#i need to make a shelf for reference books

[weavergrovedevotional]

Digging Deep: Why Spending Time in Scripture Matters

In our busy lives, filled with work, family, and endless to-do lists, it can feel like finding time for anything extra is a monumental task. But today, I want to talk about something that isn't just an "extra" – it's a lifeline, a foundation, and a source of immeasurable blessing: spending time studying Scripture.

Think of it like this: imagine building a house. You wouldn't just slap some bricks together and hope for the best, would you? You'd need a solid blueprint, a detailed plan to ensure stability and strength. The Bible is our blueprint for life, given to us by the ultimate architect, God himself.

But just owning the blueprint isn't enough. It needs to be opened, studied, and understood to guide the construction process. Similarly, having a Bible on your shelf is wonderful, but its true power and purpose are unlocked when we actively engage with its pages.

Why is digging into Scripture so vital?

It's how we truly know God. The Bible isn't just a collection of stories; it's God's revealed Word. Through its pages, we learn about His character, His love, His justice, His mercy, and His incredible plan for humanity. How can we truly love and follow someone we don't know? Scripture unveils the heart of our Father.

It equips us for life's challenges. Life throws curveballs. We face trials, temptations, and moments of uncertainty. Scripture provides wisdom, guidance, and comfort in these times. It's our spiritual armor, helping us stand firm in our faith and navigate the storms with God's truth as our compass. As it says in 2 Timothy 3:16-17, "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work."  

It transforms our hearts and minds. Spending time in Scripture isn't just about gaining knowledge; it's about allowing God's Word to penetrate our hearts and shape our thinking. As we meditate on its truths, the Holy Spirit works within us, convicting, encouraging, and transforming us into the likeness of Christ. It helps us to see the world through God's eyes and align our desires with His.

It strengthens our relationship with Jesus. Jesus himself constantly referred to and quoted Scripture. By immersing ourselves in the Word, we connect with the very words that shaped His life and ministry. It deepens our understanding of His sacrifice, His teachings, and His ongoing presence in our lives.

It provides clarity and discernment. In a world filled with conflicting voices and opinions, Scripture offers a clear and unwavering standard of truth. It helps us discern between what is right and wrong, what is godly and ungodly. It provides a solid foundation upon which to build our beliefs and make wise decisions.

Making Time for the Word:

I know it can feel overwhelming to add another thing to your already packed schedule. But even small, consistent efforts can make a huge difference. Here are a few practical tips:

Start small: Even 15-20 minutes a day can be impactful.

Find a method that works for you: Whether it's reading chronologically, focusing on a specific book, or using a devotional guide, find a way to engage with Scripture that resonates with you.

Be consistent: Aim for a regular time each day, even if it means waking up a little earlier or using your lunch break.

Pray before you read: Ask the Holy Spirit to open your heart and mind to understand God's Word.

Reflect and apply: Don't just read; take time to think about what you've read and how it applies to your life.

Discuss with others: Consider joining a Bible study group to learn from others and share insights.

Friends, let's make a conscious effort to prioritise digging deep into God's Word. It's not a chore; it's an invitation to know God more intimately, to be equipped for life's journey, and to experience the transformative power of His truth. Let's build our lives on the solid foundation of Scripture, one verse at a time.

What are some ways you make time for Scripture in your day?

[nemossubmarine]

Helsinki book fair book haul, yay!

[drfrankendyke]

My summer reading list, in order.

[solrabi]

Play fighting with Boxer!Sukuna

Note: Reader is referred to as girlfriend at one point.

Masterlist

“Babe.”

“Not right now.”

“Babe.”

“Sukuna, I promise I’ll be done with this book soon.”

He huffed and fell back onto the couch. He had been trying to get your attention for the past 30 minutes but you were adamant on finishing your book. This is all the fault of that damn community book club your coworker recommended you join. Now whenever, you’re off work and Sukuna doesn’t have to train, you’re reading. Usually the two of you spent almost all your spare time together but now you spent half of it reading your newest book for your weekly discussion. You always did your best to spoil him with kisses and cuddles but it was never enough.

Book club be damned, he needed you to be superglued to his side every single second.

“My girlfriend has a side man and he’s made of paper,” he huffed to himself as he watched you intently read. What was so great about your book anyway? Was it worth ignoring your gorgeous (and shirtless) boyfriend? He even had a tattoo of your name on his left pec and you were still choosing to smother a book with your attention.

Sukuna’s wallowing turned him creative- he stood in front of you, trying to make sure your guard was down. You didn’t look up which meant that you were still engrossed in your book. His hand swooped in and swiftly snatched the book from you. “Sukuna,” you groaned. “Give it back, I was at a good part.” You got up to grab it from him but he raised it above his head. “Kiss me.” You glared at him and gave him a quick peck on his lips. “Done, now give it.”

“No,” he nonchalantly replied. “But I kissed you.” You wondered why he was being particularly irritating today.

“That was me begging for a morsel of your attention. Now cuddle me if you want it,” he said and cheekily smirked.

You ignored him and hopped trying to get your book. Sukuna simply dodged your sad attempts and laughed every time you missed. “I don’t even know why you’re trying.” You gave him a pointed look at his comment.

“Okay, fine, you can have your book if you beat me in a fight.”

“What? That makes no sense.” You couldn’t believe this man. “It seems like a fair challenge to me,” he said as he walked to a particularly high shelf and placed your book on top of it. “You know I can just use my stepping stool for that, right?” you said before scoffing at him.

“Then it’s a good thing I hid it.” His sarcastic smile was now pissing you off. “But you literally fight for a living. You have the upper hand.”

“I’m in love with you. Use that as a distraction. Come on, let’s go to the ring.” You were speechless as he dragged you to the fighting “ring” (also known as your bedroom).

Since you had a smaller frame than him, he agreed to let you have the first hit. You sighed and braced yourself. You didn’t have much of a strategy except for charging at him with such a high speed that he’d fall on the bed and would accept defeat.

But as soon as you were in close distance, he caught both your arms, turned you around and threw you on the bed. He didn’t give you a second to get up before he straddled you. “Haha!” he exclaimed. Seeing you all riled up underneath him was a sight he was used to but it never failed to awe him.

“Feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he asked as he began to lower himself to face you. “This is so unfair! You’re like 200 pounds, I can’t even move you,” you said as you tried to push him off. Sukuna grabbed your hands that were fighting him and he playfully wrestled them. Who knows what would’ve happened if he used his real strength.

Thank goodness for your quick thinking because you remembered that Sukuna was extremely ticklish so you pulled your hand out of his grasp with all the strength you could muster up and started poking his sides. “Babe!” he yelled before toppling over to his side.

It was your turn to straddle him and before you could pin his arms beside his head, he caught yours and pulled you down to him. He wrapped his muscular arms around you and tucked your head under his chin. Your cheeks were mushed against the very tattoo of your name.

You were literally stuck in one position. The more you tried to move the tighter he’d hold you. “Sukuna, you cheater. Why do I always do this to myself?” You sighed, accepting defeat.

Sukuna kissed your forehead and laid you both on your sides, still not letting you go. “Sweet, sweet victory,” he whispered to himself.

-•-

I need to be (lovingly) smothered by a beefy nerd. Someone like Clark Kent.

[izysaycrabs]

WOOHOO ARTFIGHTTT

For @snippit-crickit

https://www.instagram.com/crickitt_?igsh=MWFoZGo1emtqcmxzNg==

With this attack, I wanted to replicate something physical and tactile. The illustration on its own was cool, but what if it went one step further and looked like it was on a retro magazine cover?? I looked into Polish magazines and discovered 'Fantastyka Czasopismo'. With that, I had all the reference I needed :D It was so satisfying dressing up this piece with creases, scratches, barcodes and logos, making it look like a scan of a magazine that's probably spent a longggg time on a shelf somewhere... I also looked at some old books around my house for reference hehe. This was a really fun attack to make, and I loved combining illustrative and graphic design elements together!

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ rekindling

chapter summary: You and Logan celebrate your 5th wedding anniversary.

word count: 6.1k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: the ending of this chapter might be one of my favorite scenes

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, mention of sickness (not reader), fluff, logan is a lovesick puppy, gala mission, star wars reference

series masterlist - chapter 8 → chapter 10

Some years ago, right after the two of you got engaged, you tried making and fermenting your own beer for Logan. Turns out, beer doesn’t need to and shouldn’t ferment for more than a few months at the most.

So, you pivoted, and made homemade whiskey, which had been sitting in a secret part of your lab for the better part of 5 years.

And now, after Logan had taken you out on a date to an Italian place and a nearby observatory which he booked for the two of you, you dragged him to your lab, where you had the bottle of homemade whiskey.

You pulled out a drawer and grabbed the small, but hefty, gift bag. Its weight made your arm dip slightly as you turned to face Logan, who was leaning against the counter in your lab with a quizzical but amused expression. His hair was still slightly tousled from the wind at the observatory, his sleeves rolled up casually from dinner.

"What's this, sweetheart?" he asked, nodding toward the bag. "Another one of your science experiments?"

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your glasses as you handed him the bag. "Just open it. And no, it’s not radioactive or alive. This one’s safe, I promise."

Logan smirked as he pulled the tissue paper out, revealing a dark amber glass bottle sealed with a simple cork. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he held it up, reading the handwritten label: “Logan’s Reserve – 5-Year Aged Whiskey.”

"Wait a second…" His eyes narrowed, a grin spreading across his face as he looked at you. "Is this what I think it is?"

You nodded, clasping your hands behind your back nervously. "Yeah. Remember when I tried making beer for you right after we got engaged? And it… well, it exploded in the basement?"

Logan chuckled, the sound warm and rich. "How could I forget? Smelled like a brewery down there for weeks."

"Exactly. So, I switched gears and decided to try something a little more… sophisticated." You gestured to the bottle. "I distilled it, let it age, and hoped for the best. Five years later, here we are."

Logan stared at the bottle for a moment, then at you. His expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something deeper. "You did this… for me?"

You shrugged, feeling the blush creep up your cheeks. "Of course. I wanted to give you something special. Something that lasts, you know? Like… us."

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the lab equipment. Logan set the bottle down carefully on the counter, then stepped toward you. His hands rested gently on your waist, pulling you closer.

"You’re somethin’ else, darlin’," he said, his voice low and full of affection. "Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before."

You smiled up at him, your shyness melting away under his gaze. "Well, there’s a first time for everything."

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that was soft but full of unspoken gratitude. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"Let’s crack it open," he said with a grin. "I’ve waited five years for this, after all."

You laughed, grabbing two small glasses from a nearby shelf. As Logan uncorked the bottle, the rich aroma of aged whiskey filled the room. He poured a small amount into each glass, the amber liquid catching the light.

"To us," you said, raising your glass.

Logan clinked his glass against yours. "To five years… and many more."

You both took a sip, and Logan’s eyes widened slightly as he savored the taste. "Damn, sweetheart. You’ve outdone yourself. This is better than anything I’ve had in a bar."

You beamed. "Really?"

"Really." He leaned in and kissed you again, the whiskey still warm on his lips. "Best anniversary gift ever."

As you stood there, sharing the moment and the whiskey you’d poured your heart into, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Life hadn’t been easy—especially the past few years—but moments like this made it all worth it.

---

You were making chicken noodle soup for Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee, who all somehow caught the same stomach bug at the same time.

The three girls sat at the table in the corner of the kitchen, after being asked by Logan to “move, or else you’re gonna get her sick.”

Now, while the three waited, they also watched. Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee sat bundled in sweaters with mugs of tea that Logan had insisted they use instead of touching anything else in the kitchen. The soup was still simmering on the stove, and Logan leaned casually against the counter near you, your perpetual shadow.

Jubilee nudged Rogue with her elbow and whispered, “Look at him. He follows her like a freakin’ lost puppy.”

Rogue, pale but still managing an amused smirk, turned her attention to Logan, who was wordlessly following you as you shuffled over to the pantry. All you had done was mutter, "need a new bottle of parsley," and Logan had immediately fallen in line, watching you like you hung the moon.

“He does,” Rogue said, shaking her head. “I swear, I’ve never seen him this whipped.”

"Right? Like, what does she do to him?" Kitty chimed in, half-giggling despite her queasiness. “The man’s basically walking PDA.”

The three of them stared openly now, watching how Logan stood slightly behind you, his hand instinctively brushing the small of your back as you reached up for the spice jar.

“See that?” Kitty whispered, her voice thick with poorly stifled laughter. “His hand is always on her. Shoulder, back, waist—doesn’t matter where, just as long as he’s touching.”

“Bet he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it,” Rogue murmured, propping her chin on her palm.

You turned back toward the counter, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose as you set the parsley down near the cutting board. Logan was immediately there, adjusting the spice rack for you, though it wasn’t even askew.

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, giving him a small, shy smile.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replied without hesitation, his voice laced with warmth.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound that…” Jubilee paused, wrinkling her nose in thought, “...soft.”

Logan shifted closer, his hand brushing against your waist as he leaned in and glanced at the soup. “Need anythin’ else, darlin’?”

You glanced up at him, adjusting your glasses. “No, I think I’ve got it. Maybe grab a loaf of bread from the fridge for dipping?”

He nodded and moved toward the fridge like it was his life’s mission. Jubilee blinked slowly.

“He cooks now?” she whispered.

“Logan,” Rogue called across the room, “do you even know how to make soup?”

Logan didn’t even glance back as he grabbed the bread. “Nope. I just carry the bread. Y/N handles the rest.”

The three girls stared at each other, jaws slightly agape.

“He’s domesticated,” Kitty said in awe. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

You didn’t seem to hear any of this, far too focused on stirring the soup and rambling softly about the science of cooking. “The steam comes from the water molecules vibrating faster with the heat. They spread out, break apart from the surface tension…”

Logan’s low hum of acknowledgment interrupted you, his hand returning to rest lightly against the curve of your back. You leaned into the touch without thinking, comfortable in his presence.

Kitty let out a mock-dramatic sigh, dropping her head onto the table. “I can’t watch this anymore. It’s too cute, and I feel like death.”

Jubilee grinned slyly, glancing at Rogue. “What if we pointed it out to him?”

“Don’t you dare,” Rogue warned with a half-laugh. “Man’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. Leave ‘em be.”

The three shared a conspiratorial smirk but kept their remarks low enough to remain unnoticed. Even if Logan somehow picked up on their teasing with his hyper-sensitive senses, he showed no sign of it.

You turned back to the girls, smiling softly. “It’ll be ready soon. How’re you all feeling?”

“Like crap,” Jubilee said with zero hesitation.

“Marginally better,” Rogue offered, though it was mostly for your benefit.

“It helps watching Logan act like a lovesick Labrador,” Kitty muttered with a grin. Rogue elbowed her.

You glanced at Logan, eyebrows raised slightly. “What are they whispering about?”

“Not a clue,” he lied smoothly, focusing on slicing the bread.

You didn’t push it, simply chuckling and going back to your task. Logan leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“You’re good at takin’ care of everyone,” he murmured. “Never stops amazin’ me.”

You flushed under the quiet praise, your heart flipping in your chest. It wasn’t much—just one of his usual tender comments—but coming from Logan, it felt monumental every single time.

---

You paused walking again in the hall, adjusting your liner socks for your heels. Just a few months ago it was your birthday, and Scott got you the pair of heels you’d been wanting, probably only knowing about them from Jean.

It was too cold back then, but now it was warming up and you could finally wear them.

Other than the fact that blisters are probably forming on your feet from them fitting improperly. It wasn’t Scott’s fault; they were the right size and everything, they just didn’t fit your feet.

While you were bent down adjusting your heels in the hallway, Logan walked up behind you silently, his hand brushing gently against your back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and concerned.

You looked up briefly before going back to fiddling with the strap on your shoe. “The heels Scott got me for my birthday—they don’t fit as well as I’d hoped. They’re a little tight, and I think I might’ve miscalculated how much walking I’d have to do today.”

Logan let out a soft, knowing grunt. Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms effortlessly, one arm around your shoulders and the other under your legs. He shifted your heels into his hand with the same movement, holding them beneath you like an afterthought.

“Logan!” you exclaimed, instinctively gripping his shoulders. “What are you doing?!”

“What does it look like?” he replied, already walking. “If the shoes are botherin’ you, you’re not gonna wear ‘em.”

You sighed, flustered. “I can walk perfectly fine! It’s not that bad, I promise.”

Logan didn’t even slow down. “Yeah, sure. Tell that to the blisters you’re about to get. Don’t argue, darlin’—you’re stuck with me now.”

Your protest was drowned out when Logan rounded a corner and found Scott mid-lecture in one of the training rooms. The students turned toward the two of you with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Logan, come on,” you whispered, mortified, but Logan only tightened his grip.

“Hey, Summers!” Logan barked, his voice cutting through the room.

Scott paused, looking up with an annoyed but inquisitive frown. Before he could say a word, Logan tossed the pair of heels directly at him. They smacked him square in the chest before falling into his hands.

“Next time, get the right size,” Logan said flatly, turning back toward the door.

“Logan!” you gasped, half-horrified and half-apologetic, your face heating up. “I’m so sorry, Scott!”

Scott was still standing there, stunned, holding the shoes as his class erupted into barely stifled laughter. “What—” he started, but Logan didn’t stick around long enough to let him finish.

Logan carried you straight to the common room, ignoring your continued protests. He set you down gently on the couch, crouching in front of you. “Stay put,” he commanded, already moving toward the med kit nearby.

“Logan, seriously, I’m fine—”

“You’ll be fine when I say you’re fine.” He popped open the first aid kit and returned to kneel in front of you. “Now, lemme see.”

You sighed, defeated, as Logan gingerly took your foot in his hand, inspecting the reddened spots on your heels. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as he applied adhesive bandages to the forming blisters.

“I don’t even feel it that much,” you muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Logan said dryly, not buying a word of it.

When he finished bandaging the other foot, he paused, still crouched with one of your feet resting on his knee. Instead of moving back, he began to gently knead the arch of your foot, his fingers deft and soothing.

“Logan…” You blinked, taken aback.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he said softly, not looking up. “You’re always takin’ care of everyone else. Lemme do somethin’ for you for once.”

The words, combined with the warmth in his tone, sent a wave of unexpected emotion through you. You leaned back against the couch, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His touch was firm yet tender, every movement speaking volumes about how much he cared.

As his thumbs worked over a particularly sore spot, you bit back a laugh. “When did you learn how to do this?”

Logan glanced up with a hint of a smirk. “Long life. Picked up a few tricks here and there.”

“Pretty sure you’re better at this than a licensed professional.”

“Damn right I am,” he said with mock seriousness, though his smile softened.

When he finally set your foot down, he stayed kneeling for a moment longer, his hands lingering on your legs. “Feel better now?”

You smiled down at him, your cheeks warm. “Yeah. Thanks, Logan.”

He nodded, pushing himself to his feet and bending down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Now you just sit here and relax for a bit. I’ll grab you some tea or somethin’.”

As he walked away, you couldn’t help the affectionate smile that spread across your face. Moments like this reminded you that, despite his gruff exterior, Logan had a heart bigger than anyone you’d ever known.

---

You realized you should’ve told Logan this before he found out for himself.

For the past 4—5 years?—you hadn’t worn your cherry lip gloss, only because you couldn’t find it anywhere once you ran out. Turns out, it was discontinued. So, you pivoted to regular nude lip glosses or chapstick.

But this past weekend when you, Jean, and Ororo went on a girl’s shopping trip to the mall to hang out, you found a cherry lip oil that in your opinion had a better texture, and a less artificial flavor, than your original discontinued one.

The hallways of the mansion were buzzing with the usual mid-morning energy: students rushing to classes, a few sparring matches audible from the training rooms, and the faint hum of voices echoing off the walls. You adjusted the strap of your satchel, balancing it against your side, and smoothed the hem of your cardigan as you made your way toward your classroom.

As you turned a corner, Logan appeared from the opposite direction, walking toward his next class. He spotted you instantly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes softened. This was routine by now—a quick kiss or two between classes, a quiet moment to ground yourselves in a sea of chaos.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, his voice low and rough in the way that made your heart flutter.

“Hey,” you smiled back, the warmth in his tone settling over you like a blanket.

He leaned in for the usual kiss, his hand brushing against your lower back as you tilted your face up to meet him. But instead of the brief, customary peck, Logan lingered. His lips pressed against yours with a sudden, deliberate intensity, and his other hand rose to cradle the back of your head.

You stiffened in surprise at first, but quickly melted into it, your hands lightly gripping the fabric of his flannel shirt. The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, with Logan angling your head slightly for better access. He tasted faintly of coffee, and the familiar warmth of him flooded your senses.

“Logan,” you managed to breathe out between kisses, your voice breaking the silence in short bursts. “We need—” kiss “to get—” kiss “to our—” kiss “classes.”

“Fuck, I missed that,” Logan murmured, his voice rough and filled with a longing you didn’t quite understand. Before you could respond, his lips captured yours again, his hold on you firm but careful, as though he was memorizing the moment.

