#or else he will be left with nothing at all like always

[mattrempeswife]

IN EVERY GENTLE WAY

pair: quinn hughes x f!reader

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, drama, domestic.

warnings: jealousy, disrespectful comments toward c-section delivery, brief mention of breastfeeding/milk clot pain, emotional vulnerability, but ends with comfort and love.

summary: on your first trip back home as a family of three, quinn is nervous but devoted, doing everything to protect you and finn. tension arises when a childhood friend makes a cruel comment about your c-section, bringing out a rare side of quinn. later, when a painful milk clot hits you unexpectedly, quinn reminds you once again that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for the two of you.

fia’s notes: once again, this little fic can totally be read as a standalone, no pressure to read anything before it! but if you have been following along, it also works as a continuation of ‘wait for me, little one.’ so basically, choose your own adventure vibes! either way, you’re getting a healthy dose of dad!quinn being soft, sweet, and so hopelessly in love with his little family. and honestly? i’ve been in the deepest dad!quinn spiral lately. like, the kind where i catch myself daydreaming about him holding a baby in one arm and a bottle in the other while looking all sleepy and shirtless. he’s just so gentle and attentive and ugh, it’s giving heart eyes all around. expect more content like this because clearly, i can’t get him out of my head.

“Quinn,”

You whispered, smoothing your fingers along the back of his hand as the car cruised down the road.

“Are you nervous?”

He glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, then at the rearview mirror where Finn sat strapped in, wide-eyed and content, his tiny fists wiggling beneath a soft blanket.

“Little bit,” he admitted.

“I don’t know why. Your family’s always been nice to me.”

You smiled, the sight of him in dad mode with his baseball cap on, one hand steady on the wheel, the other reaching over to squeeze your knee which made your chest bloom with warmth.

“I think it’s because this is the first time we’re going back with Finn.”

He nodded, expression soft.

“Exactly. I just… I want to do everything right. I know he’s only a few months old, but I want your family to see I’m taking care of you both. That I’m serious about being the kind of man you deserve.”

You reached up to touch his cheek.

“They already know that, Quinn. They love you. And so do I.”

He grinned, turning his head to kiss your fingers.

“Still doesn’t stop me from making a list of rules in my head. No strong perfumes, no passing Finn around without asking, no alcohol…”

You laughed. “The Great Hughes Rulebook.”

He laughed with you, but his eyes were still flicking back to Finn protectively.

“I mean it though. He’s tiny. I just want to keep him safe.”

By the time you arrived at your childhood home, the house was already full of guest, chatter and foods. Your mom opened the door with a squeal and immediate tears in her eyes at the sight of you, then zeroed in on Finn.

“Oh, my goodness, he’s beautiful!”

You let her hold him for a moment, after a thorough hand sanitizer session, per Quinn’s firm but gentle request and then introduced Finn to your aunts, cousins, and family friends.

It wasn’t long before Dean arrived.

Dean, the boy next door who once lent you comic books, helped you learn how to bike, and confessed his crush the summer before you left for college. You had gently, kindly said you didn’t feel the same. Since then, something bitter always brewed beneath his smiles, especially after Quinn came into your life.

You caught Quinn subtly shift closer to you when Dean entered, carrying a bottle of sparkling juice, per your no-alcohol request and that same forced, tight-lipped smirk he always gave Quinn. The tension wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but you knew your husband. You saw the small ways he shielded you by standing between Dean and you when conversation sparked, keeping Finn near.

Despite that, the evening flowed easily at first. People asked about Finn, your birth, future plans. You shared your story, how he arrived by C-section after a long labor, how brave Quinn had been in the room with you.

And then Dean, who had been quiet for most of it. spoke, tilting his head in that all-too-familiar smug way.

“Guess some people don’t push through the hard parts of motherhood, huh?”

It was a needle prick dressed as a joke, loud enough for the others at the table to go silent.

Quinn’s arm immediately stiffened against yours.

You didn’t need to look at him to know his jaw was tight. His hand found yours beneath the table.

He stood up slowly, cradling Finn who had just fallen asleep in his arms.

“You know,” Quinn said, voice calm but edged with steel.

“I’ve seen a lot of things on the ice. Broken bones. Knocked-out teeth. Guys playing with torn ligaments just to stay in the game.”

He glanced down at you before locking eyes with Dean.

“But I have never, in my life, seen anyone braver than the woman sitting next to me. She went through twenty-six hours of labor before being rushed into surgery. She let someone cut her open for our son. And I stood there, helpless, watching her bleed so that he could breathe.”

The room was completely still. Dean shrank a little.

“And you have the nerve,” Quinn said, now shifting his weight as if he needed to anchor himself, “to reduce all of that, her courage, her pain to a joke?”

His voice stayed quiet, but it hit like a punch.

“If you ever talk about my wife, mother of my child like that again,” he added.

“You won’t be invited to any room she’s in. And let’s get one thing clear, Dean, you weren’t invited to this family-and-friends-only event, so the fact that you showed up unannounced is not only out of line, it’s straight-up disrespectful.”

You reached for his hand, heart thudding at how fiercely protective he was. Quinn looked at you next and immediately softened.

He kissed your temple, then turned back to the group.

“Sorry, everyone. Just had to make that clear.”

And just like that, he sat back down, rocking Finn gently in his arms.

The rest of the night was a little quieter, a little tenser, but still filled with laughter and joy, especially when your little boy gurgled in his sleep and made your mom cry again.

Back home, your body began to ache.

It started as a dull throb in your breast, then tightened. By the time you were in bed, it was pulsing with sharp pain.

You tried to massage it gently, hoping it was nothing but the lump was firm and the ache unbearable.

“Quinn…”

You whispered, curled on your side, your voice small.

He was halfway through unpacking Finn’s diaper bag when he turned, already concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think… I think I have a milk clot.”

Quinn was at your side in seconds.

“Okay. Okay, come here, honey. Let me help.”

You were embarrassed, frustrated with the pain, with the leak that had already stained your sleep shirt, with the way the bed sheets were now damp. But Quinn didn’t even care. He helped you sit up, supporting you with one hand and grabbing a warm compress with the other.

Your breast leaked milk, and some of it got on his shirt.

“Quinn, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry, my love.”

he interrupted gently, cupping your face.

“Do you think I care about a shirt?”

He carefully eased the wet sheets off the bed, replacing them with fresh ones while you laid in the guest room for a moment. Then he returned, shirtless now, and helped you lie down again.

“Anything else I can get you?”

You shook your head, eyes glassy from the pain and exhaustion.

Quinn leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“You’re doing amazing, my love. I’ve got you.”

Once the pain had subsided and Finn was back to sleep, you rested against Quinn’s chest.

“You know,” he said softly, fingers tracing your arm,

“If I ever have to fight someone again, it’ll probably be over you.”

You chuckled tiredly. “You didn’t fight.”

“No, I did not” he agreed.

“But I wanted to. And I meant what I said. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

You turned slightly to look at him. “Even when I make a mess? Leak milk all over the bed?”

He smiled. “Especially then.”

And before you could say anything else, he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, then lower to your scar, still healing, still tender.

“That’s the mark of the day I became a dad,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing more beautiful.”

Tears slipped from your eyes. Not from pain. But from love.

From Quinn.

Always, Quinn.

[jobean12-blog]

In Your Arms

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: ~900

Summary: Bucky's been away on a mission and when he returns, you're all he wants.

Author's Note: There are NO spoilers here. Just was so happy to see Bucky and enjoyed Thunderbolts and his beefiness! Those arms...my god. 🫠🔥Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: soft sweetness, kisses, mentions of minor injuries

The silence in the room is broken only by the soft pitter patter of rain on the large window that overlooks the gray skies blanketing the city. Your book lays limp in your hand as you stare out through the mottled glass, Alpine curled in your lap, warm against your stomach.

You reach for your phone but stop yourself with a sigh. How many minutes could have passed since the last time you checked? Instead, you lift your book and open to your book-marked page, the note he left you sliding down onto Alpine’s fur. You brush your fingers over his scrawled handwriting, smiling at his little doodles and sweet words. Settling back into the couch you start to read again.

“If I didn’t need to kiss you so badly I’d stand here and stare at you forever.”

Your head shoots up and you turn toward the sound of his deep and raspy voice. He leans against the doorframe casually, still in full gear and looking deadly but for the soft smile that pulls at his lips.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

The book is discarded in seconds and much to Alpine’s displeasure you hastily remove him from your lap, walking straight toward Bucky.

“Hi.”

“Hiya doll face,” he replies, wrapping his arms around your waist and dragging you against him.

Your pulse skitters as you soak in every detail of him. Only one minor cut on his forehead and nothing else, but who knows what’s beneath his gear.

“You’re ok?”

“I am now.” His voice softens to the tone he only ever uses with you as he lowers his mouth.

He kisses you slowly and gently and you lean up to get closer, taking his stubbled cheeks between your palms. With more pressure from his lips, he slides his hand up your back, grabbing the nape of your neck and angling your face to claim more of your mouth. Your fingers slide higher and into his hair.

You feel his abs tense when you press yourself closer and you reluctantly pull back. He frowns, his eyes holding enough promise to make your entire body heat.

“Are you hurt?”

Your hands fall from his face, and you start to work open the buckles of his tack vest. He doesn’t stop you, keeping his hands settled firmly on your waist. You tug it open and rip his black shirt from his pants, lifting it until you can see his skin. There’s a large bruise just under his ribs and you dig your teeth into your bottom lip to stop your gasp, pressing your fingertips softly to the spot.

“Looks worse than it is,” he says softly.

You bend at the waist and kiss his stomach, feeling the muscles shift and flex. As you stand you grab the knife at this waist and pull it free, setting it behind him on the counter. Your hands slide behind his back, fingers curling around the hilt of a second knife that you remove and place down next to the first.

A slow, beautiful smile curves his mouth as he watches you. “Three more.”

Your fingers dance down his thighs, stopping at the hidden pocket on the left side. You carefully reach inside and pull out the third knife. Knowing there must be one in his boot you fall to your knees, your eyes lifting to meet his just in time to see them grow darker.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs.

You lift your shoulder demurely and pluck out the fourth knife in his right boot, sliding slowly back up his body.

“One more,” he whispers, running his knuckles along your cheek.

His gaze drops to your mouth, then skims over your features before his head dips and he brushes his lips to yours.

“No fair,” you whisper against them. “No distractions.”

He smiles but kisses you anyway. It’s soft and quick but still steals your breath.

You recover enough to slip your hands inside his tack vest, feeling around for the handle of the last knife. His own hands begin to wander, one cool and smooth, and the other grazing over your skin in a way that you can feel every callous he’s built from mastering the very blades you’re removing. You shiver in his arms but continue your search, a triumphant smile pulling your lips upward when you find the hidden spot near his ribs where his last knife is safely tucked away.

With practiced deftness you pull it free and set it down with the others then push his vest from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your lips part to tell him exactly what you want to remove next, but his mouth is on yours before a word gets out.

A gasp catches in your throat at the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his clothing and then again when he deepens the kiss, like doing it is more vital than his next breath. Your hands slide over his biceps, fingernails digging into the bulging muscles as his lips slip down your throat, and he whispers, “fuck, I’ve missed the taste of you…the feel of you in my arms.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

LAP IT UP

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: tweezing your boyfriend’s eyebrows is a totally valid excuse to make him come in his pants, right? warnings | an: dry-humping, power play, dom-ish reader / sub-ish hotch, hotch jizzes in his pants, hotch is a munch and a simp because it’s simply not possible for me to write anything else other than hotchypoo worshipping the ground u walk on!!!established relationship, mentions of sugar baby/daddy dynamic word count: 2.2k

✧ masterlist

“Can I do yours?” you asked, not bothering to shift the mirror as you cleaned up the stray hairs around your left brow.

There was a pause of silence, followed by the rustle of paperwork. Not nearly a sufficient response, so you gently kicked Aaron’s thigh in protest.

“Do my what?”

“Your eyebrows,” you answered, tilting your head as you inspected your reflection, trying to catch the last bit of sunlight streaming through the window. One brow was cooperating. The other looked like it had wandered off and joined a different face entirely.

“They’re not twins,” you muttered. “Barely sisters. Maybe even distant, resentful cousins.”

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. “And what exactly are you implying about mine?”

“They could use a little TLC,” you argued lightly, leaning back to look at him over the mirror in your hand. “When was the last time you did them?”

He looked up from his files, one brow lifting—ironically. “I don’t make a habit of grooming my eyebrows.”

“Yeah…I can tell.”

That earned you the famous Hotchner scowl, though it had stopped working on you several scowls ago—right around the time you realised he was all bark and no bite. Or, at least, never with you.

Without another word, you dropped the mirror onto the coffee table and swung one leg over his, settling into his lap like it was your favourite seat…because it was. He stilled beneath you, body going just a little tense, like he wasn’t entirely sure where this was heading, but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” you replied, fingers already threading through the front of his hair. You tugged just enough to guide, making sure his head tipped back against the couch cushion. “Oof. Would you look at that, Hotchner, I think you’re starting to grow a monobrow.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“She needs to go. Quickly.” You leaned in, squinting like you were about to perform life-saving surgery and plucked a hair right from the middle of his brow before he had a chance to respond.

He flinched.

“Baby,” you teased, barely bothering to hide the laugh building in your throat. “You’re fine.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Obviously. I’m in your lap, holding tweezers, and making you nervous. This is my peak.” Just as you plucked another hair, you felt his hands tighten slightly at your hips.

“Just be quick,” he muttered.

Yeah. There was just one small problem with that. Quick wasn’t in your plans tonight. Aaron might be the boss at work, but at home, it was you who got your way. Always had. And truthfully? You didn’t care all that much about his eyebrows. Or yours, for that matter.

You just really, really wanted to be in his lap.

You let the tweezers hover his face again as you pretended to search for another target.

“Hm…nope, that one’s got character. Can’t lose it.”

He huffed. “You’re not even trying anymore.”

“I am,” you insisted, all sickly-sweet innocence as you adjusted your grip on his shoulders, letting your fingers toy with the collar of his polo. “Just want to make sure they’re perfect.”

He cracked one eye open. “Mh-hm.”

“What? You want me to do a half-assed job? You want uneven arches, Aaron?”

“You’ve got two minutes left.”

Silly man. As if you were on his clock.

You said nothing, just hummed like the consummate professional you clearly were, smoothing out his right brow with the pad of your finger. And then—because comfort was key, obviously—you shifted. Absolutely not intentionally aligning yourself with the zipper of his jeans.

You caught the half-shaky exhale he tried to hide and decided it still didn’t feel quite right.

Goldilocks might’ve had a point.

So you adjusted again, this time with a little more pressure. For once, you were grateful for the humidity that made you choose a dress—and the skimpiest, thinnest pair of underwear you owned.

All, of course, in the name of practicality.

His hands twitched at your waist, fingers flexing like he was stuck between wanting to grip you tighter or stay neutral. (Spoiler: he was failing at staying neutral.)

“This all part of the grooming experience?”

“Me taking my time? Absolutely. You know I give a hundred percent to everything I do, baby.”

"I know, honey," he drawled. "You've called me baby twice in the last three minutes. That's usually when you want something."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He smiled—subtle, smug, and, annoyingly, entirely correct. Because, yes, okay, you did want something. Just... nothing that came with a price tag. This time.

"What is it?" he asked, utterly unbothered because he was synced up to you in that way that meant nothing you said, did, or asked of him could really surprise him anymore. "Vacation days? Shoes? I told you, you don't have to ask. The wallet's in the drawer."

You gave his hair another tug, guiding his head back to the couch cushions like you were placing something delicate. “You know there’s actually a government term for what you’re implying right now.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes drifted closed again, and he looked so… soft. Almost unarmoured. Breakable in the gentlest way. The tension that usually lived in his jaw, his brow, his posture—gone. Off choosing a different victim for the day.

Lit by the delicate setting sun, he looked—

Angelic.

Almost too pure for what you had planned.

Because while he was just trying to finish a stack of paperwork, you were trying to survive the throb between your legs. And your dress, as helpful as it was in theory, wasn’t offering enough friction to solve anything. So you decided to do what any self-respecting sinner would.

You were going to drag him down a little closer to your level.

Make him less divine, and a little more yours.

“Sugar baby,” you blurted, remembering you were mid-conversation and should probably at least pretend you were behaving. “That’s the term. Is that what you’re implying I am?”

He grinned.

And then he was the one to adjust—lifting his hips just as his hands pressed you down harder against him, guiding you into him.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes fluttering as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

He opened his eyes then, and you did your best to keep a straight face. (Spoiler: you were the one failing this time.)

“You think I’d reduce you to that?”

You reached for the tweezers again, if only for something to do, dragging a lazy finger across his brow like you were still pretending to care about symmetry. “You did say the wallet’s in the drawer.”

“I did.” His grip tightened just enough at your waist to make your thighs instinctively clench around him, something you knew he felt. “But that’s because I’d give you anything you ever wanted without expecting anything in return.”

You pouted, feeling the buttons of his polo brush against your nipples, because, yes, humidity had also declared it a no-bra day, and yes, you were prepared to weaponize it. “So you don’t want my sugar?”

“I want all of you,” he corrected.  “Every part.”

Of course he was still angelic about it—still saying all the right things, still making it a priority to remind you of your worth, even while you were actively plotting how to make him finish in his jeans.

Rude.

But also righteous.

And still better than you deserved…which will only make this all the more satisfying.

You blinked down at him, lips parted, a slow breath pulling into your lungs as the weight of his words landed somewhere deep between your legs.

“You’re really not going to let me be shallow for five minutes, huh?” Your fingers slipped from his brow to his throat, thumb brushing his pulse just to feel how not calm he actually was.

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head. “You’re not shallow. Just a little needy.”

You hummed like that wasn’t already obvious, like the need hadn’t soaked straight through your panties and probably left a trail somewhere along your thigh by now. Still, for the sake of appearances you brought the tweezers to his brow again.

