#genuinely feel like I blacked out and came to in between starting to write this and finishing it

[pullmecloseman]

YOU SHOULD SEE HIM IN ITALY

Boyfriend!Bob Floyd x reader

Summary: A romantic destination wedding in the hills of Italy should’ve been a dream getaway—but sharing a luxury villa with your entire extended family and a boyfriend who looks unfairly good in linen? Yeah, it’s a lot. Bob Floyd may have already met your family, but this time it’s different. This time there’s champagne, sun-soaked jealousy, and the weight of one too many stolen glances. Between flirty texts, strategic outfit choices, and a swim that reveals a lot more of Bob than anyone expected, the tension between you two hits its boiling point. Add in nosy cousins, teasing aunts, and one very smug grandma, and it’s only a matter of time before Bob snaps in the best possible way.

Word count: 5.4k

A/N: Inspired by wedding weekends, filthy-fluff tropes, and the idea that Bob Floyd gets way too possessive when someone else looks at you twice. Do you want one of him proposing. I actually started writing this after like an hour of the poll because it was already winning anyways you guys are criminal for not choosing the disney world one

Warnings: Fluff with filthy tension, no explicit smut but lots of heavy suggestion, long-term established relationship, jealousy (non-toxic), protective/possessive Bob, mentions of Bob’s abs and body, suggestive language, family chaos, teasing relatives, swimwear scenes, emotional intimacy, heated make-out moments, and an overall sun-soaked romantic vibe. Bob and “you” are very clearly down bad for each other. Set at a luxury five-star villa in Italy for your cousin’s wedding.

masterlist boyfriend!bob masterlist

The drive along the Italian coastline was something out of a dream — the kind of landscape that didn’t feel real until you were inside it. Winding roads hugged the cliffs, offering breathtaking views of the sea below. Bougainvillea spilled over white stone walls, terracotta rooftops glinting under the late afternoon sun. Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed. It was a postcard come to life.

You reached across the backseat of the black SUV and laced your fingers through Bob’s. His palm was warm and steady, like always, but there was the faintest tension in the way he held your hand — not hesitant, but… bracing. You felt it. He’d been quiet since you landed in Naples an hour ago. Not distant, just unusually reserved. And for someone like Bob Floyd — who leaned into silence the way others leaned into small talk — that meant something.

Mia sat in the front passenger seat, swiping through emails even though she was supposedly on vacation. “So,” she said, without looking up, “how many times do you think Dad’s asked the hotel staff if they serve American coffee?”

“Five,” Jason offered from behind the wheel. “He cornered someone at the airport with a Keurig suggestion.”

Bob chuckled, low and genuine, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “There’s worse things than Italian espresso.”

Jason shot him a look in the rearview mirror. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

You smiled, but your gaze lingered on Bob’s face. His glasses had slipped a little down the bridge of his nose, and his jaw was tight — just like it had been since you left the States. The night before, you’d curled up in bed beside him, warm and sleep-heavy, and asked if he was nervous. He’d said no. But now, watching the way his knee bounced ever so slightly as the car climbed a hill, you knew the truth.

He was nervous.

Not about the destination, and not even about the wedding. About your family. Even after two years and several holidays spent together, he still felt the weight of it. You came from a loud, warm, unapologetically curious family. Bob had grown up in a small, quiet Lemoore house where family dinners were polite and brief, and affection was something you showed, not something you broadcast.

Now he was about to spend five days in close quarters with your entire extended family in a luxurious five-star villa overlooking the sea.

No wonder he looked like he was preparing for combat.

The hotel came into view around the next bend — a grand villa perched right on the edge of a cliff, with sun-drenched balconies, sweeping gardens, and white stucco walls gleaming like a pearl in the sun. A line of cypress trees bordered the long cobbled driveway, and you could already hear your niece Amelia shrieking in delight as she ran across the lawn in sparkly sneakers.

“Oh, wow,” Bob murmured, squinting as the car pulled up to the entrance. “You weren’t kidding. This is… something.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah, your girlfriend’s family doesn’t mess around. This is her cousin’s wedding, not the royal coronation, but don’t tell her dad that.”

Mia turned in her seat. “Remember to smile and accept all compliments, even the weird ones. Grandma might ask if you’re ‘a real pilot or just one of the math guys.’ Don’t take it personally.”

You squeezed his hand again. “You’ve already survived Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas charades, and my mom’s ‘can you open this jar?’ tests. You’ve got this.”

He looked over at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You sure?”

“Very,” you said, kissing his cheek. “They love you. They’re just going to be even louder about it now that we’re all stuck in one building together.”

The lobby was bright and open, with marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and massive arched windows that framed the glittering coast beyond. The concierge handed out room keys while staff offered lemon water and fresh towels.

Jayden came barreling down the hallway toward you, his cheeks pink and sun-drenched. “You’re finally here!” he shouted, leaping into your arms.

Bob caught a bag before it hit the floor. “Hey, buddy,” he said, ruffling the kid’s hair.

Jayden turned toward him, eyes wide. “Did you bring your helmet?”

Bob blinked. “My… helmet?”

“You said you’re a backseater,” Jayden said, very seriously. “That means you fly, right? I wanna see your helmet!”

You laughed. “He didn’t pack it, J. We left that at home.”

Amelia came skidding after him a second later, mid-chase, her tiny hands clutching a stuffed unicorn. “Grandma says you have to wear fancy clothes at dinner,” she declared. “And Mom says don’t talk about poop.”

Bob glanced at you, eyes wide with panic. “There was a briefing?”

You grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

��

That evening, after unpacking and settling into the sunlit hotel suite you were sharing, you found Bob out on the balcony, leaning on the railing, watching the ocean. The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting golden light across his face, making the soft curl of his hair glow at the tips.

You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his middle, cheek pressed to his back.

He didn’t say anything at first, just rested his hands lightly over yours.

“They like me, right?” he asked after a moment.

You smiled. “You’re asking me that again?”

“I know,” he said, sheepish. “But this feels different. Bigger.”

“It’s just a wedding.”

“It’s not just a wedding,” he said quietly. “It’s your family’s wedding. In Italy. And I’m just… Bob your boyfriend.”

You tugged him back slightly until he turned around to face you. “You are Bob, yes. My Bob. The guy who fixed Jayden’s Lego spaceship last Christmas, who always remembers to bring Amelia her favorite snacks, who held my grandma’s hand when she was talking about Grandpa last spring.”

His throat worked, eyes soft behind his glasses.

“You’re not just invited,” you whispered. “You belong here.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak — just kissed your forehead gently and pulled you into a hug that lingered until the sun disappeared.

You didn’t notice the soft smile on his face or the slight admiration that took over his feature when he looked at you.

You didn’t know that back at home there had been a little velvet box laying in his sock drawer for the past 2 months.

Not yet.

-

It started as a casual suggestion—a swim to cool off in the afternoon sun, something light before everyone had to start getting ready for the rehearsal dinner. The villa’s private pool sat just a few steps down from the main terrace, surrounded by lush cypress trees, terracotta tiles warm under bare feet, and a breeze soft enough to keep the heat from feeling unbearable.

You had barely stepped out in your new bathing suit before Bob’s brain short-circuited.

It wasn’t even scandalous—at least not by Italian standards—but it was fitted, low in the back, and red. A little vintage, a little flirty, paired with big sunglasses and a barely-there cover-up you shrugged off when you reached the water’s edge.

Bob had been mid-conversation with your dad and Leo when he caught sight of you.

You felt his gaze before you saw it—hot, wide-eyed, completely unable to look away.

You only gave him a small smile in return, knowingly innocent, then dove straight into the deep end.

The cool water rushed around you, and when you surfaced, Amelia was already yelling your name from the steps. “Swim with me! Swim with me!”

“Coming!” you laughed, pushing your hair back. You caught a glimpse of Bob sitting on the edge of the lounge chair, still frozen, still staring, until Leo clapped a hand on his shoulder and said something you couldn’t hear. Bob blinked hard, nodded, and finally stood.

He stripped his t-shirt off with the kind of casual slowness that didn’t look intentional but made your stomach flip. His swim trunks sat just a little low on his hips. His hair was already a little messy, his cheeks pink from the sun. You saw your aunt nudge your mom and say something that made them both laugh into their wine glasses.

You weren’t the only one looking.

Bob jumped into the water with Jayden right after that, a big splash and a half-hearted cannonball. You ducked under again to hide the grin stretching across your face.

For a while, it was pure fun—Jayden making waves with a kickboard, Amelia insisting Bob twirl her in the water, you climbing onto a flamingo float and drifting toward the middle. The sun glinted off the surface of the pool, laughter echoing off the stucco walls of the villa.

And then someone appeared beside your float—treading water, arms pushing lazily through the blue. You turned your head just as Bob floated closer, one hand catching the edge of your inflatable as he steadied himself.

“Can you stop looking like that?” he asked under his breath.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to kill me.”

You blinked slowly, feigning innocence. “I’m just floating.”

Bob leaned in just slightly, enough that you caught the heat in his voice. “You’ve been teasing me all week, sweetheart. And now you’re doing it in front of your entire family.”

You shrugged a shoulder. “Can’t help it. You look good.”

His jaw clenched—just a bit—and his grip on the float tightened. “I’m not even gonna touch you right now. Because if I start, I won’t stop.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d stop you.”

Bob exhaled slowly, pushed off the float, and swam backwards just enough to give you space. But his eyes lingered. And so did yours.

Later—when Jayden was back on the patio eating grapes and your mom was asking someone to play Italian love songs from the speaker—Bob pulled you aside under the overhang of the balcony, towel draped over both your shoulders.

“I know we’re here for your cousin’s wedding,” he murmured, pressing a slow, warm kiss just beneath your ear, “but if I get even one more look at you in that swimsuit, I swear to God…”

You turned your face to his. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll take you upstairs and make sure you forget every single person at this villa exists.”

Your breath caught.

He grinned, cocky and sweet and flushed from the sun. “Careful, sweetheart. I might actually do it.”

-

The hotel villa your cousin’s wedding was hosted at looked like it had been plucked from a dream — sun-kissed stucco, cascading ivy, high-arched windows that overlooked miles of Tuscan hills. Terracotta roofs, lemon trees, the scent of lavender and espresso in the air. You and Bob had barely been in Italy a full day, and your skin already glowed warmer, sun-soft and lazy from the flight and the breeze.

Your family had arrived in full force before you — and the welcome dinner was already in full swing on the open-air terrace by the time the two of you made your way down from your suite.

Bob stood beside you, freshly showered and crisp in a pale linen button-down and tailored navy pants that made him look like some sort of resort magazine centerfold. His sunglasses were tucked in his shirt collar, a lazy confidence in the way he walked next to you, hand resting low on your back.

The moment the two of you stepped onto the flagstone patio, a wave of family chatter rolled your way.

���There’s the lovebirds!” your dad called out.

You laughed as your mom practically jogged over, wine glass in hand, and pulled you in for a hug. “You look beautiful,” she said, then pulled back to eye Bob. “And so do you, Bobby. You clean up too well — you’re going to make the rest of the men here feel like trolls.”

Bob blushed immediately, eyes soft behind his glasses. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh, no ma’am. It’s Sandra,” your mom teased. “We’ve been through this.”

He chuckled and nodded, giving her that boyish half-smile that always made your stomach flip. He looked so out of place in the best way — tall and quiet, the kind of guy who watched everything first before jumping in. He always seemed so composed, even when he was nervous. But tonight? There was a glint in his eye, something low and charged and completely focused on you. Maybe it was the dress. Or maybe it was the way you kept brushing your hand against his wrist.

“Y/N!” Amelia, your six-year-old niece, launched into your legs, pink tulle dress flaring as she threw her arms around you. Jayden was right behind her, clearly just here for the appetizers. You crouched to hug them both, and when you stood back up, Bob had already knelt to high-five them and ask about their travel day.

Your grandma called his name from a few tables away. “Robert! Come let me look at you!”

Bob grinned, that polite Southern charm kicking in as he made his way to her. You watched him go — the curve of his shoulders, his broad back framed by clean linen, the gentle way he kissed her cheek and let her squish his face between both hands like he was her favorite grandchild.

“God, I’m so marrying him,” you muttered to Mia, who had slipped in beside you with a fresh cocktail.

“Pretty sure you already live with him,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you said, “but it’s different here. Like. Look at him. Look how good he is with everyone.”

“You say that like he’s not already part of the family.” She sipped. “Even Grandma likes him more than Jason, and he’s been married to me for eight years.”

You snorted. “That’s because Jason still talks through the movie.”

“Hey!” Jason called from across the table. “I heard that!”

Your dad waved you both over to join the group, and Bob returned to your side just as the first course began. You noticed he’d rolled his sleeves up halfway while talking to your cousins, and the veins in his forearms were now driving you to distraction.

And judging by the way he leaned down behind you to say, “You keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna have a problem,” he noticed too.

You tilted your head just slightly, teasing. “Looking at you like what?”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Like you wanna skip dinner and take me upstairs.”

You took a slow sip of wine to hide the smile. “Maybe I do.”

Across the table, your grandma was showing someone pictures of her dogs and completely oblivious. Which made the whole thing that much more dangerous.

You rested your hand on his thigh under the table, innocent at first — then let your thumb brush back and forth. His jaw twitched. And you knew, without even looking, that his ears were going pink.

The entire dinner was like that. A slow, delicious back-and-forth. Your family chatted about wine tastings and rehearsal schedules and who had already cried over the bride’s dress — and meanwhile, you were trying not to combust from the way Bob kept pressing his knee against yours, kept catching your eyes mid-sentence like he wanted to say something but couldn’t in front of all these people.

Later, someone’s phone played music, and Amelia dragged Bob into a dance with her and Jayden. You watched from the sidelines, heart full as he lifted her by the arms and twirled her like a princess.

“Your boyfriend’s a dream,” Mia said beside you. “I hope you’re not planning to let him go.”

“Not a chance,” you said.

And then you caught the way Bob was looking at you — right over Amelia’s head — while you stood there in the golden Italian sunset, dress swaying, wineglass in hand. His eyes dark and wanting and stupidly soft at the same time.

You felt it in your stomach. In your chest. All the way down.

Later, when the stars came out and the dessert trays rolled away, you leaned into him and whispered, “Let’s go upstairs.”

And the look he gave you in return?

God help the zipper on your dress.

-

The moment you closed the door to your suite, it felt like the tension that had been quietly twisting itself between you and Bob all evening finally got permission to unravel.

You stepped out of your shoes, your heels clicking softly against the tile before you dropped them by the door. The sound was almost swallowed by the room’s quiet — just the faintest hum of Italian nightlife through the open balcony, the gentle flutter of gauzy curtains shifting with the breeze.

Bob didn’t say anything at first. Just slipped his shoes off, then undid the top button of his linen shirt like he was trying to cool down. You could see the soft spread of sun still on his skin, the curve of his chest under the fabric, the little glimpse of that thin gold chain he always wore.

“You were quiet at dinner,” you said, watching him as he walked toward the minibar and cracked open a bottle of water.

Bob took a sip before replying. “Was tryin’ not to jump you in front of your entire family.”

You choked on a laugh, and he turned back with a smile that was entirely too smug.

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?”

He crossed the room slowly, hips loose, sleeves still rolled to his elbows. “You’re the one who wore that dress.”

You took a half-step back, but your grin was already betraying you. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I put it on.”

He caught your waist gently, fingers slipping under the thin material at your back. “No, but I’ve been picturing takin’ it off since before the salad course.”

Your skin went hot — molten and bright and unrelenting. Bob wasn’t always like this, not in public. But alone? When he was just yours? He had a confidence that showed up slow and deep, the kind that laced through his voice and tightened in his hands.

“Don’t say stuff like that unless you mean it,” you whispered, suddenly breathless.

“I mean it,” he said simply, brushing his nose against yours. “Been meanin’ it since you got dressed upstairs. Since you turned around and asked me to zip you up.”

You tilted your head. “You stared for a solid minute.”

“I was doin’ my best.”

You stood there like that for a second — caught in the balance of heat and history, the weight of how long you’d been loving each other, the fact that even after all this time, Bob still looked at you like you hung the damn stars.

Then his hand slipped lower, warm against your waist. His voice dropped again. “You really gonna keep lookin’ at me like that?”

You smiled. “Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

“I do want you.”

His eyes darkened, jaw flexing once. “Then come here.”

And when you did — when you finally closed the space between you — his hands came up to cup your face, gentle and rough all at once, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you soft or never let you breathe again.

The kiss started slow, but didn’t stay that way. His mouth found yours again and again, deeper each time, until your knees went a little soft and your hands curled into the collar of his shirt.

You barely registered how you moved across the room. Just that at some point, your back found the bed, and Bob followed. The warmth of his body, the weight of him leaning over you — all of it felt like gravity had finally given up pretending.

He kissed down your neck, down your collarbone, muttering something about how good you looked, how he’d been dying to get you alone.

And then—

“Wait,” you whispered, catching his shirt collar, breathless.

He paused, eyes flicking up. “Too fast?”

You shook your head. “No. Just— I like when you look at me like that.”

Bob blinked slowly, like he was committing your face to memory. “Can’t help it.”

You kissed him again, slower this time. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers brushing the edge of that chain. You loved him in every light, but something about him like this — flushed, golden, and pressed above you — made your stomach flip.

And you knew you’d think about that moment for the rest of your life.

You didn’t sleep for a long time after that.

But when you did, you woke up tangled together under the thick white comforter, the scent of his cologne still on your skin and his arm still wrapped tight around your waist.

-

The morning of the wedding was golden — all sun-drenched windows and the smell of espresso drifting through the villa’s stone halls. You stood on the small balcony of your suite, robe tied loosely, hair clipped up, sipping your cappuccino and watching the courtyard below come to life.

Florists were moving like clockwork, setting up bouquets of peonies and wildflowers around the ceremony space. Long tables were being dressed in white linen and gold cutlery. Everything looked like it had been pulled straight from a Vogue wedding spread. You weren’t surprised — your cousin had taste, money, and a very intense Pinterest board.

Inside, your room was a mess of makeup palettes and steaming dress bags. Your phone buzzed on the bed.

Bob 🕶️:

You up? I miss you already and we’re in the same building. Is that clingy?

You smiled into your cup.

You:

Extremely. I love it.

Bob 🕶️:

Come downstairs. I want to see you before you’re all fancy and surrounded by people.

You texted back a quick “5 mins” and padded over to the closet.

By the time you came down, wearing nothing but your robe and slippers, Bob was already waiting in the villa’s shaded atrium with a double espresso in his hand — black, no sugar, like always. His eyes lit up the second he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, stepping close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You look good like this.”

You raised a brow. “In a robe and fuzzy slides?”

“Exactly like this,” he said, low and sure. “Maybe minus the robe.”

You choked on a laugh. “You’re filthy today.”

He shrugged and sipped his espresso. “You wore that dress last night and expect me to behave?”

Later, when you finally stepped out of the suite again — hair up, silk gown skimming the floor, heels clicking softly across the mosaic tile — Bob was waiting for you by the stairs, and he went still.

“Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. “You look…”

His words faded. His hand found your waist. “That’s not even fair.”

You smoothed your hands down his chest, fixing his boutonnière. “I like you in a suit.”

“I like me out of it.”

You gave him a look.

“What?” he said, all wide-eyed innocence. “I didn’t say whose suit.”

-

The ceremony was beautiful.

Rows of white chairs lined the garden, olive trees swaying gently overhead. Music played softly as your cousin walked down the aisle. You held Bob’s hand the entire time, his thumb brushing slow circles into your palm. The light hit his profile just right — glasses on, jaw sharp, suit tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders.

Someone behind you whispered “That’s the hot American, right?”

Bob didn’t hear it. You definitely did.

The reception was when things got interesting.

It started with champagne.

Then photos.

Then dancing.

You were already tipsy when you tugged Bob onto the dance floor. It was hot, crowded, a little chaotic. He kept a hand on your lower back the whole time, pulling you close during the slower songs, kissing your temple while your cousin’s drunk friends stumbled past.

Then you caught someone looking. A guy. From the groom’s side.

He was staring — not just glancing, but staring — and when Bob noticed, his grip on your waist tightened just slightly.

“You okay?” you asked.

Bob smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Peachy.”

You leaned up. “Don’t be jealous.”

“Not jealous,” he murmured, dipping his head until his mouth brushed your ear. “Just possessive.”

Your skin went electric. “That’s worse.”

“That’s better.”

Later, when you’d slipped off your shoes and were dancing barefoot in the courtyard lights, you turned to find Bob standing off to the side, arms crossed, tie loose, watching you like you hung the moon.

You gave him a look.

He didn’t blink.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mouthed.

He just smiled — slow, sinful.

You beckoned him over with one finger. “Come dance with me.”

“Not out here,” he said softly, slipping his hand into yours. “I want you upstairs.”

-

The villa suite was quiet.

Downstairs, the reception buzzed on — music, laughter, the soft clinking of glasses — but up here, it was just the sound of your heels clicking on marble and the gentle hush of your breaths as Bob closed the door behind him.

He locked it without thinking.

You turned, silk brushing against your bare legs, skin still flushed from dancing and champagne. “They’re going to wonder where we went.”

Bob didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the door and looked at you.

Really looked.

“I don’t care,” he said finally, voice low. “Not right now.”

You smiled. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

“You’ve been wearing that all night.”

You laughed, tugging at the thin strap of your dress. “You picked it out.”

“Which was my first mistake.”

You stepped closer. “You love this dress.”

“I love you in this dress,” he corrected. “Which is the problem. Because every single time you turned or bent or laughed—every time someone looked at you—”

His voice dropped into something lower, rougher.

“I wanted to drag you away.”

You reached for him, fingertips sliding along his collarbone where his shirt hung open. “You could’ve.”

Bob leaned down slowly. “You’re really gonna make me beg?”

The way he said it — soft, desperate, like he already knew the answer — lit something hot and electric under your skin.

You grinned, teasing. “You’d beg?”

“For you?” His hands slipped to your hips, gentle but firm. “I’d get on my damn knees.”

You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t frantic. Not yet. It was slow, hot, claiming — the kind of kiss that curled your toes and made your chest ache with how much it meant. His hands found your back, skimming the zipper, pulling you even closer like he couldn’t stand a single inch between you.

When the dress slipped to the floor with a whisper, he froze for a second.

Red lace.

Of course.

“Christ,” he muttered. “That’s what you wore under it?”

You just smiled.

His hands were on your thighs now, his mouth back on yours, deeper, needier. You let him press you gently toward the edge of the bed until the backs of your knees touched the frame.

You sat, eyes locked on him.

Bob slowly undid the last buttons of his shirt, then shrugged it off.

Your gaze dropped — the hard cut of his abs, the faint line of freckles dusting his skin.

“You know,” you said, breathless, “I forgot how insanely hot you are.”

He raised a brow. “You forgot?”

“I was distracted by the suit.”

He stepped forward, knees brushing yours. “You’re not anymore?”

You bit your lip. “Not even a little.”

Bob kissed you again, and it was all heat from there — rough kisses, soft groans, hands exploring skin that still buzzed from the night.

When he finally pulled back, just slightly breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“You’re my girl,” he whispered. “You know that?”

“I know,” you said softly. “Always.”

He kissed you again — and this time, it was slower, deeper, something that didn’t feel like lust so much as love.

—

The next morning, sunlight filtered in soft and gold.

You were tangled in warm sheets, Bob’s arm around your waist, his thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

Then:

“You think anyone noticed we snuck out?” you asked, voice still husky with sleep.

Bob smiled into your shoulder. “I think they noticed when we didn’t come back.”

You laughed.

He kissed your neck, slow and sweet.

And you thought — yeah.

This was the best wedding you’d ever been to.

-

The villa terrace was glowing in soft morning light.

White linen tablecloths fluttered gently in the breeze, the Tuscan hills rolling out in the distance like something out of a movie. Birds chirped, espresso steamed, and your family — most of whom were wearing sunglasses and sipping coffee like their lives depended on it — was slowly coming back to life after the wedding of the year.

You arrived just a little late.

Okay. A lot late.

Bob’s hand was on the small of your back as you walked across the cobblestones, sunglasses on, hair still a little tousled. You weren’t being obvious, but… you weren’t exactly hiding either.

Your niece Amelia was the first to spot you. “You missed pancakes!”

You gasped dramatically. “Say it isn’t so.”

“We saved you some,” Mia added, grinning from behind her coffee cup. Her hair was up in a messy bun, sunglasses hiding her eyes, but she still looked suspiciously… knowing.

Jason didn’t say a word. Just raised one eyebrow.

You smiled. Sat next to Bob. Avoided eye contact with everyone.

And then your mother, bless her, who had just taken a sip of orange juice, said — to the entire table:

“Well, good morning, lovebirds. You two look awfully… refreshed.”

You choked on your croissant. Bob froze.

“We just went to bed early,” you said quickly. “We were tired. From the dancing.”

Your grandma — grandma — hummed. “Mmm. Sure you were.”

Bob turned bright red.

Across the table, Leo snorted into his coffee. Jayden was too busy poking his scrambled eggs into a face shape to notice any of the tension. But your cousins?

