—the pair were getting to know each other much better after forming a team. Meanwhile, Alexei was working in his spare time as a limo driver to pay some bills, and Antonia had decided to step away from the group for a while to pursue her own business.

So the only people in the house were Bob, Y/N, and Bucky, the latter of whom was in an online meeting at the office with Sam.

Y/N watched through the window as Bob hurriedly ran into the house. She watched as Bob entered, shook his hair, trying to dry it, and then proceeded to take off his jacket and shirt, leaving his torso bare and unaware of Y/N's presence, who looked away.

"How was the gardening, Bob?"

"Oh, shit!" He froze and tried to cover his chest with his shirt "I'm so sorry. I thought I was alone"

She smiles amusedly, still holding her mug. She takes a sip and nods at the rain outside.

"Whenever it rains, I stay inside. It helps me disconnect from everything," she explains, while Bob nods, still holding the shirt to his chest.

Y/N raises an eyebrow and walks over to him, then places the mug on the table, standing face to face with the brunette.

"Need help? I can do the laundry, today." Bob swallows and shakes his head, letting out a nervous laugh.

"You don't have to. It's my stuff."

She shrugs and shakes her head, tilting it as she looks at him. "I don't have a problem with that"

She seriously wants you, right now. Do something. Or I will.

Bob frowns slightly his eyebrows and shakes his head, trying to make him go away. But he knows it's not that easy.

Y/N places her hand on Bob's to encourage him to give her his clothes. Their eyes are on each other, and neither of them seems to want to look away. Bob is a bundle of nerves when he feels Y/N's touch.

"I've noticed you tend to ignore me," she says in a low tone.

Bob's eyes widen and he shakes his head, as if he's been caught in the act.

"No, no, no. I'm, well, I don't... I'm sorry if you felt that way." Bob tries to form a coherent sentence, but has trouble doing so, seeing how Y/N keeps looking at him with those bright eyes he often likes to find in a crowd "I didn't mean to, really. It's just you are incredible and pretty, and I just..... I don't know..."

Seeing the man's worried state, Y/N places a hand on his cheek to make him look at her.

"Easy, it's okay. I'm not mad about it," she says with a smile "I just wanna know why. I would love to get to know you better, actually".

"Really?" the brunette asks.

She nods and smiles sideways.

Bob stares down at Y/N's lips for a few seconds, thinking about how soft they look. He wonders what it feels like to kiss them, and this isn't the first time he's done it.

It wasn't anyone's surprise that Bob started to have feelings for the girl in front of him; he's sure it was the day they rescued him. It may have been immediate, but he couldn't deny the way his heart raced, and it didn't even match how it felt when he was drugged or experimented on. This was better and more powerful, a feeling he craved every chance he got.

Y/N felt the same way about Bob. She found him handsome, sweet, and warm to be around. Lately, she'd been trying to give him hints that she was attracted to him, but the man never noticed. Maybe he was too oblivious, because he was pretty much the only person in the team who didn't seemed to noticed. The first to notice this undeniable attraction was Yelena. She constantly teased them by the looks the pair gave each other, and how they reacted when they heard each other's names in a conversation.

They wouldn't get away with it that easily.

"I, uh... think you're pretty," he blurts out. "And you make me nervous because you're wonderful. In every aspect of the word. "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you or look at you, hoping you'll return my gaze".

She looks at him dearly, feeling her heart race. In a nice way.

"And maybe it's silly, but whenever I'm around you, I feel at peace," he says sincerely. "And I haven't felt that way in a long time."

Can you be more pathetic about it? Just kiss her already!

God damn it, shut up.

Bob falls silent at the sight of her expression and thinks he's screwed up, so before he can explain, or even try to, he feels Y/N grab the back of his neck and pull him closer for a kiss. He's surprised but lets go, letting go of the shirt from his hands to hug her waist, while Y/N rests her hands on his broad shoulders and they continue moving their lips in sync.

Bob doesn't want this moment to end because he thinks he's dreaming, so he wraps his arms around the girl's body to pull her closer to him, feeling that voice in his head bothering him once again.

Just like that, her lips feel good, don't they?

Bob growls when he feels Y/N's hands caresing his chest, feeling the coldness of her fingers. Their moment is interrupted by someone clearing their throat as they enter the room.

The two of them separate from eachother. Y/N lowers her gaze and bites her lip, while Bob alertly stares at Bucky, who looks at him seriously.

"I'll just say you two should go to a room if this goes any further. We don't want this to be any more awkward than it is," Bucky says, going to the kitchen to get a cup and start making some coffee.

Y/N pats Bob's chest, and he looks at her, then follows her like a puppy.

"You don't have to be such an asshole," Y/N pinches Bucky's arm as she walks past him.

"It's my duty as your friend."

"Looks more like a brother, kinda stuff," Y/N says, taking Bob's hand and leading him to his room.