“Hold still,” you murmured, right as you bucked your hips into him.

You felt his hands slip beneath your dress, rough and warm against bare skin as they roamed—up your thigh, your lower back, your spine.

“I said hold still,” you repeated, the smile in your voice completely ruining the authority you hoped to fake.

He did the opposite.

His hands kept traveling up your back, and you dropped the tweezers altogether, your hands settling on his shoulders as you forced yourself to grind against him, feeling not just the zipper, but the outline of his hard cock, straining like a sin he hadn’t meant to commit.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the word breaking apart in your throat like glass.

Your lips latched onto the skin beneath his jaw, feeling his skittish pulse beneath your tongue as you sucked and smoothed over the sting. Aaron’s grip on your neck tightened—a weak, almost pathetic attempt to tame you, to reel you back in, just so he could reclaim a fraction of the control you had stolen.

“This was never about my eyebrows, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t care to. Instead, your teeth scraped lightly over the hickey you were hoping would linger, hips working against him like the truth being unveiled—not the sweet thing he thought you were, but a wicked woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

“You’re not even listening,” he said again, a breathless laugh ghosting across your temple, cut off by the groan that followed when your hips met his just right. “Too busy getting yourself off.”

“Pretty and smart,” you mumbled lazily, the friction turning sharper, your clit throbbing now with every slow drag over the rough fabric of his pants.

His hands slipped under the neckline of your dress, tugging the top down with the sort of confidence that didn’t match his frantic breathing or the way his hips were stuttering into yours.

You pulled back from the crook of his neck, only because now it was his turn.

Aaron’s eyes dropped, and for a moment, he just stared like he couldn’t decide where to put his hands. Then he leaned in, mouth closing around your nipple, lips warm, tongue flicking once, then again, until you gasped and arched into him.

You were close. So close. Though truthfully, most of the build-up hadn’t been physical—it was all mental. The way he looked at you, like you were something delicate, something good. In the way he still hadn’t figured it out, even when you’d pranced past him with the tweezers and the mirror, settling beside him on the couch, legs draped up, spreading just enough to make sure he saw exactly what was on offer.

You could’ve asked. Told him exactly what you wanted and he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. You knew that. He loved to take care of you. He always had.

But where was the thrill in asking, when it was so much sweeter to watch him give in?

And you began to pick up on just that.

The way his breath caught against your nipple, the scrape of his teeth getting less careful.

The way his hands clutched tighter at every piece of skin he could reach. The way he started meeting your hips with his own. Slow at first, then harder, like this had been his idea to begin with.

You kept moving and so did he, the friction messy and desperate between you. His head dropped forward, breath stuttering out against your collarbone, his hands squeezing your waist.

Then his hips jerked up into yours, your name falling from his lips in a voice he almost never used. His body tensed one last time, and then you felt it—the heat flooding between you, a groan torn from his throat as he came.

Your greed had been satisfied.

And with one more roll of your hips—feeling his release spread beneath you, mixing with your own slickness—that was all it took to tip you over the edge. Your body locked down, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm hit, splintering and all-consuming.

You didn’t move from him immediately, hands now toying with the collar of his polo as you caught your breath.

“Happy?” he mumbled against your skin, voice still rough around the edges.

You lifted your head, the curve of your smile slow and smug. “Very.”

You expected him to stay soft beneath you—to let you linger, revel in the mess you’d made of him.

But instead, his hands slid to your hips again, and before you could react, he was lifting you off his lap in one fluid motion, placing you down in his seat as he stood over you.

Your legs dangled off the edge, dress still bunched around your waist, thighs glistening with wetness. You pushed yourself up slightly, elbows braced behind you for balance, about to ask what he was doing, pausing just long enough to admire the wet patch on his jeans.

But your confusion melted into a shit-eating grin as you watched him lower himself to his knees in front of you. Though something told you that whatever he was about to do wouldn’t be for your sake, but for his.

And that control you were so desperate to keep?

It was practically nonexistent now—crumbling at a breathtaking pace, resting in the same hands that were sliding your soaked panties down your thighs.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being the youngest Avenger and joining the Thunderbolts*

Thunderbolts x reader

warnings: spoilers!!! blood and guns and death n such u know the drill

a/n: i gave y/n unspecified powers until about halfway through so i just based the powers on an oc i am weak

prompt:

you’d always been the odd one out in the avengers, being the “young one” was not easy

like, you were teens during the battle of new york

sure, you were respected as a valiant hero, one of earths mightiest, but there was struggle in not having many peers to lean on

when you had wanda around, things were a little different—but that didn’t last long at all

then the blip happened, you survived, your world crumbled, and you got everyone back—but nothing was ever the same and it took its toll on you

the avengers disbanded, everyone left went their separate ways and you realized that the avengers, your family, were all you’d ever known

so you found your footing elsewhere, tried to stay in touch with those who you found comfort in. people you could count on

this included sam, clint, and bruce. rest were either preoccupied, plotting less than ethical things, or you just weren’t close with to begin with

“yeah, this kid—kate—she reminds me of you. she’s a bit more clumsy, awkward, and desperate, but it made me think of you…having another young person aspiring to save the world and all. or at least new york” -clint over the phone

“it’s nice to hear, thanks for checking in. hopefully she doesn’t accidentally destroy any buildings like i did” -you

“well, about that—” -clint

you always really enjoyed when they called you first, but no one was calling for your calling

you didn’t know how to not be a hero, it was really fucking frustrating

you were only made an avenger that early on because you had powers, and you were already a public hero. it’s not like you could get a job at a coffee shop, as entertaining as that would be

that’s when bucky called you one day, and you didn’t get close with bucky until steve died. yeah, you helped him out of a bind in germany, but that was about as far as it went. you were just acquainted because of sam

but bucky knew how it felt to be alone, lost, misguided, all that

and he just decided to run for congress

“y/n, i’d like you to be my advisor. there’s no one i could trust more—that would agree to this, that is” -bucky

“are you serious?” -you

“about running for congress or the advisor thing?” -bucky

“both i guess?” -you

“yeah, i’m serious” -bucky “i heard from a mutual friend you were still trying to find your place after…you know, everything. i am, too. so i’m asking you as a friend if you will join me on this path. it could be good for both of us”

and that it was, bucky won the election and you were now being paid decend money to be bucky’s #2. it felt right

you’d briefly been a government employee as an avenger, but now you were a lot more autonomous in a sense

yes, you had a lot of red tape, but it beat that sense of impending doom you had living with the avengers

you and bucky fought to keep new york safe in a different way. fought for the little guy. tried to clean up the system a bit

that included getting valentina allegra de fontaine impeached from her job as the head of the CIA

if there’s anything bucky and you knew about intelligence agencies, they needed to be as clean as possible. or else you’d have disasters like hydra infiltrating shield and secret human experimentation and super soldiers and child assassins. all that good stuff

you backed it, regardless of what little sway you guys had

you gave him a death glare as he was interviewed about valentina’s impeachment and all he could do was say “worrying” 10 times in a row

“we need to work on your public speaking” -you, immediately following his embarrassing comments

“yeah, i know” -bucky

you and bucky lived nearby each other, you relocated to brooklyn following the new job

so when necessary, you’d lean on each other

let me be clear that this is strictly friendship. lightly professional. the teo of you have seen dark days in your own respective ways. you were both turned into weapons without any say. had a hard time controlling it for a long time. made some terrible mistakes. tried your hardest to move up in the world. carry demons with you. misery loves company.

and right now, being new to the office, not a lot of other government officials were fond of you two. there was a lot of distrust.

first, we have the hydra super soldier who’s ledger is running with blood. his slate was wiped clean, but that doesn’t mean the people see him differently. it was a miracle he was voted into office to begin with

then there’s you, the late-20s, early 30s former avenger who was never quite taken seriously due to your youth in the public eye. you were viewed as dangerous due to your powers, as well, and some people feared you two would use your abilities to influence and intimidate

so you advised taking a very gentle approach to congressman barnes, that way no one felt threatened

that was until you and bucky went rogue to bring in valentina’s covert ops team as a last ditch effort to get her impeached

bucky bombing several CIA vehicles? not very gentle

but fun and refreshing? check!

“it’s been a while since i’ve been able to stretch my legs—the suit’s a little tight, though” -you

“you’re still rocking it” -yelena

“aw, thanks! we’re not letting you go” -you

then the rogue assassins and you guys get into it about a guy named “bob” and then bucky gets a call about “bob” its a whole mess. whatever

“okay, looks like we’re letting you go” -you

“hey, i meant it, your suit still looks good! im not even tied up anymore and i’m still saying it!” -yelena

“she’s right, you look awesome” -ava

“yeah, i need to change. my range of motion is severely limited” -you

you guys got to NYC to go confront valentina…at the old avengers HQ

you got a chill down your spine as you arrived

“you good?” -bucky

“yeah, yeah. just a lot of memories here” -you

this was the moment where it clicked for the rest of the team that you were an AVENGER. a real avenger. you were close with natasha. you knew the real steve rogers. you fought alongside thor and the hulk and wanda maximoff. and here you were kicking it with what alexei was calling “the thunderbolts”

“don’t get all misty eyed, we’ve got work to do” -john

lets note that this interaction took place after bucky crashed a commercial sized truck into the lobby, you’d just beaten everyone’s asses, and valentina invited you all upstairs

and there she was at the bar pouring a drink for herself and for just a small moment you saw a glimpse of tony stark standing in front of you again. giving you a smug smirk and asking for your ID before he made you a shirley temple. even after you were of age.

and a darkness overcame you a moment while you stood there. you were in sokovia standing next to pietro maximoff as he laid facedown on the ground. you were perfectly safe, didn’t even notice he was down. you never even realized he was beside you he was so fast. you heard wanda’s screams and you panicked, froze, didn’t know what to do. you were watching yourself go through these motions again.

and then bucky’s hand touched your back and you snapped back to reality, meeting the infamous “bob” for the first time

or as valentina called him, sentry

and immediately you were disturbed, there was something off about his presence

and immediately the team began to attack

you even hit him with a shock as powerful as thor with mjölnir, but he didn’t even flinch

it was futile, he was knocking you guys around like you were nothing

but he had this strange, kind demeanor about him too

once he ripped bucky’s arm off, it was time to GO

you all evacuated the building, a place you once called home, and wandered down the streets of new york. pathetic

and not even five minutes went by before a new form of this guy was literally turning people into VOIDS

“you know, buck, i’m starting to get real tired of shit like this happening in manhattan. this doesn’t happen in brooklyn AT ALL” -you, beginning to attack once again

you were the only thunderbolt with ranged powers—literal thunderbolts, if you will

but that didn’t seem to be doing much

the rest of them were mostly using guns and that also wasn’t working, so this became more of a rescue op

you liked fighting with bucky, it’d only happened three times before this. in germany, wakanda, and the avengers compound

and yelena reminded you so much of natasha, you knew exactly what the next move would be

alexei was…well, he took some inspiration from cap, you could see it you guess.

john walker was difficult. send tweet

he was trying though. you guess.

ava was more of a loner. she kind of reminded you of wanda. you missed her

when you saw yelena vanish, the LAST thing you wanted to do was to do the same

but bucky assured you that you were in it together

he took your hand and you walked into the darkness together

and ended up facing the worst pain of your life

for him: amputation, brainwashing, brutal torture, murder, losing steve

for you: the accident that gave you powers, sokovia, the blip, loneliness, mistakes that cost lives

but you powered through. you got bob. you saved new york. and for you, it wasn’t the first time!

and the moment valentina introduced you as the new avengers, you clenched your teeth and bucky nearly had to hold you back

you agreed to stick together to keep valentina in check, much to sam wilson’s dismay

“oh, hes gonna kill us” -you

“he’s not the only one” -bucky

“oh, my god. clint’s gonna kill me” -you

“eh, barton sees you as one of his kids, i’m sure he’ll give you a stern talking to” -bucky

he did.

you cried.

he gave you a big hug after and apologized for yelling.

and there you were in avengers tower again

just like you were 15 years ago.

“you used to live here, no?” -alexei

“i did. i did a long, long time ago.” -you, about to have a full on meltdown

“that’s great! you can show me around, then. please, show me your old room!” -alexei

he did know how to lift your spirits, for sure

and then there was yelena, who so desperately wanted to feel closer to natasha

“will you tell me a story, please? it would make me feel closer to her” -yelena

ironically, hanging out with yelena made you feel closer to nat

“well, nat trained me a good bit when we joined the avengers. she taught me how to fight, to not depend on my powers, to be a spy, to use weapons. i would be who i am today without her” -you

“yes, that’s great and all, but give me specifics!” -yelena

“okay, she LOVED desperate housewives. she’d make me sit through HOURS of it when we were off-duty. it was a great distraction. when we came back from sokovia and moved into the new compound, she had me on that couch for three days straight” -you

yelena snorted laughing

she also loved to spar with you

in a way, you felt like a sibling to her these days

in the way she was raised, at least

you laughed everytime you noticed a little “oopsie” val overlooked before the full remodel

“oh, my god. i once shocked the microwave while i was half asleep and i shorted out the whole building. this dark mark in the wall is the explosion of the microwave that led to the power outage” -you

“how long did it take to fix?” -ava

“about 10 minutes. tony was thoroughly embarrassed it took him that long” -you

there were also little dents and dings and bullet holes and such, especially it what was formerly the training room and being revamped for an even better one

“the last time i was here was when ultron booted up and sent the whole iron legion in after a party with the avengers. it was actually quite horrific, i thought the avengers were gonna disband right then and there. i thought i was going to be homeless” -you

“jesus, you sure talk about your past a lot” -john

“oh, sorry, would you rather i talk about yours?” -you, semi-threatening

he backed off

you tried to make as many new memories as you could, but everything seemed to remind you of the past

all you knew is the people needed to look up to something and that had to be the new avengers

and to have a former avenger on it? that was good for optics

did it make you feel stuck from time to time? uh yeah, you never really could escape your past

but the congress thing kind of fizzled out

so this was the next best thing

“alexei is calling me, hold on” -you

“y/n! i need directions” -alexei

“okay, where are you?” -you

“twenty third floor. i do not know how you lived in this maze as long as you did! i cannot find anything around here” -alexei

“hang on. you’re lost inside the building?” -you

you’d go to your favorite restaurant in manhattan with bucky sometimes, just to get out of the tower

“so, be honest with me. is this what you want?” -bucky

“i want to feel like i belong. and i do” -you

“because it’s familiar?” -bucky

“basically” -you

you explained that it still was an adjustment. you felt like you were seeing ghosts in a sense

but it was like a do over too

a chance to be the hero you grew up to be, to make steve, tony, natasha, clint, bruce, and thor proud

sam was still a little pissed about it. rightfully so

but making breakfast with bob, training with yelena, drinking with alexei, having heart to hearts with bucky, shit talking with ava, and ignoring john was not the worst thing to happen to you

you heard over exaggerated war stories, had eventful training, shorted out the microwave again, started to give john a chance, found a friend in bob, and more in this new life

and you were always meant to be an avenger, your calling was to protect the world. thats why you guys formed the avengers 15 years ago. so you did it in the name of the family you’d never forget.

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @summersimmerus // @prettysbliss // @simp-legend // @wild-rose-35 // @nekoannie-chan // @beth-gallagher22 // @sk1bidi-n1k0-e4ts-people // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 //

[honeyncherry]

when all else fails - joe burrow

summary some men send flowers after they mess up. others buy jewelry. joe? he prefers to taste your forgiveness directly from the source

content 18+, smut, angst, fluff

Somewhere between the last coat of mascara and checking your dress in the mirror, you felt it—that small, dread-filled certainty that tonight wasn't going to unfold as planned. Not because of anything obvious.

His voice sounded normal on the phone. "I'm trying, baby, I swear. Everything is running late, but I'm pushing to leave early." And you accepted his words, because that's what you always do. You've made a habit of hope.

The rain set the mood, persistent and melancholy—lazy droplets crawling down windows, blurring the world outside like your expectations for the evening.

It seemed almost cruel now. He was the one who'd brought it up three weeks ago, sprawled across your bed, his phone in hand and your feet in his lap. "I made reservations for the 26th—same place as last year. Figured we'd keep the tradition going." You'd looked up, surprised, and he'd smiled at your expression. "You think I'd forget our anniversary?"

He hadn't forgotten. The calendar on the fridge was marked. His phone reminder had gone off yesterday. You'd even set a second one, just to be annoying. He'd laughed, kissed your shoulder, and promised, "I'm not missing it."

Even this morning he seemed certain, backpack slung over one shoulder, lips pressed against the top of your head. "I'll be home by seven," he'd said, squeezing your hand.

And you trusted him completely.

By six, you were dressed in that black dress he loved, the one he once said you shouldn't wear in public. You'd left your hair half-down, clipped just enough to show the necklace he gave you last Christmas. Dabbed on the perfume he never remembers the name of but always notices—the one from your first night together, sitting on the floor eating takeout in the dark, too nervous to touch each other until midnight.

You dropped your heels by the couch, leaving them untouched.

Joe always said the clasps were easier if he did them, but you knew better. He liked being close, kneeling before you with your leg draped over his thigh, fingers brushing your ankle as he pretended to fumble with the strap. Sometimes he'd lean in and kiss just above the bone like it meant nothing. Sometimes his hand would slide higher. Always slow, always with that look in his eyes.

So you waited.

You poured wine you didn't touch. Lit the candle by the door just to occupy your hands. The ticking clock over the fridge sounded louder than usual, so you tapped fingers against the table edge to drown it out. Your phone sat untouched for the first hour, then became an obsession as the minutes crawled by—every glance at the screen a small wound.

He said he'd be home by seven. Said he wouldn't let the meeting run over. That he was pushing to leave early. There's still some stubborn part of you that thinks wanting to be there should count for something.

But seven turned to eight.

At 8:14, your phone lit up. I'm so sorry. Still going. Not gonna make it in time.

You stared at the message with a hollow resignation. It would have been easier if anger came. If you could throw something. Scream. Say I knew it just to feel vindicated. But there was nothing left to say. Your reflection in the screen hit harder—lips pressed tight, eyes already glassy, posture curled in as if you'd been anticipating this moment.

Because perhaps you were. You wondered if he tried—truly tried—or if he just hoped you'd understand. If he counted on your forgiveness the way he counts on your presence. Always there.

It's not the first time. That's what cuts deepest: how familiar disappointment feels now.

You flipped your phone over, screen down on the counter, and went to the bedroom. The dress slipped off and pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it and folded the fabric carefully, placing it over the back of the chair. Not because the night could still be salvaged, but because leaving it crumpled would feel like admitting it never mattered.

You skipped his LSU crewneck, didn't touch the hoodie he'd left draped over the laundry basket. You grabbed one of your own instead, one that smelled like fresh detergent with no trace of him on it. It felt right tonight.

With the sleeves rolled at the wrist, you pulled on cotton shorts that sat low on your hips and asked for no attention you didn't want.

Back in the kitchen, the kettle hummed low as it warmed. You went to make the tea he always made for you—just a dash of sugar, half a spoonful of honey. But at the last second, you left them both out, letting it steep bitter and plain. Something about doing it differently tonight felt like control. Like maybe if you changed one thing, something else would change too.

The mug warmed your hands as steam curled into your face. You crossed to the chair by the window, half-lit by the porch light, outlined by the storm. One leg tucked beneath you, the other draped along the cushion as you settled in. The tea rested on the windowsill, untouched. You didn't like it this way. You hated it.

Rain streaked the glass in steady lines. The backyard vanished behind the storm. Everything felt quieter now, like the world was backing away, giving you space to feel however you needed to.

And you did. Emotions churned for however long it took the sky to blacken, until lightning became the only true light flashing across the walls. Under-cabinet bulbs in the kitchen still glowed softly, but here in the corner, it all felt distant. Your head leaned back against the cushion as you watched the rain blur streetlights into smears of gold. You didn't even hear the door at first.

Not until it closed with a muted click, careful, like whoever stood behind it didn't want to be heard. A shuffle followed. Keys into the tray. The soft thud of a bag hitting the floor. No voice. Just footsteps. Slow. Uncertain. Like even he wasn't sure he should be there.

The air shifted, and you knew he was there. Somewhere behind you, just inside the living room. Close enough to see you, too far to reach. He probably had his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. Nervous in a way you'd seen before.

"…Honey?"

Quiet steps cross the floor. You stay facing forward, but the faint rustle of fabric against the back of the couch tells you he's closer. Then silence.

In the reflection of the window, you catch a glimpse. Clothes damp, hair wet and falling in loose strands across his forehead. He stands motionless for a moment, hands shifting from his sides to his pockets, then back out again.

Eventually, he edges closer. His fingers brush the arm of your chair, a silent test. When you don't pull away, he bends and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Warm breath stirs your hair and then he draws back, sinking to his knees.

Crouched before you, one hand steadies on your thigh, the other reaches up and grazes your arm before falling away. His gaze meets yours, but his expression gives nothing away.

"I tried to leave early," he says, thumb tapping gently against your knee. "Swear I did."

You remain still.

"They pushed it," he adds after a pause. "Wasn't supposed to go past six."

His forehead lowers to your legs, lips brushing your skin in apology.

"I'm sorry, baby." The words are muffled. "I'll make it up to you."

He lingers there longer than he should. Long enough for your fingers to twitch. Long enough for you to wonder if reaching for him would make this hurt any less. Before you find out, he lifts his head. His attention shifts to the windowsill, where your mug sits. He picks it up, takes a sip—and immediately winces.

"…Jesus." You almost smile. Almost. The expression flickers at your mouth before you stop it.

"Let me make you a new one," he offers, already half-rising.

Your hand snaps out, claiming the mug and setting it firmly back on the sill.

"No."

Brows draw together. "No, what?"

"I don't want a new one," you say. "I like it that way."

He stares for a second, elbow balanced on his knee. "Hm… Well, you look really pretty right now," he says quietly. "Like… really pretty."

Rather than answer, you give a small shake of your head, as if the words don't feel right now.

Joe sighs, chin tipping upward. "I'll book the flight tonight."

There's a faint crease between your brows, though you don't look over.

"To Milan," he clarifies, his voice chasing the silence. "That place you liked—the one with the garlic butter scallops and the owner who gave you that little spoon you tried to steal."

Your lips press together, but you don't speak.

"No schedule, no work calls," he says quickly. "Just us. Boats, museums, room service. That flower market where you bought an entire bundle and forgot to water them—done."

At last, your gaze lifts to his. He leans forward slightly. "I'll get the spoon engraved if you want. Swear to God."

There's the faintest twitch in your cheek. "Joe—"

"I'm serious." His voice tightens with urgency. "I'll do better. I'll plan things you actually like. Not just dinners to patch things up. Not just big gestures that don't fix anything."

You sit there, eyes on the rain, heart beating somewhere too deep to reach, letting his words press down into the silence. The promises. The guilt. The hope threaded between them. It crosses your mind how badly you want that version of him to be the one who shows up. The one who stays.

And just as your thoughts start to drift, something warm grazes the inside of your knee.

You flinch from surprise. Joe kisses again, a little higher. Then again, slower this time, wetter. Open-mouthed, the heat of his tongue just barely grazes across your skin. Your pulse stutters. When your eyes drop to him, he's already looking up at you from beneath his lashes, hunger darkening his eyes to something almost dangerous.

His hands are warm and steady on your thighs, thumbs brushing idle circles as he coaxes your legs open. His lips drag higher. You feel the scratch of his stubble catch on sensitive skin, feel his breath between each kiss growing hotter, more charged. The earthy scent of his cologne mixed with sweat rises between you, familiar and intoxicating.

"This okay, baby?" he asks, voice low and raw. There's something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes—a glimpse of fear that he's truly fucked up, that you might not forgive him this time.

The answer to his question isn't spoken out loud. Your lips part, eyes dazed, a stunned kind of arousal flickering behind your lashes as your legs begin to uncross. One knee bumps gently into his chest as you shift, and he leans back a bit to make room. But his hands never leave you. If anything, they tighten, fingers curling firm into the meat of your thighs, grounding you with a focused intent.

Without breaking contact, his hands begin to slide higher. He catches your waistband and starts peeling your shorts down with the care of someone handling something fragile, something sacred. And when he sees there's nothing underneath—just bare skin and flushed heat—his breath catches like a punch to the gut. A sharp, involuntary grunt breaks from his chest.

"Jesus... fuck."

The tension ropes through his jaw, knuckles flexing where they grip your legs. His eyes drag down, dark and locked in like he's trying not to lose it. Every muscle in your body tightens with anticipation, the delicious torture of knowing exactly what's coming but being forced to wait for it.

"You know how they get," you murmur, voice thinner than you expect. "You act like you didn't see it coming."

"I know." His response is instant. No protest, no excuse. His gaze never lifts. "That's on me."

And then his hands drift in, up the insides of your thighs. Barely there at first. Just the whisper of skin to skin, fingertips ghosting in slow, lazy arcs that never quite give you what you need—only make you feel every second he's choosing not to.

"I should've put my foot down," he says, and his voice drops further, like it's carved straight from guilt and want. "Should've walked out at six like I said I would."

You shift again. Your hips tilt forward without thought, chasing his hands, the pressure, anything—but he doesn't budge. Joe smirks, soaking in the way you tremble under the weight of waiting.

"Tell me you need this," he murmurs against your inner thigh, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you. "Tell me you need me."

Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel too vulnerable, too revealing, but your body betrays you completely—arching toward him, seeking his touch.

"Because that's what matters," he says, and this time his fingers brush closer—so close you feel the stroke of air shift between you. Just a ghost of contact across the edge of you. It makes your whole body jolt.

He holds you steady with one palm, wide and possessive against your thigh. "You," he says again, quieter this time. "Not them. Not the meeting. Not whatever bullshit I told myself so I could sit in that room feeling sorry and still do nothing."

And then, finally, he leans in.

There's no buildup or teasing cruelty. Just that moment: his mouth, hot and unrelenting, sealing over you like he's starved for it.

You gasp as the heat of his tongue drags up through your center. His arms hook tight under your thighs, locking you down with a low grunt, and then he's gone completely silent. Like he's concentrating. Worshipping. Devouring.

The first full stroke of his tongue is slow but purposeful. The kind that maps you out. That relearns every inch of you like it's the only thing he's good at. He pulls back just long enough to press a kiss against your clit—soft, obscene—and then does it again, firmer this time. Open-mouthed. Messy. The sounds echo in the quiet, wet and slick and unashamed.

He groans into you when you twitch. You feel it reverberate through your whole body.

"Yeah," he mutters, more to himself than to you, dragging his mouth across you again with a low, stunned sound. "Could never let this pussy go."

One of your hands fly up, trembling as it slips beneath the hem of your sweatshirt—seeking something, anything to ground yourself. Your palm finds your breast and you squeeze, letting out a breathless gasp at the new sensation.

Joe sees it, he feels the way you react.

His hand jerks up and slips beneath your sweatshirt, finding yours already there. He covers it completely, fingers wrapping over the back of your hand with purpose. He squeezes hard, guiding your grip tighter around yourself, and holds it there—his thumb pressing into the soft underside of your breast, adding more pressure whenever he deems necessary. Like he's deciding how much you get to feel. Like you touching yourself isn't allowed unless he's in control of that too.

The contact makes your spine arch, your thighs clamp tighter around his head, and his tongue only presses even deeper.

You think he's going to keep going on like that, all tongue and heat and slow torment, but then his hand adjusts, fingers sliding between your legs, two of them pressing in deep with a firm, practiced curl that makes your hips jerk up.

"Oh my God—" You gasp, nails clawing for purchase, catching his hair instead. He grunts again when you do, like the sting of it only spurs him on.

His fingers fuck up into you with rhythm, curling just right, just relentless enough to make your vision start to haze. All the while, his mouth never leaves you—tongue flicking and dragging and rolling with that desperate kind of hunger, like this is the only way he knows how to apologize. Like he's trying to leave the memory of everything else behind in the way he makes you fall apart.

He pulls back just when you're at the edge, making you whimper with frustration, your body arching desperately toward his mouth. You can feel him smile against your inner thigh, the bastard, before he dives back in with renewed intensity.

"You're shaking," he breathes against you, voice low and fucked-out and proud. "Look at you. All worked up already. How long were you waiting for me to get my shit together, huh?"

You can't answer. Can't breathe properly. Your thighs are trembling around his shoulders, back arched, fingers knotted tight in his hair. He smiles—so fucking smug, and sucks hard around your clit until your whole body clamps down on his hand and you swear you black out for a second.

Joe doesn't let up, he holds you through it. Works you through every wave until you're whining, twitching, trying to squirm away. Each time, his grip tightens and he keeps going like he's savoring the aftermath.

His mouth eventually stills, he presses one last kiss to your clit before easing his fingers out—wet, glistening, dragging slow between your folds. You shudder when they leave you. You watch closely as he lifts his hand to his mouth and drags his tongue up the length of them with one slow, filthy lick. Then another. Then his mouth closes around both, sucking them clean like he's chasing the last drop of something holy.

"Fuckin' perfect," he rasps as he pushes off the floor. His chest is heaving, mouth flushed, the same hand still wet when it curls under your jaw. His other hand wraps around the back of your neck as he leans in, thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, just enough pressure to make your pulse jump against his skin.

The sound that slips out isn't intentional, it just slips out the second his mouth finds yours. The kiss hits like a punch to the chest, knocks the breath right out of you. You grip his biceps without thinking, fingers digging into muscle like it's the only thing keeping you from floating up and out of your own body. He's still holding your jaw, thumb tight along your cheek, guiding the angle, kissing you deeper, slower, like he's pulling every last sound from your throat on purpose.

And he tastes like you.

You feel it every time his tongue drags over yours, the echo of your own release coating his mouth. It makes your spine arch. Your knees fall open wider without thought like your body's still begging for more.

Joe groans into your mouth, his hand sliding back under your sweatshirt—skimming up your ribs, settling firm to hold you there. You're panting by the time he pulls back. He kisses you again—once. Twice. Quick little pecks that make your lips chase after his before you even realize you're doing it.

"All night," his lips brush yours like the words aren't finished yet. "Not stopping 'til you forget where I even fucked up in the first place."

Your hands drift up his chest, fingers splayed wide as they press into the front of his shirt. The cotton shifts beneath your touch, stretching over the heat of him—solid muscle and steady breath rising to meet you.

He huffs a quiet laugh to himself, eyes on your mouth. "And after," he grins, "I'll make you some tea you'll actually like."

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝙂𝙡𝙞𝙙𝙚, 𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙣, 𝙆𝙞𝙨𝙨, 𝙍𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙩

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader x Eve Wilkins

Warnings: None

Tags: Platonic kisses, flirty chaos, soft girl solidarity, poor Mark is doing his best

Word Count: 1,660

Synopsis: Mark Grayson thought he could handle a little casual skating night with friends. He was wrong. Very, very wrong. Because you and Eve showed up in matching earmuffs, holding hands—and more. Are you dating? Are you messing with him? Is he dying? Probably. But at least the hot chocolate’s good.

Mark Grayson had seen some things.

Aliens. Interdimensional monsters. His dad using his face to punch through a train and all its passengers.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for seeing you and Eve hold hands at a skating rink while wearing matching earmuffs.

“What the hell,” he muttered to himself, gripping the rink wall like he was clinging to the last shred of sanity.

It had started innocently enough. Eve invited him out for “a casual little skate night. Us, William, and [y/n], no pressure.” Which might as well have been code for a trap designed by God to test his emotional fortitude.

Because there you were. Laughing with Eve. Sipping hot chocolate with two hands, like you were trying to keep them warm after all that intense hand-holding.

And then Eve helped you tie your skates.

You were sitting on a bench, one leg stretched out, the other bent, and Eve crouched down in front of you like she did this all the time—like she was your dedicated skate assistant or something.

Mark stood a few feet away, awkwardly holding his own skates like he didn’t just realize he might not be the main character in this scene.

“You good?” William muttered beside him.

“I—yeah,” Mark said, voice cracking. “Totally. Just… watching.”

He immediately regretted saying that, but William was too busy adjusting his hat to notice.

Eve tugged the laces tight, knotted them, and patted your knee like she’d just fixed a masterpiece. “There. Try not to fall and die.”

You beamed at her. “You always take such good care of me.”

Mark raised his eyebrows. That felt... loaded.

Then you leaned in, resting your head on Eve’s shoulder, smiling so sweetly it could’ve been pulled straight out of a perfume ad.

Mark’s heartbeat stuttered.

Eve turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing your hair. “You’ve got lip balm on your nose again.”

“I like it shiny,” you said with a little grin, not moving.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eve mumbled, and then—without missing a beat—she kissed you.

Right on the mouth.

Soft, casual, no fanfare.

Mark died. Quietly. Internally. With grace.

His soul left his body and ascended into the rafters of the skating rink, where it hovered, stunned, trying to process what it had just witnessed.

They kissed. Like it was normal.

You didn’t even react like it was a big deal. You just smiled against her lips, murmured something Mark couldn’t hear, and then started adjusting your scarf.

Meanwhile, Mark stood frozen, eyes wide, throat dry. Had time slowed down? Were his skates melting? Was this a stroke?

He looked around—surely someone else had seen that. But William was digging through his pockets for his phone, and the rest of the world just kept spinning.

He looked back at you two.

You were chatting again. Laughing.

Laughing.

Mark blinked. “Did they—did you—did that just happen?”

William glanced up. “What?”

“They kissed.”

William squinted. “Eve and [y/n]? Yeah. They do that sometimes.”

“They what?!”

“They’re just like that, man.”

Mark felt like the entire foundation of his reality had shifted two inches to the left. “Since when is that a thing?!”

“I don’t know,” William said, shrugging. “Since always? You need to calm down. You're looking at them like you're in a telenovela.”

Mark turned back just in time to see you poke Eve in the ribs and burst out laughing as she tried to trip you with her skate.

They were fine. Everything was fine.

Except Mark, who was now very seriously reconsidering every platonic interaction he’d ever witnessed.

He did not scream. He absolutely did not Google “how to tell if your two crushes are dating each other and not you.”

He just skated. Poorly.

Later, Mark cornered Eve at the cocoa stand. “I just—so, you and [y/n], huh?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Me and [y/n]. What about it?”

“I didn’t know you guys were… you know.” He made a vague, flappy hand gesture that somehow communicated both romance and meltdown.

Eve blinked. “We’re not.”

Mark paused. “You’re not…?”

“We’re just friends.”

Mark stared at her like she’d said you were both celestial beings sent to test him personally. “You kissed her!”

Eve shrugged. “Yeah? She looked cute. And she got hot chocolate on her lip. You would’ve done it too.”

“No!” Mark squawked. “No, I would not have just casually—that’s not a normal friend thing!”

Eve gave him a baffled look. “Mark. You fly around in spandex and yell about justice. Don’t talk to me about normal.”

He tried asking you directly. Big mistake.

“So like, you and Eve?” he asked, trying to sound chill and definitely not like he was about to scream into a snowbank.

You looked up from your churro. “Yeah?”

“You’re dating?”

You snorted. “What? No. We just kiss sometimes. It’s fun.”

Mark short-circuited. “...For fun?”

“Yeah, like—mutual admiration and pretty girl solidarity, you know?”

He absolutely did not know. His brain was now smoke and static.

“Oh,” you added, “and she’s been helping me get over my ex.”

Mark’s heart fluttered. Hope? A chance?

You smiled. “But don’t worry—Eve promised she wouldn’t let me date another emotionally stunted guy with secret feelings. She’s so supportive.”

Ah.

There it was.

Mark nodded slowly. “Cool. Cool cool cool. I love that for you.”

You patted his arm. “You’re such a good friend, Mark.”

And just like that, he died again.

—

The three of you were standing near the edge of the rink, the chill in the air mixing with the warmth of the cocoa in your hands. Mark was trying to stay casual, but his eyes kept darting between you and Eve, who were just so comfortable with each other. Like it didn’t matter that you’d just shared a kiss on the rink. Like it was as casual as breathing.

And maybe that’s what did it.

Maybe that’s why he noticed how your lips lingered on Eve’s. How you gently traced her jaw, eyes closed, completely unbothered by how intensely affectionate you were being.

Then—oh God—you kissed her again.

Mark didn’t even know where his thoughts went anymore. His brain had just short-circuited. He stared at you both, wide-eyed, his heart rate kicking into overdrive.

“Uh,” he muttered, then cleared his throat, trying to act like everything was perfectly fine. “You two… uh, you two are just really affectionate, huh?”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” Eve said, her grin way too knowing. She nudged you playfully, but her gaze flicked over to Mark and lingered there for a second too long. Then, she went back to you, trying to suppress a laugh.

“Oh my God,” Mark mumbled. “It’s like I can’t—what even is—”

You turned to Mark, totally unfazed. “You okay, Mark?” Your voice was sweet and unbothered, like you hadn’t just caused absolute chaos in his brain. “You’re kind of… pink?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, brushing it off, but his hands were suddenly clammy. His fingers tightened around his cocoa cup like it was his lifeline.

You just grinned at him. “Well, you’re looking a little… frazzled. Here, have some of mine.” You thrust your cup at him, clearly way too calm about the situation.

“Uh, thanks,” Mark said, trying to play it cool. He took a tentative sip, but it was as if the universe was out to make him implode. He felt something drip onto his bottom lip.

“Whoops,” you said with a little shrug, stepping closer, eyes glinting mischievously. “You’ve got a little something there.”

Before he could respond—before his brain could even register what was happening—you kissed him.

It wasn’t the casual, quick peck he was mentally prepared for. No, this was lingering.

Soft. Slow. Your lips brushing over his, gently nudging his mouth open as if you were trying to get every last drop of hot chocolate from his lip. Mark’s whole body froze, his eyes wide, heart thudding in his chest as his mind tried to catch up with what was happening. Was this a joke? Was he imagining it?

And then, just when he thought he might combust from the sheer shock, you pulled back just enough to lick your bottom lip. As if you were making absolutely sure that not one drop of cocoa had been left behind.

Mark’s breath hitched in his throat, his brain screaming WHAT and WHY, but his body was already way too lost in the moment to argue. He barely even registered the quiet laugh that escaped Eve behind him.

“Better?” you asked, still smiling sweetly at him, like you didn’t just knock his world sideways. Mark couldn’t speak. He was completely dumbstruck. His mouth was too dry, his tongue too thick to form words.

“Mark?” Eve teased, stepping forward now. “You okay?”

He blinked a few times, trying to piece himself back together, but all he could do was shake his head, which only made you laugh.

“I think I broke him,” you said, and the look in your eyes was one of pure mischief. Mark couldn’t decide if he wanted to die or kiss you back.

He cleared his throat again. “I—uh—okay. Okay. Well, I gotta… I gotta go. Yeah, I’m, uh, gonna… Yeah.” He looked around, like there was an escape route. “I’m just gonna—”

“Wait,” Eve called after him. “You don’t want some more cocoa?”

Mark turned around so fast he almost tripped on his own feet. “NO,” he yelped. “I’m good. Thanks. I—uh—no more hot chocolate.”

And as Mark sprinted away, both you and Eve just watched him go, arms still casually linked.

“Well, that went well,” Eve said with a satisfied grin.

You smirked, taking another sip of your cocoa. “I think he likes it when we kiss. Don’t you?”

Eve chuckled. “I think he’s still trying to figure out if we’re doing this for real, or if his brain just broke.”

[fromdove]

you find him in your apartment. again. window cracked. boots still on. jacket slung over the back of your chair like it belongs there.

he’s sitting on your couch like he owns it, flipping through a half-read paperback he definitely didn’t bring. probably something you left lying around — some crime thriller he’s already tearing apart in his head.

“make yourself at home,” you say, dropping your keys.

he doesn’t look up. “already did. your lock’s still crap, by the way.”

“you say that every time you break in.”

“because it’s still true.” he finally glances at you, eyes tired but sharp. “what if i was someone else?”

“then you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.”

his mouth twitches. “cute.”

you toe off your shoes, drop your bag, move toward the kitchen. “what do you want, jason?”

“wow. straight to the point. no hi jay, how was patrol? want something to drink? here, take my couch and trample my boundaries some more?”

“you don’t drink anything that isn’t ninety percent caffeine or eighty proof.”

“true,” he says, stretching his legs out. “still rude.”

you eye him from the kitchen. his holsters are off, but the rest of the suit’s still there — the compression shirt, scuffed boots, scraped knuckles. he’s vibrating under the surface like he hasn’t slept in two days and isn’t planning to.

“you get hit again?” you ask, softer.

he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “nothing important.”

“so yes.”

“do you want a play-by-play? i can act it out, real dramatic. throw myself against a wall. bleed on your furniture.”

“you already bled on my rug last month.”

“and it really tied the room together.”

you exhale through your nose. grab a glass of water, bring it over. he takes it without comment, drinks half in one go.

“why are you here, jason?”

this time, he doesn’t have a joke ready. his fingers tap the side of the glass, jaw tight.

“quiet,” he mutters. “it’s quiet here.”

you sit beside him. not close. not far.

“you ever gonna just ask to stay?” you ask.

“don’t need to.” he leans his head back, eyes closed now. “you always let me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i know.”

the silence stretches. his foot nudges yours, casual, like he didn’t mean to. like he did.

“you gonna yell at me if i fall asleep here?”

“depends.”

“on what?”

“if you do that thing where you mutter weird half-words and twitch like you’re being electrocuted.”

he opens one eye. “that’s called trauma. look it up.”

“ever heard of therapy?”

“yeah. didn’t vibe with being psychoanalyzed by someone who’s never been shot in the face. weird, right?”

you huff a laugh. he shifts a little closer, not quite touching.

“you still smell like gunpowder,” you say.

“better than blood.”

“barely.”

he doesn’t look at you right away. just stares ahead like he’s watching something you can’t see. then, like it costs him, he says,

“couldn’t sleep.”

that’s all he gives you. not can I crash here? not I don’t want to be alone. just that.

but with jason, that’s enough.

you don’t ask. you just nod toward the blanket on the armrest.

“you want that, or are you gonna steal mine like last time?”

“wasn’t stealing. it was strategic heat distribution.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you say that a lot,” he murmurs, already leaning back into the cushions.

and still — he doesn’t leave.

not for hours.

[wanderingbue]

Turns out, Wilson thinks he’s gay.

He drops that bomb on a Thursday night, sitting on House’s couch, where they’re splitting a greasy pizza and a large order of onion rings. Wilson’s not nearly drunk enough for it to be a joke, is the thing. His hands and voice are steady when he explains how it’s haunted him since he was a teenager, how he ran from it and into three failed marriages, how he cheated because he liked the thrill of the chase but was always unsatisfied with the outcome. He wants to tell the important people in his life to ask them for support in this new era, and House is the first one to know.

And yeah, it could explain things. A lot of things. Like the haircare routine, the regular mani/pedis, the shoe collection. This wouldn’t surprise many people. But House isn’t sure he believes him.

Still, Wilson is his best friend, so he tries.

He doesn’t interrupt the first time he sees Wilson getting a little too close and smile-y with a male nurse. (He interrupts the second time, because he knows that nurse is a vegetarian, and House can’t have that influencing Wilson’s cooking and takeout habits.)

He doesn’t sabotage Wilson’s first date with another man. (He does steal Wilson’s phone the next morning and delete the guy’s text asking for a second date, because anyone asking so soon is desperate, and Wilson can do better.)

He tells Wilson which shirts, ties, and pants make him look gay, only this time, he means it positively. He starts TiVoing Queer as Folk for them, instead of The L Word. He offers Wilson poppers one weekend, then has to explain what they are, and how he came to find out about them in the first place (he used to rave in the 80’s, so what?).

House is being supportive, really. Even if he still doesn’t totally buy that Wilson is actually gay.

Mostly, he doesn’t think Wilson is gay because nothing changes.

Wilson still comes over most nights to watch trash TV and drink beer. He still dutifully drops his responsibilities at work, albeit briefly, to provide a diagnostics consult, or to assist in some borderline illegal scheme. They still hang out, and argue, and laugh, and bicker, and celebrate wins together, and are there for each other in the quiet aftermath of loss. They’re still the same.

Maybe Wilson is just confused because he expected to have a wife and kids, and to live in the suburbs by now. Maybe he thinks the reason for this heteronormative failure is that he’s been chasing the wrong kind of tail, instead of the fact that he spends half his time at work and the other half with House, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. And maybe House should feel guilty about that, about robbing Wilson of the life he deserves and forcing him into a fake midlife sexuality crisis, but he doesn’t.

He sort of feels bad about that part, though—the fact that he doesn’t feel bad at all.

But he’s forced to acknowledge his faults when Wilson approaches him in his office one night, trembling before he can even get the words out, I can’t hide how I feel anymore, I need to tell you the truth.

House accepts that he’s selfish because he lets Wilson kiss him breathless, knowing Wilson will never be able to kiss anyone else like this again, knowing that when he tells Wilson to take him home, he’ll never be able to leave. Now he gets it all, the early mornings and the late nights, the warm beds and the cold shoulders, the biting words and the gentle apologies, and every jagged edge left will be weathered by time.

He understands that he’s greedy because he drinks up all the praises and pleading, every filthy word Wilson moans into his ear and whispers into his skin. There’s a lifetime of hunger behind it, a cosmic collision of pain and joy and grief and devotion. It’s a wine aged for twenty years between them, bottled want and yearning, poured into an overflowing glass.

He recognizes that he’s possessive, because he knows he’s got him now, and it's for good. There’s no more sharing attention, or waiting his turn, or swallowing the bitter bile of jealousy. Wilson will stray from any map to follow his true north.

So, whatever, maybe Wilson is lying about being gay, but at least House is honest about being worse.

[pitlanepeach]

Sweet Relief | Chapter One

Summary — Lucía Mora has spent her entire life being the protector, the one who has to pick up everybody else's slack. Carlos Sainz, boss of the Sainz mafia, would do anything for his daughter. If that means burning down the world in order to protect her favourite teacher? So be it.

Warnings — Mafia!Carlos, organised crime, single dad Carlos, age-gap romance, smoking, slight sugar baby vibes, set in Spain, eldest daughter parentification.

Notes — Surprise! This is just an idea I've been playing around with for a little while! I plan to update this randomly, so if you'd like to be part of the taglist, let me know - Peach x

Word Count — 5k

Masterlist

The apartment building smelt like boiled rice and bleach again. Lucía had left the window cracked to tempt a breeze through the corridor, but all she got was the sour breath of exhaust from the street below and the far-off, metallic bark of a dog tied too tightly somewhere.

“Another one last night,” Señora Méndez said from the other side of the clothesline, her voice bouncing between the two buildings like a ball no one wanted to catch. “This time they took the poor boy’s bike. Pulled a knife. A child, Lucía.”

Lucía clipped a wet sock to the line, her fingers aching from cold water. “Did anyone call the police?”

The older woman snorted like that was the funniest thing she'd heard all week. “And wait three hours for a shrug? Please. They don’t come here anymore. Not unless someone dies, and even then, it takes them hours.”

Lucía didn’t reply. Not because she disagreed, but because she knew the rules of the neighbourhood: acknowledgment fed the fire. Let it flicker out on its own.

From the fourth floor, she could see a triangle of the schoolyard where she spent her days; the worn slide with the duct tape, the tree with a splintered trunk, the crooked hopscotch squares someone had drawn in chalk weeks ago and no rain had bothered to wash away. She squinted. Were those children already? It was too early. 

“I told my youngest she can’t go out alone anymore,” Méndez continued, clicking her tongue. “Even just to the panadería. It’s not safe. People are saying it’s the Sainz men again. New blood in charge.”

Lucía’s stomach tightened at the name, though she couldn’t say why. It sounded too old-fashioned for her, like something that belonged in newspapers she didn’t read. She imagined men in long coats and rings too heavy for their fingers. Whispers behind car windows. The word “Sainz” hung in the air like smoke.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, too gentle to be believed. “Things will settle.”

Méndez gave her a look—the kind older women give younger women when they think they’re being naive.

Lucía smiled anyway.

Later, when she stepped back into her apartment, the floor tiles cooled her feet. A cracked mirror reflected the same thin figure it always did; oversized cardigan, damp hair in a claw clip, half-laced shoes. She didn’t look like someone important. She looked like someone who’d learned how to disappear in the middle of a crowd. 

Still, her eyes lingered on the painting taped to her wall. Just a scrap. A figure in a car, shadowed face. She hadn’t meant to draw him. She didn’t even know who he was. But something about the lines felt familiar.

She turned away and went to make her tea.

Outside, down the street, a black car idled too long. She didn’t hear it over the whistle of the kettle.

—

Lucía slid into the staffroom just before the bell, shoulders tight under her threadbare coat. The lights overhead buzzed with that sleepy yellow hum that always made her feel like she was moving through syrup.

“El milagro llega,” came a voice from the coffee counter.

María, young and smug and dressed like she’d slept in something fashionable, handed Lucía a paper cup filled three-quarters of the way with burnt machine coffee. Her nails were painted a cheerful orange. Lucía’s were bitten to the quick.

“I’m two minutes early,” Lucía said, taking the cup with both hands like it was something precious. “That makes me God, not a miracle.”

María laughed and flopped into the nearest chair, kicking off one boot. “You’re always early. Just not for this. You always dodge the coffee meetings. Is it me? Do I intimidate you?”

Lucía arched her brow and sat. “I grew up with three brothers. You don’t even register.”

“Touché.”

They sat in silence for a moment. 

María was all neon eyeliner and loud opinions. Lucía was muted grays and quiet nods. Still, they made it work. Like a pair of mismatched socks that no one sees under boots.

“You’re doing the after-school art class again?” María asked, softer this time.

Lucía nodded. “No other teacher signed up.”

“They never do,” María said, and then, delicately, “You don’t have to do everything, you know.”

Lucía’s smile faltered, just a breath. “If I don’t, nobody will, and then the kids will miss out.”

María didn’t push. “Have you ever thought about doing something else?” María asked, finally. “I mean… you’re talented, Lucía. The drawings on your board? The way you talk about colour to the kids. It’s not normal.”

Lucía shrugged, eyes on her cup. “Truly talented people don’t live in apartments with broken heaters and mould in the corners.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when your mother still calls you every Sunday to remind you the electric bill is due, and your youngest brother thinks the word ‘job’ is a slur.”

María winced. “Right. Fair enough.”

The bell rang then, sharp and sudden, scattering whatever truth had started to bloom between them.

Lucía stood, smoothing her skirt. “Time to go be magical.”

“Time to go be criminally underpaid,” María muttered, and followed.

As she walked down the hallway to her classroom, Lucía passed a row of children’s drawings taped to the walls. Most were bright chaos—scribbled suns and wobbly cats. But one stood out: a man in a suit. Dark glasses. A black car behind him. A child's scrawl underneath: Papá.

Lucía paused, fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

Then she kept walking.

—

The radiator had gone quiet again.

Lucía wrapped herself tighter in her cardigan and sat on the corner of her bed, phone cradled between her shoulder and cheek. Her sketchbook lay untouched on the windowsill, half a face etched in soft pencil lines that blurred into nothing.

The phone rang once. Twice.

Then her mother answered with a sigh, like she’d just been interrupted from something impossible and important.

“Ay, finally,” her mother said. “I thought you’d forgotten your own family.”

Lucía closed her eyes. “It’s Sunday, mamá. I always call on Sundays.”

“Yes, but it’s already past seven. We were starting to think maybe something happened. You know how things are. All the robos going on. I saw on the news someone got stabbed on Calle Nueve—that’s your neighborhood, isn’t it?”

“No, that’s a few blocks down.” Lie. It was the next street over.

Her mother made a clicking sound with her tongue. “You should move. It’s not safe. Not with all those gangs and criminals. That Sainz family is active again, they say. The one from the newspapers. You know him?”

Lucía nearly laughed. “Do I know the head of a crime syndicate?”

“I’m sure you meet all kinds at that school.” She said snidely.

Lucía let that pass. “Is everyone okay over there?”

A pause. Then the softest inhale, the kind that always came before the hook. “Well. Your father hasn’t worked in three weeks. The cold makes his knee worse. And I try, mi niña, you know I try, but food’s expensive and your little brothers eat like wolves these days. They need new shoes, too. The ones they have now—ay, the soles are like tissue paper.”

Lucía rubbed her temple. “I already sent you extra this month.”

“I know, I know. And we’re grateful. But if you have even fifty more euros—just fifty, to get us through until your tía sends something from Seville…”

“I’ll send it tomorrow.”

“Dios te bendiga,” her mother said, immediate and bright, like a switch had flipped. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Lucía didn’t reply. Her eyes had drifted to the cracked ceiling, where the plaster bowed in the corner like it might finally fall. She imagined standing under it, letting it come down. Letting something else break, just for once.

Her mother was still talking. Something about her neighbours. A cousin getting married. She listened, half-present, half-fading.

When the call ended, she sat in the dark for a while, phone in her lap.

The radiator ticked. A siren warbled in the distance. She reached for her sketchbook but didn’t open it.

Instead, she stood, crossed the room, and opened her little tin cash box. She counted the bills. Folded two twenties and a ten into an envelope. Wrote her mother’s name on it in her careful, teacher handwriting.

Then she sat again.

Not crying. Just quiet.

She didn’t need to cry. That was the thing about being the strong one.

You learned to be tired instead.

—

The classroom was quieter than usual.

Lucía noticed it first in the way the chairs scraped a little softer, the whispers tucked themselves under desks, the tension that hung like dust motes in the light. Something had happened.

She scanned the room. Then her eyes landed on Inés Ramos, seated in the far corner by the window.

Eight years old. Tiny. All knees and knotted braids, with a silence so profound it felt deliberate. Inés spoke the way birds did; only when she had to, and never too loud. She coloured her worksheets in delicate, swirling pastels, even when the instructions said “crayon.” Never caused any trouble.

Which was why Lucía’s stomach knotted at the sight of her now: hunched, turned slightly inward, like she was trying to fold herself into nothing.

Lucía crossed the room.

“Inés?” she said gently, kneeling by the desk. “Can I see your hands?”

The girl blinked, startled, but held them out. One was pink at the knuckles. Not quite bruised. But not unmarked.

Lucía’s voice stayed light. “Did you fall?”

Inés glanced sideways. Toward a pair of boys two rows down, still giggling into their sleeves. One of them—Mateo—noticed Lucía watching and immediately straightened, eyes wide with guilt.

Ah.

Lucía stood slowly, spine like a taut thread. She walked over to Mateo’s desk with the deliberate calm of someone who’s learned not to raise their voice unless they want to lose the moment.

“Mateo. Can you come with me?”

The class went dead quiet. Lucía didn’t yell. She didn’t scold. But everyone knew: this was worse.

Out in the hallway, she crouched to his level.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, voice soft. “All of it.”

Mateo squirmed. “We were just playing.”

“What kind of game ends with somebody being hurt like that?”

His mouth worked uselessly for a few seconds. Then, a sullen mutter: “She’s weird. Never talks. We just wanted her to say something.”

Lucía closed her eyes.

“You are never,” she said slowly, “to put your hands on another person in anger. You understand?”

A pause. A grudging nod.

“Good. Go back inside.”

When she returned to the classroom, Inés was still curled inward, her braid frayed at the end. Lucía didn’t touch her. She knew better. Some children needed space the way others needed hugs.

So instead, she sat beside her and pulled a piece of paper from the stack.

“Do you want to draw for a while?”

Inés hesitated. Then nodded.

They coloured side by side for the rest of the lesson. Lucía didn’t ask any more questions. 

— 

That evening, after the children had gone and the room had quieted to the ticking of the old wall clock, Lucía was cleaning paint cups when she saw it.

A man outside the school gate. Standing very still, arms crossed. Watching.

Not like a parent. Not like someone waiting.

Lucía squinted through the sun-glare. She couldn’t see his face. Just the suggestion of sharp edges. A suit, maybe. Or just the posture of someone used to control.

Then he turned and walked away.

—

The first time Carlos saw her, he thought, ‘She’s too soft to survive in this world.’ 

She moved like someone used to being invisible. Calm. Quiet. But not weak. No—there was something else. The way she watched the children like they were hers, even when they weren’t. The way her voice carried not because it was loud, but because it was certain.

She didn’t command the room. She held it.

Through the window of the town car, he watched as she crouched beside Inés in the playground.

She touched her.

A hand on the braid. A gentle tuck of hair behind his daughter’s ear.

And Inés didn’t flinch.

Carlos’ entire body went still.

He'd seen his daughter go catatonic at the lightest brush of a stranger’s hand.

But here she was, allowing it. Leaning toward it, even.

He felt it like a hook in the chest. “Who is she?” he asked, eyes still fixed.

“Lucía Mora,” Álvaro said, already flipping through the file. “Twenty-three. Teacher. Lives alone. No husband. No boyfriend. Supports her parents and two brothers financially. One of them’s a dropout. The other’s fourteen and doesn’t go to school.”

“Why?”

“Eh. No idea. Father’s got a back injury. Looks like she’s been the responsible adult in the family since she was fifteen.”

Carlos didn’t say anything. Just watched as Lucía handed Inés a piece of chalk. Let her work in silence. Matched her energy instinctively, like she’d studied her, but no—this wasn’t a performance.

This was instinct.

This was real.

“She’s overworked,” Álvaro added. “But no drugs. No record. Clean. Honest.”

Carlos laughed under his breath. “There’s no such thing.”

Álvaro paused. “You want us to keep tabs?”

“No.” That surprised even himself.

He took the file. Read through it slowly. Scanned the address, the salary, the debts she didn’t talk about. She was drowning in them. 

She had no idea who Inés was. She wasn’t trying to impress him, wasn’t angling for proximity to power. She was simply... good.

And he’d spent so long surrounded by people who faked goodness to mask their rot. This woman, he thought, is a fucking anomaly.

Carlos closed the file. Lit a cigarette. Let it burn in his fingers.

“I want to meet her,” he said finally.

Álvaro tilted his head. “At the school?”

“No.” He tapped ash into the tray. “I want to see who she is when she’s off-duty.”

He watched her one last time—how she stood to clean, how she smiled at a student, how she rubbed the back of her neck like her body had forgotten it belonged to her.

Then, “Set something up. Soon.”

—

The walk home always felt a little longer in winter.

The sun dipped low behind the rooftops, casting everything in blue-gold shadow. The kind of light that made even broken things beautiful. Worn tiles, laundry lines strung between balconies, shutters half-hanging off their hinges.

Lucía clutched her coat tighter around her. The zipper had broken two weeks ago.

She passed the usual markers: the crumbling fountain outside the abandoned butcher shop. The dog with one ear that always watched from the fire escape. The little red café that played cassette tapes through dusty speakers.

Then she turned onto her street and paused.

Nothing looked different.

But something felt off.

She scanned the road. No one there. A few windows lit up in the apartments above. Someone arguing in rapid Catalan across the alley. The scent of something frying in oil.

Still.

She felt it. The weight. Like someone was watching.

Her fingers twitched at her side. Her heartbeat picked up, just a little.

She shook her head. “Get a grip.”

She’d been tense all day. The thing with Inés. The boys. The cold. The phone call from her mother, still echoing in the back of her mind.

She was tired. That’s all.

Still, when she reached the door to her building, she didn’t fumble for her keys the way she usually did. She kept her head high. Shoulders square. Turned the lock with practiced speed and slipped inside.

The stairwell smelled like rust.

She took the stairs instead of the elevator.

Halfway up, she glanced back down the dim concrete shaft. 

Nothing.

But she couldn’t shake it.

She reached her apartment, locked the door behind her. Bolted it. Latched the chain. All the things she usually forgot to do, tonight done in sequence like ritual.

Inside, her little space waited for her—soft and cramped and cobbled together with secondhand furniture and fading art supplies. She turned on the lamp. Lit her candle. Boiled water for tea.

By the time she sat on the couch, blanket over her knees, sketchbook in her lap, she almost felt normal again.

Still…

She looked once at the window.

Nothing but window lights and laundry lines.

She stared for a moment longer.

Then she opened the sketchbook and began to draw. Gentle lines. A small hand. A braid. The memory of a quiet child.

—

He came alone.

That was rare.

But Álvaro didn’t need to see this. No one did.

Fernando stood across the street from her building, tucked into the shadow of a shuttered tobacco shop, hands in his coat pockets. Watching.

The place was worse than he expected.

Graffiti crawled up the walls like veins. One of the windows on the ground floor was cracked, taped over with a cardboard cereal box. The outer door didn’t shut properly. A group of teenagers smoked on the steps, passing something back and forth, loud with the recklessness of people who didn’t know how close they were to danger. 

Carlos’ jaw locked.

He watched her window. Fourth floor. Faint light flickering behind a torn curtain. Warm, amber. A single candle glow in a city of broken teeth.

A woman like her shouldn’t live in a building that smelled like piss and regret. Shouldn’t have to walk home with her keys between her fingers like a weapon. Shouldn’t have to dodge stray hands on the metro or carry cash in her bra or count every euro at the corner market.

She should be somewhere safe.

Somewhere soft.

Somewhere… his.

That last thought came uninvited.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like how this felt. Like he’d swallowed something and it had lodged behind his ribs. Tight. Hot.

This was supposed to be curiosity. A thank-you for what she’d become for Inés. That was all.

But standing here, watching her silhouette move through that too-small apartment, watching her sit down at the table with a bowl of what looked like soup and stare into it like she was willing it to become more—it wasn’t curiosity anymore.

It was hunger.

And it was fury.

He imagined someone breaking into that building. Kicking open her door. He imagined her scream. He imagined getting there too late.

And something ancient inside him snapped its teeth.

No.

That wouldn’t happen.

Not to her.

He stepped away from the wall. Lit a cigarette with hands steadier than they should’ve been.

And started to plan. 

—

It was just after lunch, and the classroom buzzed with the usual post-break energy: some students talking in hushed voices, others already immersed in their books or drawings. Lucía was at her desk, sorting through papers, when she noticed Inés standing by the door. Her little frame was still, her eyes wide, her hands clutching the strap of her bag tightly, as if unsure if she should enter the room or run a million miles away. 

Inés didn’t usually seek out attention. She wasn’t the type to raise her hand or push herself into conversations. No, Inés was a child who observed, who stood on the edge of things, careful and quiet. But now, Lucía could see the hesitation in her posture—the way her feet shifted, the way she wouldn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes.

“Are you okay, Inés?” Lucía asked, her voice light but warm, calling the girl over with a gentle gesture.

Inés blinked, then slowly walked over, dragging her feet just slightly as if trying to make the decision to move. She didn’t say anything at first, but Lucía noticed how she leaned a little closer to her desk once she reached it, the silence between them not uncomfortable but filled with unspoken understanding.

Without a word, Lucía set down the papers she’d been holding and turned toward the girl, offering her the space to sit if she wanted.

Inés hesitated again, then sat down on the edge of the desk, just beside Lucía’s chair. She didn’t say anything; she simply curled in on herself a little, wrapping her arms around her knees, her eyes flicking from the floor to Lucía’s face and back again.

Lucía watched her for a moment, her heart softening. She didn’t need to ask what Inés wanted—she could see it in the way the child’s shoulders slumped, the way her fingers lightly tapped the edge of her notebook. 

Lucía smiled gently. The other children in the class were too busy with their own conversations to notice, leaving the two of them in a kind of cocoon of quiet.

“You’re welcome to stay there for as long as you’d like, Inés,” Lucía said after a long pause, her voice soft but steady. “No rush to do anything.”

Inés looked up at her then, and for the first time, Lucía saw the faintest trace of something like relief in the girl’s eyes. It was fleeting but real.

Inés shifted closer, not quite enough to touch her, but enough. She glanced at the papers on Lucía’s desk, then at the art supplies scattered across the corner, but she didn’t move toward any of it.

After a while, Inés spoke so quietly that Lucía had to lean in to catch her words. “Do you think I could… draw with you?” she asked, voice soft and almost shy. “Like we did last time. But… just sit with you. Don’t want to go to my desk.”

Lucía’s heart skipped a beat. She nodded with a smile. “Of course.”

The little girl opened her bag slowly, pulling out a small, worn sketchbook. She didn’t start drawing right away. Instead, she just held it in her lap, tracing the edges of the pages with her fingers.

Lucía stood up, brought the attention of the rest of the class to the board, and gave them their tasks for the next hour. She found herself glancing at Inés every now and then, concern slowly morphing into something sweeter as she watched the little girl get lost in the splashes of colour. 

Eventually, the bell rang, signalling the end of class.

Inés hesitated, as if reluctant to leave.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Lucía said, standing and gathering her things. “Whenever you need, you can come. I will excuse you from your other classes, if you’re having a hard time.”

Inés met her eyes for a moment, and for the first time, Lucía saw a small smile tug at the corners of the girl’s lips. It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

—

Lucía’s apartment was dark when she arrived home, the quiet hum of the city outside her window the only sound. She closed the door behind her with a soft click and leaned against it for a moment, breathing in the stillness.

Something was different.

Her eyes immediately went to the door, to the lock she’d been complaining about for months. The old mechanism had been temperamental, sometimes jamming or refusing to turn, and she'd had to manoeuvre it a hundred times just to get inside. But tonight, the lock had turned smoothly. Too smoothly.

She paused, her gaze narrowing.

A small white envelope sat neatly under the door, right where the frame met the floor. There were no markings on it, only a single word: Compensation.

Lucía bent down to pick it up, her fingers brushing the paper before she slid it open. Inside was a thick wad of bills—far more than she was expecting for a few months of discomfort. The amount was substantial enough to make her pause, her heart skipping a beat in cautious disbelief.

She stared at the money, her mind racing.

Her suspicions stirred. Her landlord was an odd man, constantly vague, never really engaging beyond the bare minimum. And the money—it felt off. Too much. She hesitated before slipping it into the pocket of her cardigan. 

With a sigh, she made her way toward the kitchen to drop off her bag and empty the trash can. 

The hallway was dimly lit. Her building was old, like everything else in this part of town. The stairs creaked underfoot, and the walls were thin enough to hear muffled conversations from neighbouring apartments. Lucía could always count on hearing at least one argument or loud voice on any given evening. It was part of the charm, really. 

She made it to the trash chute and started to open it when a familiar voice interrupted her.

"Lucía, wait a second."

She turned to find her neighbour, Marta, a woman in her late thirties with messy hair and a perpetually tired look, standing in the hallway. She had the same exhausted but defiant look that Lucía sometimes wore. A woman just scraping by.

“What is it?” Lucía asked, already guessing it was going to be about the building. Everyone seemed to talk about the building lately—its shitty carpets, its damp walls.

Marta lowered her voice, glancing around before stepping closer. “You’re not gonna believe it, but I just heard some things from a friend of a friend who works with the landlord.” She looked over her shoulder once more. “Apparently, the building’s being sold. To some big corporation, but it’s… God, they’re saying it’s Sainz. He’s buying up the whole block.”

Lucía blinked, half-thinking she hadn’t heard Marta correctly. “Sainz as in… The mafia family?”

Marta nodded, her eyes wide. “Yeah. The mafia. Apparently they’ve been looking at this building for months now. I mean, you know how sketchy things are around here. You can’t trust anyone.” She shifted on her feet, speaking faster now, as though needing to unload the whole story at once. “The rumour is they’re going to hike up the rent, make it impossible for us to stay here. It’s all about making money. They don’t care about us. They’ll just push us out if we can’t pay, move in people who can.”

Lucía’s chest tightened. 

Marta’s face had already darkened, and she reached out, placing a hand on Lucía’s arm. “I don’t know, Lucía, but I’ve been looking for another place, just in case. If they raise the rent… we’ll be screwed. I don’t know how anyone will manage to stay here, not with the way things are.”

Lucía nodded, feeling oddly hazy about it all. 

She didn’t know how long she stood there in silence, her hand still gripping the trash bag.

“I’ll think about it,” Lucía finally said. 

Marta gave her a sympathetic look before nodding and walking away, muttering to herself about how it was just another in a long list of “impossible” things to deal with.

When she finally dropped the trash into the chute, she was still thinking about Sainz, about the landlord’s strange behaviour, and that envelope with the money. It all tangled in her mind, filling the space in her head with questions and suspicion.

She made her way back up the stairs slowly, her thoughts racing.

Back in her apartment, she locked the door behind her, the new lock clicking smoothly into place. She placed the envelope full of euros on the counter, still unsure what to make of it. 

Her phone buzzed, a familiar tone signalling a new message.

Lucía stared at the screen. It was from her mother.

I don’t know if you’ve looked at the school uniform prices for your siblings this year, but they’re going up. Are you going to be able to help?

She couldn’t say no. She never could. 

She glanced at the envelope. Bit her lip.

I’ll come by tomorrow with some cash. 

[bellatrixscurls]

group activities iii

part one | part two

pairing : reader x slytherin gang x the golden trio.

warnings : smut - oral (f receiving), teasing, dirty talk, lots of pet names, female reader, draco is an arrogant prick sometimes, talk of virginity, truth or dare games, kissing, voldemort. lmk if i missed any!

a/n : this surprised me as well, i was gonna write some tom x reader smut in this chapter but oh well. hope you enjoy!

────── ☾ ──────

“and what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

ron’s voice was filled with pure hatred, but you couldn’t really react. you stood on the bed, limp, sore. to be fair, you could barely keep your eyes open - and it wasn’t much before they closed and you drifted off.

🤍

when you woke up, which seemed to be quite a while later judging by the darkness piercing through the windows, you spotted tom sitting on your armchair, his eyes carefully scanning the room before he noticed that you had awakened.

“passed out a bit there, have you?” the corner of his lips tilted up, and you couldn’t help but return his smile.

you didn’t know where the others were, but you were grateful that it was him there with you. “is it dinner time yet? i’m really hungry” yawning, you sat up, looking around the room as if still trying to adjust to the artificial light.

and then it happened again. that flicker in his eyes and the way his smirk turned into a soft smile. he didn’t get to say anything, because you decided just then that you’d point it out.

“why do you do that?” your voice came out soft, too soft for your liking. “sometimes you look at me like this and- it sends a shiver up my spine.”

tom was genuinely speechless in that moment, which he never was. he always had some snarky remark or dry chastisement. not now.

he just kept looking at you and not saying a word, which made you go crazy with nerves. shrugging, he looked away for a moment before turning back to you. “i look at you just the way i look at everybody else. it’s nothing special.”

ouch. because yes, you agreed not to speak of these things when you’d entered the ‘group’, but it felt too obvious. you were almost always lost in his eyes, but found a way to see through him. you knew when he would lose composure, and pretend it never happened.

“fine” you cleared your throat, looking at your body and thanking whoever cleaned you up and dressed you, because you really didn’t wanna have to put up with tom’s ‘indifference’. you stood up, brushing a hand over your skirt, before heading towards the door. “i don’t care anyway.”

🤍

after dinner, that was quiet and tense, you all decided to go back to the slytherin common room. nobody was holding hands, draco wasn’t all over ron, enzo avoided hermione’s eyes and vice versa. and to add to it, tom was ignoring you. he never ignored you.

entering the common room, you all sat down, some on the floor, some on the couch, some just leaning against the walls.

you felt guilty.

“i’m sorry we did it without you guys” you looked at the golden trio, and their faces seemed to soften.

ron kneeled in front of you, his fingers grasping your jaw ever so gently. “you didn’t know, peach. it’s tradition at this point, we all want to be there when someone new comes” he turned to glare at the others. “but they knew.”

“i challenged them” you spoke softly, and he continued stroking your cheek, cocking his head to the side as he listened quietly. “can we please forget about it? i feel bad, i don’t want to be the reason you guys don’t speak to one another.”

your ears perked up when you heard someone sigh. theo. “principessa” his eyes moved from your eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you’re right. we didn’t want you guys to feel left out. it just happened so suddenly, and she looked so soft, her skirt had ridden up- you have to understand” whined theo as he looked desperately at harry, leaning his head against his shoulder.

“we understand” hermione was the one to speak this time, and your face lit up when you heard her voice. you had noticed the distance between her and enzo, and you hoped you were not the reason to it. “but we want to be there when she loses her virginity, maybe we’ll even make you watch without touching… you know, as payback.”

wincing at the mention of your virginity, you hid your face into ron’s neck, and his muscular arms wrapped around you instinctively. you felt him laugh, his chest vibrating against your body, making you flush even more. “ronnie” you whimpered helplessly, face beet red.

“oh, look at you, peach” he tsked, brushing a few stray hairs off your face. “let’s not torture the poor girl anymore, we don’t wanna pressure her; how about we play a game?”

the atmosphere seemed to shift for the better once ron mentioned playing a game, and everyone came up with an idea, but at the end, they stuck with the basic one - truth or dare.

“oh i fucking love this” you shook your head at draco as he threw an arm around your neck, keeping you close as he spun the bottle. it kept spinning until it landed on, surprisingly, mattheo.

draco’s grin widened and mattheo pressed his tongue into the inside of his cheek, his lips threatening to tilt up. “truth or dare, riddle?”

“you know me, malfoy. give me the best dare you’ve got.”

“kiss me.”

it all happened so fast, the yearning, the kissing, the biting. their aggressiveness made you weak in the knees - maybe it was the way mattheo pressed his body into draco’s, forcing the older boy to hold himself up with one hand on the floor, or the way draco devoured his mouth, the need to be so impossibly close to one another.

finally, pulling away, they gasped for breath, draco fixing his hair before returning to his spot next to you. you could tell that he was still shaken up, both of them were.

“hot” blaise mouthed to you and your eyes widened, earning a satisfied smirk from the boy.

“my turn” it was mattheo who spun the bottle this time, his eyes glaring at it as if he was trying to control it with his mind.

tom shook his head slightly, giving him a disapproving look. “only i can control it.”

“and i’m an occlumens” he defended, ignoring the bottle that had already landed on you. (occlumens = one who is able to close their mind against legilimency)

“thank merlin for that” his brother scoffed and he rolled his eyes, looking at you for the first time after your ‘argument’, albeit accidentally.

mattheo grinned like a cheshire cat as his eyes finally landed on you, and you bit the inside of your cheek. “y/n/n, i dare you to… make enzo blush.”

the room fell silent. your brows furrowed.

“i didn’t pick dare.”

“i don’t like the tone” he looked at you with mock offense, a hand clutching his chest. “besides, you should thank me. i could’ve made you do it to tommy here” he shrugged and you noticed tom looking at you from the corner of your eye. “merlin knows that one doesn’t have a heart.”

you shrank in your seat, completely ignoring tom’s intense gaze, instead focusing on enzo who was siting right beside you, a sweet, comforting smile adorning his face. “it’s okay, y/n/n. it doesn’t take much to make me blush anyway.”

“ready, then?” you looked at mattheo and he nodded fervently, eyes scanning you whole.

smiling, you leaned in, whispering in enzo’s ear, one hand caressing his shoulders and going up his neck. “and what does it take to make you blush then, sweet boy?” you felt bold, the adrenaline becoming too much. “hm? a kiss? or maybe i could just tease you a bit. tell you what i wanna do to you later.”

enzo gulped and it was almost audible, his hand moving up your thigh, but you still not touching him, nothing more than a hand on his shoulders. “tell me. please, tell me.”

you almost giggled. almost. you felt comfortable around enzo and you really enjoyed seeing him flush. “i want to have you between my legs, to feel your mouth devour me again. i want you to make me so wet for you that when you put it in, i’m all nice and ready for you, baby” you whisper just enough for him to hear, your lips pressing against the shell of his ear before tugging at it, causing the boy to whimper, and everyone reacted to it - gasps and shocked expressions all around, but you didn’t mind. neither did he.

“i bet it would slip right in” you leaned against him, nose against his cheek - his now burning cheek. you smirked.

leaning back against the sofa, you exhaled proudly, and the room erupted into laughter and loud chatter; everyone was either teasing enzo, congratulating you, or both. mostly both.

tom was sitting across from you, and his expression was different than you would’ve believed. he had a proud smirk on his face, his lips twitching as he kept eye contact with you, and your boldness went out the window again. “tease” his lips didn’t move, but you heard his voice in your head. you chose to ignore it until he spoke again. “making him believe he stands a chance at that. you’re so cruel.”

you jolted up, thankful that everyone was still teasing enzo and mocking him. “get out of my head” you whispered dangerously, your heart pounding in your chest.

“you know i could start ignoring you” he whispered too, and this time, his lips moved. “but i’ll still be there. i cannot make you stop thinking about me.”

and there it was again, that damn smirk.

choosing to ignore him, you turned back to the group, your chin resting on top of enzo’s shoulder, the simple gesture making him melt into you, his back resting against you. “that was hot.”

his voice was so small that it made you chuckle before placing a soft kiss on the side of his neck. you didn’t say anything, there was no need to.

everyone went back to the game and after some time it was mattheo’s turn again. oh, merlin.

each of you knew of his intentions, his urge to see all of you pressed up against each other, kissing, biting, blushing. the boy was a menace.

and what was even better? this time, the other end of the bottle pointed at tom, his dear brother.

you could practically see the disapproval on his face after hearing mattheo’s dare. because, of course, when it came to mattheo, the only option was dare.

“i’ll give you a simple one, brother” he smirked, “owl father… and tell him you love him.”

the air shifted and you froze in place. you studied tom closely; his jaw was clenched, and he seemed upset. at least upset. he looked down for a few moments and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. then his eyes lit up.

“surely, brother” he pulled a parchment out of his bag that was thrown under the table, a sign that he had stayed behind studying before dinner. your shoulders released all tension when you saw the way his mood changed. you really thought he would be offended, as tom was not one to speak much of his father.

after a few minutes of writing and paying the owl to send the parchment to his father, the game continued for a few more minutes, before everyone decided that it was too late already and you all headed to bed.

🤍

the next morning was quiet, way too quiet. usually mornings were loud and obnoxious, making you want to make a hole and hide in it until the weekend arrived. only now, you realised that the weekend had arrived indeed.

the clock on your nightstand read 07:34 am, and you groaned into your pillow, cussing you out for not being able to sleep any longer. but after your little drama scene, you decided that it was best to use the time you could’ve been sleeping - studying.

you showered and got ready for the day, then gathered your ‘defense against the dark arts’ books and made your way down to the common room. since mostly everyone was sleeping, you figured you would just study there instead of the library, which was fairly far from the slytherin dorms.

just as you put your books down on the table, you heard shuffling and you didn’t dare raise your eyes towards the sound, you just couldn’t.

the voice that came next made you shiver, your chest warming with relief. theo. “what are you doing so early on a saturday morning, amorina?” his voice was still thick with sleep, leaving you in complete awe when you finally took a proper look at him. he was clad in his quidditch uniform, hair messier than usual and fists rubbing at his eyes in a failed attempt to wake up properly.

you smiled and patted the seat beside you on the large green sofa. theo sat down silently, letting out a helpless whine that made you laugh. "i couldn't sleep, so i thought I'd do a bit more studying," he hummed, fiddling with the hem of your sleeves between his thumb and middle finger. "is draco making you practice early again this weekend?"

theo whined again, clutching his chest, his eyes still only half open. “he is. i’ll give you an even better one. he wanted to start at six, but blaise pretended to feel sick and draco didn’t want his nauseous ass anywhere near his new nimbus.”

the words were emphasised with a dramatic roll of his eyes and you tried your best to keep yourself from giggling, but he was just too cute. “i’m glad my misery is amusing to you” he pouted and you couldn’t help but kiss his pout once. twice. causing theo’s eyes to widen before he grinned dopily, leaning in to kiss you again, this time softly biting on your lower lip.

“blaise was right when he said you tasted good” he licked his lips as he pulled away, his hand still holding you close to his body by your waist. “you know, enzo said that too and-”

“perv” you swatted at his chest and he chuckled, standing up as the other boys appeared as well, a furious draco leading them.

he looked completely exasperated, and judging by the looks on the other boys’ faces, you could tell that he was chastising them again.

“we could’ve been here two hours ago had you not faked being sick” he glared at blaise, who was completely unbothered, and threw his arms in the air. “and you don’t even care!”

“draco, i don’t think waking us before the sun is up is a great idea” mattheo groaned as he fell onto the armchair across from you, his eyes lighting up when he noticed you. “y/n/n! what’s with you here on this fine morning?” he spoke brightly before he turned to draco who was still angry as ever, whispering. “i think my morning just got better.”

you rolled your eyes playfully, softening when draco passed by to kiss your forehead, his arm tightening around your shoulders for a second. “i’m trying to study, but obviously not really succeeding. how many more of you are there?”

“just enzo” blaise shrugged, looking up at their dorm room door as if expecting him to come down any second, which he never did. “but he is a bit under the weather these days.”

“you say under the weather, i say he received a letter from his mommy this morning” mattheo spoke carelessly, shrugging when you gave him a confused look. then his eyes widened the slightest bit. “oh i got one too, i almost forgot” he pulled a letter from his quidditch bag, unfolding it and laying it flat on the table.

then, you got goosebumps. it started speaking in a very distinct voice, one that you knew all too well. voldemort.

“Dear son,

I appreciate the sentiment at the bottom of the letter, which nearly compelled me to fly to Hogwarts myself forthwith and cast a hex upon you.

Pray tell, do you have a fancy for men? As if I didn’t not have enough in my hands already. I beg of you to steady yourself, lest I find you a suitable match in the first gullible pure-blooded young lady I encounter. I trust, however, that you know that she would not bear the name Y/n/n.

Yours affectionately,

Father.”

you gasped and your eyes widened, everyone looking at mattheo as if he had grown two heads. his father’s tone was stern, dry and unamused. whilst the atmosphere was tense, the word affectionately at the end made enzo, who was coming down of his room finally, inevitably snicker. “wow, you win. i thought i had a story to tell, but wow.”

but that did not phase mattheo, who was always about not making his father upset, not really encouraging his unique pastimes either. “how did he find out though? i thought hogwarts was the safest place there is.”

you rubbed his back, as the others tried to encourage him and calm him down. but it was no use, mattheo was determined to find out who was his father’s spy. and you didn’t think he’d actually find out who it was out of a castle full of people with questionable families, including yours. but he did. “tom” he spoke lowly, and you turned, thinking that tom was coming down as well, but he wasn’t.

his eyes were full of rage, fists clenched as he strolled towards his room, draco following closely, ensuring that nothing more than a few words would be thrown around.

one minute passed, then two, then five. you could hear their bickering and mattheo’s furious screaming from the common room, and it went on until it didn’t. until a death silence settled upon the castle, until the door opened and mattheo was carrying draco.

he was hurt. and the worst part of it all? he expressed nothing beyond the occasional heart-wrenching whimpers of pure pain. tom trailed behind them, an unmistakable expression of genuine guilt etched on his face.

you were all aware of what had happened. in that tense moment, silence enveloped the room; the chaos within each of you made it nearly impossible to string two words together. aware of the fact that madam pomfrey would never let no less than seven students into the hospital wing, you finally mustered the courage to call to tom. his steps faltered and he turned to face you, the weight of the situation hanging in the air. “what did you do?”

as he took a few tentative steps towards you, it was evident that his words were caught in his throat. tom riddle was speechless for the first time in his life. the usual confidence he would display was gone, guilt replacing it. “it was a mistake, i made a mistake. i only wanted to cast expelliarmus on matt, but i lost my temper and when he avoided it, it- i- draco was behind him and i hexed him” he spoke so softly that it was almost impossible to catch it.

you could sense the anguish in his voice and, despite his expectations, you pulled him closer to you in a gentle, reassuring embrace. as you held him against you, you felt a few more pairs of arms encircle you both. blaise, theo and enzo had approached you both, offering their support for tom as well, even though he had hurt their friend.

things like “it’s okay, tom. he’s not mad at you” and “you couldn’t control yourself. he knows you care about him” were said, but did close to nothing to soothe tom. he fucked up big time.

🤍

in the hospital wing, things were as tense, primarily due to the uncertainty of draco’s condition. mattheo stood by his bedside, gazing at the unfortunate boy who was suffering, all because of a stupid letter. but then again he wondered : how could a simple spell leave evident marks such as blood in its wake?

draco, on the other hand, fought to keep his eyes as madam pomfrey tended to his wound, a concerned frown adorning her face. “if someone stabbed him, you have to tell me. this is serious, mister riddle” she eyed mattheo warily, feeling for the poor boy who was wincing.

“no, madam. he got hexed by… he got hexed. accidentally” his voice came out hoarse, his cheeks flushing under madam pomfrey’s stern gaze. he felt like she knew who it was that had hexed draco.

“this is not a simple hex” she muttered under her breath, wiping her hands on her skirt as she finished bandaging draco. “i insist that you do not walk unaccompanied and refrain from too much physical effort. and yes, this includes quidditch” she asserted, before directing her gaze at mattheo again. “mister riddle, please send your brother to my office” she instructed, exiting with a decisive thud of the door.

“if you don't tell her, i won't either” draco smiled softly, wincing as he accidentally touched his chest.

“have you gone all soft, malfoy?” he inquired, amused, the corner of his lips curving upwards. “besides, the old hag’s figured it out.”

“i am not soft” mumbled draco, avoiding his gaze.

“you’ll be once i’m done with you.”

🤍

some time later, you were still sitting in the common room, worry etched on your face as you continued studying, but you could barely focus, given how clueless you were about draco’s condition.

werewolves, vampires, unicorns…

you read, but nothing seemed to click, nothing but the door as someone stepped inside, the portrait closing behind them.

“still studying, beautiful?” mattheo. he seemed so calm, slightly amused as you basically ran up to him, wide eyes searching for any trace of hesitation.

“how is draco?” he chuckled softly as you absentmindedly tugged at his jacket, seemingly unaware of your actions.

“he’s alright. madam pomfrey forbid him from playing quidditch and even walking on his own, so you can imagine how frustrated he was. but he’s healing.”

you exhaled, melting into him as his arms wrapped around your smaller frame. “oh, thank merlin” you hummed appreciatively when he squeezed you slightly, his hands caressing your hair. “who is with him now?”

“no one” he replied simply, as if it wasn’t that big of a deal.

his words startled you, prompting your warm body to leave his own. “alone? on his own? and not being capable of moving on his own?”

“yes” he replied, not really understanding your point. “he told me he wanted to sleep. what could happen in his sleep?”

“even so!” you exhaled in frustration, forgetting all about your studying as you stormed off to find draco.

on your way to the hospital wing, you remembered that it was still dinner time and you figured you’d stop by the kitchens to gather some food for the both of you, considering he had been sitting on a hospital bed for hours.

with a bag of food in hand, you wandered the hallways in search of the quickest way to the hospital wing. the corridor was silent, the absence of the students allowing you to hear your thoughts for once. you were feeling relieved, content that draco was healing and madam pomfrey was confident that he’d be alright in no time.

finally reaching the door, you took a steadying breath and opened it.

to your surprise, draco was the only student there, and he seemed quite alert when he caught sight of you. but when you closed the door behind you and he noticed that you were alone, his shoulders relaxed.

“you should be at dinner” he remarked, but the amusement in his tone was palpable as you flicked on the lights.

“and you shouldn’t be here” you bit back, his face softening when he noticed how worried you were. it was simple for him to tell; your brows were furrowed, lips slightly pursed and you kept fiddling with your ring. “i’m glad you’re feeling better though” you continued softly, carefully placing the food on his small bedside table as you sat down on the chair by his bed.

he took your hand in his, humming. “me too… kinda. you could’ve told everyone that i died of a broken heart, but pomfrey had to spoil my story” his nose wrinkled as he quipped, a playful smirk on his face.

and of course you were very much aware that he was joking, yet the worry coursing through you made you react on impulse. leaning in, you pressed your lips to his in order to silence his playful banter.

draco responded to the kiss, hand tightening around your jaw as he drew you closer. and closer, and then some more. in the intensity of the moment, he almost forgot about his wound, but not you. supporting your weight on one elbow, you pulled away, gasping for air.

“you do taste good” he licked his lips just like theo had done earlier, and you groaned, causing the boy to smirk.

“i would throw a pillow at you, but…”

draco gestured to his chest, smiling. “i’m a wounded man. have some mercy, y/n/n” he whined, flinging an arm over his head dramatically. how thankful you were that the whining was back.

“alright, alright” you waved him off, “i brought apple tart and some kind of expensive beef, i saw you eat it before” you said casually, as if it meant nothing, but for draco it meant so much - bringing him his favourite food and actually remembering his preferences.

“you’re an angel” he beamed at you, admiring you for a second too long, before he started eating.

you looked at him as well, taking in every detail of his face. and even if he was not feeling good, he looked just as gorgeous. “and you’re really beautiful” you whispered.

“do you think i’m beautiful, doll?” he teased, but you could sense a deeper yearning beneath his lighthearted tone.

feeling your cheeks burn, you shook your head. “you know you’re beautiful.”

“i do” he nodded proudly, biting the inside of his chin to suppress his wide grin. “but it sounds so much sweeter coming from that pretty mouth.”

you smiled, shy but sweet, and soon the two of you fell into a comfortable silence, your mind wandering. why was draco being nicer than usual? had he always been this way and had you been too distracted to notice? was you kissing him too much?

as always, your overthinking bubbled up at the most inconvenient time.