Dead silent.

Eyes narrowed.

Mia sipped her espresso, all calm mischief. “We just weren’t sure where you’d vanished to, that’s all. You left your jackets.”

You blinked. “It got warm.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It’s Italy,” Bob mumbled.

Jason laughed. “It’s January.”

“I was hot,” you said.

That was… not better.

Bob choked.

Jayden finally looked up. “You guys are weird.”

“Thank you, baby,” you said quickly, patting his head like a lifeline.

Then your mother — again, bless her — turned casually to Bob, appraising him with a smile like she wasn’t about to ruin both your lives.

“I have to say, Robert, when you took your shirt off yesterday… I thought we might need to shield Grandma’s eyes.”

Bob looked like he wanted to melt into his mimosa.

Your grandma just grinned. “Oh, please. I wasn’t looking at his abs. I was admiring his biceps.”

“I was looking at both,” your aunt muttered.

Bob made a noise like a dying animal. You squeezed his thigh under the table, biting back laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so flattered,” he said, red from the neck up.

Your mom sipped her coffee. “It’s just nice to see a boy who takes care of himself. And who clearly takes care of my daughter.”

You blinked. Choked on your orange juice this time.

Your dad finally joined the table, late as ever, sunglasses on and a paper tucked under his arm. He glanced around at everyone mid-chaos, raised a brow, and said:

“What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” you and Bob said in unison.

Too quickly.

Way too quickly.

-

Later, when everyone was off getting ready for family photos by the vineyards, you and Bob slipped back inside the villa. The hallway was quiet, sunlight streaming through tall windows, voices echoing distantly from upstairs.

Bob caught your hand and tugged you into the nook by the staircase.

“Hi,” he said, softly, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You smiled. “Hi.”

He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead.

“You think they know?”

“Babe,” you whispered, “they made a powerpoint out of your abs at brunch.”

Bob groaned. “I’m never living this down.”

“Nope,” you said, grinning. “But I love you anyway.”

He looked at you for a long beat, that soft smile in his eyes again.

“I love you too.”

[satoruhour]

geto reaction to you wearing only his shirt

OVERSIZED NEVER LOOKED THIS GOOD

a/n: lore. a lot of lore. i always cannot help but write backstories. ure gonna have to bear w/ me SORRY !!!! based off of this drawing that i wanted to write sum about but then i thought why not combine it w/ this prompt. i went a little insane on this mb / tagging @papersirens @crysugu @getousex @hyomagiri @slttygeto, who else r geto fuckers

wc: 2.9k

warnings: roommate!geto, soft dom!geto, mutual pining, reader steals one of geto’s shirts, geto is also a little bit of a pervert, mentions of panty sniffing but geto doesn’t do it, m! and f! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, oral / cunnilingus, slight nipple play, spitting (on ur pussy), finger sucking, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, n*sfw under the cut

geto was a sweet roommate.

he’s always topping up on supplies when you needed things, pushing away your hand whenever you wanted to pay. where he got all his money, you weren’t even sure. geto cleaned the house, he cooked dinner, hell, it was like you two were married at this point. even gojo had asked if he would get together with someone who wasn’t you (and of course, in classic gojo way, he was skilled in asking it in a roundabout way), geto’s firm and abrupt “no” was enough to make gojo grin from ear to ear.

even he wasn’t sure when it all started — you were always friends with the three of them, gojo and shoko and himself, participating in their antics and getting in trouble in high school. there was hardly any dull times between the four, looking at you through the lens of a friend. but when those lens started to turn blurry and black, seeing you in a new light of tighter outfits and a sweet smile that looked like it contained something hidden, suguru genuinely hoped it would all go away.

it’s not like he thought he was unattractive, but you wouldn’t go for a guy like him, someone hidden behind gojo’s bright personality or shoko’s satirical, cool demeanour. he was oh so oblivious, however, turning an unintentional blind eye when you’re hanging with gojo for the day but only because you wanted to know what birthday present would be best for him, or having a movie night with shoko only to disregard cher horowitz on the television just to ask if geto would like your new nails and hair.

the two of you were so dense when either of you were hanging with them, going on for so long even after taking a gap year for shoko’s overseas med school attachment. they assumed the two of you would’ve done something then, but it was stagnant, dry, that gojo almost wants to take matters into his own hands; so when you’re begging geto if you could room with him, since he lived near the university you were all attending together,

“suguru, pleasee— i wouldn’t wanna travel for hours on end just for like a two hour lecture.”

shoko smiles, gojo laughs, slinging an arm around you, “help your poor friend out, suguru.”

gojo torments him to no end. he doesn’t regret it one bit when your arms are thrown around his neck in a bear hug in thanks, feeling himself get hard just from the way your breasts press against his chest.

“yeah,” it’s said breathily, softly, “it’s no problem.”

suguru thanked god you hadn’t wanted to move in that very same day, cause all that could be heard throughout the small apartment was him pumping his cock to a polaroid picture of you, calling out your name softly as he came all over the photo of your bright smile. he didn’t need the fan that night, the guilt was enough to burn him alive. and after, he acted like nothing happened, except the many, many times he’d think of taking you on every surface of the house, suffering silently for an entire year as the two of you fell into routine day by day.

today might change, however, when geto hangs the last piece of clothing, something that was hardly a difficult task, but it proved to be the hardest thing to date when he’d spot the bras and underwear lying at the bottom of the basket each time he prepared to do laundry. geto wills himself to wash, hang it, and get out but he cannot tear his eyes away from the unmistakable dark spot at the centre of your panties before it’s thrown in, taunting him to just pick it up to breathe in your scent, to do something to defile it, to let his desires take over. but he wasn’t gojo, no, he’d wait all the time in the world for the right time, even if it was at the expense of a throbbing cock and flushed cheeks.

“(y/n), ’m going to the store, you want…” his voice trails off when the drawer before him shows only one clean shirt left, sighing when his favourite shirt has gone missing, again. he knows it simply by the missing tag on the top, cut off terribly by your hands on a drunk movie night. he was thankful you missed his skin by an inch, but he cherishes that shirt and night dearly. geto simply brushes off the mishap, grabbing a sweatshirt instead.

there’s a rap on your door that quells all movement from your side, fabric clutched tightly between your fingers that it hurt just a little.

“(y/n)? love? you okay?”

“y— yeah, i’m fine sugu. what did you say earlier?”

“i’m going to the store. it’s grocery day so i’ll be there for a while — need to stock the fridge up for the week. you want anything?”

geto wishes so desperately to see your face now, asking if you could go and holding a reusable bag by your side, but strangely you don’t even make a move to open the door.

“no it’s fine, and okay! i’m— uh, busy with something,” you look towards the door and back to the article of clothing in your hand, “so i’m sorry i can’t help today.”

geto’s disappointment is brief, but he recovers as soon as he hears your apology, in that sweet, honeyed voice you love to use on him, as oblivious as you were of its effect.

“’s fine, see you later!” there’s a weird and panicky bout of feeling geto gets, but he’s satisfied with the hum you sound through the door. and once the door clicks behind him, you’re unlocking your own door softly, ensuring your surroundings are safe.

geto wasn’t the only one. between your fingers were his favourite shirt, straight from the dirty laundry of last week’s load; it’s been a reoccuring thing these few weeks after realising you maybe want geto to fuck you silly. you’re sneaking around undetected with it, holding it to your nose, breathing in his natural musk. it was the one shirt you liked on him — always put on when with you — it’s like your secret little joke from that night. and it was so sinful, the way your breath hitches from just his scent, the way your panties pool with arousal.

what would it be like to actually wear it?

the thought crosses your mind and leaves just as fast, heart pounding in your chest when you realise you’ve never tried that before.

peeling off your top, you slip it on carefully, swallowing from how much larger he is than you. the sleeves extend past your elbows by a little, so much cloth on you that you’re a little lightheaded by the possibility of being geto’s, belonging to geto.

“oh god…” you sigh, feeling your pussy throb at the thought, and your hands are shy when they creep in between your thighs. they rub at your clit gently, imagining geto was doing the work instead. he’d be so gentle with his hands, cupping your thighs, spreading your legs.

you’re whining when your fingers find your way into your cunt, nose filled with the scent of geto and head filling with the repeated runnings of his tongue on you, his cock in you, his whole person devoted to you. it’s cute how you don’t know that’s already the case. your fingers are lacklustre as you pump them in and out while your other hand is busy with your clit and you look like a goddess: spread out on your bed in nothing but your roommate’s shirt, a soft, slow melody playing from your phone.

you’re so entranced by the sensations you don’t hear the front door opening and the rustle of the plastic bags (he forgot the reusable bags) containing your groceries, distracted by the phone call he’s having with gojo who teases him through the line. his best friend says stupid crap like she’s definitely into you, too. what her panties smell like? have you guys fucked yet?

the last two was enough for geto to whisper a soft satoru!, clearly displeased with the way he was asking about you, about you both that he only rolls his eyes, muttering an annoyed “i’m hanging up, you pervert. i’ll talk to you later—”

setting down the bags, he frowns again upon seeing the closed door, although not as closed you thought you left it.

“suguru— f-fuck, right there—” geto chokes on his saliva at the moans coming from behind the door, careful not to step on the wrong floorboard below him as he lines up with your room door — a terrifying feat rewarded by your needy whines begging for him. he can hear the wetness of his roommate’s cunt, and he wants to take a peak so bad; so he does just that and stiflies a groan at the sight.

your hair is splayed out all around you, pussy facing the entrance of the door just perfectly and his shirt draped over your body. it sends him into a frenzy, head reeling at seeing his shirt so oversized and so perfect over your body that he swears he cums a little at the display. your cute face scrunched up in pure pleasure, your toes curling around the bedsheets he changed for you.

oh, shit.

and geto panics when your head shoots up, eyes meeting his and your hands halting.

fuck, did i say that out loud?

you’re speechless although your reflexes cause you to close your legs immediately, scooting up the bed like you’ve just got cornered by a predator. it was similar — geto with his big, brooding self, moving slowly into the room with both hands up and a dazed look behind his eyes, you, exposed in the eyes of a hungry man who’s craved you for so many months. you like it.

“you’re— you’re wearing my shirt,” geto gulps, causing you to let out a nervous laugh.

“yea— yeah…”

geto thinks that maybe this is it. this was the moment he’s been holding back on for so long, and so he crosses that boundary into your space, stopping right at the footboard of the bed. you follow suit, going onto your hands and knees and crawling to him that he tilts his head back. everything you do drives him crazy.

suguru’s words is heavy, “you think you’re cute, hm? stealing my shirt and then moaning out my name and fingering your pussy like that…”

your breath shakes, ascending to your knees so you’d reach his height, but not quite. he tugs you closer to him.

“yeah.” it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, “been wanting you for a long time.”

your roommate hums, lips hovering over yours just by an inch. you’d probably pass out if not for your racing heart and pulsating core.

“yeah?”

you’re finished with words, resorting only to a shy nod before geto crashes his lips onto yours, wrapping the other arm around you as yours go around his neck. it’s messy, filled with drool, devouring you on the spot for teasing him for so long, mouths moving in sync with each other. there’s a soft moan that escapes your mouth when you feel him manhandle you with ease, picking you off the bed to set you down on your back gently.

“c’mon, let’s see the mess you made,” you mewl at the words but your legs are stubborn, still in disbelief at the way suguru treats you, but you let him pry your legs apart after some gentle praises. you stifle a smile when you see how geto exhales at how beautiful your pussy is, leaking from your hole while your puffy clit is begging to be touched.

“oh, she’s so fuckin’ pretty…” your roommate mumbles, intoxicated on your scent as he bends down, giving your cunt one last loving look before he looks to you with a small grin. it’s clear he cannot wait, but he pauses for the words he wants to hear.

“wan’ you to eat me out, sugu,” you’re mumbling and suguru thinks it’s so cute, only responding by giving you a peck on your inner thigh, a soft yeah? before he goes down on you.

geto’s tongue on you is slow and cautious, drawing languid circles around your clit as he plays with your thighs, moaning softly into your core.

“s’damn sweet,” you can feel the stretch of a smile before he resumes, drawing you in slowly with each lick, each suck. geto doesn’t let your arousal go to waste, using a finger to scoop up your juices before he rubs the area around your hole and then the first push into your pussy makes you let out a loud, wanton moan.

“oh— your fingers, sugu, they’re—” they’re so much thicker and longer, everything that you couldn’t feel before now feels too much and yet your cunt gives him his answer by clenching around his longer finger.

“better than yours?” he asks with a lopsided smile.

you huff in indignance — not your fault you had shorter fingers, “yeah.”

“i’ll make full use of ’em, baby,” geto gasps softly when he pushes his finger right to the hilt, obsessed with the way your hand closes around his wrist. “too much?”

you shake your head, “n-no, just— feels too good.”

your roommate laughs softly, “princess is just too sensitive.”

he’s tempted to chuckle again when he sees how the pet names affect you, but soon he’s adding a second finger and pushes in, moving at a slow speed. and then when he adds his mouth into the mix, you’re begging for him to hurry; his eyes flutter close, getting lost in everything that you dish out.

geto’s pace is routine like his life, but it’s not any less pleasurable as he curls his fingers upwards, stretching you out and hitting your spot repeatedly. he continually flicks his tongue and sucks and slurps, tasting your essence once and needing a second, third, fourth, umpteenth taste, bringing out the most delicious moans to fall from your lips. it’s like hearing aphrodite sing, and yet you cross her by miles both in beauty and voice. surely, he shouldn’t mention that out loud, but eros can’t possibly help the arrow puncturing his heart, and looking at his psyche now, he thinks you look absolutely flawless.

“f-feel so good, mmh— so deep, suguru—!” his eyes snap open to look at you with hooded lids, sending you a cheeky wink before he starts to suck on your bundle of nerves, keeping his mouth latched around it as his fingers speed up. the noises of your cunt sucking him in paired with your whines just sound so good, and the scent of his shirt is dizzying, pulling it higher and higher till it pools around your chest. you watch as geto pulls away for a second, gathering saliva in his throat before he spits on your pussy, and the action is so lewd your jaw drops and your hips start to hump against him. 

“ya like that? filthy girl,” geto smiles, rubbing his thumb into your clit and there’s that distinctive build-up in your stomach, coiling and burning until lays his tongue flat onto your cunt, pressing it deep along with the fingers that curl up in your pussy.

“su—” you don’t even have time to tell him, cumming all over his fingers and soaking the sheets, flustered at the in-awe look geto has on his face at how the shirt had ridden up, at how your hands cup your tits and play with your nipples, at how your cunt gushes so sweetly for him. he continues to pump his fingers to let you ride out your orgasm, relishing in the whine you let out when he removes his fingers.

“patience, sweetheart,” geto moves up to reach you, fingers waiting inches away from your lips. you’re taking his fingers into your mouth, keeping eye contact as you wrap your tongue around them and sucking your cum off of him, swearing lowly when you grab his wrist and shove them deeper. “but then again, we’ve been dancing around each other for too long, now.”

you smile at his allusion to the many times that the what-ifs could’ve come true, and yet now you’re tangled up like this in his shirt.

once geto’s underwear comes off, you’re gaping at the cock that he pumps, clearly looking intimidating enough that geto has a hand to your knee and kisses it gently. “we’ll make it fit, alright?”

you nod a little timidly, taking his hand off and twining your fingers, “yeah, i trust you to take care of me.” you make a quick move to remove his shirt but he stops you, saying something embarrassing about wanting to see how cute and small you look in his shirt. you’re scoffing and pushing at him later, you’re just too tall.

he takes care of you perfectly fine — when geto fully sheathes himself in you, he can only focus on your gummy walls that wrap around him fully, his eyes are rolling to the back of his head and you’re grasping at his hands that grab your hips so hard. your roommate fucks you so well, your body limp and your pussy begging to milk him dry that it spills out so much — geto groans into your neck with reddened cheeks at that later.

you’re receiving a noise warning the very next day, alongside a QR code that takes you to a link for soundproof foam, and all you can do is laugh at each other. like routine, geto is already gathering the ingredients for an apology cake, beside him right in that little kitchen in another shirt of his that starts to smell more and more like you—

as his roommate and maybe now, something more.

part two ♡

[kdh-tally]

Heyooo! I just wanted to say thank you so much for doing my Miromabby headcanon request. I absolutely loved it! 🥹💖

Sooo I have another idea I’d love to share. I’m not sure if anyone’s ever thought of this before, but… what if there were sasaengs but they’re demons, who are dangerously obsessed with the Huntrix? Like, full-on stalking and even attempting to kidnap them because of their twisted fan infatuation. It starts to genuinely scare or annoy the girls.

How would the Saja boys react to this? What would they do if they witnessed a Huntrix being targeted or kidnapped right in front of them?

Huntr/x Struggling with Demon Sasaengs

Prompt : A few demons seemed to have grown too fond of Huntr/x

Author's Note : I feel like i've been writing so much angsty stuff lmao but I love it ;P I enjoyed writing this one though and have more ideas for a possible part 2!! And you are so welcome for the Miromabby request <333 I love them so much.

The Fan Isn’t Human

It started with flowers.

Zoey thought they were from a fan who worked at the florist near their company, but the same exact bouquet, red lilies wrapped in black silk, showed up five days in a row. Then at night. Then directly at the door of their penthouse.

She didn’t say anything at first. Told herself it was just a persistent fan with no sense of boundaries. But then one of her old training photos, one she had never posted, was pinned between the petals.

There was no return address. No obvious form of identification. Just a disturbing aura around each gift.

Rumi tore hers in half the second she saw it and dumped it in the trash. She didn’t let sasaengs get to her, not anymore. They had dealt with this before. She made Bobby tighten security around both the penthouse and company dorms.

Mira had laughed at hers, brushing it off. She wasn’t the type to get scared, and she hated seeing the other girls so shaken. The girls were trained and powerful hunters. Who would dare come against them?

That changed the night a package appeared inside their living room. It was wrapped in black thread. Filled with photos taken without their knowledge. Images of them sleeping, training, eating. Some from inside the dorm.

Their penthouse was supposed to be locked down.

They started locking the windows.

–

Baby was the first to piece things together.

He saw Rumi getting quieter. Zoey’s excitement felt more like forced energy. Mira had started glancing behind her even when no one was there.

At first, he thought it was just comeback pressure. But that changed the night he came back from a snack run and saw it in the elevator. A sigil etched faintly into the steel panel.

It was traced in so lightly that he almost didn’t notice it. It was old demon magic, and carved into the center were all three of their names.

He took a photo and showed it to the boys the next morning.

“They’re demons,” Baby said. “Pureblood and obsessive. They’re feeding off the girl’s energy.”

Mystery leaned over his shoulder. “Do the girls know?”

“They’ll think it’s sasaeng fans,” Jinu muttered, pacing. “They’d never expect actual demons.”

Romance zoomed in on the image, jaw tight. “They’re targeting all three. And they’re getting bolder.”

–

It happened two days later.

Mira had wrapped up her solo recording early. She told staff she’d walk back alone—it was only ten minutes. She wore her hood up, Takedown blasting through her headphones, eyes trained on the ground.

The first one stepped out of an alley halfway home. He wore a Huntrix hoodie and smiled in a way she didn’t like. He had a familiar face. Maybe someone from a fan call.

She hesitantly raised her hand in greeting.

Then two more appeared behind her.

Then the chanting started.

Her gut dropped. She moved fast, dropping her bag and summoning her guandao in one motion. The magic of the Honmoon burst around her in a burst, but it didn’t push them back.

Why weren’t they weakening?

“You belong to us,” one of them said. “We’ve been watching. Waiting. You shine so beautifully.”

“Try me,” Mira sneered.

They lunged.

She fought them off fast and defensive. They didn’t try to kill her. They kept reaching for her, grabbing. One of them nearly clipped her arm. Her blade sliced clean through another’s sleeve, but he didn’t seem hurt. 

Her breathing hitched. Her footing slipped.

And then heat slammed into the alley.

Abby landed hard beside her, flames curling around his fists. The air shifted, warped by magic. His voice was sharp.

“You seriously thought you could touch her and walk away?”

The demons hissed, retreating into the shadows. But before they vanished completely, one of them locked eyes with Abby.

“We’ll try again.”

–

They relocated to Bobby’s beach house. No one outside the two groups knew they were there. The girls sat at the kitchen table in silence. Mira’s arm was bandaged. Zoey hadn’t spoken much all night. Rumi kept glancing at the door, her knee bouncing anxiously as though waiting for someone to burst in.

“You’re being watched,” Jinu said.

“We’re fine,” Mira answered, but her voice wavered.

Jinu didn’t move. “You don’t have to lie.”

Baby leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “There was a sigil in your penthouse. An enchanted one. It’s ancient. They’re not just stalking you. They’re trying to bond themselves to you.”

“Fans who turned into demons?” Rumi asked.

“Worse,” Abby said. “They’re demons who became fans.”

Zoey curled tighter on the counter. “I thought we were done with demons.”

“We’ve dealt with enemies before,” Mira said. “Gwi-ma, cursed letters, blackmail—”

“But this?” Rumi asked. “This feels different.”

“The Honmoon doesn’t even affect them. It’s like they’re resistant to our weapons” Mira mumbled, remembering how none of the demons dispersed even after she attacked them.

“They’re not trying to hurt you,” Romance said, entering the room. “They’re trying to own you. All of you.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Rumi asked.

Jinu answered before anyone else could.

“You don’t do anything,” he said. “We do.”

The waves outside were loud enough to fill the silence.

Everyone had filtered out of the kitchen, Mystery the last, quiet and unreadable. Only two of the girls remained. Zoey hadn’t moved from the counter. Rumi was sitting on the floor, her back against the cabinets, arms resting on her knees.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Zoey exhaled slowly, her head tipped against the cupboard behind her. “I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” she said.

Rumi looked up.

“The one in the flowers,” Zoey explained. “The photo of me from trainee days. That was taken through the dorm window. My blinds were half shut. I remember that night.”

She shook her head. “I was lying on the floor, doing stretches and watching a c-drama. I wasn’t doing anything special. But they were there. Watching.”

Zoey pulled her sleeves over her hands. “I know sasaengs are always intense, but this is different. They’re not after our time or attention. They don’t want photos. They want us. Like, actually take us.”

Rumi’s fingers tapped against her leg. She let the girl ramble. They both needed this.

Zoey went on, more quietly now. “I don’t know what’s worse. That they’re demons, or that they act exactly like the humans we’ve been trying to ignore.”

There was another pause. Rumi finally leaned her head back against the cabinet.

“I always thought I could handle this stuff,” she said. “Sasaengs. Obsession. Jealousy. Whatever came with the job. I’ve always thought I could handle myself.”

Zoey nodded. She knew that about Rumi. They all did.

“But this?” Rumi’s voice lowered. “They got into our home. They left that box on our couch. We were just sitting there hours before. Laughing. Eating.”

Zoey didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

“I hate that I felt scared,” Rumi said. “I hate that they’re going to keep trying, even with the boys watching.” She wasn’t angry, just tired.

Zoey looked at her.

“They won’t get us though,” Rumi said, finally meeting her eyes. “No matter how many flowers they send or how many spells they chant. They don’t get to have us.”

Zoey nodded, slowly. “Okay.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while. They just stayed in the kitchen, listening to the sound of waves crashing against the shore.

[smutmind]

SEX NOTE pt.1 : Twice Sana

"Write a name. Make your wish."

Sana X Original Male Character

Jae never thought a joke could change his life.

It started in a dusty old bookstore — the kind with creaky floors and the smell of forgotten paper. Between yellowing novels and old cookbooks, he found it: a slim, black leather notebook with no title.

Inside, one line written by a careful hand:

"Write a name. Make your wish."

Jae laughed at first. Another Death Note copycat, he thought. But something about the weight of the book in his hands made him buy it anyway.

Back home, he lay on his bed, the city lights bleeding through the curtains. His heart thudded quietly in his chest as he clicked his pen open.

One name came to mind — instantly, naturally:

"Sana Minatozaki."

The ink dried into the page. The room stayed silent.

He fell asleep with a smile, expecting nothing.

A knock dragged him from sleep.

Still half-dreaming, Jae shuffled to the door, scratching the back of his neck.

And there she stood.

Sana.

In a fitted white tank top that hugged her slender frame just right, a tiny silver Prada logo catching the light. Denim jeans sat low on her hips, a black sweater lazily tied around her waist. Sunglasses rested atop her soft brown waves, framing her small, perfect face. Her skin glowed naturally, no heavy makeup, just fresh and real.

She looked... breathtaking. Casual and stunning all at once — the kind of beauty you could get lost staring at.

"Hi!" she said brightly, a little out of breath like she’d rushed to get there. "Is this Jae's place?"

He gripped the door tighter, struggling to find words. "Y-yeah... it's me."

Her lips curled into a relieved smile, eyes crinkling adorably. "Good. I’m supposed to be here."

Before he could process it, she stepped inside — the scent of soft perfume and sunlight clinging to her — and he froze, trying not to fall apart right there.

She tossed a quick look around his cramped apartment and then turned to him, playful.