"Use protection!" Bucky warns.

Oh, we will.

Bob internally scolds himself as he hears Void invade his mind for a moment. Y/N laughs in amusement at Bob's reaction, stopping him in the middle of the hallway, just in front of her room.

"We don't have to do anything," she clarifies, and she sees how he relaxes a little.

"But I'd like to spend a little more time together. If that's okay with you."

Bob smiles and nods.

"I'd like that too."

Damn, Bob. We miss the fun part.

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

[nightingale-prompts]

Phantom is so Moody-DCxDP prompt

"I don't even understand what I am. I'm a clone so I can't age. But what does it even mean to be a clone? I'm not 100% Superman but I'm still nit like him or Lex? I wasn't born like a normal person so does that mean I don't have a soul?" Kon ranted.

Danny the multi-dimensional godlike being the team had contracted into being their aid slowly shuffled from under his mountain of blankets and pillows and yawned.

"What are you talking about?" He drawled lazily. "Of course you have a soul.

"But I'm like artificially made in a lab." Kon retorted.

"And? So what? Are you telling me I'm wrong?" Danny challenged " Hey stupid, everything has a soul. You, your friends, animals, a tree, a fucking blade of grass, even a kid's toy. If it has energy it has a soul. I'm not talking metaphorically, I mean literally. Souls are a real tangible thing and I will eat your soul if you don't put some food on my sacrificial altar. Also, get therapy."

Kon much like the others had gotten used to Danny. He was mostly all bark and no bite.

As Kon headed to the kitchen to get the god his post-nap snack he heard Danny speak again.

"Also, you can age. Who told you that you couldn't? Age isn't anything but the slow decay of atoms. You are aging. You just aren't changing because your body is so new. Given enough years it'll start to show. Then you'll be no different from anyone else. Granted Superman's race also grows differently. You are so fucking dramatic. You are fine the way you are." The godling huffed, "Ancients, you guys are annoying. You treat existence like it's torture and you'll bearly understand how blessed you are to exist simply because of how un-ideal it is. Look shit sucks, it sucks most of the time but human suffering is caused by humans. You are torturing yourself with all these what-ifs and angst. Just stop caring."

Danny wasn't saying all this to be comforting. He rarely does stuff like that. If anything he was ambivalent to Kon. It still made him feel better though. One thing you could trust about Danny was that he was honest. He could even be helpful considering his job was to be a living encyclopedia of information from beyond the pale. He has always been an asset if you can wake him up from his days long naps.

****

"You sleep all the time." Raven complained.

The Titans were here this time. They needed something from Danny. Something about having to seal a threat away.

"Just death being shy." Danny mumbled curling up on his raised platform. "Now go away."

Raven pulled out a smudge stick of white sage when Nightwing silently held up a hand to stop her.

"Phantom, look we need your help. This issue needs your assistance. We just want info on how to seal this threat properly." Nightwing said.

"Ask Constantine."Danny whined back as he shuffled deeper into his blanket cocoon.

"Unfortunately he can't help. This is Darkseid—"

"WHERE IS HE?"

Immediately he was wide awake. You see there are few things to stir Phantom to his full attention. He isn't inactive out of pure laziness. He lets the hero do their thing and he helps when he thinks it's appropriate. But he will not let anything or anyone harm the planet

*****

"He really doesn't like people," Impulse whispered to Aqualad.

"I still don't understand how the Justice League managed to get in contact with him let alone sign a contract with him. " Aqualad answered.

"Flash said he was pretty easy to convince. Hell he said that Phantom was so docile he let Wonder Woman carry him around. Now he'll practically snap of your hand if you touch him."

"Emm...think about it he must have just been really weak back then. If he was injured badly enough maybe he—"

"Stop talking."

*****

"I still don't trust you. What is your game?" Raven said sternly.

A being with origins like Phantom couldn't really be helping them out of the kindness of his heart. What did he gain from this contract.

"You assume you are worth games."

"Were you sent by my father?"

"Your father, Trigon? That nuisance? A petty demon like that having any say over me? I'd crush him if I ever saw him. He claims to have conquered a billion worlds. That alone makes me want to destroy him. No one OWNS a world. If anything I own all worlds. No one touches my universe, all universes are mine. And if people would just stop touching my stuff I wouldn't be here." Phantom growled furiously.

"So you are just like him." Raven hissed in anger.

"Like I said. I own it. It is my domain. My realm. So no one can destroy it. No one can control it. I make it. Every star, every planet, every person is a product of chaos. It is the universal law. I keep my chaos in check. Trigon, Darkseid, Anti-Monitor—I don't care. If they touch what is mine I will destroy them."

"Anti-Monitor?"

Phantom curled his lip in anger then relaxed.

"He is someone you don't need to be concerned about. Not anymore." Phantom sighed. "Just know; I don't care what you think of me. I only care about keeping things the way they should be. I'd prefer if you didn't trust me."