The sound of a throat clearing broke through the haze, and you both froze. Turning your heads, you found Charles sitting in his wheelchair a few feet away, a bemused but patient expression on his face.

“I do hate to interrupt, but I believe there are a few dozen students waiting for their teachers at the moment,” Charles remarked, his tone light but pointed.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you stepped back, adjusting your glasses and smoothing your hair. Logan, unfazed as ever, gave a small shrug, though you could see the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Right,” you stammered, gripping your satchel strap tightly. “Sorry, Charles. We were just—uh—”

“Testing the laws of attraction?” Charles quipped, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Logan grunted, his hand still lingering on your back. “We’re goin’. Don’t get your wheels in a spin.”

Charles merely chuckled and rolled past, leaving you to shoot Logan a flustered glare.

“You could at least pretend to be embarrassed,” you muttered, adjusting your satchel again.

“Why?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with amusement. “You look cute when you’re all flustered.” He leaned in close, brushing a final kiss against your temple before stepping back. “See you later, darlin’.”

As he turned to walk away, you shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. You brushed your fingers over your lips, still tingling from the intensity of the kiss.

---

Logan adjusted the cufflinks of his tux, muttering under his breath about how "these damn things are more trouble than they’re worth." The sound of his grumbling carried through the slightly ajar bathroom door, making you smile as you finished touching up your lipstick. Jean’s red shade was bold, but it worked, complementing your minimalist black dress.

You capped the tube and gave your reflection a once-over. The dress fit perfectly, the sleek design emphasizing your figure without feeling over the top. You adjusted your glasses and smoothed a hand down the fabric before stepping out into the bedroom.

Logan was by the dresser, still fidgeting with his cufflinks, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his hands stilled. His lips parted slightly, the earlier irritation on his face melting into something softer, something almost reverent.

“You clean up nice,” he said, voice lower than usual. His gaze roamed over you, lingering on the curve of your waist before meeting your eyes. “Real nice.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling a heat creep up your cheeks under his scrutiny. You crossed the room, and as you did, Logan closed the distance between you in two strides. His hand found your waist, warm and steady, before moving to rest gently against your stomach.

“Turn around for me,” he said, his voice a mix of request and command. His fingers pressed lightly, guiding you into a slow spin. As you moved, his hand never left you, sliding from your waist to the small of your back, then back to your waist again when you completed the turn.

“You’re somethin’ else, darlin’,” he said, his words filled with quiet admiration. “Should’ve made you wear this dress sooner.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile. “It’s not exactly standard mission gear.”

His other hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Maybe not, but you wear it better than anyone at that gala’s gonna.” His thumb grazed your jaw, and for a moment, the mission faded from your mind entirely. It was just you, Logan, and the soft pull of his presence.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself back to reality. “We should get going. The sooner we get in, the sooner we can find what we’re looking for.”

Logan smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re the brains of this operation, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

---

The gala was held in a grand hotel in the heart of the city, the kind of place that practically dripped with wealth and excess. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. You and Logan entered arm-in-arm, blending seamlessly into the crowd of well-dressed elites.

The two of you moved with purpose, your fingers lightly resting against Logan’s arm as he guided you through the throng. You kept your movements casual, your faces relaxed, though beneath the surface, the tension of the mission buzzed like static. The target was somewhere in this room—or at least someone who knew how to access the server room where the sensitive information was being stored.

“Keep your eyes open,” Logan muttered under his breath, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Always,” you replied, offering a soft smile for the benefit of onlookers as you tilted your head toward him. “You see anything yet?”

“Just a bunch of rich assholes,” Logan said, his tone gruff. “No sign of the guy.”

You nodded subtly, letting your gaze sweep across the room. The gala attendees were exactly as you’d expected—wealthy, polished, and exuding an air of untouchable arrogance. The kind of people who could fund black-market experiments on mutants and still sleep soundly at night.

Jean’s voice crackled softly in your hidden earpiece. “Remember, the server room is two floors down, heavily guarded, and keycard access only. If you can get the host’s card, it’ll save us a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, we got it,” Logan grunted, briefly touching his ear to acknowledge the message.

You gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. Just follow my lead.”

Logan shot you a skeptical look, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smirk. “You’re the brains, sweetheart. I’m just here to look good in a tux.”

“And to punch people if necessary,” you teased, your voice light despite the weight of the mission.

Logan chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That too.”

As you approached the bar, you caught sight of the host—a tall, broad-shouldered man with slicked-back hair and a predatory smile. He was surrounded by a small group of sycophants, his laugh too loud and his gestures exaggerated. On his lapel was the small, telltale glint of a security badge.

“There he is,” you murmured, leaning slightly into Logan as though sharing a private moment.

Logan followed your gaze and grunted in acknowledgment. “What’s the plan?”

You considered for a moment before replying. “We split up. I’ll distract him and see if I can get the keycard. You keep an eye on the exits in case things get messy.”

Logan’s hand tightened slightly on your waist. “Don’t get too close, darlin’.”

You smiled, the expression meant to reassure him. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I always do,” he said, his voice softer now.

With that, you slipped away from him, weaving through the crowd with ease. You approached the host with a disarming smile, your movements graceful and deliberate.

“Excuse me,” you said, your voice carrying just the right mix of politeness and charm. “This is my first time at one of these events. You wouldn’t happen to be the host, would you?”

The man’s eyes lit up as he turned his attention to you, his smile widening. “Indeed, I am. Samuel Kane, at your service.” He extended a hand, and you shook it lightly, careful not to show any hesitation.

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself, tilting your head slightly. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the man behind all of this.”

Kane laughed, clearly pleased by the flattery. “Well, I do my best to keep things interesting. And you, my dear, are an absolute vision. Your husband must be a lucky man.”

You felt a flicker of unease at the comment but maintained your composure. “He’s around here somewhere,” you said with a laugh. “But he’s not much for mingling.”

As you engaged Kane in conversation, you subtly shifted closer, angling yourself to get a better look at his security badge. The clip was loose, the badge slightly askew—a small detail, but one that worked in your favor.

Behind you, Logan lingered near the edge of the room, his sharp eyes never leaving you. He sipped his drink, outwardly relaxed, but you knew better. His tension was palpable, even from across the room.

Kane was still talking, his voice smooth and practiced, but you weren’t really listening. Instead, you focused on the timing, waiting for the perfect moment to make your move. When Kane turned slightly to greet another guest, you acted quickly, brushing against him just enough to unclip the badge without drawing attention.

“Oops,” you said, feigning a stumble as you steadied yourself against his arm. “Sorry about that. These heels aren’t the most practical.”

Kane laughed, clearly oblivious. “No harm done.”

You smiled apologetically before excusing yourself, slipping the badge into your clutch as you made your way back to Logan. He raised an eyebrow when you returned, his expression a mix of amusement and approval.

“Got it,” you whispered, holding up the badge for him to see.

Logan smirked. “That’s my girl.”

He slipped the badge into his jacket pocket, and the two of you began weaving through the crowd toward the hallway that led to the restricted areas. You kept a pleasant smile on your face, casually nodding at attendees as you passed. Beside you, Logan's body was tense, ready for a fight if it came to that.

Reaching the hallway, you slipped through the door labeled Authorized Personnel Only. Logan glanced back to make sure no one was following before pulling the door shut behind you.

The ambiance changed immediately, the buzz of the gala replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional beep of security monitors. The luxurious carpet was gone, replaced by plain industrial tile.

“Where to, sweetheart?” Logan asked in a low voice.

“The server room’s at the end of the hall, on the left,” you whispered, nodding ahead.

Logan led the way, his posture relaxed but his hands loosely curled at his sides. You reached the server room without incident, and Logan swiped the badge through the reader. It flashed green with a soft beep, and the door clicked open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, racks of servers glowing faintly with green and blue lights. You stepped in first, your eyes scanning for the console you needed. Logan followed, closing the door quietly behind him and planting himself by it.

“You do your thing. I’ll keep watch,” he said, his voice steady.

“Got it,” you replied, already making your way to the terminal in the corner.

Sitting down, you pulled a flash drive from your clutch and inserted it into the port. Typing quickly, you navigated through the system, bypassing firewalls and locating the files you needed. Jean’s earlier instructions echoed in your mind—what to look for, how to find it, how to pull it without alerting any alarms.

Logan’s voice broke the silence. “How’s it goin’, darlin’?”

“Almost there,” you murmured, biting your lip as a particularly stubborn firewall slowed your progress. After a few more keystrokes, the file began to download.

“I’m in,” you said softly. “Just need a few more seconds.”

Logan didn’t reply, but you could feel his sharp gaze fixed on the hallway outside, ready for anything.

The download finished with a soft ping, and you quickly ejected the flash drive, slipping it back into your clutch. As you stood and turned to Logan, his head jerked up slightly, his ears picking up on something you couldn’t hear.

“Guards,” he muttered. “Two of ’em, comin’ this way.”

Your mind raced. “Okay, uh… we can do what they did in that movie we watched the other night. You know, the spy one!”

Logan frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

“Logan,” you hissed, stepping closer to him. “We have to pretend we’re—” Before you could finish, you reached up, gripped his shirt, and tugged him down into a kiss.

Logan tensed for a split second before relaxing, his arms instinctively sliding around your waist. The kiss deepened quickly, his lips pressing against yours with a mixture of surprise and intensity. One of his hands rested at the small of your back while the other gently cradled the back of your head.

The sound of footsteps stopped just outside the server room.

“Hey!” one of the guards called out, his voice sharp.

You and Logan broke apart abruptly, panting softly as you both turned to face the guards. The red lipstick you’d meticulously applied was now smeared—not just on your face but faintly on Logan’s lips as well. One of the guards squinted, clearly caught off guard.

“This area’s off-limits,” the other guard barked.

Logan’s arm was still around your waist, and he stepped forward slightly, putting himself between you and the guards. “Sorry ’bout that. Thought we were sneakin’ off for some privacy. Didn’t realize we weren’t supposed to be here.” His voice was gravelly but calm, carrying just enough irritation to make the act believable.

The guards exchanged looks, then groaned in unison. “Just—get out of here,” the first one said. “Go back to the gala before we have to call someone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan grumbled, steering you back down the hallway. He kept his hand at your back, a silent reassurance.

You stayed quiet until you were back near the main gala floor. When Logan finally looked down at you, his lips quirked into a sly grin.

“You’ve got some guts, darlin’,” he said, his voice filled with approval.

You laughed softly, still catching your breath. “You’ve got lipstick on your face.”

His grin widened as he rubbed his thumb against his mouth. “You sayin’ it’s not my color?”

“Not exactly,” you teased. “But it definitely makes a statement.”

He chuckled, slipping his hand into yours as the two of you rejoined the party, the flash drive safely tucked away.

---

Logan had given in, allowing you to finally trim his beard. You sat perched on the bathroom counter, knees brushing against his sides as he stood in front of you. His rugged face was in your hands, the razor gliding carefully over his jawline.

As you worked, you started rambling, like always when you were focused on something. “Did you know razors date back to the Bronze Age? They found tools that were basically sharp stones or metals people used to shave with. Imagine that—scraping your face with a rock.”

Logan gave a quiet, non-committal grunt, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

You weren’t deterred, though. “Then in the 18th century, straight razors became popular. Those were sharp as hell, like something out of a horror movie. Then King Camp Gillette comes in and invents the safety razor in—Logan?”

You suddenly paused, pulling back the razor to wave your hand in front of his face. His eyes snapped up to yours, startled.

“What?” he rumbled.

“You weren’t listening,” you accused, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I was listening,” he argued, his voice dipping into a softer tone, almost playful. “Just… got distracted.”

You arched a brow. “By what?”

His gaze dropped, just slightly. His focus lingered for a second too long, and then it dawned on you. You glanced down and realized the problem. Since you were sitting on the counter, your chest was right at eye level for him.

“Oh my God,” you blurted, rolling your eyes as heat crept into your face. “Is that the only reason you agreed to let me do this?”

Logan’s lips curled into a small smirk, one that almost made you drop the razor. “Maybe,” he drawled, voice low and teasing. “I had a good view. Figured I’d let you have your fun.”

“You’re impossible,” you huffed, swatting at him lightly.

His chuckle was a quiet rumble in his chest, and for a moment, you couldn’t decide if you were more annoyed or charmed. Maybe both.

“Finish up, darlin’,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Can’t have half a beard. Not a good look for me.”

Shaking your head, you returned to your task, though the edges of your mouth tugged upward in a reluctant smile.

---

Later that day the two of you decided to watch a movie in the common room. The bowl of popcorn was already empty, thanks to Logan, but you were more than content to watch the new DVD Scott got you to replace the heels.

It was Star Wars: The Clone Wars: Season One, with director’s cut episodes, behind-the-scenes featurettes, and a few other things.

By the time the fifth episode came on, Logan had fallen asleep. His head rested face down against your stomach, his arm draped lazily over your waist, hanging off the edge of the couch. The quiet sound of his breathing filled the room, his broad shoulders rising and falling steadily.

You smiled down at him, your hands gently weaving through his hair. You couldn’t help but feel a certain tenderness as you sat there, watching the animated battle play out on the screen while he snored faintly against you. This was rare—Logan being so unguarded, so completely relaxed. It was a stark contrast to the usual gruff, sharp-witted man you saw most days.

For once, you were grateful he’d conked out. Not that you didn’t love spending time with him, but movie nights with Logan usually involved endless questions.

"Wait, who’s the green guy again?"

"What kind of idiot jumps into a fight with no backup?"

"So these clones just follow orders without asking questions? Sounds like bad programming."

Sometimes it was cute; other times, it was infuriating. Now, though? Peace. No commentary about Yoda’s battle strategies or sarcastic remarks about Anakin's life choices.

You shifted slightly to readjust, trying not to disturb him, though the weight of his head made it tricky. When you moved, he let out a small, contented grunt, his grip on your waist tightening just a little.

The scene switched to an intense lightsaber duel, and you caught yourself absently stroking Logan’s hair again. He groaned softly and nuzzled his face further into your stomach.

"Mm, warm," he mumbled, his voice gravelly, not quite awake.

"Logan," you whispered, shaking your head with an amused smile. "Are you seriously sleep-talking?"

"Not talkin'," he grunted, burying himself further against you like a sleepy dog finding the perfect napping spot.

"Uh-huh," you said, unable to suppress a laugh. Your fingers stilled for a moment, then continued combing gently through his thick hair. His faint snoring resumed, the small hitch in his breathing telling you he’d sunk back into whatever dreamland had him so quiet.

This—this was your Logan. The Logan who melted around you, softened in ways no one else ever saw. It made all the challenges—the struggles, the years of trying for a baby, the losses—feel worth enduring. You might not have everything you'd once wished for, but you had this. A quiet moment of contentment, wrapped in an old blanket on a threadbare couch, Logan safe and completely at ease in your arms.

For the first time in a long while, your heart didn’t ache for what could’ve been. Instead, you closed your eyes briefly and focused on the gentle weight of him, the comfort of his presence, and the sound of his steady breath.

When you opened them again, the episode was winding down. You grabbed the remote carefully, switching to the next before setting it down. Logan shifted again, his arm curling tighter around you.

“Y’can keep playing it,” he murmured groggily, not lifting his head.

"Thought you were asleep."

"I am," he muttered, eyes still closed.

"You mean you were," you teased.

"Same difference," he rumbled, the corner of his mouth tugging into a tiny smirk before he pressed closer. "Now stop talkin’. I’m comfortable."

You chuckled and let him settle again, absentmindedly tracing circles at the base of his neck. If this was Logan at peace, you couldn’t bring yourself to disturb him, not even for a galaxy far, far away.

that was 2010!

and i can't help but make a star wars reference whenever i can! especially a clone wars reference cause i'm a prequel girly... which is only because of anakin but-

if you don't like star wars literally just imagine anything else (no need to leave rude comments!)

[little-jana]

"The Bookstore Incident"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Spencer being clumsy, use of Y/N, early seasons!Spencer

Words: 2k

Summary: When Spencer Reid tries to grab a book at a local bookstore, things go very, very wrong. Or do they?

a/n: requested: yes! Anon asked for a prequel to this one! So here it is! Enjoy!

It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon.

You had wandered into the little independent bookstore tucked between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store, looking for nothing in particular. The scent of aged paper and fresh ink filled the air as you traced your fingers along the book spines, aimlessly browsing.

The shop was cozy, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a slightly creaky wooden floor that made the place feel like something out of a story itself.

That’s when you heard the crash.

The unmistakable sound of books tumbling to the ground echoed through the store, making you and a few other patrons jump. Turning toward the commotion, you saw him—an absolute disaster of a man standing amidst a pile of fallen books, looking both mortified and helpless.

Tall, lanky, and frantically pushing his unruly brown hair out of his face, he was reaching for the top shelf of a precariously stacked display. It seemed that whatever book he had been trying to retrieve had caused a domino effect, sending at least two dozen books cascading to the floor.

“Oh, no,” he muttered under his breath, crouching down to start picking them up. He looked like he was debating whether he could somehow put them back before anyone noticed. Spoiler: he couldn’t.

You couldn’t help but smile as you walked over. “Need some help?”

His head snapped up, startled by your presence. “I—uh, yes? Maybe? That would be—um—thank you.” His voice was soft and warm, yet tinged with embarrassment.

You crouched down beside him, picking up a book and glancing at the title. Theoretical Physics and the Multiverse Hypothesis. You raised an eyebrow, looking at the others scattered around. A mix of philosophy, quantum mechanics, psychology, and a single, completely out-of-place Agatha Christie novel.

“Quite the collection you knocked over,” you teased, stacking a few books into a neat pile. “Little bit of everything.”

He let out a nervous chuckle, adjusting his sweater vest as he gathered another handful of books. “I, uh… I like to read.”

You grinned. “I can see that.”

For the first time, he looked directly at you, and you noticed just how kind his eyes were—warm brown, filled with something sharp and intelligent but also… a little lost.

You held up the Agatha Christie novel with a smirk. “Murder mysteries, too? Didn’t peg you for the type.”

He blinked, then smiled—just slightly. “Actually, I find her writing fascinating. She once disappeared for eleven days, and no one knows exactly what happened during that time.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “That’s a fun fact.”

He perked up a little. “I have more.”

You laughed. “Oh, I bet you do.”

A faint blush crept up his neck, but before he could say anything else, you grabbed the book he had originally been reaching for off the shelf and handed it to him.

“Here,” you said. “This the one that started it all?”

He nodded, taking it gingerly, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved it after the chaos he’d just caused. “Yes. Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid. I’ve read it before, but I wanted to reference something.”

You shook your head in amusement. “Of course you have.”

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he blurted out suddenly, as if realizing he hadn’t introduced himself.

“Nice to meet you, Spencer. I’m (Y/N).”

He hesitated for a moment, then—tentatively—held out his hand. His grip was gentle, fingers warm against yours. It was a simple gesture, but it made your heart skip a beat.

“Well, Spencer,” you said, unable to keep the teasing note out of your voice, “if you ever need help knocking over more bookstores, let me know.”

He let out an actual laugh this time—a soft, real one—and ran a hand through his hair, still looking adorably flustered.

“I might just take you up on that.”

[nadiajustbe]

Underrated HMC moments I've never seen anyone talking about part 2

Howl choosing "H. Jenkins" for the shop's sign wich is the one and only moment in the series he actually uses his legal initials, as "H" can stand for "Howl" and "Howell" in the same time

Lettie being so angry about Prince Justin calling her "a sweet lady" that she said that she would prefer ever Howl over him. Wich is. Telling.

The King assuring that he never pushed Justin off and that everyone who knows them both wouldn't assume that.

Sophie being so RAGED with the whole weedkiller and daffodils situation she wasn't saying A SINGLE FULL WORD for about a page in the least. All of the sounds were like "argh!" and "Sophie gave the wordless glump of range"

The seven-league boots having the funniest description of use ever, as every time someone used it then the effects were simply narrated as "Zip!"

Howl raises the skull and quotes Hamlet directly to it, wich becomes a hundred times funnier when you remember that this Skull is canonically and ironically the only "person" in the room who can understand the reference.

Howl saying "Denmark" in the same sentence. And, again, they're in a fairly tale fantasy word. Sophie has absolutely no clue what to hell is Denmark. For Howl this is the basic knowledge of elementary school level.

Poor Percival being almost KILLED for transforming in the middle of a valley because people thought he's a WEREWOLF.

Poor Percival being STROKED with information of him being made of part of two other people right after experiencing heavy trauma, beheading, physical damages, not really well-planed adopting and moving a house.

Percival describing laying on the shelf and looking at the other parts of himself. What a lovely kids book.

Sophie accidentally making cayenne pepper magical. She would make a great seller-witch career because she doesn't need to know the spell in order to make. She takes random powder. She says it will do the duel fair. It makes the duel fare by making an opponent sneezing uncontrollable (wich is also just a way cayenne pepper affects people lmao)

Sophie's first thoughts after she heard that Howl is leaving the black door knob where it is being "Of course! There's miss. Angorian!'. Sophie, dear, he has a family out there.