"You’re just gonna stand there?"

Jae jolted back to life, closing the door hurriedly. "Sorry, I... uh... it’s just... you’re Sana."

She laughed — light, carefree — and plopped down on the edge of his bed, denim brushing the fabric. Her sunglasses slid down a little on her nose, and she pushed them back up lazily.

"Yeah," she said with a wink. "I know."

There was something electric in the air — a pull he couldn't fight.

"Come here," she said, patting the spot next to her.

His heart practically leapt out of his chest. He obeyed.

Close up, she was even more unreal. Her skin was smooth and golden under the room’s pale light. The white tank top clung to her modest curves, and he caught a teasing glimpse of her flat stomach whenever she shifted.

"You’re nervous," Sana teased, her voice dipping low.

Jae tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak.

"Let’s fix that," she whispered.

Before he could blink, she straddled him — small, warm, fitting against him like she was made to. His hands instinctively found her waist, feeling the soft denim and the heat of her skin underneath.

Her body pressed flush against his, and she kissed him — slow at first, like tasting something forbidden. Jae gasped softly into her mouth, and she smiled against his lips.

"You feel so tense," she murmured, grinding her hips lightly against him.

He groaned, helpless under her. Every move of hers set his skin on fire.

Her fingers found the hem of his shorts, slipping beneath with a confidence that made his breath hitch. She freed him, her small hand wrapping around him, squeezing just enough to make him twitch against her.

"You’re big," she whispered, a flicker of genuine surprise lighting her eyes.

He let out a ragged breath, hands tightening on her hips.

Without warning, she slid down his body, her hair brushing over his stomach, light and ticklish. She knelt between his legs, looking up at him with wicked innocence.

And then — warm, wet, perfect — she took him into her mouth.

Jae’s head snapped back against the pillow, a hoarse cry ripping from his throat. Sana worked him slowly at first, her tongue teasing him mercilessly, her mouth wrapping him in heat. Every flick of her tongue, every soft hum around him sent shudders through his body.

He couldn’t help but tangle his fingers in her hair, anchoring himself as she pulled more and more pleasure from him.

"God, Sana..." he gasped, hips bucking slightly. "You’re... too good..."

She moaned softly, the vibration driving him crazy.

His stomach tightened. The world blurred around the edges.

"I’m close," he warned, voice breaking.

Sana only deepened her rhythm, refusing to let him go.

With a raw, shuddering groan, he came undone — hips jerking helplessly, heart hammering. She swallowed everything, lips still wrapped around him until he trembled with oversensitivity.

When he finally opened his eyes, she was crawling back up, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb, smiling.

"Feeling better now?" she teased.

Jae laughed weakly, pulling her into a grateful hug, feeling her tiny frame melt against him.

When he woke later, the bed was empty.

No warmth. No scent. No Sana.

Only the black notebook sitting quietly on his desk — and underneath his name, a new line:

"The owner shall not remember. The names shall disappear."

Jae sat there, the weight of it sinking into his bones.

She was gone. Like a dream slipping through his fingers.

But even if she forgot, he never would.

to be continued...

[1982grapejuiceblues]

The Mistake II

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Part 1 here

The Wrong Pitch Part 2

Summary:

They weren’t supposed to see each other again. But when they do, everything they tried to walk away from is still there — unspoken, unresolved. This is what happens after the silence. When one person reaches out. When the other hesitates. And when two people try to move on from a moment that never really ended.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on part 1! I've wanted to post my little story for so long and I'm so glad that I'm finally doing it! I hope you guys love this one as much as the last. Be on the look out for more to come from these two! <3

Warnings:

• Emotional vulnerability and self-doubt

• Delayed communication / left-on-read anxiety

• Fear of rejection / avoidance of intimacy

• Mentions of overthinking, perfectionism, and emotional burnout

• A lot of yearning

• A lot of silence

• A lot of almosts

Word Count: 7.3k

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12:06 p.m. — Milk & Honey Café

The door jingled.

Not in the casual, background way it usually did — not for either of them.

Y/N stepped in just as Harry stepped back, like the weight of her presence knocked the air out of him slightly. She wasn’t rushing this time. She wasn’t apologizing. And she wasn’t late.

He looked exactly the same.

Black jumper. Curls a bit messier than yesterday. Notebook in hand. Like he’d walked straight out of the memory.

She blinked. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed. His voice was lower than she remembered, like he hadn’t spoken yet today and she was the first word.

They stood in the entryway, just… looking at each other. Two people blinking at something that shouldn’t be happening, but is.

Then, without planning it, without even talking about it, they both turned and drifted toward the same booth.

Same seats. Same angle of sunlight. Same quiet hum of music in the background.

Like no time had passed. And somehow, like too much had.

12:08 p.m.

He sat first this time.

She set her bag down. Smoothed her sleeve. Glanced at the coffee cup already on the table and raised a brow.

“Back for round two?”

Harry shrugged, smiling gently. “Didn’t feel finished.”

She blinked. That one sentence landed harder than it should’ve.

“Did you…” she started, then hesitated. “Come here hoping I’d be here?”

He met her gaze evenly. “I came here hoping I’d want to stay, even if you weren’t.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “That’s a very emotionally intelligent answer.”

“I’m a professional,” he said, mouth twitching into a smirk.

She laughed — short and genuine — and suddenly the air between them softened.

12:14 p.m.

“I thought about you,” she said, then immediately winced. “Sorry, that was blunt.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said, steady. “I thought about you too.”

There was something about the way he said it. Not eager. Not shy. Just honest. Like he wasn’t scared of the truth if she wasn’t.

Y/N fiddled with the edge of a napkin. “It felt weird, yesterday. How easy it was to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It really did.”

They fell into a comfortable silence — the kind that stretched, not sagged. They weren’t rushing this. Maybe because it had already rushed them once, and now they wanted to take their time.

“I didn’t ask what you were doing here,” she said eventually.

“You didn’t,” he agreed.

She tilted her head. “So?”

“I write here sometimes,” he said. “Well — I procrastinate here. Scribble a sentence. Drink a flat white. Lie to myself about how productive I’m being.”

“You had me convinced.”

“That’s because you assumed I was a tortured genius.”

She smiled. “I assumed you were Brody.”

“And now you’ve met the real Brody.”

She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

He grinned. “Still think I looked like him?”

“You’re much less pretentious.”

Harry raised a brow. “You said I looked broody.”

“Broody is fine. Pretentious is a red flag.”

“Duly noted.”

12:24 p.m.

The conversation drifted after that. They ordered coffee. She got a croissant she didn’t really want. He asked her about literary agents (“Is it actually like You’ve Got Mail, or have I romanticized your entire industry?”), and she asked him about speechwriting.

They talked about books. About weird client requests. About the time he had to ghostwrite a breakup text for a guy who wanted to end things “with grace but also dominance.”

They laughed. A lot.

But underneath all of it, something deeper simmered. A current neither of them acknowledged yet. The sense that they’d already skipped a few steps — and weren’t entirely sure what came next.

Y/N glanced at him as he stirred sugar into his second cup. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making things feel like they’re supposed to happen.”

Harry looked at her for a long beat.

Then said, quietly, “You’re good at staying even when you want to bolt.”

She stared at him.

And for a second, something unspoken hovered in the air between them.

And neither of them moved to break it.

12:42 p.m.

Y/N tucked one leg beneath her in the booth and watched him trace the rim of his cup with his thumb.

She wasn’t sure when they’d stopped pretending this was casual.

Maybe it was somewhere between his second coffee and her third laugh. Maybe it was the way his eyes never drifted to his phone, or the way he kept asking her questions like he was cataloguing her for safekeeping.

Or maybe it was that moment — five minutes ago — when they both stopped talking for a beat too long, and didn’t fill the silence.

And still, it hadn’t felt awkward.

Just… full.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He looked up. “You’ve been asking me things all morning.”

“This one’s more personal.”

He didn’t move. “Go ahead.”

Y/N hesitated, then leaned back a little, fingers still wrapped around her mug.

“Why didn’t you stay yesterday?”

Harry blinked.

She didn’t say it accusingly. It wasn’t a complaint. Just a quiet inquiry — like she was asking about a weather pattern. Something she couldn’t control but maybe understood.

He exhaled. “I don’t know.”

Y/N waited.

“I think…” he said slowly, “I told myself it was nothing. And that it was easier to leave nothing than risk it becoming something.”

Her eyes didn’t move from his.

“But then I walked away,” he added, “and it didn’t feel like nothing anymore.”

Y/N's lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something. But she didn’t.

Just nodded once.

“I thought about coming back,” she said. “But I didn’t want to be wrong.”

“You weren’t.”

She looked at him.

He meant it.

He didn’t say it to be nice. Or clever. Or to score points.

He just meant it.

12:54 p.m.

Harry stared at the half-empty cup between them, then said, “I almost left before you sat down.”

“What?”

“That first morning. I was going to pack up and head out. I didn’t even want to be there. But I stayed. Just… couldn’t get myself to move.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. “Why?”

He shrugged a little. “Couldn’t tell you. But if I had left, we never would’ve had this conversation.”

She gave a half-smile. “Sliding doors.”

“Sliding coffee shops.”

She laughed. He smiled at the sound.

Then, softer: “I keep thinking about how random it was. How weirdly easy it was to talk to you. Like we skipped the part where people pretend they’re not afraid of being seen.”

He said it so plainly. Like it wasn’t terrifying.

Y/N swallowed. “That’s a hard thing to come back from.”

Harry tilted his head. “Coming back’s the good part, isn’t it?”

1:08 p.m.

They sat with it — the kind of openness that usually came hours, days, weeks into knowing someone. But here it was. Laid out in front of them. All their almosts and maybes and unsaids, crowding the small space between their coffee cups.

“I’m scared,” she said suddenly, softly.

Harry didn’t flinch. “Of what?”

“That this feels like a beginning and I don’t know the rules.”

He considered that.

Then, with the smallest smile: “What if we don’t need any?”

She let out a shaky breath. “That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because it means we’re making them up as we go.”

Harry leaned forward slightly. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Their eyes locked.

Something clicked — not loudly, but firmly. Like a door closing gently behind them.

And neither of them moved.

1:17 p.m.

They didn’t leave.

They could have. The booth was getting uncomfortable. Their mugs were long empty. The lunch crowd was starting to creep in, soft chatter and clinking cutlery replacing the calm from earlier.

But they stayed.

Because the table between them wasn’t a table anymore.

It was a line.

Thin. Invisible. Teetering.

And neither of them wanted to be the first to cross it — but neither wanted to leave it untouched.

Y/N traced the edge of her saucer with a fingertip, eyes flicking up to find Harry already looking at her.

Again.

She smirked. “Do you always stare like that?”

He didn’t even pretend to look away. “Only when I’m trying to remember something.”

“Remember what?”

“What this felt like.”

Her throat went tight. Too tight. She blinked and looked down, heart thudding a little too hard.

“Don’t do that,” she murmured.

“Do what?”

“Say things that sound like lines when you probably mean them.”

Harry tilted his head. “Would it be better if I didn’t mean them?”

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

Held.

Neither smiled.

1:24 p.m.

He didn’t mean to reach for her hand.

Not fully. Not directly.

He just shifted, and the back of his hand brushed hers — so lightly it could’ve been an accident, if they’d both decided to lie.

They didn’t.

Y/N stilled.

Harry froze.

But neither pulled away.

Instead, she slowly turned her hand over, and their fingers didn’t interlace, but hovered — barely touching. Close enough to feel the tremble. Far enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

It did.

This is dangerous,

she thought.

This is inevitable,

he thought.

1:32 p.m.

“Tell me something real,” she said.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“I haven’t written anything for myself in over a year.”

She blinked. “You’re a writer.”

“I’m a ghostwriter. For weddings. Toasts. Breakups. Anniversaries. Apologies. Everyone else’s feelings.”

“And yours?”

“Buried.”

Her lips parted, breath caught between a response and a reaction.

“I tried,” he said. “I started something. But it never sounded like me.”

“What did it sound like?”

“Noise.”

Y/N exhaled. “You should try again.”

Harry looked at her. Really looked.

“You think I’d sound like myself now?”

She nodded. “You do when you’re with me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was reverent.

And somewhere inside it, they both understood that something had shifted.

1:46 p.m.

“I should get back soon,” she said, finally.

“Me too,” he replied, even though he had nowhere urgent to be.

But neither of them moved.

“I don’t want to lose this,” she said.

“You won’t.”

“That’s a risky promise.”

“I’m not making promises,” Harry said. “I’m asking for something.”

“What?”

“More.”

She swallowed. “More what?”

“Time. Space. Pages. Whatever this is.”

He held her gaze, unflinching.

“Okay,” she whispered. “More.”

And that was it.

The beginning that came after the almost.

The moment that wasn’t a mistake.

2:03 p.m. — Outside Milk & Honey

The door swung shut behind them with a familiar chime, but this time, it felt different.

Not final.

Not like last time.

This wasn’t an exit — it was an intermission.

They walked side by side without speaking at first. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence between them had changed. It had weight now. Warmth. Like it was doing its own kind of talking.

The city moved around them, ordinary and indifferent — buses rolling past, people on their phones, a teenager speed-walking while eating a wrap. But none of it touched the air between them.

Harry’s hands stayed in his pockets.

Y/N’s stayed tucked into her coat sleeves.

But their shoulders… stayed close.

Close enough to notice.

Close enough to feel the presence of something blooming.

“Are you going to write today?” she asked eventually.

He glanced over. “I already did.”

Her brows lifted. “What’d you write?”

“A sentence,” he said.

“That’s it?”

He nodded. “But it’s mine.”

She smiled. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s said to me all year.”

“Tragic,” he deadpanned.

“Deeply.”

They both laughed. But it faded slower this time. Left something tender in its place.

2:12 p.m. — The Corner Where They’ll Split

They stopped without saying it.

Y/N turned slightly, toeing the edge of the pavement, the next step already pulling her toward a different direction. She didn’t take it yet.

“This is where I pretend I wasn’t hoping you’d ask for my number yesterday,” she said.

Harry smiled, slow and sure. “This is where I pretend I haven’t already written your name in my notes five times.”

She bit her lip to stop herself from grinning.

He pulled out his phone. “Do you want mine first, or—”

She gently took it from his hand. Typed her number. Then added:

Y/N (the mistake you’re glad happened)

He blinked.

“You don’t have to save it like that,” she said quickly. “That was a joke.”

“I’m going to,” he said.

There was a pause.

The kind that asked if this was it. The kind that teetered on the edge of more.

“I’m really glad I sat at the wrong table,” she said softly.

“I’m really glad you stayed,” he said.

“I almost didn’t.”

“I almost left before you got there.”

They both smiled. Quiet, a little stunned by the timing.

She took a step back.

And so did he.

But neither turned around right away.

“See you soon?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her like she was a sentence he wanted to memorize.

Then said, “You will.”

Thursday — 5:02 p.m. — Y/N’s Office

The day after was normal.

Annoyingly normal.

Emails. Coffee. More emails. Brody had replied to her notes with a twelve-line rant about “editorial overreach” and a screenshot of a Tweet he liked that said “plot is a prison.” She hadn’t even opened it fully. She just sighed, closed the tab, and reached for her phone.

No new messages.

Not from Harry, anyway.

And that — that — was what threw her.

She didn’t want to be the kind of person who expected immediate follow-up. Who got spun out over someone not texting within 24 hours of an emotionally seismic coffee. But there was something… missing.

Or rather, not missing.

Present.

Lingering.

Every time her phone buzzed, her heart skipped before her logic caught up.

It was never him.

And that stung in a way she couldn’t name.

They’d shared something. They had.

So why did she feel like she was the only one still holding it?

5:18 p.m. — Harry's Flat

Harry hadn’t written back because he didn’t know what to say.

He’d saved her number. Immediately. He’d read her contact name — “the mistake you’re glad happened” — at least twelve times.

And he’d started a text. Four, actually.

But none of them said what he wanted.

Hey, want to meet up again?

Too casual.

Still thinking about yesterday.

Too intense.

Do you want to come with me to this gallery thing Saturday?

Too forward.

I don’t know what this is, but I want to keep finding out.

Too much.

So he didn’t send anything.

Which, ironically, said way more than any of those messages would have.

6:01 p.m.

She told herself not to care.

She’d had intense connections before. She’d felt things quickly, built them up too fast. Maybe that’s all this was.

A spark. A moment. An almost.

But it didn’t feel like almost when it was happening. It felt like something had cracked open — and now, the silence was echoing through the space it left behind.

Her phone buzzed.

She grabbed it.

Not him.

Of course.

She dropped it onto her desk with more force than necessary and muttered, “Coward.”

Then she picked it back up, opened her messages, and stared at the empty thread.

Just send something.

Make it simple. Make it light.

Don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking you’re waiting.

She typed:

Hey. Hope your ghostwriting’s going better than Brody’s editing.

Paused.

Deleted it.

Typed:

Coffee again soon?

Paused.

Deleted it.

Typed:

I keep replaying that moment where we almost held hands.

Paused.

Deleted it.

Threw her phone across the desk and buried her face in her hands.

6:29 p.m.

Harry opened her contact one more time and just stared at her name.

He hadn’t meant for it to get this loud in his head.

He thought giving it a day would help. Give them space. Give him time to figure out what he actually wanted to say.

But all it had done was make the silence louder.

He typed:

You’re still in my head.

Paused.

Backspaced.

Typed:

I can’t stop thinking about what you said. About skipping the pretending.

Paused.

Backspaced.

Typed:

Are you free this weekend?

He stared at it.

Didn’t send it.

Closed his phone.

Ran both hands down his face like that might shake it off.

It didn’t.

Friday — 8:07 a.m. — Y/N’s Flat

The second her alarm went off, she grabbed her phone.

Still nothing.

She stared at the screen in disbelief. Not anger. Not quite sadness.

Just… hollow confusion.

She wasn’t even sure what she wanted from him. A check-in? A joke? Something small and dumb that reminded her it wasn’t in her head?

Because that’s what she was afraid of most — that it was.

That all the energy in that booth, all the sparks and almost-touches and “more,” had only felt real on her side.

She opened Notes again.

Typed:

You asked for more.

Then you disappeared.

Deleted it.

Typed:

I don’t like silence when it comes from someone who made me feel seen.

Deleted it.

Typed:

I shouldn’t be the first to reach out.

Stared at that one.

Didn’t delete it.

But didn’t send it, either.

9:12 a.m. — Harry’s Flat

He’d stared at her number for ten minutes.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she looked at him right before she walked away — like she wanted to stay but didn’t know if she was allowed to.

He was afraid if he reached out now, it’d feel forced. Like too much time had passed.

But not reaching out felt worse.

So he opened the thread. Typed:

Morning. Hope your week wasn’t a complete disaster.

Paused.

Then added:

I’ve rewritten this message six times, so I’m just going to send it.

I keep thinking about that moment at the café.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

He stared at the message for five full seconds.

Then hit send.

Immediately regretted it.

Put his phone face down and left the room.

9:14 a.m. - Y/N's Office

She saw the message come in before the notification lit up her phone.

She didn’t open it.

Her breath hitched just from seeing his name.

She waited a minute — because she was stubborn, and scared, and still not sure what she wanted.

Then she unlocked her phone.

And read it.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

She stared at it for a long time.

Then did something she didn’t expect.

She closed the app.

And didn’t reply.

Not yet.

Because right now, she didn’t want to fall into something that might vanish again.

She needed him to mean it.

And she needed a minute.

Friday — 9:48 a.m.

Ten minutes.

Then fifteen.

Then thirty.

No reply.

Harry checked his phone more times than he was proud of. Each time, his chest pulled tighter.

Maybe she was busy.

Maybe she needed time.

Maybe she was playing it cool. Or maybe she didn’t feel it the same way.

He told himself it was fine. Told himself not everyone replies immediately. It’s not personal.

But it felt personal.

It felt like a conversation left hanging in mid-air.

And he didn’t know how to breathe through that.

10:31 a.m.

She reread the message six times.

Do you want to finish it?

God, she did.

But also?

She didn’t know what “it” was.

And she wasn’t ready to find out that maybe he didn’t either.

Something in her felt wobbly. Raw.

She wasn’t in the mood for almosts anymore.

And what if he wasn’t serious?

What if this was just another soft-spoken moment from a man who knew how to say the right thing but didn’t know how to follow through?

She’d been there before.

And she didn’t want to do it again.

Not with him.

Not when it had felt real.

So she waited.

Let the message sit there.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t delete it.

Just… froze.

1:14 p.m.

He was pacing now.

Not a lot. Not fast. Just that quiet, agitated kind of pacing that looks like moving but feels like unraveling.

He’d sent one message.

That was it.

It wasn’t a declaration. Wasn’t a plea. Just a truth. A door half-open.

And she hadn’t walked through it.

It was fine.

It was fine.

But he’d opened something soft, and the silence was starting to bruise.

1:37 p.m.

She opened the message again.

Still no response from her.

Her own.

She typed:

I want to.

Paused.

Typed:

I’m not sure yet.

Paused.

Typed:

I don’t want to be something you forget when it’s inconvenient.

Stared.

Deleted it.

Locked her phone.

Rubbed her forehead with both hands.

Whispered to herself, “Get it together.”

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

3:12 p.m.

Harry gave up checking his phone.

Not because he didn’t care — because he cared too much.

Because every time the screen lit up and it wasn’t her, it made his chest tighten.

And every time it didn’t light up at all, it felt worse.

He set it face down on the table, walked to the window, leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t even disappointed.

He was… quiet. Inside.

Because something had shifted.

He’d put his heart in a sentence and hit send. And now it was floating out there, alone.

And that hurt more than he wanted to admit.

3:49 p.m.

She felt like a coward.

Not because she hadn’t responded — but because she didn’t know how to.

She wanted to reply. Desperately. But she wanted to be sure. Of him. Of herself. Of whatever this was trying to be.

And the more she sat with it, the more unsure she became.

It would be easier if he hadn’t said anything at all.

But he had.

And she’d asked for a man who could say what he meant.

And now she was… freezing.

She hated that.

She hated the tightness in her chest and the way the message just sat there like it was waiting for her to become braver.

She didn’t feel brave.

She just felt tired.

4:07 p.m. - Outside Harry's Flat

He went for a walk.

Not because he wanted to — but because the flat felt like it was closing in on him.

He didn’t go anywhere in particular. Just wandered. Hands deep in his pockets. Head low. Letting the afternoon stretch out ahead of him like a question with no ending.

I shouldn’t have sent it.

I should’ve waited.

I should’ve known better.

It looped in his head, quiet and cruel.

He walked past Milk & Honey.

Didn’t go in.

Didn’t even slow down.

He didn’t want to see the table empty again.

He didn’t want to hope.

4:33 p.m.

She finally opened the message again.

Reread it slowly.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

She closed her eyes.

Imagined what it would feel like to say yes.

To let it happen.

To go back to that booth and sit with him again and not be afraid.

She smiled.

Soft. Small. Sad.

Then whispered, “God, I wish I could.”

But she didn’t type it.

Didn’t send anything.

Not yet.

6:08 p.m. — Y/N’s Flat

She got home and didn’t even take off her coat.

Just dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the middle of the living room like she didn’t recognize her own space.

Everything looked the same.

But everything felt different.

She walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it again.

Sat on the couch.

Checked her phone.

Still him. Still there.

Still unread. Still waiting.

The silence now felt like a choice — hers.

And it was louder than anything she could’ve said.

6:39 p.m. — Harry’s Flat

He didn’t turn on the lights.

The flat was dark now, grey-blue with early dusk, but he sat on the floor beside his sofa, back pressed against it, phone in his lap.

He’d stopped opening the thread.

He already knew what it said.

He also knew what it didn’t.

No “yes.”

No “no.”

Just a space where a heartbeat used to be.

He rested his head back and whispered to no one, “I thought she felt it too.”

And the part that hurt was — she had.

7:21 p.m.

She lay on her side, staring at the wall. The phone buzzed once — a group chat. She ignored it.

She should say something.

Anything.

But now it had been almost twelve hours.

And every second that passed made it harder.

You waited too long.

He’s probably writing you off already.

Maybe you made it all up.

She flipped over and grabbed the pillow beside her.

Buried her face in it and exhaled hard.

“God, what am I doing?”

She didn’t have an answer.

Only the ache.

8:03 p.m.

He wrote a sentence in his notebook.

Then crossed it out.

Wrote another.

Crossed that one out too.

He wasn’t trying to write anymore. He was just trying to feel normal.

But nothing felt right when the thread sat open and silent. When the thing he almost believed in didn’t echo back.

He thought maybe he’d go out. Distract himself.

He didn’t.

He sat there.

And missed her.

Quietly.

Fully.

Without permission.

9:17 p.m. — Y/N’s Notes App

I think I messed it up.

I think I waited too long.

I think I wanted him to prove something.

And now I don’t know what there is left to say.

9:32 p.m.

She locked her phone.

Turned off the light.

Lay in bed and whispered:

“Please still mean it.”

But she didn’t send anything.

Not yet.

Saturday — 8:14 a.m. — Y/N’s Flat

She woke up with guilt in her throat.