Raven narrowed her eyes in thought before she relaxed. Then a small smile appeared on her lips.

"No. I think I can trust you."

Phantom immediately frowned. This wasn't the response he wanted.

"I think you are doing this on purpose. I think you want us to dislike you." Raven teased "Phantom do you perhaps have a heart?"

Phantom just sighed, his cheeks were greenish hue. He was blushing. Then went back to his dais to sleep.

****

Phantom was certainly a prickly guy. He was sweet deep down. Everyone could tell after a while. It didn't help that Wonder Woman always gave as good as she got.

"Answer the question Phantom. No cryptic riddles either." She said climbing the dias.

Phantom scrambled to escape as she grabbed him by the ankle and held him upside down.

"That's not fair! Kronos said I didn't have to answer this one. I have permission to tell you wherever I feel like."

"Oh? Then how about not having snacks on your offering plate? We'll burn nothing but vegetables until you tell me."

"How dare you! That's child abuse. You'll be starving me."

"You don't even need to eat."

"I still taste everything you burn. That's force-feeding. That's bad too."

"Just tell me!"

"Fine!" Phantom grumbled "Trevor Barnes...didn't pass over yet. He waits for you in the realms between. You shouldn't know that though. He doesn't want you to know."

"Why wouldn't he—"

"Because he wants you to live for yourself. He wants you to love again. You have a long life ahead of you and he didn't want to hold you back with his memory. Although he contradicted himself because he still wants you to think of him fondly."

Phantom phased through Diana's grasp and retreated to his lair.

****

Phantom was like a stray cat or maybe a spoiled one. He was wary of most people.

But even the most moody cat likes at least one person.

"Phantom I—"

"What do you need?"

Tim had entered the chamber only half expecting Phantom to be awake. Though Phantom was always awake when Tim entered. He guessed he was lucky since he didn't have talk to empty space.

"Eh, nothing. I got put on sacrifice duty. I brought some Bat Burger and cookies from home. I'm warning you now that Wonder Woman said you have to eat a serving of vegetables. So I'm burning them first." Tim placed the steamed vegetables on the offering plate and before he tossed them into the green fire he felt the cold hand of Phantom wrap around him.

"Don't." He said softly.

"It's just broccoli and cauliflower," Tim said still putting it on the electrum disk.

"Don't wanna," Phantom whined petulantly holding Tim in place. His head buried in his shoulder.

"You big baby." Tim sighed.

If anyone saw this interaction they'd be disgusted. The oh-so-great and moody god is l acting like a soft and pitiful little guy. Phantom seemed to have such a unique fascination with Red Robin. To the point he acts completely different if Tim was in the room.

"Two-faced." Kon mumbled as he watched Phantom readily answered Red Robin's every question without complaint.

"He's always like that," Tim said afterward " It's probably because I was the one to help form the contract with him when he was summoned here. The League treated him like a threat when it wasn't his fault he was here. He just wants to keep his distance but he is the same age as us."

"He is?" Kon asked astonished.

[streetlamp-amber]

never ending night

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 1.7k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: pregnancy, pure fluff NOTES: hello hi i’m ailís and i’ve been meaning to start a blog where i can post some one shots that i’ve been thinking of as a way to motivate myself to finally write down my ideas so this is it. i’ll be double posting my stuff on ao3 (which you can find in my bio) and will eventually make a masterlist as well as a navigation post with a list of fandoms/characters i write for. also, english isn’t my first language.

It was close to three in the morning when Bruce finally joined you in bed after a long night of patrolling and fighting bottom of the barrel criminals all night. He showered in the bathroom on the first floor of the manor to avoid making too much noise and waking you up, but when he finally walked in your shared bedroom, you were already awake, sitting up against the headboard.

“Darling, what are you doing still up?” Bruce asked you as he reached his side of the bed.

The room was dark par for the moonlight filtering through the gap between the curtains, meaning your husband had yet to notice the state you were in.

“Dick had a nightmare,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper due to how tired you were. “It took me two hours to get him to fall back asleep and when I finally came back here, this little one started kickboxing me and keeping me awake for another hour,” you continued rubbing your round belly in hopes of soothing your baby to finally catch some sleep.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here to help,” Bruce apologised, planting a kiss on your temple as he held you close to his body.

“It’s alright, Gotham needs you,” you dismissed, not at all angry.

“Still, you’re six months pregnant. You’re growing our child inside your body, you need all the rest you can get,” he softly argued. “I would've come home earlier but all the amateur criminals came out tonight.”

“Bruce, it’s fine,” you brought your hand up to his cheek and he leaned his head into your touch. “You’ve already been cutting your patrols shorter since we found out about the baby. As long as you keep coming back home to us, alive, then I’m not mad.”

Not knowing what to say – his gratefulness for having someone so accepting of his duty as Batman was almost overwhelming, even after all those years – Bruce kissed your palm while staring at you with the same look full of love that he has been sporting since the first time he met you six years ago.