Michael, apparently, hiding the money under the same brick Sophie will soon describe in CITA as "the brick where we're hiding money from Howl"

Miss Angorian and Howl acting like the spell in a modern Wales is the most normal thing ever. "That's a spell!!" "Oh yeah of course I suspected that"

“Didn’t know I used to fly up the wing for my university, did you, Mrs. Nose?” “If you were trying to fly, you must have forgotten how,” aka Sophie absolutely not understanding modern world sport terminology

Drunk Howell trying to get through the door MULTIPLE times, bumping on it before "discovering" the door

Calcifer "taking" that huge mention they lived (and almost never visited) in without buying it. It was literally said the owner is just Not Here.

Sophie loosing an acces to her own room. Wich must be really sad.

Witch of the Waste leaning on a swing when literally capturing Howl's family

Additionaly: Howl canonically NOT altering his clothes while rushing to save his family. He was running around in a long-sleeved medieval closes on a welsh playground

Sophie and miss Angorian having a whole fight over the guitar pulling it back and forward while it was making horrible sounds

Sophie literally pushing miss. Angorian off the house using the said guitar

Howl immediatly reacting when someone mentioned that the star Michael tried to catch looks sad.

Scarecrow literally running around with parts of Justin's body on its sticky shoulders for eighty percent of the book's finale

Howl saying he could be "the evil fairy at his own christening" which is probably a reference to the "Sleeping Beaty". Also. rises a question: did Howl HAD a christening. There's a huge chance he actually did.

Ben and Justin just. smiling at each other for enough amount of time for Sophie's narrative to say "If she had paid any attention she would see them". Am I interuppting something???

Lettie hating Howl's courting SO MUCH she asked Percival to bite him several times.

Additionally: Ben apologising to Howl for trying to bite him. That's also probably first time they're interacting

Howl ignoring all of it because sOPHIE HATTER

[sweetheartsofpanem]

He Fell Harder - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

🌝🌝🌝🌝🌝

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.15k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The wall’s been staring at me for hours.

Or maybe I’ve been staring at it. Hard to tell.

It’s past midnight. House is quiet. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears like an accusation. I’ve been nursing the same drink long enough for the ice to melt and water it down to nothing. Doesn’t matter. Still burns. Still does the job.

Sort of.

My living room’s a mess, but not more than usual. Chair’s got a rip in it I keep meaning to fix. The books are crooked on the shelf. There’s a sock on the floor I swear I don’t remember owning. It’s all the same. Every night. Except lately—

Lately, everything’s felt off-kilter.

She’s in my head.

Y/N. Laughing like the whole world’s worth laughing at. Tossing insults over her shoulder like rose petals. Smiling at me like she doesn’t know better. Or maybe like she does.

I keep thinking about the damn couch. The way she curls into it like she owns the space. Like she belongs here. And the worst part—the part that keeps crawling under my skin—is that it doesn’t feel wrong. Doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels… easy.

Natural.

Comfortable.

And maybe I could’ve kept pretending it was nothing—just banter, just teasing, just a kid who didn’t know any better—but then she went and hurt herself.

Sprained ankle. Her dumbass tripped on a root.

When she went down, something in my chest—

God.

I carried her.

I didn’t think. Just picked her up and didn’t stop moving until she was safe and seated and being annoying about it like always.

And it felt different. Holding her like that.

It felt like something I wasn’t ready to name.

I’ve been over and over it in my head. The way she looked up at me. Like she trusted me. And maybe she does. Maybe she shouldn’t.

Because I’ve spent every night since trying to figure out when exactly I started wanting her near me all the time. When I started looking forward to her barging into my house. When I started making excuses to sit beside her instead of just next to her.

And worse—when I started looking at her like that.

She’s younger. Too young, maybe. Not a kid. But not someone I should be thinking about when I close my eyes.

Except I do.

I think about her laughing. I think about her tucking her hair behind her ear. I think about the way she looked at me that night when I said I wasn’t leaving. Like she believed me. Like she needed to believe me.

I thought I was just being nice. I thought I was just making her laugh because someone ought to. But now I’m sitting here trying to remember if I’ve actually been flirting with her this whole time and just didn’t realize it.

It hits me all at once. And it hits hard.

I like her.

God help me, I like her.

And I can’t. I shouldn’t.

Because there’s someone else who owns the pieces of me that are still good. Someone I already failed.

Lenore Dove.

Her name still feels like a prayer. Like a wound.

I can still see her face—lit up like the sun when she saw me. Still feel her hands in mine. Still hear her voice when she laughed and said she could finally eat the gumdrops I got her before The Reaping.

She’d stashed them at home, saved them like they meant something. I thought it was sweet. Thought it meant she still wanted me even after everything.

And then I realized too late.

And then she was gone.

I held her while she died.

I told her I loved her like all-fire.

And I meant it. I still mean it.

So how the hell can I feel like this about someone else?

How can I want to protect her, make her smile, make her laugh again and again just to see what it does to her face?

How can I look at her and feel something that feels a lot like hope?

I haven’t felt anything like this in twenty-five years.

And it terrifies me.

Because what if this is betrayal?

And worse—what if it’s not?

I press the heel of my hand against my eye socket and let my head tip back against the couch, trying to breathe around it. The ache. The sting behind my ribs.

Not even the drink numbs it tonight.

She’s probably asleep right now, in that creaky little bed in that quiet little house that’s started to smell like mint and cinnamon and summer. Probably dreaming about stars or flowers or whatever soft thing crawled into her bones and stayed there. Probably not thinking about me.

Good. That’s good.

I’m not what she needs. Never have been.

And still.

Still.

When she looked at me like I held the world in one cracked hand after I carried her to the couch—when she touches my arm and smiles like I’m something safe—

I felt it. Like a fuse catching. Like the slow burn of something waiting too long.

And that’s the part I can’t shake.

I look at the wall again like it’s gonna give me a damn answer.

But it’s just silence. Cold and flat.

I close my eyes and see her face—not Lenore Dove’s, but hers.

Y/N.

That stupid wide-eyed smile she gives me when I hand her tea. The way she blushes like it’s a crime. The way she said something ridiculous about me nursing her through fever dreams, and I just—

I pictured her in bed, pale and sick, me sitting beside her trying not to panic. Holding her hand. Stroking her hair. Whispering something stupid to keep her awake.

Why the hell would I think about that?

Why would I want that?

Why would I want—

My throat tightens.

I push off the couch fast like movement will fix it, like pacing will erase the thought, but it doesn’t. It just makes it worse.

Because I’ve been calling her honey for too long now. And maybe I told myself it was a joke. Maybe I thought it was just a word.

But I don’t think it is anymore.

She says sunshine like it’s a challenge. She says it like it’s mine.

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

I want her to keep saying it.

I want her to say it when she’s happy. When she’s scared. When she’s old and cranky and teasing me from the other end of a shared porch.

I want—

I press my palms to my eyes until I see stars.

No.

No, this can’t be that.

This can’t be anything.

Because Lenore Dove is dead.

And I promised her forever.

Even if forever got me nowhere.

Even if I’ve been alone since that day.

Even if I’m tired of an empty bed and hollow silences at night and flasks that don’t fix a damn thing.

Even if part of me wants to believe maybe—maybe—it could be different.

I sit back down on the couch like gravity finally won.

And I say it out loud, just to hear how it sounds in the dark.

“…Shit.”

Yeah.

That’s about right.

I drop my head into my hands, let out a breath that rattles in my chest.

I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with this—what I’m supposed to do with her.

And then, a knock.

Soft. Barely there.

I blink toward the door like I imagined it. But it comes again.

Quiet. Hesitant.

I drag myself up and open it.

And there she is.

Haymitch opens the door, and for a second, all you do is look at him.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled. He smells like whiskey and sleep and something warm underneath, something familiar. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or just the heaviness of being seen at the wrong hour.

You swallow.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Because you could’ve stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling like you’ve done a hundred times before. You could’ve fought it off. Let it rot in your chest.

But something pulled you here.

To him.

To this.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps aside and lets you in.

You walk past him, into the dimness of his living room, still cold from whatever storm passed through him before you arrived.

And you realize, with a pang that settles somewhere low and soft in your ribs:

You don’t want to be anywhere else.

You settle into the spot on the couch you always seem to gravitate toward. The cushions dip under you with a familiar sigh, and for a few seconds, neither of you says anything.

Haymitch stands near the doorway like he’s forgotten what to do with his hands. Eventually, he crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them. Then scrubs a hand down his face like that might fix whatever’s going on behind his eyes.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. Just grunts, “Yeah.”

You blink. Wait. Watch him pace three steps across the room before turning back.

“You sure?” you ask, more cautious this time. “You seem… I dunno. Weird.”

He flinches like you poked a bruise. “I’m fine.”

The way he says it? Too fast. Too flat.

You squint. “Okay…”

You start to stand. “I can go, if now’s not—”

“No.”

You freeze.

Haymitch’s voice is quiet but too quick, like he didn’t think before saying it. He runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “You don’t have to go.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. “You just seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

You nod slowly. Weird.

He gives you a look, but it’s not sharp—just tired. Edged with something you can’t quite name.

Still, you don’t push. You just sit back down, legs curled beneath you, pulling one of the throw blankets over your lap like this is just another one of your many late nights.

A silence settles between you. Not heavy. Not yet.

Just enough to make you wonder what’s shifted.

You glance over at him after a beat. “You dying or something?”

He snorts. “No.”

“Possessed?”

“No.”

“Secret twin impersonating you while the real Haymitch is tied up in a closet?”

He shoots you a glare. “Wouldn’t be a very good impersonation, then.”

You grin. “True. That guy would’ve already made me tea, stolen said tea, then called me a menace.”

He sinks down into the armchair across from you and grabs his flask, even though there’s a glass on the coffee table. “You are a menace.”

“There it is,” you say, smiling. “I was starting to worry.”

Haymitch shakes his head but doesn’t hide the small twitch of his mouth. The room feels warmer now, like the storm is passing—like the strange weight between you is softening at the edges.

And still, in the back of your mind: weird.

But you don’t dwell on it.

You just lean back, blanket tucked around your knees, and ask, “So… are you gonna tell me what crawled into your head and died, or do I have to start guessing again?”

Haymitch doesn’t answer right away.

Just raises the flask halfway to his mouth, then pauses—eyes flicking toward you in the low light.

Something unreadable.

Something steady.

And just a little afraid.

Haymitch doesn’t speak for a few seconds. Just taps the side of the flask with his thumb like he’s weighing something in his head.

Then, with a sigh: “You ever just… think too hard and ruin your whole damn night?”

You blink. “Uh, every day?”

He huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, and leans back in the chair. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”

You clutch your chest dramatically. “Was that an insult?”

“Observation,” he says, deadpan.

You narrow your eyes. “Careful. I bite.”

“I’m counting on it.”

The silence that follows is just long enough to make you question if he really said that or if your brain made it up to mess with you.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just takes a sip from his flask, all casual. Like he didn’t just drop a line that would’ve sent any sane person spiraling.

Your face is on fire.

“Okay,” you mutter, tugging your sleeves over your hands. “That was either the most casual threat of violence I’ve ever heard or… something else.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You gonna cry about it?”

“Only if you say something nice again.”

“Don’t worry, not planning to.”

You lower your hands slowly. “Is this your version of a love language? Being unbearable?”

He leans forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. “If it is, you’re fluent.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Point at him like he personally offended you. “I hate that that was clever.”

He smirks. “That’s the spirit.”

You grumble, but the tension has shifted—lighter now. Familiar. The kind of back-and-forth that’s always been safe ground between you two, even when neither of you would admit how much of it isn’t actually about the insults.

Haymitch tilts his head slightly. “Why’d you come?”

You blink. “I said I couldn’t sleep, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You also show up here when you’re pretending not to need something.”

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward the window. “Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone with my brain tonight.”

He watches you for a beat, eyes narrowed in that way that usually means he’s trying to see more than you’re saying.

“You always show up when that happens?”

You shrug. “Only for people who make fun of my tea.”

He smirks. “Lucky me.”

And then, a pause. One of those ones where the words are still sitting between you, tangled and half-shaped, not quite ready to be said.

You speak first, because someone has to. “You’re acting weird tonight.”

His smirk fades a little. “Guess I’m just tired.”

“You’ve looked worse.”

“Thanks.”

“Just being honest.”

He glances at you, then looks away again like he’s afraid of what your face might say if he keeps looking too long. “You’re the one who’s weird,” he mutters finally.

Your mouth twitches. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Wow. Compelling argument. What are you, six?”

He shrugs. “Mentally? Probably.”

You laugh softly, and his eyes flick toward you again—so fast it’s almost nothing. But it’s not nothing.

You feel it.

You shift where you’re sitting, tugging the blanket a little higher. “Well. As long as we’re both being weird, I guess that’s balance.”

He adjusts in his chair, looking at you like he wants to say something else. But instead, he leans back, lifts the flask, and mutters, “Guess so.”

The room settles again. You stare at a patch of moonlight on the wall, soft and white where it filters through the curtain. You think about offering another joke, something to pull the air back toward comfortable again, but it doesn’t feel necessary right now.

Not everything needs fixing.

Sometimes just being here is enough.

And so you sit like that—the quiet stretching thin between you, but never snapping.

After a while, he shifts in his chair, finally glancing your way.

You don’t meet his eyes. Just offer a soft, “Thanks for letting me in.”

His voice is rough but gentle. “You don’t have to thank me, honey.”

You nod, once. A small smile pulling at your lips despite everything.

“Still,” you say, “it’s nice.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “It is.”

You stretch your legs out a little, the blanket slipping from your knees as you shift. “So,” you say, casually, “on a scale from one to cryptid, how weird am I for showing up in the middle of the night again?”

Haymitch lifts his brows. “Bold of you to assume I don’t prefer cryptids to people.”

You grin. “Flattered.”

“Shouldn’t be.”

You shrug. “Still am.”

He exhales through his nose, and it’s almost a laugh. He leans forward to set the flask on the table, then stands with a quiet groan and walks across the room, pretending to inspect something on the shelf like it’s of vital importance. You know that move by now—it’s his favorite when he’s trying to avoid saying something out loud.

“You pacing for fun now?” you ask, stretching your arms overhead.

He glances over his shoulder. “Just stretching my legs. You try sitting in that damn chair and see if your spine survives.”

“Then switch,” you offer, patting the empty space on the couch beside you. “I promise it won’t bite.”

He eyes the spot like it’s a trap. Which, fair.

You raise an eyebrow. “Scared?”

He rolls his eyes and crosses the room without a word, dropping down onto the cushion next to you. The couch dips under his weight, shifting you just enough that your knee brushes his.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your face neutral, your voice light. “See? Not so bad.”

Haymitch doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for the throw blanket you kicked aside and tosses it back onto your lap without looking at you. “You’re cold,” he mutters.

You blink. “Are you… fussing?”

“I’m keeping you from whining later.”

“Wow,” you say. “So generous.”

“Tell the press.”

You bump your knee lightly against his. “This is peak hospitality.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t shut the door and lock it after you saw me.”

He snorts. “You’d break the window.”

“Not wrong.”

“Besides,” he adds, quieter, “you’re not exactly hard to make room for.”

That gives you pause. You blink, not sure how to respond, and your brain short-circuits just long enough for your foot to slide a little—closer than you meant. You catch yourself too late, your ankle brushing against his. Your whole body stiffens.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t flinch or shift or make a joke out of it. Just stays there, still and steady beside you.

You glance at him, expecting some kind of comment. A jab, a quip, anything.

But he’s looking at the wall again, quiet. Calm. And—if you didn’t know better—you’d think he looked… content.

Your stomach flips. You pretend it doesn’t.

You shift your focus back to the window, where the moonlight spills in pale and soft across the floorboards.

“Bet you’re regretting this decision now,” you say, voice light.

Haymitch doesn’t look at you, just lifts an eyebrow. “Letting you in?”

“Sitting next to me. You could’ve had your grumpy little chair and peace and quiet.”

He snorts. “You talk too much for peace and quiet.”

“You love it,” you say, bumping his leg again—just barely.

He hums like he’s considering it. “I tolerate it.”

“Which is Haymitch-speak for deep emotional affection.”

“That’s a stretch.”

You pretend to be deeply wounded. “I bare my soul to you every Tuesday and this is the thanks I get?”

“Bare your soul?” He glances at you now, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You came over last week just to complain that your strawberries didn’t taste ‘emotionally satisfying enough.’”

“They didn’t! They had weird vibes.”

“You have weird vibes.”

You gasp. “Wow.”

He just sips from the flask again, like your offense is routine at this point.

“Okay,” you say, shifting slightly to face him more, arms still wrapped in the blanket. “If we’re gonna hurl insults all night, I demand snacks.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s two in the morning.”

“So? You’ve definitely eaten worse things at worse hours.”

He opens his mouth, pauses, then shrugs. “Fair.”

You grin. “You got anything?”

“Kitchen’s a mess,” he mutters. “I think there’s bread.”

“Ooh. Stale or fresh?”

“Your standards are too low.”

“They have to be. Look who I hang out with.”

That gets a huff out of him, almost a laugh. He leans back, arm settling along the back of the couch—and you do not look at it. Not even a little. Definitely not.

You tilt your head, still watching him. “You gonna get up or am I supposed to hobble in there on one leg and risk death by loose floorboard?”

He smirks. “You’ll survive.”

“Rude. I’m injured.”

“You’ve been milking that ankle for days.”

You gasp again. “I sprained it!”

“You limped for sympathy.”

“It hurt!”

“It got you out of cleaning the pantry.”

“That was a coincidence.”

“Mm-hm.”

You jab him in the side with your elbow. He shifts, just slightly, and doesn’t move away.

“I’m going to tell Peeta you mocked my pain.”

“He already knows.”

“Katniss will destroy you.”

“She’ll help me alphabetize the herbs while you fake cry on the porch.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”

That makes him pause.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t reply with a quip. Doesn’t tease or deflect. Just breathes out slowly, eyes flicking toward the floor.

And you suddenly feel like maybe you said something too loud, too honest.

So you clear your throat, shifting again, trying to brush past it. “Anyway. Snacks. Come on, sunshine, let’s see what horrors your pantry holds.”

He rolls his eyes—thankfully back to banter. “You’re the horror.”

You grin. “You say that like it’s not your favorite genre.”

His mouth twitches.

And then, quietly, “You’re not that hard to like, you know.”

You blink.

But before you can say anything, he’s already pushing himself up off the couch with a muttered grumble and heading for the kitchen.

You sit there for a second, blinking at the spot he just left.

Your chest feels like it’s got too many heartbeats crammed into it.

And still—you follow him.

You end up with a package of half-stale crackers, a bowlful of walnuts, and what might be the last edible apple in his house. Haymitch claims it’s “plenty”.

Still, it’s enough to bring the two of you back to the couch, settling into your respective spots like you didn’t just spend the last five minutes arguing about whether the apple “smelled suspicious.”

Now the room is quiet again. Not uncomfortable—just soft around the edges. The kind of quiet that fills in between laughs.

You glance sideways.

Bad decision.

Haymitch is leaned back, snack bowl balanced on one hand while the other rests over his thigh—long fingers curled loosely, veins standing out under the skin in a way that should not be allowed. His shirt is wrinkled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the collar’s hanging just crooked enough to show the line of his neck, collarbone shadowed in the dim light.

You look away.

You look back.

Mistake.

You should not be thinking about his thighs. You should not be thinking about his hands. You should not be noticing how the apple looks ridiculously small in his palm or how he just cracked a walnut open with a twist of his wrist like it was nothing.

Your brain is melting.

You reach for a cracker and miss your mouth entirely.

Haymitch watches you do it. Doesn’t say a word.

You clear your throat and pop it into your mouth like nothing happened. “Bold of you to hoard all the decent snacks in your apocalypse pantry.”

He hums. “Better than your tea drawer.”

“You don’t deserve my tea stash.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now? That one drawer with four dusty bags and something that smells like soap?”

You gasp. “That soap is lavender and peace, thank you very much.”

“It smells like regret.”

“You smell like a crypt.”

“And you keep showing up here. Makes you the cryptkeeper.”

“I hope your next biscuit turns to dust in your mouth.”

He looks over, grinning slightly. “God, you’re dramatic.”

You shrug. “You bring it out in me.”

That shuts him up for a second.

He doesn’t look away this time. Just shifts his weight a little, shoulder brushing yours.

You very, very intentionally do not react.

Instead, you pluck a walnut out of the bowl and mutter, “This one better be good or I’m declaring war.”

“You declared war three snacks ago.”

“Well, now it’s personal.”

You crack it open and, of course, it’s perfect. You pretend it’s not.

Haymitch smirks. “Satisfied?”

“I’ll never admit it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

He glances at you, quiet for a second. Then, “Yeah. I am.”

You freeze just a little. Bite the inside of your cheek. Try not to let it show.

