#idk what it is about him but he's just so

[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS II

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto& @omi-resources word count: 857 synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: y’all I’m still new to posting on tumblr, idk how to respond to your reblogs, but thank you for all the love!!

It started with a puzzle.

Then it became a movie.

Then it was breakfast.

Then game night.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened, but somewhere between Damian’s first drop-in and now, he had quietly and confidently moved in emotionally. No key, no warning—just a kid who appeared at your door like a stray cat who decided you were his human now.

Jason was not amused.

“Babe,” he muttered one night, standing in the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder, “I think he lives here now.”

You didn’t even look up from where you and Damian were halfway through a Harry Potter movie marathon. “He brought cinnamon rolls. That buys him, like, three hours.”

Jason’s eye twitched. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And yet here we are. With cinnamon rolls.”

Damian didn’t even glance away from the TV. “You’re welcome.”

It didn’t stop.

Damian started showing up with snacks. Then books. Then a bonsai tree that he insisted would bring “calming energy” to the apartment—though Jason was convinced it was a surveillance device.

The turning point was when Jason came home from patrol to find you and Damian doing face masks while bickering over whether Batman could take John Wick in a fight, without prep time.

“I hate it here,” Jason muttered, dropping onto the couch like gravity had personally wronged him.

“No, you don’t,” you said, patting the spot beside you.

Damian looked smug. “You should exfoliate more. Your skin is tired.”

Jason looked like he aged five years on the spot.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, the rest of the Bat-family had questions.

“He skipped patrol again,” Tim muttered, narrowing his eyes at the tracker on his screen. “He’s somewhere in Crime Alley, but he’s not moving. That’s not like him.”

“He’s not fighting crime?” Dick asked, frowning as he squinted at the grainy feed Tim managed to pull from one of Gotham’s ancient surveillance cameras. “Is he injured?”

“No,” Tim said, zooming in. “I think he’s… playing Monopoly?”

Dick raised an incredulous eyebrow. “He’s doing what?” 

Tim leaned closer. “Wait—never mind. That might be a bomb.”

“I’m following him tonight,” Tim declared. “See what he’s hiding.”

“I’m going with you,” Dick said. “Damage control. Just in case he really has joined a criminal syndicate without telling Bruce.”

That night, they tailed Damian across rooftops, watching as he made his usual unannounced entrance into Jason’s apartment through the fire escape like it was a routine—and it was. By now, you’d already prepped hot cocoa, and a blanket was folded on the couch just for him.

Jason wasn’t home yet. Which meant Damian had free reign.

When Tim and Dick peered through the neighboring rooftop window, they expected secrets. Schematics. Maybe even an underground lab.

What they found was you and Damian arguing about whether waffles or pancakes were the superior breakfast food while watching John Wick in an aggressively cozy blanket fort.

Tim blinked. “Is that a fort?”

“Oh my god,” Dick whispered. “He has a fort buddy.”

Jason returned an hour later, tired, sweaty, and one patrol away from an identity crisis. 

He prayed Damian was gone so he could finally have some alone time with you. Every time he tried to initiate anything romantic, the little demon just happened to be there—coincidentally, of course.

But what awaited him was somehow worse.

The moment he stepped inside, he froze.

Dick and Tim were seated at your kitchen table, sipping cocoa. Damian was calmly painting from he sat beside you, and you looked like you were completely unfazed by the three vigilantes in your living room.

“Don’t say it,” Jason groaned, setting his helmet down.

“We followed Damian,” Dick grinned. “Turns out he’s been living a double life.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “I think he’s cheating on us.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face. “Of course you idiots followed him.”

“Her cooking is nearly on par with Pennyworth’s,” Damian said casually, not looking up from his brushwork. “And she doesn’t interrupt me when I’m watching Lord of the Rings.”

Dick raised a brow. “Lord of the Rings?”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece,” you replied without missing a beat and Dick didn’t question it. 

“We just wanted to meet the person responsible for his personality transplant,” Dick said with a teasing smile. “He’s been nice lately. It’s suspicious.”

You shrugged. “We made a deal. He’s nice to everyone else, and I let him pick Friday night movies.”

Tim gestured dramatically. “She tamed the demon.”

Jason looked up to the ceiling like he was searching for divine intervention. “Why are all of you here?”

“We came for answers,” Tim said.

“We stayed for the snacks,” Dick added.

“And the Wi-Fi,” Tim finished.

Jason looked at you.

You smiled sweetly. “Cinnamon rolls?”

He sighed, walked into the kitchen, and took one off the tray. “I hate all of you.”

But he didn’t leave.

Not when you handed him his mug. Not when you leaned into his side. Not even when Damian held up his newest painting like it was the Mona Lisa.

Jason looked around his overcrowded apartment—full of noise, cocoa, and chaos.

“…You’re all sleeping on the floor.”

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[gf2bellamy]

HI!! LOVE YOUR WRITINGS YOURE INSANE!!! could i please request angst/fluff for spencer reid (later seasons) where spencer kinda gets mad at reader and she leaves his place thinking he’s super upset at her and something happens idk she gets in a fender bender or gets sick for a few days and has to go to the hospital but doesn’t answer when he calls bc she thinks he’s so upset he wouldn’t want to know and at some point he finds her in the hospital after he’s been going crazy because he couldn’t get a hold of her i’m so sorry this literally makes no sense i fear this came to me in a dream😣

accident - spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader gets into a small accident, mention of a forehead injury / blood and a headache ( reader is fine though ), reader ends up in the hospital , argument between spencer and reader a/n: hai hai !! hope you like this <3

The silence in Spencer’s apartment was suffocating.

“I said I’m sorry,” you mumbled again, your voice barely above a whisper, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your sweater. The words felt hollow, even to you, but you didn’t know what else to say.

Spencer let out a slow breath, his long fingers raking through his already disheveled hair—a telltale sign of his frustration.

It had been such a small thing, really.

A misplaced book. His book.

One he had lent you weeks ago, one you had cherished, only to accidentally tuck it away in the wrong stack of papers. When you’d finally found it, relief had flooded you—until you handed it back, and instead of the soft smile you expected, his lips had pressed into a thin line, his words sharper than you’d ever heard them.

“You could have been more careful.”

The words stung. You hadn’t meant to be careless. You loved his books, loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about them, loved the way he’d underlined passages just for you to find.

But today, his patience was thin, his tone clipped, and now you stood there, feeling smaller than you had in a long time.

Spencer turned away, his back to you as he carefully slotted the book back into its place on the shelf.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say another word.

Your chest ached.

Swallowing hard, you grabbed your bag from the couch, your jacket slipping silently over your shoulders. “I’m going home,” you murmured, unsure if he even heard you.

But the sharp click of the door behind you? That, he definitely heard.

The sound made him freeze.

For a long moment, Spencer stood there, staring blankly at the spines of his books, his breath uneven. Then, with a heavy sigh, he sank onto the couch, dragging a hand down his face.

What was wrong with him?

It wasn’t about the book. Not really. It had been a long day—no, a long week—of dead ends and sleepless nights on the case, of too much coffee and too little patience. And instead of dealing with it like an adult, he’d taken it out on you. The one person who had done nothing but be kind to him.

Guilt settled deep in his stomach, cold and nauseating.

Outside, the engine of your car rumbled to life. You were leaving. Because of him. Because he couldn’t keep his frustration in check.

Spencer’s throat tightened.

He should call you. Should run after you. Should fix this.

But his pride—or maybe his shame—kept him rooted in place.

Meanwhile, you gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the streetlights blurring as you blinked back the burn in your eyes. You didn’t want to leave. You hated leaving things like this. But you hated upsetting him even more, and right now, space seemed like the only option.

You just hoped he knew you hadn’t meant to let him down.

An hour later, you were in the hospital.

It wasn’t anything serious—just a fender bender, a stupid accident born from exhaustion and bad luck. The woman behind you had been just as distracted, just as worn thin by the day, except she hadn’t braked in time. The impact had been sharp, sudden, your seatbelt locking as your forehead struck the steering wheel with a dull thud.

You’d assured the other driver you were fine, even as warm blood trickled down your temple. And now here you were, lying on a stiff hospital bed, the antiseptic sting of the air making your nose wrinkle.

The lights overhead were too bright, drilling into your already pounding head, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the throbbing to ease.

What a night.

Your phone buzzed against the bedside table. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Spencer.

Of course it was Spencer.

You stared at the screen, his name flashing insistently, the call vibrating through the hospital room. Part of you wanted to answer, to hear his voice—even if it was still edged with frustration. But the other part, the stubborn, bruised part of you, hesitated.

He’d had a hard enough night already. You weren’t going to add to that.

So you didn’t decline. Didn’t accept. Just let it ring.

The call eventually went to voicemail. The room settled back into quiet.

You exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead—gently, careful of the fresh bandages—and tried to ignore the hollow pang in your chest.

Time dragged. The hospital was busy tonight—understaffed, overworked—and what should have been a quick check-up turned into an endless wait. You stared at the ceiling, counting the speckled tiles, listening to the distant beeping of machines and the muffled voices of nurses rushing by. Your phone sat silent beside you. You wondered if Spencer had given up. If he thought you were ignoring him on purpose.

Then—

"Which one?" The voice cut through the noise of the ER.

His voice.

A nurse murmured something in response, and before you could even sit up properly, the curtain around your bed was yanked aside with too much force, the rings screeching against the metal rod.

Spencer stood there, breathing hard, his hair even more disheveled than before, like he’d been running his hands through it the entire way here. His eyes locked onto yours, then dropped to the bandage on your forehead, the dried blood at your hairline that the nurses hadn’t quite wiped away.

His expression did something complicated—guilt, fear, anger (at himself, always at himself)—before settling into something painfully soft.

You swallowed.

"Fender bender," you mumbled lamely, as if that explained everything.

His throat worked as he swallowed. "You should've called me immediately," he whispered, taking another step closer. The fluorescent lights caught the dark circles under his eyes, the way his cardigan was buttoned wrong - one side higher than the other. He must have thrown it on in a hurry.

You shrugged, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the bandage. "You had a bad day. I didn't want to make it worse."

Spencer made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hands finally lifting to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing feather-light beneath your eyes. "That doesn't matter. You matter. You're bleeding in a hospital and I—" His voice cracked. "How could you think I wouldn't want to know?"

A beat of silence.

Then, because you had to know: "How did you even find me?"

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Garcia."

Of course.

"When you didn't answer... I may have panicked. Slightly." His fingers traced the edge of your bandage with heartbreaking gentleness. "She tracked your phone. I owe her approximately twelve favors now."

You huffed a laugh, then immediately regretted it when your head throbbed. Spencer's expression darkened with concern.

"Hey," you said softly, catching one of his restless hands. "I'm okay. Really."

He didn't look convinced. "You're in a hospital bed."

"And you're here," you countered, squeezing his fingers. "That helps."

Spencer exhaled shakily. "Never do that again," he murmured. "Walk out, not call me, take the blame for my bad mood... Any of it."

You closed your eyes, breathing him in - the familiar scent of old books and that terrible cheap coffee he loved. "Only if you promise to talk to me next time instead of biting my head off over a book."

A pause. Then, quiet you almost missed it: "Deal."

The discharge papers took forever.

You sat on the edge of the hospital bed, swinging your legs slightly while Spencer hovered like an anxious shadow, reading every line of the doctor’s instructions twice before reluctantly letting you sign them. His fingers kept twitching toward you—adjusting the collar of your jacket, brushing imaginary lint from your sleeve—as if he needed constant proof you were really there, really okay.

The nurse handed you a packet of aftercare instructions with a knowing smile. “Someone’s eager to get you home,” she murmured, nodding toward Spencer, who was already holding your bag and car keys like a man prepared to carry you out of here himself.

You flushed.

The ride home was quiet. Spencer drove with one hand on the wheel, the other clasped firmly around yours, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin every time you hit a red light.

You watched the way his jaw clenched whenever you shifted in your seat, how his eyes flickered to you every few seconds like he needed visual confirmation you were still there.

"You're staring," he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Am not," you lied, even as your fingers tightened around his.

The apartment was dark when you arrived, the book still sitting innocently on the shelf where he'd placed it earlier. Spencer hovered as you toed off your shoes, his hands fluttering near your elbows like he wasn't quite sure where to put them.

"Sit," he ordered gently, nudging you toward the couch. "I'll make tea."

You wanted to argue—you weren't an invalid, just a little banged up—but the way his voice cracked on the last word had you sinking obediently into the cushions.

Through the kitchen doorway, you watched him move with frantic precision: boiling water, selecting chamomile (your favorite), digging through drawers for the honey bear he kept just for you. His hands shook when he poured.

When he returned, he didn't hand you the mug right away. Instead, he knelt before you, his knees hitting the carpet with a soft thud. The vulnerability of the position stole your breath.

"I was an idiot today," he said, pressing the warm ceramic into your hands. His eyes were liquid in the low light. "Not just about the book. About everything."

You cradled the tea between your palms, letting the heat seep into your skin. "You were stressed."

"That's not an excuse." His fingers brushed the bandage again, so light it barely registered. "I hate that I made you feel like you had to leave. Like you couldn't—" His voice broke. "Like you couldn't come to me when you were hurt."

You set the tea aside.

Spencer didn't resist when you tugged him up onto the couch, didn't protest when you maneuvered him until his back was against the armrest and you were curled into his chest, your ear pressed over his heartbeat. His arms came around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, careful of your injury.

"Next time," you murmured into his sweater, "I'll call."