“How’d I get so lucky to fall in love with the most understanding and selfless person I know?” He asked while grabbing your hand on his cheek, wrapping his fingers around yours and squeezing them gently.

“Now that’s a lie,” you rebutted, a loving smile on your lips, lowering your joined hands on the bed. “You’re more selfless than I am. You’re the most selfless man in the world.”

“Let’s not start this never ending argument again,” Bruce chuckled, now his turn to hold your face as he brought you in for a kiss.

You happily sighed against his lips, the feeling of home that overtook you every time you tasted them was a nice welcome in this interminable night. But the kiss was cut short as you felt your baby kick again and you let your head fall back as you groaned.

“She’s still kicking?” Bruce asked you, he couldn't see the movements under your skin due to the darkness of the room and your hand on your belly.

“We don't know it's a she,” you reminded him instead of answering. You had both decided to wait until the birth to know the gender.

“And I’m telling you, I know it's a girl,” your husband repeated for what could be the hundredth time.

You also secretly hoped it was a girl, but Dick really wanted a little brother. Bruce and you were still in the process of warming him up to the idea of a little sister and it was slowly starting to work.

“As long as she doesn't come in my room,” your eight year old son had said last week, with his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

“I doubt she’ll be doing that for the first few years, chum,” Bruce reassured him, fighting off a slightly amused grin.

“And the baby will have its own room with its own toys,” you added.

“Will I still be able to play with the baby?” Dick asked after a moment, uncrossing his arms and a hopeful look filling up his blue eyes.

“Of course you will, bubs,” you said, your fingers threading through his black hair that fell over his forehead.

“But only with her toys at first, some of yours are not suited for a baby,” Bruce pointed out, ever the overprotective father.

Bruce had lowered himself down under the blanket so he could be laying head levelled with your belly, his hand now replacing yours over the bump.

“Hey trouble,” he whispered to your child and the baby kicked again, making him smile lovingly at the movement he felt under his hand. “You shouldn't be awake this late at night, you know.”

“You're one to talk,” you commented, tone almost reprimanding.

“She doesn't know that,” Bruce looked up at you as he defended himself before his gaze fell back on your belly. “Mommy is really tired,” he continued talking to your baby, his hand now rubbing soothingly over your round stomach, “and she needs her rest to do all the work so you can come out all healthy and beautiful. Well, you're definitely gonna be the most beautiful baby if you end up looking like your mother, but that's not the point.”

You smiled at the cheesy comment and your fingers found their place in Bruce’s hair, brushing through it and nails occasionally scratching his scalp.

“Your brother Dick can't wait for you to come around,” he carried on. “Said he will teach you all sorts of acrobatic tricks once you know how to walk. And he asked Alfred if he could help paint the nursery when we finally decide on a colour.”

“And I keep telling you we should do soft green,” you argued.

“I’m not changing my mind from primrose pink,” he told you with a sly grin.

“The room won’t be pink, even if it’s a girl. And that’s final,” you firmly said. Your husband will not be winning this one argument, no sir.

Bruce sighed, rolling his eyes before focusing back on your belly. “I hope you’re not as stubborn as your mother,” he whispered to the baby, as if he was having a private conversation with them and that you weren’t there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the many reasons why I fell in love with her, but I won’t be able to say no to you even when I have to, so it would save me a lot of reprimanding from Mommy if you’re not as tenacious as her.”

You smiled to yourself as you continued listening to your husband talk to your unborn child as you threaded your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness it had after a shower. Bruce usually gelled his hair to appear more professional when he was working in the day, and then it would get all mixed up with his sweat under his cowl when he was working as Batman. When he would come back to you after the day was over, you would refuse to touch his hair until he had showered, the texture of the gel and sweat too gross on your fingers for you to ignore.

As Bruce continued talking to your baby, his voice started lulling the two of you to sleep. The baby hadn’t kicked in over almost ten minutes now, and the peace you had waited for so long to arrive made you aware of how heavy your eyelids were. You slowly lowered yourself down the bed, getting in a comfortable position with Bruce’s help where you could finally lay your head on your pillow and it didn’t take long for sleep to catch up on you.

At the sound of your soft, barely audible snores, Bruce turned his head away from your bump to find you asleep with your free hand raised next to your head on your pillow, the other one still tangled in his hair.

He planted a soft kiss on the exposed skin of your belly, eyes closed as he took a moment to absorb the fact that a baby that was half you and half him would be joining your world in a little more than three months. Bruce wasn't known to cry, the only time you ever saw him cry was as you walked down the aisle at your wedding, but tonight, a lonesome tear rolled down his cheek and fell on your stomach, where your child was growing, because Bruce never believed he would ever get to experience again the amount of love he hadn't felt since he was eight years old.