Thick and bitter. Not the kind that made you cry — the kind that made you still.

It had been nearly 24 hours.

She should’ve answered.

She wanted to. But wanting wasn’t enough when you were afraid.

And now?

Now she wasn’t even sure if the door was still open.

She sat up. Reached for her phone.

It was still there.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

Her chest squeezed.

She tapped into the message.

She stared at it.

And then — slowly — she started typing.

I haven’t been fair.

I got scared.

I thought if I said yes, it would be real.

And if it was real, you could leave.

And if you left, I’d feel stupid for believing in something that started with a mistake.

She paused.

Then added:

But it didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt like the first thing that made sense in a long time.

Her thumb hovered.

She shook her head.

Closed the app.

Opened it again.

Reread the message.

And this time?

She hit send.

8:17 a.m. — Harry’s Flat

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

He didn’t look at it right away — didn’t want to get his hopes up again. But when he finally reached for it, groggy and resigned, the screen said one thing:

Y/N.

His heart stopped.

He opened it.

Read it once.

Then again.

Then sat up, the blanket falling off his shoulders as the words actually landed.

But it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the first thing that made sense in a long time.

He didn’t smile.

He exhaled.

Hard.

Like something had been sitting on his chest for a day and finally lifted.

Then he typed:

Thank you for saying that.

I was scared too.

Still am.

But I’d rather be scared with you than wonder if we missed it.

He sent it before he could overthink it.

And for the first time in 24 hours, the ache eased.

Just a little.

Saturday — 10:02 a.m. — Milk & Honey

It wasn’t planned.

No set time. No “see you then.”

Just a message.

Then another.

Then:

Are you there now? Her.

Just sat down. Him.

Okay. On my way. Her.

And now they were sitting across from each other again — same booth. Same light.

But nothing felt the same.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because everything had changed.

They both looked at each other like they were seeing the other for the first time — not because they hadn’t before, but because now they knew what it meant.

The silence was comfortable.

Then Harry smiled, soft and a little tired. “Hi.”

Y/N let out a breath that sounded like relief. “Hi.”

It didn’t matter that they’d already said it.

It felt different now.

Like an apology and a beginning at the same time.

10:09 a.m.

She wrapped her hands around her cup, not drinking. Just holding.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I am, though.”

He nodded. Let the words settle.

“I got in my own head,” she added. “Told myself too many things before you had the chance to say anything at all.”

“I was afraid to follow up,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to come on too strong.”

“We’re a mess,” she said, almost smiling.

“A very self-aware mess,” he said.

She laughed then. A real one. It cracked the last of the tension.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad I did.”

They both sat with that — the weight of what didn’t happen and the miracle of what still could.

10:24 a.m.

“You said something in your message,” Harry said after a while, “about it feeling real.”

Y/N nodded.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

He looked down for a second. Then back at her.

“Do you think we’re writing the same story?”

She froze. In the best way.

Because she knew exactly what he meant.

They hadn’t even kissed.

Hadn’t crossed any physical line.

But this — this — felt like a page they were both holding from opposite ends.

She answered without flinching. “I hope so.”

He smiled. This time it reached his eyes.

“Then let’s not skip ahead.”

“No fast-forwards,” she agreed.

“Just… next lines.”

They didn’t rush the coffee.

Didn’t talk about the future.

Didn’t fill every silence.

But when she reached for the sugar, her fingers brushed his.

And this time?

They didn’t pull away.

10:37 a.m.

Y/N didn’t mean to stay.

She told herself she was just stopping by. Just answering the message. Just giving closure to something that had hung between them too long.

But then he looked at her like she’d come back from war.

Like she was something brave and beautiful and unrepeatable.

And she knew.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

They hadn’t touched — not really. Not beyond the brush of fingers and the echo of a maybe.

But she could feel it.

Underneath the quiet.

Beneath the coffee and soft laughter.

A current.

They were building something.

They were staying.

11:12 a.m.

Harry was the first to shift.

He pushed his mug aside, leaned forward, arms resting on the table, gaze soft but searching.

“Can I ask something?”

Y/N smiled, small. “You ask a lot of things.”

He tilted his head. “You keep answering.”

She gave a half shrug. “Fair.”

He looked down for a second, then back up.

“What would’ve happened if you sat at the right table that day?”

She blinked. “What?”

He kept his voice low. Steady. Like he wasn’t trying to shake her, just… hold something up to the light.

“If you hadn’t sat across from me,” he said, “what would your day have looked like?”

Y/N thought about it.

Really thought.

She pictured Brody’s frown, the rushed notes, the cold espresso, the tension headache. She pictured the way she would’ve walked home — alone, unaffected, unchanged.

Then she said, “I probably wouldn’t remember it.”

Harry nodded.

Then he said, “I think about that a lot.”

11:24 a.m.

They talked more. About small things.

Weird facts.

Favorite cities.

Songs they listened to on trains.

The last time they cried (her: at a commercial involving a dog and a deployed soldier, him: rereading the final page of A Little Life, again).

It wasn’t a first date.

It wasn’t a catch-up.

It wasn’t even anything definable.

It was… staying.

Choosing not to leave.

12:03 p.m. — Soft Shift

Y/N said, “I don’t usually do this.”

Harry said, “Me either.”

She said, “I mean it.”

He said, “I do too.”

She stared at her cup.

Then said, barely above a whisper, “I feel safe with you.”

Harry’s heart clenched.

He didn’t make it dramatic. Didn’t say anything flowery.

He just nodded and said:

“I’ve been waiting for that to matter to someone.”

12:44 p.m.

They ordered lunch without deciding to.

She moved her bag to the floor like she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. He peeled off his jumper like he was settling in. They shared a pastry. Argued about whether almond croissants were superior (they were, he insisted; she refused to concede).

And somewhere between that and a second refill, the tension shifted.

They weren’t circling anymore.

They were sitting inside it.

Comfortable. Unafraid.

1:26 p.m.

Harry said something funny — not even that funny — and Y/N laughed.

Not just politely.

Not softly.

Really, really laughed.

Head back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut kind of laugh.

And when she looked up, he was already staring.

Not in a weird way.

In a ruined way.

Like, God help me, I’m already gone.

And she knew.

Because the feeling hit her back just as hard.

1:49 p.m.

The café was louder now.

No longer quiet and cozy. The lunch crowd had arrived — the kind of people who linger in scarves and say things like “I’ll just have the oat cortado” like it’s a spell.

But Harry and Y/N were still in the corner. Still in their booth. Still orbiting each other like the world hadn’t turned since they sat down.

Y/N pulled the sleeve of her jumper over her wrist. “It’s getting noisy.”

“Want to leave?” Harry asked, like it wasn’t the most loaded question of the day.

She looked up.

He held her gaze.

It wasn’t a throwaway offer.

Not just “let’s leave the café.”

It was:

Let’s not let this end here.

Let’s keep going.

Let’s see where this leads.

She swallowed. “Where would we go?”

He smiled — small, almost sheepish. “My place is close.”

She blinked.

Not because she didn’t trust him.

Not because she thought he meant something he didn’t.

But because of how gentle it was.

He wasn’t asking her to cross a line.

He was asking if she wanted to keep the conversation going without the noise. Without the crowd.

Just them.

Still them.

“Okay,” she said softly.

And that was it.

2:12 p.m. — Harry’s Flat

It was clean.

Not neat — lived in. Books stacked two deep on shelves and record sleeves leaning against the wall. A candle flickered faintly near the windowsill. Soft jazz hummed from a speaker in the corner.

It was warm in a way that felt like him.

She stepped inside, quiet at first.

Harry closed the door behind her, slow, careful. Like he didn’t want the sound to startle whatever they’d built between them.

“Shoes off?” she asked.

“If you want.”

She did.

She walked into his space like she’d been invited into something private — not just his flat, but his mind. His rhythm.

Harry watched her. Let her move without narrating.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was… unspoken understanding.

2:18 p.m.

They sat on the couch, side by side, still talking, still orbiting.

She pointed to a photo on his shelf — two kids holding a plastic trophy, one clearly him. “Is that a bowl cut?”

“Tragically, yes.”

“Please tell me there’s a matching yearbook photo.”

“There is,” he groaned. “And I will never show you.”

“You say that now.”

Harry grinned.

Their knees touched lightly.

Neither pulled away.

2:41 p.m.

They weren’t talking as much now.

But the silence wasn’t heavy. Just… warm. Easy. The kind that happened between two people who didn’t need to prove they belonged in the same room.

Y/N curled her legs beneath her. Harry stretched his arm along the back of the couch — not touching her, but close.

So close.

Her head tilted slightly toward his shoulder.

Not resting.

Just… near.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

3:03 p.m.

They were still on the couch.

The conversation had drifted. Now it was music. The soft kind — jazz, low and layered — the sort that fills a space without taking it over.

Y/N’s head had slowly, almost imperceptibly, leaned closer to Harry’s shoulder.

She hadn’t meant to.

She just… settled there.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too hard.

Didn’t dare speak.

Because this — this exact second — was the most delicate thing he’d ever held.

And he wasn’t even touching her.

She could feel the heat of his arm beside hers.

Could feel the tension in the air.

Not anxious. Not unsure.

Just… alive.

Her hand rested lightly against her leg, fingers grazing the hem of her jeans.

His hand was just inches away.

If she moved even slightly, they’d touch.

She didn’t.

But she didn’t pull away either.

Harry turned his head slowly. Looked at her.

Y/N felt the gaze before she met it.

When she did — God.

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t smiling.

Wasn’t trying to charm her.

Just looking at her like she was the kind of sentence he didn’t want to rush through.

She felt it in her spine.

She turned slightly toward him.

Just a few degrees.

Their faces… closer now.

Not close enough to kiss.

But close enough to consider it.

His voice, when it came, was low. Careful.

“Y/N.”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

He hesitated.

Her eyes were wide. Her lips slightly parted. The moment hanging between them like a held breath.

Then he said, quietly:

“I’m not going to do anything unless you want me to.”

She didn’t move for a second.

Then:

“I know.”

Her voice was steady.

Small. But sure.

And still… neither of them moved.

3:19 p.m.

The moment passed.

Not with regret.

With reverence.

They pulled back just enough to breathe again, but stayed close. Still curled on opposite ends of the couch, knees almost touching, tension replaced with something even quieter.

Something like trust.

Y/N picked up a small, leather-bound notebook from the edge of the coffee table. “This yours?”

Harry blinked. “Yeah. Old one.”

She ran her fingers along the edges. “Can I—?”

He didn’t answer right away.

That book hadn’t been opened in months. Maybe longer. It wasn’t the kind of thing he usually shared — not with clients, not with friends, not with people who might ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

But he nodded.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

She opened to a random page. Read silently.

He watched her — every flick of her eyes, every small inhale, every tilt of her head.

Then she said, voice soft, “This one’s about me.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

She looked up.

He held her gaze.

“You wrote this the first day,” she said.

He nodded.

“I hadn’t even left yet.”

“I know.”

Her lips parted. “You were already writing about me.”

“I couldn’t not.”

There was a silence after that. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

She closed the book slowly and held it in her lap.

“I haven’t written anything in years,” she admitted.

Harry tilted his head. “You used to?”

“Poetry. Short stuff. Before I started working with other people’s stories all the time. Eventually I just… forgot how to listen to myself.”

“That’s not true,” he said, without hesitation.

She blinked. “You don’t even know what I used to sound like.”

“I know what you sound like now.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She didn’t have a response for that.

So she did the only thing that felt natural.

She reached out — not for his hand, not for his face — but for the notebook.

Opened to a blank page.

And handed it to him.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Always,” he said.

She looked down at her hands. Picked at the seam of her sleeve. Didn’t say anything for a beat.

Then:

“I’m used to being the person who listens. Not the one who talks.

Most people just… fill the silence and move on.

I think I forgot what it feels like to actually say something and have someone wait.

And today—

I don’t know.

It felt like there was space for me to be a person instead of a function.

And I didn’t realize how much I missed that until it happened.”

She exhaled through her nose.

Didn’t look up right away.

Harry didn’t rush to fill the space. He let it exist.

Then, gently:

“You’re allowed to take up space, Y/N.

Not just here. Everywhere.”

And she believed him.

Because he said it like he wasn’t trying to reassure her —

He said it like it was just a fact.

5:48 p.m.

They hadn’t moved much.

The day had slowed into honey — warm and viscous, stretching without asking for anything in return.

No big moments.

No kiss.

No grand declarations.

Just stillness. Shared space.

A kind of quiet neither of them had been able to find anywhere else.

Eventually, Y/N looked at the clock.

Her smile wilted slightly. “I should go.”

Harry nodded, like he’d already prepared for that truth. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t move.

Neither did she.

They stayed on the couch another few minutes — the kind of minutes that say: this mattered. This wasn’t nothing.

6:02 p.m. — The Walk Back

They walked together.

Not touching.

Just next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, their pace slow enough to mean something. The air was cooler now, the late-afternoon kind that feels like it could turn into evening if you blink too slowly.

“Thank you for today,” Y/N said.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” she said, glancing up at him. “You made space. For everything.”

Harry looked over.

“You filled it,” he said.

She exhaled — not like she was relieved. Like she was feeling something too big to name.

6:19 p.m. — Outside Her Building

They stopped at the edge of her steps.

The quiet wrapped around them like a held breath.

She turned to him, hands in her pockets. “I’ll text you.”

“You don’t have to wait this time,” he said.

She smiled. “I won’t.”

He nodded, looked down at the pavement, then back up.

“I know this is early. And fragile. And maybe too soon to say anything definitive.”

Y/N tilted her head.

Harry continued, slowly. “But I want to see what this turns into. I want to show up for it. For you. Even if we go slow.”

She stepped closer — not much. Just enough.

“You already are,” she said.

He didn’t ask to come up.

She didn’t ask him to stay.

But the pause before goodbye held more weight than a hundred promises.

When she opened her door, she looked back.

He was still there.

And when she stepped inside, she left the porch light on.

Not because it was dark.

But because she wanted him to find his way back.

Part 3

[marauder-misprint]

Friends

Series Masterlist

Sirius Black x Fem!Slytherin!reader

1.4k words

cw: fluff

When Regulus enters the common room, you emerge from your dorm, books and other study materials in hand. Now that you had your nap, you were ready to get all the homework you had been putting off done. Regulus debates telling you about Sirius now. But as he watches you spread out across a table with a determined look on your face, he decides against it. Instead, he stands at your side and leans over the table to see which subjects you’re working on.

“Divination?” he asks.

You nod. “Professor Traumine is checking our dream journals this week and I haven’t had any I actually remember… Care to help?”

“Help?” he asks hesitantly, not really sure what you’re asking of him.

“Making stuff up. What seems like something I’d dream about and then we figure out what it means using the book.” You give him a pleading look. “Please, I’m horrible at making the dreams up. I’ll figure out what they mean on my own.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Regulus pulls up a chair and reaches for the journal you have open.

“Just seeing what you’ve written before. Maybe you can have a repeat dream or something,” he explains.

Between the two of you and the occasional passing friend, you finish the dream portion of the homework fairly quickly. You laugh as you interpret the fake dreams.

“Apparently, there are several family deaths in my future. That’s what, an excuse to miss school or something?”

“Anything about relationships?” Regulus asks, testing the water. 

You give him a sideways glance. “Relationships?”

“Particularly with my brother?” 

“Regulus, I don’t want to talk about him,” you groan. 

He leans forward. “I think you should.”

“Why? What do you need to know?”

“The same question as always. What’s going on between you two?” Instead of sounding accusatory as he had in the past, Regulus sounds arrogant, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it.

You shrug. “Some kind of friendship, I guess?”

Regulus doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. Loudly and uncontrollably. You stare at him with wide eyes. You can feel the eyes of other Slytherins on the two of you. You had gone from peacefully working on homework and chatting with those who stopped by your table. Now, he was making a scene.

“What the fuck, Reggie?” you hiss.

“Some kind of friendship?” he repeats back to you in between laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No?” 

“Love, darling, dearest friend of mine,” Regulus starts to say, ever so slightly calming himself. “Sirius came looking for you. Pacing the dungeons, hoping to run into you. Friends?”

“Right. Friends,” you say naturally, as if you were simply confirming that there was a giant octopus in the Black Lake.

Your mind, however, starts to spin. Sirius was looking for you? After you called him attractive again, with many synonyms, to his face, in the purest tone of genuinity, without any sense of tease. After telling him he was a good time. After saying that you maybe should write to him… You curse yourself for having said so much.

“Friends,” you echo yourself despite Regulus not saying anything.

He cocks an eyebrow. “So you said.” Then he smiles wickedly. “Or are you trying to convince yourself that’s all it is?”

“Regulus,” you warn, your voice dropping low. 

“I wasn’t so sure about it before, but I think I’ve played matchmaker,” he says with a smile.

“If anyone has the right to claim matchmaker, it’s Dorcas. Or… or Lupin and Potter. Certainly not you!”

“Aha! So there is a match!”

Your face grows hot. That wasn’t how you meant for it to come out. There wasn’t a match. It was just you realizing that Sirius wasn’t too bad and you liked being around him and he was fun and attractive and he smelled nice and there was something about the way he always had cigarettes with him that he was willing to share and the way he carried himself and… Shit. 

You gather your things in a panic.

“I will, uh, erm, see you tomorrow? I… I gotta go…”

You return to your dorm and hide within the curtains of your bed. Regulus was right: someone had played matchmaker.

---

You avoid Regulus in the morning. If anyone mentions either Black or Gryffindor, you change the topic or leave the conversation. You’re more skittish than usual. You’re more flighty than usual. You can’t seem to focus on anything besides your current crisis. 

Yes, you’re calling it a crisis. 

You manage to survive the day and you’re feeling a little better. You think you’ll be able to hide in your dorm again until you completely sort out your thoughts. 

But then his voice rings down the hallway. Sirius calls out your name. 

“Hey!” he says, running up to you.

“Hi?” you reply cautiously. You didn’t know if you were ready for a conversation with him.

“I-uh, how have you been?”

“I’ve been good. Yeah… good. You?”

The air between you feels thick with things unspoken. You certainly aren’t going to acknowledge it though. You’d rather this be a quick conversation so you can keep your wits about you.

“Going a bit crazy, if I’m honest,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows and tilt your head. “Is that so? What for?”

You start to walk and Sirius immediately falls in step with you. You aren’t sure where you are going, but it feels more natural to be moving than loitering outside a classroom. Depending on where you went, it would also be easier to shake Sirius if you felt like you were actually going to lose your cool. 

“Been meaning to, wanting to talk to you.”

“Well,” you chuckle, “here I am.”

“Right. Here you are. And here I am,” he says, laughing at himself. 

You wait for him to continue.

“I… I… I’m just going to come out and say it. Yes. That’s what I’m going to do.” He swallows thickly. “I like spending time with you. A lot. And I’d like to go on another date with you. To Hogsmeade, to a quidditch game, to the kitchens, hell, I don’t care. I didn’t think I’d need to talk to Regulus again and I really want to, if you want to.”

You stop walking. You clutch your things tightly to your chest. Sirius took a few steps beyond you before realizing that you weren’t next to him anymore. He turns back to you with worry etched into his face. 

“You don’t want to, do you?” he mumbles, looking down at the ground. “I thought after what you said last weekend…”

You take a shaky breath. “No… Shit, no. I do. I mean, I’m not against it.”

SIrius looks up, his eyes sparkling with emotion. He moves closer to you as his worry slowly melts away. 

“You do?”

You nod, not trusting your words. He gently puts a hand on the side of your shoulder.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to faint?”

You take another breath. “Because… I meant what I said. After the party… And I was so hellbent on not caring for you, but, ah, here we are?” You let out a nervous chuckle and tighten your grip on your books.

“Here we are,” he repeats, his lips curling into a smile. 

“But you want to take me to a quidditch game, you’ll be waiting until next term…”

He barks a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not waiting that long. So, sneak to Hogsmeade? Picnic? Visit the kitchens? I’ll do whatever you want to. I just… I want to spend time with you.”

You press your lips into a thin line as you think. 

“How about a walk? Just like around the grounds or something. And we can stop by the kitchens after?”

He nods vigorously. His excitement is so palpable that you can’t help but smile at him.

“I’d love that.”

“Too bad Padfoot isn’t here to enjoy it though,” you tease. 

“D’you miss him?” Sirius asks with a smirk.

“I miss dogs in general. You do have a cute one though,” you say thoughtfully. 

Sirius chuckles and throws an arm around your shoulder. “I mean, if all goes well, maybe you can visit the Potters and hang out with Padfoot over break.”

“That’s… that’s some kind of wishful thinking, Black. Dunno if we’ll be there after a second date.” 

“Worth a shot,” he says. “As long as you write me.”

“With that quill you bought me? Let’s see how this walk goes first.”

“This walk? Are we doing it now?” He sounds flustered. 

“No. Salazar, no. I have assignments to do.” You pause and bite the inside of your lip. “Tomorrow after class?” 

“Tomorrow.”

tags: @2dloveshp, @yearninglustfully, @made-for-oliverwood, @ilovejamespottersomuch, @hisparentsgallerryy, @itsseaberri, @corawithfanfiction, @devilslittlehelper, @jllyunn, @barnes70stark,

tags: @crowleythesexydemon, @flow33didontsmoke, @navs-bhat, @louweenier, @l0g0phobe,

@ellouisa17, @theendofthematerialgworl, @marina468, @bmyva1entine, @ravisinghs-wife, @azure-drag0ness, @sunowee, @mysteriouslyperfecttiger

Just a warning for all of you lovely people: I think we are nearing the end of this series. I'm feeling like a max of two more chapters. Thank you for all the love y'all have shown this series - every comment/like/reblog means the world to me

[brights-place]

HIII, I was wondering if you could write for kaidou (from saiki k) with Emo!reader?? Like at first he thought she was apart of the dark reunion but as time goes on he realizes she’s just a normal person and kinda cool then he gets a little (Big) crush on reader

anyways I love your fics, have a good dayyy💗💗💗

[Saiki K] Kaidou x Emo!reader

Warnings: None

A/N: Lets be honest here... HOW MANY PEOPLE HERE LIKE KAIDOU BECAUSE I FIND HIM ABIT CUTE! HE'S SO SWEET also I gave up on the headcannons sorry gang <//3

Summary: Kaidou was always suspicious of you with how you dressed you must of been apart of the dark reunion coming out to get him.. Until he found interest in

You walked around with outfits that would gain attention and whispers from others yet you waved them off. The way you stared down people who would try talk to you other then your friends.

Wearing monochrome colours, heavy makeup that scared those around you making them grow weary of you, and leave you alone.

Saiki out of all people adored the fact people left you alone letting you live a somewhat normal life but the pinkette could hear your thoughts about your favorite bands, and the fact you had a feeling you were being watched. Saiki knew who it was though...

Kaidou was lurking in the corner of the library watching you with squinted eyes muttering things about the dark reunion causing saiki to deadpan even more sighing as he glanced back to your figure sitting at a desk listening to music.

Saiki vanished instantly when Kaidou started heading towards you his hands on his hips before pointing at you “I know your working for the dark reunion! Give it up now!” Kaidou stated as he posed dramatically before pausing when noticing you had your headphones in and had your head in a book.

Kaidou couldn’t help but flinch before awkwardly tapping your shoulder “uhm excuse me-?” His voice quite and awkward causing you to lift up your head and take off your headphones head turning to look at Kaidou who cleared his throat as you awkwardly blinked at him.

Silence filled you two before Kaidou spoke dramatically “I know your apart of the dark reunion! The way you dress, how you act and the aura around you!” You couldn’t help but blink “Dark reunion…?” Kaidou couldn’t help but nod his head “is that a new band…? I’ll check it out” you smiled softly before pointing at his arm wrapped with a red bandaged “did you get hurt or something” Kaidou smirked before holding up his arm starting a large monologue while you stared at him before a small giggle came from you causing Kaidou to flush “Sit” you muttered patting down at a seat unaware of such a simple interaction between you two grew into something more

- Kaidou likes to help and choose different outfits with you along with watching you do your makeup

- You wear all black, eyeliner sharper than your wit, and have a collection of skull accessories - Kaidou wears his hoodie like a superhero cape and talks about sealing dark forces and the dark re-union something you found cute and would listen to with a soft smile - PDA is weird, awkward, and cute He doesn’t know how to flirt, so he’ll dramatically take your hand and say things like, “Let us walk through the night together” while you roll your eyes and blush. You secretly think it’s adorable - When you open up about your struggles, he drops the act and listens quietly, eyes full of real concern. “You’re not alone in this situation… I’m with you.” For once, he says it without flair, and it hits you right in the heart smiling like an idiot - Music is shared between the two of you. He doesn't understand it for how intense it is. But over time, Kaidou starts genuinely loving bands like Paramore, My Chemical Romance, Cure, etc. - buys you things that remind him of you and you buy stuff that remind you of him giving it to one another with stupid smiles, holding hands

[kandyscorner]

Do I Know You? Part 24

Synopsis: You meet Selina Kyle, Bruce Wayne, and Dick Grayson (for a second time?)