“before ripping me apart, tom actually taught me the art of legilimency” he stated nonchalantly, still engrossed in his food.

you dropped your fork on your plate, your eyes widening in disbelief - was he reading your mind? “Draco M-”

amused, he shook his head, finding great amusement in the effect his words had on you. “i’m joooking” he drawled out, setting his food aside to focus on you.

studying you closely, he raised a hand, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. “pretty” you pouted, a smile threatening to appear, and draco mirrored your expression, tilting his head slightly. “now that i think about it… do you think what would make me heal faster?”

“what is it?” your curiosity piqued, eager to help him be out of this bed as soon as possible.

with a sly smirk, he pulled you closer, whispering. “tasting your sweet cunt” his icy blue eyes glinted as they bored into yours, and your breath caught in your throat. “it would be like my personal potion.”

sighing nervously, you moved to straddle him, cunt hovering over his face, “tell me if it’s too much” you whisper softly, hoping that nobody could was close enough to hear you.

he grasped your hips firmly, a smirk dancing around his lips as he met your gaze, “i should be the one saying that” he teased, curling one finger just enough to shift your underwear to the side, revealing the wetness.

draco let out a low groan, the sight causing his cock to harden, his pants tightening. “i can’t wait to get out of this stupid bed so i can finally have you suffocate me between your legs. i could die a happy man here” with a deft motion, he used two fingers to spread your arousal, causing you to jolt as he brushed against your hole.

“p-please stop teasing” you stammered, the effect of his teasing evident in your voice. draco reveled in your reaction, your vulnerability only fueling his desire. he was done teasing; all he wanted was to get a taste, especially to get back at enzo for telling him all about how sweet you tasted and how responsive you were.

“i’m gonna give you what you need, pretty” you felt his fingers ghost over your clit, finally beginning to draw slow, tight circles on your clit that had you crying out, more so when you felt his tongue prod at your entrance. “d-draco” you whispered his name like a prayer. “need it, please. fuck me with your tongue.”

he growled upon hearing you talk so dirty, amazed by the words leaving your sweet mouth, and without notice, his tongue plunged deep inside of you, sliding in and out as his fingers only slightly picked up their pace.

you felt empty when, out of blue, he withdrew his tongue, his fingers still working on you. “how about a deal, dolly?”

“anything” you whimpered, desperate to feel him again.

he smirked. “i make you cum and you tell me who did it better. me or enzo.”

as you peered down at him through blurry eyes, you shook your head in disapproval. “everything is a competition to you, isn’t it?”

“a deal’s a deal.”

you let out a scoff. “i don’t understand how that-” but your words got caught in your throat as his fingers moved from your cunt as well, and he raised at eyebrow at you, tilting his head. “okay, okay! i’ll do it, fuck. i’ll even tell him that, just- please- oh, oh my god!” you cried out when he resumed his work on you, fucking you with his tongue and causing you to let out the most obscene sounds, sounds you were not aware you were capable of making before.

it was nothing like you’d felt before. the way he was gripping your thighs, how precise the movement of his fingers was. he was magical.

you started trembling with the intensity of it all, and draco must’ve sensed it, because he moved his tongue, leaving you to clench around nothing before he replaced it with his fingers.

he was moving faster and you felt like you were tipping over the edge, your head thrown back as he made out with your cunt, sucking at your sensitive bud and nosing at it, adding just the perfect amount of pressure that had you seeing stars. “you look gorgeous like this” he mumbled against you and it caused you to cry, actually cry from the overstimulation, your orgasm drawing nearer and nearer.

and all of a sudden, your vision turned white. you couldn’t see him, you couldn’t see anything, but all you could do was pant, cry and whimper the only thing that was on your mind in that moment - his name.

“draco, draco, draco…” spilled from your lips as you grinded your hips against his face, draco happily lapping at your cunt as you started convulsing on top of him, his nails digging into the plush of your thighs to keep you from pulling away.

you were breathing heavily, so heavy that you could hear it and it was the thing pulling you back to reality, your head dropping forward and your gaze catching draco’s.

he grinned like a mad man, cheeks hurting as he didn’t even try to hide it. “i wanna be there to look at his face when you tell him that i am better.”

shaking your head, you felt a pang of guilt now, your adrenaline rush washing off. “you’re cruel, you know that?” catching your breath, you bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, but he saw right through you.

“you didn’t seem to mind one bit when i was fucking you with my tongue just a few minutes ago.”

fair enough.

────── ☾ ──────

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I have a thought for epic. Before Telemachus went on his diplomatic mission, he was scrawny because he didn't have any warrior training. And his wife loved that about him. But hear me out. He comes back, after all the training from Athena and such and he is so much stronger and has more muscle and his wife is like "DAMN!!"

A/n: I love this 🤣 also like let me know if you want a smutty part 2 👀

You were one of the best things that happened to him, Telemachus. You saw him for who he was, not for being the son of Odysseus and now....now he was leaving you behind.

(Something he did not want to do)

Lip's quivering, you did your best to not pout as you grasped your husband's hands gently in yours as you gazed up at him. "Come back to me."

Telemachus smiled as he pressed his head against yours as he gave you a soft kiss. "Always."

It's been close to a year, a year without your sweet and gentle husband and now you've had gotten word he was finally returning home. You've always knew that Telemachus wasn’t a warrior when he’d gone.

Not yet.

Telemachus had always been gentle—long-limbed, a bit too lean, always more tongue-tied than bold, except when he spoke of justice. Or you.

You’d fallen for his soul, his smile and those beautiful eyes, not his sword arm. For the way he listened more than he spoke.

So when the guards called out—“A ship! The prince returns!”—you dropped the basket you were holding and without thinking you took off into a sprint.

You ran to the shore.

And stopped cold.

Because the man disembarking was not the same scrawny boy who left.

He was taller now, shoulders broad beneath a dark cloak, a glint of bronze beneath it where his armor clung. His arms—Gods, his arms—were no longer slender but strong, defined with muscle earned from battles and training alike. He walked like a lion now, not a hesitant deer. Confident. Controlled. Powerful.

And then he smiled...that same sweet smile.

Your Telemachus was still in there—that soft tilt of the mouth, the boyish warmth that bloomed behind storm-colored eyes.

“Wife,” he greeted lowly, voice deeper than you remembered, huskier with use.

You blinked once.

Twice.

“…Damn,” you whispered, breathless.

His brow arched in amused confusion. “What was that?”

“N-Nothing,” you stammered, cheeks flaring with heat as you suddenly remembered the many, many inappropriate thoughts now stampeding through your mind. “I just—I didn’t—gods, what did Athena feed you?”

That made him grin.

“You missed me, then?” he teased, stepping closer until his shadow fell over you, until you had to tilt your head just to keep eye contact.

You reached out, placing your hand on his chest—partly to confirm he was real, partly because by the gods, you wanted to feel those muscles beneath your palm. “You could say that.” Your mouth felt dry and you were at a loss for words now.

But when he dipped his head to kiss you, slow and warm and newly confident, you could barely remember what restraint meant.

“I have so many things to tell you,” he murmured against your lips.

“Mhm,” you breathed. “Later. Right now, we’re going inside. And you’re going to tell me with your arms and body and everything else.

He blinked.

Then he smirked.

“By the gods,” he chuckled, sweeping you up bridal-style without effort. “I’ve missed you.”

And if anyone asked why the palace doors slammed shut and didn’t open again until dawn…

Well. That was nobody’s business but yours

[gay-dorito-dust]

How do you think Dante, Vergil and Nero would react to their human S/O feeling like they don't deserve them? Like they think they could do better than a human like them. Even though their boy is Half/part human? And even voice that opinion?

Dante

feels saddened that you felt as though you weren't enough for him all in due to being human, something that you thought was holding him back from looking for something better; but what you didn't know is that you ARE that something better for Dante and he wasn't about to let you continue thinking like this any longer.

He absolutely refuses to allow this to continue.

'babe i'm a half demon, i'm no way any better off without you nor your heart that did nothing but love me no matter what.' Dante started as he holds you in his arms, caressing your back and tracing patterns into it as you cling onto him as though you were scared to let go.

'i still think you deserve better then me, i'm no hunter and can't keep up with you half the time and i can't help but feel as though you need someone who can keep up, someone who can match you in every aspect possible instead of someone who worries if your okay and feels helpless in general when i don't know how to defend myself.' you replied, burrowing your face futher into his chest as you felt the waves of hurt wash over you as you spoke what you felt was the truth.

what was the point of someone like dante being with someone like you if your always going to be hiding behind him when someone slightly threating came across your line of sight, whereas if it was anyone else would stand tall and stand their ground perfectly on their own.

Dante frowns. 'i don't need someone to keep up with me, i need someone to slow me down, i need someone to worry me into worrying about myself and making sure that i can make sure i come home to you safe.' He pinches your side slighlty, making you jolt and look at him as he smiled when he had your attention all on him, showing off his canines.

‘I need someone who will make me take care of myself, recognise that while I’m part demon, but I’m also part human and that part needs protecting more so from my reckless behaviour as much as it does from other demons hellbent on killing me. I need someone who can tell the emotions on my face as easily as though it’s a book and know what I need without words. I need you sweetheart, no one else will do and never will when they have you to unfairly live up to.’ He admits to you in a tone so serious that it made you pay attention to his every word as though it was gospel.

‘You understand?’ He asks you upon noticing your prolonged silence, kissing your cheek when you made a hum of agreement that you had indeed heard and understood his words that had left his mouth. ‘You understand your worth everything to me because I fear of who I’d become if I ever lost you, forever the one person who had only stayed by my side even when they knew how dangerous it would be, and yet they dared to laugh in the face of fate and tell them that you weren’t moving anywhere.’ He adds as he tightened his hold on you out of instinct.

‘Is that really how you see me?’ You inquired.

‘I see you as so much more sweetheart but there aren’t enough words to describe just how much you complete me and make me feel at home like the one I’ve lost a long time ago.’ Dante answered truthfully to your question as you stayed within the other’s arms and sharing whispers of sweet nothings for the duration of the day.

Vergil

He feels as though he might be partically to blame for this mindset of yours with how much he berated humanity as a whole, despite the fact that he himself was half human. Vergil felt as though he had planted the seeds of doudt and insecurity within your head to fester and grow, even under his watchful eyes, as you continue to wonder what was the point in staying with someone who was so vocal with his distain towards anything and all things human.

This was something Vergil felt as though he needed to rectify immeditetly before he lost it all...again.

'i am not in any way deserving more then you,' He begins as he holds your hands within his own, 'if anything you are far more deserving then the likes of me, for you embrace and accept what i cannot anf for that, you posess a strength that i can only fathom the origins of and you smile and stand strong even when you're at your weakest. That is the you that i admire my little dove.'

you frowned. 'what about the moments where i'm not? where im more human then i've ever been, am i still strong or far too human for you to handle?' you asked of him and Vergil clenched his jaw, furrowing his brows as though he was looking for the awnser, but in reality Vergil had the awnser within him and it had been there for a very long time and it had been waiting for this very momwnt to come out.

'even when you're 'more human' as you put it, you are still embracing that side of you that i have long since casted aside, you are not shunning away what makes you you. You are fully aware that you human and yet the feets you have acomplished made you feel bigger than with simple acts of kindness, with th way your gentleness touches eveything and everyone in your presence.' Vergil squeezes your hands reassuringly, 'It's a blessing to be able to bear witness to you smiling and cooing at a cat you seen down the street, it's a blessing to see you cry over a movie and it's even more of a blessing in knowing that i am the one you trust to be vulnerable infront of.' Vergil then rests his forhead agaisnt yours so you could only looked into the icy blue eyes of his that looked at you with a fondeness.

'So don't ever be ashamed of being human, especially not infront of me becuase it was you being human towards me that was the reason i wished for you to be mine, and i wouldn't want you to be anything but human.' he kisses your nose, an act that made you smile, 'So don't you dare change for a foolish half demon like me, when you being human helps me embrace my own humanity alongside you, help me learn to be okay with being human alongside you is the greastest honour of my life after being in darkness for so long.' He steals a kiss from your lips.

'so thank you for being the light that guided me out of the dark.'

Nero

Hates that your putting yourself down becuase you felt as though you couldn't live up to his expectations soely for the fact that you were human, when in reality you were everything he could ever hope for in his entire life.

'where did this come from?' he asks.

you shrug. 'does it matter? it doesn't change the fact that i'm just a stupid human and that you deserve more then something so plain and dull.' you tell him and Nero was quick to hut his hands on your shoulders, forcing you to look him in his face that was filled with determination.

'it does matter becuase you're talking about my person, my favourite person alive who is nothing short of perfect, nothing short of being my reason of never stepping over a line that would lead me down a life similar to my father's.' Nero's face harded at the mention of Vergil, but relaxed to look at you with a soft smile and fond eyes. 'you're talking down someone who had stepped in moments where i seemed to be lossing myself, when i seemed too close to abandoning everything i cared deeply about and kept me grounded for a long, long time.’ He finished.

You smiled a little. ‘You’re naturally hot headed and hard headed as well that talking to you in the same tone wouldn’t work, you needed to be talked to neutrally and calmly in hopes you’d see reason in my words. You needed someone to talk to you who had wholehearted faith in you even if the situation seems dire and bleak.’ You replied and Nero was predictably beaming.

‘See! That’s what you are to me and I don’t want you to be anything other than that person who makes me see straight, the person who has been nothing but loving and supportive in allowing me to be me without looking at me any differently and defending me when others couldn’t see past their own biases.’ He tells you as he pepper kisses across your face, making you laugh in response as you found yourself unable to escape his loving grasp and comforting warmth, not that you ever wanted to in the first place.

‘You empower me.’ Nero tells you after bombarding you with kisses, resting his head against yours, just happy and content to have you in his arms like this for the rest of his life if he was allowed such a thing to be his actual reality. ‘You stop me when I get ahead of myself but believe in me enough to let me weigh out my options during missions, never expecting me to be perfect but never allowing me to put myself down. So why wouldn’t you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?’ He then asks you.

‘I don’t want you to worry about me-‘ you tired to say but were cut off.

‘I’ll always worry.’ He retorts.

‘I didn’t think I was worth picking back up after putting myself down.’ You said as though trying to prove a point.

‘I’d never let you stay down for long, besides your deserving of being uplifted as much as I am, if not more, but just know that without you I’d struggle and be content in something that could never fulfill me in the long run like you can.’ Nero replied, kissing your eyelids and cheeks as he bundled you up against him. ‘So I don’t ever want you to downplay your effect on me because you’re human when you have done more for me than another human would be half as inclined to do tenfold.’

[bloodybreakupscene]

-> 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃.

robert (bob) reynolds x reader

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [desc.] :: although he isn't aware it's even a thing, you're bob's comfort person, his safe space.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [a/n] :: haaiii this is just fluff and cuteness i love bob he deserves the world,,, go watch thunderbolts* for this cutie 💔

bob has always struggled with his self confidence, from youth to the age he is now he's never felt really.. worth it. he always figured he was just there, no real purpose. however, after the whole, void-sentry thing, he's felt fine, content, basically, but there's some days where he feels as if he's better than he is, and most of those days are with you.

“your hair looks nice today.” you say, both of you at the kitchen sink together.

“wai- what? me?” he asks, pointing at himself as if there's anyone else in the room with you.

“mhm,” you nod, putting your washed plate on a rack so he can dry it with the small towel in his hands.

“i, wow, thanks, hehe,” he giggles, small smile on his face, “you look, nice too. well, you always do.. that was corny, sorry.”

he tilts his head back down, face flushing red as he rambled for a bit. “thanks for helping me by the way.”

“it's no problem, i really don't mind.” facing back to the plethora of utensils you've been washing. he faces his feet but all he can think about is you, which he finds stupid now because you're literally right there.

“since everyone's out right now… wanna go like, watch a movie?” you ask, walking up next to him, body nearly up against him.

you don't notice but he surely does.

“i.. uh .. yeah. yeah i would.” his hands fidget with a towel as he follows you into the watchtower living room, like a puppy trailing its owner.

you sit on the couch and grab the remote, bob sitting next to you, you ask if there's anything specific he wants to watch and he shakes his head, “no, no, i'm fine with whatever,” smiling in that goofy way he usually does.

he tries to disregard his pink dusty cheeks but it's hard when he physically feels his face heating up. he loves talking to you, he loves listening to you, just everything, he thinks.

this feels nice, being around someone, back when he left the vault, he was so consistently on edge, that there was danger around every corner. which granted, there was, but now its all a distant memory; something he can shove– “no, can't do that anymore”

“huh?” you turn your head away from the screen.

“oh, nothing, sorry,” his eyes looking at the screen instead of a blank spot on the wall. he feels so safe with you, also very sleepy. he swears he wasn't this tired when you were both doing dishes, what happened?

his head leans over to the side and he slouches down more. he's never felt so comfortable before. did we get a new couch? he thinks.

not even five minutes pass and he's leaning on your shoulder, legs nearly half off the couch like he's some sort of house cat. your body is so comfy, comfy and warm.

he must've been sleeping for at least an hour because when his eyes open again credits are rolling and his head is on your lap. if he was more awake he would've apologizes profusely but he couldn't really care less right now. not when your hands are in his hair and you're massaging his scalp.

your hands play with little parts of hair and he feels so relaxed. his arms are splayed over your legs as well and he shifts his own legs onto the rest of the unoccupied couch. he thinks you fell asleep too because the moving hand remains still but still intertwined in his locks.

“OUR TEAM BOND IS STRONGER THAN EVER!” alexei declares–loudly, as he always does when he sees his two favorite valued team members passed out on the couch.

the others pour in nearly a hundred times quieter than alexei and groan at the volume of his voice for what seemed the 34th time that day.

bob doesn't flinch or even stir in his sleep, the warmth and contentment being enough to keep him in slumber. however, the same could NOT be applied to you. eyes blinking open staring at the Thunderbolts*™ that just entered the tower.