He exhaled, long and shuddering, his lips pressing to your hairline.

"Next time," he negotiated softly, "I'll do better."

And when you woke the next morning, his arms still wrapped around you, the book was open on his nightstand—a new passage underlined, just for you.

[illusionremember]

look i just think that Dean, eventually, would have sat Cas down in the Dean-Cave to watch Lord of the Rings with him (because they're amazing films). And they'd get to Rivendell, and Arwen would give Aragorn the Evenstar pendant and Dean would remember and be like oh shit. and that line - the "it was a gift. keep it" - that doesn't come yet for a few scenes and Dean would be sitting there sweating.

But Cas. Cas wouldn't be paying that much mind at all. Because honestly I don't know that he'd pay a terribly large amount of attention to the films at that point, not the beginning. It's charming and all, but not especially interesting. He watches most of whatever Dean asks, because Dean enjoys them and Cas wants to spend time with him. But he usually pays more attention to Dean than to whatever is on the screen. Until Dean starts acting kinda cagey and weird and then Cas starts paying more attention to the couple on screen - this ethereal immortal elf and her human warrior lover. And this question of if she would give up immortality and her people to be with her lover, that would catch his eye.

And I think that maybe Cas wouldn't really catch on at first, he'd pay attention through the Council of Elrond and nod along like ah yes, a heroic quest to stop evil, i understand why Dean likes this now. And the movies would continue and he'd pay attention, but I think Arwen would stick in his mind even though she doesn't get a lot of screen time. He doesn't say anything about the mixtape or the Evenstar but he's paying attention now and Dean is still sweating.

When Eowyn comes in Cas likes her, and he respects her, but he also seems so disappointed, because its clear that she's interested in Aragorn, and surely that's a better match, right? Like Aragorn would have more in common with a human, and she's brave and free-spirited and amazing, of course he's likely to end up with her instead. It makes sense and it makes Cas heartsick. And they'd reach that point in the films where Elrond is trying to persuade Arwen to leave, the point where she turns back, and suddenly Cas is riveted. He has to know what happens to her. He has to know if Arwen lives, if Aragorn will reciprocate Eowyn's feelings, or if Arwen and Aragorn get to be together after all.

And when she appears at Minas Tirith I think he'd burst into tears i.e. tears just pouring down his face while he stares at the screen oblivious that he's even crying. And Dean is like righteously freaked out at this point because he's watched a ton of movies with Cas and his reactions always vary, anywhere from confused disinterest to mildly engaged but he's never seen Cas so moved by a piece of film before. And Dean can't even pay attention to the end cause he's busy watching Cas. And Cas has never resonated so much with a fictional character in his life as Arwen Undómiel.

And Dean's like, still mildly concerned as the credits for RotK roll and is like "How'd you like it buddy?" and Cas is so serious and so heartfelt when he tell Dean that he loved it and thanks him for sharing it with him.

idk where things go from there i just keep envisioning this from time to time Castiel is Arwen-coded ty for coming to my tedtalk

[ariestrxsh]

mean!chris x shy!reader

✰ content warning: smut, getting caught, pornography, mutual masturbation, vouyerism/exhibitionism, dirty talk, sneaking around, enemies to lovers

✰ summary: while staying the night with nick and matt, you accidentally stumble upon chris jerking off to porn, and in the heat of the moment, despite the fact that neither of you get along, he invites you to join him

idk who first wrote mean!chris or shy!reader, so I can't give proper credits, but I feel like it's definitely been written before, so credits to everyone who did it before me!

dividers by @/anitalenia

Lights Turned On

chapters: | 1 |

"What the hell do you think you're doing in here?" Chris demanded, silencing his mic as he sat shirtless in front of his laptop, gaming with his friends. He didn't even bother looking up at you, continuing to tap away on his controller. However, he could see your silhouette slip into his room out of the corner of his vision.

His room was dark, the only light coming from the glow of his screen, giving his blue eyes an almost ethereal look. He smelled faintly of aftershave and body wash, and the damp look of his hair indicated to you that he had just taken a shower.

Despite the close bond you'd had with his two brothers, Chris had never warmed up to you in the same way Matt and Nick had. He was always acting cold towards you, making snide comments, and doing just about anything he could to get under your skin.

It might not have bothered you so much if you hadn't been secretly crushing on him since you met him. Despite how painfully obvious it was, it was something that none of the brothers had picked up on, including Chris.

In some ways, you were disgusted with yourself for finding Chris attractive. He was messy, loud, inconsiderate, and rather mean to you most of the time. You just couldn't help but always want to be around him and look at him. You just wanted him to notice you and pay attention to you, even if he was poking fun at you.

"Spit it out. You lost or somethin'?" He asked, slipping a headphone off his ear and peering up at you over his computer with a mixture of annoyance and frustration that you hadn't answered his question. "I'm looking for some extra pillows and blankets. We're having a movie night downstairs. Matt and Nick said you might have some."

Chris rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, check that closet. Should be some in there." You made your way over to his closet door, resting your hand on the cold metal of the knob and tugging it open. Just like Chris had said, he had both extra blankets and pillows neatly placed on the top shelf.

As you stood on your tippy toes, trying to reach them, just barely grazing the wool fabric with the tips of your fingers, you heard a chuckle from behind you. Then Chris said something into his mic about stepping away from the game for a second, and he took off his headphones, placing them on the edge of his desk before he approached you, seeming even more irritated now.

Your heart raced as you felt the warmth of his body as he came up behind you, his chest nearly touching your back as he retrieved the bedding from the top shelf of his closet with ease. You spun around, and Chris was shoving the blankets into your arms with an unamused look on his face that you could barely make out in the dark.

"You're fuckin' helpless, you know that?" He rasped before making his way back over to his gaming chair. You could feel blood rush to your cheeks as you stood in place, your heartbeat hammering away in your chest and your stomach fluttering from how close he had just been to you.

Your gaze danced over his flared nostrils, his pouty lips, and his concentrated expression that were all lit up by the blue light of his computer. You didn't mean to gawk, but God, he looked so pretty when he was annoyed. "You need somethin' else?" He asked, his eyes locked onto you from above the screen of his laptop again.

You dumbly shook your head no, not moving from where you stood, clutching the blankets in your arms. "Then scram. I'm busy," he huffed, his eyes dropping back down to his game. Embarrassed by how flustered he had gotten you and hoping that he hadn't noticed, you fled without saying another word.

Downstairs, you and the other brothers were bundled up under the blankets with a bag of popcorn sitting between the three of you as the movie started. You, Nick, and Matt stayed up late, whispering and laughing amongst yourselves until your voices started to drop off and were replaced by the sounds of rhythmic breathing and quiet snoring.

By the time the movie had ended and the credits were rolling, both Matt and Nick were sound asleep on either side of you, and you were fluttering in and out of consciousness. You contemplated joining them in their slumber, giving yourself over to sleep and cocooning yourself up in the mess of blankets that Chris had given you earlier in the night.

However, the light from the TV made that nearly impossible, and as you reached up to rub your tired eyes, you felt the old, dry mascara that was still caked to your lashes. You let out a sigh, knowing you couldn't sleep like this, at least not comfortably.

You quietly stood to your feet, carefully stepping over one of the boys to go shut off the source of the bright light. It took your eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, and before nestling back into the bedding strewn across the floor, you decided to head up to Nick's room to grab your toothbrush and facewash.

You tiptoed up the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone as you slowly guided yourself through the darkness with the rail of the banister. You reached the top of the steps, and as you started to head towards Nick's bedroom, you heard a sound that made your stomach flip. It was coming from Chris' room.

You silently approached his cracked door, and the closer you got, the more clearly the lewd noises came through. You heard heavy breathing and soft moaning, whimpering almost. You peered in, taking in the sight of Chris leaning back against his headboard, still shirtless, one hand holding his phone sideways and the other moving rapidly beneath his blanket.

Your breath caught in your throat as it dawned on you what he was doing. The brightness of his phone lit up his face, giving you a view of every detail - his hooded blue eyes, his softened facial features, and his pink lips curling into a blissful smile. He looked more attractive now than ever.

You could hear the sound of him furiously pumping his length and the sound of his moans escaping him complimented by the noises that played from his phone. "Fuck," he whispered, his breath and the stroke of his hand both speeding up rapidly.

You knew it was wrong, but you couldn't take your eyes off of him, and you could tell he was nearing the edge. You lingered in his doorway, biting down on your lip as you felt a familiar warmth spreading in your lower stomach. A wetness pooled between your legs, and you squeezed your thighs together to relieve some of the built-up tension.

You were so enthralled by the scenery, sticking your head so far in through the door that you didn't notice how close you were to touching it until your hand brushing against it made it creak open wider. The sound startled him, snapping him back to reality and pulling him out of his sexual fantasies.

Chris immediately ceased the motion of his hand and shut off his phone screen. You gasped, too stunned to move. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw your silhouette in the doorway. "Jesus! You scared the fuck out of me," Chris chuckled, realizing he'd definitely been caught.

"I-I'm sorry. I was just going to Nick's room," you managed to squeak out, completely embarrassed you'd been caught peeping on him. "You forget which room was his or somethin'?" He teased you, his voice lower and softer this time.

He continued to slowly stroke himself under his blanket, thinking it was too dark for you to see, but you knew what he was doing. "What? You want a private show or somethin'?" Chris snickered, his voice laced with sarcasm, but you didn't pick up on the joke.

You swallowed hard, your words caught in your throat. You bit down on your lip and curled your fingers tightly around the edge of the door as you silently waited in the entry way for what felt like an eternity.

"Jesus, kid. Either come in and close the door or fuck off," he responded in a hushed voice, sounding a bit annoyed that you'd interrupted him, but you figured if he were that annoyed with you, he would've only given you one option - fuck off.

You took a step forward, officially crossing the barrier between the hallway and his bedroom. You pushed the door closed, sounding the faint click of the latch as it locked into place.

His eyebrows flew up in shock, realizing you really did want a private show. He'd given you the first option half-heartedly, certainly not expecting you to take him up on it, but the realization that you wanted to stay made his cock pulse in his grasp.

His breath was soft and quiet, but you could hear it becoming more shallow as he continued to pump his length. "C'mere. I won't bite. Unless you want me to," he hissed, his voice low and full of lust as he patted the bed beside him, inviting you to come closer.

You slowly approached him, half-expecting him to start teasing you for wanting to watch or pull some kind of mean prank on you. "Light on?" He asked, making your stomach flip even more. "Sure," you quietly mumbled. Chris switched on the lamp on his bedside table, the soft yellow glow lighting up the one corner of his room that you two were in.

His eyes met yours before your gaze traveled back down to his hand, moving slowly beneath the blanket. Chris' eyes followed you as you sat down next to him, and the way he looked at you starting to shift.

He always just saw you as his brothers' annoying friend who was around all the time, always needing something. However, he found himself getting excited by the idea of you being interested in what he was doing beneath the covers. He never expected this scenario to play out, especially not with you.

The air between the two of you was thick with tension, and Chris waited in anticipation for you to make the next move. "What were you watchin'?" You asked, curiously glancing at his phone that was resting on his chest facedown.

An expression of both interest and surprise crossed his face at your question. He chuckled, reaching for his phone and picking it up with his free hand. "You mean what was I watchin' before you barged in here and interrupted me?" He laughed. "Porn. Obviously," he sneered, his snarky attitude never faltering.

"No shit. What kind?" You wondered aloud, growing more confident and more curious as Chris responded with vague answers. "I mean, it must have been really hot with the way you were going at it." His lips curled into a smug smile, realizing why you were asking.

"Why? Wanna watch with me?" He wondered, searching your face for a reaction. Your eyes subtly widened, and you slowly nodded. You couldn't believe Chris was going to share with you the kinds of things he liked to get off to. The vulnerability of the moment had you more turned on than you'd ever been in your life.

He unlocked his phone, turning the screen so that both of you could see it. "Just this slutty little redhead taking two cocks at once," Chris lustfully responded, continuing to stroke himself under the blanket.

Of course, even in the way he described the video, he couldn't help but talk about the woman in a degrading manner. Typical.

You hated that you found that kind of hot.

When you felt yourself clenching around nothing at the way he described the scene, you wondered where the hell your self-respect had gone, and then you started to wonder if you'd had any at all to begin with, considering you were getting wet over a jerk like Chris.

Your eyes were immediately drawn to the video that Chris played, picking back up where he had left off. It was a woman on all fours, bent over the arm of a couch while one guy was pounding into her from behind, smacking her ass, and the other guy was fucking her mouth, gently running his fingers through her hair and pushing her head down to take more of him.

The volume was low, but you could hear the sound of skin slapping against skin and the sound of the woman moaning around the second man's cock. She looked like she was really enjoying herself, being the center of their attention.

You found your hand wandering south and slipping into the waistband of your shorts. As if you had no control over it, you began to soothe the aching feeling between your legs, your middle finger gently tracing your folds and teasing your slit, your gaze locked onto the scene that played out in front of you.

"If you're not into this, you don't have to watch it, but I'm not changing it," Chris replied, his voice trailing off at the end as his eyes left the screen for a moment and wandered over towards you. His breath hitched as he noticed the placement of your right hand, telling him all he needed to know about what you thought of the video.

You were gently tracing circles over your clit with your fingertips as you bit down on your lip to keep your moans from escaping. When you became aware that his eyes were on you, you grew self-conscious and brought your movements to an abrupt stop.