As he observed you, sleeping soundly with his child coming to life inside you, after you comforted Dick back to sleep, Bruce, for a moment, felt overwhelmed by all the love in his life. When he became Batman, he crossed out the idea of ever having a family (other than Alfred), of settling down with someone he loved and who loved him back.

But somehow, the universe put you on his path, as a miracle or a guardian angel or simply as an anchor to life outside of Batman, he didn't know. You walked into his home, into his life, to remind him that he, Bruce Wayne, was also deserving of love, of family, of happiness. Then Dick came along, rather unexpectedly but still no less welcomed, and Bruce started entertaining the idea of having children with you. He definitely wasn't opposed to it, but it wasn't something he wanted to jump right into, especially with Dick having just entered your lives. You were both young, he in his early thirties and you in your late twenties, you could allow yourselves a couple of years just the three of you (four with Alfred) before expanding the family.

So it was rather shocking when two months after you and Bruce had officially adopted Dick that you found out you were pregnant. It both took you by surprise but after talking through it together, you couldn't be happier. And the two of you haven't stopped being happy about this new little addition ever since.

Bruce rose up from his position next to your belly, your limp hand fell from his head as he did so, and he laid on the bed next to you. He delicately kissed your forehead, then your nose before falling back on his pillow and whispered “I love you” as he curled around your body, his hand resting on your belly as he fell asleep.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

CAN'T SLEEP LOVE !

synopsis : you can't sleep, and your pretty best friend sure as hell isn't helping !

an. i have no idea if the synopsis is grammatically correct but it sounds funny so idrc, enjoy !

you can't sleep. you really tried, but you're too aware of the body next to you and that body's warmth against your face.

katsuki's been your best friends for as long as you could remember, this was normal. he'd been sleeping over at your house for years when you were younger, it was only normal for him to sleep at your place now. of course, of course.

but what you hadn't planned out was the fact that you couldn't sleep tonight, so when you blink one eye-then a second one open to look at him, you're not very surprised to see he's fast asleep. he’s always been a stickler to his bedtime.

and you're not very surprised to see how gorgeous he is. he’s always been a pretty boy after all.

katsuki's been your best friend for as long as you can remember, and you've been in love with him just as long.

he looks so pretty like this. peaceful and asleep and breathing so softly, so relaxed. you wonder what he dreams about. he probably dreams about blowing up sheep instead of counting them, the thought makes you snicker quietly.

"you sound creepy giggling to yourself like that."

you jump, the surprised little noise you let out makes him smile, still with his eyes closed. so, so pretty. in the most asshole-ish way.

"you're awake ?!" you don't know why you insist on whispering.

"obviously." you don't know why katsuki bothers on whispering either.

"what does that mean ?"

"means how the fuck am i supposed to sleep with you breathing heavy like that ? you snore loud."

you shove at his shoulder and his eyes snap open so you really get to look at him while he laughs at you. you hate him, and fuck does he look pretty. he shoves you back and you land on your back dramatically, huffing up at your ceiling.

"go back to your own house then, loser. you don't have to keep squatting at my house." you cross your arms under your blanket.

katsuki scoffs, he knocks your leg with his under the blanket when he’s had enough of you ignoring him and when that doesn't work he tugs the sheets to pull them closer to him. just to piss you off, cus he can. you groan, tugging and pulling, trying to get away from the cold air. screw his stupid pro hero muscles.

to your surprise, katsuki pulls you closer the moment he gets the opportunity. you lay stunned in his arms, an awkward sound dies inside your throat. he yawns, making himself more comfortable.

"i'm not squatting nowhere. you're the one that let's me in here all the time." with that comeback, it's obvious you've been friends for way too long.

friends, huh.

you make yourself comfy in his arms, despite yourself. " so it's all my own fault is what you're saying."

"yup," your best friend responds without missing a beat "glad you put two in two together so quick." katsuki hisses when you pinch his back and pinches yours in retaliation. but he doesn't allow you to go any further, squeezing you tighter in his arms.

"besides, i bet it comes in pretty handy for you, your creepy ass gets to watch me sleep." you stiffen a bit in his hold but relax quickly, you cover your surprise with a scoff.

"get over yourself, please." you spit "nobody in the world sucks your dick harder than you do."

katsuki clicks his teeth when you giggle at your own joke. "shut up." is all he manages, you laugh harder and katsuki pokes a finger in the back of your neck to make you squeak.

"it has nothing to do with you, i just couldn't sleep." you explain, yawning at the end of your sentence. your nose picks up the scent of his nape and you quickly look away. katsuki hums almost to himself, he shoves a harsh palm behind your head and pushes it closer to the warmth of his chest.

“close your eyes then.” he says it so easily you scoff.

“oh that’s genius! why didn’t i think of that ?” you hum sarcastically. katsuki chuckles lowly, unsurprised. he pinches your side again.