Note: I know some of you guys wanted drama with Bruce but I was genuinely, like, not mentally prepared to write about him, so his time is very short and of course Selina is there (I am a BatCat supporter on the side). I don’t think y’all are prepared for what happens with Dick (I hope I didn’t hype it to much.) please enjoy!!

(Secondary Note: for those not aware. I am moving blogs. All older chapters of Do I Know You? will stay on @fanfics-i-find-here, any new chapters will be posted on @kandyscorner.)

Masterlist

Ten minutes and an empty mimosa glass get you nowhere. Your neck was starting to ache more from the dress, and you couldn’t find anyone you knew. In an effort to continue your search for someone and get some space from the higher than thou crowd, you figure you’d check the manor.

You find the door you came out through and begin your search, which isn’t much of a search and more you walking through the hallways of the manor at random. You still feel dizzy and warm, but the space from others soothes your mind a little. As you walk, you come across a lineup of family portraits in a smaller hallway, one that doesn’t seem to get much traffic.

You follow the photos and realize the ones you were greeted with were the most recent, so you speed up to move to the beginning. You pause at what you think is the start and stare. It’s an older portrait, but the family in it is one you recognize from your brief research on Bruce Wayne. Thomas and Martha Wayne stare at you with warm smiles, their hands resting on the shoulders of a young boy, who looks like a pale Damian with a wide grin, a young Bruce, you can only assume.

The next portrait is sadder. Thomas and Martha are missing, and Bruce is just a bit older. An older gentleman, one you assume is Alfred, stands with the boy. You feel the comfort the man is trying to ooze to the young teen with the sad, forced smile.

Next is Bruce as an adult with Alfred. Your lip quirks as you stare at the adult version of Bruce Wayne. You wonder if Jason realizes how much he looks like his adoptive father. The man seems stoic, no forced smile, but the way he stands with Alfred shows comfort between the two of them.

There’s another young boy in the next one. Black hair and blue eyes. He looks like he's pouting, like he would rather be anywhere else. You pause to try and remember the order of the Wayne kids. If you remember correctly this should Dick Grayson. The poor boy's parents had died in an accident, and he became a ward of the state. You could understand growing up in a traveling circus, your parents dying, and suddenly being stuck in one city. You’d be pouting too.

He's older in the next one, much more smiley. He’s handsome, too, you think. He could be a model. He’s missing in the photo after that, but he’s been replaced by another smiling boy with the widest grin you have ever seen. He has back hair and blue eyes like Dick Grayson but his hair is curly and just bit wild, two little curls framing his forehead. You're put off by how small the boy is, especially compared to the bulk of Bruce Wayne.

You're surprised by the next portrait. Instead of an older version of the curly haired boy, your meet a younger version of Tim and Dick is back. There's an odd solemnness to the photo, like an overbearing sadness to everyone in the photo. You move backwards and almost trip over yourself to look at the previous photo.

You stare at the curly-haired boy as your mind slowly does the math. Jason? You stare even longer. This young version of Jason seemed so… light and free. The Jason you knew always seemed like he was carrying a burden, like the world had been coarse and rough to him, but he still chose to shoulder its problems anyway.

You wonder what happened, where he went to not be in the next family photo. You wonder what happened to his eyes, all carefree and unmistakably blue. Jason's eyes were tired and green more often than blue. There’s not an ounce of green in his eyes in the photo.

“I believe you are in the wrong place.” You flinch at the strict woman's voice. You turn your head to find a gorgeous, tan woman. Tall and lithe with a pixie cut of brown hair. She wore a black dress that had to have been made for her. Her eyes are sharp and scrutinizing, and you feel like you need to explain every bad thing you’ve ever done to her.

“Sorry,” you rush out as you turn the rest of your body to blink at her. Her hard features relax once she sees your face, and a smirk makes it to her face.

“Oh, it's just a lost little kitten,” she coos at you and takes a few steps to stand in front of you.

“Sorry?” you say, more confused than apologetic. Did she just call you a kitten?

“There’s no need for that, dear. I’m Selina. Selina Kyle. I’m Bruce’s,” She offers her hand, and you take it. She wraps her other hand over the top of yours, “and your Jason’s, correct?”

Your mind is still trying to catch up with the conversation. You miss her tone and assume she means plus one for the event.

“Yes,” you nod.

“Poor boy has been out of his mind searching for you, kitten.” She pulls you into her, arm around your shoulder, and starts maneuvering you back towards the exit, “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

****

Like many people in Jason’s life, Selina is surprisingly strong, easily pushing and pulling you where she pleases. She speaks to you quietly like she’s gossiping, but you learn very quickly that Selina's idea of gossip is how expensive someone's jewelry is and whether or not it’s fake.

It's not long before two men come into view, one looking far more stressed than necessary and the other trying to placate him. It takes until you're much closer for you to tell the difference between them. Jason is the stressed one, which, honestly, you shouldn’t be surprised about. The other is Bruce Wayne himself. Up close to them together, you're startled by how much alike they look. They have the same nose, same angular jaw.  They both have that knot between their brows that seems like permanent worry. Only Bruce Wayne has blue eyes and his hair is slowly streaking with gray hairs. Selina brings you up to them.

“Look at this stray I found wandering the manor.” She playfully pinches your cheek and you fluster easily, “Such a sweet thing,” she adds before stepping away from you and into the arms of  Bruce Wayne.

“-okay?” You're caught off guard by the hand on the side of your neck, and it takes a moment of you staring at Jason’s lips to catch up.

“Yea, yea, I’m okay,” You nod, blinking at him. Your ever-constant urge to kiss him is back, and it’s nearly doubled. You feel very happy to be in his bubble again.

 “I missed you.” You add, and he smiles so sweetly at you.

“Where’d you run off to, huh?” You can’t help but smile at his soft words.

“Your family. I met a cow.” Is what you answer because that’s where you went first.

“Damian took you to meet his cow?” Your eyes slide over Bruce.

“Batcow.” You say in a matter-of-fact tone, which, in hindsight, was unnecessary, but your head was starting to feel a little fuzzy, “And yes. You have a very nice barn Mr. Wayne.”

He smiles at you, and you decide you understand why all those people on the internet were into Brucie Wayne, if his dazzling smile had anything to do with it.

“Thank you, and you can just call me Bruce, and I see you’ve met Selina already. She’s my girlfriend.”

Jason mumbles in your ear something along the lines of “right now,” but you pay no mind to it. You're far more distracted by the knowing smile Selina sends you. You understand her phrasing in the house. It was a trap. I’m Bruce’s and you're Jason’s? and you had agreed.

“Oh,” You feel a little frozen as you're overcome with the realization that Jason’s entire family and slightly extended seriously think you two are dating. Which is surprising because you didn’t learn anything about any of them from Jason, aside from Damian and Alfred. Had Jason talked to them about you?

You spare a glance at Jason. His features are hard set, a tenseness in his shoulders that nearly makes you worry if not for the way his hand, which had been holding your face, settled on your mid back, his thumb barely skimming the exposed skin between your shoulder blades.

You wish he would talk to you. He’s done something, said something that makes his family think the way they do, but now is not the time for that conversation. You turn and smile at Bruce and Selina.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you pause, a hesitation before you admit something, “I'll admit to doing some research on you…Bruce.” It feels awkward using his name. “It's very rare to find a billionaire so willing to help. Um, I'm a waitress at Jackie’s coffee house right on the edge of the narrows. She keeps it open thanks to your old town business loans. Most people would say having a loan with no interest is bad for business, but I can appreciate what you're doing for Gotham.”

Jason’s hand pauses on your back, and you can see the curious flicker in his eye. Bruce just smiles at you.

“I met Jackie, a very sweet woman with a bout of bad luck. It's fairly common in Gotham, but I have as much money to spare as possible, and if it means helping Gothamites, then that’s what I want to do.” You don’t hear any childish pride in the sentence like you would expect, but you hear Jason scoff under his breath at Bruce’s words anyway, “Although I have to say when people research me, it's usually not out of the goodness of their hearts.” He continues. Selina giggles like she knows something, you’re starting to think that’s her default attitude.

Bruce seems intent on continuing the conversation, but another man interjects himself into the conversation. Both Selina and Bruce roll their eyes, but apparently the man is too stuck up to notice. Bruce shoots you an apologetic look and quickly shakes your hand before he’s dragged away. Selina is slow to follow him.

“He’s happy you’re here, kitten, and that you’ve brought this one with you,” Selina says as she pats Jason on the arm, “We would like to see him just a bit more, yeah?” The last line feels more directed at Jason. It has no teasing to it, a statement said in utmost honesty. Jason flounders a bit, not meeting her eye.

“Thanks, Selina,” He mumbles, and she flashes you both a smile before she follows after Bruce, stealing a glass off of a tray with a slickness that rivals even Jason’s exchanging of glasses.

Jason turns on you, hand moving from your back to your shoulder. He stares you down with a sternness that makes you smile at him. He rolls his eyes at you.

“Seriously, where’d you go, honey? I came back to where I left you, and you were gone.”

“Well,” you start, “I was with Duke and Steph and then Cass pulled her away and it was just me and Duke and then Damian shooed him and Damian took me to see Jerry. I thought Jerry was another dog like Titus. I was wrong, Jerry is a turkey. Then I meet Batcow, she’s sweet. Then we came back here.” You keep out the conversations you had with both siblings because you don’t want him to know how you’ve apparently given up on vetoing the rumors about you two dating.

“I started looking for you, but then realized how much my dress was hurting my neck, so I went looking for the girls, but I had no success with that either, so then I figured ‘maybe they went inside’, so then I went inside, but I didn’t find anyone. I did find a hall of family portraits. I think I found you. Did you used to have curly?” You finally pause, waiting. You had watched Jason through your rant. He had only a teasing grin, but at the mention of the portraits, it drops.

“Yeah, yeah, I used to have curly hair.” He says only loud enough for you to hear. You want to ask about the melancholy of the next photo, the one he’s missing from, but you continue with your story instead.

“You were cute, like a chipmunk,” his mouth opens like he’s going to defend himself but you keep going, “and then Silena found me and I thought I was big trouble but then she called me kitten which I thought was really weird but you didn’t seem to surprised when she used it just now so maybe its just a her thing then she brought me here and now your all caught up on our activities.” You finally stop taking a breath. You feel warm, still dizzy, but you don’t mind so much now that you can stare at Jason. His hand moves from your shoulder to massage your neck around the halter tie. You sigh at his touch, eyes sliding shut for a moment.

“I did not look like a chipmunk,” he mumbles, and as you open your eyes, you become aware of how close Jason is. You can see the swirl of green in his eyes, feel his breath on your face.

“How can I help with your dress?” he asks, and you blink at him. Take it off, your mind offers. You bite your tongue to stop the words.

“Will you help me with the straps? I can't do them myself,” you ask quietly, hoping your face doesn’t give away your thoughts.

“You know I’ll help you with anything, sweetheart.”

****

Jason led you away from the crowd into a more wooded area with a little pocket of space for some privacy. You explained to him how the dress worked, the four ribbons that were straps, where the other two were tucked away, and how you wanted them tied. He stood behind you and quietly went to work untying the knot to the halter.

He was warm, you could feel it radiating off him. You had to bite down the urge not to shiver as he would lean in close to look at the knot as he undid it. If he leaned in more, he could kiss your bare skin if he wanted to. You wanted him to.

You shift on your feet, the heat between your legs returning easily now that you were alone with Jason again and vulnerably so. His hand pauses to press against your ribs under your arm. If his hand slid forward, he could cop a feel with no problem.

“Stop squirming,” he murmurs in your ear, tone demanding, and it makes your stomach flutter. You want to move just to see what he would do. You stop moving, though, here not the right time nor the right place. His hand leaves your side to return to untying. The ribbon straps fall forward.

Instinctively, your hands come up to hold the top of the dress, pressing your hands to your chest. You know it won't fall, the dress is designed both to have straps and not to have straps. But you're in “the middle of the woods” with Jason, away from everyone else. If someone happened upon you, you didn’t want the dress to suddenly decide it wasn’t built to be strapless and end up flashing someone. Or heaven forbid, confirm that you and Jason are dating and tried to have a sexual rendezvous in the woods.

You feel the ghost of Jason’s finger skim down one shoulder blade before it dips into the back of the dress to tug out the hidden ribbon of fabric. Your breath catches as he repeats the process on the other side, hand not skimming so much as dragging across your skin down into the back of the dress. You feel warm, very warm, and you lean back into his touch. You must have moved more than you thought because Jason’s hands grab onto your waist, pushing you forward slightly.

“What’d I say, sugar? Hmm?” he says, his voice low and steady, the breath of it makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. You think he’s created a Pavlov effect on you when he uses the pet name sugar with that tone of voice.  You literally stop breathing for a moment, resisting every urge in your body demanding that you step back and press yourself against him. It takes much more energy than you expect.

“Sorry,” you murmur as your fingers twiddle with the top hem of the dress. You keep your gaze ducked, staring hard at the grass as he shifts.

“It's okay, just hold still, yeah? Let me help,” Jason says as he steps to stand halfway beside you, halfway behind you. His hand comes into your eyesight as he lifts the ribbon from your front and brings it to your shoulder, meeting the back ribbon there. His words calm you, a little less low and more concentrated. You can feel him staring into your cheek, but you keep your eyes trained on the grass.

“Bows, right, sweetheart?” he asks, hands hovering over the skin on your shoulder. You finally turn your head to look at him out of the corner of your eye.

“Please,” you say quietly with a nod, “make them pretty too.” He drops his eyes to the ribbons and focuses in, periodically glancing at your face.

He ties and unties like he can't decide if it was done right. As he unties it again, he pauses to press the back of his hand to your cheek. It has you blinking in confusion.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just look hot.” He drops his hand and starts to tie again. You giggle at his words.

“Aw, thanks, handsome.” His hands stop for a moment.

 “That’s not-” He pauses, head turning to the trees. He doesn���t say anything else as he watches. You wonder if he saw something or heard something with the way his eyes seem to search.

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice calls out. You flinch. Hard. You take a startled step back, right into Jason, your shoulder to his chest. You nearly trip over yourself with the movement. If Jason’s chest hadn’t steadied you, then his hand certainly would have, suddenly teleporting from your shoulder to your waist. His grip there tighter than before.

The voice that spoke has a certain joyful cadence to it, like the man is witnessing the funniest comedy show he’s ever seen. It sounds familiar. The voice probably wouldn’t have drawn you to it if it weren't for the words spoken, ones you’ve heard before. The man in question finally pops out of the woods with an apologetic smile that you know you’ve seen before.

“Dick,” Jason says gruffly, hand moving from the side of your waist forward, a gentle press against your tummy has you pressed more tightly against his chest. Your mind lags with everything happening.

“Jason,” you scold quietly, finding his name-calling unnecessary. Your brain slowly catches up as you remember that Jason has a brother named Dick. You stare at the man, the image of him slowly lining up with the photo you had seen inside.

“It’s okay. He’s just saying my name,” Dick waves off what your almost positive Jason was saying as an insult. He gives you both a disarming smile and you can only imagine what it looks like he just stumbled upon.

You and Jason, away from everyone else. You, flushed, according to Jason. The top of your dress in shambles, one shoulder entirely bare, the other covered by Jason’s hand holding your straps up. That and the way Jason holds you against him. This can’t be a good look.

“Jason’s helping fix my dress.” You rush out quickly. Dick takes a step forward and Jason’s hand tightens against your stomache. Its almost possessive the way he holds you, like he was trying to tell Dick that you were Jason’s. You quietly file in your mind that kind of like it.

Dick just continues to smile, “Take it easy, Little Wing.”

Your eyes widen and you suddenly feel like you’ve been hit in the chest. Despite how fuzzy your head feels, your mind connects the dots on why he seems familiar, and it has nothing to do with the photo in the manor. The phrasing of words at first had stuck out to you, but now, you understood.

 Little Wing. You had only heard the name once before and it was from Nightwing. Your eyes track over Dick Grayson as he stands there. The comparison is easy. He’s already wearing a black button-up with an electric blue tie. Maybe he wasn’t trying to hide it. You can see it now as you met his eyes, blue eyes that were previously covered by a black and white mask at your last meeting.

Dick Grayson was Nightwing. Jason’s brother was Nightwing. You wonder if he knows that his brother is a crime-fighting vigilante. You don’t even know what to do with the information. Should you tell Jason? What if Dick is keeping it a secret on purpose? You push the thought aside, a problem for later, as Dick finally comes to stand in front of you.

He says your name with the familiarity of people who have already met, which you guess you had just not like this. You blink at him in disbelief.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. Dick Grayson.” He offers his hand, and you take it limply, still staring at him, nodding slowly. His eyes leave yours to look at Jason's hand on your shoulder.

“What’s wrong with your dress?” he asks you, but you're still taking in his face. His facial structure was so obviously Nightwing, you wonder why more people don’t know. After a beat of silence, Jason answers for you.

“Her straps were hurting her neck. I’m just tying them into bows on her shoulders.” His hand leaves your shoulder to show Dick his handiwork.

“That’s a shitty bow,” Dick tells him. Jason’s hand on your stomach moves again as he moves back a little, no longer pressing you against him. It snaps you out of your stare, your head turning to stare at the trees instead, trying to steady the panic you have from your newfound information.

“Yeah, and I’m sure you could do so much better, dickhead.” You don’t have it in you to scold Jason for the name-calling. His tone is challenging, and you flinch again at the feel feel of unfamiliar fingers on your shoulder. It has your head swiveling quickly and Dick pulls his hands back.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked. Is it okay if I help?” He asks and you stare for a moment too long. Jason huffs behind you, and you finally answer.

“Yeah, sure.” You say with a shrug because you’re still freaking out. It doesn’t take long, much less time than it took Jason, for Dick to have both of your straps tied up into pretty bows. You admire them with surprise.

“Thank you. They look nice.” You murmur as Dick steps out of your bubble. Your hand absentmindedly swings behind you, searching for Jason. He had stepped away from you as Dick had worked but you missed his warmth, and you need some comfort to cool your rapid thinking mind.

“Jason?” you ask as you turn your head, “Where’d you go?”

You find him a few steps away from you, out of reach, and doing what you can only describe as pouting, hard features and arms crossed in front of him. You have to shake your head to keep your focus away from how the material of his shirt stretches over his muscles. His face softens a hair when he looks at you, certainly not as much as it usually would.

“Just giving you space.” He says, and it has an anxious feeling crawling up your back. He sounds mad but you can’t figure out if it’s with you or with Dick, or with something else.

“Oh, but I want you in my space.” The words slip out of your mouth without much thought of who you're in company with. You just don’t want Jason to be angry with you. He glances between you and Dick before his gruff look melts. He easily slides back into your bubble.

“I’ll leave two alone,” Dick says, and you turn to find smiling at you two, something akin to loving pride on his features, “and Stephs looking for you. That’s the reason I came out here looking.” He waves as he steps back into the trees, heading for the brunch. You watch him go, still a little distraught about the Nightwing thing but choosing to ignore it.

With Dick gone, you turn on Jason. Your hands make their way to hold his face, some leftover upset still there. He seems surprised by your sudden cradling, most likely because you missed, hands landing on his neck before crawling up to his face.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice bubbling in worry. You can feel the tears in your throat. If Jason was upset with you, you don’t know what you’ll do. Jason mimics you, his hands coming to hold your face.

“Nothing's wrong, sweetheart. Why do you sound like you're gonna cry?” he gently swipes on the skin of your cheek, and you sniffle.

“I thought you were mad at me,” you pout.

Jason laughs under his breath, “Mad at you, honey? I could never. If anything, I was mad at Dick.”

“Why? Do you not like the bows?” Your head drops to look at the bows unsuccessfully because Jason’s hand and wrists were in the way. You end up pressing your nose to his wrist instead.

“No, I like ‘em,” his hand leaves your face to fluff up the bow you were trying to look at, “You were just staring at Dick a lot.”

You want to explain to him the reason you were staring wasn’t because you were into dick (he was very handsome, model worthy but that’s not the point). You were staring because you just discovered that his older brother is a vigilante who runs around in black and blue spandex. You couldn’t just say that to Jason, though. What if he didn’t know? He was already on rough terms with his family, you’re sure a lie like that would cause problems, and you already made a deal with Damian to make sure Jason spent more time with his family.

“I’m sorry,” you say instead

“Don’t be sorry. I was just jealous, it's stupid.” He tries to shrug off your apology, his hands leaving you. Your own hands on his face tighten, smooshing his cheeks and lips.

“You have no reason to be jealous. I’d rather stare at you than anyone else.” You say as earnestly as possible. You can feel his face shifting under your hands, trying to smile.

“Okay, Sweetheart,” his words come out weird thanks to his smooshed lips and you give him a cheeky smile. He wraps his hands around your wrists and tugs his face from your hold, “Stop crushing my face, I get it, you like me.” He teases.

“Duh,” you slide your hands into his and start pulling him, “Let’s rejoin the party.” Jason lets you pull him with mild resistance. He has a fond smile and its only when you get to the edge of the clearing that he’s pulling you back to him.

“The brunch is that way, sweetheart.” He points at the opposite side of the clearing and his arm wraps around your shoulder to guide you the correct way. “Are you feeling okay?”

You turn your head to smile brightly at him, “I’m great now that I know your not mad at me.”

“If you say so,” he says, pressing a pleasant kiss to your temple.

Additional note: So that reveal? Crazy stuff. I have been waiting to write the scene since the pollen chapter. Although to be far, prior to the pollen fic, the scene was supposed to be almost a little more steamy (who wouldn’t want to be sandwiched between Dick Grayson and Jason Todd) but then I wrote the pollen chapter and I was like ‘oh you know what would cause even more drama’ and now we’re here. Also she’s stupid, I’m sure you noticed she missed some important details when comparing that night to the current event (Namely WHO Dick called little wing). I promise it will be worth it y'all. I love you guys for reading and commenting. Let me know any thoughts!

Tag List: @little-miss-naill, @nikilolo787, @joonunivrs, @uzxotic, @qardasngan, @stormz369,  @g4bbi3xx, @iwatobiswimbros, @the-lonely-flute, @elz-xo, @gone-batty-fics, @princessesgarden, @notfckincreative, @love-theangel, @feyres-fireheart, @penguimlover23, @herodedicatedblog, @dearghostling, @automaticplant, @alma-ru3, @13fresh, @anuttellaa, @nekotaetae, @redsakura101, @sleepy-head1

[dreamersworldduh]

Omg hiii, firstly, I really like your two workss so far they're soooo good 😩. Hopefully, you continue writing, and secondly, I want to request for Dick grayson at one of those parties he has to attend with his friend that he liked for a while, and he sees reader getting hit on by a person he hates so he gets jealous, and he holds it for awhile till he couldn't anymore. If you can complete this, thank you for your time spent on my request. If not, it's completely fine. 🙏. Thank you for even reading my request. Keep up the good work, and have a good day/night!

JEALOUSLY, JEALOUSY

• Dick Grayson x Male!Reader

SUMMARY — Jealousy is an evil disease that most people deny having, but it can also be a great motivator if used properly.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge.

WORDS! 3.6k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Thank you so much for putting in your request! I appreciate you so so much—I hope you enjoy! 😚

The Titans' Tower was a beacon of light against the night sky, its glowing windows revealing the lively scene unfolding within. Inside, the air was charged with excitement, the kind of energy that came from heroes finally allowing themselves a moment of reprieve. The main hall was transformed into a party space, with colorful lights casting vibrant patterns across the walls, the music pulsing in time with the rhythm of the crowd.

You stood near the entrance for a moment, taking it all in. The sight was almost surreal—heroes you'd fought alongside, legends in their own right, were here in their most unguarded states. Starfire's radiant laughter rang out as she teased Beast Boy, who had just shapeshifted into a parrot to mimic her voice. Raven, ever the observer, sat in a corner nursing a drink, her normally stern expression softening as she watched the festivities. Even Cyborg, the tech genius of the team, was manning a makeshift DJ booth, nodding his head to the beat as he expertly transitioned between tracks.

You weren't used to seeing this side of them, but it was a welcome change. The Titans weren't just warriors—they were people, and tonight, they were letting themselves be exactly that.

When Dick Grayson—Nightwing himself—had invited you, you were a little surprised. Sure, the two of you had been close for a while, colleagues who had become genuine friends through countless missions. You'd spent hours fighting side by side, but more recently, you'd found yourselves sharing moments outside the chaos—grabbing coffee after a long night, cracking jokes about patrol mishaps, or just enjoying each other's company. Yet, an invitation to the Titans' private party felt personal, almost intimate.

As you stepped further into the room, the music grew louder, the bass vibrating through your chest. Dick wasn't hard to spot—he had that presence that naturally drew attention, even when he wasn't trying. Dressed in a simple black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he moved through the crowd with an ease that was almost magnetic. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a grin spread across his face.

"There you are," he said as he approached, his voice warm and familiar despite the music. "I was starting to think you weren't going to show."

"Miss a party at Titans' Tower? No way," you replied with a smirk. "Besides, you're the one who said I needed a break."