"Oh, so you do like this? You wish that were you, huh?" He teased, nudging you in the arm. Your cheeks grew warm at his accusation. "C'mon. Don't be shy. Keep going," he quietly encouraged you. He kept his gaze on you, enthralled by the way you looked while you pleasured yourself.

At first, you were just watching the video, but you couldn't help that your focus started to shift from Chris' phone screen to his hand that was rapidly moving under the blankets. You couldn't keep yourself from picturing what it looked like. A smirk played in the corner of his lip as he realized where your attention was.

"You wanna see it, don't you?" Chris purred, reading the look of desire that was written all over your face and the way your eyes lit up when he offered. You swallowed the lump in your throat and silently nodded. Chris chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. He pulled back the blanket, revealing himself to you.

He let it fall flat against his stomach, gently running his fingertips along the backside as he glanced over at you, searching for your reaction. You were mesmerized. It was a little bigger than average, a few veins decorating his length.

He gripped his shaft and pointed his tip towards the sky, giving you a different perspective. The head was a perfect mushroom shape and bright pink from how swollen it was. A bit of precum glistened, pearling at his slit as he continued manhandling himself.

"I have kind of a strange request," Chris told you, wetting his lips as he stared at your own. "Sure. What is it?" You innocently asked, but your mind was racing with what the next words that were going to leave his mouth would be. He'd been going back and forth for the past several minutes, debating on whether he should ask or not, and he'd finally decided that he couldn't help himself.

"The only downside to just using my hand is, it gets a little dry after a while," he started to say, his voice low and full of lust, hoping you understood where he was going with this. "Do you think you could like.. spit on it?" He nibbled on his lower lip as he waited in anticipation for you to answer. Your eyes widened, his question sparking your interest.

Whether Chris knew it or not, given the circumstances you were in right now, there wasn't a single thing he could ask you for that you wouldn't give to him in this moment. You certainly weren't going to say no to that. "Of course I can," you responded. His facial features softened, surprised by your enthusiasm.

You leaned forward so that you were hovering just a couple of inches above his cock. You gathered some saliva in your mouth, pursed your lips, and let your spit slowly drip out onto his throbbing cock head. He let out a satisfied sigh as your saliva mixed with his clear fluid and slowly spilled down his tip and onto his length.

"Fuck. That's it," he huskily moaned, tossing his head back for a moment, his eyes fluttering closed as he spread it around. You watched the scene before you unfold, Chris massaging the wetness you provided him with into his cockhead.

You slipped your hand back into your waistband, touching yourself alongside him. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft and started gently squeezing it, making a twisting motion with his wrist every time he dragged his hand back up his length.

The video was still playing in the background, and the two of you would periodically glance over at it, enjoying the way it heightened the experience. However, you each found your eyes wandering back over towards the other person.

Chris' gaze flicked back and forth between your hand in your shorts and your face, and you did the same, glancing back and forth between Chris' cock and his pleasured expressions, every once in a while, the two of you meeting each other's stare.

"You wanna know a secret?" Chris asked in between his staggered breaths. "Mhmm," you replied in a soft moan, nodding your head. He leaned in a little closer to you, lowering his voice to a volume just above a whisper.

"I love jerking off with an audience. The way you're looking at my cock right now makes it so much hotter than if I were just doing it alone," he admitted, emphasizing every stroke for your benefit. Your eyes widened at his confession.

"You know what else I love?" He asked, a soft moan unfurling from his lips before he licked them. "What?" You asked, excited to hear what incredibly hot thing he was gonna say next. "I really like talking dirty to someone while I jerk off for them," he disclosed, smirking over at you.

"Let's hear it then," you replied with your eyes locked onto his. Chris was taken aback by your boldness, a stark contrast from the seemingly innocent, shy, and reserved demeanor you approached him with in your everyday life.

"You're a very naughty girl for spying on me, you know that?" Chris purred under his breath. "See how hard I am for you? See how hard I get from you watching me? Fuck, I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at it like that.."

His words sent a pulsing to your clit, and you started to rub it faster. He softly moaned, mirroring you and speeding up his strokes. "You like watching me jerk off for you, don't you?" He taunted you, leaning in a bit closer to you again. "I do," you quietly replied.

"I bet if I hadn't caught you, you would've watched me from my doorway until I busted all over my hand," he accused you. You didn't confirm nor deny his claim, but the look on your face said it all. "You've fantasized about this before, haven't you? Watching me stroke my cock for you.." He cooed, his voice trailing off as his breath quickened.

"How do you know that?" You asked, continuing to rub your clit in small, fast circles while the two of you gazed into each other's eyes. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip as he bit down on it. "It was just a shot in the dark, but the fact that you just admitted to it.. fuck.. that's so hot," he whispered.

It was getting harder for each of you to hold back. The sound of each of you whimpering filled the room, along with the lewd, wet sounds of each of you pleasuring yourselves. You could feel the knot in your stomach forming and threatening to come undone any moment now.

That's when you heard your name unfurl from Chris' lips, followed by him saying in a gravelly voice, "Fuck. I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna bust all over my hand just for you." His words made your pussy throb, immediately sending you over the edge. Your whole body started to shake, the muscles in your core spasming.

"Chris.." you softly whined, gazing into his eyes as you came all over your fingers and his sheets that you were clutching onto tightly with your free hand. "Fuck," Chris moaned as he reached his own climax beside you. You peered down at his cock just in time to admire the pearly white substance that had shot all over his stomach and his chest.

Your gaze fell to his hand that was still steadily pumping his length, completely coated in a thick layer of his fluid. You watched as a few final ropes of cum ejected from his swollen tip and started to drip down the sides of his cock.

A guttural sound fell from his lips as he slowed down his strokes, draining every last drop. You each stared at each other, breathlessly, both of your chests heaving in unison. A look of bliss and satisfaction crossed both of your faces as you each sat there, processing what had just happened while you each tried to recover from your respective orgasms.

Chris reached for a dirty shirt that was on the floor to clean his mess up with. He glanced back over at you, still calling his breath back to him as he let out a soft chuckle. "This stays between us, okay? All of it. If you ever tell anyone, I'll deny it and tell them it was some weird, sick dream you had."

You nodded in agreement. You didn't want a single soul knowing that you and Chris had watched porn and gotten off together, and you certainly didn't want them knowing it had happened because you were peeping on him.

"Get back downstairs before one of my brothers wakes up," Chris replied, his intense blue eyes lingering on you. You got up and headed for the door, your heart racing when you realized the two of you had moaned each other's names rather loudly as you'd both finished. You prayed that it hadn't woken anybody up as you reached for Chris' door knob.

"You're so fuckin' pretty when you cum by the way," Chris mumbled from behind you. You stopped for a moment and glanced over your shoulder. "So are you," you said in response, watching Chris scroll through his phone, avoiding eye contact with you.

He chuckled, finding it both comical and endearing that 'pretty' was the descriptor you wanted to go with. "Thanks." Chris switched off his lamp, and you left his room, completely forgetting your toothpaste and facewash in Nick's room.

You tiptoed back downstairs, grateful that everyone was still sleeping soundly.

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

THE HELL YOU MEAN YOU GOT A GIRL ?

summary : in which Tim's brothers find out he not only has a girlfriend but she's actually real and attractive and idk dating HIM of all people ???

Tim Drake is a busy man , his family knew that I meant come on ?? The kid is Red Robin, juggling Wayne Enterprises , solving cases, and not mention he attends college.

Not in a million years would they guess he of all of them would have a girlfriend and that he of all of them would have a functional relationship before any if them.

It started subtle at first - he'd finish patrol early , not really a big deal since they'd all assume he was busy with school and just had to go home.

Well truns out he was going home just not to do work just to simply have dinner with you.

The next sign was that he had a picture of you at the back of his phone - it's encased safely behind the clear casing . Dick saw it at first and shrugged it off, thinking it was a kpop idol or some model Tim liked alot - nope it was just him being in love with you and just showing it off.

Tim unironically smells better ? Damian doesn't know how to place it - its not that Tim ever smelled bad or had bad hygiene it's just that he's been particularly very into it as of late - he literally even has a skin care routine now but Damian writes it off as Tim being curious or weird.

Tim also starts dressing classier too like he wears good slacks or nice baggy jeans with fitted tops - showing off his slim but muscular figure as of late - he even asked Jason to borrow one of his old leather jackets and hey - Jason didn't mind lending his brother one - he just thought Tim was getting into the grunge style like him. Nope, it turns out Tim overheard you saying guys in leather jackets were hot, so of course, he had to get the real thing.

Flash forward to like a year and a half down the line and one day all three of them were talking about how Tim was glowing up and getting himself in shape .

Dick : " you know Tim's been idk dressing up as of late ".

Damian : " smh it's like he's pathetically trying to impress someone "

Jason : " I thought he was just idk changing his style ?"

Dick : " you think ? Plus he's been ending patrol early lately"

Damian : " he's a nerd Grayson , knowing him he gets home earlier to study or what not ".

Jason : *cackling* " and he wonders why he can't get a girlfriend "

*Tim who just walked in and overheard jason* : " I literally have a girlfriend. What do you mean ?"

Pin drop silence . Everyone stares at him, eye wide and then they burst out cackling.

Jason : " Timmy boy a blow up sex doll doesn't count a girlfriend"

Dick : *laughing* " Tim the day you get a girlfriend is the day the world would end"

Damian : " Timothy, that's the best joke you have ever uttered."

Tim scowls at them , " I LITERALLY HAVE A GIRLFRIEND AND SHES A REAL PERSON"

Damian *still laughing* : " Alright Timothy, let's meet your so-called very real girlfriend."

Flash forward to two hours later and they're at a local Lego shop at the mall , the batboys are all confused .

Jason : " Tim, when we said a real girl, we didn't mean a Lego woman figure"

Tim just rolled his eyes - annoyed because he can't fathom why they didn't think he can't have a girlfriend .

Not even two minutes passed, and you bolted out of the store and engulfed Tim in a big hug and began kissing him all over his face. Tim wore a big , smug smile as he wrapped his hand around your waist and pressed you a forehead kiss.

Dick's mouth is too the floor , Jason's eyes just widen so big you'd swear his eyes will roll out and Damian looks like he's gonna hurl.

Damian : " I think - I think I going to die "

Jason *still in shock* : " There is no way this is real - literally no way I've got to be imagining shit "

Dick : " Someone pinch me " *Damian pinches him hard* " OUCH WHAT THE FUCK"

Jason points at you and then at Tim , " Miss is he holding you hostage -"

Tim rolls his eyes , " SHES MY GIRLFRIEND"

Damian tuts , " She's too hot to be with the likes of you she should date someone better "

Dick : " Like me -"

Shutting him down immediately, Tim : " Fuck no"

You awkwardly laughing , " So you're Tim's brothers ?"

Jason : " unfortunately ". *dick nudges him hard* " OW WTF"

You : " It's nice to meet you all I'm Tim's girlfriend "

Dick : " yeah that's the part we are all processing"

Damian : " Are you sure you're not talking about another tim?"

Tim , scowling : " Shut the fuck up demon she said she's my girlfriend so can yall stop being so annoying now "

You : " They didn't think you'd have a girlfriend ?"

Tim : " no and I don't know why especially since they themselves don't have one either "

Jason : " in my offense I died -"

Dick : " Pack it up. It's been 4 years since you came back. You got no excuse "

Jason : " I know the man who has fumbled every relationship he touches is not talking "

Damian : " This is all pointless. Love is stupid and worthless"

As the both continue to bicker back and forth, you turn to Tim with a wide grin , " Who do you think is worse ?"

Tim , pulling you in closer , : " Definitely Bruce "

*in a very far distance*

You laugh as you grab his hand and left him off somewhere , " Let's go get milkshakes".

Bruce *sneezes* : " Someone is trash talking me "

ty for reading !!!

[parkers-gal]

A touch starved Bucky that slowly warms up ;)

❤️

i wasn't sure if you wanted smut or fluff so i made this fluffyyyy i hope u like it !!! <333 i might add a little more later or smth idk yet

touch starved J.B.

pairing: bucky barnes x avengers!reader, f!reader

wc: 1.2k

warnings: (newly) established relationship

⋆˚✶˚‧⋆｡˚

it started with a simple brush up on his arm. innocently, it happened in the kitchen while you grabbed a bowl from the cabinet beside bucky. so brief you hadn’t even noticed it, but bucky did. he was frozen in place, feet planted to the floor, eyes practically bulging. but you didn’t react, merely continuing your conversation with steve who sat across the counter eating a bowl of oatmeal.

“you okay, honey?” your voice rang in his ears a few moments later. 

shaking off his dumbstruck state, he manages to answer. “yeah.” a sip of his coffee solidifies his response.

what was that?

he can’t shake the thought.

why did that happen? i can take bullets but not the feel of her fingers?

he was too embarrassed to bother asking you.

⋆˚✶˚‧⋆｡˚

sitting around the large dining table, a pack of cards lay sprawled across the top, poker chips in the middle. wanda and natasha had made various drinks, bucky sporting a beer beside you. absentmindedly, he started playing with one of his chips, right hand rolling it around and clicking it against the table. you turned towards the noise. softly, you grabbed your boyfriend's hand, playing with his fingers as he dropped the chip. 

his eyes shift down to where your fingers skid across his palm, lightly caressing the skin. 

“you’re up, barnes,” clint interrupts, laughing with sam about something. 

he throws a chip into the pile, taking a swig from the bottle of brew, left hand around the neck. 

picking up on his tense shoulders and the shift in his eyes, you lean towards him. “am i making you uncomfortable?” you nod towards your hands, laid out on the table intertwined. “i can stop if you want to, i’m sorry.”

“no! no, no,” he rushes out, almost too loudly. bucky clears his throat, cheeks heating up. “i… i like it.”

a small grin beams on your face, happy at the sudden news. “okay.” you lean a little more, just enough to kiss his bicep.

“i raise you two dollars.” you announce, turning back towards the table and throwing some chips towards the growing pile in the center.

a few people groan at your words. you let go of bucky’s hand to shuffle through your cards, smiling to yourself and placing them face down, confident in your cards. he looks longingly down at his hand, now absent of your warmth. momentarily, you notice the look on his face, but your attention is pulled when steve starts talking to you.

⋆˚✶˚‧⋆｡˚

you’re lounging on the couch when bucky strolls in with steve, boots softly thudding on the floor. looking up from your book, you greet them with a smile.

“hey, guys. what’s up?”

steve returns your smile, “just got through debriefing for the next mission.”

you hum in acknowledgment. “i hope it isn’t anything too crazy.” you look at bucky when you say it. he smiles a little, nodding at you. 

“okay, i gotta help sam with some new combination he wants to try out.” steve shrugs, turning to walk away from you two. “something about launching off the shield.” he laughs. bucky looks at him quizzically but you laugh along.

“sounds like sam.” you say your goodbyes to steve, watching as bucky awkwardly stands beside the couch. “wanna watch a movie in my room?” you offer, wanting to get away. 

he appreciates how hard you try to make him comfortable, knowing he’s not too keen on public affection. he wants to show you off, but he’s not quite there yet. 

“i’d like that.”

“okay!” you chirp, abandoning your book on the coffee table and moving towards bucky. you hold his upper arm, left hand reaching down to lace your fingers with his. “is this okay?”

he sucks in a breath, dumfounded. “more than okay,” he manages to utter, admiring the smile you give him while nudging the two of you towards the hallway. 

“how long is the mission?”

“hm? oh,” he squeezes your hand unintentionally. you squeeze right back, and his heart beats wildly at the gesture. “bout a week and a half. nothing too crazy.” 

“i’ll miss you,” you pout, pulling him into your room. “boots off.”

grabbing the remote, you crawl across the bed to your spot, patting next to you. bucky obliges, removing his shoes and sitting beside you, shoulder to shoulder. you scoot a little closer, thigh brushing against his as you flick through movie options. 

bucky swallows thickly, breath lodged in his throat. you reach over to the nightstand to grab something, and your thigh leaves its place beside his. he frowns when it doesn’t return – you’ve readjusted.

“what about- what’s wrong?” you look at him worriedly. he’s not looking at you, still staring down at his leg where you touched him. 

pursing his lips, he glances at you. “uhm…” he trails off, not sure what to say. you scoot closer at you had just done moments ago, and when your thigh sits up against bucky’s, you watch as his shoulders deflate in relief, a certain sparkle in his eyes.

“bucky?” your voice is almost a whisper. 

“yeah?” 

“do you like when i touch you?”

he looks as though he’s a child just being caught sneaking candy out. you continue.

“do you want me to keep touching you?”

after a beat, he nods. “i want you to touch me all the time.”

“oh.” your hand reaches out for his, lacing your fingers and resting them in his lap. “i had no idea.”

he looks almost apologetic. “i really like when you touch me.” he confesses, biting the inside of his cheek. “i can’t- i don’t know…”

you shush him, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “i just thought you weren’t very affectionate. i didn’t want to push.”

his shoulders slump a little. “i’ve never… experienced affection like this before.”

“oh.” 

silently, you pivot your body, one leg reaching across his lap until you're straddling him. his eyes grow wide. pulling both his hands towards you, you guide them to your waist. it’s comfortable, and you don’t push for anything else.

“i’ll just love on you a little, see how you feel about it. ‘kay?”

eyes still wide, he nods. 

“i’m gonna kiss you now.”

another nod has you quietly giggling. shifting forward slightly, you feel his fingertips squeeze your waist a little. he’s trying to ground himself. 

cupping his face, you drag your thumb gently across his jaw and cheek, ruffling through the scruff of his beard. you place a light kiss on his chin, then his nose, then his forehead, soft and protective. when you pull back to look at him, his eyes are dilated; he’s practically high on you, reveling in the intimacy. your thumb grazes his bottom lip, watching it glide.

when your lips connect, bucky inhales sharply but he doesn’t hesitate to kiss you back. your hand moves from his jaw to the back of his head, playing with the loose strands of hair. he tugs you closer, flesh hand settling on your lower back. when you pull apart, you’re both out of breath and you slump onto his chest, nuzzling in the crook of his neck. 

bucky breaks the silence after a little while. 

“i feel like… now that i know what it’s like i’ll never be able to live without it.”

humming, you squeeze his middle, hugging the super soldier. “does that mean you want me to be affectionate all the time?”

“is that okay?”

you lean up, pecking his lips. he smiles, a little shy but it’s overpowered by his yearning for you.  you smile right back. 

“more than okay.”

⋆˚✶˚‧⋆｡˚

bucky masterlist

[mannequinswithkillappeal]

some more scraps

[cruel-seduction]

Not So Golden Now, Are You? (2) 

Summary - Where in your not-quite-friendship with James Potter thrives on mutual mockery—you call him daddy’s babygirl for living off his pureblood trust fund, he calls you whatever gets under your skin fastest. It’s never serious… until he parrots back a joke you made about your looks, the kind of joke people only make after crying over it alone. What he thought was harmless banter turns out to be your breaking point, and while everyone else laughs it off, you don’t. Not this time. And now James—cocky, clueless, James—is stuck trying to fix a crack he didn’t mean to make, humiliating himself in ways no Marauder ever has… all in the hopes of earning a single, goddamn, laugh from you again.

Tone: Gritty, emotional, enemies-to-lovers like kinda (idk I am confused myself. What do you mean just cause I wrote it I should know what it means) with heavy hurt/comfort and a golden boy begging for forgiveness.

Part -1

The courtyard was buzzing. Breaktime at Hogwarts always was—students spread across stone benches and patches of sun-warmed grass, laughter echoing, owls swooping overhead. It was the kind of day where everything felt too bright.

And then you saw him.

James Potter.

Striding through the middle of it like he owned the light, only this time… something was off. His shoulders weren’t cocky. His grin wasn’t smug. And in his hands—clutched awkwardly, like it might bite him—was a mug. Ceramic. White. Painted with messy little Quidditch doodles and a crooked heart.

He spotted you across the courtyard. You didn’t move.

You hadn’t planned on talking to him again. Not yet. Not like this.

Especially not after what you’d heard that morning. The Marauders had cursed a Slytherin so bad he spent an hour puking slugs and crying.  Supposedly, it was James’s idea. Supposedly, he said it was “for a laugh.” Your stomach turned.

Cruel.

Heartless.

Classic Marauder bullshit.

And after everything? After that night in the Astronomy Tower where you bled your heart raw—he went right back to it. 

You stood up the moment he neared. Jaw tight.

“Hey,” James said, breathless, that dumb hopeful glint in his eyes. “Thought maybe we could, you know… start over.” He extended the mug toward you. “Cold coffee.”

You took it. Smiled. Sweet. And without a word— Threw it directly in his face.

Gasps echoed.

The courtyard went dead quiet. The splash of coffee dripped from his curls and chin, soaking his collar. He blinked against it, stunned. A little broken. Then, slowly—he wiped a hand down his cheek.

“Alright,” he coughed. “Deserved that.”

You didn’t wait. You turned on your heel and stormed off before he could see the rage brewing behind your eyes—no, worse—before he could see the pain.

You didn’t look back once.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You hid in the library after that.

Sat behind rows of thick tomes, clutching a copy of Advanced Hex Theory you weren’t reading. Your face still burned, your heart pounding as you replayed the whole thing again.

You shouldn’t feel bad. He deserved it.

Except… then came the whisper. The real reason behind that Slytherin prank.

“Did you hear? That bloke called lily mudblood yesterday. Loud. Didn’t even flinch. And not only that he also tried to degrade her with other words too”

“Bloody scum. I think it was Sirius who heard it first—lost his mind.”

“Yeah, but James is the one who hexed him. Said, ‘you talk like that again, you won’t have a tongue left to use.’”

“Serves him right.”

You stared at the words on the page, unmoving. He wasn’t being cruel. He was defending someone. And that someone was none other than your bestfriend. You were so consumed with your feelings that you forgot to see her pain.

You cursed under your breath and leaned back, rubbing your hands over your face. Now you were the asshole.

Still—you crossed your arms, hugged your ribs tight, and whispered to yourself, “He was mean to me first.”

That was true, wasn’t it?

He was.

He hurt you.

He joked about your worth like it was nothing. So what if you threw a coffee in his face?

Still. The image of him, standing there soaked, blinking through the coffee with zero anger in his expression—just quiet acceptance—it clawed at you.

Because the worst part wasn’t what you did.

The worst part was that..... he was fine with it. Fuck. He smiled when you did that. That makes you wanna punch him and kiss him at the same time. Wait..? Kiss? Where did that come from? You don't wanna kiss him. Or at least your ego is too big to admit that you do.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Just because James was right to hex that Slytherin didn’t mean you owed him forgiveness. Being right about one thing didn’t erase being so wrong about you.

Because this—this wasn’t about just James.

It was about every time you looked in the mirror and thought, If I could just lose five more pounds, maybe then… Every time you starved yourself through breakfast. Chewed mint leaves between classes to kill the hunger. Every time you stood next to Lily Evans and felt like a dull, washed-out background character. A placeholder. Contrast.

 The "funny one." The "smart one.”  The "you’re so cool to hang out with but I’d never date you" one.

You weren't just mad at James.

You were mad at everything. The boys who flirted with your friends and didn’t see you. The girls who batted lashes and got everything you wanted. The body that never looked like the ones in Witch Weekly. The voice in your head that whispered, you’re nothing special, just learn to be okay with it.

And maybe it was wrong—projecting all of that onto James Potter. But God, you were just so tired. Too tired to uncoil all the layers. Too tired to explain why the joke hit different. Too tired to tell him: You took the last thread I was hanging on and yanked.

So you stayed mad. Silent. Cold. Distant. And James Potter?

James fucking Potter took that as a challenge.

At first, it was subtle.

A few too many glances your way during meals. A quiet “hi” when you passed in the corridor. Holding the door for you with awkward stiff limbs like he was scared you'd hex him just for existing.

You ignored it all. But then came…

The Violin.

It started on a Monday morning outside your Arithmancy class. A screech. A very broken-sounding screech. Like someone was strangling a cat while dragging their nails down a chalkboard.

You flinched. Everyone flinched.

And then—James Potter turned the corner, standing there with a violin tucked under his chin, a determined sparkle in his eye, and murder in his fingers. “(Y/N)!” he called brightly, eyes locking on yours. “This one’s for you.”

You blinked. “The hell it is—”

He sawed at the strings like he was trying to kill the instrument with sound alone. “I’m soooooorryyyyyyy—!” he sang off-key, not even trying to follow the right notes. “I’m an aaasssssholeeeee—!” Students around you began to whisper. One girl laughed so hard she snorted. A Ravenclaw boy dropped his quill and muttered, “What the actual f—”

You stood there. Mortified. Speechless. He ended the "serenade" with a dramatic bow and winked at you. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You hexed the violin into a pile of wood chips the next day before he even got through the second verse. James, picking up the splinters, grinned at you like you handed him a bouquet. “Thanks,” he said, completely sincere. “I think it wanted to die anyway.”

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t walk away either. You just stand there watching James get scolded by your professor while he was giving you wink. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor dorms:

James flopped face-first onto his bed, groaning into his pillow. “She hates me.” “No shit,” Sirius muttered, tossing a Bertie Bott’s bean into his mouth. “You publicly compared her to beige wallpaper.”

Remus looked up from his book. “Well, actually, you implied she was the reason the wallpaper looked better. Still cruel. But poetic.”

“I’m trying,” James whined. “I’m playing music! I’m serenading her!” “You’re torturing her eardrums,” Peter said. James rolled onto his back. “You think she’ll ever forgive me?”

Remus didn’t even blink. “Not if you keep murdering instruments.” James groaned again and stared at the ceiling. “I just—I want her to smile at me again. Not that sarcastic one. The real one. The one where her nose scrunches and her eyes do that squinty-shiny thing.”

Sirius gagged. “Dude.” 

“She used to laugh at my dumbest jokes.”

“You made her cry, James.”

James flinched. Visibly. “I know.”

There was a beat of silence. Then James whispered, “I wanna make her laugh again. Then make her fall in love with me. Then maybe after Hogwarts, we’ll get a flat together. Something small. Near a garden. With a stupid ugly cat she insists on naming after a pastry—like Croissant or some shit.” Sirius stared at him. “You good, Romeo?”

Remus snorted. “Man’s already planning the wedding and she just hexed his violin.” “Small steps,” Peter muttered. James sighed dreamily. “Yeah. Small steps.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t sleep the night before.

Every time you shut your eyes, you saw your younger self staring into the mirror with fingers digging into soft skin, begging it to look different. You remembered the silence in crowded hallways. The ache of always being there, but never chosen.  You remembered the words James said, the ones that weren't meant to cut—but found the scar anyway.

So when Professor McGonagall handed you detention with a sigh and an apology in her eyes—parchment copying, of course—you welcomed it. Monotonous. Mind-numbing. Perfect distraction.