“smart ass.” he settles, and it’s quiet again. but you find that snuggling close to him like this makes your eyelids a bit heavier. you hope he doesn’t notice how your arms slowly creep up to his side to settle there, but you doubt it considering the quiet breath he draws in as soon as you do.

“ ‘s somethin’ keeping you up then ?” you don’t know why he’s insisted on whispering again.

you you want to say, “just..stuff.” you whisper back. “i’m surprised you’re still awake, though. considering you zonk out at like—six.”

“no i don’t, you fuckin’ liar. m’not a fuckin’ grade schooler.” katsuki snaps. you giggle, knowing your next words will absolutely piss him off.

“right, my bad..seven then.”

katsuki doesn’t respond and instead decides to use all his might to try and crush your spine, squeezing you tight, oh so tightly between those huge pro hero muscles as you shriek and wheeze out puffs of laughter. he stops after you claw at him some, muttering a quiet “fuckin’ brat.” under his breath. “stop dodgin’ my question, hate when you do that.”

you sigh as he loosens his grip, feeling your heart pounding. katsuki had been your best friend for years, and you’d loved him since forever, now would be the perfect opportunity to tell him. you’d been thinking about this for years now. you could do this !

and when you look up he’s already looking down at you and that’s when you decide…

nope ! you always had tomorrow !

(except in your field, tomorrow is never guaranteed, but you decide to not think about that too hard right now.)

“no, it’s nothing. honest.” you smile to yourself when you hear your katsuki scoff in response. you tuck yourself into his chest selfishly “why were you up anyway ?”

“..couldn’t fall asleep either, i guess.” he responds, clearing his throat.

“something keeping you awake, then ?” you parrot. but he doesn’t laugh like you expect or even roll his eyes.

he looks off into space for a few seconds and then back at you, like he’d done before. katsuki had always been a phenomenon that managed to grab—to steal would be a better choice of words—anybody’s attention. he didn’t ask for you to pay attention to him, he’d always commanded it. that’s how you ended up being his friend all those years ago and that’s certainly how you ended up here.

he’s the one looking down at you, searching for you yet you feel like you’d always be drawn to him no matter what.

“just…stuff.” he parrots. he’s still staring so intently. so pretty.

“what stuff ?” you insist, your eyes itch a bit because you don’t want to blink yet, you don’t want to miss his eyes yet.

katsuki squints, you don’t know if he doesn’t want to blink either or if he thinks this is a competition.

“you stuff.”

and that makes you blink, you catch his lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile. clearly, he thinks he’s won.

“..me stuff ?”

he has the nerve to roll his eyes. his arms around you squeeze “you’re on my mind, shit stain.”

and despite his rude nickname, despite the way your nose scrunches at him your heart throbs and beats so hard you feel it in the tips of your fingers. you grip the material of his shirt to try and keep a semblance of composure.

“so…i’m keeping you awake then ?”

“took you a while to figure that one out.” he sasses, obviously embarrassed he looks away. you take the opportunity to press a giddy kiss to his cheek, right on top of his scar.

you pull back just enough to see how his eyes widen, it’s his turn to grip onto you now.

“what a coincidence, i’ve been thinking about the same thing.”

it’s completely quiet for a moment. katsuki slowly blinks at you as he computes what just happened.

“...you’ve been thinkin’ about yourself?”

“about you, you absolute doofus—!” your laughter is cut off by your best friend eagerly pressing his lips to yours.

[demonvibez]

Morning Surprise

Characters: Demon Brothers x GN Reader

Word Count: 2.4k+

Rating: Mature

Tags: fluff, kissing, erections, fade-to-black, suggestive

A/N: My first request back! Thought I'd go with something fun. There's no explicit smut but it is quite suggestive. Hope y'all enjoy!

Summary: Your favorite Demon Brother wakes up with you in his arms - and morning wood between his legs. What will happen next? Well...

[link to original request]

Lucifer, ever the prideful demon, can't help the smile on his face when he wakes up and looks down, only to see you safely asleep in his arms.

Ah, yes. The two of you had spent your first night together - not doing anything scandalous, just peacefully sleeping together. Although, he also couldn't help the way that smile ceased when he noticed the situation happening between his legs. He didn't notice his morning wood at first, due to the fact that you had your leg slung over him in your slumber - you were the only thing he noticed. But now a small seed of insecurity has been implanted into the back of his mind. What would you think, waking up to such an intrusion? Surely, the Avatar of Pride should be able to maintain control of himself, even his autonomic bodily functions. He wants to be nothing short of perfect in your eyes, even if that means going to extreme lengths to control the impossible. He's practically ready to get out of bed and start working on a plan forward - that is until he looks down into those sweet eyes of yours, and realizes you're awake. His moment of insecurity is fleeting, deciding that the state he's in is natural, and nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. You are his lover, after all. He leans down to steal a kiss from your lips, that cheeky smirk on his face after he pulls away.