Because he’s sitting too close, and he looks too good for someone who’s allegedly grumpy and emotionally constipated. And his hands are right there, and he’s warm, and the room smells like him and apples and something deeper and you are losing your mind quietly, internally, respectfully.

“I should go,” you say—too quickly, too unconvincingly.

He tilts his head. “No, you shouldn’t.”

You blink.

“Your ankle,” he adds, like it’s obvious. “Can’t have you hobbling home and falling into a ditch.”

“Wow. So noble.”

“I try.”

Next Part

[kyanitedragon]

When I read through The Borrowers I made a reference list of items the Clock family borrows and uses:

(Keep in mind that this book is from the 1950's, so a lot of these things aren't kept in homes anymore)

sewing needles

pencils

match boxes as drawers

cigar boxes as bedrooms, with the embellishments as wallpaper

matches, as firewood

sealing wax, used as glue

hair pins

drawing pins

safety pins

thimbles, used as pots

hat pins

miniature book volumes, some with readable text in them and others are blank

scraps of letters for wallpaper

stamps as decorative portraits

blotting paper, as carpet, that needs to be replaced every so often

chess pieces as sculptures

mustard pot to hold fuel

cogwheel as a fireplace, and an inverted brass funnel like a chimney

(see this image, the fireplace on the right. it also shows most of the items on this list)

they scrape off bits of bar soap to use for themselves, even having different scent preferences

kids gloves used to make shoes

blackheaded pins and darning needles used as knitting needles, with silk and cotton to act as yarn

turren as a bath

lacquer trinket box as a settle

manicure scissors as scissors

Cheese graters, cash box lid, pierced zinc old meat safe, wire fly swatter > all used as protective gates in the walls

hair pins and safety pins used as clasps and locks on those grates.

doll chinaware as tea cups, but often big enough to be a mixing bowl instead of a teacup

(On that note, their soup bowl is once described as being knee-high when placed beside them)

I can't find what this one is, but a borrower was after a "liver pull" on a mantle shelf

jet beads as buttons

bristles from a doormat used to make brushes

cotton spools as stools

a sliced hazelnut shell as a cup

keychains as decor

rings as crowns

perfume bottle caps as oil lamps

doll furniture

aspirin bottle lid, as a pot

acorn and bone thimble as cheaper teacups

surgical bandages as towels

nametape on the pin heads to aid climbing

a wristwatch to use as a timer

eyebrow comb as a hair comb

[lives-between-lines]

With her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean - poly!marauders x slytherin!reader

─

Summary: Preparing for the dreaded OWLs proves to be a difficult task for one tightly-wound Slytherin. How do Remus, James, and Sirius each offer assistance, and how does she handle it?

Notes: No Voldemort, but pureblood elitism is still very much a thing. Story starts at the end of the Marauders and Reader’s fifth year. I don’t know the most about all the Marauders Era headcanons so I kind of did what I wanted, sorry if you don’t like it. 

Tags: Angst, fluff, traumatized Slytherins, pureblood elitism, slightly mean!reader

Words: ~7.8k

p.1 p.2

─

I huffed as I reached for another heavy book on the shelf from one of the dark back corners of the library. I wasn’t in the restricted section just yet, but getting close to it. Between the weight of the other five books stacked in my arm and the height of the shelf I was trying to reach I nearly dropped them all. 

“Careful, there, Princess. Might break something lugging around all those books,” someone said next to me. I nearly jumped as I hadn’t noticed anyone come down this same aisle. 

I shot a glare at him for startling me. It was none other than Remus Lupin, one of those pesky Gryffindors who was constantly fighting me for my space at the top of the class. My glare intensified when I realized who it was.

“Yes, and it would sure be a shame if I managed to drop these on your foot and break something there,” I snarked. 

He looked amused at me. “Whoa, Princess, no need to get feisty with me. I was just going to offer my assistance.”

“And what kind of assistance should I accept from you when you’re just as likely to try and trick me?” Lupin gave me a weary look. Typical of Gryffindors to think everyone is as blindly trusting as them.

“No tricks, Princess, just offering a bit of help,” he said with a shrug.

“Would you stop that? Stop calling me that,” I snapped at him before turning back to the book I needed. Before I could make a second attempt to reach for it, Remus stepped up next to me and I froze. But then he grabbed the book for me and set it on top of my stack then took a step back. 

“Not a fan of your nickname?” He was of course referring to me being known as Slytherin’s Princess. Sometimes I like to pretend the nickname came about because I’m always top of the class, making my house proud, but I know the real reason is because I come from a wealthy, pureblood, Slytherin family and everyone thought me rather spoiled. 

“I am not some simpering girl in need of a man to save her and it’ll do good for the people in this school to remember that.” Despite his significant height, I lifted my chin to Remus Lupin and dared him to say otherwise. 

“Of course, of course,” he agrees, nodding his head and holding up his hands. “But you are Slytherin’s Princess, aren’t you?” His eyes light up in amusement at my frustration. 

My nostrils flare as I hold back my anger. It doesn’t do me any good to blow up at some stupid Gryffindor, not when that is exactly what he wants and I am not in the business of giving Gryffindors what they want.

Instead, I turn to walk away. Take the high-ground as they say. 

“Wait, wait, I’m sorry!” Remus calls after me, quickly catching up to and following me. “Seriously, dove, I’m sorry. I was only joking. Please, let me help you with whatever on earth you could possibly need all these books for.”

I stop abruptly and turn toward him. “And why should I accept help from someone like you?” I nearly growl at him, barely holding back my frustrations.

Remus looks taken aback by my words. “Someone like me? You mean a half-blood?”

It’s my turn to be startled by him. “I mean a Gryffindor,” I bite out. This was exactly why I couldn’t stand this brutish group, they were always so quick to jump to outrageous assumptions, thinking the worst of someone like me just because I’m in Slytherin.

He looks relieved and confused at the same time, but I don’t really care to help him unpack his complex emotions about the exact reasoning behind why I don’t trust him. 

I dump my books down onto the table I had claimed earlier and began to scour the table of contents in the first one. Uninvited, Remus took the chair next to me and began looking over my shoulder at the book. 

“Can I help you, Lupin? Or are you just interested in being a nuisance?” 

“I’m glad to be a nuisance any day, but as I’ve said before I was actually hoping to help you.”

“And as I’ve said before I’m not looking for any help.” 

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Is that this close to our OWLs you’re scouring books for something that you think you’ve missed, but you’ve been at the top of our classes all year, so I highly doubt you’ve managed to miss anything of real importance.” I give him a confused look, trying to discern how he’s figured me out so easily. Except he’s wrong, of course, I did somehow manage to lose the year a specific herb was realized to have certain medicinal properties. “So now I’m trying to answer the question of what does little miss Slytherin Princess think that she desperately needs to know, and will that really be the determining factor in her score on her OWLs?”

I glance around to make sure no one else is listening to me admitting defeat in front of a Gryffindor. “I don’t have the year we began to use hyssop to treat earaches,” I murmur. 

Remus’s face seems to fall at my admission. “That’s what you’re so concerned about? A minor herb’s medicinal use? Not even that, you already know that, but what year that was discovered? That is such a niche detail, there is absolutely no way Sprout asks us that.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously Sprout’s not going to ask us about that, it’s Binns that I’m worried about,” I explain. Although I really shouldn’t be giving my enemy any help in preparing for our upcoming tests. I was just as desperate to best him on these tests as I’m sure he was me. 

“Binns?” He asks, outraged. “Binns would never ask about that in a million years.”

“You don’t know that, no one knows that. We had a lecture on the history of medicinal herbs, hyssop was one of them.”

“And so you really think that from that one lecture he’s going to ask us when hyssop was discovered to help with earaches?”

“I was reviewing my notes and I had written down the year but it got smudged.”

“You’re actually a raving lunatic,” Remus tells me. He looks around the library like he might get up and leave, but then he turns back to me. “I realize these are the most important tests of the year, but I think you have way overestimated the difficulty of the questions that will be on them.”

“And I think you can never be too safe.”

We hold each other’s gaze for several moments. Remus finally blinks and then sighs. “Confound it all, fine. Hand me one.” He holds his hand out expectantly. 

I stare at him, confused. 

“Well? Are we going to look for this blasted year or not?” I blink out of my stupor and hand him one of the books I had grabbed. 

We sit in silence for a long while, pouring over the texts. The only sound in this part of the library is us turning pages. The first book I look through doesn’t contain my answer, and neither must the book Remus has. Although I am tempted to go back later and double check he didn’t find it and not tell me in an effort to trick me. 

After I get through two more books and Remus goes through three, I can’t stop myself from asking the question that had been nagging in the back of my head the entire time. 

“Why exactly are you helping me? Surely you’d much rather be focused on your own studying.”

Remus slowly pulls his attention away from the book in front of him. He blinks at me and then furrows his brows. “Sorry, I know you said something, I just didn’t quite catch what,” he admits. 

I can’t help the small laugh at his honesty. “Why are you helping me? I thought you’d want to be studying for your OWLs.”

“I am studying for my OWLs,” he replies, tauntingly. I roll my eyes at him. 

“Come on, you know what I meant,” I push. 

He shrugs and I think that’s going to be all the answer I get, then after a pause he says, “you’ve intrigued me. I’m curious now to find out when we started using hyssop for earaches.” There’s something about his tone that’s off, but I mark it down to him just teasing me. “Besides, I’m already plenty prepared to get a perfect score and take my spot at the top of the class.”

I laugh at his taunting. “Clearly not prepared enough if you’re not well versed in the history of hyssop,” I tease back. 

He gives me a winning smile and something in my chest stutters at it. I must just be unsettled by his obviously false flattery. 

“Can I ask you something in return?” He asks after a moment. 

I consider him, then reply, “I don’t promise to answer, but you’re welcome to ask.” 

He smiles again and this time it feels like my heart has been squeezed just a bit. “Well I suppose that’s fair. But are you always so…” he trails off and I get nervous at where he’s going with this. “Well, are you always so intense about knowing every little detail?” He finally finishes. 

It must be relief that floods my veins when he doesn’t ask anything backhanded or rude. I actually give him a smile before glancing down at my lap. 

“I have to be, don’t I? There’s one way to stay where I am and it’s by rigorous study,” I admit. 

“Is it really so important to stay at the top that you have to obsess like this, though?” 

I think back to what happened when I would slack off with my studies at home before coming to Hogwarts. I can’t help the way my face falls at the memories. 

“I suppose it might not be so important to a Gryffindor, but success is a high priority in Slytherin,” I finally respond. It seems when I don’t know how to react I lash out, although Remus is lucky to have caught me in a good mood as I let him off rather easily. 

Nonetheless he still looks a bit dejected by my response. I feel a bit bad for shutting him down when we had been starting to get along rather well. 

“We should probably focus on the matter at hand, though, if we ever want to find our answer before curfew,” I say, returning to the book in front of me. 

“Right…” Remus murmurs. Part of me expects him to leave at that point, after all that’s when everyone else does. He surprises me when he stays and doubles down his efforts. 

I open my mouth, to say what I’m not entirely sure. I close my mouth again when I realize that I want to apologize. There’s no way that Remus wants some half baked apology from me. 

Time passes in silence, the both of us occupied with our search, but my mind keeps wandering to the way I had snapped at Remus. I didn’t understand why he had sat down to help me, but I shouldn’t have antagonized him for asking a simple question. It wasn’t his fault that the answer wasn’t so simple. 

I can’t help stealing glances of him every few minutes, which significantly hinders my speed in reading my book, but Remus doesn't seem to notice and I can’t get myself to stop. This means that I notice almost immediately when Remus freezes suddenly. I try not to react, not wanting to have been caught looking.

“Holy shit!” He nearly shouts, someone nearby shushes him loudly, but he’s too busy jumping out of his seat to mind. “Oh, Merlin’s beard I actually found it!” He whispers loudly this time and pumps his fist. Standing at his height above me while I sit next to him I have to strain my neck to look up at his face, but it’s such a beautiful sight with how excited he is.

“You mean you actually found the year?” I ask, matching his excitement.

He nods enthusiastically at me then points to the line of text that contains the answer we’d spent hours searching for. “Yes, yes, look! It’s right there.”

We celebrate as quietly as we can and I quickly jot down the information into my notes. 

“Oh, thank you, Remus! You’ve just saved me probably three hours.” I stand to join him. It’s then that I finally check the time and realize just how close it is to curfew. “Ah, shit,” I murmur. “We should turn in for the night. I don’t fancy having a run-in with Filch tonight.”

“Let me walk you to your dorm?” Remus offers.

“What? It’s nearly curfew, you’ll risk getting in trouble with Filch. No, I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself to my dorms for the night,” I reply firmly. 

“Don’t worry about me, dove, I can handle myself. Let me walk you to your dorm.” This time Remus sounds more like he’s telling me than asking me. Nevertheless I nod in agreement and we make our way to the Slytherin common room in the dungeons. 

On the way down, Remus teases me lightly about how obsessed I must be to dedicate so much effort into finding such a small detail. I tease him back about him being a nerd for helping me look for the answer. It’s lighthearted and easy and part of me thinks I could get used to having Remus as a friend. Another part of me questions what it would look like for me to be friends with a Gryffindor and whether my parents would approve or not. Then the first part kicks the second part for being such a self-obsessed ass. 

Just outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room I wave goodbye to Remus and wish him a good night. I try not to blush when he calls me “dove,” and dart into the safety of the common room. 

─

The next few weeks Remus seems to make it a habit of running into me in the library when I would otherwise be alone. In the past I had tried studying with Narcissa or Andromeda but the pair of them had bad habits of wanting to chat while I wanted to actually study, so my time in the library had previously been spent alone. 

Remus was different, though. He understood my desire to focus on the material in front of me and not whether or not his hair was looking frizzier than normal. 

Before I knew it I had come to rather enjoy his company. It felt almost reassuring that there was someone else who was similarly interested in studying, but wanted to do it with me. Somehow it was like studying at the same table as him made studying that much better, even if nothing of substance had changed. 

─

On a Saturday morning, a couple weeks before we were to begin taking our OWLs, I went out to the Black Lake just before the sun rose. I had slept fitfully, getting more and more nervous for the tests ahead of me. There was so much pressure to do good on these, I didn’t know what I would do if I were anything less than perfect. 

I don’t know why exactly I came out here, I just knew that I needed fresh air. Without much else of a plan, I sat down at the trunk of a tree and pulled out my wand. I practiced a couple small charms and transfigurations on the branches and rocks around me. 

“I’d say that rock doesn’t stand a chance against you, but I’d like to know what it did to deserve such treatment in the first place.”

I dropped the spell I had been using to propel the rock in the air and it fell swiftly. There likely wasn’t anyone in the school who I would not have been shocked to see, but I was especially shocked it was none other than James Potter. He’s a fairly popular boy my age in Gryffindor, mostly known for his outspokenness and disruptive behavior. If my memory serves me right, which it always does, he’s actually friends with Remus Lupin.

“What are you doing out here so early?” I can’t help but ask.

“I could ask the same of you,” he points out. I finally take him in at that moment. He’s wearing loose shorts and an old Gryffindor quidditch t-shirt that he’s cut the bottom half off to show off his athletic build. His curly hair is a mess atop his head, but I get the notion it’s always like that. When I meet his eyes I’m struck by how blue they are that I can notice even with him standing several feet in front of me. I can’t help but think to myself how pretty he is. He gives me a dorky smile, as if used to the attention but still not sure how to respond.

“Couldn’t sleep so well. Thought some fresh air would do me some good,” I finally answer, not acknowledging how I’d just been looking at him.

“Some fresh air and tormenting rocks?” He teases.

“Is that all you think we Slytherins do? Torment everything?” I huff. 

His face twists at my response. “No, no that’s not what I meant at all. It was just a joke, most people laugh at them.”

I sigh and lean back against the trunk of the tree. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit on edge,” I admit, though I’m not sure why I feel the urge to open up to this next to perfect stranger.

James takes a few steps closer and I tense up, but he just takes a seat next to me under the tree. “What’s got you so on edge?” 

“Is that another one of your jokes? The OWLs obviously.”

“Oh, right. I suppose those are coming up soon.” He pauses and tears some grass in front of him. “What’re you stressed over those for?” 

My brows pinch together and I stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “They’re only the most important tests of the entire school year, of our entire schooling career thus far! These will determine our entire futures.”

It’s James’s turn to look at me like I’m crazy. “They’re just another test, though. And I really don’t see how they’ll determine our entire futures,” he says plainly. 

I scoff and roll my eyes. Leave it to a Gryffindor to blow off something so important. 

“Look, I know you’ve got this whole thing about being perfect in every subject and staying ahead of everyone else, so I’ll make you a deal.” I turn to him, my interest piqued. “If you do any less than perfect on each of your OWLs, I’ll turn all the professor’s hair purple,” he offers.

My jaw drops at his suggestion. “What on earth would that accomplish?”

“Well I figure people won’t be talking about what grade you got on your OWLs if they’re too busy talking about Dumbledore with a lilac beard,” he’s laughing even as he says it. I laugh, too, at that image. 

“Make it bright pink and I’ll help you,” I reply through giggles. 

James gives me his award-winning dorky smile and I can’t tear my eyes away. 

“Seriously, though, I’ll bet you’ve already gotten perfect scores on every other test this year, there can’t be anyone else more prepared than you.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, not used to outright compliments that weren’t also an insult. My gaze falls to where James is still fiddling with the grass. “A bit antsy, are you?”

“Sorry,” he sighs, “I’ve been trying to work on that. I actually came out here to go for a run, it helps me burn some of my extra energy before the day so I can focus a bit better.”

I can’t imagine wanting to start the day by burning through energy, I often woke up with barely enough to make it through the day. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to be keeping you. I can go back inside if you want to run by yourself,” I offer and even before I finish talking, I’m pushing to stand up. 

“No, no you’re fine!” He’s quick to reassure me. “Please, stay. Actually if you want you could join me, it might help you clear your mind.”

I consider for a moment before deciding to agree. There couldn’t be much harm in it, it was still at least another hour before most people would get up for the day and I didn’t have anything better to do. 

While we run I can’t help glancing over to James, who’s clearly in his own world.

The sun began to peak over the horizon, slowly illuminating our path. At one point the sun is behind James when I steal another glance at him, and the way the light catches on his features makes him look like a real life angel.

James proves to be right, the run did help me to clear my mind. When we stop back where we had started I’m feeling significantly lighter than before, even if I am breathing significantly heavier. 

“That was… fun,” I am slow to admit. “Thank you, Potter.”

“Anytime, darling.” He gives me another goofy smile. “Feel free to join me whenever you like, I come out at the same time everyday.”

“I just might take you up on that.”

─

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I take James Potter up on his offer every day for a week straight. I quickly come to enjoy the ritual of it, waking up before dawn, sneaking out of my dorm, getting the fresh air and clearing my mind before the day. 

James’s presence was a reassuring one, even if we didn’t always talk much. I had the sense that he would listen to anything I needed to say and offer encouragement. 

As our OWLs loom ever closer I come to rely on our runs to center me in the mornings more and more, but I also question how long James will continue to let me join him. He never says anything to indicate he doesn’t want me to join, though, so I take him at face value and keep meeting him under our tree every morning. 

─

The night before we’re to start our OWLs I find myself unable to sleep for even a minute. Of course this wasn’t a problem for my dorm mates who had fallen asleep at least two hours ago. 

I toss and turn, thinking that maybe if I could just get comfortable I could get to sleep. Of course I have no such luck. Eventually I decide that drastic times call for drastic measures. 

I don’t have to worry about being too quiet as I climb out of my bed, pull on a jumper, and slip on my sneakers. I’ve mastered this routine from sneaking out for my morning runs. 

Two years prior Narcissa was sniffling and sneezing her brains out, but didn’t want to wake Madam Pomfrey for medicine. Andromeda insisted we could take care of her ourselves, she just needed a good, hot cup of tea to clear her system. I never knew where she learned it, but she showed me a way to slip into the kitchens undetected. She then showed me which cabinet to find the herbs in, and also which herbs were the right ones. And then she showed me how to use the kettle. 

It was amazing how much better Narcissa was able to sleep after she finished her cup of tea, and the next day she was right as rain. I quickly became obsessed with the simple magic behind a “good cup of tea” and asked Andromeda to tell me everything she knew about the different recipes and ingredients. When her knowledge proved to be rather limited I went on a rampage in the library until I was satisfied─ a good two weeks later. 

My plan was a simple blend to help me sleep and settle my nerves. Chamomile and cinnamon was sounding particularly tasty, although I was considering whether I might like lavender with rosemary more. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice at first there was already someone else in the kitchens. Thankfully when I did I only jumped a little. 

Confused, I stared at Sirius Black as he took a kettle off one of the stoves. He gave me an amused look in return. 

“Couldn’t sleep either?” He guessed.

“No, I’m quite afraid not.”

He gave me a sad smile in understanding. “Have a seat, I’ll make you a cup,” he offered. I can’t say why I listened, but I did. Maybe in a moment of weakness before a highly stressful event I didn’t care that I didn’t know him much, I just wanted to let someone take care of me. 