But when you got to the classroom early the next morning, head pounding from lack of sleep and soul heavy like wet stone, your desk wasn’t empty. It was stacked.

Neatly. Organized. All two hundred lines already written. Every word in your handwriting. Every letter perfectly charmed to look like it came from your hand. You froze. Stared at it.

Your fingers curled around the parchment. Your eyes lifted. And there he was—James Potter, across the room, watching you like a kicked puppy pretending he didn’t deserve the bruises.

He looked too bright. Too hopeful. Too guilty. Your stomach twisted. You hated that it made your eyes sting again.

Later, when class was over, you walked past him without a word. You dropped the parchment into his lap with the last page folded. Inside, scribbled in black ink:

"Try harder."

You didn’t look back. But he smiled. That stupid, soft smile like you'd just given him an entire galaxy.

That afternoon, you were sitting on the ledge behind the courtyard wall again—the spot nobody noticed unless they were looking. Your knees drawn to your chest, your heart somewhere between furious and numb.

And then… A presence. A familiar rustle of too-long Gryffindor robes and the sound of someone hesitating a few steps away. James Potter.

He didn't speak. Just stood there for a second. Then held something out in his hand. A piece of folded parchment—small, aged, and trembling ever so slightly between his fingers.

You stared at it but didn’t move. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “If you ever want to hide again,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours, “until you're ready...”

A pause. He didn’t say what it was. Didn’t say how it would help.But it didn’t matter.Because you knew. The damn boy was trying to give you the Marauder’s Map. He was trying to give you the one thing they never gave anyone. 

Your fingers twitched. You didn’t take it. But you stared at him. Long. Quiet. Endless. He looked different under the sunlight. His jaw clenched. “I was an idiot.”

You raised a brow, voice hoarse. “You’re still an idiot.” He exhaled a broken laugh. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. Or—I want to be. Eventually. When you let me.”

You didn’t respond.

He shifted on his feet. Then, quieter, more real: “I thought you were untouchable. I thought… if I made you laugh, if we tore each other to shreds for fun, that meant I could keep you close. And then I used the wrong words and realized…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard. “I realized you were already bleeding before I ever opened my mouth.”

The silence after that was cruel.You didn't take the parchment. But you didn’t leave either.

He tucked it into your bag anyway. Gently. As if he was afraid he’d break something else.

Then turned and walked away.

And for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure who was hurting more—you or him.

James walked back to the dorm in silence, his hands trembling slightly, his throat burning. He’d made you laugh a hundred times. He’d seen you shine.nBut that day, in the sunlight, with your pain all but carved into your bones, he realized something devastating. He didn’t just want to fix it. He wanted to be there for it. For all of it.

He wanted to be the reason you smiled in the morning. The arms you could fall apart in. The idiot who stayed even when it got ugly.

He wanted… a life. With you in it. He wanted things he didn’t think he’d ever say out loud.

And just as he was about to spiral fully into a James-style mental breakdown about it, Remus lobbed a pillow at his head. “Before you plan your future wedding and children’s names,” Remus deadpanned, “maybe try just not making her cry again.”

James sighed. “Fuck you. I know that.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James Potter had done a lot of dumb things in his life. But this? This might top the list.

The wool itched. His fingers cramped. And he was positive he’d stabbed himself with the knitting needles at least thirteen times—but he didn’t stop. Not when Sirius made fun of him, not when Peter tried to help and tangled half the yarn into a hopeless knot, and especially not when Remus muttered under his breath, “You know, flowers are a traditional apology, mate.”

But James wasn’t going for traditional. He wanted to show he was willing to bleed a little. Suffer a bit. Do something ugly and real and not smooth for once.

So he knit you a jumper.

Maroon, because he remembered you once wore it and said it made you feel safe. The letters across the front—“I’m Sorry”—were crooked. Lopsided. One ‘R’ looked like it was trying to escape.

It was hideous. And he was proud of it.

So, of course, he walked into the common room with it in his arms like it was the crown jewels. Students stared. Murmured. Whispered.

You were curled in your usual corner, books scattered around you like a shield, pretending you weren’t waiting for him. But you looked up when his shadow fell across the page.

James held the jumper out with both hands. Like an offering. Like an apology carved into yarn and regret.

His voice barely broke above the chatter. “I made this. For you.” You blinked. Slowly. Then looked at it. Really looked.

The way the letters leaned awkwardly. The loose thread at the sleeve. The stitch in the neckline that looked like it’d unravel the whole thing if you pulled too hard.

And before you could stop yourself, your fingers curled into a fist around your own anger. You stood. Took the jumper. Walked to the nearest bin. And dropped it in. 

The room went silent. James didn’t say a word. He didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just looked down. Then walked away. His back tense, his head low, the usual bounce in his step long gone. You sat back down like your bones had turned to concrete. Pretended to read. Pretended not to care. Pretended like your throat didn’t burn.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

That night, the tower was quiet. The fire had burned low. Everyone else was asleep.

You stood in front of the bin for a full ten minutes. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for. Permission? Clarity? Something. Eventually, you reached in. Pulled it out.

The wool was soft. He’d actually tried.

You could practically see him stabbing himself with the needles. Tongue sticking out in concentration. Cursing every time a stitch went wrong. You swallowed.

And with a quiet flick of your wand, you straightened the letters. Fixed the loose threads. Tightened the neckline. It still looked ridiculous. But it looked like him. So you folded it. Neatly.  And shoved it under your pillow like a secret. Like a confession you weren’t ready to make.

You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. Because this wasn’t just about James. This was about you. About every time you felt like the last choice.  About starving yourself just to feel worthy.  About screaming into pillows because you hated your body and hated your mind for caring so much.

You weren’t just angry at him. You were angry at every version of yourself that begged to be enough. Was it fair to throw all of that on one stupid boy with messy hair and a heart too big?

No.

But maybe, just maybe, he was willing to carry some of it anyway. You weren’t breaking yet.

But something in you cracked that night. And it whispered, quietly:  Maybe he means it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Maybe James Potter was tired now.

Not just of the grand gestures, or the rejection, or the confusion—but of waiting. Waiting for the world to fall back into place. Waiting for you to look at him the way you used to, even if it was only to glare. Waiting for a moment where he could just breathe near you without it hurting. Still—he hadn’t lost that ridiculous, unkillable determination.

He’d already written five plans in his head before breakfast.

Plan A: Let you punch him square in the jaw and call it even. Plan B: Buy you that overpriced French silk dress you once stared at in a magazine for ten full minutes. Plan C: Cry. Publicly. Plan D: Make Sirius pretend to be dying just so he could dramatically say, “But first, make up with James.”

It was selfish, wanting you after everything. After not listening. After hurting you in ways he hadn’t even understood at the time. But James Potter had always been selfish when it came to you.

He didn’t want almost. He didn’t want eventually. He wanted all of you. The broken parts, the jagged edges, the terrifying, beautiful chaos. And he wanted to be the one who stayed.

He was spiraling over it again, as usual, legs dangling off the edge of the Astronomy Tower, eyes blurry with too much sky and not enough of you— When he heard soft footsteps. Then, silence.

Then... you.

You sat beside him.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him. Just sat, spine straight, hands folded in your lap like it was any other night. Not because you were ready to forgive him. But because you were tired.

So fucking tired of being alone in your head. Sometimes, just sitting beside the person you’re mad at is easier than sitting with your own thoughts. James looked at you. Just—looked.

Like his soul had been drowning and you were the first breath of air. You didn’t even turn your head. “If you don’t stop staring at me like some deranged romance novel idiot, I swear I’ll jump off this tower.”

“Right, right,” he mumbled, turning his gaze dramatically to the moon. “Nothing romantic about the moon. Ugly, lifeless ball.” You huffed. That half-smile tried to sneak up, but you fought it down like a soldier.

James let the quiet stretch a little longer. Then he said—softly, not grand, not loud—just real, “Look, I know you hate me and all. I don’t think you understand what you do to me. You walk into a room and suddenly I’m breathing like I haven’t in years—like my lungs remember what they’re for only because you exist. You smile, and it’s not just sunlight—it’s whole galaxies cracking open inside me, and I swear I’d burn just to keep you warm. I look at you and it’s like the universe finally made sense and said, “Here, this one. She’s the reason.” You could scream, you could shatter, and I’d still hold the pieces like they were sacred. I don’t want some neat little fairytale—I want your chaos, your quiet, your bruised edges and bright mornings. I’d take every storm you’ve ever carried and call it a privilege. You think you’re hard to love, but baby, loving you is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. I’d ruin myself a thousand times just to hear you laugh without flinching. You don’t need to be anything more than what you already are—because you, just as you are, you’re everything. And I mean that like I mean air. Like I mean survival.” 

You didn’t reply for a long time.

Then finally, you exhaled—like you were letting go of something that had been rotting inside you for far too long. “Please don’t say things like that, James. Not when I’ve spent so long teaching myself not to hope. You come in with all this love—too much of it—and part of me wants to fall right into it, let it wrap around me and forget everything that came before. But the rest of me is screaming. I don’t want to be a project you pour yourself into to fix what you broke. I don’t want your heart if it’s just your guilt dressed up in poetry. I’m not some fragile thing to be saved, and I don’t want to be seen as something you owe love to. I’ve spent nights convincing myself that being invisible was safer, because at least then, no one could decide I wasn’t enough. And now you’re here, saying all these beautiful, terrifying things, and I can’t tell if you see me or just the girl you hurt. I want to believe you mean it. I want to let you in. But what if you stop meaning it when the weight of what happened fades? What if I let you matter and then you forget how to hold me when I’m not glowing under your guilt? I can’t survive being seen just long enough for you to feel better. And the worst part? I think I’d still take it. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it ruins me. That’s how much I want this. But wanting isn’t the same as trusting. And right now, I don’t know if I can give you both. And maybe—God, maybe I’m dragging this out, this apology thing, because I like the way you look at me now. I like the attention. I like feeling seen. And I’m scared that the moment I forgive you, you’ll stop looking at me like that. But I can’t say that out loud. My pride’s too loud. My ego won’t let me ask you to stay, to keep seeing me, to not stop. I don’t even know if this makes sense. I just... I don’t know how to trust this. Or you. Or myself.”

The world was quiet. Even the wind dared not move. James Potter, Quidditch star, loudmouth, born showman—he didn’t try to make a joke. Didn’t reach for dramatics. He just smiled. And it wasn’t a smirk, or a grin, or a flirtatious flash. It was soft. Like worship. Like you were a sunrise he had no right to witness but never missed a single morning of. And he finally said something “Then let me say this—really say this, because you need to hear it, every word of it, like it’s the truth carved into the bones of the world:

It was never pity. Not a second of it. Don’t you dare shrink what I feel for you into something so small. I didn’t start caring after what happened—I just got loud about it, finally. I’d been loving you in silence long before the world gave me an excuse to say it out loud. You think I see you now because I’m trying to make up for something? No. I’ve always seen you. You were never invisible to me—not once, not even in the chaos of everything else. You were the constant. You were the steady, quiet hum in the back of my mind, like the world was just a frame for you to move in. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to fall for you out of guilt. I fell for you the way people fall asleep—slowly, then all at once. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re frustrated. The way you laugh when you think no one’s listening. The way you argue when you care too much. You made my whole world sharper, better, realer. And it wasn’t because you forgave me, or because I felt bad—it was because you’re you. You’re everything. Not just some placeholder until something easier comes along.

And I get it—you’re scared I’ll stop. That I’ll stop looking at you like you’re the sun cracking through a storm. But love like this doesn’t just fade. It doesn’t wear off like guilt. It burns. It lives. You think I don’t know the risk you’d be taking by trusting me again? I do. And I don’t expect you to dive in without fear—but I’ll be here, every damn day, proving to you that this isn’t obligation. It’s not guilt. It’s worship. And you want to talk about violin music? That horrible mess I tried to play for you? That wasn’t the first time I thought of you like a song—it’s just the first time I dared to try. Because when I look at you, it’s not silence. It’s symphony. It’s this soft, aching melody the world plays just for me when you walk into a room. And no one else hears it. Just me. You said you don’t know how to trust this. Or me. Or yourself. And that’s okay. I’ll be here while you figure it out. I’ll wait. I’ll keep seeing you. Really seeing you. Not just as something beautiful—but as something irreplaceable. You’ve always been more than enough. You don’t even have to try.”  You didn’t say anything. Didn’t kiss him. Didn’t touch him. But you looked at him—really looked. And for the first time, you didn’t flinch from how he looked back. Like you were the only girl in the world. Like he’d known it forever.

You stayed in the Astronomy Tower longer than expected.

After his confession, after the way James bared his heart like he didn’t care how much of a fool he looked, silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was soft. Like a blanket you could crawl under, finally warm.

He glanced at you sideways, still hesitant—still unsure if that emotional striptease had been enough. Then came his voice, a little hoarse, a little vulnerable.

“What can I do to make this right? For you to give us a chance?”

And you tilted your head slowly toward him, a deceptively sweet smile curving your lips. The kind that meant you were about to be a menace.

“Admit, publicly, that Severus Snape is better than you.” James choked. Literally. The boy went pale, like you’d asked him to snog Filch or shave his head bald.

“Come again?” You leaned closer, innocently batting your lashes. “Louder this time. So the whole school can hear.”

“Oh hell no.” His voice cracked into a squeak. He looked genuinely betrayed, like you’d just kicked his Firebolt and insulted his mum.

You only shrugged, still grinning, and didn’t say another word. He stared at you like you had just announced your plan to marry a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But the challenge had been issued—and he’d heard it loud and clear.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Next morning at breakfast.

The Gryffindor table was as loud as ever—toast flying, owls dropping packages, Sirius balancing arguing with Lily over something. . Normal chaos. Until James Potter stood up.

The entire table paused mid-chew, forks halfway to mouths. Even the Hufflepuffs looked over. He cleared his throat and announced, very seriously:

“I, James Fleamont Potter, publicly declare that Severus Snape is a better wizard than me.”

Audible gasps. One girl dropped her pumpkin juice. But James wasn’t done. No—he sold it.

“In every way. His hair is shinier. His spells are stronger. He... he has depth.” He sounded like he was reading his own eulogy. Like each word carved a new piece out of his pride. His soul practically levitated out of his body in protest.

Across the hall, Sirius dropped his toast, jaw hanging open. “You traitor! You swore an oath—” Remus spat out his tea. Peter was half-under the table from laughter.

And you? You were just standing there, arms folded, laughing. That laugh—the one James always secretly adored. The one that made him feel like he'd done something right in the world. Because it wasn’t about Snape. Not really.

It was about being seen. Not as a second choice. Not as the invisible one. For once, you were standing there, centre of attention, without shame. Finally being seen by the right person. Maybe you didn’t feel this years ago because fate had a sick sense of humor. Because it was waiting for James to grow the fuck up. And maybe, just maybe... it was worth the wait.

He came toward you, face beet-red, Sirius hissing “traitor” in the background. He stopped right in front of you, running a hand through his already tragic hair. You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed his cheek. It was quick. But it was everything. James froze. Red. Redder. Red as a goddamn Gryffindor tie. Hell, you were surprised he didn’t combust.

And for a moment, all the noise in the Great Hall vanished. Because maybe you weren’t “pretty” in the textbook sense—maybe your skirt wasn’t perfectly pressed, maybe your eyeliner smudged at the corners, and maybe your laugh was too loud, too sharp.

But fuck beauty standards.

You were hot. You were confident. You were yours. And James Potter?He was a dumbass. But he was your dumbass now.

[screamlet]

Don't mind if I do! ♟♟♟

oh boy why did this one take so long!! 1k, established bucktommy, bad patient tommy, quick mention of mcd. set about a year after 8x15. also for @setmeatopthepyre who sent in the same prompt! for all that they're disasters, idk if i have another "patching up a wound" in me, lol. from the nonsexual acts of intimacy prompt list

---

"So this is urgent care," Buck marvels. He leans into Tommy's space and smiles at him. "You always take me to the best places for the best new experiences."

Tommy's expression is withering, or it would be if Buck wasn't so brave and strong and in love. But then again, Tommy's the one who sliced his arm open while working on a car in the garage, so maybe he has the right to be a little cranky about it.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Buck asks. "Does that mean anything? Are you actually gonna tell me if you're in a lot of pain or—okay, jaw-clenched stoicism, I got it."

"It's fine. I don't know why you thought it was too deep for surgical glue."

Buck frowns. "It's way too deep for surgical glue." Suddenly, he beams. "Are you scared of doctors?"

"I'm not scared of doctors."

"I'm gonna ask Hen, maybe she remembers if you are."

"I'm not scared of doctors."

"Hey Hen random question but we're at urgent care and Tommy looks—"

"Maybe I'm uptight because I sliced my arm open and we're at urgent care." Tommy looks over. "You're not actually texting her, are you?"

"Nah, she and Karen took the kids on a day trip somewhere," Buck replies. "Just you and me today."

"No medical vigil for me? I see how it is."

Buck laughs, loud and bright with his whole chest. "I can FaceTime Eddie and see if he wants to hang out with us while you get like, maximum 10 stitches in your arm."

"You're making fun of me. I'm gonna have a scar on my forearm forever and you're making fun of me."

"I'm looking up scar gels," Buck assures him. "Ooh, that's us."

---

"15 stitches," Buck says. "See? I was close."

Tommy's eyes are shut as he nods. "Congrats. Use my phone, buy yourself something pretty."

"Can we get burgers after this? Hey," Buck says, softer. "You're not okay, are you? You can tell me."

Tommy takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out. "I'm fine. I'll be a lot better when I'm stitched up and home. It's fine."

They move into a different room with a bigger setup, trays ready to go and Dr. Donna cheerfully waving them over. "I can sit with him, right?" Buck asks, holding up their joined hands.

"Of course, bring all the moral support in the world," she replies. "Never too old or brave or big strong firefighter to have your hand held while someone sews you up."

"It's fine," Tommy says, absolutely not fine. "I've had staples in the field, I've been sewed up in tents in Afghanistan. This? This is nothing."

Tommy's clutching his hand so tightly that Buck can't actually squeeze back, so he rests his free hand on Tommy's instead. "Can you distract me?" Tommy asks. "Now's a great time to read me like, the entirety of an essay on… something. What are you into right now?"

"Can I look up the history of surgery?"

"A couple of little pinches, just ignore me," Dr. Donna says quickly. "Hey, why don't you tell me how you guys met? Got together?"

Buck leans forward to catch Dr. Donna's eye, which he can't do because she's working on Tommy's arm and whispering to the nurse next to her. "Uh, we can't tell you, actually. It's classified."

"Cruise ship rescue operation," Tommy says through clenched teeth. "Lifeboats, remember?"

"Oh, right, that's what they said."

Tommy huffs out a little laugh, squeezes Buck's hand tighter. "You'll never get security clearance for anything in your life, not ever."

"Yeah, probably not. How about, um. Hmm. Oh! Got together. The first time, I sprained my best friend's ankle because I was jealous, and then we kissed and it was great. The next time, we ran into each other at a bar and hooked up, and then we got back together—" Buck pauses.

"You okay?" Tommy asks.

"It's okay," Buck says. "Second time, we kinda did and didn't get back together, uh, after my captain at the firehouse—he was closer to me than my dad—uh, he died, and we just… got back together."

"I'm sorry, hon," Dr. Donna replies. "That's never easy."

"We both lost him," Buck says. "Yeah, so we were putting our lives back together and then it turned out that my sublet—I was subletting a house from my friend who moved back to Texas, the one whose ankle I sprained—well he didn't mention that the rest of the lease was only four months."

"You didn't read the lease."

"He's my best friend, we don't need leases."

"Clearly, you did."

"I don't have a lease from you. Do we need a lease?"

"Not if I'm evicting you today," Tommy replies.

"Yeah, nice try, who's gonna talk to your plants when you're on shift? And your kitchen would be nothing without me, Tommy."

"I guess that's true. I'd have to buy all those spices again and god knows how long that would take."

Buck smiles to himself; Tommy's feeling better already. "Anyway, the lease was up but I didn't know if I wanted to renew because the landlord wanted to jack up the rent by a lot, so Tommy—"

"I came to the conclusion that we were already living together, pretty much, so why not move into my house—"

"House that you own, with a really nice kitchen that could use all my pots and pans. Dishes, too, it's like you never had anyone over."

"My house that I own, and then—" Tommy sighs. "And then I'll see him every day. And every day he'll talk my ear off about anything and everything under the sun, except today—"

"You're all set," Dr. Donna announces. "That was agonizing, huh?"

Tommy looks down at his forearm, then shows Buck. "Staples would have been fine."

"You would have hated those so much more, believe me," she laughs. "Alright, Shirley's going to get your paperwork and then you can get out of here. Follow up with your primary care doctor or come back here. If it starts to take a turn for the worse: I think you know who to call." She smiles and points at both of them. "Burgers. Treat yourself. Extra carbs."

"Are they good for healing? Carbs?" Buck asks.

She shrugs and waves, then leaves again. "I'm gonna look that up," Buck says. "Can I have my hand back?"

"No."

"Big baby," Buck mumbles, bringing Tommy's hand to his lips and kissing it. "I love your big baby parts."

"That's maybe the worst way you could have put it."

"But you love me anyway."

Tommy's lips are a fine line again, slightly turned downward, but then he brings Buck's hand to his lips, too. "I love you anyway."

[too-much-toulouse]

ok so i decided to do a bit of reading because often times the way different cultures bury their dead is really interesting (Christianity and the denominations kind of form their own cultures to be fair so)

the first coffin (the one with the body) is made of cypress wood. the wood is a reminder that the pope is also human, just like you and I. in this coffin lay three bags also---one with copper, another with silver, and the last with gold.

the second coffin is made of lead (some sources say it's just sealed with lead and it's made of zinc, but hey, just stating what I'm reading so go and check it). the royal family of the uk is also buried this way (idk about the other europeans), and the tradition has been passed down both the royal and papal line because it preserves body better. the lead coffin is also engraved with symbols, documents, and dates.

the lead coffin is placed inside a coffin made of elm wood. elm wood was/is considered a precious wood in Rome, so it was a sign of dignity and status.

"Past popes were entombed in three coffins, but Pope Francis has ordered that he be buried in a single coffin."

ok so i dont really understand this part of what i've read because while i understand symbolism and death, i have a harder time understanding documents and laws and all that stuff. but yeah, Pope Francis updated the papal funeral rights, which was published November 29, 2024. so the pope before him is the last one to be buried in three coffins---unless some future pope decides to bring the practice back.

(x, y)

i say we give it 3 days just to be sure

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Part Two ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, southern charm overload

Word Count: 2,303

Synopsis: Mark is definitely not obsessed with the new girl in school—he’s just... curious. Totally casual. Until she invites him to lunch under the big tree out front and serves up a full-on southern picnic. Between the cloth napkins and sweet tea, Mark finds himself spiraling farther into the honey-soaked abyss.

a/n: we in this y'all!!!! idk how many parts i'm gonna make for this but reader really got my ass in a mf chokehold 😭 boutta write a self insert x southern belle!reader fic LMAO jk

read part one ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

Mark walked into the cafeteria like he did every day—casual. Breezy. Totally unbothered. He was just a guy. Just a regular guy getting lunch like everybody else.

So what if he’d spent the last three hours thinking about the girl who sat next to him in biology? The one who talked like sweet tea tasted and looked like she’d stepped off the set of Gone with the Wind. That was… normal. Totally.

His eyes swept across the room as he passed the lunch line, definitely not looking for anyone in particular. Nope. Not at all. He was just… checking the place out. You know. Casually. Like a guy who did not care at all.

And yet—his gaze kept drifting. The same corners. The same tables. Maybe she left early. Maybe she wasn’t a cafeteria person. Maybe—

“So…” William’s voice cut in, eyeing him like he was trying to spot a fever. “You gonna stare into space all lunch or actually eat something?”

Mark blinked, yanked out of his spiral. “Huh? Yeah. I’m good. Totally fine.” He dropped his tray onto the table and shoved a handful of fries into his mouth like that would make it true. “Just thinking.”

“About what? The pizza?” William poked at his slice like it might bite him. “Pretty sure that thing’s been here since last semester.”

Mark gave a weak laugh, but his thoughts were already sliding back to you.

“Have you met the new girl yet?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Like his brain had just been waiting for an opening.

William furrowed his brow, then his eyes lit with recognition. “Oh, the girl from Georgia? The one in that dress? Looked like she just wandered off the battlefield at Gettysburg?”

Mark choked a little on his soda. “She’s not—okay, she’s got a style. It’s charming.”

William smirked. “She was wearing pearls dude.”

Mark didn’t even try to fight the smile spreading across his face. “I know. It was… kinda amazing. She sat next to me in biology. She called me sugar.”

William snorted, shaking his head. “Are you—actually, yeah I believe it.” He leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She would talk like a Southern Living magazine. Bet she drinks lemonade out of mason jars too.”

Mark leaned in, too excited to care. “She said something to me—I can’t remember exactly—but it was like… ‘You look sweeter than a cricket dipped in molasses on a June afternoon.’”

William blinked. “That’s… not a sentence.”

“No, no, it was something about pie. Or syrup? Maybe biscuits?” Mark frowned, trying to dig it back up. “‘Pretty as a pie cooling on the sill?’” He paused. “...That’s not right.”

William tilted his head, clearly entertained now. “You okay, man?”

Mark snapped back, blinking. “Huh?”

“I didn’t know you had a thing for southern girls.”

Mark opened his mouth to deny it. To say it wasn’t like that. That he was totally, absolutely fine. But instead, what came out was: “She gave me a butterscotch.”

William stared. Then nodded. “Oh yeah. You’re gone.”

But before Mark could sink any deeper into the warm, sugary spiral that was his brain on you, a flicker of movement outside the cafeteria windows caught his eye.

Under the biggest tree on campus—sprawling and sun-dappled like a snapshot straight off a postcard—there you were. Flowery dress. Ruffled sleeves. Lunchbox open beside you like something out of a 1950s Coca-Cola ad.

And then, like it was choreographed by fate itself—you looked up.

Right at him.

Mark froze. You smiled, your whole face lighting up like you’d been hoping he’d be look your way. Then you gave a little wave, the kind that made his stomach do cartwheels.

His first instinct was to look behind him. Surely you weren’t—wait. You were pointing. At him. Then you lifted your lunchbox slightly, tilted your head, and gave a beckoning little gesture, like Well, come on over, sugar.

Mark didn’t even feel himself move. His body had apparently filed for independence from his brain. One second he was at the table, the next he was halfway to the door.

“Dude,” William called after him. “You haven’t even finished your—”

Too late. He was already floating out the door like a cartoon character, drawn by the siren call of sweet tea, sunshine, and maybe—just maybe—a second butterscotch.