"Good morning, my love. It seems as though you've stirred something within me," he said, before he leaned back down to start lightly nipping at your neck. You won't be making it out of his bed anytime soon, that's for sure. Quite scanadalous, indeed.

The first morning the two of you spend together, Mammon wakes up with an adorably dopey smile on his face. He's so happy to be cuddled up with his human, all cozy and warm, that he doesn't even notice the situation in his sweatpants at first. As he regains his consciousness, the feeling between his legs connecting to his brain, his eyes widen and he throws the covers off as he jumps out of the bed. You're barely even rubbing your eyes, muttering out his name in a questioning tone, when you hear the sound of your bathroom door slamming. You're wide awake now - yet so is he. Asking him questions through the door is just met with his signature brand of denial as he shouts at you to "GET BACK TO BED, STUPID HUMAN!!" You roll your eyes and grumble, opting to just go back to sleep and figure it out later. Luckily for Mammon. He doesn't need you getting the wrong idea - he's the Great Mammon after all! And no, he totally doesn't have a huge crush on you. The last thing he needs is such an awkward situation with the human he isn't crushing on.

The next time it happens though, he doesn't have quite the same reaction. You two are much closer than you were the last time, and he'll be damned if he's gonna hop out of your bed early. You wake up and he immediately steals a kiss, a blush already on his cheeks - and it doesn't take you long to figure out why. Giggles escape your lips if you ask Mammon if that gift is meant for you, which turns into full on laughter as his blush deepens and he stammers out his denials. And then, he gives you this look - an innocent lil puppy dog eye'd look with those shining gold-and-blue orbs of his. Always greedy for you, he doesn't even have to say the words. You already know what he wants.

"Treasure, please," is all you'll get from him. Which is all you need to hear, anyways. This greedy demon is eager to take anything you can give him.

Why oh why can't he just melt into the floor? At that current moment, Leviathan felt cursed. He finally got to spend the night cuddling with his Player 2, and THIS is the state he wakes up in?! He feels like the grossest lowlife to ever walk the realm. If Father could just send some lightning straight down here and take him out, he'd be oh so grateful. Because how the hell is he possibly going to deal with this?! You were currently laying on top of him, snuggling with him in his bath-bed and tangled up in his tail. The level of gymnastics needed to escape from your hold and this room far surpasses an Olympic level feat. And when he looks down at his chest to see you looking back up at him, he swears his demonic heart actually stopped. The scream emitted from his room could be heard all the way from the Demon Lord's Castle, as well as the subsequent slamming of his door. You are just left laying alone in his room in bewilderment as your ears ring.

It takes quite a bit of time for Leviathan to get over this whole incident. It actually starts to bum you out how long he's kept himself locked away in his room this time, refusing to talk or even come down for meals. His Brothers thought it was funny at first, but now that they see you upset, they take it upon themselves to chat with him. It doesn't work at first, until Mammon kicks down his door himself. Then, one by one, they stop by to chat with little success. It isn't until Lucifer stops by for an earnest pep talk that the Avatar of Envy finally comes around.

When it finally comes time to hang out again, Levi opts to pretend the whole thing never happened. Unluckily for him, it happened again. He's ready to have another mental breakdown, but you're determined to prevent that - you love him, and it's really not a big deal. You were never mad, or creeped out, it just happens. As you cradle his blushing cheeks with your lil human hands, you whisper words of reassurance to your Lord of Shadow.

"I-I-I-Uhhhh-" is all he can stammer out in reply, until you shut him up with those soft lips of yours. He'll have to write you a message later - for now, you have him pushed back into his bath-bed, ready to take the lead and conquer him like an adventure quest.

Laying in his bed with you, surrounded by his books as you sleep in his arms, Satan lies awake with his emerald eyes staring at the ceiling. This wasn't the first time he was experiencing this issue. He had read plenty about it, to the point that he knows it's an autonomic function of his body. And yet, he can't help but to feel a bit ashamed of himself, as if he had any control of it at all - as if he were gentlemanly enough to be able to stop it from happening. He's better than this - a thought that sounds eerily like the words of someone he loathes, and now he's even more irritated with himself. Ugh, how could he have not seen this as a possible outcome?! While one of his arms is wrapped around you, the other lays by his side as he grips the bed-sheet so hard that his knuckles changes shades. He needs to come up with a plan to make a quiet escape so he can go calm down. He could probably slip out of bed fairly easily, the only problem being the mountains of books creating obstacles all around his room. He knows these book piles like the back of his own hand, and yet his anger clouds his mind. He highly doubts he'd be able to make a clean escape.