“Any preference on what kind?” He asks.

“Hmm, I was debating between chamomile with cinnamon or lavender with rosemary,” I say. Then, because I can’t help myself, I proceed to list off my many thoughts on the benefits of each ingredient and what might best suit my current situation. 

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice that Sirius has made a decision for me and already started steeping the herbs in the water. I’ve somehow veered off onto what might make a good combination if Sirius was having a headache, or if his headache was caused by a cold and he had other symptoms what could help with that. 

To his credit, he never once interrupts or even looks bored. In fact the entire time he seems to regard me with mild amusement, and I begin to get the impression that everything he encounters in life amuses him. 

I don’t even stop rambling about tea when he sets my cup in front of me. After taking a sip, I start to tell him how very fond I am of lemon balm, then pause when I finally realize the cup of tea is already made. 

For the first time since Sirius asked what kind of tea I wanted, he is finally given a chance to say something. “Are you sure you weren’t meant to be in Ravenclaw?”

I scoff at his suggestion. “Don’t be absurd, Slytherins can be just as studious as Ravenclaws, we just typically hold our cards a little closer to our chest.”

“Right.” He nods. “This was you holding your cards close to your chest?” He then questions.

“Well it’s not like there’s any great secret behind tea. And besides, even if I haven’t been able to sleep I am quite tired.” A yawn escapes me just then to prove my point. “Narcissa always complains about my tendency to ramble when I’m tired.”

“Why would she complain? I found it rather entertaining,” he says, lightheartedly. Even though his tone has a hint of joking to it, I feel like he’s being honest. 

I give him a small smile before taking another sip from my cup. It’s still quite hot, but the flavors are still strong. “Mmm, this is quite delicious,” I compliment. “Is it chamomile with… rosemary?” 

Sirius gives me a proud grin. “Ten points to Slytherin,” he jokes. A smile falls on my face. 

“What have you made for yourself?” I ask, glancing at his cup. 

“Vanilla and rose.” 

“That sounds lovely. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that before.”

“James’s mum makes it for us all the time. Do you want to try a sip?” He offers. I nod quickly and he passes over his cup. Sure enough it’s a delightful mixture. I tell him such and he tells me the measurements so that I can make it for myself. 

“So what’s keeping you up on this otherwise peaceful night?” Sirius asks.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I groan. He looks at me dumbly, confused as to what the obvious answer might be. “We start our OWLs tomorrow,” I scoff. 

“Merlin, you can’t really be this stressed about it.” He sounds disbelieving, though I’m not sure why. 

“I can and I am,” I say, matter-of-factly. He rolls his eyes and turns to begin putting away the tea kettle. “Why are you up, if not because of the OWLs?” I then ask.

“Not for any good reason. Have always had trouble sleeping,” he says, but the tightness in his voice, and the way he tugs at a lock of hair behind his ear tells me there’s something else he doesn’t want to share. I can’t fault him for that, though. “Which of your OWLs do you feel most prepared for?” He asks after a moment of tense silence. 

It throws me off for just a second. Most people want to know which test I’m most nervous for, want to know what area I’m weakest in, where the chip in my armor is so that they might strike there. I consider for a moment, not wanting to say something that I end up bombing. Eventually, I decide on my favorite subject. Sirius seems to accept that answer without pushing any further, so I turn it on him. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he answers almost immediately. “I want to be an auror,” he brags. 

I roll my eyes at the proud smirk on his face. “Of course you do.”

“Well? What do you want to be?” Sirius asks as if expecting a lame answer such as archivist. 

“My parents want me to be an alchemist,” I reply in what I would guess is a lame answer.

“That’s great for them, what do you want to be, though?” Looking into his eyes at that moment feels as if he’s staring into my soul. 

“I… I don’t know,” I mumble slowly and my brows furrow. I can’t help but look at my cup of tea, half empty at this point. No one had ever asked me what I wanted before, not when it came to something so major. It was always assumed I would follow the path my parents laid for me. 

When I find the courage to look back up to Sirius he has a sympathetic look on his face. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap.

In return, Sirius’s face pinches in anger. “I wasn’t looking at you any type of way,” he defends.

“Yes, you were, you had this look on your face like you were sad for me,” I accuse. “Don’t be sad for me.”

“I’m not sad for you─”

“Good, because you have no reason to be. My life is great and everything is perfectly fine.” The way I say it even Sirius can tell that I’m trying to convince myself more than him at this point. I let out a frustrated sigh. I want to say something about how I’m a great witch and I’m meant to be an alchemist, but another voice in my head whispers to explain how I really feel.

“Look,” I start, then trail off. 

“It’s complicated,” he finishes for me. “I get it. I’m sure you know about my family, you know I get it.” His voice is so soft as he talks to me, as if I’m a frightened animal. But despite my flaws I am still a Slytherin, and I do not appreciate being treated like a frightened animal. 

“Leave it to a Gryffindor to be so self-absorbed they assume everyone knows their tragic tale of woe. Maybe instead of staying up late to make tea and trying to relate to girls you hardly know you should work on your form for your smokescreen spell.” The words spill out of me before I even consider them. I don’t even take the time to be shocked at my outburst. Instead I storm off. 

“Yeah, you’re one to talk about self-absorbed, Princess!” He shouts at my back. I nearly flinch at the nickname, but keep going out of the kitchens and straight back up to my dorm.

─ 

The morning before the first day of our OWLs testing I follow my same routine. I wake up early to run with James, and he tries to ask if I’m feeling alright, but I brush him off and neither of us acknowledges the way I push myself harder on this run than I ever had before. 

After our run, I go back up to my dorm to shower and get ready for the day. My dorm mates still haven’t caught on yet that I’ve started getting up hours earlier. They do ask if I’m feeling flush and press their hands to my forehead, though. I shove them off with a grumbled, “I’m fine,” and shove my things for the day into my bag. 

In the Great Hall I can hardly stomach a plain slice of toast, but I just manage to get it down with some orange juice. I feel a bit queasy, but today is too important to pay that feeling any mind. 

On my way to the first test of the day, I think back to Remus’s reassuring words from our study session the night before. 

“Look, I know trying to reassure you that you’ll do great won’t get through to you, even if I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” Remus says softly, almost hesitantly. “Instead I hope you know that it will be okay if you aren’t perfect.” My heart hits my stomach and I drop my quill. I start to shut down, prepare to lash out. Why would he say that? He thinks I won’t be perfect? 

“Maybe other people will have different opinions, but I will still be your friend and I know that everything will turn out okay for you.”

Oh. My heart flutters back to life. We’re friends? 

For once in my life, I do not lash out at someone for trying to get closer to me, for saying something honest that I wasn’t ready to hear. 

I give him a sad smile. “Thanks, Remus.” I pause for a long moment. “I’m glad you’re my friend,” I whisper. Then, because I’m not sure how to proceed after that, I stiffly turn back to my notes. Remus, ever the gentleman, goes back to his book and doesn’t push me any further. 

I don’t think anyone had ever told me before that it was okay to be anything less than perfect, but his words become my mantra for the day. 

“It will be okay if I’m not perfect,” I think to myself as I walk into the classroom. 

I take a seat next to Narcissa. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

The professor instructs us to start. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I read over every question three times. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I double check each of my answers. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I finish the last question. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I walk up to the front of the class and turn in my test. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

As I leave the classroom I’ve almost convinced myself that it will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

My stomach begins to churn and I walk straight to the nearest bathroom, into one of the stalls, and promptly begin to lose my breakfast. I hear the door open behind me when I’ve stopped heaving. 

“Think you’ve found yourself in the wrong bathroom, Princess,” someone says mockingly. Footsteps come closer to me. “Oh shit, are you okay?”

I hadn’t bothered to lock the stall door behind me, so I’m able to turn and see Sirius Black. Again. I give him a horrified look. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing in the girls’ room?” I nearly shout at him.

“Actually you’re the one who’s walked into the boys’ room,” he informs me. I give him a disbelieving look until he shifts and my gaze falls on a line of urinals behind him. My face blushes profusely and I stare at Sirius, mortified. He gives me a pitying look. “It’s okay, pretty girl, you’re clearly not feeling well. Stay there for a moment.”

Still in shock, I stay put. I hear the sink running for a moment, then Sirius comes back with a damp towel. He hands it to me to wipe my face. 

“Thanks,” I murmur. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he replies. With a tender hand, he helps me to my feet when I’m ready. “Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey, then.”

“Oh, no, that’s really not necessary. It must’ve just been something I had at breakfast,” I lie. 

Sirius gives me a disbelieving look. “You’ve clearly worried yourself sick and we both know it.”

I don’t reply as I follow him out of the bathroom. My plan was to start going in the direction of the hospital wing, then double back to the library to keep studying. Sirius’s plan was to follow me.

“I’m more than capable of walking myself to the hospital wing,” I say tersely. 

“And I’m more than capable of walking with you. I’m glad we’ve determined our abilities for this excursion.” 

I shoot him a glare that would scare off most other people. Sirius doesn’t even blink at me. My new plan: ignore Sirius as he insists on walking me to see Pomfrey. 

“How did you feel about it?” He asked after a moment. 

I don’t respond. 

“I personally thought some of the questions were a bit repetitive, like I had to explain myself multiple times.” 

I stay strong. 

“But maybe that’s a bad sign that I didn’t do as good as I thought.” 

Just keep staring straight ahead, he has to shut up eventually, I think to myself. 

“On the second question─”

“Would you just shut up already?” I snapped. I was stressed enough over how I did without reliving it with someone I didn’t even like. 

Sirius holds his hands up defensively. “Someone’s cranky,” he says with a laugh.

“I am not cranky, I just don’t particularly care to discuss the test with you.” My eyes roll of their own volition. 

“What should you care to discuss then?” He asks. 

“With you? Not much.” Maybe if I can discourage him enough he’ll grow bored and wander off. 

“It’s a bit of a trek to the hospital wing from here, though, and I’ve found conversation to be a great way to pass time.” Of course, I should know that Gryffindors are not so easily discouraged.

“I’ve found that there’s no reason for you to walk all the way to the hospital wing with me.” 

“Wow, are you like this all the time?” He finally snaps back.

“Like what?” I pretend to be ignorant. 

He scoffs at me. “Rude, Princess. Are you always so rude?”

I flare up at the nickname. The way he says it, it feels like he knows I don’t like it. 

“Nobody asked you to pester me,” I say. 

“Most people would consider this an act of kindness, not pestering.”

“How unfortunate for you that I am not like most people.” 

“It would do you a bit of good to learn something from them, maybe you could start with some manners.”

“I’m perfectly well mannered, thank you very much. You’re the one who didn’t listen when I told you I was fine to walk by myself, and you’re the one working yourself up by staying with me when you could bug off to literally anywhere else.” With that I begin to speed up to leave him behind.

Sirius actually stops for just a moment, as if really considering my words. Then he rushes to catch up to me. “No, I want to know what’s so bloody great about you,” he says. 

I give him a strange look. “I never claimed for anything to be so great about me.”

“Maybe not but you sure act like it, so tell me: what is so bloody great about you? What makes you so special that you think yourself better than everyone else here?”

It’s my turn to stop in my tracks. “Who the hell said I think I’m better than everyone?”

“No one has to say it, Princess.” The way he says Princess feels like venom on his tongue. 

I want to hit him. Punch him in the face and give him a great bloody nose. I want to hex him. Maybe knock him off his feet. I want to scream at him. Scream that I don’t think myself better than everyone, that I’m just an imposter pretending to be perfect all the time. 

It will be okay if I’m not perfect.

Tears start to well in my eyes. I haven’t cried since I was eleven and my family was getting ready to drop me off at Hogwarts for the first time. 

“Do not cry, darling, it’s unbecoming,” my mother says to me. “Soon you will be sorted into Slytherin and prepare to continue your family’s legacy. You must show strength at all times, even if you do not feel it. We can not be perceived as weak.”

A single tear snakes out of the corner of my eye and down the apple of my cheek. I look down and it falls to the ground by my feet. Another tear falls, and before I know it I am fully crying. I start to struggle to breathe. 

When I look back up to Sirius he looks terrified. He must think he’s what’s made me cry. The truth is it’s the last five years that have built up to weigh on me continually. It’s the way my life was gilded and no one had ever cared to look below the surface until a few weeks ago when Remus Lupin offered to help me study. Until James Potter offered to go for a run. Until Sirius Black offered me a cup of tea. 

My quiet tears begin to turn into choked sobbing as I realize how sad my life really was, that these three Gryffindors had shown me a kind of genuine caring that I hadn’t known could exist. 

Hesitantly, Sirius takes my hand to lead me over to a nearby bench so I can sit down and try to collect myself. It takes several minutes for me to control my breathing, and several more for my tears to subside. I finally look down to notice that I’m still holding Sirius’s hand, that I’d actually been holding it quite firmly. 

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice hoarse, as I release his hand from my grasp. “You were right. Everything is so very complicated.”

Sirius gives me that same look he did last night, and I realize. He wasn’t sad for me, he understood me. But how was it fair that he would get to leave, when his brother and I were left behind with our authoritarian families? Selfishly, I think maybe he could show me the way.

I sit there, lost in my thoughts, for a long while. Sirius stays with me. Eventually the bells toll to indicate it was time for lunch. When I glance up at Sirius, he’s already looking at me. 

“Can I make you an offer?” He asks. 

I grow weary at his words. “I would suppose that depends on what the offer is.”

“Well, your eyes are red and swollen and you’ve got mascara tracked down your cheeks,” he starts and I grow horrified as I realize what I must look like. There was no way I could go into the Great Hall looking like the mess I surely am. He lets out a small laugh at my expression. “Why don’t you go clean up, and I’ll grab us some lunch from the Great Hall. We can meet in the south courtyard.”

I was amazed that even after I’d been so mean to him, he would still be so kind to me. 

“That would be quite nice actually. Thank you,” I reply softly. 

Sirius gives me a swift nod, then helps me to stand up. We go our separate ways, me to my dorm to wash my face and apply some fresh mascara and concealer, and Sirius to the Great Hall. 

─

I’ve just sat down in a corner of the courtyard for a couple minutes when Sirius shows up. I try not to look too shocked when James and Remus appear with him. Of course, I knew they were all friends, they went galavanting around the entire school proclaiming themselves marauders, but I’d never interacted with all three of them together. 

It suddenly occurs to me that they likely share a dorm, and very well could have planned this all to be some grand prank on me. But they had all seemed so genuinely kind to me until this point, and I was so tired of constantly second guessing everyone’s intentions. I decided that if this were some prank I would let them have their fun at me, then show them the real wrath of Slytherin. 

The three of them quickly set up a small picnic and begin lighthearted conversation. James compliments the way my hair looks today. Sirius teases James for the way his hair looks everyday, although I would argue it flatters him I don’t say that aloud. Remus gives me a knowing look as the two begin bickering. 

Spending time with the three of them is easy, and feels right. Like it was always meant to be the four of us all together. None of them mentions my earlier breakdown, or even anything to do with our tests. I wonder what Sirius told them before they all came out here. Whatever it was, none of them shows me any judgment so I can guess he must have skipped over my rude behavior. 

I’m sad when the bells ring again to signify the end of lunch. We clean up our area of the courtyard, then head back inside. Over the course of my time with the boys I feel my spirits lifted significantly, feeling much better and ready to face the next two weeks of tests. 

It will be okay if I’m not perfect, I think to myself again, and this time I really do believe it. Because even if I’m only just getting to know Remus, James, and Sirius, I know that they are my friends and they’ll be there for me.

[ticifics]

hiii, could you maybe write a dave lizewski x reader where the reader is also a huge comic book nerd like dave? and he comes over to her place to help her organize all her comic books + action figures into her display shelves + they yap together abt comic stuff or something

it can be established rs or pre relationship, i think either way would be still be so cute!!! it would also be rlly cool to see a more sarcastic reader utilized here, its cute to see that dynamic with dave!!!

i rlly hope this makes sense! i hope it didnt seem too rambly 😭😭😭😭 thank uuuuu

Supreme Sarcasm Power

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: "I knew you had an impressive collection, but… this is practically a nerd sanctuary." "You only say that because you want to marry me and get half of the assets in the division," you retorted. The teasing tone made Dave flash a crooked smile, nearly dropping the action figure. "I don't need a comic collection for that," he shot back, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Just you."

Warnings: just fluffy

A/N: honey, yeees I understood, don't worry. I feel like I made a mistake with the nerdy references(so sorry), but I hope you can like it <33

The room was a perfect reflection of your personality: half Disney princess, half intergalactic warrior. Cute plushies shared space with incredibly detailed action figures, and shelves full of comics contrasted with delicate pastel-colored lamps. Dave was in the middle of the organized chaos, holding a Captain America action figure in one hand and a Watchmen comic book in the other.

"I knew you had an impressive collection, but... this is practically a nerd sanctuary," he said, trying not to sound too impressed—and failing miserably.

"You only say that because you want to marry me and get half of the assets in the division," you retorted, not even looking up as you stacked some issues of Saga. The teasing tone made Dave flash a crooked smile, nearly dropping the action figure.

"I don't need a comic collection for that," he shot back, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Just you."

"Aww," you replied, turning to face him with an arched eyebrow. "But if you drop my Captain America, forget it."

Dave chuckled, slightly flushed, as he carefully placed the action figure on the designated shelf. "Seriously, how did you get this? This limited edition costs a fortune."

"Connections," you replied mysteriously, crossing your arms. "And what I did was sell part of my soul. Totally worth it, don't you think?"

Dave laughed, still eyeing the action figure in his hands before carefully returning it to its proper spot on the shelf. You could feel his gaze lingering on every detail of your room, as if he was absorbing it all. It was the kind of attention he gave to everything he loved, and, well, you knew that included you. But you weren’t going to admit that out loud, at least not without making a sarcastic comment right after.

"So, what's next on the organization list?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips in an awkward but absurdly adorable way.

You pointed to the stack of boxes in the corner of the room. "That one. But be careful with the one at the bottom, it has glass. And if you break something... well, let's just say not even the Hulk will protect you."

"Got it," he responded with a serious expression that lasted two seconds before giving way to a nervous smile. "No ruining my entrance to the Avengers, noted."

As he bent down to grab the next box, you returned your focus to organizing the comics alphabetically—because, of course, it had to be alphabetical. It didn’t take long for the comfortable silence to be broken by a strange sound coming from Dave: a mix of a sigh and a stifled laugh.

"What’s up?" you asked, not turning around. The casual tone was a clear attempt to ignore the little wave of concern that hit you. After all, that kind of sound coming from him usually meant he'd found something... compromising.

He didn’t answer, which only made your anxiety worse. When you finally turned around, your heart practically dropped to your stomach. There he was, holding a Quicksilver poster with a lipstick mark strategically placed on the character’s cheek. The bright red contrasted with the worn paper, clearly loved too much during its glory days.

"Oh, God," you muttered, bringing a hand to your face. "Dave, give me that."

He held the poster above his head with a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in half. "I didn’t know you were such a big fan of Peter Maximoff."

"I’m not!" you shot back, already crossing the room toward him. "It was a teenage thing. Give it to me before I die of embarrassment."

"Teenage?" He raised an eyebrow, as if processing a revolutionary discovery. "You used to kiss posters as a teenager?"

"I didn’t kiss posters!" you exclaimed, trying to jump and grab the paper, but he had the height advantage. "It was just... I had a crush, okay? And that’s none of your business!"

He laughed, stepping back. "I think it is. After all, I’m the one who’ll have to compete with Quicksilver now."

"Dave Lizewski, I swear I’ll..." you began, but he interrupted, holding the poster even higher.

"What are you going to do? Summon your supreme sarcasm powers? Because, as far as I know, that’s not going to help you get this," he teased, his eyes gleaming with pure amusement.

You sighed, trying not to show how defeated you were in your own specialty: keeping composure. Dave seemed to be enjoying every second of this role reversal, holding the poster like a freshly won trophy, his dark curls slightly messy on his forehead, and his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. It was hard to stay truly mad at him when he had that expression—a half-smile, half-mischievous grin—that made your heart stumble before you even realized it.

But you weren’t going to give up that easily.

"Do you really want to turn this into a battle?" you shot back, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. "Because, as far as I know, you’re not exactly known for winning."

He laughed, a low chuckle that seemed to reverberate in the space between you. "Oh, sure. This coming from the person who’s literally turning red just because I found out she kissed posters."

"I didn’t kiss posters," you repeated, even though the evidence was incriminatingly clear.

Dave raised his hand even higher, the poster swaying dangerously above you both. He wasn’t exactly tall, but he was strong in a way that didn’t seem obvious at first glance—not until you noticed the muscles in his arms, visible even under the sleeves of his T-shirt. You tried again to grab the poster, but he leaned back, laughing once more.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," you muttered, stopping your jumping and placing your hands on your hips. "I can't believe I’m losing to you."

"That’s what makes me a genius, right?" he responded, still with that teasing tone. "I finally figured out your weakness: teenage embarrassment."