Mark tried to play it cool as he walked across the lawn. He really did.

He slowed his steps. Smoothed his sweater. Tried to remember how arms were supposed to move when walking like a normal person and not a malfunctioning robot. Unfortunately, none of it mattered, because the moment you looked up at him with that sweet, sunshiney smile—he short-circuited all over again.

“Well, hey there, darlin’,” you said, tucking a curl behind your ear. “You looked awfully lonely in that big ol’ cafeteria. Thought maybe you’d come keep me company.”

I will keep you company every day. I will build you a porch swing. I will learn how to make sweet tea from scratch. I will fight a bear for you. Just say the word.

Out loud, he managed: “Uh… sure. Yeah. That’d be cool.”

But as he got closer, he noticed something that almost made him trip.

You hadn’t just plopped down on the grass with a brown bag like everyone else. No—oh no. You had laid out a whole blanket. A soft yellow one, perfectly smoothed out beneath you like you were about to host a garden party and not just eat lunch behind the gym. There were napkins—cloth. A pastel plaid lunchbox. Was that… a tiny jar of honey?

Mark’s brain short-circuited again.

“You brought… a picnic?” he asked, voice caught somewhere between awe and confusion.

You just smiled and patted the spot beside you with one perfectly manicured hand. “Of course I did, sugar. What kind of lady eats her lunch sittin’ in the dirt like a possum?”

He sat slowly, like if he moved too fast you might vanish in a puff of lavender and lemon bars.

“I, uh… I usually just grab fries and call it a day,” he admitted.

“Well, that simply won’t do,” you said, already pulling out what looked like an entire home-cooked meal from your lunchbox. “I brought extra.”

Mark tried not to stare. There was a thermos. Cornbread. A spoon wrapped in a cloth napkin embroidered with your initials. The world around him went fuzzy.

“You, uh… pack lunch every day?” he asked, dazed.

“Mmmhmm,” you hummed, unscrewing the thermos lid. “Can’t rightly trust these cafeteria folks with my grits.”

Mark blinked. “Wait, you have grits in there?”

“Cheddar bacon,” you said with a proud little grin. “Made ’em this mornin’. Threw in just a pinch of hot sauce, too—don’t worry, not enough to make your ears ring.”

“You made these? Before school??”

You shrugged like it was nothing. “Sure did. Even had time to iron my skirt while the biscuits were browning.”

Mark stared. You offered him a spoonful of grits like you were handing him a sacred gift. He accepted it like one.

“Okay, uh, full disclosure, I don’t think I’ve ever actually had grits before,” he said.

You gasped, genuinely scandalized. “Never had grits? Oh, sugar, that’s a sin in some counties. Go on now—first bite’s the best.”

He took a bite. And stopped.

He blinked. Looked down. Looked back up at you.

“…This is stupid good,” he mumbled through a mouthful. “Like—I think I saw God for a second.”

You beamed. “Aren’t you sweet? They came out alright, I s’pose. Didn’t have time to melt a pat of butter on top.”

Mark laughed. “No, seriously. You’re like… a magician. Even without the butter.”

You leaned back on your elbows, pearls catching the sunlight. “And you,” you said with a wink, “are sweeter than my meemaw’s tea.”

Mark was absolutely, positively, entirely gone.

And just when he thought he couldn’t sink deeper—

“Oh!” you chirped, reaching back into your lunchbox. “Almost forgot dessert.”

Mark blinked. “There’s dessert?”

You unwrapped a tiny square of wax paper like it was gold, revealing a perfectly round, homemade pecan pie. An actual pie. At high school.

“I made a whole batch last night,” you said like it was nothing. “Wanted to bring one in case I made a new friend today.”

Mark stared at the pie. Then you. Then the pie again.

He almost said I love you out loud. Swallowed it back down with a wheeze. Accepted the pie like the precious relic it was.

It was flaky. Warm. Sweet. Perfect.

He let out a low, involuntary noise of appreciation. “Oh my god. That’s insane. How are you real?”

You just smiled sweetly, wiping a crumb off your skirt. “It’s just a little family recipe, s’all. Nothing special.”

Mark stared at you. No. It absolutely was something special. You were something special. The picnic blanket. The pearl necklace. The handmade pie. The fact that you didn’t even notice the effect you had on people—that you didn’t seem to realize you were currently starring in a very real, very serious romantic comedy happening exclusively inside his head.

And then you looked out across the lawn, something wistful in your eyes.

“This place is real different from where I grew up,” you said softly.

Mark blinked, the last bite of pie halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Mmmhmm,” you nodded, brushing your hands together to shake off some crumbs. “Back home, you can’t go ten minutes without runnin’ into somebody you know. My whole high school was the size of y’all’s lunchroom.”

Mark smiled, resting his chin on his hand like a lovesick golden retriever. “What was it like?”

You didn’t even notice the way he was looking at you. You were already off and ramblin’, voice all soft and syrupy and full of color.

“Well, let’s see… mornings usually started with the rooster two houses over gettin’ real full of himself. Mama always made sweet tea first thing—even before coffee—and you better believe if you didn’t say ‘good mornin’’ to every person you passed, someone’s auntie was gonna hear about it before you got home.”

Mark let out a soft laugh, totally enchanted.

“Church on Sundays, of course. Even if you didn’t believe in a lick of it, you showed up dressed to the nines and brought a pie so nobody asked too many questions. Summer nights were all lightning bugs and cicadas. And the air always smelled like grass and honeysuckle and heat.”

Mark smiled. “Heat has a smell?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, nodding like it was a universal truth. “Smells like pavement and freedom and the inside of your daddy’s truck after he’s been workin’ all day.” You laughed softly at yourself, brushing a curl back from your face. “Sorry, I’m ramblin’.”

“No—no, don’t stop,” Mark said quickly, leaning in without realizing it. “Seriously, I could listen to you talk forever.”

You smiled, a little bashful. “Aren’t you just the sweetest…”

But before you could say anything else—

BRRRRRRRRRRRRING.

The lunch bell screamed through the courtyard like it was personally out to ruin Mark’s life.

Mark flinched like he’d just been shot. “No. Noooooo,” he whispered under his breath, staring at the speaker mounted on the side of the building like it had committed a heinous crime against him personally.

You barely looked up, already starting to close your lunchbox with a frown. “Oh, I know, right?” you said, like he’d just commented on the weather. “Lunch period is way longer back home—forty-five minutes, sometimes an hour if the buses were runnin’ late. I mean, honestly, how’s a person supposed to eat a proper meal in thirty minutes? It’s barbaric.”

Mark blinked at you, utterly speechless. You were out here making actual points while he was two seconds away from flying up and ripping the school’s PA system out of the wall with his bare hands.

You just shook your head and sighed dramatically. “No time to digest, no time to gossip… and Lord knows I don’t rush when there’s pie involved.”

He stared. Absolutely down horrendous.

You crouched to fold up your picnic blanket with practiced grace, not a single crumb or wrinkle out of place. It was like witnessing the southern belle version of a superhero packing up her gear.

Mark watched you, stunned. You weren’t just charming—you were a menace. A dainty, smiling, cornbread-wielding menace.

You stood, tucking the blanket into your tote with care, and gave him that signature, sunshiney smile like you hadn’t just turned his entire world upside down.

“S’pose I’ll see you tomorrow, darlin’,” you said sweetly, adjusting the strap of your lunchbox like you were heading off to a garden party instead of sixth period. “Thanks for keepin’ me company.”

Mark just nodded, completely useless, mouth opening like he had something to say—anything—but nope. Nothing. Brain? Offline. Vocabulary? Deleted. All that came out was a vague, helpless little “Yeah.”

And with that, you turned and strolled across the grass, curls bouncing, the scent of peach preserves still lingering in the air behind you like a spell.

Mark stood there for a solid five seconds, staring at the spot where you’d been like he’d just watched the sun walk away from him.

Then he looked down at the almost empty pie tin in his hands. Looked up at the bell speaker. Back at the grass.

“…I’m gonna marry that girl,” he whispered, stunned.

He was so far gone, he didn’t even hear William walk up behind him.

“You gonna finish that, or just keep whispering to it like a weirdo?”

Mark jolted, clutching the tin protectively. “Get your own.”

[formulaonecrumbs]

maybe a weird requests but would you be comfortable writing reader convincing lando to let her use a strap on on him, and him bottoming for her for the first time... 👀

his first time

Lando Norris x softdom!reader

summary: lando lets you take control for the first time, trusting you completely

warnings: smut (18+), strap-on use, pegging, bottom!lando, dom!reader, first time, praise

A/N: thank u anon for the request!!! this is my first time writing PROPER smut. keep both hands on the screen 😑🫵 don’t worry i’m not uncomfortable, i’ll honestly write anything. i just get hesitant writing smut because i feel like i don’t write it well. reminder: i’m a virgin. i have no clue what i’m writing about because i’ve never done it. also this is pegging right (i’m not this innocent but this shit is confusing me)? can a guy get pegged in missionary while on his back? IDK but i wrote it that way so y’all will have to live with that image. i mostly only know anything about lesbian sex 🤷‍♀️ i hope u enjoy it anyways, regardless of my lack of knowledge on sex. love uuuuu ❤️

p.s. no moodboard cause i couldn’t find the right pics for it

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

you’d talked about it before—soft, tentative conversations that started as jokes and turned into curious glances, heat blooming between you both. the idea of it lingered, never pushed, never pressured. but tonight, it hangs in the air differently. heavier. more real.

lando’s lying back on the bed, freshly showered, the skin of his stomach still damp and warm under your palms as you straddle his hips. there’s nervousness in his eyes, but not fear—more like anticipation, a quiet kind of trust that makes your chest ache with how much you love him.

“we can stop if you don’t like it,” you whisper, fingers tracing gentle patterns up his sides. “the second you want to stop, you just tell me.”

he nods, licking his lips. “i know. i want to try. with you.”

his voice is soft, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that makes you want to kiss him until he forgets how to breathe.

you lean down, lips brushing against his jaw. “you’re gonna be so good for me, baby.”

lando shudders under you, his hands gripping the sheets like he doesn’t trust them to stay steady if they touch you. you kiss down his neck, slow and warm, dragging your tongue along his collarbone. your hand slips between his thighs, cupping him through the soft fabric of his briefs, and he moans—quiet and high-pitched, his hips twitching up into your touch.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you make me feel so—”

“i know,” you say, slipping his briefs down slowly, baring him inch by inch. “let me take care of you tonight.”

his whole body flushes at that—he’s already hard, already aching for it, and you haven’t even touched him properly yet. you take your time, letting him feel every second of your mouth on his skin, your hands guiding him through every shift and change. he watches you the whole time—eyes wide, lips parted, like he’s seeing something sacred.

when you finally press a kiss to the inside of his thigh and move to grab the toy, he exhales like he’s been holding it in all day. he watches you put the strap on, watches how natural and confident you are in it, and you swear you see awe flicker in his eyes.

“ready?” you ask, settling between his legs again, one hand stroking up his side.

lando nods. “yeah. just—go slow?”

“of course, baby.”

you prep him carefully, fingers slick with lube, coaxing him open with soft praise and kisses. he’s breathless and flushed, his head thrown back into the pillows as you work him open, and the sounds he makes—fuck, they’re beautiful. every gasp, every stuttered breath, every little moan when you hit the right spot.

by the time you finally slide inside, it’s like the world stills.

lando lets out a broken moan, hips trembling, hands reaching out blindly for you. you catch them, lace your fingers with his and hold tight.

“you’re doing so good,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “look at you, taking me so well.”

he whines—actually whines—and your whole body lights up.

you move slow, letting him adjust, watching his face for every flicker of discomfort or pleasure. and when he starts to rock his hips into yours, chasing the friction, you know he’s ready. you start thrusting gently, finding a rhythm that has him gasping, moaning your name like it’s the only thing he knows how to say.

“fuck—please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice wrecked. “feels so good, i—fuck—please.”

you lean down, kiss him hard, deep, messy. “you’re mine like this, lando. you know that?”

he nods desperately, thighs trembling around your waist. “yours. all yours.”

you reach down, wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him in time with your thrusts, and he unravels—completely. his back arches off the bed, head thrown back, a long moan spilling from his lips as he comes, shaking under you, breathless and wrecked.

you slow down, easing out gently, kissing his chest, his neck, his cheeks. he’s flushed and beautiful, dazed in the way that only comes from being completely, utterly ruined.

“you okay?” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

he nods, smiling so softly it makes your heart ache. “more than okay.”

you curl up beside him, his arms pulling you close like he never wants to let go.

“you liked it?” you ask, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“i loved it,” he breathes. “love you.”

you grin against his skin. “love you too, baby.”

and in that soft, breathless silence after, with your body pressed close to his and your name still trembling on his lips, you know he meant every word.

THE END :>

[bunnwich]

Same anon about the Leona bf Hcs....I'm also curious, do you have any ICKS when it comes to how people portray Leona romantically? plspls, I wanna get controversial.

My Leona Boyfriend HC Icks

(This is subjective, but you asked! Idk why I wanted to answer this ask before your other one… I guess I felt some type of way. It's a bit more ranty/bitchy so be forewarned. I’ve been in the fandom since the ENG release, so I've seen a lot of stuff that personally icks me. Dw I’ll get to your other ask!!)

Btw, I know some ppl won't like some of these opinions, but it's just my personal preferences at the end of the day! Friendly reminder: I am not the authority on Leona Kingscholar nor do I claim to be!!!

STINKY (But not metaphorically)

Why? He is an athlete and a prince? All the athletes I know bathe MORE than other ppl bc they get sweaty.  Besides…we all have bad hygiene when we aren't doing well mentally? So, this HC at best is just gross, and at WORST is offensive.  Also, just a question for ppl who do STILL this: Why would you WANT him to stink??? I never understood this mindset, even if he WAS that lazy. I simply wouldn’t wanna HC that he stinks. I love myself. GFBHNJM (Idia seems to get this stinky boy treatment too WHYY??? Sorry, I choose to believe my man smells good.)

HERBIVORE. (The H-Word)

I think where people lose me fast in Leona fics is hitting me over the head with the word “herbivore.” Honestly…he doesn't use the word as much as people think?? And I don’t think he would call his S/O at all. I find it mean? Because of the Japanese context of this word, and just the literal meaning. I think of it as more akin to the word “whimp” or “weakling.” It's not…cute to me? He doesn’t even use it for the MC later in the game as much. So, unless you're a lion beastman or fellow carnivore, I’d expect prey nicknames. Kitten, mouse, bird, bunny, etc. He even likens the MC to a “kitten” in a few voicelines. Just makes more sense to me, idk. Think of the silly nicknames he has for the canon cast. That or you know…he’d just use your name.

BRUTE BOYFRIEND

He's rude, sure. But no…Leona is NOT beating anyone up for looking/flirting with you. Would he be annoyed, maybe even secretly furious? Sure. But, he's not a “brute strength" kinda guy who uses his fists. (It’s almost like it's his main battle line!) If someone truly hurt you or did something off-color, he’d probably send someone else to do the dirty work to intimidate or deal with them.  In a real fight, OFC he'd defend you, but fighting cause some guy winked at you? NO. I don’t personally believe so. He’s a grown man with high intelligence, so I think high school like beef would be a bit beneath him?? At least he'd have one of his goons go do it.

ALOOF BOYFRIEND

I think where a lot of ppl lose me is the “aloof/stoic” bf thing.  No doubt he would keep his distance at the first instance of catching feelings because he doesn't wanna be hurt. At first, he’s only batting at you to gauge how you feel for him. But if he becomes seriously interested, and then you begin dating, I just don’t believe he would care what other people think. Or try to downplay your relationship. He’d wait for you to make the first real move, sure…but YOU’D KNOW. I just think about how he acted toward Sally in the last Halloween event and how he was almost “uncharacteristically” sweet to her. I think because Leona isn't super close to anyone in NRC—beyond a few of his frosh or respect-based relationships (like he has with Vil), we don’t see this side of him often, and so it comes as a shock.  Without spoiling anything, let’s just say…he was VERY unbothered at everyone's reaction to his soft side. He was focused on Sally and being nice to her. And if we apply this to “bf status Leona,” I think he’d be too focused on YOU to worry about what other ppl think of him. I’ve been preaching for years that this part of him always existed, and that now he just chooses who sees it. He saves his softness for very specific people he deems worthy of his time. Period. You’ll have to play a bit of a game to get on his good side, but like the motto of Savanaclaw: PERSISTENTLY proving to Leona that you care for him despite his flaws, he’ll come around. And when you're together, well- (I'll save that for the other ask) Especially if you are in an established relationship. He clearly thinks the world of you. He doesn’t have many close relationships, so you think he’s wasting his time with someone he wouldn’t even bother to be nice to??? Besides, Leona later in the main story becomes quite self-aware of his inability to reach out to others, despite craving affection desperately. He knows it's his blind spot, SO he's putting effort into being a good bf to you!

HE'S 20 (45)

To further my above point, I think people forget he is a few years older than even the other 3 years, and…was raised by an old man? I think when ppl write him with low emotional maturity...it loses me. I get it, he's a brat. And often he CHOOSES to act like a petulant prince when it suits him. But, I think deep down esp in more serious situations, we’ve seen that he's wise, calm, and level-headed. Just some nuance, please.

“USING YOU AS A PILLOW”

Napping/cuddling together is no doubt one of the nicest things you can do with a partner. And I’ve even implemented this kinda thing in my writing. HOWEVER, there is a certain flavor of this I dislike. Esp when it’s “forced” on the reader/OC. Sometimes I find this is ALL ppl write about him in those HC posts, esp ones that aren’t Leona focused. That or “Leona dragging you off to be his pillow.”  (A bit of my life is taken every time I read this sentence now…) I know there are new folks coming into the fandom who may repeat old tropes, and that's fine! But, I STILL see this from people who have been here for yearssssssss. It's just cliche to me. I do believe he's a cuddly guy, EXTREMELY SO. It's just that specific phrase that icks me. Maybe it’s the implication that he does it against your will and is aggressive about it?? Just, no thanks.

"I CAN FIX HIM”

Okay maybe now we’re getting into the more controversial ones?? I think the idea of “tru wuv” fixing someone’s flaws is just unappealing as a concept to me and completely against what I think love is about. The “dragging him to class”, “making him dress up more,” or “forcing him to get along with his family” is not something I think he’d put up with. He’s grown, he's extremely stubborn, he knows he’s failing school. He doesn't need another person to nag him! Ruggie already does that! Plus, family relations are complicated. Idk…if someone I started dating tried to get me to talk with a family member who I felt genuinely hurt/neglected me, I’d be annoyed af??   I think he would find it all patronizing coming from a romantic partner. It's one thing if he chooses to be better himself or for his mental health to improve gradually, but forcing things on him and “nagging” him constantly about his behavior at school and at home is just what his family does so- He's flawed, VERY MUCH SO. But, I think when it comes to relationships…everyone has flaws they deal with easier in a partner than others. Like you can maybe deal better with someone being socially awkward, but can't stand your S/O having a messy room. Like if your “hard nos” are lazy people, your S/O dressing “sloppy,” or someone who can be petty and rude to others- Well, you get my point.  It's like....if you hate playing video games and wanna ship with Idia. My question is why?? I’m genuinely curious why you even like this character in the first place?? Hot take, (I guess) this is the reason I don't really ship LeoVil. It just rubs me the wrong way how it turns Leona into a “fix me” project thing. And not to mention how Vil talks to Leona canonically in a demeaning way. (I love you Vil, but you’re wrong.) Leona needs a kick in the ass for sure, all the twst boys do, but personally when a fic/ship leans too heavy on the dynamic of “I can fix/change him” it turns me off. As someone who's been in a long-term relationship… if your day-to-day lifestyles don’t align when living together…ya’ll are gonna be at each other's throats over the small stuff. That’s just how it works irl. And...I understand if everyone doesn't want to apply this logic to fictional ships.  I just personally am not fond of this dynamic. And with Leona being a beastman AND a POC, it often feels like a loaded trope to apply to him.

DISPOSABLE LION BOYFRIEND

Last one! (Maybe most controversial idk) I just think Leona is not good at being a romance rival, (assuming we're not talking about poly situation) despite him being competitive. While ofc I think it's possible for an MC or OC to have multiple crushes and things, I think Leona is someone who wouldn’t handle this well? Like, if Leona feels like he’s gotta compete for scraps of your attention, at a certain point...I'd think he’d just give up, or at least give you your space to come to him. He’s had to compete for attention his whole life, and I feel like he's too emotionally mature and ego-driven to put up with these kinds of games for too long? I DO think it's interesting to explore the dynamic of having multiple love interests!! I even do it for a lil drama! But…in gen I don’t prefer when it feels like Leona is just there to be the "the disposable love interest" considering all of his insecurities of being second. Honestly, in that case, I can see him giving an ultimatum? He's a grown man among...mostly teens, I PERSONALLY just can't see him being a love rival with a child. FGHJK

Anyways, I could go one. that's all I can think of for now!

AGAIN I WANNA STRESS THAT THESE ARE MY ICKS. And if you don’t agree or do any of these, that's okay! Everyone can play dolls how they choose, I’m not the HC or character police. ✌️✌️✌️

[chronic-conjuring]

When I worked at a smoke shop I had a few regulars who ride their motorcycles pretty frequently or as a hobby and one day my coworkers and I noticed one of them hadn’t come in for a while. Real nice guy, always super friendly. We got a bit concerned but like, what can ya do? He was a regular, not our friend, so we had no choice but to wait and see if he ever came back in or if someone else in town knew him.

Well, he did come back in eventually. On crutches and limping tho :/ Dude had gotten in a pretty bad accident while on his motorcycle. Ended up basically getting punted by one of those giant fuck off trucks no one needs. Only reason he survived was because he was wearing full leather protective gear and a solid helmet. I think he broke and bruised a good few ribs, messed up his leg and hip pretty bad and his face and head still got all cut up from it despite the helmet. All in all, it coulda been MUCH worse if he wasn’t being responsible and wearing the right gear. But it was still scary considering he said he didn’t remember what happened, just that he turned down the street and then woke up on the ground/ in the ambulance kinda situation.

Anyways, all this to say: motorcycles are really fun and cool but they always come with a high risk and you gotta be ready to invest a lot of money into protective gear if you want to actually be as safe as possible about it. You’re very exposed on the road, and small in comparison to most other vehicles, and certain things are more important to look out for like grass on the roads. People spraying their lawn clippings out on the road is a real danger for motorcyclists, btw, it might as well be an ice patch for them from what I’ve been told. So,, yeah ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Idk what the point of this was other than just like, emphasizing the points here, but here you go anyways

Gosh I wish motorcycles weren’t death machines they look so fun

[pinkgibbon]

I'm actually soo embarrassed to post this cause idk the first thing about Starlight Express. But I listened to the cast recordings and the characters sounded fun so I wanted to draw what I think they might look like. I saw a few costume photos while researching the show but other than that I wanted to see what I could come up with on my own before I dive any deeper. The last one is Pearl, hope the others are self explanatory. So sorry if I'm like completely off base on these haha, I've never had to anthropomorphize a train before.

YappingDesign notes under cut:

-I actually can't stand Greaseball and making her a butch woman was the only way I’d get myself interested just barely enough to draw her once. Sadly drawing her has created a positive feedback loop which has made me like her. So that backfired.

-Her outfit is nonsense, I took football padding and stapled train parts (Union Pacific's DDA40X) and Elvis shit onto it. I just wanted to put her in something other than a t-shirt for now.

-For CB I kinda wanted to make him look like a trucker but also very cutesy; still trying to strike the correct balance there. I put his handbrake on his chest bc I think it could potentially be a funny visual. Headset for communication (I think those r actually his ears, I just wanted to make them look like headphones. I really should give him a hat...). (Btw I love CB slang so this guy was an instant favorite also I love how he's insane)

-Pearl is blue bc her name is Pearl which reminds me of the sea :) She has window panels on her top. Idk if she should be so robotic since she's not an engine, but since she's new and shiny I wanted her to look futuristic. Also why I gave her a bit of a retro-futurist vibe. Plus a racing suit just for funsies.

-Wanted to give her a girl-next-door vibe cause she's still trying to figure out who she is, but I think she should have a goth phase or something soon.

Okay yay I can go look at costume photos and fanart now. I will come back more educated soon.

[cameronsbabydoll]

hii’ i dont know what au this would be for or whatever but could you write something about a reader who doesnt cry? like she sees it a weakness but then oneday shes struggling to hold it in?? idk..w/ rafe tho please:)

rafe with a reader who doesn’t cry!

warnings: crying & reader sees crying as sort of a weakness

wc: 442 — a/n: hopefully this fits your request !!

you don’t cry.

that’s always been your rule. a silent promise to yourself, born from a lifetime of watching other people fall apart—your mother in the kitchen, tears sliding down her face while the roast burned in the oven, your friends behind closed bedroom doors, crying over boys who never called back.

you always thought it looked like weakness. like giving something away for free.

so when things get hard, you shut down. you go quiet. you smile politely. you nod and keep moving.

and rafe knows that about you.

he teases you sometimes—calls you robot, stone-cold, heartless, always with a grin, always with that teasing lilt in his voice. but deep down, he gets it. he’s not much of a crier either. he just breaks things instead.

but tonight is different.

he finds you in the kitchen, standing still, staring at the counter like you’ve forgotten why you walked in there. the kettle’s whistling, the light above the stove flickers a little, and you’re holding onto the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles are white.

“hey,” he says, stepping in slower than usual. “you okay?”

you nod too quickly. the kind of nod that’s rehearsed. the kind that’s meant to shut someone up, not convince them.

“baby.”

your lips press together. you still don’t look at him.

he walks up behind you, quiet, and rests a hand on your waist. not rough, not teasing. just there. warm. solid.

“talk to me.”

you shake your head, but your chest rises too fast, and he feels it before you do—how your body tenses, how your shoulders curl in.

and then your breath hitches.

it’s so quiet, he almost misses it. just a tiny little sound, barely even real. but he knows you. he knows you. and he knows that sound means something’s slipping.

“you’re gonna cry,” he says softly.

“no, i-i’m not,” you snap, but your voice cracks on the last word, and that’s it. that’s all it takes. his arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you back into him as the tears finally push forward.

you don’t sob. you don’t collapse. you just breathe hard through it, fast and panicked, like you’re angry at yourself for letting it happen.

and rafe doesn’t say anything about it. he doesn’t tease you. doesn’t call you soft. he just holds you there, chest to your back, hand covering your stomach like he’s trying to hold everything in for you.

“i hate this,” you whisper.

“i know,” he says. “but you don’t have to do it alone.”

you don’t answer. but you lean back into him just a little.

and for rafe, that’s enough.