"And I was right," he said, nudging your arm playfully. "You deserve a night to relax. Just... don't let Beast Boy drag you into one of his dance-offs. He's surprisingly competitive."

You chuckled, already feeling more at ease. Dick had that effect on people—his presence was grounding, even in a room full of larger-than-life personalities. Before he could say more, someone called his name, and he gave you an apologetic smile.

"Duty calls," he said. "But stick around, okay? I'll find you later."

With that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you to explore the party. You grabbed a drink from the refreshment table—something fruity but deceptively strong—and started making your way through the room. Everywhere you turned, there were little snapshots of joy: heroes laughing, friends reconnecting, moments of normalcy in lives that were anything but.

It was in the middle of this whirlwind of activity that you found yourself drawn into conversation with Brandon, one of the Titans' newer members. His easygoing demeanor made him instantly likable, and you found yourself relaxing even more as you chatted about everything from patrol stories to how strange it was to see the team like this.

What you didn't notice, however, was the way Dick's gaze followed you from across the room. Standing near the edge of the crowd, he watched as you laughed at something Brandon said, the two of you leaning in closer to hear each other over the music. His smile from earlier had faded, replaced by a subtle but unmistakable tension in his expression.

For the first time in a long while, Dick Grayson felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest—jealousy.

Brandon was mid-story, his hands flying through the air as he described a mission that had apparently gone off the rails in the most chaotic way possible. His voice was animated, carrying over the music and noise of the party as he recounted the moment he had to leap from a collapsing rooftop to grab a fleeing criminal.

"And just as I'm mid-air," he said, his grin wide, "I'm thinking, 'If I miss, this is how they're going to write me off the team.' But somehow, I managed to grab the guy's ankle, and the two of us went tumbling into a dumpster. Starfire still hasn't let me live it down."

You couldn't help but laugh, the image of Brandon sprawled out in a dumpster vivid in your mind. His enthusiasm was contagious, and his self-deprecating humor made the story all the more enjoyable.

"What about you?" Brandon asked, leaning casually against the counter. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What's the craziest thing you've seen out there?"

You paused, your mind flipping through the mental catalogue of wild missions you'd been on. Finally, a grin tugged at your lips as you landed on one that stood out. "Okay, so there was this time I ended up dodging missiles while trying to stop a rogue drone. It was absolute chaos—explosions everywhere, smoke, the whole nine yards. And, of course, Dick was there, just doing his thing, making it all look effortless."

Brandon let out a low whistle, his eyebrows raising in mock disbelief. "Missiles and a rogue drone? That's next level. I swear, with him involved, it always sounds like a movie."

You chuckled, nodding. "It felt like one. But yeah, Dick's like that—calm under pressure, always two steps ahead. It's kind of ridiculous how good he is at this stuff."

Brandon grinned, leaning in slightly. "Must be cool, working so closely with someone like him. I bet you've picked up a thing or two."

You shrugged, a warm smile spreading across your face. "Yeah, it is. He's a good guy—one of the best. I've learned more from him than I ever thought possible."

As you spoke, you glanced over at Brandon, but your words brought Dick to the forefront of your mind. It wasn't just his skill you admired—it was his unwavering dedication, his ability to lead, and the way he always seemed to have your back no matter how dangerous things got. It was easy to talk about him, easy to share the respect and appreciation you'd built for him over the years.

Brandon nodded, clearly impressed. "I get that vibe. You two must make a hell of a team."

You smiled, raising your glass slightly. "We do."

Across the room, Dick leaned against the wall, his silhouette partially obscured by the shifting colored lights of the party. His sharp brown eyes, usually calm and calculating, were locked onto the two of you, his gaze unwavering. In one hand, he held a drink—something dark and untouched, the condensation dripping down the glass as it warmed against his grip. His free hand clenched at his side, the slight twitch of his fingers betraying the tension he was working hard to suppress.

You were laughing at something Brandon had said, your face lit up in a way that seemed to magnify the ease between the two of you. Brandon leaned closer, his posture open and relaxed, his confident smile suggesting he was thoroughly enjoying your attention. You leaned in as well, your head tilting slightly to catch his words over the pounding music, your body language unconsciously mirroring his. It was a small detail, but it didn't escape Dick's notice.

A knot twisted in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. He couldn't pinpoint the moment it had started—this feeling that clawed at him every time Brandon was near you—but tonight, it was undeniable. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to look away, but his eyes betrayed him, darting back to you within seconds. He told himself it was nothing, that he was overreacting, but the rational part of his brain was no match for the jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

Dick had never liked Brandon, though he'd never said it aloud, not even to himself. He'd brushed it off as a clash of personalities, an instinctive distrust of the newcomer. But as he watched Brandon lean closer, his laugh carrying easily over the music, it became clear: it wasn't just Brandon. It was Brandon with you.

His usual composed demeanor was faltering, the effortless confidence he carried on and off the field slipping away as his emotions bubbled to the surface. His chest felt tight, his thoughts an uncharacteristic jumble. Was it jealousy? Frustration? The fear of something unspoken slipping out of his grasp?

The answer didn't matter, not in that moment. All that mattered was the impulse driving him forward. Before he realized it, his body was already in motion, his steps purposeful and direct. Each stride carried the weight of his emotions, the tension in his shoulders palpable. He weaved through the crowd without so much as a glance at anyone else, his focus entirely on you.

Dick didn't have a plan, no rehearsed words or carefully crafted excuses. All he knew was that he couldn't stand there any longer, watching you laugh with someone else, seeing the effortless connection that wasn't with him. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say when he reached you—all he knew was that he had to do something. Anything.

The music and laughter of the party hummed around you, a lively backdrop to your conversation with Brandon. You were mid-sentence, describing one of your wilder missions, when a familiar voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"Hey," Dick said, his tone even, but carrying an unmistakable edge.

You turned, surprised to see him standing there. He was close—closer than usual—his sharp brown eyes flicking briefly to Brandon before settling on you. His presence seemed to suck the air out of the space, a silent tension rolling off him in waves.

"Mind if I borrow him for a second?" Dick continued, though it wasn't really a question.

Brandon blinked, clearly caught off guard. His usual easy grin faltered for a moment as he looked between you and Dick, before offering a hesitant nod. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Go ahead."

"Dick, what—?" you began, but before you could finish, Dick placed a firm hand on your shoulder and started steering you away. His grip wasn't rough, but it was unyielding, his fingers curling just enough to make it clear this wasn't up for discussion.

You glanced back at Brandon, who shrugged and turned to mingle with someone else, his confusion evident. Meanwhile, Dick's hand remained on your shoulder, guiding you through the crowd and toward the staircase.

"What's going on?" you asked, your voice tinged with confusion and growing irritation.

Dick didn't answer. He stayed silent, his jaw tight, his pace quick. His grip on your shoulder tightened slightly as you reached the stairs, and he led you upward, away from the noise and light of the party. The music and chatter faded with each step, replaced by the steady hum of the tower's systems.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, his normally composed demeanor slipping with every second. It wasn't like him to act this way—so abrupt, so on edge.

When you reached a quiet hallway, you finally pulled free of his grip, stopping in your tracks. "Dick, what the hell?" you snapped, your confusion now mingled with frustration. "What's going on with you tonight?"

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable. His shoulders were rigid, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he were struggling to find the right words. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off, make some excuse and leave you wondering.

But then his expression softened—just slightly—and he stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. His piercing gaze searched yours, as though he were looking for something, some unspoken reassurance.

"I couldn't take it anymore," he muttered, his voice low and raw, almost like he was speaking to himself.

You frowned, still not understanding. "Take what? Dick, you're not making any sense."

For a second, he hesitated, his breath hitching as if he was caught between moving forward or retreating. Then, as though something inside him snapped, he closed the distance between you in one fluid motion.

His hands came up, gripping your face with a kind of desperate urgency. Before you could say another word, his lips were on yours. It wasn't tentative or uncertain—it was firm, almost overwhelming, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt.

You froze, your mind racing to catch up with what was happening. The feel of his lips against yours, the heat of his hands holding you in place—it all hit you at once, a wave of intensity that left you breathless. There was a weight behind it, a frustration, a longing that spoke of something he'd been holding back for far too long.

The hallway seemed to shrink around you, the hum of the tower fading into nothing. All that remained was him, the kiss, and the unspoken emotions that seemed to pour out in that single moment.

When Dick finally pulled back, his forehead gently rested against yours, his breath ragged and uneven. The heat of his hands lingered on your face, his thumbs barely brushing your jawline as if he couldn't bring himself to let go entirely. His eyes were closed for a moment, and when he opened them, they burned with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

"I couldn't stand seeing you with him," he admitted, his voice low, raw, and unsteady in a way you'd never heard before. It wasn't anger or frustration—it was something deeper, something vulnerable. "I've been trying to ignore it for so long, but I can't anymore. I like you—more than a friend. I needed you to know."

His words hung in the air, heavy and charged, as if the world itself had paused for this one moment. Your heart was pounding, each beat louder in your ears than the faint hum of the tower around you. You felt like the ground had shifted beneath your feet, your balance precarious in the wake of his confession.

You stared at him, trying to process what had just happened—the kiss, the weight of his words, the raw emotion in his eyes. All the nights you'd spent together came flooding back to you. Fighting side by side in the field, your movements always in sync. Late nights eating takeout, his laughter echoing in your ears as you shared stories. Quiet moments after missions, when he'd patch you up with a care and focus that seemed almost too much for a friend. All of it suddenly took on a new meaning, the threads weaving together into something you hadn't allowed yourself to see before now.

"Dick..." you began, your voice soft, barely above a whisper, your chest tight with the weight of everything you wanted to say. But before you could get the words out, he shook his head, his forehead still pressed against yours.

"I get it if you don't feel the same," he said quickly, his voice filled with quiet resignation. His hands dropped slowly from your face, as if letting go was physically painful. "I just... I couldn't keep it in anymore. Not after tonight. Not after seeing—" He cut himself off, shaking his head again, as if the thought alone was too much. "You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know."

You stared at him, the man who had been by your side through thick and thin, who had earned your trust in ways few ever had. And for the first time, you saw something behind the confidence and control he always carried—a vulnerability, raw and unguarded. The man who was always so composed, so unshakable, was standing in front of you now, his emotions laid bare.

He wasn't Nightwing in this moment, the hero who always had a plan and a backup plan. He was just Dick—a man who had taken a risk, who had laid his heart on the line for you. And in that moment, as you saw him so clearly for the first time, something inside you shifted.

You stood frozen, your thoughts spiraling as Dick's words echoed in your mind. Your longest, closest friend—someone who had been by your side through countless battles, sleepless nights, and quiet moments—had just confessed feelings you had never seen coming. It felt like the ground beneath you had shifted, leaving you unsure of how to regain your footing.

Your breathing was shallow, your chest tight as you replayed his confession in your mind. "I couldn't stand seeing you with him. I've been trying to ignore it for so long, but I can't anymore." The rawness in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it was all so unlike the Dick Grayson you knew, the man who always seemed so steady, so composed.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. How could they? This was Dick—your partner in the field, your confidant, your constant. The person who had always been there, who had stitched you up after injuries and made you laugh when things felt too heavy. And now he was looking at you, his heart laid bare, waiting for a response you weren't sure how to give.

Your mind raced through the years you'd known him. The late-night missions, the quiet moments after a battle, the inside jokes only the two of you understood. You'd always thought of him as your rock, the person you could count on no matter what. And now, he was telling you that he saw you as something more—had seen you as something more for a long time.

The weight of his confession pressed down on you. This wasn't just a casual admission—it was the culmination of something deep, something that had clearly been building within him for years. The thought hit you like a freight train: while you'd been leaning on him as a friend, he'd been feeling this all along. How had you missed it?

Dick's expression was impossible to read now. He was standing there, his forehead no longer resting against yours, his hands hovering by his sides like he wasn't sure whether to reach for you or step back. His eyes, normally so guarded, were wide and searching, as if trying to gauge what you were thinking.

But you didn't know what to think. You didn't know how to react. Part of you wanted to speak, to reassure him, to tell him that this didn't change anything—but that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Because everything had already changed.

Before you could fully register what you were doing, instinct took over. Your mind was still spinning from Dick's confession, from the raw vulnerability in his voice, from the way his hands had trembled ever so slightly when he let you go—as if he'd already braced himself for rejection.

But you couldn't let him walk away—not like this. Not when your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from your chest.

In one swift motion, you closed the space between you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The material was soft but sturdy beneath your grip, grounding you in the moment as you tugged him toward you with a sudden urgency that surprised even yourself.

Dick's eyes widened, his breath hitching, but he barely had a second to react before your lips met his. The kiss was fierce, intense—a collision of bottled-up emotions finally set free. Your fingers clenched tighter in his shirt, pulling him closer as if you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away—the distant hum of the tower's systems, the muffled bass of the music still thumping from the party below—it all dissolved into nothingness. There was only him, only the warmth of his mouth against yours, only the heat of his hands finding your waist and holding on like he'd been waiting for this as long as you had.

Dick let out a sharp breath against your lips, a sound caught somewhere between relief and longing. His arms wrapped around you fully now, one hand sliding up your back, the other cupping the side of your face like he couldn't bear the thought of letting you go again.

The kiss deepened, fueled by everything unspoken between you—years of trust, shared danger, late-night talks, and quiet moments when words had never been enough. Every suppressed feeling, every glance that had lingered too long, every touch that had meant more than it should—everything finally broke free.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your foreheads rested together, your fingers still clutching the front of his shirt like a lifeline. Dick's eyes were half-lidded, dark with emotion, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.

"...Quite the confession, Grayson," you voiced, your voice low and shaky.

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Dick's face, softening the sharp intensity of his expression. His thumb brushed your cheek gently, almost reverently. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that."

His words sent warmth flooding through your chest, and before you could respond, his lips found yours again—not desperate this time, but sure and steady, like he was memorizing the way you felt in his arms. This time, there was no hesitation, no fear—only certainty.

[aniharas]

𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥!𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘹 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘩.𝘤.'𝘴 (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦)

pairing: obsessed!down bad!felix catton x fem!reader

summary: felix's lack of control over his deep feelings for you, his revisions partner, begins to spiral him into a sick and twisted sense of keeping you as his.

warnings: explicit language, sexual tension & content, themes of purity and corruption, use of cigarettes and alcohol

wc: 2.1k+

Maybe Felix Catton wasn’t the mindless pretty boy at Oxford like everyone had chalked him up to be. Maybe he was, at least until he saw you.

At first, he wasn’t exactly the most excited when he found out his revisions partner was you, a scholarship girl. A first-class student. Always buried in textbooks nonstop, always holed up with nerdy little books doing your nerdy little homework. He never found people like you any fun, so he braced himself for a snoozefest as you plopped down into the armchair beside him.

But Felix couldn’t have ever been more wrong about the pureness that was you. Sickly sweet, serene you. Skin tantalizingly covered by whatever shoddy arrangements Oxfam provided. Black-rimmed glasses with a prescription so high, it made your bambi-like eyes bulge out of your head. Voice so sugary, he could taste it on the tip of his tongue. You were a prude by all means, but you made it look so damn good. God forbid the tutor asked him anything about your essay, it was fuck all in his brain. And god forbid anyone asked him to make sense of what he felt for you.

And so he eagerly showed up to each revision. It started with the simplest of gestures. Holding the door open for you, carrying your books. He noticed you always walked home alone after each session at night, so he took it upon himself to escort you back to your dorm safely. 

And then it was gifts. Things that he could nonchalantly pass off as having extra of. Packaged sweets from the dining hall, an extra No. 2 pencil. He even tried to offer you a cigarette as the two of you strolled across campus. Of course, being the modest girl you were, you refused. He was glad that you did. You were responsible, you were good. He loved that about you.

But it wasn’t enough. Those brief, one-hour sessions were far from enough. Being the workaholic you were, you were hard to find around campus; that bit irked him. The whole “girl” thing was second-nature to him. They came to him in swarms, in fact. Why were you never there? That was fine with him, he liked the chase. He’d find a way.

“Tutor you? Felix, I think you’re doing fine–” “Codswallop, and you know it. You, on the other hand…you’re exceptional.” “I don’t think I’m exactly qualified enough-” “I do.”

And these newfound tutoring sessions were far better than what he had been getting. He never thought he’d look forward to being in a tutorial for hours in a stiff library chair, but the very thought consumed his waking days. Because it was you, dressed in your hand-me-down school jumper, brows adorably furrowed as you hastily scribbled notes across the margins of his essays. He wasn’t exactly the best at writing, but he occasionally found himself misspelling words just to see you get irritated with him. 

“Sometimes it slips my mind that you’re a rich kid. Until I remember we’re at Oxford and this is what you wrote,” you had said one time. Had it been from anyone else, he would’ve blown a fuse. But it was you, who always snuck in bites of your Crunchie between each sentence. You were so genuine, so oblivious to the world around you. He could never be upset with you.

Which is why he felt responsible for you. But how could he protect you when you were so elusive? He considered himself blessed if he found you at King’s Arms on the weekends, or anywhere at all. And blessed he was, on a Friday night, just before Oxford let out for the holidays.

It was you, accompanied by your trashy roommates. “Come on, just once before you go home,” they had whined as they pushed you through the doors. Upon this rare sighting, Felix decided that the story he was entertaining his table with was pointless, ceasing his conversation. It was like he was in a trance, the way he stood from his seat and gravitated toward you. Wordlessly, he plucked you away from your roommates. He figured you were better off with him.

It was clear that you weren’t used to any sort of bar culture, and while he found that endearing, he made sure to look over you. He booted a girl from his group just so he could seat you next to him, all while making sure you didn’t see the nasty glare she gave you. 

Assigning himself as your drink-sitter, he carefully scrutinized whatever you ended up drinking. Any strong liquors that came your way were quickly confiscated, much to Farleigh’s disdain (although he was placated once the extra shots were passed along to him). All you had to your name was a modest mug of beer, which you sipped at tentatively as you tried to make sense of the conversation around you.

You had gotten through one beer, though you were struggling about halfway through your refill. Despite that, Felix was in awe of you. The whining as he took the cup away, the mindlessly giggling at a joke one of the girls told, the fidgeting with the hem of your jumper. How could someone make drinking look so innocent? 

“My face is hot.” “You’ve got a buzz going. It’s quite a look.” “A good one or a bad one?” “A bit of a naughty one.” He quickly earned a punch in the arm from you.

And this was far better than the revisions or the tutoring. To finally discuss something other than academics with you was refreshing. He found himself recounting all of his stories, even the ones he had already told that night, just so he could hear you laugh at everything he said. It was a melody in his ears, a tiny bell jingling beside him.

Once the company began to fall out, Felix took you to get a breath of fresh air just beside the entrance of the pub. “D’you need anyone to take you home?” “Nooo, my roommates are heading back anyways.” “You sure? I can–” “Oh, you’re too kind. Why don’t you have a lover yet?”

The question was so forward and sudden, he couldn’t help but be surprised. You were definitely tipsy.  “Huh…haven’t given much thought to it.” “Well, you should.” “And that means?” “They’d be lucky.”

Felix couldn’t help it; he was out of control, cradling your face into his hands as his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. They were indeed hot, you weren’t lying about that. There was silence, anticipation with a bated breath, and then your lips were all that he felt. If anyone was watching, and they most likely were, it was like he was holding himself back. Jaw tensed, muscles taut, brows scrunched. It almost looked like he was in pain.

And he was in pain, his restraint being tested every second he kissed you. Trying so desperately to not have his way with you, to take you home and screw you into his dorm mattress. That’s not the type of person you were.

But boy, did you make it difficult. The mere act of placing your hands against his chest, pressing your body against his. Again, painfully obvious this wasn’t something you did often, but that made it all the more perfect to him. He intended to keep you that way, which is why he let go.

The confusion that overtook your features made him regret his decision more and more, twisting his insides with guilt for leaving you hanging. Your lips, donning a soft shine, mouthed his name, but any sound went fuzzy in his ears. The more he stared at them, the more that forbidden feeling stirred inside of him.

Mumbling an apology, he abruptly stepped back, not even sure of what he was even doing. He had to get away, head home. It was ironic, to long for you so deeply but to hold himself back from indulging in you. He was never one to shy away from what he desired; it was his very nature, his reputation. But he couldn’t just use a girl like you to scratch one of his sexual itches, how could he bring himself to?

And so, Felix turned his back on you, not uttering another word. He pushed through the crowded walkway in a blind frenzy, ignoring the people who tried to strike up conversation. Never once looking back. 

Soon enough, he heaved the grand doors open to his hall, ready to sleep off the feeling until a sultry voice called to him from his right. Annabel. Apparently she had been waiting for him.

It wasn’t long before she was straddled across his lap, basically eating away at the lower half of his face as she eagerly fumbled with his belt buckle. That’s what turned him off about her. Too eager, too annoying. It played a part as to why he had kept his distance from her, but for that night, she was better than nothing.

As she slipped off his lap to kneel on the messy floor of his dorm, his mind drifted elsewhere. The desperate girl in front of him disappeared, then you were there, just as he left you. Staring up at him behind your obnoxious glasses, your bottom lip trembling. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Would you even know how to do this sort of thing? 

If he allowed himself, he’d guide you, gripping a part of your hair. Not tight enough to hurt you, of course, just enough to get leverage. He’d watch as your pretty lips parted to take him in, taking your sweet time. Your mouth would be soft and hot, your tongue shifting about awkwardly underneath him. He bet that you’d have it down quickly; you were good at most things, being a quick learner. Perhaps there would be a few scrapes from your canines as you bobbed up and down, if he were to be realistic. But the sting was more than alright with him.

Felix always prided in himself for his ability to give a girl a good, long time. Why else would they flock to him by the dozens? So what was so different about you that made him feel like he was already about to burst the seams?

Because it was still you, sickly sweet and serene you, lips wrapped around him and devouring him like the candy you always loved. Your eyes would water, but he’d gladly wipe away each drop that managed to escape. It left him a whiny mess. Sweat prickling at his forehead, ragged breaths heaving his shoulders up and down, white-knuckling your hair.

And when he’d come close, he’d let you know. You didn’t like being caught off-guard. Your heavy disdain for pop-quizzes or his endless pranks of sneaking up behind you made that apparent. But he prided himself in knowing these things about you, that he was able to gather it all from your little ramblings. 

You liked American reality TV. Disliked gel pens. Loved your chips overdone. A ridiculous query crossed his mind. Would you like spitting or swallowing? Or would you rather it all over you? From how your lips were glued to him, it seemed like swallowing. But that made him hesitate. You would never like such a thing. You were squeamish around anything sticky or slimy. Cough syrup, oily or tacky lotions…you hated them. As much as it dismayed him, why would this be any different?

Because it wasn’t you. And as soon as the girl he had taken back to his dorm reappeared, he knew that she could never be you. Nobody could. He was disgusted with himself for dirtying that memory of you. He had turned something so innocent into something so grossly erotic, and he knew he had crossed a line. How could he ever see you the same way again?

He was also disgusted with how Annabel seemed to not care despite his disillusion. She might have been the only girl he had seen that got off on merely sucking someone off. It was genuinely pathetic. Her head was swiftly yanked up, her lips making a “pop” sound.

“Alright, get out.” “What? But we’ve barely done anything, Fe–” “I don’t fuckin’ care. Piss the fuck off!”

Felix thought he would feel bad about kicking Annabel out, especially after she left in tears with her clothes haphazardly buttoned. But he could genuinely not have cared in the slightest; he was already preoccupied, mind filled with guilt after what he had done to you. But did he feel regret? No. That’s what ate at him the most. Someone like him shouldn’t have gone for someone like you. 

Perhaps it was better to try and forget that he kissed you. Kissing you meant opening the floodgates of his feelings, his debauchery. He had to keep that closed so that you could stay as pure as you always were. His perfect girl.

And he would do anything to keep you that way.

to be continued!

a/n: dutifully fulfilling this request by my lovely anon. i wanted to delve more into the selfish, savior complex that he was and i DEFINITELY intend to take it deeper for the next part. again, thank you for the ask! co-written by @hellb4ts! leon, thank you for the many wonderful ideas. and you're welcome for introducing you to saltburn &lt;3 inbox is open for any asks or reqs !

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[thefeverburningalive]

ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 𝖳𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖨 𝖧𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖠𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖸𝗈𝗎.

billie eilish x fem! reader

chapter two | ch1

summary: due to the recent new rule given to your sister by your father, some meddling parties decide the easiest way to get you to date is by paying somebody to take you out. who better to do so then the hot mysterious delinquent?

a/n: part two is here! thank you SO MUCH for the love on the first part<3 sorry this one took so long to write but i really wanted to put my all into it! if you haven’t read the first part then please do before you read this one! requests are open so feel free to send them in:) please like, reblog, and share if you can <3

genre: slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, enemies(ish) to lovers, lowk fboy billie but not actually, eventual topics of drinking & high school parties

warnings: teenage partying (underage drinking), foul language

word count: 3.7k

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

“nice ride, vintage fenders. i dig it.” you’re met with the sound of billie’s voice and the scene of her leaning up against your car as you walk out of the small vintage shop. “are you following me?” billie laughs at your annoyance as she gets up and takes a smaller step closer to you. this time she’s wearing some black jeans, slightly less baggy than the ones she wore yesterday, along with a plain white tshirt and a black leather jacket. her hair was down this time with a little pair of dainty glasses decorating her face. “i was at the laundry mat across the street. i recognized your car from yesterday so i came to say hi.” the tone at which she spoke was unreadable, something you also noticed from yesterday, it was hard for you to analyze the true intention of her words. she looks at you like she’s anticipating a response, so with an eye roll you give her one. “hi.” you then swiftly try to enter your car. “not much of a talker, huh?” billie, just as swift, slides her frame between you and the car door- making it impossible for you to close said door. “depends on the topic. didn’t seem like there was much to discuss.” she tilts her head slightly at you, almost like she was confused yet amused. you raise her eyebrow at her and she continues to speak. “you’re really not afraid of me, are you?” billie seemed genuinely intrigued. her question perplexed you, as did she. “why would i be afraid of you?” you say, speaking more genuine then you have been with her. she simply shrugs, tugging her hands into her jacket pockets. “well- most people are.” it’s then your turn to give a slight chuckle. “well- im not most people.” you where pleased with your own response. not that you’re interested in talking to her, but it was fun to sass someone who wasn’t on your usual list. with that billie steps aside while putting her arm out in an ‘after you’ gesture, referring to you entering your own car. you roll your eyes and start the car- but not before noticing the wink billie throws your way. you make sure she catches your scoff before pulling out of the spot to drive home.

later that day, billie’s leaning up against her own car, smoking a cigarette once again while waiting for zoe to come out of the store. “we know what you’re trying to do- with y/n stratford.” billie turns her focus to see cameron and micheal standing beside her. “yeah? and what’re gonna do about it?” billie gives them a dead stare as she speaks. the two boys start to get nervous as they continue to speak. “w-we’re here to help out!” the boys then go on to explain how it was them who planned the whole ordeal. they also proceed to tell her about the information about you they had gotten from bianca, things like your favorite bands, favorite foods, along with the fact that you hated people who smoke. “so how exactly do you expect me to charm a girl who won’t even give me the time of day?” as billie speaks- she starts to get slightly annoyed. despite most people being afraid of her, she’s still always good with the ladies. not being able to get you into her charm was a challenge she’s getting frustrated with. “let’s start with friday night. there’s gonnna be a huge party. it’s the perfect opportunity.” the two seem pretty adamant about this party, but it’s not really billie’s scene. at this point billie notices zoe leave the store with a bag in hand. they give each other a look as zoe entered the passengers seat. “i gotta go. i’ll think about it.” cameron and micheal took a step back as billie entered her car. she starts it with a loud roar and headed off. “god i hope this works.” cameron says to micheal as micheal pats his back.

using the information she just obtained- billie found out that one of your favorite bands, the sleeping, would be playing at one of the local clubs that night. with much dismay billie sat herself at the bar of the club- the last place she’d want to be. “i need water!” you yell to your friend from on the dance floor before approaching the bar. as you order you notice billie sitting there, beer in hand. “you know, if you plan on asking me out again, you better just get it over with.” you say- mostly shout- to billie. she glances up then take a sip of her drink. “would you mind? you’re kind of ruining the music for me.” this makes you actually laugh. “you’re not surrounded by your usual smoke cloud.” you state the observation, actually holding conversation with the girl. “i know. i quit. they’re apparently bad for you.” billie has a hint of sarcasm in her voice as she remains seated, looking up at you. “you know, these guys are no jimmy eat world or taking back sunday, but they’re not bad.” she speaks once more, keeping her attention on the stage at the other end of the large room. “you know who taking back sunday is?!” you choke down the smile that dares to spread across your face, although for once billie is able to see through you. this makes her grin before continuing. “why? you don’t? y’know i was watching you out there before,, never seen you look so sexy mamas.” billie throws a wink your way as you cringe at the nickname. you take note that this isn’t the first time she’s called you that. the persistent girl then finally notices the amount of people watching her, realizing they all heard her call you sexy. she scratches the back of her neck slightly embarrassed of the attention and this makes you smirk as you cross your arms. “come to the party with me y/n.” that’s the first time she’s called you by your name. “you don’t give up, do you billie?” you seemed it only fitting to use her name in turn. “was that a yes?” billie now stands up infront of you. “no.” you state as you start to walk away from billie and towards your friends. “well, was that a no?!” billie shouts to you, cupping her hands around her mouth so her words reach you. “no!” you shout back over your shoulder, an unmistakable smile lightly displayed across your face.

friday night

as you walk down the stairs, you hear bianca and your father bicker. she’s begging him to let her and her friend go to the party. “daddy everyone expects me there!!” she shouts with her usual annoying whine-coated tone. “do you know about any party y/n?” your father turns his attention to you now. you simply shrug your shoulders, you knew about this party and how much it meant to bianca. as much as you two didn’t always get along she was still your sister, so you didn’t want to ruin her shot of going with your opinions. “bianca you’re not going unless your sister goes.” your fathers words make the both of your jaws drop. bianca turns to you and puts her hands on your shoulders. “can you please, just for one night, forget that you’re completely wretched and just be my sister? please y/n?? please do this for me!” even with her insults you could tell bianca was sincere. you closed your eyes and sighed. “fine. i’ll make an appearance i guess.” you gave in, and it makes both bianca and her friend start to jump up and down and scream with joy. your dad starts to give the two a lecture so you use the opportunity to slip back upstairs so you could change out of your lounge clothes. you settle on a pair of dark blue wash flair miss me jeans, along with an off the shoulder slightly baggy black long sleeved shirt. you slip into your beat up vans and head back downstairs. the three of you go to head out the door, but standing outside- mid knock in motion- is billie. “what are you doing here??” billie’s wearing a matching baggy tshirt and short set with some knee high socks, black shoes and bandana around her head. “it’s friday. im here to take you to the party.” you scoff and slide past her. “whatever. im driving.” and with that all four of you where off to the party. the second you arrive you’re met with loud music and drunken imbeciles. bianca and her friend immediately dissapeared, leaving you with just billie. “ayyyy look who crawled her way out of hell! lookin good tonight y/n!” joey stands infront of you, his friends whistling behind him. “fuck off joey. you’re too close, i can see your receding hairline.” you cross your arms and walk away, at this point you even lost billie. “aw cmon where you goin’?” joey jogs up to you and keeps your pace. “away.” you try to ignore him, but he doesn’t quit. “your sister here?” this makes you stop dead in your tracks. “you stay away from my sister.” you lean in close, your pointer finger pushing against his chest. he laughs and throws his arm up. “oh i’ll stay away from your sister, but i cannot guarantee she’ll stay away from me.” the cockiness and mockery that smothered his voice makes your blood boil. he seems satisfied firing you up and heads off in the direction of a bunch of guys chugging beer kegs. “oh fuck this.” giving in, you grab a red solo cup and fill it with whatever vile liquor was in the large kitchen. within thirty five minutes you’re already drunk.

billie had absolutely no idea where you went. one minute she was following behind you, and the next you’re completely out of her sight. just as she was about to give up she notices you over by a kitchen island, taking a shot, and pouring yourself another. “what’re you doing? ‘ve been lookin all over the place for you.” there’s a rosey hue that covers your cheeks due to the alcohol consumption, your guard and attitude are down as well. “psh i’m getting trashed man. isnt that what you’re supposed to do at a party?” you’re actually smiling as you speak. billie’s never seen anyone so.. pretty. maybe it was just the alcohol talking, for the both of you, but there was something about you that stood out to her. you then pushed past billie, letting her catch a wiff of your pistachio and vanilla perfume, and grabbed another drink. billie sighed and came to stand directly in front of you to take the drink. “hey hey, how ‘bout you let me have this one, huh?” you swerve your arm before she could take the bottle from you. “no! this one’s mine!” you make a quick run for it and leave billie stranded in the kitchen. she honestly wasn’t sure what to do. she thought about letting you get drunk and let loose- but apart of her knew that you’d be extremely unhappy by the morning. the sound of the cheering of your name and whistling pulls billie out of her thoughts. as she looked up she saw you standing on a coffee table, dancing and singing to whatever awful song is playing. more and more people gathered to watch as you sway your hips and run your fingers through your hair. billie pushed people out of her way to stand right beside the table, making sure not to take her eyes off of you as you stumble and dance. when you finally notice billie you attempt to say something to her, but before you can, you trip over your shoelaces. you prepared yourself to hit the ground but you’re met with strong, soft, arms. billie had caught you. all you could do was stare at her face. you’d never really looked that closely at it. from this angle, you could see all the soft freckles that decorated her face. her lips where a soft pink- just like her cheeks. her eyes where light blue yet somehow so deep, almost hypnotizing. “are you okay mamas?” billie held genuine concern for you, you could tell. what are you thinking? getting all soft. you should know better. don’t be weak. you then pushed billie away as you stood up. “ ‘m fine.” you attempt to walk away but you stumble and are forced to put a hand on billie’s shoulder to balance yourself. “you’re not fine. cmon.” billie puts your arm fully around her while placing her own around your waist. the taller girl starts to lead you through the crowded house, heading to the back door. “js needta.. sit.” was all you said- a pitiful attempt of a protest. billie says nothing in response while continuing to lead you now that you’re out in the backyard.

“cmon, here, sit down.” billie places you carefully onto a swing seat- but not before you slip and fall on your back. “jesus y/n- the last thing you need is a concussion.” billie gets you up and guides you back to the swing. she holds it while you plop yourself down, insuring that you don’t fall off. you get annoyed at her holding you up. “ugh you’re so patronizing.” billie laughs as she slowly lets you go. she places herself on the swing next to you but still turns her body to face you. “leave it up to you to use big words when you’re fucked up.” a silence falls over you two. for the first time neither of you know what to say next. every interaction that took place between the two of you had always had some sort of comment, rebuttal, question or answer. but now there was only silence. it was killing you now that some of the alcohol was wearing off, enough to make you aware but yet still tipsy enough to be lose. “why are you doing this?” you broke the silence. you wanted answers so you broke the silence. “well, you could get sick.. plus i gotta make sure you didn’t hit your head hard enough to do some damage.” billie’s answer wasn’t exactly what you wanted to hear. sure, that may be why she’s currently doing what she’s doing, but that didn’t answer what you actually wanted to know. “you wouldn’t care if i never woke up.” you crossed your right leg over your left, letting the other bounce up and down. “sure i would.” you give her a look that makes her laugh, and it’s almost contagious. almost. “if you didn’t wake up then i’d have to start taking out girls who actually like me.” billie responded while leaning her body the slightest bit closer to you. you rolled your eyes and looked away. “like you could find one.” billie lets out a smaller, shorter, laugh now. “see! that there. who needs affection when i have blind hatred?” you couldn’t lie, that made you laugh a little. you sighed with a slight smile. “i don’t really know you.” you say as you look up at the sky, admiring some of its stars. billie pauses for a moment, debating on what to say next. “then again you don’t really know me either.” after adding that part in, you brought your focus back to billie. her expression softens, she looks down at her own hands, before looking back at you, then back at her hands. “eilish. uh- my middle name is eilish. i always thought my last name was silly so i started introducing myself with my middle name when i was a kid.” even though she wasn’t looking at you, you where looking at her. “billie eilish. hm. has a nice ring to it.” your response gets her to lock eyes with you, noticing that you have a smile plastered on your face. this time you weren’t trying to hide it. “i can’t believe i drank so muchhh im so dumb.” you change the topic with a whine and put your head in your hands while leaning on your knees. “yeaaah i definitely didn’t picture you to be the party type.” billie didn’t want to push to ask why, but almost as if you could read her mind, you started to speak. “i let him get to me.” picking your head up with a sigh, you look back at her. “why though?” this time billie allows herself to push just the slightest bit. “i hate him.” you both pause, looking at each other, and then break out into a small fit of laughter. “well you’ve chosen the perfect revenge. tequila.” her small dig made you roll your eyes. “yeah yeah. no need to remind me eilish.” this was your first time giving her a nick name instead of the other way around. you didn’t notice, but this caused a small blush to creep across her face. “mhm. well i told you something about me, so do i get to hear something about you?” billie speaks with a slight nervous tone, almost like she’s unsure if she’s saying the right thing. you think for a few seconds, unsure of what you should or shouldn’t share. “i play the guitar. nothing fancy, im self taught, but it’s something i enjoy doing in solitude.” once again silence falls over you.

billie goes to say something but notices you leaning against the swings chain with your eyes closed. “y/n?” no response. she leans a little closer. “y/n??” once again no response. she quickly gets up and knees in front of you, bringing her hand to your face as she softly taps over and over again on your cheek. “hey, hey, hey- shit fuck- no no, y/n wake up- y/n can you hear me??” this makes you blink your eyes open and lean into her touch. your faces merely inches apart. “hey.. im up.. ‘js tired.” neither of you move. “y’know.. your eyes are so pretty.” you say just barley above a whisper. billie sighs with a smile, and also relief. she realizes her hand is still cupping your face, so she quickly pulls away. like clockwork a wave of nausea hits you. you turn your body around in the seat and start to throw up. it wasn’t a lot- but enough to make you audibly groan. “aaaand on that note, let’s get you home.” she pats your back and lets you finish up before helping you up and walks you to the car. billie of course took your keys the second she caught you from falling, so naturally she gets in the drivers seat. you didn’t even question it. you sip on some water as billie turns on the radio before she starts to drive you home. the sound of one of your favorite songs causes you to slightly turn up the volume. “god i love no doubt. such a good band.” billie only hums in response. “i should do this.” you say as billie then takes a quick look at you before bringing her attention back to the road. “do what?” she had no idea what you where talking about. “this!” you point to the radio. “start a band?” her question makes you scoff. “no become a car stereo. yes start a band! my father would looove that.” you lean your head against the back of the seat and start to look out the window. a part of you dreads going back home. “you don’t strike me as the type that would ask your father for permission.” billie doesn’t look at you, but it takes everything in her not to. “oh so you think you know me?” you turn your body in the passengers seat to face her a little more. billie chuckles and steals a quick look at you before leaning her right elbow on the center console and using her left hand to steer the car. “i’m gettin there.” billie says as she stops at a red light. “the only thing people know about me is that i’m ‘scary’ and a bitch.” you use finger quotes when saying the word scary while emphasizing the description others gave you. “yeah well i’m not a picnic either.” she looks at you after speaking, coincidentally at the same time you look at her- almost like the two of you are sharing a moment of connection before billie sees the light turn green from her peripheral vision. she turns back to the road and continues to drive. it gets quiet once more so billie begins to talk again. “so, what’s up with your dad? is he a pain in the ass?” you could tell billie’s question was genuine. “no not really, he just wants me to be someone i’m not.” after responding you notice the two of you are approaching your house. “who?” billie asks while putting the car into park. “bianca.” the question and answer was cut and dry. “ah bianca.. no offense or anything, i know everyone digs your sister, but uhm.. i think you’re the better stratford sister.” billie’s now turned towards you, leaning back in her seat. you start to stare at her, a little bit of new found admiration fills your chest. “you know, you’re not as vile as i thought you where.” you where now leaning in to her. inching closer and closer, lips parting, the want to kiss her taking over your whole body. you thought this is what you wanted, what she wanted, what you both wanted. but before your lips could connect with hers, she slightly pulls back and clears her throat before speaking. “maybe we should uh- do this another time.” you couldn’t even describe the intense emotions you felt. anger. disappointment. embarrassment. nothing was said before you stormed out of the car, slamming it shut.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

tag list <3 : @emilyshortcake

[super-clearlysaltybouquet]

The One With the Blouse (2/2)

Part 2/2

Wolfstar x reader      Sirius Black x reader      Remus Lupin x reader      Sirius Black x Remus Lupin      Sirius Black x reader x Remus Lupin 

Established couple (throuple)

Summary: Sirius apologises, Lily and Remus help

Warnings:

Minor angst

Hurt/comfort 

Fluff

Word count: 1.5k

You trudge up the steps of the girl’s dormitory. Tonight at least you know you’ll have an empty room. After a party, Marlene and Mary tend to fall asleep on the couches by the fire. Always the last to leave, and the first to insist on helping clean up. Lily will be with James, recently endowed with prefect duties and a single room, you have no doubt he’ll be taking advantage of the privacy. 

You sit in bed and hold yourself tight, calming your rushing heart, and trying desperately to cease the tears that just keep falling. Hours pass, and the loud sounds of youthful jubilance from the party below do too. 

You want to believe that Sirius didn’t mean any of it. He seemed almost just as upset as you were when you left the dorm. He has a habit of self-sabotage when things start going too well, Remus did warn you about that. But you aren’t a fan of wishful thinking. It’s far easier to let yourself wallow in the believe that you three just aren’t meant to be, and that they’ll do better without your imposition.

A soft knock on the door startles you, “Y/N, can I come in?”, Lily, that can’t be right. You respond in a daze, and she steps in wordlessly, looking far too sympathetic for your liking. 

“Remus said you might need some company”, she smiles.  

“Did they enjoy the party?”, you ask, entirely genuine. 

“They never came down”.

She moves to sit across from you on the red sheets, her fingers lost in her pockets as she pulls something out. A paper crane.

“Sirius made it for you”, she says, and your fragile heart summersaults. 

You extend your hand out, and Lily drops the paper to your open palm. The moment it touches your skin the bird begins to fly. It flutters around you in circles first, then flaps its wings in place between the two of you. It’s beautiful magic, Sirius’s touch is unmistakable. The paper rearranges itself back into its basic form, a flat sheet of parchment with writing on one side. 

It reads quite simply: 

I’m an idiot. I’m so, so sorry. Will do better. not your fault. Sirius,

It’s not exactly poetic, or even particularly romantic, but you appreciate the sincerity. The spreading, watery ink bleeding between letters - and dark raised tearstains affirms the earnestness of the apology. Lily seems hesitant before she speaks again, but her tone is reassuring, “You know, with him these things are never personal, he used to get like this with Remus when they first started out too”, and that shocks you. They seem like a complete unit now, reading each other’s minds and silent cues in a way you haven’t mastered yet. It seems almost unbelievable to imagine the two of them at each other’s throats. 

“I should go talk to them”, you sigh. Despite Sirius’s apology, you've resigned yourself to your fate. Re-playing the events of earlier tonight again and again in your mind, you can’t help but feel shameful. Maybe you overreacted, or you didn’t pay close enough attention to Sirius’s frustrations early enough. As if reading your mind:

“I understand why you’re upset; he told me what he said to you” Lily says, “If James said anything like that I don’t think I’d ever speak to him again”,

“You don’t think I should forgive him?” you ask, eyes looking back to the paper crane. The charmed parchment has re-folded itself perfectly and continues to fly.

Lily shrugs, “Sirius isn’t James, he doesn’t always mean what he says”, and somehow you find that incredibly comforting.

-

You walk to their dorm, paper crane in hand. Your stomach turns when you knock. There’s a rustle and a small shout from inside before the door creeks open, quicker than you’re prepared for. Remus steps out. His eyes are bright red and puffy, and looking at his hands on the wooden door you can tell he’s been picking at his fingers again. You hate to think that you might've been the cause of any of his pain. “Lily gave you the crane”, he says, half smiling now, and you think things might just be okay. 

He cracks the door open further, welcoming you inside with his hand at the small of your back. 

“Are you okay?”, you worry, glimpsing between his eyes and his scratched fingers, 

Remus nods. 

“All better now”, he says, half smile growing into nearly a grin, you believe him.

“Where’s Sirius?”, you ask.

Remus motions his head to the bathroom, and you cast him a bewildered look,

“I cast a silencing charm”, he explains, as if that really explains anything at all, “He needed to calm down”, he adds.

“So, he’s taking a bath?”, 

Remus shakes his head and waves his wand. The sound of sniffling and quiet crying finds it’s way through the dorm room, slightly muffled by something indistinguishable. 

“He’s got his head in the sink”, Remus says, and you really have nothing to say in response, “We had it filled with ice to keep the muggle beer right, I thought the cold would calm him down”, he elaborates, like an adoringly patient parent talking about a particularly affected toddler. Remus’s tenderness towards Sirius fills you with something light, and warm. You don’t miss the unspoken detail; Remus couldn’t bear to listen to your lover cry.

“He was in the wrong, and he really is sorry”, he says, and you don’t need to be convinced. You wonder how many times they’ve been through this, the arguments and reconciliation you’re only just learning to navigate. 

Remus opens the bathroom door for you, and low and behold Sirius’s head is in the sink. Three bottles of beer are parked haphazardly in the corner of the porcelain to make up for the space a human head takes up. He’s still wearing the same blouse. His shoulder are shaking, and his hands are so white gripping the sides of the sink that they’re almost luminescent.

Remus walks up behind him, rubbing circles up and down his back. He gives you a quick encouraging glance before he’s leaning down, speaking softly into Sirius’s ear, “Sweetheart, Y/N is here to talk to you, Lily gave her your crane”.

His head shoots up from the ice, pale and wild looking, like a corpse brought to life. Hair completely drenched, and ice water dribbling off the tip of his nose. He turns to you with wide eyes, looking entirely panicked. 

“I’m so, so sorry darling, I’m such bloody idiot”, he spills out, “I didn’t mean any of it, I’m not sure why I said it anyway, and then you were so upset, fuck sweetheart”, his words come out at a million miles a minute, you’re sure he’s taken your time apart to ruminate intently on his misdeeds. He takes a second to breathe, “-then Moony was upset with me too, Walburga sent me a howler yesterday and it got my mood all mixed up, I should have just talked to you, such a bloody idiot”, he pants out.

Remus hasn’t stopped circling his gentle hands up and down Sirius’s shoulders, providing a much-needed salve to the other boy’s anxiety. 

“I shouldn’t have left”, You say with regret “I should’ve stayed to talk to you”,

Sirius shakes his head, sprinkles of sink water flicking off the ends of his hair, “I upset you, you had every right to take a minute to yourself”, you nod in response, grateful he isn’t holding your flightiness against you. He seems much calmer now, the ice water, Remus’s touch, and your return serving as the perfect trifecta. It’s all slightly awkward, you’re both unsure how to proceed, stuck just for now in that fumbly post-argument stage. Remus spares you a slightly desperate glance, begging silently for you to say something. 

“Thank you for the crane, and the note”, you oblige.

“I meant what I wrote, I’ll do better”, he says it with conviction, and you appreciate the affirmation. “I'll do whatever you want, I’ll strip and flog myself all the way to Holyhead if-”, you interrupt him in haste, you’re not even sure he’s joking.

“-no no Sirius I forgive you, really”, his tense shoulders relax like mountains relieved of their own weight, and in the corner of your eye you think Remus’s do too. 

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”, he questions,

“No, I mean it, honest”, and you lift your hand up beside your face, mimicking the action of taking some sort of oath. It puts a slight smile on Sirius’s face. “Come here”, you say, and he collapses into you, initiating the tightest hug of your life. He’s wet and cold, but you couldn’t care less, glad to have him back in your arms.

“Next time, please just tell me if I’m being too fussy, and I’ll give you a bit of space”, you say, muffled practically inside Sirius’s armpit. You feel him nod emphatically, “I promise”.

A warmth has returned to the dorm, and the red and gold accents of the room are suddenly more vibrant. The three of you stay up for a while, just holding one another, and talking softly into each other’s skin.

[holnnetd]

Omg omg omg, how does Konig react when he sees a bunny hybrid in comparison???

Now that got me thinking.

How would König react to Hare!Reader next to a bunny hybrid?

(To be absolutely honest, I don't know. So this is badly written, sorry not sorry😊 please make specific requests or I will disappear for 5 months with no other idea about what to write 😞)

"Sht." He held his hand up to silence any noise you might have made. You both stood before the old, wooden door, his hand clutching onto the rifle, tightening his grip before checking the handle, confirming that the metal is twistable.

With a deafening silence, he pushed the handle and charged in, rifle at eye level, making sure no one was hidden in the room in the complete darkness. In case there stood someone with a knife, ready to plunge it into his very biteable neck. Good for him, no one threatening was there. You followed, covering his back in case of any surprise attack.

Not that you'd want him to stay unscarred, but your pay would be cut if he went and started complaining to the commander about you not doing your job "correctly".

...

A breathless whimper comes out from the dark corner and you avert your eyes to look at the source of fear. Ah. The hostage. God, the whole objective of this mission was a hostage rescue. Some rich assholes kid got taken as blackmail.

"Found the hostage." He murmured, talking into his radio. "The threat is neutralised. No known threats nearby." His voice rings out, ensuring we are safe for the time being. Really, it wasn't hard to find this hideout. The guys were just broke blokes, probably working for some mafia.

You glance at the not so kid like kid.

... That's a young adult, not that much of a kid.

It's a... ah... it's hard to pinpoint their gender.

The rich bastard said something about daughter and money. And some thing else, you are sure. But what it was? That's the better question.

König stares at the hybrid with light confusion. Ah yes, not only has he never met a bunny hybrid but he doesn't know what an androgynous person is.

Fucking old school. Keep up with the times my man. Its the 21st century, guys wear dresses and women peg their boyfriends with 10 inch straps. A girlish-boy or boyish-girl should be least of his concerns.

"Jesus." You huffed out, freeing your hands from any weapon and walked closer to the hostage. A rabbit hybrid. Short black ears, large beaded eyes and fairly frail with a decent amount of squish. That's a cute face though.

"Hello." You greet them, smiling. They seem to be quite confused, as one is. To be honest the kidnappers must have been so shit even their hostage wasn't scared, rather confused. "We're here to rescue." You add, glancing back at the overly silent behemoth behind you for confirmation.

He seems to be deep in thought, staring between the hostage and teammate. "... That's what?" He blurts out offhandedly, not knowing any manners.

"That's... the hostage. A person. Which is addressed by who, not what."

"Ah, yes, yes. Of course. I mean the breed." Bitch, really? Did wolfs raise you? Scratch that, even they have more respect.

"..."

It's still an ongoing discussion as to what hybrid types should be called. Breeds or races. It's... subjective, but damn... Read the room.

"They are a rabbit." You clarify. But he doesn't seem satisfied with that answer.

"...But you don't look the same." He retorts gruffly, GENUINELY confused why a rabbit isn't the same as a hare.

Of fucking course. He never learns, does he?

Ahem. Right. Lets pretend the hostage never saw the abuse you unleashed upon the huge man after that stupid comment.

"Can... can we go?" They ask slowly, staring at the huge man trying to shield himself from the fists flying his way.

"Ah, yes." He gruffs, feeling that the hits you laid on him might end up with a bruise on his already scarred skin.

"So, you two are related? Do your 'periods' sync up?" A humourless joke came out of his mouth and I'm pretty sure that might be the last joke he has ever voiced.

"Okay, now you crossed the line." Is all he hears before his nose was broken. Once more.

He has only himself to blame.

[noemilivv]

Hi 👋,

If you're still taking requests, I absolutely loved the most recent one you did with Lucifer, Adam and Vox proposing and marrying their s/o.

If possible could you do one similar to that but for Husk and Alastor?

If not, it's totally cool and I'm loving your work 😊

hellooo, dw i’m still taking requests haha, yeah i can do that for you!! the first part was undeniably fun to write so obviously i’ll do it again for ya haha

Warnings: None(?)

Alastor Proposal + Wedding Headcanons

Alastor never really knew what love truly felt like, until he met you, from that alone — he knew you were the one

His proposal was simple, but still very gentlemanly, his shadows were his band, playing some of your shared favorite songs, and Alastor stood in a different suit than the one he normally wears, a black version with a red streak instead of the white line that goes down the collar

He stood in the center of your room in the hotel, awaiting for you to get back from work, with a bouquet of spider lilies in his hands and a ring box in his pocket.

When you arrive, he has a soft and gentle smile on his face, in contrast to the big grin he usually shows, he didn’t feel vulnerable or at risk with you, so he could wind down with you

He hands you the bouquet and gets down on one knee, taking your ring out of the box, holding it to you, as his other hand takes yours in his and kisses the back of it

“My dearest and truest love, you have made me feel more alive than I ever have, even in my years on Earth.” He started, his radio affect softer than you’ve ever heard it, it’s unlike him, given he usually has a more cheery tone.

“You have showed me what love truly feels like, what in feels like in here —” He said, putting a hand to his heart, “That being said, would you make me the happiest man in Hell and be my lawfully wedded spouse?”

You and Alastor have a wedding almost immediately, thanks to his magic staff.

The ceremony is like any other, other than the fact your soon-to-be husband has a massive fucking grin on his face that did not falter the whole time, other than when you came down the isle, and it seemed to inch up his face more.

When it came to the kiss, he does turn you both around as he does not enjoy displaying affection infront of others, but he also won’t break tradition, so…

The reception is nowhere near boring, he knows how to have a good time, there’s excitable jazz music that has a good chunk of guests swaying and moving their feet

He also may or may not freak out some family members of yours…but that’s okay!

He also does not wish to be in wedding photos, due to his opinions on modern cameras and tech, but will for you, and either way, he knows his grin fucks up the photos in contrast to your beauty so he doesn’t really see the point tbh — but he’ll most likely make you guys use an old camera for effect

Husk Proposal + Wedding

Headcanons

Husk genuinely did not care to get married, well, he would be fine if you did, but he was content the way you both were, but he knew how much of a romantic you were so…

Quite frankly, he probably had the laziest proposal out of everyone I’ve written for for this, while you guys were laying in bed, bitch asked you if you would ever wanna get married and proceeded to basically chuck the ring box at you.

You and Husk were in your shared bed. It was late, you were just about to doze off for the night, until you heard Husk’s gruff voice pipe up.

“I have a question for ya.” He said, staring at the ceiling with you on his furry chest. “And that is?” you ask, popping your head up in curiosity,

“Would you ever wanna get married?” He asked, looking down at you, a soft and subtle smirked played on his lips. “Oh!- Uh, probably!” You answered, a bit thrown off by the question.

“‘Kay, great.” Husk muttered, plopping the ring box in between you two. “Husk, what the fu-”

Yeah before you could finish he was already asleep 😛

Husk mainly leaves wedding planning to you, not cause he’s a dick, but it’s just not his thing, he will help out when need be though

At the ceremony, Husk is holding back a couple tears, only a few though!

He never saw himself as the sentimental type, and he knows he didn’t really have the desire to do this in the first place, but now? He knows he made the right choice, even if it was at 2 in the morning.

The reception is chill, it’s kinda just sitting around and chatting, and yes there’s a bar, and Husk is pissed he can’t work it.

There’s chill jazz music in the back, but it’s not like Alastor’s where it had people swaying, it was more soothing, and it wasn’t like Adam’s where people were absolutely bopping to music either

You guys still don’t know if you’re having a honeymoon, Husk is still way too tired and way too hungover to make that decision.

[deliciouskeys]

Me: I already wrote Tentacles for last kinktober. It's old hat now that it's actually part of canon. Why bother.

Me after staring at @vanshoundd and @annetess' art about it for like hours: Okay maybe I'll write it after all. (Thank you for your art 🤤)

Cozy corner kinktober 2024 prompt #11: Tentacles

Free and Wild and Beyond Good and Evil

Butchlander 3.1k; TW: noncon, violence, teratophilia, uh... idk just not very wholesome at all. Please excuse me.

There was never any real plan, Butcher admits to himself as he drives down the empty dark highway. Something something, Frenchie said the virus might be strong enough to kill Homelander, something something, it would have to be airborne which would start a supe plague and make everyone piss and moan about Butcher committing biowarfare genocide, something something, it was going to be a last resort. A plan Z, only nebulously conceived. So what was Plan A, really? What was good for the ganders (Ezekiel, Victoria) was unlikely to be good for the goose, but Butcher just can’t help but crave the visceral feeling of ripping Homelander apart, if not with his own bare hands, then at least his tumor’s jacked up bare hands. Cancer— it was really living up to the name. Butcher feels like he’s been possessed by an alien creature, cancriform, heinously ugly, and unbelievably strong. It’s just too tempting not to try, even though trying and not succeeding isn’t really a good option at all with a near-omnipotent supe like Homelander.

Butcher just has so little to lose. He’s a husk of a human being, and he feels more like a shambling, crumbling meatsuit to carry the cancer to its destination, its rendezvous with fate.

“I’ll get you your revenge, don’t you worry,” Kessler assures him and Butcher wants to hurl just a little bit knowing his cancer can just talk to him, choose whatever guise makes him feel at ease, through a literal neural link to his brain, even though Kessler seems to have chosen headquarters in a metastasis somewhere near his solar plexus, shooting tentacles out into the outside world like the rays of a black sun. “I’ll get you your revenge and you’ll get to experience every moment of it. I won’t leave you hangin’.”

+++

Homelander should have known not to take such obvious bait. Homelander should have remembered that the last two times William Butcher took it into his head to fight him, he very nearly succeeded in overpowering him. Or at least depowering him, with the help of a certain relic from the 1980s. At least that wildcard is still stashed in the federal freezer in DC. But Homelander should have realized that William Butcher announcing that he was ready to keep their scorched earth promise meant he came to play. Maybe he was touched that William called Vought’s headquarters and asked to speak to him. Maybe he was flattered to hear his phrase be used like code between them, even though they never seemed to entirely agree on its meaning. Maybe he was genuinely craving to finish William off before his illness got to do those honors.

Something prompted him to zoom over to the abandoned warehouse in Jersey City, without consulting Sage, without trying to locate Ryan and make sure he was safe, without doing much of anything besides walking straight into the ambush. Can it really be called an ambush if it’s announced beforehand? Homelander counts it as an ambush, because he expected to see William at half speed, that much closer to death with that growth in his brain no doubt spreading further. Instead… instead, before he can even locate which corner of the warehouse William’s heartbeat is coming from, a dark sticky tendril rapidly twines itself around his face— around his eyes first and foremost. Homelander let out only one snarl before something similar winds itself around his neck and begins constricting all breathing. Whatever it is, it’s moving fast, violently fast, and Homelander is astonished to feel just how strong whatever is trapping him is. His fingers scrabble at what feels almost like a plant vine around his face and neck, but he cannot wedge his fingers in and pry it away or apart. It’s squeezing him tighter and tighter… from what godforaken obscure corner of hell did William pick up this supe with boa constrictor powers? That Homelander can’t recall from Vought’s files at all? 

Homelander tries not to panic, tries to orient himself, but he just feels more of whatever has him in its grips touching his legs. Not only touching his legs. Wrapping around his ankles, lassoing and pulling them flush against each other so that Homelander loses his balance and ends up suspended in the air. He thinks he’s hovering in the air through his own power, but whatever is holding him has got an iron grip and he suspects that he’d still remain suspended in the air even if he dropped himself down, held by this… thing, sticky, reeking of something oddly familiar and off-putting. The long vines holding him start winding their way around his body in tight coils towards each other, the one at his ankles proceeding to spiral up around the rest of his legs and the one from his neck proceeding to wrap his shoulders, pin his arms straight to his sides as it travels to meet its twin. Homelander is terrified to realize that no matter how much force he exerts against the long rope-like sentient arms, he can’t free himself. He’s never been overpowered like this… but that’s not really true is it. Last time he got pinned down against his will, William was one of the three perpetrators and Homelander had no doubt he was the ringleader. So where is he now? Homelander can hear his heartbeat, can smell him, his cigarettes, his beard oil, the tea molecules circulating in his veins and out his pores, and yes the vile stench of disease, and it’s overwhelming and all around him. 

When Homelander renews his struggle to free one hand, a vine snaps against his knuckles painfully. “Knock it off,” William’s gruff voice tells him. Only then does it finally dawn on Homelander that the mystery supe managing to wrap him up like a mummy is Butcher himself, and that the sickly odor is exactly that— the smell of something that should be inside the body, the smell of something greedy and selfish and hogging all metabolic resources. It’s what William smelled ever so faintly of last time he saw him in the hotel kitchen, and now it’s on full blast so Homelander didn’t even place it as the same smell at first. A faint smile passes Homelander’s lips, always feeling pleased to finally recognize something. But that’s about all he has to be pleased about. The situation is dire— he cannot move and now he feels the distinct sensation of William’s two… arms? Vines? Tentacles? Trying to rend him in half. In vain so far, but the tentacles are so forceful, so persistent, that Homelander becomes worried when he hears popping sounds around his compressed ribcage. It’s not his body losing integrity like poor Vicky’s did though— it’s his suit giving up the ghost and getting shredded, the tentacles accidentally peeling him out of his clothing, rolling pieces of it toward his neck and others toward his ankles. Homelander tries to open his eyes, look through. Just getting a glimpse of the scene could help him figure out his best chance for escape, but the tentacle wrapped around his head is squeezing it tightly, as if hoping it can pop his skull open like a nut. It can’t, but Homelander also can’t open his eyelids against the constant pressure. He feels a breeze across his skin, he feels tatters of his suit still hanging off random limbs, but he’s largely naked, and the tentacle regroup, wrap around him again, and this time Homelander can’t help but squirm. It’s just too much sensation against his bare skin. ‘Stop’ he tries to plead but the tentacle squeezing his neck shut doesn’t let him do more than wheeze hoarsely and unintelligibly.

“I ain’t enjoyin it, I’m trying to rip him in half, hard as I can. Ain’t my fault he’s a durable motherfucker.”

Homelander desperately listens in, trying to identify someone else’s heartbeat, breathing, anything, trying to figure out who William is talking to, but all he hears is the cacophony of blood rushing through each tentacle as they twist and tighten ever more around his body. He can’t make out anyone else’s presence in the warehouse.

He still struggles against the grip he’s in, still tries to wriggle the hundreds of tentacle coils loose, but he has a sinking feeling that he’s immobilized until Butcher decides to relent.

+++

They’ve been in this deadlock struggle for more than an hour. Butcher isn’t so much physically tired as mentally weary. Homelander’s nude, and Butcher has never seen him like that before, even though most of him is hidden under the tentacles trapping him in place. Butcher watches the supe’s body periodically still making a valiant effort to escape, muscles shifting, flesh bulging around each tentacle constricting him. His skin is shiny and Butcher’s not sure if it’s the supe’s sweat or whatever clear sticky mucus his cancer’s tentacles keep secreting.

“Look at you two perverts. You’ve found a new bonding exercise!”

“Just shut it,” Butcher says very quietly, through gritted teeth, hoping the supe in his clutches is too preoccupied to overhear him talk to himself like the madman he’s become.

+++

Homelander wonders if the long time without taking full breaths is taking a toll on his brain functions. He’s stopped struggling against his confines. The tentacles can’t hurt him like they did Vicky— that much is clear. And Homelander is for some unfathomable reason both panicked and blissed out. He’s panicking at the level of strength he’s faced with here… He can’t bear to say it, but Butcher’s tentacles seem stronger than him. That doesn’t seem possible. Maybe they’re also ebbing his strength so he can’t get away. That’s a terrifying thought about a terrifying power. But he also can’t help but sink down and relax his body. The tentacles wrapped so tightly around him, trying to rip him in half, are also holding him so confidently, like a warm angry embrace. He knows Butcher’s trying to kill him, but not having his eyesight and not having enough oxygen is making his mind reel with bizarre thoughts in the darkness. There’s a warmth in his chest, knowing William is staring at him, knowing William is trying to twist and wring him out like a human towel, to no avail, not knowing how long it’s been because time has lost all dimension, but knowing William has been obsessed enough to hold him suspended in the air for quite a while.

He gasps when he feels a free end of a tentacle caress his face. The sensation could never be mistaken for a human hand by texture— the thing creeps across his skin leaving moist trails, moves unctuously with no bones inside it— but he can feel the intention behind the movement and it’s William through and through. And with his eyes forced shut, he can imagine the real scene but also see it as William spooning up behind him, holding his entire body in a chokehold, and caressing his face. It doesn’t matter if it’s affection or lust or even hatelust. Homelander leans into the touch, not only because he thinks distracting William might open up an opportunity to escape, but because firm, strong touch like this is instantly addicting.

+++

“The fuck is he doing?” Kessler laughs, watching Homelander clearly trying to push into the touch. “I was just going to stuff his throat, see if I can’t get him to stop breathing completely.”

Butcher doesn’t reply. He thinks it’s funny that Kessler has the need to explain his intentions. They share a brain, after all. They both feel it, no matter how they deny it. Butcher won’t deny it. If he can’t rip him apart, he wants to fuck Homelander in every hole he has. Maybe try to stab a new one into being while he’s at it. Enough with the foreplay. He presses a tentacle against the supe’s lips, preparing for a fight to push in, but the fucker parts his lips and offers no resistance. The only fight he encounters as he plunges in deep down his throat is he has to loosen his own grip on the supe’s neck, to allow some space for the tentacle to travel through.

+++

Homelander may have welcomed the tentacle into his mouth, but he still bucks in discomfort, gag reflex attempting to launch the thing back out, tears squeezing out of the corners of his shut eyes at the pain, yes the pain of feeling the tentacle invade him deeper and deeper, the pain of the tentacle’s diameter getting thicker and thicker as it pushes itself in, until Homelander feels like his throat can barely accommodate it, burning pain in his lungs as his airways are completely blocked off. No oxygen at all now. He won’t die from this, but he might start to get delirious, if he isn’t already. He can’t even moan, his vocal cords have no space to vibrate, stretched taut around the thick tentacle still plumbing his esophagus and god knows what else. So he can’t emit a sound, can’t really budge in protest when another tentacle presses into him from behind. He can’t say his body lets the tentacle in, because his body feels like it’s doing everything in its power to push out whatever just forced its way in. But it’s futile, and it’s not even under his voluntary control. His voluntary control is to quiet down and surrender to the sensations. Yes, he’s being violently spitroasted. Maybe Butcher still hopes there’s some path to killing him here. Homelander’s mind can’t even be bothered worrying about that possibility. He feels like he’s drifting, consumed by an uncanny deja vu, as if he’s been here before. Suspended, weightless, immobilized, attached, blind, muffled. At first he thinks it’s something from his lab days, one of many memories he’s largely buried and never unearths. But even though he’s anything but, he feels safe. Not much of what went on down in B6 felt safe. Maybe he just feels safe in the knowledge there’s nothing he can do, but it feels like more than that. With his eyes still forced shut, a strange vision materializes in front of his eyes. He’s in the womb, unborn, curled up and cramped but oh so warm, warm walls touching him on every side, muffled voices far away above him, his mother talking to someone, swaying when she walks and the fluid around him moving slightly with each step. Is it even possible that he could retain a memory of something like this? He grasps on to it, whether it’s a real memory or just a fever dream, because it feels so cozy, so safe, so loving, and even when he’s brought back to reality, to his body screaming for air, screaming for being able to free itself to move, screaming to push the thick intrusions inside of him back out, the alarm bells in his body seem far away and dull and irrelevant. He’s incredibly calm, maybe in a drugged, oxygen-deprived way, but it feels like bliss. Like fucking enlightenment.

+++

“He’s getting off to this shit. Un-fucking-believable.”

Kessler might feel the need to comment and distance himself from what they’re doing, but Butcher stays silent, lest talking break the spell Homelander seems to be under, watching the supe’s limp, pliant body accept everything he gives it.

“You’re one sick puppy, you know that?” Kessler comments, clearly uneasy as Butcher reaches a tentacle out to wrap around Homelander’s cock and that’s the one thing that causes his body to jerk violently again, but only once, accepting this too.

+++

Feeling that part of him touched brings Homelander out of the memory. It feels good compared to everything else inflicted on him so far, but it also brings him back to concrete, painful reality in a way he doesn’t like. He gags when he feels the thick tentacle slide out of his throat, scraping across his teeth as it exits. Homelander closes his jaw a few times, feeling soreness in his joints and in his throat, mouth full of thick saliva mixed with whatever sticky residue the tentacles leave everywhere. He coughs, spits, cries, there’s snot leaking from his nose and he can’t even wipe it off. He tenses when the tentacle around his head unravels as well and he blinks, adjusting to the light before staring down at Butcher standing below, finally seeing where the tentacles are coming from. His lasers power up, not even a conscious decision but probably a response to all the pain stimuli and seeing the culprit, but just as quickly a tentacle still wrapped around his forehead swivels his face away, and the laser cuts across the warehouse wall, missing the target.

+++

“Hoho, that was close!” Kessler laughs but doesn’t criticize the strange decision to uncover his captive’s strongest weapon.

Butcher looks on impassively as he fucks in and out of his nemesis’ lily-white ass, which gives a satisfying jiggle on every thrust of the dark tentacle. His mouth free now, he’s able to give little plaintive sighs and moans at each motion, and Butcher kind of wishes he could see his facial expression, but it’s just too much risk to have his eyes pointed anywhere but away.

“Do it,” Kessler says leaning in next to him. “You know you want to try.”

Butcher shrugs and  briefly unravels the tentacles holding his legs together. Homelander bucks, as if trying to make a break for it, as if his upper body isn’t still being held fast by a bunch of other tentacle and as if the tentacle fucking him isn’t making it absolutely impossible to slip out backwards. Two tentacles wrap themselves around his legs, spreading them wide, probably painfully wide, because Homelander’s lasers go off again, a pathetic attempt at defense through offense again, considering his head is being held in a vise making sure he can only see the wall.

“That’s it, do it for her,” Kessler says, nodding slightly toward Butcher’s opposite shoulder. Butcher isn’t going to turn. He knows who’s standing there and he doesn’t want to see her face. He knows damn well this isn’t justice for anything she suffered. Just two monsters going at it, pretending they don’t absolutely love it. Homelander’s done pretending. His body shudders against the tight grip Butcher has on him, and spills on the floor with a sad sounding moan, visibly sagging in his confines before making the most pathetic movement to try and get away from the intrusion still going on behind him.

“Fuck him raw. Fuck him to death. A man’s got to have a limit doesn’t he?” Kessler cheers him on.

Butcher’s not so sure.

AO3 link

[sammygender]

thoughts on how the sam & dean part of the fight before sam left for stanford went !

i am addicted to thinking about precanon so thank you for this <33

i think people r generally way too optimistic about how that initial seperation between them went. dean is awful to sam about stanford even years after he left and years after he came back!! hes still very visibly angry about it in s5 which is NINE YEARS after he left in the first place and refuses to even tolerate the idea it was a good moment for sam. i cannot comprehend how people think 22 year old dean had the emotional maturity to even let sam go without a fight, nevermind be supportive about it.

like. theres this amazinggg art on here of sam hitchhiking to stanford and all the comments are like 'erm that black eye would be from JOHN actually!' (side note but it is so funny to me how spn fans decide john hit them based on implication (which i agree w... to an extent...) but dean hitting sam onscreen multiple times somehow translates to 'DEAN WOULD NEVER DO THAT'. erm. okay.) 'nooo dean would've given sam a lift!'

and like. what show are you watching. if dean would've given sam a lift he would've done it to the bus station in moody silence and then locked the doors of the impala so sam couldn't get out to catch his bus to stanford and they would've started physically fighting for the car keys and dean eventually wouldve let sam get them and sam wouldve left. or something. but it would not be some sweet brotherly moment bc that directly contradicts canon <3

i do think the worst of the fight is between sam & john - that's always what's implied in canon - and in my head dean's just standing there stonefaced maybe refusing to even talk to sam until theyre left alone somehow and he breaks. but i also think dean hits sam at some point, will always have the image in my head of sam showing up to stanford w a bloody nose and fending off questions. (internally hes like no my dad didnt do this it was my brother so its fine. <3.) theres a scene like this in one of my fics so im just drawing from that. but. like....

idk how dean/john finds out. if dean found out before john, i think dean probably wouldve run to him about it in an attempt to get sam Not To Go as much as it would be nice if he didnt, so i reckon they have to find out at about the same time. i think sam is unsure what to expect from dean, who of course (as far as we see both in flashbacks and in canon) alternates between genuine care and support and angry, desperate possessiveness. he probably hopes for the best and expects the worst and gets the worst.

there r definitely lots of different ways it could go....maybe sam tells dean and dean tells john. maybe sam tells john without telling dean at all and thats how dean finds out which totally wrecks him. maybe sam tells them both at the same time. maybe sam never tells them and they find the acceptance letter. this is why stanford fight is sooo fascinating. i feel like i could write five different versions of it and all would be possible/interesting.

but whichever way, i just dont see dean as contradicting john. he generally Doesnt Ever precanon, this is established, he admits it himself, thats why its such a huge moment when he defends sam at the end of s1.....sam going on about dean 'protecting him' is 1. more subtle and probably to do with dean being the one to shoulder most of johns emotional baggage than the heller misinterpretation of 'john hit dean but not sam and thats what this means!!!' (tho i am sure dean did genuinely Protect sam sometimes including from physical violence. of course he did. this isnt to discredit that..i just emphasise the Sometimes.). and 2. partially just classic Sam Rewriting History (u always protected me from dad, from lucifer....girl he did those things very little certainly not always. know your worth sam winchester).

so if dean gives sam a very angry lift (to a nearby bus station...there is absolutely zero fucking way hes driving him to stanford and tbh i already find this quite unlikely but possibilities r interesting) its on john's say-so or at least not disapproval. which like. sure maybe. john certainly is concerned about sam's safety even after he kicks him out, checking up on him at stanford etc, id believe that hed want to ensure sam Gets there even if the fight ended up so bad he told sam he couldnt come back. tho hes stubborn and i dont think hed say it. so maybe itd be a case of dean kind of picking up that that's what john wants and complying even though right now half of him wants to never see sam again and the other half wants to tie him to the radiator so he can never leave. sorry i am literally brainstorming fic ideas in this ask answer now.

anyway....SORRY id say long ass answer as always but this is actually INSANELY long......sorry guys im about to embark upon getting tested for adhd and maybe then my rambles will be, while not shorter in length, more cohesive? tldr fandom is wrong dean is an absolute ASS during stanford fight. obviously sam leaving devastates him and how does dean cope with devastation or perceived abandonment do we think?? hm?? he is just as angry as john for the same and different reasons. and thats really so much more interesting than him being Secretly Supportive. <3