Before he can start to peel the sheets back, he feels you stirring from your sleep. You look up at him to see a bright blush on his cheeks, clearly avoiding eye contact with you. With a light giggle, you ask Satan whats wrong, and he begins to rapidly apologize while info-dumping everything he's read about the subject. About two-thirds of the way through his rambles, you simply cut him off with a kiss. When you pull away, you swear you see sparkles in those sage orbs of his. You break the kiss and start to pull at the drawstrings of his pajama pants, a tiny giggle escaping your lips. A light blush coats his cheeks, and all of the poetry previously ingrained into his brain has now fled from his memories.

"Amazing," was all he could whisper, and he is most definitely talking about you. He'll have to express his gratitude when he can regather his mind, but for now, he's happy to be locked in his room with you. This is one study session he plans to be absolutely rigorous about.

Already awake, yet pretending to still be asleep, Asmo is doing his best to keep a mischievous grin off of his pretty face. He was well aware of the situation happening between his legs, and he isn't fazed by it in the least. He's the Avatar of Lust, after all, and this is his arena! And he is perfectly comfortable pressing his morning arousal into the flesh of your thigh as he continues to pretend. Of course you begin to stir, slowly waking up and taking in your surroundings, immediately taking notice of Asmodeus. Your eyes scan his sleeping form, one of your hands gently rubbing his back as you feel him press himself into your leg once more. A small gasp escapes your lips, and before you know it, his gorgeous sunset eyes are staring up at you.

You greet each other with whispered greetings and soft kisses, Asmo nuzzling your neck as he waits for you to bring up his arousal. You're a bit used to this - it's Asmodeus, after all, so none of this is really surprising. What was surprising, however, was how coy he was acting with you when you finally breached the subject. "Who, meeee~?! ♡" in that signature sing-song voice of his, as you look at him with a deadpan expression. He busts out into a fit of giggles, showering you with little kisses, before his kiss transforms into something a bit more sensual. His lips on your neck, his hands trailing your curves. You know exactly where this is going, but it's one of the many things you love about your Asmo.

"Do I even have to ask, darling~? ♡" His lips softly trail as he slides down your body, and you mentally prepare for the marathon of euphoria your lover is about to experience with you - and how it may cause you to ruin yet another set of silk sheets. Just another day being in love with the Avatar of Lust!

Now, you were quite used to snuggling up with the giant demonic teddy bear that is Beelzebub. Ever since Lucifer tried to 'punish' you by making you live with Beel temporarily, the two of you enjoyed sharing a bed and cuddling up at night. It seemed to be an average evening - you had retired with Beel to his room after dinner, ready to cozy up and drift off in his arms as the two of you watch his favorite show, Barbeque Life. What wasn't average, however, was the way in which you were awakened the following morning. See, the funny thing about sharing a bed with Beel is that you no longer need to set your own alarm clock - the roar of his rumbling stomach is more than sufficient to wake both of you up in the morning. But this morning was different. This morning, something rather stiff poked into your side, jarring you awake from your dreams.

It takes you a moment to fully wake up and realize what was happening - that Beel's other hunger could possibly be making itself known on this early Devildom morning. Although it could be nothing, it doesn't take you too long to find out. Soon enough, Beel is waking up as well, and you can tell he's certainly in a mood. With rosy cheeks and bashful eyes, he's looking at you with that same sparkle he has at the buffet line. Whatever he must have been dreaming about - and it certainly wasn't cheeseburgers - has clearly made him ravenous with lust. Always a gentleman, he takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, before kindly asking if he may proceed. He's so adorable that you answer him with a kiss, throwing your arms around his neck before he pulls you closer.

"Y'u tas- sssoooo g'd," he mumbles between kisses, as if his mouth was full, "I luv y'u s' muhh."

Beel always loves having sweets for breakfast.

Oh, Belphegor. That bratty little sloth demon. He sure does have a way of getting exactly what he wants - something that no one in this household would deny. You were starting to think he had planned this entire situation. He can control dreams after all, so it wouldn't shock you if he was creating lust-filled dreams in order to cause this to happen on purpose. One snap of his fingers and he's in the middle of a sex scene - and you can only imagine who his partner was. All so he could wake up and pester you with those pouty purple eyes of his, while he presses his hardened member into your side.

At first he feigns innocence and ignorance, wanting you to be the one to use your words to point it out - he'd do anything to get you flustered. That is, until you call him out on it - that you're sure of what he was doing in his dreams. He pouts, he whines, he blames you completely for it all - for his dream, and for his arousal. You're not really gonna make him beg are you? He'll just pretend to go back to sleep. His pouty eyes turn serious, a glint of threat glimmering in his purple orbs, and you can't help but to let out a laugh and steal a kiss. You can feel the tenseness leave his body as he melts back into your arms, getting comfortable as he returns your kiss with passion. You can feel his fangs lightly nip your bottom lip as you pull away for air, the poutiness returning to his face as he looks at you incredulously.

"Well, you're gonna help me, right?!" Turns out there's more than one way for the Avatar of Sloth to keep you in bed all day.

· demonvibez ♡ 2025 · do not copy, repost or modify ·

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