"No way," you said, your voice firm, even though the back of your neck was still warm.

You knew you needed to change strategies. Jumping and trying to grab the poster clearly wasn’t working, so it was time to do what you did best: turn the tables in your favor.

Straightening your posture, you took a step closer to him, closing the distance until you were almost invading his space. Your gaze deliberately moved from his eyes to the poster, then back to him, your lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile.

"Okay, you won," you said softly, your voice dropping to a low, almost melodic tone. "But, if we’re talking about kisses..."

Before he could process what was happening, you placed your hands on his torso—heat and firmness under the thin fabric of his T-shirt—and took another step closer. Your fingers lazily running along his sides.

"...maybe you want one too?"

You saw the instant transformation in him. The confident smile faltered, his eyes widened slightly behind his glasses, and color rose on his cheeks with almost comical speed.

"W-what?" he stammered, his voice faltering like someone had pressed the wrong key.

You seized the advantage, tilting your head slightly as if considering the idea seriously. "You heard me. Just tell me, Dave. I’m generous like that."

The poster started to drop—finally—but by this point, you didn’t even care about it anymore. All that mattered was the growing heat between you, the way his eyes couldn’t decide whether to look at yours or your lips, and the way his breath had become slightly irregular.

"I... I mean..." he tried, but the words tangled in an adorable way.

"Dave," you interrupted, your voice a little firmer, but with a hint of tenderness.

"Hm?"

"I don’t want the poster," you admitted, letting your hands slide a little higher up his chest. "I just want you."

The silence that followed was thick, but in a way that made the air feel electrified. He finally let go of the poster, letting it fall to the floor carelessly, while his arms came around your waist, pulling you gently closer.

"You don’t play fair," he murmured, his voice husky, but with that mischievous smile still present.

"I know," you replied, leaning in his direction until your lips finally met.

The kiss was slow but full of intention, a mix of quiet laughs and a passion that seemed to overflow with every touch. It was a little clumsy, as always, but that only made you fall for him more.

When you finally pulled apart, he was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling in a way that made everything around you feel lighter.

"You won this time," he said, with a theatrical sigh.

"I always win," you retorted, giving his chest a little push before turning to grab the forgotten poster.

But as you crouched down to pick it up, he spoke again:

"Just so it’s recorded... I definitely wouldn’t mind being defeated like that more often."

And in that moment, as you laughed and tried to look indifferent, all you could think about was how Dave Lizewski was your favorite victory.

[phoward89]

Based on this ask

Set 4 months before the 10th Hunger Games.

WARNING: Dark!Coriolanus, Spit kink, dry humping, slight degradation, fingering (f receiving), reference to stalking

The day of love, the ancient holiday of St. Valentine's Day, better known as just Valentine's Day for short, was vastly approaching. Rom-coms were clogging up nearly every station on Capitol TV, every grocer and sweet shop had large hearts full of candies on display, jewelry stores had diamond rings on display in the front windows, restaurants were being flooded with calls about holiday dinner reservations, and florist shops were bombarded with orders for roses.

February was the month of love and it seemed that everyone was losing their mind over it. But for different reasons. Couples were trying to find the perfect gift for their significant other while shop owners were trying to cash out on the commercialism of the holiday celebrating love.

You weren't a fan of the holiday, but why would you be when you've never had anyone give you anything on February 14th? You weren't anything special, just a girl that always has her nose in her books.

You were a bookworm, an impeccable student, and a good girl. Nobody notices girls like you.

You thought that nobody noticed you.

But, it turns out, you were wrong.

Your classmate at the Academy- a tall, skeletal thin boy with messy platinum curls and sparkling sky blue eyes had taken a liking to you.

In fact, he more than liked you.

The top student of the Academy was infatuated with you.

No, no, that wasn't it.

No, he was obsessed with you.

Yes, Coriolanus Snow was obsessed with you. He'd been watching you from afar for years, but now his obsession was growing to the point where he knew just watching you wasn't going to be enough anymore.

Coriolanus just had to have you.

He needed to make you his.

You were like a drug to him, he craved you and had to have you for his sanity.

So, since it was the month of love, Coriolanus Snow decided that he was ready to finally make you his.

How would he do that? Well, by being your secret admirer during love week of course.

Then on the day of love, he'd reveal himself to you; forever making you his.

On February 7th you walked into the Academy like you did any other day. You avoided the judgemental stares and gossiping from the snobs as you made your way to your locker. When you reached it, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Or at least until you opened the metal box, only to reveal a white rose on the shelf above your stack of textbooks. Also, nestled under the rose was a note.

You reached for the paper, only to unfold it and discover that whoever wrote the note had perfect penmanship.

The flourish of the longhand was nothing, but perfect loops and dashes. The words were, as you quickly discovered, a poem.

Not just any poem, but a poem about roses by a poet from ancient times. The pre-Panem days.

Who would know that you enjoyed ancient literature?

“I see you received a white rose, Y/N.” Coriolanus Snow told you, seeming to appear out of thin air.

His locker was right next to yours, so you shouldn't have been startled by him. But for some reason, you were.

“Um, yea. Yea, I did.”

“Any idea who it's from?”

“No.”

“Well, then it looks like you have a secret admirer. Don't worry, I'll be on the lookout for you; tell you who they are if I learn anything.”

“You don't have to do that, Coriolanus.”

“Have you thought that maybe I want to, Y/N.” The platinum blonde countered, tilting his head in a way that made his curls rustle.

You forced a smile paired with a polite, but generic, “Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

Before he could say another word, you closed your locker and took off down the hall.

Coriolanus watched the swish sway of your hips as you walked away. His icy blue eyes glued to your ass.

Oh god, oh he wanted to take you from behind and smack your ass; make it jiggle.

Soon.

Very soon he'd make you his.

It's your destiny to be his because he always-

ALWAYS

-gets what he wants.

And what he wants most in this entire world is you.

Well, you on his rock hard cock, but that's besides the point.

The following day, you opened your locker to find a single white rose with another note.

It was a quote from an ancient Pre-Panem book. Romeo & Juliet by Shakespeare to be exact.

That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.

And then the day after that, you found a single white rose with a tiny chocolate ball wrapped in a red wrapper inside of your lock. Of course, once again, there was a note written in perfect flourish accompanying it.

Enjoy your chocolate on this sweet day, my darling rose.

You were about to put the note back into your locker whenever Coriolanus appeared at your side. He towered over you, so of course he saw the note in your hand along the presents your secret admirer left for you.

“I see you got chocolate today with your rose.” Coriolanus observed as you placed the note in your locker and pulled out your books for your first couple of classes.

Little did you know, Coriolanus stole what little money Tigris has squirreled away for the mortgage payment this month to buy you a single piece of candy. He was poor, so poor that he didn't have a pot to piss in, but he had to get you something to impress you.

And all girls loved chocolate, didn't they?

Well, he knew his Grandma’am loved chocolate. So, safe to say, he was hoping you'd like the chocolate. That the small treat would make you fall in love with your secret admirer.

With him.

Instantly.

“Yea.” You nodded, closing your locker. The platinum blonde continued just staring at you instead of making a move to unlock his locker. “The secret admirer struck again.” You stated the obvious as a way to clear the awkward air that was starting to loom around you and Coriolanus.

“I see that.” Coriolanus smirked. “Are you flattered by the gifts your admirer’s been leaving you?”

You mulled over that for a moment. Hmm…How did you feel about all the roses and little notes? “Well, it’s sweet. But I wasn't even aware that I'm likable so for somebody to keep leaving me roses and notes is a bit of a shock.”

Still staring at you, Coriolanus flashed a smile that was all pearly whites. “Of course you're likable, darling. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”

“Have you seen half of the people we go to school with?” You asked, trying not to burst out laughing as the names and faces of your stupid and annoying classmates fluttered around in your head.

“Yes, well unfortunately we're surrounded by idiots that we have to play nice with so we can step on them as we climb up the ladder to success.” He dramatically told you, baby blues rolling into the back of his head, as he finally opened up his locker.

*Oh my God? Did you just say that?” You laughed, finding his remark amusing. You never knew that he had such a dark sense of humor. “If only we started talking years ago, then we could've been sitting at the lunch table judging everyone.”

“Oh, so you enjoy my company then?” he asked, pulling a book out of his satchel and placing it into his locker.

“Maybe.” You shrugged.

“Just maybe?” Coriolanus pressed, grabbing what he needed for his first couple of classes and packing it into his satchel.

“Sejanus likes you, so you can't be that bad.”

Coriolanus leaned over you, his eyes flashing mischievously, and his voice a low velvety baritone, “Oh, but you're mistaken. I'm a very bad boy, I just don't get caught being bad.”

It was right at that moment the first warning bell rang for the first morning class. That bell gave you an out in a situation that had quickly escalated. “The bell rang; we better go, Coriolanus.”

He nodded, only to say, “Call me Coryo, Y/N.”

“Okay, well, see you later, Coryo.” You told him before quickly taking off towards your class.

Coryo watched your backside, fantasying about spanking your ass while roughly fucking you, before taking off to his own class.

Every day was the same thing. You would receive roses and notes filled with poems and quotes from ancient Pre-Panem literature. And everyday Coryo would make a remark about it.

So, when Saturday rolled around, you were relieved that your admirer wouldn't be able to leave you anything.

Or at least that's what you thought.

Turns out, you were wrong. So very, very, wrong.

You were at your kitchen table, which has seen better days since the wood was worn, scratched, and chipped, eating some toast made out of stale bread, whenever your mother came into the kitchen. A bundle of 3 roses tied together with a ribbon bow paired with a piece of parchment in one hand and her daily morning paper in the other.

Oh no.

Your secret admirer struck again.

“You got roses and a letter addressed to you, Y/N.” Your mother told you, placing the items on the table. “Is there something you want to tell me about?” She asked, taking a seat at the table.

“I have a secret admirer.” You honestly answered, reaching for the love note while your mother unfolded her newspaper.

“Oh, how nice. Maybe he's rich.” She smiled, watching you unfold your note.

Of course she'd say that. But you understand why though. You go to school with a bunch of snotty rich kids while you're living hand to mouth in an apartment Corso. If it wasn't for your older brother, Rein, sending home his peacekeeper’s pay, well, you'd probably be out on the streets. Your mother just wanted you to have a better chance at life then she did; wanted you to marry a wealthy man that could take care of you. Get you out of poverty.

You can't fault her for wanting better for you. For wanting you to avoid making some of her mistakes.

You didn't say a word, just shrugged as you read over your note. You couldn't help but smile at the words written in that perfect looping, swooping, flourish that you've grown to adore.

These white and red roses I give to you are a promise of my affections towards you. Red roses symbolize love while white roses symbolize purity, perfection, and an untarnished new love. I have nothing, but both in my heart for you, my darling rose.

Your mother leaned over your shoulder, reading your note. “Seems like you've managed to snag the heart of the Poet Laureate of Dogwood Lane.” Your mother huffed, only to grab her coffee cup.

“I think it's sweet, mother.” You defended your secret admirer, placing the note down and picking up your tiny bundle of roses.

As you smelled the faint, sweet scent of the roses, your mother sighed, “With words like that, he's a poor boy.”

“Mother, don't act like that. It doesn't matter to me if my admirer's rich or not, as long as he's nice to me.” You scolded your mother while leaving the table and taking your roses over to the kitchen sink, so that you could put them in a tall glass of water.

Your family didn't have any vases. They were broken the night your mother received the news about your father's death. She grabbed every vase in the house and threw them at the walls with all her might, screaming and crying with heartbreak.

“Y/N, it's as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man. You remember that; it'll keep you from doing something stupid.”

But what if you wanted to do something stupid?

On Sunday you received another rose from your admirer and another note. It was a simple note, but it was sweet none the less. Of course, you put the rose into the water glass the other 3 were in.

And come Monday, you received another gift from your secret admirer. You asked Coryo if he had any clue who your secret admirer could be because you really wanted to meet them, tell them that you thought they were sweet. He told you that he knew, but would tell you the next day.

Valentine's Day.

Of course, he was going to be a troll and make you wait until Valentine's Day to find out what he knew about your secret admirer. Damn. He would.

So on Valentine's Day you walked out of your front door, expecting to make the walk to the Academy and ask Coryo what he learnt about your secret admirer, only to find him pacing the floor right in front of your apartment. He had something behind his back and he seemed to be, for a lack of a better word, nervous.

“Coryo, what’re you doing here?”

Stopping in his tracks and turning to face you, he smiled while pulling his hand out from behind his back. Extending a perfect white rose to you, he smiled, “Y/N, my darling rose, I've come to tell you that I'm your secret admirer. That I'd like to take you to the Valentine's Day dance at the Academy tonight.”

“You? You're my secret admirer?” You couldn't believe your eyes and ears. It was Coryo all along. How could you not see it? Before he could utter a reply you took the rose from him and smiled, “Coryo, I'm glad it's you.”

Of course you're glad he's your secret admirer. You enjoy his snarkiness and he's hot. He's tall, has broad shoulders paired with a small waist, and his platinum curls frame his angular face in a way that makes him look like a Greek god.

Before Coryo could utter a word, you threw yourself on him; hugging him. He just chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. Resting his chin on top of your head, he asked, “Are we going to the dance?”

“I'd like to, but I don't think I have anything to wear. Or at least anything that hasn't been worn one too many times already.” You admit, feeling a bit bad that you'll probably miss the dance because you don't have a slew of dresses to pick from.

Coriolanus understands where you're coming from. He too has the hard burden of keeping up a filet mignon steak appearance while on a cabbage and watery broth soup budget.

So, pulling away slightly so that he could use a hand to tilt your chin up; making your eyes lock, he told you, “I'll bring you home after school; my cousin Tigris can fix you up for the dance. I'm sure she'll have a suitable dress for you to borrow, since she's a remarkable seamstress that’s always making something.”

When Coriolanus brought you to his penthouse, you were shocked to find out that he lived in your building on the Corso.

He lives on the 12th floor in your building! Oh, how the universe has a funny way of fucking with you.

Coryo living in your building’s the reason why he became your low key stalker, watching you from afar for so many years. It's why he singles you out. Why he’s your secret admirer.

When you entered the Snow penthouse, you discovered that it was in poor shape. That he was poor, just like you were. That he was acting at school, acting like he had all the riches in the world when he didn't.

It should've bothered you, but it didn't. Coryo was just trying to survive being at the Academy with a bunch of rich snobs. What choice did he have, but to lie about having money. He has to blend in somehow.

Coriolanus was excited for you to meet Tigris, Grandma'am too, but unfortunately the penthouse was empty. His cousin left a note detailing that she took their Grandma'am out to run a few errands. She told.him roughly when they'd be back too.

Fortunately they'd be back in plenty of time to help you get ready for the Valentine's Day dance that Coryo wanted to take you too.

You thought that he wanted to take you to the dance because he likes you, but that was only partially true. Coriolanus wanted to take you to show you off. Stake his claim to you. Mark you as his own.

Once everyone in the Academy saw you on his arm, they'd all know that you belonged to him.

Coriolanus always did like showing off his most prized possessions. But, unfortunately, he doesn't have many of those these days. So, now that he has you right where he wants you, it's time to show you off.

But to do that he needs Tigris to shine and polish you. Make you look dazzling, like a diamond. But, since his cousin and their Grandma'am are out, having you be made over by his cousin’s magical fashion touch will have to wait.

Coriolanus decides that since he's got you all alone in his penthouse, he might as well act on his fantasies of fucking you.

And that's how you find yourself in Coryo’s room, splayed out on his twin sized bed in nothing, but your simple white panties as he sucked and nipped a spot below your jaw. His hands were on your boobs, massaging them roughly as he grinded his boxer clad bulge into your wet, aching core.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding your hips in a desperate attempt to alleviate the ache in your pussy. “Coryo, please…” You whined, feeling the platinum blonde sucking harshly at a spot right below your jaw.

“Please what, baby? Please fuck you?” Coryo taunted huskily in your ear. His warm breath tickling your earlobe; sending a new rush of heat down to your wet center. “Hmmm?...” He hummed against your neck, trailing kisses down to your collarbone.

You placed a hand in his light blonde curls, only to pull his head up. Making his lust blown eyes meet yours. Biting your swollen, over kissed lips, you admitted, “I'm a virgin, Coryo. I don't know if I'm ready to go all the way yet, but I need you to touch me.”

Of course you were a virgin. He knew that. Coriolanus just wasn't expecting you to be hesitant about wanting to fuck him.

Damnit!

He didn't want to be a virgin anymore. He wanted to have his first fuck with you.

Okay, honestly, he hated people and would only be fucking you since you're his. After all the hard work he did wooing you with the secret admirer gifts and notes, he'd be a fool to try and find somebody else.

Coriolanus gave you a lopsided smile, only to stroke your cheek and confess, “I'm still a virgin too, my darling rose.”

Coriolanus Snow’s a virgin? But he's so hot. How is he still a virgin? Like, with his looks you thought he would've had a few hookups under his belt.

“Why?” You asked, curious eyes looking up into his icy baby blues.

“I'm too busy studying to do anything.” Coriolanus smoothly lied.

Truth was, he could go out and find somebody to fuck if he wanted to, but he was too busy watching over you from the shadows to do that. So, in fact, it wasn't studying he was too busy doing, but obsessing over you. Following you around whenever you went out. Even lurking nearby your apartment, in an alcove where you'd never see him, for the chance of sneaking a glimpse at you whenever you open the door to take out the trash or something.

Yes, he studied his subjects for school, but not with the same obsessive diligence that he studied you.

Trailing his fingers down your neck, until his hand reached the hollow of your throat, he smirked, “Plus, I guess I was waiting for the right girl.”

“Yea?” You ask, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. You couldn't believe your ears, Coryo just said, in so many words, that his wait was over because you were the right girl for him. That made your heart soar.

Coriolanus’ blue eyes sparkled and his plush lips turned up in a soft smile. “Yea.” He nodded, hovering over you. “We can wait until we're both ready, darling.” He offered, stroking the hollow of your throat. “I promise.”

And despite being obsessed with you to the point that he was literally your stalker, knew everything about you, and wanted to own you, he meant it. He wasn't going to push you into giving him your virginity. But that was because he worked too hard (because giving you a roses, notes, and a piece of chocolate for an entire week straight was hard work) to get you to notice him, trust him, and love him back to ruin it by pushing you too hard.

Coriolanus is a patient man, he can wait a bit longer to fulfill his fantasy of stuffing his cock into your tight cunt. At least he gets to fulfill his other fantasies with you. But, he hopes by summer he'll be balls deep inside your tight cunt.

He had an obsessive love for you and he wanted nothing more than to claim you as his. In every way possible.

And that urge to claim you is what spurs him on; what has him biting at your collarbone, soothing the teeth marks with a few laps of his tongue. The platinum blonde smirked against your skin as he felt your fingers tighten around his hair as little mewls left your mouth. It sends pride coursing thru his body, knowing that being marked by him turned you on.

Coriolanus wraps his lips around one of your nipples only to roughly tweak the other between his thumb and forefinger, causing you to let out a small, breathy moan.“Coryo…” 

Your reaction to his ministrations caused him to grind his boxer covered bulge into your soaked panty covered pussy. He moaned around your nipple, the feeling of your wetness soaking his hard dick driving him crazy. He needed some friction to relieve his aching cock and by how you were frantically canting your hips up to meet his, you needed some relief too.

Coryo sped up his pace, only to roughly squeeze your tits while biting your nipple. You felt pleasure mixed with pain, causing you to loudly moan and claw at Coryo's back with your hand that wasn't tangled in his hair. 

Letting your nipple fall from his mouth with a loud pop, he smirked, “You sound so beautiful when you moan for me, little dove.” 

One of his hands trailed down your body, only to squeeze your hip. His thumb brushed against your hip bone as his hand, that was still on your boob, harshly palmed it. He stopped grinding into your core, causing you to whimper and buck your hips in a feeble attempt to get him to move again. 

But he didn't move. Instead, his icy eyes stared straight into your soul as he asked, “I want to take your panties off; finger fuck you real good. Can I do that, baby?”

Could he do that? Of course he could. Didn't you tell him you wanted him to touch you before? Was he being shy or was he giving you an out? You didn't know, but all you knew was that hearing that he wanted to finger fuck you sent a fresh pool of wetness between your legs. 

“Yes.” You nodded. Your voice was a desperate whine as you told him, “Please, Coryo. I need you so bad.”

Coriolanus pressed a kiss to your lips. “Shh, baby. I’ll give you what you need.”

He pulled your panties off, only to toss them over his shoulder. Your instant reaction was to close your legs, but Coryo placed his large hands on your knees, preventing your legs from closing. “Don't get shy on me now, Y/N.” He reprimanded you, lust blown icy eyes locked onto yours as his platinum curls framed his elongated face perfectly like a halo.

You couldn't tell him he was being serious or playful with his reprimand, so you just nodded.