“team bond? what? what the hell were you guys talking about?”

“nothing, nothing. go, continue with..” ava takes a swig of water from a cup, “your little cuddle sesh and whatnot.”

“were not..? like barely..” you roll your eyes, now feeling the weight of your friends eyes on you, “ok whatever.”

john snickers, “pfft, we all know where that'll go,” he leaves the room, the others pour into their respective rooms but yelena stays.

“i'm glad you two have each other,” her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“even if it's not like that,” she teases, “i give it two weeks– confession, heartfelt, whatever shit they do in the movies.”

“okay–thanks yelena, you can leave now.”

[malsmind]

vampire!chris 𝘢𝘯𝘥 bsf!reader 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵

🕸 - content warnings: ★ underage drinking ★ smoking weed ★ mentions of blood/drinking blood ★ fingering ★ public ★ pet names ★ dirty talk ★ eating pussy ★

the night was strange from the start. the group had all been laughing earlier, walking through the fields after some late-night adventure, when matt and your best friend suddenly disappeared. one second they were behind you, the next, gone — no shouts, no warning, just silence. you called their names. nothing. maybe they went off to be alone. maybe it was something else. but the unease lingered. so everyone went home, you and chris did too. the mood soured, the energy gone. and now you’re on the bus, the only two left from the group — you and chris.

he’s sitting next to you, thigh pressed firm against yours, head leaned slightly against the window. the bus is mostly empty, only a couple people scattered in the front, the driver focused on the road ahead. you’re curled up next to him, the streetlights flickering past, casting shadows across his sharp jawline. chris hasn’t said much. his energy tonight is tense — his shoulders tight, jaw clenched. you notice how his hand keeps tapping against his thigh. nervous. distracted. his eyes are darker than usual, less shiny blue and more… something else. deeper. hungrier. you reach over and touch his arm gently.

“you okay?” you ask, voice soft in the quiet.

he turns to you slowly, his lips quirking into that half-smile you know too well.

“just thinking,” he says. “about matt. about where he went. what he’s doing.”

you know what he means without him saying it. what matt might do. despite his issues with controlling his anger, he was good at controlling the hunger for blood deep within him. but there was always a chance he'd lose it. he could get messy, both of them could, but chris had all his focus on controlling it, even when it was hard, almost impossible. matt didn't care. if he was lost in it, he was really lost in it.

“you think he’ll lose control?” you whisper.

chris doesn’t answer right away. he just looks at you, eyes flicking down your face, tracing your features.

“i dunno.” he says finally, “he might.”

you rest your head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent — something dark, crisp, something that’s always made your skin warm. even now, with the nerves crawling down your spine, there’s something safe about his presence. something addicting. he shifts slightly, his hand dropping to your leg, fingers brushing against the bare skin of your thigh. you glance down, realizing just how high your loose sleep shorts have ridden up. it’s summer. hot, humid, late. chris just needed something to distract him from his thoughts. his brothers business was his business, if it came to something like this. potentially getting caught, exposed. the truth getting out there was something they couldn't risk, they both knew that, but again, matt was like a ticking time bomb, ready to ruin everything they'd worked on keeping a secret.

“chris,” you murmur, a warning laced in the way his hand starts to slide higher. “we’re in public.”

he smirks without looking at you, his fingertips tracing slow, lazy circles against your inner thigh.

“and?” he murmurs. “bus 's empty back here.”

your breath catches. you try to close your legs, but his hand stays firm, keeping them just slightly parted. his mouth finds your neck — warm lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there, just beneath your jaw. you shiver as his breath ghosts over you.

“you smell so good tonight,” he whispers. “you always do, but right now... shit baby...”

you know what he means. not perfume. not sweat. your blood. your pulse. the ache between your legs he can almost feel. you don't know what changed, when exactly it did, but chris has been having a hard time getting his mind off of the natural lust for blood. he'd never hurt you, never do it, never even think of drinking your blood. he didn't want to, because he knew what would happen if he ever sunk his teeth into you like that. he'd avoid you when it got too much, which you understood, but something about the idea of giving him what he so badly craved was always occupying your mind.

his fingers trail further, teasing the edge of your panties, brushing just barely over the damp fabric.

“chris,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist, your grip tight. “someone could see—”

“no one’s watching,” he says, voice a low rasp now. “and i need to touch you. just for a little.”

his fingers push under the fabric. and he finds you instantly — warm, slick, already pulsing for him. your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale. you clutch his wrist harder, but you’re not stopping him. his face is still buried in your neck, kissing slow and open as his fingers slide through your wetness. he groans softly against your skin.

“fuck, baby. you’re already this wet?” he mutters. “from just this?”

you’re melting into him, hips twitching, trying not to move too much. you can’t make noise. can’t draw attention. but every flick of his fingers — slow and calculated — makes your stomach tighten. you bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut, trying to breathe steady. but it’s impossible. his fingers slide inside you, two of them, stretching you just right as his palm presses into your clit. the pace is slow. tormenting. he knows exactly how to work your body, how to push you just close enough to the edge without letting you fall.

“you’re holding back,” he whispers, licking a stripe up your throat. “trying so hard to be good.”

you grip his wrist tighter, nails digging into his skin, and he just moans into your neck, loving how much you’re struggling not to lose control. it’s not even about teasing anymore — he’s trying to calm himself, keep that vampire part of him on a leash, the one that gets so fucking high off your arousal. when the bus finally jerks to a stop at your street, you’re breathless, legs weak, skin flushed. he pulls his hand away slowly, deliberately, and brings his fingers to his lips, licking them clean like what he just did was the most normal thing ever. you can barely walk straight as you follow him off the bus.

he doesn’t speak as you make it home, fumbling for your keys, heart pounding in your ears. your parents are out of town — that fact practically blaring through your skull now. the moment the door shuts behind you, he’s on you. chris grabs you by the waist, spinning you toward the couch, and throws you down onto it without a word. his eyes are black now — not just from lust, but hunger.

“chris—” you start, but he’s already dropping to his knees between your legs, ripping your shorts and panties off in one rough motion.

“please don’t say anything,” he says, almost begging. “just… let me taste you.”

you nod once, breathless. and then he’s on you. his mouth is messy — nothing delicate about it, nothing soft. it’s tongue and lips and hunger, groaning into you like he can’t get enough, like he’s drowning in it. his hands are locked tight around your thighs, keeping you spread for him, pulling you closer as his tongue flicks over your clit fast and dirty, then slower, deeper — the kind of rhythm that drives you insane. he hums against you like it tastes like heaven.

“fuck, you’re sweet,” he groans, eyes flicking up to watch you squirm. “always so sweet for me.”

you’re a mess — hips jerking, hands tangled in his hair, your moans filling the empty living room. it builds fast, your second orgasm still aching beneath the surface from the bus ride.

“chris—oh my god—i’m gonna—”

“that's a good girl,” he mumbles, sucking hard on your clit. “cum f'me, cum on my tongue baby.”

and you do. hard. your whole body arches off the couch as you cum with a choked moan, the sound of it raw, helpless, dragged from somewhere deep. chris doesn’t stop until you physically push his head away, your body too sensitive to handle another second. he licks his lips, eyes still dark, still hungry. he crawls up your body, resting over you, his mouth slick with you, and kisses you deep — so you taste yourself on his tongue.

“feel better?” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

he nods, forehead pressed to yours.

“a little,” he mutters. “but i really wanna fuck you...”

you'd be in for a long night, but you didn't mind. you loved it. but maybe it was also to keep his mind off of things that'd have him worried up all night, to keep your own mind off of it...

♱ - @kittybitch @tits4matt @bgfshai @just-a-girl-1 @phonysuperstarr @sweetshuga @aflairforthedramattic @chrisbratt333 @courta13 @h3arts4nat @rizzgod12 @whore4chris @urlocallera @il0vey0um0st @slvtf0rchr1s @chrispycremedonut @oopsiedaisydeer @bluetalia @pair-of-pantaloons @dummyslut00 @chrissfavhoe @sturnsflirt @hello-emma @abbystromboli @y3sterdaysproblem @mi-co-uk @loser41ifee @emillionaireee @corpsebridedelrey @sturniolosssworld @certified-sturniolo @bluessturniolo @mattswifeyy @cass-sturn @tezzzzzzzz @ariasautumn @auttysturnz @mx7ka @backwardshatnick @applecidersturniolo @sturnsrecord @cass-sturn @matts-wife @chrattgetsmewetter @joanakaulitz @izzylovesmatt @mathewsmonkey @bgfshai @chrissfavhoe @herewegoagain-b @sturnslux3 @owensbabygirl

[di-lucss]

I would love a little drabble or story abt ur last thought (Jason not being made for hookup culture). He’s not the guy that catches feelings from sleeping w someone but rather he needs feel something for someone before sleeping w them (or else he’ll feel like physically nauseous). Unfortunately he’s stuck fwbs!reader who is blissfully unaware of that b/c he (stupidly) agreed to whatever she said, hoping he could win her over (took advice from Dick, who also doesn’t have a successful love life, which seems a bit silly but hindsight 20/20).

ohhhhhh anon you lovely lovely person i have been WAITING for this request. since i’m not very good at writing fem!pov i hope you’re cool with vague second pov!! jason is so acespec coded i lobe him. i wrote this in like an hour and a half ummm this just shows you can do anything with a little inspiration and motivation.

cw: very mild suggestive content. yearning. so much yearning. non-graphic mentions of injuries. taking advice from richard john grayson.

word count: 0.6k.

tags: @dulcet-aurora @scrumptiouslylovingarcade ❪ feel free to dm me if you'd like to be added! ❫

thinking about fwb!jason todd.

fwb!jason todd who didn’t start sleeping with you just for the hell of it. you guys had been friends for a good long while; he’d crash at your apartment every now and then after patrols, you’d patch him up when he nearly bled out was grazed with a blade or a bullet or whatever.

fwb!jason todd whose feelings for you just kind of hit him one night out of nowhere when he was once again in need of your handy-dandy sewing skills—something you’d picked up in the months since he started barging through your living room window every few nights.

fwb!jason todd who didn’t even feel the needle piercing his skin as he stared at you. at the concentration in your eyes, the set of your brows, the way your tongue stuck out between your teeth just a touch as you did your best to keep the stitches on his side clean and even. you were always considerate like that; trying to make sure nothing scarred to badly, that he wasn’t in too much pain, that he

fwb!jason todd who didn’t even mean to kiss you when you looked up at him. it just kind of happened. it was clumsy and a little rushed, but it didn't feel like the rest. didn't feel wrong. didn't make him feel like his skin was crawling off his bones.

fwb!jason todd who's had hookups before, but none of them ever felt right. but when the two of you wound up tangled up under some throw blanket on your faded leather couch... he just couldn't explain it. it didn't feel like he was betraying himself. your body slotted against his like it was supposed to be there—smooth and right.

fwb!jason todd who woke up the next morning and you looked so peaceful sleeping on him, head on his chest, arms around his waist. he didn't feel repulsed, he felt a weird, uncommon sort of peace.

fwb!jason todd who wasn't really ready for the conversation that came after. the 'what is this now' talk. he'd never had to have that talk before, not with anyone else. all he knew was he didn't want to lose that feeling—whatever it really was—that he got from you.

fwb!jason todd who just nodded along to every word you said. 'i really liked last night.' so did he. 'i don't want it to make things awkward.' neither did he. 'i don't know that i'm in a place to have a relationship.' that one made his chest inexplicably tight. what were the two of you supposed to do then? go on like nothing happened? like it was just like any other night where you'd sew him up and he'd crash on the couch and be gone before dawn?

fwb!jason todd who nearly didn't catch the solution you gave; 'we could just... keep doing that. but like, as friends. if you want.' he didn't know that was really an option—not for him, with the complicated feelings that had apparently been building up inside him for this long. he could only say he'd think about it.

fwb!jason todd who left shortly after. he didn't stop thinking about it—couldn't, really. it was against his better judgement, but he went to the one person he knew more-than-likely had experience with these sorts of situations: dick. the guy had a colorful love life, he was the only one that made sense.

fwb!jason todd who only half-trusted dick's insight: being friends-with-benefits almost always ends with you guys dating. it wasn't what he wanted, not really. he liked the sex, he really did, but that wasn't the only thing he was hoping for. but if it was what he had to do to have even a small part of you, maybe he could hold out until you were ready.

fwb!jason todd who left dick's with not so much hope as determination. he could wait for you. as long as he needed to.

© di-lucss | all rights reserved, do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.

[nothanksofficer]

we are all sinners (imagine)

starring: you, remmick, and bo pairing: remmick/reader & bo/reader warnings: slight nsfw, open-at-your-own-risk, dark romance, vampirism, corruption, moral and literal seduction, temptation, sharing is caring(?), reverse harem(ish), hive-mind, manipulation summary: in this world, there is no grace chow. only y/n chow. and boy, does that have consequences word count: 1k+ list: 0.1 1.0

"because i know everything he knows now. and i want you to let us in there."

"Oh yeah, i know everything now. Even how you like to be licked. I can promise I won't bite too hard."

a/n: pls be kind. this was just a random idea. note that most of the lines are just what i vaguely remember/can find on the original script. for the most part, reader's race is up to your interpretation. bolded lines can be interpreted into any language you want

you are a budding artist who made a name for herself after becoming the town's unofficial sign maker/painter. colors were your art, and its not just how you earned your keep, but it's also how you met bo.

you and bo have been married for almost two years now (sorry lisa don't exist here...yet).

so when smoke comes in one day, asking for some supplies, help, and a new sign in need of painting, that's where you come in

you don't know the twins personally, but you trust bo. and the extra money doesn't hurt for your...future family planning

at the juke club, you and bo are a seamless team, alternating between working and partying. every time you walk by, he's always trying to pull you into his arms. Whether it's for a quick kiss or dance, he never passes on the chance

you briefly overhear the commotion at the door, followed by some singing. after getting a quick peek at the white folk, your eyes meet the banjo player's, who then gives you a wink as bo leads you away. neither of you notice remmick's eyes following you as he does

Remmick first motions at Mary. "How'd she get in?" "She here because she's family." Unconvinced, Remmick makes a show of looking at you and Bo next. "And those two?" This time, it's Smoke who answers. "They're family, too."

later on, when bo comes running over to tell you stack's been killed, you immediately want to leave. you get a really bad feeling and your gut tells you that you can't stay here. after some desperate convincing, bo agrees to get the car

"You wait right here, baby. I'll be right back before you know it," he promises, giving your forehead a kiss. Little do you know, that is the last time you will see your husband. At least the human version of him.

cornbread happens. and stack comes back to life. the entire group has to stop you from leaving to go find bo

"Let me go! I need to go after Bo!" "Careful now. You walk out there, Y/N, you might not walk back in." "I can't just sit here and do nothing! My husband is outside with those—those things!" But Smoke puts his foot down, stopping your argument in its tracks. "Bo can handle himself, Y/N. Besides, you know he wouldn't want to put you at risk either. Bo'd want you here. Inside. Where it's safe."

the group finds the 'dead' body. when sammie and smoke go to throw it outside, remmick's singing and the cheering of former friends and guests, lure you to the entrance, just enough to take a peek. (to your relief, you don't see bo anywhere near them)

after the garlic eating scene, you are left on watch duty at the main entrance. everyone else is resting, or preparing more weapons in the back. you hear gurgling form outside, and out of curiosity, you open the door, only to see cornbread tearing into the 'not-dead' body outside.

you nearly scream to warn the others. that is, until bo appears.

your first instinct is to pull him inside into safety. but...the way he swaggers past cornbread, smiling at you like nothing was wrong, made your heart stop (and not in a good way)

"Hey, baby," he grins, and for a moment, you can almost believe it's actually your husband. Keyword being, almost. "Come on outside. I got the car started for you. Let's go!" "Bo...?" The sound of flesh tearing and squelching makes you nauseous, and you take a step back. Bo frowns, but masks it with a charming smile. "What is it, Y/N?" "Cornbread...he's killing him—" "Oh, don't worry about him, baby. He's just a little hungry, is all," he says offhandedly. "Let's go." Bo winks at you, and you flinch. He's never winked like that at you before. The only one who ever has was— "Come on. I got the car all warmed up." But when you don't make a move to follow, he sighs before sauntering up to the door with a knowing look on his face. "Or...you let me back in there, and we can grab our things and head home?" Bo's eyes flash an inhuman silver as he looms over you from the doorframe. "We can even make a pit stop. Maybe even have some of our own fun on the way back."

when Remmick appears, you nearly sob, realizing this isn't your husband anymore

Still, Bo tries to convince you, nonetheless. "It's better this way, baby. So why don't you go and invite us in?" "You should listen to him, Y/N. Or listen to me. Because I know everything he knows now. And trust me, darling, he really wants you to let us in there," Remmick adds. "That's not true. Bo would never..." "Believe me, baby. I just want you to be free. Like him. Like me," Bo says almost reverently. Lovingly. As if the prospect of becoming one of them was a blessing, rather than a curse. "We can be together again. All you have to do is...Let. Us. In." "Listen to your husband now, darling. Can't you see that he—that we—just want what's best for you?" Despite Remmick's words, you can't tear your eyes away from Bo. "You're not...you're not my husband." Despite the cloudy glow in Bo's eyes, there is no hiding the hurt in them. Remmick, however, only looks at you with condescending disappointment. "Well, that's not very nice of you to say," he tsks. "You did this to him. You...you monster," you hiss. "Me? I just gave him what he wanted. Freedom. A family. In fact, this was his idea, you know. He wanted to change you first," Remmick reveals with a hungry grin. "And who am I to deny him?" "You're lying." "Am I? I know everything he knows. Every little thought. Every single memory. I even know how you like to be licked, darling." Remmick's words shake you. But it's Bo's follow-up that makes you choke. "And we promise we won't bite, baby. Not unless you want it."

a/n: and that's all i have for now. let me know if this is worth continuing. otherwise hope u enjoyed the story