His attention fell to your slick pussy. You were so wet for him. “That all for me, darling? Fuck, your so wet.” He groaned, gnawing on his bottom lip as he felt his already rock hard cock get painfully harder. God, just looking at your perfect, pretty pussy dripping and drooling juices just for him sent a possessive pride straight to Coriolanus' heart.

It gave him an ego boost knowing that he's the one to make you so wet. That only he can do that, make you needy and wanting for him.

Serves you right to be wet between your thighs because of him. God only knows how many nights he fisted his cock, worked up with need for you. It's only fair that he makes you into a needy wanton little whore for him.

“Yea, it's all for you.” You nod, letting your hands run over his chest. You can feel his ribs underneath his pale skin as you tell him, “It'll always be for you.”

Coriolanus gave you a needy open mouth kiss as he hovered above your body. The kiss was messy and took you by surprise, but it also turned you on. A feral look flashed in his eyes, which was more black then icy blue at the moment, before he grabbed your chin in his hand. Keeping you jaw open with his hand, he uttered the declaration of, “Mine, mine, mine.” Before spitting right into your mouth.

You felt the spit rolling down your throat, becoming one with you in an exotic way. Coriolanus’ smiled widely, showing too much of his pearly whites, at the site of you swallowing down his spit. “You're mine, my darling rose. All mine and I'll never let you go.”

Yes, you were all his. His personal little slut. His darling rose. His, his, his.

Coriolanus’ face hovered dangerly close to yours as he snaked a hand between your bodies. But, before he could touch you, you stopped him by grabbing hold of his wrist. 

He gave you a startled look. Did you change your mind? Did you want to stop?

Fuck, he hopes not.

No, you didn't want to stop. Infact, you wanted him to take off his white boxers so that you could see his cock. You wanted him bare before you since you were spread out for him. 

And you told him so.

And boy, oh boy, he was so happy to hear you say that.

Quickly, he stood up and pulled off his boxers. Seeing his large cock, that was at least 8 inches with veins running alongside it, you felt desire heat up inside of you. 

“Can I touch it?” You asked as he knelt back on the bed.

“Yes, you can touch it. But after I'm done with finger fucking you. Okay baby?” He cooed, settling back between your legs and cupping your soaking wet cunt with his large hand. “I'm gonna make you feel so good, little dove.” Coriolanus told you before running a long finger up your slit.

A shiver felt down your spine at the feeling of him teasing you with his finger. You let out a ragged breath as his finger slipped into your tight pussy, only to languidly thrust a few times. You felt yourself grow wetter as he pulled his finger out of your wet hole, only to bring it up to his mouth and suck on it.

Coriolanus’ eyes rolled into the back of his head as he moaned, “Mmmm…you taste so sweet.” 

“Coryo, please.” You begged. His teasing was driving you crazy.

Deciding that two could play that game, you reached down with your hand and grabbed his hard cock.

“Fuck.” Coriolanus gasped as you experimentally ran your thumb over the leaky, red tip of his cock. His breathing was harsh as he said, “I got an idea. Think you’d want to try it?”

“What is it?” You asked, curious to hear this idea of his. You felt like you'd explode any minute now, so if he had a way to ease your aching cunt, then you wanted to know. Especially since he keeps getting distracted when it comes to fingering you.

Maybe he was nervous because he'd never finger a girl before, or maybe he was just a tease that liked to edge you. Who knows. But what you did know was that if you weren't touched soon then you were gonna go mad.

“Well, we’re worked up and I don't know how much more alone time we have, so I thought we could just grind together like we're fucking. But of course I won't put my cock inside, just rub it thru your wet folds.”

“Yes, yes, Coryo. Please, just make me cum.” You rattled out, feeling desperate. Hell, you’re at the point where you're tempted to just start playing with your own pussy to cum. That's how bad you needed to cum right now.

“Goddamn, baby, you're such a whiny little slut for me.” Coriolanus cooed, holding his cock and using the tip, oozing with precum, to rub against your clit in a teasing manner.

Well, it seems like Coriolanus Snow's the type that likes to play with his food before he eats it. 

His metaphorical food. The boy's practically starving to death with nothing, but stewed cabbage and watery broth to eat. So, he doesn't play around with real food.

Hunger is a weapon; he knows that all too well. 

But your lustful hunger for him is something that he uses as a weapon of sorts. He uses it, teasing and edging you, to make you beg to be his. Beg to be filled by him, just for a blissful release to satisfy the throbbing ache in your wet cunt.

Your wet cunt that’s hungry for his cock.

And by God, he's going to give you his cock.

Coriolanus stopped teasing your clit with his tip, only to roll his hips into yours, sliding his hard cock along your slippery wet folds. His fingers dug into your hips and yours dig into his biceps while you both let out loud, throat moans. The feeling of his cock sliding thru your folds was heavenly for the both of you.

With every movement Coriolanus made, you matched. Being the first time either of you have every done anything remotely sexual, your movements at times were sloppy and rushed. Frantic even. But it felt good. 

The only sound in the room was that of your moans and heavy breaths mixed with the obscene sound of Coryo's cock slipping between your squelching wet pussy. Oh, the pressure of his cock rubbing against your cunt was delicious.

It felt better than any of the times you've fingered yourself, rubbed your clit, or humped your pillow. 

Yes, dry humping Coriolanus was better than anything you've ever felt before. 

“Feels so good, Coryo.” You mewled, clawing at him, feeling the coil in your stomach start to tighten.

“Yea.” Coryo huffed, his brow furrowed with sweat as he felt his cum heavy balls begin to tighten.  Leaning forward, caging you in with his arms on either side of you, Coryo's breath ghosted your kiss bruised lips. “You feel close to cumming, baby? Huh, little slut, wanna cum?” 

Nodding eagerly, you wrapped your arms around his back, scratching it in an attempt to bring him closer to you, as you let out a sharp moan. “So close. I'm so close, Coryo.”

“Me too, baby. Me too.” Coryo groaned, bucking his hips even sloppier and faster in a desperate attempt to make you both cum.

His fists are white knuckling his bedsheets while your nails rake up and down his back, attempting to anchor yourself as your release neared. 

Groans and moans mixed with the wet, sweaty sound of skin slapping together and the loud squeaking of the old bed filled the air as you felt the rubber band inside of you snap.

You cum hard, harder then you've ever cummed in your entire time as a teenager. “Oh, Coryo. Coryo.” Tumbling from your lips in a sweet, moaning chant as your secret admirer continued to slide his cock between your folds.

The feeling of your cum, wet and flooding his dick, drove Coryo wild. It was better than anything he could ever dream of. Imaging how you feel when you cum during the nights he tightly fisted his cock doesn't even compare to the real feeling of your juices coating him, dripping messily down his dick and thighs as you squirt and soak the mattress beneath you.

Coryo's hips made one, two, three more tilts upswards towards yours before he’s burying his head in your shoulder and groaning out, “Fuck, darling. Fuck…”, as he cums, painting your pussy with ropes of his white hot cum.

Chest heaving as he pants to catch his breath, Coriolanus backs away from you, only to admire the was his cum decorates your glistening puffy pussy like fine pearls. Oh, if only he had a camera to take pictures of you. The site was so beautiful, so erotic. 

“You look so beautiful, Y/N.” He complimented, his voice a breathy murmur as he settled himself next to you.

Turning you head to look at him, you smile. “Yea?”

“Of course, baby.” Coriolanus replied, a smile coating his lips as he extended his arm out in a gesture for you to tuck into his side. “You're the most beautiful girl in the world.” He declared as you nestled into his side, resting your head on his chest and wrapping an arm around his torso. “You're my girl, yea?” Coriolanus asked, his icy eyes looking a bit vulnerable, as he held you close.

Vulnerable. Now that's something you never thought you'd say about Coriolanus Snow. He always seemed so confident, but right now while asking if you're his he seemed to emit some form of vulnerability. Subtle, but still in his baby blues.

“Yea, I'm your girl.” You confirm with a love struck smile.

Coriolanus relaxed when your words washed over him. He has nothing to worry about. You were his now. All the hard work he did being your secret admirer paid off.

Turning his head to look at the alarm clock in his bedside, he sighed, “We need to get dressed. Tigris and Grandma'am will probably be home soon.”

Grandma'am and Tigris welcome you with sparkling smiles and happy hugs when Coryo introduced you as his girlfriend. Tigris was excited that Coryo had found somebody while Grandma'am was elated that the daughter of the late Colonel Halvir (who served with and died with her son, General Crassus Snow, during the war in District 12) was her grandson's girl.

You're happy that the Snows accept your brand spanking new relationship with Coryo because you knew that your mother wouldn't. And you know that your older brother's too busy with his new officer's commission in 12 to care either.

Just like Coryo said she would, Tigris dolled you up in a dress that she made. She even did your hair and makeup for the Valentine's Day dance at the Academy. She made you look like a princess.

And everyone knows that a princess needs her prince.

And Coryo's your prince, giving you a white rose to pin on your dress. It matches the one that he had pinned on his label.

Coriolanus Snow proudly walked into the Academy's ballroom, showing you off on his arm.

Everyone will know that you belong to him. And when people ask how you got together you'll tell them about Coriolanus being your secret admirer during the week of love.

It sounds like a plot of a Capitol TV rom-com. But, unknown to you, your love story with Coryo would play out more like a true crime thriller.

Like an episode of Dateline.

Except that he'll never harm you. No, he's just the sociopath, narcissist, manipulative snake that destroys everyone's lives to make you the queen to his king.

His First Lady Of Panem.

But that didn't matter at the moment. All that matters is that right now you're happy with your secret admirer.

With your Coryo.

And he's happy to finally be able to be with you, because stalking you all the time was fucking exhausting.

Tags: @kuroosbby001, @purriteen, @poppyflower-22, @meetmeatyourworst, @whipwhoops, @bxtchopolis, @readingthingsonhere,@savagenctzen, @ryswritingrecord, @erikasurfer, @tulips2715, @universal-s1ut, @thesmutconnoisseur, @squidscottjeans, @sudek4l, @wearemadeofstardust0, @mashiromochi, @gracieroxzy, @belcalis9503, @shari-berri, @aoi-targaryen, @whiteoakoak, @spear-bearing-bi-witch, @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons, @qoopeeya, @mfnqueen1, @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88, @v-love

[wwilloww]

sh. | chapter twenty two | pjm

PAIRING ot7 x reader RATING Explicit. 18+. GENRE smut. fluff. angst. nonidol au. wildnerness au. roommates au. friends to lovers. SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no? WC 4.8k WARNINGS AND TAGS no use of gendered pronouns to refer to reader. consensual objectification. d/s dynamic. over the panty sex (is this just called dry humping?) fucktoy-ification? teasing. orgasm denial.

AN hi :) i'm so sorry i made you wait so long for this. it's been a rollercoaster these last two years, and i hope you can forgive me for my long absence. if you enjoyed this chapter, i'd love to hear from you: what stuck out to you, what you're hoping will happen in future chapters, or just how you've been. i've missed you. and, as always, thank you for reading <3

← || series m.list || →

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: RULE BREAKER

You don’t talk or think much about your childhood. You like to imagine that when you turned eighteen those years whispered away into the ether of time, as irrelevant and dusty as the old photobook that stays on the shelf, eternally unopened. 

As a child, home was multiplied and many. It was the many places you lived, as you moved often, following your father around with his job. But it was also many in the sense that you learned at a young age that home didn’t have to be a place you lived. Home was between the worn and finger-marred pages of the books you fell in love with, home was the wisping scent of fresh (if not often burnt) pastry in your grandmother’s kitchen each time you visited, home was the place you yearned to travel to but never made the time to visit. 

But as you close the book in your hands, the words echo in your mind: 

Are you going to come home? 

You feel far away from home, even though you find a great deal of comfort in the walls of Namjoon’s mountain house. Ahem, mansion. Confusion riddles little holes of worry through you. Where is home, anyways? The small apartment you left empty in the city? The question opens a void in you. Why bother with home anyways? Sure, home could be anything if you tried hard enough, but couldn’t the opposite be true too? That if you tried hard enough, you wouldn’t need a home?

Still, void and all, the question nudges you. 

Unsettled, you clamber down the tree and make your way back towards the house. The sun has risen higher in the sky and breaks through the chill ever so slightly. Worried that you’ve just abandoned Jimin this morning and that he’ll wake up alone, you quicken your pace. You creak the door open, waving at Jungkook and Jin and Taehyung in the kitchen, who are huddled over the coffee, waiting for it to finish brewing. 

“A watched pot never boils,” you call out to them, noting that Jungkook looks a little cheerier than he had the past several days. Jin’s hand rests on Jungkook’s lower back and a little wave of joy jolts through you as the older man throws you a little smile. 

“Watching it actually makes it go faster,” Jungkook says, his eyes glued to the coffee. “A little motivation and encouragement always lends a helping hand.” 

You smile at that and continue making your way towards Jimin’s bedroom. You pass one room—a gym of sorts filled with a few cardio machines, a set of free weights, and a large mirror, and you’re surprised you didn’t notice it before—and pause. 

Namjoon is spotting Hoseok as the latter bench presses what looks like an unreasonably heavy weight. 

As you watch them, the dream from last night floods back to you. 

The music filtering through the night. The tightness of each man’s grip on you as they spun you through the ballroom, the floorboards creaking beneath you, the high of attention sitting heady in your chest. 

And too, you can’t forget, the way they stared at each other in single-minded competition, hackles raised, teeth gritted. You can’t forget the darkness that swirled at their feet, and you wonder too, if you’re letting your dream drift into the world of the living too.

But here they are, fondly smiling at one another. Had you made it all up? Well, of course you made it up. It was a regency-era dream for god's sake. But the tension? The competition? As Namjoon helps Hoseok lower the weights to the bar and hauls him to his feet, you’re sure it’s all in your head. 

“Nice, man,” Namjoon says, grinning and clasping Hoseok on the back. 

Before they see you, you continue on. Just as you’re about to open the door to the bedroom you’ve been searching for, it swings open before you. Jimin steps out. 

“Oh. You’re awake!” you say.

“I am indeed.” 

“I’m sorry I left this morning—“ 

“It’s okay,” he says, but there’s a tinge of sadness in his voice, a little dust mote of it that you catch. 

“I went to go read in a tree,” you offer quickly as an explanation, hoping it will make up for the disappointment of waking up alone after not spending a night together in a while. 

“In a tree?” 

“In a tree,” you confirm. 

He chuckles. “That seems like a good enough reason to abandon me. I gotta be honest though—“ He steps closer, lets his gaze flicker down, and toys with the hem of your shirt. “I was looking forward to waking up beside you.” 

“Were you?” you smile. 

“I was. I was even looking forward to potentially getting to wake you up.” He says it with a mischievous grin. 

“Oh? And how would you have woken me up?”

His hand drifts lower, beneath the band of your leggings. “You know, it’s really easier to show you, rather than tell you—” His hands pause. “What’s this?” Jimin sends you a knowing look. 

“What?” Your mind sputters as you struggle to come up with what he might be talking about. But he steps closer to you, a hand drifting down to your hips, a finger pulling your shirt up. With his other hand he plucks at the band of your panties. 

“This,” he emphasizes. 

“Oh.” 

You’d nearly forgotten the promise you’d made to Jimin. But now it all comes rushing back, how he’d made you promise in those early days in the house to forgo any underwear. At the time it’d been a silly dare, but the seriousness in his eyes makes you reconsider. 

“What? Do I have to remind you every day?” he says gently. “Or perhaps I haven’t been spending enough time around you, and you’ve forgotten your promise to me?”

“N-no,” you say. “I mean maybe. Maybe I want you around more.” You sidle up to him, running a finger up his chest. “Maybe… I want you to remind me.” 

Jimin steps closer to you, pressing you against the bedroom door. You gasp when he leans in close, close enough to kiss you, but doesn’t. 

“I think you forget too quickly that  I told you there’d be a punishment if you ‘forgot’ about our little rule.” 

“Oh?” You tilt your head as you look at him. “What kind of punishment?” Panties or not, it seems like you win. 

“Like I mentioned earlier, I think I’d rather show you than explain it to you. Let’s just say I’m a hands-on kind of teacher.” 

You think he’s going to kiss you, but instead he presses close, his lips a centimeter away from yours, his hands cupping your cheeks before wandering down to explore your body. You reach for him, struggle to bring his lips to yours, but he shifts his attention elsewhere, leaving you hanging. His hands rove over your body, his lips dip out of reach. So you change your plan of attack too. You let your hands wander over him. When you feel his breath quicken against you, you release him, dipping your head below his chin.

You glide your lips down Jimin’s neck, slow and intentional; a calculated move. You let your breath whisper against his skin, and you can’t help but think back to that night with Yoongi and Namjoon in which sensation—even the lightest of touches—had meant so much to you. To your body. You want to play Jimin like they played you. 

His hands tighten in your shirt, knuckles whitening. 

“Inside,” he gasps, and the desperation in his voice makes you think that he’s lost a bit of his fine-tuned control. His eyes are blown wide. He looks like he could eat you up. “Inside,” he repeats, but enacts the command himself as he pulls you through the door with him, making it sound a little more like a plea than you think he intends.

The pair of you tumble onto the bed, a mess of limbs and lips, teeth, hands. 

He captures your lips, finally, kissing you. The kiss is anything but gentle, nearing the edge of pain, his teeth knocking against yours, nipping at your lips. You groan into his mouth as his hips cant against you. 

It’s not long before he begins to tug at your clothes. 

Then he pauses, lifting your head from his lips. You’re sprawled atop him and you lift yourself up on your hands. 

“What?” you inquire curiously.

“I’m going to ask you to do something.” 

“Alright.”

With a leveled gaze, he says, “Strip.” 

He pushes you off of him, and you kneel at the foot of the bed, pausing a second, before making the executive decision to stand and undress. It’ll be more, well, graceful that way, you think. The alternative is flopping around on the sheets like a beached hammerhead shark trying to get your pants off. 

So you do as you’re told. There’s something about undressing before him, as he leans back against the headboard, watching you. There’s something about undressing for him, while he watches on, his gaze drinking you in that has sparks running through your body.

Slowly, slowly you slip off your top, and wiggle your leggings off your legs. You try to make it a little sexy, glancing up at him from time to time, to find that warm darkness swirling in his gaze that you love so much. You trip once, because you’re staring too much. 

“Keep the panties on,” he says when you go to pull them down.  

“Oh. Okay.”  Your brow furrows and you can’t help but let a little bit of the disappointment you’re feeling into your voice. You’re a little confused why he would ask you to keep them on when they were the problem that started all of this. 

He stands then, walking towards you. You hold your breath. He finally arrives before you and places his hands on your hips. His fingers toy with the trim of the panties, and goosebumps race along your skin from the delicate touch. 

“What are you going to do?” you ask, your voice breathy.

“You’ll see.” 

With that he hooks a finger under the band of your underwear and lets it snap against your skin. You cry out, more in surprise than anything else. 

“Did that hurt?” 

“No, not really.” 

“Good.” He grins. “Now, I want you to be honest.” 

“I’m always honest.” You correct yourself: “Most of the time. Most of the time I’m always honest.” 

Jimin chuckles at that. 

“Fair enough. But I need your most-of-the-time-always honesty now.” You nod, your hand drifting upward to grip his forearm. 

“Of course.” 

“I want to try something out with you. Something new.” 

“New?”

“A new kind of play.”

Your mind reels with the possibilities. What could he possibly suggest? Chastity kink? Tittyfucking? Technojizz? Ballcuzzi?  

“I want to use you like a toy,” he whispers. “I want to fuck you like a toy. I want to talk to you like a toy, treat you like one.” Your eyes widen when he says it. His eyes go wide too, drinking in your every microexpression, as he waits for you to respond. 

“A toy?” 

“Yes.”

“Where did this come from?” you say it with a little smile, and trace your finger along his jawline. He relaxes at the touch. 

“I saw the way you reacted during group play. When Jin was talking to you, saying things like, ‘You want to be our slut. You want to be our whore.’” Just hearing Jimin repeating Jin’s words sends a shiver through your body. “He didn’t say it like I would have said it, but I knew he wanted to.” He presses his lips to your ear while his hands rove over your body. “You want to be our toy, don’t you?”  

The answer is easy. “Yes.” 

“You want to be used by us, don’t you?” 

“Y-yes.” 

He chuckles. “That’s what I thought. So tell me. Tell me what you want to be.” 

“I want to be your toy.” 

“Good.” He grins. 

He lets his hand drift down to your underwear again, fingers trailing along the inside the elastic hem before plucking at them once more. He seems to like the way you flinch. 

His fingers wander down your skin. He traces your hip, before flicking his fingers beneath the hem that circles your thigh. Slowly, he creeps closer to where you want his fingers most, but before he can touch you, he pulls his fingers away. You nearly groan, and a fleeting grimace crosses your face. Jimin catches it. 

“Patience would look so pretty on you,” he says, and the sting of his words is delightful. 

“Hmph.” 

His fingers continue to explore the thin piece of fabric that separates you from total nudity. They’re not a particularly pretty pair of underwear: they’re nothing more than a tan color brief. 

You say as much to Jimin, and tell him you wish you were wearing something sexier. Lace, maybe. Something black. 

“True,” he replies. “But you know why I like these?” 

“Why?” 

“Because I can see you dripping through them.” 

You warm at the implication.   

“And when I push my cock against them, I’ll see me on them too. I’m a visual man, you know.” He kind of chuckles at that last bit, like it’s some sort of inside joke with himself. 

When he drops to his knees, like that first day in the forest with him, you gasp. Finally, finally, he’s going to touch you. 

But when his tongue presses against you through the fabric of your underwear, it’s only half the sensation you need from him. Still, it feels good, a gentle warmth spreading through your abdomen as he licks and presses against your clit and vulva. 

“You taste so good,” he murmurs against you. 

“I’m—“ 

“You’ve soaked your panties through.” 

You warm at the thought, such little stimulation getting you so ready for him. You wonder if he’ll fuck you hard and fast or if he’ll take you sweet and slow. If he’ll take his time with you. Whatever he decides to do, you know you’ll be happy to have him fill you as you currently clench and tighten around nothing. It’s an empty feeling that sifts through you. 

When he’s thoroughly soaked your underwear with his mouth, he stands and kisses you. You can taste the ghost of yourself on him, and it reminds you of the smell of first summer light hitting the ground at dawn. A space when it is neither day, nor night, but some third plane of existence. Like that, in this moment, you feel like some third kind of creature. Neither yourself entirely, nor Jimin, but some other, third thing that you could only become in his presence. You can feel the shit-eating grin that glides across his lips and presses into yours as he walks backwards, leading you back to the bed. 

There’s something different, too, about all of this, about the way he kisses you today. There’s an edge of desperation, of frustration that you can taste on him. His movements are quicker, less languid. His lids are lidded. His breath comes quicker.  It’s delightful. 

But it’s also brand new. It feels like he has let a part of himself loose from under his usual state of control, and you wonder if your most recent conversation with your friends—where you discussed emotionality and feeling—had anything to do with what he was going through. What he wanted. 

An edge of anxiety tickles at your throat as you think of it. Does he want something more? 

He seems to notice your hesitation. 

“I just want you right now,” he says, as if he’s read your mind. He stops you at the edge of the bed, turns you so that the back of your knees hit the mattress.  You’re not sure if he’s a mind reader or what. 

You fall back into the bed, Jimin leading you down gently with a hand against your back until you sink into the soft bedding. You can’t help but giggle at the gentleness. Not that you have anything against it, but in this moment you feel anything but a toy. The way he looks at you makes you feel, well, precious. 

He breaks his gaze to kiss you again, tongue pressing against your lips. 

“Open up for me,” he says. “Like a good kitten—Like a good toy.” 

You do as you’ve been told, opening your mouth and letting him swirl his tongue through you, swiping at the roof of your mouth and sending tingles down your spine. 

His hands drift down your body before slipping beneath your panties. You glow, so eager for his touch, groaning as his fingers swipe against your clit. Just once. But as if he’s just realized a mistake he’s made, he rapidly pulls his hand out. 

“Oops. Got a little caught up.” 

You pout. “What, you’re not going to touch me like that? There? At all?” 

He pulls back enough to flick his gaze between your eyes and your lips. “Be a good toy and just do what you’re told.” 

“Oh?” The bratty part of you flickers and rises up.

He silences you with a kiss, his fingers circling around your clothed entrance before trying to press in through the thin fabric of your underwear. It’s like he’s trying to finger fuck you through the wet cotton, pushing it into you with his fingers. The pressure surely is something, but it’s not even a hint of enough, and you find your hips bucking up against him, seeking more attention, seeking more pressure. 

“So needy. So desperate.” 

He continues until the yearn within you aches.

“Stop playing,” you gasp. “Just give me your cock. Want you. Want your cock. I’ll be your toy, just–just use me like one.” 

“Don’t good toys say please?” 

“Please, sir.”

He freezes above you. 

“Sir?” 

“I—I… It just slipped out!” 

He grins. “I kinda like it.” He hums, as if contemplating it, then nods. “And since you’ve asked so nicely—“  

Jimin leans back enough to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He takes his time, while the knot in your belly begins to recede. You sit up, eager to help him out of it, but he quickly swats your hands away. 

“Patience, kitten.” 

You don’t say it, but your crossed arms and pout say, “Fine, sir,”  loud and clear. He laughs at your expression. 

“Don’t you worry,” he says, tilting your chin up. “I’ve always taken care of you, haven’t I?” 

He takes his cock out, stroking it once, twice, his hand gliding expertly over the soft and sensitive skin. 

“I’m going to use you like you’re good for.”

“Like I’m good for?” You echo, desperate for him. 

“All you’re good for,” he whispers in your ear and the words send a shiver of pleasure down your spine.  

With one hand, he takes your ankles and pushes them over your head.

“Hold them.” 

He then settles between your legs, hand wrapped tightly around his cock. With a movement that seems far too familiar to him, he slaps your pussy with his hard and dripping cock, and you groan. Fuck. 

Lowering himself to you, so your thighs press into his shoulders, he finally aligns his cock with your clothed vulva. 

And then with one careful movement, he grinds against you. The simple movement is enough to make you cry out. 

“Fuck, Jimin.” 

At first it’s slow, his cock pressing against your vulva in rhythmic pulses, your clit. At one point he pulls back and presses the head of his cock to your clothed entrance and presses in. 

You whine against him, but he doesn’t acknowledge you. He simply returns to continuing his thrusts. You’re just as wet as he is hard, soaking your panties, his precome painting them too. 

“Maybe I would have woken you up like this. Wouldn’t you have liked that? Waking up to my hard cock pressing against your clit, me ready to come, just from rutting against you? Wouldn’t that make you happy, to know how good you make me feel?”

You look down to where your bodies are pressed together. His cock rhythmically pokes up, the head dark and heavy. Sometimes though, the head of his cock gets stuck on your underwear, pushing the fabric higher and tighter around you. You groan at the sight. 

“Don’t you love how good you make me feel?”  

Your hips buck together, finding a desperate, shared rhythm. Your breath, too, matches up. 

For a moment, your eyes lock. All you can think about is how damn pretty he looks when he fucks, his dark hair falling into his face, his cheeks flushed, his plush lower lip caught between his teeth. And he looks back. 

But then his eyes flicker away from yours. 

He fucks you over your panties, murmuring how good of a toy you are for him, how he wishes he could fuck you properly, fill you up.

“Please,” you gasp, desperate for more. “Fuck me.”

“When you behave,” he grunts. “I will.” Another thrust. “When you follow my rules, I will.” 

When he comes, he presses the head of his cock to your clit. You can feel it twitching against you as he groans and sighs, his come painting your panties white. 

With the head of his cock pressing so rhythmically against your clit, you’ve built up to a delicious pleasure, so close to coming. 

“Jimin, Jimin, I’m so close. Please.” Your hips tilt up, searching out the pleasure he keeps denying you. 

But Jimin just grins at you and sighs dramatically. His breath still comes a little quickly, he seems a little winded.  

“If only you hadn’t been so intent on misbehaving earlier. Maybe I could have let you come.” 

“Oh, come on,” you groan, about a second away from throwing your fists on the bed in proper tantrum form. “You’re in charge. You write the rules. Who said you can’t let me come?” 

“The rules I wrote say so, actually.” 

You huff. 

“Well then. Maybe I’ll just have to take care of it myself.” 

In a swift action, Jimin leans over you, pinning your hands above your head. Your breath leaves your lungs in a quick gasp. 

“Wha—” 

“I think you know you’re not even supposed to be thinking about that, let alone doing it.” 

You tilt your head.

Jimin laughs, a hint of playful hardness in his voice. “Don’t you remember?” You shake your head. “You’re forgetting all of your promises today, aren’t you? Jin had you promise that you wouldn’t be coming unless it was because of one of us.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“Shit. I forgot.” 

“I know you forgot.” 

You throw your head back and groan. “But I thought you said you’d always take care of me.” 

“I did. And I do. But sometimes it’s good for you to wait a little for your reward. Today you took your punishment—” He tilts your head up so you’re looking at him and the pout that had taken over your face fades a little. “And tomorrow, I’ll give you your reward.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“Fine.”

“You think you can do that? Wait until tomorrow?” 

“Yeah.” You sigh. 

“You’re so good for me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your lips. His hands glide down to your hips, dipping beneath the band and you think, oh, maybe he’ll do it now. But your hopes are quickly dashed when he tugs on them and says, “Maybe it was a good thing I had you wear these afterall.” He shimmies your come-stained underwear down your thighs. “Easy cleanup.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that, always surprised when Jimin’s practical side pops out alongside his gregariousness. But he balls the panties up, and before tossing them into the laundry basket near the door, holds them up in his hand, shaking them, as if directing attention to them. 

 “I should remind you why I asked you to do this?” 

“I know why you asked me to. You liked the secret of it—?” You think back to what he had said to you, all those days ago, though it feels like a lifetime ago:

“I like walking around, knowing I’m the only one who has your sweetness on my tongue. I love talking to the others while getting to taste you still. Getting to remember the way you squirm underneath my touch. I do it because I want to.”

You still shiver, thinking of those words. But that had been before everyone knew about you and Jimin. 

“I did like the secret of it,” Jimin says, breaking through your reverie. “But there’s more than that, too.” 

You raise an eyebrow, prompting him to go on. 

“There’s knowing you do it for me.” 

He grins, before strutting to the bathroom. You watch his ass as he goes. Plump, you think. When he returns, he’s cleaned up and still grinning. Mulling on what he’s said—”for me”—an image of all eight of you on the living room floor arises. What are the boundaries between one person and another with this set up? What are the lines? What is owed? Your head spins, and you settle into the pillow. You’re still humming in the sensation of your dwindling pleasure, receding far away from your orgasm, and you sigh. 

“If the only way people are going to punish one another around here is by giving them blue balls, I’m going to get tired reeeeal quick,” you murmur to yourself.

“Is that so?” Jimin says from behind you as he collects your clothes. “If that’s the case, we better start coming up with new forms of punishment.” 

“Yes, maybe you should,” you say, mock-grouchily. 

“I’ll start thinking up new and innovative ways. Maybe I’ll consult Jin—he seems creative when it comes to this stuff—especially if you’re going to be so quick to forget what you promised him.” He helps you into your clothes again, but remains naked himself. 

“But—” 

“No buts.” He seals your silence with a kiss. “Just do what you’re told.” The statement stings through you like a bolt of electricity. As much as you hate to admit it, you love when he tells you what to do. Even if you love fighting against it just as much. “You know why you should do what you’re told?” He continues, as he kisses down your throat.

“Why?” 

“Because then I can reward you. I can make you come again and again until you’re crying to stop, or hold you at the edge long enough that when you’re finally ready to tip over, it’s the best fucking orgasm in your whole life.” 

You can’t help but giggle. “Are you saying you’re the best fuck of my life?” 

“No. Not yet. But I can be.” He pulls away from you enough to see the shit-eating grin on your face. 

“I think some of your friends might fight you for that position.” 

“Maybe they should.” 

“Maybe they should what?” a voice comes from the door. 

“Hoseok—” 

Hoseok stands in the doorway, a confused look on his face. You imagine what he must be seeing, a naked Jimin in bed, and you, now entirely naked, too, now that Jimin stripped you of your panties, tangled up in each other. 

“What’s going on here?” Hoseok asks. 

“Do you really want to know?” Jimin asks.

“Um. Not really.” Then his gaze focuses on you. He lingers on your face, reading you, trying to figure you out. But then he catches himself. “Uh, maybe I should come back later.” 

“No!” you say, perhaps a little too eagerly, sitting up. “What is it?” 

“I just was looking for you,” Hoseok says, a little shyly. “I was hoping to steal you away.”  

“Let me get dressed.” 

You stand up, and pull your clothes back on, noting how Hoseok’s gaze flickers to you just in time to see you pull on your leggings without any panties on underneath.  

Jimin sits up quickly, pulling a pillow over his crotch for the sake of Hoseok’s modesty. “Just so you know—if you’re going to go together—I already said that if someone was going to wear panties that someone wasn’t going to be able to come.” He turns to you. “So don’t you go running off to lover boy, thinking you can get your rocks off.” Jimin turns his attention back to Hobi. “This one is very much not allowed to come. At least for the rest of the day.” 

Hoseok coughs. 

“Oh, I, uh, I wasn’t, I wasn’t presuming.” 

“Yes you were, asshole,” Jimin laughs. “We’re all presuming.” 

Hoseok flushes red all the way to the tips of his ears at the implication, but you find it charming. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Hoseok says.

You glance at Jimin, who leans back with his hands laced behind his head. He looks like the perfect image of relaxation and… is that pride? There’s a soft smile curving at the corner of his lip, a kind of jesting smirk. 

“Go on,” Jimin says. “I’m already taken care of.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“Asshole.” 

But you stand and make your way to Hoseok nonetheless. 

“You have time?” he asks.

“I have all the time in the world.” 

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[twisted-dork]

The Library Incident

*Been needing to do this for some time now, thank you for your patience @apple4me 😅 (sorry been busy with school finals/tests whatever you call it)*

Tim sets up surveillance on May because he’s being paranoid, only to accidentally become the unwilling audience to Jason Todd trying to flirt with a girl he actually likes.

Tim is sat hunched over his screen, caffeine in hand, analyzing footage from the miniature surveillance cameras he’d covertly placed around Gotham’s library when May Parker started working there.

Tim (focused, typing rapidly): “Surveillance on Parker is active. No anomalies so far, but I’m keeping a close eye on her route between the kid section and the front desk.”

Tim (mutters to himself): “Let’s see what you’re hiding, Miss Parker…”

But instead of criminal activity, he got—Jason Todd. Hovering awkwardly near the reference desk.

Jason (hands in jacket pockets): “So… uh… got any new crime novels in?”

May (without looking up): “Same shelf as last time, Mr. Todd”

Jason (nods too quickly): “Right, yeah, just… making sure you hadn’t moved them.”

May (smirking slightly): “Not since yesterday. Or the day before. Or the twelve times you’ve asked this week.”

Jason (grinning like an idiot): “You keepin’ track?”

May (teasing): “I’m a librarian. It’s kind of my whole thing.”

Tim blinked. Fast-forwarded. Found more footage.

The more footage:

Jason (arms full of books he absolutely won’t read): “I thought maybe I could help you reshelve. Team effort?”

May (dryly): “You put ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ in nonfiction.”

Jason: “…Listen, caterpillars are real, okay?”

Tim groaned, dragging his hands down his face.

Dick (walking by, glancing at the monitor): “Wait… is that Jason?”

Tim (grimacing): “Yeah. He keeps dropping by the library pretending to ‘return’ books he never actually checked out. And look at him, he just knocked over an entire display rack of Shakespeare.”

Jason (on screen): “So like… uh. Do you like… Hamlet? Or are you more of a Macbeth girl? I mean—woman. I mean—May.”

May (smiling, clearly amused): “I’m more into Othello. Tragedies feel more relatable when you’ve lived in Queens.”

Jason: “Right. Totally. Queens. You ever throw hands with someone in a bodega over the last sandwich? ’Cause that’s basically my Romeo and Juliet.”

Dick: “…Oh my god. I knew it!!!! He’s into her!”

Tim (deadpan): “Unfortunately, I know. I’ve had to sit through six hours of him trying and failing to ask her to coffee.”

Log Entry Notes: Day 5

• Jason enters with The Great Gatsby. Returns it with a fake bookmark in the middle.

• Compliments May’s new glasses. Trips over a chair and pretends it was intentional.

• May calls him “charming in a brick wall kind of way.” Jason short-circuits.

• Dick and Tim scream into a pillow.

— Later That Week —

Dick (eating popcorn in front of the monitors): “This is better than The Bachelor. Do you think she knows?”

Tim (groaning): “She definitely knows. She’s just playing it cool. Probably waiting for him to grow a spine.”

Dick: “Do you think we should… help?”

Tim: “If by ‘help’ you mean lock them in the rare books archive and cut the power until they confess, then yes.”

Jason (on screen, nervously holding a coffee): “I thought, maybe, you might want… this? I mean, you said last week you liked cinnamon, and the guy said this one had notes of cinnamon, but now I’m not sure if it’s too much—”

May (taking it gently): “Jason, relax. It’s perfect. So are you… in a chaotic, explosion-prone kind of way.”

Jason (freezes): “Coolcoolcool. Yeah. That’s me. Chaos incarnate. That’s… that’s hot, right?”

Dick (leaning in): “Oh my god, just kiss already.”

Tim: “Do we start a betting pool or an intervention?”

Bonus: Oracle Joins the Drama

Barbara (over comms): “Why are there thirty gigabytes of library footage on the Batcomputer marked ‘For Emotional Damage’?”

Tim: “Jason has a crush on May.”

Barbara: “…I’ll grab popcorn.”

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy VI

a yandere art professor Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge) ->chapter map

VI.

-Stewing in agony after the awkward ending to your otherwise pleasant encounter with Professor Wick, you spend the whole rest of the weekend working on a miniature diorama of a little girl living in the desert with a pet jackalope. It’s actually been a while since you made one, and by the time it’s done you do feel a little more sane. 

A psychologist might have said something about reclaiming the innocence from a conversation you wish had gone differently, or perhaps a longing for girlhood in which you did not have to worry about every conversation with a man turning into a sexual pitfall. Either way, the end result is cute, and weird, and you add it to the shelf with all your other little scenes. 

You are aware that most of your art comes from the bottomless well of dissatisfaction inside you. A part of you fears that if you ever did manage to get your shit together, you might not make art anymore. Maybe someday you’ll beat the game, retire to a cottage in the countryside, and fill your time with paint by numbers and talking to your numerous cats…

Until then, you’re currently living the glamorous life of No Sex In The City…and you have to go to work. 

-A week later, it seems Matt has decided to ignore Wick’s directive, or at least has decided they’re not mutually exclusive. He is meeting your eyes again, even shooting you a shy smile before class begins. It’s silly, what a thrill this gives you, like a glitter bomb gone off inside your heart. Perhaps after spending all weekend torturing yourself over Professor Wick, it just feels good to flirt with someone who is almost your own age. 

Or perhaps you’re a fickle creature in need of an intervention. 

Matt sits with you again under your maple tree, and even though you’re both quiet souls, it is surprisingly easy to talk to him. You talk about where you’re from and your families. You learn he moved here from out of state with his band mates, and that he never really had a happy home life.

He lets you flip through his sketchbook, and with every page you feel yourself softening towards him by the second. He really is very talented, and on top of that his drawings have a dreamlike quality that sucks you in. 

You pause on a two page spread filled with dark black lines and color. It’s a Chagall-esque bird’s eye view of a little town, houses and businesses, people going about their day, a bridge, a forest by a rolling river. It’s a seemingly happy and complex composition, until your eye settles on a pale form by the river bank far in the corner, a woman lying naked and alone in the cold. For some reason an uneasy, icy feeling creeps through your veins. Is she dead? 

“What is this, Matt?” you ask, taking in the details again. 

He seems to panic a little, reaching out to take back his book, closing it and tucking it into his backpack. “It’s just a dream I had,” he tells you, shaking his shoulders like he’s got the creeps. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

So you change the subject, but you still wonder. 

-Maybe Professor Wick was unfairly harsh to Matt, but you’re heartened to see the young man seems to have decided to rise to the challenge. He doubles his effort in his drawing, taking Wick’s direction and then some–the result would be stunning, but he runs out of time. The study is only half finished after three hours, and you can tell from your elevated place in the center of the class that he is miserable about it. 

“Wick is going to fucking annihilate me,” he mourns as you stand beside him looking at the drawing, now dressed in your robe. 

Critique is at the end of the week, and the students are allowed to work on their drawings on their own time until then, but they’re not allowed to take pictures of you for reference for obvious reasons of privacy. You’re afraid he’s right, and your heart goes out to him. He seems like such a sweet young man, and you don’t understand why John seems to have it out for him. 

“How much time do you need?” you ask under your breath, conscious of the man in undertaker’s black at his desk across the room. 

“I dunno. A couple hours?” he laments, and you elbow him to keep his voice down. 

“I could help you.” Finally understanding, he shoots a look with those wide dark eyes over at the teacher, before returning his attention to you. Those plush pink lips part with surprise, and you tell yourself that you’re not offering to do this because he’s the prettiest [and the saddest] boy you’ve ever seen. 

“You’d do that?” 

“You’re really talented, Matt. I want you to succeed.” 

He looks at you through his long hair like no one has ever said anything like that to him before. “That’s…really nice of you.” 

“Maybe I’m just vain,” you deflect. “This is going to be your best work...if you finish it.” You think you can tell that he has it in him to be great at this–maybe no one has ever given him that last nudge before. 

Maybe Wick knew what he was doing, being tough on him? 

Could be, but mostly, it felt like he was being a jerk, and you don’t want Matt to have to go through it again.  

----

TBC...

___

->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits